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juniper-sunny · 1 year ago

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A Knight to Remember - Part 2

Medieval AU | Knight!Silco | Silco x Female!Reader | No (Y/N) | Romance | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff || SFW | WC: 7.56k | art by @designfailure56 (full piece here) | betas: @deny-the-issue @silcoitus <3

ao3 || Part 1

Your repeated efforts to bond with your new knight are slowly but surely rewarded…

taglist (open): @sherwood-forests @ilikemymendarkandfictional @ursawastricked @quirkykaty @let-the-monster-out @ariaud

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Winter snow buried the meadow like thick furs draped over a soft bed. You felt the loss of the colorful wildflowers quite keenly, but the blank canvas of frost provided its own amusements.

The knight had never seen snow before. Despite your best efforts, he did not take to the cold well. He refused to join you in frolicking or making snow angels and only looked on in annoyance when you lobbed a snowball in his direction. He would blink furiously when a snowflake landed on his good eye and endlessly brush the falling snow from his styled hair until he started wearing his hood up, pulled low over his brow. As graceful as he was, he did trip once and fall, surprised that the snow cushioned his fall like a pillow— an icy cold and wet pillow.

The nostalgia for your younger days was potent. As children, you and your brother were allowed to freely play in the snow. All too soon, the behavior was deemed unseemly for the offspring of your lord father. It was an impulse you had not yet grown out of. After years of solitary excursions, you had forgotten how much you enjoyed having a playtime companion, even a reluctant one.

But the knight never complained, remaining as close to you as always. If you were not the daughter of his lord, there was no doubt he would have voiced his displeasure in many colorful words. As it were, you suspected he held his tongue not for your sake but your father’s. You paid the knight extra silver whenever he indulged your whimsy and made sure the kitchens supplied him generously with hot broth for his supper.

Still, the arrival of spring was more than welcome. The snowmelt was slow, the ground churning with slush and mud under your feet. Weak rays of the sun returned, piercing through the clouds as a soft caress on earth and skin. Then breezes blew in with gentle, refreshing warmth. The trees were no longer naked but dotted with little green buds, promising to grow into full leaves. You no longer trudged through piles of snow. Small piles of unmelted frost no larger than a puddle remained, none of them large enough to mischievously shove the knight into.

At the beginning of the season, the wildflowers were asleep. Nothing poked out of the dirt yet except for short grass. And yet you visited the meadow as often as you could, hoping to see the vibrant blooms once again.

The unexpected discovery was immediately visible.

From a distance, the thing was round, small, and white. At first, you thought it was another lump of snow. You paid it no mind and made to sit at your favorite spot, but the knight stepped in front of you, an arm raised in caution.

“What is it—”

The knight hushed you, turning to raise a long finger to his lips.

He stepped forward cautiously, raising and lowering his feet with the utmost care so that his steps might not be heard.

His hand drifted slowly but purposefully towards his sword, grip wrapping slowly around the hilt. Unsheathing it deliberately so that the noise was low.

At last he brought his sword to a draw. You followed him, unconsciously mirroring his pace.

You both took another step forward and then the shape sprung up. Or it tried to, before collapsing onto the ground again.

It was a tiny wolf pup, white on its chest and grey on its back and head. Black eyes and a small nose stood out on its soft face. The breeze ruffled its short fur, no doubt fuzzy to the touch if only you could pet it. It had not yet grown into its overly large paws, sized like apples at the end of thin sticks. Pointed ears lay flat against the back of its head as it regarded you and the knight with wariness and fear. When it yelped and growled, it was too high-pitched and juvenile to be anything except adorable.

The knight seemed to feel differently. He walked more confidently and quickly forward, raising his sword to swing.

“Stop!!” you cried out when you realized his intent. “Lower your sword!”

He did but did not sheath it. When you stomped over to him, he pointed at the pup. There was a wound on a leg that you had not noticed before. The smears of dried blood on the creature’s fur obscured its severity, but the pup whined in pain and licked furiously at it. Such was its distress that it ignored the threat of the sword to tend to its own hurt. But it explained why the wild animal did not flee at the sight of humans.

“The injury is grievous. It is unlikely the pup will live to see the end of the day,” the knight said in a detached manner. “It would be a kinder mercy to give it a swift death.”

“That is not for you to decide,” you said furiously. You had already paid the knight his silver, but you shoved your whole purse in his face. “Run to the nearest alehouse and buy four legs of chicken. Return here as soon as you can. Quickly now!”

He raised an eyebrow at you, but your resoluteness left no room for debate. After he left, you backed away several paces. The creature needed space, but you still wanted to keep an eye on it. You slowly went down on your knees, lowering yourself gradually to not startle the creature. Its gaze followed you, watching you close should you lunge forward. You slouched as soon as you were able to sit. Hopefully, you were small enough that the creature would know not to fear you.

Its eyes never left you. It cocked its head at an angle, appraising you curiously. You turned your gaze away from its face, watching its paws instead. To meet its eyes would mean you were challenging it as a larger, fiercer predator.

Despite your command, the knight’s absence felt like it lasted an eternity. He was gone long enough that the pup finally lost interest in you and resumed cleaning itself. You let yourself glance at it. It was too cute and strongly resembled the pet dogs you had seen running around town.

Finally, the knight returned with a wooden plate in hand. It was stacked high with chicken legs, freshly cooked and steaming with heat. You gestured for the knight to sit next to you, and he did so with his legs crossed. In your haste, you burned your hand on the hot food. Swearing under your breath, you pulled your sleeve down as far as you could over your fingertips. It was not much use and you were forced to wait.

The pup returned the force of its full attention to you. Its nose twitched as it sniffed furiously, and it tried to stand on all four legs. The endeavor was clearly painful as it rose unsteadily, whimpering all the while. It only managed to wobble in place before it collapsed.

You touched the chicken again. It had cooled off enough that you could rip chunks of meat off. After shredding a decent amount of chicken, you took careful aim, closing one eye to gauge the distance between you and the animal. Your first throw was too long; the pup followed the trajectory of the thrown meat intently, lifting and turning its whole head when the food landed behind it. The next throw was much too accurate as it hit the pup square on the nose. It blinked and yelped again, but its consternation was soon forgotten as it sniffed and ate the offering, eyes wide with happy surprise.

You smiled at your victory. More food was tossed at the animal, and in its eagerness to eat it attempted to leap into the air. As the pup’s delight grew, so did the knight’s disapproval. His lips thinned and a notch between his brow deepened as it often did when he looked at something he disliked.

“You may speak freely, sir knight,” you said without looking at him.

He frowned, the scar on his upper lip pulling into a longer cut. “You are wasting good meat.”

“If you are so worried about the loss of food, you may have some for yourself,” you retorted. “And I would thank you to remember that you did not pay with your own silver.”

“The pup will not survive even with your help.”

“And yet I refuse to withhold my help from those who need it,” you said. His words were maddening, but you needed to focus on shredding another chicken leg. The action helped hide how your hands were shaking with anger. If you were not concerned with scaring the pup you would have rounded on the knight. “Why did you save my mother?”

His expression of surprise mirrored the pup’s, brows raising and good eye widening into a teal lake.

“Surely it would have been a ‘kinder mercy’ to let her die a swift death. And it would have been less trouble on your part to leave her to her own devices.”

“Does your mother know you speak of her this way?”

“I am not speaking of her. I am speaking of you, sir knight— and your inclination or disinclination to offer help,” you shot back at him. “Why did you come to my mother’s aid?”

He regarded you carefully, looking down his long nose at you. But for once his judgment was not turned on you. His eye was curious for your reaction as he spoke thoughtfully, “My motivations were selfish, I admit. Your mother’s carriage and retinue indicated she came from a family of wealth. I hoped to be rewarded upon her rescue.”

“Was escorting an ealdorman’s daughter part of the reward you had in mind?” you could not help yourself from asking.

“No,” he smirked. “But your father’s hospitality and silver are very generous rewards indeed.”

“And there you have it. If we let nature determine our fates then you would have me let the good people— and animals— on my father’s land starve, all for the misfortune of not being born into wealth,” you said firmly. “I would not let that happen while I am still able to offer help.”

“Help in the form of your father’s silver,” he commented dryly. Leaving unspoken his distaste for the privilege you were born into. He had never spoken of it out loud, but hearing of his formerly impoverished lifestyle made you self-conscious at times.

“It is as much part of his responsibilities as it is mine to see to their needs.”

“So you are motivated solely by a sense of duty?”

“Partly,” you admitted. “But perhaps there would be more good in the world if more people felt it was their duty to be kind.”

He stared at you now, an incisive glint in his eye as sharp as the day you first met. You turned away from it, uncomfortable goosebumps rising on your neck. The third chicken leg was ready to be shredded, so you turned your focus on that. Ripping the meat apart with more concentration than was necessary.

Finally, he dropped his gaze to the last of the food. It had cooled off considerably, and he grabbed the last chicken leg. He looked it over before biting into it. It seemed as if he claimed it for himself, but he spat out the morsel and tossed it to the wolf. It yelped in joy as it darted between the food you and the knight threw, too greedy and confused to know which bits to eat first.

“The morsels you are shredding are too large, my lady,” the knight said.

“And yet the animal does not seem to mind,” you smiled at him, grateful for his help.

You were loath to leave the pup behind. Its eyes were watchful as you and the knight departed the field, bare chicken bones left behind on the plate. Your feet followed the path home as if they had a will of their own, such was your concern for the pup that you had little room in your mind for anything else. Worry plagued you for the days to come. The wait seemed an endless infinity until you finally found your next opportunity to return to the meadow.

The pup was still there, having dragged itself to the nearby bushes for shelter. It could not put its full weight on its injured leg which was still in a bad way. There was recognition in its eyes as you made another careful approach. You were able to come a little closer than before. It growled and you stopped, although the sound was more akin to a stomach rumbling than a feral warning. You sent the knight off for more chicken and played the throwing game again when he returned.

Several months passed in this manner. After each visit, the pup allowed you to come closer and closer, closing the distance by paces. Its health seemed to improve; although it did not often attempt to walk, the animal would sit up at attention at your arrival. It did not need to lie down as often and would only do so when it had finished eating. Still staring at you with wide eyes, slow blinking as it fought the temptation to slumber in your presence. Its appetite grew as well. Soon, four chicken legs were not enough to satisfy it, as it would stare at you expectantly once you had given it everything, licking its lips in anticipation of more. The knight did pause when you asked him how much more you should buy.

“We have fed it enough, my lady. Surely we may cease feeding it,” he said. “If it should grow dependent on us then it may not learn to hunt properly.”

“It has not yet died from starvation or thirst,” you pointed out. “Perhaps it has been hunting on its own during our absences.”

“If this pup were a child, we would be indulging its laziness. It would grow into an adult with no ability to work. The aid we have already provided is more than adequate.”

His statement annoyed you, as he so often did when he disagreed with you. But you took satisfaction in his use of the word “we”. He had seemingly come around to your way of thinking even if he never admitted it out loud.

You were about to protest when the pup stood up. It limped forward cautiously. When you first arrived, you and the knight sat a fair distance away, far enough to place a long feasting table in the space between. The pup tried to cross that distance now, weighing heavily on three feet before quickly hopping on the fourth injured leg. Its gait was unsteady but its gaze was focused on you.

The knight leapt to his feet and took a stance in front of you, putting himself between you and the animal. Clearly intent on protecting you from its approach. You had forbidden him from drawing his sword on the creature, so instead he reached out to grab it by the scruff of its neck. As his hand neared the animal, it looked up, head cocking to the side in curiosity.

Before the knight could react, the pup’s pink tongue darted out, licking the chicken grease off his hand. The animal’s eyes widened, shining with concentration as its tongue thoroughly enveloped each of the knight’s fingers in turn, engrossed in polishing off what little was left of its earlier meal. He froze in place and his stunned reaction allowed the animal to keep licking away with abandon. When it finished, it licked its lips and nose, finally satisfied that the knight’s hand was clean.

All the while, you had to suppress your laughter, clutching your sides as you heaved with silent mirth. The pup shared in your good mood and smiled at the knight, tongue hanging flappy with a great wide smile. It whined sulkily when he remained frozen. Pushing its tiny head into the knight’s palm was not enough to solicit pets, no matter how earnestly it rubbed itself against his hand. Finally, it rolled onto its back, paws flopping charmingly in the air.

The knight stood in confusion. Your giggles subsided enough to tell him, “Do indulge the creature, sir knight. It means you no ill will.”

“What does it want?” he asked, an alarmed tinge to his question.

“Have you ever played with a dog before?”

“No.”

“When a dog shows you its belly, it is a sign of submission. They are showing you their vulnerability as a way of demonstrating their trust in you. I imagine the same applies to wolves,” you added thoughtfully.

He still made no effort to move.

“It’s a show of goodwill, sir knight,” you continued. “You may demonstrate the same by obliging the creature.”

“How?”

“By petting it, of course,” you smiled at him, although with his back to you he had no way of seeing it.

You might as well have asked him to die in battle for you. He was still, no doubt some internal conflict playing out in his mind. It was easy to imagine the knight’s expression of consternation: good eye wide and brows high, his mouth fallen open to reveal the charming little gap in between his two front teeth. The thought almost made you giggle again, so you cleared your throat before stating authoritatively, “Sir knight, I order you to pet the animal. I promise you will enjoy it.”

The order seemed to turn his surprise into exasperation. He let out an almost imperceptible sigh that you noticed only because you were keen to observe what he would do next. The knight obediently sank to his knees, still slow with caution. You craned your neck to watch him place his hand on the animal’s stomach, fingertips first, before smoothing his fingers into its coat, letting his palm rest fully. Then he rubbed slowly, up and down movements ruffling the fur. He did not say anything further but you could tell he was enjoying himself, as he allowed his normally uptight posture to slouch, shoulders lowering in relaxation. Loud and happy panting from the animal filled the air. It was a point of envy that the pup warmed up to the knight first, what with the knight’s reluctance to get involved during the initial encounter. Still, it pleased you to see wonder on his face, the end of his lip twitching upward as if he was fighting the urge to smile.

You were always reluctant to return home after these outings, and for once the knight seemed to share in that unwillingness. He was always the one reminding you that the end of prayers was drawing near. This time, you were the one to let him know it was time to leave. His departure was slow, and as he made to follow behind you he cast one last look over his shoulder. As tempting as it was to tease him for his newfound attachment to the animal, you instead discussed with him how to further aid the pup’s recovery. Now that it readily accepted his touch, perhaps you could administer medical attention. The discussion was cut short when you rejoined your other attendants outside the church.

On your next trip, the knight brought a roll of bandages with him, hidden inside his pockets. Unfortunately, it had been too optimistic to hope that you could help with the pup’s injury so soon. The high-pitched yelps it unleashed when the knight grazed its injured leg were pained, and it once again growled with all the ferocity of a little beast. The knight was quick to withdraw his hands.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you sighed. It was hard to watch its suffering and be powerless to help.

“It’s alright, my lady,” the knight said encouragingly. “It will make a full recovery in time. Our aid has guaranteed it.”

You glanced at him. He met your eyes, and his expression spoke of unshakeable confidence. So strange to see this change from his distant indifference to the warm reassurance he was offering you now. The simple acknowledgment of your shared endeavor made you blush and look away. Luckily, the pup had begun licking its leg vigorously and made itself a convenient target for your gaze. You breathed deeply to calm your heart, a sudden anxiety making it jump erratically in your chest.

“What a brave pup to endure such an injury, all alone with no family in the world,” you said wistfully. A thought rested on the tip of your tongue, one that you were suddenly afraid that the knight would object to. But why did his opinion matter to you? As your knight, he would be obedient to your whims no matter how he felt about them. You pushed down your concern and spoke, “If you should go through the world alone, at least you need not be nameless, little one.”

As if it knew you were speaking to it, the pup stopped licking and looked straight at you, staring intensely. You cleared your throat and spoke softly, “You were not born a lion, but you share its courage and its heart. Leo shall be your name.”

The speech was less silly in your head. Now that it had been spoken aloud, it sounded downright ridiculous. What if the pup would not respond to the name? Did the knight think you were too childish or pompous? He did let out a noise of amusement through his nose, not a snort but a low exhale. He was too dignified to snort.

In your embarrassment you wanted to snap at him, but he spoke first. “It is a good name, my lady.”

His validation cheered you. You turned to smile at him, and he returned it with one of his own, both ends of his lips lilting lightly upwards. Not a slanted smirk that showed amusement at your expense. It brought a handsomeness to his face that you never noticed before. A loud, happy bark from Leo drew your knight’s attention, and you were glad for him to look away before he saw how your blush deepened.

As if receiving a name had spurred its recovery, Leo was able to walk slowly but steadily towards the edge of the meadow, looking to rest under a bush. You and your knight departed in the opposite direction. Today, your sense of revelry was not just in Leo’s improved recovery but also your knight’s first sincere smile at you, although you only discussed the former with him. It saddened you to rejoin your entourage, as it meant the end of your private time with the knight. At least you could look forward to your next outing in the future.

On your way back to your father’s hall, the blacksmith Talis hailed you. You greeted him politely as he approached. It was a warm summer’s day and he was shirtless, gleaming with sweat and smeared with grime. Evidence of a long day’s labor at the forge.

“Milady,” he grinned as he took one of your hands in both of his, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. “Are you and your parents well?”

“We are, thank you,” you said. “I shall let them know you inquired after them. Are you in good health?”

“I am, thank you. Your lady mother’s birthday approaches, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“No, not for several more months.”

“Then I will have her gift ready for her by then,” he beamed at you. “Good day.”

“Good day, Talis.”

If you had remained in the hot forge, you would have sworn that was the reason for your discomfort; being near such blazing heat in the summertime was nigh unbearable. However, as you made your way back into town the distress persisted. What could be the cause? You turned to ask your ladies-in-waiting some idle question, hoping to determine if anyone else felt ill at ease. All seemed well with everyone else— except your knight. All warmth had drained from his being, his posture straightened to the point of near stiffness, a scowl on his lips and a notch between his furrowed brows.

More often than not, your knight’s usual demeanor was less than pleasant. But to see his previously good mood suddenly ruined caused you no small amount of worry. The rest of the day was agonizingly long and you were overly distracted, unable to put your apprehension to rest until you met privately with your knight, in the evening as he escorted you to the staircase leading to your chambers.

“Are you well, sir knight?”

“Why does the blacksmith act so familiar with you?” he asked, ignoring your question.

“Oh—” what a bizarre inquiry. It caught you so off guard, you laughed in puzzlement. “His family has served this town for generations. Talis is friendly with all who employ his services.”

“That is all he is to you? Someone your family employs?”

“Yes,” this conversation was becoming more and more strange—

“You have no interest in him beyond that?”

“No.”

“Would he say the same about you?”

“I don’t see why not. He is married, after all.”

“Is he now?” your knight raised an eyebrow at the information. “It is a strange custom here. Do all married men kiss the hands of women they have no interest in? And offer gifts to their mothers?”

“He seeks to curry favor with the ealdorman’s family, nothing more and nothing less,” you said, more bewildered than ever. To turn the tables on him, you asked teasingly, “And what about yourself, sir knight? You have lived here nearly a year now— have you met anyone of interest yet?”

For a man with a singular eye, the knight’s gaze could become extremely penetrative when he wanted it to be. It paralyzed you. Just as suddenly as it began, the interrogation was over. He bid you goodnight, leaving you to stand on the stairs alone.

The whole conversation was too peculiar to dismiss. You paced your room endlessly, repeatedly brushing your hair and remaking your bed, stopping one activity only to return to the other mindlessly. What was the purpose of the knight’s questions? Why did it feel like he did not believe your answers? Why did that possibility fill you with a sense of defensiveness? You had done nothing wrong— so why did you get the impression that your knight felt otherwise?

You stared at yourself in your mirror and shook your head. You had unintentionally made the knight into your confidante when he insisted on accompanying you on your secret outings. And it was only natural to feel a sense of camaraderie with someone you spent so much private time with. It was a mistake to assume that closeness would grow into friendship. His obligations to you began and ended with your commands and your father’s.

Perhaps he wished for your relationship to remain professional, and nothing more. After all, he had quite the withdrawn manner when he first came into your service. Was his tolerance of you solely based on staying in your father’s good graces? There had been others who sought out your friendship merely to use you as a means to an end, without any interest in forming a genuine bond with you. The knight would not be the first nor the last.

You ought to limit your interactions with him. Just as you resolved to do so, a tiny feeling of sinking disappointment settled in your chest, churning into an unpleasant sourness in the pit of your stomach. Was it so wrong to enjoy the knight’s company?

What if he found no enjoyment in your company? That notion was outrightly painful, a stinging little hurt in your heart. Your hand rose unconsciously to your chest, rubbing in circles to soothe yourself.

Well, he would think it strange if your visits to Leo ceased in such an abrupt manner. You would visit the pup for as long as it accepted your presence. Then you would stop sneaking out altogether, or at least find another way to leave the knight behind entirely.

The air in your room felt cold despite the warmth of the late summer.

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Was it your imagination or was the knight’s morning greeting to you even icier than usual? He had a habit of speaking only when spoken to, but his answers seemed even more taciturn, opting only to nod, shake his head, or hum in acknowledgment. If you did not know better you would have wondered if he had lost the capacity for words entirely.

At least Leo did not need words to express joy at your arrival. He was waiting at the edge of the meadow for you today and barked, tail wagging excitedly. His acceptance of you had progressed to the point where he allowed you to pet him. The wolf was so jubilant that he raised his forelegs and batted you on your shoulders, almost knocking you off your feet.

Delighted, you leaned in to hug him. How had Leo’s growth escaped your notice? The wolf may have still been a pup, but only in age and not in size. His body exceeded the length of your torso, his head towering above yours when you sat on your knees. Your arms did not meet when they wrapped around him. His fur was no longer soft and thin, but now rough and thick underneath your hands. You laughed as he licked your face, his wet tongue and hot breath on your cheek. What a miraculous development!

You glanced surreptitiously at the knight. He made no move to separate the two of you. Perhaps he had finally grown to trust that Leo truly meant no harm.

However, the wolf had not quite recovered fully. He had the bad habit of periodically reopening his wound during his sporadic moments of self-grooming. The wound’s severity was never quite as grave as the first day you met. However, the wolf would never heal properly if his self-sabotage was not prevented. Being able to hug Leo safely was a good sign that he would let you bandage him.

When you met the knight’s eyes again, there was understanding on his face. Despite whatever grudge he held against you, it was a relief to know that he would continue his involvement in your plans to help Leo. You wordlessly held out your hand for the roll of bandages just as the knight pulled it out of his pocket. After scratching Leo underneath his chin, you stood up and backed away to give the knight plenty of room.

You had instructed the knight how to restrain a hound, a method that you had learned from your brother. However, today would be the first time that the knight would put this practice into action. You watched with bated breath as the knight knelt next to Leo, patting the wolf’s back. He pressed gently on Leo’s shoulders, encouraging him to lie down. The wolf rested on the ground, staring off into the distance and panting happily, seemingly content just to have the two of you nearby. Then the knight leaned over the wolf, tucking the animal under his arm and grasping its chest with his hand. It was imperative that the knight perform this part, as his strength was greater than yours and would allow him to restrain the animal. Leo was undisturbed and merely licked his lips.

The wound was on Leo’s left hind leg, a sideways cut not dissimilar to the knight’s own scarring. It was a stroke of luck that the injury only spanned the upper half of the wolf’s leg; there would be no need to wrap the entirety of the limb. You adjusted the position of the leg on the ground, highly conscious of the knight’s proximity to you.

His back was broad, long lines sloping into the straight, handsome column of his neck. You were close enough to him that you could have bumped your forehead against his shoulder. The smells of the forest did not overshadow his scent—

Leo boofed in annoyance, his foot kicking out of your grasp. His patience at being manhandled was running out. Hastily, you unrolled the bandages. The wolf whined and squirmed but the knight’s hold was strong, allowing you to wrap the wound tightly. You backed away immediately after you finished and the knight let go as well.

The wolf instantly made to lick his leg only to be confounded when his tongue met bandaging and not skin. He licked and licked and licked, unable to reach his intended target. After a minute or so he became disinterested, turning abruptly to resume staring into the air.

Victory! You laughed in relief and exhilaration. This had been by far the riskiest endeavor of Leo’s recovery and the pair of you successfully completed it unscathed.

“Thank you,” you told the knight, beaming at him. “You did well to earn Leo’s trust. We could not have accomplished this without it.”

The knight regarded you with an unreadable expression but he nodded. “The same goes for you, my lady. Leo’s recovery is a credit to your compassion and persistence.”

“Nonsense,” you turned away from him, blushing. You scooted forward to scratch Leo behind his ears, studying the pattern of gray and black coloration on his fur. He closed his eyes in enjoyment, mouth hanging open and tongue lolling out happily.

“It’s true, my lady,” he said simply. “Well done.”

The heat of your embarrassment burned away any words you may have used to disagree with him. Why did you choose a dress with such long sleeves and a high neckline today? It was positively oppressive in the summer season. You mumbled your thanks, pointedly staring at a spot on the wolf’s shoulder. You felt more than saw the knight sit down across from you on Leo’s other side.

(When was the last time you visited the medic? You needed to stop by at the first available opportunity. Some strange ailment had befallen you and you needed a cure: a mingling excitement and anxiety in your chest, an excessively rapid heartbeat—)

“There is no one,” the knight said.

“I beg your pardon?” you looked up at him finally. To continue avoiding his gaze when he was conversing with you would be rude.

His eye was serious, and he spoke solemnly, “To answer your previous question: I have not yet met anyone of interest.”

How strange that you felt both thrilled and dismayed by his statement. But you giggled and blurted out, “Perhaps that can be remedied. There are a number of my retainers who wish to become better acquainted with you, sir knight.” You winked at him for emphasis.

“I am aware.” Of course he was. He was too astute to not have noticed.

“And you are drawn to none of them?” you asked, surprised. “They are all good people. You need only choose your favorite— I could make proper introductions if you so wished—”

“I do not,” he said, firmly but not unkindly.

“Truly?”

He nodded. He scratched the wolf under its chin, smiling gently. Leo closed his eyes, lost in bliss.

You could not help but sigh, a heavy heart in your chest. The knight’s eye alighted on you. His examination of you this time was gentle.

“That is quite a shame,” you said lightheartedly, or you tried to. “There will be many broken hearts among them.”

He rolled his eye. “If they are good people then they will find love with ease.”

“I hope so,” you said. “You all may live and love as freely as you please. If only—”

If only you could as well. You had stopped speaking, swallowing hard when a lump in your throat made it too painful to continue. As if he could sense your discomfort, Leo crawled closer to you, resting his head on your leg. His eyes were wide and doleful as he looked up at you.

“Are you betrothed?” the knight asked. His tone was casually curious.

“No,” you said, absentmindedly petting the wolf. “But perhaps it is only a matter of time. My father does intend for me to marry. If I cannot find anyone ‘worthy of our family name’, then he will choose for me.”

Even in your unhappiness, you could not help but smile at the wolf. You scratched him behind his ears, avoiding the knight’s gaze as you spoke, “I am sorry… You must think me a spoiled child… my family has more than enough silver to see me live comfortably to the end of my days, and yet I often find myself feeling caged…”

Tears welled up in your eyes. It took such an effort not to cry that you could not restrain yourself from the outpouring of complaints. “There are moments where I wish to run away when the world is too loud. And it very often becomes loud. After all, I am never allowed a moment alone except to wipe my own ass.”

The knight’s lip twitched upwards, but he continued looking at you with sympathy. “We were meant to choose our own destinies. If someone else chooses for you, then the desire to run away is only natural.”

He turned to look directly at you. His gaze was unwavering but a note of worry crept into his voice. “My lady… I have not been fully truthful with you. I wish to do so now. I cannot stop you from telling your parents, but it is my hope that you will not. You will come to understand why.

“I told you of how my brother and I lived in poverty. That was not always the case,” he said. “As orphaned babes, we were left at the church. They raised and fed us when no one else would… but they asked for too much in return. We were expected to join the clergy, to remain and serve for the rest of our days. I wanted more out of life. I asked my brother to leave with me. He was free to stay, but he chose to join me.

“The church and our community spurned us. As if wanting a life outside of monastery walls was a crime. You already know of how we lived… and my brother grew weary of it. He went back to the church and begged for their ‘forgiveness’. Played lapdog after everything we suffered. They agreed— but only if we returned together.

“I trusted him, and he betrayed me. And yet I was the unreasonable one for not wanting to rejoin the church,” he scowled darkly.

You gripped a fist in Leo’s fur. Fury at the brother boiling inside you. “Your brother’s treachery cuts quite deeply, sir knight.”

“May you never experience the pain of betrayal, my lady,” he said. “It can break you, or forge you into something greater. But there are other ways to find strength. To become powerful enough to defy your fate. I hope to help you find it.”

What a blessing to witness so many selfless acts from your knight today. Even as he looked to you for reassurance that he had not alienated you, he still reaffirmed his loyalty.

“I am sorry you endured so much hardship, sir knight. May I say again that you deserved none of it. If there is anything I can do to lessen your pain, all you need to do is ask,” you said softly. Would that there were more words you could offer in sympathy. “I will not tell my parents if you do not wish for them to know… after all, neither of us are as devout as they would like.”

Was the joke too poorly timed? You bit your lip for your thoughtlessness. But your knight chuckled and looked at you warmly. Perhaps the worst of his pain had faded.

You dared not voice this, but you were glad for his survival. Not just because your knight deserved to live freely, but also because he somehow ended up on a path that led to you. Instead, to change the topic you asked him, “Are you happy, sir knight? It seems to me that you traded a life in service to the church for a life in service to a mortal.”

“I do not mind. This life is much more preferable. After all, I chose it for myself,” he said. “And you are a much worthier master.”

You smiled at him in thanks, but the hollow flattery of his words did not move you. His earlier compliment might not have been sincere either. It was foolish of you to forget how the knight was only pretending at kindness towards you. This reminder did not hurt any less than the first time you realized it.

It was necessary to remember it always, if only to guard your heart.

And yet you could not stop from finding happiness in the time you spent with the knight. It was too comfortable a companionship that you had yet to find anywhere else. Trusting each other with secrets you dared not share with others. Made all the more exciting by a certain irony: you were not allowed to spend time alone with any man unless you had an escort, and yet the knight seemingly did not count as a man. A loophole that made your paired outings feel more like secret trysts. No one witnessed your transgressions except for the wolf.

Now that he was bandaged, Leo’s recovery became straightforward. You and the knight changed his wrappings every time you visited him, and the wound was more improved each time you checked. No fur grew on the scar, but the skin was no longer tender and Leo no longer flinched when he was touched. You found yourself making excuses to keep attending to the wolf. His leg might still be weak in the muscle and the bandaging provided support. If the knight found your reasoning to be implausible, he did not remark on it.

Autumn passed and winter came, marking close to a whole year since you first met Leo. He had reached his full size and was now exponentially longer and heavier than you. Yet he was as playful with you as ever, clamoring to lie in your lap and disregarding how his weight crushed your legs into the ground.

A sudden change fell over him as you unwrapped his leg. He stared out into the woods, beyond the horizon. Contemplating something that was beyond your perception. The impulse to hug him overwhelmed you, but as you wrapped your arms around him he moved away, stepping out of your grasp. He stalked away easily towards the edge of the meadow where the trees grew thicker in number. It was as if he had never been injured at all.

Leo turned to look at you and the knight. His eyes were the same brilliant white as the snow on the ground. Staring at you with some unrecognizable emotion. Or perhaps he looked at you with no emotion at all. There was no sign of the pup you nursed to health; only a wild beast remained. Perhaps it was his gratitude to you that did not compel him to run away unceremoniously.

You and the knight stared back at Leo. You dared not breathe too loudly, nor run up to the wolf and pet him one last time.

Because there was the unshakeable conviction that this was the last time you would ever see Leo again.

He turned and loped into the woods, soft footfalls lightly crunching the snow underfoot.

And then he was gone forever.

It should have been a joyous occasion. He was never meant to stay with you as if he were a pet, in such close proximity to other humans who may have wished him harm. His full recovery guaranteed his survival as he rejoined the wild, as he was always meant to do.

But the world blurred as tears welled in your eyes. You sniffed and turned away from the knight, not wishing to cry in front of him. Were your parents struck by a similar sense of grief when your brother grew old enough to travel on his own? It was an irrational thought that would not leave you.

You hunched over, hands covering your face. As if that would prevent the knight from noticing your sobs. The notion that he was bound by your orders to never speak of this to anyone provided little consolation in your devastating sorrow.

The knight sat as near to you as possible. His knee almost touched yours. He moved his hand towards you but stopped just shy of touching your shoulder. He clenched it into a fist and kneaded his thigh.

“He will hunt often and well, my lady,” said the knight. “I do hope that might provide you some solace.”

It did, but not enough to stop the tears. It was many moments longer before you could catch your breath and compose yourself. The knight sat next to you the whole time, a quiet source of comfort that could not touch you but nevertheless felt like twin arms wrapping around your heart.

Part 3

#Arcane #Arcane fanfic #Silco #Silco x Reader #Arcane Silco #Silco Arcane #Silco fanfic #my writing #A Knight to Remember #AKtR

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snowfolly · 1 year ago

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A Simple Life

Astarion x original f!Tav | one shot, 2,931 words

Astarion and Tali are taking a break from the road to stargaze for a moment. He reflects on what was and what could have been with his little gray songbird at his side.

Cw: references to Astarion’s past abuse, some cursing

Tags: tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort, soft Astarion, post-game, headcanons, self-indulgent af, Astarion’s Pov

Notes: Headcanons galore about noble elves in Evereska and Astarion’s past- if that’s not your thing then this may not be the story for you friend! • No beta on this one-shot & I am certainly not a professional writer • Also just as a little side note- My Tav, Taliesin, is genderfluid and uses any pronouns. They have used a ring of opposite gender for around 60 years (which they use about half the time), so I write/draw them as either gender :>

Read on ao3

“Imagine though, if we had stayed back in Evereska we could have had a simple life, well, at least compared to the ones we’ve lived. Perhaps my bitch of a mother would have sold me off to your family to wed you — for a handsome dowry of course,” Tali mused, staring up at the night sky and the thumbnail of a moon that bled the faintest silver light upon the land, “can you even imagine? We would have been absolutely miserable.”

Astarion laughed, his arms behind his head as he laid upon the long autumn grass, the scent of comforting vetiver and leaf rot was strong but not unpleasant so close to the earth. He stared at the constellation Correlian just over the horizon, thirteen bright stars standing out amongst a million others, giving him some kind of vague nostalgia, although he couldn’t pinpoint why exactly. Likely something left over from his past, from the time before; broken memories that would sometimes seep through in the form of indefinite feelings.

“Oh certainly, we would have hated each other. I would have resented you, you’d have resented me, we’d keep to different rooms on opposite sides of our sprawling mansion. We’d drink too much, despise our jobs in the family business, take other lovers and hate each other for that as well. It simply would have been a grand old time!” he jested sarcastically, one hand on his chest and the other waving about for humorous emphasis before glancing over at Taliesin.

Tali was such a slight creature, dressed in an oversized ruby hued poet shirt and high black breeches, her long, cool gray hair was back in her typical loose braids, balled up unceremoniously at the nape of her neck and held in place with a red silk tie. She sat cross legged and leaning up against the trunk of a tree nearly barren of leaves, her violin propped up beside her.

“We would have bickered nonstop, both of us bored to death as we played our roles,” Tali made a dramatic gagging sound and sat forward, hugging her knees and resting her head on them as she glanced down at Astarion with an impish grin, “but here we are.”

“Indeed, here we are, love,” Astarion replied quietly, turning to lay on his side, better facing his partner.

“Just two elves that have been really shitty at being elves,” Tali conceded with a smile, and Astarion nodded with a slight eye roll. She certainly wasn’t wrong about that. Neither of them worshipped the Seldarine. Tali was as decadent as he, self absorbed and mean spirited at times as well.

They were both city dwellers and cared not for the woods, but while she had played her music in taverns and inns for over a century in Baldur’s Gate he had been prowling them as a vampire spawn for much longer. The only time they had frolicked in forests was out of necessity, to get from point a to point b.

Lying on the grass with her and staring up at the heavens, contemplating the vastness and meaning of it all was as elfy as either of them got, he supposed.

“So…what exactly would have been your fate if you had stayed home? Seeing as to how I wasn’t there to come sweep you off your stamping mad little feet?” Astarion asked, nodding his head rhythmically with each of the last four words out of his mouth and Tali shrugged, her face not showing a hint of perturbance, which was good. Her past, much like his own, could be a point of contention.

“I was arranged to wed a noble merchant’s son when we both came of age, poor boy was sweet as mead but dense as cow dung. You might have known him, he was a bit older than me and a smidge younger than you. Not a brain in his head. Spent all day elfing-about in the woods, absolutely loved all that shit. Thank the gods I had the wherewithal to run away.”

“A dire fate that would have been,” Astarion said with a half smile, his gaze distant, deep in thought.

Evereska was such an obscure, foggy memory for him. He had very little recollection of it but he could vaguely remember the sprawling estates in the upscale part of the city, and one of them, not so far from his own family home was Tali’s — a house of noble merchants.

“Do you remember what would have become of you if you had stayed in Evereska?” Tali asked him with a hint of hesitation, but it was a question he had anticipated after he had asked her the same so frankly.

Astarion stared off into the field, garnet eyes faraway, his head propped up on his hand as the gears in his mind turned, but they weren’t turning nearly as efficiently as he would have liked. They never did when it came to the past, to the time before.

“Well, I’m not sure what my parents had planned for me, if anything. I… I really just don’t remember. I know that I left when I was very young, and I don’t know if I left on my own accord or if I was sent off. I just recall that it wasn’t a positive farewell,” he said solemnly, glancing back at Tali who was absentmindedly playing with the grass under her right hand.

“Do you… ever plan to go back to see them? Your family?” Tali asked without looking toward Astarion, and he was glad for it. His face fell and his heart sank at her words. His family.

A few stray crickets brave enough to bear the autumn chill were the only sound heard between the two as Astarion stayed silent for some time while he processed Tali’s question. He knew that she was curious about his past, but she never pried or prodded and it was only fair to answer her truly now.

“I have thought about it, of course I have,” he swallowed, looking up at her with round, pleading eyes and then back up to the sliver of moon hanging above, “I don’t think I could face them. I don’t know that I could…”

Astarion stalled a moment, irritated at his hitching voice before taking a deep breath out of habit. Oxygen was useless to his undead lungs but necessary for all the talking, “they’ve thought me dead for over two hundred years now. I don’t even know them anymore, Tali. I’m positive I left on very poor terms, I was buried in the city after all and that never would have happened if…”

“You don’t know that,” Tali interrupted, grimacing as she locked eyes with him, “there could have been many reasons for that. I remember when you died… well, vaguely as I had no idea who you were then, but I do remember your family mourning.”

Astarion’s languid heart skipped a beat, he felt like he had been punched in the gut at this revelation. Tali had never told him that. Astarion had known that Tali knew of his family but never knew that they had mourned for him. He had never asked about something like that though, of course he hadn’t.

“They mourned?” he asked in a small voice as he rolled over on his back once again, feeling defeated, feeling empty, at a loss. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear any more of this. That part of his life was over anyway, dead in the ground like his kin thought of him, right?

“Of course they did. Your mother…” Tali looked at Astarion with a sadness that she rarely displayed, a look that hurt him further, and she must have picked up on his discomfort because she changed direction.

“Gods… I. Look , I was only a child but I remember everyone making a big deal of losing an elf so young,” Tali sighed, hesitating a moment more before continuing, “so I don’t think you left on awful terms, Astarion. If you ever wanted to go back…”

She was right… possibly. What if the negative recollection that he did have of his family was incorrect? It wouldn’t be surprising, as his memories of the time before were so shattered. But why would she even suggest going back to a place that she had run from for so long?

“You’ve been avoiding Evereska for how long now? A century?”

“One hundred and twenty two years thereabouts,” Tali said nonchalantly, taking a particularly hard blade of grass and poking Astarion with it in the side of his neck without warning.

“Gods, Tali, you little shit,” he growled, slapping at the grass with an irritated grin, “then why do you care if we ever go back? Your mother will have your head…”

“I don’t care about returning for myself you idiot, I care about what it means for you. For you to see your family, not mine,” she exhaled, ripping the long blade of grass in two with furrowed brows as Astarion glared at her momentarily before his eyes softened. He grabbed at her arm with his clawed hand, beckoning her wordlessly to his side.

Of course this was about him.

Tali was as selfish of a creature as Astarion was, unless it came to matters involving him, and then she was patient, she was generous and she was kind in ways that he knew that she sometimes felt vulnerable for. He could certainly relate to that, as he often felt the same way with her.

He couldn’t, however, quite understand why she loved him though. He would never be able to fathom why she chose to love him after he had threatened to kill her when they had first met, after every shitty thing he had done to try and manipulate her, after all the baggage he’d brought to the table, but he would not ever question her affection. He would accept her love gratefully, and give all of his in return.

Tali obeyed his beckoning hand and rolled over to his side without another word, lying against him with her head resting on the crook of his arm as he clutched the seemingly infinite amount of fabric of her oversized sleeve. They laid together in silence, watching the moon creep slowly above the grasping bones of bare branches for an indeterminate amount of time, and his mind lulled back to his atrocious past, as it was wont to do during stretches of silence.

And gods, he had endured so much silence in two hundred years, so many endless nights of hushed horrors. He found quietness in busy taverns hunting for prey, he heard nothing when his victims moaned in ecstasy under him, and when they were taken away screaming from the boudoir he would lay in silence, a million miles away. Worlds away.

Like the year he spent clawing and screaming into the dark… there was nothing but silence for so very long.

Astarion bit his lip, bringing his mind out of despair, reining his thoughts back to his gray songbird who chirruped love songs to him before every sunrise, his strange little pet, who could play every instrument put before her and made so much pleasant noise. Tali gave him so much joy, shared his wretched sense of humor, made him laugh every night with endless raucous stories and bawdy jokes. She filled his life with so much sound.

His little songbird now lay shivering against him though, and it pained him that he could provide her no warmth. He held onto her tightly as she clung to him, burrowing her head into the crook of his neck as he touched his lips to her silken hair, nearly loose from its red tie.

“I do appreciate you thinking of me like that, you know. I really do, love” he whispered to her and she nodded slightly, exhaling her warm breath against the cold flesh of his neck, sending chills over his skin.

“Of course. I love you. That’s what people do when they love each other, Astarion,” she said in way that could be construed as flippant if it wasn’t said so sweetly.

“Truly though, if you ever want to go back, we’ll go. Just say the word. I’ll be fine, my mother hasn’t sent anyone looking for me for twenty years or so. I’ll use my ring or something to lay low,” she yawned, “just say the word.”

He smiled into her gray hair, dark as charcoal in the low light, inhaling her scent, clean and floral, and he felt almost overwhelmed with it all. Not in a negative way at all though. Two hundred years of horror, neglect and misery had all led up to this moment of comfort, of truly being happy. He guessed that what he felt was overwhelming gratitude, for his freedom, for another chance at life, for her.

“Maybe if we ever find the cure for my condition…”

“When we find the cure,” Tali murmured, correcting him, and Astarion exhaled, knowing deep in his heart that the cure might not ever come, no matter how many years they searched — but he’d humor her anyway.

“Fine. After we absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent find the end to my curse then I'll think about going back. Perhaps. Maybe I’ll write them first, though. Wouldn’t want to give them a fright, thinking I was some sort of phantom,” he ventured facetiously as she curled up against him closer.

Astarion couldn’t feel the chill in the same way Tali could, and though she was no weakling he couldn’t help but worry over her being too cold. He shifted slightly, ready to announce that it was time to go when she spoke up in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think it would have been so bad, really?”

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, momentarily confused.

“If we had stayed home, if we had been arranged to marry. I was joking but really, it could have been possible you know. We’re not too far off in age.”

Astarion blinked, his mind going over an entire century of what very well could have been in just a moment. Gods how mad they both would have been at the prospect. But would they have really hated each other after they had gotten to knows one another? They hadn’t liked each other very much when they had first met nearly a year earlier, but now. Now he couldn’t picture his life without the little shit.

“I don’t think so. It wouldn’t have been so awful,” he answered quietly, holding her tighter, helpless to comfort her as she shivered slightly, “but we would have never stayed there.”

“Oh we wouldn’t have stayed at all. Never in a million years. But I don’t think we would’ve hated each other. I don’t think I could ever hate you,” she said groggily, and he smiled to himself as she continued, “do you think you could have hated me?”

“No, I don’t think I’d ever be able to hate you either, songbird,” he said without hesitation before pulling away from her slightly, causing her to protest with a groan.

“But it’s time to move on, pet. The next inn’s a few miles up the way, It’s getting early and you’re freezing to death. That won’t do.”

“Are you sure that you don’t hate me?” Tali whined, curling up into a miserable ball and clutching her hands at her chest as Astarion rose to his knees, beckoning her up.

“Get up. I know you’re hungry too. If the innkeep’s up and about we’ll get you a potato, butter, salt, the works. A glass of hot mead, mulled wine…” Astarion smirked as she opened her eyes wide, he knew that mentioning food, potatoes in particular, would do the trick.

“Well. Fine,” Tali finally relented, her hands reaching up to him with lethargic waggling fingers as he stood to pull her all the way to her feet.

They collected their belongings waiting at the base of the tree and Astarion dug a cloak out from her pack for her, placing it on her shoulders before they made their way back to the road in silence. Tali grabbed his hand as they ventured forth once again.

“We’d have been hand in hand getting the hells out of Evereska too, I think,” she said after some time, and he was amused that the subject was still on her mind, especially after putting the idea of hot buttered potatoes and mead in there. Astarion looked down at her, her rose hued eyes bleary but as spirited as always.

“Darling, they’d have been lucky if we didn’t burn the entire damned place to the ground before we left,” he said with a dismissive wave of his free hand and Tali laughed out loud.

“Oh, so lucky.”

The simple life would have never been for them, not in any way, shape or form. But perhaps if fate had brought them together so long ago they would have had an amazing century with one another, running all over Faerûn, getting into gods only knew what mischief. If only things had been different. If only he hadn’t died in Baldur’s Gate, hadn’t suffered for two hundred godsdamned years…

Tali squeezed his hand tightly, bringing him back from his dark thoughts once again.

Everything leading up to that moment is what they were given. Nothing could change the horrors of the past, but hand in hand they could now do their best to make up for all that lost time.

With Tali by his side everything would be alright.

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #headcanons #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion x original female character #astarion x f!tav #astarion fanfic #astarion romance #astarion #God how many times can I write his name in one place #astaaaaariooooooon #snowyfic

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taeks · 4 years ago

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send me a number and i’ll make you a gifset ⤷ 20. what is your favorite hair color on sejun? for anon

#forvicton #ultkpopnetwork #mgroupsedit #idolsincedits #kpopccc #victon #sejun #request: complete #*mine #basically just a continous era stages set for sejun but oh well #also in case it was unclear #it is blue #it is a close draw with both black and the silver he had for nostalgia tho #*victon

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altocat · 2 years ago

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SEPHIROTH WEEK DAY 7

Prompt: Rebirth

Summary: In the darkened gloom of an outcast's refuge, Genesis dreams they are dying.

Sometimes, sleep is easier.

A generous mistress, warm and inviting, coming to him like a waiting goddess in the dark. Between the tightened corners of his mounting guilt and despair, it comes to claim him, to carry him off, away. Curled in the tight, cool coffin of his blackened surroundings, it’s simpler to give himself over, to relinquish the slackening hold of his consciousness, merge himself in that inky oblivion where memory and time are frozen, basking, warm summer days beneath the shelter of the trees, old fondness and laughter returning to him. A pretty lie. A pretty fantasy.

But easier. So, so much easier.

In these odd collections of nostalgia, he forgets the tomb that now shelters him, the low stink of the black earth, the gleaming eyes in the dark, the whispers. This quiet cell, this “Deepground”. It’s all very droll, very theatrical. But in those wallowing, early years, curiosity and intrigue are the farthest thing from Genesis’ thoughts.

Because it’s easier to sleep. And to dream. And to taste. And to remember.

In the fetid gloom that coats him, the pale shape draws closer, a curling, wisping mirage, rippling and pulsing through the dank surface of his dreams, bloodied and torn, soft and sleek and silver.

And dying.

Dying, yes. They are always dying in his dreams. Degrading. Dying together. Ghosts of old words expressed, old insults, old revelations.

“No such luck. You are a monster.”

They come to bite him. They always do. Scrabbling little pulls of pain, regret. Festering like the wound on his shoulder, now cleared and cleaned. Age by age, on and on. They leave and he survives. They leave, and he remains. And despairs. And dreams.

Beside him, Sephiroth’s ghostly visage is watching him, the light in his green eyes dimming, his torso bloody, nearly torn in two. He stares at Genesis without blinking, drawing pale ivory hands across the taut alabaster skin of Genesis’ gaunt face, ghosting through him, whispering noiselessly in the shadows.

Genesis closes his eyes and swallows.

“I didn’t mean it.”

It’s in these moments that he feels the words coming, bubbling up in his throat, cracked and hoarse, choking through the tangle of guilt, all but eating him alive.

“I never meant it. None of it.”

The shape only watches, expressionless, dipping into the blackness around him, that low, weighty warmth in Genesis’ chest and shoulder, pressing, smothering.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want this. I didn’t see it then, but I didn’t want it to end like this. Not with Angeal. Not with you.”

It’s true. The words pass freely between him, more than they ever had in life, in those innocent, bygone days, when competition and communication had gone hand in hand, so reckless yet so restrained.

The shape only cocks its head, brutalized, swirling, an infantile pause of confused, murky air. Sephiroth is always silent here. Always vacant. Always dying. In these rare fragments of endless, unyielding eternity, Genesis can only half recall the intricacy of his features, those proud, pouting lips, that regal form that had always drawn so much awe and envy. The blood that rests there in that sliding, slanted hole oozes down the path of his waist, sticky between them, even as Genesis’ hands reaches and grasps at nothing, passing through.

“I was wrong. Goddess, I was so, so wrong.”

A dark scar, specks of fading light above them, the passage of twilight obscured by the red haze of their wilting breath, Sephiroth’s head still tilted, still surveying.

“I miss you. I miss both of you. I miss you so, so much.”

The smell of Mako. Of summer. Of rotting fruit.

“You were my hero. You were everything. I wanted you to see me. I just wanted you to see.”

A slow, steady blink. Genesis can hear everything, those liquid phantoms that race through him, tangible, clustering in his nose and throat and chest.

“I wanted you to acknowledge me. I wanted...everything.”

Laughter in the trees, waterfalls, high hills.

“I wanted to be worthy.”

Soft, timid hands.

“...I loved you. I should have said it.”

Green. The softest, solemnest green. Painted in the blackness, smeared like twin flickering candles, drawing farther from him.

“I should have.”

And farther.

“Goddess, I...”

That last, lingering smile. He can recall it now, even in waking. That tousle of bloodied silver stars, lips spreading, a flutter of dark lashes. Two silent scarlet tears, sliding down each rigid cheek, glittering like crimson pearls, beading down that sharp, sculpted, fading chin.

“Please...”

So soft. And real. And receding.

“Please...!”

But when Genesis squints through the bleary haze, he’s gone, torn away. The shape that lingers is different, altered. Lithe and strong, fiercely glowing, rekindling, rising above him, towering. A single blackened wing, the crazed ferocity in that emerald gaze returning, scouring land and sky, seeking, growing. And that smoldering comet’s tail, a blazing halo above him, streaking the reddened sky, a world of blood and ash, consuming, corroding.

Coming together again. Coming together without him. Returning. Reverberating. Anew. Blood that paves the streets. A cry. A raucous, roaring echo of hate and pain. He can feel it like bile in his throat, the flicker of screams in the dark, of things handed, things called. A wide, endless abyss giving way beneath his feet, drowning, tunneling. And Sephiroth in the middle of it all, mountainous, looming, all teeth and tongue and sick, tainted laughter and heat.

And Genesis yells, reaches, reaches beyond all possibility of hope, mouth stretched, fingers splayed. Reaching that indomitable, indescribable shape, step by step, piece by piece. To touch that glowing, ghastly face, to call between them the things remembered and cherished, to bring back from the edge, to hold, to apologize, to plead.

And the frenzied wall of thoughts that rushes through him, rising, dark promises that steam above him, stinging his face, harbingers.

Sephiroth.

Sephiroth is coming.

Sephiroth is--

Sephiroth is--!

When he wakes back in the damp heat of his cot, the answer escapes him, passing through him like smoke, the sourness in his throat and skin making him wince, the pillow slick. The light above him is faded, milky gray in the shadows, the rolling scrape of some unseen creature on the other end of the wall, silent eyes in the dark that regard him.

Sephiroth.

A moth flutters past him, batting against the lamp, a series of short, futile taps, mangled angles on the wall.

Sephiroth, where are you?

The lone, remaining hero, alive and alone, torn between things seen and unseen, wandering, lost.

What are you planning?

His shoulder aches, the pale glint of his streaming Mako eyes burning, staring at the wall, marking the creases, the little imperfections. Marking the years.

Where are you? What am I supposed to do? Sephiroth. Tell me. Be somewhere. Tell me. What am I supposed...

Sometimes, sleep is easier.

#sephiroth #sephgen #sephiroth week 2022 #ffvii #ff7 #crisis core #post-cc #genesis rhapsodos

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atinyidea · 4 years ago

Text

Heartworm | Choi San

n. a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smouldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire.

⟶ college!au, best friend!san, brother!seonghwa, friends to lovers!au, kinda very spicy but there’s no actual smut, there’s mentions of underage drinking and sexual encounters, everything is consentual!

⟶ appellation series masterlist

⟶ 5.7k words

600 special prompt for my lovely soul partner @san–shine, its like 50 years late and I know she no longer is active on this blog but I wanted to keep this.

42: “Exactly how drunk was I?”

49: “Good morning, sunshine.”

☞ When you were younger, you knew you were one-hundred per cent in love with your best friend, Choi San. However, because he was also, in fact, your brother’s best friend and you were a sixteen-year-old rebel adamant to never admit your feelings, you had to watch as he got his first girlfriend during a party Seonghwa had thrown for you. Now, years later and in the middle of college, you find yourself in a familiar setting: a party thrown for you by your brother and Choi San looking as breathtaking as he always does.

☞ moodboard

Just to be clear, when you woke up, you hadn’t expected your brother to announce that there was going to be a party held at your house for your twenty-second birthday. Your brother, being the kind and loving brother he was, had yet again used your birthday as an excuse to throw a house party, even though it wasn’t even your birthday until tomorrow. Seonghwa liked to use your birthday, the date falling in the last week of the summer holidays, as a way to gather all your combined friends as some sort of final summer get-together before the school year began again. You weren’t particularly against them, the end of summer parties becoming a little tradition after the fourth year running, and the fact that they were held at your house meant you could just go to bed any time you wanted. [ thank you sound-proofed home as per your mothers request due to your fathers’ noise-making habits from his job as a musician. ] Though it wasn’t like you knew anyone who would be throwing a house party you couldn’t just walk home from.

You did not know how many drinks you had consumed, alcoholic or otherwise, but the setting you found yourself in was giving you very explicit pangs of nostalgia to the first time you and your brother had thrown one of these parties. Your current situation was not unlike the situations you had been in before. You weren’t ashamed to say that you liked to have fun with your relationships: romantic, platonic or the just-once ones. It wasn’t unusual for you to be found in someone’s lap around midnight; the last party happened to be a beautiful girl named Soojin, the party before that was a guy whose name you hadn’t bothered to remember. However, the person’s lap who you sat in usually was not your best friend, Choi San’s. Not the San you spent the better half of your life burying romantic feelings for because he was Seongwha’s friend first. Not the San, your eyes couldn’t help watch whenever he was near. You made a promise to yourself since that one time when you had just turned sixteen, the one time you found yourself on his lap. [ A promise you made to deny your feelings because the very next day, he had gotten a girlfriend who was definitely not you. ]

At seventeen years old, San knew he was still a stupid and hormonal teenage boy. He practically got nose bleeds anytime he remotely saw a girl's lower back or tummy, their exposed thighs or neck: he knew he could be a perverted little shit. Still, having a girl for a best friend meant that he also knew what was respectful and what was just disgusting – thinking back on it, he was grateful for his friendship with you for teaching him from a young age how to treat girls with proper respect. [ Mainly because you would whack his head or punch him in the balls whenever he said something inappropriate or did something stupid. ] But, also at sixteen, San knew that he was also sorta-kinda-probably in love with his best friend’s sister. [ Who was also his best friend… was it possible to have more than one best friend? ]

During the summer of your sixteenth, Seonghwa’s eighteenth and his seventeenth birthdays, San and his family had gone overseas for an extended holiday. His father had received a promotion, and his mother struck lucky in her weekly lottery draw, so he hadn’t been there to witness the gradual changes to your body. It wasn’t like San wasn’t attracted to you before [ not that either of you knew what the fuck attraction was before ] but when you came to the airport to pick him up with your father, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to look at another girl ever again. [ Of course, that was an overdramatic thought since he proceeded to have girlfriends that weren’t you but the thought of you truly never left his mind. ]

The day of your sixteenth birthday party was something he would always remember clearly. He remembered the way you hugged him for a solid five minutes when he got to your house in the early morning, complaining about how your parents would still be away for another few days, and your brother refused to even hug you on your birthday. [ Seonghwa’s excuse was that it was your birthday tomorrow, and that was when you could claim the birthday hug. ] Secretly, he wished you would tell him you hugged him simply because you wanted to have him close. He remembered how Seonghwa had launched into a story from his last house party (one for the seniors that only he was invited to, but the stories were fun nevertheless) as he attempted to make pancakes at your request. You had bounced your way to your favourite countertop space and jumped up to sit there, right in front of the fridge, because it was the only place that was both cool and warm [ “exactly the right temperature” ] in the entire kitchen. He remembered the way his body slotted between your legs, his back to your chest as the two of you shared a vodka-and-coke at ten-in-the-morning. His mind was restlessly deciding if it was okay to lay his hands on your knees or calves, inevitably switching between the two places every five minutes. It hadn’t felt weird but natural as all three of you shared hearty laughs and then partially burnt pancakes.

[ He remembered when he had given you the small-and-terribly-wrapped box that held your present, egging you on to open it a day early. The way your face lit up as you lifted a thin silver chained sunflower charm bracelet into the air would forever be imprinted on his eyes – your eyes sparkling and lips twitching up into a wide grin as you thanked him seven times. The gentle tone of your voice as you asked him to help you put it on because for some reason, you couldn’t put clasped bracelets on for the life of you, was saved like a voice note in his brain. “You remembered,” you had whispered once he was settled back between your legs, “that sunflowers were my favourite, I mean.” The brush of your lips on his cheek lined the walls of his heart as it threatened to shatter through his ribs. ]

As a sixteen-year-old San knew that you probably shouldn’t’ve had as much alcohol as you had that night. However, as a seventeen-year-old San also didn’t care as long as you were having fun. It was not the first time you consumed alcohol, but it was the first time you’d had enough to get drunk from it. It was your sixteenth birthday party after all, and neither your brother nor your best friend had any objections when you grabbed the first vodka-and-coke at ten in the morning while you got ready. So now, at almost eleven at night, you had had more than ten of those drinks, and you could honestly say you weren’t sure if you’d remember anything from this night at all. The hours went by in a blur, and soon three drinks had turned into eight as you dragged San to your room to decide on an outfit for the night. He remembered the way his throat constricted as you strolled out from your bathroom in a neon green crop top and the pair of flare jeans you always wore. Ultimately San thought he would’ve preferred that outfit to the one you settled on – a black denim mini-skirt with a matching jacket on top of a simple t-shirt with a neon rainbow painted across the chest. The sliver of skin showing from the crop top was way less tempting than the muscle of your thighs, mainly since that was your exact plan for the outfit.

“You look good,” he had said, swallowing gulps of air and saliva when you asked, “you’d still look good in a potato sack,” he complimented you as you twirled on the spot and gifted him with a brilliant grin that simply took his breath away.

“We match!” You all but squealed when you took note of the black denim jacket San wore over his t-shirt with a neon rainbow across the chest.

He hadn’t even noticed.

His memory started to get hazy around drink number thirteen. He couldn’t remember how or what events had led to the current situation, [ or which room the two of you were actually in that was both not your bedroom and also not inhabited by literally anyone else ], but he certainly was not complaining. You were so close to him he could smell the faintest scent of your vanilla and cinnamon shampoo and conditioner you had used the day before, the slightest whiff of your jasmine scented perfume [ the one you always wore, the one he bought you your first bottle of ] and the sweetly bitter smell of cherry coke and vodka on your breath. His hands seemed glued to your lower back and hips, palms almost moulded to your skin like he were a sculptor, and you were his latest masterpiece. Your legs either side of his own, wrapping around him possessively, like he was yours and only yours, and he let you, using his hands to pull you closer to him like you were his and only his. Your faces were so close he could feel each hot exhale of breath hitting his lips, and when they stopped as you shivered and whined, he couldn’t help the way his lips tilted upwards into a smirk. The way you attempted to wire your mouth shut not to make a sound wasn’t effective, seeing as he heard all three of your whines, each one getting more prolonged and higher in pitch as the two of you continued your ministrations. His hips wanted to jut up into you. Still, he forced his movements to be as slow and smooth as possible, wanting to feel every way you would come undone above him, but when his gaze flickered across your face. He spotted the small trickle of blood falling from your lips; it was like everything that had just happened had disappeared.

From your recollection, you only remembered specific parts of that night. Your legs had been situated on either side of his thighs, your arms wrapped around his neck as his palms slowly pushed up the small of your back to pull your body closer to his. Your faces were so close you could physically see the connection between the two of you, yet neither of you pushed forward enough to make that connection real and tangible. [ You wanted to, God, you wanted to kiss him right then more than anything. Why didn’t you kiss him then? ] San’s hands felt hot against your skin, his fingertips slowly moving to draw a masterpiece on your back. You shivered slightly as a slight breeze floated around the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up. Your eyes were drawn to San’s lips as they twitched up into a slight smirk; his own eyes flickered to watch you watch him. Neither of you had said a word to each other for almost half an hour, drunkenly pushing at the limits between your friendship with nothing but burning touches and delicate twists of hips.

You subconsciously sucked your bottom lip into the confines of your teeth, but you willingly bit down harshly to stop a sly whine from escaping your lips as San had the cocky idea to roll his pelvis into yours as he held you in place with his hands on your hips. Apparently, you had bitten down way too hard because the next thing you knew was that San’s playful smirk had evaporated into a concerned frown. He lifted a hand from your hip – the sudden rush of cold where his hand previously was leaving you feeling a sense of loss – to your lip, his thumb tugging your lip back out.

“You’re bleeding,” he mumbled, thumb coming away with a smear of blood moulding into his fingerprint. The taste of blood in your mouth was unexpected and had sent you reeling. You almost flew off of his lap and practically ran to your bedroom’s bathroom to inspect the damage. There was a tear in the side of your bottom lip. [ The side of your lip you always bit out of habit, so the skin was thinner there than the rest of your lip. ] Against your better judgment – the rational part of your brain was too drunk at that moment – you settled your tongue against the fresh cut. Finching away from yourself at the unexpected [ which really should’ve been expected ] pain, you decided that there was nothing you could do to help soothe it. After twenty minutes, that felt like two, of staring at yourself in the mirror, you finally shrugged and made your way back into the heart of the party.

As an almost sixteen-year-old, you knew you were just coming into figuring out your body and the emotions of more physical relationships as you grew into it. You knew you had grown up a little (a lot) over the summer, your chest filling out from a b-cup to a c-cup, your lanky figure could no longer be considered lanky as your limbs gained muscle, fat and tone, creating a new full and curvy figure. Your mother had been ecstatic when you came to her asking how to style clothes to fit your ‘new’ figure as it meant the two of you could go shopping [ one of her favourite activities ], and you could find your style that both suited your body and personality. You did have to admit that your style didn’t change much; you still loved a sturdy flannel shirt [ always oversized though, now you tended to wear it open with a form-fitting crop top or spaghetti-strap top underneath to show off your chest and waist ] and you still loved your favourite pair of flare jeans enough to wear them almost every other day, [ the one with the painted sunflower over the back pocket. ] You also loved pleated mini skirts and knee-high socks or a simple loose-form-fitting dress with lycra cycle shorts underneath. You didn’t like the emotional side of your summer changes, though and, while you were new to the whole attraction thing, the one person you definitely didn’t feel anything remotely romantic for was your best friend. [ Well, maybe you did, but he was Seonghwa’s friend first, and that was a no-go… and perhaps you wanted to reject the way your heart turned into butterflies when you saw him at the airport… and maybe you just weren’t ready to put those feelings into words, so you denied them instead. ]

Your best friend whose lap you were just sat on, grinding your hips into his with your noses touching. Your best friend who was now kissing another girl [a beautiful girl who was named Hyemi, she was in Seonghwa’s class and also happened to live across the road… she was always nice to you and you couldn’t find it in you to dislike her even as your stomach knotted and twisted into something green with envy ] in the middle of the kitchen. You wouldn’t remember how long you stood there, watching the two of them kiss like a complete and utter creep, and you wouldn’t remember the look San gave you as he noticed the sway of your hair as you retreated out of the kitchen with a frown on your brow.

You did not fancy your best friend, and you definitely did not care that he was kissing Hyemi in front of the fridge. [ The fridge he stood between your legs in front of literal hours ago. ] Lastly, you definitely did not feel like crying as your mind reminded you about two different memories of earlier that day – one of you sat on the counter opposite that exact fridge with San leaning back into you as he gave you the sunflower charm bracelet that wrapped around your wrist, watching Seonghwa attempt to make you birthday pancakes. The second the memory of his hands burning up your skin, the way his lips tilted into a smirk when you shivered under his hold and the way you inflicted pain to yourself in an attempt not to whine with pleasure at the way he moved his hips.

It was too raw, and now you just wanted to forget.

San’s brain refused to calculate time because one minute his hand was reaching for your bloodied lip and the next you were gone, and San was back in the kitchen getting you a glass of water [ and then he was kissing another girl in front of the fridge he rested between your legs literal hours ago. ] San wouldn’t remember what their conversation had been, only that this girl, Hyemi, was older than him and had just asked him out. He wouldn’t remember the exact way her grin turned a little too malicious to be sincere. He would, however, remember the way your hair flew over your shoulder as you spun away from the scene involving him; he would remember the way his eyes followed your figure all the way into the embrace of your brother as you shallowly smiled and stole his drink [ and he would remember the way his chest seemed to ache at that simple action. ]

Hyemi became his girlfriend at that same party; you didn’t even know they knew each other. He didn’t even know why he said yes.

And here you were, on the penultimate night before your twenty-second birthday, in the lap of your best friend. His relationship with Hyemi had lasted six months, and he had gotten six more significant others in the seven-year gap from then til now but, right then, he was single, and you were in his lap. You had flopped down over the side of a two-seater couch; eyes screwed shut with laughter, so you didn’t realise who was sat on said couch – or that anyone was – until your head made contact with their thigh. [ Their thigh was very comfy to lay on, which was the first thing your brain commented on. ] When you looked up and met eyes with San, a small [ tiny really, in no way visible to the person who knew you best and where to look for a blush – finding it immediately ] blush was growing warmly over your cheeks.

“Hey there,” He grinned, setting down his plastic cup, [ more like throwing it over his shoulder, not caring that it hit someone since it was mostly empty anyway ] and poking your nose gently just to watch the way it would scrunch up. His fingers were moving from your nose to his ear to make sure the roll-up cigarette that was balanced there hadn’t fallen.

“Hi,” you giggled, your legs curling up to your chest, making you look like a contorted cat as your feet still dangled slightly over the arm of the chair. After a few seconds, your fingers started twitching and settled on playing with the fabric of his shirt. It was the same rainbow one he wore to your sixteenth party, matching the one you were wearing too. The both of you had grown out of them, San settling on cutting it into a crop top and you doing the same, [ since you were the one who had actually cut San’s shirt and decided to continue and do yours, so you matched again. ] His shirt gave little to cover, showing off his abdominals and tummy [ and the slight happy trail peeking out from the waistband of his jeans ] proudly and only just covering his pectorals. Your own shirt was cut higher, stopping just above the curve of your breasts. Still, your own torso was covered in a neon green fishnet bodysuit [ not that it left anything to the imagination, your torso was still on show ] that was tucked into your signature flare pants which now rode a little low on your hips and the sunflower on the back was more than a little faded.

“What are you doing?” He asked with an amused grin, [ complemented with the subtle raise of a singular eyebrow… Gods, why was he so attractive? ] one hands fingers starting to twist in the loose strands of your short hairstyle. It was nice. [ The touch of his hands against your hair was excellent, the slight tug of the strands against your skull felt really nice. ]

“Taking a break. Siyeon, Minji and Yunho broke out the karaoke machine, and they're playing the song shots game.” You replied as if it explained everything. [ It actually kind of did, San recalled you once telling him that the chaotic energy of that particular trio and the song shots game gave you awful headaches. And you hated having headaches when you were drinking because it made you nauseous. And when you were nauseous and drunk, you tended to go have a smoke, which you were trying extremely hard to stop doing for the sake of your father, who also used to smoke and now had lung problems. So, San understood your meaning. ] “What about you?”

San had to take a minute to think. Just what was he doing? Why was he so out of it today? In his heart, San knew the answer, but he hadn’t unlocked that treasure chest just yet. [ He was tired of watching you be semi-intimate with people that weren’t him… Which he refused to admit. Because both of you were pinning assholes in denial. ] Finally, even though it had only been a minute, he replied with a simple “I’m just… sitting.”

“Oh?” You asked, now it was your turn to raise the amused eyebrow, “just sitting?”

“Sitting... and thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.” The word was out faster than San’s brain had time to process what he’d said. However, now he had said it, he wasn’t going to deny it. Was it the small amount of alcohol in his system? [ It was the way your eyes widened a little as you looked up at him from your place in his lap, fingers twisting in his shirt and lips falling open ever so slightly. ]

“Me?” Your pitch ascended as the volume of your voice diminished.

“Yeah, you!” He grinned, tone equally as quiet but still showing enthusiasm, moving his free hand to boop your nose.

“What about me?”

San’s fingers in your hair froze at your question, his mind whirring with any kind of answer that wouldn’t cross the line into confession territory wherein he would lose your friendship indefinitely, but after one look at the serious longing look in your eye, he decided he would ‘man up’ [ the phrase making him cringe as soon as he thought it… the connotation of the word being so outdated and, for someone who grew up with a very stubborn girl in his life, San wondered why society hadn’t come up with a suitable alternative to the phrase ] and just tell you.

So he did.

“Do you remember what happened between us at your sixteenth party?” He asked, seemingly changing the conversation topic. Confused but going with it, a slight blush warming your cheeks, you nodded, and he took that as permission to continue, “I can’t stop thinking about it.” His voice was nothing louder than a whisper, you should’ve had to strain your ears to hear him, but at that moment, it was like all other sounds and distractions faded from the scene. Your breath hitched as you simply stared up into his eyes, his pupils dilated, almost taking over the beautiful swirling colour of his irises [ making his eyes look darker than usual, more intense than expected, and for a second, you swore your heart stopped ].

“What about it?” Your question was innocent enough, but the way you said it gave way to other ideas. Your voice was soft and breathy, like you weren’t getting enough oxygen, and like San, the words weren’t said above a whisper. Afterwards, you bit down softly on your bottom lip [ unintentional on your part, it was just a habit of yours, to be honest ], minutely sucking it in, and San’s focus shifted to watch your lips specifically.

“I’m thinking about how much I’d like to do it again.”

“You want to kiss me?”

“If you’d let me.”

“Please kiss me.” You whispered, more a statement rather than a question or demand. And so he did, leaning forward to reach you, head still in his lap, [ it felt like a slow-motion scene in a movie, but it couldn’t have been longer than two seconds before his lips were flush against yours ]. It was not the first time the two of you had kissed, but it was the first time you had kissed since becoming official adults — it felt different.

It felt good.

His lips were soft, and his kiss was gentle, at least it was at first. As the seconds ticked on, the kiss grew more intense, the soft brush of his lips pressed harder into you, his hands running over your body to pull you up to him. Your arms threaded around his neck, stretching out your torso [ if you were honest, it hurt a little… not that you were lucid enough to be aware of it ] and arching your back. He bit down on your bottom lip, tugging at it a little when your fingers twisted through the hair at his neck, pulling him to you with a new sense of desperation.

And then the two of you fell off the couch. You slid off his lap and landed on your back [ though it was more like you were on your side than your back ] while San rolled over on top of you. Both of you froze in your positions, eyes wide, [ pupils dilated but that was most likely due to the desire flowing through you ] lips parted as you just stared at one another for a second. San was the first to crack the silence, lips pulling into a grin and eyes crinkling with joy as his laugh sounded out around you. He flipped off from on top of you, landing next to you on the floor but his smile never dimmed and his laugh hadn’t faded. You rolled slightly so you were actually on your side as you continued to look at him. When he looked back at you your heart skipped a beat, his smile was so pretty and it made his dimple so deep but it wasn’t long before his laughter simmered and his expression faded as he looked back at you.

Biting your lip once again you made an executive decision [ the only decision you could think off, since all thoughts were now preoccupied with San at the moment ] to lift yourself to hover over him this time. You swallowed and let out a breath as your eyes met, searching for any sign that you should stop. Your shaking breath cut out into a soft gasp as San’s hands caressed over the small of your back to pull you down so that your chests touched. Your right hand lifted up to take hold of the cigarette tucked behind his ear, [ a small giggle leaving your lips at the thought that it was still there even after all that ] and twisted it between your fingers a little. Was it a nervous habit or just a neat trick, you couldn’t distinguish at the moment. San’s own hand came to hold yours, two sets of fingers now playing with the home-made roll-up gently. Soon enough San took it from your shallow grip and flicked it across the room, using the same hand to cup your jaw to cirect your gaze back to him.

Meeting his eyes made you want to shy away from his gaze but you let him keep you there. He looked at you with such a strong emotion you though you’d possibly be able to taste it from his lips. “I have to tell you something…” You whispered, close enough to not have to raise your voice.

“What is it?” He whispered back, the fingers on your back drawing small circles as the hand at you jaw left to curl a strand of hair around his fingers in the opposite direction. [ how he did that subconsciously and not mess it up would’ve made your head spin in wonder ].

“I love you.” You began, still whispering. “I have for a long time, though in the beginning I tried rather hard to deny it. Mainly because you had a significant other and I didn’t want to ruin that for you. And then, in a rather dick move, I got a significant other in the hopes of stopping it but that didn’t work so I stopped getting into romantic relationships altogether and now-”

He cut you off, pulling you into him to kiss the words from your lips [ which you appreciated because your inner thoughts were beginning to panic because your mouth wouldn’t stop talking ]. When you separated his smile was back, albeit not as wide as before. His eyes were as soft as his smile as he kissed you once more, resting your foreheads together. “I love you too,” he said against your lips. At his words you surged forward, pressing into him with fierce emotion as your kissed him.

You had wanted to hear those words from his lips for so long. You had wanted him for so long. And here he was, right in your reach, his hands on your body and yours tugging gently at his hair. Before all the breath in your lungs had finished and you lost your conscious nerve to a blur of desire those word had repeated at least thrice as you made your way to the comfort of your bed and the warmth of his body.

The next day when you woke up, you woke up earlier than usual and feeling unusually chipper as you took a hot shower. The subtly sweet scent of pancakes met you as you made your way through the house and into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Sunshine, you’re up early,” your brother grinned over his shoulder, both hands currently busy holding a pan and spatula. “I made pancakes.”

“Yes, I can see that.” You returned his grin with one of your own, a teasing smile lifting to your lips as you took a seat. Your head was clear of any headaches or lingering pain from a hangover since you were better with your alcohol intake as a twenty-two-year-old, and your reckless youth had lined your stomach with a fair amount of tolerance.

“Exactly how drunk was I last night? I don’t remember anyone leaving.”

“Oh boy,” Seonghwa sniggered, a sly grin taking over his features, “the party was two days ago, you slept all day yesterday. Really freaked San out.”

“What?!” You exclaimed, a piece of pancake falling from your fingers back onto your plate, bouncing off and onto the side sadly. [ It went ignored as you stared down your brother. ]

“Yeah. And he’s been ramble-muttering about you for a solid ten hours now. He’s really not subtle at all.” Seonghwa grinned. “So now that you two have slept together, are you two actually together?”

If you had liquid in your mouth, you would have spat it out. “He told you?!” You exclaimed, heart racing at the thought of your best friend and your brother discussing your sex-life.

“No.” Seonghwa denied immediately, face scrunching up in disgust at the mere thought, “I definitely don’t need to know details about that. It’s just San isn’t subtle at all when he’s mutter-rambling. He was oblivious to the fact he was thinking out loud about how to move forward after your… time together… while I literally sat next to him.” Seonghwa then grinned at you, again, the stretch of his lips becoming a little too mischievous for your liking. “Pretty sure he passed out on the couch half an hour ago.” He hinted, motioning over to the living room with his head as his eyebrows wiggled up and down suggestively.

A puff of air exhaled through your nose as a small smile climbed over your lips. You opened your mouth to talk, but he cut you off with a gentle pat on the head, “I’m happy for you two,” was all he said but it was enough. [ Your heart soared at the approval of your brother. It was not that you nor San needed Seonghwa’s approval, but it was nice to know he wouldn’t oppose it. ] Then you made your way to the couch San was asleep on.

You sat next to him, in the space unoccupied by his body. His brow was furrowed, which you frowned at. You lifted a hand and gently pressed on the juncture between his eyebrows, smoothing them out. His face instantly relaxed under your touch [ a part of your mind daydreamed that it was because he knew it was you ] and a small smith lifted upon your lips. Your hand moved down to cup his cheek and then his jaw before you raised it to gently wipe away the hair that had fallen in his face. You bit down on your lip, confused on whether to wake him up or not but life had chosen for you as one by one San’s eyes opened and slowly focused on you.

His eyes widened, and in a flurry of limbs suddenly he was laying on his back on the floor while you had balanced yourself with your knees over his waist. After a second of shocked silence [ as the two of you came to terms with what the fuck just happened ] a grin spread across his lips, eyes crinkling in delight, as his hands came to grip your hips gently.

A silent confirmation washed over the two of you as your lips spread to mirror his grin. The two of you would be alright as the next part of your relationship bloomed, the embers of your crushes were now burning bright.

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heavenlyhaechan · 4 years ago

Text

The Road Not Taken

Pairing: Kevin x Gn!Reader

Genre: exes to almost lovers, angst, fluff

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, alludes to explicit content, not a happy ending

Rating: PG

Note: Based on ‘tis the damn season by Taylor Swift. Look for the lines inspired by the Queen’s Gambit.

The cafe was the same as it’d always been. Big windows looked out onto the wet street, sacks of coffee beans lay along the back wall, their sweet aroma filling the air. You breathed in deeply, letting the smell fill your lungs until your body forced you to exhale.

You ordered a plain black coffee at the counter, turning to lean against it as you waited. A baby looked at you in the curious way babies do, and you returned their stare. Their hair stuck up in curls that bounced around as they giggled. You smiled, averting your gaze as you heard the bell on the door jingle.

His hair was longer than you remembered. It threatened to fall into his eyes as he surveyed the room, eyes that froze the second they landed upon you. For a moment you were tempted to try and hide, abandon your unmade coffee and run as far away from here as you could. But he was already making his way past the cashier and the cases of baked goods, only slowing down when he reached you.

“Kevin Moon,” you said as he came to a stop in front of you. He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.

“It’s been a while,” he replied.

“I like your hair.”

He thanked you as you turned to accept your coffee from the barista.

“Where are you staying?” he asked as you took a sip of the dark liquid.��

“My parents house.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

He nodded again, fingers playing with the silver chain of his necklace.

“Aren’t you gonna order?” you asked after a moment of silence.

“Oh yeah. Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you said, but in your head all you could think was: did you wait for me?

“You still drink that bitter stuff huh?” he asked as he walked you back to your parents house.

“You still drink that glorified milk huh?” you shot back.

He made an indignant sound as he held his coffee cup close to his chest. “How dare you disrespect my latte like that.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, a genuine laugh bubbled up in your chest. Soon enough you were both laughing, high on the cold air and the nostalgia of each others company. It felt so natural being with him, laughing with him, like four years hadn’t just gone by without a word from either of you.

“So what are you up to these days?” you asked when you’d recovered.

“Well I’m a uh, teacher. For first graders.”

“Oh?” you said. “You went through with it huh?”

“Yeah,” he laughed again, quieter this time. You remembered how easily laughter had always come to him, as well as the days when it had come easily to you too.

——

Thursday morning you sat up in your childhood bed to find the world outside coated in a thin layer of snow. By the time you made it downstairs for breakfast it had begun to fall again, the wind sending white flurries of it dancing across your parent’s lawn.

At eleven o’clock you answered a knock on the door, only to find Kevin standing on your porch with a navy blue beanie pulled over his hair and a sled under his arm.

“Are you serious?” you asked in place of a greeting, trying and failing to hold back a smile as he nodded enthusiastically.

“It never snows here, so we are obligated to take advantage of it!” he said as he quirked an eyebrow at you comically.

You didn’t need any more persuasion than that.

Half an hour later the two of you stood at the top of a hill in your neighborhood park, surrounded on all sides by people twice your age. Not that Kevin seemed to care. A flipped coin resulted in you sitting on the front of the sled with Kevin behind you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

The butterflies that were conjured at the feeling of his chest pressed against your back (albeit separated by quite a few of layers), were blown away as he sent the two of you hurtling down the snowy slope. You didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, so you did a bit of both. It was over in a flash however, as the two of you came to a smooth stop at the bottom of the hill.

“Again!” you shouted elatedly, laughing as you pulled Kevin to his feet and started back up the incline.

Once, twice, three times you repeated the process, until on your fifth run your luck ran out and you were sent toppling off the sled as you reached the bottom of the hill. You lay still for a moment, trying to catch your breath, before you realized the position you’d landed in. Kevin hadn’t let go of your waist once, resulting in the two of you falling onto the snow covered ground in a pile of limbs, your cheek pressed to his chest.

“Are you okay?” you asked as you scrambled off of him hurriedly, blaming his newfound blush on the cold.

“Yeah, are you?” he asked as he sat up slowly.

“Yes, you’re good landing pad.”

“Glad to be of service.” He looked around for a moment before laying back down and shouting, “Snow angel!” His arms and legs moved sporadically in the snow, sending you into another fit of laughter.

——

The next week was spent both with and without Kevin. During the day you would go explore art galleries, cafes, and parks, or just go for a drive in the old truck he’d had since you were seventeen. At night you would spend time with your family, trying your best to pretend that your mind wasn’t elsewhere.

New Years Eve arrived sooner than you would’ve liked, as it meant your trip was coming to an end. That night Kevin showed up on your doorstep yet again, this time carrying a bottle of champagne.

“Might I uh, steal you away from your parents for a bit?” he asked when you answered the door, his smile as big and lopsided as ever. You found that you couldn’t help but smile back.

——

“This is it; home sweet home,” he said as he closed his apartment door behind you. It was small but cozy, with little bits of Kevin everywhere. Boxes of beads were spread across the kitchen table, and some of his students drawings were pinned up on the white front fridge.

As Kevin went to get some glasses for the champagne, you found your eyes fixating on the piece of art hung on the far wall.

“Do you like it?” he asked as he set a pair of champagne glasses down on the kitchen table.

“Yeah,” you said, although honestly you weren’t sure. The piece sent a strange sense of loneliness streaking through you.

“It’s mine.” he said. “I made it I mean.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” you said as you ripped your eyes away from the piece and moved to where he stood at the table.

“I’m not really,” he deflected, lifting his hands to gesture towards the bottle of champagne. “Shall we?”

——

A few glasses of champagne later you found yourself laying on Kevin’s couch, legs resting on his lap. His hands tapped an unfamiliar beat on your thighs, the beads on his bracelet creating a makeshift song.

“You know, this isn’t technically champagne,” you mused, your fingers playing with one of the couches loose strings. “It’s just sparkling white wine,” you continued, lifting your head to look at him.

“Is it now?” he said to show he was listening, his eyes not straying from where his hands rested on your legs.

“Yes,” you sat up properly now, your head spinning a bit as blood rushed from your brain to the rest of your body. You watched the clocks hands tick the seconds away, counting down to midnight.

——

It was 11:57 when he asked you if you still liked his hair, the words heavy with meaning. His breath ghosted across your lips as you pondered for a moment, leaning forward to twist a lock of his pitch black hair between your fingers. You noticed then that his eyes had glazed over, although whether it was because of the champagne or the close proximity you weren’t sure.

“Yes,” you said finally, and he smiled.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked this time, leaning just a hair closer.

“Yes,” you said again, barely loud enough for him to hear.

Four years had passed, but he tasted the same; like that peppermint gum you’d loved in high school, with remnants of coffee from the place down the street. You wondered if you tasted the same, if deep down you were still the same naive school girl that he’d watched leave all those years ago.

You thought back to the last kiss you’d given him before you’d left, and realized that this felt exactly the same. The only difference was that this time you thought you might finally drown in your guilt.

But then you felt his teeth dig into your bottom lip and you stopped thinking anything at all.

——

You awoke to the scent of him on your skin and in your lungs, the warmth of his presence permeating your very being. You were enveloped in it, and for a moment you wished you could stay there forever, wrapped in the warmth of his blankets.

But no. You rolled onto your stomach, not wanting to look him in the eye as your mind grappled with the conflicting bitterness of the truth. Goosebumps rose on your skin as he trailed his fingertips over your bare shoulder, up to your cheek, before coming to rest in your hair.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” you murmured finally, not wanting to disrupt the peaceful atmosphere of the morning.

“Wow,” he said. “Time flies.”

A few moments passed, and part of you lit up with the hope that he might ask you to stay. But then the warmth of his hand left your head, and the warmth of his body left your side. You kept your face buried in the pillow, eyes screwed tight against the tears that you felt rising in you. You could feel the strain in your throat as you forced yourself to hold them back.

“Why didn’t you,” he started and then stopped as his voice wavered. A moment passed, and the another, and then another, until you thought he might have decided to leave it alone. But then he began again.

“Why didn’t you keep in touch?”

The question felt like salt added to an already aching wound. You forced yourself to think back to the day you’d left. You’d been eighteen then, ready to get out of your hometown and explore the world. Ready for new adventures in unfamiliar cities. And that’s exactly what you’d found.

Nevertheless, you’d promised Kevin that you’d keep in touch, keep whatever it was the two of you had back then alive. In this you had failed. You’d been too wrapped up in your luxurious new life, meeting luxurious new people and seeing luxurious new places.

“I did at first, I just-” you stopped yourself when you heard, more than felt, your voice crack. What good were excuses anyway.

“Yeah,” you heard him sigh. “At first.” The bed moved underneath you as he stood up. You opened your eyes then, only to feel any lingering hope that you had left being ripped away as you watched him turn towards the door.

“I’m going down the street to get breakfast,” he said, but you knew what he really meant was: you better be gone when I get back. With that he left the bedroom, his bare feet making so little noise on the hardwood floors that it was like he was a ghost.

You wanted to call his name, ask him to stay a little longer, but that was too selfish even for you. You couldn’t ask him to wait for the same reason you knew he wouldn’t ask you to stay.

——

As you stood in the airport saying goodbye to your parents a strange wave of deja vu washed over you. Four and a half years and almost nothing had changed, except this time he wasn’t here to say goodbye.

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spicycreativity · 3 years ago

Text

Intertwined - Chapter 6

Chapter: 6/8

Additional Notes: Fic published in full on my AO3, WizardGlick. This is my favorite chapter 😁

Chapter Content Warnings: Blood, respiratory distress

The record player was still in the kitchen, surrounded by puzzle pieces. Patton switched it on and watched the vinyl spin in a daze. He missed Roman's boastful chatter, missed Logan's even keel. Maybe he should just give up. They clearly didn't want him around, and at a certain point, maybe it was selfish to keep badgering them.

God, he was a mess. Virgil had been too tactful to say anything during last night's Ghost Adventures marathon, but he had kicked his feet up in Patton's lap, and that was telling. It wasn't the reassuring full-body contact he longed for, but Virgil had never been big on touch. He couldn't be what Patton needed, and that was fair. It wasn't Virgil's job to take care of Patton. It was no one's job.

Janus' voice sounded unbidden in his head, reminding him in a distinctly annoyed tone, ' It's your job.'

So Patton picked himself up off the kitchen island and opened the fridge. He liked the work of cooking and cleaning. The domesticity was reassuring and sweet and safe. He cooked and cleaned because he loved. He loved Logan, he loved Roman, he loved Virgil. He wanted to see them safe and fed and contented, free to fulfill their functions because Patton fulfilled his.

As he cracked eggs into a bowl, he wondered if he loved Janus. He probably did. How could he help it?

Janus' smile was a rare thing, and that much sweeter for it. And he was so clever, so self-assured, so determined to help. This whole time, that was what was driving him. He wanted to help Thomas the only way he could, and now he was helping Patton. Because… Because he was just good. Even if he, like Virgil before him, kept that light hidden behind walls of sarcasm and bitterness. Janus was good. And Patton loved him.

He had forgotten to turn on the stove. Patton smiled at himself, because what else could he do, and turned on the stove. As he stood there, anxiously eyeing his half-finished omelette, his fingers found their way to the friendship bracelets around his right wrist. He had two there, Logan's and Roman's. They were both made of soft embroidery floss. Roman's had a little charm, a small silver 'R' that sometimes caught the light and made Patton smile when he noticed it.

He and Janus should have friendship bracelets. It could go on his left wrist next to Virgil's. Virgil wouldn't be happy about it, but… But Patton wanted it. He wanted Janus to feel accepted and loved. And there was no way to do that and spare Virgil's feelings. There was just no winning and Patton wanted, wanted, wanted more than he'd ever wanted anything.. Would it really be so bad to indulge this?

After breakfast, Patton relocated to the living room and asked the mindscape's halls for Janus. Janus did not appear, but the fog of the subconscious at the edges of the walls solidified into a hallway. Patton got to his feet and started to walk. He had never really ventured into the space that Roman referred to as 'the Dark Side,' but there was really nothing foreboding about it. The halls were still well-lit, the carpet still plush beneath his feet.

Eventually, the hall opened up to a cozy little alcove. Janus was huddled up against the wall, staring into the depths of a pure black coffee mug. He flinched when he noticed Patton, then smiled.

It was a slow, unfurling thing: first sheepish, then courteous, and finally, genuine. It lit a fire in Patton's chest, made him feel like he was glowing.

"Patton." Janus tipped his hat, peering out coquettishly from under its brim.

"Sorry," said Patton, "am I interrupting?"

"Oh, yes," said Janus, getting to his feet, "I need to have my coffee in utter silence of the caffeine doesn't take."

He sounded a little hoarse. Patton felt himself cross his arms and draw back to examine Janus, but couldn't stop it from happening. His scales looked the same as ever, more yellow than green under the light, but both eyes were glassy in a way that indicated lack of sleep. He looked tired, Patton decided, but not sick.

"Did I button my shirt wrong?" Janus asked, not actually looking down to check. He kept his eyes on Patton.

"Is there something on your mind?" Patton asked.

Janus countered this question with another question, which Patton supposed was fair: "Did you come down here just for that?"

"Well, actually…" Patton tugged at the tight, precise braid of Logan's friendship bracelet. Why was this so hard? "I thought we could-- If you wanted to--" His nerves were taking over and he was helpless to stop them, couldn't control the way his voice trembled. He started over. "So, no pressure, obviously, but I just thought it might be nice if we, you know, made friendship bracelets together." Patton held up his forearms so Janus could see. "If you want."

Tears were forming in Janus' human eye; his chest hitched with uneven breaths. Patton was already raising his arms to offer a hug when Janus turned away and started to cough. Oh.

The fit, though it sounded terrible, ended quickly. Janus straightened, drawing a yellow handkerchief back into his sleeve like a magician. "What," he said, pretending to look at his fingernails, "are the odds of you believing that was nothing?"

"It didn't sound like nothing," Patton said.

Janus sighed and leaned back against the wall, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. "Look, I didn't want to say anything, but I think that our dear benevolent prince might be a little angrier than he let on."

"You think Roman's doing this to you?" That didn't sound like him. He could be stubborn, sure, maybe even bull-headed, but it really wasn't like him to make someone sick. At least, not on purpose.

"It's not Remus," Janus said, crossing his arms. "There's nothing else wrong with me."

"It's just a cough?"

"Just a cough."

Patton tapped his fingers against his leg, thinking. "Roman's not really talking to me at the moment--"

"Typical," Janus muttered.

Not wanting to fight, Patton let this go. "But I'll see if I can… Well, I'll see what I can do."

Janus nodded, then seemed to remember something. His jaw worked for a second, his eyes darting everywhere except Patton's face. "Thank you."

Patton nodded, still inexplicably afraid. Now was his chance to leave, since Janus hadn't acknowledged his offer. If he sank out fast enough-- But what exactly was he running from? He wasn't Logic, but he couldn't deny that it made no sense to run from something he couldn't even identify. "So, um. Did you want to…?"

"Where?" Janus asked.

The trapdoor to the speakeasy opened beneath their feet. Patton's door appeared down the hall. He and Janus looked at each other in silence.

"The lighting might be a little better in my room," Patton said finally. He wasn't sure which of them had caused his door to appear. The subconscious was tricky like that sometimes.

"By all means," Janus said.

It was a little nerve-wracking to have Janus in his room. Patton wasn't quite sure why. Maybe the idea that Janus might not like it, and by extension, not like him. After all, Patton's room was as much an extension of himself and his function as his body was.

Janus stepped quietly over the threshold, holding himself still except for his eyes, which darted from object to object.

"Let me know if you start feeling all sentimental," Patton said, a thrill of nerves tingling his spine. "I don't have a lot of practice controlling my room." Janus probably didn't want to cry today, or ever. Not that he seemed like the type to get caught up in nostalgia. Like Logan, he was ruthless, cutting away what didn't serve him with the precision of a surgeon. Or so it seemed.

Janus nodded. Patton frowned. He'd been awfully quiet since Patron had extended the invitation. He almost seemed scared, which didn't make sense. They were safe in here. Too safe, if Patton let them be, sequestered in this hall of nostalgia's anesthetic haze.

"Are those California poppies?" Janus asked, striding forward to a dresser (the design of which had come from a memory of sleepovers at Thomas' grandmother's house).

"Where?" Patton asked, turning on his heel to look. It was difficult to move without tripping over the odd bin or crate of memorabilia. He found himself faced with a choice to either bend backwards to see around Janus or to stand right next to him. Far too close for propriety, they would be wedged right up against each other like the yearbooks on the far bookshelf.

Patton's heart started to race. Why? Why should he be nervous? He bent backwards, muscles aching in protest at the awkward pose, and peered around Janus' body. "I can't tell."

Janus turned, squinting at Patton's predicament, before looking down at the bins on the floor. He seemed to grasp the issue and extended a hand for Patton to take. "Come here."

Come here. Innocuous words, but the same ones he'd used to bring Patton into his arms that terrible night. Patton's heart fluttered.

He stepped over a stack of textbooks and entered Janus' space. Janus' capelet was soft and velvety against his bare arm; his sleeve a little rougher.

"Are they?" Janus asked.

The poppies were already wilting a little and Patton couldn't help but feel sad about that, even though they were imaginary. "Yes."

"How did you get them?"

"California," Patton said, the memory coming to him on a warm breeze that smelled of the outdoors. "Thomas sees them every time he gets to go."

Janus stifled a cough into the back of his hand, nodding all the while. "He wore them in his hair once."

Patton smiled, mind awash in golden light. Thomas and his friends were making a brief pit stop as they journeyed down I-5 and someone, it didn't even matter who, had spotted the blooms growing by the roadside. And they had all worn flowers in their hair for the rest of the day, bright faces made brighter by the addition of something so beautiful. "Do you like California poppies, Janus?"

"It's funny," Janus said, in a tone so devoid of sarcasm and teasing that Patton nearly did a double-take, "It never occurred to me to like them. But seeing them like this…"

He trailed off, coloring slightly, and Patton's breath caught in his throat. He understood perfectly, too perfectly, and it made him tremble.

It had never occurred to him to love Janus, until one day it did. But this-- Oh, no. Oh, no. Not like this. This couldn't be allowed. Janus glanced over at him and Patton felt his smile snap into place despite the newfound ache of wanting beneath his ribs.

"And here I thought you were going to keep me safe from your room," Janus teased.

"Oops!" Patton ran a hand through his hair. "Give me a second here; I can make a space." He thought for a moment before sitting them both down at a wooden picnic table. He imagined embroidery floss in every color, bins stacked with beads, scissors, and two rolls of masking tape just to be safe.

"Summer camp," Janus said, smiling that crooked smile.

Despite his best efforts, Patton blushed. He tried not to hate himself for it because Janus wouldn't want that. But he also knew he was being far too selfish now, wanting Janus all for himself. There was a line and he had crossed it. "Do you remember what to do?"

Janus was already pawing through the embroidery thread. Loose strands clung to his gloves and Patton watched, intrigued, as Janus' mouth curled into that not-smile he sometimes wore when he was making fun. He withdrew his hands, trailing rainbow strings despite his efforts to shake them off, and glanced at Patton, startling a little when their eyes met.

Patton wasn't sure what to say. 'It's okay' felt hollow, less than a lie. Utterly meaningless. Janus' gloves meant something to him, something that went deeper than just aesthetics. Patton understood, in that moment, what it was all for: the gloves, the high collar, the hat, the sarcasm, the biting remarks, the exaggeration. All guarding Janus' heart. He must have been very afraid. Suddenly his irritation at Patton's inability to prioritize himself made perfect sense.

"I can help you," Patton said, not wanting Janus to feel pressured into taking off his gloves. "You can keep them on, just tell me what colors--"

"Don't be stupid," Janus snapped. "It's just clothing."

"Oh," said Patton. Heat flooded his face, impending tears burning in his eyes. Understanding didn't make it hurt less.

Janus didn't say anything, couldn't, because he was muffling those awful, barking coughs into his sleeve. They sounded so much worse than yesterday. Patton stared at a skein of auburn embroidery floss. He would have to find some way to get through to Roman.

"That was inappropriate," Janus said when he resurfaced. He was a little out of breath; his breath caused loose strings to flutter.

"I understand," Patton said.

"You do?"

Here, Patton hesitated. It seemed a little rude to read Janus, as Roman would say. He had obviously lashed out because he was scared of something.

Janus winced, pressed his lips together, shifted where he sat. "I'm sorry." He wouldn't look at Patton. "I shouldn't have said that."

"We can do this another time," Patton said, "if you're not ready. I just wanted…" It seemed stupid to say it out loud now, stupid and manipulative. "I wanted you to feel accepted."

Janus tugged his gloves off without fanfare, folded them neatly, and set them down on the table. His left hand was scaled, which Patton supposed he should have anticipated. "Don't look," Janus said. Patton frowned, trying to parse this, and Janus elaborated, "I want it to be a surprise."

"Oh!" Patton said, relief flooding his chest like morning sunlight through an eastward-facing window. "Okay." He stared at the embroidery thread, thinking. He had never been all that good at color theory, but… Maybe he could do a dark green for Janus's scales, and gold because they shimmered. To represent himself, he would of course use blue thread. And for the two of them, gray. But what shade of green…? Patton picked up a skein of army green floss, then kelly green, then moss green. "Janus?"

"Hm?"

"I need to look at you."

"Oh, Patton, I'm flattered, but need?"

"Can you just give me your hand for a second?" Patton asked, blushing.

"Which one?" Janus asked archly.

"The left one."

"...What for?"

Patton, still not looking at Janus, held up the three skeins of embroidery floss. "I need to color match."

Janus let out a huff of air through his nose. "I'm much prettier than that."

Then an idea struck. "Ooh, I know what to do! I still need your hand, though."

"Alright, alright." Janus leaned over, extending his hand to Patton. He flinched a little when Patton held it in his own, but did not pull away.

"Hmm," said Patton, examining the scales and the way they reflected back the light. It took a bit of thinking, but he managed to imagine a skein of thread in the same glossy green-gold color.

Then Janus stiffened and started to cough again, his hand curling around Patton's fingers until his nails dug painfully into Patton's skin. The fit was low and ragged and rough, left Janus teary eyed and gasping.

"You're sure this is Roman?" Patton asked, dimly aware that he was still holding Janus' hand.

"Forget it," Janus said, his voice like tattered silk. "You said you'd talk to him."

"I'll go right now if you want me to."

Janus shook his head. "Are you done with my hand? If not, I have a few to spare."

"Oh!" said Patton. "Yes. Sorry." He let go of Janus's hand, knuckles aching where Janus' nails had dug in. Janus' cough must have hurt far more than he was letting on.

Right. Compartmentalize. Friendship bracelets.

Patton picked his colors, eyeballed the thread length, cut them down, and taped the ends to the table. He decided on a simple striped pattern, flat, so it could slide easily under Janus's sleeve or the cuffs of his gloves.

"So you and Remus?" Patton said after he had fallen into a rhythm and didn't need to focus quite so hard.

"We're friends, yes."

"But you said--" Patton cut himself off, embarrassed. He certainly didn't want to be reminded of that awful night, and Janus probably didn't either.

"I know."

Patton was pulling too hard. He set his threads down and added another piece of tape. "I don't get it."

Janus sighed. "I'd rather not talk behind his back, but I will say this: He was on his worst behavior when he introduced himself."

Patton considered this but couldn't think of anything to say other than 'thank God.' That seemed rude, so he just kept his mouth shut. The silence that ensued felt equally as rude, and words slipped out of Patton's mouth before he could stop himself, "Do you love him?"

Janus didn't answer. Patton was tempted to look at him, to try to read his expression, but didn't want to risk ruining the surprise. Finally, Janus sighed and Patton heard the gentle rustle of his clothing as he shifted in his seat. "Defensive sarcastic quip."

Patton dropped his threads again so he could muffle a laugh behind his hands. "Sorry, was that too personal?"

"No, no, I love talking about myself. Maybe next you can ask me about my deepest fears."

"I didn't mean to be pushy," Patton said. It was hard not to be; he was so full of love love love he just wanted to give it away like Tupperwares full of snickerdoodles, like wildflower bouquets. He wanted Janus, wanted his whole fam-ILY to know and feel it as deeply as he felt it.

And Janus especially, Patton wanted to tell him with his lips, with his hands, with his tongue. His whole body radiating love.

But just because he wanted didn't mean he could have. He ached with a selfish desire to be held again, safe in Janus' arms. But even Patton was smart enough to understand that that moment was over and done with. They had shared it, and now it was another snapshot for the shoebox Patton kept in his closet. His own memories, separate from Thomas. A testament to his personhood.

They worked in silence after that, until Patton's wandering thoughts came to rest, inevitably, on the trouble at hand. "Hey, Janus?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think we should do now? Thomas can't keep going like this for much longer, I don't think. He hasn't done anything. And I-- I'm not saying-- I'm not trying to say it's, you know, immoral to rest, but this doesn't seem healthy." And also, it did chafe Patton a little, to see Thomas being so lazy, but he could keep that to himself.

"The sooner Logan and Roman get over themselves, the better," Janus said.

"I haven't checked on them yet today." Patton heaved a sigh and tried to focus on his pattern. He had the matte gray hooked around his finger at the moment, his own deliberate reminder to compromise.

"They haven't checked on you at all."

"So, what, then?" Patton asked, struggling not to look up. "I should get mad and ignore them right back?"

"That's what I would do," Janus said. "And you did ask. But…" A long-ish pause. "As we both know, I'm always right."

Oh. Patton closed his eyes, trying not to fold over and bury his forehead in the rough wood of the picnic table. He'd never wanted to see the worst in Janus, but he'd been bracing for it all the same. And every time he held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, it never happened.

That didn't mean they were never going to fight. Patton knew he was naive, but he wasn't that naive. But he had been bracing for something so much worse than this.

It was for Thomas. He had to remind himself. Janus had even said so, down in the parlor. It was all for Thomas. And Patton was sure, when it came time to make the next big decision, they would be at odds again.

But maybe… Maybe it didn't have to be so hostile. Couldn't they disagree without being enemies?

"You are always right, Janus," Janus said in Patton's voice. "And you're so handsome, and smart, too."

It was equal parts creepy and amusing, but Patton appreciated what Janus was trying to do, so he smiled. "I mean, you are smart. And h--" The word caught in his throat. They did all look very similar, though the subtle nature of the subconscious altered their appearances somewhat. It sharpened up Janus' features some, took away several inches of height, made his eyes dark and flashing. "And handsome," Patton finished weakly.

"You already said that," Janus said, voice dripping with faux-innocence.

"You're sweet, is what you are," Patton teased back.

"Finished," said Janus.

Patton blinked, thrown off, before he realized what Janus meant. "I'm almost done. Give me juuuust a second." He finished the bracelet with a practiced hand. "Can I look now?"

"Give me your hand. Then you can look."

Patton extended his left hand and finally looked over at Janus for the first time since they had started. The bright colors of the bracelet caught his eye immediately; it was an intricate weave of only two colors: bright yellow and true blue. Janus fingers were deft and gentle around Patton's wrist. He made no remarks about the purple and black bracelet already tied on.

"Oh, Janus, it's perfect!" Patton said. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. He let them fall, unashamed. It was nice to cry happy tears for once. "Your turn."

Janus pushed up his sleeve, tilting his head at Patton's bracelet. "What does it mean?"

"The green is for your scales," Patton explained, positioning the bracelet around Janus' right wrist. "The blue is for me. And the gray is.." He paused, suddenly embarrassed. "Well, it's a reminder."

One of the ends brushed against Janus' forearm and he twitched, nearly pulling out of Patton's grasp. "That tickled," he explained.

"You're ticklish?"

"No," Janus said, far too quickly for it to be the truth.

Patton smiled at him, though he knew they were a long way off from friendly touches. It struck him then just how badly he wanted that future. He wanted cuddle sessions with Janus on the couch, just the two of them. He wanted stolen kisses in the kitchen and tickle fights in bed. He wanted Janus, body and soul, consequences be damned. "Noted," Patton said. "Janus: totally not ticklish, even a little bit."

"Gospel truth," Janus said.

Patton finished tying on the bracelet and sat back. "Well…" He didn't want to leave his room, which was a sure sign it was time to go. "I'd better go check on my kiddos."

To his surprise, Janus didn't scowl or nag. He tugged his gloves back on, carefully sliding the bracelet inside the cuff. "What do you say to them?"

"Just that I'm here," Patton said. "And I love them.

"You know, Patton--" Janus got up and held the door open, breaking the spell of Patton's room somewhat-- "sometimes I think you're too good for the likes of us."

And then he was gone, sinking out before Patton could ask him what he meant by that.

Patton went first to Logan's room. Logan had maintained his silence after the meeting, not even answering to tell Patton to go away. The only hint Patton had that he was still in there was that Thomas hadn't gone completely off the rails.

"Hey, Logan." Patton knocked gently. "I'll go away soon, because I know you don't want me to bother you. I just wanted to say… Well, I'm not sure what you need right now, but I know this isn't it. So whenever you're ready to come out, I'll be here." It was so hard not to spill his guts to that plain white door. Almost like a confessional, only that Logan stubbornly refused to tell him what he had to do to earn forgiveness. "I'll go now. Come get me if you need anything, okay? I love you and I miss you." He waited a few seconds for any signs of movement within, but there was nothing.

Down the hall to Roman's room then.

The sight of Virgil seated on the floor with his back pressed up against Roman's cherrywood door made Patton pause, breaths stuttering in his chest.

He kept his distance, but Virgil had startled at the sound of his steps on the carpet.

Patton flashed him a thumbs up and cocked his head.

Virgil nodded.

Patton sank out. What else could he do? If Roman would rather talk to Virgil than to him, well… Patton couldn't blame him.

He sat down heavily at the kitchen island, staring down at the half-finished puzzle. Tears blurred his eyes and he took off his glasses as they started to fall. He was so, so sick of crying. He did it all the time. Every strong emotion moved him to tears.

He wanted to crawl back to Janus' room, relive that tender night. Just once, he wanted someone else to pick him up off the ground. He was thoroughly sick of being his own hero.

He had mostly gotten himself under control by the time Virgil popped up by the fridge. It was only his breathing that still troubled him, heavy and painful in his chest.

"Hey, Virge."

"Since when do you call me that?" Virgil asked, opening the fridge.

It was reflex more than anything that forced Patton to his feet. "I can make you something."

"You don't have to," Virgil mumbled, cheeks going scarlet under his foundation.

"I want to," Patton said. That much was still true, at least. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Uh, I was just gonna make a sandwich," Virgil said.

"BLT?"

"Sure."

Patton nodded, clenching his left hand into a fist by his side. Virgil was incredibly observant; he was bound to notice Janus' friendship bracelet. Patton wasn't sure whether to let him or to bring it up.

Virgil saved him from having to decide. "Where have you been all morning?" Patton wordlessly held up his arm, feeling for all the world like a guilty child. Sure enough, Virgil's eyes narrowed. But to Patton's surprise, no lecture followed. "Janus made that?"

"Mm-hm." Patton nodded. "I made him one, too."

"Is he wearing it?" Virgil asked, looking dumbfounded.

"Yeah," Patton said, a little emboldened now that he knew Virgil wasn't angry. "Tied it on myself."

"He let you do that? Janus?" Virgil ran both hands through his hair, looking at Patton like he'd just expressed a desire to go cliff diving while blindfolded.

"I mean, I didn't have to tie him down."

Virgil sighed through his nose and wandered to the kitchen island with a lost expression. "That's weird."

Patton opened up the fridge. "Are you okay?" he said to the condiments rack, not wanting to make Virgil uncomfortable with too much eye contact.

"Watch him," Virgil said. "Watch him like a hawk… A hawk with binoculars."

"Aww!" said Patton, picturing it. "Oh! How's Roman?"

"Conflicted," Virgil said. "I told him you've been hanging out with Janus."

Patton bit his tongue and pulled a head of lettuce out of the crisper drawer. It wasn't wrong to spend time with Janus. He loved Janus. Love was never wrong. "How'd he take it?"

"Nnnot that bad?" Virgil said. "I think it helps that Thomas hasn't gone full, y'know, Squip."

"You know I wouldn't let that happen," Patton said. He moved over to the counter and paused to take a few deep breaths. His chest hurt a little. Probably just from crying too much. But that reminded him of Janus and that worrisome, mysterious cough. "By the way, does Roman seem… in control?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know, he accidentally made it super cold for a little bit."

"Oh," said Virgil, "yeah. He apologized for that. He's okay now."

Patton nodded, trying not to let his worry show on his face. But it crept into the corners of his mind and kept him silent as he made two BLTs. If Janus was sure it wasn't Remus and Virgil was sure it wasn't Roman… Who else could it be? Or what else?

No answers sprang into Patton's mind. He bit his lip and stabbed one fancy toothpick each through sandwiches. He slid one plate over to Virgil, mindful not to upset any stray puzzle pieces, then rounded the kitchen island to sit next to Virgil.

"You…" he started, and paused to catch his breath. "You're not mad, are you?"

"I mean, I don't love that you're hanging out with Janus. I wish you wouldn't. I wish he'd leave us all alone and go back to slinking around in the shadows like the snake he is." Virgil turned his head to look at the new friendship bracelet on Patton's arm. "But you're your own Side. It would be wrong for me to try to control you. I just really hope he doesn't hurt you, Patton."

"So you're not mad?"

"No, pop star, I'm not mad. Just worried about you."

"Thanks, kiddo."

It seemed that these days, the mindscape was just made up of one crisis after another. After spending a pleasant day with Virgil, albeit with his breaths dragging in and out of his body like the air was too thick to breathe, the next morning found Patton doubled over in a fit of coughing so intense it knocked his glasses off. He ducked right back into his room, kicking his glasses in before him, and spat out a mouthful of heart-shaped flowers onto the floor.

Hm. Uh-oh. He wasn't an expert on biology, but he was fairly sure that wasn't supposed to happen.

The blooms were pretty, though, bright magenta hearts with little white tails. Bleeding hearts, they were called.

Patton frowned. Hadn't Janus said… Yes. 'I want you to protect that bleeding heart of yours.' How ironic. Maybe. Patton could never seem to use 'irony,' right, something Logan was always quick to point out.

He coughed again, but no flowers came up this time. That was good, probably. Coughing was bad, coughing up blood was worse. Surely coughing up flowers had to be somewhere in the middle.

He stood up straight again and banished the flowers into nothingness. Was it coincidence that Janus had a cough? Was it contagious? He hadn't said anything about flowers, though.

Patton sank out, grabbing his glasses on the way. If he was coughing, then he was probably sick. He knew how to handle that.

Since Virgil rarely spent time in the living room, Patton could hole up there with tea and toast and Adventure Time on the TV. Just until he was better, and then it would be right back to trying to fix things. He wondered if Janus would be proud or whether he would just push for Patton to rest more. Maybe both.

Virgil made an appearance a few hours later, about the time that Patton felt his patience running thin. The cough wasn't getting better, but he had no full-body fatigue to make the cartoon marathon bearable. Sitting still for too long made him antsy.

"Roman invited me in," Virgil called from the kitchen, dashing any hopes Patton had for conversation. "I just wanted to let y-- What are you doing?"

"I think I'm getting sick," Patton explained, wincing as the words seemed to claw their way out of his torn-up throat.

"Are you okay?"

Patton nodded. Aside from the cough, he really did feel fine. Maybe this would pass quickly. "Tell Roman I said hi."

"Will do." Virgil gave one last, lingering look before he sank out.

This left Patton alone with the ache in his chest and the vast loneliness threatening to swallow him whole. He tried not to think too much about Janus, lest he inadvertently summon him again, but it was so hard now. He didn't ever want to be apart from Janus. It was such a pure and simple yearning that Patton couldn't even feel guilty for it (though he did feel an echo of guilt that he didn't feel guilty). But it was a desire born of love, and how could that be bad?

The only bad thing about it was that Janus didn't love him back. Of course he didn't. How could he? All he ever did was run around babysitting Patton through crying spells, desperately trying to get him to pull himself together. There was nothing remotely attractive about that. In fact, with Janus, it seemed that all Patton did was take, take, take. He was guilty of the exact behavior that had him so wrung-out and desperate in the first place. How embarrassing.

Patton coughed into the crook of his arm, catching flowers and leaves in his mouth and banishing them without looking. He'd been sick before, they all had, but never like this. He almost wished for fatigue or a headache, something to make resting a little more bearable. Right now, he just felt lazy.

A bottle of NyQuil appeared on the couch next to him, nestled up against an embroidered throw pillow. Patton looked at it. He could already hear Logan lecturing him about the dangers of misusing medication, but… Patton was sick. And he was imaginary. And Thomas probably knew better than to chug NyQuil at the first sign of illness.

It would be fine. Patton poured out a dose and drank it down with his nose plugged in the hopes of masking the alcohol-tinged artificial sweetness. He still shuddered at the syrupy sensation on his tongue. Then he sank out, changed into his pajamas, and buried himself under his covers to slip into a coma.

#sanders sides fanficion #sanders sides #moceit #spicywrites #spicywrites intertwined

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iceeckos12 · 4 years ago

Text

ouch oof i am sad

remember the scene that @pitviperofdoom was talking about in this post? well this was something she mentioned in the discord server and because i am always a sucker for a good angst, i wrote an entire Thing for it. content warnings under the cut

basically: assistant archivist au where gerry did die. mentions of past character death

Jon’s quiet as Julia explains how to pull Gerard Keay from the page. This is not unusual in and of itself. Jon is not the type of person to fill spaces with endless chatter, or to make small talk for the sake of it. Martin and Jon’s friendship has been characterized by long, comfortable silences and the conversation they make between each one.

This is different, though. Martin can’t tell if it’s because of his connection with the Beholding that he knows, or if he’s just gotten better at reading Jon, but this is - wrong. The last conversation that they had, if you could call it a conversation at all, was Jon quietly asking if they could stop by Pittsburgh to visit the hospital where Gerard Keay died. Since then, he’s been mostly lost in thought.

Martin knows that Jon and Gerard worked together with Gertrude. He’s inferred that they were friends, because Martin has learned to read the quiet grief that crosses Jon’s face whenever Gerard is mentioned. Now he’s wondering if they were closer than he realized.

He doesn’t dare ask though, not in front of Julia. And he’s not even sure that Jon would tell him if he did ask. So he sets aside his worry, turns to the Hunter, and says, “Thank you, Julia.”

Her smile is full of teeth. “Give the door a knock when you’re done.”

Martin watches her go, unwilling to take his eyes off of her for more than a moment. When the door finally clicks shut, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief and looks down to find Jon holding the book in his hands, staring at it, perfectly still.

“...Jon?”

Jon jumps and looks up, his lips pressed into a thin, bitten line, his eyes slightly wild.

Martin knows how to handle Jon when he’s scared, when he’s cruel. He knows how to handle Jon when he’s simmering with anger, when he’s exhausted and frayed about the edges. This is completely new, and he shifts at the unwelcome, familiar feeling of uncertainty. “Do you...want me to do it?”

Jon immediately shakes his head, so quick it looks painful. “No. No, I should…” he takes a deep breath, scrubs his hand through his hair. He takes a few quick steps forward, then turns around, the book pressed to his stomach. “I’ll do it.”

Martin opens his mouth to question the wisdom of that idea, but then Jon is flipping open the book to the last page. He clears his throat once, twice, and then, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide.”

Jon’s voice breaks on the last word, and he stops.

“...Jon?”

Martin watches the gentle bob of Jon’s throat as he swallows. Then he shakes his head and says in a voice much stronger and clearer than before, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs…”

He continues talking, his voice rising and falling with every word, like he’s reading just another statement. He slows as he reaches the last few sentences.

“...And his only thought was to cry out for the one he loved. He could feel small, familiar hands gripping his, the soft rise and fall of a voice, hushed like a prayer. The name fell from his lips, but he couldn’t be sure whether or not he had been heard. He hoped that he had been heard. And so Gerard Keay ended.”

Gerard Keay stands in the center of the room. He’s wearing all black, which Martin had expected. Black trench coat, black trousers, black boots, eyes made sharp with makeup. He looks like he just raided the shelves of a Hot Topic, only he makes it work.

Gerard’s gaze flickers from Martin to Jon, and for a moment there is no recognition, no comprehension. He opens his mouth - and then he stills, his eyebrows coming together in vague confusion. His jaw slackens, and his eyes widen, and his expression is cracked open like an egg, revealing the vulnerable yolk beneath.

Jon makes a sound. Martin could not characterize that sound even if he wanted to. It sounds like - like all of Jon’s insides have been scooped out of him, like he’s surrounded by air but he can’t get a breath, like - grief. It sounds like pure, mortal grief.

Just like that, Martin understands.

“Jon,” Gerard Keay says.

And then Jon bursts into tears.

“Gerry,” Jon gasps, but when he reaches out his hand goes right through Gerry’s sleeve. “Gerry, I - “

“Jon,” Gerry steps in close, his hands framing Jon’s face, staring at him the way a drowning man stares at a life raft.

“I’m sorry,” Jon manages. “Gerry I’m so - I promise, I didn’t know, I - “

“It’s okay,” Gerry reaches for Jon’s hair reflexively, but freezes when his fingertips disappear into Jon’s forehead. His expression crumples. “It’s fine, I know. I know. Jon, Jon - ”

And then they’re both crying, tears dripping down. Jon’s face is buried in his hands, and he’s weeping, keening, and Gerry keeps reaching for him, but there’s no way to connect, no way to touch. There’s no relief. It’s just shared grief, endless and pervasive and shattering.

Martin turns away and frantically scrubs his hands across his face. Oh, God. He feels so guilty, but he doesn’t want to be here right now. There is a Shakespearean tragedy playing out before his eyes, the kind that’s brimming with heartache and things left unsaid, and he is powerless against it.

Finally, mercifully, the sound of crying dies away into exhausted silence, except for thick, heavy breathing. Martin keeps his back to them, wanting to give them some semblance of privacy for a conversation that they obviously need to have.

“...so where is she?”

Jon huffs out a quiet laugh, lacking humor, edged with hurt. “Dead. Shot to the chest.”

“Figures.” A meaningful pause. “So are you...”

“Oh, no. No, it’s...oh. Martin?”

Martin sniffs hard and drags his hands over his cheeks before turning around, forcing a smile on his face. Jon and Gerry are standing as close to each other as they can without touching, twin tracks of silver tears on their cheeks. “Hi, sorry. Just...wanted to give you two a bit of privacy. Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist.”

Gerry dips his chin in acknowledgement, before turning his confused gaze back to Jon. “I thought…?”

“He knows,” Jon says quickly. “I’m...well. It’s complicated. Gertrude hid a lot more from us than we knew.” There’s still a raw hurt in Jon’s voice when he says that, mixed with a lingering sort of nostalgia.

Gerry grimaces. “Did she know about…”

Martin doesn’t realize what he’s asking about until he gestures toward his head, a helpless, reluctant sort of gesture.

“I - maybe?” Jon shakes his head, for the first time turning out of Gerry’s orbit, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’d like to think not, but...it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone. We’ll never know.”

There is a moment of silence. Martin bites his lip, then forces himself to stop when he realizes that he’s already chewed it bloody. It’s hard to watch Jon draw back into himself, put the pain where it can only hurt himself.

“Hey,” Gerry reaches for Jon’s chin, frowns when his hand sinks into the skin. He shakes his head and walks around so he can insert himself into Jon’s field of vision. “Stop. I can feel you blaming yourself, okay? Just...stop. It’s not your fault.”

“...but I should’ve -”

“I am not letting you use this as another stick you beat yourself with,” Gerry interrupts firmly. “You read my page, didn’t you? I didn’t die alone. I’m sorry that you had to go through that, but you don’t understand how much I -”

He breaks off. Jon’s breath rattles dangerously again.

“I always thought that I was going to die alone,” Gerry finishes.

There’s another moment of silence. Jon puts his head in his hands again, and Martin aches at the way Gerry’s face crumples with the desire to reach out, to comfort. They’re in the same room, but there’s a yawning, uncrossable distance between them.

Then Jon lowers his hands. There’s a spark in his eyes that Martin recognizes: the scarce moments before an inferno, before manic determination sets Jon’s whole being ablaze. “Gerry, I’m getting you out of here. I can - you and me, we can figure it out. We can -”

“No.”

Jon pauses. The spark jolts, catches on the cool wave of his confusion. “...what?”

“I’m dead, Jon,” Gerry reaches out for Jon again, then stops. Lets his arm fall to his side, clenches his fists. “I can’t live like this.”

Breathless hurt snatches across Jon’s face. “No, Gerry. I can’t - not when I’ve just found you, I -”

“It hurts, Jon,” Gerry interrupts, and he does not seem like the type to beg, but his voice dips at the end with a desperate plea. “It...it hurts, all the time, and...I just want to rest. Please, just let me rest.”

Jon swallows once. Twice, and his face crumples with sympathy, with empathy, with that awful exhaustion that they’ve all been wearing since what feels like forever. After a moment, he nods.

Gerry lets out a low, quiet sigh of relief, tension draining from his broad shoulders. He smiles faintly, ghosting his knuckles against Jon’s cheek. Jon leans into the touch even though he must not be able to feel it, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth drawn.

“I wish you were here,” Jon whispers.

“Yeah,” Gerry steps back, hiding his expression behind his long curtain of black hair. “Me too.”

There’s a moment of silence. A rearranging of expressions, a folding of hurt and pain back where it can no longer be seen. Jon is once again himself, his expression distant, and Gerry is wry and so very, very dead.

Gerry turns to Martin and smiles. “I wish we had met under better circumstances, Martin.”

Martin swallows, trying to unearth his voice. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then Gerry turns back to Jon. “You know what to do.”

Jon nods again, sharp and short. “I...I dismiss you.”

Gerry closes his eyes, and the whole room sighs as he dissipates into nothing.

Jon stands alone in the middle of the room, spine so straight there may as well be an iron rod put up the back of it. Martin doesn’t even know what the hell he is supposed to say. There is nothing he can do to make this better. How the hell is he supposed to make this better?

The moment passes. Jon’s shoulders slump, and when he turns back to Martin, his eyes are empty.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says monotonously.

Martin cannot do this. Martin cannot just stand there while Jon apologizes and looks at him like that, and -

“Don’t apologize,” he steps forward. “Can I hug you? Please?”

Jon thinks about that for a moment. When he eventually nods, Martin crosses the short distance between them and folds Jon into his arms, trying to ease the sharpness of the pain he surely must be feeling. He can’t make it better, but he can make sure that Jon knows that he isn’t alone. He can do this.

Jon doesn’t move for a moment, his face pressed into Martin’s shoulder, his arms loose at his sides. But just when Martin is about to pull away, he slowly reaches up, curls his hands in the fabric of Martin’s shirt. Lowers his head so he is half-buried in Martin’s embrace. He was already small, but he tries to make himself smaller, like he’s trying to hide himself in the folds of Martin’s pullover.

Eventually, he lets go. Eventually he steps back, letting his bangs hide his eyes, and goes to pick up the book. Martin watches his painful, slow movements, as though he’s filled with bruises from the inside out. He’s so distracted that Jon’s voice almost makes him jump.

“You should…you should do it.”

Martin shakes himself. “Sorry?”

“Burn his page,” Jon elaborates, holding the book out to Martin.

Martin gapes at him, stunned, because - “Um. No? Jon, why -”

“I can’t be the only person who’s ever done right by him.”

Oh. Well, when he puts it like that.

Martin swallows and takes the book gingerly, like he’s holding something precious. He flips to the last page and carefully tears it out, ignoring the way Jon’s breath catches at the soft ripping sound. Then he folds the page and puts it into his pocket, trying not to let on how nervous he is about having this precious page on his person. Trying not to let on how nervous Jon’s complete and utter trust makes him.

He is painfully aware of how many times that trust has been broken.

“Are you ready?” Martin asks.

Jon finally looks away from Martin’s pocket. “Yes. Let’s go.”

#tma #my friend's au

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perditaalottachocolate-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Caterwauling in the Rain

Summary: Marinette and Adrien share their very first kiss after their very first date. Chat is so overjoyed he’s ready to burst into song, albeit not all Parisians share the sentiment. Ladybug comes to investigate the complaints about a feline caterwauling in the spring rain. Luckily, it’s just her very wet boyfriend. A Miraculous Writer Zine story.

A/N: This is my piece for @mlwriterzine . I’m so happy I can finally share it! I feel honored to be among the chosen authors. I want to thank everyone, who made this zine possible, it was an amazing adventure! Make sure to read works in the zine collection, they're all a m a z i n g !

AO3

The whisper of wind in his ears, the tap of boots on the tin roofs, the pigeons nesting among the chimneys, cooing to the spring in his step. Chat Noir ran high over the streets, reveling in this late April evening, basking in the fading light of day.

Everything in his path was blooming recklessly, fueled by sunshine, turning the warmth of spring into an opulent palette of greens, whites, yellows, pinks, and every other color one could think of.

It wouldn’t have been far from the truth if Chat claimed he floated on the breeze. It certainly felt like it. Butterflies, the good kind, not the evil purple ones that’d been giving them so much grief, fluttered happily in his stomach. His chest swelled with affection as if it tried to contain all the smells and scents at once.

His heart was so full he was ready to burst into song any second now. And snugly pressed to his chest was none other than the bravest, prettiest, awesomest, and the most amazing girl he knew. The love of his life, sans the spots. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. His Lady. His girlfriend. His everything.

Her hair tickled the exposed skin under his chin, but he was too focused on carrying his precious cargo to utter a chuckle. It was her who giggled happily instead.

“I really could have gotten home myself, silly Kitty,” she murmured to his sternum. Only his enhanced hearing allowed him to pick up the words over the rush of air and the buzz of traffic.

“A gentlecat always walks the lady home after a date,” he countered, allowing a little bit of flirt to seep into his voice.

A date! he thought excitedly, his heart skipping a few beats. The very first real one, official and everything. Not that anyone paid attention to two goofy teens sharing an ice cream, walking down the banks of the Seine and doing all the carefree, silly things teens did. Bantering, picking flowers, playing tag just because. Holding hands, stealing glances, blushing. Basically half of Adrien’s bucket list went down on that date, more than he could ever hope for. It was still very fresh—the romantic side of their relationship, just like nature herself, coming to life with spring—yet he doubted the excitement of enjoying her company on both sides of their masks would ever ebb.

Alas, their time had run out all too quickly. For unfathomable reasons their parents set a curfew and warned them not to break it. Yet Adrien refused to leave Marinette to return home by herself. He announced his arrival at the mansion, claiming he was exhausted after a busy day, and dashed off to his room. The door barely had time to close behind him when Chat Noir was already leaping through the window. He scooped Marinette into his arms and vaulted them high and away from the prying eyes of pedestrians. Just a little run and they were already on the little balcony of 12 Rue Gotlib.

It wasn’t dusk yet, although darkness already settled over the city thanks to the rain clouds that flocked from the west, keeping the last rays of spring sun to themselves. A silver half-moon peeked tentatively over the rooftops, picking up the slack.

Unexpectedly the sight filled him with nostalgia. “Anything can happen at half-moon,” Chat recited absently. He didn’t remember where he’d heard the verse.

“Anything?” Marinette frowned in confusion. After all, they had just spent a delightful afternoon together. Why would his mood turn wistful so suddenly?

He decided to play it off. He grinned cheekily. “Like maybe … a kiss?”

He was pushing his luck, he knew. They hadn’t reached that milestone yet, still tiptoeing around each other after the accidental reveal, still testing the waters, although neither of them was oblivious to the other’s feelings anymore.

To his astonishment Marinette fixed him with a coy smile and threw her hands around his neck. She climbed to her toes. “Maybe,” she whispered, her lips a hairbreadth away from his. Her eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

Chat released a ragged breath against her mouth. He shuddered from head to toe as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His body screamed for her, longed for her presence. But he wouldn’t dare to make the first step. He always followed her lead. He had to be sure it was what she wanted, even if he knew it wasn’t in her nature to tease him like this.

And then Marinette was kissing him. Sweetly, tenderly, with just a hint of passion simmering underneath. The gentle caress shrunk his world to just her and this moment.

He was sure he died, his heart flatlining out of sheer euphoria, his neurons fried from overjoy, his body coming apart at the seams. He floated to heaven and then her kisses brought him back to life. Back to the warmth of her embrace, to the flowery scent of her skin, and to soft kisses he knew he would never have enough of.

All too soon she withdrew, leaving his lips tingling and cold. He stumbled, dizzy with love in his heart and springtime in his lungs.

She must have thought he was being dramatic, because she ruffled his already wild mane.

“Goof,” she giggled. “Go home, before you catch a cold.”

“A cold?” He knitted his brows. “Why would I catch a cold now?”

“It’s raining, you dork.” Marinette bopped him on the nose and turned her hands up. A few plump droplets splashed on her palm.

Huh? How long did that kiss take? He hadn’t noticed when the rain started. Either those clouds had been moving faster than he’d thought, or he might have been more distracted than usual. Lately he tended to get tunnel vision in Marinette’s company, tuning out everyone and everything while soaking in her presence.

From behind the deck chair Marinette produced a black umbrella. She pressed it into his claws. “This is no dew, Kitty. It’s going to pour heavily soon.”

“Really?” He chuckled. She walked straight into this one. “I’m purring already, my Lady.” He grabbed her hand and put it to his chest. Then he released a rumble worthy of a thunderstorm.

“Besides, where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.” He dropped the cheesy line with a flourish.

“See, you’re already delirious,” Marinette replied matter-of-factly. “Also, yes, I’m very proud of you for getting the ‘Singing in the Rain’ reference, you dorkasaurus,” she added, seeing his pout of indignation. “Now go, before you get wet for real.”

“Didn’t you mean furrrrr real?” he started, but dropped it immediately when she set him with one of Ladybug’s finest glowers. “A kiss good night, purrrhaps?” he asked hopefully.

Marinette grabbed him by the bell with such force, his hand slipped on the umbrella’s handle. She pressed her lips to his, but with more fire than sugar this time.

Snap! The black canopy sprang to its full size, startling them both.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Chat exclaimed, but Marinette just shook her head, launching into a fit of laughter. It was impossible not to join her.

“This umbrella is absolutely terrible,” she wheezed, clutching at her belly. “The ultimate killjoy.”

“You mean this is …” He trailed off, finally giving the umbrella a thorough look. Sure enough, he soon found the loopy ‘Agreste’ carved into the handle. “Oh, wow,” he whispered reverently. Marinette had mentioned the significance of that first rain they’d experienced together.

“Yup. And I want it back, mind you,” she added.

“This is an Agreste umbrella. You’d need to marry me for the name to check out, Princess.” Chat shot her with a toothy grin.

“Did you just propose on the first date, Adrien?” She raised a brow. “You might want to save something for the second one.”

“Ooops.” He feigned a horrified gasp. Incidentally, that absolutely had been on his bucket list. This was Marinette after all. “I’m gonna have to google some new ideas. But anyway, your answer would be …?”

Marinette shook her head again and thrusted her hand into his face. “You’re impossible. Just go home already before we both catch a cold.”

Right. He hadn’t noticed her shivering in the cold evening breeze, and the rain probably wasn’t helping.

“As you wish, m’Lady.” He bowed. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is, my Prince,” she replied with a curtsy, raising the imaginary fabric of a long dress with her fingers. Then with one last playful wink, she disappeared through the skylight.

Chat sighed in contentment, drawing in the chilly, humid air. He didn’t feel even a little bit tired, more like ignited after the spectacular afternoon of romance, flirting, and banter. He leaped to the railing and elongated his baton so that it hit the pavement. Then, like a leather-clad Mary Poppins, he floated down, startling a few passersby.

“Du-dudu-du, du-du-dudu-dee-dudu,” he hummed under his breath, setting into a leisurely stroll. The rain picked up a heavier rhythm, just like Marinette predicted.

“Du-dudu-du, du-du-dudu-dee-dudu.” He continued letting his inner Gene Kelly come out and play. He always wanted to perform that song, ever since he’d watched the movie with his father ages ago. And what better place to do so than the Parisian streets, a classy background to the classic number?

He already felt the tune bubbling in his throat. He couldn’t contain it any longer even if he tried. With a theatrical shrug he folded the umbrella and propped it against his shoulder. His lips stretched into a dreamy smile when he set off again. Then came the song.

“I'm siiiingin' in the rain, just siiiiiingin' in the rain.” His voice carried over the street, earning him a few confused glances. He gave his audience a little wink.

“What a gloooorious feeling, I'm haaaaaappy again,” he claimed, jumping onto a lampost. “I'm laughing at clouds. So daaaark up above. The sun's in my heart ...” Chat’s smile turned into something more smitten as he gazed upon a certain balcony looming in the distance, “… and I'm reeeeeady for loooove.”

“Let the stoooormy clouds chase everyone from the place.” He waved at a couple making their way through the rain, hiding under an already-soaked newspaper. They chuckled at his antics and clapped, rewarding his performance.

Encouraged, Chat turned his face to the sky while throwing his arms to the sides in a truly musical fashion. “Come on with the rain! I've a smile on my face!”

He resumed his walk, nonchalantly swinging the umbrella in large circles. “I walk down the lane, with a haaaaaaaappy refrain. Just singing, singing iiiiiiiin the rain.”

Chat spotted a few phones aimed at him and chuckled inwardly. People always looked for a scoop. Alya was going to be so angry she missed this. He could almost hear her gritting her teeth. Let's give them a show, he thought as his feet carried out the routine, a mix of waltz and tap dancing.

“Daaaaaancing in the rain,” he howled. “La-daaaa-da-da-di-daaaaAAA. I'm happy again.” He grabbed the umbrella as if it were a ukulele and struck a chord, making an elated face, as if he were Luka’s more handsome twin. “I'm singin' and dancing in the rain.”

More tap dancing followed. Chat finally found a way to release all the pent-up energy that had come from the afternoon spent with the love of his life. He tapped, he stepped, he pirouetted, for his joy and for the entertainment of a significant crowd that had gathered to witness his performance. The umbrella was his partner, his pendulum, his microphone and staff. Oh, how versatile a prop this was! Chat leaped like a very wet ballerina, jumped over the puddles or right into them, frolicking in a totally unfeline manner, splashing the water onto himself and all around. A reckless, unstoppable dancing and singing machine.

Slosh! A wall of cold water washed over him, effectively ending the show. He wiped the liquid from his eyes only to see a very familiar red-clad figure holding a polka-dotted bucket, which must have been the source of his unexpected and involuntary shower.

Concern marred Ladybug’s face. She breathed heavily—she must have been running fast to get here. But why did she have to be such a … what had Marinette said? Ah, an ultimate killjoy.

“Why did you go and do that?” he complained, frowning in accusation. Water dripped from his soaked hair right into his ears. Both pairs.

Ladybug narrowed her eyes at him. “The neighbors were complaining about some caterwauling felines and I decided to investigate in case there was an akuma,” she said.

Chat shook his head, trying to get rid of the ear leak. “Well, was there?”

His partner raised a brow and smirked, taking in his drenched form.

“Oh.” It suddenly dawned on Chat that maybe performing a musical number in a city regularly haunted by mind-controlling villains wasn’t the best of ideas. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, then shivered. “I’m cold,” he added.

“Awww, poor kitty,” Ladybug cooed. She relaxed her shoulders, no longer alert. “I need to take you home.” She tangled her yo-yo around a chimney, grabbed him at the waist and in the next moment they were already soaring over the streets.

She stopped on a roof a block away from the mansion. Her timing was perfect, as usual.

“AAAACHOOOOO!” Chat’s sneeze was so powerful Plagg flew out of the ring, taking the leather suit with him. The little kwami didn’t look happy in the least.

“Awww, shucks.” Adrien trembled. “Now it’s even colder.”

“You don’t say,” Plagg grumbled. He was dripping wet.

Ladybug sighed in disbelief. She scooped the sprite into her hand and hid him in her pigtail. Then she proceeded to lift Adrien princess style and set off in the direction of his house. Unseen and undetected by the mansion’s security system, she slipped through the bathroom window and into the warmth of his room.

A true hero, the epitome of helpfulness, she grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped him tight. Then, with a towel she had taken from the bathroom, she gave Plagg the same treatment.

“I’m gonna leave you to change and go to sleep,” she finally declared. “No more clowning!” She pointed a finger at Adrien.

He gave her an innocent blink. Alas, Ladybug seemed to be immune to his charm. Or maybe it was just late for her. After all he had caused her to leave the dry room and investigate an alleged akuma attack. He decided to step up his game.

“Maybe a good-night kiss?” He fluttered his golden lashes hopefully. That always got a nice fluster out of Marinette.

“Haven’t you gotten like two already?” she frowned.

“Nuh-uh, that was Chat. Adrien didn’t get any,” he complained. “Besides”—he fixed her with the delightful smile of a teenage heartthrob, his voice lowering to a murmur—“three is the charm, as Lady Luck should be perfectly aware.”

Ladybug tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Well,” she drawled, stepping closer, “you do make a compelling argument …” Then she closed the space between them.

Meowrrr, the cat in him uttered. Three was definitely the charm.

- The End -

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lins-fandom-hub · 4 years ago

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Professor Kettleburn’s Legacy

This story I had planned for several months now, but kept putting it off because I wasn’t sure how the interactions would go. But I finally finished it today--I had hoped to put this up before Christmas, so here we are. Enjoy this little fluffy story of Clara and Barnaby’s youngest child and her namesake, Professor Silvanus Kettleburn.

December 2002

Soft snowflakes descended through the grey skies in slow twirls as they rode on gentle breezes over the picturesque Hogsmeade village. The sounds of merry chatter and lucid chiming of bells outside the shops filled the cold crisp air, as well as the lilting melodies sung by the Frog Choir caroling giving good tidings to passersby making a last-minute gift purchase or spending time with their loved ones. Somewhere near the Honeydukes sweet shop, a woman wrapped a soft yellow blanket tightly around a bundle in her arms, holding it close to her chest, and looked at her husband who had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. It felt strange being back here, not as visiting Hogwarts students anymore, but as adults, a married couple--yet they both felt the wave of nostalgia as they looked around the shops, some still open, some closed and boarded up due to lack of business.

“You sure this is a good idea to leave the twins with Penny, Barnaby?” the woman asked her husband. “They’re already quite a handful with us being around.”

Barnaby laughed lightly and nodded. “Of course, Clara. They’ll be in good hands. Besides, you know how important this is to us,” he added, looking down at the little baby girl in Clara’s arms. “Little Sylvia deserves to know of her namesake.”

“And I can imagine Professor Kettleburn must feel lonely,” Clara added. “You’re right.”

The peaceful ambience that surrounded them as they passed by the colourful Christmas decorations and shop windows felt so surreal in the wake of the Battle that shook the entire wizarding world. With cloaks wrapped tightly around themselves they strolled through the streets, and eventually they both entered the Three Broomsticks, drawing their hoods off their heads at the inviting warmth from the fireplace.

“Hello, my dears,” Madam Rosmerta greeted them as she passed by with a tray of Butterbeers in her hands, a warm smile on her face. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Madam Rosmerta.” Barnaby gave her a short bow, and Clara smiled in gratitude.

“The usual for you both, I assume?” Madam Rosmerta asked them then.

“Butterbeer sounds great, but we’re here to see Silvanus Kettleburn today,” Clara responded, fixing the blanket over the baby in her arms. “We heard he’s staying here with you in the inn upstairs. We’d like to visit him, if that’s alright.”

“Ah, the old Care of Magical Creatures Professor. Of course you may visit him,” Madam Rosmerta said with a nod. “Let me hand over these last orders and I’ll show you to his room.”

She swept off with the tray of Butterbeers, making her way to a large group of Hogwarts students sitting in the corner table of the tavern and serving their drinks. Eventually she went over to the counter and put the empty tray away before beckoning to the two of them to follow her upstairs.

Clara had only been to the upper landing of the Three Broomsticks a few times, but never anywhere out of the tavern. As she followed Madam Rosmerta through a door separating the accommodations from the diner, she felt Barnaby’s arm loop back around her shoulders protectively, and she glanced back at her husband with a small smile.

“Here,” Madam Rosmerta announced, gesturing to the third door on the left. She gently knocked on the door three times--and then the door opened to reveal their favourite professor from their Hogwarts days.

Professor Kettleburn’s hair had become more silver with age, sticking up every which way like a scientist whose experiment went wrong. The usual white bandage that covered his left eye socket was replaced with a black eyepatch, and his artificial leg and hand were significantly blackened and burned. His jacket was fraying at the cuffs and hem, the patches holding the garment together slowly peeling off, but his eye still held the wizened excited sparkle that they had grown used to seeing every time he discussed a new magical creature. The moment he saw Madam Rosmerta, his eyes lit up and he gave her a wide smile.

“Madam Rosmerta!” he greeted her. “Ah, I must apologize--I have a few salamanders playing in the fireplace, and an excited Murtlap who kept mistaking my palm for an oyster--”

“Silvanus, you have visitors,” Madam Rosmerta simply told him with a chuckle. “I believe they were your old students as well.”

“Visitors? Students?” Professor Kettleburn turned his head to see Clara and Barnaby, and he straightened up significantly now, his smile now turning into a grin. “Ah, Miss Lin and Mr. Lee! How wonderful it is to see you. I must admit, I never have gotten visitors at this time of year before today.”

“I’ll leave you both to him,” Madam Rosmerta said to the couple now, both people beaming at the sight of their old professor who somehow still remembered them. “Though please let me know if he lets a Niffler loose here. The last time we had to clear out his room, the Niffler was making a racket and a mess of the place.”

Professor Kettleburn looked sheepish as they watched Madam Rosmerta exit back into the diner, and he cleared his throat as he looked at his old students. “Do come in, both of you.”

The room was very simple--the walls were bare, but the coat of white paint still looked intact, without a sign of crumbling or crackling. A simple cot and an old-fashioned writing desk stood by the far wall, and a suitcase laid on the far right corner--Barnaby chuckled at the suitcase and gave a nod, knowing full well of the contents in the case. By the fireplace just by the door, Clara could see the fire salamanders frolicking in the fireplace, leaping about from piece of firewood to piece of firewood while the flames crackled merrily in the hearth, a brilliant orange glow illuminating the cold cloudy winter outside. She smiled and turned to Professor Kettleburn now, who had waved his wand and conjured a few more chairs for them to sit in.

“So, what brought you here to see me?” Professor Kettleburn asked the two of them as they took their seats. “I deeply apologize for not being able to attend your wedding, by the way. I was tending to a rather upset Ukranian Ironbelly in the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary--your friend Charlie Weasley is doing rather fine as a dragonologist there, by the way.”

“Indeed. We managed to catch up with him before the wedding, and a few months after too,” Barnaby responded with a nod. “It’s really great to see you again, Professor.”

“Aye.” Professor Kettleburn nodded as he took out a bottle of oak-matured mead and removed the stopper with his wand. “I must say it has been a long while since anyone has come to visit me for old time’s sake. These days, all everyone’s asked me for is help with healing injured creatures. Any more creatures in the case, and this place would turn into a zoo.”

This brought a slight chuckle from Clara’s mouth, and Barnaby nodded thoughtfully as he helped Professor Kettleburn pour the mead into three tall glasses.

“I know what you mean, Professor. When Clara left for China, Liz and I had a lot of creatures to take care of at our care centre--which was a lot of work, but in the end we both pulled through,” Barnaby commented, taking one glass and handing it to Clara. “The weeks the creatures were there, though, they caused a big mess!”

“‘Tis the life of a caring magizoologist,” Professor Kettleburn remarked, taking a sip from his glass of mead. “And--”

“Professor,” Clara interrupted softly. “We came to see you because...we want you to see our daughter. We chose you to be her namesake.”

That said, she unwrapped the bundle and held it out to him--indeed, swaddled in the pale yellow blanket, there was a healthy little baby with small brown tufts of curly hair over her forehead, her fist closed over the blanket as she slept. She was barely one month old, yet somehow the journey did not affect her in any way, which surprised her--her older twin son, Melvin, was not that docile when he was born at least. The sight of the baby brought a gasp from the old man, his jaw dropped wide open.

“What is her name?” he finally asked.

“Sylvia,” Clara responded with a smile. “Sylvia Lee.”

At the sound of her name, the baby in her mother’s arms stirred slightly, her head lifted and lowered as she turned over in her sleep. A soft coo escaped Professor Kettleburn, and he put the glass down, hesitantly holding out his arms. “May I?”

Clara nodded, gently passing the baby over to him. “Of course, sir.”

Years of teaching one of her favourite subjects at school told her a lot there was to her professor’s passion and admiration for magical creatures, but she never realized just how deeply caring he was for babies. Just like he would a sleepy Niffler, Professor Kettleburn eased the baby into his arms and, with his mechanical hand, tucked the blanket securely over the child. As he did so, Sylvia opened her eyes--a gleaming emerald like her father’s--and at the sight of the unfamiliar face looking down at her, she smiled and gurgled.

It was definitely an uncommon reaction for a baby meeting a stranger for the first time, but Clara had told her many stories about her namesake since she was carrying her, showing pictures and sharing memories alongside her husband. The enthusiasm he held for magical creatures, the very subject he had passion for, fostered a passion within her as well to appreciate every living being that roamed the earth. When they heard that they were having a daughter, it was Barnaby who came up with her name--after all, Clara had named the twin boys, Melvin and Milo, so Barnaby was more than excited to bring up the perfect name for their daughter. And now, as they watched little Sylvia coo at Professor Kettleburn, her tiny hands reaching up for his moustache, they couldn’t help but chuckle at the heartwarming scene before them.

“Hello, little lass,” Professor Kettleburn greeted the baby in his arms, bouncing the baby up and down gently.

Sylvia laughed, a huge toothless grin on her face while her eyes shone with excitement.

“Your parents must have told many a story about me, eh? I was their professor for one of their favourite subjects at school, after all,” Professor Kettleburn continued. “Taught them all there was to know about magical creatures! And you look like a little magizoologist in the making!”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Fwooper tail feather, tickling little Sylvia’s face and body with it; Sylvia giggled and wriggled about in her blanket, and Clara smiled as she sipped on the mead.

“They’re getting along so well,” Barnaby noted to her in a soft voice.

Clara nodded, taking his hand and squeezing it tight in her own. “I couldn’t ask for anything better for our daughter, Barnaby.”

After a while, when the sky grew dark and Sylvia had all but fallen asleep in Professor Kettleburn’s arms, he handed the baby back to Clara and pressed the Fwooper feather in her hand.

“Remember what they’re best used for?” he quizzed them suddenly.

“Quills, right?” Clara guessed--it had been a long while since she had actually last interacted with magical creatures.

“Correct, Miss Lin,” Professor Kettleburn chuckled. “But now they’re also best used for a baby toy. Cherish this well, will you?”

“We will.” Barnaby nodded and took the feather, pocketing it in his cloak.

“And...well, I don’t have much--” Professor Kettleburn walked over to his rucksack again and rummaged through it. “I wasn’t expecting visitors, you see. Christmas time tends to get lonely for me here.”

“No, Professor, it’s alright--”

But Professor Kettleburn didn’t listen to their protests. He eventually emerged from his case after a brilliant jet of fire emerged from inside, followed by a Murtlap’s screech--and in his hands he had a well-knitted golden warm jumper, fit for Sylvia.

“I originally made this for one of the Porlocks in my case, but it had grown so big that this doesn’t fit anymore,” Professor Kettleburn explained. “So this is my Christmas present to your daughter.”

Clara smiled as she took the jumper, wrapping it carefully over Sylvia’s body--she was already wearing a baby Niffler-print onesie, but a little extra warmth for the journey back wouldn’t hurt.

“We got you this too, Professor,” Barnaby said then, pulling out a scrapbook full of photos. “Our magical creatures care centre at home, and all the memories we made with our friends in it.”

Professor Kettleburn’s eye darted from left to right, left to right, as he flipped through the book and saw all the glossy colour photos in there. Just like his case, the care centre was just like a little zoo, with a grand variety of creatures receiving the best care when taken in. There was a nest of Nifflers splashing around in a heap of gold coins; a branch of Bowtruckles drinking a solution of crushed woodlice mixed in water; a herd of Abraxans and unicorns recuperating from broken limbs; and a few mooncalves snacking on their feed. More creatures filled the page, with a few pictures of Clara, Barnaby, Liz, Charlie, and some of their other friends coming around to visit. So many of his students did not choose magizoology as their central career, yet they always made time to come around and foster their passion for the creatures, just as he had imagined. He chuckled as he glimpsed all the faces in the book, and he hummed in contentment once he reached the very last page.

“Thank you both,” he finally told them. “I will cherish these memories always. And thank you for introducing me to Sylvia. I cannot wait to see her grow up into a fine young lady.”

“We hope you don’t mind if we visit you often with our children,” Clara suggested to him. “Once they’ve grown up a bit more, we’ll definitely visit you more.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Eventually, as Clara and Barnaby left the tavern, hot flasks of Butterbeer in Barnaby’s hands while Clara wrapped Sylvia tight in her blankets, all of them felt a radiating warmth within them--from a simple smile of the sleeping baby in Clara’s arms.

For today they have finally known each other, grew close like grandfather and granddaughter, with the hope that one day she would carry out the legacy her namesake created.

#here we are #a little christmas story #hphm clara lin #hphm barnaby lee #hphm silvanus kettleburn #hphm fankids

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antihero-writings · 4 years ago

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The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes:

I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind.

Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me!!

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a bearded man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): Tom killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself. He was just a kid, did he/this harry potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

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hobidreams · 6 years ago

Text

Stay Quiet | JJK {M}

you think the library is only a place for studying. jungkook convinces you otherwise.

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x reader genre: smut, a dash of fluff words: 2.7k contains: college au, public place, condomless sex, oral (f), dirty talk, you almost get caught, but you kind of like it a/n: spawned from the drabble prompt that’s bolded in the text! reposted, thanks to tumblr being tumblr.

You have one goal for this term: a 4.0 GPA. Or as close to it as you can get. Grad school application deadlines are coming up, and you’re so close to the end you can practically taste the celebratory beer on your tongue. The library has become your new home, open twenty-four hours a day for all your studying needs. Your new routine is waking up early and leaving late. You don’t actually mind spending so much time here, not if it’ll get you to the marks you want and need.

Unfortunately, your boyfriend doesn’t seem to share that opinion.

“Jungkook, stop staring at me,” you mumble as you flip the page of your textbook. “Is there something on my face?” You’re eight hours into today’s stretch and it’s just nearing dinnertime, so the crowd has thinned out a bit, leaving just a few study groups occupying the tables.

“No, you’re just pretty.” Jungkook grins, handsomeness radiating off him in his casual black tee and slightly mussed dark hair. Single silver hoops hang from his ears, your birthday present to him last year. He never leaves home without them.

You can’t help but smile at his words. He always makes you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, even through the current exhaustion and grease and stress. You love him so much. Even though he’s totally distracting. “Thanks.”

“Aaagh, I’m bored. I’ve already browsed through all the Reddit threads and Facebook posts I can.” He throws his arms in the air in a stretch.

“You could just go home.”

“Home’s boring without you.”

You let your highlighter drop onto the table and meet his gaze. “If you’re going to stay, you should study.”

“I know all the material already.” He purses his lips as he taps his fingers on the tabletop to a quiet beat. “Plus… You’re wearing those sweatpants again.”

Your eyebrows knit. “What’s wrong with the sweatpants?”

“Nothing wrong, but it just… It makes me think of the last time you wore them.”

You try to wrack your brain for that particular memory but come up short. “What do you—"

“Can you please stop talking?” A person from the table next to you interrupts, annoyance in their squinted eyes and pouty mouth.

“Sorry,” you whisper, offering a raised hand in apology.

When you look back, Jungkook’s scribbling away on a scrap piece of notebook. Half a minute later, he tears it, hands it to you with a perfectly innocuous look on his face. You take the page, feeling a bit of high school nostalgia as you cast your eyes to his penned words.

Movie night. You wore them and your black thong, and I almost ruined ‘em when I stripped them off? Fuck. You came five times. It was amazing.

Are you blushing? You’re pretty sure you’re blushing, reading such filthy words in a public space. It’s coming back to you now, how you teased him by grinding your butt against him the entire night with subtle shifts. You had taken your delight in the way he became stiff in his jeans, emitting guttural grunts of frustrated arousal. He’d punished you (or was it a reward?) for it after, nice and slowly.

I can’t stop thinking about your pussy wrapped around me. So tight, so wet. If we were home, I’d already have my hands in your panties. Baby, I wanna touch you.

“Jungkook!” You whisper-hiss after finishing the second note he slips your way. “I have to study!”

He leans back, face infuriatingly neutral as he pushes away from the desk in the roller-chair. He adjusts his baggy top, your eyes drawn to his crotch as he pulls his shirt away and damn it, he’s half-hard. He knows what bulges do to you, especially his. You hate yourself for falling so easily for his seduction, heat already swirling in the pit of your tummy.

You suck in air through gritted teeth. You’re not going to get anything done like this; you need to set things straight. He’s already starting on his third note, amused by the faces you make as you read. You interrupt him. “Come with me.” You stand up.

Jungkook practically bounces to his feet, following close behind. He reaches for your hand along the way, sweetly lacing his fingers with yours. You’re heading for the very back of the floor among the stacks and shelves, where all the Old English books are stored, and no one ever goes. When you deem this to be as much privacy as you’re going to get, you whirl around.

“Jungkook, you can’t keep writing those notes.” You fight to keep your eyes on his, pointedly away from his crotch.

He’s not nearly as flustered as you. He calmly leans against the shelf with his arms crossed. “Why not? Are they affecting you?” That smirk. Ugh. All this time, and it still makes your heart flutter.

You don’t respond. Can’t, really, as he closes the distance between you with a few steps. His toned arms trap you in heat, breath warm against your forehead while he drops soft, promising kisses. Jungkook’s eager fingers start to trace the band of your sweatpants, just barely dipping inside to toy with the panties beneath. They’re plain, cotton, but still one of the hottest things Jungkook’s ever touched because they’re yours. “How wet are you under here?”

When he draws you closer, you can feel the outline of his full cock against your thigh. “Just let me have a taste, baby.” He palms your ass cheeks and if your pants weren’t in the way, he would hear the wet squelch of your soaked slit when he parts you.

You swivel your head, staring through the cracks of the books, hoping you won’t find another person among the tomes. “W-We’re in public, you know.”

“Please.” Jungkook licks his lips. “Don’t make me wait any longer to have you.”

You’ve lost. You know it by the flames that lick at your thighs, begging to be doused by his tongue. You know it by the knots tying themselves in the pit of your stomach, unraveled only by his touch. He drops to his knees and drags your pants down with him. You lean back against the surprisingly sturdy bookshelf and try to tell yourself that nobody comes back here anyway.

He flits that cute nose across your thigh, close enough to drink in the honey scent of your lust. “I’d say I’ll try to make this quick but... We both know I would be lying.” He trails a fingernail down your clothed slit. You shiver when he brings it back up, circling around your clit.

“We don’t have the time,” you mutter, too aware of the instinctual bucking of your hips to meet his fingers.

“You’re just impatient.” He whips his eyes up to meet yours, mirth clear in his dark irises as he gives you that mischievous bunny smile. But he’s nice to you, seeing as he’s in love with you and all. He eases your underwear halfway down your legs, enough to expose you to the stale library air and to his stare. He spreads you like he did before, this time the lewd noises clear and enticing.

Jungkook emits a low groan at the sight of your juices glistening, smeared all over the lips of your cunt. “You were gonna study while you were like this?” He dips his finger into you to gather droplets to use as lube for your clit. “You’re soaked, baby. Just from thinking about my cock?”

Your answer is a furtive whimper when he kisses your clit, tongue lavishing saliva and stimulation. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s addicted to your taste and how you twitch in response to the flicks, the licks. He can tell that you’re nervous right now, probably too aware that you could be caught as you keep looking around. But the fact that pleasure is burning away your fears? That turns him on.

Jungkook’s slim hands leave slight imprints on your thighs as he continues with coquettish strokes, flitting in and out. It’s an erratic rhythm to match your heart, twitching with fear at every slight noise or bump, afraid that someone will poke their head around the corner. But there’s a thrill with that too – one that you’ll probably never admit out loud but manifests itself in the jolts of bliss shooting through your nerves. It’s a high that Jungkook understands so well, adrenaline junkie that he is.

He can never hold out for too long after tasting your tangy sweetness. The tender exploration turns into something much more when he plunges his tongue into your cunt, shallowly fucking you as an infuriating preview for what his cock can do. If only he’d reward you with a finger. But he seems content to dart his tongue in and out, switching between that and a suction that makes your knees long to crumble. Your hands search for something to hold on to, eventually settling for a few dusty, thick-spined hardcovers.

“T-Too loud, Jungkook,” you stutter, sure that all his sucking and slurping is attracting too much attention among these confined walls.

“Can’t help it when you taste so good.” He smirks, looking filthy yet boyishly handsome with his lips all shiny, pink. “You know how much I love your pussy.” He presses a fond kiss to your clit, as if you wouldn’t believe him otherwise.

“Still… We have to stay quiet…” But you’re a hypocrite with the moans that tumble from your mouth, as unstoppable as the wetness drooling from between your thighs when he settles back in. If you were back home, you’d already be screaming his name and you both know it. You settle for burying your hands into his hair and raking your nails along his scalp.

“What if I want to hear you?” Jungkook grins because you’re grinding yourself onto his mouth. You can’t get enough of him despite yourself; his tongue’s just too convincing when it’s stroking its way up your heat. “Moaning like you always do when you come for me.” His hands grab palmfuls of your ass and squeeze. “Damn. Just thinking about it makes me so hard.”

When he lightly hollows his cheeks to add suction, every semblance of sanity slips from your mind. You tug his head higher as the shaking starts, but he doesn’t need your encouragement to keep his rapid pace. He’s seeking the reward of your whimpers as he draws out your climax until you’re too sensitive to go any further. At least, like this.

Jungkook surges to his feet. His belt and jeans clatter to the floor, pooling around his ankles before your aftershocks have had any time to subside. He spins you around, decisive hands not allowing any counterargument while your chest meets the shelf. All you can see through the musty books is the grey wall.

“S-Someone needs to keep a watch out.” You’re fretting, but the full, solid cock that nudges against your posterior demands your attention.

“Nah. Just focus on me.” One thrust, and he plunges the first delicious inch inside you. “Focus on how I’m going to fuck you, baby.”

It’s true – he makes it hard to think about anything else with the stretch of his cock, the girth addicting. His hands find purchase on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he snaps his hips upward. In three thrusts, he’s drenched himself wholly into your heat. He’s trying to control himself as best as he can but your walls cling eagerly to his shaft, spurring him on. The shelves slightly rattle against the concrete in reply.

“It’s been too long since I was inside you,” he growls, nipping at the column of your neck. “I missed this pussy so much.”

“Missed you too.” You’d forgotten how the pressure builds so furiously, racking up with each thrust that kisses your cervix. You try to adjust, wanting to staunch the slap of his hips against yours, but he’s pumping at a pace that refuses to be quieted. Hells, you’re close to just abandoning your inhibitions. It would be so much easier to just give yourself over to Jungkook, to let him fuck you both into moan-filled, sloppy orgasms among the silent audience of books.

Then you hear the footsteps.

Unmistakeable.

Padding across the carpet, steadily coming your way. Probably boots or something, judging by the heavy, noisy steps.

Your heart sputters. “Shit.” Cursing, you try to push Jungkook away so you can have some semblance of plausible deniability but his arms hold you still. His cock stays right where it is, plunged all the way to his balls. “Jungkook, someone’s coming!”

“Shhhh.”

“Oh god, they’re getting closer,” you whine. “They’re going to see.” Fear ripples through you but excitement is firmly alongside it – thrilling and obvious while your muscles tense.

Jungkook groans, a tortured, soft noise when your cunt cinches around his shaft. “Who’s my dirty girl?” He whispers against the rim of your ear. “Getting so tight. I think you want to be caught.”

“Jungkoook...” Now when you say his name, it’s in frustration. He’s only grinding his hilted cock, enough to make the slight friction agony.

“I think you want them to see you like this, so fucking gorgeous on my cock. Sucking me in so well.” A lazy crescendo of thrusts threatens to buckle your knees when they turn into deadly pumps, aimed right for your sweet spot. Your voice is higher than it’s ever been, high pitched and whiny in your need. It makes your boyfriend chuckle. “You’re not being quiet at all.”

Arching against him, you feel sweat trickle down your spine. “I’m t-trying...”

Suddenly, he slams himself all the way home. “Let’s put on a show, yeah?” You jolt forward, his grunts animalistic and low with each rut. One of his arms hooked around your waist, he moves like nothing else matters in the world except bringing you pleasure and taking it in turn. Every smack of his pelvic bone against your ass feels possessive and you can’t get enough, even though you can practically feel the new pair of an intruder’s eyes on you.

Your mingled lust drips in rivulets down from your cunt onto his balls, more trickling out with every stroke. He just keeps going, the stamina trained through hours upon hours at the gym put to fantastic use. Especially when he nudges your legs apart even more. He lowers two fingers to your neglected clit and starts to rub.

It’s not even a minute later that you’re coming helplessly, bucking your ass back into him in a carnal search for more. His fingers never stop sending pleasure through your veins. It’s a double-edged sword, bringing him crashing down with you seconds later. Jungkook shoves himself so deeply into you that it hurts, but it’s so worth it to hear his groans, to feel the hot burst of cum shot right against your core.

He doesn’t stop until your walls are thoroughly sodden with him, still spasming erratically in climax. You hang your head and just try to breathe through the humid air. Your cheeks burn, stroked by the hair fallen out of your ponytail. Having Jungkook pressed against you doesn’t help, for his temperature runs just as high.

A minute later, rationale returns to your addled brain as the spent cock slips from you. “Oh!” You spin, looking desperately around Jungkook and the shelves for any signs of your unwanted visitor. Your heart only calms when you confirm with your own eyes that there’s no one there. “Damn it, babe, we could’ve been kicked out if that person came any closer!” You lightly swat at his arm while he produces a tissue from a pocket, to soak up the leaking cum.

Jungkook laughs, thinking your glare is much more cute than intimidating. “I heard them leave a while back. You were just too distracted to notice.” He lightly touches your nose with his own – a soft, loving boop.

“Whatever...” Your cheeks flushed, you reach down for your sweatpants. “Will you let me study now?” You grumble. You’re not actually sure if you’ll get any work done though, not when your thighs and cunt are slick with pleasure’s mess.

Jungkook affectionately pats your butt. Then he buries his face in your hair for a kiss from a smirking mouth. “Maybe.”

#btssmutclub #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagines #bts reactions #jungkook x reader #rain writes #stay quiet #i reaaally hope this works #i give up if it doesn't

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darkwritingsnshit · 4 years ago

Text

Things Change 2

Warnings: This will turn into a dark fic, not sure when but it’s coming. Please do not read if you’re under 18, or are uncomfortable with dark characters, kidnapping, noncon, asshole characters.

It was hard to pass up an invitation to Asgard, especially such a personal one. The idea of going back to the palace filled you with such bittersweetness. Asgard was as much your home as Vanaheimr, and it had been years since you’d seen its gleaming halls. Even so, you had not been back since the death of the Allmother, the woman who raised you there, you knew there would be an emptiness that would never be filled. Still, you were glad for the invitation. Painful as it may be, Frigga deserved to be honored and it was time you paid your respects, as well as reuniting with old loved ones.

Two moons were more than enough time to get everything together, making sure your home would be waiting safely when you came back. You became excited, the years had slipped by so quickly, it finally struck you that you had not been back to your childhood home for nearly 50 years. You were excited to see what had changed, and to reunite with Thor and Loki. The only drawback was that your attire for Vanaheimr was practical, pants and skirts for working outside, your hands were rough, your clothing was dirty. You were able to find one dress for court, though you hoped that your old chambers still held more court appropriate clothing.

The moons came and passed quickly, before you knew it you were preparing to depart for Asgard. Taking a last wistful look at your home, the trees in the orchard, the gardens and stream, you walked to the end of the lane and turned your eyes skyward.

“Hiemdall, I’m ready to come back.” That was all it took for your world to flash with bright lights, feel a twist in your stomach, and land right next to Hiemdall whose golden eyes were focused on yours intently.

“My dear, you’ve changed so much.” Hiemdall extended his hand which you took to stand back up, the Bifrost always seemed to knock you down when you got where you needed to be.

“Really?” You asked him. True you had changed much in the last few years, but you didn’t think it was that obvious.

“Yes child, you’ve grown. Both inside and out, I can see it in your eyes.” Nothing got past Hiemdall, even when you weren’t trying to hide anything. It was true, he saw everything.

Turning to cross the bridge, you shook your head in a double take of what laid before you. No longer was it a rainbow bridge to the Bifrost, instead it crackled with black and white static, an electrical charge hanging in the air. The kingdom seemed overcast, and dim.

“A soldier here will escort you to the palace my dear.” Hiemdall gestured to an armored soldier who had stepped forward to guide you.

“I’m quite alright Hiemdall, I know my way to the palace,” you replied, shaking your head.

“I’m afraid it’s not a request my lady,” Hiemdall sighed, “the Allfather has ordered an escort to anyone entering or leaving Asgard.”

Confused at the allocation of soldiers in the palace, you looked to Hiemdall but he offered no more information save the slightest shake of the head.

“Very well then,” you replied, and let the Asgardian soldier lead the way.

The very air felt different, the energy was wrong you decided, the landmarks once familiar now changed with time, gold giving way to shadowy silvers, even the tiled walls and murals had been changed. Asgardian soldiers outnumbered the citizens you passed. Silence filled the once bright marketplace, save a fountain gurgling quietly to fill the void. No laughing children or bustling chatter, in fact you hadn’t heard music since you had left Vanaheimr.

When at last the sullen soldiers had walked you to the throne room, you were unprepared for what you saw behind the thick double doors.

Odin had replaced what was a double throne for himself and Frigga with three large thrones, the middle rising above the others. What had been beautiful paintings of the royal family, the prosperity in the realms, victories among friends and celebrations of love had been removed. Instead, bearing down on the room were visions of death; the Allfather leading his sons into a bloody battle, severed heads of Jotun and beasts being slayed. The seating along the walls had been removed, forcing anyone who entered to stand, and to make room for giant skeletal heads of monsters that Odin or his sons had no doubt slain. The sight took your breath away.

“My dear!” Odin’s voice boomed and echoed through the halls. “Come closer child, it’s been too many years.” He opened his arms for an embrace as you hurried down the hall to pay your respects.

“Allfather,” you embraced him warmly as he looked you over.

“My child, are you eating in Vanaheimr? You’ve grown so tall and thin, yet you’re more beautiful than your mother was.” Odin’s words were meant to made you happy, though it was hard to feel joy when someone compared you to a mother you didn’t know and couldn’t picture.

“Not to worry dear, we have arranged an incredible feast for tonight, and we are sure to get you full of food and ale, are we not?” Odin looked over his shoulder to his sons who nodded in enthusiasm. “After quite a journey, surely you would like to rest and retire before tonight’s feast?”

You nodded readily, the entire facelift of Asgard was hard to take in at once. Both the brothers stood after Odin had released you, both seemed to stand taller than before, yet there was no spark of amusement or love in their eyes.

Thor had indeed changed more than Loki; you may not have recognized him if not for his seat at Odin’s right hand. One of Thor’s eyes was now a golden orange, drawing your eyes to his. His hair drawn back and braided, he looked like a warrior taking council, ready to charge back onto the killing fields. Even his armor had changed; no longer plated and studded with iron, he wore what you recognized as Elvish mail, their magic making all of their armor impervious to weapons, over Odin’s old breastplate that the Allfather had worn into battle for at least a thousand years. You saw no Mjolnir in his hand but something new, a dark battle axe that looked too heavy for even the Mighty Thor to wield.

“Sweet sister,” Thor approached you, hand on your shoulder before giving you a tight hug. “It’s been too long without you home with us. We are overjoyed to have you back.”

You had to crane your neck to get a better look at his bearded face, his Asgardian height surpassing your smaller frame. Loki stepped forward and bowed with a smirk, taking your hand in his with a kiss.

“You look very tired; will you allow me to escort you to your room?” Smirk still present, you nodded.

“Should the Allfather permit it, I would like to rest before our feast tonight.” Your eyes meeting Odin’s as he smiled and nodded.

“I shall send for you when it is time to feast my dear,” Odin let you know as you departed his hall with Loki.

“I’m glad you came,” Loki kept a hold on your hand after leaving the throne room.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” You asked, the steps to your chambers were second nature now, you could make the way with both eyes closed.

“I wasn’t entirely sure,” He admitted, “though I did suspect you would pay us a visit.”

“With such a personal invitation, how could I refuse?” You looked at him with a smile before becoming more somber. “We never really had a chance to honor Frigga, did we?” Loki’s face drew into a frown, the events surrounding her death had not led to the most inclusive or honorable funeral. You knew everyone involved still felt bad about how the events had unfolded.

“I’m happy you’re holding a feast for her. She deserved more than what we managed when she died.”

“She did. She does.” Loki replied, no longer a jest in tone.

Approaching your chamber, Loki pushed at the door and the locks clicked open. It was exactly as you remembered, a wave of nostalgia nearly knocking you over. How had your room remained untouched after all those years? Even the book you had left on your mattress was still in its place, though nothing was dusty or looked neglected. It was as if someone had kept your room spotless, without moving a single piece of furniture or fabric.

“Loki,” you began.

“Odin insisted no one move anything, but to keep it as it exactly as it was when you left it. He lost his wife, and his daughter not soon after. Mother’s room looks the same.” Loki told you.

“Oh,” you exhaled with pain in your chest. “Loki, I never meant for that to happen. I didn’t want him to think he was losing me, I just… I couldn’t be here anymore. It hurt.” Now you felt terrible. You hadn’t stopped to think how leaving Asgard may have affected Odin, though you saw just how blind you had been.

“I know.” Loki’s tone was clipped. “We all hurt. He kept waiting for you to come back though. He wanted to let you heal, but he missed you, he needed you.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” You weren’t sure what could be said, what could make anything better.

“It’s alright, you’re back now.” Loki shook his head and gave you a smile. “I’ll send a maid to attend to you before the feast.”

“Loki, I haven’t used a maid in years, I don’t need one now!” You insisted.

“You haven’t been back to Asgard in years either my dear, some things don’t change.” He leaned close and gave you a kiss on the cheek before closing the door to leave you in peace.

#My writing #my works #dark!loki #dark!loki x reader #loki x reader #dark writings #Dark fics

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cadisflya · 4 years ago

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@vylingas said: "According to Boethius, music binds the body to the soul." Hannibal glides his fingertips over the piano's plastic key tops, gaze following the motion of his hands. He would have preferred a harpsichord, but that purchase could be deferred for a time in the interest of obscurity. "'So naturally united with us that we cannot be free from it even if we so desired.'" He looks up, attention locking on Will, who stands on the other side of the instrument. "You had a piano in Wolf Trap. Do you play?"

𝚈𝙴𝚂, 𝙷𝙴’𝙳 𝙷𝙰𝙳 𝙰 𝙿𝙸𝙰𝙽𝙾 𝙸𝙽 𝚆𝙾𝙻𝙵 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙿. One of the reasons he’d bought the house and all the things inside of it was the pleasure he’d felt in entering and seeing the old upright aging on the opposite wall. Immediately, he had a sense that it was possible to coexist with himself in the house. To be secure in it. The life he imagined himself having alone was pre-arranged with a sun-faded softness already. The stone of the fireplace, the scuffed floors. The unquantifiable quality of effortless personality in the arrangement of the dusty knick-knacks and paintings and books on the shelves. God, he’d liked that. Wanted it so badly, the facile quality of home, but never would have arranged for himself. All that—and the piano. One of the first things he’d done after moving in was to buy a book in town and try to teach himself to tune it.

He exhales a short, sarcastic laugh. “Not the way that you do, I’m sure.”

Will circles the shape of the piano, left hand in his pocket and the right reaching out to just outline the smooth lacquered edge of the instrument. Predictably, this one is a concert grand. He can’t imagine that Hannibal would suffer much less unless absolutely required to. Smaller instruments suffer, too, in the quality of their sound. The piano fits in the sparsely furnished room, prominent but not ostentatious. The house needed to finished, Hannibal had explained on their arrival, but the essentials had been provided. The essentials. It’s cool and beautiful to touch. Will wants to touch the keys, too.

He traces the lip of the lid first, watching Hannibal’s hands rather than his own. Hannibal has broader palms, a more symmetrical balance between the trunk strength of the wrist and the fluidity of the strength of the fingers. His callouses aren’t as rough as Will’s. The undertone of his skin is warmer, the scars down his forearms liquid and silver. When Will speaks again, it’s out of a focused recall, and he lets his thumb slide down to ghost across the glossy black surface of an accidental key.

“When I was seven, we lived in a rowhouse outside of Houma for a little over a year. Our neighbor was an old woman who taught private lessons to pay her rent. One night, a month or two after we moved in, she called me over to her porch. If I kept up her yard for her, she said, she’d teach me to play for free.”

His eyelashes, heavy and dark, flicker with intrigued thought, catching on a hang, a ghost of motion reminiscent of the eyes searching side to side to dialogue the hemispheres of the brain. Memory goes very deep in him. The rocks under the water. Her soft, dry hands, and the rugs in her parlor. The way the front room of her home was a parlor—and his was just an unnamed room at the foreground of an identical house.

“It was a reason to get me to come inside. Bait for a nervous animal. My father was gone for days at a time. I was skinny, and the police had followed me home once when someone saw me stealing a can of peaches from the supermarket. They only left after she came out into the yard and paid them a dollar for what I’d already eaten. She wanted to feed me without embarrassing me. The piano was—just an excuse.”

He touches the far edge of the two-line octave, and then, surprising even himself, presses out a slow series of soft, clear notes. The opening progression of ‘The Sweet By and By’ is just that: sweet and high and simple. Protestant and uncomplicated. The old woman was a church pianist, after all. When Will would play this song back for her after he’d perfected it, she’d close her eyes and lay her hand across her chest. Momentarily dwelling in the dream of death, the dream of meeting God. So much frightened longing. Aren’t you an angel, she’d say, voice thick with feeling. Didn’t God make you a little angel? Internally, Will had known, even at that age, that she was jarringly incorrect to call him that—but something about being near her made him feel less mean. The effect of a frequently full belly, or of someone who always noticed him when he lingered by the front door, waiting to be let into the house.

Will’s smile is distant, a gently indistinct blend between contemptuous and kind. He cants his body a little to face the instrument more fully, to settle his wrist fluidly at the appropriate height. When he presses out the last few notes of the melody, the piano hums with increased resonance, and their eyes meet for the first time since he’d started playing. Hannibal must have depressed the rightmost pedal. Unable to resist forcing a duet in the most tertiary way possible. Will feels fond about the predictability of it. “I agreed primarily out of spite but it was... both auditory and tactical, which was good for me.”

It makes sense to him as a man. He has slim, long-fingered hands. If Will had been born as Hannibal was, somebody would have said something poetic about it. That he was formed for it. Finely made. Born as himself, motherless and poor in southern Louisiana, they’d only called him over when they needed to reach a particularly inconvenient bolt on the backside of the engine. Delicacy has an undeniable engineered efficiency, like the thinness of the blade of a very sharp knife.

“People were—kind to me, when I was a child, and not just out of pity. They looked at me and saw someone else. It didn’t take me long to realize that it was my influence, and that I could control those impressions, use them to my advantage.”

Will’s blue eyes blue further with a kind of self-nostalgia.

“My advantage or sometimes just... the satisfaction of my curiosity over my own changeability. My—practical invisibility. My opacity to other people. I knew there must be a limit, but it felt impossible to find it. I don’t know that I ever did. Until now.”

He draws his hands back and slips them into his pockets again, exchanging the cool smoothness of the keys for the warm silk that lines their insides. It’s sudden, but unhurried. That’s enough. It’s almost too much. He can feel the warmth of the room in his face the same as he can feel the weight of Hannibal’s interest in the story.

“You’ve been wanting me to confess that I was hungry as a child for a long time, haven’t you?” Framing it as a question makes it less of an accusation. Will doesn’t feel accusatory in it. He just knows it to be the truth. Hannibal wants confirmation of his childhood neglect because it enriches the way that he allows Hannibal to provide for him now. With food, attention, a piano in the study—the material stuff of the transaction is unimportant. What’s important is the exchange of care, and that Will allows it when he hasn’t ever done so before. What matters is that he doesn’t resent it, and Will swallows heavily on the awareness that he honestly doesn’t.

The banality of that desire in Hannibal is enticingly human.

#vylingas #ic.#the way you indulged me w/this is #😭😭#again reply if you want and sorry it's so fucking long lolo #also sorry if this is god-moddy that line is hard with will ??#especially when hannibal is involved #child neglect /

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raspberryfanfics · 4 years ago

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Six—NTmonth Day 15

Day 15—Witches and Warlocks

I’m late but you don’t care and neither do I. I burned out during the first week. So here’s another Harry Potter crossover. This can be a standalone but feel free to read part one!

Part 1 on FFn

Six on FFN

—

It's quiet outside. Quiet apart from a few familiar hits of a couple of owls, breaking the cold silence with weary conversation. Yet a figure draws out of the shadow and the hooting halts for a moment, curious of the strangers walking along their path.

The person wears a long tan wool trench, though bulky, does nothing to hide an elegant figure as when she walks, her lean legs, looking taller with the pleats on her grey pants. Her leather loafers look new. Maybe she often cleans them, though it wouldn't come as a surprise if she is good enough not to get them dirty. Her hands are gloved in black. There's a scarf of red and gold wrapped tightly around her neck, the only article of clothing with colour. Her footsteps are nearly soundless but even so, the soft clicks that are made command attention among the owls, her presence powerful.

One owl hands on the black lamppost, talons scraping onto the metal as he silently folds his wings. The woman glances up and examines its shape, brings up the crook of her elbow as if placing it onto a tall counter. The bird lands on her forearm, dipping his head in greeting.

"Ah, it's you, Kaiten. It's been quite a while, hasn't it?" her voice is calm and deep, though the deepness comes from her slow calmness rather than her actual voice. Yet it is effective. Her voice makes her seem more mature than she looks, a soft face with large eyes, colour indistinguishable under the glare of the darkness, and hair tied into two buns at the sides of her head.

Kaiten hoots in greeting. There is nothing tired around his ankle, she notices.

"Are you here alone?" she smiles, "I expected him to be with you, though it could be that you are meeting him here. I am, as well."

Her words almost seem to bring the anticipated footsteps of him, his heavier, but are just as intimidating and as confident as hers. She slowly turns around and focuses on the person she has been expecting, or expecting her.

He's dressed similarly to her. However, his trench is navy rather than tan and it's unbuttoned, revealing a black vest under a white button-up that seems to shine in the dark. While her shoes are pebbled, his are smooth and glossy and reflect every bit of the light. His scarf was of the same material, a thick knit, but the colours were of blue and silver rather than red and gold. Perhaps the most distinguishable difference is his long black hair flowing down to his waist, tied into a very low ponytail with a silver band. His bangs reach his collarbones and they drift in the wind, resembling a ribbon rather than the messiness that hair usually reacts under the breeze. Though her dark eyes were hard to say much about, it is easy to see that his eyes are silver, and they stare into hers.

She stays still, holding his gaze, face without any expression. The woman doesn't allow herself to feel much at the contact. Her chin tilts down in greeting, as he does the same. As he was the one who has requested their meeting, she waits for him to speak first. She is looking for a direct answer to why she is meeting him, now, in the night, in the break they have had from speaking.

Instead, he looks at the owl, who's snowy feathers start to resemble his eyes when one looks closely and quirks the tip of his eyebrow, almost amused.

"It has been long since Kaiten has not tried to terrorize a sorcerer in his path,"

"Perhaps he likes me," she says, untying the sash of her coat and taking out a series of seeds, allowing him to eat from the palm of her hand. "Or perhaps he recalls that I carry food in my pocket. I fed him well."

He nods. "Is Bō—"

"Bō passed a couple of years back. Murdered while carrying classified information." the woman explains, nearly emotionless. However, there is a glance of sympathy in his eyes that she does not miss and confuses her, however, she does not let it show.

"It has been a while, Miss Long,"

She gives a bitter chuckle. "Are we already past the point that we cannot address each other by our first names?"

She purposely leaves out his name, not knowing what to say. She'll allow him to decide whether he wants to continue calling her by her last name or her first. So she waits for him to walk up to her before pacing with him along the cobblestone path, weaving through turns and intersections at a moderate pace. His skin looks warmer under the orange glare of the lamps but she knows of the usual paleness, resembling porcelain rather than sand. Yet her attention focuses more on the lack of accessories on his hand apart from the Hyuga crest on his middle finger and a silver swirl on his pointer.

She hasn't seen that ring before, not on him at least. Perhaps it is another crest. But she has seen it on other people and he isn't the type to engage in trends. What's more important is that there is no ring on his ring finger, which doesn't come as much as a surprise considering that he was on the newest Witch Weekly's Britain's Most Eligible Bachelors. She knows he is still officially single. Just like her.

Of the past six years, she has made four Britain's Most Eligible Bachelorettes on Warlocked Magazine and he has made all. In a strange way, it bothers her that he has remained single all these years while she has had a good handful scattered everywhere and was in a serious one in the years she didn't make the magazine. It nearly feels like he has been faithful to her, but there are far more reasons to disprove his faith.

"I'm sure you have heard of the Akastuki's rising," he starts. She nods. Since the organization started to murder people in every corner of the world, that's all the witches and wizards have been speaking of. Few people do not know of it.

"There is an order looking to defy the ministry and to rebel against them. Tsunade herself is leading it. So far, Naruto, Sakura, and Shikamaru, a few professors, and Hinata are in. There are more, but we're still recruiting. He pauses "We need you, Tenten."

She freezes. Tenten does not respond. The idea sounds like a hopeless school club but appealing nonetheless. Yet there are too many things, things she would not have thought of when they were still young that keep her from really considering.

"I'm not sure you do," she says, but she wishes so in another way that has nothing to do with the order.

"Tenten, you're the youngest witch to ever be appointed Head Auror. They say you've put 200 in Azkaban. You're more powerful than you know."

"You need my title, not my power," she says instead. "Isn't that right, Neji."

He shakes his head. "You're extremely talented—"

"I am. I am Neji, but most of the people you just told me about are better at magic than I am. They were qualified to be Aurors. Many Aurors are better than I am. I only hold the position because the minister or magic needed a drastic change. How well do you think my name and power will work when I am in Azkaban? You don't need me. You've put far more people in Azkaban than I have."

Neji Hyuga is a member of the Wizengamot. He's a part of the jury who decides on the new laws of the wizarding world and also of the results during a trial. Tenten is the head Auror, a position that is usually handed out to people in their forties, the youngest before her in their mid-thirties. Neji, on the other hand, was offered the position at twenty-one, while most Wizengamont members were at least sixty, nearly retired. It was inevitable that he would be the Cheif Warlock very soon.

He speaks of her power highly, as if his position is not much higher than hers. But their power difference was not always so drastic.

In the over four years that they had been dating, they had been going along similar paths. Both went under the three years of Auror training and made it out with high grades, his better than hers of course. He was good at everything, better at everything except for transfigurations. But a scout found him, found his calmness, his level-headedness, his intense demeanour as the perfect candidate for a Wizengamot member, despite being so young. Not to mention that his name happens to be filled with history, probably the purest of the country. Almost disgustingly so.

"We don't need your name. The organization is secret. We need your power, your position. It will be easy for you to know the details of criminals and feed false information to the ministry. You are in charge of recruiting both the trainees and the Aurors. Your intuition is astoundingly good. You can spy without the need of being subtle or cautious. Do you not understand?"

"I understand my power," she says. "But you know just as well that power will not win a war."

Neji nods. Clouds clear, revealing a moon similar in colour to his eyes. Yet the weather remains cold, the streets remain desolate. The area provides an almost nostalgic setting. It could be nostalgic.

She, Neji, and Lee, a former classmate who is now a professional Quidditch player, used to sneak out of their homes, or orphanage in Lee's case, and play. They were teenagers by the time they met, so it was mostly to play wizard's chess and Gobstones in the parks or wander into muggle stores where they'd explain the use of items to Neji.

And the winter where all of them were finally seventeen, they'd duel in the forests, able to use magic. They'd rescue frozen cats and heal injured birds, would feed stray dogs scraps of food they'd steal from the butchers. When they began dating, they came here on dates, showing him hot chocolate, then ice cream. Yet after the massacre happened near the town, a reputation developed for dark things happening and the area deserted.

This place was good for one reason: secrecy. Their history allowed them to use memories as place names and times. Here, it was convenient. It was not for nostalgia. Tenten barely spared second glances to the cafes and ice cream shops they had gone to.

Won't you join anyway?

She said nothing, unsure.

"Tenten, your righteousness surely cannot fail you now."

He was answered by a sharp how of wind and the slicking of their shoes.

"Forgive me that I do not want to participate in an order that will start a war."

"That's awfully hypocritical coming from a witch who makes money off of conflict."

"Do you not also make money off of conflict, Neji Hyuga?"

"I am trying to end the war, Tenten Long."

"How do you not think that it is what I am trying to do as well? I am neither the best nor the most experienced Auror. I am more progressive than half of them combined. Do you know how hard it was to get this promotion? While you diddle daddle in meetings and recruitments, I'm cautiously watching every action of the blood-supremacist Aurors and firing them. I'm slowly imposing more guidelines to control the brutality and the hate crime our own are committing. Less extreme measures. The new recruits have been screened so tightly that any unnecessary accounts of violence or hateful comments do not make it. But everyone is watching me. Those old members of the Wizengamot will use any excuse to get me out of power. They'll throw in a violent head who allows the uses of the unforgivables. I'm trying to end this current war, not stop the upcoming one."

Neji's face hardens. "I cannot see how someone as noble as you are so afraid of joining the order."

Tenten scoffs. "I'm not noble—"

"You know why you made Head Girl in our seventh year but didn't make Prefect?"

She recalls how he was both Prefect and head boy. And she made has wondered. She wasn't the smartest or the kindest or the most anything. Tenten had asked him countless times why he thought she had made head girl but he would never tell her.

"You were good. You brought out the best in everyone. You did what you believed was right and would make sure others would do so. I had heard Professor Yuhi say to Professor Hatake that you were the role model that all Gryffindor should aspire to be.

"She didn't," Tenten can hardly believe he potions professor would say such a thing about her. It seems all too much.

"You know I wouldn't lie about that, Ten."

She can only let her heart ache at the sound of the name he used to call her, but should not have much more meaning. She can only wince and stand her ground. "

It's been six years, Neji." she whispers as her voice drowns among the trembling leaves and rain dripping off roofs.

Tenten has held off on thinking about them since she got his owl. It has been all too much now. Six years ago, they were freshly graduated from the Auror academy. New recruits sent on easier cases. Maybe half a year later, they had gained the trust of many seniors and they were partners, developing strategies, blending together like dance partners.

She still remembers how loving him felt. It was too good, impossible, almost.

They were twenty-one. They had been dating for four years and she thought it was possible that he'd even propose. Even now, she doesn't blame herself for thinking so. He had consistently disappeared more and more. He stuttered to her more. And the chemistry wasn't gone. He couldn't have been cheating. He wouldn't ever.

But one day, he just left.

She woke up and half his stuff was gone, mostly pictures, even of them, his scarf, his favourite robes, and obviously his wand. He didn't show up to work. She was told that he resigned and she was offered to either have a new partner or to work alone. And she chose the latter.

Tenten had sent her owl to deliver countless letters to him, pouring her heart out, begging him to come back home, to work with her again, to tell her why he was gone. But he never wrote back until she found his name in the daily prophet, announcing his new position as the new Wizengamot member. She wrote to his work address and her reply only explained how he got the position rather than why he left her. And it was completely professional, not an ounce of emotion.

She had never followed Witch Weekly magazines until then, hoping for glimpses of the guy who ghosted her and broke her heart. Even now, she still isn't over him, her first love, likely her only. Tenten wonders if he still cars about her the way he did when they were seventeen.

He cast his first Patronus, the spell he could not master because it used one's most powerful memories, after their first kiss over the top of the Ravenclaw Tower, a place she should not have been. He had snuck her there. His Patronus took form as a falcon, resembling his serious and strict demeanour, intimidating and sharp.

She wonders if his Patronus has changed form, as Patronuses sometimes do to resemble one's personality. Hers has. Every time she mumbles those incantations, no matter which memory she uses, a swan spills out from her wand instead of a leopardess. It's a bird, like his. Maybe it's because she will never get over him, will always belong to him in her heart.

"Tenten, you can't possibly be naive enough to believe that this can be solved without war. It's either that or you just don't want to do anything I ask of you. The order is asking, not me."

"So you don't care about whether or not I join. Following someone's orders without a second thought of doing what you'd like to yourself," she spits out bitterly. A flinch reaches across his body. Her words may have reached deeper than she would have thought.

"Of course I agree with their course of action."

"Well, of course, you do. You always just obey rules, never bend or break them. And of course, you're a part of the order and have enough respect that even if your name leaks out, your job is secure. You still have enough money to sustain yourself for another century."

His face hardens and his adam's apple, shadows crossed deeply over his neck, bobs slowly. "I do not follow every rule—"

"One instance, Neji," she says, controlling her voice despite the way she wants to scream at him. Gravel shakes behind her.

"Ravenclaw tower. I shouldn't have snuck you—"

"That's shit, Hyuga. You snuck me into your common room and that's the only rule you've ever broken? You've never done anything. Not to sneak socks and scarves for the house-elves. To let the first-years drenched because they were lost, use the prefect baths. Stealing ingredients from the potions cabinet because some muggle-borns couldn't afford it. But no, the worst you've ever done is put a Gryffindor Head Girl in the secret Ravenclaw tower so you could kiss her into submission for the rest of her life. Tell me, did you leave me without saying goodbye because your uncle told you to or because you didn't love me. I bet it's both."

"Tenten!" he yells. His voice quivers like the leaves, he shakes with the wind.

"Dammit, Neji!" Tenten has her wand out now. She doesn't know why but she feels vulnerable and whenever she feels vulnerable, she has her wand out. "Deny it! I dare you to deny it!"

"I—I cared, but—" he doesn't muster out much after that.

"Yea, I thought so," she swallows, wraps her scarf tighter. There's a spell on it to protect her from the cold but it still feels freezing. Neji won't look at her. He won't deny or admit anything. She can only ask one thing of him. "Cast your Patronus."

The man freezes, his fists form into tight balls. She catches his every movement, analyzes his movements as she does to a suspect. But she can read suspects. She can't read him.

His lips, pale but still red from dryness, press together. Wind pushes by him, almost trying to rip through this trench coat, to unravel his scarf. His eyebrows knit but his face appears to be the only thing that moves. He doesn't reach for his wand.

"Cast it!"

He slowly shakes his head. Neji's voice runs deep. "I cannot."

Tenten bites her lips and trembles, just slightly. "Six years. It's the first time you've reached out to me in six years and still, it's not an apology. I—I just need to see if—if it has changed."

"I haven't been able to cast a Patronus in—six years, Ten," he says. "Not even a wisp."

She can't move. It's like she's petrified. Had he been broken too?

Tenten swirls her wand in a circle and yells. "Expecto Patronum!"

A silver ribbon of light flows from the tip of her wand, it starts to dip into the ground, forming into a puddle until shapes weave together into a swan. It starts to fly, around her, around him, and slowly goes into the forest behind them, exploring. Everything around them is dark, greys, blacks, but her swan is a glow of warm blue light. It makes him look lovelier, the colour of her Patronus now the colour of his eyes, glued onto it.

"Tell me why—" her voice cracks abruptly. "Why for the past six years, I've been casting a bird that represents everlasting faith instead of a leopardess that's supposed to represent fierceness.

His gaze is focused on the figure cast of her happy memories, ones surrounding memories of him and Lee, bittersweet, but also marvellous. "Every memory I had used to cast a Patronus doesn't bring me joy anymore. I cannot feel anything but guilt and regret now."

Even though she wants to say he deserves it, he deserves constant sadness, depression, six years is a long time. It's more than the time they had been dating. And he's been on all six issues of Britain's Most Eligible Bachelors—

"You bastard," she nearly sobs. "Why the bloody hell did you leave me?"

He starts closer to her. "I was wrong. You were right. You were always right. It was my uncle. I was afraid of being disowned and I thought I'd be nothing, that I would have nothing but not having you—god, Tenten, it's so much worse than I would have ever thought."

She grabs his coat collar. She knows he expects her to kiss him but she takes his wand from the pocket of his sleeve, a move they practiced when they were working together. It's usually unexpected. The feel of his wand, elm, unicorn tail, a smooth finish that's much neater than hers, still sits strangely familiar, though the stun she shoots misses barely.

Her next movement consists of taking a black wand from her own sleeve, ebony phoenix feather, and she throws his back into his hands before turning back to their unwelcome visitor. She had sensed him there, behind Neji, finally finding an opportunity to attack.

Curses, dark ones, shoot at her. Tenten reflects them with the flick of her wrist but even then, she can feel how powerful the dark arts are within him. The gravel littered across the ground lifts and she transfigures them into sharp blades fo steel. With a large wand movement, they shoot to him at a rapid speed. This attack continues, the rocks becoming knives, twigs becoming daggers.

A particularly nasty curse comes towards her and she doesn't know how well she can deflect it. She has always been better at attacking than defending.

The glow of capable blue light form around her and it isn't her spell. The shield stops even her movements. It's Neji's charm, one of the biggest and strongest ones she has ever seen. It's his clan's specialty: defence and his cousin perform them so well and she doubts that he will have a single scar after the war from magic.

The force of his shield is so strong that it knocks back the dark wizard. Tenten snaps back into focus. Through the shield, she sends a series of stuns, transfigured objects, and they move close to him, Neji shooting defensive spells as offensive ones. It's a pattern of attacks that Tenten has forgotten. Only her muscles move practised precision, using their enemy's unfamiliar to the environment to her advantage. Neji disarms him and Tenten binds him with Auror ropes.

Her pants of breath are muffled by the howling wind. Yet she can tell that Neji is also out of breath from the wispy puffs of perspiration. She strides up to the man and lifts his hood. She quickly flips back the pages of the blacklist and she recognizes him. He's Kabuto Yakushi. He's a powerful dark wizard, skilled healer, and a killer of countless of her coworkers.

Had neji not been with her, she doubts she would have been able to deflect him alone. As the same for him. Even had it been any other Auror alongside her, she knows that she simply wouldn't be strong enough.

"Well, I have to say, the show you put on was convincing," KAbuto says calmly, his glasses resting at the tip of his nose. "Caught me off guard for a moment. That's pretty rare, but nothing to think otherwise from the Head Auror and a Wizengamot member."

"Yakushi," she says, her voice cool like a snake. A smile quirks at her lips. "We've been looking everywhere for you,"

Neji glances at her. "You know him?"

Tenten nods. "He's one of the most wanted wizards in the blacklist."

"You better bring him in quickly, then," he replies.

Tenten flicks her wand and he goes unconscious, head falling back. She puts him in a sheet of paper, a spell she has invented inspired by extension charms for backpacks. Then she hands the paper to him. He knows how to use them. Neji looks very confused.

"You can interrogate him within the order."

His eyes go wide. "But—"

"I'm in. I'll join. We won't get as much out of him as you will. But you better owl me, Neji. I won't let you chase enemies by yourself. I have six times your experience."

He smiles, then it falters. "Is that how you knew he was there?"

"He followed you. It's just something you tune into being an Auror for so long."

Because even though he'd be better at many things, defence against the dark arts still being one of them, there were some things he just couldn't pick up without practice.

"Was it all just for show?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "The easiest way to lie is to tell the truth. I can't fake a Patronus."

He pulls out something from his pocket. It is the silver ring with the same engraving she had seen others wearing, he included. "The shinobi order ring. It's yours to have."

Tenten stares at it for a couple of seconds. She slides it onto her middle finger, then smiles ina bittersweet thought. He notices her smile, he always notices the little things.

"What is it?"

"Before we broke up, I—" she pauses in consideration of telling him. Tenten stares into his silver eyes, curious. The wind makes his hair drift like a silk curtain, he looks like a painting. She decides to let the confession go. It's been a while. He should know. "I thought you had avoided me those years back because you were going to propose.

Neji is silent. She can see a hint of his blush even with such minimal lighting and to know that his face is red makes her smile, despite the anxiety in revealing her hopes to marry him.

"I would have, had we had more time, had Hiashi—I'm—"

She interrupts his stammering, however adorable it may be. "It's ok. I just hoped."

Tenten kisses him on the cheek slowly. His face is warm, her lips are cold, but she only allows herself a brief moment of lingering before turning away.

The end of the alley is still cloaked in dark shadows but she feels that it looks just a bit lighter. It is, maybe it is getting brighter. She sees a wisp of white, more ribbony in texture and flowy, yet stronger in opacity compared to her Patronus. Tenten holds her breath as the animal slowly comes up behind her—it's also a swan.

Tenten feels its proximity. The swan provides her with warmth, curiosity, intrigue. These feelings are not the feelings she is used to his Patronus feeling like. Usually, they are simply of content and tranquillity, sometimes even an exhilaration that makes her stomach tumble and makes electricity flow through her body. It's cast with a different memory, though cannot imagine which one.

"The first time we met. On the train. You bought me a chocolate frog even though you only had enough money for one. The person on the card was Tsunade, you told me she was your hero." he explains. "It's the only memory of you I don't feel guilty about. I'd like to try again. I—I would marry you any day. I would wait forever."

He pulls off the Hyuga Crest from his finger, presses it into her hand. It's heavier than anything she's ever held.

"I will," her voice comes out as a whisper. It feels too soon, but she has been ready to marry him since she was 17. "But me wearing this crest will really piss off your uncle.

"That's the intention,"

Perhaps even in the six years they had been apart, the two had been completely committed to each other already.

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