#lilia agatha all along | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rippersz · 2 months ago

Note

thank you for blessing us with your Lilia fics 🥹🫠

Here, have another. - Rip x

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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚

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(Lilia Calderu x Fem!Reader) (Song Fic; Fluffy; Character Study; Angsty; Love Confession) (~3.4k words)

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There was a time once in history when Lilia Calderu wanted to be a performer.

She sang the songs and recited the rituals of her coven, she honed her voice for incantations and for spells, and when the time came for her to grow up, it was rumoured that her talent was so strong, so steady and intense, that even the goddesses could hear it. For a while, it made her popular. The girls loved to listen to soft lullabies before bed, the superior witches enjoyed her singing at their events, even her maestra, at times, asked for a little tune to help get her through the rest of the evening. Most nights, when everyone was already fast asleep, Lilia would lie awake in her bed and try to picture a life of free vocal pleasure. A life where she could be an adored witch and an even better performer, one with the light feet of a dancer and the voice of an angel. A woman so good she could travel the continent, go beyond Sicily, see the fruits of the world, and be loved by all for what she could do.

It was, for what was really such a short period of time, a lovely existence. Then, gradually, unexpectedly, and terribly, her life began to pause and resume out of order, transporting her to versions of herself she had yet to meet. And though she did see those unfamiliar places, the world beyond Sicily, she was never faced with the loving, excited crowd. Most times, it was pitchforks and threats, angry faces of strange men and women, children with teary eyes, and licks of fire cast toward her body. She had never seen such fear in her life, never felt hatred so strong it seemed like a physical presence, and after a short while, Lilia Calderu realised that instead of becoming a beloved singer and performer, she was destined to run and hide for most of her life.

It came as no surprise that when the gaps got so powerful, so frequent and so bad that sometimes she didn’t remember an entire day, the coven lost their combined interest in her talent. It fizzled out and eventually became a secret kept to herself. A faded myth that some girls chattered about to newcomers. The only person who heard her sing from that point forward was her maestra. The old woman didn’t care for Lilia’s reputation, she only cared for her talent. Both within magic and outside of it. So sometimes after their lessons, unpredictably to keep Lilia on her toes, her maestra would request a song. On one afternoon it would be a ritual tune, on another it would be a chant, and some evenings she asked Lilia to sing something–anything–just so the two of them could enjoy a bit of peace.

And so Lilia would sing. She would sing, sing her heart out, and she would watch the way her maestra closed her wise eyes and swayed back and forth to the sound of Lilia’s music. Those moments in her life were the ones most cherished. When she closed her eyes, they were just as vivid as the day she experienced them for the first time: the soft waves of the ocean kissing the shoreline and the great rocks of the coast, the setting sun nearly over the horizon, filling the atmosphere with great wisps of pink and purple-tinged stratus clouds, the air smelling of whatever the cooks had prepared for supper. Her maestra in her chair, tipping her head back, enjoying the lilt of Lilia’s voice until she faded into silence and the old woman opened her eyes, straightened her posture, and gave Lilia only two claps before rushing her off inside. She could picture their moments in the garden just as easily, the birds and the wildlife scurrying in the underbrush and the burrows and the trees, the smells of rich forest plants, vines, and flowers, the way the sun reflected off of the gazebo’s carved stone pillars, the familiar comfort of the bench whenever she sat down across from her. It was a unique paradise, a home she understood she would never have again.

And a community she would never have again.

Once the coven forgot about her voice, she mainly used it for herself. On slow walks around the grounds, she would hum, during her soaks in the bath, she would whistle, and whenever she had a moment alone in a secluded place, a place of utter tranquillity, of silence and precious independence, she would belt. She would belt and she would croon in every key she could and she would do it until her throat hurt or it got too late or she couldn’t think of anything else to perform.

That’s why you never interrupted her singing in the shower.

It was loud every time, louder than the water and the washing, and it would reverberate off of the tiles and the mirror and it would hit your ears through the thin walls, but you never dared ask her to stop. You couldn’t.

No, not that you couldn’t because Lilia would most definitely stop if you wanted her to but that was just it - that was the last thing you wanted.

Lilia’s voice was polished marble. It was richer than sweet chocolate, huskier than the tang of whiskey, more gentle than the fur of a kitten. It was steady, it succeeded in its rhythm, its measure, its keys and its choruses and whenever you heard the shower curtain slide open and the water turn on, you knew to prepare yourself for a performance.

And always, without fail, it was a performance you got.

Sometimes it was a happy one, a joyous loud one where her voice went gravelly as she tried to emulate a rockstar. Sometimes it was an angry one, when she sang with a growl and a bite to her lyrics. Sometimes, most times, it was sad and melancholic, ringing and chirping like an operatic bird, and tinged with so much history and pain that you worried if she was as alright as she claimed to be. Perhaps, you thought, it was a form of therapy. That was her release. To spread the swirl of talent and desperation that built up in her body, eager to be revealed to the clouds, the cosmos, the world. It was her history, coiled up like springs, and every time she disappeared into that unique space of music, it was like they all burst up at once. History springing everywhere, bouncing from the tiles, painting the foggy air of the bathroom as Lilia stood beneath hot water and opened her mouth and released.

You imagined her there, shaking with the force of her own voice, closing her eyes, curls wet and plastered to the back of her neck, her shoulders, and letting the power take hold - not in a witch’s way but in a mortal’s way. In a way that spoke to centuries of pain, of wonder, of exploration. You couldn’t remember the moment she told you she liked her water scalding hot, but you never had a doubt as ‘steamy’ seemed to be the bathroom’s atmosphere whenever she walked out from a shower. The two of you mutually agreed to disable the second smoke detector in the flat that, for some reason, was on the ceiling in the same hallway and would have no doubt gone off every time Lilia wanted to wash up.

It was quite endearing to see her slip out followed by a gust of steam, sporting reddened skin and messy damp curls plastered to her head and neck. She looked like a wet puppy. A wet puppy that was very hard to look at, partly because she needed the privacy to get dressed but also because she often walked out in nothing but a towel. A single red bath towel, wrapped around the top of her bust that fell below her knees. The first time you’d walked into the hallway and saw that, you backpedalled into your room so fast you nearly fell and cracked your head open on the floor. It was embarrassing sporting a blush for the rest of the evening, but she didn’t seem to notice - or perhaps didn’t care.

And why would she? You were two women. You could be normal about things like that. About bodies and nudity and the curves of the female figure and the curves of Lilia’s body specifically.

Yes, absolutely. Normal. You could be normal.

You could be normal about the shower singing.

You could be normal when Lilia sang of love.

You could be normal when she sang of love in different languages like French and Latin and Sicilian and Greek and something else, something ancient, that you’d never heard before.

You could be normal when her voice dipped into a low husk as she cooed, emulating the style, the niche, of a beautifully dressed jazz singer in a dimly lit jazz bar.

You could be normal when she hummed something light and sweet beneath her breath, dressing her voice up as the garlands of Spring.

You could be normal when she poured her entire heart into a note.

You could be normal when she stole your mind away with a whistle.

You could be totally normal about things like that.

You could be totally normal about it all.

Totally normal.

Yeah.

Nothing but normalcy.

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You had a favourite song.

It was stupid. So stupid. You weren’t sure how you allowed it to happen, but it happened and because of it, you were screwed. Screwed. So stupid…

You had a favourite song.

She sang it the same way every time, with soft prolonged vowels and crystal clear tones, like windchimes and violins. She sang with heart, with soul, her tongue was fluid in the first verse, her inflection lilting and gentle in the second, and her mouth shook with power as she belted the third. A mezzo-soprano through and through you came to learn after looking it up one day (just another example of your foolishness).

You had a favourite song.

It was cold honey in her mouth, made for her voice, crafted for most of her range. For the sweet and soft, the careful and gentle, to the rough and loud, strong and courageous. She could roar and whisper, cry and laugh, be righteous and upset all at once. It was so moving the first time you heard it, the spoon you were washing fell right out of your hands.

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed

A sharp breath. A trip of your body as your heart ran right to a stop.

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed

You’d heard her sing about romance before, in all possible forms and ways, but you never expected those words from her lips.

Some say love, it is a hunger

An endless aching need

They were familiar. You already knew them. You’d learned when you were young, when you still had the chance to sing with your mother, with your grandmother, and harmonise when you weren’t too shy. Granted, none of you could harmonise very well, but that wasn’t the point. All that mattered was how you knew it, sang it, together.

I say love, it is a flower

And you, its only seed

Your mouth moved with hers, only silence flowing from your throat, and you closed your eyes as your body melted against the sink. You followed her pause, her break, imagining the instruments there to fill the blank space, and took a deep breath when she continued.

It's the heart, afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance

It felt so nice to listen, to recognise the music and the shifts, and you pressed one hand to your heart so you could feel its beat as you heard. So you knew that it was still going, that you hadn’t died and Lilia wasn’t an angel singing you to Heaven.

It's the dream, afraid of waking

That never takes the chance

You’d never told Lilia about your music taste. You feared that saying anything would result in an accidental slip and that your soul would spill out before you could do anything to keep it inside. You couldn’t have that, you couldn’t ruin everything you built, so you sat in your songs and you listened to the ones she sang, remembering the lyrics and copying them into Google as soon as you had a moment alone. You connected in silence. You appreciated her compassion by listening at night, before sleep, and betrayed your heart by wishing she was there next to you to sing it rather than in the other room, already drifting away into dreamland. You wanted to cross the bridge, to bring your adoration up to her and put it in her lap and tell her how in awe you were, but you never felt like it was your place.

It's the one who won't be taken

Who cannot seem to give

Then she opened her mouth and sang out your childhood, the sum of your warm memories, and suddenly you were crying like a baby in your little apartment kitchen, looking around through a curtain of tears at everything you’d made together.

And the soul, afraid of dying

That never learns to live

Was it going to kill you? Keeping it inside? Telling yourself that being normal about Lilia, resisting the temptations of love, was better than being rejected? That’s never how the stories ended, did they? If no one confessed, then it was a life lived wrong. If things were unsaid, it was an opportunity lost. If you didn’t tell Lilia, then it was another dead end.

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been too long

Oh her belt. Oh she way she sang. Harrowed, lost, speaking of times she was familiar with, loneliness that she knew like the back of her hand, a road she’d been travelling since the day she was born.

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong

Something she never had, something she could never keep for herself, no love for Lilia Calderu because she was not lucky and she was rarely strong. She lived her life in pieces, luck was not a friend, and she ran from every place where she found solace, and strength was never a lesson learned.

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snows

But that didn’t mean time stopped moving or stopped passing. It didn’t mean the world took love away on purpose. She knew this. She understood that life was meant to be lived a certain way, and that for her it was different. But who needed linear time when she had nonlinear time? Who needed order when she experienced the bits out of order, over and over, and found that still, in every space, in every world, she maintained her talent and her passion?

Lies the seed that with the sun's love

In the spring becomes the rose

Who needed desolation and exhaustion and hopelessness when hope was so strong? So eager to persevere?

Why did Lilia need to believe that she could not be loved if you were there to love her?

“Darling? What’s wrong?”

You were dry-heaving, clutching at your chest like it would stop the breaking of your heart, the cracks and the fractures, and you were so loud that you didn’t hear the bathroom door open. Tears made your cheeks warm and your breaths, your sobs, turned you red. The world was numb, only a collection of brief sounds, but Lilia’s voice, as it always did, pulled you back. She was blurry behind tears, but you looked at her anyway, pitiful and sad, and didn’t even bother to hide when she ran forward in her towel and tugged you into her warm arms.

“Did something happen?” She whispered, patting at your hair, doing all she could to soothe you, and you could only cry harder against her shoulder.

Smelling her shampoo, feeling the natural warmth of her soft skin, revelling in the grounding sensation of loose drops of water smearing from her hair onto your head and neck, unable to hold yourself back from wrapping your arms around her and holding on like she’d fall to sand otherwise. These were the things that made you break.

“I love you,” your voice was barely there, not even a whisper, as you spoke against her skin. “I love you.”

“What? What are you saying, honey? Speak up, baby, let me help you.” She sounded so worried, so pained, so shocked but determined to help, and you shook your head to rid yourself of fog.

“I love you.” It was a croak. “I love you.” A louder croak. Until you were repeating it into her shoulder, falling apart against her body, clutching her like a dead man to life. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you Lilia. I love you Lilia. I’m so sorry, I love you.” I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. It was all you knew. It was all you felt.

“I’m in love with you.” A huff of breath, a final stutter, as you swallowed harshly and sniffled and cleared your throat. Your eyes burned something fierce, still red and puffy and wet, but you kept them open and stared at the side of her neck when you said it again. “I am in love with you.” It was a shameful whisper, an out of place declaration, but you were overwhelmed and she was there to hold you and you felt like nothing else mattered in that little moment. Only your love for her. Only Lilia.

She was quiet. Her hands still moved, running along your back over your shirt, patting down your hair, resting her chin on your shoulder. She was quiet.

“Was it the song?” She whispered, and you nodded. “Was I too loud?”

“No,” you said too quickly, loosening your grip, preparing to move away, but Lilia didn’t budge. Not a single muscle moved. And so you held on again, surprised, and admitted softly, “You were perfect.”

She was still quiet. For a little while, that’s how it was. Your heart began its slow recovery, piecing itself together, readying the battle stations for the moment she properly rejected you, and you shook lightly in her arms while you tried regulating your emotions. And Lilia was still and quiet. Petting you, holding you, not worried at all about her towel or how much water was getting on the floor. You were going to mention it, going to try and move on from the moment so you could return to the way things were as if you hadn’t just poured your soul out to her like you always told yourself you wouldn’t, but then something happened.

Her throat moved against your ear, a light buzz, then a louder one.

“Lies the seed,” she sang softly, “that with the sun's love… in the spring… becomes the rose,” she trailed off, slowly, into a gentle hum, and your heart trembled, barely holding on, and you almost choked on your breaths when Lilia finally moved.

Her hands were gentle, detaching you from her, slowly pulling back so soft damp palms could move up to cup your cheeks. There was only one place to look, into those deep amber eyes, and you felt your expression crumble when you saw the quiver of her lips, the tears, the furrow of her dark brows, the way her curls stuck to the sides of her face. No makeup, no armour, no magic, bare for the world to see, open and vulnerable in a way never experienced, felt, witnessed before. You looked at her, stunned, and saw the fear and the hesitation in her gaze. She was so scared, so worried about the consequences, about what would happen if love once again only favoured the lucky and the strong. But the desperation lurked - the same need you saw in yourself. The knowledge that to keep it inside was to kill.

And why succumb to death when you could love instead?

“You are my sun,” Lilia breathed, raspy and gentle, her chest heaving with breath. Her cheek twitched like she wanted to smile, but you were frozen, and you could only look at her like a lost child. “And I love you.”

And she loved you.

Lucky and strong.

Your rose.

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The Rose by Bette Midler you will always be famous... - Rip x

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