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childrenofthenightt · 3 years ago

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That’s The Way (Chapter 5)

Pairing: Jimmy Page x Reader

Word count: 4.3k

Warning(s): Nothing! This is such a sweet chapter :)

Author’s notes: Another sweet little chapter with Jimmy and Y/N, with a guest appearance from Lillian, everyone’s favourite rascal ;) This chapter was honestly such a joy, and my partner in crime @rebel-without-a-zeppelin is so amazing as always!!! As usual, please enjoy, happy reading, and send us messages if you have theories, comments, music recommendations for the playlist, or if you want to be added to the tag list :)

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

——

Y/N was in the kitchen, washing the dishes as she hummed to a tune she had just heard on the radio. She had just spent the morning baking biscuits, brownies, and all sorts of homemade goodies, and everything was still warm and cooling on a plate on the counter. Lillian’s loud footsteps reverberating through the house signalled that these delicacies wouldn’t be there for much longer.

“Y/N! Y/N!” she shouted in her high-pitched, innocent voice, as her footsteps grew closer. She scurried through the kitchen to stand at her sister’s side, looking up at her with her big eyes.

“What is it, Lil?” her sister responded, still scrubbing a bowl with a soapy sponge.

“I need you to braid my hair,” Lillian replied softly, her smile glinting in the afternoon sun.

“What for? What’s the occasion?”

Lillian’s lips pursed into a grin that she was trying to hold back. “Nothing,” she said in a sing-song tone, her head curling into her shoulder bashfully, “I just like the way it looks.”

Y/N huffed. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” she motioned towards the sink with her sudsy gloves; it had been filled to the brim with dirty dishes, though the mountain of tableware was lessening by the minute.

“Pretty please? I just want to feel beautiful like you,” her little sister whined, tugging on Y/N’s clothes.

Overcome with empathetic emotion, Y/N conceded, removing her gloves and turning the sink off. Crouching down to Lillian’s level, she held her hands, gazing into her eyes.

“Lillian, don’t say that about yourself. You are beautiful, truly,” Y/N coaxed earnestly.

“But when you braid my hair, I feel my most beautiful,” Lillian frowned.

Y/N couldn’t argue with Lillian, because she herself had bouts of self-consciousness and low self-esteem. Oh, the joys of being a young girl, Y/N thought, a wry grin on her lips. Ruffling her sister’s hair slightly, she replied, “Go sit at the counter and grab yourself a biscuit then.” Lillian giggled as she scurried over to the counter, reaching to grab one of each baked good from the three plates.

Y/N ripped off a piece of paper towel and handed it to Lillian so she wouldn’t leave any crumbs in her wake, as Lillian swung her feet as she sat atop the tall barstool chair and munched on her biscuit, a mischievous look on her youthful face. Y/N stood behind her, putting two elastics around her wrist.

“What kind of braids do you want, Lil?” Y/N asked, grabbing a nearby pencil to separate a perfect middle part down the back of her sister’s hair then tying off one side.

“I quite like Dutch braids,” Lillian said cheerfully.

“Okay, Dutch it is.”

Just as Y/N separated three strands of Lillian’s hair, the phone began to ring. Oh come on! Y/N thought with a huff. “Hang on a minute, Lil, let me answer this.”

“Hello?”

“Hey Y/N, it’s Jimmy,” a familiar voice echoed through the phone. Y/N’s eyes widened at the sound, a smile creeping onto her lips. There was a part of her that hadn’t expected him to call, though the way her heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice only confirmed how happy she was about it.

“Hey Jimmy, how are you?” she replied, leaning against the wall in an attempt to look composed, though she was twirling the cord around her finger nervously, almost combusting from excitement.

“I’m well, love, how about yourself?” he asked, his soft voice coming across as calm and casual, though he was, in fact, not calm at all, unbeknownst to Y/N. His sweaty palms readjusting their grip on the phone every few seconds as they spoke would have been a dead giveaway.

“I’m doing well, thanks.”

“JIMMY!” Lillian squealed from the background, “Tell him I said hi!”

Y/N laughed, “Oh, and Lillian says hi.”

Jimmy chuckled, “I heard. A very enthusiastic little one. Tell the sweet girl I said hello, if you don’t mind.”

“I will,” Y/N giggled before a pause, “What’s up?”

“Well, I have a day off today, you see. I’m going book shopping, and I was wondering...if you’d like to possibly come along...” he trailed off, almost unsure of his invitation.

Y/N’s stomach dropped at his invitation. He wanted her company?! As much as she wanted to jump for joy and scream, she had to suppress her emotions as best she could. Lillian was sitting right there after all, and if she caught wind of her small crush? Y/N would never hear the end of it. All of St. Albans would know, given how enthusiastic Lillian can be. She cleared her throat, recomposing herself before answering, “I’d love to come along! Thank you so much for the invitation,” Y/N gushed, “What time were you thinking?”

“How about twenty minutes?” Jimmy asked, “I’ll have my driver take us, so you don’t have to worry about transportation.”

“Perfect! See you then.”

“See you soon, love.” With that, the phone clicked, signalling the man’s departure.

“What did Jimmy want?” Lillian asked as Y/N walked back over to behind her chair.

“Oh nothing,” Y/N replied, taking three strands of her hair, “just asked if I would come shopping for books with him. He’s picking me up in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, that sounds like so much fun!” Lillian said cheerfully, genuinely happy that her sister was spending time with her friend. She was not at the age to assume any type of budding romance or feelings between the two, much to Y/N’s relief.

“Yeah, I’m excited!”

“Maybe you should give him what you baked,” Lillian offered, “I think he’d like them!”

“That’s a good idea,” Y/N agreed. “Since I’m not going to be home for a while, can you help Mum with the dishes? I feel bad I didn't finish them.” Lillian nodded with a hum as she quietly munched on her biscuit and a comfortable silence settled between the sisters.

Oh, to be that young and naïve, Y/N thought as she finished braiding Lillian’s hair, no stress, no problems, no worrying about boys...

~~~~~~~~

Just as Jimmy had said, his driver was in front of Y/N’s front door in exactly twenty minutes. She put a biscuit, brownie, and oatmeal cream pie into a plastic bag and tucked it into her purse before walking out the door. Butterflies erupted in her stomach as she walked towards the car, seeing Jimmy in the back seat with an open spot next to him.

“Hello Y/N, love,” Jimmy greeted jovially as the girl slid into the seat next to him. The smile on his face felt warm and welcoming to the young girl, easily returning a smile with the same emotion.

“Hi! Thanks again for inviting me to join you,” Y/N replied as the driver smoothly pulled away from her house and started down the road.

“Oh, no problem! I was hoping that I didn’t have to go alone, so I thought of you,” Jimmy grinned. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the way he fidgeted with his fingers nervously while he spoke. Could he actually be feeling as nervous as she was?

“That’s so sweet, thank you,” Y/N responded bashfully, smiling from ear to ear.

An unsettling silence diffused through the car, the only significant sounds being the radio playing softly in the background and the occasional bump in the road. The two, sat close to one another, felt so far away, as the cavernous quiet settled over them.

With a clearing of his throat, Jimmy spoke up, “Did you know that this is the first piece of vintage clothing I ever bought for myself?” he asked, showing off the navy blue military jacket he was wearing, adorned with several ornate gold buttons.

Y/N turned her head to look at his jacket with a grin, “That?” she answered, trying to sound serious in an attempt to tease him.

Jimmy frowned. “Yeah, you don’t like it?” he asked, slight panic bleeding into his voice at her teasing.

“Did you get it at the Embassy or something, to go off to war? Are you assuming the position of a Revolutionary War general, because I’m afraid you’re in the wrong country. And century.” Y/N said, a smile creeping past her lips as she failed to contain some of her laughter.

Jimmy huffed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, it has a lot of buttons,” he admitted defensively.

“Yes it does,” Y/N chuckled. Then after a few moments of silence, she concurred reluctantly, “I like your jacket,” she said with a smirk.

“I knew it, I knew you did!” Jimmy laughed triumphantly, “It’s so cool, right?”

“It is pretty cool, I admit.”

“There’s also a bunch of pockets, so you can fit all sorts of bits and bops in there too. You wouldn’t even know,” Jimmy said with a wink.

“I can only imagine what you keep in those pockets,” Y/N grinned mischievously.

Jimmy’s jaw dropped in feigned shock. “What a naughty mind you have, Miss Y/N! How can you assume such a thing about me?”

“I’ve heard a few whispers about you and Jackie in my day,” Y/N giggled, “things I wish to not get into at this particular moment in time.”

“What did you hear? Who told you?” Jimmy said, an air of panic in his voice as he straightened in his seat.

“I can’t tell you that!”

“It was Jeff who told you, wasn’t it? The bastard.” Jimmy scowled, turning away from her to run his fingers through his hair. The slight tremor that rushed through them made the young woman smile. He was nervous.

“I said I can’t tell you! That’s for only me to know,” Y/N giggled.

Jimmy paused for a second, contemplating his next sentence before piping up, “Well, I should say that Jackie and I broke up actually,” he said quietly, his panic now overcome with sadness.

Y/N frowned, feeling bad for her friend. “Oh Jimmy, I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how difficult it is for you right now.” She draped her arm on Jimmy’s shoulder, hoping her physical touch would comfort him in any way. Jimmy leans into her touch, a sad smile settling on his lips.

“Thank you, love.” he nodded.

“When did it happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A few days ago,” Jimmy continued, “I’m actually in the same boat as you.”

Y/N cocked her head in confusion. “In what sense?”

“Jackie was married the whole time, and I had no idea,” Jimmy replied solemnly.

“Oh my gosh, that’s awful!” Y/N said, “I can’t believe she would do that to you. You don’t deserve that.”

“I guess we were both someone else’s second choice.”

Y/N’s lips downturned into a frown, “Yeah…” she trailed off, “it’s the worst feeling in the world.”

You’ll never be my second choice, Y/N thought, I’ll always choose you, Jimmy.

“I might have a temporary remedy, though,” Y/N quipped as she opened her purse to retrieve the biscuits she had packed for Jimmy. “I baked these earlier, and Lillian said that you might enjoy them.”

Jimmy smiled as she handed him the bag. “Thank you for this, I really appreciate it, love.” As little as the words were, there was a tone of genuine appreciation in his voice. He really must have been going through a dark time. If there was a way she could help, no matter how small, Y/N would take that chance.

“You’re welcome. A baked good always makes me feel better, so I hope it does the same for you.”

Jimmy smiled down at her, his heart warming at her unbelievably kind gesture. Before he could say anything else, though, the driver had pulled up to the book shop; flicking hazard lights on so the two could get out right in front. They thanked the driver and walked into the store in tanduum, arms linked.

“What were you thinking about getting?” Y/N whispered as the smell of aged paper and freshly-cut wood greeted them.

Jimmy gave her a look that screamed did you really have to ask?

“Oh, okay,” She says, drawing out the first word with a subtle laughter in her voice. “Nevermind, stupid question.” Crowley manuscripts and textbooks. She knew that. She cursed herself for not thinking before she asked.

“You’re not stupid, don’t say that,” Jimmy said gently as he rubbed her arm soothingly, walking with her deep into the shelves and stacks of books. They were so close, her physical proximity and presence taunted him, and her scent dizzied him.

Their eyes scoured through the various titles, seeing if anything caught their interests. Y/N saw the trademark bright orange spine of The Catcher in the Rye, and quickly pulled it out. She never had the chance to read it whilst at school, but it was on her mental reading list.

Jimmy watched her intently as she read the synopsis on the back cover, her irises twinkling in the golden light that shone through the store. Her lips, her beautiful lips that he dreamed about kissing one day, were pressed together in concentration. She must have just put some lip balm on, because even they were twinkling. They looked like little pillows, so soft and supple and warm…

Y/N’s face now looked at the shelf once again before glancing at Jimmy with a grin. He prayed that she didn’t see him admiring her. Jimmy simply smiled back as if nothing had happened.

“The Catcher in the Rye, I see,” he initiated.

“Yep. I never got to read it in school, and it’s on my little mental reading list. I heard it was really good,” Y/N shrugged.

“What else is on your mental reading list?” Jimmy asked, “I can help you look for those, too.”

“Hmmm,” she thought aloud, “Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk, Middlemarch by George Eliot, and Summer Crossing by Truman Capote. I also want to get The Fantastic Mr. Fox by Roald Dahl for Lillian. I loved it when I was little.”

“You’re a woman of good taste,” Jimmy grinned, feeling himself falling for her even harder. He had thought it impossible, yet he was obviously proven wrong by the feeling of contentment that settled over him whenever he so much as looked at her.

“Thanks,” she said, blushing as she sheepishly chuckled at the compliment.

The two slowly walked through the aisles trying to find the titles Y/N had mentioned. Jimmy found Marjorie Morningstar and Summer Crossing, and Y/N loved the way his face lit up when he finally found what he had been looking for. Y/N was able to find Middlemarch and The Fantastic Mr. Fox herself, as Jimmy practically drooled upon sight of her when she wasn’t looking. His personal thesis of Y/N being an angel had been proven correct many times that day, but these rather intimate circumstances really pushed it (and himself) over the edge.

Crushes are so foolish, he thought, why am I acting like this?!

~~~~~~~~

Jimmy invited Y/N to go to his Pangbourne boathouse for some tea after their shopping excursion, for a chance to talk in a more private setting and scan through their purchases. He showed her around his house, since it was the first time she had been there since they had met; it was a Edwardian-Pre-Raphaelite hybrid dream, and Y/N found herself amazed with every nook and cranny.

“Next summer, you’ll have to come up so I can take you out on the boat,” Jimmy said as he showed her his boat and the view from the dock.

“That would be so fun,” Y/N smiled, “how often do you take it out?”

“Not too often, unfortunately, with all the travel and studio time.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. I’m sure that will pick even more now that the Yardbirds will be traveling more.”

“Yes, you’re definitely right. But I’ll make time next summer for that boatride,” he grinned as he led Y/N back into the house and into the living room. She pursed her lips to hold back a smile full of gratitude, but to no avail.

His housekeeper must have just put a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table, because it was still steaming.

The two sat opposite of one another, taking things off the tray as they pleased, silence hanging in the air. Once they were situated, Y/N daintily crossed her legs with a smile as she held the cup on top of her clothed thigh.

What a sophisticated lady Y/N is, Jimmy thought as he looked at her, I wonder what she would be like in a more intimate setting…

Shaking the dirty thought from his mind, he rambled, “So I’ve been thinking about something...the other guys in the band know about it, and they agree with me...actually, it wasn’t my idea, it was Jeff’s…”

It wasn’t Jeff’s idea. He lied.

It was Jimmy’s idea.

“Oh! What is it?” Y/N asked as she tilted her head in confusion, “It sounds bad, should I be scared?” she ended with a giggle.

“Oh no! Of course not. You see, there’s so much to say, and not a lot of time to say it, so I have to go big.”

Oh my God, Y/N thought, what if he asks me out? Jesus Christ. I hope he does. But he probably won’t. He doesn’t like me. What can this mean? Jimmy, you’re killing me! However, she sat with an expectant look on her face, trying to accurately anticipate the information.

“I was wondering...if um, if you—Oh, Christ, I’m horrible at this,” he chuckled embarrassedly with a shake of his head, a pink flush dusting his cheeks.

Oh fuck, he’s gonna do it! Y/N thought excitedly.

“Oh gosh, don’t be afraid! It’s just me! Really, what’s the worst I can say?” Y/N joked, hoping to ease his obvious nerves.

But it’s not just you, Jimmy thought, you’re so pretty and nice and smart and funny...you don’t know half of the things you do to me…

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he said, humouring her, “The Yardbirds are leaving to go to America within the next few weeks for the Dick Clark tour, and I—I mean, uh, we, would love it if you joined us.”

Y/N’s breath rushes past her lips with a surprised, almost unbelieving gasp. They wanted her to go on tour with them?! She again had to fight the stupidly giddy smile that would find its way on her lips.

“I would love to! That is so generous of you, thank you so much! I feel like I’d cramp your style though...I wouldn’t want you lot to lose women because of me,” she laughed.

“Most of those birds are nuts anyway,” Jimmy laughed with her, “They’re too caught up in themselves to notice the other people around them. Honestly, in theory, you’d probably attract more women to us.”

“I’m that bad, huh?” Y/N smirked.

Jimmy’s face became even paler than it already was. He didn’t mean that at all.

“Oh no! That’s not what I meant at all! Sincerest apologies, Y/N, I feel terrible. You’re so beaut—”

“I’m kidding, it’s okay,” she cut him off with a lighthearted chuckle, “I know where you’re coming from.”

“Okay, good,” he sighed, relieved. Y/N smiled before an awkward silence settled over the gorgeous tea room.

“So when is this tour happening?” she asked.

“End of October.”

“Wait, shit...I’m in university right now…”

“Oh, you’re right, fuck…” Jimmy muttered, his lips pursed in a pensive line, until he almost jumped out of his seat with excitement, “Wait! I have the perfect excuse for you.”

“Really? What did you have in mind?”

Jimmy smirked. “What if...you said you were participating in a study abroad-internship-sort of program for the fall semester?”

“I’m listening,” she said with a light giggle.

“Say that ‘it’s an opportunity to explore the depths of the cultural renaissance that is the British blues scene, which has indefinitely flourished over the past few years, as well as utilizing communication and leadership skills in a practical environment.’”

Y/N raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, that’s good,” she nodded her head, “that’s really good. I love that.”

“Then all you need is for myself and Simon Napier-Bell to sign off on it, as well as your dean, and you’re good to go.”

“That’s genius, Jimmy!”

“Why, thank you Miss Y/N,” he said with a joking courtly bow.

~~~~~~~~

Y/N, with much pushback from the dean at her university, was able to acquire course credit for going on tour with the Yardbirds. Simon Napier-Bell, as well as other members of the Yardbirds administration, had to come into the dean’s office to fight in Y/N’s favour. All she had to do was take photographs and write a paper on it for the end of the semester.

Not too bad.

The week preceding the beginning of the tour, Y/N was so full of nervous excitement that she could barely sleep. By the time her brother dropped her off at Heathrow airport, people had taken notice of the dark circles that hung around her tired eyes.

“Y/N, you look like hell,” Jeff exclaimed as Y/N got out of the passenger seat of Tommy’s car.

“Thanks,” she deadpanned as she shut the car door, walking to the back to grab her luggage.

“My God, you have to pull yourself together,” he added as he walked with Y/N, “you look like a raccoon.”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Chris called hopefully.

“Well, I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead,” Y/N smiled as she walked over to the group at the sidewalk with her suitcase, “and I guess you’ll have to play ‘Rocky Raccoon’ to serenade me then.”

“If Y/N did, in fact, have to ‘pull herself together,’ she wouldn’t be wearing a floral dress and a jumper to an airport,” Jim said.

“Thank you Jim,” Y/N smiled, “but I do look like hell though. He’s not wrong. I’m really tired.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Why’s that?”

“I didn’t sleep this entire week,” she chuckled, “My excitement for this day got the better of me.”

“Why don’t you take a nap on the plane then, love?” Jimmy asked, “You can get sick from lack of sleep, and we can’t have you sick when we’re abroad.”

“I brought my melatonin just for sleeping on the plane,” she smiled, “and I just took a shower too, so I’m ready to go to bed.”

“Lads, we have to go now. The security line is already awful,” Simon called as he rallied the boys and Y/N together to enter the airport.

Everyone obliged, groggily entering the airport as the road crew pushed heavy baggage carts of encased instruments, monitors, and other electronics behind them. The security line was dreadfully long, but they made it through and boarded the plane with little time to spare.

As Y/N was walking on the tarmac to board the plane, Jimmy caught up to her.

“Where are you sitting? What does your boarding pass say?” he asked, out of breath from running.

“I’m in 10C,” she laughed at his disheveled state, “what about you?”

“10B.”

“Oh, looks like we’re sitting together then,” Y/N smiled.

The two entered the plane and once they got to their seats, Jimmy realized that he had the window seat.

“Uh, Y/N?” he asked, shifting his weight between his feet anxiously.

“Mmhmm?”

“Do you mind if we switch seats and you take the window seat?” he inquired, a sheepish countenance flooding his face.

“Oh no, I don’t mind at all,” she smiled as she sat down in Jimmy’s original seat, “Why do you ask? I think the window seat is so cool.”

“You see, I’m afraid of heights,” he explained as he sat down in the aisle seat, “not to be dramatic, but all the air travel has me fearing for my life.”

“Oh, I see. That’s valid,” she understood, “Planes can be uncertain.”

The two engaged in quiet conversation before the plane engine started with a roar, and the aircraft started to make its way down the runway. Once the speed accelerated and the wheels rumbled, a telltale sign that the plane would be leaving the ground any minute, Y/N noticed how Jimmy’s leg started bobbing up and down uncontrollably.

Hoping to sooth his worries, she intertwined her fingers with his as the plane ascended, sending him a gentle, comforting grin. Jimmy squeezed her hand to reassure her that what she was doing was helping. His spirits were automatically lifted, and his entire body felt bubbly as heat invaded his cheeks.

About a half hour into the flight, Y/N’s eyes were starting to droop, but she was desperately trying to fight off the sleep. She had to stay awake and not look stupid sleeping in front of Jimmy.

Jimmy took notice of her drowsiness, seeing her lightly dozing against the window, as he put a fragile hand on her shoulder. The girl woke up with a deep inhale, lightly grinning at him as if she weren’t just asleep.

“Y/N love, why don’t you take a melatonin now and try to get some sleep?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” she admitted self-consciously, “I have to give into it now.”

She took the melatonin with a few sips of the water one of the stewardesses had given to her.

“Put your head on my shoulder so you don’t wake up with a sore neck from the window,” Jimmy coaxed gently.

“Thank you,” she said with a stretch, placing her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes, “‘night.”

“Sweet dreams,” he laughed.

Next to Jimmy, the soft motion of the plane lulls Y/N closer and closer to sleep. Head on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, and something that was so uniquely him, Y/N slept the best she had in weeks.

————

Taglist: @blood-on-blood @reincarnated70sbaby @jonesyjonesyjonesy @jimmys-zeppelin

#that's the way #jimmy page #led zeppelin #jimmy page fanfic #jimmy page fanfiction #led zeppelin fanfic #classic rock fanfic

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perfectlyelegantdelusion · 4 years ago

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Hey, @atomicdetectivehideout I’m happy to be your @destielsecretsanta2020

Merry Christmas! Please, accept my humble gift for the holiday. It’s a 3k of fluff and stuff (well, when I say fluff, I mean, I really tried!). I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

Thank you to the most awesomest people to ever awesome @campchitaquamemories and @amyoatmeal for offering to beta this little thing. You guys rock!

Here it is on ao3 if you prefer

Those Things That Couples Do

Come to think of it, it wasn’t such a lame idea. Not lame at all, Dean thought, to the extent he might even have to thank Sam later. Well, maybe not outright thank him, but definitely bake a cherry pie for Eileen (her favorite; the woman sure knew how to enjoy life). It felt nice, lying on the bed with Cas in the semi-darkness, Christmas lights on the dresser and a couple of the apple cider and cinnamon scented candles Cas liked so much (and Dean grumbled about but secretly enjoyed too) being the only source of light. It felt cozy. Safe. They talked in hushed voices so as not to disturb the quiet magic of the bubble they had created in that moment, and dammit, but Dean was grateful to his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law for this particular chick-flick.

“So, you sure you want this to go on your list as the first item?” Dean nudged Cas gently with an elbow. “Sick of my cooking already? I’m hurt, man,” he added, only half-jokingly.

The idea Eileen pitched to them was to write down three items each to reflect their hopes and plans for the upcoming year. At first, Dean laughed when Sam handed him a blue envelope with four blank craft paper cards to be written on. He had been about to suggest Sam find someone more age-appropriate to participate in that particular brand of cute (Dean could almost see the faces Claire and Kaia would make at the suggestion), but Cas’s quiet ‘It’s a lovely idea’ made him silently accept the package at the last second. This provided Sam with the pleasure of witnessing his older brother biting his tongue and smiling reassuringly at Cas who’d been busy searching Dean’s face for a reaction.

Per the rules Sam had explained to them, they were supposed to write down their plans (which they were encouraged to discuss, because that’s apparently what couples do) and complete a bonus task – individually, this time – describing where they see themselves next year at Christmas. Then, they were to seal their envelope and give it to Sam and Eileen for safekeeping, accepting theirs in exchange. That way next year there would be an additional reason to spend Christmas together and see which things have come to pass.

“Stop fishing for a compliment. You know your cooking is delicious.” Cas turned to look at Dean. “I want to be able to do nice things for you, Dean. Like you do for me. Cooking for people you care about is how you show affection and those small, but meaningful gestures go a long way. I’d love to be able to surprise you with a breakfast pie in bed, or make soup for when you catch a cold, or-“ Dean interrupted him with a chaste and gentle kiss on the lips. “You had me at the breakfast pie, Cas. Cooking and baking: 101 it is.” Cas smiled, reached for Dean’s hand, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Laying back on the pillow, he rested Dean’s hand on his belly, gently stroking the fingers. Dean closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

“What will you put as your first item?” Cas asked a moment later.

“That’s easy,” Dean murmured into Cas’s shoulder. “Beach vacay. Never had the time for that before. What do you think about some sand between our toes? Maybe even skinny-dipping with enough margaritas?”

“You do look extremely hot in those aviators of yours,” Cas replied in a thoughtful voice, as if mulling it over. “And skinny-dipping does sound promising. A beach vacation certainly belongs on that list.”

“Cas, if you want me naked and in sunglasses, that can be arranged anytime, anywhere.”

“I want you in those cut-off shorts of yours, and then I want you out of them,” Cas continued in a low voice, and Dean felt the hairs on his arm stand up under Castiel’s fingertips. “I want to explore your sun-kissed skin and count the freckles on your back. I want you to enjoy yourself in all the ways that appeal to you, so yes. You’re writing that down. I’m taking you to the beach.”

“Just like that?” Dean asked, teasingly. “Pretty goal-oriented, aren’t you?”

Cas glared at him; Christmas lights caught in his dark blue eyes. “I was a Seraph, Dean. Goal-oriented was in the job description.”

“Bossy,” Dean suggestively wiggled his eyebrows.

“You like that.”

“Touché.”

Cas turned on his side, facing Dean. They were lying so close now they breathed the same air, noses just shy of touching. Dean took Cas’s hand and laced their fingers, nudging a knee between Cas’s thighs. “What else is on your list?” Dean asked.

Cas didn’t answer right away, and Dean closed his eyes to bask in the warmth of their bodies.

“There’s a small plot of land behind the bunker,” Cas began, “I was wondering whether it’s okay with you and Sam if I make a garden there?” He sounded uncertain, for some unknown reason, and Dean frowned at that. “It wouldn’t be anything fancy, just some flowerbeds with sunflowers or maybe lavender-“

“Cas,” Dean interjected, still frowning, “why would you even ask? You don’t need anyone’s permission to do what you want to do, come on. The bunker belongs to you just as much it does to me or Sammy or Eileen or the rest of our extended family.” He propped himself up on one elbow and gently freed his hand from Castiel’s hold to cup his cheek. “If you want a garden, I’ll help you make one. Or just as happily will mind my own business if it’s something you want to do on your own. Okay?”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas whispered, earnestly. And it wasn’t about the garden, really. It was about being reassured he belonged, was wanted. Accepted.

“You should definitely add the garden to your list, Cas. And, while we’re on the topic, there was actually something I wanted to ask you about.” Dean cleared his throat, his heart rate quickened. He’d been thinking about this for quite a while, but never seemed to find the right moment to broach the topic. Frankly, he’d never felt brave enough to do so. Why mess up a good thing? But the idea lived in his head rent free, and there was no lying to himself, no tricking his mind out of it. “What would you say about a real garden, though? With an apple tree, some benches, maybe even a gazebo? Where you can plant all kinds of flowers to appease those honeybees of yours?”

“That- That sounds lovely, Dean,” Cas replied, obviously a little bit at a loss. “What do you have in mind?”

Dean was grateful it was dark in the room because he could feel himself blushing, chest burning as if someone had put a hot iron on it. He took a deep breath that didn’t do much to lessen the anxiety.

“Remember, back in Sioux Falls, Bobby’s old property?” Dean paused, waiting for Castiel to nod in agreement. “So, it’s all still there. It’s a pretty big plot of land, and the house burned down, obviously, but I was thinking,” the words kept jumping one in front of the other, and Dean felt the blush deepen, desperately hoping Cas would understand what he was trying to say. “I ain’t that bad at rebuilding things, and, of course, it’s gonna be quite a lot of work, but who doesn’t like a fixer-upper, right? There’s the salvage yard, too, we can do something with that. I’m sure Bobby wouldn’t mind, and there shouldn’t be any problems with the documents, given who’s the sheriff in town. And that way you and I get to be closer to Claire, and Donna, the whole gang-“

“You and I?” Cas asked quietly, and Dean took a deep breath, grateful for the interjection.

“You and I. And some bees, apparently,” Dean gave Cas a weak smile, searching his eyes.

Green met blue, and for the better part of a minute (eternity, really) Cas just kept looking at him silently. Dean’s heart was hammering in his chest so loudly, he wondered if maybe he just couldn’t hear Cas’s answer because of the pounding in his ears. But Castiel’s lips didn’t move, and Dean felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he needed to get out before he went into a full-blown panic attack. It was too much. Why would Cas want to leave the bunker? It was way safer there. There were other people, hunters, coming and going, Sam and Eileen lived barely an hour away, why would he even consider moving in with Dean, let alone-

Suddenly, Cas was on Dean, left hand on Dean’s pillow for support, right hand cupping Dean’s face. Cas pressed kisses everywhere, holding on to Dean like it was the last thing on Earth worth doing. Cas moved his hand into Dean’s hair, gripping tight, and Dean moaned, capturing Cas’s mouth with his own, deepening the kiss. Dean’s anxiety turned into exhilaration, because that was very clearly a yes, and somewhere at the back of his mind he wondered if maybe he’d just suffered a mild heart attack. In mere seconds, though, his body went pliant under Cas’s weight, the kiss grew even more urgent and heated. Dean’s brain short-circuited, the only thing that registered was the press of Cas’s groin to his own, the sounds Cas was making, the texture of his tongue, the softness of his palms, his smell, his taste, the overwhelming need to be closer, to become one, to forget there ever was an outside world at all. But as Dean slipped his hands under Cas’s T-shirt, Cas groaned and broke the kiss, panting. He pressed his forehead to Dean’s, eyes closed and breathing heavy.

“I believe we’ve gotten carried away,” Cas said, hoarsely. “We still have to finish the lists before Sam leaves for Eileen’s.”

“Screw Sam,” Dean rasped, “I don’t care, just take off your clothes and keep kissing me senseless.”

Cas growled and bit his lip to keep himself from grinding.

“There will be no screwing Sam,” he said in a low voice. “We finish the lists, give Sam the envelope, bid him goodnight,” Cas took a deep breath, his body looming over Dean. “And then we pick up right where we left off.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whined.

“Patience, Dean,” Cas pressed a kiss behind his ear, where he knew Dean was especially sensitive. “All in due time.”

With that, Castiel got up, went to click his bedside lamp on, fluffed his pillow, propped it against the headboard, and took the writing supplies from the nightstand. When he got back on the bed, he made sure to leave a few inches of space between them.

Dean groaned. “Fuck my life,” he muttered, but took a couple of deep breaths, willing his heart rate to friggin’ slow down already. He sat up and reached to switch on the lamp on his side of the bed. He watched Cas for a moment before clarifying, “Yes to the house, though?”

Cas looked at him, pen pausing in the middle of a sentence. “I love you, Dean. Yes to the house.”

Dean grinned. “So, two down, one to go. Item number three for 2021?”

Castiel chewed on the cap, thoughtfully. “This one is less specific, but I’d like to try things I haven’t tried before. Unusual food, new experiences, all kinds of activities – with you.”

“Cas, I swear, if you hadn’t stopped just now, I’d have given you a thing or two to cross out from that bucket list,” Dean smiled, cockily.

Cas grinned. “I should think so.”

“Just say the word,” Dean winked, “and we can go baptize the library.”

“Noted. Let’s just not traumatize your brother any further.”

“He’ll live.”

Cas sighed, a mix of fondness and exasperation. “We’ll get back to this conversation as soon as we’re finished with the task at hand. What’s your item number three for the list?”

“Well,” Dean sat up straighter to get himself into business mode, “I’d love to spend more time with family. Get to know them better, maybe set up some family traditions? I don’t know if everyone will appreciate the idea, but it would be kinda awesome.” He glanced at the framed photos proudly sitting on his shelf.

“I think it’s a wonderful thing to put on your list,” Castiel reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, “and I don’t have a shadow of a doubt, everyone will be thrilled.”

“They’d better be. Otherwise, they’ll be missing out on the greatest feasts humanity’s ever known.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed easily, “among other things.”

Dean smiled and reached for his own supplies.

For the next five minutes the only sound that filled the room was rustling of paper. Having finished writing, Dean clicked his pen off. “So, what’s with the bonus task? The one where we describe where we see ourselves this time next year?”

Cas bent the card he was writing on in half and slid it into the envelope. “We’re not supposed to discuss it, but, seeing that we will be exchanging our predictions next year, I figure we just address it to each other?”

“Let’s do that,” Dean nodded. “So, no consulting, huh?”

Castiel hummed. “If we were to respect the rules. You know, though, my prediction doesn’t make much of a secret,” he shrugged, smiling. “This time next year, and all the years to come, I see myself watching a Christmas movie with you. I can’t keep up with the plot, really, because mostly I’m watching you watching the movie, watching you smile, listening to you laugh. And I am overwhelmed by how grateful I am for everything that has led me there, in that moment. I’m happy. I’m with you.”

Dean’s throat felt tight and his eyes started prickling with tears somewhere between ‘all the years to come’ and ‘watching you watching the movie’. Cas was looking at him with such adoration, reverence even, blue eyes glistening, pen and paper forgotten.

“Yeah,” Dean said, wrapping Cas in a bear hug. “Yeah.” He hid his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck and felt an awkward kiss being pressed to the side of his head. “You’re such a sap, man,” he breathed a somewhat wet laugh. “You’re such a sap, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Cas mumbled, “I know.”

“You should still put all of that in writing. You know, for posterity.”

“I will. Will you write yours?”

Dean withdrew a little to give Cas a kiss on the cheek. “I will. But I’m gonna need you to bear with me, ‘cause for once in my life I would actually like to stick to the rules.” He caught Cas’s eyes, “Is that okay with you?” he asked, with a hint of a mischievous smile.

“Of course, Dean.”

“Good. Good.” Dean grinned. “And Cas? I love you, too.”

***

Eileen was supposed to pick him up in about an hour, so Sam sat at his desk browsing true crime documentaries on Netflix when Dean burst in his room without knocking.

“Would you appreciate it if I barged into your room like that?” Sam asked flatly, not looking up from the screen.

“We both know that’s an empty threat,” Dean replied without missing a beat. “Not with those delicate sensibilities of yours.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam bristled, “You guys were doing it against the kitchen sink! A man should expect the kitchen to be a safe space!”

“Yes, yes,” Dean nodded vigorously, “he should. But it’s still ill-advised.”

Sam closed the lid of his laptop with a click . “Please, tell me you’ve got the envelope and I can go see my girl and bring home the victory of getting you and Cas to participate?”

“Sure thing, Sammy,” Dean dropped the envelope in question on the desk. “Take good care of that for us,” he winked at his brother mischievously. “Cas has already stashed yours in some dusty old book. And hey,” he added in a more serious voice, “tell Eileen thank you?”

“Wait, really?” Sam started, but Dean was already out in the hall.

“Can’t talk, gotta run, Cas says he wants to try new things, and believe me, Sammy, I am gonna deliver!”

“TMI, jerk!” Sam yelled after him, leaning his chair back on two legs to try and catch sight of his older brother.

“Drive safe, bitch!” Dean yelled back from down the hall.

Sam sighed and picked up the blue envelope titled Dean & Cas: 2021 Edition in Castiel’s neat handwriting. The envelope wasn’t sealed properly, and as soon as Sam turned it over in his hands the contents slipped out onto the desk.

“You’re so whipped, Dean,” Sam muttered under his breath picking up the papers. One of the cards fell onto the floor, and as Sam leaned to pick it up, he recognized Dean’s handwriting. Not his finest hour, he would figure later, but the eyes started skimming the text before the brain could actually approve the action.

Hey, Cas. So, we’re talking this time next year, huh? Let’s see. I’m most probably sitting on the couch with you, and we’re in the middle of binge-watching one of those shows you like or watching a documentary. I can’t really tell, because I’m having trouble focusing on what’s going on on the screen. The reason probably being that I have this ring in my pocket, and I keep thinking I should come up with more fitting words. I keep overanalyzing things, wondering if this is even something you might want. And then, we open the envelope, and I’m giving you this little piece of paper, and you start reading it. And I- I can see you frowning in concentration, and it’s been a year since I wrote this, and I still haven’t found the words, because really there are no words to even begin to describe what we have. So- So I take your hand, I kiss your knuckles, and I slip the ring on your finger, and I hope-

Man, I hope I get to spend the rest of my life with you.

With a dopey smile, Sam slipped the card back into the envelope, sealing it carefully. “So whipped,” he repeated quietly, but proudly. 2021 was going to be one for the books.

#atomicdetectivehideout #destiel secret santa #kate trying to fic #happy holidays everyone!#all the love to you #destiel fanfic #destiel ficlet #deancas fanfic

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sincerelystranger · 4 years ago

Text

not enough 9

“Why do you even like, Cangse Sanren?” Jiang Fengmian asks petulantly.

They’re in Caiyi town, winding down after Night Hunting with the Gusu Lan disciples.

Wei Changze had been perfect as ever, of course. Silently guarding all the disciples and acting as support when they came across beasts and curses. More than half the disciples had been saved by Wei Changze tonight and they probably didn’t even know it.

It always was like that.

Only Jiang Fengmian ever saw Wei Changze.

And tonight was no different. Jiang Fengmian saw Wei Changze. And he saw how he stuck needlessly close to Cangse Sanren.

The pretty, lively rogue cultivator that had recently come down from Baosen Sanren’s mountain.

The rumor was that half the cultivators who met her were in love with her and much to Jiang Fengmian’s displeasure, it looked like Wei Changze wasn’t… immune to her charms.

He looks up at Wei Changze. Wei Changze’s eyebrows are a little bit furrowed, an expression of confusion on his face.

Honestly, he looks so cute that Jiang Fengmian wants to... touch him. But he’s also annoyed that Wei Changze isn’t denying that he likes Cangse Sanren.

“Do you not like Cangse Sanren?” he asks earnestly, as if the thought of Jiang Fengmian disliking Cangse Sanren is upsetting to him.

Jiang Fengmian almost wants to roll his eyes. Almost wants to scream at the sky. Almost wants to shake Wei Changze and yell ‘you’re not allowed to like anyone other than me!’

“She’s fine,” he says instead, because doing all that would be unsightly… and also troublesome.

Wei Changze’s eyebrows lift from their slight furrow – which for Wei Changze is quite a show of emotion. “She is kind and a strong cultivator,” Wei Changze says, “We all benefited from her joining us tonight.”

“Mm,” Jiang Fengmian hums. He feels like a child. Petulant and jealous. He feels a little bit mortified at himself and embarrassed at his jealousy. Cangse Sanren is a strong cultivator. Of course Wei Changze would appreciate that.

“She is strong,” Jiang Fengmian says, “but I don’t know about kind. She lit Lan Qiren’s beard on fire as a joke. That’s not very nice, is it?”

Wei Changze lets out a short audible breath from his nose, which is as good as an outright laugh from him. “No, not nice,” he concedes. “But she is kind.”

“What’s the difference?” Jiang Fengmian asks, turning around to fully face Wei Changze. “Nice and kind – they’re like the same thing, no?”

Wei Changze doesn’t respond right away. He looks at Jiang Fengmian for a moment, a strange look in his eyes. “Similar,” he says finally, “but not the same.”

Jiang Fengmian wants to ask what Wei Changze likes more.

But he’s suddenly scared.

He does a strange thing and reaches out to touch Wei Changze – to make sure that he’s still real next to Jiang Fengmian.

Wei Changze looks down at Jiang Fengmian’s hand on his arm but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either.

Jiang Fengmian could be brave now, he thinks.

He could.

“I’m tired,” he says instead, “I think I’ll go to bed.”

He could be brave… but it would be troublesome.

Besides, what did it matter what Wei Changze liked better? He would always be by Jiang Fengmian’s side anyways.

Always.

---

An eruption of commotion in the courtyard brings Jiang Fengmian out from his room.

The undead Wen boy is standing in the middle of the courtyard, a woman slumped over one of his shoulders and what looks like a child slumped over his other shoulder.

He stands there placidly looking at Jiang Fengmian, even as twenty disciples have their swords pointed at him.

It’s only when Jiang Cheng enters the courtyard that the Wen boy deigns to speak at all.

“Ah, Jiang-gongzi,” the Wen boy says, bowing awkwardly with the two bodies slumped lifelessly over his shoulders. “Sorry for bothering you so late.”

“What are you doing here?” Jiang Cheng says. He rushes over to the boy, signaling to the disciples to sheathe their weapons.

The disciples don’t even look to Jiang Fengmian for further confirmation before they sheathe their swords.

It seems the Jiang Cheng’s word is good enough.

“Is there a problem? Is Wei Wuxian in trouble?” Jiang Cheng asks as he takes the woman’s body from the Wen boy’s shoulder. He holds her gently and rests her head on his shoulder.

He declines when a disciple comes forward and tries to take the unconscious woman from Jiang Cheng.

The Wen boy hands the unconscious child to the disciple.

“Wei-gongzi is okay,” he says, “I’ve given him a draught that will leave him unconscious for a couple of days so he can heal, but other than that he should be fine.”

“Why are you here?” Jiang Fengmian asks, finally stepping forward. An almost tired sort of anger fills him. Why is this Wen in Lotus Pier? Why did he bring other Wens? Why didn’t he bring Wei Wuxian?

“Ah, Sect leader Jiang,” the Wen boy bows deeply. He stays bowed as he speaks. “I am going to turn myself in to the Jin Sect. I am the one who killed young master Jin. I am hoping that my life will be enough to soothe Sect leader Jin’s anger so that he will not attack Wei-gongzi.”

It’s a heroic act.

Self-sacrificing.

It’s a wonder why Jiang Fengmian’s heart isn’t moved by it at all.

“Then go to Koi tower,” he responds coldly, “Why are you here wasting time?”

The undead boy stays bowed.

“My sister and my nephew were injured by Jin-gongzi,” he says, “I fear that they will not be able to get better at the Burial Mounds. I know that this is too much to ask, but if they could stay here just a while. If they could just stay here, long enough to recover from their injuries… This would be my final request.”

Of course there would be a catch.

“And if I refuse?” he asks, “Will you stay in the Burial Mounds instead of going to Koi tower?”

“Father!” Jiang Cheng exclaims. He tightens his hold on the woman’s body. Holds her even closer.

Jiang Fengmian had thought that Jiang Cheng had been going to the Burial Mounds because of Wei Wuxian. Never in his life had he thought that Jiang Cheng might have been going to the Burial Mounds because of… love? Affection?

“What?” Jiang Fengmian asks sharply. He’s still sore from how Jiang Cheng had dragged him out of the Burial Mounds. How Jiang Cheng had defied him so brazenly. “What do you have to say to your sect leader, Jiang Cheng?”

Jiang Cheng looks at him with fire in his eyes.

Jiang Fengmian can see the way his jaw clenches. The way he visibly steels his resolve.

Undoubtedly Jiang Cheng will defy him again.

Jiang Fengmian is so tired.

He’s already lost a son and he’s in danger of losing a son again.

But maybe this son is also already lost to him.

After all, isn’t that Jiang Fengmian’s problem? He never knows when he’s lost someone until it’s too late to do anything about it.

“I will go to Koi tower either way,” the Wen boy says, interrupting Jiang Cheng and Jiang Fengmian’s silent stand-off. “My life right now is a gift given to me by Wei-gongzi. If returning this gift can spare him any more pain, I will do it happily.” He bows even deeper then. “But if I can make this selfish request – if my sister and nephew can be allowed to recover comfortably – I would die with no regrets.”

It’s then that Jiang Fengmian realizes why his heart isn’t moved at all by thie Wen boy.

His heart can’t be moved because it’s too deeply steeped in shame.

He looks at the boy bowed deeply before him.

He looks at his son still staring defiantly up at him.

“Take them to the healer’s quarters,” he says finally.

Jiang Cheng nods quickly. “Thank you, father,” he murmurs as he walks past Jiang Fengmian.

“Thank you, sect leader Jiang!” the Wen boy shouts, bowing even deeper. “Thank you.”

Jiang Fengmian can’t stand to look at him anymore. He can’t stand to even be in his presence. It fills him with so much shame that he can’t even breathe. He wants to cut himself open and walk out of his body. He wishes he was someone else. Someone braver.

He’s done nothing and he’s being thanked.

It disgusts him.

His wife is standing in the shadows as he walks back towards his room.

“Why are you protecting the Wens now?” she asks, and it’s cruel question, but there’s no malice in her voice. Somehow she sounds almost as tired as Jiang Fengmian feels.

“You saw Jiang Cheng,” Jiang Fengmian answers quietly, “He would not take no for an answer.”

She turns to him then, and her face is shadowed. He can’t make out what expression is on her face, but he assumes it must be disgust.

He’s disgusted with himself too, after all.

“I always dreamed about the day Jiang Cheng would outgrow you,” she says, “But I never imagined I’d find you so pitiful.”

It’s almost enough to shock laughter out Jiang Fengmian – but he’s too tired to laugh.

Too tired and too ashamed.

He gives her a weak smile instead. “It’s a wonder you only find me pitiful now,” he says. He’s always been pitiful. Always been pathetic.

Making the wrong decisions. Choosing peace over happiness. Running away from troublesome things.

Losing.

“Don’t sound so sorry for yourself,” his wife says, “Aren’t you the one who said a good parent raises children who are better than them?”

She steps into the light then, and it’s the first time he can see her face.

Her tone is sharp and her words are mean but…

But the look on her face is…

She’s the only one who’s ever fought to stay by Jiang Fengmian’s side.

It’s the act of a desperate man, and it’s so much less than what she deserves, but he walks over to her and embraces her.

She’s stiff in his arms.

“What--?” she starts, “Have you finally gone insane? People will—“

“Didn’t you say you pitied me?” he asks, resting his cheek on her head, “Just a little while. Just…”

And she stays stiff in his arms but she doesn’t move.

They stay like that a long while.

Until Jiang Fengmian can muster enough courage to stand himself. Until his disgust loses the knife sharp edge. Until his shame ebbs enough so he can breathe a little.

And his wife.

His wife stands there and endures it with him.

#changmian #jiang fengmian #yu ziyuan #the untamed #sincerely: not enough #that's the tag i've chosen for this LOL #Wen Ning #best boy

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amishfruit · 3 years ago

Text

Lady Of The Lake, Chapter One: Wade

pairings: fakir/ahiru, background mytho/rue

word count: 7048

on ao3

A young woman comes out of the lake one day mid summer, walking into town completely nude, long ginger hair falling in waves over her petite frame. Her wide blue eyes blink naively back at the stunned people milling about. It doesn’t take long for someone to provide her with a blanket to cover herself with and later clothes once they’ve gotten somewhere safe to dress.

Once the initial shock wears off a bit, the woman observes the space she has been welcomed into. She sits on a bed dressed with a soft purple duvet and a pleasant assortment of pillows. It is simple but elegant, the walls were left mostly bare, but the sweet collection of knick knacks more than made up for it. The clothes she's wearing now were given to her off a rack by the bed, where a modest number of dresses hung. She finally turns to the friend who had invited her into their room and attempts to speak, at first nothing but a strangled call comes out but after clearing her throat she begins again. “Thank you.” she meets eyes with them earnestly, “for helping a stranger.”

The person across from her flushes lightly, seated on a stool in front of a small vanity.

Tucking a strand of their long black hair that had fallen out of a lovely ribbon behind their ear, they answer. “You’re very welcome, though I don't think we are truly strangers anymore.” Their voice is gentle and light, but there is a playful glint in their grey eyes and the woman of the lake realizes she is being teased.

Her cheeks heat, but she knows it is not malicious. “You're right, we aren't strangers.” She huffs a small laugh, “though i do not know your name, i am..” her face falls momentarily as she struggles to remember, but it comes to her in time. “Ahiru. my name is Ahiru.”

Her new friend smiles beautifully in response, rosy lips contrasting against their pale unmarred skin. “A lovely name, I am Raetsel.” A pause, “..forgive me if this is rude, but why, or, how did you walk out of the lake today? Where do you come from? Also, are you alright?” it all comes out in one breath and Raetsel gnaws on her lip anxiously once she finishes.

Ahiru smiles a small, sad smile, blue eyes seeming to dim. “I don't remember..I cannot answer even one of your questions, Raetsel. I only know my name.”

Raetsel leans forward delicately, concerned. “You don't need to answer me Ahiru, i'm sorry to have upset you.” She grasps ahirus hand in hers and gives an encouraging squeeze.

This seems to warm Ahiru who lifts their joined hands and leans forward to embrace her new friend. “I think I am alright.”

-----

The sun was just at its highest when she had risen from the lake and after a very eventful few hours of awareness, she finds herself quite hungry and tired. Raetsal hears her stomach growl and laughs, leading her to the kitchen and informing her that it is time for supper. Upon entering, Ahiru wakes up a bit in response to the wonderful smell coming from the stove. She follows and sits next to Raetsel at the table, there is an extra setting next to her. Before she can ask, the smell gets closer and stronger and she can't suppress a delighted sound as her nose chases the scent. Opening her eyes after a particularly deep sniff she is met with the sight of a tall, handsome stranger. Their skin is a deep olive shade and it compliments their dark green hair beautifully. Like Raetsel, a few locks of shorter hair fall out of a low ponytail that reaches down to the middle of their back, the ribbon tying their hair in place is simple and not as decorative as Raetsel’s, but it has its own charm. Their face is stoic, thick eyebrows resting low over their sharp green eyes. They turn to the side a bit and Ahiru admires their strong profile, a strong nose is the most noticeable feature from this angle, long and curved down with a high bridge that flows into sharp brow bones. Their jaw is square and defined, but their neck and shoulders are more lithe than she expects. There is clear strength in their arms but they maintain a lean figure that holds a surprising level of grace.

They turn to ahiru with a quizzical expression, lips twisting before they decide to speak. “I take it you are the lady from the lake?” Their voice is rich and low, quiet but stern.

She nods slowly, “yes, i am Ahiru. Thank you for allowing me into your home.”

The stranger sets a plate of food in front of Raetsel, and then another in front of her giving a noncommittal grunt. “Mm. I’m Fakir, am I correct in assuming Raetsel has already introduced herself?”

Ahiru smiles, “yes, she has been very kind to me.”

Fakir looks at Raetsel, searching for something in her face that he seems to find. He nods to himself, sitting down next to Ahiru. “I hope the food is acceptable to you.”

She grins, “it smells delightful, I have no doubts I will enjoy it.”

He flushes a bit at this, fidgeting with the rolled up sleeves of his white linen button up.

Raetsel laughs lightly, “Please excuse my brother dear Ahiru, he is not accustomed to company.” She leans closer to Ahiru and continues in a conspiratorial tone, “Especially not company as kind and lovely as yourself.” She ends it with a wink, laughing as fakir chokes slightly on his food and flushes red.

Ahiru, for her part, is just as embarrassed and is very sure her face has turned the same color as her hair. Rather than trying to respond, she stuffs a bite of the meal into her mouth, quickly forgetting her own embarrassment as she tastes things she has never tasted before. “Oh!’ She exclaims after swallowing, “this is so good!”

Raetsel hums her agreement, “Fakir is a talented cook, most of his ingredients come from the garden out back as many of them are not commonly used in this town.”

Fakir seems to be pointedly ignoring the conversation, focusing on his plate and pretending not to notice how his ears are burning.

Ahiru turns to him, “where did you learn to cook like this?” She asks earnestly.

He seems surprised at being directly addressed but he swallows and clears his throat, looking to Raetsel for help but eventually realizing he cannot avoid the question. “I taught myself.” he meets her eyes and looks away quickly.

Raetsel, satisfied that she has tortured him enough for one night, fills in the blanks. “Fakir came here as a very young boy from a place far away, there are spices and herbs from his home that aren’t commonly used here and when my mother took him in she provided him with many books about his culture, though the food is what turned out to be most important to him.” She smiles at her adoptive brother, who’s embarrassment seems to have faded if only slightly. “He has been cooking for our family ever since.”

Ahiru is very impressed, taking a moment to look at Fakir with appreciation. He pointedly ignores her stare and lets his bangs fall forward to shield his eyes.

They finish the rest of their meal with minimal conversation, both of the women respecting Fakirs clear desire for the topic to be dropped. When every plate has been cleared, Ahiru offers to clean them up. Raetsel quirks a brow at her and asks if she has ever actually washed a dish before.

Ahiru rubs the back of her neck, “well I.. don’t remember if I have.” Fakir seems surprised at her response and she avoids eye contact with both of them, “but it can’t be that hard! I remembered that they needed to be cleaned, right? I’m sure I can figure it out!” She is so passionate that Raetsel chooses not to question her further, but she does accompany the tiny woman into their kitchen and watches over her as she carefully cleans and dries each dish. Fakir joins them in the kitchen, quietly putting away ingredients and tools that he had used to cook their meal, when he is done he bids them both farewell and retreats to his room.

“I hope he hasn’t put you off.” Raetsel comments, showing Ahiru where she can hang the dish rag.

Ahiru shakes her head, “not at all! The food was so delicious, he is very skilled.”

Raetsel is amused, “you didn’t find him rude?”

Confused, Ahiru tilts her head to the side. “Why would i? He fed me.. that was very kind.”

Raetsel smiles, “you have a very open heart, many of the townspeople have issues with him. He's just a bit too blunt..” she puffs out a breath, “sometimes they misunderstand him, and he gets frustrated.”

Ahiru nods sadly, “I would too.”

Raetsel seems surprised at this answer at first, before settling into a very pleased disposition. “You are really something new Ahiru.”

The aforementioned lady blushes softly and straightens up. “T-thank you Raetsal.” She ducks her head in a miniature bow.

“Come dear, I’ll show you your room.”

————

Once she gets settled and bids goodnight to her host, Ahiru takes a moment to breathe. Slow, in and out. Feeling a bit overwhelmed with, well everything that had happened in the day, she wishes to braid her hair, dress down and sleep. In the room Raetsel provided to her there is a vanity, and on top ribbons and a wide tooth comb. Ahiru smiles at the thoughtful touch and carefully undresses, mindful of her steps so that she does not damage Raetsels’ lovely dress. She hangs it on a hook by the door, removing her socks and leaving her chemise on, remembering the earlier incident and cringing at herself. Next, she sits on the vanity stool and takes the comb carefully, starting at the ends of her long hair and working her way up slowly. Once all the tangles are gone she separates it into three sections and plaits in a simple pattern. She hums as she does this, a tune she knows and loves, something comforting. At the end of her hair, she ties a thick satin ribbon into a bow and tucks herself into the comfortable twin bed.

She is on the lake, dancing mournfully by herself. In the distance, she sees a royal couple performing a grand pas de deux. They only have eyes for each other, and she dearly loves them both. Her steps don’t falter with her sorrow, she only dances more freely, allowing her tears to fall as she lifts herself up into the air. The foggy air grows dark and eventually she realizes she’s alone, the prince and princess are gone and everything is quiet except for the sound of her own crying as she falls into the lake.

She wakes with a start, the grief in her chest real and heavy, cheeks wet. Deep breaths in, and out. Again, until she feels ready to open her eyes. The sun is rising, shining soft light on her face and the pain from her dream eases slightly. She sits up, donning her socks once more and making her way to the window and leans on the sill, observing the small flock of birds on a neighboring roof. Soon Ahiru is able to put the nightmare out of her mind, and the sun gets higher so she dresses once again, at first struggling to fasten things by herself but figuring it out through trial and error. Her braid is a mess from tossing and turning, so she sets to combing her hair out once more and choosing to do two braids today, parts it all down the middle. Her fingers are quick and nimble and she picks a set of wide gray ribbons to match her dress. Once she is ready, she makes her way back into the kitchen, hoping she hasn’t woken up too early.

At the stove once again, Fakir doesn’t notice her right away, continuing to add ingredients and muttering quietly to himself on occasion.

Ahiru chooses to sit down rather than interrupt, leaning on her palm and watching him as he works. His shoulders are wide but she can see how narrow his waist is, emphasized by the plain apron he wears. Fortunately, she catches herself as her gaze wanders lower and her eyes snap back up to his hands. They are large and clearly strong, but he handles everything he holds so gently. Ahiru wonders if she would ever want to see the strength in those hands used rather than controlled, and she cannot decide. Lost in thought, and busy staring a hole into fakir, she doesn’t see Raetsel come in.

“Oh ahiru! You look lovely this morning!”

She doesn’t react quick enough and is caught when fakir turns around quickly, eyes wide and mouth opened in a surprised little ‘o’. they both flush and break eye contact, electing to ignore Raetsel’s amused smirk.

“Smells good Fakir, something special for our visitor?” Raetsel continues teasingly.

He shoots her a sharp glare but it lacks it’s usual spark when his face is still bright red. “It’s just bread, Raetsel.” His tone is measured but it’s clear he’s irritated.

Ahiru finds the exchange remarkably cute and tilts her head to the side in wonder as she observes the siblings.

“We should get you your own clothes and shoes.” Raetsel says to her, looking at the ill-fitting dress she’d loaned ahiru. “I don't mind sharing, but they’re much more comfortable in the right size. When we are done eating I know someone who can help.”

Ahiru is hesitantly excited about this, swinging her feet a bit under the table.

Fakir comes with the food soon after, setting each plate on the table.

“Woah.” Ahiru states quietly, when Fakir had said bread earlier, she hadn’t expected french toast. Upon tasting, she notices something floral and a bit of spice and sweet honey. She can’t identify all the flavors but she loves it all and happily digs in.

Raetsel watches her in amusement for a moment and then turns to Fakir who also watches Ahiru eat with an unreadable expression. He is focusing more on their guest than he is his own breakfast and she stifles a laugh as he misses his own mouth.

Ahiru seems to realize she has all but ignored the two others at the table and slows down, swallowing and wiping her face with a napkin. “This is very good fakir.” She looks down as she says it, a bit embarrassed by her own actions.

Raetsel agrees, “delightful as usual.”

Fakir thanks them quietly, looking at his plate with the same unreadable expression and eating slowly. The two women finish eating before him, but Ahiru still insists on cleaning the dishes that he isn’t eating off of. He almost smiles at her, but the urge to confuses him and he is easily distracted.

“Are you coming with us?” Ahiru asks when he brings his own plate to the sink, wide eyes boring into his skull.

Fakir falters, looking at Raetsel who simply shrugs. “Uh.. I don't know if I would really be of any help.” He hopes his reasoning is enough to appease her.

Ahiru furrows her eyebrows, “why not?”

“He’s avoiding his fan club.” Raetsel chimes in, amused by the exchange and how easily their guest catches her brother off guard.

Ahiru does not know what this means, imagining a group of people gathering together to discuss fans or perhaps dance with them as she remembers doing many times. She notes the remembrance to herself before speaking, “was there a disagreement? If you’re in a club with them, you should be friends right?”

Fakir looks at her incredulously, “I'm not in the club.”

“Well then, what’s the problem?” She asks innocently.

Raetsal chooses not to help clarify, retrieving her boots from the front door and sitting at the table to lace them, leaving the two alone.

“It’s- well,” he shoots her a quizzical glare, “are you teasing me?”

Ahiru is thoroughly confused, “what?! No!! Why would you think that?”

Fakir can tell she’s being truthful, “it's not really a club Ahiru, Raetsel was joking.”

She sticks out her lip in a small pout, “why?”

He sighs in defeat, “you’ll understand once we get there.”

Raetsel returns to them, “so you’re coming?” She sounds surprised and more than a little impressed.

“Yay!” Ahiru claps her dainty hands together cheerfully.

Fakir nods, still unsure of how she had convinced him.

—

The summer weather allows them to leave the house quickly, not needing to don cloaks or extra layers, and they walk a short while to the stables.

Raetsel turns to Ahiru, noting the nervous glances she shoots towards the horses they pass. “Have you ever ridden?”

Ahiru’s face is pale and she wrings her hands in front of herself. “No.”

Fakir turns from where he is retrieving their steeds. “No? Or you don’t know?”

She laughs a bit at this. “Definite no. I think I would remember a creature of this size.”

Raetsel notes that Ahiru is a whole head shorter than herself, and Fakir towers over

her in a way that would intimidate anyone else, but it doesn’t seem to bother the bright little flame of a woman. “You should ride with Fakir then, he can keep you safe.”

Fakir looks at her, opening his mouth to argue but he snaps his jaw shut once he sees that Ahiru looks less afraid. He waits for Raetsel to mount her own horse before swinging himself up onto his. They both look at Ahiru who is once again starting to look a bit sickly.

“You’ll be fine.” Fakir reassures, “you were watching me and Raetsel right?”

She nods, spark returning to her eyes and mouth set in a hard line of determination. She steps into the stirrup that Fakir has left empty for her and attempts to swing herself up onto the horse's back like her two companions. At first she thinks she has succeeded, but her leg doesn’t go all the way up and she begins to slide backwards towards the ground. Fakir grabs her ankle, then uses his other hand to guide her by the waist until she is settled in front of him. Her head is still spinning from the near fall and it takes her a moment to find her words again.

“Thank you.” She breathes, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand still on her waist.

He moves his hand as if he’s been burned and thanks everything that she can’t see his face. “Dont mention it.” he responds gruffly, avoiding Raetsel and using the reins to steer their ride forward.

Raetsel follows them close behind, looking up at the bright sky and wondering what good deed she did for the universe to think her worthy of this newfound entertainment.

They ride mostly in silence, except for Ahiru’s occasional exclamations of delight or awe as they pass under trees and through town. She is constantly turning her head in an attempt to take everything in.

It isn’t a very long journey, and soon they come to a quaint little shop with mannequins dressed in a variety of fabrics displayed in the large front windows.

Raetsel is the first to dismount, smoothing her skirts down as Fakir follows her and offers a hand to Ahiru.

Once the three of them are safely on the ground, Fakir guides their horses to a small grazing area where they will wait obediently until the shopping is complete.

Raetsel leads them into the shop, Ahiru close behind her and Fakir bringing up the tail end. A bell rings as they open the door and a head of blonde hair pops up from behind a counter.

“Welcome in- oh! Raetsel! Let me grab Pike.” Before they can respond, the shopkeeper is running to the back, pigtails bouncing as she moves.

Fakir finds a bench in a corner and sits down, hoping the racks of fabric and garments are enough to hide him.

The shopkeeper returns with her coworker, “has Lilie helped you at all yet?” She asks, tying her shoulder length violet tinted hair into a high ponytail.

��Hmph.” Lilie pouts, “I thought you’d want to do the consultation together.” She lowers her voice so only the three women can hear her, “plus, the handsome Fakir has graced us with his presence.”

Pike rolls her eyes, “you are so dramatic.” She scolds, though it doesn’t have much bite when she is craning her neck to peek at the man hiding in the corner.

Raetsel clears her throat politely, “My new friend could use your expertise.”

The two shopkeepers turn to Ahiru at last, looking her up and down before turning to each other.

“Do we have enough yellow left?” Pike asks Lilie, ushering Ahiru to a section of the room where the floor is cleared and producing a measuring tape from thin air.

Lilie hums, moving towards a rack against the wall and sifting through the materials until she finds a sunny yellow linen. “Yes! And perhaps a blue?” She suggests, stacking a soft blue cotton atop the yellow draped over her arm.

“Oh yes, that will compliment her eyes nicely.” Pike addresses Ahiru directly for the first time, “how many dresses are you looking for today?”

Ahiru looks helplessly towards Raetsel, letting Pike move her arms as she takes her measurements.

“We are starting her wardrobe today, so however many items you both think she will need.” Raetsal answers, earning a surprised look from Lilie.

“What happened to the rest of your clothes?” The blonde asks, pausing in her search for fabrics.

“I don't have any.” Ahiru answers simply.

“Long story.” Raetsel adds.

The two accept this answer easily, “Well then, we should send you home with something today. Lilie?”

Lilie looks over, setting the chosen materials on a large cutting table. “A premade garment for now?”

Pike nods, “just try to find the smallest things you can and we can alter it to fit her properly.”

Raetsel interjects, “she will also need shoes, mine are too large for her. Do you think you have something that would work?”

“Oh i’m sure we do,” Lilie answers, returning with an armful of dresses and blouses. “Shoes are over by Fakir.”

He starts at the mention of his name, looking at his surroundings and finding the shelves stocked with shoeboxes.

Pike measures her feet and calls out the length, instructing Fakir on where to find the correct size of boots.

He carries them to Ahiru once he has found them, bringing a few different options and setting them down next to her before awkwardly standing off to the side.

“Alright, you can try those on Ahiru. We’ll be right back.” Pike says before disappearing into the back of the store with Lilie.

“Do you need help?” Raetsel asks, showing Ahiru where she can sit to unlace her borrowed boots.

“No, thank you, I think I'm alright.” She smiles gratefully at her and sets to work, slipping her feet into one of the pairs Fakir brought her. She carefully tries on each pair but ends up settling on the first, made of dark brown leather with a slight heel and strong black cord lacing them securely.

Lilie returns and writes down the price on a pad of paper tucked into her dress pocket, setting it aside and guiding Ahiru to a fitting room. She helps Ahiru undo the fastenings on her loaned dress, hanging it carefully and instructing her to keep the chemise on before darting out and returning with Pike, both women are carrying armfuls of clothing and Pike has a pincushion strapped to her wrist. They help her into a simple white blouse, pinning where it needs to be taken in. The remaining garments are tried on in the same fashion and Ahiru watches them work. Before she knows it, they are done, helping her back into Raetsel’s loaned dress once more and walking her back to her companions, assuring her that they will return momentarily and asking her to wait while they stitch the adjustments into place. Ahiru seats herself on a bench next to Fakir and Raetsel follows the two shopkeepers to assist them and discuss the items they will be making for pickup at a later date.

“So..that’s the fanclub?” Ahiru guesses.

Fakir looks uncomfortable, “that’s just what Raetsel calls them.”

She giggles, “did you hear what they called you when we walked in?”

He shakes his head, too afraid to ask.

“The handsome Fakir.” Ahiru tells him, stifling another giggle. “Is that your title?” She teases.

He shoots her an irritated glance, “you know that it’s not.”

She shrugs, an impish grin stuck on her face. “It could be.” she states it as if it is a fact and doesn’t seem to catch what she is implying.

Fakir stammers, embarrassed. “W-wha-“ clearing his throat and looking out the window to hide his blush, he scolds her. “You can’t just say things like that!”

She sticks her tongue out at him, “why not? They said it first!”

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “They shouldn’t be saying it either.” He groans, wishing he had stayed home.

“Hm. whatever, I still don’t get why it’s such a big deal.” Ahiru bumps her shoulder against his, “are they your friends?”

“I barely know them.” He answers honestly, “they’re the best seamstresses in town so I’ve been a customer but Raetsel is the one that comes here most often.” He looks at her for a second before continuing, “I usually avoid them.”

Ahiru hums, “I think I understand why.” She acknowledges, “they’re a bit like a whirlwind aren’t they?”

He snorts out a laugh, “don't tell them that, they’ll never let it go.”

She nods. “Yeah, that doesn’t really surprise me.”

They fall into a comfortable silence and fakir studies her when she isn’t looking, trying to understand the mystery of this little lake lady.

It doesn't take long for Raetsal to return with a large package wrapped in brown paper and fastened with twine tied in a bow. “That’s it for today, we will return at the end of the week for the rest of it.”

Ahiru moves forward and takes the package despite Raetsel’s protests, “wow! That was so fast!”

Raetsal winks, “6 hands work faster than 2!”

Fakir takes the package from Ahiru while she’s distracted and holds it where she can’t reach when she tries to take it back. “You’ve paid already?” he nervously glances around the store as he says it.

Raetsal laughs. “Yes Fakir, don't worry. Those two are busy in the back, we’re done.”

He relaxes a bit and they make their way out again, Fakir holding the door for both of the women.

Ahiru skips forward, looking down at her new shoes and admiring how comfortable they are. When she looks up again Fakir and Raetsel have already mounted their horses, the package safely secured to the back of Fakir’s saddle.

“Do you need help? Or would you like to try again on your own?” He asks, looking down at her with his brow furrowed in concern.

Ahiru answers by sticking a boot in the stirrup and once again trying to lift herself up. This time she gets closer to her goal, but Fakir still has to catch her when her leg doesn’t properly hold her up.

“Good try!” Raetsal encourages from behind them, smiling as Fakir adjusts their friend with gentle hands before taking up the reins.

They ride home with minimal conversation, the two siblings focused on steering their horses in the right direction and Ahiru distracted by the people out on the streets, going about their days.

When they are home again, Fakir helps her down and retrieves her parcel, leaving no room for her to argue as he carries it inside.

She follows him, Raetsel not far behind. He stops outside the door of her room, waiting for Raetsel to open the door before carefully setting the package on her bed and excusing himself politely.

Raetsel helps her unpack and hang her new clothing, she picks out a new chemise for Ahiru and shows her to a room down the hall where she can bathe. After making sure she knows how to fill the tub, she too excuses herself with the promise that they will see one another at lunch.

—

Once she has dried herself and wrung most of the water from her hair, Ahiru dons the fresh chemise and pads up the hall to her room. The new clothes hang neatly and she has trouble choosing when given so many options but eventually she settles on a short sleeved, collared blouse made from a lovely cream colored cotton and a simple, tea length yellow linen skirt. Plain white socks cover her feet and the boots are left by the door for when she needs them. She sits at the vanity to comb her hair, leaving it down to dry but tying a yellow ribbon under her hair and around the top of her head to keep it from getting in her face. She smiles at her reflection, the clothes fit perfectly and she can finally see herself now that she isn’t drowning in fabric.

She retrieves Raetsel’s loaned dress and chemise and carries them out to the room she was first brought in to. She knocks gently, and when there is no response, she cracks the door open.

“What are you doing?”

She jumps, turning to find Fakir glowering at her. “I-well I was trying to find Raetsel!”

His face softens, “she’s the door at the end of the hall, moron, this is my room.”

Ahiru flushes, indignant, she bites back “I’m not a moron! How was I supposed to know that! I've only been to her room once and it was a really hectic day!”

Fakir puts a hand on her head, “I know, I was teasing. Could you move out of the way?”

She settles down, embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry.” She shuffles off down the hall and he watches her go, shaking his head and entering his room.

Raetsel, having heard the exchange, opens her door before Ahiru can reach it and gives her a kind smile. “You can just set those in the laundry basket over here.”

Ahiru follows her instruction and smiles at her gratefully, “Thank you Raetsel.”

“Anything for you Ahiru, now, would you like to see what’s for lunch?”

Confused, Ahiru tilts her head, “didn't Fakir just go to his room?”

Raetsel nods, “He’s probably referring to one of his cookbooks.”

“He doesn’t keep them in the kitchen?” Ahiru asks, following Raetsel back out into the hall.

“It’s easier to keep them in good condition away from the steam and mess of food.” Fakir answers from his doorway, “Plus, I don't always need them.” He closes his door and leads the way to the kitchen, resuming his work.

Raetsel and Ahiru seat themselves in the same spots as always, chatting and watching Fakir cook. Raetsel asks how she likes her new clothing and Ahiru gushes her thanks and talks about her favorite things.

Fakir comes with plates of food soon after and seats himself next to her.

Ahiru claps in excitement, tucking her long hair towards her back before digging in.

Raetsel eats more politely, complimenting Fakirs choice of ingredients and asking him questions about the recipe.

Ahiru barely pays attention to them, so focused on enjoying her meal that she doesn't notice when the conversation turns to her.

“Ahiru?” Raetsel prods gently.

she starts slightly in response, looking up and finding them both turned to her. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Raetsel smiles, “Do you know what you want to do here? I work at Ebine’s bakery for part of the week and Fakir writes for our local paper. Pike and Lilie offered to teach you how to cut fabric but you are free to choose what you like.”

Ahiru blinks, “I’m...staying?”

Fakir answers this time, rolling his eyes. “Of course you are, where else would you go stupid?”

Raetsel swats his shoulder, “Oh be nice to her Fakir.” Turning back to Ahiru, “Yes, you are welcome to stay with us as long as you wish dear.”

Ahiru grins, “Thank you! I like it so much here, I’m so happy!” She looks down at her hands, “As for what i want to do.. I’m not really sure yet. Pike and Lilie are very nice but I don’t know if I could really be of any help to them.”

Fakir nods, “You don’t have to decide yet. You haven’t even seen your other options so take your time and don’t feel bad about it.”

Raetsel agrees with him, “I'm sure you will be good at whatever you choose, with passion like yours you can do anything.”

Ahiru flushes and curls into herself, hair falling forward to hide her face.

Fakir watches in horror as a lock of her hair begins to flop into her plate, instinctively he tucks the hair back into place. Once he realizes what he’s done he can feel the steam coming out of his ears, “Y-you should probably tie your hair up when you eat.”

Raetsal barely stifles her laugh, shoving a bite of food into her mouth to keep herself quiet.

Ahiru stares at Fakir, mouth open and cheeks pink. It takes a few more blinks before she twists her knee length hair up and up and up, using the yellow ribbon to loosely tie it into place, it’s the best imitation of a bun she can do with the current materials.

Clearing his throat and drinking water in an effort to cool the flush on his skin, Fakir continues eating as if nothing happened and the two women soon follow his lead.

Ahiru is grateful for the diversion, feeling more shy than usual and needing the silence. She is also easily distracted by how much she loves this food and each bite brings her farther away from the embarrassment.

Soon, the meal is over and they separate, Ahiru washing the dishes without supervision as Raetsel has deemed her able. Fakir puts away anything left over in the kitchen and excuses himself to his room.

When the dishes are cleaned, dried and put away, Ahiru wonders what she’s meant to do, yesterday and this morning there was no time for boredom. Now she feels like she should be doing something and without noticing she has begun to dance, the kitchen floor not ideal for ballet but accommodating her nonetheless. There is no music, but the early afternoon sun shining through the windows above the sink highlights her more beautifully than any spotlight. When she finally realizes what she’s doing, she is in the middle of simple barre exercises. Her muscles ache in relief, as if they have been waiting for her to use them. She smiles, closing her eyes and tilting her head up towards the sun, letting muscle memory take over.

Fakir carries his notebook under one arm and holds his inkwell and quill in his hands. He is headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, but stops when he sees her. Not wanting to interrupt, he sits at the table, partially hidden by the open doorway that connects the two rooms. His things are set down carefully and quietly, and then he turns his attention back to the ballerina in his kitchen.

She moves through her relevés with the ease and joy of someone who lives to dance.

Chin in palm, Fakir watches her. The light flickering over her face moves with her and he is entranced. Warm ups finished, Ahiru moves into a choreography as if it’s second nature. His heart aches in his chest when he realizes it is meant to be a pas de deux, her body struggles to support itself and he longs to take the weight for her.

She continues, oblivious of her audience, dancing to the song only she can hear and baring her emotions with every movement.

When the steps come to a close and her head is bowed in an ending curtsy, Fakir panics, realizing that soon she will open her eyes and he will have to explain why he’s been creepily watching without saying a word. Cringing, he braces himself and opens his notebook, hoping to at least look busy when she catches him.

She lets out a small startled noise when she opens her eyes, coming back into her mind after letting her body take over. She sees Fakir sitting at the table and despite the open notebook, she knows that he has not written a word for she would have heard the scratch of his quill. She flushes prettily, sneaking out of the kitchen while he’s still looking down and all but running to her room.

She leans against the inside of her closed door, putting her head in her hands and trying to calm herself down. She hadn’t planned on dancing and she definitely did not expect an audience, no matter how politely he pretended not to be watching she knew he had seen at least some of her dance and she hopes that she danced well. Most of the remaining afternoon is spent like this, trying to distract herself by thinking over the job offer from Pike and Lilie, but mind wandering back to the kitchen and her dream from the night before. There is a mix of confusing emotions swirling in her chest and she unties the ribbon holding her makeshift bun in place, running her hands through her own hair in a calming fashion. The dream had felt so real and coupled with some of the memories that had come back to her, she has a feeling it was something that had really happened. Brows furrowing as she thinks, she tries desperately to recall the events of her dream but most of what she can remember is emotions and steps of a dance. There is a flash of black curls and red lips kissing a pale figure with hair like the feathers of a swan, but this imagery brings a panging sorrow and the tears rising in her eyes warn her not to push this memory back into her conscious mind. Wiping her cheeks where they have gotten wet, she takes Fakir’s advice and sets to braiding her hair into a crown. It doesn't take her very long, and soon Raetsel is knocking on her door to alert her that supper will be ready soon. Ahiru thanks her and says she will be there in a moment, needing some time to collect herself and finish tying the braids in place around her head.

When she finally comes to the dining table, Fakir and Raetsel are already seated and a plate is waiting in her usual spot. She squeezes by Fakir, who avoids her eyes and looks at his plate with pink dusting the bridge of his nose. Once she is settled, the three begin to eat, they are all tired from the eventful day and conversation is light.

It is a quick meal and Raetsel is the first to bid them goodnight, letting Ahiru know that she will be gone for work by the time they wake and making sure Ahiru does not need anything before she excuses herself.

Ahiru pokes at her remaining food listlessly, wishing she could enjoy it the way she wants to but emotions ruining her appetite. Sighing, she carries the dishes to the sink and begins scrubbing, not even noticing when Fakir follows behind her.

“Ahiru?” Fakir asks quietly, “I hope I didn’t upset you earlier.”

This breaks her reverie and she looks at him, confused. “What? No! Why would I be upset?”

Fakir seems doubtful. “Well you’re obviously upset about something.”

She puffs her cheeks out. “No, i just…” brows furrowed she admits defeat, “Okay yeah you’re right I am. But I promise it has nothing to do with you!” She says the last part earnestly and Fakir is momentarily stunned by the shine of her eyes.

“Do you.. want to talk about it?” He says it awkwardly, as if the idea is foreign to him.

Her eyes dim, “I don’t think I was very happy before I came here.”

He seems surprised at her answer, “Was the lake not good to you?”

This makes her puff a tiny, sad laugh, “The lake may be where I came from, but it wasn’t where I lived before.”

Fakir looks at her concerned, “You don't remember very much, do you?”

She shakes her head, “Most of it is just feelings, there’s something there definitely but trying to recall more than just blurs hurts.”

He feels deeply sorry for her, “It sounds like.. well sometimes our brains try to protect us by blocking some things out.”

She tilts her head to the side, “You think it could be that?”

He nods slowly “There are many written accounts of this experience, if you’d like, I can help you research more about it tomorrow?” He says the last bit as a question, unsure if she really wants to open herself up to possible pain.

She smiles gratefully, it is smaller than her usual grin but still makes his heart skip, “Thank you Fakir, I would like that very much.”

Flushing at her sincerity, he looks away. “D-dont mention it.” He dries the dishes that she is finished washing and together they finish the chore faster than either could on their own. When the dishes are put away and the kitchen is clean, Fakir walks her to her room and bids her goodnight with the promise of a library trip the next day. Ahiru is so exhausted she barely manages to take her hair down and remove her blouse and skirt before crawling into bed and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

#princess tutu #ptutu #fakiru #fakir x duck #princess tutu fanfiction #princess tutu fanart #ahiru arima #princess tutu fakir #fairy tale inspired

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spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago

Text

Foolishly, Completely Falling

Summary: Spencer declines to spend the night with Luke, but there's a reason for that, and things start to click into place when Spencer shows back up at his doorstep at 2am, hours after being dropped home.

Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, past toxic relationship, nightmares, est/dev relationship

Pairing: Luke x Spencer

Word count: 2.5k

Read on AO3

When Luke asks Spencer if he wants to stay the night for the first time, he isn’t as quick to agree like Luke expects. The TV is playing a game show on low volume and they’re lying comfortably together on the sofa, quietly enjoying one another’s company after a busy day. They’d had a lovely evening out at the Mexican restaurant Luke had managed to convince Spencer to try before a cuddle and far too much making out on the sofa, so he’s feeling pretty good when he whispers the question into his boyfriend’s ear. Instead of the excited agreement he expects, though -- after all, the first night in the same bed with a new partner is always exhilarating -- Spencer freezes.

“Hey,” Luke says, tone quickly sobering up. He shifts a little to get a better look at his boyfriend’s face, worried he’d said the wrong thing. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, baby. We can just cuddle a little longer and then I’ll drive you home, yeah? Whatever you want.”

The kind voice he uses seems to slowly shake Spencer out of his frozen trance, gradually pulling himself up from the quicksand of his thoughts to respond to Luke. “No, I want to,” he explains slowly, thankful Luke is so patient when he tries to articulate complicated feelings. “There’s just… it’s because-- I don’t know how to tell you.” He sighs in defeat as he fails to tell his boyfriend how he feels, slumping down a little as he relaxes his previously stiffened muscles, collapsing into the warmth and safety of Luke’s chest.

“You don’t have to justify it, Spencer,” Luke says earnestly, running his hands up and down Spencer’s arms gently as his face contorts with worry, a small sense of relief coming from the feeling of his boyfriend physically relaxing under his touch. He can’t help but feel a sinking pit of fear in his stomach that maybe he’s made a massive misstep, maybe Spencer isn’t as into this as he is, maybe there’s something really, really wrong.

Instead of voicing his concerns, though, he simply revels in the moment: Spencer’s head on his chest, his body flush against his own as their breathing syncs and they take in the last few moments of peace before the world switches back on and they have to part ways.

If only he could stop his tumbling mind and enjoy it properly.

★

Spencer seems mostly recovered from the awkward moment by the time they clamber into Luke’s car to drive him back home. He’s barely switched the engine on before Spencer is telling him about the technology of contactless keys and how they were invented, the dangers they present to society as well as the vulnerability they have to hacking before going on a tangent about a factory in Ireland that accidentally discovered a serious technological advancement. He’s chattering away happily in the passenger seat, and the tension Luke still holds in his shoulders dissipates as he listens to him ramble about things he cares about.

It’s hard to focus on the road, really, when Spencer chooses to be so utterly adorable. He can’t keep his eyes off him when he’s passionately lecturing somebody about something everyone else finds insignificant or confusing and he finds endlessly fascinating. The team makes fun of him constantly for the way he stares at his boyfriend, and he’s not overly fond of the new nickname ‘moon eyes’ that he can’t seem to shake, but it won’t stop him from appreciating Spencer’s knowledge, making sure he knows Luke supports him no matter what. He knows that he gets shut down far too often, that people appreciate him for his intellect only when it’s valuable to him, and he’ll be damned if he ever makes him feel that way.

He listens dutifully the whole drive back to Spencer’s apartment, managing to drive safely despite the distraction, and he can’t suppress the laugh at the surprised look colouring Spencer’s face once he sees they’ve arrived. He goes into a little bubble when he’s info-dumping, only coming out of it when there’s a significant change in his environment, but Luke can’t stop the fondness from spreading through his body as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen Spencer make that face.

“We’re here,” Spencer observes, a slightly sheepish look spreading across his features.

Luke absolutely cannot accept that so he leans across the console to press a deep and loving kiss to his lips, startling Spencer out of his embarrassment as he kisses back with just as much vigour. “You want me to walk you up?” Luke asks as he pulls away, bringing a hand to Spencer’s face to gently brush a few curls off his forehead.

“I’m good,” Spencer smiles, looking adoringly at Luke. If he was a more acrimonious man he’d be annoyed that everyone misses the matching looks Spencer sends his way, but there’s something special about them being just for him, like there’s a little bit of him he gets to keep just for himself. He’ll take that over Spencer getting teased even more any day.

“Okay, baby.” He leans in to give him another kiss, quickly this time, before leaning up to peck his forehead, too. “You sleep well. If we’re not called in tomorrow I’ll swing by and we can do something together, how does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Spencer says softly. He puts his hand on top of Luke’s and caresses his knuckles gently, and for a second Luke is convinced he’s about to say something but he decides against it, settling on a soft smile before he’s clumsily climbing out of the car and walking towards the elevator into the building.

The shy wave Spencer gives him just as the elevator doors close is enough to keep his heart warm through winter.

★

Luke heads straight to bed as soon as he gets back home, switching off all the lights and getting ready in the bathroom before slipping between the sheets. It’s barely 11 but he’s exhausted from a busy day at work followed by the date he’d had with Spencer and he can feel the exhaustion tugging at his limbs. He’d hoped that he would be cuddled against a warm body tonight, and Spencer’s absence makes the bed feel so cold, even with Roxy warming his feet.

Eventually, he manages to slip off to sleep, though, because he’s woken up not long after by Roxy leaping off the bed and whining at his bedroom door, startling him awake. “Roxy?” he asks, immediately on high alert. “What’s wrong, girl?” He sleepily pushes the covers off him, exposing himself to the frigid air of his apartment as he contemplates reaching for his gun when he hears it. There’s a tentative knock at the door, probably not the first, far too quiet to have woken him up if he hadn’t had Roxy. He jumps into action and pulls a t-shirt on as he walks to his front door, flicking on the lights as he goes, not wanting to trip over anything in the dark.

It’s Spencer. He’s standing there looking nothing short of distraught as he wrings his hands nervously in front of him, that sheepish, embarrassed look Luke had been so desperate to kiss away earlier returned in full force.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking close to tears. “I just, I didn’t know where to go… usually I go to JJ’s but Henry and Michael are staying with Penelope tonight so she and Will could have a proper date night again and I didn’t want to interrupt but I didn’t want to be alone so I thought that maybe… maybe it would be okay if I came to see you, but I’m sorry if--”

“Hey,” Luke gently intercepts Spencer’s rambling with a careful hand on his waist and a step closer. “Why don’t you come in?”

It’s a bit of a shock to see his boyfriend on his doorstep only hours after he’d dropped him off, especially since he’s clearly in quite a state, a very different Spencer to the one who had kissed him deeply and waved him goodbye earlier in the evening, but Luke doesn’t want to do another thing until Spencer is happy again, feeling safe and comforted. He’s going to try damn hard to do that for him.

“I’m sorry, Luke,” he apologises again, voice tight and anxious, eyes glassy as he follows him inside and hesitantly sits next to him on the sofa. “I should have asked before turning up here and I’m sure I woke you up. God, I’m such an idiot sometimes, I should just--”

“Spencer,” Luke says, voice a little louder to cut over Spencer’s panicked word vomit. “You are always welcome here. No matter what, okay? You don’t have to be afraid to come here, ever. I’m your boyfriend, I want to take care of you.”

“Really?” he asks, looking almost floored at Luke’s words.

“Really.” Luke promises, reaching over to gently wipe a spilled tear from Spencer’s cheekbone. “If I was upset, wouldn’t you feel the same way.”

Spencer’s eyes widen in understanding as he nods vigorously, causing Luke to smile fondly.

“Now. What’s going on, baby? Did something happen?”

“Um,” Spencer hesitates, simultaneously not knowing how to properly voice his feelings and afraid of how Luke might react to them. Luckily, Luke knows how to be patient with Spencer, waiting quietly as he traces patterns on his forearm. “You know how earlier I said I did want to stay here but I couldn’t?”

Luke hums. “I do, yes.”

“Well, it’s because I was scared.”

Luke’s finger pauses for a short second in surprise before continuing its path, trying to convey his non-judgement. “What of, sweetheart?” he asks, praying that he wasn’t about to say him.

“The last time I shared a bed with someone, he wasn’t nice to me,” Spencer confesses, looking into Luke’s eyes briefly, long enough only for Luke to pick up on the intense vulnerability swimming in his pupils. “I get… really bad nightmares. And my ex, the one I told you about, George?” He waits for Luke’s acknowledging nod before continuing. “He got… angry. I disturbed his sleep and he yelled a lot before breaking up with me.”

Luke nods slowly, finally understanding the situation. “And you were afraid that the same thing would happen with me?” he asks gently, not judging Spencer for his fear at all and hoping he can see that in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispers, looking down at his twiddling fingers for a long moment before finally looking back at Luke, tears gathering in his eyes again. “I’m sorry, I should have trusted you.”

“Oh, Spencer,” he soothes calmly, gathering him up into a hug and carding his fingers through Spencer’s curls in just the way he knows he likes. “You can’t control a fear like that. It’s a natural reaction to be afraid of repeating a previous experience, especially if that event was upsetting or traumatic.”

“I know,” he mutters miserably, face wedged close into Luke’s neck. “I’m still sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby,” he says. “Is that what made you come over tonight? You had a nightmare?” He feels Spencer nod and his heart breaks. His boyfriend has been silently suffering through these awful nightmares alone, all because some asshole had broken up with him for something he couldn’t control. “I’m sorry, Spence. Do you want to talk about it?”

Spencer shakes his head, as he pulls his face away from Luke’s neck. “I’ve tried that but it doesn’t work,” he frowns. “It just makes me relive it and the anxiety gets worse. It’s better if I just try and acknowledge them before moving past them.”

“Whatever works for you, baby,” Luke says. “Now, how about we get you changed into some pajamas again and you can come and stay with me tonight. I just want to be here for you, Spencer, comfort you if you have a nightmare, hold you even if you don’t. Nothing will happen if you do have one, alright? Except you being able to avoid travelling across town at 2am to seek some comfort, because I’ll be right next to you, cuddles at the ready.”

“You promise?” Spencer asks hopefully, finally seeming to relax a little.

“I swear on my life,” Luke grins, before pressing a chaste kiss to Spencer’s lips and standing up. “Come on, let’s get ready for bed.”

Spencer’s wearing a soft t-shirt already but Luke demands he change into one of his own, claiming he wants him to be as comfortable as possible, but they both know he just can’t get enough of Spencer in his own clothes. It feels like an extra layer of protection Luke can wrap around him, keep him safe and warm in his clothing, protect him from anything formidable, including his own mind. “It smells of you,” he smiles approvingly as soon as it’s settled over his shoulders, too loose for his smaller frame.

“Well, baby, you’re gonna love cuddling with me in my bed then,” Luke winks. “I’m not sure anywhere else could possibly smell more like me.” He switches off the lights in the house and calls Roxy back to bed, before slipping underneath the duvet, which is much more pleasurable this time, Spencer curled up against his side as Luke wraps a comforting arm around his waist.

He savours Spencer’s satisfied sigh as he curls up tighter, pressing as close to Luke as possible; his clingy nature is one of the things he loves most about him. There’s nothing Spencer likes more than climbing into Luke’s lap or laying across him on the sofa, holding his hand in public or pressing himself as close as possible until Luke gets the hint and wraps an arm around his waist. He loves being held, which works out well because Luke isn’t sure he likes anything more than holding him, drinking in the comfort that comes from the closeness, the inexplicable feeling that is being Spencer Reid’s boyfriend.

“Thank you, Luke,” Spencer whispers, voice clearly showing how drained and tired he is, but he sounds relaxed and comfortable, and that’s what matters most.

“Anytime, baby,” he whispers back, smile playing over his lips as it always seems to do when he’s around Spencer. “You sleep now. You’re safe, I’ll be here.”

“I know.” Spencer’s whisper is even quieter this time as his breaths even out and his muscles relax slightly, and Luke has never envied his boyfriend’s eidetic memory more. If he could bottle this exact moment -- Spencer slowly falling asleep on him, trusting him enough to stay no matter what happens, the warmth and comfort of the embrace -- he’d never stop playing it over, a personal paradise just for the two of them recorded in his mind forever.

Just having this moment, though, having this memory all for himself, will do Luke just fine.

@gxenbev

#ralvez #luke alvez x spencer reid #luke #luke alvez #spencer #spencer reid #ralvez fic #ralvez writing #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds hurt/comfort #criminal minds angst #my writing

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years ago

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 04 (second part)

(Masterpost) (Episode 04, first part) (Episode 05, first part)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes

Continued from the first half of this very long post!

Lets Go! Gusu

Wen Qing is lovingly exploring the magical wards of Gusu. She tries a little digital penetration on the ward at the waterfall, but gets the hard nope.

Note: Here at Canary3d we don’t ship Wen Qing with any cultivator ladies because we’re too busy shipping her with modern-day infosec-pro ladies, if you get what I’m saying and/or have read my bio.

Meanwhile Wei Wuxian is fishing with Nie Huaisang, using the method of sneaking up and grabbing fish with his bare hands. This actually works, because he is good at literally everything. His “I’ll be the prodigy” speech to Lan Xichen, isn’t actually arrogant.

Aw, Look at Xiao Zhan pretending this fish isn’t already dead.

Nosy Parker Wei Wuxian

Wei Wuxian goes to chat up Wen Qing and none of his crap works on her.

If I want to admire a pretty face I’ll go look in the mirror

His interactions with Wen Qing help to mature Wei Wuxian quite a bit over the months and years. Initially she’s a mystery to him, and he wants her attention and esteem. And can’t get either.

Look how stunned he is to encounter a boundary when she won’t let him touch her needle. “Wards are made to be broken” but she’s not going to let him past any of hers.

Jiang Cheng, Insecurest Boi

Oh you beautiful sad angry boy.

(More after the cut!)

Jiang Cheng is angrily waving the laundry around practicing his angry sword moves without a sparring partner, which is noteworthy partly because it shows how dedicated he is, but also because it shows how much he depends on Wei Wuxian for social interaction and cultivation practice. There must be 40 or 50 kids he could go practice with, but he’s by himself.

Camera Operator: Why you gotta take it out on me?

When he bitches to Yanli about his Dad preferring Wei Wuxian, she gaslights him.

Yanli is so gentle and kind, and she’s been the real mother for both of these boys when she didn’t have to be. But she ain’t perfect.

Yanli found this soup recipe on youtube. The ingredients are: water

Jiang Cheng has such a complex about Wei Wuxian he won't take the fish from him directly. He just looks hungry until Yanli grabs a stick and passes it to him.

Look, Jiang Cheng, we know you have reasons to be upset, but you need to get the fuck over yourself.

Aw, look at Xiao Zhan pretending this fish is cooked/palatable. (note: it is not)

Xiao Zhan deserves multiple awards for this performance. With bonus points for gratuitously eye-fucking Wang Zhoucheng into next week.

Wang Zhuocheng is an amazing actor who plays an incredible range of emotions, but selling the “delicious fish” lie exceeds his abilities. Look how he steels himself before he opens his mouth.

Yanli tells Wei Wuxian to be good starting tomorrow, and WWX gives her his patented lying-motherfucker salute.

This one has 4 fingers, unlike the 3-fingered boy scout salute he gave Lan Wangji on the roof in the previous episode. The extra finger is for extra lying.

Lan Lecture: Goofing off

Wei Wuxian is bored and spends the lecture time goofing off or sleeping like any other smart kid with ADHD.

Eventually he draws a bunny while Nie Huasang tosses him a nut wrapped in paper and he eats it. It’s the same kind of nut he eats at the beginning of his second life, when he remarks that they tasted better 16 years ago.

Don’t mind me, just putting Nie-Xiong’s nuts in my mouth

It’s cute how WWX and NHS are so vaguely gay for each other without bothering to be seriously gay for each other.

Several of the rules that are read out during this part of the lecture are things that Wei Wuxian is doing during this part of the lecture, or will become known for doing in the near future.

sitting improperly

causing noise

teasing others

ignoring others and being undisciplined

borrowing money

being late

Lan Lecture: Showing off

The question & answer part of the lecture arrives, which is when Wei Wuxian gets to show off his gifts.

He is that classic kid who already knows the essence of the material, does not need stuff explained, and is super bored at rote learning.

Lan Qiren makes Lan Wangji show off his skills to the whole class, which would guarantee an after-school ass kicking for the teacher's pet except that LWJ is basically the most aggressive person in the entire Lan clan (thanks Mom for those "I'm going to kill you now" genes!) and is unbeatable.

Lan Lecture: Going off

Next, Wei Wuxian introduces an idea for sustainable energy.

He starts off challenging Lan Qiren's hypothetical scenario, and as Lan Qiren draws breath to answer him, Lan Wangji starts speaking. LWJ has been listening very carefully and is speaking out of turn instead of letting the master speak, which is...probably not how he usually conducts himself?

From Wei Wuxian’s perspective, this is just the run-up to his next outrageous suggestion, but for Lan Wangji, this has to be an enormous moment. This boy who is unexpectedly a good sparring partner with swords and words is also an intellectual sparring partner - someone who can give Lan Wangji an actual chance to debate something.

Wei Wuxian’s answer "it's such a waste" is directed to Lan Wangji, not to the class as a whole. Lan Wangji, Gusu’s loneliest boy, is suddenly in a relationship with an equal. The relationship is adversarial, but it's EQUAL.

Wei Wuxian carries on explaining his idea: How about digging up and desecrating corpses? No no no Not for fun, but in order to have massive, unthinkable power?

Seems like a waste to just leave the dead to their rest when you could be using them for something.

Lan Qiren: I can see we are going to have to kill you eventually, aren't we

Jiang Cheng: oh my god Wei Wuxian you can't just ask about decapitating corpses

Jiang Yanli: perhaps my unwavering loyalty to Dad's methods with my baby brother should be reexamined

Nie Huasang: my dude, conceal don’t feel, seriously

Lan Wangji: hmmm he’s not exactly wrong

Lan Wangji was a LOT more horrified at Wei Wuxian sticking a note on Lan Qiren’s ass than he is at this whole demonic cultivation thing. Lan Wangji is really really attracted to Wei Wuxian’s talent and intelligence, even when it's completely heterodox. You can see it much later when Wen Ning gets his personality back; Lan Wangji is impressed and congratulatory, unlike literally everyone else in the cultivation world.

Punishment

When Wei Wuxian gets sent to copy a chapter 1000 times, Jiang Cheng and Yanli are both horrified, whereas Wei Wuxian’s reaction is totally chill.

Basically he knows that he has reached the part of the classroom discussion where he is inevitably sent for punishment, because he is totally used to that being how things go in his education.

Similarly, kneeling doesn't bother him because Madame Yu made him kneel for everything. Wei Wuxian is the mascot for too-smart bored kids everywhere.

On his way out, Wei Wuxian hits Lan Wangji with this troubled look of yearning. In this moment where Wei Wuxian is sparking Lan Wangji’s interest and tentatively seeking a path toward Lan Wangji’s heart, he is also mapping out the unorthodox path he will follow away from him as they grow up.

Lan Qiren in his rage does the dumbest and, frankly, most irresponsible thing the parent of a teenager can do in this situation; he sends Lan Wangji to supervise Wei Wuxian’s punishment.

"This terrible WWX is a one-man bad crowd. Let me send my deeply conflicted, stubborn, intensely private, teetotling, abstinent and abstemious newphew to spend several days in a private location with him, being bored together."

Lan Wangji responds to this order with 100% calmness, not even an eyebrow furrow.

I'm sure no cussing, pornography, romantic portraits, flirty ink grinding, or changes in forms of address will happen.

Lan Lecture: Blowing off

Wei Wuxian meanwhile has fucked off to go make more friends, and is hanging out with Wen Ning. Wen Ning demonstrates his archery by hitting the worlds slowest falling rock in midair and Wei Wuxian earnestly praises him and offers to trade skill pointers.

I love how sweet and kind WWX is to this younger kid who is obviously a little different.

When Wen Qing shows up, Wei Wuxian takes another opportunity to get into her business, but he skips the charm this time. He also 100% correctly deduces what she is up to.

Swords by the Waterfall

Then comes another sexy sword fight as Lan Wangji sneaks up on Wei Wuxian and almost get his face sliced open as a reward.

Now that the swords are out it’s time for...homework, sigh. Summer school is the worst.

Outro

Writing Prompt: Lan Xichen’s letter to Nie Mingjue after meeting Meng Yao

Episode 05 Restless Rewatch is over here!

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #chen qing ling #the untamed stills #restless rewatch the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wen qing #lan qiren #weilan #the untamed spoilers #restless rewatch #the untamed meta

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superheroesofbothuniverses · 3 years ago

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The Grumpy Goat Farmer (Wintershock)

Moving out to the country was only temporary, Darcy reminded herself repeatedly as she dealt with the myriad of old farmhouse issues that tormented her daily. The kitchen sink leaked, the hot water didn’t go above warm, and the microwave only worked for one minute. The gas stove was new, but the fridge was clearly on its last legs. That would be the next tennant’s problem, however, as Darcy fully intended to be long gone before it gave out. She’d needed to find a quiet place to rest and lay low and Clint had put her in touch with his neighbor, who’d agreed to rent it to her short-term.

She’d expected to have to deal with terrible wi-fi, but it was surprisingly decent and kept her in touch with the outside world and allowed her to keep up her research. She only knew of two neighbors within a three mile radius and she’d only met one, Mr. Bolton, who had warned her about the other neighbor.

“A surly young man, that one,” he’d sighed. “I tried for months to be friendly to him, but he just grunts and frowns. No people skills at all. He’s great with his goats, though. Pampers them like his own children!! I wouldn’t go to him if you need to borrow sugar, Dr. Lewis.”

Darcy had chuckled.

“Oh, I definitely won’t. I brought plenty with me. I plan on getting a good amount of baking done.”

Darcy made good on her word, delighting Mr. Bolton with frequent treats fresh from the oven. She’d thought about taking some to Mr. Surly, but Mr. Bolton’s warning and her own brief glimpse of the grumpy goat farmer had her hesitating. He really did have a perpetual “Stay Away” expression.

One day, Darcy was sitting out on her porch when a little black and white goat strolled up the steps boldly and looked expectantly at her.

“Oh, hello there,” she exclaimed, smitten at first sight. The little goat was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen and kept looking at her with hopeful eyes.

“Are you lost, sweetie?” She asked, slowly reaching out to pet her visitor. “I’ve heard goats are great escape artists. I think I know where you came from, though. Come here.”

Picking up the goat, who didn’t seem at all bothered by her, Darcy started walking in the direction of Grumpy Dude’s place, which turned out to be a lot farther than she’d guessed. She had to stop and rest a couple times, giving the goat some more cuddles in the meantime.

She was starting to become very attached to her new friend by the time she was walking up the driveway to a simple grey ranch house. A red-plaid wearing figure suddenly appeared and Surly Face himself stood in front of her.

Darcy was momentarily speechless as she recognized Bucky Barnes, who was very scruffy looking, but had cut his hair since she’d last seen him on tv and was rocking jeans and flannel in a ridiculously attractive manner.

“I brought your goat back,” she managed, trying to smile in a friendly fashion, even as she struggled not to go all fangirl on him.

Bucky’s eyes widened and she could have sworn he turned pale, but he swallowed hard and took the goat from her arms.

“Thank you,” he said, carefully inspecting his goat. “Diamond must have squeezed out of the fence, little rascal lady.”

He smiled down at Diamond, who was nibbling on his sleeve, and Darcy’s heart skipped a beat. She knew that Bucky hadn’t had a lot to smile about in his life, but when he did, it was absolutely beautiful. He’d probably kept up the grumpiness to protect his privacy.

“She’s a real sweetheart,” Darcy observed. “I’ve never seen such a cutie.”

“Yep, she is,” Bucky agreed. “I’ve got ten more kids and six adult does as well.”

“Wow. That’s some serious goat dedication,” Darcy observed.

“I spent a lot of time in Wakanda as a goatherd and kind of developed a liking for them,” Bucky admitted softly.

There was a rather long, slightly awkward silence as they each seemed to be trying to figure out something, then Bucky set Diamond down and pushed up his sleeve, revealing a very nice forearm.

“Another reason I got into goats was because my soulmate mentioned them,” he said, showing her the words inscribed on his arm: the words she’d just spoken to him.

Darcy was speechless.

Bucky started looking uneasy and she forced herself to break through her dazed shock and speak reassurance.

“Hey, I’m totally cool with this,” she exclaimed. “But I thought I was never gonna find mine.”

She pulled her hair away from her neck and tilted her head so he could see the generic “Thank You” written there.

“I suffered through a LOT of false positives, so I hope you’ll make it up to me, Mr. Barnes,” she said playfully.

Bucky broke out in a full blown grin that turned her insides to jelly.

“Doll, if you’ll give me a chance, I will be happy to make it up to you,” he said, blue eyes looking earnestly into hers. “You’ve got my handwriting on you alright. But how about we start with a proper introduction. You look familiar, but I can’t quite place you.”

“Sorry,” Darcy apologized, offering her hand. “I’m Dr. Darcy Lewis, friend of Avengers and vacationing Astrophysicist. Since you haven’t corrected me, I assume you are indeed Bucky Barnes?”

“In the flesh,” he confirmed with a wry smile, shaking her hand firmly. “There’s still time for you to run away screaming. Wouldn’t blame you one bit.”

She looked down at their hands, which were still clasped and shook her head with a smile.

“Nope. I’m keeping you, Bucky Barnes. I have a strong preference for rugged flannel wearing men with adorable smiles and equally adorable goats.”

Diamond lifted her head from the grass she was grazing on to give a bleat.

“See? Diamond agrees with me. We should give this a shot,” Darcy declared.

Bucky’s eyes twinkled and he looked at her rather intently for a second before releasing her hand.

“Hmmm. I’m inclined to agree,” he admitted. “I happen to have a strong preference for pretty scientists.”

“Do you?” Darcy asked flirtatiously. “Then this soulmate thing might just work out. Thank you, Diamond.”’

She leaned down to give the kid another grateful pet.

“Would you like to see the rest of the herd?” Bucky asked hopefully.

“Yes, please!” Darcy agreed, very pleased at the turn of events. The extremely handsome, not-really-grumpy war hero turned goat farmer was her soulmate!

#wintershock #darcy lewis #Bucky Barnes #soulmate AU

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bestillmyslashyheart · 4 years ago

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your colorful touch

for the amazing and wonderful @iwontbeyourmedicine. Happy Birthday!!!

It was a probably a bad idea, definitely a dick move, but Alex was just drunk enough not to care.

He watched Maria hang off of Michael’s arm, watched her trail her fingers up his bare forearm as she walked away, and he got up from his stool, walked over to Michael, and dragged his fingers along the path Maria had just traced. Michael was too startled to move away and only stared at Alex in surprise and then suspicion. “Alex?” He asked when Alex turned to leave without a word. Alex didn’t say anything, didn’t even look back at him as he walked back over to his stool. The entire encounter had taken less than 30 seconds. Maria came out of the back and walked over to Michael just as he sat down and he drained his glass as he heard her squeal in excitement. “Oh my god!” She half-yelled. “Michael!”

There was a mirror over the bar that showed the rest of the room and Alex stared at Michael and Maria’s reflections in it. Michael hadn’t moved from where Alex left him. Maria was standing in front of him, clutching his hand excitedly as she stared down at his forearm. Bright colorful lines marred his skin in the exact pattern Maria (and then Alex) had traced.

“I’m your soulmate!” Maria realized in a hushed yell. Michael stared at her wide eyed but didn’t say anything as she kissed him and then hugged him. Over her shoulder, Michael glared at Alex across the bar, their eyes meeting in the mirror. Alex offered him a smirk before looking away.

As Maria chattered on happily behind him, he stared down at his finger and the colorful mark on its tip that perfectly matched the colors on Michael’s skin.

“Want another?” Logan, the bartender asked. He glanced over Alex’s shoulder and then back at him. “On the house?”

Alex exhaled heavily and nodded.

---

It’s a bit cruel of him, he knows. But honestly, Maria should know better. If her touch only leaves a mark sometimes, and is only showing up just now after them having known each other for years and been dating for months, then there’s probably some other explanation for it. Everybody knows that the touch of your soulmate leaves a colored mark on your skin. Everybody knows that this happens at the first touch and every touch thereafter.

Everybody knows.

So it’s not Alex’s fault that Maria thinks she’s Michael’s soulmate. Even if he does purposefully leaves marks on Michael’s skin in the exact places he sees her touch him.

In his very terrible defense, he only does it when he’s drunk and pissed off. When he’s in his right mind he knows better.

---

Maria grabbed Michael’s face with both hands and gave him a quick kiss before she disappeared into the back to deal with a problem and left Michael and Alex sitting next to each other in a secluded booth, Liz, Kyle, and Max having already disappeared to get another round of drinks.

Alex was drunk but not drunk enough to fuck with Michael’s marks but Michael turned to him with a heavy amount of suspicion and Alex abruptly changed his mind. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” He asked first. Touching Michael’s arms or brushing against his hand is one thing, grabbing his face and kissing him is something very different.

“Alex,” Michael replied, a warning in his voice. But he didn’t say no and he didn’t move away. In fact, he leaned closer towards Alex.

Alex ignored the movement and asked again, “what would you do?”

“You’re an asshole,” Michael said but he reached for Alex’s collar and pulled him closer so Alex didn’t take it to heart. He waited for Michael to lean in first before putting his hands right where he’d seen Maria’s and kissed him. It wasn’t a long kiss but neither was it too brief.

The sound of Liz’s voice and three sets of footsteps had Alex pulled back. In an instant, they put enough space between them to fit three people and somehow look convincingly nonchalant when the Liz, Max, and Kyle appeared with drinks in hand. Michael stood up to let them into the booth and they quickly dispersed the drinks. Alex took his with a nod of thanks to Kyle and watched as the color blossomed on Michael’s face. It wasn’t immediate. First, there was a splotch of green on his cheek from where Alex’s palm had held it. From there, it darkened and changed to blue closer to his lips. A few moments later, a purple mark appeared on his opposite cheek, turning pink as the fingers appeared stretching towards his hair.

“Nice one, Mikey,” Liz laughed. She reached out and traced over the edges of the mark as it filled in into a definite hand print, her finger not quite touching his skin. Kyle looked at the marks then over at Alex, his eyes lowering to Alex’s hands with a raised eyebrow. Alex turned them over to lay flat against the table, palms down, without even looking at them.

“Wow,” Maria marveled as she slid into the booth next to Michael. “It’s beautiful.”

Two things happened at once, then. First, Alex realized Maria was going to put her hand over the mark and be forced to acknowledge that the mark did not match her hands at all. And second, Michael’s eyes snapped to Alex’s face and stared at his lips for a heartbeat before meeting Alex’s eyes and pointedly licking his lips.

“I’m heading out,” Alex didn’t stay to mumble any pleasantries. He slid his hands off the table and shoved them in his pockets as he stood up and fled. Liz called after him but he ignored her.

His only hesitation came when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bar and saw that his lips were turning gold. Cursing softly but earnestly he ducked his head and slipped out the door.

“Alex!” Kyle’s shout was loud in dead stillness of the night. Alex froze but didn’t turn around. He listened Kyle’s steps behind him until the man came around to face him. “I want to ask if you just found out but I’m pretty sure that’d be the most latent case of soulmates ever recorded.” Alex didn’t say anything. “Why is with Maria?”

“Ask him.”

“Alex,” Kyle chided softly. “Why are you doing this?”

Alex shrugged. “Usually I’m drunk and drunk me thinks it’s hilarious.” Kyle frowned, his disappointment clear on his face. “Look, it’s not a guarantee or anything. You know that. It’s more of a guideline.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “But most people who ignore that guideline don’t usually go around leaving marks on the other person for fun to screw with their girlfriend.” Alex looked away. “Alex...” he sighed. “I can’t take you seriously right now. Your lips are glowing.”

Alex glanced at a nearby car and rolled his eyes. His reflection was muddled but his lips stood out like a beacon. “Good night, Kyle.”

---

Alex should have expected it, really. Turnabout’s fair play and all that. But then, Michael could have stayed. He could have been there when Alex was done singing and he could have let Alex kiss him instead. But instead he left. He walked out and Alex kissed Forrest and that should have been the end of it.

Except if Alex was an asshole, so was Michael.

Forrest had gotten up to use the restroom and not even ten seconds later, Michael had taken his seat. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

“Guerin,” Alex warned. But he didn’t say no.

Michael took it as the invitation Alex had let it be and kissed him. It was hardly a kiss, the whisper of Michael’s lips on his there and then gone before Alex could savor it. In its wake, Michael got up and disappeared into the shadowy corners of the bar. Alex thought about getting up and going to find him but Forrest sat back down and he couldn’t.

“Hey,” Forrest whispered. His finger traced the back of Alex’s hand. Alex looked down to see a mark blooming on the skin. “Am I your soulmate?” He asked softly. His eyes flickered over to Alex’s other hand, the smile on his face widening when he spotted another mark. Slowly, his eyes lifted to Alex’s face and his eyes crinkled as he beamed. “I am.” He lifted a finger and traced over Alex’s lips. “Wow.”

Alex legitimately did not know what to say, his mind stuck on the fact that Michael had known that Forrest touched his hands and made sure to leave a mark there. He thought back to when he’d finished his song and tried to figure out where Michael had been hiding when he kissed Forrest.

Forrest kissed him, short and hard. He was smiling too widely for it to be any good. “I’m your soulmate!” He laughed and Alex forced a smile in return.

“Did you leave a mark on me?” He twisted his hands to see if he had any marks, his movements stilling when he realized his hands and fingers were bare. He let out a soft, “oh.”

“Forrest,” Alex started.

“It’s okay,” Forrest shook his head. He took Alex’s hands in his own. “I’m your soulmate.” He was still smiling as he leaned in to kiss Alex again.

Alex’s soft ‘fuck’ went unheard between them.

---

Alex had a new kind of sympathy for what he’d put Michael through with Maria. It was very uncomfortable dating someone who thought they were your soulmate when you knew different. Alex had no idea how to even approach the idea of correcting Forrest and Michael wasn’t helping. After three weeks, he was fairly certain Michael might be stalking them. Almost every time Alex and Forrest were together, Michael would show up and orchestrate some scenario that allowed him to leave the precise kind of mark on Alex to perpetuate the lie.

Twice, they had drinks at the Pony with Kyle and Alex was subjected to the worst judgey looks he’d ever been on the receiving of. Kyle never said a word but his disapproval was palpable.

“I’ll get us another round,” Forrest offered one night. He was up and halfway to the bar before anyone could object.

“Alex-” Kyle started. He cut himself off abruptly when Michael slid into Forrest’s seat. Alex didn’t react. Michael had been eyeing them for the last hour, waiting for his opportunity and he didn’t waste it. He slid a hand up and around Alex’s neck and into his hair. Forrest had been playing with it earlier when Kyle got the last round but his touch hadn’t done anything for Alex. Not like now when Michael’s touch sent shivers down his spine and he arched his neck into it. “Really?” Kyle asked.

Alex and Michael ignored him.

Michael had about one minute to replace all of Forrest’s touches with his own and he didn’t waste any time, his fingers trailing everywhere Forrest had even grazed Alex’s skin earlier. His accuracy was uncanny, on par with Alex’s own when he’d kept a careful eye on Michael and Maria in the weeks previous. When he was finished, Michael got up and left without a word and Alex’s skin tingled, aching for more of his touch.

“Alex.”

Forrest sat back down and handed Kyle his beer. “What did I miss?” His only response was an eye roll from Kyle.

---

Alex made it another week before he cracked. He and Forrest hadn’t slept together even though they both wanted to and he was running out of reasons for why they shouldn’t. The honest answer was that he wouldn’t be able to explain why his skin was bare of any marks afterwards. The really honest answer was that he wanted Michael more than he could ever want Forrest.

Neither of those reasons were something Alex wanted to admit to the man.

So he showed him.

In the end it came down to an innocent touch. Michael walked up to them on the street and stopped Alex to tell him something and when they parted, Alex held out his hand for Michael to shake. Michael stared at it then over at where Forrest stood next to Alex, then to Alex. He raised an eyebrow and Alex held out his hand a little bit further. Michael shrugged and shook it.

Alex held on for a moment, letting the touch linger, before pulling away.

“See you around,” Forrest told Michael. He took a step forward to continue on their way but froze when Alex turned his hand over, his palm facing up. Michael mirrored his position and the three of them watched as color bloomed on their hands. “...what?”

---

“We’re assholes,” Alex grumbled. Michael hummed in agreement.

After the handshake earlier, Alex had let Forrest yell at him right there on the sidewalk but made his exit before that anger turned to anything else. He’d gone home and was utterly unsurprised to find Michael already in his driveway. They hadn’t spoken as Alex let them into the house, hadn’t said a word as Michael raided his fridge for beer and handed one to Alex, hadn’t made a peep as they drank one and then two and then three beers each on Alex’s couch.

“It’s why we’re good together,” Michael finally said. Alex scoffed softly. Those weren’t words either of them had ever used to describe their relationship. Michael tilted his head and looked up at Alex. “Alex?”

“Yeah Michael?”

“Can I come home now?”

Alex froze. “What?”

“Your song...” was all Michael offered.

“Are you sure?” Alex asked. Michael nodded. “I need you to be absolutely certain.”

Michael sat up and faced him. “I’m positive. I miss you, Alex. All the time, even when you’re right next to me. It’s not enough. Every time I see my mark on you, it’s like a tease of what it could be but right now it’s not enough.” Michael took Alex’s hands in his. “I want to come home. I want to come home to you.”

Alex surged forward and kissed him. The movement knocked Michael off balance and they tumbled off the couch to the floor but they didn’t let that stop them.

(In the morning, every inch of their skin was covered. Kyle stopped by with lunch and promptly declared them both eyesores.)

#malex fic #rnm #my fic #anti maria deluca #anti miluca #anti forrest long #anti forlex #just to cover the bases #happy birthday babe!

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bellshells · 4 years ago

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Splitting Hairs ch.2

Yo yo yo, chapter two of Splitting Hairs. Thank you for taking time to read this, I really do hope you enjoy it. So, I don’t know if I need to do any tw or just warnings in general but, there’s mention of blood and a bit of mild smut at the end.

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Word Count: 2703 Summary: Severus is full of all the feelings about Valentine. But can he look past her resemblance to Lily? Especially when she tries to deepen their relationship?

Severus was ready just after seven. He had bathed and eaten alone in his chambers and watched the slow ticking of the clock intently. His mind had raced all afternoon with thoughts of Valentine and memories of Lily. He had spent the last few years punishing himself for allowing the pressures of his youth to destroy his relationship with Lily. What might’ve happened if he had been honest with Lily about his feelings? Would it have changed anything? Would it have been his body James Potter would have discarded on a windy night in Godric’s Hollow?

He was baffled by his initial reaction to Valentine. Having not seen her face in a few hours his heart had slowed in its pounding. Severus rationalised that it must have been the shock in simply being attracted to a woman for the first time since Lily- it was obvious he had a type. Severus was staring to annoy himself, why was he so affected by this woman? She was just that, a woman. A woman for whom Severus has put on his best dress shirt. A woman who had caused Severus to drink the best part of a bottle of dragon-whisky to soothe his nerves. He had tried to read, he had tried to plan his lessons, he tried practically anything to occupy himself other than being fixated on the clock. It was useless.

At ten to eight he rose and left his rooms. He made the short journey to Valentine’s quarters, stopping just short of the door to take a deep breath. Just before he raised his hand to the wood to knock; he heard a calamitous crash and an exclaimed “Fuck!” from within. “Professor Valentine?” he called out. “Severus? Come in, would you?” Severus turned the handle of the big wooden door and saw her; a mirror was smashed into pieces on the floor. Her dress unzipped at the back hung unceremoniously around her shoulders and finally a steady stream of blood dripped form her hand and onto the floor. Her lurched towards her, grasping her injured hand in his and examined her wound. “What on earth?” he said, bewildered. “I tried to move my mirror and it slipped out of my hands.” She moaned. His eyes hurried over her; her hair was perfectly curled and swept half away from her face. She wore dark make up on her eyes a brilliant red on her lips. He dress, still unzipped fell forward as she squirmed in his grasp and granted Severus a glance at her breasts. He blushed and instantly averted his gaze, returning his attention to her wound. “Jesus, I’m so sorry,” Valentine began, “What a mess.” “Just stay still, let me see how bad it is.” Severus muttered. He moved his wand slowly over her hand and one by one the pieces of glass that were stuck in there fell to the floor. “You should go to the infirmary.” He said. “No need!” Valentine countered, “I have a first aid kit in my wardrobe-” Severus looked at her dumbly as she gestured to the other side of the room. Instructing her to keep pressure on the worst affected area; he hurried over to the wardrobe. “Top shelf.” Valentine called out. Severus peered into her wardrobe, an array of colourful dresses, shirts and all sort greeted him. He pushed them to the side, revealing a shelf at the back. He picked up an item to move it out of the way and instantly recognised them to be Valentine’s delicates. Choosing to ignore the embarrassment he felt, he continued his search finally retrieving a little green bag with a white cross on it. He brought it over to her and opened it. “Just get the gauze and a bandage, I’ve got wipes here.” She instructed. Severus produced the desired materials from inside the bag as Valentine wiped blood from her wrist and forearm. She took the gauze from him and struggled one-handed to keep it in his place. Severus rolled his eyes and snatched it back. “Just- let me.” He placed the gauze on her hand and started wrapping the bandage around it tightly. “You’ll have to let me know if that’s tight enough for you.” “I bet you’ve said that before.” Valentine said with a sly smile, Severus could feel his cheeks warm as he tied the end of the bandage. “Please tell me why I’m wasting time doing this by hand?” he asked her, she looked up at him from under her lashes. He thought he might burst. “Because there nothing quite like the satisfaction of a job well done. Especially when it’s done with your own two hands.” She countered. “That’s one for you to remember when you’re alone.” Severus dropped her hand instinctively as she chuckled. Valentine lifted her bandaged hand up to the light to examine it. “Thank you.” She said earnestly. “Shall we be off?” he asked and gestured towards the open door. “Just one more thing.” Valentine turned her back and asked over her shoulder; “Would you mind?” She pointed to the zip of her dress still open at the back. Her pale skin illuminated by the dying light caressing the window. His breath caught in his throat as he made his way to her, hands ready. Severus touched the soft fabric of her dress and pulled it taut at her shoulders. He couldn’t help himself; his hands trailed down the corners of the fabric until he reached the bottom of the zip right at the base of her back. He could see Valentine’s skin raise under his touch as he moved closer to her. He pulled up the zip torturously slow, the same stirring he had felt in the pit of his stomach returned fiercely. Valentine turned slowly, their faces only inches apart, and flashed him a grin. “See?” she whispered, “Wasn’t that fun to do with your hands?”

Severus cleared his throat and took a step back. He extended his arm to her as she threw her cloak around her shoulders. Valentine produced her wand from her cloak and waved it over the mess on the floor. The pieces of mirror scattered all over found each other like magnets and realigned before whizzing back into the frame and mounting itself on the wall. She admired her handywork and pulled her cloak tight over her chest; the tight black dress Severus had become intimately acquainted with, now obscured from view. It took him a moment to remember his purpose. “Ready?” He asked. “After you, Professor Snape.”

They arrived at the passageway up to Dumbledore’s office in less time than Severus would have liked. He said the password and watched as Valentines face lit up as the commanding eagle gave way to a staircase that wrapped itself around the walls. “That’s quite cool.” She said wasting no time. She started to climb the steps and wobbled as she missed her footing, Severus offered his hand behind her and she took it with a smile. They continued up to the headmaster’s office together, the door already open. He could hear voices and the occasional peal of laughter as they rounded the corner. The thin sound of a vinyl player somewhere hidden played a sweet melody as he guided her into the room. Minerva was on her in an instant.

“Elizabeth my dear, we were starting to think you lost your way. How kind of Severus to escort you.” She said as she whisked Valentine further into the room and handed her a tall drink from a table nearby. Champagne. Either Dumbledore really wanted to impress the new professor the staff gatherings had altered dramatically since the last time he had attended one. He stood awkwardly on the outskirts of the party, he nursed a tumbler of whisky in one hand and pretended to listen to Trelawney as she waffled on about needing a particular potion to give to her third years. He nodded in all the right places and consented to make it for her, but his eyes were always on Valentine.

She seemed to dazzle everyone around her, it seemed his colleagues gravitated towards her like she was the sun in their orbit. He watched as Minerva, then Pomona, Filius and even Hagrid made their way to engage her in conversation. She was as polite and warm to each of them as one by one they descended onto her. He barely noticed as Dumbledore sidled up beside him and quietly said under his breath; “She’s definitely making an impression, wouldn’t you say, Severus?” “Hmm.” “I dare say she must have some Veela in her. She’s exceptionally beautiful.” Albus continued. “Her hair’s too red to be part Veela.” Muttered Severus. He watched as she threw her head back in laughter in something Hagrid had said. He saw a blush creep onto Hagrid’s cheeks and the groundskeeper grinned sheepishly. “Must be good breeding then. Is it just me, or does she bear a striking resemblance to Lily Potter?” Albus whispered. Severus froze, he could feel the elder wizards gaze on him as he thought how best to answer. “I suppose you might be able to draw similarities between them. Lily was much shorter than Professor Valentine though.” Dumbledore murmured in agreement as Minerva raised her hands in the air for quiet. “I would like to take this opportunity on behalf of the headmaster to welcome Professor Valentine to our ranks. With just a few short days before our students return to Hogwarts, let us raise a glass to Elizabeth, may your year be met with ease and very few challenges,” she raised her champagne flute and toasted; “Elizabeth.” Everyone followed suit, Elizabeth’s name sang through Dumbledore’s office as they drank. Severus put his glass to his lips and drank, but not before Valentine raised her own glass in his direction and winked. Severus couldn’t supress the smile that arrived on his lips. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the party, or the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed, but he began to relax. The conversation flowed freely between Severus and his colleagues, he even started to find their inane jokes funny. Severus allowed himself to enjoy the company he was in and for once he felt like he belonged, not like he was there at Dumbledore’s behest. He meandered over to where a game of muggle chess was being played between Professors Binns and Burbage. He whispered in Charity’s ear the best way to take Cuthbert’s knight, but she laughed him off, preparing to use her own skill. Severus laughed with her.

It was another few hours before Valentine made her way over to Severus. She had not spoken to him since they arrived and she clocked him finally, sat in a chair by the fireplace. He was deep in conversation with Professor Kettleburn, until he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. Severus could see her eyes glistened from across the room, she obviously had had a bit to drink. Valentine moved with such sensuality it was impossible to keep his eyes from her. He wondered what Lily would have looked like if she wore what Valentine was wearing. The calf length, tight figure-hugging dress; cut high around the shoulders yet low at the back. Lily would have looked sublime; he was sure of that. And, as Valentine continued her slow progress over to him, finally sitting on the arm of Severus’ chair; and he found his hand making its way to sit on her hip, his mind wandered once again to Lily. He imagined it was Lily putting her hand on his chest and leaning in to whisper in his ear, not Valentine. He felt a chill run through him as her breath tickled his face. “It’s quite late,” she stated, Severus raised an eyebrow. “Shall we go?” “I wasn’t aware you needed my permission to leave, Professor Valentine.” “Elizabeth,” she corrected, and traced the curve of a button on Severus’ shirt with her finger. “If you’re asking if I would accompany you back to your rooms, you need only ask; Elizabeth.”

A slow smile crept to her lips, her green eyes darkened, and she stood, Valentine stalked across the room and fetched her cloak. Severus rose slowly, his stomach in knots. What on earth was he doing? Was he flirting? Was she expecting him to go into her rooms and-? He shook his head and followed her to the door. They bid farewell to the few still left in Dumbledore’s office, the party well and truly winding down. Only a few stragglers remained, slurred tales and vacant looks abound. Severus held her hand as they descended the staircase, remembering how unsteady she was on the way up. He offered her his arm at the bottom, and she took it, and pulled her body close to his as they walked through the deserted castle.

They walked mostly in silence, like they had done only a few hours before. Only this time, he could feel the heat from her body singing to him as he couldn’t resist it. Valentine clung to his arm as they walked and Severus allowed her, turning his head to take in the scent of her. She smelled divine. In the scarce light of the corridor he could barely make out her features and he could fill in the blanks with his memories of Lily. If he turned his head away it was Lily clutching his arm, Lily tugging on his shirt and Lily pulling him into an alcove and pressing her soft lips to his.

She kissed him furiously, her hands wandered up his back and pulled him even closer. Severus returned the kiss and pushed her hard against the castle wall. His hands finding her rump and squeezing it, that same stirring he had felt all day returned with a vengeance. He felt his arousal pressed hard against his trousers, and she pushed hard against it. It was then when he felt the friction against his groin that Severus realised, he wasn’t kissing Lily and pulled away with a small “No…” Valentine stood slightly awkwardly as Severus stared at her, not quite meeting his gaze. “Sorry-” “Come.” Was all that he said. He started back towards her quarters, only giving her a cursory nod as he opened the door to her chambers. He didn’t give her a chance to respond before he closed it again and stalked towards his own rooms.

He was appalled with himself. He had been seduced by this Lily-lookalike and he was sad. Sad because he felt like it upset the memory of Lily and sad because he enjoyed it. Severus entered his bed chamber hot and confused, he needed to rid himself from the smell of her. It was everywhere on him. He stripped down to his underwear and got into bed and stared up at the dark cloth of his canopy. His mind was a tempest of thought. His skin electrified. His hand wandered down his torso to his crotch, his member hard in his hand. He began to move his hand up and down his shaft in swift pace, his breaths became short and shallow as he sunk his head into his pillow. His pleasure was overwhelming as he guided his hand over the tip of his cock. Severus was not one for self-gratification, the mood very rarely took him. But tonight, it was all he could think about. The kiss. His first kiss. He bit his lip as his brow furrowed, he could still taste her on his lips. His hands still smelled her perfume and if he closed his eyes tight, he could imagine her body pressed close against his. He moaned softly. His movements were desperate now, he was so close to the edge. His fingers of his free hand grappled with his sheets as he pumped himself to completion.

When he came it was guttural, his hips bucked upwards and he let out a deep, long moan. He had never done that before. Severus opened his eyes slowly, before he closed them again to sleep. All he could see was red hair and green eyes.

#severus snape #snape #professor snape #snape smut #severus snape smut #severus x oc #severus x lily #severus snape x oc #snape x oc #snily #pro snape #pro severus snape #harry potter #hp #fanfic #severus snape imagine #snape deserved better #fuck you jk

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yeojaa · 4 years ago

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❪ TO THE MOON AND BACK! ❫

You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. kth x named f!reader. jjk x named f!reader.

genre + rating. non-idol!au. fluff, a bit of angst. general.

tags / warnings. none! this chapter is pretty sad but also pretty happy? “balanced, as all things should be.” - thanos, and also me.

wc. 3.9k

chapter 11.

“Are you ever going to do anything with them?”

You’re so focused on the melody that you don’t recognize the words immediately, his voice playing somewhere beyond your recognition. It takes a long few moments of staring at Yoongi’s face, his moving lips, for you to realize he’s speaking to you.

Headphones are tugged off your head and carefully returned to the stand at your elbow.

“Sorry?”

“I said ‘are you ever going to do anything with them?’”

It feels like you’re missing an integral part of the conversation. Forehead furrows, following the lead of your mouth as it purses, little indent forming between your brows. “With what?”

“The songs.” He doesn’t have to say much more.

“Oh.” Your lack of answer doesn’t seem to deter him, his expression politely interested, if not a little tired. You feel a pang of guilt for the fact that you’ve had such long nights lately - sessions passing the stroke of midnight more often than not.

While it wasn’t your fault, you saw the toll it took on him - found evidence of it in the bags beneath his eyes, heavy enough to incur an additional charge at the airport counter.

He refocuses your attention: “Yes? No?”

“I… don’t know.” You hadn’t considered it, honestly. The songs had originally been written to give your misery an outlet. You’d never considered what would happen to them once they were fully formed.

You’re also not sure why he’s asking. It’s been at least four months since you’d even thought about them. Now they sat in the back of your mind, tucked away in a dusty box labelled JUNGKOOK along with a hundred other memories you weren’t sure you were ready to face yet.

“Can I use one then?”

That certainly isn’t what you’d expected.

“What?” It catches off your teeth, shattering over your tongue. You wonder how you look - if the surprise is glaring beneath your skin like neon light.

Yoongi grins, low and slow and full of gums. He must mistake your emotion for something else - excitement, maybe? - because he’s joining you in front of the computer, the imprint of his body still worn into the soft leather cushions he’s just vacated.

The same instant he drops into the seat beside you, he takes over the mouse, flicking through file folders with purpose. “I’m working on a new mixtape. I thought one of your songs might work well on it so I took the liberty of recording some vocals and mixing it to see.”

In any other situation, you’d be preening from the praise. Now, it only settles discomfort in your stomach.

“I don’t know,” you repeat, finally, after what seems like forever. He’s already pulled up the audio file and the beginning notes fill the enclosed space, sinking into your ears. It sounds amazing, of course. Everything he touches turns to gold. His voice is distinct, the delivery of lyrics so masterful you still don’t really know how he does it.

You listen in silence, admiring the way he’s managed to lay your original refrain with his effortless rap. It thrums in a low bass - utterly brilliant - and then your voice starts.

It hits you like a ton of bricks then, two thousand pounds of weight dropping your heart into the pit of your stomach. You don’t expect the reaction to be so polarizing. You hardly realize you’re locked into place, gaze trained on some freckle in the wood grain of the desk, until you’re physically pulled from it.

A hand settles on your shoulder, hesitant yet unyielding. It frames the bone and squeezes once, twice. Yoongi’s voice follows, softer than you anticipate. “Are you okay?”

The question repeats on a feedback loop. It turns over and over and over until there’s nothing left but a distortion of your own voice in your head. Were you okay? You’d thought so. Now, you weren’t so sure. Hearing the familiar melody is like reliving those eight excruciating months all over again.

“It sounds great,” you answer earnestly, in a voice that wobbles with emotion - a trapeze artist barely hanging on. You’re not lying; you wish your voice wasn’t so feeble.

“You’d get full credit, obviously.” Yoongi’s trying to soothe the ache he can’t quite understand. Not that he hasn’t tried. After all, he’d helped you bring all of this to life. He’d already done more than enough.

“Oh, thanks.” It’s a little watery and a little weak but you’re laughing and that stretches an almost triumphant grin across the producer’s face. It splits the casual indifference he normally wears, throwing the roundness of his cheeks into stark relief.

You can’t help but smile yourself, however small.

Still, it’s enough for him. You’re past the one-two sucker punch and he’s nearly all business again, studying the screen now that he knows you aren’t about to start bawling. You have to hand it to him - he’s a professional through and through.

“Did you mind if I took a look at your notes? I’m thinking we might want to do some ad libbing but I wasn’t sure if you’d considered that.”

You don’t think twice about it, handing your worn notebook over. The edges are tattered and it’s nearing the end, only half a dozen blank pages remaining. All the rest are filled with nonsense: half-formed lyrics, melodies stuck in your head, and—

“Are these about Jungkook?”

The question quite literally knocks the breath from your lungs. It takes you what feels like ages to regain control of your own anatomy, your jaw falling and rising in tandem with the drawn out beat of your heart. It feels strange - like you’re moving in slow motion.

Laid out before you - before him - are pages you’d poured your heart into over half a year ago. You recognize them because of the dogeared edges and the almost concerning pen strokes decorating the margins. Half the time you’d been writing about nothing at all, just putting your jumbled thoughts onto paper. The lyrics had only come after that, once you’d word vomited as much as you could.

You know what he’s reading now - not the verses you’d brought to life, but the heartbreak.

“No?” You’re not a great liar. It’s never been an issue until now.

He doesn’t do the disservice of belittling you or questioning you on it further. Instead, Yoongi remains decidedly silent; the quiet isn’t quite like any other. It’s careful and considerate, formed by unspoken questions and curiosity he holds close. Almost as if he’s giving you time, he flips through the pages with the strangest expression on his face.

Even when he’s done, he says nothing - meeting your horrified stare with something close to compassion. (Or pity, but that feels a whole lot worse.)

He waits for you to speak first. You don’t.

Finally, because it’s almost suffocating now, he hands your notebook back to you. Two hands - deeply respectful. You accept in the same fashion and try to ignore the tremor that runs the length of your fingers, slotting the journal back into your bag.

“Does he know?” There’s no judgment, no expectation.

You have to hand it to him - he’s handling this spectacularly well. Far better than you would be if you’d found out one of your best friend’s girlfriends had history with another of your best friends.

“Sort of.”

It’s the first reaction he gives that feels like it isn’t restrained, carefully packaged and offered only after it’s been perfected. “Sort of?” It rolls incredulously off his tongue.

“It’s a long story.” You don’t mean how defensive you sound. It’s just hard not to when the wound has been festering for so long and you’ve let it turn to rot, weeds sprouting around the Jungkook-shaped sadness you’ve tried to cover with a sheet.

“I have time.” He doesn’t mean it in any way but comforting. It still doesn’t feel right.

You begin with fiddling hands and eyes that won’t quite meet his, bouncing around the room like you’ll find solace in the muted light or the KAWS figurines that line the side wall. “We met in school - second year. He asked if the seat beside me was empty.” You’re proud of the way your voice doesn’t break - how it steels itself through the acid that boils in your veins.

“We… were friends.” The word has never quite matched what you’ve felt for him, even now. But then? It didn’t hold a candle to the torch you’d carried. “He honestly became my best friend, or something like that.” You try not to get too lost in the memory, holding tight to the present with white-knuckled fists. “We did everything together. We visited our families. We went to Disneyland.”

Surprise fits itself into the sea of his stare, recognition flickering like a lighthouse. You wonder how much he knows - if the nameless girl in Jungkook’s stories finally has a face.

“We were inseparable.” The smile you offer is mostly playful, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I guess, except for when he was with you guys. But at some point, the friendship changed. For me, at least.” You fiddle with the long end of your belt, scraping indigo nails over the glossy fabric. “I never acted on it, though. I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“Then how…” It trails off but the question lingers, hanging in the spaces between you.

“You know how hard he works.” Yoongi nods - of course he does. “Our last semester was… a lot. I don’t think I’d ever seen him so stressed out. We kind of let loose once we submitted our final projects.”

The little puzzle pieces you’re offering are slowly taking shape. A part of you - the part that hates picking at the poorly healed wound - wishes you could take it all back. You’re so close to the climax of the story and yet, you know it’ll be lacklustre. It’ll fall miles short of the cinematic masterpiece you’re sure Yoongi’s expecting.

There will be no grandiose declarations of affection and no heartbreaking rejections.

“I made the mistake of asking him to spend the night.” Heat eats up every surface of your skin, starting at the apples and ascending up over your temples. “And then… I left in the morning.”

Seated not two feet from you, Yoongi’s quiet breath is far louder than he means. It puffs out of his cheeks in surprise. “What do you mean you left?”

Whether the warmth is embarrassment or shame now, you’re not quite sure. It all feels the same, red hot and humiliating. “I left a note on my pillow.” You won’t meet his stare even as you can feel it digging into your skin.

“What did the note say?” By the way he speaks, you think he has an idea.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“No, the note. It said sorry.”

If looks could kill, you’d likely be six feet under. You’ve never seen so much exasperation - not even on your professor’s face when you’d beg for an extension literally seconds before a project was due. “And what else?”

“Nothing?” You say it like a question despite the fact you know the answer.

He’s pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. You’re practically gnawing a hole through your cheek.

“Then what happened?”

“We didn’t talk.”

“At all?” Watching him grow incrementally more frustrated is like observing an overworked stay-at-home mom losing her cool at the supermarket. It feels bad, discouraging, but you can’t look away. Not even when he stares at you like you’re the dumbest person he’s ever met.

“I mean…”

His expression begs you to spit it out.

“He tried once or twice, a few weeks later. But I still felt so bad so I didn’t say anything back. And then he stopped trying.” You know you’d let the silence go on too long, allowing the awkward tension to mutate into something worse. You’re not stupid.

The longest sigh greets your ears. “You guys slept together and then you ghosted him.”

When he puts it like that, it sounds infinitely worse. You frown deeply, shaking your head. It wasn’t like that. It was different - necessary.

“I didn’t ghost him!”

“You left a sticky note!”

“Because I didn’t want him to regret it! I didn’t want him to feel weird.”

“You honestly thought leaving your so-called best friend a note was better than talking to them?” The way he utters the title makes you squirm in your seat. You shouldn’t be surprised, though. If you’ve learned anything over the last ten months, it’s that Min Yoongi does not mince words. Not when it’s important.

“I was scared.” It’s not an excuse; it sounds like one.

“Things are scary. You get over it.” He has a point.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Unfortunately, so do you.

“I guess not.”

FLASHBACK Friday, June 21, 2019. 12 PM.

When he wakes up, it’s like the end of the world - except not with a whimper, but with a bang.

The evil monkey that comes out of hiding after he’s had too much to drink is loud and unbothered, clanging its stupid gold cymbals hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull. The sound bounces around in his ears, digging past his usual post-drinking haze to directly assault his senses.

Rolling over doesn’t help. In fact, it somehow makes it worse, the sudden motion bringing about a tidal wave of nausea.

The feeling rises and crests, threatening to swallow him whole when he rolls onto his front and yanks his legs up beneath him. Face pressed into the warm topside of the pillow, he curls his arms around the underside and takes three deep breaths, trying his best to alleviate the discomfort in his chest.

It works albeit poorly, like the second wave is coming, creeping up just beyond the horizon.

“Fuck.” It’s grumbled into the soft cloth he’s presently trying to suffocate himself with. Jungkook whines another sound - not as loud as the clattering in his head or even very clear - and presses deeper into the pillow, inhaling deeply.

God, he feels awful. You were right - he definitely shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

You.

The same you who had tried to go shot for shot with him over dinner, only to tap out when he wrenched another glossy green bottle open. The same you who had held his hand on the way back to your side of campus and laughed when he’d crowded you in the elevator, pressing sloppy kisses all over your neck and shoulders. The same you who had moaned his name so prettily he can feel it even now, stirring something in the pit of his stomach that feels a helluva lot better than the liquor-induced ache.

The you that should be at his side - and yet isn’t.

He blinks owlishly against the straining morning light, how it fades in through your half-drawn blinds and spills over your side of the empty bed. A hand reaches - slow, because he’s still not in full control of his motor functions - and slips over the cotton.

It’s cold.

Another blink, another pat of his hand.

He’s definitely in your dorm. There are photos strung up across the walls - taken by you or of you - and your familiar leather jacket is hung over the back of your desk chair. Your too-many coffee cups sit beside your keyboard but your familiar canvas backpack is nowhere to be seen.

“Jiyeon-ah?” It’s more gravel and sleep than anything remotely coherent. He tries again.

Silence settles in the enclosed space and he wishes it’d do the same in his head. Where were you?

The flat of his palm roves across your sheets, fingers seeking out the cold hard surface of his phone. Maybe he’d left it in his pants? That seems probable but they’re also not on his person, likely left in a pile at the foot of the bed - along with his underwear and socks - and well, he’s terribly lazy.

Lazy and still way too hungover.

So Jungkook lays there and waits, comfortable in the bed he’s been in more than once, more than twice, more times than he can count on both hands. He tosses and he turns, not quite patient but also not ready to face the day. He figures you’ll be back soon.

Truthfully, he doesn’t mind. Your dorm’s like a second home to him, somewhere he’s crashed a few too many times after you’d both trudged back in the dead of night after losing track of time across town. He knows the sweet spot on your shower - where he needs to get it right before the water turns from mild to scalding - and the fact that you hide your favourite coffee in a crate under your bed. It’s nearly as much his as it is yours, though he’s sure you’d disagree.

Either way, he could very, very easily fall back asleep. He almost does.

The nausea settles and while moving too fast stirs it uncomfortably, he’s doing a lot better than he normally does. It’s just this-side of relaxing, with time that doesn’t pass in screeches and lulls, rather simply sliding by in the transition of red numbers on your bedside clock.

It’s only when he realizes that it’s been nearly two hours that he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should get up.

With an exaggerated grunt, he pushes himself to his elbows, entire body groaning with the effort. While he might’ve felt fine mentally, his poor aching limbs were doing decidedly less well. It’s almost like he’d been hit by a fourteen-wheeler loaded with booze.

He sways with the force of it, nearly faceplanting back down on your pillows when he sees it.

A little neon yellow square with your messy, rounded Hangul scrawled in black Sharpie. Three characters, one word, one broken heart.

Mianhae.

It comes when you least expect it, straight out of the blue. Your eyes are trained on the same colour that spills across the sky, the hazy clouds drifting in and out of focus; the sun is playing hide and seek, splashing rays of warmth whenever you pass between tall grey buildings.

“I love you.” Three words. That’s all.

They roll off Taehyung’s tongue as easily as a breath from his lungs, filling the spacious interior of his German-built sports car. There’s nowhere for the proclamation to go, caught between four walls and two bodies and your wide-eyed stare. Not that he can even turn to admire the way your eyebrows have shot into your hairline, how your mouth gapes open like a fish out of water. He’d still probably call you cute. You know him.

“What?” You’ve found yourself repeating this same word a lot lately. With Jungkook, with Yoongi, and now, with your boyfriend, who seems terribly smug and not at all bothered.

He’s staring straight ahead, focused on the road in a way that you know isn’t wholly natural. You’ve spent enough time in this car with him, with his hand gripping yours, to know that driving is second nature and he does it like he does everything else - effortlessly.

“I love you.” It comes without missing a beat. The edge of his mouth curls, revealing his perfectly straight white teeth, and you can’t miss the mischief. You’d feel wary if you didn’t recognize it so well, how it lights up his insides and spills out brighter than the sun above your heads.

You ask because it’s funny and not because you care. “Are you pranking me, Kim Taehyung?”

He levels you with a look then, one just from his periphery. You can hardly make it out amongst the dark of his lashes, the velvet that brushes over his eyes because it’s just a little too long now. The hand on your knee squeezes experimentally, the cold metal of his rings digging into the soft of your thigh.

“Is my love a joke to you?”

“Maybe.” It’s a challenge - a playful, proverbial pat on the cheek.

The sound he makes is a mix between a growl and a laugh and 100% adorable, sweeping affection across your face in stretches, apples of your cheeks pulling wide. “You’re lucky - I still love you anyway.”

Every time he says it, it’s a little less jarring.

“You love me.” You repeat it not for the sake of doing so but to taste it on your tongue, to feel its weight. It’s much lighter than you’d anticipated, spun fairy floss and strawberry-scented bubbles rather than a newfound burden. It fills you without expectation, fitting itself in the little cracks and crevices without demanding more. Still, you want to give in return. It feels right. “I love you, too.”

Just like you love the smile that spreads like wildfire, boxy and distinctly him. It’s so endearing you swear you feel your heart trip in your chest, lovesick and enamoured.

He says it more to make you laugh than anything. “I know.”

You roll your eyes and meet him over the centre console, grateful that he’s found his familiar spot right down the street from his parents’ expansive home. You appreciate the little moments kept just for the two of you; you cherish them more than you can say, tucking them neatly into your pockets and behind your ears.

He presses forward for a kiss. You smell like citrus and floral - Sicilian lemons and just-bloomed lilacs - a scent he thinks he’ll never forget. When he rearranges himself in his seat, turning enough to drag you just that bit closer, he’s greeted with the sticky sweet musk - tonka beans and neroli - hidden beneath the curtain of your dark hair.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve got dinner in ten minutes or you’re sitting in the brightly lit street like two nervous high school students after a first date.

This time is for him and for you - a celebration of sorts.

So he kisses you again, though it’s not quite kissing. It’s more like worshipping and he takes his time doing it, wordless devotion roving over every inch he can possibly reach. He treats you like a god or a deity, treasuring you like you might grant him his heart’s greatest wish or that maybe you already have. It’s nice to imagine that.

“I love your bedhead.” Which is where he starts, right at your temple. They’re the softest presses - barely there trails of his dry, slightly chapped lips. He inhales that familiar lemony scent as he deposits sweetness in its wake - over your eyelids and down.

The line of his nose meets the contour of your cheekbone and he’s littering tender kisses along the rounded edge, all the way up to your ear. There’s a beat of hesitation - a will he, won’t he - before he drops his head further, nosing past the sensitive spot where neck and shoulder meet to brush over the column of your throat. It’s almost innocent until enamel catches, not nearly hard enough to blossom any colour but enough to draw forth the quietest sigh.

“And I love the way you sound.” The lecherous grin he offers is far too handsome. It doesn’t pull disgust and reproach as it should, especially not paired with the dainty kiss to your wrist. He lingers there, over blue veins that jump beneath his touch, and only moves onto the back of your hand once you huff an almost imperceptible sigh of impatience.

You receive five more kisses - one to each of your fingertips.

“I just love you.”

author note. three more chapters to go. ty for reading, as always! xo

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mordoriscalling · 4 years ago

Text

Homecoming

(A follow-up to my fic “Stay or Sail Away”, which is available on AO3 or here on tumblr). Jaskier sees Geralt for the first time after many months of Geralt's final deployment. It breaks his brain and dooms his heart. (Not that it isn't doomed anyway).

You can find this story on AO3 too.

The large crowd around them is full of noises: exclamations full of joy and relief, voices raised in excitement, loud calls of many names, hushed whispers and choked sobs. Small groups of people rejoice as they greet their loved ones returning from the long deployment while others still wait, their impatience almost buzzing in the air.

Jaskier stands amidst all the chaos, slightly dazed. He’s quite sure he has never witnessed such magnitude of sheer emotion ever before in his life, even during his own concerts. Motion, tears and happiness are everywhere around, mingling with smiles and embraces, which creates a certain feel that is just so deeply touching – it strikes the very core of it means to be human, Jaskier thinks as he tries to memorize it. Weren’t he distracted by other thoughts, he would write down the words in his head right away; the moment is more than worthy of a song.

He’s restless, anticipation and anxiety both twisting his gut. The wait drags on and on, torturously so, while the crew keeps disembarking. Rationally, Jaskier understands why this is taking so long – the ship (a destroyer, Ciri explained) is pretty damn big, so the crew is obviously large as well. However, reason is now more out of his reach than usual, which equals considerably far away, and he fidgets. Cirilla at his left isn’t still either, but her movements show only excitement. Yennefer at his right just stands in place, seemingly unaffected, her dazzling eyes observing the top of the platform steadily. Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, envying her the confidence a bit.

Ciri must’ve sensed his distress because she grins up at him and reassures, “Don’t worry, Jaskier, dad is coming. He just always deboards last.”

Jaskier nods with a bit of a forced smile but says nothing. Yen glances at him but appears to withhold a comment about his uncharacteristic silence. Normally he would boast that Geralt’s dearest witch of an ex-wife is growing soft on him but nervousness constricts his throat too much.

The problem is, the things he’s afraid of make little sense. He has evidence to disprove his fears, and lots of it; every video call with Geralt showed him as much. Throughout the goddamned eleven months of Geralt’s deployment, may they ever be cursed, the two of them always arranged a video call at least once a week. Jaskier was busy with a tour and Geralt had a lot of duties, but they both made an effort. The video calls quickly turned into a precious time that allowed them to get to know each other better – the few weeks of knowing each other in person before the deployment weren’t enough to keep their resolve alive – and Jaskier found himself falling in love so fast it was foolish even to himself. His silly heart was defenceless against Geralt’s caring nature, dry humour and sharp wit, though. He wrote Geralt a song only a month after his departure. Others quickly followed the first one. After he sent each recording to Geralt, the man would thank Jaskier so very earnestly during a video call. The “thank you, siren” murmured with those searing eyes looking at him had Jaskier fucking swooning every time. Geralt’s words fuelled Jaskier’s creativity even more and, at this point, he has enough songs for a whole album that should probably be titled “Lovesickness, Pining and Longing: Please Don’t Fall for A Sailor”.

And yet, for all their bonding over conversations, the growing repertoire of inner jokes and shared stories, the very satisfying and never-too frequent phone sex, the warmth in Geralt’s gaze and his reassurances with actual words that “I want this, Jaskier”, Jaskier still doubts. As he waits among the bustling crowd, awful what-ifs keep replaying in his head: what if Geralt has, in fact, changed his mind? What if Jaskier only dreamed the fondness? What if Geralt leaves him after he discovers all Jaskier’s flaws? What if –

“Dad!” Ciri shouts at the top of her lungs.

Jaskier winces at the deafening shriek (Cirilla has quite a set of lungs). When he looks up, he... oh.

There Geralt is, beautiful like a vision from Jaskier's dreams. He descends from the platform a step behind two other men, no one else following him. Geralt carries big bags in both his hands as if they weighed nothing, and Jaskier almost cries because of the sweet relief and heady joy of actually seeing him. Geralt isn’t wearing the ceremonial uniform that Jaskier knows from his Facebook profile picture. Instead, it’s the uniform for general duties. The black trousers and the navy jersey with shoulder pads hug his body beautifully. A white collar and a bit of a black tie peek out from under the pullover, and the white cap on his head looks criminally good on him. Jaskier knows that he's probably one of the most thirsty people on the planet but this, the sight of Geralt wearing all that, leaving a huge ship with a crew more than a hundred people strong that he commanded for almost a year, takes his libido to a whole another level.

There’s nothing like discovering you have a competence kink as you stand between a certain very competent person’s daughter and ex-wife, Jaskier thinks.

Since his brain is broken, Jaskier can only wait and stare, drinking in the sight of him. It soothes the powerful, throbbing ache in his heart after so many months without Geralt. Jaskier watches him reach the bottom of the platform, where he’s stopped by the two men walking before him. They salute him, then start clapping. Suddenly, all the members of the crew scattered in the crowd break into cheers and applause.

“Why are they clapping?” Jaskier asks, bemused.

“I think they’re thanking him for his service,” Yennefer replies as she claps too, a rare warm smile lighting up her face.

Jaskier and Ciri immediately join the cheering as loudly as they can (and they do make a lot of noise, considering that he's a singer and Cirilla has the ability her voice into a megaphone). Jaskier has to fight down a laugh as he applauds; from a short distance away that the platform is, he can see Geralt’s grumpy expression. It's so endearing because it's so Geralt - he isn't the type of man to be happy with this kind of recognition.

When the cheers finally die down, Geralt nods in thanks and a few moments later, his feet finally touch land. As if on cue, Cirilla darts off, making her way through the crowd with what seems to be practised ease. The people standing around him and Yen obscure the view but Jaskier can clearly imagine what’s happening: Ciri calling for her father until she sees him, him opening his arms for her, her rushing to his side, the two hugging tight.

It takes a few minutes for Ciri to bring Geralt to them. When the man appears, Jaskier’s does shed a tear this time. Eleven fucking months and Geralt is here finally, ending the nightmare of such a long wait. The endless, empty, hopeless days filled with longing and worry are over - Geralt is back for good. Jaskier wants to hold him and never let go again, but it’s Yennefer who gets to go to him first. She has every right to it, after all, as Ciri’s mother and Geralt’s former spouse. Yen strides towards Ciri and Geralt, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. The people around observe the commander with his family as the three talk with smiles on their faces.

Jaskier looks at them, too, and wonders, not for the first time, if he has any place in this beautiful family at all. Two gorgeous parents and a lovely teenage daughter – where would he fit?

(Now that he looks at Geralt and Yennefer, his raging bisexual soul wails in want and utter confusion over which one of them he finds hotter).

Then, Geralt’s sun-like eyes are on him, and all is silent. Time slows down as Jaskier sees Geralt walk up to him until they’re not even a foot apart. Jaskier doesn’t touch him even though he so wants to, too afraid he’ll find this is all a dream. He takes in all of Geralt's wrinkles, his slight stubble, the cleft oh his chin, and more tears escape. When Jaskier looks back into his eyes, Geralt's gaze is burning with so much emotion reflecting his own that all the air is knocked out of his lungs.

“Hey,” he greets Geralt breathlessly.

There’s a tiny, precious smile on Geralt’s lips, and his eyes crinkle at the corners in the way that Jaskier adores. “Hey, my siren,” he replies in a murmur.

At the nickname, warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest and his tears start flowing freely. “I see you answered my call at last, sailor,” he teases, grinning and crying simultaneously like a mess he is.

Geralt huffs a little laugh, then reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Jaskier’s tear-stained cheek. Jaskier almost falls apart at the contact - it proves this is real. Quickly grabbing Geralt’s hand with both his own, he steadies it so that it keeps touching his face, grounding him. Geralt starts brushing his thumb over his skin and Jaskier has to close his eyes, overwhelmed, breathing in and out. So many words are at the tip of his tongue that he says nothing.

“Yes,” Geralt answers. The low, husky rumble of his voice reaches Jaskier’s ears, enveloping him like a warm blanket. “Now I’m home.”

#geraskier #the wticher #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU #myfic

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gaynoctgar · 4 years ago

Text

A Small Comfort

Summary: Set after Noctis’ and Ignis’ argument in Episode 4 of Brotherhood, Noctis learns to lean on his closest friend in his time of need.

Pairing: Prompto/Noctis, pre-relationship

Word Count: ~2800

So...I’m finally posting a fic I wrote. Last time I watched Brotherhood, I had wished Noct’s mental health was addressed more, so I made it happen! Trigger warning: a panic attack is described. I hope you enjoy!

>>i kno its late, but do u wanna come over?

Noctis stares hard at the cursor blinking at his screen, thumb hovering over the “send” button. Ignis has just left, and Noctis himself has screamed so hard he doesn’t think he can scream anymore, but there’s still a persistent ache in his chest, a need to not be alone. He can’t call Ignis, obviously, and he can’t call Gladio, so that leaves…

Noctis has been careful to leave Prompto out of this part of his life. It means so much to him that when he is with Prompto, he doesn’t have to worry about any of this. He doesn’t have to think about sustaining the wall, or complicated political reports, he can just be a normal teenager. But right now, he finds himself craving comfort in a way that he hasn’t since he was younger, when he was first injured. That doesn’t make the reaching out any easier.

He hits send before he can think any better of it and throws his phone across the couch. Immediately, it buzzes, and Noctis scrambles to look at the message.

>sure thing dude. Need me to bring anything?

In spite of everything, Noctis feels his heart lift slightly.

>>uh, junk food maybe?

>>but if you don’t have any uh >>just bring you.

Oh shit, he really sent that. He triple texted. But Prompto’s reply is just as quick.

>omw, the metro should get me there in 20. you feelin okay?

Well that’s...a question. The obvious answer would be “no” but Noctis falters before replying with that. He doesn’t want Prompto to think of him any differently, to see him as the prince. But he also, somehow, really wants to talk about this with someone he knows will just listen. Then, he thinks, that’s not fair to push onto Prompto. He can’t burden Prompto with all of this. Prompto has a life free of these kinds of worries, and Noctis cares about him too much not to keep it that way. Still...they have been getting closer lately. Noctis has never had a best friend before, but he suspects that best friends talk about these things. Are Ignis and Gladio best friends? Do they talk?

Just then, Noctis hears a knock at his door, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks down to see 5 more texts from Prompto that he missed while he was spacing out, and he rushes over to open the door. There stands his friend, with the promised junk food, and an overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

“Did ya fall asleep on me?” he tries to joke as he steps inside, but then he glances at Noctis again. It’s a look Noctis has never seen before, one that Noct doesn’t quite know how to parse. He then realizes what a slob he must look like--still in his school uniform at this late hour, unwashed hair sticking out every which way, clothing rumpled in weird places--and makes to say something about it, but Prompto very gently places a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Grounding. He sets the junk food down and looks at Noct dead-on.

“Hey...are you okay?” he asks, and Noct’s reflexes tell him to say that he’s fine, to downplay everything he is feeling, and to ignore it and make a joke to avoid having this conversation. But he looks at Prompto, at his soft features, his loose hair, the freckles that dot his face, and his swirling purple eyes, and it suddenly feels like he can’t breathe. The look in his eyes is so gentle, and he just wants to help Noctis, and all of it is a bit too much and--

Wait.

He actually can’t breathe.

All he can think about is that conversation with Ignis, replaying in his head, and his fear of telling Prompto what’s really going on, what he will really have to face someday, because if he does he will lose him and he can’t lose Prompto, this precious boy who is so kind, and he can’t lose his father, and--

When did the floor get so close?

Somehow, he is kneeling on the ground, and Prompto is right there with him. He’s saying something but the words sound fuzzy, like there’s a high-pitched whine blocking everything out. Both of Prompto’s hands are on his shoulders--the only sensation he can really register--and he focuses all of his energy into understanding what Prompto is saying. It’s really hard because all he feels is the blood rushing through him, like he just ran a marathon, and breathing is even harder and takes up so much of his effort right now. He feels dizzy, like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“...--ear me?” Noct manages to make out. Prompto’s probably asking if Noctis can hear him. He nods, slightly.

“Good, that’s really good, buddy,” Prompto soothes him, his voice getting clearer with each word, but Noctis still feels as though he...can’t move from this strange position he’s found himself in. He thinks, vaguely, that if it weren’t for Prompto’s hands on his shoulders, he might actually die. He wants to tell him this, to say thank you, to do anything, but it all catches in his throat. Why can’t he move?

“Just breathe with me, okay? Can you do that?” Prompto is asking him. Was Noctis not breathing? He nods again. Prompto begins counting out the breaths, and Noctis does his best to follow along, each deep breath easing his muscles, and slowing his heart down. He hadn’t realized how fast it was beating. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, breathing slowly, in and out, until Noct’s body releases him from the grip he was in.

“Better?” Prompto asks, simply, and Noctis finally has it in him to look at him.

“S’good,” Noct replies. “Thanks.”

He tries to get himself off the ground, but of course his bad leg is acting up. Yet another thing he hasn’t told Prompto.

“Whoa there, let me help,” Prompto is saying, hoisting himself up and reaching a hand down to Noct. Noct takes it, gratefully, and leans into the touch more than he’d like to admit to get himself standing again.

“I’m sorry. I have no idea what just happened,” is what flies out of Noct’s mouth before he has the chance to stop it.

“Has it happened before?” Prompto asks earnestly, and Noct shakes his head no. At least...not that he could remember. Maybe now and then, but he usually just slept it off, now that he thinks about it.

“I...think that was a panic attack, dude,” Prompto says slowly, carefully, guiding Noct to sit back on the couch with him. “Have you been worrying about something?”

Was that what that was? All of the worry he’s tried to lock away...consuming him? Noctis shrugs noncommittally.

“If you have...I’m here if you need,” Prompto says, softly. “But I won’t make you talk if you don’t wanna.”

Noctis realizes his friend is giving him a way out. And if nothing else, he knows that Prompto will be true to his word. If he says he doesn’t want to talk, Prompto will not push him, and will at least pretend to forget about the incident.

But…

Noctis can’t shake the feeling that not talking is exactly what got him here. He’s only 16, and he’s pretty sure most people his age don’t just break down like that. Yes, Prompto is offering him a way out...but he is also offering him comfort and help. On his own terms. Not because Noctis is a prince in need of protecting, but because he’s his friend. Maybe, if he’s careful…

“...it’s a lot of things, to be honest,” Noctis finally breathes out, when he remembers how to make his mouth say words again. “...prince stuff. I don’t wanna…” he mumbles, turning away.

But Prompto has reached out to place a hand on his shoulder again.

“Doesn’t matter to me if it’s prince stuff. It’s definitely bothering you,” he begins, softly, slowly, giving Noct time to process every word. Now that Noctis thinks about it, Prompto has always spoken to him like this: gently, slowly, even when he is angry. But this voice? It’s soft, and low, almost as if to remind Noctis he is safe here.

“Right but I….you….you’re separate from all that. I like it that way,” Noctis tries to explain. “You remind me I’m someone beyond that…I…” he continues, but it fades away. Prompto’s arm has slid around his shoulders, tugging Noctis in to lean against him, and Noctis doesn’t have it in him to fight it. Hell, he doesn’t want to.

Prompto laughs just a little bit when he sees how Noctis has curled into his side on the couch, and slides his hand up to card through his hair. It feels...nice, comforting, but something else too. Almost...electric, like little sparks are dancing across his nerves when Prompto’s fingers brush across his scalp, gently pulling the knots in his hair free. Noctis has been feeling this more and more recently, and he doesn’t really know what to call it. Maybe it’s just that he’s so starved of physical contact aside from getting his ass kicked in training. He sighs into the contact, and he can hear Prompto’s voice vibrating under his ear.

“Yeah, you’re my best dude, you know that. I definitely think of you as Noct first,” he turns, slightly, attempting to make eye contact with Noct, who keeps his face turned away, “but you also happen to be Prince Noctis. It’s a part of you, and you don’t have to shut me out of it. I want to help you with whatever I can, whether it’s a really difficult boss fight on a video game….or prince stuff,” he finishes, smiling to himself.

At this, Noctis does bring his head up from Prompto’s shoulder so he can look him in the eye. Prompto smiles at him softly, his indigo-purple eyes drawing Noctis closer in a way he can’t quite describe. He wants to say something, anything, to tell Prompto how amazing and wonderful and patient he is. Instead...he slumps forward, on instinct, burying his face in the crook of Prompto’s neck, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace. One that Prompto eagerly returns, after a moment of shock. Noctis can’t even remember the last time he was hugged, let alone the last time he initiated a hug, but it feels...natural and good. Prompto traces the fingers of one hand up Noctis’ neck and tangles them in his hair once more, his other hand softly rubbing his back.

Noctis feels so comforted that he doesn’t ever want to leave, doesn’t want to think about saying anything to spoil the moment. But he trusts Prompto more than anything and, the longer they are here, pressed close together, the more he feels the urge to talk about it. Prompto’s a good friend, he’ll listen. Noctis breathes in his familiar and warm scent one more time...and takes the plunge.

“My dad is dying, Prompto,” he mumbles quietly, giving sound to the thought that has most been plaguing his mind ever since his father started needing to use his cane. “It’s the Wall. It keeps us safe, and it’s killing him,” he manages, before he falters. Putting it into words almost has Noctis panicking again, but he hears Prompto gasp a little bit before wrapping his arms around him tighter, pulling him even closer.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “No wonder you’ve been so sad.”

And that’s all. Nothing about how Noctis will need to be stronger to fill his father’s shoes, nothing about how he isn’t fit to be a king, nothing about how he can’t be upset, just acknowledging that it sucks. Something breaks within Noctis, but he really, really doesn’t want to cry in front of Prompto. It’s a strange mix of emotions. He pushes away slightly, so Prompto doesn’t have to deal with it, and finds himself locking eyes with Prompto again, Prompto’s strong arms preventing him from getting too far. And if he’s a good friend, he deserves to know the last bit of truth that Noctis has been keeping from him. Maybe he can get out of all of this now, while he has a chance.

“I feel like I should tell you one more thing,” Noctis says, almost a whisper.

“Sure, Noct,” Prompto replies immediately. “Lay it on me.”

“I don’t think you’ll like this one,” Noctis smiles slightly, in spite of it. What a ridiculous mess of emotions he is right now. “When...when Dad dies. Probably soon,” he tries, waving his hands around erratically against the tide of emotion he feels--just one of many behaviors his father and the Citadel have tried to train out of him. He takes a deep breath and continues, “someone will have to keep the Wall up. That someone will have to be me--” he tries to explain, but his voice breaks on the last word, and he presses the palms of his hands to his eyes, as if that will stop the tears, but to no avail. He did not want this to happen, Prompto is going to think he’s so weak, and a mess, and--

“It’s okay to be upset about it,” Prompto says, gently grabbing Noctis’ wrists to pull them away from his face. Noctis peeks at his dear friend--his kind, wonderful, patient friend--and is met with the gentlest look he thinks he’s ever seen from anyone. He thinks maybe Prompto is crying too, but then he’s completely overwhelmed because Prompto is gently brushing his tears away with his thumb.

“It’s a lot to take in, but I’m glad you told me,” he soothes. Noctis feels his face heating up, but he doesn’t push Prompto away at all. He leans closer, craving more of that contact. “It helps me to know everything,” he says with a soft smile.

“I’m sorry,” Noctis apologizes on instinct, before he gets too caught up, before he’s unable to pull away. “Don’t mean to be a bummer,” he tries to joke, but Prompto isn’t having it.

“Hey, this is serious. Your feelings are important to me,” he reminds, his tone only slightly harsh to show his seriousness. His tone then softens, “and you’re being very brave.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Noctis replies, before he can stop himself. “I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Noct,” Prompto sighs, pulling him back into their earlier embrace, rubbing his back with one hand. “Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It means you’re afraid and you do it anyway. My mom told me that a long time ago…” he trails off somewhat wistfully.

His mom? Noctis thinks to himself. He almost wants to ask more, but he knows Prompto’s parents are a very sore subject, and he leaves it for another day. For now, he soaks in the comfort, trying not to feel embarrassed at the tears that flow now and then.

Noctis isn’t sure how long it is before he stops crying, but he feels his back and legs start to ache from the strange, huddled position he’s found himself in, and he pushes back sheepishly.

“Sorry about all that,” he apologizes. “Probably not what you signed up for…”

“What I “signed up for” was to be your friend,” Prompto responds, stern, but not unkind, as he stretches out his own arms. “That means good stuff and bad, you know.”

Does it? Noctis has always felt that he has had to live up to the image of the ideal prince, even with Ignis and Gladio. But Prompto...well, Prompto just saw him at his lowest, and the look in his eyes tells Noctis there’s no place he’d rather be. That look makes his heart jump in his throat, slightly, yet another thing he’s been trying to ignore.

“I...thank you,” Noct mumbles, waving his hands around again, this time because he’s overwhelmed that Prompto still wants to be his friend. Prompto, for his part, smiles knowingly at the motion. That’s another conversation they’ll have to have, Noct supposes, but he’s all drained right now.

Sensing this, Prompto hoists himself off the couch.

“Well, I brought over this junk food for a reason. Why don’t we get more comfortable and order a pizza?” he asks, gesturing to the fact that Noct is still in his school uniform. “We don’t have to think about any of this for a little while, if you don’t want to. Play video games, just vibe...”

Noct smiles. How does Prompto know exactly what he needs?

“That sounds awesome, dude.”

#promptis #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #ffxv fanfic #final fantasy xv #i'm real excited about this one y'all #i think it came out real well #i hope y'all enjoy!!!#haley writes ffxv #haley.exe #listen i just wanted noct to get to talk #there's a lot of talking in this one but i like it

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years ago

Text

ancient names, pt. xvi

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xvi: that colossal wreck

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~6k idk man i barely go here

Rating: M/Mature; lots of blood and stuff but nothing steamy.

Warnings: blood and guts, mentions of self-harm, mentions of sexual assault, Kian is a creepy fucker and he needs to die so he gets his own warning, dog on man violence. Uhhhhh idk how shotguns work so I did my best, don't @ me. Elliot does go full feral in this and I'm not sorry.

Notes: I so hope y'all enjoy this chapter. I'm not gonna say too much about it here, but please know that every comment, like, kudos, whatever—even the tiniest bit of knowledge that y'all enjoyed it just makes me so incredibly happy. It was a bit of slog at some parts but I'm so excited to get it out for you. <3 Special shout-out to @starcrier who provides incredible input and support while I try and glean even a MODICUM of her talent; ilysm!!!

As well, @baeogorath has been such an absolute DARLING, allows me to send them memes at like 3am and scream at them about all of my feelings. And @lilwritingraven, who has been SO supportive and helpful and just all around the biggest sweetheart a gal could ask for, thank you BOTH sm. <3!

The first thing that she recognized was the desperate need to breathe.

The second was that she was wet, exceptionally wet, her lungs filling with water over and over again, like dying a thousand times without the actual reprieve of death. Two strong hands gripped the front of her shirt, pinning her under the dark surface. Elliot thought, I’ve been here before.

Those hands gripping her hauled her out of the dark, wheezing and coughing up water, and tossed her onto the riverbank like a dead fish. She might as well have been, for what it was worth; when she managed to open her eyes, the world blurred and melted around her the way water swept over a window in a carwash.

“So glad you are awake,” Kian said from in front of her. He stood in the water just past his knees, and as he made his way out and over to her, she blinked rapidly to try and clear her vision. Elliot sucked in the biggest lungful of air she could, and all of the water that had been sitting in her mouth and throat caught and ripped, forcing her to lean and choke it up. “You were sleeping for quite a while, you know, Elliot. Had to make sure you slept all of it off.”

Her name coming out of his mouth felt like a violation—sticky, wet, ruined, a thing she had not allowed him to use, and yet he did anyway. She hadn’t given him permission to know her, and it felt different still than when Ase had used her name; like a weapon being wielded against her.

They gave me so much, she thought desperately a while her body thrummed with pain, searing hot through every nerve-ending as if they’d all been rubbed raw and exposed. They gave me so much of that shit, so much more than Ase ever did. How long was I sleeping it off? Fuck fuck fuck.

Kian’s fingers gripped her throat, slotted just under her jaw, and he pulled ; hauled her straight up with brute strength until her bare feet— when had they taken her shoes?—scrambled against the slippery river bank.

“Her dress fits you well,” he continued admiringly as he held her there. His words dragged her attention back to herself; she wasn’t in her own clothes, in fact, but in a long, dark cotton dress, high-necked and slim fitting. It looked like the same dress that she had first seen Ase in. “In fact, if your hair was just a little darker, and your eyes not so fucking blue, I would think you two could be sisters.”

Dead, the wind whispered. Humidity crept under the fabric, stifling and tenacious. Dead woman in a dead woman’s clothes.

“W-Where—?” Elliot managed out hoarsely. Her own heartbeat, so loud that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to hear Kian, thrummed violently in her ears as panic started to really settle into her skeleton. “Where—John, and Boomer—what the f-fuck did you—”

“Now that you’re awake,” Kian continued conversationally, as though she had not spoken at all, “we can start.”

His grip loosened and then released. She barely managed to keep herself upright. The world lurched dangerously beneath her feet, and for a second, she thought she was going to have to throw up; the sensation subsided, and she swept her gaze in a single circle around her.

No John; no Boomer. Only darkly-clothed, silent figures, watching. Each face—some as old as a grandparent, some as young as what she thought could only be ten, and many of them somewhere in between—regarded her with the same kind of glassy-eyed curiosity that came with a circus attraction.

“What the fuck,” Elliot said, her voice hoarse and cracking in distress. “What the fuck did you—where are they—?”

“I’m only going to give you one tip,” Kian said. “Stop trying so hard to talk. You’ll burn through all of your adrenaline, mor.”

He had passed her up the riverbank. The intent of it all was very clear: he anticipated that she would follow, because he had something that she wanted and she was in no state to claw her way through all of them even if she wanted to. The knowledge of this—the understanding that Kian knew exactly what hand he had, and was going to play it—filled her with another sickening wash of dread.

The redhead stopped at the top of the bank and looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Shivering, Elliot wadded the hem of the dark dress up in one hand and struggled to the bank. Kian let her. He let her catch herself, dirtying her hands and the dress, practically clawing her way up as her heart rate fluctuated earnestly and without pattern in her chest, and when she made it to where he stood she could see the treeline ahead of them. Dark, drenched in nightfall, the pines murmuring every time the night’s chilly breeze rustled the branches.

“They’ll—” Talking caused pain to splinter through her jaw, radiating in spiderwebs up behind her eyes. “His b-brothers will—”

Kian waved a hand. His voice was light when he said, “They are busy.”

Fuck. Despair welled in her chest. Elliot swallowed thickly and said, “What are... What are we...”

He stared at her. She had the distinct sensation of being an ant, trapped under the searing beam of his magnifying glass, raising burns all across her skin. Then, he reached down to the ground, and from a bag, he procured a handful of papers; when he pulled them out, the familiar scent of her home wafted from them.

“You have lovely handwriting.” He scanned the page. “I hope you’ll forgive my snooping through your home. I couldn’t resist. Let’s see here: sounds like our little bunny was struggling with insomnia, feeling alone. Angry with your therapist for saying you were displaying—” Kian lifted a finger to indicate the importance of the word. “— significant signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, including—”

“S—” I want to die I want to die. The pages of her ripped journal sat in his hands, even greater a violation than the sound of his name. “Stop—”

“—intrusive memories, loss of time, irritability and aggressive behavior, self-harm. Is that where those scars are from? Hm, and… 'Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I didn’t let this happen to me'. Is that guilt ?” Kian clicked his tongue. “Do you feel guilty, Elliot? For what that man did to you, those years ago?” And then he paused, glanced back at the paper, and said, “Forgive me. It was one year ago. Not that far gone, I suppose.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out; something gripped her lungs, restricted their movement, until she thought she was going to pass out.

He had been in her home. He had touched her things. He’d stood among the things that were meant to be hers, rifled through them, found her journal and ripped the pages out. She’d taken up journaling about what had happened—not to torture herself with the reality of her situation, but in an effort to understand who she had become, to feel less like a stranger in her own body.

And now he held it in his hands, and there it was: everything that she was, just that small, just that insignificant. The entirety of what she was clutched in the hands of a psychopath.

“I hope she’s fucking suffering.�� Elliot ground the words out, and Kian quirked a brow at her inquisitively. She plunged onward, reckless and vicious from her pain, “I hope Ase’s fucking rotting in hell, suffering, and I’m glad they blew her fucking brains in.”

Something dark flickered across Kian’s expression. It may have been a trick of the light; the clouds passed over the moon, blinking the world into darkness for a few minutes before the nighttime wind pushed them forward again. Elliot couldn’t tell if it was real, what she’d seen on his face, but she hoped it was.

But he didn’t say anything about her venom. Instead, he said, “Ase and I used to play a game together.” His tone was light, casual; he dropped the papers back into the bag dismissively, as if they were nothing. “I would give her a three-minute head start. She would run into the woods, and I would try to catch her. She was the perfect prize.”

A strange kind of affection welled in his voice. It was love, Elliot thought with a sickening kind of realization, in his voice—and it only made her more grateful that John had busted through her spine with a shotgun shell, the knowledge that maybe Kian was suffering even a tiny bit as much as she was.

Kian continued, “Now, because of you, she is not here to play the game; you will have to be my prize, Elliot.”

She was going to be sick. She wished that he would have just killed her, rather than this—this waking nightmare, this actual fucking living hell he was going to put her through. Elliot sucked in an unsteady breath, and when Kian gestured at the treeline, she turned her gaze there. It was easier to look at the sturdy line of pines than at his wretched face.

Hot breath fanned across her ear. Kian’s hand came up to the back of her neck, holding, gripping, the way a father would when he prepped his son for a baseball game. She heard the words like a sick comedy in her head: Come on, champ! You’ve got it! But his mouth was right on her ear and he said, “I hid your man out there for you.”

John.

“He’s—not,” she managed out. “Mine.”

Kian huffed out a laugh against her temple. “Then it should be easy for you to hide from me and not worry about finding him.”

Bluff called. Fucking cultist.

He stepped away from her, heading to the half-moon curve of cultists waiting idly by. Silently, Elliot tried to count them; she wanted to know how many she could kill, and how fast, if she got a gun in her hands, but the splitting headache blurring her vision uneasily made it difficult to keep track.

One of them put a shotgun in Kian’s hand. He checked the ammunition idly.

“Start running, Elliot,” he called without looking at her. “Your time starts now.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What took you so long?”

John thought he had to be dreaming. He was certain of it, somewhere in his brain, because Elliot’s voice hummed warmly against the skin of his neck and she pressed up against him like a feline eager for his attention, and that wasn’t her. Was it?

“You’ve been sleeping so long,” she murmured into him, all sleep-warmed skin and soft lines. “Aren’t you going to wake up?”

Yes, he thought, because he wanted to open his eyes, because he wanted to see her like this. He’d worked hard for it. He deserved it, didn’t he? Yes, I’m going to wake up.

“John.” Elliot purred his name, sweet and decadent. She was so warm. “Wake up.”

“Okay,” John said, because he knew that he was ready. But the world stayed dark. He tried again: “Okay, I will.”

Her lips brushed against his pulse. He felt her fingers traced the Sloth scar on his sternum, meticulous, memorizing, slender and warm and affectionate.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you,” he managed out, “I trust you.”

Like lifting the floodgates, he pushed his eyes open. And it was a push; the effort it took to open his eyes was astronomical, like someone had suddenly stuck him under slow-moving lava that swallowed him up, ate away at the oxygen around him and weighed down his lungs in their attempt to let him breathe.

There was no Elliot. Only the slow, dark pulsing of pine boughs overhead. For just one split second, John felt relief; he was fine. Somewhere, but fine.

And then a piece of the sky lifted and peeled, drifting away. The trees bent and warped around him. He tried to struggle to sit up, fighting the urge to coil up into a tiny ball.

He said, miserably, “What the fuck,” and something at his hip buzzed static. The sound sent jolts of white-hot panic searing through his body.

“Hello?” It was a radio. A thick, dark voice came through. John didn’t pick up. He thought it sounded like Kian.

“Fucker,” he managed out, hauling himself to his feet as the world see-sawed beneath him.

“John Seed.” The voice came again. “I know you can hear me. You should be waking up any minute now.”

John wished he was still asleep. The dream had been better than this. At least in that, Elliot was—

Elliot. The last thing he remembered was her frantic hands trying to undo his seatbelt, and then her warmth getting ripped away from him, and then someone's hands on his shirt and—

“Fuck.” Bad news. Bad. “Fuck fuck fuck. ”

Steadying himself on a boulder, he came around into the clearing, trying to see through the trees. It was no good; the world pulsed and bled around him, smearing like an oil painting, and he realized with a sense of dread pitting in his stomach that they’d drugged him. Hard. The same way they’d drugged Elliot when she’d been crying into the ground like she was going to fly off.

That he knew what was going on did little to abate the irrational panic flashing through him, electrical pulses pounding through his body every chance they got. It made everything too much —the sound of the wind, the murmuring of voices that he thought maybe weren’t there, the feeling of the night on his skin. Yes, he felt it, like a garment of clothing, sitting just on him; he couldn’t tell where he ended and the rest of it began.

“I let your beast loose,” Kian’s voice crackled, seething with delight. “Gave her a head start, too.”

His fingers itched to grab the radio that had been clipped on his belt. He thought, I shouldn’t let him know I’m awake —

“Hey, fucker,” he snapped, his finger pushing down on the walkie button. His words kept slurring on their way out of his mouth, but he plunged onward anyway. “Come out here, huh? Love to chat face to face.”

Well, he’d never been that good at impulse control, anyway.

“On my way already,” Kian murmured silkily. “See you soon, friend.”

And then it went dead.

John spent what felt like an eternity staring at the face of the walkie talkie before he thought, Hey, that’s my fucking radio. And then: fuck, I can’t fight him right now.

He blinked furiously, trying to refocus his vision as bright colors started to bloom and bleed out from the ground. John kept telling himself that it wasn’t real, that there was no way it was real—and then he understood Elliot’s very real fear that night he’d tried to pull her down the hill. What had she seen then, he wondered? What had she been looking at?

“John?”

He hesitated, because the last time he’d heard Elliot’s voice it had been a dream. John’s base instinct was to stand very still, exceptionally still, which didn’t feel very still at all because he was drugged up through his fucking eyeballs and he wanted to puke.

“John—”

When she broke into the clearing, Elliot’s voice was frantic. Her hair had been let loose around her face and she was wearing a dress and bolting barefoot through the woods. Oh, John thought, a little panicked, oh, I’m dreaming again.

“Fuck,” Elliot said, her voice breaking. Her hands fluttered aimlessly, like she couldn’t figure out a place for them to land. “You don’t have Boomer?”

Maybe not dreaming, after all.

“Sleeping,” John replied, intelligently. “I was—”

Elliot stared at him as she drew closer, her eyes razor-sharp and clear and quick. The sliced right down to the core of him, but what was new, anyway? Stupid deputy, his brain chanted, sluggishly. Stupid, pretty, dumb deputy.

“... drug you?”

John blinked owlishly at her. He wasn’t in very much pain, which was good, but it probably was all going to hit him when the drug wore off and it was harder and harder to keep his attention focused; it was getting to the point where it was like being very drunk , where keeping his eyes open was becoming more and more of a chore.

Elliot snapped her fingers in front of his face. “John, focus.”

“Whose dress?” he managed out, gesturing at her.

Her eyes flickered uneasily. “Dunno.” She brought her fingers to her lips and whistled, high and fast, and John groaned; the sound rattled around in his head, echoing over and over again, splintering behind his eyes.

“Why?” he hissed. “Why are you—”

“Shut up, you fucking baby.”

Yeah, definitely not a dream.

They stood there in quiet for a moment, waiting; in the distance, John could hear a faint barking.

“He’s out there,” Elliot said, relieved. “They probably have him tied up, if they were able to get their hands on him. John—”

The blonde stopped suddenly, and he turned his gaze back to her inquisitively. She looked very much like she wanted to say something; her lashes flickered uneasily and she swallowed thickly.

“You have to get him, John,” she said finally, which didn’t sound like the thing she wanted to say.

“I’ve got a radio,” he supplied helpfully; on instinct, he reached for her, and she didn’t flinch back when his hand found the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Warm, he thought pleasantly, hazily, the breath spilling out of his lungs like a waterfall. “It’s the one from the ranch. We can—radio Joseph and the others.”

“John, I need you to listen to me,” Elliot began, reaching up to put her hand over his. Her skin was warm, but she shivered—John realized very suddenly that she was soaking wet. “I need you to get Boomer. He’s over there somewhere, close enough to hear a whistle. You can whistle, right? Or just—say his name, he’ll respond to that too.”

“‘M drugged,” he replied. “No good. Besides, he doesn’t like me.” The last half came out petulant. He thought very little of Kian’s voice crackling through the radio, or that he’d said he’d be there soon, or that someone had drugged him and left him in the middle of the forest. All he could think about was the problem being presented to him: Elliot was asking him for something, and he couldn’t give it to her.

“You have to,” she reiterated firmly. “You told me you’d do anything I asked.”

“I did,” John insisted. “Don’t you remember? I f—”

“Shh!”

Elliot grabbed his hand and yanked, hard, hauling him into some thicker brush. The whole gesture of it had his vision spinning like a slot machine.

“John, you have to go,” she whispered furiously. The sound of heavy, leisurely footsteps thudded somewhere a little ways away. “Please. You said. ”

“We can both go,” he whispered back. And then, because she hadn’t recognized his good fortune earlier: “I have a radio.”

“I can’t,” she replied. Her voice broke a little, slipping past a furious hiss and cracking on an emotion that John didn’t want to know. “I can’t go.”

“Why?”

“I have to—” Elliot paused, her gaze flickering tiredly. “John, I have to take a break, I’ve—I’m so tired.”

He paused. “I’ll wait, too.”

“You need to go.”

“I don’t want to. I’ll stay, too, and we’ll go together—”

“No,” she insisted. “Fucking— God you are so annoying—”

John heard, very faintly, the low and threatening click-click of someone pumping a shotgun. He paused, and Elliot did too, and then she pulled him forward by his shirt and kissed him hard. She tasted a little like river water, but mostly like her, and the warmth of her mouth against his made heat bloom all over him like he was green and Spring, again.

“John,” she whispered against his mouth, nearly inaudible, “please. Get Boomer, radio your brothers. We’ll catch up on the other side. I—”

Another couple of footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. All of the birds and wildlife had fled; they knew there was a big, bad predator out in the evening, and John felt that knowledge twisting something violent and wretched inside of him.

“Do not fucking die,” he hissed at her. “You’ve stayed stubbornly alive for this long. Do not.”

She nodded faintly. “Yes, boss.”

He went to move, but she stopped him, lifting a finger to her mouth; each beat of his heart rumbled violently in his ears, and he thought he might pass out if he didn’t get moving fucking soon; each second spent crouching still and silent in the brush was swaying him viciously back and forth, trying to get him to face plant into the ground.

Elliot, back against the tree, let go of his shirt. She mouthed, Go, and then darted out, quick and fast and taking with her all of the vibrant sound and warmth in the world.

John's legs lifted him to a standing position. It felt like operating heavy machinery; every movement ground through his skeleton laboriously. But he was going; gripping the radio, trying his hardest to sprint, when he heard the sound of a shotgun shell pelting the earth in one sharp, gritty blow.

And then a familiar voice: “Where are you, little rabbit?”

Please.

Everything in him was telling him to turn around. Screaming at him—but he knew that was exactly what Kian wanted, too. To have them both there, in the same place, to make one of them watch the other die.

So, he didn’t.

He kept going, and when he got far enough away to be convinced that Kian was preoccupied with Elliot, he stopped and looked around. The night was eerily still and pulsed dimly around him. He glanced down at his feet; the grass reached up and around his shoes, coiling around him, trying to hold him down.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hurriedly stepping forward. “Find dog. Radio Joseph. Boomer?”

He kept his voice low as he crept through the woods, fiddling clumsily with the radio as he moved. When he found a channel whose numbers looked vaguely familiar—and familiar was a stretch, considering that accessing just about anything in his brain was like feeling someone’s face in the dark and guessing who it was—he pressed down on the talk button.

“Joseph? Jacob? Somebody?” He let off the talk button. “Boomer?”

No barking. Was Elliot drugged too? Had they been hallucinating the dog barking?

John had just begun to give up on the idea of doing anything other than wander aimlessly in the dark woods when he made it to the edge of the treeline and saw the dog. Unfortunately, the beast was tied up to a wooden stake, growling low and threatening the two men as they walked idly around him and to the van, busying themselves; soft music played from the car. They seemed to be waiting patiently for Kian to finish whatever it was he was doing. Killing Elliot?

Fuck, he thought hastily. Gotta hurry.

He watched as one of the men set his gun down on the bed of the open van, stretching and chatting conversationally with his companion. When he wandered back over to Boomer and said, “Here, doggy,” the Heeler lunged viciously and set off barking, teeth snapping. He sighed.

“Stupid dog.”

They turned back toward the road, and John made his way closer to Boomer. If he could get that lead unclipped—if he could do it without them noticing…

“Fucking shithole,” one of the men said, backs turned to him as they lit a cigarette that got passed between them. “Can’t wait to purge this place and get out.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, do you know…”

As their conversation drifted, so did John’s attention. He slipped out from the cover of the underbrush; instantly, Boomer’s eyes were on him. His hackles went up, and John lifted his hands, keeping them open.

In hindsight, he’d probably feel stupid thinking about this moment. The dog wasn’t holding him hostage. But it felt a little like he was, anyway.

“Hey,” he whispered, creeping closer. “Gonna let you off, beastie.”

Boomer eyed him, eyes flattened back against his head.

“You wanna get ‘em?” he continued, glancing over at the men as he reached for Boomer’s makeshift collar, clipped onto the lead. He didn’t know what kinds of gestures or phrases Elliot used to get the dog to do what she wanted. He only knew that Boomer did , sometimes without her saying, and so he said again, more urgently, “You wanna get ‘em, beast?”

The urgency of his tone seemed to spark something in Boomer. His ears pricked forward. John’s fingers found the lead clipped around his collar, pulled on the little metal clasp, and let it drop to the ground.

Boomer watched him, expectantly.

“Well, go on,” he whispered, gesturing. That seemed to be all that was needed; the cattle dog darted forward, teeth sinking into one man’s leg and yanking hard enough to unbalance him and pull him to the ground; the dog's head thrashed violently, ripping out of him guttural snarls.

John blinked, and thought, holy shit, is this what he’s been like this whole time?

There wasn’t a lot of time to spend thinking about it, because the other man was whirling angrily, shouting something, and then his eyes landed on John.

They both looked at the gun sitting on the tailgate of the van at the same time.

“Fuck,” John hissed, lunging forward and grabbing wildly; he wasn’t entirely sure that he even stayed upright, the strange back-and-forth pull in his head having only abated a little, but he reached for the gun and snatched his hand back, fumbling with the safety.

The whole thing felt like an eternity —comedically so. While the sounds of Boomer mauling the unarmed cultist echoed in his ears, John’s fingers clumsily switched the safety off and he fired recklessly; the bullet barely grazed the cultist’s calf, and as the man reached for him, John pulled the trigger again. Once, twice, three times, the bullets planted themselves in the man’s chest, jerking him back with each impact.

A heavy thud echoed in the night as the man slumped to the ground. Boomer had handily dispatched of the other one; his mouth was red and wet, and when John struggled to his feet, he saw that the man’s throat had been ripped open.

“Nice,” he breathed. Boomer regarded him warily, unimpressed with the compliment. He quickly shuffled the safety back on and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, pushing the tailgate of the van up. When the dog whined, low and uncertain, he glanced back at him and sighed.

He pulled the tailgate back down. “Load up. We’re gonna get her back.”

Boomer leapt up into the back of the van, nails sliding on the hard plastic. It took John about five minutes of rifling through the pockets of the two men to find the car keys. While he wasn’t entirely confident in his ability to drive, he had just planted a couple of bullets in a man, so he supposed he'd be fine.

As he climbed into the driver’s side, he shut the door and settled in and carefully, meticulously slid the key into the ignition. The van purred to life as though John’s last week hadn’t been an entire fucking series of absolute fuckhead jokes, and he let out a breath.

The glint of something blue and reflective in the cupholder between the two front seats caught his eye. He glanced down, blinking.

“Hey,” he said, reaching down. “My sunglasses.” Tucking them into his shirt, he checked the rearview mirror and gently, gently pushed the car into drive.

"Alright, beastie," John muttered. "Let's get this ended, huh?"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The concussive blast of bullet meeting wood rang in her ears; chips of bark and the guts of the tree showered her, the shot echoing just above her head, and she thought, fuck, I just want to be dead already. She was so tired; moving was a luxury that was not afforded to her anymore, each gesture as she struggled to her feet tipped and fettered by the bruises and wounds that littered her body.

Finding John had taken about fifteen minutes, fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds of which had been spent agonizing about where to look first. She didn’t recognize where they were, or know her way around, and she was barefoot and soaking wet and shivering and she just kept thinking about how badly she wanted to lay down.

We’ll go together. Fuck, John was so stupid. She might have actually had a moment to breathe if he’d just listened to her and did as she said. But that wasn’t ever how these things went, was it?

A calloused hand closed around her wrist and yanked her to her feet. For a second, in the blurring, thrumming night, between the whispering voices in the wind and the lurching of the great beast hunting her down, Elliot saw the dark fabric of a button-up shirt and thought, it’s John, it’s John; he came back me and now we’re going to get out.

“I win,” Kian purred.

His voice bled through her skull, stretching and warping as the agony crashed over her in a scalding wave. Kian’s fingers wound iron-like around her wrist, holding her there, and his other hand came up to grip her chin; playfully, he shook her head back and forth, like he was trying to jostle her out of deep sleep.

“Don’t look so sad. I’m not going to kill you, Elliot.” He regarded her with something like amusement, eyes glittering dark and obsidian in what little moonlight had managed to seep through the tree cover. “Do you know what mor means? It means mother. We’re going to keep you for It, and when it’s time, we’ll slice you open. You will make It so happy.”

She gripped his wrist as hard as she could and tried to push his hand from her face. Kian had discarded the shotgun in favor of having both hands to grab her, and as he gripped her face—the wide, calloused crux of his hand covering her mouth while his fingers reached the dip of her jaw—she thought, Something has to be done.

Elliot had promised Joey. Even if I have to fucking die for it. She had promised, and that meant it had to be done.

Muddling through the panic, Elliot squirmed under his hand, opened her mouth, and bit down as hard as she could. The disgusting taste of hot copper flooded her mouth instantly; the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger wasn’t meant to take teeth ripping and tearing, and she was ripping and tearing; even with the limited mobility she had, she wrenched her head anyway she could, intent on taking some piece of Kian with her.

A wretched kind of sound came out of him. He tried to yank his hand back off of her face, and she bit down harder, anywhere her teeth could catch and grip. If she could hit bone, she thought; if she could sink her teeth right into the marrow of him, maybe then she would have felt like she got some repayment for what he’d done.

Kian yanked his hand free, gripping his wrist as crimson streamed down his palm and arm. His eyes were wild and dark; for a split second they stood there, staring at each other, two beasts nursing wounds and waiting for the other to make a move.

Elliot grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him forward, slamming her face into his. It would have been nearly impossible to bodily force Kian’s to move had he not been clutching his wounded hand, and for that she was grateful—grateful, she would tell herself, around the ricocheting stars of pain blurring behind her eyes, using the hardest part of her skull to bash into Kian’s nose and mouth.

And then she ran.

The gun was around, somewhere, dusted in pine needles and nightfall; like a needle in a haystack. She heard someone spitting behind her, and she thought, I hope I broke your fucking nose, you piece of shit, just before she ducked into a thick bustle of brush and behind a rock.

Around her, the world blurred and fuzzed black. She tried to furiously blink it away, but every second spent standing still meant that her body was suddenly remembering how tired and overworked it was, how much she had done, how much she had suffered. We could stop now, the tired little girl inside of her said. We should. We should stop now.

But Kian had said it himself; he wasn’t planning on killing her. She wouldn’t get rest even if she gave up. He might have changed his mind after she’d bit through his hand and headbutted him, but—

That wasn’t a chance she could take. Not for herself, and not for Joey, and not for the girl she had been that night in her apartment, either.

Heavy footfalls echoed just a few feet away from her. Her mouth was still flooded with the taste of Kian’s blood. As she made her way to the other side of the boulder she’d taken refuge behind and peeked out, she thought, I’d do it again, given the chance. I’d rip him open with my teeth if I got the opportunity. Give me the fucking chance.

Moonlight spilled through the trees and into the clearing they had just been in as the wind pushed clouds out of the way. The glint of dark metal, threatening, caught her eye; the shotgun was there, with hopefully at least one shell in it—one that she could put straight through Kian’s ugly fucking face.

And he was nowhere to be seen, either. Even as she leaned further out, trying to see around the boulder, she couldn’t see him crashing through the underbrush; she couldn’t hear him, either. Just the sound of the wind, pine needles skittering across the ground, a twig snap and—

A second too late, Elliot’s pain-addled brain realized the breaking branch was just behind her. Fingers fisted into the hair at the back of her skull and dragged, hauling her out of the underbrush and back into the clearing, tossing her like a ragdoll. All of the already-battered ribs shrieked on impact, and she wheezed out a breath that had blood and spit flickering across the forest floor.

Tired. She was so tired. So tired, and the world blurred and tried to fizz and pop out of existence around her, a sticky-wet hand forced her eyes forward.

Blood streamed down Kian’s face from their earlier collision. When he grinned at her, his teeth were stained pink, red seeping in the gaps.

“Hello, little rabbit,” he ground out, pushing away her scrambling hands and pinning the left down. “You put up quite a fight.”

Elliot tried to search in her spatial memory—what was left standing of it, anyway—for where she had seen the gun. But it was getting harder to breathe, and to think, and Kian’s fingers dug into her jaw and cheeks. An awful, animalistic noise came out of her at the pressure—it was a whimper, but unlike anything she’d ever heard out of herself, unlike anything she’d known she was capable of making.

“I wonder—”

His voice came out in a low murmur, spit-slicked and venomous, his nose grazing the slope of her cheekbone.

“—will you feel guilty about this, too? When I drag you back kicking and screaming, and make you watch as I cut each of those fucking hillbillies open? I know some of them got out. I'll find them, too.”

It had to be close, she reasoned through the haze in her brain; the gun had to be nearby. She’d just been looking at it. Her body was trying to give up; Kian’s fingers pinning her wrist down and bruising her neck, his words hissed out against her skin, were all tripping that strange little trigger in her brain that finally wanted to give up fighting and do something else.

Quit.

“ Mor,” Kian purred against her skin. “Mother, you’ll be so good for It, I know you will.”

Joey, clutching her tight. “I never doubted you’d be able to get me out.”

“It likes it best like this, you know.”

John, mouth so close to her ear. “I said, it’s a good thing you’re more devil than woman.”

Each second that ticked by, filled with Kian’s voice, the fingers of her one free hand inched. S he felt them close around cool metal.

“It likes the ones that fight back.”

She gripped the gun hard, and swung.

It collided with a heavy-handed thump against the side of Kian’s face, and he jerked back. He still straddled her, but with room between them now, Elliot could lurch forward, bowling as much of her weight into his midsection as she could to push him off of her and send him reeling back into the hard surface of the boulder.

Her fingers worked fast as she struggled to her feet. Pure adrenaline, pure muscle memory, as she flicked the safety off, cocked the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.

It clicked.

Empty.

Kian barked out a laugh wet with blood. There was a wound on his temple that was bleeding, now, and as he struggled to sit up more she could see him wince—the collision with the boulder hadn’t done him any good. Elliot pulled the trigger again, and again, and each time it clicked she found herself getting angrier and angrier. Filling with poison, up to her brim, like someone had just uncorked it.

“It’s empty, mother,” Kian rumbled at her. “You think I brought any more ammo than those two shells?” He spat blood out of his mouth and cocked his head, regarding her with dark eyes. “I told you, I’m not going to kill you.”

I’m not, like he still thought he had won. Pure, vibrating fury radiated through her body. This was supposed to be her victory; this was supposed to be her revenge for Joey. For her life. For her.

It would be. It’s mine, she thought viciously, this fucking moment is mine.

“Yeah, well,” Elliot spit out, digging her fingers into the metal, “can't say the same.”

The weight of the gun was not unlike a bat; so when she took the barrel of the gun and swung it like one, it felt familiar. Just like when she was ten, playing rec-league softball, only this time the bat was an empty pump-action shotgun and the ball was Kian’s head.

When the dull impact send vibrations rattling up her arm, and Kian keeled to the side, wheezing and biting out something venomous in Swedish, Elliot gripped the shotgun harder and swung again.

And again.

Each collision brought it closer to the satisfying, wet crunch of blood and bone on the redhead’s face. Elliot couldn’t have counted how many times she swung if someone asked her—or pinpointed the exact moment that Kian stopped moving, stopped breathing.

She could only think about the way he’d planted his words right against her skin, gripped her, I win.

Do you know what I get to do with things that belong to me?

“Nothing,” she ground out, when her arms burned and ached and her vision fuzzed with exhaustion. “You don't get to do anything.”

“Deputy?”

Blood spray littered her face. She was sure that her teeth were stained red, too. Each breath heaved exhaustively through her body, rattling, and when she turned her head to the source of the voice, she saw John and Jacob standing at the edge of the clearing; lights blurred through the trees, the sound of trucks and voices echoing in the still night air.

Boomer darted out from behind them, immediately pressed to her legs. She held the shotgun loosely in her hand.

“El,” John said, softer than Jacob had, “It’s me.”

Her gaze flickered back to the brutalized corpse in front of her. She thought, faintly, that there was no way her life was going to be normal after this again, but that was okay. She’d promised Joey.

If I have to die for it, I will.

She’d done it. And maybe she had died for it.

Jacob had taken a few steps toward her as the thought echoed in her head. Slowly, like she was a stray dog snarling over a cow bone. When John moved to follow, she saw Jacob put his hand out and stop him.

“Put the gun down,” Jacob said, his voice still and calm. Elliot blinked tiredly.

She wanted to do it. She wanted to let go of it. But that girl that she had been—that girl who had cried under the blanket fort, who had thought, I don’t know how I let him do that to me, the girl who had sat on the floor of her bedroom in Hope County and blinked through furious tears as she struggled to understand herself—no longer wept; that girl was furious, and so Elliot gripped the gun tighter.

As though it made it any less of a weapon, she said, “It’s empty.”

Jacob looked at Kian’s face, bashed-in. Obliterated. “I know.”

Boomer whined at her feet, nosing her empty hand quietly and gazing up at her with big, brown eyes. Something strange washed over her, an emotion that made her lip tremble and her eyes burn. The Heeler nuzzled her hand again, and she sucked in a shaking breath as finally— finally, finally —the tears stung down her cheeks.

She dropped the shotgun. John said her name, and Jacob dropped his arm, and she realized that it was relief she was feeling now.

Only vaguely aware of Jacob kicking the shotgun away from her, the world blurred as Elliot felt John’s hands cradling her face. Each place where his fingers traced the bruises from Kian, that pulse of relief ran stronger through her body until it was overstimulating, overwhelming. When John kissed her, it was almost frantic—she could taste the blood in her own mouth, his fingers tangling into her hair as he kissed her again and again, until her lungs ached with the need to breathe. But each kiss brought her somewhere else. It took her somewhere that she didn't have to think about anything except John in that single moment.

“Hey,” John said, their noses brushing. His movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, his voice still slurring a little. “I have you. Right here with me, El, don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah,” she managed out. Her voice wobbled, and she sucked in a sharp, stuttering breath. “John—”

His thumbs swept across her cheekbones, smearing more blood than they wiped away tears, and as the sound of voices echoed dimly around them, she lifted her hands and gripped his wrists. Through the coppery tang in the air, she could smell his cologne; her lashes fluttered and John pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s okay.” John murmured the words, tugging her against him, into his chest. “It’s all over now.”

No, she thought as his arms circled her, pulling her closer, Boomer barking at anyone who wandered near.

It’s not even close.

#ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #fic: ancient names #john seed x female deputy #john seed x original female character #far cry 5 #far cry fic #uhhhhhhhhhhh #what can i say? i love a girl who knows how to use her teeth #boomer is a good boy #per usual

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forestwhisper3 · 4 years ago

Text

Welcome back to the SI/OC series, where I introduce my various brainchildren. This time around, though, we’re gonna do something a little different. Apart from giving you a couple of pics, I’ll also give you snippets that I’ve written out. This is mostly because I have nothing near resembling an actual fic and have literally just written segments.

It’s kinda long, so click the expand to read on.

So...this SI/OC is one that I’ve had in my head for a while. I mentioned her in one of Klonoadreams’s streams and figured I should probably mention her in this SI/OC series too. She is one of two for the Kingdom Hearts fandom, and when the mood strikes, I try to flesh out her story a little more. Maybe one day I’ll have something publishable. For now, here’s Ignis, a fellow student of Master Eraqus, along with Terra, Aqua, and Ventus:

This is her before everything goes to pot, however. The thing with this SI is that, despite her knowledge of the games, and despite all of her efforts to prevent the events of Birth by Sleep, she still fails. Master Xehanort is not a man easily defeated, after all. So, it is a weary, heartbroken Ignis that finds herself on Destiny Islands after she loses everything yet again...

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'This is...'

I smiled, knowing it was a bit wry in nature. After all, whenever I'd given the thought to being here, I'd never quite pictured it...like this.

"Whoa, you were right! There is another weird person here today!"

I found myself laughing at the comment without meaning to, the reaction startling me and filling me with sorrow all at once. It had felt like ages since I'd laughed so freely...

"Hey...are you okay?"

I looked at the two boys before me, ready to assure them that everything was fine but...the words just didn't want to come out.

"You're crying..."

Fingers touched my cheeks, only to come away wet. How did I not realize...?

I gave a start when I suddenly felt small arms wrap around me, the warmth of the action seeping into the chill that had seemed to settle in me these past days.

"Don't cry," Sora pleaded, his own eyes staring earnestly into my own. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

If my next laugh was mixed with a sob, I didn't think any of us would tell.

"You already have," I told him once I'd calmed down, making sure my smile was gentle.

"Really?"

"Yes. I think a hug was just what I needed. Thank you."

"Oh! I'm glad! I don't like seeing people sad."

I smiled, the warmth continuing to spread as I studied him. I'd thought...it would be strange to see them as children while not being the same age, but...this felt right.

Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

"My name is Ignis," I began softly, "and I come from somewhere far from these shores."

"I knew it," Riku piped up. "You're from the outside world! Just like-...uhh..."

I chuckled a bit at his attempts to back up, clearly not wanting to break his promise.

"Going by your comment earlier, I'll have to assume you've met Terra or Aqua?"

"Yeah! Miss Aqua was nice!"

"Terra was too," Riku added.

"And he left you with something special," I finished.

"Err...yeah."

"What?! He gave you a present!? No fair!"

"Hey now, don't get upset. What's your name?"

"Sora!"

"Sora..." I put my hand out, smiling at his gasp when my Keyblade appeared. "Terra entrusted your friend with something very special because he must have seen something in him...just like I see it in you."

It wasn't just because I knew what was to come. Riku's light was...amazing- there was no doubt about that. But Sora-...Sora gave off his own light too. A light so warm, and loving, and kind that it chased away the darkness and made me feel safe. I know the games had always made Sora's light out to be something special, but...Being able to feel it, and knowing that both Aqua and Terra had passed him up for one reason or another made me want to cry all over again at the injustice of it all.

Sora would not be the backup plan. Not if I had anything to say about it.

"In your hand, take this key..."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Master!/Master Ignis!"

I groaned, turning over in my cot and doing my best to block out their yells and subsequent pounding at my door.

"Master!"

I yelped when a large weight practically threw itself upon me, sighing at the sound of Sora's giggles and Riku's snickers. Still, it wasn't quite enough to stop the smile that tugged on the edge of my lips.

"Alright, alright, I'm up. What are you two doing here so early anyway?"

Sora propped his chin up on his hands from his position on top of me and grinned. "It's not early. You just slept in!"

"Yeah...I thought adults were supposed to be responsible and stuff."

Riku laughed when I threw a pillow in his direction.

"You're lucky I like you," I said without any real heat.

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"This form was a particular favorite of Master Eraqus," I began, smiling slightly when I saw how much Sora and Riku were struggling to remain in position. "Not so much one of ours."

"I-...I can't feel my legs!"

"Don't tell me you-...you can't handle it, Sora!"

"Your legs are shaking too!"

I felt a laugh bubble up. God, those two really were like-

A sharp pang shot through me, and despite my best efforts, it left me feeling desolate all over again.

'I'll see them again. I know I will...but...twelve years is a long time.'

And I would be the only one to actually age.

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"Kairi, I understand that you don't like fighting like Sora and Riku do. Really. But...Keyblades don't just go to anyone- you have to be chosen. The fact that you have one...will you at least learn the basics? You don't have to use them, but you'll know them. Just in case."

She mulled it over for a while, before nodding.

"Thank you," I sighed out with a relieved smile.

"It...means a lot to you...doesn't it."

Despite my efforts to the contrary, the question made me freeze. By this point, the boys had given up any pretenses of being busy and were watching in unabashed curiosity. With a welling sadness that hadn't really dulled these past years and an ache in my heart, I nodded.

"It does," I confirmed quietly. "But more than that, I just want you three to be safe. To know how to take care of yourselves if-...Anyway, this is the best I can do."

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"Master Ignis, when-...when is Master Terra coming back?"

The question, sudden and unexpected as it was (though I really should have seen it coming), hit hard. All of a sudden, it felt like there was a vice-like grip around my heart, and I flinched so violently that there was no way I could have hidden the reaction.

And Riku- who was so clever and so observant that I was constantly reminded of Aqua -didn't fail to catch on.

"...He's not coming back. And...Master Aqua isn't either."

There was a deep hurt in his eyes, and hints of betrayal. All three of them were aware of how the relationship between Masters and students worked by now, which meant that they knew that despite the fact I was teaching all of them, only Sora was my true apprentice. The rightful heir of my teachings, so to speak.

"Oh, Riku," I breathed out, feeling that all too familiar twist of my heart, though this time, it was accompanied by the sharp sting of tears. "They-...They can't."

Riku blinked, the hurt look being replaced by a questioning one. A few feet back, Sora and Kairi watched on, too hesitant to get closer, but not enough to leave their friend completely.

I sighed, and if there was a breath of a sob mixed in, well, no one would know but me.

"Come on...I think it's time I told you."

They were young yet, but if I didn't tell them now, I didn't think I'd ever work up the strength to do it.

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"...When I finally managed to get back to Radiant Garden, there was no sign of Terra or Aqua- the only hint of their fate being the lingering chill in that courtyard. I-...I can only assume they were dragged into the Realm of Darkness. I spent the next few months searching for a way to get to them, as well as keeping an eye out for Ventus, but..."

"...You didn't find either," Riku finished sadly.

"No. Eventually, I found myself here, on these islands. When I saw you, I-...I knew that I couldn't leave. It would have been the height of negligence and cruelty to move on- to leave you ignorant of the legacy you bear. I knew Terra well enough to say that he had every intention of coming back for you, but since he can't, I will do my best to train you in his stead."

He was silent for a while, mulling it over. Finally, he nodded.

"Thank you for telling me, Master Ignis."

"What about Kairi?" Sora asked, his head tilted. "If Mister Terra chose Riku, and you chose me, who chose Kairi?"

"That would be Aqua," I told them. "Just like I could feel Terra's claim on Riku, I can feel Aqua's on Kairi."

"...I don't remember," Kairi said.

"Perhaps it's one of the things you've forgotten," I told her gently, even though I knew that even if she had remembered her meeting with Aqua, she still wouldn't have known when she was given the power. "But even if the mind forgets, the heart remembers."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The stars were disappearing.

I looked up at the night sky, unease settling in my stomach as I watched another one blink out of existence. It was the third one this week, and while I now knew that some stars actually were just stars in this universe, I also knew that those weren't what was going out.

Xehanort was on the move again.

I'd been wondering about it for a while- mostly since the finer details of the games had slipped from my memory as the years passed -whether or not his plan had some sort of deadline he needed to meet. It seemed I'd gotten my answer. The question now, however, was how were things going to play out.

I was under no delusions that I hadn't derailed things. I had not only trained Sora, Riku, and Kairi, but I had actively done my best to keep them hidden. My unease mostly stemmed from worry over whether it had been enough. If it hadn't, then odds were that Xehanort was going to be paying a visit to the islands soon.

Just the thought of it made my blood run cold.

Ten years, and it still didn't feel like I'd had enough time. I had known what was going to happen, and I hadn't been able to stop it. It had taken everything Terra, Aqua, Ventus and I had had to fight him, and we'd still lost. This time, I was alone. If he came-...

If he came, I probably wasn't going to make it out alive.

I swallowed, feeling my eyes burn as I continued to stare up at the sky. Years ago, that was all I could have hoped for. Anything to escape the agony brought about by losing everything yet again. Now, however...

"Miss Ignis!"

"Master Ignis!"

"Master!"

I found that...I didn't want to go.

"Master...?"

I sighed, a small, wry smile making its way onto my face at the voice. He would be the one to run into me tonight, wouldn't he?

"You should be asleep, Sora," I scolded, though anyone could tell it was halfhearted at best.

"I can't," he said, settling down next to me.

"You should at least try," I told him. "You've got a big day tomorrow."

His grin was just as bright now as it was when I'd first met him.

"That's exactly why!" he exclaimed, turning his gaze up to the night sky. "We've always heard the stories, but to know that we'll actually get to go out there! To see other worlds! It's amazing!"

I couldn't help the fond smile that slipped onto my face at that. He was so much like them, and yet, the warmth he always seemed to instill was unique to him alone.

I hoped that by nurturing it in him, I'd thrown Xehanort's, and even the mysterious Master of Master's, plans awry.

"But," Sora continued, his much more subdued and hesitant tone instantly drawing my attention, "there's...something I've been meaning to ask."

"What is it?"

"If-...If Riku hadn't been chosen when you first got here...or if Kairi had already been with us and not chosen by Master Aqua...would you have still chosen me?"

I blinked, honestly taken aback at the question. "What?"

He seemed a bit more embarrassed now, but the question still seemed to be weighing him down. "It's just- since you've started teaching us how to sense light and darkness in others, me an' Kairi noticed that Riku's...bright. Like, really bright. Then I noticed later that I couldn't sense any darkness in Kairi, and I just-...I couldn't help but think that-...that I-..."

"That you were chosen only because they were first."

He winced and I felt my heart twist painfully at his small nod.

"Sora, no," I told him, perhaps a bit too vehemently, but maybe that would make him listen more. "No, that's not it at all."

I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and waited until he was looking back at me to continue. "Sora, even if I'd had the option, I still would have chosen you. Precisely because you are you."

"Because...I'm me?"

I smiled. "Maybe Riku's a bit brighter, and maybe Kairi's a bit purer, but you...You want to know what I see when I look at you?"

He hesitated for a moment, probably afraid of what I might say, but nodded in the end.

"I see a warm light. Soft and gentle, like a sunset on the beach. It was that very light that reached out to me ten years ago, and pulled me back from the abyss I could feel myself starting to slip into. Sora, I wasn't kidding when I said your hug was just what I needed. That warmth- your warmth -kept me from ending up just like the others."

He blinked rapidly, his eyes becoming glassy with tears, and I sighed softly before throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Even after all I'd done, Sora had still ended up doubting himself and his place as a Keyblade wielder. Still, at least this had happened now, when I could set him straight, as opposed to later, when I...might not be around.

"...Do you really mean that?" he asked quietly.

"I do," I reassured him. "Never doubt yourself, Sora. If you ever find yourself feeling low just remember this:

I chose, and would always choose, you. Not Riku. Not Kairi. You. Because you are kind, and cheerful, and strong- even if you may not believe it at times. You also have something special that they don't: a warm light that welcomes all. A light that shelters and heals. I know, without a doubt, that you will do great things. Amazing things." I smiled down at him, my heart lightening at the small smile on his face as he looked back. "And you trust your master, don't you? So trust in me now."

"...Okay."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sora watched with growing concern as his master paled. His gaze fell onto the figure behind her, his eyes widening when he realized it was the man in the cloak he'd spoken with just yesterday.

"I must admit to some surprise," the man continued, seemingly unaffected by the storm that raged around them. "I thought I'd gotten rid of all of Eraqus's pupils, yet here you are- with students of your own, no less..."

She stiffened, finally whirling around to face him with a glare. "You will get nowhere near them, Xehanort!"

Suddenly the gravity of the danger was clear, and going by how Riku and Kairi seemed to freeze right next to him, they realized it too.

Xehanort. The man who was responsible for all of the bad things that had happened to Master Ignis and her friends. Because of him, Mister Terra couldn't be here to teach Riku, and Miss Aqua and Ventus were lost somewhere.

It was because of him that his master was so sad and lonely.

Even his laugh was sending chills down his spine. "Is that so? You may have ten more years under your belt, girl, but you're still nowhere close to my level."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

...To be continued?

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Maybe I’ll post snippets of my other, as of yet, unpublished SI/OC fics if you all like this well enough. I leave you with a picture of how Ignis looks at the end of these snippets, or rather, at the beginning of the events of KH1:

#SI/OC series #Ignis #Hearts- fanfic #Yeah I have a title for the fic despite not having much of a plot #Story snippets #Storytime with ForestWhisper3 #Brought to you by my brain

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