#that want to bake their residents alive with the sun | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chasingpj · 2 years ago

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𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

“I know you’re scared. I am, too, but they’re growing and getting strong. It’s time.”

pairing: percy jackson x fem child of hecate!reader

words: 6,762

warnings: brief mentions of religious institutions, catholicism, human sacrifices, and tripping on mushrooms. if you're a ginger... i'm so sorry.

timeline: the lightning thief

a/n: so excited to finally get this posted. one thing i really wish i did when i initially started writing this fic was give a proper insight on the mc's and her brother's home life. i thought the addition of her grandmother and grandpa would be so fun and i'm excited to hear what you think. in the next chapter we will finally see the twins get to camp so stay tuned!

prologue chapter i chapter iii

The final bell of the school year rings, releasing a flood of excited children. Their shouts and quick footsteps move from the hallways to the echoing streets, bodies quickly funneling themselves through the double doors like inmates breaking out of prison.

You scrunch your nose, trailing behind the crowd along with Atticus. Though excited to go home, neither of you was ready for the awful weather outside. Today’s sweltering heat washes over your body, humid and suffocating, no doubt. Some say it’s a beautiful day, but to your standards, this was torture from mother nature herself.

Atticus grunts in annoyance as the rays of sunlight hit him hard. It was a slap in the face compared to the air-conditioning you’re begrudgingly leaving behind. Your brother trudges beside you, quick to unbutton and shove his tie into his pocket. You follow, exposing your skin to bake under the unforgiving sun.

“Glad that’s over,” you speak almost in a sigh, and Atticus nods.

“I didn’t think it would end,” Atticus’s eyes avert to the statue of Saints in front of your school’s chapel as you pass by. “I still think those things are alive.”

A snort leaves your lips, flashing your gaze at them one more time. After the principal forced you and Atticus to scrub the stone as punishment for wearing black nail polish, you couldn’t bear to look at them. That and your brother was right. Those angel statues have definitely whispered your name once. “I don’t want to hear or see anything else about Saints for the rest of the summer.”

“Don’t want to hear about Jesus either,” Atticus adds.

“Or how Eve ruined everything.”

“Or how God made his archnemesis.”

You pause for a moment in thought. “Satan’s pretty cool, though.” Atticus nods. “Agreed.”

Neither of you says anything else. The children's chatter around the streets does enough to fill the silence. There are thumps of basketballs in the passing park’s courtyard and the low hum of the sprinklers. The ice cream truck jingle plays in the distance, herding kids toward the sound, and cars whoosh by, honking through traffic on the busy road. As you and Atticus make your way to the residential streets, your silence feels more meaningful as it’s filled with soft croaks of cicadas and bird chirps.

Soon, your family's familiar baby blue Victorian home is in sight. Like a sore thumb, it sticks out from the traditional American homes on the block. On the outside, the white trim and the many flower bushes your grandmother tends to make the home look sweet and inviting. At first glance, it would look like any regular residence. Though different in style, there would be no reason for a double take if, of course, the white monument sign announcing “Cromwell Funeral Home” wasn’t there.

“Hey! Wednesday and Pugsley Addams!” A slow, agonizing sigh leaves your nostrils. Felix Bain, a fitting last name for the nuisance he is, runs out of his front door as you and Atticus pass by. His posse of boys is hot on his heels, their faces with the same arrogant smile as their dictator. They giggle and chatter, but yours and Atticus’s stride don’t falter.

“Ignore him,” Atticus mumbles.

“I can’t believe you guys don’t melt in the sun,” Felix shouts again. “I’m surprised you can even get into the chapel. You must have some weird pagan magic protecting you.”

You didn’t expect Atticus to betray his advice, halting sharply and turning in Felix’s direction. Your eyebrow raises.

“Felix, do you know what they say about gingers?” Atticus asks. The friendly tone in his voice is bitter under his deadpan expression.

Felix’s smile widens with arrogant challenge. “What?” “They say gingers have no soul and every freckle on their pale ghostly face is a soul they’ve taken to fill the emptiness.”

Felix’s lips falter, eyebrows slowly knitting in the center of his forehead.

“You have a lot of freckles,” you point out, your jaw clenching to hide your smile.

Felix’s mouth opens, but you cut him off quickly. “Gingers are also known to be unlucky. So unlucky that Ancient Egyptians used them as human sacrifices to release their bad luck.” Slowly, he begins to frown, shifting on his feet nervously. “Count yourself lucky you don’t live down the street from pagans….” Your eyes fix on your home a few houses from his. “Oh, wait. You do.”

“You guys are weird!” Felix yells, his face almost as red as his hair. Smiling wickedly, you and Atticus turn on your heels, ignoring Felix's sloppy insults in your direction.

“If I were you, I’d make sure to lock your windows at night,” Atticus shouts behind him.

Angrily, the redhead stomps inside his home and mutters about how freaky the two of you are. The moment his front door slams closed, you and Atticus burst into laughter.

“That was so mean!”

You scoff. “So what?! He deserved it, and you’re the one who started it.” “I did, but I wasn’t the one who made it seem like we were gonna sacrifice him!”

You shrug, opening the gate to your home. “Oh well.”

Atticus shakes his head in playful disapproval, “You’re on a roll today.”

Your eyebrow raises in confusion, stumbling to the side from Atticus’s nudge. “What do you mean?” “First, it was Avery and then Felix.”

Atticus laughs at how your eyes roll, hand coming up in a dismissive wave. “Oh, please.”

“It was kinda mean.”

“So what if I charged her double?” Quickly, you reach into the mailbox beside your door, collecting the envelopes for your grandparents, “First, you call my tarot cards stupid.” A loud clunk hits your ears as you harshly slam the box close. “Then suddenly, you want to be nice, so I can give you a reading about your stupid crush. You know what, I’m glad the cards told her he doesn’t like her.”

As he walks into the house, Atticus laughs and mutters something about you being cruel. You trail close behind, surprised to see the ground floor decorated and ready for service. On your left are a couple of loveseats and coat racks right across the rows of banquet chairs. Further inside, there’s a hallway with a lounge area usually set up with desserts and Hors D'oeuvre for the guest.

“My little rascals, how was school?” A familiar voice calls from inside the mourning area, putting a smile on your face.

Your grandmother stands on a small ladder, hands carefully arranging flowers where the casket will be placed. Bright reds, whites, and pinks decorate the walls, and Cordelia hopes the display will soothe the eyes of grieving families.

“It was fine,” Atticus answers, and you nod in agreement.

Being realistic, how well can school go? Almost every day, the nuns penalize you for something. Whether it’s a minor offense like having nail polish or a freak accident at the chapel altar, you and Atticus never seemed to stay out of trouble. As for today, it was just fine. It could have been worse. You only got outed once by your teacher for dozing off during mass, and knowing it was the last day of school soothed any of your usual dread.

“Just fine?”

“Mhm,” you shrug, leaning against the doorway as you admire the display.

“Very well,” Cordelia says with a slight smirk, aware of the chaos she’s about to unleash. As you and Atticus move to leave your grandmother to her task, she perks up. “Since you’re here….” You halt in your tracks. “Could one of you get me the hammer from the basement? It should be in the toolbox somewhere.”

Before you can react, your brother shoves you from behind. “Not it!”

A growl leaves your lips as the boy flees before you can recover. “Hey, get back here!”

“No!” Hot on his heels, you turn through the lounge area, watching Atticus struggle with the doorknob before he bursts into the back hallway.

“You’re lazy!” You shout, finger raised in the air. Atticus, already halfway up the stairs, flashes you a smile.

“And you’re slow.”

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

Theo goes down the checklist of his last-minute details. First, he soothes the flyaways from the hair, cleans the sides of the lips from any lipstick, and adjusts the flowers in her folded hands. Poor girl, he thinks. Her life was taken right at the cusp of some of the best years life has to offer. Her family wanted a closed casket, afraid her face was too mangled to do otherwise, but Theo never cowered from a challenge. Nothing’s ever too broken to fix, he always says, and his work showed for it.

Classical music played low from the record player in the background. As he checks the final product, it’s peaceful enough to keep his head clear until the twins make it home. Theo liked to call them Tom and Jerry. You being Tom and Atticus being Jerry and never was it the opposite. A small huff of laughter leaves him as he catches some of their argument.

“You’re lazy!” “And you're slow!”

He shakes his head. “Those kids are something else,” he mutters under his breath, middle finger pushing the round glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Expectantly, he stares at the long staircase on his right as the door flings open. You stomp down the stairs with an angry look and he couldn’t help but laugh at his usually cranky grandchild.

“Hi, Grandpa,” you greet a lot more cheerfully than you looked, and his heart warms.

“Hi, Pretty Girl,” he coos, his arms stretching wide for your embrace. His hearty laugh is muffled through his chest as you wrap your arms around his waist. “How was school today?”

“It was fine. Slow day,” you shrug. “Grandma needs a hammer. Where’s the toolbox?”

“In the big metal cabinet back there. Just shout if you can’t find it; I’m heading to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” You turn on your heels, twisting through the tables of equipment.

The storage room was filled with boxes of everything from old furniture, family photos, decorations, and a bunch of other things your grandmother insisted on keeping. Grandpa always urged her to clean it out, the room so congested that the door only opens just enough for you to slip in but she refused. Luckily, you didn’t need to tango your way through stacks of items, the cabinet straight ahead. You felt silly when your own reflection scared you, not expecting an old mirror to lean against the space beside you.

You search for a second, finding the hammer in plain sight. Grasping the head of it, you wiggle it out of the toolbox and shut the cabinet closed. About ready to turn on your heels, you almost missed it. You catch something in the corner of your eye, and it takes a second look to see what it is.

Not again.

A girl with ghastly gray skin and hair matted to her sunken cheeks stood a few feet behind you. Soft droplets of water dripped from her hunched-over frame, and her cold blue eyes burned a hole in the back of your skull.

Your pulse roars in your ears. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t look away. Her expression changed from a blank stare to pure bewilderment, and in her panic, she catches your gaze through the reflection. A shaky breath leaves you, watching in anticipation as her mouth opens wide. Slowly her chest fills with air, and your hands slap over your ears as a truck horn blares from her throat.

As if released from a trance, you whip your gaze in her direction to find her gone. Even the droplets on the floor didn’t darken the concrete as you had seen through the mirror. Your eyes flicker across your surroundings. Though nothing revealed what you saw was real, the eeriness left behind was enough to get you moving, and you ran straight to the stairs without looking back.

One would think you just ran a marathon. By the time you made it back to Cordelia, you were winded. Your heavy footsteps announced your arrival, and Cordelia turned around, her smile faltering when she caught sight of your puzzled eyes.

“Oh honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Cordelia jokes, grabbing the hammer from your grasp.

“I think I just did,” you mutter to yourself.

Shifting on your feet, you admire the intricate arrangement your grandmother had put together as a distraction. She’s always had an eye for that kind of stuff. You wander a little to your left, curious to see the memorial photo perched on the mahogany stand, and the sight of it makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand up straight. That’s her. Instead, she wasn’t gray and wet. The photo seemed to be a graduation picture, and she gleamed with life, her skin sunkissed.

You don’t know how long you were staring at the picture, but it was long enough for Cordelia to notice. “I saw her.”

Cordelia quirks her eyebrow. Her heels click on the floorboards as she arrives at your side. “Did you see her around town?”

“No.” You rip your gaze from the photo. “I saw her downstairs.” Cordelia opens her mouth, assuming you’d seen her in the casket, freshly put together for her service tonight, but you cut her off. “I saw her in the mirror downstairs, standing behind me.”

There’s a short pause between you and your grandmother, the two of you pondering in careful silence.

“You know…” she begins slowly, fiddling with a loose nail between her fingers. “Our family is from a long line of witches, honey.”

“I know.” She smiles warmly at you, reaching over to rub your back soothingly. “You said my mom is a witch too.” “I did. A very powerful one. You and Atticus, all your gifts are credited to her.”

The mystery of your mother was a topic that frequented your mind. Occasionally, your grandparents brought her up and often recounted the one time your father introduced her to them. You’ve heard the story plenty, but you yearned for more every time. What did her voice sound like? Where in your face did you look like her the most? How tall was she? Did she have freckles or a beauty mark? Did her green eyes have brown or yellow flecks? You wanted to know it all.

They always tried to give you as much as they remembered and often asked your father to help them verify some details. You knew it was their way of ensuring you and Atticus didn’t forget about her. However, they never considered how hard it was to hear about your mom and never fully knew who she was.

“Dad doesn’t like talking about her.”

“It was tough for him when she left,” Cordelia smiles sadly, her thumb stroking the back of your neck affectionately. “I don’t think he ever fully recovered.”

“Why did she leave?” You ask, testing the waters. This is usually when the conversation ends, but you figured you’d give it a shot. Time and time again, you’ve asked the same question, but your family has kept this piece of information strictly confidential.

Every time, your grandmother says the same thing as she’s saying right now. “You’ll know one day, but she had her reasons.”

The disappointment on your face was evident, and she tsks. “Don’t give me that face, honey,” she leans her cheek on top of your head. “One day, you’ll know with age. Just not right now.”

Not right now. You’ve heard it too many times before. What even was the hold-up? You would think that being 11, almost 12 in the fall, would be old enough to know this secret. If you think about it, you’ve been in the double digits for two years. You were practically a teenager at this point, and still, you were too young by their standards.

“As for who you saw downstairs, seeing the dead doesn’t always have to be scary.” Cordelia’s voice takes you out of your thoughts, going from one frustrating topic to a daunting one.

“I know. She just looked scary,” you frowned.

“Her soul is restless, perhaps, confused too. I’m sure she won’t linger for long.” A shiver runs up your spine, and your arms wrap around your frame. It felt as if the simple conversation about this girl was summoning her. A voice told you you were psyching yourself out, but as your grandmother's eyes flickered across the room, you realized you were wrong. “I think I will speak with her.”

More than happy to leave the creepy stuff to her, you nod and don’t dare look in the direction her eyes are fixed on. “Well, you have fun with that,” you giggle nervously, stepping back toward the back hall entrance.

Cordelia sends you an amused smile. Maybe one day, you’ll be as courageous as your grandma. Many times she’s told her creepy, unsettling accounts of the supernatural after you and Atticus would beg them out of her. They always made you feel better about the memories of your own strange occurrences that filled you with dread.

Weird things happened to you so often you had thought it was universal. However, after the kids in school called you crazy that one time in kindergarten, you quickly realized it wasn’t. Grandma’s stories reassured you that you weren’t losing your mind. However, it was quite an annoyance for your father. As much as you and your brother enjoyed a scary story, you always sought refuge in his room when the tales lingered in your minds well into nighttime.

“I will.”

You give her a thumbs-up before turning on your heels.

“Oh, and honey?”

“Yes?“

“Remember to light your candle for Lady Hecate. You forgot this morning.”

Your palm flies right to the middle of your temple. All day you had felt like you forgot about something, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

“Okay, I will,” you say shortly. Quickly, you reach the brown door in the back of the hallway that leads you to the mahogany stairs. For a second, your eyes grace the entrance to Grandpa Theo’s workspace, and a shiver goes up your spine. It was in your head, but you bolted up the stairs, feeling like you were being chased.

“How rude, not lighting your candle for Lady Hecate,” Atticus peers over the railing, and your eyes roll. “Even I remembered.” “Maybe if you had to rush out because someone decided to take forever in the shower, you would have forgotten too.”

“No, I wouldn't because I’m better than you.” A squeal leaves him when you reach over to push him, hands missing his body by a few inches.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night,” you mumble.

As always, Hecate’s altar is in your path the moment you reach the top of the stairs. You couldn’t remember a time when the table wasn’t settled tight in the corner of the living room, making it a staple of your childhood. The dark brown table with its offerings was an eerie sight for some people, but to you, it was comforting. Talking at the altar always brought you comfort; oddly enough, you felt heard too.

Right on the top ledge sits a bronze statue of Hecate. She stands tall with an extravagant crown on her head, her dress flowy and rustled under the cape over her shoulders. Her left hand holds twin torches, and her right has a dagger. At her feet are skulls and two dogs peeking from the back of her dress on each side. If the statue wasn’t daunting enough, the shelf right under held five candle holders lined up neatly. The sides are caked with long drops of black wax, except for the holder with the candle you forgot to light this morning. According to your friends, that made the whole setup creepy, not the offerings on the table.

Those offerings included a bouquet of dried lavender sitting in a vase you made years ago in art class, and beside it was a board of dried bread, fruits, chocolate, and garlic alongside a wine-filled chalice. There are also small trinkets that litter the table as presents to your deity. One of them is a small Yoda figurine Atticus insisted Hecate would love. Finally, settled in the corner is a diffuser, the steam dispersing the scent of citrus and flowers. That combination of smells is one that you equate with home. A whiff of that anywhere could take to the memories of this table.

“I apologize, Lady Hecate,” you say, pulling the box of matches from the drawer. “It’s Atticus’s fault that I forgot.” A smile emerges as you light the candle and throw the match in the little cauldron beside to snuff the flame.

“Not true,” Atticus chimes in, his footsteps growing heavy as he emerges beside you. “Hecate should punish you for forgetting.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

Atticus leans on the wall next to the table, arms crossed as you dig for a clean cloth in the middle drawer. You dab some coconut oil on it to polish Hecate’s statue. “Today was the last day of school,” you begin, carefully rubbing the base. “Atticus and I only got in trouble once.”

“It was probably because we were only there for three hours,” he concludes.

“For sure.” Moving the oil up Hecate’s dress, you hum softly. “I hope the summer goes by slowly. I don’t want to go back any time soon.” “Neither do I.”

“And I hope we go on vacation like last year.” You bring Hecate’s ear close to your lips as if you were telling her a secret. “Persuade our dad to take us to Disney World this year.” “And Universal,” Atticus adds. “And Universal, please,” you whisper again, and your brother perks up excitedly. “You think she will?” “I think so. She gave Felix nightmares when we asked,” you and your brother smile knowingly, excited for the trip as if it was already set in stone.

By the time you finished polishing Hecate, you and Atticus had already discussed all the plans for your trip. You would like to think her divine intervention was already at work, especially as you hear footsteps coming up the stairs before your father appears in the living room. “Hi, Dad,” you and Atticus say in unison, and the man smiles tiredly. He only had two lecture classes on Friday, but being up all night working on his latest academic project had taken all his energy. “Hey, kids,” he says sweetly, ruffling your and Atticus’s hair affectionately. Putting his computer bag on the couch and tossing his keys on the kitchen island, he doesn’t notice his twins staring at him. He must have felt the burning gaze, eventually looking in your direction. As he unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt, eyebrows raised at how your smiles stay frozen on your faces. “What are you guys so happy about?”

Stifled giggles release from your throats, and Vincent’s expression becomes increasingly suspicious. He’s not sure what those looks mean. “Unpredictable” already felt like an understatement for you two. “So, Atticus and I were thinking,” you pause for suspense, slightly enjoying the nervous anticipation from your father. “We were thinking that you could take us to Disney for vacation,” Atticus blurted out before you could.

Vincent immediately snorts at the suggestion. “I’ll think about it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?” “Eh,” Vincent shrugs with a playful smile that tells you not to get your hopes up. At the sight, you and Atticus slouch, ready to beg. “You guys suggest it like it’s cheap.”

“That’s why you’re paying for it,” Atticus says matter-of-factly, and Vincent couldn’t help but laugh. “Summer’s barely started, and you guys are already planning a vacation?” You and Atticus nod and his eyes switch between you, wondering how this idea came to be. “Let’s talk about this another day. For now, go upstairs and wash up for dinner. I’m gonna start cooking.”

Atticus sighs, and you mimic the boy beside you. It was a shot in the dark, but he’ll come around. You were sure of it.

“Lame,” you say, the word drawn out, and Vincent shakes his head, amused, as the two of you disappear upstairs to your rooms.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

What is there to do? Sitting at the edge of your bed, you look around your room, searching for something to occupy your time. Usually, by this point of the night, you and Atticus were doing homework at the table and waiting for dinner. You could almost laugh at yourself. School is over for the year, and you’re sitting here wondering what to do besides a homework assignment that doesn't even exist.

Your usual hobby of reading felt too school-like, and it didn’t feel like the right activity to celebrate your first night of freedom. Through your jack and jill bathroom, you can hear the plastic buttons of Atticus’s controller and his frustration when he loses his game again. For a second, you considered joining him, but that didn’t feel right either.

You resort to plopping back into the bed, staring at the ceiling—small snippets of your day flash by, your mind skimming through them like pages in a book. Abruptly, the memories stop at your conversation with your grandmother.

“You’ll know one day, but she had her reasons.”

Your once-forgotten disappointment ventures right back. If you had a dollar for every time you tried to come up with possible reasons why she left, you’d be rich. Brainstorming every reason you could think of, you concluded the only one that made sense was that she didn’t want you and Atticus. Truly, what could be the reason for leaving you on a doorstep and never coming to see you again? Sometimes, it felt like your grandmother was bluffing when she claimed to know that your mother loves you very much and that one day, you will meet her. Those promises felt like things your grandmother said to convince herself or to uphold an ideal to refuse reality.

Your father’s feelings about it were the most complicated part. Every time she was brought up, it was like he couldn’t bear to listen or speak of it like swallowing something rotten. Grandma said he was heartbroken, which added to the huge question mark of this situation. How could your mother love you so much but then leave and hurt your father in the process? It was just bizarre.

If the day ever came when you got to meet her, you questioned what you would even say. You suppose you’d hear her reasons first, but sometimes when you thought of the scenario, you couldn’t imagine giving her the time. Though inconsiderate, you wanted to yell and tell her how it feels to be the only person in class without a mother. Sure, your grandmother was always there, and your father filled in the roles as much as he could. Still, it felt like there was something you were missing out on.

Putting on a movie or submitting to the prospect of reading felt like a good idea now more than ever. At least then, it would pull you out of these suffocating thoughts for a little while. The moment you sit in your bed, you’re surprised to see your brother standing in your bathroom doorway.

“Wha—”

Atticus moves so fast, you barely process the moment he slings a small golf ball right in your direction.

“Ow!” Rubbing the sting it left behind on your chest, you glare at him

“Give me the money,” he demands.

“Seriously? That’s what you did that for?” Atticus doesn’t cower under your growing anger, and he nods pridefully. “Yep.” “It’s not even your money,” you explain.

“We split what we make; we agreed on it,” Atticus says, and as you open your mouth, he flings a golf ball at you once again.

“Atticus, stop!” You screech. When you decided you needed a distraction, this wasn’t the one you were hoping for. Of course, right now is when he decides to torment you for a measly 10 dollars. Both of you had two clients today, and charging Avery double meant you made more money. It was yours to keep, but here Atticus is claiming his half.

His high-pitched laughter fuels your rage, “Give it to me!” “It’s not yours! I worked for it!” With a smile you wanted to wack off his face, he secures another ball into the leather tab of his slingshot. “Stop!”

You didn’t even have a chance, his eyes calculating the shot with ease, and he releases the ball. It flies right to the plastic cup on your nightstand, and there’s a clunk, juice running out in long droplets straight to the floor.

I’m gonna kill him, is the first thought that crosses your mind.

You hate mess. Your brother knew that better than anyone. Along with the pulse thumping hard in your ears is the echoing drips coating the wooden floor. The boards will get sticky, and so will your nightstand. The innocent bystander of the attack, your journal, is probably soaked, and who’s gonna clean it? You. Of course, you, and here he is, smiling at you like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “You’re dead!” You scream with a straight stride in his direction, and Atticus yelps, dodging your attempt to grab him. He manages to slip past you, his hand snatching the money off your desk on his way out. “Ugh!”

Harmonious thumping footsteps fill the hallway, wooden floorboards creaking with every heavy step. Downstairs, the chandelier over the dining table shakes, and Cordelia's cup of tea ripples into circles. “They’re fighting again.”

Right through the dining room archway, Vincent cleans some dishes. His hands pause their task, head tilting back and eyes close for a moment. The bickering never ends with you two.

Quickly, he wipes his hands with a dish towel nearby, his footsteps heavy as he makes his way to the bottom of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Your father’s tired call is just loud enough for the both of you to hear, but neither you nor Atticus gives him the time.

Hot on his heels, you follow your twin into his bedroom. He makes a beeline into your shared bathroom and returns to your room.

“I made that money myself!” Your anger bubbles in your core as every attempt to grab his collar fails. A harsh grunt of frustration leaves your lip, and a door slamming follows. You don’t waste time checking the door that shuts by itself, lunging at Atticus one more time, but alas, he quickly escapes and heads down the hall. “We’re business partners! You’re supposed to give me half!” After several more attempts, Atticus squeals when you finally get ahold of his collar. He falls back on the floor from your hard tug, arms tucking into his chest to cage the money between his hands. “Since when? We agreed we keep what we make, and I made that money!” Atticus squirms in your hold, his fist waving frantically. “GIMME!”

“Guys! What’s going on?” Your father calls louder, and a loud crack comes from upstairs. It was so loud that you backed off from prying Atticus’s fingers, thinking he cracked a bone.

Atticus gasps at your father's call, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he laughs at your frustration. “You’re so ugly. You look like Grumpy from Snow White!”

His hands catch your arms before you can punt him, and the two of you are wrestling as if your life depended on it, and in Atticus’s case, it kind of did.

“Shut up!” You yell, then there’s a shatter.

A painting on your left falls straight off the wall. Atticus gasps and tilts his head aside just enough for the frame to miss his face as it falls flat. When you’re distracted, he shoves you off of him, rolling on his stomach and crawling away as fast as he can. He tries to get back on his feet, but you regain your balance quick, and right as he reaches the top of the stairs, you grab his foot and drag him back. “Help!” He chokes out, reaching to grab the banister of the stairs, but it is too late. A groan leaves his lips as you climb on top of him. Straddling his back, your hand grabs a fist full of his hair and pulls back. “AHH!”

“Gimme it!” “DAD!”

“Y/n! Let go of your brother right now!” In your blind rage, you just notice your father standing with a disapproving glare at the top of the stairs. “He took my money!” You lean over to retrieve the bill from him, but he continues to wave his fist.

“It’s OUR money!”

“No, it isn’t!”

“Is too!”

“IS NOT!” A strangled yell comes from Atticus as you tug on his hair a little harder, causing the skin around his eyes to pull up. He looked ridiculous, but you are too angry to find any humor. “Y/n! Enough!” Vincent stands his ground, and your eyes snap at your father. You looked wicked with your glowing green eyes and a swirling aura over your head. Anyone sane enough would cringe at the sight, but his glare remains assertive and steady. “Let. Go.”

The sternness of his tone brings you back to your senses, and there is relief in Vincent’s gaze at your dimming aura. You take your time, but eventually, you release your brother.

“Now, without violence, tell me what happened.” Your father demands, leaning against the staircase railing. His calm and relaxed nature brings your mood down, and you rise from your spot.

“Atticus took my money.” “It’s OUR money,” he says once again. The repeated phrase makes you so angry that you shove him back on the floor right as he’s about to stand up. “OW!” “Y/n, keep your hands to yourself,” Vincent scolds, and you huff. He sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “What money are we talking about?”

“The money we made from our business.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow at you. “Business?

“Yeah, our tarot reading business.” “Tarot reading business?” He furrowed his eyebrows at your nod as if it was the most nonchalant thing in the world. “You two ran a tarot reading business at your Catholic school?”

“Um, yeah?” You shrug, and so does Atticus beside you.

It wasn’t that big of a deal. The nuns never found out, so who cares? The two of you were careful, only doing readings in the bathrooms or behind the bookshelves in the library. Maybe, it was a little wrong to do readings between the church pews, but it was only once!

Okay, maybe twice.

Actually, it was three times.

Regardless, it’s not like the bible explicitly says, “you cannot use tarot cards.” The last time you checked the fine print, it wasn’t in the Ten Commandments.

Also, five dollars per reading was enough to get you guys all the candy and snacks you could need, so it was something you couldn’t give up. In that case, it could have been considered greed or gluttony even but those rules don't apply to you. After all, you weren’t even Catholic.

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t be doing Tarot readings at your Catholic school.” “And I’m pretty sure pagans shouldn’t go to Catholic school, but here we are.” You mimic the beaming squint of your father but you backed down.

Vincent sends you an expression telling you you weren’t being fair and your vision falters elsewhere. Catholic school was the only option after you and Atticus got expelled from the only public school in your area.

It’s a long story, but basically, Atticus picked mushrooms from the forest behind your house for an art project, and you made the mistake of mentioning them to your friends at lunch. Next thing you know, Jackson makes a bet to eat the mushroom despite you and Atticus saying it was a bad idea.

One thing leads to another, and Jackson ends up having a bad trip in the middle of math class. It could have been worse. Better psychedelic than poisonous, right? Your principal disagreed and expelled you and Atticus immediately.

Vincent sighs, “Give me the money.” “What?!” You ask, and Atticus clutches the bills into his chest. “Give it to me. Now. I will keep it until you two calm down.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “But—”

Your father's hand comes up, stopping your words. “Atticus, give me.” Your brother sighs, begrudgingly handing it over. “Go to your rooms.” You move quickly at the command, not because you are eager to obey, but because you’re so angry you don’t want to be around either of them. You slam your bedroom door closed and Atticus’s door follows right after, leaving your father alone in a deafening silence.

The soft sigh that leaves Cordelia makes Vincent’s eyes shut tight. He didn’t even notice she joined him upstairs during the chaos. His mother stares at him in his peripheral vision as he assesses the damage you left behind. The only window in the hall is shattered. Again. Two out of three paintings are discarded on the floor, frames broken at the ends.

“You’ve held it off long enough.” The floorboard creaks under Cordelia’s slippers. She tsks at the falling paintings. “I know you’re scared. I am, too, but they’re growing and getting strong. It’s time.”

It’s time. Fear strikes his chest. Those words felt miles away once but not anymore. Vincent envies his past self and the privilege of tucking away the dreaded scenario.

The tiny babies he used to rock to sleep, the ones that glowed in his arms from the sheer power of their tiny wails, the two that snuggled against him when they were scared at night, were ready to leave. It feels impossible.

Even now, after watching your legs and pride grow, he cannot wrap his head around how the two of you should go off to this camp, unlock your mother's powers, and learn to wield weapons.

WEAPONS? Oh gods.

The other day, Atticus stapled his hand, and you almost took a finger off trying to wash a kitchen knife. How will the two of you even manage with swords? Vincent senses an anxiety headache coming around just at the thought.

“Lady Hecate, give me strength.” The statement is drowsy but pleading. He needed all the divine intervention he could get.

His twin's youth was slipping through his fingers uncontrollably like the shifting nature of water. Through his grief, Vincent tried to think of the benefits of their departure.

They won’t have to deal with the eerie entities they attract for the first time. Finally, no weird nightmares or occurrences, at least for a time. They’d learn to get their powers under control, which would be a blessing to his wallet. It’s going to be his third time replacing that window. They’d also get all the answers about their mother, who they’ve been dying to know about.

Cordelia always pushed her boundaries, telling them bits and pieces of who she was and snippets of memories of when Vincent was utterly in love with her. He didn’t like it, but he was grateful for it.

It’s been over a decade since Hecate last graced him with her presence, and he still found it hard to talk about. He couldn’t help but grieve the idea of how different their lives would be if their godly parent were more involved. Still, he was glad they knew her as their patron. In a way, just like a mother, they did seek her out for solace.

Despite all the positives, Vincent had to acknowledge it was also one step closer to becoming the people they were supposed to be. Whoever they were supposed to be.

The mystery of that drove him insane. Even aware that the trajectory of their life was up to the fates, he still prayed and hoped they didn’t end up like the Greek tragedies he’s spent years of his life studying. It was foolish, but praying was the only thing that brought him a faux sense of control.

With a feeling heavy as stone in his throat, he nodded to no one. It’s time, he thinks, the voice in his head far more certain than he felt.

masterlist my lobby: ♡

#percy jackson fic #percy jackson fanfic #percy jackson masterlist #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson and the olympians fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians fanfiction #my writing #yg by xeni #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians

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astarab1aze · 4 months ago

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➥ Black Magic Woman

⸻Technical Information. // Face, Voice, etc.

01. Faceclaim. Lady Nagant [ My Hero Academia ] 04. Voice Claim. Erica Lindbeck

⸻Profile Information. // Name, Age, etc.

01. Name. [ Redacted ] 02. Alias. Rivyn, Revyn, Rivy, Revy, R, Pepper 03. Sex. Female 04. Gender. Female 05. Age. [ Redacted ] 06. Birth Date. [ Redacted ] (but she's an Aries sksksk) 07. Blood Type. Sub-type V-HAB- 08. Race. Vampire & [ Redacted ], American by nationality ; Unclear ethnicity. 09. Marital Status. Widowed [ Multiship ] 10. Orientation. Demisexual [ Heteroromantic ] 11. Residence. She lives beneath Cedric and Claire's manor in New York state, in the cellar, where all her shit is.

⸻Physical Information. // Body, Equipment, Family, etc.

17. Physical Description. Rivyn has a mop of choppy shoulder-length black and teal hair, sans a long, thick braid comprised of her underlayer, fading black to teal, shiny and soft to the touch. Her eyes are heterochromic, with her left eye being gold and the other bright red, framed by long lashes. She is ghostly pale, though paradoxically seems more alive than some of her other vampiric counterparts, a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose but otherwise unblemished. There is a black mark in the shape of a hand on the nape of her neck that spreads upward onto her scalp, as if grabbing the back of her head, and it serves as proof of ownership by the Red Hand. Her body is very...tightly wound, springy, like a viper constantly ready to strike, and nearly always on display in some fashion. Lots of skin showing, outfits skimpy, lots of buckles, leather, latex, stylized combat boots, generally her spin on vampire goth, etc.

13. Equipment. She generally keeps only what would aid her in a fight, such as her custom Sako TRG 22A1 rifle, range of silver alloy & magic-infused rounds, tungskin vials, explosive powders, silver-plated tactical knife, her malachite & bloodstone palmseal, several infinite pockets, compact mirror, Bottled Blackwyrm, and a cellphone. 14. Occupation. She maintains employment as a hand-picked Red Hand security specialist trained by the Morteatum International Private Security firm - this means her job doesn't really stop at security, as she is often tasked with quite a bit of dirty work... By this same token, she is secretly working in conjunction with the Montgomery twins and Keres Morteatum to bring down the Red Hand. 15. Job Performance. Highly valued, impossible to replace, in both positions. 16. Parents. [ Redacted ] 17. Siblings. [ Redacted ]

⸻Personality Information. // Likes, Strengths, etc.

18. Likes. Long walks on the beach, midnight, dawn just before the sun rises, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee, freshly-baked anything, pina coladas, petrichor, reading, privacy, baby bats, and really...not much else. 19. Dislikes. Most aspects of vampire culture, vampires, Sanguinarians, Keres, Claire, pointless sacrifice, the smell of blood, being a vampire, the concept of eternal life, that she can't eat real food, cigarette smoke, bloody delights, reliance on human blood, spider lilies, water, people who think they're smarter than her, being touched,

20. Positive Traits. Deadly accurate. Considerate. Well-mannered. Respectful. Generous. Sympathetic. Self-questioning. Protective. Effective. Sentimental. Gentle. 21. Negative Traits. Closed off. Distrustful. Emotionally unavailable. Workaholic. Impersonal. Distant. Unforgiving. Secretive. Blunt. Indifferent. 22. Goals. Like Keres, to dismantle the Red Hand and put an end to the Sanguinarian chokehold on vampires as a whole - but her reasons for doing so are different. She doesn't wish to usher in a new world of mutualism or peace where yet another Montgomery gets to play-pretend on Night's Throne, she wants to get her enemies out of the way so she can see to a world without vampires in it. 23. Desires. [ Redacted ] 24. Alignment. Chaotic Neutral

25. Personality. In terms of demeanor, she comes across as incredibly cold, almost statuesque, but with a sullen, somber air about her. She is a woman in unspoken, long-held grief, though she uses it as motivation to achieve her truest goals, using this image in part as cover to better hide them (as much as she hides herself, which is ironically predicated on the Vampiric Stoicism Principle). She is covetous of her secrets and cannot be readily known, distrustful of any and all, including the only vampire she gets along with in truth. There is an anger in her that is cold- and long-burning, smoldering within her, but just as she is likely to burn others, she is capable of warmth. Slow, cautious, gentle warmth, all buried beneath thick layers of agonizing loss and honed steel. She is stubborn and oftentimes sharply tongued, but if given the chance, she might fall to her knees. Above all, she is tired, and alone, and hateful of all those who turned her into a monster. Without hope, cynicism and lies her only friends in a den of vipers.

⸻Sorcery Information. // Affinity, Talent, etc.

26. Affinity. Light & Necrotic - her ability is so fine-tuned, she is one of the few vampires capable of daywalking. 27. Shapeshifting. No transformation abilities whatsoever. 28. Utility. Ritual magic, alchemy, poisons, healing, leeching, daywalking, sealing, illusions, divination, Dispel, hexes, curses, herbalism, barriers, exorcism, cleansing, blessing, and enchantment. 29. Specialization. Holy, Summoning, and Possession - of the Necrotic and Light affinities; Paradoxically turned with the ability to wield opposing affinities, she was chosen to serve among the Red Hand's elites for this reason and thusly honed finely as a conduit for either. 30. Graduate School. Night's Cathedral - one of the eleven nightfolk schools in North America, focused on the education of vampires only and specifically ; This school is well-respected among vampires as an institution, the arbiter of vampiric education, but is simultaneously a churner of extremely dangerous Red Hand agents 31. Classification. Turned/Lower Vampire, Night's Paladin ; Lower vampires are a class of non-noble vampire generally bearing lesser strength or mastery over themselves, their appetites, and magical inclinations, but the circumstances of Rivyn's vampirism are miraculous in themselves as is one of the very few vampires capable of wielding Light as an affinity, thus making her a prime candidate for the militant / espionage arms of the Red Hand - graduate of Night's Cathedral as its Paladin, under oath and everything.

⸻Background Information. // Past to Present.

Her early life is entirely [ Redacted ].

She was married to [ Redacted ] and had [ Redacted ], unrelated to the internal or external goings on of the Red Hand. Her village was beset upon by [ Redacted ] in the year 15XX, under [ Redacted ]'s express command, in search of, offically, lost cargo and the traitors responsible for it. This occupation quickly turned sour and resulted in a weeks' long [ Redacted ], furthering an already vicious cycle of [ Redacted ] between the [ Redacted ] and [ Redacted ]. [ Redacted ] tragically perished in the [ Redacted ], crushing her spirit, and by the end, the Red Hand arrived with offerings of aid to the injured and burials for the dead. In exchange for this help benevolently given to her people, the woman now known as Rivyn traded her fealty and service to the Night.

The Red Hand fed, clothed, educated, and housed Rivyn, often adapting to her specific needs in order to raise her to her best and keep her at her most comfortable. [ Redacted ] until her most unique and valuable of affinities were revealed, scientific fascination born anew due to the qualities of her [ Redacted ], the promise of a new age on the horizon - the ability to [ Redacted ]. And with grace, she offered her [ Redacted ], a new life for her saviors in return for her own, and with respect and gratitude, she was baptized in Night Eternal, blessed with immortal life.

Many [ Redacted ] took place between her gift and her turning alongside rigorous training and education in the ways of the Bloodweaver's Paladium, subject to bodily [ Redacted ] and mental [ Redacted ], testing her limits for candidacy as a vampire with express consent and recipcrocal interest. When they'd taken of the [ Redacted ] she had so kindly given, she was then blessed. Following her turning, however, yet more [ Redacted ] were performed in an effort to further test her limits both physical and magical, and she was frequently exposed to [ Redacted ] and [ Redacted ]. This was to doubly ensure her ability to adapt and survive in the Night, to best prepare her for her role as a Paladin in the service of the [ Redacted ] and [ Redacted ] families.

[ Redacted ] oversaw much of the [ Redacted ], and were thus the orchestrators of her second chance at life among them. The Red Hand had long endeavored to propogate her continued life and growth as a general rule, generous and kind in their efforts to assist a kindred spirit, and the more they gave, the more she offered in return.

Over the course of many centuries, Rivyn had become a formidable and highly prized addition to the Red Hand and vampire society as a whole, despite primarily operating in [ Redacted ]. As of this filing, Rivyn is [ Redacted ] and permanently employed by the modernized Morteatum International Private Security in accordance with the United States Department of Regulatory Sorceries' specifications.

#➥ Rivyn.#/ why is so much of her background redacted?#/ for effect. but also because it would compromise her. vampires like her. and out the red hand #/ trying to frame it like keres personally catalogued it #/ simplified and heavily edited

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lindseydalt · 2 years ago

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❛ STAINED GLASS WINDOWS IN MY MIND . . . ❜

FULL BIOGRAPHY ✦ STATISTICS ✦ NAVIGATE ✦ AS LOVED BY CARLIE.

[ cis woman, she/her ] Welcome to Aurora Bay, LINDSEY DALTON! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like MEGHANN FAHY. You must be the THIRTY TWO year old SCRIPTWRITER / PRODUCER. Word is you’re AUDACIOUS but can also be a bit OBSTINATE and your favorite song is I KNOW THE END BY PHOEBE BRIDGERS. I also heard you’ll be staying in SEABROOK QUARTER. I’m sure you’ll love it! @aurorabayaesthetic

ABOUT.

full name / nickname: lindsey victoria maher dalton ( will answer to anything, most commonly used nicknames are linds and lindie )

age: thirty-two

date of birth: october 23, 1991

zodiac sign: scorpio sun

gender: cis female (she/her/hers)

place of birth: brooklyn, new york city, new york

current residence: seabrook quarter, aurora bay

sexual orientation: pansexual

occupation: scriptwriter and producer, trying to side hustle as a vintner but ain't going great

PERSONALITY.

goals / desires: professionally would like to develop her own wines and open a winery someday, also win an oscar. personally wants to mend her approach on relationships, find people who she is genuinely compatible with then actually put in the work necessary to keep them in her life, and reconnect with her semi-estranged siblings. she’d also love nothing more than to once and for all convince people she did not murder her first husband, but girlie dreams big.

fears: inadequacy, loneliness for the remainder of her life, being buried alive, having her voice stripped from her, her own personal hell winding up being never ending math problems.

hobbies: walking her dog, trying out new recipes in her kitchen, making to do lists, collecting makeup and then shade matching / doing makeup for anyone who will let her use them as her canvas, karaoke bars, window shopping, watching films, kickboxing / weightlifting, teaching herself guitar, finding the best buffalo wings and beer combination.

likes: new notebooks, thoughtful conversations, getting tattoos, uncapping a pen for the first time, having someone play with her hair, homemade truffle mac and cheese, i love lucy reruns, being outdoors in the sun, furniture shopping, baking, a well-made drink, getting her hands dirty ( figuratively and literally ) the weight of her bag when she has her laptop in it, deep dish pizza, musicals, a good book, nights out, popping the cork off of a fresh bottle of wine, trying on jewelry.

dislikes: having to use hotel-issued shampoo / conditioner, the feeling of getting a spray tan, the smell of gasoline, confrontations that ultimately lead to a stalemate, people not using their turn signals, people cracking their fingers / knuckles, arrogance, small talk, the texture of wool.

hogwarts house: ravenclaw

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

friends, all the friends ! platonic soulmates, ride or dies, confidants, casual friends, friends through work, friends who are like siblings, new friends, reconnected friends, friends who everyone thinks are toting around some sexual tension / will they won’t they energy, and more !

work ties of any and all kind — maybe lindsey has collaborated with them in the past on a project or just knows them from networking / parties

flings / hookups / one night stands

friends with benefits that can stay perfectly platonic / friends with benefits that begin to get muddled with Feelings / friends with benefits that turn sour.

exes of any flavor — good terms, bad terms, haven’t spoken since, exes that aren’t crazy about seeing the other person moving on

a pair that almost Made It, but something just didn’t work out. whether it was timing, a lack of a true connection, or something entirely different, two people who never get together after what i imagine is quite a bit of time flirting and the occasional date here and there. things could’ve ended just fine, things could still be a little awkward, or full-blown tension because angst is fun

blind dates

antagonistic relationships, too — messy vibes where they get along swimmingly one day and the next they are ready to rip each other’s throats out, former friends, people who are just skeptical of lindsey esp with the whole Gideon Thing™️, anything and everything !

lindsey's production company partner, any of lindsey's siblings / ex husband #2 ( wc to go to the main later )

+ i’m open to so many more, this is just a very base list of ideas we can bounce off of ! please come poke me in ims or on discord and let’s create something so incredible together that tumblr regrets the day it ever opened its servers

#aurorabay.intro

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deathblossomed · 16 days ago

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Character Stat Sheet

basics:

status: Active

full name: Furukawa Botan ( ふるかわぼたん )

nicknames: Botchan, anything cat related

gender: Woman

pronouns: She/Her

sexuality: Bisexual

aesthetics: Peonies, flowers blooming, cats laying in the sun, sitting on the edge of a river, boating, summer festivals, kimonos, poetry about death (positive/romantic), moonlight

age: 102 (appears early-mid twenties)

date of birth: Dec 4

zodiac sign: Sagittarius

residence: Apartment building for Ferry Girls in Rekai's capital city

occupation: Ferry Girl, Grim Reaper, Detective's assistant

species: Shinigami, spirit/reigen

main verse: Modern Supernatural/Fantasy

appearance:

faceclaim: Herself, Furukawa Kotone

voice claim: Cynthia Cranz (FUNimation dub VA)

height: 5'6"

build: hourglass, light muscles, slender

eyes: Magenta

hair: Sky blue, thick, slight wave, usually worn up with curled bangs, side piece

piercings: ears

tattoos: left hip, pink peony with a butterfly

other distinguishing features: faint 'starburst' scar on upper abdomen

style: Diverse, wears both traditional and modern clothing. Prefers cute comfortable clothes

personality:

traits: Bubbly, nosy, optimistic, helpful, talkative

labels / tropes: Don't Fear the Reaper, Genki Girl, Playful Cat Smile

mental health: ADHD

physical health: Healthy

likes: Flying, cats, swimming, sweets

dislikes: Bitter flavors, unnecessary violence, being alone

fears: Loss of friends, rejection

phobias: Easily startled, needles

hobbies: Boating, baking, scrapbooking

skills: Boating, spiritual powers, fortune telling techniques

quirks: Motormouth, energetic

pet peeves: Being ignored or interrupted

family:

mother: Asama, alive

father: Seno, alive

siblings: None

birth order: Only child

spouse / lover: Ship dependent

children: None

pets: Moka, nekomata

notable close relatives: None

other: Not especially close with her family

best friend: Rena, Yusuke, Shizuru

rival: None

crushing on: Ship Dependent

nemesis: None

other: None

faves:

ice cream flavor: Strawberry

time of the day / night: Afternoon

weather: Sunny, light rain

breakfast food: Sweet rolled omelet (atsuyaki tamago)

dinner food: Hot pot (sukiyaki especially)

colors: Pink, yellow, light blue

songs: Pop and indie

other random stuff:

a cherished item: Her scrapbooks, boat oar, gifts she's received

first love: Ship dependent

usual mood: Chipper, bubbly

1 thing they want to do / experience before they die: See more of Ningenkai

defining moments: Meeting Team Urameshi, becoming a ferry girl

#❀࿐ a memory can make a flower bloom ( headcanons. )

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bozjabun · 1 year ago

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November Prompts Day 2

Surprise you get a bonus post today. I told you I'd be posted doubles occasionally.

Today's(ish) prompt was: "What is the most traumatic event from your childhood?" and features our resident Xaela Al'vachir. I wanted to experiment with writing a little differently than normal, so feel free to read this one with as much or as little adherence to your own personal headcanon as you like. https://alvachir.carrd.co

"My mother was killed in front of my eyes and made me swear I would remember my name." You can't really see through the mask to confirm it, but you feel like the masked man sitting beside you has raised his eyebrow in something like amusement. "What? You asked." Ul'dah's favorite watering hole is no stranger to odd patrons and goings-on, and the masked Xaela who sits on the bench outside is no stranger than anyone else. He sits, clad in a deep red robe of Eastern make, wooden sandals on his feet, sword tucked into his belt, mask and Ul'dahn-style turban on his head to help keep the sun from baking him alive. He's tall, and looks oddly malnourished for somebody who claims to be a sword-for-hire.

You get the sense he's used to answering questions and catching people off-guard.

"It's no big secret. I am Avagnar. We were absorbed many years ago by the Adarkim and expected to become Adarkim. But we refused to give up our name, in truth. And so we keep our pride hidden. Or we are killed."

You feel a great sadness from the man beside you, as he seems to stare unblinking at the wall across from the bench. You've seen him there before, many days and many nights, but never in a row. Always sitting. Fingers always laced together. Chin always resting on his hands. You'd thought about stopping before, asking him who he is. There's something electrifying about his presence, at times. But always, there's the waves of melancholy rolling off of him like so much vapor on the paving stones. It isn't even clear if he's attractive or homely, if he's as strong as his profession demands or if his talents lie in speed or intelligence.

He just… sits.

"My mother taught me, all the way to my twelfth summer, that I was Avagnar in secret. I learned to deflect questions and to answer in twists and omissions. To call ourselves anything but Avagnar was - is - unthinkable." He exhales a long, heavy sigh. "Until we are pressed, we have no trouble. But… some people do not trick so easily. And so, unblinking, my mother was killed in front of me. Can there be anything more traumatic for a child?"

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv #ffxivwrite2023 #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #cw: dead parent mention #cw: trauma

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sickbaysaturdays · 2 years ago

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Deep in the Desert

@solacearchive

Lance Corporal Flynn must lead a team through the desert on a simple mission. But the twin suns of the planet Harah are merciless, and not everyone takes the heat well …

I was sweating down the backs of my knees.

Even stripped down to BDU pants and a T-shirt, I was still being baked alive by the double suns over Harah. According to the bartender at the canteen, this was spring, perfect weather for sitting outside and enjoying drinks and snacks.

At least Medic was going off-script and having some fun for once. In the two weeks since Commander Giroux had assigned me to sickbay, I’d seen Medic smile maybe twice. Here, she and Lucan leaned over a table and a plate of snacks, swapping elaborate stories peppered with medical words I didn’t know and laughing periodically.

To my other side at the bar, Gunnery Sergeant Wong, jacket knotted at her waist, idly crunched her way through a bowl of complimentary nuts and gazed at the hypnotic desert horizon. The center table was occupied by a couple of infantry guys whose sense of humor could use some work.

“I’ll have another,” I said, catching the bartender’s eye. He nodded and set a cloudy mason jar containing a beverage of dubious origin on the bar in front of me.

“Thanks.” I took the beverage and left some cash in its place.

Even with the inhospitable weather, this was what it was about. Dubious beverages, good company, all in a nice lazy day on leave.

I should have known it was too good to last.

Every party on dirtside leave needs to have one person with a radio. Gunny Wong, being the ranking member of our group, had the honors this time.

“Hey, Flynn.” She tapped the bar next to me, radio in her other hand. “Commander wants a word.”

“Great,” I muttered. At least my dubious beverage didn’t taste alcoholic.

Gunny propped the radio up on the bar and fiddled with it until the tiny screen resolved into an image of Commander Giroux, complete with the impossibly starched uniform and impossibly tight hair.

She’d taken her appointment as provisional commander of the captured patrol ship very seriously.

“Lance Corporal Flynn?” That upper-class accent didn’t sound like hers at all.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I need you to run an errand for me while you’re planetside. Do you know Madalyn Kane?”

The bespectacled Intersystem Human Rights Court lawyer who’d been tagging along with us, taking statements and filing affidavits and stuff with the courts back home. “Yes, sir.”

“I need you to take her and a medic out to a mining camp eighty kilometers west of Harah City,” Giroux said, enunciation painfully prim. “Attorney Kane needs formal statements from the residents and a medical report of any injuries or deaths that occurred under the Imperium.”

I thought for a second. Lucan knew all too well how to do those reports, but I also didn’t feel great about leaving Medic here by herself. “Sir,” I said, “with your permission, I’d like to bring both the patrol ship medic and Lucan. They’re both here, and I’m sure Lucan could use the help.”

Commander Giroux frowned briefly, but she said, “Very well. Take a six-wheel and pick up Attorney Kane at the landing strip in an hour.”

The screen blinked into darkness. There went my leave time.

“Well, it’s been good,” I said to Gunny.

“I’ll keep a seat open for you,” she promised. “Good hunting.”

There was the usual disagreement about who would drive the sixer (me, because Lucan’s license didn’t cover this type of vehicle), and who would ride shotgun (Madalyn Kane, once we picked her up, because Medic and Lucan wanted to keep talking shop while we drove).

“How come there aren’t any seatbelts?” Medic asked, pulling the door to the back seat closed.

“So you can bail out quicker if we hit a roadside bomb,” I explained.

“Oh. But if we crash into anything . . ?”

“There’s nothing out here to crash into,” Lucan said, gesturing at the rolling hills of burnt orange sand in all directions. “What did the Imperials even want with this place?”

“Minerals,” Medic responded, as I keyed the ignition and headed for the landing strip. “Just below the surface. A couple of the guys on the Enforcer were stationed here when they conquered the place. It was easy since they need to import everything from off-planet. Control the supply lines, control Harah.”

On that uplifting note, we found Madalyn Kane at the landing strip, scurrying off her shuttle with her briefcase clutched under one arm. By the time she’d made it the two hundred yards to the sixer and deposited herself in the passenger’s seat next to me, the wind had pulled her hair out of its pins, and her blouse had sweat stains forming in unflattering places.

“So, you’re my ride?” she asked, giving it the ring of an awkward joke.

“Yes’m,” I said. “You comfortable? Need more air conditioning?”

Madalyn shook her head and smoothed her skirt down over her knees. Good, because the AC was already at maximum and not doing much against the heat.

What most people don’t understand is that “military-grade” means “manufactured as cheaply as possible by whoever bid low enough to get the contract.”

I steered us out of the parking lot and, following the GPS on my dashboard, into the desert.

Once the canteens and shantytowns and air-conditioned prefabs of Harah City were out of sight, nothing but the sweeping burnt orange dunes of the Harahan desert surrounded us. As I flicked my eyes between mirrors and horizon, I tried not to feel claustrophobic. Despite the lukewarm AC, sweat crawled down my chest and lower back.

“Not from the desert, huh, Flynn?” Lucan commented, as I wiped my face on my sleeve.

“Nope,” I said. “The Cruciad highlands. It’s crisp and rainy almost all year round.” Great for livestock, lousy for us. The quintessential highlands look was a hooded rain slicker and thigh-high muck boots.

“Sounds nice,” Madalyn murmured. “I mean, compared to …” she trailed off and nodded out the window.

We had another hour left until we hit the mining camp. Madalyn had her briefcase open on her lap and was typing furiously. Lucan tried to strike up a conversation, asked where everybody was from and what they wanted to do after all this was over, the usual small talk questions.

Nobody was really into it. The heat had wilted us like underwatered crops.

I did learn that Medic was a desert native, from Kumitan’s Cappadine Valley.

“It’s kind of like this, but the sand’s green from copper oxide, and there’s mountains on all sides,” she told us.

Medic didn’t talk about her home much. I’d offered to help her look for her parents and friends and see who survived the invasion, but she’d declined, saying she didn’t want to know yet.

The dashboard instruments put us fifteen minutes from the mining camp, which was a relief since the AC had been steadily waning since we passed the last set of dunes. At this rate, we’d have just enough fuel to—

Hold up. I tapped the dashboard; pointless since it was all digital anyway. The one gauge I didn’t need to worry about, and the needle hovered just above the E. I downshifted and came to a stop between two dunes.

“What’s the holdup?” Lucan asked.

I gestured to the dashboard. “We are out of gas.”

“We had a full tank when we left,” Medic pointed out. “I saw the dial. How’d we run out so fast?”

We had a leak in the fuel line. A slow one, but it was getting worse, and in the scorching desert heat, the drops of fuel had evaporated before I noticed the trail we’d left behind.

“Doesn’t anybody inspect these things?” Lucan muttered. He was lying on his back, wrapping medical tape and plastic wrap around the leak. “I’m the other kind of mechanic, but this line looks corroded as hell. There, that should hold for now. Pull me out?”

Medic and I each grabbed an ankle and hauled Lucan out from under the sixer. He stood up, brushing dust off his coveralls.

“What are we going to do now?” Madalyn asked, hugging her briefcase to herself as she watched the proceedings.

“We’re going to drive the sixer until the fuel runs out,” I said, “and if it runs out before we get to the mining camp, we hike it.”

The fuel held out for another ten minutes, longer than I’d expected. But finally, the engine sputtered to a halt, dashboard gauges blinking furiously. Everybody turned and stared at me.

“I hope you all are wearing close-toed shoes,” I said.

Medic and Lucan filled a backpack each with water and first aid supplies. I had the big tactical pack with the survival gear and extra cartridges for my sidearm, and we put together a smaller, lighter bag with extra water and sunscreen for Madalyn, who insisted on helping.

And with that, we set off into the shimmering desert, which promptly swallowed us whole. As we walked, our feet sent up puffs of dust, and every breath scorched my sinuses. A few stalwart cactoids poked their spiky heads above the sand, but other than that, the landscape was a sun-scorched blank canvas.

Now I understood why people say that the sun beats down on things. I could feel my skin heating up under my BDUs and head covering. Medic had a sunscarf she’d bought in the city, but the rest of us made do with reflective fabric from the survival pack wrapped around our heads and necks. And sunscreen, lots of sunscreen. The Harahan suns could burn you through a shirt.

Back in training during our all-terrain warfare unit, the instructor had said that faraway objects in the desert tended to be about three times farther away than you perceive them. I was starting to see what he meant. We spent what felt like hours trekking towards the pass between two wide dunes, and it never seemed to get any closer.

My pack was getting heavier, and my clothes were swampy with sweat. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and then doing it again.

Nobody talked. Madalyn shifted her briefcase from hand to hand and trotted a few steps, determined to keep pace with us military folks. Medic and Lucan plodded along in front of her, gripping their backpack straps and occasionally sipping from their water bottles.

We stopped and took five, inhaling water and wiping sweat from our faces. I checked the handheld GPS. We’d been walking for a thousand years, and we were less than halfway there.

I poured more water into myself, spilling some down my chin in my haste. It mixed with the sweat already plastering my entire body. I itched to take off my jacket, but that would only earn me an enormous sunburn. Another sip of water, and then we got moving again.

Someone had once told me that you could survive soaring temperatures just fine if you drank enough water. I was trying to remember who that was so I could have resentful feelings towards them.

“Let’s take five,” I said, even though we’d just taken a break. The words came out sounding funny. My pulse hammered through my neck and chest until I could feel it behind my eyes. I took a knee on the sand, moved scorching air in and out of my lungs. I just needed a little break.

“Ah, Corporal, are you alright?” Madalyn Kane was standing next to me, and I meant to tell her yeah, I was fine, all systems go, and we really should get moving.

But the words got lost somewhere between my brain and my throat, and the next thing I was aware of was Lucan yelling, “Get their jacket off!”

Hands surrounded me, pulling at my clothes and laying me down on the hot sand. Someone said something about a shade tarp, and I heard a crinkling sound followed by a soft coolness on my now-bare skin.

Medic was talking, but the words made no sense.

I tried to tell her that I was fine now and this was all unnecessary, but my throat still wasn’t cooperating. Sharp cold touched my neck, and I flinched. First too hot and then too cold. I felt Lucan’s big hand pulling my arms out so Medic could put more cold between them and my chest.

Fortunately for me, reality blurred aggressively before either of them could break out the needles.

When things started making sense again, I was lying on cold stone. A bag of something yellow and translucent ran down a line into my arm. Someone had stripped me out of my BDUs, boots, and socks, leaving me in just a T-shirt and shorts. I hoped Lucan had the sense to secure my sidearm properly.

I tried to move, but that was too hard. Speaking was still a non-starter. Everything felt like slow motion, and that was okay because I was okay lying here on the cool rock, breathing out and in and out again, receiving my dubious beverage intravenously this time.

Soft footsteps echoed on the stone floor, and a Harahan man in his fifties sat next to me.

“Are you with us?” he asked in a low, gentle voice.

I nodded.

“Can you speak?”

“Mmmm,” I groaned. Sounds, that was good, but words still failed me.

“Your friends brought you here,” he explained, and I heard water being poured. “I’m Rhys. I live outside of town. They’d done everything they could for you, but you were sunsick, and everyone knows the only cure for that is a dark, cold place. Here, sit up a little.”

He put a folded blanket under my head and shoulders and held a cup of cold water to my lips. The taste was mineral-y, but I managed three sips before I started coughing.

“Okay, I guess that’s enough.” He set the cup down. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” I managed. My voice came out thick and muffled. “Others?”

“A little sunsburnt, but in one piece. Worried about you, especially the smaller medic, the one who doesn’t go by her name. Why’s that, anyway?”

I worked my tongue around in my mouth until it loosened up. “She’s from Kumitan. They don’t use names when they’re working.”

His face grew grave. “Kumitan, what a tragedy. I heard about it on the news while the Imperials were still on Harah. When I was in—there’s no need to get into that. Have some more water.”

Rhys helped me drink the rest of the water, and I managed not to spill too much of it down my front.

“Thanks,” I said. I tried to sit up the rest of the way.

“Hold on.” Rhys put a hand on my shoulder, kind but commanding. “The small medic was very clear that I wasn’t to let you up until she examined you. She says you’re stubborn.”

This wasn’t exactly true, but one of Medic’s first encounters with the great Lance Corporal Flynn involved a laser burn that had gotten infected after I decided that daily bandage changes were overkill and I could make do with once a week. There was no use arguing.

“Why don’t you live with everyone else?” I asked. It had been bothering me since my brain had cooled off enough to think. Even Lucan couldn’t have carried me far in the heat. Rhys must live in the middle of nowhere.

“I prefer it,” he said. “I—after the Imperials left, well, Harah City didn’t agree with me at all. Too much noise, too many people. I came out here for some peace. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I’d fantasized about doing the same thing if I ever made it back to Crucia. No more combat gear or laser bolts or ship-to-ship boardings, just a life of comfort and peace and the constant drizzling rain of the highlands.

Rhys leaned against the adobe wall, knees drawn up to his chest. “One of your companions, the woman with the briefcase?”

“Madalyn Kane, she’s with IHRC.”

“She asked if I would sign a statement about what happened to me during the occupation. She-she asked if I would let her take a photograph of what they did to me, to show in court.” His hands fumbled with his clothing, pulling the folds of his robe tight around his chest and shoulders. I’d seen enough Imperial torture victims to know what kind of scars were probably under the fabric.

“You don’t have to,” I told him. “Not unless you’re ready.”

He rested his wrists on his knees. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be. Can you tell her—?”

“Of course. I’ll make sure no one bothers you about it.”

“Thank you.”

Medic’s exam verified that I was, in fact, alive and none the worse for wear despite my encounter with the blazing suns of Harah. She still made me finish my IV, which was plasma, she said, to prevent my blood from going clumpy in the heat.

“You scared us there,” she said, unwrapping the blood pressure cuff. “Okay, looks like your vitals are in range. I just need to draw some blood and make sure you’re not coagulopathic or having an inflammatory response—don’t worry, I can use your IV.”

I relaxed a bit. Needles.

Once Medic had spun down my blood and found no trace of glue paths or flimflams, I looked away while she took my IV out and joined the others at Rhys’s dinner table.

“She takes good care of you,” Lucan commented. “I wasn’t sure about her at first, to be perfectly honest, but her medical skills are impressive.”

I had to agree. I barely had a bruise where she’d taken the IV out.

A few quick words to Madalyn got her to drop the subject of taking a statement from our host. Instead, I recorded his cabin’s position on the handheld GPS, promising to drop off some food and water on our way back, saving him a supply run.

“It’s the least we can do,” I insisted, when he started to protest.

“Very well. Just delete the coordinates once you’ve done this, please?”

“Of course.” I knew how much Rhys valued his solitude.

Medic, being the desert warrior of us, volunteered to take the borrowed jerry can of fuel back to the abandoned sixer. My marching orders, however, were to stick to her like glue (i.e., the whole reason she was on this mission in the first place). And if I was coming, so was Lucan in case I passed out again, and then there was no point in leaving Madalyn by herself.

So we all said goodbye to Rhys, who saw us off from his cactoid garden. We walked back out into the desert, a step at a time, until there was nothing around us but sand.

#ss desert planet #thank you!#fic

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heaps-of-dream · 2 years ago

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I just wanted to a few headcanons/ideas of what Hob’s modern living space would be like, but wound up with this 850+ word list (idk why this fascinated me so much). Might have a followup post to this as I come up with more ideas for him, or if anyone asks for any further detail about his home life -- Hob Gadling is Domestic in my book

When one lives for over 600 years, you pick up a few things…

Tomes and diaries are something Hob found the most difficult to part with, yet they were also the most cumbersome to transport. How could he just wistfully discard something that was forged so personally? Other’s lives are fleeting, and sometimes what is on those pages is all that is left of them

While not having many dinner guests, Hob has still held on to several sets of ceramics and cutlery. Those are quite cumbersome to move too, so he has downsized to only keeping two of everything (“Mix-and-match kitchen sets are all the rage in this century!”)

He has a few paintings adorning his walls by some familiar (not exactly household) names, but he keeps his favorites in his office. Most are nearly unrecognizable early sketches of famous works, but there are quite a few images brandishing a bushy-haired man in black, which live behind glass as if they were the Mona Lisa

One thing that he does make ample room for is clothes. He tries to keep things that are staples of a period, as well as anything that is “just too comfortable to part with – they certainly don’t make them like they used to”.

He has all of the outfits he ever wore to his meetings with Dream. They reside in a trunk that he keeps under the head of his bed, folded and unworn since their last day in the sun. He doesn’t really know why he insists on keeping them (it’s not like he plans on wearing a dingy tunic again anytime soon), but there is something so… sentimental, he supposes, about holding on to the memories those clothes hold for him – and what he would hope also hold for his Stranger

His furniture is an eclectic mess of authentic antiques, passible knock-offs, and Ikea furniture. All of which he has had to disassemble and reassemble with every move, hence his lack of fondness for furniture

He does have a reading chair that he cherishes; he got it in exchange for a favor with a skilled woodworking friend in the mid 1500’s, and it was the jewel of his family’s home at the time (actual chairs were a hot commodity in that time period). So after losing them he could not bring himself to part with the item, but has since added upholstery because “Have you tried sitting on bare wood for hours grading papers? Now that is Medieval”

The kitchen is surprisingly the most modern room in the house (not including the bathroom, which has the most state-of-the-art jacuzzi, of course). Hob was born without the gift of being a chef, but he certainly has had plenty of time to practice. He has a collection of cookbooks, most of which are handwritten and passed down from old friends throughout the centuries

Baking is his favorite thing to do in the kitchen, and he definitely stress-bakes. Though the payoff for staying up well into the night both baking and grading essays is many plates of delicious treats for his equally stressed-out students

He keeps a decently-sized garden out on his patio, and he is quite adept at keeping them alive and thriving (he blames lots and lots of trial and error). They’re mostly herbs and seasonal fruits, with a mix of local wildflowers thrown in for his pollinating friends. He uses his plants for cooking and elixirs – more for household use than personal. On occasion he will gift some to others who he believes they will help; a sleeping potion for an exhausted intern, a pain reliever for his elderly neighbor, a sweet tonic dropped in the university fountain to make the water potable for the birds (and for when Matthew is sent to check on him)

His bed is something that is definitely modern; he has laid his head many a place over the centuries, and has learned the significance of having a good night's rest. Since taking up an occupation that has a rather rigid schedule, sleep has become all the more important. Despite the tentative whispers of his students, Hob can confirm that there has been little sharing of his bed with others (that is until a certain Mysterious Stranger starts frequenting his lectures, and accompanying him on his walks home)

He does own a single television, but he doesn’t use it much. He also has a laptop and smartphone, mostly for school-related use. He prefers to spend his time reading books and articles, and mostly watches documentaries and several international news networks. His guilty pleasure is renting American action films; he especially finds sci-fi fascinating (“Who would have ever thought about those sorts of things happening? Honestly, if I were to have suggested it, I would have been convicted as a witch again.”

I picture his home to be not too dissimilar to this place (which is a real-life, rentable Medieval-style cottage that is absolutely adorable). I just imagine it to have a lot more decor and darker color scheme, plus be not too far from the university where Hob teaches

#hob gadling #the sandman #dreamling #headcanons #hcs #domestic #my writing

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earlgreydream · 4 years ago

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haunted.

| bucky x reader | fluff |

Bucky is new to town and feeling lonely when the townies are unfriendly. Until you show up at his door. soft, sweet bucky fluff to make you feel good! 🥺 🥰

cw: vague mentions of murder. because there’s a haunted house. but it’s not scary!

a/n: I love “we have always lived in the castle” and this is loosely inspired by that film

Bucky felt like everyone stared at him. He didn’t anticipate moving to the small town and being the object of attention for it. He definitely didn’t expect some people to be overtly rude to him, or stare at him like he was a creature when he walked by.

He could’ve sworn he heard the word “haunted” whispered by a group of people when he was buying paint at the small hardware store in town. Bucky turned to stare back, but they quickly hurried away under his confused silver gaze.

His opportunities to make friends seemed grim, and he found himself spending most of his time renovating the old fixer-upper he bought. He was beginning to wonder if moving here, away from his home was a good decision. It was lonely, and he felt like he’d made a mistake.

About a week after he moved in, the weather was particularly nice, and he decided to start tackling the garden while the weather permitted. He was working outside when he saw you.

“Hello!” You called, walking up to the gate of the fence he was painting.

“Hi,” Bucky grinned, setting down his paintbrush and greeting you.

“I’m Y/N. I live next door, I’m sorry I haven’t been over to introduce myself yet.”

“I’m James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone just calls me Bucky. You’re actually the first person to properly speak to me. People in town... don’t seem fond of my arrival.” He struggled with the right way to phrase it, but you just smiled, shaking your head.

“It’s because of the house.” You explained.

“The house?” Bucky turned to the beautiful old victorian house he had moved into.

“Yeah. People in town are convinced it’s haunted. There was a murder here, a decade or so ago. The murderer is in jail now, and the house is completely fine, and safe. But the old people here are paranoid and superstitious. I’m sorry they’ve been unfriendly. They all claim it’s haunted,” you frowned, feeling sympathetic toward your new neighbor.

He was sweet and friendly, and also incredibly handsome. You had come over to invite him for dinner, but had gotten distracted by his confusion about the unwelcoming town. Then, you found yourself staring at him. He wore a bright yellow shirt, standing out against the lush green of the garden.

“It’s alright. I suppose I’ll have to prove I’m not a ghost,” he laughed.

“I believe you. You are too kind to be a ghost. I came over actually to invite you for dinner. I thought you might be lonely.”

His bright smile made warmth spread in your chest, and butterflies flutter in your tummy.

“I’d love to, Y/N.”

He watched you blush, giggling with excitement. You rattled off a time before running off, the breeze ruffling your hair and skirt as you crossed the yard back to your house. You waved at him and he smiled, waving back.

Bucky looked forward to spending time with you later. The sound of your laugh and the sweetness of your smile echoed in his mind as he continued with the fence.

He cleaned up as the sun started to set, and he gathered daisies from the garden, wanting to make a good impression on you, and thank you for your hospitality.

Bucky knocked on your door, and you swung it open with a smile. The scent of coffee and the food you were cooking filled his sense.

“I brought these for you!” Bucky held up the flowers. You bit your lip with a blush, taking them from his hands.

“Thank you, come in.”

You stepped aside, letting him into your bright kitchen, putting the flowers into a jar on the table.

“Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee or tea while I finish?”

“Coffee, please. I can help you,” Bucky offered, and you shook your head.

“I’ve got it. I’m almost done,” you said as you poured him a cup of coffee.

“What brings you here, Bucky?”

“I was just looking to get out of New York City, to something more quiet. I wanted to renovate a house, too. This seemed perfect.”

“I’m glad. It’ll be good to see the house alive again. You’re not so bad either,” you teased lightly, making him grin.

You set down dishes of food before taking a seat beside him, chattering long into the evening. You learned that he was from Brooklyn, and that he loved New York style pizza. He was also fond of classic novels and big band music, and loved the color yellow.

You took coffee to your back porch swing, sitting with him and gently rocking in the dusk, continuing your conversation until the stars were glittering in the sky.

The doorbells chimed in the shop you worked at. You stepped out from the back, smiling at Bucky.

“Hi!” You grinned, happy to see him.

“Y/N. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“What can I get for you?”

“Knobs for a dresser. There was one in the house, I’m refurbishing it.”

“Certainly. What color have you painted it?”

“Just white, I didn’t know what else to do. It needs something.”

“If... If you wanted, I could give it some detailing. I paint.” You offered shyly.

“I’d love that.”

“They’re on the house.” You smiled, handing him the knobs he asked for.

You were kneeling in the sunroom of Bucky’s home. A record was softly spinning in the corner, and a gentle breeze blew through the open windows. Bucky brought a cup of tea to you, setting it down beside you.

“Thanks,” you smiled, reaching up and gently squeezing his hand before going back to painting delicate flowers on the dresser. He hummed along to the old song scratching on the record, and you smiled as he sipped on his tea, taking a break from painting the walls of the sunroom a pale sage green.

Your hand stilled as you watched him. You stared at Bucky, he was too perfect for you not to.

Despite the rumors of the house being haunted, and a curse placed over those who resided there, you found yourself at peace with Bucky in his home. It was bright and inviting, just like him.

Every hour spent with him had you falling more hopelessly in love with him.

You kept Bucky awake at night. He would stare up at the ceiling, thoughts of you filling his mind and his heart. You were so tender and warm, your presence alone was a comfort to him. You made him laugh, and you made joy flood his life.

Bucky was catastrophically in love with you.

“I’ve brought you a book. It’s my favorite, and I didn’t see it in your library,” you said, walking into his home that you’d been spending weeks helping him paint and redecorate.

He walked around the corner of the hall, taking the well-loved copy from your hand. A soft smile crossed his face when he saw your little notes in the margins of passages you loved.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, and yours found their way around his neck. You breathed him in, feeling safe and warm in his hug. You were sad when the long hug finally broke, Bucky looking up at the clock on the wall.

“Can you stay for tea?” Bucky asked, fiddling with the hem of his yellow shirt you loved.

“Of course.”

The two of you curled up on the porch swing with your tea, enjoying the warm weather.

“I was thinking about planting pumpkins in the garden for autumn.”

“You should. I have a pumpkin soup recipe, I can teach you,” you suggested, and he smiled softly.

“I’d love that.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, settling as his arm wrapped around your body. You watched the housecat run across the grass before hopping on the porch below you. His hand gently rubbed small circles where it rested on your leg, and the two of you rocked gently.

Music played faintly from inside as always. Bucky always had a record spinning or a playlist drifting out through hidden speakers. You found the habit endearing, like most little things about him.

He had what seemed to be hundreds of tea bags, always having tea and offering it to you. You noticed that teas you mentioned you enjoyed started showing up in his collection for you when you were over. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, and filled shelves throughout the house.

You giggled, getting some flour on Bucky’s nose while the two of you were baking cookies in his kitchen. You gasped and squealed when he knocked flour all over your shirt, covering you in the white powder.

“Bucky!” You giggled at the mess.

“It wasn’t me, it was the ghost,” he teased with an adorable grin. You shook your head at him and he got one of his clean t-shirts for you to change into, tossing your ruined one in with his laundry.

The fabric of his was soft and smelled like him. You hugged it to your body, smiling as your heart raced. You went back downstairs to finish baking, Bucky promising you he was going to behave.

“Taste this, tell me if it’s good,” he laughed, holding out a spoon of the melted chocolate to you. You opened your mouth so he could feed it to you, and chocolate smeared over your lips as he pulled the spoon out.

You nodded in delight, and an amused smile crossed his face.

“You’ve got a little on your face, doll,” he laughed and you blushed.

Your breath caught as he leaned forward and kissed you, tasting the chocolate on your lips. You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, your heart bursting.

“Was that the ghost too?” you giggled shyly.

“No, that was all me,” Bucky promised before kissing you again.

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openheartfanfics · 2 years ago

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Newly Added Fics

July 30 - Aug 5, 2022

BRYCE X F!OC / F!MC

Kitchen Wars - @peonierose ☁

Making soup turns into a kitchen war. [Cooks]

Please Let It Be Coffee - @peonierose 📱 ☁

Text/Insta exchange between Luna and Bryce. Because now that Luna is pregnant no more coffee for her. [Pregnancy]

That Sounds Like Pizza to Me - @peonierose ☁

Luna and her cousins have their pizza night where the debate comes up pineapple on pizza or not.

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star - @peonierose ☁

The twins are excited to see their parents. [Domestic; Family]

ETHAN X F!OC / F!MC

A Rock and a Hard Place - @coffeeheartaddict2 🎭 Ⓜ

Ethan has a decision to make about how much of a relationship he wants to have with Louise. TW: mentions of addiction

All The Things We Run From - @kat-tia801 📚 🛸 Ⓜ

[mini: wip] After her residency leaves her with heartbreak and lasting scars, Brynn sets off to find a change of pace. But as she’s trying to escape her demons, she crosses paths with someone who’s fighting secret battles of their own. TW: depictions of mental health struggles, character death

CH 1: A Million Miles An Hour

Birth Control - @txemrn 🦚 Ⓜ

After a heated conversation with friends about the Ramseys’ decision not to have children, Tatum begins to wonder if their plan is truly what her new husband wants. TW: Medical complications affecting fertility; bullying/shaming Feat. Sienna Trinh

Darkest Hour - @coffeeheartaddict2 🎭 Ⓜ

Ethan finds out a painful secret from Casey’s past. TW: non-physical domestic abuse

Happy Birthday, Dr. Ramsey - @liaromancewriter 📷 ☁

Cassie posts Ethan’s birthday wishes on Picta. [Birthday]

New Horizons - @jerzwriter ☁

It’s Kaycee’s last day at Edenbrook. While a friend is there to support her, Ethan and Emma are there to take her home. [Domestic; Family]

Not Meant to Be - @lucy-268 🎭

Ethan went to the Amazon promising Samantha they would still be together when he came back. So, who changed his mind? Feat. Harper Emery [Amazon]

So Close: An Open Heart/The Royal Romance Crossover - @sincerelyella 📚 🛸

[extended: wip] Ella was stuck in between two men, Bryce and Ethan. When she had to make a choice, she ultimately chose Ethan … but he refused. Now what?

Sugar High - @jamespotterthefirst ♥

He makes her body do something no one else has before. [Oral]

The Great Bake-Off - @mysticalgalaxysstuff ☁

Ethan makes pancakes (!!) with his daughter. [Domestic; Family; Cooks]

The Heart Wants - @genevievemd 🎭

After going on a terrible blind date, Ethan agrees to meet up with Genevieve. But it’s harder than they both imagined. [Pining, Ethan POV]

What Now? - @potionsprefect ☁

When Luke and Lily finally fall asleep, Victoria and Ethan wonder what they should do. [Domestic; Family]

With You - @jerzwriter ♥

After dropping Louise off at rehab, Ethan & Kaycee share an emotional ride back to Boston. Kaycee assures a worried Ethan that she is there for him, always… in every way. [2.16; Public Places]

You Are My Sun, My Moon & All My Stars - @mvalentine ☁

Ethan Ramsey wants to take his girlfriend out on a date. Except he doesn't tell her the where, the what or the why. [Date]

Z Toboyu - @ofmischiefandmedicine ☁

During their drive to visit Laura’s mother, Ethan gets a taste of her culture.

102 Days of Smiles - @genevievemd 📚 📷

[extended: wip] One post a day, for 102 days, with something that made our new bride smile.

ETHAN X M!MC

Drama Queen - @peonyblossom ☁

Sydney fawns over their cat a little too much after her bath. [Pet]

Hottest Man Alive - @dr-colossal-pita ☁

Oliver is scrolling through their phone and randomly says “wow this guy is so hot!” out loud causing Ethan to wonder who he’s talking about.

JACKIE X M!OC

First Date - @openheartfanfiction ☁

Rowan asked Jackie out on a date and here is how it went.

PLATONIC/ENSEMBLE

Roomie Evening - @potionsprefect 📷

Victoria spends an evening with the roomies.

Underneath the Tree - @liaromancewriter ☁🎄

Cassie is in the mood to spread some Christmas cheer and her loved ones are happy to help. Feat. Ethan Ramsey, OH Gang

SIENNA X M!OC

Break Time - @liaromancewriter 📱 Ⓜ

Max and Sienna find ways to keep their relationship fun, even from a distance.

TOBIAS X F!OC / F!MC

Boys Night Out - @jerzwriter ☁ Ⓜ

Tobias runs into some opposition when he tries to convince the guys to join him in his man cave. Feat. Bryce Lahela, Ethan Ramsey

For Keeps - @jerzwriter ☁

Tobias drags his best buddy around Boston to find the perfect ring for Casey, but in the end, she has the biggest surprise for him.

50 Days of Love - @openheartfanfiction 📚 📷

[extended: wip] Just 50 Days of Adelaide showing love to many different things.

SUBMIT OPEN HEART FICS & WRITERS HERE

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #open heart fanfic #playchoices fanfics #playchoices fanfiction #bryce lahela #bryce lahela x mc #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #sienna trinh #sienna trinh x oc #jackie varma #jackie varma x oc #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x mc #newly added fics

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candidhart · 4 years ago

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Made this one some time ago and had the HONOR of collabing with my dear friend @royai who wrote this AMAZING piece!

Love u Katie :3

After Dark

by @royai

It came as a surprise to Riza Hawkeye that the light could be as fearsome as the dark.

It never occurred to her that trouble could exist in the thin space between the two, that it should preserve itself there for a hundred years, maybe longer, and wait. She imagined herself as a girl asleep in her bed, moonlight slanting through her four-paned glass window, a ferry for the monsters and the things that were worse than monsters. Children checked under their beds and inside their closets, refused to venture into cellars and attics, thought of warding off the unknown with fat oil lamps and candles melting into their brass candlesticks. That things with spindly arms and bodies blacker than ink could use light as a conduit for their demented games…

That they could touch her, even…

Nightmares took up residence in Riza’s sleep. In her waking too, they lingered there, limned her mind with the briefest flashing of tendrils. She curled into herself at night, closed her eyes on the horrors. The blackness found her, though. A million spider’s legs on her body, ghosting the flesh, raising the hairs, and that line on her cheek where the monster had touched her would weep. And she would weep, too, because it had been so long since dread had forced its way in. The tendrils brought strange, frantic memories to the forefront. A panic as familiar as church bells.

Riza’s father, a monster in his own right, in the way that men become monsters and in the way that she had become a kind of monster too. He never minded her but to be those tendrils in the dark. Never in the light. That was her comfort, her safety, her promise.

The light.

A betrayal.

***

Central reached for her like a beggar. Grimy hands, oil-stained, gunk under fingernails chipped and jagged, it closed its hands around her and she was reminded, again, again, again, about the stories her father would tell. He would tell them in his sleep, and make promises of them in her ear, and he would tell them, even, through mouthfuls of blood. That Central was a bastard city. Its towers, spires, and cobblestones bathed in storefront lights bleeding from ornate windows, in the yellow glow of street lamps.

Riza left her apartment and slipped off a curb, first thing.

She remembered her first night in the city. Automobiles flicked light into her windows, made shapes out of the lamp she kept on a pile of boxes in the living room. Shadows in the dark. There were sounds all the time. Movement like tree branches.

Back East, back home, Riza could wander into the fields when she couldn’t sleep. She took a military vehicle into the countryside, an hour or so west, just a bit further inward. It parked fine on the dirt roads. Headlights would go black, melt into the darkness all around, and the hip-high grass cradled her as she sank down, down into the cottony earth. Most people counted sheep to sleep; Riza counted stars, stalks.

She always woke before the sun. Home in time to rinse the sticks from her hair and brew coffee on her electric stove.

Central did not exist to afford her any of that. Central was alive like hordes of flies are alive. Incessant buzzing, a whirring in your ear that you can’t see, that you worry might bury itself in your eardrum. Even before the tendrils and the monsters Riza would lie awake in her bed, books unearthed from boxes, clothes folded in neat squares over her dresser, a chest of drawers not quite filled yet, her apartment unpacked and unsettled, and fret over the whole of it: Central.

She slipped off the curb and scraped her achilles on the concrete. Her teeth crashed together with the force, and she massaged her jaw as she reached down to rub her wounded ankle, fingers coming away wet and red.

A car beat over the cobbled street, spewing dampness from its tires. Riza wasn’t aware that it had rained but she smelled it now, acute and intense, like a single pinprick on the skin.

Out east, that smell was earthy, ancient: soaked stone and evergreens, swollen carriages and damp horse hide, wetted dirt and a choked fire.

Riza took Longmont to Leander, cutting her way through the city via back alleys where moonlight and street light was caught on brick corners and cordoned off by severe angles. She read the stories of women assaulted in Central well past dark, and had seen all the headlines he placed strategically at her desk, a tiny dog-shaped paperweight holding the newspaper steady until the moment Riza could read it and be properly warned. But it was never the people of Central who made her uneasy.

It was several blocks to his apartment. Riza folded herself into the dark. The creature could follow but he could not show himself here, not without a conduit, not without the light. Everything black, nothing inside of it, a void.

A rectangle of light exploded over the ground. Riza stopped, terror seizing her hard. A woman with greying hair hummed and whistled as she sprinkled water out over hanging potted plants. Riza’s chest bounced frantically as she watched the shadow of the woman’s hands in the light, the shadow of the watering can wandering back and forth across the chasm of yellow, methodical as a pendulum.

It happened so suddenly that Riza had little time to react. A mist, a gathering shadow, one red eye peeked out at her from the fluttering darkness. Then, like snakes, tendrils crept out of the line of black and into the little patch of light. Riza willed the woman to close the window, begged her, thought for a moment that she might shout or cry, but it was likely that the woman would only become curious and the window would remain uncovered as she came to watch from her lighted perch.

The monster was an ancient child and yet, in this form, none of his features were childlike. His smile was wolfish and cruel, thin like a knife’s blade, and his tendrils sharp as barbs. They thrashed up against the liquid dark where Riza was hiding, attempting to gather her by the ankles.

The child spoke using a dozen voices.

“Where are you going, Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

Home, she thought. An impulse, the truth, spoken so carelessly in her mind. To him. To the stars or the stalks, that tall grass and damp earth. Somewhere known.

“You have made a rather purposeful attempt to evade me.”

“Forgive me,” she bit, “but our last meeting was less than enjoyable.”

The monster smirked.

“Do I trouble you so much, little Riza?”

The nickname, familiar in sound, comforting in its use, was a bitter poison on his tongue.

“I’ll ask again for transparency.” The tendrils clawed at the ground, raked it. “Where are you going?”

Away from Central.

Away from the light.

To him. To him. To him.

He’ll shut off all the lights, pull all the curtains closed, feed her hot tea and leftover lentil soup and summer sausage. His apartment will smell like cologne and the candle with petals baked into it, and they’ll settle into the down of his bed and see nothing, and the monster will never even realize he has lost.

“You have only as long as the window stays open,” she said, gaining confidence. “I am not bound to you. I can go wherever I want.”

As she said it, the woman in the window started to stir. Her footsteps grew closer, the sound of the humming rising, rising, rising into the final closing of the curtain. The monster’s frown was washed away by the night.

Riza ran.

His apartment was several blocks east of Central Headquarters. The storm’s eye, the quiet, the massive, white and oppressive thing. Riza wound her way past it without managing to sneak a glance. She didn’t need to. She could feel its gaze on her, what all of it represented. And the squared coach lights were tiny pillars of threats, waiting for her to come closer and be beckoned.

She thundered past several shuttered windows; an older man on a stoop hunched close to the ground; the sounds of women chattering together like preening birds, their heels clicking over cracked brick and concrete.

Riza took the stairs two at a time, lunging forward through the hall light, praying nothing would lurch out from the darkness and drag her away. She learned at a young age to fear the sudden jerk of the unknown.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he said. He must have heard her coming, because his door was wrenched open, and he stood there in pajamas and holding a cup of tea, the bag still soaking.

“We’ve had an emergency at the office, sir.”

His brows trundled downward.

“Please, come in,” he said, and moved aside as she nearly tripped her way into his apartment. “Excuse the mess.”

There was no mess, not quite like someone would expect. The Colonel’s apartment was better kept than hers, although she had just moved and he had gotten to stay. Things were collected together in neat piles: alchemy books gathered at one arm of the couch, on the floor, an old mug sat atop them, and there were coats strewn about too, though placed strategically, two on dining chairs and one on the lounge by the front door. Pots hung together in clumps along his kitchen walls, white-tiled, much nicer than Riza’s tan wallpaper; and on his floor, beneath the coffee table, several sewn blankets, all gifts from the Madame’s girls, as far as anyone knew.

Riza reached for one as she folded herself into his couch. “Please, sir. Can you turn off the lights?”

He set his tea on the counter. Again, he looked at her with concern, but the lights started to fall away the closer he came to her. First the kitchen, the six squares of dining space, the hall light he shut off as he sat opposite to her on the couch. The lamp was last. And finally, with the lights of Central thoroughly shut out, Riza could breathe.

It was much like how she would lock herself in the bathroom as a child, plugging the bottom of the door with a wet towel, the waxy shower curtain a flimsy barrier between herself and her raging father. Eventually he removed the locks, and then the knobs. Even now, she felt the cold, hard press of the tub’s porcelain on her back.

“Thank you.”

Silence, and then: “What are you doing here, Lieutenant?”

Coming home.

“I’m not sure myself, sir.”

The Colonel shifted his weight. He was a full cushion away from her, but his heat radiated all the same.

“What happened to your cheek?”

“I cut it on a bramble while fetching a lost toy for Hayate at the park.”

Fingers pressed to her skin, a thumb ran slanted along her wound.

It was reminiscent of childhood, for sure. Riza had always courted this quiet, contemplative darkness. It was when she was a little older that she invited Roy into it, and he welcomed the invitation, and he was a kind, treasured guest. But tonight she was feeling particularly fragile.

She took his hand and fit his knuckles under her chin.

The monster had allowed her to be here, that much was certain. There was no other reason that he wouldn’t have stolen her from those stairs.

She crushed Roy’s hand into herself.

What was he after?

What was the motive?

Was it… afraid?

Roy leaned closer to her. His fingers squeezed hers. He wanted to say something, she knew, or ask her why she had come to him and begged for the dark.

She would not tell him. Tomorrow, maybe, but tonight she was fragile.

Riza found his mouth in the dark. She set his hand free and it wrapped itself around the curve of her neck, tipping her head back. His other hand gave her hair a gentle tug.

“Are you all right?” he managed to ask around her lips, while she occupied herself with tracing the scars on his hip and in his abdomen. She gripped the hem of his t-shirt and pulled him toward her until she was on her back and he had to brace himself against the arm of the couch. “Lieutenant,” he said, though the sentiment was weak, ill-willed. He was attempting and failing at control.

“I’m all right,” she said, and kissed him again. He tasted like his tea. Again his fingers brushed the cut on her cheek, and as they did she was shocked, jolted. She broke away from him and sat upright. “I’m, uh…”

“I really just need to know if you’re all right.”

“I’m going to go.”

“Lieutenant— Riza.”

The name was too much, the break in her skin was too much, the darkness was not enough. It was not enough. The curtain hadn’t been enough. The porcelain. All the nights cascaded in the dark, the world pulling itself to a close around her, fitting like a glove.

“I have to go.”

The Colonel kept to his place on the couch as she stood and put her hand on the door and wondered again about what the monster wanted.

She hadn’t known as a child, and she had survived anyway.

She had survived.

The light swallowed her whole.

#royai #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #selim bradley #fma #fullmetal alchemist #LOVE U KATIE #so nice to do a collab....#AND ITS SO GOOD #also yes I have a lot of feelings about the whole Pride situation #myart

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peachtree-dish · 3 years ago

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A Te Che Sei Il Mío Grande Amore

Chapter 3: Senza che tu mi dica niente tutto si fa chiaro

Luglio 01, 1969

Luca’s birthday rolled around faster than anyone expected, the day arriving with clear skies and high temperatures. Luca awoke to his mother’s voice echoing through their home as she prepared breakfast. Stretching, the fifteen-year-old shook his nonna as gently as he could to wake her. She grumbled at his attempts and swatted at his claws.

“Nonna,” he sighed, shrugging with a smile and swimming into the kitchen to greet his parents. During his time in Porto Rosso, Luca enjoyed every moment he could swimming and spending as much time in the water since he couldn’t do as much in Genoa. He, along with Giulia and Signora Mia, had snuck to the shoreline in the early hours of the morning every few weeks or so just so Luca could refresh his scales and get the nutrients he needed. It was especially necessary when the temperature had become too cold and made him lethargic and ill. Luca shook his head softly, sending bubbles rippling above him in search of the surface. Signora Mia had been just as kind as Massimo, and just as headstrong in a lot of ways. He made a silent promise to call her with Giulia to make sure she was doing well, even if he were sure nothing could fell the infamous Mia Berni.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Daniella kissed Luca’s cheek and handed him a plate full of seaweed and fish flank on his way to the table. Returning the sentiment, the youth sat beside his father and informed his parents that grandma had decided to sleep in a little longer.

“Ugh, she does this every time. MA!” Daniella shouted in frustration, only to be startled by her own mother swimming around the corner.

“You’re being dramatic, dear. I only do it when I think it will annoy you.” The elderly sea monster smiled toothily at her disgruntled daughter who muttered, “Which is every day,” and finished setting the table.

“So, how does it feel to be another year older, son?” Lorenzo floated a piece of fish to his mouth and chewed animatedly, his gaze never leaving Luca’s. Luca shrugged in response and picked at the seafood drifting across the coral table.

“Not any different than last year, honestly. I still feel like I’m fourteen, so nothing special.” He slurped the seaweed into his mouth, much to his mother’s chagrin, and instantly missed the taste of pasta.

“Fifteen is a pretty big deal, though, you’re becoming a young man and that means changes and more responsibility.”

“I hardly think now is the time to discuss any of that at the table.” Luca’s grandmother scoffed before he could reply.

“What, it’s just the basics; Longer tail and fins, not to mention attracting the pretty lady gills, eh?” Lorenzo nudged Luca in the side who nearly choked on his food and spluttered white bubbles over the table, his scales flushing darkly.

“Lorenzo!” Danielle cried, her claws slapping the table in mortification.

“What? We were around his age when we met. If I remember correctly, you thought I was quite the catch.” He batted his eyes at her, pursing his lips teasingly.

“I was young and silly; I didn’t know any better.” Try as she might, Daniella couldn’t stop the smile that threatened to break her scowl. She busied herself by shredding the fish flank and wrapping it in seaweed. Undeterred, Lorenzo lifted from his chair and leaned in closer, trying to further fluster his wife.

“Yeah, maybe, but you still accepted my courting pearl after the Spring Swim Festival.” Lorenzo pulled a reluctant Daniella out of her chair and began to lead her around the room in spins and pivots, grinning madly as she shrieked with laughter. Luca watched with a mixture of amusement and confusion, his discomfort fading as he pushed the idea of ‘lady gills’ far from his mind. When he peered at his grandma, she appeared nonplussed and continued munching on her food although a genuine smile lifted her aging scales.

“You were skinnier and more handsome then, of course, she fell for you.” Lorenzo pouted at his mother-in-law and led both he and Daniella back to the table.

“I simply grew into my man body,” He emphasized his point by sticking his gut out even farther and patted it proudly. The table burst into laughter and Luca quickly finished eating after, his stomach nearly as full as his heart.

After he finished, he turned to his mother and asked, “Is it ok if I go visit Alberto and Giulia for the afternoon?”

Daniella conceded with a content nod, “Just don’t forget about our dinner tonight at Massimo’s, we don’t want you kids to be late.” Luca agreed cheerfully and kissed each family member on the cheek before swimming out the entrance.

“Hey!” Luca turned mid swim to see Daniella at the entrance. “I love you.”

“I love you too, ma!” Grinning, Luca took off, the water gliding past him as he made his way to the surface and his friends. As he leaped through the blue waves, he imagined he was like the superhero from the newspaper comics that Giulia and Mia both read. Pointing both fists forwards, Luca broke the surface with a whoop, water streaming behind him like a cape.

When he arrived at the Marcovaldo residence, the only beings there to greet them were Machiavelli and a few of his kits, each of whom wanted his attention and brief affection. Finding some of his spare clothes in the drawers of Alberto and Giulia's shared room, Luca quickly left the house and wandered the streets, eager to find his friends. Judging from the sun, he knew the morning fishing trip had come to an end not too long before which should mean Giulia, and Alberto was out delivering. Walking through the town square, Luca waved to a few of the patrons he recognized, mentally wincing as he remembered his first attempts at greeting Porto Rosso’s patrons. If anyone had been the stupidi, it had been them.

Chuckling as he went up the city’s hill, Luca caught sight of two familiar heads of curls along with two faces he was not expecting. Tensing at the sight of Guido and Ciccio, Luca prepared himself for a fight and made to run the rest of the way before he heard laughter. Guido was laughing at something Alberto had said and lightly touched his shoulder. Somehow, the movement was worse than if he had punched Alberto instead. A dark and ugly feeling reared its head within Luca’s belly, causing his face to burn and his hands to clench. Clenching his teeth, the young sea monster marched up the cobblestone pathways, intent on not showing his discomfort.

“Ciao,” he muttered shortly, arriving beside Alberto, and instantly causing Guido to lift his hand from Alberto’s shoulder. Giulia nodded hello from her seat on the bike as Alberto wrapped an arm around Luca’s shoulder.

“Oh, hey Luca,” Alberto cheered even more so upon seeing Luca. “You remember Guido and Ciccio, vero? I helped their families in the off-season while you were away.” Luca looked at the two teens who stood abashedly in front of him and offered his hand after a moment of hesitation.

“It’s good to see you both again,” Not, he thought as he shook the brunette’s hand. Ciccio spoke up, his round features coloring.

“We realize we never officially apologized to you before you left, si? We’re really sorry about last summer, Luca.”

“Si, Ciccio, and I were very foolish and ignoranti, we hope you can forgive us, and we can start again.” Guido smiled warmly, his gaze sincere. Taking a deep breath, Luca felt his earlier feeling of… whatever it was, fading away. If Alberto and Giulia both felt they could trust these boys again, then he could follow their lead.

“Lo apprezzo. I know being around Ercole wasn’t the easiest either, it’s all water under the bridge now anyway.” He smiled genuinely this time, heartened when the two ex-henchmen immediately relaxed.

“Bah, no lie, I’m so happy to be rid of that jerk,” Guido nodded at Ciccio who nodded and twisted his hands anxiously.

“He ate so much of my family’s bread,” Ciccio whispered horrified, his gaze wide. Giulia shared a weirded-out expression with Alberto who only shook his head.

“I didn’t know your family baked,” Luca interceded, ignoring his friends’ lack of subtlety Snapping back to the present, Ciccio grinned widely showing his perfectly white teeth.

“Oh, si, Pasticcini al sale Marino is the pride and joy of Porto Rosso and my family. Our baked goods bring customers from miles around; you should see the line of people who want to buy my mother’s Sfogliatella.” He leaned in conspiratorially to whisper, “My siblings and I have been helping since we were little, so only we know the recipe.” He puffed his round chest out proudly, only to be poked by both Alberto and Guido.

“Knowing a recipe and following it correctly are two different things, Ciccio. Your batter was not very good the last time you tried to make Bombolini.” Guido teased and Alberto nodded knowingly.

“I still don’t know how you mixed up salt and sugar,” the older sea monster screwed his face in disgust, remembering how the supposedly sweet treats and mistakenly been made with copious amounts of salt. “Seriously, Ciccio, even the ocean’s not as salty as those things were.” Ciccio pouted good-naturedly as the group laughed.

“It’s still not as bad as the time Guido set the auto garage on fire,” the blond argued mildly to which said boy grimaced.

“I thought we agreed to never speak of that again; I thought my papa was going to skin me alive.”

The teens chatted a bit more and Luca began to warm up to the two boys who had hurt him so much the past year. Perhaps, he reasoned, they had been good all along and had simply needed the chance to prove themselves.

Bidding Guido and Ciccio farewell, Luca joined Alberto and Giulia as they made the rounds. Luca asked a question that had been on his mind since arriving in Porto Rosso.

“So, whatever happened to Ercole? I haven’t seen him since we’ve been in town.” Alberto placed the cash from his previous sale into the leather pouch of the cart before answering.

“Honestly, the guy kind of disappeared after the race. I think he was embarrassed enough to keep his head low for a while, but other than that, I’m not sure. Maybe he left?” Giulia thought for a moment, her gaze focused on the road ahead.

“Maybe, I don’t think he went away to university, but he could have. His family is really wealthy, so they could afford it no matter the grades he got.”

Luca kicked a pebble, his thoughts skipping back to that one word: university.

“What’s the point of grades anyway, doesn’t that, like, stress you out more?” Alberto mused.

“It certainly does for me,” Giulia huffed. She bid Buongiorno to a young mother who bought the last of their fish and both Luca and Alberto filled the empty space as they headed back down the hill.

“I think it’s mostly competition, to see who really wants to be an academico or no,” she contemplated. “Sometimes if you have really good grades, the universities will pay you to study in their schools. That happened to mama when she moved to Genoa.” Alberto winced slightly at the mention of Giulia’s mother, the story of her separation from Massimo fresh in his memory.

“I wonder if I was good enough, they’d do that for me?” Luca hummed, his eyes following the drains that spread across each building they passed.

“Well, duh, they’d be stupid not to; you’re better than good enough right now,” Alberto bumped his shoulder with a smile. Luca blushed and tossed his friend a grin.

“Hey, happy birthday by the way. It’s about time you got to my age,” the older boy winked and wrapped his arm around Luca again, causing Luca’s skin to hum with energy.

“Oh, yeah! Are you excited for tonight?” Giulia asked over her shoulder.

“Thanks, you guys, really,” Luca felt warmer with Alberto’s arm around him, and he was sure it had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. He wondered briefly if said boy could feel how hard his heart was pounding. “Should I be excited, I thought we were just having dinner?” Luca asked, brow furrowing in confusion. He twisted around to face Giulia as she pulled into the plaza and made her way towards the small coastal home. Alberto lifted his arm when Luca turned away, causing him to feel its loss.

Giulia glanced at him and grinned excitedly. “Papa saved some fireworks from the Festa Della Repubblica since we were in Genoa, and he wants to set them off for tonight.” Luca gasped and jumped in his seat.

“Santa mozzarella! Are you serious?!” He shared an animated glance with Alberto who smiled as he hopped off the cart.

“Of course! I mentioned to him how much you had enjoyed the fireworks during Vigilia di Capodanno last December. He decided that would be his gift to you this year.” Giulia locked the bike and carried their bag of earnings inside, the two boys following after her.

Inside they found Massimo at his stove, his presence filling up the majority of the room. He turned to greet them as they entered, placing a kiss upon Giulia’s curly head.

“Buon cumpleanno, Luca. May you live to see many more,” Massimo rumbled fondly, patting Luca on his checkered shoulder. Luca returned the sentiment and wrapped a short hug around the large man, his arms too small to wrap fully around him.

“Grazie, Massimo. For your wishes and for your surprise gift,” Luca pulled away while Massimo smiled happily, his eyes disappearing behind his bushy eyebrows.

“Giulia,” Massimo chided lightly, turning to his daughter who was counting out money, “I thought we agreed to keep it a secret until after dinner?” Giulia smiled apologetically.

“Scusa, papa, we were just too excited,” She and Alberto began counting the coins on the table while Massimo ushered Luca over to the stove.

“Come, Luca, you will help me prepare dinner,” Massimo handed him a bag of clams and ordered him to wash them thoroughly in the sink. Luca would be the first to admit he was not a cook, but Massimo was gentle in his orders and easily guided Luca in making a perfect pasta dinner.

Once the Paguro family arrived along with Ciccio and Guido, once again to Luca’s surprise, the night was filled with much laughter and filling food. The linguine pasta alle vongole was instantly a hit and paired nicely with the red wine Ciccio had brought on behalf of his family. To the teens’ disappointment, the adults were adamant that they were still too young for alcohol. At one moment, Lorenzo laughed so hard, he inhaled his pasta and sent part of it into his nose much to the delight of the children. After dinner, the group trouped outside with fireworks and dessert in hand. While Massimo and Lorenzo set up the fireworks near the edge of the waterline, Daniella, Giulia, and Ciccio helped serve gelato and watermelon.

With a happy sigh, Alberto nestled himself into the sand alongside Luca, happily chewing on the red-fleshed fruit. Luca’s eyelids were drooping as his body felt full and warm, accompanied by his own friend’s radiating heat. His gaze lingered as Alberto licked gelato from his lips, the cream dripping from the corner of his mouth. Forcing his eyes to look anywhere else, Luca shifted closer to Alberto. Instead, his gaze landed on his father asking animatedly about the fireworks in Massimo’s hand, the larger man looking both confused and entertained by Lorenzo’s energy.

“I know I already said it, but happy birthday,” Luca dragged his eyes back to the tanned boy next to him and smiled. He jumped slightly at the first explosion, watching in delight as the light of the fireworks made his friend’s skin glisten with multicolored hues.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” He replied easily. Neither made comment as their arms brushed or as their hands splayed out behind them with barely any space between. Up above the merry group, bright color after bright color bloomed across a starlit sky, the stars twinkling their own delight.

#luca #pixar luca #luca fanfiction #alberto scorfano #disney #alberto x luca #giulia marcovaldo #luca 2021 #luca x alberto #my fic tag #my favorite siblings #my fish bois #mutual pining #queer fanfiction #massimo marcovaldo #Daniella Paguro #lorenzo paguro #found family #a te che sei il mio grande amore

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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 4 years ago

Text

Stay With Me (Pt. 08 of 09)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon X Reader

Word count: 3 K

Summary: Daryl found you surrounded by the dead, stuck in the backseat of a car. You were wishing for death to take you away for quite a while now, but, as you slid back and forth into consciousness, there was only one thing keeping you alive. Him, the man with blue, worried eyes and kind voice. Your beaten up body was ready to give up, too wounded and broken to keep going. But this man, who went out of his way to save your life is the only thing in the world holding you up. And, because of him, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time: hope. Wherever he's taking you, you want to get there, and not only to be buried. For what it feels like the very first time, you want to live. He takes you back to Alexandria, but even there, the nightmares and the terror from all the torture and pain you've been through keeps creeping closer, and Daryl, your hero, is the only one who can keep that all away.

Warnings: Mentions and description (not graphic) of past abuse; post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); some violence at the end of the story (a little bit graphic, but not so much); blood.

<- Previous part (07)

Next part (09)->

{The Walking Dead Masterlist}

I want to thank my awesome friend @jodiereedus22, who helped me (and still does) a lot to get this story done. She's also a writer and she's amazing so please go check her work!!

Nightmare

It's amazing to know you're excited about the party. Luke is two months old, and since you had a welcome party in-store, you turned it into a birthday party. It'll happen later tonight, by nightfall, and you're enjoying the last moments before you have to leave the bedroom and start organizing things.

After brushing your teeth and hair, you leave the bathroom, smiling to see Daryl still lied in bed. He seems peaceful, eyes closed, so handsome in the morning light. You've been wanting to tell him something, it's been a while... But you never get the right time. Or maybe you're just a little scared...

But looking at him now, it just fades away. You and Daryl have been in a solid relationship, and despite the short time, things have been amazing. Perfect. Carol is even talking about moving out, so you and Daryl can have your own space, but you don't want to push her to it. In the privacy of your bedroom, you're fine. And living with Carol is nice.

“Hey, D.” You say in a soft voice, going to the bed and climbing on top of him. Daryl grunts something, his eyes opening, hands coming to your hips and waist. “Are you awake?”

“I am now that a kitten came to lie down on me.” He mumbles as you move up until your face is at the same level as his. You place your legs around his hips, hands sustaining your weight on each side of his head.

“Sorry.” You mutter, moving to stand up. But Daryl's grip gets tighter, and you let yourself fall, collapsing against his chest, giggling. “Alright, alright. But listen up now...”

“What is it?” He brings a hand to your face, fingers caressing your chin.

“Uhm...” Blushing a little, you clear your throat. “I... I think... No, I do.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow, and you can tell he's trying to figure it out on his own. “Ya wanna break apart?” He bursts out suddenly. “ ‘Cause if that's what ya want, I–”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” You say in a sarcastic tone, rolling your eyes. “I'm literally on top of you, Daryl Dixon. How can you possibly think I want to end things?” Moving to sit up, straddling his hips, you cross your arms. “What do you have in this pretty head of yours? Only hunting skills?”

“Yer very funny.” In a sudden motion, Daryl pulls you down again, switching positions so he's on top of you instead. “What is it then?” He asks, his face way too close.

“Can I kiss you first?”

“Nah. Ya got me curious.”

“Alright...” Taking a deep breath, you gather up some courage to push the words out. “I want a baby.” Shrugging your shoulders, you giggle at Daryl's funny face. “What?”

“Don't ya have one already?”

“Yeah...” Mumbling, you wrap your arms around his neck. “Daryl?”

“Huh?”

“I want another baby.” Smirking, you place a kiss on his lips. He's fast to kiss you back, a hand cupping your cheek. “So. What do you think?” You ask when you pull away.

“How are ya plannin’ to get one?”

You're not sure if his intention was to make you blush, but you're blushing anyway. “Uhm... First I need to get married.”

“Get married? People don't care about these things anymore.” He answers quickly, and you wonder if you went too far. Maybe it's way too early, and these thoughts should be kept inside your heart for a while longer.

“I know but... That's exactly why I care.” Sighing, you avoid his eyes. “I'm sorry, we haven't talked about this and I don't even know if–”

“Hey, calm down.” With his thumb and index finger on your chin, he makes you look at him again. You always appreciates Daryl's touch, it doesn't matter how small it is. It took a while for him to get comfortable enough to do this so easily, and you never take it for granted. He's always gentle as if you're a porcelain doll. He's never rough, never violent, not with you. Loving Daryl happened fast and strong, and it's a feeling that only grows, every passing day. “Ya wanna talk about it we'll talk about it.”

“It's just that... I-I love you. With all my heart and... It does feel like we already have this family thing going on and...” Daryl has fallen into this father role, and he's absolutely amazing with Luke. He can make him fall asleep in minutes, and you love to watch as he rocks the baby to sleep. And those moments always get your mind racing. He's already being such a good father so maybe he'd like a baby of his own... And you'd like to give him that. “...It got me thinking.”

“I love ya too, babygirl. But marriage... It would bound you with me on a whole different level.” Daryl sits up, and you follow his movement, your arms still around his neck, keeping him close. “I wanna make sure ya have the choice ta’ walk away when ya want to.”

“I won't walk away, Dixon. I love you.” He needs to be reassured of that from time to time, but you don't mind. You want to spend the rest of your life making sure Daryl knows he's loved. That he's desired and wanted. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life and if that's what you want too... You know, I'm a girlish girl, I'd like to get married someday, and honestly, if not with you then I won't marry anyone else.” Shrugging your shoulders, you look down, a shiver rolling down your spine, feeling his fingers caressing your bare thigh.

“Ya sure ya want this? With me? Are ya sure about what yer talking about?”

“I am.” You mutter in a low voice, blushing. “I am.” Repeating in a low voice, you kiss him, slowly at first, but soon enough his taste overcomes everything, and you think he feels the same since he deepens the kiss. Pulling him down again, you smile when his hand touches a ticklish spot on your side.

“Hey, you two!” Carol calls, knocking on the door. “Wake up. There's a lot to do today.”

Daryl grunts in response, not pulling away from the kiss.

But Carol is right. It'll be a long day and both you and Daryl have stuff to get ready for the party.

The day passes by quickly since you're helping everyone a little. The only thing you can't do is lift heavy stuff. Daryl forbade it, with Denise backing him up, you have no idea for how long. The party will happen at Rick's house since the living room is the biggest, and you spend hours there decorating everything. You try not to think too much about all the people who will be here tonight. You know them, you befriended them, they won't hurt you.

When it's finally time to go, you're impressed by how you feel. Happy, not scared, and actually excited. You never thought stuff like this would ever happen again. It's silly, but it keeps people sane, said Deanna. The sun is making its way to the horizon when you're getting dressed. You chose to wear a dress Daryl brought you from one of his runs. It's a light shade of blue, with thin straps and a nice cleavage in the back, reaching a few inches below the mid of your thighs. You never wear anything that will show the scar on your leg, you don't like it. Nor what it represents. You're putting on your flats when Daryl comes out of the bathroom, hair still damp, but completely dressed. He's wearing what he usually wears, always dark colors, but you don't mind. You really like it.

“Are you ready?” You ask, turning on your heels to face him. Daryl doesn't answer, eyes locked on you, lingering for so long it makes you blush. “D? Cat got your tongue?”

“Nah, it just...” He looks down at his feet before making his way over you. “Ya look beautiful, that's all.”

“Thanks.” Smiling shyly, you tiptoe to kiss him. “But I'll need a coat for when the night falls... Mind if I get one of yours?”

“Won't ya ever stop stealin’ my clothes?” Daryl fakes an annoyed tone, but it takes two seconds for his lips to break into a smile.

“Well, you stole my heart, Dixon. I'm just looking for revenge.” Winking at him, you search on the wardrobe for one of his jackets. “Now let's get going. Maggie and I baked this brownies and I'm dying for one.” Grabbing the jacket, you take his hand and leave the bedroom.

Carol is already there, so you just have to take little Luke and head out. He wants Daryl this time, so he's the one carrying him to Rick's place. As you walk there, the wind messes with your hair, and you try to keep it from your face.

“Who are the new residents, by the way?” You just remembered them. If the day wasn't so hectic, you'd ask Daryl to introduce you to them, just so you could know their faces before having to meet them at the party.

“Two men. Aaron found them starving to death a hundred miles Northwest. They're alright I guess. Since Deanna allowed them to stay.” Daryl reassures you, his free hand taking yours. “Ya ok?”

“Yeah... I'm excited, actually.” As you climb the few steps to the porch, Luke giggles, you're not sure why. “Right, little one?” Stopping by the front door, you step closer to the baby in Daryl's arm. “Are you excited too? For your party? Two months old already, you're growing up so fast.” You're still baby-talking when the door is opened, a smiley Carl gesturing for you to get in.

“C'mon, let's get ya those brownies,” Daryl says as you step inside.

It takes no time for people to come to talk to Luke, him becoming the center of attention. He throws himself on Maggie's arms, who happily welcomes him.

“(Y/N),” Rick says and you turn on your heels to talk to him. Daryl remains close, and you know why. But you feel fine, comfortable around these people. “Judith said a funny word this morning. I wonder where she learned it.” He has his hands on his hips, and you innocently shrug your shoulders.

“What word?”

“Damn it,” Daryl answers, not a hint of doubt in his voice. Rick nods, raising his eyebrow.

“Oh my gosh. Where could she have heard such a thing?” She learned it from you because that's what you exclaim almost a hundred times a day and that's not really a secret anymore. “I'm sure she said something like ‘dang it’ so I don't see how that's my fault. ‘Dang it’ it's not that bad is it?”

“Well, I think–”

“(Y/N). Daryl.” Deanna calls, and you give Rick a smirk, meaning you're happy to be saved from this conversation. Turning around, you focus on Deanna. “Come, you're the only ones who haven't met Michael and Daniel yet.”

“Ok.” You can't help but feel a little anxious to meet new people, so you grab Daryl's arm as you follow Deanna through the living room.

“Over here.” She gestures, a kind smile on her lips. “This is Daniel, and Michael, they were found–”

Her words fade when both men turn to look at you. Their faces are unmistakable, and you feel yourself sinking, skin burning, head spinning as it all comes back.

Their voices, touches, and threats. You're suddenly back there, in the darkness, starving, freezing, waiting, wishing for death to come before they did. You're in the basement where your screams used to echo. All of your wounds start hurting, pulsing, as if they were reopened, all over again.

You never got the names, but you'll never forget the faces. One of them, the you thought looked like Rick, has a smile on his lips. The same sick, wicked smile, the same he had every time he went to see you, never failing to draw some blood.

“Hi, (Y/N).” He says, in the same tone he used to. Low, dark, more animal than human.

What happens next is a blur. There's yelling, and Daryl suddenly isn't by your side anymore. He's a blur, moving towards both men, drawing punches. You're pulled back by someone, you don't know where, but you know it isn't Daryl. You know his touch by heart, and it's the only touch you want.

“Let go of me!” You yell, pushing whoever that was, sinking, falling backward until you hit a wall. You want to disappear again, to vanish from existence. With both hands covering your ears, you push yourself into the wall, hoping it'll absorb you, hide you.

“Take them. Now.”

“The trial happens tomorrow.”

“Lock those assholes up.”

“Enjoy your last night on Earth.”

The words have no meaning, they just keep echoing. The low chattering, the many footsteps... Why are you still here? Why can't you be strong for once and just run? Run where? If they're here... Where else could you go?

“Babygirl,” his low, calming voice is like a beacon, lighting up the darkness, bringing you back, pulling you into consciousness again. Into life.

Moving just a little, hands off your ears and muscles relaxing, you look at him, immediately running to his arms. “They're here. They're here, they... They found me.”

“Alright, calm down now.” He holds you tight, a hand rubbing your back. “Let's get ya outta here.”

Nodding, you offer no resistance when he picks you up. You keep your eyes closed, face hidden on the crook of his neck as you float away. It feels like the first time, when he was carrying you from the infirmary into what's now your house.

You flinch a little when you're pulled down, suddenly recognizing your bed and curling up, pulling the blankets over your head.

“How is she?”

“I don't know.” Daryl sounds angry, furious. “I'll kill them right now.”

“No, Daryl. The trial will be tomorrow. You know they'll die for what they did”

“I don't care!”

“You need to stay with her now.”

You know it's Carol, but still, you want her to go. You need everyone to go away now, you just need Daryl. You need to... Go away. Alexandria isn't safe anymore. You rather face the dead.

Silently, moved by fear, you get up, taking the dress off, and struggling with the first pair of jeans you find.

“(Y/N),” Daryl calls, but you ignore him, sight blurred by the tears as you put a shirt on. “Hey, (Y/N).” You don't know what to take... You just need to leave. These walls won't keep you safe anymore. If you stay... You know they'll find you again.

“I'm leaving.” You mumble, looking around and finding the white sneakers you left by the edge of the bed and putting them on.

“What–”

“I'm leaving! I can't stay here. If I stay here it'll happen all over again.” You're yelling, sitting on the bed, sobbing. “They're here, they'll take me again, they-they–”

“Shh, yer ok.” Daryl pulls you up, into his arms, and you melt. The sobs are muffled by this jacket, and your tears are certainly soaking the fabric. “Look at me, babygirl. Look at me.” Slowly, you raise your head, his blue eyes acting immediately, like a medicine made only for you. “There's a place I can take ya for the night. But ya need to be here tomorrow. To officialize their crime so I can kill those–”

“Take me away, please.” You beg, holding onto him as if he's the only thing keeping you sane. Alive. Because he is. “Please, if I stay here I'll–”

“Alright, alright.” He nods, a hand caressing your cheek. “Let's go then. C'mon.”

Everything happens in the background, you feel. Carol stays by your side in the porch, guiding you to the car Daryl took to drive you away. You barely feel your body now, out on the street, feeling their eyes on you... Their eyes, evil and disgusting, as they lust over you. You know they're not here, but still, you feel them. Wanting you to cave in, to agree to fulfill their needs in the most vile, degrading ways. You're hyperventilating when the gate opens, the woods before you suddenly looking far safer than these walls.

When Daryl crosses the gate, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, lungs burning. The sun is coming down, so there are a some shadows creeping in... But it's better out here. The wall will keep them inside, you hope.

“Babygirl,” Daryl says, getting your attention. “We're almost there, alright?”

“Ok.” You mumble, and Daryl puts a hand on your knee.

“Nothin’ will hurt ya. Never again. M’ gonna keep that promise.”

Holding his hand, your eyes meet his when he gives you a glance.

Around ten minutes later, Daryl stops the car. You haven't noticed before, but he parked in front of a small, wooden house. It looks like it was some kind of cabin in the woods since there are no other constructions around it. “C'mon.” He says when he opens the passenger door for you. Your legs feel a little weak, but you manage to stand up, immediately looking around. “There's nobody here, I promise ya.”

Nodding, you let him guide you inside, a flashlight on his hand. Daryl unlocks the door, and you wonder why he has the key to this thing. When you step in, the light coming from in between the planks on the windows helps you see the interior. There is a cough and a coffee table, you recognize it despite the dark plastic covering both things. Walking further in, you peak at the kitchen. Everything is clean and has a plastic placed over them. It kinda looks live someone used to live here not too long ago.

“I found this place a while ago.” Daryl starts, placing his backpack on the floor. “Was fixin’ it, cleanin’... So I could bring ya here every once in a while.” He gestures at the whole place in general, and you take another look around. He did say he'd try to find a place he could take you outside Alexandria, but you never thought it would be this good. “Still has a lot to do. Gonna put electricity, runnin’ water will be more complicated but I'll do it.”

“You're doing all that for me?” You whisper, hoping the dim light will hide your blushing cheeks.

“Yeah... Wanted to bring ya here under different circumstances but...” He takes the bag again, gesturing at the hall. “First door to the right it's our bedroom.”

Following his direction, you open the door to a small bedroom with a double bed, also covered with black plastic. The windows have wooden planks on it too, but there's enough space in between them so let some light come in.

“Here, lemme’–” Daryl drops the bag, walking over the bed and removing the plastic. Underneath, the light green sheets seem comfortable and you get it now why everything is covered up. To keep it clean. “Ya can lie down it ya want to. Brought some blankets.” As you move to the bed, Daryl searches in the bag, picking up two blankets and fixing them on the bed. “Ya hungry? Or thirsty? I brought–”

“I just need you, Daryl.” You whisper, drying off some tears that are still rolling down. “Can you come here?”

“Of course, babygirl.” Quickly, he leaves the bag behind and joins you in bed. Daryl pulls you close, you head on his chest as his arms hold you tightly, keeping you safe.

“I hope this is just a nightmare... That I'll wake up tomorrow and it'll all be gone.” Mumbling, you push yourself even closer to him, if that's even possible.

“I'll kill them myself, I swear.” There's a fire in his voice, hate. You've never heard him talking like that, his chest vibrating powerfully. “I'll wipe them off the face of Earth.”

Involuntary, your hand finds its way to your leg, to the scar. The pain is a vivid memory today, and for a moment you feel like you should lie down, as motionless as you can so it won't hurt. So the stitches won't rip again.

How is it possible that all the horrible memories came back all at once? On one second? “I-if I didn't have you, I... I'd die today, I know I would.”

“Nah, ya wouldn't.” Moving, he brings his index finger to your chin, making you look at him. “Yer stronger than ya give yourself credit for. Ya don't see it, but I do.” Then, he places a soft, sweet kiss on your lips, which is sadly, too brief. “But I will protect ya. Always, until my days are over.”

“Daryl, I–”

“I wanna marry ya.” He bursts out, his low voice burning through your head as you wonder if you heard him right. “When this is over and those monsters are dead... I wanna marry ya.”

Despite the terror, creeping through your skin, the darkness threatening to swallow you again, you smile. Everything fades away, and a different kind of happiness washes over you. A type of bliss you didn't even know existed. Unable to control yourself, you climb over him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you,” you mutter, not giving him the chance to answer, connecting your lips on his in a loving, passionate kiss.

@funeral-7 @heyyy-hey-babyyy @twdeadfanfic @soraitmnt @winchester-angel @bvbwestfall @shawtygonemad @cameronsails @pulplorrd @browneyes528 @btsiguess-kpop @a-dlv @bibibeauelle @lightning-butterfly @yttricuz

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #imagine daryl dixon #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead imagine #imagine the walking dead

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royalynx · 3 years ago

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( * 💀 / daniel ezra, cis male, he/him ) — is that kingsley shacklebolt i just saw rushing down the corridor? i hear they’re a twenty two year old gryffindor, returning for their seventh school year, but their friends would tell you that they are grounded & commanding as well as opinionated & strong-willed. if you want to know more about them, i guess i could tell you that they’re pureblood, and from what i hear, they’re currently allying with the order. when our divination professor looks into their crystal ball, they see: the calming presence in the back of the room, muggle records hidden in drawers, steaming mugs of tea, the warmth of a hug, the burn of quiet fury.

CHARACTER INSPIRATION: Luke Cage (Jessica Jones), Kingsley Shacklebolt (Books: Order of the Phoenix through Deathly Hallows), Jake Reilly (Private Practice), Terry Jeffords (Brooklyn Nine-Nine), Alphonso ‘Mack’ Mackenzie (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), Matt Simmons (Criminal Minds), Odafin Tutuola (Law and Order: SVU), Spencer James (All American).

TRIGGER WARNINGS: ???

LINKS: Pinterest (Coming Soon). Playlist (Coming Soon).

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒

I N T R O

full name ➵ Kingsley Akiel Shacklebolt

nicknames ➵ King; Kings; Kas; Shack; Shacklebolt; Royal

pronouns ➵ he/him/his

orientation ➵ bisexual biromantic

birthdate / age ➵ May 8th, 1957, 15:32 am / 22 years old

birthplace ➵ Birmingham, England

childhood home ➵ Birmingham, England

current residence ➵ Hogwarts, Scotland

religion ➵ atheist

occupation ➵ full - time student at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry

P H Y S I C A L

height ➵ 5 feet, 10 1/2 inches / 179 cm

weight ➵ 78 kg / 171lb

body type ➵ mesomorph ( athletic; generally hard body; well defined muscles; rectangular shaped body; strong; gains muscle easily; gains fat easily )

hair ➵ black, shaved/cropped

eye color ➵ dark brown

dominant hand ➵ ambidextrous

FC ➵ Daniel Ezra

voice ➵ Daniel Ezra

special characteristics ➵

tattoo of a lion on the back of his neck that roars when danger is near

acne scars on cheeks

perfect posture

smells of ➵

broom wax

toothpaste

lavender, anise, basil, bergamot and lemon; geranium, ylang-ylang and jasmine; oakmoss, vetiver, tonka bean, patchouli, vanilla and sandalwood - Brut by Faberge

E M O T I O N A L

zodiac ➵ taurus sun (x); virgo rising; virgo moon

MBTI ➵ ISTJ (“The Logistician”)

positive traits ➵ grounded; commanding; courageous; considerate; observant; dedicated; forbearing to an almost mind-boggling degree; put-together; knowledgeable; self-reliant.

neutral traits ➵ fearless; calming; stolid; diplomatic; paternalistic.

negative traits ➵ opinionated; strong-willed; quiet; stubborn; high-minded; aloof to some; reticent; stoic; overcritical; has very high expectations of himself & others.

likes ➵ playing Quidditch; freshly baked bread; playing Gobstones at 3am; a warm bed; muggle record players; purple; watching the sea; forehead kisses; DADA; organized notes; wearing rings; honeycakes; David Bowie; dragonhide boots; chocolate frogs; firedrakes; Charms; Firewhiskey; watching the fire in the Gryffindor common room; twenty; red wine; laughing with Frank and Alastor; Transfiguration; The Beatles; his sister

dislikes ➵ legilimency; bigotry; raisins in chocolate; Divination; messy desks; foggy London; Sacred 28; people flaking on him; his team losing Quidditch matches; pumpkin juice; using school brooms; sushi; magic quills; pixies; History of Magic; the treatment of squibs by wizarding society; muddy orange; gigglewater; the texture of mushrooms; feeling unsettled; licorice; rollercoasters; toads; the word mudblood; Turkish delight

amortentia ➵

freshly cut grass

roast chicken dinner

aftershave

sandalwood

M A G I C

blood status ➵ pureblood

wand ➵ Alder wood with cherry trailed over the front like the path of a river, or a lightning bolt, White River Monster spine core, 14 and a 1/4 inches, solid

whilst Alder makes for an unyielding wood, its ideal owner is not stubborn or obstinate, but often helpful, considerate and most likeable. Whereas most wand woods seek similarity in the characters of those they will best serve, alder is unusual in that it seems to desire a nature that is, if not precisely opposite to its own, then certainly of a markedly different type. When an alder wand is happily placed, it becomes a magnificent, loyal helpmate. Of all wand types, alder is best suited to non-verbal spell work, whence comes its reputation for being suitable only for the most advanced witches and wizards. (Cherry, a very rare wand wood creates a wand of strange power, most highly prized by the wizarding students of the school of Mahoutokoro in Japan, where those who own cherry wands have special prestige. The Western wand-purchaser should dispel from their minds any notion that the pink blossom of the living tree makes for a frivolous or merely ornamental wand, for cherry wood often makes a wand that possesses truly lethal power, whatever the core, but if teamed with dragon heartstring, the wand ought never to be teamed with a wizard without exceptional self-control and strength of mind.) The use of a White River Monster spine produced spells of force and elegance.

patronus ➵ Lynx

E D U C A T I O N

Hogwarts class ➵ Gryffindor, 1981

extracurriculars ➵

Gryffindor Prefect / September 1980 - June 1981

Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team / September 1979 - June 1981

Gryffindor Chaser / October 1975 - June 1981

Charms Club / September 1975 - June 1981

Toothill Duelling Club / September 1978 - June 1981

Slug Club / December 1977 - June 1981

courses & exams ➵

Ancient Runes - O

Charms - O

Defense Against the Dark Arts - O

Herbology - O

Arithmancy - O

Muggle Studies - O

Potions - O

Transfiguration - O

Care of Magical Creatures - O

now studying Alchemy ( predicted an O )

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

health ➵

strawberry allergy

pets ➵

Archimedes; the family owl ( great horned owl )

handwriting ➵ Sebastian Bobby

F A M I L Y

Ora Shacklebolt (nee Kayoude) ➵ paternal grandmother; socialite; alive

Kingsley Shacklebolt I ➵ grandfather; Wizengamot member; alive

Yara Audley (nee Idowu) ➵ maternal grandmother; homeschooled; apothecary worker; alive

Akiel Audley ➵ maternal grandfather; homeschooled; Quidditch supply store owner; alive

Alaric Shacklebolt I ➵ father; Gryffindor; Senior Auror for the DMLE; alive

Meera Shacklebolt ➵ mother; homeschooled (opted out of attending Ilvermorny / Hogwarts); apothecary worker; alive

Eralia Audley ➵ maternal aunt; homeschooled; Senior Assistant to the Jamaican Minister of Magic; alive

Gabrielle Shacklebolt ➵ paternal aunt; Hufflepuff; Ministry employee; alive

Edward Shacklebolt (took wife’s name) ➵ paternal uncle; Hufflepuff; job; alive

Khenan Shacklebolt ➵ paternal uncle; Ravenclaw; curse breaker for Gringotts; alive

Kingsley Akiel Shacklebolt (II) ➵ self; Gryffindor; Future Senior Auror for the DMLE; alive

Bianca Omnira Shacklebolt ➵ sister; fifth year Ravenclaw; unknown future; alive

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌

his parents used to say he was born for diplomacy. that’s what they’d drilled into him since he was born: fight the good fight, be honest and good and stay calm, always. they can only catch you off guard when you aren’t. he’d always been somewhat of a natural diplomat — the oldest child, expectations hung from his shoulders as if they were coats and he, a coat rack. he’d always been a quiet child, somewhat unassuming, almost shy, content to play and be alone, often found even as a baby, simply amusing himself with his fist over crying, wailing for attention. when they attended the galas and balls befitting of a family part of the sacred 28, little changed. in fact, he was praised for it — how level-headed he was, even when all he wanted to do was scream and shout and set fire to the curtains by the window to stop them yammering on about the importance of blood purity and their precious, precious privilege, how he smiled politely and shook hands and never, ever made a scene. he hated them. he hated every last one of them. their fake smiles and empty eyes, how they hated for no reason and believed themselves to be superior — a kernel of a fallacy that kingsley, even as a child, could never subscribe to.

but kingsley was nothing if not a good man, and a good son, and so, he stayed silent — at least, to everyone who never crossed the boundaries of their home. to them, kingsley was a young wizard who showed particular promise in their circle, but to those who saw him at home, his internal torture over it was obvious. he had muggle neighbours, even muggle friends, people who made him laugh and gave his parents presents when his beloved baby sister was born, and he could not abide the dual life his parents were living. when they were home, they were tolerant — amused, even, by the muggles they surrounded themselves with, something his mother always said was to keep them grounded, because she’d already lost one sibling to pureblood mania and refused to lose herself, or her husband, or either of her children. when they were at the galas, they were cold, a little aloof, they laughed along with jokes at muggles expenses, they shook hands, ate appetisers, danced and never seemed to show any remorse for the roles they had to play those nights, though he knew they had to feel guilty (he hoped they felt guilty.) he knew they felt they had to do it to survive — to thrive, even, in a world in which they weren’t always welcome, but he hates it.

he loves his family. kingsley loves them with every part of him, loves his younger sister with his entire heart, is never not seen at home without her practically hanging off his ankles, and then his knees, and then his hips, until she’s too tall and too old for that, he loves his mother and relishes her hugs and the way she always knows what to say to make him feel better, he loves his father and that deep, slow river of calm that seems to run through him, the same river kingsley has always felt took root in him, but he hates their legacy. he hates their part in the sacred twenty eight. he hates every part of it. he hates that they agreed to this — to what feels like a mortal lock, an unbreakable vow, tying themselves to this until the end of time. he hates that he understands why — their blood runs pure, he knows, in other wizards standards, but knowing what the sacred twenty eight stands for? what it really represents? kingsley thinks that their blood is the blood that’s dirty, that they’re the ones who ought to be ashamed of themselves for their existence, that they’re the ones who value opulence and power over people’s lives and that makes them wrong and evil and undeserving of their magic. it’s the first time — the only time — his parents have ever seen him truly angry — he remembers it well, being fourteen and all uncontrolled fury for the first time, how the quiet anger had burned and swelled under his skin until he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and how he’d made all the glass windows in the dining room shatter, the glass raining like sand when his father waved it away with a swish of his wand, kingsley’s chest heaving as he yells, raging against their indifference, feeling oddly soothed when his mother pulls him into his arms and whispers that she’s sorry. she’s sorry. she knows, she knows. he wishes that were enough — that apology, that acknowledgement that they were — are — hypocrites.

even still, his love for his family, flaws and all, remains, though he’s slowly pulled back from any engagement with the pureblood world over the years. he’s very proud to be his father’s son — the son of an auror, recipient of the order of merlin second class — and his mother’s. he’s proud to be his sister’s big brother, her protector. he’s even more proud when he gets his letter to hogwarts, confirming what they all already knew — magic is strong in the shacklebolt family. he picks up the family wand, purchased in america in the early 1920s — alder with cherry trailed over the front like the path of a river, or a lightning bolt, white river monster spine core, fourteen and a quarter inches, solid — and he feels a piece of himself slots firmly into place. hogwarts is where his father went, where his father’s father went (over ilvermorny), and though he can no longer pretend to be complacent to their every whim in regards to the sacred twenty eight (something which both his parents have since begun to shun), he knows getting sorted into gryffindor would make them both proud, and that’s what he wants, so that’s what be did — the bat barely touched his head before declaring him a gryffindor. even now, as a twenty two year old seventh year on the brink of graduating into a fully fledged war, he wants to make them proud. he wants to be a pillar of strength, safety, tolerance, love, support, he wants to be the friendly face ushering people to safety, he wants to be the one raining hellfire down on the prejudiced idiots who think that they’re any different to anyone else, with magic or without, on this planet, that they’re superior in any way because of their blood.

#revelio.intro #kingsley;#i hate this graphic #but i am not remaking it bc it took me 50 years to find an image #skdjfnsdkfjnsdf

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