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thebadgerclan · 4 years ago

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SFW Alphabet: Kaz Brekker

Requested by Anonymous

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

With his fear of touch, it takes Kaz a while to be comfortable with physical affection, but he slowly gets there. It starts slowly, with him holding your hand with his gloves on, putting an arm around your shoulders and waist, then holding your hand without the gloves, kissing your forehead, cheeks, and eventually your lips. After a few months of working through his fear, he’s open to holding you for longer periods of time. Kaz wants so badly to be physically affectionate with you, but with his phobia, it’s slow going, but he does get there

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Kaz doesn’t really do “friends”, more like allies. But to have him as an ally, someone you knew you can rely on, that carries a lot of weight in the Barrell. If you ever find yourself in a tight spot, you know you can call on Kaz for help, and he’ll be there, usually with a few other members of the Dregs

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Like I said in A, physical affection is something that you and Kaz have to work towards. But once he’s comfortable with cuddling, it easily becomes one of his favorite things. He likes to spoon you, his arms around your waist, nose buried in your hair, legs entwined. Kaz also likes it when you lay facing him, your head buried in his chest, his hands rubbing your back. He might not admit it, but on bad days, whether with his leg or his phobia, he loved being the little spoon, letting you hold him close and shut out the outside world

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Kaz does want to settle down, but with the Dregs, it’s not really a possibility. So you settle for sharing a room and spending every night in each other’s arms. But you do talk about what your future will be like when Kaz eventually gets a big payout from a job: a mansion, fancy clothes, a massive diamond ring (that’s Kaz’s addition). He cooks well enough to keep himself alive, but to be honest, he’s not the best

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) I feel like he’d be really cold and practical about it, but he’d cry when he’s alone. “This isn’t working, Y/N,” he says. “We can’t be together and work together, pick one.” Once he’s alone in his room at the Slat, he breaks down, knowing he just lost the only good thing in his life since Jordie

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Kaz fully intends to marry you, once he has enough money for a proper ceremony, one that meets every single one of the dreams you’ve had since childhood. He gets you a simple ring, a small diamond on a silver band, and asks you to marry him. It’s a simple proposal, but it’s romantic all the same. “Y/N, darling, I love you more than anything else in this world. Marry me, please, my love, make me your husband.” He proposes after 2ish years of dating, well after he’s gotten over his fear of touch (with you at least)

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Kaz has a reputation for being ruthless and violent, but with you, he’s sweet, tender, and unbelievably gentle. Once again, once he’s over his phobia, his touch is always gentle and tender. He never raises his voice at you, he never even thinks about hurting you. You are his treasure, worth more than any amount of money (and when I say “over his phobia”, I mean he’s comfortable with touching you, I know that he has deep seated trauma that will never go away. But, in my opinion, Kaz is able to work through his trauma and work towards being able to touch his girl),

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Again, after working through his phobia, Kaz LOVES hugs. Your arms are a sanctuary, a place where he can ignore the hustle and bustle of Ketterdam, work from the Crow Club and the Dregs, and anything that’s bothering him. He’ll often come up to you and pull you into his arms, chin resting atop your head. His hugs are warm and safe, you know that when you’re in his arms, nothing can hurt you

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

After about 8 months, Kaz is at the point that he’s able to hold your hand without his gloves. You’d been so patient and understanding with him, and he took your hand, risking pressing a kiss to the back of it (something else he’d recently become comfortable with was kissing your cheek and forehead). “Thank you for being so patient with me, Y/N, I love you so much. My girl, I love you.”

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Kaz gets jealous very easily. If anyone gets too close to you, he’s on edge. Even if it’s Jesper, who has little to no interest in any female, Kaz still is jealous. He comes to your side, either taking your hand, putting an arm around your shoulders, or pulling you flush against him (depending on where he’s at in terms of working through his trauma)

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Tentative at first, when kissing is new to him. Light, short pecks on your forehead and cheeks, before progressing to your lips. Then they linger for a few seconds, mainly on your lips, and eventually, he gets to the point where he wants to kiss you every waking second, lips on yours until he nearly passes out. Once he’s really comfortable with kissing, his kisses are passionate, the love he has for you palpable in the inches between you. Kaz likes to kiss you basically everywhere: forehead, cheek, nose, lips, neck, other intimate areas ;D. He likes to be kissed on the cheek, jaw, neck, lips (duh), and his hands. You’re one of very few people who get to see and touch his hands, so having you kiss them makes his heart flutter

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Honestly, he hates them. I mean, remember what he said to that little girl in Crooked Kingdom? He just doesn’t like them, there’s not much room to elaborate on that.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Most mornings, you wake to Kaz’s lips against your temple, his arms around your middle. “Good morning, my love.” He is loath to get out of bed in the mornings and leave your embrace, but he’s got a club to run. Even so, he’ll spend an extra 20 minutes or so just holding you, soaking in your love and presence (This is all after he’s comfortable w/ touch, btw)

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

(Same as above, after Kaz is comfortable w/ touch) Kaz tends to work late, so most nights, you have to drag him to bed. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, kissing his neck. “Come to bed, Kaz. It’s late.” He’ll sigh, moan about how much work he has to do, but he;ll let you herd him into bed

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

A loooooooooong time, both in regards to physical touch and the trauma he’s been through. You know that he’s been through a lot, and you don’t push him, because you know that Kaz will tell you when he’s ready. And sure enough, he does. Slowly, he tells you about Jordie, the plague, how Rollins swindled him, everything about his past. Time is your best friend in a relationship with Kaz

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

In general, fairly fast, but with you, he’s hardly angry. On a job, Kaz can’t afford to be too patient, when he needs something, he needs it now, and he’s not afraid to do whatever he needs to get it. But you’re a different story, with you, Kaz has endless patience. He might snap at you at the start of your relationship, but he always apologizes immediately afterwards. Love is new to him, so he needs you to be patient as well.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?) Kaz has the memory of an elephant, he has to with the jobs he does, So he remembers every single thing you tell him, important or not.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Cliche, but the first time he kissed you. Kaz was finally comfortable enough with that level of intimacy, and he’d removed his gloves, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you, a long, sweet, lingering kiss. He cried, but they were happy tears.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

You’re dating the Bastard of the Barrell, Kaz is insanely protective of you. Whenever you go somewhere without Kaz, he has a few members of the Dregs trail you, at a distance, just to make sure that if something happens, you’re protected. But if he can, Kaz goes everywhere with you, you on his arm, glaring at anyone who might dare cross you, as if to say “Hands off, she’s mine”

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Kaz leads a busy life, so proper dates don’t happen all that often. But when they do, Kaz goes all out, he books a reservation at the best restaurant in Ketterdam, roses, expensive wine, the works. Other date type things are like a private dinner in his office and simple gifts, like candy and things you’ve mentioned you want

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

It’s not a bad habit, but it’s definitely an obstacle in a relationship: his haphephobia. He can be a little rough around the edges, and he’s pretty resistant to the idea of a relationship until he realizes how hard he’s fallen for you

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Kaz is always dressed and groomed immaculately. A fitted three piece suit, his hair slicked back, fedora, leather gloves, shoes shined to a mirror gleam. He takes pride in his appearance, he came from nothing, and he’s built a little empire for himself, and he’s damn proud of it

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

At first he thinks he wouldn’t, but then there’s a job that goes south, and you get hurt, and I’m talking badly hurt. Life-threateningly bad. Nina patches you up in seconds, but you’re unconscious and weak for a few days. Kaz doesn’t leave your side once, his hand clutching yours. “Please, Y/N,” he begs to your sleeping form. “Please be alright. I can’t live without you. I love you, Y/N, I love you so much. Please, wake up, my love.”

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

On your 9 month anniversary, Kaz got a third tattoo. Above the crow and cup, next to the capital R, now resides your initials

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Kaz cannot be with someone who doesn’t respect his boundaries. If you take his hand without thinking before he’s alright with it, but release it immediately and apologize, he’s shaken but alright. But if you do it and don’t let go or don’t apologize, it’s a massive dealbreaker

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Kaz has trouble sleeping in storms, the rain reminds him of the tide on the Reaper’s Barge. But cuddle him and he’s out like a light

#kaz brekker x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction #kaz brekker x you #shadow and bone reader insert

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hrina · 4 years ago

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1923, Pt. I - The Day

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: PG (for now) WORD COUNT: 7k REQUESTED: nope

hi everyone! here is PART 1 of my historical AU featuring harry as a groundskeeper/farmhand (i know that those two professions are slightly different but just let me have this ok snfjsjfnsdsf)

warning: parts of this fic will contain mature language and nsfw content. if it makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! take care of urselves <3

this series will be composed of three parts altogether, so i hope u all enjoy this first one! as always, please reblog the fics that you like! and don’t hesitate to send in feedback, i promise that we, as writers, always love to witness your reactions :) anywayyyy now that we’ve covered all the bases, go stupid with 1920s harry! can’t wait to hear ur thoughts 💌💌💌

~*~

July 5th, 1923

“What if he comes back with a beard that goes all the way down to his knees?”

You snort and shake your head. “He’s only been gone for a few months, Dee. I don’t think it’s possible for one’s whiskers to grow that quickly.”

Lydia shrugs, toying with the hem of her pale blue dress. “What if he met an evil witch in New York who cast a spell on him? And now he’s doomed to live out the rest of his life with horrifying facial hair!”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. I don’t think that there are any witches in New York, you want to say, but you keep your mouth shut. Believing in magic is an integral part of childhood—you don’t want to be the one who takes that away from her. Soon enough, she’ll figure it out for herself.

You wind an elastic around your fingers, securing the end of her braid so that it doesn’t unravel. “That’s one,” you say, sighing quietly. “Turn to the side so that I can start on the other.”

She obeys, angling her head to the left. You gather her dark curls in a loose fist, skimming your nails against her scalp to collect every last strand.

Her hair has grown hot, absorbing the heat of the sun. It’s a beautiful day—there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. The two of you are sitting on the front steps of your home, looking out over the paved circular driveway and waiting excitedly for Andrew’s car to pull up to the iron gate. Realistically, you know that he won’t be here for at least another few hours, but Lydia insisted that you unwind outside to pass the time.

Somehow, she persuaded you to fashion her hair into twin braids. And though you had groaned at the initial request, here you are.

“He’s bringing a friend, you know,” your sister suddenly pipes up. “He told me in his letter.”

“Oh, really,” you say wryly. “And who exactly is this friend of his?”

“Martin Russell,” Lydia says, as though she’s reciting lines for a play. “He graduated from Harvard and then built his own company with nothing but a nickel to his name. Drew says that they’re trying to merge and become an empire.”

“An empire,” you echo, humouring her. “That sounds awfully intimidating, don’t you think?”

“Not to me,” she boasts, lacing her fingers together in her lap and squaring her shoulders. “Drew told me that I’m a businesswoman in the making.”

“That, you are,” you agree. You tie your remaining elastic around her second braid, fastening it in place. “All done.”

Lydia jumps to her feet, tugging down the material of her dress and turning to face you. She strikes a pose, placing one hand on her waist and lifting the other above her head. “How do I look?”

“Stunning,” you say, smiling up at her softly. “You’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.”

At that, she frowns.

“I’m not little!” she protests, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m thirteen and a half!”

“That’s little,” you say, laughing quietly. “Trust me. Once you get to my age, you’ll understand.”

“I’d rather be little than ancient,” she shoots back, sticking her tongue out good-naturedly. You scoff, bringing your fingers up to your forehead so that you can shield your eyes from the sun.

“Twenty-three is not ancient!” you say, baffled.

Lydia just giggles, twirling around a few times and watching the skirt of her dress fan out handsomely. Once she looks up, however, she freezes in her tracks. Your eyebrows knit together as she extends her arm in a frantic wave.

“Hi, Harry!”

You stiffen, reflexively following her gaze.

Harry is about thirty feet from the steps, crossing the driveway with a heavy bag of soil slung over his shoulder. In his other hand, he’s carrying a bucket filled with rusted gardening tools. You had been so caught up in your conversation with your sister that you failed to notice him. He’s making his way toward the pretty garden that separates the entry and exit of the driveway, tucked between the two strips of road and outlined with smooth grey stones.

You swallow forcefully when he pauses at the sound of Lydia’s voice. He turns, and you get a full view of his broad chest, tanned skin peeking out from underneath his white shirt. Brown trousers cover his legs, held up by matching suspenders. His black boots are speckled with dried mud—you guess that he’s just come from the stables in the back.

Upon catching sight of your sister, he smiles and begins to walk over. You shift quickly, trying to focus on something—anything—else.

“Good afternoon, little bug.” Harry’s tone is deep, slow, rough. It sends a shiver down your spine. “You alright?”

“Very much so,” Lydia replies, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Harry, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” he replies.

Your sister glances over at you, her brows arched high on her forehead. “He’s practically primeval.”

“Dee!” Her name leaves your lips as an admonishment, but you can’t stifle your laugh.

She just giggles and turns back to Harry; he’s smirking slightly, watching your interaction unfold. “Are you going to be planting more roses?” Lydia asks, changing the subject.

“Yes.” He nods. He sets the bucket down and uses his free hand to realign the bag of soil on his shoulder. “Would you like to help?”

Lydia spins around to face you, her eyes wide and pleading. “Can I? Pretty please?”

“You’re supposed to take Artemis out for a ride,” you tell her, pursing your lips. “You know how antsy she gets when she’s cooped up all day.”

“Can’t you take her out?” Lydia asks, clasping her fingers together and bringing them up to her chest.

“Dee,” you start, shaking your head, “you know I don’t—I couldn’t possibly—”

“Harry,” she says suddenly, glancing down at him from over her shoulder. “Have you been in the stables today? Did you see Artemis?”

Harry hums dutifully. His eyes fall to you—you look away.

“And did she seem anxious at all?” Lydia presses expectantly, placing her hands on her hips.

He hesitates. “Well…no. But if you need to take her out, please do. I’m perfectly capable of planting by myself.”

“Nonsense,” she says, waving away his words. She turns back to you, jutting her bottom lip out into an imploring pout. “Can’t you ask someone else to do it? What about Penelope? Or Beth?”

“Beth’s preparing lunch,” you say, scoffing quietly. “Besides, she refuses to work in a messy environment. What makes you think that she’ll willingly go down to the stables, of all places?”

Lydia frowns, blowing out an annoyed sigh.

“Fine,” she acquiesces at last, rolling her eyes. She spins around, hopping down the remaining steps and fixing Harry with an accusatory glare. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes! Don’t you dare start without me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, little bug,” he replies, his lips twitching. You watch as Lydia takes off, her braids whipping in the wind as she sprints toward the side of the house. Once she disappears around the corner and out of your sight, you press your palms to your face, sighing loudly.

“She’s too much,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. Harry chuckles quietly from the bottom of the stairs; you freeze suddenly, remembering that he’s still there.

“I should—” You clear your throat, climbing to your feet. The light material of your dress tickles the skin just below your knees. “I should probably go. There’s still so much to do before Drew returns.”

You’re lying, of course. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m sure there is.” Harry nods, running his fingers through his hair. The dark strands curl beautifully behind his ears. You allow yourself to study them for only a moment before diverting your gaze up to the sky.

“It’s hot—are you thirsty?” you ask, squinted eyes trained on miles of cerulean blue. “I can get Beth to bring you some water, if you’d like.”

“That’d be lovely,” he says. “Thank you.”

You simply hum in response. Your hands are abnormally clammy when you wipe them across the thin petticoat covering your thighs.

“Right,” you say, chancing a glance back down at him. “Well…have a nice day.”

“You too, miss.”

You pause, fiddling with the satin bow tied at the small of your back. “You—you don’t have to call me that, Harry,” you remind him, shaking your head. “How many times must I tell you?”

“My apologies,” he says, shrugging. “Force of habit.”

“It’s alright,” you say, intent on avoiding his gaze. “It just—it makes me feel as though I’m your—your—”

You break off, uncertain of how to proceed. Thankfully, though, Harry seems to understand. He chuckles softly, bowing his chin in agreement. “I know.”

Embarrassment festers in your chest, creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks. You straighten, swallowing down the hard lump in your throat and retreating toward the door. “Lydia will be back soon, I’m sure. Good day.”

When Harry lifts his head again, his green eyes teem with an emotion that is somehow unrecognizable yet familiar all at once. The gruff timbre of his response makes your stomach churn nervously, flipping your breakfast of fresh fruits and toast. You hate it more than anything else in the world.

You don’t hate him, though.

No…you could never hate him.

“Good day, miss. Ah, I mean—” His face collapses into a grimace. He grunts at the thoughtless error, shaking his head. “—good day.”

~*~

It’s just past three in the afternoon when a car horn honks from outside. Lydia’s shrill squeal of excitement follows soon thereafter.

“Drew!” she cries. She rushes into the front foyer, white shoes squeaking against the polished floor. The bottom of her dress is dotted with faded spots of mud, a testament to her time spent in the garden earlier today.

“Dee,” you scold her, frowning. “I told you to change once you had finished planting.”

“Sorry!” she says, though her tone suggests that she isn’t sorry at all—not in the slightest. “Got distracted!”

She grabs your hand, and you yelp when she gives a mighty tug, towing you outside. You dust off the skirt of your dress, tucking your hair behind your ears and staring at the iron gate in the distance—it’s closing back up, metal spines glinting alluringly in the sunlight. On one side of the driveway, a bright red car rolls along the pavement, tires bumping merrily against the ground. Two silhouettes sit in the front; the man behind the wheel honks the horn again and extends his arm through the window, sweeping it upward in a triumphant greeting.

“Drew!” Lydia repeats. She charges down the front steps, her hands outstretched.

“Be careful!” you call after her, gnawing anxiously on your bottom lip.

The sun is still high in the sky. You crane your neck, surveying your surroundings. Heat rises from the driveway in murky waves, blurring the scenery. The large portico that spans nearly the entire width of your home is lined with bushels of potted plants—roses and peonies and daffodils. The lawn is bright and healthy, spearmint-green grass trimmed to perfection.

Something shifts in the periphery of your vision. Your head snaps to the left.

Harry is there, leaning against the corner of the house. He’s still sporting the same outfit as before, except it’s even more sullied, now. You’re not surprised. Gardening is grubby work, but gardening with Lydia…it’s a miracle that he’s not caked in mud, soiled from head to toe.

On cue, Harry reaches for a dirty rag dangling over his shoulder. He grasps the material with strong fingers, lifting it to his face and wiping down his forehead and his cheeks. You watch him closely, fascinated by the thin sheen of sweat sparkling on his skin.

As though sensing your stare, his eyes dart over, locking squarely with yours.

A soft gasp falls from your lips. You clench your jaw, incontrovertibly caught, and quickly look away.

As soon as Andrew steps out of the car, Lydia launches herself into his arms. He laughs gleefully, catching her with ease and spinning her around. He’s dressed in a cream-coloured suit, the collar of his periwinkle button-up peeking out beneath the lapels. His loafers are shiny and brown; a matching hat is perched atop his head, hiding his dark hair from view. The cap makes his ears stick out even more than usual—upon realising this, you smile.

“Look at how much you’ve grown!” Andrew grunts, setting Lydia back down on the ground. He puts his hand next to her shoulder, as though measuring her against an invisible wall. “The last time I saw you, I could’ve sworn you were only this tall.”

She beams before standing on her tiptoes and poking at his chest. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be gone for so long next time!”

“Touché,” he chuckles, nodding in assent. His fingers find the ends of her braids, fiddling with them absentmindedly. “And who’s responsible for these pretty things, hm?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question,” you interject, making your way down the steps.

Andrew looks up at you and grins widely. You hold out your arms as you approach, and he accepts your invitation with a happy call of your name. He’s tall—a few inches over six feet, if you had to guess. You hug him tightly, burying your face into his shoulder and flattening your palms against his back.

“You look very handsome,” you tell him when you break apart. “I like this colour on you.”

He laughs sheepishly, scratching the nape of his neck. “Do you? I was on the fence about it, truthfully.”

“You shouldn’t have been—it looks good,” you assure him, smoothing your knuckles over his collar. “What took you so long? You’re late.”

“Stopped off at the cemetery to visit mum and dad,” he explains. “Changed their flowers, too—calla lilies, this time.”

You nod grimly, pursing your lips. “Mum’s favourite. Excellent choice.”

One of the car’s doors slams shut; the noise pulls your attention away from your brother. You peer past him, eyes landing on the man who has just exited the passenger side of the vehicle. His skin is a fair shade of olive, complimented beautifully by the beige jacket slung over his shoulders. Checkered brown pants cover his legs, and he’s clutching a sturdy briefcase in one hand. Andrew retreats, keeping a palm on the small of your back as he leads you over to his companion.

“Girls,” he says, tipping his cap, “this is my business partner, Martin Russell. Martin, these are my sisters.”

Martin bows his head. “Lovely to meet you both.”

“Are you tired, Mister Russell?” you ask. “It’s been a long journey, I’m sure.”

“I’m quite alright, miss, thank you,” he replies.

You don’t miss the way his amber eyes trail along your figure as he straightens up. You step back before you even have the chance to register what you’re doing.

“Hello!” Lydia—much to your relief—butts in, grabbing Martin’s hand and shaking it frantically. “I’m Lydia. Say, how would you describe your time at Harvard? Did you enjoy it? Was it a lot of work?”

Martin chuckles nervously, taken aback by your sister’s blathering. “Er,” he starts, “I—”

“Dee,” Andrew says, snickering quietly. “At least let the man get settled in before you begin interrogating him.”

“Sorry,” Lydia mumbles, shrinking away.

“That’s alright,” Andrew says, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have plenty of time to chat with him over dinner tonight, won’t you? Is it true that Beth is preparing my favourite?”

Your sister beams and nods. “I asked her to!”

“That’s very kind of you.” Andrew smiles. He looks up at the house, his forlorn gaze running over the plethora of pale bricks and clear windows. Abruptly, he pauses, squinting and lifting his fingers to shield his face from the sun. “Is that…?”

Your blood runs cold.

Andrew raises an arm high above his head. “Harry!”

And suddenly, staring down at the ground becomes your most pressing concern of the day. Harry makes his way over, a mountain of handsome grime. It’s unfair, really, you think. How does he manage to look so fetching, even beneath a thin layer of soot?

“How have you been?” Andrew asks, surging forward and shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Harry replies, grinning. “I’ve been alright. Keeping the garden tame, keeping the stables clean.” He tosses a pointed look in Lydia’s direction. “Keeping this little bug out of trouble.”

“Hey!” she protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

Harry just chuckles.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Andrew says, nodding in satisfaction. “It’s nice knowing that there’s still a man around the house to take care of these two.”

You bristle at his words, scowling in mock-offense. “We are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

“I know.” Your brother shoots you a mischievous wink, and only then do you realise that he’s merely trying to get a rise out of you. You roll your eyes, though you can’t quell the fond smile that creeps onto your face.

“Let’s go in,” you suggest. “You can say hello to the rest of the staff, and then we can all wash up before dinner.”

Andrew hums in agreement. He tilts his head to the side, attention fixed almost exclusively on Harry. “You should come, H,” he says swiftly. “It’s been too long; we need to catch up.”

“Drew—” Your shoulders tense, and your nostrils flare. “I don’t think—”

“I’d love to,” Harry interrupts. He hooks his thumbs beneath the straps of his suspenders. “Thank you for the invite, Drew.”

“Of course.” Your brother nods before turning back to Lydia and Martin. “Shall we, then?”

The three of them push between you and Harry, climbing up the steps and disappearing through the front door. Inside, your sister unleashes a stream of fleeting questions: What’s it like in New York? Are the people nice? How was the food? Did you see the Statue of Liberty?

Gradually, her inquiries fade away. You stand there, chest inflated with a held breath and fingers fidgeting anxiously with the skirt of your dress. The sun beats down against the crown of your head, triggering a mild fit of dizziness.

Or maybe that’s just Harry.

“So…,” he begins, blowing out an awkward sigh. “What shall we be eating tonight?”

You scoff, unable to help yourself. “You accepted the offer without knowing exactly what it was?”

“Should I know?”

You swallow heavily, pinning your gaze on the scarlet vehicle still parked only a few feet away. “Minestrone,” you say. The word is clipped. “Drew loves it.”

“I’ve had it,” he tells you. “Beth always saves me a bit if there’s some left over.”

You nod wordlessly.

“Are you upset with me?” Harry asks, digging his hands into his pockets. You’re so taken aback by his question that your head snaps toward him, brows cinched together in confusion.

“What?” The question falls from your lips before you can blink. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“You won’t even look at me,” he hums, shrugging casually.

“I’m looking at you right now.”

“Not before, you weren’t.”

“I—” you break off, pursing your lips and squeezing your eyes shut. You pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers, trying to keep yourself composed. “I have to go.”

“As do I.”

“Right.” You avoid his gaze. “Goodbye, then.” You whip around, hurrying up the steps.

“Goodbye,” Harry replies from behind you. The smile in his voice is painfully conspicuous. “See you at dinner.”

~*~

You’ve just pinned a final clip into your hair when Lydia comes barrelling through your bedroom door with no warning whatsoever. You’ve long since given up on reprimanding her for it. She always forgets to knock.

“Can you button me up?” she requests, spinning around and exposing her bare back.

“Did you run down the hall like that?” you ask, laughing at her eccentricity.

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. “But don’t worry—I made sure that the coast was clear.”

“Brilliant. Your reconnaissance skills are truly a sight to behold.”

She scoffs, smiling at you from over her shoulder. “Are you going to help me, or not?”

“Patience, Dee,” you say. You turn back to your own reflection, twirling your finger through a loose strand of hair and letting it fall picturesquely against your temple. “There.”

Her feet scuffle absentmindedly against the floor as you approach her. She’s wearing a pastel pink dress with short, puffy sleeves that cinch at her skinny biceps. The bottom hem of her petticoat tickles her knees, which strain against transparent white tights. You remember wearing something nearly identical when you were her age. The outfit isn’t a hand-me-down, though. The stitching is brand-new, and the fabric is crisp and fresh, like it’s never once seen the inside of a washtub.

“It’s nice having Drew back home, wouldn’t you agree?” you ask your sister. She squeals when the nail of your index finger ghosts playfully up her spine.

“It is,” she concurs as you begin to fasten the clasps at the small of her back. “I’ve missed him terribly.”

“So have I,” you hum, pressing your mouth into a thin line. “There are some things that I could do without, though. Like that comment he made about us not being able to take care of ourselves.”

“He was only teasing,” Lydia says. “You know that. Besides—” She shrugs, puckering her lips idly. “—he was right. Harry does take care of us, even though we may not always need it.”

At that, you pause.

“‘Harry takes care of us’?” you parrot, your brows knitting together. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” she starts, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Who trims the lawn and tends to the flowers early in the morning? And who cleans out the stables when they get messy?”

“We pay him to do those things, Dee,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “It’s his job.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she agrees. “But he does so much more, don’t you think?”

You say nothing. She takes your silence as an invitation to elaborate.

“For example,” she says—declares, “he never gets irritated with me whenever I prattle on about my day.”

“Oh.” You smirk. “So you are aware of your tendency to talk too much.”

“Not funny,” she deadpans. You giggle.

“He always lets me follow him around whenever I get bored,” she adds, her eyes glazing over. “And he likes to make sure that you’re alright, too.”

Your fingers fumble with the last button at the top of her dress. You pray that she doesn’t detect the sudden blunder. “How so?” you probe, trying to keep your voice level.

“You know,” she indicates, even though you most certainly do not. “Like today, as we were planting the roses. He asked me how you were doing—if you were eating well, if you were getting enough sleep. Those are fairly standard inquiries regarding one’s wellbeing, I’d say. Do you disagree?”

“No,” you murmur, gnawing on your painted bottom lip. “I don’t.”

You finish your task, fastening the final clasp on her dress and smoothing your fingers down her sides. “There you go,” you say softly, your throat dry. “All done.”

“Thank you,” she singsongs, twirling around to face you. She studies you closely, soaking in the black floor-length gown cascading down your figure. “You look beautiful,” she says, her tone sincere. “Martin’s going to be utterly speechless when he sees you!”

A weak chuckle falls from your mouth. “Shall we go down?” you suggest, wrapping a loose arm around her shoulders and guiding her toward the door.

“Yes, please,” she replies. She places a palm over her stomach, features crumpling into a theatrical scowl. “I’m famished.”

You smile.

And as you exit your bedroom with your sister in tow, you realise that she may have been wrong about which man you’re hoping to impress.

~*~

Dinner is full of surprises, many of which present themselves in the form of Martin Russell. It’s astonishing, you think, because the man who had barely spoken ten words upon first meeting you is now commanding the table at which you’re sat. Andrew is perched at the head, with Martin just off to his right. Lydia is next to him, and you’re directly across from him. And that means that Harry…

Harry is right next to you.

You do everything in your power to avoid looking in his direction. Thankfully, it proves to be easier than expected, considering the fact that Martin has been droning on about his company for the past fifteen minutes. You don’t believe that anyone else has managed to squeeze in a single word.

There’s wine, candles, and the finest china your family owns. But all of that pales in comparison to the man sitting beside you.

Harry cleans up exquisitely. Upon first entering the dining room, you were shocked to find him in a black tuxedo with a white bowtie resting just below his throat. It appears that he even combed and gelled his hair, though some strands have fallen free from the style and now hang down over his forehead. You don’t mind it, though—if anything, it’s a hint of the man you know peeking through. And the man you know is handsome—alarmingly so.

Drew had whistled as you descended the stairs. He then offered you his arm, patting your hand and telling you that you looked wonderful. Martin hadn’t been able to control his reaction, his eyes raking up and down your figure like you were a lavish meal on a silver platter. It had taken everything in you to hide your distaste.

But Harry…

Harry hadn’t said a word. He’d fixed his face perfectly, showing no sign of emotion whatsoever. You’d been hoping for something—anything—indicative of his opinion toward your outfit, but you observed no such consequence. He’d only acknowledged you with a curt nod before settling into his chair and pointedly looking away.

And now, here you are—a bowl of minestrone in front of you, a wineglass inches away from your lips, and an irritated groan simmering on the back of your tongue. Martin’s voice is growing more and more irksome by the minute.

“And then, it was as though they couldn’t get enough—”

“I had assured them that I would bring in at least twice the revenue—”

“It was incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it—”

You polish off the rest of your wine, reaching across the table for the half-empty bottle. No one notices as you pour a bit more of the alcohol into your glass, sneakily surpassing what would be considered appropriate for a lady to consume. You set the bottle back down with a silent huff, lifting the goblet to your lips and letting your attention wander.

You freeze when you catch Harry staring at you out of the corner of his eye. The edges of his mouth are curled up ever-so-slightly, nearly imperceptible. Heat rushes to your cheeks; you gulp down a large sip of wine, averting your gaze.

You deposit your drink onto the pristine white tablecloth, glaring intently at your food. You can feel Harry’s playful stare burning a hole into the side of your head; you suspect that he’s trying his hardest not to laugh.

Your soup has cooled substantially. You shovel a spoonful past your lips, swallowing it with a considerable amount of difficulty. Everyone else has nearly finished their dinner, save for Martin. You want to thrust his face into his bowl—maybe then, he’ll finally shut up.

You lift your wine back up to your mouth. The action draws Martin’s focus. His eyes flit down to your minestrone, and then jump to the other empty dishes around the table. At last, he seems to realise the disparity between your meals, because a small, sheepish smile creeps onto his face.

“Lord,” he chuckles, settling into the cushion of his chair. “You all must’ve been ravenous. I’ve hardly touched my food.”

“It’s hard to eat whilst boasting, I’d imagine,” you mutter into your glass.

A loud, hacking cough breaks you out of your little bubble. Your head snaps to the left. Harry is choking on his own wine, chiseled cheeks growing red with exertion. He curls his fingers into a firm fist, pounding a few times on his chest to dislodge the liquid stuck in his windpipe. Reflexively, you place a hand on his arm, your forehead wrinkling in concern.

“You alright, H?” Andrew asks, leaning forward over his plate.

“Fine!” Harry croaks. He makes an indiscernible gesture with his hand, waving your brother’s worries away. “I’m fine, thanks. Just went down the wrong way, that’s all.”

He coughs again, burying the sound into the crook of his elbow.

You watch him with troubled eyes. When your gazes lock, only then do you realise that your palm is still splayed out over his bicep. You pull away quickly, recoiling as though you’ve just passed your knuckles through an open flame. Harry’s body rumbles as he clears his throat. He hooks two fingers into the collar of his button-up, loosening it from where it’s secured tightly around his neck.

Lydia is talking, now, but her declarations fade into the background. You wish that you could concentrate on them—you really do—but you have more far more pressing matters at hand.

Like Harry shooting you a swift, secretive smile, and every piece of the puzzle clicking perfectly into place.

His unassuming sip…your quiet quip…

He’d heard you.

You sit back in your seat, your ears ringing. Harry places one of his hands on the wooden arm of his chair; his knuckles flex painstakingly. Across the table, Andrew and Lydia have resumed their lively conversation. Martin scarfs down the rest of his soup, trying to catch up. The candlesticks perched between your plates melt slowly, a mess of waxy dribbles and drops.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, you become aware that—for the first time tonight—no one is paying you any attention. The realisation makes you feel giddy, drunk on power and anonymity.

Or maybe that’s just the wine.

You peer down at Harry’s nails, studying them absentmindedly—they’ve been scrubbed clean.

And before you can even begin to register what on earth you’re doing, you reach out, tracing the veins on the back of his hand with one finger. Harry tenses; his concentration immediately falls to where you’re touching him. When you finally muster enough confidence to meet his gaze, you find him watching you with wide, awestruck eyes.

A small part of you is smug—that’s the reaction you’d been searching for at the beginning of the evening. That’s how you’d wanted him to look at you when you made your entrance, wrapped up in a pretty black gown and layers of opaque red lipstick.

You cease your movements and retract your arm, tucking it back against your side as you turn your interest elsewhere. In the periphery of your vision, Harry has pinned you with an unwavering, stunned expression, his body rooted in place. Despite the rapid thumping of your heart, you keep your gaze trained ahead and your chin held high, pride swelling in your abdomen like a hot-air balloon.

Lydia laughs at something that Andrew says. Martin tugs haughtily at the lapels of his suit. You release a heavy exhale and nudge your bowl a few inches away from your chest, completely sated.

~*~

Once everyone retires to their rooms for the evening, you wait approximately an hour before slipping out. You’re light on your feet, sneaking past Lydia’s quarters and the guestroom that was given to Martin for the duration of his stay. He snores—quite loudly, too. You can hear him as though he’s right next to you, even from where you’re hovering out in the hall.

You make your way down the spiral staircase, heading toward the large double doors leading to the backyard. You quickly tug on a delicate pair of slippers before sneaking out into darkness’ cool embrace. Midnight is only a few minutes away.

You pull your wool cardigan a bit tighter around your torso. The hem of your silk nightgown is shorter than that of a standard dress. The wind nips teasingly at your knees, making you shiver. Blades of grass tickle your ankles as you march toward the stables. There’s a single light hanging above the entrance, bathing the wooden panes in a faint yellow glow. Green grass gives way to dry soil and the odd piece of straw littered across the dirt.

Inside the stables, only two of the six pens are occupied. The first one houses Apollo, Andrew’s stallion. His skin is like chestnuts, his mane the colour of the sun. You’re sure that your brother will take him out early tomorrow morning—you doubt that he was able to find many docile steeds in the bustling streets of New York.

You bypass Apollo completely, stopping in front of your horse—Artemis.

She’s a sight to behold, white skin and jet-black hair. She reminds you of the first snowfall of the season: crisp and pure, untainted by footprints and pollution and everything else in between. She’s been your partner in crime for the past decade, even though you’ve spent the last few years simply guiding her along with your feet on the ground and a hand tangled in her reins.

Somewhere beneath the rational layer of your brain, you like to think that she sympathizes with your hesitation to get back on the saddle.

“Psst!” you hiss, leaning against the wooden gate of her pen. “Artemis! Come here, my love.”

She lifts her head up from the floor, chewing on a handful of hay. You dig your fingers into the material of your cardigan, producing a sugar cube from the depths of your left pocket. Artemis’ nostrils flare as you hold it out in your palm; she trots over happily, drawn to the sweet treat.

“Haven’t come to visit you in a few days,” you murmur as she dips her mouth against your hand. You stroke your knuckles down the side of her neck, petting her softly. “I’m sorry about that. Things have been so chaotic back at the house. I’ve barely gotten a moment to breathe.”

She whinnies quietly.

“Did you miss me?” you ask. When she nuzzles her nose into your arm, you smile. “I missed you, too. I thought that maybe you were developing a preference for Lydia. But that’s not possible, is it? I’m your favourite.”

Someone clears their throat from behind you. You gasp and whip around, hands flying to your chest. Your gaze locks onto an amused smirk and a pair of impish green eyes, and your stomach lurches uneasily.

“Hello,” you stammer, air caught in your lungs.

“Hello,” Harry replies.

He’s still dressed in his attire from dinner, though his appearance is significantly more relaxed. He’s abandoned the white bowtie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, allowing his collarbones to peek out from beneath the pallid fabric. The cuffs of his suit have been rolled up, and his hair has completely fallen from its acute coif. Glossy strands tumble down around his temples, curling in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch them.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. You hope that he doesn’t hear the twinge of embarrassment in your voice. He caught you in the middle of a one-sided conversation with your horse, after all.

Harry holds up his hand. There’s a pale pink envelope clutched between his fingers.

“Post,” he says, like it’s the only reasonable explanation. It is, you suppose. “I was on my way home when I spotted you.”

Home. The little cottage just down the trail—the groundskeeper’s residence. It was built years ago, only a few acres away from the main house. You pass it sometimes when you take Artemis out for a walk. More often than not, you’ve found yourself studying its red bricks and white windowsills, yearning for a peek inside.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, wrenching you from your thoughts.

“Yes.” You nod, blinking twice. “Your letter—,” you say, desperate to change the subject. “—who is it from?”

And you immediately want to sink into the earth, because it’s none of your bloody business, is it? You have no right to be poking around and questioning him about his personal life. A slight grimace tugs at the corners of your lips, smearing a pained expression across your features.

But Harry just hums, unperturbed by your inquiry.

“My sister,” he tells you, shrugging. “She writes to me from Paris.”

He has a sister?

“Paris,” you echo dumbly. “France?”

His lips twitch. You want to set yourself on fire.

“Does she like it?”

“I think so,” he says, watching you with twinkling eyes. “She wants me to visit her soon, but I’m—” He hesitates, looking away. “Well, I won’t bore you with the details.”

And though he hadn’t let the words slip out, you know exactly what he meant to say.

She wants me to visit her soon, but I’m stuck here.

A pang of guilt ricochets through your chest. Blood thunders in your ears as you direct your attention to the ground, kicking at the dirt below your slippers. You suddenly realise that whilst Harry is fully clothed, you’re dressed in nothing but a flimsy silk nightgown. You wrap your arms around your torso, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your knuckles.

“Er—”

You glance up at Harry when the awkward noise falls from his mouth. “Yes?”

He lifts his chin and gestures toward Artemis, who has returned to her tasty pile of hay. “She belongs to Lydia, does she not?”

“No, actually,” you reply. “Lydia takes her out, typically, but…she’s mine.”

“I see.” His face renders an innocent type of curiosity, one eyebrow cocked high on his forehead. “Do you ride?”

You balk, nearly choking on your own saliva. “I beg your pardon?”

And just like that, the innocence is gone. Harry’s features melt into a portrait of wicked mirth. His irises glint roguishly as he fixes you with a shrewd, crafty smirk.

“The horse,” he says slowly, his tone ripe with amusement. “Do you ride?”

“Oh,” you croak. “Sorry, I—”

Your nostrils flare as you avert your eyes, too humiliated to meet his gaze. He’s aware of the way in which you interpreted his question. He understands why you were so appalled. He knows exactly where your mind went.

“No,” you answer quickly. “I don’t. Not anymore, at least.”

Harry tilts his head to the side, confused.

“How long has it been?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mount.”

“I stopped a few months before you came to work for us,” you say, playing with a loose thread hanging from your cardigan. After a beat of silence, you add, “There was…an incident. I fell.”

“Oh.” He recoils slightly, taken aback by your revelation. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s alright.” Your feet scuffle against the dusty ground. “Sometimes, I catch myself longing for it, but I just—” You shrug. “I can never seem to get back on.”

“I understand.” His response is excruciatingly sincere.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye. He takes an experimental step forward, gauging your reaction. When you don’t make a move to retreat, he does it again. You chew on the inside of your cheek as he draws nearer, and your heart stutters beneath your ribs when he angles his body to the side, offering you his arm.

“May I walk you back?”

Is there a hint of fondness in his voice, or is it merely your imagination?

“You may,” you concede weakly.

You slide your hand into the crook of his elbow and bid Artemis goodnight. The two of you stroll back up to the estate in silence, enjoying the tranquility of the evening. The wind whistles through the thicket of trees lining the edge of the property. Crickets chirp loudly, seeking shelter between blades of grass. Harry’s body is unbelievably warm, radiating heat despite the slight chill carried by nightfall.

You release his arm once you reach the steps of the back porch. He studies you carefully as you climb the first two stairs, a divot digging into the space between his brows.

All of a sudden, you pause, brought to a standstill by an invisible string. You spin back around, looking down and finding a pair of bright jade eyes in the dark.

“Goodnight, Harry,” you say softly, hands dropping to your sides.

Quicker than a bolt of lightning, he seizes your fingers between his. A faint gasp leaves your mouth when he bows forward and presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Harry peers up at you innocuously, pulling his lips away from your skin after a long moment of stillness.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says. The words flow over you like molasses, viscous and warm and inconceivably sweet. “Sleep tight.”

~*~

PART II: The Week

PART III: The Month

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#harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #there's not a single curse word in this fic holy shit.............i think this is a first for me snfsjsdnsfsjfsn #ANYWAY i hope u like it!!!!! i'll be here if yall wanna chat after lol #farmhandrry #harry writing

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cherrynojutsu · 3 years ago

Text

Title: Like Silver

Summary: A companion series for Like Gold.

Sakura misses him so much. She misses the faint smell of woodsmoke and sage, and mismatched eyes captivating in their intensity and unfathomable depths. The Rinnegan is beautiful, soft lavender ringed by hypnotizing layers of circle and tomoe, but flecks of silver dance in his right, tiny asterisms bewitching in nature, if one gets close enough; she’d first noticed it when they were children at the Academy. She knows they're Itachi's now, a slightly different scattering of luminaries aglow in the deep pitch of obsidian, but they're still as enthralling to her as they had been back then. She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet.

Blank period, canon-compliant, Sakura-centric, some expanded plot points from Like Gold, fluff and pining, eventually becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 1/?: An Introduction to Electrocardiography

Sakura gazes out the window of her office, a pile of paperwork set aside for a poetic sort of procrastination, trying to indulge for once in a Konoha spring, though she's finding it arduous.

As pretty as it is this time of year, all she can manage to feel is wistful.

Hanami has come and gone already for the most part, though there are a few stubborn cherry blossom trees lingering at the tail end of their blooming. She can see one here from her window, up on the hillside that slopes towards Hokage Rock, clinging to the uneven land. She’s sure its roots have to be all twisted, a labyrinth of gnarled wood clinging to any scrap of land it can wind itself around as its branches and petals try against all odds to reach upwards into the open sky that she can’t take her eyes off of.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but it’s one she doesn’t care to unpack.

This year was her twentieth viewing of her namesake, though Sakura obviously doesn't remember the first few. Her parents take great pride in the retelling of tales from those first few years of her life, the ones she was too little to remember. The highlights come up annually on her birthday without fail, how she grasped at the petals like they were something precious, clutched in her sticky little hands the entire day.

A framed photograph is perched on one of the built-in shelves of her parents' living room, of her and her father on her first birthday. He was holding her up on unsteady legs, ridiculously proud and pointing towards the camera where her mother had been trying to get her to look. Her short pink hair was flying absolutely everywhere, matching the fluttering petals and in-bloom cherry blossom tree in the background, chubby hands grasping upwards. Strawberry cake and frosting were smeared all over her cheeks. They’d had a picnic for her, at the park nearest to their house.

“We came home and cleaned you up, and then your father helped you water your tree for the first time, in the little pink watering pail you unwrapped earlier. You were so cute.” That’s what her mom says every year. Sakura has the sentence memorized at this point, could recite it on cue, if she needed to.

Her parents had planted a cherry blossom sapling in their backyard a few days after they brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, so the tree is around the same age she is. She used to spend time under it often, as a kid, and some of her earliest memories involve sprawling beneath it to study the heavens while her mother gardened. She would also sneak berries from the patch when her back was turned. Sometimes her dad would join in her pilferage, and they would sit beneath the tree like a couple of bandits with stained lips, though those first few years she can remember he barely fit underneath it, as tall as he is. Many a tickle fight had been had, shaded by those branches. She would read books there on nice afternoons, when she was a little older.

The tree is fully grown now, also on the final cusp of its blooming for the year, floriferous wood expanded outwards to drape her childhood stomping grounds in a sea of soft pink. They have a picnic under it every year, in her family’s backyard, when they celebrate her birthday together. Her actual birthday has come and gone, but her birthday dinner is two days from now. Her parents swung by her apartment on Sunday afternoon for a bit with outlandishly large cupcakes, but her mom had mentioned they’d do dinner and a gift on their usual night, Thursday, since it works so well with their schedules every other week.

“We have to have your picnic, under your tree, like always. It’s a tradition! My beautiful girl. I can’t believe you’re twenty. It seems like just yesterday you were only yay high,” her dad had told her, gesturing below his knees before hugging her too tightly, ruffling the hair she'd inherited from him before they left. The cupcakes were strawberry with cream cheese frosting, one of her favorite treats. They’d left her with four extra to enjoy between then and Thursday, one for each day if she wanted it, turning her birthday into more of a week-long affair than a one-day celebration.

She and Ino had demolished two of them while watching some of the terrible movies they love to hate together, later that evening. It had been a smorgasbord of strawberries, really, because they'd washed them down with strawberry daiquiris, sugary sweetness topped with ridiculous amounts of whipped cream. They'd sat on her balcony, after, sipping a little tipsily and just looking.

"You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it," Ino had said, beckoning vaguely towards a Konoha beginning to bloom, renewed with a warm breeze, spring ushered in by a fluttering of pink petals. Ino likes to give compliments in roundabout ways, she’s learned over the course of their friendship; crass as the blonde can be, she does have her moments. Her words meant a lot to Sakura, so she’s trying to take them to heart, to stop and smell the cherry blossoms, so to speak. It won’t be long before Konoha crescendos into the sweltering heat of the summer.

She loves her parents and her friends. She really does.

But birthdays are weird, Sakura thinks.

Last year, Sasuke had sent her a letter on her birthday. She’s reread it so many times that she has it more than memorized; it’s stitched into the muscle tissue of her heart at this point, or maybe scarred into the lining of her aortic valve, sempiternal markings adorning the tunnels that sustain her, causing her breath to catch every time.

Sakura,

Hanami has come to the wilderness in the Land of Honey. Bees are awakening and foraging for the first pollen of the season, with which to begin again. Cherry blossom petals are everywhere, lining the pathways and floating on the water.

Happy birthday.

-Sasuke

It had been short, simple, and even a little poetic; she had cherished it, as she does all of his other letters. She’d cherished the pressed flower with it just as much; a cherry blossom, neatly flattened with a precision that screamed Sasuke, near exactly the same shade of pink as her hair.

Sakura had started crying when she unfolded the paper to reveal it sitting atop his words. His hawk had waited patiently at her office window for a response to be written and tied to its leg, perched atop the windowsill and watching the goings-on of the village below, absolutely no concept in its predator brain of how much she delights in seeing it fly, a graceful tether to the boy - now man - she has been in love with for ages.

Cherry blossom petals are everywhere. Is there a hidden meaning there, or is she making a mountain out of a molehill?

She’s tried not to read too much into the letters. She's not sure if he sends any to Naruto or not; she's too afraid to ask, because she'll either get a heart-pounding hope if he doesn't get them, or a soul-crushing disappointment if he does. She can't imagine him sending a yellow flower to Naruto, but he may very well have sent him a different gift for his birthday.

Maybe he just thought she would like a flower, which she did - it’s pressed for safekeeping, along with all of his other correspondence to her, sporadically and chronologically throughout a book she keeps on her nightstand, An Introduction to Electrocardiography. It is her take on an album of small things she holds close to her own heart, things she wishes she could read in his. Sakura didn’t want to buy an actual album for such a thing; that felt too formal, for something as ambiguous as her ties to Sasuke, overflowing on her end as they may be. So she’d settled on a book about deciphering the heart’s tells based on science only, electrical impulses and repolarization, the sizes and positions of the chambers, how to diagnose conditions utilizing one’s findings. It’s one she doesn’t need access to anymore, extremely familiar with EKGs after years of study. She’d wanted it to be something no-nonsense, all hard facts and data on how to read activity plotted over time.

Evidence-based. Are letters evidence, though? She’s not sure that would hold up as empirical proof in any of the scholarly journals she’s studied or submitted work to since beginning her research. She thinks wryly, though, based on what she has witnessed get published, that scientific verification doesn’t always matter if you know the right people.

She’s thought many times sifting through it that perhaps it is too optimistic, too hopeful of a book subject for such a thing. Sakura has agonized over it, frankly, wondering whether it was an inappropriate choice.

...But now that they’re in there, it might ache worse to move them somewhere else.

It’s the last day of March now, and she didn’t get a letter this month, which is unusual, because she’s gotten one near each month in the time that he’s been away. She’s paged through the book a few times over the past several days, rereading and admiring the preserved sakura blossom, frozen in suspended animation indefinitely on a page about precordial leads.

Sakura hadn’t really expected anything from him for her birthday, other than a monthly letter like he usually sends... but this year she didn’t even get that. She’s trying really hard to not be disappointed. She has so much to be thankful for, in the grand scheme of things...

...But the petals of the cherry blossom from last year have faded over time, she’d evaluated yesterday, sitting in her bedroom. It might be like her, always pressed in a book, fading whilst stuck indefinitely between the boundless teeth of academia. There is always more data to record, more evidence, with which one can prove or disprove their findings.

No letter this month, though. Nothing to record, no new evidence.

It might be time to move the letters somewhere else, she thinks pensively. Maybe a place where she’s not tempted to look at them all the time; their placement in the book, small scraps of paper that stick out in only a couple of places, makes it easy to go back and reread them. She’s pretty sure she has an empty shoebox in her closet that she could move them to, in a pile rather than catalogued between pages rife with information and a fragile sort of hope. Maybe she’ll do it tonight, put it up in the far right corner of the upper shelf, shoved towards the back so she can’t reach it without the stool, so she’s not tempted whenever the next bout of heartsickness slams into her like one of Tsunade-shishou’s fists used to. She needs to go by the library after work first, to return some things, but maybe when she gets home, she’ll do it. She could eat a cupcake, too; that might make it a little easier.

She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet. There’s an extremely unique necklace in an antique shop she visits with Ino and Sai from time to time, and occasionally on her own, over on the northeast side of town. It’s a salt-and-pepper diamond, dark grey with inclusions, dainty and set in what must be a hand-fabricated setting. It hangs from a silver chain, towards the back of a display case filled with other vintage and distinctive pieces, but it’s the only one she ever finds herself drawn to. It is so similar to his right eye, dark smoke near black, speckled with beguiling silver startling in its clarity. The bevel cut reveals new flecks dependent on the angle at which you view it.

Sakura studies it closely on each visit, because it is so hauntingly breathtaking and it reminds her of him.

Ino has said it’s not her color, and that she should stick to warm tones and gold, for which she is better suited; Sakura has not confessed to her why it catches her eye so much. Sai has agreed with his girlfriend on the coloring note, sensitive as he is to such things, but the way he studies her every time she tears herself away from it makes her suspect he knows exactly why it captivates her so. It’s been sitting there for years at this point; she has to mentally talk herself out of buying it on each visit. It’s beautiful, but she would spend far too much time gawking at it, and it might hurt more with extended study than the gentle tugging at her heart she experiences when she’s in that old building throughout tiny fragments of lackadaisical afternoons.

Sasuke has been gone for a long time. She hopes he's finding the peace he's been seeking, that he's seeing the world with new eyes just as he'd imagined. She thinks of him every day, sends out little orisons like petals in the breeze in the hopes that they’ll find him, wherever he is.

I wonder where he is now.

Try as she does to enjoy the breath of spring Konoha is right now, and her namesake as Ino said, all she can seem to do is shift her vision to the sky, hoping against hope for a glimpse of a familiar bird-of-prey that will stay an ample amount of time for her to craft a response, before it abvolates away for another month.

Sakura smiles, then, close to laughing at the absurdity of it all, because she is so predictable. She loves this village despite its many flaws and challenges, despite the things about it she and Naruto and Kakashi-sensei and Ino and even Tsunade-shishou, off in the Land of Wind, are trying to change, but even after so many years, she’s still pining for something beyond it, something in the wilds of the sky just beyond her reach.

There’s always next year, she supposes, pupils drawn again towards the outstretched branches of the cherry blossom tree on the hill, before trailing her eyes along further. She can grow a little more to try to reach him. When she was little, she had wanted to grow tall so she could try to touch a star, like the branches of the tree in her backyard did when she and her father laid beneath them on balmy summer nights. He would tell her ridiculous stories about all of the constellations, things she knew had to be untrue, even at the ripe age of five. Precocious, he’d always called her, but in the loving, joking manner he had.

Her gaze follows the horizon, leisurely taking in the rest of her home. It really is a lovely day, despite her yearning. Spring is here again, and today's is a gentle sunset, one last little bit of sunlight with which to conclude March. The temperature is already spiking, unusually warm for early spring, but summers in the Land of Fire are always hot. She really should finish her paperwork, but it’s hard to find the motivation just yet.

Something possesses her, then, to turn her neck more, take in more of the skyline's continuation. She wants to see all of it.

And then Sakura’s eyes fall on an achingly familiar figure cloaked all in black, perched only a roof away and observing her, and she thinks she must have nodded off, because she has to be dreaming.

She subtly pinches herself in the millisecond of time that follows, but she is very much awake.

The words are blooming out of her throat before she can even process what’s happening, exultation sinking into her every vein. “Sasuke-kun!” She moves to crank her window open the rest of the way, and he hops from the neighboring roof down into her office, all nimble legerity that she still thinks has to be a mere mirage conjured from her memories. When he straightens to his full height, she muses that he has to have grown taller. The mere sound of his footsteps on the tile flooring, as familiar a refrain to her as if he’d just walked out of the village yesterday, are a treasure beyond price.

“Sakura.” His voice is a rich timbre that she has desperately felt the absence of; hearing him say her name almost makes her want to cry. She smiles wider instead, to the extent that it almost hurts, and her gaze latches hungrily onto the very eye she was just daydreaming about. A storm of soot and silver, beveled into countless fragments like some kind of dark, rustic diamond, and so staggeringly beautiful that she’s pretty sure she’s blushing just from beholding it. Gods, it's not fair for someone to be so handsome.

“When did you get back?” She asks, utterly overcome with joy. This is better than a letter or any birthday gift she could have received, brighter than any star she’s beheld.

“Just now.” He’s smiling, a small and subtle upturn of lips that is so characteristic of him. Then his words hit her, and her face must be getting redder.

Just now? As in…

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he adds before she can simmer on that for too long, and she has to blink in bewilderment, because that is the absolute last thing she expected him to say. Sakura wonders how much heat can creep into one’s face before they spontaneously combust.

Then she realizes she should probably respond, as humans tend to do in conversations. “Oh! Um… it’s okay.” She folds her hands in front of her shyly, grinning like an idiot. “Thank you for remembering.”

There is a lengthy moment in which she just soaks him in, hoping he can read in her eyes how much she’s missed him. He is still so beautiful, prized eyes and aristocratic angles that have solidified a bit more into the face of a man in the time that’s passed. His hair is different now, covering his Rinnegan eye. His cloak is a little more threadbare, too. He’s tall.

His expression, normally unreadable, is calm. Content, even.

There’s a question nagging at her that she knows she needs to ask. She tries not to bite her lip as she asks it, braces herself for the possibility of not liking the answer.

“Are you… just back for a little while?”

Did you find what you were searching for?

He gazes at her for so long that she thinks he may be glimpsing her soul, peeking into her ventricles to see his own words immortalized there, seared into her core to be felt each time her blood pumps.

“...For more than a while.” And she smiles the biggest she ever has. Oh, this is so much better than a letter or a gift.

“Well, welcome back, Sasuke-kun. It’s… very good to see you again.” It feels as if a piece of her heart has been returned to her, something of the divine stitched back into her chest and full to bursting in omneity.

There is a pause, and then he’s reaching his hand out towards hers, initiating physical contact with a touch that is feather light, so gentle she thinks she is going to start sobbing.

She can’t help it; she pulls him into a hug, tinged with elation. She hopes he doesn’t mind too much; he stiffens for a brief moment, but then settles, wrapping his arm around her and settling his head atop of hers, and she could die happy right there, embracing him with feelings momentarily set free from where they’ve been whelved into her chest.

He smells faintly like sage and smoked cedar, just as she remembered. She can hear his heart thumping, a strong cadence, and it grounds her. Oh, she’s missed him.

“...I’m home, Sakura.” Soft words float above her head, and she can feel the vibration of them through his chest, right by her ear.

Oh, she’s crying.

Sasuke lets her embrace him for a long time, for which she is so grateful. She knows he’s not one for physical contact; it’s a privilege to be allowed into his space even for a single second, let alone for an extended period.

She draws back eventually, glancing up at him again through the tears still collecting in her eyes. Her face blazes when he reaches to wipe them away tenderly with a calloused hand, careful and with a lenity that she’s always known was there, hidden under the surface.

She could just stare at him for hours, she thinks as he lowers his hand. He’s still looking down at her with one of the softest expressions she has ever seen him wear. She really hopes she’s not dreaming.

It’s tremendously hard to get it together, but she tries, because she doesn’t want to spend the entire time crying, not when he's finally back. There are so many questions she’d like to ask him that she’s finding it a challenge to pick one with which to lead.

He surprises her by speaking first, quietly. “I… had something made for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to compute.

Made for me?

Her processing speed must be exceptionally slow, stuck in the utter mush her insides have become, because he adds, “...For your birthday.”

Sakura blinks, and furrows her brows in confusion. “Made… for me?”

He nods. “...I’m sorry it’s late.” The way he speaks it is cryptic, like the apology weighs more than one needed for a tardy gift. Doesn’t he know she doesn’t care? He could have showed up in July with something for her, and it still would have made her knees weak and her heart thump furiously in her chest.

Made for me? She’s still stuck on that sentiment as he breaks eye contact and turns to rummage through his satchel, beneath his cloak.

Sasuke pulls out a medium-sized flat box, a simple white, and she doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. Something that comes in a box is a lot more formal than a pressed cherry blossom, something more… permanent.

She reaches out to take it on autopilot, and is stupidly distracted by the way his hand brushes against hers, a small spark that makes something in her quake. She wonders if he felt it, too.

Sakura clutches the box with both hands like her life depends on it, murmuring softly, “Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” She’ll wait until later to open it, after he’s left; whatever it is, she doesn’t want to embarrass him, and she also isn’t sure she can tear her eyes away from him just yet, anyways.

Is it just the lighting in her office, or are his ears a little flushed? She didn’t notice that before; maybe he’s had a drawn-out journey back. She wonders how much ground he covered today, if he’s still winded. He might need to rest.

But then he mumbles, voice husky with what she assumes is disuse, “...You should open it.”

His words echo in her head again. I… had something made for you.

“Okay,” she answers in a hushed voice, so she doesn’t scare him away, shifting slightly to set the box on her desk carefully. Suddenly she is very nervous, anticipation settling into her gut.

When she lifts the lid, she swears her heart ceases beating.

The most exquisitely intricate uchiwa fan she has ever laid eyes upon is placed in the box before her.

It’s carved into a likeness of a cherry blossom tree, branches twisting lissomely into bamboo framework, impossibly fine. A different set of words is reverberating in her head now.

You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it.

Made for me?

“O-oh.” Sakura is not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. She fights back the tears, biting her lip and wide eyes soaking it all in, enjoying her namesake in a way that is entirely unprecedented in its sheer severity. The amount of time it would have taken for someone to sculpt and bind and sew is unimaginable; every detail is finely wrought, flawless down to the silk and stitching, lacquered and carved pale wood shifting effortlessly into eighty slivers of bamboo, intricately webbing silk together with the lithe grace of gossamer. It’s a cherry blossom tree, petals and all, pearlescent thread shifting slightly, gorgeously in the light, unimaginable detail. She has stitched people back together countless times over the course of years, but even her expert dexterity would look like a child’s first embroidery stitching in comparison. The stamen within the petals are nearly more detailed and finely milled than an actual, real life cherry blossom, plexure sutured in a fashion so baronial that it’s impossible to believe human hands were even responsible for it.

The silk. Oh, the silk. The color shift bears a striking resemblance to the Uchiha insignia. This is not a gift one gives to a teammate.

Oh, she's crying.

This has to be a dream, some kind of paracosm her heart thought up to give her brain the high of a lifetime. Hope burgeons and unfolds in her chest cavity, bleeding into her extremities like the pale pink shifting into red before her eyes. She’s never, ever going to forget this, not even if she lives to be one hundred years old.

Made for me?

She picks it up with disbelieving hands, grasping it more carefully than she’s ever held anything in her entire life, as if she’s going to wake up at any moment and it will dissolve into synapse, lost in the hazy juncture of morning the way one tends to lose awareness of the contents of a dream upon coming to lucidity. To her absolute bewilderment, it stays solid in her hands, a finery made even more unbelievable by touch. The grooves of the carving are as gentle as his hand had been on hers earlier. She thinks it would have had to be commissioned at least a few months in advance, outlandishly expensive. She’s never seen silk like this. She doesn't know; she's smart, but she's no artisan. Maybe she should ask Sai. She's crying.

She adores it.

Tears won’t stop welling in her eyes; she thinks they may be escaping from a tender spot inside her chest that’s been reserved for him since she was a child, a leak in a metaphorical dam. She takes a steadying breath, blinks, almost has them conquered. Get a grip, Sakura.

Then Sasuke’s hand is on hers, gently turning the handle over.

Her name is carved into the pale wood, on the back in formal calligraphy, Sakura daintier and more perfect than she could ever write it, as if it had just been uncovered in one of the inner layers rather than whittled there manually. Sasuke presses her fingers to it before loosening his grip, and in that second it feels as though his lost hand is in the wood, caressing her from split atoms in the grooves from the other side.

The tears spill over her cheeks - she admits defeat - intricacy of the entire thing blurring out of focus but still somehow burned into her retinas for all eternity.

Made for me, made for me, made for me-

Her voice finds her after a few more tears fall. “It’s beautiful.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, overwhelmed with complete and utter awe, trying desperately to choke down a sob. “Thank you, Sasuke-kun. I… I’ll treasure it. Always.” She cradles the fan closer to her chest, her heart - maybe An Introduction to Electrocardiography wasn’t a poorly-chosen book, after all; there is much to be read from something this precious - and regards him with watery eyes. She wishes she wasn’t crying; the distortion of the tears is making it hard to see the silver she’s loved and missed so much.

His hand lifts to her face after a moment, and to her surprise, he wipes away her tears again. She barely catches the something-more in his eyes, then, through the waterworks, precious metal flashing and pouring into the words scarred into her ventricles to live there forever, fortified in silver, but he is looking at her so -

“...Always,” he agrees, voice a little breathless, sparking scintilla near hypnotizing her in their luster, and he seems so happy -

Then he leans down to press his lips gently to hers, and this is better than her heart stopping, like when she opened the box. This time, her heart soars, and she touches a star she’s been dreaming of for eons.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like silver #fanfiction #i'm really out here with just hundreds of pages of fanfiction in my google doc drafts huh

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thecheesiestcheese23 · 4 years ago

Text

a place that feels like home.

Trust was not so easily given, and Philza Minceraft knew this.

Hell, he raised four children that held their own trust issues. He spent years cracking away at them for them to finally feel safe enough to sleep in the same room with him and to turn their backs to him.

So why did he throw away the bond with two, kill the other, but live with the fourth? He knew very well why he did, he played favorites. He didn’t try to of course, but there was just something about Techno that drew Phil to be with him more than the others. Maybe it was the saying that 'Technoblade Never Dies' that he could relate to as ‘The Angel of Death’. Perhaps it was how their childhoods were so similar, where they were taken away from their families and thrown into The Pit, an illegal fight club that wanted to watch blood spill. The most likely thing though, was that they were both fighters.

Wilbur was never a fighter while he lived under Phil's roof, always wanting to hold a pen to write stories than to pick up a sword to spill blood. He was a lovely singer too and could spin melodies from simply plucking the strings of a guitar. Even when he left to make a country and was thrust into an unjust war, he refused to raise his bow unless it was dire.

It was only when his sanity started to deteriorate did he start to raise his sword instead of his guitar. And when Phil heard the words of "Kill me Phil -" after he blew up his own country that he shredded blood, sweat, and tears for, did he know his son was truly gone, replaced with this shell of a human.

Tubbo was like a bluebird; innocent and a hard-worker.

Like Wilbur, he never wanted to harm anyone, which was different from his birth father, Schlatt. He would rather spend his time with the bees in the backyard and play with his bee plushie that he was left with in the box. He loved to spend time in the garden and nurture the flowers that grew alongside the food.

Tommy was a different case from the other two. While yes, he was a fighter, and a feisty one, he wasn’t the best. He was always so brash and loud, letting the enemy know he was coming from miles away. Techno was much more reserved and quiet and was deadly and to the point in his attacks. Phil saw him at the wars though, and he saw how much his youngest grew in his fighting.

Phil knew that he was too young to be thrust into these wars, too young to have met the face of Death multiple times by now, and too young to have been betrayed by nearly everyone he knew.

But, Phil sighed, there was nothing he could do about it now. The bonds he once had were shattered beyond repair and the three probably hated him by now. The only thing he could do now was to ask Ranboo if he needed a place to stay.

He had given Ranboo one of his feathers days after Techno’s execution, a way of communication that wasn’t able to be tracked by Dream. Phil had seen how the boy had been unwilling to pull the lever and was even hesitant to place Phil under house arrest.

He quickly searched through his satchel looking for the feather that was the main cell. Once he did, he quickly double-tapped the circle that rested at the top and scrolled through the contacts list. There were people from the Antarctic Empire, Ranboo, and then there was his family, Tubbo, Tommy, Fundy, Wilbur, and Techno.

Phil could only hope that Ranboo hadn’t left the feather in his house as the explosions fell down into what once was L’manburg.

With tense shoulders, he pressed the call button.

---

The dripping of water was the only thing that could be heard within the obsidian room beside the shaky breaths of a curled figure who was in one of the back corners.

A cat, Enderchest, meowed, disrupting the silence and rubbing against the leg of their owner in an attempt of comfort. Ranboo could only stare at his memory book as the feather in his hand hovered over the names of the people who were once his friends.

“I . . . I don’t have anyone left . . .” The book was shut with a slam, the title shinning against the lighting that the crying obsidian gave off.

“But,” a shaky sigh escaped through his lips. “I can’t forget them, otherwise I’m just giving up, and if I give up. . .” He stood abruptly which only succeeded in him collapsing down once more due to his unsteady legs.

“Then I’m just weak.”

The feather in his hand crackled to life, startling him before a familiar voice could be heard echoing around the small room. “Hey, Ranboo!”

“Hi, Phil.” The unshed tears in his eyes shone brighter as his voice wavered.

“Did you make it out okay?” Phil sounded concerned for him, for some reason that Ranboo could not fathom.

“Yeah, I’m still alive.” The smell of smoke was strong, even when he was far away from L’manburg. Some part of Ranboo’s mind wondered how long it would last.

“Good, good, where are you right now?”

“Uhm, I’m gonna be in L’manburg soon.” All Ranboo needed to do now was to pull himself out of this funk.

“Okay, good.” The rustling of a wing could be heard. “Do you need a place to stay or are you good?” Ranboo was caught off-guard by this question as images of his destroyed home flashed through his head.

“I- I think I do need a place to stay.” Ranboo sheepishly admitted, pulling himself up from the floor and balancing himself.

“Yeah? What’s been going on with you, by the way? ‘Cause like, we haven’t spoken in a bit, and I- I know that book was very precious to you, but I- I didn’t know exactly why.”

“Oh, it uh, keeps who my friends are in it, so I don’t forget, cause you know I have very bad memory issues.” His armor was put back on in a couple of seconds and he traveled back outside. “So, uh, I keep all of my friendships in the book, which is - has, changed quite a bit from today so I might need to update it.” The Panic Room was covered up once more. “I’ll be in L’manburg in a second- or what used to be. I’ll be in the big hole in a second.”

“I can get there, I can get there. Give me time, give me time.”

Silence fell between the two as they both traveled to the same destination and Ranboo wondered who was going to be the one to break it.

“So where did you go? Were you still around? ‘Cause it was hectic.”

“Yeah, I had a wither chasing me the entire time, so I kinda couldn’t just leave.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Yeah, sorry about that-”

“Oh, it’s okay-” Laughter could be heard from the two males.

“Are you in L’manburg now, by the way?” Phil asked.

Ranboo looked around, confirming his whereabouts. “Oh, uh, yeah, I’m next to the staircase that leads up to the Prime Path.”

“Alright, let me see if I can aim this. It might be off though.” A whoosh of the trident, ad Phil was standing right in front of him, his damaged wing tucked safely against his back. Ranboo hadn’t heard the full story, but from the information he gathered, one of his wings was singed beyond repair and was just dead weight on his back from protecting Wilbur from the heat of the blast. “Oh, this staircase has seen better days.”

That elicited a chuckle out of the taller male. “A lot of this place has seen better days, in case you didn’t realize.” They traversed up the pathway, twisting and turning through the multitude of wooden slabs beneath their feet.

“It’s fine, we needed a change. It had to be done.” Phil waved it off.

“Yeah, actually. I kind of understand why.”

“You got everything you need?” Ranboo skimmed through his inventory.

“Yeah, actually. I had all of my mending books in a secret barrel in my house but I guess I’m not getting those.” Ranboo grimaced at the thought.

They conversed for a while longer, traveling through the Nether before arriving at and entering into Techno’s and Phil’s home.

“Yeah, so you can stay here until we can start working on your house.” Phil gestured to the couch. “I was thinking of building it next to the mountain that’s behind the house, so it would be somewhat ingrained into the mountain but not fully.”

Ranboo could only just nod, not able to fully express his gratitude besides a simple “Thank you.”

Phil smiled at Ranboo. “It’s not a problem mate. It’s the least I could do after destroying your only house. Get some rest, yeah? I should also tell Techno you’re here so he won’t immediately kill you as soon as he sees you.”

Ranboo chuckled nervously. “Oh yeah, that sounds good.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get going, you’ll be okay on your own, right?” Phil stopped his shuffling to look at Ranboo, and to his relief, avoided eye contact. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thank you, again.” Ranboo shited where he stood, opting to stare at the floor.

“As I’ve said before, it’s not a problem mate. I’ll be out for a while, and Techno should be back before I will, bye Ranboo!”

“Bye Phil!”

---

Techno trudged into his house, closing the door behind him before he collapsed against it, the roughed up edges of his armor digging into the wood. His sword rested limply in his hand as he let his body relax. He would definitely have to wash his sword from the blood that stained it.

He pushed away from the door with a groan. The satchels of potions landed on the floors and counters with a thump. He looked around before he spotted a lump laying down on the couch. Techno immediately tensed up, the grip on his blade tightening.

He swiftly but silently went over, his guard never slipping. His sword was raised, ready to be brought down on the intruder, but Techno then saw his face.

It was Ranboo, the kid that Phil had a soft spot for. He blinked a few times before he checked the feather that was clasped to a gold chain and that hung around his neck. He scrolled through a couple of messages, seeing some from Ghostbur, spam from Tommy, and one from both Fundy and Phil.

He clicked on the notification and read what laid before him.

Techno huffed in response, but put down his sword and slid it back into it’s seath. The feather was then nestled back to where it once was before, and as he was doing that, Techno saw that Ranboo was shivering.

The couch could barely hold him and the blankets he had didn’t seem to be doing much for him. Techno grumbled as he made up his decision. He swiftly picked Ranboo up and brought him up the ladder, careful not to awaken him or disturb him as they made the trip upstairs.

Ranboo was softly placed on the older’s bed, the red cloak that once rested upon Techno’s shoulders was instead acting as a makesift blanket for the taller.

Technosoft!

/rainbowchat

Caringblade

Technosoft

mic muted!

Technosoft

“Shut up Chat, I am not going soft for this kid.” Techno grumbled.

Throw him out! He’s only gonna hurt us like Tommy did!

Tsundereblade!

Blood!

Techno only sighed in response before he went back downstairs, ignoring Chat as he headed over to the couch and placed his sword next to him.

“Goodnight Chat.”

Night!

Gnight!

goodnight !

Techno shut his eyes, and let his body rest.

#philza #technoblade #ranbooo #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #sleepy bois inc #dreamsmp #minecraft #mcyt

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shioririn · 4 years ago

Text

Perfect | Oikawa Tooru

Suffocating.

A singular word that perfectly sums up how it felt like to be around Oikawa Tooru. Cruel as it may be, there was no denying blatant truths when it is all but presented to you on a golden plate. And you hated it.

You hated how much the brunette had to sacrifice just for a brief moment of glory, or how much he’d push himself to be someone he isn’t happy to be. It didn’t matter how many time he’d had to apologize for missing dates, or how many times you’d have to wait for him to finish the extra practices he assigns himself - none of that mattered when he’d forgotten what it meant to be happy.

You couldn’t remember the last time he genuinely enjoyed a match and played just for the sake of fun, and that’s what pains you the most. Had he forgotten the first time he set the ball? The sensation of absolute awe and innocence of volleyball?

Was it worth drowning himself in all those late nights, slaving away to a sport that is in turn, cutting his own life short when he wasn’t enjoying it?

The logical answer should be no. But you never did ask, because you already knew.

Ever since he was recognized as a talented setter, Toru had slowly but surely grown distant from the sport he once treated with so much love. From then on, the gap only grew, and before he even knew, had enslaved him on an invisible chain, choking and dragging him down.

He wouldn’t admit it, but he recognized the sensation - the same sensation that he’d have to live with as long as he wouldn’t let go. Under media pressure and the pretense that he has to be the ideal role model for those that scrutinize every move he makes, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be himself - the Oikawa Tooru that didn’t have to put up fake smiles and a childish attitude just to be recognized and accepted by others.

You’ve always told him that him being himself is enough, and that there is no need to replace any part of his personality for others to love him. But as time passes, the same words that you’d never fail to assure him with had begun to dull, blending in with the white noise of his childhood innocence that was drowned out by the camera flashes and self rejection.

He’d built an entire empire of his own, but he’d also traded the same self for cold and bitter fame that could never satisfy his hunger, for the craving only grew, and thus, pulling him further from who he used to be. To trade it all is a difficult feat, but to trade it back is even tougher.

So he’d shut himself out from the world, cutting off the growing roots that was supposed to stretch far, and hid it all with an empty smile and an even emptier personality.

For so long he had to built a mask to hide under in fear of being rejected for being himself, so much so that it had became a routine that he could no longer part from. He’d finally been recognized as ‘perfect’ but there was no helping the tears that leaked through the holes of his mask every time he saw your smile towards him dim, yet being the prideful trash can that he is, refused to bow down in acceptance of himself.

You’d only wished for him to be himself again, and he’d still failed to commit to a single request even when you’d given up everything for him when he’d asked.

Selfish. That’s wish he is.

It’s a miracle in its own that you hadn’t gotten up and left when he’d decided to put himself before anyone else, and perhaps that’s what made you so special. Just like Iwaizumi, you have your own way of dealing with his shitty personality, and despite never saying it out loud, he appreciates every single one of them. You kept him grounded when he’d allowed a shell of himself to float about the vast and endless pit of water, and he even if he’d spent his entire lifetime and the next few returning the favor, he couldn’t.

The unconditional love that you’d given him is special.

The same kind of special that he is to you just as you are to him.

You would never ask of him to return it to you, but you’d only as him to be happy again. To accept himself as who he is without worrying about the prying eyes of others that are only grazing past him, never to stay long enough to be a part of his life. Those that really matter would accept him no matter how messed up of a person he is, and they’d stay without question, as they already knew the worth he carries.

So for you and for himself, he’d learn to accept that it’s alright. It’s alright to be Oikawa Tooru. The same imperfect, selfish, and tantrum throwing overgrown child that worked hard for his dreams that you fell in love with.

Because there never is a need to be perfect around you when you’d never seen him as nothing short of perfect.

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thoroughlyskeptic · 4 years ago

Text

“We both went to the London premiere but not together. We weren’t engaged and there was no reason to sort of show off to the world." USA Today November 18, 2014.

I'd like the Nannies to express their opinion about this please. With the full understanding that no person or persons on this side of the computer can control, sway or change Ben's mind or heart. That's not the point. The point is to understand what you believe is the psychological reasoning behind the decision to use that phrasing with his pregnant, soon to be fiancé and soon to be wife and soon to be mother of his child. According to People magazine and the Daily Mail, and those, including nannies, who said they have seen a Birth Certificate, Christopher Carlton Cumberbatch was born on June 1st. Dislike it all you want, having a birthday makes it possible, and given human nature, likely that people will speculate on the date of conception, especially considering the facts, including the timing with regards to the Oscars and the shotgun* nature of the wedding. If it was a full term no problem pregnancy, 40 weeks, not under or over due, she was 2 and a half months pregnant when the above statement was made.

This story you nannies have built up, that Ben and Sophie have a true perfect love forever, that they never fight, how do you reconcile that with the whole unvarnished truth? Unless Sophie was totally gormless, she must have known she was pregnant. If Ben was dating her and truly in love, he would have known she was pregnant. They married three months later. He was in true love with the women he married, the woman he proposed to, whom he didn't mention by her name in interviews, and didn't want to walk down the red carpet to his movie premiere with the woman making his dreams come true, his dreams of being a father.

Now you are going to yell about things like privacy. That what he said was meant to protect Sophie and hide the pregnancy. I think anyone who is at all skeptical could answer that one. No one eager for privacy about their personal life talks to reporters, USA Today, or People magazine at all, let alone does a wedding dress spread in Vogue. I'm surprised it was in the print edition, and not the digital only. After all, maternity bridal gowns aren't really "en vogue". The long and short of it is that photo spread was well positioned and they managed to photograph her to look like she wasn't 5 1/2 months pregnant, perhaps to make that style of gown more in demand. Shotgun weddings tend to favor empire waists and lots of flounce to disguise the bump.

Now, I know the next question from the peanut gallery will be, why bring this up? They have stayed together, have two more kids together and it has been x and whatever years.

Here are several responses. Pick one or more in any combination.

1. Our feelings don't have to be right to be valid.

2. You have the option to object to our perfectly valid emotional reaction.

3. We have a right to block you from our page. You also have this right.

4. If you object to our opinions, you do not have to read our blogs or interact with us in anyway. If you are constantly feeling harassed because you see content from skeptics, BLOCK THEM, don't blame them! If the worker at Sea World handed you a poncho to protect yourself and you didn't use it, you can't blame the Shamu if you get splashed.(Sorry for the outdated and insensitive analogy but I wanted something easy to understand. I disagree whole hearted with the captivity of intelligent creatures be they aquatic or terrestrial mammals.)

5. We are valid in our own right as people. If you attack us on a personal level, we will defend ourselves and we have the right to do so.

6. As long as we do not interact with anyone,(i.e. Ben, Sophie, Karon, his management, etc) we can say whatever we want on our own blogs. The majority of us have never met him and don't want to. As far as we are concerned, Ben is an imaginary person that we are writing as a character for a long running D&D campaign.

7. However, the same does not apply to you. Many of you have gone out of your way to meet him. You believe that by sending hate to skeptics or doxxing them you will earn validation from him. I worry that some of you are on the brink and if he doesn't acknowledge you one time, or does something that you can't justify with your world view, one of you will snap. You think this about us, I know. But the nannies on the whole have much more emotional investment in Ben's personal life. (As a for instance, The skeptics call him Ben because at least one nanny has said that, "we don't know that he prefers that nickname so we should use his full name" another said "nicknames are for close friends and family and we aren't those, so we should call him by his full name or Mr. Cumberbatch." If Ben even has two thoughts about any skeptic or nanny(especially how they address him in blog posts) for the entire year I'd be surprised. Unless, of course, it when he has to think about you lot bothering him, stalking him, and generally making a nuisance of yourselves.

******

I also know you complain that the skeptics don't "love" Ben in every thing he does and don't always watch all his work. The gatekeeping within the fandom, not include how you discount and loathe the skeptics, is extreme. Fans must be all or nothing.

1. Not everyone has the money to participate fully, whether that is buying movies, theater tickets, merchandise or going to conventions to hear him speak. Disregarding fans based on their ability to participate, especially due to financial inability, is gatekeeping and it is the worst kind of gatekeeping. You are saying the only good fans are rich ones.

2. Generally the nannies viewpoint is Eurocentric as well. Some people have jobs, have children to raise, have other things that take priority over "being a fan". Being a fan requires time that poorer countries, less developed countries generally lack. Some countries censor the movies that are shown. Doctor Strange was not shown in the East the way it was in the west and unless you can afford to travel to another location,(Say the London Premiere that didn't quite happen and the nannies were upset because he didn't preform like a good little monkey in a suit for them?) you are made to feel left out by the uber fans.

3. Some people have emotional triggers. Ben's roles tend more towards the dramatic then comedic. Drama can deeply affect those who have experienced similar situations. He has been in movies dealing with Cancer, Childhood Abuse, Incest, Slavery, War, Pedophilia, have I missed any major triggers?

4. He is also in the MCU and the Hobbit movies which have flashing lights which makes them inaccessible to those who have seizures and migraines. Another oft used gatekeeping tactic in fandoms is the restriction of accessibility. In the US, there are compliancy laws for disabilities(although they aren't always obeyed) but smaller, poorer countries may not have accessible movie theaters. Fans with disabilities can not travel as easily as more abled fans. Smaller independent films Benedict made at the beginning of his career may not have captions or audio description or may be unafforable for those that have medical costs to consider.

5. There is also gender bias in the Cumberbatch fandom. One need only look at their chosen name, Cumberbitches. I can think of 15 more gender neutral terms off the top of my head but men and those who identify as male were inherently excluded from the fandom. I can think of ONE male fan. Maybe one that writes under his wife's account as to not get ridiculed. Because they would be ridiculed by the nannies, that is who they are, the "gatekeepers of the fandom", deciding who is worthy to be a Ben fan.

They have made fun of fans before. Not just skeptics. People they don't like or don't want in their little clique. So the majority of Ben's fans are middle aged rich white women. Not because that's who he's trying to reach as an audience but because that is who his uber fans allow to worship him.

If you are in need of examples of how out of control the uber fans are take the following for an example.

Someone did a nice tweet about other actors. It had nothing to do with Ben, although it did feature Tom Hiddleston and other Marvel actors. The ubers starting by saying Ben wasn't listed, then jumped into, well, a screenshot is worth a thousand words.

As they say, that escalated quickly...

*Shotgun Wedding is an American term for a marriage precipitated by the pregnancy. It comes from an American colloquialism, termed as such based on a stereotypical scenario in which the father of the pregnant bride-to-be threatens the reluctant groom with a shotgun in order to ensure that he follows through with the wedding.

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adowbaldwin · 3 years ago

Text

Baldwins Secret - part 10?

Diana took one last, longing look around the room, surrounded by historical figures she had only read about. Never in her wildest dreams did she ever invision herself walking amongst the men who shaped the Roman Empire, much less befriending Caesars daughter and Mark Anthonys sister. Who was also technically her sister in law.

She left the celebrations to walk along the gardens once more stopping briefly to ruffle Lucius head as he took Anthonys money in a game of back gammon, or rather the Ancient Roman version.

Her favourite part of the house was most certainly the entertaining room. Many nights she had spent watching Lucius as he demanded attention from everyone, taking all their money in gambling debts and doting on Antonia. He followed her with his eyes around the room, or acted like a lost puppy and trailed at her feet all the time.

Seeing him with his own children, especially his daughters answered the question as to why he had taken to Rebecca so easily, despite being a massive ass hat.

Julia came bounding down the hallway, arms flinging wide and embraced Diana "I am going to miss you, so much"

Diana felt sad, it was a shorter time here but just as hard to leave them behind as she had with those she came to love in 1590 "Not as much as i will miss you" one last rib crushing, air constricting hug and she left with her father.

One goodbye she did not want to say was to the children, and Antonia. God how she would miss little Cyrus waking her up every morning with cheese, sharing his own with her because "she was pretty".

"Our time has come to an end, sister" Antonias voice was tight, eyes glassy

She needed to know "if you can see your own future, why not change it?" It came off as more a desperate plea. Not only for the sake of her loosing a friend, but also Lucius' happiness laid with her.

She smiled, small tear working its way down her face as she cupped Dianas cheek "What will be, will be. Ive seen my end many times and i do not fear it"

Their hug, sisters in both witch craft and marriage was bitter sweet. Diana would never have otherwise known of her, this life without secretly snacking but now it was all ending. She loved getting to know her and him in this time but she had to leave it behind.

"Diana" Antonia whispered softly "please take care of him" she croaked

She nodded, tears slipping "Dont worry, i intend on hugging him everyday of my life. And ill make Rebecca do it too. He loves her"

They braced foreheads before pulling back and patting their wet faces "i have one favour to ask of you, before you go?" Antonia asked meekly

Diana nodded "anything, name it"

Present Day:

"This house, its just - omg" Phoebe squealed, it was a living time capsule "how has it lasted all those years?" She marvelled

Boudicca laughed "Oh my sweet it hasnt, father has it refurbished every so often. There is probably one pillar and a tile that is original" she smiled "its nice though, that he keeps it as is. Nothing like being able to return to your childhood home"

"Baldwin said he cant stay long, why?" She furrowed her brows in confusion. She had never seen him as content and happy as he had been the past few days

"The city is his home. He has rebuilt, built and financed everything from the Zoo to the tarmac but none of it shakes the ghosts" she lowered her tone, knowing if her father overheard he would not be too happy "everyone he has ever loved, everything he knew walked these halls. Its alot for a man that has bottled his emotions for 2000 years"

"I cant picture him married" she trailed off "or changing nappies"

Boudicca smiled "he cloth diapered our bums more then mother. He is the broodiest man in the world, even now. I think it is the only thing he hated about turning, not being able to churn out more children"

It was an odd notion, one Phoebe could not appreciate. Her mind wandered to the possibilities, how if in a different life she and Marcus could of had children in some alternate reality. Though not possible now, it wouldnt stop them from trying.

Her deep in thought, pensive walk was halted as the strongest scent of willowsap and honeysuckle flooded her senses. Dianas distinct mark was unmistakeable, filled with aromas Phoebe could not place, ancient wonderous things she had never known.

Boudicca made an appreciative noise "i had missed the scent of ladys mantle and frankincense" she turned abruptly, listening intently for Dianas heart beat "Come, she is in the livingroom"

#adow #a discovery of witches #fic #baldwins secret #diana bishop #baldwin montclair

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onecanonlife · 4 years ago

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 3,775

Chapter Content Warnings: swearing, references to scars, implied s.uicidal ideation

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur makes it to Technoblade, and a conversation is had.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Two: shiver to that broken beat

He underestimated how cold he would get. By the time he finally finds Techno’s cabin, Ghostbur’s memories guiding him over the hills, he’s fairly certain that his fingers and toes are halfway to frostbite, and he’s shivering uncontrollably. If Techno ends up wanting to kill him, he won’t have to do much. Not letting him inside would be enough.

He isn’t sure if he’d respawn. Isn’t sure if he’s got another three lives, or if it’s just the one. Whether it’s three lives to live, three lives to lose, three lives to waste, three lives that he shouldn’t have in the first place, three lives to spare. Two lives to throw away, if need be. Or if it’s just the one.

(the one that he never wanted at all)

(an image flashes: Tommy staring into lava. Ghostbur found him like that, once, and thinking about it now makes his heart stutter in his chest)

He mounts the steps to Techno’s cabin, sparing a glace for—are those polar bears? Does Techno have polar bears tied up outside? He shakes his head, because yes, of course he does, it’s Techno, and then he is standing in front of the door, and he’s suddenly feeling a lot more trepidation about this whole thing. It’s irrational, really, but he can’t shake it, can’t shake the fear that this is going to go terribly, and this whole journey was a mistake.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his breath puffing in front of his face. “Fuck everything.” The swearing doesn’t make him feel much better, but watching his breath fog up does remind him that he is very cold, and that he needs to be inside now. Even if this ends in him respawning, it’ll be somewhere warmer than this, hopefully.

He knocks. Four times, loudly. There is no response, so he does it again. There is still no answer, and he can’t resist the dark glare that he casts at the door. If he’s come all this way only for Techno to not be home, he’s going to be very put out. He’s also definitely not above breaking into his house, if need be.

He knocks one last time for good measure, already mapping his way in. There’s a window he can break—

“Hold your damn horses, I’m coming!”

It’s unmistakably Techno’s voice, and every muscle in Wilbur’s body tenses up, ready to fight, ready to flee, ready to do whatever the moment asks of him. For a brief, hysterical moment, he entertains the idea of abandoning this whole thing, of ducking out of sight and letting Techno think that it was someone playing a prank. This is the last moment to back out.

He doesn’t, in spite of his better judgment,

(or perhaps because of it, he doesn’t know, doesn’t even know if he has ‘better’ judgment at all, these days)

and he jams his hands in his pockets and tries for all the world to adopt a casual pose before the door is swinging open, and Techno is there.

(his brother is there)

“Alright, who—” Techno starts, and stops just as quickly, staring at him with wide eyes.

Techno looks… good. He looks good. Dressed in warm layers, that damn red cape he’s so fond of flowing out behind him, his stupid crown on his head. His hair is braided neatly, his tusks sharpened to gleaming points, and if, perhaps, the bags under his eyes are a bit darker than they should be, Wilbur won’t point it out. What’s a little lost sleep, in the grand scheme of things? Technoblade seems like he’s thriving up here, the Antarctic Empire all over again, and Wilbur feels a sharp flare of

(jealousy)

(relief)

emotion. He tries not to let it show on his face.

“Hello, Technoblade,” he says. “Can I come in?”

For a long minute, Techno says nothing at all. Just stares, motionless, unblinking. Wilbur can’t remember the last time he saw his brother look so shocked.

(yes you can, you liar, you dirty liar, it was the first time he heard you yell at Tommy, really rip into him, and the shock was only there for a second, he hid it well, but you saw it, you know you did, you just pretended not to, pretended that this was all normal and what you were doing was justified)

“I hate to press you, but it’s fucking freezing,” he adds.

“Shit,” Techno says. “Shit, how are you—Phil said that it didn’t—Wilbur.” He bursts into motion, then, and Wilbur barely tamps down the instinct to punch him, to claw at him and fight and get away as he suddenly steps forward, gripping him by the forearms, crushingly enough to hurt, to leave bruises later. Wilbur furrows his brow at this reaction, but doesn’t have too much time to think about it, because Techno is right there now, right in his face, and that’s too close. Too close. Too much. Techno’s hands almost seem to be burning through the sleeves of his coat, and his skin tingles, as if there are sparks rushing across it.

“It is you, right?” Techno says. “Not—no, Ghostbur wouldn’t, and—wow, I’m gonna need all of you to be quiet. Wait, so where’s Ghostbur, then?”

The bitterness that washes over him is surprising. Perhaps it shouldn’t be. Because it isn’t surprising that Techno asked as much, and something in him, a snarling, angry thing, whispers, of course, of course he would rather have Ghostbur than you, of course he’d rather the pathetic amnesiac remnant, the fragment of a soul that couldn’t handle a single negative emotion, much less act on one, of fucking course that’s the version of you that he likes most, what else did you expect?

(of course he prefers the you that isn’t insane, that doesn’t lash out at anything and everything, even your own family)

“Gone,” he says, short and clipped. “Or so I assume. Sorry to disappoint.”

Techno has the nerve to look confused, his ears twitching. “What? No, that’s not what I—” He stops, then, looking him up and down, his brow furrowing, and Wilbur is about two seconds from breaking out of his hold in the most violent manner possible, because it’s too restraining and too much. “Wow. Okay. You are not dressed to be out here. C’mon.”

“Do you really think I don’t know that?” he gripes, but he doesn’t resist as Techno tugs him indoors, biting back a gasp as the warm air surrounds him. He spares a cursory glace for the inside of Techno’s house, but he knows the layout—Ghostbur was here often enough. “Why do you think I wanted to come inside in the first place?”

He’s expecting a snarky comment back. It’s an old song, an old dance that they do, built on sarcasm and quips and hiding all the feelings underneath. But Techno just looks at him again, looks at him like he’s a puzzle, like he’s something to be figured out, like he’s something unexpected, and Wilbur hates it. Hates being under a microscope, scrutinized, and Techno is only one person, but he feels for all the world as though there are people all around him, looking at him, whispering, like he’s on display, stuck in a glass cage for everyone to point at—

“I, uh,” Techno says, “really, that thing about Ghostbur? I was just wonderin’. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, Wilbur, honestly. I just… wasn’t expecting it. Phil said that the whole resurrection thing, uh... didn’t pan out.”

… Right. That’s a thing that happened. Ghostbur and his stupid determination, his stupid insistence that the server needed him back, needed him alive, and Wilbur wishes he could take Ghostbur by the collar of his sweater and shout at him until he got it through his head that Wilbur alive is the absolute last thing anyone needs.

“Yeah, that’s not why I’m here,” he says, and—Techno is still holding him, and it’s weird, and he doesn’t like it. His stomach is doing flips. It’s too much, and it’s especially too much coming from Technoblade of all people, because sustained contact has never been how Techno shows affection, or much of anything else, for that matter, and the fact that he’s doing it now is throwing Wilbur off balance.

So he steps away, further into the house, and it seems that this is finally enough for Techno to get the hint. His hands slip from his arms, and Wilbur pretends that he doesn’t feel very cold all of a sudden, a cold that’s different from the snow and ice of outside, a cold that starts inside and works its way out, and—

“Then why are you here?” Techno asks, and a smile pulls at Wilbur’s lips, twisted and not at all happy.

“Ask Tommy,” he replies. “Or better yet, ask Dream.”

“Dream’s in prison,” Techno shoots back. “You’re telling me he did something from a jail cell?”

“What, Tommy didn’t tell you? It’s the whole reason they kept him alive. To bring me back. Not that anyone bothered to consult me about it, but there you go.”

It’s interesting, watching Techno’s face. He has never been outwardly expressive, has always presented a mask of stoicism to the world, but Wilbur knows him, knows what to look for, knows that the slight tightening around his eyes conveys anger, that the flick of his ears indicates discomfort, and a lot of it. What could be causing that, he wonders, feeling a grim sort of amusement. Is it the fact that Dream is alive? Or the fact that he is?

(which would he like it to be? he doesn’t know. part of him wants Technoblade to be put off by him, he thinks. it proves that things are different. that things have changed from their shared childhood. that his experiences meant something, that they mattered, that they are remembered, that he has a reason to be the way that he is)

“Tommy hasn’t been telling me much of anything, lately,” Techno says, and Wilbur only just manages to pick up on the fact that his voice is too even, too monotone, even for him. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms.” He pauses, maybe waiting for Wilbur to say something, maybe not, but after a moment, he says, “You want a drink or somethin’?”

“That would be nice,” he admits. His shivering has begin to abate, but his clothes are still very damp, and they’re not doing anything to warm him up. He should probably ask for a change, but something in him balks at the idea. He doesn’t want to ask Technoblade for favors. Doesn’t want to owe him anything. He’ll take what’s offered, but that’s all.

“Cool,” Techno says. “I’ll get on that.”

They stare at each other. Nobody moves.

“Right,” Techno says. “I’m just gonna… walk past you here.”

Wilbur steps to the side, letting Techno pass him. He’s close enough to touch, close enough to brush up against him if he were just a few inches to the left,

(and something in him is screaming for it, is longing for a gentle touch, for a touch that doesn’t mean pain and doesn’t mean war and isn’t weighted with a thousand betrayals, but he doesn’t know that he can find that here, so much blood is on the floor between them)

but he doesn’t, and Techno disappears from sight. A moment later, there is a clatter, and the sound of cabinets opening and closing. Wilbur stands there for a moment longer, and then takes it as his cue to make himself comfortable.

Not too comfortable, of course. But he sits on Techno’s couch and peels off his coat, and he immediately feels warmer as the air hits his bare arms. He stares at them for a moment, pale and unmarked, and it feels wrong, that they shouldn’t be scarred. He can’t remember if he ever took wounds there, but he’s sure he did at some point, somewhere between the declaration of war and the battles and the explosions and the exile,

(because respawn brings people back, but it doesn’t erase what happened, not completely, and it’s always a tossup as to what will remain, what will linger on as a reminder)

and frankly, he feels like the ripped and torn state of his soul should show externally somewhere.

He breathes out, long and slow, and listens to Techno banging around his kitchen. He braces his forearms against his legs, clasping his hands together and lowering his head.

It might have been a mistake, coming here. He’s not sure what he expected to find, but it wasn’t quite this, wasn’t quite a once-brother who seems to have no idea what to do with him, wasn’t quite conversation that is awkward and stilted and strange because neither of them knows the other anymore, haven’t since the festival, or perhaps since they reunited in Pogtopia, or perhaps since he and Tommy left home, or perhaps since Techno did, or perhaps they never knew each other at all, not really, and they were only playing house all that time.

(that can’t be true, he knows, because he remembers the days when Techno taught him how to fight and he taught him basic guitar chords, remembers the days when he bandaged Tommy’s scrapes and bruises and knew in turn that his little brother would do anything to defend him, remembers the days when the warmth and comfort of Phil’s wings were only a step and a heartbeat away, and they were happy, they were, they were)

Absently, he brings one hand up to touch his chest. He thinks he’s searching for his heartbeat, searching for a bit of reassurance, a bit of stability, but that’s not what he gets. He can feel it even through his shirt, a knot of gnarled scar tissue, thick and raised against the rest of his skin. He slips his hand under his shirt to better prod at it, to map out its edges, and it should hurt, probably, but it doesn’t. There’s not much sensation there at all, a numbness that speaks to nerve endings that didn’t quite heal right.

He knows what it is. He’s not surprised that he brought it back with him.

“Um,” Techno says, and he looks up. Techno is back, is standing in front of him with two steaming mugs, is openly fidgeting, obviously unnerved, and Wilbur might congratulate himself on it if the circumstances were any different. As it is, he takes his hand out from under his shirt and gives Techno a flat stare.

After a moment, Techno huffs and settles on the opposite end of the couch, offering him a mug. Wilbur accepts it, sniffs it, and the scent is familiar, but he can’t place it. He takes a small, cautious sip and almost spits it back out, and not because it scalds his tongue, though it does. He knows what it is as soon as the flavor hits his taste buds, and for a split second, he is overwhelmed by

(tea in his hands and more on the kettle, his father’s voice, low and soothing, and so much nostalgia that he chokes on it)

memories. It’s been so long since he had this. So very, very long.

“Phil left some behind last time he was here,” Techno says. Wilbur looks at him; he’s regarding him carefully, as if he thinks he’s going to—to do what? What does Techno think he’s going to do? Yell? Attack? Bolt? All of those have their attractions, but he sits there instead, his mouth burning with the remnants of the heat.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he opens his mouth.

“I haven’t had this blend since before Tommy and I left home,” he says, the words spilling out without his permission. “It was… the day before, I think? Sometime that week, at least. Phil and I sat in the kitchen and drank tea together, and he told me—” He cuts himself off; that’s too personal. It hurts too much to think about, now.

(he looked into his eyes and said, I’m proud of you, Wilbur, and he tries not to think about it too much, because thinking about it too much means interposing that Phil’s face, calm and smiling and happy, over the face of the Phil that he saw next, tears streaking down his cheeks and his expression twisted in desperation and grief as Wilbur begged him to—stop don’t go there not right now)

“He’s got his own base now,” Techno says, “but he’s not too far away. He said he might stop by tonight. You wanna stick around for that?”

Wilbur goes cold.

He hadn’t really considered it, in all honesty, hadn’t given due thought to seeing Phil, even though he knew very well that he would at least be in the area. Faced with the possibility, he’s not sure what to do with it.

It’s not what he’s here for. That much is certain. He should try to keep from being distracted, probably. He needs to remember that he’s not here with Techno out of familial obligation, but rather out of a desire to find information, to better know what he is about to be walking into.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.” He takes another sip of his tea. Swallows. Gathers up all of his emotions, and locks them away in a box.

He’s never been too good at compartmentalizing. But he can do it. It’s necessary,

(when you’re not even twenty-five years old and leading your little brother into a war)

sometimes.

“I was hoping you could tell me what’s been going on lately,” he says. “I want to go see Tommy, but I don’t want to walk in without knowing anything.”

Techno snorts.

“I figured it’d be something like that,” he says frankly, and Wilbur’s not quite sure how to take that. “I don’t know why you think I know anything. I don’t exactly have many friends over there right now.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” he responds, quiet and serious, meeting Techno’s eyes. He doesn’t quite know what expression he’s making, but it must be enough to persuade Technoblade, because Techno lets out a sigh, rolling his eyes.

And he talks.

He’s not lying; he doesn’t know much about the state of the server as it is now. But he knows some things, and Wilbur is interested in hearing them. Is interested in hearing about what Techno knows about the final battle against Dream. Is interested in what happened before, and what has happened since—there doesn’t seem to be a lot in the second category, thankfully, so perhaps Tommy has been able to enjoy some peace for once. Wilbur’s about to waltz in and destroy it, of course, but at least he had it for a time.

The exhaustion hits when Techno begins to talk about some kind of egg. Egg government. Egg cult? Techno doesn’t seem to know which it is, and Wilbur can’t make heads or tails of it, and it is then that he realizes that his eyelids are drooping. Which is not good; he didn’t intend to fall asleep here, and frankly, he’s not convinced that it would be safe to do so.

(lie)

But his body refuses to listen to his rational mind, and his thoughts are growing fuzzier by the minute, Techno’s voice falling further and further away. Still talking about the egg. It must be an important egg.

And then, the voice stops. Blearily, Wilbur lifts his head. He hadn’t realized that he’d begun to nod off. Techno is looking at him, something that can’t be softness in his eyes, something that can’t be fondness, because that affection was spent a long time ago, somewhere between Pogtopia and what came afterward.

“You still with me?” Techno asks.

He frowns. “Of course,” he tries to say, but the words come out slurred, just enough that he has no hope of hiding it or excusing it. Sure enough, Techno just laughs. At him. Which is rude and annoying.

“Sure,” he agrees, his voice making it clear that he is not actually agreeing at all. Before Wilbur can protest, he reaches over and plucks the mug from his hands. “I’ve got some guest rooms. Do you want me to set you up?”

“‘M not staying,” he says. Because he’s not. He’s made that determination just now. He’s gotten the information he needs out of Technoblade, and it’s time to move on. He doesn’t want to stay here,

(in a comfortable bed, safe under his brother’s watch, safe for the first time in forever, safe, safe, safe)

that’s for sure.

“Okay,” Techno says, and Wilbur is finding it increasingly difficult to think—and this exhaustion has hit fast, and that better be all that it is, because he doesn’t have the time to be sick—but he is still well aware that he is being mocked. “I’m gonna get you a bed ready, how’s that?”

“No, fuck you,” he mutters, but Techno is already gone, walking upstairs, chuckling to himself. Wilbur glares after him, trying to set him on fire with the force of his gaze, but it doesn’t work, and he is left alone in the room, on the couch, and it seems that he’s not going anywhere tonight. Not unless he takes this opportunity to leave, to venture back out into the cold with nothing but a trenchcoat that hasn’t even finished drying from his first expedition, and—

And this couch is comfortable, actually. Perhaps he can give himself permission to relax. Just this once.

He lies down. Curls up. It’s warm like this. Nice. His mind starts to drift.

He is vaguely aware of Techno’s return, sort-of cognizant of the way he stands over him for a few minutes before muttering to himself, too quiet for Wilbur to bother to parse the words out. Then, there is something covering him, soft and warm, and he must be tired to the point of hallucinations if he truly believes that Techno has just—what, tucked him in? That’s ridiculous. But it’s a problem for the morning.

There is a flash of blue in the corner of his eye. But he’s too out of it to pay it any mind.

Wilbur lets himself sleep.

He wakes up once, to the sound of a door opening, to the sound of voices, two of them, quiet and familiar. He doesn’t know what they’re saying. He doesn’t care. He’s safe here. That’s what matters.

---------

As a note, I’m new to writing for this fandom, so while I don’t have a taglist for it yet, I’m happy to make one if anyone would like, so feel free to ask!

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #wilbur dsmp #alivebur #technoblade #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #when i posted this on ao3 i got several comments that were just 'TECHNOSOFT' so there you have it

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wingedwizardcat · 4 years ago

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Hux has a change of heart and Kylo doesn’t react well (initially, then it’s just fluff)

A03

“You’re thinking.” Ren stated from where he leaned on the doorway of the Finalizer’s viewing deck. He’d been quietly watching the ginger for some time, concerned by how still and silent he’d been whilst staring out at the stars.

“Mmm.” was Hux’s only response, his eyes tracking a shooting star while his mind was clearly pre-occupied. Even deep in thought, he never lost his perfect posture and aura of authority.

Kylo approached and carefully hugged him from behind, resting his chin on Hux’s shoulder and his hands over the growing bump that was barely covered by the former General’s greatcoat, “You’re worried, my Emperor.”

“Always.” Hux huffed a slight laugh, leaning back into his husband’s chest and closing his eyes as he attempted to summarise his thoughts, “I don’t want this for them, Ren.”

“For them to see the stars?”

“War. I don’t want them to live in war, as we have done.”

“They won’t. Another few months and we’ll have won, they’ll never need to worry about war again.”

“You know as well as I that it will be far longer than months, Ren. And after war comes repair; how can I, we, raise our children when we’ll be so busy? It won’t be fair to them.”

“I knew you’d get like this - emotional.” the force user hissed, letting go of his husband and moving a few steps away, “I’ve given you an Empire, yet it’s never enough! You wanted Naboo, so I took it for you. You wanted children, so I’ve given you children too. It’s never-ending, there’s always more you demand!”

“Don’t you dare pin it all on me!” Hux argued, turning away from the viewport, “We discussed our future together, is it so wrong that I want to have one with you and children and a house-”

“A house now too?”

“I want them to have what I never did! A stable home, parents who love them, a childhood without blood and war and fear and hate! You had a family, I had a commander. I won’t raise them in an environment like that, where duty comes before all else.”

“Then you’re in the wrong job, Emperor. You made your vows to our people and territories, that you would serve them until your last breath, if you plan to go back on those then it’ll be treason.”

“I hate it when you do this.” Hux muttered, carefully lowering himself to the floor and pressing his back against the viewport, “Everyone must either be an ally or an enemy, you refuse to accept that there’s a middle ground!”

“You’re starting to sound like them! Like those rebel scum we’ve spent years trying to eradicate!” Kylo accused as he paced, “I see no other option but to have you removed from power until you come to your senses!”

“But that’s my point, Ren. There are other options.” the ginger sighed, rubbing his bump, “I’m merely suggesting that we discuss them and find a path that’s right for the First Order and for us. If it’s treason to explore a path that isn’t war and bloodshed then I’m a traitor. You can have me locked away if you like, but I’ll always choose what’s best for our children so you may as well throw away the key to my cell now.”

“You’re talking about walking away from everything that we’ve built-”

“No, I’m not. I’m suggesting that we should call a ceasefire and begin organising peace treaties. This doesn’t have to be a win or lose situation. We can compromise and live in peace within the confines of our Empire, we don’t need to continue invading and taking systems.”

“You wanted the galaxy.”

“Yes, I did. When I was alone and bitter with nothing else in my life. I want more than an honourable death now, I want a life. With you, our children, a home and a pet loth-cat or five. I want the life that I never dared to dream of before.”

Kylo paced silently for a few moments before he came to a stop beside Hux. He crouched down and gently took his hand, “Would it make you happy? You won’t be able to change your mind once a decision has been made.”

“Could you live with it?” the Emperor asked as he linked their fingers, “Tell me the truth, Kylo. Would a life on-planet be enough for you? Or do you need more?”

“I need you.” the Supreme Leader admitted, “I need you to be happy, healthy and safe.”

“You also need an outlet for the force.”

“Were this house to have a training area for me then I could make it work, alongside fairly regular missions to stop rebel activity within our Empire.”

“I think that could be arranged.” Hux replied with a hopeful smile, “We don’t need to decide anything today, but think about it? Please? There is always another path, we just need to forge it.”

“The decision was made when you suggested me locking you up. As if anyone could keep you in one place, you’re as cunning as a fox. I’d end up with you leading a rebellion against me.”

“And I’d win.”

“You would.” Kylo allowed, bringing his hand up to his lips and placing a kiss on the pale skin, “I’ll call for the ceasefire and you can begin negotiations.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Kylo laughed when his response earned him a playful shove from his husband, “I love you too, my Hux.”

#kylux #kylux fanfiction #armitage hux #kylo ren #emperor hux #supreme leader kylo ren #pregnant hux #author: wingedwizardcat

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marianne-dash-wood · 4 years ago

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all the ashes in my wake

so this was absoloutely inspired by @chrysalizzm‘s amazing fic you’re human tonight which has got to be one of my new faviroute fics ever, and well, it started off because I couldn’t stop thinking about the consequences of settling, and it turned into rough and stream-of-conciousness Wil character study. Because I’m me. This is just my interpretation of events, and I look forward to seeing exactly how this is handled in fic canon because, ugh, just, this fic is so good. The prose is incredible and I adore it.

In the end, it is easier to pretend that he has always been hateful. What good did he do, really, apart from create war and horror and pain, what he did he do other than inspire traitors and stand by and watch as his baby brother is killed in a duel he could have stopped.

It starts small, in all the ways that don’t matter. It starts in the mirror of his bedroom at home, as his siblings thunder up and down the stairs and arguments ring out over the state of the bathroom, who was supposed to do the dishes and missing hair brushes. It starts when he watches his father leave for his trips that take him so far away, and he is the one in charge of the home. It’s a happy childhood. It is also a damaging one. (Parents don’t often believe that those two can exist together, but they do).

(Phil would rather forget, keep hold of the good memories and only the good memories, and ignore the days where his children would have arguments that turned into fights, where mealtimes were icy silences and his children learned where on the table to sit to avoid conflict. He only wants to remember the good, and honestly, who can blame him? His sons learned well).

It stays small, as he hops from world to world with his brothers at his side, sometimes all, sometimes only one, but never alone. It stays small when he first arrives in the huge land of idyllic green grass and crystal blue oceans, and he could spend weeks singing the world anew, this world made with love, for love.

It grows, when they take the directive, “Just carve yourselves out a home,” a little too seriously, and suddenly the dominos are falling, and war is declared, and the small cruel thing in Wilbur’s heart blossoms under the attention.

There is a part of him that still, still rejects that. It was a game, until it wasn’t. (He forgets that, forgotten in the blindsiding of betrayal and the overwhelming joy of victory). It wasn’t supposed to be about glory, or even independence or justice, these lofty ideals he grew up with. It was supposed to be about his family, about keeping his family safe (Because he will always be a big brother and he will always protect them, as he was raised to do so and that will both doom him and save him).

One day, Niki asked him why they kept doing this (why, when it was just a game), and his brother answered for him, because they have always known each other inside out (until they don’t), “Because Wil’s a stubborn bastard and he never lets anything go, I should know, I broke his guitar once and he still hasn’t forgiven me,” and the truth is buried under the subsequent bickering but it’s true.

Will has always swallowed his anger; on occasion, he lets it out through melody but always to an audience of ghosts. He always swallowed his anger, and it burns (it keeps him alive, all those long winter nights when it his brothers were asleep and his father was gone), it burns and it keeps him moving and he douses it in smiles and love and flowers, and it stays a small ember, and he does not feed the fire.

He forgets too, that it was a game, until it wasn’t, and it was a game because they are children, all of them, and his father would tell him that two decades is barely adulthood, and yes his brothers are younger but he is still young, so young to be commanding an army, commanding a nation.

His fire keeps the others beside him; they listen as he shapes words and speeches and songs and they blaze with revolution and righteousness and their bonds burn bright in the face of overwhelming odds.

It sparks in the election, it sparks on the final day, and in a moment, it feels like cold water is dumped over his head.

And then there is pain, and there is hurt, and there is that fire, and it bites and snaps at him as he climbs out of his respawn point only to flee from the country he built with his own fucking hands.

His lungs burn but it is better than the waves of grief and betrayal and fear that take hold of him when he does not allow the blaze to grow; grief for that beautiful flag, razed to the ground, betrayal from all who had once stood by him, believed in him, told him they were his friend and fear, fear because maybe this would have been alright if it had only been him but now his brother has been stripped of his home and his nation and he is just as much in danger as he is.

Wil’s always been once for revenge. He has always retaliated. But that was back when he was raised on fair play and justice and he was on the same level as his brothers. He is powerless (powerless to protect, powerless to help, not his brother, not his friends, not his nation,) and there is nothing, not a single fucking thing he can do.

It is easier to fan the flame, easier to list and list and list every single person that still was had once been his friend. It is easier to swallow the flame, let it fill him up because if he stopped to think about it then he would drown in how fucking terrified he is. (Is he consuming it, or is it consuming him?)

It is easier to snap, to throw his fists fruitlessly against stone, to belittle his brother, to blame the world above, than it is to admit that he is terrified. It is easier to do this than to realise that he failed.

(“Can you keep them safe, Wil? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, dad,” Are you proud of me yet, are you, I’m not a fighter, I’m not a warrior, I’m just me but I’ll protect them, but are you proud of me?

“Good boy,”)

A kingdom built in a rocky ravine (empires have been built on less), and he has nothing except one brother who is under the thumb of the selfsame man who banished them, and another brother who looks at him like he doesn’t recognise him.

It sets off waves of paranoia, sleepless nights as he runs through every interaction he has ever had with every friend he has ever had and tries to work out at which point they started to hate him.

He has nothing. They took it all from him, his home, his family, his safety. He has nothing at all.

There is a man (?) in front of him in this cavern, this fall from grace and this man, this friend, this foe, reaches for him and pulls and Wil-

Wil has nothing but his fire, nothing but his hatred and rage, and if it goes he goes, if the warmth is pulled from him then he will be numb and have nothing at all, they have taken everything from him and now they want to take the only thing keeping him alive, keeping his heart beating, get out, get out, get out, he had lost everything but this was his, it was his and no one could take it from him -

He laughs as the man (enemy, saviour, foe, friend, wait, please, help me-) staggers back, and his smile cracks into a million pieces as he watches his brother realise, in steps so slow they might as well be a funeral march, that this is exactly who he is, who he always has been.

In the end, it is easier to pretend that he is, and always has been, hateful. But what happens when suddenly he is not?

(there’s a story here, a girl destroying her sister’s words because children are hateful and spiteful and they do not think though the things they do, there is a story here about children destroying the things they love because they cannot fathom anyone taking them from them, there is a story here about learning to share. There is a story here about how selfishness isn't always bad, but how it always consumes.)

He burns. He burns and watches his brother flinch away as if his touch is flame itself. He burns as he spits and swears and rages that they will pay, they will all pay, the match shaking in his hands as he places the TNT and it sings to him as he once sang to the world, a crooning hymnal of destruction.

To make others feel as you do. The most human thing of all. He was always good at it; songs to words, he always knew what to say to make you feel how he wanted you to feel. This was both a good thing (words to revolution, words that lead armies and inspired countries) and a bad thing (sharp digs under your skin that bury themselves too deep, knowing exactly where to poke to make it really and truly hurt,). And right now, swallowing all the pain and hurt and fear is anger and hatred, and that is all that Wil feels.

He has always been the heart, but he thinks now that his heart is too charred to beat, that all that is left is ashes, and so it is easier to let that fire sweep over him and immolate him alive and let them all feel that agony, than it is to try and construct a person when nothing beside remains.

He dreams of fire, and there is ash and blood in his mouth when he wakes, shivering and shaking, and he doesn’t feel entirely human anymore. Maybe he never was. Maybe the moment the arrow pierced his heart as he fled his homeland, he has been nothing but a walking corpse.

He doesn’t sleep much anymore, but between every blink there is a vision of red and orange, a sunset of destruction, and they are destroying his country brick by brick and they can’t even do destruction right, they can’t even make a martyr properly, they’re puppets and he will burn the strings, he will burn their wooden hollowness and the fire will leave his chest and he will be free-

It hurts; he feels like a sinner, ash and sackcloth and all, pulling at his hair as he realises that no one will help him, save his enemy, not a single one of them helped him when he needed it the most, not even after he laid down his life for them, not even when he had to watch his little brother bleed out in a control room for their freedom, not a single fucking one of them.

The atmosphere at the festival is an explosion ready for a match, a panic attack waiting to be triggered, that hitch of breath before it all spirals out of control, and he doesn’t know when he decided to die, but he knows that he decided that living was far too painful to continue. (And he promised to keep his brothers safe and look, look at where that has led them, surely they would all just be happier if they were dead)

(That’s not true, there’s a voice in the back of his mind, echoing and drifting like the final snowfall, made up of all the tears he never shed, and that voice sounds like his brother but it’s all him, and the fire eats it up, conscience and all)

But then the atmosphere settles, and no, that monster may have taken his nation, his brothers, every single friend he has ever had but he will not, he will not take Wil’s rage, the only thing keeping him upright.

(It has consumed you, and the voice is barely anything now, the faintest memory of the person he might once had been, it has taken all that you love and it has swallowed it whole and it will take you too, it is a rotting stinking thing and you let it in because you were afraid to be numb, because it is easier to burn alive to keep the people you love warm than it is to build a fire, because it is easier to hate than it is to grieve)

There is a cool touch to his face, and it is the first break in the flames that he has felt in weeks, and he -

Imagine coming back to live in a home after a fire. A fire so devastating that there is nothing but ash and charcoal and soot clinging to the walls, there is only a skeleton where there was once a home. A fire that gouged itself on the happiness that once found a home there, and turned this place hollow, once hallowed to cursed.

The next time he is aware of himself, a breath has stuttered in his chest, his chest where there is only a gentle warmth, and the flames are there but they are comforting, they are the kind that he used to roast marshmallows with, they are the kind that ask him, gently, to pick up his guitar and to sing. Wil no longer burns, but he is hollow, and he gasps, and for the first time, he does not inhale smoke.

His knees give out, and they both go down, because everything that had kept him going was gone, and he was empty, and the mist of numb terror and grief would be descending upon him at any moment, only there is someone screaming and he cannot escape into the echoing expanse of his mind.

There are hands on him and around him, and he is grateful for the warmth because he is so cold now, so cold without the inferno inside him, and he cannot breathe without it, he cannot live without it, why would he take it from him, he needs it, he needs it.

He needs it until his chest moves of its own accord, and he blinks in the sunlight and he can hear his brothers shouting his name and someone is still screaming and there are so many voices it hurts but he opens his eyes anyway, and pulls the disparate pieces of who he once had been into mismatch of a human being.

He didn’t need the fire. He didn’t need it. But he still ached for it, ached in the hollow empty way, a hurt scorched deep into his charred bones.

He aches for it, but his brothers fit into his arms and into his side and he would not trade the smiles on their faces or their tears of relief for a single moment. He aches for it, but they fit together like a missing puzzle piece, like coming home.

(The world is fixed. This is a miracle. There are dozens of worlds where this isn’t the case, where the fire swallows him inside and out, where the only thing that finally douses the flames is a sword between his ribs. They’ve been saved, and once his mind can work again, he wants to repay that favour in any way he can.)

The word madness is bitter in his throat, and he flinches when the others mention it, like they could divide that part of him away from their brother, from the person they really love. He doesn’t want to forget that he was the one that stoked the flames in the first place, he can’t and shouldn’t forget that they were his flames in the first place, and he can still feel their embers, because fires like his never really go away.

He shouldn’t forget, either, that he is not the only one that controls this. Not on a literal level, having weird extra powers as a minor god level, though he suspects that might help in the future, but in a sappy as shit, friendship is a power unto itself kind of way.

Even hollow, even empty, it gives him the clarity that he could not see through smoke and flames. The world pulled back into focus when the firestorm was plucked, hook line and sinker from his head, and all he could see… all he could see were his friends. His family.

The people he loved so much that he built a nation for them. (Oh, how alike he and his saviour are)

In the end, (and what an oxymoron, because life continues always, past endings, past saving, past heartbreak and joy and love and loss), in the end, there is a flame in his chest. It is not anger, or hatred or pain, it simply is. It flares when his brothers steal his things or pull him into their shenenigians, and it flares when that idiot of a goat president won’t stop being a fucking irrtating piece of shit (because, as always, somethings never change), and it flares when he helps out in the bakery and flour hangs in the air like snow, and it flares when he looks to his father and wonders if he is proud of him yet (yes, yes, yes, always, always, Wil, always).

In the end, a fire is not fed on hatred alone, and it hungers in a way that makes Wil throw open his curtains everyday and run headlong into another adventure, rather than waking up with ash in his throat and smoke in his lungs.

And if Wil gets used to the ache, he always knows where, and who to go to.

#My writing #wilber soot #dream mcyt #dream smp #'i'm not going to write for this fandom'#she says #writing for this fandom #oops

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yandere-wishes · 5 years ago

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Red Roses //Yandere! Kouen x Reader//

First song fic! For prompt 23 “We paint white roses red each shade from a diffrent person’s head”

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

You glared angrily at the fleet of guards that surrounded you, soldiers sent to accompany you from your homeland, and soldiers sent to deliver you to the royal palace. Each of their porcelain faces where stoic deprived of any inkling of emotion. 'Mindless brutes' you thought furiously to yourself.

You didn't want to be here, you didn't want to have anything to do with the corrupt kingdom of Kou. But alas what choice did you have? As the first princess of the Persian empire, it was your royal duty to forge an alliance with one of the most powerful empires that currently stood. Of course, when you and your father had set out to create this "so-called" alliance nither of you had expected the second prince of the Kou -scrawny dead-looking, thing he was-to proposes an arranged marriage to his older brother.

"No chance! No way!" you tried to invoke reason, hoping to convince your father and his court to decline the offer. It had almost worked too, your father ready to decline the proposal and instead search for a different route. That was until one of his top advisers began singing fables of what a magnificent ruler Kouen ren was, how he had conquered three dungeons a near-impossible task! After that, your pleas fell on deaf ears. Your father had become so entranced with the idea of his eldest daughter marrying a renowned dungeon capture that he stopped caring about who you wanted to marry.

The truth of the matter was, you didn't doubt that Kouen ren was a good man, a good future king, heck he may even be a good husband if you gave him a chance...but that could never happen, for another had captured your heart. Your attention, a man that had served you since both of you were merely little children oblivious to the troubles of the world. He had been your closest friend from before you could properly speak, the one you confined in more than your own flesh and blood. You loved him and he loved you. You dreamed of marrying him one day, so the two of you could rule toghter....yet somehow in a matter of days all your planes had been shattered you were no longer free to marry whomever you pleased. So much for a childhood love story gone right.

The emerald palace danced in view, its glittering walls were practically blinding. Steadily you marched forward in toe with the guards. Your eyes darted frantically trying to find the man that would soon be your husband. The only description you had gotten was that he was a tall man with crimson hair. Secretly you wished that he was hideous or had some major flaws like missing a limp or a tooth or lacking any manners. Anything that would give you a centimeter of leverage to use against this marriage.

The thick iron doors split, presenting you to a crowded room or guards, political leaders, and the imperial family - or what was left of it- along with the infamous dark magi. Your eyes trailed over each person linger longer than it should have. Dread slowly built up in your stomach, oh how you wished to be anywhere but here. Your steps where uneven wobbly and ill elegant. When you reached the head of the room, you shakily took a knee, eyes once more gazing at the blood-colored carpet in front of you.

"Please rise your highness" a raucous voice declared.

Anxiously you pushed your self off the floor, eyes still lingering on the floor. When your orbs finally rose to meet the prince, you were met with an emotionless looking man, his eyes seemed to be judging you, critiquing every breath you took, scars littered his arms and hands, occupying every inch of skin. Somewhere faded other a bright scarlet matching his messy locks. "So you are the princess of the Persian empire? I have to say I'm rather disappointed. When they spoke of you they made you out to be a sort of fierce intellectual, practically a scholar. But you, standing here before me, appear more like a little lost sheep who strayed too far from their flock." Every word the man spoke was gritty and harsh his tone was that of war drums declaring the commencement of a bloody battle.

Somewhere from the crowd laughter echoed, flowed by a harsh slapping noise and a whiny plea of "Mei it was funny" "Yeah ugly stop being just a stick in the--ow ow okay okay I'll stop, you gloomy-looking rat!"

An embarrassed blush sprinkled your cheeks, how dare this man defile you in such a manner! How dare his "family" have the nerve to laugh at you as if you were a court jester! Straightening your spine and raising your head higher, you proclaimed as proudly as you could! "It's been a long trip, your highness, I would very much like to retire to my room and further discuss the details of this forced marriage in the morning. "

Your eyes never once strayed away from his, your fingers had balled into tight fists, making your knuckles turn a snowy white. Passively Kouen waved a hand and a couple of maids rushed to your side using you out the side doors and down the long hallway. From the distance, you could faintly hear a gritty chuckle flowed by the red-haired man's sharp voice. "Force marriage she says"...

Night in the palace of this far off land was nothing like back home, they were restless and noisy. screams and whines filled the air with occasional noise of breaking objects and shatter glass. You had counted about eight times that a young female voice and a high pitch more masculine voice were screaming after a third party. Judar you believed the name was. children the lot of them where. You could even hear the voice of your "finance" yelling at someone to "get out of the dame library" and to "sleep in your own bed like a normal person!". It was hectic pure chaos. You leaned against your open window, peering out at the Jade city. Each of the houses and monuments shimmered in the moon's spotlight, like jewelers hanging from a pendant. For a merciful second, you began to forget your unjust predicament, instead of getting lost in the beauty of your future city.

Lost in your pitiful trance you didn't notice someone scaling up the palace walls. Until they had reached the window's edge. Noticing the hands you quickly recoiled, eyes wide with terror, your mouth was purchased ready to scream when the intruder pulled themselves up. They're basking in the moon's glory was none other than the boy of your dreams, your childhood lover. Your eyes began to tear up as he pulled himself into your room. "My darling?" His voice was so gentle like the finest silks, it wasn't terrifying or degrading in the least, unlike your husband to be's, rough military-like voice. Swiftly you ran up to your lover, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in this chest. "I miss you" he cooed as his fingers curled lock of your hair. His hands cupped your cheeks tilting your head so you faced him. "We haven't much time" he muttered, quickly detaching your arms from his neck. He scurried over to where your bags were, shutting them and dragging them by the window.

"I can't just leave!" you bellowed, "What about the alliance? What will Persia do if I suddenly disappear?" You looked at your lover's eyes sucking in every detail about him. For this could very well be the last time you saw him. "They'll send one of your sisters to marry that vain man! Why must it be you? You and I can run away, live a peaceful like in another kingdom far away from the nation's troubles!" He hoisted a bag up the window frame ready to jump down. "Well you do make a compelling poi--"

The door creaked open, permitting a white light from the hallway to spill inside. Meackly stepping inside was none other than the eighth imperial princess herself Kougyoku Ren. Her hair lost from it's usual restrains and instead of her usual long dress, she was dressed in a simple rosy nightgown. "Hey (y/n) I was thinking that since you're...." Her voice trailed off as she spotted the scene in front of her. Her lips stretched into a thin line. Shakily she took a step back, her pink eyes never once leaving either of you. "KOUEN!" her voice bounced off the walls echoing across the castle. In a matter of moments, a thunder of footsteps were heard.

You gulped rushing towards your childhood friend and trying to shield him from the guards that poured in. "Kouen! She-she's trying to escape." Kougyoku blurted out the moment her brother rushed to her side. From between the guards you caught Kouen's eyes, they held a sort of....glee. Not malice, not anger, not hate but a sort of deranged happiness.

You watched helplessly as the guards dragged your lover from the room. Every time you tried to latch yourself onto him one of the guards would pull you off and push you behind him. The room emptied out quickly, The guards all leaving to deal with the intruder and Kouen shooing his sister to her room. You double-checked, his face was deprived of frustration...maybe that wasn't a good thing, his lips were turned into upwards into a mangled grin, his eyes wide with an evil type of joy. In a few short threatening steps, he was right in front of you. He gripped your wrist and pulled you to his chest, stroking your head with his free hand. "Get some sleep, my darling wife, I want you to be fully awake for tomorrow." with that he gave you an almost loving kiss on the forehead before heading out. Leaving you to tumble to the floor as nonstop tears flew from your eyes.

The next morning you found yourself standing in the gardens with the first imperial prince. That horrid grin still dancing across his face. "You clearly aren't accustomed to the manner in which we do things here in the Kou empire, so allow me to explain. You see here in Kou we do now have red roses." He lifted a finger to point at some rose bushes on the further side of the garden. Somewhere a striking scarlet, while others, an innocent white. "So we paint white roses red, each shade from a different person's head". Your breath hitched in your throat. "Please don't do this" you begged, meekly you grabbed at his arm trying to earn an ounce of sympathy from him. Instead, he just chuckled. "It's a little late for that my dear bride to be" you followed his gaze, just in time to see the executioner lower the sword, slicing off your lover's head.

Time seemed to have frozen, blood spurted outstanding the once pure white roses. The open-air was filled with monotone applause....and your defeated sobs.

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wordofrecall · 4 years ago

Text

character playlists: ori

so. let’s do this. my playlists are long and scattered, but they make me happy, so i might as well share them and the thoughts behind song choices. so. here’s some songs for runaway knights & wannabe witches, and what have you.

something holy - childhood & riches & wonders

pearl diver - mitski - oh hunter, if you didn’t want the beautiful so badly, perhaps you would’ve found it in your spirit singing softly - look. it's on the nose, considering that her title is "the pearl hunter," but also, like, that rules. this is a song for wren, i think; ori in the present reflecting on her mother and the similarities between them.

icicles - the scary jokes - i can only be forgiven if i’m giving myself up to you on a silver serving tray / must i bare myself to the stabbing of your knife & gnashing teeth while our lovely company appears so entertained? - aaand a song for childhood. 99% of ori's socialization came from her parents having important guests over, so. uh. yeah. show off your reclusive child prodigy like a pageant whenever you have the opportunity. she probably won't grow to loathe you.

life: the cruel interlude (on god) - kilo kish - why do i dare believe in me when i bleed? - questioning was. always a big thing for ori. i don't think she ever believed that the mirzha was god, and i known that she never truster her father's patron, but. in her studies, in her passions, there's always this tiny sense of desperation for something to have faith in something. not herself.

bluejays & cardinals - the mountain goats - the stars come out of hiding for you, & i would too - there is. a lot, in ori's relationship with her brother. she was the favorite child, yeah, the one destined for great things in spite of her... troubles. but he never had those troubles! she didn't, doesn't understand how he went through life so unafraid. there's envy there. i also think that the line i quoted is terribly true, like, canonically. because. she sure did do that stupid shit.

be calm - fun. - take it from me, i’ve been there a thousand times--you hate your pulse because it thinks you’re still alive! - sometimes you have intense social phobia. and that's okay!

country death song - violent femmes - kiss your mother goodnight & remember that God saves, kiss your mother goodnight & remember that God saves - i think andrei is a much less pitiable or even sympathetic man than the narrator of this song, but. like. it's a country song about a father killing his daughter while preaching godliness. i had to.

i’m all bloody inside - liam lynch - inside me, well, it’s dark & gross as hell, i’m not a pretty sight - the family business!

the hazards of love 3 (revenge!) - the decemberists - but father, don’t you fear, your children are all here - fantasies. part of the fantasy is imagining a world where she doesn't feel terrible about the thought.

shankill butchers - sarah jarosz - they used to be just like me & you, they used to be sweet little boys - "blood hunters are ghost stories." "and also, they're fucking terrible. violent, cruel, zealous. the worst."

sparrow - st. vincent - & no eyes are on the sparrow, eyes are on the sparrow, how could that be the case? the lark keeps whistling his number, silly little number, as if he isn't prey - pity for the boy. sort of retrospective, but it's a thought that's been there since she was a child.

something burning - rituals & fire & running

starchild - ghost quartet - but i will transcend & vomit this loser out of me; i will become the next big thing, i will light myself on fire - maybe she is some kind of angel? bursting with radiance and terrifying to look upon.

arsonist’s lullabye - hozier - don’t you ever tame your demons, always keep them on a leash / when i was sixteen, my senses fooled me - oooor maybe she is a sixteen year-old who is having a panic attack and setting everything in sight on fire by accident.

blood - my chemical romance - i’m the kind of human wreckage that you love! - so she's broken.

girl anachronism - the dresden dolls - it’s not the way i’m meant to be, it’s just the way the operation made me - so she's failed and she's broken and she's sick, and there's no time to fucking think.

when the chips are down - anais mitchell - cast your eyes to heaven, you’ll get a knife in the back. - so she does what her mother did before her, and she runs from that which she has always known.

body terror song - ajj - i’m so sorry that you have to have a body / one that will hurt you, & be the subject of so much of your fear - feelings on being built Wrong; feelings on your mind's undue control upon your body.

in corolla - the mountain goats - & no one was gonna come & get me, there wasn't anybody gonna know, even though i leave a trail of burnt things in my wake every single place i go - very good as an ori song in general but this is her justification to herself in the water. under the docks, she says this to herself.

the harrowed & the haunted - the decemberists - will i be so brave? - just to get that oceanic vibe up.

luna - the mountain goats - rise through the flames & end again in flames at last - an inexplicable feeling.

unwhere - reeder - a song for leaving what you've always known.

something lonely - years & woods & dreaming

runs in the family - amanda palmer - run from their pity, from responsibility, run from the country & run from the city, i can run from the law, i can run from myself, i can run for my life, i can run into debt, i can run from it all, i can run 'till I'm gone - she is broken and all she can think to do is get as far away as possible

panic attack - liza anne - i hate that i can be seen like this

black eyes - david wirsig - my hammering heart hears the voices of spirits that tempt us, the scorn that they’ve spoken

for the departed - shayfer james - they will bury me alive, but i’m not inclined to care; i am too far gone now

hurt - johnny cash - everyone i know goes away in the end; you can have it all, my empire of dirt

my body’s made of crushed little stars - mitski - i work better under a deadline! i work better under a deadline!

blood in the cut - k. flay - guess i’m contagious; it’d be safest if you ran--fuck, that’s what they all just end up doing in the end

little pistol - mother mother - i think i might be scared of the world & the way it makes you feel afraid & how it gets in the way

villains pt. 1 - emma blackery - built to create, designed to destroy

the beer - kimya dawson - & the christians gave me comic books as if i would be scared of burning in hell while i was already there [...] i tried to scream fuck you but blood was pouring out my mouth

something safe - family & finding it & fighting together

haunted house - sir babygirl - i’m running just to hide & i’m hiding just to breathe & around every corner is the same night on repeat

your heart is a muscle the size of your fist - ramshackle glory - i love you & you make me glad to be alive; i promise that i’m gonna pay you back / you always know how funny everything is, even when i’m so serious that it’s gonna be the death of me

medicines - the taxpayers - o, but our rotting corpses lying there soon began to leak & grow these lesions that all smelled just like a rose / & all the blood & guts inside us germinated into timeless pages stained with lines of lovely prose

autoclave - the mountain goats - i am this great unstable mass of blood & foam

alligator skin boots - mccafferty - i’m cool to the touch, leap to my death, i’ll die for you all, i’ll die for my friends, it goes like this

100 years - florence + the machine - lord, don’t let me break this, let me hold it lightly, give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly

tomorrow will be kinder - the secret sisters - but i feel warmth on my skin, the stars have all aligned

armour - rae spoon - you know i placed was to build a life for you

amy aka spent gladiator 1 - the mountain goats - play with matches if you think you need to play with matches; seek out the hidden places where the fire burns hot & bright / find where the heat’s unbearable & stay there if you have to--don’t hurt anybody on your way up to the light, and stay alive

curses - the crane wives - won’t you stay with me, my darling, when my walls start burning down?

something daring - islands & visions & loss

jane’s dream - janelle monáe

beekeeper - keaton henson - hear me, o woman that has gone astray, gone astray

fire - kimya dawson - i’m reading books about how they’re corrupt [...] as long as i’m burning, i’ll keep on yearning to save the world, not sure how, but i’m learning

cosmic hero - car seat headrest - i love you, but i can’t stand the touch, & of course i’m alright with death

turn the lights off - tally hall - everbody likes to get taken for turns to see how bright the fire inside of us burns [...] should be stronger, books abandoned

eat you alive - the oh hellos - child, i’m afraid for your soul; these things that you’re after, they can’t be controlled

cry for judas - the mountain goats - hallucinate a shady grove where judas went to die

o death - monica martin - no wealth, no land, no silver, no gold, nothing satisfies me but your soul

blood of angels - brown bird - and i would wage my soul to bet that there ain’t no one throwing lightning anyhow

the universe is going to catch you - the antlers - the arms of the universe kept you from falling [...] those arms did not come back

a burning hill - mitski - i am the fire & i am the forest & i am the witness watching it / i stand in the valley watching it

something terrifying - conversations & selfhood & divination

the lamb - dessa - but blood is blood, & what’s done is done; blood is blood, & its burden is a beast

going invisible 2 - the mountain goats - i’m gonna burn it all down today & sweep all the ashes away

the lion’s roar - first aid kit - she plays a tune for those who wish to overlook the fact that they’ve been blindly deceived by those who preach & pray & teach, but she falls short & the night explodes in laughter

the villain i appear to be - connor spiotto - even if you can’t see the good inside me, i don’t have the time to tell you why i do the things that i do, just please hold on & soon you’ll seem

up the wolves - the mountain goats - there’s bound to be a ghost at the back of closet, no matter where you live; there’ll be a few things, maybe several things that you’re gonna find really difficult to forgive

thursday girl - mitski - glory, glory, glory to the night that shows me what i am

at the bottom of everything - bright eyes - we must take all of the medicines to expensive now to sel; set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell

everybody does - julien baker - i know i’m a pile of filthy wreckage you will wish you’d never touched, but you’re gonna run when you find out who i am

tongues & teeth - the crane wives - i know that you mean so well, but i am not a vessel for your good intent

a pearl - mitski - you’re growing tired of me and all the things i don’t talk about / sorry, i don’t want your touch--it’s not that i don’t want you

#original #this is. so long. and i will probably add more. but. Daughter.#ori #playlists

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randomnameless · 4 years ago

Note

I don't know if this has been asked before, but I was wondering what your thoughts on Rhea are.

Oh, I don't think someone asked it, but I remember a character meme.

Rhea's in the Julia tier : you're expecting things and the game doesn't give you any.

you asked for thoughts so this is long and rather unorganised even if i tried a bit and i feel like i repeated myself a lot so meh

If Edel and Rhea have one thing in common, it's being shafted by the need to make Billy the most special being every with the monstrous "I was lonely before you player-chan uwu".

Seteth'n'Flayn ? In the same trashcan Hubert went in.

Catherine, Shamir, the randoms living in the monastery? Dgaf but still she's willing to die for them so does she really gaf or not? Rhea's willing to give her blood and crest stone shards (to this day I still don't understand what those are) to trusted randoms who would become cardinals? "uwu player-chan". I know I've written a bit about it with the seirelm anon, but with the Canon-ish info? Post Zanado Rhea told a random dude she could turn in a dragon, gave her blood to the same dude and remained in his empire/fighting by his side for at least 30 years. Still “lonely without U Billy <3″

I've written this in the meme entry, but Rhea has her own net of relationships. They're not as important as Dimitri and his childhood friends, but erasing them for the sake of "player-chan" feels wrong.

Role and goals

Rhea's in an interesting place, being a former "legendary hero" like Athos, Sephiran etc.

Still her fight isn't over, she only defeated Nemesis and couldn't end the mastermind behind (a bit like Seliph if you only kill Arvis or Roy when you forget to pick up every legendary weapon). Also, if Seiros killed Nemesis, she hasn't won. In the current Fodlan, she still has to pretend to be a human, the Nabateans as a culture/population are dead. They're still 5 (ish? I think the apostles are lizards), she's still afraid humans will dice them if they learn the truth. Has she won? Idk. Could she win and make a Fodlan were lizards and humans could live together? I don't think so.

Her role as the Archbishop? Well, the game really liked Rhea as a red herring during white clouds and the way FE16 is built, around the monastery, reinforces it. Rhea's the head of the monastery, so she's the head of your world. Everything wrong with the world is automatically linked to Rhea.

So, when Marianne complains about people wanting to kill/ostracise her because of her crest, thinking it's a curse, we of course wonder "why Rhea can't tell to the randoms that no Marianne shouldn't be killed/shunned because of her crest?". Completely forgetting that, hey, Marianne's from the Alliance and heiress of Edmund, so if some people should intervene, it should be her dad "why the fuck are you trying to kill my daughter" or the Alliance council "Duke Riegan, could you please make a public statement about my daughter and how she isn't some sort of demonic beast so stop throwing rocks at her?".

Same thing with the Empire, why should you blame the church and the crests instead of the people doing shit? Hanneman's brother in law? Like is marriage so absolute that a husband can force multiple pregnancies on his wife to the point of literally killing her? The von Essar aren't as important as the Bergliez, but Hanneman's sister dying like that should have rang some bells? Hanneman's dad didn't care? No one wanted to appeal to the Emperor or something? If Jane the random or Karen the peasant died this way, it’d be usual class nonsense. But a noble woman??

Rhea should have done more to prevent crest abuse. She wrote tenets in her Bible and apparently doesn't discriminate in her monastery. But in the other countries? Idk. Her tenets are interpreted like your shopping list by Gloucester Sr "and add a part where interacting with foreigners goes against Seiros's teachings what yes I know better than those dunces from the eastern/central church".

It's not because Riegan Sr and Ionius aren't doing shit that she should do nothing too, but ultimately it falls on the usual landmine about Rhea's influence and power over Fodlan and if we consider Fodlan isn't just the Monastery we see but a continent made up of 4 autonomous states...

The so-called status quo isn't upheld by the church alone (if it is upheld in the first place!), but also by the empire and the Alliance... Lambert was toasted before making any changes, the Alliance is that weird thing where money is anything and crests/old nobility doesn't matter anymore, and the Empire is... Well. The Empire.

Regarding this, I find it really strange that Rhea went to Goneril and rescued one of their slaves, with how much she cares about protecting her monastery and not antagonising anyone, picking Cyril up, risking the ire of house Goneril, feels really risky from her perspective.

Imo WC doesn't sell me the "church rules over the continent" take.

Ultimately it doesn't matter because Rhea thinks she should have done more, and abused her position as the archbishop to rez her mom - I understand the "abused her position" as regretting her various omissions, like helping more people around etc etc.

I also feel like Rhea’s got a big survivor complex, and tries to fulfill impossible tasks. "leading/guiding the world?" she won't take an active role in it, but still resents the state of current Fodlan and wishes Sothis could restore some order (crest abuse? Or relics popping up right and left meaning more sibs dying). She wants to :

1/ guide the world and make it a better place (why complaining about the wayward Fodlan otherwise?)

2/ protect randoms who live under her protection

3/ make sure no one learns the truth about her appearance and relics at the same time.

I don't think it's possible given her current role and especially not possible on her own.

About 3/, call back to FE9 or not, but Rhea's paranoia is... Actually, not proven to be exaggerated in the game.

Ranulf was lynched in Crimea when he was discovered to be a laguz? In a certain route, Rhea's called a cruel beast due to her appearance, accused of not having "human" feelings and is depicted as a creature masquerading as a human. Hate and attack the woman all you want for things she did or might have done, but getting rid of her because she's not human? Rhea's right about not revealing her true nature, because, relics notwithstanding, humans will try to kill her for being a nabatean. Relic wise, in the DLC, we learn Aubin was recently turned in a relic, so that's even more reason to hide.

On 1/, wanting to promote peace in the land? National bias at play with rewriting history “to promote peace” issue. Rhea also built the officer's academy (if nobles from different states can live and study together surely they won't try to kill each other when they return home because they might have become friends?) and with help from the everyone in Fodlan (even the empire iirc?) built the locket to fend off Almyrian invasions. Not saying this is the best way to protect your borders but at least she tried to help instead of staying holed in her monastery.

Imo if Rhea didn't care about Fodlan, she'd have followed her bros and fortified herself in her monastery without accepting random humans to live with her, wouldn't have written a book about how everyone had to get along "unless it goes against the goddess" and wouldn't basically run what seems to be the biggest orphanage/place for the needy/and whatever is the abyss in the continent.

Not saying she doesn't have a priority, but Rhea tries to care, on her scale, about Fodlan's randoms.

About said randoms (and 2/)...

Well there's this bout with Lonato's rebellion and another herring where Rhea's all "I will destroy anyone who takes arms against the church and its believers" and it's extreme, I can’t deny. But if Lonato took arms and mounted a militia to attack Ositia's castle and its randoms? Hector'd have Armads'd Lonato without a second thought. Elincia had qualms about taking her weapons against her own countrymen who were used by Ludveck, but in the end, she took up her weapons to defend her castle, even if it meant she had to kill militiamen. Rhea's line seemed random and cold in the context, but it's the same general idea, attack her people and she will kill you. Still, if you don't take weapons against her, she won't react violently. Duke Gerth is apparently dick waving with Aubin's relic, but Shamir wasn't sent to recover the thing or to get rid of Gerth.

Ultimately Rhea blows her cover and abandons her dream to reunite with her mother to protect the monastery and its inhabitants in 3 routes (arguably in CF too). Someone once made a post about the differences between Seiros's and Edel's crowns and the symbolism of wings - the IO's wings are meant to protect. The IO is the guardian/protector. Rhea tanks missiles and buys time for the students to escape at the cost of her life.

Relationships

Rhea and Sothis? someone made a post summarizing my thoughts about their relationship, or lack of, and if we can argue Sothis was shafted by the devs like Rhea and Edel, ultimately the only important person to Sothis is Billy.

Billy doesn't warp Sothis's preexisting net of relationships, Sothis doesn't have relationships with anyone save for Billy. Rhea wants to meet her mom more than anything else (save for protecting randoms) but Sothis will never address that plot point. She only does in SS and off screen, and it ends up with Rhea wondering if she should live... so take it as you want, but to me it mustn't have been the "hug and pat on the head" kind of reunion.

Ultimately we see Rhea is able to let go of her dream (rez mom) in several routes, she understands and acknowledges Sothis will never return and Billy has her powers now, so either she dies more or less at peace knowing she can trust Billy with Fodlan's future, or she can return to Zanado and live peacefully with Catherine.

Which leads me to the Billy relationship,

As much as I hate player pandering, it makes some sense that Rhea would support Billy and not, let's say, Caspar. I still hate it though because Billy exclusive support means we were robbed of Rhea's other supports with, idk, her fam, Cyril, Catherine, Shamir, Alois, Hanneman, Manu etc etc.

In the beginning of WC, Rhea's pretty sure Billy's Sothis but without memories. Then in the non-cf chapter 12, she tells Billy they know what they are and thus must guide Fodlan, also telling Seteth Billy's a vector for sothis's powers, but not Sothis herself. In SS's finale she calls them "mother" but in her S-support finally acknowledges Billy's their own thing.

In CF Rhea's vicious in her trash talk but immediately jumps to the conclusion that Billy cannot be or hear Sothis, because, to her, logically, Sothis wouldn't side with Edel and her Agarthian allies (stealing the crest stones, Flayn, etc etc). Billy is something that stole Sothis's crest stone and sword and wants to finish what Nemesis started. I don't think CF Rhea snaps because Billy isn't Sothis, CF Rhea snaps because, again, someone is using her mother to kill her.

Rhea's also supposed to have been fond of Citrus to the point of talking to her remains (something she does with her mom) which could explain her sympathy for Billy regardless of the Sothis project.

Jeralt's a different issue, apparently they worked together for more than 100 years but Rhea never told him the truth about her nature, only about how he was saved. Still, Jeralt betrays when his baby is "weird" and unlike regular human babies so... Would he have ran away if he learnt what rhea was? Dumped Citrus if he knew she was an artificial being? Idk.

Catherine Shamir cyril and pals (Alois)? We don't know bcs the game dgaf about anyone not named Billy. As I said above, It’d have been nice to get more interactions with randoms she is working with, or at least showed some care, but nope. “Player-chan uwu” strikes again.

Seteth'n'Flayn? Rhea's close to them, she gets out of her room to look for Flayn and Cyril and Catherine note how she seems close to Seteth (who's totally her bro), but again, the game hates us. FFS don't think she has a line with Flayn!

Secrets and explosions

Tied to 3/ and 1/ from earlier, Rhea keeps a lot of secrets which could justify her lack of relationships/supports with the others... but this argument falls flat, because she’s not the only one with a secret and if Flayn doesn’t seem to care that much about hers, Seteth does and is still able to support students and staff members. Which leads to tragedies.

The Christophe incident is not well documented, and while we learn Rhea was the target of Christophe’s attempt because Western peeps told him so, it is not very well explained why she didn’t execute him on those grounds instead of falsifying charges about involvement with the Regicide. We are told it was to stabilise the Kingdom, but I still don’t know how the Kingdom would have suffered backlash if Rhea told the truth (maybe it would have led to open conflict between the western church and the central church in the kingdom, when the kingdom needed stability at that point? idk).

Still, Lonato wants revenge for Christophe, not because he was executed on false charges, but because he died ; imo, if Lonato learnt the truth, he’d still be out for Catherine and Rhea’s head.

Aelfie’s gambit is more of a direct result of Rhea’s secrecy, because she had “no words” for him about why Citrus was still in pristine condition, he gave up and tried to rez her. Would it had been different if she told him what Citrus was (and by extent, what she was)? Idk. Maybe, maybe not.

Still, Rhea doesn’t keep secrets from everyone every time - she once trusted Willy and told him about her alternate form and it exploded 1k years later, when Willy’s descendants are out for her head because she’s a creature masquerading as a human (I know mole people also played a part, but I guess it sticked more with Edel and the gang who already knew Rhea was a dragon ; trying to convince a random that “hey, this woman is a dragon !” would be more difficult). CF-wise again, Rhea trusts Billy with the SoC and, again, it explodes. In CF Rhea feels betrayed, she trusted some people and now the very same people (or their descendant in Edel’s case) are trying to kill her.

So it’s not a case of someone never trusting anyone, it’s someone trusting some people and regretting it afterwards (in both routes + CF at least, even if I firmly believe the “evil lizards ruling over the world” spiel doesn’t come from Willy, but from later emperors influenced by mole people).

There can also be a point made for Aelfie, who might have been able to merge with Citrus to create an umbral beast because he had Rhea’s blood and a crest stone shard - Citrus being a fake Nabatean and Aelfie having a crest stone + blood might have produced CS’s final boss? Rhea trusted Aelfie with a crest stone shard and her blood, and he became an umbral beast.

Interestingly, Rhea is hell bent on keeping her secrets regarding her identity, in SS Seteth has to beg her to reveal everything to Billy when Billy is the most important person in the world “uwu” or at least, the only person Rhea supposedly opened to. Even the “uwu” factor isn’t enough, on its own, to make her reveal the truth about her identity.

She gives Claude half-truths, and has to be on death’s door to tell him everything - still occulting Seteth’n’Flayn, to the point where Claude later wonders if there are other children of the goddess around.

Vengeful Rhea?

Rhea isn't a stale piece of bread like Julia. She says mean words to Nemesis but also brutally kills him. Rhea cannot forgive the Elites. I know it's very different, but Julia "dad is the kindest man I ever knew" making a 180° “i must atone for what dad did eff him” will always make me throw up - she doesn’t have to be vengeful or try to stab Seliph with a butter knife, but no acknowledgement of “dad’s the bestest” after his death, or even, of his death is meh.

To Rhea, Nemesis and the Elites are a trigger point, and everything related to Zanado. CF!Billy using her mom’s powers is like Nemesis, CF!Billy + Edel pillaging what remains of her siblings in Nemesis’n’Dudes. Flamey doing his shit with Flayn also parallels that. There’s the usual “vengeance sucks” speech to be given, but also the Tellius verse where Laguz aren’t depicted in a bad light when they want to destroy Izuka or when Tibarn learns Lekain was responsible for Serenes’s massacre.

Still, unlike Tibarn’n’pals, Rhea, unlike Macuil, doesn't seem to hold a grudge against descendants of the Elites. Maybe she had faith in them when she told them not to abuse the power of their crests, but then their descendants forgot or didn’t care and we’re in the so-called crest system.

In SS, Seteth asks the BE students if they want to return home to the Empire and how he won’t hold it against them. Seteth’s being Rhea’s right hand bro in this situation, I doubt he’d have proposed this solution without her approval.

She is vengeful and ready to pursue for more 90 years someone to kill them, but she won’t target that someone’s descendants or potential allies. I’ve read some takes about the Western Church being razed to the ground after Catherine’s paralogue, but iirc, Rhea’s only going to execute the Bishop there ; they appoint a new bishop in hopes to ease the relationships between the central and western church. There’d be no point to appoint someone to rule over a body that doesn’t exist...

Grey waves

Wave 1 : Another parallel with Edel is the will to sink in troubled waters to reach their goals.

However, Rhea stays on the surface.

Aelfie thinks Seiros failed to rez Sothis with the chalice because she didn't take more blood from the apostles. Blood rituals are creepy and gave an umbral beast. Seiros didn't pursue and sought another mean to rez Sothis without killing her bros. Rhea makes homunculi to host Sothis's soul? It fails but the homunculi isn't destroyed asap to make another one, hell, Rhea cares about them (which is all kinds of fucked up on its own).

AM wise, iirc, Seteth and Catherine say Rhea'd never forgive them if they run to save her instead of saving randoms first.

Still, making homunculus to create a vessel for her mom - making artificial lives - is problematic, she’s ashamed of it “i did questionable things” and Seteth berates her on her “questionable” experiments.

CF!Rhea eats babies during the final map. She burns the city to make her last stronghold and refuses to run away. CF!Rhea, at the end of this route, completely abandoned goal 1 2 and 3. She wants to survive, yes, but to recover Sothis, no matter how. She still seems to care about humanity, but takes everything too literally and is persuaded humanity and humans are after her to hurt her and her mother (i’m pretty sure uncle Arry was waiting with his Agarthan tech suitcase for Edel to deal with the beast in the background). Contrary to CF’s chapter 12, Endgame!Rhea doesn’t have lines when Catherine and Cyril fall. She’s still siding with humans, but she’s in this for herself now.

Of course, CF!Rhea is special, because CF!Rhea lives again through her trauma, CF!Rhea lost her home, her bro and niece a few chapters ago, she lost her human allies, apparently some peons from her church are deserting and Uncle is waiting with his portable electric saw to turn her in a shiny sword, because she trusted a corpse with Sothis’s heart and spine and trusted a human 1000 years ago with her secret. And now said corpse follows someone who rings at her door with an army, wishes to obliterate her unless she surrenders (?) and works with Uncle and his dubstep pals.

In the other routes, Billy doesn’t want to killer her with her mother’s spine and tries to defend her home, Seteth’n’Flayn aren’t forced into exile or dead and depending on the route she gets to see Uncle and his dubstep friends being buried under rubble.

Troubled waters to reach her goals also include slowing Fodlan’s technological advancements (but was it really slowing down Fodlan’s R&D’s department or cliking “no” when Mole People offer a free (for now) new technology that makes you advance from bronze age to the industrial era in one go?)

Wave 2 : Rhea’s anchored in the past, she wants to return to happier days with her mom and her family, but also wants to help randoms in Fodlan

She doesn’t seem to mind the present where humans do whatever they want, and yet will protect her people and tries (or tried since it’s history) to keep Fodlan safe.

I think the game wanted to tell us Rhea’s stuck in the past, but she also manages to form bonds (albeit fickle) in the present with Catherine, Shamir and, arguably, Cyril. Seteth’n’Flayn accept the past and try to move forward, Rhea cannot and yet is making baby steps forward, or at least to live in the present. “uwu factor” is supposed to mean Rhea’s stuck in the past and can only see Billy for what they are once she accepts to live in the present, but Rhea’s already fond of Catherine, calls Aelfie her child, was fond of Citrus and Jeralt, makes time for Cyril, etc etc. It’s not as clear cut as drinking tea with them but it’s still something that quashes the “lonely B4 U player-chan uwu”.

Rhea thinks her biggest grey wave is how she didn’t do enough for Fodlan and feels inadequate to walk in Sothis’s shoes as the guardian/protector of Fodlan - she could have done more, but she’s busy juggling with three goals, rez mom, protect fodlan, protect the fam.

I think one of her main issue (but the game was also made this way so) is to try to reach those goals alone, save for the “rez mom” goal, everyone in Fodlan, especially the heads of the three states should be concerned with keeping peace in the continent!

Lambert was BBQ’s, Riegan’s busy shitting on Gloucester and Ionius is... well, Ionius. Add to that Mole People starting up shit all around the continent and you have the recipe for a disaster. I’m not saying Lambert and Ionius should have participated to the “protect her family” goal, but at least not trying to eradicate them to turn them in relics would have been nice, sadly Ionius’s bro in law was an Agarthan.

Even if she is nearly immortal compared to a human, Rhea can’t do everything on her own. That’s why I ultimately think a SS ending is doomed to fail, Billy will try to be Rhea 2.0. and in 1000 years it will fall apart again.

AM ending? Billy will become like Rhea was post War of Heroes, but when Dimitri’s descendants start to do shit, his Kingdom disappears and humans start to return to their usual shitty selves, what will Billy do?

VW ending is kind of the same, Claude wants to open the borders and make everyone able to live regardless of their differences, but what if 940 years later an Almyrian president decides to build a wall between Fodlan and Almyra and make Fodlaneses pay for it? What is immortal Billy, who knew Claude and his ideals, going to do?

Wave 3 (lol i nearly forgot but remembered when i was rambling in the tags) : Rhea and technology !

The DLC book and Word of God said she slowed advance of technology in Fodlan to protect peace etc etc. But there’s a book where a cardinal said “eff to autopsies else people won’t rely on us with faith magic” which is... kind of weird. There’s a reason why Rhea might have approved that ban (Why does Freikugel look like a hip bone?) but it still deprived Fodlan’s randoms from the scientifical advance of autopsies... and made people reliant on faith magic.

Actually, the book goes

“Though it is widely believed that this is medically relevant, such actions upon a corpse are considered desecration of the dead. Since white magic can be used to a similar end, autopsies were deemed taboo. A notable cardinal asserted that if medical science were to excel over faith-based white magic, it would destabilize the foundation of the church “

I already pointed out the WTF between faith and white magic (Seteth doesn’t believe his mom is real so he has no faith boon) but interesting to note “desecrating the dead” is still something of an argument nowadays, not regarding autopsies but other practices like anatomical theaters etc etc. Maybe White Magic isn’t intrusive and yields the same results? idk.

Interesting to note, it’s a cardinal who edicted/justified that ban (Rhea as the head of the Church would have given her approval oc). As pointed out with the Freikugel example, Rhea’d have a personal interest in preventing humans to know more about anatomy (goal 3/). Would people stop looking to the church to be healed if “medical science” progresses too much? Maybe. From what we see in the curren Fodlan, it doesn’t.

Also, French version translated the “foundation of the church” as “stability” of the church - would the church become unstable or challenged if people could heal without using white magic? Again, we ultimately know that it doesn’t, magical science and medical science coexist, Manuela gives a short summary of the two - they have different effects.

As for things Rhea herself banned : Telescopes, Oil exploitation and Printed Press.

Telescopes were banned because Rhea thought it would increase violence during wartimes and would make it too easy to snipe from afar (TFW mages with bolting can do the same without telescopes, but they’re limited by their range and if they have a gloucester’s crest by Rhea’s sister’s femur’s range or whatever is Thyrsus). We know the mole people use (and most likely used before during the Sothis war) this technology. The “lessening the mystery of the goddess” thing is noted by Edel herself who wonders if the Goddess could really have come from space since it’s super far away. Edel doesn’t know the Goddess is an alien dragon-thing though.

Oil exploitation : “Misuse could result in accidental death” tfw random Faerghus countryman thought it was water and died :’(

Used tactically by those lacking magical abilities - like gambits? Was Rhea thinking that a random human cannot set fire to an entire city (lol) on his own with his limited spell pool/uses, but if he uses oil then he would only be limited by the quatity of oil? So it’d be easier to cause mass fires? Or whatever Robin did in FE13 with the ships and the Valmese army? Also, if Rhea thought oil could replace humans with magic, does it mean humans with magic were supposed to do everything oil can do? Like making a lamp or they still used something else as fuel? “Competition for it could cause strife” Rhea acknowledged that if humans discovered this ressource they’d deem it as essential and try to get their hands on it, even if they had to wage war?

Metal molding Printing Machine : “after careful consideration” Rhea banned it because it’d be useless for illiterate randoms - well yes, but why should this be an argument? You don’t ban something because it’s useless, look, no one banned airpods - risk of mass circulation of false information or rumors : rhea wanted to prevent redshit from existing This is a way to control information, but funnily enough in the game, we see the results or someone deliberately using manifestos spreading misinformation - risk of “increasing disparity between church branches” (fr version has “rivalry” instead of disparity) what does it mean? The central church would have more means to print books than the eastern church so the eastern church would be jealous? Or the Western Church could mass print its doctrine and have more zealots than the central or the easter church?

Ultimately, all those bans were lifted with time, Manuela performs Jeralt’s autopsy, Edel’s imperial science division managed to guess the distance between the Blue sea star and Fodlan, Oil is apparently used in several gambits, Edel’s able to send manifestos around the continent and Seteth can write children books and sell them without difficulties. Hilda can also lose books which would be a big no-no even if you are a noble if books weren’t, kind of, mass printed.

So why those bans? To protect Fodlan and the fam, but since they were lifted with time, I don’t think Rhea abandonned her goals, most likely, she thought humans were making small steps to discover those technologies, slowly learning about them so they won’t have them when they’re not “ready enough” to use them.

The “ready enough” thing sounds paternalistic or what can be expected from a more technologically advanced alien, but technically Rhea’s part alien and she lived through (or not?) an episode where humans received technology and did shit with it (mole people) so maybe she won’t hand them the car with the keys this time, and instead let them figure out how to build the car.

Still, this is HC because, as usual, the game doesn’t let us talk or question Rhea about those things, so we can only infer, read between the lines or between pixels.

****

TBH, I didn’t care a lot about her when I played, but when she had to eat babies in CF I grew more interested. Other bloggers already pointed it out, but Rhea’s a Tiki, but also a “traditional FE lord” in the sense she avenged her mom who was killed by the king of another kingdom, lived in exile and raised an army to fight against the King.

Still, Rhea didn’t end up as the leader of the world, or as the first Empress of United Fodlan, or something like that. She let Willy do his thing. Why? How? Why didn’t she became an integral part of the Empire, if she had been politically important, or a kind of seer/oracle, it would have been difficult for the Empire to go against her!

But nope, Rhea figged away in her mountains to rez her mom, sprout some “doctrine” (she could have done the same as an Emperor/Seer/Oracle) and watched over randoms who made up her “church”. She sometimes tries to intervene in Fodlan’s best interests, but it failed. Because Rhea doesn’t want to rule. She feels like she has to be a guide, but when humans don’t follow her? Well, what can she do? FE16 doesn’t show us Rhea sending her knights against the Empire when the Empire kicked out her Church and basically said “fig” to her face. FE16 doesn’t show us Rhea being angry and punching Gloucester in the face because he doesn’t show “real piety” and sprouts doctrine out of his rear.

Still, when she has to take a more hands-on approach and cannot be a distant figure/guide, she complains about maintaining a certain image as the Archbishop and how she cannot socialise with students or even walk around without Seteth randoms guarding her. She feels her mother would do a better job and tries to act as a proxy. Imo, Rhea’s bound by duty to her mom, to her sibs dead and living, and to Fodlan. She doesn’t reject her role, she accepts it, she doesn’t like it yes, but if going Gandalf in non-CF chapter 12 shows, she will fulfill it.

What’s most saddening though, is how her duty is a self-imposed one. Rez her mom? She personally took the challenge, because she misses Sothis the most and feels ashamed of this feeling to the point of not telling Seteth about it (interesting enough, Indech seems to be aware Billy’s Sothis incarnation and didn’t jump to the “Billy must be one of Nemesis’s kids with the crest of flames” conclusion, as if he knew Sothis could “incarnate” one day, but was he thinking Sothis would incarnate on her own or Rhea would trigger it? Flayn also suspects a thing about Billy being related to them because of Rhea). Rhea personally thinks she has to lead/guide Fodlan and make it a better place, ignoring the heads of the 3 states who should also be concerned with this goal. Rhea will create a false history to protect her living siblings when Macuil and Indech won’t give a fuck and live in their bestial forms somewhere, and when Seteth hides, but made it clear his only wish is to protect Flayn and the apostles, if they were really lizards, disappeared in random villages.

FE16 isn’t interested by Rhea’s story though.

That’s why I’m desperately waiting for a War of Heroes DLC or prequel of BSFE or whatever because I don’t really care about Fodlan in 1180 and who can have a perfect tea time with Billy or not.

I’d like to know why Birdie and Indech figged away, why Rhea thought letting Willy control the entire continent when he knows she’s a dragon was a good idea, why the Apostles didn’t take part in the Nemesis fight, why Fodlan’s humans decided to side with Willy in his brand new Empire instead of staying with King Nemesis, did Sothis have a previous faithful and what happened when she disappeared, were the Nabateans tyrannical rulers over humans which made some with Nemesis’n’pals, what were they supposed to do when they left Zanado, etc, etc.

So just like Julia and the baijilions AU ideas I came up with, Rhea’s a fuel for AUs because her base game dgaf about her.

#anon #replies #long reply #FE16 #Rhea stuff #the julia tier #everyone hates that tier #it's when you have something interesting but you're not supposed to care about it #fuck the uwu factor ffs #burn it to oblivion #i really really hope next FE won't have an avatar #eff billy #tfw you could have Tellius' herons but Reyson's more interested in Billy than in explaining what happened in the forest #what happened in the forest will only be explained in an infodump at the end of the game #i hate it #relics? we don't care #the equivalent of AU where Julia gets her memory is AU where Rhea is playable and gets 10 chapters #i read somewhere that bar Edel'n'Hubert CF warps every character to their worst selves #Endgame CF!Rhea doesn't care about wanting to keep peace or protecting her fam she wants her mom back she litterally screams it #banana point though #depending on your PT she might not have any family left save for Birdie and Indech #i won't say rhea did nothing wrong though #but i hope i didn't forget a thing #i like her #less than hilda of course bcs Hilda is my fave #FE4!Hilda of course #give me a WoH DLC IS or even a manga at this point i'm desperate even a Seiros alt with 5 lines #Rhea parallels the 3 lords but won't talk to them #only claude could but then Nemesis rang at their door and we wasted that convo with a billy reveal like fuck idc #like 'relics were made from my family bones but also billy's not a human' and the only reaction is 'omg billy's not a human???'

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starberrywrites-ships · 4 years ago

Text

The Side Of Paradise

Linhardt x Bernadetta

Based on the song: The Side Of Paradise by Coyote Theory

"So if you're lonely, no need to show me, If you're lonely come be lonely with me"

Read on AO3: HERE

Ask me why my heart's inside my throat

I've never been in love, I've been alone

Feel like I've been living life asleep

Love so strong it makes me feel so weak

Linhardt isn’t the most affectionate person if you will. It’s not as if he wasn’t exposed to such treatment growing up. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. His parents were very expressive in showing their appreciation to each other. It never bothered Linhardt, he just thought it wasn’t something that needed his attention. Linhardt is blunt, and straight to the point. He’s a realist, having to constantly make sure Caspar didn’t get himself killed while also spending every day reading, collecting notes about crests.

Crests. They have always been fascinating to Linhardt. Capturing his attention the moment he saw his own father doing research. Linhardt first started with the crest easily accessible. His own. The crest of Cethleann. A symbol of kindness and mastery of light. Ironically, Linhardt sees himself as the opposite. Being nice to those who aren’t worthy seems like too much work. And he thinks of himself as a mediocre healer, especially for someone who hates blood.

Living out a proper childhood? He was too busy. He found his passion early on in life. Quickly learning he didn’t need anyone else. And he was fine with it. He liked being alone.

(Are you lonely?) Our fingers dancing when they meet.

It was the Imperial year 1180. The year Linhardt was enrolled in the Officers Academy. At first, it seemed like a bother to him. Having to be around people more often than what he was used to? Not his favourite. But, the pros outweigh the cons. There was a whole library in this monastery, probably full of material Linhardt has never laid his hands on before. Not to mention, being able to research his classmates and their crests in certain scenarios? It was like a dream come true. Sure, the actual reason for going like training seemed important and all, but not really Linhardt’s concern.

Upon arrival, the first thing Linhardt did was dump all his books out. Most of his strength comes from hollering all those heavy books around. Asking for help was too much work. He would rather do things on his own than be in debt to someone else. It might seem selfish but that’s simply how he works.

Finally getting everything in his room. He let out a sigh, plopping himself on the bed. 10 moons. Linhardt will spend 10 moons at this academy, growing his skills, his knowledge, and maybe, even his relationship with others.

You seem so lonely (Are you lonely?)

I'll be the only dream you seek

Byleth, a recruited mercenary. Linhardt will admit, he was slightly disappointed. He wanted Hanneman as a professor. He had to set a reputation. In order to get the freest time to study, Linhardt’s first impression will be rude, uninterested, and sleepy. While being sleepy isn’t entirely a lie. It is true, if it was up to him, he would be spending his days sleeping. But sleeping means taking up time, and he finds time precious. He can’t just let it go to waste.

While pretending to be asleep on the floor, he watched as one of his housemates run out of the classroom. It seemed as if she’s not one to like people either. Although, she deals with it much more chaotically. It grabbed his attention.

Maybe she has a crest.

So if you're lonely, no need to show me, If you're lonely come be lonely with me

Bernadetta von Varley. The eldest daughter of Count Varley’s. Heir to House Varley, responsible for religious aspects within the Empire. And best of all, bearer of the Crest of Indech. She definitely was an interesting character. Always the first in class, and yet the first one out. Clearly very skilled in a bow, a factor of her crest. The only problem was, it was difficult to speak with her.

She was fast. Spent most of her time within her dorm walls. It was difficult to find her outside of her room without the presence of the professor. But Linhardt did notice a few things. Dining hall, greenhouse, library. All these places seemed to be Bernadetta’s favourite spots to be.

She was the only one who Linhardt hasn’t bothered yet. She was something else, so he spent his days in these areas for the small chance of being able to catch her and talk. He has had lunch with her before. But he saw how anxious she looked. Sitting on the edge of her chair practically waiting for the moment she can escape. So, Linhardt doesn’t mention anything. He can wait until she’s comfortable.

Lonely (Are you lonely?)

Passion is crashing as we speak

She paints. Linhardt learned this.

He wanted a change of scenery. Reading in his room just wasn’t doing it for him. So he went out and searched for a quiet place to read. It just so happened, he found Bernadetta in the same place. She began screaming and freaking out, stating how if she’s in his way, she can leave. A sense of guilt built up in Linhardt. Simply saying she is not a bother and can stay.

You would think Linhardt would use this opportunity to ask her a few questions. But he came to read. And besides, she looked peaceful. The two continued keeping themselves entertained. No words were exchanged for a bit.

Unfortunately, Linhardt has no filter. Showing Bernadetta a sense of admiration. Something she definitely didn’t want.

You seem so lonely (Are you lonely?)

You're the ground my feet won't reach

Once again, the two were together. It seemed to become a common thing for the two. If he was being honest, Linhardt completely forgot his objective. It seemed to spend time with Bernadetta, even with the silence, which was much more fascinating than her crest. She was fascinating. And Linhardt found himself wanting to learn more.

His approach to this was being honest. Usually, he keeps his mouth shut. But he wants to help and show Bernadetta he is willing to be blunt with her. Most people see her as weak, but he sees something else.

What he did not see happening, was her panicking the moment he spoke up about how using crimson, her original approach would have made the painting better. Linhardt saw it as a compliment. He made an error, something that would have been avoided if Bernadetta stayed true to her artistic view.

The fact she saw it as an insult, going on and on about how she must break her brushes, burn the art and never paint again. Linhardt was shocked, to say the least, perhaps, being honest isn’t the best approach. He felt saddened watching her run away.

So if you're lonely, Darling you're glowing If you're lonely come be lonely with me

The year is now 1185. The war had been going on for five years now. The whole process seemed so bizarre to Linhardt. He’s not a fighter. His fear of blood proves as a weakness on the battlefield. With the professor back after their disappearance during the attack on Garreg Mach, he has been feeling better. With Byleth’s help, he knows they will help lead Edelgard and the other Black Eagles to victory.

Life seemed so sacred now. Linhardt didn’t know if he would live to see another moon. The idea of it terrified him so. Would he really fall on the battlefield? All his research for years just, gone to waste? He couldn’t let that happen. He had something to live for. Something to keep growing stronger for. Or, more like, someone.

Looking back on his Academy self, Linhardt realized something. In class, during training and on missions, in the dining hall, before he slept and while doing research. His mind was thinking of Bernadetta.

How could he have been so stupid? Granted, Linhardt never would have wanted to imagine himself in a relationship. From his perspective, it seemed only crests were important. But lately, he’s been finding himself wanting to do better. Wanting something more.

Wanting her love.

Underneath the pale moonlight

Dreaming of a circus life

Carousels and Ferris heights

I'll be yours if you'll be mine

There was no way he was just going to say it. They’re in the middle of a war dammit. No one is sure of their fate. Linhardt decided to enjoy every moment he got instead. And luckily, he got many moments. Going out into the field. He was thrilled to find Bernadetta there painting. It reminded him how rude he was in the past, and happy to see she didn’t let his words go to her head.

It was beautiful.

Linhardt was amazed at how much she had improved. The art was captivating in every way. It brought warmth to his heart. Making him feel a certain way. It felt like home. And watching Bernadetta accepting the compliment instead of running away, it was a cherishable moment. And Linhardt let his guard down.

(Are you lonely?) Our fingers dancing when they meet.

You seem so lonely (Are you lonely?)

I'll be the only dream you seek

Cute.

Linhardt called Bernadetta cute.

At that moment he wanted to tell her she was cute. Adorable. Pretty. Stunning. Absolutely beautiful. But, that would be too much for her heart. Besides, with the war still not finished, it’s best he doesn’t mention that he’s in love. At least, not yet.

For now, the two can be alone.

Alone together.

So if you're lonely, no need to show me If you're lonely, come be lonely with me

They won.

Rhea was killed and the war was over.

It felt like a dream come true.

Are you lonely? Passion is crashing as we speak

“Bernadetta,”

You seem so lonely

Linhardt nervously walked up to her. Was this okay? Was all this okay? The idea of having the chance to be happy, was he worth it?

You're the ground my feet won't reach

“Yes, Linhardt?”

So if you're lonely

She was beautiful. She was unafraid. Bernadetta trusted Linhardt. That much was clear. And it made him flustered.

Blush reached his cheek, hiding his hands behind his back. Clearing his throat while attempting to make eye contact. “You . . . mean a lot to me Bernadetta. Ever since our academy days, I’ve wanted nothing more than to be with you. You said yourself, we find comfort with each other's presence. That’s we’re alone . . . together.”

Darling, you're glowing

“Of course I remember, you mean a lot to me too Linhardt.” She says, blushing. The colour on her cheek brought up Linhardt’s confidence.

He can do this.

“So much in fact . . . I’m in love with you,” He stated.

If you're lonely come be lonely with me.

“Will you marry me?”

#fire emblem three houses linhardt #fe linhardt #linhardt fire emblem #fe bernadetta #bernadetta varley #fire emblem bernadetta #Bernadetta von Varley #linhardt von hevring #Linhardt x Bernadetta #bernadetta #bernhardt #bernadetta x linhardt #linhardt #fire emblem linhardt

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