#this is not meant to be poetry or anything eloquent. like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

banisheed · 6 months ago

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TIMING: April 27th, 2024; one day before the trial LOCATION: Ireland PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Xóchitl (@vanishingreyes) CONTENT: Child death tw (discussion), Domestic Abuse tw (child abuse; reference to) SUMMARY: Siobhan and Xóchitl spend some time together in the shack and learn some things.

“Have you read this one?” Siobhan held up a new, yellowed book: Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess. Bored, Siobhan had taken to asking Xóchitl if she had read any of the various books on her great-great-grandmother’s shelves—all books that she has read a dozen times over, at least. “Is it controversial if I say I liked The Secret Garden more?” As she asked, the pages fell from the decayed book, collapsing into a heap on the floor. “I think the book agrees.” She was on to the next and upon reading the spine, she lit up. “Oh!” With a smile, she pulled the book out. “The Haunting of Hill House! Shirley Jackson! Now this one is just…” Siobhan held it to her chest and sighed; yes, it was shameful. All of this was shameful: loving her great-great-grandmother this much, missing her, adoring human literature, having a human friend, being happy. “‘Cup of stars’…have you read it?”

It was at that moment that the closet shook with an unnatural ferocity. “Just the wind,” she said. It shook again, muffled clicking shooting out between the slats. She really needed to put that damn leprechaun somewhere better, but for now, all she had was the closet. Well, she’d tied it down good; there was no way it would escape and Xóchitl, despite how fond of her Siobhan was, was still human. Which meant, of course, that she was stupid (and inferior). “The Bell Jar.” Siobhan ignored the noises and pulled a new book out. “This is actually a first edition. Plath was…well, maybe there’s her poetry here somewhere.” In the closet, the leprechaun continued to thrash its tiny body against the doors.

—

“Mackenzie liked it.” Xóchitl chewed the inside of her cheek. Mackenzie had liked the idea of princesses, Mackenzie had basically been a princess herself. Except one of those nice ones, not the ones who were snobs. She’d never been a snob. Which now, looking back, did surprise her. Which in turn made her feel guilty, because how could she conceivably judge someone who’d died before they were even in the double digits? Maybe she was the monster, but this wasn’t time to dive into that. “I have read Hill House, yeah.” It had made her cry. “Have you? But – you’re allowed to like whatever books you want, I think.”

She jumped at the sound of the closet shaking. “The wind here is something else. I don’t – it’s just quite something.” And maybe Xóchitl needed to calm down, maybe she needed several shots of tequila or anything. She wasn’t picky. “That’s amazing.” Which was hardly anything eloquent, but screw eloquence right now, right? She didn’t have to put on a face with Siobhan. Maybe breaking down wouldn’t be it, but she could talk however she wanted.

Probably.

Except that she couldn’t focus on whatever Siobhan was saying. “I – the wind is really something. Are you sure the closet’s stable enough? I wouldn’t want to go ahead and risk something breaking.” She fiddled with rings that didn’t exist on her fingers. Very uncharacteristic of her, but there was something vaguely familiar about the rattling that set her on edge.

—

“Mackenzie…” Siobhan repeated her name, staring down at the lump of pages that once belonged to the book. Of course, here in Ireland, here in this shack, everything was full of grief. It was soaked into the moors. “I’ve read everything here,” she said, setting the books aside. “As much as I could. Isn’t that the way with these things? When you’re young you just try to…” Siobhan gestured around her, unsure of what point she was trying to make. “…take it all. You’re both taking everything for granted and selfishly wanting it all.” She had a certain hunger then for these stories, even if she’d never admit it. She wasn’t even sure her great-great-grandmother read any of them—her mam. It was strange to think of her by her name, or the names she called her; there was only the space she left behind and Siobhan’s fear of reviving her, as if her name were a spell.

Somewhere in the past, her roaring laughter echoed across the open pastures. Now, the closet shook and rattled and had Siobhan been paying attention, she might’ve been able to save someone from more grief. As it was, she’d been too far trapped inside her own. The closet burst open and a chair tumbled down, crashing onto the ground. The tiny gray body strapped to the chair wiggled around, clicking and whistling. “Oh, that’s just my uncle,” Siobhan said dismissively. She failed to care that her supposed uncle was only two feet tall, with a very large head, naked and a color far beyond anything natural. “And he just adores closets and being tied to chairs.” Maybe she should have been nicer to the damn leprechaun, but she couldn’t risk it running off—which the thing would certainly want to do now. In for a tibia, in for a femur, as they said; there was no undoing her kidnapping of it.

Siobhan walked over and picked the chair up and for just a moment, the leprechaun stopped struggling and looked right up at Xóchitl.

—

“That’s incredible.” She offered her friend (they were friends, right?) a small, kind, and hopefully calming smile. Siobhan’s words felt far too true, resonated far too well. Though Xóchitl supposed she ought not to be surprised. Everything about Siobhan was elegant, from the way she held herself to the way she dressed to her words. So maybe Xóchitl still sort of had the hots for her in some sort of way. Not in the way that meant that anything would or needed to happen, but still. There was something unbelievably beautiful about her friend. “I was a hungry kid. Or at least that’s what my moms say. Hungry for everything – she was too.” Siobhan would know that the she in question was Mackenzie, wouldn’t she? She had to.

Xóchitl was ever so slightly taken aback by the comment on it being Siobhan’s uncle. Though everyone had their things, and being tied to chairs in closets wasn’t even close to the weirdest preferences that she’d heard about.

Except that she looked to where this uncle had fallen out, and Xóchitl felt every last bit of air leave her body. Because – no. There was no way, was there? The – the whoever or whatever – on the chair brought her back to the playground and the promise of over-indulgent ice cream sundaes and – Xóchitl couldn’t breathe. It was a rock.

It was a rock.

A rock attached to a chair and it looked at her and she sunk down to the floor and pulled her knees against her chest. “I – can – no.” So much for any reputation for eloquence that she might’ve ever had. “No.” She was going to be sick. The rock’s eyes stared at her and she was a child again, even if her screaming was internal this time. “I – why – that’s really your – you know. Un,” she coughed violently, as if coming up from underwater, “uncle?”

—

Of course, it was normal to expect that the tiny mind of a human (forgetting the fact that human and fae minds were the same size) would be unable to grasp the magnitude of a leprechaun (ignoring the fact that there is no magnitude to a leprechaun), but Siobhan hadn’t anticipated it from her fri—human that she slept with one time. A human that was beautiful. A human that held so much grief. Fuck. Fine. Her friend. She hadn’t anticipated it from her friend. How could affection be realized like an electric shock? It lightninged through her, thundering in her chest. She felt guilty now. She felt like she really didn’t want to see Xóchitl’s panic.

But it was odd that she was so panicked, wasn’t it? Begrudgingly accepting her affection, Siobhan could ignore the usual expectation that the wondrous sight of a fae would shatter a human, and instead acknowledge that being on the floor was not a normal reaction. “Are you…okay?” The leprechaun was oddly still; Siobhan wasn’t paying attention. “Yes, it’s my uncle. I know he’s…” Two feet tall. “...tiny and…” Magnetic. “...gray but he, uh, married in.” Siobhan swallowed back the bile from her lies. She should have noticed. She should have known.

Leprechauns were tricky things. The creature loosened the ropes and in a flash, flew up in the air. It dove through the space, setting its sights on the human. It whistled through its razor teeth.

—

She wasn’t supposed to have panic attacks anymore.

She’d done her job, gone to therapy, and wasn’t that supposed to fix things? Xóchitl knew that wasn’t true. Hell, she was a therapist and she knew for a fact that she couldn’t just fix everyone. Even if she wanted to. Even if she tried to. Tried to save people in the way that she couldn’t save Mackenzie. It was naive and stupid, and maybe she was naive and stupid. Maybe she was imagining things. She’d dreamed about the stupid murder-y rocks more times than she could count, but this didn’t feel like those. This felt all too real. She’d never been too great at imagining stuff anyhow, so she was pretty sure she couldn’t dream this up.

“I –” Xóchitl shook her head. She didn’t want to lie to Siobhan. She wasn’t sure if she could, after all the two of them had shared. Emilio didn’t trust her and usually Xóchitl would’ve immediately sided with him but there was something soft about the Siobhan she knew. This Siobhan who wouldn’t – who couldn’t do anything to hurt her or anyone – that just – no. So she shook her head again, reinforcing it. “No – I –”

“No.” She started again. “He – it – he – I –” she was never someone at a loss for words, but then the gray thing launched itself at her and she screamed, and she wasn’t sure her voice had hit that pitch since the day at the playground. Xóchitl ducked under the closest table. “That’s – I – Pensé que era mi imaginación.” I thought it was my imagination. “It – that’s – Mackenzie. I – that – that’s what killed her.”

—

Over the steam engine whistles and furious clicking, Siobhan couldn’t hear what Xóchitl was saying. She dove at the leprechaun, just as the leprechaun dove at the human, and pinned the tiny creature to the floor. “What?” she asked. Then: “Fuck.” The creature slipped between her fingers, bouncing off the old cabinets and shelves. It slammed against the walls, clawing at the stone. Kicking off the wall, it shot around the room before it crashed on top of the table, screeching and pounding its tiny fists down. What had Xóchitl been saying? Did it matter with a two foot tall creature screaming around the shack?

Siobhan swooped down on the table, jostling the old thing on its old, uneven legs. The leprechaun was in her grasp, clicking at her faster than she’d ever heard a leprechaun click before. Then again, she’d never really pissed one off before. She had the leprechaun, squirmy as it was, but she didn’t have her friend. What had she been saying? He—it; was Xóchitl confused about its pronouns? Siobhan wasn’t sure that mattered, gender was not a leprechaun construct. Then there was the Spanish; Siobhan’s knowledge of Spanish was abysmal. She knew only what little she’d picked up from Metzli. What was she saying? Mackenzie. The kid? The one that died? Her friend?

Siobhan looked down at the creature, as if assessing its capability for child murder. Could a leprechaun kill? Yes. Would a leprechaun kill? Yes. Could and would a leprechaun kill a human child? Absolutely. The leprechaun bit down on Siobhan’s hand and she groaned, trying to shake it off but finding it stuck on her like a leech. “You’re not supposed to hurt another fae!” For just a moment, the leprechaun paused, gesturing with one tiny finger to the chair it had been tied to. “That doesn’t count,” she said, but the leprechaun was off her hand and bouncing around the room again, leaving Siobhan to chase it around.

“Are you just going to stay under there?” Siobhan ran from one end of the shack to the other; the leprechaun tore up the walls, toppled shelves and crushed furniture. “I need this, Xóchitl! I need this more than…” More than what? More than her friend was allowed her grief? More than some lesser human’s emotions? If she felt that to be true, why couldn’t she say it? Siobhan leapt around the room; her blood splattered on the ground, coming to rest at Xóchitl’s feet. “Do something!”

—

She was doing a piss-poor job at keeping herself together. Though, to her credit, it wasn’t like she’d expected the murderous rocks to be here. Why were they – it (there was only one, after all) – here anyway? It didn’t make sense and it did make her feel extremely small and helpless and like she might be sick. Which couldn’t happen. Xóchitl refused to allow such possibilities. She was a grown up, and she was strong, and she was better than all of this. So much better.

So she pulled her legs against her chest. “I – yes.” It was too simple of a response, and Siobhan deserved more than that, Siobhan deserved Xóchitl at her best, her most eloquent, her most elegant. Not this, not a child, cowering under the table, half-picturing her best friend dead on the floor of the house. Even though she’d died years ago, all the way back in Maine.

She was buried there too, and Xóchitl still had half a mind to bring her flowers every day, no matter how ridiculous that was. She hadn’t been back since Mackenzie had died, and so maybe that was part of it. Wanting to make up for all the many (too many) times that she hadn’t been there. She hoped that people had brought teddy bears and dolls and flowers and holiday-themed things to Mackenzie, once she’d moved.

“It’s – what should I do?” She cursed in Spanish, “I – I can’t.” The back of her throat burned with even the idea of sickness, “I – Siobhan, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I – can’t.” Except that now Siobhan was in trouble, and she couldn’t lose another friend to the rocks. Or whatever this was. It was something that couldn’t be real, no matter how visible it was to the both of them, and Siobhan didn’t seem like she was joking, not right now. Xóchitl felt her body shake. “What – is it?”

—

Panic had a way of swallowing a room; emotion, Siobhan learned early, was never as simple as a flexed muscle, something individual and internal. One need only look at a hungry puppy to realize this. One need only look at the grown woman cowering under a table. No, emotion was more like a miasma, choking up anything in its path. Siobhan wouldn’t call it empathy, she didn’t have that. Obviously. “Fuck.” And she’d lost her eloquence too, flailing around with a throbbing hand and a furious leprechaun. Xóchitl’s voice was meek, and if not for the occasional glimpse of her long legs under the table, Siobhan would’ve mistaken her for a child.

She needed this leprechaun; too long had she tripped over what was expected of her. First, she couldn’t stomach asking Metzli—her vampire friend—to lie for her, resulting in kidnapping the damn leprechaun in the first place. And now she couldn’t…couldn’t what? Xóchitl didn’t matter to her; she’d asked the human here to play sacrifice, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that it? No, no—it wasn’t so calculated. Siobhan hadn’t been thinking about why much at all, which was her problem. Humans didn’t matter—no, wasn’t Xóchitl a friend? Why would she be friends with a human? Xóchitl was a hungry puppy, at best: a thing to feel bad about, pout at, crack open a can of food for, brew tea, ask about a dead friend. No, sorry. Wrong metaphor. Wait, where was she? Right; leprechaun, table, human, hand-hurt, leprechaun… leprechaun? Where did the leprechaun go?

Did Siobhan release the creature or did it simply slip out of her grip and run out the door clicking and whistling? She watched the leprechaun through the broken window, disappearing into the unkempt grass; her hands bloody but empty. Why did she do that? No, she hadn’t done anything. No, she had, and why did she do it? No, she would never have done anything that approached…whatever this was. Siobhan couldn’t appear in the same sentence as “generous” or “kind” or any word meaning about the same thing, of which she decidedly wasn’t. Though, neither could “Siobhan” and “friend” or “Siobhan” and “friend” and “human” or “Siobhan”, “friend”, “human”, “vampire”, “kidnapped leprechaun”, “artichoke” (she didn’t like artichokes and cheese-artichoke dips were always more cheese than artichoke and didn’t count).

For a moment, the shack was silent; Siobhan couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t some variation of ‘what is wrong with you’. Somehow, it felt too cruel, not that Siobhan was any word meaning the opposite of that. She needed the leprechaun and now the leprechaun was gone. She wanted to go home, she needed the leprechaun, and now the leprechaun was gone. She wanted to go home, be loved, be whole and perfect and she needed the leprechaun and the leprechaun was gone.

As always when faced with her ineptitude, which was becoming a very alarming constant in her life, Siobhan puffed out her chest and forced a smile. She leaned over the table and stuck her grinning head underneath. “My uncle had an appointment in the city. He won’t be coming back. Is it comfortable down there? Would you like a pillow?”

—

Panic had a way of finding home in the smallest spaces.

If she thought about it too long, there was a certain comfort to the panic that Xóchitl had. Which meant that she absolutely did not try to think about it too much. It shouldn’t be comforting, and it was just because she’d lived with it for as long as she had. Panic, sadness, sorrow, the ache of lack of fulfillment, something something twisted nostalgia, something else.

She was going to be sick. That was what Xóchitl kept circling back to, of all things. She was going to be sick and why did her mouth taste like long-promised ice cream? She wasn’t hallucinating. That wasn’t possible – and moreover, she wouldn’t allow it. She had to at least have that much agency left, didn’t she? Rhetorical question. If she could’ve glared at the universe, she would’ve.

Siobhan was her friend, and she’d come all the way to fucking Ireland to support her friend, and yet here she was, failing. Not even elegantly. Elegant failure probably bridged somewhere into the oxymoron territory (not strictly, but close enough), but Xóchitl wasn’t even coming close to that. No matter. Bigger matter at hand was the stupid rock man running around and trying to attack both her and Siobhan. Her words felt trapped in her throat, and she wasn’t sure what would happen if she tried too hard to get them out.

The clicks and whistles blared in her head, far louder than they actually were (right?), and even when she couldn’t see the rock thing anymore she could still hear the sounds and it felt like April on the playground again and she was tiny and she was weak and she was never going to get anything done.

She wanted Mackenzie. She wanted an impossibility that had gone away twenty-two years ago. She wanted to spend hours talking to her best friend and to ask her advice on dozens if not hundreds of things. She wanted her best friend and that was never going to happen. Her chest felt tight – tighter than when they’d read The Lottery in high school and she’d had to leave the room at the end. That part with the rocks.

“He did? And no – it’s – it’s not.” She tried to unfold herself, tried to show Siobhan just how okay she was, but she felt stuck.

She’d felt stuck in one way or another for the better part of two decades, she supposed.

“I – no. No pillows.” She wanted to apologize. She should apologize, but she couldn’t bring herself to. “I’ll come out.” Xóchitl pressed the palms of her hands against the floor, actively pushing herself out from under the table, though she could feel her body shaking. “Is he coming back?”

—

And anger could tear a home down; huff and puff away even the bricks. Siobhan’s mother didn’t get angry—what banshee did?—but she got something. Her features, sharp enough as is, would twist and scorn and Siobhan always knew, when her mother’s voice would rattle her beloved glass trinkets, that she’d done something wrong. In those moments, she wished she had a table to crawl under. Siobhan did so many things wrong: stand, breathe, talk, ask, do. Siobhan would water sand; she would nurse a dead bird; she would beg for her mother. It was always easy to find her, she lived inside her head. Siobhan could summon her like a breath. In–

Out– What was a human but a collection of bones and useless functions? What was a dog? Or a cow? Or a rabbit? What was Xóchitl but a menagerie of detritus? Siobhan could blame the human: it wasn’t her superior hands that released the leprechaun, it was the whimpering human under the table. Somehow. But, no, she couldn’t tell the human how useless she was; humans hated that. They were sensitive like—

(“Leanbh, why are you awake?” Rónnat’s voice lit the air in firefly ribbons, carrying across her home. Siobhan couldn’t sleep; another nightmare, another vision of Jane with her throat open like a field of poppies. It was so terrible to admit. ‘Please’, the words burned in Siobhan’s throat everytime, ‘could you just hold me for tonight?’)

—some insipid, insufferable, unintelligent children. Useless. Disgraceful. Pathetic. (Why did her mother’s voice come to mind?) Xóchitl was human; what idiot had ever thought of her as a friend? But Siobhan couldn’t tell her that. Instead, she smiled like the cracked skin of ice. “No. He doesn’t like you; he’s not coming back.” Xóchitl ruined it; once she had been beautiful and great and then she had some needy child, pulling at her sleeves. No, that wasn’t right, Xóchitl wasn’t her— “You had quite the reaction.” In. Out. Mother? “I could’ve used your help but I suppose the table was more thrilling for you.” Siobahn lifted her bloody hand to Xóchitl’s face. “Is this how you treat your friends?”

No, it wasn’t Xóchitl’s fault. She could take it back; swallow everything up. She was so sorry. What was Xóchitl saying about Mackenzie? Siobhan understood; she couldn’t stare down the end of a dining table anymore. That was the place Jane sat when they— when her mother— Oh! But! Wasn’t she forgetting? Xóchitl was human and all of them ended up in the same place! Siobhan’s gaze dropped to the human’s neck; she thought of poppies.

—

She hadn’t slept well (or at all, really) after Mackenzie died. She was hardly able to close her eyes without seeing her friend dead on the ground. Xóchitl had gotten over that. Mostly, at least. Except, much like every other childlike behavior, all of that was coming rushing back to her all at once. She felt like she was choking on ocean water, like when she’d gone swimming once and the waves had come in far too quickly, causing her to take a swallow of salt water.

It was uncomfortable at best, though also embarrassing, and she figured Siobhan had to be pretty heavily judging her right now. Emilio was right – maybe Ireland really was terrible. Though why were the moving rocks here and back in Maine? How could they be in both places? Which was a stupid question, Xóchitl chastised herself. There were plenty of things that existed in multiple places. She was highly educated, she was deeply logical, she didn’t know why that hadn’t clicked.

Maybe because this moving rock wasn’t something that ever should’ve existed in the first place. Or rather, existed, impossibly so. That was logic, even though she couldn’t have hallucinated both times, and Siobhan could very clearly see the thing, and that was that.

Issue was, Xóchitl wasn’t sure how to come to terms with something so impossible. Not without wanting to be sick and start crying all at once. Which was a horrible combination of things.

“It’s – no.” She also really needed to get her act together and stop stammering over words. “It’s not how I treat my friends. Lo siento, Siobhan. I – I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say that in Irish, if – if you speak that.” Was that offensive? Xóchitl wasn’t sure if she had the capacity to care right now. Which was also probably cruel, rude, or something else but she couldn’t care. She couldn’t feel anything other than horror and disgust and panic.

Which was a very unfun way to feel.

Unfun and damaging her IQ as she spoke, apparently.

“That – that thing,” Xóchitl couldn’t bring herself to care about being rude at all, “that is what killed Mackenzie. I thought I imagined it. It – I’m sorry I went under the table but that – that murdered my best friend.”

—

“My Spanish is terrible, you should know that,” Siobhan said, like acid off her tongue. Why was it Xóchitl’s fault? Why did it feel so simple to turn her insides to daggers and push them into her fr—the human? “Not a thing; it’s a superior creature. Don’t call it a thing. You’re not supposed to call it a thing.” Every word lifted the burden of panic from her body and blurred her vision of the future, where her trial would be a disaster because she didn’t have the stupid leprechaun.

Siobhan wondered if she ought to have more sympathy, the question arose like a plume of smoke, easily blown away. She regularly called leprechauns things, she understood that Xóchitl carried a strong grief and the human was classified as a friend a while ago. But that was before the table. Before the leprechaun ran out and before blood rushed to Siobhan’s head. With a puffed chest and a bleeding hand, Siobhan felt more like herself—or adjacent. Almost, if she tried hard enough, she could feel the pressure of long-gone wings fluttering on her back.

Who was she supposed to be? The dog rolled over, belly up? The thing that made friends of humans? The thing that offered comfort? Siobhan imagined her mother watching her upcoming trial, waiting to take her daughter back. She wouldn’t want the woman who forgave; she was unforgiving herself. She wouldn’t want the dog and what Siobhan wanted was her mother: to be like her, to be with her again.

Her mind shattered like a mirror, reflecting her now—glowering at Xóchitl—her younger—through dark nights and poppy fields begging for her mother—and her as a set of lips whispering curious things: ‘Don’t’. “It’s a leprechaun. And ‘murdered’ is a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Siobhan waved her bleeding hand around dismissively. “You wouldn’t say a fox murdered a chicken.” Siobhan shifted—the dim voice told her to stop. “What did you expect to happen? What do you expect to happen? The next time you encounter a leprechaun, are you going to hope for a table? And to think! You went—how old are you?—too long without asking yourself what killed your friend.” Siobhan pointed at the table. “Don’t you pride yourself on your intelligence? And this is who you become when it matters?” And who did Siobhan turn into? “What do you want to do about it? What can you even do about it?”

—

“I know.” Xóchitl fought away the urge to snap at Siobhan, because she didn’t deserve that, even if Xóchitl did feel especially bitter right now. Snapping wouldn’t do anything, and if anything, it would make her feel all the more child-like, which was not something she needed right now. She could feel her whole body tense up, could feel the anger bubble up in her chest. “It – fine – I – I’m not gracing that with pronouns. It’s a rock.” So maybe she did spit out the words and maybe she was more than just a little snappy about it but it was called for, and when you were thrown into a PTSD flashback you couldn’t be expected to keep your cool.

Still, she dug her nails into her palm and wished she still had the perfume mist body spray that had been Mackenzie’s favorite. She couldn’t even remember the name, and she’d probably like something far more expensive and fancy now but whatever the scent had been had connected them so much as children.

But it, much like her friend, had faded away.

The one big difference was that at least she still remembered things about Mackenzie. Which was a mixed bag, she supposed, but it was what it was.

“It’s not dramatic.” Okay, maybe she was snapping and maybe her voice was a bit too loud. “Also yes, you could say that. I’m sure the chicken’s best friend would say that.” Xóchitl blew out a short gasp of air. “I don’t know what I expected to happen,” she huffed, “déjame en paz, vete a la mierda,” which was certainly a bit extreme and she shook her head, refocusing on Siobhan. “Sorry – I – I don’t know. I would run if I was outside. I did ask what killed her. Rocks. Rocks all on top of her and they suffocated her while I watched and it’s my fault and it should’ve been me and I should’ve stopped it and I just watched and cried and she should still be here and laughing and living her life. It’s my fault and I’ve asked myself about it every single day of my life since that day. That’s twenty-two years. My grief is old enough to order a drink. My grief is non-ending, Siobhan. You were sympathetic before, where is that now?”

—

“The chicken’s best friend wouldn’t say that because the chicken’s best friend would be another chicken and chickens don’t talk.” Siobhan realized her argument was childish, but the cathartic value of arguing was more important. It was over for her, most likely. She’d walk back into court and be made a fool of, again. Always hoping, always wishing things could turn her way. Always falling short. What was she going to do now? Frustration stamped into her bones like a hot branding iron. “Yes, the rocks. For a full adult age you thought sentient rocks suffocated a child. Do you realize how stupid you sound?” Was it any less stupid to say it was leprechauns? Did any of this matter? Wasn’t she always a disappointment? Wouldn’t she always continue to be one? Why bother? Why did she bother? Desperate to make meaning of her life, Siobhan continued: “and what about me? What about my grief? What about everything you let run away? What about my years? The forty-two I spent in agony? The ninety-eight years I’ve been… this thing.” Siobhan gestured to herself. Everything had to mean something: the leprechaun, her lost wings, the ostracization, the displacement, the pain, the anger. Fate must’ve had something better planned for her or else, for what had she endured? Who was she? Why was she here? What did she want? “When we met, you were a coward. You said you couldn’t make friends, everything hurt too much. And then look, you came here. You have friends. And then—” Siobhan gestured once more to the table. “—look at you. Still a coward. Always one.”

Siobhan stomped off, towards the door where her future had escaped. Where it was always gone, buried too deep in Irish soil. She turned and behind her wasn’t Xóchitl, it hadn’t been her for some time, but a version of herself, flicking between the decades of her life. “You’re useless. You had my sympathy when I thought you could be someone but your truth disgusts me: you’re a coward, a hypocrite, and a self-pitying idiot. For your own sake, you should pick something better to be.” She turned and froze at the threshold. “I’m sorry. That’s impossible for you, isn’t it?”

And then she had gone, following the trail of a leprechaun she would never find.

#thank you emily for this fun time!!! :)#where i did not cry at all :)#(jk i cried a lot)#c: xóchitl #s2 #writing #uncle #child death tw #domestic abuse tw

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aequitas-if · 2 years ago

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I have an ask so what are the RO's reaction, like one day the RO and MC is walking side by side then the RO step on a people and losing their balance.

MC caught the Ro in their arms and they locked eyes like the world stop moving for a moment.

The RO still computing on what is happening MC recites a poem to them.

Oh, what’s this

A little later and I surely miss

Catching you in my arms

Or are you falling for my charms

Then I wish you fall some more

So that your beauty, I can adore

Who knows maybe this is fate, so don’t flee

The gods are showing us a sign that we’re meant to be

So the boring and unfun answer would be that they would be on high alert because after years of training and hero work it's pretty much impossible to catch them off guard enough to trip.

But that's not any fun. So here is how they would react in an AU where they wouldn't be too caught off guard by the trip in general.

Alex:

Alex's face flushes at your words and she lets out a soft melodious laugh. She gets back on her feet but her eyes never leave yours even as you continue walking. However, the moment you find a place of solitude, she pulls you aside.

There is an undeniable fondness to her expression as she takes your hands in hers. They are soft despite the many battles you know she has fought. A gentle warmth radiates from her hands, and you feel a connection that cannot be denied, one that will last longer than either of you can imagine.

"I am nowhere as eloquent as you, my dear. Words are not a craft that I have perfected, but I still hope mine reach you."

She looks directly into your eyes, a loving yet determined expression on her face.

"I will love you until my very last breath. I will do everything in my power to keep our fates intertwined for as long as possible."

Jasper:

Jasper lets out an amused snort. He looks up at you with amusement shining in his eyes.

"A knight and a poet in one? That's a deal if I've ever heard one."

His words have a playful and teasing undertone to them. As he speaks, he makes a scene of fake swooning in your arms. You can't help but laugh at his antics, and the air around you is suddenly light and merry.

However, as you move on and are walking towards your destination, you can see a small flush staining his cheeks and the small glances he is throwing your way.

Zoe:

Zoe's eyes light up and she lets out a few flustered giggles. She looks up at you with pure adoration is her eyes as a gentle smile graces her lips. It’s like looking at a sky full of stars on a clear, crisp night - all of the love and admiration is shining through, lighting up the room like a thousand stars.

"That's so sweet! It's like something out of a fairytale..."

She's pretty quiet as you are heading back toward your destination before she suddenly turns to you and takes your hands in hers with a determined expression.

"I have traveled all throughout the galaxy. I have seen the most beautiful planets that most people can't even imagine. However, out of everything I have seen you are the thing I can never take my eyes off of. All the words and poetry in the universe couldn't describe my love for you."

Rowan:

Rowan isn't a huge fan of PDA, so he would probably just flush before pushing you away while grumbling a bit. He wouldn't say anything about the moment on the walk to your destination or at any other point throughout the day.

You would have every reason to believe it didn't affect him with his usual scowl in place and the way he seemingly avoids talking about the incident.

It wouldn't be until an entire week later, when you see what appears to be a notebook full of different poems written in Rowan's handwriting, sitting on your nightstand that you realize how much the moment meant to him.

#ask #ro scenario #scenario #ros #my characters #aequitas the offset #aequitas: the offset #thanks for the ask #alex #rowan #jasper #zoe #Original members

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meezer · 11 months ago

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hi accy i love you so much. i just wanted to say i am a fellow gale lover and i love how he is a complete nerd but also a failure and i relate to it so much. what is your favorite thing about him i must know

SOSHIIIIII I LOVE YOU!!! AND I AM SOOO HAPPY THAT YOU'RE A FELLOW GALE LOVER. shaking with excitement. this was such a wonderful ask to wake up to. thank you so so much for asking. I ALSO LOVE HOW NERDY AND PATHETIC HE IS. every time there's an in-game acknowledgement of how... pathetic he is. that makes me swoon so much.

I love everything about him tbh so it's very hard to choose... when I was just starting to play the game I was Really taken in by how kind and altruistic he is. there's ofc the approval whenever you make a 'good' choice + how he's SO impressed when tav does something heroic! and when he talks about it, you definitely get this sense that he wants to make the world better and holds a ton of admiration for the people who do these grand gestures towards its betterment. when he first opens up to you about his folly he has this self-deprecating tone of "ahhh I'm such a piece of shit I'm the worst man alive... I understand if you don't want me around" it's like. man. it is so clearly obvious from everything you say and do that you care a whole lot about others. you're good. in every way that matters to me you are good. even the thing he did for mystra that resulted in him being stuck with the orb was, in part, because he wanted to do something nice for her, someone he loved. it's hard to fault him for that.

I also looove the way he speaks. besides the fact that he has a pleasant voice, it's the fact that he is SO eloquent and artistic and witty. I'm also thinking about how, if you imagine kissing or going on a walk with him hand-in-hand while you're channeling the weave together, and then you ask him how he felt about what you imagined, he's like "oh, I was surprised. but pleasantly so!!" 😭 and that just meant so much to me as someone who... needs reassurance from the people I love that they aren't mad at me. it's just so considerate of him to say it like that and. yeah it made me really happy. I made a post a while ago like "I'm bothered that when he first introduces himself he says he tries his hand at poetry when the mood strikes him but he never actually speaks any poetry in-game." I was referring to him actually reciting some poetry but like. in many ways I was so wrong because EVERYTHING he says is poetry. ugh don't get me started on the way he talks to a romanced tav because that's ESPECIALLY so. INSANITY. insane how perfect this man is. erm.

OH haha another thing is. when he tells you that the night you spent together was wonderful and that now he wants to live etc and he's expecting a response back you can tell him something like "I'm flattered, but you're putting too much pressure on me, I can't be your crutch" and if you say that he's like "OH NO NO NO you're not my crutch! I'm perfectly okay! perfectly stable! haha!! don't worry about me!!" and I always interpreted that as him... quite obviously lying but just not wanting to lose tav so making himself seem a lot more detached and cooler than he is. I love you so much water sign man... also the fact that if you tell him after your night together "funny you should say that, I recall you doing all the work" he specifically talks about giving tav oral sex. much ink has been spilled on this subject, I'm sure, but uh. yeah. it's such a cute moment. he's the best. he's the cutest and sweetest ever I think, and I would do anything for him. which I guess is lucky, because I'm told the feeling is mutual 😁

AND ALSO I LOOOOOOVE that he is kind of a homebody and a malewife... I'm specifically thinking about that one dialogue where he tells you about how he was planning to introduce you to tara over dinner and how he has a magnificent wine cellar and he makes his own homemade hundur sauce with a family recipe it is just. UGH 😩 it's very effective on me what can I say. also this is a very small thing but lately I've been thinking about how adorable it is that gale has a good relationship with his presumably large extended family ("the dekarios clan is scattered far and wide," he says when talking about sending invites for his and tav's wedding). it's very important and endearing to me especially as a guy who... has never had that kind of familial relationship but does kind of crave it.

the thing that especially strikes me rn is just how much he loves tav if you romance him. like he really falls deeply in love with them and he loves them more than he loves even the most important things in his life: mystra and himself. "With you, I forget my goddess. I love you." 🤪�� GALEEE. I'M CRAZY. and he loves tav enough to listen when they ask him to abandon his dreams of godhood. can you imagine that? can you imagine listening to someone asking that of you just because you love them SO much that it's not worth losing them for anything in the world? yeah I really love that kind of DEEP DEEP devotion and self-sacrificial love that he has because well, I relate, a lot. and it's so beautiful to me that this experience of love that I've personally felt (though not ever reciprocated) was rendered into a digital format through gale's character. I just know we would be sooo uncannily obsessed and in love with each other. he's legit kind of perfect for me so I am glad we found each other 💗

*scrolls back up* *looks at the length of my response* OH MY! 😳 sorry about the long long response! I have also had some wine so hopefully I am coherent... thank you so much for the ask, I love talking about gale. he makes me happier than most other things in my life rn. love you soshi!!!!

#soshinee #bg3 spoilers #thank you so much soshi mwah!!!#pookie

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mountphoenixrp · 10 months ago

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We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

Liu Wei "Timothey" Gao, a 22 year old son of Hundun. He is a student and barista at The Flower Mill.

FC NAME/GROUP: Ricky aka Shěn Quánruì from ZB1 CHARACTER NAME: Liu Wei "Timothey" Gao; AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 22/20.10.2002 PLACE OF BIRTH: Harbin OCCUPATION: university student and barista at The Flower Mill HEIGHT: 183.9 cm (6’0.4” ft) WEIGHT: N/A DEFINING FEATURES: stormy grey eyes, fined bone structure, a silver scar on his right collarbone

PERSONALITY: Liu Wei at first meeting is a delightful young man with manners and knowledge of his good looks, but not letting it be a defining characteristic. A focused mind and determination carrying through his studies, he is ready to help fellow students or himself put in the hours to get something done. However the longer you are in his presence or even upon the first meeting, you meet a man who has no problem dipping into his menace energy and provoking without reason. The moment he senses chaos and confusion, Timothey is in his element and stokes the fires as long as he wishes with no regard to those feeding him said energy. In general he dismisses certain people and he is aware of it -simply does not know how to build a bridge and hasn't been made interesting for him. Peace and quite bore him to tears, intrigue and even vengeance is what drive him forward - fuelled by pure spite some could say. The concept of "fuck around and find out" is one he plays with a lot and has slowly become apart of his personality. Eloquent and pleasant when need be, he would seem like a loving and nice person - yet he is incredibly closed off to the world when it comes to anything too loving or personal.

HISTORY: Liu Wei is aware and thus sure of two things in his life - the immense expanse confusing and completeness of the universe and the endless chaos within him. Children have such a blessed life not comprehending what was around them, but he never had that blessed state of ignorance and he loathed people for it. Unfairly, perhaps, but then again he has something to balance it - feeding off chaos, making people uncertain in their certainties. The only fairness to him.

His father, the god of Chaos and Creation, had enchanted his mother with the sheer power of his presence and the mood surrounding him. That was at least what his mother, a beloved Chinese actress, liked to tell her beautiful child whose eyes held so much of his father. She spoke of him rarely, giving her child only small fragments of a parent that was never in their life. He never met his father, he met a ghost - until he found out the truth.

Being a single mother meant choices, thus her child was with her on movie sets and behind theatre productions, kept busy by colourful personalities and their endless knowledge. Liu Wei, loving the chaos, blossomed in his surroundings and in his childish glee helped said chaos to grow - at times it ended in creative mastery, but often times in complete misery. Yet no one knew why it happened, except for his mother who started to both fear her child and resent him. Instead of letting him enjoy the chaotic and confusion of creation, she handed him books to feed his mind with it.

Timothey inhaled books, plays, poetry and once older pivoted into non-fiction as well as nothing seemed to oddly calm him. Sourcing chaos and confusion from a coming of age story or intense World War Two retelling was like feeding a dry well - one which for a while was happy with just that. However teenage Liu Wei grew to a point where it wasn’t enough, where his hormones demanded more and no creative piece could sedate him.

Around that time his mother met her third husband - a rich Singapore IT tycoon, who had little love for the teenage boy with eyes that seemed to hold the chaos of the universe. In fact he couldn’t ever look Liu Wei in the eyes as it was looking into a void that was not easily simmered down into 0 and 1. Tension entered the household, which Timothey fed off like a teenager enjoying his first drunk experience. His mother defended him, but also scolded the boy - adding confusion into the mix and leaving her son to feel even more alive. It all ended when he was sent to a British boarding school for his high school years. The stiffness of the upper class ruleset and high society haughtiness down on him made Timothey feel trapped, suffocating and worst drained from energy. The first month he scrambled to find anything to feed his mind, but nothing seemed enough and he grew into a troublemaker with never getting his hands dirty.

Professor doctor Goldenberg, their mathematics teacher, was the man to save the hormonal lost child with a simple move - he gave Liu Wei university level mathematics problems. It had been supposed to be a punishment, but with ended up being what the child needed to find his balance. Mathematics in school was too controlled, too logical and simplified - yet when you took a step further, entered the realm where the square root of minus one was I, everything changed. Suddenly the trouble maker was transformed once more, his mind wrapped up in mathematics and starting from eleventh grade also physics. What followed were successful participation in national events and his name gaining attention from universities. However not everyone was pleased - his mother wished her child for once to live a simpler life and his stepfather felt he was being outshined.

As he was finishing high school Timothey was told about Mount Phoenix, a city more fit for his kind with a respectable university to boot. Told it was a place more suited for his kind and above all closer to home, which all sounded like several half hearted arguments to make him go away just like they had tried to the boarding school. His step-brother was one the way, hopefully a child with a less confusing presence and less trouble to love. Turning down several name worth universities Liu Wei went to Mount Pheonix as his expenses were being paid starting with university and ending with living - anything extra was on him.

His eyes were stormy with a promise of something his mother feared to name as Timothey agreed, in silence putting together a plan to never have himself put back into the shadows again. Chaos and confusion was what the world was sustained on, putting him away in a non descriptive city would only work for so long.

PANTHEON: Chinese CHILD OF: Hundun POWERS:

(major) chaos empowerment - becomes stronger, faster and happier/healthier from chaos. With enough resource, meaning a larger crowd, unlocking enhancing the existing trust manipulation and animation. Can draw sustenance from the chaos, but can't heal faster or stop aging.

(minor) trust manipulation - The user can manipulate the trust and loyalties in only people, increasing, decreasing or changing it as they wish. The person needs to be in close proximity. (minor) animation - can give life to inanimate objects, animating them to act/move on their own accord for no longer than a hour. They function as extensions of the creators will, allowing the animator to potentially be able to command, control and otherwise influence them.

STRENGTHS: hard working, determined and focused WEAKNESSES: easily wrapped up in intrigue, bad at interpersonal relationships, closed.

#kpop rp #tumblr krp #zerobaseone #shen quanrui #zb1 ricky #mp; welcome

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mythvoiced · 2 years ago

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" Pucker up. " It was not a suggestion. One hand gently held him in place by his chin, her other finger moving softly over his bottom lip and then his top. There was a sweet smelling balm on her fingertip. " That must be uncomfortable. " She said in regards to his slightly chapped lips, " This is Laneige, it's from Sephora. It's the best, trust me. " Of course, her finger was still moving against his lips, her own face close only to make sure it was well applied. That was what she would say anyway.

@astremourante | i need one of those medieval european paintings of queen & knight with them

---

You slam a bat long enough onto something and even strong metal starts to bend. So why is it that after having been bludgeoned times and times over it's the gentleness of her touch and her lungs mixing with his that start having the blade of his soul come undone?

He could equal it to the fire of a furnace, melting his ancient iron into a puddle of something perhaps meant to shape a kinder tool, rather than the axe lodged into his chest.

But he has no words, no imagery, none of the poetry of the ancients, so readily describing love in a while gods would hear envious to hear.

He's not a very eloquent man. A wordy man, a man who'd have the guts to open his own to the world.

He knows of all the ugly within him, the chapped insides, but it's not fear of rejection that stops him from opening his chest for her to take what she's slowly been claiming.

It's the terror he might flood her if he allows himself a droplet to spill.

He trembles only slightly beneath her touch, so very innocent if only he could stop thinking about all the ways it isn't. He doesn't equal it to anything beyond salvation he doesn't deserve, but that thought alone feels so tainted that innocence has no place near it.

This isn't the place for baptisms but Ajay feels baptised all the same, his head drowning in the struggle of keeping still, his lips parted as she demands, his gaze glued to her features as though he's counting the rays fracturing a cathedral's glass plates.

He barely breaths, soft puffs of air caressing her fingers. He tries not to swallow, tries not to move, almost perfectly still in her palms, under her ministrations, he's a wounded soldier welcomed back by the Goddess he'd fought in the name of, he's a soul of the damned whisked out of hell for having repented enough, he's the pomegranate seed to Persephone's stained fingers after she'd decided why not be Queen of the Dead as well.

She's his Persephone, beautiful and deadly and more than he deserves; she's Medea and he's the fool who would have never been her Jason but perhaps someone kinder, better, if only he didn't smell so much like blood and rot.

He's nothing whole, nothing heroic, nothing beautiful, but under her fingers, he becomes something real.

He could be her wrath if she wanted him to.

He could see it in her eyes, in the tightness of her snarl, in the fear she transforms into rage. All the scars that become strings who steer her according to the puppeteer her pain had become. He's not blind to the white-knuckles that come with all the times she'd gripped onto something to keep herself just sane enough to become the vengeance she deserves.

And she hates what she sees, he knows that look as well. Clothes her being literally and metaphorically as her best asset, but growls and screeches when someone tries to add an identity to her being, when someone tries to ask her where exactly she is behind the knives she'd glued to her tongue and hands to be never hurt again.

He could be her gun.

He opens his eyes again, unaware of when he'd closed them.

He could be her gun.

If he were to sin again, wouldn't it be better to do it against worse sinners? In the name of a Joan of Arc reclaiming herself and her life?

If he were to be a knight, shouldn't it be to a queen like her? A queen born out of her own mangled corpse?

His hands are only somewhat calloused when he gently rests his palm over her hand, callouses from before he'd stopped gained them, from before he'd become an immortal.

He doesn't tremble for once as he gently halts her movement and moves her hand to free her palm.

The kiss he places there is an oath, reverent and shattering.

When he looks at her, he does it with a shaky smile.

"Are they... better now?"

#astremourante #the knight;ajay #salvation was born in nice she fights with the fire of a goddess who lost her heart;amelia & ajay #so.... how's this >:3 #;answered

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joshuahyslop · 2 years ago

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BOOKS

The last 10 books I’ve read: 1. A Heart That Works - Rob Delaney This is, by far the most heartbreaking book I’ve ever read. Rob Delaney is a comedian and a writer and he wrote this book after his three year old son died of a rare brain tumor. It’s incredibly sad but also tender and there’s even funny moments. It’s one of the most eloquent and graceful books I’ve ever read. I highly recommend buying a Costco sized box of Kleenex and giving this a read. It’s very powerful.

2. The Mad and the Bad - Jean-Patrick Manchette This was a pretty fun read. It’s kind of random and unexpected. I don’t want to give too much away but it’s about a hitman with some gastro-intestinal maladies who’s hired for a kill and then all the twists and turns that unfold. Fun, quick read but not a book I’d seek out.

3. Altamont: The Rolling Stones, The Hells Angels, and the Inside Story of Rock’s Darkest Day - Joel Selvin I really enjoyed this book. A lot of people my age, too young to have attended Woodstock, have nevertheless heard a lot about it. Whether or not it’s an accurate representation is another issue, but not a lot of us know about Altamont - kind of the opposite of Woodstock, or how it happened or why it happened. If you’ve seen the documentary Gimme Shelter then you probably already know a lot of this, but as someone who is a huge fan of this era of music I found this book riveting.

4. Burning in Water Drowning in Flame - Charles Bukowski I happened to be back in Vancouver over the weekend and so I stopped by one of my favourite bookstores in search of more old books of Bukowski’s poetry and I found not one, but TWO! I bought them both and finished the first one the day after I got home. More classic dark, gritty, ugly, Bukowski.

5. The People Look Like Flowers At Last - Charles Bukowski Well, immediately after finishing the last book I picked up the other one and read it in a day. This was published posthumously and it has a lot of honesty about death in it that isn’t always there in a lot of his other stuff. It was refreshing but still, it has that classic Bukowski feel. I don’t know what I’ll do when I’ve read all his stuff. Read it again, I guess.

6. Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit - Charles Bukowski In between e-mailing and waiting for responses I picked this one up and re-read it pretty quickly. It’s one of his shortest books of poetry and it’s easy to read. Plus, it has one of my favourite poems of his. A short seven letter poem named Art.

7. The Last Night of the Earth Poems - Charles Bukowski I decided to start re-reading some of Bukowski’s stuff. Maybe this is a phase? I don’t really know. But, reading is meant to be both educational and entertaining. Right now, I’m just really enjoying Bukowski so, I’ll keep on leaning into it for as long as it lasts. I think this is my favourite collection of his poetry. A lot of people say that Love is a Dog From Hell is his best, but I don’t agree. It’s by far the most sexual of his works, as in, a lot of his poems are about sex or sexuality, but I don’t think it’s his best work. To each their own.

8. Charles Bukowski On Writing - Charles Bukowski You know when you can’t stop listening to a certain artist for a while but then it goes away and you don’t really want to listen to them anymore? Then, after a while, you forget about them until you come across them again somehow. And, if the mood is right, you get hooked again and they’re all you’re going to listen to for a while. I think that’s what’s going on for me with Bukowski right now. The stack of other “books to read” is growing by the day, but I just keep going back to his stuff.

9. Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh Finally, a break from Bukowski. I’m sure you’re all thrilled. I went over to a friends house the other day and was admiring his books and he insisted on lending me something I’d never read before. I’ve never read anything by Irvine Welsh, and I haven’t seen the movie Trainspotting, so he eagerly lent me both Trainspotting and its sequel. Having been to Scotland several times and having lived there for a year in my teens, this book felt oddly nostalgic. Granted, I wasn’t running in these same circles, but the language really rang true. It’s largely written almost phonetically in a Scottish accent. If you’re not familiar with the slang or the flow of their speech, I imagine it would be a tough book to read. There is a short glossary at the back, but it’s pretty limited. I really enjoyed this book. It’s well written and it’s pretty dark. But there’s humour there too, and like I said, for me, nostalgia. I’m looking forward to reading the sequel.

10. Storm for the Living and the Dead - Charles Bukowski I finished reading Trainspotting and picked this back up. I was about 3/4′s of the way through when I put it down to switch books. This is a collection of poems that were unpublished before Bukowski died. It’s interesting to have read “On Writing” and to know how Bukowski felt towards his publisher, “holding poems back” from being published. And now, after his death, there continues to be book after book of posthumous publications. I’m sure he would’ve been pissed. But, when wasn’t he?

more soon, -joshua

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basicsofislam · 1 year ago

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ISLAM 101: THE HOLY QUR’AN: Part 4

What is meant by the Qur’anic letters (huruf al-muqatta’at) and why are they used at the beginning of certain chapters?

The Qur’anic term huruf al-muqatta’at is used for certain Arabic letters that are found at the beginning of several chapters in the Qur’an. There are fourteen different Arabic letters making up thirteen different sets of Qur’anic initials found in various combinations at the beginning of twenty-nine chapters; these are either in the form of single letters at the beginning of some chapters or are found in different combinations of up to five letters at the beginning of other chapters. There are basically two different opinions pertaining to the meanings of these letters. According to the first opinion, these letters are considered to be a kind of cipher between God and His Messenger, the exact and complete meaning of which is unknown to anyone but God Almighty and His Messenger. According to another opinion, the Qur’an was revealed in order to be understood and thus, these letters should have some meanings. Nevertheless, there is quite a variety of different views about what is meant by these letters. The different views are basically as follows:

These letters refer to the names of certain chapters when used singly like qaf, as in surah Qaf and sad, as in surah Sa’d.

These letters denote certain attributes of God.

These are the letters by which God swears, as in: “ By the Qur’an most sublime” (Qaf 50:1).

With such letters, God, the Supreme Creator, openly challenges both the Arabs of the time and all future generations about the matter of the revelation of the Qur’an.

God’s Messenger was an illiterate person who did not know how to read or write. It is impossible for an illiterate person to recite these letters.

Since these letters do not belong to the Prophet himself, the Qur’an does not belong to him either and he is teaching the Qur’an to us after having received it from God, the All-Wise, the All-Knowing. Secondly, the Qur’an uses the letters of the Arabs. Had the Prophet, as they alleged, learned the Qur’an from a human being, they themselves as well would have been able to produce one chapter like it, as the Meccans of this time were superior in Arabic eloquence and rhetoric. Hence, these letters challenged them and proved their impotence in a style with which they were not familiar.

These letters are an indication of the Qur’an’s uniqueness which is displayed in the following manner:

The inimitability of the Qur’an: Evidence for the inimitability of the Qur’an and its divine authorship is presented in the Qur’an in the form of a challenge; it is stated that humankind is not able to produce anything like the Qur’an. God has warned us with these letters, saying, “The Qur’an is composed of letters which you already know well, you who are at the peak of Arabic eloquence. Come and invent a similar book, if you can!” When the Qur’an was revealed, eloquence, oration, and poetry were held in the highest regard among the Arabs, and therefore they should have been able to utilize these mere letters with which they were familiar and from which the Qur’an had been miraculously composed of, thus gaining a victory over the Prophet and the Qur’an, both of which they regarded as prime enemies. However, they were unable to produce anything that was even like one of its chapters. This fact clearly shows that the Qur’an is the Word of God, not that of any human.

The authenticity of the Qur’an: Arabs used to attribute certain meanings to letters and utilize them as abbreviations though this was not a frequent practice. The use of such letters in the Qur’an at the beginning of certain chapters was still a novel practice and was not in imitation of any poet or preacher. The Qur’an also proves its inimitability in this respect.

The uniqueness of the Qur’an due to the interrelation of these letters with the relevant chapters: The single letters found at the beginning of some chapters have a close interrelation with the general contents of the related chapters. Such interrelations are valid in both their words and meanings. If we look at surah Qaf, which starts with the line, “Qaf: Wal-Qur’anil-Majid,” (“Qaf. By the Qur’an most sublime”) for instance, we see that many rhymes are based upon the letter qaf and that this letter frequently appears in the words used in the surah. Likewise, the letter sad has been used often in surah Sa’d. Also in this chapter, another feature of this letter becomes apparent; it has been used for words that imply khusuma, or opposition and enmity. This is present throughout the whole surah.

First and foremost, the enmity and opposition of the unbelievers towards the Prophet are expressed in the initial verses of Surah Sa’d. Later, the dispute of two men who came to Prophet David is mentioned in verses 21 and 22 in the same surah. Then, the discussions of the people of hell are given in verses 63 and 64. Finally, we see Satan’s disobedience to the command of God to prostrate before Adam in verse 76 of Surah Sa’d.

In addition to all of the above, the letter sad is frequently used in this chapter in many other words.

In Arabic, the letter sad is also considered to be a symbol and reflection of patience and self-sufficiency, which are believed to be the Divine Attributes of As-Sabur, or the All-Patient, and As-Samad, or the Eternally-Besought-of-All Who is in Need of Nothing and on Whom Everyone Relies.

But, in the sense of human patience, it is the Prophets that hold the highest rank; Prophet Job is presented as an example of such human patients as expressed in the verse,

“… Surely, We found him (Prophet Job) full of patience and constancy. How excellent a servant! He was surely one ever-turning to God in penitence” (Sa’d 38:44).

All twenty-nine chapters that begin with Qur’anic initials mention the Qur’an itself or its gradual descent (tanzil) or revelation ( wahy) immediately after these letters. It should be noted that there are 28 letters in the Arabic alphabet and half of these 28 letters are used at the beginning of chapters. These 14 letters that are used in different combinations as Qur’anic initials appear more frequently in the Qur’an than the other letters of the Arabic alphabet. These letters seem to be an introduction or an indication of something that is important. At first glance their usage may appear meaningless; one reason behind this may be to make any opponents helpless and deprive them of any means to employ. They may be divine passwords or codes which are not able to be solved by human comprehension. It would not be wrong, however, to say that they draw attention to the Qur’an and to its inimitability. These letters also indicate the extraordinary intelligence of the Prophet and make it clear that only he could understand and comprehend the exact meanings of the most secret letters and symbols found here.

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chaninfused · 3 years ago

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a bit unrelated but do you have any suggestions for learning to read arabic without the vowels/harakat ?? i can only read w vowels and whenever i see a word w/o them my mind blanks and i literally. just guess what sounds each letter makes 😭😭

it all comes down to practice, bubs! consume enough content in arabic and you'll start being familiar with how and where certain words are used. reading, I think, is very useful! perhaps with audio to follow along to 🤔

#i dont recall when exactly did i stop needing to use harakat but !! it's just practice and exposure #also the guessing thing- sdfhjsd trust me thats just how arabic was meant to be read 💀#we all guess what the words will sound like its just that some do it faster than others bcs of practice #i remember learning this funky lil fact about our language #ancient arabs valued poetry and eloquence so much. most people were fluent x 17829302. it was a language memorized in the heart #writing was only used to provide hints for what the words sounded like and as such they didnt even need dots 💀#it was just shit that looked like سىىكداطىىى and people just knew what it read 💀 (that was just a jumble of letters dw shdjfs)#but just like anything its easy to understand and *guess* with enough practice and familiarity so :>#dots and then later harakat were added to implement a uniform pronunciation #ANYWAY point is anon youre already doing so great being able to read and understand arabic !! dw abt it bcs all it takes is practice :D #anon #sundooq 💌

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decaffeinatedconnoisseurninja · 4 years ago

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Arabic dark academia

Having tea first thing in the morning, the afternoon, evening, night and whenever you have nothing to do and whenever you have everything to do

Practicing calligraphy, hoarding calligraphy pens and quills like a dragon hoards its jewels

Youre now a calligragon btw

Pretentious hand written letters

Fragments of poetry and prose on the wall

In Egypt you can buy a vintage gramophone (as far as I remember)

Wrinkling your nose at orientalists who have clearly never been anywhere near the culture they're trying to portray.

Appreciating the orientalists who have in fact been there and paint like it. (Sorry to disappoint but there were never sexy slave babes roaming the streets)

Mourning for the scholars of Al Andaluas and times when Arabic was the language of science

Arguing over e'arab (the value of a word with regard to others in the sentence) and balagha (it translates to "eloquence" but is more like a complex version of figures of speech) of words

Arabic being such a complex language you get carried away sometimes

Passing the allotted wordcount so you start going over your paper and compressing a whole sentence, consisting of a conjunction, a subject, a verb and two objects into a word in desperation

Words like فأسقيناكموه (faa'skainakumooh) meaning "and so we have let you drink it" being an example.

Tea over burning coal. Over logs (hatab) tea over bokhour/oud hits different and you know it.

Brewing coffee over low heat and humming to Layali Al Ouns

"No offense but I like real coffee" when someone mentions starbucks

Um Kulthoum and Asmahan are superior you cant change my mind.

NO I DID NOT FORGET ABDUL HALIM HAFEZ I WANTED HIM A BULLET OF HIS OWN.

Fareed al atrash concerts at 3 am.

Nothing you ever cook will be under seasoned.

Reciting poetry to yourself in the mirror

Big chunks of jewelry (usually gold) engraved or woven through with intricate patterns and swirls. Wearing four bracelets in one hand is absolutely fine and under dressing is a myth

Owning swords is not out of fashion (ancient arabs were well known for their swordsmanship) but using them is, unfortunately <3

Wondering how they won wars with these swords. I couldn't even lift it enough to stab myself if I wanted

Extra names. People called شهد honey (shahd), جمال beauty (jamal), زهرة flower (zahra), ليلى night (laila), سماء sky (samaa), مهند/سيف sword (mohanad/saif) and صفاء purity (safaa) like it's the most normal thing in the world (which it should be, along with names of ancient gods)

Poetry from the abbasid era describing palaces and fountains and music so eloquently your heart skips several beats and you wonder how it is still beating at all and if, after all, you have been born in the wrong era.

Classic poetry from the school of Apollo brimming with romance and yearning you have never seen matched.

Poems that tear at your heart and stitch it whole with every bayt (verse? The equivalent for it) and you keep coming back for more.

Stories so well told that you swear you can see the princes and charmers and musicians and dancers all flicker to life in the flames before you

Historical masjids and churches.

Going to the palaces and shrines and towers from the ancient days of yore

Not exclusively (as neither is anything on this list) arabic but BRAIDS and braid jewellery that clinks when you shake your head

The unwavering belief that poetry is meant to be sung.

Singing poetry because it is meant to be sung

Thick eyebrows

Lining already lash lined eyes with kohl.

Beautiful brown eyes. Honey eyes. Chocolate eyes. Freshly turned earth eyes. Eyes that hold all the ethereal beauty of the world.

Hair styled in dark, thick curls or braids

Savouring the way the words move around from your throat to your chest to the tip of your tongue, like liquid gold,

The sweet music from the strings of a qitharah (string instrument)

Scented candles are cute, but have you ever heard of oud (perfume infused wood)? Anyhow one of my Sudanese friends make it AND IT IS BEAUTIFUL.

Wanting to study with the scholars of baghdad and azhar so bad

Recognizing that for all your culture, some of it is inspired by others and that's okay.

Please add what you can to this list. It is far from complete.

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neverburied · 13 days ago

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lestat can't help but grin to himself as his eloquence is praised ----- it's something hard fought for in the blonde's life. he hadn't been able to read or write more than his name &* a few prayers until he was twenty , when he then ran away with that theater group ------- every word he learned to read was from a play. fancy &* flowing like poetry , lestat has come to speak this way naturally after that initial education. it is engrained in him , this eloquence. the way his heart pours out of him without restraint in every emotion possible. sometimes everything was too elevated -- joy , anger , passion , love. it all came out burning hot &* scorched everything in its path.

for now , it is a good thing. it leaves his lover breathless &* without control over his graceless tongue. the elder takes great pride in the quicker thunk of louis' heart -- in the way louis' pupils dilate &* his breath stutters. louis is putty in polished hands. hands that now drag the tie away from his love , slipping it out until it can fall carelessly to the ground. palms find their place on louis' lapels next , amusement dancing in blue eyes at the others eagerness.

louis speaks &* lestat feels how his own knees threaten to go weak. again , desire is not hard sought for him , but true need ? louis needs him like the air in his lungs. he may not be able to read his mind , but lestat knows the way the thread between them feels. knows how hot it burns. passion is one thing -- carnal &* primal &* ever present. but with louis it comes with a deeper connection. it comes with a craving that can only be classed as love. unknowable to those who have not felt it -- unable to be replicated. lestat knows if louis is ever lost , it is not a wound he would ever mend.

but for now he is not lost. for now , louis is grasping at him like he is a blink away from vanishing from his grip. ❛ what i wouldn't give to hear that beautiful mind of yours again. to know what you think of me. to know when you think of me. just to hear your voice more often. ❜ he keeps his tone calm &* collected , not giving in to louis' impatience as a means of tease. ❛ it does mean i get to watch you dance around saying what you feel , though. see your pretty mind work behind those enchanting eyes of yours. ❜

his hands slip down , fingers taking their time in unbuttoning each delicate button of louis' vest. ❛ you do look so appetizing when you come apart like this. there's something so mouthwatering about you. i know it would not be difficult for me to keep you in this room until we both starved to death if it meant i could have you to myself for the rest of our eternity. ❜ he does not like sharing. the outside world held no meaning as long as louis was within reach. so he takes his time -- savors how louis squirms with wanton need. he does relent in a small way ------ leans forward so that his lips can ghost over louis' jawline , feather-light. perhaps it is more of a tease than anything else. what can he say ? it is too fun. lestat lives on the fun of life. ❛ would you give me that ? all of you , forever ? ❜

LOUIS IS WRONG TO TRY AND DENY THE SHIVER racing up his spine at the sudden tenderness in Lestat’s voice. It is futile to hide it, too, when nails like glass, finger pads softer than the finest bolsters collide with his skin, igniting his pulse. He follows the little tug, nearly stumbles forward with all the grace of a newborn fawn. His companion’s words leave him speechless, knocking out whatever air is left to cling to in his lungs. It is too much ---- and it is not enough to just hear the words on his tongue when he could reach out and taste them.

“ You speak so ... so elegantly. So- so outta my time ... ” Louis starts. He isn’t so sure he possesses the neat and fine vocabulary to really express his wants, his desires. After suppressing them, smothering and suffocating such feelings for so long, speaking his wants into existence, no matter how private or how secret, is the equivalent of pulling teeth. “ Sometimes I wish you could read my mind, ” Louis confesses, watching the intricate dance of pianist fingers undo the fabric at his neck. Everything about him hypnotic. He wants to be the tie in his hands, twisting and bending beneath Lestat’s guidance ---- a dance of their own, to be known by no one else.

It scares Louis, the way he feels but without the language to speak it. Love does not roll of the tongue like it once did. Such a confession led to Paul’s death; what stops it from leading to Lestat’s? Louis thinks of French under the blond’s gaze, hungry unlike his words, movements taking sweet time. Would Louis’ words be clearer then? Would his urgency, his want come through the one of many languages of their hearts? (He can hear them now, beating rhythmically as one, as they always did in prolonged proximity).

“ I want ... ” Louis tries again ---- sighs frustratedly, words clunky in his mouth and in his mind. “ Je veux être consumé, bien-aimé ... ” he whispers, as if imaginary voyeurs gawk and comment on their every interaction. “ I want ... ” he gulps, lips part with soft pants. “ Your kiss, yes ... But your bite, too, ” Louis’ hands reach for Lestat’s waistcoat, pulling insistently at the fabric. Closer, closer, he thinks. Verdant eyes trace his lover’s cupid’s bow ---- the crescent shaped scar at the corner of his mouth ... “ D-Déshabille-moi et prends-moi jusqu'à ce qu'il ne reste plus rien ... ! ” he says rushedly on an exhale, unable to hide his need in every definition of the word.

#▐ ⊰ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 ⋮ lestat.#operahouses #can u believe in the books they couldnt smash. a pity. a shame. a hate crime really.

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inkdrinkershadowsinger · 4 years ago

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ACOTAR Couples Headcanons

Rhysand and Feyre

They are the Pottery Barn couple one hundred percent.

Still wildly in love even centuries later because they genuinely believe that no one is better than the other person.

If Harry Potter existed in this world, you cannot tell me that Feyre wouldn’t be a diehard Potterhead.

Rhysand is one of those people who genuinely believes in conspiracy theories. He would have a tumblr dedicated to them.

Midnight cookie baking is a thing. The warmth of oven, the whispers because they don’t want to wake Nyx, and the complete and utter happiness of just being able to be together.

Lucien and Elain

Elain thinks that there is no one Earth who is more of a gentleman than Lucien. And Lucien definitely bumps up that gentlemanly behavior because he knows that she likes it.

Elain may not be a big reader, but she loves poetry. She loves how people can use words to mutate meaning and declare feelings that they wouldn’t be able to otherwise. She wishes that she were more eloquent, but since she can’t be, she allows poetry to do that for her.

Lucien can’t keep his eyes from Elain, and not in a, “You are so beautiful. I can’t stop staring at you way.” But in a, “Is this real way?” He doesn’t realize that when he’s not looking, Elain is looking at him in exactly the same way.

The parties that these two have are legendary. Their parties are always at the same time the best, the wildest, the calmest, and the place to be. They just have that energy that can shift and become whatever the people around them need them to be.

The two of them have the most lavish mating ceremony. He is the son of a High Lord and beloved of many Courts. Between them most all of the Courts demand an invitation, and it becomes quite the state affair.

Azriel and Gwyn

Azriel is known for his straight face, but when Gwyn’s around you can see everything that is thinking, whether that is thinking about how beautiful she is or smirking because she said something funny or contemplative because he’s thinking deeply about what is bothering her. Around her, he is an open book.

Gwyn is an absolute weirdo, but only because she is so academic. She is constantly studying a hundred different things at once, and she can recite any of those things at the drop of a hat. She is ridiculously intelligent and well spoken. Azriel will always look to her first when seeking information or an opinion.

At first, Azriel is weary of the services that are offered in the Library. He knows that they are meant for the women there so he doesn’t want to intrude, but when the priestesses decide to host a special service in the training area, Azriel joins them. He sings beautifully, and more than one person is brought to tears when he and Gwyn sing together.

When Gwyn is pregnant and her body seems to be betraying her. No sleep. Upset stomach. The only thing that calms her is when Az takes her flying. In the air, they take in the sight of Velaris, and something about the wind and the cool air settles Gwyn. It is no surprise when the baby is born with wings.

When Azriel and Gwyn have a child, Azriel can’t help but to look at the differences between his scarred and bloody hands the innocence of this child, but one talk from Gwyn and he realizes that he is being stupid. “You are whole because I love you,” she tells him. “And I am whole because you love me.” “And together, we will be more than enough for this perfect child. We can do anything, together, as a family.”

Mor and Emerie

Mor and Emerie are that couple that are never home, but when they come back from whatever far away land, they always have gifts for everyone. Sometimes, Mor even lets Emerie pick out the gifts though she still insists that she has the best taste.

Mor has never been obsessed with anyone quite in the way that she is with Emerie. If she weren’t so dang cute, Emerie might find it a bit weird, but Mor is Mor, and she is gorgeous, and Emerie loves her. So what if Mor keeps a scrapbook of their time together. Emerie will appreciate it centuries later as much as she appreciates it now.

Emerie has and always will be a badass on the battlefield. There is something about battle that gets her blood pumping. Maybe it because she wasn’t allowed to fight for so long, that now she loves it. When she and Mor are on the battle field or in the training ring together, nothing can stop them. The two move in perfect unison, and their blades and hands are deadly instruments.

When Mor finally decides to come out to her family, Emerie is right there by her side. Emerie, the woman who never gave into her own bigoted family, is a support for Mor when she needs her. And she is a fist when Keir tries to humiliate Mor. “She is in charge here,” she says. “Not you. She has always been better than you, and she always will be.” Keir leaves their presence with more than a broken spirit, a broken nose.

The pair are always holding hands. They love just being around one another, and it shows to everyone that they see. For years, Mor has had to hide who she is, but now, she walks the streets of Velaris hand in hand with the person that she loves most in the world.

Amren and Varian

Amren never knew what it meant to love. She still isn’t sure that she loves Varian, but she is suspicious of how much she cares for him. She knows that if anything happened to him, that she would want to burn the world to the ground. Rhys informs her that the feeling is very much love, and she considers it before deciding that maybe it’s not so bad.

Amren goes to the summer court on occasion, and she gets a little jolt of pleasure when someone remembers her past, and jumps at her presence. Varian laughs along with her. Nice isn’t meant for everyone. Amren will be Amren. And he likes her just the way she is.

The pair love to swim together in the Adriata. The sun glistens off of their skin, and each think that there is no better picture in the world.

Game night is a blood bath. Amren and Varian versus whoever, it doesn’t matter, Amren plays to win, and Varian plays to help Amren win. No matter what.

A mating ceremony may not be in the cards for them, but when Nesta tells them about the human concept of marriage. Amren demands a wedding. It is held in Velaris. The dress is huge. The cake is delicious. And Amren smiles.

Cassian and Nesta

Cassian and Nesta are the definition of ‘’I can make fun of them, but if you try it, you die.”

Nesta has never been partial to animals, but Cassian can’t seem to keep from bringing them home. Animals are just attracted to him. Nesta is the father that doesn’t want the dang animal to begin with, but then secretly gives it cuddles and treats whenever no one is around to witness her. They end up liking Nesta more than Cassian.

Cassian and Nesta love to talk. They just love to hear each other speak. It can be about important matters or it can be about nothing at all. But they always have their best conversations in the middle of the night. Lights off, the house quiet the pair whisper back and forth about books, about life, about love, the future, the past, nothing if off limits.

When the two have a daughter, she is the best parts of each of them. She challenges them in her teenage years, but even when the trio argue, they always come back together again because they are family. And no one knows what that means more than Nesta and Cassian.

There is not a night that the pair spend out of each others’ arms. They are simply the most comfortable and the most at peace when they hold each other as they sleep.

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roger-that-cap · 3 years ago

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doubt comes in

orpheus!bucky barnes x fem!eurydice!reader

summary: a retelling of orpheus and eurydice for an extremely late entry for a mythology challenge!!

warnings: uh- yeah i was not playing with this myth lol… fluffy beginning, uh, that’s all imma say about that and ALSO i haven’t edited this so haha, i am running on fumes but had to post this jeez

word count: 11.3k good god

There were gods that were unexplainably strong. There were some that could bend fire and metal to their will, some that could string up love and cast it upon others, and others that knew more of war and how to win more than they even knew themselves. Others were the faces of glory, like Zeus and Hera and the sun god Apollo and so many others. There were many that were worshipped by humans every day of every week, and others that were forgotten until they were desperately needed. There were some that lived immortal lives and demanded respect from humans and gods alike, and then there were the ones invested in their art, in themselves, in the beauty of life itself.

That was Bucky. He was so immersed in song, in the gift that he had inherited from his mother, Calliope, that it was all he could think about. It was what made him different, it was what made him stand out from the boys that he grew up with that were just plain old strong. He had a talent, he had a mother that was a myth and a legend alike, and he had a lyre. He had a lyre, a lute, his voice, and a bit of speed, and that was all that he would ever need in life. That, and a pretty landscape to look at while he strummed his golden strings. But that was all he ever thought he would need- which was why he was knocked right off of his planted feet when he saw you walk by.

You were a human. You were a beautiful girl, probably the most beautiful being he had ever seen in his entire life. He had met goddesses and nymphs and princesses alike, but never had he met someone who had such a sweet face, such a gentle aura, and even more, a beautiful voice. You had only said a few words to someone else that were delivered with a gentle smile, but he could have sworn that your words were a melody. Before he knew it, your entire being was stamped into his mind, and he knew that he would never be able to forget you.

It was by complete chance that the next day, he decided to wallow in his sadness by a fountain in public, strumming his lyre too quietly for anyone else to hear. Anyone who knew him knew that he was devastatingly off. And coincidentally, the only ones who truly did know Bucky were Steve and Sam, two forest nymphs that had been his best friends since he taught them the ways of the lute years and years ago. They were sitting by him in silence on the marbled fountain, waiting next to him for the second shoe that they doubted would ever drop. But then, like Bucky was a sunflower following the sun itself, his back straightened, his head perked up, and his mouth dropped, his eyes wide and swirling with admiration as he watched you- the same human woman he was enamoured with- walk through the square again, a woven basket full of fresh fruits on your arm and your lilac dress swishing in the wind.

“No way,” he heard Sam mutter, and Steve poked his side.

“You were always such a doubter,” Steve mumbled, but the smile on his face was audible through his tone. “There she is, in the flesh.”

Bucky could hardly hear anything but the soft melody stirring up in his mind, louder than his racing heart, and just as tender as the feelings swirling inside of him. He saw you wave to the older woman you were talking to and then start to walk away, and he knew that he couldn’t let you go, not when the Fates so obviously gave him a second chance. Without a second thought, he slid off of the fountain, leaving his friends and his lyre, striding towards you with the brightest smile, trying to cover the fact that he was nervous.

His clumsy feet were carrying him a little too quickly, and he could hear the snickers of Steve and Sam from behind him. He craned his head backwards to look at them and laugh too, but he tripped over his own left foot, barreling right into you and knocking you flat onto the ground. His half immortal heart beat heavy and hard in his chest as he watched you wince under him. He scrambled up, cheeks flushed and hand shaking as he watched you sit up and brush the dirt off of your dress. He was looking down at you with a look that he prayed wasn’t as desperate as he felt. But he had to know you.

“I’m Orpheus,” he started, and when you turned your bright eyes to him with your brows furrowed, he shook his head like he was trying to get water from his hair. “No, I meant that I was sorry- I’m so sorry. For knocking you over, miss.” He extended his hand to you again, and he swore that he saw your lips quirk up a bit at him. You took his hand and stood up, brushing the fabric of your dress once again. He caught a trail of your scent, and he was immediately overtaken by the scent of fresh flowers and lavender.

That was when he really got a good look at you for the first time. The first time he saw you had been brief. You weren’t even looking anywhere near his way, and he only caught a look at your stunning side profile before you walked away. His vision had been practically blurred from excitement while he walked up to you, and he was so embarrassed about crashing into you that he was subtly trying not to look in your eyes. But… damn, he had been missing out.

He swore that time stopped. His own heart stopped beating, even the sluggish beat leaving for a few moments. The noises from the town square were so dull that they seemed muted. The stares of Steve and Sam felt so far off that he didn’t even notice them. All he knew was that he was utterly entranced by you, and for a second, he could have sworn that by the look in your eyes, you felt the same way. But like the blaring of an alarm, something knocked you both out of it, putting you in the present, with present problems.

“Oh, the fruits,” you muttered, looking at the peaches and apples that tumbled right out of your basket, bending over quickly to collect them despite the fact that they had gotten bruised. Bucky’s heart jumped to his throat with guilt when he realized he had ruined the fruit you had either picked or paid for, and then he was rushing to get them even faster, praying to the gods that you didn’t automatically hate him.

After looking into your eyes, he doubted he could live with himself if you even so much as disliked him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I don’t have the best footing,” he apologized again, gently placing the fruits back into your basket.

“It’s okay,” you said, and your eyes trailed behind him to look at his friends that were howling with laughter, holding onto each other. He saw your displeasure, and his heart dropped when he understood that you probably thought they had sent him over just to mess with you. Your eyes whipped back to Bucky, and he blushed something fierce. He felt his cheeks warm up under your scrutiny, and then there was a smile creeping back onto your face. “I'm Eurydice.”

Oh, Gods. Eurydice. He swore that he had never heard something so beautiful in his life. He had grown up with the Muses, even had a mother as one, and was surrounded by music and poetry and epics every second of his childhood. Music was imprinted in his mind, every note embedded in his everyday life, yet still it was the most beautiful- “But I go by Y/N.” No. Eurydice was now second. But your name, the one he knew you had chosen for yourself, was the most beautiful thing that life had ever offered him to hear.

His brain was going many miles a minute, as quick as Hermes on a mission, but all he could do in the end was blink and offer his true name first, like politeness called for. “I’m Orpheus,” he extended his arm again to you, and you shook it twice. Your hand was soft, so soft that he didn’t want to let go of it. He would never forget the feeling of your hand in his, and the way he swore that the nerves under his skin were alight with the gentlest and sweetest of fires. “You can call me Eurydic- I mean, Bucky. I’m Bucky.”

You could both hear the laughter coming from Bucky’s friends, and while you were cracking a small smile, Bucky was dying on the inside. “You like to be called by other people's names?”

“I wouldn't mind being called by yours,” he blurted softly, his words coming out as a quick and uncalculated slur. He blinked abruptly when he realized that he was truly having the worst first introduction he had ever had in his life, and it was the one that somehow meant the most to him. “I- only because Eurydice is such a pretty- so is Y/N- I… I’m sorry.” He shook his head, knowing that he was so close to just having to walk away. Instead of embarrassing himself further, he just gave you a short smile and waved, turning on his heel.

“I’m Orpheus, then. Maybe Bucky, too.” He slowly turned back around, a shocked look on his face. Had you really spoken to him again with your own free will?

Bucky knew that he wasn’t ugly. No god or demigod was ever ugly, other than poor Hephaestus. He knew that he had his own sort of charm and that he could bring the roughest of people to tears and the saddest of people to joy with his music, but he didn’t know anything else. He had three redeeming qualities that swirled in his head constantly- he was pretty, he had music, and he had a famous mother.

“Are you a singer?”

“Huh?” So much for eloquence.

You bit your lip. “You speak… you speak like you have a song in your heart. Are you a singer?”

He was stumped. Most knew at least of his music if nothing else. He was the most famed god or man to ever strum a lute besides maybe Apollo. Most knew nothing of his personality and nothing about him other than the fact that he was born to play and sing, and you didn’t? Where had you been living? “Well, I’m Orpheus.”

There was a grin on your face, and Bucky knew that he never wanted to see anything other than that for the rest of his life. “And that makes you a singer?”

He opened his mouth again, ready to talk about who he was born from and where he learned to play and who taught him, but when he looked deeper and saw the spark of mischief in your eyes, he leaned back and held back a small smile of his own. His heart fluttered and grew two sizes. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Maybe I don’t,” you said, obvious teasing in your voice, and somehow it still stayed kind. “Maybe I do, and just wanted a free song out of you.”

She knows me, he thought, and his heart may as well have let out a lovesick sigh from within the confines of his chest. She has never heard me sing before, but she will. I’ll sing her a thousand songs.

“I’ll sing you all the songs you desire if you marry me,” he blurted, and while his mind was scolding him for uttering those words so quickly, his heart was steady on beating and so sure of itself that he told his mind off.

To his subtle surprise, you didn’t look shocked. You weren’t disgusted by his rather bold approach and most importantly, you weren’t laughing at him. He held onto your silence in limbo, waiting for you to say something that would either crush him to bits or send his soul rising so high that he reached the cloudy gates of Olympus.

“If you can make me a song that can make the skies open up and weep without singing a word, then I’ll marry you.”

His heart soared. His hands shook. He could have sworn that even his toes clenched. But all you could see were his wide, boyish eyes, and the hopeful look that dawned across his face. He nodded quickly. “I’ll do anything.”

He saw your lips pull up into a smile, genuine and even a little shy, and he couldn’t help but want to step closer. But he knew he had already been up front and abrupt, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare you away.

“Okay,” you said, nodding your own head slowly. “I’ll see you soon, then, Bucky.” You took a step back, eyes still connected to his blue ones until you finally turned around and walked away with the same basket on your arm, same dress swaying with the tuneless song of the wind.

The three of them stood in silence, watching you walk away, taking pieces of Bucky’s heart with you in your cradled arms. The bustling of the town was loud, moving about like nothing of significance had happened right where they were all standing, and Bucky found it nothing short of insane. Did no one else just see how the world stopped turning for that one girl? How the Fates put a pause on the clock just so that they could meet?

Steve’s voice brought him out of it. “Did you just ask for her hand in marriage?”

He didn’t even have the energy to shrug. All the swirled in his mind was love, passion, music, and you. You, you, you. “I had to.”

“How will you even find her again?” Steve asked, his logic once again being the only thing that held Bucky down to the ground.

“I know the work of Eros when I see it,” Sam said to Steve, shaking his head somewhat fondly at the pale boy with brunette hair who was still staring off in the direction you left in, like you would miraculously appear again. “They’ll find each other again soon enough.”

The hours went by and then the daylight turned into night and back to day again, and Sam’s words couldn’t have been truer. Your spirit and your face and your voice found Bucky with every few seconds that passed by. He couldn’t blink without seeing you. He couldn’t listen to anyone without hearing you. He couldn’t breathe without smelling your beautiful scent. Everything tasted bland, looked plain, and sounded like white noise after he met you. He knew that until his last (and unlikely) breath, his heart would ache for nothing more than to be yours. He wanted his ring to be on your finger, and yours to be on his.

So he began to make a song.

§§§

He worked tirelessly. The hours below the sun that used to be spent laughing and playing with Steve and Sam were exchanged for hours of composing. His normally perfect posture was hunched over as he tried to find the melody that had stirred in his heart when he first saw you- because he knew that was it.

By the end of twelve days of pure struggling, most of the song was finished. He was a fast worker, so fast that it made everyone else’s heads spin, but he felt it was going too slowly. But then again, he was fast at everything. The melody was as stuck with him as his skin was to his body. He was sure that it would never leave him, even if he wrote a thousand more songs. And part of him never wanted it to go, because it was so you.

He had only held one conversation with you, and it wasn’t long enough, but he felt like he had known you for years. He felt like he had sung to you hundreds of times and danced with you a hundred times more. Your soul felt so familiar yet so foreign that he had to chase after you, and had to discover anything that he could have missed. He knew that you were his destiny, and he had a feeling that you knew he was yours.

The song he was writing wasn’t sad, but it brought tears to his eyes all the same. It wasn’t about longing or loss or chasing after something that would never come to you, but it made Steve and Sam wipe their eyes all the same. It was about your beauty, your inherent wit and kindness, and the way that you set his soul free from chains he didn’t even know of. It was about a love he had never dreamed of finding or even thought to be true, and that was enough to make the three of them weep.

“I think it’s finished, Buck.” This came from Steve after he wiped his eyes again, sitting through the full song again even though his heart aches for a love he had never felt before. “Sam thought it was done days ago.”

Sam had left the two of them alone days ago, claiming that he couldn’t stand to hear the melody and cry each time, claiming that it was beautiful but too much. It made sense. Even Bucky himself was starting to feel the effects of it. But Steve was a stubborn thing, and he would sit through it for as long as Bucky would play it.

“You think it’s enough to make the skies open and cry?” Bucky breathed out, loosely quoting the words he had heard from you not too long ago.

“Even if it’s not, it will surely win her over,” Steve said. “She was already wooed by you, you’re a fool not to see it. She was excited enough that you even agreed to make the song in the first place, anyway.”

Bucky sat there for a few minutes as his fingers tingled, expecting to be used again to pluck the magnificent strings. But he set his instrument down on the log he sat on, sighing and placing a hand under his chin, his thoughts trailing over to you for the thousandth time. “I hope she accepts it.”

Steve just looked at him. “I think that if you came empty handed and told her half of the words you tell me and Sam, she’d follow you anywhere.”

Steve was right. Steve had to have been right, or he was going to wilt right in front of you. He had to be. The brunet nodded, biting his pink lip before opening his mouth again. “Where do you think I’ll find her?”

§§§

It didn’t take long to find you at all. Bucky went to find you alone, finding you because something inside of him told him to search the flowering fields nearby, and there you were. There was a hat made of straw over your head to cover your eyes and face from the sun, and you had the same basket on your arm that you had the other days. It was empty this time, and he had no doubt that you were looking at the flowers for fun before going to look for fruit. He couldn't help but smile fondly at you from across the field, and then he was gripping his lyre and taking a deep breath.

“Y/N,” he called out, his voice full of emotion instead of being the strong sound he wanted it to be. Nonetheless, it caught your attention, and then your pretty eyes were wide on him. Immediately, your feet turned in his direction and you made your way across the meadow, and he followed suit. He met you in the middle, so nervous that the grin that was deep inside of him wasn’t coming out at all.

You were both at a loss for words as you stood close to each other. His hands shook at his sides, aching to hold your hands in his. He wondered if they were as soft as your voice, or as smooth as the petals flowers you admired. “You came?”

He blinked. Of course he did. It was all he could think of doing. “My only regret is not coming sooner,” he admitted, and he watched you angle your eyes downwards, and he smiled at your shyness. “Would you like to hear it?”

Your eyes were connecting with his again, and he could have sworn that your smile could have put him in an early grave. He was momentarily stunned by you and your brightness, so stunned that he hardly even heard what you said. “Of course I would.”

“So then you’ll hear it,” he said softly, his heart and mind completely taken over by you in your presence. He fixed his lyre into position, his fingers already fixed into the correct spots as he began to play your song.

His eyes were shut as he strummed just as he had practiced thousands of times, but he knew it felt different. His body was buzzing with excitement and something else he couldn’t identify, but he loved it. It made him play stronger. His eyes shut even more as he felt the music, swaying side to side a bit as he felt his heart open up to you, finally content with you hearing the song.

He didn’t even realize that he was done until all he could hear was quiet sniffles. He pried his left eye open, almost too scared to look for your reaction, but when he saw that you were just looking up at him with watery eyes and a wobbly smile, he opened his other eye, ready to spring into action.

The only thought going through his mind was that it was impossible that you liked it. The way you were looking at him reminded him of the way people looked at sculptures of ancient monsters— a muted type of awe, but also a sense of discomfort. He brought you to tears, and not in the way he wanted to. He ruined it.

“I- was it bad?” He blurted out, and he cursed himself at ruining his own chance. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you didn’t like it-”

“How long have you been playing that song?”

You were too beautiful. Too gentle. You were melting his brain into mush, and he doubted that he would be able to pick up his lyre for another round even if you begged him. “I… I just made it. For you, I made it with you in mind.”

Your facial expression didn’t change. “Where’s the ring?”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The rings we’re going to wear when we wed,” you said, almost teasing. “Do you have them?”

His eyes widened. “You want to marry me?” He asked, leaning forward a bit in shock. “The sky didn’t- the rain never came.”

“I cried,” you said, a small smile on your face. You still hadn’t wiped your tears, and he watched them frozen on your face, stuck in time. “I didn’t expect the work of the gods. I just wanted you to play for me.”

He was bewildered. He had half of the mind to ask you if you truly meant it again, but he took his excitement and ran with it. “And you… you feel this too?”

You took his right hand into yours, and he swore that his souls ascended to the gates of Olympus and waltzed right in. “I felt it the second I saw you, Bucky.”

He blushed something fierce before looking down at the ground, shame overtaking his sheer admiration for you. “There’s something I should tell you before you say you want to be with me.”

“Tell me anything,” you encouraged softly, one of your hands coming up to brush his warm cheek.

“I don’t have much.”

And he didn’t. He had Sam and Steve and a nomadic lifestyle. He never stayed in the same place for long, and he didn’t have a roof over his head. He didn’t need one. Rain and wind and fire didn’t bother him. He preferred to live under the canopy of trees and the protection of nature. But he knew humans didn’t. He knew humans— especially women— liked when their partners brought things to the table, and he had nothing but strings and whistles. He had nothing materialistic. He had no gems, no coins, no house, and fancy clothes— nothing money could buy. But he looked at you and saw that you deserved it all, and even more he saw that he had no way to even provide it for you.

“I live in many different places, I don’t have a home. I don’t have money. I don’t have… I can’t buy you dresses or shoes or any of the stuff you would probably like… and I’m sorry. I know that will probably change everything, but I just wanted you to know.”

You took a step forward, strong and secure, and then your chin was tilted upwards. “Like I said, where are the rings?”

Bucky grinned.

§§§

The day of your wedding was blessed by the gods, whether they admitted it or not. You married each other in the meadow Bucky found you in with a small crowd of people, and when you kissed as man and wife, peace washed over the both of you, and it felt like your marriage had been approved by all far and wide. The kiss that you shared to make the wedding official was short and sweet and full of the most innocent of passion, and he felt so adored by the soft touch of your lips that he felt a singular tear cross the terrain of his pale face for the first time in years.

He didn’t even deny it.

He didn’t deny the way that you danced together was perfect. He had never guided you, had hardly even danced with another woman, but it was perfect. It was like he had practiced with you before a hundred times, and the feel of your hands in his was what kept him sane. He was convinced that you could do anything new with him and it would feel like you had done it before, just because you were so familiar to him as a whole.

He had known you for what felt like seconds in the grand scheme of things, but you knew him inside out and he knew you better than he knew himself. He could find you in the dark, you could identify him with just a whisper of his voice, and he could fall in love with you over and over without even touching you. He would perform the Sisyphean task of falling in love with you over and over again if it meant that he could be next to you.

And luckily, it turned out that you didn’t need the things that Bucky was sure you were going to. He got you a small house just for the two of you to come back to, and he still roamed around in the area. Steve and Sam would walk off and come back weeks later, just like they used to when it was the three of them together. And there would Bucky be, at the house he made possible for you, and happier than ever.

Bucky lived an extremely modest life with you, and he liked it. Farming and getting water from wells and working for the food that was on your tables, cutting wood to feed the flames in the pit in the middle of your main room. Life was somewhat repetitive, so repetitive that he was scared he would lose you to your wild imagination and beautiful, adventurous heart. But it had never been as fulfilling as it was with you.

The little things were what made his day. It was waking up with you at his side, tucked into his arms and still sleeping soundly while he made songs up in his head dedicated to you that made him smile. It was listening to you hum to yourself while you washed corn and peaches and squash in the buckets of water you had carried down the hill that served as your property. It was the way you would pull him out of a funk by taking his hand and leading him out of his chair, dancing to music that didn’t exist, or the way you would coax him to sing to the moon because you wanted a longer night. A longer night meant more time spent with each other.

When you woke up after your long nights, sometimes you would coax him out of bed for some daily challenge, a challenge that usually he would end up beating you at. Part of him believed that you just wanted him to show off, but you always said otherwise. You would challenge him in singing only to have him go first and not even sing, claiming you had already lost. You would tell him you wanted to race him to the stream and back, knowing that you would lose by a long shot. He could run circles around you if he hardly tried, and that was just in his godly blood. But there was never any jealousy, never any animosity, never any bitterness. It was all just sweet, it felt.

You were just so magical. It was so simple, the things that made him happy, but he knew that just one call from your soul to his was more than just communication. He craved it. He knew from the moment that he met you that his soul would always seek yours, even into the afterlife. He knew that every day with you would be as beautiful as you were on your wedding day, shining brighter than any gem or any star in the night sky. And none of it would ever change.

§§

Things changed. Just as the sun rose and set, so did time. It cranked on without a single hint of Bucky aging, and you were still as youthful as you were the three years prior. Life was still beautiful, and that was all that mattered.

You had traveled around the world with him, kissed in so many different cities with different kings and different cultures and different music. You had met so many different people, lived so many different lives, just to go back home and settle there. It was wonderful. He loved you, and you loved him. It was the kind of love that was never at risk of fading or thawing away. It was the kind of love that was only spurned on as the years crawled by, the days acting as twigs added to an already strong fire. It was such a beautiful thing that he had with you, and every day with you felt like one that was blessed by the gods themselves.

Until it didn’t.

Bucky had never felt fear in his heart like he did when he heard your scream travel across the meadow. He didn’t even put on his shoes before tearing off to find you, torn between begging you to make another sound so that he could hear you or pleading the gods to make the sound of your distress stop and never happen again. His chest rose and fell with the exertion, and he knew that he had never been so afraid in his life.

The scream was all that echoed in his mind when he ran through the woods, and as he stumbled upon fallen fruits and flowers that he just knew were yours. He realized he was at the end of a ravine almost too late, and when he looked down, following the steep curve of the slope with wary and partially-knowing eyes, he immediately doubled over.

There you were in all your fallen glory, legs bent unnaturally and neck twisted even worse. The light yellow of your dress was stained with brown and dark green, and in some places a deep red that made him sick to his stomach. Your eyes were looking up at the sky, staring right into the sun as it shone down on your figure, taunting him just like the breeze that began to make your dress look so lively.

Bucky fell to his knees right on the edge of the ravine, his heart not even lurching when he lost his balance. An arm reached out to you, like it was stuck in the moment before you fell and he could reach you. Tears were coming down his face slowly, steadily as he fought to get breaths in. He called your name.

He didn’t know how many times he called your name, or how far the sadness in it traveled. It must have been loud and long enough, because before he knew it, there were hands on his shoulders. They were warm and familiar and even the smallest bit comforting in that moment, but not enough. He wanted your hands.

“Let’s get away from the edge, Buck.” It was Steve’s voice, strong and gentle and the backbone of the situation. Bucky’s eyes pried open at the feeling of Steve’s sturdy hands pulling him backwards, and he retched in his mouth at the sight of your broken, soulless body at the bottom. He hadn’t even realized he had gotten so close to it himself.

“I’ll go down to…” Sam started, trailing off with a soft and distraught look on his face when he caught sight of Bucky again, and Steve nodded at him.

“Let’s get you up, Buck. Up and Washed off.” He hadn't even realized he was dirty at all. His hands were covered in dirt and under his fingernails were the same earthy brown he was used to. He had been pulling up grass from where he grieved without even noticing.

His sobs were so loud that they hurt Steve’s ears. His dragging steps were causing such a disturbance to the land around him that animals seemed to crane their necks at him and cast their glances his way, as if wondering how on earth a person could be that distressed. His mouth was moving, but it looked and sounded more like babbling and trembling as waterfalls came down the canvas of his pale skin.

“Buck, you have to calm down. You’re about to have an attack.”

He didn’t know if he meant heart attack or a panic attack, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were dead, all twisted up at the bottom of a ravine. Your soul had left the earth, left your body, and you were just laying there like you had never been alive. Like you had never held his hand, or kissed his cheek, or wore his ring or laughed or sang or read fine poetry while eating the fruits you had picked. Seeing you down there with your open and dim eyes felt like you had never lived at all.

“Keep walking with me, buddy. You’re going to be just fine.”

But he wasn’t. Every step he took away from you made bile come up in his throat. He wanted to be as far away from your lifeless body as possible, but he didn’t want to ever let you go. He wanted to hold you close to him until it felt like you were alive again. But as his heart beat seemed to freeze up but race like a horse all the same, he realized that you would never be alive again. You were only as alive as your last few moments, whether they were filled with the joy and freedom of having the wind on your face or the fear of falling. He could do nothing to change it.

But he would try to do everything.

§§

He spoke to everything and nothing. Steve and Sam would take turns coming to him after they celebrated your life. It reminded Bucky of the way that his mothers friends used to come watch him while his mother was off and away somewhere, and how it felt like they thought of him as a cute little burden. He knew deep down that his friends cared for him more than anything and that he cared about them just as much, but he couldn’t think about anything but you. He wouldn’t.

It was a service that made the skies open just like you said they would for his voice. The day lilies that surrounded you and Bucky seemed to be weeping with him. The wind came from east to west and west to east, spinning around and throwing in the scent of the flower with the smell of oncoming rain, reflecting the turmoil he was feeling on the inside. He could have sworn that the earth had trembled just like his hands that held your cold and still ones. But if the world had caved down under him at that moment, he wouldn’t have moved. He wouldn’t have opened his mouth to scream, or even say a word. He would have only held your hand tighter.

He spoke to the moon more often than he did Steve and Sam. They hovered, but it was the kind of hovering that Bucky felt he would appreciate sooner or later. He would sit every night and talk to the moon with his legs pulled into his chest, small and in such a vulnerable position that it would have made him feel uncomfortable at any other time. But he was vulnerable. He had been knocked off of his feet and winded. The world kicked him while he was down more times than he could count, and they had opened his chest and peeked right into his heart before seeing it was unworthy and walking away from him. It left him bleeding out in the forest while he listened to the birds eventually go on back to chirping, and watched the flowers push through and grow, and people laugh and smile and talk like nothing changed.

He was doing just that. He was lying in the flowering fields that he would always swear belonged to you, the both of you, when he heard soft footsteps. He didn’t care to look up. He knew it wasn’t Steve or Sam, but why would he care? He had nothing to be scared of now that you were gone.

“You’re Orpheus.” It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t even blink, but an annoyance he couldn’t shake bubbled up inside of him at hearing the name his mother granted him coming from a stranger. As much as he wanted complete silence, he couldn’t help but say- “Bu- sure. I’m Orpheus.”

“Everyone heard, you know.” The voice was of an old, frail woman. Bucky knew that without even looking, He ignored the fact that pity was strong in her voice, and that he knew exactly what she was talking about. He ignored the way he knew that she thought that she had the right to talk about his wife, about the way he had lost you far too soon. She knew nothing. But he let her speak. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say a word. He didn't even recognize words as an option. He would stay silent and wait until she left. Maybe if he was quiet enough or stared up at the sky in such a still manner that it scared her, she would leave him. If he pretended to be as dead as he felt, he was sure she would leave.

“There hasn’t been a good song since you’ve stopped playing.” He heard rustling, and then he dared to look off to the side to see the old woman struggling to sit, cane wobbling in her hand as she finally plopped her frail bones onto the ground near him. He sighed heavily and looked back up to the sky. “You know, you’ve gotta be the most moving musician to ever walk the earth, from both god and man.”

It was a compliment that would have had him blushing years ago. It would have had his young mind fumbling for his lute or lyre and clearing his godly voice, asking if she wanted to sing with him or just listen. Now, it incited nothing. It meant nothing. “I doubt I’ll ever play again.”

“You pleased god and man,” the old woman carried on, almost like she had never heard him open to speak with that raspy voice of his that was so uncharacteristic of him that it hurt to hear. “Anyone would have done anything to hear your music.”

He finally turned to the side to look the old woman in her face, and he blinked at her. “I’m grieving.”

“You could persuade anyone with seven strings and five notes, don’t you understand that?” Her voice was almost angry. It was hard and nearly pleading, so different from her previous tone that Bucky snapped his head her way. “If I were you, I would have been at Death’s gates.”

They were staring at each other. Bucky was looking at the decrepit woman with curly gray hair that looked like she had dodged a visit to the Gates of Death herself more than once with shocked eyes. His heart started to beat again, like her words were arousing some kind of vicious hope that he never even knew could exist.

“The gods blessed your union. They won’t ever say, but they did bless your marriage. What makes you think that if you beg, you won’t get a blessed reunion as well?”

She disappeared within seconds of her final words, leaving a revelation swirling around in his mind and haunting his every thought.

§§

His feet ached. His hands were beginning to blister from stroking the strings of his tired lyre, and his throat was even beginning to strain. He had been singing for hours, pouring his heart out at the hidden gates of the Underworld, begging for an audience. But above all the physical pain ranked the ache in his heart, the unbearable feeling of your death sitting on his shoulders and ripping him apart from the inside. His grief was destroying him.

Hades might as well have had ears plugged up with the same wax that was used by Odysseus and his men. Usually he went undisputed, because just as life was certain, so was death. There was no questioning the decision of it, or the Fates, or the rule of Hades and his acceptance of his dear Eurydice into his kingdom. Everyone was allowed to plead and beg, but no one ever went down to the gates of the Underworld to ask for the release of a loved one, whether they were man or god. But there he was, standing in dirtied pants with fingertips plucked pink, and tears running down his face.

He didn’t know if he would ever gain the strength to leave. He didn’t know what he would do if someone even bothered to humor him. He wasn’t going to be able to have you back. He was never going to be able to bring you back up above, have you under the sun and shining beautifully like you were born to do. What would he beg of them? For them to let him see that your soul ended up in the Asphodel Meadows? For them to let him hold you one last time before you drank from the Lethe and forgot everything that happened? What if you had already drank from it? Each thought made his stomach lurch more, and his music grew louder and more desperate, like the final battle cry of a warrior.

His back was up against a tree as he sang out again in the night, praying for someone to hear him and take pity on his poor soul. Strike me down and send me with her, if you cannot give me the gift of seeing her again. The same tears that had been steadily pouring down his face were gathered in a puddle at his unmoving feet, yet he didn’t mind. He couldn’t.

“You have woken my wife.”

Bucky’s playing stopped immediately. “What?”

The man before him was dark. He was tall and seemed to take up almost the entire space even though he was only a bit wider than Bucky. His shoulders were broad and his chin was strong, and his eyes were sharp even under the gloomy look they had to them. His cheekbones were sunken in and his eyes had a ring of black around them, like he hadn’t slept in a thousand years. His lips were set in a hard line, but he didn’t look displeased. Most notably, he had a dark aura surrounding him, even black most coming from behind him and nearly encasing him.

“I don’t repeat myself, and luckily, it looks like you heard me the first time.” His voice was deep, enthralling, like a song that Bucky would never dare write himself.

What was a man this terrifying, this powerful, doing in the forest? How had Bucky woken a soul when he was in soulless territory? He hadn’t seen houses for leagues.

Something inside of Bucky begged him to apologize. It begged him to get into his knees and look downwards towards the growing grass and hope to be spared. If this was before he lost you, maybe he would have listened to it. But what did he have to truly live for now that his darling was gone?

“I’m sorry to have brought you out of your dwellings because of my grieving.”

There was a certain kind of silence that would have made Bucky’s skin crawl if he even dared to look the being’s way. “Grieving?”

“My wife.” He breathed out, finally letting his arms loose as he let his trust lyre fall down to his side. “She… has fallen prey to death.”

“Ah,” the man said, his voice nearly a scoff. “I see. The circle of life.”

“And now my life shall go in circles, on and on and down the same miserable path without the woman I love,” Bucky stated, resting his head back against the tree. “I wish I knew a man that grieved. Me… I live amongst gods. We don’t grieve. We don’t die. I have never met a man who had an inch of grief in his heart. I feel like the first to ever feel it.”

“We can lose people in other ways than death,” the man said. “Death is the most absolute, but it seems to hurt a lot less than voluntary abandonment.”

“This is my first brush with death, and I have to admit that I’m not the biggest fan.” What an understatement.

“That’s a shame. My wife is quite the fan of you and your… grief. She says it’s the most moving thing she’s ever heard.” Bucky just nodded, eyes far off. “She wants to meet you.”

“I don’t really want to meet anyone.”

“You don’t want to see my wife? You don’t want a two way ticket to the world you’ve been singing about taking passage to for days now, Orpheus?”

His head turned slowly, eyes widening as he tried to piece thoughts and facts together with his sluggish mind. “What?” But he knew. He knew with another glance at this man that he was no man at all, but one of the original gods. He was Hades, in the divine flesh, standing right before him with a glint in his eyes that meant he was satisfied by Bucky’s shock. He went to his knees, kneeling as a sob piled up into his throat.

“Your Excellency,” he began to plead, recalling back to the times he was a young god, listening to his mother explaining the way that he should speak to all the gods who came before him- especially one as powerful as Hades. “I apologize. My mind is not set right— the loss of my wife has taken a toll on me. Please forgive me.”

“Your grief blinds you.”

There was no point in lying. “It does.”

“I, too, was blinded by grief. In fact, it happens every other six months, though I suppose you young gods and humans call it winter and fall. My wife would leave, gone with a stroke of wind and then come back only to wilt again. But she, just like your own wife, will learn that there is nothing we can do about the situations we are in. Destiny will have us where she has us, and your Eurydice’s path above has ended.”

Bucky wanted to scream at him. He wanted to refuse him and tell him that Destiny and the Fates would have to bend to his will, because there was no other way. He couldn’t last another day without you, let alone a lifetime. But the god he was speaking to was Hades, and Bucky was just Orpheus, a low level demigod.

“However, my wife still wants to meet you. She wants to hear your song clearly, where it’s not muffled by distance.” His heart began to race. His hands were shaking. His eyes were wide as he tried to take in a deep breath, waiting for the gloomy god’s next words. “If you agree to see her and play her that song of yours, I’ll let you see this wife you speak of. Does that sound fair?”

Nodding was all Bucky could do to stay awake.

§§

The Underworld was just as gloomy as it was in the stories. Black and grey ran together to create a shadowy world, dismal and dark. It was full of strange sounds, like the whistling of thick wind that almost sounded like wailing humans. The air was so heavy that Bucky was finding it hard to breathe, and there was a mist so hard to cut through that Bucky could hardly see more than three feet in front of him at a time. Hades led him, and the only reason he could see him was because of his true height showing, and the fact that his dark smoke was even darker than the mist.

His hands shook. Both of them held onto his lyre for dear life. It was close to his chest, strings facing away from him, but still it felt like he could feel the vibrations of it, like the air was mocking him back by playing a song of its own. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and fall to his knees, the environment putting him in near shock.

But he had to find you.

Hades stopped in his tracks, turning his sunken face towards Bucky, who had to fight to not flinch. “If you play for my wife and she likes it, I’ll take you to see yours.” He nodded his head quickly, putting his lyre into position, his arms trembling with anxiety. The double doors opened without the old god even touching them, and then Bucky was faced with an ancient throne room, elegant and dark all the same.

The first thing he did once he got near the sitting Queen of the Underworld was kneel. Tears were already swirling in his eyes, and his throat was lurching. If he were a human, he was sure that he would have been throwing up. He prayed silently to his mother, calling upon the strength of the Muses and their talents into his blood once more.

It was silent until the queen finally spoke. “So you’re the musician?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“I expected you to be much older,” she said, her soft voice a plain contrast from her husband’s, and the dark setting of the Underworld. And then, Bucky understood that the stories weren’t embellished. At first thought, she didn’t seem to belong down there, least of all with Hades. He didn’t dare look up at either of them. “Your grief seems to be centuries old.” It felt like it was. The hole in his heart felt older than he was.

“This is Orpheus, son of Calliope,” Hades explained. “He can’t be more than a few thousand years, if I remember correctly.”

“Young, very young.” Persephone mused, the tone of her voice almost curious. “And what causes you to play this song?”

He explained it. He explained all of it. Your death, his need to see you, his stupid hope of bringing you back home where you belonged. He left it all on the table for them both to hear, even though he knew that the odds were unlikely for him. He didn’t care. He didn’t care if he got ridiculed or thrown back out of the gate, all that mattered to him was that he tried his hardest to get you. And that you knew, deep down in your forgotten mind, that he tried.

“Your music has moved me so, truly.” Persephone said, and then Bucky looked up. She was beautiful, flowers all over her body. She was the brightest thing down there, no doubt, and she still had that godly glow that all the other gods had, a golden rim around her body. She turned her face toward her husband without taking her eyes off of Bucky. “And I want to give you a chance.”

Bucky’s heart stopped. “Your Excellency?”

She was facing Hades now. “Give him a condition.” She muttered, her hands gripping the arms of the throne she sat on. “But let him try.”

Hades frowned. “If I let her go, how many humans do you think will hear of this tale and try to do the same?”

“None.” The goddess answered quickly. “They’re afraid of you. This boy is not. And unlike gods, humans accept death. They know that it is a part of the cycle, and they wouldn’t dare dispute it. This is just a confused young god. He hasn’t seen death before. This will be the only time anyone will ever ask this of you, Hades.”

It was pure silence. It seemed to stretch on for eons as Hades contemplated his wife’s words. The lyre had fallen to the ground minutes before, and Bucky felt himself reaching for it. Tears were streaming down his face now. “I’ll play for you again. I’ll play for you for a decade straight if you let me take her home at the end, if you let her remember me.” He added desperately, body trembling with anticipation.

Hades had dark eyes, and those dark eyes were full of uncertainty and something close to anger while he stared at Bucky, with a look on his face that was so blank that it frightened him. His wife’s hand was on his chest as she pleaded with him on Bucky’s behalf, yet he only stared Bucky down.

“If you can walk your way out of my domain without turning back to look at her, you can take her with you above ground.” Bucky sobbed. “If you look back, boy, she stays in the Asphodel Meadows.”

Bucky sobbed again.

§§

His back faced everything. He couldn’t hear anything except for the beating of his own heart, the heartbeat that seemed to extend all the way down to the fingertips that gripped the infamous lyre in his hand. He shook with every breath, and every blink was harsh on his eyes as he tried not to cry.

He wished he could hear you. He wished he could hear your soft voice reassure him, tell him that you remembered everything, that you were right behind him and that you would follow him everywhere, just like he would follow you. Just like he had followed you. He wished he could hear you.

He wished he could feel you. If your warm hands could just ghost over his shoulders and push him forward without quite letting go, he would have made the trek a thousand times. If he could feel your hands brushing away the hair out of his line of sight, he would have been walking before Hades even gave permission. He wished he could feel you.

He couldn’t. But he would walk anyway.

He hardly heard Hades give permission, his ominous tone echoing through the otherwise empty cavernous area, or the sound of Persephone’s whispers. But he could feel it in the air, suffocating and burying him.

Every lift of his foot was agonizing, every step far heavier than he ever imagined he could bear. But he would do it for you. He would push. Every whisper of doubt that crossed his mind, he would throw away.

It didn’t matter that at times, he wasn’t sure if you got what you needed from him. It didn’t matter that he felt like you weren’t fulfilled by the life you had with him. He had faith. It dwindled with every step, but he had faith. He would keep it and nurture it with every breath he had inside of him on the long journey back home.

Seconds started to feel like minutes, and minutes started to feel like hours. He hated it. His throat was closing in on itself like his voice was his enemy, like the voice everyone thought was so golden was the voice that would be the final nail in his coffin.

His feet were still aching, but the ache had become dull. Louder and more painful was the feeling of the cold biting his skin, like it was a reminder to stay conscious, to stay alert and thinking. Thinking was his vice and virtue. The silence was too loud. His mind was in pain, his heart even worse as he started to feel like the cold was his antagonizer. It was cold up above. It was in the cold where you suffered the most, where you struggled to stay positive. It was in the cold where he could hardly provide for you. It was in the cold where he had to hold you so close to him that air didn’t stand a chance between the two of you because every other man had already chopped the good wood.

But at the same time, he began to feel warm. It felt so warm to his skin that it felt like he was about to step into Tartarus. And it was in the warmth that you dressed in that pretty, short dress that got you harassed by men without humanity. It was in the summer that he found he couldn’t defend you. It was in the summer that he had a flash of realization that he wasn’t strong enough. It was in the summer that he got an even more fleeting flash of the thought that he wasn’t enough at all.

It was in the spring, in the months where there was sun and soft breezes, that he realized again that he was of no help. He had gotten a job one spring that was honest work, but brought in a lot less for the household than you did. He was working with the hands that were already calloused over to help men far more experienced than him craft things to sell to the town. He worked hard to come home tired just to know deep down that for all his work, he had not much more than chump change and a positive outlook to his name.

It was one autumn that he realized how much he had failed you, and he swept it under the rug like he did every other season. One autumn, he walked in on you crying in the arms of your friend- the local plum vendor that Bucky always used to buy from- about how you were terrified of being pregnant. As he walked through the Underworld, he asked himself how he could have ever forgotten that moment. Because what you said had shaken his heart to the core.

“There’s no way I would be able to take care of it.”

It wasn’t the certain doubt that was plants in your mind. It wasn’t the fact that neither of you had noticed Bucky hovering in the door because you were sobbing so hard. It wasn’t the way the woman comforted you better than he thought he was ever able to- because with him, you just never addressed the bad. It was as swept under the rug as dirt was. It was the way you said “I”. Alone. By yourself. Him and his contributions weren’t even in the picture. Were they even contributions?

It was never his voice that was his greatest feature and his worst. It was his mind. His mind was his killer. His mind was a killer, his poison and his weapon, and he was turning it right onto himself. His legs trembled as he fought the urge to look, to crane his neck and get his disappointment over with. Were you following him? Did you even remember him- or had you already drank from the river that would steal all of the life that you had before? Had Hades tricked him into leaving quietly?

And if you did remember him, why on earth would you follow him? You would be following him back to a land that was full of struggle and making it through day by day. You would be trudging after him this time only for him to bring up the rear in everything else. He would be the one smiling at you after you came from working to the bone, providing for him and yourself. That was all he ever had to offer, a smile and a song. What could he truly trade for a smile and a song? What could he get you?

Nothing.

What could he do if you got hurt again?

Nothing.

What could he do with his life when he surfaced and found you not there, far behind in the Underworld?

Nothing.

The doubt piled up. It replaced the faith like the faith was a forest and doubt was a wildfire. Every footstep added to it. He was convinced. He was sure that the result of him turning around at that one moment could be no worse than him turning around when he got to be above ground and away from the suffocating death. You weren’t going to be there. Whether he turned right then or in a hundred years, you weren’t going to be there. If you were in your right, beautiful mind, you would have seen him begging and turned your eyes from him and pretended like you hadn't known him.

He couldn’t tell where he was. His breathing was too shaky for him to think about anything else but breathing and thinking about you. It was too dark. His feet hadn’t touched grass yet and he knew he had to try to keep pushing, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He was bursting at the seams to confirm something that he already knew was coming for him.

His feet dragged. His steps sped up but it felt like he was fighting quicksand. He was struggling to walk through it, fighting to take breaths in it. The shallow breaths were somehow pitched high, bouncing off of the rocky, cavernous walls he began to hate. The only thing on his mind was doubt, doubt, doubt. It was a fever he couldn’t sweat out. A tremor he couldn’t shake away. A dark color he couldn’t paint over. A shadow he couldn’t run from. And just when he couldn’t fight it anymore, he saw light.

He never ran so fast in his entire life. He wanted to escape the feeling clawing at his throat and chest, the dread and preparation for pure disappointment. He wanted to step into the light, step into something he knew, before he allowed himself to collapse in grief again. It felt like the light was getting closer, and then it would fade again and come back lighter. He didn’t register the sound of sobbing until the sound faded out and stopped echoing, and then he was aware that his feet were touching the grass.

His feet were touching grass.

His hands shook as he raised them to his face, cupping his cheeks as he came to the realization that he was out of the nightmare that was the Underworld. Emotions were rushing into him faster than he could understand what they were, and then his mind stopped. His face was dry. His head whipped around.

Your eyes were wide and watery. Your dress was torn and bloody, just like it was when you had died. Your hair was a mess, and you were shaking from crying so hard. You stood there like a ghost, transparent and out of place, but crying real tears all the same. The sobs he had been hearing weren’t his own. They were yours. And you were still encased by the shadows of the Underworld.

You had been trying to catch up to him.

“Oh!” His exclamation was more of a dying moan than anything else. His trembling hands cupped his mouth again as he watched you cry again, crying even harder than that one time where the leaves were falling. He uttered your name once, and then once turned into four times, and as your cries got louder, his muttering turned into a shout, your name the one word he was calling out over and over again.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry baby.” He watched as you opened and shut your mouth over and over, shaking your head as silence was all you could produce. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He was drawing blood from how his fists were clenched. “Baby, my sweet love, my darling,” the names were dripping from his tongue like honey, like it was a balm that could soothe the both of you. His apologies were just as tender, as quiet and disbelieving as the language his eyes were speaking. He couldn’t help but reach out to you with a dying apology on his lips, his foot crossing the barrier you would be stuck behind forever, and just before he touched what must have been your cold skin, there was nothing but air.

Nothing but your lingering presence and his poisonous mind.

§§

He never thought that life could be so meaningless. Even before he met you, he felt like he had a purpose. He was an entertainer, a traveling man, a man who brought joy and music with him effortlessly wherever he went. Not anymore.

He was empty, and he felt like an empty glass jar. He wasn’t even an empty box— he was something anyone that had eyes could see right through. Everyone saw him and knew he was the one who had lost a wife and in turn given up all his divine talent. They looked at him through lenses that were wet with pity. He hated it.

He hated himself for doing the same to the humans who had lost loved ones. He felt horrible for giving them those looks, for telling Steve and Sam their stories without really knowing it. Now he was going through the unimaginable.

Nothing mattered, he learned. He thought that thought over and over again every time he woke up and every time he was going to sleep. He thought it while he sat in the cold on one winter night with no fire in the fireplace. It was something that would have made him worry a bit, or made him irritated at himself. Nothing really caused him to get angry or sad anymore. He was just there. It was like he was living yet another death by extension. The world gave him his cards and he played them in the worst way possible. But that’s what he did. He couldn’t change it.

He couldn’t change anything. All he could do was pray that you forgot the way that he failed you time and time again, and then where it was most important.

He would remember enough for the both of you.

****

hi guys! i feel like i literally have come back from the dead with all the time i’ve been in and out of here. it’s been so hectic and busy that i’m proud i got this out so soon lmao- i worked hard on this, so if you were feeling it please like and reblog!!

#mythology au #greek mythology au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #marvel fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #nexsgreekmythchallenge #IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE JESUS #bucky barnes x you #orpheus! bucky #my fics #god i am so sorry this is trash

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doubledgesword-2 · 4 years ago

Text

Soulmate Au Part 3

Part 1 and Part 2 are here! Requests for the Adult trio are open!

WARNING DUB-CON AND EXPLICIT SMUT +18 Please do not te upload somewhere else!!

You started to suspect something was wrong with you when you walked deep into the forest, looking to harvest the crops. Your mind screamed at you to keep walking. Walk away from this place and leave them behind. The minute your feet took one step forward, the most intense migraine struck you. You tried to walk forwards and work through the pain, but it became too debilitating to the point your legs gave under you, and your body crumbled to the ground.

Your eyes clenched close, and your body tucked in into a fetal position, your hands clutching your shirt in hopes it would lessen the pain. Suddenly, you heard a rustle behind you, but couldn't really be bothered to turn and look at the disturbance.

"Oh, here you are. I was worried something might have happened" Chrollo came from behind a tree, his coat gracefully moving as he came to stand before your crippled form.

He sat down beside you taking your body into his lap. His hands stroke your hair as tears came down from your eyes.

"(Y/N), this is such a nice and peaceful place you've built" his voice was so calm, and his hands went through your locks with such comfort that you were calming down for a second.

He took a deep breath, eyes close with a smile as if truly enjoying the quiet and the light breeze blowing through. Chrollo leaned down close to you, your body shaking in pain still. His hands petted away a couple of strands of your hair as his lips came close to your ear.

"You weren't thinking of leaving now, were you?"

The tone of his voice made the question feel like a gentle threat. But a threat nonetheless. He kissed your temple and kept running his hands through your hair, breathing in once more, smiling at the sunbeams coming through the leaves and shining down on the two of you.

"I am delighted you have decided to stay with us. It would have broken all our hearts to know you weren't happy here" he looked down at your form, no longer distressed but still slightly shaking and sniffling.

"You are happy here, are you not?"

You nodded weakly in response, and he beamed at you. He picked you up gently, bridal style, while his hand carried the woven basket underneath you.

"Let's go, I'll prepare dinner tonight. Just the two of us, little treasure. All is well".

Chrollo brought you all the way to the cottage, filling the air with casual banter along the way. His excitement grew whenever the prospect of a new book came into the conversation.

"It's very eloquent poetry. I am sure it'll sound melodic coming from your lips".

Chrollo walked into the cottage with you still in his arms. The other two were nowhere to be seen, and it confirmed what he had said: you two were truly alone. Chrollo settled you on the sofa, your fluffy cat meowing around his legs. He crouched to pet the cat's head.

"What are you craving today, love?" Your eyes were close, dried tear streaks under them, but you opened them to see him smiling warmly at you while still petting your cat.

"Chef's choice," you replied simply, trying a smile of your own, but it came out more like a grimace.

"Mmm, hard choice, I'll surprise you then" he gave your forehead a kiss and moved away from your vision line.

After leaving you on the sofa, Chrollo had draped his coat over the chair, washed his hands, and got everything ready for the food. Your eyes were droopy, body tired after your horrific headache, so you drifted off into a nice comfy nap.

A fantastic smell wafted around the house, waking you up to find you have drooled on the decorative pillow. Chrollo was in front of you, smiling at your cute and sleepy face.

You shot up, looking around as if you weren't in your house, and you didn't know who was in front of you. Then it all came back, the realization hit you, and you wiped the drool with the back of your hand. Chrollo chuckled at you and got up to kiss the top of your head, lingering for a second, hugging you to him.

“Dinner is ready, come on love."

A bit disoriented and groggy, you got up and went to the table. Everything was set up with candles surrounding the dinner table and the kitchen. A single rose in a vase was in the middle of the table, the same vase that you had changed the flowers that fateful day they had found you. Chrollo was waiting beside the chair he had pulled out for you. He had a proud smile as you went to sit at the chair, and he gently pushed you in. The whole thing was adorable, and it would have been romantic if you weren't wary of the man. He sat down as well and was looking at you with loving eyes. You pretended he wasn't fixed on you as you took the first bite out of your food.

"I hope it's to your liking. I had never made this one before" he had ended up making your favorite dish, and you were happy to have it; the food was truly delicious.

The fact that he knew your favorite dish shouldn't give you the feeling of dread, and yet it did. You knew the trio had most undoubtedly memorized everything about you, no matter how small the detail was. Still, you couldn't wrap your head around the idea.

"It's delicious, thank you" you forced a smile at him, and he chuckled under his breath, looking down at his own plate.

"You don't have to pretend with me (Y/N). I'm not Hisoka or Illumi; I'm a simple thief but a gentleman at heart. I know you're uncomfortable, and this situation is new to you. I don't blame you".

You looked down to your plate, feeling a bit embarrassed that he noticed your inner turmoil. His words should have offered comfort, but you couldn't feel it or find any. Instead, they further pushed down the heavy stone in your stomach.

"I-I don't know how to feel, still. I'm adjusting, trying to at least" you took another bite and gave him a close-lipped smile as you chewed the food.

Chrollo's dark eyes pierced yours; he wasn't buying it.

"Then perhaps we haven't fully helped you experience love in this relationship," he gave you a closed eye smile and took a mouthful of the food.

You felt shivers run up your spine, body tingling in fear and dread as if you were at the dropping point of a big coaster ride. Your heart beat faster to the point where you started hearing it in your ears.

The door seemed like an excellent option right now.

Your hands went under the table to grip the edge of the chair as you tried to ground yourself back into the moment. 'He didn't say anything. He just made a suggestion with a smile', you told yourself, looking for the logic in his words, and calming yourself. But it wasn't working, you had felt it. Felt the tiniest flare of his aura reach out to you in silent warning. Nothing big but just enough to put you back into place. There were so many meanings behind that little jesting phrase that it made you anxious.

"Are you alright? You seem a little pale" he placed his utensil down, getting out of the chair and crouching near you.

His cold hand reached to your cheek, caressing you and making you look down at him.

"Perhaps some air will do you good," he grabbed both your hands in his and pulled you up and out of the chair.

You were in a slight daze watching him as he placed a coat around you and dressed in his own. Chrollo exited the cottage with you around his arm. The two of you looked like a loving couple taking a stroll in the middle of winter.

As you walked into the forest, passing by trees and bushes taking in the sights under the moonlight, Chrollo pulled a book from inside his coat and handed it to you. You took it. Still, a bit shook but figured some reading might do you good.

"I borrowed it," the way he said borrow told you he meant stole "figured you might like it" he side-eyed you as your doe-like eyes looked up to him in question.

You looked down at the cover seeing it was a very elusive limited edition copy of one of your favorite authors. Your heart skipped a beat, and for once in a long while, you were pleasantly surprised and excited. Your lips pulled into an unconscious smile, and by the time you had noticed you were smiling and tried to hide it with a serious look, Chrollo had already smiled and locked the sight in his mind. You looked precious.

"Why don't you read it out loud. I'm sure it's a good night for some reading if you don't mind?" His suave and smooth voice questioned, but you knew better than to resist him.

So you nodded, muttering a thank you. He nodded back, closing his eyes briefly and then looking back at you with expectation. You opened the first page and started to read the prologue as the two of you walked. Your lips never stuttering a word as you got lost in the story, pulled into it to the point were you forgot his eyes on you.

Chrollo was looking around the trees, admiring the majestic scenery as your words filled the nightly air. He knew your tone was hesitant and scared. You hated reading out loud and especially to him. You'd told him it was something about the sound of your voice in your ears. But he loved it. The way you pronounced or mispronounced words made his heart flutter. How your tone changed when you got lost in the narrative and started muttering small comments for the characters under your breath. Your little mannerisms made you adorable in his eyes, and the more he looked at you, the more he wanted.

He wasn't satisfied.

At the beginning of his relationship with Hisoka, there were some bumps he had to overcome when it came to the clown. But once he did, he could say he came to love the jester. When Illumi came into the picture as his second soulmate, he was a bit surprised. He, at some point, even doubted the assassin could actually be capable of emoting or loving. But one night, when they were all together tucked away in a vacation home right in front of the beach, he realized something about themselves.

He was sitting on a comfy armchair sofa in the balcony, book in hand, a glass of wine resting on its wooden arm. The sun was setting as cliche as it may sound, but his eyes rested on the page's words. When suddenly, he felt a head fall on his lap.

Assuming it was Hisoka, he didn't even glance down in hopes of secretly riling him up. Though curiosity got the better of him, so his eyes did glance down, and he was surprised. On his lap, long black hair fanned across it, was Illumi with his eyes close and a peaceful expression on his face.

Chrollo's heart fluttered.

He felt his cheeks heat up as he stole glances of the assassin. He almost closed the book, but he was afraid the sound would shake the scene and make the Illumi leave. So he kept pretending to read, not being able to fully concentrate with the comforting weight of Illumi on his lap.

They bonded after that, growing closer together. Hisoka was proud of them. The troupe had always been his family but getting to feel this kind of love was different.

That's when he realized soulmates were meant to be together for a reason. So when your name appeared on their skin out of nowhere, he knew they had to find you. You were not being loved as you should. That's why he understands your apprehension and your wariness of them. They're not exactly good in lawful standards, and their moral compasses might be slightly broken. But if there's one thing they know for sure, loving you is one of their main goals.

You just need to see it.

"As soon-"your reading got interrupted by a pair of lips on yours.

Chrollo's hands grabbed both sides of your face and brought you close for a fevered kiss. The book fell out of your hands as they came to rest on his arms.

"I couldn't resist," he mumbled out of breath against your lips. You, on the other hand, were freaking out a bit.

The fact that you were in the middle of a clearing in the forest was making you anxious. Chrollo dived in again, looking for your lips, but you turned your face away bashfully. You looked down to the grass seeing the book and bending down to pick it up as if he hadn't just kissed away your breath.

He was a bit hurt, but he had to remember that you weren't like them. You needed a little more coaxing to come out of your shell. He would help.

You straightened, inspecting the book for any creases or tears in the pages. You dusted away some dirt, closing the book delicately and looking up at Chrollo.

You frowned at the sight. Not that it wasn't a pleasant one, he was handsome and pretty, but you weren't buying it. At some point, you were pretty sure you were in soulmate denial.

"What are you doing?" You asked meekly, seeing as he had shaken away his coat and was shirtless at the moment.

Your fight or flight sense was glaring up, and you hugged the book to your stomach. Chollo placed his coat in the grass, open as if it was a picnic blanket. He turned to eye you, his eyes no longer cold.

"I know you're afraid, but there's nothing to be afraid of. Let me show you just how much I love you," that was your cue.

He took a step, and you mirrored him taking one back. This made him slightly tilt his head to the side, the look playfully menacing. Chrollo took another step and your nen flared up in warning, this time stronger than the last time you had tried this. He looked proud instead of intimidated, and it angered you.

The loving way he looked at your nen didn't help your case, and so you attacked. Your nen moved fast, striking the spot where he was. But he was fast, as quick as Hisoka, and that was a disadvantage to you.

Chrollo had suddenly disappeared and left you in the middle of the clearing. You leaned down to quickly put the book out of harm's way and then stood in attention. The moon shone brightly on you, giving your dangerous look and angelic glow. He could've groaned and moaned out loud just like Hisoka would've done, but he bit his lip instead, looking at you through the foliage.

Your ears were strained, searching for any noise as little as it may be. But there was no noise when he came, fast and swift bringing you down. The two of you rolled around on the grass, he chuckled as you winded up, straddling him. Your face scrunched up in concentration. His hand lifted to your cheek, caressing it, which made you flinch for a second. Chrollo then flipped the two of you, causing you to shriek at the suddenness. He pinned down your wrists, bringing them beside your head. Your wide-eyed looked at him startled, yet something was growing in your stomach's pit.

"You're getting better. Illumi should be proud," he leaned down, bringing his lips close to your ear. "Your nen is worth stealing, I wouldn't mind, if it meant keeping you as well" he bit your earlobe, making you bite your lips.

You tried to wriggle your wrists out of his hold, but his hands tightened around them. Chrollo started kissing your neck, nibbling and sucking his way down your collarbone. Still, you kept muffling your noises, biting your lip, and holding your tongue.

He wouldn't have it. Chrollo bit down in between your neck and shoulder, making you moan loudly.

"That's more like it," he chuckled against the spot soothing it with a lick and kiss, "Do you think I could steal some more noises from your lips?" He asked, bringing his lips close to yours.

"Would you let me?" You could feel his breath on your lips as he talked.

Chrollo kissed you hard, tongue poking your entrance and biting your lower lip so you wouldn't deny him. He sucked on your tongue, relishing in your futile attempts to keep quiet. His hips started grinding slowly into yours, pressing down his hard-on on your clothed spot. He was only wearing his pants, back and chest bared under the moonlight and shining with a thin layer of sweat. He separated for some air, leaving you a bit dazed and fuzzy. His hands coming down to your clothes gripping your shirt and tugging at it. That jerked you up from your state, making you gasp, your hands coming to his own grabbing them. You tried to pull them away from you, but he took both of your wrists in one of his hands and pinned them hard on the ground.

You groaned at the slight pain, and he took the opportunity of your raised arms to slide the shirt up and jumble it around your hands in makeshift bounds. He smiled down at your bra and the way your brows scrunched up in struggle. Your fight was strong, but he was stronger.

Chrollo leaned down to your chest, kissing the curve of your breast pressed on the bra. He bit down on the mound, making you groan.

"You're so soft, so beautiful," he whispered to your chest as his hand slipped the breast out of the bra. He massages the nipple, head dipping, and licking the other to attention. You started squirming under him, bringing your tied hands to stop him but ended up hugging his head closer to your chest, a moaning mess.

A fire was rising in between your legs, and you felt the electricity go down your spine.

'What were they doing to you?!' You screamed in your mind trying to fight the feeling.

Chrollo's hand left your mound, his mouth kept sucking on the other, as he sneaked down to your waistline. You had been wearing a comfortable attire since it was a bit hot, and you were tending to the crops today before your accident. He easily slipped down and into your panties. His calloused and experienced hands didn't waste any time and felt your slit. He smirked when he found you wet, but not enough for him. Chrollo gathered some slick and gently rubbed on your hooded pearl. You jerked under him, muffling a moan by biting your lip. His lips left your peak, glistening and wet under the dim moonlight. He went to the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, and planting open-mouthed kisses as his other hand maintained a steady rhythm on your nub. He didn't change the speed, going in gentle circles on your bundle of nerves.

You were getting desperate, feeling the pleasure rising in you, and pushing shame to the back of your mind. Your hips bucked unconsciously, and he tutted you like a child, smiling in victory against your neck with closed eyes.

"Tch, tch, tch, not yet, I think you deserve some punishment for being so stubborn with me" he bit your earlobe, making you whine in response.

Your body struggled against him, but he let his weight drop on you, making you stay still. Chrollo's hand then went quicker and quicker, driving you deep into pleasure but not all the way. You whined again, trying to move away from his hand, but he went faster. Suddenly you felt the ice-cold rush from the tip of your toes to your core, pleasure flooding your system like a wave. Your body shook under his, toes curling, and you let out a moan closing your eyes at all the sensations.

Chrollo groaned with you, his pants too tight for comfort. He grinned against you softly and sat up, still straddling you. In your high, you didn't felt as he pulled the rest of your clothes down and his arousal out, the tip an angry red as he stroke it, shuddering under the feeling. He then pushed into you, making you gasp and open your eyes wide to the see him. His eyes closed, and he bit his lip briefly. Then his dark eyes opened slowly, looking down at you in adoration. His mouth was slightly opened, breathing heavily at the feeling of your warmth engulfing him. Hair was falling sideways and forwards, almost covering the cross on his forehead. The light glowing behind him gave him a surreal look and feel.

It was euphoric.

You moaned, and he started moving slowly, leaning over you to capture your lips as he sped up. His hands were beside your head, supporting his body as he rocked with you. He rested on his forearms, bringing himself closer to you as he changed speed and slowly rolled his hips, making you feel everything.

"I love you so much," he whispered into your cheek, kissing it afterward.

Chrollo groaned lowly when he bumped into a special spot that made you clench hard around him. You moaned.

"Found it," he chuckled low, speeding up and hitting the same spot over and over.

Your hips buckled, meeting his as he sat up. He gave you a half-lidded look, smiling at you. His hands came to rest on your hips, pressing them down as he rammed inside you. He couldn't take how good you felt, your same walls gripping him and becoming him deeper. He complied, going faster and deeper, making you moan and whine. Chrollo's hand sneaked to your hooded pearl, rubbing it at matching speed with his thrusts.

Your body jerked, heat, and cold consuming you at equal measure. Your body glistened with sweat under the moonlight, making you glow and shine like a jewel worth stealing. Chrollo bit his lip at the picture, wishing he could just have it to look at it all the time. Instead, he committed it to memory, his hand rubbing your nub furiously.

Suddenly your body arched beautifully, your breasts offered to him as you came with a shriek. Pleasure flooded you, making you twitch and shake. He joined you with a groan, head thrown back as his body arched as well, driving his length deep inside you, releasing all of himself into you. Your walls massage him as he thrusts slowly.

The two of you panted heavily.

Chrollo's hands were beside your head, supporting his body as he caught his breath. He looked down at you, your skin looking perfect under the lighting, your lips puffy and slightly opened as your naked chest heaved, making your breasts move up and down. You looked gorgeous, and he couldn't ask for more. He was satisfied, and a sense of fullness filled him at the moment.

He pulled out, making your face scrunch up in pain at the slight discomfort of the tenderness. Tucking himself back in his pants, he zipped them up and laid down beside you. He undid the mess around your wrists, and you pulled them down beside your body, resting the aching muscles. His head was supported on his hand as he laid on his side, looking at you in love. Your eyes were closed, and you seemed to be calm, almost sleeping.

His fingers came to lay on your stomach. The ginger touch made you jump slightly at the suddenness, but otherwise, your eyes remained closed. They moved around your form, tracing your marks, your waves, the way your mounds curved into your chest, your collarbone, and finally, they came to rest on your neck. He caresses it with the back of his hand, coming up to your cheek and staying there.

You opened your eyes slightly, looking at him through a tired glaze. Chrollo smiles warmly, coming close to peck your lips. He pulled the coat around your form, covering you from the night's chill, and gathered you in his arms.

Chrollo stopped to pick up the book you had neatly placed away from the mess and chaos. Smirking at your thoughtfulness. He gave you the book or at least propped it on your stomach as your sleepy form was losing the fight. He carried you all the way back to the cottage, where he placed you on the bed. You turned to the side, and he petted your hair, kissing your head. He came back to put the leftover food away and the dishes in the sink, making sure to turn off the candles. Your cat was eagerly following him like he had treats in his pockets.

Chrollo went back to the room, taking off the rest of his clothes and stripping you of this coat. He draped it on your vanity, the rest of the clothes scattered in a corner of the room. Your fluffy black cat went to them, kneading the fabric and then laying on top.

Chrollo pulled the covers back and brought you close to him, pulling the two of you under the sheets. He snuggled closer to you, the two of you naked as the day you were born. He pressed a kiss to the back of your ear, nuzzling your neck afterward and then resting on top of your head.

"Sleep well, my love," mutters, and you reply with your own muffled and unintelligible goodnight. He smiled, closing his eyes in bliss.

He couldn't wait for the morning to do it all over again.

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