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evanhereonearth · 3 months ago

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I hurt my own feelings with this fic. VEILGUARD SPOILERS!

This is the prologue of Veilguard from the POV of my Inquisitor, Ilaana Lavellan, who has spent the time since Trespasser working tirelessly to change the world. Her work with the Dalish and Rivaini seers and the Avvar augurs inspired the Veil Jumpers’ formation. She is a Dreamer and she is so endlessly tired.

Now betrayed by one of her dearest friends when it mattered the most.

I stare at the letters side by side. One from a beloved friend. One from my most trusted agent, which I have just decrypted. And one…

One I have had for a week and have been expecting. If not today, soon. It’s time. And I’m already too late to make a difference.

Varric’s letter fills me with cold. Cold like the Elfsblood River in Emprise du Lion spiked with red lyrium, its rage hot against the frigid ice that has settled over my skin.

He is too smart to think I will buy it, too canny to believe I don’t have my own methods of tracking Solas—yet still, here it is, another spun tale from the man who once told me I should have lied to the Right Hand of the Divine herself when I woke in Haven with a hole in the sky and a hole in my head and a hole in my hand that could heal all three.

I read it again, my body past reacting outwardly but my ribs screaming to hold back the fury in my heart.

Inquisitor,

Greetings from miserable, rainy Minrathous! (Don't tell Dorian I called it that.) The rotten weather here is making me nostalgic for Skyhold. The mountains were freezing, but at least the air didn't smell like wet garbage.

We'll have to get in another game of Wicked Grace soon.

Harding picked up the trail again. I'd tell you not to worry, but I know how useless that is. Instead, I'll just say: I've got a great team on this. Neve could stare down the Maker, and wait until you meet Rook. They're a natural: Smart, resourceful, completely unpredictable. You'd like them, as long as you don't try to beat them at cards. Chuckles'll never know what hit him.

I'll write again once we have something solid for you. Drinks at the Hanged Man are on me when this is over. Take care of yourself.

Varric

Then I read Charter’s. Charter is Leliana’s agent and also mine, one of the few who has come face to face with Solas since the events of the Qunari Dragon’s Breath plot. I trust Leliana implicitly—she’s earned that from me, my truest friend aside from Dorian and my most steadfast partner in all my intricate work for the past decade, by my side by choice as I walk my own din’an shiral—and until five minutes ago when I got Charter’s, I also trusted Varric Tethras.

Charter’s words are brief, using only my code name and seven others she pulsed through the sending crystal only minutes ago.

Lathi,

Our Lady of Victory. Looking glass. Haste.

I’m already too late. Haste means immediately. Even if I have an eluvian directly into the centre of Minrathous, I cannot run fast enough to beat Varric to Our Lady of Victory. Morrigan cannot fly fast enough.

Varric told me not to come to Minrathous yet.

And I know, without any doubt, that he sent his message barely an hour ago; Irelin must have been holding on to it until he told her to send it.

I am frozen like that horrid river, my own Elvhen blood a block of ice in every vein. How many times have I tried to explain to Varric the stakes here? How many hours have I spent begging him to listen to anything beyond his own narrative?

Something cracks within me, and my body begins to vibrate like a hummingbird’s wings as I force myself to reread the final letter.

Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words. My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this the world will be as it once was, and you will see why all I did was necessary. I cannot ask your forgiveness, but I hope you come to understand. That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin…you do not know how close I came to breaking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas…as I wanted.

I regret the pain I caused you.

What I feel for you will never change.

This, I have read a thousand times in the days since I found it in the Crossroads. I knew he sensed me close to his Lighthouse, knew he felt as I always do when we enter each other’s orbits.

It is the closest thing to an invitation he will ever send me; Solas once pushed me from his own din’an shiral out of fear I would come to regret loving him, that his steps would poison our love and the safety we built in each other’s hearts. He knew, when he sent this letter, that he had been wrong then about my motivations—or at least that my motivations have had the time to reveal to him my truth. He remembers how I said, “Let me help you, Solas.” And he is no fool. He knows every threat to his course, every passing breeze, and he knows every deliberate step I have taken on the journey I chose for myself these last ten years. He knows it’s not for him alone; he knows my mind is my own. He also knows I am free to choose and have chosen.

And now in my own foolish trust of an old friend, I will be too late to help him after all this time. Because Varric knows if I show up at Solas’s ritual, the Void take me, it will not be to stop my love at all costs.

I take a single steadying breath. Too late or not, I have to try. He will feel me coming to him. Perhaps that will be enough.

I summon a trio of wisps as I turn and sprint for my eluvian, whispering, begging, imbuing them with all the love in my heart and praying it is enough to stall whatever Varric has set in motion with this betrayal.

***

Varric’s letter and Charter’s, I drop into the warded message box I share with Leliana and Morrigan. Morrigan is deep in Arlathan Forest with Strife and Irelin, and Leliana—Divine Victoria—is leading the entire Chantry of Southern Thedas. They will both know soon enough.

Slipping through the mirror buzzes against the surface of my skin, enveloping me in the magic of the Fade, of the in-between place that is the Crossroads. We do not have Solas’s Vi’Revas, and our small section of the eluvian network is ours at his sufferance, unacknowledged for the sake of our plausible deniability—something we are all well aware of. The wisps I summoned are already gone, whirring through the Fade to find my love with as much haste as they can muster.

Time moves differently here. My feet pound over its ancient paths, rainbows glimmering and shimmering in the raw magic that surrounds me, but I still cannot move fast enough. With a thought, I slip into wolf form; I may not truly be faster this way, but I feel faster.

The mental boost gives me strength. It is not far to the Minrathous eluvian, but what lies on the other side is the true terror in my soul. Dorian’s manor is across the city from Our Lady of Victory. Even with all the magic in Thedas, I cannot simply appear where I want to appear.

When I reach the eluvian, I launch myself through, transforming myself back into the shape of Ilaana Lavellan that the world knows as the Inquisitor.

And what I hear makes me almost trip and sprawl out onto my face.

“Citizens of Minrathous!” The voice booms through the air from the Archon’s Palace.

I don’t hear the rest of the message, because Dorian throws open the door to the warded eluvian room, pinged by the wards that recognise my mana.

“It’s started,” he says. “Ilaana—”

“Varric lied,” I tell him shortly. “Did you know?”

I’ve never heard the razor-sharp edge to my voice that slices through the air between me and my dearest friend. He gapes at me, piecing together what I’m saying as horror twists his expression before he can answer.

“Dorian, did you know?”

My voice cracks the second time, and he flinches at my anguish.

“No, Lathi. I trust you above all else in this Maker-forsaken world. Into the Fade and Beyond.”

The weary smile he gives me is enough; Dorian cannot lie to my face.

That last bit is a joke, one I didn’t know I needed in this moment. Humans call it the Fade, elves call it the Beyond, and right now, the veil between our world and the spirit world, regardless of what anyone calls it, is about to vanish. My love is trying to heal the wound he inflicted upon this world to save it so long ago. The immense trust Dorian has in me, to believe the veil falling is survivable?

I can return that trust. I will return that trust.

“I need to get to Our Lady of Victory,” I tell him, forcing the mask back on—if I am going to survive tonight, that mask will be my lifeline.

I am too late already. But I have to try. I am too late already. But for Solas, for all of us and everyone we love on both sides of the veil, I have to try.

***

It is the quiet that tells me I’m too late.

Dorian and I burst through the eluvian into the wilds of Arlathan to find it over—but the Veil still stands. In the shellshocked broken statues, in the stink of blight that stings at my nostrils in a whiff on the wind, we are late enough that the scene has grown quiet.

Not silent. The storm of magic that fills the air with the familiar feel of the Fade—Solas’s mana, so known to me, permeating every pore—remains an echo.

An argument with Varric from last month springs back into my mind.

“Varric, the veil is already failing. It will fall whether you want it or not, and only Solas knows how to do this in a way that will not release the entire reason he created it in the first place.” My temples bloomed with the headache I was nursing at the time, circular arguments that could find no purchase on the smooth, blunted surface of Varric’s stubbornness. “It’s the Blight. The blighted Evanuris, whoever of them remains. If we find him, we cannot risk their escape.”

“We don’t know that,” Varric insisted for the hundredth time. “He’s trying to drown the world in demons—we can’t just let him because you believe his propaganda.”

“I believe the decade of my own studies! Everything I have found independently on both sides of the veil confirms it, that the Evanuris created or unleashed the Blight and weaponised it. And that the veil kept them from using it to destroy the entire world. Every living being in Thedas owes Solas their very existence.”

“And he’s taking the veil down and will let the blight out again—”

“He will do no such thing! It would defeat the purpose of everything he has done so far, and you are not listening to me. You have decided, wrongly, that you understand this better than I do, better than he does, better than the Veil Jumpers and the seers, better than Morrigan, who holds the memories of Mythal herself.”

“Look, Ilaana, I know you and Chuckles were in love, but he lied to you all that time. You’re too close to this to be objective. He’s the literal god of lies.”

“Or none of the rest of you bothered to truly know him. If you had, you might have been forced to accept that he is right. You see only the version of him you wish to see; I at least can differentiate between the man and the mask he wears.”

That was it, I realise, as Dorian and I warily pick our way towards the ritual site.

That was the moment Varric decided he would keep me from this. He has always believed me to be delusional. He has always been unable to accept that he is wrong. Wrong about Cole’s personhood, wrong about Bianca. I can see him projecting that upon me; he trusted Bianca, a woman who married someone else instead of him, a woman who leaked red lyrium into the world to Corypheus, a woman who deluded him, kept him begging for scraps for years. A woman more delighted by her own cleverness than any willingness to take responsibility for her actions. He thinks my relationship with Solas is the same.

It is not and never was.

In the past decade, much of the Inquisition has fallen away. Bull hasn’t much stayed in touch since he and Dorian ended things; Tevinter became too large for Bull to deal with. He returned to the Chargers, and as far as I know is somewhere in Antiva fighting the Antaam.

Some, I know still only to keep an eye on. Like Thom and Vivienne and Sera. Others are friends I keep close but not too close, like Cass and Josie and Cullen. Varric and Lace, I have trusted until now, if not to the degree I trust Dorian and Leliana and Merrill and Morrigan, enough to trust they would listen to me and my hard-won expertise.

Folly. The folly of my too-tender heart that gave me my nickname. Da’lath’in. Lathi.

Beside me, Dorian makes a small noise. I’m so caught up in my rampaging thoughts that I stop only when he throws out an arm across my chest

“What in the blazes is that?”

I smell the Blight before my eyes process the lumpen mass I’m seeing. My first thought is that it is a womb torn out and left pulsing on the ground, its umbilical cord winding away to attach to…something worse.

My second thought is that this impression is all too correct.

I incinerate it with a thought, Dorian’s barrier protecting us from any spray of the explosion, and fire races along the umbilical cord to the larger mass, lighting it up with a gurgling pulse that makes every pore on my body raise itself into gooseflesh.

“The veil remains, but the blight got out,” I say, my voice hollow, numb.

“Lathi, if you don’t want to see this—”

“I have to.”

It comes out almost as a gasp. I take three slow breaths, trying to build myself a cocoon of calm even as something deep within my spirit begins to shriek.

Dorian burns through the barrier, and I cast about for any threats that could remain. The blight here—this is unlike any blight I have encountered. My skin crawls like it’s trying to escape from my body.

Thom alerted me some time ago to a report from Wardens who seem to have encountered an ancient elven lab beneath a mountain that birthed horrors unlike any they’d encountered. Darkspawn twisted enough to make the usual hurlocks and genlocks and shrieks look downright friendly.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

What has Varric done?

We see no actual darkspawn as we wind through the path, but that does nothing to settle my spirit. The entire place is hushed with creeping wrongness, echoes of magic like a tempest barely calmed. Or cut off abruptly.

I see footprints in the dirt. Dorian is no tracker, but I am still Dalish. Two dwarves—that’ll be Varric and Harding. One set is a boot and a hard imprint of something not a foot. Neve Gallus, most likely. She is known for having lost part of a leg much like I have lost part of an arm, though in entirely different circumstances.

One set that must be Rook’s. Grier Aldwir, a Veil Jumper who I encountered long ago in Rivain before the Veil Jumpers even existed. Not long after Dragon’s Breath, when I first ventured out to the those I thought might meet me with open minds.

Varric seems to have somehow thought I wouldn’t find out about the people he intended to take to disrupt my love’s ritual, but I admit surprise at Rook’s identity.

I would have thought Grier would have more sense.

Not that my first impression of them was anything more than passing; Grier was starstruck to be in the presence of the Inquisitor, and I noted the way they asked stupid questions that others seemed to expect of them as much as I noted the sharp intelligence behind those blue-green eyes. I recognised something of myself in that; it has often behooved me to allow others to make assumptions about my own capacity. Better people underestimate you, especially as an elf in Thedas.

The thoughts are as much distraction as anything. That shrieking part of my soul has not ceased its panicked noise.

Dorian and I pick our ways forwards still, combing the path for evidence. Some residue of demons, more blight, though the blight seems to be leading away from here, almost like tracks in and of itself. It veers off into Arlathan Forest, which is something I am likely to hear about sooner rather than later. I will get word to Irelin and Strife after we discover what happened here at this ritual.

I don’t let myself wonder about Solas. I cannot.

If I do, I will break.

We come to an old ruin, and even from where I stand, I can see the evidence of cataclysm. I have been here once before when tracking Solas, so I know that the enormous statues of the ancient Evanuris were standing not long ago.

Now only a few still stand upright; the rest have toppled like bookshelves in a library when one is pushed to fall upon the others in a cascade of destruction.

My skin grows cold even as my analytical mind puts together pieces of what must have happened.

“Surely even dwarves could not be so foolish as to drop a statue on a ritual of that magnitude of volatility,” Dorian says, his own mind making the same connection as mine. “One does not need magical acuity to understand that such a thing would—”

I waggle my prosthetic hand at him. “Have unintended consequences?”

“My dear, you are far more gracious than I.”

I am, of course, referring to my own inadvertent interruption of a ritual of a tenth this size: Corypheus sacrificing Divine Justinia to tear open the Fade. The moment I tripped and landed in the role of Herald of Andraste, later Inquisitor. The moment I fell into the Fade in the flesh and tumbled back out of it a miracle. The moment my fate became irrevocably bound to Solas’s.

“They had two mages with them, as well,” I murmur. “Dock Town’s Neve Gallus and a Veil Jumper called Grier Aldwir. Rook, as Varric calls them. Either one of them ought to have known better.”

“Neve certainly should have,” Dorian murmurs. “I don’t know her well, but enough to know she doesn’t take chances. That said, she has not had the benefit of knowing someone who lives and breathes the Fade, let alone two someones. Three if we count Cole.”

“Even so,” I say shakily. My ability to compartmentalise is cracking along its fault lines.

“Even so,” Dorian agrees.

I can feel spirits pressing against the veil, drawn to me as always. Especially when there has been enormous magic brought to bear, and there has been more enormous magic brought to bear here than any time in history since the day Solas made the veil itself.

“Dorian.”

He pulls his gaze from the toppled statues to look at me, his own demeanour showing he’s as aware of the activity in the Fade as much as I am.

“Don’t worry,” he says, a sardonic smile quirking his lips without reaching his eyes as he quotes a line he once said to me when we were torn out of time in a red lyrium nightmare of Redcliffe. “I’ll protect you.”

He knows I need to see.

We both know I may not be able to bear it.

***

A decade of practice has made slipping across the veil into the Fade as simple as lighting a candle with my magic.

It feels like home here, and that thought wrenches a yearning sob from me at my decade-long hope crushed.

“Imagine a world where the Fade is not somewhere you go, but a state of nature, like the wind. Where spirits are as common as trees or grass.”

Solas’s words to me, a lifetime ago in Haven.

My first wild glimmer of possibility.

The spirits around me reflect my sorrow, my fear, but they know me. They know me or know of me, and they do not turn into demons when my emotions are stormy; instead, they pull close around me. Compassion and Valour and Courage and Determination.

“Show me,” I whisper to my friends.

The world of now falls away.

I feel the germination of Solas’s ritual, feel his magic grow, spreading in undulating waves from where he stands atop a ritual platform raised on a flight of stone-hewn stairs.

The sight of him wrenches at my heart. Oh, I have had glimpses of him over the years; we are ghosts of the wolves I carved for him in Skyhold so long ago, always circling each other, never without each other’s scents. I have seen him echoed in memories in the Fade, regrets and tears, his and my own both, seen him in truth, from afar, gazing upon me and allowing for scattered moments of longing we both knew must be brief. Whether as a wolf or a man, I know him always, as he knows me. He has never hidden from me, nor I from him.

But seeing him in this memory, only a bare hour or two ago, is different.

His name means both Pride and One Who Stands Tall, and in this moment, it is only the latter the spirits see. Thus it is only the latter I see. The spirits are here, and they are ready, because he has prepared them for this. Pride blooms in me—pride that my love has not an army, but a tribe thousands strong of spirits ready to help—spirit self seeing self—ready to heal the wound he inflicted on the world, ready to help the bone knit back together after it has been re-broken and reset.

They know the risks. They know what lies beyond the door.

Corruption and death.

For all of us.

Still, they are here, and they are ready.

The scope of Solas’s power staggers me as it grows. It eclipses the ritual site, so much raw magic it is as if the veil already does not exist. This—this is what remained of a fragment of Mythal?

My own power is not negligible; my connection to the Fade has grown to the point that I am virtually untouchable to anyone who tries to harm me.

But this?

No wonder the Evanuris convinced the ancient Elvhen that they were gods.

I can also feel that it reaches the limits of his strength.

He has been counted among them, but he has never been their peer.

Yet he bested them anyway.

Magic, raw and awe-inspiring, pours out of the Fade, permeating the earth, the ritual site, the air, everything for miles around. It is a beacon of pure power to anything with an awareness, anything with a connection to the Fade and, I suspect, even to anything without.

I’m so caught up in the torrent of energies that I almost miss Varric’s approach.

Not all spirits have the fortitude to resist change in the face of such enormous magical shifts; some few, so desperate to reunite with the physical world the veil sundered them from, tear their way through the tattered veil, the violence of it twisting them into demons on the way. Like with the rifts I spent years closing with the Anchor. Like the Breach.

Varric and his team fight their way through. Neve is an adept ice mage, her mana elegant and efficient. Rook is electric, using the newly emerged orb-and-dagger fighting style rather than a staff like I prefer, and their attacks seem fitting to what Varric said in his letter about the eponymous chess piece: thinking in straight lines.

The observation fills me with dread.

I don’t want to see this. I do not want to witness.

I have no choice.

I owe him this, because Varric fooled me, and I was too late to stop it. If I allow myself to freeze in inaction with my own regrets now, I will never leave this place.

Even as I think it, I hear Varric’s voice.

“All right,” he says to Rook. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure?” Neve asks after blasting away a demon who ventured too close.

“Positive. You three just keep the demons off me while I talk to him.”

“Varric,” a breathless Lace Harding cuts in, “Solas isn’t going to stop just because an old friend asks nicely.”

“Solas needs someone to sell him another option, to justify him changing his mind.” Varric sounds so sure of himself, and the sheer weight of knowledge that he left me behind on purpose threatens to capsize me.

I miss what Rook says in the flash of fury that nearly blinds me, but Grier must be encouraging Varric, because Varric’s answer adds fuel to my fire.

“Thanks, Rook. Whatever else he is, he’s my friend. And if he won’t listen to me, he’ll hear from Bianca.”

No. No, no, no, no, no-no-no.

I cannot think of a worse way to approach Solas at this moment, but I cannot stop it from happening.

It has already happened. Already brought this night to ruin.

“Hey, Chuckles! Hope I’m not interrupting!”

Visions in the Fade shift perspective, and I’m suddenly between Varric and Solas, looking up at my love when he turns to face the fool of a dwarf. I have not seen Solas this close since Dragon’s Breath, and all the air leaves my lungs as his face shifts through a hundred micro expressions from one heartbeat to the next.

Weariness. Genuine surprise. A glance behind Varric—looking for me and not seeing me—turning to anger as my instincts scream that my love, my vhen’an’ara, has correctly deduced in that moment that Varric is why I am not with him.

And finally, rage, quickly pushed down.

My ears ring as their fragmented conversation continues, as Varric barrels ahead with Bianca levelled at Solas’s heart.

At my heart. My heart. My heart.

Vhenan.

Bianca shatters as Solas destroys the unique crossbow with a thought, leaving Varric untouched. Solas lifts his ritual dagger once more to the ritual.

“People are always dying, Varric,” Solas says in answer to something I did not hear, the weight of an eternity on every word, “it is what they do.”

The spirits around me wrap me in what comfort they can, soothing Compassion and stalwart Courage tethering me to my own existence so I don’t shatter like that fucking crossbow.

Worse is coming. If Varric is here, he didn’t bring down the statues.

Even as I think it, I hear Rook’s voice.

“We need a better plan.”

Then Harding: “Do you want me to take the shot?”

I cannot allow myself to feel this additional betrayal. No part of me cares that they genuinely think they are the good guys here; they are wrong, so deeply wrong and will never know it.

“Won’t work,” Neve is saying. “He’s too powerful.”

“What if we disrupt the ritual?” Rook says, pointing…at the statues.

I cannot listen to them, to this asinine stupidity, this mockery of heroism. “Please,” I beg the spirits. “Don’t make me hear them.”

I already know what they are going to do; I only don’t know how it ends.

One more message, says a spirit of Valour. Be brave.

Solas’s voice. “We shared a journey years ago. Do you think I would do this if there were some other, better option? You came a long way and made a valiant effort, but this story does not end with my downfall.”

Some part of me unclenches. A wave of gratitude encompasses Valour; the spirit would not have echoed those words except to bolster me.

Banal nadas, whispers Possibility in my ear. Banal nadas.

Nothing is inevitable. The lesson Possibility came to teach me so long ago.

I see the first statue begin to fall.

It cracks through the air, breaking stone shattering, stone that has stood for millennia. The statue crashes into the next one, then the next.

I don’t have to hear Solas to know he is screaming, “No. No, no!”

He catches the closest statue with pure will, hefting it backwards from where it is about to crash down upon him. Resolute, implacable. He raises his dagger once more—and Varric throws himself at Solas.

I watch them tussle, Varric with his mere few decades of experience against the Dread Wolf, who has commanded armies and outwitted would-be gods for ages untold.

It is only ever going to end one way, and Varric has reached the final boundary of Solas’s forbearance and patience.

The dagger plunges into Varric’s chest, above the heart but a mortal wound nonetheless.

My body is shaking, shuddering with the sight of it, but my emotions are too numb, too jumbled; this isn’t over. This isn’t the end.

Then I see it.

Behind Solas.

A tear in the veil, like that rift into the Fade at Adamant, and like that rift, horror waits on the other side.

One form I immediately recognise from his iconography, and if I didn’t recognise that, I would know the sheer force of his presence.

Elgar’nan, first of the Evanuris.

His power is a force that cannot be contained or reckoned with; the weight of it has density, the enormity of his will threaded with something I only just tasted.

Blight.

Beside him is…a monster. My first thought is that perhaps it is Andruil, whose Void-touched armour drove her insane. This gangly, long-limbed creature dangling tentacles—but no.

No.

This is Ghilan’nain.

Mother of the fucking halla, my Dalish arse. Mother of monsters. Mother of nightmares.

A cataclysmic concussion rends the air. Dimly, I am aware of Rook soaring into a pillar with the sheer force of it.

I cannot see Solas. I cannot see Solas. I cannot see Solas.

Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are out.

The blighted gods are out.

Varric, what have you done?

I don’t realise I’m screaming myself hoarse until hands shake my shoulders. Human hands. Dorian’s hands.

He pulls me back to the present, out of the Fade. I taste blood where I have chewed through the inner flesh of my cheek.

Through the Fade, the spirits push one more message through to me. It is a message for me, from them. To tell me my love lives. I feel with it a sense of terror beyond anything I have imagined. Beyond the lair of the Nightmare at Adamant, beyond the mind-breaking horrors of seeing a blighted Solas tossed dead on the floor in a future that never came to pass, beyond the pitiful ploy for godhood that was Corypheus, beyond anything I’ve faced since.

The message comes from within the prison he built to contain the blighted gods.

It comes with the force of my love’s voice resonant with terrible calm in every word—words meant not for me, but for someone else.

For Rook.

“You have no idea what you have done.”

#I hurt my own feelings #solavellan #solas #veilguard spoilers #solas x female lavellan #da4 spoilers #solas x inquisitor

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sunnyrealist · 7 months ago

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Chapter 51: Beloved

The Sun, the Moon, and All Our Stars

Summary and Details…

Previous Chapter Recap/Context: Sebastian is bravely confronting his past with Kate at his side. She had asked him to introduce him to his family members, and in the last chapter, they visited and cleaned his parents' graves in the Feldcroft cemetery. Sebastian will now have to search the graveyard for his twin, since he isn't even sure this is where Anne was buried. Prevented from receiving visitors or letters, all he knows from his years in Azkaban is what a guard told him - that his sister had died alone and in pain. Feeling responsible, he had been too ashamed to visit for years, instead opting to bury his feelings. Sebastian knows now, though, that the only way to heal his broken soul is to face the facts and grieve.

Pairing: 25-year-old, post-Azkaban Sebastian Sallow x 24-year-old Kate Mayflower (my OC), the assistant librarian at Hogwarts

Content warnings:��In general, this is rated 18+, so minors should not read or interact with this story. This chapter contains serious angst, high emotion, lots of crying with a character breaking down, discussion of death, a shocking surprise, and a panic attack.

Artwork: Credit goes to the lovely @giselsann-opencommissions.

The full chapter is available below the cut; it can also be found on AO3 (link is posted below). Please leave some feedback if possible, especially if you like what you read! 🥰

Chapter 51: Beloved

“Let’s look for Anne.”

Sebastian swallows hard, nodding slowly at her words, attempting to steel himself for what is to come. When Kate stands and holds out her hand, he follows, intertwining their fingers. She studies his face, gauging his readiness. Like an automated machine, he moves one foot forward, then another, and another.

For ten silent minutes, they slowly search the graveyard.

With no results, Kate glances at him questioningly. “Is it possible that she may be buried elsewhere?”

Sebastian frowns. “I suppose it is possible.” He narrows his eyes, counting five more rows of tombstones ahead of them. “All I know is that her gravestone will be simple. She had nothing. We had no other family, and she certainly did not have any savings. The Gringotts vault was empty, save for sentimental items.”

She quietly nods in acknowledgement.

Frustration builds. Headstone after headstone, there is no etching of her name.

Sebastian mentally prepares for the possibility that they will not discover her here. But… if not in Feldcroft… where? A sickening feeling seeps into the pit of his stomach.

Two rows remain.

A goldfinch soars through the air just above them, landing on a rather large gravestone. It chirps several times, then takes off again, flying through the rest of the row and then disappearing into the woods.

Just before the end of the row, Sebastian freezes. His face falls.

Kate follows his gaze, and sure enough, it is Anne.

Her eyes widen as she examines the headstone. It’s actually… quite large and ornate. Her name is right there, with an epithet below, followed by her birthdate and date of death, along with three snakes as decoration, an embellishment that must have cost a fortune.

ANNE SALLOW

BELOVED WIFE AND COMPANION

REST IN PEACE, MY DEAR

WE SHALL MEET AGAIN

BORN 31 OCT 1874

DIED 7 NOV 1894

Kate’s head whips to Sebastian in disbelief and confusion.

His face goes pale as he reads the engraved words, his jaw clenching tightly. His eyes linger on the epithet, his eyes wild.

“What?” he chokes out, his voice breaking. He shakes his head repeatedly. “This… This can’t be right. This… c- can’t be…” He takes a step closer, letting go of Kate’s hand, rereading the words over and over again.

Searching for the right thing to say amidst her own surprise, Kate is at a loss for words. She reaches out to place her hand on his shoulder. “Bash…” she begins.

It is clearly, undoubtedly his twin’s grave. Anne’s name is fully displayed, with a correct birthdate, and the snakes likely represent Slytherin, the house to which she once belonged. As Sebastian had once told Kate, Hogwarts had been her favorite place in the entire world, so it made sense that some of her best memories were represented here on her headstone.

There is even a bouquet of white flowers left as an offering of love to Anne.

Sebastian falls to his knees, his hands on his head. His breath comes out in short, ragged gasps. “No,” he mutters in disbelief. “No, no, no… This… can’t…” His hands tug on his hair, his knuckles turning white from his strong grip. His chest heaves up and down, his body trembling.

Kate recognizes what is happening quickly - he is experiencing a spell of anxiety. Having worked in the Hogwarts library for years, a space always filled with stressed students, she has seen these situations occur many a time. It’s practically part of her job description at this point to have to sit with panicked teenagers until Nurse Blainey can arrive with Calming Draughts. But Kate doesn’t have a potion with her, and she silently curses herself for not having thought of this potential need in advance.

She puts her hand on his back.

“Sebastian…” Kate’s voice is calm as she crawls to face him. “Sebastian… Look at me.” She places her hands on his arms. “I need you to sit down all the way. Yes, good… That’s right. Just… Just focus on me. Let’s take a minute. It’s alright, love. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here.” She guides him to get more comfortable and rubs his shoulders. “It’s alright, Seb. I’m here. Just breathe.”

His mind is a whirlwind of incomplete, overwhelming thoughts. WIFE? My dear? Who… Fuck, Anne was… I don’t… No… I don’t believe it… Beloved wife… Married… Is this a joke - a cruel joke? What in…? Merlin, how…?! Damnit… FUCK… How…?! She was alone… It couldn’t be true… NO!!!

“I… I can’t…” Sebastian gasps as if he is being strangled. His hands are still clenched in his hair, his body shaking. “I can’t… I can’t breathe… I…”

“Do it with me, then,” Kate suggests urgently, her eyes trained on his. “Sebastian, stay with me… Breathe with me. Ready?” She stares into his eyes. “Inhale… 1, 2, 3… Exhale… 1, 2, 3…” She repeats the words, counting, like a mantra.

Sebastian tries desperately to focus on her words and follow her instructions. Her gaze is a lifeline. He breathes in and out, unable to follow the counts at first.

Her hand gently splays on his chest, feeling his heart beating out of control. “Focus, Sebastian… We will figure this out… It’s going to be okay… I need you to stay with me. Just breathe… Inhale…”

Slowly, her soothing technique begins to take effect. His panicked rasps transform into shuddering breaths. He tries to match his breathing to her counting. It has been an hour in the span of five minutes.

“I… I’m… trying…” he chokes out, his voice unsteady.

“I know you are,” Kate replies calmly. “Look at me. Focus on me.” She continues to repeat the mantra until his breathing finally evens out. “I love you, Sebastian. You’re alright. I’m here.”

Her words and steady presence all serve to calm him, to ground him. She swears to Merlin, she would do just about anything to help him, to just get through this moment.

Sebastian finally lets his arms fall to his sides, his fists unclenching as his shock subsides. “I… I love you, too,” he whispers back shakily. His eyes lock onto hers, anchoring himself to her comfort. Tears follow a well-traveled trail down his cheeks. “I… I’m sorry.”

Kate lets out a heavy sigh of relief. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” She takes his hands. “In your position, I would have felt the same. You’ve done nothing wrong, love.”

The two are quiet for a long time.

“I never could have imagined this,” Sebastian tells her. “I… I guess I was… I should have known I was lied to.” He shakes his head solemnly. “I should have known better. It was just another method of emotional torture.”

Kate gives him a quizzical expression.

“I was told she died alone and in pain,” Sebastian clarifies, trying to keep his voice even. “I… I remember it so well. Most days were the same in Azkaban - cold, gray… total solitude. But that day, a guard delivered a meal unlike the others - kippers on rye. It was actually fresh.” He works his jaw. “He whispered to me that he had news from the outside if I would like to hear it. And that’s when he told me about Anne - just that, just the facts, and left.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and his voice is choked. “It was possibly the only decent meal I was ever given, the only mercy I was ever shown, but I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t eat for days. I couldn’t sleep. The guards started to believe I was starving myself, trying to…” He sighs. “Kate, when they put me into the ring again, the prisoner that I was up against… I almost just let him kill me.”

Kate swallows, her own hand shaking when she puts it on his shoulder again.

“I just thought… If Anne, who had done nothing wrong, could die… then I should, too,” he whispers, staring off into the distance. “I had killed so many men, not because I wanted to… Before Anne’s death, in some strange way, there was still, deep down, a hope that someday I might get out - that I might escape - and I- I could find her. We could have left the country together or something...” He hangs his head. “When I found out she had passed, that was all dashed. It was… beyond devastating. I honestly… I don’t know how I survived it.”

She nods, taking it in, feeling his grief deep in her own soul. Her vivid imagination conjures up a ragged, emaciated Sebastian in a dark cell… Her heart squeezes painfully. She immediately distracts herself by examining the flowers laid upon Anne’s grave, realizing that they are white peonies. She pictures a country garden filled with peonies, an enormous bouquet of peonies on her kitchen table… anything, to reject the visualization of her boyfriend, bereft of all hope, in Azkaban.

“Maybe I was just too stubborn to die,” Sebastian murmurs, almost inaudibly. “Something… something just made me keep pushing on. Maybe it was this - us. I just didn’t know it yet. Maybe Eilionoir was somehow influencing me to hold out for you.”

Kate tilts his chin up. “Maybe it was Anne... Maybe it was Anne all along, watching out for you and giving you strength.” She pauses. “With all you’ve told me about her, I just… I can’t believe she would have wanted you to give up. She would have helped you even beyond death.”

His lip quivers. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He buries his face in his hands again, then rubs his eyes. “I just… I can’t believe this.” He gestures at the words engraved in her headstone. “I never imagined much about her life after I… left. I never would have thought she would… get married. Part of me wonders if this is a cruel trick.”

Kate puts her hand on his shoulder as they turn to face the headstone again. “I don’t think so, Seb. Someone doesn’t erect something like this as a prank. This… this is real.”

“I should have been there,” he whispers after it sinks in. “I should have been at her wedding. It hurts to know… nothing. Absolutely nothing about her marriage.”

“This does tell us something, though,” Kate notes. “Anne was clearly loved. Someone cared a great deal about her and wanted to honor her memory. I mean, Seb, this headstone had to have cost a fortune.” She recites the epithet aloud once more. “‘Beloved wife and companion. Rest in peace, my dear.’ Someone loved her. And they loved her so much that they accepted her, curse and all... She didn’t just have a spouse… she had a companion in that person. Someone to confide in, someone to trust, someone to care.”

Sebastian sniffles, nodding, the tears falling again.

“It isn’t all bad,” Kate assures him. “She found love… in a time in which you thought she was alone. She probably didn’t die alone, Seb.” She fingers the ribbon tied around the bouquet of peonies laid in front of them. “And that someone… still loves and misses her.” She gives Sebastian a small smile. “Technically… you most likely have a living relative.”

His breath hitches. “You’re right. Maybe they can tell me…” His face suddenly scrunches up. “But… they might not want to speak to me, Kate. They might hate me. They probably should.”

“You can’t think that way,” Kate tells him in a calm tone. “They would want to know you. If you’re their beloved wife’s twin, this person… at least has to have some curiosity.” She glances at him with interest. “Would Anne have taken a husband or a wife? Do you know?”

“She always liked boys,” he begins, huffing out a little laugh. “She would… swoon over boys we had classes with, the… handsome ones, you know. I always just told her to talk to her dorm mates about that, but she loved to torture Ominis and me, going on and on about Eric Northcott, Andrew Larson, hell… even Garreth Weasley…” He finally smiles. It’s a sad one, nonetheless, but it’s a positive change. “After she was cursed, she had to leave school, and all that silly talk about boys just… went away.”

“So, she probably married a man. Interesting… I don’t know many wizards who would…” She gives him a look, urging him to come to the same conclusion she has. She tilts her head towards the headstone again.

Sebastian’s brow furrows, studying the words again. “Anne Sallow, beloved wife and companion… rest in-” His eyes widen in realization. “Anne Sallow. Sallow!” He takes in a sharp breath. “She didn’t take her husband’s name…”

Kate nods excitedly. “I don’t know many wizards who would accept that from a wife. Sebastian, she must have been married to someone very open-minded and kind… someone who clearly gave her agency.”

Sebastian stares at the headstone, feelings of relief, disbelief, regret, and sadness all fighting for dominion over his heart. “Y- yes… I… I suppose she must have found happiness… if she found someone like that.” He lets out a sigh, his mind still spinning from the revelation. “I just… I don’t know how to find him, or even… figure out who he is. I don’t know where to start. We don’t even know his surname.”

Kate takes his hand. “We’ll figure this out together. I’ll help you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Sebastian’s tension slowly seeps out of his body. “Kate, I… Thank you.”

Some time is spent discussing ways to solve the mystery. Asking around in Feldcroft? Sebastian thinks people won’t talk to him - or worse, chase him off. Kate mentions the Daily Prophet’s marriage announcements and how the Hogwarts library has every copy on record. It’s a start, but without a wedding date, it could prove time-consuming. She once again brings up writing to Ominis, to which Sebastian doesn’t respond at first. After a long while, he agrees to “think about it, for Anne.” He tries to come up with ideas regarding where Anne might have gone after their uncle’s death, but they’re only just that - ideas. Guesses.

After a half hour of speculation, Kate kisses Sebastian’s forehead. “I want to give you some time with Anne on your own now. I… I was thinking I might walk into Feldcroft and come back after having a look around. Is that okay with you, Seb?”

He nods, a grateful expression on his face.

Kate smiles sweetly as she rises. “Here,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out two more sets of plants and the trowel once more. “I hope these are alright. I picked white daisies for Anne. They symbolize youth and innocence, which…” She trails off, chuckling. “Well, you probably already know the floriography behind them. Do you… Do you agree with daisies, or would you like something else for Anne? I won’t be offended if you don’t like them.”

“They’re perfect,” he says quietly, taking the trowel from her hand.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Kate replies gladly. “I love you, my moon. I won’t go too far. I’ll be back soon.” She leans down to kiss the top of his head.

“I love you, too. But sunshine…” He gently takes her wrist before she leaves. “Take your time. Really. I have a lot of… catching up to do.” He gazes up at her, his voice soft and sincere. “Kate, thank you… for everything. I appreciate you being here. I don’t know how… how I would have faced this without you.” He kisses her hand.

Kate leaves the cemetery, finding a dirt path leading up a hill. When she reaches the top, a little hamlet lies ahead. She continues in that direction, passing farm fields and cattle along the way. Eventually, she finds herself in Feldcroft. She treads slowly, examining each cottage and shed, and rests for a while near a well.

Noticing a watchtower, she decides to climb the stairs to have a better view of Sebastian’s former home. At the top, she pulls an apple from her bag, munching on it while observing the surroundings. It really is a quaint hamlet with nothing much to see or do, but the view of the area as a whole is stunning. Her hair blows with the breeze, and eventually, she descends.

Having finished her apple, she offers the core to a horse as she passes by a field. It whinnies appreciatively, and a smile tugs on Kate’s lips. She takes another turn around the hamlet, and then, she begins to stroll back towards the cemetery. As she steps down the hill, she can faintly make out Sebastian’s form in the distance.

Sebastian listens intently as Kate walks away, the sound of her footsteps gradually fading.

He kneels silently beside Anne’s grave, the quiet of the graveyard broken only by the wind rustling through the nearby trees. He carefully digs the trowel into the earth, creating two holes, then places the daisies and pats down the dirt around them. He waters them and copies the charm Kate had used earlier with his parents’ cemetery flowers. Before finally speaking to his twin, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the headstone.

“Hey, Anne… I don’t even know where to begin. It’s been so long… too long.”

Sebastian continues to speak to her headstone, the words pouring out of him uncontrollably now that the dam has broken. He tells her everything that had happened since that fateful day he ended their uncle’s life - how he ended up before the Wizengamot, about his life in Azkaban and all he endured there, how he finally escaped only to become a gang member against his will. He speaks about getting caught and the deal he made with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the highs and lows - mostly lows - of the past two years. The loneliness, the hopelessness, the pain - he was filled with regret and guilt. He tries to keep his voice steady, but sometimes, the words catch in his throat, the tears unstoppable.

When he is able, he tells his sister about meeting Kate and about their budding relationship, what they have discovered together.

Sebastian finally apologizes, begging for forgiveness. He explains the lessons he has learned, promising to never be so reckless and impulsive, to listen closer to the wishes of his loved ones. He craves his twin’s appreciation and approval, though he knows he will never receive it - not until he himself has passed and can speak with her once more in the great beyond.

He sits in silence for a long, long time, not even realizing when Kate has joined him once more. Her hand on his shoulder makes him jump in surprise.

“Do you need more time, my love?” Kate asks gently. “I can take a walk in the other direction if you’d like.”

Weary eyes look up at her, but he reaches out and takes her hand. “No, darling, it’s okay. I… I would like to introduce you to Anne.”

A man on horseback rides by on the dirt path outside the cemetery walls. The clopping of the hoofs is joined with the man’s whistling, which grows more distant within just a few short moments.

Kate appears a bit bashful as she sits, and Sebastian turns his head back to the gravestone, his gaze softening. “Anne… this is Kate,” he says quietly. “She… She’s the love of my life.”

“Hello, Anne,” Kate whispers, touching the headstone with her free hand. She swallows a lump in her throat. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I… I want you to know that… that I’m happy, Anne. I never thought I could feel joy again after all that happened, but Kate… has changed everything for me.” He pauses, his eyes lingering on the epithet. “She’s… my everything.” His voice trembles, but he takes a deep breath and continues. “She’s helped me to find myself again. She sees the good in me, even after all of the terrible things I’ve done. Even I… am starting to see the good in me again.”

Kate gazes at him appreciatively, a smile gracing her lips. She takes his forearm in her hands and squeezes it to show her support.

Sebastian turns to look at Kate, his expression filled with gratitude and affection. “She’s… always there for me, no matter what. She never gives up on me. She’s… my home.”

She searches his eyes, then brings his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles. Her blue eyes are wide at his declaration, and she feels compelled to add her own sentiments. “And Sebastian… is mine. He makes me feel so wanted, so adored… I’ve never felt like that with anyone else. In his embrace, I feel… protection, care, respect, devotion. He is the moon to my sun. Sebastian and I… belong together. I promise I will always take care of him, Anne.”

His eyes grow misty, and he swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions in check. “Meeting Kate… was the best thing to ever happen to me. I don’t know what I would do without her.” Sebastian looks down at the grave again. “I… I just wish you could have met her, Anne. I know you would have loved her. You would have been friends.”

Kate and Sebastian remain quiet for some time.

Finally, he reaches out and touches the headstone one last time, his fingers tracing the letters of Anne’s name. “I promise I won’t stay away for long. I will visit again soon. I won’t let years or even months pass by ever again. I… I love you. I miss you every single day. Goodbye, Anne. Goodbye for now.”

Kate adds in a whisper, “Please keep watch over us, Anne - especially your brother. He needs it.” She smiles a little. “It was lovely to meet you.” She kisses her hand, placing it on the stone.

As they begin to walk away from the grave, hand in hand, Sebastian looks back at Anne’s headstone one last time, his eyes lingering on it and fixing it in his memory. “Goodbye, Anne,” he whispers again.

He turns back to face the path ahead, strolling beside Kate in thoughtful silence.

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow x oc #post azkaban sebastian #hufflepuff x slytherin #aged up sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy oc #hl oc #hl sebastian #hogwarts legacy romance #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy original character #sallow family #the sallows #feldcroft #anne sallow #hl anne #hogwarts legacy anne sallow #sallow twins

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oscartullyofriverrun · 3 months ago

Text

Creating a Home: with @lord-kermit-of-riverrun

Oscar sat on a low stone wall by the gates of the Red Keep, scanning the road ahead for any sign of his brother’s approach. According to the last letter he’d received from his brother, he expected to arrive today but anything could have held him up from a muddy stretch of road to a tavern filled with beautiful women on the outskirts of King’s Landing. Oscar didn’t mind waiting though. He had brought a book outside with him, a tome with an in-depth look into warfare. There was battle strategy involved of course, but the book also stressed the importance of things lords often overlooked such as morale, sanitation conditions, and the level of trust between the various men called from different areas of the region. Usually the book easily kept his attention, but he couldn’t seem to focus and instead kept rereading the same lines over and over again.

Lately, Oscar had been thinking more about the future. His conversation with Lady Sabitha had allowed him to see he might actually be able to take charge of his own future and shape it into something he wanted. For the past six moons, Oscar had been stuck in a cycle of grief, frustrated with his father’s coldness, his mother’s complicity, and his brother’s aloof nature. He’d been searching desperately for a place to call home without ever realizing he might have the strength to create one himself. What he wanted more than anything, what he had always wanted, was to improve both the Riverlands and his house. He’d spent the past few days drawing up plans on different policies he wanted to try and he could only hope his brother would be open to talking about them once he arrived.

A part of him yearned to go wait for Kermit at the training yard, forcing his mind to clear of everything but the steps of his opponent and the weight of his sword in his hand, but he was worried if he missed his brother’s arrival he wouldn’t see him until he decided to seek Oscar out. He didn’t want to wait until his brother got around to deciding he wanted to grace Oscar with his presence. Kyle’s attention had always been difficult to catch and even harder to hold. Oscar had long since learned how to best make himself unavoidable when he wanted Kermit to pay attention to him, though what should have felt familiar felt frustrating and tiring today. Despite everything though, Oscar was excited to see his brother again.

The moment he saw a familiar looking horse approach the gate, Oscar leaped to his feet and ran to stand beside the guards as they let Kermit inside. Distantly, Oscar realized he probably should have let his brother get further inside before he started talking, but his excitement to see Kyle overtook his common sense. “I was beginning to worry you had been taken by bandits. Actually, I’ve been reading and I think we should be working on improving our agriculture. We’ll never catch the Reach, but if we can provide our people reliable food throughout winter, less of them well have to turn to robbery,” Oscar paused to take a breath and to give his brother a bright smile. “How was your journey?”

#a song of golden fire and black blood #creating a home #a song of golden fire and black blood starter #Arc II: Women's Wicked Ways #oscar's threads #oscar tully #kermit tully

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causenessus · 5 months ago

Note

[ 💌 ] INCOMING MAIL !

A LETTER FROM REE — TO — NESS HAS ARRIVED BY CARRIER PIGEON ♡ °⋆ 🕊️🕊️🕊️📮

ANYONE WHO ISNT NESS DNI DNR DO NOT LOOK. SCROLL AWAY I’M ABOUT TO GO TO SAPTOWN AND I AM EMBARRASSED THESE ARE MY DEMONS DO NOT PERCEIVE ME OR THIS ASK EVER. THIS IS FOR ONE PERSON ONLY. AND IT’S SUPER LONG ! YOU DONT WANT TO SEE THIS OR READ IT. LEAVE. THE DOOR IS THAT WAY.

ask/note: the last time I logged on I saw that you weren’t doing so well and attempted to write a suna + noya how they comfort you style fic and failed…MISERABLY. this is probably late and might not be of any use to you but the ghost of letters came over me and it’s spirit is whispering in my ear to write this (it’s my forte: letters, and I’m sure I could do it way better than writing when writers block is hitting more than it’s ever…. hitteth ,,,, <- ignore that)

dear ness,

first of all ! when I say you’re THE sweetest I mean it, so so so genuinely. you exude warmth and kindness and I truly believe without you tumblr would be a dull and soulless platform

second of all ! whenever you say something self deprecating about yourself I feel like knocking someone out. deep desires to harm someone or break something and just violence. crimes of some kind

I KNOW IT MIGHT NOT SET IN FOR YOU BUT IF I NEED TO SAY IT 100x FOR IT TO SEEP INTO YOUR BRAIN PROPERLY I WILL!! I KNOW YOU’RE AN OVERTHINKER!! I’M GOING TO HOLD YOUR HAND WHILE YOU OVERTHINK!!

there is nothing you’ve put out that I’ve ever disliked in the slightest if not loved entirely — when you said wdo inspires a lot of try again, to say I’m honored is a huge understatement and I believe you are out of everyone’s league; you’re an incredible writer and we don’t deserve you (I’m glad we have you though)

besides your writing, I cannot imagine a world nor a universe where I would enjoy tumblr as much as I do without you existing. I hate to mention wdo so much but it’s hard not to seeing that it was the first time we properly interacted sorry 😭 ..by the time I got to working in that fic I didn’t feel like I belonged on here and you made me feel welcomed :) I don’t think I would still be here or have met everyone that I did without you and I can’t ever thank you enough — you are kind and down to earth and so considerate, and I would give you the world if I could <333

third, last but not least, IT IS OKAY TO NOT BE AT YOUR BEST ! if you need a break we’ll be here when you come back !! you were the catalyst that made tumblr my home and if the apocalypse happened and wiped out everyone on the planet I’d be the last one standing — my motivation to survive was to be there for every causenessus post

IT IS NORMAL TO NOT UPLOAD EVERY DAY OR UPDATE FICS !! EVEN PUBLISHED AUTHORS GO MONTHS WITHOUT TOUCHINGN A PIECE OF WORK !! FANFICTION AUTHORS SHOULD BE SPARED!! ESPECIALLY YOU!! you’ve grinded and given us all these great fics, anyone impatient can take that time to go and reread ur other works instead of complain, I’m sure cold kisses and new grounds wouldn’t mind

I hope that no matter what happens outside of this silly little app: ur aware that my dms are open 24/7 and I mean that when I say it. It won’t require an apology or small talk — if you need to vent or a boredom cure I’ll always be here !!! always !!! I’m a no judgement zone and I CARE ABOUT YOU IMMENSELY AND I WANT YOU TO DO WELL ! I WANT YOU TO BE WELL ! I pray this letter feels like a bouquet of flowers on your doorstep with handmade chocolates from and a real sized suna placing it down there to give you the biggest hug of the century because it’s the bare fucking minimum for all the hard work you do (and before you say anything about slacking off, living is hard work — and I think you’ve done a spectacular job <3) ! this ask is the longest I’ve ever sent I think I set a record 🙂‍↕️ at the very least I hope it made you smile :)

with all my love,

ree.

REE THE MOODBOARD???? THE PICTURES???? REE I AM GOING TO SCREENSHOT THIS AND FRAME IT ON MY WALL /GEN I DON'T WORK IN FRAMING FOR NOTHING!! THIS IS SO SO SWEET <3 AND DW OMG :( THANK YOU FOR TRYING TO WRITE COMFORT AND IT'S TOTALLY OKAY IT DIDN'T WORK OUT!! (i am looking at the five discarded fics in my drafts rn)

ree i cannot i'm going to throw up /pos and i've only read the first paragraph!! REE I THINK YOU'RE OUT OF EVERYONE'S LEAGUE <3 you are genuinely so so sweet and creative and just have the most beautiful mind ever the way that you put so much effort and creativity and imagination into every single thing you do like look at this letter!! look at how you formatted it and matched color palettes and i just cannot tell you how thankful i am for you thank you so much ree <3

and omg no don't worry about mentioning wdo too much at all!! REE IT WAS SO GOOD I COULD NEVER NOT BE HAPPY TO SEE A REFERENCE OR READ SOMETHING ABOUT WDO!! and i'm so so glad that i could help you feel more welcome BC YOU'RE LITTERALLY OUT OF ALL OF OUR LEAGUES!!! IT'S LIKE IF I?? IDK LIKE OPENED THE DOOR AND GREETED UMMMMMMM TOM HOLLAND AT THE DOOR?? AND TREATED HIM LIKE A STRANGER AND THEN HE WALKED INTO THE PARTY AND BUSTED IT DOWN AND EVERYONE LIKE KNEW HIM AND CHEERED HIM ON YK??? like you are so amazing!!! you didn't need an introduction you just needed to come into the haikyuu fandom and bless us all with your writing yk !! (i'm so sorry i cannot find the words in my head to describe my vision for what i'm trying to tell you and i have no idea why tom holland was the first person that came to mind but i hope you get what i mean!!!)

and omg please ree thank you so much for reminding me of how okay it is to take breaks and not post everyday <33 you are so so sweet and i hope that you've been doing well after taking your breaks and everything!! i am so sorry it took me so long to get to this BUT I AM SO HONORED TO HAVE RECEIVED THIS LETTER AND I CANNOT BELIEVE I AM JUST NOW SEEING YOU MOVED BLOGS?? BUT I THINK I FOUND IT AND WILL BE FOLLOWING IT ASAP AS SOON AS I FINISH SAP YAPPING IN THIS ASK!!!

ree i cannot tell you how thankful i am for all of our interactions and the memories we've made and for helping me with the stupid "a (technically an)" or "my" struggle during the makings of love notes and for literally just always being there for me!! please know my dms and everything are always always open to you too and i love you so much!! i hope you see this despite already moving blogs 😭 and i'm so sorry i'm just now finding out about it!!!! but you are the literally the best ree i am so thankful for you <33

#answers <3 #i heart ree <3 #ness' first aid kit <3

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love4annie · 2 years ago

Text

Four times a mother.

John Shelby x Martha OC

Martha's slightly wide eyes stared at the paper in her hand, orbs filled with worry as she reread the letter. Her calm voice should've surprised her, as she ordered her oldest daughter to stay home and watch over her brothers, but it didn't. After all, she often had this kind of unbreakable composure near her children. She left her house, rushing towards the Garison where she knew her husband was.

Her mind raced along with her, apprehension and ration battling in her thoughts, one reminding of the alarming future and the other recalling the many times she had handled situations like this.

"You mother..she passed.."

"My dear, what happened?"

"Oh, John, help me forget!"

"Pray. Pray, my girl."

"I'm tired.."

Words. Words brawled in her head, hers and others', dictating over the hidden realm of her consciousness that was quickly becoming more unbearable. Younger, she would've claimed this was a lot less than it seemed to be. Older, she admitted that it was a lot more than what a sixteen years old should be dealing with. But then, right then, she knew no past beliefs, nor was she sure that she would live to see the next day.

All she needed was John.

Her legs led her when her senses couldn't, and she soon found herself stumbling over Polly's door. The woman opened it, face wrinkling even more when she saw the poor girl's miserable air, calling for who she could only guess. Martha mumbled her lover's name under her breath, and he soon made his appearence, immediatly craddling her into his arms with reassurances she couldn't hear. His name escaped her lips once more, unheard, but John felt it and hugged her even closer.

Her following statement made him pause, probably along with everyone else in the room, for a second. But a charming smile tugged on his face, and he looked behind the couch, where Pol was previously standing. Truth was, their family had already discussed that subject for the longest time, and then was simply the ideal opportunity. He rubbed soothing circles in her back. She also felt the comforting palm of Arthur over her shoulder and Tommy's concerned blues flickering from her to the toddler over his knee. Ada sat beside her, interwining their fingers, for once looking older than her actually older friend. John's clear gems stared into her stormy pair, and his heart broke, it shattered for her. But there, then, she was in his hold. She wasn't alone in that gloomy house of hers, grieving her mother on her own and occasionally visiting them when the empty echoes of her memories in the hallways became too insufferable. She wasn't alone that gloomy house, as he peeked from the windows, attempting to check on her without disturbing her agitated peace, and he wasn't worrying over her safety when she was too loud or too quiet. She was in his hold, and he could protect and provide her. He would, undoubtfully would. Swift footsteps clicked more than they usually would have, sound more prominent in the mute exchange between most presents. She discreetly handed John a mystery item, and the boy gently removed Martha from his grasp as he fell on one knee, loving gaze set upon her and a hopeful grin mastered to encourage his one and only.

-"Will you marry me?"

She finally saw the church, a place where she sought comfort when life became too much. Her remembrance was again triggered by the mere image of this very familiar building.

-"May we leave now, my dear?", John complained about his wife staying longer than the preaching lesson's time, though he understood that she was attached to the wooden benches and revebrating sounds in early Sunday hours, despite not being much of a religious woman herself, having comitted her fair share of sins, though she was everything but mistaken in anything she had to do, to him. He understood that those visits were a habit, one her mother had installed in her since innocence, and while he had the unpredicable events of life to blame for making both of them drift just a bit from what they used to be and do; the illegal business the Shelby brothers had debuted and the dozing baby girl on his lap; he knew that events were also what brought them back there.

-"I am praying for us, John." She replied, not quite the answer he awaited. Her vision was unfocused, but it held more reverence than he could ever perform. She had always been more spiritual than him, more perceiving of herself than he ever was. More sentimental, more thoughtful, she claimed there was a certain depth in things he couldn't entirely decipher.

-"Don't you always do that?" He had to admit, he was longing for a morning in with his girls, a rest he desired for himself after a long week, but even more for his wife. He knew that taking care of a nearly one year old, along with helping with the numbers, relentlessly worrying over his late shifts, and the newfound talent she had for patching him up when Polly was too busy with a doubly bloodied Arthur, was draining her more than she let on. He might've been the one facing the danger of the minor criminal affairs the family had started, but she was lifting most of the emotional burden, as she assumed her duty as the stability of their small household.

-"I am praying for our child." She said, then murmured something. Not to him, not to herself. She listened to every movement he did, every response he formulated, but she yet had to look at him.

She did, when he asked his next question.

-"Isn't she here, safe and sound and healthy?"

He frowned at his wife's quivering stature, but he soon showed a happy grin at her announcement.

-"I am praying for our second, John."

Somewhere in her haze, her pace had quickened, throat already dry and muscles throbbing from the sudden extreme activity of sprinting from one edge of Watery Lane to the other. The Garrison just a corner away, and she evoked one more crucial moment of her existance.

In the dim lights of her bedroom lantern, sat a single mother of two, widowed but not so, husband taken by the war, juggled between death and life as he hid in holes in the frontlines and soiled his hands with crimson dirt. Her children slumbered soundly in her bed, crying themselves to sleep for weeks after their father's departure and she promised herself every night that they would soon adapt with his abscense. They were old enough to notice him missing in the late evening when he used to gladly indulge in their youthful fun, but still too young to fully comprehend the cause. Though, in that night precisely, she needed him even more than they did. So, sitting in front of her vanity table, fingers wrapped around a pen, she wrote. She wrote her struggle, wrote her worry, but assured him that she was carrying on, would be until his return and as long as he needed her to after that. She wrote and her thoughts fell into the dark ink, free from her grip, news that could weight him more than what was already on his shoulders. Then, when the ink grew dry, she wrote with her tears, for she knew he could very much be reading it with his blood. She clutched to the paper, seeking the solace John brought her in the immobile object, his alluring beams and alleviating touches.

It did reach John, while he sat moments away from their next violent warfare, and he feared it was tainted with filth after all the transportation, though he melted in a wave of calm as soon as he gently ripped it open, a smell of home hitting him harder than bullets. It was short truce, getting to imagine her voice along the perfectly picked words and neat handwriting. His brothers watched as joy traced his features for the first time in the two months of combat, before he revealed that yet another Shelby was to come.

The chants of men didn't falter as she entered the pub, but those who saw her distressed expression made her a path toward her husband, and she scurried into his embrace.

-"The doctor..the letter.." She tried to tell him despite her panting from all the hurry.

-"The hell is happening, John?" Arthur called behind her, ready to beat up whatever bastard bothering his sister-in-law. He had always seen her as a sister, even before she was married into their family, her and Ada cherished by his heart that softened remarkably around them, and inevitably, a feeling of protectiveness bloomed within it toward her.

John didn't answer him, instead thinking about what she said, until it clicked, and that beautiful smile of his shone again. Thomas' hawk eyes caught on it, and he discreetly relaxed.

-"John, I...i drank a beer..and you're just back and.."

-"And we would welcome it like the blessing it is." He locked eyes with her, and she drunk in the love they emitted, as they released her from the confines of her pondering into a warmth only he could grant her, tapping her on the back to face the boys.

-"Tell 'em, my dear."

She hesitated, studying the anger and concern Arthur casted, the sudden near-stillness state of the entire room, and spoke at Tommy's supportive nod.

-"I'm..pregnant."

And the place roared with yells and congratulations, until John spoke again, making it blow with even more excitement.

-"All drinks tonight are on me!"

#john shelby x oc #john shelby #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #shelby family #john shelby x reader #arthur shelby

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ssukidesu · 10 months ago

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Inextricably Knotted (An Inukag + Jane Eyre AU) [Chapter 11]

Summary: Kagome Higurashi was orphaned as a baby and raised by her cruel aunt until the age of ten, after which she went to school and learned the art of service and self-suppression. Now eighteen, Kagome takes a job as the governess of Shippo, the young ward of the great and mysterious Lord Inuyasha Taisho.

But as Kagome gets to know her bemusing master, a ghost seems to haunt his estate, hinting that there is a long-lost secret hiding on the third floor.

(Read on AO3)

Chapter 11: Farewell

It was happening again.

Kagome’s eyes roamed over the whole of Jidai Ju Estate from where she was trapped above it. She detected no physical thing holding her there—so high above the estate that she was surely in the clouds—but no matter how vigorously she struggled, she could never catalyze her descent. The house was engulfed in night’s cloak, nearly invisible, apart from one spot: in the depths of one of the chimneys, she could see the faint glow of a white light. It taunted her—beckoned her down to it. But still she could not move.

She remained there endlessly, and with each passing moment, she felt more strongly that all would be well if she could just reach the light. If she could just touch it, the shadows would be purged from the imperious house, and from its constituents. But after what felt like hours of fighting with every muscle in her body, she grew exhausted, and her eyes fell heavy.

It was now even darker. So much so that she felt like she could touch the shadows and feel them curl around her fingers, their substance not unlike that of warm water. She was facing upward now, laying on her back, and she felt her eyelids clench tighter—they were closed. At the realization, Kagome startled erect in her bed, awaking fully only afterward.

And it was certainly not dark now—for every candle in her room had sparked to life.

Her ears rang so shrill that she could not hear her ragged breath escaping her lungs in heavy pants, but she felt her chest constricting and loosening, her blood rushing through her body.

Thrice had she seen this dream, and thrice had her subsequent awakening conjured flame—but no other time had she triggered every single candle to light. She brought her trembling hands to cover her face, and she felt the beads of sweat collapse and spread beneath her fingers.

Kagome flung her sullied sheets off her body and stood, her knees wobbling slightly. She stumbled to her vanity and inspected her reflection. She was pale, despite the recently suntanned complexion of her face. Her pupils were blown wide, and her lower lip was bleeding, as if she had bitten it in her sleep. She braced her hands on the vanity, but only one met cold wood.

The other met paper.

She looked down and saw the still unopened letter that Mr. Taisho had given her days ago. How could she have forgotten it?

She grasped it and tore it open, recalling its missing return address. Inside was a single paged letter—from the steward of her aunt.

Miss Kagome Higurashi,

I hope this letter finds you—and finds you well.

I write to inform you of your cousin’s recent and sudden death. He is said to have squandered his wealth and committed suicide. The news has so shocked your aunt that she has fallen ill from a stroke. Since then, she has ceaselessly called for you to be summoned to her. Because this lady is likely on her deathbed, her family requests that you honor her wish and come to her before she finds rest. They understand the distance between your current residence and the family estate is not small; they hope this fact will not deter you, “for the sake of kin.”

We hope to see you soon—and, should you accept your beckoning, we wish you safe travels.

Sincerely,

Mr. Robert Leaven

Kagome read the letter, and then reread it again. After reading it a third time, she realized her fingers were so tightly clenched around it that they were wrinkling the paper.

For the sake of kin.

Kagome could have laughed. What right had they to claim duty for kin? She filled her lungs with air and exhaled slowly.

A half forgotten voice invaded her mind: It does not do to feed resentment. We must forgive everyone, even and especially our family.

Yes—but where had that sentiment gotten her school friend? She now laid six feet under.

No, thought Kagome. That is not true—and it is resentment itself that wishes me to think so. For she is not lifeless in the grave for her spirit of forgiveness; she would have died either way. It is her place in the afterlife that she secured by living rightly and forgiving her malefactors.

“Sango…” whispered Kagome. “You refuse to let me ruin myself, even now.”

The sun was beginning to peak above the horizon, but the gold leaking in from the windows was swallowed by the gold of the candlelight in her room. Starting with those on the vanity, Kagome went one by one and blew out each candle. When all were snuffed, the resulting smoke permeated the room, and she opened her window to air out the suffocating smell. The white curtains fluttered at the motion, and thereafter from the wind. She could hear the morning birds, and she allowed herself to bathe in the sound as she put on her day clothes and secured her hair.

Kagome traversed downstairs and to the kitchen for breakfast—which was already well underway for the servants—and took her time eating at one of the tables in the large dining hall. The food tasted insipid, no doubt at the fault of her own still feverish senses rather than the cooks. She was hardly present enough to notice, anyway; her mind was elsewhere, thinking of the home that she had not seen for nearly a decade now, and that she would decidedly be seeing again very soon.

Should she ask Mr. Taisho for leave after she completed her work day with Shippo? No—this would not do. She had already delayed answering her summons long enough due to neglect of the letter; she would be wrong to delay it further. She would ask him as soon as she was aware of his awakening and subsequent location. In the meantime, she would pack her minuscule collection of things for the journey, which she suspected would take at least three days’ time one way.

After informing Shippo’s nurse that he would not receive lessons that day, Kagome returned to her room until she finished her packing, at which point it had come to be near ten in the morning. Upon leaving her quarters, Kagome asked the nearest servant where the master might be, and she was informed of his presence in the sunroom of all places—the one she and Shippo so often frequented together—with Lady Yura.

Kagome took this news without expression. She had larger worries at the moment, she reminded herself, and ought not be preoccupied with the goings on of those out of her circle of concern and control. She made her way to the sunroom.

Kagome’s approach could be seen a ways off, as the room was connected to the main parlor and had glass french doors. This produced a rather awkward arrival—as soon as she was close enough to see them, she saw that they were standing rather close and teasingly passing a feather back and forth through the air by blowing it upward. This of course meant that they, upon sensing her approach, had to stop their little game in preparation for interruption. Kagome kept her head down out of fear of both their expressions as she knocked softly on the glass pane.

Mr. Taisho moved forward to open one of the doors—but Kagome’s feet stayed planted beyond the threshold, and her head stayed low. Before she could utter a word, she heard Lady Yura mutter to him beneath her breath: “What could that creeping creature possibly want with you?”

Mr. Taisho did not respond, and she too pretended she did not hear the lady.

Kagome cleared her throat and ventured to meet his eye, which was as golden as ever, though a little uncertain. “May I have a moment, sir?”

Instead of responding in the affirmative, Mr. Taisho grabbed and lifted Lady Yura’s hand for a quick kiss—to which she smiled proudly—and he said sweetly, “If you’ll excuse me, lady.”

This seemed to please her, and Mr. Taisho exited the sunroom, shutting the door behind him.

“Come to my office,” he directed simply, his feet already moving ahead of hers.

She followed him dutifully.

His personal office was far messier than any of the others in the estate. She seldom had occasion to visit it, and she found it filled to the brim in letters—both sealed and gutted—and other items of no particular interest. She thought he kept his personal letters in his bedroom, as that was where he had given Kagome’s to her, but it appeared that what she saw on his bedroom desk back then was only a fraction of his workload.

Mr. Taisho brought himself to the front of his desk and leaned against it, facing her. Though his arms were crossed, he did not seem angry. “So, what business has my governess in disturbing my morning leisure?”

Kagome did not allow herself to stutter or hesitate. With her hands folded before her waist, she spoke clearly, “I have need for time off, sir.”

Mr. Taisho’s eyes widened just as soon as the words left her lips—and just as quickly, they narrowed suspiciously. “And for how long? To go where? The solstice is still some ways away—surely you have no appointment to frolic with your fellow spellcasters in the mountains someplace.”

Unable to help herself, Kagome’s lips formed a small smile. “No, sir. I’ve been summoned by a sick lady, and I must go to her.”

“And what lady is that?”

“…My aunt, sir.”

“What the hell do you mean, your aunt?” he began incredulously, and Kagome almost giggled at his sudden boorishness. He went on, “I thought you had no kinsmen.”

“None that would own me, sir.”

“Well—what, then? You are just going to go see an ill woman who had less care for you than she ought to have had, who may likely be dead before you arrive, all because she has summoned you on a whim?”

Kagome sighed, worried that he may prohibit her. “Yes, sir. I parted with her badly, and I do not wish to neglect her now.”

Mr. Taisho’s gaze flicked across her features, and he furrowed his brow sullenly. “How long would you be gone?”

“At least a couple of weeks, I imagine.”

Mr. Taisho almost growled, “Weeks? Kagome, surely you don’t need that long. Promise me you’ll return in no less than seven days.”

“I better not, sir,” she scolded, intently ignoring his use of her first name. “Or else I’ll be liable to break it. Dying can be nasty business for us humans, you know. It may take even longer.”

Mr. Taisho seemed immensely discomforted, and inexplicably grumpy. A scowl had permanently fixed itself on his lips, and his dark brow was thoroughly brooding.

“Please, sir,” she whispered.

This seemed to break him out of his hardened state, and he unknotted his arms, his hands fixing in his trousers’ pockets. “Very well,” he grunted. “You’re going to need money for the journey, aren’t you? I’ve given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world right now, Kagome?” he pondered, a curious grin breaking through his otherwise sulky features.

Kagome reached into her own pocket for her pouch, and she emptied its contents into her palm. “Five shillings, sir.”

He stared down into her palm with amusement. “And how much do I owe you?”

“Fifteen pounds,” she said, overcoming her instinct for bashfulness.

Mr. Taisho pushed off of his desk and walked around to his safe, which he unlocked in a mere couple of seconds. She could not see its contents through his broad back, which remained to her until he shut the safe again. He maneuvered back around the desk and came to stand in front of her. He had a single note in his hand, and he extended it out to her.

“Here is fifty.”

Kagome’s mouth hung open. “…What?”

“Take your wages, Kagome,” he said, leering.

He was too cruel. “…It’s too much.”

Mr. Taisho hung his head for a momentary laugh and met her eyes yet again. “You’re right. If I gave you fifty, you’d stay away from me a full month.” He stuffed the note into his inner coat pocket and pulled out another one from the same place. “Then I only have ten.” He held out the note with a devilish smirk.

“But now you owe me,” argued Kagome, a little more spiritedly than she meant to.

“That I do,” he crooned. “Come back for it.”

Sometimes, Kagome forgot how much she could hate him. “I don’t know if it will be enough to cover the carriage ride there and back,” she said as she tentatively grabbed the cash.

Mr. Taisho did not release it, and the poor note was held hostage to his next charge between their matching grips. “You will be hiring no outside carriage. You’ll take one of mine.”

“But, sir—”

“No arguing,” he said, finally releasing the money.

Kagome folded it and placed it in her pouch. “Thank you.”

“Now I have a question for you,” he began, suddenly serious again.

Kagome straightened her spine. “Yes?”

Mr. Taisho took a single fearsome step toward her and lifted his fingers to her chin in a manner more scrutinous than tender. The claw of his thumb came to brush lightly against the dulled wound on her bottom lip. “What have you done to yourself here?” he accused in a low voice.

Kagome’s eyes were wide upon his, and blood rushed to her face. Swallowing, she lifted her hand to grip his forearm and lightly tug it down. Not wanting him to feel outright spurned, she retained her hold on him and lifted her other to absentmindedly toy with his sleeve. Her eyes fell to where they touched.

“I bit it in my sleep.”

“Hmm. An anxious dream, perhaps?”

Kagome’s eyes shot back up to his, her brow furrowing in smothered surprise. “Maybe. It is difficult to remember after one wakes.”

He did not seem impressed.

“That does remind me, sir—there is another matter we need to discuss,” said Kagome. Her fingers loosened their grip on his arm, and they separated.

“Go on.”

Kagome took a deep breath. “You are to be married soon.”

Mr. Taisho took a deep breath of his own. “You’ve deciphered the signs, I see,” he teased, and Kagome wondered if she detected staleness in his tone.

“Then Shippo ought to go to school—and I will need to find a new situation.”

Mr. Taisho did not seem surprised by her words, and in fact the nod of his head and elevation of his eyebrows seemed most indecipherable. “Indeed. You think it is best that you remove yourself and my charge from the dominating path of my impending bride. I will ignore the insult to her which underlies that concern, as you are not altogether incorrect in feeling it. She is… bombastic at times with her displeasure about how I run my home. Very well then, Shippo will go to school, and you yourself will march to… the devil?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“Well then, what will you do, Kagome? Where will you go?” he asked, his genuine curiosity hurting more than any other emotion from him could have.

“I will advertise, I suppose.”

“The hell you will,” he scoffed. “I’ll find you a new situation, Kagome. One I hope you’ll accept.”

“Please, you don’t need to trouble yourself—"

“It is no trouble, surely. When a dependent has done her duty to her master as well as you have done yours, she has a right to expect such a duty from him in return.”

Kagome hated this, more than anything. His anger, his arrogance, his brutishness, his flippancy—all would have been more tolerable than such a bitter show of conventionality as this.

“Then I will leave it to you, sir,” she managed evenly. “I have already packed my things—I will commence as soon as the carriage is ready.”

Mr. Taisho lost his severely neutral expression, and Kagome appreciated that the last face of his she would see for a long time would be one that she felt was familiar. “Then we must bid farewell?” he asked mildly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And how do the humans of today complete such a ritual? I’m not quite up to it.”

“…They may shake hands, if they wish.”

“Shake hands? Well, give me yours, then,” he commanded, extending his own right hand toward her. With a tight smile, she met his hand with her own. His was warm and large, his claws tickling the back of hers, and he shook them squarely together twice. The motion itself was animated, almost sarcastically so. He released her and immediately came to cross his arms. “Is that it?”

Kagome giggled genuinely. “Yes, sir. As far as I know.”

“It seems cold, short, and unfriendly. I’d like something else.”

His golden eyes were piercing, and Kagome could hardly think up a response. “I don’t know of any other practice,” she defended.

His eyes roamed, first from eye to eye, then to her mouth. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Kagome smiled sheepishly. “Well, then. Farewell, Mr. Taisho.”

Kagome began to turn, but her master did not yet seem satisfied. He put a hand on her shoulder, halting her movement and reattracting her attention.

“Just a moment,” he grunted, and Kagome watched in wired confusion as he brought his own thumb to his mouth and pressed his tongue to it, the digit collecting a modest coat of saliva. “I’ll leave you with this.”

Kagome froze as he brought his hand to her jaw and, with the wetted thumb, traced over the punctured point on her bottom lip. A bolt of lightning curled somewhere deep inside her, and if it weren’t for the lingering sensation of moisture there after his departure, she would have suspected herself of hallucinating.

His self-satisfied grin was evidence enough, too.

“To help it heal,” he explained. He took a step back from her, and he returned to leaning himself against his desk, head tilted high. “Farewell, Kagome.”

Having somehow regained her faculties, Kagome managed to bow her head and force her feet to carry herself out of his office. At least, she knew she must have done these things, as within a half hour, Kagome was settled in a carriage and on her way to her childhood home.

#inukag #jane eyre #inuyasha fanfiction #inextricably knotted #not sorry about this one

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semischarmed · 2 years ago

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Bookstore

I chuckled leading Ryan down the steps.

“Cmon, should just be down this alley”.

It always rained in the city, but the clouds seemed to be just a bit darker, the water pouring just a bit heavier down the alleyway. Neon signs from outcast shops and suspicious eyes peered across window covered blinds.

Ryan was clearly uncomfortable. “Look dude, this place doesn’t even show up on a map. You sure they’re not gonna harvest our organs or something?”

I laughed.

“Sash wanted another book from this store for her birthday, right?” The corners of his mouth pulled, confirming. “Same kind that I got her for Christmas”? This time, a nod. “Well, you can’t really get these kinds of books from a regular store… you have to know a guy” I winked, running my hand over his shoulder and pulling him close to me in a joking fashion.

The smell was divine. The man must have just had a gym session before coming to me. Among the scent of the rain and city, his musk penetrated, clinging to my nose. An earthy, almost acrid scent graced my lungs. I squeezed him tighter to me, involuntarily. A second later, I felt another scent permeate my soul. It filled me with indescribable envy and dizzying lust, and I felt my mouth salivate at what could only be a gust of the damp air from inside his shorts, escaping through a small crack from when I had pushed his body closer to mine. I realized far too late that I was clinging onto him.

His face was not amused. Ryan grunted and distanced himself slightly, avoiding invoking the past few moments between us.

Ryan grimaced before sighing, cutting the silence. “Yeah man, I guess. Honestly, I don’t even know if it’s worth it at this point. He pondered for a moment, thinking of the hours she spent reading and rereading from that old book, transfixed, mesmerized. This was definitely what he needed to take their relationship to the next step. “Of course it is.” He seemed to mentally note.

Sasha was always really good at attracting amazing guys. Kind, charming, guys straight out of movies seemed almost drawn to her. Of course, they were never really her type- she always seemed to like them a little nerdy.

That all changed with Ryan. Just after Christmas, he caught sight of her reading from an old book at a cafe, offered her a drink and a chat, and for the first time in her life, she reciprocated his advances.

Ryan was patient and gentle. He often brought flowers, asked about her day, took her on dates. I felt a bit of resentment from him, as Sasha didn’t seem particularly romantic, and often invited me to their dates, almost bringing Ryan to me for “approval”. He seemed to take it all in stride though, remaining friendly and cordial and often including me in their conversations.

“We’re here” I stated flatly. In front of us stood a dingy black door, dimly lit by a small, flickering bulb. I stared at Ryan for a reaction. He gulped, before calmly placing his hands on the door. It nudged slightly, whining. He gestured for me to help him.

We both pushed into the creaky door that seemed to lead into an infinite void. Blackness swallowed us both before the door slammed shut and the room seemed to illuminate.

The bookstore seemed larger on the inside, row upon endless row decorated with looming shelves and ornate books. A gentle, woody scent lingered through the air, pulling us deeper.

“So.. how did you even find out about this place?” He asked as stared in awe at each shelf.

This time, I shrugged, holding a smile. “I know a guy”.

Ryan inspected each book closer- not a single one numbered or lettered. He pulled a stool from nearby before staring again at one of the nondescript books.

“None of these have any titles?” He asked.

I hid another smile as I innocently asked him to try one.

As he pulled a book from the shelf, he seemed to be acutely aware of the dust accumulating on the spine. He brushed the spine slowly before the title of the book revealed itself: “Ryan Weathers”. Ryan looked back at me, incredulous.

“W-what the fuck”? he laughed gently. He opened the page to inspect the words, and I watched as dread began to paint his face. “This… this is me… this is my story” he gently said. Without warning, he immediately began to thumb through the pages to look at the end of the book, only to be met with blank pages. He frowned as he continued slower this time, working backwards until he finally found the last written page. “Ryan entered the bookshop”.

———

“Weird”, I stated. This time, I couldn’t pull my smile. “Can I see?“ I unsheathed a pen from my pocket in anticipation.

I quickly pulled the Ryan book from his grasp and greedily wrote a few lines. Ryan turned back in horror and stared. He could no longer move.

I quickly showed him the results on the pages of his book. “Ryan sat still, awaiting his friend’s orders”. I scribbled a few more words, and huffed in slight heat.

A bead of sweat formed on Ryan’s temple, as he slowly began to undress. I followed suit, placing my bag on the floor and pulling out a book.

“Dude… dude… what is this?” He asked softly.

I pulled a book from behind me- Sarah’s book, waving it in front of his face with a smile. I inched my naked form closer to his “Sarah really picked a good one, didn’t she?”I leaned up to Ryan, pulling his naked form around me and moaning as I wrapped his arms over my shoudlers.. “Thank you for getting a nice pump before coming here.” Ryan couldn’t move as I began to caress each of his biceps, running my tongue across and picking up his post-workout funk. Divine.

I slammed my face into his armpit, smearing a thin layer of his acrid essence across myself. I huffed as I continued. I intertwined our hands together and wrote a few more words onto his book. “Fuck bro, we’re gonna smell so nice.” We said in unison.

I grabbed another book off the shelf- this time it had my name. Ryan’s eyes worriedly scanned my pages for a clue as to what I’d do next. I used our intertwined hands to pull another item off my bag and held it up for both of us to see- this time it was a pair of scissors.

I gingerly cut a few pages off my book and looked expectantly at Ryan. Despite being unable to move or speak, his eyes relayed volumes. They were wide and hate-filled, and seemed to threaten me. I almost stopped at that moment in fear of what he’d do to me after he broke free. The fear was unfounded though, as he could only calmly sit in silence and watch in terror.

I continued, pulling myself up to his damp form and grinding our bodies together. Of course, Ryan would not reciprocate, but it was enough run my brain feral in lust. I rushed even faster as I could feel Ryan’s now-damp warm body breathing heavier in rage. I continued until I felt a pull from myself and wave after wave of cum splattered among both or bodies. I swiped a bit, huffing in heat as I ran it across his mouth.

Ryan’s eyes squinted in sheer disgust as he was forced to taste me, before I pulled my finger from his mouth. “Need both to complete the ritual” I laughed. Ryan could only looked shocked, likely thinking the main event was over.

I grabbed a few of my pages and hastily smeared our saliva and cum mixture across Ryan’s page. His eyes widened as I stuck my pages into his book, glued by our concoction. Ryan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head slightly and he felt is body push closer to mine involuntarily.

When his eyes opened, He saw our now-shared arm flexing. I reran my tongue across my new Ryan-bicep, moaning as we both felt the touch of my tongue. We were connected now. I looked back and saw pleading this time from Ryan’s eyes.

Ignoring his silent pleas, I pulled another batch of pages from my book, swiping them in the mixture of sweat and my cum across both our bodies before pasting them on Ryan’s book.

Again, Ryan’s eyes pulled back and I began to feel his vascular legs as my own.

I ran our shared arm across my new legs, shivering in shrill delight at the feel of Ryan’s musculature.

Rabid with ecstasy, I could no longer controlled myself and started tearing page after page of my own book and interweaving it into Ryan’s. He began to vocalize soft protests as he felt his flesh betray him and begin to encapsulate me. I almost drowned in the scent of Ryan’s thick musk, interweaving and dulling my senses.

Before I realized, I had cleaned our sweaty body of my cum, and was left with half my book. I could still feel Ryan’s other arm finish swallowing my own inside him as we continued to slowly meld. Drunk and mad with the power of Ryan’s body becoming mine, I leaned my sweaty back to his cheek, feeling the safety of his warm body lull me to sleep.

———

When I awoke I could feel the furious Ryan next to me, desperately trying to move our arms and legs in vain. “Sorry bro” I lazily stated. My words now felt like a mix of Ryan’s and my own- a testament to how far combined we were. “Got lost in our sauce”. I chuckled with his laugh.

I could feel Ryan’s penis poking inside me, its imprint hanging limply on my belly. He caught sight of it too, and began to slightly move his head in protest as he could feel my thoughts relay what would happen next-

I gingerly used our new hands across my belly, pinching and prodding until I could feel Ryan’s dick imprint securely through my flesh.

With a wide smile and a moan, I began to use my own flesh as a sleeve over his dick, rubbing back and forth and thickening. At this, Ryan couldn’t help but moan as well. His head shook back and forth next to mine, clearly attempting to avoid the rush of our joint masturbation session.

He thrashed in vein as I felt his dick quickly stiffen and begin to prod into my belly.

I could barely keep my mental clarity from my senses being bombarded with lust and bliss. With shaking hands, I guided Ryan’s arms to gently squeeze and slot his thickening dick over mine.

At that, we both vocalized a lustful “FUCK”.

The heat and the sensations were unreal, as his dick continued to grow inside of mine, I felt myself push into my absolute limit. I screamed another fuck as I continued to pump with my Ryan arms, feel his cum exit my piss slit.

The feeling of Ryan’s warm batter coming out of me was unreal, and I barely escaped another bought of unconsciousness. Ryan was not so lucky, and I felt his sweaty head slump down next to mine. I hummed gently in his voice as I continued to work, this time using Ryan’s own cum to glue the rest of my pages into his book.

I watched my flesh begin to discolor and shape, following the contours for Ryan’s own. His torso began to push through my own and in a treating sensation I felt my flesh reconnect- now showing Ryan’s body from torso-down.

I shivered in shrill delight- this body… our body… *my* body. *I* was Ryan now-

I felt his sweaty head stir awake, and his cheek lean into mine. From his face, I could feel the corners of his lips pull into a smile. Ryan began huffing as his own face began to encapsulate my own, and the last bit of resistance of the old Ryan- small tear in our right ear slowly dribble down our cheek. I wiped the drool off our shared mouth and promptly collapsed as one being.

When I awoke, I began to pick up Ryan’s book- *my book* and wrote a few more words cementing his role as my personal meat-suit to eternity. I rewrote some passages from Sasha’s book undoing her spell before placing both our books back on the shelf and watching in delight as the titles began to fade.

I ran my hands across my new face- Ryan’s face before putting on his clothes and promptly leaving the bookstore a new man.

—————

The pics could probably use some work… Happy 2023!

#male possession #male merge

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clouds-rambles · 4 years ago

Note

Hey bestie may I request diluc,childe,zhongli,and venti having a bad nightmare over their s/o wanting to break up with them and when they wake up their s/o isn’t there but really they’re in another room or something if that makes sense!! Thank you 🤑

Hi bestie positively evil... i love it <3 nobody question why zhongli and the reader are married in all my headcanons thanks lmao

Pairings; (Seperate) Diluc, Childe, Zhongli, and Venti x reader

Warning(s); panic, nightmares, hurt/comfort, injury mention

Keep reading under the cut!

Diluc

Diluc wakes with a start, his brows furrowed as he takes a moment to arrange the events of his nightmare in his head

Both you and he had a particularly explosive argument after he had come back injured from a night protecting Mondstat

You had left the winery after exclaiming that you refuse to date someone who has such a lack of regard for his own life. In the long run you’d be saving yourself from further heartbreak if he ended up dead on the front porch

Diluc wonders if dream you could be right...

The red-head finally notices the cold side of the bed you should be sleeping on. He more than remembers going to sleep with you

Panic sets in at the bottom of Dilucs stomach. He must be imagining things right? You’re probably just in the bathroom

A beat passes

Then three

No, you’re not in the bathroom. He would have heard you by now...

What if the dream was actually what had happened last night. A breath catches in the mans throat as he gets out of bed and throws a shirt on

If he couldn’t find you in his home has he truly lost you?

Diluc speedily walks through the halls of his home, checking the spare rooms, the study, the library, the living room, the dining room, the

Diluc opens the door to the kitchen his heart threatening to break out of his chest at the pace it’s beating when he finally spots you drinking a cup of tea, in your pajamas

Thank the archons it was just a dream

“Diluc, honey, are you okay?” you ask getting up from the table in the kitchen to your sweating, hyperventilating partner

Diluc says nothing but opts to hugging you, his head bowing to your chest as he breaths you in

“Diluc, you’re worrying me” you tell him returning his embrace and rubbing circles on his back

“You weren’t in bed” is all he offers to tell you. You don’t push him on the details of why he is so panicked

“I couldn’t sleep so I came down for a herbal tea” you explain kissing the man on his bed of fluffy hair “I have a cup left in the kettle, I can pour one out for you” you offer

“Please” he breathes, but doesn’t move to let you go from the embrace, you can stand to hold him and tell him sweet nothings for a little while. Tea can always be reheated

Childe

It would only be right, and he suspected as much. You had told him that because of what has recently transpired in Liyue you cannot find yourself to love a brutal harbinger

Maybe its for the best. Childe concludes not paying much attention to his weeping heart. Maybe, you’d be happier not to be under the constant eye and scrutiny of the Qixing, the Milleth, and the watchful eye of Childes own fatui informants

Without much pause form Childes last thought the man finds himself waking in his room, unsure if the dream was reality or his mind playing tricks on him, he feels your side of the bed and notices a distinct lack of warmth... and you

He cries

Childe curls himself up in a ball determined to not get caught by anyone showing such an extreme and out of character emotion, he let himself cry. He’s pretty sure he’s sobbing loudly but he doesn’t care. It’s just him in the house anyway. The one person that he doesn’t mind seeing such emotions has left him

That’s until he hears the distinct click of the bedroom door open “Oh my archon Childe, are you okay?” you ask quickly making your way to the side of his bed and placing a hand on his shoulder

The man looks up to you, he isn’t sure if you’re real

“I thought-” he starts “I had a-” he tries to find his words without seeming like a crazed person “You weren’t-”

“It’s okay babe, I’m right here. I’m not planning on going anywhere” you console “I just had an epiphany in my dream and I had to write it down” you add explaining your absence. Childe nods along

“Stay” he tells you as you wipe the tears out of his eyes. You nod and hum

“Of course” you lay onto the bed and let Childe wrap himself around you

You hum him to sleep and whisper sweet nothings

Zhongli

‘I can’t love you anymore Zhongli, I feel obligated to come back to Liyue after every adventure, it’s starting to take a toll on me’

‘But our vows, [name] we made a contract at the altar’

‘To love each other, yes? Zhongli there’s no love left in this marriage, you sleep in the spare bedroom whenever I’m back, we sit in silence over dinner, I don’t think I’ve kissed you in months. The lack of love itself is the breach in the contract’

‘But I-’

‘Think about it, do you really feel the same love that you felt on the day we got married?’

‘[name]-’

Zhongli wakes up with a start, his heart beats a little fast for a second. The man convinces himself it’s just a dream he had, but the coldness of your side of the bed seems to speak otherwise

In all fairness, Zhongli should have rationalised his dream before he started wondering the house like a mad man. The only time he sleeps in the other bed is when you’ve suffered an extreme injury, dinners are often spent with jolly laughs and conversation. And Zhongli prides himself on the amount of affection he gives you around the house... and in the bedroom

But most things aren’t making sense in his head right now

“Zhongli my love” you call him upon noticing him in the hall. You had just come out of the bathroom after a midnight toilet break “Are you okay darling?” you ask placing a hand on his shoulder

The tenseness in Zhongli’s shoulders dissipate as soon as you initiate the touch

“I love you” he tells you, the declaration is out of nowhere to you. But you smile at him and embrace him

“And I love you too” you pause bringing up your hand baring the ring that sits on it “And this ring is a reminder of our vows and my unyielding love to you” you tell him with a smile

Zhongli chuckles at you and returns your hug “You seem to always know how to comfort me my dear”

“It’s because I’m a mind reader” you jest matching your spouses chuckle

Venti

Disappeared. So much so that the thousand winds could tell Venti that you were in fact not in Mondstat and had travelled to Liyue from the time Venti was playing music in the tavern to when he knocked for you early the next morning

The only trace you left was a letter. Unmistakeably written by your hand

‘Venti, writing this in a letter is much easier than saying this to your face. I am quite simply tired of your antics, no matter try to talk to you, you seem to always brush me off. Be it the nights you spend at the tavern, my general concern when you disappear for days at end just to tell me you were at the thousand winds temple, stormterrors lair, or windrise, no matter how much I tell you I checked all three. Being in a constant state of concern isn’t good for me, it’s emotionally draining and I’m terrified of finding you dead somewhere, despite your archon blood. By the time you read this I’ll be in Liyue where I’ll be staying with a friend for a while. Tell me I’m going somewhere you can’t follow, and I’ll tell you this is how I have felt many a night. I wish I could have kept loving you, [name]’

A harsh way to break up Venti admits to himself rereading the paper a few times before waking up

A dream?

Venti holds his chest, surely a dream couldn’t conjure such a horrific sinking feeling that makes him want to just vomit

Looking to your side of the bed for your comfort the sinking feeling intensifies when he doesn’t see you

So it wasn’t a dream? Venti doesn’t want to call on his kin, the thousand winds, again just to be told once more that you’re currently in Liyue sipping tea with this cousin you had mentioned in the letter

The archon sits up in bed and takes deep breaths, he doesn’t want to explain to anybody that he had a panic attack over your horrific breakup letter, no no

After calming his breaths Venti steps out of bed with a shaky few steps before walking downstairs to engage in the typical breakout routine. Snacking. Maybe when you left you had elected to ignore some of the snacks you love to litter about your abode

When Venti walks in to the living room towards the kitchen he sees you nursing your head on the couch

“[name]?” he asks in almost disbelief

“Hm,” you answer before looking up to Venti “Oh hey love, sorry I’ve got a headache” you greet properly after a moment. Venti grins at you which causes you to tilt your head. Why is your headache so grin worthy? Weird...

“Would you like some paracetamol?” he asks walking beside you, you shake your head

“I just took some” you reply looking up at your partner “Though I’d love to rest my head on your thighs” you add. Venti more then obliges and settles down on the couch

“You know I had the strangest dream” Venti tells you after a prolonged amount of silence, you hum to let him know you’re listening “You left me” he says bluntly

Damn

You bring yourself up to Venti’s face with a smile and give him a kiss “I love you Venti, I wouldn’t leave you for even the prettiest lyre” you half console half jest

“That’s because the prettiest lyre is mine” Venti chuckles and you nod pressing another kiss to Venti’s lips

guys it’s 2.42am I’m so sorry if there’s grammatical errors, my brain isn’t catching up rn

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #childe x reader #zhongli x reader #venti x reader #genshin diluc #genshin childe #genshin zhongli #genshin venti #diluc #childe #zhongli #venti #hurt/comfort #nightmares

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ptergwen · 3 years ago

Note

I think your requests are open (I didn’t see anything that said otherwise but I suck at this app lol) but I was wondering if you could write a peter x reader (likely college-age) where they have an academic rivalry and just tease each other a lot and lots of fluff and shit? It can be an established relationship or like a friends/rivals to lovers or really whatever you want. Sorry if this is super specific! Anyways, I love your writing, it always cheers me up :)

friends close, enemies closer

ik this is cherry BUT i had to

w/c: 1.6k

warnings: swearing and hints of suggestiveness

a/n: thank you my love ! i’m actually obsessed with this concept so i’m super super happy with how it came out n i hope you are too :,)

you wipe sweat from your upper lip, peeking at peter’s laptop screen. he’s more than halfway through the paper your english professor tasked your class to write. he looks to have not a worry in the world as he continues to type away. growling at this, you dive right back into work.

you’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning of classes when you both wanted the same spot. first row, middle seat. peter had officially claimed it in the end. you’d flopped down next to him and his irritating smirk.

the dude is smart, you’ll give him that. his knowledge of literature is almost as impressive as yours. almost. he raises his hand any chance he gets, effectively stealing your thunder if you dare to participate.

peter is also a bit of a people pleaser. he’ll chat up your professor at office hours, fascinate her with his hot takes on things or stupid anecdotes. you often get so annoyed that you bail before you even attempt to woo her yourself. the sight of you storming off is something peter thoroughly enjoys.

bottom line is, golden boy peter parker never loses. underneath the sweet, innocent persona he hides behind is a ruthless fighter. you’re determined to end his winning streak, thus sparking your ongoing competition to be better than the other in every way possible.

this time, your goal is to meet your ten page paper requirements the fastest. they aren’t due for weeks, but you and peter are banging them out in one sitting.

you’re hauled up in the campus library, sat side by side despite your wishes for peter to get his own table. he’d insisted on sharing with you. why, you haven’t a clue. you can’t stand him, and he isn’t the fondest of you either.

that’s what you tell yourselves, at least.

“progress report?” peter requests from you. “page three. you?” you grunt back. he props his feet up on the table, arms flexed behind his head. “finishing up page seven. you already knew that, though... creeper.”

god, you can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

you glance over at peter, doing your best to ignore how his biceps bulge under his hoodie. nerdy little parker is ripped.

“worry about yours, i’ll worry about mine. thanks.” you reread the sentence you wrote prior to peter’s chiseled body distracting you. “oh, the irony,” he sighs and nudges the edge of your laptop with his sneaker. scowling, you shift the screen away from him.

about a minute of silence goes by until it’s unfortunately filled by peter. he stretches his arms out, finally removing his dirty shoes from the table.

“i’m gonna take five. maybe, you could use it as an opportunity to catch up to me,” peter cockily suggests. “spare me your charity, peter. i’m doing just fine without it,” you retort, letting out a scoff. peter raises his hands in defense. “if you say so, princess.”

here you were, naively thinking peter couldn’t become any more insufferable than he already is.

you slam your laptop shut and jab a finger at his chest. “jesus christ, how many times do i have to ask you not to call me that?” a patronizing pout adorns peter’s lips. “aw, i love it when you get all bossy on me. so cute.”

he grabs your hand still on his chest, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. you’re quick to wipe it off on his hoodie. nevertheless, there’s an undeniable heat rushing to your cheeks.

“well, i hate it when you call me princess,” you deadpan. peter tilts his head to the side. “do you?”

of course not. deep down, you live for the fuzzy feeling you get whenever the nickname slips from his tongue. oh, his tongue and the things it can do. poking out as he focuses hard on a question, running across his pink lips…

you have to reel it in. this is peter parker you’re fantasizing about, your mortal enemy.

“yes. i hate it, and i hate you,” you unsuccessfully convince the both of you. “no, you don’t,” peter rasps, darkened eyes scanning over your features. his stare is intense and intimidating. he grasps your chin between his thumb and index finger, slowly leaning in closer.

he’s not going to stop until you make him. you don’t want to, but you will.

you shove his shoulder, dragging your laptop towards you again. “on second thought, i could use that catch up. you’re not gonna throw me off my game, parker.”

your rejection seems to disappoint peter. his expression matches that of a kicked puppy, brows furrowed and arms crossed over his chest.

“we’ll see,” he murmurs and swings a leg over his chair. “alright, i’m gonna run to the caf. you want anything?”

he’s offering to buy you food now? what’s his angle here?

“i’d say yes, but i’m afraid you’ll poison it somehow,” you half joke. peter hops to his feet. “don’t give me any ideas,” he warns, snatching his backpack off the floor. “i’ll just surprise you.”

although you’re curious what his mystery snack choice for you would be, you can’t accept. you’d be going against your entire dynamic.

would that be so terrible?

absolutely.

you wave him off towards the double doors. “i’m good, peter. really. i’m not that hungry, anyway.” shaking his head, peter throws a backpack strap onto one shoulder. “y/n, your stomach’s been grumbling for the last hour. you gotta eat.”

he’s not wrong. you’re starving, but you’ve been too preoccupied by your essay to break for dinner.

“fine, surprise me,” you concede. peter flashes you a smile, this one void of its usual condescendence. “i’ll be back. try not to miss me too much,” he calls as he walks backwards to the library doors. “i won’t. shoo already,” you dismiss him, a laugh falling from your lips.

peter winks at you, then disappears into the night. you’re left with a serious case of butterflies and a certain freckle faced know-it-all on your mind.

that’s a problem.

you’ve managed to get another page done when peter reappears. he sits back down and slides a bag across the table, you closing your laptop. you dig into it to figure out what he picked for you. you’re not too pleased with his selection, however.

“oh, yummy. vomit in a cup,” you announce as you hold a green smoothie in your hand. peter reaches over and pats your thigh. “it’s good for you. drink up, princess.” you slap him away. “hard pass. i’d rather you have gotten me nothing.”

narrowing his eyes, peter pulls two cookies wrapped in a napkin from his pocket. “i’m guessing you don’t want these either? more for me, then.”

they’re chocolate chip and m&m, your favorite in the cafeteria. they just came out of the oven, so they’re still warm.

“how… how did you know i…” you trail off, peter setting the cookies in front of you. he offers you a lopsided grin. “i know a lot about you, believe it or not. i pay attention.” you surprise yourself by returning his smile. “thank you, peter. how much do i owe you?”

“nah, it’s on me,” peter assures you. “enjoy.” pushing aside your unappealing drink, you seize the cookies instead. “you have to eat, too. let me at least split these with you.” there’s a beat before peter nods. “fair enough.”

that results in you two munching on your cookies while pretending to write your papers. you’re sneaking glances at each other whenever the other isn’t looking, in reality.

once it’s about time for the library to close, you’re on the verge of passing out. peter is concluding his essay until he hears a thump from your side of the table.

he finds you with your cheek smushed against your keyboard and hitting random letters, snores escaping you.

chuckling to himself, peter places a hand on your shoulder. “hey, y/n?” he speaks in a hushed tone. you awake with a gasp, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth. “easy there, princess. it’s only me.” he rubs circles on your back, and it’s oddly comforting.

“keep doing that,” you purr, momentarily forgetting how much you’re supposed to despise peter. he lets his fingers dance across the exposed skin of your lower back. “we should probably head out. it’s kinda late,” peter decides.

you sit up, bones aching and eyes forced open. “not yet. have to beat you first.” you start to delete the gibberish you accidentally typed. peter cups your cheek to turn your head towards him, your movements halting. “this one’s a tie. you did good, y/n/n,” he coos. “finish the rest another day.”

“why’re you being so nice to me?” you nearly whisper. peter uses his thumb to swipe the drool from your lips. “‘cuz i care about you. i might not show it, but i do,” he admits with the hint of a smile. “besides, i need you… for the, uh, the healthy competition.”

laughing softly, you twist his hoodie strings around your fingers and tug. “your intentions are pure as always. sure that’s all you need me for?” peter’s gaze darts to your lips, then your eyes. “we’ll see,” he repeats.

rivalry be damned.

“mm. i care about you too, parker. thanks again for tonight,” you hum. a blush coats peter’s cheeks, even in the dim library lighting. his sweet and innocent side might truly exist. “no problem.” peter links your pinkie with his, the gesture giving you that fuzzy feeling. “i’ll walk you back to your dorm?”

you lean over and kiss his pinkie intertwined in yours.

“lead the way.”

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker au #peter parker smut #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland smut #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction

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omnidemidisaster · 2 years ago

Text

Hank x Cassette girl

I really need to give cassette girl a name lol

"Love Notes"

Cassette girl was just chilling in her shared apartment. Hank was out for the day, doing usual A-AAHW stuff. She didn't quite understand by she didn't really care.

She walked to her and Hanks bedroom, ready to pass out for the 3rd time today, when she found a piece of paper on the bed. She picked it up and opened up the letter and opened it up.

Hanks iconic sloppy writing incinerated it was his. She was ready to put it down, it was Hank's after all. But something in her told her to read it.

She began to read it and realized something.

This isn't just a paper with Hanks handwriting

Its a love poem from Hank.

I should be over it by now

But I can't get over it

Whats it thought?

Is it the way you speak

And how my name rolls off your lips?

Or it is your beauty?

That silences me

And makes me truly pay attention

Or maybe the way you touch me?

The way your hands grasp my face

And plant gentle kisses whenever

And how you make me weak at the slight of hand

Maybe its the care you give?

Despite everything, you still love me

And love me despite it all

I wanna understand why you make me feel weak unintentionally

Or maybe even intentionally, like a witch cursing a victim

But instead of a curse from a witch, its just a spell that someone so undeniably perfect casted on me

I won't figure it out

I know you probably won't know what it is

But you are the it, and I love it

Cassette girl put down the poem, face red. It has to have been directed to her. It has to have been. Hank is too nervous to even hold her, let alone try to cheat so it has to have been for her. Why else?

She reread it again, the words making her heart race. She had to eventually stop before she was just in this empty loop of constant reading.

"Who knew he had this ability?" She asked herself. She put the piece of paper on the bedside table and got underneath the bedsheets. She decided that after her nap and once Hank got home, she'd talk with Hank about it.

><><><><><><><><>><><><><><><><><><><

Hank walked through the front door, stretching his very sore back. He walked by the bedroom and saw Cassette girl, peacefully sleeping in their bed.

He walked over and moved her hair behind her hair. He pulled down his mask and softly kissed Cassette girls cheek, trying to not wake or startle her. She made a sleepy groan, stretching her arms. "Hank?" She asked, her voice being more scratched due to her sleep.

"Didn't mean to wake you" He mumbled. "Nyeh, its fine" She said, sitting up. "You know I enjoy being kissed by my incredibly handsome boyfriend" She pat the spot next to her.

Hank obliged to her silent request, instantly being hugged by Cassette girl. "Oh, by the way, I read your little poem. It was beautiful" She said, instantly making Hank blush. "You read it?!" Hank asked, a little ashamed.

"Hm, let's see. A piece of paper just sitting on our bed that was may or may not put there on purpose. Of course I was interested. And by God damn...it was really nice. Did not know you had talent" Hank looked down in embarrassment. "I should of put that away"

"Your acting like this is middle school with the notes. Baby we have been dating for 5 years, why are you suddenly so scared about me seeing a love note?" She asked. "I don't know honestly...even after all this time I should-"

"Should be over it?" Cassette girl finished the sentence for him, a smug look. Hank stared for a second. "Y-Yea" Cassette girl smiled. "But you can't get over it? But what is it though?" Hank stared again, but then started laughing.

"Oh shut up" He shoved her, causing Cassette girl to laugh. "Make me Mr Hank Allen Poe" She teased, unknowingly causing a pillow war as she instantly got hit with a giant squishmellow.

"Oh its on!"

"Bring it on, short stack!"

#fluff #like FLUFF FLUFF #cassette girl #hank j wimbleton x cassette girl #hank j wimbleton #hank x cassette girl #THEY ARE SO CUTE AAAAAHHHHHHG

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theesteemedladydebourgh · 3 years ago

Text

Why IF WE NEVER MEET AGAIN is Art, Capital Letters and I’ll never get over it

An Essay (by someone who has been ravaged by @thequibblah one too many times)

IWNMA is two months old! Wow, the time flies. 🥳 i read this fic on Halloween and it fucked me up even more (yes, more) than that dreaded anniversary. so this is mostly going to be me quoting my favorite bits, rambling and freaking out and occasionally trying to be coherent and actually talk about WHY it’s so brilliant. because it is brilliant, and if you haven’t read it that should be the only thing you need to know: it’s brilliant and sad and hopeful and sweet and yes, right back to brilliant. go read it.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully articulate what it is about this fic that captured my heart and makes me feeling a mixture of longing and confused. It makes my heart ache, in short, and after the first time I read it I wasn’t quite sure why. It took several rereads to put a finger on it—a mixture of beautiful prose enveloping and aiding incredibly crafted characters.

There is something about suze’s writing that makes me want to be a better writer—in fact i think just reading her works DO make me a better writer because I inhale her beautiful prose and weep over her lovely characters and I take a tiny bit of them with me when I’m crafting my own stories.

I don’t know how to describe it other than: IWNMA perfectly captures the fact that words are nothing but strings of letters. Meaningless, except humans put so much meaning and yearning and love into existence, so these strings of letters make us feel absolutely incoherent things. (Incoherence, in general is how I react to suze. Both personally and professionally 😌)

now i’m going to be very embarrassingly emotive and generally freak out.

“I love you,” Lily says, quietly. The night holds the words for a moment, then releases them. She hasn’t yet looked at him. “I’m in love with you, and I’m tired of pretending I’m not.”

Everything splinters after that.

um. Opening lines? Killing me? I am such a sucker for starting the story in the middle and then going back because…Drama. and Showmanship.

I love the pure brilliance of the magazine headlines interspersed throughout and how they give us little details and sneak peeks, and show the complete divide between the Truth and the Show. It’s the flashy, gasp headline writing and when it’s contrasted with the quiet chaos behind the scenes it’s just…

There’s something almost suffocating about movie star AUs to me, because there is so much misunderstood and we know that a lot of them felt trapped, and I can feel that in IWNMA. Even if Lily’s not sitting around panicking, thinking ‘I feel trapped’, you can feel it in the writing, in the breaths taken, the spaces between them. The way she acts, the way the love story plays out behind and in front of the scenes.

“Long time,” James Potter says once he’s finished laughing, holding out his hand.

James Potter makes an introduction, and I Love Him.

I also love that the ex-husband is just…the ex-husband. He needs no space. No capital letters. begone.

To claim that she fell in love again on August 3rd might be stretching things. But Lily tastes possibility, light and sweet as summer fruit on her tongue, for the first time in a long time on that night.

She loses it, too, many times over. Wait — we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

I’m just going to keep repeating myself and saying ‘I love xyz’ but I love these lines. I love the summer fruit, and the lightness of possibility, and the way it feels like a story being told about them, while also a story that is very much Theirs.

“That,” he says, “is a fucking view. Your estate agent wasn’t kidding.”

Lily laughs. It’s maybe easier now to appreciate the stunning beauty of this house through someone else — though it was immediately apparent to her when she first scoped it out.

“Try waking up to it,” she says.

“I want to,” he says at once. “Seriously, I’ll buy it off you right now.”

He wakes up to it at the end I am so—

“I’d offer you my jacket,” says James, “but I have none, and also, it’s August.”

😭

Most of this is just me being In Love with James, until we get to P&P era and then he’s on thin fucking ice so…

“I’ve got two hands.”

“Two hands you’re using to not help me in the slightest.”

Suze I just know you meant this on purpose. You do not fool me. I know.

He says, with feeling, “Lily, take my jacket, it’ll protect you from this Arctic evening—”

She groans. “Fuck off, oh my God—”

“—your every moment of discomfort tears me apart—” With a flourish, he mimes removing a jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

“You’re a terrible actor,” she says, shrugging off the nonexistent jacket. “Charlie Chaplin’s rolling over in his grave. While weeping.”

Will I copy and paste this entire scene is the question. The answer could be yes, but the word count of this draft post is…embarrassing so close to 2022.

The Rome scenes are just…like, can I frame them and weep? It makes me want to be in Rome and also be in love and also have James Potter as my own, which is not a new feeling per se, but it’s certainly a very strong iteration of it.

Lily has decided she likes Italian bars best of all — drinks are the same everywhere you go, but the food, good God. (James makes a crack about how he’ll look unrecognisable at the end of filming if they go on like this every day. As if, she thinks, with a resentful glare. She’s seen him running around the neighbourhood each bloody morning.)

No comment, he’s ridiculous and the best.

“Oh, no,” James murmurs now, dropping the smile, “I hadn’t realised. I’ll do my best to be attractive for you.”

The entire bar scene, with the snipping and the laughter and how she’s just slightly unglued just by him being him…

Trelawney as the neurotic director is the best thing that’s ever happened, and suze is just so masterful in the way she’s woven the elegant and the silly and the uniquely longing to make this masterpiece.

“If you ask me, this is all for authenticity. Freddy absolutely wonders if Sabine knows he’s an okay kisser.”

“Freddy’s a great kisser,” James says, following.

“We’ll see, I guess.”

His hand closes around her upper arm, just above the elbow. Lily turns around. “What?”

But he simply looks at her without speaking. She waits for a long moment. Then, “Never mind.”

She shrugs, cool as you please, though she wants to stay wrapped in the sudden electricity, here. “See you on set, tiger.”

He chokes on his laughter.

Really all picking out my favorite parts is doing is making me realize how good of a writer she is. like…read these all in a row and tell me you’re not overwhelmed just from that, and then read the whole thing and tell me you didn’t weep.

The first kiss scene. Honestly? suze, you need to direct a movie. The screen and the setting is perfection and you would win awards for it, just saying (as you’ve won awards for this fic, which I’m glad it did, because I would’ve sulked for ages if it didn’t)

Trelawney calls cut!

“Again?” James can be heard saying. Lily stays there, behind the screen, trying to settle her racing heart.

“No,” Trelawney tells him, “that’s the one.”

“That’s the—? But we only—”

“That’s the take.”

😭 the implication that their first kiss was so genuine and perfect it fit the film.

“I’ll walk you,” says James.

She tries to wave him off. “It’s literally around the corner, James.”

“It’s late!”

“It’s half past ten.”

“Late,” he says again.

“Oh, all right,” she says, and tucks her hand into his elbow.

It’s the beginning and somehow it already feels sad (probably because the scroll is still very long, so we know they’re not going to be happy for the rest of it) and yet also euphoric and…I love secret relationships. Secret love affairs.

She’s aware of the rise and fall of his shoulders, in time with her own, and the part of his lips. But she’s not looking anywhere but his eyes, the rich hazel glimmer of them. She is quite helpless.

“You’re not— Are you drunk?” Lily says.

His brow furrows, but he answers, “No.”

She exhales, long and slow. “Then I think… It would be better to just get it out of our systems, yeah?”

When he nods, he seems relieved. “Upstairs?”

I absolutely love this scene because it seems quite abrupt—they haven’t discussed any of it—but the silence in all the words before it might as well have been a full on conversation because they know where they are (physically, at least) and that the other is there too, and so there’s only a few words required to make the jump (that isn’t even a jump, it’s more of a soft step)

“You’re — an okay kisser,” she tells him, left breathless.

😭

Afterwards she wonders about the semantics of this. Fucking one’s co-star seems de rigueur in the industry. But realistically they have not fucked, not unless the definition’s changed since last she checked. A one-and-done would feel separate from the rest of the world, safely so. Now she can still smell the earthy impression of rain on his skin, can still hear plucked strings and Doris Day. Lily realises, rather clinically, that she would like to do it again.

Really, really. She’d really, really like to do it again.

As if he can read her mind, James begins to sit up and get dressed. She watches in silence; when he’s finished, he curls one hand around her calf.

His smile is slanted, ironic. “Never again, then.”

She smiles back, though she’s sure she doesn’t look so poised. At least they’ve come to this realisation together.

And then even at the end they’re in sync. Even when they’re missing each other by miles, there’s this sense of in sync-ness (not the band), because they’re just built so perfectly to fall in love.

It is wrong, definitely wrong, on ethical, moral, certainly religious grounds, to feel a little flustered at the way he does up a zipper.

The scene in the trailer just makes me…have I mentioned I’m in love with this James yet?

“You’re brave,” James says, simple as that. “For holding onto someone when you found them, and even more so for letting go when you needed to.”

They get each other. A love story could be boiled down to that simple fact, and IWNMA is just two people who get each other (in a variety of torturous situations, thank u suze)

“We made something,” he says, softly.

There, he has voiced the thought she’s had since that last day of filming, since he spun her around and the world seemed forever changed once her feet landed on solid ground again. She’s made something — and she’s done it in collaboration with people, of course, it’s not about who owns how much of this. But she’s made something, and (heart tripping, breath catching) she’s done it with him.

This is one of the lines that actually made me tear up. This fic hurts to read sometimes, because it’s so earnest and it just…tugs right at the most aching, deep parts of you because it’s about the start of love, the making of art, and the two intertwined. I’m 😭

She shifted in her chair, crossed and uncrossed her legs. “I think if there’s one thing my romantic life proves, it’s that vetting by sex is not very thorough.”

“If it’s thoroughness you’re worried about,” Mary says seriously, “all the more reason to find Potter again and give him a few more goes.”

I love Mary. 🥰

Maybe the naïve reaction to that is to believe she was always made to be an actress, not a model. Lily knows it’s silly — no one is made to be anything — but she holds onto the childish impulse in that dark room.

Will I use something other than 😭 to describe my feelings maybe maybe not.

The moment might’ve come across as abrupt, but the camera lingers sweetly on Freddy’s face as he strides out of the garden. This is no guilty, hurried retreat, which was how Lily’d assumed it would appear.

Instead James milks every ounce of his natural earnestness for all it’s worth. Freddy is lit with wonder, giddy and flushed and quite appallingly in love. He lifts a hand to his mouth as he goes, not to wipe at it but just…to touch, as if to memorise through every sensation what he’s just experienced.

The film goes on, but, if she’s being perfectly honest, Lily stays there. Replays that lovely little smile, his thumb upon his lower lip, again and again.

That is what makes James Potter good at his job. Instinct. Sincerity. There is no doubt to the viewer that he absolutely believes what he’s doing.

He believes it because he’s in love with you, idiot.

You brought me all this way to say hello? she almost says. “Hi,” is what she actually says.

His mouth tilts into a half-smile. “You know something funny?”

No, she almost says. “What’s that?”

“Last year in Rome, when I left the villa and flew back home, I suppose I knew we’d have to see each other again—”

Now Lily manages to get her dig in, a well-placed elbow to the ribs. “Oh, you sound thrilled about it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let me finish. I knew we’d both be at this premiere, but I felt as though you’d just…vanish. And I’d never see you again.”

She manages a blustery laugh. “That’s a touch ridiculous, no?”

“Oh, it’s quite ridiculous,” he says with a nod. “You know I enjoy giving you ammunition.”

Are her cheeks red? They must be. She feels like she’s had a dizzying number of shots in a too-short period of time.

The universe is playing some kind of joke on her, she thinks, because surely a thought that she’s had — on the night they first kissed, no less — didn’t organically occur to him too? Surely he can’t read minds?

Made for each other. Made for each other.

The LA scenes are right up against the Rome scenes for my favorite, because it just feels stingingly alive. You can feel the sun and the wind and the exhilaration and the plastic-life in every word, in all their actions and the studio sets. And I was waiting for them to get together the ENTIRE first time I read it and I was very miffed when they didn’t, but now I appreciate the space. It felt like it was time for them (unknowingly) to settle into love. Because...(yes, i’m going to say it), they’re best friends. 😭

“Please, Evans. We’re both having the time of our damn lives, and you know it.” He’s back to his relaxed position of earlier.

Lily arches a brow and does not feel a thrill in her stomach. “Are we?”

He glances at her, grinning that crooked grin of his. “Well, we’re in it together, aren’t we?”

Yeah, I had to get up and pace when I read this bit. You know the lines that bury themselves somewhere deep in your chest and fill you with restlessness and you need to take a break just to savor it and also to get out of the headspace of it, because it’s nearly too much to feel? This is that. It did it to me on my first, second, third and fourth rereads. I paced and made a cup of tea and then returned.

In a smooth American drawl James says, “You’re in El Ay, baby. Get used to it.”

This should not be as attractive to me as it is.

Drunk Remus is the best thing to ever exist, suze thank you for inventing him.

“No,” she says, nonchalant, “I didn’t think you looked cool.”

“Ouch.”

She shrugs, trying to think past the alcohol to put the sentiment to words. “I mean, you looked — like a person. Not like a movie star.”

“Ah,” he says.

At first he mulls this over in silence and she wonders if she’s misstepped. But then he laughs quietly, and she wants to kiss his dimple…only Mary floats into view in her mind’s eye. Her sex life is not something that happens to her.

“So you have to let me buy you a Fluffy Duck, anyway,” she says, hurriedly circumventing the past few minutes.

“They don’t feel the same way about Fluffy Ducks here,” James says.

She wraps a hand around his forearm, allows him to steer them to the bar. “Don’t they? Well, you’ll have to read me what’s on the menu, then.”

“Me?” He points at his specs.

“Hmm. We’re fucked.”

The bartender’s occupied, so they stop a ways off. She doesn’t let go of him as she squints at the board. His head tilts towards hers; he’s frowning at it too.

“Any luck?” Lily whispers.

“Can’t see a damn thing.”

“Just make up an innuendo. Half the cocktails are sex-related. You know, on the beach, in the sheets, what have you.”

He laughs, and she swells with pleasure. “Is that what you’ve learned today?”

She scoffs at his teasing tone. “You laugh, but I’ll go up to this bloke right now and say, ‘I’ll have a Slow Comfortable Screw on the Countertop,’ and he won’t even blink.”

James laughs even harder, a hand pressed to his ribs. “Sorry?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” With an exasperated sigh, she turns to say, right in his ear, “A slow, comfortable screw—” And then her brain catches up to what’s happening, and she stutters to a stop, wide-eyed.

James tips his head even nearer, hazel eyes so close. “No, go on,” he says, half-smiling.

Her face grows hot. “Erm.”

“You ordering, or what?” the bartender calls.

“Yeah,” says James at once. “She’s having…a Slow Comfortable Screw — any particulars on the where and the how of the slow comfortable screw, Evans?”

“Fuck off, oh my God—”

This entire thing—! Just makes me 🥰😭

Then she plucks their drinks off the counter, smiling at the bartender. “Here’s your slow hard fuck,” she tells James with a playful glare.

“Slow comfortable screw,” he says.

“Whatever, Potter.” She takes a sip, then hums approvingly.

James is watching closely. “Good, isn’t it?”

“It actually is. I never took you for such an expert on slow comfortable screws.”

His grin spreads wide. “Didn’t you?”

Lily’s mouth falls open. “You— Wow.” That’s the first time either of them have mentioned Rome. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“No need, I already know how you feel about it,” he says.

“Jesus Christ.”

❤️

“That was a better apology than my ex-husband’s,” she jokes, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

She’s ready for him to laugh in return. But instead, his eyes flash and his jaw clenches.

“Just for the record,” he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “fuck that guy, yeah?”

She’s so surprised she can’t do anything but make another joke. “Won’t be doing that again, actually.”

But James is utterly serious; he shakes his head. “Really, Lily. What a fucking moron he is.”

Her mouth is dry. It takes several tries at clearing her throat for her to speak again. “Yeah, I know. Erm. Thanks.”

He gives her an odd sort of look. “Don’t thank me.”

I’m running out of ways to say: I love James and this is amazing so…I love James and this is amazing.

After L.A., London is a strange place to live.

Or maybe that’s backwards — L.A. was a strange place to live, and in returning to London she’s discovering how much her notion of normal has changed. London is a place, but Los Angeles is a dream, a story breathed into life by the sun-bronzed hopefuls who crowd its streets. But even dreams can feel stifling sometimes.

just. How many ways can you make me incoherent.

“You look beautiful,” James murmurs into her hair.

“I know,” she says without thinking.

He laughs.

(Later her mother will cut out a photo of this moment from OK magazine, and Lily will look at it every time she’s in her kitchen.

Until she won’t anymore.)

Yeah now I’m enraged. Fuck you suze.

Don’t cry when you’re on divorce number two.

She doesn’t pull him towards the doors. She says, “And…what did you think?”

Something between an exhale and a laugh escapes him. “I didn’t think.”

She waits for him to elaborate, for one moment, then two, then three. He leans close, his breath warm against her ear, lips brushing her skin as he inhales. Now, he’ll say something, and the sparks skidding along the surface of her skin will be set to rest.

Then James draws back, brow furrowed. He makes no sound. For a moment Lily wonders if she did something to dissuade him, or if someone else called out to him — but she realises that it’s far simpler than that. He has nothing more to say.

He takes her hand, and they move towards the theatre.

I can feel myself heading straight for actual anger right now. The lovely shininess of this fic has been replaced by rage because we’re heading straight for P&P and…

😭 (not the good kind)

Desire tightens in her belly. How long, she wonders? Today? Just now, waiting for her to arrive at his door? Or is it an older imagining than this film, this set?

She pauses to shed her top, and James takes the time to remove his. She marvels at the breadth of his shoulders, at the lines and muscles she hasn’t seen like this in years. He’s filled out. She wants to map the new feeling beneath her fingers, re-learn the topography of him.

It’s absolutely insane how it feels so familiar and intimate despite the fact that they haven’t had sex in years.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, which is new — he’s only ever called her by her name in bed. It is so breathless as to seem involuntary. She pushes against him harder, desperate to see what else he might say.

if I wasn’t so upset about what’s coming I’d be screaming

Amelia seems not to have noticed the effect of her words because she adds, thoughtfully, “You’d be good for Shakespeare.”

“Macbeth,” says Lily, the same time as James says “Much Ado.” He squawks at her, horrified, and Amelia laughs.

“What d’you mean, Macbeth? I thought we miss being typecast!” he protests.

We, Lily registers, her smile warm, satisfied. “I’d make an exception here, we’d be an excellent pair of Macbeths. On the stage, I reckon. No cameras, loads of fake blood.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“Quite literally, yeah.”

[…]

She shrugs, maybe so. “It’d be fun with you. Sexy, even.”

James laughs. “Murdering a king is sexy?”

“Being haunted by it afterwards is sexy,” she corrects.

“Sometimes I forget you read English at uni.”

“Well, I didn’t finish the degree, so there’s no need to sound that way about it.”

His smile has softened, the sun slipping towards the horizon. “Come to bed, Lily.”

The night is hers. She goes with him

Yeah still upset.

Lily drops her cigarette and squashes it beneath her heel. “I don’t think you’re that terrible a person, no.”

His smile is a little fainter than usual. “Oh? High praise, that.”

“Considering that for a very long time, I thought men were out to get me personally, especially the ones I was attracted to,” she says, “I think so, yes.”

James says, “Ah, so you are attracted to me.”

“Were you unsure?”

“Can’t a bloke have a bit of an ego boost from time to time?”

She lifts one sardonic brow. “And what is it we’re doing, shagging in secret, if not that?”

He grins and presses a kiss to her mouth. They’re alone, but still, his confidence is quite breathtaking. Then again, many things about him are.

When he pulls back, he says, still grinning, “You taste disgusting. Please quit smoking.”

Lily tells him to fuck off. He kisses her again before he goes.

Now I’m just angry and it’s entirely because the next scene is The Scene and I don’t even want to read it because it’s so well done and intimate that I feel like I’m intruding and also JAMES YOU CLOWN 💖 and the symbolism of the love confession, the unprotected sex, the walking away—

She looks at him then. He hasn’t yet taken off his specs, which he usually does by this point. She hopes he won’t try to, because she’ll tell him not to do it and will have to come up with a reason why.

Really, she’s not even sure she knows why. Maybe it’s because he looks most like himself with them on. Maybe she just wants him to see her.

This is the only bit I’m going to put in here, because otherwise i’d do the entire scene and then I’d be a mess for the rest of the day. Moving on.

“I fucking love you,” she says, without turning around. He might not even hear it. She’s basically professing her love for the door.

But she hopes he‘s heard. She hopes he sees the shadow of her leaving behind closed eyelids for days — I fucking love you. She’ll love him resentfully until she doesn’t anymore.

Lily lets the door swing shut behind her.

No no no nope nope nope NOPE this made me cry and pace too but this was in more of a rage-fueled upset.

Quietly, he says, “It was good, though, wasn’t it?”

[…]

“It was really good,” Lily says, “since you want to know so badly.”

She hitches up the skirt of her dress and walks away. That, she knows, is the last time she’ll see James Potter. Or the last time he’ll see her.

rageandcryingrageandcrying

“Is it as easy to you as it is for me?” she says, reaching for her car door.

He doesn’t ask her to clarify any aspect of that question. James only glances upward, momentarily, before saying, “It’s almost too easy.”

I think I’ve pinpointed what it is I love about this fic and it’s the whimsy and it’s how it’s two love stories in one. It’s a love letter to acting and it’s a love letter to people, and they’re falling in love so many times it’s like a constant rollercoaster you never get off. They just keep falling and falling and you wonder when they’ll realize it (or not be idiots about it jfc James)

“I just,” James says, then stops to close his eyes briefly. “I don’t want to pretend with you. I want things to be real and I want to make certain that they are, and I want to mean it when I say I love you.”

Lily’s breath hitches. When, she thinks. When. Only, maybe he didn’t mean it like that; maybe the wording is incidental.

She says, softly, “It’s all pretending. But I suppose when you’re in love you just…don’t mind them catching you slip up.”

A faint, desperate laugh escapes him. “I’m not ready. I’m sorry, but I’m— And you don’t deserve to have to wait, Lily.”

I’m so

Can I take back all my compliments and say I hate suze?

All the notes and flowers and messages sent back and forth through third parties is just longing and distance and the wrong timing and I’m physically antsy reading it because I want them to be in the same place at the same time so they can fucking fix it.

James being fucking James Bond.

The fucking PHONE CALL. If I’ve made it this far into the fic, I’m either beaming or weeping or snarling, there is no other options. (Today it’s a weep-beam)

“I read the interview too. It was a nice profile.”

She smiles, briefly placated. “Thanks.”

“You, er, said you wanted to make movies with me until you died.”

“Oh, God.” Lily laughs, palm to her forehead. But she finds herself not embarrassed, somehow; there’s a strange new feeling in this conversation, one she can’t remember from Love Ends, and it makes her comfortable. Something where there was nothing, or the pronounced absence of something else. “I did say that, didn’t I? In retrospect, maybe a bit much to admit in national press—”

“No, I’ve been trying to say it to the press for years,” James says. “My publicist is running out of favours to call in. Eventually I’ll see it in print, don’t you worry.”

“You should come into the party and let it slip. There’s bound to be some tosser here who’ll go running to the paps.”

😭😭😭😭😭

I hate the waiting…but that’s what makes it so sweet at the end.

There’s an odd moment of hesitation, and she wonders if the line has been disconnected. Then he says, “Yeah. Me too. Are you sure you’re having a good time?”

“Mm, positive. Why?”

“You answered as soon as I called. How did you hear the phone ring?”

Lily shifts so her back isn’t digging into a jar of something or other. “I was in the kitchen. Perfect timing, like it was meant to be.”

She hears his little exhale. Another pause. “Are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” she says, coyly. “So, you should really come inside, because I think I might fall asleep in my own pantry, and no one will find me. Then I’ll wake up with my neck totally fucked.”

James laughs again but it’s quiet this time, like something private. “Yeah, okay.”

The quiet, sunny feeling of this last part of the story is worse/better than a grand declaration. Grand declarations almost fit better to short-lived romances—ones that only last a few chapters—rather than ones sprawl out over years, where the love has been slipped into their bones, not just their hearts, and can’t be taken away. They both know this and so the ending is a quiet coming together, just like that first night in Rome. It’s an, I know we’re in the same place now. I know.

Now a montage of this perfect final scene.

“What?” He’s still frowning. “You said love ends.”

“Not this one,” she retorts.

[…]

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Lily says. “You could’ve told me on the bloody phone yesterday, and I’d have come to the phone box and snogged you senseless, and brought you back to the house, and—”

He’s starting to smile. “You were very drunk.”

“So?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I think you owe me eight or nine hours’ worth of kisses, James.”

“That’s a serious debt.” He reaches out haltingly, slides a hand around her waist. “Is that why you’ve come out in a bikini now? More available real estate to kiss, as it were?”

[…]

“But…you thought about it?”

“A lot,” he admits begrudgingly, and she adds a point to her tally, “but I tend to think about you a lot.” He kisses where her pulse trips frantically in her throat, glances up at her from under his lashes. “You really weren’t naked?”

Lily’s grin is broad, giddy. “You really aren’t James Bond?”

[…]

“And I won’t be on the cover of Vanity Fair all the time,” Lily muses, tangling her hands in his hair. “We can’t have you forgetting me.”

This laugh is big and incredulous; his eyes fly open. “As if, Lily. As bloody if.”

[…]

She shakes her head thoughtfully. “I can’t see myself swayed by any such loser. What about when some small-town coed with big dreams sidles up to you on the Strip and asks to buy you a Slow Comfortable Screw?”

“I get my slow comfortables elsewhere,” he assures her, teeth grazing her collarbone.

Lily takes his face between her hands, drops the act for a second. “Our schedules really won’t line up well. If we’re going to do this, we—”

He’s already nodding. “I’ll make the time. For you, anything.”

“So will I,” she says, a sudden warmth blooming in her cheeks.

She’s in love, and he loves her back. This is the sentiment on the tip of her tongue when he kisses her again.

[…]

“I am not,” he says, pausing to kiss her hard again, “going to forget you, Lily.”

“I know.” She has to blink forcefully to clear her vision, sure that she has some reasoning to give even as all conception of logic scatters from her head. “But I want you to keep me with you.” His eyes are such dark pools. She swallows, grasps for something lighter. “Think of it as an anniversary gift. Ten years to the occasion you first pretended to see Barry Manilow in my house.”

Fervently, James says, “Next year I’ll bring Barry here myself, I swear to God.”

Lily tips her head back and laughs. It hits her all over again, that she loves him.

[…]

She feels a shiver run through her and smiles, flicking open the button on his shorts. “So, you know I’m going to see you again.”

His gaze softens. He pushes up his specs, still balanced on his elbows to look at her. “I know I’m not letting you go.”

And of course the iconic:

yes i am writing a quick oneshot of the rest of the day before james goes back to malta, no it will NOT be 40k words thanks

xoxo quibblah

👀

HA. Love you suze 😘

(also maybe I’ll do this for IWEP on its 2 month anniversary, because we know I still haven’t gotten over ‘you’re my best friend’. like. At all. Still haunts my dreams).

the original draft of this post was basicallly just: hey suze you fucked me up answer for ur crimes.

so...

hey suze you fucked me up answer for ur crimes.

(tldr: if you haven’t read IWNMA READ IT and in conclusion we stan suze in this house)

❤️❤️❤️

#if we never meet again #thequibblah #jily fic recs #fic of my heart #jily #iwnma

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mallowstep · 3 years ago

Text

(nature; nurture)

You know the truth of yourself in pieces.

* * *

You are three, sitting on your mother's lap.

"And you understand this is a life-long commitment?"

"Yes," she says.

"And Mothkit, Frogkit, and Hawkkit, do you want Feathertail to be your mother?"

"She is our mama," Hawkkit says, and the woman laughs.

"That settles it, then."

* * *

Growing up is not a balloon inflating, the way you once pictured it. It is a crab moulting over and over again, exposing its softest parts, in hopes it survives.

* * *

You are the first to go to kindergarten. Only by a few minutes, but still. That feels like it counts for something.

You kiss your mother's cheek, and then drop your bag. A man crouches down beside you. "And what's your name?"

"Mothkit!" you say, and he shows you where to put your bag. You glance back at your mother as you venture deeper into the classroom. She wipes a few tears from her eyes.

* * *

Unlike a crab, you cannot reabsorb what you lose. Your teeth are collected in a box, exchanged for a few quarters, occasionally a dollar. Your hair is swept up and thrown away. You go shopping, and now there are two sections you have to examine. One for you, one for your brothers.

* * *

Stormheart picks you up for school, and no one is waiting in the passenger seat. You all climb in, and you end up stuck in the middle.

"Where's Mama?" you ask.

"She's at home," Stormheart says. He glances back at you for a second, smiling. "She's just having a bad day."

You kick off your shoes at the door when you get home, dropping your bag on the kitchen table. Your brothers are slower, but you peek through the crack in her door before Stormheart catches up with you.

She's asleep, not facing you. Mistyfoot is on the other side of the bed, reading a book.

Stormheart scoops you up. "Come on, bug," he whispers. "Let's go play outside."

* * *

But your soft parts stay the same, just growing between each exchange. You ask her about your father many times, and her answers drift, circling around a truth you want her to finish. You slip into her room after having a nightmare, and find her sobbing. You make a family tree, and stare frustrated at the missing names.

* * *

You follow her out to the garden. Frogpaw spends more time out here than you do, but you're bored, and your mother is here, digging tiny troughs into the earth.

You cross your legs on the grass beside her. She smiles at you. "Are you going to stay out here?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want a hat?"

"No." The sun is warm, and you lean down, your elbows pressing into the dirt. "What are you planting?"

"Poppies," she says. "Do you want to help?"

You shake your head. Feathertail takes a handful of sandy dirt, and pours the bag of seeds onto it.

"Mama?" you ask, and she lifts her brow. "What's assault?"

Feathertail pauses what she's doing, and looks questioningly at you. "Where'd you hear that?"

"It was on a TV show." You fidget with blades of grass. "I wasn't really watching."

Feathertail sighs. "It's -- when you hurt someone," she says. "When you attack them."

* * *

But you are not a crab. You are a girl, and you are changing. Your father sends you a letter and asks you if you're a help to your mother. You grapple with the undeniable proof he's in prison, like she explained a year or two ago. You shoot up past your brothers over the summer, and have to buy new clothes. A new garment comes with it. Feathertail cleans a few things out of a room you can't think of as hers, and it becomes yours. Your soft parts move, find new places in need of protection.

* * *

Sometimes, you want to explain everything to Leafpaw, all in one breath. You want to say, My mother didn't give birth to me, but I know who did, and I was not wanted, except that I was, and my father believes I am capable of nothing, and my period has started, and I don't know what that means, and I think you are beautiful.

You don't say any of that.

* * *

But you are not a crab, so you find traces of your past exoskeletons, the ones that didn't fit. A shirt you wore five years ago. A diary you can barely understand. A folded piece of paper you do not open. They don't make sense with who you are, and yet, they are who you were.

* * *

Shadepelt teaches you how to use make up. Feathertail and Mistyfoot don't wear any, but she does, and she makes it look easy and fun and flawless.

It's much harder when you have to do it.

Hawkpaw and Stonefur arrive home when you are scrubbing it off in the bathroom downstairs. You don't come down here very often, and it is strange to think that this space is a part of your home.

When your face is clean, you trudge upstairs. The air is tense, Hawkpaw and Frogpaw staring across the kitchen table at each other, Feathertail watching them.

"I'm -- allowed to know," Hawkpaw says.

"What do you want to know?" Frogpaw says. "We know everything we need to."

"Maybe you do," Hawkpaw says.

You glance at Feathertail. Her back is to you.

You slide unnoticed into your room, and pull out the stack of letters from your father. You read them all once, exactly, and then add them to the stack you keep in your bottom desk drawer. There's no point in rereading them.

But you run your thumb over them, listening to the way the old, dried paper crinkles.

Frogpaw is asking the wrong question. It's why Hawkpaw wants to know that matters.

* * *

Freshman year draws to a close, and you think you are in your final moult. Leafpaw falls asleep on your shoulder on the way home from a field trip, and you hold hands as you wait to be picked up. You haven't outgrown any clothes in months, and your brothers are now taller than you. You look in the mirror, and realize this will always be the face that looks back at you.

* * *

There is always talk. You try to ignore the worst of it,

("Well, Hawkpaw is a creep," and, "I heard their mother doesn't love them," and, "Bet you can't wait to see your daddy,")

but that's easier said then done.

Leafpaw squeezes your hand. "They don't know what they're talking about," she says.

But they do. That's the problem. They're wrong, but they know what they're talking about.

A junior Mothpaw doesn't know sits beside her at lunch, in Leafpaw's space.

"You should move," Squirrelpaw says.

"No one's sitting here."

"Someone will be."

True to form, as soon as Leafpaw bursts into the cafeteria, she forces herself between Mothpaw and the junior.

The junior rolls her eyes. "I was wondering," she begins, "how you feel about the death penalty."

* * *

There are still old memories you revisit. Feathertail is hospitalized for the third time you can remember, and you log your hours for drivers' ed as you practice making the trip back and forth.

* * *

On Halloween, you take the bucket of candy Feathertail gave the three of you to share and sit on the back porch. Frogpaw and Hawkpaw keep stuffing their faces long after you've finished, and you feel like you're witnessing something obscene.

"I did some math," Frogpaw says. "We were born a month early." He throws a candy bar up, and it lands on his stomach. "Means we were conceived around New Years."

He throws the bar up again, and this time it lands in his hands.

"You ever want to throw a party? Just one. Make a bunch of food for dinner and sit around the table and call all the different dishes courses?"

"What the hell are you saying?" Hawkpaw asks.

"I think i'm just saying something," Frogpaw says. "I think I'm just hoping if I say enough things, I'll find the right thing to say.

* * *

You get your license. It says your name on the card, Mothpaw, daughter of Feathertail, and ask for permission to drive the car.

You don't have a plan for where you're going, and you end up in front of a cathedral.

* * *

The stress of junior year threatens to break you. College applications loom, your classes grow teeth, and you start to bicker with Leafpaw over petty things.

You read over the essay requirement for colleges, and think about what kind of essay you could write. Because there's really only one story worth telling, and it feels wrong, to type out all of your family to a stranger.

It makes you glad you started early. "My mother was fourteen when we were born," you write, and then scratch out. "My father is alive. We know who the other is. I've never met him," you write, and then erase. "I don't know who I am," you write, and then you keep writing.

* * *

At some point, you decide you don't believe. But. You keep coming back. There is something reassuring in routine. Your family doesn't ask where you are going, and you don't volunteer it. Sunday morning. There's some kind of peace, in having the time to sit and think and be.

* * *

"I think I've messed everything up," Leafpaw says. "I've gone about this all the wrong way, and now, everything is terrible, and this is all my fault, Mothpaw, I'm sorry-"

You kiss her, and then lean your forehead against hers. "We're both at fault," you say. "Besides. Maybe the honeymoon is over. We've got lives to attend."

And Leafpaw, inextricably, is part of that life. You can think of the essays you would've written about her. How her hair looks brown until it catches the sun, and then it shines like red glass. How she stomps when she is excited. How she links arms with you and says you're going shopping until you find your family Christmas gifts.

* * *

They invite you to a class, but it feels strange, knowing you don't believe. How do you say, I am here, and I am not, and I don't think you'd really want me.

You don't. You kneel down and offer a prayer to a god you don't believe in. Maybe it will catch.

* * *

Feathertail listens to you practice your speech.

"I'm so proud of you," she says. "You know that, right?"

You nod. She tells you this often, but something about her tone makes your throat catch. You've outgrown the days when Feathertail's arms could surround you, but even so, you start to cry when she hugs you.

"I love you," you say.

"I love you too," she says. She settles back onto the couch, wrapping her hands around a mug of tea.

This is the truth of who you are. This is what you will always fail to capture. How can you describe how the light streams inside at an angle that you've always known, one that makes the dust swirl through it? How can you describe the books on the coffee table, how each book has been read and loved, not merely thrown there for decoration? How can you describe yourself in any way but being there?

* * *

You meet your father's eyes. You know them. You have seen them in the mirror.

* * *

You hold your diploma in one hand, stopping for a photo. You were the first to enter kindergarten, you were the last to leave high school.

The excited chatter in the air is a reminder of what this day is. You have all bought your final yearbooks, signed names and numbers you won't remember in a few months. You're in it a few times -- Feathertail and Leafpaw delighted in hunting for your every appearance -- and you think, maybe it is okay if you are pieces.

There is something whole and solid that is made of them.

#mine #human misty au #mothwing #feathertail #yes i will make you read my long second person fiction #leafpool #mothpool

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 4 years ago

Text

Open Me Carefully

summary: spencer reid and reader are best friends, but don’t realize that they both love each other.

author’s note: crappy summary, but this one is loosely based on gold rush

warnings: none

Open Me Carefully

Maybe it’s the fact that I have a propensity to keep rereading historical romances, or maybe it’s the fact that I just listen to “Lover” way too much for a single person. Or maybe, I’m actually in love with him, my best friend and the only person in this world who I think truly knows me.

I mean, how could I not be completely in love with him. Spencer Reid is the closest thing to perfection. He is kind, brilliant, and unbelievably handsome. It almost hurts me how wonderful he is. But daydreaming about Spencer’s hair falling in his eyes, or his hands grazing across the map spread out on the table, or even his wide smile that slips out when he lets his guard down is not productive to solving crimes.

Unsubs, Y/N. Unsubs. Stop thinking about his hands. And start focusing.

“Y/N/L!” Calls Hotch from across the room. He’s assigned me to locate the birth mother of the potential unsub. He was given up for adoption as an infant, but bounced around from foster home to foster home, never finding a home, and now obsessed with finding his roots.

“Yes, sir, here’s the name from Garcia. Susan Lee gave up her baby for adoption in 1981, she was a just 16 years old, so that would make her-”

“44 years old” Spencer injected.

Hotch gave me a short nod of approval and I cocked my head towards Spencer’s direction, who tried to pull off an innocent look.

“It’s math, Y/N. I can’t help myself,” he explains.

“It’s fine, Spence. Math is like your religion,” I tell him, but what I’m really thinking is it’s you, Spence, and you can get away with anything with me.

“Math, in its purest form, is a beauty known nowhere else” he remarks.

“Who’s that Nietzsche?” I ask him as he beams down at me, twirling a blue permanent mark between his very distracting fingers.

“No, Spencer Reid.” he says as he turns back to the map on the table before us.

Just as I give myself the smallest bit of a second to enjoy the playful banter that falls between us, JJ and Emily come walking in, leading a gruff looking detective with them.

“We think we know where Jacob is hiding out,” JJ starts with a grim look on her face. Emily and the detective walk past her to where Hotch and Derek explain the profile to the SWAT team waiting by.

“His old orphanage, right?” Spencer asks looking up from the map.

“Yeah, and we think he’s going to hold some of the other children hostage,” JJ tells us.

“We need to get there, JJ. But isn't it his mother he wants, not the other children. You’d think that with the profile we came up with, it would make more sense for him to want to save the children, not hold them hostage?” I reason.

“You’re right, Y/N,” Spencer says, coming to a dark realization “he thinks that he’s saving them. He’s Angel of Death” he finishes grimly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting quietly in the jet after the chaos of de-escalating a hostage situation is a calm like no other. We all have routines for the ride home. A quiet ritual that we take the time to be thankful that we’re all here, in one piece, having made the world slightly more safe.

JJ, ever diligent, will work on paper with Hotch. Rossi will usually keep Hotch from overworking with a small, light conversation.

Emily spreads out on the couch, and the rest of us pretend to not see JJ glance over at her as she looks at Emily with eyes that crave her attention.

Derek will listen to music and I’ll close my eyes and strain my ears to make out the muffled tunes that escape his ears. I sit across from Derek and will share snacks that we grabbed from a dingy convenience store on the way to the tarmac.

Spencer, who always sits next to me, will usually write his mother a letter. He writes her a letter on every plane ride after a case. I think back to the time that I asked him why he prefers letters to phone calls. He told me that he finds letters a forever way to say ‘I love you’. Taking your love and turning it into pen and paper makes it tangible, is what he told me. Until that day, I never really pegged Spencer to be a poet, but he continues to amaze me everyday.

I think that he can feel me staring at him, because he suddenly stops writing and his eyes look up to meet mine.

“She’s not doing so well, Y/N” Spencer says, his voice but a whisper above the hum of the jet and music spilling from Morgan’s headset.

“Your mom?” I ask, my voice matching his.

Spencer, for perhaps the first time I’ve known him, is quietly defeated.

“All I ever wanted to do was to save her, Y/N. Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing everything I should be. I thought that by the time I was 30 I would have cured schizophrenia. It’s just that sometimes I feel like maybe I settled”

“Well, you know we really don’t hear about child genius when they are adults. And you have the same job and me, and I’m not where near as smart as you. So you feel like you’re letting the world down or even worse— yourself”

“You might not have the IQ points on a piece of paper, but you are nothing short of brilliant” Spencer says looking at me directly in my eyes. I hold his gaze for maybe a second and look down towards my lap in disbelief.

“Spence,” I say. “You have to say that, otherwise I’d stop making you chocolate donuts.”

“I don’t need your donuts to convince me that you are an amazing agent. I mean,” He pauses and holds my stare again.

“You’re so kind it hurts me sometimes. And watching you those kids today, you’d be a great mom, Y/N. You make everyone feel so comfortable just being around you, and I’d give up all the chocolate donuts and IQ points and bottomless coffee if it meant you’d stay in my life,” Spencer says looking at me. I rest my hand over his and we sit there in the silence and comfort of the other.

Spencer Reid is a man of many hats. But I think his way with words just may be my favorite. I don’t dare to respond to him. I don’t trust myself not to kiss his pink lips as he looks at me like he loves me. I don’t trust myself to not tell him all the wonderful and sinful things I think about him. I don’t trust myself to not tell him how I was watching him play with those orphans back at the police station.

“What’s a best friend for, Spence?” I say to him.

“Besides, ’d want nothing more than to be a mom one day,” I tell him. We never really talked about our futures. Maybe it was the nature of our jobs. Having a lethal job means that the future is more of an arbitrary idea than a definite possibility.

“But,” I start. “I'm twenty-seven years old, I've no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my parents and I'm frightened” I quote with a smirk on my face that covers my trepidation at talking about love and children and the future with Spencer.

“I’d never think that you’d be one to settle for a Mr. Collins, Y/N” Spencer tells me, a similar look on his face mirrors my own. “If anything, you’re a Lizzie and you deserve a Mr. Darcy”

“You really think that Spence, because I’m not too sure.”

“You never know, Y/N your Mr. Darcy can be anyone. Statistically speaking, you may have already met him or have mutual friends or he may even work in the Bureau.

Sometimes I think that luck and fate are mocking me. Dangling Spencer in front of me; so real yet so far that I’m jumping to remain close to him. Touching his hand to mine feels like I’m teasing myself, just getting a taste of how his warm, strong hands fit into mine is enough to set my heart on fire.

I let go of his hand and my palm is cold and lonely without his touching. My heart cools but there’s a yearning for him that’s so strong it’s like a magnetic field pulling me in.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee, would you like some?” He asks me as he scoots out of the seat.

“I’ll take a green tea, coffee this late makes me anxious” And sitting here holding your hand talking about children and my Mr Darcy makes me even more anxious.

“Coming right up,” he says with a sad smile on his face that I try to convince myself is because of his mother’s illness and not because I dropped his hand.

Spencer returns to his spot beside me, sipping his coffee and making small notes in his letter. There’s a chill between us that can’t be quelled by even the hottest cup of tea. Spencer doesn’t talk to me again and even though it’s just a couple more hours, I miss his voice.

I have a routine for when I come home after cases, but that routine has been thrown out the window when I watched Spencer walk out of the bullpen without as much as a wave goodbye. We usually go to my apartment and make dinner together. My trip home is a lot more lonely without Spencer by my side. I try to stop my thoughts from going to him, but it’s impossible when he’s all I can think about.

My apartment is dark and quiet when I walk in. It was left in shambles, with clothes and books strewn all over the couch, desk and floor. I can’t even bother myself to care about the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. I convince myself that those dishes are a tomorrow problem.

I take out a small container of leftover fried rice and vegetables and pop into the microwave. Making my way into my bedroom I change out of my work clothes, that I’ve been in for nearly 30 hours. I don’t really think about what I’m putting on, as long as it does not smell it works with me at this point.

My microwave dings, altering me that my mediocre meal is finished. But, before I can even reach the kitchen a small envelope slips through my door and falls on the floor. A sudden rush of fear courses through me. I flit my eyes to the corner safe where my gun rests. In my mind, I try to calculate the risk of punching the code or if I should just find out who is behind my door. I guess curiosity wins out, because I’m walking towards the door where the mysterious envelope sits.

I reach down and instantly recognize the handwriting as Spencer’s. I can feel my heart pumping blood through my bodying as I think that some sadistic unsub is trying to toy with me by hurting Spencer.

I was not prepared for what I read. My fingers grazed over the messy penmanship. I don’t even let my mind wander as I pour over the words on the page, still fearing for the worse

Dear Y/N,

Part of me can’t believe that I’m actually doing this. But something that you mentioned on the plane sparked something in me. You’re not a Charlotte, or a Lizzie or even a Jane, even though you are the kindest and most beautiful person I know.

You are a Y/N. And I am wishing for anything to be your Mr. Darcy. Thinking about you, Y/N gets me thinking about love. How much I love when you look at me across from the table, or how your soft hands will brush against mine. It reminds me that I’m alive. Your gaze makes me blush and those small brushes make me forget to breathe. In your eyes I can see my future— our future. In your smile I can taste happiness. When I am with you the world moves in slow motion and time seems to move too fast.

I hope that this does not ruin things, Y/N. I could not bear to lose you. I hope that you won’t hate me but even if you do, I’d rather you hate me and be in your life than not be in your life.

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still

Forever yours,

Spencer

I read the letter silently. Not sure if I can believe it, but I so desperately want to. I throw all sense to the wind when I fling the door open, my eyes hunting for Spencer. He sits on the steps leading up to the next level, fiddling with his shoe laces. I run over to where he sits, not caring that my neighbors might be looking or caring that I look like I’m about to mug him.

He makes me, cautious girl, a rebel.

“Hey, you,” I say approaching him. Spencer moves to stand up and I reach out to hold his hands in mine. Like a puzzle piece they hit perfectly. His hands are not too warm or clammy or too cold and boney. They’re perfect. He hesitates and rubs his thumb against the back of my palm, like he does on the plane.

“Hi, Y/N.” He starts nervously. “I guess you got the letter, and I just want to tell you-”

“What letter, Spence?” I say. I can’t help but to tease him. His face turns pale and green in the same breath.

“Uh-um, you didn’t just get something in your mail a couple minutes ago?” He asks me so nervously that I almost feel bad at teasing him. Almost, he’s kind of cute when he’s stumbling over his words and I like to be one that makes him this fluttery.

“I got your letter, Spencer,” I tell him. I think he half expects me to drop his hand and shatter his heart then and there. Maybe he came here and prepared himself for the worse. I think he’s done that his whole life, believing that he doesn’t deserve a chance at happiness. I’m kind of inclined to give him that happiness when it’s so intricately tied to mine.

“You did?”

“Yeah, who knew that you were quite the poet, Spencer.” I tell him as I brush his hair from his eyes. It’s gotten so long, but I like it. I’ve dreamt about threading my fingers threw it many times. It’s so soft and brown and frames his face.

“You deserve a poet, Y/N. And I could only dream of being that person for you.” He says. Against even his own wishes he leans in closer to my touch. His cheek is warm in my palm and I feel his long eyelashes flutter against the ball of my thumb.

“Luckily for you, Spence, I like scientists.” I say to him.

“You--”

“I love you back, Spencer.” I move to wipe the tears that flood down the bridge of his nose.

“It was a really beautiful letter that you wrote, Spencer. All the right things in there, Emily Dickinson and Mr. Darcy,” I tell him pressing my cheek into his chest.

“Well, I had to win you over, Y/N”

“Ha!, Spencer you’ve had me since I’ve met you”

He looks at me with a veil of disbelief.

“Spencer Reid, in his purest form, is a beauty known nowhere else”

“Is that what you think of me?” He asks me.

“Why don’t you come inside and let me show you what I think of you Spencer?” I say leading him inside to my apartment, that was no longer so dark and lonely.

#spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid deserved a happy ending #criminal minds fics #criminal minds fanfic

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princesssarcastia · 4 years ago

Text

2021 Harry Potter Fanfic Primer

im here to point fingers at the incredible authors that have enabled my new interest in HP content. im still conflicted and upset about it, tbh, but for now we’re leaning into the curve. we’re getting out our shovel and finding out just how deep we can make the hole we’re in. hand in unlovable hand my beloved <3. anyway, these fics are wonderful, their authors are wonderful, and you should go read their stuff. if there’s a star next to it that means im losing my mind over it and always will be.

Creatively Maladjusted, by elumish on AO3, 101k (they also have a wonderful writing advice blog on tumblr, @elumish, which I recommend following if you are a writer)

A very excellent re-telling of harry’s first year at hogwarts if he were sorted into Slytherin, plus some more not!fic or piecemeal re-tellings of his second and part of his third year. Harry, in this, has a slightly different trauma response to growing up with the Dursley’s. He’s a bit quieter, and the signs are a bit more obvious to the people around him, and I enjoyed that immensely.

Honestly, if you’re going to get sucked into something you have absolutely no business getting sucked into, elumish is the way to go, their fic is incredible. their teen wolf fic is also immaculate, if you’re so inclined.

Dissonance, by ImpishTubist on AO3, 2.5k (@impishtubist on tumblr)

Set during fifth year. Oblivious!Harry has always been a delightful trope when well executed, and this is well executed. Plus, some angst between Remus and Harry over what Umbridge has been doing to him.

I would certainly recommend a lot of ImpishTubist’s other hp work on AO3, like Lacuna.

blow us all away, by rexcorvidae on AO3, 23k (@rexcorvidae on tumblr)

In progress (like, updated last week in progress). Currently in the beginning of Harry’s first year. Fem!Harry, Indian!Harry. Hagrid puts Harry in touch with Remus when she has questions about her parents, and they become reluctant, traumatized, angst-ridden pen pals who keep missing each other’s true intentions like ships in the night. hot DAMN do I love this fic. there’s hints of the way the dursley’s treat Harry peaking through in her letters, and I appreciated the attention to “hmm, her experience as a girl of indian descent in britain under the thumb of a bunch of white people who like being Normal may not have been gucci”

Definitely comb through the rest of their HP fic, too, I may or may not have gone feral over it.

Where the Heart is, by silver_fish on AO3, 15k (@kohakhearts on tumblr)

Woof. This one said, “hey, harry was probably SUPER depressed in the summer after fifth year. like, clinically. maybe someone should do something about that.” Fuck yeah. Then this one said, “that someone was Snape.” You all know my opinions on Snape; generally, Bad. But damn if this fic didn’t wholly convince me by the end of it. I thought it was a very realistic way for Snape to start seeing Harry as a person all on his own, and not a proxy for Snape’s angst over James and Lily, respectively. The angst is wonderful, the ending is even more so.

*bernie sanders voice* I am once again asking you to read through the rest of the author’s HP fic. a lot of them have similar themes; there’s actually a great one with Molly that i’m not reccing here, Wonder.

☆Bindings, Bindings, by Quietlemonhush on AO3, 60k (@quietlemonhush on tumblr)

WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS TO YOU HOW MUCH I ENJOYED/AM ENJOYING THIS. If I had to pick a single fic and say “you, it’s your fault I’m stuck here,” it would be this one. Anyway Lily in the afterlife is So Very Angry about how Petunia is treating Harry, and how Sirius is rotting in Azkaban, and how Remus is alone, that she literally brings herself back to life and drags James and Regulus with her. All three of them are there to chew bubblegum and fix everything that went wrong after they died—and would you look at that, they’re all out of bubblegum! There’s only Fury left. That inciting premise is very crack, but every moment after that is very much not crack. Lily and James love harry more than anything, the way a child should be loved; James and Sirius have the epic friendship of a lifetime; Sirius and Remus have staggering amounts of resolved sexual tension and take turns keeping each other in check; Regulus, though he realized that Voldemort and his family were shit before he died, is still unlearning all his racist bullshit and, also, years of trauma. Actually, they’re all traumatized, but hey: now they have one another again and not a damn one of them seems inclined to let go anytime soon. Quietlemonhush went, “hey, HP has a lot of Awful people in it, and a lot of Righteous people in it, and many of them are Very, Very Powerful; also, love is the most powerful force in the universe” and i said “hell yes tell me more right now.” And then they did!

Quietlemonhush writes Sirius/Remus in a way that makes it sooo much fun to devour, so the rest of their HP fic is most certainly worth a look, if that’s your thing.

Rebuilding, by Colubrina on AO3, 113k (@colubrina on tumblr)

Hermione/Draco (*shrug emojis into the abyss* yeah, yeah, like none of us have ever been there before). Takes place during Hogwarts 8th year, and while the beginning is, IMO, a little unfair to Ron, it gets much better. Tells the story of Hermione and Draco clearing the air, learning to like each other, having some hormones over each other, and then falling in love. Also tells the story of Hermione and Theo Nott becoming friends; the story of how every single 7th and 8th year student is fucked to hell by the war and the Carrows; the story of how they start an emotional support group about it and all become friends; and the story of, what the hell do you do with yourself after that kind of trauma?

I’ve been dipping in and out of Colubrina’s HP since before I was even on tumblr; I actually found them in those dark yesteryears when the only fandom interactions I had were on fanfiction.net. Of such fame as Green Girl, which is an HP fic staple, and has also written a lot of wackier, crackier, and darker things than that. If you don’t take yourself too seriously, I highly recommend many of their big HP works, though I imagine it’ll press some people’s buttons. Colubrina’s work really does take up a corner of my mind whenever I’m in an HP mood, and will take up yours if you let it.

☆ all waiting is long, by shuofthewind on AO3, 149k ( @shu-of-the-wind on tumblr)

This is so well written that I can’t stop thinking about it. It is occupying my mind when I lie awake at night, you know? It’s one of those. Hermione messes with something she probably shouldn’t have in Grimmauld Place, so when Sirius is sent through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, she gets thrust into an alternate universe...in 1975. Instead of handwaving it away, shuofthewind actually gets into the mechanics of it in a way that makes sense, to emphasize that hermione is never going home. ever. The world she finds herself is shifted slightly to the left, quite a bit darker, but in a “the author is treating the idea of a society-wide conflict over blood purity much more seriously than JKR ever did” way, not a sensationalist way. Now, Hermione has to grapple with all her grief at losing everyone she’s ever loved or known, the moral/ethical/magical implications of sharing what she knows about her future in an alternate world, and, you know, a goddamn war with people who want to murder her for being who she is. This Hermione is smart, and she’s kind, and she’s powerful, and she’s making real friends. If you hate JKR’s guts I’d go read this right now, because it delivers in all the ways she failed us. It’s plotty, its got great world-building, and it pulls back the white curtain on the wizarding world to show you that, like real life, it’s multicultural and full of queer people...and the discrimination that comes with both.

shuofthewind write epics, mainly for the MCU, and I’ve read some of them a looooong time ago, so this fic kinda seemed out of left field for me but im SOOOO GLAD it exists. If you want MCU fic you can sink your teeth into, go for it, but alas, they do not have any more HP fic (.......yet?)

Speak Now [+] Listen Now, by mrsfrizzle on AO3, 33k altogether

Harry reaches out to Remus for support because Umbridge is getting to him with her literal torture. Remus, being a former professor, former mandatory reporter, person who loves Harry and has since he was born, and all around good man, tells Harry he has to tell someone, or Remus will. It’s everything any adult looking back on that time in HP canon ever wanted, which is for an actual adult to say “what the fuck, those are literal chidlren” and then do something about it. Then, a far more dangerous task: Harry trusts Remus enough to go to him about the Dursleys. Harry and Remus’ relationship develops SO WELL, and there’s a bit of exploration about how Sirius may not exactly be guardian material, because he did in fact spend 12 years of his life getting tortured instead of growing up. I think I’m actually going to go reread this right now, because it speaks to my id.

they do have some other HP fic which did not appeal to my hyperspecific wants, but may appeal to some of yours. I think they’re also a published author, there should be a link on their profile page.

chase the stars, by Duskglass on AO3, 101k (@felix-duskglass on tumblr)

When Harry is five years old, a picture of him ends up in the Daily Prophet, and Sirius Black, Terror of Ministry Officials Touring Azkaban everywhere, gets a hold of that issue. He then, in order: breaks out of Azkaban; crosses the countryside to Surrey; Finds Harry: Kidnaps Harry; Breaks Into Remus’ Apartment; starts processing (or maybe just acknowledging) his trauma from Azkaban, the war, and his childhood; and pines after Remus. It’s a little plotty, and deals a lot (sometimes through flashbacks) with the specific awful things that happened to Sirius—largely because, after years in the constant presence of Dementors, those are nearly literally the only memories he has left. It’s a wonder he’s got the strength to love Harry and Remus at all. But then, maybe it isn’t.

This is a Very Serious Fic, but the rest of Duskglass’s HP work is actually just cracky enough to tickle your funny-bone, while still making you think “okay but why couldn’t we have done that in the first place.”

So! That’s it for recs, for now. These are all things I’ve found and read in the last month; if any of y’all are interested in my old HP recs, let me know and I can make a post for that, too. While I’m still very conflicted about my choice of current fandom, I am not in ANY way conflicted about my taste in fic and authors. Send these guys some love, read their fic if you’re so inclined, and leave some nice comments at the end of it.

#harry potter #hp #fic recs #hp fic #to the authors: if for some reason you don't want to be on this list #let me know and i'll be happy to take your part down #tho i'm hoping you're fine with it because i want other people to read this stuff #and then cry about it with me #harry potter fic #harry potter fic recs

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