#winding roads at dusk (oc) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

suguwu · 1 year ago

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lover be good to me: part four

You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it’s your wedding day.

masterlist

minors and ageless blogs do not interact

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

notes: we are finally at the end. thank you so much for coming along on this ride with me. this fic truly is dear to me and i can't believe it's finally done.

as always, massive thanks to my beta for both the edits and the endless support throughout the process, especially when i thought writing this fic would never end.

title and part title are from hozier’s “be”

tags for this part (contains spoilers for fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, slow burn, pining, hurt/comfort, reader and kita are implied to be around their 30s, food consumption, non-graphic partner death (not kita), grief/mourning, healing, love as a choice.

wc: 12k

You settle into the farmhouse.

It’s easier than you thought. Maybe it’s the way Yoshida is brusque but kind; she’s not careful with you. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

You find yourself at her side most nights, chopping vegetables or marinating tofu as she tells you about growing up in the country. She spins stories like thread, weaving them together like the expert seamstress she is. Her son joins in some nights too.

You still get lost sometimes, though.

The early mornings are the worst.

The birds sing you to wakefulness, their song high and trilling, and you press your face into the pillow with a groan. “Loud. Shut the window, Aoshi,” you mumble, shoving out at him. Your hand hits empty space and your brow scrunches. You push to your elbows and find a room that’s not your own, though you blearily recognize the suitcase tucked into the closet.

You shift on the bed and realize it’s too small. A twin.

It all comes pouring back in.

“Fuck,” you say, low and quiet. The tears pool in your eyes, burning hot, and you try to blink them back to no avail. You curl in on yourself like a fiddlehead as you lie back down.

You do not move for a very long time.

The world has gone blue when there’s a knock on your door, twilight settling in like the ocean tide, easing its way across the sky. You don’t answer. Another knock comes and then there’s Kita’s voice murmuring your name.

You almost ignore him. But there’s something in his voice you can’t resist, a melancholy thread woven in through the syllables of your name. You get to your feet and open the door.

Kita studies you for a moment. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You blink. “Go where?”

“My place. I’m cookin’.”

“Shinsuke—”

“I know.”

You bite at your lower lip. Kita meets your gaze steadily, his amber eyes darkened to a deep, sweet brown by the dim lighting. There’s a promise in them too.

“Okay,” you say at last. “Let me get dressed.”

He waits downstairs as you throw on some clothes. You can hear him talking quietly to Yoshida. He gives you a little smile when you join him at the genkan.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

It’s true autumn now and the slight chill in the air proves it. The rice stalks are spun gold, swaying in the wind as the truck trundles down the road to Kita’s farm. You watch a stork wade carefully through the fields. It dips down with its long, elegant neck and disappears from sight.

The radio is playing quietly. Kita hums along with it sometimes, mostly at the old, crooning ballads. You watch the countryside roll by, the farmhouses little ships in the night, their lit windows a beacon as dusk falls.

He bundles you into the farmhouse when you arrive, handing you a pair of house slippers that have little radishes on them. You can’t help your smile.

You follow him into the living room and settle at the kotatsu when he points you there. It’s close enough that you can see into the kitchen through the open archway; he rolls up his sleeves and starts gathering ingredients from the fridge and the pantry.

“Can I help?” you ask after a few minutes, getting to your feet and joining him.

“Sure,” he says, handing you a freshly-washed daikon. “Slice that real thin, please.”

You make a cut. “This thin enough?”

He peers over. “A little thinner,” he says. “Can I?”

You nod and he takes your hands briefly, guiding them to the thinness he wants and pressing down. His hands are warm, his fingers and palm rough with calluses that catch lightly against your skin. He curls his fingers around yours, his tendons going taut, and pushes down. The knife slides through the daikon and stops against the cutting board.

“There,” he says. “Like that.”

“Okay.”

He nods and heads back to his cutting board which is laden down with a bright medley of varying vegetables. “What’re you doin’ tomorrow?'' he asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “Why?”

You sound more defensive than you mean to. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a sharp flicker of amber, but says nothing.

“Was thinking you could come out to the fields with me.”

“I don’t know,” you say.

“It’d be good for you to get outside,” he says mildly. “Rather than being up in yer room all day.”

Your knife thunks against the cutting board. Kita is unperturbed, only glancing your way briefly to make sure you’re not injured. He goes back to peeling carrots, his lean, strong hands moving quickly and with steady confidence.

You study him for a moment, taking in the set of his lips and the soft furrow of his brow. You sigh.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll come.”

He flashes you a tiny quirk of his lips, a smile that’s as fleeting as a summer storm and just as warm.

“Good.”

He keeps cooking as he talks, pulling you from your thoughts when you get lost in them, when the fog starts to roll back in like a marine layer. It’s uncanny, how well he can tell when you’ve been set adrift. He’s a mooring you didn’t know you needed.

Kita hums his thanks as you give him the daikon. He slips them into a pickling mix before handing you a cucumber.

“Peel and cut thin?” you ask.

“Yup.”

As you peel, you can’t help but watch as he moves about the kitchen. He moves as efficiently as ever, no wasted movement, but there’s something soft to it too. You can’t quite pin it down.

“Yer staring.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

You shrug, starting to cut up the cucumber. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important,” you say, waving him off. “Tell me how Aran is doing, he and I haven’t talked for a while.”

The rest of the cooking goes by quickly as you talk and soon you’re both settled at the kotatsu. It’s radiating warmth. You snuggle deeper into it; with the sun fully set, it’s grown even more chilly outside despite the heat of the day. Winter is still a ways off, but you can feel the first touch of it hidden in the autumn breeze that leaks in through the window Kita had left cracked to keep the kitchen from overheating.

You glance over the food. Kita’s kept it simple but hearty. There’s steam curling through the air in little smoky wisps. You watch as it dissipates and then take the plate that Kita hands you with a small thank you.

It’s a good meal. The two of you talk through it with ease, never missing a beat and rarely with an awkward pause. When you lapse into silence, it’s comfortable.

“I should go,” you say eventually, glancing at the clock. “I don’t want to wake Yoshida when I come in.”

“Alright.”

He drives you home, the headlights of his truck cutting through the night. The moon is out now; it bathes the fields with light until they practically shimmer. The crickets are calling, their song audible even over the low purr of the truck’s engine.

When you pull up to Yoshida’s, there’s a light still on at the engawa, a soft glow to lead you home. It warms something in you.

Kita walks you to the door.

“How early do I have to get up tomorrow?” you ask. “Do I even want to know?”

He laughs quietly. “Ya don’t need to keep my schedule,” he says. “I’ll come get you after lunch.”

“Okay.”

He looks at you. His usual stoicness has faded into something warm and open; you take a deep breath. You bid him a quiet goodnight that he returns just as quietly, his amber eyes knowing.

You go to sleep with your hand wrapped around your wedding rings.

***

“Sunscreen,” Kita says, holding out the tube to you.

“I know, I know,” you grouse, taking it from him. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“You forgot last time.”

“Point taken.”

You apply the sunscreen as he gathers what he needs. He’s still rustling around when you finish. You turn your face up to the sun, letting the rays brush over your skin like a lover, a sweet kiss of heat.

When you open your eyes again, Kita is watching you with a tiny smile, a crescent moon of a thing. Something in you pangs.

You glance away from him and look to the rolling fields instead. In the bright sunlight, they’re Midas-touched, scorched gold with a hint of green at the bottom of each stem. It’s a sea of rice, rippling in the breeze like kelp caught in the ocean’s current, and it’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel small.

Kita comes up beside you and gazes at his farm.

“It’s pretty,” you tell him.

“It’s gotta get cut,” he says.

“I know.”

He glances at you. You blink as he reaches out and smudges his thumb against your cheek. It’s gentle, his touch careful despite the rough calluses on the pad of his thumb. “Ya missed some sunscreen,” he says, rubbing it in with a light sweep. He lingers for a moment before pulling away.

“Oh. Thanks,” you say, biting at your lower lip as he turns away.

“C’mon,” Kita says.

You follow him deep into the field, to a swath of already cleared land. The two of you settle at the edge of it. You watch as he lays out a woven bag with a label stamped on the front of it. He crouches down by the nearest stems of uncut rice and runs a hand over them, thumbing at the panicles with a deft movement.

You don’t think he knows he’s smiling.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask.

He glances back at you. “Can you lay out the bags? One at each pole should do.”

You nod and set to work. He starts cutting at the rice. He makes it look easy, slicing through the stems as if they’re butter. The rice stalks start to pile up beside him as you make your way down the field with the bags.

He’s made a significant dent by the time you’re back. He leans back on his heels as you approach again, wiping off his forehead with the back of his hand. His hair is clinging to him, dark with sweat, deepening the color to slate gray, like the winter sea. He smiles at you.

“Can I try again?”

He’d taught you how to cut last time after you asked, citing the fact that you’ve been coming to the field with him for almost two weeks without trying.

“Sure,” he says. He hands you a pair of gloves; you slip them on. “D’ya remember how to hold it?”

You kneel next to him, wrapping your fingers around a handful of stems. “Like this, yeah?”

“Thumb pointing up,” he says, reaching out and adjusting your grip. “And tighter.”

He tightens his grip around your hand to show you, his strong fingers flexing. You copy him and he lets go when he’s satisfied with your grip. He hands you the knife—curved with a wicked edge—and sits back on his heels again.

“15 centimeters, yeah?” you ask, setting the edge of the knife against the stalks there.

“That’ll work.”

You slice in a downward angle; the stalks part beneath the blade like silk. You hand off the rice to him to add to the pile. You keep working, feeling the sweat start to gather on your back, a few droplets rolling down before getting absorbed by your shirt.

“Good,” he says.

He lets you do a few more handfuls before he takes the knife back. You watch him work. He’s much quicker than you, moving with an easy grace.

“Why don’t ya head back to the truck,” he says, slicing through another handful of stalks. “I’m almost done.”

You listen to him, heading back to the truck and settling in the bed of it, swinging your feet off the edge. You lay back and turn your gaze up to the sky, watching as a flock of birds goes soaring past, their wings dark against the deep blue of the sky.

Kita joins you after a bit. You’ve been watching a hawk circle, riding the current high above you, and you don’t bother to sit up when you hear him approaching.

He climbs up into the truck bed. He settles next to you and then lays down beside you, staring up at the sky with you.

The two of you are quiet. You watch as the hawk wheels and wheels overhead before it dives down, dropping like a shooting star through the sky.

You turn towards him; he’s already looking at you. His amber eyes are soft and you suck in a breath, your stomach flipping.

“Shinsuke,” you say gently. “You know I can’t give you what you want, right?”

“I’m not askin’ you for anything,” he says, just as gently.

“I know. I just—I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, with Aoshi gone.”

He studies you for a moment. Then he smiles, warm and sweet and a little bit sad.

“It’s always what you’re willing to give,” he says. “Nothing more and nothing less. That’s the only idea I have.”

You suck in a breath, fidgeting with your sleeve.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

You both go quiet again.

Kita pushes up to his elbows; you peer up at him.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

“‘Kay.”

He hops down from the truck bed gracefully before holding out a hand to help you down. You hesitate. He waits patiently, looking up at you. You take his hand without a word, his calluses rough against your palm.

You’re both quiet on the drive back to Yoshida’s. You spend the time looking out the window, watching the fields roll by. There are other farmers still hard at work, their blades flashing in the last dregs of the sunlight, like a dance. It’s a sight you never tire of.

The sun has almost set by the time Kita drops you off. You toe off your shoes in the genkan and find Yoshida in the kitchen, scrubbing down the counter. There’s something savory in the air, rich and thick, and you spot a pot bubbling away on the stovetop, steam curling up from it like smoke.

She eyes you for a moment. You don’t know what she sees in your face, but she gestures you into a seat.

“The fields are doing ya some good,” she says, her eyes still on the soapy counter.

“Are they?”

She nods decisively. “Yer different. You’re coming back to the world.”

You bite at your lip, worrying the flesh between your teeth. It doesn’t feel like it to you; some days you think you’ll never be in step with the world again, destined to always be just a few paces behind.

“It’s hard to see it in yerself,” Yoshida says. “But it’s there.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

You can’t help the smile. A smile blooms on her lips too, small but sure.

“I need to weed tomorrow. Could use your help, unless Shin-chan is going to steal you away again.”

“I’ll help,” you say, ignoring the last bit.

She studies you with keen eyes, opening her mouth to say something, but the front door opens and her son calls out a greeting.

The rest of the night is quiet and morning comes before you know it.

You stare up at the ceiling as the sun rises, watery light leaking in through the sheer curtains. For a moment, you consider rolling over and going back to bed, but you can hear Yoshida shuffling around in her room. You resign yourself to getting up for the day.

A light breakfast later, you’re on your knees in the garden. The soil is still wet with morning dew and it sticks to your skin. The scent of wet loam rises around you, like the earth is welcoming you home. You let it fill your lungs.

The garden is a beautiful one, lush with autumn vegetables. You weed around the fat, sunshine yellow squashes, each one brighter than the last. The carrots are just peeking above the soil, little suns creeping up over the horizon. Their greens sway gently in the breeze.

You’ve forgone gardening gloves despite Yoshida’s offer. It feels good to sink your fingers into the dirt, to pinch the weeds’ roots and pull them up gently.

You’re still working when Kita’s truck trundles up the driveway. You sit back on your haunches and wipe the sweat from your brow as he gets out and comes your way.

“Hi,” he says with a little smile. “Hard at work, I see.”

“Gotta earn my keep,” you say, earning a snort from Yoshida who is working just a garden bed over.

“You have time for a break?”

“Depends,” you say, glancing at the bag he’s carrying. “Are those snacks?”

“Yup.”

“Then I do,” you say, pushing to your feet. “Let me go wash my hands.”

You eat together on the engawa, gazing out into the farmland. The wind chimes rustle above you, clinking lightly, a crystalline symphony just for the two of you. You sit back on your hands as Kita unpacks what he’s brought.

It’s onigiri. They’re still warm, steam curling up from them when you break one open. A little bit of the filling spills out but you’re quick to catch it on your thumb, popping it into your mouth.

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a nudge with your elbow. “They’re good.”

“Yer welcome.”

“You take care of me so well,” you say with a little laugh.

“I try,” he says, utterly serious.

You flinch. It’s tiny, but from the way his gaze finds you, a firefly flicker, he notices. But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to take another bite of his onigiri.

“Shin-chan,” Yoshida calls. “Come help an old woman with the watering.”

You glance up to see that she’s heaving a full bucket of water towards the garden. Kita pushes to his feet immediately, crossing to her in a few easy strides. He takes the bucket without even pausing, lifting it with a single hand.

“Granny,” he chides. “Ya could’ve gotten hurt.”

She shrugs. He follows her to the garden beds, glancing back to send you a little smile. You watch him as he carefully waters the garden under Yoshida’s rigid instructions. The sun catches in his hair, bronzes his tanned skin. That same smile he’d flashed you lives on his lips, a quiet contentment tucked up secret into the corner of his mouth.

Kita comes back to you when he’s finished watering, settling at your side on the engawa once more. He eats the rest of his onigiri quickly.

“I’ve gotta get back to the fields,” he tells you. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Go do your job.”

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with it.

He leaves soon after. You watch him go, until all you can see of his truck is the cloud of dust being kicked up behind it, until the horizon swallows him.

Yoshida stands next to you on the engawa, shading her eyes as she watches him go too.

“He’s a good man,” she says casually.

You glance at her.

“He is.”

“You could do much worse in a man.”

“It’s not like that.”

She raises a brow.

“It’s not. It’s just…complicated,” you say, winding your fingers through your necklace’s chain. Your rings clink against each other softly, the sound lost in the myriad of wind chimes surrounding you. For a moment you drift, tears pricking at your eyes before you blink them away.

“‘Course it is,” she says. “Most things are. But ah, pay no mind to an old lady. Let’s go harvest some of the squash.”

You spend the rest of the day in the garden, harvesting away. The first frost isn’t too far off and you need to make sure you don’t lose any of the vegetables to it. Yoshida tells you exactly what to pick and what to leave.

Night falls and you cook the first of the squash, painting it with a sweetened miso glaze that gleams stickily as you serve it. Yoshida makes a few side dishes too, putting them in pretty kobachi dishes. They’re delicate things, the soft silver of the moon, and you find yourself thinking of Kita.

You shake yourself free of the thought before it fully forms. Yoshida’s son pulls you into a conversation and you chatter the night away, until you’re yawning between sentences. You finally trudge up to your room.

The window lets in the faintest hint of gossamer moonlight. You gaze out into the night, into the endless countryside. You can just barely make out the next farmhouse, a lighthouse in the sea of darkness, its lights glittering on the very edge of the horizon.

It looks lonely. You think of Kita again, of the little island of his farmhouse, how it’s tucked between the paddies with no other home in sight. You think of him alone at the kotatsu, reading glasses perched on his nose, and feel something in your chest clench.

You pull the curtains shut and go to bed.

***

The rest of the week rolls by and so does the next. It grows colder each day, winter’s first kiss. The leaves are going orange, as if little fires are catching the edges. It sets the trees ablaze with color. You hop from leaf to leaf as you and Kita walk along the road, delighting in each little crunch.

“Having fun?” he calls out.

You turn around to face him, shading your eyes with one hand. His more sedate pace has left him lagging, but he’s quickly catching up now that you’ve stopped. “Can’t you tell?”

His breath mists in the air, a marine layer, and his lips quirk up into a little smile. “I can,” he says. “Just be careful, yeah? There’s still some frost lingering.”

You hum an acknowledgement and stomp on your next leaf. He chuckles quietly and you fall back to walk with him, shoving your hands into your pockets to ward off the cold.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You know my sabbatical is almost over, right?”

He nods. “I know.”

“I think I’m gonna go home midweek next week,” you say. “Just to give myself some time to settle before I have to go back to work.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Let me know the details and I’ll get you to the station.”

The two of you keep walking, huddling into each other slightly when the wind picks up. Some of his hair wisps across your face, the touch like silk against your skin. You shiver with it and return your gaze to the countryside, to the rolling hills and the shorn paddies.

One or two of the trees are already fully bare; they reach towards the sky with long-fingered branches. There’s a murmur of swallows nestled in the nearest one, so numerous it’s as if the tree has leaves again. As you watch, they take to the skies, undulating through the soft gray-blue of it.

“I’ll miss it,” you say softly.

“Bein’ here?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya can come back anytime, y’know. There’s always a place for you.”

You glance at him. His stoic face has softened and you think of the thaw of a spring day. How the quiet warmth of it melts the chill away.

“Thanks, Shinsuke.”

“Mhm.”

The two of you walk together quietly before turning around to head back to Kita’s farm when the chilly breeze becomes a whistling wind. It whips through the fields to cut through your clothing and you press into Kita without thinking, seeking the warmth of his solid form. He unwinds his scarf and drapes it around your neck; you don’t bother to protest. He’s immovable about things like this. Instead, you burrow into the warmth of it.

You all but tumble into the genkan of the farmhouse. Kita follows you at a more sedate pace. You toe off your shoes and slip on your usual pair of house slippers. He does the same and you watch as he puts his shoes away carefully, arranging them perfectly within the cubby.

You both settle at the kotatsu, huddling under the thick down of the blanket. You trace a finger over one of the origami cranes patterned into it. They’re perfect, so different from the clumsy paper cranes you’d both made with some of the local children the other day.

Kita turns on the kotatsu. It starts to warm almost immediately and you sink into the heat of it with a quiet sigh.

“What’re you smiling about?” you ask him.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes. “Okay,” you say.

“D’ya want tea?”

“Sure.”

He slips out from under the kotatsu and heads into the kitchen. You turn enough that you can still see him; you like watching him make tea. He’s careful and respectful of the process from beginning to end, but you like how it loosens his shoulders, how he unfurls, a night-blooming flower.

He rejoins you at the kotatsu once the tea is made, handing you a steaming cup. The scent of it billows through the air. When you sip at the tea, it settles warm in your chest, pushing out the autumn chill.

“You’ll have to teach me how to make tea like this,” you tell Kita.

He smiles into his cup. “It’s not hard.”

“Says you.”

“Might not have time to teach you before you go,” he says with a frown. “The farm—”

“You can teach me when you visit.” You pause. “You will visit, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” you say, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You can teach me then.”

He agrees and the conversation flows until it’s late. You peer out into the darkness and see the moon—full-bellied with light—is beginning to set, sinking through the dark ocean of the sky like an anchor.

“Shit,” you say. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“S’fine,” Kita says. “I don’t mind.”

“I know, I know. Ugh, I’m gonna wake up Yoshida when I get in.”

“You can stay, y’know.”

You glance at him. He meets your gaze steadily.

“I have a guest room,” he reminds you.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “Okay.”

“You’ll have to get up early, though.”

“That’s fine.”

He smiles softly. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s finish cleaning up.”

You clean up the kotatsu quickly; despite the late hour, Kita still takes the time to wash the dishes. He washes them with careful concentration and something in your chest pangs.

“Go ahead to the guest room,” he says. “‘M almost done here. I’ll see if I can find you somethin’ to sleep in.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright.”

The guest room is homey, with a handmade quilt patterned with rice plants that almost look like they’re rippling in the wind. You trace a finger over one of them as you glance around the rest of the room, taking in the way the stark cleanliness is offset by the items scattered about: the fan patterned with cherry blossoms hanging on the wall; the plant at the window, lush despite the season; a paperweight on the desk, glass swirled through with blue and white, the ocean roiling within it. It’s not quite Kita, but you can sense him in it all the same.

Kita knocks on the door frame. You turn to look at him. “Here,” he says, holding out a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Thought you might need these.”

“Thanks,” you say, sending him a little smile. “Appreciate it.”

“‘Course.”

“Night, Shinsuke.”

“G’night,” he says. “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“Sounds good.”

He disappears into his room.

You get ready for bed and slide under the covers. The quilt is heavy and warmth builds quickly under it, like a banked fire. You turn your face into the pillow to hide from the moonlight slanting in through the window. The pillowcase smells vaguely like Kita and the simple detergent he uses.

Sleep comes easily.

So easily that it feels like you’ve only been asleep for a second when Kita’s knocking on the guest room door to rouse you for the day. Blearily, you slip on your clothing before trudging into the kitchen.

Kita glances up as you enter. His hair is still damp from the shower; it glistens like the gray winter sea beneath a bleak sun.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Hi,” you grumble.

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

You drowse on the ride back to Yoshida’s, just aware enough to hear the quiet hum of the radio as it fills the truck’s cab. The sun is starting to rise, the first fingers of light painting the horizon orange, like embers just beginning to catch. You turn away from it, curling into yourself in the front seat.

The truck rumbling to a halt wakes you. You grouse and Kita laughs again. He doesn’t bother to dodge when you swat at him.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say with a yawn, one hand on the car door’s handle, already looking forward to crawling back into bed.

“‘Course,” he says. “You always have a place with me.”

You pause.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”

His eyes crinkle with his smile.

“Go to work,” you tell him.

“Yes ma’am.”

You hop out and head to the genkan. You hear the truck rumble to life behind you, the engine practically purring. By the time you make it to the genkan and look back, Kita is already down the road.

You watch until he’s gone from view.

***

This early, the train station is quiet.

The sun is still rising, casting pale golden rays across the parking lot. It haloes Kita in light as he pulls your suitcase from the truck bed, his muscles flexing with the movement. You take it from him and the two of you head towards the platform together.

“Travel safe, alright?” he says when you come to a halt just before the doors.

“Shinsuke,” you say, “thank you for everything.”

“Anytime.”

“You’ll visit?”

“I’ll visit,” he confirms. “You?”

“I’ll come back,” you say.

“Good.”

He smiles at you, a slow, sweet thing that makes you think of the sun’s rise. It’s steady and sure, unshakeable.

You throw your arms around him in a hug. He stumbles for a second, caught off guard, but he catches himself quickly and wraps his arms around you. He holds you tightly. You bury your face in his shoulder. He smells like plain soap, fresh and clean, with the faintest kiss of lemon, a touch of sour citronella that you know he uses for the fields.

When you pull away, the tips of his ears are pink.

“Bye, Shinsuke,” you say.

“Bye,” he says softly.

You head inside the station. When you glance back, you can just make out the silhouette of him, lean and strong. He must be able to see you, because he gives a little wave before he turns away.

The train is almost empty when you board it and you settle in a window seat. You close your eyes and turn your face towards the sun, the gentle rays just barely starting to warm as they brush against your skin.

You open your eyes when the train starts to move, peering out of the window as the countryside speeds by. The rice fields are shorn short now but the gold of them hasn’t faded. The remains of the stalks reach towards the great blue sky, two expanses meeting. Beyond the fields, even the hills are going golden, though they’re slower, with green patches scattered across them like lily pads in a pond.

You think you might be leaving a part of yourself in the expanse of the country. That the fields have swallowed up some part of you, like the earth swallows a seed. It makes something in you pang.

Soon enough, the countryside melts away into the suburbs. Then come the neon lights of the city, streaking by like fireflies, little blips of color that blink to life here and there.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

The house is quiet when you step into the genkan; only the musical clink of your keys fills the space. The greeting is on the tip of your tongue, but you catch it behind your teeth and swallow it back down. You take in a deep breath and set your suitcase down before brushing by the photos in the entryway, most of them facedown.

It takes time to unpack. Most of your clothes are clean, but you run a load of laundry anyway, listening to the way the water swishes and spins, the low rumble of it filling the house. You text Kita to let him know you’ve arrived safely and then collapse onto your couch, staring up at the ceiling.

You don’t know how long you lie there before you hear the door to the house open. Muffled bickering floats to you from the genkan and you push yourself up just as Abe comes barreling around the corner.

She skids to a stop just before the couch and grins down at you.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” you reply. “Did you break in?”

“No,” Yoshikawa says, appearing from around the corner. She twirls something around her finger; it glints in the light. “Used the spare.”

“It’s funny,” you say. “I don’t remember inviting either of you over.”

She shrugs elegantly, her long hair swaying like kelp in a current. “Did you really think we were going to miss you coming home?”

“No,” you say with a little laugh. “I didn’t.”

“Good.”

You exchange hugs with both of them, holding them tightly and yelping when Abe spins you in a circle. Yoshikawa is more sedate but her hug is strong and warm. You blink away the tears before they can fall.

The three of you settle into the living room. You catch up with each other easily, swapping stories and laughing together, the sound billowing through the room to fill even the darkest corners with joy. Your heart aches as Abe throws back her head and laughs, her dark hair shimmering in the light, her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

“You’re too easily entertained,” Yoshikawa informs her, but there’s a smile playing at her lips too, downy-soft and deeply pleased.

“Shut up,” Abe says, still giggling.

For a moment, you just watch them, taking in their features, their smiles, the sound of them. You want to commit them to memory, parts of them that you’ve taken into yourself to treasure, to keep. Pieces never to be lost.

“Hey,” Yoshikawa says. “What’s wrong?”

You realize that your cheeks are hot and wet. You scrub a hand over your face as more tears fall.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just really missed you.”

She hums, but doesn’t push you on it, sending Abe a look when she opens her mouth. “We missed you too,” she says. “Do you want us to spend the night?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, thinking of how empty the house was before they filled it. “That would be great.”

“Okay.”

The conversation picks up again, only pausing when you order takeout as night falls. Though you’ve spoken consistently with them while you were in the country, there are still stories to tell. The three of you talk and talk, full of laughter and love, and it only feels a little bittersweet.

As the night deepens, Yoshikawa and Abe go to the genkan and grab the bags they’ve brought, much to your embarrassment. Abe pats you on the shoulder as you bury your face in your hands. Neither of them comment.

You tumble into bed with them in a mess of limbs. When the dust settles, you’re curled up on your side of the bed, almost pushed off the edge by Abe’s starfished limbs. You poke her in the stomach and she curls up with a groan. You reclaim the space quickly.

“Rude,” she tells you.

“You were taking up the whole bed!”

She grumbles but doesn’t bother to argue.

Quiet falls, only the gentle sound of breathing filling the room. You snuggle down into your comforter, pushing closer to Abe and relishing her warmth.

“I invited Shinsuke to visit,” you breathe.

Yoshikawa pushes up to her elbows behind Abe, peering down at you with her dark, knowing eyes.

“Here?” she asks.

You nod, the pillowcase crinkling against your cheek.

She hums, low and sweet, a honeyed thunder. “You’ll let him stay at the house?”

“I don’t know,” you say, thinking of Takao, the way he’d been flayed open when he asked you to not bring Kita to the house. “Aoshi—”

“Isn’t here,” Yoshikawa says gently. “You don’t have to hold on to that promise if you don’t want to.”

You blink against the tears as they swell up, beading on your eyelashes like little diamonds. Abe reaches out and cups your cheek.

“You’ll figure it out,” she says softly. “You don’t need to know now.”

You close your eyes, a few more tears trickling down. The pillowcase is damp beneath your cheek. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “You’re right.”

“I always am,” she says, and then yelps when Yoshikawa pinches her. “Ow, Yocchan!”

Yoshikawa ignores her, settling back down onto the bed with a yawn.

It’s contagious; you find yourself yawning as well and snuggle down deeper into the comforter once more. Abe shifts closer, seeking heat.

You fall asleep with her pressed tight against your side.

It feels like coming home.

***

Fall fades away.

The trees lose their leaves entirely, leaving branches that reach into the sky with scraggly fingers. Frost creeps over the windows in icy whorls, a cobweb of winter, fanning out in intricate patterns that melt when you breathe on them. The winter sun glows in the softened blue of the sky, only to be replaced with gray clouds.

The first snow is falling when you go to pick up Kita.

The flakes are fat and fluffy, perfectly crystalline. They flutter through the air like butterflies, spinning in great, lazy arcs as they drift to the ground. They melt as soon as they hit the pavement.

They catch in Kita’s hair as the two of you head into the house, little dew drops that make his gray hair shine. He’s cherry-cheeked with the cold, his face half-buried in his scarf. It’s cute. Something in you pangs when he sends you a little smile, only discernible by the way his eyes crinkle at the edges.

The two of you peel off your outer layers in the genkan. Kita puts his away carefully, at odds with your slightly haphazard method of kicking your boots away to find later.

“It’s future me’s problem,” you tell him and he just shakes his head, a small smile caught in the corner of his lips.

You show him to the guest room, freshly made up for his visit, and linger in the hallway as he stores his suitcase.

“Dinner?” you ask as he steps out into the hall again.

“That’d be great.”

“C’mon, I’ve got some things ready in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good.”

He follows you into the kitchen and insists on helping. You direct him to the plates as you check on what you’ve made. There’s colorful tsukemono, each pickled vegetable bright in its own way, stained to watercolors by the pickling liquid. The curry is thick and bubbling, with chunks of heavily marbled meat and vegetables coated in the sauce. The rice is steaming lightly and so are the nikuman, each bun pinched shut perfectly.

“Ya didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” Kita says, eyeing the food as he sets the table.

“Too late,” you say cheerfully. “Eat.”

He smiles softly, shaking his head, but sits down when you gesture. You join him and the two of you start to fill your plates.

You talk quietly as you eat, all easy chatter. Part of you can’t help but think of the beginning, when everything with him was stilted and careful. That’s changed through the years but it’s even easier now, the conversation flowing like a river, calm and unchanging.

When you’re done eating, Kita collects the plates and brings them to the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and turns the water on. You sigh but don’t bother to say anything. Instead, you settle in next to him with a dish towel in your hand.

He’s radiating a soft, gentle heat. It takes conscious effort to not lean into him.

He washes and you dry, falling into an effortless rhythm.

“Are you seeing Aran while you’re here?” you ask.

“He’s away trainin’,” Kita says, handing you another dish. “So’s Atsumu. I’ll see Osamu, but you know I’m here to see you, right?”

Your cheeks heat. “I know,” you say. “But two birds, one stone, y’know?”

He hums, rinsing off the final dish and drying his hands. He leaves his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. For a moment, you watch the play of his muscles, the way they coil beneath his tanned skin as he picks up the dry dishes and brings them back to the cabinet. You look away when you realize what you’re doing.

You both go to bed early that night; Kita’s tired from his usual early wake-up and the travel. You try not to laugh as he bids you goodnight. It’s cute, the way he blinks sleepily, his amber eyes softened to a honeyed brown.

You can hear him as you get ready for bed, the quiet little noises of another person’s presence. It soothes something in you.

You glance at your wedding rings, ensconced in a little jewelry dish on your nightstand. They gleam in the light. You run your fingers over them, tracing the cool metal gently.

You put them away in a drawer before you go to sleep.

***

The snowstorm hits on the last day of Kita’s visit.

The wind whips between buildings, catching the snowflakes and tossing them about like ships on a stormy sea. The snow piles up into thick drifts, the silken white of it gone yellow beneath the glow of the street lights, like a melting pat of butter.

You and Kita watch the storm from where you’re tucked under the kotatsu. You’d pulled it out when you’d heard the forecast, the two of you working together to get it set up. It still works, luckily, and the two of you sit next to each other and bask in the soothing warmth.

The wind slows; you gaze at the snowflakes as they slow, drifting like dancers across the stage, each puffy flake a part of its own ballet. Everything has gone quiet, muffled at the edges. It’s like the world is waiting to take its next breath.

“What are you thinking?” Kita asks softly.

When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you.

“I don’t know,” you say, your voice just as soft as his. “All sorts of things.”

He hums quietly.

The wind picks up again; the windows rattle with it. You shiver, snuggling further under the kotatsu. Kita shifts. His leg presses against yours, a line of warmth even under the heat of the kotatsu.

You glance at him. He’s watching the storm. It reflects in his eyes, lightening them, taking them from amber to gold. You think of the rice fields at their peak, when they’re treasured gold, and can’t help the small smile that curls around your lips.

Perhaps he feels your gaze, because Kita turns to face you. In the low light, he’s softened at the edges, a watercolor being. His eyes are aglow, like sunlight pooling. He gives you a small smile.

“What is it?”

“I’m so lucky to have you,” you say quietly, the words pouring from you like a waterfall, something unstoppable.

He goes still for a breath, a statue of old. Then he softens again.

“You’ll always have me,” he says, and you used to hate how true it is. Now, though—now it feels different. Just a bit.

“Thank you, Shinsuke,” you say.

Something flickers over his face like heat lightning, too quick for you to comprehend. You think you might have disappointed him.

You turn your gaze away. It lands on a picture frame placed face-down. You suck in a deep breath. Before you can stop them, the tears are burning behind your eyes, starting to trickle down your cheeks. You scrub at them with one hand.

“Sorry,” you say to Kita.

“S’alright,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, even as another tear trickles down to pool salty on your tongue.

He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between the two of you. He waits.

You nod.

He cups your cheek and sweeps his thumb under your eye. His touch has the same aching tenderness of a fresh, swollen bruise. You lean into his palm, keeping your eyes on his, your cheeks hot as he smiles at you sadly.

He wipes away the tears before pulling back. You can see the gleam of them on his thumb.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Course.”

You scrub away the remains of the tears and then blow out a big breath. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

Kita studies you for a moment. You don’t know what he sees in your face, but he nods, giving you a soft smile. “Sure.”

“Great,” you say, pushing to your feet. “You choose.”

“If you want,” he says, standing as well and heading towards the living room. “No complaining, though.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll be there in a minute,” you call after him, leaning down to turn off the kotatsu. You tuck the comforter in, tidying it up lightly. You nod to yourself. When you turn around, you pause for a moment, your gaze settling on the face-down picture frame.

It’s a photo you know well, one of you and Takao on the beach, the ocean a vast expanse behind you, glittering with the searing blue of the tropics. You’re caught mid-laugh as Takao plants a kiss on your cheek. It’s always been a favorite.

Before you leave the room, you stand the picture frame back up.

***

You drop Kita off at the train station early the next day. You breathe him in as you hug him goodbye, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He tightens his grip around you with a little laugh.

“I’ll come to the farm in spring,” you tell him. “I promise.”

“Good.”

You wave goodbye as he enters the train station; he glances back right before he disappears through the doors. Something warm blooms in you. It settles in your stomach and flutters there.

When you’ve made it home, you pull out your phone. You settle onto the edge of the couch as it rings, your shoulders stiff.

It rings until the voicemail clicks on and Takao’s voice floods your ears. You close your eyes as his voicemail message plays, letting his voice wash over you like a summer storm, a warm, sweet rain. You listen to Takao talk, relearning the cadence of his voice, the way it rises and falls, the way his tongue curls around words. You hadn’t realized how much of it you’d forgotten.

“Hi,” you say when the tone beeps. “I miss you.”

You’re quiet for a moment; the line carries on, reflecting you breathing back to yourself.

“Shinsuke just left,” you say. “Aoshi—I think I like him. More than I ever thought I could. Is that alright?”

The line is silent.

“I didn’t mean to like him,” you say. “I really didn’t. But he’s good, Aoshi. He’s so good.”

You sniffle.

“I don’t know what to do,” you murmur. “I don’t know how to leave you behind. But I think—I think he’s okay with that. I just—it feels like giving in. Like our choice, the one we made over and over again, was for nothing.”

You take in a deep, steadying breath.

“I know that’s not true. I know that our choice was for everything. That it never really was a choice in the first place, not for me.”

“I just—I really think I like him, Aoshi. Is that alright? Please tell me it’s alright.”

The voicemail beeps; you’ve hit the end of the time you can record. You hang up and bury your face in your hands.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

You lay back on the couch, rubbing at your eyes with the heels of your hands. You curl in on yourself.

You grab your phone and dial again.

“Hi.”

“Natsumi.”

“Oh, shit, no nickname, that’s not a good sign.”

“I think I like Shinsuke.”

She pauses. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks gently.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“It just—”

“Feels like giving in?”

“...Yeah. Was this always going to happen?”

“Maybe,” she says. “But maybe not. You don’t have to be with him, you know. If you don’t want to, that is.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“I think you do,” she says gently.

“I don’t, Nat-chan.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me put it this way: is your only issue with Kita the fact that he’s your soulmate?”

“He’s not Aoshi.”

“No one is going to be Aoshi. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Liking Kita isn’t giving up on Aoshi. It’s not leaving him behind. It’s just moving forward. You’ll bring him with you no matter what, no matter how far forward you move,” she says, and you bite at your bottom lip until you can taste blood.

“I don’t want to be with my soulmate just because they’re my soulmate.”

“Do you really think you might like Kita just because he’s your soulmate?”

“...No.”

“It’s not bad to like him,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re not bad for liking him because of who he is.”

“I don’t even know if I really like him.”

“Sweetheart,” Abe says, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you didn’t.”

You go quiet. As her words settle in, you glance out the window. The snow on the ground is still pristine; it glimmers under the bleak winter sunlight. The neighborhood children are starting to stomp through it. They’re bundled up tight, practically waddling as they play. You take a deep breath.

“Maybe you’re right,” you say.

“I don’t know how many times I have to say that I always am before you believe me.”

“You’re wrong way too much for me to believe that.”

“Don’t be mean!”

You smile. “Thanks, Nat-chan,” you say softly.

“Any time,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”

As you hang up, you know that you will.

***

Winter melts into spring.

The snow gives way to crocuses, which bloom like bruises, deep purple with stamen peeking shyly out of the center. The trees come to life, budding quickly, little specks of green dotted along the branches like stars.

And on the farm, there are ducklings, tiny and fluffy, their down pollen-yellow.

“Oh, Shin,” you say as he hands you one, dropping it carefully into your hands. It peeps its protest before snuggling up in your palm like a tiny sun. “I love them.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich. “I thought you might. Do you wanna name ‘em?”

“Really? You’ll let me?”

“Course.”

“I’ll have to think of good ones,” you say. “Can I have a few days?”

“Take as much time as you need,” he says. “They’re not going anywhere.”

You nuzzle up against the one in your hand; it peeps again, as if grumbling at you. When you glance at Kita, he has a fond smile playing on his lips.

He takes you around on some of his other chores. There are seedlings in the garden, tiny little things just barely poking out of the ground, a promise of green growth. You water them carefully, wary of their thin, delicate stems.

Finally, you find yourself back in Kita’s genkan. Your boots—a pair of his, really, laced tightly to keep them on—are muddy, so you stop just inside the door. You’re leaning down to untie the boots when Kita kneels before you.

“Shin…” you say and he glances back up at you with mischief in his smile. You decide it’s not worth it to try and stop him.

He makes quick work of the laces with his deft fingers. You watch his bent head quietly, taking in the thunderstorm gray of it, edged with blackened clouds. You catch yourself before you run your fingers through it.

“Up,” he says. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you step out of first boot; he wraps his hand around your wrist.

It’s not long before both boots are off. Before you can even start to move, Kita has your house slippers in hand. He takes your ankle in his big hand, waiting for you to lift your foot so he can slip on the first slipper.

You almost balk. But he looks up at you with his keen amber eyes and you can’t help yourself. You lift your foot and he slides the slipper into place. He does the same thing with the second slipper.

“Thanks,” you say, cheeks hot.

He nods. He pushes to his feet, a graceful ripple of motion, and tilts his head at you. “Lunch?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “That sounds good.”

You cook together with ease. You know his kitchen by heart now, able to pull pans from their place without looking, knowing which of his fresh herbs to clip without double-checking with him.

It makes something in you ache.

Kita returns to the fields after lunch. You choose to not go with him, deciding instead to curl up on the engawa with a book. You settle into place with your book on your lap and stare out into the countryside.

It’s just beginning to go green with the flooded paddies glinting in the sun, a false ocean. The water glimmers with movement as the breeze rolls over you. A stork prowls through the paddies, long and elegant, moving with slow precision. Its beak flashes as it darts down to snap up some little creature. It takes off after that, spreading its wings wide and soaring into the blue expanse of the sky. You watch until it’s no more than a dot in the vastness.

You curl up and start reading and don’t notice when evening starts to fall. That’s where Kita finds you when he comes home from the fields. You hadn’t even noticed his truck trundling up the driveway.

“Hi,” you say as he comes up on the engawa, marking your place and getting to your feet.

“Hi,” he replies. “Have you been here all afternoon?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

You eye him, trying to figure out what’s given you away. Kita stays stoic, as if carved from stone, and you huff.

You follow him inside, kicking off your outside shoes before he can even try to kneel, and hop up from the genkan. As usual he goes to shower, ready to rinse off the fields. You keep reading.

He comes padding back into the kitchen a while later with a towel wound around his neck. His hair is still damp and you can see a cowlick curling at the back of his head. His tan skin glistens.

“Dinner?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “What do you want to make?”

You discuss your options in front of the fridge, crowded in next to each other to see what he has. He’s still warm from the shower. You press closer to him and see him glance at you from the corner of his eye. He smiles, soft and sweet, and turns his attention back to the fridge.

Eventually, you finally decide. Kita hands you a handful of carrots and you start to julienne them thinly, your knife—perfectly sharp, the most well-maintained kitchen knife you’ve ever seen—flashing in the light.

He starts halving baby bok choy, little gems of green and white. The pan hisses when he drops them in, giving it a good toss before he moves on to his next task.

“Is it really okay for me to be here during such a busy season?” you ask.

He glances at you. “I wouldn’t invite ya if it wasn’t a good time.”

“True.”

“Besides, I told you there was always a place here for you, and I meant it.”

Your cheeks heat. “I know.”

“Good.”

Quiet falls, broken only by the sound of your knife against the board and the hiss of the pan as Kita stirs it again. It’s comfortable, though, and you feel no need to fill the air. The two of you cook away, moving around each other easily in his small kitchen, as if it’s a dance you’ve always known.

It’s comforting in a way you’d almost forgotten.

You take a deep breath, your stomach churning a bit, and Kita glances over at you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.”

He smiles softly. “If you wanna go to bed early, I don’t mind.”

“We’ll see,” you tell him. “Now finish up, I’m hungry.”

He laughs, but the two of you are done cooking not long after. You settle down to eat. You tell him some ideas you’ve had to name the ducks (“Duck is a perfectly good name, Shin!” “If ya say so.”) and he tells you about his day. It’s peaceful. Easy.

You’ve just finished eating when you reach out and cover Kita’s hand with your own. “Shin,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Fer what?”

You shrug, unable to put the jumble inside you into words.

He turns his hand over under yours and laces your fingers together. You don’t pull away.

“Yer always thankin’ me,” he says softly. “You don’t need to.”

“I do, though.”

“You don’t.”

You look at him. He meets your gaze easily, amber eyes gone whiskey-dark. He gives your hand a little squeeze.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he says.

You squeeze back. “I will, though.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue.

For another moment, you both sit there, hands intertwined. You watch each other. You can feel the strength in his fingers and the hint of sweat on his palm. It’s warm and solid and real. Something in your chest stirs.

You’re the one that pulls back first, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Kita lets you go without a word.

The rest of dinner is quiet; you both go to your rooms early, influenced by Kita’s schedule. You murmur a soft goodnight in the hallway. You can still hear him when you’re in the guest room, listening to him rustling around before it all goes silent.

You gaze out the guest room window, taking in the rising moon. It’s waxing, almost full-bellied with light, pouring over the fields. It reflects off the water of the flooded paddies, a distorted mirror of itself. Under the moonlight, the fields go silvery, delicate and gossamer as they start to come to life. It’s beautiful in a foreign way.

You curl up on the bed with your book, texting Yoshikawa and Abe here and there as your phone lights up. When the moon is high in the sky, you finally get ready for bed.

You fall asleep thinking about the weight of Kita’s hand in your own.

***

Something shifts between you.

It’s slow like a dune in the wind, the sand taking on a new shape, but neither of you have mentioned it. Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe it’s all said in each fleeting glance, a language written in the amber of Kita’s gaze.

The days pass in a flicker of quiet moments. You spend a morning naming the ducklings, tucked in close to Kita’s side so he can see which one you’re pointing to. You repeat yourself as he takes them in, his brow furrowed as he notes the name for each nearly-identical duckling.

Some days you join him in the fields, kneeling down into the muck to sow a shoot into place. He guides you with careful hands, his warm fingers wrapped firmly around yours. You eat lunch in the bed of his truck, mud flaking off of your boots, and bask in the spring sun.

It’s easy. It’s terrifying.

You think of the taste of ozone, how it crackles on your tongue. The slow, sharp bite of it.

You know something will give. That the storm will break over you and change everything in its path.

You think you might finally be ready for it.

***

You come awake with a jolt.

The sheets stick to you, caught in the layer of sweat accumulating on you. You sit up and press a hand to your heart, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings.

Once you’ve regained your breath, you stumble over to the window and pull it open. The countryside breeze billows inside. It still carries the sharp bite of winter, but it’s mellowed under spring’s tender bloom. You close your eyes and let it flow over you.

The breeze cools you, your sweat going tacky before it dries down completely. The dream rolls over you again and you shudder.

You find yourself padding down the hallway without realizing it. You stop just in front of the door. You tug at your lower lip with your teeth before taking a deep breath.

You knock gently on the door and then open it.

“Shin?” you whisper.

The lump on the bed stirs. Kita pushes up onto his elbows. He’s bathed in moonlight, his hair haloed silver, the dark tips a moon’s eclipse. He’s bleary-eyed but he focuses on you instantly.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Bad dream.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate.

“That bad?”

You shake your head. “I just…can I lay with you for a bit? Is that okay?” you ask, heart in your throat. You need to know he’s still here. That he’s real.

His eyes widen before they go soft. He pulls back the covers and scoots over to give you more room. You’re across the room in an instant, slipping onto the futon. It’s still warm with his body heat and you shiver, goosebumps dancing across your skin.

You keep a small distance between you when you lay down, but you let your head turn towards him. He’s still up on one elbow, the muscles in his bicep bunched with it, and he’s studying you carefully.

He’s handsome, you realize, not for the first time. He’s sleep-rumpled, his hair messy and ruffled and his shirt wrinkled and bunched up just enough to show off a silver of his paler belly. The moonlight plays over him like a lover, lingering on the arch of his cheekbones and the dusting of freckles sprayed over his nose. His thick lashes flutter as he blinks, showcasing eyes gone golden, and you almost sigh.

He lies back down when you don’t move. The space between the two of you is small but it feels massive, a gulf between your two bodies, separating the shores of you.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You shake your head.

He reaches out and hesitates halfway, his big hand hovering in the air. In the moonlight, the constellation of his scars is more visible, little nicks and cuts that gleam bone-white in the light.

“Can I?” he asks.

Your nod is tiny; the sheets crinkle with it.

He cups your cheek. His palm is rough against your skin but he’s careful with it, touches you as if you’re made of glass. It’s almost reverent. He sweeps his thumb across the apple of your cheek.

“What did you dream of?” he breathes.

“You.”

“Me?”

“I couldn’t find you,” you murmur, leaning into his touch. “I looked and looked, but you weren’t there.”

“I’m here now.”

You hum.

“I’m here now,” he says again and it sounds like a promise.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You are.”

You shift on the futon. The sheets smell of him, of the faintest hint of the salt of his skin and his soap, and you close your eyes to let it envelop you. You nestle down into the pillow with a little yawn.

“Go back to bed,” Kita murmurs, caressing your cheek with careful fingers. “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

You stir under his touch, opening one eye. He’s watching you, his amber eyes unbearably fond, and something in you pangs. You press closer to him; he radiates a gentle warmth and you relax into it.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask quietly. “Please?”

You pretend to not hear the way his breath catches.

“You sure?” he asks.

You press closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna regret it when my alarm goes off at dawn,” Kita says, a smile written in his sleep-rough voice.

“I won’t,” you say. “Promise.”

He hums skeptically.

“Maybe you’ll regret it,” you whisper into the salt of his skin. “You might.”

He stills, and then he’s coaxing you up to look at him. His eyes gleam in the dim, a flash of amber, of the richness of the earth. He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.

“No,” he says. “I could never regret you.”

He always hears what you can’t quite bring yourself to say.

“Never?”

He nudges his nose against yours.

“Never.”

His breath stirs against your lips, and you take it in, make it your own. You sway closer, undulating like kelp, half-dizzy with it, and then you sway closer still.

He waits for you.

(He always has.)

When you kiss him, it’s simple. It feels right.

Kita sighs into it, one big hand coming up to cup your face, his rough palm reverent against your skin. There’s no urgency to him; he’s honey-slow with it, melting into you under the cover of night.

You kiss him again, and again, like the tide against the shore, lapping at the edges of him until you’re etched into his skin. He meets you each time, sweet and steady.

You kiss him until he is all you know, and then you kiss him once more.

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he sweeps his thumb over your cheekbone.

You part your lips, and he presses a little kiss against them before he pulls back. In the dim, his amber eyes have gone whiskey-dark, deep and heady.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

You press your face into the warm crook of his neck again. He smells of plain soap and a lingering hint of citronella from the fields, sweet and stinging. You breathe him in, let the scent of him settle into you, a part of him to carry always.

Kita curls a gentle arm around you.

“Go to sleep,” he breathes, and you pull back to look at him. He watches you, his vulpine eyes unbearably fond, and he smiles against your lips when you kiss him again.

He cups your cheek and pulls you into a deeper kiss before he backs away. He sweeps his lips against yours in a chaste peck and says again, “Go to sleep.”

“Fine,” you murmur. You curl up into him as his breath starts to even out. You listen to the tide of it, the ebb and flow, a balm against a bruise you’ll always have, and close your eyes knowing that he’s right there.

You wake to the quiet beep of his alarm clock. He rises from bed with quicksilver ease, the thick muscles of his back rippling under his sleep shirt. It’s barely dawn; wan light filters in through the curtains like an azure sea, outlining him faintly as he moves around the room. He looks like something out of a painting, sketched out in broad strokes of soft shadows.

He looks too good to be true.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs as you shift on the futon. His sheets are well-worn, the type of broken in that comes with years of use and careful care. “It’s early.”

Instead, you get up with him, slipping out from beneath the warmth of the comforter with a soft sigh. Kita gives you a little smile, a crescent moon tilt of his lips, and your cheeks heat. You glance away and hear him huff out a laugh.

He disappears into the bathroom, and you make up the futon, smoothing your hands over the wrinkles until they disappear.

By the time he pads into the kitchen, the old coffeemaker is hissing and gurgling, spitting out a steady drip of liquid. He brushes by you to get a mug, his hand warm on your lower back as he sidles past. The heat of him lingers.

The two of you eat breakfast in a comfortable silence. He slides his portion of your favorite onto your plate without a word; you push your share of pickled daikon into one of his small kobachi dishes. He says nothing,, but his lips quirk at the edges, the faintest hint of a sweet smile.

He gets up when you’re both finished, pushing to his feet in one fluid movement. His muscles coil with it, going taut beneath his tanned skin. It’s more distracting than you thought it would be.

You peer at him from the corner of your eyes as he starts to clear the table. He moves with careful intent, his big hands steady against the delicate porcelain.

You want to kiss him again.

Instead, you get to your feet and finish clearing the table, handing him dishes when he gestures for them. You wash the dishes together. Over the whisper of the running water, you talk about your upcoming day, trying to decide if you’ll be able to eat lunch together as well. You can’t quite keep the smile from your lips.

When the dishes are put away, you walk with him onto the engawa. He cups your cheek, sweeping his thumb over the arch of your cheekbone, and smiles.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

“I’ll be here,” you say, soft and full of promise, and his eyes crinkle with his smile.

You watch from the engawa as he disappears into the distance, into the paddies, swallowed up by the verdant world he’s created with his own hands. He glances back at you once, just before he disappears from sight.

You raise your face to the gentle warmth of the rising sun.

It’s a new day.

#kita x reader #kita shinsuke x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #bee writes hq!!#.lbgtm

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pisupsala · 1 year ago

Text

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 9 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 6.1k

Library

Chapter 9—The Very Thought of You

If you thought your day had been going badly so far, it was about to get worse. Auntie sent you on your way with a large bottle of hard liquor from her personal stash, stating: “Poor Rooster will need it more than me.”

Your heart clenches. How are you supposed to tell him? He’ll be angry—of course. It would be strange if he wouldn’t be. But you are scared. Scared he’ll be mad at you, that he won’t believe it’s really not your fault. However, you also don’t have a solution, anything to soften the blow. How do you tell someone their only hope of getting home might just have, quite literally, gone up in flames?

Well, thank god you have plenty of time to agonize over it. There’s an unexpected disruption in the train connection from the north to the capital. Well, unexpected… the night guard’s words suddenly have a different weight. You dismissed them quite easily earlier, seeking comfort in believing they were just drunk ramblings from an old, lonely man. But you’ve been walking along the deserted road to the next city, a good ninety minutes away by foot. At this rate, you should be happy you’re back home by dusk.

And then you still have to break the news to Rooster.

You really don’t want to add his anger and disappointment to the pile of the awfulness of your day. Sighing, you trudge through the high grass, mud squelching under your boots. That said… if your roles were reversed, you wouldn’t want Rooster to keep something this important from you. If anything, that would make you even angrier.

It’s late afternoon already, but at least it’s sunny. It’s one of the first days in the year when you can smell the early spring blooms on a gust of wind. Better days are coming.

The bottle it glass bottle full of liquor is heavy in the makeshift knapsack in your hand. You’re barely halfway, but you haven’t seen a car pass yet. Well, no, you’ve seen cars pass, but they’re military trucks or sleek black Mercedes—neither carries the particular folk you’d be wanting to hitch a ride with.

As if they would stop for you right now. Auntie cleaned your increasingly threadbare coat pretty well, and you washed your face and hands before you left, but your pants have big dirt patches on the knees—the mud from the bank you’ve been walking on has splattered over your boots and trouser legs. You didn’t even really bother fixing up your hair, electing to tie it up with a scarf so it would be covered from the dirt in the cellar.

No one in their right mind would stop to give you a ride, which is just as well.

You haven’t been on a proper hike for a long time, and your legs actually hurt by the time you reach the station at the next town over. People are waiting, so hopefully, the trains are operating here—you skim the extensive timetable pinned next to the ticket booth. Unfortunately, you missed the last train by ten minutes, and the next one won’t be along for another half hour.

Fuck, today is really not your day, is it?

***

Bradley thinks he might have burned a trail through the floor from all the pacing he’s been doing. You mentioned you might not be back until later, but promised to stop by to let him know what happened. He’s spent a fair share of time thinking about you, pleasant thoughts mostly—but never have you consumed every one of his thoughts like this.

By now, you should have made it to the station. The train only takes an hour—pace, pace, pace. So by now, you should have made it to the house. There’s probably some polite small talk—pace, pace, pace. You should have sent the message by now, surely. The reply should not take that long—that frequency is monitored by someone almost permanently.

Finally, Bradley collapses on the bed. Surely, you wouldn’t dally too long if you had a reply. He doesn’t even want to consider the chance something might have gone wrong—no, you’re smart; you would not have failed when it mattered most. Your blatant confidence had surprised him, but… you delivered. If you had some extra time, Bradley would have put you through your paces a bit more and done more drills—but the fact you got this far in the first place deeply impressed him.

All things considered, this was probably the worst situation he’s been in his life. His mother dying and leaving him an orphan at sixteen after his father died before he was in elementary school would probably always be his darkest day but in a different way. Mav had also been around then to support him, and he wasn’t stuck in the Third Reich.

He can’t focus on reading anything; there’s nowhere for his thoughts to go in the small room. It’s getting on his nerves as his mind seems to be running away with him.

For all the enormous bad luck that Bradley had that faithful night he crashed in the mountains, you were the only blessing he was granted. He decided to follow that night hunter, overestimating his position and nearly paying for it with his life. He was known as a calm, conservative pilot even. Taking risks is part of the job, but Rooster likes to believe he does so in a calculated manner.

The Czech and Polish pilots always flew like they had the devil on their wings, with a bloodlust driving them that he could hardly match. One particularly crazy pilot, Hangman, would always laugh at him that he wouldn’t understand—his homeland wasn’t under occupation, after all.

He would never admit it out loud, but Hangman got to him. So he took a risk, less calculated than usual, as if he had something to prove. But as his parachute pulled him from the burning wreckage of his plane, hurtling toward the earth, he had one thought on his mind: if he is going to get out of this alive, he’d never do something this stupid again.

Sometimes, when he sees your mischievous smile, he wonders if the same anger and pride drive you as those pilots he met. Like you also have a little devil on your shoulder. He shudders at the thought of you having anything in common with someone as annoying and arrogant as Hangman.

It’s turning into late afternoon. It should all be done and dusted by now. Bradley leans out of the window, elbow on the window sill as he lights one of his last cigarettes. It's strange to know his fate might be sealed already, but he has no way of knowing how it will turn out.

It’s a beautiful day; the early spring sun feels warm. He misses going outside and walking around with you. He misses home.

Although he’s pretty sure when he gets home, he’ll miss you.

The hours pass in a haze. Bradley is sitting at the table, shuffling a deck of cards to at least keep his hands occupied, when he hears your footsteps coming up the stairs. His breath stocks as you come closer. When you reach the final step, he expects you to knock. He’s half out of the chair in anticipation.

Nothing happens for thirty seconds like you’re hesitating to announce your presence.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

He refuses to believe it until you tell him.

But the ice-cold realization slithers down his spine: this is bad.

Bradley half-trips over the chair as he suddenly gets up from it. He needs to know. Pulling open the door with considerable force, he’s met with your surprised face. Your hand hovers mid-air, curled into a loose fist like you were just about to knock.

The look in your eyes tells him everything. The disappointment, the pain. He storms away from you, coming to a violent stop within just a few steps on the other side of the small room. You’ve follow him in wordlessly, looking sad and weary.

Leaning heavily on the window sill, head down; Rooster looks defeated.

“Just tell me.” He says harshly. You bite your lip nervously as you softly put the knapsack on the table.

“We never managed to send the message.” You reply, refusing to let your voice quiver from the overwhelming emotions you are feeling now. “The system shorted, overheated, and caught fire on the second attempt.”

Rooster laughs loudly, humorlessly. You can see his shoulders move, but his head is still down. It’s a scary sound, almost otherwordly coming from him. Then, finally, he looks up, meeting your eye in the window's reflection.

“So I’m fucked.”

You don’t reply—there’s nothing you can say. There is no plan B, at least not right now.

“You really don’t have anything to say, Anya?” He is almost mocking you, lashing out in anger and grief. You shrug.

“There’s nothing I can tell you to make this better.” You reply calmly. “All I can offer is to forget for a little while.” Then, pulling the large glass bottle from the knapsack, you hold it up, knowing Rooster can see it.

Finally, he turns around, still frowning. You don’t like that look on him.

“Are you suggesting I get drunk?” He asks incredulously.

“We.” You counter lightly. “Do you have a better idea?”

Rooster narrows his eyes at you but finally just shrugs and sits back down at the table.

“Did you bring cigarettes?” He mumbles, voice still so flat. It sounds unnatural coming from him. “I’ve been all out since the afternoon.”

“I figured you might be,” You keep your tone conversational, pulling two packs from your pocket. “Here, this should tide you over.”

You shrug off your coat—it’s warm in the small room. You kick off your dirty boots for good measure, not wanting to track mud and dirt through the place.

Bradley follows your movements from the corner of his eye. You’re wearing the same pants you wore in the mountains, although they’re splattered with mud. They’re a little big on you, he notices, a belt cinching them tightly at your waist. The simple dark cotton button-up shirt you’re wearing is loose, the neckline falling a little deeper than he has seen on you before. Your hair is tied back with a simple light gray scarf, granting him a view of the elegant curve of your neck all the way to your shoulder, the smooth skin tantalizingly inviting.

However, you pay him no mind, rolling up your sleeves and quickly rinsing the two simple white china coffee cups in the bathroom sink. It does not escape your notice of how neat everything is. Towel folded, toothbrush, razor—everything is neatly arranged in the small space.

You sit down, put one cup before yourself, and push the other towards Rooster. He doesn’t look up from his hands. He looks empty. Defeated. As everything has just now, at this moment, caught up with him. It’s true that you severely questioned his ability to take things seriously, and wondered if he actually understood his situation. But, of course, he did. And seeing him like this is painful.

Awkwardly, you try to wrench the cork from the bottle—the tops of your index and middle fingers still hurt to the touch, so you can’t wrap them around all the way.

“What happened to your hand?” Rooster’s harsh question takes you off guard. But before you can answer, he’s already peeled your injured fingers away from the cork, stretching your arm over the table toward him. It leaves you awkwardly holding the bottle in your other hand. You regard him for a moment, he’s still not looking at you, but his touch is soft.

“When the radio shorted, my hand was on the leaver,” You tell him carefully. “The surge went up through the metal.”

His fingers trace along the reddened pads of your fingers up to your wrist, where the red scratches mar the skin further. Your palm twitches under his touch.

“Are you okay?” His question is soft.

“I should really be the one asking you that.” You reply emphatically, turning your hand and grabbing onto his. Ignoring the screaming pain in your fingertips, you lightly squeeze.

“You already know the answer to that.” He finally looks up; the look on his face is heart-wrenching. “So humor me.”

“I’m fine,” You assure him. “It’s just a few scratches. As a kid, I once fell out of the apple tree at my grandfather’s house; I practically skidded down—both my legs were full of lacerations. I was in pain for -”

You stop. Rooster probably doesn’t want to hear this right now. You’re not even really sure why you started telling him that.

“So, a drink?” You ask instead, gently pulling your hand back. Rooster nods mutely, looking at his hands again.

You wrench the cork off, pouring a generous splash—kind of what you assume a shot would be?—into the cups.

“Cheers.” Rooster picks up his cup without ceremony and downs it in one go.

“This too shall pass.” You don’t know what else to say, but it seems like the right thing to say. As you down your drink—shit, you overcalculated the amount—Rooster just lets out a sarcastic chuckle. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you look at him questioningly.

“What?” You ask, a little bit perturbed as you pour out another round.

“Do you really believe that?” He is serious, you realize. Frowning, looking for assurance almost.

“Show me an empire that didn’t fall.” Your retort, shrugging.

“Even if we won’t be here to see it?” It’s so uncharacteristic of him to be so dour. You sigh and down your drink. Another overpour. These cups are treacherous.

“If we don’t have hope, we have nothing,” It’s not a particular conversation you want to have, but Rooster probably needs to hear it. “Look. We’ve been on the back foot here since the beginning—outgunned, outmanned, everything. And the resistance system has been absolutely decimated.”

You take a deep breath, staring Rooster down.

“But you are still here. I am still here. We still have a chance.” You shake your head, a sad smile on your face. “We might not see the war's end, but we don’t own the future. But it’s… it’s not really about us on an individual level, you know? At least… I think freedom is more than that.”

“Are you prepared to die for freedom?” Rooster’s question is acerbic, like he doesn’t believe you, although he doesn’t look so angry anymore.

“Aren’t you?” You counter, frowning.

“I guess I just never thought it’d be like this.” He mumbles, staring into his mug before knocking it back.

“Like what?” You inquire, not unkindly, refilling the cups again. After this, you need to pump the breaks on the alcohol because you haven’t eaten anything in hours.

“In a foreign land. On the ground.” Rooster seems almost embarrassed to admit it.

“Instead of a blaze of glory?”

Rooster chuckles. “I suppose.” He meets your eyes again. “But you never answered my question, Anya. Are you prepared to die for freedom?”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” You try to deflect.

“Stop answering my questions with questions.” Rooster looks at you sharply, but his words lack edge. You chuckle.

“Yes.” You say it with conviction, although you’ve never said it out loud before, mainly because no one has ever asked you. There was never a need for that, really, because it was a given. In the resistance, if you’re caught, you’re as good as dead: either you’re just shot directly, you get sentenced to death, or if by some strange twist of faith, you’re sentenced to hard labor, you’ll probably die in a mine or factory somewhere far away from home. There is no other way out: it’s either them or us.

Rooster just nods and holds up his cup. His face looks impassive. You lean forward, clinking your cup against his. “Cheers,” You smile. “To victory. To freedom. And,” You lick your lips quickly, in a nervous gesture. “To us.”

“To us.” Rooster echoes forlornly. As he knocks back the drink, he grimaces. It doesn’t taste any better than the first shot.

Your head is spinning a little now. You should have eaten something. At least it seems to have taken the edge off for Rooster. He looks sad but doesn’t seem angry as he pries open the pack of cigarettes you’ve brought him. You sit in silence together, billows of smoke filling the room. There’s nothing much left to say right now—you both feel awful, but neither of you wants to be alone. Rooster hasn’t asked you to go, and you don’t want to leave either.

Sitting slumped over in your chair, chin heavily leaning on your uninjured hand, you watch Rooster. He’s leaned back, his long legs sticking out past the table. From a glance, he looks relaxed, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes, and how his mouth is set in a hard line.

His movements are sharp, the frustration evident as he runs his hand through his hair, messing with his usually neatly combed curls. He is so devastatingly handsome—there is no way to deny that—when he’s sharply dressed, he turns heads on the street. You’ve seen them look.

But now, a little bit messy, unguarded, languidly smoking a cigarette, long limbs sprawling, feels so much more intimate. Your heart is beating faster just looking at him. You know exactly what he looks like under that wrinkly shirt and how defined his muscles are under those rolled-up sleeves. You have felt how warm his skin is and traced the broadness of his chest. God, that drink is hitting you harder than you thought it would, leaving your thoughts to wander.

“You look flustered, Anya,” Bradley comments lazily, not moving his head to look at you, just his eyes. You sit up a little bit straighter, fanning yourself theatrically.

“It’s stuffy in here.” You reply dismissively. Pushing yourself up from the table, you dainty step over Bradley’s long legs and open the window. His eyes follow you around the room. Leaning out of the window a little bit, a gust of air cools your heated skin. It feels good, almost sobering.

Turning back around, Bradley hasn’t moved from his spot, the cigarette burning to a stump between his fingers. Your heart clenches again because there is nothing you can do to change what must be—for him—a hopeless situation. Stuck, literally and figuratively, in a small room on the top floor of a building in a strange country, thousands of miles from home, and the only hope of getting recused just going up in flames.

So now, you have to believe in both of you. Giving up is admitting defeat.

“The stars are out,” You comment. “Rooster, come see.”

Bradley doesn’t particularly feel like getting up. He doesn’t particularly feel anything right now except slightly lightheaded. But when he turns his head, he nearly does a double take—you’ve heaved yourself onto the window sill, straddling it, one leg already dangling outside. You beckon him, and he starts to shake his head. But then that mischievous smile plays over your face like a magnet. He gets up, discarding the cigarette butt in the ashtray on the table.

“Bring the bottle,” You smile. “And my boots, please.”

Bradley hands you your boots. Slipping them on, you swing your other leg over the ledge.

“What are you doing?” He asks, genuinely wondering what had gotten into you.

“Let’s go stargazing,” Your eyes are sparkling with mischief and wonder, and like a moth to the flame, Bradley follows you. Under the window, about a meter down, is a small ledge of the roof covered in black tar. Bradley had spent plenty of time looking out the window but never really noticed that his room was placed on top of the building, with a tarred ledge around it. Leaning from the window, he sees you a few feet down the ledge, waiting at a rain pipe. You beckon him again.

Bradley promised himself he wouldn’t do anything stupid anymore. He wouldn’t break any more rules—it never worked out for him anyway. Never did. It’s how he got into this mess in the first place. Unnecessary risk.

Stargazing in the capital of Nazi-occupied territory is on his list of unnecessary risks.

However—Bradley hasn’t been outside in over a week. It’s getting to him. He’s antsy.

And then there’s you. Radiant cheeky smile beckoning him.

You would know if it’s okay, right?

“Rooster, come on!” Your whisper is carried on a gust of wind, and Bradley can smell spring.

Fuck it.

He swings his legs over the window ledge. It’s strangely warm outside for it being so early in the year—there is a bite in the wind, but it’s clear winter is over. Carefully shuffling over the ledge, he comes up to where you are. The wall in front of you is about six feet high, with a thick rain pipe running down the side.

You wink as you wrap your hands around the rain pipe, placing one foot flat against the wall and hoisting yourself up in one fluid motion. Then, you take another step, putting your other foot high against the wall and using your momentum to grab onto the wall's ledge, pulling your upper body up.

You were hoping to do this smoothly—you’ve done this a million times, after all, but instead, as you try to swing your leg over the edge to pull yourself up entirely onto the roof, you tip forward. Then, with a small yelp, you keel over onto the roof. You hear Rooster chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you pretend nothing happened, turning back to him.

“Hand me the bottle,” You whisper again. “And then climb up.”

“Why are you whispering?” He whispers back.

“Echo,” You reply simply, voice still soft. “Some crotchety old coot will probably have a fit if we talk too loudly.”

Bradley gets it but also appreciates that you don’t say it’s speaking English that will get you in trouble. He holds the bottle up for you to grab before mimicking your technique, climbing up the rain pipe. You hear the small grunt as he pulls himself up, and even in the darkness of the night, you can see the muscles in his forearms straining. At the crook of his neck, a vein appears as he flexes. You swig from the bottle, unsure if you want to commit this to memory or erase it completely.

Once on the roof, Bradley looks around. The city is quiet, with few lights on the bridges and houses flickering in the darkness.

You pat the ground next to you. As Bradley sits down, he keeps a respectful distance. One risk is enough for tonight.

He watches as you take another swig from the bottle before handing it to him and lying back. Averting his eyes, he tries not to notice how he can see the swell of your breasts past the opening of your loose shirt. Taking a drink, he places to bottle between you before laying back too.

“How did you know about this place?” Bradley looks up at the sky, littered with stars. It feels strange whispering in the open air like this—as if you’re sharing some sort of great secret between you. Like in that moment, you’re the only people in the world.

“I…” You hesitate. Would it be so wrong if there were one person in this world who knew you? “I found this place years ago with some friends.”

You hear Bradley shift next to you.

“We used to come here to smoke cigarettes in high school.”

“So you live here?”

You turn to Rooster. His head is turned to you, watching you speak. But rather than answer, you just smile. Some things are better left unsaid. He chuckles.

“I grew up around here.” You reply instead, again not quite answering his question. “I would go exploring with my friends; that’s how we found all those service entrances and stairways. I think I was around ten when we first climbed up here.”

“You climbed out of a window onto a roof at age ten?” Bradley is now fully turned to you, lying on his side, head leaning on his hand. He takes another sip from the bottle. “Why?”

“Well…” You move onto your side, too, to face him. “I uuhm… I was terrified of the ghosts that haunted the stairwells.” You chew your lip, embarrassed you’re actually admitting to this. “I thought I heard one come up the stairs, so I climbed out of the window.”

Bradley guffaws, but you immediately shush him, unable to keep the embarrassed smile off your face.

“Somehow, that explains so much about you.”

“You’ve seen those hallways—tell you wouldn’t believe they’re haunted.” You defend yourself lamely, taking the bottle from him.

“Fair.” Bradley concedes. “Do your friends still live here?”

“Most of them disappeared.” Shaking your head, you gaze off into the distance.

“Can I ask… how?”

“Deported, put to work, left the city, fled abroad��it’s hard to say.” You shrug. “There’s no way to know; most aren’t keeping in touch.”

You take a swig. There is only one person you’re pretty sure about where they are—Jakub, who joined the air force after graduation, must have made it to England. If anyone made it, it would be him. He was born lucky. Sometimes you wonder if you should ask Rooster if he had, by any chance, met Jakub in England—maybe they flew together?

But you never do and never will. It’s information you shouldn’t have and would only put Jakub in danger. And how would you even keep it from his mother? Could you ever look her in the eye, knowing where her beloved son is, and endanger her by telling her the truth?

Probably not.

“Enough about that.” You turn back to Bradley, a small smile on your face. “Now you have to tell me something about your childhood. It’s only fair.”

He smiles at you—finally. You nervously take another swig, ignoring the sudden blood rushing in your ears.

“Honestly, it’s probably boring compared to yours. There’s a distinct lack of haunted staircases.” He holds out his hand for the bottle. As you hand it to him, you are sure you’re not imagining that he deliberately brushes his fingers against yours.

“My dad was in the Navy, so we moved around often. So I can’t really remember many of the places I’ve lived,” Bradley sounds distant like he’s recounting something that happened to someone else. “When I was in high school, we were already living in Virginia, and I would sneak out of school to watch the planes at the nearby Naval airbase.”

“Of course, I was found out, and the principal called my mom,” He smiles at the memory. “She grounded me for a month, and I missed the baseball championship game.”

“Oh.” You frown. Your own mother was pretty strict, but you’ve never been grounded like that. “What did your father say about it? Being in the Navy himself?”

“He had been dead for over ten years at that point.” He says it entirely matter-of-factly, without a shred of emotion. You blink at him, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” You offer. He just shrugs like it’s no big deal. He takes a drink from the bottle before his eyes settle on you again. You’re looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes like you’re trying to figure something out, but you don’t say anything. In the end, you just look away.

“So you always knew you wanted to fly?” You ask instead.

“Not always, but I can’t imagine a different life now.” His voice sounds warmer again. “Have you ever flown?”

“No,” You chuckle. “But I’d like to.”

“I could take you.”

And there it is. The teasing little comment that is so Rooster. He looks relaxed now, although he also kind of looks drunk. Your hand feels heavy as you rub it over your face—you’re pretty drunk too.

“Careful,” You tell him lightly. “I might take you up on that offer.”

“I don’t invite just anyone up with me.”

Your brain is starting to feel really hazy, and your judgment is getting increasingly impaired. It’s like all your reactions are delayed; it’s only now that you honestly feel kind of cold. Of course, it’s only a little, but you are suddenly keenly aware that you are a little too eager for Rooster’s flirty attention.

“Let’s go back in.” You offer, sitting up. Bradley follows suit, letting you lead the way. Clambering down the rain pipe, you jump down the last part, almost losing your footing on the landing. For a moment, you see the dimly lit inner courtyard a little too far out before you manage to throw your body back. A hand clamped over your mouth, as much in shock as to stifle a nervous giggle, as you lean against the wall. Bradley hands you the bottle, and his face seems to have soured—you can see the serious look on his face, wide-eyed, but you don’t notice. He jumps down, a lot more controlled than you, as you shuffle along the wall back to the window.

Slipping back into the room, you rub your hands over your eyes. Everything is starting to spin—you need to go home.

“Do you make a habit of charging into things without regard for yourself or others?”

Rooster’s words are like a bucket of ice water being dumped down your spine. Wide-eyed, you turn to him.

“Excuse me?” You ask incredulously. He is pulled up to his full height, arms crossed, and staring you down. At that moment, you know you shouldn’t really take him on in this discussion—clearly, you’re both drunk—but yeah, you have a habit of charging into things. Especially if it’s unfair or unjust, like Rooster’s accusation. So you mimic his stance, pulling up an eyebrow.

“You nearly pitched off that ledge and ’t even blink.” He bites out. “What would have happened if -”

“But I didn’t,” You cut him off, getting annoyed. “I know what I’m doing.”

Probably only half true right now, but the point still stands, you think stubbornly.

“You know what you’re doing…” He scoffs, staring daggers at you. “You’re a jumped-up little schoolgirl playing at war.”

You clench your jaw. What got into him?

You should walk away. You should not engage in a drunk spat. But your sense of self-justice won’t allow you. The comment is uncalled for, and you will defend yourself.

“If I’m only playing at it, I do it well enough, considering you’re still not dead.” You counter, voice taking on an icy edge.

“You could have died just now.”

“I could have died many times over in the last few years.” You try to keep your cool. “Why are you lecturing me?”

“Your attitude is dangerous,” Rooster is livid. How can you be so blase about everything? If you died, he would be left in an impossible position. It’s making his head spin, thinking is hard, but one thought is crystal clear: the thought of you stumbling over that ledge has an icy grip on his heart. Your reaction is completely infuriating—the confidence that was endearing before now grates on him as blind arrogance. “You are overconfident, barely competent, and don’t understand the consequences of your actions.” He seethes, voice getting louder by the syllable.

How can you not see how important you are to him?

“I didn’t exactly choose any of this,” You remind him firmly. “I was operating in the background just fine before I found you in that coop. And even then—don’t you dare interrupt me -” Your voice could cut steel right now.

You hold up a finger to silence Rooster, who just opened his mouth to say something—you hate it when people make unfounded accusations, you hate it when people are unfair, and you especially hate it when people talk over you—Rooster is currently expertly doing everything to make you completely lose your temper.

Bradley is actually stunned into silence for a moment. As an adult, hell, not even as a child, has he ever been told to shut up like that. He would be impressed by how fearless you are, but right now, everything from the top of your head to your muddy boots to every word that passes your rosy lips is making his blood boil.

“And even then,” You continue, voice firm, pulling yourself to your full height and planting your feet. “I’ve been doing a darn good job of it so far, so what’s your real problem?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“A bit rich, coming from you.” You quip bitterly. Your chances of getting killed didn’t grow exponentially since you met him. “Out of the two of us, you’re the one who crashed a goddamn plane.” You add haughtily.

He looms over you, trying to get you on the back foot. But you’re not going to back down—not from him or anyone. You refuse to be intimidated like that, but your head is swimming, and somewhere behind Rooster, the floor appears to be swaying. You blink heavily, forcing yourself to focus on the flurry of angry words Rooster is still hurling at you.

“I may have crashed, but at least I didn’t burn out on a code high school dropouts easily master.” His voice is low and harsh—you cannot keep the shock from passing over your face. The cruel grin you get in return tells you he absolutely intended for that comment to hurt you. You purse your lips, quickly disguising the pain.

“How come you can’t hold a rhythm, doll face?” He is taunting you. Bradley knows he’s crossing a line, but the frustration for the last month and a half is suddenly pouring out. Everything is mixing into a poisonous cocktail within him: the stress, the pain, the worry—and you. You’re like the spark that lit the fuse on him, and now he can’t stop the raging fire. You look at him with a stony expression. It only pisses him off more. “No one ever asked you to dance? Is that the expression you wore standing at the edge of the dance floor?”

He reaches out to you, nearly trailing his finger over your face. Nostrils flaring, you swat his hand away, stumbling back on your unsteady feet. The chair you bump into noisily drags over the floor. To his credit, Rooster actually looks shocked for a moment—his hand is suspended mid-air, still reaching out to you. He is about to take a step toward you as you regain your footing.

“Don’t.” You cut at him, stopping him dead in his tracks. The shock on his face melts away like snow in the sun, and he looks at you disdainfully. Your heart is beating so hard that it makes you lose equilibrium. So Rooster finally dropped his mask—he had you fooled for long enough with that fun American attitude.

“I didn’t choose this.” You repeat angrily, voice raw, stomach-churning like you’re about to be sick. “You don’t get to blame me for everything.”

“You think I wanted this? You think I chose this?” He suddenly thunders, taking another step closer to you, moving into your space again. Why does he insist on being so close to you? You stop yourself from physically pushing him away—you might be confident, but you’re not stupid.

“Yes, actually.” You’re raising your voice to match his volume. “I saw your papers, remember? You weren’t drafted Rooster; you enlisted. You chose exactly this.”

Firmly, you turn away from him and grab your coat off the chair. If he has anything else to say, you don’t want to hear it. Rooster is calling out your name. He doesn’t deserve you listening. Awkwardly folding your coat into your arms, limbs heavy, you realize you probably look like a mess, disheveled and drunk. But you don’t care. You want to get out of here.

You storm towards the door. Is Rooster still talking? The beating of your heart is so loud, the voice in your head urgently calling you to leave; there’s no way you can tell. You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Hand on the doorknob, you still.

“You’re a really shit drunk, Rooster.” You tell him calmly, not turning to him; tears are burning in your eyes. You don’t even really care if he is listening. “But it’s nice to finally really meet you.”

note | finally, a regularly scheduled update x

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #rooster x oc #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x oc

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dienette-666 · 1 year ago

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[GUTS SPILLING OUT] - Unit S.L.E.D.G.E Leon S Kennedy x OC

Pairing: Leon S Kennedy x OC Tags: cheeky, flirting, sexual tension, building of a relationship, strangers to lovers, injuries, mental health, past trauma, TW: graphic description of wounds, overcoming trauma, emotional bond, Summary: A sarcastic and even more so traumatized BSAA Officer found her peace of mind in the lucious green of Woodkirk's forests, where BSAA authorities had "kindly" established the rehabilitation and training camp "ReTra" vor all soldiers too messed up and broken down to be immediately sent back into yet another suicide mission for the greater good. However, a slash to her guts later along with a marathon to run for her life and a missed swoosh to the head of a mysterious blonde with her coat rack, the brunette found herself acquainted with Leon S Kennedy himself.

____________________________

PART ONE - Guts spilling out

The dawn of this very Sunday - it was April - had announced itself mightily, by silencing the chirping birds and striking the pale, blue sky with its suffocating clouds of an ashy grey color. Even the moon had been greedy with its glow – merely scattering weak beams of light upon the busy highways and rural areas.

In the pulsating darkness of that night, swollen puddles marked the sodden gravel paths, cold drizzle tickled the calm surfaces of nearby waters and the whistling wind lulled even the most reluctant visitor to the "ReTra camp" in Woodkirk to sleep.

The sun hadn’t even set properly, as its golden rays were harshly swallowed by dense towers of clouds and the first droplets of rain had started falling, right when General Brooks was busy locking the entrance to the camp with two thick chains and called in the last soldier, who hadn't stopped running his legs sore since afternoon.

While ReTra therefore proceeded according to its daily protocol, everyone stationed there knew how to behave and peacefully settled into their cabins as dusk fell, rushing tires screeched wildly across the asphalt of the adjacent highway, hurling themselves through the sticky mud of nearby dirt roads and finally, coming to a silent halt at the edge of the Woodkirk forest – smoking with frictional heat.

Between its untouched treetops and massive rocks, no roaring truck and no agile bike could fit, but only the brunette with her body's exhaling strength.

The dripping wet leaves of shrubs along her path clung to the tattered sleeve of her dark green plaid button up, while the cold rain settled around her shoulders like a stinging breeze, drawing an icy chill into her skin and causing her muscles to stiffen.

The hem of her flared jeans soaked up the muddy water, that she flung up the narrow gravel path with each disoriented step.

She was not a prepared hiker, a secret agent in a tight black outfit, nor a brainless teenager, seeking adrenaline in the shadows of the night.

For if she were a hiker, she'd be lugging a heavy backpack, lacing sturdy trekking shoes with a rough profile around her feet, and throwing on tactical pants with a cheeky camouflage print, instead of hurrying around knee-high grass in nothing but a plaid shirt and way too fancy bell-bottoms, tearing her elbows on the rough bark of ancient trees.

The panicked brunette seemed out of place and completely ill-fitted in the overgrown wilderness that surrounded her like a pitch-black cave.

The only thing that even remotely aired her true purpose, was a leather weapon holster that strapped tightly around her thigh, but was yelpingly empty.

However, her determined steps, the straight path she steadily took and the committed glance she cast, before turning in yet another direction, revealed that she couldn't have been lost after all.

Calculated yet staggering weakly, she turned left when she had to and held her course until a right fork called out to her.

The flat heel of her neat Chucks sank deep into the dirt and rose from the slippery ground again, this time stained by mud, while her hurried steps began to lose their span and pace.

Each breath squeezed her chest tightly, only to puff it up widely again in the next moment - forcing the forest's moist air into her lungs.

Her calves began to toughen like over-chewed gum and the white tank top under her button-up became so wet, that she gradually grew unable to distinguish the rain from her bleeding wound.

It was an oozing wound, her brutally torn skin in the shape of three barbaric claw marks and the fleshy red color, which melted into the fibers of her simple white top.

With every of her snorting breaths and each time the muscles of her abdomen spasmed into a cramp, its ribbed fabric got stuck in the throbbing gash and plucked at it to the brunette's suffering.

The wide cuts stamped themselves into the cloth of her white tank top, yet gradually washed away with the pattering rain.

So, the top wrapped itself tighter and tighter around her shaken ribs, whereas the browned blood slowly soaked itself up to her bra and exposed the paleness of her cold skin underneath.

Eventually there came a point, when she no longer knew to make out whether the wetness around the waistband of her pants came from the insatiable rain, or if it was the gore pouring out of her own guts.

Therewith came black dots flickering in her vision - a shallow drift from consciousness to unconsciousness - and yet the brunette kept tramping through the undergrowth, until the forest’s dense trees gradually thinned out and the pitch-black outline of the training camp appeared against the pale night sky.

Her temples were undercut with blood, her upper lip viciously torn on the right side, and the inside of her cheeks completely chewed up by the grinding bites, that the pain coaxed out of her.

With the brunette’s lips trembling as if she was freezing terribly and her left arm wrapped around her crunching ribs, she ducked under the wetly dripping chains of the entrance with the last strength of her numb legs - already plotting out the way to her cabin in her fogged-up mind. The edge of her delicate shoe tore gravel along, whilst her weight stirred up the swollen ground under her soles into narrow streaks and left irrevocable traces of her presence. And yet, she met her silently planned route to the meter.

Thus, however, the moment of unbarring pain announced itself, where the overflowing aches of her torn skin began to mimic the beating of her very heart and the searing burning became more overwhelming, than the brunette could have ever been able to endure.

The nipping of her teeth into the sore flesh of her cheek, the embattled grip of her pointed fingernails into the sides of her torso, and the harsh growl that escaped her throat like a bestial snarl, were nowhere near enough to express the pain and terrified panic within her.

Although the seriously wounded brunette did not want to arouse any commotion, let alone wake any of her sleeping comrades, her unbearable suffering chased any of those rational thoughts out of her mind a unbarring pain and replaced her initial cautiousness with an animalistic instinct of survival.

The staggered sleeping cabins were built across a large courtyard, that was meant for the locally stationed residents' morning runs, whereas the panting brunette hardly even arrived at the corner of the guard house in the entrance area of the ReTra camp.

Eventually, her knees blocked from advancing, begging for a break, right as they let out a rusty crack and inevitably forced the brunette to halt and clamp her red-stained fingers around a rusty rain pipe for a brief moment.

The stained metal tube vibrated under her fingertips, as masses of water washed through, giving her a new sensation to focus on.

However, it would never be cold or rushing enough, to quench the infinitely deep ache clawing at her waist.

Losing her balance on one of her heels, the brunette therefore grasped the rippling pipe all the tighter and ultimately couldn't take it anymore.

Each of her vertebrae curled into a quivering hollowed back, while she pitifully reached her right arm to the ground, trembling bitterly, until finally a thundering scream tore itself from her throat, which she had tried to suppress for so long.

It made her lips twitch and her cheeks tremble - a frothy thread of saliva dripping from her split lips as she contorted her face for a moment, to unravel the true despair inside, leaving her torso to hang down inevitably exhausted.

The pain-distorted scream, that got louder as her suffering reached a new high, echoed across each pebble amongst the soaked dirt, moving every little puddle, and yet the courtyard remained silently still.

Before her arrival, the brunette had managed not to sob and to even forget the wound on her stomach, due to the ferally pumping adrenaline in her body.

But now, as she already saw the safety of her little cabin from a reachable distance and knew to soon have reached her destination, she was given no other choice, than to be caught by the sheer horror that marked her abdomen.

Thus, the intolerable rumbling in her guts continued to plague her, but the brunette finally gave herself a firm jerk away from the downpipe, stumbling for a few steps at first, but then compulsively catching herself and fighting against every throb of her wounds.

The purposeful brunette, who had previously turned nimbly around every tree and ducked just when she had to, turned into a disoriented woman who, from one blink of an eye to the next, was suddenly no longer certain which cabin was really hers.

Her memory deceived her treacherously, as she first tried the small key to her room on the iron lock of one of the six doors and tried to hit the keyhole with her dazed, numb fingers.

Followingly, the grooves of her silver key struck the rusty lock unsuccessfully at first, right before the brunette ended up jiggling at it in frustration.

The old wooden door wobbled on its hinges, but would not open at any price. And that was simply, because it was the wrong one.

With great effort, she spluttered in confusion, shimmying herself to the knob of the adjacent door and crashed into it uncontrollably, as her trembling fingers tried to thread the key inside once more.

This time its indentations fit like a glove and so the dizzy brunette turned the key a few times to her right, before immediately pushing the door open.

#leon kennedy #resident evil 4 remake #resident evil 4 #resident evil #leon s kennedy #bloodbath #cw: gore #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #female reader #oc

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my-favourite-zhent · 10 months ago

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New Tricks - Chapter 11

Status: Work In Progress Version: 1.01 Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13) Genre: Adventure/Romance Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes: Thanks to @fistfuloftarenths for work shopping this chapter with me! Really helped with ironing out the details and getting the correct tone for Rugan.

Table of Contents Read below the or here on AO3

New Tricks - Chapter Eleven

Once again Rugan found himself working to push down any thoughts of Izzy. He tried to think of her not at all during the day, and this time around did not even indulge himself in remembering their trysts when alone in his tent at night. Yet every so often he would dream of her in the low light of the Ship’s Prow. That familiar playful smile.

“Do you have a name Zhent?”

He spoke of these dreams to no one. When Olly brought up the topic of Netheril and its floating cities, Rugan deftly changed the subject. When the barmaids in Beregost flirted with him he flirted back, and when they were open to it he took them to bed, dark haired or no. One night as a feisty red lead him up the stairs of yet another inn he locked eyes with Bellar and saw his tacit approval.

Izzy had just been a passing fancy, and eventually the dreams too stopped.

They had stopped over in Nashkel to drop off their first load and procure another to transport to Crimmor. The Bitten Path through the Cloud Peaks was a considerably less well maintained and less populated route compared to the Coast Way. Rugan made sure to purchase for himself an extra woolen layer to deal with mountain chill he knew was to come.

He had come out of the shop to see Olly talking to some urchins but when he approached the pair of children ran away.

“Long lost cousins?” He teased.

“They sort of reminded me of my brothers and sisters back home.” Olly remarked rather wistfully.

Rugan clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Well don't let them pick your pockets, blood relation or no.”

Olly had a sheepish look then and Rugan wondered if his warning had come too late.

“C’mon then I'll treat you to something warm to eat, we’ll be on the road again come morning.”

+++++

The Bitten path was every bit as rough as Rugan remembered, the winds through the mountain pass cut into flesh like nothing else. It was only just the beginnings of Uktar but here the cold found a way of seeping into one’s bones.

“Gods it is bitingly cold.” Complained Olly.

“They don’t call it the Bitten path for nothing, lad.”

Bellar shook his head at Rugan’s terrible joke but Sal barked out a short laugh. It had only been the four of them on this run and Rugan was thankful for that now, would be quicker to get through the mountains with only the one wagon.

They were four days down the pass when the rain began. The cold had let up a little so it was not as bad as it could have been but by the afternoon the rain was coming down in droves.

Eventually they were forced to stop and set up camp for the night under a rocky outcropping.

“Nine hells lad you look like a wet cat.” Shouted Rugan as he got a good look at the boy. “What happened to your rain cloak?”

“Lost it.” Olly muttered, but he wouldn't meet Rugan’s eye.

‘Bloody fool gave it away.’

“What sort of Zhent loses his kit? Expect better from you of all people, Olly.” The boy flinched but Rugan didn't allow his heart to soften.

“Right, wring them out and hang them by the fire, with any luck they’ll dry by morning and it won’t be pissing down tomorrow.”

Tymora, it seemed, had taken pity on Olly. His clothes had managed to dry most of the way through and while dreary and dark there was no rain the next morning. The path was half mud though and it was slow going that day.

By dusk it seemed the boy’s luck had run out, the rain came down in sheets and they pressed on till sunset. Without any caves to rely on this time the group hung up a tarp between some trees on a little plateau of stone and did their best to keep dry.

Once again Olly was forced to wring out his things and leave them to dry by the fire. They were still a little damp come morning, but serviceable. At least they would’ve been on a sunny day, that morning they were instead greeted by another storm.

“It’s raining buckets out there!” Sal gaped at the downpour.

“Figures our first Amnish trip would be in Uktar.” Bellar muttered bitterly.

“Cheer up lads, at least it means no bandits.” Rugan turned to Olly who looked absolutely miserable.

The boy had already spent a day and a half in the rain, and he didn’t have the luxury of a wool liner the way Rugan had. Even putting aside the rain cloak, Olly’s kit was sparser than the rest of the party. As the youngest member he hadn’t yet built up a nice set of leathers, he lacked pauldrons, a neck guard, even his bracers were thick cloth rather than proper hide. Another day or two in this weather and he was guaranteed to fall ill.

Rugan let out a long sigh, knowing he was going to regret his next actions.

“Here, lad.” He threw his cloak and it hit Olly’s head with a soft ‘Thwump’.

Olly pulled it off his face before staring at Rugan in confusion.

“Well put it on then, we don’t have time for you to stand around gawping.”

“But what about you Rugan?” As always the compassion in Olly’s voice was palpable.

“What about me? Least I’ve got my layers. Besides, I don't catch chill.”

“Are you sure–”

“Listen Olly, you’re no good to us if you die before we even reach Crimmor, and I’m sure as shite not dragging your corpse back to the Gate. So unless you want us to dump you in a ditch on the side of the road put on the damned cloak.”

Olly hastened to obey, determined to secure the item to himself properly.

“If Olly gets your cloak can I borrow–” Sal had started.

“No.”

“If you die on the road can we turn your pockets out?” Chuckled Bellar.

“Not that you’d find anything.” Rugan laughed. “I’m gonna outlive all of you bastards regardless.”

“Says the git with one foot in the grave.” Bellar retorted.

“Ready.” Chirped Olly now that he was confident he was completely covered.

“Alright, less press on then lads.”

The rain was miserable. Even worse than the day before. It was true that Rugan's leathers kept some of it out, and his woolen layer delayed him getting drenched but it too eventually soaked through.

He could feel the rivulets of rain on his face and down his neck, blurring his vision and soaking him through.

The fabric of his tunic was cold and sloppy against his skin. Every movement he made it would slide disgustingly against his flesh. The cold was that much worse when wet as well, every whip of the wind cut him to the bone. He could feel old injuries ache from the chill and his strength was sapped entirely.

By the time they made camp for the night he was falling off his horse. He was stripping down and hanging his things by the fire the moment it was lit. Olly had asked him for help with some camp task or another and Rugan had snapped at him with an anger Olly had rarely seen before.

His sleep was fitful and restless, his blankets doing nothing to ward of the chill. He dreamt that night, dreamt of being on a ship and falling into the sea. He dreamt that Izzy had been there with him under the waves but when he reached for her she only receded farther into the depths.

When he awoke his face felt tight and flush. Every scrap of muscle seemed to ache and throb.

His clothes had only half dried. Though he had hung them by the fire all night the air had been too damp from too many days rain.

Olly had tried to offer his cloak back but angrily he had pushed it away.

“My clothes aren't dry Olly, if I take that now we'll both be wet and miserable.” Rugan’s voice was cold and laced with annoyance but when he saw Olly flinch he tried to soften it just a touch. “Keep the damn thing, it's only one more day or so to Crimmor in any event.”

Another day trudging through the mud, but thankfully only a drizzling of rain. It was still uncomfortable but at least he didn't feel as cold, if anything he was starting to feel peculiarly warm.

They couldn't find any cover that night so there was no fire for which to dry his clothes by. This time when Rugan crawled into his bedroll he dreamt of a campfire. Zarys was sitting there, gazing into the flames. Then she turned to him, but she moved in that strange dreamlike way where everything seems to be underwater.

“I'm worried, Rugan, worried that Olly will make the kind decision instead of the smart decision. Just like you. Just like how you got Tamlyn killed.”

When he woke he wasn't sure if he was slick from sweat or from the damp and skin felt like it was on fire.

He dressed with great effort and opened the flaps of his tent to survey the morning's outlook. It was still drizzling but not pouring so at least there was that.

He saw Olly crawling out of his own tent and when they locked eyes the boy made to offer the cloak back again.

“I really don't need it anymore Rugan so–”

“Don't make me repeat myself Olly.” Rugan snarled before tucking back into his tent and packing away his remaining things. His thoughts drifted back to the dream. Had it been about Olly being too soft? Or has it really been about himself?

Everyone was quiet that last day on the pass. Even those who were well and dry were miserable from the constant chill and rain. The rain had become torrential by dusk but they had made good enough time in the morning that they would still reach the city by nightfall.

Rugan had found the heat becoming unbearable and worked to loosen his collar. He saw Olly watching him through the sheets of rain.

“Alright Rugan?!” He had heard the boy try to shout over the downpour. Though they rode only a few feet apart it was difficult to make out the words through the cacophony of falling rain.

Rugan made to respond but the whole world seemed to shift under him. It felt like Olly was oriented the wrong way now, a way that didn't make sense.

He could hear Olly shouting to the others but he was too tired to make out the sounds. Vaguely he became aware of the sound of hoofbeats and the press of mud against his cheek, and then he was aware of nothing at all.

+++++

“Look, we've at least made it to an inn, maybe give him a day or two of rest and he'll come round.” Sal gestured towards the bed where Rugan lay unconscious. They'd paid the tavern wenches to bath him and get him into something dry but that did nothing for the man's continued fever.

“And if he doesn't come round by then?” Bellar intoned from where he was leaning on the wall, arms crossed.

“We can't just leave him!” Cried Olly from where he sat on the bed, wringing out a fresh cloth to lay on Rugan’s forehead.

“We're already behind schedule, Olly. Waiting two days is very generous.” Bellar warned.

“I could stay with him while you two go ahead to Athkatla–”

“You want us to run the job two down instead of just one?”

“He's right Olly.” Sal sighed. “Listen, if we all chipped in a bit we could afford to put him up here for a few nights beyond us leaving. Knowing his luck he'll be right as rain and catch up to us in no time.”

“Waste of coin for a man with one foot in the grave, but fine.” Bellar grumbled. “I lay first claim on his daggers when he finally pops off though.”

“But who's gonna look after him when we're gone?” Asked Olly softly.

“It may not come to that.” Sal tried to reassure him. “Let's wait the two days first, yeah?”

Olly only solemnly nodded, he knew it was a big thing for them to be waiting at all. He also knew it was unlikely for Rugan to recover by then, and that it was his own gods damned fault for Rugan’s predicament.

With that in mind, when Salazon offered to take over watching Rugan for a bit, Olly went down to the innkeeper to ask about shrines to Tymora in the city.

#rugan #bg3 rugan #rugan bg3 #zhentarim #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 rugan #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #new tricks #bg3 fanfic: new tricks #bg3 fic: new tricks #my writing #bg3 oc: izzy #izzy x rugan #rugan x izzy

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tongue-like-a-razor · 2 years ago

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Altitude - Chapter 6

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!OC

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x Fem!OC

Summary: Sydney is not a pilot. But she knows all their tricks. That's why, when she meets the smooth-talking Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, she's not falling for any of them. She's not falling for him, either.

CW: This is a Mav chapter. Love triangle, angst, marital conflict, slow burn.

Start from the beginning: Part I

Maverick settles his tab at the bar, now and again throwing a sideways glance at Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw as they shower his daughter with attention. He imagines she must feel, at the very least, inconvenienced by their tiresome advances, and – more likely – encumbered by their presence. But she doesn’t show it; Sydney Mitchell is all smiles and laughter, as if either Hangman or Rooster have any sense of humor whatsoever. Maverick shakes his head, admiring his daughter’s acting skills. She actually looks as though she’s enjoying herself. Which is absurd – she couldn’t possibly be.

He bids his trainees goodnight and heads for the door. He doesn’t need to witness them getting hammered the night before their canyon run exercise. He’d end up lecturing them on the effects of alcohol on reaction time and how long it takes for the body to clear it from the system. He doesn’t want to be that guy. Besides, he remembers himself at their age, and he wouldn’t have paid himself any attention whatsoever. These life lessons are best learned by living. And, hopefully, surviving.

He steps out of the bar, hopping down the steps of the deck, and looks out at the rose-tinted sky. The sun is below the horizon now, and the rippling water is reflecting the red and orange hues of dusk. There are still people in the water, families gathering their belongings on the beach, couples enjoying the warm, evening air.

He slides on his sunglasses, turning toward the parking lot, the gravel of the road crushing under his boots, and starts for his bike. That’s when he sees her.

Cast in the golden glow of sunset, hair afloat in the breeze coming off the water, skirt flattened by the wind right against her legs, she’s like an apparition. Something out of this world. Something he’s been chasing after his entire life. Something surreal and forever just out of reach.

She’s walking toward the Hard Deck, tucking her hair behind her ear as it blows into her face. She spots him almost as soon as he sees her, and her step falters slightly. The hesitation is so minute that she clearly means for it to go undetected, but there is nothing about her that has ever escaped his notice.

His pace slows as he stares at her in wonder, half-expecting her to evaporate together with the salty air. He reaches up to remove his aviators, blinking profusely as though the act might somehow correct his vision and erase her from existence or, at any rate, from the parking lot.

She doesn’t look pleased to see him, even less so as he comes to a halt before they cross paths. He’s staring at her incredulously as she stops before him, sighing impatiently.

“Pete,” she says. The name falling from her lips stings. After all, she used to call him Maverick. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He nods, his mouth still slightly agape. “No kidding,” he responds.

She glances at the bar behind him irritably, as if he’s keeping her from much more pressing matters. She lets out a puff of air, folding her arms over her chest, apparently resigned to spending another several minutes in an uncomfortable silence with him.

“What brings you to North Island?” he asks, eyeing her warily, for the first time in his life unsure how to talk to her. Still, there isn’t anything in the world he’d rather be doing.

She gives him a pointed look. “Sydney, of course.”

Maverick nods. “Of course.” He hesitates, wanting, more than anything, to reach out and touch her arm, confirm that she’s real.

“Is she here? I’ve tracked her phone to this location.”

Maverick narrows his eyes. “She didn’t tell you she was coming?”

Another sigh. “You didn’t wonder for a minute why she’s suddenly decided to seek you out?”

Maverick shakes his head. “I didn’t want to question it.” He shrugs. “I was just happy to see her.”

She gives him a sympathetic glance, her icy demeanor collapsing around her. Then a small smile appears on her face as she lowers her gaze. “You’ve been good?” she asks expectantly.

He chuckles. “I have.”

She purses her lips, avoiding his gaze. “That’s good.”

He can’t take his eyes off her. “Could have been better,” he adds.

She scoffs and shakes her head, although the smile lingers on her face, despite the bitterness of her words. “Yeah, couldn’t we all?”

“Amelia,” he says quietly, his voice close to breaking.

She meets his gaze briefly and, in that instant, he nearly blacks out. She sighs sharply and looks away, but he’s reeling from the fleeting – but earth-shattering – eye contact. He takes an uneven breath, watching her stare at the gravel at his feet as if it were more interesting than his face.

There are about a million things he’d like to say to her, give or take a few, but he can’t seem to string two words together, let alone a relevant, coherent sentence. He can only gape at her, admiring her unparalleled beauty, finding comfort in her predictable cynicism. He wipes at his brow uneasily, giving his hand something to do besides clenching into a fist to keep it from shaking. He closes his eyes, breathing out steadily. “She’s inside,” he says.

Amelia looks up at him with a small smile. “Thanks,” she says.

Maverick nods to acknowledge the gratitude, trying to catch her gaze. Her eyes linger for a moment on his and it seems to take a significant amount of effort on her part to finally look away. “Amelia,” he calls when she starts to walk away. She turns back wearily. “You staying awhile?”

She lifts her eyebrows and bites on the inside of her cheek. “Not if I can help it,” she responds.

Maverick chuckles. “I’m sincerely hoping you can’t,” he says, to which she rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

He watches her cross the parking lot toward the stairs leading to the front door of the Hard Deck and pull on the door. She glances back at him before entering and, for a moment, he considers following her back inside. He wavers on the spot before sliding his aviator back over his eyes with a smile. He turns unhurriedly, unable to contain his widening grin, and heads for his bike.

Read Chapter 7

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winterandwords · 2 years ago

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Happy Tunes Tuesday Tag

Rules: Listen to these songs and describe your WIP/OC daydream as you listened to them. You can pick one song or do both and you can be as brief or descriptive as you like.

@thegreatobsesso tagged me with these two songs... Lay Me Down - In This Moment 25 - The Pretty Reckless

For Lay Me Down, my head was spinning with a sexual-tension-filled multiple murder montage for Project Frequency. All vengeance, fuck the system, blood spray on crumbling concrete, and hate-fuelled violence.

25 gave me an epic wide shot of Noah and Brett's house in November Breaks, dusk leaning into night, rolling clouds, angry sea, shades of blue and deep shadows, a car driving down an empty winding road shot from above.

I'm putting this out there as an OPEN TAG. Please @ me if you do it so I can see! Your songs, if you'd like to take part, are This Night by Black Lab and The Wolf in your Darkest Room by Matthew Mayfield.

#writeblr tags #happy tunes tuesday tag #project storm #november breaks #project frequency

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sweetearthandnorthernsky · 3 years ago

Note

'haven' (from the one word/short phrases prompts) for an oc of your choice?

so this one is the one that ended up being 2k+ words, so uh oops?

Morinel can faintly taste the salt-tang of the sea breeze even as the elegant grey spires of Mithlond appear on the horizon and she takes a shaky breath. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all, to do this alone.

Maybe she should have waited for Saelinriel to finish her errand in Evendim, or for Remlas or Celebros – she would even gladly take Eglamír of all people – just so she was not alone.

But she pushes those thoughts aside and guides Súretal along the long paved road that leads to the city, a road that carries so many memories.

The Gondolindrim had built this road and placed each stone so closely that not a seed would grow between them. Trees still lined the road on each side, the ones Oropher and his Sindar for shelter from sudden storms. The first ones had been birches though they'd grown small and crooked in the salty sea-winds but later they had planted oaks that had grown tall and strong.

The oaks still growing here and along the edge of the hills might be the children of those first oaks– Morinel bites back bile when she remembers how long it has been since she has been in Lindon –or their great-grandchildren more likely.

They might still remember, if she stopped to ask them. Remember riding home into Mithlond, laughing with Gil-galad and Gildor and Elrond and Remlas in the teeth of a storm from the Sea? Remember Celebrimbor, so proud to show off his new sea-gate in Harlond...?

She wonders, distantly, if the sea-gate is still there but then remembers who built it, and forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat.

A gentle dusk settles over the hills as she approaches the Hall of Swallows.

Once, the many windows and balconies would twinkle with light -- light from candles or Fëanorian lamps alike -- but now all, save a pitiful handful, were dark.

She stops, then turns away from the main approach and seeks instead a familiar winding track through the grounds.

With luck, she finds it and it grows sandier and narrower as she follows it until finally the rough grass and patchy shrubs give way to the expanse of beach.

She dismounts just before she reaches the dunes, tethers Súretal to a shrub in reach of the grass, and discards her boots. The sand is still warm beneath her feet and the ocean rushes in her ears and she makes her way towards it.

The salty haze above the white foam and the swells fills her with freshness she hadn't felt in a long while. As she kneels and leans back against the sand, stars wink into being in the purpling sky and their sharpness pricks at her like needles. She closes her eyes and lays 'neath the starlight and the cooling damp of the early autumn evening, which is how Círdan finds her later.

She winces and sits up, shaking some of the sand from her dark hair before turning to where the shipwright sat next to her in the sand.

“I should have announced myself -- time quite got away from me.” The politeness, though automatic, feels forced, but Círdan doesn't seem to notice.

“I had word from Elrond that you were coming,” he says without looking away from the sea, which had progressed up the beach some way since she first arrived.

“And then word again that you had reached us earlier this evening.”

The waves rushed up the sand as if in acknowledgement before slowly shrinking away. She nods absently and silence falls between them before Círdan breaks it.

“I am glad you came,” he says.

The honesty is apparent, though she cannot tell if he was glad at the prospect of company in his lonely guardianship of the deserted city, glad of the link to his lost son, or glad for another reason entirely.

Círdan continues, “Your horse has been found a stable and taken care of. Why don’t you come inside and let me do the same for you?”

Morinel hesitates, but doesn't have the energy to resist as Círdan’s sun-worn hands take hers and help her to her feet.It is strange to be returning to the stone walls and tall towers of Mithlond when Gil-galad is gone, the bright king and dear friend that she'd served with all her heart.

Celebrimbor too, is gone, both of them fallen to the Enemy. There was a time, coming back home to Mithlond, when first she would have looked for Gil-galad, and then for Celebrimbor, but that was long ago now. Mithlond is empty, save for Círdan and his few faithful Falathrim.

His eyes are tired, and his beard is longer and greyer than before.

They do not speak as Círdan leads her wordlessly down the long streets that should be busy -- busy with Falathrim dressed in cheerful blue and green as they head to and from the boats, Sindar coming down from the hills with flocks of sheep or baskets full of fruit from the orchards and with Noldor with shining gems in their hair, their looms and smithies and potteries busy and bright and loud.

But now they're quiet and empty.

There are no lights at the windows, no song echoing from the towers or the doors, only the sighing of the distant Sea.

A few candles light the dining hall as they step inside. A handful of Elves sit at tables, belying the palace’s deserted appearance from the outside. The drapes are closed and mute the already quiet conversations and make the place feel secluded, shut off, like a sanctuary.

Or maybe a shroud…

“Would you care for some dinner?”

She comes back to herself, and she doesn’t know how long passed between her answer and Círdan’s question.

“Thank you but I've no appetite. ”Suddenly, this all is a bad idea, and not the first bad idea she's had either. And yet this is still something that she needs to do.

“Círdan, I-” She swallows again. “Forgive me. I am no company and your efforts as a host are bypassing me entirely. I am simply here to… I need to…” She stops, unable to find the words.

"Do what you need to.” Círdan’s eyes are warm with understanding as he places a hand on her shoulder. “Lindon is still your home, for as long as you wish it to be.”

Círdan – wise, old Círdan – presses an all-too-familiar key into her hand, and she bows her head in thanks.

Morinel finds that she's never really noticed the detailing on the rich wooden doors to her room before.

But now she stands examining the carved constellations that someone had once etched into the doors with obvious care.It takes her a long, long time to force her hand to the cool doorknob and unlock the door with the key Círdan has given her. The doors open with a slow creak from lack of use and she lets out a shaky breath.

Everything is as she’d left it – her hairbrush still lay on the dresser, her bed was hastily made, her red tunic was draped over the back of a chair, and her copy of The Coming into Eldamar lay on her desk, a thin silver ribbon marking her place – and Morinel nearly starts crying then and there.

Instead, she takes a moment to collect herself as she sits at the desk, and opens the first drawer on the right side. The letterbox is there, undisturbed and untouched.

With trembling hands, she pulls the medium sized box onto the table.The wooden lid is smooth with age but the collection of letters within are well preserved, though the ink is not so bold and the Tengwar is half-faded.Morinel takes an unsteady breath, and begins to read through them.

Some are lighthearted missives from Remlas or Celebrimbor or Indilwen, about their newest projects or observations or any subject beneath the sun.

Others are less so, speaking of the shadow in the east and the matter of loyalty and a thousand other things, and then the letters signed with the calma with three tick-marks, and the eight-pointed star stop.

Morinel forces herself to read onward, to the correspondence she had with Calatië of Numenor and a half-dozen others of the Faithful and with Galadriel of Lorien when it was clear that Thauron had not been vanquished forever and was waiting in the east.

The last paper in the box is not a letter at all, but a half-finished sketch of a lake beneath starlight, signed in the corner with a double anga on a single stem. She holds it gently before placing all the other letters back in the box.

Abruptly she rises and wanders over to the corner of the room, beside the tall windows, to the half-finished tapestry still hanging on the loom.

There is no confusion about what she had once been trying to make and all the threads and fibers she’d been using are sitting in the basket at the side of her stool.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to do so, but Morinel sits at the loom and gingerly picks up the thread, examining each spool for breakage, before continuing on from where she’d left off.

The time passes in a haze until, when she is almost finished, she notices that the grey and white have run out. Grumbling, she places the empty spools on her desk, before something in the basket catches her eye, shining in the moonlight.She rummages through the basket before finding what had glinted. Something burns at her eyes and Morinel cradles the spool with care.

It shines brighter than silver and it’s soft but strong and she can’t quite believe her eyes that it has been simply sitting in the basket for all of these years.

She is loath to use it (though this is more due to the memory tied to acquisition of the thread, she can almost hear Celebrimbor laughing when she holds it), but she wants to finish the tapestry so she rations it carefully, to use as little as possible and continues on.

When the moon is high in the sky, it is finally finished and her hands ache, and somehow she forgot to light a candle. Silver light filters through the clear glass and she studies the now-finished tapestry. It is Nen Cenedril shining in the moonlight over the mountains, the Valacirca glittering in the depths.

It is, by far, her best tapestry and Morinel gently traces her fingers over the curves of the mountains’ peaks and the stars made of Mithril that glimmer in the water and the sky.She rises from her seat, puts her materials away and sets the letter box carefully back in her desk, and tucks the mithril thread into her pack.

Then she sleeps.

Morinel wakes early and takes one last look around the room. She’ll leave the letters and the book here, if fortune is on her side, she will be back ere long. If it is not, then letters will be the least of her worries..

She writes a quick farewell note to Cirdan and places it on the dining table when she leaves Mithlond just before dawn, when the stars are beginning to fade as the sky slowly lightens to grey, with a spool of mithril thread tucked into her pack.

The gentle rush of the sea comes to her ears, as if it is bidding her a soft farewell and she draws Súretal to a not quite stop. There is a faint trill mixed with the sighing of the sea.

It is not the liquid warble of a skylark nor the shriek of a seagull, but something else – a distinct fall of notes, familiar and alien all at once.

She purses her lips, ignoring the twisting feeling in her chest, and urges Súretal onward.

#my fic #ask games #man morinel needs a hug #oh well

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gaymergal · 3 years ago

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WIP Wednessday

@heavensenthale tagged me in WIP Wednesday, and though I am also already in Out of Touch Thursday, Lets do this! :D

I have two WIP examples (out of a folder of like 30+ other WIPS ^^;) I came up with a writing challenge for myself back over the summer that I still haven’t committed much time to, but really would like to carve out the time to do it.

I made a list of 50 tropes, 50 first sentences, and 50 (mainly wlw) ships that I can throw into a random number generator and get something like:

47. Meeting at a festival au

41. It always happened at dusk, just as the sun was beginning to set…

27. Dorothea x Petra

The point of the writing challenge would be to limit myself to one shots based off of the ideas and really focus on/ skill hone the ability to just sit down and put words to paper.

Ideally, with the 50-50-50 challenge, I wanted to try and do a fic or 2 a month. And maybe get to a point where I could do 2-3 one shots a month. And by the end of a year or so get a lot more comfortable getting an idea and writing it… (FYI I have done 0 of these since August when I made up the prompts)

Rather than my current process which is, get an idea > world build a much more elaborate story around it > make an outline > make character bios for main cast > probably make a couple OCs to throw in there too > make a playlist of songs that match certain outlined chapters > daydream vividly to music and constantly tweak outlines and bios > pic a random chapter to flesh out > Pic another sounding chapter to flesh out > get suck on trying to connect chapters to main story arc > …. > go back to tweaking out lines and daydreaming to music playlists…. > repeat last two steps often… > never make progress on main story. > omg wait I have a new wip idea! > rinse and repeat til the end of time.

So I’d like to work on one shots for a while and work my way up to more in-depth fics….But I’ve been saying that for months now and have only gotten thus far with the above generated prompt:

It always happened at dusk, just as the sun was beginning to set, just as it had every evening that Dorthea had spent in Brigid this far. The song would start with one of the Elders. Wherever they happened to be in the village square, whenever they deemed the sun low enough, one would let out melodious yell, a long winded prayer in their old language that was sung in a single breath and changed pitch as it was executed.

It was a tune that spoke to the songstress within Dorthea. She finished her street shopping, handing over the twice the fee the vendor had had originally asked for with a slight bow, and waved off the vendor offering to make change. She placed a swatch of brightly ornamented fabric in her woven basket and stepped slightly to the side. Moving herself out of the street as Brigidians spilled into the roads, walking away from their tents and storefronts. The Vendor she paid gave Dorthea a large smile and patted her hand as they made their way past her and into the street, harmonizing with the singing Elder as he reached the end of the prayer. When the Elder ran out of breath and the prayer completed, is when the dancing broke out. The people in the streets whooped and clasped hands with their nearest relation.

Emerald eyes scanned the sea of dancing villagers for her Fiancée, her only relation on the island.

Femslah February is coming up so I’d like to finish the above fic and maybe also try to finish a second generated prompt… I should totally work on this goal… or any of my other WIPs…

…

OR, I could do an outline, and character bios for a Zelda fic Idea that hit me in the face this past Tuesday and is something along the lines of:

AU Sheik and Gan both have had arranged marriages since birth. But those aren’t the names on their respective marriage contracts.

Due to an old treaty that was written at the end the last great Triforce War, the next Gerudo male would have to marry the current Zelda (the Hylian name given to all woman in the royal line).

150 years after the conclusion of the Great Triforce War, Gan(ondorf) finds herself in a pinch when she is technically betrothed to 7 Zelda’s including the sitting widowed Hylian Queen. None of whom are the Sheikah Ninja who stole her heart the day she set foot in Hyrule with the purpose of choosing a Zelda bride.

>.>; (Each Zelda has their own unique nickname to tell them apart ex: Queen Zelda is nicked named Tetra, the Zora word for Terror because she terrorized the Zora’s with her warships in her early days as Queen. Her oldest daughter is Zelda nicknamed Rina,for her talent with the Ocarina. Twin Zelda’s nicknamed Twilight and Wild, ect...and I just want to create character bio/sheets for them all T^T)

^^; idk the Tagging rules for this but if @runicmagitek or @ultramarine316 or anyone else reading this have any WIPs they want to share and talk about :3 <3! have at it! Happy WIP Wednesday Out of Touch Thursday!

#wip wendesday #wip #fics #fanfiction #@heavensenthale #tagged games #Fe3h wip #Zelda wip #out of touch thursday

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raintailed · 2 years ago

Photo

and this is the reference for winding roads at dusk, who is a shitty person and was peach’s former iterator

#raintailed's art #rain world #rw #rain world oc #winding roads at dusk (oc)#reference #queue

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elliemarchetti · 4 years ago

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Clear As Silver Drops

It’s my birthday and I post what I want to! *sing this as Necessary Evil by Motionless in White*

To be totally honest, this is inspired by @my-darling-haldir who was asking for Haldir fic recs for her bday and I said myself why not? Why not indulge in your love for elves and mixed ocs? So here we are, with something in which Legolas isn’t with the Fellowship and in his place we have Elva, the only woman in a group otherwise made up of men only. Enjoy!

Words: 3132

"I'm afraid we can't stay here any longer," Aragorn said, turning his gaze to the mountains, raising his sword as if he wanted to curse Gandalf for his recklessness.

“What hope do we have without him, now?” asked Frodo under his breath, talking mainly to himself.

“We’ll have to do without hope,” replied Elva, talking to the whole Fellowship. “It may be that one day at least he’ll be avenged, but for now, let’s have courage and stop mourning: we have a long way to go and a lot of things to do.”

At her words they all stood up to look around, making her weigh for the umpteenth time what her role really was in their mission. She should’ve asked Gandalf when she still had time, but now he had taken that secret to the grave and she could do nothing but find it herself. A skilled archer and an excellent diplomat, Elva felt more like she was there to act as a glue between cultures, and thus prevent those men, all with different histories and upbringing, to go one to the North, dominated by three sparkling white peaks, Celebdil, Fanuidhol and Caradhras, one to the East, where the forward-projected arms of the mountains steepened abruptly, with distant lands extending beyond, and one to the South, where the Misty Mountains stretched endlessly.

Less than a mile away, slightly lower, as they were located at a high point on the eastern flank of the valley, they saw a lake: it was long and oval, looking like the tip of a spear stuck deep in the basin to the north, with the southern waters out of the shadows, bathed in sunlight but still dark, the deep blue of a clear night sky seen from a lighted room. The surface was calm, and all around the bare banks were covered in soft grass. The Fellowship walked the uneven and bumpy road that descended from the Gates of Moria, just a winding path among heather and twigs, sprouted between the broken stones; it still could be seen that it once meandered from the Dwarf Kingdom’s lowlands, but the broad paved street was now reduced to a ghost of itself, just like Durin’s stone.

“I can’t go on without deviating for a moment to see the wonder of the valley!” exclaimed Gimli.

“Be quick, then!” said Aragorn, checking the gates behind them. “The sun sets early, and even if the Orcs won’t come out, perhaps, sooner than dusk, we must already be very far away at sunset; it’s almost new moon, so the night will be dark.”

Elva almost cursed under her breath: if the lightless night was approaching, even her monthly blood was coming. Of all the advantages of being a half-elf, unfortunately she hadn't inherited the one of not suffering like mortal women.

“Come with me, Elva!” cried the dwarf, distracting her from her thoughts. “I don’t want you to go away without first seeing Kheled-zaram.”

For some strange reason, despite her elven half, the dwarf liked her company, and quite a lot too. Together they descended the long green slope swiftly, followed slowly by the hobbits. A brief glance into the dark waters, and back again to the road, now turning south, going down quite steep from two offshoots that embraced the basin. A little lower than the lake, they encountered a deep well of crystal clear water, from which a steam rose, flowing right after down a rocky groove.

“Thirsty as you may be, don’t drink this water,” Gimli warned. “It’s cold as ice.”

“Over there, are the woods of Lothlorien,” said Elva, pointing at a golden haze in the flat lands. “It’s the most beautiful among all the homes of my people. There are no trees like those of that land: in autumn, their leaves don’t fall but turn to gold, replaced only in spring by the new buds covering the branches with yellow flowers. Then, the soil is gold as the ceiling and the smooth and grey bark of the trees make them look like silver columns, as our songs in Mirkwood still tell. My heart would be so happy if I were among the branches of that wood and the spring smiled!”

“My heart will be happy even if it’s winter,” Aragorn said. “But many miles separate us, let’s hurry!”

For a time, Frodo and Sam managed to keep up, but the warriors advanced swiftly and soon they were left behind. When Elva noticed, she immediately told Aragorn, who, seeing them so far away, ran back on his own steps, calling Boromir to follow him. He apologized, full of disquiet.

“So many things happened today, and we’re such in a hurry that I forgot you were injured. You should’ve said something, because in silence nothing has been done to alleviate your pain. A little further on there’s a place where we can rest for a moment. Come, Boromir, let’s carry them!”

They soon encountered another stream flowing down the western slopes, confusing its gurgling waters with the swirling ones of the Silverlode, diving together from an overhand of green coloured stone and foaming down in a hollow surrounded by fir trees, low and curved, with steeps sides covered with rapeseed and blueberry bushes. They stopped at the bottom, where was a flat area crossed by the bed of shiny pebbles in which the creek flowed noisy. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and they had travelled just a few miles from the Gates. The sun was already turning to west, painting a grave expression on Aragorn’s face as he cared for Frodo and Sam’s injuries.

“Lucky you” he exclaimed, to lighten up the gardener’s mood. “Many have received a worse reward for killing their first Orc. The cut isn’t poisoned, as is unfortunately the case for most wounds inflicted by their blades, so it’ll heal well.”

He then opened his saddlebag and took out some withered athelas. While fresh were more effective, the leaves would still do their work in cleaning the wound. When Frodo’s turn came, he was quite reluctant, saying he was fine and just needed some food and rest, but Aragorn persisted, and took off his old tunic and worn shirt, giving an exclamation of astonishment, which soon turned into laughter: the hobbit wore a silver coat that sparkled before their eyes like light on a choppy sea, the gems bright like stars and the tinkling of the rings producing the same sound as the first raindrops falling into a pond. If word got out that a hobbit had such a wonder, all the hunters of Middle Earth would’ve galloped towards the Shire, but all their arrows would’ve been vain before a mithril armour. Still, there was a dark blackened bruise on Frodo’s right side and one of the rings had passed through his soft leather jacket, penetrating into the flesh. While the others prepared the meal, Aragorn made more athelas water, filling the basin with its acrid fragrance. After the late lunch, the Fellowship put out the fire, erasing all traces of it, and climbed out the hollow, resuming the road. They hadn’t come far when the sun disappeared behind the western heights and great shadows crept along the sides of the mountains. Twilight veiled their feet, and a light mist glided in the depression, while far to the east, the evening lit up with its pale glow lands, plains and distant forests. Sam and Frodo managed to walk briskly and Aragorn led the Fellowship for another three hours with a single, shot break, after which the late nigh imposed her dark reign. There were several stars, but the moon waning would appear much later.

“Lothlorien!” Elva cried. “We have reached the edge of the Golden Wood!”

The trees stood imposing, arching over the road and the river that swept suddenly under their leafy branches, trunks gray in the pale starlight and leaves quivered with a touch of fallow yellow.

“We’re still too little far from the Gates, but we can’t go further. Let’s hope that the Elves virtue will protect us from the danger pursuing,” said Aragorn.

“Assuming the Elves still live here, in this darkening world,” Gimli said, joining them.

“It’s been a long time since some of my folks came back to see the land we abandoned centuries ago,” replied Elva, “but we know that Lorien is still not deserted and a secret force repels evil far from this district. Nevertheless, its inhabitants rarely show up, and perhaps now they live deep in the woods and far from the northern borders.”

Aragorn confirmed with a sigh, as if some memory in him had been awakened. “We must suffice to ourselves, for tonight. We’ll still walk a short distance, until the trees are thick around us, then we’ll leave the path to look for a place to rest.”

“There’s no other way?” asked Boromir, irresolute.

“What better way would you want?” asked Aragorn.

“A simple path, albeit flanked by a hedge of swords,” Boromir replied. “Our Fellowship has been conducted in strange ways, and all of them so far with an inauspicious outcome. Against my will we passed under the shadows of Moria, towards our perdition, and now we have to go into the Golden Woods, even if we have heard of that perilous district in Gondor, where it’s said that few of those who set foot there come out, and of these, non has been released unharmed.”

“Don’t say unharmed, but unchanged, and then your words will be truthful,” Aragon retorted. “Wisdom has certainly diminished in the city of those who were once wise if now they speak ill of Lothlorien. You may not believe me, but there’s no other way for us, unless you want to go back to the Gates or climb the mountains or swim alone along the Great River.”

“Then guide us!” agreed Boromir. “But it’s dangerous.” “Very,” Aragorn confirmed. “Beautiful and dangerous, but only the evil has to fear here.”

They walked a little over a mile into the forest when they encountered a third stream flowing rapidly from the tree-lined slopes, climbing west towards the mountains. They could hear it roar in a cascade hidden by the shadows, before the dark water crossed the path ahead of them, joining the Silverlode in a whirlwind of ponds hidden by tree roots. It was the Nimrodel, the river on which a long time ago the Silvan elves composed many song. She grew up singing them in the North, mindful of the rainbow over the waterfalls and the golden flowers floating on its foam. Everything was dark, now, and the Bridge over it collapsed, but its waters were still able to wash away any sign of fatigue, so she proposed to wade it to find on the other side a place to rest.

“The sound of falling water will perhaps bring us sleep and forgetfulness from sorrows.”

One after another, the men followed her and when they were all on the other bank, they sat down, rested and refreshed. Elva told the stores of Lothlorien, the ones the Mirkwood elves still treasured in their hearts, stories of the sun and stars on meadows along the Great River, from a time before the world turned gray. When finally silence fell, they heard the music of the waterfall that flowed smoothly in the shadows.

“Do you hear Nimrodel’s voice?” she asked. “I’ll sing you the story of a girl who was called like the river next to which she lived a long time ago. It’s a lovely song in Sylvan, but I’ll sing it in Westron for you.”

Then, with a sweet voice so faint it almost disappeared in the rustle of the leaves, she intoned the ballad of the elf with a white mantle edged with gold; she had long hair and white skin, the free girl with a voice clear like silver drops. It was evident that some of her companions thought this creature lost in the dewy mountains could’ve been her, so she sang about her lover, an elven king of trees and clearings, went away on a ship swept by the north wind.

From helm to sea they saw him leap, As arrow from the string, And dive into the water deep, As mew upon the wing. The wind was in his flowing hair, The foam about him shone; Afar they saw him strong and fair Go riding like a swan. But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore.

When Elva's voice trembled, the song ended. She said she couldn't continue because she didn't remember how it went on, but it was a lie: long and sad was the story about the doom befallen on Lothlorien when the dwarves roused evil in the mountains. She glances sideways at Gimli, who looked somewhat grateful, and quickly changed subject, proposing to camp on the trees for the night. The Fellowship left the path, entering the shadows of the forest further dense, headed west along the mountains steam and far away from the river, until they found a small group of trees with big trunks.

“I’m at home in roots and branches, but this species is unknown to me; I need to climb to see what their shape and way of growing is,” said Elva.

“Whatever they are,” replied Pippin, “they would really be wonderful if they offer a possible night’s rest to others than birds: I don’t know how to sleep perched on a hanger!”

“Then dig a ditch in the ground, if that’s more to the habits of you race,” Elva retorted, impatiently. “But you have to dig fast and in depth, if you wish to hide from the Orcs.”

Before she could do anything else, however, an authoritative voice spoke from the shadows. In amazement, she crouched frightened against the trunk.

“Stay still,” she whispered to the others. “Don’t move and don’t speak!”

A soft laugh was heard in the foliage, and another clear voice spoke in an elven language. Elva looked up and answered in the same idiom, different from the ones the western elves used.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" asked Merry.

"They're Elves," Sam replied. "Don't you hear their voices?"

"And they say you breathe so hard they could pierce your heart despite the darkness,” Elva hissed, silencing the hobbits. To be honest, there was no reason to be afraid: the elves said they’ve been long aware of their presence but they didn’t hinder the Fellowship in crossing the river since they heard her voice beyond the Nimrodel and recognized she belonged to their Nordic lineage.

“They’re begging me to go up with Frodo. It seems they’ve received news about our journey but they ask the others to be patient for a moment and guard the feet of the tree, waiting for them to decide what to do.”

At those words, a ladder was lowered from the shadows: it was made of a silver-gray sparkling cord and despite its frail appearance, it proved itself strong enough to withstand the weight of several people. Elva went up fast, while Frodo tried to persuade Sam to stay with the others. It would’ve been a wise choice, it was easy to offend her people, but the gardener was immovable and in the end they entered the flet, talan in elvish, through the circular hole open in the centre. The elf holding the ladder, the eldest, invited her to sit with his companions, two younger guards, both fully dressed in silver gray fabric, a valid help to hide among the stumps and then greeted the hobbits in a slow Common Tongue.

“It’s rare for us not to use our mother tongue, since now we live in the heart of the forest and don’t like to deal with other people. Even our own relatives in the North are divided from us, but some still go in foreign lands to gather news and watch over enemies, and therefore they speak different languages like me. My brothers Rumil and Orophin understand little of what you say, but we heard of your coming from Lord Elrond’s messengers when they passed by Lorien on their way home. From many years we no longer knew anything about your race and we didn’t think there were still any hobbit in Middle Earth. You don’t seem bad natured and since you come with an elf of our lineage, it’s with pleasure that we’ll help you, as Elrond asked us to, although is not out habit to lead strangers across our land, but you’ll have to spend the night here. How many are you?”

"Eight: me, four of them,” said Elva, alluding to the hobbits, “and two men, one being Aragorn, an elf-friend of the Westernesse folk.”

“The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lorien, and he has the benevolence of the Lady. So, everything is fine,” said Haldir. “But you have so far only named seven.”

“The eight is a dwarf,” admitted the girl, never lowering her eyes, no trace of shame in her voice. She knew that Haldir must’ve understood by now that not only elven blood ran in her veins, but he didn’t seem to care.

“This is not good: we haven’t dealt with them since the Dark Days and they’re not allowed into our country. I cannot let him pass.”

“He’s of the Lonely Mountain, one of Dain’s trusted people and friend of Lord Elrond, who has personally chosen him to be part of our Fellowship,” she explained. At her words, the three elves exchanged a long, knowing look.

“Is he perhaps your companion, milady?” Haldir asked.

“Would it make any difference on his courage and loyalty?” she asked, heedless of what some strangers might think. If she had cared about the opinion of all the souls she had met in her long life, her heart would’ve already burst with pain.

"Very well," said Rumil at last, displeased. Ignoring the fact that the hobbits didn’t understand him, he told her in Sindarin that if she and Aragorn had watched and answered for Gimli, he could’ve passed, but only blindfolded.

“Now, we mustn’t waste any more time,” Haldir resumed. “Your companions have been on the ground too long and soon in the morning you’ll have to continue your march. The hobbits will stay here with us, while you’ll remain in the other talan with the rest of the Fellowship.”

“Call if something is wrong!” he added in the end, as a farewell. Elva was halfway down the ladder when she heard one of his brothers mutter something about such a beautiful voice wasted in a terribly vulgar way, but she couldn’t understand his reply.

#lotr #haldir #aragorn #gimli #boromir #gandalf #rumil #orophin #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #pippin took #haldir x oc #the fellowship of the ring

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victoria-daydreams · 4 years ago

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Till Kingdom Come

Prologue: The Portrait

AN: Another Old Guard fic that has been in my head since I wrote my first one. Which you should go check out, by the way. Once I created the moodboard for my OC it was over, I knew that I had to write a story about her. Fair warning, this chapter is kinda of dark, it’s definitely the complete opposite of my first chapter in my other story.

Here’s the moodboard that inspired this fic.

Summary: Most people would find the very thought of looking forward to one’s own death as morbid, but not for Sabine. Death, was something she longed for, it was the only way to freedom from the chains of slavery. And one day, she finally got her wish and she was finally put out of her misery.

Until she wasn’t.

And Sabine learned a dreadful secret about herself from the experience, setting in motion a life altering event that included four immortals who would take her on several journeys that spanned many lifetimes.

Word Count: 1.8k

Trigger Warnings: violence, slavery, abuse, racism, racial slurs, colorism

Chapter One: My Story Is Much Too Sad to Be Told

At age five, Sabine's life changed irrevocably in an instant.

She remembered that day crystal clear, the traumatizing experience was seared into her young mind. 1845, that was the year Sabine's world was turned upside down, the exact day she didn't know, slaves weren't given calendars. That day, the afternoon sun was high in the sky and there weren't any clouds to shield her from the harsh and unforgiving rays of the sun as she worked the never ending fields of cotton. Tirelessly, Sabine labored next to her mother, Anne, as they picked the prickly plant from the row they were assigned to.

Often times, Sabine would admire her mother's appearance to take her mind off the grueling labor she was forced to do. She thought her mother absolutely was beautiful with her rich brown skin, her round shaped dark brown eyes that somehow still oozed kindness and warmth with everything they are put through, and her black curly hair that was always tied up.

A lot of the slaves on the Dillon Plantation commented on the fact that Sabine's older sister, Emile, favored their mother unlike Sabine who resembled her father, Gabriel. Like her father, Sabine's skin was a warm, golden brown shade that had darkened slightly due to working in the sun. Sabine had noticed that her hair didn't have the same loose curl like her mother's hair, instead her hair resembled her father tight curls. The one feature she did inherit from her mother was her eye shape and color.

Doing this had become somewhat of a game to her, it was better than the alternative which was focusing on how many times she pricked her fingers with each hour that passed. This was the routine that Sabine had become accustomed to, from dawn to dusk, she and the rest of the hundreds of other slaves would toil away in the fields to pick the cash crop of the South.

Until one day, that routine was broken.

Sabine could hear hooves beating down on the ground and the sound of a carriage behind her. She didn't pay attention to it, the sound of them passing by on the dirt road between the fields was not uncommon. The sound grew louder and louder as the carriage drew nearer and nearer and suddenly a strong gust of wind blew past her. Sabine expected to hear the rhythmic trotting of the horses continue as they passed by her, but realized she didn't. The carriage had stopped next to her, her mother, and other slaves.

"You, girl!" Master Dillon shouted. "Turn around!" he ordered.

At first, Sabine didn't move, she wasn't sure if Master Dillon was speaking to her. She had heard Master Dillon address slaves much older than her mother and father as either 'girl' or 'boy'. It wasn't until she felt her mother lightly tap her that Sabine finally turned around to face Master Dillon. Temporarily, she was blinded by the glaring light and lifted her hand to protect her eyes from the rays of the sun.

"Yes massa'?" she asked softly.

Sabine looked up at the man that stood outside the carriage. He was tall, had short, raven-colored hair, blue eyes and angular features. Master Dillon was pale albeit with a slightly tanned complexion. A thick, bushy mustache rested between his narrow nose and thin lips, the facial hair reminded Sabine of a caterpillar.

"Oh, isn't she adorable!" a woman gushed, in a high pitched voice.

Sabine turned her head to look at the owner of the voice, a young woman sat in the carriage holding a white, lace parasol. The woman appeared to be the same age as Emile, if not older. Her skin was fair and an oval shaped face which was framed by her chestnut brown, braided chignon. The woman's small lips were curved into a smile and her blue eyes seemed to twinkle in delight as she stared down at Sabine, like she saw a new plaything.

"Brother, bring her closer to me," the woman requested, almost bouncing up and down in her seat.

Master Dillon beckoned Sabine over, "Come on girl!" he demanded impatiently.

Sabine hesitantly placed her sack of cotton on the ground and made her way to Master Dillon and the woman in the carriage.

"Pierre," the woman cooed, looking over at her brother. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she chuckled, shifting her stare back towards Sabine. "She's much too light to be working in these fields," she commented, shaking her head in disapproval.

"She's not that light, Genevieve," Pierre disagreed, his eyes scanning over Sabine's skin complexion.

"Well, you're right about that," Genevieve acknowledged, nodding to herself. "Still, she's not a darkie,” she pointed out, scrunching her nose up in disgust. “The girl is....an acceptable shade for a house negro," she continued, twirling her parasol. "Now, give me your inspection brother," she demanded lightly, waving her free hand.

Master Dillon moved to the side of Sabine and forcibly used his fingers to pry open her mouth, showing off her teeth.

"You see here, her teeth are surprisingly healthy," Master Dillon began, before pulling down her lower lip more. "I'm sure some of her teeth are about to start falling out soon," he informed, and removed his fingers from her mouth. "Spread your arms out girl," he ordered, Sabine immediately did as she was told and he roughly pushed the sleeve of her dress up. "She's already got some muscle on her," he stated, squeezing her small biceps. "It's like she was born to work the fields," he added, a proud grin on his face. "So, what do you think?" he asked curiously. letting go of Sabine's arm.

"Oh Pierre!" Genevieve cried happily. "Give her to me, please, please, please, please," she begged, giving her best puppy dog eyes. "This one here will make a nice addition to my collection back home," she explained excitedly, eying Sabine once more.

Sabine's eyes darted between Master Dillon and his sister, completely terrified at the thought of being separated from her family. Unconsciously, her breathing started to increase, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Master Dillon rubbed his chin in contemplation and after a long moment of silence the man clasped his hands together.

"Aw hell, I can't say ‘no’ to my baby sister, can I?" Master Dillon asked, smiling at Genevieve. "Go ahead and take her, think of her as an early birthday gift," he continued, sticking his hand out towards Sabine.

Sabine's eyes went as wide as saucers.

Genevieve laughed giddily, "You're the best Pierre!" she exclaimed, excitedly clapping her hands together.

Sabine felt her blood run cold just as she heard hurried footsteps approaching from behind her.

Two hands gripped her shoulders and Sabine's body tensed, "Yous can't take her massa!" Sabine's mother cried, and she felt her body relax, slightly.

Master Dillon scoffed at Anne, "Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what I can or cannot do with my property?" he asked, a sneer on his face.

Anne pulled Sabine closer to her, "She's my daughter!" she insisted.

Master Dillon narrowed his eyes at Anne as a deep scowl formed on his face, "I guess you forgot girl, that you're my property as well," he stated, taking a menacing step forward and Anne stepped back pulling Sabine with her. "So anything that you expel out of your womb is mine by law," he reminded, moving closer to the mother and daughter. "I own both of you," he finished, his tone turning sinister.

Anne held Sabine a little tighter, "Sabine is not yours to give away," she stated, a defiant look in her eyes.

"Hand over the girl, now!" Master Dillon demanded, his face slowly turning red from anger and Sabine felt her small body begin to tremble. "If you make me repeat myself, you're going to be in a world of trouble girl!" he threatened, his scowl deepening.

"No!"

Suddenly, Sabine felt herself being violently yanked away from her mother and loud cries of pain erupted from her, piercing the still air of the cotton fields. Tears fell from her eyes as her mother held her tighter in her arms. A battle of tug war ensued over Sabine with Master Dillon yanking on her thin arm in the direction of his sister while Anne tugged in the opposite direction. The horrific sound of flesh hitting flesh resounded in Sabine's ears as she tripped over her feet from the force of her mother losing her grip on her.

"Mama!" Sabine yelled, as she was roughly picked by Master Dillon. "Mama!" she shouted again, thrashing her small body in the man's arm.

Sabine's struggle in Master Dillon's grasp was futile as he unceremoniously dumped her into the carriage where his sister resided, seemingly unaffected by what was unfolding right in front of her. Sabine's head snapped to the ground where her mother lay collapsed on the ground, soft groans escaping her lips. Out of nowhere, Sabine's chin was yanked to look straight ahead at Genevieve.

"Sabine, that's what your mama called you right?" Genevieve asked curiously, rotating Sabine's head around as she inspected her.

"Yes, Mistress," Sabine answered, her voice hoarse.

Genevieve slightly frowned and twisted her nose in distaste, "What an ugly name," she commented, shaking her head. "We're going to have to change that," she continued, releasing Sabine's chin. "What am I going to name you?" she mused, tilting her head. A short moment passed. "I got it!" she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. "From here on, your name is Cecile!" she beamed, clearly proud of herself.

Sabine didn't bother to argue about her new name, she didn't have any say in the matter anyways.

"Yes Mistress," Sabine replied hoarsely, in acknowledgement.

Genevieve grinned at the young girl in front of her, "Good!" she cheered, with a nod of her head. "Now, Cecile, take this parasol and shield me from the sun," she ordered, sticking her arm out that held the parasol.

"Yes Mistress," Sabine answered, gently grabbing the parasol from her new mistress' hand.

"There's a good girl," Genevieve complimented, and moved her eyes to her brother who was currently gripping Anne by her hair. "Thank you Pierre!" she smiled. "I think Cecile and I are going to get along just fine," she stated, patting Sabine's head as if she was a dog. "Take me home Cyril," she ordered, and the coachman nodded at her before tugging on the reins.

The carriage carrying Genevieve and Sabine slowly moved further and further away from Master Dillon and Anne when a loud, agonizing wail penetrated the atmosphere. The heartbroken wailing made the hairs of Sabine's neck stand up and it took a few seconds for her to realize who those wails were coming from. It was her mother's. Sabine turned her around in her seat to see that Master Dillon was forcing her mother to watch her being taken away.

"Cecile, pay attention!" Genevieve snapped, making Sabine swivel her body back around. "You're letting the sun hit me, I don't want to get as dark as you!" she sneered, and Sabine adjusted the parasol to protect Genevieve.

As the carriage turned out of the Dillon Plantation, Sabine had only one thought in her mind.

She knew at that moment she would never see her family again.

Chapter Two: Life Being What It Is

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aaaa-mpersand · 4 years ago

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OCtober Day 6: Luxury

Thank you @oc-growth-and-development for the prompt, as always. This is three bros, two of them roasting Pacific Rim to hell and back. I’m a big fan of this movie I swear. This is a continuation of the Exy AU, following Finley (from OCtober Day 2: Mercy). He’s in a new team, and he doesn’t need friends, they disappoint him. Very Regrettably for Finley, the friends don’t agree. Fluff with some mild angst at the end. We stan found family. Kaspar and Finley are my characters, Mantis/Margot is @statistical-improbabilities character. I also named dropped @statistical-improbabilities Mya and @carry-on-my-wayward-brain Dusk.

“This is absurd,” Finley said, watching the robot on screen slam a cargo boat into the monster’s face with a deafening crunch.

They were sitting on the floor of Kaspar’s room, rough carpet under their legs, Mantis’ laptop in front of them as an action movie flashed on screen. Finley watched the big robot slap the godzilla-like thing repeatedly in the face, only for the creature to grab them by the tail and rip their boat-made-baseball-bat into half. He vaguely wondered, not for the first time that night, how he’d even gotten here.

“I don’t know about that,” Kaspar said, a tub of ice cream in his lap as he put another spoonful of it into his mouth, never taking his eyes off the screen. “It looks pretty realistic to me.” “Please,” Mantis said next to him. Or Margot. She’d introduced herself as the former, but Kaspar used the latter almost exclusively. Finley had simply avoided calling her by name. “I’ve seen Green Lantern movies with better CGI effects.” “Touche,” he said, but didn’t sound the least bit insulted. He ate another scoop of ice cream. With a certain degree of fear, disgust, and strange admiration, Finley saw he was almost done with the tub. “Shhh, guys, the next part is my favorite fight scene.”

Mantis fell silent, so Finley turned back to the screen. The monster was now playing hide and seek with the robot. How anything as tall as a skyscraper managed to hide, even in a metropolitan like Tokyo, was beyond Finley’s comprehension, but he’d never been to Tokyo, so he stayed silent.

A flashy action shot of the monster, oh so surprisingly, ambushing the protagonists. He let the lights flash from the screen as he thought about what had gotten him here. After spending hours on schoolwork in Mantis’ room, he’d been dragged along to dinner with the two of them. Kaspar suggested they all go to his room to relax before he and Finley went to the gym to do extra practice that night.

Finley hadn’t been pleased.

“Come on, Finley, a little fun never hurt anyone,” Kaspar had said. When Finley had stared back, wholly unconvinced, Kaspar merely smiled fondly and rolled his eyes, as if he’d seen that same look hundreds of times before. “I’ll stay an extra hour to help you on overhead drills.”

“Dusk or Mya are going to get there first,” he muttered, but followed anyway.

Finley watched the monster beat its previously unnoticeable wings and lift the robot into the sky. Tension was supposedly rocketing as fast as that 500 ton beast could fly, which was apparently a thousand miles a second. He was owed a lot of overhead drills for this.

When the protagonists looked like they were about to die, all hope lost, the solution was found in a dramatic twist. The robot fell unceremoniously to the ground from an altitude of 50,000 miles above sea level. Everyone was unscathed.

Kaspar paused the movie.

“Thoughts?” he asked, a smile playing on his ice-cream coated lips as he glanced over at Finley.

“If this movie wanted any shred of my respect, they should’ve both died right there,” Finley said. Despite the fact that he knew Kaspar had a good temper and couldn’t kill a fly, he glanced over to watch his reaction.

“Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Mantis said. Finley blinked in surprise “At the very least, the whole Jaeger should’ve fallen apart. It was way too big to have gotten out of that with just scratches.”

“Yeah, but then it wouldn’t have been as cool,” Kaspar said, leaning back lazily. He seemed completely undisturbed by the fact that both Finley and Mantis had been insulting what he had introduced as his ‘favorite movie of all time’ for the last hour. Mantis, who had evidently watched it a few times already, had said something sarcastic, but sat down to watch it all the same.

In the last 57 minutes, she’d pointed out the main male lead’s horrible haircut, roasted his fashion sense, and cut into three major worldbuilding flaws. Finley joined her cringing, covering his eyes like a vampire in sunlight, when the female lead accidentally walked into the male lead’s room while he was shirtless. “Proper physics is cool,” Mantis said. She reached for the bowl of popcorn, and popped a few in her mouth, before washing it down with an energy drink. Finley didn’t want to know what that tasted like. “This whole thing doesn’t make any sense,” he said, irritably.

“What about it doesn’t make sense?” Kaspar asked. Finley glanced at him. He seemed relaxed. Happy, even, with a content smile on his face. “Everything. Why are giant robots the best weapon in this scenario? They’re going to be rebuilding that place for years with the footprints it left on the roads, let alone the infrastructure damage. Second of all, how do the kaiju keep following the scientist guy around?” “Because he mind-melded with them,” Kaspar said, “The Kaiju are a hive mind.”

Finley snorted. “Why the fuck would anyone mind-meld with a hive mind race of monsters?”

Kaspar shrugged. He tapped his spoon against his chin for a moment, thinking. “Science?” He said, almost to himself, and turned to Mantis questioningly. Finley pulled a look so skeptical he could’ve made Newton doubt whether gravity was real. Mantis, however, thought only for a moment before she nodded, “Science.”

“This is stupid,” he huffed. “To quote,” Mantis pointed out, matter-of-factly, “it’s either the most awesome dumb movie ever made–”

“–Or the dumbest awesome movie ever made,” Kaspar said, almost gleefully, as he pressed the play button. Finley sighed.

He stayed for the rest of the movie.

---

He waited for Kaspar outside the dorms while the other man was grabbing his things to go to the court to practice. It was late by now, the sky ink black save for the few stars visible through all the light pollution. Cold wind made the chilly temperatures just that much colder. Finley waited under a street light, his things all ready, a change of clothes, water bottle, and a pair of gloves in his gym bag. With a sigh, he unzipped it, pulled out the gloves. They were black and maroon––ravens colors––and the only pair he had.

He wrapped his arms around himself. Though years of playing exy had even him lean muscle, he was still scrawny, and not the biggest fan of the cold. Glancing at the door of the dorms, he waited. The two hours he spent watching a dumb action movie indoors would’ve been a luxury unheard of in the Ravens. Siobhan had never been a fan of movies, anyway, so there would’ve been no one for him to watch it with. For that, he was almost grateful; the movie hadn’t gotten better in the second half.

Still, the image stayed in his mind. Kaspar and Mantis, exchanging quips and inside jokes. Mantis didn’t glance over for his reaction when she criticized the protagonist’s haircut to hell and back. When she had run out of her energy drink, Kaspar had promptly pulled another one out and passed it over to her.

He tried to picture himself and Siobhan in those shoes. Finley didn’t have a favorite drink, and what Siobhan said was never a joke.

But they had stood next to each other for so long. A menace on the court, the two of them. An impenetrable defense and an unstoppable offense. It had never been perfect. Admittedly, nothing in The Ravens had been, but still, he sometimes tried to find Siobhan’s triumphant grin on the faces of his new teammates. Her iron will in Kaspar’s eyes when he swung his racquet.

He sighed, staring up at the night sky. In another life, perhaps, though he doubted that concept was anything more than an impossible wish. “Hey, sorry that took awhile,” Kaspar said, stepping out of the dorms. He had obviously rushed, his shoelaces untied, and the horrible orange color of his hoodie clashing with the gold and red of his Trojans track pants.

Finley merely huffed, and stalked down the path without him.

#exy au #aftg #kaspar reveiro #mantis/margot mckinley #finley merrick #pacific rim #oc-tober #my ocs #my writing #siobhan kennely

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mister-lucky-bunny · 5 years ago

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Sympathy For The Ghosts

Long story short, I really liked @sparvely‘s OC, Moon, so I decided to write a fiction with him and my own Scooby Doo OC, the Detective! Let me know what y’all think (and let me know of any accidental errors I may have made, I wrote this all in one sitting like a dumdum). Enjoy!

Sympathy For The Ghosts

"Ugh... why couldn't it have been a warmer night..? I'm freezing," grumbled the voice of one shivering Moon Caddy Pérez. Currently, the sun was starting to make it's descent above the mountains, the sky starting to phase between a bright, dark orange to a dark, subtle violet. The growing dusk certainly wouldn't help with the coolness of the air, but at the very least, there was no threat of rain that night. So there was one upside.

Moon himself was carrying nothing more than a flashlight, which he had just turned on. As the night started to seep it's way in, the forest that the short paranormal detective found himself walking in was starting to grow darker and darker. Thankfully, there was a visible path to follow, so anyone who wanted to walk down it could easily find their way back. Of course, no one ever did. Who would, after all? An off-the-road path heading into a wooded area filled with who knows what? Most people would pass on that opportunity.

But not Moon. No sir, not tonight. With the rumors spreading around town of ghost sightings, he made sure to keep an ear out for any more stories, or perhaps a lead. Some would say that he took to these sorts of events like a few other paranormal detectives, who had quite the infamous reputation around town.

For tonight, however, he was by himself, carefully treading below errant tree branches and stepping over roots, huddling into his arms a little to help stay warm. Normally, to hear about ghost sightings, one would venture out to the local cemetery. After all, why wouldn't a large area filled with the dead bodies contain ghosts? However, Moon knew that whatever was happening around town wasn't occurring because of the cemetery. He had been by there quite a few times before, and had never once had an encounter with the paranormal. So where should he look? From various stories around town, the sightings took place around the side of roads, usually coming from people who liked to jog early in the mornings, or those who drove around at night.

A little research on Moon's part revealed that there was once an abandoned graveyard, all the way back in the 1800s, that used to be located on abandoned property. Age and nature took a hold of the old house that resided there and destroyed leaving, letting it rot away into nothing. Soon, the forest grew over the entire area, leaving it forgotten for years.

The ground became a lot more uneven as Moon found himself heading up a small hill of sorts, dead leaves littering the ground, crunching beneath his footfalls. The path started to fade away, the trees thinning out a little more. As he abandoned the pathway, he tried not to remember that one movie about three kids being lost in the forest and continued on.

He made sure not to wander too far away, otherwise he'd become lost, and with night approaching, that was the last thing he wanted. As Moon flashed his light around, he tried to look for any semblance of a flat surface area. Fortunately for him, he found that just, not too far away from where he strayed off. While there were trees growing, they weren't nearly as tall as the others he had encountered, and were quite thin, showing that they were no more than mere saplings.

With dead leaves scattered all about the place, he remained cautious, not wanting to trip over any rocks. Speaking of which, as he continued to shine his flashlight around, he found cracked stones sticking up out of the ground. With how they looked, they were far too big to be natural. Moon gently bent down in front of one, letting his fingers gently feel along the jagged edges. As his fingertips rubbed across the surface, he realized that there were markings on them. However, they were horribly scratched, almost as if an animal had gotten to them.

The air was growing colder and colder, making Moon shiver a bit more. What made him freeze up, however, was the sound of dead leaves shifting around, crunching gently beneath... something. The footfalls were uneven, and almost sounded like they were moving closer. 'Ghosts can't make noise like that...' Moon thought to himself, quickly standing up and flashing his light towards the source. He almost wished he did see a ghost, as the sight before him was very unexpected, causing him to gasp out.

Moon's light shone across a man's face. Despite his large smile, he didn't look too welcoming. He sported two, tired, yet wide-lidded eyes, heavy shadows underneath them. His hair was a deep dark brown, which he had lazily styled to hang to the side. His face was scruffed with dark facial hair as well. The man wore a large, purple hoodie, which he kept his hands buried in, along with dark blue jeans and black sneakers. The boy realized that the man was limping somewhat as he moved closer, unfazed by the sudden bright light in his eyes, which remained unblinking.

"Who are you?" Moon questioned quickly and sharply, showing that he was not a fan of being scared, especially by some stranger he's never even met before. Add in the scenario of a dark forest, and it was downright creepy.

The odd stranger's smile cracked even further, if that was even possible, and let out a slight, dark chuckle. "Caught ya by surprise, huh?" He asked back, stopping in place and lifting up one of his hands, waving it some. The man's voice was deep, yet very gruff, with a distinct Southern accent. "My bad. I have that effect on people sometimes," He joked, chuckling once more. Since Moon had his light on the man, he could easily see that the skin on his hand was... incredibly scarred. Moon remained on guard though, even as he shoved his hand back into his hoodie pouch.

"Yeah, you did," Moon huffed out, his voice softening up a little bit, lowering his light somewhat. "Still, that doesn't answer my earlier question."

"Hm," The man began slowly, flipping his hair a bit. "Just a traveler. Heard about Crystal Cove's... reputation, and it piqued my curiosity." As the strange, tall man continued on, Moon tried not to be freaked out by how he didn't seem to need to blink. "Most just call me the Detective. As well as some other... impolite names, but I doubt you'd want to use them," He finished, giving another small laugh at his own joke.

Disregarding the fact that he never gave an actual name, Moon sighed and fixed his own hair somewhat. "I'm Moon. I don't suppose you're here for the same reason I am, huh?" He asked, hoping that was the case. While it wouldn't have been nice to classify this man as a serial killer... he almost fit the part.

"Might be," He replied nonchalantly, shrugging. Despite the fact that Moon let out another unamused huff and put a hand on his hip, the Detective continued on. "Heard this place has some history. This area in particular."

"Yeah, that's right," Moon answered, feeling slightly more comfortable enough with the Detective to move forward a little. "A graveyard used to be around here before it was grown over. I'm thinking it may have something to do with the recent ghost sightings around town."

"I've heard those stories as well," the Detective responded, his smile still nice and big. "Only been here a few days, and that's all I've heard. Have ya seen anything yet?" He asked Moon, tilting his head somewhat.

He shook his head in response. "Nah, not yet. Hopefully it's not just a group of troublemakers trying to pull a prank or something."

"I highly doubt it," The detective said, shaking his head. "If two people have a similar story, it's a coincidence. If three, it's concerning. Four, you've got a mystery to solve," He said, his smile flashing even more widely.

"Heh, almost sounds like something Fred would say..." Moon chuckled, seeing the man's smile quickly turn back into a grin, which looked a lot more subtle than his previous expressions. When the Detective said nothing, the young hippie clarified. "Oh, uh, Fred Jones? Of Mystery Incorporated? Surely you must've heard of them. They're, like, kind of a big deal around here."

The man said nothing for a few more seconds, instead taking a hand out to scratch his chin, as if thinking. His grin widened a little more, the man looking off to the side. "...sounds familiar. Will have to look into 'em."

It was hard to tell if he was actually telling the truth in this regard or not, but something else caught Moon's attention before he could press on about the current topic. A shadowy silhouette, dimly illuminated by a white light was moving slowly from behind a tree, almost as if it were peering out from behind it. The moment he blinked, however, it had drifted away. This didn't stop the hippie from gasping out and saying aloud, "I saw one..! It was just there, looking at us..!"

The Detective whipped his head around to where Moon might've been talking about, his expression looking marginally more excited. His voice still sounded as deep and almost monotone as before, however. "Probably curious," He answered.

Moon shivered a bit more, the air becoming oddly colder, the night sky growing even darker at this point. However, the wind had not picked up in the slightest. "I don't think that was the only one around here," Moon stated.

"Definitely not," the man said, pointing a finger in Moon's direction. "This place used to be a graveyard of sorts, right? Can ya tell me who it was for?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

At this, Moon did his best to regather the information he could. "Uh, let's see... there was a house connected to the property... a farm, of sorts. Big family, I believe."

"What else?" The Detective encouraged, quite interested in what else he had to say. From the looks of it, he too was familiar with the story.

Moon continued on. "Well, they made a name for themselves, and were not liked by competition so..." The hippie let out a gasp, realizing why so many ghosts were seen. This gave the Detective the opportunity to finish his sentence.

"They burnt their barn down," He replied grimly. It was hard to tell if he was still smiling or not, but the man was looking elsewhere, making the shadow on his face look more intimidating.

"That's... awful!" He gasped, trying his best to not become over emotional. It was difficult though, his voice already showing how he felt. "But... why would they go through the trouble of burying them in a graveyard..?"

"They didn't," The Detective replied again, his voice sounding even more grim.

The weight of his words hung in the air for awhile as Moon took that statement in. Once the barn was burnt down, their bodies were left to perish with it. As the hippie thought about this horrific event, the Detective spoke up once more.

"...I think they're here to see us themselves," He stated simply. Slowly, Moon lifted his head, looking directly across to the Detective. His eyes were scanning around quickly, darting from one place to the other in a rapid manner. "Look around. Slowly. Carefully," He warned quietly, his voice a harsh whisper.

Moon's eyes scanned around, slowly adjusting to the night sky. More silhouettes were starting to circle around the pair of investigators, slowly floating into a ring of sorts. While their shapes were vaguely humanoid at best, their heights often varied. As he turned his head around to see even more ghostly apparitions start to appear, he noticed quite a few short ones. They made a motion as if to hold onto a taller ghost's hand.

The two humans said nothing as they all stopped, forming a tight circle around them. The ghosts stopped moving, instead turning their heads to the small group that had wandered onto their old property. For awhile, no one did anything, both Moon and the Detective trying to figure out what to do. Then, the hippie's own eyes widened in realization, letting out a small 'oh!'.

The Detective, as well as the circle of spirits, watched as he got to his knees and gently pulled up the old, jagged stone from earlier. He situated it into the ground, making sure it was more upright at this point. He pulled together a few smaller stones around it, making it look more decorative and professional. It didn't take long for the Detective to know what Moon was doing, as he had finished up by making a small cross out of sticks, tying it together with the stems of dead leaves. A little memorial.

One of the taller figures slowly floated towards the memorial, looking towards it. It would get to it's knees(?) and get into a position that made it look like it was praying. Soon, all of the other spirits would do the same, bowing their heads and following along. At this point, however, Moon had no real idea of what to do. Sure, he had properly memorialized them, but what next?

Thankfully, the Detective had an idea. He gently limped towards the kneeling spirit, letting a scarred hand hover over the shoulder. Then, he began to recite a prayer in Latin. "Pater caram habeant animarum ire nocuit regni posuit animam requiescere..." He recited deeply, his voice sounding oddly... calming.

Sure enough, with small, yet audible, gasps, the spirits began to fade away, slowly lifting into the sky. The one kneeling would the the last to go, being lifted up above as it was still praying. Soon, only Moon and the Detective were alone.

The two remained silent for a little bit longer before the Detective began to walk past Moon, heading back towards the path. "...I believe they're put to rest now," He stated simply, his grin as wide as it ever was.

"You know Latin?" Moon asked, turning his body to keep an eye on the man.

"Yup. When you read as much sacred works as I do, you get a tongue for it," He chuckled, continuing on.

Moon hurried to his side, deciding it was time for him to head back as well. "Thanks for helping," He responded, looking his way. "It's awful to know that they had to... well, die in such a bad way. But knowing that ghosts can't leave our world until they're put to rest. Or, in some cases, finish some sort of motive they had when they were alive."

"Yup, pretty much," The Detective replied with a slight nod. "Thankfully it was simple, this time. Some spirits are harder to get rid of than others. Hell, some of 'em can't even leave our world, even after death."

"Phantoms, right?" The hippie reaffirmed, gaining a nod from the taller, lankier man.

"Seems like you know a lot about this kinda thing," The Detective said, raising an eyebrow in Moon's direction.

"Yeah..! Ghosts are neat. I think that's probably the first time I've ever seen that many all at once," Moon replied. After a few seconds of walking, Moon spoke up. "...so, are you gonna tell me your actual name yet?"

A few more seconds of faux thinking later, the Detective flashed a big smile to him. "Nah." Moon rolled his eyes again, giving a wry smile in return.

"Figured as much."

#scooby doo #scooby doo fanfiction #scooby doo oc #original character #moon caddy #the detective #sympathy for the ghosts #sparvely

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thedipshits · 5 years ago

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seasonal aesthetic.

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑. a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the closed windows. a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold. full length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym, training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑. lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end. beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3AM, loud and proud. palm trees on sunset boulevard. longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust. nights spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk. relaxation.

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋. the leaves changing colors. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness ( the loudness in silence ). abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of work. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter after crying. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day

tagged: @misbehavc 💋 tagging: nobody; if you’d like to do this, feel free to & tag me! i’ll be doing this for all my ocs.

#🏹 – about duhlainn #⌛️ – queued

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mimixis · 6 years ago

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Towards the sun - Part 1: Towards the sun

Paring: Ivar x OC

Word Count: 3092

Summary: Pia just wanted to go to work, but oh well, shit happens.

AN: Hello there! I’m kind of new to posting on Tumblr and there may occur some errors on my part, but please, bear with me. :)

I’m not native English speaker, I’m still learning so if you catch some mistakes, feel free to let me know. :)

“Fuck!” she swore for the fourth time.

Pia took a deep breath in and then exhaled, wanting to calm down. She has gone through this forest many times on her way to work regularly, but now she felt like she was in a completely different dimension. There was no path she always used, she didn't pass the house of the gamekeeper, and she couldn't see the tall chimneys of the factory behind the crowns of the trees.

She cursed again, more annoyed than alarmed. She pulled out her phone to call her boss to inform him she would be late but it refused to obey. There was no signal. She sat on the ground and leaned against a tree. Pia wasn't a person who panicked quickly and without a reason, but this situation seemed too stressful.

First of all, she had no idea where she was. Unquestionably, it was not the forest, that separated her house from the main road, and the passage to the city. Secondly, her phone didn't work. She had no way of contacting anyone to ask for help. Thirdly, it was dusk and Pia didn't feel safe.

She trembled. She didn't know whether it was because of cold or out of fear. She started humming to get hold of herself. When her heart beat more calmly, and she was sure of her voice, she sang.

“Turn your face towards the sun. Let the shadows fall behind you. Don't look back, just carry on. And the shadows will never find you,”

She took a breath to keep sing, but when she heard a rustle in the bushes, she stood up immediately. She opened her mouth to question who it was, but she didn't fancy being a stereotypical dumb blonde girl from horror movies. She took off her backpack, clenched her fingers on it, and pressed her back against the tree, hoping to blend into it. But nothing like that happened, and the noises became clearer.

When a figure crawled out of the bushes, Pia nearly screamed. Her eyes were wide open in horror and shock. The boy stopped moving and looked at her. However, she wasn't looking at his face, but at his legs. She didn't see blood, but he could be injured. His unusual clothes also caught her attention.

“Are you in need of help?” she asked weakly. The boy raised his eyebrow. “Your legs...”

“I'm a cripple.”

"It seems to me, that 'a person with a disability' would be a more proper term," she said, watching him crawl toward her. She wanted to step back, but she hit the tree behind her.

“You don't have to be afraid, sváss snót*,”

Pia didn't know how to react. Not only to his unknown words but also to his behaviour. She moved away a few steps to give him room to lean against the tree. Though, before she could pull back completely and run away, the boy grabbed her ankle. Her brown eyes met his blue ones. She lost her footing for a moment, but somehow she regained her balance.

"Sit next to me," he demanded.

Pia sat down when his fingers disappeared from her ankle. Her heart was beating fast, her body was shaking, she broke out in a cold sweat. She felt like crying. She got lost in the woods, she didn't have a phone signal and a strangely dressed psychopath would kill her. She leaned against the same tree as he, put her backpack between her legs and began to rummage through it, feeling his eyes on her. She took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Would you mind terribly if I had a smo...” she started out of habit, but quickly stopped. If she was about to die, she had the right to the last wish.

She pulled her scarf down. She put a cigarette between her lips, lit it and immediately relaxed. For a few seconds, she even forgot that someone was sitting next to her. She looked at him and her lips parted. She was looking at him earlier, but now that her mind was not overwhelmed by fear, she could see how gorgeous he was. Thick, raven-black hair, piercing eyes and sharp features. For a moment she wanted to touch him. She directed her hand with the cigarette in his direction, offering him some instead.

The boy had been fascinated by what she was doing, but now he seemed unsure. Pia understood that despite her suggestions, he didn't know what to do.

“You take a cigarette between your fingers. Then you put it in your mouth, you drag on it, so that the smoke reaches your lungs,” She showed all the steps in turn, and then released the smoke, creating circles. ”Then you exhale.”

She gave him the cigarette again and this time he accepted it. Pia hid her face in the scarf and watched how the stranger tried to do everything as she said. He inhaled and then coughed. Pia laughed, ignoring his furious look. The boy threw the cigarette away, ignoring her 'hey!' and grabbed her shoulder tightly.

Pia paled. These few minutes of relaxation were a mistake. She shouldn't have left her guard down. The boy took off her hat with his free hand and then unwrapped the scarf. Pia tried to break free, but it didn't work. His grip was too strong. When he finished, he looked at her and she saw her reflection in his eyes.

Tousled hair, glazed eyes, red cheeks and nose. Her lips were gently parted, ready to scream.

"You are different from everyone I know," he said. His voice quiet, the accent very hearable. He put his dirty fingers on her neck, ideally placing them on the pulsing vein. “You don't behave like people from England, and yet you speak their language. You don't dress like them or like my people. Who are you?"

“What do you mean?” she asked confusedly. “Who are your people? Where am I? Who are you?”

"Answer my questions first," he growled, his face dangerously close to hers.

“I'm Pia Petersen, I was born in Great Britain, I'm twenty-two years old and I'm studying acting.”

“Where is Great Britain? And what acting is?”

Pia stared at him blankly for a long moment. She didn't know whether to take it seriously or as a joke. She blinked several times. She changed her position so now she sat in front of him, not beside him.

“No, no, no! Now is my turn! Where am I? And who are you?”

“I'm Ivar, and you will come with me.”

;:;

Pia followed Ivar for three reasons.

The first, quite obvious one, she didn't know this forest and had no idea where to go. Secondly, she preferred to look at him than to have him to look at her. Thanks to that, she felt a little safer. The third reason why she didn't run away the first moment he looked away was, she had no idea where she was and she really needed help.

Pia didn't ask questions as they walked, but she listened intently to what Ivar has been saying to himself in his mother tongue. It was very similar to Icelandic, her mother's native language. She knew only basic words. As a child, she was not interested in acquiring another language, and she had to start learning it when she moved to Iceland with her mother five months ago.

Ivar spoke mostly about that his brothers would not believe him, that Floki would be astonished. She had no idea, who his brothers and Floki were or what was fascinating about her, but she calmed down. The boy's slow movements had put her in a trance, which she had only wrested out from when Ivar turned to her.

“Answering your previous question, we are in Kattegat. Only a few people know your speech. None of my brothers has that skill, so don't be surprised when they do not answer your questions.”

Pia nodded, listening to him with one ear and letting out with other. All her attention was absorbed by the bustling town. The merchants were shouting all at once, women were looking at the fabric to buy. The crowd was so huge, and Pia was afraid she would get lost among them. There was also another problem.

“Ivar, right?” she asked, wanting to be sure she was pronouncing his name correctly. He looked at her. “I don't want to be rude, but... How are you going to get us through this? Will you be like Moses for whom the sea parted?”

“Who is Moses? And how did he do it?”

“It's a story for a different time,” she replied after a moment, shocked. “But in short, it's a character from the Bible.”

“Are you a Christian?” he snarled, grabbing her ankle hard.

Pia groaned, feeling his fingers leaving bruises on her skin. She tried to escape, but the boy jerked harder and she stopped moving.

“And why does it matter?”

"Are you?"

“No!” she answered truthfully. However, she had the impression that if she were, she would have to lie for her own good.

Ivar stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes glistening dangerously. A smile crept over his lips and he threw a satisfied 'good' in her way. They turned to the right and Pia guessed that it was for them to be able to walk smoothly. She wrapped the scarf around her tightly, when the wind blew harder.

She saw that people who were passing them send her questioning looks, but she tried to ignore that. Even when they entered building full of people, that was staring at her, she tried to act with dignity and didn't hide in her too large jacket.

Ivar stopped and slid on the bench near the table. He talked to people resting there, leaving her alone. She stood in front of them and pretended that everything was perfectly all right and that she didn't feel awkward and uncomfortable at all.

She eavesdropped once again. This time not only on the boy but on his conversations with other men. The situation was more difficult now because alcohol made their speech less understandable. She understood, however, that they were talking about England, Odin and revenge. She didn't comprehend what exactly because she only knew that three words. She craved to take the cigarettes out of her backpack, but she was embarrassed to make any move. She didn't feel confident enough and the boy's behaviour wasn't helping.

"Don't be shy, come closer," Ivar said, beckoning her with a wave of his hand.

Under normal circumstances, she would mumble, she was not a dog, but in this unfamiliar environment, she preferred to fulfil his simple desires. She came up to him without even looking at his friends. He extended his hand, pulled off her hat in one movement and with the other her scarf. He put them on the table and Pia wanted to ask him to give her things back for two reasons. Firstly, she had nowhere to hide her face. Secondly, they were made by her grandmother and she for sure didn't want anyone to spill anything on them.

She gave up quickly because someone distracted her. A hand appeared on her hip and Pia without thinking, knocked it down. She moved closer to Ivar and caught his tunic with her thumb and index finger like a child holding its mother's skirt when they were afraid. Her behaviour was amusing, even to the person, that touched her. Ivar was pleased like the cat that got the cream.

"Hvitserk just wanted to say hello," he laughed and then spoke again. “It's Ubbe, Bjorn and Sigurd. Hvitserk, you've got to know. They are my brothers.”

Pia smiled crookedly and put her hand forward to greet them, but they stared at her blankly. She withdrew, feeling blush on her face and cleavage.

“You don't shake hands to say hello, do you?” she asked embarrassed. Ivar looked at her with amusement, nodding. “Please, let them know it's nice to meet them.”

He did it, and they lifted the goblets up and then drank from them. Ivar shifted to the side and patted the seat between him and Ubbe. Pia sat down and instantly clam up, not wanting to touch any of them. She put her hands on her knees, not knowing what to do with them. She felt someone put her hair behind her ear. This move was so delicate and unexpected that Pia jumped up, bumping into Ubbe.

Her large eyes were focused on the boy's face and his raised hand. She quickly returned to her position, seeing that hurt passed through his face. It sounded strange in her mind, but she didn't want him to feel rejected. She might have been afraid of him at the very beginning, but now she didn't have a reason to be. He brought her to the village, she wasn't lost any more, and she hoped that he would help her. Sure, he was a bit bizarre, but everyone here seemed to be.

"I'm sorry, I didn't expect you to..." she began, but seeing that her apologize meant nothing, she made her hair go back to its previous position and smiled shyly. “Try again, this time I will react correctly.”

Ivar's jaw was clenched and his eyes shone wildly. And though he looked intimidating, Pia was not afraid. She turned her head towards him and waited for his move. Finally, after a time that seemed like an eternity, Ivar once again tuck her hair behind her ear. This time his fingers touched her skin. He caressed her forehead, her cheek, and stopped at her neck. Pia shivered.

"So..." she started the conversation, trying to get rid of the well-known feeling in her lower abdomen. The names of his brothers, as well as his name, seemed familiar to her and she only wanted to determine her preposterous assumptions. “I know you certainly have questions, but let me ask you one first?”

"If you promise to answer mine," he said, ignoring his brothers, who wanted him to translate something.

“Of course,” This assurance seemed enough for him. She took a deep breath. ”Is your father Ragnar Lothbrok? Are your brothers Bjorn Ironside and Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye? Are you Ivar the Boneless?”

“The answer is 'yes', to all your questions,” he whispered as if he was revealing his innermost secret, but there was a mocking smile on his lips. ”It's my turn now. Who are you and where is Great Britain?”

Pia heard him ask her a question, but the shock didn't let her do anything. So she looked at him with her mouth wide open and wondered how all this was possible. There was no doubt that what was happening was real, but how?

Ivar awoke her from her thoughts. He pinched her cheek firmly as if she was an unruly child.

“Great Britain doesn't exist yet. And as I said before, I'm Pia Petersen, I'm twenty-two years old and I'm studying acting.”

“How can you come from a place that doesn't exist?” His fingers disappeared from her neck, and he was caressing her hair. The boy's voice perfectly expressed his feelings. Apparently, in his eyes, she was quite simple-minded. “And explain what acting is, please.”

"The simplest answer to almost all your questions would be... And please, don't think I'm mad," she stammered stressed out, moving closer to him. She put her hands on his and squeezed. “As you probably have noticed, I don't fit here, and that's because I'm not from here. Please, believe me, I really do not lie... I'm from the future.”

Ivar looked at her for a long time. Then he looked at their joined hands, how their knees were touching. Then he looked back at her face. She knew how she had looked. Hair stuck to her face from sweat, her eyes wandering and her breathing shallow. Despite the fact that she felt like a woman who had just fled from the asylum, Ivar's lips rose up and now he looked like a lunatic one.

He leaned to the left to look at his brothers. He spoke to them very quickly and Pia didn't understand a word. The brothers looked at her, then at Ivar. Disbelief and awe on their face. Bjorn laid something on the table and told Ivar something about the map. Ivar focused again on her.

“What did you tell them? Did you tell them I have lost my mind?”

“Do not be ridiculous, heimskur.** I told them the truth. Gods sent you to show they are supporting us," he paused, seeing that his words were not reaching her. “Now be a darling and read this map.”

Pia didn't ask unnecessary questions. She preferred not to know what he meant and why his gods would do it. That's why she looked at the map. And yet she had some question.

“So what do you want to know?”

“Everything you know.”

"I've never been good at geography so it will not be much," she murmured and studied the map. “Well, it's a map of Europe. One of the seven continents. We're part of it, England is part of it.”

Bjorn pointed to the unsigned part of the map, and Ivar translated his question.

"It's Spain," she answered and waited for another question.

Bjorn turned the map over and put something on it, that was supposed to be used for drawing. Ivar explained to her that his brother wanted her to draw a map of the world she knows. Pia looked at Bjorn with a raised eyebrow. He only urged her with a wave of his hand. She lifted the backpack from the ground and took out a notebook and a pen. She laid it on her knees and drew a map of the world with awkward movements. It was not perfect, but it was best she could do. Bjorn wanted to continue asking questions, but Ivar didn't let him.

“It's time to go to the ritual.”

“Ritual? What ritual?” she asked, terrified.

“Oh, do not worry. You will not be sacrificed. Gods have only now given you to me, haven't they? Now come on, I do not want to be late.”

Pia took her hat and scarf, but before leaving, she grabbed goblet from Sigurd's hand and drank its contents.

"I needed it," she said, looking at his startled expression.

Sigurd didn't know her language, but he understood what she wanted to say.

_____________________

(Part 2)

*sváss snót - sweet lady **heimskur – silly Pia sings Rihanna song 'Towards the sun'.

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