#Melody can summon clouds to carry herself on | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

justafairytailofinnocence · 1 year

Note

Can I request a Davy Jones one shot of the reader being sick but doesn’t say anything. Because she has been working with the crew 24/7 she hadn’t been able to take care of herself properly and because of that, it made her stubborn about it if anyone asked. Maybe after making a mistake on the job, Davy scolds her and asks her what brought her to that. Before she could respond, she takes off and vomits over the side of the ship then he understands when he sees that happening.

Thanks! 😊

Hello dear💖, thanks for the request, I hope you get better soon.

Davy Jones x Sick reader🐙😷 A hymn in sickness😷

Synopsis: A woman sings every full moon at the forecastle only to become ill, Davy seeks out her reson.

Warning: vomiting.

It was a fine misty morning along the sea’s horizon, clouds of fog hovered just above the water. The Briny deep had been aware of the Flying Dutchman’s presence—the ship that caused the sea to quake in fear. Up on top of the main helm, Davy Jones gripped the wheels edges; his long tentacular hand wrapped around the handle. One hand on the right and the other on the left. He had planned to set course over the horizon to hunt a certain buccaneer for their debt. The only problem was, they had to pass a monstrous storm, a tyrant Calypso had summoned to stop Davy in his tracks. A storm that represented her own heart ache from the day Davy Jones broke his promise. Davy could still hear Calypso’s voice in his mind, a cry out for the love they once had, a cry out for his heart to be returned. Davy locked his heart away forever, inside a chest that cannot be reached by any man nor woman. It’s said whoever owns the heart can control Davy Jones, however for that to happen, they would need to find the chest with the key—the key around Davy’s neck. Sometimes at night, along the current of uncharted waters, Davy would debate deep down whether to carry out his duties and ferry the dead to bring back Calypso’s love. However, as the saying goes, once a monster, always a monster. Davy would rather torture the souls he encountered rather than put up with any of the pain he endured over the centuries.

The legends all aligned toward Davy’s tragedy, a tragic drag that he brought upon himself. And now, he must bear those marks from his past.

Along the side the very front of the ship Forecastle, a woman dressed in brown breeches and a white blouse, held her hands together as she was kneeling. She sang a hymn.

“And even though I'm walking through the valley of the shadow I will hold tight to the hand of Him Whose love will comfort me.

And when all hope is gone and I've been wounded in the battle He is all the strength that I will ever need He will carry me.”

It was a well-known myth that, if you travel far out at sea and listen carefully, you can hear the wails of a hymn, a hymn in prayer. Even if sailors try to locate the mysterious woman’s voice, It disappears before you reach the whereabouts. The voice was said to come in two ways, either as a golden, soulful tune or as a deep, haunting melody. The voice will only appear when the moon is highly risen in the sky; a bright monument to commemorate a will of hope. It’s said to either be a cry out from Calypso, calling to her long, lost love or it’s the white wench, a ghost who pulls men and sailors under who fall in tune to her voice. In truth, it was a woman who sings at the front of the dutchman. It’s unknown as to why she does, even the crew couldn’t put a finger on the reason however, it seems to be the one calming, peaceful enchantment to Davy’s mind. He wouldn’t forbid her, he wouldn’t banish her, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t kill her.

What? How? How could Davy Jones allow someone to live on his vessel?

Well…no one knows, believe me, if someone had the answer. They would’ve recorded it down on a piece of Paper and sent it, well away in some history book of myths or legends.

As per routine, the woman sang her hymn and ended it with a soulful tune. She had to get back to manning the Crowsnest, swabbing the decks and navigating into the unknown. Davy stood at the helm, his eyes were shut, he pictured nothing in his mind but the hymn. Listening to the tune, to the melody, to the rhapsody of her song. But—it ended, and like that Davy had to snap out of his trance. He uttered out a small growl of frustration, her voice, it was the only calming thing to his damned eternity.

The woman followed through with her task, swabbing the main decks until it’s spotless. Only, she felt ill, an illness that couldn’t be recognised as scurvy nor the flu. This has been going for a while now, well, since the start of winter. The woman wasn’t entirely damned, she was still human. However, a human who had to pay her debts through serving on the dutchman from her father. Y/n, a woman who was originally sold as Davy Jones’s wife, instead, a slave to her father’s doing. It wasn’t an arrangement she initially agreed to nor wanted, it was to save her own life. A daughter to take to wife, a soul for a soul. Davy didn’t necessarily pull through with the sailors accord—he wanted a soul and, well, he got the soul he wanted. Her father.

Y/n used the brush and rag to scrub the muck and mould out of the floorboards on the main deck. Her vision became blurry, her stomach ached. Y/n laid onto her side, clenching her stomach, praying it would stop. The Dutchman has been known to be a bad omen—and even her pleads couldn’t save her. Maccus patrolled the swabs cleaning the decks, he fell and tripped over y/n’s body. All the swabs stopped scrubbing to find Davy’s first mate collapsing over the lass.

“Ah! have mercy upon me for I did not intend to cause havoc on your duty” y/n begged. She kneeled over to plead to the first mate not to whip her.

“Bilging wench, will be keelhauled over the kraken” Maccas threatened.

“NO!” Y/n screamed.

Maccas went silent, he didn’t inch closer but instead, walked away—call this a blessing or miracle, in a few seconds, it was about to be a curse.

“WHO BAH DISTURBIN MAH PACE!” the booming voice of the captain emerged when Maccas backed down.

Davy Jones stomped down the steps; one by one, a boot then a peg leg, inching forward the miscreant. Jones leaned down, his head came on par with y/n’s eye level. Quickly, y/n averted her gaze to the ground. Smoke blew out of the captains mouth, the white mist surrounded y/n’s face as she dreaded the worst.

“What bah yer reason fer causin’ ah blistarin’ disturbance on mah ship” Davy spoke in a low growl. His heavy accent caused y/n to quake in fear.

“I-I lost my scrub captain” y/n whimpered in a whisper.

“Last yer scrub did’cha? Tha be yer best excuse?” Davy laughed.

“Aye” Y/n couldn’t come up with anything else. ‘Blast this sickness’ she thought, she couldn’t tell anyone. The only man who questioned it was Bootstrap bill, however, she snapped at him to not give away her illness.

Y/n tried to open her mouth but slammed it shut, she couldn’t talk, she tried to nod at the captain scolding her just to hurry it up. She needed to go—like, now.

“Wha’ brought yar ta tha excuse-Ah?” Davy’s tentacles curled with impatience.

Y/n pushed herself off the deck as she bolted toward the ships railing to haul up last night’s dinner. It was a mess; it poured into the water and stained the planks in the water. “I. am. So. Dead.” She thought to herself.

Davy witnessed the whole scene unfold, his brows furrowed with annoyance and yet he couldn’t speak aside from. “Yer Sick-ah” he muttered.

Davy’s head turned, he pointed his claw hand toward Bootstrap Bill. “Take er’ ta yar quartars, n’ keep ah’ aye on er’” he ordered.

Bootstrap came forward with an understanding, he quickly came up to y/n and placed his coat over her. Bootstrap carried y/n back down to the quarters. Davy felt foolish, of course, she had a sickness, a blasting sickness. The only thing he could do was watch, she could’ve died from this, he had to make it up to her. After all, she was the only human on board.

The captain ordered Maccus to keep an eye on the helm, he hobbled down to the quarters. There in the door way, he could see Bootstrap place her in a hammock with only one blanket and coat.

“She’s sick captain” Bootstrap pointed out “the child can’t push on anymore, if she did, she could fall ill fatally”.

Davy towered over Bootstrap and ordered him to get back to his swabbing station. He towered over the hammock, his eyes softened. The woman was asleep trying to catch a breather. Jones wanted to scream and shout at the dying woman however, he couldn’t, it wasn’t her fault. The woman, this woman right here was the only one who could bring him to peace. He believed, even if his heart still beats and the pain lingered, she silenced it. Davy’s tentacles reached toward y/n; he was caught in a trance. Davy placed his lips on top of the girl’s forehead, like a prayer for her health.

Jones turned and went back to his position at the helm not before looking back and muttering.

“Calypso, I bag o’ ya, bring mah y/n back”.

anyways that's all I have for now:

Ta Ta 🌟

#pirates of the caribbean #potc x reader #Davy Jones x reader #Davy Jones #Potc #pirates of the carribean #pirates of the caribbean x reader #Fem reader #Davy Jones x fem reader #Davy Jones potc

98 notes · View notes

simplytheevebest · 2 years

Text

The Pursuit of Misery

Author's Note: Hello and welcome back to another episode of "I make Eve Best's characters cry." I just really want Rhaenys to get to be upset over all the shit she went through. So she is. Also I'm sorry Corlys and Rhaenys aren't getting along, but I'm also not that sorry ❤️

On Ao3

Mild warnings to canon-typical homophobia mentioned by Corlys about Laenor.

The night is dark and still, no pinpricks of starlight visible behind the scattered cloud cover, the moon similarly veiled as though shielding itself from her grief. A wayward sea breeze catches the curtains, dragging them along the edge of the stone floor and chilling her through the sleeves of her nightgown; she tucks the shawl closer about her shoulders, feeling her age and twice as many years. It weighs upon her like a shroud, a heavy weakness more potent than any sickness, more agonizing than any wound. It sparks like a fever burning from within, searing through her veins with a sore ache that pains her breaths and seizes her heart. She feels frail, thin, as a favored blanket made threadbare, exposed, vulnerable and likely to fall apart if handled too roughly. The breeze picks up, curtains whirling around her still form like the Stranger’s caress: she wonders if it won’t reach for her too, pitch her over the edge of the balcony into the dark night, if it will shock her back into herself before she strikes the ground, if she’d regret it if she did.

She hums, a low, soothing lullaby as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, as familiar to her as the heartbeats of the children she’d once sung it to, holding them that first time to her breast after hours of labors. How small they had been, the tiniest of fingers and toes, softest of skin and lightest of cries. They’d been blessed by the gods with easy children, even as Laenor agonized through colic those first few months, his wails shattering her heart and stealing her sleep. She wouldn’t have traded those nights of soothing walks and cuddling for anything. The melody catches in her throat; she continues shakily, brokenly, swiping with her thumb at a wayward tear that leaks from the corner of her eye. She’s too exhausted to cry much more, she feels drained of the effort it would take.

The knock at the door is a soft thing, praying not to be heard, but she turns her head to the open doorway, pinning the intruder with her attention before they can slip away. Rhaenyra takes the glance for the beckoning summons it is, stepping solidly into the sitting room of the Lord and Lady of Driftmark. Her pale gaze sweeps the artifacts on the walls, lining shelves and covering tables, each with a story the children had delighted to hear from their father, wide eyes enraptured by the bestowing of overzealous retellings of his seafaring adventurers. How Corlys delighted when Laenor proclaimed his wish to follow in his father’s footsteps (how disappointed he had been when Laenor’s head was turned instead by dragonback and swords).

“Princess,” Rhaenyra greets softly, her own shawl loose about her shoulders and hands clasped before her. Rhaenys allows herself a lapse in decorum not to offer her tea; the hour is late for it anyway, and she doubts the younger woman means to stay long enough for it to be boiled.

“I wanted to inform you we mean to depart in two days time,” Rhaenyra continues. “The children and I are eager to… carry on as we must.”

She chooses her words carefully, and Rhaenys swallows the chafing they cause; she doubts any words the young princess could’ve chosen wouldn’t cut her to the quick. A week and two days since her daughter’s funeral, three since her son’s. It feels unfathomable that time should march on so quickly, that the world should keep turning when she feels so… trapped, as a fly in the web of a cruel and vengeful reality.

“As we must,” Rhaenys repeats in a murmur, keeping her gaze across the sea, watching the rippling of the newly exposed moon reflected on the water. As we must. As she must, eventually. But “eventually” feels such a long way away; it feels impossible that she should weather further storms of fate long enough to reach "eventually."

“Do you know if Prince Daemon means to return to Pentos?” She asks softly; she hasn’t seen her cousin since the funeral, has had no desire to speak with him much, truthfully. Her jaw clenches involuntarily at the reminder of the disrespect shown at Laena’s funeral: it had taken every ounce of control she possessed not to demand his tongue for the insult of his mirth at her eulogy. Daemon has always been a man of his own morals, his own ambitions and his own reasons. It had united them in their youth, similar rebellious spirits delighting in the exasperation of their elders. It divides them presently in their maturity, for Rhaenys knows now the joy and fulfillment of family; Daemon, despite boasting two late wives and two daughters, she doesn’t know if she can say the same of him, and she wishes not to suffer the insult of learning she is right.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, discomfort painting her words, “He… does not. He means to return to Dragonstone with myself and the boys.”

“That is kind of him,” Rhaenys remarks distantly. There is a roaring in her ears she can’t mistake for the waves. It feels more akin to the wind rushing by on dragonback, or the beat of leathery wings overhead at the approach of one of the great beasts. It’s an anticipatory sound she feels inclined to shy away from, fearing the misery it might bring.

“It is kind… and expected, of a husband to escort his wife,” Rhaenyra speaks carefully. The rushing stops, leaving a ringing silence not unlike that of riding above the clouds. That roaring wind fades to silence faster than the ears can comprehend and all is still in a way earth can never hope to be. It is calm, peaceful, removed from whatever trials and tribulations await below. This silence does not leave Rhaenys with the same peace; she longs instead for the silence of the clouds, an unbreakable silence, now more than ever.

“What did you say?” Her words are a whisper, but no less a demand. Rhaenyra has the decency -the good grace- to look abashed at the confession, and her hands twist themselves tighter together. She is every inch the spoiled child Rhaenys had sought to warn all those years ago, haughty and self-assured in her own ranking and used to the whims of a father -and expecting it of a realm- bending to her will. But it is an idea only, a wish, a farce, that Rhaenys knows better than anyone. She had sought to warn Rhaenyra of the pain of hopelessness; she wishes instead she had let the child be, to drown in her own selfish delusions.

“It is sudden, I know,” Rhaenyra speaks quickly, fearing a wrath she has every right to expect, “And we might have invited you, we intended to, only-”

“Only I was busy preparing the funeral arrangements of my son -your late husband,” Rhaenys hisses, caring little for the rudeness of interrupting her. She almost dares Rhaenyra to call her on it, but the little princess -for she is every inch the naive, spoiled girl Rhaenys remembers, if not worse- merely tightens her clasped hands and straightens her shoulders, chin raised, like she has any reason to be so high-handed.

“I loved your son-” and how quickly she applies the past tense “-and I know he loved me. I know he wouldn’t wish me to suffer alone, nor would Laena wish it on Daemon.”

“And do you?” Rhaenys demands, cold fury seizing her tone, “Suffer? Do your hearts bleed from no visible wound, as mine does, do your lungs refuse to draw air at the weight of their absence, as mine do, do you lose sleep, as I do, a mother forced to bury her children, both of them, twenty, thirty years before their time? Do you ache with the pain of it? Does it fester in your blood and rot your soul as it does mine? No,” Rhaenys shakes her head, turns from the pantomime of grief before her, and in an instant the anger is gone, as the receding of the tide on the sand and in its place a weariness she feels down to her bones, “You do not grieve him, because you did not love him, nor did Daemon love Laena.”

“I did love your son,” Rhaenyra repeats, the barest of tremors in her tone: perhaps she did feel something for Laenor, but it was not love. She didn’t love him anymore than he could love her, Rhaenys knows this, has seen the proof of it, even if Corlys is content to stay blind.

“Is it love for him that propelled you into the arms of your dear uncle, or was it love for your dear uncle that propelled my son to the hearth?”

The accusation is laid bare before them, once the faintest of thoughts Rhaenys had refused to entertain but now must, an unbearable truth pieced together by tragedy: an uncle and niece separated by the will of her father now brought together in grief of their lost spouses. Is it coincidence they were both born of her blood, or has she missed some ugly transference of power? By her husband’s own word their flesh and blood are not to inherit Driftmark because the weight of a name holds stronger. Was this always the plan, something twisted and evil born from her own kin, bred on the belief, her belief, that blood should hold more weight than connections and power? Could they not merely have schemed to take her throne, her crown, her claim, her home -must they have taken her family?

“I know you won’t care to hear it,” Rhaenyra’s tone has taken on a bite, one Rhaenys will hear many times over in the coming years whenever the subject is raised, “But I had nothing to do with Laenor’s death. I did not order it-”

“I never said you did,” Rhaenys responds cooly and the young woman works her jaw furiously, silently, for a moment.

“You mean to catch me out, Princess, and your ire is not misplaced, I understand it, and I accept it. This is not how I would have news of my marriage be spread but circumstances being what they are-”

“You have been married, on the very land born of the waves that have consumed both my children in less than a fortnight’s time?”

The audacity of the spoiled child that is spared the rod; Rhaenys turns from the window to face properly this violator of her mourning, more angry at herself for her own disbelief than she is at this insufferable brat for her insolence.

“You come to me, three nights on from the funeral of my son, a week from that of my daughter, to tell me you have already married my cousin and wish to depart with haste? And you expect my blessing?”

“Never,” Rhaenyra is self aware in that, at least, “I don’t ask for it, and I don’t require it.” That auspicious little- “I merely wished to inform you of the recent changes-” As though they are paltry! “-before our departure, specifically to discuss the girls. Your granddaughters.”

As though Rhaenys needs reminding of them. They are as prevalent on her mind as her own children, all she can think about, all she has left. Her heart seizes on the thought: do they mean to take them from her too? Rhaenyra takes her silence, incorrectly, as a sign to continue to speak her case, “We would let you have Baela, to raise as your ward.”

“You would ‘let me have’ Baela?” Her words are frozen steel but burn with the seething undertone of her anger returned, roiling beneath the tidal waves of grief like dragonfire, “As though she is an offering of peace? A worthy trinket? A trade, of my own granddaughter for my compliance?”

“That is not how it is intended,” Rhaenyra is quick to back down, “Only Daemon loves them both equally-” Rhaenys scoffs, for she has scene their father behave with nothing but clear prejudice for Baela, already a bonded future dragonrider, and against the dragonless Rhaena, her own namesake; Rhaenyra narrows her eyes “-but he agrees that perhaps the grief and… ill feelings might be tempered with this show of good faith. He knows you love the girls, cherish them as your own even, and would do right by either of them, whichever you choose.”

“I would have both,” Rhaenys snaps, “And not be made to choose, for I do love my granddaughters equally.”

“It isn’t Daemon’s wish to be parted from his daughters,” Rhaenyra’s neutrality is grating, for Rhaenys has long tired of being proclaimed too swift to pass judgement in her own tone; she will not be made the hysterical and unreasonable one, not on a topic such as this. “But he equally wishes no bad blood between our houses. We would offer you Baela, but if you would prefer Rhaena, that is a suitable request.”

Rhaenys turns from the younger woman fully, away from her beseeching eyes begging a forgiveness Rhaenys has no intention of imparting, away from impossible decisions and further heartache. The moon has risen high enough not to be seen, its twin still rippling across the lapping waves. She twists a hand hidden into the fabric of her shawl, clenching tight, the other draping across trembling lips.

“I won’t have this conversation tonight,” she murmurs, and it’s a dismissal Rhaenyra takes in stride, inclining her head at the edge of Rhaenys’ vision and stepping back.

“Then I take my leave. Goodnight, Princess.”

Rhaenys doesn’t respond, does not trust herself to do so cordially. The stars are lost behind the clouds; the moon gives way to the dawn and she tracks its disappearance on the water, as the waves deepen and the sky lightens and the gulls descend from their nests. She feels as though she would buckle under the weight of exhaustion, but still, she does not sleep.

The absence of choice is still a choice, and Rhaenys is not afforded the option of the one she wants to make. Her heart is no less heavy for it, but she faces the loss of both granddaughters, when she could yet have one. She can’t suffer to watch them go, either of them, and she would have both, but she won’t have none. She is selfish in her grief, complicit in the heartbreak of split sisters: she is the direct cause of their pain, and it pains her to know it, but she cannot suffer another loss, even one as impermanent as this. She presses thin lips into a thinner line, suppresses a sneer at the stoic father who pats heads and tuts softly and makes false promises of visits and letters that have no reason not to find their way across the narrow sea, but won’t anyhow.

“I would keep you both if I could,” she is quick to assure, gentle hands on youthful cheeks damp with tears she can’t wipe away fast enough. It is Rhaena’s hand she must kiss and release; Baela clings to her grandmother with a desperation Rhaenys feels in her soul, a childish but well-founded fear that she too might find herself ripped from her remaining family, perhaps flung into the sea after her mother, cast away and set adrift. It’s a cruelty Rhaenys would prefer no child to know, but has now known thrice.

Corlys’ hand is a steady weight on her shoulder, a silent display of solidarity, and only once the trundling caravan is out of sight does Rhaenys shrug it off and turn from the hurt that she knows creases his brow. There are too many spoken and unspoken things between them for the comfort that hand offers to truly reach her. Her steps are heavy with emotional fatigue and slowed by the child refusing to release her. Rhaenys isn’t in any hurry to let her go either, so it’s on lethargic, weighted strides that grandmother and granddaughter return to High Tide. The castle looms far larger and darker than Rhaenys remembers in all her years there; its halls are oppressive in their silence, rooms made emptier by the people that have vacated them ahead of their time. Rhaenys leads them clear of the main hall. The day will come when she can step within it again, look upon the hearth without seeing the body of her son, without smelling the acrid, burning stench of death she sometimes believes still clings to her hair, her clothing, her skin… but it is not this day. This day she reserves for herself and her granddaughter, to attempt to ease the burden of loss and separation they both feel as viscerally as the beat of their own hearts.

Baela is listless, and Rhaenys doesn’t feel much better, but there is a quiet strength that invades her senses, hums through her veins at the absence of it in others, the same quiet strength Corlys held when Rhaenys’ own had failed in the wake of her father’s death. She casts a glance to her husband who has been silent sentry to their retreat, and catches him looking back. She is quick to turn away: she has no strength to spare for that confrontation, not yet. She has greater priorities than wounded pride and hurt feelings.

She halts the prodding progress of her granddaughter, kneeling to once more wipe those pesky, persistent tears she herself lacks the energy to shed. The smile she offers is brittle and sad, but it coaxes one in return from a child desperate for love and approval, for reassurances and guidance from those who should have it to give. Rhaenys caresses a face so like that of her late daughter with a reverence she is not ashamed of. She knows all too well now the fleeting cruelty of this mortal life.

“Oh my dear, darling girl,” she murmurs, “What’s to be done about your tears?”

“Nothing,” is the despondent response, and it is spoken with such melancholy and woe Rhaenys feels herself torn between immeasurable grief that so young a heart should bear the weight of such sorrow, and fond melancholy for the stubbornness of children, inherited from her mother and grandmother before her, that had once seen Laena herself refusing all dragon hatchlings, determined that her mount should and would be Vhagar.

“It cannot be ‘nothing,’” Rhaenys insists, “For even the heaviest of hearts can be lightened with time.”

“I don’t want time,” Baela’s misery borders on the petulant, “I want my mother- my family.”

She breaks anew and Rhaenys gathers her nearer, her own eyes stinging with loss; she closes them against it, draws up from that well of internal strength to quiet her own sadness and reassure the girl wrapped tight in her arms.

“Your family is here, no matter the seas or eternity that might divide us, your family is with you, always.”

“What if you leave me too?” Baela whispers into her grandmother’s ear and Rhaenys fights even harder against the emotion clawing its way up her throat, cradling her granddaughter as close as she can. “You cannot know if you will,” Baela continues, “You cannot promise you won’t.”

And no, she cannot, so Rhaenys doesn’t try. She feels helpless and adrift in her choice of response for she cannot answer with what she knows to be false, nor does she dare to give the heartbreaking truth they both know. Instead she releases the girl in her arms to smooth snowy locks from her face, and the smile she gives now holds more hope of recovery than the last.

“Perhaps we’ll make a visit to Moondancer?”

“No,” Baela wipes despondently at her own tears this time, and Rhaenys reaches in the folds of her gown for a handkerchief before her leaking nose suffers a similar fate.

“No?” Rhaenys echoes, “Perhaps to see Meleys then. I’m sure she would welcome your company.”

“The Red Queen,” Baela murmurs with an awe that will forever bring a true smile to Rhaenys’ face. The title is only part of the little girl’s reverence: Baela’s own dragon is still a hatchling, too small to bear a rider, so aside from the might of Vhagar, Meleys has always garnered such a reaction from her rider’s granddaughters not only because of her sheer size, but because she is a legend in her own right, and Rhaenys herself for taming her.

“Perhaps we might coax her to fly,” Rhaenys goads, wiping the last of the slowing tears from eyes that shine with excitement beneath the lingering sorrow. Meleys has grown increasingly languid in recent years, but Rhaenys has little worry the dragon might deny her this request. There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her mistress, when called.

Those remaining tears of grief give way to those that stream in the wind, and even as the weight still settles solidly about them like a shroud, it eases and lifts the higher they climb. Rhaenys would chase that feeling forever, if the air did not grow too thin in her lungs. Still, it is a tempting thought, to stay forever above it all, where mourning is not a constant companion and even the Stranger’s long arms, it feels, cannot reach. Eventually, they will have to land, but Rhaenys will cling to that feeling a little longer, just a moment, a fleeting, tremulous moment. The sun warms their faces and their souls and Baela smiles, without weariness, safe in her grandmother’s arms as Rhaenys directs Meleys through the skies with barely a need to steer. Dragon and rider have flown as one for so long now it’s instinctual that Meleys should follow Rhaenys’ lead with only the lightest of tugs on the reins, the barest of pressure on her scaled flank.

The Red Queen banks left, drifting through a copse of clouds Baela reaches a hand to touch, Rhaenys’ arm secure around her waist. They drop lower, close enough to the surface of the ocean that Meleys’ great form ripples crimson on the reflection of the waves; unbidden the dragon leans to dip a wing beneath the surf, throwing it up in an arc above their heads, dampening their clothing and chilling their faces. The sun’s rays are quick to warm and dry them and it glints off the sea spray like a thousand glittering jewels, a rare moment of levity and light Rhaenys is loathe to have end. Meleys dips her opposite wing into the surf and rumbles low in her throat in a silent question Rhaenys knows the answer to. She tightens her hold on the reins with one hand in response, the other gripping tight around Baela’s middle, legs tensing in preparation astride the saddle. To Baela, she grins, speaking close in her ear, “Hold tight!”

To Meleys, she calls above the winds, “Sōvēs Meleys!”

The dragon gives a low, pleased grumble, surging up with a powerful thrust of wings -once, twice- higher into the air before tucking them in close and diving, twisting over and upended in a barrel roll too quickly for either rider to fear being dropped. It never fails to send Rhaenys’ stomach into her throat in a way that makes her feel younger at heart than true age would grant. Meleys pulls out of the roll and unfurls her wings to their full width, catching the wind again to coast above the waves. Baela shrieks with glee and Rhaenys’ grin threatens to spread wide across lips that have too recently been consumed by sorrow. It has been too long since she last flew with company, not since her own children were Baela’s age, for Corlys, a prince of the sea and sand, is none too fond of heights and the thin air they bring. He is also convinced of Meleys’ distaste for him, and Raenys likes to tease that she has a taste for him, which Meleys herself does not dispute nor indeed help, snapping at his heels when the chance is afforded like an ornery hound. Corlys would rage and Meleys would preen, and all the while Rhaenys would find herself weak with laughter and half-hearted admonishments for her playful beast.

The reminder of her husband, and the rift that stretches between them, unbridged and uncrossed, does dampen Rhaenys’ spirits, but only just. The rift has yet to heal but that doesn’t mean it will not: the wound is fresh, the pain cloying and clinging. Words have been said and actions done by two grieving, hard-headed people liable to say and do much worse if they attempt a reconciliation before either has calmed their heads and tempered their hearts. It must be soon: the second war in the Stepstones looms nearer, darkens their doorstep with the promise of further death and bloodshed to come. She cannot bear the thought that he should leave while things are left unsaid, knowing how they might remain unsaid, regardless of any care that is taken between them.

She is drawn from her melancholy musings by the child in her arms, her lifted spirits not having faded despite the darkening of Rhaenys’ own thoughts.

“Can I say it?”

She has to yell to be heard over the wind, and Rhaenys banishes her negative ponderings for a later time when she doesn’t have the privilege of her granddaughter’s company and attention.

“Together.”

Rhaenys gives a warning pressure with her heels so Meleys is already rearing back her great head as grandmother and granddaughter shout above the wind:

“Dracarys!”

Rhaenys removes the leather bracers with fingers stiff with wind burn and age. It’s been some time she since last flew for so long; she feels the ache in her joints and muscles that will fade to dull soreness come the morrow, but the pain is good, cleansing, for her body and soul. It’s grounding, a reminder, as Rhaenyra had said, that life goes on, that it can. The grief lingers but she is made lighter; she thinks nothing of greeting Corlys when he steps into their sitting room, a space they have not occupied together in some time.

“We’re having cake for dinner,” she reports, unwinding the plaiting woven into her hair, “And roast, if we feel like it. Baela thought we might have a picnic on the shore, as we’ve done in years past. She cannot remember the last time, but then the twins were only three.”

Her mind stutters a moment on the thought that their party will be incomplete in more ways than one, fingers stilling in her hair, but she is determined that her good mood should persist, if not for her sake, than for Baela’s. She returns to the remaining braids with renewed vigor.

“It brings me great joy to see my lady wife so at ease,” Corlys responds neutrally, a testing of waters between them neither wants to probe too forcefully.

“Yes,” Rhaenys sets the gloves on the vanity, reaching for the whale bone comb to coax through the knots and tangles brought on by the wind. “If only for a fleeting moment.”

Warm, calloused hands take the comb from her own, smoothing the loose wisps from her face.

“Let me.”

Rhaenys turns without a word, and only the briefest of hesitations, folding her arms carefully over herself as he cards gentle fingers through her hair to tame the easier snarls before following through with the comb. Neither speaks, for a moment, and Rhaenys eases the tension in her shoulders with each pass from roots to ends. The motion is soothing, as soothing as the man performing it. She’s missed this, this intimacy, this vulnerability, a closeness that feels as natural to her as breathing, as flying. If she is what calls his wandering soul back from the sea, it is he that brings her restless soul down from the clouds.

The tool is discarded and his fingers return, not combing, only caressing, draping the strands like a cascade of ivory silk down her back. He sweeps her hair aside at the base of her neck to press a kiss to the exposed skin, hands coming to rest on her shoulders, a solid warmth she can’t help but lean into, reaching for his hands when they snake around her shoulders, her back against his chest. Both are silent, relishing in the quiet comfort of one another and the trickling refilling of the void that’s stretched between them.

“I’ve missed you,” Corlys murmurs and Rhaenys’ lips twitch; she tilts her head to look at him.

“And I you.”

She turns in his arms so they slide to her waist, her own resting against his broad chest. She longs to be closer, to banish any semblance of a gap between them emotionally, physically, but she is hesitant, and her pride demands retribution for his earlier callousness, for his dismissal of her feelings is not so easily cast aside without making amends. Still, her shoulders ache with the chill of the neglect she’s been showing him, at such a time that they should have come together, not pushed each other away.

“Will you join us?” She murmurs, and the grin that splits her husband’s face is overwhelmed with relief, for it was never in doubt that she missed him, but that doesn’t mean she wishes to be in his company. This isn’t the first quarrel between them, and not likely to be the last: he knows by now she isn’t so easily won over with defeatist looks and gentle handling.

“If you’ll have me.”

“We would,” Rhaenys locks their gazes, the barest of smiles upon her own lips. For amends to be made they must both make the effort and though an apology she expects, she won’t push for it now. She can, however, extend the opportunity, “And perhaps you would rejoin me tonight?”

Corlys’ grin softens; his hands trail up to cup her face, “There is nothing I’d like more.”

“Wash for bed, I’ll be by to tuck you in shortly,” Rhaenys taps Baela playfully on the nose and the girl grins, her melancholy eased, if only for the day. It will take time, and the progress will be slow, but there will come a day when their smiles will always come easier, their laughs brighter, their hearts lighter. There will come a day when Rhaenys will look upon Baela and not see her dear Laena, when she will think fondly of the pride her daughter would have, and not with grief over missing the chance to see it herself. Tonight is a well-made step forward to healing; Rhaenys will not suffer a setback this early by tarnishing it with negative thoughts. She has a husband to speak with and a granddaughter to attend to.

“I mean to put Baela to bed,” she says in lieu of greeting; the grand oak door closes quietly with her weight pressed against it. Corlys lounges in the chair by the fire, his gaze distant and clearly thoughts elsewhere. He comes back to himself to return her words with a small grin.

“I thought we might talk, afterwards,” Rhaenys adds, crossing to the vanity, tugging her rings from her hands. She doesn’t have to contend with velvet and embroidery this evening; it hadn’t made sense to don such a gown for a picnic on the sand, and she was right to wear the looser trousers that can be easily rolled above the knees, for the surf is not yet too cold that Baela hadn’t wished to run through it with her grandmother close at hand. Corlys had stayed ashore, quite surprisingly, watching them with a smile that might’ve wept with the nostalgia of their own children behaving similarly.

“I think we must,” Corlys straightens in the chair, hands clasped between his knees. She dearly hopes they can put the matter to bed before they return to their own; she hasn’t felt the desire for his company as of late, but she misses it all the same. She finds no comfort in his absence, no solace in the empty side of his bed even as she’d rejected his return to it, again and again. She intends to speak her truth to him, for she has no qualms of him knowing it, but he speaks before she can.

“Rhaenys,” and there’s a cautious sort of warning in her husband’s tone, one that fills her with a rising sense of dread she can’t place. It’s the same tone he adopts when he knows she won’t like what he has to say, but he expects she’ll be difficult. It’s almost a precursive placation for a rage he knows to expect, which more often than not fills her with rage prematurely. “I know that Baela’s presence brings you comfort and I am glad of it, truly, hopelessly and utterly. It brings me similar joy to have her close. But I must be sure… I must be clear, that my intentions for the succession of Driftmark will not change, even now she is our ward.”

She drops her rings one by one onto the waiting dish, the heavy plink of metal on porcelain filling the silence between them. The breath she draws in is far more stable than she’s expecting; her hands grip the back of the chair beside the vanity, knuckles white against the dark wood. Her composure hangs desperately by a thread: she could laugh with the exhaustion of maintaining it, humorless and cold, for it feels as though she isn’t long in another emotion before anger or despair are quick to fight for their right to return.

“That is the topic you wish to indulge in,” she begins carefully, “So am I to assume that’s why you’re here, not to apologize, but to harp on again about that damned succession.”

“I would offer you a thousand apologies, my love, but do not twist my meaning, and do not pretend the thought hasn’t crossed your mind that you might change mine,” Corlys rises from the chair to stand at her side; she doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t come here to quarrel any further-”

“And yet you have found one,” she pulls away from him, creating distance so she might level their gazes. He doesn’t have very much on her in height, but she won’t suffer to be looked down on right now, “How can you dare to think I would leverage our granddaughter’s presence against you?”

“How can I not think it,” Corlys defends, moving to follow her, but Rhaenys clicks her tongue in disapproval, turning away to cross from him and closer to the door. Corlys is forced to raise his tone in the space she creates, “When it is the last thing we spoke of! You would deny our grandson his title by right-”

The term rips a huff of disbelief from her lips, and she tips her head, pinning him with a gaze rife with condescension, her own tone rising with an exasperation too-long ignored.

“Corlys for the gods’ sake- he is no more related to you than Alicent Hightower! I trust our son when he says that they tried to perform their marital duties but you know as well as I Rhaenyra was not to Laenor’s taste.”

“You talk of it like a choice-”

“It is not a choice Corlys that is the point!” Her hand makes violent contact with the back of the settee she has stepped behind, separating them further. She chews at her cheek; her gaze lowers into almost a glare, “Our son is- was, different. He did not prefer the company of women, he preferred the company of men. He would bed a man as most would bed a woman and refusing to see it does not stop it from making it true.”

Her hard tone has Corlys working his jaw silently, furiously, for a moment; his own tone is tight and reluctant.

“Fine. I acquiesce. Our son was not… as he should be-” and at Rhaenys’ scoff his is quick to continue “-though that doesn’t mean I love him any less! But it is one thing, Rhaenys, to make a claim of his preferences,” he makes to approach, his own hand settling on the back of the settee but she is quicker, retreating closer to the door and his exasperation bleeds into his words, “It is entirely another to claim his sons are not his own!”

“You have seen them!” And Rhaenys sweeps a hand away from her in emphasis, “You cannot bury your head in the sand this deeply Corlys, or you risk your own suffocation! I will not push the issue with my cousin, but those boys are not Velaryons.”

Corlys leans forward conspiratorially, his words a hiss under his breath, “You know your words would be taken for treason-”

Rhaenys barks a humorless laugh, “And do you mean to betray me, lord husband? To speak my truths beyond these walls to the vultures circling overhead?”

Corlys’ expression turns stricken, “No, never. But we have discussed this Rhaenys, ad nauseum. The pursuit of legacy cares little for blood- it is names that history will remember!”

“Your pursuit of legacy has become a pursuit of fucking MISERY!” And the word is torn from her throat in a shaking, wretched wail that leaves so piercing a silence her ears ring with it. She stands at the base of the creaking floodgates but still, she cannot afford to let them buckle just yet. Her hands come to grip at her elbows; she stands on the precipice, and she stands alone.

Corlys doesn’t break the ringing silence, but he does reach for her. Rhaenys turns from him, pressing trembling lips tightly together, “Tonight when you retire… you should return to the dressing room.”

“Rhaenys, please-”

"I have no more children left to bury, Corlys,” and as before with Rhaenyra, her rage has sapped her strength and left her feeling weak with the effort of it, “I tremble at the thought of what your 'legacy' might take from me next."

“You will excuse me,” she continues softly, steps completely out of range of her husband, refusing to meet his troubled gaze, “Our granddaughter is waiting.”

She sweeps from the room before he can chance a reply.

The wind is biting, stinging the exposed skin of her cheeks and fingers until they’re stiff with cold. Meleys drives them fiercely through the air until the ground rushes beneath them too quickly to be focused on. It’s not enough. She tugs on the reins harder than necessary, ignoring Meleys’ rumble of displeasure at the rough treatment.

“Sōvēs Meleys! Sōvēs!”

The dragon roars her frustration at the command but listens, surging higher and higher into the air almost perpendicular to the ground, until Rhaenys is gasping for breath from the thin air and not her choking tears. Meleys beats her wings to keep aloft, stirring the clouds into a frenzy. Rhaenys presses a hand solidly to her frigid cheeks as though she can physically will away the pressure building behind her eyes. It builds and builds and she’s helpless to fight it but she must, she must try. She cannot break, she will not break, she hasn’t since discovering Laenor, her little boy-

“Sōvēs Meleys! Sōvēs! Sōvēs!”

She digs her heels into the dragon’s flank; the Red Queen returns to flight, drifting through the clouds at a pace that does nothing to quell the pain Rhaenys desperately wants to numb. She wants to hear nothing but the roaring wind in her ears, feeling nothing but the sting of cold, thin air on her skin and in her lungs. Rhaenys tugs the reins again, but Meleys doesn’t increase their speed. She lowers further through the clouds, almost lazy in her trajectory. An island, small and no more than a scrap of sand and wind-stunted trees appears below them.

“Sōvēs Meleys, listen to me you great foolish beast-”

Meleys tosses her head, offended, and beats her wings to speed up only enough that when they reach the island to land, Rhaenys isn’t prepared, and Meleys takes advantage. The dragon rolls, stirring up clouds of sand and tossing her rider lightly from her back to land in it. She’s cushioned well enough, only her pride wounded for so ungraceful a landing, but it’s still with cold fury that Rhaenys gets to her feet to address the great winged beast eyeing her as a lazy hound before a warm fire.

Rhaenys marches around to remount, but Meleys rolls to her side, away from her, in so petulant a move it might have coaxed a grin and a startled laugh from Rhaenys any other time. Rhaenys grinds her teeth and moves to the opposite side -again, Meleys rolls away from her, single golden eye watching her neutrally. The dragon knows she’s disobeying her mistress, knows the distress she’s in, and chooses to bully her anyway. It has the emotion Rhaenys has fought so hard to keep down rising dangerously high in her throat.

“Meleys, enough!”

She reaches for the base of the saddle, knowing she has no hope of moving the dragon if she doesn’t wish to move, but making her intentions clear. Meleys does not, indeed, move, and Rhaenys shoves at her crimson flank in desperation. She cannot linger here, she cannot allow her idle thoughts and feelings to find her, not here, not now.

“Meleys please-!”

The Red Queen lifts her head high above her mistress’ and Rhaenys is forced to stumble back, believing, for a moment, she’s finally gotten through, but instead she finds herself unbalanced when a great red snout is pushed gently into her chest. She lands solidly on her backside, and Meleys folds her wings at her side, a clear indication she doesn’t mean to return to the air untils she is satisfied.

It’s too much. Everything, all at once, it breaks upon her head like a wave, drowning her senses and overwhelming her defenses. She hasn’t the strength to get up, sat in the sand with an ornery, disobedient dragon for company and what is it that awaits her at home? A husband who believes her to have used her political savvy to wager their granddaughter against him, a granddaughter who may yet come to resent her grandmother for tearing her from her twin, and empty chairs at empty tables where her children will sit no more. She will never hear their voices, their laughter, will never again soothe their tears, will not share in the joy of the milestones their children will enjoy without them. She will never hold their hands, kiss their cheeks- it is they who should weep with her loss, it is they who should be shrouded at her funeral, it is not she, not she who should suffer through life with their deaths-

No parent should have to bury their child.

The gasping breaths come first, the tears quick to follow, and once they begin they refuse to be stemmed; Rhaenys buries her face in her knees, digs her fingers into her arms, cries silently, brokenly, until she thinks she might grow ill with the force of her grief. Her tears turn to sobs, guttural wails and such great, heaving breaths she feels she might choke on them.

Rhaenys may cry for minutes, it may be hours; when she is sure her mistress won’t demand to return to the skies, Meleys moves through the sand to lie closer, setting her head within reach like a great hound in the lap of its master. Rhaenys turns into her, holds tight where she can reach and though dragon scales offer no helpful blotting of the tears that pour ceaselessly down her cheeks, the comfort given is welcome.

Nothing changes. Her children do not once more draw breath, she does not find both granddaughters in her care. Her husband does not return that night to their chambers, the war of the Stepstones does not cease its progression, and amends are not made by the time his ship departs their shores. Her grief is not lessened but it is made lighter with the relief of some of her sorrow. And though it is not, in the grand scheme, enough…

For now, it must be.

#rhaenys targaryen #rhaenys velaryon #eve best #corlys velaryon #rhaenys x corlys #steve toussaint #rhaenyra targaryen #emma d'arcy #baela targaryen #baela velaryon #rhaenys is the best grandmother #meleys #meleys is best girl #hotd #hotd fics #house of the dragon #long post

50 notes · View notes

perksofbeingaharrie · 4 years

Text

Watermelon Sugar (H.S)

@hsogolden here I submit my entry!

Thank you for bringing up this writing challenge, it’s gotten me back to writing and it’s all because of you! writing for the #FineLineFicChallenge Hope you enjoy my piece of work and come around for some more!

SUMMARY

Harry has resorted to new methods of album writing and Y/N finds out about it just recently. Her reaction and his reaction are nothing either of them expect.

Warnings: Mature content ahead. Mentions of sex and magic mushrooms ahead.

Type: Angst + Smut (bc hell yeah baby)

Word count: > 3k

Also: with this writing I do not wish to promote the usage of mushrooms or any other drug for that cause. This is meant for entertainment and reading pleasure only. Don’t do drugs kids.

----------

A strange smell emits from the door every now and then that it is opened. She stands outside, a box of sweet snacks clutched in her hands tight as she contemplates her next move. Jeff stands before her, smiling but something about his smile tells her it isn’t very sincere.

“Harry’s just so into it lately.” He utters, stuffing his hands in his pockets while releasing an awkward chuckle.

She smiles, not quite convinced either. “Of course.”

A beat of silences dispenses any conversation.

“It’s just so loud in there you can hardly talk.” He says again, this time out of the blue, looking down at his shoes.

She eyes him up and down strictly, biting her lip to stop herself from replying while nodding nervously.

He chuckles his awkward chuckle into the conversation again. “He’s hardly even visible to one’s eyes – just locked himself up in that little recording cubicle.”

She nods at him again but then decided to put down her stand too. “I – uh, think I’ll just go in, Jeff.”

“You – you want to?” He fumbles, scratching the back of his neck. The sound of him gulping a little too loud puts away all her apprehension to start a riot.

“Yes, Jefferey. Now let me in.”

Jeff has known that when she begins to call people by their full names, it’s better to let her have her away. He has known and realized this at not one but many instances in the time that he has known her for.

She gestures with her eyes for him to move aside and he does, quietly, obediently and only pinches his eyes close tight when her back faces him.

“Oh, and,” She startles him again. “I got some macaroons. Come on in if you want some.”

“Oh yeah, in a bit.” He gives his silly grin again. She sighs, deliberately towards him and turns to walk into the studio. Jeff pulls his hands out of his pocket and drops his head in them.

The recording studio is warmer than other times. The lights are dim and mellow as she walks in, and what appears to be a layer of smoke encircles the long corridor towards the door of the music room. She scrunches her nose at the smell from before, breathing loudly from her mouth as if suddenly lacking air to breathe.

She takes the trip down the long corridor, her heart taking a beat faster with every step. The uncanny silence does not help either. Her hands are sweating by the time she is standing before the door and she has to wipe them on her jeans. The smell from before has drawn to quite a prevalent waft around her, and the fact that the room is so sound proof adds up to her anxiety.

She braces herself before she pulls the handle down and opens the door.

A big smoke cloud welcomes her after which follows a loud, high pitched voice of her boyfriend.

“Jefferey!” He exclaims.

She stands at the frame of the door with the door wide open and once the dust settles down, her eyes scan the room.

First and foremost, nobody seems to be at work. The bunch of men, Harry’s precious team – Mitch, Kid, Jeff and some new faces are all gathered on the sofa and the floor, lounging lazily in their places. Secondly, if not at work, the men still seem hard at work – one of them holding up a lighter to another’s face, another one rolling what appears to be the cause of all this smell and almost all of them smoking the finely pressed and prepped joint in between their fingers.

“Baby?”

Her eyes blink once or twice before she regains consciousness from having taken in so much in so little time. Harry’s voice appears distant and she takes a while to locate him in the crowd. He is sprawled on the couch, the joint, now almost extinguished, resting between his thumb and index finger.

“What are you doing here?” He speaks again, this time clearer as he sits up straighten and everyone else follows suit.

She realizes too late how livid she must be looking. Her eyes feel dilated and wide while her lower lips hung low in shock. She feels her breathing tighten and her skin warm and all these reactions at once confuse her as to how she should react.

“I-uh, I thought you were working?” Is what she summons to speak.

“Well, this is work, my darling!” Kid Harpoon jumps to his feet and stands in front of her in an excited gleam, covering Harry from her.

Nevertheless, she sees Harry let out an angsty sigh from his mouth and pinch his joint on the ash tray a little too forcefully.

“This is just some mushrooms – magic mushrooms.” Kid holds up his joint in front of her, and its pungent smell makes her cringe and retract from him. “Works wonders to relax you and open up the creativity wind.” He is too happy as he explains her.

“Hey, Y/N.” Mitch calls out to her from his place on the floor. “It’s nothing too serious – we’re just having fun. It’s alright.” He looks over at Harry, before again at her. “You can join us if you want…?”

“Uh, no!” She says it too fast and too loudly. She clears her throat. “I mean, no, no, I just - I just came by to drop some macaroons.” She lifts the box to Kid’s chest.

“Thanks; mind putting them over there?” Harry crass voice comes from behind Kid’s build.

She feels her chest tighten at the tone of his voice. He appears to be absolutely out, sounding extremely slow and tired – almost as if tired of her. She clearly is not desired here.

Gulping, she takes a few steps back towards the table by the door. “Alright. Guess I’ll leave too. Have…fun.”

She places the box by the table and opening the door, she exits the room with a heavy heart.

“Harry, my brother, you’re in deep, deep – “She hears the voice of one of his friends from the inside but she quickly closes the door on it, rushing to leave the place.

***

It’s been an hour since Harry’s home and locked himself in his studio in the basement. She has been pacing in and out of the kitchen, checking to see her pasta cooking well while at the same time looking over to the clock to see if it is getting too late.

Finally, after relentlessly fighting with him and herself, she decides to scoop some pasta for him in a bowl and carry it down to the basement for him.

The studio down below is dimly lit with yellow lights all over, giving a very warm and artsy feel to it. She walks down the steps and pushes open the half-cracked door to watch her boyfriend standing by his laptop, back facing her, testing through the right tune to fit into the melody.

She lifts her hand towards the door and clicks her knuckles against it. She knows he has heard her but he appears no way near to putting away his instrument or turning around to face her. Irritated, she thumps the plate of pasta on the nearest table to her and walks a few steps into the room and towards him.

“What is wrong with you?” She asks in a small voice, tired, arms crossing over her chest and eyes lulling in pain.

He pays no heed.

“Harry!” She takes another step towards him. “Baby-“

“What is wrong with you?”

Suddenly all music is shut off and only his voice and words echo in the room. His turns around to face her so suddenly, and the bitter look on his face makes her flinch and lean away from him. Harry’s eyebrows are pinched together and his mouth turned down in a frown. She loses her sense for a moment and drops the stern hands that were crossed at her chest before.

He breathes through his nose audibly.

“Why are you meddling in my business?”

She is taken aback. “Harry…”

Watching him this seething and offended has her toes tingling with unease. He has been angry a lot of times in the past too – at himself, at her, at the world, but this tone and demeanor just hits different.

“Why?” His voice softens but it fails to soothe her nonetheless.

She tries to revive her voice again. “I-I just came to see you-“

“Fuck, you didn’t have to!” He raises his voice just then, enough to make her lose her cool too.

She lets out a chuckle in disbelief. “Wha- Bu- but I didn’t even say anything!”

“Well,” He begins. “You didn’t fucking have to-“

“Stop cursing-“

“-because your fucking face said it all.” He completes, surrendering breathless.

She has walked a few steps towards him and stands closer to his face, eyes boring into his blazing ones. She feels her anger pulsate throughout her body.

Watching her put up this fiercely against his harshness has his expressions soften up and as he realizes their proximity, he says in a smaller voice –

“You looked disgusted, you did.” He gulps.

She shakes her head, breaking out of her iron face act. Lifting her hands slowly from her sides, she pulls at his wrist.

Somewhere in the moment, she feels his distress. He must be embarrassed, he must feel ashamed and she sympathizes with him.

“No…” she whispers to him, moving closer. “I just didn’t know you were into stuff like this and –“

He breathes heavily through his mouth, turning his face away from her. She regrets suddenly what she said, but the regret comes with another confusion as to why would something like this offend him enough to react this way.

“- and I was just concerned, baby, please look at me.”

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head and looks back at her.

“No, no, no,” He clutches her arms tightly. “Can’t you see I am fine! Why are you worried about me, why are you concerned?”

“Because I love you and I care for your well-being and I wouldn’t want you to get into something that’s not good -“

“Christ!” He drops his hands to his sides with a loud sound. “This is fine what I am doing, alright? It’s not something illegal or wrong, just please, stop.”

She sighs, nostrils flaring. “Then why were you hiding it if it wasn’t something wrong!”

“Hiding? No, I wasn’t!”

“Then why was Jeffery posted outside the studio like a watch dog and not letting me in!”

His face twists in a look of absolute astonishment. “Wha- what? No...” He slaps his hands on his face. “Christ! Because Jeffery is a fucking idiot!”

She moves back from him, shaking her head. “I don’t know, Harry, I seriously don’t know anymore.”

“Fine!” He grabs his jacket from the console and moves towards her. “End of this topic. I have nothing to say to you and we’ll never speak of this again, that’s it.”

Storming out of the room, he leaves her alone muddled with her own genuine thoughts and his stubborn words.

***

She ushers over to their bedroom later that night. They haven’t spoken since the heated argument in the basement – moreover, he hasn’t bothered to leave the bedroom since then and she hasn’t summoned up to go over there.

But her father has always told her to never go to bed angry with someone, and so she can’t think about a blink of a sleep tonight.

She slips through the door to find him sleeping on the bed with his back to her side. Quietly sliding under the covers, she moves closer to his body, his back from one shoulder to another before her standing mighty like a mountain. She hesitates at first but then slowly places her chin on his shoulder, waiting for him to budge or even budge her away.

His body tenses at her single contact, but soon eases again. However, he abstains from showing any reaction in any way. This prompts her and she slides closer to his body even more now, wrapping her one arm around his torso and letting her front touch entirely against his back and hip, clinging onto him like a snail.

“Mmhmm.” She mumbles against his skin, touching her lips to his shoulder and neck in tender kisses. “Harry.”

He deems no reply.

“I think you’re stretching it a bit too much, don’t you think.” She says, lifting her head over his shoulder to look at his face.

“I am not, you are.” He says with his eyes closed and expressions flat.

She snorts, pushing her head against his back.

“I don’t get what is so great about these magic mushrooms thingy that you’re defending it like it’s your child and ignoring me, enough to make me want to cry.”

“Aah ha.” He tuts. “There. There. There comes your judgmental tone again that I do not like.”

She sighs, giving up, tired and defeated. Silence descends for a moment between them. Neither does she make a move nor does he try and look out for her. She remains static as she is, head dropped in anguish.

Harry on the other hand grows wary of the situation. He knows he is hurting her and he himself feels he has had enough of this but his own conflicts and an ego as big as the mountains demands him not to surrender. He himself admits that he can be an arrogant son of a bitch at times.

Suddenly, he feels her stir again. He gulps and anticipates what she intends to do. She runs the tip of her nose against the back of his neck in a pattern, stopping to place a kiss right at the spot where she knows he has him hard. His breathing alters in a minute as she begins tracing patterns with her lips on his shoulder, his body hardening, all ready to give in.

“Sleep with me.” She rubs his fingers along his sides, scratching his skin and threatening to go down below.

He summons his voice. “I am sleeping with you.”

His voice, so devoid of emotions, breaks her strength. He is acting, but she can hardly tell.

“No.” She mewls, snuggling her face to the back of his ear. “I want you to hold me.”

He gulps. “I don’t feel like it.”

Her mouth drops in an exasperated sigh. “That was very rude of you.”

“Well, you were rude too.”

At this point, she knows he has taking full advantage of her vulnerability. She can tell by his voice now that he is having a good laugh too.

“Harry!” She shoves at him, whining. When he doesn’t bother to turn to her and only lets out a sneaky chuckle, she breaks down.

“Okay, fine!” She says loudly. “I am sorry. Do whatever you want to do. I won’t say a word anymore. You were right. You know what’s best for you and when I am trying to have a say in anything, I am intervening, which I should not. So, I will keep shut from now. Alright?”

“Ah ha ha.” He mocks, finally sitting up and turning to her. She looks nowhere near pleased or convinced, but her pouting face has him melting.

He grabs her cheeks and pulls her to him, kissing her lips. In desperation, she moves closer, straddling him and pulls him in a for a full makeout sesh. As his hands travel down to her behind, grabbing her with his full hands and pulling her closer to him, her hands travel to the back of his neck to anchor his jaw as she works her lips on him.

He groans as she slips her tongue into his mouth, the front of his pants tightening to see her so delirious and needy for him. He relays back as she works up on his neck and jaw, her teeth grazing against his skin and making him grab onto her tighter to resist tearing apart her nightie and taking her right then and there.

Finally, with a resolve, he pulls her face to look at her again and they break into a small grin, breathless.

“You dog.” She curses, pulling him to her to stick their foreheads together as they catch their breaths.

“You’ve got to trust me, okay? I know what I am doing and I promise it won’t be anything that harms me, hm?” He tells her, rubbing his hands up and down her sides in a soothing gesture.

“Mmhmm.” She nods, distancing their faces to look him in the eyes. They smile again at each other and her fingers travel up to his face to trace along his features in patterns that he enjoys.

He chuckles, ducking to kiss between her breasts, and for his lips to carry on up till her neck to her face again.

“Do you ever want to try those mushrooms with me?” He asks in a raspy voice, peppering her jaw with his kisses.

She snorts, making a face. “No, thank you.”

Suddenly he pulls her hands away from him and hold them behind her, distancing himself to give her a grave look. She cringes, looking at him with confused shot eyebrows.

“Look at you.” He says, eyes bawling as they scan her face. “You are being rude again!”

He lets her go, falling flat behind on the bed on his back and lifting his arms to cover over his eyes.

She takes a moment to process everything and when she does, her head falls back in a loud groan.

“God, Harry…aah!” Her groans end in squeals when he pulls her back on top of him again, laughing at her reaction.

***

It’s ‘bring in your partners to work’ day today at the studio so the tiny space is filled with more people, talking loudly and drinking from cups as they listen and watch the musicians get to work.

The working men are gathered at one corner, and the other corner all their better halves chat about and watch them at work. Y/N is squeezed between Glenne and Meredith, the happy girl group giggling at their silly talks and pulling pranks at their beaus.

As she finishes her second cup for the evening and makes her way to pour some more, Y/N is crossed by someone carrying a box of wrapped joints in them. She suddenly chokes up on her breath and quickly gives him the way to walk through. With a lighter pace, she reaches the drinks table and turns around to see the culprit – Kid Harpoon, distributing the joints amongst everyone.

All of them throw their heads back and laugh as they accept the joints, lighting it easily with their own lighters in hand. She doesn’t remember pouring herself what drink, but as she slowly gulps it while watching the scene before her, she suddenly chokes up from the bitterness and coughs, drawing attention to herself.

All eyes turn up to her. She smiles timidly, catching Harry’s apprehensive lip bite in her direction, and slowly walks over to where she was standing before. But it is an even bigger disaster up there.

Glenne brings up her part of the joint and takes a long drag, releasing and bursting into a chuckle along with which she pulls Jeffery to her and kisses him. When they are through with their moment, she cheekily turns towards Y/N and pushes the joint towards her.

“You wanna try? It’s relaxing.”

Y/N eyes look up and down from her friend to the joint offered to her. She only begins to stutter a reply when another encouragement comes from somebody else. And then another and another and she is left a mess between all the coaxing.

“Don’t.” Harry’s voice sounds louder amongst all of this chatter. “Don’t force her if she doesn’t want to.”

She looks up to him in anticipation of a consoling look, but he barely turns his eyes up at her, and with a resigning sigh, he returns to the control panel he was firmly stuck to since the beginning.

She gulps, biting on her lips hard.

“Actually,” she suddenly finds her voice the loudest in the room. “I think I’d like to try.”

Everybody in the room hoots in encouragement. She chuckles at Meredith as she feels her hand pat her lower back and gives a shaky smile to Glenne who passes her the joint.

“Darling, darling, darling.” Kid jumps up before her. “You are very brave but still don’t feel coaxed into it. Know that none of us are responsible to what you do after the first drag.”

Everybody in the room laughs, and so does she, heartily.

“Let me help you with it.” Kid maneuvers her around as to how to take her first, going step by step with a side by side demonstration.

She hasn’t looked up meet Harry’s eyes, who now stands right before her as she is about to take her first joint in her mouth. She closes her eyes and follows about as Kid had directed her to: suck in the smoke through your mouth and let it travel down your neck and pinch around your throat; feel the coolness of it, then slowly let it release from your mouth; feel the burn in your chest and leisure in the kick that is felt to your brain and just release all the smoke out.

She opens her eyes and feels like in a different dimension. Her eyes first meet Harry’s, who is standing before her in awe of her first reaction. She looks magnificent – raw and red, shining and golden in glee, her eyes and body loose like overcoming the euphoria of a hearty orgasm. He knows the look; it’s even more dangerous than her sensuous one because she looks so vulnerable and oblivious and that makes him lose control.

“Good?” She feels the buzzing of someone’s voice in her ear. She nods, giggling like a child.

With her eyes still trained on Harry, she takes another drag and melts in the ecstasy of the mushrooms, taking Harry into the state with her.

All her friends hoot again and the joint is taken from her hands. She feels a pat on her head and laughs at everyone’s reaction, and in a moment that she takes her eyes off of Harry, she loses sight of him.

“I’ll be back in a sec.”

She jumps out of everyone’s grab and makes her way onward in search of Harry. Luckily, she didn’t need to go far as she finds him in the balcony, leaning by the railing with a drink in his hand and looking towards her as if in wait of her.

She grins, jumping towards him. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her to him, smiling back at her upturned face.

“Why’d you do that?” He asks.

She touches their nose together, whispering to his face. “Because I wanted to.”

Their noses slide against one another, mouths breathing over one another.

“Won’t you ask me how it was?”

He shakes his head at her question. “I could see it.”

“See how it felt?” She asks in a childlike amusement. He nods, chuckling.

She slides her face further towards his, slipping past his sleek cheekbones to his ears.

“I want to do those mushrooms with you, Harry.” She admits in a small voice.

He pulls her even closer to him and buries his face in the smell of her hair, nodding slowly.

“I think it’s time for that.”

In a split, he has pulled her away from the crowd and noise of the studio. He takes along and lighter and a joint on the way and locks the two of them in the small bathroom situated at the back of the studio.

She slides into the space and sticks her bottom to the edge of the sink slab, pulling Harry towards her. Their lips melt in a long kiss, her hands falling back to anchor her weight against the granite slab. He pulls away for a moment to pull out the joint and lighter, placing them in his hands before her. His lips meet hers in pecks, kissing along her cheeks and the trail down to her neck, before meeting her eyes again and grinning giddily.

“Watch me.”

He takes the joint in his mouth, bringing the lit lighter to the end of its length. The joint catches fire immediately and he discards the lighter behind her, puffing the joint in between his lips.

She watches in awe as he takes in a lazy drag, pulling out to breath out the smoke above their heads. Her hands find their way up to his chest as he takes another smoke, watching him with concentration when he releases his breath against her face.

The effect has her gasping and him chuckling at her reaction.

He hands her over the joint next, leaning his lower body to hers even more and supporting his waist by his hands on the counter behind her. She takes the joint, looking him in the eye with a glint in hers and takes a long drag.

When she breathes out, she does it too fast and for long and ends up in a coughing mess. He laughs, patting her head and taking the joint from her again.

He points her to look at him and breathes in the joint. Then, he taps her mouth to open and she does, allowing him to breath the smoke out in her mouth. The slight touch of their lips and the smoke has her skin tingling and she throws her head back in pleasure.

He takes the moment and peppers her exposed neck with his lips, sliding his tongue along the length and scooping her skin at the base with his mouth. She groans, grabbing his hair with one hand and using her other hand to snatch the joint.

She takes one drag and releases, pushing her lower hips to his and grinding her groin to his. They are a moaning mess by then.

He looks up at her face as she takes another smoke, breathing out in his face with finesse. Their lips meet again, senses now all lull and detached as they meet in a sloppy kiss.

“Your mouth tastes so good.” He says in between the kiss. She moans a reply, the joint falling right off of her hand as they go up to wrap around his shoulder.

He grabs her hips, pushing her against the sink slab and on top of it, spreading her legs enough to stand in between them. He grabs the back of her head and pulls her to kiss him again, sliding his other hand down to the zipper of her jeans.

She slips right off the sink as his palms slides into her panties, fingers finding her wet core with ease. His rubbing and touching rubs off her patience bad as she pushes herself further towards him, grinding against his fingers. Before she can fathom what is next for her, he sinks to his knees before her, undoing her jeans and sliding her panties down her legs. He spreads her legs again, guiding her to anchor against the edge of the sink and dips his head in between her thighs.

Her head is thrown back at the feel of his tongue against her throbbing core. She jitters as his tongue works its way on her, her one hand grabbing onto his hair and the other slipping in between her teeth. She feels her orgasm approach already, the high facilitating the mind-blowing climax that awaits her.

But he pulls away then, standing to his feet and undoing his own jeans. She groans and pulls him to her, kissing his mouth in anticipation.

“Sweet. Like strawbe-rries and other be-rries and wa-termelons and…” he slurs in between the kiss, making her laugh.

She pushes her finger against his mouth and shushes him. “Shh…just fuck me, please.”

“Mmhmm.” He groans against her mouth, eyes half shut. “Feel me in your belly, hmm?”

In a moment, he enters her with a painful thrust. She is thrown back against the sink, her arms coming to wrap around his neck in support. He moans from the throbbing of her core against his skin, encouraging to feel all the way till the bottom. He grinds in a slow rhythm, making every stroke count as she is pushed into her earnest climax in the most pleasurable manner.

The sun rises. She blooms and shudders like a flower under him. Her core drips from the remnants of his touch but he doesn’t stop.

“I love you.”

She feels like a cozy summer evening. She feels like a high he never thought he’d get. And the night goes on and on and on.

#FineLineFicChallenge #harry styles imagine #writing challenge #harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry #styles #smut #angst

834 notes · View notes

mggpleasedontlookhere · 4 years

Text

the governess

Summary: Y/N is brought in as a Governess to Timothee’s ward Daphine, the only daughter of his late uncle.

word count: 1,703 reading time: 6 mins warning: uses 19th century vernacular

A/N: I apologize for the rough ending, I haven’t written in months due to school, so I’m sorry for the crappy writing

“Miss Y/L/N, I take it to be?” asked the kind woman, popping her head out from the side of the rather large oak door. I nodded my head in affirmation as she stepped aside to invite me into the elaborate estate.

My eyes explored the vast space before me, taking in the engraved decorations that littered the ceilings. The polished marble floors that were tattered with chains of convoluted lines, reflecting off the light that emitted from the chandelier above. Although, it was the grand staircase that sat elegantly in view that captured my interest. It was made of the deepest of oak woods, age lines painting it beautifully and engraved in it were crafted scenes that beheld ethereal creatures.

“Mr. Chalamet will arrive momentarily, he had ventured into the town nearby for business practices and had been gone for long” the kind woman exclaimed, closing the hatchet that the door was secured with. “Mrs. Vernon” the woman introduced, stretching her hand out, in which I complied. As I observed Mrs. Vernon more, I came to the conclusion that she was at least of 40 years of age. Wrinkles have became apparent of her pale face, laugh lines seemed to emerge and carry happy memories, and the tired warm smile she expressed said it all. In contrast, she dressed in a royal blue pinafore embedded with silver pins, while lace ties embellished her silk sleeves. Based on her countenance alone, she seemed of the middle to higher rank in society.

“How long is of Mr. Chalamet’s absence, if I may ask?” I inquired.

“Close to a fortnight ma’am” she replied, crossing over the foyer into a grand living room with an articulate fireplace. She soon took her place in a grandfather chair next to the fire, resuming a textile she had begun knitting. “The help will accompany you to your quarters” she announced, not looking up from her work.

With a scuffle of shoes and low murmurs of conversation, two women came clambering down the stairs, taking my belongings upstairs. I bid both of them a cordial welcome, curtseying before them, and facing my attention to the warmth that the fireplace gave. Observing the decorum of the room, several paintings of nature’s beauty filled each frame, depicting the different temperances of the four seasons. One particular frame captured my attention, it was of a little boy next to a pale, yet elegant woman with an impeccable visage. Both of them were dressed with the finest of materials, most likely from an affluent lineage as the older woman sported an array of jewels that blemished her neck. The little boy on the other hand, despite the exaggerated clothing, wore a grimace with an almost grieved countenance.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

A voice beckoned from behind me. Turning around, it was of the servants with both her hands carrying my belongings. I apologized for my lingering, bid a goodnight to Mrs. Vernon and followed the two women up the stairs. With every creaky step on the wood steps, I took time to continue observing the estate at its glory. The walls were plastered with an elegant floral wallpaper and wood paneling, all encased by a dark brown royal trimming at the ceiling and floor. Down a dimly light corridor and a series of turns, I was led to a sizeable apartment with a queen sized bed, two dressers, and a single bay window across from the bedpost.

I thanked the two women, nodding them off as one of them placed my cases next to the dresser. With a sigh of relief and a fixed composure, I began unpacking most of my clothes into the drawer. Sorting my items, I soon thought I was ill-prepared for the expectations that the grandness of this estate might throw at me. I had only brought a series of textbooks that I owned and a dress, along with a few accessories and linen smocks.

In the midst of my thoughts, the sound of a pianoforte seeped into the room, diverting me from the concerns I had spiraled into. With a curious intent, I grabbed the lit candle that one of the servants had left and began to follow the sweet tunes that bounced off the walls. The creature playing must of been a formidable player as no note was off-tune or melody faltering. My steps slowed as the music became loud and coherent. It was a romance melody, a work of Mozart or Bach perhaps.

I came towards two heavy oak doors, my feet planted in front of the entrance as I lingered around. I, then, began to push at the door quietly, careful not to disturb the player, in order to peek at the creature that was able to convey such romantic music. As I got to look inside the room, I found it to be a grand library with the pianoforte in the corner of the room. To my surprise, the creature was little girl. She was wearing a blue gown tethered together by a lace bow on the back and she had beautiful raven-black hair that were coiled in curls, decorated with pearls.

Stepping my figure through the crevice of the door, I managed to enter the room without a sound. Although my praises were too early to be celebrated as the metal canister that housed the candle I was carrying banged into the wood of the door, emitting a loud bellow.

The music instantly faltered at a flat note and the little girl’s eyes, filled with surprise, landed on my silhouette.

“Please forgive my intrusion, I couldn’t help but hear the enchanting tune from my quarters and beckoned to investigate what it was” I explained, stepping into the light the fireplace emitted in the room, to offer a better view of myself.

The little girl then curtseyed, in which I replicated, and introduced herself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Y/L/N. I’m gratified that my playing was music to a creature’s ears” she expressed with a polite tone, before taking a seat on the bench she had sat on before.

“It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Miss?”

“Daphine Chalamet” she answered.

“I take it that you father has versed you in the implications of my employment here”

“My father?” she repeated, halting her practice on the instrument and faced me. “Mr. Chalamet?”

I nodded in puzzlement to her bizarre address and began to think of the possibility of some sort of mix up with the students. “Yes your father, the one who’s picked up my advertisement to be your governess in the papers” I elaborated.

She laughed and rose up from her seat, walking to a family portrait that hung near the the array of bookcases that lined the entire room. “He’s my cousin, not my father. My father was met by God last april, it was the fever” she explained, pointing up to the painting again where an elder man stood taut and confident.

“My condolences to the late Mr. Chalamet. I would love to stay in your society longer, although I must attend to occupying my apartme-” I was cut off by a sound of hurried footsteps clattering against the floors, as they grew closer to the room we were in. One of the maids then opened the door in a haste and stated “Mr. Chalamet is present to meet your acquaintance”. With that, she scurried off back to her duties.

Then in came a man of great height and sculpted features. His eyes were a deep green blue, similar to the color of the water near the Western river, a haven I would often find myself visiting. His hair was the color of the finest Belgian chocolates and he dressed like a man of high society.

Me and Daphine bowed at his presence as he welcomed us both.

“Salut mon cherie, comment ca va?”

Daphine ran up to the man, forgetting about any type of manners she’s been disciplined to portray. “Ca va tres bien, mon frere. Et toi?” She asked.

“Comme ci comme ca” He replied with the biggest smile he can put on as he lifted her up in the air and spun her around. He finally took a glance at me and set Daphine down before kneeling beside her. “qui est-elle“ he asked.

Daphine giggled with a light smile, “Oh don’t be ignorant cousin. That’s the governess you’ve summoned”. He picked her up once again, pulling her in for a tight hug. “I’m aware little one, now practice you’re Mozart and we’ll have supper soon”. With that, Daphine scurried off to her pianoforte and resumed her practice once again.

I took this as a signal to curtsey and introduce myself. “Y/N of Yorkshire Sir, it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance” I introduced. He gave me a light smile in response, bowing his head in return

“Pleasure to have you serve my Daphine, Miss Y/L/N. I hope that you find your quarters bearable” He welcomed.

“I assure you sir, it’s more than I can be offered Mr. Chalamet. I hope your venture wasn’t too long”

“No no, it certainly wasn’t”

We stared at each other for a little while, pausing with each given breath. His eyes really did resemble the haven I would often visit, Maybe, this house will be a place of paradise for me.

“Sorry Miss Y/L/N, you just have-” He paused, his voice fading out as he moved in closer to my face with his hand held up. “You have a stray hair” he continued, advancing towards me, silently asking for permission with his glance and me agreeing.

We locked onto each other once again, this time obtaining a clearer image of each other. His lips looked like pink clouds and his eyelashes decorated his eyes beautifully. His jaw was carved into perfection and so was his cheekbones.

He pulled away as he tucked the hair behind my ear, the redness harshly displaying on the apple of my cheeks as he returned back to his position.

He gave me a flattering smile and said, “I hope that if you shall need anything or company, you will come to see me first, Miss Y/L/N”

“I’ll see to it sir”

120 notes · View notes

whitherliliesbloom · 4 years

Text

yet with each descent do we rise again

[ ffxivwrite2020 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #26 - when pigs fly ]

[ alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 2,548 words ] ★ [ fairy au ]

illya skawi & alphinaud leveilleur. in an au where il mheg is home to a nation of fae folk, all of whom are ruled by titania illya. mentions @ancientechos‘ laurelis, @firstblesssed‘s elletha and @windupnamazu‘s lunya. contains the origins / lore of porxies in this au. i also reveal illya’s fae name for the first time in this fic but who really cares-

if porxies were the manifestation of the impossible being made possible, why did the sight of them bring titania so much grief?

He’s seen no skies clearer than one that hung over Il Mheg, a testament to the majesty that was the fae folk and their magics, no doubt. Despite being told again and again by no few fairies and pixies alike that their kingdom was not how it used to be - her luster tarnished by the leeches that were the mortal race and the marks they’d left upon the land’s beauty - he, in all his ignorant mortal bliss, still believed the kingdom of rainbows to easily be the most beautiful place he’s had the fortune to set foot upon.

And as he greets the stunning soft gradients of blues and cotton candy white that was the sunny morning sky, looking up and being momentarily blinded by the scorching, yet welcoming sun above, he hears a flutter and a twinkle behind him, the back of his neck tickled by a light gust that urges him to spin around as quickly as his artificial rhotano blue wings would allow him.

“'Q-Quel amrun, Alphinaud!” A voice of exceeding melody, one that rose in the air and echoed in his ears like the gentle rustle of leaves upon the wind greeted him in a language he had not yet mastered, and he finds color rising up his cheeks as he takes far too many seconds to find the words to respond.

“A-and good morning to you, your majesty.”

Evidently pleased at his understanding her verbal fae tongue, the queen smiles wider than he’s accustomed to, and the radiance she exudes as if she were a beam of pure, unfiltered light almost sends him reeling.

“’Tis good to see fae blood still courses through your veins.”

Alphinaud bites back a chuckle, and he resists the urge to speak as he bows, watching beneath a curtain of thin lashes as the queen turns her head to breath in the scent of morning dew before directing her tender gaze towards the young man.

His gift - and by extension his duty was still something of an awkward point of conversation between him and the ruler of Il Mheg, despite knowing full well that this arrangement, as gloomy as it made him to remember, was only temporary. Once he finds the cure and the source of the curse, and fulfills his responsibilities as far as it pleased Titania, he will surely be made to leave. Il Mheg was no place for mortals, not after what they’ve done to the fae.

And he was still very much mortal, despite the ring of silver and golden flower embellishments he wore upon his finger, and the gossamer wings that sprouted from his back.

“What’s on your schedule today? Helping Beq Thon with those awful weeds again?” The queen asks, swinging her dainty little legs as she hovered just several feet above marble. Her crystalline wings flutter gently with uncanny grace like petals, and from their tips fell sparkling dusts like thistledown that swirled and were carried away with the chilly lake breeze. The flap of his wings by comparison were harsh and clumsy, and he’d very understandably been called a disgrace to all fairies by all who saw his poor attempts at flying as they do.

Thankfully not, he almost answers, but his conscious is immediately assaulted by a pang of guilt as he remembers the grace in which Illya had granted him stay within her kingdom, and the boundless amounts of kindness that not only she, but the other residents of the fae nation has shown him thus far. Instead he manages something of a forced smile before shaking his head. “I came to see if you needed any sort of assistance, your majesty.”

“Me?” The young fae widens her eyes, hand rising up to rest upon her chest. The limpid silken scarf that hung from her hands ripple upon the wind with her movements. “Oh.. No, no.. There’s nothing I need help with.”

“Is that so? Have you some sort of business outside the castle, then? If you do then, surely, there’s some way I can help you.”

A dust of pink spreads across her pallid cheeks and up to the tips of her pointed ears, but she is quick to hide her blush beneath the light shadows of her pure white bangs

“I-I was... just here to feed the porxies.”

“Porxies?”

As if summoned by the call of their name, a passel of squeaky porxies burst through the bushes, their sizeable ears flapping as they gathered around the queen and oinked in delight. Alphinaud is taken aback for but a moment, mouth agape as he watches Titania toss her pearlescent cane into the air. It sparkles for a moment before it morphs into a hefty palm-sized satchel that lands safely in the queen’s palms.

“Here you go. There’s enough for everyone, so don’t be greedy!”

Illya beckons to the porxies with a wave as she opens the sack, and the pungent smell of grime, rotten fruits and crushed flower paste sends him gasping and grimacing, to which the queen could only flash an apologetic wry smile for.

“Ah.. I’m sorry for the smell.. Their diet is rather um.. peculiar. ”

“N..No! Pray.. forgive me my response.. I was just.... surprised..” Alphinaud pauses, watching as the porxies feasted happily upon their breakfast completely unaware of the stench. “I never would have thought their appetite would be whetted by such... waste.”

With large chomps and nibbles, the porxies begin to disperse in number as they eat their fill from the queen’s gentle palms, the grime of their feed leaving a dirty black stain upon her otherwise supple, clean hands.

“They say one man’s waste is another’s treasure...” Illya murmurs as the second to last porxie in line flutters away, leaving the last of the pack to eat off the scraps of the scraps slowly, but gratefully. “W-well.. porxies, in this case.. But they help with cleaning up the trash by eating them.”

Despite the familiar euphony of her words, and the kindly gaze she held towards the lone porxie, he sensed a touch of melancholy, of a sadness that he knew she would hate for him to notice. It certainly must not have been the queen’s intentions - he knew it wouldn’t have been given her tendency for hiding any emotions that she deemed to be unqueenly of her. And if the accounts of her friends and advisor were to be trusted, it’s that Titania of all people bottled up a mountains worth of burden and sorrow inside herself - one she refused to show to anyone.

Alphinaud is silent as he watches her, glowing and mesmerizing in her beauty as she gently strokes the top of the porxies head as it squeals gleefully at her. He can swear the sun’s rays grow twice more incandescent as they shone through her shimmering, glassy wings in pink and purple hues like stained glass, only second to the warm, glittering hues of her eyes that reminded him of a field of lavender and violets.

She was ever like a beacon of effervescent light - not just to him, but to Il Mheg and her people. And yet she would not allow herself even the luxury of grieving, of showing her sadness to the world for fear of going against her duties. The divine royal sparkles that shone in her eyes were now clouded by the rain, of the hidden words she’s stopped herself from saying for who knows how long now.

And it pained him, enough to drive him to insolence, and he wouldn’t bemoan her if she thought to have him banished on the spot for it.

“What has you feeling so downcast, your majesty?”

His question sends panic rippling down her spine, and for a moment the queen gasps as she turns her head up to stare wide eyed at him. She thinks to shake her head furiously before flying away.. but caught in the headlights of his concerned, and frustratingly sincere gaze she gulps, and finally allows herself to frown.

It takes a lengthy silence, one accompanied by chirping and the distant chatters of the pixies, to be true.. but his attention is focused squarely on the lady, who places her palms on either sides of the porxies cheeks and narrows her eyes with a heart wrenching, upsetting look of defeat. And when she finally speaks, her voice no longer held the tone of a celebratory songbird, but like little windchimes, barely louder than a whisper as it rang amidst the drizzle.

“Do you happen to know where porxies came from, Alphinaud?”

The question causes his head to tilt curiously, and he answers with an honest ignorance.

“Are they.. not simply another type of fae?”

“Well... yes and no. They’re um... like you.” Illya strokes the porxies skin lovingly, as if in apology for speaking of it. But its beady eyes remain bright and naive as it looks up at its queen as if she meant the entire world to it. “They’re not fae born.. They were made into fae by a Titania.”

The queen closes her eyes, heaving a sigh through barely parted rosy lips.

“There was once a saying.. A figure of speech that I believe is of mortal origin.. but it was spoken by fae folk once too. ‘Iire beag roi’.. Referring to the concept of impossibilities.” Slowly Titania leans her head forward to nudge the porxies snout with her forehead, a sorrowful sign of affection before it sounds out a snort of delight and flutters away.

“Titania had a son - Ose Iala was his birth name.. But he always preferred the names of mortals far more than one of his fae. And he kept that fascination of mortals and the outside world even as he grew older, old enough to voice out his disdain for our rules against executing mortals who stepped inside Il Mheg soil.

‘The day mortals and fae will ever coexist is the day pigs will fly’, Titania did say with a mocking glare towards Ose Iala.. and the prince, in his fury towards his father’s stubborn intolerance, casted a spell upon a herd of pigs that wandered into Il Mheg from a farm in Lakeland.”

Alphinaud’s heart sinks into his stomach as he listens, expression awash with pity as he looks upon Titania tilting her head up to the sky, galaxy worn eyes tired and wary. And though he needn’t hear the rest of her words to know what.. or who exactly she was referring to, he allows her to pour what little bits of her caged heart she had the courage to share.

“My father.. He made the impossible possible, preached that there was no such thing as impossibilities to his people and told me the same when I was but a sprout who barely just learned to fly. And he made the impossibility of fae folk existing with mortals a beautiful, wonderful reality.”

Il Mheg has changed more within the past 3 generations than it did with the countless millenniums before then, for better or for worse.. The name of the Titania who brought about this tide of change was scorned by most of the fae kingdom and forgotten by the mortals who had seen Il Mheg as nothing but pools of gil and resources they could steal from.

But that was a cruelty and a despair that has wrongfully be thrust upon the Titania of the present - of the one who bears the heaviest burden of them all. For beneath the opulence of her glamorous, glittering dresses and the pristine gemstones upon her flowery tiara, she was but a young girl - a fae equivalent to a mortal of teenage age, who has lost family and freedom both. And above all else, the lonely little fairy was now shackled with duty, of her obligations to undo the mistakes Ose Iala had done to blemish their kingdom.

“And yet... despite the miracle I’ve been granted, I’m worthless as queen. I cannot save my people.” Her hands clench into fists, and blood drains from her knuckles and threatens to pour out of the cuts her nails leave as imprints upon her palms. “Forget Feo Sul, I...I’m not worthy of bearing the mortal name Illya either.”

Alphinaud mutters her name beneath his breath, and the sweetness that is left on the tip of his tongue as he does causes his heart to skip a beat. Feo Sul. The flower of treasures. Despite what Titania might say, the young scholar knows better than any other that her name fits perfectly better than any other fae or mortal he might ever meet.

“But you have saved your people. The fae are able to find hope to renew Il Mheg because of you.” With a furrowed brow, Alphinaud hovers forward, daring himself to lift his hand and rest over clenched fists.

“Elletha tells me of how much you work to keep the infirmary running, casting your magics so hard that the palms of your hands would start burning and she’d have to stop you. I’ve heard from so many pixies that the fairy that appears at night, Lunya... she was once a mortal that you saved from death despite her being a plunderer.” His words at once cause her eyes to water, but also soothes the tension in her hands, and she finds her fingers relaxing against his reassuring grasp.

“And Laurelis.. Whenever I speak to her, she wouldn’t stop talking about you! About how you sacrificed some of your own royal blood to feed the soil of Timh Gyeus on the first day after your coronation so that flowers would bloom again.. Or how you dove head first into the longmirror lake to rid the waters of the litter and oil.”

“A-Alphinaud.. P-please-”

“Or how you caught frost on your wings as you dug through the snowy mountains for a week looking for tsasan setgel.. Or the way you ripped the cursed thorns the Fuath had grown around the pillars of Lyhe Ghiah as a prank with your own bare hands because you could not bear the thought of having anyone else do so! ”

His hand tightens its hold, fingers laced and intertwined with the gaps of her own as he moves closer and raises his voice. So that she will hear him, so that she will listen, and face the reality of her own kind deeds even if she’d refused to thus far.

“You’re the miracle Il Mheg needed. The fact that you yet stand, strong and tall as you are despite everything you’ve been through, that is a miracle above all others.”

The tears that trickle down her cheeks and falls off her chin glisten as little gems, reflecting off the rays of the morning sun with a rainbow hue that he feels tempted to catch with his fingers, were they not occupied with holding hers. And the tiny panic he feels in his beating heart dissipates as when she sniffs, and forces a glowing smile upon her face.

“ Iire beag roi.. How silly a notion, I’m nothing of the sort.”

And Alphinaud smiles back, eyes narrowing as he feels her fingers wrap around his in return.

“ gu dearbh. Pigs already fly, remember?”

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2020 #ffxivwrite #alphinaud leveilleur #illya skawi #alphinaud #we've come so far #fanfic #mine #fairy au #fairy queen au #kiwisffxivwrite2020 #wow who still remembers this au #of course! nobody!

25 notes · View notes

vannahfanfics · 4 years

Text

Desert Rose

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Naruto

Characters: Shikamaru Nara, Temari

Additional Tags: Medieval AU

Hey, everybody! Here is my piece for Day 2 of ShikaTema Week for the prompt “Masquerade.” I hope everyone enjoys it~!

Temari’s slender arms glided through the sleeves of the ballgown as her attending ladies slipped it over her head. The heavy fabric slumped against her legs to puddle at her feet in rivers of white and cream and gold. One of her waiting ladies bundled a bronze corset to her chest, while another began tying up the ribbons with expert fingers. Careful hands smoothed every crease and crumple in the ballgown’s embroidered, bejeweled skirt as they straightened out the magnificent train, while pooled behind Temari like a grand golden-brown lake. Her blue-green eyes searched her reflection in the mirror as a maid combed and styled her voluminous, fluffy blonde hair, piling it atop her head in two buns streamed with beads of topaz. They settled a golden crown inlaid with crystal, tourmaline, and smoky quartz upon her brow and strung dangling earrings from her lobes. Perfumes of sandalwood, cinnamon, and nutmeg clouded the air around her, before the misted droplets settled upon her skin and were absorbed. Finally, a mask fashioned in the image of a golden hawk fell over her eyes, and Temari’s preparations were at last complete.

“You look splendid, my lady,” one of her attendants cooed over her shoulder with a happy smile. Temari’s lips curled up into a smirk, and she skimmed her fingers underneath her chin, admiring her regal personage reflected within the smooth glass.

“You think?” The ladies giggled at her pseudo-insecurity. Temari’s ladies revered her for her unflinching confidence and brash boldness, so they knew her comment was in jest. Temari ruffled the heavy skirts enveloping her smooth, slender frame. “I must, or Father will be most displeased.” Discontentment saturated her voice.

“I am sure that His Majesty’s efforts to secure My Lady a husband will be most successful,” one of the young girls, a hopeless romantic, sighed dreamily at her hip as she adjusted the train of Temari’s gown. The princess snorted derisively and cocked back her head.

“At the very least, he has finally allowed me to seek my own suitor. I cannot believe he offered me that bungling, dreamy-eyed fool that is the Uzumaki heir. He has eyes for the captain of his guard, and that is painfully obvious,” she haughtily snorted. Not that Temari cared if the future king of Konoha kingdom was besotted with the stoic, raven-haired knight; as long as he left her well enough alone, he could romance the entirety of his royal sentinel for all she cared. “It is too bad for the Hyuga princess, though,” she smirked as her ladies trilled in laughter. “The poor dear is enamored with him and has no idea that he grazes on the other side of the pasture.”

“My Lady Temari! You are too bold!”

“That Sasuke Uchiha is a dream, though. I cannot blame Lord Naruto for his fondness.”

“You hush now!” Temari laughed as she strode away from the mirror to her bower’s window while her ladies gossiped of various lords and ladies. Temari sank onto the plush pillow of her window seat, watching the stream of horse-drawn carriages and guard details pour in through the open gates of the desert palace. Many had come from far and wide to woo the indomitable Temari of the Sand, and many would leave with their hopes ruthlessly dashed. Temari leaned her cheek in her hand with a weary smile.

“Father only wants to marry me off so that I can produce a male heir before he has to relinquish his throne to me.” Temari was the only one available to be heir, but her father still refused it, as she was a woman. Their mother had died in childbirth of Gaara, and her loss drove their father to weld iron around his heart. He became dispassionate and totalitarian and cruel. It drove Kankuro to rebel and renounce his royal name to escape into the desert sands, and poor little Gaara was driven mad and imprisoned for his insanity and malice. In love for her poor baby brother, she arranged for his smuggling beyond the border.

Temari was the only one who knew what had become of them. Somehow, in the vast full world, they had reclaimed their own identities and were living peaceful lives in the neighboring forest land of Konoha, under the protection of the very princeling that had half-heartedly courted Temari. He was a fool with his heart on his sleeve, but Temari was at least grateful he had offered her displaced brothers a home with no strings attached. She smirked wryly as she watched the sun sink below the red sands. “It is a curse to be a woman, but especially in royalty. Count yourselves lucky in that, my dears,” she said as she turned back to her waiting ladies. They all bowed their heads and shuffled their feet. The world will still be cruel to them. It has no love of the female sex, she grimaced.

It didn’t matter if the world had no love for Temari. Every mountain that it tossed as her would be flung aside with the force of a sandstorm. She would not relinquish her agency, not for anything. “Is it time?” she asked, and languidly rose from the window seat. Darkness had descended over the desert; one by one, the braziers scattered around the palace were springing alive with flame.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Come then. Let us see what the desert winds have brought us,” Temari smiled and strolled towards the door. Two of her ladies carried her sprawling skirt train, while another held her hand to escort her properly. Together, they wound around the spiraling sandstone steps of her tower suite into the main wing of the lofty palace. The ball was already underway; lamplight glowed at the end of the carpeted hall, soft and yellow, and minstrels’ music floated on the air. As they rounded the corner, Temari watched the shadows dance along the walls. Dark men led grey ladies in dance all around her. They danced like their feet rested on the ever-present wind, skirts swishing like banners caught high in the morning breeze. Temari wondered if any among them would intrigue her enough even to entertain the thought of marriage. Most likely not. Most of them desire the iron mines, not me.

Politics was a cutthroat world, after all.

“Hail, Princess Temari!” a squire announced as she and her ladies strode into the ballroom. The attendants paused their revelry to return the hailing and bow respectfully to her. Their masked personages studied her as she marched to the long, clothed table situated at the back of the room, where her father was stuffing his face with roast quail imported from Konoha. They were lucky their kingdom sat upon the densest concentration of ore in all the realm, else he would likely be dining on stewed rat. Temari seated herself in the gilded chair beside him, and the servants wasted no time in procuring her a plate laden with delicacies imported from almost every kingdom in the Great Alliance.

“So, my daughter,” King Rasa tutted as he cracked the wing joint of the artichoke-stuffed bird, “many have come to look upon your beauty. Will you not at least give them the pleasure of a smile?”

“That pleasure must be earned,” she answered stoically and crunched on a tomato with only enough force to not breach propriety. He scowled at her.

“Willful girl. You should show more respect to your father.”

“That pleasure must also be earned.” Temari ignored his scathing glares to partake in the lovely spinach salad before her. Rasa continued to silently fume beside her; Temari wished she could exploit her willfulness in full capacity, but she did owe a duty to her kingdom to find a suitable husband, at least. As she chewed on the tender flesh of the quail, her sea-blue eyes raked the crowd of lords and ladies. A multitude of masks pranced within the sea of bodies- a blooming lotus, a roaring bear, a graceful swan, a gallant lion, a watchful crow, a tusked boar, and a colorful butterfly, to name a few. However, it was the majestic stag that caught her gaze for more than a few seconds, as its wearer strode undauntedly up to the royal table.

“Your Majesty. My Lady,” he uttered respectfully as he held a hand to his chest and bowed down to a ninety-degree-angle. The curved white horns of his mask jutted into the air like pale fulgurite. Black eyes twinkled behind the white-spotted curves of the mask as the man smirked at Temari. “Care to dance?” He asked while extending his hand to the princess. Temari had to summon all the will in her body to keep her mouth from falling open. What cheek, to beseech me as I am eating! The glimmer in his onyx eyes indicated that he was well aware of the nerve of his action. Temari found herself smiling at his boldness. No man had ever dared so brazenly court her. Despite her father’s complaints, she found herself bundling up her skirts to hurry around the edge of the table.

“It would be my pleasure, good sir,” she responded once she was in front of him, dropping into a curtsy. His smirk widened when she slipped her hand into his. A pink haze alighted her cheeks as he brought it to his mouth to drop a kiss onto it. Those glinting obsidian eyes bored into hers, like a thunderstorm rolling upon the blue-green sea. The snark and self-assurance were a welcome change from simpering, underhanded compliments. Thus, she allowed him to sweep her out onto the dance floor without so much as a peep.

“I had wanted to wait until you finished eating,” he admitted as he settled his hand upon her waist and held her other aloft, “but the crowd was rippling with your compliment. I realized I had to make a good first impression. Have I succeeded?”

“No man has ever dared interrupt my dinner.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he purred. He eased into the movements as the band started up their melody, circling her around the marble dance floor. Temari’s dress swished around her knees as he rocked her gently with the beat, guiding her with utter surety. It was clear that her suitor was of high birth, perhaps even a prince.

“Tell me. From where do you come?”

“The vast forest lands to the east, if it pleases My Lady,” he responded. He paused to spin her around before easily reclaiming her slender corseted waist. “My family has long made a living developing medicines and droughts for the illnesses of the world.”

“You’re Shikamaru Nara?” she gasped in shock, and he nodded. The Naras were under the dominion of the Uzumaki’s kingdom, a noble house renowned for their doctors rather than their knights. They were known to keep very much to themselves, marrying middleborn children of dukes and minor lords. One had never been so bold as to court a princess, let alone one of the heirs to the vast wealth of the Sand Kingdom. Temari found herself relishing the fact. “You are bold.”

“I imagine you grow bored of empty flatteries and the whispers of sycophants who want nothing more than to usurp your throne.”

“How do I know I am not in the arms of a usurper as we speak?” A delighted smirk flashed on his lips, and Shikamaru brought his face close, close enough for his hot breath to puff over her face. A titillated shiver traveled the length of her spine.

“I care not for caverns of iron or halls of gold. My interest lies in a single topaz shimmering in the vastness of the desert.” Temari’s cheeks blazed with the pinkness of an opal, and she shifted her fingers that were clasped in his hand, feeling them grow clammy with nervous sweat. Many had compared her to precious gems before, but this was the first time it sent a nervous titter springing through her nerves. “It is true, some in this realm are more renowned for their beauty-” Shikamaru cast a look at a raven-haired woman in a moonflower mask who was undoubtedly the Hyuga heiress, “but I find that the flower that blooms under hardship puts them all to shame.”

“And what hardship would that be?” Temari asked with a coy grin.

“The crushing thumb of a father who values you more for what is between your legs than what you have to offer.” His lewdness set a blaze to her cheeks, but his words rang hollowly in her heart. Her chin dropped against her chest as she bowed her head, for tears were gleaming on her blonde lashes.

“You speak truly. My father wishes to marry me quickly, so that I may produce an eligible heir.”

“A pity. I have heard much of the shrewd tenacity of the Desert Rose.” The epithet had always grated her. There were much more distinguished and inspiring names she could bear, but she was known for her looks more than anything else. Still, hearing Shikamaru call her such was more bearable than usual. He stepped a little closer to her as he continued to ease her through the dance steps so that their chests brushed. When she glanced up, he was staring into the crowd. “None of these men care for your value, really. They want power, or influence, or wealth. It is dangerous and disappointing to be a woman in politics.” Temari blinked disbelievingly. Surely, he must be speaking words that I wish to hear to gain my trust. This man may be more cunning and sly than all the lords in this hall- and so the most perilous. She jumped when he peeked at her with a wry smile. “You are thinking my words dishonest, a ploy to lead you into a false sense of security.”

“Indeed. What man has ever cared for a woman’s place in this world?”

“A man who recognizes an amazing woman when he sees one.” Despite her misgivings, her cheeks still flushed again. He flashed her a sincere smile. “I arrived here four days ago. I wanted to know if the tales of the courteous and intelligent Lady Temari were true. So, I disguised myself and wandered the town. The townsfolk and knights speak very highly of you,” he said, making Temari smile shyly. “Your council has averted war many a time. You reallocate funds to ensure the people have food and water and healthcare. I’ve even heard you descended into the rabble to deliver medicine to plague-ridden peasants while your father insisted that three doctors attend him until the sickness dissipated.”

“The people gossip. Rumor is a powerful thing.”

“But most rumor contains a speck of truth, no?” Caught red-handed, Temari could only bashfully look down at her feet. It was true; Temari boasted many a political feat. Her father had once been a kind and just man, but age and toil had disfigured him into someone paranoid and venal.

“My father has forgotten that without the people, we are nothing. They are our charge. It is our responsibility to protect and care for them. All he cares about protecting now is his house and his wealth,” she sighed dismally with a glance Rasa. He was in fervent discussing with King Minato Namikaze and his queen Kushina; her father was always bleating about maintaining a good relationship until they could stab them in the back and usurp their fertile forest territory. Temari quite liked the royal family, as they were just and fair and well-liked by their people, so she had coaxed her father out of fruitless war efforts many a time. “I am but a means to an end,” she lamented quietly, turning back to him to look at him pitifully.

He released her waist to grip her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“It would be a pity if the beautiful Desert Rose wilted before she ever got to bloom,” he murmured. The pad of his thumb ever-so-gently brushed over her bottom lip. His dark eyes studied her intently, and all Temari could do was stare. She had never meant a man like this, that sent her heart fluttering because he saw her, not her throne or her father.

She was gripped with the overwhelming need to see him.

“I wish to leave this place. Be alone… with you.” He flashed her a beguiling smirk.

“As My Lady wishes.” They ceased dancing, and the room erupted into pleased applause. He offered her his arm, which she took, wrapping her hands around his bicep. He guided her back into the throng, meandering through the mass of royals to lead her towards the exit. They chatted amiably with various prominent figures, and though he was of lower birth, Shikamaru commanded more presence than even the most celebrated kings. After what seemed a life age, they finally slipped behind one of the tapestries into a servants’ passage. There, Temari grabbed him by the hand and broke into a run. His startled gasp bounced through the small crawlspace, followed by her gleeful laughter.

“How do you know your way through here?!” he asked loudly as she expertly weaved through the labyrinthine array of tunnels. She stuck out her tongue at him over her shoulder.

“How do you think I snuck out to deliver medicine?”

By the time they burst into the garden, they were red-faced and panting. The moonlight streamed down from a cloudless sky, casting the world in its milk-white glow. The garden was actually a vast greenhouse, as the arid desert climate made it difficult to cultivate most plants. The glass panes misted with condensation from the evening’s watering and the plants’ respiration. This particular section was the garden proper; another area was cordoned off for the kitchen’s supply. Flowers imported from all corners of the realm bloomed here, but regardless of what color their soft petals boasted, they were dyed silver from the starlight.

Temari strolled to a stone bench nearby and sat down, tucking the thick fabric of her skirts under her thighs. Shikamaru eased down beside her and sighed exultantly.

“It’s a beautiful garden.”

“I imagine the forests of your homeland are much better. Wild, untamed, not carefully tended with every errant leaf snipped away,” she frowned with a glance around the pristine garden. Shikamaru chuckled and leaned back on his hands.

“You’ve got me there.” He paused, inhaling the air laden with the robust aroma of loamy soil and fresh water. “There’s nothing like it, Temari,” he breathed wistfully. “Wandering the paths through the wood, with the birdsong filling the air and decaying leaves crunching under your feet… There is so much life out there, so much wonder.” He gave her a humorous look. “Still, the desert has its beauty too.” He punctuated the remark with a graze of his knuckles over her cheek. She leaned into the caress, smiling softly.

“Yes. The sky stretches on forever, like a blanket of sapphire over the world… And the sunsets are magnificent. Many a time I have watched the world fall away as the colors bleed over the horizon like paint, filling the kingdom with the glow… I can forget, sometimes, and just watch it sink. No crown, no throne, no iron mines… Just the majesty of it.”

Shikamaru smiled, then removed the mask from his face. His sharp jawline seemed all the finer in the white light, and his dark eyes shone like polished hematite. He was incredibly handsome. As Temari stared, his hands came to her face to gently remove the hawk mask from her face, and she allowed him to do so. Slowly, he pulled it away, and drew in a sharp breath.

“You are more beautiful than I could have imagined.” She flushed, her cheeks glowing rose in the soft light. He stroked her cheek again, and the pad of his thumb spawned a trail of fire across her cheekbone. His fingertips skipped down her jawline to rest against the column of her throat, feeling the blood pulse thunderously through her veins. “Beautiful, and much too special to be doomed to a bridal gown.”

“Yet, doomed I am,” she whispered woefully. Shikamaru was a splendid man, more honest and enticing than any she had ever met. Yet, if the courtship proved fruitful, she would still be no more than his bride. Their son, when he came of age, would be ripped from their grasp to begin training for his role as Rasa’s successor. Frustrated tears sprung to her eyes to then roll down her cheeks. Shikamaru tutted softly and swept them away, only for more to come. “I am no more than a tool in political bargaining. My talents will never be acknowledged by my father. Whomever I marry, I will be shipped off like common goods and serve only to spawn heirs.” She hung her head, sniffling. “It is a lamentable existence.”

“Lamentable indeed,” he remarked in a soothing whisper, “but is it entirely horrible?” She peered through her blonde lashes at him. “Temari, I cannot give you all that you seek. I cannot change your father’s mind.” He smiled wanly and cupped her face in his hands; they were so warm and comforting. “All I have to offer you is my heart, true as death. I will love you and you only. I cannot make you a queen, but you shall always rule me. I will live only for your happiness.” His voice shattered into a ragged whisper full of emotion, and Temari did not doubt that he spoke truthfully. Her hands rose to stroke the tops of his and her eyes fluttered as she attempted to dry her tears.

“That doesn’t sound entirely horrible,” she admitted with a small laugh. He smiled relievedly and continued caressing her teary face.

“I wish more than anything that you could be given what you deserve,” he said softly and pressed his forehead to hers. “I am sorry. What I can give you falls utterly short of it.”

“No,” she refused and smiled kindly at him. “What you have offered me tonight is more than anyone has ever given. If you offer me your hand, I will take it gladly,” she said and stroked his chin, her fingertips rolling over the black stubble, “for you are the first man who has ever offered himself wholly to me.”

“I pity all the men who have come before. They knew not the treasure within their grasp,” he smiled thickly. Her eyes now studied his face, the lines and the contours. He truly was handsome, but it was clear that his honesty had caused him much grief. The world was just as cruel to honest and just men as it was to women. Her sea-blue eyes dropped to his lips, and she fancied kissing them. It seemed Shikamaru was having similar thoughts.

Their lips melded together, slotting together like the were made for one another. Her fingers ghosted the side of his face in repetitive touches, while his found purchase on her waist, pulling her closer. His breath clouded over her mouth as he shifted his head to the other side to kiss her with more fervor, drawing a small, needy moan from within her. Their arms wound around each other and every inch of skin possible touched, but it was not enough, not nearly enough…

The world was cruel to Temari, but it was kind enough to give her someone who loved her utterly, truly, wholly… and in that moment, it was enough. It was enough.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @shikatemaweek @deliathedork @searchfortheonepiece

#shikatema #shikatemaweek #shikatemaweek2020 #shikamaru x temari #temari x shikamaru #shikamaru nara #nara shikamaru #temari #temari of the sand #temari no sabaku #naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto fanfiction #naruto fanfic #medieval au

42 notes · View notes

darkmindsotome · 4 years

Text

Risque Rouge pt9

Tagging: @umbralaperture @otome-smut-queen @silver-fox-of-azuchi @tsundere-mitsuhide @jennacat84

General warnings for the whole fic: Angst, some fluff, Mental health issues, emotional things, trauma, blood, death and possible triggers. Please read responsibly.

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Chapter 9

The sound of hooves striking stone told them their long wait was finally over. A familiar coach turned onto the cobbled street on its way back from its travels. They smiled to themselves that the idea they would find who they were looking for here had paid off.

All things in the city follow patterns if you know where to look you could see them. Humans could be creatures of routine. You could see it in the way they built and laid out their environments. Making them follow a direction that they found to be the easiest and most accessible way to benefit them. They were also co-dependent, they needed others in order to not just survive but flourish. That was where their desire to be efficient beings tended to fall apart.

A city such as it was showed the circle of life in all its glory. A full spectrum of both ends of a poverty scale, the ones that could get support and the ones with no help at all. Humans constantly chasing something as poultry as a few francs they would trade for shelter and food and call that security.

They had to admit they didn’t have a particular liking for it. Crowded, smelly, little more than a fancy breeding ground for cattle that would eventually cease to be. Crushing their cigarette out underfoot as they moved to the front of the coach house, they kept their eyes on the recently returned driver.

“Pardonnez-moi Monsieur?”

“Oui?” The driver who had just climbed down from his seat replied to the approaching figure.

It wasn’t uncommon to be approached in this area of the city by random people in search of work. They were slightly closer to the dock which meant a lot of sailors and fishermen tended to either be looking to make some fast money or find out directions as to where they could spend it.

This person didn’t seem to fit the image of either description. They had on a dark suit of quality, open collar to their grey shirt and a dark tan long coat. The sun caught the metal accents on their shoes as they walked closer. It was curious the driver seemed to be able to pick out the finer details of the way this person dressed and the silence in their step. But he was completely unable to describe their face. It was as if they were seeing and also blinded at the same time.

“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. I was wondering if you could spare me a few moments of your time so we could talk about them?” The driver imagined he had seen the smile he heard in the low voice talking to him.

The atmosphere felt frigid around him as if someone had summoned snowfall. He also thought that the smartly dressed figure was moving closer to him but dismissed it as madness because he hadn’t seen them move a step since stopping at the carriage wheel next to him.

“Excusez-moi, I still have work to attend to Monsieur. Horses need to rest and—” The driver tried to mask his nerves by attempting to talk his way out of this impromptu interrogation but was cut short when a gloved hand sprung up to wrap around his throat and lifted him half a foot from the ground. His eyes bulged as he brought but hands to that singular grip and attempted to regain his freedom.

“That wasn’t a request.” The voice that had been affable until now snarled.

---

His heels clicked as he passed over the doorway and stepped out into the green landscape of the garden the soft breeze made the blossoms dance and a sweet scent float through the air.

True to his word Sebastian had indeed set up tea for him. A small table had been laid out with a table cloth that was daring to defy the wind and refusing to wrinkle, with a perfectly starched complexion, it was topped with all manner of sweet delights from his favourite patisserie. Two seats had also been angled just so with a perfect view of the garden that would still allow for an intimate conversation with a companion should you desire.

The fastidious nature of Sebastian had always intrigued him, it made him the perfect choice for a butler but it was the little hidden facets of his strict persona that entertained him the most. If the man ever knew exactly how many things his master had truly seen remained a mystery but he was an excellent man to have at one’s side. Intelligent enough to grasp the magnitude of a situation and capable enough to be entrusted with almost any task.

He had just settled into one of the chairs provided when the sound of clinking china reached his ears and he turned to see Sebastian walking over to him with the tea tray in hand.

“Pardon I was unsure if the Mademoiselle would be joining you.” Sebastian set down the tray and poured a cup of black tea with his usual flair and procession.

The scent was divine, say what you will over some of the peculiarities of the human world they did manage to bring out the full potential in some of the most surprising creations. Of course, they could also bring out the worst using exactly the same ingredients, it came down to skill, knowledge and practice. He was truly blessed to have Sebastian agree to stay with him over the years.

“She is changing.” Comte mentioned after taking a sip of his now late morning tea before selecting a pastry. “Sebastian, I should like you to gather as many as possible for lunch we have introductions to take care of.”

“Of course. I think there may be a few guests who are out at present. Sir Arthur headed into town earlier saying he was unsure of when he would return, Master Theo was visiting some clients to discuss appraisals of their collections and make suggestions for future…” Sebastian nodded in understanding and began to run off an itemised scheduling list that was helpful but unnecessary all the same.

The guests in the mansion were not obligated to bow down to his every wish but there were still certain understandings that had to be observed. When present if they were requested to attend a gathering, they were to make every effort to do so. Comte was a rather understanding master and unlike some demanded very little after his guests awakening.

If they were willing to live by his rules and protect the mansion and its residents where possible he asked for very little in return. Naturally, there were times where work generated absences and that was to be expected. The key was flexibility. He worked around the issues insuring all the household was given the same information from him and then micromanaging the rest where needed.

“It is a shame but unavoidable. Gather the ones that you can I shall see the rest individually afterwards.”

“As you wish Monsieur le Comte.” Sebastian bowed before leaving the garden and returning to the mansion to begin issuing the invitations to lunch.

Comte sighed as the sun appeared from behind a cloud and shone down on him. A light and cheerful piano melody carried on the wind that was accompanied by the birds and insects in the garden. As he lifted the pastry to his mouth a small dab of fruit jam slipped free of it and landed on his plate reminding him on the bloodied mess from last night.

---

Her fingers tied the olive-green sash at her waist into a large bow that dropped under its own weight at her back. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror by the door admiring the cream dress with all the delicate flowers that had been hand-stitched. Several of the people at the performing house had been seamstresses and helped with costumes but this was a far cry from anything used on stage.

Freshly washed and dressed she sat down to finish her hair. It was still slightly damp from the shower which meant it at least stayed put as she twisted and pleated it into place. An intricately woven crown was formed around her head that left the rest of her hair hanging loosely down her back. A knock came to her door just as she slipped on a pair of cream coloured shoes.

“Yes?”

“Pardon it’s Sebastian Mademoiselle Evie. I have come to show you to lunch.” His voice was as formal as she remembered even if he had used Evie instead of her full name. It made her both smile and shake her head. It was still only the first day of her time here but she hoped he could be a bit less formal around her eventually.

She checked her appearance once more, patting down her hair before opening the door. The reaction that met her was difficult to read. She felt a knot in her stomach as the nerves that usually plagued her before a performance made an appearance.

“I-is this acceptable do you think?” She asked nervously as she joined him in the corridor. She had chosen the first dress that caught her eye and after she put it on marvelled at how well it fitted her. She felt more mature and less like the child everyone treated her as. She could have been wrong, it could have looked hideous. Evie looked into Sebastian’s smoke-grey eyes unsure if his silence was a good thing or not.

“I wouldn’t possibly assume to interfere with a Lady’s choice of attire, Mademoiselle.” Sebastian replied and then as if suddenly noticing how her heart was sinking in her chest, he leant past her to close the door to her room and whispered the words she needed to hear. “But I think you look charming and I’m sure the Comte would agree.”

She smiled and for a moment Sebastian thought he had caught a glimpse of what his Master had. She was like a breath of fresh air, as warm as a summer sun and naturally charming. Without any prompting or effort on her part, she seemed to stir emotions easily in others.

Sebastian corrected himself to avoid staring as they walked towards the stairs that would take them to their destination.

“Are eating times always such fancy affairs here?” Evie asked partly out of curiosity but mostly because she thought if she didn’t say something she would turn into a useless wreck.

“Not at all. A lot of the guests eat at different times and some prefer room service instead of the company. Today we will be having luncheon in the dining room in order to introduce you to as many of the guests as possible.” Sebastian spoke matter of factly, in the same way, he might have read a passage from a book aloud.

“As many as possible? How many are there?” Evie asked with an uncomfortable look on her face that she desperately tried to push aside. Sebastian had mentioned serving breakfast to the guests but it didn’t occur to her at the time to ask about numbers.

“Nine at present. With the addition of yourself, there will be ten guests plus Monsieur le Comte and myself.” Sebastian answered her as he increased his stride as they descended the stairs and walked towards one of the many identical doors of the mansion. She followed him with her eyes watching him getting further away from her as she sunk back into her own thoughts.

“I see…” Evie nodded as she dutifully followed in his footsteps.

She had thought this was like nerves before a performance but now wondered if this wasn’t worse. Up on stage where the lights shone, they blinded her to her audience. She knew she was being watched but she couldn’t see any of the ones doing the watching. She also never spoke to the audience members except for the very brief occasion where one was brought backstage by another performer and she had simply smiled to them and scurried back to her room.

Reaching Sebastian’s side, she felt him looking at her and she raised her head from her inner musings to give him a small nod. She was a professional performer she could do this. Sebastian opened the door revealing a room with long sideboards and an even longer dining table. It felt like the entire room had been carved out of the heart of a tree.

Floor to ceiling carved panels covered the walls, candelabra sat on every surface and there was a heavy Turkish rug that covered so much of the floor as if it was basic carpeting. Large windows on the opposite side of the room felt like they would be better suited in a cathedral than a mansion but she did think they were very fitting for the size of the mansion and the man who owned it.

Five men who were already sitting at the table stood up from their chairs as she took a tentative step into the room.

“Ah, excellent timing. Gentlemen this is the young lady I was just telling you about. Genevieve, won’t you come here?”

---

6 notes · View notes

helenaklein · 5 years

Text

take me to your river

The steady trickle of the river creates a gentle melody that accompanies your afternoon. There’s a lightness to the air today, as if the world itself is breathing easier than it has in far too long. Your world certainly is.

Helena’s back rests against a tree on the water’s edge, and her fingers weave loose braids through your hair as your head lie in her lap. You’ve been dozing in and out of consciousness for at least an hour, basking in the simple luxury of your wife’s company. More than once, you wake to the sound of rustling leaves and the sight of slow movement in the branches above you, growing spontaneously to provide continual shade from the sun’s glow. Mirth lights up her entire face each time you catch her; her disbelief and her confidence providing a uniquely endearing combination you can’t get enough of.

You and Helena have yet to leave for any sort of honeymoon, but moments like these provide such a stark contrast to your life together thus far that you can’t imagine time even more rejuvenating.

You crack your eyes open just slightly when her hands still. Helena stares out towards the water, looking thoughtful but lacking the telltale crease on her brow she gets when something’s troubling her.

“What’s on your mind?”

There’s no surprised reaction to your question, only a small smile at the unspoken familiarity you’ve cultivated together.

“Much.”

“Well,” you sit up to reposition yourself further in her lap, her arms immediately wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, “I think we’ve got time.”

Helena hums appreciatively and presses a lingering kiss against your cheek. The warmth of her lips against your skin persists even as she begins to speak.

“Do you remember our first riverside venture?”

You recall the day fondly.

Those were such fraught times. So much was uncertain. Helena herself was different then, the cloud of hurt and regret that surrounded her so palpable it could have easily created insurmountable distance between you. But it didn’t.

Instead, moments like that trip to the river were a window into a gentler life, a glimpse at the woman she could become.

Your chest tightens at the memory of all you’ve gone through to get here. You wrap your arms around Helena’s neck and hold tight to what you fought for.

“When I pushed you into the water? How could I forget?”

Helena’s laughter comes unrestrained now. You think it might be your favorite change.

“I returned your dirty trick in kind.”

“It ended pretty well for both of us, I think.”

She reaches for your hand and brushes her lips lightly against your wedding ring, “I agree.”

You steal a kiss in the silence that follows. Because you can’t help it. Because she made you blush. Because Helena is your wife and because you’ve found the kind of love most people can only fantasize about.

“I asked you something that day.”

The words tumble from your mouth ungracefully, summoned from the same place of uncertainty they were conjured all that time ago, “‘What am I to do with peace?’”

Her eyes seek something distant out across the water as she nods. “It was difficult to picture myself in the life that comes after war. Growth and repair felt so foreign, so distant to what I knew of my soul. Even now, I find myself asking the same question: what am I to do with peace? There are so many possibilities before us. I struggle to envision what choice is best.”

“It doesn’t have to be the best choice, you know. Maybe peace is more complex than that.”

The notion seems to strike her deeply, and she looks back out towards something you can’t reach.

“Is this about Chicago?”

Despite her previous insistence on the decision to move after the wedding, the commitment had yet to be followed through in any meaningful way. The two of you went as far as escorting Sophie home before stepping right back through the portal because Helena had told Altea she’d help transport her to potential locations for the future school of magic, and didn’t want to go back on her word. So many things have come up and postponed the move that you’ve begun to consider that Helena may be doing it deliberately.

You haven’t asked about it until now, figuring her reasons justifiable and her faith in you strong enough to share them when she’s ready. In truth, you don’t mind the delay, grateful for the opportunity to mull over the logistics on how the hell to make any of it work. The more you think about it, the more anxious you get.

You have to go back to work, first of all. Which means job hunting and the whole host of inferiority issues that’s inevitably going to dredge up. You’ll need to find something that will let you work from home, as you aren’t keen on the idea of leaving Helena alone all day in a world she doesn’t know, and something for her to do in general that won’t ask for any identification. And, perhaps most complicated of all, you need to figure out a way to divert the attention that sharing a face with a dead, beloved celebrity will draw to her without asking Helena to disguise herself again.

It’s been a head-ache inducing process, to say the least, and you’ve barely had time to consider some of the pressing emotional concerns you have about any of it.

Helena seemed so sure when she talked about this move before that you haven’t really had the heart to bring up how complicated it’s going to be. You would do absolutely anything to secure her comfort and happiness, even hop dimensions and steal an identity for her. But still, the situation is more stressful than you’ve let on.

“Your world is a wondrous place. Its creativity and progress excites me. In many ways, it is the perfect answer to what I have craved for the majority of my life. Escape. Freedom. A new beginning. A chance to start my life fresh.” Helena smiles as she speaks, her blue eyes locked onto an imagined future. “If you had asked me two seasons ago where I wanted to spend my life, I am sure a place like Chicago would have been my choice, without question or second thought.”

“And now?”

“Now… it is as if I turn to what it represents to me on reflex, or out of habit,” Her gaze drops down and shame darkens her features before she shakes herself from it and meets your eyes directly, “but it has been quite some time since I have let the instinct to preserve myself rule my actions.”

“You said you feared people never letting go of your past.”

Helena repositions you slightly to better face you. You straddle her lap and catch both of her hands in yours.

“Yesterday, I met a farmer living in countryside surrounding Reiner’s castle who had been struggling to attain crop yields comparable to what he managed before the Witch Queen’s army occupied his land. What little actually took root molded by harvest time. I found him reduced to tears, clutching his ruined crop in his fists and kneeling in the dirt. He feared destitution for his family and starvation for his child, a little girl named Maya who just lost her first tooth. He thought himself a failure, and assumed that he was doing something wrong. But the land itself was cursed. I could sense the poison embedded within the soil the moment my palm touched the ground,” her words come more quickly as the story progresses, betraying her agitation at what this stranger endured. “She sabotaged his entire livelihood for no reason other than that she could, that it brought her pleasure to know he and all those that depended on him would suffer.”

You squeeze Helena’s hands in an offer of strength when you feel them start to tremble in your own, “breathe, Helena.”

She takes the suggestion immediately, clenching her eyes shut and giving herself a minute to get her breath under control. When her trembling ceases, Helena opens her eyes and continues, voice noticeably steadier.

“I offered my assistance to him. He was distrustful of magic after having seen the destruction it wrought so close to his home, and skeptical that anything could mend the damage after he had tried so hard to fix it. But he had nothing left to lose, and said as much before allowing me to help. I lanced her poison from the farmer’s field with ease. The look of wonder on his face as the crops still clutched in his hands were restored to perfect health, and that I could so effortlessly erase the evidence of her wickedness… it made my heart soar.”

The memory puts a note of awe into her voice, her smile lights up her entire face, and you could swear the shade you rest under brightens with the grace of her happiness. You know how much it means to Helena that she’s learned how to help others with her magic. She’s formed a better relationship with herself as a result of it, with the knowledge that she is so much more than her capacity for destruction.

Her smile fades before she begins speaking again, “there are other stories like that farmer’s. People whose lives have yet to return to sustainable conditions, let alone something resembling normalcy. Many whose homes were consumed by flames and whose possessions were seized by her soldiers, who are still in search of family members unaccounted for, whose minds and bodies are gravely wounded and continue to live without respite. The Witch Queen is dead, but her touch upon this world lingers.”

The statement would make you worry about her if not for the hard-set determination that settles across Helena’s features.

“I do fear what my reputation in this land will be. But should the burden of that fear fall upon the shoulders of those whose resentment is just? Should I extend no offer of help to people in need on the chance that they may dislike me? Is it not the worst of crimes to have great power to make change, and choose instead to do nothing?”

Helena’s voice carries the same sort of impassioned delivery she used to rouse the army to stand with her as she brought back the sun. You can’t help but burn with pride and an immediate desire to do something, armed with the knowledge that her cause is inspired and righteous.

“I have more magic at my fingertips than has ever been thought possible in our recorded history.” She pulls one of her hands from yours, holding it outwards and summoning an amorphous ball of energy to demonstrate.

Particles of magic dance around one another, a glowing light show contained at the palm of her hand. What she holds then disperses outwards, and when Helena gestures around you, you’re caught breathless at the sight. The flow of the river has ceased altogether, fallen leaves and stones previously strewn across the forest floor levitate seamlessly in the air for as far as you can see. She holds it only for a moment, before dismissing the spell with a slight wave, and shows no sign of strain at the exhibit, if she feels any at all.

“Some of this magic was hers, once. She wielded it mercilessly against the people of this world, used it to impose her will over my body and mind until I thought of nothing but her and how to make the pain stop. I see no greater act of reclamation than my use of that same power to ease some of the destruction she wrought.”

“Are you saying you want to stay here, Helena?”

“As a child this world wounded me in ways unspeakable, and for too much of my adult life I wounded it just the same. But… perhaps there remains a way to amend some of the damage inflicted on both sides.”

“I just want to be sure you’re not trying to make a martyr of yourself in endless pursuit of everyone’s approval.”

Helena releases a hum of recognition at that, and turns her eyes towards the river once more. The sounds of the forest fill the lull in conversation between you. You’re grateful that she takes the time to consider your words, and are happy to grant her however long she needs to take stock of her feelings on the matter.

A chill settles in the air as the sun begins to fall. You tuck your face into the crevice between her neck and shoulder, seeking her warmth as much as you are protecting her with your own. Her arms come around you, pulling you close enough to feel her heartbeat against your chest.

You can hear her smile when she speaks next.

“There is still so much beauty here. I notice more of it every day. In our view of the sunrise over the village from our balcony. In evening meals spent among our friends, getting our fill of laughter and hot food in equal measure. In the songs the village people sing together while working towards a common goal. In the jovial eyes of children who will grow up without fear. In… in the way Ishara and Asta embrace me as their own. In the dreams and aspirations of all around us certain that there is a future to plan for, and in the knowledge that this is the world that brought our hearts together. This world. She tried to crush it underfoot but kindness and hope yet lives. I see it and I can feel it take hold in my soul, and I know with certainty that this world and I are the same.”

Helena is beaming when you pull away to look her in the eye, and you can’t help but match her smile.

“I wish to stay, my love, if you are amenable to the idea. No thoughts on the matter mean more to me than yours.”

Pride and relief overtake you. The way Helena has grown since you met her still brings tears to your eyes. It may not be a fresh start, or a new beginning, but it feels no less important, no less significant, and no less a marker of positive change.

“I wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting back to the daily office grind, to be honest. I’d be happy to stay, Helena.”

“Truly?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? And so are our friends. That’s all I need, in the end.” The people you’ve met in this world have filled your days with meaning in a way nothing else in Chicago ever has. Sophie is the only thing from your world you’ve ever been sad to let go of, though you know her place in your life will persist regardless of the dimensions between you. “Maybe it doesn’t make sense, with everything bad that’s happened. But it’s like you said, there’s a lot of good here too. I don’t think there is anywhere, in any world, without both. And we can help make more good. We can be happy here, I’m sure of it.”

Helena’s lips meet yours in a kiss that tastes of excitement and invigorated purpose.

Your life together was never going to be easy, or simple. To ask for either of a woman like Helena is to deny who she is fundamentally, and ignore the long path she’s walked to become the person she is now. In place of what’s easy, you have what’s brave. It may be scary, and ugly at times, but it’s enough to know that neither of you will ever stop trying for your happiness together, the betterment of all that surrounds you, and the sort of self-improvement that can only be found by embracing challenges head-on.

“If my past catches up to me someday, I welcome it, so long as I have this moment, and the hope of another in the peace we will build together.”

The words ring in your ears. You love their sound, saying them back to yourself over and over as the truth of them resonates deep within your chest.

The peace we will build together.

That’s where you find the answer to Helena’s question.

Nothing is to be done with peace, because peace itself is what must be done.

Peace is what you build, not where you arrive at. It is not the hard-earned destination at the end of a long journey. It is not something you can chase, or hope to someday simply find, as neatly wrapped a resolution as that would be. It is the work you put in, the way you try, a purpose you dedicate yourself towards in ensuring tomorrow is better than yesterday.

As you walk back home hand in hand with Helena along the river, you know you aren’t taking your first steps towards a picturesque happy ending.

But together you will make tomorrow better than yesterday.

#text #lvstrck #helena klein #helena x mc #mine*#long post #chicago ending stans do NOT interact it is ON SIGHT #hk*

94 notes · View notes

alexandriteobscuraarchive · 4 years

Note

~Kala needs to meet Gray! (tower/bad end(?) verse)

((Ooooo~))

The elevator doors opened onto a floor that seemed to defy the structure of the building itself as green faded tiles and bloodstained concrete gave way to pristine marbled floors with brilliant stained glass windows stretching down the length of the walls. It had to be a different building surely—the place behind her (not to mention the person) had been nothing more than a fever dream and she’d somehow fallen asleep in this lovely church—

Ow.

Short, haggard nails dug into the skin of her arm briefly and the train of thought dissipated. This places was real—all of it was real—no matter how fantastical this building floor(?) seemed. And hadn’t she been summoned to this very place? Her strange routine had been interrupted by the doctor telling her she needed to briefly ascend in order to meet their his ‘benefactor’; a Reverend seemingly as mysterious and fantastical as the building itself.

The thought of the summons made the girl reluctantly start forward, the sound of her footfalls sounding like someone tapping on a teacup repeatedly despite her incredibly thin shoes. She marveled at the windows as she passed, wondering if the light streaming through them to color the floor was real or not. The further in she went the more attentive her senses became; especially her nose. An underlying smell was getting stronger—an almost sickly sweetness that reminded her of overripe fruit left out in the sun—and she couldn’t help but think about the Fae food she’d read about in books, the kind you didn’t eat or even touch lest you be trapped forever.

Eventually the hallway opened up onto a room dominated by a modest confessional. A waist level altar sat in between the two doors with lighted candles at either end and out of the two doors one stood open, the interior of the confessional lost in shadow. Was she supposed to go inside? A lump rose in her throat the more she stared into that disconcerting blackness.

And then that china tapping again as her feet propelled her forward, tap tap tap tap, one foot in front of the other, left right left right, helpless in the face of that holy void the girl first walked towards and then into it, the thickness of it like a shroud settling over her trembling soul. That smell was in here too, swirling around her ankles like a mist. She tried to mentally count her steps and found it impossible, tried to raise her hands and outstretch them to act as a safeguard from running into something and couldn’t. She tried to turn around and couldn’t, she tried to run and couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t—

And then the darkness parted onto a much larger room; not a confessional but a nave. There were more windows here and neat rows of pews on either side of her and in the center of it all stood a pulpit and beyond that a large seemingly archaic pipe organ. Almost as if on cue the instrument begins to play a melody, a thick and somber psalm that rattled the lovely windows and made the girl’s bones quiver underneath her flesh. She blinked and then squinted, silently willing her lackluster vision into focus. There was absolutely no way. There had to be a person there because there was no way the organ could be playing by itself, there had to be s o m e o n e—

Her concentration broke and she blinked, her eyelids suddenly unnaturally heavy and that smell from before coming back with an insistence. It clogged her nose and burned her throat as she forced herself to take a breath and fight to pry her eyes open.And standing there with his back to her and clad in velvet robes was a man. Had he always been there? He stood poised as he pressed the keys attached to the grand instrument and while a part of her wanted to call out to him and ask if he had been there just a second ago was the person whom had called her here—she felt it best to stay silent and did so.

Eventually the music stopped and the man turned with the lingering reverb of the music following him as he went—never mind that a key sharper than what he’d been playing rang out too, no never mind that—and spoke to her. His voice carried well, seeming to resound not only in her ears but in the center of her head.

“Come hither, child.”

She moved as if pushed, her feet carrying her forward until she stood directly in front of the other and while she had difficulty in raising her gaze to look at him properly he seemed to have no trouble.

“So you are Daniel’s new ‘project’. I can see that his obsession has yet to cloud his better judgement for thine eyes are still intact. A blessing, all told.” She wasn’t looking at him–couldn’t look at him, rather—but she could hear the smile in his dark, mellow voice just as sure as she could feel her eyes beginning to water as that smell from before revives itself with a vengeance and assails her. The smell was worse than the antiseptic that saturated the doctor’s floor; she could feel it absorbing into her skin, in her brain—-

A hand descending onto Kala’s shoulder—a cold and somehow impassive thing—made her jump and look up reflexively and now her breath caught in her throat for another reason. Perhaps she’d been under the doctor’s ‘care’ too long but the first thing her attention was drawn to was the man’s eyes and what she saw there made it feel like a mistake. What she saw was nothing—his eyes curiously blank and yet there was no doubt that this man could see. He was not blind—although that in and of itself would be poetic, for wasn’t the judgment of God both swift and blind?—and he certainly had no trouble seeing her for who she was. The sardonic smile on his lips told her so.

“Fear not my child. I am Father Gray and the church surrounding thee is mine refuge. I have summoned thee here to ascertain something—” He pauses as his hand falls away from her trembling shoulder only to point at her chest where her heart was busy slamming against her ribs. “—Daniel would not have brought thee here for no purpose, after all. Do you seek to ascend this holy tower, child?”

When no answer came—for her breath sat useless and paralyzed inside her chest—the man named ‘Gray’ didn’t seem to mind. His smile actually widened a little, the sharp angles of his cheeks perfectly accompanying the sharp teeth now bared at her pleasantly.

“Does the serpent’s tongue protrude from the maw of the lamb? Is thy innocent treachery the reason for thy silence? Does thy shoulders posses the untested, unbroken weight of angels wings or will thou crawl through darkness? Which heart shall be revealed to thee; the heart of a sacrifice or of an angel—ahh, no matter. All shall be clear when God wills it.” Now the Reverend gestures back the way she had come with a slender hand. “Run child, back to thine lab and thine jailer. Mayhap he’ll draw the wings from you yet and should thee need guidance this church is here…as am I.”

She didn’t need to be told twice and quicker than she could blink she was back in front of the elevator, its button locked in the ‘down’ position. She couldn’t stop trembling even as she stepped behind the latticework and drew it closed with numb fingers. The Reverend’s voice followed her, settling over her heart like a fog, a sickly sweet thing that would suffocate her as soon as she breathed just a little too deep.

#;;ask response: ic gray #;;ask response: with squiggles #Anonymous #;;ask response: ic gray (verse: angels of death)#;;ask response: ic the assistant #;;ask response: ic the assistant (verse: angels of death)

2 notes · View notes

benisolo · 6 years

Photo

𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕐𝕠𝕦

by benisolo/anniesscribbles (Ao3)

Ben Solo sensed it everywhere- a benevolent, warmth that reached out to him through the Force. It was kind and comforting and... oddly familiar. Even when Ben ignored the soul's nudges- when his mind was too clouded with thoughts about his and Rey's growing child- the sweet spirit stood beside him.

Warning: pregnancy, children

He first felt it in the night- a small warmth in the force. The presence was close, but soft. To Ben, it felt like a whisper- a whisper that was only barely perceptible over the fiery, overwhelming signature of his wife, who lay right beside him.

Ben was at a loss for sleep. Rey had been ill for days and it was weighing on him heavily. Everyday he would hold her hair and stroke her back as she wretched with tears in her eyes. Ben tried desperately to heal her, to send her comfort through the force, but he was still out of practice in the ways of the light. All he could do was lie awake and worry about her, the one he loved more than himself.

As the night crawled on, the anxieties worsened. Just when he was about to weep with worry, that the warmth nudged at him.

Normally, Ben would have been alarmed at the unfamiliar presence. And yet, somehow he was... comforted?

“It must be some native creature.” Ben wrote off the notion immediately. He and Rey had only recently settled into their new home on Chandrila, so he was not yet used to all the new creatures and their signatures. He hadn’t been on his home-world since he was a child, before his powers awoke, so the benevolent presence must have been a native being he had forgotten in the past two-decades. That the most logical answer at least.

He didn’t feel it again for 2 standard weeks, but this time, he did not take notice. Ben was a little... distracted.

Rey had been doing better than a couple weeks before- she was able to keep her food down at least every other day. She had lost weight, which worried Ben more than anything else; his wife was already lithe of build, there wasn’t much left to lose. He had to help her get her strength back.

Ben cooked her a full, sprawling breakfast with Iktotch toast and vakiir eggs. He was finishing up on the roseberry jam when Rey entered the room. She didn’t look physically unwell but her expression was pained.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” Ben questioned, instantly going through all the treatment methods in his head.

Rey paused for a moment that felt like a lifetime. “Nothing,” she considered the statement, “at least I hope not?”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked in bewilderment. He padded slowly over to his wife, in a way one would approach a spooked animal, as she gathered her thoughts.

“Well, nothing is wrong. In fact, everything is absolutely amazing. I’m just overwhelmed and worried and I don’t know...” Rey spewed without taking a breath.

“Hey, hey,” Ben cut her off gently, taking her small hands in his. “Just breathe love.” He brushed a stray hair out of Rey’s eyes then led her to the sofa.

“Now,” Ben said softly, “tell me slowly.” He kept his composure outwardly, for her sake, but inside, Ben was falling apart with worry.

Rey took a deep sigh. “Ben I...” she sucked in more air. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I have wanted this a long time but now it’s here and I’m terrified.” Ben gave her (and himself, if he was being honest) an encouraging nod.

“I’m pregnant.”

Ben’s first instinct was to exclaim “What?!” Had he heard correctly? Was Rey messing with him? Was it a prank?

His second instinct was the usual: dread and self-loathing. How could he, the ex-Supreme Leader of a destructive regime, the fool who demolished the Jedi temple, the man with so much blood on his hands, including his father’s, call himself a father? Ben still felt like he didn’t deserve to call Rey his wife, so how could he call the pure being she carried his child?

These thoughts and infinitely more raced through Ben’s mind. Once he had processed meaning of the statement, Ben had just enough brain capacity to close his hanging jaw.

Rey stared back at Ben with eyes colored in anxiety. He barely noticed it, but behind the anxiety, Rey’s hazel eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Well?” Rey’s voice rang like a bell, arousing him from his stupor. How long had he been staring at her in silence?

Ben knew Rey needed him to speak, to reassure her, but try as he might, Ben could not utter a word. His vocal cords were just as petrified as he was.

Emotions continued to churn within Ben. If his heart was the sea, this would be high tide.

Without thought, Ben tugged the oven-mitt off his hand. As if by its own accord, that hand crept towards Rey.

With the most tender of touches, Ben’s placed his hand on his wife’s abdomen. Her stomach was still toned and flat- there was no indication that she was with child. But Ben knew better. The instant his fingertips brushed Rey’s skin, he felt it.

The whole scene glimmered with deja vu, not just the gentle touch of his fingertips against skin, but the future he saw. That same future he had seen on Ahch-To. The energy pulsing through the force was unmistakable. Ben had held his wife many times and never had he felt an energy such as this. Rey’s melody and the little one’s rang in perfect harmony.

“Ben, love?” Again, Rey brought him back to reality. “Are you upset?” Her bottom lip quivered like a porglet.

Ben just couldn’t help it- warm laughter rolled up his throat and his face split into the biggest smile he had ever had. He was giggling like a Hapan handmaid. Ben’s joy shone from every inch of his soul, overwhelming the still, small presence that still reached out toward his hand, until it was imperceptible.

His arms gently enveloped Rey’s lovely form as he continued to shake with glee. Ben showered every inch of her face and shoulders and neck with fluttering kisses.

“Oh my darling girl,” he kissed her cheek, “my beautiful Rey,” he pecked her forehead then look straight into her warm hazel gaze, “I have never been happier in my entire life.”

Over the next few months, the presence of the little soul grew, but as did Ben’s distractions.

“Love, you’ve been at it for hours, take a break.” Rey pleaded with her husband, though she knew it would be in vain.

Tools and parts were sprawled across the floor of the young couple’s spare room. Much to Rey’s annoyance, Ben had taken on the ridiculous, overly-complicated task of assembling the baby’s cot. Rey was now little more than four standard months along. Due to her athletic build, she hadn’t even started showing yet. And yet, her husband’s nesting instincts had already started running rampant.

“Ben, honey, we have at least 4 months until we even have to start worrying about the nursery.” Then again, it may take four months to figure out these assembly directions, Rey added bitterly to herself.

“It’s better to get it done now- in the later months we have to worry about birthing classes and decorating and names and parenting techniques...” His list drawled on.

“I could help you?” She suggested.

Ben immediately retorted, “No! You’re carrying precious cargo.” He sounded much too similar to Han in that moment. Rey rolled her eyes at his remark- perhaps reasoning was out of the question- but there was one thing that Rey knew would shut him up.

“We still haven’t told your mother.”

“Kriff.” Ben grumbled. How could he have forgotten to tell his mother? “She’s gonna kill me.” He exclaimed like a whiney adolescent.

Rey skillfully covered her chortles and knelt down beside her spouse. “Leia won’t kill you,” she placed a soft hand on his shoulder, “she’ll be overjoyed.”

Neither lover noticed the presence in that moment- the little hand that desperately wanted to mirror the woman to comfort the gentle man.

It wasn’t long before the presence reached out again.

Ben and Rey had invited his mother over for dinner just 2 standard days after the cot-incident. Luckily, (or unluckily, depending on how you look at it) the newly re-elected Senator was only one jump away from her son and daughter-in-law.

Ben was mortified. How was he supposed to elegantly serve his mother a plate of homemade meatlump, (he had no time to go to the market to get more elegant ingredients) then proceed to casually bring up that his wife was almost halfway through her pregnancy? Princess Leia Organa did not raise him to neglect sharing news such as this, and she certainly didn’t raise him to offer his guests such provincial meals as meatlump.

“Ben, you’re in a tizzy,” Rey began, “It’ll be fine!” Despite her reassurances, Ben continued to shrivel up like a leaf on Jakku.

At that moment, there was a gentle wrap at the door. Please preserve me through this agony, Ben pleaded with his Maker. Rey danced over to the door and clicked the lock open.

“My gorgeous daughter,” “General!” “You look well,” “Not nearly as well as yourself!” The two women tittered loudly in the hall. Ben hung back, awkward as ever, until he was summoned.

“Come here stranger!” His mother bellowed in her warm, raspy tone as she opened her arms for an embrace. Reluctantly, Ben obliged.

The next couple hours were a blur to Ben. His mind was consumed with plans of what he would say. In the blink of an eye, dessert was being served.

Ben... you’re running out of chances. Rey called out through their bond as Leia ranted about the reorganization of the Galactic Senate.

I know. He grumbled.

Do you want me to bring it up? Rey inquired.

I can handle it. Could he?

Back in the land of the living, Leia’s elaborate tale continued. “So I have to tell the Coruscanti representative, ‘This is the Senate floor, not a cantina and if you keep doing that...’” They never heard the end of the story.

“Mother.” Ben interrupted in a voice much louder and more robotic than he intended. His chagrin burned, but he continued. “I have a very important announcement to make.” Should he sound this monotone and rehearsed?

“She’s pregnant.” Leia quipped as she skewered her last bit of cake.

“Um... uh... how?” The couple sputtered in bemusement.

“Mother’s instinct?” Leia threw out. What the older woman failed to mention was that, in reality, she knew the instant the door opened that her little family had grown. When Leia greeted Rey, she knew she was greeting two. Leia didn’t try to explain to herself why she knew this, she just knew it. She knew there was a soul in the house who desperately wanted to meet her, a soul that wanted to meet their grandmother.

For years, Leia had supposed that when this day came that she would cry and laugh and exclaim, but she surprised herself. In her heart, Leia did not feel the need for chaotic celebrations. All Leia felt was contentment; contentment that the final puzzle piece to her less than peaceful life was preparing to be placed.

That evening, Leia’s heart hummed with peace because of the little soul. The little soul hummed in unison.

The days flew by like star-lines. Ben and Rey lived their life in milestones, months, and medical check-ups. The soul simply counted down the days.

Rey had now been pregnant for 6 standard months. In some ways these months seemed to fly by for Ben, (who knew it would take so long to assemble a cot?) and in other ways, they dragged on infinitely (fragile, attractive wives can be simply torturous to passionate men like Ben Solo).

Yet, these busy months were all worth it because of days like these. Today, they were going in to see the baby. Sort of.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to look Ben!” Rey nagged in her little proper accent as the couple took their seats in the waiting room. It took all of Ben’s self control not to roll his eyes. Even though she was being a drama-queen, Ben couldn’t help finding her every move endearing, even her anxious toe tapping.

He placed a large hand on his wife’s knee, “You’re annoying her,” Her being their child. Both he and Rey used this excuse frequently, in fact, Rey had used the same one this morning (“Stop eating all of the sweets Ben, you’re annoying the baby!”, she shouted at the crack of dawn).

Rey sniffed, “How do you know it’s a girl?”

“It was a premonition I suppose.” Ben mused.

Actually, he had no idea of the gender of their baby; Rey absolutely did not want to know the gender until the baby was born, which is why he was never allowed to look at the holo when the doctor checked on their baby. Ben had no idea why she wanted this, especially considering how practical his wife normally was. The only reasoning Ben could come up with was that Rey was hormonal, but he would never say that, for fear if looking like an absolute nerfherder.

“It could be a boy you know.” Rey suggested.

Ben shrugged, “It could be.”

The medical droids rushed the couple back into their own room. They quickly proceeded to help the now deeply pregnant Rey into a medical gown before the doctor arrived. The gown was a tent on her, but Ben couldn’t help admiring how his wife glowed.

Ben took his usual spot adjacent to the exam table, angled away from the holoprojector and towards his wife’s face, which was flushed with contagious excitement.

“Its loading…” the Twi’lek physician mumbled as she probed Rey’s round belly. There was a small mechanical ding. “Would you like to see your baby?” The doctor asked with a smile in her tone.

“No! We want to be surprised!” Rey announced.

“I could cover the sex…” the doctor suggested. Ben gave his wife a pleading look; as much as he wanted to find out his child’s gender, simply seeing the baby would be more than enough. As Rey formulated her answer, Ben’s eyes couldn’t help but wander towards the holo…

“No peeking!” Rey clapped her hand over Ben’s eyes. I guess I’ll have to wait then…

As the medical droid cleaned the imaging gel of Rey’s abdomen, Ben asked her, “Why do you not want to see the baby? Aren’t you just dying with anticipation?!” His tone was energetic and curious rather than frustrated. He wanted to understand her reasoning, and though Ben didn’t notice it, the soul chimed in with the same wordless question.

“I don’t want to have any preconceived notions about who are baby is before they even enter this world. At least let them be born before we start labeling them.” Rey explained rather vaguely.

What does that even mean? Ben asked himself.

The little soul was equally confused- I just want you to see me.

The number of days grew smaller on the little soul’s countdown. The soul could not wait another second to meet those kind people outside- the nice lady with the cozy tummy and the gentle man with the warm, rumbling voice. This was taking too long. The soul had to meet them now.

It was morning when he felt it this time. The warm nudging in the force. The comforting presence in his mind. The being that longed to greet him.

Ben stopped dead in his tracks when he sensed it. He’d felt this presence before… months ago… about eight and a half…

The young man gingerly set his mug of coffee on the kitchen counter. He shut off the sink. He closed the cabinet. Every action was deliberate and gentle, so as not to frighten the soul. The warm little being waited, patiently humming, and completely trusting the kind man it called for.

Ben’s gait was slow and long as he approached the beckoner. He barely lifted his feet, opting to slide along the floor in his socks.

Why did this presence feel so familiar? It was not just the one instance months ago, or even the one right now… it was omnipotent. Ben’s mind was alight as memories of the past few months floated into his consciousness. Instantly, connections began to form between the memories.

Ben was only now realizing the identity of this benevolent soul. All the moments where he was terrified and comfort encircled him- all the moments he felt a small chirp of excitement to match his own- all the moments where an anonymous voice joined him in his silent songs of praise. These were not isolated moments. Ben’s comfort through all these insane, beautiful, hectic, and life-changing months had come from one little sweet soul.

“It’s you.” Ben whispered.

The young father did not notice that his face was streaked with tears. Ben didn’t care that he was weeping, he simply stretched his hand towards the beckoner.

That same surge of energy Ben felt long ago, when Rey had just given him the best news of his life, buzzed through his whole being. It was undeniable.

“It’s you.” Ben murmured again, slightly more assured.

“What about me…?” Rey asked, but Ben’s mind was on a whole other plane of existence.

My child. Ben’s pride and unconditional love burned through the force. He didn’t know if the soul could understand, but he didn’t care.

But Ben’s doubts were squandered when the signature burned brighter. Ben almost felt as if his fingers would light up in a blaze, the energy was so potent: the energy of love.

The soul could say nothing, but it showed him every primal, pure emotion of its heart- the sadness of not being noticed, the pride of having such a good family, the joy of hearing mother and father’s voice, the excitement of being papa’s little girl.

“You’re my daughter…” Ben sighed aloud. There was no moment of surprise at finding out his baby was a girl- it just fit. It felt like destiny.

“Ben!” Rey exclaimed. In his quiet communion with their child, he had almost forgotten who the partition between them was. He glanced up into his love’s beautiful honey eyes that now burned with irritation. “I told you I wanted it to be a surprise!” Again, her lip quivered like a hurt porglet.

And again, Ben couldn’t help but melt into a puddle of laughter and mirth. As husband and wife embraced- their beautiful creation between them, joyful tears mixing- the force hummed in satisfaction. The road may be long still, but this new family was now embarking on the path to their true destiny. Together.

#reylo #reylo baby #reylo babies #reylo fic #reylo fanfic #reylo fanfiction #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #star wars #sw #sw fanfic #pregnancy tw #my post #my writing

242 notes · View notes

mimiplaysgames · 6 years

Text

Strength to Protect the Things That Matter (Ch. 19)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua (eventually) Rating: T Other characters: Noctis, Garnet, Hope, Riku, Rydia Word Count: 4,742

AO3 FF.net

A/N: An obligatory world-building chapter. Since I’m creating something a bit more original here, I have to define who all the key characters are going to be. It’s been such an arduous, long, and tedious process, but it’s so rewarding to get into at the same time. The draft that has become the Traverse Town subplot is nothing like the original. It’s the one area in my entire outline that has changed the most. For example, Riku was never meant to show up - Terra was originally supposed to do it all by himself. But these intense changes have all been for the better. If I was writing a publishable novel, I would care more about the pacing, but we gotta go, Terra. We gotta move. I did cut this chapter in unequal parts. I am trying to manage my word counts, but I really couldn’t stand to name either of these parts a different title. This entire chapter is really supposed to carry the title of “Hope.” I will try hard to release the plus-one and the next chapters next week so that I keep up with my weekly schedule and not do delays.

Hope, pt. 1

“I’ll show you to your room.” Noctis opens the window that hovers just above the fire escape and ducks into it. He helps Garnet do the same, who has to hoist herself up, and they start down the top floor.

Terra is the last to go through. “I guess taking the stairs isn’t your M.O.?”

“Unless I want to be interrupted every ten seconds by someone who needs my attention,” Noctis says nonchalantly as he waves his arm in a dismissive way. “A guy needs a break every now and then.”

Garnet daintily brings a hand to her chin. “Break,” she mumbles. If Terra doesn’t know any better, he supposes that she is trying to understand what the word means. Noctis looks down at her, smiling and shaking his head.

He stops at a door and opens it, allowing Terra to walk through first. The walls are painted a deep, dark blue. The duvet on the bed depicts a pattern of waves, varying in teal shades, with white sheets. There are dark green lamps that are placed on the bedside table, the dresser, and the vanity. On the wall opposite the bed is a painting of dolphins. just under the surface of the ocean under a bright sky. The room is large enough to have its own lounge space, where the loveseats bear the same colors as the duvet, with a smaller round table and chairs. Along with a sizeable closet, there is a mini-fridge all to himself.

It’s larger than his room back in the academy. Some may consider the castle luxurious, but it’s home. This place though...

“We hope you find it hospitable,” he hears Garnet say to him as he ventures towards the window, donned in white curtains. It overlooks the second district, where people are hurriedly going in and out of stores. He can clearly see the clock tower from where he stands.

He turns to her, letting out a nervous chuckle. “You’re spoiling me.”

“This floor is reserved only for Keyblade wielders.” Noctis shrugs his concerns aside. “Better get used to it. You’re free to do whatever you want, although we want you ready by nine tonight.”

Terra takes one more glance at the clock tower. It’s past six. “Well, I guess I’ll just kill time and investigate. I wanted to start with the clock tower.”

“The clock tower?” While Noctis usually maintains a casual manner of speaking, he gets more assertive - although he sounds a bit unnatural doing so. “It’s off limits. We’ve sealed all the entrances to it.”

Terra attempts to maintain his breathing, and makes sure his voice isn’t shaky. “Can I ask why?”

“We can’t have anyone messing with it. Kefka is... punctual.” Noctis crosses his arms, and there is an obvious contempt in the tone of his voice when addressing Kefka. “We need it to run properly. Besides, there are always a bunch of Heartless in there. Their numbers never stop.”

Garnet drapes her arm across her stomach, holding her side as though she is also trying to keep it together.

Terra’s heart takes a jump. Noctis continues on about how it’s safer for everyone if no one enters the clock tower, but his mind wanders into all the possibilities of what he will find if he searches it. If there are hordes of Heartless swarming in there, then surely that must mean his dream is correct.

“You’re the boss,” Terra says, keeping up appearances of respectful obedience. “Forget I asked. Cloud did say the two of you were trustworthy.”

Noctis lets out a transparent, sarcastic scoff. “Mr. Soldier actually said that about me? I never would have guessed. I’m going to give him a hard time the next time I see him around.” He rubs his eyes with two of his fingers, and Garnet gently holds her hand to her mouth and laughs.

“Anyway,” he continues, “break’s over. I’ve got people waiting on me.” He pats Terra on the bicep. “Make yourself at home.” He then leaves the hotel room, although Garnet doesn’t initially follow him.

“Cloud was distant at first, but he has been an irreplaceable ally to us,” she says. “It does surprise me that he holds Noctis with such high esteem... considering how often they’ve disagreed with each other.” She folds her hands into a prayer stance. She’s so much shorter than Terra that she has to crane her neck in order to look up at him. “Leon and Lightning have always supported every need we’ve asked of them, and we’re so grateful you’ve come.”

“You ever met them?” Terra asks.

She shakes her head. “Not yet, anyway. Please, allow yourself to be comfortable.” She gently squeezes his forearm and then exits the hotel room.

The only sounds he hears are the chatter of the shoppers down at the street below. He goes back to the window and stares at the tower. He can always break in by himself, but it’s not worth destroying their trust right away. And it’s just an idea, nothing to get desperate over.

But what is the point of doing nothing right now? Terra decides he is hungry, instead of calling it boredom, and leaves his room, venturing downstairs. He arrives at the second floor which features several ballrooms and conference rooms. They look to be about the appropriate size to host events such as weddings and small lounge concerts, although now they all serve the purposes of storing supplies and weapons. Some are sectioned off as wards for patients with injuries and illnesses. People speed down the hallway and bump into him, and they scurry off with barely an apology.

He stops himself, standing in the middle of a hallway. I don’t actually know if the dream means anything. I don’t know that I can find her here, or if the clock tower holds any special purpose.

He continues through a large lounge room that houses several tables, all of which are topped with boxes. He stops again, closes his eyes, and holds his hand to his chin. But I can’t ignore what I’m feeling. I’m actually excited. It feels like I’m getting close to discovering something huge... I’ll ask Riku about it when he gets here.

He steps forward and hits something. There is a loud clang and he grips his thigh because the pain is sharp and massive. When he comes to, he notices that he walked into a proud, standing piano. “These things are the bane of my existence.” He doesn’t know why he said that out loud. It’s not like he has any desire to talk to Xehanort.

The pain on his leg fades away slowly, but what doesn’t leave is a desire to play. He gently touches the keys. It’s not that he doesn’t like music - he considers the guitar really interesting. And yet, he admits the piano creates a beautiful sound. To think that a conniving monster like Xehanort can create beauty that others would enjoy almost makes him ill.

On top of the piano are a few notebooks that include sheet music. Terra cannot hear the music in his head when he reads them, but he knows which musical notes the written bars refer to. He picks a random song that doesn’t seem too difficult to follow. I wonder if this is something I can take from him. I can summon his Keyblade after all... maybe I can access other information as well.

He sits on the bench, and prepares his hands on the keyboard. Aqua really loves music. Maybe playing for her would make her happy.

He hits a random set of keys towards the middle of the piano slowly, to get a feel for them. Making sure his fingers are strumming the right ones according to the sheet music is the hardest part. He glances back and forth between the paper and the keys. Accessing the same information Xehanort has doesn’t come with any of the perks of imitating his skill immediately, and it’s a wonder how the monster has learned to play so well.

Terra compares the keys on the piano and the sheet music enough to start to memorize which ones should be played in which order. He plays the higher notes - slowly at first, until he can follow the melody faster and faster. Then the left hand strikes the bass notes on the furthest left, and it’s like starting all over.

It’s surprising just how much coordination is necessary to do it, and it sounds so bad that no one will want to hear the catastrophe he is making. Except for a a fluffy, white cat, who stands on her hind legs and meows at him. She jumps onto one of his thighs and purrs as she makes herself comfortable. Three kittens also attempt to jump onto the bench, and Terra can’t help but to pick up the little white one (so damn cute), which has a pink bow tied into her fur. She’s smaller than the size of his hand, her meow a tiny squeak.

“Are you learning to play the piano?” Terra looks up to see a young boy with stark white hair and green, wide eyes. He wears an orange frock and a blue scarf, and has a gas mask strapped on top of his head. The boy is holding one of the books on potion-making that Tifa was reading - one of the things that Terra delivered. “You’re Terra, right?” he asks with a tone that tells Terra it’s full of awe. “I’m Hope, it’s nice to meet you.”

Hope leans over to read the sheet music with a bit of eagerness, and notices the cats. “I see that Duchess has taken a liking to you,” he says, pointing to the mother who is sprawled out on Terra’s lap. “They make the best companions when you’re practicing.”

He grips the book tighter, as if he’s lowly in the presence of a Keyblade wielder, and Terra makes some space so that he can sit. Hope takes a moment before saying anything, and points at the sheet music with his finger. “This is a good song to practice with,” he says. “It’s a very simple melody without any serious chords.” His voice shakes with nervousness.

“I’ll appreciate any lesson you can give me.” Something about the thought of taking lessons feels exhilarating. He tells himself that he’s feeling his own emotions, and that it’s a decision that is his and his alone. But what demands his attention more is the gas mask, since it’s ill-fitting for a boy. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen.” Hope’s voice is polite. A bit uncertain of himself, perhaps, but that’s understandable. He’s younger than Ventus.

At this point, the black kitten is climbing on one of Terra’s legs. Hope groans a Toulouse... why? as the orange one climbs up his back. He grabs the kitten, places him on top of the piano, and plays some of the same keys that Terra was practicing with ease. Hope talks about the song as he teaches Terra how to play it. It is apparently written by a woman who dreamed of releasing all the horses in her ranch and running off with them. The white stallion who leads the group apparently jumps off a cliff and flies away into some vision of paradise, leaving the other horses and the woman behind to fend for themselves. The song has such a dreamlike quality, and it focuses so much on the higher notes that it sounds like it can teach an animal to float.

“I guess we all want to have a better life,” Hope says in reflection as Terra plays the lower notes with more confidence. Toulouse walks around the keyboard, sometimes smacking a key with his paw, adding a shrill annoyance that sometimes stops Terra’s ability to play.

The statement strikes Terra a little odd, and he wonders why Hope is in the hotel in the first place. “What do you do around here, Hope?”

The clock tower strikes seven, and he can feel the tension in every muscle in Hope’s body. He sees the boy take a swallow as they wait out the chimes.

When it’s over, Hope swallows again before saying, “I make potions and fix random trinkets, actually. Were you given a tour of this place?”

He grabs his book of potion-making from the top of the piano and walks down the same direction that Terra originally headed. All of the cats follow.

“The room by Cid’s computer on the first floor,” Hope begins, “usually serves as a place for Keyblade wielders and the upper staffmen to hold meetings. Noct likes to sleep there a lot.”

It’s normal to see every room in the hotel brightly lit, but they pass by one ballroom that is dim, illuminated only by candles. “What about this room?” Terra asks.

Hope stops, and cradles the book. He stands with particular distance away from the entrance to that room, and doesn’t bother to peek inside it or show Terra the way. “You can call that,” he says slowly, “something like our own room of remembrance.”

Terra gives a half-smile, on some level in an attempt to make it less awkward. “What does that mean?”

Hope points with two fingers ahead of him, in Terra’s direction. “On that far wall is our memorial.” The word has a weight to it. Hope then points with his thumb in the direction behind him. “This wall is where we put up prayers for return.” He chuckles a bit. “I don’t think Sora was supposed to say anything, but apparently anyone who has turned into a Heartless has a chance to come back. So we pass on our wishes to them.”

Terra gestures to the room as a way to ask permission to enter, and Hope lets him know that he will wait for him outside. It’s a smaller ballroom, and the opposite walls are absolutely littered in photos, with long desks in front of them donning flowers, letters, and lit candles. Terra at first stands in front of the wall that features people who have turned into Heartless. Some of them are portraits, others are group photos. It’s hard to count them all, and Terra stops at sixty.

One of them features Noctis with three other men - all of them dressed completely in black as though they are part of a club. They have smiles in the photo, and are standing in front of a field like they have been camping. He wonders if they went to sleep all at once, or if Kefka picked them off one by one.

There is a photo of Garnet with a man slightly taller than her, dressed in a full suit of armor. Being taller than her doesn’t mean much, and he is severe in the photo, contrasting with her warm smile.

It’s not a wonder why these people are called missing - it’s easier to accept the reality that way, considering that perhaps some of them have attacked their loved ones later on.

On the opposite wall is the memorial. The amount of photos here is twice as numerous. Terra has noticed that Heartless in particular aren’t deadly, but if Kefka is growing to be something of a legendary darkness, then yes - it will get fatal.

He spots Hope in one of the photos, with two adults. His parents maybe. So he’s alone.

He finds Hope standing in the same spot in the hallway. The boy forces a smile and leads him to a small storeroom, like a walk-in closet. There are shelves which are mostly empty except for a number of potions. Open books are sprawled out on a desk opposite the shelves, along with elaborate chemistry sets. It makes sense, since Hope sounds like he is book smart.

By the desk is a large container filled with mechanical toys and other objects. Terra eyes a tiny box that is decorated in vine-like mesh and dons navy blue gems. A music box.

“Welcome to my workroom. I spend all of my time in here,” Hope says with a tense chuckle. He sits at his desk, and Terra notices the two rare potions that Xehanort made along with his notes.

“Are you attempting to re-create those?” Terra points to the potions with his free hand, the other holding the music box.

Hope takes another hard swallow. “We kind of need them to keep people calm during the...” He fumbles through the notes. “I can read these pretty well. If there is something I don’t understand, I can learn it.” He holds up the new book amidst all the others.

It’s the idea that Hope is teaching himself how to work like Xehanort that impresses Terra the most. He’s nothing like Ven at all.

Cid walks by the room directing a cart on wheels, asking the kiddo specifically if there is anything to take to Lulu’s. Hope points to the container, and Terra places the music box back as Cid picks it up and wanders off.

“Anyway,” Hope says, “I really should be getting back to work. We’ve been very low on potions and you saved us.” He pulls the gas mask in front of his face and places his focus right into one of the chemistry sets. The mask muffles his voice enough that it hides how shaky it sounds. ”But no harm in making some more.”

Hope then faces Terra quickly, and without removing the gas mask, extends his hand. “It’s been such an honor meeting you, Terra. I think Keyblade wielders are amazing.”

It doesn’t feel so amazing since there doesn’t seem to be enough of them to help everyone in need. He grips Hope’s hand firmly, hoping that the shake gives the boy a sincere message which says how appreciated his admiration is. Hope then suggests that Terra should get a sandwich from the cart outside if he’s hungry. It seems wrong to leave the boy alone, but Hope assures him the cats are always there for him. So Terra, albeit reluctantly, exits the hotel.

The sun is setting further, and slowly people are leaving the streets. Lights, both on the streets and from homes, are being turned on, and this is where Traverse Town begins to look spectacular. There is a vibrancy to the town that simply doesn’t exist in the sunlight otherwise.

He hears Riku’s name being spoken, and he sees Garnet reaching her hands out - he has just arrived, and Garnet welcomes him in such a way that speaks volumes about how much she values life and reunions in general. She acts as though he’s been gone for such a long while, despite that he was there two nights ago. He can hear them talk about Sora, and she eyes Terra from afar. Maybe she is being told that Terra is the replacement for tonight.

“You’ve been briefed about what’s going on?” Riku asks Terra as they meet.

“A bit. I know Kefka is very ritualistic.” He pauses for a moment, and continues with a question to ask the both of them. “What exactly does it want? Who does it target?”

“It is attracted to magic,” Garnet says with a gentle nod. She says it with a seriousness, but she keeps a pleasantness to her demeanor. “Of course, strictly speaking, it wants mages. We believe it targets Noctis the most often.”

“Why him?”

“From my understanding, his magic is passed down to him from his lineage. It’s incredibly old and powerful, and it’s quite unique. I’m sure you’ll notice that Kefka will follow him.” Garnet begins to walk down the pathway in front of the hotel, leading them to a certain destination.

“But how do you know it targets him?” Terra asks from behind her.

“It always appears where he is. Thus, he’s never alone as a result. He and I arrived together on the same ferry, actually.” Her voice gets a little quiet for a while, but she retains her regency. “Our worlds fell on the same day, and we were collected by Balthier and Fran, who travel to falling worlds to save people. He had friends with him, who were all very lovely people. They’ve comforted me in ways that my own guardian failed to do.”

It’s where she talks about the worlds falling that her voice maintains a sense of sadness that he hasn’t heard from her before. What would it have felt like, to witness the destruction of her world, knowing exactly how it will all end?

“When we arrived here,” she continues, “there was one Heartless that started to transform. It used to be what you called a Darkball - something very simple and easy to vanquish.” She turns to Riku as she says this, as if to confirm her knowledge. “It turned into a clown’s head that day.”

Riku scoffs. “I’ll never forget that. It evaded so well that was impossible to hit.”

“Now it’s impossible not to miss it. I suppose that old adage of ‘be careful what you wish for‘ applies to our situation,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“It’s insanely aggressive, and very reactionary,” Riku says with an eye roll. He wears his contempt for it as obviously as Noctis does. “It’s almost like it gets annoyed when it’s hit and seeks revenge for it.”

Riku doesn’t continue with whatever he is going to say next because they arrive at Garnet’s destination. A small food cart, manned by a young woman with bright green hair. She wears a ceremonial headdress on her head, and her green mini-dress has long empire sleeves that grace the ground. By all senses of the word, she looks like an enchantress. A radio is on the cart, playing joyful music that is performed by an accordion.

“Terra, this is Rydia,” Garnet holds her hand up as if to present the woman before her. “She’s our most powerful magic caster.”

Rydia waves meekly at Terra, as if embarrassed by such an introduction. “Not so powerful that I can create munny for myself. What is truly magical,” she says as she shows off the radio, “is how I can use this little... thing, and hear music.”

Terra lets himself go in laughter to be polite. She must be from a world that doesn’t have any technology.

“If the three of you are here,” Rydia continues as she points to everyone, “that must mean at least one of you is hungry. What will it be?”

Garnet asks for a few steak sandwiches, and pays.

Terra hasn’t eaten ham for a while, but Rydia refuses to give it to him when he shows her munny.

“Keyblade wielders don’t pay,” she says, and only reaches out with the food when he puts his munny away.

The clock strikes eight. She pulls the sandwich back close to her, as if shocked by the sound. She struggles to maintain a smile as it continues to ring, everyone else silent as they wait it out. The more it rings, the slower it seems.

When it’s over, she finally hands Terra the food. “I guess that means you’re my last customers tonight,” she says quietly.

She then smiles widely at Riku. “I saved you your favorite.” She holds one of her sleeves away from the cart as she takes a meatball sandwich and hands it to him. “Last one.” Her voice is kind and subtly flirtatious, but it doesn’t seem like Riku notices.

Garnet has her four sandwiches stacked in between her hands, and calls Terra’s name softly. “I ask that you do not speak to Noctis of Kefka,” she says. “It’s not easy on him.“

Rydia closes down her cart, and flashes a concerned look in her face. “I know how easy it is to feel so alone when no one from your world is with you anymore.” Her voice is incredibly sensitive and gentle. “But he still has us. We need each other.” It almost sounds as though she feels rejected, as though she isn’t a good enough friend.

“I can’t believe Noctis sees us as strangers,” Garnet says reassuringly.

“None of us see him that way, so he better not,” Rydia mutters as she drags the cart behind her.

“I beg of you, Rydia,” Garnet says in a way that speaks amusement, “give Noctis a break.” She pronounces every letter in the last word, like it’s an anomaly that she’s completely unfamiliar with. Riku gives a short scoff, mumbling about how ridiculous she sounds.

Rydia leaves with Garnet, the both of them involved in their own conversation - but not without the enchantress waving a good-bye for now. The two Keyblade wielders are on their own with their sandwiches, of which Riku is plowing through.

”She seems pretty cool,” Terra says, expecting his friend to get annoyed by any sort of implications he’s trying to pass along.

Riku waits until he swallows his food before speaking. “She’s incredibly powerful, it’s true. She saved me and Sora multiple times.”

“So she’s pretty invaluable.” Terra tries to suppress a devious grin.

“I think I’d be in pretty big trouble without her, yeah.”

Terra fails to suppress a laugh, which the other Keyblade bearer doesn’t appreciate.

“I know what you’re getting at,” Riku says. “I’m really no good at that kind of stuff. I mean, she’s great and all-”

Terra chuckles just a little more, and Riku rolls his eyes.

“Nevermind,” the teenager says. “You know Garnet is also powerful. She can actually cast protection spells on other people.”

This is interesting information, considering that things like protection and reflection are incredibly difficult to pull off on oneself. But Terra can’t let this slide by, it’s too much fun making Riku squirm. “Are you trying to prove some sort of point?”

“I can compliment someone’s extraordinary fighting ability without it meaning anything.” Riku waves his arm once, and only once. “Be grateful I don’t pick on you over Aqua.”

“Speaking of,” Terra says as his heart jumps, “I think I can reach her from this world.”

Riku stops eating his sandwich, and gives Terra a severe look. “Why would you think that? A vision?”

“No, actually.” Terra chuckles a bit too enthusiastically. “I had a dream of this clock tower. I heard its bells. It sounds a bit crazy, but I know I can find her here.”

“So this world is going to fall,” Riku says with a low voice, and Terra’s stomach sinks. It’s not like he forgot what it meant to reach Aqua. But still, what is wrong with me?

Riku brushes through his hair, shaking his head. “Sora’s going to hate hearing this.” He groans, still unable to touch his sandwich. “You know, this world is a refuge. Almost everyone here is from somewhere else. When a world falls, those who are touched by light or who are close to it will be sent here. But it’s rare. There is a ship that travels around and brings people so more can survive.” He groans louder with disgust. “These people have been through enough.”

Terra doesn’t answer right away. It’s a handful of feelings. On the one hand, shame with himself over his blatant, and rather foreign, disregard for others. On the other, guilt over the thought that he will have to make Aqua wait again. I can’t accept any of this.

“Well, I wanted to search the clock tower. Maybe there is something there that can help these people,” Terra says. It almost sounds unnatural, that dealing with the Realm of Darkness would help anybody.

Riku takes a glance into Terra’s eyes before looking away. His face is unreadable. “There is one entrance that hasn’t been sealed, actually. At the top of the tower. If we find evidence that this world is falling, we need to correct it.”

The teenager finishes his sandwich and walks away, saying that he needs to find a bolt cutter. Yes, they need to correct it. Yes, they need to save these people.

But this is an apology he can’t give Aqua. This is something that Xehanort would mock him over. He has a calling to help others, duties that he must follow if he is ever going to continue a dream of being a Keyblade Master. He has someone he’s dying to save waiting for him, and suffering every moment that he doesn’t take to get to her.

Does the answer have to be so black and white? He bites into his own sandwich, sending off a silent prayer of his own. I don’t think I have the time to pass this up. I’ll find you anyway.

This chapter makes references to The Aristocats (1970). The melody played on the piano I imagined to be similar to Tori Amos’ “Horses.” The song on the radio I imagined to sound like DeVotchka’s “Charlotte Mittnacht (The Fabulous Destiny Of...)”

#terraqua #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #terqua #terra #riku #noctis lucis caelum #garnet til alexandros #hope estheim #rydia of mist #world building #my fic

23 notes · View notes