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m-jelly · 2 years

Note

Hi Jelly, what do you think about single dad Levi?

Imagine modern or future AU where Reader meets Levi who had adopted Gabi, (and maybe Erwin adopted Falco! I'm thinking something happened and Levi and Erwin didn't want the kids to have a rough life and took them in.) Reader maybe runs a tea shop where both daddies take the kids to, she bonds with the kids over time and Levi finds it adorable and falls for her. Or they could meet some other way.

And in the mean time Falco having a cute lil crush on Gabi. 🥰 I feel like this would be such a cute story. 💕

This is so FUCKING adorable. I love Levi as a dad and have written him like that on here and on Ao3 because it's so nom nom nom. Anyway, the idea is maybe they were up for adoption, but Erwin could only adopt one due to his house size and I can imagine the adoption place might be like "Ya'll can only have one, we do one child per home" bullshit. Let's get cute.

A teashop makes a family

Pairing: Levi x Reader

Genre and tags: falling in love, dad Levi, adoption, dad Erwin, kid Gabi, kid Falco, fluff, future fic, teashop, friends to lovers, cuteness.

Concept: Levi and Erwin both adopted five-year-old Gabi and Falco. Levi took Gabi and Erwin took Falco. On a trip to a teashop with the kids, Levi meets you. Gabi and Falco love you right away and love playing with you. Soon it becomes a regular thing for them to visit you in your shop and the more they do, the more Levi falls for you hard.

Levi held Gabi's little hand as she pulled him along. "You're excited, huh?"

Gabi nodded. "Yes. Tea party with Falco!"

Levi picked her up and put her under his arm making her laugh. "Well, you have to calm down. We're near a busy sky road."

Gabi kicked her legs as she giggled. "But dad."

"You're a little troublemaker." He came to a stop when he saw Erwin walking over with Falco on his shoulders. "Afternoon."

Erwin smiled. "Hey, Levi. Oh, and hello to you Gabi."

Gabi lifted her head and grinned. "Hi!"

Levi sighed. "We ready for this tea date?"

Erwin nodded and smiled. "Hange recommended the place." Erwin walked to the front door, then bent down and opened the door so Falco was safe. He stood up and looked around. "Wow, it's space-themed."

Levi looked up at the galaxy on the ceiling. "It's beautiful." He lifted Gabi up. "Look."

Gabi gasped. "Pretty."

You grabbed your tablet and ran over to Levi and Erwin. "Hi! Welcome to space tea. You a couple?"

Levi blushed. "What? We're not together. I'm single."

You stared at Levi, then giggled. "I meant are you two sharing a table?"

Erwin snorted a laugh. "Yeah, we are. We thought our kids should get to know each other and we were recommended this place by Hange."

You gasped. "Oh! You're friends with Hange? She told me about the two handsome single dads coming in to see me." You laughed. "I love that woman. Come on, I'll get you a nice seat. I have the galaxy room available." You led them to a backroom with stars and a moving galaxy on the walls, ceiling and floor. "Your kids can trace the stars on the floor and walls, then a little thing will pop up to tell them information about the stars ad constellations."

Erwin put Falco down. "This is incredible."

You blushed. "Ah, thank you." You gasped. "Oh, these two seats and space table are for you two, but this cool rocket seat on the floor here is for you two cool kids." You knelt on the floor and touched the planet table. "You can play and learn all things about space together."

Levi put Gabi down. "Go see."

Gabi ran over and looked. "Cool!"

Falco peered at the table. "Pretty."

You hummed a laugh. "Watch this." You tapped the rocket image. "Press this and then you two can fly rockets through space."

Gabi jumped up and down. "I love it!"

"I'll leave two to play while I chat with your dads." You got up and dusted your dress off, then walked over to the table. "So, what can I get you both?"

Erwin tapped on the table and brought up a menu. "This is wonderful. You've made a wonderful fun place."

"Thanks." You blushed a little. "I just love tea and space, so why not teach people about space as they relax with a cup of tea?"

Levi cleared his throat. "Is your space parfait made by you?"

You nodded and smiled with pride. "Sure is. I make it fresh."

"Four of them please and a pot of tea for me and my friend."

You nodded and wrote it down. "Sure. You want space juice for the kids?" You laughed at Levi's confused look. "It's a nice combination of good fruit, and some veg they can't even taste, with a nice space look to them served in a rocket glass."

Erwin sighed. "I kind of want that."

You giggled. "I'll make it three space juices and a nice pot of tea for one."

Levi shuffled in his seat. "Levi." He blushed when you looked at him. "Names Levi."

You gave your name. "Nice to meet you."

Erwin smiled. "Erwin, two kids are Falco and Gabi."

"What a delight to meet you all." You hugged your tablet. "I'll be right back with your orders."

Gabi looked at Levi to see he was staring and watching you. "Daddy? Do you like that lady?"

Erwin laughed. "Yeah Levi, do you like her?"

Levi blushed and stopped watching you. "You know what happens to little kids who tease their parents, right?"

Gabi shook her head. "No."

"Their noses fall off."

Gabi frowned. "Your silly daddy, that's not true."

He hummed. "Wanna find out if it is?"

Erwin sighed. "It's not true Gabi. Your dad is being grumpy."

Falco tugged on Gabi's dress. "Come play with me."

Gabi sat back down with Falco. "Okay."

Falco blushed. "Your hair is pretty."

"Thank you! My daddy put it up in bunches."

Falco smiled. "It's really pretty."

You walked back with the food and drink. "Here we are, my little space cadets!"

Falco grinned. "Thank you!"

Gabi jumped up and down, then gasped at the space-themed parfait. "You're a wizard!"

You hummed a laugh. "A space wizard." You winked at her making her eyes sparkle in delight. You walked over to Levi and Erwin, then placed the tray down. "Here you go, gentlemen. Please enjoy."

Falco grabbed your dress before you could leave. "Can you play with us?"

You knelt down and smiled. "I'd be delighted." You pulled up a drawing app. "How about we draw some aliens together?"

Levi watched you with Falco and Gabi as his heart fluttered in his chest. He saw how good you were with them both, how they were both very engaged with you and you had them laughing when you made up silly stories and voices. Levi thought you were wonderful. You not only were good with them, but you were interactive with Levi and Erwin as well. It felt like you were part of the family.

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Levi and Erwin had been coming back to the teashop over two months and formed a strong bond with you. Every time they went, Falco and Gabi would hunt you down and tackle your legs and hug them tightly. You'd have the same room for them ready and waiting. You'd even have all the food they liked ready and prepped. You just became a big part of their lives and a massive part of Levi's.

Levi decided to go to your teashop with Gabi and not meet Erwin there. He wanted to go to spend time with you and Gabi, like a family. He dressed nicely and made sure he looked presentable. He even put on some cologne that he thought you might like.

Gabi looked up at Levi and smiled. "You look nice, daddy."

Levi smiled at her. "Thanks. Come on, let's see the nice lady." He walked inside the teashop and saw you walking over to a table and serving two happy ladies. Levi smiled a little and said your name when you walked back. "Hi."

You jumped a little. "Levi and Gabi! Hi! What a surprise this is. You don't normally come on this day."

Gabi ran over to you and opened her arms. "Hug!"

You picked her up and put her on your hip, then you hugged her. "Mm! I love my Gabi hugs." You hummed a laugh. "How's it going with your little boyfriend Falco?"

Gabi giggled. "He's nice."

Levi sighed. "They're not dating. I won't allow her to date any guy."

You gasped, then whispered. "Daddy has spoken, the mean grump."

"I'm not that grumpy."

You hummed a laugh. "You're not. So, you two having a nice day out together?"

"We thought we'd come say hello."

Gabi stared at Levi, then looked at you. "My daddy wants to take you on a date."

You blushed. "Oh, really?"

Levi cleared his throat as he blushed hard. "I umm, was wondering if you wanted to." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, if you're not busy. I mean I know I'm not the best looking guy."

You and Gabi exchanged a look, then you giggled with her. "I'd love to Levi. Let me just take my apron off and we'll go." You put Kuchel down. "I know a nice park where Gabi can play and there's good snacks."

"Great!"

Gabi sighed as she watched you go into the staff room, then she looked up at Levi. "You did good, daddy."

Levi groaned as his shoulders dropped. "I'm still a little scared. We'll turn this into a great date, won't we?"

Gabi nodded. "We will!"

You walked back with your bag and a spring in your step. "Okay, I'm ready."

Gabi held your hand, then Levi's so she was in the middle. "Let's go!"

You hummed a laugh and walked with the two of them as you exchanged small talk with Levi. You led them to the park, then let Gabi go so she could play. "You're a wonderful dad. Adopting is such a wonderful thing."

Levi blushed. "If Erwin and I didn't grab those two, then they would have had a horrible life. I didn't know if I could be a dad and picking her up when she was three was scary, but she's five now and calls me dad and I love being a father."

"You do it well."

Levi laughed a little and looked over at you. "Thanks."

You reached over and held his hand. "So, what took you so long asking me on a date?"

"I was shit scared."

You pulled him along to a bench where you could both see Gabi. "Well." You sat with him. "I'm not that scary."

He sighed. "I'm the scary one. I didn't think someone like you would like a guy like me."

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "But I do."

Levi smiled at you, then lightly kissed you. "Good, because I really like you."

You smiled. "Well then, you better ask me on another date."

"How about tomorrow night? Gabi and Falco can have a playdate and we can have another date."

"Perfect."

Gabi ran over and offered you a flower. "For you."

You gasped, then took it. "Aww, thank you sweetheart. What's this for?"

She grinned. "For being my new mummy!"

Levi blushed. "She's not your new mummy. We're going on a few dates first and seeing how it goes."

Gabi sighed. "But you're in love with her daddy and she likes you! Adults are stupid." She smiled at you. "I want you as my mummy."

You hummed a laugh and played with her hair. "I would like that."

Levi lit up. "Really?"

You nodded shyly. "Yeah, I would."

#aot levi #levi #fanfic #levi x y/n #levi ackerman #levi x you #aot fanfiction #levi fanfiction #snk levi #aot x you #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman fluff

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kaistarus · 3 years

Text

Drunken Christmas Party Confessions

Pairing: Nishinoya X Reader

Words: 2.2K

Summary: Nishinoya and Tanaka are throwing a Christmas party and maybe he’s had too much ‘hot chocolate’, but you’re really working that ugly sweater.

Notes: This is a college au, so that’s why they have dranks. Thanksgiving is over and it snowed where I live which means it’s officially Christmas. Which means it’s time to write too many Christmas/Winter themed fics. I don’t make the rules lol

Masterlist

Nishinoya wasn’t the brightest crayon in the Crayola 64 box sharpener included, but he knew three things for damn sure. When given the option you should never let Shoyo DJ a Christmas party, buying Christmas trees from Amazon is only a good idea if you pay attention to the size chart, and you looked really good in an ugly sweater.

Nishinoya swayed back and forth to the tenth rendition of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’-apparently the only song Shoyo had on his Christmas playlist-while shamelessly watching you with hooded eyes. You looked so pretty in the ugly reindeer sweater that you’d stolen from his closet ten minutes before this party started. He could practically hear your laugh from across the house as you sling an arm over your stomach, gripping onto Yachi’s shoulder for stability.

He pursed his lips. Yachi’s joke probably wasn’t even that good. Nishinoya was a million times funnier than her for sure.

“Bro, are you even listening?”

“Hah?” Nishinoya rolled his head toward Tanaka who had apparently been talking to him.

How long had he been there?

“I said I think I’m finally going to make a move on Kiyoko,” Tanaka said with a lopsided grin, gazing over Nishinoya’s shoulder where Kiyoko probably was. Nishinoya wrinkled his nose and took a sip of the spiked hot chocolate from his classy red solo cup.

Tanaka must be drunker than he was if he thought this was the first time he was making a move on Kiyoko.

“That sounds super awesome dude.” Nishinoya tuned out Tanaka again, his eyes trailing back to where you were leaning on the false-granite countertop, smiling so wide the corners of your eyes crinkled.

You were so cute. Did you know you were the cutest person to ever exist ever?

“Do you think that’s a good plan?”

“Uh-huh, yeah. For sure.” The corners of Nishinoya’s mouth quirked up when you waved your hands around, your face expressive and your lips moving quickly as you told Yachi a story of some kind. He loved how passionate you got over the littlest things.

“Dude, you’re definitely not listening,” Tanaka was close to Nishinoya’s ear now and if he had his usual reflexes he probably would’ve jumped. “What are you staring at?”

The coolest person in the whole world.

Whoa, he should definitely tell you how awesome you are. You would be so wooed at how profound and suave he was.

Without a word he exited the one-sided conversation with Tanaka, ignoring the offended gasp, and made a wobbly bee-line for the kitchen. He handed off his hot chocolate somewhere along the way to some random party-goer. He was a man on a mission and hadn’t bothered paying attention to who had been the victim.

“....guchi said he tried to pretend it was his brother’s.” Yachi was having a hard time getting through the sentence without laughing, Nishinoya observed once you both were in earshot.

“Why would it be in his closet if it was his brother’s!?” You snorted with another belly aching laugh that made his heart skip.

“That’s what I said!”

“Hello ladies,” Nishinoya slid up against the counter opposite you and Yachi and definitely didn’t miss the ledge with his elbow his first try. That would have been embarrassing.

Yachi’s hand covered her mouth and her body shook lightly. How dare she laugh at his epic moves.

“Hello Noya,” you smiled at him in the way that made his heart feel all funny. Like, when he made a really good receive that made adrenaline course through his veins except he was also wrapped in fluffy blankets on a cotton candy cloud.

He gave you a finger gun and closed one eye in an attempted wink, “I thought this was an ugly sweater party. Not an… uh…” He squinted at the tray of desserts behind you. “Good looking sweater party?”

You blinked at him, not saying a word due to what he assumed was how stunningly swept-off-your-feet you were while Yachi glanced between the both of you adorning a sly smile.

“I’m going to go,” Yachi pointed toward the living room where Nishinoya and Tanaka had placed their pathetic miniature plastic tree. “Talk to you guys later.” She winked at you when she left and Nishinoya felt like he should analyze that one, but he was not up for critical thinking.

“So,” you gave him a once-over which made him smile dopily back at you. “You look like you’ve had a good night.”

“I cannot remember the alphabet.” Nishinoya said confidently, giving you two thumbs up. Another rendition of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ began playing and Nishinoya whipped his head toward the living room where Shoyo was standing conspicuously near the speaker. “Shoyo, I swear to god!”

“It’s a Christmas classic!” He shouted back, getting in a defensive stance in front of the speaker. “I’ll play it as many times as I want.”

“Not in my house you son of a-” Nishinoya began climbing over the counter for the quickest route to fight the orange-haired punk when you reached out and grabbed his wrist. He looked down at your amused smile with wide eyes.

“Let’s go outside.”

“But it’s snowing,” Nishinoya pointed out the obvious before his slow to process brain realized he’d be alone with you. He nearly fell on his face hopping off the counter. “Outside it is.”

Nishinoya had you walk in front of him to the front door, like he assumed a gentleman would, and behind your back he gave Hinata an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture. Hinata stuck his tongue out and it took every bit of self-control Nishinoya had left to not go over there and teach him why he shouldn’t disrespect his elders.

“Here,” you were offering him his red winter jacket by the time he turned around, already having put yours on. His heart warmed that you had remembered what his coat looked like-ignore you two walked to class together multiple times a week. He still knew you were the smartest and nicest and coolest person ever for bothering to remember that detail about him.

He flung his coat on and trailed after you into the winter night. A shiver racked his body at the drastic temperature change when he stepped onto his snow dusted porch, the white fluff falling lightly from the sky.

Nishinoya loved snowy nights. More specifically he loved how the sky was lighter than it should be, a shade of pink that only seemed to exist during a quiet snowy evening where the snow was sparkling and untouched. Before it became disgustingly dirty from cars on the streets or crushed by people’s footsteps as they walked across campus to classes they dreaded.

He was also a sucker for throwing snowballs at an unsuspecting Tanaka, but that was a separate story.

He had zoned out so hard he hadn’t noticed you brushing off the front step of his porch, clearing off a place for you both to sit. You patted the space beside you and without thought he was already down.

“It’s pretty,” you admired, looking out toward the freshly covered lawn.

“Yeah,” Nishinoya said, focusing on you. Even with the porches overhang the snowfall’s slight angle caused snowflakes to collect on your hair and jacket. He wanted to reach out and touch one, but clenched his fists instead.

You glanced over and caught his blatant staring, but he was too at peace to be embarrassed. He just enjoyed looking at you, especially when your nose and cheeks were painted red from the winter’s cold. Or maybe you were blushing. Maybe you were as affected by his presence as he was yours.

That would be nice.

“I’m happy,” Nishinoya proclaimed, glancing out towards his untouched lawn. He should build a snowman… What was that little thing from that Disney movie? Sven? No that’s not it. He should build that though. That would be sick.

“I’m glad,” your voice came out barely above a whisper and oh yeah he was in the middle of something important. He felt his heart do the skipping thing again that only happened around you. He wondered if you knew the effect you had on him.

Nishinoya gave you a lopsided smile, “I like being with you.” He leaned back on the porch with the support of his hands. “But you make my chest feel funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah,” he rubbed his coat over where his heart was currently beating sporadically against his rib cage. “Like, when I do a good Rolling Thunder.”

“I make you feel like Rolling Thunder?”

“No, that doesn’t...” Nishinoya put a hand on his forehead. That wasn’t right at all. He tried to reach past the thick layer of fog in his mind for the right words, but it was too dense. “It’s like… when you’re sick, but then someone makes warm soup and after you eat it you don’t want to vomit anymore!”

You just stared at him which led him to believe he didn’t explain it well.

“Okay… how about when you go to McDonalds in the summer thinking the ice cream machine is broken, but it’s not!” He threw his hands up, excitedly. “So, you thought you were going to suffer, but you end up getting a sundae.”

You were still looking at him with a brow raised and this was turning out to not be his night.

“Um… Oh oh oh! it’s like when you really have to poop and you think somebody else is in the bathroom, but it turns out there’s not! That relief you feel when you finally get to just let it-”

“Okay,” you put a hand over his mouth and his eyes lit up with elation. Hell yeah, he did it. He was fucking shakespeare. A true poet. English classes would be studying this moment for centuries to come. “I have no clue what you’re trying to say.”

“What?” He pulled your hand off his mouth. “How?”

“You just told me I feel like a poop.”

“No, you feel like the relief during the poop, not the poop itself!” He rolled his eyes. It seriously wasn’t a hard concept to grasp.

You blinked several times before your eyes slowly widened in realization. “Are you trying to tell me you like me?” Then a hand flew to your forehead. “Through poop metaphors?”

“There were several metaphors actually but-”

You punched him in the shoulder and he rubbed it with a whine. He had never confessed feelings before, but that probably wasn’t a desired reaction.

“You can’t just do that while you’re drunk, you asshole.”

“Wow, name calling seems a little uncalled for don’t you-”

“I can’t kiss you when you’re drunk.” You let out a frustrated groan and buried your face in your hands. “I can’t even fully trust that you mean it.”

Nishinoya’s jaw went slack. His brain was half functioning, but kissing definitely sounded like good times. Wait, what was that last part? Trusting him for, huh?

“I don’t lie,” he tilted his head slightly confused. “I don’t care if you don’t like me back, but I would never make something like this up to hurt you.”

You peeked up at him wearily, which still made his heart drop a little, but when you nodded he felt better. All that mattered was you trusted him. He didn’t care about much else in the moment. Although that kissing comment had not been overlooked.

“I also…” Your face turned a deeper shade of red than the snowy weather had allowed and Nishinoya definitely settled on you blushing. “Don’t not like you.”

Double negatives was a trip for someone who’s brain wasn’t at full capacity, but he worked it out. He beamed at you and bounced lightly in his seat on the porch step you both resided on. He could easily work with that. More than work with that it was everything he’d wanted.

“We should probably do something about it then,” he suggested, his smile softening as he gazed at you through hooded eyes. “I have a feeling I’ll be hungover tomorrow.”

You cocked your head to the side, clearly confused at his topic change. “A genius observation, yes.”

“We should go get a hangover brunch since I’ll wake up miserable at noon,” he propped himself up by placing his cheek in his palm. “Hangover days are always best when you spend them with your favorite people.”

The corners of your mouth quirked up into a smile as you reached over, brushing some snow out of his hair and lightly trailing your knuckles down his cheeks. “Yeah, sounds like a date.”

Nishinoya hummed in agreement, wanting to do little now beside exist with you and watch the snow as it fell from the midnight sky. He was exhausted. His brain had done way too much work that night and he needed to lay down.

He peeked back over toward you, adorning a content smile on your lips and he sighed deeply.

Nishinoya had never been the brightest volleyball in the basket, but he knew three things for damn sure. After watching a movie over fifteen times he apparently was still incapable of naming the main cast, alcoholic hot chocolate was his new best friend, and he liked you.

He really really liked you.

#nishinoya yuu #nishinoya x y/n #nishinoya x reader #nishinoya yu x reader #nishinoya yu #nishinoya yū #nishinoya #nishinoya oneshot #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyu!!#hinata shoyo #tanaka ryuunosuke #nishinoya imagine

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kireiwoo · 3 years

Text

red, blue, my yellow. [jwy!]

˚➶. EXPO ↓

#𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 bestfriend!woo x fem!reader.

#𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 in which woo is your teasing florist of a friend who can’t seem to pick between red and blue; so you add a third option for him, yellow!

#𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 bf2l, fluff, crack, blasphemy(?), animal death, cursing, 6th grader jokes, two dorks being oblivious, kissing <3

#𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 2.0k+

“Okay, so Sky Blue or Cherry Red?”

“What the fuck? Those are so contrasting.”

Wooyoung whined at your indecisive and absentminded response, leaning his head against your turquoise, sweater-clad shoulder while watching reruns of Scooby-Doo on your old TV. You sipped on the sugarless vanilla latte he purchased for you, relishing in the brief but welcomed warmth the drink radiated in waves. Wooyoung obsessively shoved two paint-cards into your face, gaggling over how bright and saturated they were.

He visited earlier with the guise of simply hanging out with you, claiming that while occupied with his 9-5 job downtown as an optimistic florist, he missed your company. Initially he picked the job because it sounded delicate and comprehensively easy. Objectively, the work was relatively standard; water the daffodils and make sure his small, secret rose garden he called ‘wonderland’ was receiving enough sunlight; but his back ached with hauling boxes filled with seeds and bags packed of faux soil.

“Why are you seriously no help?” He chirped. You grumbled in response, focusing on the graphics of the late television show rather than Wooyoung’s juvenile complaints. Your hair was an unkempt rat’s nest and your spongebob pyjama pants were ruffled considerably, but you allowed Wooyoung into your house regardless of your external appearance. You knew he wouldn’t judge you anyways, too occupied with picking a paint colour for his new apartment.

“How about Sunflower Yellow?” You calmly, dismissively suggested, taking another long swig from the now-empty pale brown paper cup before tossing it behind your couch. You’d clean it up later anyways, but for now you had a whiny best friend to deal with. “Dunno if you’re hard of hearing or colourblind but yellow wasn’t an option.” Wooyoung quipped, his eyes flashing with a teasingly stumped mirth.

“You and I both damn-well know who has the better hearing, and she’s lookin’ right at ya.” Wooyoung giggled at your pouty disposition, finding your blushed cheeks and deep eye-bags adorable. He sat casually against your couch, dressed in his own quirkily mismatched ensemble. A pair of khaki shorts accompanied by a dark green sweatshirt and multicoloured socks, his scuffed three-year-old tennis shoes laying by your door. You found it endearing how Wooyoung still tried to come up with his own fashion trends, ending up looking like a stitched together version of brand-name and value-village. But he was being expressive in the form of seasonal apparel, and you were proud of him.

“Byeol?” He teased, gesturing to your mangy, blue-eyed siamese feline as she sat back and observed your get-together, scattering away once the attention was on her. Wooyoung sighed.

“Look, you chubby-cheeked wench, just answer and I’ll leave you to sleep in your little cocoon of grandma blankets.” You huffed at his insinuation, plonking your deft fingers against his cheek softly and gently.

You met Wooyoung in third grade, when sex didn’t determine friendship and the bounds of society were turned away by your blind infant eyes.

You’d been retrieving wild bluebells and dandelions, bunching them in your sweaty grasp as a sort of dedicated bouquet, explaining to the boisterous boy that you needed to leave it as a parting gift to a squirrel you saw that got run over (you called him Tootles). Looking back, it was innately bizarre how indifferent you were to the concept of death, but Wooyoung supposes that it was a sweet thought anyways. From then on, the two of you blundered together—but part of the reason Wooyoung stayed was also because of his obvious attraction to your lopsided pigtails and thrifted summer dresses. He remembers that you always had a food stain somewhere on your clothing.

Now looking at you, still messy and even more vulgar, he can’t help but think that he doesn’t regret any moments. You’ve gone through everything together; Wooyoung was present for your first period when the stomach pain and hunger cramps were immense, and you were there when his family suffered through a rough patch, assuring him that everything would be okay when in reality, the decision of divorce between his parents was settled a week later. Those were some of his most difficult moments, but he can look back at them fondly only because it brought him closer to you.

“Wench? What are you saying? I’m a god.” You offered in the most dramatized tone you could.

“Might wanna get your facts checked,”

“Might wanna get your mom checked,” You snorted, biting your lip while procuring finger guns just for the hell of it. Wooyoung sighed in mock disappointment, his frizzy purple-tinted fringe falling onto his forehead. You grinned and giggled, catching his attention cutely.

Your whiny puppy rolled his eyes before wailing a cacophony of displeased sounds, loudly filtering his discontentment with having a plain apartment. “(Y/N) you don’t understand the seriousness of my situation! Who wants to tell their grandchildren that their first—that’s right, first!—apartment was a boring cream colour?!” Fed up with his childish bumbling, you quickly smacked his forehead, chuckling quietly as he squeaked and softened his stiff posture. It was honestly so lovable how he got so passionate about the smallest, almost insignificant things.

“Listen, we’ll figure something out. I still think Sunflower Yellow should be an option though.” Wooyoung swatted at your covered tummy with an overzealous and enthusiastic expression, clearly excited with the concept of letting you help him. The soft scent of peppermint-chamomile flooded into your nostrils from his clothing, making you mentally note to ask him what detergent he decided to try. “You think wrong, settler! Now choose between these two colours or I’ll be obligated to steal half of your lifespan.” You laughed loudly at the unprecedented silliness of your best friend, shaking your head while sending a fleeting but absolutely enamoured stare in his direction.

“Honestly, at this point why am I letting you help me?” He hummed. You gurgled at his feigned distress, gasping and tackling him against the couch. You straddled his waist, pointing a manicured figure at his face while you fondly cursed at him. “As I recall, Mr. Jung; you arrived to my residence at exactly 12:01 PM with the excuse to hang out, only to badger me with your issues about... paint colours. You came to me.” Wooyoung sat enthralled by your change in attitude, bathing in the flawlessness of your execution regarding exposing him for his wrongdoings.

“Just boom, bam, pow: There’s that dude I’m in love with.” Wooyoung’s eyes widened considerably, a snarky smirk falling across his countenance as his cheeks devilishly flushed, looking similar to that of a ripened strawberry. Immediately you backtracked, wondering what you said that provoked this reaction, and realization struck across your face like a sharp slap.

Oh shit. Shit.

“I-Uh—you didn’t hear that.” You waved shy but frantic hands into his face, as if hypnotizing him into forgetting about your embarrassingly personal confession. But all he did was giggle and take ahold of your wrists, pulling your body forward so you were chest to chest with him.

A soft, addictingly brief kiss was placed against your creased forehead, the perfect lips of your best friend brushing against your heated skin. You swallowed thickly, placing your hands over his sweater-clad chest with confusion written all over your face. What in the hell kind of reaction was this—? Whatever it was, it was warm and delicate and felt right.

Then again, there’s nothing that ever feels wrong when it comes to Jung Wooyoung. Or maybe that’s just you.

“Y’know, you’re not very... secretive.” He settled, making perplexities skip through your mind like stones on water. Had he known? Was this the end of your life-long friendship? Questions ran through your mind endlessly, your heart rapidly beating and mind berating you for admitting your tini-tiny, small-as-a-planet crush. “I had my suspicions but you actually saying it was my sweet confirmation.”

“The fuck? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I-I—Hey! Don’t be angry at me!” He pouted, melting your heart into a pile of mushy and fragmented puddles. “What I was trying to say is, I love you too.” Immediately your face blanched and you dropped your head into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck, appreciating the small dust of red that decorated his ears. You simply couldn’t face him in fear that this was all a simulation; a seemingly harmless gaffe constructed firstly to tease you, and knowing Wooyoung with his wildly oblivious tendencies and boyish lack of empathy, you had no doubt that it was something he would try.

And yet, you couldn’t even force yourself to be angry at him. Because while you speculated that he was joking, somewhere in your heart you knew that he was being honest—simply in denial with the prospect of your long-lasting crush actually returning your feelings. “Hello? Earth to (Y/N)? Airhead? Loafer?” You snapped out of your reverie, staring at Wooyoung’s pinked face as his prying eyes drifted around your facial features, slowly tracing each detail.

“You love me too?” Shock ever-present, you searched in Wooyoung’s loving gaze for some kind of testimony, a confirmation, for some truth to be shed. And when all you could see were the glimmering, almost glowing sparkles in his large pupils, you felt the slightest bit reassured.

“Of course I do, bean!”

“As a friend though, right?” Wooyoung’s face screwed into an intense concentration, expression looking fragile and breakable. But in his wandering mind, he questioned how you could even consider that. He loved you as something more—with your tangled tresses and wrinkled clothes, even down to the fact that you couldn’t handle sugar but grimaced every time you drank your vanilla lattes, simply because they weren’t sweet enough.

It was the little things that he found himself so affectionately obsessed with. He remembers your bleached sundresses in elementary and how you couldn’t tie your shoes without help from a teacher. How you loathed wearing glasses because you thought they made you look nerdy, but complained because you just couldn’t see.

“Jesus Christ, Loser. No, I love you like... like a crush! Yeah, like a crush. Romantically.” He gushed, and if this wasn’t one of the most immature confessional moments in history, it sure was a cheesy one.

“Wait, really? You like-like me?” Good god. Your fingers trembled and lips twitched.

“Yes, how many times do I—” Wooyoung breathed out a shaky sigh as you leaned forward and smoothly took his lips with your own. He tasted minty and sweet, like petals and chocolate. His eyes fluttered closed as your lips meshed together, pushing against each other in a romantic twine of burning passion.

Suddenly, your hands were on either side of his head and one of his deft, spidering hands pressed onto the small of your back. The other hand trailed up to the back of your neck, twirling the loose strands of hair at your nape, his tongue breaching the space between your lips invasively—but then he tried to card his fingers through your hair; and you hissed and pulled away like a disenchanted cat, baring your teeth from the unprecedented pain.

“Shit! Sorry, baby.” Whereas your head flooded with spiking pains from small hairs being plucked, your heart was palpitating at the new but definitely embraced pet-name. “I told you that you should’ve washed your hair! But someone doesn’t like listening!” You tutted at the nagging, harrumphing before placing another complacent kiss against his lips.

“Oh shut up, Mr. I can’t choose between red and blue.” You never thought you’d get the chance to tease Wooyoung after directly smooching him; it was a fantasy and a reoccurring fever dream to feel his plush, pillowed lips against your own. Perhaps a perverse imaginative scenario, but it was a reality now. And reality suddenly didn’t seem so harsh; crowded in the warm arms of a starry-eyed shortie with calloused hands and a knack for gardening.

“You’re right, I can’t. But it’s okay, I prefer yellow anyways.”

Who knows what awaits you in life? Maybe the sky will drain of it’s blue and the roses will deplete of their red—but no matter the changes and disparities that occur over the years, there’s always one thing that you’re forever sure of:

“You’re my yellow, Jung Wooyoung.”

#ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez scenarios #ateez reaction #ateez wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung smut #wooyoung fluff #wooyoung angst #wooyoung reactions #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung x reader #ateez oneshot #wooyoung #jwy : youngie.#80’s!

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broccoliboix5peepeeman · 3 years

Note

hi !!! as a writing request!! could i ask for platonic todokamimina? they’re a chaotic group and i don’t see them nearly as often as i should </3 thank you so much !! :)

Anything for you, friendo!!! <333

Ao3 link

Green.

Very green.

Shoto liked green.

He leant his elbows against the desk and cupped his cheeks in his hands as he stared across the classroom. Aizawa was wrapping up their final lesson, but Shoto couldn't care less. Instead, he admired the way Midoriya rubbed the back of his head as he frantically scribbled down notes, causing his verdant curls to stick out at odd angles. Shoto wanted to run his hands through them.

'Pretty.' He murmured to himself.

'What's pretty?' A head suddenly rested on Shoto's left shoulder. He stilled slightly and turned to find Kaminari's curious face, scanning the room.

'Besides you, of course!' Another voice added, before another head squished against his right cheek and Shoto seriously considered teaching his classmates about the concept of personal space.

‘Ashido. Kaminari. I’d appreciate it if you moved.’ When neither of them seemed to take the hint, he raised his arms and pushed them away with a palm to their cheeks.

When they shrieked and landed on the floor, Shoto gathered his things and stood up. ‘And if you must know, Midoriya is very pretty. I would’ve thought that much was obvious.’

‘Wait wait wait!’ Kaminari exclaimed, grabbing onto Shoto’s leg whilst Ashido scrambled to her feet. ‘You have a crush on Midoriya? Dude!’

‘I don’t want to crush Midoriya.’ Shoto raised an eyebrow and shook Kaminari off his leg.

‘No, he means you like him!’ Ashido squealed, waving her fists around excitedly, but that just made Shoto even more confused.

‘Of course I like Midoriya.’ He frowned slightly. ‘I thought everyone did. He’s incredible.’

‘Bro.’ Kaminari smacked his forehead with exasperation, whilst Ashido giggled and moved to pat Shoto on the shoulder.

‘Todoroki, sweetie, honey, no.’ She snorted, a wobbly smile on her face. ‘We mean, you like Midoriya in a romantic way.’

…

Oh…

‘What makes you think that?’ He raised his hand to his chin as he considered her words.

'You just called him pretty!' Kaminari choked out.

'And?' Shoto tilted his head to the side. 'It's an objective observation. Anyone with eyes would agree Midoriya is pretty.'

'Ah-' Kaminari raised a finger to argue, but he faltered with a sigh, clearly defeated. 'You got me there.'

Shoto closed his eyes and nodded once. It was nice being right.

‘Well, how do you feel when Midoriya is around you?’ Ashido asked, trying a different route. ‘When he compliments you.’

‘I feel… Fuzzy.’ Shoto frowned, trying to picture his best friend in front of him now.

‘Wow! That was amazing, Todoroki-kun!’ A bright smile crossed Midoriya’s face, eyes wide and shining with awe. ‘You really are so cool!’

‘I feel… Warm. Not like my quirk, like… On the inside, I feel warm.’ He elaborated. ‘And when he says nice things about me, I feel… Good. I want him to say more nice things.’

‘Oh bro.’ Kaminari clasped his hands together and rested his cheek against them. ‘That’s adorable. What makes you think he’s pretty?’

‘Everything.’ Shoto answered, a little too quickly. When the two of them looked at him, amused, he quickly cleared his throat. ‘His hair looks really fluffy and I want to touch it to see if it feels as nice as it looks. His freckles are really cute and his eyes are always so kind. He makes me feel comfortable.’

‘What about his smokin’ hot body?!’ Kaminari interrupted with a smirk. Ashido elbowed him, but couldn’t hide her own grin.

‘I said he’s warm, not hot.’ Shoto pointed out, ignoring their antics. ‘But now that you mention it, his body is incredibly nice to look at... And to touch. When he hugs me, he’s so soft despite all the muscle. And his hands are also very pretty - I want to hold them.’

He trailed off and was met with silence. When he looked up, he found Kaminari and Ashido looking at him with shocked expressions.

‘That’s so adorable, Todoroki!’ Ashido squealed.

‘Man, you’ve got it bad, huh?’ Kaminari wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, you definitely like Midoriya romantically.’

‘What?’ Shoto narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought that’s how you were meant to feel about your best friend?’

‘Well… Yes.’ Ashido bounced her head side to side in thought. ‘But usually not to that level. Like, do you feel the same way about Iida or Yaomomo?’

Shoto wrinkled his nose at the thought.

‘I like them.’ He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling guilty. ‘But I don’t… When I’m with Midoriya, I feel… Home.’

‘Do you want to kiss him?’ Kaminari suddenly asked, completely throwing Shoto off.

Do I want to kiss him?

He thought about the question. He thought about Midoriya’s lips, slightly chapped from when he’d sometimes chew on them when he was nervous; the way his mouth would move a mile a minute when muttering about heroes and quirks; the blinding smile that would form when he was happy.

Kissing him sounds like heaven.

‘I… I’m not against the idea.’ He felt a blush dust his cheeks and quickly looked at the floor. ‘Okay, maybe I do like Midoriya romantically, but there’s no way he’d like me back.'

‘What makes you say that?’ Ashido quirked an eyebrow, sceptical.

‘Because he could have anyone.’ Shoto had to be careful here. He didn’t want to have to explain why Midoriya was way too good for someone like Shoto, who was broken and scarred. He liked Kaminari and Ashido, but he wasn't quite ready to overshare his past trauma with them.

That was purely a Midoriya thing.

He considered his words for a moment. ‘His presence is inspiring. He's like the sun and he cares so much. I'd follow him anywhere. People love him and I'm…'

He trailed off, unsure of how to finish.

'Gorgeous?' Ashido offered.

'No.'

'Cool - excuse the pun.' Kaminari contributed with a smile.

'No.'

'Mysterious?' Ashido exclaimed, confident.

'Weird.' Shoto finished, lamely.

The room was silent for a minute, before suddenly,

'Brooo.' Kaminari looked at him, aghast. 'You're telling me that Midoriya won't want to be with you because you're weird? Midoriya? The same Midoriya who mumbles to himself and makes being weird look incredibly endearing?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, honey.' Ashido sighed and patted his shoulder again. 'What my esteemed colleague here is trying to say is… You're both weird, but in different ways. You-' She raised her two index fingers and brought the tips together. '-Complete each other.'

She batted her eyelids at him and Shoto wondered how he ever got into this conversation in the first place.

'Right.' He spoke slowly, before grabbing his bag. 'Okay. I'm leaving now.'

He turned to walk towards the door but was stopped by one pair of arms around his legs and another pair wrapped around his blazer sleeve. The former sent him off balance and he tumbled to the ground, unable to cushion his fall with his ice thanks to Ashido holding his right arm in a vice-like grip.

'Motherfuck-' His chin smacked the floor, but before he could even process the pain, both of his classmates piled on top of him, muttering a string of apologies that would've been much more appreciated if they weren't simultaneously suffocating him.

'Wah! Sorry, Todorokiiiii!!!' Ashido exclaimed.

'Are you okay?!' Kaminari screeched. 'We'll get you together with Midoriya, promise! Will that make you feel better?'

'Get.' Shoto used every ounce of patience he possessed to keep himself calm. 'The fuck. Off me.'

Wordlessly, they scrambled off him and he stood, wiping the dust from his uniform. His chin stung and his eyes watered out of reflex, but he maintained his composure. It was nothing Shoto couldn't handle, he'd had worse in the past.

'Todoroki-'

'Midoriya doesn't want to be with me.' He interrupted. 'So I'd appreciate it if you dropped the matter.'

As he made his exit, Shoto didn't notice the yellow sleeping bag poking out from around the teacher's desk. He also didn't notice when the person inside it complained about how he wasn't getting paid enough to listen to this shit.

😄😐😄

'What happened to your chin, Todoroki-kun?' Midoriya asked, peering up at Shoto, concern evident in his voice.

'Tripped over.' He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and looking off to the side to avoid his friend's blinding gaze.

He instantly regretted it when his eyes fell on Ashido, grossly kissing the air, whilst Kaminari hugged himself and pouted seductively - whether he succeeded or not was up for debate. Shoto's eyes widened at the sight and he quickly looked back at Midoriya.

Not today, Satan.

'It's bruising, Todoroki-kun. Are you sure you're okay?'

'Erm, yes.' He tried not to blush at the proximity. 'I'm fine, Midoriya-'

'Stupid Deku!' The loud, obnoxious voice of Bakugou suddenly rang in Shoto's ears. He also noticed how Midoriya seemed to jump three feet into the air at his proclamation. 'Forget about dumb Icyhot! Get the fuck over here now!'

'C- Coming, Kacchan.' His friend stuttered out, before looking up at Shoto apologetically. 'Sorry about that. I have to go. Promise you're okay?'

Shoto nodded silently, noticing how Midoriya's smile didn't seem entirely genuine as he made his exit.

Is he upset?

Shoto watched him go and allowed himself a moment to consider what it would be like if Midoriya really did like him back. Would he say no to Bakugou in order to spend more time with Shoto? Would they hold hands in the common room? Would Midoriya kiss his chin better?

He sighed softly at the thought, but was interrupted once more when Kaminari suddenly threw his arm around his shoulder and grinned, as if he hadn't caused Shoto to faceplant the floor not two hours ago.

'Oh, young love.' He gushed.

'You've got to use this opportunity!' Ashido punched the air - where had she come from? - and shook him. 'Be the shining knight who saves his love from the dragon!'

'What the hell are you on about now?' Shoto asked, exhausted.

'Go rescue your man from Kacchan!' Kaminari scoffed, as if it were obvious.

'My man?' He raised an eyebrow. 'Midoriya is his own person?'

'How romantic!' Ashido squealed, linking her arm in his. ‘So noble!’

Shoto was very confused.

'No, dude!' Kaminari sounded pained, which Shoto thought was unwarranted. He knew it wasn't a competition, but he also knew for sure that he was definitely in more pain than Kaminari was. 'Midoriya clearly doesn't want to talk to Bakugou, so you should get him to leave him alone. We know how much you love tearing into Kacchan!'

'Yeah!' Ashido seconded. 'Midoriya can't say no to anyone, so you need to rescue him!'

'Hm…' Coming to Midoriya's aid was rather tempting, albeit he wished he didn't need to in the first place. 'I don't know what to say though.'

'We'll help you!'

Kaminari leant in to whisper in his ear. As he explained his strategy, Shoto nodded along in understanding, and after about 30 seconds, he was ready.

'Hey, Bakugou!' He called out, causing the blonde to turn and glare at him from across the room. When Midoriya also turned around, Shoto took in his watery eyes and quivering lip, and puffed out his chest, a newfound determination evident on his face.

Nobody makes Midoriya sad!

'The fuck do you want, Icyhot?' Bakugou barked.

Shoto maintained a cool demeanor and recited the first thing Kaminari had told him.

'You have your entire life to be a piece of shit. Why not take a day off for once?'

The room went silent, save for Ashido's muffled giggles.

'HAH?!' Bakugou exclaimed. 'The fuck did you just say to me?'

'I said I just wanted to tell you…' Kaminari muttered something else in his ear and Shoto nodded. 'You bring everyone so much joy!'

Even Midoriya tilted his head to the side at that, but he didn't look like he was about to cry anymore, which was progress.

Bakugou smirked and crossed his arms.

'That's what I thought you'd said-'

'I'm sorry, I wasn't finished.' Shoto held a hand out to stop him. 'I was gonna say, you bring everyone so much joy when you leave the room. Maybe you should try it?'

Bakugou's eye twitched, while Midoriya let out a quiet snigger.

Shoto felt blessed.

'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to, you bastard?!'

Ashido quickly covered his back.

‘I'm talking to the human version of period cramps.' Shoto echoed her words. 'That's not something one forgets easily.'

Midoriya bit his lip to hide a laugh and Shoto allowed himself to become momentarily distracted by the action, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. He didn't even realise Bakugou was storming towards him, until Ashido shoved him away from an explosion.

He collided with Kaminari, who grasped him by the shoulders and muttered something else, before pushing Shoto away to give him a head start. He raced across the common room and stood behind the sofa. When Bakugou tried to run around it to grab him, Shoto merely sprinted the opposite way, until both of them were stuck, waiting for the other to make a move.

Of course, Shoto decided this was the perfect opportunity to recite what Kaminari had told him.

'I love what you've done with your hair, Bakugou. How did you make it come out of your nostrils like that?' He raised an eyebrow and turned to Kaminari. 'But he doesn't have hair coming out of this-'

'ENOUGH!'

Bakugou let out a roar as he leapt over the sofa. Shoto quickly dodged his attack and raced towards Midoriya. He grabbed his friend’s hand and pulled him along with him as he escaped the common room and dashed up the stairs, two at a time, a raging Bakugou in tow…

Until two pairs of hands suddenly grabbed onto the blonde and dragged him back.

When Shoto turned around to thank his saviours, he found Kaminari and Ashido restraining Bakugou. With a grateful nod, he saluted his friends for their sacrifice and dragged Midoriya towards his room.

Once the door locked behind them, he panted for breath, not realising he was still holding Midoriya's hand until he felt a soft squeeze.

'Thank you for that.' His friend spoke softly. 'Kacchan's really mad though. You might wanna go into witness protection after that little stunt.'

'I can handle him.'

'I know you can. I was joking.'

'Hm.' Shoto smiled slightly when Midoriya giggled, but it was quickly followed by an awkward silence, save the rapid beating of his heart and the deep, shaky breaths he took from the previous excursion. He wanted to say something more meaningful, tell him that he'd gladly enrage Bakugou again if it meant he’d leave Midoriya alone.

'Y- You can let go now, Todoroki-kun.' Shoto startled and finally turned away from the door to regard his friend, who stared right back at him, both nervous and amused.

Shoto swallowed heavily and thought about what Ashido and Kaminari told him.

‘You're both weird, but in different ways. You complete each other.'

‘Do you want to kiss him?’

He took the plunge.

'What… What if I don't want to let go?' He tried not to look away when Midoriya's eyes widened in response. 'What if… I want to find more excuses to hold your hand?'

'Oh, Todoroki-kun.' Midoriya smiled sadly at him and Shoto felt his heart begin to shatter. However, before he could unleash hell on Ashido and Kaminari for mentally talking him into this, Midoriya reached forward and took his other hand in his.

A calloused thumb rubbed circles against his skin. 'You never need an excuse to hold my hands, I promise.'

When realisation hit Shoto, Midoriya's smile brightened and he suddenly felt himself being enveloped into a tight hug.

😄😐😄

The next day, Shoto and Midoriya walked into class fifteen minutes early, hands intertwined and leaning against each other.

Fourteen minutes later, Kaminari and Ashido stumbled through the door to find some gifts on their desks: some hamburgers and a large bowl of natto, respectively. When they scanned the room for the source of this kindness, they made eye contact with Shoto, who flashed them a thumbs up and smiled.

He may be a man of few words, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate his friends helping him.

#tododeku #todoroki shoto #midoriya izuku #kaminari denki #mina ashido #bakugou katsuki #lovely people #AgarJelly writes #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #love you Random!!!#hope you enjoyed it :)#calamari denki

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh@deakydeacy

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?��

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

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echthr0s · 3 years

Text

got a concept in my head and this time I absolutely refused to let it go. figured maybe writing about something unrelated to ffxiv might be good for me right now. also on ao3 if you’re into that

"Goodbye, to all the plans that we made. No contracts, I'm free to do as I may...

...I can smell you, Zagreus."

"No, you can't," Zagreus said, hurriedly, with his customary cunning.

Clearing his throat in embarrassment, Zag pushed off the floor where he'd been curled up behind a vast urn, hidden from Eurydice's sight. Dusting himself off, he gave the nymph a lopsided grin. "Sup?"

"Hmph. Not like you to linger when you pass through," Eurydice noted, pausing to coo at one of her fragrant blooms before continuing. "Something amiss?"

Zagreus sighed. "The song. That song you're always singing. It sticks in my head a lot, especially when I'm getting ready to... you know. Throw myself against the proverbial brick wall yet again." He pushed a hand through his unruly hair, his usually-amiable countenance cloudy. "Think it's starting to wear on me. This whole... thing."

Eurydice hummed as he spoke, but far from being intrusive, the melody seemed to weave between his words, knitting them together, encouraging further branching, deeper thought. Steam rising from her cauldrons brought soothing scents to his nose, deepening his reverie. He slid back to a seating position. "I mean, I've always been what Father wanted. Father wanted a son. I was a son for him. Father wanted an heir. I prepared my head to bear the weight of a crown. Or, I tried, anyway. I thought this was the first choice I made on my own -- to claw my way to the surface, to find my mother, to... find myself, I guess. But... I'm not even sure it's what I want anymore. Maybe I only want to spite Father. Maybe even this struggle of mine belongs to him, in the end."

Zagreus looked up when Eurydice crouched in front of him, her arboreal hands reaching to cradle his face. "Sweet child. I commend your fight. I sing for you to see the world above this wasteland. But your freedom will not be found there, not until you have found it here." She shifted her fingers to tap gently at his temples. "What you feel in my song, what calls to you, is that inalienable, uncorruptible selfhood. The core of me that dear Orpheus worshipped, but ultimately could not fathom. What even an eternity in Hades' fell realm cannot take from me."

She stood and gestured at her vast array of plants -- life, in the lifeless realm. "This is my will, imposed upon Asphodel. A verdant oasis in a volcanic waste. It is mine and mine alone... but I share it with you, Zagreus, he who would be twice-born. I share it with you because I believe that when you understand this... you will be unstoppable."

Had anyone expressed such ardent belief in him? In his individuality? Twice-born... to breach the forbidding barrier, to emerge into the world of the living, to be created anew. Who would this Zagreus be, who sprawled bloodied and gasping on those shores? Hades' errant son, soul still mired in the Underworld, or...?

"This isn't a punishment, for you," Zagreus realised, looking around at Eurydice's cozy home. "Hades cannot punish you. You simply won't... let him."

Eurydice winked.

Zagreus thought about all he'd learned, was still learning, as he continued to try and fail and try again. He thought about journeys taken on purpose, odysseys wherein the hero and all who crossed the hero's path were changed. He thought about sharing nectar with Sisyphus and trading bad jokes, about looking forward to arguing existentialism with Patroclus, about how Cerberus wagged his tail and grinned slyly (and blinked sleepily, and snuffled curiously, depending on what head you were looking at) every time Zag came huffing and puffing up the stairs to the Temple of Styx. He thought about how every forced return to the House of Hades made the place look slightly different in his changing vision, how he learned new things about his lifelong companions, how seeds of curiosity grew to saplings of empathy in his heart for Achilles, Orpheus, even Megaera.

It was all as it should be. Despite what Hades thought, he was not failing and failing again. He was not being beaten, being cowed, being crushed under the inexorable weight of futility. He was growing, and growing further. He was becoming.

He opened his mouth to try and thank Eurydice, but he couldn't think of the words that would convey his deep gratitude. He hugged her instead, impulsively, and was rewarded with a snort of fond amusement.

Her lilting voice followed him as he hopped the small craft that would take him to whatever awaited, and filled the chambers of his heart with such lightness that he thought he would float all the way up to the Overworld, out of everyone's reach, towards an eternal Sun. "The weight of the world all falls away, in time."

#hades #hades game #singularity.txt #i only alluded to it slightly but zagreus is nb bc i'm nb and i relate to zagreus *throws smoke bomb and scuttles away*

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xbellaxcarolinax · 4 years

Text

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 23- Silver Fox

Pairing: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 6235

Warnings: Some violence.

AN: Kinda long, kinda boring, not my favorite chapter 😅

22- Queen

...

Artemis runs a hand over the smooth wood of her throne, the very one Lagertha sat in and Aslaug before her. It was hard to even call it hers.

The wood was buffed to a shine and draped in fine fabrics and warm bear fur, enhancing its regal image. The night of their wedding went by in such a haze that she didn't pay much mind to her surroundings. It was loud then, full of merry making and fascinating stories. Now it was empty, quiet, and incredibly large. The thrones were slightly elevated, sure to remind those of their place.

The current Queen stands to face the authoritative seat, imagining the women who have sat there before her. She was born a commoner and it was a part of her that would never wash away, and she wondered if she was worthy of such a powerful seat. She stood a while longer, her fingertips brushing through the soft fur.

"It is meant for you to sit on, my love." Ivar's teasing voice resonated in the hall, and it was enough for her to snap away from her thoughts in favor of glancing at her husband, his eyes filled with mirth. He speaks through the leather curtain, sly as a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

"I know that." She huffs out, turning round with a swirl of her skirts. She plops down onto the throne to prove it.

"You are such a pensive woman," He says to her, limping over to place a kiss to her brow, "What plagues your mind at this hour, hmm?"

"The usual." She says, and Ivar raises a brow, already knowing what she meant. She was questioning her position, unconfident in her royal elevation. Despite her unassuredness, she did well to be studious in the running of a household and other queenly duties, but it was not enough for her. Ivar understood the lack of confidence, but as his wife, she had to push all that aside and reflect the image of a strong queen. He knew she would be.

Artemis smiled at him, but focused on the subtle movements in the hall. She was so intune with her thoughts that she barely noticed anyone else. A new fire was being stoked by a thrall, while the others hurried about with a task at hand. One dusted about, while another threw more wooden logs into the fire pit. Geirdis was to care with the feeding of the kittens and the mastiff, and the other two were to help Edda and the rest in the kitchens as well as setting up the table for the morning meal.

She was well acquainted with some of the thralls. Others were new and she was sure to remember all their names, to remember their jobs and to remember to thank them, always. The concept was strange, as slaves were never a part of her household back home.

"How may I ease your mind? Breakfast?" Ivar cuts into her thoughts, raising his eyebrows at her, "Those strawberries you like have been freshly harvested this morning." The mention of the strawberries had her up in an instant, grabbing Ivar's awaiting hand so that they may walk over to the large table set up completely with food and drink.

"I have another surprise for you," Ivar says, and it was almost enough for Artemis to crush the berry in her hand unforgivably.

"Another? Ivar must you spoil me so?" She had enough material items to last her more than a lifetime.

"Hush now," He teases, motioning at the thrall pouring his drink, "Tell Geirdis to bring the girl out." A few short moments later and Geirdis appears with Aria only steps behind her. The blond thrall stands behind her queen, and Artemis almost shoots out from her seat.

"I am at your service, my Queen." Aria's long red hair spills over her shoulders as she bows before Artemis. The Queen had confusion etched all over her face, turning to look at Ivar who bore his signature smirk.

"What is this?" She asks "I thought you were to leave with Jarl Erik? We've said our farewells only last night."

"I've purchased her," Ivar interjects, "You may keep her as your help or you may set her free. Do with her as you see fit." Artemis looks at him with sparkling eyes and he just laughs, holding a berry between his leather covered fingers.

"Ivar..." She couldn't express her happiness well enough, "This is wonderful news!" She stands immediately, careful not to trip over the hem of her dress, before enveloping the Irish girl in her arms.

"I would see you free, of course," Artemis says to her, "Your life is your own to command." The red head smiled, her green eyes glittering with such emotion.

"I would like to stay under your service, my Queen, if that is alright with you. I've nowhere to go, and I will dutifully earn my keep."

"Of course," The Queen smiles, "I will have Geirdis help settle you in." The young blonde thrall moves to Aria's side, ready for an awaiting task.

"I humbly thank you, my King," Aria bows to Ivar once again, to which he waves off lazily as he usually did.

"I did it for my wife." He simply says, waving both Geridis and Aria off, "Report to the Queen in the evening for further instruction." They bow, and Geirdis leads Aria to a vacant room further into the hall, a smile of excitement on her face.

Artemis watches them go, happy to have her friend back. She bounces on her heels excitedly, turning to glance at Ivar. He watches her, head resting on his hand. She grins, flinging herself onto him, embracing him tightly. She places repeated kisses upon his head and brow, and he closes his eyes, relishing her adoring kisses. He could get you to this adoration.

"Thank you, my love." She says to him with a content sigh. Ivar grips her around the waist bringing her comfortably to his lap so that he may give her proper kisses on her plush lips.

"Anything for you, baby bird."

"The Jarl didn't put up a fight?" She asks and Ivar snorts in response.

"I am King, and he is but a lowly Jarl from a different kingdom, he could not refuse me, nor did he deny the silver I had offered." Artemis hums in understanding, placing a jeweled hand upon his stubbly cheek.

"Perhaps I should thank him?"

"No need. Money speaks to him more than any grateful words."

"Forgive me, my King and Queen, for interrupting such a tender moment," Heahmund enters, his tone almost sarcastic, with Hvitserk in tow, "The petitioners will be arriving soon."

"Fix yourselves and eat breakfast."

The older Ragnarsson motions with his hands for them to separate, plopping down beside his younger brother. Ivar rolls his eyes but pats her bottom for her to move.

"Eat. We have a kingdom to run."

...

Ivar sits on his throne as if he were born for it. He was all confidence, regality emanating off his person. He was fit to be king. Artemis on the other hand was a timid creature, lacking the vivaciousness she had when still a slave. Ivar glances at her to make sure she is ready. Her coronet gleamed beautifully in the natural daylight. She was a vision, but apprehension lingered in her eyes.

One after the other they came, some to dispute minor things such as a stolen goat, or a lost sheep. Others wanted marriage approvals and dowries disputed. They were mostly petty squabbles. Such things were Ivar's least favorite duty as king. He loved conquest, he loved expansion, and most of all, he loved war. He was a product of violent times, but he reveled in it. Small talk and petty rivalries were a nuisance in his eyes.

Artemis seemed to have taken quite an interest in the matters of the people. Of course, she was mostly there due to the formal setting, and as Queen, she must be present for all formal functions. But in her mind, if she was to be a proper queen, then it was her responsibility to heed the common people's plight. She wanted to do good for the people that she ruled, and help Ivar as king to prosper the kingdom, not to be a useless puppet beside him.

Ivar settled each dispute easily enough. All those years beside his mother had taught him about the local politics, though he was clearly bored of it.

The grievances of the day were minimal, small matters easily solved. The day progressed uneventfully, and by midday, the Queen sat brooding before a loom, hands tangled in a mess of yarn.

"My Queen, the weft thread is too loose." Artemis sucks her teeth at the comment, scowling. The longer she stared at the threads, the more the pretty colors of blue and green appeared to be one congested mess of shades. She was about ready to throw the loom away.

"You must tighten it, like this," Geirdis instructs, her skilled hands going over the threads with accuracy, demonstrating her many years of experience.

"I can't do it."

"Of course you can, My Queen, it just takes time."

Artemis snorts, turning her gaze away from the loom and down towards the hem of her embroidered skirts. One of the kittens, the brown one she named Eros, latched his sharp little nails into the wool, attempting to climb up the height of her leg.

She coos, easily grabbing the tiny thing in her palm. Eros mewls, causing the other 3 to call out as well, and a soft symphony began in the quiet hall. Artemis didn't mind it, it was a pleasant distraction, but Geirdis was far too annoyed with the felines.

"Hush." She scolds them, grabbing the trouble maker Eros from Artemis's hands. She then scoops up the others. The second troublemaker was Aries of light colored hair, the calmest was Siggy, the darkest and the only one Ivar named, and the curious one was Icarus. Geirdis places them in the arms of a passing thrall. Heracles snores, laying obediently beside his mistress.

"I'm sorry, my Queen, but you'll never improve if there are distractions." Artemis sighs but nods in understanding, once again picking up the shuttle to continue her amateur work. Her weaving was an attempt at creating a blanket for the arriving cold weather. So far, it was futile.

But, she had expectations to meet and shoes to fill. There were lessons in weaving and mending, a task women were to dedicate countless hours to, and a task she utterly detested.

To her, the loom was an unavoidable contraption. Threaded into the wood were her clumsily woven flax threads, nothing in comparison to tapestries and fine clothing made by the skilled hands of the women in the royal household. Artemis left most of the weaving to Geirdis and the rest of the talented women.

Running the household was entirely different, but something Artemis was able to grasp better than weaving. She was to oversee the storages for grain and meat, food that had to last them for the winter months. The keys resting at her hip were a reminder of the control and command she had.

Ivar led several hunting parties, he and his men leaving with nothing but their arrows, and always returning with several rabbits and a deer or two. They would later be skinned, salted, dried, and stored away for later use.

The King was currently out on a hunt with Hvitserk and the rest of their hunting party, leaving Heahmund, Dafi, and the rest of the guards to watch over the Great Hall, and the entire estate.

"My mother was a talented weaver," Heahmund says to her, glancing at the front of the loom before walking to step behind Artemis to get a better look. He was not impressed. "You need much improvement."

"Well, how about you fetch your mother to teach me then, hm?" Artemis shoots back, earning a chuckle from the Saxon man. Geirdis fetches a pitcher of mead and a drinking horn. She fills it for Heahmund, and he takes it with a nod of thanks.

"I'm sure Geirdis has her hands full with you."

"The Queen has been no trouble." The blonde says, her tone absolute, as if warning Heahmund in his use of words. No one should ever be so familiar with nobility, especially the wife of Ivar the Boneless.

"She wields a hammer better than a loom." He says, a comment that not even Artemis could deny. The dark haired queen cracks a smile, but continues to work with the loom, slowly pulling the flax threads tightly.

"I can't hammer clothing into existence. I wish it were that easy."

"The loom is an important part of a woman's life, My Queen. When our death comes to take us, we are buried with our weaving tools and mending needles."

"And what? Are you meant to weave in Valhalla?" Heahmund snorts, raking a hand through his freshly cropped hair. Geirdis turns to him, her eyes revealing her irritation.

"It is our worth, and what makes us who we are." She mumbles out.

"Heahmund, shut up," Artemis scolds before he could say anything more, "Only the gods know why Ivar decided to keep you around." He raises a brow.

"Did you say 'the gods'?"

"Did I hesitate?" She counters back, eyes not leaving her work, though she had no idea what she was doing. Geirdis sits beside her queen, gently stopping her hands with her own to demonstrate the proper technique again. Every so often her honey eyes would drift to glance at Heahmund before finding their way back to the weaving.

"Do manners exist in Crete?" Heahmund mutters.

"Much more than in England, I'm sure."

Loud chatter and footsteps were heard, a cue for Dafi to open the hall doors to let the hunting party in. The hounds could be heard barking, and the smell of dead animal flesh suddenly filled the hall. The kitchen thralls immediately scattered in, helping to bring in the game.

Heracles barks upon the sight of Ivar and Hvitserk, immediately stomping towards them in glee.

"Wife, you must calm this beast." Ivar mutters, watching how the mastiff stood on its hind legs, his paws placed on Hvitserk's shoulders.

"He loves the lot of you." She replies, placing down her tools to formally greet her husband. She smiles at him. He was covered in dirt, no doubt from crawling about with his bow.

"And why does Heahmund wear such a face? Tired of watching women weave all day?" Hvitserk jokes, now roughhousing with Heracles.

"He should take a turn at it, seeing as he bickers like an old crone looking to hear village gossip." Artemis says, softly wiping the dirt from Ivar's flushed cheeks with the edges of her sleeves as he held her close to him. He looked exhausted.

"Have you all the time to stand here and pester me so?" Heahmund barks out with no real heat behind his words. He laughs walking forward to clasp Hvitserk's hand, then to bow to his king in the Saxon tradition.

"It is a fun past time, I dare say," Hvitserk smirks, "Now someone please get this dog off of me." Heahmund grabs Heracles by his silver collar, hauling him down.

"How fair's my wife on the loom?" Ivar addresses Geirdis who stood quietly in the back of all the commotion. With her hands clasped behind her back she dutifully responds.

"She will improve, in time, My King."

"She means I'm terrible." Artemis sighs, smiling up at Ivar like a child.

"She doesn't lie." Says Heahmund with a snort. Ivar sucks his teeth.

"Quit teasing. Now, if you will all excuse us," Ivar addresses the hall, "I'd like to rest with my wife."

"My love, I must see to the preparations of the meat before evening." Artemis whispers to him, successfully earning a frown from the king.

"Surely that can wait? My legs ache," He says back just as quietly, a twinkle forming in his blue eyes.

"What kind of Queen would I be then?" She smiles, pecking his lips quickly, "Geirdis will prepare our chambers for you. Once everything is stored I will come for you." Ivar smiles, placing a kiss to her brow.

"Very well, go be a Queen."

...

The sky was overcast, the sun's radiance blocked by gray clouds, preventing the warm rays from penetrating over Kattegat. The farmers scrambled to continue their harvest before winter came with its harsh grip, and the fishermen pushed their small boats into the sea for their morning catch.

Artemis sweeps through the bustling village, passing pleasantries with the people who greet her, some keeping a distance from the mastiff that trotted beside her. It had been a few weeks since the wedding and her ascension as queen. Things were much different, yet nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The people held her in higher regards, of course, but life simply went on, for which she was grateful.

"Dafi?"

"Yes, my Queen?"

"Does it not bore you having to follow me? You're like a shadow," Artemis jokes to him, offering the young man a smile. It was plainly obvious why Aria admired him so.

Dafi only shrugs.

"I suppose it is rather silly when you look at it that way, my Queen. It is merely my duty to escort you, always."

"Yes, but does it bore you?" Dafi remains silent for a moment, not sure how to answer the question exactly.

"Come now," She smiles, "I've better humor than my husband."

"I assure you, my Queen, it is an honor to be by your side." Dafi cracks a smile. His usual stoic demeanor faltered for a moment, revealing a boyish smile under all that seriousness. He wasn't being honest, but she supposed it was alright, he seemed in good cheer and that was enough.

"Then I release you from your duties for the day, Dafi." His flaxen colored brows furrow at her words.

"But my Queen-"

"Go and spend your day the way you'd want to if I weren't a burden." She says nonchalantly, using the tips of her fingers to skim over Heracles's short fur.

"King Ivar will not be pleased once he is informed."

"Then be sure not to inform him, hm?" Dafi was not convinced. It has always been his duty to be her loyal shadow, as commanded by Ivar.

"Do you intend to escort yourself?"

"Of course not! I have my dog for the company." Heracles perks up to gaze at them both when he hears his name, his wrinkled face covered in drool.

"Your dog, my Queen?"

"Mhm. I'll just be with Master Hagen. Go about your day, Dafi." His features screamed skepticism, but he couldn't deny an order from the Queen.

"Very well, my Queen." She smiles, nodding him off before heading to Master Hagen's shop.

With the increase of trade, many have come to make a living in Kattegat. There was an influx of craftsmen, potters, weavers, bakers, and blacksmiths, many coming from the failing town of Hedeby. After Lagertha's death, the village was taken over by a series of Jarls, who only pushed the village back deeper into misery.

Once it was known that Kattegat's Queen was a blacksmith herself, many wanted to come and show off their work in the hope of gaining the King and Queen's favor, but an increase in forgers meant an increase in competition. Despite the growth in competition, Artemis still only chose to go to Master Hagen. She would honor Arvid's father.

Arvid's father was an ailing man, but the glint in his eye was that of a youthful man. He was intelligent, and quite a talented blacksmith, reminding Artemis of her own father at times, which made some visits difficult. His white beard was braided, and a silver bead was placed at its end. His fading tattoos were a reminder of his younger days, fighting in Ragnar Lothbrok's army.

Her mastiff bounded into the shop as if he owned it, sniffing about the things he has sniffed many times before as if they were new.

"My Queen, I was not expecting you." Master Hagen greets, his aging eyes following Artemis as she enters, removing her hood and shaking off the morning chill.

"This is no place for a queen." The old man nags, but already knew she came with purpose. Artemis snorts, removing her fur lined cloak and placing it aside.

"The title does not change anything." She moves towards the back, fetching a pair of gloves she favored for her work.

"Oh, but it changes everything." He chuckles, scratching at his beard, "A queen sits upon a throne and does not dirty her hands." He notices her usual guard was missing, but he says nothing about it.

"I was born a blacksmith, and I think that shall remain until the end of my days." The Queen says to him, "I would not be true to myself if I left such a life behind." Master Hagen smiles at her words, nodding in understanding.

"Very well, my Queen."

"And Arne?"

"Fetching more wood."

"Excellent," She smiles, "We've much work to do."

"Oh?" The older blacksmith raises his brows.

"I'm sure you have noticed the recent influx of villagers?" The old man nods.

"Many of them come with skill, Master Hagen, which means more competition for you." The old man frowns but listens attentively, "I suggest you take on at least two more apprentices, that way you may flourish."

"But my Queen," Master Hagen sighs, "I've not the strength to take on such a task. I am but an old man. Arvid was to oversee the shop, but he is making a name for himself in England. It would prove to be difficult."

"I will help you," Artemis smiles brightly, "And I'm sure many others will come looking for work. Your trade will increase, and you will be able to retire peacefully. I will see that you are well taken care of." The old man hesitates, mulling over the idea before nodding.

"Very well, I will do as you ask."

The rest of the day went by uneventfully. Artemis decided to look after Arne's work, while Master Hagen dealt with a few customers that came for minor purchases.

Arne was a gifted young man, already showing talent in his trade. He was 16 years, beginning his training a few years prior before moving to Kattegat and finding a new master to teach him.

He was nervous around her, stuttering when she praised him, bending his head low in a timidness whenever she moved to instruct him. He'd never known a woman of high stature to dirty her hands as the freemen did. But he didn't know her full story.

Later in the day, a woman stops by, one Artemis was not familiar with. Her hair was so pale it appeared silver, and her eyes were slanted like a fox. She had a smile on her face as she greeted the Queen formally, extending the greeting to Master Hagen. She appeared to be searching for something, her eyes quickly scanning the entirety of the shop before her eyes landed back to the Queen. Artemis was bewildered but says nothing, thinking perhaps the woman needed to purchase something for her household.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Master Hagen asks her.

"Oh, not in particular. I was hoping to have a word with the Queen? Of course, if she has a moment to spare." Artemis nods, removing her gloves. She then glances at a hammer nearby, deciding to tie it onto her belt before instructing. She never made the mistake of leaving without it anymore as it proved useful. She instructs Arne to continue his work before smiling at the unknown woman, who peers at the hammer before stepping out into the busy streets.

"I'm afraid we haven't formally met?" Artemis says to the woman, tightening her rich cloak about her shoulders. The woman nods before answering.

"I meant no offense, Queen Artemis. My name is Dabria. I have just moved here from Hedeby."

"It is a pleasure, Dabria. Forgive me for being so bold, but if your family intends to remain in Kattegat, then you must all pledge your allegiances to King Ivar."

"I came alone, My Queen. I've no family." Artemis takes in her state of dress. She wore tightly fitted breeches, and a leather vest.

"You're a warrior." Artemis states, and Dabria nods.

"I wish to join the king's army, my Queen."

"Well, if your skills are noteworthy, then I'm sure he will not hesitate to accept you." They walked about Kattegat for a while, discussing the weather and the wealth of the town. Heracles trailed behind them, following his mistress loyally. Dabria speaks of her admiration of Kattegat, how lovely the trees must have looked in the summer months.

Kattegat was beautiful from this height, nothing at all from what Artemis remembered when she was a slave. There was something about the view of the mountains that calmed her, or at least, eased her mind just a bit. She understood Ivar's need to find solitude there. It was peaceful.

Both she and Dabria watched the scenery, and the silver haired woman breaks the silence.

"You seem like a humble woman, Queen Artemis, which makes this so much harder." Artemis turns to look at the woman, her brows furrowing.

"What are you talking about?" Dabria removes a dagger from the pocket of her breeches, unsheathing it to reveal a glittering blade. Artemis swallows thickly, her fingertips lightly skimming her own dagger she kept strapped to her thigh. A gift from Ivar, he told her to always keep it on her person. Looks like she'd be using it.

"Lagertha was an amazing woman," Dabria starts, surprised at how calm the Queen was. She expected a few tears by now, maybe an attempt to flee. She points her dagger towards her, "How could a woman untrained in the arts of battle be the cause of Lagertha's death?"

"I'd call it luck. The rest believe it was the gods who willed it. You may choose what you want to believe. Now what are your intentions with that dagger?"

Dabria smiles, slowly approaching Artemis with a grin.

"I intend to avenge Lagertha."

...

The Queen sniffles, wiping her face to rid herself of the angry tears with the back of her hand. Her eyebrows were arched angrily and her knuckles were white from gripping the hammer tightly. Her eyes were trained on the quiet scene before her.

Heracles laid beside her, his tongue lapping over his dark snout now covered in blood. His eyes were closed but his ears were entirely alert to the smallest of sounds.

She glances down at her hammer, using the hem of her torn dress to wipe the remnants of blood from its surface, grateful she followed her instincts.

The seer had been right in saying such hardships would surface, but so soon?

Dabria was clearly a supporter of Lagertha, a shieldmaiden bent on revenge. Despite her fox like features, she lacked the wit that foxes were known for.

Her dagger cut through Artemis's dress, slicing deeply into the soft skin of her shoulder. The Queen was lucky to have been quick in her own movements.

Artemis presses a hand tightly to her wound, hoping the pressure would alleviate the blood and pain that was blossoming now that the adrenaline had ceased.

She had hit the woman twice, once in the stomach and once to her face. The swing of the hammer was powerful enough to emit a sickening cracking sound from the woman's jaw, now dislocated. It had stunned the both of them, Artemis's eyes widening as she saw the woman drool and spit out significant amounts of blood. Her jaw was loose from its place.

The same feeling she felt at the war camp when beating the man's face was the same feeling she had at that very moment, and before she could lift her hammer to bring it down atop the woman's silver head, Heracles pounced, attacking viciously.

His teeth sank into her arm, the very one that held the dagger ready to attack, tackling her down. Then he went straight for her face, destroying her visage until it was nothing but a fleshy mess between his teeth. The beast growled over the warrior's dead body, before directing it towards an approaching figure, Dafi, who now held an unresponsive Artemis in his arms.

"My Queen," Dafi says to her, his blue eyes pleading with her, "Command your beast to stand down."

Artemis stared at the woman, face destroyed, body twisted in a way that reflected her dog's strength. She had not noticed that Dafi had found her, nor did she care. Moments ago she was fighting against this woman, and now, she drew in her last breathe. Heracles continued to growl, his protectiveness not dying down despite knowing Dafi very well. He slowly inched forward, ready to attack him with any sudden movement.

"My Queen," Dafi tries again, his eyes never leaving the angry creature before him. Artemis blinks, catching her breath before removing herself from Dafi's grip.

"Heracles," She commanded sternly, "Stop." The dog lets out one last growl before quieting, replacing angry noises with whining. He sits, staring up at her with large eyes, bloody snout and paws, awaiting the next command. Artemis says nothing. She spits at the fresh corpse.

Stupid woman.

She only armed herself with a dagger, perhaps not to attract unnecessary attention to herself. Or likely assuming Artemis lacked the strength and was but a weak woman. A weak woman would not have the strength that came from the many years of beating metal.

She walks down towards the path her feet wanted to go, if only to find a moments peace. Waving her hand to her large pup, he immediately follows her, leaving the guard stunned.

"My Queen!" He called after her, but she didn't stop. The commotion had spread to the rest of the village as the people came to crowd around the body of the dead woman to take a look, the ravens already feasting upon the bloody mess. The murmurs spread almost immediately, reaching the Great Hall.

Lagertha was dead, yet her spirit haunted Kattegat, Artemis realizes that. They wanted revenge. King Ivar so easily killed their queen, and so shall they with his. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, her ears picking up the sounds of boots crunching against the grass.

"My Queen," Dafi says cautiously, "King Ivar had appointed me to protect you, and I have failed." He keeps a distance from her, in case her dog decided that his presence was unwanted.

"I'm not dead." She says.

"But I should have been there-"

"Why do you blame yourself?" She asks him quietly, not bothering to look at him, "I sent you away, did i not?" She continued to press her hand against the flesh of her shoulder, blood now seeping through the fabric. It would not be wise to lose any more blood.

"I was not there to protect you."

"You could not have known."

"Artemis!" Hvitserk's familiar voice causes Heracles to bark. It echoed into the mountain ranges for all to hear, like a menacing threat that seemed to rattle over the entire land of Norway.

He pushes past Dafi, already noticing the wound on her shoulder.

"What happened?" Hvitserk asks breathlessly, removing her hand only to see blood. His eyes settle on her hammer, then on Heracles's bloody snout. He sighs, turning to look at Dafi with a glare.

"Is it not your responsibility to protect her? The king will be here any second and only the gods know what he'll do." That was Ivar's cue to enter, his chariot coming into view. His mare ran at full speed, and when he pulled the reins to stop, the chariot lurched forward at the velocity. There was a fire in his clear eyes, a rage that Artemis had not seen in quite some time.

He hopped off, his hands dragging him quickly towards Dafi, but before the guard could create his string of apologies, Ivar swipes an arm against his shins, causing Dafi to tumble hard to the ground, a dagger already placed dangerously against his throat before he could groan at the impact.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you right now." Ivar says to him, his wild eyes shining with anger. His face was so close to Dafi's that the guard was speechless, expecting the blade to slice his throat.

"My king, I-"

"Do not bore me with excuses." Ivar hisses, the point of the blade piercing the delicate skin of Dafi's neck, blood already pooling at the punctured area.

"Ivar," Artemis calls out to him, pleading, "It was not his fault, it was mine. I sent him away. Do not hurt him." Ivar sucks his teeth, but his gaze never leaves the frightened man below him.

"He still had a duty to uphold. And he failed."

"Do not kill him." She stresses, her voice dark and stern, nothing like he's ever heard. It was enough for him to look over at her, her eyes hard and lips set in a line.

Ivar sucks his teeth again, flicking his wrist quickly and swiping his dagger with expert precision, slicing along Dafi's cheekbone and up towards his temple. The guard hisses but says nothing, as he knew without the Queen intervening, he would surely be dead by now.

"Fortune smiles down on you," Ivar spits out, "Her mercy is what keeps you alive. You are released from the duty of guarding the Queen. Now, get out of my sight." Dafi stood, eyes downcast in shame. He turns round and walks away from the party. It was the little mercy Ivar would show him.

"Bishop," Ivar's fiery eyes turn to the cropped haired man, "Take a few men with you and scout the area. Lagertha's supporters must be near, and wherever they are, surely my brothers are not far. Go." Heahmund nods, quickly glancing at Artemis before motioning to the other men to move out.

Artemis slumps against Hvitserk, head hanging low. She lowers herself on the dry grass, her wound aching. She felt tired. Ivar crawls over quickly, pushing Hvitserk away to grab hold of her. She keeps silent, not bothering to look at him, yet he places sweet kisses over her head, running a hand down the length of her hair as he's always done in comfort.

"You are a warrior, and don't even know it," He says to her softly, cradling her close.

"I'd hardly call myself that. I have the dog to thank." Her voice wavered as she found it difficult to speak. He places a hand to her thigh, the one he knew she strapped her dagger to. It was still there.

"You had no need for the dagger?"

"The hammer did its job."

"Mhm," Ivar hummed in agreement, "I saw the mess you made of her. Her body will be burned in the village square tonight for all to see. The people will know the strength of their Queen, and the consequences of treason." Artemis says nothing, her mind still going over the events of the day.

Hvitserk begins to silently tie a leather strip about the thick silver chain Heracles wore around his neck, leading the beast away with much struggle.

"Have the thralls feed him the rabbit meat he is so fond of. He deserves it." Ivar's tone was so gentle, it was hard to believe that moments ago he was nothing short from furious.

Hvitserk nods, pulling the beast away, and only when he was far enough, Ivar begins his soothing again.

"You're hurt, my love, I must get you to the healer at once." Artemis nods, slowly standing up with the help of her good arm, waiting for Ivar to quickly crawl over to his chariot. He waits for her to stand beside him then grips the reins, slapping them against the mare. The beast began to move at a moderate pace.

"This is what the seer meant," She says to him quietly, "This is what he meant by the hardships, the dark shadow that looms."

"And we will deal with it together," Ivar says, "There is nothing that will stand against us."

"Who had warned you?" Artemis asks suddenly.

"Arne, Hagen's apprentice. Said the old man was worried when you had not returned for a while. Arne searched for Dafi, and Dafi warned the other guards."

"You rid him of his post, but surely you won't humiliate him further?" She had that tone, the pleading one, Ivar could already detect it. She did have a much kinder heart then he.

"I will send him back to the lower ranks for a while, until I decide what to do with him."

"It was not his fault." Artemis repeats. Ivar nods.

"I know, my love."

They entered through all the bustling activity, and the people stared as they passed through, whispers of the Queen reaching them until they closed the doors of the Great Hall.

...

@heavenly1927 @didiintheblog @leilabeaux @jzr201 @inforapound @a-mess-of-fandoms @rastakami23 @ostra814 @zumzum96

#vikings #ivar #ivar imagine #ivarfanfiction #vikings ivar #ivarxofc #alex hogh andersen #ivar the boneless

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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!

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for-a-muse-of-fire · 4 years

Text

and flew like a moth to you

the wench and the witcher

“and flew like a moth to you”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Pairing: Geralt of Riva x Fem!POC Reader

Summary: Geralt interrupts you at prayer and finds his own idolatry.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY - very brief mention of intercourse, some swearing.

A/N: I’m soft for Geralt and there’s nothing to be done about it. Sorry/not sorry. Title and lyrics below the cut taken from Hozier’s “Sunlight” off of the Wasteland, Baby! album and I’ve realized that I honestly cannot choose a favorite song from that album, but “Sunlight” is real close.

@coconutxraikage ; @kingniazx ; @onyour-right ; @c-s-stars ; @kianya-loves ; @gczanetti1 ; @alwaysnatz ; @ly--canthrope

But whose heart would not take flight? Betray the moon as acolyte On first and fierce affirming sight Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

It’s the scent that pulls him from the blessed stillness of sleep. Sweet, smoky, musky… incense? Geralt inhales slowly as wakefulness creeps in. The sun slants over his face and makes him squeeze his eyelids against the piercing brightness. He grumbles about it and rolls over, frowning when he finds the space beside him on the bed is empty. The vague disappointment is enough to force him to open his eyes, but when he blinks his vision clear, he finds an enchanting sight for his troubles.

Your hair is a mess. An utterly riotous tumble of curls, it falls over your back and down one smooth shoulder. The white of your slip fairly glows against the rich brown of your skin. You’re kneeling, strong legs tucked under your backside and hands resting lightly on your thighs. He sees blue-grey smoke filtering around your head and cranes his neck – the small cabinet in front of you is open, revealing a small altar. It holds a few items that he can’t quite place, some almost-shapeless clay figures, along with a point of cloudy crystal and a small brass censer.

You whisper – pray. It’s low and soft, a language that he’s not altogether versed in, but he can pick out a few words: ‘Mother’, ‘protect and keep’. His name slips over your lips, as well, and it warms something inside of him. He’s content to watch you for a few more moments, admiring the way the incense smoke halos its way around your head before he speaks at last:

“Hearth witch.”

He grins when you huff, somewhere between irritated and amused. You touch your fingertips to your lips, then to one of the figures on your altar – the one with a more feminine curvature to its shape. The incense in its brass holder is crushed out to stop its smoldering. “Witches have magic, I have none,” you grouse at him. You turn to glare, as well, but Geralt catches the smile behind your eyes. “And you said I would have been able to sense the... what did you call it?”

“Chaos.”

“Aye,” you smirk and stand, closing your altar away as you continue. “The chaos. I’m not a conduit, my mother was not a conduit. We never had power just… belief.”

He raises an eyebrow when you turn to look at him. You squint back.

“Oh, shut up,” you growl. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s not that odd. She believed that there are things in this world beyond explanation; things that are meant to be respected and revered…”

Geralt watches your expression go soft. The smile on your face is fond, but sad. He feels a pang of something akin to jealousy and the memory of flame-red hair flashes through his mind for one slow heartbeat before he can shove it aside. “You were close to her, your mother,” he observes and sits up in bed. The wood floor is cool under his bare feet.

You nod. “Yes. She taught me everything. Taught me how to cook.”

Geralt smirks. “Gods be praised for that.”

“Blasphemer,” you gasp in mock indignation and can’t keep the act up for more than a moment before you laugh. Geralt lets himself grin, studies you in your mirth until you meet his gaze again.

“Do witchers hold any beliefs?” you ask.

He snorts. “Sure. If I can see it, and spend it, then it’s real.”

You roll your eyes at him in that way that he finds oddly endearing. Your bare feet whisper across the floorboards as you move closer and you’re needling him with more questions, but then you step into a gold-toned shaft of early morning sunshine that sparks over your hair. You are suddenly bright, and warm, and vital before him and Geralt’s mouth goes dry in a most unexpected way.

“Hold on,” he murmurs.

“What? What is it?”

“Just… stay there a moment.”

The sun turns you to a statue of bronze and gold. He stares, because he can, because your skin looks flawlessly smooth and your hair is dark and soft, and wild about your face. The outline of your body is visible through the thin white cotton covering it, from the enticing swell of your hips to the curve of your breasts. Dust motes swirl their way around you, coupling with the last of the fragrant incense as the smoke dissipates. Geralt drinks in the gilded, soft-focus sight of you and thinks, maybe, he could understand the concept of reverence.

You fidget and whisper, “What?”

He locks his gaze on yours. Shot through with the light, your eyes look to him like polished amber and it makes his chest go tight. Your soft, nervous laughter finally breaks the spell and the witcher gives his head a shake before holding out a hand to you. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “You were asking me questions.”

You take his hand and crawl into his lap. He gives a low rumble of pleasure when your legs bracket his hips and he lets his hands spread over your back to keep you close. His nose pushes through the soft mass of your hair and he inhales slowly; the smokiness of the incense lingers, mixes with the honey-sweet smell of your skin. He brushes his lips over your shoulder and shiver that runs through you makes him grin.

“I just…” you trail off on a sigh as he begins laying kisses along your collarbone. “Is there nothing you worship?”

Geralt smirks against your skin. “Officially? No. Unofficially…”

He lifts his head to kiss you. Slides his hands under the cotton of your shift to lift it over your head and toss it aside; presses his fingers into the soft give of your flesh, shudders when your fingernails scratch gently over the nape of his neck. You sigh into his mouth.

When he lays you down, sheathes himself inside of you, he chants your name in return. Your arch for him, gasp for him, naked and glowing and so fucking glorious. He whispers praises against your shoulder when he comes.

It’s probably as close to prayer as he’ll ever get.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt x woc reader #the witcher netflix #geralt x poc!reader #the wench and the witcher #fanfic #fanficiton #tutu scribbles

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moody-bloosh · 4 years

Text

only (Pannacotta Fugo)

Ahhh, midterms have just been the worst. I’m sorry I’ve been so inactive,,, I’ll be back to working on some requests soon. So in the meantime, I hope you guys enjoy some yandere fugo. ^^

word count: 2594

content warning: yandere, homicide, kidnapping, violence

He is all they ever talk about, always, on and on, for as long as you can remember.

Why can’t you be more like Fugo?

You know of him and his triumphs better than anyone else, which is an achievement in itself as you had never even properly met the boy. Aside from passing glances you send in his direction at the posh private school the both of you once attended, the teachers fawned over the brilliant boy and cast only chagrined, faux cheerful smiles in your direction. The message was clear. He was the golden boy and you were nothing compared to him.

When you are finally able to properly meet him, it is at your school's library. Rows of books were painted a pastel orange as the sound of children playing could be heard faintly. He was never out playing with the others, so you had tailed him to this place. And now that you see him properly, you understand of how unfair life is when he looks up and his eyes meet yours. Because he is beautiful, and he makes your hands tremble when they touch and just a glance from him is enough to make your heart skip a beat. He looks disinterested when you introduce yourself and he shakes your hand, and that is enough to break your little heart. Your crush is over as soon as it began.

That day you declared that you would beat him. He was your rival, whether he liked it or not. He had only returned your passionate declaration with a blank look and you were too far gone in your anger at his lack of a reaction that you failed to notice the light blush dusting his cheeks. That afternoon, you trailed after him in the library silently marveling at how he could read all those hard books. You sat close to him, trying to wrap your mind around the difficult concepts. This would prompt him to lean over to explain them to you. Your cheeks burn from embarrassment and you haughtily told him you didn't need his help. But he would only snort at your display. You felt the gulf between you widening. But you could care less about that.

When you return home from school, you promptly throw yourself into your studies and activities even harder. You would catch up to him, no, you would surpass him. And then, maybe then, you would be the one your parents beamed with pride about, you would be the one they bragged about.

Maybe then, you would be enough for them.

But no matter how hard, how diligent you are. It is never enough. He is always better, always smarter. His name is always above yours during exams. And one day when you run over to the library for your study session he is gone. You wait until your chauffeur comes to pick you up. It is only when you are back home that you learn that he is headed off to college while you struggled, futile, under his shadow. You study until your head hurts, until the words blur, until the surface beneath you is wet with tears.

He never said anything.

Always out of reach, he is the sun to your Icarus, until he isn't anymore. His scandal rocks all of society. You can't help it, your lips twitch as a smile twists on your face. The news of his misfortune spreads like wildfire. So he had been cast out, so they couldn't even show their face in high society. Finally, you are the miracle child in everyone's eyes. Finally, you are enough. Right?

Your smile fades, replaced by cold realization. Tears you don't know you are shedding fall to the floor.

It feels empty.

You are older now. And you realize how heavy your parents' expectations really are. Before you had not noticed, simply because you were too preoccupied with trying to one up Pannacotta Fugo. You attend the same university as he did. And for the first time you understand why he did it, you understand how difficult he must have had it too.

You are sitting in the library, stifling your sobs as your anxiety gets the better of you. You cover your mouth with both hands so that you don't make anymore sounds. Perfection was a weight around your heart, creeping hands around your neck that choked and prodded with each and every action. In your mind's eye, you can see the look of disappointment in your parents' eyes. Your memories play back the sound of exasperation they make as they realize that you will never match up to the disgraced but brilliant Fugo.

Not enough. Not enough.

It takes a few bills, a few whispers in someone's ear, and you have the book he used to assault that man. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest as your fingers brush over the spine of the book. It is still bloodied; you note with a morbid satisfaction. You hide the book in a loose floorboard under your bed. You don't know what it is that compels you to do it. It was an insanely risky move on your part. If word of this got out…

But you couldn't care less. Rather, you take perverse satisfaction in it.

It is your dirty little secret.

You look at yourself in the mirror and you understand the blank look on his face. It is lonely at the top and even more lonely to fight for your place on it. So you don't hesitate. Your eyes met, for just the briefest moment, and you promptly tell your chauffeur to stop the car. You stumble out of the car, heart pounding, dashing after him desperately. The only one who could truly understand you.

Your hand reaches out to touch him.

Do you remember me? I remember you.

Something or someone pushes you down to the floor and you are hitting the pavement with a sickening force. You hear a gun cocking and cold metal presses against your forehead. Your stomach turns. This couldn't be happening. Not when he was so close. Blood rushes in your ears as you expect your world to comprise of pain but it never comes. Instead you hear shouting and then you are pulled to your feet. Fugo is in your face, his eyes twisted with concern and worry.

"_____?" He says and your heart twists, you've never known your name could sound so beautiful until this moment. "_____, are you alright?"

"Fugo…" You blinked, "i-it's you, it's really you."

"Well, duh, you idiot. What are you doing in this part of town?" At that, his eyes turn to whoever your mysterious assailant must be, his gaze is downright murderous. You turn hesitantly to see a man, he dons a cap, a cashmere sweater that barely covers him, and a pair of leather pants. There's an almost apologetic smile on the man's lips as other colorfully dressed people surround you. You can't help it, you cling on to the only person you know, twisting instincively behind Fugo.

"Who's this?" The man in white asks.

"Just an old friend," Fugo explains in an even tone, a sudden shift from his panicked tone from earlier. "I'll catch up later; do you mind?"

The man considers you before he nods and the colorful group follows him into a restaurant. Fugo takes this as his cue to lead you to a nearby cafe. You plop down awkwardly in a seat in front of him as he orders some tea and you ask for some cake. The waiter leaves and the two of you are plunged into an awkward silence. Not silence, he is observing you. Two can play at that game.

He chuckles as you pointedly glare at him. A fond look in his eyes as he leans back in his chair. Such a far cry from the stiff little boy you'd known in your childhood. In contrast, your back is tensed straight, your hands folded neatly on the table.

"You haven't changed," he notes, a nostalgic glimmer in his eyes, "you look better than before."

"O-of course naturally, I see you're looking, erm, healthy as well."

You avert your gaze awkwardly as you take a bite of your cake. You have a million questions you want to ask him. Why didn't you say goodbye? What did you do when they threw you out? Are you seeing anyone? But you force yourself to settle on one question. Because you need to take your time. You would see him again; you'd make sure of it.

You turn back to him, a small smile on your lips, "are you happy?"

He smiles back at you, a smile that sends you back to that afternoon in the library. .

"I am."

"That's great!"

At least one of us is.

Your secrets grow deeper and deeper. Before you leave, you hand him a scrap of paper. Your contact details are scrawled elegantly on it.

"Don't lose that, I hear my contact information goes for quite a large sum around here," you joke. "Shall we meet here again? It's not often I run into an old friend."

"That would be nice, I'll see you next week, same time, same place."

You stand up, a triumphant grin on your face, "don't miss me too much."

Whenever you meet up, you always make it a point to grab the check. He must have fallen on hard times; look at the holes in his clothes! So you dote on Fugo, you cherish the time you spend with him, and you hoard the memories of his smile to yourself. Because at least he is happy, at least he is smiling. It gives you hope that you can achieve this level of happiness as well, or perhaps, just being with him… Perhaps this was your happiness.

Maybe you had gotten complacent. Maybe you had been too greedy. You are on the ground again, your cheek stinging. Your father throws the stack of photos at you and you don’t even flinch. How could you think that they wouldn’t notice, that they wouldn’t come to know of your meetings with Fugo? How could you embarrass them like this? How foolish were you to think you could be anything like him?

Did you think you could be happy with him?

Yes. Your parents’ words hang heavy in your heart and you find yourself thinking back to that day in the library where he returned your feelings with an empty stare. You can’t find it in yourself to think about other pleasant things, like how he spent the rest of his afternoons with you, how he patiently taught you the more difficult concepts he had already grasped. You fixate on the thought that no matter how many afternoons he spent by your side, he still couldn’t find it in him to at least tell you that he was leaving.

“You are never to meet with him ever again, is that clear?”

When you take too long to respond, your father snatches you up by your collar. His hand hovering dangerously close to your face. Even with the threat of violence, you find it in yourself to try at the very least. No matter what, if you could at least say goodbye to him. You’d willingly resign yourself to whatever fate they had in store for you.

You are the only thing. The only thing in that terrible world that made me happy.

The café is as silent and idyllic as ever. But today, you ask him if he wants to do something different. Today, you walk with him, hand in hand as he tells you a little bit more about his friends, his life. He tells you that he looks forward to your little rendezvous every other week. And your heart twists, you want to commit every little detail with him to memory. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. To know what you want but be told you can’t have it. To love someone so deeply, so wholly. You can’t do this anymore. You can’t spend anymore time with him. Because it will shake your resolve, because it will make you want more and more and more.

“I- I have to tell you something, Fugo.”

I love you.

“I can’t see you anymore. It-it’s not right for me to be with you.”

“Fuck what’s right or wrong,” he hisses, his hold on your hands tightening. “What do you want to do?”

“I-I…” I want to be with you. “I want to say goodbye.”

Goodbye, to the only one who could ever understand you. Goodbye to your happiness.

Goodbye, my only friend.

The words are barely out of your mouth when he takes it upon himself to silence you. You can’t say it; he won’t let you say it. He pushes you against the alley, his fingers tangled in your hair as he pushes his kisses on you.

“I won’t let them take you away,” he says in between kisses and then even softer. “You’re mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Please,” you whimper tears in your eyes, because your heart is so full it’s about to burst. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“No,” he snaps, “you’re the one who’s making this difficult.”

“F-Fugo, stop. It hurts…”

“You love me too, don’t you?”

It is in this moment that Fugo frightens you. There was something in his tone that just didn’t sit right with you, the way he had you caged in his arms, pressed against the alley. You remember the bloody book tucked under your bed and you wonder if perhaps, you had chosen to blind yourself to certain things about him. There had always been little things in the way he phrased his words with you that unsettled you but you never spoke up about it. You feared that speaking up would drive a wedge between the two of you, and you had been so lonely for companionship. Besides, Fugo would never hurt you. You were his dearest friend, the only one from his childhood who he didn’t actively dislike, right? Right?

“Choose me,” he says and when he leans forward for another kiss you push him away.

It’s an instinctive thing, not meant to hurt his feelings. You are about to explain when he grabs you by your shoulders and slams you against the alley. Hard enough for it to hurt, hard enough for inky darkness to sweep past your vision.

It wasn’t your fault, he thinks. If you couldn’t choose, then he would pick for you. He understands how difficult it is to go against family. He understands that well. After all, you are his dearest childhood friend. You were a bright spot in his childhood. You were a breath of fresh air in his suffocating home. You are the only one he considers his intellectual equal. Always, you were always chasing after him, looking up to him. You were the only one who spoke to him. You were the closest thing he had to a friend.

He apologizes, over and over again. He didn’t mean to hit you that hard. He just wanted you to understand and you just weren’t getting it. Perhaps if he showed you an example, you would understand. Yes, that was right. He’d teach you the right answer.

Perhaps, his first example would be that hateful family of yours that tried to keep the two of you apart.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere jjba #pannacotta fugo #pannacotta fugo x reader #vento aureo #golden wind #play #side b

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kaesaaurelia · 4 years

Text

here’s your shining sword and spear

For @whumptober2020 day 19: "Broken Hearts” (and incorporating all three suggested themes, “grief,” “mourning loved one,” and “survivor’s guilt”)

Allusion to Satan/Crowley, brief mention of an ill-fated OC / OC pairing, and an OC having a one-sided crush on Michael.

This fic has a companion piece about Crowley here that focuses more on Satan/Crowley and what Hell was like just after the war, but you don’t need to have read that to read this.

Content warning for discussion of a failed suicide attempt, and for Heaven being a toxic work environment.

"It's not too late to stay here," Vehuel said, hopefully. "I'll go for you and that way you can just do whatever you want until we get back."

"No, no, I have to go, Lucifer wants me there," said Gadreel, glowing with pride. "I'm his favorite."

Vehuel bit back a remark about this; they'd had this discussion too many times already, about how Lucifer treated his favorites, and about how Gadreel deserved better than that. He could be as proud as he wanted of what Lucifer said to him, but Lucifer was careless and cruel, and used flattery very deliberately, and Vehuel hoped very much that he would be remade into a better version of himself after all this. Perhaps a version with less authority over Gadreel. A version that would grovel in apology for the deeds of his predecessor, and would never make anyone tremble with fear because they'd made a very small mistake with gravity that hadn't even been permanent, and that would also maybe stand still while Vehuel punched him. That seemed fair; it wasn't like Vehuel could hurt him, after all. But it would be cathartic. "I'm sure he wouldn't want you to get hurt for his sake, then," Vehuel lied. "Since he likes you so much." Gadreel's wings flicked in irritation, because he knew that wasn't true, but he didn't dare call her on it.

"I'll be fine," Gadreel insisted. "And besides, I'd love to see the look on that wanker Gabriel's face when we storm in and take Heaven. Aren't you looking forward to that?

"Yeah, I guess," she said. She did kind of want to see Gabriel's face when it turned out she'd been the one to save all of Heaven from Lucifer's poorly-thought-out plan. (Gabriel would not be there; he and all his underlings would miss the entire war for a lengthy meeting of the Human Design Team. He would never see Vehuel as anything but a troublesome and suspicious remnant of Lucifer's forces.) "I'm just worried something bad will happen to you," she said.

"You're always worried something bad will happen to me and it never does, Vehuel, I don't know why you think I can't take care of myself," said Gadreel. Vehuel stopped herself from reminding him of the time he'd almost licked a raw singularity. She would regret that restraint later. "Besides, God told you not to worry, didn't She?"

Vehuel snorted; she knew he was being difficult for difficulty's sake. "I thought we were disobeying Her now?" she asked, with an ironic twist of her spirals.

"I'm just saying," he said. "Anyway, why don't you lend me some of your eyes? Then I could see trouble coming."

If he saw trouble coming, Vehuel knew, he'd leap right into it. "I really don't want to, sorry," she said, drawing her wings over herself nervously, to hide some of the glow of her halo. At least Gadreel wouldn't doubt her sincerity. He didn't know she had the mysterious thing Michael had given her, the Weapon. It ought to have made her more confident, but it frightened her that Michael thought she'd need it. "I'm kind of worried I won't be able to take care of myself?" she admitted.

"What?" he asked, sounding almost outraged. "No! Why? You're bigger and meaner than me, I need the eyes more."

"No, you're definitely meaner than me," she said. "Remember what you did to poor Len?" She'd been very sad about Len breaking up with her, sure, but it wasn't really his fault she was clingy and annoying and didn't love him enough.

"He deserved it," said Gadreel. "It was justice. It's not really meanness if it's deserved, is it?"

"I don't think anyone really deserves to be tied to a comet and left for a few million years until he's missed at the next all hands meeting," Vehuel said.

"Sure they do! Anyway, you're still bigger than me."

"By a smidge, Gadreel, it won't matter if either of us has to fight -- I don't know, Michael or someone like that." She prayed Gadreel would have the good sense never to fight Michael, and knew in her heart that Gadreel would never have any good sense. "Listen, how about you stay in front and I go behind you and watch out for anyone trying to sneak up. We'll work together." They always worked well together, even when they weren't getting along.

"Oh, fine," he said, rolling his (apparently insufficiently numerous) eyes. "But you'd better pay attention."

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you!" she said.

"You'd better not," he warned her. "I won't let you forget it if you do."

"I know, that's why," she said, shoving him. "You'll be fucking insufferable for eternity otherwise."

"I'm going to be fucking insufferable for eternity anyway," he said proudly.

Gadreel might be an idiot, but he was her idiot, and even if she was planning to betray the rest of them, she would never let anyone hurt him. So when he'd lunged at an archangel like a nitwit as soon as they got to Heaven, she pulled out the strange, sharp Weapon that Michael had given her to deter Lucifer from hurting her. If it could deter Lucifer from doing something cruel, of course it would be able to deter Gadreel from doing something stupid.

Michael had neglected to mention, however, that it would carve through his spirals like he was nothing but a dust cloud, cutting him nearly in half. He looked back at her, terrified and betrayed, and then some stupid seraph knocked Vehuel out of the way to get at somebody more important, and though she looked for Gadreel the whole time, she didn't see him again.

Vehuel was just being released from the hospital when the Archangel Michael came to see her. This would be her third set of wings; the first had been sheared off by a comet Lucifer hadn't warned them about, and the second had burned up in a supernova she'd thrown into the middle of the battlefield. She wondered how long her third set would last.

"We've decided to give you a metal," said Michael. "For your bravery."

It hadn't been bravery. It had been pretty much the opposite of that. "Thank you," she said, curling tightly in on herself. "What... um, what does that mean exactly?"

"It's a new concept," said Michael brightly, and Vehuel couldn't understand how Michael could be so cheerful -- how everyone, really, could be so unceasingly positive. She hadn't felt a single negative emotion off of anyone while she was here, but she was miserable. No one seemed to notice, though. They kept calling her a trooper.

She didn't want to be a trooper. She wasn't sure she wanted to be anything.

But now Michael was explaining about metals, and electricity, and reflectivity. "I know what metals are. The substance. I know those," said Vehuel, who had worked with them before. She'd had to jury-rig her own out of helium, even, when she and Len been tapped to build those two gas giants. "What I mean is --"

"Oh! Oh, of course, the part about giving you one," said Michael. "It's -- well, it's sort of decorative. It's to show everyone that you're a hero. It was very brave, what you did out there with the supernova. Saved us a lot of time, and maybe lives. How did you know you'd get out?"

It had not been brave in the least, but Vehuel had lied to Lucifer, and she knew she could lie to Michael. "It was a calculated risk," she said, trying to make it sound carefree, like it had been nothing to throw an unstable white dwarf into the battlefield. She tried to make it sound like she'd known she would probably get out all right. That maybe she hadn't expected her wings to catch fire, but that the sacrifice was minor in the grand scheme of things.

She tried to make it sound like she'd been planning to get out all right in the first place, and not that she’d panicked and regretted her choice as soon as she’d made it.

"I heard I didn't get Lucifer, though," she added. "Is that true?" He was the only one she'd wanted to actually... end. Or make different, anyway. She didn't know if she had wanted to end anyone, really. It hadn't occurred to her that people could stop existing.

"No, I dealt with him later," said Michael. "Don't worry, though, he's far away."

But he still exists, she thought, and as for being told not to worry, Vehuel had never obeyed that command.

"Do you want your metal now?" Michael asked.

"Um. Okay?" said Vehuel, who didn't know how this was going to go. Michael extended one of her hands, and suddenly Vehuel's whole being felt warm and strange, and she saw that in among the whorls of blue and purple that made her, there were specks of gold, like stars.

"Isn't it nice?" Michael asked brightly. "I thought the gold would go nicely with your eyes."

"Ah. It. Um. I. Guess?' said Vehuel, her halo flaring. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her wings, because it would hurt like anything, but for some reason the idea of the Archangel Michael having noticed her in an aesthetic capacity was terrifying and thrilling all at once and she didn't know what to say. What did you say to that?

But Michael was already moving on. "Rest up! We're going to need you for the rest of the stars," she said, and Vehuel was both relieved and disappointed. She wanted to talk to Gadreel about it, only he would have made fun of her. Or asked her how exactly this was any different from the way Lucifer behaved. But Lucifer had been doing it on purpose, and Michael surely wasn't, and also, she would never be able to talk to Gadreel again, because he was gone forever.

Vehuel went right back to work after as soon as they'd let her, because she felt like, for the very first time, her mind was empty and echoing. There was nothing for her to worry about anymore. The worst had already happened. She had made it happen.

So she drifted into the outer reaches of Earth's solar system -- also very empty, but not, thankfully, echoing -- and she filled it up with little things. On her best day, she made a weird oblong object that looked like a potato -- or, rather, several millennia later, when she first held a potato in her hand, she would think My god, this looks just like Haumea! But at the time, she'd only thought, This looks so stupid, I love it, before giving it two tiny moons and sending it hurtling end over end on its eccentric way.

On her worst day, she tried to build a fitting memorial for Gadreel. She remembered that first conversation she'd had with him, playing with gravity and sparks; she remembered how beautiful she'd found that tiny binary star system they'd ended up making by accident, and how much care and creativity they'd put into making it out of real starstuff in real space, and she tried to make something like that out of rock and ice, but she kept adding onto them, trying to make them the same size, and eventually the bigger one was nearly as big as a real planet, and the little one kept going unstable and breaking little crumbs of itself off when she added to it, so she gave up. They would have to be close enough.

She wondered why she was here. She couldn't imagine that humans would ever come here or see these things she was making -- they were such fragile, helpless little things that apparently a little bit of hard UV could knock them right out of commission forever.

But eventually, once she'd done all she could in the Kuiper Belt and was back in Heaven filing shitty paperwork for shitty archangels, a posting on Earth happened to open up -- well above her rank, but then again, she had the metal Michael had awarded her, and she hoped that would count for something. So after calling in some favors with the physics office and making very sure that her halo wasn't the wrong kind of UV, she put in her application. Maybe she could find a new thing she was for. Maybe she could be good at protecting someone. Even if it wasn't Gadreel.

#whumptober2020 #no.19 #broken hearts #grief #mourning loved one #survivor's guilt #good omens #oc #(kind of both???)#fiction #suicide #also sorry guys pluto was never a planet #kaesa op #disaster principality vehuel #text #michael good omens #anthony j crowley

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theprodigypenguin · 4 years

Note

👀

This is an excerpt from a WIP called “Yes Man” that I wanted to write a little after finishing “Moon Sick”. It’s a blend of Jeddy and Scorbus (and I almost never write Scorbus so this was supposed to help me get used to then yeet). It also had a bunch of really fun bits with Albus and James being bros, James having an oblivious crush on Teddy and not realizing it, also James being so stupid in love he’d say yes to anything Teddy asked, even if it meant helping him get together with a girl:

“Alright! Now this should be an excellent day!” was the first thing James said as he stepped onto the cobbled path down Diagon Alley, “Albus, let me see your book list.”

“What for? Do you not remember what you had to buy for your sixth year?”

“That was ages ago, Al,” James said, snatching the envelope from his brothers hand and opening it, “Can’t expect me to remember everything.”

“James this is only your first year out of school, stop acting like you’re Merlin.”

James just ignored him, “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6; Advanced Potion-Making; Confronting the Faceless, that’s the text for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Dad also said I had to take you to get you new robes, because you just had to get taller didn’t you?”

“Why do I have to do this with you in the first place?” Albus asked, “I’m sixteen now, I should be allowed to shop for school supplies by myself without you. Hey why doesn’t Lily have to come with us?”

“Dad and mum both have work, Al, and Lily went with Rose and Hugo.”

“Why the hell does Rose get to go off on her own and I can’t?! She’s sixteen too!”

“Albus you know exactly why.”

“This is bloody unfair…”

“Ah come on, Al, you really hate spending time with me that much? I thought we had an understanding. We’re brothers, remember!” he threw an arm around Albus, “Besides, I love spending time with you!”

“Ugh…”

“That should be your motto, etched in stone on your grave. Ugh.”

“Can you shut up? Let’s just fucking get what I need and go home.”

“Hey, try a bit harder to be happy about this. We might run into Scorpius while we’re here.”

James felt Albus tense under his arm, but there was no more protest, so he released his younger brother and they headed for the closest shop to get Albus sized for new robes.

Maybe it was a bit unfair to use Scorpius against Albus like that, but it was so fun to do, to see his face change when the young Malfoy’s name was brought up.

Albus and Scorpius, inseparable friends since the instant they met eyes on the Hogwarts Express leading to their first year, had been dating for the past few months. James figured it started sometime during their fifth year, towards the end of it perhaps.

He didn’t pick up on it for the longest time, and Lily felt no shame in calling him an utterly dense airhead whenever he noted his confusion (“Didn’t even realize they were an item now.” “James, your head is full of Billywiggs.”).

The first time it occurred to him that they might have been something more than friends was during a trip to Hogsmeade, where he saw Albus and Scorpius over the heads of other students, leaning into each other, seemingly no personal space between the two of them and not at all caring. James had no idea what they were talking about, but Albus was grinning so big there were dimples in his cheeks that James never noticed he had before, and there was a flush of red across Scorpius’ nose that definitely could have been mistaken as caused by the cold.

They always stood that close, though, so it wasn’t until James saw them later entering The Hog’s Head that his interest piqued, following them into the dingy pub and sitting in the furthest corner to watch them from a distance and not be spotted. You didn’t go into The Hog’s Head unless you didn’t want to be bothered or seen doing something you shouldn’t have been doing. None of the other students went in there, normally preferring to take up at The Three Broomsticks (which was a cleaner and better kept establishment).

That was probably exactly why they went into The Hog’s Head, though. Even after five years, the rest of the school didn’t seem too fond of Albus or Scorpius, so they probably wouldn’t have had much fun in the crowded Three Broomsticks where so many of the students could be found.

While The Hog’s Head had definitely been refurbished and tidied up a bit since the death of Voldemort, it was still quite a mess, and not nearly what The Three Broomsticks was. The lights were low, though the dust had been cleaned from the floor at some point, the glasses cleaner than they ever were before and likely ever would be again. There was still a lingering scent of grass and mud and goats, but it also smelt of malt liquor, chocolate, and incense, as if the old owner was trying to “spice things up”.

The pubs owner and operator, Aberforth Dumbledore, acted like he knew Albus and Scorpius, greeting them and waving them to a table in the far corner just across from James. It was hidden from most of the windows so no classmates would be able to spot the Slytherin boys if they happened to pass and glance inside (as if they would be able to see anything through the cloudy windows anyway). They didn’t even have to order, as Aberforth had returned minutes later with two tankards that were hopefully clean.

When he wandered over to James, who was slouching with his hood up (not at all unusual in the Hog’s Head), Aberforth just stared blankly.

“What can I get you, Potter?”

“What? I’m not- I’m just a humble traveler my good sir.”

“I can see the Gryffindor crest on your chest.”

“Bloody hell-” James tried to fold his cloak over himself to hide the red crest as Aberforth gave a snort. “I’m just-”

“I don’t care,” Aberforth interrupted. “Spy on your brother in a shadowed cobwebbed corner in a shady Hogsmeade pub, won’t make any left or right to me. What do you want to drink?”

“Just a warm Butterbeer please.”

“Fine.”

James eyed the old wizard as he shuffled away before looking back over at Albus and Scorpius. They’d pulled their seats together, leaning into each other with one hand on their drinks and grins at their mouths and a flush to their cheeks, though James didn’t think they’d even taken a sip of what they’d ordered (and they were only fifteen, James definitely hoped they weren’t drinking Firewhiskey).

“Pst, are they drinking alcohol?” James asked under his breath when Aberforth came and set down a steaming cup.

“I don’t sell to minors.”

“Right…”

It was then that it happened, when Aberforth started back towards the bar and James picked up his steaming mug, hugging it to his chest so the scent could waft into his face, warming his hands and raising the tankard up, watching his brother and the young Malfoy leaning closer while laughing about something, a joke or something stupid that one of them did, or saw someone else do; James wished he could hear them.

Their foreheads were touching now, laughing at their private joke, both tilting their chins until their noses were brushing, then their lips, interrupted quite suddenly when a rag smacked Albus in the back of the head, making him jerk back and spin in his seat to glare at Aberforth.

“What the bloody-”

“No snogging in my pub, Potter, you’ll chase all my customers away.”

“What?! We’re the only ones in here!” James sunk down in his seat. “We’re the only ones who ever come here!”

“Sorry, Mister Dumbledore,” Scorpius quickly said, grinning, and Aberforth gave another grunt as he walked away.

“Your father had to curse you with that name, boy, just like the original, snogging trouble makers in dark corners.”

“What was that?”

“I said you’re as gay as my brother.”

“Wow, what an honor.”

It was clear that they were trying hard to keep their relationship a secret, so of course everyone eventually found out. Maybe it was because James told Lily he saw them snogging, maybe it was because Lily already knew, but by the end of the year, Fred, Roxanne, Rose, Louis, Lily, and Hugo, all of their family still in school, knew about their relationship, either because they heard from James, saw the boys snogging for themselves (despite their attempts to hide it), or had already known about it.

Even Dominique and Victoire didn’t seem all that surprised when Fred and James told them. In fact, Victoire actually scolded James for spying on them, as if he’d never done that before.

Over the summer break, Scorpius had visited a few times, and Albus had even been allowed over to Malfoy Manor a few times, and somehow no one ever suspected. Maybe because the two of them always acted the way they did. Leaning into each other, sitting on opposite ends of the couch with their legs tangled together, Albus falling asleep on Scorpius’ shoulder at the table during breakfast; it was all stuff they’d been doing since they met.

The only difference that separated their long time friendship and their newly discovered romantic relationship was the occasional snogging in dark corners.

So yea, bringing Scorpius up was bound to get Albus to silently go along with James through Diagon Alley. The concept of bumping into his boyfriend was too good to pass up. James struggled to hide his snickers as they dropped into seats in front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour with wrapped parcels and bags of newly acquired school supplies.

Albus kept pivoting his head back and forth, glancing over one shoulder then the other, clearly searching for someone. Someone who just happened to have platinum blond hair and grey eyes.

“Well, he could be busy. Maybe he already picked up supplies, or intends to get his things later,” James tried to lift Albus’ spirits, but his little brother just slumped in his seat exhaling heavily through his nose. “Or you could just sit there sulking into your banana split like the Millennial you are, that’s also a fine option. Well done, Albus.”

“Piss off.”

“Wow.”

#end of the year wip game #scorbus #jeddy #scorpius hyperion malfoy #albus severus potter #james sirius potter #teddy lupin #edward remus lupin #nico answers anons #nico answers asks #nico writes

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oh-theatre · 5 years

Text

Charity

A/N: I was in the mood for some Paulkins boiiii and decided Paul has a daughter and dats a cute concept so enjoy :) You can continue it if you want :)

summary: Emma attends a charity gala, unexpectedly dancing the night away

words: 1167

warnings: Sick kids

Ao3 Link

“Who...is that?” Emma marvels, watching as a lean man walks across the stage to thunderous applause.

“That's Paul Matthews, CEO and chairman on the board for the gala,” Charlotte informs, taking a hefty sip of her glass. “He started the movement after his daughter got sick, I don't think he knew it would become so…” She eyes the more than immense crowd, all chatting and enjoying their dinner. Emma and her friends do not fit in, the only reason they came was to represent mister Davidson and his company. “And, he's cute” Charlotte nods, Emma snorts taking her glass from her.

“Char, you have a date!” She scolds playfully, Charlotte raises her brows turning as she scans the room. Their eyes land on a pair of howling women, being chatted up by Sam.

“My dates busy flirting with every other woman here” Charlotte notes, snatching her drink back. Emma gives her a half-hearted smile. “Besides, I wasn't talking about for me, I was talking about you” Emma laughs again, stopping when she sees Charlotte's serious. “Come on, he is, and also totally available”

“And also, the CEO of a major charity! Surrounded by guards twenty-four-seven” Emma exclaims, shushing herself. Charlotte smirks, sipping her drink maliciously. “What?”

“You're not denying that he’s cute” Charlotte notes, Emma's face falls, her grim frown not phasing Charlotte. The banter continues before its time to take their seats, Emma and Charlotte make their way to the table. Emma sits in the middle of Charlotte and Melissa, Ted sits next to Sam who sits next to Charlotte. Bill takes his place next to Melissa, checking his phone constantly, no doubt messages from his own daughter. “Oo! Dancing time!” Charlotte giggles as the music swells, she looks to her side expectantly disappointed to find an empty chair.

“Oh, Char…” Emma rubs her friend's shoulder as their eyes fall on Sam, dancing away with at least three other married women. “Dance with-

“Me?” Ted asks, he smiles from across the table. Emma pauses, she's known Ted for a long time, she's also known about his crush a long time. “I mean, just a dance between two friends?” He proposes, Charlotte coughs hiding her rising blush but stands nonetheless. Dusting off her blue gown, she makes her way across the table taking Ted's hand as he leads her to the dance floor. Soon the rest of the table disappears, tripping over themselves to dance the night away. Emma pouts, not necessarily alone but bored, she swirls her drink, shooting supportive glances to Charlotte.

“And what might a lady, such as yourself, be doing tonight?” A voice Emma doesn't recognize, but a face she does.

“You're Paul...Paul Matthews” She stands quickly, shaking his hands, not sure if she's supposed to bow.

“Aha yes, that would be my name” He teases, “Care for a dance miss…?” He waits trying to put a name to the more than perfect face.

“Emma, Emma Perkins...and did you just ask me to dance?” She inquires, maintaining her composure. She's not the type to get flustered but Charlotte was not wrong, he was pretty. He looks taken aback, almost hurt by her question. “Not that I wouldn't love to...just...why me?” She presses, he smiles looking to the stage.

“My daughter told me to ask you,” He admits, waving to a small girl bouncing delighted in her chair. “Her name is Jane, she said you looked pretty” Emma blushes, but hangs on the name. “Everything alright?” He questions, concern riddling his face.

“Nothing Jane...is a beautiful name,” She remarks, preferring not to remember her sister at this moment. Paul cocks his head towards the floor, Emma allows him to lead her there, beginning a rather gentle dance. “So, your daughter sure is bossy huh?” She jokes Paul smiles nodding.

“Yes, I fear after she got sick I may have been too lenient” He continues, the room blurs out, the noises drowning out.

“I am sorry about that, I could never imagine having a sick child” She laments, Paul takes a deep breath, his arms placed around her waist now.

“She's getting better, and so are all the other kids. I never imagined…” He gestures to everything “All of this. If I'm being honest, I just wanted Jane to get better...and here we are” He laughs, Emma could listen to that all night.

“Does it get tiring?” She asks, they glide across the room, passing a very proud Charlotte glistening at her friend.

“All the time, but it's worth it. Not just for Jane, but for all the kids” He recites, its definitely from memory. “Oh I sound like an ad” he chuckles, Emma bites down a smile. They continue in sweet silence, Emma barely feeling the aching in her heels as Paul leads her across the room spinning and twirling and laughing practically all night. Somehow they end up alone, in the hallway.

“What's this?” She asks coyly, he breathes, clearly desperate for air.

“I needed a break, it's loud and so many people” He places a delicate hand on his chest, sighing deeply, his breath raspy.

“You ok?” Emma checks, a little worried. Paul nods, closing his eyes.

“Yeah, I'm getting too...old for this” He jokes, Emma laughs “No im fine...I just… get very exhausted, fast. And bored, everyone always asking me stuff” He rambles, Emma leads him to a bench, grabbing him a quick glass of water. “Thank you”

“No, thank you” She retorts, he eyes her, pausing his drink. “I had fun dancing and stuff” She rolls her eyes playfully, Paul smiles nodding.

“Daddy daddy!” A squeal emerges, Paul jumps up, adjusting his posture. Emma turns watching as a tiny ball of puff and shine comes hurtling towards them, jumping into Pauls's arms followed by two frantic guards.

“Janey! What's up buttercup” Paul greets, making sure his daughter sits comfortably.

“Is this the pretty girl” She smiles, pointing blatantly at Emma. Emma giggles, waving to Jane. “What's her name?”

“This is the pretty girl, her name is Emma” He responds, fearing if he makes eye contact, his blush will only rise. He hears the music die down, understanding that’s his cue. “Unfortunately, the pretty girl and I have to part ways,” he tells Jane, Emma can't tell whos more disappointed. The pair stand, Paul clutching to his daughter now.

“Well you can't say goodbye without a kiss” Jane reprimands, Emma nods agreeing. Paul takes a breath, excited.

“You are absolutely right Jane” He kisses Jane on the forehead, before leaning and planting a sweet kiss on Emma's cheek. “I hope to see you again” She takes his phone out of hand, typing her number into his notes.

“Shouldn't be a problem, just remember to call me” She teases. Paul stifles a more than delighted squeal, walking away, disappearing behind his guards. Emma stands, letting out a frozen breath shes been holding for a while. He better call is her final thought.

#musical theatre #theatre #musical #tgwdlm #the guy who didn't like musicals #lauren lopez #jon matteson #jaime lyn beatty #joey richter #oneshot #my writing #writing #ao3 #archive of our own #starkid

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literarydumpinggrounds · 5 years

Text

Secret’s Out: Part 4/?

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Slytherin!Reader

Word Count: 3,004

Warnings: Fluff, implied violence, minor language, and maybe some angst if you squint?

Notes: Dreadfully sorry about how long this part has taken me! I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t seem to get the concept out into words. I’ve picked and picked and rewritten and edited until my brain is mush, but it’s time to get it out, even if I’m not entirely pleased with it. As always, enjoy! :)

Draco had been wandering aimlessly around the shop for longer than he’d like to admit, valiantly trying to avoid the group he had accompanied for as long as possible when he spotted you through the window. You wore a deep virescent turtleneck that tucked into the trousers under your house robes, and bulky woolen socks that stuck out from your boots as you trudged through the fresh powder on the street. He admired the look of absentminded appreciation settled over your features as you happily followed along with your friends, but only for a moment before he continued browsing the display he’d been approaching. He allowed his fingers to ghost over the vibrant sugar quills as the bell at the door rang faintly into the crowded room, barely loud enough to be heard over the incessant chatter of the third years that crowded the shelves.

He couldn’t help the tension that resided in his muscles, accumulating a dull ache that he’d rapidly grown accustomed to over the last few months, as his mind wandered to all of the tasks that were forcefully bestowed upon him.

Dread owned his conscious mind, pushing against the confines of his carcass like an invisible gale. It was like his stomach was perpetually locked tight, requesting that nothing went in or out. His face set like rigor mortis, teeth locked together like a vice. He was a prisoner in his own body, and a slave to his troubled mind.

He glanced up to the rest of the room as someone near him released a howl of laughter, his eyes settling on you in pleasant surprise. You observed the invading flurry for a moment before turning your gaze onto him, almost as if you’d felt the presence of his thieving stare.

As your eyes met, he felt his heart leap in his chest and his stomach lurch at the tickle of nerves, a smile cracking through the hardened exterior of his previous expression. You swaggered over to him with a disarming confidence that sent a rush of brief panic through his chest, his pulse accelerating considerably despite his apparent calm.

“Funny, I never took you for a sugar quill kind of guy.” you held him in place with mischievous eyes, your fingers tracing over the display as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times. You were an angel.

Draco couldn’t help but admire your ability to keep him guessing; from picking fights in front of the entire school and radiating effortless confidence one minute, to making the perfect potion and blushing humbly the next. He hadn’t been able to get you off of his mind, even among all the darkness he’d witnessed, among all the horrible things he had done, his mind always seemed to wander back to you.

Chuckling softly, genuinely amused by your choice of conversation, he requested your thoughts on what kind of guy you took him for. Your reply sent a swarm of butterflies through his gut, preventing him from holding eye contact as a slight blush heated his cheeks. Busted.

“In that case, I should probably tell you; I prefer daisies.”

Calling this feeling a crush was infantile, something invented by older individuals with an interest in belittling young love. Draco hated it. He didn't have some school-boy crush, his feelings for you had developed with a passion hotter than a thousand suns. You were the only thing that truly mattered. You were constantly on his mind, burning every inch like a fire seed blossoming; you were light, everything he had been missing, and he craved your presence with an intensity that he could hardly bear.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

ㅡ

The entirety of your day after you’d agreed to meet Draco had led you to be consumed in thought. Conjuring every possible scenario that could unfold that evening, both positive and negative, then ran through them again as Vixen rattled on about her demands as your future maid of honor. The unknown was both daunting and exhilarating, and you’d needed reassurance on your appearance nearly three times before you began your journey from the Slytherin Dormitories to the Astronomy Tower.

It seemed that every floor you ascended only added to your nerves, making it increasingly difficult to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. Mr. Filch’s nocturnal reconnoiter was always over by eleven, allowing him ample time to spend with his dreadful feline companion before they turned in for the night. You slithered through the dark hallways effortlessly, despite the impairment of sight due to the torches fizzling out in their holds, having memorized them through your years of wandering about the castle. As your nerves clawed around in your gut, you reminded yourself of the words your mother had assured you with before your journey back to Hogwarts that year.

When one simply chooses to be brave instead of allowing themselves to be the puppet of fear, everything will change for the better.

The papers had headlined dreadful occurrences for months, and warned of the dangers that the world was to face upon Voldemort’s arrival. His followers at every corner, emerging from their sulfuric shadows to terrorize the masses, fulfilling whatever horrific demands he gave them without an ounce of remorse. The mere mention of them nauseated you with the overwhelming hatred for the malicious toxicity that poisoned their minds, the cancerous sludge that Voldemort inflicted into whatever vessel he touched. You were prepared for the worst, even despite the frigid burn of fear that rippled through your body at the thought of what could become of your lives. You were prepared to see him, and anyone who trailed in his shadow, diminish in an almighty hellfire.

You hoped that a miracle would unfold, some unworldly intervention that would allow you to truly begin your life before the darkness had a chance to take it from you. You longed for something to lose.

Outside the start of the winter season was beginning the annual breach from the autumnal hold, the ground littered with what had fallen from the afternoon sky as thousands of tiny snow kisses, each so delicate that they’d cease to exist at the touch of your hand. You ascended the stairs leading to the Astronomy Tower, calming yourself with a deep breath as you made note of the sensations you were experiencing. The outside air invaded the warmth of the castle through the open space, enveloping you in an icy vice that sent a shock wave of goosebumps to the surface of your skin, and the enigmatic electricity of adrenaline spread outward from your chest. You favored this time of the day over all. The night promised a beautiful serenity, and presented its infinite wisdomㅡ ageless stories of your ancestors ㅡthrough the aligning stars that littered the velvet black skies.

You could hear Draco’s footsteps before you saw him, but your amusement melted into surprise as you observed the room.

The torches were lit around the room, providing a romantic glow to the worn stone, and lush blankets woven from cotton strands the hue of petals adorned the wooden floor beside the south-facing window; acting as a resting place to gaze over the Black Lake. Draco looked sick with nerves before he’d noticed your arrival, but quickly brightened as you stepped off of the last step and into the room.

“Should we be up here?” you inquired gently, curious eyes looking around the room as you made your way towards him. “Won’t the astronomy courses begin at midnight?”

You watched him smile then, a smile that just seemed so genuinely sweet that you felt warmth rush through you.

“Professor Sinistra only holds classes on Wednesday.”

He seemed relieved to see you, his shoulders visibly relaxing in your presence. The both of you sat in an unsure silence for an agonizing moment before he spoke out, your mutual gaze breaking so he could motion towards the blankets. He discreetly wiped his palms over his coat pockets as he let out a heavy breath, silently offering you a seat on the blankets. “I wasn’t sure what you preferred, but I brought a few bits for you, if you’d fancy them..”

You joined him among the cozy nest, nestling into the warm embrace of the fabric, trying to ignore how close he was.

“Sounds amazing.”

ㅡ

Hours had passed, and it was well into the night when you’d realized how close the both of you had migrated, the heat radiating off of you both within the blankets. You talked about anything and everything, devouring bandofee tarts and pumpkin juice together until you couldn’t imagine stomaching another bite, and now the both of you sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence as you stargazed. Suddenly, you lifted your hand to point towards the velvety black sky.

“Do you see that string of stars there?” you murmured inquisitively, glancing over to see Draco’s features scrunched up in focus, eyes straining to find exactly what you were talking about. Chuckling softly, you guided him by his chin, a soft smile ghosting over your features as you watched him nod in acknowledgement.

“It’s my favorite..” you state confidently.

“Draco the Dragonㅡ” he cut you off with a snort, which you protested with a playful swat to his arm. “I’m serious, you twit! It’s Latin.”

“It’s a circumpolar constellation, meaning it’s out all night long every night of the year.” your gaze returned to the constellation fondly, oblivious to his eyes wandering over to watch you as you spoke. “During the summer, Rastaban and Eltanin give him flashing eyes.”

You looked over to Draco to find that his warm gaze had fallen to your lips, dusting a rosy hue over the apples of your cheeks.

“In muggle mythology it’s said to represent Ladon, the dragon that guarded a tree in the gardens of the Hesperides that grew golden apples.”

His eyes held an indescribable warmth, so fond that you thought you would melt at the end of them. “It suits you, don’t you think?”

He simply hummed in response, earning an inquisitive glance from you. Staring for a moment longer, the both of you withered in the pressurized silence as something between you grew, blossomed.

“I really like you, Y/N.” he disclosed gently, his gaze hesitant and warm as if he feared that you would run. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you for weeks, and being with you today..”

He trailed off, his gaze softening as he looked over your face, a nervous smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I don’t think I could keep to myself if I tried. Whatever this feeling is, if— if you feel it too, I’d fancy giving us a chance.”

A brilliant smile overpowered your features as a fiery warmth burst through your chest, compelling you to surge forward and kiss him.

After what seemed like a small eternity, you pulled away from him, but only a few inches; your bottom lip taken hostage by your teeth as you observed the bliss on his features melting into delighted realization. His eyes fluttered open, revealing the oceanic orbs that haunted your memory as he smiled.

“Is that a yes, darling?” he teased breathlessly as he looked over your features, trying to remember every detail in that proximity.

“That depends, Malfoy.. Will you share your golden apples?”

ㅡ

Your fate would have been written in different ink had you not met each other in the Astronomy Tower that night, a different decision would have left you without the other at your side, neither one complete. From that night on you were inseparable, hardly ever seen without the other by your side; told each other virtually everything, never a secret among you, or so it seemed.

The world had become a broken heart, and all the money in existence could never mend it. It was nearly biblical. Problems that once seemed to loom as monstrous as Goliath, paled in the presence of your newfound stone of love, and any good heart could wield its power as David. Love was the only solution to healing the demolition sprouting all over the world, and you felt rejuvenated, empowered even in the presence of love.

However, despite the radiant glow of young love being omnipresent in your life, everything had begun unraveling around you at an alarming pace.

It had been nearly two months since you and Draco had made things official, and the Wizarding World was deteriorating before your eyes, crumbling like granules of sand at your fingertips. Hogwarts had surrounded the campus with an enchanted protective barrier, Mr. Ollivander had gone missing along with every wand in his shop, and Death Eaters were said to be after Harry Potter at the Dark Lord’s command. He was a menace as far as you were concerned, and you’d frankly grown tired of hearing his name being praised from the heights as if he were an impenetrable warlock made of gold. As long as he was running about the castle, nobody would ever really be safe at Hogwarts, that you were sure.

Yet, none of these occurrences had truly petrified you until the news of Katie Bell spread like wildfire through the halls.

Katie Bell had been cursed on her way back from Hogsmeade. The stories varied in detail due to the verbal transference, but what remained consistent was that Katie had been propelled nearly fifteen feet in the air in the presence of the Golden Trio after touching an opalescent necklace that she was instructed to deliver to the Headmaster himself, and that she can’t recall exactly who told her to do so.

The attempt on Dumbledore's life, as if it weren’t chilling enough, was sure to be just the beginning of death and endangerment at Hogwarts. So consequently, all trips outside of the schoolㅡ especially to Hogsmeade ㅡwere strictly forbidden until notified otherwise in efforts to maintain security. It was once this news began to spread that Draco started pulling back into himself, seeming to get lost in his head more and more as Katie neared her admittance back into her classes from recovering, and speaking to you less and less.

You’d allowed him his space, as much as you could stand, until the day Katie returned.

ㅡ

The Great Hall was filled with a motley cacophony of conversation and laughter when Draco had come through the doors. He was later than usual, but from his exhausted appearance you hoped that it was due to oversleeping, and not another visit with his mother. As he started towards your place at the table he seemed to be distracted by something at the other end of the Hall that halted his movement, his entire face draining of its color.

With a furrowed brow you followed his wide-eyed gaze to find Katie Bell, who was staring back at him inquisitively over Harry Potter’s shoulder. Whatever was troubling Draco was now becoming a bigger concern, your mind swirling to connect the possible scenarios in which Katie Bell, an elder Gryffindor, had anything to do with your boyfriend.

You watched discreetly for a moment as Harry seemed to notice her detachment from his conversation, heart beginning to hammer in your chest as his peridot irises caught stormy seas, the tension pressing down until you gently stood from the table.

You knew Draco quite well, better than anyone ever had, and it made it all the more unsettling to see him so openly displaying his anxiety. Usually, his fear ripped viciously through veins, but never made it far enough to influence the stoic expression he’d practiced so well. His complexion remained pale and matte, his eyes as steady as if he were leisurely window shopping; only exposing himself to those who were well informed on his behavior, who knew him well enough to catch the telltale tics.

However, he was showing pure opposition to his usual mannerisms, his eyes wild and face uncharacteristically glistening with sweat.

What could possibly be going through his head?

An all too familiar look of determination crossed Potter’s face as he caught sight of Draco, and before you could even properly find your footing, he had hurried out of the doors with Potter on his heels; and despite your better judgement, you burst out of the doors to chase the both of them.

You shoved through the crowded halls, desperately trying to keep up until they turned down a quiet corridor.

The sound of crashes and bangs echoed viciously, forcing your walk into a run towards the bathrooms, mind racing as you thought of their rivalry. You were tired of the secrets and the lack of communication and the inability to ask for help. He was going to tell you what's been going on if it killed him. However, all your thoughts crashed to a halt as you burst through the back entryway to the boys bathrooms, and saw Draco laying among the wreckage and water, bleeding inconsolably.

Your blood ran cold, and you couldn’t process all the questions you’d suddenly formulated as you rushed to his side, soaking your robes and trousers as you kneeled. Shakily your hands hovered over the invading crimson of his shirt, his hand gripping the edge of your robes as he whimpered helplessly, looking at you with a panic that broke your heart.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay, lovely..” you sniffled, tears painting your cheeks as they mirrored his own.

Too caught up in your panic, you hadn’t noticed Harry until he gasped, sending your attention to where he stood, pale and horrified, the bastard.

Burning rage hissed through your body like a deadly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of violence. It was like a volcano erupting; fury sweeping off of you like ferocious waves. The wrath consumed, engulfing your moralities at the sight of him. You’d never been so angry in your life. The world around you nearly drowned out as you snarled.

“Potter?”

ㅡ

@httpsavocados

@that-weird-kid-charlie

@emothrash

@sinfulmango

@theroyalbrownbarbie

#secrets out #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy/reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #harry potter #draco malfoy/slytherin!reader #slytherin!reader #slytherin

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eledritch · 6 years

Note

Prompt: Sheith, meeting of the two tree creatures (desert willow and birch art AU u reblogged)

bless you anon. i love that concept sm...especially since desert willows are native to my home state/desert! they’re pretty & tough trees, very keith. & white birches fit shiro so very well, too.

CHECK OUT THIS ART by the amazing @nevenne-creates, it’s so original and lovely :’)

(this is SFW. they are wholesome trees.)

Follower Milestone Prompt #2: shiro & keith are trees

read it on ao3

Beside his oasis, the world is still and serene, the hot summer wind ruffling through his leaves and limbs like a familiar caress. The monsoons have been generous this year, and Keith is in full bloom, dark pink flowers crowning his head and continuing just below his pointed ears. His thick, dark bark was made to withstand this heat; though many willows are frail things dependent on the water, Keith is an exception, a desert willow. He is not even a true willow, though his slender, spear-shaped leaves are good imitators.

He’s distracted by a soft whir of wings beside his ear, and turns his head slightly to see the ruby-throated hummingbird sipping from his blooms. Hello, he says, though of course only other tree spirits can hear him. The hummingbird hovers for a few moments in front of his face, cocking its emerald head at Keith’s amused violet eyes, then darts away as quickly as it had come.

He follows its path across the desert, and pauses, squinting into the distance through the rippling heat waves and tall saguaros. There’s something out there that wasn’t there before; Keith is sure of it. It moves again, and he starts forward, sending ripples through the oasis’s dark water. There, a hint of white and gold. Keith frowns. Hello? he calls, but it’s too far away to hear him, if it’s even able to do so.

Cautiously, Keith gathers up some water with his roots, avoiding the spadefoot tadpoles swimming nearby, and begins his slow trek towards the bright smudge amidst the sagebrush and red dust. He’s faster than most trees, but one must still be careful in the desert. A rattlesnake winds past him through the warm rocks, hissing in soft warning. Keith gives it a wide berth, and at length passes by one of his closest neighbors, a young palo verde named Pidge.

She peeks at him through her tiny oval leaves and pollen-laden yellow flowers, hazel eyes curious. Her pale green bark glows with health; Keith lets her drink from his oasis when the rains don’t come.

What’s out there? Keith asks her, pointing with a smooth brown finger.

She shakes her head, prompting a shower of pollen that makes Keith sneeze. Her expression is frightened. Strange spirits, she whispers. Not trees. Shadows. Left him here last night. I hid.

Him? Keith questions, glancing again towards the unmoving heap of white and gold.

Pidge nods. Be careful, she warns. Tried to call out to him earlier; he pushed me out of his mind. He is scared. So scared. He is not from here.

Then he will die in this sun, Keith says. Stay here. I will help him.

She nods, hiding again amidst her thorny branches.

Keith continues onwards, warding off a hopeful swarm of bees along the way, though he’s flattered by their interest. He pauses once he is close, crouching behind a large boulder and peeking around the side to assess the situation.

Keith freezes at the sight before him – the strange tree spirit is crumpled in the dirt, his skin pale as moonlight, but torn away in places, revealing darker bark beneath. His leaves are a magnificent gold, like the first hint of sunlight over the horizon at dawn, but they must have been cut away in places, for they grow only sparsely at the top of his head and in a small fall over his brow. His ears droop, and his dark golden eyes are half-lidded and hazy. The bark over the bridge of his nose has been torn away in a thick stripe of scar tissue, so deep it cuts into his sapwood.

But most shocking of all is that one of his arms has been chopped clean off, the wound coated with drying silvery sap – it must have been recently inflicted. Keith’s branches rustle uneasily. What cruel being would do this to a tree spirit? Especially to one as lovely as this?

Keith has never seen a tree spirit like this one before, and he is wary of hidden thorns or poisons, so he steps out of his hiding place warily, hands extended in a gesture of goodwill. The stranger flinches away when their gazes meet, trying to lift himself up on his remaining arm and trembling with the effort, his clawed hand scrabbling uselessly in the dirt, tearing more of his fragile white outer bark away.

Stop! Keith exclaims in alarm, starting forward. You’ll hurt yourself!

The stranger stares at him dully, chest heaving, legs and roots tucked close to his body in a way that only makes him appear more vulnerable. He feels the stranger trying to shut Keith out of his head, but Keith nudges back, gentle yet firm. The stranger’s golden head bows in surrender, shoulders hunching and body curling back down to the earth. A single word echoes through Keith’s head: Please.

Keith kneels down in front of the stranger. It is alright, he soothes, letting his soft leaves brush against the ruined bark. I am here to help.

Golden eyes meet his gaze hesitantly. Help? The stranger’s voice shakes badly, like he has forgotten how to use it.

Keith nods. It is too hot for you out here, he explains. You need water, and shade.

The stranger lowers his head, silent again, but does not protest when Keith heaves him upright, trunk straining at the effort. The stranger may look delicate, but he must be an old tree, for he is solid and heavy, and would not have survived so long in the desert sun if he were a weak sapling.

Keith falters when the stranger’s head slumps into his shoulder, rustling against his leaves and crushing a few flowers. In the desert, tree spirits are far more solitary; Keith is hardly ever so close to another of his kind. This spirit must be from a forest, he concludes, a place where tree spirits live together in tight-knit families. Keith shoves his foolish pang of longing aside, and wraps his arm around the stranger’s trunk, guiding him back to the oasis.

He staggers forward as Keith guides him, shriveled roots dragging uselessly along the ground behind him. His thin, papery bark rustles and crumples off where Keith’s rougher bark brushes against it, but it doesn’t appear to harm the stranger. Or perhaps he is just so hurt already that he is numb to the additional pain. Keith frowns, and presses onward with newfound determination.

Halfway to Pidge, the stranger crumples forwards, and Keith has to employ all his branches to catch him, guiding him gently down before he can break any more limbs off. Easy, Keith cautions, kneeling beside him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder. It isn’t far.

Who are you? the stranger rasps, his tone pleading.

My name is Keith; I am a desert willow, Keith tells him. Who are you?

His brow furrows. Shiro, he whispers. White birch.

Ah, Keith says. He thinks he’s heard of those trees before, but they live far, far away from the desert. You are from the highlands? Shiro nods, his eyelids drooping, and Keith leans closer in concern. Here, he adds, and lifts a root heavy with stored water to Shiro’s dry lips.

The birch opens his eyes, confusion shifting to shock as he sees the precious droplets offered to him. How…?

Drink, Keith says. There is more, do not worry. You need it more than I.

So Shiro drinks, his own roots lifting to catch the moisture his tongue cannot. He is not meant to store water for many months on end like Keith can, but his leaves perk up at once, and his eyes are clearer than before when they open again. Thank you, he says, and goes easily when Keith helps him up again.

Shiro blinks curiously at Pidge as they pass, and the palo verde gives them a shy wave before retreating inwards again. Shiro wilts. I scare her, he mumbles. I think she tried to call to me, before...but I shoved her away.

Shh, Keith says, leading him on past a towering saguaro, which the birch stares at with unadulterated awe. You have been through much. She understands.

Are these trees? Shiro asks, still gaping at the saguaros. The tall cacti are blooming, too, but during the heat of the day most their flowers are tightly shut. A few brave blooms remain, as bright white and gold as Shiro.

No, Keith says. They do not speak to us, not with words. Feelings, sometimes. They tell us when the rains are near.

Oh, Shiro breathes, and looks down. They must be very old.

Yes, Keith says. It can take a century before they grow a single arm.

The saguaro Shiro was admiring has six arms, and the birch blanches, eyes huge. I...see.

They continue on, and Keith can feel Shiro’s eyes on him. How old are you, willow?

Keith frowns. You would think me young, but my kind do not live long.

Shiro frowns back. My kind do not live long, either. Try me.

It has been fifty years, Keith sighs, at last count.

And how long do desert willows live?

Fifty years, Keith says dryly. Usually.

Shiro stumbles. Keith helps him back up. So young, Shiro whispers.

This is a harsh place to live, Keith says. I am lucky to have my oasis. It may keep me alive for fifty years more.

How does anyone survive here? Shiro asks, and Keith bristles. It is just – so barren. And vast. And lonely...I was sure I would die.

Whoever left you here thought the same, Keith says, and Shiro stiffens, and is quiet again.

They pass under the slender shadow of a saguaro with two arms, and Shiro says, I am seventy, at last count. About halfway through life, also. But I could be older...I feel older. There are gaps in my memory.

Why did they hurt you? Keith asks.

Shiro only shakes his head.

Keith’s oasis comes into view and the birch sighs in relief. Is it real? he whispers. Not just a desert mirage? He eyes Keith. Are you a desert mirage?

Willow, Keith corrects with a snort, leading him to the muddy bank. And, no. Both me and my oasis are quite real. Lucky for you.

Very lucky, Shiro whispers, falling to his knees before the shallow water. Still, he pauses, looking to Keith for permission. May I?

Keith sits down beside him, amused and more than a little endeared. Be my guest.

Shiro’s roots burrow contentedly into the mud, searching out the fresh water, and Shiro bows his head as its strength flows through him. Keith stands over him while he does, extending his branches and leaves to provide the birch with as much shade as he can, and Shiro looks up with wide eyes.

Keith jolts in surprise at the flush on the birch’s cheeks, and a pink flower falls from Keith’s head to land squarely on the birch’s nose. Shiro looks at it, cross-eyed, then plucks it from his face and studies the trumpet-shaped blossom. Pretty, he says, and Keith flushes, too. Thanks for the shade, Shiro adds, and tucks Keith’s flower behind his ear.

Keith stares at him helplessly. You are a very strange tree, he says.

So are you, Shiro chuckles. Keith wants to make him laugh more. But a kind one, too.

Keith clears his throat. Is the water to your liking?

Yes, it’s perfect, Shiro says. He leans forward. Oh! There are little...fish in here.

Tadpoles, Keith corrects. A few fish, too. Trout come when the rains connect my oasis to the creek. And then, because he feels the need to defend his desert, he adds, This place may seem barren to outsiders, but it is full of life. Many creatures come to my oasis. Javelinas, with sharp tusks and pink snouts, and coyotes, with fur the color of sand, and bighorn sheep, with great curved horns, and tortoises, with their domed shells, and bobcats, with bright eyes and dark spots, and quail, with their soft calls and feathers, and ringtails, with their striped tails and spectacled eyes, and mountain lions, who drink beside me in the early hours of the morning, and sleep in my shade without fear.

Shiro stares up at him with wonder.

Keith, embarrassed, turns away. I apologize, he says. I do not meet new trees often. You must meet many, in your forest.

Shiro settles into a more comfortable sitting position. Birches grow together, in stands of hundreds, he says. There were many like me, yes. But none like you.

Oh, Keith says. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

I know very little about the desert, Shiro says earnestly. The water has invigorated him, and Keith can see his wounded stump scabbing over with fresh black bark. But I have heard the sunsets are beautiful.

They are, Keith says, and sits down shyly beside him, taking care to keep his shade cast over Shiro’s pale form. Would...would you like to watch the sunset with me?

I would, Shiro says. May I rest here with you, until then?

Keith leans into him in reply, their leaves mingling, and Shiro sighs as he drifts off.

The oasis is quiet as they wait in stillness, the cool oasis staving off the heat of late afternoon. By the time the scattered clouds begin to stain pink, Shiro’s bark is healed and his eyes are warm, reflecting the sun. It’s beginning, he whispers in excitement.

Yes, Keith says. Shiro’s branches are entwined with his own, and he never wants to let go.

The sky darkens and streaks through with orange and red and pink and faded blue, the rays of sunshine blinding them for a moment before it kisses the ridged line of the distant mountains, painting the world in rich golden tones. Keith has seen thousands of sunsets, but he has never seen Shiro see a sunset, so he watches him instead.

The birch appears to glow in the dying light, his lips parted and eyes wide. It’s beautiful, he says wistfully. We could barely see the sky in the forest. Not like this. There’s...so much.

Wait until you see the stars, Keith murmurs.

Shiro smiles shyly at him. May I stay to see the dawn, too?

As many dawns as you’d like, Keith promises.

Shiro sighs, and Keith’s lashes flutter when a golden leaf brushes against his cheek. As long as I get to see them with you, Shiro whispers, and reaches out, laying his hand gently over Keith’s.

Their fingers clasp, silver-white and red-brown, and the sun sinks slowly below the horizon.

#sheith #voltron #voltron fic #crack au #prompt fill #my fics #THEY R TREES AND THEY R IN LOVE....#Anonymous

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