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bubble-tea-bunny · 3 years

Text

what we’re meant for

[apollo x reader]

author’s note: apollo’s ear piercings>>> makes me wanna get more ugh

word count: 9,251

The air feels colder after it rains, but it’s also crisper, fresher, and with a deep inhale you let it fill your lungs, mentally steeling yourself for today’s hunt.

You stand at the edge of the woods, sunlight peeking through the foliage of towering trees and bugs and birds alike flittering between the thick, aged trunks. The grass is damp from a combination of raindrops and morning dew, and you know you’ll need to watch your steps particularly carefully to avoid any muddy spots, lest your feet sink in. A small gust of wind blows, ruffling your hair, braided as it always is to keep it out of your face, and you shiver. Your deep breaths are also made in an effort to acclimate yourself to the lower temperature. You refrained from wearing a cloak despite the chill because you knew it’d only impair your ability to use your bow properly. Though the longer you stand in place, the more you’re beginning to regret that decision. So before you can get the chance to regret it even more, you slide down the small incline and venture into the forest.

Last night the rain had been heavy, and you watch out for fallen leaves and branches, taking care to walk around them. It’s always quiet here, but especially so in the mornings, and any misstep would alert the wildlife to your presence. The birds are singing, a complement to the peace of the early hours, and serve to help you feel less alone as you traipse along. You try to identify the species to whom each unique call belongs, testing what you learned from Alexios during the days you’d agreed to let him accompany you on hunts. Studying birds had become one of his favorite pastimes, and he delighted in sharing with you what he read and applying his knowledge.

There’s a melody, high-pitched and staccato, and you think hard about what Alexios had shared, about the distinct tones. You then hazard a guess, and your attention is pulled to a small bird that perches on a branch of a tree you’re passing. It opens its mouth to sing, and you smile, having found your guess to be correct. It seems you’re getting the hang of this.

Your birdwatching is interrupted by the ruffling of leaves, and you freeze, gaze lowering to scan the surrounding area. You listen closely to determine the direction the noise had come from, and the moment you hear it again, you establish the way you need to go.

You move slowly to remain as quiet as possible, following the sound of pattering on soil and the snapping of twigs. It doesn’t move very far and you’re able to close the distance, ducking behind a bush when you catch a glimpse of fur. Once you’re hidden, you peek around, eyes settling immediately on the sand-colored rabbit sniffing at a plant. As it begins to take a bite of the leaves, you carefully reach for your bow.

The birds chirping help provide some cover, but it’s not perfect because you’re much closer, and any noise you make will stand out. You begin to pull your bow from over your shoulder but pause when the rabbit does, its ears lowering. Had it heard you? It lays flat on the ground then, and you figure it must have; it’s getting ready to flee if it hears anything else.

You hold your breath to keep silent and manage to get your bow and an arrow without the rabbit noticing. As you nock the arrow and take aim, you exhale, then take another deep breath, holding it again to remain steady. You only have one attempt to catch the rabbit here. Otherwise, you’ll have to chase it or search for another animal.

The string of your bow is at maximum tension, pulled back as far as it can go, and your fingers unwrap from around the arrow, letting it fly. You can swear it almost whistles through the air before it hits your target. It’s a clean shot, and now you allow yourself to relax, letting out a sigh and emerging from your hiding place to retrieve your catch.

You pull out the arrow to return to your quiver and tuck the rabbit into your rucksack. You’re not quite done hunting yet, for one rabbit isn’t enough for you and your family. You’ll need to keep searching, but luckily, there’s ample time yet until noon, when you’re expected back to assist your mother around the house.

Slinging your rucksack on, you stand back up straight. The sun is at an angle to shine down through the trees, its rays bright and brilliant. It’s just the warmth you need, and you stay in this spot briefly, basking in it with closed eyes. See, you think to yourself, the cloak would’ve been unnecessary. You’ve got the sun to keep you warm after all.

With your eyes shut, your hearing is extra sharp, and at the sound of more rustling, you’re kicked into action. You’ve pinpointed the direction more quickly this time, and you proceed to track your next target. You try to walk along the ground the sun touches, feeling its heat spread over your back. Please continue to keep me warm, you murmur. It feels nice on cold mornings like these. It’s a playful request because of course the sun can’t hear you, but you like to pretend it can, and that you’re in its good graces, that it should indulge you and kiss your skin so gently.

The silly thought makes you smile, and it rests comfortably on your lips as you navigate your way between the pines.

***

This morning is a morning like any other, nondescript and quiet. The thick blanket of clouds beneath the expanse of Olympus is parting as the rumble of rainstorms fades to welcome a clear sky. Colors always appear more vivid after the rain: a bluer sky, greener trees and grass. Every drop breathes new life into the earth, invigorating then magnifying it. Fewer sights are better than this, and that’s why Apollo finds himself tarrying in the courtyard.

He allows his mind to empty as he absentmindedly gazes down below, watching the world awaken, freshly cleansed and ready for a new day. The air up here is crisper as well and he breathes it in deeply. This would always be one delight he shared with mortals.

After lingering a while longer, he’s poised to take his leave and proceed with his day, but a curt prayer reaches his ears and stops him short. To hear prayers isn’t unusual, and he hears them often, but this particular one grabs his attention for a short list of reasons. One, that it hadn’t been addressed to him explicitly, but to the sun. It’s this that tips him off to the fact it must not be anything serious, no heartfelt plea for blessing but something muttered distractedly to fill the air, but he hears it all the same, and, if anything, is amused by it. Two, and perhaps—no, not perhaps, definitely—the more important point, is that the sound of the voice is distinct, melodious, enough to pull him in, wanting to hear more.

So, rather than leave, he leans against the stone railing and scans the earth far below, listening for that voice again and searching for its owner, whose sweet song has graced his ears so sweetly on a morning that’s quickly taking a turn, no longer a morning just like any other. Where might you be, little bird…

There in the woods, he finds you. Bow in hand and rucksack on your shoulders, clearly in the midst of hunting. It’s simple to surmise that you’re doing your best to walk beneath the sun, and he can’t contain his smile. With each of your deliberate steps he grows more interested in observing you, and if the other gods notice how long he has been here, head leaning on a propped up hand and eyes drawn downwards, they don’t say anything or attempt to interrupt.

The birds that fly above your head are poor competition and while he wishes you would speak more, you don’t, but he understands since your current task requires silence. Though when you shoot down a deer, you let out a quiet exclamation of victory, and you might as well have shot him instead, for his heart seems to beat that much harder in reaction to your voice. Not only is the sky bluer and the foliage greener following the rain, but the cheeks of fair maidens are redder too, as evident by your own. They’re flushed, for you did have to go on a bit of a chase for that deer, but it’s charming in its own right, especially when joined by your satisfied smile. Apollo wonders if, should he lay his hand tenderly on your cheek, the heat of them might rival the sun he governs. He wonders if you’d allow him to sate his curiosity.

Much as he’d like to stay here watching you for the rest of the day, he can’t, and he reluctantly backs away from the railing. His every footstep takes him away from you physically, away from the sight of you, but mentally, you’re in the forefront of his mind in the passing hours. How hadn’t he noticed you sooner? He scolds himself for being careless, that he should miss something so remarkable as you for as long as he had.

Perhaps it might be argued that the gods are kept busy by the whole picture, presiding over the world as a whole, rarely afforded the chance to study the details. But to Apollo it makes little difference because with the discovery of you, with your fanciful wish for the sun to be at your back as you hunt and your voice soft as the plucked strings of a lyre, he is learning that sometimes, the real masterpieces are in the margins of a painting: well hidden but rewarding to find, so that upon picking it out, suddenly life is seen through a fresher pair of eyes, enlightened, and prepared for other secrets behind the canvas or in the painter’s brush.

Morning bleeds into afternoon and afternoon into night, and when the stars are strung across a dark sky, Apollo returns to his spot in the courtyard to search for you. He didn’t want to sleep until he saw you one more time.

You’re at home, your mother preparing for dinner the animals you’d caught earlier. In the mean time, you converse with a young boy. You talk about the birds you heard while hunting, and how you managed to guess their unique calls correctly.

“You’re a wonderful teacher, Alexios,” you compliment, and Apollo thinks about how he wants to hear you say his own name.

Alexios smiles widely. Then, there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “I must be. If I could teach you, then I could teach anybody.”

At the playful jab, you lightly shove at his shoulder. “I’m a good student!” you defend yourself. “I just get distracted easily.”

“You’re like the sheep father tends to.”

You laugh, bright and melodic. It’s the only music Apollo needs. He’s of the opinion you’d be better suited in Olympus. Your dulcet tones and the delicate planes of your face are the essence of the divine and otherworldly, but he speculates you’ve been placed on earth to grace your fellow mortals with a piece of the heavens, your existence a reminder of the higher powers that be and the beauty they take care to form.

However, Apollo has no qualms in admitting he’s selfish, because for all of that, he’d still prefer you to be here and to keep you for himself. Thoughts of you lull him to sleep this evening, and, at least in this way, he can feel closer to you.

In the following days, he begins planning how best to approach you. To watch from a distance could only satisfy him for so long; he’s yearning for more. Lately, he’d taken to standing at the edge of the courtyard when he needed to think, since from here, he could also watch you, and during one such instance of this, he’s joined by another.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.”

Apollo blinks and glances to his right. Ares is walking over, in full armor and a helmet tucked beneath his arm. He must’ve just returned from training at the arena.

“Have I?” Apollo asks, but he already knows the answer.

“What’s got you so lost in your head?” Ares reaches out, intent to poke at Apollo’s forehead, but Apollo steps back and swats his hand away.

There would be no point in lying. Ares would see through it. Not that Apollo cares to lie. He has nothing to hide. “There’s a girl.”

Ares hums in understanding. “Ah.”

Apollo turns back to study you. Currently, you’re at the market with Alexios and have stopped at a fruit stand. “I want to meet her soon.”

“Is something stopping you?”

“No, no…” Apollo trails off and stays quiet briefly, already becoming distracted. But Ares detects he’s not finished speaking yet and waits. “I just want to figure out how to go about it is all.”

Ares raises a brow. “You’ve never cared about that before.”

At first, Apollo doesn’t think much of this remark, that it’s not worth noting, but upon further consideration he realizes it is rather unusual for him to take into account the how of a first meeting, and not simply appear before you the moment you’re alone. That’d always been standard procedure for him, and the question this raises in him is surely the same as what’s raised in Ares but that he doesn’t share aloud: why now?

Apollo likes to watch you in your natural environment, likes to watch you be, well, you. After all, it’s what had grabbed his attention to begin with, witnessing you in a scenario you’re comfortable in because of its familiarity, to the point you move through the forest with precision, clearly knowing it as well as the back of your own hand. He wants to interact with that part of you and observe up close the one who offers frivolous prayers to the sun as a mere aside, paying no mind to the gods who might actually be listening. Your desire is for the warmth to wash over you on cold mornings and Apollo would fight to keep the skies cloudless forever so that as long as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, your prayer will always be answered.

If he were to appear to you in his form as it is now, as a god in his full glory, it would ruin everything. You’d be taken off guard, startled, unsure how to act in his presence, and he doesn’t want that. It leaves him with the present dilemma, but he thinks he might have come up with something that will work…

Finally, he sighs, and humors Ares with a response. “You’re right. I guess I haven’t.”

***

For some reason, the animals elude you today. Your ears are sharp and well trained, so you’re certain it can’t be that you’ve missed any telltale cues of one in the area. The woods are quiet, and they feel empty. If you have anything to say about it, it’s a little bit disconcerting.

Eventually you settle against a tree trunk for a short break, laying your bow and empty rucksack next to you. With you sitting, now you don’t even hear the crunching leaves beneath your sandals, and your eyes rove over the immediate surroundings. Nothing rustles, disturbed by creatures who are exceptionally well hidden. Where are they, any of them?

Perhaps you’re just unlucky this time? Returning home empty-handed didn’t matter too much; it was always possible to buy meat at the market. You just preferred to hunt for game yourself because of the thrill it gives and the accomplishment you feel being able to provide for your family in this way. As such, you don’t want to give up yet. After you’re done resting, you’ll continue. Like always, the only rule you have to abide by is to be home by noon.

There’s a stir in the bushes to your left, the leaves jostling, and you sit up quickly. Slowly you grab your bow, fingers wrapped around the grip, and gingerly you pick it up from the dirt and lift yourself to stand. You don’t walk in the direction of the bushes immediately. Your vantage point would be no better since whatever animal is here, it’s well-concealed, and even if you could spot it through the branches, your arrow couldn’t reach. Instead you wait to see if it starts to move out into the open.

Bow in one hand and arrow in the other, you’re prepared to take aim as soon as you spot your target. You just have to hope it doesn’t notice you first and take off into a run. The animal hiding is beginning to move, for the leaves rustle more, and you nock the arrow.

A red fox emerges, golden eyes trained on you as if it had already known you were there. But if that were the case, you’re confused as to why it hasn’t run away. Your arrow’s still knocked, though it’s pointing at the ground, and you stare at each other for one, two, three beats of silence, and this fox’s unwavering gaze leads you to believe thats something is wrong.

No, not wrong, but definitely out of the ordinary. The fox isn’t afraid, and you can’t bring yourself to stare it down from the sight window of your bow, not when it’s unlike any other fox you’ve encountered, so you relax the tension of the string, removing your arrow and returning both hands to your sides.

The fox moves first, walking towards you, and you’re frozen in place. It feels like a dream, being approached like this by a wild animal who means no harm. You wonder if it might speak to you, a conduit for the gods to impart wisdom, but what they could possibly want to say to you, you haven’t the faintest idea. You’re hardly remarkable, not as well-versed in matters of the divine as the priests of the temple. Has this situation come about as a result of opportunity? To be out in the forest by yourself, there’s little chance for interruption. And with the quietness here, so far from the polis, there’s also little chance for misinterpretation, should the gods truly have something important to share.

The fox now stands right in front of you, its bright eyes blinking, vulnerable but comfortable. You decide to follow its lead, crouching down and setting your bow and arrow on the ground. It’s close enough that you can reach out for it, and cautiously you do, extending an arm to gently run your hand along its red fur. It doesn’t shy away, and as the seconds tick away, you find yourself feeling more comfortable as well. You’re still well aware of the peculiarity of the position you’re in, petting a wild animal so casually, and maybe the gods really are poised to talk to you.

However, the fox is silent as you greet it with a murmured greeting, only continuing to stare up at you. You continue talking, no room to feel embarrassed to converse with a wild animal when it’s already strange to be petting it with ease, and you’re only partly pretending that it can understand because with the way it watches you, you can swear it understands your every word.

“Why are you here?” you inquire, voice hushed. “I suppose you saw a friendly face and wanted to say hello.”

You scratch the fox behind the ear and it nudges its head into your hand, enjoying the sensation, and you chuckle. “Well I’m glad you thought me worthy of your time.”

And your time with it, it would seem, is drawing to a close, because the fox backs up, out of your reach. You watch it with a smile pulling at the corner of your lips and you stand. Lifting a hand to give a little wave, you expect it to turn around and proceed with its own day, concealing itself within the bushes again. And while the fox does turn around and walk away, what surprises you is that it pauses and looks back over at you.

You tilt your head. It’s a very deliberate glance, for it stays where it is, still staring. Was it trying to communicate? Had you been correct after all, that this fox could understand you and had something to share? You stand motionless, ruminating on these thoughts, but the fox continues looking at you, no attempts made to leave… at least not alone. And you know that it could no longer be denied. This fox is trying to say something: it wants you to follow.

Grabbing your bow and rucksack and covering the short distance to the fox, who, satisfied that you’re trailing close behind, proceeds with walking ahead, you reason that there are worse things to be following through the woods. You’ve heard the stories of divine beings interacting with mortals, manifesting in some form to offer guidance, but never did you think you’d be one of them. You can’t help trying to guess what guidance this fox has to offer even if the best course of action right now is just to wait. If it’s leading you somewhere, there’s a destination, and whenever you arrive, you’ll have your answer.

Distracted as you are with watching the fox, you don’t notice the tree root sticking out from the earth, and your foot gets caught on it. You yelp, falling forward, and your hands slide against the leaves as you catch yourself. But then there’s another disturbance, the rustling of more leaves which you’re certain isn’t your doing, and you squash the pained groan you almost let out from scraping your knees in order to listen for any more movements.

Has your run of bad luck finally ended? You’d pushed aside your original task of hunting for game when the fox approached, but now that there’s potentially a rabbit or a deer to track, you’re conflicted as to what to do. And as you’re wont to do in situations like these, you imagine what your mother might say. She’d tell you it’s fine not to go after whatever you’ve heard because the gods aren’t to be ignored, and there would always be other animals on other days. Yes, that’s what she would say yet you still struggle decide.

Your eyes slide from staring in the direction you’d heard the disturbance, down to the fox, who’s paused again, waiting patiently. You know that your urge to track whatever animal is out there doesn’t have to do with the sense of duty to bring home food for dinner, for a trip to the market is no issue. It’s your passion for hunting, the calls of the wild which pull at you. Perhaps it may be ridiculous that the urge is so strong as to compete with the chance to commune with the gods in such a tangible way, foolish even, in the eyes of many, but you would never be ashamed of it. Still…

With a huff, you stand up and brush yourself off. If only to sate your curiosity, you reason, taking wide strides to catch up to the fox.

The two of you don’t walk for much longer, but as you do, you hear the jostling again, of a wild animal sniffing at bushes in search of food. And with every step, you realize the sounds are getting louder.

Finally, the fox stops behind the trunk of a large tree, and you come up behind it, crouching down. Why have you brought me here? You think it but don’t ask it out loud, and you don’t have to because you peak around the trunk and find the answer: there’s a deer in the wide clearing, munching on berries it pulls away from a bush. You duck back around and look at the fox in surprise. It had led you to the animal you heard earlier? The fox sits down, looking up at you with its golden eyes, its job done.

You smile. Sometimes what the gods share with mortals is profound, wisdom only coming from the ones who call Olympus home, and other times they simply share a helping hand.

You’re not about to let the opportunity go to waste. Drawing an arrow and nocking it on your bow, you take aim.

***

One meeting is hardly adequate for Apollo. The moment he’d interacted with you, he knew he wanted more.

He thinks about what you’d said, how you thanked him for deciding you to be worthy of his time. And how could you not be? It was a different experience entirely to observe you up close, to see the confusion on your face upon his arrival but then the softening of it as you relaxed and welcomed him, even for how atypical the whole affair was, to get so close to a fox. You understood it to mean something even if you couldn’t say what, and when prompted to follow, you did so.

There had been that momentary struggle when you heard the deer, unsure whether to break away or continue to follow him. He doesn’t fault you for the indecision. If anything, it helped him to better understand the love you harbor for the hunt, and he’s of the opinion that such passion should always be encouraged. He’d been leading you to the deer to begin with, but you didn’t know that, and even so, you pushed aside your desire to track the deer yourself to continue following him, acknowledging that where he might lead you had nothing to do with an animal to catch but being okay with it.

The tone of your voice had been so soft, like petals trailing along skin as one lays in a flower field on a warm day, and your eyes were gentle. He would like you to continue watching him in that way, perhaps on a quiet night, a dark one, when the stars are clear and brilliant so that he can promise you that he would scoop them from the sky and fashion them into a crown for you should you ask. Or if not that, he would gladly rearrange them to form a picture of you, a constellation made of only the brightest, to immortalize you in the heavens.

He sighs with longing he doesn’t bother to hide. His eyes slide closed and all he sees in his mind is you. Always you. He needs to see you again soon, to quell the ache in his chest.

The next time he does meet you, he assumes not the form of a fox, but of a human. He wants the chance to actually speak to you. In the early hours of a clear day, he roams the forest, in the areas you tend to frequent. There’s no worry of running into other people on accident. You tend to only be the one hunting this deeply into the woods.

He hears the sound of footsteps approaching from behind, and he turns just in time to see you walk around a tree and into view. Once you spot him, you stop, surprised to find you’re not alone. You hesitate to say anything at first, confusion apparent in your gaze, but you brush it aside as you offer a polite grin.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone out here,” you say.

Apollo chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, feigning sheepishness. “I came here to think and got so lost in my thoughts that, well…” He spreads his arms wide, referring to your surroundings. “I wandered further than I realized.”

You grin widens, and you relax a little more now. “I don’t blame you. The forest is a perfect place to find some peace and quiet.”

Apollo smiles too. “Yes, it really is.”

When you ask for his name, he tells you it’s Loukas. You repeat it, to be sure you heard him correctly, and it’s not as satisfying as he knows it would be to hear you say his real name, but it would have to do for now. Then you say Well it’s nice to meet you, Loukas and it’s heartfelt, yours smile amiable and extending a hand of friendship, should he want that. And yes, he does, very much so, and more still—as much as you’re willing to give.

You ask him questions about himself and he makes up information on the spot, but in an effort to avoid having to conjure up too detailed a backstory, and because he doesn’t want the focus to be on him, for you’re who he wants to learn about, he turns the tables on you and asks about you. It’s surface level, things he already knew by observing you from Olympus—your family and what they do, why you’re out in the forest early in the morning.

But what he gleans from conversing with you goes beyond that. You care for your family deeply, wanting to be a good daughter and older sister. You just want them to be happy, and anything you could do to make it possible, you would do. Hunting began as something practical, done to provide, but you’d grown to love it, energized by the cold air filling your lungs and the rush of blood through your veins when you’re set on a chase. Life for you is generally quiet, but in the forest, with your bow and arrow, it can be livelier, if only for a little while.

Apollo listens with rapt attention as your life unfolds before him and your eyes sparkle from the light of the sun overhead, but he’s more inclined to believe instead that they shine from the stars tucked away within you. Your soul is the essence of another universe and he’d like to live there, Olympus a distant memory but it wouldn’t matter to him, so long as you’re together.

He’d quickly been lost in his musings about you, the life he’d like to live with you, but he’s pulled from it at the mention of a fox and your quiet laugh of disbelief as you recount what a unique encounter it had been.

“Sometimes when my father asks for help watching the sheep, I’ll sit in the pastures and talk to them, but with the fox, it was different. I was sure it could understand what I said.” You chuckle again, embarrassed. “I’d been struggling to find any animals that day too, and that fox led me to a deer. It was like the gods were watching out for me.”

You glance at Apollo, nervous for what his response could be, because it does sound a little outlandish, but he simply smiles warmly. “Olympus rests in the heavens, but on occasion, the gods take care to remind us they’re closer than we think.”

“Well said,” you compliment, then continue teasingly, “Did you hear that from one of the priests?”

Apollo laughs and shrugs noncommittally. “They have a way with words.”

Time with you passes much too quickly and he’s saddened as it draws to a close. Your parting words include an apology for disturbing him, since he’d come to the forest to think, and he’s speaking to you as Apollo, not as Loukas, when he promises that you would never be a disturbance. He’d enjoyed your company, hopes that you’d enjoyed his too and that perhaps this wouldn’t be the end. Until the next meeting? It’s asked in a way that leaves it open, for there’s no set date and you’ll leave it to chance that you run into each other on another day.

You nod and your lips, stretching into a grin, look so soft. “If it be the will of the Fates, we’ll see each other again.”

“I’ll have to pray for their favor then.” He lifts a hand in a wave goodbye, and you return it before making your leave, gradually becoming concealed by the foliage.

But Apollo would do no such thing. The hands of the Fates keep the world turning but where it concerns you, he would pull the strings himself. He doesn’t bother to entertain the idea of what your thread might contain, whether there’s a place for him in it or not, because he doesn’t care to find out. He wants to be with you, and it’s a desire so powerful that he would dare to push back against the Moirai in order to fulfill it.

From the moment he’d said goodbye during your first conversation, he already knew you would meet again. He’d be there in the woods to wait for you. It isn’t the will of the Fates that turns this wheel, but Apollo.

Hermes had noted both the change in Apollo’s demeanor, his propensity for bouts of silence as he watches the earth below, in combination with his recent absences to go down there, but for what, Hermes doesn’t know. Apollo is forward with him as to what he’s been up to, like he had been with Ares, but unlike Ares, Hermes is privy to just what Apollo feels regarding the Fates and their plans for you.

“It’s no small matter to reject what they’ve ordained,” Hermes remarks. “The threads they spin, it’s destiny. Even for that girl who’s caught your eye.”

But Apollo isn’t easily swayed. It’s the strong who admit no destiny, and he would shoulder the burden of Atlas and carry the sky on his back. Where it concerns you, the Fates were a mere interference. He’d forge the future on his own.

***

The way your eyes light up when you do see him again makes everything in the world feel right, and upon your playful comment—It seems the Fates have been kind—he brushes aside the idea of destiny and the Moirai easily. In response, he hums, declares They have despite not meaning it since, well, it isn’t true. And he wishes he could tell you it was his doing, that it would always be him pushing you two together because he wants the praise which falls from your lips to be for him and him alone. Though he supposes there would be time yet to reveal such secrets to you, and despite the irritation he feels at needing to wait, he will do so without complaint.

Besides, he’s too preoccupied paying attention to you to bother complaining. You take up all the space in his mind, and there’s room for little else. It’s entirely unusual for the likes of Apollo to be this enamored with anyone, and he studies your form closely as you talk—the curl of your lashes, the sheen of your hair pulled into a braid, the color of your lips—wondering if you found your beginnings as a sculpture, not a human, and it was Athena who breathed life into your form. If such is the case, where was the pedestal off of which you stepped, leaving it behind without looking back in favor of exploring the world around you? Which lands claimed the privilege to have you on display? Those which he posits as possibilities are hardly worthy, but very few, if any, could be.

Had you come from Olympus? It’s the only place Apollo knows contains beauty to the degree you possess. He imagines you there, in the fields or in the courtyard, settled amongst the flowers and staring overhead at a sun unobscured by clouds. He imagines that you look right at home, and it would be ironic that you should be under his nose this whole time, his songbird easily spotted by glancing out the window of his bedroom. Your every word’s a dream and he delights to hear your honeyed tones. He wants you to pray to him with that sweet voice, and he’d honor all your requests so long as you sang for him.

You’ve started teaching him the calls of various birds which flitter overhead, and the ghost of a smile rests on his lips to hear your enthusiasm. There’s an occasional bout of hesitation on your part, unsure if you’ve identified the calls correctly and digging through your memory for everything Alexios had said, and you flash a toothy grin of satisfaction when the bird whose call you’d been attempting to guess makes its appearance, and you learn you’re correct.

Apollo enjoys this activity, but the only bird whose calls he’s interested is you. He trails his gaze along the column of your throat, envisions the vocal chords within them producing the melody and majesty you radiate. His fingers twitch with the urge to follow the path taken by his eyes, to slide along your jaw, down your neck, touch feather-light and and inquiring from you, in hushed whispers, to what artist he owes an expression of gratitude for gracing him with your existence.

As the days turn into weeks spent together, you only grow closer, and it reaches a point that you suggest he join you and your family for dinner. You look hopeful that he’ll agree, but he can’t, given who he is. He needs to keep his distance from everyone other than you. He hates to be the cause of your disappointment, however slight, and that’s why a heaviness settles in his stomach when he declines.

He’s polite, explaining that he doesn’t want to intrude, and the small smile you’d been wearing fades. Already he’s aching to see it again, wants to beg for it to come back and if you truly wanted him to accompany you, he would do it, any consequences be damned.

Was there a chance that you knew he was lying about the reason? Your head is tilted and you delay giving a response, and maybe you don’t know the real reason (he highly doubts you could figure that out) but you detect enough from the tone of his voice that he fed you a lie. If you do realize it, you don’t address it, and instead, like you heard his earlier wish to see your smile again, that charming smile returns. Now there’s a playfulness to it.

“Then I guess you’ll just be my secret,” you tease.

Apollo grins. It would be his pleasure to be your secret, held close to the heart like all secrets are.

He’d like the beat of your own to help him fall asleep at night. He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about you and whether you’ve also settled in for the evening. If he were to extend arm outward, along the blankets to the empty side, as though reaching for you, he wonders if you’d sense it, the faint touch of his fingertips, a testament to what Apollo feels for you. No distance between you would ever be too great. His dreams are filled with you and perhaps this is a sign that you were thinking of him. He hopes so.

Apollo had been certain of his feelings from the moment he first set his sights on you, but the idea of confessing and revealing his true nature stayed far from his mind. It hadn’t been by any will of his own; he was enamored with you during every meeting, genuinely enjoyed talking, that he hadn’t bothered considering the next step, content in the current moment to just be.

But on a bright afternoon while out in the courtyard, he finally gives it thought, and it’s perfect, really, because sunny days remind him of you, and maybe that’s what prompted the last push. To be around you was to keep a piece of the blessed sun he governs right by his side, your presence warming him even on the stormiest of days, and he desires to know what it would be like to be the recipient of your love as you are of his.

He’s the god of the sun yet he wonders where you have been all these millennia. Maybe your essence had always been there, manifesting in the blooming of flowers one century and then in the powerful flow of a river the next. And on and on your soul drifted through time until it settled within you as you are now, a culmination of the lives you have lived, and maybe Apollo had always known where you were because whenever he looks into your eyes he sees eternity. You’d been with him since the beginning of it all; he was just looking in the wrong places.

There’s a chill in the air on the morning he plans to tell you the truth. You shiver, having come without a cloak, and he offers you his, throwing it around your shoulders before you get the chance to decline. You smile, accepting the help gracefully, and Apollo returns your smile automatically.

Do you remember, he starts, about what I said the day we met? You hum as you attempt to recall what he’s referring to but can’t remember. He doesn’t blame you, since you’d discussed many things then.

“It was about the gods, and how sometimes they’re closer than we think.”

Your eyes light up in recognition. “Oh, yes! But… what about it?”

Apollo doesn’t respond immediately, considering carefully how to phrase his next words. It’s unlike him to be this way, and he is aware, irritatingly so, of the slight hesitation in the back of his brain. It’s not that he’s afraid, because every instance he had imagined this moment, his heartbeat raced not with nerves but with exhilaration. He owes it to the pressure overcoming him to make this flawless, so that you can know the true depth of what he feels toward you. His gaze slides from staring at the horizon down to you, who watches him so attentively, and he realizes the pressure is unfounded. He just needs to be real, and you would understand by the parts he doesn’t say out loud.

So, taking a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, he speaks. “How would you feel to know one had been at your side?”

“You mean that fox?”

“Not just the fox, but every time you ventured into these woods. You hadn’t been alone.”

Your head tilts. “I wasn’t alone all the time: I had you.”

Apollo goes quiet, waiting to see if you connect the dots yourself. He looks at you and envisions the gears in your head spinning as you stare at each other. Saying it out loud, what he’d been implying, would have garnered the same result as staying silent. His lack of words is still a response to your unspoken question, and he notices the unease which settles on your face, expressive as always, unable to hide what you’re thinking and feeling.

“Loukas…?” Your voice is hushed. Maybe you only say the name because you want to ask what he means, wanting to hear it explicitly, or because you’re questioning if that’s even his real name.

Apollo notices that now you look at him as you did during your first interaction, when the first few polite greetings had been exchanged: like a stranger. You’re keeping yourself guarded, and there’s a tightening sensation in his chest and he hates it. He hates how it hurts and hates to see you look at him that way. And he would never fault you for it because he’d kept his identity a secret, but he loves you and the only way to show it to you, to make it real, was if he told you the truth of who he is first.

He shakes his head. “I go by another name.”

He transforms before you, his mortal covering falling away and giving rise to his divine form. The burst of light which issues forth from this process is so bright you need to cover your eyes. You bring your arm up, and he’d like to reach out and take hold of it, to gently lower it to your side so that he might meet your gaze, but he restrains himself and, instead, says your name quietly, a signal that it’s okay to look now.

And you do. Your eyes are wide in astonishment, your mind no doubt scrambling to process the fact a god is standing in front of you. Sure, you might’ve interacted with one before, in the form of that red fox, but this is something else. This isn’t a vague manifestation, like another animal or a dream, the mysterious—and more typical—methods gods tended to utilize for communication with mortals, but a literal god. No veil or disguise. No hiding.

Apollo studies you closely, contemplates the myriad of emotions which are no doubt flittering through your mind like a dozen little hummingbirds. He keeps his tone tender, for you’re already shocked, and he realizes the situation is a delicate one. Suddenly you start to resemble the deer who roam the forest—graceful in posture and magnificent to behold but still tense, prepared to flee the moment you detect there’s anything unusual.

My name is Apollo, he says lowly. And since I first laid my eyes on you, I have been with you here in these woods.

You take in his appearance: the long blond hair, tanned skin, golden eyes which match the sun shining behind his head high in the sky. He’s beautiful, and that should come as no surprise where it concerns an Olympian, but to witness his beauty yourself is an experience unlike any other, leagues above merely hearing from the priests how he might look or observing the sculptures fashioned as praise for him.

His eyes are what draw most of your attention, and they are kind as well as familiar. They mirror the brighten golden gaze of another being you had encountered in the past, and you let out a quiet breath of disbelief. He had been with you even then. Your intuition speculating that the fox had been a god wasn’t unfounded at all. It hadn’t been an aimless musing, a what-if because you’ve heard the stories of gods appearing to mortals. You’d been correct. It had been fact.

“But why…” You trail off, unable to finish the question because truthfully, how could you? The implications of his actions, of spending all this time with you, only to reveal his true self, speaks for a reality you are having trouble coming to terms with. Why you?

Apollo understands what you’re asking without you needing to continue, and in readying himself to explain from the very beginning, the corner of his lips lifts in a tiny smile as he reminisces on the first words he’d heard you say to him, indirect but meant for him all the same.

“The day was cold, fresh off the heels of a rainstorm the night before,” he starts. “You asked the sun to keep you warm and kept your footsteps to the places on the earth where it touched.”

You remember that moment, and it surprises you that it had reached him, because it hadn’t been a prayer, not a genuine one. Simply a playful aside.

Apollo’s smile grows. Sincere prayer or no, I heard it, and when I did, I wanted to know the one who said it. He explains to you it was your gentle tone which pulled him in, voice laced with affection which underlies your every word, and he wanted to hear more of it, to hear you sing and it could be about anything—your hunts, your family, gossip from the markets—and he would hang, and has hung, on it all because everything you say is the sweetest melody. You put the birds to shame.

And this, he hopes, is adequate to answer your query. He’d seen the confusion on your face, wondering why you had stuck out. He wants to help you understand, see things from his point of view, because even if you might not think so yourself, you’re remarkable. At the tail-end of his speech, throughout which a sense of eagerness had been clawing at him from the inside because this was it—the moment he confesses and might finally feel the softness of your skin against his, might finally hear you say his name—he tells you he loves you.

You’re at a loss for words, as his hang in the air between you, and Apollo had been expecting a reaction of this sort. To be loved by a god was no small matter. But what he isn’t expecting is the shake of your head, slowly at first, like you’re uncertain, but then again, more assertive. It’s his turn to be confused and he murmurs your name, a slight upturn at the end as if asking a question.

“You don’t love me,” you state.

Apollo’s brows furrow. “I assure you there’s little else which I have been so confident about before.”

“But a god and a human together…” You shake your head again. “It’s not meant to last.”

His heart wrenches painfully in his chest to hear you say that, though he understands where you come from. Such stories were common, himself being the god in some of them. The relationships are temporary, but this time, with you, he’s serious. His feelings for you are real, transcending the point of mere infatuation. He loves you and the declaration isn’t empty. He’s almost desperate now as he tries to come up with a way to convince you that your own story, between the two of you, would have no tragic end, maybe even no end at all. Because when stories reach the closing, happy or not, there is always inherent in the drawing of the curtains a perceived sadness, a pulling away from the world upon the stage and one is unceremoniously thrust back into reality, which is nowhere near as spectacular. It’s a disappointment he never wants to feel with you, and he would do all he could do keep you together.

“I sometimes wondered if there was anyone for whom I would change the course of the sun,” he tells you, his eyes drifting upward to glance at the sky. “And I could think of no one until I saw you. I told myself that if you so desired, I would keep the sky free of clouds so you might always feel the warmth of the sun.” His eyes slide back down to meet your own. “If you wished with that sweet voice of yours for the sun to rise in the west and set in the east, I would do it.”

You’re visibly more relaxed now, your gaze having softened as he spoke. It shines with the temptation to give in, to accept his love and give him yours in return, but a small part of you continues to struggle with the idea of loving a god. Apollo hopes you can see the sincerity on his face, as close to a desperate plea as he can get short of actually begging out loud.

“And if I were to ask for that,” you start, "for the sun to rise in the west and set in the east, what of the earth? The crops and the people who rely on its consistent path through the sky?”

Apollo shakes his head. “None of that would matter to me. Don’t you see?” He says your name again, and in a fit of irony the tables have turned because your name upon his lips is a prayer in its own right. “To be with you is to have the world fall away.”

Tentatively, he lifts a hand to set it gently on your cheek. You don’t flinch or back away, and he sighs, one of satisfaction to finally feel your skin, the softness of it to match that of your eyes and your voice and your everything. He declares it to you once more. I love you. And he would keep declaring it until you believed him.

You cover his hand with yours and lean into his hold. There’s still conflict in your gaze, a storm of emotion, and the way you murmur his name sounds like a call for help. You want to be saved. You want to be rid of the discord within you and to accept all he has to give, and you’re closer to the edge, have moved closer with his every word, but the last bit of hesitation keeps you from falling over. Apollo…

The breath leaves his lungs to hear you utter his name, a sound he has longed to hear since the first time he heard you speak. There’s a twisting in his chest but now it’s from that flood of love which he is barely able to contain. He wants to hear you say his name again and again, and he’ll fight against the hesitation you continue to feel, chip away at it until it’s only you and him and he could guide you over the edge and into his embrace.

His thumb strokes your cheek, a comforting back and forth motion. “We’re meant for each other.”

“You speak of destiny, but who other than the Fates can determine what any of us are truly meant for?”

Apollo is reminded of the conversation he had with Hermes what seems like many moons ago. All at once the fires of passion flare with him, magnified by his defiance of the Fates. When he’d declared to Hermes that where it concerned you, the future was his to forge, he’d been serious. He proclaims it now to you, promises that when it comes to the two of you, the Fates are powerless.

“The thread of your life is spun and measured by the Moirai, but I would pluck it from the hand of Atropos and her shears so that you might stay with me forever.”

It’s his final appeal, the ultimate supplication, to dare to go against the hand of fate. You understand the gravity of this assertion, and at hearing it, the last of those defenses in you drops, and there’s a clearing of the storm clouds, which he detects in the clarity of your gaze. As you look up at him, you do so with sureness, with love, and to bear witness to and be the recipient of your radiant affection is to make the task of intertwining your own fates as easy as waking up in the morning. You give him the strength to carry it out and there truly is no one else for whom he would go to such lengths for.

He kisses you and your lips are warm. Maybe you’re a piece of the sun that has fallen to earth, a shooting star which has made its home here until he found you. You’re the part of him that’s been missing, and holding you now, Apollo is aware of how complete he feels.

Upon parting, you remain close and watch one other. The silent look shared is intense, profound; two hearts beating the same lonely tune, fiercely longing for love and not caring what the world—or the heavens—might think.

#apollo x reader #apollo imagine #blood of zeus x reader #blood of zeus imagine #blood of zeus #apollo #bubble-tea-bunny #queue

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

Text

Hues of Pink

Bill Weasley x Reader

Summary: On rainy day at home, Bill paints your nails.

Requested by @am-i-space : “Hey I recently had this thought and I would love to actually read this I think it would be adorable: Bill sitting behind you and and painting your nails, and like little neck kisses and stupid giggles from both of you and him resting his head on yours when he´s concentrating.”

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of scars, fluff, kissing

A/N: Thank you for such a sweet and fluffy request, I hope you enjoy it!!

(gif found on pinterest, credits to the maker)

The rain was steady outside, no intentions of passing any time soon as it pelted relentlessly against the chilled windowpanes. Fortunately, there were no pressing plans waiting for either of you, and the inclement weather had only further decided that it would be a lax day around your home. You weren’t complaining though, work had been rather taxing on the both of you as of late and this gave way to some much needed time to spend together. You would never complain about that, because days like this seemed to be few and far between.

“What are you doing, love?” Bill asks, appearing in the doorway with a yawn. He leant against the doorframe as he watched you curiously over his mug and you smile brightly from your spot at the coffee table.

“Painting my nails,” you state simply, setting down your nail file amongst the assortment of other tools.

You hadn’t had spare minute to do such a hobby in a while and with your newfound down time, you thought it’d be the perfect opportunity to treat yourself. That, and it had always been a way to alleviate your stress when your mind was feeling rather busy. Though you will admit it does not work wonders in the department of aroma therapy. That much is very certain.

He hums and nods, stepping into the room fully to be with you. He was still dressed in his pajamas much like you were, and his hair had yet to meet a comb that day as it dusted over his shoulders in tangled red locks. You always playfully suggested a trim if he’d insisted on letting his hairbrush collect dust on your nightstand, but your attempts were always declined with an immediate frown. Not to mention the ginger strands you always found in your brush.

Moments later he had joined you on the living room floor, basking in the warmth of his drink that was steaming just under his nose freckled nose.

“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. He turned his head in that moment to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, tasting of his usual lemon tea and an abundant amount of sugar. “Or should I say good afternoon?”

He scrunches his nose in a quiet protest, pulling away from you with a fond shake of his head and a soft smile. “Must you always tease me?”

You pretend to ponder the question briefly, tapping your finger on your cheek as he raises a brow at you. “I believe the answer is undoubtedly a yes, my love.”

He scoffs into his mug.

“Well, I believe I should stop calling you sunshine in favor of something more accurate then, like trouble.”

“Actually, Bill, I quite like that one,” You say with a laugh, more so when he narrows his tired eyes at you with a disapproving frown. Though no matter how much you may have teased him in good fun, you’d always be the embodiment of sunshine, lighting up his life in every way imaginable.

You tenderly ran your thumb over the pink scars that run across his cheek, his frown fading and the crease between his brows smoothing once more at your touch. “I’m only kidding,” you assure, but he knows that smile anywhere. “But you know I can’t resist!”

He huffs and hides his smile behind his mug as he takes a sip, setting the tattered old ceramic down on a mismatched coaster before focusing his attention back on you. It was something he always found himself to be doing, to him it was rather hard not to. And the way your tongue had poked out just past very kissable lips was only further proving his point; anything thing you did, no matter how simple or grand, always proved his point. He feels maybe he shouldn’t have joined in with his brothers in teasing Ron for the way he’s always gazing at Hermione, because he’s quite sure he has his little brother beat at this point.

He supposes one never truly understands the full scope of love and it’s effects until one is lucky enough have it. Well, he always knew love when it came to his family, he’s never experienced a moment in his life where he found himself without it. But this, this was far different from that. You came into his life and turned it upside down for the better, quite literally too when you had knocked his textbooks to floor outside of potions in your clumsy haze all those years ago. He’s sure he’s never seen someone be quite so flustered over him in all his life. Charlie was quick to take note and embarrass him in front of you once he knew his brother had caught feelings, and he quickly became flustered over you. Regardless, he was and still is profoundly in love with you, that’ll never change.

You loved him for who he is, not what he may or may not have. The scars stretching across his fair skin were of no importance either, for he’d always been beautiful to you. He was Bill Weasley, wonderfully awkward and exceptionally intelligent with a heart of gold. That’s what you loved.

His fingers tapped against his cheek as his chin rests in his palm, watching as you paint on the blush colored nail varnish with a practiced ease. You have a habit of making everything look easy, he’s noticed. For lack of better, less ironic wording, he always felt you seemed to possess a different kind of magic. One that makes the world go round, his world, one that makes everything all the more enamoring. Any spell or enchantment couldn’t hold a candle to you in his eyes.

“Can I do it?” He suddenly inquires, tucking his hair behind his ear even though it rebelliously fell right back into place. He’s decided he’s got to do something other than stare at you all day, though he is perfectly content to do so.

When you turn your head, he’s looking at you curiously, and a smile is quick to tug at your lips. He mirrors your expression with a lopsided grin, a pale scarlet dusting his cheeks.

You nod and he scoots in behind you, peering over your shoulder at the spread of polishes laid out on the small table. Before he started, you switch on another lamp with a flick of your finger so he could see a bit better. He snagged the bottle of baby pink polish you’d been working from, uncapping it and gingerly taking your hand in his own. When you opened your mouth to point him in the right direction he hushed you with a quiet hum and you laugh softly, leaning back against his chest as you let him take creative control.

He settled his chin on your shoulder, his head rested against yours as he got to work with unwavering determination. No matter the task, Bill Weasley will always find a way to make it seem as though it was of the utmost importance. Whether it be washing the dishes or being called off to work, that stoic look of concentration never failed to make an appearance. Yes, his hands had been a bit shaky and perhaps it was from the extra scoop of sugar he puts in his tea, perhaps it wasn’t, but so far he hadn’t done half bad.

With your free hand, you snag his mug of tea and take a sip, smiling to yourself at how obscenely sweet it was. If one thing was obvious, it was that he had the biggest sweet tooth out of anyone you’d ever known. He made a discontented protest when you moved once more and nearly messed up his progress, though it was one that was easily satisfied with a kiss.

For a while after that things were quiet, save for the consistent patter of the raindrops trickling down outside and his steady breathing in your ear. A cinnamon flavored candle had been gracing the room with its delightful fragrance, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t remind him of home. It made everything all the more cozy. The day was nothing short of peaceful and everything you’d dreamed it would be; not even Bill’s lighthearted grumbling over your constant fidgeting could take away from the moment. He was the cause after all, he couldn’t expect you to stay still with the chaste and absentminded kisses he’d been pressing upon your neck. It was only fair.

“I used to paint my mother’s nails, you know,” he murmurs then, still focused on the task at hand. You hum softly in response to urge him to continue on. “Whenever she’d gotten a cold or even just felt under the weather, I’d paint her nails to lift her spirits. It was this ruby red color she always adored. Granted I was fifteen and it looked absolutely horrendous and— love don’t move!”

You giggle out a soft apology and turn your head to kiss his cheek, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry.”

He pursed his lips with a hint of a smile and sighed softly, diligently continuing on with his work. “Now Ronnie gets to do it.”

The thought alone made you smile because the one and only time you’d let Ron Weasley do your nails, and even Fred for that matter, you’d ended up with more polish on your skin than your nails. It had even wound up on them, you recall. They had insisted you were moving far too much and that may have been a little true, but you’ll never let them live down their terrible nail painting abilities.

Bill’s hair had been tickling your skin and you fought the shiver it elicited, but you couldn’t seem to help it in that moment. The tiny brush clutched in his hand had smudged the soft pink pigment onto your skin, and he huffed out a laugh against your neck. He stuck the brush back in its rightful bottle with acceptance that he couldn’t get any more work done before his lips found your neck once more, your laughter relentless when he kissed the sensitive skin. He knew this fact very well, and used it to his full advantage as retaliation. His arm encircled your waist momentarily as he squeezed you close in a half hug, his own laughter mingling with yours in the little living room.

You manage free yourself from his embrace, cautious not to further smudge your freshly painted manicure. He was quick to get on his feet, though, grabbing your wrist and twirling you to face him as he tugged you close.

“Careful! You just might ruin all your hard work, love,” you scold with a beaming smile, but he seems to be far more concerned with you presently.

Your laughter fades considerably in that moment as he envelopes you in his arms once more, and with careful movements you wrap your own around his neck. You’d never quite gotten used to the way he looks at you and you probably never will; it was as if the very world revolved around you. It made the familiar crimson burn and blossom across your cheeks, his smile widening a fraction as you avert your gaze.

“You’ve got to stop doing that, you know,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek while you try and focus on absolutely anything but the way your blush is creeping down your neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chuckles, but he was very much aware of the meaning behind your words.

You cast a pointed stare in his direction, daring to look at him fully. A stubborn chunk of ginger hair had fallen from where it was tucked behind his ear, brushing over his cheek. A sigh leaves your lips and he finds himself resting his forehead on yours, nudging you softly with his nose. You were starting to feel like a moment more perfect than this couldn’t exist. The pungent scent of nail polish was something you could very much do without, but it was only a minor inconvenience. For you were in the arms of the love of your life and not a single thing could surpass that.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his eyes falling closed as a much softer smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Very much.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, not one of mocking, but one of utter joy that had been too overflowing within you not to do so. His chuckle puffs against your lips, his arms tightening their hold. “I love you, Bill Weasley,” you breathe earnestly in the closeness, nearly stealing a kiss before you let yourself finish your declaration. “Very much.”

Both your cheeks were stained in varying hues of pink as your lips melded in the most loving of kisses, and there was no greater feeling.

—

Tags: @theweasleysredhair @loony-loopy-lupinn @lupinsclassroom @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq

#bill weasley #bill weasley fanfiction #bill weasley fluff #bill weasley x you #bill weasley x reader #bill weasley one shot #bill weasley imagine

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samwrights · 4 years

Text

First Year Daddies (+ Kyoutani!)

I’m trying to spread out my requests—I have a whole bunch of Kuroo ones that I swear he is my most requested person. So let’s take a break from our beloved rooster and get some daddies up in this! That being said, this will kinda be a part 2 to Karasuno as dads, with the addition of our beloved Mad Dog. @dreamyjaems you know what’s up.

Kageyama;

Alright, let’s redeem Kags cause I did him dirty last time.

It took him sometime to get used to being a parent, but when he finally got it down, he loved every second of it.

Your daughter, now five years old, loves daddy just as much as he loves her.

Now that you’d gone back to work and the two of you had some semblance of a schedule, Kageyama was 100% in charge of childcare while you worked in the morning.

Lucky break for the two of you that Kags didn’t start practice until the afternoon, giving him time to take your little girl to kindergarten with you picking her up.

It was the same routine every morning—mommy goes to work and daddy makes pancakes while putting on Disney movies.

Always a short stack and he made sure to cut it up just the way his little girl liked it—into 16 pieces. Yes, 16. No more, no less.

Your daughter was a lucky little bugger, getting her fathers thick, silky hair. By this age, it’s incredibly long and Kags always brushes it and does it nicely before taking her to school, then off to work he goes.

His locksreen is definitely a picture of him and his daughter. It gets him through the day.

After picking up your child from school, you help her with homework since Kags won’t be home until later.

Sometimes, it really shocks you just how lucky the two of you got for having such a well behaved kid—super low maintenance, doesn’t really cause trouble. That is, until she starts missing her dad.

Yes, she is a hardcore daddy’s girl 💀

Usually, it’s around dinner time that she gets fussy because Kageyama will be waking through the door any minute and that minute canNOT pass soon enough. She’s more like you than you think.

“Hi sweetie,” you call out while you know for a fact he’s scooping up his little bean in his arms before coming to give you a kiss. Routine was nice that way.

The three of you go about your evening as per usual—having dinner together, you giving your little one a bath and Kageyama reading her to bed so that the two of you can cuddle up on the couch before turning in for the evening.

After he finishes reading, he joins you for your quiet time, seeing that you’re watching a movie and drinking a glass of wine. “I wanted to talk to you about...something.” He says stiffly. You quirk a brow at him after hitting pause, patiently waiting for him to continue. “How...how would you feel about having another one?”

“Another glass of wine? Hell yeah.”

“[name], no. Another kid.” Oh. Well, this is a shocking turn of events. Kageyama, the barely legal adult that initially had no idea whether or not was ready to be a father, wanted another child.

“Are you sure, Tobio?” Was all you responded with.

“Obviously, since I’m asking you,” there’s a twinge in his voice that you aren’t sure you’ve heard before. Not quite begging, per se. perhaps imploring was a better word for it? “I love our family and I just want it to keep growing.”

This was such a far cry from the man that Kageyama Tobio was six years ago when you first found out you were pregnant, and you would be lying if you said that his admission didn’t turn you on in the slightest.

“Well we’ve got some work to do then, buddy.”

Hinata;

Hinata Shoyo finally got his wish. With his son, now 10, and daughter, now 8, your youngest daughter was nearing her terrible twos.

There was nothing more in the world that your newest baby loved more than daddy.

It was actually kind of irritating, actually, because if Shoyo wasn’t home, she would cry and throw temper tantrums until your husband walked through the door.

Shit, it even irritated your other two kids who, in order to avoid it all, would usually be at their friend’s houses doing homework and hanging out until they knew their dad would be home.

If only you were able to do the same.

The second that Sho walked through the door, every sound in the Hinata household ceases, as if your toddler wasn’t just screaming her lungs out moments ago.

“Hi, princess! Did you miss daddy today? I know I missed you a whole bunch!”

On god, he is such a good dad it hurts. He’s gotten even better since the addition of the youngest.

“Hi sweetheart,” you greet with a quick peck onto his lips. His daughter, and yes very specifically the almost two-year-old is his daughter, grunts in discomfort despite being held by dad. She doesn’t like the fact that you took dad’s attention away for a second. “Oh, quiet you.” You grumble at her.

“[name]! Be nice to angel!” You roll your eyes at him instead. As if you haven’t raised your last two kids, who were now walking in the door. “Come on, pumpkin, let’s go get some food in our bellies!”

Hinata places her in her high chair, obnoxiously making little airplane noises as he feeds her. Spoiled little brat.

“Mom,” your son starts cautiously, looking back and forth between his father and baby sister. “Was dad always like this?” He asks, referring to the overly enthusiastic train noises your husband was making.

“No, honey.”

“Okay, just making sure he hasn’t been a dork our entire lives.”

“Oh, that? Yeah.”

Tsukishima;

It needs to be reiterated, you felt, that Tsukki is an amazing father.

Your oldest and Kei’s step-daughter, now 12, and your youngest daughter, now 7, would vehemently agree.

They never did actually grow out of the habit of calling him Tsukki, as opposed to dad. Though when speaking to other people, they both referred to him as their father.

It was quite endearing, actually. Your family was happy with the way things were, even if they were slightly unconventional.

Sunday mornings were family days—an adamant rule in the Tsukishima household. Kei would be in charge of making breakfast while you and the girls blasted some upbeat music while tidying up your rooms.

While Kei does not find Kesha and Lizzo to be “the classics” as you so put it while you cleaned, he did find it amusing to see all three Tsukishima women dancing and singing while cleaning.

Lowkey, it warmed his heart to know these were the three women of his life.

Kei is still the same protective dad he was even before having his own child—it only got worse when your oldest started showing an interest in the opposite gender.

Ya know how he wasn’t afraid to fight a toddler for his little girl? He’s definitely not afraid to fight some middle school punk.

Especially when your oldest comes home bawling her eyes out because she had decided to confess to the boy she liked and he had said he didn’t return feelings.

No matter how much you tried to console her, nothing you said seemed to work. It was dad’s turn.

Tsukki sits her down, his face as serious as ever, before adjusting his glasses to look at his step-daughter clearly. “Don’t tell mom that I said this, but boys ain’t shit.” 💀💀💀

“Ooooh, Tsukki said a bad word.” She joked in between her now calming tears.

“It’s true, though. Now come on, chin up. Princesses can’t have their heads down, their crowns will fall off.”

Yamaguchi;

Despite the years of torture and struggle that was raising your twin hellions, Tadashi was kind of feeling a little empty now that the boys had grown into being more independent.

They were now seven-years-old, in sports, getting good grades—it’s like they were replaced with a different set of twins.

However, this also grants Tadashi the chance to actually step in and be a father, rather than letting those two run him ragged all day.

I see Yamaguchi being a slightly more strict parent, but loving nonetheless. Because the twins have always sort have been troublemakers, he’s strict on making sure the boys are home in time for dinner and that their schoolwork is done.

If they aren’t 💀💀💀

Honestly, your guys’ life though is just all around peaceful and a small part of you is longing for chaos.

So before the two of you head to sleep for the evening, your both just chilling in bed, maybe reading a book. Ya know, like 90s sitcom style.

“Hey Tadashi, can I ask you something?” That was never a good sign in his book, but he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to proceed. “How would you feel if we had another kid?”

“Wait, are you pregnant?” You certainly didn’t miss the panic that filled his eyes. Oh. There’s your answer.

“No...I just...kinda miss holding a baby, ya know? Our boys are seven now, they don’t want mom anywhere near them and they think my hugs and kisses are gross.”

Ngl, it kinda hurts him to hear that because he knows it hurts you. All he wants to do his make you feel better.

“I mean, I’m not opposed I’m just—“

“Scared the next one is gonna turn out the same way?” He laughs at the fact that you know him so well. “Don’t get me wrong, I am too. But in the end, we raised them so well. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about.”

Kyoutani;

The two of you never ceased to surprise anyone.

At first, it started with the two of you dating in your third years of high school, all the way through college (which, it shocked some that he in enrolled in university at all), to bringing your three-year-old son to the class of 2014 reunion.

Where did people even begin? The fact that you two had been dating for ten years or the fact that the two of you were parents?

It bothered you when people made assumptions about Kentarou.

Yes, he was cold and brash and a complete pain in your ass, but he was a damn good life partner and father.

Kyoutani wasn’t satisfied with anything if he wasn’t giving it his all—that includes his relationship with you and your guys’ son.

While he isn’t necessarily the most affectionate person, he always made sure his little family had everything they needed.

Yahaba is the first one to approach the three of you, surprised to see Kentarou holding his little one. “Holy shit, I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Language.” Your boyfriend bites out. A small laugh escapes your lips as you pat him on the back in reassurance as you give Yahaba a hug.

“Nice to see you too, Shigeru.” The former setter looks between the two of you, then looks at your son.

“It’s so scary to see your mini-me with his eyes.”

“Don’t be rude.” You chide him calmly, while Kyoutani feels his blood boil slightly. That sounded like an insult to him. Wordlessly, he hands over your son before squaring up with his former teammate. “Honey, please don’t start a fight.”

You were one of the few people to calm him down; a given considering your decade together.

Backing down, Kentarou retreats to your side, securing an arm around his waist and placing a chaste kiss in his sons hair. Knowing his mannerisms, you knew that was an apology to his child for losing his cool for a minute.

“Holy shit.” Yahaba repeats, stunned by the display of affection

“Language!” Your boyfriend snarls again through clenched teeth, making you laugh again. The three of you were far from perfect, but you had everything you needed.

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laketaj24 · 4 years

Text

Unteachable III: Distractions

Author’s Note: So, I had slacked off on this because I lost some motivation lol, but this series is back! I will try my best to post weekly!! Please let me know what you think! Happy Reading!

Warnings: Smut. Drama.

Parings: Professor!Henry! Cavill x Reader, Charlie Hunnam X Reader

Masterlist for previous parts.

Moving had been easier than you thought, it helped your brother wanted you out. He had done half of it for you, and when henry joined in you, you were in your new place within two weeks of signing the lease. It was not close to Henry’s, which in retrospect it didn’t matter. You saw him every day regardless, he would drive to you, or you would haul ass to him if you had to, but Henry didn’t require all of that.

The new house was spacious, and more importantly, it was your own, and it was all that you could want. Your living room was compiled of grays and specs of red throughout the decor. All modern, all easy and all just the way you loved it.

The call came late in the afternoon, it was not one you were expecting either. Henry was the only person that called you besides your parents occasionally, and he was on his way over.

You were tempted to ignore the number, but you didn’t. you slid your finger over it and pressed the phone to your ear. “Hello.”

“Angel.” His smooth voice sent chills up your spine, how could you hate and love a damn voice that fucking much.

“Charlie.” You breathed. “How did you get this number?”

“Your brother and sister-in-law saw me downtown, and I asked.” he paused. The breakup had not been on bad terms, but it had been a few months, and hearing from him rattled you.

“Oh.” You paused. “Why are you in town?”

“I accepted a position in town for a year or so,” He exhaled. “And I-,” he stopped his words.

The initial reason for the break up was easy; he didn’t want a long-distance relationship. But then that whole thing revealed issues with him you didn’t know you had. Were you not worth the distance? It’s all that you thought about, “I’m happy for you.”

“I wanted to talk to you about some things that happened before you moved here if you have a minute?”

“I have someone.” You blurted out.

He chuckled. “Congrats.” It was quiet for a minute, the words resonated with him and you didn’t have anything to say. Henry was all you could think about and had he came one month earlier, you would have jumped back into his arms, but not now. “I never wanted to leave you.” He said. “I just wasn’t ready to leave the life I had, you know?”

“I know that you didn’t think that I was worth the struggle of distance.”

“Y/N, that’s not true.” He scoffed. “I hate that you even felt that way.”

“Why now? Because you’re here.”

“I moved because this is what I thought you wanted.”

“That’s a shit excuse, Charlie!”

“That’s what I have, I tried to move on, but I couldn’t even look at another woman with comparing her to you, without thinking she will never be good as you.”

“Shut up.” Your voice broke.

“Four years of my life was spent with you, and you just move on.”

“It has not been easy.”

“Then give me a damn chance, please?”

The doorbell chimed right before Henry burst into the living room with bags of food and wine. “Y/N.” He sang. “I hope that you’re prepared to be wowed by the movies I got.” Henry spun around to the small table in the bay window, and then his eyes met you. He started at your feet, the frog slippers were your favorite accompanied by the matching shorts and tank top he had given you. “You look like you are ready to fight someone.” He laughed. “Are you okay?”

“Just the editor from the paper trying to change some deadlines, babe.” You chuckled nervously.

“Okay, I’ll leave you be.”

“Give me a chance, please.”

“Yeah, well, let me think about that, okay.” You ended the call, tossing the phone to the couch and ran over to him.

Henry was easy to be with, he wanted nothing more than time and to know you cared. It was hard not to care for him, he was dedicated to making sure it worked even though his job was at risk. Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and you inhale. “Miss me?”

“I always do.”

“That’s good to know.” Henry fixed your plate and poured the wine. “What was the editor saying?”

“She needed a new lifestyle article like tomorrow.”

“I can leave.”

“No, she can wait.”

“Rebel.” Henry turned to face you. The stubble of his five o’clock shadow teased you as he dipped his head down to your breast and sucked at the supple flesh. “You taste like cake. What do you have on?”

“Ohh. dropped the honey bun there earlier.” You laughed. “The food is gonna get cold.”

“We have a microwave.” He smirked.

“Good thing you brought that over, then isn’t it.” You pushed your fingers through his curly mane and wrapped your legs around him.

“I like to plan ahead.”

Henry graded papers in the library, third floor in a dark corner. He did this every Friday night, and it didn’t matter if you had plans or not, he didn’t leave until it was done. You’d grown used to the routine, five weeks of dating the professor, and you had learned he liked a procedure for everything.

“I’ll be done in a few.” He whispered after glancing up at you.

It was simple to say, you found this routine tedious and unneeded. He could grade papers in bed after he was done exhausting you. “Take your time, professor.” You leaned back in the chair across from him with your arms folded and a smug smile on your face. He always had a good way of making it up to you. Last time it was dinner and a movie. Only the dinner was you, and the film was rewatching the scene you’d done an hour earlier. Watching yourself fuck him done something for you, it was an experience. The way your body moved on him and watching his face distort when he was on the precipe of a release. You squeezed your thighs together, your teeth tugged on your bottom lip, and a sigh followed.

Henry peered up at you through the square, dark-rimmed glasses. “What?”

“Have I told you that you are incredibly sexy in this mode, just serious and brooding.”

“I’m brooding because one of my students won’t let me be productive. She insists on biting her lips and staring a hole into me.”

“Well, she definitely deserves to be punished.” You winked.

“Perhaps I can fit some discipline in after I finish,” Henry smirked, but the desire was clear across your face, and you were willing to take the chance.

“Or, you could do it now.” Your foot slid up his thick thigh, only making you wish you could ride it, better yet ride him in general. “It’s a high chance she won’t learn her lesson until this is properly handled.”

“She’s acting like a spoiled brat.” Henry’s hand touched your foot playfully and then dropped it to the floor along with your phone and everything else in your lap.

“You’re making a mess.”

“Twenty more minutes, baby.” He whispered.

“Fine. Twenty, no more.”

“Thank you.”

The exclusiveness of the library worked to your advantage because there was no way you could actually wait for him to be finished. The entire day had been a conjunction of him teasing you, and you get yourself worked up. You sink down to the floor, reaching for your phone and papers, but your knees guided you in front of him. The only light in this place was the desk lamp Henry had dimmed to keep him from distractions. He didn’t know the distraction was going to be something he didn’t need to see.

Your hands trail up his thighs to the belt buckle, and you watched him stiffen beneath your touch. “Keep working, sir. I’m getting my things.”

Henry’s deep breath was followed by a slight jolt when your hand gripped his semi-erect cock. You felt him lengthen in your hand, the heat rising as he swelled, and you gripped him. “Y/N.” He rasped.

“Shhh, this is a library, sir.” You lifted your head so that your lips could tease the tip of his head, sucking before your tongue swirled swept the drop of precum that beaded at his head. “Wouldn’t want to have anyone interrupt you doing your job.” You took all of him in your mouth, and he throbbed. His legs tensed, and the guttural moan made you wet for him. This might not be enough for you, your hunger for him was only growing more intense when you started to pleasure him. Your head bobbed up and down, taking all of him and then swallowing around his cock only to repeat the action again, grazing your teeth lazily over the veins.

His hand was under the table, gripping a fist full of your hair and urging you to move faster, and you obliged. You added your hands stroking him in between each suck and making him suck air through his teeth.

The floor creaked as the footsteps grew closer, and for a minute, you didn’t care if someone caught you or not; you wanted Henry to cum. You wanted to hear him fall apart because of the magic of your mouth.

“Y/N.” His muffled groans of protest only encourage further, and you suck harder, causing the warm and salty cum to spurt from him, hitting the back of your throat. “Hi,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Professor! It’s good to see you.”

“Dean Carter.” He leaned forward in his seat. “You as well, how are things?”

“Great, I would still love to have you over for poker night.” Dean Carter’s voice was savory, but it was apparent he was older without even seeing him.

“I apologize, I’m not really a poker guy.”

YOu teased licking the head of his cock and watched him jerk in your hands. He was so sensitive. You loved it.

“I see. Spending your Friday night here of all places.” he laughed. “I won’t hold you up. But maybe consider coming one day. I’m sure you would love it.”

“I will.”

The footsteps were departed, and you slid back up in your seat. “Got my things.”

“You’re a psycho.” He laughed.

“You’re welcome, professor. I gave it my best efforts.”

“You did well.” Henry exhaled. “I don’t even want to do this anymore.” He covertly dressed and stood up. “I want you naked... like now. But when we get to my place will work.”

“Is that a demand?”

“It’s a requirement.”

His apartment building had a constant stream of people in and out of it, but you didn’t seem to care as long as Henry got you in there and fucked you senseless. He carried you up the steps as if you weighed nothing and landed you against the door before it could get open. “We have to calm down.” you giggled but unbuttoning his shirt.

“You have to calm down.”

The door opened across the hall, and the face from your past slapped you in the face. He was still handsome. Perfect fucking face, charming ass smile, and he still had the power to make you weak.“Y/N?”

No. No, no the fuck it is not him. “Charlie?”

“Who?” Henry said, confused before lowering you to the ground.

“Y/N, you live here.”

“No, I do.” Henry lifted his hands. “who are you?”

“I’m Charlie.” he extended his hand.

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theaterism · 3 years

Note

14: a special memory / for fox!!

memory asks - accepting

The freight train had slowed and juddered to an early stop. The children didn’t know the reason behind the delay. Repairs, most likely — a malfunction in the train itself or an issue in the railroad tracks ahead — but freighthopping required secrecy, so they couldn’t ask. For a while, they stayed hidden in the boxcar amidst the crates and the square bales of hay that made them sneeze if they stayed too close to them.

They still cracked the door of the boxcar open for some fresh air. The train had stopped beside a field. Long grasses swayed in a gentle breeze, and the late afternoon sunlight gilded the landscape in gold.

Time passed, the sun dipped closer to the horizon, and Adeline and Henry chose to venture out on their own. They’d spotted a station beyond the field, and they wanted to search for food. The dimness of the evening offered cover. James asked to join them — his invisibility could prove useful, after all — but they refused. Something about fewer people drawing less attention. The reason made sense, but it still left a hollowness inside James. They promised they’d be careful, and before he could protest further, they slipped out the door and vanished into the field.

The boxcar fell into silence.

Maybe, James thought, they feared he’d panic or tune out again. Maybe they’d telepathically decided he’d only slow them down. Maybe they were right.

James stifled the sting of rejection and sought distractions to pass the time. He performed various coin tricks for boxes and hay bales. Finding them a poor audience, he balanced on them instead and leapt between them. When he grew tired, he sat on the floor with his back against a crate. He tried to hear people talking outside — the engineer, perhaps — but only caught birdsong and the rustle of grass.

He waited.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, exactly, but it had grown darker. His siblings hadn’t returned. Worries swirled in his chest. His fingers traced the gauze wrapped around his left forearm. It itched. He wasn’t supposed to scratch it, but he still rubbed his knuckles along the bandage absently sometimes, or clutched his sleeve as a weak alternative.

Nearly a month had passed since they’d fled. They’d freighthopped several times along the way. Time had gotten a bit strange for James, though — it stuttered in odd places, his memories fuzzy or missing pieces altogether. But he was trying to stay present. It had gotten a little easier. Focusing on his surroundings helped — on the uneven wood beneath him, on the chill evening air, on the tickle of hay dust in his nose and along the back of his throat. He sneezed.

A lifetime ago, when they still lived in the mansion, the children had sometimes discussed running away from home together. They’d never mentioned this dream around other people, of course, especially not around their— a sharp-edged memory; James suppressed the thought and shifted his focus to the adventures they’d imagined. Sailing and mountain-climbing and jungle expeditions. It was an amusing dream, a fantasy explored with crayon drawings and embellished with the knights and dragons they’d encountered in fairy tales. Homesickness had never appeared in these plans. It had never even occurred to the children. They’d never stayed away from the mansion before, never experienced it themselves.

James didn’t know whether he was homesick. He just knew there was a dull ache in his ribcage that deepened when he was alone and a brighter memory flitted into his mind. Their games of hide-and-seek; the comfort of their bedrooms; the times they’d read together beneath a willow tree in the garden — or rather, the times Henry had read aloud while James and Adeline acted out pieces of the story.

On one hand, he never wanted to return to the house. He wanted to shove the past behind him. On the other hand, he wanted to return and see it one last time, though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why. It felt important. But he couldn’t go back.

There was no mansion to return to.

His eyes stung and tugged him from his thoughts. He’d been staring at the floor. He blinked to clear his vision and realized the boxcar had plunged into darkness. Night had fallen — only starlight and faint lights in the distance shone through the crack in the door. At least an hour had passed without James noticing. His siblings hadn’t returned. He was alone.

Icy dread coiled in his stomach. His heart raced as possibilities darted through his mind. Adeline and Henry could be in danger — they could’ve gotten caught or hurt or worse; the train could leave without them. And he was simply sitting in the boxcar, waiting, useless. He couldn’t lose them too.

The boy reached to tug open the door, but then— footsteps, which stopped just outside. James jolted back and pressed himself against the crate again.

A beat of silence.

“James?” Adeline, whispering through the crack.

Relief washed over the boy. She sounded okay. His own voice came out soft and shaky. “Yeah?”

“We’re back, but— right, so this’ll sound silly, but you’ve got to close your eyes before we come in.”

“Why?” he whispered, baffled. His heart still thrummed in his chest. His relief had grown, though — ‘we’re back’ meant Henry had returned as well.

“Just trust me, alright?”

He took a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. The boxcar vanished into velvety blackness.

“Are your eyes closed?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Alright. I’ll tell you when to open them. And no peeking ‘til then, or I’ll steal your coins.”

The door creaked as it slid open. The floor trembled beneath him as his siblings clambered inside. A burst of hushed muttering ensued — James couldn’t decipher it properly, but he got the sense Adeline had bumped into Henry, or perhaps the other way around. The door rattled closed again. Crinkling sounds. Soft thumps somewhere in front of him; his siblings had sat down, he guessed. His restlessness sharpened as the suspense stretched. His knuckles rubbed his bandaged arm. But he didn’t peek.

Then, another sound. Quiet and faintly metallic. A familiar sound, one he’d heard many times in the mansion, one he’d never forget: the sound of lids unscrewing from jars. His heart skipped a beat.

Silence for a full minute. James didn’t dare to break it, though he longed to speak. He realized he was holding his breath. He inhaled softly, exhaled softer.

“Right, okay, it’s— okay.” Eagerness laced Adeline’s whisper this time. “Open your eyes now.”

James opened his eyes.

His siblings sat across from him. Adeline beamed; Henry had a softer smile, though no less sincere. Empty mason jars rested beside them. The darkness had receded enough to see clearly. Dozens of small lights floated around the boxcar, surrounding them, casting a flickering golden glow over everything.

Fireflies.

Pure wonder flooded through James, warm and light. The sight stunned him into silence. Before he knew it, Adeline had pressed another jar into his hands, the glass cold and smooth on his palms. Lights swirled within. The metal lid had tiny holes pricked into it.

Adeline settled herself beside Henry again and gave James an encouraging nod. “C’mon, then, open it.”

Thrill danced across the boy’s shoulders. His hands shaky, he slowly twisted the lid open and set it aside. The fireflies drifted upward from the jar to join the others. Some settled on the walls and floor, on the crates and hay. Some lingered in the air. One landed on his hand, a glimmer of warmth on his skin.

“Oh,” he breathed, finding his voice at last.

The syllable proved enough for Adeline’s excitement to spill over. “The station had food, so we took some”—a nod toward a pile of snacks—“but they had jars as well, so we nicked a few ‘cause we’d spotted fireflies in the field. But we still had to put holes in the lids. Rather tricky, that part.” A firefly landed on her knee. She gently cupped the bug in her hands, then released it into the air again. It floated away.

“We figured it out,” Henry added. “The holes. Found a hammer and nails. We returned those, afterward.”

Adeline nodded. “The engineer’d gone to get tea at the station, and we heard him say the train would be stuck a fair bit longer. We really thought we’d be back sooner, still, but it— it took a while to make the holes and catch enough bugs and everything.” A note of genuine apology softened her tone. “Sorry about that. We just— we wanted to keep it a surprise ‘cause we caught fireflies at home once and it made us all happy, and you haven’t been feeling well, so—”

Her words evoked a strong sense of familiarity, and nostalgia swept over James as a clearer memory returned to him. They had done something similar before, in the mansion. He remembered padding down the halls together one night, sneaking out into the garden, catching fireflies in jars, releasing them beneath a blanket they’d draped between two trees.

Adeline took a much-needed breath and grinned at him again. “Surprise! D’you— oh, don’t cry!”

“’m not crying,” he mumbled, rubbing tears from his eyes. The firefly that had been resting on his hand drifted away. “’s the hay, got in my eyes.” He set the jar on the wood beside him. The floating flickers of gold still blurred along with his vision. He bowed his head and covered his face with his right forearm.

“D’you like it?” Henry’s voice, soft and hesitant.

A shaky breath of a laugh escaped James. He inhaled and nodded, feeling a soft smile on his face. “I do, yeah. Really, it’s— it’s brilliant. Thanks.”

“D’you, um— feel any better?”

The ache in his ribs had lessened; the fuzziness in his mind had eased; the wariness that had laced itself into his frame had faded. He didn’t know how long it would stay that way. But he did feel better.

So he nodded, and honesty rang in his voice. “Yeah.”

—

The freight train shuddered back into motion soon afterward. The children cracked the boxcar door further open to give the fireflies more freedom to fly away, to vanish into the darkness of the night. Many stayed within the car for a while longer, though.

The wheels rattled along the tracks, and the boxcar shook, but a gentle warmth lingered in James’ chest. The golden lights had imprinted themselves on his mind. He still saw them when he closed his eyes. In the company of crates and hay and fireflies and his siblings, he slept restfully for the first time in weeks.

#magickedhat #(hi this got SO long i’m crying aaaaaa)#(THANK U FOR THIS THO!!)#(this happened when they were twelve after they left the mansion!)#(it’s a very special memory for fox and i enjoyed writing it out!!)#(they’re good kids and my heart is warm….)#(also i’m sorry if there are any typos i rlly tried to spot them all agdgd)#|☆| inbox #|☆| stories #|☽| foxtrot ( clever fox )#|☆| ic

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poptod · 4 years

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Selcouth (Sirius) (Kenny x Reader)

Description: selcouth - unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful. The greatest teacher is also a friend. In your case, you’re usually the teacher, but Kenny is alway so eager to listen to you. (wonder why.)

Notes: i really like this one. it's just... nice. it isn't stressful to read or write. also sorry for any errors in this or in my description/notes i’m really high i just got bored an wanted to write a story. implied male reader. Word Count: 4.8k (apologies i tried to make this shorter but i just love ken)

There was something very unearthly about you, and he knew it wasn't just him thinking that. Most people found you interesting – so did he, but he knew you had very few friends (if any at all), and someone as popular and selective as you probably wouldn't want to become friends with him. The most unfortunate part about it all was the fact that you weren't quite aware that you were popular. Instead, you kept quiet and roamed the halls with a vacant, soft smile that had everyone vying to be your friend. To unveil your secrecy, to get your backstory, to understand what exactly made you so extravagantly different.

It was considered an honor to your fellow students if you sparked conversation with them, as it was something you rarely did. That's why, when you sat down beside Kenny during class, Kenny became very anxious. His hands shook and his knees were weak – but you just smiled and greeted him, using his name like you were old friends. He couldn't remember telling you his name, but maybe you'd picked it up. Maybe it was another one of your hidden, strange talents.

"Do you want to learn archery?" You asked, a question that stunned him so much he sat still, staring at you. He only answered when you raised your eyebrows expectantly.

"Oh, um – I... yes, actually," he finally answered, watching as that smile he'd watched so many times sprouted across your lips.

"I thought you might like to," you said, your eyes flickering to the front where the teacher had yet to appear. "I can teach you, if you like."

In a graceful, soft movement you were once more looking at him, your eyes bright and pitch black simultaneously. He swallowed thick, pinching his arm.

"Really? That'd.. be fun," he said with a nervous giggle, fidgeting with his fingers. He hadn't really lied when he said he wanted to learn archery, but he also didn't expect to genuinely get an opportunity to learn it, leading to an anxiousness that wondered if he was scared of failing or scared of you.

"Here's my address," you said, pulling a piece of paper out of nowhere and handing it to him.

Looking over the scribbles he read an address and a phone number, but before he could look up and ask you for a time, you were gone. Startled, he looked over the crowd in the classroom, finding you nowhere. Were you even taking the same class as him? He hadn't seen you in Algebra before. Slightly shaken, he returned to waiting for the teacher, trying not to think on your interaction.

That same afternoon he walked to your house, feeling a little guilty for blowing off his friend to spend time with you, a stranger. Larry understood well enough – he wanted to be well-liked, like you, and for him Kenny was a gateway to that. However even with all that assurance that he wasn't making a mistake, something said that he was doing the wrong thing. Perhaps it was just the fact that he had to climb up a very steep and very long hill to get to your house on the outskirts of town, but by the end of the venture, standing in front of your door, he hesitated to knock.

Taking a deep breath he rapped his knuckles against the dark wood, waiting with fidgeting hands as footsteps sounded behind the door. Through the windows he could see lights, and in the frosty pane, he caught sight of a black grand piano sat upon a Victorian-esque carpet. This was more of a mansion than a house – a beautiful mansion stuck in the middle of nowhere.

The lock clicking and the whine of a door opening caught his attention, his eye turning back to the door, where he found a middle-aged woman peeking through a tiny crack.

"Uh... I'm – I'm here for, uh, (Y/N)," he said nervously, reluctant to make eye contact with her.

She looked him up and down, pausing only a moment on his ratted boots before she closed the door on him. A sigh fell from him – maybe he had the wrong address? Before he could wonder if there were any errors in your address, the door opened once more, revealing your smiling face.

"Kenny, hello," you said, opening the door wide to let him in. He spoke a soft thank you, shimmying past you and into your home, where a fireplace warmed up the living room in great contrast to the chill wind of winter's beginnings.

You lead him to the couch, letting him sit down on the plush fabric in front of the stone fireplace. For a moment you left him there, wandering into another section of the house before returning, two cups of hot chocolate in your hands complete with whipped cream. Handing one to him, you sat beside him with a relaxed posture.

"It's a colder day, certainly. I like the cold though," you said conversationally, looking down into your cup before staring at the flickering flames.

"It's not my favorite," he admitted, his voice soft compared to your own.

"That's fair," you said, smiling. "You get used to it when everything's inevitable."

He nodded distantly, his brow furrowed in confusion. Did you ever even try to make sense?

"So, um... how long have you done archery for?" He asked, reluctant to meet your gaze, but when he did all regret left his head. Your cheeks, pink from the cold, matched so well with your darkened eyes and the graceful, soft way you always smiled.

"Not all that long, I don't think. I can't remember when I started," you said, using a few random hand gestures as you spoke. "I'm assuming you don't have your own bow though, right?"

"Yeah, a bit – it's kind of expensive," he said to which you avidly agreed.

"That's why I made my own," you said as though that was normal. Kenny's eyes widened – knowing how to use a bow was one thing, but making one was something else entirely. "I've actually made a few," you continued, "so you can have one of them."

"Oh, I couldn't –"

"No, no, I'm not doing anything with them. Better in the loving hands of a different owner than in the resentful hands of a creator," you said, offering that trademark smile as you stood, setting your half empty mug of hot chocolate on the side table. He blanked out for a moment in an attempt to process what you'd just said, but the moment he came into his body to find you gone, he scrambled to his feet and followed you up the stairs.

Following you through the hallways filled with photos of long-dead relatives, he stumbled over himself only once, though once was plenty to make him feel embarrassed. Still, he joined you in your room where massive windows lit the whole of the room. A large bed sat in the corner, the wall beside it covered entirely in sheets of paper pinned there, notes and strings connecting everything together. To the left of that lay your desk, covered in the same fashion of notes and sketches. Most of them, he noticed, were astronomy related, speaking of the movement of stars and what ancient cultures thought of the constellations. Besides that and the bookcase full of ancient African artifacts, your room was rather normal.

He followed your footsteps to the corner of the room, where you opened a large, wooden chest stamped with '1847' in golden letters. Looking over your shoulder, he found an organized layer of a bow and several arrows, all of them made by your hands. To his surprise when you hooked your fingers in the velvet loops and pulled, the layer gave way for another velvet case. This time it held a sword and its' sheath beside it. He tried his best not to say anything, watching in silence as you raised two more layers before getting to another bow and arrow, which you took out of its' casing to hand to him.

You'd payed extra attention to this bow – flowers were carved into the wood, flowers and cuneiform script speaking prayers he couldn't understand. The arrows were much the same as the first ones he'd seen, but he remained adamant that he needed to be careful.

"We should work on form first, it'll save your life from cramps and such," you said, pulling him to his feet and turning him around, making sure the large, floor-length mirror was right in front of him.

In his reflection he saw himself holding the bow and looking rather gangly as he usually did, and you, standing beside him with your hands poised delicately upon his shoulders. You had a look in your eye – determined and confident as your hands moved, fingers dragging down the bare skin of his arms before you reached his hands. There you guided him, bringing his arms up so he held the bow in the right position.

"Are you left or right eyed?" You asked softly, still staring at him in the mirror.

"R – right," he said, stumbling over his own words as the corners of your lips perked upwards, a tell-tale sign that you were enjoying yourself greatly.

That made his heart flutter – the thought that you enjoyed time spent with him. He never considered you someone he would date, though one of the reasons for that was because he didn't think you'd be interested in him. But now, watching the way you moved his hips and the feel of your chest against his back, he could think of nothing else. The way your lips quirked upwards, the mess in your hair and the blush beneath your skin. He could stay like this for so long – watching you at his side.

"Here, loosen your grip. Stand to the side," you murmured, moving him so he stood at his side, his left arm extended straight holding the bow. Stepping out from behind him, you fixed his grip, making sure the wood rested right below the ball of his thumb.

"There you go," you said when all was correct, and didn't it always make him so pathetically happy to know you were pleased.

"So I close my left eye?" He asked, switching between closing the left and right.

"That's right," you said, reaching for his right hand and holding it on your own. "Now take the string, draw it back so your elbow is level with your shoulder," you murmured as you set his arm into place yourself. "Don't put pressure on your wrist. Use your thumb."

Trying his best to remember your instructions, he hooked his fingers around the string, pulling back and attempting to keep his wrist, shoulder, and elbow even with each other. When he accomplished that, he looked to his reflection standing tall and firm in a way he rarely ever stood. Almost... confident. He smiled.

"Alright," you whispered, gently moving your hands from his and placing them on his shoulders. "Let go."

He followed your command, the string of the bow twanging forward with empty ammunition. Another bright smile crossed him – he did it, and you looked proud of him.

"Perfect," you said with a grin, patting his shoulders before abandoning him to sit on your bed. "Do it without my help."

Nodding he gulped, turning back to his reflection and holding the bow up once more. With a deep, calming sigh he drew the string, letting it snap back into place. Immediately as he finished he looked to you, gauging your reaction.

"Wonderful. Ready to try it with an arrow?"

"I think so," he said with an excited grin, giddy as you reached for the quiver, slinging it over your shoulder and leading him out of your room.

Down the steps you led him, slipping into your shoes and pulling a coat on as you stopped at the front door. Out of politeness he copied, putting on his own coat before rushing through the open door, trailing after you as you led him out back of the house, where a great expanse of empty land stood unclaimed and dead in the chill. A few feet into your backyard and the ground gave way for a steep cliff, leading down into a mess of bushes and brambles. He looked at it curiously for a moment before returning to you, scanning your useable backyard, where he found a dull, red target nailed to a tree. You led him to the opposite side of the yard, to a marker that sat exactly ten feet away from the target.

"Here," you said, pulling an arrow out of the quiver and handing it to him. He examined it nervously, doing his best to keep position while figuring out how the bow launched the arrow. Fortunately he didn't have to embarrass himself for long, as you stepped in, taking his hand and showing him the groove at the end, where the string would sit. "The arrowhead should sit above your grip on the left side," you continued. "Breathe slow, aim a little higher than your target."

As usual he kept your advice at the forefront of his mind, letting all other thought disappear with his even breath. He aimed, and once assured of his aim, he released the string, launching the arrow through the air. To his immense surprise it landed on the target, and even further than that it had landed on the ring right next to the exact center of the target.

His mouth hung half open, the ends curling into a bright grin that had you smiling and patting his back.

"Fantastic shot," you said with a soft chuckle, your gaze switching between him and his arrow.

"Can I do it again?" He asked eagerly.

"Of course," you said, leaving his side to fetch the arrow and return it to him.

He tried several more times, but no other shots that day were quite as good as the first one. By the fourth-or-so shot he began losing hope, wondering if the first shot had been a fluke, and the truth was that he was horrible at archery. Would you still like him if he failed?

"Don't worry about it," you said in that soft, humming voice that always managed to calm him. "A lot of people get a good first shot and a few lousy ones after that. It's more of a practice thing once you know how to do it."

"So I can come up again?" He asked, strolling beside you as the two of you reentered the house, a quiver in your hands and a bow in his.

"Of course. Any time you want," you answered.

"What if you aren't home?"

"Oh I'll know when you're here. No need to concern yourself," you said with a sweet but curt smile, taking the bow from him and setting it on the steps leading upstairs.

"Um... okay. Next week then?"

"Sure."

Every now and then you'd talk to him during school, and each time it was a different subject. His grades, your teachers, the weather, ancient Rome, the beliefs of the Sandawe people and the mystical knowledge of the Dogon tribe – it was enough to make his head spin. You knew so much, memorized so much information and you talked to almost no one but him. If he had that much information crammed into his head he wouldn't be able to stop talking.

There was a side-affect to your budding friendship – Kenny wasn't sure if he liked or disliked it, but people were nicer to him. While he'd usually be sure that it was a good thing, he knew it stemmed purely from the fact that you were friendly with him, and those in turn being nice to him probably only wanted a way to get to you. After all, it wasn't that long ago that he was the one they were making fun of.

You were a good distraction from it all. Pulling him away from other's opinions, leading him in a direction of self-love he hadn't previously thought attainable. But no, you managed to convince him to (in the least) like himself, and to find the good aspects of himself. Not only that, but the things you'd shown him had also spurred him to find the good aspects of others, a talent few high schoolers had.

As good of an impact as you were in his life, he still didn't understand you all that well. Your stories of your past were vague and coded deep in a language he couldn't understand. One can know another without knowing the whole of their past, but he had a feeling he'd understand you a bit better if you explained things in a normal way. You said the strangest things, too – things about the world, observation of beliefs, careful notes of the human condition – things like, "I don't know if I could ever go back to heaven," and "everyone has a specific length of time on earth. To spend it watching others you don't even know is a waste of time," which was in reference to the beginnings of 'social media'. Apparently you didn't like it, but at the time of the conversation you weren't even discussing technology with him. He asked you what you wanted to eat for lunch and out of nowhere you said that, and it took him a pretty long while to get what the hell you were talking about out of you.

Besides that, you were great fun to spend time with, and always a fantastic help with history homework. Not anything else, though – almost all other subjects completely stumped you. There was only one other class you were rather good at, but it was a college level class, and neither you nor him were taking college classes. But it was still fascinating to hear your science, so he let you talk all you wanted to about astronomy and astrophysics with a side of conspiracies.

"I've mentioned this before," you said, fidgeting in front of your corkboard as you flitted around the room, piecing together a story Kenny could hardly understand, "but – but the Sirius star, it's one of my favorite mysteries. You know the Dogon tribe, I mentioned them before. It's just fascinating that they could've known it was two stars. Like how did they know that? How'd they see that without telescopes?"

"Maybe they've got good eyesight?"

"But that's just the thing! If you connect this to the Roswell incident of 1947 or – um, yeah, 1947, the skies on that date over Nevada, it had Sirius there. See, I think it's a possibility that –"

Right around there you lost him completely, but he continued to diligently pretend he was listening. A distant smile crossed his face – hearing someone whose usually rather quiet go into a massive spiel, that was the core of humanity to him. Letting go of ones fears just to share something they love so dearly.

"Oh, looks like the sun's hidden itself again," you said, interrupting your own speech to look outside the towering windows in your bedroom. "Hungry yet?"

"A little," he admitted quietly, a blush spreading wild across his cheeks when you took his hand, intertwining his fingers in yours as you led him out of your room and down the stairs.

At the kitchen you stopped, leaving him on the edge of the stone floor as you went to the fridge, opening and scanning its contents. While you rummaged through that, he stepped quietly closer to you. You didn't notice his approach, too concentrated on your search, allowing him a time to watch you illuminated by the white light of a fridge. Tacky, yes, but you were warm. Maybe even familiar – all he knew was that he could stare in wonder for hours, watching your unearthly glow.

Outside, fall had turned to winter, allowing a shallow layer of snow to carpet all the dead grass that originally filled your yard. The balcony, while also covered in snow, had a picnic area beneath a large umbrella, which was also where a long, black telescope sat. He sighed – it felt as though it was just yesterday that school started and you approached him. Now you were finding dinner for him in your house, letting him stay as long as he wanted to.

The two of you ended up settling on a package of ravioli, as it wouldn't take too long to make and was easy enough. You ate together on the couch, watching a children's show on the television till you both finished, setting your plates aside.

When the show ended you stood, returning to the kitchen with your dishes and setting them in the sink. He followed quickly after, curious to see your aim, and watching quietly as you drew two brightly colored mugs down from one of the shelves. It didn't take long till he recognized the steps you took – you were making hot chocolate. Two cups with good cream, better whipped cream, and a perfectly red cherry on top. You smiled bright as you handed him the purple cup, keeping your own pink one close to your chest.

You liked this, he realized – you liked giving things to him. Bows, food, drinks, and more importantly your thoughts. He wondered if you'd ever given your thoughts to anyone before.

"Can I show you something?" You asked after taking a sip, enjoying the warmth slip down your throat.

He nodded, following you when you left, taking him to the backdoor where the two of you slipped on your shoes, opened the glass door, and stood beneath the umbrella. Setting your cup down on the table, you uncovered the telescope, moving the three tall legs into the snow to see past the umbrella's cover. He set his own mug down, coming to stand beside you in the pitch dark of night. All that lit the two of you up was the distant light of the stars and the lights from inside, casting yellow glow against the bare wood and glittering in the snow. A chill ran through him – neither of you were wearing coats, and it was the dead of winter, at the bright-and-early time of 12 AM.

"Come here," you beckoned him closer, watching with that soft smile as he moved, shuffling closer to you. You scooted a little closer to him as well, mooching off his body warmth as you looked through the telescope in a search of the heavens.

"I like the moon," you mumbled, a strange statement to make considering there was no moon that night, "but I like it when she's gone, too. You can see the stars a little better. Here."

You offered him the eye, and hesitantly he took your place, carefully looking through and hoping he didn't accidentally change the angle. Mostly inky darkness, but there was a star glowing blue in the night.

"Is that.. is that Sirius?" He asked, hoping to God he didn't sound like an idiot. It looked like there was a smaller light beside the larger one, but he couldn't tell for sure – he just wanted to impress you.

"Yeah," you said with a bright grin and a chuckle, "that's Sirius. Locked in an eternal dance with another sun 1.8 billion miles apart... they love each other but they cannot ever touch. That'd kill them. Sad story, really."

He wasn't sure that was an actual story, but it hurt him nonetheless. Just a twinge of pain in his heart.

"Did you know it's one of the brightest stars in the sky?" You asked softly, staring up at the star. He looked up to you.

"It looks like it," he mumbled, looking up at the sky before returning to you, watching how the light danced in your eyes and kissed your cheeks in a dim, blue light that left you glowing.

"Their dance reminds me of a story," you said, your voice still airy in your daydream. "Nwt and Geb. Geb was the dry land and Nwt was the sky, and like most opposites they were in love. But their love angered Ra... at least, that's what most of them say. He made their father keep them apart for eternity. His name was Shu, and he was the air between the earth and the sky."

"I know you like these stories a lot, but I don't think I can listen to them without thinking about the whole incest thing," he said unprompted, sparking a laugh from you.

"I know, it's horrid," you agreed, still grinning. "But it's nice to know forbidden love made its' way into every culture. Means there's a chance for people like us, that the others might have empathy."

"People... like us?" He asked quietly, unsure of your meaning.

"Boys who like boys," you said, instantly making him shut up. "Girls who like girls," you continued, "those who like both, those who like neither."

"Oh," he finally got out, staring at the snow-laden floor with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. He hadn't ever told you about that part of himself. How did you know?

"Here, I'm sorry," you said softly, handing him his still-warm mug of hot chocolate. He gratefully took it from you. "I shouldn't have said anything. It was insensitive of me and I apologize. You can come out whenever you're ready."

"What makes you think I'm gay?"

You looked him up and down, offering no more than a sad look. He could almost laugh, but before he could get any reaction out of himself, you moved from your place beneath the umbrella to join him beside the telescope, your side pressed against his.

"Happy Christmas, by the way," you murmured, staring up at Sirius just as he did.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," he said in the same distant tone, making you giggle thoughtlessly, looking to the ground before you looked up to him.

He was wonderful, wasn't he? The way he smiled and the way his fingers curled in on each other, the freckles dotted across his skin and the rough feel of his hands. He was rather toned as well, a surprising fact that had little affect on your view of him, as the physical body had never appealed to you very much. All that was important, all that you remembered was the signs when he was nervous, the anxious blush that sometimes crossed him, the beautiful, uncontrollable laugh he had every now and then. You knew about how he stuttered when embarrassed and how he laughed when he lied, and you knew his favorite shirt on you just as well as you knew his favorite Star Trek character. That was love, wasn't it? Being known – it had to be love. To know someone was to love them, and in more than one or two ways you truly did know him.

"Happy Eid then," you said as you leant into him, staring into your hot chocolate.

"Oh, um, my mom wanted to invite you to a party. For Eid," he said, taking a small step away to look at you more easily.

"I'd love to come. Anything I should know about your parents?"

"No... just don't mention gay stuff," he said with a small laugh, making a smile of your own come to you.

"Hey, Kenny," you said as he stopped laughing, calling his attention back to you. "Watch this."

"Watch wh –"

You leaned forward, getting on your tip-toes to reach his lips where you pressed the sweetest and the first of his kisses, catching him so by surprise that he accidentally dropped his mug. Somehow you didn't seem to mind – you just kept kissing him, and he adored it. For a single moment nothing else mattered, and he could touch you without guilt, kiss you without thought, leaving only intrinsic care like he was built to love you. When you pulled back he stayed in that position, his eyes still closed in a dream-like state. Your giggle brought him back, erupting a bright blush on his face as you rested your freezing hand on his cheek, pulling him in for a shorter, softer peck.

"W - wait, I broke your mug," he said, stuttering as he stared at you, waiting for you to get angry.

"No, I made sure it didn't break," you said with that soft smile, and the two of you looked down to the mug.

Lo and behold, it hadn't broken. Another one of those 'mysterious' miracles that happened around you. You picked up the mug, handing him your half-filled cup and letting him drink from that instead.

"I think hot chocolate is sweeter when it's shared," you said, sitting beside him on your bed with the cup placed between you.

"You sound like a hot chocolate advertisement," he said with a laugh, making you grin.

"Just enjoy it," you murmured, kissing the top of his head.

#kenny al bahir x reader #kenny al bahir #war at home #rami malek #rami malek character #male reader #gender neutral reader

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thebibliomancer · 3 years

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Song of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 28

Song of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because after all of that, Kylan finally has a bell-bird bone to make a super-duper magical firca out of.

Last times on book: Kylan, Naia, Tavra (stuck in a spider), and new party member Amri saved the Grottan Clan from millions of angry spiders who wanted their caves back. Also, the spiders got their caves back. Good compromise. They also trapped skekLi the Skeksis Satirist on top of a mushroom and found a bell-bird bone so Kylan can make a special flute that will help warn all Gelfling about the Skeksis drinking them. Everything is coming up Kylan, really. All he has to do now is make a magical firca he has no idea how to make and come up with a warning.

Chapter 28

Kylan makes a magic firca. And gets lethally embarrassed by Amri.

As Team Kylan is leaving the corrie, they find urVa standing watch dramatically.

The Archer’s mane danced in the wind where it was not tied back in braids and topknot, and he faced the direction of the breeze to take its scent.

The most dramatic urRu? Maybe.

Naia asks urVa if they’ll see him when they come out but he tells them no.

“I traveled this far in search of my others, little Drenchen,�� he replied. “I found one, but it seems he will stay here. I must move on. We will meet again. Someday.”

“Are you all right? We fought skekMal... I was worried we would harm you as well.”

urVa shook his head. When he did, the wind blew his mane from his face, and Kylan saw a wound on his cheek and eye, in the same place where he’d struck skekMal in the Dark Wood.

“What is done is done. The suns turn.”

You’re a chill guy, urVa.

urVa gets ready to head out but asks the Gelfling that if they see any of his “urRu others” to tell them to meet him in the valley.

Huh! So the urRu are all just kind of spread out and urVa is seeking them. I think in the show’s conception of things, the urRu tended to gravitate toward the Valley anyway and the Wanderer was the Wanderer because he’s the one who stood away longest.

The Gelfling find themselves in another tunnel, although a short, well-lit one and as they go Naia muses out loud about the state of things.

“The Skeksis live together in the castle... They have power there, because of the Crystal, and because they are all in one place. The Mystics are alone. We found urVa trapped in the Cradle-Tree. urLii was in the Tomb of Relics. They had power over skekLi with their song... but only because he was outnumbered. If all the Skeksis were to overtake urVa alone, or urLii... if they all came to rescue skekLi, and only urLii was here to guard him...”

“But if the Skeksis come to get skekLi, they’ll have to defeat urLii, right?” Amri asked. He held up two fingers in parallel. “But if they defeat urLii, then won’t skekLi also be defeated? Right?”

“Either way,” Kylan put in hastily, “urLii stayed behind by his own will. He seemed confident he could contain skekLi safely. We have no choice but to trust him. We have our own journey.”

So this is something I’ve been thinking about since Aughra said what she said about how Skeksis and Mystics could counter each other.

Its very unequal! The Skeksis have a bunch of societal power, the Crystal, a sweet castle, and strength in numbers! The evil that Skeksis do is therefore a lot greater than the good that the Mystics do!

Anyway, the Mystics are pretty lucky that the Skeksis just avoid them out of sheer ‘ugh that guy!’

The Gelflings finally exit the caves and tunnels in a pretty beautiful area.

The mountains here were soft and undulating, not jagged and rocky. The air was clear, blowing flurries of leaves and sometimes white and pink petals by, and Kylan thought he heard the sound of chimes. It was beautiful and gold and green, but the scene left something to be desired. Kylan frowned deeply. Their belongings were back at the entrance to Tide Pass, including the Book of Raunip, the pearl amulet, and Tavra’s sword. The others were quiet, too. No one wanted to be the first to bring up the subject, but it was too important. They couldn’t just leave their things, not with the journey they had ahead.

But Naia sees an arrow sticking out of the ground which makes her burst out laughing.

Cool guy that urVa is, at some point he found their stuff and moved it over here for them to save them a trip. Nice!

Really streamlining this part of the narrative, urVa!

Kylan retrieves the Book of Raunip, turns to the section about Gyr’s Firca, and gets really in the zone!

He forgets all the terrors and troubles of the past couple days, all the worries and wounds accumulated, and even forgets his cool friends as they give him space and quiet to work in.

All he saw were the sketches of the firca and the hope it had to offer. It was like every other firca he’d ever seen or played, with one mouthpiece, which split into a fork. The pipes on either end of the fork were carved with three finger holes, one for each finger when held properly in two hands. Firca were made out of many materials, each with a slightly different voice. Most were carved from a single piece of wood, though many were made from forced reeds. The Sifa were known to make theirs from the prongs of welhorn shells, and their firca’s voices came with the ghostly roars of ocean waves. The firca was the most common Gelfling instrument, and perhaps one of the simplest, yet the many materials used in its creation also made it one of the most varied. It could play single notes as well as harmonies, while still being small enough to dangle around one’s neck.

That’s so many firca in one segment.

I’m glad that we’re getting background on the importance of the firca to Gelfling culture but its a bit funny to me that its coming at the very end of the story after all this journeying to find a special firca. Although it makes sense for it to happen now because Kylan has the bone and he’s pondering the enormity of the task.

The bell-bird bone is already forked and a little bigger than your av-er-age wooden firca. Kylan feels lucky that Amri found the Last Bell-Bird Bone in the entire mountain and that it happened to be the correct shape and not broken.

A single bone could have been used to make a flute but Kylan decides that a single flute wouldn’t have had the same impact, remembering joining urVa and urLii’s song.

No, a pipe or flute would not have been the same. The firca was special. It could play two notes at once, leaving room for a third. What that third voice was, Kylan didn’t know, but he felt instinctively that it had to do with the legend of the bell-bird. The birds that sang and the mountains sang back. Perhaps, if the bell-birds sang with two notes, it was Thra itself that sang the third part. Perhaps the firca was so valued by the Gelfling because it left a place for the very voice of Thra.

Rule of Three: the planet.

Kylan doesn’t even have any tools to sand the bone or carve the holes but he knows that if he doesn’t make the firca now, he’ll lose his courage to even try. What with it being an irreplaceable only bone left in existence.

SO HE USES DREAM-ETCHING

My god, it just keeps getting more and more versatile a skill!

It was established that dream-etching put out a lot of heat since it basically just burns things into surfaces. So Kylan just focuses the heat of dream-etching onto the surface of his thumb and rubs the jagged edge where the bone broke and he just sands it smooth with dream-etching heat!

Amazing!

The vibration of the etching heat made the bone sing in a high, resonant key.

Also, amazing.

Kylan takes all afternoon and until Naia returns with dinner.

Naia looked over his shoulder, and he opened his hands. Lying in his lap was a white firca, sculpted and smoothed to the finest detail. He hardly remembered making it, or at least, he recalled none of the moments. As his head cleared from the focus, he realized he had gone into a kind of trance. His fingers were blistered and sore, but the product of his dedication was perfect, as if he had transformed the bell-bird bone into the instrument it had always been meant to be.

Naia declares it beautiful and Tavra agrees, adding that she wished she still had Gelfling ears so she could hear him play. Because when he played the bone, it sent her flopping to the floor.

Kylan apologizes again for turning her into a spider but she’s having nothing of it.

“If you hadn’t, I would be dead. And I would not have had the chance to see the two of you succeed as you have. For this, I am only grateful... Stop berating yourself for doing the things your heart calls you to do.”

You’re a good, Tavra.

Amri cooks dinner and puts one of his alchemical pastes on the fish Naia caught which causes Naia and Kylan a Concern but it turns out enjoyable.

Kylan hangs the bone firca around his neck because after going through this whole Song of the Dark Crystal book to get it, its his most precious possession and he’s not letting it out of his grasp.

While they eat, Naia suddenly remembers that note Kylan gave Tavra and then Amri and asks what was in it. Hey, tying up that loose end!

Kylan tries to say that hey that loose end doesn’t matter lets forget about it! but Amri saved the note and he pulls it out and dodges Kylan’s attempt to stop him from reading it.

“Dear Tavra,” he began to read. Kylan interrupted in a hurry, hoping to drown out Amri’s reading.

“I guessed that whatever was controlling Tavra couldn’t read. That it couldn’t read the note on the rock wall, so it had the spiders try to conceal the message -”

“... I write to you on behalf of Naia, and Gurjin, and those others whom you have helped since leaving Ha’rar on an errand for the All-Maudra...”

“- I had to test it, so I used -”

“I know it must be very difficult for you, having been betrayed by the Skeksis in the most painful ways. I wanted to let you know that we all care for you and that, should you need us...”

“So I used what I had on hand...”

But there was no stopping Amri, so Kylan put his face in his hands and waited for it to end. Amri stood before Tavra, Naia, and all the stars and moons above, reading for all to hear:

“... simply call on us. For especially I admire your courage and your loyalty to all that is good and right, and even if I’m unable to put these sentiments into words to say to you directly, I wanted at least to give to you this promise in words that stay. Your friend, Kylan.”

Oh my gooooooooood, the boy really did it! He wrote his feelings in a letter so he wouldn’t stumble over his words! This precious bean! This poor, mortified Gelf! Everyone’s grinning at him!

Naia is saying that she’d learn to read just so she could read it if Kylan ever wrote her anything “sticky-sweet” like that.

This poor boy!

Kylan justifies that after he saw “Tavra” talking with a Skeksis he needed to be sure whether it was Tavra or not so he gave her this letter that he’d prepared ahead of time. It’s such a personal note that if it were Tavra and she could read, she’d definitely react to it.

Tavra finally pipes up, after sitting silently as poor Kylan was mortified to death, to agree that it was a clever plan.

I’m thinking that she didn’t want to pile on so she just stuck with the narrative Kylan is trying to emphasize.

Despite his conviction that she would have reacted to his letter had she been able to decipher it at the time, the All-Maudra’s daughter showed no reaction now. Kylan wasn’t sure which he preferred.

This poor boy!

And when Kylan fished the letter out of the fire and gave it to Amri, he knew something was up because no way would a Vapran princess be illiterate.

The topic changes to Kylan’s relief, so he brings up his ideas for the Big Message that this whole quest has been about.

He’s been thinking a lot about it. They can’t just use a normal message because Skeksis can read Gelfing but not all Gelfling can read Gelfling. How vexing. But urLii reminded him of dream-stitching in the Tomb of Relics.

So his idea is to dream-stitch the message into some innocuous symbol that the Skeksis won’t notice but a Gelfling will get a dream-fast when they touch it.

And since he accidentally dream-stitched “the dream of her mind to the spider’s body” he’s prettyyyyy sure he can do it.

“I will deliver the message that begins our fight against the Skeksis.”

Heck yeah, Kylan!

So with that so declared and the final chapter of this book setup, the party sleeps under the stars. Although Kylan has trouble sleeping because there’s so much anticipation for the following day.

A blade of grass moved to the side near his cheek. It was the only sign that Tavra had joined him, silently picking her way across the tips of the grass as he might hop along the pathway stones in Sami Thicket. She said nothing, balancing on the stalk of a grassflower like a tiny, delicate acrobat.

He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. There was simply a shared quiet - an acceptance - and then she left, not one word spoken.

When I first read this bit, I got so mad. I thought Tavra was going to leave the group, just vanish in the night because spider and so Kylan could play the bone firca without worrying about the effect on her. I was like TAVRA C’MON WE KEEP LOSING PARTY MEMBERS!

But on another pass, I think this is Tavra accepting his letter and his sentiments.

Aww, friends.

#dark crystal #Song of the Dark Crystal #the dark crystal #liveblog #Kylan #Naia #Amri #Tavra #urVa #the Archer #a lot of feelings in this one #it was a bit of a longer one so it took longer

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

couldn’t utter my love

summary: some words are simply too dangerous to speak.

word count: 2k+

warnings: big hoe for the angst

a/n: long time reader, first time writer (for this fandom, anyway). i’m eager to write for these guys––majority being gwil, bri, and joe. let me know what you think & what you’d like to see. i have some more ideas coming in the future which i’ll share soon.

(disclaimer: i do not own gif below.)

he’s been there, hovering in the back of your mind like an itch, for the past week.

it’s not totally uncommon, thinking about brian. since meeting in the early days of your university studies, he’s been a friend, and fleeting thoughts––whether he’s finished his term paper, if he’d like something other than a sandwich for supper, if he’s phoned his parents recently––filter through your mind on repeat during any given day. you mother him; it’s an unfortunate habit as the eldest sibling of five, but he’s never seemed to mind. and your silly worries over his health and his studies? they’ve never bothered you either.

that is, until your worries shifted to something... unexpected.

you blame freddie.

if it hadn’t been for freddie, smile likely wouldn’t have become queen, and queen wouldn’t have taken the u.k. by storm, and you wouldn’t have gotten a front row seat to your friend’s talent and success, and then you wouldn’t have found yourself thinking of brian may as anything other than a good schoolmate. so, in actuality, freddie is at fault for the new course of your thoughts and the new course of your worries.

now, brian is like a spectre in the corner of your eye. he’s always there, even when he’s not. every turn you take around a corner, you imagine he’ll be standing there, all long legs and curly hair. every night when you slip under the covers, you find yourself wondering if brian is alone in his own bed. every morning, when you look at your reflection in the mirror, you try to guess what he sees when he looks at you.

it’s positively infuriating, and it’s freddie’s fault, so you avoid them altogether.

but brian is too smart for his own good, and he catches on fast. he knows the spots around campus you hide in when the going gets tough, and he finds you one thursday afternoon.

it’s raining. you’re snuggled beneath an over-sized, pill-ridden sweater, the latest draft of your senior thesis spread across your lap. the pen in your mouth is worn with teeth marks, and your hands are stained with red ink. you fingers are attentive to the work—you shuffle through the pages of your paper with expertise and purpose—but your mind is elsewhere. you’d dreamt of brian the night before (and not for the first time). he’d been singing to you and you alone, and it’s gotten to be—

“thought I might find you here.”

you look up, the replay of your dream stuttering to a halt. his hair is sodden by the rain, his face covered in a fine mist. he’s smiling, though the smile is soft as ever, as if he’s shy despite it only being you and he in dimly lit corridor.

“here.” he hands you a paper cup. steam rises from within, smelling vaguely of berries. “can i sit?” he motions to the small space on the window seat not overtaken by your work or your feet.

you nod, and he squeezes himself in between the wall and your legs. you scoot your knees closer to your chest in response.

“i haven’t seen you ‘round lately,” he says. “i––we missed you at the last few shows.”

with a sigh, you set your cup of tea on the floor. “i’ve got my thesis. it’s due soon.” he only looks at you, so you hurriedly add, “i’d be there if i could. you know that.”

he shrugs, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. “i haven’t been paying much attention to my coursework myself. thing’s are kinda crazy.”

at this you have to laugh. he’s effortlessly humble about queen. you suspect he views it as a hobby; at least, he did at one point. what with the recent tour around the u.k., you’re surprised he’s still enrolled in his doctorate program. anyone else would have jumped at the chance to drop out and focus entirely on rock n roll.

but not brian. he’s different. and that’s why you like him.

that’s why you like him as a friend. nothing more.

the silence stretches, thinning but not yet brittle. quiet has always been a part of your friendship. whether it’s studying in the library or reading in one of the common rooms, you feel at ease in the subdued moments you share with brian. but this silence... it’s different. you shift on the bench, your backside gone numb. you open your mouth to say something, but he speaks first.

“we’re going on tour... after the holidays.”

your brow puckers in a frown. “you only just got back from a tour. a small one, but still a tour.”

“this one’s bigger. it’s america... japan too, if they can fix it.”

your first instinct is to question him, to mother him: what about his program? what about his family? what about all the travel, the logistics of it all? what about his health?

what about you?

instead, you smile. you lean forward and squeeze his shoulder. “i’m happy for you, bri. truly i am. that’s wonderful news!”

the tension in his shoulders seem to ease under your fingers, but you chalk it up to the happy news and his excitement. still, you leave your hand on his upper bicep, your touch feather-light.

“i’m really happy about it. all the guys are. but it means i’ve got to let go of my studies for awhile. i just came from submitting the withdrawal forms.” he shakes his head with a rueful sort of chuckle. “never thought i’d say that.”

“it’s not every day you become a rock star.”

head still bent, he peers at you through his long lashes. “i came to tell you first. i mean, besides the registrar. i thought you should hear it from me instead of... i dunno... someone else.”

as cliche as it is, butterflies take flight in your chest. you try to squash them, but they won’t be moved. you’re left with a hammering heart and increasingly hot palms. you pull your hand away from his arm, but nudge his leg with your foot.

“well, i’m honored. it’s not every day a girl’s lab partner suddenly decides to tour the world with his band. just so long remember me when you start winning awards or something. after all, i was the one who helped you through literature 101.”

you’re rambling now, nervous and trying to underplay the rising giddiness in your chest. likely he meant nothing by his decision to come and give you the news first. your mind, however, which has run through wistful thought after wistful thought for the last week, jumps at the chance to imagine that he could mean something more.

his gaze is serious, as is customary, but there’s something decidedly more intense about the way he’s looking at you. you look down at the floor and reach for your tea. the cup is growing cool, perhaps hurried along by the chill of rain against the window. you take a sip, try not to smile at his remembering your favorite flavor.

“you mean a great deal to me,” he suddenly says.

your eyes snap up, meeting his. you swallow past the lump in your throat. something about the tone in his voice and the uncertainty in his eyes makes you wonder what more he’s trying to say.

“you mean a lot to me, too, bri. i’ll miss you loads while you’re gone.” you force your lips into an easy smile. “but you’ll be back and then i’ll keep pestering you about whether you’ve eaten enough for dinner. maybe i’ll call you in japan just to make sure.”

“[y/n]...” his voice is but a whisper, so much softer than it normally is, heavier too. he twists where he’s sitting, and you feel your heart squeeze painfully.

you know what he’s going to say then. you can see it written across his face, in the way he watches you every movement, in the way his hand moves to cup your bent knee then falls to his lap. god, you’d dreamed of this––him wanting you. only you hadn’t planned on the fear which is creeping up your spine. you hadn’t planned on feeling so afraid when it truly happened. you aren’t even sure what you’re afraid of, but the giddiness of moments past is quickly replaced by panic.

before he can speak, you surge to your feet. the force of your movement sends papers scattering to the four winds, falling through the air like leaves in autumn. you set the tea aside and drop to your knees, muttering under your breath as you scramble to grab the papers and put them back in their proper order. brian joins you (as if he wouldn’t?). your hands brush amongst the mess, and, by george, you want to take his hand and hold it, maybe even kiss his knuckles if you’re daring enough, but you’re too afraid. too afraid of what it will do to your friendship which is good and solid and comfortable. and you’re too afraid of what will happen if you do hold his hand and then he leaves and meets someone else, someone more suited for life beside a rockstar.

so you ignore the fleeting touch, mumble a thank you as you stand, papers gathered––out of order, but gathered.

he towers over you. it’s not threatening, but it’s not as comforting as it once was. he shoves his hands in his pockets, his face colored by frustration.

“when do you leave?” you ask.

“februrary, i think.”

“i really will miss you.”

your words have an air of finality you weren’t intending. you don’t mean to say goodbye forever. aside from a handful of others, brian is your closest mate at school. he has been since year one, and you don’t want to lose that. you don’t want to lose that to a world tour or a shift in your relationship.

even if it means shutting off the part of your heart that is screaming––screaming––for you to push to your toes and kiss him hard in the quiet hallway.

brian has the decency to nod in agreement, though you can see the disappointment in the way he holds his shoulders. “i’ll miss you, too.” clearing his throat, he jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “i should go tell my parents the news.”

“yes!” your voice is loud in the cramped space; you suppress a wince. “yes, they’ll be thrilled.”

“well”––he shrugs, the awkward, gangly boy of your first year––“bye.”

leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your cheek. it’s all you can do to not turn your head and capture his lips, wind your arms around his back, and throw fear to the wolves. instead, your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the softness. he draws back, and the moment is gone.

“bye,” you whisper. “i’ll call you over the holiday, yeah?”

he nods. you both know the truth.

with a grim sort of smile, he turns and walks down the hall. you watch until he disappears around the corner.

months later, you catch a glimpse of him on the local news. the reporter is raving about queen’s success across north america and hyping the band’s journey to asia. the images of him which flash across the screen are brief, a second here and there in between shots of roger and freddie.

you slowly sit on the couch, hands curled around a mug of tea. berry flavored, like the one he gave you. you watch, entranced, until he appears, just him, speaking to someone just off camera.

“i guess we just want to say thank you.” his voice is slightly garbled by poor quality, but it wrenches your chest because you hadn’t realized how much you missed the sound of it. “it’s been great fun over here, and we’re excited for japan. should be exciting.” his eyes slide to the camera, and he laughs with ease. “i think i’m having trouble remembering to eat, though, we’re so busy, but it’s all good.”

you know in your heart of hearts he’s speaking to you. and you wish, not for the first time, you could change the past. you wish you had ignored the fear and said what you both felt.

you wish you had kissed him when you had the chance.

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #queen fic #j writes

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

Text

Embers - Male dragon shifter x reader, Chapter Six (light nsfw)

Hi folks! Here’s Chapter Six for you of our ongoing series. It starts with a couple of nsfw paragraphs, so if that’s not your thing, start reading below the wider paragraph break. Hope you like this one! As with most of the others, it’s still longer than my aimed-for 800-1000 words, at 1404, but I don’t mind because this one was cheekily fun. Our poor reader is struggling a bit in this chapter!!

Enough waffle! I hope you enjoy! Don’t forget to let me know how you think it’s going so far - I always love to hear your feedback :).

One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Thoughts and images of Mikaeïl flashed through your body as your chest heaved and heat coiled as you tipped closer to the edge. The memory of his cool skin beneath your lips was what sent you over the edge, body shaking, gasping for air as you came harder than you’d come in a long time, just from thinking of him.

“Oh gods,” you scolded yourself in a hoarse whisper, staring at the ceiling. “Now how am I going to be able to look him in the eye this afternoon…?”

In fact, it was marginally easier than you’d imagined because as you entered the house with Celia and found yourself greeted warmly by Frankie, you heard female laughter from the direction of the kitchen, and shortly afterwards came Mikaeïl’s gruff baritone.

You did your best to smile encouragingly at Celia as she trotted eagerly after the satyr, already babbling about how she’d practised the tricky bits and could now play a C-major scale and do the arpeggio. His praise was muted from your ears as he closed the door, and you steeled yourself and headed for the kitchen.

Of course Mikaeïl had a partner already. How could someone as gorgeous and articulate and intelligent as him not have a partner?

Knocking lightly on the door, you stepped inside, and drew up short when you saw the figure with him. She was stunningly beautiful, with long, purple hair, the colour of crushed blackberries, that fell in waves down her back, and brilliant green eyes. She had a crisp white shirt on that was tucked in at the waist into a pair of pressed navy slacks that made her legs look frankly… fantastic. Suddenly, amid the mulberry waves of her hair, you saw two dark horns, smaller, less obvious, and more delicate than Mikaeïl’s, curling gently towards the back of her head. She was standing with one perfectly manicured hand on Mikaeïl’s upper arm, the laughter still dancing in her eyes as she turned to face you curiously as you entered.

“Hi,” you said, glancing awkwardly from one to the other of them. A second later you began to babble very quickly, “Uh… I brought the design for you to look over. I had it printed to the size you wanted, so I can just leave it here,” and with that you shoved the clear plastic folder onto the counter top and, as if you had no more courage than a field mouse, turned and left the room.

The quiet murmur of voices resumed as the door closed behind you, and after a short scuttle down the corridor, you stood in the entrance hall for a moment. You were certain that the beating of your heart was echoing around the drum-like space. Knowing you’d panicked like a bloody teenager at the sight of him with someone else, you took a deep breath and opened the front door feeling sheepish and foolish, and a little hurt. The chill autumn air hit your lungs as you took another deep breath, and you headed over to your rusty old car, deciding that you’d rather just sit in there like a dumb idiot than go back into the kitchen now.

Perhaps four or five minutes later, the front door opened and the woman stepped out into the sunlight first, her hair gleaming and tumbling down her back as she turned to hug Mikaeïl with what was clearly intimate familiarity. She kissed his cheek, laughed affectionately at something he muttered into her ear, and then turned to go, striding away across the gravel towards the long drive that would eventually lead to the road. You were surprised that someone as well-dressed as her was walking, but it was a beautiful day, and anyway you didn’t have much time to dwell on it because Mikaeïl was approaching your car, a curious look in his golden eyes.

You knew you couldn’t be a petulant child and hide in the car, refusing to come out, you pulled on a smile and stepped out. “Didn’t want to intrude,�� you blurted before he could even open his mouth.

“It’s alright,” he said. “But you really didn’t have to go. Caerelia would have liked to have met you…”

“Oh. Sorry,” you said, heat flushing your cheeks despite your best efforts.

He chuckled warmly and, as he turned back towards the house, said, “You want to come inside now? I loved the design, by the way. We both did.”

“Right.”

He scowled, pausing and half turning back to you, and then you watched the penny drop through his brain. “Oh!” he said, and then began to laugh softly again, amusement brightening his eyes still further. “I… I feel I should perhaps have mentioned earlier that Caerelia is my older sister…?”

His sister.

Idiot.

You snorted and said, “Well, I mean, she’s pretty… You can’t blame me for assuming the two of you weren’t family…”

It was Mikaeïl’s turn to blush, the colour warming his cheeks, and he shook his head slightly. His true-red hair was piled atop his head in a delightfully scruffy bun, with sections falling loose at the back, looking almost like little flames, dancing as he moved. “I’m flattered,” he said. “And…” he stared intently at you and added, “Not just for that compliment, I think. Come, let’s go inside.”

Your throat had turned dry at the look he’d given you, and that he’d registered your obvious and rather childish jealousy, and you swallowed thickly before speaking. “Sure.”

Suddenly as you approached the threshold, his hand was at the small of your back, guiding you quietly inside before him, and your knees nearly gave out at the touch. He was gentle but firm, and it brought back all your fantasies of that morning with embarrassing clarity.

“Something hot?” he asked, and you nearly tripped over the doormat.

“What?”

“To drink,” he clarified, and you practically burst out laughing. “Or something cold. I have options for both.”

You shook your head, trying to scrape together the fragments of your disintegrating composure, and said, “Uh… let’s sample another one from your hoard of teas?”

“Wonderful,” he purred from right behind you and you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as his breath fanned across your skin.

The mock-up of the poster was sitting on the kitchen counter when you entered, but you ignored it and went straight to the conservatory to be among his plants and to calm the heck down. You weren’t normally this flappable, but there was something about him that just snuck under your armour and control and turned your brain to utter nonsense. You licked your lips and took a deep breath, hugging your arms across your chest as you heard his footsteps approaching on the hard tiles of the kitchen floor. Calmer, you turned around to watch him draw near.

He was so ethereally beautiful, and the autumn sunlight flooding in through the glass set the natural highlights his hair gleaming like burnished copper and his eyes glittering. He smiled, those attractive lips curling warmly, and he came to a halt at a distance that was a mite closer to you than was normal for two people just discussing business.

You had to tip your head back a bit to meet his gaze, and you smiled. “What?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said in a quiet voice that set your pulse racing, though you thought you hid it a bit better this time.

“Oh?”

“Mmm. You must know the date of this ridiculous dinner event by now, seeing as you’ve put it on your spectacular poster… I was wondering if you might consider coming with me as my guest?”

“You… You want…?” your brain shorted out and you kicked it back into life with considerable effort. “You mean… as a date, or…?”

“Yes,” he said. “As a date. But only if that’s something you’d like…”

Finally managing something a little better than an embarrassed blush, you smiled coyly and said, “Didn’t my little parting gift last time we met tell you that?”

Somewhere behind him, the kettle clicked off, and with a smile that bordered on a very draconic smirk, Mikaeïl said, “I thought as much. That is why I asked.”

And he stalked back across the room, leaving you staring at his very beautiful back and biting your lip with anticipation.

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher! Plus lots of new goodies for February!!

#embers #dragon #dragon x reader #dragon shifter x reader #gender neutral reader #male dragon x reader #male dragon shifter x reader #weekly story #weekly chapters

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elisende · 3 years

Text

Predators (2/2)

Characters: Halsin/OFC Rating: M Warnings: Attempted rape/noncon Words: 3330 Halsin knew so little it often shocked her.

She recognized, when she took him on, that he was unfledged. But his ignorance was vast and hungry.

Gods knew the boy had appetites. For knowledge, for every last scrap of food. For her body. She was not flattered: she knew she could be just about anyone, man or woman, elf or human--even a dwarf, he was indiscriminate.

Most of all, he was hungry for connection. She did not ask what had become of his people but trusted he would tell her in his own time.

He was not shy of speaking. Nor of asking, endlessly, about all subjects. What is the name of that bird, why is it called so, does it remain in the forest through winter or seek warmer climes? Why?

In desperation, she wrote to her Circle and a month later a moose trotted into the clearing laden with bulging packs of scrolls and a few codexes.

Provender for your mind, she explained. Halsin was dubious at first but his natural curiosity got the better of him and now he spent most afternoons curled up in the branches of a downy birch reading scroll after scroll, as insatiable a reader as he was a lover.

He wanted her every night, every dawn. He wanted her when she bent over the cookpot preparing their lunch and when they walked the woods. She refused him four times out of five and still they lay together twice a day. Dalia was exhausted but not displeased; he was an apt student in all things and by nature generous.

Her pupil’s progress in the six months under her tutelage was impressive even by her high standards. And true to his word, he’d given her no cause to regret her decision to teach him.

Yet he was still unformed. Still unconscious to the grace and nuance of nature’s dance. And still angry.

“Teach me how to take a wild shape,” he demanded one sun-washed afternoon in the clearing. Dalia, never idle, was picking through some useful herbs they had collected that morning in the woods, sorting them according to which she would dry, which she would distill, and which she would pack into oil.

“You are not ready,” she said, not looking up from the herbs in her lap. “You have the ability”--and he did have magic, wild magic, in him--“but without the proper discipline you could be overcome by the animal’s mind. More than a few novices lose themselves entirely in the transformation.”

He scoffed. “You still underestimate me. You’re not my mother or my nursemaid, so stop trying to protect me.”

She glanced up at him. He sat rigidly against an oak’s trunk, beetle-browed, ready for a fight. Hungry for one. Any number of retorts leapt to her mind but she allowed herself only a neutral hmm before going back to her herbs, bearing the quiet fury of his stare without further comment. The silence, when he stalked off into the wood, was sour with unspent anger.

He returned at nightfall with a roe buck slung over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Halsin said, and though his words were plain, she could see his self-recrimination in the taut line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. He’d simply turned his anger inward on himself. It was pitiful to see, like a falcon hanging from its jesses.

She nodded. “Your anger will be your downfall one day, left uncontrolled. But I accept your apology, any road.”

They made a stew with rosemary and juniper berries and a bit of wine that had lain unopened for decades at the bottom of Dalia’s trunk and miraculously had aged into a lovely vintage.

“Where is it from?” Halsin asked, looking wondrously at the dusty bottle. “I’ve never tasted such wine.”

And it was special, among the finest she’d had in her six centuries. Smooth and sculpted, full on the tongue, bursting with ripe black fruit. She hesitated before saying, “It’s an Evermeet vintage.”

He looked up at her, curious, but Silvanus be praised, he didn’t ask the question he’d asked so many times before.

Dalia gratefully changed the subject. “Hakka did whelp this year, after all.” She took another sip to savor the exquisite wine, then continued. “Four pups. She’s hidden them up on the ridge, in the little bluebell hollow.”

His eyes lit as they always did when discussing the forest’s wolves. He liked big predators, the great bear Sage notwithstanding--he still held a grudge for the scars that scored his brow. “That’s wonderful. Are they Thorn’s pups? She’s hiding them from Hatha?”

The wolves’ amorous entanglements were even more complicated than that of a wood elven village. Hakka and Hatha were sisters and bitter rivals for the affections of Thorn, one of the leading males in the pack. He was a young, brash hunter, uncommonly large. Dalia couldn’t help but see the resemblance and noted Halsin’s affection for the wolf with some amusement.

“Mm,” she agreed. Her head was already a little light from the alcohol. With wine this good, it was easy to overdo it. She set her cup on the table and turned back to the stew, scraping the bottom of the pot. “You’ve been most helpful with my work in this wood.” She smiled to see him glow with silent pride at her rare praise. But it was not empty: despite his ignorance, he was observant when he wished to be and had discovered much that she had missed.

“Your work won’t ever be finished, will it?” he asked softly. The firelight flickered in his eyes and with his wide, sensuous mouth ever so slightly open, she felt a heady wave that had little to do with the wine.

“No,” she admitted. “It won’t be. It’s an indefinite posting.” And one of her choosing, though she didn’t say so. She knew he could sense it.

“Why?” he asked, yet again. Always why. She sighed in frustration.

“For once, do not concern yourself with why,” she said, more sharply than she intended. She softened her tone with a gentle look, a touch of her hand. He didn’t push further.

They ate, finished the bottle between them, and lay together in the quiet of the glade through a gauzy haze of alcohol, beneath the spreading branches of a grandfather oak and the dim light of the stars. As Dalia slipped into her trance of sleep, she warned herself that such things couldn’t--wouldn’t--last. And ruthlessly quashed the feeling of sadness that followed.

Halsin rose early and once he was gone, Dalia lay on the grass with her eyes open, feeling a rare malaise. The birds sang as sweetly ever, but somehow there was less music in their voices.

Later, she would look back and wonder if it was an omen.

She was bathing in the stream when a bellow echoed across the glade. It came from the heights of the ridge above, distant but unmistakable. Halsin’s booming voice, roughened with rage.

Without thought, she pulled her robe on and grabbed the ax from the wood chopping block outside the hut. Its grip was comforting in her hand as she sprinted barefoot into the brush and up the side of the long, wooded hill.

She slipped through the brambles, eschewing the winding deer path to cut straight through the forest to the sound of her lover’s cry.

Other voices joined in. Human voices. More screams and the sounds of battle chilled Dalia’s blood. A wolf bayed. Fear made her fly the last hundred yards, heedless of the tearing thorns or lashes of tree branches. She emerged into the wolf’s territory brandishing the ax above her head, ready for any foe, human or beast.

But the fight was already finished. Two hunters lay dead on earth soaked red with gore, eviscerated, and beside them, panting, were Halsin and Thorn, his lupine counterpart. Both with death in their eyes and blood on their faces. It dripped from Thorn’s muzzle and Halsin’s strong hands.

“What have you done?” she cried. Halsin’s wide eyes met her gaze; he was still in the grip of his blood frenzy.

Then she saw the den: the wolf Hakka and all of her pups, throats slit. For their fur, perhaps; or maybe simply for sport. Humans needed no greater justification to kill a wild thing. Bereft of life, the pups looked thin and insubstantial, little more than furry rags. Hakka’s sightless eyes rested on them even in death, the young she’d given her life protecting.

She whispered a quick prayer to Silvanus, to absorb their bodies back into the earth to seed new lives in this forest. But even as she spoke them, the words rang hollow.

“They were laughing, when I came upon them,” Halsin said. His voice was thick with hatred as he stared down at the two humans. These, too, Dalia commended to the Oakfather, though silently.

“You have done a truly stupid thing,” she said, not even trying to mollify her tone. She felt a fury rising in her to match the boy’s. Beside them, Thorn growled; she stilled him with an outstretched hand and he whimpered, sniffed the corpses of his mate and pups.

“Two fewer miserable poachers in the wood? Silvanus himself would praise me. I’ve eliminated a threat to nature.” And infuriatingly, the wood elf truly looked pleased with himself.

“And what happens now?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

“Now the wood is peaceful once more.” A blackbird cautiously resumed its song in a nearby tree and Halsin raised his hand as though his point had been proven.

“And when these men’s village mount a search? Will they see justice in this scene? Or will they see an outrage that demands revenge?”

Halsin opened his mouth but she pushed on, “Who suffers then? Not you or I but Thorn and his pack. At best, they will be driven off from their home. And at worst every one of them will be hunted down.”

“I didn’t--”

But her anger was still building. She threw her ax into the earth beside her. “It will not end there. Without any wolves in this territory, the deer will proliferate. They will strain the resources of the forest to its breaking point and many more will needlessly die. It will take a century for nature to right itself, all for a moment of satisfaction, of righteous anger.”

She looked directly into his eyes. There was no remorse in them, though some doubt. “You’re a traitor to nature, not its defender. You are not one of us. I was wrong, to think I could teach you.”

Halsin’s hands became fists. He might well have broken and tried to hit her. But instead, he screamed a wordless howl of rage and despair that rang across the hillside, stilling the birdsong.

Dalia turned her back on him, her failed pupil, and on the pathos of the young wolf mourning, and walked slowly, stiffly back down to the glade.

She did not expect she would see him again in this life.

Time could mend any wound; Dalia had lived long enough to know the truth of that.

She went about her days in rote, knowing through wisdom hard-won that she would once again appreciate the sun’s warmth on her skin, the taste of a wholesome meal, the sound of the stream’s unending flow. But even as she tried to take heart in the inevitability of healing, a small voice insisted that she had lost everything. Again. That life was little more than an exercise in losing all that mattered, concluding with her own mortal end.

Those thoughts mostly came in the dusky evenings when she sat alone at the hearth (she could not bear to sit at the table where they had shared their meals) and the fire died to back ashes for lack of motivation to rekindle its flames.

If she had dreaded his coming to her door, begging her forgiveness, she need not have worried. For he did not come.

But a moon after the killings, she returned from a walk deep into the forest where she’d helped a colony of bees find a new home--the most mundane tasks gave the most pleasure, these days--and found other visitors in her glade.

Instead of striding over to greet them, she watched from behind the grandfather oak. They were five: all strong human men, well-armed. Though that didn’t necessarily mean trouble. The humans often went armed into the wood, fearful as they were of its denizens. Of nature’s power outstripping their own.

Her hut door was open and it was apparent they were waiting for someone inside. Heat rose in her at the thought of unseen hands rifling through her things.

Against her better judgment, Dalia stepped out from behind the tree, drawing herself to her full height.

“Why have you come to my glade? And why do you trespass in my abode?” She glared between them, doing her best to look intimidating but not an immediate threat. Their beards hid their faces and made them all look the same. Or perhaps they were related--all humans looked alike, to her, particularly the men.

“Two of our own went missing in this wood,” said the taller one with the grey beard. She pegged him as the leader; humans usually organized their social and political structures around seniority.

“They’re not in my hut,” she said coolly. The men glanced between one another, doubtful. “I’ve not cooked them for breakfast if that is your worry.”

“She has a witchy look about her,” said one of the younger, yellow-bearded ones, as though she were not present.

“I reckon she’s a hag in a fair disguise,” said another of the young men, looking her dead in the eye as he spoke. He made some gesture of religious protection.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. But she was already evaluating her combat options, weighing her chances. They were just looking for an excuse to attack, she could sense. But she had little chance against five of them--and more, perhaps, inside. They were skilled hunters with good weapons: spiked greatclubs, crossbows, a city-forged longsword.

The greybeard smiled a smile that didn’t reach his chilly blue eyes. Death was in them, and grievous violence. “Have you seen them, lass, or nay? We would like to know.”

Dalia struck first, for the slim advantage that surprise might grant her. Vines leapt from the earth to ensnare the two young hunters closest to her as she ducked behind a fallen tree for cover from the volley of arrows that followed.

They shouted to the men inside and her heart sank when three emerged from the hut. She would not survive a fight against eight, even with all her magic, even with the wood itself to aid her.

But nor would she surrender.

She took the shape of the wolf, fire burning in her marrow as her bones snapped and bent to the canine form. Her thoughts became simpler yet more exigent. The wolf mind was made for bloodshed.

Emboldened by their numbers, one of the young hunters was already sneaking around the edge of the fallen tree. She tore his throat away in a thrilling rip, the wolf relishing the sensation of hot blood gushing from the severed flesh in her mouth. Another she took with a swipe across the gut. A third managed to slash her hip with his sword before she downed him. And then an arrow caught her between the ribs and she collapsed into the grass, reverting to her elven form.

The pain was not so acute now and that was a mercy. But her horror--the horror born of a sentient imagination--was far worse as the remaining humans loomed over her.

It was not difficult to imagine what was on their minds. Torture, rape, death. Perhaps in that order.

As they argued with each other over some triviality, she struggled to crawl away but the greybeard hunter stopped her with a kick to the arrow sticking out of her side. She cried out as pain radiated through her body, nearly stealing her consciousness away from her.

The greybeard’s hateful face loomed over her again. “Tell me,” it said. “Where are they, witch?”

So they had decided she was a witch. The druid took a shuddering breath that sent shards of icy pain through her chest.

“Dead,” she said. Her words were watery from the blood that had begun to fill her lungs. “Not by my hand.” The greybeard snorted; he didn’t believe her.

“Where? I’ll give you a quick death.” His blue eyes looked earnest; so earnest, it could almost be true.

She told him about the bluebell hollow on the ridge, the sheltering briars. He nodded, satisfied. Then motioned to the other men. So it was to be rape first.

Dalia closed her eyes, searching for any final measure of fortitude or magic. But she was drained of everything, even resolve. The sky seemed to be growing dimmer, though she knew it to be only midday. She was dying, she recognized distantly. Along with her sorrow and dread of what was to come, she felt something like relief.

Then the bear entered the glade. It was no bear she recognized, not Sage or one of his kin that ranged the unpeopled southern reaches. It was a great bear, though, and towering more still for its rage; it blotted out the sun when it stood on its hind legs and let out a roar of fury. It swiped the skin from the face of the man on her back, tearing him from neck to navel, showering her in the warmth of his blood.

Weapons were useless against him. Gasping beneath the weighty corpse of the hunter, she watched as the bear gored and slashed his way through the remaining five hunters. The greybeard, last to die, foolishly begged the beast before succumbing to its snarling teeth, red-tipped as bloodied daggers.

There was something familiar in the set of the bear’s shoulders and when it turned to her, she could see it in his eyes.

“Halsin,” she said. Even speaking his name filled her body with relief. Peace.

The name summoned him back to himself. Her apprentice shifted back to his shape and ran over to her. “I can heal you,” he said, even though they both knew he couldn’t.

“One day,” she said, grasping the foresight that came to her, unbidden. “You will be a great healer. But not yet.”

His features twisted in grief. “I’ve failed you again, then.”

“Never,” she sighed. She was powerless to resist the shuddering cough that sent a rictus of pain through her dying body. “Nature claims us all back, eventually. Today is my day. I am ready.”

Halsin bent over her and wept. He made her as comfortable as he could and settled her on his lap next to the stream so she could listen to it as she faded away, still looking up at his face as she departed the mortal realm for one of spirit and air.

Her amber eyes became sightless and Halsin closed them for the last time with the brush of his hand. He felt an emptiness that seemed to be shared by the whole wood, which had gone silent save for the senselessly burbling stream.

He would bury her, in the coming days, beneath the grandfather oak that had so often sheltered them, to feed its roots with her blood and bone and magic.

And when he arrived in the Circle at Dancing Falls, some months later, no one would question his haunted eyes, his quiet fury, his knowledge and skill in the ways of the druids.

Halsin would be just another novice, albeit a precocious one who could already take a wild shape. A bear, whose rage returned with every transformation, bringing him back to the glade, to the locus of his greatest regret.

#halsin #bg3 Halsin #fanfiction #fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfic

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thekadster · 4 years

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seize the date (jatherine first date fluff)

Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types)

Word Count: 2,144

Trigger Warnings: none!

❝Jack Kelly was the fearless, charismatic leader of the Manhattan newsies. His name was respected in all the city, even by Spot Conlon himself. A good fighter, a great newsie, and even a father figure to some of the kids in his care. With that kind of resume, one would assume that there weren't a lot of things that scared him, and they would be right.

But then, there came the girl.

And boy, was he scared.❞

also read it on ao3!

“I can’t do this, Dave.”

Jack groaned and pressed his forehead against the brick wall. Davey, arms crossed and standing next to him, rolled his eyes. “Jack, we’ve gone over this ten times.”

Jack turned to look at him. “It’s been ten already?”

“Well, eleven.”

Jack ran a shaky hand through his hair. He shrugged, straightened his vest, adjusted his hat, dusted off his pants, did every little thing to smoothen out every single one of his rough, ragged edges. He took a deep breath of the cool afternoon breeze. “Do I look okay?” he asked.

“You look fine,” replied Crutchie, patting him on the back.

Jack tensed up. “Fine ain’t gonna cut it.”

“What he means to say,” Davey quickly interjected. “Is that you look ready.”

Jack was quiet. Was he ready, though? I mean, he had to be. He had been prepping for this day for over a month. He had dreamed of this! Of course he was ready!

“I don’t feel like it,” he mumbled, finding his voice.

Davey put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he reassured. “The fact that you even prepared is more than enough. She’s gonna love it.”

Crutchie hummed in agreement. Jack grumbled and fixed his collar. Looking over Davey’s shoulder, he instantly tensed up. Whispering to his two friends and patting their backs, he quickly sent them away. They crossed the street, briefly smiling and waving at the approaching girl.

Jack Kelly was the fearless, charismatic leader of the Manhattan newsies. His name was respected in all the city, even by Spot Conlon himself. A good fighter, a great newsie, and even a father figure to some of the kids in his care. With that kind of resume, one would assume that there weren't a lot of things that scared him, and they would be right.

But then, there came the girl.

And boy, was he scared.

“Hey!” a chipper voice called. There she was, now taking her last few steps towards him; Katherine Plumber: his latest love, and his latest fear.

“Heya, Kat,” Jack replied, grinning. He held out his arm. “Shall we, Miss Plumber?”

Katherine giggled. “After you, Mister Kelly.”

As much as he was a nervous wreck behind his facade, he was genuinely glad that this day had come. It would just be them and the fire escape, plain and simple. No need to worry about the noise of the world below. What could possibly go wrong?

Not a lot, Jack prayed.

He led her up the rusted metal rails, slowing down to match her pace. As much as her long skirt and boots proved to be a nuisance, Katherine’s heart began to swirl with exhilaration. She had been up this way before, but the feeling of climbing so high up was still an adventure to her. As the ground grew further and further away, the more her heart pumped.

“Well, here she is,” Jack spoke, swinging open a small metal gate. “Welcome to my “penthouse”.”

In reality, the area was rather small, just enough to fit two boys and a sack of belongings in the corner. But as soon as Katherine turned around, she quickly remembered where Jack got the name from. She was met with the sight of hundreds of buildings, probably even thousands, if she counted. She leaned forward on the railing. The last time she was here was under much different circumstances, and it was only now that she got to properly take in the view. All of them looked so proud and tall from the ground. It’s crazy how different things can seem when you put them in a new perspective, she realized.

“We’re so high up,” whispered Katherine.

“Yeah,” replied Jack.

Jack quietly joined her side, looking out into the skyline he knew so well. It was weird, he thought. He had seen this view thousands of times before, it became just another part of living here. But now, the water towers and the buildings and their big signs all seemed to have a new glow in the afternoon sun. But the sun couldn’t do much. Perhaps it was who he was with that made all the difference, and who shined brighter than the sun could ever hope to.

“It’s beautiful,” added Katherine, a smile tugging at her lips.

Jack turned to look at her. “Not as beautiful as you.”

She laughed, feeling heat quickly rush to her face. “Are you afraid of heights?”

“Would I be livin’ up here if I was?”

“Ha! Fair enough.”

“Are you?” asked Jack.

Katherine paused, then leaned closer to him. “Not anymore.”

Jack stayed still, even though his face was already flushed. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he gestured for them to sit down on a neatly laid-out blanket. She gave him an amusing look, but played along. “So,” he began, quickly changing the topic. “How’s work?”

“It’s been okay, just grabbing whatever story I can find,” replied Katherine.

“Anybody givin’ ya trouble?”

She shrugged. “Not really, actually. After I wrote about you and the boys, a lot of people started taking me more seriously.”

“Good,” said Jack. “It’s better than the ballet, ain’t it?”

“Anything’s better than the ballet.”

They laughed. Although they would never say it out loud, if you’d ask them, they would say that the other’s laugh could light up New York.

“How about you? How’s work?” asked Katherine, shifting in her place.

“Same old thing,” answered Jack. “The fellas are doin’ okay. Oh, and this mornin’, Finch hit one a’ the Delanceys in the head with his slingshot.”

She chuckled, eyes widening in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah! Kid ran like hell, I tell ya.”

“Who was it, Oscar or Morris?”

Jack scratched his head. “Morris, I think.”

Katherine smiled to herself, her eyes distant for a brief moment. “You know, I went to kindergarten with them.”

Jack’s mouth gaped. “You know the Delanceys? You went to school with ‘em?”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “They were the biggest troublemakers. There wouldn’t be a day where they wouldn’t be in the time-out corner. Oh, and when both of them got into trouble, the teacher would put them on opposite ends of the room.”

“Sounds about right,” he remarked. As soon as she turned her head, Jack quickly hid the newspaper he was sketching on.

“How’s Crutchie doing, by the way?” she asked.

“He’s doin’ fine. Still smilin’ no matter what, if that’s what you mean. Folks are happy to see him back on the street. ‘S got loyal customers that got worried when he stopped showin’ up. That kid’s a ray a’ sunshine.”

“I’m sure.” Katherine’s heart softened, watching a warm smile creep up on Jack’s face at the thought of his best friend. She looked around. As simple as his humble abode was, she couldn’t help but be charmed. It was like his own little safe haven, a place that the noisy, messy world below could never reach. “When did you start living up here?”

He shrugged. “Probably one, two years ago?”

She nodded. “Why don’t you live in the Lodging House?”

“‘S mostly to give the other kids more room,” replied Jack. “Plus, nothin’ beats the view up here.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Katherine stood up and looked back out into the city.

Jack noticed her long silence and looked up at her, the girl and her wonder-filled eyes, gazing at a city that was at her fingertips. Her father ran this town. He owned the biggest newspaper business in all the country. With that kind of power, she would have all sorts of friends in high spaces. Friends with big houses, fancy clothes, and money to burn. Right now, she could’ve been anywhere else, hanging with high society’s cream of the crop.

But she wasn’t, he realized. She was with him. Just another scrappy newsboy with a dream.

It was no secret that Katherine grew up much more differently than the newsies; the world was practically handed to her on a silver platter. She never had to want for much. She had money, status, and everything a girl could wish for. Her father was the wealthiest man in the whole city. But being up here, being with him, it was something she wouldn’t trade for anything her father could buy.

Jack quietly stood up beside her, and taking a breath, he threw a newspaper airplane, interrupting her trance. They smiled at each other, watching the high, crisp breeze carry it away. She folded another sheet and threw it off the fire escape, but it only got so far until it took a nosedive.

“At least it’ll be easier to find,” said Jack.

Katherine laughed. “I was never good at paper planes.” Her eyes caught sight of the World building, not too far away. “Say, have you thought about the job my father gave you?”

Jack stared at his own plane, still flying in the distance. “‘M plannin’ on takin’ it.”

Her face lit up. Jack could be illustrating for the papers, a job that would pay much more than hawking them. “Really?”

“Dunno how I’m gonna take it, though,” he added. “How’s it work? What, do I just walk in or somethin’ an’ tell ‘em I want the job?”

“I can arrange an interview for you,” she replied. A chill went down his spine. “I gotta talk to folks like them?”

Katherine put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine,” she gently said. “They know an artist when they see one. And don’t worry, they’re not gonna be super harsh.”

“Here’s to hopin’.” Jack sighed, seeing his paper plane finally hit a far-off wall and fall to the ground. They were quiet for a moment. He blinked, finding the courage to ask her something he’d been meaning to, for a while.

“Why me?” he asked.

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

He repeated the question, but she only gave him a confused look. He decided to rephrase. “Why do you hang around with me?”

“What do you mean “why”?”

“Why?” Jack repeated a third time. “Why me? You got lots’a other guys to choose from, they’s probably better than I’ll ever be. This kinda thing, it’s just- it’s never happened before.”

Katherine paused, giving him a tender look. “It hasn’t,” she began. “Even I’m surprised, to be honest. But, you know why. You were one of the first- only people to believe in me. And that means something. Not a lot of guys are like you, Jack.”

It was true. The strike gave them something to fight for that was much bigger than themselves. What only started as an effort to lower the price of newspapers gave light to the importance of the rights of New York’s working kids. And, in the midst of the whirlwind, they found each other. Just two kids fighting for what they believed in.

They didn’t say it, but a familiar, warm feeling began to form in their chests. It was there, in the wind that rushed past them, in the way they simply stood together, in the way he slowly reached to lace his fingers with hers. And it was there in their silence; though there wasn’t much to say, as young as they were, they understood.

Jack kissed her on the forehead and pulled her into a slightly swaying embrace. “For sure?” he whispered into her hair.

“For sure,” she mumbled into his chest. Her mind calmed while she listened to the beating of his heart.

“Your father ain’t too happy with us bein’ here.”

“He isn’t.”

“Does he know I climb the fire escape after work to see ya?”

“He does.”

“Good.”

They softly laughed. He wished things could stay like this forever. So did she.

Jack pulled away and held her hand. He picked up a bundle of newspapers and shoved them into his back pocket. “Let’s get you back ‘fore he sends the Bulls after me.”

Katherine chuckled. They went the same way they came, the city below growing louder and louder around them with every step. She’d almost forgotten how noisy these streets actually were. She was fine walking herself back to the World, despite Jack’s insistence to take her there. With a kiss and a wave goodbye, the two went their separate ways.

As soon as Jack rounded a corner, he exhaled deeply. He leaned on the brick wall and ran a hand through his hair, a smile creeping on his face. It felt like a dream; he managed to score a date, and with a girl like her. He wished she could’ve stayed longer, but at least he had those sketches he made of her.

But then, his eyes widened.

They weren’t there.

Meanwhile elsewhere, Katherine hadn’t gone too far away when she stopped, stepping on a newspaper airplane. And unfolding it, she couldn’t hold in her smile.

#newsies #newsies forever #newsies fanfiction #fanfiction #fluff #first date fluff #jatherine #jack kelly x katherine plumber #jack kelly #katherine plumber #katherine newsies #davey jacobs #crutchie Morris #writers on ao3 #writers on tumblr #plootosart

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underworldobsessed · 4 years

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Blood Sacrifice l The X-Files Fanfic

Title: Blood Sacrifice Rating: T Word Count: 2409 Chapter: 1/1 Fandom: The X-Files Pairing: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully Summary: The case was nothing too out of the ordinary for the two of them. They had stared down different aspects of the occult since they started working together three years ago, different cases, but this felt different to both of them. Mulder and Scully investigate a case of black magic, but when they get to close to the truth, one of their lives gets put into danger. ll Written for the X-Files Horror Fic Exchange ( @xfilesfanficexchange ) Author’s Note: Written for Thatfragilecapricorn on AO3 (I’m not sure if they have a tumblr account). The word they gave me was ‘Occult’. I hope you all enjoy! Read on AO3 or under the cut

The case was nothing too out of the ordinary for the two of them. They had stared down different aspects of the occult since they started working together three years ago, different cases, but this felt different to both of them. The coven of witches didn’t seem to be hurting anyone at first, but claims of dark magic possessing one of them was enough to send them into chaos. Mulder and Scully had been assigned to the case after the first death and had been working around the clock to try and stop them. Things hadn’t seemed right since they had gotten there though, it was almost as if they were being watched, their every movement being monitored despite the fact that they thought nobody cared about this particular investigation.

That evening, though, was when everything started to change. Scully had seen Mulder start to change. He had been a lot quieter during the day, but now, he was pale. His eyes seemed like they weren’t seeing everything, glazed over and lost. She had initially thought that he was coming down with something, but she had checked him out. He didn’t have a fever at that moment, and he seemed perfectly healthy other than this. It wasn’t until he stood abruptly that she was caught off guard.

“Mulder?” Her voice broke through the quiet of the bullpen, the two of them the only ones left as others had either gone off on a patrol or home for the night. “What’s going on?”

“I am not Mulder,” His voice took on a demonic tone, and the eyes staring back at her were no longer the ones that Scully recognized from her partner. Instead, they were black as coal, no sign of life in him. “Your Mulder is not dead, but I am channelling myself through his body to get you to listen to me. Agent Scully, you seem like the more rational out of the two of you. Unless you relinquish control of the investigation and leave this place, I will take Agent Mulder for my own, utilizing him as my next blood sacrifice on the full moon.” The words caused Scully’s blood to run cold. She didn’t think she could believe that, but then again, since joining the X-Files, she had seen all manners of things, this included witchcraft. However, she wouldn’t believe this threat just yet, ever the skeptic. Not when she felt they were close to a breakthrough, and if this was how they were acting, she believed she was right.

“I see you don’t believe me,” The voice coming from Mulder’s body spoke again, and then they laughed. “Fair enough. Perhaps this would be enough to convince you.” Slowly, blood dripped down from Mulder’s nose, dripping down onto the ground underneath them.

“Scully!” Mulder’s voice broke through “Don’t listen to them,” His voice sounded pained, like whatever was going on caused him to be in absolute agony. “You can’t let them stop the investigation. You’re close, I know it.”

“Silence!” Mulder’s control on his own body broke, and whatever was controlling him took over. “I will take this body for my own. You will get it back, with your Mulder intact, if you agree to my terms about leaving. Until then, he is mine. And just to ensure you don’t follow me,” Whatever was controlling Mulder took his body out of the bullpen, but not before raising a hand that froze Scully in her place. She was unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Once Mulder was completely out of her sight, whatever spell that was holding her in place broke and she fell to her knees. She glanced at the files on the desk, knowing that she didn’t have much time. The full moon was the next night, and if she didn’t figure out who was behind all of this, Mulder was going to… No, she wouldn’t allow it. Absolutely not.

Start from the beginning, she reminded herself. The first murdered victim, study their ties. Who would have had a reason to kill them. They needed to have been picked for a reason, as for what that reason was… she needed to figure it out.

The victim’s name was Theodore Binx, a senior in high school. He, by all accounts, was a normal guy. He was a bit of a loner, according to his parents, but he had found his niche in his school’s latin club. It was a small club, so maybe that was a place to start for Scully. If these were his only friends, perhaps there was something that could tie them to the coven of witches.

She dug through records, finding a list of people interrogated at the school. All the friends he had were members of the club… oh hold on a minute. Her eyes landed on the fact that it was only a club of five members, not including her victim. And all of the club members were female. She remembered Mulder mentioning that all signs pointed to the fact that the known coven of witches in this town were all young girls. Perhaps the latin club had been the coven in disguise, or a way for them to meet and study spells?

I can’t believe I’m actually buying into this.. Scully thought to herself as she continued to read up. Of course. One of the members of the club was the victim’s ex-girlfriend… A plausible connection, one that could lead to who was the one that was supposedly practicing dark magic, and was currently using it on her partner.

When she looked at the time, her heart hammered in her chest. She had been at this for hours, it was nearly 6 AM, and she wasn’t even tired. She had only the afternoon left to find the girl before it would be time for the blood sacrifice… and Mulder would be dead. She wouldn’t allow that to happen. She would have to find Mulder before there was any chance of losing him, for good.

Hours of searching, no sleep, was taking its toll on Scully, but after talking with the parents of her suspect and talking to the victims parents as well, she found a place that the two of them used to go in order to hide away from others. A place with meaning, which meant that there was at least a little bit of a hint that maybe that’s where she would be able to find Mulder. She was hoping that some of his profiling mind had rubbed off on her so that her theory was correct. It was getting late, the sun was starting to set, which meant the full moon was on the horizon.

The place she had found was a garden, unknown to many but his parents had been the one to show their son this place, which then he mentioned taking a beautiful girl to several times. If this wasn’t the place… that would mean that she was wrong, and Mulder would end up…

No, she couldn’t think like this. Her gut was right, this was the place where she was going to do the sacrifice. It had an open view of the sky, meaning that the moon would be right overhead for whatever sick ritual she was planning.

For a few moments, Scully admired the beauty of the garden, rose bushes were surrounding them, but she couldn’t dwell on it. The deep red of the roses just reminded her of blood, of Mulder’s blood that might be spilled if she was too late. When she found an open area, she knew this was the place.

Candles were spread out on the ground in a perfect circle, an old leather bound book resting on a bench nearby to the candles. In the center of it all was a concrete slab that definitely didn’t look like it belonged. It was a lot older than the rest of the decorations, chipped and deteriorating, and there was staining that Scully could easily determine to be blood.

She hid behind a bush, keeping her eye out in front of her. Another two hours passed, before finally, she saw her target. Elizabeth Lightwood, the teenage girl who had been causing all this misery in the town, and next to her was Mulder. He walked as if he was in a daze, under the control of the woman as she wordlessly sent him to lay out on the slab and close his eyes. Scully’s heart hammered in her chest, watching as the book began to levitate and float over to Elizabeth, pages turning until it reached a specific spell.

“I know you’re there, Agent Scully,” The girl’s voice sent chills up Scully’s spine. Her words were cold, emotionless, and nothing like she could have ever imagined. “I should have known you would never give up the investigation.”

Scully came out from her hiding place with her firearm out and aimed. “Step away from him!” The words came out in a commanding tone, anger replacing any other emotion. “Elizabeth Lightwood, you’re under arrest for kidnapping a federal agent, and murder.” The girl laughed, the sound demonic.

“You must be kidding.” With a flick of her wrist, Scully’s gun was sent flying out of her hand and a force was around her neck, lifting her and suffocating her. “You are an insect compared to me. You are nothing, Agent Scully.” The pressure against Scully’s neck tightened, but her hand was able to move. She gasped for breath, feeling darkness ebb around her vision as she searched the small of her back for her secondary weapon. “Now watch, as I take the life of your precious Agent Mulder. You should see the things that go on in his head, the way he thinks about you. Too bad he’ll never get to say anything like that to you.”

Finally, Scully’s hand wrapped around her weapon and she pulled it out, firing almost blindly. One shot ended up in Elizabeth’s shoulder, the other in her arm. Scully felt the pressure around her neck release and she dropped to the ground. For a moment, she gasped for breath, before she pulled out her handcuffs. She locked them against Elizabeth’s wrists and for good measure, she hit her in the back of her head with her gun, knocking her out. She let out a sigh in relief, knowing that this young girl couldn’t hurt anyone again.

“Mulder!” Scully realized after a moment that she had almost forgotten about her partner, lying motionless on the slab. She took off in a sprint to his side, pressing a hand to his cheek. “Come on, Mulder.” No response.

A panicked hand went to his pulse point, and she felt her heart plummet to her stomach when she realized she felt nothing. “No!”

She climbed up onto the slab, straddling him. Immediately, she started doing compressions on his chest. 1...2….3….4 She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his and breathed. Repeating the process again, and again. “Don’t you dare leave me, Fox Mulder.” Panic was intertwined with her voice, though her hands were steady as she continued to do compressions, performing CPR.

After what felt like hours, but was really only a minute or two, she moved to rest her ear over his heart, and finally, she heard the sluggish thump-thump against her ear. A sob escaped her as she felt Mulder’s hand brushed her hair away from her face.

“What did I miss?” He cracked a small smile as she sobbed again and pulled him into a hug.

“Don’t you dare do that to me again, Mulder.” Her voice cracked and she pulled back to look at him. “We need to get you to a hospital. Who knows what lasting effects that situation could have?” She tried to sound disconnected, to not seem like she was as emotional as she was.

“Hey, what happened?” He really seemed like he didn’t remember, hand moving to brush her hair away again, but remaining to cup her cheek.

“I almost lost you,” She shuddered “I could have lost you, Mulder.” Without thinking, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. She had only known him for a few years, but Scully didn’t want to, couldn’t, imagine her life without him anymore. He had been so integral to her life, that the fear of losing him made her realize that her feelings went far more than friendship, and that she needed him more than she cared to admit. It was only after a minute that she felt him pull back, gazing into her eyes.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy that, Scully.” Mulder said, wincing as he shifted “But I hate to say, you were right to think I need a doctor.” Movement seemed to hurt him, which worried Scully. There would definitely be time to kiss Mulder later, for now, medical help was far more important.

“I’ll take you to the hospital.” She said, helping him up and letting him lean on her.

“We will talk about that kiss later, Scully, and you’re going to tell me all about what happened, and what sort of magic you saw.”

“What magic? Mulder,” She desired nothing more than to forget the evening ever happened. How could she explain what she saw when she didn’t even entirely believe it for herself. She bit her lip, before helping Mulder into the car. “I don’t know what I saw, Mulder. Let’s not worry about it for now. Right now I want to get you checked out so we know that you’re healthy.”

“Mm, okay, but we’re going to talk about that kiss at least.” She couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Now that, I can do.” With those words, she got into the driver’s side of the car, and started to drive off towards the hospital.

Neither one of them paid the young girl another thought, but if they had turned to look back at her, they would have seen her body rise up; not like she was standing, but like she was levitating. The bullet wound in her shoulder healed up and her lips curled into a grimace. Her eyes turned completely black as she stared in the direction that the car drove off in. After the car left her sight, she disappeared completely, along with all signs that this occurred, leaving just a quiet rose garden in her wake.

#X Files #The X Files #Fox Mulder #Dana Scully #MSR #Writing #jen writes

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little-writings · 5 years

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Jumin Week: Day 6 {Future}

Old and grey, you and Jumin spend the day together and wonder what could possibly come next in your lives.

Word Count: 2,556

Hello! I’m sorry I haven’t posted for every day, this week (Not Jumin week but just this general week) has been maybe the most stressful of my life? Probably not, but I’ve barely had any good days these past couple months so maybe it’s just wearing down on me. But regardless, I truly hope you enjoy this prompt and you yourself have a terrific day! Thank you, dearies <3

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Jumin woke in the morning with a yawn, the old familiar aches creeping in like the aged engravings of wood.

The spot in the bed beside him was sunken but empty, the bedsheets spilling over onto his side with the familiar, albeit faded smell of your perfume. It brought a smile to his face, his crow’s feet growing worse every day because of you and your innate talent of brightening his days.

He rose from the bed and his bones rattled in that curious way his father once warned him of.

But funnily enough, Jumin hadn’t felt the years go by.

He remembered all the birthdays, the celebrations, and even the downs alongside the ups.

Yet like a flowing breeze, it never weighed down upon him -- the loss of his youth never frightened Jumin. If anything a part of him had always looked forward to it.

After all, it meant Jumin grew old with you.

You both watched your hair fade to grey and wrinkles settle along your face in the nights full of quiet laughter where you’d draw along the outlines like one would with their palms.

Jumin found you outside on the balcony you’d transformed into a garden years ago. The sky overhead was almost cloudy but patches of sunlight still broke through, a stream of such light spilling onto you in a splash of warmth.

Jumin knelt down next to you, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your head.

“Good morning love.” He hummed, his voice low and crackling, far less smooth than it once was but far softer and kinder in turn.

You smiled and leaned into him, wisps of your grey hair winding ever so delicately with his fingers as he wrapped an arm around you, easing you close. Even now, years, decades, since you met, you remained tethered at the hip.

“Good morning!” You beamed, your cheeks rosy and bright. “Did you get the tea I left you in the kitchen? I just made it. It’s your favorite, lavender!”

“No, I must have missed it,” Jumin remarked. “I’d be more than happy to go get it if you’d join me.”

“And what of the flowers?”

“Surely they can withstand an hour on their own. I can have someone come up and care for them if you’d like.”

You paused and an amused tinge washed over your smile. “I suppose they could...” Your shoulders dropped with a sigh. “I don’t even know why I started this garden somedays.”

Jumin chuckled and rose to his feet, helping you up in return -- neither of you nearly as nimble as you once were.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I quite like your garden.” He glanced back at their blooming petals, a myriad of shapes, sizes, and colors. “I especially like your forget-me-nots.”

“I would never not plant them!” As you both stepped inside you took a seat by the dining table and fiddled with your ring, the engravings weathered still just as true as the day you put it on your finger. “They were our wedding flowers.”

“Exactly.” He took the still steaming cup of tea in his hands, his palms warming at the very touch. He took a sip and it warmed his entire body in an instant. “Do you want anything, dear?”

“Oh no, I had honey and lemon earlier!” You sat back. “I watched the sunrise.”

“Why didn’t you wake me? You know I would’ve loved to join you.”

“You looked so peaceful!” You laughed and any symphony paled in comparison. “You used to so rarely get a full night’s rest -- I think you really needed retirement -- time for yourself... everyone needs it.”

“I didn’t have anything to retire for, once.” He stood beside you, setting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it tenderly.

“You and Elizabeth 3rd could’ve gone on a wonderful vacation together.” You chimed. “I think she would’ve liked that.”

That sweet, darling cat with fur as white as snow and eyes like a crystalline sky had passed away years ago but lingered ever so present as though she never entirely left. Jumin still kept her collar hidden away in his coat pocket -- like she may appear missing the little chime of her bell.

She was family, as much as anyone else, but at least she left in her sleep, peacefully cuddled between the two of you, purring so loud and so sweet. That was all you could’ve asked for. However, you weren’t afraid to admit that tears still brimmed at the edge of your eyes thinking of it.

“It was a shame she never liked the leash.” Jumin simpered. “But without you, I don’t think our family would’ve ever been entirely complete.”

“Well don’t you worry,” You patted his hand and tipped your head up to give a grin as youthful as the day you met. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jumin softened -- but weakened all the same.

How much longer could you truly keep that promise?

When you were younger that statement was so easy to say -- there was no sort of inevitability weighing down on your hearts. You married, you had a family, and you were utterly and absolutely blissful. None of that had changed.

But each and every day, Jumin woke up a tad bit more afraid that you wouldn’t be there beside him -- you’d be no more -- and all over again Jumin would be alone.

The world became dark and cramped at the very idea -- it was a world that he didn’t belong in -- a world foreign to-

“Jumin,” You squeezed his palm, snapping him back to reality. “I’m still here. I’m okay, and so are you.”

Jumin remembered to let out the breath caught in his throat and a weight lifted from his body he hadn’t even recognized -- like cinderblocks tethered to his ankles being unbound. He was here and now.

“R-Right... of course -- I’m sorry,” He folded his lips sheepishly, trying to undo the knot in his brow. “What would you like to do today?”

You stood up and wrapped a gentle hand around his cheek, your husband melting into the touch as if it were easier than blinking.

“I think a walk would be good.”

You always said that when Jumin needed to clear his mind.

The streets had become quieter as the years passed by. Perhaps all the honking horns and antsy tires dulled in his ears, but it no longer popped and crackled along the streets like it once did.

Jumin didn’t mind it -- if anything, it gave him more of a chance to notice other things. The people, their conversations, the sky, the shops, and you.

You chattered about all sorts of things and Jumin adored every minute of it. The second he chimed in you’d watch with wide eyes larger than dinner plates and Jumin couldn’t even finish without a smile stretching from ear to ear.

“You should’ve been a comedian you know,” You said as they dawdled, the clouds now having parted to reveal a sunny and warm afternoon. “I would’ve gone to every show.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I love your jokes. I loved it when you’d call me just to tell me one you’d think of in a meeting.” You bit back a snort. “There was one -- it was my favorite -- about cats... shopping...?”

Jumin was a tad bit embarassed that the joke came to him almost immediately. “Why don’t cats like shopping online...?”

“They prefer... prefer a... a cat-alouge!” Like a firework, you lit up. Jumin’s heart swelled at the sound of your laughter, overwhelming anything else around you in a sea of warmth and wonder. Nothing else mattered. “Ah -- that’s it!”

Jumin tipped his head to the side, smirking. “I don’t think my father would’ve approved of the career choice.”

“He would’ve come with me to every show,” You mused. “I’d drag him if I had to!”

“I sure you would’ve. I could always come out of retirement if you’d like.”

“I only want you to do what you want.” You ruffled his hair, curly strands falling over his face. “But I would help you write your routines.”

“Mmhm,” You shared a fond kiss and the faintest taste of tea still hung on your lips, sweet and warming. “As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll stay right here.”

“I think that works just fine.”

With your arrival home came a rush of refreshing, cold air. The day was spent settled on the sofa with a book settled between the two of you. Jumin found himself enthralled with stories since he’d gained the time to actually read them outside the late hours of the night. Though, since you joined him, the two of you typically spent until those late hours of the night talking about the stories.

It was nice to finally have someone to talk to.

You brought that thought to his head often.

Yet as the evening trickled in with its colors of orange, yellow, and red, you rose from your spot beside him and stretched your weary limbs.

“I need to go check on the flowers. Will you be alright?”

Jumin chuckled. “Yes, of course, love.”

He watched you leave and listened to the sound of the door opening and closing with a faint tug of his heart. He knew it was silly, but he already missed you.

Goodness, how ridiculous he felt. How much worse would this be when you couldn’t come back? Not because you wouldn’t but because you couldn’t.

What would Jumin do when there was no longer you to wake up to?

Who would he look for in the mornings? Who would he spill all his thoughts and questions to? Whose smile and laughter could possibly even begin to light up his days like yours?

Who could Jumin ever possibly love in the unfathomably unmeasurable way he loved you?

Who could he spend his days with... if not with you?

What would even be the point of those days anymore? Without you, the world felt cold and unnerving -- like those craggy old spaces in Jumin’s mind full of tangles and twists that sent chills up his spine and lumps in his throat. He’d already lost so much -- the one thing he couldn’t stand -- couldn’t make it through -- was losing you.

Jumin’s vision blurred and a tear dropped fell to the page of the story still clasped in his hands.

He blinked slowly, suddenly a single instinct blazing through him as he scrambled for his phone, calling you.

Jumin could remember the restless nights he called you when you’d first joined the RFA. The way he spilled open his heart like the cracking walls of a dam, and how you listened -- ever so patient, and ever so kind.

He just wanted to hear your voice -- that was all. Just for a moment and he’d be fine. Wouldn’t he?

You answered.

“Jumin? Honey, why are you calling me? I’m just on the balcony, silly!”

“Love...” Jumin sat down, his leg thumping against the floor, restless. His voice threatened to break and grew softer by the second. “Could you promise me something?”

“What is it?”

“When... when one of us has to pass -- let it be me.” Jumin pinched the bridge of his nose with a shaky sigh. “I-I’m not ready to be without you. I don’t think I could do it.”

You didn’t speak, and Jumin thought he might shatter.

“Come outside.” You murmured. “Could you?”

“Ah... of course.”

The evening air was cool with the faintest tinge of stars creeping over the grand roofs of the skyscrapers. Perhaps were it any other situation Jumin would’ve stargazed with you until you were dozing off with yawns and heavy lids, but now all inside of him was a deep, black pit of fears breaking through in full force.

You gestured to him to a pair of seats overlooking the balcony, ornate and aged -- just like the two of you. He sat down across from you, your hand settling on his knee before he could begin tapping.

“Jumin, what’s going on...?”

“Are you telling me you haven’t thought of it?” He furrowed his brow. “Not even once?”

“Of course I have. We’re not young anymore -- and no one can avoid death,” You answered gently. “But I don’t think it does us any good to be afraid of passing on.”

You spoke gingerly, leaning close. “We don’t know what happens after all this. Who’s to say we won’t start all over again? Just a different life and a different place? Or maybe there’s an afterlife. Maybe there’s nothing at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Whatever it is -- wherever we end up -- we’ll find each other again.”

“Darling, you know I don’t believe in fate-”

“And who said it was going to be because of fate?” You scoffed, smirking. “I will do whatever I can to find you no matter where we are!”

Jumin raised his head, eyes widening in surprise.

You puffed out your cheeks indignantly, stubborn as always, but your words still wavering with overwhelming emotion. “I swore to you when we married that I would be with you forevermore. That doesn’t stop because of something as silly as dying!”

You took in a sharp breath, and a few tears broken from your eyes, pouring down your cheeks, Jumin immediately reaching out to wipe them away.

“As long as you love me, I will stay -- I’ll find a way to you,” You took his hand as it lingered on your cheek and held it close, clinging. “I’m just as scared but-”

“As long as there’s a chance, we’ll do everything we can to find each other again,” Jumin shifted to lean over you, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“And I’ll never stop loving you, so I suppose we’re stuck together.” He tipped his forehead against your own, your eyes puffy and gleaming with affection.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

Jumin embraced you and his arms wound around you like vines vying for sunlight -- so fervent and so desperate like it were all he ever wanted. Neither of you were ever quite sure when you’d let go -- and neither of you cared.

You weren’t young and youthful as you once were -- your skin was wrought with wrinkles and your hair was greyer than dust but your love hadn’t changed, not a bit. That adoration was still just as enduring and unending as ever -- and it would be, whether in this life or the next it would prevail.

You just had to find each other.

And neither you or Jumin would ever stop searching.

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amydancepants-peralta · 4 years

Text

take your hands my dear, and place them both in mine

(ch 6 of we’re the fortunate ones), for the B99 2020 Vision Challenge 🚨

On the final afternoon of 2018, as the sky begins to turn soft with the muted pastels of fading sunlight, Amy Santiago watches from her position at the kitchen window while her husband plays with her nieces and nephews outside.

Their squeals of laughter are contagious; the joy obvious as the sound filters through the glass and settles warm against her heart, and Amy can’t help but join in on the mirth as Jake picks up Luisa, carrying her like a superhero as they chase Matthew and Mason around the backyard.

As the sunlight filters through the tall trees, a stray beam catches the stones in her engagement ring, setting off a sparkle that the line along her wedding band is only too happy to continue. Amy watches with a soft smile, moving her hand slowly to continue the show before returning to the task at hand.

Around an hour ago she and her brothers had been relegated to Kitchen Duty, all marching dutifully into place at their mother’s command. Each sibling had been clearly marked on a colour co-ordinated roster alongside a specific set of duties, all very necessary and time reliant, and Amy couldn’t help but notice that none of her tasks involved the actual cooking of the meal.

(Honestly. One time. You confuse salt for sugar one. time. and you get banished. For LIFE.)

After cutting up the beans and preparing the salad (from the ingredients that had been carefully and deliberately placed in front of her one item at a time by Tony, one of his jobs being of course to supervise his sister), Amy had sought out the solitude of peeling all of the potatoes by the kitchen sink. It’s a task that once may have seemed like the worst of all of them - the sniggers of her younger brothers had not fallen on deaf ears - but really Amy knew the joke was on them; because now, she had the best view of all.

Jake and Luisa had caught up to Mason by now and, after giving her the only type of landing appropriate for a superhero, they had immediately begun a tickle fight - Matthew jumping on top of the huddle quickly as Jake takes a step back to take a breath. With his hands on his hips he turns away from the children, looking back towards the house, and as he notices Amy watching from her window he raises his hand in a wave. His smile is wide and bright as he mimes exhaustion, wiping one hand across his brow while the other points at the tickle fight still in progress behind him. And although she knows he can’t hear her, Amy giggles at the sight, dropping the potato peeler into the sink so that she can wave right back.

It had been Jake’s suggestion for all of the family to join together for New Year’s Eve, and Amy knew that it was partially because he was doing his best to keep the peace amongst himself and Camila, after his ‘and another thing’ rant at dinner a few months ago.

Thanksgiving had been interesting, if not a little tense, as her mother continued to give Jake pointed looks from her position across the table. But Amy had stayed right by Jake’s side, resting one hand on top of his thigh whenever his leg started to jiggle with pent-up nervous energy, and by the end of the evening - after a lot of talking - all three were on (slightly) better terms. It may have been an awkward situation, but Amy didn’t regret Jake speaking up for her. Most - if not all - of the topics hadn’t been wrong; and in actuality, it had felt great to finally have somebody in her corner. He was trying, in so many ways, to get her parents to accept him as a part of their family (she had noticed the Duolingo app on his phone last week, and had already thought of some fun flash cards she could make), and it was about time that they met him half way.

She had reminded him late yesterday afternoon, after they’d finally made it to the Santiago home and found refuge in Amy’s childhood bedroom, that he needn’t try so hard to extend the olive branch. And while he had given her his best bashful look before changing the topic by pointing out her adorably hand-made scale of the periodic table, Amy knew that Jake was taking everything she said on board. Admittedly, it did feel kind of amazing to be together with all of her family for the celebrations - the first time in four years - but she wanted her husband to feel comfortable between these walls, for it was his home now as much as it was hers. And someday - perhaps even someday soon - they would be bringing their own children to family gatherings.

Jake blows her a kiss from his position on the lawn, and Amy smiles brightly, crinkling her nose slightly as the joy overtakes her. There was such a stark difference to tonight’s planned festivities, compared to all those years ago when Amy was still very deeply pining for the man she could only call her partner. It was hard to imagine now, standing in the kitchen a newlywed with the feeling of her husband’s kiss still lingering on one cheek, that there was ever a time when Jake didn’t know just how much she loved him. Marrying him had been Amy’s easiest and greatest decision so far, and it seems crazy to her that she once believed that what she felt for Jake was ‘just a little crush that she needed to get over’. Clearly she had been naïve. There was simply no getting over Jake Peralta - her heart knew that now.

With his body still turned towards the window, Jake is completely unaware of his impending attacker - aka a surprisingly quiet Mason sneaking up on him from behind - and Amy can’t react fast enough to warn him as her nephew takes a running leap and knocks an innocent Jake to his knees. With a light-hearted shout of terror Jake lands onto the soft grass, calling out in protest to the mutiny as Luis’s two kids run over to join in on the fun, and suddenly Amy has lost all interest in preparing for dinner. Haphazardly running the peeler over the last few potatoes, she dumps the results in a bowl next to all the other vegetables, begging leave and dashing from the kitchen before her brothers can figure out where she’s going. If she was being honest, it probably was for the best for her not be involved with food preparation - and besides, there was somewhere else she would much rather be right now.

It’s much later in the night before all of the family have come back together, adults and children alike converging on in the yard as Victor organises the fireworks he had pre-arranged (a Santiago is, of course, always prepared). Raising eight children had meant that he and Camila had needed to purchase a larger property than most, and it was times like these with the now extended brood stretched out across the lawn, that paying off their home for as many years as they did had turned out to be advantageous.

Amy shivers slightly as the cool breeze cuts through her sweater, tucking herself into Jake’s warmth as he wraps one arm around her shoulder, an instinctive response to her chill. Feeling herself relax as the scent of his aftershave begins to wash over her, Amy cranes her neck upwards, shifting up to the tip of her toes in order to leave a quick kiss along Jake’s jawline. His lips move to meet hers before she can pull away, and Amy can’t help but smile at the familiar but still wonderful feeling of Jake’s kiss.

She can still recall the moment that she knew that she wanted to marry Jake - and much like his moment with her crossword puzzle, it was as ordinary as any other moment in their day. They had been at Shaw’s, celebrating the closing of one case or another, and she had just set down her glass onto the table, a sudden tiredness washing over as the busier parts of her day finally caught up. She hadn’t said a word, had not even begun to lean her weight against her boyfriend’s steady presence from his position next to her, when Jake was sliding out of the booth, announcing that he and Amy were going to head home. He had stood up and turned towards her, holding out his hand with that beautiful smile of his, and in an instant Amy knew. One day, this man that knew how to read her better than she knew how to read herself, was going to be her husband - and it was as simple and as complicated as that.

Jake knew all of her - all of the tiny details that when pushed together, made her complete - and loved each part wholeheartedly. He laughed at her jokes (even when they were terrible), danced with her at the most dorkiest of moments, and listened to her rant on about molecular theory and Venn diagrams like they were genuinely interesting topics. He made her feel seen, more than Amy had ever felt growing up in a household of ten, and he was her best friend in every possible way.

She leaves a tiny kiss at the tip of his nose as they pull away and his skin turns an adorable shade of pink, just enough for her to notice underneath the garden lights, and she laughs as his arm moves down towards it’s favourite spot along her waist. Opening his mouth to start a retort, his eyebrows raise instead as he looks down to his right, noticing Amy’s youngest niece Nina tugging on his free hand.

“Tío Jake?” Nina asks, her voice sounding so delicate amongst all the adults, and Amy feels a surge of pride at hearing Jake being referred to as Tío. “Will you help me see the fireworks?”

Looking around, Jake notices that all the younger Santiago children have been hoisted onto the shoulders of their parents, sitting tall above the crowd with their heads already focused steadily on the night sky. Nina had the unusual position of being a twin, and with her mother currently in the final stages of growing her little brother or sister, had lucked out on the chance to be on her father’s shoulders. It touched Amy - and Jake, she could tell from his expression - that Nina had turned to him for help, and before another word can be spoken Jake is nodding, stooping slightly to grip the five year old around her ribcage before lifting her gently onto his shoulders.

The rainbow coloured studs that lined the edge of Nina’s impossibly tiny sneakers catch the light as they swing in front of Jake’s chest, and as Victor heads back to his family to begin the countdown, they all join in. “Cinco, cuatro, tres ..”

Amy loops an arm around Jake’s waist, smiling up at him as he counts down with the rest of the family. “Dos, uno!” With everyone cheering around them, Amy moves slightly to stand in front of Jake, pushing herself to meet him for a chaste happy new year kiss as Nina claps above them. And then suddenly, the sky is alight with colour, and the crowd turns silent in awe.

She knows that the first time she called a man beautiful that it was Holt, and it was her overactive brain blurting out words. But she’d owned that phrase since that day, only pulling it out when absolutely fitting, and tonight couldn’t be a better candidate. Her husband, standing tall with her (their) niece on his shoulders, looked beautiful tonight. The colours of the fireworks flash against his skin as they light up the sky, reminding Amy of all the colours he’s brought into her life - of all the ways he’s changed her outlook from rigidly black and white to all the shades in-between.

He was beautiful, for the way his eyes would light up with every whizz of another round hurtling towards the stars. For the smile that grew larger still whenever the tiniest of sparks released a myriad of glittering sparkles, following their trajectory until they’d succumbed to the pull of the night sky and faded away. For the way his hands never loosened their steady grip around Nina’s legs, so determined to make sure that she felt safe as she craned her body higher and higher towards the bright lights above, pointing out the shapes in the sky to any and all who would listen.

The familiar smell of gunpowder begins to fill the air, and briefly it reminds Amy that she needs to go for platinum certification this year, but for now she buries her head in Jake’s shoulder, finding comfort in his presence and hoping that they can stay in this moment forever.

There was so much potential for what this year could bring, and with seven months of marriage under their sleeve and her biological clock beginning to tick just that little bit louder, Amy can’t help but begin to imagine them doing this all again in a few years time - only then, it will be their child sitting on Jake’s shoulders.

Children was still a little bit of an untouched subject for them - and admittedly, this was a massive oversight on her end; but when your boyfriend is given death threats and yanked away from you to live somewhere unknown under witness protection, only to return and get framed for a series of bank jobs, the bigger things tend to fall away and you just want to go and get married before the world can try to split you up again. But watching Jake right now as he reaches gently for Nina’s waist, muscles flexing as he lifts her wriggling body away and down towards the grass again, it’s hard for Amy to see a world where Jake wouldn’t want to be a father.

Now that Jake’s hands are free, they wrap around Amy’s middle, pulling her closer as they stand and watch the last of the fireworks take flight. They breathe in the silence as the rest of the family begins to pull away - for bedtime was most definitely in order for a good percentage of tonight’s guests - taking advantage of the peace to pull each other in for a slightly longer celebratory kiss.

It’s only a week later that they receive a package from Amy’s brother David, the padded envelope holding a beautiful shot of Amy and Jake holding each other as the remaining fireworks burst in front of them (and it’s perfect, because of course David is a perfect photographer as well). And once upon a time, all that Amy would have seen in the shot was another example of how her brother was better than her in everything that he did. But now, as she searches through her storage cupboard to find the perfect frame for the photograph, all she can do is smile at the memory it held.

Perfection wasn’t real, and praise was fleeting. What she had with Jake was that all-consuming, forever type of love - and she wouldn’t change that for the world.

#mine #myfic #in a timeline where casecation hasn't occurred yet #which ... I think I got the timeline right #b99 fanfic #b99 fandom events #b99 2020 vision challenge #hope you all enjoy this #the deadline is really sneaking up on me hahahahah help me

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