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bubblegumbeech · 3 years

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Passing Through

Dannymay Day 5: Doorway

“Don’t go in there,” his mother warned. Her voice shook. “Never go through that door.”

Danny had no intention of ignoring his mother, especially since the night she’d given him that warning was seared so thoroughly in his mind he didn’t think even as an adult he’d ever forget it.

It had been dark, but not any darker than any other night with Danny’s myriad nightlights and glowing stars stuck everywhere he could reach and then some. The night had long since settled, and Danny was supposed to be sleeping and was instead, like any young child, not doing that.

In fact, he’d been staring out his window, arm balanced on the sill and face pressed up against the glass so he could see the night sky in all her glory. It was one of the only times he felt truly comfortable, alone and with his parents and sister asleep. He often imagined himself sailing amongst those stars. Or flying high enough to reach out and cradle one to his chest.

Jazz always told him that was impossible, that each star was as far away from each other as they were from earth, if not further. He told her she could eat dirt, and she got a hurt look in her eyes that made him feel bad, but he didn’t apologize because she was being mean first.

He’d been preoccupied, that’s why he didn’t notice it at first.

When the soft pink touch of the sun started obscuring the night’s stars, Danny realized he’d been up all night and he was probably going to fall asleep in class again. He turned around to quickly dive into bed to at least feign having slept so his parents didn’t scold him and feel like they had to check in on him at night the way they threatened to last time.

He hadn’t expected the door.

It was small, very small compared to a normal door. It was just large enough that Danny could crawl through on all fours, and he knew there was no way his dad would ever be able to get through. At least not more than an arm. Maybe his head if he tried to dive through it.

The door was closed, a soft, purple light on the other side painting the carpet beneath where it stood, balanced, in the middle of the room. Acting as if it was placed in the wall like any good door, but missing the wall itself entirely.

Danny walked closer, his mind off bed times and getting ready for school entirely. Now he was thinking of adventures and stories Jazz used to read him before he could read himself. Stories of exploration and hidden worlds. His hand brushed against the polished brass handle, and a jolt of electricity flowed through him, causing every hair in his body to stand on end.

He probably should have let go then, released the handle and backed up, frightened. But instead Danny’s grip tightened and he twisted the nob, pulling it slowly open, his heart beating in rapt anticipation. It was barely open a sliver, the tiniest bit of purple light spilling out onto the frame, when his mother ran into the room and slammed it closed.

She was wearing a hazmat suit, as if she’d just come from the lab downstairs, with thick rubber gloves and ominous red goggles that reflected a twisted version of Danny’s face back at him as she pulled him into a tight, unforgiving hug.

“Thank goodness you’re safe,” she said, her words heavy with exertion. Had she run up here? How did she know there was a door?

Danny looked over his mother’s shoulder to take another look, but the door had vanished at some point when his eyes were no longer locked upon it. That was when she gave him her warning. The one he had no intention of ignoring.

The one he was disregarding now, for no reason other than he was sick of it. He was tired of the nights, laying awake and seeing a door that promised so much and had yet to be given the opportunity to deliver.

His mother would skin him alive if she knew, but she’d probably never find out. Honestly, if Tucker’s theories were true and it was some monster trying to trick him into its lair Coraline-style, it’d probably take at least a week for her to even realize he was gone. His dad probably wouldn’t notice at all.

Jazz…

Danny shook his head. If anything, Jazz would be the one to forgive him for being dumb. She understood what it was like to have this burning curiosity, this need to know.

The door didn’t always appear. Most nights it did, but only when Danny was distracted by something, usually the stars outside his window, sometimes a particularly fun video game or a good book. It only ever appeared right on the cusp of night and morning, before the sun rose fully but after the stars hid away. And it always waited for him to look away before it disappeared.

He didn’t plan on looking away tonight.

The first night after his mother’s warning, he’d stayed up all night, terrified, waiting for the door to appear. It never did. In fact, the next month, he spent every second awake expecting it to appear and being almost disappointed when it didn’t.

It appeared again, in much the same way it had the first time, while Danny was star gazing.

That’s why, now, knowing the rules (or rather what few rules he could tell from this side of the door), Danny was determined to follow through. None of his questions would be answered just waiting for the door to appear or not appear, nor would they be answered by spending time staring at it and studying it from the outside.

He needed to go through.

The brass knob was cold against his palm, and it turned easily. The click of the mechanism was loud in the night’s quiet. He held his breath. He opened the door.

There was no resistance when it swung open. Almost the opposite, in fact, like it had been waiting for an excuse. The soft purple light that had teased the edges of the door was much closer to a deep, swirling purple that looked almost like mist and obscured the path forward.

But Danny wasn’t scared.

He was curious.

He stepped through, and heard the door close softly behind him. Just like in a horror movie really, and exactly like the stories his mother told him, warning him of monsters and things from the other side.

It didn’t matter anymore, if he’d made the right choice. He’d made his choice and there was only one path to take. Danny walked into the mists and kept walking.

No more than an hour could have passed, but it felt like much longer. Time seemed to stretch along with the endless path, and Danny hadn’t come any closer to the answers he wanted.

He sighed. “Hello? Is anyone here?” he tried calling out, to no avail.

This was turning out to be a waste of a trip. With all the cryptic warnings, he’d hoped it wouldn’t be boring at the very least, yet here he was. The only difference between this and one of Sam’s ‘nature hikes’ was that Danny couldn’t see anything through the damned purple mist.

Or could he?

Danny squinted his eyes, catching something moving just to his left. It was very much hidden, the deep purple of its cloak camouflaged perfectly against the swirling purples all around him. He took a step closer, off the path, and felt the air still around him.

A voice, haunting and deep, startled him.

“A quick learner,” it said.

Danny felt his mouth go dry. There was actually someone here, someone that might not be human. Someone that could summon a door into a kids room for half a decade waiting for them to open it.

Someone who might have answers.

Danny stepped closer, and the mist seemed to gather, catching on itself and folding into a physical shape. The hooded figure. Danny forced himself not to blink. It felt like anything was possible, that if he looked away, he’d miss too much to make sense of it later.

The hooded figure turned to him and beckoned with one gloved hand, the other holding a twisting, intricate staff covered in shapes and symbols Danny couldn’t quite make out. Danny didn’t step any closer.

It was clear this man wasn’t human, or at the very least hadn’t been for some time. The only thing Danny could see hidden under the cloak was an old clock. But even then, Danny couldn’t tell whether it was something he was wearing on his chest or if it simply was his chest and there was nothing else.

“You’re still cautious, even now when you’ve already made your decision?” the figure asked. “Did you not seek an answer to your curiosity?”

Danny frowned. This whatever-it-was knew more than he was comfortable with. Had he been watching from the other side? How? Is that why the door only appeared when it did? Why couldn’t he just open the door and step out if his goal was to spirit Danny away like in the stories?

There were just so many questions, and Danny still didn’t have any answers.

“Do you actually have any answers or are you just going to eat me?” he asked, growing irritated. It had been a long night, made longer by his fruitless walk, and it was starting to affect his temper.

Instead of answering, the figure lowered his arm, tilting his head to the side. “If you thought I was going to eat you, why did you come through the door? You’ve been very good at ignoring it so far.”

“Yeah see,” Danny said, throwing up his hands, “that kind of stuff only makes you sound more creepy and suspicious, you know! If your goal is child eating you should set up, idk a candy house or something. Pretend to be a grandma, I hear that works wonders provided you stay out of your own oven.”

The figure laughed. It sounded, off, not like a noise Danny recognized, but more like a collage of sounds: a ticking clock chiming with heavy clanking clockwork all wrapped in canary song and it vibrated all the way through Danny from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It filled the air around them much like the mist once did and Danny felt glee himself, caught up as he was.

He looked up desperately at the figure, trying to keep ahold of himself and how he truly felt, lost in the sudden sea of emotion. The figure’s cloak was bunched up, as if he was doubled over in laughter, his gloves clutching at his staff and the entire collection shaking with slight tremors.

The hood turned towards him, empty, and Danny’s panic spiked. The laughter stopped, and the figure stood once more, pulling the hood further down and hiding the nothingness underneath.

“I apologize,” he said, sincere. “It’s been some time since I’ve felt in such good humor, and you took me off guard. I hope you didn’t get too swept away?”

Danny, who was still definitely feeling the effects of the other’s laughter, shook his head no. “I’m alright. I just- what are you?”

“I am like Clockwork,” he answered readily. “Though the question you should be asking, Daniel, is what are you? That is a much more interesting answer.”

Disagreeing vehemently, Danny shook his head. Like Clockwork? Was that his name? Why he had a clock, er, was a clock? How did that work? What was he? Simply what his name implied? Something more? There were a billion and a half questions he wanted answers to that were more interesting than that.

Then again, there had to be a reason he said it, right? “Okay Clockwork, I’ll bite. What am I?”

He could swear the thing smiled. “You are halfway there.”

#dannymay2021 #danny phantom #clockwork #danny fenton #horror #horror themes #loosely based off TPoH #but not nearly that well thought out #Bee's writing

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angelisverba · 4 years

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come out, come out wherever you are

in which y/n agrees to do something really stupid, and harry is a bit of a shit

word count: 5k

pairing: vampire!h and y/n (different au from my other vamp!h fics, though)

warnings: drug use, mentions of drinking and alcohol, mentions of blood (duh, he’s a vampire).

author’s note: okay so i know that i put vampire!h in the pairing, but this h is a wierd succubus x demon x vampire mix where he can feed off the emotions he wants to?? i’ll explain it in the story. enjoy your reading :)

She shouldn’t have agreed to play hide and seek in a cornfield.

At night.

During a full moon.

On Halloween.

Y/n’s logic always disappeared when she was… under the influence. Whether that be with alcohol or other sorts of… fun substances. That was not to say that she was an alcoholic, or a drug addict, she just… hated to be a party popper. When her roommate invited her to college parties, she didn’t say no to the red solo cup because she knew that some way or another, she would end up giving in by the end of the night. Or when it was just her and her closest friends passing around a freshly rolled joint, she didn’t say no because she didn’t want to be the odd one out.

Plus, it didn’t hurt that she enjoyed it… most of the time.

This? This was not one of those times.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Josephine, her roommate, had barged into her room with a smile over her lips as the brightness of her phone lit up her face from the bottom up, casting spooky shadows since y/n’s room was dark and she was falling asleep.

“Y/n, look!” She said, turning the phone so beams that felt like they came from hell illuminated y/n’s pinched face, marks from her pillow decorating the place above her lip. She mumbled something, and Josephine kept speaking, “Travis just sent me an invitation to one of the frat’s Halloween parties! Come with me, it’s gonna be so much fun!”

And to get her to leave her room, she agreed. She must have, because the next morning as she was getting ready for her 10 a.m. literature class, she was bombarded with a series of costume ideas and questions about what was considered cheesy or overdone. Josephine had made it clear that it was okay that they didn’t match, especially because of their differences in clothing choices. Jo was more risqué, and y/n liked to dress in what she felt comfortable in.

It didn’t take her a long time to figure out what she was going to go as for Halloween. That same morning, just before she walked into class, y/n stopped to stare at a framed art print in the hallway.

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats was a poem that she knew by heart, and the painting was one that she could get lost in for hours. Stopping to stare at it before walking into class was not an unusual occurrence for her, but that time an idea came to her, almost like it was written in the long locks of her red hair.

Y/n would go as a Victorian princess. The dresses had always fascinated her, with the intricate lace details and elegant rippled of muslin fabric that flounced in a puff around the hips of Countess, or trailed behind the average cottage girl as she frolicked in fields full of daisies. She could picture it in her mind, and it made her giddy to know that there was a possibility she could look as pretty as one of the poet’s muses. She spent the entirety of the class switching from writing notes to browsing the five pages worth of gowns on Amazon, looking for something pretty yet within her price range.

By the end of the period she’d had what she wanted in her cart. A baby-blue wisp of a dress with intricate lace detailing at the neckline that curved like the top-hald of a heart to cup her breasts. The sleeves bunched around her arms mid-bicep, and scrunched again around her wrists, the transparent fabric looking as if her arms were wrapped in the sky. Built in ribbing created a corset that added an extra curve to her waist to make way for the heaps of fabric that exploded from her hips and cascaded down to the floor like the foaming spray of a waterfall.

It fit like a dream. When it arrived a few days before the party she dropped everything she was doing to try it on. The moment Josephine patted her shoulder to tell her that she was finished zipping up the back, y/n twirled around in the limited space of their dorm room to see herself in the narrow mirror at the end of her bed.

Every penny she had spent on it was worth it. Sure, it was snug around the bust and refrained her lungs from expanding the extra millimeter they needed, but it made her feel… nice. Pretty. She liked the way it cinched her waist, how her wrists looked dainty covered in the lacy ends of the sleeves, and the way her breasts looked… accentuated by the frilly detail.

Jo had squealed once she had a full look at her friend, and wouldn’t stop talking about how good they were going to look walking in together. She was going as Cat-Woman, complete with the latex suit, boots, mask, and all. She looked every bit as fantastic as y/n, only on opposite ends of the Halloween costume spectrum.

Building up to the day of the party, the pair talked make-up and hair details, both of which Josephine would be taking care of because she was better at them. At one point, y/n thinks she even dreamt about making a grand-entrance, boys and girls gawking at how amazing she looked, and the most handsome guy stepping forth to profess his undying love for her.��

Which wasn't really how it went the night of, but she attained the same satisfaction.

The party was located a little ways away from the city, at a plantation-style frat house in-front of a huge cornfield. Carved pumpkins with candles illuminating them from the inside out lined the pathway up to the front-doors, the trees nearby created crunchy pathways of orange and yellow leaves, and the moon was out; yawning tiredly, but glowing an eerie yellow color over the scene.

It looked like the opening scene of a horror film.

Y/n did receive a lot of stares, though. Most of them were from guys whose beady little eyes pointed straight to her chest, and the ones she got from girls were on the nastier side of envy. She could tell. But, oddly enough, she liked the attention.

Josephine y/n’s hand and led her through the mass of costumed-bodies. There was a variety of ‘sexy’ professions (the usual: nurses, cops, cowgirls, and school girls) and those that come from fandoms (Hogwarts’s students, Eleven from Stranger Things, Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction, multiple heroes from the Avengers) or those that came for shits and giggles (T-rex blow-up costumes with tiny hands, Joe Exotic, sumo-wrestlers, those things that sway outside car-dealerships, and even a Trojan condom packet). There was a lot to see, and honestly, it was beginning to overwhelm y/n.

Not only was it slightly disorienting to see everyone disguised, the interior itself was something to look at. Chandeliers and velvet sofas, gold lamps and fancy carpets and curtains. The epitome of privilege. She felt trampled, every once a while there was a tug on the ends of her dress.

“How about a shot to start off the night, y/n?” Josephine asked her, hooking a latex coated arm around hers. The music was a rumble on the backs of their heads, shaking them through and through as some nameless rapper sang of drugs, sex, and money. What it always came down to.

She agreed, and took the plastic shot cup. On normal nights, she would’ve usually required some type of coaxing, but not then. Y/n was almost looking for the hangover the next morning. She wanted fun.

Three shots later and her fingers were dragging in front of her face. Her knees were wobbly and cheeks tinged with spirits. Everything was funny and if you asked her what two plus two was she’d tell you five. There was a new swagger in her step, and some might say that was the influenced hand-eye coordination, but to her it was newfound confidence. She felt good, she looked good, and she was having a damn good time. Laughing, making the best conversation she’d ever made, and when Jo suggested they go dance, she danced the best she’d ever had.

And sure, she was drunk out of her mind. A light weight. Everything was under a glamourized rose filter. It only made sense that the crowd parted like the Red Sea at God’s feet.

Y/n’s lungs stopped working the moment her eyes locked with his.

He was her counterpart. Literally.

Dressed in a navy blue Victorian prince’s suit decked in gold trim and gold medals pinned to the breast. The tan pants that hugged his muscular thighs like they were made just for him, and his hair was slicked back. Jaw a sharp, smug line that worked as he popped a piece of pink bubblegum between his molars. A gleam of appreciation sparking in the forest of his eyes as they raked a path on her figure.

It was like the work around them stopped, put on pause by some higher power so they could relish the moment of their discovery. What was that shit called? Divine Intervention? The millisecond before and after and between the time Eve’s teeth sunk into the taught skin of that forbidden red apple, and the snake’s tongue slithered out to see her. He was a stranger to y/n, but it seemed as if the feeling he stirred deep in the core of her being was one she’d always known, one from a past life. Besides her, Jo stopped doing whatever lucrative dance she was doing to see what had caught her friend’s attention. Y/n stood, tongue dry, feet glued to the ground as the handsome stranger approached her, a clear path in front of him.

Then, he takes one step forward and whatever conversation he had been involved with before was no longer of importance. Besides her, Jo stopped doing whatever lucrative dance she was doing to see what had caught her friend’s attention. Y/n stood, tongue dry, feet glued to the ground as the handsome stranger approached her, a clear path in front of him.

“Oh,” Jo huffed in her ear, “he’s hot.”

“I-Is he?...” Y/n’s question died on her tongue.

“Coming right for you, girl. Good luck,” Jo pressed a kiss to her cheek and disappeared in the crowd.

The stranger stops closer than she would have thought him to; a finger away from her nose, and when he spoke, she could feel the vibrations of his speech through her breasts where they nearly grazed his chest.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met before... princess?” His voice is deep, raspy and filled with grooves like the bark on a tree. He mocks a bow (given their costumes) and their nose touch before he straightens again. Up close, y/n can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and she hopes her mouth doesn’t stink (it probably does, given the alcohol she’d had). A chilled palm grips her bicep, and the fabric of her sleeve sinks under his touch, “Would you like to get off this shitty dance floor and speak somewhere else?” He asks her.

Her heart is pounding and she wonders if he can hear it because she certainly can, rushing in a taunting, roaring stream past her eardrums. Y/n nodded her agreement; yes, she did want to speak with him. A thrum of warmth comes from where he holds her, and he tugs her so that she’s standing in front of him, her back touching his chest as he pushes her through the crowd.

Her fingers shake as she lifts the fabric of her dress to avoid tripping, and her saliva goes thick. Not because of what might happen, but because the man who ripped her bicep tenderly, like she was made of the most fragile china, was the most good-looking man she had ever seen. Her mind ran images of things to compare him to, and almost all of them were of the Greek statues put up in museums for all to admire.

He leads her past the crowd and the kitchen where everyone was making drinks, past the wrap around stairs on the inside of the house, and even past the calmer sitting areas where couples were making out or groups of friends passed a smoking joint. He leads her right through the open back doors of the house so they faced the seemingly endless cornfield and the barn that was a speck behind it. The deck was less populated than the couches where kids smoked weed, but y/n guessed that it wasn’t to his liking because instead of turning off to the side so they could have a much less strained… conversation, he continued to walk- this time standing beside her instead of behind her.

Grass crunched under their feet as they got closer to the stalks of corn. Confused, y/n spared a glance to what she was leaving, and then to him. He stared straight ahead, but she caught his eyes flickering in her direction, and a smirk quirking cockily on his lips before they returned to the yawning face of the moon.

There was a short wooden fence separating the house from the cornfield that reached her hip, and he stopped there.

“Finally,” he sighed, “Some peace and quiet.” He makes a gesture to the fence, and pops his gum.

Dizzied, the tequila still in her head, she watches his tongue gather the gum back into his mouth, his lips shining with his own spit. Y/n doesn’t register that the movement towards the fence was his way of telling her to take a seat on the wooden bars.

“C’mere,” he murmured. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her up so she could sit on the wooden fence, and her hands went to his wrists instinctively, trying to keep herself steady.

Suddenly out of breath, her eyes shot straight up to his. There’s no way he can’t hear my heart right now, she thinks. He’s so close to her, his breath on her face. He smelled like pink bubblegum, cologne, and a liquor much more sophisticated than what she had to drink. His eyes held the same spell that she felt she was under.

“What’s your name?” He asked, his hands still on her waist. He didn’t look like he was in a rush to step away from her, and that was okay because she didn’t want him to.

“Y/n,” she whispered. It was physically impossible to raise her voice any louder. The stupid corset was making it harder for her to breathe, along with the added pressure of being in his presence. “You?”

“Prince Harry, at your service,” he smiled then, and y/n got a glimpse of shockingly sharp canines. They had to be fake. Longer than most in length, and she swore she saw one of those cartoonish-diamond glitter at the knife-like tips of his teeth.

She pointed to his mouth and said, “Are you a vampire prince?”

He looked at her strangely, his brows furrowing and his tongue running along the inside of his cheeks. Then, he laughed. “Something like that.”

“I-” She was gonna say something along the lines of ‘I think you’re a very good looking vampire prince’ until he cut her off.

“How about we play a game?” One of his hands lifted from her waist, and she let go to steady herself by grabbing onto the plant. Y/n hoped that her dress wasn’t getting dirty, but the moment that Harry brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear it flew out the window.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned into his touch like a purring kitten. She blamed her blatant carelessness on the alcohol. “A game?”

“Yes, y/n. A game,” he muttered, watching the way her eyes twitched under her eyelids.

“Which game?” Her eyes fluttered open again, and her breasts pushed against the corset as she took a deep breath, “I thought you wanted to talk?”

“Oh,”he glanced down, to her lips and for half a second, to the repressed mounds of her tits, “I promise the conversation is going to be much more interesting after a game of hide and seek.”

“Where would we even play t-that?”

“Right,” he pinched her chin with two fingers so that her lips smushed together, and gently tilted her head towards the field of corn. “There.”

That’s how she found herself, running for her life in the middle of a corn maze, at night, on Halloween.

What had started off as her giggling and running had soon into a panting, scared-shit-less run for no reason. Maybe it was because she just couldn’t get Harry off of her tail, or maybe it was that she was running with no direction into a cornfield she was sure was lost in. Maybe it was a combination of all those things.

Harry yelled, “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” and it only made her want to cry.

It was strange, really. Y/n didn’t know where this fear was coming from, it started out with them actually having fun, the tips of his fingers tugging at the fabric of the skirt before he let her run a bit, calling out how he was going to get her, how he was gonna catch the princess and she was giggling, turning to see him disappear when she turned.

Then he went quiet. The footsteps stopped. And his tone of voice dropped to something much more… sinister.

“Come out, little one,” he said, a clear whisper poured directly into her ear.

Y/n turned, and she felt him getting closer so she tried to run faster. But she was getting so, so tired, and it felt like she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. All she knew then was the moon, with her tired face, and the intimidating, tall stalks of corn.

Harry supposes that he’s doing her a favor. A lot of people wish they could run through a field wearing a dress like the one y/n has on. He was a bit of a shit, sure, setting her up for failure given he had abilities that she did not possess, but, he knew just as he knew the sky is blue- that she liked and wanted to walk into the corn field. Now, it wasn’t because Harry happens to be really good at reading people, no.

As an empath- one of the terms in the fine print of the being he was- he was able to connect into the funnel between her veins, the curved out thrum of what she was feeling. The witches he knew compared it to reading an aura, but it was much more than that. There was no need for interpretation of colors because it was like he was her, feeling what she was feeling. And she liked it.

Up until, of course, he switched up his game.

After a few minutes of running around and playing with her like she was a mouse, Harry decided that he wanted to scare her. He wanted to give her a taste of himself. He wanted her to be scared- to not like him. Because he was something that shouldn’t be liked. It was a sick thing, really, that he happened to be so good looking when he was a literal monster. Harry fucking drank human blood. He wasn’t something that should be thought of as Greek statues.

The part of him that remained human throughout the years felt bad for doing this to her. But, he had to. It made him feel better when he sunk his teeth into a victim’s skin. Almost like… he’d warned them, and it was their fault that they hadn’t taken the signal.

A scarecrow loomed overhead, and her lungs were running out of air, so he decided to go ahead and make his final jump on her.

When y/n broke through the final turn to reach the very small clearing in the center of the field where a scarecrow stood in between a few bales of hay, she felt his breath at the back of her throat, and her knees buckled.

She’d never really been much a screamer during a jump scare. Instead, she sucked her breath in, really loud and sudden, and because she was having such a hard time breathing, that instinctually breath caused black dots to litter her vision and suddenly those weak knees contributed to a faint.

Harry caught her, and picked her up, huffing a small laugh to himself as he laid her across the piles of hay.

She really was a sight to see. Flushed, hair a mess from all her running. Her lips were dewy and her waterline was agitated, he could see the moisture in the place where her eyelashes sprouted.

With a few pats to the cheek, her eyes fluttered open, he was still hovering over her. Harry did not make a move to scoot back.

“You’re awake, princess,” he said, smirking.

Y/n blinked, her eyes wide, and… gasped when Harry pressed a kiss to her cheek. His lips were cool against her heated cheek, and the curved ends of his slicked back hair tickled her chin.

“You chased me,” she gulped, “for a long time.”

“Yes, I did. And you liked it. Didn’t you, little one?” He allowed the tip of his nose to follow the line of her jaw, testing the waters. She liked it, he could feel the shudders it sent to her heart in his bones.

“I did.” Her eyes furrowed at her own admission. Why was she being so carefree? Why was she allowing herself to continue to stay in this cornfield? What was stopping her from questioning further what the fuck was going on? Her attraction, and his implied interest, that’s what.

Harry’s tongue slipped out of his mouth, and licked at her jaw before he placed another kiss to it, “Good. What do you say we have some more fun?” “What kind of fun?” Her head titled, and he was given direct access to what he wanted. Her neck. The column of her throat was pulsing with the beat of her heart, and the veins he could almost taste criss-crossed beneath her skin.

“Fun is fun, pet. But if you must know, the kind of fun I’m talking about involves a lot of mouth to mouth,” He moved so his face was directly in front of hers again, and his palm gripped her waist beneath him. Unconscioslu, her legs parted and Harry had more space to slide both of his thighs between hers, one of his knees resting on the bales of hay she rested on.

Y/n was no longer worried about the state of her dress, but rather, where his mouth would land, and where she would put her hands. Her eyes bounced between his, but they struggled to remain still under his intense hold. “O-okay. I’d like that.”

“The prettiest princess I’ve ever seen,” he mumbled into the hollow underneath her jaw. And it was true. He’d seen a lot of royalty all throughout his wretched life, and none of them had been as pretty as she was. He felt a shiver of arousal go through her at the same time the air came fresh into his lungs, and it felt like he was going to explode from the inside out.

“I think you’re the most handsome prince I’ve ever seen.”

Y/n wanted to slap a hand over her mouth the moment those words left her lips, but Harry only chuckled and the vibrations felt heavenly against her skin.

“You've been seeing other princes’, little one?” Harry teased, his mouth tracing their words against her lips. He pressed forward and kissed her; just a peck, testing. Again, she liked it.

“No, just you,” she shivered. Her words were coming out in pants now. The fabri of her dress was too thick and too abundant to allow for any frisky actions, but his mouth was enough. One of his fingers was running over the tops of her breasts. Her mouth opened, she wanted more. Harry tasted of pink bubble gum. She wondered where it went.

He chuckled and kissed her once more. “Then how do you know you know I’m the most handsome?”

“I just do,” she said, arching into his touch. His finger was hooking into her sleeve, and he let it snap into her skin.

“You do?” He licked her bottom hip, and she whined. This game, whatever it was, she wanted it to be over. It was too much for her to handle.

“Yeah,” y/n said in a dreamy, far-off voice. “I mean, yes. Yes.”

Harry relished in what she felt, and soon enough, his cock twitched in his trousers. He never let himself become… involved in his meals emotions, but it was different with her. She was tender, and sweet. Willing and not a nuisance that he drowned out before biting.

“Am I handsome enough... for you to let me bite you?” And that was another thing.

Harry never asked for permission. Y/n was drunk enough that she’d wake up the next morning and think that he was just some kinky dude who’d left a sick hickey on her throat, as all of his ‘victims’ were, but still. Harry had asked for permission.

“Bite me?” She was confused, head fuzzy with the same feeling that was heating in her groin. The lacy knickers she wore were probably soaked through. The bale on her bum was beginning to hurt.

“Yes, princess. Bite, right,” he licked a stripe right where her pulse was the strongest to accentuate his intentions. “Here.”

“Okay, Harry.”

He was handsome. And she was horny (with a mix of other things), she didn’t see a reason to say no.

“Thank you, pet.”

It was the same as it always was. Harry nuzzled into the spot, sniffing like a dog meeting a new friend, and with no preamble, he bit into her. The tips of his teeth pierced her flesh, and he allowed them to retract once the blood started to flow. When the first drop touched his tongue, he groaned. She was good, one of the best he’d ever had, and the heady flavor was just as sweet as she was. He was so caught up in his own satisfaction that he didn’t notice the moment her hands bunched the fabric of his suit from the late 1700s into fists, or her body going tense before he slowly relaxed, her heartbeat an irregular mix as she decided whether or not she should be panicking.

But, he knew that she continued to enjoy what she was doing.

“H-harry, I-” She went limp in his arms, and the small squeak that left her mouth was the mermaid’s song that enchanted Harry.

He knew this wouldn’t be the last time he’d see her again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

hi! happy halloween babies! or better yet, happy harryween! i hope you enjoyed this peice, it was for sure out of my comfort zone and something new for me. if you haven’t yet, please check out my fanfic on wattpad in which harry owns a more aesthetic version of playboy mag. you can read it here.

#hunflowershalloweenchallenge #Harry Styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #vampire!harry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurbs #harry styles blurb

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peachtree-dish · 3 years

Text

A Te Che Sei Il Mio Grande Amore Ch. 4 Di Volta in Volta

Luglio 20, 1969

“Commander Neil Armstrong is making his way out of the spacecraft and is taking his first steps down the ladder to the moon’s surface. In mere moments he will be the first man to step foot on the moon…” The voice was narrated through the tv screen as the events of the first human moon landing played out in front of nearly the entire village. Those who did not have access to radio or television were crammed into their neighbor’s houses to either listen or watch on the small television screens. The usual Sunday atmosphere had been disrupted by the whole world waiting with bated breath as history played out in their living rooms. Luca sat between Giulia and Alberto in front of Massimo’s secondhand TV, fighting the urge to press himself against the class so as not to miss a single detail. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before because he had stayed up listening as the Apollo 11 crew had taken their last orbit around the moon before landing their naveta spaziale on the surface. Behind him, his family was sitting at the dinner table tightly pressed between Massimo and the several cats that had found some form of purchase on his broad shoulders. Luca had not thought it possible, but Massimo’s eyebrows seemed to be furrowed even deeper than usual; they were the only indication that he seemed just as anxious as everyone else.

Luca’s eyes widened as the man on the screen as the astronaut hopped onto the last ring of the ladder, his hands gripping tightly to it as if he were afraid to float away into the expanse of space. Beside him, Alberto squinted closely at the emerging astronaut and rubbed his chin.

“Their suits kinda look like that old diving suit, no?” he muttered in Luca’s ear. Guilia loudly shushed him from Luca’s other side, promptly cutting off any further commentary. Instead of vocalizing his agreement he instead gave an energetic nod to Alberto before the older boy could swat Giulia’s arm in revenge.

“I can see my footprints as I step away from the spacecraft…the surface appears to be covered in… fine, sandy particles…” For one moment, Luca pictured himself bounding across the surface of the moon, the old diving helmet pressed tightly to his shoulders, and space sand floating behind him. He could almost feel himself levitating away from the worn, wool rug of Massimo’s small kitchen, thousands of stars floating above him.

Giulia gasped, startling Luca back to reality, “He’s letting go of the spacecraft!” Sure enough, Armstrong’s grainy figure on the screen was slowly letting go of the ladder and stepping into the unknown of space. In a moment of trepidation, Luca reached wrapped his hand around Guilia’s as they waited for the next few moments to pass. He could hear Alberto inhale sharply beside him, assuming he was just as anxious as the rest of them.

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” in one moment the entire world released its breath with a cheer.

Massimo slammed his fist down on the table with a shout of “Vittoria” ringing through the house. His outburst startled the cats into a hissing mess and Nonna Paguro slapped his arm with her cane, claiming a premature heart attack. Around them adults and children were shouting and cheering, many even taking to the streets, their cacophony mixing with the howling of dogs. Giulia hurriedly leaned over to wrap her arms around Alberto and Luca’s shoulders, relieved giggles echoing in their ears as she rushed over to embrace Massimo in earnest. Luca grinned, sparing one last glance at the screen as the rest of the astronauts filed out of the ship, before turning excitedly to Alberto. Without a moment’s hesitation, Luca embraced him, only realizing mere seconds after that his hand was still entangled with someone else’s. At his friend’s stiff posture and flushed face, Luca’s excitement died only to be replaced with confusion. He rocked back onto his heels, one hand draped awkwardly around Alberto’s neck and Alberto’s left hand resting on his hip.

“Alberto?” he breathed, forcing the older boy to peer at him as he pulled away. Alberto blinked rapidly, his hand clenching and unclenching around Luca’s and his green eyes looking desperately around the room. He licked his lips and did not fail to notice Alberto’s eyes following the movement. He opened his mouth to say something before a loud crash broke the atmosphere between them. Machiavelli’s son, Bocelli, had become spooked in the excitement and had managed to knock over Massimo’s favorite tea kettle along with a few teacups. While the kettle had merely been bumped from the impact, three cups had met a disastrous end on the floorboards.

Amidst shouts and curses from the adults, Alberto had firmly and quickly untangled himself from Luca, rushing to the pantry to remove a broom and pan for the mess. Lorenzo was trying his best to scoop the remaining cats into his arms so they wouldn’t get hurt and Daniela was simply yelling at them all to move. Massimo was cradling the kettle with his arm, gently checking for any damage while Giulia remained unseen in the mess, her eyes flitting between Luca and Alberto who still hadn’t said anything. On the carpet, Luca watched as if frozen, unsure of why he felt like crying.

The days following the moon landing and the Apollo 11 crew’s return to earth found Giulia and Alberto working overtime to fill the town’s orders. At least, that was what Luca was telling himself. Since their awkward moment on the rug, Alberto hadn’t spent as much time around Luca, instead of spending hours out fishing and hauling the day’s catch through the streets. His conversations with them would always be clipped, though not unfriendly and he always found a reason not to spend time with them. Giulia, feeling as if she were walking on eggshells, tried to ask Alberto what was going on while they delivered, but he simply brushed off her inquiries with a forced grin. In her opinion, his lies reeked more than days old trash left in the heat. Her frustration grew to an extreme one evening when Alberto bid them both a halfhearted goodnight from the dinner table, claiming he would be staying up later than usual to fill in the finance charts. Ignoring Giulia’s glare and Luca’s hurt expression, he pulled out the counting charts Massimo had been filling out the previous afternoon and began adding the day’s earnings.

“I think he really does hate me,” Luca admitted to Giulia once they passed the archway leading to the docks.

“Don’t be ridicolo, I think he’s just... acting weird?” She floundered, unable to come up with an acceptable response.

“Oh, really, Giulia?!” Luca burst, his frustration surging, “He's not the one who acted weird, I was! I messed up, and now he can’t stand to be around me. I disgust him!” He kicked at a pebble, his expression strained. Luca tried to inhale deeply to calm himself, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t allow it. He turned back to a solemn Giulia, his voice choked. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” To his mounting horror, large drops of water began to spill down his cheeks and before Giulia could even reach out to offer comfort, the teen was tearing down the cobblestones leading to the water's edge. Giulia’s calls were lost in the water as it enveloped him, his salty tears mixing with the sea. He swam for a long time, wanting to avoid his own home for as long as possible. He couldn’t stop thinking about Alberto’s hands on his hip or how it felt to look down into his eyes. Had they not been interrupted, what would have happened? And then he remembered how Alberto had looked frantic, almost afraid of what Luca was going to do. With a half-formed snarl, Luca dove towards the ocean floor. Reaching a shallow cave, he sat down and curled in on himself while his stomach heaved, and his tail thrashed.

“Stupido, stupido, stupido, stupido…” he sobbed over and over, unable to silence Bruno in his mind.

Giulia marched into the house fuming, her eyes landing on Alberto who stared at the wall in front of him, his expression blank. Wordlessly, she picked up the discarded papers on the table and smacked them across the back of his stupid, curly head.

“OW! What the-” Alberto spun around to glare at her.

“Non posso crederti,” she seethed, her hands shaking.

“I don’t have time for your hormonal dramatics, Gi,” Alberto deadpanned, moving to stand and escape from the redhead’s wrath.

“Don’t you dare,” she pushed him back into the chair, her brute strength surprising him. Small as she may be, Giulia was still Massimo’s daughter.

“How can you both keep hurting each other like this? You’re friends, no? Start acting like it!” She flailed her hands hysterically in such a way that Alberto almost wanted to laugh.

“We are friends, tutto bene,” He argued, inwardly wincing at the lie.

“Then why does Luca always look on the verge of tears after being around you? What happened, fratello? You haven’t been the same since the moon landing.” Giulia stared him down with both fists resting on her hips. She rarely referred to him as her brother, and when she did it was because she was trying to show how much she actually cared. That was the one thing Giulia and Alberto always agreed on, they hated to show feelings. Alberto could feel the anxiety he felt on that day building again inside him. He hadn’t meant to make it worse; he was going to make a joke about Luca being scared, but then he had grabbed Alberto’s hand. They touched each other easily all the time, frequent in their affection and friendly nature, but Luca had never held Alberto’s hand like that. Alberto hadn’t wanted to let go. It was just a harsh reminder that eventually he would have to let go of Luca forever. He swallowed thickly and peered at Giulia.

“I’m not going to get in the way of Luca following his dreams,” He said slowly, trying to get his friend to understand. “Luca is meant for grander things than whatever I had planned, I’m just helping him realize that.” Giulia stared at him for a moment before pinching the bridge of her nose and screwing her eyes shut.

“Oh, Dio, I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Giulia, listen,” He began only to be interrupted by Giulia holding up her hand.

“Silenzio, Bruno. I know you don’t believe that. Luca wouldn’t have any of his dreams without you, and if he were to lose you, those dreams would fade.” Alberto shrank into his seat, not wanting to look her in the eye. With a defeated sigh, the young girl sat beside him.

“You’ve never told us about how you ended up alone, and I’m not going to ask you to tell me,” she interrupted him before he could speak. He swallowed his objection and let her continue, “but I wish you could understand that we’re not like your old family. Berto,” she reached out and held one of his hands in both of hers, “we will never abandon you, and neither will Luca. But I am afraid that if you continue to act this way, he’ll think you abandoned him.”

Alberto’s head snapped up and he gazed fiercely at Giulia, reminding her of the first time he revealed his sea monster form to her.

“I would never abandon him.”

She stared back coolly and pointed at the bracelet on his wrist, “Then prove him wrong.” With that she stood and marched upstairs, her steps sounding with finality. Alberto watched her empty seat for a few moments, his ears roaring with the pounding of his heart. Before he could reconsider his actions, the chair scraped harshly along the floorboards, and he was rushing towards the warm ocean.

“Luca!” He called desperately into the waves, not caring if any of the other sea folk were sleeping. His shouts startled a school of pandoras swimming by, and they rushed past him as fast as possible. Alberto sped towards Luca’s home, his heart thundering as he reached Luca’s window. Peering in he found Nonna Paguro sleeping on her side of the room, her snores rattling through the water. To his growing anxiety, he found Luca’s bed empty and so turned towards the island where he had often hidden. Crashing clumsily upon the rocky shore, Alberto called out to the tower, its windows and roof dark and unresponsive.

If he looked too closely at the darkened mouth of the tower, he’d see a small child, crying anxiously for his papa to come home. Pushing the dark memories away, Alberto took deep breaths in an attempt to remain calm. Feeling the anxiety in his chest close to bursting, he dove back into the darkened waters and shouted again.

“Luca! I’m sorry, please talk to me!” He swam frantically, his gaze twisting in every direction, hoping to catch a glance of blue. He swam farther out to the ocean, the fields of seaweed sloping into rocky, sand-filled terrain.

“I’m s-sorry,” He gasped, bubbles escaping his mouth and floating towards the moonlit surface. He felt his hope slipping away with them when he heard a hiccupped cry.

“Alberto?” Luca’s voice was raw from his emotional outburst, but it was still the most beautiful sound Alberto had ever heard. Twisting around with enough force to nearly snap his neck, Alberto found Luca peering out from underneath an overhanging rock bank. He felt his own sob of relief escape his throat before he swam down to his friend. The older boy floated in front of Luca, unsure of how he would react.

“Is everyone okay, you sound upset,” Luca’s eyes were red-rimmed, and they pinned Alberto to the spot with their concern. Alberto wanted to slap himself; Luca was obviously hurting yet here he was making sure Alberto and everyone else was alright. How selfish can you be, Alberto?

“No, everyone’s fine, but I’ve been an idiota, Luca. We only have days left before you go back to Genoa, and I’ve spent the past two weeks ignoring you because…” He stopped as he felt his fear resurfacing. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“But that doesn’t make se-”

“I know, that’s why I said I’m an idiota,” he chuckled drily at Luca’s confusion. “You got me off the island, but there are days I feel like I’m drowning.” He explained patiently, “There are so many new things here and I feel like I’m always behind while you’re always ahead.” He swallowed, watching as Luca still looked confused. “I feel like one day you’re going to realize that I’m slowing you down and I don’t want to get in the way of you becoming who you’re meant to be, even if that means I get left behind.”

Luca’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock, “Alberto, there is no dream worth having if you’re not in it.” Alberto stood stunned before him, his mouth had gone shockingly dry considering the saltwater in it.

“Caro,” he whispered, pulling Luca into his arms, too overwhelmed to finish speaking.

“I thought I offended you,” Luca admitted softly, his voice humming against Alberto’s collarbone, “I thought I had made you uncomfortable, when in reality I thought I grabbed Giulia’s hand, I promise.” Alberto felt his stomach drop out from him. He badly wanted to contradict Luca, tell him he had wanted more than anything to grab his hand whenever he could. But he wouldn’t, his fear wouldn’t let him.

“It’s okay, you didn’t offend me. If anything, I can’t blame you. No one can resist my good looks and charm,” He joked, laughing a bit too loudly to be considered natural. Luca snorted and pushed away from him, rolling his eyes.

“You wish, Berto,”

I really do, Alberto thought helplessly.

“Thank you for coming after me, again.” Luca laughed exasperatedly, hiding his face in his hands with a groan. “Giulia probably thinks I’m the most dramatic idiot in all of Italy.”

Alberto shrugged and glanced to the side, “Eh, you’d be surprised, she has her own moments. Must be an Italian thing.” Luca glared at him halfheartedly through his claws.

“Do you wanna head back to your house, or…” Alberto motioned his head back towards Porto Rosso. Luca smiled and motioned back to him.

“Wherever you want, I’ll follow you.”

“Well, it’s about time. I’ve only been waiting for over a year,” Alberto teased, swimming back towards the shining lights of the port town, his best friend’s laughter ringing behind him.

31 Agosto 1969

The last weeks of summer came and went with the laughter of children and a full season of fishing; having decided that winning the Porto Rosso Cup last year had been enough of an adventure, Giulia, Luca, and Alberto had instead spent time behind the scenes helping with the race alongside Signora Marsigliese. The woman had been extra grateful for the help and had run the three of them nearly ragged with preparations. With no Ercole in sight, the race had been far more enjoyable for all the town’s children, and even more so for their families.

Alberto volunteered to keep watch in the bay as the kids swam, already used to having lifeguard duties. He made sure to help anyone who got stuck or might have struggled especially hard. It made Luca’s heart especially warm to watch Alberto interact with the smaller children, encouraging them and even allowing the smallest bambina to latch onto his tail when she got too tired to swim back to shore. This year, Daniela and Lorenzo actually helped by offering water to kids as they struggled up the hill, this time without threatening to dump it on their heads.

In the end, the race was one by a brother and sister from the Ricci family who both were so exhausted they could barely keep the trophy held up between them. The end of the season also meant that Alberto would be working in his many diverse side jobs once it got too cold.

“Do you actually like working in la panetteria? Luca asked him from where he sat on the floor packing his things away.

“It’s not bad,” Alberto shrugged nonchalantly, “it was kinda stressful at first, but Signora Aurora is really nice, and I don’t make nearly as many mistakes as Ciccio.”

“I don’t think anyone could make as many mistakes as him, Ciccio’s a league unto his own,” Luca muttered absently, comparing two different books in his hands. In Alberto’s opinion, they looked the exact same.

“After the weather gets colder, I start baking in the mornings at the Pasticcini, and then Signore Ciano has me help him and Guido in their garage. I offered to help Padre D’uva at the church, but” he shrugged again with a half-smile, “babies don’t really like getting baptized by sea monsters.” Luca snorted and rolled his eyes at the image of a scaled Alberto trying to dunk a screaming child.

“I guess your smile and good charms don’t work on everybody, amico.”

Alberto flipped upside down on the bed and bit his lip suggestively and waggled his eyebrows, “Just you then?” Luca paused a moment to look at him and his gaze was almost enough to make Alberto stop. The young monster tilted his head to the side, considering Alberto’s features.

“Eh, could use some work,” He answered finally turned his head back to his bag, trying to stifle his laughter as Alberto made a face.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the doorframe causes them both to look up. Giulia leaned against the chipped white paint and smiled warmly, “Mind if I come in, ragazzi?” Alberto happily scooted to the side, ultimately remaining in his upside-down state.

“You’re not done packing?” Giulia asked incredulously. Luca only pouted from the floor.

“I can’t decide which books to take,” He ran a hand through his already stressed curls, the motion capturing Alberto’s attention even from his angle.

“You’re such a nerd, you know that right,” She ruffled his hair affectionately.

“As a nerd, it is, in fact, my job to know that, Giulietta.” The brunette stuck his tongue out defiantly before tossing the books back onto their pile. With a groan he stood and stretched his back, the muscles popping into place. Throwing himself on the bed he looked up at the ceiling and said, “I can’t believe summer’s already over, I feel like we just got back!” He flopped back down, his arm thumping Alberto’s stomach.

“Hey, attento!” Alberto swore. He swung himself back up and flopped backward, tugging Giulia along with him. Luca patted his stomach by way of apology before sighing dramatically.

“Why doesn’t school go by this fast?”

“Because then more people would enjoy it,” Giulia sighed from the other side of Alberto, who remained oddly quiet. He turned his head from one side to the other, watching how the late afternoon sun turned Giulia’s hair a violent copper and how it made Luca’s eyes seem molten. Suddenly reaching out, he tugged both close to him and said, “Vi amo, ragazzi.” Luca and Giulia shared a look of befuddlement.

“…Okay?” They replied in unison

“Learn as much as you can and then tell me everything in your letters, okay? Just like before. Except for this time, I’m going to learn new things, too. That way, we can all share what we learned next summer.” He grinned proudly at the thought.

Giulia sat up and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you feeling okay, pazzo? Do you need a doctor or something?”

“No, I’m serious. Giulia, you remember what you asked us at the beginning of summer?” She cocked her head to the side before nodding.

“I asked what you wanted to be when we got older.”

“Esattamente! And I have no idea, but I want to find out.” He looked at both Luca and Giulia as they processed his words. Luca was the first to move, wrapping his arms tighter around Alberto’s middle and grinning into his shoulder.

“I think that’s a great idea, caro. I’m proud of you.” Giulia nodded in agreement as she settled back down.

“Even if you don’t figure it out this year, or the next, just goditi il viaggio, like my mama always says. Life is about discovery, if you can’t enjoy it, learn from it.” Alberto hummed contently in response.

“Your mom sounds smart,” he mused.

“She is,” Luca and Giulia answered together, causing the trio to burst into a fit of giggles.

Later that evening, when Massimo climbed upstairs to check on the children, he found Giulia, Alberto, and Luca curled around one another on Giulia’s bed. Alberto had both arms wrapped protectively around both his daughter and Luca while they snored away peacefully. Machiavelli waltzed between his legs before alighting himself upon the bed and curling up next to Alberto’s head. He softly chided the cat to remain quiet and leave the children to their dreams. Without waking them, he softly tucked them in with the blanket from Alberto’s bed before walking out of the room. As he closed the door, he chanced one last glance at his little family and allowed himself a small smile. He could not wait for summer to return.

#luca pixar #luberto #luca paguro #alberto scorfano #luca fanfiction #giulia is tired of this sh!t #giulia marcovaldo #massimo marcovaldo #massimo is the best father #a te che sei il mio grande amore #they share one brain cell #machiavelli #found family #queer fanfiction #queer romance #young romance #friendships #questioning sexuality

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beyondtheciouds · 2 years

Text

The manuscript burned in the grate; the last, Lucie thought as she lit the cigarette and watched her life's love turn to ash. The room was chilled; bones settling in the earth. Her hands were pale and shaking; sweaty thighs pressed together beneath the stripped, cotton dress hiding her girth.

A parched ironed collar choked her although it was firmly pressed down. Still, she felt like she was gasping for air; longing to make sound.

The gold locket still dangled in the hollow of her neck; cold and calming. A comfort in her hours of distress.

The snowflakes fell like a million tiny leaves outside; the windows frosted deer. Yulemas was tomorrow; another holiday spent lost in a mess. She wished James had offered her at least a beer.

Three years she had been working on that story. The one where she and Jesse had a happy ending; giving them both glory. She had poured every inch of herself into writing after Jesse had died. Telling his tale. Believing it was hers to tell; refusing to bottle up inside.

And now? Now she was burning her blood, sweat and tears as if her emotional connection to the characters were nothing but words on paper. Her life -- his life, nothing more than a parody written by the daughter of a shape-shifter.

Her mousey brown hair was streaked with grays she had refused to color over, even as Tessa fussed. "Lucie, please. Look your best. I don't want you to mess this up."

Blue eyes; sharp and wise surveyed the room beneath the makeup society deemed necessary for a woman her age. Rouge for her cheeks and lips red as apple; beauty destined to fade.

Lucie laughed her nerves frayed like live wires. When did she get so cynical? She breathed hard, inhaling the cloves laced with little tobacco urchins.

Rejection had never been an issue in her writing career before, but somehow, this felt different. She exhaled and flicked the ash on the carpet, praying it would ignite the curtains.

Personal. This, after all was her brother's publishing company upfront. In the end, he had the last say. He was King Arthur at his round table; writers surround him without him giving the time of day.

She inhaled again, her fingers stained fable blue; parched yellowed nicotine. The gold ring still gleamed on her finger despite the grit and grime she'd gone through; her own personal guilitteen. She couldn't think about that now. Exhale, Lucie. Think straight.

The agent would sort all of this out in the morning in exchange for the old farmers plow or a reasonably sized cow. But if James had his way, he'd settle for the unthinkable; a boatload of illegal freight.

One way or another Jesse's story would be told to a public who needed to hear the truth.

She coughed, blood oozing out the side from the roof of her mouth. The truth. Ha. The truth was a grain of salt in a glass shaker. A tooth; a bond breaker. She dabbed the corner of her lip with an embroidered handkerchief Cordelia had made when she went down South. A gift from a wife to her spouse.

The doctor had told Lucie to take it easy, as if she could under her brother's shade. In his house nothing was easy.

The Institute as she knew it had become a giant, breezeless cage.

As soon as James told her the news she'd thrown the book in the hearth and cried hysterically; perturbed.

Cordelia was sympathetic, almost apologetic until Owen had come home like a blast of wind; his children and wife waiting in their new automobile, parked at the curb. The three of them had come along for the ride; a surprise meant to be seen.

Lucie wondered if she was living a nightmare instead of a dream.

Owen; slight and awkward. The man-child was unmoved and apologized to her profusely for interrupting but what news he had cost more than a dime.

Much lighter than what was going on now in this turbulent triangle sea of lime anyone would have to agree.

James was indifferent as he excused himself. He moved to the door to speak to his son privately with Cordelia in tow. Her skirts swished and she spoke to Lucie, so low.

James had made it known he preferred Lucie focus her last years on teaching the illiterate of the Institute rather than settling for the path of a damaged and sickly writer. Don't argue, Cordelia said. It's not good for your health.

Lucie did not agree; she realized she was no fighter. She knew she would soon be dead.

Giving up was easy; she could be free.

So she sat on the couch, watching the mouse as it slipped through the wealth. She took another sip of the lead liquid in Matthew's old, tin flask instead of the cup of sugarless tea.

#cassandra clare #the last hours #the shadowhunter chronicles #lucie herondale #fanfiction #au

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troublesometrollhunters · 3 years

Text

Masked Meetings

(Another Douxie X Reader because favorite boi and also I want to go to a fancy Masquerade Ballroom dance while someone tenderly cups my cheek)

Hisirdoux is sweeping Merlins study while the wizards out when his thoughts wonder to you. As he clutches the broom brushing the dust into a nearby dustpan he smiles softly.

Every time he saw you his heart soared. Your voice was like a sweet melody and if he could play as sweetly as you spoke his music would be known throughout the kingdom. Sighing trying to get back to work he pauses. The sunlight leaked through Merlins glass paned windows making the stone floor a kaleidoscope of colors. Your smile was similar to these colors he mused, they lit up a room. Blushing and shaking his head he closes his eyes but it didn't help. Hisirdoux could see you so clearly dancing through the castles hallways fabric swishing around you as you twirled over the carpet.

Eyes snapping open in shame blinking repeatedly to wish the image away he puts the broom against the wall deciding he's done for the day.

Running his hand over one of Merlins desks he tries to think of anything else other than you. Picking up books off the ground putting them back in their places on the shelves or stacking them on tables so they'd be out of the way, Hisirdoux pauses when he sees a scroll. Humming intrigued he ran a finger over it before the ink glowed. Merlin was working on something new and he hoped some magic homework would make him get his mind off you. After all it was absolutely ridiculous to fantasize about you. It could never happen.

You were a noble who lived in the castle after a tragic accident. It was rumored you had magic in your blood line but nothing had been confirmed. He wouldn't doubt it though. He fell under a spell every time he saw you.

You were Arthur and Morganas neice and had been moved here after your castle was lost to war. Depsite the tradegy you seemed perfectly content with your new life here. He'd often seen you laughing over a joke with Morgana or talking idly with King Arthur. Realizing his attention had wondered from the scroll he cursed trying to get back to work. Noticing his hands were covered in ink he paused seeing he'd doodled all over Merlins notes. Panicking he picks up the scroll and marches across the room before throwing it into the fire place.

Watching as the orange flames burn the paper and seeing the ink dribble down the page as the fire hissed he sighed in relief. He couldn't be in love with you. He couldn't.

~~~

The next day Merlin hadn't noticed the missing parchment or at least he didn't comment on it. Archie had thankfully been out and hadn't seen what he'd done but the cat had been giving him strange looks all day.

Was it really that weird for him to complete all his chores? He didn't think so.

"The room looks nice Hisirdoux." Merlin states and he beamed taking in the attention and compliment from his master. However it's short lived. Merlin turns towards the young mage with a thoughtful glance. "King Arthurs hosting a ball." He says.

"O-oh?" Hisirdoux stutters. If there was a ball no doubt you'd be there as well. After all Arthur was your uncle, as a noble it'd be your duty to attend. Merlin gave Hisirdoux a knowing glance before shaking his head turning towards his scrolls.

"You should invite someone." He hums. "Arthur permitted us to go. If you have a friend you should attend with them." Leaving the room after that Merlin slips Douxie a piece of parchment. It was an invitation but only one.

Looking at his master confused he noticed in Merlins hand were the notes that he had burned. Face red he began to stutter wanting to explain himself but Merlin was already gone. All that was left was the single invitation in his hand.

Archie hummed hopping onto the desk next to Hisirdoux as he stared at the fancy paper.

"I beleive that's Merlins subtle way of saying you should ask them. After all they already have a ticket." Archie hums. Hisirdoux nods absent mindley tightening his grip on the invitation. A masquerade ball, masks meant no one would know who they were. That meant he could ask you out and then spend all night with you without anyones judgment.

How hard could this be?

~~~

He chickened out. He chickened out. By Merlins beard he made a complete ass of himself and left before you could get mad at him.

He had gotten flowers! He had made a poem! He even brought his lute to sernade you! How did it all go so wrong?

He was so nervous his magic made the flowers rot when he tried to hand them to you. You didn't seem angry but you were very confused holding the stalks. And he made it so much worse! When you went to ask what happened as any sane person would do he began to blubber nonsense like a fool. He practically spoke in tongues! Then he had spent hours on that poem for you only to look like an idiot and scramble all the words up. It was just such a mess. Not to mention when he brought out his lute to try and fix his previous attempts his hands were shaking so much it was off tune.

He decided to stop dragging the torture on and ran off not wanting to see your reaction.

Archie followed after him and as Hisirdoux stopped to take deep breaths his familiar nuzzled him. He purred softly against his masters neck as Hisirdoux held his lute. As his thumb brushed over the wood engraved into the instrument he sighed. His hand went in his pocket and reading the poem he'd written you he closes his eyes to keep from crying.

Radiant as the sun, mysterious as the moon, and strong as the stars is what he'd called it. You were just so many things he couldn't pick one so he gave you the sky hoping maybe just maybe that'd be enough to win your love.

"Hisirdoux they would have loved it. It's not your fault." Archie tries to make him feel better but Hisirdoux only did this to himself. He should have known courting you would only end in failure. After all Arthur loved you. And he hated magic. Hisirdoux was only alive because Merlin saved him. He was a street rat. A lowly orphan. He had nothing to offer you.

Crumpling the poem into a ball he signed throwing it down the hallway.

"Come on Arch we better get ready." He mumbled disappointed. He may have failed to ask you but Merlin still expected him to attend and he couldn't fail Merlin too.

~~~

Hisirdoux looks into his wine glass frowning. The suit Merlin picked for him felt strange. It was so different from his usual garb and his reflection he couldn't recognize himself. The black suit with fur and blue undershirt underneath was strange. He wasn't used to this many layers. And the shoes. They were so uncomfortable.

Shifting he adjusts his mask, the blue feathers almost coming loose from his jostling.

Mask finally in a position he liked, he places the chalice down and glances around the room. You still hadn't made an entrance and he prayed Arthur hadn't set you up with somebody else. Feeling discouraged at the fact he couldn't ask you and you might come with some prick noble person Archie hums at him.

"Well at least they won't recognize you in a mask." The familiar states trying to lighten his masters mood.

"No funny Arch." Hisirdoux scolds as he keeps looking for you. "Besides I think the whole talking cat gives away who I am." Archie chuffs before adjusting his glasses. Hisirdoux was right of course but Archie was only teasing, no need for rudeness.

"Hisirdoux try to have fun tonight." The familiar suggests before jumping off the table and slinking off into the room. Sighing Hisirdoux watches him leave before looking to the floor again. You still hadn't arrived yet. He hoped as a masked stranger he could ask for one dance. One dance and he'd feel better about everything. But he had a feeling fate would be unkind tonight and he may not get his chance.

Hearing the music stop he pauses before turning his head. Gasps rang out from the crowd and meeting your eyes Hisirdoux joined them.

Oh. You looked like a deity.

As you descended the stairs with Morgana and Arthur he couldn't help but stare. You were brighter than the moon, the stars, and the sun. He would give you the entire world and even then he knew it'd never be enough. You deserved everything.

Lost in his thoughts about you inching closer to the ballroom floor his breath hitches as someone grabs his hand. About to protest and he's dragged into the endless sea of dancers and as masks, dresses, glitter, and gold twirl around him he looses sight of you.

Trying to get out of the dancers so he can make his way to the wall to try and find you again to try and explain he pauses when your suddenly in his arms.

Your mask gave away it was you and he grew nervous as your eyes looked into his.

"(Y-Y/N)?" He can't beleive it. How... How had this happened?

"Hello Hisirdoux." You greet and his entire face goes red as he spins with you. The orchestra music swells and he's in awe watching you dance.

"I ummmm I wanted..." Smiling at him you wink mischievously as he dips you.

"I know." You hum and he smiles. Of course you did.

"Lets go somewhere more private." You suggest as he blushes. Pulling you back up from the dip he nods and you two continue to dance but your slowly making your way to the edge.

~~~

When no ones looking you both slip away sneaking onto the balcony. The stars shine and the moons full lighting up the night.

Smiling you slip off your mask before tilting your head to stare up at the various stars, eyes wide in wonder.

"I never was one for dances and the like you know." You state feeling the serene light of the moon wash over you. "It's only fun when you chose to do something not when someone forces you to." You add.

Your hand grips the balconies terrace as you lean forward to feel the cold air. Hisirdoux stands next to you and slowly he takes off his mask as well showing off his handsome face. As you were passed from partner to partner you looked up and saw his hazel eyes.

It was a miracle since he was the only person you wanted to see anyways.

He nods understanding in a way. Fiddling in your pocket you pull out a crumpled piece of paper.

"You know I was hoping you'd ask me. When I suggested to Arthur Merlin and you should come it didn't take long for him to give in." You hum slowly uncrumpling the paper.

It was a poem. One addressed to you. The one he'd crumpled up and thrown away.

"I... I tried to ask you but..." Scratching the back of his neck and chuckling nervously you begin laughing.

"I had a feeling." You hum watching his face go bright red.

"He Hisirdoux?" You ask and he looks at you face burning.

"Hmmmmm?" He questions and you smile the privacy giving you bravery. Cupping his face you lean in heart fluttering as your lips press together.

Pulling away face pink as you stare at Hisirdoux he blinks several times before smiling. Leaning in he places his forehead against yours. One of his hands tenderly cradles your cheek as he smiles at you.

As you hum closing your eyes smiling, his heart flutters.

Your smile makes the night brighter than any stars ever could.

126 notes · View notes

thewidowsghost · 3 years

Text

Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 3

Percy's POV

Confession time: I ditch Grover as soon as we get to the bus terminal.

I know, I know. It was rude. But Grover is kinda freaking me out, looking at me like I am a dead man, muttering, "Why does this always happen?" and "Why does it always have to be the sixth grade?"

Whenever he gets upset, Grover's bladder acts up, so I'm not surprised when, as soon as we get off the bus, he makes me promise to wait for him, then makes a beeline for the restroom. Instead of waiting, I get my suitcase, slip outside, and catch the first taxi uptown.

"East One-hundred-and-forth and First," I tell the driver.

A word about my mother, before you meet her.

Her name is Sally Jackson and she's the best person in the world, which just proves my theory that the best people have the rottenest luck. Her own parents died in a plane crash when she was five, and she was raised by an uncle who didn't care much about her. She wanted to be a novelist, so she spent high school working to save enough money for a college with a good creative-writing program. Then her uncle got cancer, and she had to quit school her senior year to take care of him. After he died, she was left with no money, no family, and no diploma.

The only good break she ever got was meeting mine and (Y/n)'s dad.

We didn't have any memories of him, just this warm sort of glow, maybe the barest trace of his smile. Our mom doesn't like to talk about him because it makes her sad; she has no pictures.

See, they weren't married. She told us he was rich and important, and their relationship was a secret. Then one day, he set sail across the Atlantic on some important journey, and he never came back.

Lost at sea, my mom had told us. Not dead. Lost at sea.

She worked odd jobs, took night classes to get her high school diploma, and raised me and my twin on her own. She never complained or got mad. Not even once. But I knew I wasn't an easy kid.

Finally, she married Gabe Ugliano, who was nice the first thirty seconds we knew him, then showed his true colors as a world-class jerk. When I was young, I nicknamed him Smelly Gabe. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. The guy reeked like moldy garlic pizza wrapped in gym shorts.

Between the two of us, we made my mom's life pretty hard. The way Smelly Gabe treated her, the way he and I got along...well, when I came home is a good example.

I walk into our little apartment, hoping my mom would be home from work. Instead, Smelly Gabe is in the living room, playing poker with his buddies. The television blares ESPN. Chips and beer cans are strewn all over the carpet.

Hardly looking, he says around his cigar, "So, you're home."

"Where's Mom and (Y/n)?" I wonder aloud.

"Your mom's working," he says. "You got any cash?"

That was it. No Welcome back. Good to see you. How has your life been the last six months?

"I don't have any cash," I toll him.

"Here," comes a voice, holding out a ten to the man.

Instantly, a smile sneaks its way onto my face.

"Hey, Perc," my twin sister says with a smile.

(Y/n)'s POV

I grab my brother's suitcase and carry it into his room; I set it down on the bed.

"You wanna come sit in my room?" I ask and Percy nods, a smile still on his face.

I lead the way to my room and when I open the door, Percy sinks into my desk chair.

"Percy?" comes our mom's voice.

She opens my bedroom door.

Our mother can make me feel good just by walking into the room. Her eyes sparkle and change color in the light. Her smile is as warm as a quilt. She's got a few gray streaks mixed in with her long brown hair, but I never think of her as old. When she looks at me, it's like she's seeing all the good things about me, none of the bad. I've never heard her raise her voice or say an unkind word to anyone, not even me or Percy or Gabe.

"Oh, Percy," she hugs her son tightly. "I can't believe it. You've grown since Christmas.

Percy's POV

Her red-white-and-blue Sweet on America uniform smelled like the best things in the world: chocolate, licorice, and all the other stuff she sold at the candy shop in Grand Central. She'd brought me a huge bag of "free samples," the way she always did when I came home.

We sit together on the edge of (Y/n)'s bed. While I attack the blueberry sour strings, (Y/n) stealing a few pieces of candy from the bag, Mom runs her hand through my hair and demands to know everything I hadn't put in my letters. She doesn't mention anything about my getting expelled. She doesn't seem to care about that. But was I okay? Was her little boy doing all right? The whole time, (Y/n)'s eyes were sparkling with amusement.

I tell Mom she is smothering me, and to lay off and all that, but secretly, I was really, really glad to see her and (Y/n).

From the other room, Gabe yells, "Hey, Sally—how about some bean dip, huh?"

I grit my teeth.

My mom is the nicest lady in the world. She should've been married to a millionaire, not to some jerk like Gabe.

For her sake, I try to sound upbeat about my last days at Yancy Academy. I tell her I'm not too down about the expulsion. I'd lasted almost the whole year this time. I'd made some new friends. I'd done pretty well in Latin. And honestly, the fights hadn't been as bad as the headmaster said. I liked Yancy Academy. I really did. I put such a good spin on the year, I almost convince myself. I start choking up, thinking about Grover and Mr. Brunner. Even Nancy Bobofit suddenly doesn't seem so bad.

Until that trip to the museum...

"What?" my mom asks. Her and my sister's eyes tug at my conscience, trying to pull out the secrets. "Did something scare you?"

"No, Mom."

I feel back for lying. I want to tell her about Mrs. Dodds and the three old ladies with the yarn, but I think it'd sound stupid.

Mom purses her lips. Both she and (Y/n) could tell I was holding back, but neither push me.

(Y/n)'s POV

"I have a surprise for both of you," Mom says. "We're going to the beach."

Percy's eyes widen. "Montauk?"

"Three nights - same cabin."

"When?" I ask excitedly.

Mom smiles. "As soon as I get changed."

I can't believe it. Mom, Percy, and I hadn't been to Montauk the last two summers, because Gabe said there wasn't enough money.

Gabe appears in my doorway and growls, "Bean dip, Sally? Didn't you hear me?"

"I've got it," I offer, rising from the bed and walking out into the kitchen to make the dip for Mom.

An hour later, we are ready to leave.

Gabe takes a break from his poker game long enough to watch me and Percy lug Mom's bags to the car. He keeps griping and groaning about losing her cooking - and most importantly, his '78 Camaro - for the whole weekend.

"Not a scratch on this car, you two," he warns us as I load the last bag. "Not one little scratch."

Like we'd be the ones driving. We're twelve. But that didn't matter to Gabe. If a seagull so much as pooped on his paint job, he'd find a way to blame us.

We get into the Camero, me in the passenger's seat, and Percy in the back.

Our rental cabin is on the south shore, way out at the tip of the Long Island. It is a little pastel box with faded curtains, half-sunken into the dunes. There is always sand in the sheets and spiders in the cabinets, and most of the time the sea is too cold to swim in.

Percy and I love the place.

We'd been going there since Percy and I were babies. Our mom had been going even longer. She never exactly said, but I knew why the beach was special to her. It was the place she'd met mine and Percy's dad.

As we get closer to Montauk, Mom seems to grow younger, years of worry and work disappearing from her face. Her eyes turning the color of the sea.

We arrive at the cabin, open all the cabin windows, and go through our usual cleaning routine. We walk on the beach, feed blue corn chips to the seagulls, and much on jelly beans, blue saltwater taffy, and all the other free samples my mom had brought from work.

I guess I should explain the blue food.

See, Gabe had once told Mom there was no such thing. They had this fight, which seemed like a small thing at the time. But ever since, Mom had gone out of her way to eat blue. She baked blue birthday cakes. She mixed blueberry smoothies. She bought blue-corn tortilla chips and brought home blue candy from the shop. This - alone with keeping her maiden name, Jackson, rather than calling herself Mrs. Ugliano - was proof that she wasn't totally suckered by Gabe. She did have a rebellious streak, like Percy.

When it gets dark, we make a fire. We roast hot dogs and marshmallows. Mom tells us stories about when she was a kid, back before her parents died in the plane crash. She tells us about the books she wanted to write when she gets enough money to quit the candy shop.

Finally, it seems that Percy gets the nerve to ask about what was always on our minds when we come to Montauk - our father. Mom's eyes go all misty. I figure that she was going to tell us the same things she always said, but neither Percy and I ever got tired of hearing them.

"He was kind, Percy," Mom says. "Tall, handsome, and powerful. But gentle, two. You have his black hair, you know, Percy, and you both have his green eyes."

Mom fishes a blue jelly bean out of her candy bag. "I wish he could see you, Percy, (Y/n). He would be so proud."

Percy's POV

I wondered how she could say that. What's so great about me? A dyslexic, hyperactive boy with a D+ report card, kicked out of the school for the sixth time in six years.

"How old were we?" I ask. "I mean . . . when he left?"

Mom watches the flames. "He was only with me for one summer, Percy. Right here at this beach. This cabin."

"But...he knew us as a baby."

"No, honey. He knew I was expecting twins, but he never saw you two. He had to leave before you were born."

I try to square that with the fact I seem to remember . . . something about my father. A warm glow. A smile.

(Y/n) and I had always assumed that he had known us as babies. Mom had never said it outright, but still, we'd always felt it must be true. Now, to be told that he'd never even seen us . . .

I realize I feel angry at my father. Maybe it was stupid, but I resent him for going on that ocean voyage, for not having the guts to marry Mom. He'd left us, and now we are stuck with Smelly Gable.

"Are you sending me away again?" I ask her. "To another boarding school."

She pulls a marshmallow from the fire.

"I don't know, honey." Mom's voice is heavy. "I think . . . I think we'll have to do something."

"Because you don't want me around?" I regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. (Y/n) bows her head, looking at the ground and Mom's eyes well with tears.

Mom takes my hand and squeezes it tight. "Oh, Percy, no. I - I have to, honey. For your own good. I have to send you away."

Her words remind me of what Mr. Brunner had said - that it was best for me to leave Yancy.

"Because I'm not normal," I say.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing, Percy. But you don't realize how important you are. I thought Yancy Academy would be far enough away. I thought you'd finally be safe.

"Safe from what?"

She meets my eyes, and a flood of memories comes back to me - all the weird, scary things that had ever happened to me and (Y/n), some of which we'd tried to forget.

During third grade, a man in a black trench coat had stalked us on the playground. When the teachers threatened to call the police, he went away growling, but no one believed (Y/n) when she'd told them that under his broad-brimmed hat, the man only had one eye, right in the middle of his head.

Before that—a really early memory. I was in preschool, and a teacher accidentally put me down for a nap in a cot that a snake had slithered into. My mom screamed when she came to pick me up and found me playing with a limp, scaly rope I'd somehow managed to strangle to death with my meaty toddler hands.

In every single school, something creepy had happened, something unsafe, and I was forced to move.

I know I should tell my mom about the old ladies at the fruit stand, and Mrs. Dodds at the art museum, about my weird hallucination that I had sliced my math teacher into dust with a sword. But I can't make myself tell her. I have a strange feeling the news would end our trip to Montauk, and I don't want that.

"I've tried to keep you as close to me as I could," my mom says. "They told me that was a mistake. But there's only one other option, Percy—the place your father wanted to send you two. And I just...I just can't stand to do it."

(Y/n)'s POV

"Our father wanted us to go to a special school?" I ask, a little confused.

"Not a school," she says softly. "A summer camp."

My head starts spinning. Why would my dad - who hadn't even stayed around long enough to see me and Percy be born - talk about a summer camp?

"I'm sorry, (Y/n)," she said, seeing the look in my eyes. "But I can't talk about it. I—I couldn't send you two to that place. It might mean saying good-bye to you for good."

"For good?" Percy asks. "But if it's only a summer camp.

Mom turns towards the fire, and I know from her expression that if either of us ask her any more questions, she would start to cry.

I have a weird, vivid dream. It is storming on the beach, and two beautiful animals, a white horse, and a golden eagle are trying to kill each other at the edge of the surf. The eagle swoops down and slashes the horse's muzzle with its huge talons. The horse rears up and kicks at the eagle's wings. As they fight, the ground rumbles and a monstrous voice chuckles somewhere and beneath the earth, goading the animals to fight harder.

I run towards them, knowing I have to stop them from killing each other, but I am running in slow motion. I know I am too late. I see the eagle dive down, its beak aimed at the horse's wide eyes, and I scream, No!

I wake with a start.

Outside, it really is storming, the kind of storm that cracks trees and blows down houses. There is no horse or eagle on the beach, just lightning making false daylight, and twenty-foot waves pounding the dunes like artillery.

With the next thunderclap, my mom and Percy wake. Mom sits up, eyes wide, and says, "Hurricane."

I know that's crazy. Long Island never sees hurricanes this early in the summer. But the ocean seems to have forgotten. Over the roar of the wind, I hear a distant bellow, an angry, tortured sound that makes my hair stand on end.

Percy's POV

Then a much closer noise, like mallets in the sand. A desperate voice - someone yelling, pounding on our cabin door.

My mother springs out of bed in her nightgown and throws open the lock.

Grover stands framed in the doorway against a backdrop of pouring rain. But he isn't . . . he isn't exactly Grover.

"Searching all night," he gasps. "What were you thinking?"

My mother looks at me in terror - not scared of Grover, but of why he'd come.

"Percy," she says, having to shout to be heard over the rain. "What happened at school? What didn't you tell me?"

I am frozen, looking at Grover. I can't understand what I'm seeing, and I see (Y/n) looking at my friend.

"O Zeu kai alloi theoi!" he yells. "It's right behind me! Didn't you tell her?"

I am too shocked to register that he'd just cursed in Ancient Greek, and I'd understood him perfectly. I am too shocked to wonder how Grover had gotten here by himself in the middle of the night. Because Grover doesn't have pants on - and where his legs should be . . . where his legs should be . . .

Mom looks at me sternly and talks in a tone she'd never used before, and (Y/n) flinches: "Percy. Tell me now!"

I stammer something about the old ladies at the fruit stand and Mrs. Dodds, and my mom stares at me, her face deathly pale in the flashes of lightning.

She grabs her purse, tosses me and (Y/n) our rain jackets, and says, "Get the car. All three of you. Go!"

Grover runs for the Camero - but he isn't running, exactly. He is trotting, shaking his shaggy hindquarters, and suddenly his story about a muscular disorder in his legs makes sense to me. I understand how he can run so fast and still limp when he walks.

Because where his feet should be, there are no feet. There are cloven hooves.

Word Count: 3041 words

#percy jackson x sister reader #percy jackson and the olympians reader insert #female reader #fem reader #reader insert

22 notes · View notes

fascination-street-writing · 4 years

Text

Sober to Death | Teenage Au! Risotto Nero x Reader

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts

Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (Not Underage), Mentions of Suicide, Implied Child Abuse, Underage Smoking, & Emotional Manipulation (Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics)

It is the summer of 1988. You have spent the past few days cooped within the shelter of your home to evade the arid, sweltering heat; even the spigots are dry. You long for autumn leaves.

The smouldering faces of painted women stare at you and watch, still, as you glide the twin blades of your mother’s cooking shears through pulp paper. She had promised you for weeks now to buy a new set of crafting scissors for you; your last pair disappeared, seemingly out of thin air. Your father insists that it was the work of garden fairies. You suspect interfamilial thievery.

A dollop of hot glue pools beneath the tip of the gun. A string not unlike a cotton candy fiber chases the glue gun upon separation; a scar on the back of your hand prompts you to not touch the simulant gemstone-encrusted tool. You press the trimmed image of a smoking model against the glue. Turquoise glitter rains down from the bottle and coaxes over the greyscale photograph. Plastic diamonds the color of honey, a magenta feather streaked in silver – you blow over the page of your scrapbook and grin.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop your dresser. Paper trimmings fall to the carpeted floor. Glitter sticks to the palm of your hand. Christy Turlington joins Isabella Rossellini and a nameless American model – the seventeenth page of your third portfolio is complete. You pride yourself in this hobby of collecting the images of women who have been frozen in time by glamour shots and risqué poses. Perhaps immortality truly means to be plastered inside of a teenage girl’s fashion scrapbook and hidden beneath her bed. You fancy yourself a curator – a conservator.

You kick back your feet and breathe in the perfume of the candle that burns on your bedside table. Instead of a pair of proper scissors, you mother had returned from the craft store with the caramel-scented candle. She is, admittedly, a bit forgetful at times.

You hear his fingers rapping against the pane of your window before you notice his presence: a pair of black-sclera eyes with red irises peer into your bedroom. You blow out the candle and turn off the overhead light. He is patient as he waits for you to slip on your Mary Jane’s. The bulge of a cigarette carton peaks out from the pocket of his torn jeans.

Through the opened window, Risotto Nero wordlessly extends his hand to you: yours is dwarfed by his calloused grasp. He leads you beyond your father’s wilting flower garden – you dance over marigolds, asters, and tithonias, careful not to step on the blossoms that suffer in this Sicilian drought.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts. Cicadas and katydids sing. Risotto’s brooding, silent form matches your pace as walk towards your rendezvous place. Your legs have memorized the journey: up the hill, past the schoolyard, down the spiraling path behind the market, to the park across from the shoreline.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath your weight. You grip the rusted chains and push, only enough so that your body sways, suspended above the ground. Risotto sits beside you, stagnant. Ashen earthiness wafts through the cloud that forms before his face. The smell of cheap tobacco is so strong that you forget how lovely the scent of the caramel candle felt in the well of your lungs.

The cigarette slips from his fingers to yours. Hot to the touch, you bring it to your lips and breathe in. “Mio padre said he could look at your bike, by the way,” you say to your companion, the first words of the night thus far. He takes back the cigarette. “He says he’ll let you work for him or something, just so you don’t have to pay him back for the new tires.”

He hums with the filter stuck between his teeth. “Thank you,” he mumbles through smoke.

You smile and nod. He had been without his bicycle for nearly a month now, ever since one of the boys in his tenement building slashed its tires. Risotto’s parents had refused to replace them, insistent that their son had purposefully dug his own grave with the older, less reputable residents of their complex – it was his responsibility to lie down and bury himself alive.

If not for his cousin Barolo’s intervention in the matter, you thoroughly believed that your friend would have been thrown out onto the streets. The Nero’s were a temperamental pair, to be sure. You have lost track of just how many times Risotto has come to school with a bruise on his cheek or a busted lip – how many times you have met him at your window in the dead of the night, to be greeted by the aftermath of a blackeye: and always, he blamed the welts on fights with his neighbors, but you knew better. To him, it had never mattered what his parents did – so long as he has his cousin. And you.

His mother and father terrify you, and rightfully so. And yet, a part of you is grateful for their negligence; it means that you have the chance to spend more time with their son, to whisk him away from the strain of his household. You are beholden to the burning in your legs because it reminds you that walking to the park takes longer than a simple bike ride. Though few words are ever spoken between you and Risotto, you savor every moment spent in his company.

His actions tell you that he is appreciative enough of your presence. He drops the spent cigarette into the carton and pulls out a second; the flare of the match glistens in his eyes. You hide the frown that creeps upon your face behind a curtain of hair.

A nicotine high is nothing more than a nasty headache and an upset stomach – you do not enjoy smoking nearly as much as he does.

Although, you have gotten rather good at pretending.

Insegnante di Scuola jailed, charged in Manslaughter

Sordi Fellini, 32, was arrested at his home after Polizia Municipale di Palermo said he fled the scene of the 1:50 a.m. accident. Fellini, insegnante di lettere for Istituto Gonzaga, has been charged for driving while intoxicated, manslaughter, and leaving the scene of an accident involving a death.

Dead at the scene of the 1:50 a.m. wreck was Barolo Nero, 20.

The dried leaves crunch beneath your feet. The wind pulses against your legs, pressing your pleated skirt taut to your stocking-clad skin. There is a certain bitterness that comes with walking home from school, alone. The autumn air becomes more frigid. The journey, longer. The weight of textbooks in the bookbag slung across your back is far heavier.

More than anything, you miss Risotto. You are reminded of him every moment that you catch yourself staring, longingly, at his empty desk in each classroom. Though you consciously leave a seat open for him next to you at your lunch table, as if he might sit down at any moment, you know that it is for naught.

You were not invited to the funeral, because there never was one. Barolo was cremated and scattered along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Signore Fellini, your estranged literature teacher, has been stripped of his certification – not that a degree would do him any good in prison.

And Risotto disappeared.

His bicycle has become something of a centerpiece in your father’s workshop: a drying rack for freshly cleaned hand towels. Each night that you find yourself hovering over your father – who is typically hunched in his desk chair – to press a kiss to his cheek and summon him for a meal, the bicycle taunts you. It is the emblem of your missing friend.

Tonight, you do not enter the workshop. A detour to the park has set you three hours behind. Your mother greets you from her place at the kitchen sink with a worrying tone. You have missed dinner, though truthfully, you are not hungry. Her water-pruned hands reach for you, yet you bat her away and retreat to your bedroom. Homework assignments wait to be completed. You strip yourself of your uniform and settle for a nightgown.

The evening sky has not yet settled to dusk – the cicadas and katydids no longer sing, for summer has passed and taken everything else with her: the drought, the wilted flowers, and Risotto. Still you sleep, a hand clutched to your chest, as if the meager act of cupping your aching heart might alleviate the dull rhythm that pulsates through you, even while you dream of cigarettes and torn jeans.

And when you open your eyes, jostled awake by the rattling of the window, you know that he has come back, perhaps compelled by devotion. Or perhaps, after all this time, it is that he could no longer bare the self-driven deprival of your affection.

In your room, Risotto’s battered shoes sink into the plush carpet. You close the window and draw the blinds shut. His gaze falls to the record player, then to a neglected crafting toolbox – scattered laundry on the floor, a framed watercolor painting of lilies: everywhere except for you. Your mouth opens, but words fail you. The questions that you have wanted to ask no longer matter because he is here now.

As you study his face, you wonder if his cheeks were always this gaunt. His fists are clenched. You pull him into your arms, crossing a line that you have only ever fantasized of toeing. His hands raise to your spine after a moment of hesitation. Fingernails pry into the thin fabric of your nightgown – he grips you tightly, like he fears that you might drift away if he pulls back. You feel the quaking of his shoulders before his tears fall and collect against the crook of your neck, to pool in the cavity of your collarbone.

Vulnerability has never come easy for Risotto. He wears stoicism like a mask. But here in your room – the forbidden safe haven – he wills himself to let it go; it falls to the floor as you lead him to your bed and pull his clothed body flush against yours, beneath the shelter of a duvet and wrinkled sheets.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper into the dark. “I was so worried about you.”

His grip on you eases and he settles onto his back before he speaks: “I’m sorry.”

Your face falls. “Don’t apologize. I don’t want you to.” The mattress creaks. You lean against your bent elbow and watch him as he stares at the ceiling. You can practically hear the gears churning in his mind. He is begging for help, but he does not want it – he is drowning, yet he refuses the buoy. “You don’t have to talk about it right now,” you say, referring to Barolo’s death and consequently Risotto’s absence. “Just understand that I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

But he already knew that.

Your eighteenth winter hails no snowfall, but rather gentle rain. You clutch the steering wheel of your hand-me-down sedan, foot coaxing over the pedals. It had once belonged to your father, until your seventeenth birthday. The scenery blends and contorts through the windows and Risotto puffs on a cigarette, exhaling through his opened window. Softly, Christmas carols hum through the speakers. The noise of your tires grinding against the slick roads is muddling.

Midnight Mass was a blur. Tradition demanded your attendance, yet your thoughts wandered. You broke the bread with quivering hands and said your holy words to Mother Mary, fingers and palms conjoined ephemerally. When the bishop dismissed the clergy, you found Risotto in the crowds of embracing strangers and giddy children.

The car swerves into gravel. The scent of sea spray climbs to you. The waves crash against the sand just as the tide beckons them to. You have reached spiaggia di Capaci. The gingham blanket settles into the sand. You and Risotto take your respective positions, a considerable distance left between your bodies. You do not mind the early rain that peppers your face with mist.

Above your heads, the stars embellish the ethereal ink-black sky.

His thumb coaxes over the back of your hand, tracing the grooves between knuckles. Your breath hitches in your throat. It is unknown just how many times your hand has found its way into his grasp before. And yet, you shiver and flush because now it is different – because now, you are an eighteen-year-old woman in love with your childhood friend.

You crane your neck to face him, a question of his intent frozen on your tongue as his red irises meet your gaze. You are motionless, even when his stare falls to your parted lips. The chill that radiates from the ocean holds you in place.

Time stops as he speaks to you: the waves refrain from the shore – the steady drizzle eases – but your heart beats in a fury.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod and suddenly his lips slant over your own, which remind him fondly of a freshly split strawberry. He bites back the gasp that betrays your composure. He kisses you with such fervor that he pulls his hand away from yours and tethers it to the back of your head, his fingers lost in the matted mound of hair. Like a kitten starved for milk, you explore the caverns of his mouth, the taste of communion wine heavy on his breath.

You find his shifting grasp on your hip daunting. A knee threads between your legs, parting them. A heat pools within you – you grab the back of his neck and pull him closer, closer. You lean into him, keening, desperate for friction.

He toys with your clothed sex and swallows the adolescent moan that you choke on. The hand beneath your dress is cold; goosepimples rise over your tender skin. He separates his lips from yours and pulls back to admire, through half-lidded eyes, as you bite your cheek and squirm while his thumb hooks around your dampened panties. You lie beneath him – your hair splayed around your head like a halo and a red blush stained to your cheeks – and he thinks, utterly and truly, that you must be Persefone herself.

Risotto’s heart beats, faster still; a contender only to yours. You feel like you might die, blissful that it would be a winsome way to go – on a beach somewhere, echoed only by thoughts of the one you might have loved in time. But when his long finger brushes against your untouched folds and tethers you to your very core, you know that you cannot possibly be dead. He curls himself and retracts. You raise your hips to meet the fever of his palm, eager for the second finger that he has yet to add.

“Please, Ris,” you beg. “More – please.”

He obliges. It is not long before you feel the coil tighten within your lower abdomen – before you fall apart for him.

Through your stupor, you manage to grab his wrist to cease his movements. “We can’t do this here,” you airily insist. “My car –”

He pulls you to your feet. Your shaking legs have you fumbling over sand. The key jiggles in the lock of the backseat door. You shimmy over crinkling faux leather. Your dress falls to the carpeted flooring.

A shirtless Risotto takes in the sight of your naked form. A body once saved for marriage, now prepared for sacrilege. He utters your name and groans: “Voglio scoparti.”

“Per favore.”

He fills you, slowly. Knees bent and tucked beneath his weight; you cry out against the skin of his neck. With little time to adjust, he rocks into you. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, desperate to anchor yourself. Every thrust elicits a gasp from your swollen lips.

You grimace peevishly when Risotto slows his pace. “I can’t do this,” he mutters. “It’s not comfortable.”

He pulls himself out of your folds, only to flip you onto your stomach without a moment to spare. A hand finds its way to the back of your neck, effectively pinning you down onto the car seat. His other arm ensnares your waist and hoists your backend into the air. On bended knees, he enters you again, pounding with a burst of newfound energy and desire.

Condensation coats the windows. The pressure on your neck deprives your lungs; however, the mere thought of Risotto asserting such dominance over your bent form has you reeling towards the edge. Your fingers fly to your sensitive nub, tweaking the it in your own grasp. Your release washes over you, and you cum on his cock with a moan laced in ecstasy.

He finishes on your back, lacquer to your sweat-slicked skin. He rubs something soft against you. You realize, as sand particles fall to the car seat, that it is your blanket. Head flush to his chest, you listen to the thumping within his ribcage. A sigh passes through your lips and your eyes fall to his discarded wristwatch. It is just after 3:00 a.m. – in five hours, you will wake to the sound of your mother’s knuckles rapping against your bedroom door to join her and your father for breakfast before an onerous day of entertaining relatives. But for now, you will enjoy the solace of Risotto’s embrace.

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Bon Natali, Risotto.”

He grins, tired. It is enough to fill you with unadulterated love.

“Bon Natali, bella.”

The early days of the springtime bloom yield the first wave of tourists to Palermo for the season. Market vendors inflate their prices. Restaurants become far too crowded. The beaches – the sacred places – lose their luster as they become a haven for foreigners.

You do not mind the influx of strangers, for you have never found a reason not to. After all, no one comes to your city to gawk at Catholic school students.

The hand pressed to your bare backend feels limp. Even as you trail your finger over his chest, through patches of hair and young muscles, Risotto is unresponsive. Your lips brush against his clenched jaw – he flinches but does not relax. He is perturbed beyond question.

“Ris?” you begin, waiting for him to look at you. He does not. You frown. “Are you alright?”

A stiff nod is his response.

“Well, if that’s the case, can I ask you a something?”

Another nod.

"Would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night? You know – as in an actual date.”

"No.”

You sit up, tucking the blankets around your breasts. “Oh . . .” you trail off, suddenly self-conscious of the post-sex haze that lingers on the sheets. “Why not?”

Because I’ll be gone – he wants to say. The pair of crafting scissors that he once stole from you years ago, now tucked away within his backpack, is a nasty contemplation. “Because I don’t want to,” he huffs.

“Did I do something wrong? Are you embarrassed of me?”

No. “Yes.” He can feel the splitting of your heart – it feels just like his own.

“I don’t understand,” you insist. He reaches for his jeans, dressing in silence. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

“It’s easier than telling you the truth.” He shrugs on his jacket.

“What truth?”

I’m never coming back. “I’ve only been using you for sex, and now I’m bored – I never thought you were stupid enough to think that any of this was genuine. But I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You bring a hand up to catch the tear that rolls down your cheek. You wait for his rebuttal – for a smile, a shaking of his head, and an insistence that it was only a cruel jest taken too far. But the look in his eyes, that callous sneer, tells you that he is serious.

You will not cry for him – you will not beg him to stay. “Get out.” You choke over your words. The figs of your tree have shriveled and fallen to your feet, black as death itself. “Get out of my house.”

And so, he leaves you beneath the barren tree you once thought to have planted together. Springtime has left a sour taste in your mouth, after all.

Sordi Fellini Dead in Suicide at Jail, Spurring Inquiries

Signore Fellini, the insegnante di lettere sentenced for his convicted manslaughter of Barolo Nero in 1988, was not under suicide watch at the time of his death.

Signore Fellini was found around 6:30 a.m mercoledì mattina. He posted bail seventeen hours before his alleged demise.

On la Costa Smeralda, echoed only by thoughts of the one he loved a decade ago, Risotto Nero basks atop bloodied sand, dying. A crushed carton of cigarettes lies beyond the reach of his severed hand. The phantom pangs of adolescence remind him of you.

Years of schooling under the scrutiny of god’s eye have turned him away from religion: he was a deist and nothing more. Still, the silent prayer on his lips pleads that he might see you once more – to beseech your absolution, though he knows that he does not deserve it. To prove his fidelity. To give you the life you have always been so deserving of.

No, Risotto was never a religious man. But he worshipped the very ground you walked on. You were his savior – and he denied you like a disciple driven by guile.

The lump in his throat elicits a painful cough; a blade to his esophagus. He recognizes his folly far better than any man. How differently might things have turned out if he had just stayed by your side – if he had agreed to go on your silly little date; if he had never snuck his way into Fellini’s prison cell to slit the wrists of the man who bequeathed to him an unending grudge; if he had never found Passione.

He might have been a husband, if you would have wanted to marry him. He might have been a father, if you were so inclined to become a mother. He never knew your thoughts of the future because he had never asked.

He might have been anything other than a broken, dead man who has lost everything.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath his weight. He grips the rusted chains and digs his feet into the dried woodchips. A katydid crawls over the mulch next to his sneakers and chirps; Risotto brings the sole of his shoe over the mating insect, ready to squish it.

A pair of Mary Jane’s comes into his view. He leaves the katydid be, which resumes its path to the second katydid beneath the opposite swing. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts through the air.

He meets your gaze. You smile and take your seat in the swing above the female katydid. The cigarette slips from your fingers to his. Hot to the touch, he brings it to his lips and breathes in.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows have become your ghosts.

| 3869 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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unpack-my-heart · 3 years

Text

from out of nowhere (you came strong as stone)

This is the first story I’ve written since ... fuck knows when. It’s short, bittersweet, and I hope you enjoy it.

The summer that had taken too long to arrive ended on a sticky, sweat-slow September morning. Richie lay beached on his sea-foam bed covers, counting his breaths,

in and out,

His mother hasn’t seen the inside of his room since mid-April, and since then, the floor had become littered with the remains of food devoured long ago, a graveyard of chip packets and half-eaten candy bars grown furry with neglect. He’d lived the last few months in relative solitude, Diogenes in his barrel, his only reassurance the inevitability that this too shall pass. The days had gelled together into a gelatinous clump of anxiety-infused monotony, a self-imposed isolation that had Richie desperately wishing that he’d tried harder at school from the beginning of his senior year.

Like the stem of a plant locked in darkness, Richie’s skin, blue-veined and sun-parched, twisted and turned on his bones, sunflower seed freckles waiting under his skin, waiting to be called to the surface by Helios himself. He’d spent day after day after night after night with his nose buried deep into various textbooks on subjects he couldn’t pretend to find interesting anymore, until, one afternoon, he was done. It was all rather anti-climactic, the walk from the exam hall to his car, the sun waving frantically at him from behind the thin icing-sugar dusting of cloud in the sky, you’re done, you’re free, your life is your own! Richie had pulled his prescription sunglasses down over his eyes, and climbed into his rust-bucket Ford, leaving the sun hanging bloated and ignored in the sky.

And now, as he lay on his bed, legs stuck in the air, parallel to the wall upon which they rested, all Richie could do was count his breaths and wait for Eddie to arrive.

Most of Richie’s life had passed him by as he waited for Eddie. When they were children, knee high to grasshoppers and twice as bouncy, he’d waited at Eddie’s house, hopping from foot to tiny foot, waiting for Sonia to baptise her son in sun-cream, waiting for the moment that Eddie would finally emerge from the dark, womby house, a thick film of white cream on his face, a sticky-sweet toothy grin. When they were middle-schoolers, Richie would wait for Eddie at the arcade, feeding quarters into the greedy machines as quickly as he could, trying desperately to stall for time, to hog the machines until Eddie would arrive, face crimson and knees knocking awkwardly as he walked, his long overdue growth-spurt still clinging to his bones.

Read the rest under the cut or on AO3

And so, now they’d finished high school, emerged not quite boys but still not men, Richie was still waiting. He spent the summer waiting for Eddie to finish his summer homework so they could go and watch the kingfishers dancing in the reeds at the barrens. He waited for Eddie to finish work at the library, standing in the parking lot, the August air wrapping itself around him, tickling his sunburnt skin. He waited for Eddie to open his window, witching-hour late, so he could clamber through and wrap himself around Eddie, terrified Tetris-pieces clutching at each other after nightmares, hoping that they were each braver than each other.

It's been nearly two hours since Eddie got out of church. The image of Eddie, knelt on the floor of St Benedict’s, hands clasped tight, so tight, eyes screwed shut, set Richie’s stomach alight, a forest-fire, destructive, lethal. The image floated in Richie’s brain for a while, Eddie knelt on the cold, stone floor of the church, Eddie knelt in the shower, rivers of water flowing across the parched plain of his back, Eddie knelt on Richie’s grimy carpet. So fucking dirty.

Richie grabbed his half-interested dick, squeezing it just so, just enough, a whisper of friction. Half-interest turned sailed straight to undevoted attention, and Richie sighed. The air was too hot, stifling, judgemental, and his hands were already damp with sweat. Sliding off the bed with a grunt, Richie slunk into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Another hour passed, and Richie was still waiting. The worst of the heat had gone, had sunk into the scorched grass, and the sounds of midsummer started floating back through Richie’s open window as people emerged from their houses. Children, screaming in delight, having wriggled free from the desperate clutches of their parents who stood, sunblock in hand, defeated. He’d run the water in the shower as cold as it would go, but it hadn’t been of much use. He’d come, gasping, face red with embarrassment and the release of a tension that had sat coiled in his abdomen for what felt like forever.

They’d spoken about it once.

They’d been at the library, Richie browsing the fiction shelves blindly, fingers skating over the spines of books he never had any intention of reading. They’d walked home together, an unspoken arrangement, and Eddie followed Richie up past the old well house on Neibolt street, and didn’t turn down the dusty track. They barely spoke as they walked, and Eddie kicked an old glass beer bottle all the way to Richie’s street, before sending it skittering into the undergrowth.

“Have you ever –”

The question died in Richie’s mouth before he’d realised he’d been half way to asking it. Eddie looked up from where he was lying.

“Huh?”

“Aw,” Richie started, throwing the elastic band ball he’d been working on at the wall, “never mind, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“No, come on, you can’t do that. Have I ever what?”

“It really doesn’t matter, Eds.”

thunk, thunk, thunk went the ball against the wall, a rhythmic heartbeat.

“I’ll fucking garotte you, Richie. Have I ever what?”

thunk

“Are you going to let this go?”

thunk

“We both know the answer to that question.”

thunk, thunk –

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like …”

Eddie stared at him, slack-jawed, almost bored.

“What it’s like to what?! Stop being so cryptic, you’re not smart enough to pull it off.”

“What it’s like to suck someone off, like … a dude?”

Richie expected Eddie to react in one of three ways. One, to punch Richie on the nose and flee from the Tozier house never to return again. Two, to admit that yes, he had wondered what it’s like to suck someone off, why, isn’t Richie very perceptive for asking such a question. Three, to shrug his shoulders, all ‘nope, never have, never will, now stop fucking pining after me’.

Instead, Eddie just blinked.

“You’re killing me here, Eds. Are you gonna say something?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What is there to think about?” Richie babbled, motormouth running at full speed, max-fucking-horsepower, “it was a dumb question, just a joke. A classic Richie jest, heh. Don’t sweat your pretty little head about it any longer –”

“I’ve thought about it.”

Blink.

“Do you want to go and see whether Bev’s finished her shift? I fancy getting out of here, s’too fucking cold in your house,” Eddie yawned, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.

And that was that.

After that day, they never sat down and had a conversation about why they look at each other for slightly too long, eyes meeting over shitty diner coffee at two in the morning after an evening of tomfoolery in Mike’s barn. They never acknowledged that, when they walk home together after leaving the diner, six dollars left in a neat pile on the edge of the table, Richie would grab Eddie’s hand, and hold on tight, fingernails digging in, just scarcely, just enough. If Eddie thought it was weird, thought that Richie had a screw-loose and needed tightening, he didn’t mention it, he just rested his hand in Richie’s vice grip, barely holding on himself, but he didn’t need to. Richie had him.

They never acknowledged that when they said goodbye, Richie would duck down, face hovering next to Eddie’s, and he’d kiss the soft spot behind Eddie’s ear, a secret pressed into Eddie’s skin.

Eddie showed up close to midnight, when the sun had been chased across the sky by the moon which shone brilliantly in the sky.

[Eds: 23:42: are you gonna let me in?]

[Eds: 23:42: i brought you something]

[Eds: 23:43: seriously trashmouth this branch doesn’t feel like it’ll hold forever]

[Eds: 23:44: OPEN YOUR FUCKING WINDOW]

The window was barely half open when Eddie tumbled through it, limbs knocking together awkwardly. He’d had a growth spurt last year, shot up several inches in one summer, and Richie often found himself staring at the criss-cross silver slithers across his back when they went swimming at the quarry. Eddie hated them and had spent ages on the internet looking up remedies for stretchmarks, had even gone to the doctor, convinced that he’d need a skin graft, but Richie loved them, wanted to trace them with his tongue.

“I wish you’d let me use your door like a normal fucking person, asshole,” Eddie groaned, rubbing his elbow where it had fought with the sharp edge of Richie’s desk and lost.

“You really think Went would let that slide? Anyway, you’re a fucking liar if you don’t find this way more romantic.”

“Romantic?”

“Yup, romantic.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Eddie was right, of course. Richie was a fucking idiot, with his heart glued messily to his sleeve.

“Here,” Eddie says, thrusting a small, wrapped package at Richie’s chest. His face has gone an odd colour, almost the colour of the marshmallows Richie’s mother decorated her apology hot chocolates with. “Just, don’t say anything until you’ve opened it, okay?”

The package was wrapped in newspaper,

‘the senator staunchly denies the accusations of …’

‘the next few days will be mostly dry, with the occasional …’

‘Mick Jagger, 77, has been caught with …’

“Stop reading the fucking wrapping paper, Jesus Richie,” Eddie snaps, and Richie looks up.

Eddie’s standing in the middle of Richie’s room, and he looks … panicked. Not the sort of panic that Richie is so used to seeing painted on Eddie’s face, panic that his mother will find out he’s snuck out of the house, panic he’s flunked a test, panic he’ll be late for his shift, panic he got some of Richie’s spit on his face when they’ve laughed with heads bowed close together. This panic, this is different.

“Eddie…” Richie warns, voice low, gravelly. “What is it?”

“Just … open it,” Eddie says, and there’s no bite, no sarcastic-witty-‘shut-the-fuck-up-Richie’-Eddieness. Richie doesn’t recognise the look on his face, can’t match it to the bank of Eddie expressions he keeps in his mind.

The paper comes away easily, and Richie’s left clutching a blank CD in a clear case.

“A CD?”

Eddie rubs the back of his neck with his hand, still not looking at Richie straight.

“Yeah, it’s … I thought about just sending you a link to a Spotify playlist but this … it felt more real.”

“Real? Eddie …”

Eddie shakes his head. “Shut up, okay. Just … listen to it. When I’ve gone, listen to it.”

The room feels smaller. The memories of them sitting here, playing video games on Richie’s dads old gamecube when they were seven, of watching horror movies about killer clowns and monstrous body snatchers when they were thirteen and Eddie would shriek loudly into Richie’s shoulder before punching him, of sitting and staring at the walls, a joint balanced precariously between Richie’s lips, Eddie bobbing his head along to Chris Cornell’s voice seeping out of Richie’s shitty speakers, the memories pushed at Richie’s arms, at his legs, squashing him. The room felt smaller, and Eddie, standing there, with his ridiculous determined expression and a set jaw, felt huge.

“Uh..,” Richie stammered, dumbly, staring at the CD in his hands.

“I’m gonna go now, okay? I think … I think it’s best if I go now. Text me, when you’ve listened to it. Text me and … yeah. Listen to it when I’ve gone?”

Before Richie could answer, before he could look at Eddie in the face, the room was empty.

Richie threw the CD on his bed, staring at it as if it might grow legs, arms, a mouth – as if it might speak to him, “this is what you think it is! It can’t be anything but this! Listen to me and find out! It’s what you always wanted!”

Richie stared at it. The insignificant chunk of plastic lying on his bed innocently, provocatively, as if it didn’t contain the secrets of the universe, as if it didn’t have the capacity to change Richie’s life in several short yet monumentally significant minutes. He’s almost sure he won’t’ listen to it. He grabs at it gingerly, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it’ll burn him, as if it’s something disgusting. He drops it in his overflowing waste bin, before marching out of the room, and down the stairs. The house is silent, and Richie stands in the sitting room, unsure what to do now.

Half of him wants to throw open the front door, and hot foot it to Eddie’s house, clamber in through the downstairs bathroom window that never shuts properly, tiptoe past Sonia passed out on her La-Z-Boy, pin Eddie against the wall of his immaculate bedroom, and demand that Eddie take it back. He wants to thrust the CD at Eddie, wrapped in the stupid newspaper, and leave. Pretend it never happened. It would be easier this way, nothing would have to change. They could go back to stolen glances across the room, clasped hands on intoxicated walks, dry presses of mouths to secret spots that no one else knew about. Easier.

The other half of him screams at him, begs him, to dig the CD out of the bin, to scrape the pencil shavings and the toenails off of it, and to put it in his Walkman, and to listen to what Eddie had to say. Hell, it might not even be what Richie thinks (hopes, dreams, dreads) it might be, it might be something mundane, a new album Eddie has found online, a new artist he thinks Richie will like, a recording of his new, perhaps ill-advised, stand-up comedy routine, and …

Not an expression of undying love, a token of affection, a symbol of everything Richie means to Eddie …

Wrapped up in a neat little plastic bomb that threatens to detonate and lodge shrapnel in Richie’s, till now, carefully-guarded heart.

Shit.

Most of Richie’s life had passed him by as he waited for Eddie. Only now, on this sweat-sticky summer night, Eddie waits for Richie. Impatiently.

[Eds: 01:54: have you listened to it?]

[Eds: 02:13: this isn’t fucking funny]

[Eds: 02:43: Rich?]

[Eds: 04:20: im sorry]

The sun filters in through the living room window, reborn. Richie’s still sitting on the sofa, head in his hands.

[Eds: 05:12: Richie seriously]

[Eds: 05:45: listen to track 3 again]

Track 3. Richie hasn’t listened to track 1, the CD is still lying in the waste bin, rejected, a grenade with the pin still intact, but waiting, ready, willing. It feels inevitable, really. Richie knows that, eventually, whether today, tomorrow, next year, thirty years from now, he’ll listen to that CD and he’ll run to Eddie. He’ll run, and it’ll all be different, the kind of different that sends electric-shock excitement shooting down Richie’s spine, and anticipation collects in his pores, seeping, oozing, unstoppable. It’ll be different. Richie needs, craves, different.

But, and it’s a huge, omnipresent but, they can’t go back from different. They can’t decide that actually, things were better the way they were, let’s stop being different and go back to what came before. Different is permanent, a deep gash that scars but doesn’t disappear, a tectonic shift, Atlas shifting his grip on the world, never again to place his hands exactly where they were before.

Whether it’s worth it, to take a punt on different, to screw his eyes closed and hope for the best, to jump into the void and hope it catches him with velvet-plush arms, Richie doesn’t know.

His phone buzzes, a long, prolonged clattering against the wooden coffee table.

[incoming call from: Eds]

Richie ignores the phone.

He sleeps the day away, a sleep that doesn’t quench his thirst for oblivion as he dreams vividly, dreams of difference and soft hands and eyes that roll and squint and of premature laughter lines etched on soft, youthful skin.

When Richie wakes up, it’s dark. He has 17 missed calls, and two texts.

[Eds: 14:52: don’t freak out, okay. I made that tape because I can’t bear the thought of you going off to college and of being such a fucking coward that I’d let you go without telling you. I’m sorry if it’s all weird now, but at least I’ve been honest with you. If you don’t feel the same, it’s fine, honestly. It’ll stop being weird eventually.]

[Eds: 17:19: I’m still coming to wave you off tomorrow, just FYI]

Ah. Tomorrow. The day Richie bundles himself into his father’s Subaru and leaves Maine for Chicago, the Windy City, the city that never sleeps, the city that Eddie won’t be in. Ay, there’s the rub.

Leaving Eddie behind as they are now, friends, best friends, best friends who look at each other for too long and hold hands in the dark, feels like a sucker punch that Richie can never recover from. Leaving Eddie behind as something different …

It’s half past eight and the CD is still in the bin, but now, Richie is in his bedroom, staring at it, daring it,

Make it different.

It takes him two hours to pluck up the courage to dig the CD out of the bin and put it in his Walkman. Another thirty to press play. He skips straight to track 3, fingers shaking.

You have always been my safe home I walk, I run, I burn out into you You have always been my safe home My whole world has moved on

Fuck.

Immediately, different settles over Richie like a thick smog. As soon as the song stops, before he’s even spoken to Eddie, it’s different. He can feel it, taste it, touch it in the air. And, as if he knows, as if he’s watching Richie at that very moment, Eddie texts.

[Eds: 11:13: I love you]

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #eddie kaspbrak x richie tozier #richie tozier #it fandom #it 2017 #it 2019 #fanfic #thefutureisbright #my writing

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ourplaceinthecosmosphff · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1. The Case Against Fairytales

'his eyes across a room tangled up in her imagination they had spent a lifetime together by the time he said hello' atticus

My brother died the same way he came into the world: silent, eyes closed, changing my life as I knew it.

We spent our whole lives trying to convince anyone we could that we were as regular as they were, but here's the first fundamentally different thing when you are royal: the meaning of the word ‘everyone’.

In our case, we usually mean anyone in the country, most of the international media, and at least a sizeable majority of the world's population. It's not that everyone knew us... it's just that enough people did. Enough for it to be easier to call them 'everyone'.

When my brother Louis was born, mom had been rushed to the hospital in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. The press was notified, they promptly set up camp at the hospital entrance, and the people started prayer campaigns to the safe arrival of their new prince and heir. Everyone rejoiced at his arrival. I remember, I was there.

At three years-old, it felt like everyone was every single person in the planet. It was mostly just the people in our country; to everyone else, his birth was a quick, short line of announcement, maybe some notice to the fact that the newborn baby boy was taking his older sister's place as heir, and not much else.

When he died, everyone was every single person in the planet. The second thing fundamentally different when you are a royal: from a very early age you must learn that tragedy sells more than joy. And in any constitutional monarchy country, a royal family is merely another commodity.

A few people talked about my early graduation from University. A lot more people talked about my boyfriend breaking up with me. There were a few articles about my little sister's victory at the ice-skating junior final. When she fell on her face in front of the cameras while attempting a risky move, she went viral. When my brother came into our lives, a few people took notice.

When he left us, everyone did.

---- ---- ---- ----

I, too, am a victim of culture appropriation. Since the dawn of time, from the moment humankind developed communication skills, there has been storytelling. And for the past few thousands of years most stories that parents tell their young as they tuck them into their blankets every night, have been about my culture. As far as that goes, it is not the most damaging kind of culture appropriation. But I have a duty today, and I will not shy away from it. I am sorry to say I must, and will, shatter the beautiful image of fairytales that kids have been fed for so many years now.

I know what you are thinking – oh, boo-hoo, the poor little princess girl; is life too difficult in your beautiful palace with all the money a person could ever need? And yes, I know. I am not a victim. The same colonialism that placed my ancestors, and therefore, me, in the position of privilege and power I am in today has created many more actual victims around the world. But that is also why I must tell this story the way it was always meant to be told: truthfully. With all the weird, awkward, awful, bits and pieces that fairytales tend to skip.

Fairytales would, for instance, skip straight to the grand, majestic welcome ceremony between the Queen of the United Kingdom and the King of Savoy in a sun floored courtyard with guards on tall, furry black hats strutting around, standing in a red-carpeted dais, with a handsome prince making eyes at me. But in my story, we will start with the train.

That’s right, in modern fairytales you don’t take a lovely carriage ride to a neighboring kingdom. You take a train there – a commercial train, if you can, because modern times beg for demonstrating to the masses that the Monarch isn’t throwing money around. We were trying to highlight the easy routes of access to our neighbors to the northeast, and so we took the ferry across the Celtic Sea to Hugh Town Island and from there, Eurostar number 2 train that made a quick stop in Penzance, UK, and then went straight to London.

The train ride isn’t comfortable – even if you have a first class private car. It’s bumpy and crowded and a terrible place to spend three straight hours. On that particular morning, I was in our car with my father, his household secretary Auguste, my private aide, Cadie, and a few other staff members.

In fairytale world, when a princess does not look the part, there is usually the appearance of a fairy godmother who sings a nice song and magically transforms her into a Proper Princess™. There is no fairy godmothers when you are a real princess- real ones, sure, but they are not magical-, but you do learn from an early age what a Proper Princess™ should look like, act like, and sound like, and god forbid you don't.

In the train that day, I heard all that was keeping me from being Proper™ from Auguste, who was in many ways the exact opposite of a fairy godmother. He had all the menacing authority of one, with none of the charm. He also didn’t have wings or a sparkly wand; he had greying short hair, and thin, small, reading glasses that he always pushed down to the tip of his nose to look above, which made me wonder what was the point of the glasses at all.

Before our arrival, I had to change my lipstick, which was too dark, my dress, which was too short at the daring height of above my knees, my shoes, which were open toed and therefore wrong, and finally, make sure to brush my hair once more.

My parents never subscribed to the idea that we were forbidden to do anything. They were raised on stern rules and heavily traditional costumes and wanted their kids to live more freely. So, growing up, they revolutionarily told us that we were free to be whoever we wanted to be – in private. In public, we had an obligation to be Proper™. After all, as I heard repeatedly growing up: royals don’t make mistakes, we make history; and history remembers.

So, yes. I, a grown, 25 years-old, law-school graduate, bar-approved acquisitions lawyer, changed out of my dress into a more proper one because my dad asked. Because as a princess, you’re never just yourself; you’re the country. And if your country comes from a Roman Catholic tradition, your hemlines must reflect that, no matter what century it is.

The country in question was just to the south of the United Kingdom, west of France, a large island named Savoie. The English call it Savoy, which is how it was pronounced anyway. It was originally populated by the Irish, but over the years it was conquered by the English, the Spanish, and the Portuguese until finally, in the 13th Century, it was conquered by France. It was bigger than Ireland, but smaller than England, and one of the biggest GDPs in the world, with a population of 49 million. Under the reign of Louis XV, however, France lost most of its possessions after its defeat in the Seven Years' War, and to secure Savoy, the king sent part of the court to live there and to reign in his stead as his emissaries. Louis XV's reign grew weak, including his ill-advised financial, political and military decisions, which discredited the monarchy and arguably led to the French Revolution 15 years after his death. France dealt with its dissatisfaction by revolting, Savoy however, secluded away at sea, decided to declare independence before the Revolution had even taken steam. The political leaders of the Island reached an agreement with the king's emissary, Prince Louis, the highest ranking monarch on the island; in exchange for support for the severance of all connection to France, he was then made King Louis I of Savoy. The Royal House of Savoy grew steady and strong by protecting its people and assuring them a freer, better life than the one they'd known under French reign.

A few years later, I sat on that train in front of the current King of Savoy. My father.

“You look beautiful, Maggie.”

“Thank you.”

“The other dress was beautiful as well. Just not for today.”

“Mm-hm.”

A moment of silence went by. I picked up my phone and checked my emails. There was one from Sophie with the subject ‘urgent!’ so I clicked in it feeling my heart race.

It read,

‘Marie, I’m sorry to bother you on your days off, but the depositions got moved up to Monday and we can’t find the notes on the manager deposition, you were the one who did them. Is there any chance you have a copy and if so can you send them to me? Enjoy England! XO Soph’

Sighing, I put down my phone and quickly found my laptop on my suitcase. I turned it on as I replied to Sophie’s email to tell her to expect my deposition notes shortly.

“You know if we could I’d let you wear whatever you wanted.” Dad added as I logged into my computer.

“I do.”

I moved quickly through my folders realizing the most recent update on my notes hadn’t been uploaded to the cloud. Sighing, I logged on to the train WiFi and checked the storage service online. It didn’t connect.

“Honestly, darling, you look even prettier with this dress.”

I looked up, mentally wondering if the previous versions of the notes would be useful.

“This isn’t about the dress.”

I realized, then, that it wouldn’t matter anyway because I wouldn’t be able to send them to Sophie without internet. I looked out the window, realizing perhaps too late that we were in the tunnel, underwater. Of course there wasn’t internet.

“Well, what is it about?” Dad asked, putting his book marker back inside the page he was on and laying down the book to give me his full attention.

“Work, papa. I have a job.”

“Yes, and it’s your day off. Maybe you should try and turn off from work for the next few days?”

I smiled down to my computer, “maybe this is a conversation for another time.”

Dad adjusted his posture, looking a little taller, and looked around the room to Cadie and Auguste sitting in a booth nearby with our private hair and make-up artist, and dad’s footman, and personal aide.

“Excuse me, everyone, would you be so kind as to give us the room? Or, uh, the car? There is a little lounge outside, isn’t there?”

“Of course, sir.” Auguste said, jumping up immediately with the aide, and Cadie and Cass, the make-up artist, followed.

After they had left and closed the door behind them, I looked at my father. He lurched back in his seat and smiled at me.

“Go on,” he said. “If you don’t scream I don’t think they’ll hear us.”

“Why would I scream?”

“I don’t know, Maggie. But I don’t know why you would be so passive aggressive, either. Can you tell me?”

“What do you want, dad?”

In truth, I added the ‘dad’ at the end of the sentence to make it sound less aggressive, but as he stared at me, I felt uncomfortable not explaining myself.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”, I asked, tiredly. “I’m here, wearing a proper, long, not-slutty dress-“

“No one here used that word-“

“My toes will be perfectly hidden away when we arrive, I have hidden my ugly, evil legs under some stockings-“

“Really, Maggie, no one said your legs were-“

“My make-up is light and my hair is simple and non-threatening. I know not to smile too much or too little and to let the adults lead the conversation”, I said, the word ‘adults’ dangling bitterly from me lips. “And not to walk ahead of you, but always behind, taking your lead.”

“You make it sound so stiff and calculated.”

“And I have taken time off of work to be here.” I said. “All other Junior Associates are working overtime and through weekends to cash in as many billable hours as possible to be promoted to Full-time Associates, and instead I took off four days to travel with my dad.”

“Work, for work!”

“So, again, what do you want? How else am I not meeting your expectations?”

I spoke calmly, gently, and as low a volume as I could just to confront his joke not a minute before about how if I didn’t scream the others wouldn’t hear us. I made sure to be as poised and contained as I could. He heaved a sigh.

“I’m sorry you had to take time off work.”

I waited, as he stared in his usual lovingly, patient way. I smiled, more as a peace offering than genuinely.

“You know very well they won’t fire you.”

Still, I was quiet, smiling as sincerely as I could.

“And I know that isn’t fair, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So tell me something I can do and I will.”

“Okay.” I said, nodding. “I want your honesty. Don’t treat me like a child you need to protect, don’t patronize me. All I want is an honest answer.”

He adjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat. “Alright. Go on.”

“Why am I here, papa?”

He blinked, seemingly confused. I could tell he expected a harder question.

“Your- Because your mother sprained her ankle?” he answered, still unsure. “What- do you mean philosophically? Why are any of us here, really? I don’t understand.”

I tried not to smile. “I mean I have a life. I am not your heir. Louis is your heir, it is his job to help you when mom has emergencies.”

He sighed deeply, finally arriving at the same page where I was.

“Your brother is in school.” He said. “And you are our oldest child. So, I’m sorry if it disrupts your life, Maggie. But you are needed.”

“And after school?” I asked “His graduation is in 6 months. Are you telling me that after he graduates university and moves back home, when he is starting his career, maybe moving to the capital, when you and mom have an emergency, you will call him up instead of me?”

He gave the table a sad smile. “If that is your wish, yes.”

“So that’s all, then?” I confirmed, suspiciously. “He moves back after graduation and you will give me the space I need?”

He smiled. “Is that what you want, then?” it wasn’t a confirmation. It was a tone of accomplishment. Of finally realizing what was it that I wanted, as if this entire conversation that’s what he had been trying to find out.

“I went to school for years. I interned for a year. I studied hard for the bar exams in America and Savoy. Yes, dad, I want to use the degree I worked hard for.”

“Okay, then. We will give you space.” He said. “Space from us, to be who you want to be. To be normal.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling, slightly amused at his dramatics. “That is not what I meant.”

“But it is accurate.”

“Papa...” I sighed.

“I’m just saying, sweetheart, I understand.” He insisted. “It’s why you went to America for University, it’s why you are based on the capital now. As long as you’re too close to us, you can’t live a normal life.”

“I can never live a normal life. We are not normal.”

“But you wish to try.”

I chuckled. “How?! You said it yourself, they will never fire me. My firm, I mean. Wherever I am, I am never just me and my degree and my career. People look at me and see you, as if I am you. I am their King. I am the Royal Family of Savoy. They’ll never take me seriously or afford me the same opportunities as everyone, because I am not everyone.”

He nodded, slowly, then sighed. “Yikes. You’re right. That sounds tough.”

“And I’m the passive aggressive one?”

“Job security and the attention of your bosses. That sounds awful.”

“Papa...”

“You want the space to dedicate yourself to your career without us pulling you away for royal work. Is that it? Okay. You got it. As soon as your brother is back from University, I will make sure you’re only needed for official events, and only if you’re not working.”

He sounded serious now. Sincere as when he delivered the End of Year address every Christmas, which was meaningful. Getting dad to afford me the same seriousness he afforded his subjects was as much seriousness as I could get from him. Still, there was no mistaking the sadness in his eyes.

“Even before his affirmation ceremony?” I asked, trying to sniff around for a trick.

The affirmation ceremony was meant to make clear to the country that an heir to throne had the seal of approval of the Monarch, and it usually happened when the heir was 21 years of age, to signify the Monarch believed in the event of a tragedy, the heir was ready to rule. In modern times, it meant an heir was ready to start working as a full-time royal. Though my brother was 22, the family had decided to wait until he had graduated university to do his ceremony.

Dad took longer than I wished, but finally, he nodded. “Yes. I promise.”

If you’re paying attention, then you might have noticed the math doesn’t add up. How come my 22 years-old brother is the heir when I said I am 25, the oldest child? Well, as with most fairytales, as well as with most of life, the problem is the patriarchy. For the thing is, though I was older than Louis by three years, because I was born a girl, he became the heir when he was born. So, at three, I went from future-Queen to lower ranking older sister.

It wasn’t unusual, my father himself had two older sisters who were lower than him and his brothers in the line of succession. As a result we had older cousins who we outranked. I cared about all this at 25 the same as when I was 3: not at all.

Absolute primogeniture law was passed in Savoy when I was 5, propelled by my birth and the new times. It was, however, not retroactive. This meant the law was changed for future births, not past ones, so all girls born after the law came into effect would be heirs in their own right, no matter how many brothers they got after, and all girls born before would go into history as having missed it by ‘just a bit’.

Louis and I, though, didn’t sit around having long discussions about who would be a better ruler. There has never been an instance in which we were arguing and I yelled something like, “first you stole my throne and now you stole my cookies! I hate you!”. For us this was just a little footnote in the family tree. A little fun fact to tell our future kids one day. And although I couldn’t remember what it felt like, I always knew it was much better not having to be the Crown Princess of Savoy.

---- ---- ---- ----

When we finally reached Penzance, the small town in the tip of the isle of England where sat the second Eurostar station, I was able to finally connect to the internet. My father left our train car to walk about with his security because he wanted to witness the new English policy of installing a check-point at the entry due to the immigrant crisis – a huge part of why we were there. While he did that, I sent Sophie my notes on the deposition, and answered some messages.

There was one from Louis, my aforementioned brother:

‘are you close?’

And one from our baby sister, Lourdes:

‘what do you think??!!!!!!!!’, with an attachment of two videos.

And, lastly, one from my mother, Her Majesty Queen Amelie-Elyse, back home with a sprained ankle.

‘Hope all is well! Let me know when you’re with your brother. Don’t forget to let your hair down before leaving the train!’

She didn’t mean it in a philosophical, have fun kind of way. She literally meant let my hair down, apparently it softened my features.

I replied to her with a selfie, with my hair properly brushed and down, in preparation for the arrival in London, which was close now. Let Louis know we were almost there. And sent a quick, uncommitted ‘woah!’ to my sister, without opening her attachments. They were always the same: videos of her practicing. There was only so much ice skating I could watch in a lifetime.

My mom answered my text with, “why did you change your dress?!”

I sighed, getting ready to justify this decision as well, already anticipating she would argue that the fascinator wouldn’t go with this one dress, so I told her I already had another fascinator standing by.

Growing up with fairytales they don’t tell you about the little annoying details. Characters who are annoying usually are the villains, the ones the Princess escapes from, usually saved by the prince. They don’t tell you sometimes, actually a lot of the times, the people you love can be equally as annoying.

---- ---- ---- ----

When we arrived at the station in London, I was already wearing my disc fascinator in a light shade of blue matching both my lace dress, this time reaching all the way to my ankles, and eyes. We were quickly greeted by the Savoyen Ambassador to England in front of the press, and escorted into government cars towards Whitehall.

The large parade ground was a traditional courtyard in central London that usually housed ceremonies related to the military and the royal family. When we arrived, the day finally was washed in a feeling of ceremony.

The place was lined neatly with military guards, security barricades and the Scotland Yard Police kept watchers and paparazzi at bay, the press lined up inside to have the best view of all involved. As we arrived, the traditional 41 gun salute was already sounding on. A military band was playing. People waved and yelled hello as we drove inside. I suddenly knew what to do, as if my body had the gene for it. This was one thing that was definitely genetic.

I stepped out of the car delicately, smoothly, knees together like a proper lady, polite smile on my lips in thanks to the guard who saluted as I left. My father greeted a handler who escorted us to the front of all the lined guards, where three structures had been set up: one large one in the middle, with a red-carpeted stage and a large roof, the British Royal Coat of Arms in the center with the British flag to its right and the Savoy flag to its left. Decorative flowers and elegant plants here and there. Two smaller, simpler structures to both of its sides. Inside all of them, men and women in formal suits and ties and knee-length, appropriate dresses and hats.

We walked the grovel path to the larger structure as the band played and the press, lined up in front of this platform, took their photographs. My father climbed the steps first, quickly being received by the small, elder, lady in a lavender overcoat and matching hat, impressive set of pearls dangling from her neck. She smiled as he lowered himself down to kiss both her cheeks warmly.

The queen then looked at me and I approached, just as our handler told Her Majesty:

“And may I present, Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie-Margueritte of Savoy.”

I lowered myself in a curtsy, and as she extended her hands to hold mine, I also kissed her cheeks, trying to avoid knocking her hat with mine.

“Welcome.” She smiled. “I hope the ride was forgiving.”

“Very comfortable.” My father told her. “Always surprising how fast it is.”

“Yes. You’ll remember, I’m sure, the Prince of Wales.” She said, walking us to the center of the platform where another two men awaited.

My father and the Prince of Wales greeted each other warmly, they were more used to running in the same circles – royal weddings here and there, international summits and meetings, or whatever it is they do.

“We’re so glad to have you.” He told my father.

“I don’t know if you’ve met my daughter, Princess Marie-Margueritte.”

Smiling, I curtsied to the Prince of Wales as he held my hand, before kissing my cheeks.

“You brighten this day, Your Royal Highness.” He told me, before stepping closer to add, in a whisper. “Sorry you have been dragged to this.”

I giggled, “I’m happy to be here, sir.”

Straightening up, he noticed my father was already greeting the man behind him. “Hopefully we won’t bore you too much. I have tried to bring someone else closer to your age. Have you met my son?”

The handler didn’t know it, but there were no introductions necessary. And yet, all I could do was smile politely as we were introduced to:

“His Royal Highness, Prince Harry of Wales.”

I wondered, for a moment, if he would acknowledge that we already knew each other.

“It’s a pleasure, Your Royal Highness.” Holding my hand in his, he brought my knuckles to his lips.

The answer was, obviously, no. So I lowered myself again in a curtsy as an excuse to avert my eyes from his.

I couldn’t understand why, but I had been unprepared for him. With all of Auguste’s preparation, all the briefings, with all the preachings about my appearance, no one had prepared me for him. I don’t know if it was that, like me, he was one of the youngest there, or how absurdly, almost ridiculously tall he was, or maybe how the blue in his eyes contrasted with the red of his hair, but he just… stunned me. When he kissed my hand, his eyes traveled down my legs all the way back to pierce mine, igniting a wave of electricity down my spine I was unable to control.

He leaned back, and there we stood, hand in hand, wordlessly.

“You can follow the King, ma’am.” Auguste whispered behind me, his voice making me jump slightly, as I quickly pulled my hand from Harry’s, not before realizing he had something scribbled on his palm.

My father and the Queen were deep in conversation, with Charles besides them, as they reached the center of the platform to watch the guards. The Queen in the middle, my father to her right, and the Prince of Wales to her left, I walked forward to stand beside my father, while Prince Harry walked to his.

We waited just a moment, and then the band started playing the Savoy National Anthem, and the British Anthem after it. A few words said, more ceremony here and there, and the Prince Wales formally invited my father to inspect the Guards, so they left together, accompanied by one of the military leaders to walk among the rolls of guards, as the three of us stood behind to watch.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I said, looking regretful, walking towards her, closing the gap left behind by the others. “She was sorry she couldn’t be here.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious.” Prince Harry interjected.

“A sprained ankle.” I explained, looking ahead.

“Harry is also here after a small hiccup with the Duchess of Cornwall, my daughter-in-law.” His grandmother told me. “An illness in her family, nothing serious.”

“Hopefully I’ll have time to meet her before we leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She nodded. “How did you mother hurt herself?”

“Horse fall. She was never very fond of Polo, I’m afraid this will drive her further away from it.”

“Oh, that is regretful.” The Queen said.

Harry looked at me. “Do you play?”

“I do, sir.”

“Harry is very good,” his grandmother told me, “he will be the one playing with you in the charity match in the coming days.”

“I look forward to-“, I started, but Harry had started the exact same sentence. We locked eyes, and chuckled.

“You first.” I said.

“Please, I insist.” He responded, cheeks reddening.

His grandmother looked between us, and then back to the uniformed men in front. She then said, in a low tone, something I would spend a large part of the upcoming months thinking obsessively about:

“Be careful with him... He will charm you, but he is a heartbreaker.”

The words astonished me so much I looked at her, unsure she had actually said them. But she had, clearly, because Harry was also looking at her, quite shocked.

“Granny!” he complained, in such a whiny tone I broke into laughter.

“Do I lie?” She asked him, grinning. It only made him look more shocked.

“Don’t ruin my reputation in front of foreign royals!” he said, in a low tone, before looking at me. “Specially such pretty ones.”

My giggle froze in my throat under his intense glare, and I could feel my cheeks reddening.

The Queen looked at me. “Oh, you’re blushing. It’s too late, I see.”

It was.

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Margueritte’s outfit

The ask box is open! Let me know your thoughts? And if at all possible, like this page so I know you liked it? Thank you so much!

[A/N: Attention: by continuing to read you are accepting that some sad stuff is coming. You been warned. Thanks for checking this out! Let me know your thoughts?? thanks!!!!]

[A/N2: Hey! Nat here. I wanted to talk a little more about the story we are about to go on together.

In the upcoming chapters you will be introduced to the Royal Family of Savoy, a fictitious European country right below the UK, to left of France. When I first posted a fanfiction, FIUYMI, I made the main character latina, since that’s what I am, and I had previously felt that I couldn’t relate to other characters I had read. In this one, however, I decided I wanted to write about a fictitious monarchy, and I knew I wanted to make it as realistic as possible.

As much as I wanted at many points in the story to make the character look more like me, the idea felt like cheating: Margueritte is a blood royal, born to a life of specific privileges and hardships, and pretending she could look like the type of people who don’t have white privilege would be trying to ignore a very real issue: all monarchies - past and present - existed, lasted and gathered riches on the back of people of color. Most of their descendants still carry white and wealth privilege because these royal families, however many years ago, supported and perpetuated colonialism and white supremacy that left countless countries and their populations still recovering today.

That is a legacy Margueritte didn’t chose, and which she also doesn’t have to face, but in this story she will chose too. As you’ll see, she finds herself in a much more influential position she thought she would have, and as such she realizes she has two options: she can stick to the message her family - and other royal families - have perpetuated for generations and keep her head high, mouth and ears shut, so their legacy can survive; or she can chose to be a modern Queen who will make the institution relevant again. I want to write about this because this issue is important for the times we live in, particularly after the way the Duchess of Sussex was treated in the United Kingdom.

What that will look like will depend on who Margueritte is as a person and whose advice she takes, and that is a journey I hope you’ll take with us =) ]

#prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryff #royalfanficcollection #princeharryfanfiction #princeharryfanfic #brf #fanfic #fanfiction #modern royalty fanfic #chapters #modern royalty au #im so excited about this story #but also like #really nervous #i missed this

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meegeemee26 · 4 years

Text

Going Home...?

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DISCLAIMER : I wrote this story, forgetting that the Prefect/MC doesn’t wield magic. But after seeing the other characters overblot, I wonder what if the prefect themselves overblot? Just... take this HC as if the MC had magic, just that they unlocked this “magic” based of the stress they have been holding in because of a decision that have to make. Cliche, I guess, but I wanna write this for a bit of angst and writing this idea before I go cram homework and revision for the rest of the day.

Also, I have not seen the EN translations after Chapter 4, so I’m not too sure about how MC would interact with them, but I’ll try my best!

Hope you enjoy!

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Screams of horror and panic filled Night Raven College as students of the many dorms ran around, scatter-brained. There were trees set ablaze, buildings collapsing at every corner students turned , and a storm swirling in once a clear blue sky. The staff members were trying to calm students in the chaos, evacuating as many as they could. However, a red-head managed to slip past, running around in a frenzy, heading straight to the courtyard.

“OI! Where’s the Prefect?! I can’t find them!” Ace panted under his breath as he saw Deuce and Jack looking around, lost and confused as well. They did not know either, till the other dorm leaders and members gathered. “Have you seen the prefect?! Someone just went into Overblot!” Kalim exclaimed.“Where could they be? They should have rushed in by now to help us out...” Trey questioned as well.

Before the group of students waved their magic pens to attack the overblotted student, a certain cat crawled in. But... he was crawling, panting and exhausted. Not panicking, not screaming, not jumping... he just needed some aid.

“The prefect... is who you’re looking at right now...” Grim muttered before passing out.

“Looking at right now...,” Riddle, confused by the statement, furrowed his eyebrows in frustration at Grim before a ball of fire came, dispersing the group in multiple directions. Followed by a mini hurricane and a large wave of water, Leona was groaning about how much his clothes were soiled before Floyd gasped in shock,

“Ebi-chan?”

Everyone just stood where there were for a good while, trying to comprehend what and how the ever friendly, witty and kind Ramshackle Head would be able to break out like this. Stress? Anxiety? What could be ?

“ I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE!” A distressed scream rang through the thunder as another lighting blot came shooting down.

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“Prefect, please take a sit. A year has passed since you arrived... How did you like it here?” Headmaster Crowley asked as he poured a glass of water in front of me.

“It has been great!”

Great? Great alone could not define what I have experienced in here. In Twisted Wonderland, in Night Raven College. Learning magic? A school based off movie villians? I won’t say this was what I dreamt off, but spending a year here has been so much better than what I have on the other side.

“You and your stupid fantasies! What are you, a child?”

Back at the other universe, I was bullied and mocked, for being a “child” - Liking Disney animated Movies, singing Love is an Open Door”by myself like a mad person, and to top it off, carrying Disney-themed merchandise anytime I could. Living in any animated movie would be a dream for me. People would laugh and give me the funny stares whenever I walked down the corridor. People would shove me into the toilets for being immature, looking down on me, thinking that “I won’t change from this immature, childish, naive state.”.... It definitely hurt, no joke there... So I usually head home, head lowered as my body sinks into the mattress of my bed.

As the bullying got worse, and my father started to work overtime, while my mother was working overseas, I have hit the bottom of bottom, probably deeper than the deep blue sea itself. I sometimes stare at the ceiling, wondering where I could find an Ursala - sign a contract in exchange to get away from this shit hole. Maybe a genie too - One : No more mockery, no more being shoved into a corner. Two : Just, living the perfect life of singing happily and conquering lands. and keep the last wish when I need it most. Letting my pillow soak up my tears, I whispered...

“I wish I could leave this behind...” before going back to wailing and drifting off into a slumber.

Little did I know that I woke up in a coffin, to be brought into Twisted Wonderland and its Night Raven college, a place inspired by Disney Villians. Even if Ace and Grim were a handful at the beginning, the rest of the year in the school has truly been a chaotic, memorable one. The friends I have made, the dorm leaders I have helped overcome their overblot, and the chaos I get tossed into, I would not trade them for the world. Who knew being a little twisted would be so good?

“Sorry if I’m being rude, but... why did you ask me to come up here to your office alone?”

“Yes, about that. I thought this piece of news would be more personal to you. It’s not bad news, I assure you. In fact, it is splendid news!”

“What could it be?” I asked, trying to figure out what he was going to ask.

“I found a way for you to get home! Back to your universe! Oh, the ever-kindhearted professor has spent countless hours building this mirror.” He stood up as he pulled a piece of red cloth to reveal a mirror. It was like the one at the dorm-sorting ceremony, but it showed my room, my school, my neighbourhood.

“Pretty neat, isn’t it-”

“No... No... I can’t...,” My gaze met the floor and my hands balled into fits. As my fingernails sunk into my skin, I could feel my heart pounding. That SAME feeling of fear and anger rose, and as I brought my knees up to my chest, I felt panic, wondering life back there.

I can’t bring my friends there, I can’t help in battles that don’t involve magic, I can’t think of another day spending in that hell hole ! I...I- I’m just nothing over there! Nothing but a walking target, anticipating another attack that I know I can’t avoid!

“Prefect... Do you want some time to think it over?” Ah crap, the Headmaster noticed. This should not concern him at all. It’s mine to deal with ,right? After all, he was the one to build this for me out of his good will...

“Yes, please. I’ll take my leave now. Thank you for your present...” I got up, and left. Grim pounced onto me the moment my foot stepped out of the office. “So? So? What was it about?” He demanded an answer before I replied with a small, bitter smile, “Oh, it’s nothing. Come on... I’m tired. Let’s head back to the dorm...”

I can’t let anyone know, until I feel it is right. I still have time to think about it, anyway...

“Hey! Wanna eat lunch later?”

“Sorry, I have extra revision to do...”

“Wanna go for a carpet ride later?”

“Ah, sorry. Not feeling it...”

Offer after offer, I had to turn them down. Grim would go instead as I needed more time to decide. Later on, Headmaster came in to tell me that the mirror could not hold for long. In a week or so, the portal may close.

Stay... or leave?

Stay in this wonderful world... or leave it behind?

Stay... or leave?

Stay in this wonderful world... or leave and go back and start anew?

Little did I know the last thing I saw before passing out was Grim backing away from me and the sound of a shattered mirror behind me.

.... “I don’t want to leave...”

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“.... They’re breathing... Get... Ramsha...dorm!”

“..I thought they could not... magic...”

“Magic asi... they are...WAIT-”

“Ow... my head..” I woke up, only to be greeted by the familiar sight of their bedroom ceiling, and a vase of flowers beside me.“What happe-”

“GUYS THE PREFECT IS AWAKE!” Three voices shouted, followed by a stampede, and ten people trying to squeeze through the door. Amused, I sat up with the remaining energy they have, and gave the biggest smile they could. After being bombarded by questions like “Are you alright?!” and being fed with heartwarming dishes, the tears of comfort and love came out one by one. I could not bring these back to the other side right?

“I have been keeping this away from you. But,... I am given the choice to go back to where I came from...” I trailed off before Jade cut me short and that everyone knows about everything. The mirror, my life back at the other side... everything.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry that....I’m sorry that I- I hurt all of you! I’m sorry...” Words could not form the remorse, guilt I felt till I felt like I was being assaulted by a ball of familiar fluff, followed by my hands being held in comfort.

“You know you could have just told us right?” Leona rubbed it in , only to have everyone shoot death glares at him. “IT WAS HARD TO EXPLAIN ALRIGHT?! I CAN’T JUST... JUST ABANDON YOU ALL!” I choked between my words before Grim came off.

“He’s right. Without you, all of us won’t be here. You’re the one who helped us with our overblot, now let us help you...” Before I could refuse, Grim did not let me speak further. I could only mutter a ‘thank you’ before drowning myself in my tears again. “Well, who knew human emotion could be such a weakness?” “Spare me from your Book of Weaknesses, Azul.”

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“Sorry for bothering you Headmaster. But I would like to stay here in Night Raven College, even in Twisted Wonderland. Please!” I bowed, with my face to the ground, closing my eyes, hoping for the best. I just hope that he is not too angry with me, after all of the effort put into making the mirror for me to head home. Please...

“....Alright. After all, if another overblot incident were to take place, who else could we turn to?” He agreed! Thank God... He walked over to the mirror, casted a spell for it to be completely shut down. I am staying here, for now, till I’m ready to go back...

#twisted wonderland #heartslabyul #savanaclaw #octavinelle #scarabia #pomefiore #ignihyde #diasomnia

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glacecakes · 4 years

Text

Alchemy Lullaby (9/?)

Of all the changes that came with living in the castle, becoming a father was not one he anticipated. When Eugene encounters a small child suffering like he did, he gives them the opportunity to grow up the way he never did… helping them both heal. (AU where Varian is 4 and gets adopted by Eugene)

Varian's growing up fast! So fast Eugene isn't sure how to handle it.

Read the rest on AO3

Me: the next chapter is gonna be something light, a collection of drabbles and headcanons Varian servers: baby hugo Me, opening up my laptop and throwing all my papers aside: BABY HUGO

Shoutout to @finnoky who makes an appearanceeeeee

“...Water is a pol….polar mole..cule… which means it… it has a slight charge,” Varian rambled, hands glossing over laminated words. He sat near a roaring fireplace, its heat seeping into tiny bones. Eugene laid sprawled out by his side, eyes shut. It was one of those cold, dreary days, so they were holed up in the library. Usually Eugene would read to Varian, happy to change his voice and act out fantastical stories. Varian hung onto his every word like gospel. Somedays, Varian would read for himself, happy to learn reading by entertaining Eugene. But today, Varian had grabbed a book the size of his head, lugged it over to their reading nook, opened it up, and began a mini lecture. Staying awake with a fireplace at your back was hard enough, but coupled with teaching? It was a losing battle, and Eugene accepted his defeat with grace.

Varian did not.

“Eugene!” Varian whined. The man gave a noncommittal hum, but that only angered his toddler more.

Thwack. “Pay!” Thwack. “Attention!” Thwack. “To!” Thwack. “MEEEEEEE!” Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

“Ok, ok!” Eugene shrieked, holding his arms up to protect his head from any more blows. “I’m awake! I’m listening!” He sighed fondly at the big pout Varian sported. “Aw, buddy, I’m sorry, it’s just so comfy!”

Varian didn’t take kindly to that excuse, judging by the crocodile tears. He flailed his legs. “Nooooo, no sleep! Only book!”

“No sleep ever? That’s gonna be a little tricky.”

“Noooooooooo!”

Eugene finally took pity on the kid. He pulled him close and rolled onto his back so Varian was laying on top of him. He nuzzled his face into soft black hair. It still smelled faintly of blueberry shampoo. Varian was learning fast, maybe too fast if Eugene was being honest. The kid ate through book after book, quickly surpassing simple storybooks and easy nonfiction. Now he was slowly chewing through bigger nonfiction. A quick glance told Eugene he was being taught middle school chemistry. Whenever Varian wasn’t playing in the garden, or shadowing one of his favorite adults, Varian was usually here, consuming the entirety of the kids section. Most of those times, Eugene would inevitably join him, and they’d spend hours reading side by side: Varian, stories, and Eugene, parenting books.

Rapunzel called them her little bookworms, but Varian had cried when she first called him that. He didn’t want Eugene to be a worm, Eugene called him bluebird, and birds eat worms!

It was so cute, Eugene secretly hoped Varian would never grow out of kid logic.

He closed his eyes, tuning out Varian’s complaints. This truly was the life, wasn’t it?

A few days later, and Eugene’s life was ending.

Well, that’s being overdramatic.

After their library day, Eugene brought up the incident to Rapunzel, who spoke to her parents, who pulled a couple strings, and now Varian was going to every parent’s worst nightmare. Varian would be pitted against other kids in a place where children lost their individuality, their fun logic, the little quirks that made each child unique and special.

Kindergarten.

Varian, for his part, didn’t seem all that scared of Kindergarten. But to be fair, no one told him what it was, either. He’d bounced around, happily carrying his Schultüte and accepting gifts from maids and guards alike who all wanted him to have “fun at school”. Pfft. Fun at school? Impossible! Eugene hated every second of school. He stopped paying attention and look how he turned out! Totally fine!

“You sure you want to go?” Eugene asked. He gripped Varian’s hand so tight his knuckles were nearly white. Varian didn’t seem to mind all that much, skipping as they walked. For his first day Rapunzel had gifted him with a new set of clothes, a pair of blue overalls with a little flower patch on the pant leg. He wore a simple green shirt underneath it, and a backpack filled to the brim with snacks, folders, pencils, and anything else a kid could need.

“Mhm!” Varian said, jumping over a puddle.

Eugene gulped. “You sure you’re sure?” Would anyone notice if he just took Varian out for a few hours, and pretended he’d gone to school? Everything Varian needed would be in the castle, why does he need to go to school anyway?

“Yup!”

They stopped in front of a small, unimposing schoolhouse. It was painted light yellow, its windows covered in drawings and posters, no doubt done by the nefarious children inside who were only full of cruel words against Eugene’s angel of a bluebird–

“Ok bye!” Varian let go of his hand and ran to the door.

“W-wait!” That’s it!? No hug goodbye? No “I’ll miss you”? No “Please don’t leave me!” “Ok we’ll go home”?

Varian stopped before entering, confused. Then, he lit up like a beacon. “Oh!” He raced back, wrapped his arms around Eugene’s legs in a hug, and then bolted back to the school. “Bye Eugene love you!” He cried, and just like that, he was gone.

Eugene gulped, running an anxious hand through his hair. He’s just overthinking it, right? Varian would be fine! Heck, this is good, now he can have a little me time! He’s been torn between teaching guards and raising Varian, he could use a few hours off, right?

Varian felt a little bad for his dad, he seemed so… upset? Betrayed? When Varian left, but he couldn’t help it! He’d spent 6 months watching school through windows, and now he was in one! With other kids who were just like him! Not trying to steal his food, or push him around, no, they’re here to learn too!

By the time he entered his classroom, he was practically vibrating with excitement. The walls were covered with fun little decorations, ways to memorize things. The alphabet lined the top of each wall, spanning across the whole room, illuminated by sunlight. In the corner was a plush red carpet, and seated on top were a bunch of kids! He sped over, happily sitting himself front and center, facing the teacher with eager eyes.

“Good morning class, how is everyone?”

“Good morning!” Everyone parroted back, startling Varian. He didn’t know the ritual, what to do! Did he look silly? He hoped not!

Thankfully, no one called it out. Instead, the teacher turned kind eyes to him. “Everyone, we have a special friend with us today! This is Varian, can we all say hi?”

Varian blushed as a dozen tiny eyes turned to him. All of a sudden, he wanted to hide in the back, where no one was staring him down and scrutinizing him. It was like he was still in the castle, with nobility looking down at him! Maybe school was a bad idea...

“Hi!” The children all chorused, just as friendly and happy as their teacher. Varian blinked in shock, confused at the prolonged silence, before he realized what they wanted. “Hi,” he said meekly, satisfying the teacher.

“Varian, I’m Mr. Finn, let me know if you need any help, alright kiddo?” Varian nodded vehemently.

The morning passed smoothly, with Mr. Finn reading a story and practicing basic writing and math. While Varian was now an excellent reader, and easily followed the story, writing proved more challenging. He stuck his tongue out in frustration, slowly dragging the pencil down his page.

“No,” A high pitched voice chimed next to him. He glanced over. The kid next to him was staring right back. He had long blonde hair, longer than Cassie’s but shorter than Rapunzel’s. Sea green eyes shimmered behind frames. “You gotta follow the lines. See?” He held up his paper, proudly displaying a series of “d”s.

“I am,” Varian complained, gazing down at his paper. He could ask Mr. Finn, right? He said so, after all. He went to raise his hand, when the kid grabbed his arm.

“See, you start here,” Though his movements were sloppy, he held onto Varian’s arm and helped him trace out a letter. Varian blinked. That easy? He’d been doing it all wrong! His face lit up in delight.

“Thanks!” In no time, the rest of the letters were filled in. Varian may not have gotten in right away, but he was a fast learner. It only took a few more letters before the rest of the page was no problem. “I’m Varian,” He held out an arm, like he’d seen the King do.

The boy in front of him grinned, showing off a missing tooth. “I’m Hugo!” He didn’t take Varian’s hand, so the boy put it down. Oh well, maybe it’s just a castle thing.

What was Eugene so nervous about? School was fun! He already had a friend!

Eugene cried into his third helping of mashed potatoes.

“Wow this is sad. How is this any different from days when we babysit?” Cassandra asked, unimpressed. When Lance burst into the castle, insisting that she and Rapunzel come to the Snuggly Duckling and help Eugene, she’d expected a bar fight, or at least something that wasn’t… this.

Lance shrugged, taking the plate away before Eugene could make himself sick. “Because he can’t go check up on Varian, I think.” That only upset Eugene more, and he let out a tiny whine. Rapunzel, who had been rubbing his back, sped up her soothing motions.

“There there, you’ll see him in a bit,” She said. “To think, a year ago you were Corona’s most wanted thief. Now you’re a dad making a difference!”

“I’m a dad without a son,” Eugene moaned. That got him an eyeroll from Cassandra.

“He’s been like this since he got here,” Lance added. It had been slightly terrifying. Eugene had burst in, waterworks in full effect. He’d draped himself on Lance’s shoulders, just like he used to when they were kids, acting as if his son was dead and not at school.

Honestly, it was confusing. Eugene seemed so adverse to getting Varian schooling, but one of his biggest arguments about adopting Varian had been his education! He’d gone on and on about how smart Varian was during those first few days, and how he needed proper schooling, not the poor excuse of an orphanage. But now that Varian was actually in school, it was as if a switch had flipped.

Rapunzel gained a fire in her eyes, and with a small grunt, pulled him out of his seat. “Come on, Eugene, let’s go cheer you up. How does a day in town sound? Or maybe a haircut?”

“Varian needs a haircut soon,” was his response.

The quartet spent much of the afternoon in town, taking in sights and sound. Even after she’d been living here for nearly a year, Rapunzel doubted she’d ever tire of Corona and all it had to offer. But each stop seemed to only remind Eugene more of his son. First was Monty’s where Rapunzel maintained juuuust enough civility to not throttle the man when he asked Rapunzel if she would adopt Varian one day.

(She fully planned to, but that’s beside the point.)

Then came Xavier’s. The blacksmith was always kind and understanding, and after a quick explanation, he’d been happy to ignore any and all mention of children. That was, until Eugene picked up a dagger with a sigh.

“Should I teach him how to fight?”

“Eugene he’s not even 5.” Cassandra spoke with a monotone voice.

Eugene nodded. “You’re right. I should’ve started him sooner.”

He left Xavier’s with a bruised gut.

“I don’t get it!” Rapunzel cried in frustration. They’d stopped for a break by the fountain, where Eugene sat, staring off in the direction of the schoolhouse. “We’ve taken him all over town, spent the day with him, yet he’s still sad! Is he going to be like this every day Varian’s in school?”

Lance nodded, agreeing. “I thought parents were supposed to be happy when school started.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Eugene called from his seat. At least his friends and girlfriend had the grace to look guilty. He sighed, redirecting his gaze down at the fountain water.

In all honesty, he wasn’t so sure either. He loved Varian from the bottom of his heart, but sometimes that kid truly was a handful. Not to mention it had all been so sudden, just like Rapunzel said... That’s when it hit him.

“Stability.”

The others blinked. Rapunzel tilted her head in confusion. So, he elaborated, “My entire life was just, one crazy thing after another. I didn’t stay in school, I became a thief, I ran from place to place. I never had stable housing, or income, or, or anything! And it sucked! A lot! I was constantly stressed out, even when I was in control, I kept waiting for the shoe to drop.

“I know I took Varian in because I wanted stability for him, but…” He glanced up and sheepishly smiled.

“I guess I want it for me, too.”

The school was built right next to a playground, so the children got 30 minutes outside every day. It was a simple thing, with all the basics and a large field for kids to run in. Mr. Finn stood by the school’s door, watching from afar as his class played with one another.

Hugo pulled Varian along, tugging him past the wooden playground and into the grass field. Varian had never had a friend before, was this how it worked? Regardless, he was happy to come along.

“Mr. Finn said you live in the castle, is that true?” Hugo asked, stopping in the middle of the field and squatting down into the grass. Varian followed suit, happily twirling a blade of grass between his fingers.

“Mhm! I live there with Eugene, and Cassie, and-”

“What’s the princess like?” Hugo buts in, staring with wide eyes. They were so close their noses nearly touched. Varian didn’t mind in the slightest.

“Punzel’s really nice, she lets me paint with her!” He giggled, and Hugo sat back in amazement.

“My mom says her hair is super long, is that true?”

“Suuuper long! I like to hide in it.”

“And she lets you!?”

“Yup! I always get tangled, though.” It was like clockwork: Eugene and Varian would play hide and seek, Varian would hide in her hair, Eugene would find him, he’d get stuck, and Rapunzel would shake him out. She never complained, even though Eugene always made him apologize.

“It doesn’t hurt,” She reassured them. “I would do the same!”

Hugo hums, thoroughly impressed. “My mom has really long hair too, and she lets me braid it sometimes!”

Varian gasped. “Really? She lets you?” Gosh, his momma would never let Varian let anywhere near her hair! Apparently he tugged on it as a baby. “That’s so cool!”

“Really?” Hugo’s face lit up like the sun.

“Yea! Maybe one day you can meet her!” Varian cheered, directing his gaze down to the grass. There, innocent and unassuming, a small flower grew. Its purple petals furled upwards, allowing Varian to stare right into the yellow center. The first flowers of the season!

Hugo looked up to find a flower right in front of his face, with a grinning Varian at the other end. “For you!” He said, and Hugo’s face lit up.

“Thanks!” With one fluid motion, Hugo grasped it and ate it whole. He didn’t even blink.

Varian blinked. It took a second for what just happened to register.

Then, he burst into giggles.

Eugene sighed and trudged up to the schoolhouse. As if on cue, a bell rang, and children poured out of the doors. Kids ran to their parents, who were more than happy to scoop their kids up and hear all about their day. Eugene was no exception. Varian exited, and upon seeing him, lit up and flew towards him.

Eugene caught him easily, spinning around so they were facing the others. “Hi, Varian!” Rapunzel chimed. “How was your day at school!”

“I liked it a lot!” Varian giggled. “We learned to write, and had pretzels, and, and-”

“Varian!”

They all turned to see a very nervous looking Hugo, with his cheeks flushed. “I-I just wanted to say… it was nice to meet you! And maybe we can hang out sometime soon and you can show me the castle ok bye!” He then promptly fled, back towards the arms of an exasperated older woman who was probably his mom.

“Bye Hugo!” Varian called, waving in their general direction. “That was Hugo, he’s really nice.”

“I’ll bet,” Cassandra muttered, mildly amused.

Eugene couldn’t help the beams of pride. One day in school and he’d already made a friend! That was more than he could say for his own time in school. “You’re growing up so fast,” Eugene whispered, pulling Varian close. He bounced his arms, Varian happy at the rhythm. “Don’t grow up too fast, ok? Otherwise I’d get all old and wrinkly.”

“Ah, your highness!”

Rapunzel turned to see a teacher headed their way. “I’m Mr. Finn, I was with Varian today.”

The princess beamed. “Oh, that’s wonderful, thank you! How was it?”

“He was great, princess, a delight! I look forward to seeing him in September.” Mr. Finn leaned down to Varian’s height. “I’ll see you in a few months, Varian!”

“Bye bye!” Varian responded, frowning when Eugene stilled in his bouncing.

“Wait, September?” He asked, confused. Wouldn’t he be seeing Varian tomorrow? It was Wednesday, after all.

Cassandra laughed. “Oh, we didn’t tell you?” She leaned on his arm. “Varian’s too young for kindergarten. He can’t start till the new school year, when he’ll be 5.”

Eugene paled. “So, I have to go through this… all over?” Varian cocked his head in confusion when Lance barked out a laugh, and Rapunzel covered her mouth to hide a smile. The handmaiden patted Eugene’s back in mock sympathy.

That night, Eugene cried into another serving of potatoes while Varian practiced his letters.

#tangled #tangled the series #varian #tts #varian tts #tangled eugene #eugene fitzherbert #team awesome

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kelyon · 4 years

Text

Golden Cuffs Epilogue: The Future

Cover art by @paradigmparadoxical

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

They talk about what’s coming next

Read on AO3

Snow piled up outside the uncurtained windows of the dining room, but Belle was warm on the couch by the fire. There was a pair of stuffed armchairs by the hearth now, instead of only one, and the long couch was positioned in between them. It was the warmest part of the room, where Belle liked to wait for Rumpelstiltskin to come home to her.

There was a new chair at the dining room table as well, just as grand as the carved oak that had always been there. Three times a day, Belle took her meals sitting at Rumple’s right hand. He presented her food to her on a tray, just as he had when she had been his thing. But now Belle always ate with a knife and a fork and a spoon--unless one of them thought it would be amusing for her to do something else.

Overall, the dining room was more crowded than it had been when Belle had first come to the castle. Not only had the number of chairs doubled, but new footstools and tables had appeared beside them. Rumpelstiltskin had even set up a spinning wheel in the corner, so he wouldn’t have to hide away in his tower when he needed to think. The armchairs were set up on either side of the fireplace, with the long couch between them. All three pieces bordered the lush carpet where she had first laid out for Rumpelstilskin to watch her pleasure herself.

Nowadays they attempted to act with more decorum outside of their bedroom. They didn’t always succeed. Though their relationship had progressed and matured over the months of their marriage, Belle and Rumple often found themselves defaulting to the first activity they had ever done together. Their appetites for each other had not waned. Belle was still amazed by how much she could have of her husband, and then how quickly she could begin to crave him again.

She treasured all the time they had together, to make up for the all times he had to leave her alone. He left the castle frequently, and often at odd hours. Sometimes he would be gone for only a moment, but more than once he had disappeared in the morning and then woken her when he joined her in their bed. Though Rumpelstiltskin rarely slept, he said he liked to be with her at night. He had told her he liked the stillness of their bedroom, that listening to her breathing was a calming force in the midst of all the tumult around them.

She knew his plans were progressing. He told her of the pieces he had set into place--some of them years and years ago--and how they had only just begun to move into the alignment that was necessary for his master plan to come to fruition. Belle understood the business that took him away from her, but she couldn’t help leaving her mark on him while he was hers.

During the evenings he spent at home, they had picked up the habit of sitting together in their stuffed chairs. They would converse or read aloud to each other, when no other amusement presented itself. Of course, the real game was in seeing how long they could stay in separate chairs, before he knelt at her feet or she sat in his lap or they simultaneously realized how much more comfortable it would be if they were both on the couch, where they could stretch out or curl up or put themselves in any number of positions.

The couch was Belle’s favorite addition to the castle’s furniture. She had a special fondness for anything that was big enough to share with her husband. It was all cloth and soft stuffing, with a design of blooming roses embroidered along the cushions. To her mind, it was much cozier than the leather armchairs, and it was a better reading spot than their bed. Especially on winter days like this, she was happy to spend hours wrapped up in blankets with a cup of tea and a good book.

Since Belle had come back to the castle, the population of books in the dining room had exploded. Though Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t enter the library, he was able to summon any volume that was needed. And because Belle had no desire to ever set foot in the library again, the books never made it back to their shelves. They stayed in the rooms where they had last been read, piled on tabletops or stacked on the floor. The castle was now delightfully cluttered with books. It was the home that Belle had always dreamed of.

On this snowy day, she was re-reading Jefferson’s wedding present to her, a book he had picked up in one of his other worlds. It claimed to be a history of two kingdoms called Florin and Guilder, and the marriage negotiations of one kingdom’s crown prince. There were pages and pages of very dry texts about the queens and princesses of these countries packing up excessively-detailed wardrobes and traveling to visit each other to arrange a suitable match. The first chapters were so dull, even to Belle, that she was half-tempted to put the book down and never pick it up again.

But Belle was never one to judge solely on first impressions.

The more she read it, the more entranced she grew by the creeping subplots. The book, it seemed, wasn’t really about the snobbish prince and the cold-blooded count and the war the prince was trying to start by sabotaging his weddings. The real heart of the story seemed to be about a farm girl of rare beauty and the farm boy who loved her but could never say it. And even when the farm girl was made into a princess and sent off to marry the prince and the farm boy was lost at sea and then became a famous pirate, it seemed inevitable that they would be together. No obstacle could stop their love, even death could only delay it a little.

It was nothing like her own love story, but she still deeply felt the truth of it.

The doors to the dining room flew open with crash and Rumpelstiltskin strode in. “Terrible news!” he announced grandly.

Belle looked up from her page. “Are you being dramatic? Or is something truly terrible?”

He spun on his heel, his long cloak flaring out behind his shoulders. Belle liked that cloak; it was the fur-trimmed one that he’d gotten in a deal from Prince Charming. It gave her Rumple such panache, such style. He tended to wear it when he was feeling playful. The cloak billowed out from behind him as he strode over to her place by the fire. He gripped the back of the couch like a clawing menace.

“Oh, this news is terrible indeed, my sweet! Fearsome and horrifying--news that will send all good people in paroxysms of dread!”

Smiling, Belle pointed her stockinged toes to indicate the section of the couch that was empty. She set her book down on a small table, next to her empty tea cup. “News that frightens good people usually delights evil ones,” she said.

Rumpelstiltskin grinned and jumped over the back of the couch. By the time he landed next to her, his cloak had disappeared. Safe in their home, he wore his comfortable clothes--a red woolen shirt and loose-cut gray leather trousers.

He took her hands and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips. “You’re right, my dearest Belle. All the forces of darkness are rejoicing on this terrible, happy day.”

“Do you want any of the blanket, Rumple? It’s chilly, even by the fire.”

Her husband sprang to his feet, still too animated to stay in one place. “I’ll get you more tea!” He scooped up her cup and took it over to the magic cupboard.

“Make some for yourself,” Belle ordered casually. “Then come and sit and tell me what’s going on.”

Though her back was to Rumple, she could hear him humming. His footfalls were light, almost dancing. That was how he moved when he was purposeful, happy. In the seven months since their wedding, Belle had come to recognize it as the sound of him willingly obeying her.

It had taken a little time, but she had gotten used to having power over him. Rumpelstiltskin could be like quicksilver, going in a thousand different directions at once. But when she gave an order, all of him collected together. He became focused, almost fixated on doing her will, on pleasing her. It was a heady thing. More and more, Belle understood how amazed he had always been at her obedience, when she had worn his golden cuffs.

She had learned to be careful with her phrasing, when to make something an order, or a request, or a simple observation. One night, after they had made love in their big bed, she had told him to stay as she had fallen asleep, and he had been unable to move until she woke up. He had laughed it off in the morning, saying that care was always the first price of magic. Mortified, Belle had resolved that she would consider her words from then on. Rumple was not going to pay the price for her slips.

“Here you are, sweetheart.” He came back to her with a cup and saucer in each hand.

The tea set was new too. It was a creamier ivory color than the white porcelain had been, and the shape of the cups was taller and sleeker. Rumple had offered to recreate the set that she had used to serve him with, but Belle had demurred. Now, the only remaining piece of that first tea set was the chipped cup. It held a place of honor on top of the magical cupboard and still functioned as a silent request for a game. Hardly a week passed without one of them offering it to the other.

Rumple had made her tea the way she liked it--black, with one spoonful of sugar. She took a sip before she set it on the table and adjusted the blanket that covered her lap.

“Delicious, my love,” she pronounced as he sat down. She put her feet in his lap and covered his legs with her blanket.

“Really?” he asked, his eyes wide, his smile hopeful.

Seven months of marriage and he still looked at her like she was too good to be true. Seeing him like this always touched Belle’s heart.

She put her hand on his knee. “Yes, my Rumple. You did very well.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “But you wanted to know about my news.”

“I do, yes.” Now that she was settled, Belle picked up her tea. “What’s happened that’s so terrible?”

“You remember that girl who called for me about the cure for a broken heart?”

Belle hadn’t known about that meeting when it had happened, but Rumple had told her about it. During those terrible weeks when she was locked in the library, he had made a deal with a love-lorn princess.

“Snow White, of course. You gave her the same memory potion you threatened me with.” She poked playfully at his chest with her toes. It was all so long ago. She had forgiven him, and now she could tease him.

“It was not a threat.” Knowing her intentions, he took her bait with feigned aggravation. “It was a sincere gift! I truly thought you would have been better without me.”

“And you were truly wrong, my love. I knew that potion was a bad idea from the beginning. Losing the memories of a person you love will make you a different person--a worse person. And that’s why the princess and her dwarf friend came here and begged you to undo it.”

Smiling, Rumpelstiltskin took Belle’s hand and kissed it. “And that’s the last time I don’t listen to you, my Belle.”

“Good. Now, did something terrible happen to Snow White?”

“Oh, many terrible things. I’m sure her step-mother made sure of it.”

Belle knew perfectly well that Snow White’s step-mother was Regina. She could have told Rumple that he didn’t need to avoid saying her name. But there was also something sweet about the way he spared Belle from having to think about that woman. Though she had forgiven him for everything, there were still some things they couldn’t tease each other about.

“You told me that she was under a sleeping curse for a while, but her Prince Charming was able to break it.”

“Yes,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly. He held his teacup between his hands. “True Love’s Kiss can break any unwanted curse.”

Belle had often wondered about True Love’s Kiss. She kissed her husband a hundred times a day, surely at least one of those kisses would be born of true love. But she had never seen a magical reaction resulting from their love. When she had come into Rumple’s service, she had never thought that being the Dark One was itself a curse, though he had since told her more of the secret nature of his power. Perhaps that was why the curse on him had never broken from her love, because she couldn’t think of his darkness as unwanted. She knew it as a part of him, something both of them delighted in.

Besides, when she had the Dark One on his knees or bound to her bed or happily doing domestic chores, she couldn’t be so sure that a curse hadn’t been broken. He was honest with her now, and he loved her--that was all she had ever wanted to change about the man who was now her husband.

“So she woke up.” Belle continued the conversation. “What happened next?”

“Happily ever after, of course. The royal couple united their power and led a righteous crusade to purge evil from their lands. And they won! They got married this morning, certain that no darkness could ever befall them.”

“And yet we still have terrible news.”

“Yes,” Rumple sighed. “Yes, because even more than being good, Snow White and Prince Charming are nice. And nice people are not always smart. They should have known better than to leave their most powerful enemy alive.”

Belle tilted her head. “But you’re not their enemy, Rumple. You’ve been helping them every step of the way.”

He kissed her hand. “Don’t say it so loudly, my sweet. Someone might get the wrong idea about me. Besides I’ve never let them come close enough to even think of trying to kill me--not yet, anyway. No, Snow White’s real enemy is her oldest enemy, the one who has hated her since she was a child.”

“Regina.” Belle swallowed the name like a bitter draught. “What kind of person has that much hate for a child?”

“The kind of person who cannot admit who she really blames for all her misery.” Rumpelstiltskin sighed again. He let go of Belle’s hands and his claws balled into fists. “The kind of person who was taught again and again that power is the ability to cause pain.”

She felt the fury rising up in him, the guilt and self-hatred that could drown her husband if it was given free reign. He blamed himself for Regina, Belle knew. He blamed himself for what the queen had done to her, as well as every evil thing she had ever done or ever would do. After all, he had told Belle, he had been the one to teach Regina magic. He had been the one to encourage her bloodlust and set her on a trail of destruction that would eventually consume their entire world. Regina was a monster and he had made her that way--what did that make him?

“My love,” Belle reached out and took her husband by the wrist. “Take a breath,” she ordered. “Nice and deep for me.”

He obeyed her. His pulse raced under her fingers.

It did no good for Rumple to ruminate on the evils of the past. She hated seeing him in this kind of anguish. It was better to stop these storms before they could become full-blown tempests. And her husband always did what she said was good for him.

“Another.” She kept her tone even. He took another deep breath. She didn’t have to order him for the rest of them, didn’t have to order him to keep breathing until the worst of his demons had passed.

It was odd to think of Rumpelstiltskin being at the mercy of his own emotions. She was still used to thinking of him as being in control--and yes, that was the face that he presented to the world. But in private, with her, in the safety of their home, he was able to show her all the pain that he had carried inside him for centuries. Belle knew well what it was to feel weak against forces that overwhelmed her. Belle knew what it was to succumb to attacks of fear or sorrow. And she knew what a great help it could be to be told exactly what to do, moment by moment, breath by breath.

“Are you ready to keep talking, Rumple?”

He took another shaking breath, then nodded. “Yes, Belle.”

“What did Regina do?”

“The wedding was this morning,” he began. “Snow White and her Prince Charming said their vows and pledged their love until death did them part.”

“A fine and noble thing to do, don’t you think?” She squeezed his hand, trying to remind him of their wedding, their vows.

The smile he gave her was weak and hollow. If pleasant memories couldn’t help him, then he was truly shaken.

“As soon as they kissed,” he went on, “the Evil Queen burst through the doors. After a bit of posturing, she declared her intention to take away everything from everyone in this world.”

Belle’s breath caught in her throat. “Do you mean this is it? She’s finally going to cast your curse?” This was what Rumple had been working toward for so long. Regina was going to send them to the Land Without Magic. Rumple was going to see his son!

He rocked his head, nodding. “She’s going to try. She’s going to fail, at first, and she’s going to become desperate enough to ask me for help. And she made her announcement in front of the people who would most want to keep her from succeeding.” He rubbed his thumb over Belle’s wedding ring. “Very soon, a good many people are going to want to know how to force me to give them answers.”

Belle’s excitement that Rumple’s plan was finally coming to fruition quickly succumbed to the dread of everything she knew this plan would entail. They had formed this part of things together, hammering out details of moves and counter-moves that would get them both to where they needed to be as safely and smoothly as possible.

But the realization still made Belle’s heart sink like a lead weight. She pulled Rumple’s hand up to her chest. She suddenly needed to feel the warmth of him, the solid realness of the man she loved, who would love her no matter what separated them.

“How long, do you think, before the curse is cast?”

Rumple scooted closer to Belle on the couch. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders so that they lay on each other, both of them bearing the other’s weight, shouldering a shared burden.

“The queen doesn’t know it yet, but this curse cannot be cast before the one destined to break it has been born.”

“The savior,” Belle whispered. Absently, she stroked her Rumple’s hair.

“Yes,” he assured her. “Snow White and the Prince’s child, the product of true love, a person with light magic infused into every part of their being. They will be the one to fight the queen’s darkness--and destroy it.”

“But only after twenty-eight years.”

Rumple nodded and kissed her on the temple. “Twenty-eight years and nine months from now. That’s when the final battle will begin.”

“So you think the curse will be cast exactly nine months from now?”

“The royal couple only married this morning.” There was a trace of impishness in Rumpelstiltskin's voice. “If their child comes sooner than nine months, I will be quite scandalized!”

Belle snorted at his joke and her heart lightened. Seven months of marriage and it still amazed her how much better she felt when he was around her. There were still problems in the world and trials that they faced, but now they faced them together. When she was near Rumpelstiltskin, every sorrow she’d ever known could be dealt with, or talked about, or pleasantly ignored for a few hours.

But this.... This curse was the greatest calamity that had ever befallen them. Regina’s curse was the worst thing that had ever happened to anyone. It would be, quite literally, the end of the world.

“How long?” she whispered. Without her being aware of it their positions had shifted and now she was clinging to her husband. “How long do we have before the plan is set in motion?”

He held her close. Sometimes Rumple could take as much comfort from holding her as from being held himself.

“A few months,” he said grimly. “Perhaps we’ll be able to celebrate a year of marriage together, but I can’t promise it. The cinder-girl will be pregnant soon. When I come after her baby, that will give our heroes an excuse to finally put an end to my evil. I’ll let them capture me, let good and evil both think they’ve won--when in reality it’s us who are getting everything we want.”

“Except each other.” Lying on his chest, Belle stared into the fire as tears welled up in her eyes. “We’ll be separated for months. You’ll be locked in a cage, Rumple!”

“A cell, my sweet, not a cage.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “That’s not such a miserable fate, is it? To sleep in a dungeon for a few turns of the moon?”

He was trying to assure her, and she tried to let him. “If you fall in love with any of your captors, I will be very put out.”

She felt the chuckle in his chest, and he kissed her on the temple. “Never, sweetheart.” He took her hands and held them in his own. The firelight glinted against their wedding rings. “And once the curse is cast, even living in a strange new world, our rings will still connect us to each other.”

Belle sat up to look her husband in the eye. “Do you think we’ll be together then?”

With their rings still touching, Rumpelstiltskin cradled Belle’s face in his other hand. His eyes were full of sorrow as he looked at her. “Together, yes,” he said, “and absolutely miserable.”

#Golden Cuffs #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle fanfic #ouat #end of an era

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eilonwiiy · 4 years

Text

All That Glitters

Summary: A fluffy Safi/Merik one-shot set in the Bookends verse.

Inspired by this ship meme ask: Who tries to start role-playing in bed? Answer: Safi, but it only ends in a fit of laughter. Safi is a terrible actress and they both know it.

Ships: Safi/Merik

Read on AO3: here

* . * . * . * .

Safi adjusted the sequined torture contraption plastered to her thighs for what felt like the hundredth time since she shimmied into it. It wasn’t really meant for torture, but when something dissolved the use of her legs and made her feel like a sausage casing, torture didn’t seem so a far-reaching.

This was supposed to be sexy.

She tried shifting her thighs, glued together by sweat, to no avail. She was beginning to think that maybe she had gone about this the wrong way. A mermaid seemed like the obvious choice when the idea had popped into her head. Merik had a strong connection to the ocean, having grown up in Nubrevna, and for as long as she’d known him - which, granted, wasn’t very long - he’d find any excuse to talk about his years spent sailing and adventuring on the high seas as a boy. But now, with legs tightly gift wrappped in shimmering spandex, it seemed stupid to have eliminated, in her most humble opinion, her best features - if only for the supreme discomfort she was in. Her boobs weren’t faring much better. The vinyl shell-shaped monstrosity strapped across her chest would soon become a permanent fixture on her body if Merik didn’t turn up soon. This was, of course, for him after all.

It wasn’t that things had grown stale in the bedroom. Quite the contrary. Safi found herself spending more and more time with Merik than ever before. Skipping her morning classes was becoming all too much of a habit to the point where her sociology professor had personally reached out to her by email asking if everything was alright. Embarrassed, Safi had quickly replied thanking her for her concern and assuring her that she was ok. More than ok (though she’d left out the finer details as to why in her response).

And yet.

She couldn’t help but feel as though something was out of place. Between him and her. They hadn’t had “the talk”. Yet. And as Merik had proven on more than one occasion that he was just as maddeningly stubborn as Safi, they never would. But that didn’t stop her from having many long-winded and, ultimately, unproductive talks with herself. She was growing discontent with the one-sidedness of it all, especially when she was all too painfully aware of what she was thinking. She wanted to know what the real Merik was thinking, not the fantasy version she carried around in her head all day - the one that wanted more than the whatever they were doing now. Because on the days she opted out of her morning class, she wasn’t hanging around for just a tumble in the sheets. I mean, that certainly wasn’t a deterrent. Merik was living up to every bit of expertise he’d so boorishly boasted when they’d begun dancing circles around each other. But that wasn’t all there was to it anymore. Most mornings when her cell alarm woke her up after spending the night, the desire to stay tucked against Merik’s chest and wrapped in his arms far outweighed doing anything else, and in the last week, she was almost positive she’d picked up on his reluctance to do the same. This was highly unusual. When they’d first started hooking up, he’d be showered, dressed, and halfway through eating a banana - what he called breakfast, the barbarian - all before she’d even hit the snooze button on her alarm the first time in a long series of snoozes. Now, all of a sudden, Merik was following her alarm’s example and snoozing right alongside Safi. Not so long that he missed class - he hadn’t gone through a complete personality transplant - but enough that Safi awoke to a thoroughly eye-opening ‘good morning’.

Which was exactly why she was laying across Merik’s bed, her bottom half squeezed into the glitziest mermaid tail Amazon had to offer with her top half covered in plastic seashells and glitter like a beach craft project gone wrong. The plan had seemed sensible enough: if they tried something new in the bedroom, then perhaps it would inspire him to try something new outside the bedroom. Like, eat bacon and eggs for breakfast. Or try role-playing as something else. Her boyfriend, perhaps.

Under such a premeditated salacious scenario, it all sounded so childish now, but it was too late to back out. With a look of determination setting on her sparkly face, she tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and adjusted her boobs with renewed commitment. Tonight, she would initiate and complete. She wasn’t entirely confident that she’d be able to get herself out of her tail without Merik’s help anyhow.

She hadn’t come over mermaidified. Kullen had let her in, eyeing the multiple bags of supplies hanging from her arms warily and having the decency to listen to her rambling explanation without question when the plastic leaf garland she planned on using as a vine of seaweed flopped out of one of the bags. About ten minutes later, he announced that he was heading over to Ryber’s and wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow. Smart man.

Safi stared at the bedroom door, a perfect beached mermaid, waiting for her sea captain to walk in and ravish his scaley catch. Yes, this was good. This was not at all insane.

5 minutes went by.

Safi wetted her lips, resisting the urge to roll off the bed and refile through her makeup bag. It would be just her luck for Merik to walk in as she was reapplying a fresh coat of lipgloss. It wasn’t worth the risk. He’d be too distracted by the fish tail replacing her legs to notice that her lips had lost their sparkly sheen from two hours ago anyway.

Another 10 minutes went by.

These sequins were going to leave permanent indentations in her ass if she didn’t move soon.

25 minutes.

His last class was supposed to have gotten out over an hour ago! Where the hell was he?

30.

That’s it. She was going to text him.

Then, suddenly, the door swung open and there was Merik, his dark hair tousled wet and his cheeks rosy, like he’d gotten caught in a snow flurry on the way home. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Safi, his hand gripped around the door knob. She had turned to stone the moment the door clicked open. With her torso twisted and arm strained backwards frozen in midair as she tried to acrobatically reach for her phone from the nightstand, their eyes met.

It took Safi several beats of stunned silence for her to remember that she had lines. She jolted as though breaking out of a spell, the room filed with the rustle of sequins and (fake) pearl necklaces draped around her neck clacking against each as she gyrated back onto her side, all the while Merik still stood rooted in the doorway, his face bafflingly expressionless for a man who had just unsuspectingly walked in on a mermaid floundering on his bed.

Safi took a single deep breath and began…

“Oh captain, my captain,” she recited in a musical lilt. “To be caught in one’s net is but my kind’s greatest fear. But to be caught in a gaze such as yours, I cannot say. For it is a forbidden love we swim around. I dare not say what would happen to me if I were discovered in the arms of a land dweller for it is too gruesome to even imagine… but I know of a place where no one can find us. A secret lagoon that only I know of. Where the water is warm and… and… what are you looking at??”

Merik’s eyes were narrowed in a deep frown. Somewhere in the midst of her opening monologue, his attention had shifted to the rest of the bed and - more importantly - not her.

“This place is covered in glitter,” he said bluntly, looking around the room.

Safi blinked, momentarily stunned. “What?”

“There’s glitter. Everywhere,” he emphasized, still too engrossed with the contents of his room to even spare a look at her.

A shock of disbelief robbed Safi of speech for a moment. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” he said, running a mystified hand through his hair and brushing the tip of his boot on a spot on the carpet that was no doubt fertilized with glitter. He scowled. “I’m going to have to burn this place down.”

Safi’s mouth puckered open and close, fittingly, like a fish. Heat flashed through her - and not the kind she was hoping he’d ignite from this encounter.

“Better start with the bathroom,” she jeered snidely.

At those words, Merik’s gaze finally snapped to her. His brown eyes widened half a fraction and, without a word, he bolted from the room. Safi listened for the telltale sound of the bathroom light being switched on and a smugness flitted across her pursed lips when she heard the satisfying gasp of horror that instantly followed after.

Angry footsteps sounded from outside the room and Merik reappeared.

“It looks like Tinkerbell was murdered in there,” he accused, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. From her spot on the bed, she could see the red flush creeping up his neck that she had come to know so well from their many heated arguments - and the exhilarating reconciliations that followed. He planted his hands on his hips and stood over her like an angry parent. So not the role she was hoping he’d be playing right now.

“Safi, what the hell is going on?”

“Relax, Tink’s fine.”

“Safi.”

“What do you think is going on?” Safi hissed, sounding more like a murderous siren than the seductive mermaid she had planned on. Strangling him sounded just as pleasurable as sex at the moment.

“I don’t know!” Merik half-shouted, throwing his hands up. He looked Safi up and down in earnest for the first time since he walked through the door. Underneath the irritation radiating off him was genuine confusion and he struggled for his next words.

“This… is weird,” he finally landed on. His hands dropped to his sides and his shoulders slumped a little. He stared into Safi’s eyes clearly hoping she would say something, but she wasn’t in the mood to let him off the hook. Not when she could feel angry tears prickling at the backs of her eyes. This was such a stupid idea. What had she been thinking? She was an idiot for thinking she could pull this off. Before Merik, she’d hardly had any experience with anyone. Besides Caden.

Ugh, she mentally harrumphed. Chiseled Cheater. Just the thought of him set her on fire. Why after that trainwreck she’d entertained the fantasy of attaching herself more exclusively to another brainless cow was beyond her. Something was truly wrong with her.

When she didn’t say anything, Merik let out a rough sigh. “Safi, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Nothing!” Safi snapped, breaking from her thoughts and suddenly finding her voice. Merik eyes widened.

“You don’t have to say anything at all,” she continued in a coldly polite manner, raising herself up. “I’m leaving. Have a good night.”

Safi flipped onto her butt and began to scooch across Merik’s bed, digging her bound heels into the mattress to pull herself forward and propping her top half up with her hands. She knew how undignified she must have looked, but she kept her chin held high, ignoring the way every piece of her ensemble made an ungodly amount of noise with the effort of her movements. Just get up, she screamed at herself inside her head. Just get up and get out and you’ll never have to see him ever again for as long as you live.

But she did want to see him. And she hated herself for it.

That was the last thought she had when her feet touched the ground, for when she stood and tried to take a step forward, she toppled onto the floor.

And then Merik was on the floor with her, his face rippling with full-bellied laughter. She’d never heard him laugh in such a way, so free and uncaring. It would have sent her heart soaring if not for the not so minor fact that her humiliation was its cause. Before she did something stupid, like grab his face and kiss him senseless, she reminded herself of that fact, then peeled her upper half off the floor and sent a venomous look his way.

“Merik, I swear, if you don’t stop laughing, I’ll-”

But what Safi would do, they never found out. Because when she tried to get back onto her feet, she’d fallen right back down and Merik crumpled into a heap on the floor dissolving into hysterics and clutching his stomach.

“Stop laughing!” Safi cried, but either Merik couldn’t hear her over his own howling or he didn’t care. The thought of the latter only made Safi angrier and with a strangled sob she tried to pull herself up by the bed sheets, wishing to get as far away from Merik Nihar as possible and forget that she’d ever met him. She’d give him an unflattering nickname and forbid Iseult from speaking his name ever again.

But then, without warning, she was in the air. Strong arms wrapped under her knees and around her back. Before she could protest, she was being gently lowered onto the bed, and the next moment, Merik had her caged underneath him.

He wasn’t laughing anymore.

Safi felt the tear that escaped the corner of her eye and slid down her temple before she could stop it. She looked away, blinking unseeingly at the ceiling and huffed in frustration. His face was drawing closer, so close that she could feel the warmth of his lips on hers. And then, he paused.

“You’re acting real crazy, you know that?” he murmured huskily.

An indignant sound burst from Safi’s throat and was immediately swallowed by his mouth.

It wasn’t this first time Merik Nihar had rendered Safi speechless. Sometimes it was with his stupidity. Other times with his bullheadedness. And then there were times when he kissed her and stole the very air she breathed.

This was one of those times.

The sound of his deep exhalation the moment after their lips met was the only thing that nudged Safi’s lungs to back life. The kiss was slow and deliberate and the arm still underneath her tightened its hold on her while the other kept himself propped up as to not crush her. There was something incredibly sexy about the way that coarse wool of his jacket brushed against her bare skin with every roll of his head and Safi wished not for the first time that evening that her legs weren’t bound. She cupped his face in her hands, dragging him closer, and finally he relented and lied down on her properly, the silken slide of their lips growing hotter, deeper. In a matter of seconds he had every nerve-ending inside her crackling to life.

The moment he stopped she wanted to grab him by the collar and yank him back down to her, but she restrained herself, too caught up in the softness of his eyes. He smoothed her hair back from her flushed forehead, fingers bumping over the seashells among the waves as he peered down at her. She had a feeling he wasn’t going to be the first person to break under the silence.

“I’m not crazy,” she finally said. Although her voice was soft, a familiar defensiveness rang through.

The corner of Merik’s mouth curled up. “I didn’t say you were crazy,” he countered, continuing to gaze down at her fondly. “I said you were acting crazy. Care to tell me why?”

Safi pressed her eyes shut and breathed in deeply - or she tried to. The combination of the constrictive nature of her outfit and Merik’s lower half pressed deliciously against her was making it hard to breathe at the moment.

When she opened her eyes he was, unfortunately, still waiting for an answer. She sighed.

“I just wanted to try something… new.”

Merik’s brow arched.

“In bed.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause. Safi willed her cheeks not to burn up. She focused on the masculine bump of his throat and watched it slowly bob up and down as he swallowed.

“Are you… bored?”

“No,” she was quick to answer, unable to stop herself from looking at him when she said it to assure him that it was true. Relief softened his eyes, but his expression turned serious again a moment later.

“Are you unhappy?”

Safi’s heart thrummed against her breast, too powerful for even the bra so tightly bound to her chest to tamp down. For a moment she lost herself in his questioning eyes. The color on his cheeks gave him a boyish glow. She could lie. End this now and walk away in whatever humiliating capacity her mermaid tail allowed. Roll, hop, slither across the floor like a garden snake - whatever. The point was she would never have to face that feeling ever again if she wanted to.

“I’ve never been so happy with a man before in my life,” she confessed instead.

Surprise flickered across Merik’s face.

“So, naturally, I tried to change everything.”

Merik broke out into a chuckle, his eyes brightening with that rare smile of his that Safi was coming to adore so much, and his hand, which had been frozen for some time, resumed caressing her hair.

“By turning into a mermaid?” he asked, amused.

Safi nodded and Merik shook his head ruefully. He pulled away slightly and peered down. “How would this-” he gestured back and forth between their lower halves “-even work?”

A watery laugh broke through Safi. “I don’t know!” she moaned covering her face with her hands, embarrassed, but finally able to appreciate the absurdity of it all. Merik began laughing too, the sound soothing her jangled nerves, and he gently pulled her hands away so that he could see her.

“Did you have a costume for me?” he teased.

“You brag so much about that damn boat of yours I assumed you had one stashed away somewhere.”

“It’s not bragging. It’s talking,” Merik corrected evenly. He arched his brow. “Where’s Kullen?”

Safi rolled her eyes. Even with her half-naked underneath him he still couldn’t help his thoughts from wandering to Kullen. She knew she shouldn’t judge. She was the same way with Iseult afterall, but really, come on.

“He’s far, far away at Ryber’s.”

A wolfish grin spread across Merik’s face and to Safi’s surprise said, “Good,” then leaned into her and found that sweet spot between her neck and shoulder with his lips. Safi’s heart faltered.

“Seriously?” she breathed, arching into his touch nonetheless.

“You did go through all the effort,” he murmured into her skin, kissing a path along her collarbone. His hand traced a line down the middle of her chest, leaving a happy trail of goosebumps in its wake. His fingers spread along her ribcage, a searing handprint on her skin, and his thumb slipped under her bra, brushing the underside of her breast. A shiver ran through Safi. Hell-gates, it was going to hurt like hell when the time came to rip those seashells, but holy shit it would be worth it. Possessed with an urgency to anchor herself she plunged her hands into his thick hair and cradled him to her.

“Plus,” he said between kisses, “I don’t mind trying new things. Here or… wherever.”

Safi’s hands paused. She’d never know if he felt the flutter of her heart under his lips, but he lifted his head to gaze up at her from her bare collar. His dark eyes smoldered with meaning and somehow Safi knew what he was saying. They always did understand each other best when they kept their mouths shut.

“Really?” she sniffed, careful to put on an air of indifference. She may have been voluntarily bound beneath him, but she wasn’t about to give herself away entirely.

“Really.”

They held each other's gaze for a moment, then Merik’s face slowly lit up with a lopsided grin. Safi tried to contain the smile breaking out across her lips, halfway succeeding. It was enough for Merik, though, and pressing a tender kiss upon her chest, he returned to his exploration of her neck. She let her head fall back and a breathy sigh passed through her lips, fingers curling in his hair, only to be cut short by a startled gasp when he nipped her earlobe rather boldly.

“A little advice for the future, domna?” he said in a low voice, and her traitorous body stiffened at the seductive dominance honeying his words. His breath was hot against her ear as he took an insufferable pause no doubt for dramatic effect.

“Play to your strengths.”

In one graceful move, Safi pushed him off her and rolled him onto his back so that she was on top of him.

She planned on doing just that.

#the witchlands #safiya fon hasstrel #merik nihar #safik #safi x merik #bookends #bookends verse #the card catalog #my fics #mine

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razorblade180 · 4 years

Text

Rosebud prep 12

It’s the day after Ruby and Jaune return. The sun is still rising above the Vacou sand dunes but rays still pierces through their window. A ray lands on Jaune’s face and the light stirs him awake slowly.

Jaune:Mmmggh Ruby? I think we need better blinds.

....

Jaune:Ruby?

His hand moves around to try to find her. Reluctantly he opens his eyes ti see his wife wasn’t on the couch anymore. Most of her clothes were still on the floor where the fell last night. ‘At least that means she’s still here, hopefully.’ His shirt was missing however. Fine by him. Jaune wasn’t even in the mood to wear pants right now but for the sake of her absence being potentially bad, walking around in boxers could end badly. “Ruby? You still here?”

“Just upstairs. Don’t worry, still here.” Her voice reassuring him, given recent events . “You don’t have to come up here though if you don’t want to J-”

The sound of footsteps cut her off. One by one they grew louder until suddenly, it stopped. Ruby couldn’t see him yet but she knew he right outside the doorway. A slow inhale followed by an exhale reached her ears. This had to be difficult for him. Jaune pushed open the door and saw Ruby standing in the middle of the room wearing his shirt that was comedically oversized on her. Too bad they were both too down to smile about it. Jaune walked behind Ruby and wrapped his arms around her waist; the comfort loved immensely for the both of them. Her hands raise up to meet his and holds them in place.

Ruby:You didn’t have to come in here with me you know?

Jaune:I’ll never let you go through something alone. That’s what it means to be a partner right? Not to mention your husband. Guess that makes it double, no, triple my priority.

Ruby:Triple?

Jaune:Am I not your best friend?

Ruby:Weiss might feel someway about you saying that.

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. Silently they looked around nursery everyone spent so much time building. The burgundy walls the connected to the soft purple carpet they spent forever installing. Blake’s old book shelves filled with children’s books and was next to the playpen Weiss bought. Some toys Ren and Nora generously donated from their orphanage. The crib Jaune and Ruby spent hours picking out......

Ruby’s grip on Jaune tighten ever so slightly. A piece of her wanted to drop to her knees but she refused to allow it. Not just for Jaune either, if she cave into sadness again then who knows when she’d get up again? Jaune felt Ruby lean more into him and he depended the embrace. There was always something about the way he held her that Ruby couldn’t explain. Whatever it was, she was thankful for it. Life seemed a little more manageable with it; Ruby felt a little stronger each time.

Jaune:You okay?

Ruby:I will be. One step at a time, things get better. They always do with enough time.

Jaune:Keep talking like that and someone should make you a headmaster.

Ruby:Sounds stuffy and boring. I like the field.

Jaune:I would hope so. The Storyteller, very majestic.

Ruby:So you heard?

Jaune:Maria has told everyone about her handy work. She’s very proud of the nickname, and of you.

Ruby:You know me, I am to a please. Speaking of which, last night was nice. *red* Really nice. A years worth of attention in one night is....

Jaune:Intense?

Ruby:Numbing. That’s worth a story in its own right.

Jaune:Well, it is important you don’t forget to create your own while trying to help others with theirs.*kisses her cheek*

Ruby:Trust me, no way I could forget. Too many important people wouldn’t stand for it. Besides, I tell plenty of people just how great the people in my life are. I’m not the only famous person on Remnant ya know?

Jaune:Wouldn’t mind meeting them if I got the chance. All the people you saved.

Ruby:.....Let’s do it.

Jaune:What?

Ruby:Let’s take a trip around Remnant. Just the two of us; like a second honeymoon. We can explore, see some sights, meet some people, reconnect.....a year without you is big regret. I won’t to make up for lost time. *interlocks fingers*

Jaune:A second honeymoon huh? Hehe, only you come up with ideas like this.

She flashes a smile before looking around the room again. A resolve in her dim eyes trying to break its way through.

Ruby:One day, we’ll fill this room with a child’s laughter, but no need to rush. Right now, healing with you is what matters. I know you said you weren’t upset with me but I can’t help but feel like I should tell you again that I’m-

Jaune’s right hand removes itself from her grasp and raises to tilt her head up. Just like that, her words were cut off by another kiss. Not like she minded. This was her favorite way for Jaune to tell her to shut up. Ruby’s free hand went to his hair and slightly tugged it; silently asking him to lean down a bit more for a longer kiss. Instead he uses his other hand to hook around the back of he legs and the one on Ruby’s flushed face went to the center of her back. She got the message and hopped into his arms. The entire time they never separated from each other from the simple and passionate kiss. Finally Jaune pulled back which led to a bit of Ruby’s frustration. She almost leaned in for another but managed to control the impulse.

Jaune:Let’s go take a bath.

Ruby:Okay...

xxxx

One week passed before the two set off on their journey. In that time, things already seemed to get a tiny bit easier. Smiles lasted longer, sleeping wasn’t restless, and the air itself, it felt less tense. Then a month passed; now the two sit on a boat that travels the known seas. Jaune watched the ocean hypnotically while Ruby laid back in a chair; eyes closed in serenity.

Ruby:You know, I kinda forgot what it’s like to just sit down and let things....drift I guess is the word? No destination really planned. We’re simply going.

Jaune:Yeah. Last time we were on a honeymoon though, I don’t remember packing our weapons too. Not that I’m complaining.

Ruby:Better safe than sorry. Not to mention the public has gotten in a habit of running up to me and asking for help. Most of the time it’s legit. Also kids like to get picture of me with it. So be ready for that.

Jaune:No worries. You look sexy when you’re working anyways. At least that’s what rumors say.

Ruby:Your opinion?

Jaune:Well.....*smiles*

Bzzz!! Bzzz!!

Jaune:Your scroll is ringing.

Ruby:Hold that thought, it’s Yang. *grabs scroll* Hey sis.

Yang:H..hey Ruby.

Ruby:You okay? *stands up* You sound a bit weird.

Yang:Y...Yeah! Just....

Ruby:Yang?

Yang:.....Promise you won’t get mad, or upset? It’s just, I really want you to be the first to tell you this but I’m not sure how things might turn out. I know you’re in a sensitive time in your life but-

Ruby:*pulls up face time*

Yang is caught off gaurd and jumps as Ruby looks at her; noticing that the blonde girl is wearing a night shirt and sweatpants. Her skin is practically glowing but her face screams anxious, yet exhilarated.

Ruby:.....So you took the next step?

Yang:.....*nods* I’m....pregnant. Hehehe *tearing up* For almost a month.

Ruby:*grins* Congratulations, I mean that.

Yang:Really? I...I was really scared to tell you. I’m also scared that maybe...something.... what if comes back?

Ruby:Don’t worry. I’ll-

Jaune:We’ll won’t let that happen.

Yang:Jaune?

Jaune:*walks into view* I promise. We’ll help you every step of the way. Clothes, medicine, talks....

Ruby:Extra food, room building, the day of the birth, we’ll help however we can. It’s what good Aunts and Uncles would do right?

Yang:....*crying* You guys are so....so...*sobbing*

Ruby:H..hey! I don’t remember hormones kicking in that fast for me.

Yang:It’s not that! It’s....why couldn’t I do that for you!? I care about you both and I was so excited to be the coolest aunt ever while still being your big sis. But when it was all said and done.....I let that slept through my fingers. I couldn’t run fast enough.

Ruby:I never blamed for that day. You did the best that/

Yang:It’s still infuriating! Jaune understands.

Ruby:*looks at him*

Jaune:I don’t know if you ever knew but, Yang was rushing up the building and made it to the roof too. So did Weiss.

Yang:She hasn’t said anything much either but she’s still frustrated over that day too. *sniff* Ruby you’re the world to us. Blake still chastises herself for not noticing any kind of clue. So to hear you say that you’ll be there for me when I failed so hard......I’m so sorry.

Yang’s hand covered her mouth and tears kept flowing like I broken dam. Ruby could only watch from the other side of the screen as her own heart started to break. Has everyone been carrying this pain? Why didn’t she see it before? Would Weiss and even her own uncle have a similar reaction to her sister? After all this time of thinking the only people struggling to progress was her and Jaune, was that wrong? Did everyone feel stuck in some way. That had to be true to some extent; which meant Ruby couldn’t help but feel terrible. ‘Have I....been being selfish this whole time? Did going it alone hurt everyone?’

The thought made her stomach feel like a knot. Their happily ever after really was a long way to go, and she had been a contributor to that. Ruby’s lip started to quiver but the feel of Jaune’s hand grabbing hers pushed away the bleak thoughts. He looked at her with a soft smile that said everything she needed to hear without a word being uttered. Ruby nodded and looked back a Yang who was still torn up over her own guilt.

Ruby:Yang, listen to me. You’re still the best sister I could ask for.

Yang:....

Ruby:I don’t know if my words will reach you but I hope they do. You’re someone, that deserves the world; all of you are. Not because you want to help me as much as possible, but because people like you, Blake, Weiss, you try your damnedest with anyone in need. Life though, it gets the better of us. We fail when we don’t want to. And I know it feels like we shouldn’t have failed with Dustin but..*tearing up* we did. It happened. He’s gone.

........

Ruby:Let’s learn from it, and makes sure it never happens again. Down but not out. I learned that from watching you. So please, don’t waste tears on me. Grow with me instead.

Yang finds it in herself to look Ruby again. Her little sister’s eyes are clearly fighting back their own tears and the brilliant silver shine still remains clouded. Yet, they never looked more determined. Yang wiped her face and nodded.

Yang:Can you by any chance, stop by a visit? I really want to hug you.

Ruby:You couldn’t stop me from showing up anyways. We’ll be there as soon as we can. I love you. Now stop putting stress on the baby. Leaders orders. I gotta go. Also tell your wife the good news! You’re having baby! Be excited.

Yang:*takes a breath* Yes ma’am. Ruby, I love you too. *hangs up*

Ruby:......

Jaune:How are you feeling right now?

Ruby:Honestly? Like shit. I should probably call Weiss now. Who knows just how rough she’s feeling.

Jaune:You know, crying is still okay Ruby. If you wanna take a moment to process.

Ruby:*fidgeting with scroll* That feels a bit wrong. All things considered. I can manage.

Jaune:*cups her face* This isn’t about managing Ruby. It’s about allowing yourself to go through the sadness. There’s strength in tears. No need to rush grief. I’m not.

Her heart felt like it skipped at those words. Ruby’s entire body trembled and her jaw clenched. Tears managed to leak out despite her desperate attempt to fight them back. She could feel instinct to just run off; to not be seen like this. There was nowhere to go however, and Jaune knew that. He slowly pulled her into an embrace that he could tell was hard for Ruby to accept. The poor girl’s mind weighed down with still so much frustration.

They stood like this until finally, a whimper. Then the whimper gave way to more tears. Ruby’s arms went up to hold Jaune tight and it was all over from there. Mournful wails echoed through the air and tears stained his shirt. If Ruby had been a bit quieter then Jaune’s own sniffling and pain might’ve been heard. It was hard, taking steps together. But not as hard as doing it alone. One day everyone would come out on the other end fine, but for right now, they stood in place and just simply cried.

xxxx

Blake:Hehe, is it weird I’m not used to see you both so much anymore?

Ruby:*rubs head* Is it bad I get lost getting to your house now?

Blake:You’re fine. *hugs her* I’m glad your here. Both of you.

Jaune:Would’ve been here sooner but had to find another boat, grimm attack, more grimm. It’s been an interesting two weeks.

Ruby:He’s slightly out of shape is what he’s saying.

Jaune:Hey! I’m getting my groove back. Oh! Congratulations by the way. We probably should’ve lead with that.

Blake:*smiles* Thank you. I’m still kinda in shock about the whole thing. My parents have already gone full grand parent mode. I can barely keep up.

Ruby:It’s not over yet. Dad told me he sending a bunch of gifts this way so be ready for that hurricane. Where’s Yang?

Blake:*steps aside* getting cozy.

Ruby and Jaune walk in and hear snoring coming from the other room. “I know that snore anywhere.” Ruby peaks around the corner and sees her sister knocked out on the couch. Drool drips onto a black and yellow pillow and a bit on her arm. Yang is completely spread out on her back. Ruby looks at blonde’s stomach and sees the baby bump.

Jaune:Damn, this makes me wish I took a picture of you during this time. I could swap the heads on them and it would be the exact same photo.

Ruby:Rude. I slept gracefully.

Blake:You snored and drool all throughout Beacon.

Ruby:*red* Well....yeah.

Blake:Weiss drops by when she’s can. She’s super excited about all this; probably more than anyone else. We can call her and try to set up some plan or something for whatever might happen. It might calm her nerves about the whole thing.

Ruby:Actually, right now I got something I want do.

xxxx

Yang:*waking up* Mmmm, Blake, what time is-

Ruby:*sleeping next to her*Zzzzzz

Her breath slightly tickled Yang’s nose. The girl had snuggled up right next to her and held her close like she used to do all the time. Yang reached over gently brushed a few red strands of hair away from Ruby’s face. She looked so...peaceful. Time had made Ruby older and definitely into a beautiful young woman, but the face of the little Yang loved and cherished was still there plain as day. She planted a kiss on her forehead and raised a giggle out of her. Ruby opened her eyes smiled.

Ruby:Hey sis.

Yang:Hey yourself. Whatcha doing?

Ruby:Oh you know, trying to make everything okay.

Yang:So the usual?

Ruby:That is the usual, isn’t it? I’m sorry we weren’t able to talk about what you were going through sooner.

Yang:Can we make a promise right here? No more apologies. I think we’ve had more of those than actual conversations at this point. Between us, we will always be good.

Ruby:Deal. So, what happens next?

Yang:Nothing. I’m keeping this moment for as long as I can.

Ruby:Sounds like a plan. Your baby sure is going to be lucky to have you.

Yang:So will your next one. Never be afraid to start again.

Ruby:I know. I’m just waiting for something. A feeling or a spark.

Yang:With Jaune?

Ruby:No, there’s plenty of fireworks there. Those might actually be stronger than before and I didn’t think that was possible.

Yang:*wiggles eyebrows* I bet there’s been a lot of “apologizing.”

Ruby:*red* Shut up dork. I think I’m just waiting for some gut feeling to jump back into that process. Not counting the ending, my pregnancy was a bit rough; definitely painful. I have to steel myself for that again and just feel...man it’s hard to explain.

Yang:You’ll know it’s time when it happens. I can understand. Well when you are ready, I’ll be there to support you.

Ruby:I know you will. You’re my awesome big sister. I love you.

Yang:And I, love you. *kisses forehead* The original duo. Now and forever. The energetic strawberry to my sunrise.

Ruby:I prefer gold and silver sisters.

Yang:Ooooo that’s pretty good. We starting a new legend.

Ruby:Please, we always were one.

The two of the smile before dozing off again. Both revitalized. Both finally finding their groove again.

Part 11

#rwby rosebud #rwby #ruby rose #jaune arc #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #bumblb #bumbleby #rwby lancaster #rwby ships

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let-it-raines · 5 years

Note

Prompt: some 3B canon (or canon divergence) smut pleeeeassseee

“Thank you again,” Emma says softly as her feet move over the carpet in the back hallway of Granny’s Bed and Breakfast.

“For what, Swan?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Everything, I guess. Being kind to my kid, making sure that Regina didn’t destroy any lives in her anger, placating my father with all of his questions.”

Killian nudges his shoulder into hers as they walk, a quick push that has her nearly losing her footing as they come up to his room at the end of the hall. She’d say that she’s had too much to drink, but she hasn’t had anything more than a sip of Killian’s beer. “Is that all you have to thank me for then? Because I remember a few other things happening that I believe require a bit of gratitude.”

His brows move up and down his forehead, little lines following them, and idly Emma wonders just how long he’s spent perfecting that move. He was in Neverland for hundreds of years. There’s no way he spent all the time avoiding lost boys. He had to have done something else, and he is extremely good at the eyebrow thing and knowing just how to charm someone.

Thoughts of Neverland and gratitude bring her back to their first kiss, a push and pull of desire and impulse that felt damn good.

Not good enough. Not for how they are now.

Who would have ever thought there would be another kiss past that first one? A one-time thing, she’d said.

(She lied.)

Emma chuckles and backs herself up against his room’s door while Killian leans his shoulder against the wall, close but not close enough. Not when less than an hour ago she got to feel his lips move against hers, soft and gentle and everything she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in over a decade of momentary satisfaction instead of lingering happiness. It was overwhelming but good, and Emma’s still in such a haze that she doesn’t quite believe that it was real.

Good things in her life so rarely are, and she’s having to get used to accepting that maybe, just maybe, the rug isn’t always going to be pulled out from underneath her.

“Yeah?” she teases as she bites down on her bottom lip and electricity sparks over her skin. Is that her magic? That might be her magic slowly coming back. Weirdly, she’s missed it, but saving Killian was worth it, even if she didn’t know she’d lose it from pressing her lips to his. Their communication might need a little work. “Like what?”

Killian hums before tapping his finger to his lips, lips that she’d very much like to kiss again without anyone around or staring out the window of the diner. “Well, I’d take credit for getting us home, but that was all you. You’re bloody brilliant, by the way.”

Emma blushes and curls in on herself before straightening her back. She’s not going to shrink away. Not when she’s feeling this good.

“Go on.”

“Well,” he starts again as his body shifts closer to hers, his long leather jacket hitting up against her ankles, “there was also the time that I brought you a piece of that celebratory cake tonight. I don’t recall you thanking me for it.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Well,” she sighs, stepping up to him so that her arms loosely wrap around his neck and her fingers curl into his hair, “allow me to do that now.”

All it takes is for her to press up on her toes before her mouth is covering Killian’s once more and his body is pressing into hers, hand and hook on her hips. He’s solid, always has been, and when she breathes him in, he smells of leather and the saltiness of sweat. It’s intoxicating, much like the warmth of his mouth is, and Emma wants to drown in it. She wants to drown in the way that Killian’s scruff pricks at the sensitive skin of her face and the way that his tongue is hot when he licks into her, curling his tongue around hers as heat curls between her thighs.

There is no escape from the way that he kisses her, slow yet passionate, and when his hips cant up to hers, the brush of his half-hard erection hitting against her thigh, Emma whines.

She actually fucking whines.

It’s pathetic, but it’s also months, possibly years, of tension and bickering back and forth boiling over into physical action that already feels like so much more.

Emma isn’t good with more, not usually, but as long as she doesn’t have to somehow turn what she’s feeling right now into words, everything will be just fine.

She hopes.

All thoughts disappear when Killian’s lips move away from hers and across her jaw before moving down her neck and to the place behind her ear where....

“Ah, fuck,” she moans out as he teeth gently bite down.

“With your approval, that’s what I was working toward, love.”

Emma tugs on his hair, both in annoyance and encouragement, and her entire body is humming. “That’s a little cocky, Jones.”“Aye,” he murmurs, biting down on her lobe as his hips push further into hers and she’s completely up against the door, “I had a feeling I might get away with that tonight.”“And why’s that?”

“Because,” he begins, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw. “You,” a kiss to the hollow of her throat, “kissed,” a dragging of his tongue and his teeth against her collarbone, “me.”

Emma gasps, partly at the way that he feels against her but mostly at his words and all of the implications behind them. She did kiss him. She wants to keep kissing him. But she’s not ready to talk about it. She doesn’t know how to.

He traded his ship for her.

His home. The thing she thought he loved most.

Just because she knows that she has feelings doesn’t mean she knows how to deal with them when there’s another person she really cares about who is involved. What if she fucks it up and hurts him more than she already has? Her track record isn’t exactly great.

“That I did,” she says back before pulling Killian up to her so that she can kiss him and feel his mouth and all of its wonders.

They stay outside of his room for minutes - who knows how many - until there’s the sound of drunken giggling coming toward them from the other hallway. Quickly, Killian unlocks the door and tugs her inside, and with breathless laughter on their kiss-swollen lips, they begin tugging off clothes until she’s left in nothing more than her underwear as she sits on the bed, elbows propped up behind her to keep her mostly upright while Killian stands above her fiddling with his shirt until it’s laying on the floor as well.

He's toned from years at sea, lean muscles instead of bulky ones built at the gym, and she honestly can’t focus on any of that from the way that his chest is heaving under dark patches of chest hair. It’s broad across his chest before thinning out and traveling down his stomach and into his low-slung pants where she can see his erection pressing through his leathers.

This is a really weird day.

She wouldn’t change it for a thing even if her emotions are completely haywire over everything.

“You planning on joining me down here, sailor?”

Killian’s brow arches while his tongue runs across the back of his teeth. “I prefer Captain.”

“I like to knock your ego down a little bit. I need a little bit of breathing room.”

His eyes roll while his lips smirk, and all of the sudden, Killian moves forward and presses his hand and his hook on either side of her before he’s dipping his head down and running his tongue down her sternum. Her body twitches beneath his touch, especially when the cool tip of his necklaces follows his lips. It’s a mix of sensations, one that is too much for her when she’s already so on edge, and her breath audibly catches in her throat.

“You obviously need much more than a little breathing room.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you - ”

A gasp escapes her lips when Killian’s fingers unexpectedly slip between her legs and press where she wants him, and she can feel his smirk against her stomach. It’s ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. The room is on fire even with the ceiling fan circling above them, and Emma spreads her legs a little further apart so that Killian can get better access to her. He groans when his fingers touch the slickness that’s gathered there. She expects him to be to be smug about the fact that she so obviously wants him with them barely touching, but he’s not.

Not at all.

Instead, his tongue slides along her stomach before dipping down to the crevice of her hip and her thigh while two fingers curl inside of her in a way that has her seeing all of those stupid hypothetical and metaphorical stars. She rolls her hips up to him, trying to get more friction, but Killian doesn’t fold. Instead, he bites down on her inner thigh, mumblings words she can’t hear over the beating over her heart, before kissing her where she’s absolutely desperate for him.

Holy fuck.

Killian is building her higher and higher, sweat gathering at the nape of her neck and behind her knees, and he was right when he said that she’d need more than a little breathing room. She needs quite a bit, possibly the entire town of Storybrooke and all of Maine, and each flick of Killian’s tongue and curl of his fingers is driving her into madness. Gooseflesh rises on her skin, little bumps that usually only come from feeling chilled, but nothing about Emma feels chilled right now.

Her right hand reaches forward to tug in Killian’s hair, the soft strands spread all over his forehead, while the other curls into the mattress. There’s something irresistible about the sight of Killian between her thighs, his mouth and his fingers doing wonders to her body. It’s something she imagined in the darkness of night, but it’s never anything that she saw becoming a reality.

This is her reality.

Heat keeps pooling in her belly, the coil tightening, and she can’t take it anymore. She can’t.

“Faster,” she gasps out, pulling his head a little closer to her as his tongue flicks against her bundle of nerves at a faster pace. Such a good listener. “Oh, fuck, please.”

Her orgasm comes quickly, overwhelming her in a way that it usually doesn’t, and it’s one of those that has her toes curling and her hips arching up off the bed while her heart pounds a heated beat between her ears so that she literally cannot hear anything else.

Wow.

“Wow indeed,” Killian says, and Emma practically jumps off the bed when she looks down to see Killian’s chin resting against her hip bone. He’s smirking. When is he not?

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Aye, but I don’t blame you, darling. You seemed to be having a rather pleasant time.”

“Shut up and take off your pants.”

His eyes roll once more before darkening, but he stands from the bed and begins to undo the laces that hold his pants up. Emma would usually be content to let him undress himself, to simply watch, but the reality that she’s having sex with Killian Jones suddenly hits her even more. She wants to be an active part of it.

Reaching forward, she grabs onto his hand and pushes it away before undoing the laces herself. Once she gets them down enough, Killian’s cock bobs up, free of its constraints, and Emma swallows the gulp in her throat as she takes him in. It’s hard and thick, and slowly, she runs her finger over the vein on the underside of it.

“Bloody fuck,” Killian groans. It’s Emma’s turn to smirk up at him, especially when her hand wraps around him, and he throws his head back so that she has a perfect view of the underside of his jaw while it ticks. “Emma, l-love, gods.”

“You really should decide on one name for me.”

His chuckle is husky, and when he finally opens his eyes and looks down at her, his eyes are so dark that they’re nearly black, the blue completely gone. “Emma,” he starts, and her heart thumps a beat faster, “I have dreamed of being with you for far longer than you know, and as much as I appreciate what you’re doing, I bloody well need to be inside of you.”

Emma nods her head and swallows the lump in her throat.

Hell yes.

They don’t talk much after that, no more than mumblings about condoms and sighs of pleasure and each other’s name. Killian still isn’t inside of her, his mouth sloppily running over hers while the hair on his chest rubs against her now bare breasts and his hook runs against her arm. She wants to tell him that it’s okay to take off, that it’s more than okay, but she doesn’t want to misstep or make him uncomfortable. Maybe later, maybe at another time.

Maybe when she knows what to say without fumbling over her words.

Killian presses himself over her, and she groans when his cock drags against her clit. It feels so fucking good, and Emma honestly can’t tell if her magic is humming along or skin or if this simply feels so good that it is magical in its own way. Killian grunts, an almost guttural sound that she could do with memorizing, and then he’s pulling back from the kiss to look down at her, eyes back to blue.

He has the most beautiful eyes.

They convey everything with him – darkness, despair, and delight – and she ignored them for so long.

She ignored him for so long.

“Hi,” she whispers.

Killian’s eyes crinkle with his smile. “Hello, love.”

“What are you doing? Why did you stop?”

“Do you still want this, Emma? Because we can stop whenever you want.”

Her eyes blink up at him, and her hand travels from his shoulder to rest on the underside of his jaw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Killian’s eyes shut, a smile curving on his lips, and then he’s kissing her again, devouring her really. She’s trembling, emotions and anticipation washing over her entire body, and all of the sudden, Killian angles his hips and presses into her with one thick slide of heat that has her own eyes shutting while her nails dig half-moons into the skin of his back.

Oh my God.

“Fuck, love. You’re magnificent.”

“So are you.”

And then he starts moving, a slow, dirty roll of his hips that has him pressing down on her overly sensitive clit. It’s so much, more than enough really, and Emma’s back to not breathing. Her body isn’t functioning like it should be, not when Killian is staying so deep inside of her while his lips keep fluttering over hers. Their kisses are broken and messy. They can never allow them to be quite deep enough with the gasps of breath and moans of pleasure interrupting them.

Killian constantly mumbling dirty words and high praise against her doesn’t help.

Well, it does. But in an entirely different way. She should have known that he wouldn’t shut up, even during sex.

His hooks slides down her skin, slowly ghosting over her belly, and while she doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s doing, she trusts him.

She trusts him.

The revelation should overwhelm her, but it doesn’t. She’s known for a long time.

The cool metal of his hook reaches where they’re joined, and Emma’s entire body jolts in shock and pleasure while he slides it back and forth, working her higher and higher and higher.

She scrambles for purchase against his shoulders, nails digging further into his skin to leave marks while his necklaces scratch against her breasts, and her orgasm tugs her under as her teeth bite into Killian’s skin to taste the saltiness of his skin.

“You are beyond beautiful,” Killian whispers before kissing her deeply, tongue swirling around hers as heat still flickers across her skin. The room is filled with the sounds of their fucking and the ceiling fan moving above them. The sheets rustle and bunch, their skin slaps together, and Killian grunts her name and his pleasure into her mouth before whispering the words in her ear.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs. “So good inside of me. Like a siren that’s been waiting for me.”

Her body hums, heat still pooling in the apex of her thighs even though she knows that there is no way she is going to come again tonight, and Emma has no idea if her words are actually coming out of her mouth or if it’s all in her head. He feels so damn good inside of her, brushing over her too, and she wants him to stay deeper, to keep going faster until he’s falling apart too.

“Mmm, I’d like that too, love,” he grunts as his hips keep snapping into hers, even faster now. So she did say that out loud. She’s got to start figuring these things out. “I’ve seen you fall apart twice now. You deserve to see me as well.”

Emma’s head tilts to the side as she laughs, and she can feel Killian’s pleased grin pressed into her skin as he slows his thrusts and starts rolling into her, laughter and slapping skin making themselves present to her ears, and then all of the sudden he’s there. His long eyelashes brush against his cheeks while his lips part, and Killian was right. Emma did deserve to see him come.

As he would say, it was bloody magnificent.

Killian collapses against her, warm, slick skin pressing against her chest, before he rolls over onto the mattress. His chest is heaving, hers too, and Emma doesn’t have to look to see that there’s a downright goofy grin on his face.

“So,” Emma mumbles as she twists over to look at him. She’s not sure what comes next. She doesn’t usually stay. She wants to stay now.

He traded his ship for her.

“So,” Killian echoes back, turning his head to look at her while his hand gently brushes her hair off of her forehead, “you are just as amazing as always.”

“You only say that because I fucked you.”

“No, Swan, that’s not why I say that, but you were amazing at that.”

Her cheeks heat over something other than the physical exertion, and she blinks at him as he sits up and disposes of the condom, quickly tossing it in the bin. Idly, she wonders how he knows to do that, how he already knew so much about modern-day protection, but Killian’s a smart man. He knows more than people think. You don’t lead the life he had not being cunning. He shifts when he sits back down on the bed, and Killian encourages her to shift with him, the both of them moving underneath the blankets until she’s pressing her head against his chest so that she can feel his heartbeat.

It’s oddly reassuring to know that he’s real and here and alive. After everything that she’s been through, both in the past few days and in her life, she’s happy to have this reassurance that as long as she can feel his heart, he’s not going to go anywhere.

“I’m not going anywhere, love,” Killian whispers, and this time she knows that she didn’t say her thoughts out loud. He’s saying this all on his own. “I know that you likely have a lot of questions, but we don’t have to solve them right now. I’m not going anywhere, so we have all of the time in the world to figure out whatever it is you want to figure out.”

“Good.”

#cs prompts #cs fic #cs ff #cs smut #captain swan fic #captain swan #hey look at me kind of sort of writing canon #and a prompt #it's kind of a rare thing these days #but here we are #💕#queue poetic noble land mermaid

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