#though this one reads a little more “timeless” than I wanted it to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aanoia · 9 months

Note

your taylor swift song imagines give me life so I HAD to request one. Can you do something to Timeless from Speak Now TV with either james, sirius, or remus? whichever one you see fit!

I'm so happy I give you life ;) I chose James bc deep down I'm a James girl and it just fit best with him imo. I hope you like it!

Timeless

James Potter x reader words; 2230 song; Timeless by T Swizzle (TV, duh) alright y'all, this one might get a little confusing. Let me break it down for you. italics is lyrics (and two other super small things, you'll know it when you see it), italics and bold is memories, there's two memories split into three parts total, when the story starts saying would that means thats what would happen if it did, yk. You and James do die, I just wanna make that clear. if you love a song, the marauders, and my writing, request a song fic and your wish shall be my command. now, i have two things. one, you can give me requests anyone in the marauders era btw, not js the actual marauders (i'll even accept Peter because i like to think he never became evil and was always just shy little Peter). Second, GIVE ME PREFERANCES PLS they'll be good fillers for in between longer fics so please pls pls i rly want sushi rn anywho HAVE FUN

Down the block there's an antique shop

And something in my head said "stop", so I walked in

Y/n quietly walked into the small antique shop and the woman at the counter smiled kindly at her. She smiled back and gave her a small nod before looking around the shop. It was much bigger than it looked on the outside, so she assumed an enlargement spell was used on the inside. There were loads of trinkets across the many shelves, big and small.

On the counter was a cardboard box

And the sign said photos 25 cents each

Y/n’s eyes caught a bright white sign with bold red letters, “Photos 5 knuts per” she walked over to the table, curious. She thumbed through the pictures, all of them were old, as they were dusty and black and white.

Black and white saw a 30s bride and

Two lovers laughing on the porch of their first house

I smiled as I pulled out a picture of a man and woman. The man was in a nice suit, a bright happy smile on his face as he held the hand of a woman with a beautiful wedding dress on, her smile matching his. They seemed to be laughing in the picture, radiating pure joy. I turned the picture around and read the pen, “Just married! 7/24/36”

The kind of love that you only find once in a lifetime

The kind you don't put down

As Y/n flipped through more pictures, her mind wandered to James. She saw them in these pictures, together no matter the circumstance, with bright smiles on their faces and laughs leaving their lips. They’d be hopelessly in love in any universe, and she knew it.

And that's when I called you, and it's so hard to explain

But in those photos, I saw us instead

“Oh, did you stop by the antique shop?” Y/n’s mom asked as she walked in through the door, a small bag in my hand.

Y/n nodded with a smile, “I did, it’s pretty cool in there. I’d love to talk more but I need to write James a letter.”

Her mom laughed, “All right, you go, don’t take too long though. Supper will be done soon.”

And somehow I know that you and I would've found each other

In another life you still would've turned my head

James looked up from his desk as a loud pecking noise was made on his window. He smiled as he saw his girlfriend's owl, banging his beak against the glass of his window with a letter tied to his leg and his claws clutching onto a brown package. James opened his window and let the owl in, petting him gently and placing a few pellets on the window cill for him to munch on.

James opened the letter quickly, pausing as two black and white photos fell out. He furrowed his brows at the photos and his eyes flitted to the package. He grabbed it and untied the string, opening it quickly to find an old book, a few specks of dust on the front. He laughed to himself at the randomness and began actually reading the letter.

Even if we'd met on a crowded street in 1944

And you were headed off to fight in the war

“Off to war?” Y/n would’ve said, a laughing tone in her voice.

James would’ve nodded with a smile, “Yes. But we could write to each other, we could court and then once the war is over we’ll get married!” He‘d say excitedly.

Y/n would have laughed, “Of course we will.”\

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

James would’ve been hanging halfway out of the train, the only thing keeping him in being his friends as he waved to the love of his life.

“I love you!” She’d shout and he’d blush.

“I’ll see you later, love! Don’t miss me too much!” He’d yell back, blowing her a kiss before he was forced back on the train.

I would've read your love letters every single night

And prayed to God you'd be coming home all right

“Oh, Y/n, don’t be ridiculous. James will be fine, I’m sure.” Lily would tease, smoothing down her skirt as she sat on the bed next to her best friend.

“That’s easy for you to say, Lils, he’s not the love of your life. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” She’d say, setting his latest letter into a box that held all the other ones.

“Y/n, have faith in the man. He’s strong, he’ll make it.” Lily would persist and Y/n would nod with a sigh.

And you would've been fine, we would've been timeless

She’d run to James at the train station and he’d drop his bag and hold his arms out, catching her in an embrace and spinning her around. She’d laugh joyfully, thankful the love of her life was finally home.

“Oh, I’m so thankful you’re okay.” She’d whisper and he’d kiss her cheek.

“I’m thankful to be back with you, beautiful.”

'Cause I believe that we were supposed to find this

So even in a different life

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

James smiled at her idea, quite liking it himself. He loved listening, or in this case reading, about all her ideas. He knew how much her mind ran wild, thinking of every possibility for every little thing, and he loved it. He loved being a part of it.

I had to smile when it caught my eye

There was one of a teenage couple in a driveway

Holding hands on the way to a dance

And the date on the back said 1958

James picked up one of the pictures and smiled at the couple, still in their wedding attire, holding hands tightly on a porch. He set the photo down, it not being the one he was looking for, and picked up the other one. He gazed at the two teenagers, almost imagining them as himself and Y/n. He could see it, and he remembered what it was like taking her to the Yule Ball. How beautiful she looked in her dress.

Which brought me back to the first time I saw you

Time stood still like something in this old shop

I thought about it as I started looking 'round

At these precious things that time forgot

Y/n and Lily walked into the train station together, hand in hand, happy to have made a friend before they even arrived at Hogwarts for their first year. Y/n giggled as Lily told her a story about one of her friends, Severus, and promised to introduce the two to each other. Y/n suddenly paused and Lily looked over, concerned.

“What is it?” Lily asked and Y/n pointed to a boy who was messing around with two other boys.

“He’s-” She paused, trying to find the right word. “Beautiful.” Lily laughed loudly and Y/n snapped her head to the side, “What?”

Lily shrugged, shaking off her laughter. “Nothing, nothing.”

That's when I came upon a book covered in cobwebs

Story of a romance torn apart by fate

Hundreds of years ago, they fell in love like we did

And I'd die for you in the same way

If I first saw your face

James looked at the book he had unwrapped and silently read the title. He hummed thoughtfully and opened the cover, leaning back slightly at the dust that filled the air. He smiled at the dedication the author gave.

“To the love of my life. We, my dear, are timeless.” He read out loud softly.

In the 1500s up in a foreign land

And I was forced to marry another man

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

“James.” Y/n would’ve said, running to him and hugging him after they were finally alone. “I don’t know what to do.” She’d cry softly as he rubbed her back gently.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” He’d say quietly, being equally as lost as her.

I would've read your love letters every single night

And run away and left it all behind

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

“Do you have everything?” He’d whisper outside the castle and Y/n would nod, handing James one of the bags.

“I do. Let’s go.” She’d say and throw the bag over the back of her horse, making sure it was secure as James would do the same. They’d share one last kiss before mounting their steeds and riding away as quickly as possible. By the time the castle woke up and realized the princess was gone, it’d be too late.

'Cause I believe that we were supposed to find this

So even in a different life

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

James laughed at her story, setting down the letter and glancing at her owl who hooted softly, waiting for something to return back to his owner. James pet the owl again before pulling out a piece of parchment, his quill, and an ink well, and immediately started writing back.

Time breaks down your mind and body

Don't you let it touch your soul

It was like an age old classic

Y/n smiled as the familiar pecking of her owl reached her ears. She rushed to her window and opened it, petting her owl gratefully and pulling the letter off his leg. Y/n sat down on her bed and practically ripped open the letter.

The first time that you saw me

The story started when you said hello

In a crowded room a few short years ago

It was third year, in the Great Hall. Y/n had spent the last two years of her life pining after the one and only James Potter, who barely even glanced at her. At least, that’s what she thought. But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

“Just go talk to her already, Prongs.” Remus said quietly, patting his friend on the shoulder.

James shook his head, “No way. I couldn't.”

“Why not?” Peter asked.

“Because Peter, she’s perfect. She’s beautiful, has perfect grades, I mean, she’s probably the smartest witch I’ve ever known, minus my mom. She’d never like someone like me.” He explained and Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Dude, you’re hot. That’s all you need, now go.”

And sometimes there's no proof, you just know

You're always gonna be mine

We're gonna be

“Hi, Y/n.” James said, standing awkwardly as the girl turned around awkwardly.

“Oh, hi, James!” She said, a small blush painting her cheeks.

“Okay, bye, Y/n.” He said, walking off and cursing to himself for messing it all up like that.

“Uh, bye, James?”

I'm gonna love you when our hair is turning gray

We'll have a cardboard box of photos of the life we made

And you'll say "Oh my"

“Aha, look what I found.” James would have said to his wife, pulling out the pictures she had sent him many, many years ago.

“Where did you find those? Did you find the book too?” She would’ve asked, a smile on her face as she would look at them.

James would’ve shook his head, “Nope, no book. I’m not sure where that went. I found the letter though.” He’d say and pull it out as well. Y/n would smile as she reread her words.

“Oh wow, I’m such a sweetheart.” She’d say with a laugh.

“Not much anymore.” James would tease and Y/n would’ve hit his arm. “See what I mean.”

We really were timeless

We're gonna be timeless, timeless

You still would've been mine, we would've been

“Come on, Harry. I saw this shop when I was going on errands with mum.” Ginny said, pulling her boyfriend into a cute little antique shop. Harry looked around in awe at the shop.

“Why, hello there, young ones.” The lady at the front said, a warm smile on her face.

“Hello, ma’am.” Harry greeted and Ginny smiled at the old woman.

Even if we met

On a crowded street in 1944

Still would've been mine

You would've been

“Look, pictures.” Ginny said, pulling Harry over to look through them. They sifted through them silently before Ginny pulled one out. “Harry, these look a lot like your parents.”

Harry grabbed the photo and inspected it closely, “They… they are my parents.” His eyes widened as he looked at the cost of the photo. The sign had bright red ink on it, “photo’s 5 knuts per”.

The lady at the front smiled when Harry placed the picture on the counter. She gazed at the photo and shook her head with a laugh.

“I remember when she first walked in here. Ah, it was such a long time ago. She bought a few of these and an old book, and two weeks later she brought him in. They were such a sweet couple. I wonder how they’re doing now.” The woman reminisced as she took the knuts from Harry.

Harry smiled at the woman, holding back tears, “Yeah, I wonder too.”

Down the block there's an antique shop

And something in my head said "stop", so I walked in

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taglist (if u wanna be added js comment :));

@loving-and-dreaming @1lellykins @poetrypirate

#aanoia #romance #marauders era #remus lupin #the marauders #sirius black #james & peter & remus & sirius #james potter x reader #harry potter #marauders #james potter #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #marauders fanfiction #hp marauders #marauders map #peter pettigrew

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

Text

Aristos Achaiōn ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Fluff/Angst)

Summary: Tommy becomes intrigued with a scholar at the library Ada works at, even if he doesn’t know why, even if he sees no point in her work- that is, until he does

Note: This was written for the wonderful Lee's @zablife celebration of 600 followers for which I am offering this 📚 Book return. Congratulations my dear. You and your writing deserves each and every one of these and many more. I hope you enjoy this a bit longer than little story I wrote for you, based off of the fact that many former soldiers after the two world wars sought comfort in the Iliad and Odyssey because of the way they described mourning your fallen comrades.

I also can't wait for my very own library card...

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Here you can find my Masterlist

Warning: PTSD, mention of war, and war related brutality (18/21+). Expect canon confirming mention and description of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Wordcount: 6176 words

Tommy nearly laughed when Polly had told him that Ada had taken up work in a library.

Ada, who never had the patience to read a book without skipping to the ending first, who hated staying quiet, who got kicked out of school assemblies, church services and town hall meetings for chatting too loudly and disturbing the procedures in any way imaginable.

No, a library was not the place he would have expected to find his sister in.

And yet, she had chosen this as a place of work, less for the money and more against the boredom.

And her choice had decided his.

The expansion into London had gone quicker and more efficient than Tommy would ever have guessed, even hoped, but in the absence of a proper office, he had to make do.

First, he had tried to work at Ada’s house, but she lacked not only a typewriter (which he had bought her the following week) but a proper desk, proper light and proper quiet.

He couldn’t blame Karl for making noise, he was only a boy and children had every right (and maybe even a duty) to be loud, but it didn’t help when he had to go over numbers or comb through contracts.

So he came here, to this age old building with high arches and classic pillars, with a forest of bookshelves - filled with more books than any human being could hope to read in a lifetime, or maybe even in ten. Old books and new books, newspaper collections and archives that held letters and publications that preceded the United Kingdom itself, all joined forces to create an air of timelessness - as if these halls themselves transcended these numerical, linear bounds, and seemed to float somewhere between the past and the future, just not fitting into the present.

Screens at the windows prevented the sunlight to blind during the day while reading lamps spread their pale glow during the later hours.

It was quiet, though not silent, which was a distinction he never would have made if it weren’t for France. The sounds there haunted him every night, the gunshots, the explosions, the distant murmur of German behind ever thinning walls of dirt, the sound of shovels - but it was the silence that terrified him.

The silence after a blow to the head, not knowing how badly he was wounded, if maybe this was it.

The silence after an explosion when his ears had not regained their ability to process sound, when he did not know who was alive, who was hurt and who was dead or dying.

The silence after the tunnels had caved in around them, as the panic had paralysed them.

In his Birmingham office, the silence was drowned out by the constant buzz of the factories by the banging of metal, the hissing of smoke, the roar of engines in their restless beast of a city.

There was never any silence in Watery Lane either, for that the walls were too thin and the people too loud.

No, silence was something Tommy Shelby never wanted to experience again. It was nothing but waiting, merely stalling a possibly catastrophic truth.

Here, it was always quiet but never silent.

He could hear the faint squeak of the wheels on the book wagon as library workers pushed it through the corridors, while the lamps at the countless reading desks buzzed like fireflies.

He could hear the whisper of pages being turned and the scratchings pens or pencil made on paper.

And he could even hear the movement of the other visitors, the sound their chairs made when they moved them, the rustle of the fabric of their clothes, even their sighs and occasional, slightly more irritating coughs.

Sometimes, when his eyes felt strained or his hands got too tired (Ada had forbidden him to use a typewriter in here), he would lean back in one of the chairs of brown leather with upholstery thinned by year- maybe decade long use.

Then, when his thoughts outran his bodily limitations, he’d let his eyes drift over the library and its patrons.

Sometimes, he’d try to guess which type of books they were here for and for what - a book about botany for the old man with the white beard and green suit jacket, history for the stern woman with the white high collared blouse and dark purple jacket and suit that must have predated the war. The young man with the slightly ruffled hair looked as if he was here for his studies, and the ink stains on his cuff somehow made Tommy think he would be the type to write page long poems in his dorm room in the light of candles, filled with love and sorrow in equal measure.

It was only a game, of course, but something that stretched his mind the way he’d stretch his fingers after some more extensive writing.

The only person he couldn’t place, not even in his game, was the woman who always sat at the very same spot between the very same shelves every single time Tommy Shelby was at the library, no matter if it was morning or night.

From his place, he could watch her just fine, as she was seated across from the gap at the centre of the library space, from where one could look down at the lower stories all the way to the black and white tiles of the entrance hall.

The woman was dressed ordinary, almost boringly, in dark skirts, white blouses and a cardigan that time and wear had pulled slightly out of shape.

And she read, but she didn’t only read, she wrote as well, yet not always. Sometimes she would look like she was writing but she couldn’t be. For that, the movements of her hand were to elaborate, too large and almost too erratic, taking up too much space, switching between left and right, top to bottom.

Sometimes she’d just take a sheet out of that greyish blue folder of hers and stare at it for a while, sometimes minutes, before she resumed her writing or her scribbling or whatever she was doing.

So she wasn’t just reading and she wasn’t just writing, but no matter what she did, she did with purpose, control and a deep rooted sense of calmness, as if there was nothing in the world that could rush her.

It was almost as if her body and mind had assimilated to the strange way time moved in a place like this, not quite forward, not back, as if the timelessness of the library had found its way under her skin.

And that irritated him, well, not exactly.

It irritated him that he couldn’t place her, that he couldn’t just slap a label on her, independent of whether that would be right or wrong, and that made his eyes return to her time and time again, but they never lingered as long as his mind did.

And that he was wasting so much of his precious and limited time watching her, who apparently possessed an abundance of.

“Ada,”, he asked, the next time his sister passed him.

Making rounds, she called it, but he knew she was simply too curious to stay away, eager for any glance at his writing. About ‘their’ company.

“Ada, what section is that?”

He pointed at the shelves across from the gap, where she was sitting, reading this time, not just one book, but two at the same time, one lying in front of her, the other in her hand.

Ada’s eyes followed his hand and she scoffed.

“Don’t even try, Tommy.”, she warned him.

“I’m not trying anything.”, he hissed, glaring at his younger sister and her assumptions.

“Does she work at the library?”

Ada pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. When she did that, she looked exactly like Polly, having perfected the look of annoyed disbelief and frustration.

But in the end, she relented.

“She works here but she doesn’t work here.”, Ada said, which told him absolutely nothing.

He raised his eyebrow and she sighed.

“She’s a classicist.”

“A what now?”, he asked, tilting his head in the direction of his sister as if the closing of distance would somehow make the word less coherent.

“A classicist.”, Ada repeated, making him wait for the explanation. “A specialist in the classic cultures.”

He stared at his sister in confusion. If this was supposed to mean something to him, he was at a loss.

“The Greeks and Romans.”, Ada said impatiently. “You know? Statues and vases and all that.”

She nodded vaguely towards her.

“She’s specialised in Ancient Greek poetry…or balladry or something.”

Tommy’s eyes moved from the woman to his own paperwork and back again.

“And that’s her hobby or…”, he asked slowly, barely believing he had to ask.

“It’s her job, Tommy.”, Ada said. “She’s here for some translation or other."

He snorted as he leaned back in his chair.

“People pay for that?”

“Apparently.”, Ada said with a shrug.

Ancient. Greek. Balladry.

Tommy didn't even know what to make of that, nor did he see a point in it really.

Antiquity was well and good in a museum, in artefacts, if people wanted to look at them.

Greece wasn't exactly his country of preference, but some claimed it was nice enough, although then one ought to focus on the here and now and not whatever happened not even centuries but millennia ago and balladry?

He liked ballads. Ever since he had been a boy, he had loved to hear the rough voices mix in the air with the smoke and sparks of the fire as they sang of long dead heroes and age old tales, whenever they went on the road.

But ballads were something to be listened to, not to be read, and he had the nagging suspicion that an analysis, the way a doctor would analyse a patient, would ruin it, would remove all traces of mystery, of muse and magic.

So why anyone would waste their time, let alone their money, on a pursuit as futile as that, was beyond him.

And yet, the next time he arrived at the bottom floor of the library, he took the left stairs instead of the right ones.

He reached the floor Ada worked on just fine, only this time he had to pass the length of both sides.

That path took him right by her desk.

He could see a collection of papers all spread out, some printed, some written in hand.

It was soon evident which one was the fair copy, but even that was written in pencil. He could only tell it apart by the fact that the writing on the other pages was more slanted, in less than straight lines, more like explosions of words like fireworks going off in different corners of the page than a coherent, linear descriptions of her ideas.

He also spotted a thin blue notebook like the ones school children used for their writings, and a dark red leather bound book which lacked the marker that indicated library property, and several others that possessed it.

But between the books, the notebooks, the sheets of printed and handwritten papers, he spotted something he really had not expected.

The greyish blue folder from which she had pulled forth sheets to stare at, was open, and in it, he saw a sketch.

It was a rough sketch, admittedly, but done well enough to not only show that there were men, but to see their differences.

Both were muscular, wearing the dress-like cloth of the ancient Greeks, with broad shoulders and strong arms.

One of them was leaning back, his legs stretched out and a cup of wine in his hand.

The other was sitting across to him, leaned forward just slightly as he held an instrument in his hand. It was too small for a harp, but it had a couple of strings, which his fingers caressed with skill and tenderness.

As he played, a few strands of long hair fell into his strangely beautiful, almost feminine face, but the eyes focussed on nothing but the other man, as if eagerly awaiting his reaction.

Each man had his name written on the side of their arms, in small, but neat writing.

There were also other sentences to the side, a few select lines of text, but before Tommy could read them, his head snapped up.

"Can I help you?", She asked.

Her voice was lowered to abide by the laws of the library as not to disturb the other patrons, nor to infringe on the integrity of the place, and yet her words were clear.

Tommy had not heard her approach, and now he felt caught, somehow, like an intruder who had no right to survey her work.

Quickly, he stepped back.

But she didn't seem to mind. There was no anger in her eyes, no mistrust in her voice, and instead of a frown, she wore a slight smile.

"Ah no.", Tommy said, clearing his throat.

The escape route he chose was to stride with purpose towards the shelf closest and build himself up in front of it.

Taking two side steps for good measure, he found himself staring at a shelf containing Sophocles and Aristophanes, Aeschylus and Agathon as well as something called Euripides which sounded suspiciously like an illness.

"Are you looking for something in particular?", She asked, apparently keen to ruin a possible dignified exit. "Or are you a general lover of theatre?"

Tommy turned slowly.

"Theatre?"

She nodded towards the shelf he had been studying for the last minute, still sitting at her place, surrounded by her papers and drawings.

"No- not really.", He stammered.

She smiled again.

"What interests you? History?", She suggested. "Poetry? Philosophy? Politics?"

As she spoke, she put down a pencil he hadn't heard her write with, and got up slowly, brushing down the wrinkles of her skirt.

"The politics section is over there.", He told her, waving across the gap to the part where Ada worked.

She nodded, but the smile never faded.

"That's true, but this part has the original text transcriptions and their translations."

Tommy did not know what to reply so he just shifted on his feet.

"You're Mrs. Thorne's brother.", The woman said, studying him with interest, but it wasn’t the kind of interest he was used to facing.

Her eyes did were filled with curiosity, but lacked any trace of hunger - for him, his money, his influence. She studied him the way he had seen her gaze at the works in front of her, and in the absence of any desire apart from knowledge, Tommy didn’t know what to do.

"She told me about you."

With that she stepped closer to him.

She smelled of old books, of tea leaves and a little bit of ginger, yet her perfume had a faint note of oranges.

Between the collar of her blouse he could spy a necklace with a single small pendant, showing the imperfect shape of a freshwater pearl, not round, nor a drop, something in between, something unique.

"According to what she told me, you'd be more inclined to Thukydides than Aristotle's definition of man."

Tommy huffed at that. He had heard the name Aristotle before but whatever he thought of man or of anything really, was not something he had concerned himself with.

The woman only smiled.

"Anyway, I'm sure you'll be just fine. If not, you seem to know where I am."

Tommy turned away before she could see the heat rise in his cheeks.

At first he thought his little encounter with her would be enough to satiate his curiosity, but the opposite happened.

Instead of becoming a passtime during his breaks, watching her had become a distraction, something that actively drew his gaze and not just caught his eye on occasion.

Why, he could not tell.

She wasn’t a stunning beauty like the dancers in his newly seized nightclubs, didn’t dress in flashy dresses and shining jewels made to capture his eye like their guests, nor did she try to enrapture him in any way - and yet Tommy couldn’t tear himself away, even if he wanted to.

Sometimes he caught himself having stared at her for the better part of God knows how long, without even remembering when his eyes had strayed from his own work.

He watched her read, then write, then read again, scribble, cross out, and then draw, or stare at an already finished work for several minutes. Soon he grew familiar with the way she'd chew on her bottom lip when lost in thought or how she'd occasionally mouth the words to herself again and again, to a rhythm he couldn't understand while reading.

It wasn't intentional, but soon he could read her emotions just as well as he could read the writing in front of him. He saw her furrowed brows when in doubt, and how her eyes would brighten in joy. Once, he had looked up and seen her shoulders quake as she wrote, her lips trembling.

With the hand that wasn’t holding that shortened pencil, she clutched a handkerchief, occasionally dabbing it under her glassy eyes.

The sight of her tears made his chest tighten.

It irritated him, especially since he hardly knew the girl, having only exchanged a few words with her of which he had understood very little.

Besides, she had no cause to be upset- over what? A few lines of a text written millenniums ago about people that probably never existed experiencing hardships that never took place. That was nothing to cry over.

And yet her tears seemed to burn right through him.

Tommy was just finishing up a proposition for new trade routs between Birmingham and the Liverpool docks (something he could have well done from his Digbeth office), when he heard a woman clear her throat.

He glanced up, surprised to see her standing in front of him.

She was wearing a brown skirt, a white blouse and above it a short sleeved woollen jumper making her look like a school girl, especially with her gray folder, her notebook and another book clutched to her chest.

“I’m ever so sorry for disturbing you.”, she said, offering him an apologetic smile. “Mrs. Thorne said I better ask you.”

Out of instinct, Tommy snapped his folder shut, hiding his writing.

“Ask me what?”, he wanted to know, leaning back in his chair.

She smiled another embarrassed smile and shifted on her feet.

“Well, I had a question, you see, and I asked Mrs. Thorne to help me find a book on it, but it’s a very peculiar question and it would take a very long time to find an answer in the biology section, especially since it’s not my forte, but she said you’d know…if anyone did.”

Those were a lot of words to tell him nothing.

Usually this waste of breath, time and energy annoyed but he almost smiled at how she tried to present her proposition, her curiosity clearly overriding her uncertainty.

“And what question would that be, eh?”, he asked.

She bit the inside of her lip before answering.

“Mr. Shelby, you wouldn’t happen to know if horses cried?”

He blinked twice, leaning closer to make sure he had heard correctly.

“If horses what?”, he asked, leaning forward over the old oak wood table.

“If they cry.”, she repeated before approaching his side of the table and setting down her books and files.

“Well, there is this one part - “, she said, flicking through the papers.

“The original is not quite clear. Some translate it as cry as in cry out, he says cry as in weep. This one says mourned.”

As she spoke, she pointed at different phrases from different words.

“It’s all rather upsetting.”, she admitted with a deep, dramatic sigh.

Seriously?, Tommy thought.

When he got upset it was because Arthur was off of his mind on snow, or if John blocked his company moves, if Sabini or Solomons plotted something to bring him down or if Polly was on his back again - and she, apparently, was frustrated because someone wrote something down thousands of years ago and she couldn’t figure out the exact meaning of his words.

Those are problems I’d like to have.

It was such a benign, unimportant detail and yet she was getting all worked up about it.

Enough to look for books, to ask Ada and now to cross the gap come to him.

And he did not want to repel her.

“Horses only cry when they get something in their eye, or if it’s too dry.”, he explained.

She glanced up at him and hummed softly but he could see her mind racing.

Then she returned her gaze to her drawing, which showed the necks and heads of two large stallions.

Her horses were not nearly as well shaped as her humans had been, and still better than any Arthur had ever drawn, maybe in spite or even because of her rough edges.

It’s not your problem, he told himself. It’s not even a fucking problem. It’s people making unnecessary work for themselves.

And yet his hands reached for her drawing.

“They don’t have eyebrows,”, he said, taking the file from her hands and placing it in front of him, covering his own paper work up.

With the other hand he took the pencil from her grip, feeling the fleeting warmth of her touch.

“But if they’re sad or frightened, the inner corners of their eye raise up. Like this.”

The addition was but a few, soft strokes, but even he could see that it changed the expression of the whole creature.

“Huh!”, she gasped, looking from the drawing to him and back again.

In her eyes he could see awe mixed in with a realisation he could not place.

Tommy would have paid a fortune for her thoughts in that moment, and an equal sum never to hear them.

They'd only distract him further.

A few days later, Tommy found himself leaving the library at exactly the same time as she did.

It wasn’t a complete accident. In fact it wasn’t an accident at all.

He had finished his own work nearly an hour ago but since he didn’t have anything to rush to, he decided to linger a little, and when the sun began to set, he considered it irresponsible to go without making sure she got to wherever she had to go safely.

So he made sure to bump into her on the stairs on the way down.

She had two bags, a brown leather one that reminded him of the one his school teachers used and another one made of fabric which she wore under her shoulder.

Both looked packed to bursting, poor thing.

“Need a hand?”, he asked.

“Oh that would be very kind, thank you!”, she insisted.

And so Tommy held her leather bag while she rearranged the other bag’s contents, finishing by slipping in her pencil etui in a gap between several books.

“Why do you always use pencil?”, he wanted to know.

“To correct mistakes, of course.”, she said, giving him yet another smile, as she put the bag over her shoulder.

When she reached out to take her other bag, he waved it off and fell in step with her.

Maybe his expression gave it away, or perhaps his silence, but as they continued on their way down, she chose to elaborate.

“Translating isn’t as easy as opening a dictionary, especially with poetry or verse.”, she told him. “You always have to weigh the tone against the literal translation, the lyrical style and of course the context.”

“That sounds very vague.”

She tried to hide her giggle behind her hand, because even if they were on their way out, and two of the last souls in this place, it was still a library.

It was a sweet, careless sound and one Tommy was surprised she offered so willingly.

“If you want certainty, Mr. Shelby, I’d suggest you turn to mathematics. There’s no such thing in languages.”

That made sense, in a way, but he still couldn’t understand why someone would voluntarily take it on if it was so complex.

“So why the drawings?”, he wanted to know.

She lowered her eyes, trying to hide her embarrassment from him, but then she grinned slightly.

“Most times it’s easier to translate words into pictures than into a different language, easier to capture the tone of the whole thing.”

He raised his eyebrow in confusion.

“It helps me get a better grip on the scene.”

To Tommy it just sounded like an infinite pool of unnecessary work.

“Why the Greeks?”, he asked, the sound of her heels echoing in the entrance hall, as they passed the front desk.

He chose to ignore Ada’s questioning glare.

“Why not?”, she asked, before answering her own questions.

“In their writings you can find the birth of our culture. Democratic ideals go back to the Athenians, our medicinal principles to Hippocrates, war strategy to Thukydides and well, literature to Homer.”

She sighed a dreamy sigh as if these long dead dusty old men were a youthful fantasy of hers.

“In a way, this language is the mother tongue of our civilization, well, one of them at least.”

Even though she was providing him a very pretty and passionate proposition, Tommy didn’t buy it.

“Maybe once.”, he argued as they stepped out into the cool evening air, and into the noise of the city. “But it’s not accurate now. Not anymore.”

She looked almost shocked, so much so that Tommy’s mouth went dry.

“But now more than ever, Mr. Shelby!”, she insisted. “Especially the Iliad.”

The fire in her tone betrayed her, and offered him a way out.

“That what you’re working on?”

She nodded.

“What’s it about?”, he asked.

“The last year of the war between the Greeks and Trojans.”

“The one with the horse? And that woman they all wanted?”, Tommy asked.

He had heard about it in France, with some cavalry officers referring to the tunnelers as their own Trojan Horse.

“Well,”, she said, taking a deep breath as if bracing herself.

“That’s the war but that’s not what the Iliad is about.”

“But people have already translated it.”, Tommy remembered. “Why are you doing it all over again? What's the point?

Both her face and her tone softened, making him realise he was on safe ground once more.

“There’s a lot of power in translation, a lot of trust, and because it’s not an exact science, there is no right way of doing it.”

When Tommy only blinked, she licked her lips as she searched for a different way of explaining it.

“There is a theory,”, she began, “that we only recognise what we know, or what we were taught to know. That every person’s view of the world depends on their standing in it, on how they learned to see it. You and I could look at the very same thing and see something quite different, perhaps even contrary.”

She said it lightly, almost carelessly, and yet Tommy felt these words would stay with him for a long time, even if he needed more time to think of them.

“Then of course, it’s the type of story that is often distorted to fit a narrative.”, she added with a shrug.

“And what would that be?”, Tommy wondered.

She took her bag from his hands, holding it in front of her as she looked up to him.

“They tell tales of the soldier and not the man, not the son, brother, father or lover.”

Tommy felt his jaw muscles clench as he stared at her, her young, innocent face, and the kind of eyes that had never had to see hardship except in her stories and novels and long dead poets.

He pitied her for her folly, and at the same time envied her naivety.

“Trust me love,”, he said, his voice dangerously low, “There’s no difference.”

All that melted away to give way to the soldier, a mindless, unfeeling being whose sole purpose was to obey and live, if possible.

A line of thought appeared between her brows as she tilted her head.

“What a curious thing to say.”, she said softly.

When he watched her walk away that evening, Tommy Shelby decided he was done with the library and the scholars in it.

There were on a different fucking planet, with enough time to waste on useless pursuits, chasing details of shadows that had never mattered in the first place, least of all now, in the modern age, where war wasn’t a fucking fire place story anymore.

And yet he had been standing in a book shop, flicking through a copy of the work she was working on, only to find a passage where some soldier was saved from a spear by a cloud of perfume or some nonsense - proof, as if he needed any more, that there was no point to any of it.

He bought the summary of several ancient myths, in normal English, all the same, and read the part about her story through that very night.

He was done with it, with her - and he was only in the library because he had to talk to Ada. It had nothing to do with her, nothing at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come.

It was only on the way back where he passed the desk in the section she had chosen at her workplace.

And something was different, one glance told him that, because she did not have one drawing in front of her, but several.

One showed the general scene but there were smaller ones, like the sketches a painter made before a larger creation.

The first showed the old man’s face, with fallen cheeks and deep furrows of worry on his brow. Large bags grazed his swollen eyes, tears shining between the wrinkles, and his lips seemed to glistened.

But there was a fire in his eyes, that made Tommy turn away, the hair on the back of his head standing.

The second more detailed picture was of a younger man, with hair with strands of different lengths as if someone had hacked at it carelessly.

He was young, and beautiful, with a square jaw, but delicate features - petal lips and large eyes, long lashes and shapely brows.

His features, apart from the strong, and muscly neck, were so delicate, they were almost feminine. His face was stoic, but he could see the tears running down his cheeks, and recognised the pain in his eyes more than he would have liked.

In one picture, he could see the old man and the young man both, huddled together, kneeling in front of a corpse, their hands clasping each others as if they were the last thing they had to hold onto in their grief, the last thing in the world.

She had been so immersed in her writing, she had not reacted to him stepping closer, not even when he came up to stand right behind her, his shadow falling over her papers, but Tommy had been so immersed in the emotion the men in their drawings showed, he had not realised she had begun to watch him.

When he did, he felt his cheeks burn.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”, she said, her voice uncommonly tender. “And I’m relieved. After all, it’s the most important part of the entire epic. Achilles and Príamos crying together.”

The second name would have been entirely foreign to Tommy a week ago, but since he had read the summary, he knew what it meant.

The old man, he could understand, but the young one couldn’t possibly be Achilles.

He looked tired, with slumped shoulders and strained muscles, gaunt, with a haunted look in his eyes which Tommy had seen back in France, in the trenches, a look they had brought home with them.

“Achilles?”, he asked, remembering the description he had read. “But wasn’t he the most ruthless of Greek warriors? Their best soldier?"

She nodded.

“Aristos Achaiōn.”, she confirmed, telling Tommy that he had not made a mistake.

“Does that mean that the corpse is Hector?”

She nodded once more, sighing deeply, her eyes returning to the image.

“The man who killed his comrade in arms? Whom he hunted down for revenge?”

Hunted, killed, and dragged around the city walls in an attempt to mutilate the man in an act of vengeance.

“That’s a very loose translation.”, she said. “I would chose something like 'most beloved' to describe his relation to Patroclus.”

Tommy swallowed hard as he sat down next to her.

Never mind what word she used, the fact stood. That man had killed someone close to him, and he had been out for revenge, which he had gotten, and yet…

“Why is he crying?”, he asked, staring at the fallen enemy. “With him?”

Achilles had no business crying over the man who had killed his closest companion, especially not while holding onto the dead man’s father.

They were enemies. They were meant to fight together, not cry and hold hands.

“Why wouldn’t he?”, she wanted to know, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned to look at him.

Her voice was thick emotion and her own eyes shone. It would have been a lie if Tommy claimed a different reaction. But still…it didn’t make sense. Soldiers didn’t cry, shouldn’t cry, especially not ancient heroes like these, who had weapons, whole strategies named after them, and least of all with their enemies and their fathers.

“Can’t you see?”, she asked gently. “They are the same…Hector and Achilles, Peleus and Príamos. A father weeping because he can never hold his son again, cursed to outlive him and others, a son weeping because he will never again feel his father’s embrace, mourning the price he will pay for his participation in war- and the price he has already paid."

He didn’t want to hear it, not any of it, and he didn’t want to see it either.

She knew nothing of war.

And it wasn’t like it was in the stories. One didn’t weep in front of one’s enemies.

If he had encountered Kaiser Wilhelm in the trenches, he’d have ripped the bastard’s head off with his bare hands if that could end the war, not cry with him over the fallen.

“Warriors don’t cry.”, he hissed through clenched teeth. Under the table, his hand had clenched into a fist, his nails digging so far into his palm he feared they would soon draw blood.

“Why not?”, she asked, tilting her head. Despite everything she had not lost the tenderness in her voice.

“Aren’t soldiers men? Laughing, hoping, praying, crying, fearing like the rest of us? The opposite would be rather worrying.”

Tommy tried to take calming breaths, to focus on something, anything in front of him, but her eyes were too piercing and the image to vivid to allow him any form of distraction, to block out the emotions bubbling up inside him, emotions a soldier should not feel.

Emotions, he had taught himself not to feel because they made him vulnerable and vulnerability, on the battlefield, meant death.

His hand shook as he reached for her blueish-grayish folder, flicking back a few pages to be rid of the image. The papers settled on a peculiar scene.

He knew of Achilles, he had known of him even before he had read that summary.

He was the namesake of battleplans, of strategies, of weapons and ploys, his murderous rage, his hot blooded anger, the havoc he rained down on the Trojans was famous - the highest of soldiers, the ultimate warrior.

She had chosen to give him a broad back and a tall frame, but in the image he saw now, it had crumbled.

It did not show a soldier, not a warrior, not the type of man to butcher dozens, to slay a man out of vengeance and then attempt to mutilate his corpse out of grief born rage.

On that page, Tommy saw nothing but a broken man, with his pain having brought him to his knees at the shores of the raging sea.

But he wasn’t alone. In the middle of the breaking waves, a woman had emerged from the water, standing right in front of him. She was beautiful, in a timeless, otherworldly way, with waist-long dark hair that was as wavy as the sea itself.

He was clutching her thighs, his head buried in her stomach as burning hot tears ran down his cheeks, his face- his whole body, contorted in anger.

There he was, the greatest of warriors, the fiercest of soldiers, on his knees like a frightened child, clinging to his mother's skirts.

He was looking up at her with utter desperation, meeting her eyes, which mirrored his pain, her hands cupping his face, worry, concern, agony all in her face. Tommy could practically feel her hands trembling, but he could also almost feel their warmth.

She had written the words next to the drawing of the two, barely three small lines of texts that blurred in front of Tommy’s eyes as they began to water.

“My child,”, the mother asked her son, “why weepest thou? What sorrow hath come upon thy heart? Speak out; hide it not.”

Tommy took a shuddering breath, trying to blink the tears away. When his hand came up to wipe under his nose, he could feel her eyes, her wide, seeing, knowing eyes.

"So you see now,", she said softly, her hand reaching out to take his arm, "why it's more important than ever."

His other hand covered hers, as he gave a single nod.

End.

Thank you very much for reading this far. I hope you enjoyed and as always I’m very much open to your feedback.

Dear Lee, thank you so much for hosting this challenge! I can't wait to hear your thoughts.

Here you can also find the Iliad scenes mentioned in the text in order of appearance in this story:

Hom. Il. 9. 185-190

Achilles plays the lyra for Patroclus before receiving Odysseus and Ajax

Hom. Il. 16. 865

Balius and Xanthus, the horses of Achilles, mourn the death of Patroclus

Hom. Il. 5. 310

The goddess Aphrodite saves the life of her son Aeneas

Hom. Il. 24.507 - 590

Príamos comes to retrieve his son Hector's corpse, imploring Achilles with the mention of his own father. Both men cry together.

Hom. Il. 18. 70-75

Thetis emerges from the sea to comfort her son Achilles in his grief after Hector kills Patroclus

If you have any further questions or opinions about the references in this, or any other story of mine, I’d be more than happy to chat

Taglist

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy @books-livre

#zablife600 #valentineswritings #aristosachaion #aristos achaion #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders Imagine #Tommy Shelby #Thomas Shelby #Tommy Shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby x reader #Thomas Shelby x reader #Thomas Shelby imagine

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beneathashadytree · 2 years

Note

Hi! I really like reading your moriarty the patriot fanfics. Is it ok for me to request William x reader who is Sherlock's younger sister on their first meeting?

ENSNARED - WILLIAM MORIARTY X READER

Warnings : discussions of period-typical misogyny, reader is Sherlock’s younger sister, this is not proofread and quite literally written as I procrastinate for my Oral Histology quiz, reader identifies as female!

Genre : fluff ig?

Word count : 0.8K words

Additional notes : I’m really sorry for taking so long, nonnie, but I was swamped over with work the past week! So many assignments, so little time to write😭 I’m so happy to hear you enjoy my YuuMori writings! Hopefully you’ll enjoy how this one turned out💗

Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.

Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp!

Masterlist

I think we all know by now (from canon content, that is) that William has a penchant for falling for minds and spirits

He just finds it most attractive when someone goes head-to-head with him and challenges him; part of him because he loves the adrenaline of the chase, and part of him because he loves people who remain interesting and unique

It’s that fact that has him drawn to her from the very first moment they’d met on the Noahtic

He’d actually met her a while before he’d stumbled upon meeting with her brother by the stairs

In her stunning dress, complementary jewels, and elaborate hairdo, she was the very picture of poised timeless elegance, but though she was rather captivating, what brought him to a stop was the sharpness in her eyes

Calculative and intelligent, they were carefully scanning every single person in the room, and he could swear that he could see from afar the thoughts that came with every glance of hers

And yet when they flitted over to him, William hadn’t the faintest clue as to what she was thinking

Perhaps she’d shuttered her expression on purpose (she probably had, given that someone that seemingly smart would know better than to reveal their hand to someone as cunning as he was), or maybe she simply had her guard up all the time like that (a wise decision, really, seeing as openness spelled for vulnerability)

In all cases, he couldn’t read her thoughts as he approached her and offered her a polite smile

“It seems that nothing here particularly calls for your attention, Miss…?”

“Holmes,” she offered, eyeing him cautiously as he gently took her hand to place a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it, “The lack of ingenuity in the manner men and women proffer themselves to each other is rather dull. Their tedious nonsensical conversations about nothing at all don’t exactly stimulate the mind.”

“Indeed, it seems that senseless words are a one-way ticket to marriage these days,” William chuckled, arms behind his back and following her as she strolled across the magnificent room

She hummed at that, “My brothers don’t seem any closer to marriage themselves, so I believe they’ve rubbed off on me. They have reassured me, time and time again, that they’re in no hurry to marry me off either. I suppose I should count myself lucky for that.”

“But isn’t autonomy the very reason for our existence?” William pushed, curious to find out more about how she viewed her role in this world they’d been born into

“A reason women scarcely get to possess. Even if I shouldn’t, I feel some semblance of gratitude for my brothers having granted me this.”

Nodding in agreement, William had barely noticed that they’d walked themselves over to the stairs of the steamer, and he found himself intrigued by the architecture and magnificence of them

It was only when they paused by them did he hear her groan from his side

“There he goes, being the show-off he is. He prances like a peacock during mating season, I swear.”

Following her line of sight, his crimson eyes settled on a man with a particularly cocky grin on his face, lazy confidence on his every feature as he spoke animatedly

“Who’s that,” a reassessment of his overall appearance and aura had him carefully continuing, “Interesting character?”

“My older brother, Sherlock.” She rolled her eyes, boldly taking his arm in hers as she added, “He’ll make his way over here soon enough, the moment he notices how intelligent you are. He finds that riveting, much like I do.”

William arched his eyebrow, slight mischief dancing in his eyes, “So meeting me today was a fascinating experience?”

The growing smile on his face prompted her to quip back, “Would you rather I write it off as another drab chance meeting with nobility?”

That was a little surprising, he had to admit, and he said as much, trying to stave off his surprise from his voice, “I don’t recall telling you who I am.”

It was her turn to have her lips quirk upwards in a smirk, her words almost a purr as she leaned in, “I’d have to be daft to not recognize the infamous William James Moriarty.”

She glanced back at her brother, whose sharp gaze settled on them, and she turned to the mathematician one more time

“I believe my brother has found himself a new victim for tonight. My condolences.”

And with another smile that oozed a cheeky sort of charm while somehow revealing nothing, she vanished before her brother’s words left his mouth and before William himself could respond with a promise of his own

He had to admit, she’d done a rather brilliant job at ensnaring him from the first moment

Taglist: @sherlockscumslut @lilias-highlights @thispersoniscrazy @wifeofkyojuro

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ashleyh713fanfics · 4 months

Text

Dazai X Odasaku!Sister "Timeless" P2

Hello! I've been writing for awhile but this is the first time writing bsd. I gave Oda's sister a name but I'll do a version with y/n if that's more your speed. Synopsis: After Odasaku's death Dazai searches for a way to fulfill his last request but doesn't know where to start. That is until he meets Odasaku's mysterious little sister. Warnings: Usual bsd warnings. Murder, talks of death and suicide, Dazai being a sociopath. Part 2/3

Read Part One Here: https://www.tumblr.com/auranova713/741634729746612224/dazai-x-odasakusister-timeless-p1

Another one of his victims' screams filled the space before he was silenced permanently as Dazai blankly put his gun back into his holster before exiting the room in pure silence. Mori had given him extra work to “keep his mind busy” in order to not attempt another suicide in the wake of Odasaku’s death but the boy just found it boring.

In fact, he found everything boring. The guy he was torturing didn’t even show him anything interesting. He didn’t make any fun expressions or say anything of note. It was all just run of the mill screaming and cursing. Sigh.

Moving out into the hallway, the boy then wandered into the next place on his schedule in order to go inside the meeting room and slump into the chair with a childish groan. “Mori, I’m bored. That guy was the worstttt.”

The mafia boss only chuckled though, his fingers resting under his chin like they usually did. “Apologies Dazai. I’ll make sure to find you something more interesting to play with next time.”

Pouting his lips, the boy frowned. “You’re just saying that so I won’t attempt another suicide again. It’s not fair! You sneaky man. So evil.”

Once again, Mori only laughed, already used to Dazai’s dark words. “You aren’t wrong there. I guess I just wanted to bring you back to your usual self after you’ve been off the last week. Of course I know why but I need my executive to remain sharp.”

Giving the man a warning eye for a split second at the vague mention of Oda, the boy then quickly threw it away in order to kick his feet under the table. “Ughhh fine. This meeting better be interesting at least.”

Spoiler alert, the meeting wasn’t interesting in the slightest. They just talked about a string of uprisings in the area that were challenging the port mafia. Blah blah basic stuff really.

See, this was the problem with Dazai. His world always spun far too fast for anyone to comprehend. It was like everyone else was constantly moving at a snail's pace and the boy found it a pain to slow down even for a millisecond.

He was sharp, calculating and observant, more than anyone else could be. And in a way he wished that wasn’t the case, finding the experience boring and dull. Nothing could interest him for long enough for him to care. The entire world was just a toy he threw away time and time again.

Any conversation he held was already finished before he could even speak, every move from an enemy was deciphered in a millisecond of them thinking it. It was all so boring. Everything, everyone. He was numb to it all.

And sure, there were things that remedied that. Alcohol was a vice that temporarily slowed him down but it wasn’t ever enough, sex felt good but was also fleeting in terms of enjoyment and torturing only brought him possible entertainment not fulfillment.

So much so, Dazai didn’t see a point in it all, wanting to just die rather than have to suffer in the mediocrity for the rest of his life. That right, a quick painless death was what was best for him. If only the universe would let him have that.

Cause apparently Mori would not. How annoying.

Couldn’t he see that there was truly no value in living?

-----------

Once his meeting was finished, the boy found himself wandering the streets of Yokohama once more. He was only a couple blocks from the port mafia base but that place was making him antsy. He needed to find something interesting and fast.

Usually he would’ve harassed his idiot partner Chuuya but he was out of the country on a mission which meant that his usual toy wasn’t available. Ah how unfortunate.

Just then, Dazai’s uncovered eye couldn’t help but focus on a very familiar individual, her crimson red hair skipping with her steps as he looked wide eyed wandering through the crowds of people.

And if he didn’t know who she was, the boy would’ve thought she was a tourist with how fascinated and enamored she was with everything.

So much so, the boy couldn’t help but watch her silently, his head turning in interest. He thought Ango had sent her back home last night. But what was she doing here, and so close to the port mafia base?

And he didn’t plan to pursue her, Ango’s deep warning still clear in the back of his head. Well, that was until he watched the girl step into oncoming traffic, her eyes not noticing the red flashing lights at the intersection in the slightest.

At the sight, Dazai’s heart couldn’t help but drop inside his chest as images of Odasaku’s death crashed into him immediately. And though this girl wasn’t him, her similarities made him feel like he was watching his best friend’s death again.

So much so, he lifted his bandaged arm towards her in anxiety, pulling her backwards into his chest just as a car flew past them and across her vision and shouted out the window. “Hey! Watch where you’re walking!”

Asagao then blinked behind her glasses in order to turn around to meet the frazzled boy only for her eyes to light up with that same kind of giddy joy he saw last night. “Oh. Osamu! Nice to see you again! I was hoping we would run into each other soon!”

He paused at the sound of his first name. How odd, no one usually called him that. So informally. Then again, from what he gathered from Ango she wasn’t from around here. Which probably meant she was used to living in a place that used surnames, unlike Japan.

Strangely enough though, the boy didn’t comment on it, finding the name refreshingly different. “You know, if you want to die there are less messy ways to do it. I could give you some pointers if you’d like?.”

Asagao only looked at him confused though, her blue eyes barely noticeable behind her large circular glasses. “Die?”

Yet that’s when Dazai pointed over towards the crosswalk that almost killed her only for her to follow his finger and squint her eyes in silence. Was her eyesight really that bad? But she was wearing glasses.

Then he watched her gasp audibly before nodding her head in understanding. “Ohhhh…so that’s what that red light was. Sorry, I’m not used to the streets here. Back home it wouldn’t be such a problem. Thanks for saving me from being a pancake though, I really appreciate it. That would’ve been embarrassing.”

Well. that confirmed it. Her eyesight really was shit. Dazai wondered why she even made it this far with something like that. Probably out of pure luck from the looks of it.

Which begged the question why she was here in the first place. “Didn’t Ango say he was taking you back?”

And looking at her, he realized that maybe Ango was right after all. She obviously didn’t have the cautious intuition to live in Yokohama, considering she almost died by that truck a couple seconds ago.

The way she was now, he doubted she’d last the rest of the day.

Asa only smiled sheepishly though, a hand to her head in order to answer nervously. “Ah, yeah. But then I kinda..ran away from him..?”

Ran away? Did she just say she ran away from Ango? Oh now that was too good. She slipped out from under him so easily. If only he could see the look on his face when it happened. Honestly good, Dazai knew he deserved the misery.

So much so, the bandaged mafioso's lips curved upwards before giving a short chuckle of his own. “Ha! I bet he’s scrambling right now.”

Although that was when he watched Odasaku’s sister pause for a moment before shifting around on her feet, like she was nervous before finally speaking. “Anyways since you're here you wanna go somewhere with me?”

Dazai felt himself pause then. Just what was her game? No one had ever invited him anywhere before, well without ill intentions. “And why would I do that?”

Asa then looked down for a moment before shrugging her shoulders in order to reply. “Cause you’re bored?”

Feeling himself freeze, Dazai couldn’t help but feel amused by her answer. How did she know he was searching for something to entertain him, something to fill the mundane? It’s like she had read him.

Or it could've been a lucky guess, that was more likely.

Either way, the boy felt himself smile under his breath before reaching forward in order for his fingers to wrap around her arm and pull her forward with a low whisper. “Are you saying you’ll entertain me, darling?”

He meant it as a joke to toy with her, wanting to see her off guard and flustered face from how close the distance suddenly was.

Yet he was certainly surprised when she only nodded her head, like she was accepting some sort of challenge. “I’ll try my best!”

In fact, she didn’t seem bothered by his hold, the boy’s fingers tightening ever so slightly before feeling his lips turn upwards when more, this time in a genuine sign of interest.

Well, would you look at that? Odaskau’s sister had just cured his boredom.

Allowing his fingers to unhook from the sight, the mafioso then stared down at his new entertainment before speaking lightly. “Very well, lead the way.”

Then all at once, he watched the girl practically squeal with delight in order to do some sort of dance with her feet before beaming joyfully. “Ahh! Thank thank you. It’s just this way..I think…”

Turning her body around, the girl was then gasping as she walked straight into a passerby only for her to jump back with a nervous chuckle and bow. “Oops, sorry! Excuse me!”

Dazai couldn’t help but gaze at her with hilarity before following behind with a chuckle.

Oh Asagao, how strange you are. I’ll dig into that brain of yours soon enough.

---------

The place she took him was towards the edge of town, up on a cliff as it overlooked the entire city of Yokohama. And to some, the purple/pink colored sky would be called beautiful. But to Dazai he didn’t feel the same, only looking down at the distance in order to gauge how much it would hurt if he jumped off.

Asagao, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself. “Whoa, it’s just like brother described it. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Finally, if only it wasn’t too late.”

The girl then looked down with a sad distant smile before turning towards Dazai. “Tell me, Osamu. Is it really as beautiful as I think it is?”

And even though she was looking at the same sky, the boy couldn’t help but see the disconnect in her eyes. It was like she wasn’t truly viewing it, like she was only seeing a blurred vague picture of what it was supposed to be.

Putting the pieces together, Dazai spoke. “Why don’t you take your glasses off and find out? They don’t help you see anyways.”

It was something he figured out the minute she stepped into that oncoming traffic. On the outside it looked like the girl was oblivious to her surroundings but Dazai was smarter than that. He knew there was more to her than meets the eye

And it had everything to do with the large glasses that covered her vision. But what he couldn't figure out is why she was walking around with the wrong prescription? Why was she just going around life unable to see?

His statement didn’t shock Asagao though, her arms leaning against the railing before speaking wistfully. “Now why would I do that? What if it’s not as amazing as I’m picturing in my mind, what if the reality isn’t as beautiful? No, the art of pure imagination is better I think.”

Then, Dazai had his answer. “You wear them on purpose.”

Watching her eyes widen at his words, the girl then lifted her fingers up to the objects before giving a laugh that sounded like relief. “You’re the first person that’s noticed. Usually people just call me clumsy and stupid.”

She then pushed herself back off the railing in order to stretch her arms out as Dazai watched with pure interest for her actions. “Tell me, Osamu. What is the value of life?”

Her question was almost laughable, the boy knowing better than anyone what the truth is. “Easy, there is none.”

And for a second he thought she would disagree with him, that she would tell him he was being silly or unreasonable like everyone else did. That, or they tried to convince them that his answer was false when it clearly wasn’t.

Yet Asagao did none of those things, her eyes simply closing before smiling softly. “That’s right. But what if there could be the possibility of one?”

At that, Dazai paused. The possibility of value? What was she saying? That didn’t make sense. Of course there was no possibility. He had never even thought of one before.

What a naive thing to say.

He opened his mouth to counter before Asa simply knew what he was going to say and beat him to it. “I’m not dumb, I know that the world is cruel, I know that it turns on you in the worst ways. I know that if you truly see what is happening, it crushes you into nothing. If you look at it for too long it will consume you and break you.”

Lifting her head up, the girl then continued plainly. “But what you didn’t have to look at, you didn’t have to perceive it? Then you can see past that, you can imagine something bigger, something better.”

Asa then pointed to her glasses before pushing them up in order to cover her entire face as she finished with pure honesty. “That’s why I choose to be blind, to live life in a blurry uncertain reality. I would rather see existence for how it could be rather than how it is. I want to give the world a chance to be beautiful, and then maybe one day, it actually will be..”

Flashing with some sort of realization, she then muttered under her breath. “Well that, and another reason you’ll find out soon enough..”

And although Dazai wanted to ask her about the other reason, he was far too caught up in the romanticized answer she had given him. How strange, this girl was both self aware and purposely blinded to the way the world worked.

She knew that there was no value and was still searching for one? How preposterous. He knew she’d only find disappointment by doing that. Life wasn’t that gracious, it wasn’t going to show her anything beautiful. She was wasting her time.

Because of that, the boy lowered his eyes, a dark feeling pooling inside his chest at the words. “And what if you never find it, what if there is no value after all?”

He then watched her think for a second before turning towards him with a look of pure confidence. “Well, then at least my life would be filled with sweet delusions rather than horrible realities. I would be able to die with peace.”

Yet a second later, the girl seemed to catch the blank look in Dazai’s eyes before quickly turning away with embarrassment. “I know, you’re looking at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. That’s usually the reaction people give me. Either that or they tell me to check into a mental hospital.”

And for a moment, Dazai felt himself pause to really think about her ideals. Sure, maybe a normal ordinary person would look at her like she was crazy but he was far from normal. So much so, the boy couldn't help but mull over the words silently.

Then, he spoke wistfully. “Dying with peace, that’s what I want too.”

All at once, Asagao perked her head up at that, slowly turning back to him only for Dazai to add lightly. “And believing there is a point to it all when there isn’t, it’s an interesting sentiment..”

Turning her head back to him, the girl leaned forward with a new kind of desperation, like she was begging to be understood for once. “You really think so?”

Dazai only nodded his head though, his mind deep in thought. “Yeah, maybe if I looked at life like that then things wouldn’t be so dull all the time. Maybe the world could be something other than boring.”

And he meant those words, never having thought of such a ridiculous thing before. How strange, Odasaku’s sister had said something rather intriguing. He hadn’t felt like that in awhile.

Asagao then frowned before turning her head in question. “Do you think everything is boring?”

Dazai lifted his hands in response, his badges showing through his black jacket. “Of course, because that’s what it is. Nothing has ever surprised me and nothing ever will. That’s why I wanna go as quickly and painlessly as possible, just so it can be over.”

And usually when he told people about his plans to die they looked shocked and confused. Not Asagao though, she only nodded her head like what he was saying was a logical and sound statement.

Pausing for a moment, she then whispered. “But what about my brother, did he surprise you?”

At the mention of Oda, the mafioso felt himself stiffen before a sad smile crossed his lips in memory. “Odasaku was interesting, but he always did as I predicted. With him, I didn’t mind as much though. Moving slowly wasn’t as annoying.”

Those nights at Bar Lupin may have been just as pointless as everything else was but Dazai felt different there. He felt strangely human, more so than ever before. There he could pretend, he could play the part of being a normal fifteen year old kid rather than the brutal demon prodigy he really was.

It didn’t matter if Odasaku was lower in rank than him, the man was just his friend. That's all it was to it.

He then heard the girl hum only to find her gazing down as if to search for something invisible.

She was making that face again, the one that looked like she was struggling to find the impossible. “I see..”

And this time, Dazai spoke on it. “You didn’t know him, did you?”

Widening her eyes at his declaration, Asa then turned to him in shock only for Dazai to explain his deduction. “Your eyes look disconnected when you talk about him, like you can’t paint a picture fully no matter how desperately you want to.”

Then she closed her eyes before speaking sadly. “Oda was gone for most of my life and I never blamed him for it. I know the life he lived was dangerous and he didn’t want me in it. I could live with that. He took my place in the darkness so I never had to experience it.”

Playing with her hands, Asa then put them down before continuing. “But when you told me that he died, I realized that I felt…nothing. I couldn’t mourn, I couldn’t even feel grief because my brother was a complete stranger to me. He still is. I have no idea what he was like or who he was.”

It was something that Dazai had figured out since their first meeting. Why else would anyone be so nonchalant about their brother’s death unless they didn’t really know them.

And the way she always spoke about him, it seemed detached and odd.

Opening her eyes once more, the red haired girl then turned towards the mafia executive before staring straight through him. “But you do, Osamu. You poured a drink for him, you knew how precious he was. I’m jealous of it, of the way you knew my brother in a way I never could.”

At that, the boy’s head couldn’t help but feel a strange unexplainable feeling. He felt strange, knowing that she was right. He knew Odasaku better than anyone, better than his own sister, and now that he was dead she would never get the chance to.

Those memories at Bar Lupin were his and his alone. She couldn’t have them so matter how desperate.

His eyes then flashed with realization. So that’s why she said it was okay if he killed her. Because she knew that Dazai was the closest thing she could ever get to seeing her brother. Asagao wanted him to pull that trigger in a desperate attempt to be closer to him.

Snapping him out his thoughts, the girl then pointed to the landscape. “That’s why I came up here. He used to write me letters about his time here, and though I could never send any back I treasured them. I hoped that when I came here I could finally be a bit closer to him, that I could see who he really was.”

He recalled her saying something about that before, Dazai leaning forward in order to pry. “You said that he wrote about me.”

And he tried not to sound desperate but just the idea of getting to have anything else from Odasaku even after his death was enough to make him long for it. New words, new paragraphs. He wanted to know them all.

It seemed like Asago sensed it anyways though, her eyes lifting with interest for the reaction. “Would you like to read them?”

Dazai remained silent at that, not wanting to show his desire only for Asa to kick herself off the railing in order to stroll up to him with a mischievous stare. “I’ll let you, under one condition.”

Her words sounded like blackmail, causing the trained mafioso's shoulders to tense.

Yet that’s when the girl simply lifted her arms out with a goofy smile. “Be my boyfriend.”

And for once, Dazai had not expected that, his eyes blinking with slight disbelief before quickly twisting his lips into a devious smirk.

Poor girl didn’t know what she was asking for. “What, have you fallen for me?”

Asago only nodded her head though, obviously not embarrassed. “You could say that.”

And this time, Dazai couldn’t help but laugh, stalking up to the red haired girl before leaning forward in order to latch onto her chin and pull her forward with dark intent. “You don’t even know who I am though.”

She wasn’t scared in the slightest though, her blue eyes simply narrowing before speaking cocky. “Says you.”

Says you? What a weird way to answer. Dazai knew for a fact that she didn’t know him, cause if she did then she would never be asking the question in the first place. Such confidence for someone that was dead wrong.

Besides, even if she did know he was a brutal mafia executive he highly doubted Odaskau would have agreed to the two of them being together. Nah, he knew he would just ruin her. Sure, it would be fun to watch but the fact that she was his best friend's sister made him resist such an idea.

He then paused for a moment before finally letting up in order to shrug his shoulders. “Well, sorry to disappoint but I’m not in the market for a girlfriend right now, sweetheart.”

Asagao only narrowed her brow in silence though, truly taking his answer to heart before nodding once in order to point a finger and beam. “Alright then, how about a bet?”

Dazai felt his interest peek at that, unable to stop himself. “A bet?”

Taking a step closer to him, the girl then explained “You said that no one has ever surprised you, well I bet by the end of the day I can at least once. If I win you have to be my boyfriend and if you win I’ll show you all of Oda’s letters and never ask again. What do you say?”

And whether she had meant it or not, Dazai’s devious mind couldn’t help but revel in the idea. He loved bets and more than that, he loved winning and seeing the confused and or pissed off look in their way when they found out he was way smarter.

He could almost picture Chuuya’s stupid face when he won all their little rivalries.

And this time, the fact that she was Odasaku’s sister didn’t save her, the demon eying down his prey with a dark smirk. “I’ll have you know I’ve never lost a bet before.”

Asagao wasn’t shaken though, her face unchanging as she hummed. “Well, I’m in luck because betting on impossible chances happens to be a hobby of mine...”

She was cocky, but he knew that wouldn’t last long. Even still, the boy humored her, knowing how sweet it would feel when she lost.

And she would lose, that was one hundred percent certain.

Lifting his fingers out, the mafioso then grabbed her hand forcefully before pushing it up to his lips in a mocking kiss of challenge. “Oh? Well then, show me what you got, darling.”

She didn’t blush though, she didn’t freak out or turn red. The girl simply gasped at the agreement before jumping back with a newfound passion. “Really?! Alright, Let’s go then!”

Yet the moment she turned around, Asagao bumped her entire body into the railing, her steps faltering in order for a couple things to fall out of her pocket as she gasped. “Whoa, who put that railing there, am I right? Ha ha ha. Crazy.”

But because this was the third time of her falling, Dazai only chuckled in order to turn away from her completely. A good person would’ve told her about her missing items but the boy hardly cared, already eager to see her fail miserably.

Part 2/3

Read Part 1 Here:

#bsd dark era #bsd dazai #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai osamu #fanfic #fanfiction #dazai x y/n #dazai x fem reader #dazai x you #bsd writing #bsd odasaku #dazai x odasaku!sister #ao3 fanfic

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darlingggdearest · 11 months

Note

Thank you for accepting Enmu requests! Not many write about him. Can I ask for yandere Enmu headcanons please? 👉👈

YANDERE ENMU HEADCANONS

Thank you so much for requesting!!

WARNING: Yandere, Enmu being gross.

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

+ PLEASE yandere Enmu would be SO hard to get off your back. He wants to be around you all the time and won't hesitate to show it.

+ I feel as though Enmu would be very patient with his darling. Stalking them for months waiting for the *perfect* moment to snatch you away. Not to mention the patience he has for you when he does have you in his grasp. You're kicking and screaming with your limbs tied in extra tight ropes. And he'll just be sitting next to you with his head nuzzled in your neck, gently drawing shapes on your arm with his claw, of course that's not passive aggressive at all.

+ "Darling, there's no reason to be scared! I'm not going to hurt you, my love, please calm down."

+ If you were a regular human, then he would have just knocked you out with his blood demon art, however, he kind of likes it... Of course he wants you to be happy with him, but he can't deny that he doesn't get an absolute thrill of seeing you so helpless under his thumb.

+ But soon your little moment of terror peace is gone and the train is close to boarding. Enmu is a little disappointed that he never got you to calm down from your "temper tantrum", but he reminds himself that this is your first day with him. So he's not mad.

+ Enmu presses his head against yours, using his blood demon art to make you drift off into a timeless sleep. You don't, or really can't fight back that much, your energy being too used up to keep you awake. So you fall limp, right into Enmu's lap. He picks you up bridal style and carries you to the back of the train where the luggage was being kept, and sets you down gently behind a crate so you wouldn't be noticed.

+ Alright, lets have a chat. I see most of the time yandere Enmu is displayed as being in a more submissive role in most fanfiction. Of course that's fine, however I don't see him playing the same role for someone who is weaker than him (a human). As we know, Enmu is a kiss up to anyone who is more powerful than him, but when we're talking about someone weak who he's obsessed with, It would make sense if the opposite dynamic took place. He is your god. Not the other way around.

+ Does he expect worship? That depends on you. He expects you to let him do as he pleases whenever he wants, (cuddles, kisses, *zesty jazz music starts playing*) however, unless you've been bad, I don't think he would care if you downright worship him or not. But don't get me wrong, if you've done something in an act of rebellion, or have threw one to many curses at him he won't hesitate to grab you by your jaw and stare you down, scolding you for whatever you had done.

+ "My dear, you're really testing me today aren't you?"

+ he also likes to remind you he's more powerful than you in much more subtle ways too. He forces you to make direct eye contact with him. This way (because his blood demon art revolves around putting people to sleep with his eyes) you forever have a reminder of what he could do to you if he wanted to.

+ Enmu plans on turning you into a demon, soon. Maybe a year after he takes you. This way he would be able to live with you forever, like he has always wanted. And a little bonus to that is you would be by his side more often because of the threat of demon slayers.

+ Trying to escape? H. E. L. L. N. O.

+ You'd get caught within seconds. And not only that, but that is the only thing thing that makes Enmu truly angry. You don't want to see Enmu at his angriest. R.I.P. your leg.

+ Overall 8/10 on the yandere scale. Good luck.

Thank you for reading!

#enmu x reader #demon slayer enmu #kny enmu #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer #demon slayer headcanons #demon slayer fanfic

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ramblers-lets-get-ramblin · 8 months

Text

a little less than a happy high

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC

Word Count: 8.6k

Rating: E MDNI 18+

Warnings: Please check warnings on masterlist. There are a lot and they are serious. Please remember that we are all 100% responsible for the media we consume. I have appropriately and extensively tagged this work.

Author's Notes: this part picks up right where the last one left off. Just to reiterate: much of the events that take place are straight from my own personal experiences. I can't afford therapy. Please keep that in mind and be kind and mindful in your responses

Banners and dividers courtesy of @saradika and @cafekitsune

Part 1, Part 3

You don’t get out of bed for anything but to use the bathroom and get some water to swallow down more pills. With the swing of a fist, your entire life has crumbled into dust. After a week your mom comes into your room and forces you to get up and take a shower. As much as you may want her to, she is not content to let you sit in that room and rot. Frankie calls every night, asking questions like what you had for dinner and what you did that day. He’s doing the same thing she is, in his own way. He’s making sure that you take care of yourself without coming right out and saying it, without making you feel bad for not doing it. Giving you the permission you need to let yourself fall apart. He knows that even though he can’t be there to put you back together that she will, as long as you let her. Your sick time runs out at your job because you can't bring yourself to go back there. That’s where you met him. Once your ribs are healed you find a new job in an office nearby. Your coworkers are kind and the data entry work is mindless enough that you can take your brain out and stick it in a drawer for eight hours, only pulling it out and plopping it back in your head when you leave for the day. Exactly what you need. No time to think about your ex-husband in jail. No time to think about your baby. No time to think about Frankie.

It’s been six months since he left for Pennsylvania. He hasn't put any pressure on you to join him, he knows it won’t do any good. You just work and go home. Hang out with your siblings and your mom. You eventually move out to your own apartment close to your mom’s house. You eat lunch alone at work, usually with your nose in a book.

One afternoon, your reading is interrupted by Janet, a coworker around your age. “Do you want to come out with us?” She asks. Your first instinct is to say no, but you think of what Frankie would say when you tell him declined.

“Who’s us?” You ask. You don’t want to spend your evening with the older ladies who make up the majority of the office demographic.

“Me, Jenny, Bruce from accounting and Edgar.” Janet and Jenny work in the cubicle right behind your desk. They seem nice enough. You don’t know Bruce at all but he’s also close to your age. Edgar is the office administrator, your direct superior. You aren’t sure if that’s who you want to hang out with outside of work. You don’t want to feel pressured to be “work appropriate” on a night out. You turned twenty one a month ago with little fanfare. A few housewarming gifts from your mom and flowers from Frankie. Santi drove up from San Antonio to take you to dinner but instead you convinced him to help you put together your furniture and share a pizza and a twelve pack.

Your mom has been gently nudging you to make some friends. After probably too long you finally agree. “Sure. That sounds good.” You give her your number and tell her to text you the details.

Once you get home, you strip off your sensible work attire and hop into the shower. After you’ve washed the day off of you, you emerge wrapped in a towel and wander to your closet. You flick through your clothes trying to find something to fit the vibe of the bar. You settle on what could be considered a “little black dress.” Timeless, classic, perfect for almost anything. Just after your cab drops you off at the corner, a text from Janet comes through.

“Hey! Sorry for the late notice but we’re gonna have to reschedule. I had something come up and Jenny is helping me with that! Not sure about Bruce or Edgar but I’m sure you don’t want to hang with them alone!” You sigh and consider calling for another cab immediately, but then you think, fuck it. I could use a drink. You saunter through the door and make your way to the bar straight away. You drop onto a stool and plop your clutch on the bar.

“What’ll it be sweetheart?” The bartender asks.

“Vodka soda with lime.” You reply without looking up.

“Get stood up?” A voice over your shoulder asks.

“Not inter-“ you begin as you turn around. You are greeted by the smiling face of your boss. “Edgar. Sorry.” You laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” He says with a wave of his hand.

“Can I sit?” He motions for the stool next to you.

“Oh, please. Seems like we both got stood up.” You say. The bartender comes back with your drink.

“Put that on my tab and I’ll have another.” Edgar says. He waves you off when you try to protest.

“Do you wanna go sit over there?” He asks, pointing to a booth in the corner.

“Sure.” You shrug, grabbing your drink and your purse.

“So, I’m sorry to say I don’t know much about you.” Edgar says when you slide into the booth across from him.

“I kind of keep to myself.” You admit.

“Tell me something nobody else knows.” He suggests. You laugh, a real genuine laugh.

“You’ll have to buy me a few more drinks before I do that.” You tell him. “I just might.” He says, with a twinkle in his eye. And he does. Four, or maybe five drinks later, you find yourself spilling your guts to him. You tell him everything about Frankie, about Joey, even your shitty childhood. He tells you about his time in the army and all the places he’s lived and traveled to. He’s good company, surprisingly funny, too. You take the time to actually assess his appearance since he is no longer a background character in your life. He’s a little taller than you, with a medium build. There isn’t really anything remarkable about him, looks-wise. He has short, dark brown hair that he wears slicked back, dark brown eyes that sparkle with little flecks of gold. His eyebrows are thick and trimmed into a nice shape, same as his facial hair. But his most notable feature is his smile. His whole face transforms when you say something funny. His eyes light up and the apples of his cheeks become more prominent. And he wears the hell out of the jeans and polo shirt he changed into after work.

He’s older than you, thirty-five to your twenty-one, and you don’t really have a lot in common. But you find that you enjoy his company anyways. You barely notice that you’ve had five drinks until you stand to go to the restroom and wobble on your feet a little. “Do you have a ride home?” Edgar asks. You shake your head.

“I took a cab here. I’ll just grab one home.” You tell him.

“I’ll give you a ride.” He offers. When you begin to protest he stops you. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving if I didn't know you were going to get home safe.” He tells you. You think about it for a moment and relent.

“Okay. Thank you.” He goes to the bar to settle the tab and you go to the bathroom. While you’re in there you take a moment to freshen up your makeup and hair. He gives you another one of those beaming smiles and you feel butterflies in your belly when his warm palm finds the small of your back as he guides you out of the bar. He opens the passenger door to his black Chrysler 300 and you sink into the soft leather. He closes the door softly and walks around to the driver’s side. The car smells like his cologne. A little strong for your taste but a good scent. “Where do you live?” He asks once he slides into his seat. You give him your address and he nods, he knows the place. You direct him to your building and instead of pulling up to the curb, he turns into a parking spot.

“You could have just let me out in front of the building.” You say. He chuckles quietly.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you to the door? I told you I want to make sure you get home safe.”

You roll your eyes. “I think my chances of getting serial-killed three steps from my door are pretty low.” You laugh. He shakes his head and unbuckles his seatbelt. You follow suit and lead him towards your apartment. He follows you up the stairs and suddenly you feel self conscious about the length of your dress. He can probably see your ass peeking out below the fabric. You dig in your clutch for your keys once you reach your door, “I appreciate the ride. I guess I’ll see you on Monday. Unless…do you wanna come in for a drink?” You ask and instantly wish you could take it back. The vodka has gone to your head and he’s just being nice.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” He says with a shy smile.

“So you weren’t just being a concerned coworker?’ You tease with a smile of your own as you open the door.

You motion towards your couch and walk into the kitchen grabbing two beers. You kick off your heels and hand Edgar a beer. You fold your legs under you and sink into the couch. You can’t help but recall the last conversation you had on this couch. Last month, when Santi finished helping you assemble your couch and you sat down for a beer and pizza break, he was quieter than usual.

“He’s seeing someone, you know.” He said quietly, and without looking up from his slice. Your body stiffens for a moment, but you let it go with a deep exhale.

“I didn’t know. But he can do what he wants.” Santi scoffs. “He shouldn’t just sit around and wait for me to get my shit together.” Finally he looks up from his food. He shakes his head.

“You know you two are meant to be.” He says.

“Santi, I don’t deserve him. He doesn’t need my fucking shitshow of a life. I’m…broken.” You say quietly. He scoots over to the middle of the couch and flings arm around you. You lean your head into his shoulder and he presses a kiss to it.

“You aren’t broken, baby. Bad shit has happened to you, but it doesn’t define you. And there is nobody in the whole world who will ever love you the way that man does.” And you know that he’s right, but you think you are too. You don’t deserve how much he loves you. And one day, he’ll realize it, too. He’ll finally see how fucked up you are, and he’ll let you go for good.

But you push the thought out of your mind and focus on enjoying Edgar’s company. He tells you that he grew up in New York and is surprised to find out you are also a Yankees fan. You spend the next hour talking about their previous season’s World Series win. Eventually he checks his watch and stands from the couch. “It's getting late. I should get going. Let you get some rest.” You stand and gather the bottles from the coffee table and deposit them in the recycling bin. You walk him to the door and he pauses when his hand reaches the knob. He turns to face you. “Thanks for a nice time tonight. Maybe we could…do it again sometime.” You look into his eyes.

“Yeah I had fun. We can definitely do it again.” You say. He leans his face towards yours, only slightly, waiting for your reaction. You close the distance between your mouths and slot your lips between his. His teeth catch your bottom lip and he tugs gently at it. “You don't have to go.” You tell him when you part to catch your breath. He drops his hand from the doorknob and wraps both arms around your waist. His lips recapture yours and he draws you in closely. You begin to walk backwards, heading towards your room. He swerves suddenly preventing you from crashing into the wall. You laugh into each other’s mouths, unwilling to part them for even a second. You continue walking backwards until you feel the backs of your thighs hit your bed. The sudden jerk causes your already weak knees to buckle. You tumble onto the bed and the two of you are so tightly entangled that he falls on top of you. Another laugh breathed into each other’s mouths. His hands slide up your thighs under the skirt of your dress.

“Is this ok?” He asks. You can only nod, suddenly having trouble finding your voice. It's been so long since you’ve been with a man this way. Since Joey.

His fingers explore your body greedily and he only removes them when you pull his shirt over his head. He repeats the motion with your dress. His hungry gaze feels like a microscope, taking in every detail, every flaw , you think. The last time, months ago, that you were this exposed to a man, Joey had made sure to point out the weight you had gained with your pregnancy. The comment had stung, and had burrowed its way into your brain. You instinctively move to cover your arms but he catches both of your wrists in his hands.

“Please don’t do that.” He says quietly. “I want to see you, all of you. You’re so fucking beautiful.” He holds both of your wrists gently above your head with one of his hands. He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. He moves down to your neck, starting at the spot just below your ear. His other hand slides around to your back. His nimble fingers expertly unhook your bra and he releases your wrists to drag the straps down your arms. He tosses your bra to the side and returns you to your previous position. His lips resume their earlier pursuit, tongue flicking out to taste as much of you as he can. The metal of his belt buckle is cold against the skin below your belly button. The heft of him presses through his jeans into your core and the fabric of your panties, damp with slick, sticks to your skin. He circles one of your nipples with his tongue, running it over the surgical steel bar that pierces through. When he closes his mouth around it, your back arches and he grinds himself deeper into your clothed core.

“Oh fuck, that feels so fucking good.” You moan, breathlessly. He releases your wrists once more and his hands go straight to the waistband of your panties. He hooks his thumbs in and begins to slide them down. You lift your hips and he slips the black satin down the length of your legs.

“Get all the way onto the bed.” He orders and you comply, settling into the middle of the bed. He drops his pants and boxers in one go and steps out of them. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and fishes out his wallet. He removes a gold wrapped condom from and drops the wallet back onto the pile of his clothes. His cock bobs gently as he shuffles on his knees further between your thighs. He rips open the condom wrapper and pulls it out. With his other hand, he strokes himself a few times and rolls the condom down his length, pinching the tip. “You ready for me, bonita?” He asks and for a moment your heart clenches at the nickname Frankie gave you.

“Yes, please.” You whisper and he runs the tip of his dick up and down your slit, gathering your slick. He notches himself at your entrance and leans down to give you another kiss.

“Take a deep breath.” He warns, and when you do, he breaches you with the head of his cock.

“You ok?” He asks. “I know it's a lot to take.”

“Please, keep going.” You plead. The stinging stretch of him is divine. He slowly feeds himself to you, hissing at the sensation of your tight walls.

“You feel amazing, baby.” He groans once he’s fully sheathed inside your wet heat. He stills for a moment, the both of you catching your breath. When you begin squirming underneath him he slowly pulls out, leaving only the tip of him inside, and with a powerful thrust, buries himself back inside you. It punches the air from your lungs and you cling to him, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. He quickly builds up to a feverish pace. The filth that falls from his mouth along with the feeling of the drag of his length along your walls has you cresting the wave of your orgasm. “You’re taking me so well, baby. Fuck you're so fucking tight.” He grabs the backs of your thighs and presses them forwards, towards your chest.

The deeper angle has him hitting something inside of you that makes your vision burst with stars. Within moments, your orgasm crashes through your entire body. Your legs begin to shake as moans you know are your own but can’t recognize, ring in your ears. Edgar’s face looks almost pained and his chest is heaving, his pace falters and with two strong thrusts he stills inside of you and comes with a long moan of your name. He presses a soft kiss on your lips and pulls out of you with a hiss, taking care to hold the condom at the base of him. “Bathroom?” He asks and you point him in the right direction.

You stand from your bed and pad over to your dresser. You open the top drawer and pull out one of your sleep shirts. This one is a Joy Division shirt that Frankie had given you years ago. You slip it over your head just as Edgar comes back into your room. He reaches down and finds his boxers and pulls them on. You stand awkwardly at the end of your bed and wait for him to finish dressing and leave, like they always do. You’re caught off guard when he sits on the edge of your bed, still clad on only his boxers. “

You gonnna come to bed?” He asks. “Unless…do you want me to leave?” You shake your head and come to stand in front of him.

“No. I just, didn’t think you would want to stay.” He wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your stomach. He looks up at you through his long lashes and gives you a smile.

“Which side do you sleep on?” You giggle and walk around to the other side of the bed. Edgar pulls back the covers and settles into the pillow. When you slide in, he pulls you close and wraps his arm around you and settles your head on his chest. You can hear his heart pounding fast, the pace similar to your own. He kisses your forehead and squeezes you a little tighter.

“Goodnight, bonita .” He whispers into your hair. You drift off into a peaceful sleep with a smile on your face.

You're pleasantly surprised to find him still in your bed in the morning. His chest to your back, arms still tightly wound around you. You slip out of his grip, and the room, quietly. You use the bathroom and wash your face. You try to tame your hair which is a mixture of sex-tousled and bed-head. Once you're satisfied with your appearance, as satisfied as you get, you head into the kitchen. And that's where Edgar finds you half an hour later, standing at the stove, frying potatoes for breakfast. Breakfast is your favorite food genre so you always have the ingredients for it. He wraps his hands around you from behind, still clad in only his boxer briefs, and settles his chin on your shoulder.

"Good morning." He says as he presses a kiss into your neck. "Smells good." You gesture towards the counter.

"Coffee's over there if you want some. Orange juice is in the fridge if you don't." You serve plates and walk them over to the table. Edgar sits down and his eyes widen when he sees his piled high with eggs, bacon, potatoes, homemade refried beans, and a stack of fresh tortillas.

“You eat like this everyday?” He wonders.

“Usually for dinner but pretty much.” You shrug. You share comfortable conversation while you eat and drink your coffee. You aren’t used to this. Breakfast and conversation the morning after a hook-up isn’t a common occurrence in your experience. Once you’ve both finished eating you stand and start carrying the dishes to the sink.

“Do you need help cleaning up?” He asks.

“No. “I’ve got it.” You assure him. He pauses on his way to your bedroom to give you a soft, sweet kiss. When he emerges, he’s dressed and has slicked his hair back into place. He leans against the counter near the sink, where you are finishing up washing the dishes.

“I gotta head out, got a bunch of shit to do today.” He says, stroking your hip with his thumb.

“Okay. See you Monday.” You say.

“Well, actually, I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight.” He says. You look over at him and the seriousness of your eyes quells your worry. He seems genuine.

“I don’t have any plans.” You tell him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He taps on the screen a few times and holds it out to you.

“Gimme your number. I’ll call you when I’m done with all my errands.” He gives you another kiss before he leaves and you spend the rest of the day straightening up your apartment and doing laundry.

When Frankie calls that evening you can hear in his voice that something’s bothering him. “What’s wrong?” You implore, the distress in his voice making you worry.

‘I have to tell you something, baby. I…I’ve been seeing someone. I didn’t want to tell you in case it turned out to be nothing, but it…it’s not nothing.” He babbled, almost whispering the last part. You bark out a laugh in his ear.

“That’s it? Frankie you fucking scared me!” You yell. “First of all, I already knew this. Santi has big fucking mouth.” You hear him quietly grumbling, cursing his friend, no doubt. “Secondly, don’t ever be afraid to tell me what’s going on in your life. You’re my best friend. I’m happy that you’ve found someone. I never wanted you to sit around and wait for me, Francisco.” He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, bonita . I don’t know why I was so worried.” You share a laugh at Frankie’s expense.

“I thought it was going to be something horrible, like someone died, or you were going off to war.” The other end of the line goes so silent, so quickly that you pull your phone away from your ear to make sure the call didn’t disconnect. “Frankie? Are you there?”

“I’m here.” His response is eerily quiet. Realization washes over you.

“Frankie?” You question.

“I’m so sorry baby. I’m leaving for Afghanistan in three days.” You drop the phone to the floor and your knees buckle out from under you.

“Baby? Baby?” You can barely hear him calling out for you. Your trembling hand reaches for the phone and you slowly pull it back up to your ear. For some reason the damn thing feels like it's ten pounds heavier than it was just a moment ago. A knot has formed in your throat and your stomach feels like you ate a bowl of lead for breakfast.

“No. You can’t.” you croak out.

“Everything is gonna be ok. I’m gonna be ok.” He says.

“You don’t know that! You can’t fucking promise that, Frankie!” You shout. “You are all I have.” You cry. This is what you have been afraid of. This is what has kept you from joining him in Pennsylvania. This is why you can’t have the life you want with him. He’s leaving, he’s always fucking leaving you. And there’s a good chance that he won’t fucking come back this time. You can handle him being with someone else, you could probably handle him marrying someone else, having a family with them. But what you can’t handle, what you won’t survive, is him not coming home at all. You say your goodbyes. He promises that he will call again before he leaves.

You’re still sitting in the same spot on the floor an hour later when your phone rings again. “Hello?” You are genuinely surprised to hear Edgar’s voice on the other end. Sure, he’d said he would call. Then again, they always say that.

“Do you still want to do something tonight?” He asks. You try to come up with a less pathetic excuse but fail to. So you sigh and decide on the truth.

“Honestly? I just got some bad news so all I really want to do is sit at home and get shit-faced.” He laughs at your candor.

“Well, if you’re up for the company, it sounds like a great time to me.” He offers to swing by the store and grab supplies. You text him your vodka brand, the pitiful amount in the bottle rattling around your freezer just won’t do it for tonight, and tell him to make sure he brings limes. You consider getting and changing into something a little cuter than sweatpants and muscle shirt, at least a bra, but you can’t find the will to give a shit. You sit there and scroll mindlessly through your phone until you hear a knock at the door. “Come in, it’s open!” You shout. The door to your apartment opens and Edgar walks through it, a few bags in one hand, twelve pack in the other.

“You really shouldn’t leave your door unlocked like that, bonita .” The nickname makes you cringe internally this time. He sets the bags on the counter and the beer in the fridge. You finally drag yourself up from the floor and begin unpacking the bags he brought with him. One had a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, much more expensive than your usual brand, and another bottle of Patrón. You hold the bottle up and cock your eyebrow.

“I don’t drink vodka.” He says with a laugh. You leave the limes rolling around in the bottom and move on to the other bag. There are two paper plates covered in foil.

“What’s this?” His face lights up with a smile.

“Since you made me breakfast, I brought you dinner. These are from my favorite taco truck.” You shake your head. “Not really hungry.” He walks over and grabs the bag from you. “I’m not getting you shit-faced on an empty stomach. You don’t wanna waste your Sunday on a hangover, do you?” You smile gently and shake your head. “Besides these are the best tacos you will ever have in your life. And he was right. You scarf down three chicharrón tacos without hesitation. “Thought you weren’t hungry, hermosa .” He teases.

“Alright!” You exclaim. “Time for a drink.” You move to the cabinet and pull out two glasses and two shot glasses. You slice a few limes and grab the salt shaker from the spice cabinet. He pours two shots of tequila and you make your favorite drink, vodka soda with lime. “Cheers.” You say at the same time. You slam the shot and immediately chase it with the drink in your other hand.

“Let’s get this party started.” He says. You let him choose the music and he follows you out to the balcony, where he sits with you for hours, trying to calm your fears about Frankie. He tells you about his own experiences in the Army. Eventually, you feel yourself starting to drift.

“I guess I should call it a night.” You tell him.

“Lightweight.” He teases with a smile.

“Sorry. Feel free to stay up though. You can let yourself out. Or not.” You offer.

“Well I got something if you wanna stay up.” He says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a baggie full of white powder.

“What is it?” You ask.

“Coke. It’ll sober you up. Enough so we can have a few more drinks, or maybe do something else.” He says with a wink.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never really done any drugs before.” Sure you had smoked a little weed in high school, but you’ve never had any desire to do anything more. To be honest, you really didn't even like that, it made you too sleepy.

“No pressure, but it's there if you want some.” He shrugs. Fuck it, why not? You think. Especially if it’s gonna help you forget about your troubles for a little while.

“Can- can you show me how?” You ask quietly.

“Sure, baby. Come here.” He pats his thigh for you to sit it in his lap. He fishes his car keys out of his pocket. He reaches his arm around you to open the baggie and he dips the key in, pulling out a small mound of powder. He snakes his arm back around and holds one nostril closed. He holds the key up to the other and sniffs deeply. You watch his nose vacuum the powder up. He sniffs again and dusts off his nose.

“Do you wanna try it?” You nod and he holds out the bag and eyes to you.

“Could you do it for me?” He chuckles softly.

“Okay.” And he cages you in his arms once again. He plunges the key back into the bag, this time pulling out a much, much smaller amount. “Hold one side and lean down.” He instructs. You hover your open nostril over the key. “Now sniff.” You do and it burns a little, pulling a cough out of you.

“Fuck.” You choke. Immediately you feel a rush of warmth throughout your body. Your gums, and somehow your teeth, begin to tingle. You feel more alert than you had before you even started drinking.

“You good?” Edgar asks. You turn and smile at him, nodding. “Good, let’s keep the party going.”

You continue drinking for a few more hours, dipping the key into the bag more and more frequently. You’ve gotten the hang of it by now and can do it without Edgar’s help. Your whole body feels like it’s crackling with electricity. Every touch of his hand sets you on fire. You are becoming uncomfortably wet and his thigh slotted between yours isn’t helping the matter any. He feels you squirming but he’s enjoying the tease of it all. He has no plans to leave you unsatisfied. You haven’t thought about Frankiefor hours. And you don’t think about him at all when Edgar takes you to bed and fucks like you’ve never been fucked. All teeth and tongues, lust and hunger, for hours. And in the morning, when you wake for the second morning in a row wrapped up in him, he takes you softly and slowly and you feel the familiar feeling bubbling up in your chest. I could get used to this , you think.

True to his word, Frankie calls you Sunday night. He stays on the phone with you for hours, like you used to do when you were kids, even after you had spent the whole day together. His unit will be deployed for 9 months and he won’t be able to call. “But I’ll write to you every chance I get, baby, I swear.” He promises.

“I love you, Frankie.” You tell him.

“I love you, too, bonita . So much. Please take care of yourself. And you better believe Santi will be keeping an eye on you for me.” He warns. Santi doesn’t exactly tell Frankie all of your business, but he lets him know how you’re doing, how you’re really doing. You couldn’t be more thankful for having him in your life. Ever since the morning you woke up in the hospital with him by your side, the two of you have become extremely close.

The next few weeks go by in a whirlwind. You and Edgar both agreed that keeping your, whatever this is, quiet at work is for the best, for both of you. He’s your direct superior and could get into a lot of trouble. You don’t want your coworkers thinking that you are getting special treatment, which you kind of are. He gives you the best assignments and approves all of your requests for time off. Not to mention the secretive touching, and kissing, in his office, behind the closed door. Janet and Jenny don’t seem as friendly as they used to, once they notice Edgar spending a lot of time hanging around your desk. But you don’t really care. You spend most of your weeknights at home alone, Edgar has a part-time job a few days a week, watching tv or reading. But your weekends are filled with Edgar. He usually spends Friday and Saturday nights with you, drinking and doing coke until the early morning hours. Saturday afternoons you spend with your family, but he always ends back up at your apartment. He takes you apart weekend after weekend and puts you back together again with soft and sweet Sunday mornings in bed. You are starting to fall for him and you think that the feeling is mutual.

One day, he joins you for lunch in the break room. You laugh and talk quietly about your previous weekend's adventures. You can feel the death-stares from Jenny and Janet two tables down. Janet gets up and walks over to your table. She stares directly at you but speaks to Edgar.

"So, Edgar, how is Emily doing?" She asks. His body stiffens momentarily.

"She's fine. Why?" Janet shrugs.

"She used to come by a lot, bring you lunch. Just wondering why we haven't seen your wife around much lately. She's such a sweetheart." Even though she smiles her words drip with venom. When she spies the look on your face, she smirks and turns to leave the break room, satisfied that her words have hit their mark.

"What the fuck? " You hiss quietly.

“I can explain.” He whispers. “Not here. Not now.”

You stand so quickly your chair falls back, causing every eye in the small room to snap in your direction. You feel hot tears prick at your eyes. “I’m not feeling very well.” You manage to say. “I think I need to go home.” He just nods while looking down at the table. Fucker can’t even look you in the eye. You stop by your desk and grab your purse and walk as calmly, more calm than you feel, out the door. The second the cool air hits your face you can’t hold the tears back any longer. Hot, wet drops pepper your cheeks. You dig in your bag for your phone and find Santi’s contact. He answers on the third ring.

“Hey, hermosa . You finally get tired of your new boyfriend? You ready for a real man, yet?” He teases. But the second he hears the anguish in your voice when you cry his name, he gets very serious. “What happened? Are you safe?” He asks frantically. Seeing you in that hospital bed was very traumatic for him as well. The sight of your broken and bloody body sent a fiery rage coursing through his blood. It has made him fiercely protective of you. That piece of shit should consider himself lucky that he was already in jail by the time Santi made it from San Antonio to Austin. He would have done a hundred times worse to him. And Frankie? Frankie would have killed him, no question.

“I’m safe, but I need you.” Is all you manage to get out between sobs. He tells you to meet him at your apartment. You compose yourself enough to drive the short distance to your apartment. You lock the door behind you and run to the kitchen where you throw up in the sink. How could you have been so fucking stupid? You rinse your mouth out and strip off your work clothes on the way to your bedroom. You dig Frankie’s Joy Division shirt out of your top drawer and pull it over your head. You crawl beneath the covers and cry.

Santi finds you in the same position when he lets himself in with his key an hour later. “Shit.” He says. He kicks off his shoes and pulls the blanket back. He crawls in beside you and wraps his arms around you. “What happened, baby? Please talk to me.” He pleads. “I’ll fucking kill him.” He promises.

“Married? Fucking pendejo. ” Santi says. Hours have passed since he found you curled into a ball in your bed. He held you and stroked your hair and whispered all the right things to you. Finally you exhausted yourself, and fell asleep. When you woke up you had ten missed calls, all from Edgar. Even more text messages. All of them have some form of apology and pleas to give him a chance to explain himself.

“He doesn’t wear a ring.” You explain. “And now that I think of it, we only ever hung out here.” Santi shakes his head and you chastise yourself internally. Looking back, there were so many signs that you just didn’t see, or chose to ignore, again. “I miss Frankie.” You pout. Santi puts an arm around you.

“I know you do, baby. But you should be glad he isn’t here right now. That boy is liable to do something to get himself court-martialed.” You sigh because you know he’s right. You’d seen first hand the lengths he was willing to go to protect you. You spend the evening eating Chinese take out and watching shitty tv until a knock comes at your door. You look at Santi, wide-eyed, as he hops up from the couch. Another pounding knock comes before he makes it to the door. He turns the lock and opens the door just enough to fit his broad frame.

“Can I help you?” He huffs.

“Is she here?” You hear Edgar ask, just across the threshold.

“Don’t you have a wife to be worried about? She isn’t your concern anymore.” Santi spits.

“I just need to talk to her.” He says. You figure you might as well deal with this now instead of at work, in front of everyone, where you can be further embarrassed.

“It’s ok.” You call from the couch. “Let him in.” Santi looks at you on the couch and you nod. He opens the door slightly more but doesn’t move from the doorway, so Edgar has to brush past him to enter the apartment. Santi follows hot on his heels as he makes his way over to the couch. He sits next to you and reaches his hand out to you.

“ No la toques.” Santi growls from where he is standing behind the couch. Edgar jerks his hand back. “I just want to explain.” He says. You cross your arms across your chest.

“Fine. Explain. It better be fucking good.” You tell him.

He launches into a long, drawn out story that basically boils down to: he’s in a green card marriage. They don’t even share a room, he claims. Santi rolls his eyes but you feel your resolve weakening. His brown eyes look so sad, his face so earnest. But you know you can’t give in so easily. He lied to you. He fucking embarrassed you. You haven't said a word this whole time, and you don’t break now.

“Okay. You explained. Time to go.” Santi motions for him to get up and nods towards the door.

“I guess I’ll see you at work. Call me if you wanna talk some more.” Santi locks the door behind him and flops back onto the couch.

“Please don’t tell me you believe any of that bullshit.” You sigh and sink into the couch, draping your feet across Santi’s legs.

“I don’t know. He sounded like he was being honest.” You shrug.

“Yeah? And how would you know what that sounds like?” He scoffs. He has a point. What are you going to do? Be his mistress? You don’t even know how you are going to show your face at the office tomorrow. You briefly consider just finding a new job, but you don’t want to give any of them the satisfaction.

You spend the next few weeks much as you have the majority of your life, alone. You go to work, where nobody will talk to you unless they have to. Except Edgar, of course, who you have no desire to speak with. Funny how he’s the one who lied, the one who stepped out on his marriage, but you’re the bad guy. Nobody seems to have taken any issue with him. You eat lunch alone in your car. You go home to your apartment alone, where you spend your evenings drinking too much vodka and re-reading the stack of letters you have received from Frankie. He’s been gone for about four months by now and you miss him more than ever.

One Friday night, after your fourth vodka soda, your phone rings, like it always does. This time, you take a look at the tear stained letter in your hand, sigh and answer. “Hello?” The line is silent for a moment before Edgar’s voice fills your ears.

“I can’t believe you answered. Can I see you?” He asks.

“You see me every day.” You reply.

“You know what I mean. I miss you.” Your loneliness is sitting so heavy on you that you relent. He arrives with everything he would usually bring, party favors, as he calls them.

You fall back into him so easily. Back into the pattern you had become accustomed to. You still don’t speak at work. You still don’t see him during the week outside of the office. But on Fridays and Saturdays, you’re his. He keeps your freezer stocked with vodka and you’re never without a baggie or two of your own now. Turns out, his part time job is as a drug dealer. You barely notice that it takes more and more powder to achieve that blissful numbness you crave. You attribute the nosebleeds that are becoming more frequent to allergies. You justify your affair with him. Even after you find out that he lied, again, about his living arrangements with his wife. You tell yourself that he means all those sweet nothings he moans while you are underneath him, on your knees for him. The quiet words he whispers into your hair as you drift off to sleep in the early morning hours. He makes you feel so good when he’s with you. But in the harsh light of the morning, when he’s gone back to his wife, you’ve never felt worse about yourself. You can’t help but compare him to Frankie. Frankie would never treat you this way. He’s never made you feel anything less than adored. Someone precious, to be treasured. But you are the one who allows this to continue.

Your “party favors” are no longer relegated to just the weekends. You carry a bag with you everywhere you go these days. Your nightstand is littered with empties. You go through your life on autopilot. Work, home, family obligations. Just coasting until the weekend. Santi is the only other person you spend any real time with, though much less than you used to. He’s noticed the change in your mood, your behavior. You know he’s worried. You’ve tried to assure him that you are fine, but you know that your attempts are unsuccessful. Frankie’s letters have become increasingly concerned as well. One Thursday night, tired of being sad and alone, tired of waiting for your boyfriend to leave his wife for you, something he keeps promising, you decide to go out for a drink. You slip into that same little black dress from that first night with Edgar, all those months ago, and walk the two blocks to the bar on the corner. The place is surprisingly packed for a weeknight, there’s only one open stool at the bar. The woman sitting there is around your age. She has heavy black eyeliner and bright red lipstick on.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” You ask her.

“Oh, please! This place is so fucking boring!” She exclaims. Her name is Kim and you spend the next couple of hours getting to know her, and telling her all of your stupid problems. She dudes this air of confidence you’ve always wished you had. On a trip to the bathroom, together of course, she reaches into her bra and pulls out a baggie that matches the one sitting on your kitchen counter where you had, unfortunately, left it. She does a bump off her keys and holds them both out to you.

“Want some?” You nod enthusiastically and take them from her. It burns going up your nose, worse quality than what you are used to.

“I’ve got some way better shit at my house if you wanna go have some drinks there.” You offer and she agrees instantly. You stay up late into the night talking about music and movies and past lovers.

Finally, you have a friend. Kim lives just down the street from you so you often end up together most days. You cook for her at your apartment and she orders pizza for you at hers. You have so much in common that the conversation never ends. She thinks you should keep seeing Edgar.

“Why not? He pays for everything, he’s nice when he’s with you, and he has the best coke I’ve ever had.” She makes a good argument. “You can dump him whenever your army boy comes home to marry you.” You throw a pepperoni at her head.

“Shut up! I’m not gonna marry him.” You tell her.

“Why wouldn’t you? He loves you, dummy. Even though you’re a hot ass mess. Do you know how rare that is?” You take another bite of pizza before you respond.

“He deserves so much better than me. Like you said, I’m a hot ass mess. He joined the army to get his life together, to have a life. I don’t wanna drag him down.”

She laughs and stuffs the rest of her crust into her mouth. “You are a dumb bitch. But I love you anyway.”

One night, while partying at your house, you accidentally walk in on Kim in the bathroom. She is sitting on the lid of the toilet and has her bandana wrapped around her bicep. In her other hand is a syringe that she is about to plunge into her arm. “Oh shit! I’m sorry!” You exclaim and slam the door shut behind you. When she emerges a few minutes later, you notice her dilated pupils and the way she seems a little out of breath. You apologize profusely but she waves you off. “What is it like?” You ask her when you’ve both resettled on your balcony.

“It's a high like nothing else, and I’ve done it all.” She says. “Doesn’t last long, though.” She adds. You nod. “Do you wanna try it?” She asks.

“Oh, I don’t think so. I’m afraid of needles.” She barks out a laugh at that.

“You are covered in tattoos.” She says.

“It’s different!” You defend with a shrug.

“Well if you ever do wanna try it, you have to be careful. Too much and you’ll drop dead, miss the vein and you’ll fuck your shit up. Just…if you do, let me know.” You nod in response, sure that you will never take her up on the offer. You don’t hear from Edgar all weekend, which is odd. He doesn't respond to any of your text messages, either. Monday, when you arrive at work, you are greeted by the sight of a new receptionist. She’s young, around your age, and gorgeous.

“Hi, I’m Ana.” You extend your hand to her and. Offer her your name in return. Edgar avoids you all morning, doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. You decide to take your lunch after everyone else has come back from theirs, choosing to catch up on some work. You’ve let your work slide recently, too wrapped up in your personal issues. You head to the break room to buy a soda from the vending machine. As the door swings open you see Ana wrapped up in Edgar’s arms. They jump apart when they notice you there. Ana’s face turns red and she rushes out of the room without a word.

The smirk on Edgar’s face says everything you need to know. You return to your desk, your appetite long gone, and count the minutes until 4:00. At 3:45 Edgar comes by your desk. “HR needs to see you.”

Thirty minutes later you shuffle out to your car with a box of all of your belongings in your hand. “Someone” had made an anonymous report that you were seen using drugs in the bathroom. Even though you had, you know exactly who the report came from. The person who had been feeding you the drugs for months. And you had fallen for his bullshit, again. What the fuck is wrong with you? When you refused to take a drug test, they fired you.

You call Kim on the way home and tell her to meet you there. “I need to get supremely fucked up, immediately.” You tell her when she walks into your apartment. She nods and begins pulling her gear out of her purse. A ziploc bag of syringes and cotton balls, and a few, by now, all too familiar clear baggies, and a plastic, rectangular box with a biohazard label on it.

“Let’s get fucked up.” She says.

Kim was right, what she said before. It was a feeling like you'd never felt in all your life. A euphoria you've until then never known. Every problem, every issue, just melted away. The rush of pleasure that floods your body is better than the best sex you'd ever had. You spend the weekend in your apartment with Kim, sliding needles into your veins and powder up your nose. You don't answer a single phone call or text. You just want to keep the world at bay for a little while. Enjoy the quiet that has taken up residence in your mind.

Sunday night, you finally start to come down. That's always the worst part. The price to be paid for the ability to forget for a while. Your body is shaking and your mind is foggy. This is usually about the time you start to question your choices. The regret creeps in, and you chastise yourself. You lay on the couch alternating between feeling sorry for yourself and being pissed off at yourself, until your thoughts are interrupted by a banging on your door.

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miradelletarot · 3 months

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Part 4: Under the Moonlight - The Weave and the Vines

Summary: Sagora meets Gale outside of camp for a private moment under the stars.

ACT TWO SPOILERS Don't judge me, this was my very first foray into smut writing, and I adored this scene so much I used some of the lines from the game because they were just too good to replace. Sorry not sorry. I have made some edits/improvements though so hopefully it reads better than it used to. TAGS: Fluff, hurt/comfort, body worship, PIV, Fem!OC , very unexciting but productive use of mage hand. Words: 4,000 | AO3 MINORS DNI - SMUT UNDER THE CUT

“Good evening! I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep. He wishes to extend you an invitation for a private conversation in a more suitable locale.”Sagora tilted her head, confused as to what Gale was up to. He said to come to his tent this evening, but she expected him, not a projection. Still, her curiosity was piqued so she followed the projection’s instructions, and traveled the path set before her. She arrived a little ways outside of camp to see Gale sitting in a lush, grassy field. Fireflies flitted nearby him as conjured sparks of the Weave surrounded him in a glittering aura. He heard her soft footsteps coming from behind, and turned to look at her. He smiled. “I love this time of night.” She smiled back, and quietly sat on the blanket next to him. He spoke so eloquently, so gently, about the peak of darkness, of eternity. Suddenly, she was snapped out of the daze his voice lulled her into.

“ –The timelessness of lovers. That most beautiful of fantasies.” His eyes sparkled like the stars in the sky. She could drown in those eyes. They made her insides swirl, and her heart skip, but she noticed a shift in his gaze. A hollow feeling seated itself in the pit of her stomach. “This may be my last night alive. I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty and wonder.” He turned his gaze from Sagora towards the iridescent night sky. Translucent waves of purples, blues, and greens blanketed the starry landscape he created. He needed an escape from his inevitable reality.

“Gale, do you really think this is the right choice? To die for a goddess who so casually cast you aside like a piece of rubbish?”

“It’s Mystra’s will. If she thinks that this can turn the tide of our most unfortunate of circumstances then perhaps I should.” He hung his head. Saying the words out loud make sense enough, but the knots in his stomach tugged at him with hesitation and uncertainty.

“You’re quite brave to face this so…so calmly.”

Gale let out a faint chuckle. “Truth be told? I’m terrified. But, that doesn’t change anything about the task I’ve been given.” “You don’t have to do this, you know. All of us - together - we can figure something out I’m sure of it.” Desperation washed over Sagora’s face. Was he truly willing to die for such a cause without considering other options?

“I appreciate the sentiment. Really. My fate is inevitable, I'm afraid. Best to meet it on my own terms.” His words sounded so confident, but the pained look in his eyes spoke otherwise. “This is ridiculous. Gale, you don’t have to die. There are so many possibilities that lay before us. You have all of us, for better or worse. Let’s figure it out together. No one needs to die…especially for the sake of an ungrateful goddess.” Sagora furrowed her brows at the mere thought of Mystra. Gale didn’t need her anger though. She wanted to comfort him as he did for her days before, though he could sense the rising fury within her that she tried to keep hidden. “ Sorry …I didn’t mean to – ” Her words trailed off as she cast her gaze to the ground. She didn’t know what to say, but she knew her anger would ruin a lovely evening if she continued. An awkward silence hung in the air. Gale understood that she was angry about his new mission. Yet, he couldn't imagine anyone caring so deeply for him. It only made him fall for her more. “One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime. I’m so very glad you came.” He turned to Sagora, and smiled softly. “Thank you for sharing this with me.” She returned his smile with one of her own, and placed her hand on his. His skin felt electric and warm, still charged with traces of the Weave. “I know this is unreal, but I created it for you.” He paused. He was unsure how she would react to his confession. “You must know that you’re...you’re very special to me.” He wanted nothing more than to be back home, in Waterdeep, showing her all the wonders the City of Splendors had to offer. To do things properly. But, they were all on borrowed time. The luxuries of a proper courtship wouldn’t be possible. Say the words, Gale. It's now or never. “I’m in love with you.” Sagora saw trepidation, adoration, and anxiety flood his gaze all at once. His words echoed in her ears as the heat rose from her core, and pricked at her skin. Her body moved of its own accord as her lips caressed his. Her impulse was all the response he needed for his confession. Softer than the finest silk, he thought. The sensation sent shivers through him. Such a delicate touch evoking the most fervent response. He didn’t need to hold back this time. Since Elminster stabilized the orb, Gale was free to feel as deeply as he wished. For now. Taking Sagora’s hand, they stood together. “I want it to be perfect.” He sincerely and excitedly shared his ideal evening with her. Within the Weave, bonding like the gods do. To intertwine their spirits in an ethereal landscape with no mortal limitations. “All of that sounds lovely, Gale. But –”

“But ?”

She sighed softly as she cupped his face in her hands. “I don’t need illusions. I want you. Just. You.”

He stepped back with a gentle smile. “If that is what you wish, so be it.” With a flourish of his hand he conjured a bed. It had been so long since Sagora lay in an actual bed. While it was still an illusion, it was real enough for her to dive into. It felt plush on her skin, and smelled of freshly washed linens. Truly, a delight to her senses after a long period of dirt, blood, and a flat bedroll.

She propped herself up on one side so she could look at him. Her eyes darkened with desire as she tapped seductively on the bed, and waved him over. He sauntered over to the edge of the bed, and grazed his hands up her body as he climbed up to meet her. Her pulse quickened as his hands explored her over her garments. She was suddenly overcome with a soft, whispered giggle. Gale paused. The deepening desire that was once on his face was now replaced with confusion, and concern. “Is everything ok?” He really wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction. She grinned wildly. “Yes . It’s just -”

“We can stop if you’re not comfortable.” “No! Gods no. I just - haven’t - it’s been a while.” Her cheeks flushed. “And - I’ve never been...romanced before. I quite like it.” She looked away, and bit her lip sheepishly. His gaze softened, and he smiled. He lowered himself down to whisper in her ear. “Then let me take care of you.” Her eyes flashed at his request. “Me? Why?” Their faces were so close their noses nearly touched. He planted a chaste kiss on her forehead before he sat up.

“Because you deserve it. You’ve done so much, Sagora. Let me show you how much I appreciate you.” His eyes darkened once again. “I told you. I want it to be perfect.” She was fairly certain she forgot to breathe. This was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, but she yearned to experience everything Gale wished to offer her. With a gentle smile and a nod, she gave her unspoken consent, allowing him to pleasure her as he wished.

He extended his hand to her, shifting enough so she could sit up. With his other hand, he slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her in closer to his chest. His fingers lingered at the hem of her tunic. “May I ?” He whispered. He dared not move an inch unless she gave her permission.

“Please.” She gazed at him as he gingerly pulled the garment over her head, and carelessly tossed it aside. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and began tracing his fingers down the length of her body. Her collarbone , her breasts , her stomach . His breath shuddered with every contact of her delicate, exposed skin. But, this moment was for her. He’ll tend to his own desires later.

Gale gently patted her thigh. “Roll over, and lie down.” She flashed a curious smirk at his gentle command, but was happy to acquiesce. When he straddled her thighs he noticed the moonlight had illuminated a multitude of old scars on her back and sides. Some were large gashes, and more smaller cuts. If there were others he hadn’t noticed them in the darkness. Sagora could sense his delay, and looked over her shoulder. She knew what gave him pause. “It was a long time ago…” Thankfully, her vague statement was enough to dissuade him from any questions.

As if his touch couldn’t be any softer, he delicately traced one of the larger scars that went up her back. Then another, and another. He lowered himself down to her, pressing his body gently against her curves. “You’re beautiful.” He whispered into her skin as he began to kiss each scar tenderly. He sat back up, and whispered an incantation, a thin layer of oil coating his hands. He rubbed them together for warmth before he slid them up her spine, and spread them out to her shoulders. A moan mixed with pleasure and comfort was forced out of her as he massaged her sore muscles. “Gale...” Her call to him was muffled by the blankets beneath her. “Yes?” Sagora tried to respond, but all that came out of her were breathy moans, and incoherent mumbles as the tension left her body. He smiled knowingly, continuing his soothing ministrations. “Are you comfortable?” All she could do was nod, completely overcome by his warm touch. As the oil began to absorb into her skin, he leaned down to her once more, and nuzzled the side of her neck. She giggled softly as his beard tickled her sensitive skin. “How do you feel, darling?” “Amazing.” Her face was slack, and still muffled by the blankets. A contented sigh passed her lips, and she smiled. “I'm glad.” He whispered, and left a gentle kiss on the back of her head. He removed himself from the softness of her body, and asked her to turn again. Sagora took a moment, humming a satisfying moan with her stretch, and savoring the lack of tension in her muscles as she rolled over onto her back. Gale draped his legs around her once more only to find more scars - ones he neglected to notice earlier. The darkness did well to shroud them before, but the moon didn’t allow her to hide her past so easily this time. He knew better than to ask who or what caused her such pain, but he couldn’t help the heat that rose within him. It took all of his will to keep his rising anger from showing itself when his purpose in that moment was to make her feel comfort.

Still, it didn’t discourage him from repeating his adoration as he did before. He lovingly caressed and kissed every scar that painted her flesh. “I swear,” he muttered against her skin, “I’ll protect you so you’ll never have to endure this pain again. If you'll let me.”

Sagora released a trembling sigh as Gale continued to explore more of her with his delicate lips. He then settled on the curve of her exposed neck, grazing her skin with passionate kisses to her jawline. He lingered by her ear, and playfully nibbled at her soft flesh. She hummed, delighting in the way he felt as his body pressed into her, his cock straining against his robes. He released a soft growl as he seductively tugged at her lobe once again, the vibration sending a chill down her body, her breath hitching at the sensation. She thought she might lose herself from the voracity of her sinful need.

“ Gale –” She huffed. “ Please –” She could hardly speak. “I need you.”

A wicked grin flashed across his face. “Now, now, my love. Patience. You’ll have me. I promise .” His voice was low and rough as he caressed his cheek against hers. The want in her eyes was growing desperate, and he was enjoying watching her come undone by his touch alone. Slowly and deliberately, he slid his hand up the side of her body, and settled at her breast, filling his hand perfectly. He deftly flicked her nipple with his thumb, and an uncontrollable moan emanated from deep within her. He left a trail of soft kisses down from her neck to her other breast, and took her into his mouth while he continued to play with its mate. She arched her back, writhing under him as his tongue swirled and flicked at its peak. Her walls fluttered, clenching around nothing as she snaked her hands through his tousled hair, her arousal dripping between her legs the more he teased her. The vibration of his moan against her hardened peak forced a shuddering whimper from her lips, throwing her head back as she felt the urgency of his own pleasure begging her for more – begging to be released from its bondage. Even Gale was growing impatient with the pace he set. Slowly, he grazed his bottom lip across her peak, his eyes meeting her gaze, and lips curling into a seductive smirk at the sight of her. Marking the abandoned spot with a kiss, he sat up and drew his hands down her stomach, finding the laces on her trousers. “Is this ok?” he asked as he played with the laces.

Sagora's eyes darkened with wanton hunger. “Not yet. I want something first.” As he reached for her outstretched hand, she hooked his fingers into hers, and pulled him back down onto her. Unsure as he was, Gale was not displeased with her intensity. She pressed her lips to his, the tip of her tongue teasing at the seam. He parted his lips, allowing her to slip past, their tongues now swirling together, one desperate for the other. Her hips bucked into him as she explored more of him, the fire of their embrace growing more passionate the more they tasted each other. Gods was he delicious. He tasted of honeyed wine, warm, spicy, and sweet. She brought her hands to his cheeks, pulling him away just enough so their noses touched. “I want to undress you…please.” She was breathless. Wanting. Needing. He smiled and pulled himself back, taking her hand as he did so. They stood at the edge of the bed, Sagora grazing her hands up Gale’s chest and down again. He watched her as she reached up slowly, she unclasping the small buckles that held his robes closed, doing so with tenderness like he was a gift meant to be carefully unwrapped. The fabric folded over itself begging to be removed completely, her fingers gently scratching through the small patch of hair on his bare chest. The scars left behind by the orb were now exposed by the vacant garments. She traced her fingers around it, following every wispy line, his breath hitching at her touch. She leaned into his chest, and blew a cool breath at the center of the orb before leaving behind a delicate kiss. He rolled his head back, and his eyes forced themselves shut, unable to stifle the shuddering, breathless moan that left his body. Sagora gripped onto the sides of his robes, and buried her face into his chest, kissing the now glowing orb, in an attempt stabilize her own trembling body. Gale put a finger to her jawline, tilting her head so she could look into his eyes. He moved his hands to hers, and guided her to his belt. She unfastened its buckle, allowing it to drop unceremoniously to the ground. His robes fell open as she slid her hands up to his shoulders, coaxing the garment to fall of its own accord. Once he was freed from his robes, he reached up to her hands and guided them down to the ties on his trousers. She smiled coquettishly as she bit her lip, reveling in the way he grasped her hands, and moved them to places they both desired. Before he let her go, she pulled his hand to the hem of her own trousers. They unwound each other’s laces, but Sagora stepped back against the edge of the bed as soon as he loosened her ties. She wanted to make a show of seductively – sinfully - lowering her trousers and her smalls to the ground. She wanted to put herself on display. Just for him to behold.

He swallowed hard. “Well – aren’t you a sight for these starving eyes.” He stepped closer to her, hooking an arm around her waist, the other cupping her cheek. “But I think I’ll require your assistance getting these off .” He knew by now that whispering in her ear made her shiver, but was equally happy to take advantage of the opportunity to press her naked body against him. She moaned into his chest as she slid her hands across the waistband of his loosened trousers. He placed his hands on hers, and together, pulled them down, along with his underclothes, discarding them with the rest of the abandoned garments at their feet, finally freeing Gale’s hardened cock.

Sagora looked at him with a devilish, playful smirk. “ Now, Mr. Gale of Waterdeep –” Every word she said was coyly enunciated. “What was it you wanted to do to me?” He moved in closer, forcing her to sit at the edge of the bed. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling his body into her. She whimpered, her slick cunt throbbing as his cock brushed against her inner thigh. "Whatever you desire." His deep brown eyes burned into her. She couldn't hold back any longer. “I’m yours.” Her eyes grew impossibly dark with want. “I need you.”

“You have me, Love.” He purred. “Lie down.” She followed his instruction, making herself comfortable. He climbed on top of her, pressing his leg between hers to spread her open before him. Heat rose from her center as he lowered himself down to her, the curves of her body perfectly entwined with his. She bit back a moan as the tip of his cock teased at her bundle of nerves. He grasped his cock, and teased at her swollen clit as he began sliding his tip gently through her folds, her slick arousal mingling with the bead of precum that leaked from his throbbing erection.

“Gale. Please,” she mewled. He guided himself to her entrance, watching as he sheathed himself inside of her, a shuddered moan breaking past his lips as her wetness surrounded him. She eagerly attempted to rock her hips into his, but her movements were halted. He grasped her hips, and held her in place so he could keep a slow rhythm. It was torture for both of them, but he wanted to savor her as much as possible. He pulled himself out almost entirely before sliding back in, his controlled movements forcing a curse from her lips as the pressure of his girth stretched her slick walls. After a moment, he settled into a steady, deliberate rhythm. She gripped his forearms, and dragged her nails into his flesh as another curse escaped her lips. “More. Gods…Please. More!” Her words were breathless and ardent. “The gods…can’t give you…what you desire, my love.” His own eloquence breathlessly began to falter at the mercy of his coiling pleasure. “Gale!” She pleaded, her eyes piercing into him hungrily. Hands still on her hips, he slid his hands under her ass and pulled her up, the new angle allowing him to bury his cock deeper into her core. She wrapped her legs around him forcing him to fold, and brace himself on top of her. Their movements grew faster and less coordinated while beads of sweat glittered on her skin in the moonlight. Gale’s breath hitched at the delectable sight before him.

“Sagora… ahh –” His mind betrayed him, no longer able to utter anything coherent. All that could be heard were the sounds of their gasps and moans, and the friction of their slick bodies against each other. Harder. She bucked her hips into him, his cock plunging deep into her core.

Faster. Desperately, they chased each other's pleasure. With every thrust, Sagora moaned louder and louder, no longer caring if the camp or even of Faerûn heard her.

She arched her back, lifting her arms over her head, gripping the pillows beneath her, and crying out in toe-curling ecstasy as she found her sweet release. Gale’s thrusts intensified as her walls pulsed around him. A deep, guttural moan poured out of him as he spilled deep inside of her. His concentration broke as his cock throbbed, sending shockwaves through her overstimulated body. They gasped for air in a dizzying frenzy, trying to come down from their high, when suddenly…

POOF!

The bed vanished beneath them, and they collapsed with a thud on the ground. Stunned, they simply looked at each other for a moment before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

“Dear Gods! Are you all right?” His concern blended with a fit of laughter at their hilarious climax. Her reply was thankfully tangled up in her own laughter. “I’m fine. Promise! Are you?” Gale winced, rubbing one of his knees.

“Never better.” Despite the dull ache in his joints, he couldn’t help but smile. Sagora gazed at him with satisfaction, nibbling at her bottom lip with a playful grin, paying little regard to the untimely break in their illusion. “Well...that’s not exactly how I wanted that to end.” He sat up, still nestled between Sagora’s legs. “Perhaps not.” She smirked. “But...hmm. How many blankets did you bring by the way?”

Gale cocked an eyebrow, looking at her inquisitively. “Uh, three. Why do you ask?” Sagora sat herself up, legs still splayed open before him. Grasping his arms, she pulled herself into his chest, her breasts grazing his skin with each breath she took. She walked two of her fingers up his chest, and dragged her fingertips through the slick of sweat that caught in his chest hair. “I think…we should make our own camp here tonight – ” She kissed the center of the orb, the salty taste of his sweat on her lips. “ – under the stars.” She kissed the orb again. “ – our bodies tangled up to keep warm.” She looked up and gave him a chaste kiss on his lips. He wrapped his arms around her, and they pressed their foreheads together.

“That sounds lovely …but first –” With a nonchalant wave of his hand, the evidence of their climax had vanished. He offered his hand to her, and helped her to her feet, walking over to the blanket he spread out earlier, and leaving their clothing behind in an abandoned heap. She worked her own magic to make the ground more plush beneath the blanket. Lush grass, and small wildflowers cropped up through the entire field creating a soft, pillowy surface for them to lay on.

They spread themselves out on the blanket, Sagora nuzzling her body into Gale’s. She draped one of her legs around his while he made use of mage hand to help him fan out the extra blankets on top of them. She let out a contented sigh as the warmth of the blankets caressed her skin. He kissed the top of her head, and pulled her in closer, fitting together like two pieces of an intricate puzzle. The comfort of their embrace was enough to lull them both into the edge of sleep. “Gale…” “Hmm?” “I love you, too.” Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

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writingoncloudydays · 17 hours

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Omen

a/n: Sorry for the wait, but here it is. Hopefully, it met your standards. Come along to ride this fic and see all the drama and happiness. This ended up being longer than I thought it would be, but oh well. I also don't have anyone to read over this for me, so I'm sorry in advance for grammar and spelling errors. The first chapter Is now complete. Enjoy <3 Warnings: Descriptions of dead bodies, usually hunting things, angst?? Maybe.

3.17k Words

The gentle humming of the Impla fills the silence swimming in the air, the gentle breeze brushing against Dean’s arm. Which hangs low out the window, his other hand drumming against the steering wheel.

The beat of the music flows through his hands, one drumming on the wheel, the other lightly tapping against the car door. He hummed softly to whatever songs were playing on the radio, occasionally singing along, causing Sam to chuckle at him. Sam sits in the passenger seat beside Dean, enjoying the comfortable silence and glad that Dean is enjoying the little things. Simple things rarely come to the boys, no matter how little they want them. There is always some end-of-the-earth mission to save, though it almost always ends with bloodshed.

Sighing to himself, Sam shakes the thought, focusing back on the iPad with their case information to distance himself from the neverending pain in their lives. Sam tries to stay positive, but sometimes it's rather complicated. Seeing so many people he has loved going to nothing but a memory stored in his brain.

Glancing over at Dean, a soft, simple smile rests on his face. He enjoys the gentle hum of the Impla and the loud music blasting from the speakers. The sight made him more at ease. His eyes fell back onto the iPad. Scanning over the information once more, he analysed all he could. Hunts never go as planned, and their first guess may only sometimes be correct.

The radio's volume dies down as the journey approaches the town. The once comfortable silence now feels weighted. The humming of the Impala, now drumming against their skull, gave a slight headache. The dread of the hunt is kicking it, and anything fun goes out the window.

Dean and Sam Winchester arrive in the quaint town of Havenwood, Havenwood is a picturesque and seemingly idyllic small town in the heart of the American Midwest. Known for its charming, tree-lined streets and historic Victorian houses, Havenwood exudes a sense of timeless tranquillity.

The town square is a focal point of community life. It features a beautiful gazebo surrounded by meticulously maintained gardens and various locally owned shops and cafes that offer a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

However, Havenwood harbours a deep history intertwined with the supernatural beneath its serene exterior. The town's founding dates back to the early 1800s, and it has long been a place where the veil between the mundane and the mystical is fragile.

Local legends speak of unexplained phenomena and strange occurrences that have puzzled residents for generations. The town's proximity to ancient Native American burial grounds and location along ley lines add to its mysterious allure.

Sam worked on finding as much background information on the town as possible before they arrived, with some idea of the history and layout of the town.

The boys may have a slight advantage. As they never know what they could be, leading themselves into danger is always present. No case is safe. No matter how simple it may seem to their eyes, things can change drastically.

One of the reasons the case caught their attention was the string of mysterious deaths, which, of course, baffled the local authorities, having not seen anything remotely like this. Strangely, the town's officers have yet to take action after reaching dead ends and not solving the case.

Dean and Sam Winchester drive their Impala down the winding roads of Havenwood, a town that seems to have been preserved in time. The sun sets behind the rolling hills, casting long shadows over the Victorian houses and the town square, where a handful of residents can be seen enjoying the cool evening. Despite its outward, the brothers sense an underlying tension in the air, a feeling that something sinister lurks just the surface.

Their first stop is the local morgue, a small, nondescript building adjacent to the town's clinic. The coroner, a middle-aged man named Dr. James Hargrove, greets them with a wary look. He has seen his share of unusual cases, but something quite different from this.

"You must be the FBI agents," he says, eyeing their fake badges with scepticism. "Agent Smith, Agent Wesson, right?"

"That's us," Dean replies with a confident smile. "We're here to take a look at the recent victims."

Dr. Hargrove leads them to a sterile, dimly lit room where the bodies are kept. The air is cold, and the fluorescent lights glare harshly on the metal tables. He pulls back the sheet from the first victim, a middle-aged woman named Martha Jenkins.

Her face is serene and almost peaceful, but the most striking feature is the strange, radiant burn mark on her chest—a sigil neither Dean nor Sam has seen.

"All the victims have this mark," Dr. Hargrove explains, his voice tinged with unease. "I’ve never seen anything like it. It's almost... celestial."

Dean leans in closer, studying the mark with a critical eye. "It's an angelic sigil, Sam. No doubt about it."

Sam nods, flipping through his father's journal for any references. "But it's not one we've come across before. It looks ancient, something from a time long before any of the angels we've encountered."

They move on to the next body, a young man named Peter Lawson, and then to an older woman named Edith Turner. Each bears the same sigil, each mark glowing faintly as if imbued with residual divine energy.

As they examine the bodies, they note other similarities: a look of peaceful resignation on their faces, no signs of struggle or pain, and no discernible cause of death other than the mysterious burns.

"These people didn't suffer," Sam observes, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's almost like they were... chosen."

"But chosen for what?" Dean mutters, frustration creeping into his voice. "And by whom?"

Their investigation leads them to the old church, Havenwood's most prominent landmark. There, they find Father O'Malley, the town's elderly priest, who is more than willing to share the church's history and strange occurrences.

"These deaths have shaken our community to its core," he says, his hands trembling slightly. But the symbols you've described match the ones in our stained glass windows. Come, I'll show you."

The brothers marvel at the church's intricate stained glass windows depicting various scenes of angelic intervention and divine protection. Hidden within the vibrant colours and celestial imagery are the same Enochian symbols they saw on the victims. Sam takes photographs, making sure to document every detail.

"These symbols are part of an ancient angelic ritual," Sam explains. "But why would someone be using them now?"

Dean's mind races as he considers the implications. Angelic rituals are not something that can be performed casually; they require immense power and purpose. The idea that someone—or something—is using them in Havenwood sends a chill down his spine. He glances at the bodies again, the radiant sigils glowing faintly in the dim light. The peaceful expressions on the victims' faces do little to ease his growing unease.

"We need more information," Dean mutters, pulling out his phone. "Cas might know what's going on." He dials Castiel's number, feeling the urgency of the situation pressing down on him. The phone rings, each moment stretching out as he waits for the angel to answer. Finally, the line crackles and Castiel's familiar gravelly voice comes through.

"Cas, we need you here. Now," Dean says, his tone urgent. "We're in Havenwood, and we've got a situation. People are dying, and they're marked with some kind of angelic sigil."

There's a pause on the other end, and Castiel replies, "I'm on my way."

Minutes later, Castiel appears in the corner of the room, his sudden presence causing the air to hum with residual energy. He takes in the scene: the bodies on the tables, the worried expressions on Dean and Sam's faces, and the photographs of the sigils.

"These marks... they're from a Seraphim," Castiel says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the images. "An ancient class of angels, far more powerful than most. They were believed to have vanished eons ago."

"Well, one of them's back," Dean replies, frustration evident in his voice. "And it's leaving a trail of bodies. Why now, Cas? Why here?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, his gaze meeting Dean's. "The Seraphim were guardians of divine secrets, keepers of Heaven's most sacred knowledge. If one has awakened, it's not by chance. Something significant has disturbed the celestial order."

Dean clenches his jaw, the tension between him and Castiel palpable. "We need answers, Cas. And fast. People are dying."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel responds, his tone softening slightly. "But the Seraphim are not like other angels. Their motives are beyond our comprehension. We must tread carefully."

Dean's frustration bubbles over. "Carefully? Cas, people are dying! We don't have time to be careful. We need to figure out what's going on and stop it."

Castiel's expression hardens. "I am aware of the urgency, Dean. But rushing in without understanding the full scope of the situation could make things worse."

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his anger. "Alright, fine. What do we need to do?"

"We need more information," Castiel says. "I will reach out to my contacts in Heaven. There may be records or knowledge about this Seraphim that we can use. In the meantime, you and Sam should continue investigating any local lore or history that might give us clues."

Dean nods reluctantly, the tension between them easing slightly. "Okay, Cas. But hurry. We can't afford to lose any more time."

With a determined look, Castiel disappears, leaving Dean and Sam to continue their investigation. As they regroup, the gravity of the situation settles over them. They know they are up against an ancient and powerful force, and the stakes have never been higher.

Castiel stands on a secluded hilltop, his eyes fixed on the twilight sky. The evening is still, but within the silence, he senses a disquieting tremor rippling through the fabric of the celestial realm. It is a subtle yet profound dispiecesthat reverberates through his very essence. His celestial senses, honed over eons, detect a surge of divine energy—ancient and formidable—stirring from a long-forgotten slumber.

The presence is unlike anything Castiel has encountered in millennia, its power both overwhelming and familiar. He closes his eyes, reaching out with his grace, probing the disturbance with cautious curiosity. As he delves deeper, fragments of ancient memories surface, fragments of an era when he was but a fledgling angel among the heavenly host.

The presence he feels now resonates with the same awe-inspiring might of the Seraphim, celestial beings of immense power and purity, long thought dormant or lost to the annals of history. A sudden, vivid vision assaults his mind: a celestial being, radiant and terrible in its glory, standing amidst a sea of stars. Its wings, vast and shimmering with celestial light, cast an ethereal glow that illuminated the darkness.

Castiel recognises this being—an ancient Seraphim whose name has been whispered in reverence and fear among the angels. The Seraphim's eyes, burning with a fierce determination, lock onto Castiel's, conveying a message of warning and challenge.

The vision fades, leaving Castiel breathless and shaken. He realises that this ancient power has awakened with a purpose that could reshape the foundations of Heaven and Earth.

His implications are staggering; the balance of power within the celestial realm is shifting, and the Seraphim's intentions remain mysterious.

As they delve deeper into Havenwood's secrets, they uncover a local legend about a celestial guardian who once watched over the town, a Seraphim who vanished centuries ago. The legend speaks of a time when the guardian would return, chosen by the divine to carry out a holy mission. The puzzle pieces start to fit together, but the picture they form is far from reassuring.

Their next step is to regroup with Castiel, who has been scouring his sources for information. They meet at a secluded spot outside town, where Castiel shares his knowledge. "The Seraphim's awakening is not a random event," he says, his voice laden with urgency. "Something, or someone, has triggered it. We need to find out who and why."

The brothers and Castiel realise they are up against an ancient power with motives that could reshape the world. Armed with their newfound knowledge, they prepare to confront the celestial being, hoping to stop it before Havenwood becomes a battlefield in a war between Heaven and Earth. As they set their plan in motion, the tranquil town of Havenwood braces itself for the impending storm, unaware of the celestial forces converging upon it.

With time running out and the body count rising, Dean and Sam must race to stop the rogue angel before Havenwood becomes ground zero for a catastrophic event that could unleash heavenly wrath upon the world.

With urgency, Castiel knows he must act swiftly. He turns to seek out Dean and Sam Winchester, his trusted allies, knowing they will need to be prepared for the trials ahead.

The disturbance in the celestial realm is not just a harbinger of change but a call to arms. Together, they must unravel the enigma of the Seraphim's awakening, uncover its intentions, and brace themselves for the celestial storm that threatens to engulf Heaven and Earth.

Dean and Sam drive through the night, the Impala's headlights cutting through the darkness as they race back to the Men of Letters bunker. The road is long and winding, but their minds are focused on the task ahead. They know they need more than just information; they need a plan and the right weapons to face a being as powerful as a Seraphim.

"Sam, start making a list of everything we know about the Seraphim," Dean says, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "We need to find any weaknesses, any lore that can give us an edge."

Sam nods, already flipping through their father's journal and cross-referencing it with his laptop. "I'll check our archives for any references to Seraphim. We might find something in the old Men of Letters files."

The miles pass in tense silence; both brothers are lost in their thoughts. The enormity of the situation weighs heavily on them, but they know they can't afford to falter. The familiar sense of determination settles over them as they pull into the bunker’s garage. This place, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations of hunters, is their best chance at finding the answers they need.

Inside the bunker, Castiel is already waiting for them in the library, his expression grim but resolute. "We don't have much time," he says as they enter. "The Seraphim's presence will not go unnoticed by other celestial beings. We need to act quickly."

The Winchester brothers and Castiel gather in the dimly lit library of The Man of Letters Bunker, a place filled with the echoes of ancient knowledge and supernatural lore.

The heavy wooden table before them is strewn with open books, faded maps, and pages of Enochian script. The air is thick with tension as they process the gravity of the situation.

We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim," Sam says, laying out the books he brought from the Impala. "Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean adds, "And we need to arm ourselves. We can't go in empty-handed if we're going up against something this powerful. Cas, any ideas on what might work against a Seraphim?"

Castiel nods thoughtfully. "Angel blades will be effective, but we might need something stronger. There are ancient weapons relics from the time of the first angels that might be hidden in the Men of Letters' vaults. I'll help you locate them."

Dean paces back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry. "So, you're telling us this Seraphim is awake? An ancient angel that powerful isn't something we can just hunt down and gank," he says, glancing at Castiel with a mix of disbelief and concern.

Castiel, standing by a dusty bookshelf, nods solemnly. His usually calm demeanour is tinged with unease. "Yes, Dean. The Seraphim are among the oldest and most powerful of angels. They were created at the dawn of time, their power rivalling that of archangels. If one has awakened, it signifies a monumental shift in the celestial realm."

Sam, seated at the table, poring over an ancient tome, looks up. "I found a reference to the Seraphim in these texts. They were believed to be guardians of the divine order and protectors of Heaven's most sacred secrets. But they disappeared ages ago, their fate unknown."

"Until now," Dean mutters, rubbing his temples. "Why now, Cas? What could have possibly triggered its awakening?"

Castiel sighs, his blue eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "I don't know. But the disturbance I felt in the celestial realm is unmistakable.” The Seraphim's presence is a beacon—a powerful surge of divine energy that hasn't been felt for millennia. Whatever its purpose, it won't go unnoticed by other celestial beings or those seeking to exploit its power.

The room falls into a contemplative silence, the weight of the revelation settling over them. The implications are vast and daunting. An ancient being of immense power, with motivations unknown, could spell disaster not only for Heaven but for Earth as well.

Sam breaks the silence, his voice steady but persistent. "We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim. Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean nods in agreement, his resolve hardening. "Agreed. We can't let this thing wreak havoc. We need to be prepared for whatever it throws our way."

Castiel steps forward, a determined look on his face. "I'll reach out to my remaining contacts in Heaven, see if they know anything. We must tread carefully. The Seraphim's awakening will attract attention, and not all of it will be friendly."

As they delve into their research, the sense of urgency grows. Every passing moment brings them closer to a confrontation with an ancient and powerful being.

The stakes have never been higher, and failure is not an option. Armed with knowledge, determination, and the strength of their unbreakable bond, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to face the Seraphim and the celestial storm it heralds.

The brothers and their angelic allies feel a sense of urgency as they disperse to gather complicated information to formulate a plan. The bunker, usually a sanctuary of relative safety, now feels like the war room of a desperate battle.

They are on the cusp of facing a threat unlike any they have encountered before—a being from the dawn of time with the power to reshape the destiny of both Heaven and Earth.

With their bond of trust and unwavering determination, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to confront the ancient Seraphim. They know their journey will be difficult, but they also know they stand a chance to protect the world from an unimaginable celestial upheaval.

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missamyshay · 2 months

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20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks for the tags @fieldsofview & @seek--rest 🦦

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

582,965

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently Spider-Man and The Bear.

4. Top five fics by kudos:

across the hall

spotlights and moonlight

106 miles

reset

maroon

5. Do you respond to comments?

Every single one! Might take me a while to get round to it, but I’ll always try my best to give a thoughtful response.

6. What is the fic your wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hard to say, I’m not good at drawing a line between ‘angsty’, ‘hopeful’, ‘happy’ etc endings. Everything is a little bit of all. But perhaps timeless.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Again, difficult. But maybe The Balcony.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

on my way you will always be famous! The only fic I’ve had active hate on. I’ve received no less than eight anon messages telling me how much they hated it since the day I posted it back in December—the most recent one being sent just last week! Or how much it ‘didn’t work’ for them for a number of reasons that just go to show me that they didn’t actually dedicate the time to properly read the fic. I’d like to think that they’re all from the same miserable person, but alas, I know that they aren’t. It’s still one of my favourite things I’ve ever written though, y’all can’t make me hate it! ✌🏾

9. Do you write smut?

I do!

10. Craziest crossover:

I haven’t done one yet but I’d like to! I had ideas for one swimming around a few months back, but haven’t made any real headway on it. Never say never though!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not yet!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Currently writing my first collab—spotlights and moonlight with @seek--rest—and I’m loving it! Definitely want to do more collabs in the future.

14. All time favorite ship?

PeterMJ

15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

If it’s still up, I have plans to finish it!

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I’m good at making characters feel like real people, and I think I’m descriptive of details in a way that matters—in a way that makes the world of the story more vibrant and lived in.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I have absolutely no control over my wordcounts!!!!!!! 😡

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

Why not!

19. First fandom you wrote in?

Marvel.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

on my way, or anything from my cycles series.

Tagging: @ambeauty @palettesofrenaissance @tllgrrl and anyone else who sees this

#spideychelle #petermj #the bear fx #fic writer asks

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bulgariansumo · 3 months

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My brain wants to ramble about Mario movies, so I will do that. There will be bias, and there will be spoilers, but I think I'm going to at least put the section about the 2023 movie under a read more. Let's begin.

Super Mario Bros.: The Great Mission to Rescue Princess Peach! (1986)

My love, my light, my heart.

Making a movie based on the Mario origin story(?) of "guys stumble into fantasy world, save princess from monster" is difficult if you don't add something to it, but adding things comes with the risk of deviating from the source material’s vibe, since it’s so simple. It’s the same problem with movies based on Dr. Seuss books.

Something a lot of people don't realize when watching this one is that Super Mario Bros. only came out a year prior. The people tasked with making this movie had very little to work with. Luigi didn't even have a consistent color scheme (though prior to this, he was always depicted with green somewhere.)

This movie’s solution to these problems? Keep it simple. Mario and Luigi spend the movie collecting "the three legendary powerups" with a dog and then go fight Koopa. They have misadventures on the way, and Mario eats Mario-branded ramen. It's fun, it's silly, it's goofy!

This is all accompanied with a charming art style that really takes advantage of the ability to push character expressions. For the cast, we have:

Mario - He’s not the smartest, the strongest, or most fearless, but he’s determined, and sometimes that’s all you need. This movie depicts him as a lovestruck dreamer, so a good chunk of his lines involve him calling out to “Piichi-hime~” Also, he’s a gamer. His character is nothing unique, but it sets the tone of this movie, something that I feel like Mario’s character does in all three.

Luigi - Pickaxe in hand, his number one priority is getting his coins. He and Mario share about three brain cells total, but he lacks the idealism of his brother, trying to keep him grounded in the things that really matter: money, food, and their business as…grocers? He’s there for his brother when it counts, though. Most of the cast has their fair share of goofy moments, but he is the designated comic relief, and Yuu Mizushima’s performance serves that well. He sounds unhinged half the time, it’s great! Fun fact: This is the first time Luigi is depicted as thinner and taller than Mario.

Peach - She spends most of the time wishing that Mario would save her, as one might expect, but even this early on, she has a little bit of agency. Her first introduction is her fighting off the enemies after her, and she manages to pull a clever trick on Koopa midway through, though it doesn’t help her much.

Koopa - Very doting on Peach and willing to accommodate her whatever way he can, except for letting her go. His portrayal by singer Akiko Wada combined with the rounded artstyle makes him more adorable than menacing.

Kibidango - The dog that tags along with Mario and Luigi. He tries to be their voice of reason, but he can’t talk, and they don’t listen. He’s mostly there to help the plot along and provide a twist at the end.

For the most part, this movie sticks to using material from the game. There’s some deviations, like the dog and a wizard, but they don’t feel too out of place and, if anything, lend to the movie’s fairy tale-like quality.

Mario games generally try to maintain a whimsical, timeless vibe, and this movie captures that best. It’s not perfect, but it's a fun little romp that I highly recommend watching at least once, only an hour long. Please watch it!

Next are my thoughts on Super Mario Bros. (1993).

I also finished my thoughts on Super Mario Bros. (2023) if you're interested.

#text post #super mario bros #the great mission to rescue princess peach #it's so strange to me when people say this version of luigi is wario-like #yes they wear yellow and both like money but wario is greedy out of selfishness. this version of luigi is greedy out of practicality #he's a small business owner #he has bills to pay #his brother is running off after a girl who for all he knows is a gaming-induced hallucination

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gali-la · 3 months

Note

For the fic writers’ ask:

47. If [insert fic] was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

48. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

50. Answer any question of your choice, or talk about anything you want to talk about!

Plus 37 and 38.

only answer the ones you feel like answering (and only if you want to!)

Thank you for the ask!! So many omg im gonna love this

#47: If [insert fic] was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

Hmm. Let's go with the last fic i posted for this, just for funsies. If Marked as His was a pair of shoes, they would be... a pair of those big, shiny, black demonias, yanno? a set of these bad boys—

which, actually, I just learned that these are called Gravedigger 250, which is very fitting. I want some now

#48: What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

Oh, actually, the last fic i read was not one piece! I was feeling nostalgic and who can resist combo grant gustin and wentworth miller? Not me, that's for sure.

Well, truth be told, I was reading two at the same time—Timeless and Love Me, my two absolute favorite fics for this fandom and this pairing <3 i'm not gonna ramble about that since it's less one piece, which is what i'm mostly about these days, so moving on...

#49: What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

I'm doing a lot of zine work! However, there's a couple that i am more than happy to talk about!!

I've got one that's thanks to the optwt4gaza on twitter—a Kaido/Doffy focused fic that takes place pre-canon, though i guess it's a little canon divergent. I do love putting Doffy through all the wringers XD

Another is for my Bad Things Happen Bingo Card! I have a request form live for it rn, and this is (way overdue) the product of one of them! It's for the prompt "hospital stay", and I got a lovely crocorosi prompt from @gendervapor14~

"It was just as well, since moments after he laid back down, there were sounds of chaos just outside his door. Heavy footsteps followed by lighter ones, a protesting voice and snapped retorts, before silence. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they spoke in hushed tones, and then the lighter footsteps moved away. A nurse, maybe? But he still didn’t understand what was going on. Everything was made abruptly clear when the door to his room swung open for the second time since he had been conscious. In the doorway stood— “Crocodile?!” The man stood in the doorway, frozen, more disheveled than Rosinante had ever seen him. Strands of hair fell in disarray around his face, loosened from their usual slicked-back style. His shirt was wrinkled and untucked, his vest didn’t match his pants, and were those—was he wearing mismatched coffee and carob-colored shoes? What the hell?"

This is my favorite bit so far. it just makes me giggle <3

#50: Answer any question of your choice, or talk about anything you want to talk about!

oooo, question of my choice. let's see...

I'm gonna go with #17: What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

Listen, I've had a Weakness™ for this movie since the dang day I saw it, and that's Pacific Rim. Every fandom i join/read fics for, I search for Pacific Rim aus. I've written a whole bunch but never published them, because i never feel like they're good enough for what i have in mind. They're intoxicating, and yet, an unattainable goal. someday i wanna write a good one that im proud of :)

#37: Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

promo time! I'm gonna go with my one of fav fics I've written so far—Shared Cigarettes. It's based off of two other works that are absolutely gorgeous, so check those out as well if you take a peek <3

It's a corabelle fic! It was a fun lil drabble i used to explore prose, and I'm really happy with how it turned out. It does have that "doomed by the narrative" aspect to it, though, so beware XD

#38: Did any of your fics get surprisingly popular (whatever that means to you)? Which ones? Why do you think they were so successful?

yeah, actually! It's this one: Nightmare, which is basically just lil luffy going to Doffy and croc for comfort after he has a nightmare. It got waaaaaay more popular than i ever expected, especially for being so short!! I do love it, and it's one of the earliest OP fics i ever posted, so this really boosts my morale whenever I feel a lil down in the dumps <3

Thank you for the lovely questions! <3 these are so much fun to think about

(dang this post got long. Here's the questions if anyone wants to ask away/reblog for themselves!)

#fanfic #writer #asks #ask game #questions for writers

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bhxrdy · 9 months

Text

timeless | chapter four

author's note: almost reaching the end with this one - the chapter was a little bit tougher, still emotional, but hopefully it's worth the read :) Lots of love and stay safe 💕

The new year came and went, the season rolling towards its end as the city rested under its temperamental weather.

Some time had passed since the coven gathering, the events having become a simple dusted memory.

Though that night was bittersweet, it had allowed Finan to lead the semblance of a normal life, engorging himself within the depth of her embrace.

Becca had followed, wanting nothing more than to gift him the simplest of joys.

It carried them through the holidays, and over the lasting months of winter.

And however strong it was built, cracks were starting to shake the foundation to its core, crumbling under the weight of fear and anger.

Survivors were still being assessed for damage.

“Marcus.” Her voice carried across the wide room as they were the only ones left. “What do I owe this surprise visit, brother?”

The man in question had been sitting in the crowd, hiding himself at the corner top of the class while silently watching over Becca’s teaching. She had only noticed his presence when peering over her students, taking a mental note of the present volume.

Breath stuck to her throat, she shook off the uneasiness and went on with her lesson of the day, focusing on her work.

When it came time to dismiss them, her brother had walked down the steps towards her, slowly until the room was empty.

“Am I not allowed to visit my little sister and see her in action?” He tried to tease, adding a little amusement to his tone of voice.

She saw right through it, knowing that his visit held a bigger agenda.

Becca loved her brother; he was one of the very few parental figures in her life she had a good relationship with. They bantered and fought like any other siblings, but at the end of the day, she knew their bond could withstand even the worst of storms.

“Marcus.” She pressed on his name, pushing him to reveal his reason for the sudden appearance.

Standing in front of her, he sighed, giving up the pretense. “I’m here because I’m worried about you.”

She frowned at his words.

They were close but it never meant they were always talking to each other. They each led their own lives, which meant they were apart from each other more often than they were together. It was confusing enough to have him show up out of the blue, it was worse when he seemed genuinely concerned for her.

“Have you been spying on me?”

“I don’t have too to know what’s going on. You’ve been the talk over the holidays. We’re all worried.”

She dismissed him as she started packing her belongings, clearing her desk as fast as she could. “No need to be troubled, I have everything under control.”

He scoffed, his body tensing at her apathetic reaction. “Really? Does having everything under control include the nightmares you’ve been having, little sister?”

As shock dawned across her features, he proceeded with an answer to her silent inquiry. “Finan came to see me… You two haven’t been speaking, he says. Some kind of couple’s quarrel I gather?”

The grip to her bag had tightened, her gaze diverting elsewhere as she swallowed the lump in her throat. “It is none of your business.” Once again, she had tried to push her brother away, not wanting to be stuck in her current position any longer.

He grew annoyed at her demeanour, not understanding why she was taking things so lightly. She was struggling - he could see it, and yet she remained poised, too stubborn to concede.

“You made it my business when you’ve willingly been giving away your life for a bloody curse that does not concern you!” The increased vocals had caught her by surprise. Dropping her bag, a light thud reaching the desk, she turned back to him, eyes wide.

She remained still; he continued.

“You woke up with a sliced throat Rebecca! She almost killed you!” At the mention of the nightmare that had torn the couple apart, she held onto herself; hands on her stomach and gripping at her shirt, as if to stabilize her body in its stance. She looked down, avoiding Marcus’ worried stare. The bile had come back, an uninvited guest, crippling her.

He let out a heavy breath, the tension following suit. He tried to become calm, noticing she was starting to crack at the seam. “Finan told me what happened. You need to stop this madness. I know you love him. But you must stop.”

She tried to swallow, though it did nothing but trigger tears stalking the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t look at her brother, and so she stood still, her head down. “I can’t let her win.”

And she didn’t need to turn to him; he knew her like the back of his hand. He approached her, hand on her shoulder. “She wins when she kills you, sister.”

Anger was surging, like an ember; the plea for her abandonment was dragging her patience thin, the way you drag a child away from amusement.

She pushed his hand away, finally lifting her head to him as bitterness scraped her tongue. “Then help me, brother.” The tone of her voice insinuated mockery of the title before switching to anguish. “Help me get rid of her. As the oldest in the next generation, you are powerful. Help me. I beg you.”

His shoulders dropped, beaten down by her plea. Had the situation been different, he would’ve offered her anything she needed.

But the consequences were too dire to meddle in the affairs of the old witch.

It wasn’t worth his risk.

And so, he had no choice but to solemnly turn his only sister down. “You know I can’t.”

She bit down the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to suppress her tears. She grew irritated instead, forsaken once again by one of her own.

“You’re just like the rest of them, then.” She breathed in deeply, holding onto her bag as she looked away, no longer able to hold her brother’s pitiful gaze. “Just go. I’ll finish this on my own.”

He was unrelenting, praying that she would get hold of some sense of the danger she was walking into.

“What happens if you fail? What then?”

She was about done putting her paperwork in her bag when she suddenly stopped at his words, the syllables of failure ringing in her ears. “I won’t fail.” She closed her eyes, a part of her ever so slowly succumbing; her hands gripped onto the desk, knuckles white from the strength, not ready to give up. “I cannot fail him.” Her breath was shaking, following the subtle tremors of her body.

He sighed as he ran his hand through his hair.

A moment’s passed, the silence hung heavy in the air as he watched her, heartbroken.

He leaned against her desk, hand on hers, a brotherly gesture she had missed.

He spoke gently, wanting to make her see what her stubbornness was causing.

“He is miserable. It doesn’t look like he has been sleeping and last I saw him, an elephant could have fainted at the amount of bourbon he was drinking.” He saw her jaw tightened - his words were getting through, creating cracks in the hopes the pieces would shatter. “He misses you, and he is terrified of losing you. Why can’t you understand that?

“I understand it, Marcus-”

Irritation had reached him, the stems pricking him.

“You just don’t care, is that it?”

And so now, she lashed out. Her voice carried across the wide classroom as she turned her body to fully face her brother, vexed and saddened. “Of course, I care! That’s why I’m doing this!” She went back to her bag, picking it up and ready to walk out. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“The witch won’t stop until you are dead. Know this.” She had her back to him, walking out when she halted in her steps. She then turned around, finding her brother standing right by her side.

“As long as I can defeat her, I don’t care what she does to me.” She stepped forward, staring him right in his eyes, her pain apparent in her pupils. “What she did to him was inhumane. It is cruel.”

His words had left without a thought attached to them. They had slipped out too quickly, unable to be caught in time. “No crueler than the reason she cursed him?”

She clenched her jaw, falling in disbelief at his remark. “Screw you-” She was ready to leave him again, but he caught her, his hand catching her arm and forcing her still.

He regretted it just as quickly as they left, retracting his words with an apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He lifted his hands up in a sign of a retreat before dropping them with a heavy breath escaping his lungs. “You’re my little sister, Rebecca… I’m just scared you’re out of your depth here.”

She still hadn’t caved into his worries, too angry to be subdued by his pity. “Which is why you’re helping me? Or is that still out of the question?” He didn’t speak up; she hadn’t let him. “Don’t say you are concerned for my safety when none of you are offering help.”

Once more, a sibling tantrum had taken over, distancing brother and sister from their bond - temporarily.

“I’m sorry I don’t want to be haunted and tormented for the rest of my life and beyond. I have a wife and children to think about!”

Stubbornness ran in their family, the trait clinging to her like a child. Though, it wasn’t reason enough for him to give up; he wasn’t going to lose his sister over a fight that had started before their family was even born. “Drop whatever you’re doing and reconcile with him. Let this go.”

And just as such, she remained headstrong, not ready to give up - she still had a case to be heard.

“What if my dearest sister-in-law was in his shoes? What then? Would you still be so adamant to drop everything and leave her be?”

Disappointed she stooped so low, he looked back at her with the sentiment covering his features. “That’s not fair.”

“Exactly.” She stood her ground, not withering away from the upset gaze she was receiving. “I don’t care if she gets me as long as he is free from her. That’s all I want.” Her gaze then softened, the echo of Finan’s pain resonating through her bones. “He needs it. He can’t keep going on like this.”

Once again, he sighed, exasperated, as his head dropped in thought. Becca knew her brother well enough to see the gears in his brain turning, contemplating.

It took a moment, and she let him be, her stance loosening away from the tension.

He ran his hand down his face, his right arm standing at his hip. From the ground, he tilted his head back up to her, his chest letting out one last breath before gifting her with the possibility of a new avenue.

“Sacrifices need to be made if you want to succeed. Plead your case to them. Don’t do this on your own.”

She furrowed her brows, her own thoughts connecting the dots to his remark. “You mean-”

He nodded at her question, his shoulders joining in a composed shrug. “If she did it and invoked chaos, why can’t you do it as well and call for order?”

He shared a comforting smile as he backed away, ready to leave.

As he turned around and went for the classroom door, she stopped him, her own anxiety reaching the surface. “Marcus-”

He sensed the tears crawling to her irises, the colour shimmering under the weight of the water. Her voice cracked, her heartache resonating towards him. “Why is this happening?”

Walking back, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in protectively; the bear hug was the brotherly gesture that would always bring her comfort.

This time around however, she was left with a dissatisfying aftertaste that clung to her, wearing her heavy.

“I don’t know, dear sister. I just hope you win this fight. For your sake.” He pulled away, his eyes finding hers as he shifted his head down. He remained gentle, wanting now to ease his little sister’s ache. “You are right. The man deserves peace.” And then, something shifted; the air surrounding them was suspended with a slight rift - invisible to the naked eye, though he still sensed it.

It left a ghost of a smile covering the right corner of his lips. “Something tells me you will be recompensed for this.”

His goodbye left her confused, his words haunting her without understanding their meaning.

Once he was out of sight and she stood alone, her gaze fell to the clock that hung above the door.

Her legs grew weak. She took a seat, her bag dropping to the ground.

She leaned over, her elbows resting on her knees with her fingers grasping at her hair.

Closing her eyes, the events that led to tonight were finding their path into her sight, blinding her. They hadn’t spoken nor seen one another since the night he walked out on her, since the night she had woken up with blood spewing from her throat.

It had been weeks.

She reached for her neck, rubbing the lingering ghost of discomfort that coated her skin; she had been forced to relive the death of Finan’s first love.

And it destroyed him.

Playing it over, and over again took its toll.

Tears had smothered her cheeks, sorrow imbued into their purpose.

She had become a spectator of her own show, the scene displaying itself in all its gory details.

It had happened in the middle of the night, all too rapidly. The way she woke up in terror, unable to breathe as she clutched at her throat, blood seeping through from the deep cut of a dagger, down her body to the bed sheets.

She tried shaking the violent images away, the soreness still resounding over her limb.

Her amulet had protected her from instant death, the simulation growing weaker until it disappeared.

But it was the scene that followed that turned out to be more painful than its predecessor - Finan had walked out, furious and horrified.

The clock was quietly ticking away, the only sound vibrating within the walls of the wide room, becoming a haunting melody to her ears.

The longer it went on, the heavier her shoulders felt.

She couldn’t bear another minute dropping while being apart from him.

Without a second thought, she picked up her bag and ran for the door, desperate to shorten the stretch of time that separated them.

“How did you find me?”

“Locator spell.”

She was standing by his side, facing his profile while he stared at his drink. Her words didn’t get a reaction out of him, which she half-expected. “You went to Marcus behind my back…” It was more of a statement than an accusation, or even a question.

And yet, nothing came of him; from his glass, he simply looked up, his eyes landing on whatever the screen was displaying above the bar.

She sighed, taking a seat next to him. She took a minute, fidgeting with her fingers as she looked around; the tiniest of smiles was itching across her lips.

“This is where we first met…”

“I guess it is.” It was barely a mumble, though loud enough for her to hear.

He remained distant, avoiding eye contact with her.

He was still hurting.

He took a sip from his beer, giving himself the chance to look around as well - wanting to wander at anything but her.

He wasn’t strong enough to face her; having brutally cut ties was one of the hardest thing he ever had done and it still gnawed at him from the inside out.

“Please, come back home.” The gentle plea was laced with grief.

Finan was expecting more light chit-chatter to dissuade the tensing thickness that had wrapped around them. Such awkwardness was strangling them.

He tightened his grip to his glass, her words making his shoulders stiffened.

He was dying to go back to her, but lost the courage to do it.

He took another sip, letting the bitter liquid sit on his tongue before he swallowed. He still didn’t lift his head up to her. Instead, he was looking down to the counter, the corner of his eyes meeting her hands that rested on her lap.

“The night we met.” He wasn’t thinking about what to say, his mind having taken over his will to speak. “I felt like a different man… Like I was alive again, truly alive, and not just some poor soul wandering through the passing centuries.”

He closed his eyes, gathering his strength to keep going. He felt like he was going to crumble and disappear under the rubble, his heart giving out from how deep his love for her ran in his veins. His mind then went back to the night they met, the impromptu connection that formed the second they had laid eyes on each other. “You gave me something that night that I still carry with me every single day. And yet, the closer we got, the deeper we fell-” He bit down on his tongue, trying to stop himself, but part of him pushed him out, the words stumbling. “I can’t help but wonder if all this was orchestrated by her, if…”

By the end of it, she was in tears again, holding back a sob that lodged in her throat.

She leaned towards him, placing her hand above his, the warmth of it humming against her skin.

He turned his head just enough to see the interaction, still unable to meet her.

“We met because Fate made it so. Not because of the curse.” She then reached for him, her fingers delicately placed under his chin, turning his head to her. He had shut his eyes, pained scribbled furiously across his face.

Her heart ached.

She let him be, leaning closer as she spoke only to him. “When I first saw you, I don’t know what it was, but I just- it was like the world disappeared. Like it was just the two of us left. This makes me believe she had nothing to do with that night. That was us. Just us and no one else.”

“How are ya so sure?” He had pulled away, the weight of her words growing heavier.

Her fingertips grew cold from the lack of touch; it pained her.

She pulled her hand away, though her body remained close to his, adamant.

“Because I can feel it.” Her nose itched, the urge to cry coming through like a wave. “I feel it in everything we do. It overwhelms me, and it’s exhilarating… It’s all from here.” She placed her hand on his chest, right over his broken heart. “There is no more powerful magic than that.”

He sat still, the warmth of her touch sending chills down his spine, his heart rate accelerating.

“Finan, look at me.” He finally moved on his own, his head tilting to her, though his eyes only reached the counter once again. She remained gentle and patient. “What are you thinking about?”

He struggled to put the words out, his heart squeezing itself tight, suffocating from his mind’s wandering thoughts.

“I-I lose the women I love… What if it’s part of the curse?”

He finally gathered whatever strength he had left to look at her, meeting her eyes at last. They held sorrow, mirroring his own browns, though a drop of lingering panic had seeped in, curling itself with his words. “You almost died. I was holding you in my arms and ya were d-dying.”

He stopped, catching his breath.

She was quiet, still - waiting.

“I cannot go through that again.” His eyes went to her neck; all he could see was the blood tainting her skin, freshly rolling down into oblivion.

It broke him.

She had noticed where his gaze landed. She diverted his eyes back to her, her fingers resting against his cheek.

“And I am scared of losing you as well. You’re not alone in feeling like this.”

He said nothing.

Instead, a moment of silence encircled them - a few seconds too long before she eventually broke it. “When Marcus came to see me, he mentioned there is another way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to invoke some higher power…” She shared an attempt at a comforting smile, a little something to hopefully ease the discomfort that had been inhabiting him. “We’ll be alright, my love.” She gently ran her fingers through his hair before stroking his cheek, a tender gesture he quietly welcomed. “We’ll get through this. Just please come home.”

She pleaded to him once again, despair leaping. “Come home to me.”

He was still hesitant; the fear had taken hold of him and so he thought it best to leave her be.

Becca grew annoyed, irritated at his lack of determination.

“Be selfish, Finn!” Her voice was just loud enough to catch some of the other’s attention, the ones closest to them in the vicinity. She breathed out and lowered her tone. “You’re allowed to want your freedom. To die at last and never having to wake up again. To be mortal… Be selfish with me. Come home.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, drowning his insides with such ache. Tears in his eyes, he could only look away from her, the back of his head facing Becca.

He stayed mute.

The straws were falling - she was hanging on to the last one, splinters covering its body, close to breaking.

She clenched her jaw; his silence forced her out.

She walked away, her heart breaking, the shards cutting her deep.

Finan saw her leave, her feet leading her to the exit and out of sight; it filled him with dread, regret soaking in his blood.

Had she finally given up on him?

The pain of possibly losing her had coated the depth of his soul, his own self unable to breathe from such suffocating thoughts.

Watching her walk away had made it worse.

Abandoning his drink, he ran for the door and out onto the streets, hoping she hadn’t disappeared completely out of his life.

Hit with a cool breeze, he found her facing the street at the edge of the sidewalk with her head down.

She had fallen apart, silently crying as woe overtook her limbs.

He watched her, remorse crowding him.

Ever so gently, he walked to her. Once he stood close enough, she turned around, having sensed his presence.

The sight hurt him.

“Finding other ways to tear me down?” Her tone was bitter, the sentiment coating the back of her throat.

“Bex.”

She stepped back from him, her hand resting against his chest. “No. I’m not done.” She remained tearful, her emotions spewing out like an overflowing sink. “We’ve been at this for months now, why the change of heart? And don’t tell me it is because of her because she has been coming at me from the start and you never ran.” Her voice trembled, just as her body was against the cold night.

He frowned, hand scratching at his beard. “Bex, she almost killed you. Do you not realize what this would have meant had she succeeded?”

“Yes, I know. I’m not as blind as you or my brother think me to believe. I know what she is doing, or at least trying to do.”

The sour look in her eyes forced him to turn his head away from her, tears reaching his own hues.

Her sullen behaviour had finally caught up, the chaotic swerve of emotions forcing her to the ground.

She understood his pain, the fear that grasped him by the throat; if he was letting it win, why was she still fighting?

She tightened her hold around her coat, crossing her arms over her chest.

The bitterness that coloured her irises had been replaced by angst, a tortuous feeling crippling her heart.

“I don’t think I can keep fighting you on this…” He tilted his head to her, still without a word as her mouth moved for more. “You keep pushing me away and I feel like I won’t be able to hang on any longer. It’s like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and one more push and I fall over.”

She became a blubbering mess, like a teenager hyped up on hormones and over-heightened senses.

She hugged herself closer, holding a firmer grasp to the fabric of her clothes. “You can’t leave me, Finan. Please don’t leave me over this.”

They locked eyes, her plea cutting his breath short.

“If not for me, at least, for yourself. You can’t-”

She was growing impatient; letting go of her waist, she ran her fingers through her hair, her feet marching to him. She lifted her head up, her gaze set on his as hurt trapped her. “Finan, I love you.” She leaned closer, just enough to feel his breath as she whispered against his mouth. “Come back to me.”

He felt her press her lips against his, the kiss moving slowly, tenderly. It was almost shy.

She then pulled away, feeling just as broken as the night he walked away. They stood still for a second, the lingering stare squeezing the air that floated between them.

He placed his hands on her cheeks, wiping her tears away and placing a kiss at the top of her head before resting against her forehead.

But it was only in passing, her cries still controlling her body as she mumbled under her breath her undying love for him. She broke away from his stare, her head dropping straight to the view in front of her. “Don’t leave me, don’t you dare leave me.” Her hands into fists, she had been lightly hitting him. It was a simple tug against his chest. He let her be, openly giving her the outlet she needed as he pulled away, though his hands never left her as they held her upper arms. He watched her intently, his heart never recuperating from the overdrive of emotions powering through them. “I know you love me, so please stay.”

Had he been further away, he wouldn’t have been able to hear the supplication crawling out of her.

Being selfish had cost him.

And he was terrified of doing it again, even though every cell in his body scolded him, pushing him to jump and take a leap of faith. To succumb to his want and simply be with her, amidst the chaos growing around them.

“Bex-”

The simple mention of her name, rolling down his tongue, carried such weight, such fright and dread, such terror.

She peered at him, catching the glint of sorrow in his eyes. She understood him; it was the way he had called out for her, it was all too evident, all to clear to miss.

Because she felt it too.

“I know.”

He wrapped his arms around her, bring ing her back to him as she did the same, clinging on for dear life before they eventually parted.

The way home remained quiet.

Back at her place, the atmosphere within them still shifted between tension and awkwardness. They weren’t sure what to do now.

They were standing apart, just looking at each other, trapped in the stillness of their home.

Watching her attentively, he could see the gears in her head turning, her posture giving it away. “Do you want some tea?” She was nervous, the emotional breakdown from earlier having gone through her at a rapid pace, leaving her with an estranged aftertaste.

“Sure.”

She took in his calm demeanour - unbeknownst he was dying inside, still ripped to pieces at the heartache they were drowning in.

She turned her back, walking to the kitchen, and went for the kettle while grabbing two mugs and putting them out.

She sensed him move about until she heard the shower turned on.

Out of his sight, her shoulders slumped, head dropped as she leaned towards the counter, letting the hiss of the boiling water cover her ears.

He had slipped away, needing a moment to recuperate himself and a hot shower would help clearing the tension carved in his muscles.

Under the running water, eyes closed, his mind wandered to the moments he got to live with her, wanting to feel again like they were anybody else with no threat or doom looming over them. Like their world wasn’t ending and they were simply a normal couple going through a rough patch.

Whether the recollections were lighthearted, romantic in nature, or even the ones that soaked in lust, he buried himself within the past months, wanting to get away from his predicament and the last couple of weeks.

The nightmares had swaddled him, the fabric of fear and paranoia gripping him like second skin.

He feared for her life and had thought that walking out, running away, would make all of this stop.

He should have known she wouldn’t given up.

How could she, when all she ever wanted was to grant him his freedom? The thing he longed for the longest, but never the most.

Not anymore.

Once done, feeling like he was waking up from a long sleep, he walked out to find her at the kitchen table, a simple wooden round and small enough to contain two seats; one for her, one for him.

She was lost in her thoughts while staring at her cup, the steam floating and roaming around.

He silently joined her, the air thick with tension.

Taking a seat, he sipped his tea, the warm liquid running through with a new wave of physical renewal pecking him.

She didn’t move, her body sticking to her chair, her eyes away from his.

He watched her, his pulsing heartbeat vibrating within him; there was a subtle beauty to her sadness, and he couldn’t look away. It moved him, the feel of her grief stretching him to the ends of the earth, grounding him as her vulnerability reached the deepest part of his soul and shaking him awake.

It was beyond everything he’s ever known.

He saw her strength, but she was barely hanging on by a thread.

The realization, the seismic events that had occurred in these last few months - he was wrong.

He was so wrong, he cursed at himself.

He loved her. With everything that lived inside him, he adored her.

And it pained him to know he was the cause of her sorrows.

“I’m sorry.” His apology was spoken as a whisper, his voice still carrying weight to her ears.

From her mug, her eyes lifted to him. She was no longer angry, only empathetic. “You don’t have to apologize-”

“Of course I do.” His shoulders had dropped, his back resting against the chair, defeated by his own self. “Becca-” He exhaled deeply, running his hand through his beard before his arm fell to the table, his fingers gripping at his mug while trying to find the courage to relive that forsaken night.

It took a minute, but he eventually found his footing and kept going.

“I thought I had lost ya. I thought I was reliving one of the worst moments of my life.” He stopped, the memories of his past crawling into his skin with a ghosting ache. “I lost her, I lost my wife- now you-”

Once again, he cut his breath short, the last of his words hanging, like a noose around his neck. He turned away, his head facing the darkened view through the kitchen window on his right.

She had remained quiet, waiting ever so patiently for him to say his piece.

He swallowed the bile lodged in his throat, wanting to erase the decaying imagery from his mind.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke again, his gaze finding hers once more. “I told you, months ago, that I wouldn’t run if she got to you, that I would stay and not let her frighten me, but-”

“That was before she tried to kill me…” The compassion in her voice over took him, beating himself further into the ground.

“Aye.”

She leaned against the back of her own seat, hands on her mug as her fingers played with the string of her tea bag.

“I’m sorry for being a coward, for running away. I should’ve stayed-” The pace of his heartbeat was accelerating, matching the growing rhythm of his knee shaking.

“You’re not a coward.” She was still sympathetic, yet hurt.

“I left ya-”

“And you came back.” Her hand reached for him from across the table. The movement was quickly met by a quiet breath out of his mouth. “You’re here with me.”

“I’m so sorry.” He could feel the lump in his throat rising up with force and speed.

“Stop.” The word was gentle, wanting to calm him.

She got up from her chair and approached him just as he pulled her in. She sat on his lap, her left leg crossed over while the other dangled, her toes touching the floor.

She ran her fingers through his hair, still misted from the shower, until she held him by the jaw, her nails scratching softly at his beard.

She met his eyes, the dark colour drowned in guilt and self-wreckage.

It tore her apart.

“Oh, my love…” She muttered softly between their lips, wanting nothing more than to ease the misery that was haunting him.

She then kissed him, her lips pressed desperately into his.

His arms curled around her, pushing her closer to him, needing to erase any traces of open space between them.

She whispered ‘I love you’s’ within their shared breaths, revitalizing him like fresh air into his lungs. The caress deepened as hunger and longing thrived rapidly, catching up to them after weeks of being apart.

It was consuming every part of him.

He tightened his grasp around her, the pressure of her presence creating relief flooding through his veins.

From her lips, he then trailed down to her neck, attaching himself to her limb with desperation as he kissed every inch of her exposed skin.

She let him be, knowing it was reassurance that she was alive and not injured, that she was safe and sound in his embrace as she held onto him, bodies coating in heat and desire; the pulse residing under her jawline was the nectar to his survival.

The rest of the night had been soaked in adoration, in the dire need of drowning into each other and yield under bruising passion.

The couple fell back into their own little bubble, the rest of the world pushed far away.

It was just them; entangled in Fate’s strings, bound to one another.

He was lying on his back, his head placed at the junction of her chest and her left upper arm where her hand brushed his hair softly. His head tilted towards her, resting at the swell of her breasts, the sound of her heartbeat becoming the soundtrack to his lull state as a lazy smile formed on his lips.

The simplest of joy; he closed his eyes, memorizing the music that played through his ears, engraving the notes into his own heart.

She was on her left, her leg wrapped around her lover’s stomach, the sheets barely covering the naked skin.

Her nose against his hair, she breathed him in, the scent soothing her into pure calmness.

His left hand on her right thigh, he caressed her limb in an absent-minded manner; both of them savouring the elegance of this little interlude.

Her right arm, joint with his, their fingers kissed intimately while resting in the crevices between their bodies.

The moment stretched, their breaths were dancing under the silent melody.

Even the gods themselves, watching from the heavens in wonder, defined this moment as a masterpiece; the painting was etched under kaleidoscopic light, the movements of the brush calling out for romance as colours were formed by the tenderness of a lover’s touch. It could have been depicted by one of the greats; the tangle of limbs, the quietness of the seat, the posture of models sitting to be memorized in an everlasting picture.

It was tantalizing, alluring to the naked eye, how such simplicity could be bathed in pure, unadulterated, sense of love and devotion.

The warmth seeped through the bed sheets, lasting effect from the carnal heat coating the flesh.

And then the new day was rising, gracing its skies with the hues of budding spring.

They eventually fell back asleep, the heavy breaths evident in the air.

Though light shone above them where the window faced the bed’s headboard, the curtains still protected them from the sun’s glow, gifting the couple further moments of peace.

It was just them.

The universe’s tied shifted, as if the world momentarily stopped turning on its axis, gifting them peace.

Later the same morning, a few hours passing, they were still lying in bed.

Becca was the first to escape her slumber; she had woken up with sudden hunger cramping at her stomach.

She attempted to slip out quietly when she felt an arm snaking its way around her, pulling her back in just as quickly.

The smile came on naturally, glowing across her. He sneaked in closer, tickling her as he pressed soft kisses against her naked skin, from her breasts up to her collarbone before he lingered on her neck, and eventually meeting her lips.

She sighed into his touch, the feel of his hands traveling around her body making her forget for that one moment what she wanted to do.

She happily sunk into the sensation until hunger had cried out, echoing inside her.

She gently pushed him away, nudging her nose against his before she left her bed.

He watched her move as she grabbed his discarded shirt on her way out, her naked backside disappearing from his view.

He readjusted himself on the mattress, resting his back against the headboard, his chest bare with the sunlight warming him from behind.

He couldn’t help the smile that glued to his lips. Once she came back, it had widened, his heart swelling at her appearance; her hair was messy, his shirt hung from her body with her legs naked, the lingering traces of his hands imprinted on them. He could still feel the ghostly pressures of her limbs around his hips, over his shoulders, and the taste of them lingering sweetly across his tongue.

She stood in front of the bed, holding a spoon on one hand and on the other, a small pint of ice cream.

Finan frowned, intrigued by her choice of food. “Ice cream for breakfast?”

She sported a small smile, playfully challenging him. “Mhmm. Want some?”

A gentle gleam on his face, he stretched out his arm, calling for her. “Come here.” She shyly approached him until she was close enough to be pulled by the hem of his shirt, making her sit comfortably on his lap. She scooped up another serving and presented the spoon for him to eat; he took a bite, his stare stuck to her. He teased, the playful look in his eyes, palpable. “You’re a menace.”

She matched his energy all too easily. “That’s why you are naked in my bed.” She then took another mouthful of her dessert, letting the utensil linger between her lips, taunting him.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, his own going dry. A low rumble from his throat escaped him, his hands reaching for the shirt. “You look starved.” He pulled her closer until she was flushed against him, her breath tickling him. “Your fault.” The low whisper she shared invoked a smirk across his face. “Another round before lunch?”

Not giving her the chance to answer, he slowly wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her firmly, while his eyes never left hers; it had become a staring contest, some amusement to add to their morning.

She then yelped out of shock when she was so suddenly pushed against the mattress, her legs almost dangling off the bed as he hovered above her, still holding the small tub with one hand.

Giddy as a teenager, she chased his lips for a kiss until she felt something dripping on her skin.

She gasped, the sudden feel of the cold sending shivers down her spine. She quickly pulled away while trying to grab the dessert from Finan. “You’re making a mess!”

The moment of bliss had then been suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door. The laughers died out, Becca’s gaze moving away from Finan to where the sound had come from as it repeated.

Reluctant, she moved away, forgetting about the way she was presenting herself to the intruder.

Opening the door, she had the breath knocked out of her, shocked to see who stood in front of her.

“Mum.”

And just like that, the whole world came crashing down as time was torn away from its suspense, proceeding to weave its way through the universe and forcing the couple back into reality.

Her mother stood still at the entrance, her eyes peering over her daughter’s dishevelled look from the mess in her hair down to the large shirt she as wearing, forcing Becca to tug it further down to hide her embarrassment though the cloth was big enough to conceal any unwanted attention. The elder’s gaze then shifted to the background where she saw Finan, half-dressed himself with only sweats, as he leaned against a wall with his hands joint at the front while he sported a discerning look straight back at her - as if ready to jump, to defend Becca.

The daughter grew timid at her mother’s inquisitive look until the other woman spoke, wanting to bypass the moment she had obviously disrupted. “Rebecca.”

When she was about to speak, she stopped.

Something had changed; the aura was brighter around the couple, warmer.

Something new had come upon them.

The young witch jumped, desperate to cut the lingering short. “What are you doing here? Did something happen?”

“No, well not really…” Becca looked back at Victoria, confused. “One of our elders had a vision of you. With her-”

“You were worried about me?” Furrowed brows, she was touched, an estranged feeling she was never able to associate with her mother.

Victoria ignored her question, the grip on her bag tightening as she gazed down. “Your father wanted me to bring you this. From her purse, she pulled out a ceramic urn encrusted with nordic symbols.

Becca gently took it in her hands, the item rough and old between her palms. “Freya’s urn?” From the urn, she lifted her head up back to her mother, not understanding the reason for the gesture. “How?”

“Marcus told us.”

She scoffed, leaning slightly against her door. “Didn’t waste any time, did he.” It was more of a comment than a question, a remark Victoria ignored, her heart tugging at her chest when quickly glancing between the couple again.

“You’re really going through this…”

It was stated as a matter-of-fact, her mind settling into an ungodly reality.

But like her, Becca was stubborn and determined, not wanting to give up. “Yes.”

Victoria’s gaze shifted up to Finan again, long enough for a swallow.

The thread tying the couple was strong, something she had hoped would never be.

From the Irishman, she looked back at her daughter, worry slowly scribbled across her facial features. “Are you sure about this? Do you understand what this would entail?”

“I am. And, I do.”

She sighed, her shoulders dropping as she knew she had lost the fight. “Then may the gods be with you.” She attempted reaching out, her hand placed on top her Becca’s, the affectionate gesture coming off as green. “Good luck, Rebecca.”

“Thank you, Mum.” She had a sad smile on her face, sported simply across the one corner of her lips.

Her mother grew hesitant, not sure on what to do next until she eventually pushed herself to walk away, giving her daughter one last look, tinted in sorrow, before leaving.

Once gone and the door had closed softly, Becca’s eyes turned back to the urn. It stood tall despite its small size and lightness, as runes were scribbled along the ceramic surface calling for the goddess to all witches.

She was lost in thought, her fingertips tracing the valuable artifact - believed to have disappeared from mortals and witches alike - until she felt Finan standing behind her, his arm around her shoulders as he gently pulled her in, kissing her hairline. “Ya alright?” His tone was low, worrisome.

“She cares…” She was speaking more to herself than anyone else, realization slowly dawning on her.

“Bex, love?” He remained concerned as he squeezed his hold on her, the frown on his face meeting the urn she still held. She lifted her head up, the sweetly nickname bringing her back to him, giving him a small smile of comfort. “I’m fine.”

“Ya sure?”

She nodded, humming in response. She then leaned again him, head against his chest where his warmth soothed her trough the twinge of pain that resided in her.

She felt him press his lips on the top of her head before letting her go. He grabbed the shirt she wore, tugging it his way, a teasing glint in his eyes catching her attention. “Come on, I think I know how to cheer you up.”

She chuckled at his comment, thinking he would be leading them back to the bedroom; he knew where her mind had gone, a playful grin plastered on his face. “Get your mind out of the gutter!”

Laughter had slipped from her tongue as she gave him a light backhand slap against his chest. She placed the urn on her kitchen table before reaching for the fridge, desperate to nibble of her dessert again.

Once the small chocolate pint stood in her hand, she took a seat on her counter with Finan quietly settling between her legs and watched her eat with appetite, a subtle grin capturing his lips.

From a spoonful seeping into her mouth, she lead the utensil towards him, giving him a bite while purposely leaving a trace of the ice cream on the tip of his nose. A low groan escaped his chest at her antics. He leaned in, pushing it back to her as he left his own stain. In response, she only giggled while he kissed her nose before she, herself, wiped away the small mess she left on him.

His hands, resting on her thighs, were stroking her skin tenderly, his mind focused solely on her; she reached for the cross he wore around his neck, her fingers tracing the Celtic patterns silently. His eyes stayed on her, in awe and taking in the features she bore while lost in thought once again.

Her arm stretched out, he reached for it, placing small pecks across her limb until he pulled her to the edge of the counter and went to kiss her lips.

She let him take the lead, her legs tightening around him as she fell into his loving caresses.

And slowly, they turned hungry. Small open mouth kisses traveled to her forehead, down her closed eyelid, and then down to her cheek before reaching her lips again. All the while, she revelled in his touch, loving the way he held on as his hand traipsed to her hair with the other slid under her shirt, his thumb brushing at her flesh.

She whispered sweet nothings to him, begging him with her life to ‘never stop’, to never end the tortuous pleasure he gifted her, to hold on and never let go; she strengthened her grip on him, the scenery shifting to simple wanton desire.

Desperate to give in to her craving, he pulled away, asking her softly with a lustrous voice. “Whatever it is you need to do. Does it have to be done today?”

“No. We don’t have to do anything today.” Her words were honey, sweetly coating his skin as she placed her hands on his cheeks, stroking his beard. He rested his head upon her chest as she curled her arms around his shoulders, her fingertips wandering on his back ever so gently. “Good.”

She felt him smile against her shoulder, leaving her to mimic the sentiment as she closed her eyes, his scent overwhelming her in the sweetest way.

The gleam lingering, she spoke to his ear, earning a low chuckle from his throat. “I would still like to eat as I am a bit peckish.”

“And you would think having such a substantial meal for breakfast would have been enough.” The cheeky tone made her laugh.

“I will not apologize for wanting something cold and sweet after a hot, hot night.” She teased, her fingers grasping a handful of his hair from the back of his head. He reciprocated her tone, taunting her. “Then bring that pint to bed, love.”

He grabbed her, pulling her off the counter. Just as he turned around, wanting to walk away, he slipped and swiftly fell straight on the floor, his back sliding across the cabinet doors. Having been in his arms, she ended on the ground as well, her legs over his as a heavy laugh escaped her lungs.

She resettled on his lap while Finan caught his breath. She placed her fingers under his chin, tilting his head to her. “Are you alright?”

A small smile on his lips, he caught the amused look on her face, making him chuckle lightly. “Yea, I’m fine. Was that funny to you?”

“Very funny.” She giggled once again, the sound slipping with her words, until it eventually died down, pushing herself flush against him. She ran her fingers through his hair, her hand trailing down his cheek. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

She kissed him sweetly; a pleasurable groan came out of him as a response. “Mhmm, that’s better.” She repeated the gesture, his gentle smile growing wider. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her as he laid her down, her back resting on the kitchen rug.

A devilish smirk painted across his face, his eyes met her own as she felt the hem of her shirt pushed up.

A low grumble coming from the back of his throat, he spoke against her lips. “I’m starving, love.”

He nipped at her bottom lip, and felt his teeth against the pulse point on her neck. Her heart raced against her chest, anticipating where he would move next with heightened senses.

Her voice quivered, her words stumbling across her dry throat. “Lunch?”

His chuckle vibrated across her naked stomach, trailing his lips down her body as he looked up to her, the spark in his eyes igniting lustful cravings of his own.

“You read my mind.”

It was the dead of night when they reached their location.

The moon was casting her glow across the field, the couple bathing under her light.

Getting out of the car, they remained quiet as their hearts tremored within their chests, slight fear shadowing their movements.

Finan, closing the door, walked over to her quickly as he reached out for her hand. “Do you need me to come with you?”

“No.” It was softly said with no intended harshness, only simple tenderness.

“Does it really need to be done?”

She could hear the worry in his tone and feel it in his grip, her hand squeezed in slight fright. “I’m at the mercy of the gods, Finn.” She met his gaze, wanting to offer him nothing but attempted comfort. “I need to do this if we want their help.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, bringing her hand to his lips. “I wish you didn’t have to.” The gentlest of kiss, she watched him with renewed conviction.

“I know… I’ll be fine. Just wait for me here, please.” She couldn’t let him see what she needed to do, not wanting him involved in the specifics of the ritual.

He brushed strands of her hair away from her face, his eyes trailing across the couple of primroses that were embedded in her locks. His sight shifting back to her, he sighed once again, calming down the trembling inside him. “Be careful. I beg ya.”

“I will, I promise.”

He kissed her, his lips lingering against her own as he readied himself to let her go. However reluctant, he eventually did and pulled away, his gaze meeting hers once more as his heart ached.

He stood by the car, waiting as she disappeared from his sight, her body meshed within the darkness of the woods.

She held only a flashlight as a guide, her other hand pre-occupied with her wrapped up ingredients. Her steps bringing her further away from prying eyes, she was led to stand by a small stream, the running water creating some melody to the quiet surroundings.

A small altar stood further into the darkness, leaves and vines engorging the stones with the shadow of the moonlight seeping through ever so shyly. It was old in its age though never forgotten. Carved into the stone was the goddess of witchcraft, beautifully designed as if she was here herself; her stature stood tall, her long hair braided twice as they hung by her left and her right, knots hovered above her the way of a halo and at her feet rested her feline, watchful and protective of its owner.

Becca took her place, sitting on her knees, and opened her bag to fetch out her required items.

She started with a small athame, unthreatening in its design though still lethal in its purpose, the small urn her mother had brought her, runes contained in a drawstring pouch, three candles and homemade honey.

And then, hanging around her neck alongside her stone, was the Celtic cross; a piece of Finan.

The moon stood high above the altar, creating the perfect space for her ritual; it was as if the gods knew she was coming.

From the flowers intricately woven into her hair, she also placed a handmade bouquet on the altar, as well as the honey, pouring it into an offering bowl.

At the deity’s feet, previous offerings still lingered all around, making Becca’s seemed trivial.

Looking over her surrounding, taking everything in as she prepared herself to take on the next step, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.

Six seconds later, she breathed out, her body slowly relaxing.

Looking down, she picked up the first runes-carved candle and started calling out for the goddess in all her might as she lit up the wick.

To the second candle, one breath later, she repeated the process and called for Freya a second time; light came to be once again.

To the last one, one last breath later, Becca called out Her name again and was ready to light up the candle. Instead, it had done so by itself, on its own volition.

A gentle breeze glided through, its wind waking the leaves. The snow had started to melt with the shift of the seasons, making way for the grass to peak through the white coat.

Sitting up, she brought her hands to her lap, palms up.

Her amulet’s glow grew within the darkness, the purple hue giving purpose to her call.

And then, head up towards the carving, the language of the gods reverberated through her vocal chords, her words chanting and summoning the divine for a favour.

The force of the breeze increased, just a note above its predecessor, Becca’s hair following its dance.

She shut her eyes once more, her spell floating through her with plead. Her blood pumping rapidly through her veins, her magic swirled inside her the way a babe makes its presence known inside the womb.

As a humble servant, she called for balance, for strength, for help; to undo the chaos that had seeped its way through the earth, and to restore peace and heal Mother Nature from the disdain that was caused.

Her voice trembled within her throat, her body quivering from her words.

She reached for her runes, pulling three pieces; the gods were listening.

Becca continued with another breath slipping through her lips.

Dagger in hand, Freya’s urn sat in front of the young witch, its carcass void until soaked with drops of blood.

She then removed her amulet, holding it by its golden chain as it slipped inside the cup.

The Celtic knots had joined the ritual; borrowing Finan’s cross, she offered it to the goddess for a blessing, begging for peace to the owner’s soul. And just like her stone, the cross slipped inside the urn, coated within the witch’s power.

Tears had started their act, staining the corners of her eyes before silently trailing down her flushed cheeks.

An itching started to carve itself on her back, emanating a wail which escaped her with shortened breaths. Her spell interrupted, she could feel her birthmark burning her skin in searing pain, the symbol glowing in ember.

They were testing her willingness to sacrifice, she thought.

She could feel it.

The affliction deepened into her bone. She leaned forward, grasping at the hint of grass as her fingers dug through the earth with the muffled cries dripping through clenched teeth.

She could only push through - and so she did, with her heart racing, the muscle ached from the weight of the ritual.

She picked up wear she left off, calling for the gods once again in supplication.

The wind still alive with fervour, wrapped its arms around her, somehow easing the sting she was imbued with.

And then, for a split of a second, she felt naked - as if her powers had gone into the void and disappeared.

The candles shut off as quiet surrounded her, eerie and deadly.

The pain covering her shoulder blade was dissipating though left a ghostly trace of ichor running down her back.

And then, nature’s voice came back; the water of the stream brushing the rocks, the leaves grazing the trees, the crickets creating their music.

The wind had gone.

It was done.

Catching her breath, she sat back up with her head falling back. Her eyes met the night sky, the stars shining just a little bit brighter above her.

From up above, she then turned her gaze down to her hands, etched in blood, as they rested on her dress.

She remained still for a moment, her mind empty from thoughts while her eyes never left the scarlet stained skirt.

A little sniffle made it through the air, she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, her cheeks dry from tears.

Flapped wings caught her attention.

Under the dark skies, she lifted her head up to meet a bird perched on a tree branch.

The falcon glanced downwards, its eyesight fixated on Becca; chills ran down her spine.

It then flew down, gravitating towards the god’s shrine where its sharp talons echoed against the stone as it marched towards the bowl full of honey.

A gentle song from its chest, she watched the predator bending over the offering, its eyes staring as its beak hovered above it, the sweet nectar filling its nose with delight.

One dip in, the bird then turned towards the bouquet.

The falcon lingered; between the ambrosia and the flowers, it did not seem offended by such gifts.

Anticipation arose in the pit of her stomach.

The animal then turned to her, tilted head as its sharp eyes stared at her with another song escaping its mouth. It was a gentle coo, melting into the night.

Becca awaited patiently.

Then majestic wings spread wide and far apart, the falcon’s head lifted up, calling at the present constellations; she slightly jumped at the suddenness of its movement, but none the less remained put, still waiting for the final verdict.

The bird, giving its attention back to her, stepped forward with its claws still on the ground. It stood in front of the urn, the head falling to that direction before leaning towards the rim, the beak disappearing inside.

The strings of her amulet and cross came into her sight; attached to its mouth, the falcon dropped both necklaces onto the woman’s lap.

Her sacrifice had been accepted by her god, her connection to Freya established.

It watched her, noticing tears layered across her irises. It gave her one last song, an affectionate coo, before backing away.

It moved to the altar again, pecking at the honey another for taste, before flying away and disappearing into the woods.

Becca stared at the jewelry pieces that covered her hands, her emotions getting the best of her once again.

She silently cried, overwhelmed by the events of her night. Her body growing heavier, she leaned forward until her forehead rested atop the wet grass with her arms wrapped around her stomach. She thanked the goddess, her whispers carried through another wave of gentle breeze, its hands drying her cheeks.

Once she felt well again, once relief was slowly grasping at her bones, she sat up and reached for the water bottle that rested inside her bag. She poured the liquid over her hands and dress, wanting to wash off any signs of the ritual before meeting up with Finan again as she did not want to scare him.

She cleaned her cuts, her stone, his cross, and proceeded to pick up her stuff, leaving the candles, honey and flowers behind.

She then undid her braid, removing the primroses that stood in there, and delicately placed them along side the bouquet.

She took one last moment for herself and got up, ignoring the weakness in her knees.

After almost digging a hole into the ground from his constant pacing, Finan finally saw her come back.

The suspense of waiting finally washing off him like a storm, ease gripped at him as he ran to her. The second she was at arm’s length, he pulled her in and curled his arms around her, nestling his nose into her hair.

And the second she was pressed against his chest, she dropped her bag, her arms instinctively wrapped around his waist, seeking comfort.

“Are ya alright?” He spoke with a soft undertone, the words almost muffled against her head.

“Mhmm.” It was all she could muster. He placed a kiss at the top of her head before pulling away slowly, wanting to look at her properly. “Is it done then?”

She nodded, exhausted.

“The empowerment ritual worked. All we have to do is wait for the call.” Her arms fell by the sides of her body as she offered him a tired smile. “She will let us know when it is time.”

Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers. Heavy breaths out from his lungs, his thoughts were rapidly racing.

She felt the tension in his shoulders, the frown upon his brows. She did not move and only spoke, her voice low within his breath. “What are you thinking about? What’s on your mind?”

He took a moment before answering her. “You… You’re on my mind.” He broke the embrace, wanting to look at her again. The worry was palpable, tingling at her fingertips as they ran through his hair before settling across his jawline, stroking his beard. “She’ll find us out, won’t she?”

Becca nodded, her hues glued to his own; she could never tire of his eyes, of their emotional depth. “She will, and to be honest, I don’t care.” She quickly kept going, having seen his lips pursed to speak up. “They accepted my offering, Finn. I’m in.”

Sadness still rested in his brown’s, breaking her heart. She slid her arms to rest around his neck, brushing his nose with hers. She spoke softly. “Trust me. Have faith in me.”

“I do, Bex.” He kissed her, a simple stroke of his lips against hers. “I just don’t want all of this to take you away from me.”

Her doubts were crawling back into her mind, small whispers blowing through the wind, taunting her unworthiness to the cause. Day and night they haunted her, but after tonight, she had hoped they would vacate and vanish into thin air.

Another stroke of lips to lips, she lingered into him, tightening her hold around his neck as she felt his fingers digging into her waist, desperate.

Same as her.

And so she reluctantly pulled away, her hands trailing down to rest on his chest. Heartache in her stare, she looked up at him, her emotions seeping through her voice. “I know. And I don’t want all of this to take you away from me either.”

“God, I love you.” He kissed her once more, the caress harsher and held with anguish as he clung to her.

She fell into his embrace, her knees buckling under the weight of the world. Her fingers grasped onto the fabric of his jacket, knuckles whitened at her strength. With a hint of despair, the melancholic feeling crippling her, she whispered her own declaration, her own feelings for him pouring out of her. “I love you too.”

He pulled away, his thumb tracing over her swollen lips. “I know ya tell me not to be worried. But I can’t help it… What if it’s not enough?”

She smiled at him, a simple and small upward curve from her left side. “Then I’ll find another way.” She was pushing through her fear - for him. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not giving up.”

A moment of silence hugged them close. His eyes trailed from her own, down to her lips before settling over her amulet, the purple stone remaining in the dark without its glow, coupled with his cross.

He smiled.

“It suits you.”

She reached for the lace of the necklace and pulled it off, the golden crucifix shimmering under the moonlight.

“I like it better on you.” She placed the item around his neck, the cross resting on top of shirt.

He kissed her forehead once again, both of them ready to leave and head back to the cottage.

Stepping back to the car, she stopped herself at the ghostly sound tickling her ears. She peered around her, not seeing anything despite the haunting calls.

Furrowed brows, she turned her head back to Finan. “Are you hearing this?”

“Hearing what, love?”

She tried to decipher the noise, her eyes searching all around; her arm stretched towards him, she was reaching for him out of instinct. He quickly came to her, holding her hand while she remained elsewhere, her focus devoted to the faint calls.

A slight gasp escaped her.

“A babe, I think? I thought I heard a child…”

Finan looked around as well, confused. “There is no one but us.”

She shook the sound away, giving her notice back to the present as she started walking.

But once again, she stopped; a crinkle, a crunch of steps upon leaves pulled her away. Her hand still holding on to Finan’s, her halt echoed to him. He turned to see her back at him, her sight facing the woods.

A pair of golden flecks caught her attention. She stared into them until the figure came out of the shadows.

A wolf was staring at her, a mother with her cub. Her heart stopped, the colour of her cheeks draining.

How could she have known that her spell had summoned the animal, the distant call having been carried by the wind across the forrest? She stood still, forgetting for a moment where she was; Finan noticed, giving him worry. “Bex?”

She could not hear him, her focus solely placed on the gentle beast.

The cub, playful in its small size, was running between its mother’s legs and nibbling at her paws, her fur, anything to attract her attention. The longer Becca stared between both wolves, she could feel her heart starting to pick up its pace, racing against her chest as her breath was unable to leave her lungs.

“Becca?” Finan tried to follow her stare but saw nothing but void.

Only when he squeezed her hand, did she seem to have propelled back into reality. “Is everything okay? What were you staring at?”

Her eyes had remained on the mother, until the wolf nodded her way and disappeared with her babe in toe.

They held many meanings, representing two sides of the same coin. The question was, which side would befall on the witch and her lover?

“N-Nothing.” She turned back to him, shaking off the ill feeling creeping on her back. She placed her free hand on her stomach, swallowing the burdening nausea that left her perturbed.

Meeting Finan’s gaze, she gave him a reassuring smile, desperate to leave.

“Let’s go home.”

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

a/n: for those who watched BTVS S6E01 (Bargaining), the urn described in the chapter is pretty much based on that one :)

xoxo,

@fangirlninja67, @gemini-mama

#the last kingdom #finan #finan x oc #tlk fanfic #finan fanfic #finan the agile #tlk #mark rowley #finan fic #tlk fic #the last kingdom fanfic #Photo by Ksenia Yakovleva on Unsplash #the last kingdom fic #finan x ofc

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