#Taking a momentary break from the single plays to watch this which has been hanging around my shelf for a couple of months | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rainguk · 3 years

Text

perfect pitch | ksj

⁕ summary; your stand partner this year is, to put it simply, insufferable. with a rare sense of perfect pitch and a stunning face to boot, this boy's ego is absolutely off the charts... but you'd be lying if you said you didn't care about him anyway.

⁕ pairing; seokjin x reader

⁕ rating; pg-13

⁕ words; 3.9k

⁕ genre; crack, fluff - stand partners idiots to lovers (with a lil bit of enemies in there), high school au, orchestra au

⁕ warnings; swearing, threats but like nothing violent happens LOL, seokjin's sense of humor: there's like one mildly inappropriate joke (i'm sorry bach), super cliche rain scene i apologize

⁕ notes; this is based off of infuriatingly true events in my life because people with perfect pitch just LOVE flexing it like i'll drop my fork on the table and my friend's just like "oh wow that was a B flat" aaaaggghjsdjsdf anyways... i had a lot of fun writing this and i'm nearing the end of another longer fic i'm writing so please look forward to that :D hope you enjoy!!! + if you ever want me to tag you in my fics just let me know and i will <3 plus this is unedited and disgustingly cringy as it nears the end so read at your own risk

⁕ tags; @imdamconfused @sunghoonight-x @iminchaosnow

⁕ song; butter (bts)

masterlist

You’re teetering dangerously on the edge, a mere few seconds away from stabbing your stand partner in the eye with whatever you can use as a weapon.

“Hey, are you okay?” Seokjin cuts into your murderous thoughts, alarmed. “You look… truth be told, Y/N, you look like you want to kill someone.”

“If you don’t shut up about how flat my A is, that someone might just end up being you.”

“How romantic.”

Your bow slides off your violin with a cadence of squeaky notes. “Can you at least stop flirting with me while I’m trying to tune this thing?!”

He smiles, a bright, brilliant thing that shows off all his perfect teeth. You swallow, heart suddenly racing a thousand times faster; it’s no secret that Kim Seokjin is probably the biggest pain in the neck you’ve ever met, but it’s also true that he is insanely good-looking. And you’re not about to deny it.

“You like it, though.”

Well, shit.

“Not everyone’s head over heels in love with you,” you retort, trying desperately to throw him off your trail. You know what happens with popular kids like him; once it’s known that you have a soft spot for them, everyone pounces on you, bombarding you with questions and snide remarks and rumors.

Of course, it’s complicated — because how on earth could you want to rip off someone’s head and kiss them at the same time?

But you tell yourself that it’s only because he looks like that; not because he easily gets you to laugh like it’s nobody’s business, and certainly not because he looks out for you in the littlest ways; leaving his rosin out on the stand for you to use and lending you a pencil when you need one.

Kim Seokjin is an insufferable little shit, yes. But he’s a friendly insufferable little shit. And you would honestly be so down to hang out with him and get to know him better, save for one little thing that’s been getting in your way.

His perfect fucking pitch.

Being stand partners with someone naturally gifted with such a sense is both a blessing and a curse. Countless times, Seokjin has saved your ass from being questioned by Mrs. Choi by letting you know silently that you’re a little too sharp, or playing in the wrong key entirely. (That last one has happened before.) Sometimes you can’t hear Namjoon, the principal violinist, too well from where you’re seated, so you’ve relied on Seokjin on many occasions to tune your strings correctly.

However, it irks you equally as much when he uses it against you, stopping you mid-piece to let you know that your C# sounds more like a D to him. No one’s perfect, and certainly not you — but you try, and to be shot down every single time by someone who thinks it’s absolutely funny to watch you repeatedly attempt to fix your pitch issues is purely exhausting.

“Hey, Y/N—”

“What?” you demand, sighing as you turn to him.

“Wanna hear a joke?”

“No—”

“Why did Bach have twenty children?”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh my god—”

He continues anyway, ignoring your plea with that mischievous grin, “Because he had no organ stops!”

Seokjin is trying his best not to laugh at his own joke, shoulders shaking at the punch line. You can’t help it yourself, a giggle bursting out of your own chest as you cover your mouth.

“That was horrendous,” you tell him once you catch your breath again. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Oh, worry not,” he proclaims, smiling widely, “I can do far better.”

“Wait, no—”

“What tone does a piano falling down a mineshaft make?”

You furrow your brows, thinking. “I don’t know,” you shake your head after a few seconds. “What is it?”

“A flat minor.”

Your jaw drops open as you process it, and Seokjin just watches you in amusement. “You should be banned from making these kinds of jokes,” you tell him. “Seriously.”

“Admit it, I’m hilarious,” he counters. “I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

He did, you’ve got to acknowledge. He always does, in some way, now that you think about it. Whenever you end up coming to rehearsal in a bad mood, it’s always because of Seokjin that you leave the auditorium with a smile on your face.

The realization startles you like nothing else — you hadn’t known before that he played such a role in your daily life.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” he starts again, “We have a concert tonight.”

“Yeah…” You turn to him, eyebrow raised. “You forgot about the biggest performance of the year?”

Seokjin nods, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. “Yeah. My bad. You’re coming, right?”

“Duh,” you reply, fishing a block of rosin out of your case. “It’s almost half of my grade; no way I can skip. Besides, I like performing.”

“You do?”

“What are you so surprised for?” you ask him playfully. “I do enjoy it. I might not be good — not as good as you — but I like it. I like playing together with everyone, being able to hear every other part fit in with mine perfectly.” You frown. “Now if you asked me to play solo, I wouldn’t do it for anything in the world. Ensemble performances are far better.”

“You’re good,” Seokjin says quietly, looking at you — it’s like he’s taking you in, letting his eyes linger on you for a little while longer. “Don’t think that you’re not. You sound nice, Y/N.”

You hold his gaze for several breathless seconds before scoffing, turning away. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not!”

“I don’t need empty compliments fr—”

Your bickering is cut short by Mrs. Choi walking onstage, a stack of sheet music in her hand which is promptly handed to Namjoon for him to distribute to the entire orchestra. You don’t offer your usual smile when he gives you two, and it’s with an impassive expression that you hand the extra to your stand partner.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Maybe you’ve made it more awkward between you two — but what else could have happened? Had you been hoping he’d magically fall in love with you and kiss you and you would have gone on dates?

No, of course not. This is Kim Seokjin you’re talking about; and besides, no matter how much you manage to soften up to him one moment, he’ll immediately make you want to murder him the next.

“Hey, Y/N… um — your D is just, you know, a little bit sharp—”

“Kim Seokjin, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“You, my dear, are just overcomplicating this for yourself,” Taehyung declares after listening to you rant about your problematic stand partner over lunch. “What’s the issue? You like him — don’t you shake your head at me, Y/N, you’re as obvious as an open book — and he clearly likes you. Why don’t you just date him?”

“It’s not that simple,” you grumble, brutally stabbing another piece of chicken. “I can’t just walk up to him and ask him out, Tae. Plus, he doesn’t like me, he just likes flirting with everyone he lays his eyes on.”

“From what you’re telling me, it sure does sound like it.”

“Taehyung…”

“Come on, you can’t possibly be that clueless, Y/N.”

“No,” you insist. “He’s a pain in the ass, and he enjoys getting a rise out of me, and he flexes that dumb pitch power of his whenever he can.”

“But you like him...”

“You’re not helping!”

This is where Jimin decides to intervene, tired of your back and forth arguing. “She has a point, Tae. But,” he says to you. “He’s also right. You need to take some kind of action.”

“Yeah, but what?”

Taehyung claps his hands, a telltale sign of a new idea. “Flirt back!”

“Okay, absolutely not—”

Jimin grabs you suddenly, shaking your shoulders. “Wait, think about it!” he exclaims, eyes wide. “It can work! That way you can see if he actually does like you, and you won’t publicly embarrass yourself by confessing to him, either!”

“On second thought, I’d have preferred to see the public embarrassment—”

“Shut up, Tae, you’re just making her feel worse!”

That makes you laugh; contrary to Jimin’s statement, your best friends certainly have succeeded in making you feel just a little bit better.

“Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual,” you tease. “Maybe I owe him a dose, actually, because I’ve seen firsthand a particularly painful confession back in n—”

“Y/N! Don’t you dare bring that up!”

Amidst the chaos of Taehyung screeching while trying to attack you with a spoon and Jimin holding him back, someone taps on your shoulder lightly; a momentary distraction from this madness, if you will.

“Oh. You,” you respond when greeted with the gently smiling face of Kim Seokjin. “Did you need anything?”

“Nah,” he shrugs, instead showing you his closed fist. “Wanted to give you something.”

“If it’s another one of my strings that you’ve borrowed and also broken, then you can keep it, thanks.”

Seokjin shakes his head, chuckling. “Not that, Y/N. I always throw out the strings I break; don’t worry. I just thought you should have this.”

With that, he places a small wooden box on your lunch bag — at a closer look, you realize it’s a block of rosin. Brand new, too, by the looks of it — when you take off the bright blue lid, there are no scratches on the surface, no sign of wear and tear.

“For me?” You look at him, surprised to be met with a rather fond gaze you’re not used to. “Why?”

“Noticed the one you had was basically falling apart,” he says nonchalantly, attempting to mask the slight tremble in his voice and the blush on his cheeks. “I mean, come on — how are you gonna keep your bow in good shape with those tiny chunks of this stuff?”

“Oh,” is all you can reply, staring at the gleaming black cube in your hand. “I — thanks, I guess.”

“No problem.” He’s back to his bright, grinning self again, all self-confidence and smug smiles. “See you tomorrow,” he tells you, before waving to your friends. “Have a nice lunch, guys.”

It takes Jimin and Taehyung precisely fourteen seconds after Seokjin leaves for his own table to lose their shit.

“Was he looking out for you?”

“Did he actually just give you a new block of rosin?!”

“And you still don’t wanna date this guy?”

“You guys are violinists! Gifting each other supplies is basically your love language!”

You fidget with the rosin, smoothing your thumb over the lid. “No, that’s just how he is,” you defend. “He always lends me rosin when I need it.”

“And you always lend him extra strings,” Taehyung says, a teasing smile on his face. They’re kind of right, you realize when you think about it. Never has Seokjin actually given you a block to keep, and though you might be overestimating the significance of the gesture, it makes your heart flutter nonetheless.

“Okay, anyways,” Jimin changes the topic, “How are we feeling about tonight’s concert?”

“I think we’re in good shape,” you tell him. “We’ve got everything under control — Mrs. Choi was afraid the cellos would screw up their solo section, but they managed to pull it together today and they sounded great.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Taehyung sighs. “Not when the tenors keep screwing up their long note—”

“That wasn’t me! That was Jeon Jungkook!”

“Yeah, sure—”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Come on, we are not arguing about this right now. I’m sure you guys will sound fine, you always do. Plus, Jeon has a really sweet voice.”

“I guess so,” Taehyung shrugs. “But I think the highlight of tonight is going to be Y/N getting to see her guy all dressed up,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“No!” You exclaim a little too quickly, cheeks red. “Why would you say something like that?!”

“Because you’re whipped for him—”

“I am most certainly not—”

Jimin laughs out loud, almost toppling off of his chair. “You know, Y/N, we might have believed you if you weren’t redder than a fucking tomato right now—”

“PARK JIMIN! NOT YOU TOO!”

As luck would have it, you’re a solid ten minutes late.

Call time was at six o’clock, and here you are; slamming the car door shut as you wave a hasty goodbye to your father and run to the main entrance, all the while trying not to get drenched in the rain.

(Your folder and the music inside it are probably already soaked, but that’s an issue for another time.)

You hurry down the stairs, pushing the double doors open with a quick apology to Mrs. Choi, who gives you a stern look but says nothing else. You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding as you slide into your seat, already unlatching your case.

“You’re late.”

You twist your neck to give your stand partner a blank stare. “I’m aware.”

“You look really nice,” he blurts out next, blinking faster than usual.

“Thanks?” You try and laugh it off, fastening your shoulder rest to the back of your violin. You’re not wearing anything fancy, just a flowy black dress with your hair tied back, but his remark renders you speechless for a split second “So do you.”

You manage to compliment him nonchalantly, but your heart is beating twice as fast, eyes admiring his parted, fluffy hair, the white dress shirt impeccable on his figure. And his lips…

Shit. You really are down bad, but you don’t have time to dwell on it — Mrs. Choi is starting the last piece already, and you’re scrambling to have your instrument ready by the time the first violins start with their little intro.

Seokjin laughs at you quietly, but inhales sharply when you start to rosin your bow hair. “You kept it,” he says softly, nodding at the block in your hands.

“Yeah,” you swallow, suddenly self-conscious. “I did.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

“I’m not that ungrateful,” you wrinkle your nose at him. “Of course I kept it, Seokjin.”

“Jin.”

“Huh?”

“Jin,” he repeats, flicking a strand of chestnut hair away from his eyes. “That’s what my friends call me.”

“Since when am I your friend?”

“Would you rather not be?”

“Would you rather be?”

Seokjin — Jin, rather — frowns down at you. “Stop asking questions to my questions!”

“You did it first!” you exclaim, laughing. “Hypocrite! Answer mine, then!”

He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s taking his sweet time choosing the right words to say to you. “Since now,” he decides finally, firmly. “You are now. I want you to be mine. My friend,” he clarifies, turning deep red as he says it.

“I thought you hated me,” you muse. “And I was pretty sure you thought I was the lamest kid ever because I couldn’t play a single thing right.”

“Of course not,” Jin shakes his head vehemently. “You’re cool, Y/N. A little tone deaf, but cool.”

“Take that back!”

“I’m sorry, it’s the truth,” he laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You send him your best glare, but contrary to your facial expression, it’s nice to laugh with him like this. You’ve been so caught up with telling yourself that you shouldn’t be feeling anything but annoyance when you’re around him that you ignored your blossoming feelings, and now they’ve fully bloomed, leaving no room for that initial irritation you so often experienced.

Friends. It’s not what you most want, but it’s something. You could get used to that.

The concert goes smoothly, and the choir performances were absolutely delightful to watch — but your father is late, again, which means you’re stuck waiting for him out in the rain that hasn’t let up for hours.

You’re about to call him for the fifth time in ten minutes when you hear a set of heavy footsteps behind you, running up the stairway. “Y/N!”

“Jin?” you ask, surprised by the boy making his way toward you, brown hair completely soaked. “What are you doing out here?”

“I lied,” he says breathlessly, like he’s in a rush, and if he doesn’t tell you now, he might never be able to. “I’m sorry, I — I lied, Y/N. I don’t want you to be my friend — God, I don’t think I could live with that. I want you to be more.”

“Jin—”

“I just,” he exhales forcefully, “I want to be able to take you out and hold your hand and hug you and kiss you—”

When your mind finally clears up, you don’t let him finish his sentence, instead grabbing his collar and yanking him down so you can press your lips to his in one swift motion. A quiet gasp leaves his mouth, but he quickly adjusts to the situation, hands dropping his violin so he can gently cradle your face, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. It’s all happening so fast that you barely even have time to think, to properly take it all in.

His lips are cold due to the nasty weather, and you’re both sopping wet — and this is most definitely the worst setting for this to have happened, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That,” Jin breathes when you finally let him go, pupils dilated, “that was—”

“My first,” you finish. Your prior courage all gone, you’re a bit nervous now, too embarrassed by your bold move to even meet his eyes. What were you thinking? “I-I’m sorry...”

“Sorry?” Jin asks, confused. “Why are you sorry?”

“You know, because… of that.” You can barely speak up, cheeks burning. “I-I don’t know why I did that. Is this — is this a prank or something? Did you plan this? Was I just supposed to laugh it off and threaten to take your eye out with my bow instead?”

“No, no, no,” he shakes his head, laughing. “Can’t you tell, Y/N?” He lowers his voice to a gentle whisper. “I like you, you idiot. Ever since you waltzed into the auditorium sophomore year and nearly broke your violin falling down the stairs, I never stopped thinking about you.”

“You… you like me?” you ask incredulously, jabbing an accusatory finger at his chest. “Like, for real? You’re not just pulling my leg like you usually love to do?”

“I meant what I said, Y/N,” he tells you softly, fingers intertwined with yours. His voice is genuine, soothing. “I want to do all those things with you, if you’ll let me.”

It takes you a while to reply, but when you do, your heart is pounding so loudly in your chest that you can barely hear yourself. “A-And if I said yes?”

A wide grin breaks out onto Jin’s face as he pulls you into a hug, both your instruments forgotten on the pavement and your head resting on his chest as he holds you close. A few days ago, you would have thought yourself a fool for even thinking that a day like this would ever come; yet here you are, all those daydreams come true.

It’s all so new to you, and you’ll most likely screw up along the way — multiple times. But hand in hand with Jin and his vexing ability to pick out a B from a B flat, things aren’t looking so bad.

You’ll work it out.

Hanging out with your friends is always a chaotic (but fun) occurrence — but when you add your boyfriend’s buddies into the mix, it all goes down to shit.

Actually, it’s all his fault, if you really think about it. Why on earth did he think challenging Taehyung to a baking competition was even remotely close to being a good idea?

“That’s so not fucking fair!” the aforementioned best friend cries, angrily shaking a spatula at a playfully grinning Jung Hoseok. “You can’t just hide the bag of flour! I fucking forgot to put it in!”

“Nothing we can do about it now, Tae,” Jimin sighs, massaging his forehead as the three of you stare at the burnt, soupy mass your team has created. “We fucking lost, that’s it.”

“So,” Jin smirks mischievously, nudging your elbow. “I guess Hoseok and I win this one, yeah?”

“Shut up,” you shove him back, though you’re grinning; a plate with a slice of his impeccably made cake in your hands and a fork lifted to your lips. “You’re good at this and you know it. I knew from the start that you were just trying to fuck around with Tae.”

Taehyung scoffs. “Your evil, demonic, deceptive, satanic boyfriend—”

“Nice vocabulary,” Hoseok comments without looking up, and you’re sure he’s on your best friend’s hit list at this point.

“Well — anyways, he’s out to get me,” Taehyung continues, frowning. “I feel attacked.”

“Yeah, okay, keep saying that several years from now when you’re sitting in a church and Y/N’s walking down the aisle,” Jimin says nonchalantly, causing you to choke on your cake in complete shock.

“What the heck — we’re literally eighteen! You can’t — you can’t just say things like that!” you exclaim indignantly, fork clattering against your empty plate. Jin grins widely all of a sudden, tapping your shoulder all of a sudden.

“Jagi.”

“Hmm?” You turn to him, momentarily forgetting how flustered Jimin’s comment made you feel.

“That was a really nice C# just now…”

Your mouth drops open as you gape at your boyfriend; part of you wants to cry and part of you wants to laugh. You knew when you agreed to make it official that somewhere along the line, you’d have to deal with these kinds of things, but now that it’s actually happening…

You turn to Jimin, patience already running thin from Jin’s antics (actually, you secretly love it, though you’ll never admit it to his face.)

“And you have the audacity to suggest that I’ll actually get married to this man?”

“Y/N? Honey, wake up. I… I just realized something.”

“Oh — Jin? What is it? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s good. You know, I was thinking about it, and I realized that...” Your husband bites down on his lip hesitantly, glancing down at the baby sleeping peacefully in his arms.

“Yeah?” you press, curious.

“When Aera cries — you know, when she’s screaming at the top of her lungs,” he smiles fondly. “It’s always — she always cries in either F# or C#. It’s,” he looks like he’s nearing tears, “the D major key. Y/N, she literally cries in D major. I’m—”

You sigh, smiling amusedly to yourself as you snuggle up to him for extra warmth, holding your baby close. Leave it to none other than Kim Seokjin to analyze his daughter’s pitch — isn’t that part of the reason why you fell in love with him, anyway?

Life with Jin is many things — a chaotic mess that includes the constantly screaming light of your lives, three pandemoniac best friends, and far too many notes for you to keep track of. And though sometimes you want to chuck a blue-lidded block of rosin at his head to shut him up, you’re more than ready for it all.

— feedback/questions/just wanna chat?

thank you for reading perfect pitch! ♡

#applejinie #seokjin x reader #seokjin fluff #seokjin one shot #jin x reader #jin fluff #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts one shot #rainguk #jin high school au #bts high school au #bts orchestra au #violinist!jin

83 notes · View notes

cadcnce-archived · 4 years

Text

It’s been a good time. Not that you’d ever doubted it would be; as poor of a salesman as Emké may be, you knew if they spoke highly of something, it was no small compliment— and beyond whatever groaning the adherent may have made over the fuss and pageantry, they’d had warm words for the closing celebrations. Good food, good music. She’d promised plainly, and sure enough, the plaza is full with the intoxicating scents of fresh local delicacies, woks sizzling hot over open flames, their crackles and pops marrying with the melody off guitars, marimba, brass instruments and voices; all brought together in joyful noise. Groups gather around the fringes, chatting gleefully, pausing for quick prayers at little hand-made shrines, accompanied by the typical offerings and occasional incense burner, children wave sparklers about, but the main crop of the square is left open, of course, for dancing.

A mix of pre-designed performances and cultural dances that anyone and everyone can join in on, you catch the end of a solo performer’s stint just as the song she’d choreographed draws to a close— a pretty thing with long dark hair neatly pinned into a fancy set of buns, the large rings on her arms clinking as she bows, the scarves which hang off them swaying as she skims the crowd with her eyes and spares a little wink; possibly at you, but just as likely at any other on-looker at your sides and back. A good showing, she deserved the applause she’d received, but did not bask in it long. She clears out as the next thread of rhythm begins, and many voices quiet, distracted glances turning to follow the figure which moves through to the center.

You’ve always thought the adherent didn’t look quite at home without her armor; her vambraces and greaves as much a part of her as the sandy, windswept hair and mismatched eyes; but at least she looks more comfortable now than she had mid-parade, swaddled in heavy ceremonial robes and half-forcing a smile. By comparison, their mild expression now is a hundred fold more genuine, even if they roll their eyes when your gazes meet, (you’re sure they might’ve shrugged a bit, too: yeah, yeah, I know). But they’re all soft smile and grace as one arm outstretches to invite their partner from the sidelines, an unfamiliar Beralan stepping up to the vestal’s side (looking a touch too excited; you’ll remember to tease them about that later), before they both face each other, and bow.

Then, the dance begins.

The music jumps to life with all the merriness which had stirred moments ago, and the pair finds the rhythm with ease, carefully timed twists, high knees, and kicks, with claps on the beat between turns. It is joyous; and it’s the kind of thing which you could scarcely wear any less than a bright smile in the midst of— hence the unusual brightness in Emké’s features as she maneuvers ‘round her partner, before they both fan out their arms and step back, inviting the immediate onslaught of dancers looking to join; everyone linking hands into a broad circle which side-steps and kicks around the open plaza. It’s a gambol from the very heart of their region; a routine everyone would be taught from whence they were children, to be repeated at festivals, balls, and all manner of celebrations to come. Not so different, you think, than those native to your own homeland, but with a Qasmean flair that could not be overlooked.

You could not know all the steps, all the intricate details; especially as the circle separates again into partners, and everyone moves with such confidence. This was not your home, these were not your people. You could watch with excitement and mirth, applauding your companion and basking in the revelry of the moment, but it would all be unfamiliar to you. It should be.

But you find your body does know.

It is all new to you, but it isn’t. You find yourself following the motions with the unmistakable taste of nostalgia at the back of your tongue, you know where their feet will fall before they land, you anticipate the next change of partner moments before it arrives, and seemingly cannot stop yourself from falling into the mix— full of the giddiness of joyful memories when you should have none to claim.

You move as if it were the most natural cycle for your limbs to travel. With all the practiced ease of the native Beralans who’d danced this dance since they were able to balance on two feet, with such divine clarity, as if the overwhelming cacophony on the senses— the aromas, the sounds, the heat of bodies and the breeze— they may as well not have been there at all, spinning through the circuit of partners and back into the circle, you dance and laugh, overwhelmed with delight you’re growing sure is not your own.

Confirmed, of course, when the next change of partners comes, and you find your partner quirking their brow at you, clearly surprised at how effortlessly you fell in with their festivities, but not missing a single beat as they raise their hand to yours and move through the motions— momentary bewilderment quickly melting back into the glee they’d worn before. That look was the whole point; and you can feel a smile burning deep in your chest leagues brighter than the one on your own features.

Forgive me, you think she’s said, though the voice at the edge of your mind is anything but repentant. But I could never just stand by and miss a chance to dance with her.

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

You knew from the start it was going to be a good time, no, better than that. From the moment the adherent invited you, you knew you’d find yourself all the trouble and enjoyment you desired. Celebrations and festivities are something you latch onto. They’re usually alien and unfamiliar to someone of your ilk, sure, but there’s an ability to forget who you are and what you were during times like this. To shed the burden of your history and embrace that exact present. That precise moment. The people around you find ways to do the same and to celebrate abundance and existence. The taste and smell of it is absolutely intoxicating. The merriment is magnetic. This isn’t your home, but it feels like a place you could call one.

You’ve enjoyed several days worth of happiness and laughter during a single day of festivity. New foods and new people, bonding moments that yes, may be fleeting but you will remember fondly in the future and ponder some what ifs as a treat on warmer nights. You’ve challenged yourself to games you had no inkling of how to play, embraced the many failures just as hard as your first victory against the children teaching you to play while the other adults watch on. Your chest is full of life. Your heart is just a little less cracked among these families.

They welcome you almost as enthusiastically as they welcome your partner. But perhaps it is unfair to compare? The one you know and the one they do aren’t so different after all.

Time isn’t real. It’s something you often think about during your life. Used as a detraction from your choices as a child just as much as a way to embrace your possibilities in the future. Everything is what you make of it. Alas, as much as you want to spend another compressed week of time in these moments the day does drag on. The sun is as real as the moon and the stars. The crackling of fires to illuminate the closing festivities wishing it could bring the amount of warmth that the performers could to everyone’s hearts.

You do watch from the sidelines as you make your way to the center of the festival, this being one of the events you just knew you had to witness for yourself. Dancing is something you picked up as part of etiquette when you trained as a paladin. But as a trait it’s something you evolved into its own unique thing, sampling and taking from your life experiences and everything you cross paths with adding another thought and step. Today could be a dance all on its own.

It would be nice if that young lady’s wink had been directed at you, wouldn’t it? Your foreign appearance and rugged looks are something you believe should be well fancied. Already you welcomed many a flirtation only to fleet away like the devious spirit you are during these festivities. There was far too much to see. Far too much to experience. Just as you can’t fight with just one person in a bar brawl, who would you be to settle with just a single maiden?

Everything about the way Emkè makes her entrance is enough to make you smile three times over. The grace with which she moves, the garb that she wears, the way she takes in the presence she commands. It’s so unnatural from the person that you’ve come to know so well over these years. And yet natural. You’ll embrace these surprises just as you’ll embrace whatever future being around her brings. But you will absolutely not let her live down the sheer excitement her first partner gives on the invitation.

And a familiar smile in the depths of your being seems to have a similar thought. You’ve felt this before, little peeks and glances of a fluttering as you wandered and traveled the offerings of the festival through the day. But now the butterfly has landed, and just as you watch the dance unfold so too does the spirit.

You’d wanted to join in the moment it started, your eyes watch and your ears listen to the sights and sounds as you pull up the rhythm. Your arms and legs, however, act before you know you’re anywhere near ready. An exuberant partner taken by your hand. You move automatically and feel automatically. Any sense of fear over what is transpiring is more than easily masked by the shared exhilaration of the dance. The warmth of this spirit is a familiar one, and one that you know you can trust just as deep as your partner’s.

The sense of anticipation finally breaks as your hands eagerly take the adherent as your next dance partner, and you wish you could stop smiling long enough to show Emkè that you’re just about as surprised about all this as she is. You’re caught in a wave, however, and this tide was carrying you through to whatever end came. It’d make a funny campfire story, if you opted to tell her. But something about the moments you share with her feel like something to be kept to yourself.

The warmth that fills you as you gaze at Emkè during the flurry of steps is just as unnatural yet embraced as these other sensations. There’s an appreciation for who you’re looking at that goes deeper than anything you’d felt for her before. The spirit within you sees the same powerful woman, a castle of fortitude and strength and compassion. Yet nobody notices the details like she does. You both see a wall, but she loves the moss. She loves the cracks and the life that blooms within each crevice of the stonework. She loves the grass and the soil that comforts its foundation. She loves the wind that cools and gently blows the flowers in the gardens. She loves. She loves. She loves. And for that moment, while you share your body with the spirit, you love too. Unconditionally.

As the next change of partners comes and you release the adherent’s hand you flash a smile much more characteristic of yourself, a toothy grin and a playful flourish of your hand equally uncharacteristic of the dance.

“It was all my pleasure.” You say. To Emkè, to Breala, to this city, and to yourself.

#:: drabble #inbox :: submission #verse :: fantasy #sabuleum #inbox :: answered ic #ROARS TO THE HEAVENS ABOUT WY AND EMKE #ROARS!!!!#submission

5 notes · View notes

silverfootstepswrites · 5 years

Text

Incandescent [1/3]

title Incandescent (1/3) summary First love doesn’t always mean true love. pairing itasaku (of course)

Part 2 | Part 3

"I'm calling off the engagement."

Sakura blinked once. Twice. She wondered if she had heard wrong. Her hand found the gold necklace hanging from her throat. Fingers gripping the delicate chain. Everything started to sound a little muffled. Like she was hearing a conversation with her ear pressed to the door.

Her stomach lurched as she looked up and found Sasuke staring at her. Those cold eyes burning into her as he looked her up and down.

"Karin is much more suited to be Queen," he added. And the words pierced the left side of her chest. With the precision of a butcher's knife. Twisting almost as hard as her hands as they clenched into her skirts.

As Sasuke spoke, he held his hand out. It took a moment. Even when she stepped out of the crowd to accept it, she cast a nervous glance Sakura's way. Because no matter how ambitious she was, Karin wasn't a stupid girl. Scheming would be a better word. She had captured the heart of the prince she had so coveted. But public humiliation of his previous fiancee hadn't been in her plans. One look into her eyes made that obvious. The girl couldn't even hold her gaze for more than a second before averting her eyes.

Sakura looked down at the stain on her dress. Burgundy against the pale green fabric. Darkening the ruffles and the painstaking needlework. She could hear the mounting murmurs of the gathering crowd. The whispers leaking out like a hissing pit of snakes.

She swallowed. Very slowly, deliberately, she pushed her hair out of her eyes with her left hand. Then she stared at Sasuke from under her eyelashes.

"You could have handled this sort of thing in private, Your Highness," she finally replied. His eyes narrowed.

"Are you the sort of woman who would have responded to that?" he challenged. The disgust in his gaze pricked her again. Sakura wondered what sort of lies Karin had poured into his ears for him to look at her that way.

Not that it mattered.

Sakura tucked her hair behind her ear. And then, in one swift motion, she grabbed her necklace and pulled. The thin link snapped.

"Well, I suppose you'll need this back then," Sakura said. He held his hand out to accept it. And as the golden chain pooled in his palm, Sakura added, "Although, I have to say that this is cruel treatment for someone who loved you so honestly, Prince Sasuke."

As his face twisted again, Sakura gave him a mild smile. She curtseyed.

"Your Highness." And then she inclined her head in Karin's direction. "And Lady Karin. I'll take my leave."

The crowd parted as Sakura turned around. All eyes on her as she strode down the tile. Out of the hall. The gasps and comments trailing after her, perhaps like her wedding veil would have one day as she stepped down the aisle. Her face glowing with happiness before she uttered those two words she had always looked forward to saying.

It didn’t take long for the rumors to spread throughout the whole school. By then, Sakura already sat in the carriage on the way to her family’s manor in the capital.

Ino had helped smuggle her into the thing. Because despite proudly striding out on her own two feet, Sakura had only managed to hold in the tears until she made it to Ino’s room. And she had burst into tears as she threw herself into her best friend’s arms.

“I told you to be careful. I knew that girl would be a thieving little weasel the moment I saw her!” Ino alternated between patting Sakura’s back and seething at the injustice of it all.

“They’re lucky I wasn’t there. Prince or not, I would have-” Ino nearly snapped her fan in half as she demonstrated what would have happened. Sakura gave a half-hearted nod in response.

“Do you feel a little better now?” Ino queried.

Sakura nodded again.

“What are you going to do?”

Sakura felt for her necklace out of habit. Remembered where it was now. She clenched her hand into a fist instead.

“See my parents, I suppose,” she sighed. Ino sat up a little straighter.

“That’s right. Maybe your parents can do something. Convince His Majesty to speak to Prince Sasuke.” Ino’s mind ran a mile a minute. She flapped her fan back and forth as she spoke. And that was the right response. Because ever since they were little girls, Sakura had dreamt about marrying the prince. They had wept with joy together when he had proposed. Squealed with delight at every present, every little gesture.

But something had twisted inside of Sakura. Standing alone with not a single one of her ‘supporters’ speaking up for her. The disdain coloring Sasuke’s eyes. And the way his hand curled around Karin’s the way they never had with hers.

“No, Ino,” Sakura said, her eyes fixed straight ahead. “This was a political marriage, to begin with. So the consequences will be political as well.”

Ino’s fan stilled. “....Oh boy,” was all she could say.

So now Sakura sat in Ino’s carriage, which her friend had graciously lent to her. Her attendants assured her that they would handle packing her luggage and explaining her departure to the headmaster and her professors. The thunder of hooves against the stone marking a steady rhythm as they traveled.

The path from the academy to the capital was smooth thanks to the well-paved roads. Her father had played a large role in organizing and funding that particular project. It had greatly increased trade and decreased the amount of time it took to travel in the north.

The Haruno family’s lands lay to the south of the capital. She had always enjoyed the cooler weather up here. But as she stared glumly out the window, she couldn’t help but miss the vast fields of sunflowers that carpeted her family’s lands.

The Haruno family’s mansion in the capital was tiny compared to their manor in the countryside. The gates swung open as the carriage approached. The steward and some of the servants already waited outside to greet her.

As the footman opened up the door, Sakura stepped out of the carriage.

“Welcome home, Lady Sakura,” the servants greeted her, bowing deeply.

“My father?”

“In his study, My Lady,” the steward replied, falling into step beside her.

“The carriage is from Lady Ino. Please see that the horses are tended to,” Sakura directed.

“Very good, My Lady,” he replied. And with a bow, he stepped away to carry out her orders.

Sakura strode down the hall, her hands folded in front of her. Upstairs, at the end of the west wing, she stopped in front of a set of double doors. She hesitated. Took a deep breath. Straightened the ribbon on her collar. And only then did she knock.

“Yes?”

“Papa,” Sakura greeted as she stepped inside.

“Have a seat, my dear,” he replied.

Kizashi sat at his desk, a heavy book open in front of him. He lowered his spectacles as he watched her enter. Nodded his approval when she closed the door softly behind her before she sat in the armchair.

“Whatever could it be that you left in the middle of your classes? You’ve never missed a day of school,” he wondered.

Sakura looked him right in the eyes as she told him: “I think Mama should be here too.”

He didn’t press her. Simply sent a servant to find his wife. Mebuki entered a few minutes later, taking a seat beside her daughter.

“Papa, Mama, Prince Sasuke canceled the engagement,” Sakura told her hands clasped in her lap. She heard her mother gasp. When she looked up, her father was pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“For that girl?” Kizashi asked. “The niece of Baron Uzumaki?”

Sakura nodded.

“I’d heard rumors, but I never thought...” Mebuki trailed off with a sigh. She reached over to take Sakura’s hand. Sakura could feel the corners of her eyes sting again.

“He announced it in front of everyone and said that she would make a better consort,” Sakura recounted. Mebuki drew in a sharp breath. Her hand squeezing a little.

“It’s so humiliating. I’m so upset, Mama,” Sakura whispered. Clutching her mother’s hand tighter as she bowed her head. She burst into tears all over again, her shoulders shaking. Crying even harder when she felt her mother stroke her back.

“There there, Sakura. I’m having tea with Her Majesty the Queen tomorrow. I can speak to her about it then. I’m sure it’s just a momentary lapse of judgment,” Mebuki assured her.

“No!” Sakura exclaimed, her chin jerking up. And she looked right at her father. “This is a grave insult to our family.”

“Indeed. To one-sidedly break off the engagement, as well as publicly humiliating my daughter. I wonder if that young prince has lost his mind,” Kizashi murmured, stroking his chin. And then he stared at Sakura as he asked, “What do you want to so, Sakura?”

“Reduce trade with the capital,” Sakura demanded.

“And what will the people do? Starve?” Kizashi challenged.

Not angrily, though. They had been doing this since she was little. He would always push her to think outside of her scenarios. To know what tools were available to use. To anticipate the consequences of the actions she took.

“Can we pull back our forces then? Send them home?” Sakura tried again. This time, her father’s eyebrow rose. He motioned for her to continue speaking.

“What will be our excuse to the crown?” he prompted.

“Training exercises. And that there have been animal attacks in our territories and we need to defend our citizens,” Sakura answered.

“Not very convincing reasons, but they don’t need to be,” Kizashi decided. He nodded. “Very well.”

“What about your obligations, darling?” Mebuki then asked.

Sakura had to think about that. The social aspect of things was always more difficult to navigate. Not because she didn’t know the rules. It was actually because she knew the rules so well. One misstep could have disastrous results.

“I won’t attend any events for the remainder of the season,” Sakura declared. Kizashi sighed while Mebuki failed to hide her smile.

“That will cause quite a scandal. What are your intentions, my sweet?” questioned Mebuki.

Sakura rubbed the rest of her tears away.

The only family whose power and influenced rivaled that of a duke’s was the royal family itself. For eight generations, the Haruno family had served the Uchiha family. Suppressing rebellion and supplying the kingdom with food harvested from its fertile lands. A well-fed duchy raised strong soldiers too.

Though the Haruno family made a big show of serving as the Crown’s right hand for many years, they had always known. That should the day come.

Should the opportunity arise, mayhem was at their fingertips.

“I want the Crown to regret this insult against me. And when they beg for me to return, I’ll say ‘no’.”

“What a wicked answer. What do you think, my love?” Mebuki then asked, turning to her husband.

“I don’t see why we can’t indulge such a simple whim. After all, this is a slight against House Haruno,” Kizashi chuckled as he placed his spectacles on the bridge of his nose again.

“She withdrew?” Temari repeated.

“Her room is empty. You can go check if you’d like,” Ino responded.

Gaara shook his head. “No, I believe you. It’s just...” He glanced over at his older sister, who looked just as perplexed.

“We leave for the countryside for just a month and return to chaos,” he concluded.

“Oh. I didn’t even think to ask. Is your father alright?” Ino inquired.

“He’s alive. Just kicking up a fuss over a simple cold. We wanted to leave sooner, but our mother wanted to spend some time with us,” Gaara sighed.

“I still can’t believe someone would dare to do that. And to Lady Sakura, no less,” he then suddenly remarked, reminding everyone of where the conversation had started. “I hope she’s alright.”

“Next weekend. Marquise Hyuuga is holding a garden party. I’m sure we’ll see her there. We’ll let you know how she is,” Ino pointed out.

“You’re right.”

But the following weekend, whispers filled the Hyuuga family’s garden. And it was all of a singular subject: Neither Lady Sakura nor her esteemed mother, Duchess Haruno, were in attendance at the party. No apologies. No message sent to Marquise Hyuuga.

Ino watched the older woman fume from afar, idly fanning herself. Beside her, Temari took a long sip of tea. She set the cup down with a grimace.

“This is the biggest event the Marquise will throw this season. She’s livid,” Ino observed.

“Frothing at the mouth,” Temari agreed.

Ino’s father was a marquis and Temari’s brother was an earl. They were both nobles of good standing. Their attendance at Marquise Hyuuga’s party was certainly appreciated. But they were small fry compared to the grave insult of being snubbed by the Duchess.

“Although, if I remember correctly, neither Lord Neji nor Lady Hinata came to Lady Sakura’s aid during that incident,” Temari then observed. Ino considered this.

“Ah. That.... that makes sense, then,” she answered after some thought.

It went on. The dinner party at Earl Inuzuka’s home was thrown into similar disarray when the Duchess failed to show. Marquise Nara’s tea party also suffered the shame of an empty spot at the table.

Ino recounted all these things in the letter she sent to Sakura’s mansion in the capital. She received a reply right away- cordial and maybe a little smug. Sakura stated that she was feeling unwell and “very much appreciated” her concern.

Towards the end of the season, Sakura considered heading to her family’s manor. Skipping the ball that the Queen threw at the palace. The one where nobles were known to fall ill from the shock over not receiving an invitation. Sakura glanced at the envelope and tossed it on the table between them. Her mother sighed.

“It will be considered a grave insult to the Crown. You should go. There has to be a limit to your willfulness,” her mother advised.

“Would I start a war if I choose not to go?” Sakura wondered, tilting her head to the side as she thought.

“....It’s a possibility,” her mother replied.

It was Sakura’s turn to sigh. “What color should I wear?” she asked.

When they announced the Haruno family’s arrival at the ball, heads swiveled even more quickly than usual. First, as was proper, came Sakura’s parents, looking as polished and perfect as they always did in public. And then, a few moments later, Sakura stepped into the ballroom, her hand resting on the arm of someone who raised eyebrows and whispers.

“Couldn’t you have asked someone else to do this?” Sai grumbled as he felt the stares following him.

“No. Besides, you’re one of Papa’s knights. It’s not inappropriate for you to escort me,” Sakura whispered back, keeping her demure smile in place. Not quite meeting people’s eyes but not avoiding them either.

“I would rather be training,” he griped.

“Well, if the ball goes poorly, who knows. Maybe you’ll get a chance to stab something,” she replied.

Sai’s gaze flew to her. “Are you in danger, Lady Sakura?” he demanded. Eyes narrowing, he looked back out at the sea of people. This time, his stare was filled with suspicion rather than boredom. Sakura squeezed his forearm a little.

“Relax. I was joking.”

Sai shot her a look of exasperation. “You’re not funny.”

Before their banter could continue, they stood before the King and Queen. They bowed deeply in front of them. When Sakura raised her head, she cast a sideways glance at their parents. Who seemed relaxed. Which meant that she could as well.

“My dear Duke, we’re always glad to see you,” the King greeted Kizashi first, who dipped his head.

“And Duchess Haruno. Your presence brightens the room as always,” the Queen then said. Mebuki also bowed again before she replied something light-hearted and charming. Which Sakura scarcely heard because she could feel the pressure of the Queen’s eyes on her. The pressure of the woman’s gaze alone was incredible. Still, Sakura kept her head held high.

“We’re so pleased that you could attend, Lady Sakura. I was so concerned when I heard that you might not make an appearance tonight. It appears that you have been absent from many events, this season. We hope that all is well,” the Queen greeted her.

Sakura knew what was happening. Since the Queen couldn’t easily chastise her mother for skipping out on events, she was taking it out on her daughter instead. Who she assumed would be an easier target. In front of the eyes of the entire court. Her mother had warned her that this might happen.

Sakura curtseyed. “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. I apologize for my absence. I simply needed time to recover from the great injury that was struck against me.”

When she stared the Queen in the eyes, she knew that the woman had understood her implicit accusation.

‘Because of your son.’

A ripple of murmurs rose and fell among the other attendees.

And this, Sakura knew, would put the Queen in an uncomfortable position. Would she take her son’s side and risk insulting the second most powerful family in the country? Or would she announce public disapproval of her own child to appease the Duke and his family?

“Ah... that... unpleasant... affair. Yes,” the Queen finally said. She cleared her throat. “Well... it appears that you have since recovered. We are glad.”

Sakura stole a glance at her mother. Whose expression had turned stony. And Sakura could see the Queen looking at her too. It was clear.

That had been the wrong answer.

“Well, please enjoy yourselves,” the Queen hastily dismissed them.

Sakura could see Prince Sasuke and his entourage across the ballroom. She glimpsed a flash of red, too, which meant that Karin was with him. All he cast her way was a cold glance. Without even the decency to greet her. Which suited her just fine. She wouldn’t have wanted to smile and curtsy in front of him and his new fiancee anyway.

They didn’t stay long at the party. Sakura had time to catch up with Ino and Temari, who blurted out everything that she had missed in the last couple of months. She danced with both Temari’s brothers, who she had known for forever. She and Kankuro commiserated over their lack of luck with the opposite sex. Gaara commented on Countess Inuzuka’s heinous hat, which made her laugh. Sakura barely managed to find time to squeeze in a dance with Sir Sai before her mother announced that it was time to go home.

According to Ino, the Haruno family’s early departure was the topic of gossip for weeks afterward. Not that any of that mattered by the time Sakura arrived at the Haruno manor. Just as she wondered where to go first, she spotted a servant boy running up to her as fast as he could in his starched jacket and pants.

“My Lady! My Lady, a message!” he huffed.

“Is it from Mother? There’s no need to run,” she laughed as she reached out the carriage window to accept the envelope.

But something felt off about the paper. The crispness felt all wrong. And when she turned it over, the wax seal was deep purple rather than the red that people usually used. She fumbled to rip the flap open. The handwriting inside was beautiful, as precise as if each letter had been stamped to form the lines.

The servant dove to catch the paper when it dropped from her hand. Sakura slumped against the carriage door, her eyes wide.

“My Lady, are you alright?”

Sakura ran her shaking hand through her hair. “Um... well... We’re having a visitor, it looks like,” she then managed to say.

#writing #itasaku #inspired by Koushaku Reijou no Tashinami #which y'all should read if you haven't #because who hasn't wanted to destroy a shitty ex before #sry sasuke #no one can play icy ex like you can #i'll write a nice story for you later #incandescent

530 notes · View notes

blankdblank · 5 years

Text

The Cabin

Day 8!! - Here’s a slightly dramatic Modern AU Thranduil ramble :D

*You are sitting around a campfire. There are stars shining in the sky. Someone asks “If you had the power to change one person’s life, how would you do it?”*

…

“I am gonna burst,” You squeaked in the middle of the third landing between endless flight of steps to your eighth floor apartment making you sigh and say, “Hot pants it is.” Rushing to the heavy door you crashed through it and bit your lip gripping your bag that had split hours earlier in your bow legged trot to the seventh door on the left. A frantic knock on the yellow door was followed by equally as frantic shuffling and a loud thud mingled with a string of curses until the door flung open and the wide eyed towering blonde behind the door stared at you. “Hot pants man,”

Heavily he sighed muttering, “That was a costume, I was mint green.”

You nodded and bounced in place making him look you over curiously, “Green hot pants man, ya, I usually don’t do this, but the elevator’s out and I’m not going to make it another five flights of stairs, can I use your bathroom?”

Smirking at you awkwardly he stepped back pointing at the open door opposite the open kitchen, “Straight through there.”

You nodded and rushed over to it dropping your bag on the blanket and clothes covered couch earning a loud groan form under the now shifting blob making you trot around the couch and straight to the bathroom, “So sorry, gotta go.” The door closed and the dark haired Elf with a knotted half afro hanging into his face glared at his roommate standing by the door angered at being woken.

Thranduil moved closer to him harshly whispering as you flicked on the water to mask your fumbling disrobing mess of a self and bursting dam of a bladder you felt coming, “It’s squirtle girl, and you will not embarrass me like last time!”

“I did not embarrass-,”

His mouth was covered and a finger was pointed at him while he eyed Thranduil’s dark thick brows lifting over his momentary irritated pout, “Elrond, I swear! Last time you told her I’d been looking for a squirter my whole life! She went months without talking to me! Months! Now you will be polite and say nothing!”

Thranduil’s hand lowered and his brows twitched up at the emphasizing point making Elrond smirk and lay back down covering himself again at the flush. A few moments later you were out again when the tap turned off and flashed Thranduil a weak grin when he shot up fidgeting with the ties on the sweats around his waist subconsciously flexing in your stolen glance at his shirtless self. The grin on his face twisted realizing his hair was in a bun on top of his head and he had a face mask on to help ease his dry skin after being in heavy make up for his play role for the past few weeks. “Thank you, again,” Rounding the couch you lifted your bag and patted the ankle of the Elf under the covers, “So sorry.”

Elrond raised his arm from under the covers to give a silent wave stirring a curious grin onto your face as his arm fell down lifelessly again. Again looking up he looked you over watching your mint green highlighted white curl filled loose bun shifting in the tilt of your head to lock your silvery green eyes on his icy blue pair after his glance over your pink leotard under a grey tilted baggy t shirt long enough to be like a dress with black leg warmers in a tilt from your clear rush from your usual lunch after rehearsals for your show. “Your show’s on Thursday, right?”

You nodded, “Ya, double show,” he chuckled awkwardly as you looked over his face again, “Well I can’t wait, we got tickets,” Your brows inched up and he turned his head to the ringing phone Elrond raised his arm to pat around for the receiver he pulled under the covers.

“Hello?”

Wetting your lips you replied, “Ya, I’ve seen your show too. It’s really good. Your part too.”

“I dance with a guy in an Elk costume.” He playfully retorted making Elrond chuckle behind his hand remembering the act popping up seven times in the two hour long play.

You nodded sending your bun bobbing making him smirk at a strip of curls breaking loose across your face you blew away only for it to swing back into your face, “I doubt anybody could get that shimmy jete combo down like you,” making him mouth scrunch up and his head tilt back in a sharp inhale to hide his embarrassment.

Elrond mumbled, “No, we’re not going to the pool party.”

At that you gasped saying, “Pool party, shit!” Turning you grabbed your bag saying, “Sorry, I promised I’d go and bring one of those stupid inflatable flamingos, which I have to buy…”

Thranduil said, “Turin’s shop has some! Elrond call him,” he leapt over the couch parting your lips in his rush to his bedroom, “Meet you in the lobby in twenty!”

Elrond peeked out from under the covers and you glanced at him with brows raised and waved then pointed to the door, “Guess, I’ll be, going…” He nodded, “Again, sorry,”

He shook his head and hung up the phone to dial Turin’s number, “Not a problem.”

…

That was how it began, a masterful friendship, keyword, friendship. A lap top seat offered by your cousin and an advance from a highly flirtatious brunette. The mistake was cleared up within a month but by then there was a third date planned, so friends you remained with his hope that things might change before long. Though somehow it always seemed that you were trains just barely missing one another in the station of life. All through art school and into the beginnings of your careers your lives blended together and a solid support system was formed no matter what.

It was clear for all to see how evident the love was there and after nights out together in your hectic schedules with his acting jobs, your dancing and Elrond’s makeup and special effects careers led you both together and apart to mingle with the rest of your group. Relationships came and went, for the men at least. Elrond, Glorfindel and Elros all settled into their own relationships while Thranduil slammed hard into absolute enamor-ment with his girlfriend quickly leading them to an engagement.

From one wedding to another you claimed your seat and ignored the stares of those around you when your plus one was never claimed. You weren’t alone, you just didn’t want to bring another one of your dates the guys always hounded to their special days, group dinners once a month was enough. They weren’t bad guys, they were wonderful, from doctors to a trio of firemen you had happened across in your very safety conscious part of town you lived in across from their usual lunch spots, they just never seemed to be ready to commit, something you never pushed on because if you were honest you weren’t either. At least not with them.

Panic flooded Thranduil and all the way through the planning for the big day it only got worse and it wasn’t until he was ready to throw his tie he couldn’t secure that Elros grabbed him and claimed the tie from Glorfindel saying, “Don’t take it out on the tie that you proposed to the wrong woman.”

Thranduil’s lips parted in a scoff and Elrond added in fixing the buttons over his middle on the tailed jacket, “Come on now, you dated her to make Tiny jealous when you didn’t know the guy she was with was her cousin.”

Thranduil, “I love-,”

Glorfindel, “We’re not saying you don’t love Kiki, we’re saying you love Tiny more.”

Those words echoed in his mind, for twenty four years since that wedding, where his wife should have been the one cast in moonlight in a sea of glowing petals in a melodic choir slow motion agonizing sea of flashbacks replaying through the entirety of his marriage.

He did love her, and he was faithful to her. He was the best Husband a woman could ask for both when he was home and when things had to go long distance when his roles took him away from her. She had her freedom as did he and he encouraged her in her avant-garde art shows until she made a name for herself in that world easing her mildly hidden jealousy of his fame to a low simmer until he helped use his name to help build up the attendance on her shows.

Her jealousy though never did cease when your name came up and from a single mention to Elrond’s wife Celebrian on her thinking of saying something to Thranduil about him having to choose between you that single scoff in their early dating years made it clear who would win. Your shows were non negotiable, your group visits she tolerated that when you were in the room he would be focused on learning more about the changes in your life. It bothered her, at first, but then even she saw it, you were staying away for her, there was little physical contact to none and never pushing any visits or anything close to something that could change any future plans except for five times, and each time was offered to her, not him. Clearly you knew the rules, who had the ring and who had won his heart and after a few years of hearing how little family you had even she had begun to believe that you had thought of your group as family.

Twenty four years however was a long run, and was nothing to be scoffed at, in fact the weight of it hurt all the more as the stress of her career and time apart from Thranduil had sent her into the arms of another. It wasn’t just another fling, it was a slow burn over the years with the gallery owner who showed her art, a shoulder for her when her façade broke before a show. A decade now all she wanted was to complete their perfect life, yet a lazy ovary and a hard kept schedule for her fertility with his latest string of six month filming jobs halfway across the world between two month tiny tv spots only worsened the matters.

A positive pregnancy test however was finally achieved, though only after they had decided to sleep apart to calm down and try to return to their relationship outside of the sexual and reproductive side while they approached having a family through a surrogate and a donor egg. A family friend, Hobbit no less, had gotten the pregnant results without trying it seemed and that must have ticked a switch in Kiki’s lazy ovary, because after eight months of sleeping apart she faced the horrifying aspect of sharing that she had her perfect man and little family she always wanted.

To his credit Thranduil took it well, she had seen him angry, she had seen him furious and outside a twitch of his eyebrow he remained almost painfully calm in the whole matter. The papers were easily drawn up, they had kept separate accounts and all that was left was the house, which they both hated the neighbors in so he kept the deed to the new house they had bought and she had followed through to moving in with her new man to start planning their nursery. All together twenty four years was neatly wrapped up in the minimum two months the courts had demanded, and the dream crib she had wanted was achieved all the easier with a big bow alongside a pair of tickets for the cruise she had always wanted to go on for her and her new fiancé. The perfect husband, and the perfect ex, she wanted a baby, husband home each night and a lovely home perfectly furnished to invite friends and family over to, with her art to escape into.

“I’m Pregnant.” The words he had wanted to hear for so long, and yet in his mind, he had been home for eight months and had been away for five before that. Clearly it wasn’t his and with how hard it had been to try and schedule nights to conceive and he really didn’t need to hear who it was, he could tell she had leaned on him. A grin here and there when saying his name, just how she had once said his, he never pushed her away from him, after all how fair would that be when his heart had been breaking over making himself lose you. He had to honor his commitment though, and never make her pay for what she didn’t ask for.

At the table he inhaled and simply stood almost making her flinch if not for his turn away to the office nearby, from which he brought out a pad and pen. All the details were drafted out and for three hours everything was listed and each room was divided to his and hers ending with the arrival of their lawyers that had been called at the beginning of it. To their shock it was already drawn up on legal pads and all that was left was to have it officially printed and for her lawyer to drive her to her new home to share the news while he had to head to work.

She felt bad she had waited till then to do it when he needed to focus. The worry was unnecessary as though it did sting to be cheated on past that all he felt was free. A quarter of a century and he was finally free to tell you how he felt. You had been single for half a year now since a cheating ordeal of your own with a Doctor caught slipping on a different type of glove for someone other than you when you had shared your offer of help to your best friend.

The news was shared and as usual when he was down and out you came to the rescue, planning a weekend trip away for the whole group. Grinning madly he climbed in his car and started to drive eager to get there early even if it meant having to wait hours for even you to arrive in your usually over early habitual ways.

An offer was made, Thranduil was struggling and it sort of just exploded out of you, “Use my eggs.” Instantly you had to lay down on the floor of your kitchen leaving the tea you had been waiting for later to calm yourself through the rest of the conversation. Details were traded over the email and when this was through you swore to yourself that you had to break this tie, you had to let him go. This was getting to where you couldn’t breathe and almost on the edge of tears, and now you had said basically that he could have your dream baby and raise it with someone else.

Work had been ruthless lately and sure you had little time for dating, a great thing after your recent discovery about your ex, and yes you wanted babies too, something the hormones to donate only made worse. Sure you would be a part of the child’s life but if you were anywhere close hopped up on hormones on your worst day you couldn’t deny the thought of abducting Thranduil and your baby to run off together somewhere she could never find you. Ring or not, she had what you had burned for inside and out and your patience was wearing thin. Sometimes the strongest way to say I love you is goodbye, or at least that was what you told yourself each night.

The apartment you shared with your ex was now belonging to someone else and halfway to homeless with all packed in a moving truck to fill a storage bin countries away a phone call came from the father you hadn’t heard of since you were a teenager halted you in your tracks. Turning around almost at the border you made your way until at the airport straight to the private airstrip you found your baby half sister being helped off your father’s private jet, little red headed hazel eyed Tauriel all of four years old along with all her belongings were loaded up into your car for the drive to a five star hotel. Just like he’d dropped you when you were a child at your gran’s and never looked back, only contacting you on birthdays and holidays to send checks like his other children before you.

Giddily the three year old bounced on top of the bed while you secured plans to move in to your Gran’s pool house for a short time until you could find a place of your own. Hanging up at the arms looping around your shoulders after leaving a message to Ecthelion about his latest listings you would need to look at you turned to play with your sister and tire her down before dinner and then bed to a film of your choosing. The future you had planned changed rather drastically, but you hoped at least having her here you might be a lot less psycho possessive over the baby you had helped Thranduil conceive.

It only took a week for Tauriel to settle into her new life here really as she was just down the street from your friends and their children she bonded with right away in your weekly dinners, the latest of which had you almost screaming. “Divorced? Since when?! We were just at their anniversary dinner!”

Glorfindel shrugged saying, “None of us saw it either, it all went down quietly in the minimum two months, but apparently she’s found someone else,”

Elros snorted and set down his drink he had almost choked on saying, “You’re missing the biggest part,”

Elrond swatted his arm as you twirled your untouched glass of wine between your fingers above your lap, “Apparently she’s pregnant too, getting her dream family finally.”

Thunderously your heart raced and you asked trying to hold back your tears, the expression on your face making the men inch closer to you at how deeply his pain had continued to affect you. They caught the same ‘fix it’ flinch in your gaze and they realized they had to act to stop this plummeting plane crash you were strapped into. You had loved him, been faithfully there for all of them, far from clingy except when you truly needed someone and always you were all in to defend or protect when possible. The marriage was one thing, but clearly at the offer of donating an egg Thranduil should have seen it, he should have drawn the line and yet he didn’t the thought of a baby with you was too much to pass up and he didn’t realize that he wouldn’t be raising your dream baby with you but in fact hurting you by taking it away and out of your reach.

Not leaving it to chance Glorfindel said, “We should go up to the cabin this weekend. Just like in school, to start over the right way. Campfires, some drinks, burgers, smores. Go back to the good old days.”

You couldn’t argue, not when they kept on bringing up past stories and before long they had walked you back to your gran’s and gotten her to agree to watch Tauriel for the weekend for your trip. In their stroll back they had called Thranduil and shared the news himself, only fibbed a bit saying you had brought up reliving your glory days up in the cabin that was your group getaway.

Packed and ready you were off in your car, not as early as you had hoped after packing just a bit too much to prep for anything, especially when each time before you had been missing something each time you had gone up there leading to your laughable trio of suitcases the men would no doubt laugh at. Hours the path from the city to the country you drove tapping your fingers and humming awkwardly loud to the song on the radio trying to force yourself to be calm remembering the days by the lake and lounging in the hammock outside the cabin on lazy days no doubt bringing you face to bare pectorals with that recently divorced best friend of yours. Still to get back at him, subconsciously of course, you’d packed that same bikini from that pool party your friendship began in prepping for, tiny and neon that hugged you perfectly keeping his eyes so hungrily on you all night before whatever you did that turned him off of you.

The welcome of the long dirt road through the post card perfect town you passed seemingly readying for something brought you up to a tire track bearing dirt drive through a set of winding hills up to the two story wood cabin resting under an oddly grey sky. Shifting your gaze downwards you spotted a familiar truck mostly unloaded and the front door to the cabin open. Parked beside the truck you opened the door and huffed at the blast of cold air shockingly far from the late summer temperatures from the city surely scared off by whatever storm was coming. Unbuckled you climbed to your feet and closed the door behind you then strolled around the back of it to grab the final two bags from the back of the truck containing blankets and pillows making you smirk.

Up to the door you strolled hearing boot steps coming closer to the open door. At the base of the front steps you looked up seeing a fellow blonde bun bearing Elf, “Hey Hot Pants Man.”

Rolling his eyes that same smirking chuckle broke from him spreading an instinctual smirk from you at his retort, “Bout time Squirtle Girl.” He said grabbing a bag from you turning to look you over in your own long sleeve shirt hanging over the tops of your favorite jeans covering most of your boots, an outfit similar to him except for his flannel and leather jacket over it he hadn’t worn in years you loved to steal from him back in school.

Peering around you said, “Colder than I thought it’d be.”

He nodded and added the bag to the spare room he’d filled with his other supplies making you smirk wider as your not being the only one to over prep. “Yes, seems we’ve beaten a storm in.”

“A, hope the guys get through alright.”

Thranduil chuckled, “No doubt Glori will love flooring it through the storm like the old days. He’d race after a Balrog that one.”

You giggled widening a smile across his face, “Oh yes, just like that one tornado.”

“Yes. Exactly, Celebrian’s in labor and he’s off chasing tornados for the perfect picture.”

You shook your head, “I honestly am so concerned for his parents, how they manage to live knowing he’s out there on his own left to his whims,” making Thranduil laugh in his turn to join you out to your car.

“How’s Tauriel? Elros texted me about her. How, is that affecting things, he said you were thinking about moving.”

You nodded, “Ya,” opening your trunk making him laugh at the suitcases and bags of food you had bought along the way, “Don’t laugh, Mr I packed my whole bed with supplies.”

He shook his head, “Just, like minds. You were saying?” Taking up armfuls to carry in behind you and your supply.

“Well, I moved out, got a moving truck,” at that his heart was racing wondering if you had still wanted to move after this, “Got to the border when my dad called. Was just in time to pick her up at the airport,” you set down the bags of food in the kitchen he helped you put away, “Asshole sent her off alone on a jet. Well, gran let me rent her pool house and Ecthelion is coming up with a list of houses for me to look at.”

Turning again you went to grab your suitcases you brought inside into your usual room. Once again you had peered up at Thranduil at his awkwardly silent self ending when he blurted out, “Take a hike,” Your brow ticked up, “We, we should take a hike. If the guys are going to be late, no use in just waiting around, and we can break into the old pattern after our usual trail. They should be here by then.”

With a nod you replied, “Sure, sounds good.” Grabbing your jacket you pulled it on following him to the door he locked behind you both and led the way off to your usual path with his hands buried in his pockets.

Not long into the walk he stole another glance down at you seeing you reach out to grab a tall stalk with a tiny bundle of white flowers on the end you couldn’t quite remember the name of you spun between your fingertips. Hastily he wet his lips then said, “I got divorced.”

Glancing up at him you nodded, “I heard. You could have said something.”

He shook his head trying to ease the hint of pain in your voice, “It, it’s really hard to describe.” He sighed, “We just, it was the distance, and it all seemed so easy, and then the fertility came up, and my work pressed that harder for her stress on trying to schedule ovulation and all that. She suggested sleeping alone, for months before, to try to, date again I guess, rekindle things. Well, she did relax, and fell harder for the gallery owner, which I support, he was there for her, loves her, can give her what I couldn’t.”

He wet his lips again and blurted out looking at you, “I’m keeping the baby,” freezing in place you looked up at him, “Not, that I never would have, I always was,” he sighed and shook his head then started over, “I wanted you to know, my plans on that front haven’t changed.” With tears in your eyes he inhaled again and you nodded and took another step making him tear his hand from his pocket to grab your arm turning you, “Tiny.”

Facing him again you shook your head and sniffled wiping a stray tear from your cheek, “I’m a terrible person.”

Stepping closer his hands settled on your arms, “You’re nothing of the sort!”

“I wanted to help you. So much.” His eyes narrowed trying to hold back his own ache to cry at your tears, “You wanted a baby, and I wanted to help you. Then I did,” you sniffled again and his lips parted just barely, “Then it hit me, it’s a baby, and suddenly I had nothing to do with it, so I wanted to leave,” Your voice cracked and he moved close drawing you into his chest feeling a tear stream down his cheek finally realizing what he’d done. “I’m such a terrible-,”

“You are not terrible. Nothing of the sort!” Reaching down he curled his fingers under your chin he tilted it back, “I am so sorry. I am the one who should apologize. Just assuming that having a baby with you to raise with someone else, how hard that would be. For Bella, it’s not her egg, she’s been a surrogate before, from a family where that’s a common gift. I should have known how hard that would be for you. This is not just my baby, it’s ours, and the papers are going to say that. As soon as that test went positive I knew it would be hard to have a piece of you and trying to push you into an awkward triangle of parenting where you would be pushed aside when you were the one who gave me this baby. I never knew how hard this would be, and I am so, infinitely sorry for not sitting down to actually think it over, especially for you.”

Unable to think of what to say you nodded and kept walking on and you said, “I found a cute crib.”

Making him smirk down at you as you dried your cheeks with your sleeves. “Oh? Do tell.” For nearly an hour in the dropping of the temperature you chatted strolling closer and closer together all the way under the darkening clouds above all the way around back to the cabin again.

Outside it you looked around saying, “How are they still not here?”

Thranduil shrugged, “Maybe they left a message.” You nodded and followed him up the steps into the cabin saying, “You check the machine, I’ll start on the fire.”

Over to the fireplace he went and crouched while you made for the phone seeing a blinking light on the message machine. Finger outstretched you hit the button and Elros’ voice filled the empty cabin, “Tiny, Thran, ya, turns out there’s a big storm headed out to the cabin and there’s one brewing here at home. Sniffles are going round through our little ones and we can’t leave our Love’s alone in this, so, you two enjoy the weekend, maybe if things pick up we might make it out tomorrow if we can beat the storm.”

The scent of a comforting fire filled the room and you caught Thranduil’s eye with a quick grin, “So, sniffles.”

Nodding back he replied smoothing his palms together trying not to seem too anxious to be alone with you, “Supper then.”

Precooked pot roast, your favorites of his recipes, was put in the oven to warm up and already he was beaming lighting the lanterns along the walls and on the table when the sky darkened even more. Wine from dinner soon bled into whiskey and the bag of smores supplies was too much to ignore anymore. Under the flickers of stars through the spreading clouds a warm fire pit was lit and your giggle filled mess of a conversation continued on between sloppy bouts of feeding one another smores. Only delving into more giggling trips down memory lane as his playful nip at your fingers had come without just a splash more of liquid courage to take it as anything but the liquor fueled accident you assumed it to be.

Up again in a rocking fit of laughter you were seated on blankets and pillows around the campfire with flickers of stars shining in the sky both adjusting the spare blankets wrapped around you for extra warmth. Wetting his lips Thranduil beamed at you brightly as you said, “Miss Marya, and those daily questions on the board. Oh, her favorite,” Thranduil laughed again remembering the one you meant and then nipped at his lip aching to just close the distance and kiss you. “If you had the power to change one person’s life, how would you do it?” Giggling again in his chuckling downing of the last of the whiskey you passed him, looking him over with a lick of your lips in doing so. “What about you? What would you do?”

A single adorable tick of your brow and the bottle fell from his hand at his side to the blanket. Over his shoulders the blankets around him shifted in his cupping of your cheeks, warmly his lips crashed into yours molding against them in the slip of his knee knocking you onto your back. Still holding your cheeks a slip of his thumb dipped between your mouths in a moments pause for him to shift his left leg between yours with his right. And in the darkened gaze up at him and the flick of your tongue against his fingertip the hungry kiss began again with tongues searching blindly for a common rhythm in the mingling of hums. Up around his neck your hands slid keeping him from drawing back again when his hands fumbled the blankets from between you to wrap you around him under his blankets and himself for warmth. A gasping glance up at the clouds releasing a single snowflake was the least clear moment you had in the dip of his lips down the side of your neck.

Nestled under the covers a final crack of the dying fire your eyes flickered open in Thranduil’s waking grumble retracting his foot under the covers at the cold, still wrapped around your chest holding you tightly his lips met your neck in your reach up from his back to pull the covers back. “Feels colder.”

Lifting his head Thranduil squinted into the night then felt his eyes snap wide open at the dip of snow you were both in he looped your legs around his middle. And he brought all your snacks, shoes, clothes and blankets between the two of you in the cocoon of blankets he covered you for the trot through the snow to the front door. Giggling to yourself you stayed in his hold while he pushed the door shut with his foot and reached out to lock it, as if that could keep the cold away from you. Straight to the living room where your former snuggling pit was he set you down and coiled up in his blanket after covering you in yours to relight the fire. Again he nipped at his lip and hurried back to you pulling more of the still slightly warm comforters he’d brought to cover your snow coated blankets he tossed away along the wall and wrapped his arms around you laying at your side.

Swallowing dryly he looked you over and his hand sank from your hip over the thigh you shifted to lay on top of his leg, “Are you busy Thursday?”

With a smirk he hummed back, “I’m fairly certain we’ll still be here Thursday.”

Easing your arms around his neck you sighed back deepening his smirk in the subtle tug bringing him against you again, “What ever shall we do?”

He shrugged and playfully replied, “I’m certain we could think of something. Decorating our home for one,” kissing your cheek sweetly then moving his lips back to your neck to hum again, “planning a nursery,”

“Our home?”

Drawing back he cupped your cheek to lock eyes with you, “Oh you’re moving in with me, you and Tauri both. It’s still all boxes, nothing close to ready for our baby.”

Playfully you smirked up at him, “You really think I would just move in with you like that? I mean, I’m going to need a little something extra to convince me.”

“Oh really? How expensive is this something extra?”

You shrugged, “I might settle for you wearing those hot pants of yours to bed.” Making him roll his eyes and crash his lips into yours again wrapping your legs and arms around him in his move above you again muffling your giggles through his deep chuckle

Truly the storm did pick up, and sure enough well into the next week you were trapped, though to keep as much time to make up for lost time you were still enjoying your break when the guys arrived eager to see if you’d coupled or killed each other after the phones going down due to the now passed storm.

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

X Thranduil - @evyiione, @sweetlytenacious25, @tigereyesf, @pastelhexmaniac

#Theincaprincesswritingchallenge #30daywritingchallengebytheincaprincess #hobbit #lotr #Thranduil x Reader OC #Snowed In

15 notes · View notes

runningonmarvel · 5 years

Text

be my valentine ch. 1

Happy Valentine’s Day!!! @you-get-to-exhale-now-cyrus For your valentine’s day gift I have written two chapters of a multi-chapter Valentine’s Day-centric fic (and I will of course be finishing and posting the rest of the chapters in due time, but, these two chapters are pretty long so I figured it works). Anyways, I hope you like it and happy Valentine’s day!!

A/N: takes place the two weeks before Valentine’s Day in their junior year. wonah. bandi. tyrus. a few curses. unedited but enjoy!!

Chapter 1: Put Your Hand in Mine

You know that I want to be with you all the time.

Jonah snaps the headphones over his ears and half closes his eyes, back against the bench. It’s a romantic song, too peppy for his current mood, but he can’t stop listening to it. He taps one foot against on the tiled floor while Grant students shove by each other.

Oh darling, darling, baby you're so very fine

You know that I won't stop until I make you mine

He’s so sick of love songs. Andi loves them: Taylor Swift and Meghan Trainor and Beyonce. So maybe there’s a reason behind his newfound annoyance with sappiness on the radio. But this one keeps sticking in his head. Jonah imagines reaching out his hand and taking someone else’s. And for the first time in a very, very long time, the person holding his hand in his imagination isn’t Andi. And it’s not Amber, or Natalie, or anyone else.

As half of Grant high school shoves by him, Jonah pushes the headphones down around his neck. He can hear his heart pounding way-too-loudly in his chest, and there’s a continuous beat and song inside his head.

Until I make you mine

And all he can think is: just in time for Valentine’s Day.

————

“Driscoll, catch!” Andi ducks out of the way just in time for Buffy to catch the miscellaneous basketball team member’s thrown shoe. She stares at it in confusion, but Buffy just shoves it into her backpack, gives a quick wave of thanks to the girl sprawled out on the bench, and turns back to Andi.

“Eleanor took my shoe on accident,” she explains, but Buffy’s eyes have already moved on from this conversation. They drift upwards to the large pink banner strung across Grant’s entrance, which is currently being pinned up and decorated with paper heart chains. Andi doesn’t stop to consider how an extra shoe can be taken accidentally and instead gapes up at the poster.

“Since when do we have a Valetine’s Day Dance?” Andi asks.

As if summoned by the deity of high school cheesiness, Student Council president Kip Warren steps into their path. “Since you juniors started sucking at raising money for our prom. We’re having a fundraiser dance—you buy candygrams and roses for people for three times the prices we bought them for. And we’re using that money to pay for a real prom, not one which you idiots scheduled in someone’s garage.” Kip storms away, and a lone senior—one of Amber’s friends—starts applauding.

“He’s way too salty. I heard that our student council planned a good prom but he’s just picky and annoying. Ugh,” Buffy says, glaring after him.

“And they’re probably spending more money on this dance then they’ll make from a few candygrams, honestly.” Andi bends over to grab a cardboard heart, which she reattaches to the wall.

“Cyrus is going to have a field day, though,” Buffy says. She looks curiously over at Andi. “Do you think you’ll go?”

Andi feels something rush through her: undeserved indignation, maybe, accompanied by an annoying blush she wishes would go away. “I mean… are you?”

“I would suggest the Good Hair Crew go, but you already know Cyrus is dedicating this night to his boy.” Buffy shrugs. “We could go together? Single and unattached?”

If Andi were eating cereal right now, she would choke. She hasn’t been to any date-requiring function since her year-long disaster of a breakup with Jonah. And now Buffy Driscoll had the audacity to stand in front of hear with her cheeks blushed dark and her eyelashes clipping her cheeks and ask her to the dance.

“I mean—sure! Maybe Amber could go with us too?”

“You don’t think Amber is going to ask Iris? I think she’ll finally get the nerve to do it. I should probably make a bet on it,” Buffy considers, digging for her wallet and frowning slightly.

“Maybe we should ask boys?” Andi counters, suddenly. Buffy glances up at her, and the look in her eyes could kill.

“Maybe I’ll ask Natalie. She’s cute.”

Andi can’t even respond to that. So she does what she learned best from her mother; she changes the subject.

“So, Buffy. What’d you think of the movie you and Cyrus saw?” Andi tilts her head, meeting Buffy’s eyes again. She thinks of the cheesy block letters glued to the Valentine’s Day Banner: Will you be our Valentine? February 14th at 7. Two weeks away.

Buffy knows this game, but Andi watches her play along. “Best Summer of My Life 2? It was alright. Not as good as the first one. The love story kind of sucked—classic girl meets bad boy trope.”

“Wish I could have seen it,” Andi says, adjusting the straps on her backpack.

“Yeah, well. How was Iris’s?”

Andi has a momentary flashback to Amber and Iris chucking Skyzone dodgeballs at her while shrieking filled the general vicinity. Somehow, Iris had been convinced to have a birthday at a trampoline place, and somehow, Amber had been coerced into going along with it.

“Horrifying.”

Buffy laughs uncomfortably, and Andi can hear the nonexistent joke fall flat. How long has it been like this? How long has the Good Hair Crew been out of sync, and the tension between Buffy and Andi unbreakable?

Almost a year. Too long.

“Well, I’ve got Lit. See you later?” Buffy doesn’t bother waiting around for an answer to the question. She strides away, and it’s all Andi can do to avoid staring directly at the back of her head as she leaves.

“Ask Natalie,” Andi scoffs to herself, kicking at a spot on the ground. Cyrus would call her pettiness levels off the chart, but Andi doesn’t have any other way to react to Buffy. It’s not just the ever-rotating list of new girls; it’s Buffy’s obvious annoyance with Amber, it’s Buffy’s piercing eyes and sharp, true smile she hasn’t worn in so long. It’s Buffy’s acceptance of whatever is between them, while Andi flounders, trying to pretend she’s still in the waters of freshman year, when Jonah was her only problem.

When did the thoughts in her head get so complicated? Don’t answer that, she tells herself, because she already knows the answer. Andi lifts her phone from her pocket and starts absentmindedly scrolling through her old photos. There’s Cyrus and TJ sharing a milkshake with Buffy’s arms around them. There’s Amber trying on a faded leather jacket and Andi wearing a worn suit at the Thrift Store. Andi and her mom attempting gardening while Bowie laughed in their general direction. Buffy, Cyrus, and Andi holding on for dear life while ice skating two winters ago. Further back, there’s Jonah kissing Andi on the cheek, and Marty with his arm around Buffy and Andi with her arm around Jonah on some ridiculous double date. There’s a couple miscellaneous photos of Cyrus in his costume from the musical. And then, from about a year ago—

Andi’s cheeks color red. Red, like the sauce on Bex’s homemade pizza she recently learned to cook. Red, like the color of the Space Otters’ failed sophomore year uniforms. And she shuts her phone.

This is why it’s so hard to talk to Buffy. More than the color of her eyes or the defiance in her words, it’s the specific memory every time Buffy smiles at her. It’s the memory that’s controlling her.

Andi glances back at the Valentine’s Day banner, and sticks her tongue out just for good measure. She won’t let a stupid dance run by stupid Kip Warren control her too.

Then, from behind, a hand grabs her by the shoulder and starts dragging her backwards. Andi yelps, already running through the list of eight things she learned in self-defense class with Bex this summer. Quote: if you’re not a strong athlete your best hope is to hit where it hurts. Anywhere.” Andi is about ready to swing when the arm drags her into a closet and reveals the body attached to it.

“Cyrus?”

“Sorry,” he pants, as if the physical effort to kidnap her from the hallway was exhausting. “Top secret… information.”

“Oh?” Andi says, suddenly interesting. “Another cult?”

“Heck no,” Cyrus says. “I’ve got a plan for Valentine’s Day, for TJ. But I wanted to run it by you and Buffy first. And probably Jonah too.”

Andi starts to smile, leaning back against the shelves on the wall. “Spill.”

“Well… since his big game is on Valentine’s Day…” Cyrus leads in, unable to contain his grin.

“Go on.”

“I was thinking… we could all go… and hold up signs—“

“Signs for TJ! Valentine’s Day signs?!” Andi puts a hand over her mouth. “Cyrus, that’s adorable. No, it’s perfect!”

“Yeah, and I’d ask him to the dance, and we’d go afterwards, and hopefully he won his big game, and then the dance would be super romantic, and he could take the signs home and hang them up on the walls of his room, and we’d take polaroids before the dance in our suits, and you guys would be there—“ “Thought about it much?” Andi cuts in, but her lips curl upwards with excitement. The mention of the dance is the only sour bit—Andi doesn’t need that subtle reminder that she’ll never know how to not be awkward with Buffy about it. She’ll never know how to articulate what she wants, so she’ll be stuck watching TJ and Cyrus and maybe Buffy and Natalie or some other random girl get their perfect Valentine’s Days.

“Well, maybe a little. Anyways, do you like?”

Andi breaks out of her thoughts. “I don’t like, I love. When do we make the signs?”

“This weekend maybe? To be ready by that Friday?”

“You got it, Cyrus. Text Buffy, she’ll be thrilled.”

Cyrus narrows his eyes. “She will not. I’m betting she doesn’t want to help with the signs, so it might just be you and me.”

“Aw, Buffy’ll help if you ask her.” TJ and Buffy don’t fight anymore, but it suffices to say that they’re not exactly best friends.

“I’m already asking her to hold up one of the signs. And especially if she ends up with a crucial word—for example, Valentine—I can’t risk losing her support. I’ll just ask her about that and see how it goes.”

Andi smiles. “You and TJ have been dating for a year now, Cyrus.” Strange. A lot happened a year ago. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to hold up a sign. She just might not cheer for him.”

Cyrus nods, laughing a little. He types out a text on his phone to Buffy, sends it, then looks back up at Andi, looking a little panicked. “Should I tell Jonah? I need him to hold up the sign that says TJ. I don’t think he’s busy that weekend, the Otters don’t have a game—“ “Text him,” Andi reassures Cyrus. He nods and types out the text while still looking up at her.

“I need Buffy, Jonah, you, and Amber. I’ll text Amber and Jonah tonight.”

“You’re asking TJ’s sister to help with his Valentine’s Day ask?” Cyrus and Amber have been friends since middle school, and it’s still hard for Andi to wrap her head around sometimes that Cyrus is dating the brother of one of Andi’s closest friends and is additionally friends with her. It’s the type of friendship that thrives off drama, and Andi has a feeling that even if Cyrus and TJ break up (which it seems like they never will), Amber and Cyrus will be close until the ends of the earth.

“Of course. Who else was I supposed to ask? Walker?” Cyrus asks, giving Andi a look. It’s a group-acknowledged truth that Andi drove Walker from the group, even if Buffy was the last one who dated him. Walker hasn’t hung out with them for a year and a half now, except maybe a few times with Jonah. Andi misses him and his lovely creativity, but she doesn’t miss the drama he brought; Buffy was happier with Marty than with him, but then she was happier by herself than with Marty. Andi blinks slowly, realizing how this topic has made its way back to her again.

“Amber will be fine,” Andi assures, her mind not really on Cyrus or TJ. “You think she’ll finally get the guts to ask out Iris?”

Cyrus shrugs. “I hope so. Who are you going with, anyways? Not Jonah—“

“No.”

A pause.

“Jonah is my friend, yes. But I’m done being romantic with him.” Andi stops, because the words sound harsh, even if they are true. “Buffy and I are just gonna go together, like old times.”

Cyrus smiles a half smile, because old times would include him too. And all three of them know that they’ve moved on from old times. Maybe Andi the most. And yet.

“I’m gonna go find TJ now. Keep the plan under wraps, ‘kay? Friday afternoon we can pick out supplies?” “Glitter glue!” Andi says, and she can’t stop it from coming out like a squeal. “Count me in.”

Cyrus steps out, the brightness of his phone lighting up the dim closet, and leaves Andi alone, still against the wall.

Alone.

In the closet.

Andi nearly throws her phone across the room.

————

There are three parks in downtown Shadyside: the tiny one off the elementary school, the Valley Park where legend says a swamp monster lives, and Agley Park. Agley is where coffee shop people go to be in nature; it’s also, incidentally, Walker’s favorite place in town. The Saturday morning is crisp, with light winter fog in the air, and Agley looks like the rolling fields and forests of some picturesque Scottish village. The only piece of color barring the serenity is the hunk of metal in the middle of one of the squares; that hunk of metal, though, is what has drawn Walker downtown this early on a Saturday.

“It’s kind of… underwhelming?”

Walker ignores the voice to his right and keeps reading the printed plaque beneath the statue. Installed four weeks ago, reads the monotone font, the Rest of Infinity display serves as a reminder to all viewers of the eternity of space and its never-ending mystery. The 20-foot tall sculpture contains seventeen rotating pieces and thousands of tiny gears. The reflective paints were mixed by the artist herself, and the glass portions were blown by her as well. Walker is aching to reach for a sketchbook and draw it, but he promised himself that this time he would just look. So he does.

After a while, the same voice cuts in. “So maybe I’m starting to see why Cyrus can be such a science nerd sometimes…”

Walker looks over his shoulder at Amber Kippen, who is wearing a faux leather skirt and carrying a latte. They were in the same studio class—much to Walker’s chagrin at first, who had found Amber’s eclectic, relaxed approach to art to be flighty. But when Amber’s realism came out looking like a photographic negative, and when her paints were soft pastels that fit perfectly into her nature theme, then Walker decided to give up on judging before he knew things.

And now, lo and behold, Walker and Amber were visiting an art exhibition outside of school. Together. For fun.

“I really like the colors on the back few layers,” Walker says finally, and his voice sounds gravelly from lack of use. “And the way the black pieces spiral to infinity first, with the smaller pieces following behind.”

Amber nods, and Walker notes that she’s not really listening. “Do yo know who would love this?”

“Yeah?” Walker does know, because there’s only ever one right answer. But he holds off.

“Iris.”

Amber’s eyes get dreamy when she’s talking about Iris, her crush of many a year. Walker recognizes the look because it’s the look he used to see on Andi’s face when talking about Jonah. Buffy’s face when talking about Marty. The faces of people in love with someone else, not him.

“I’m sure she would, Her photography project is so cool, maybe she could take pictures of the statue—“

“I think I need to ask her to the dance,” Amber says suddenly. “It’s now or never, right? Senior year will be too late. It’s got to be now.” “What dance?”

Amber looks shocked, offended, horrified, embarrassed—everything on the list—that Walker is unaware of said dance. “Uh, Grant’s Valentine’s Day Dance. On account of the fact that Kip Warren and the dance team girls want prom to not be in someone’s basement this year. But Iris!”

Walker considers this, as they start to walk away from the statue and back toward Amber’s car. He listens to Amber’s list of reasons: “We texted all last night, and she ended with a heart, not me. We’ve held hands twice and been to four movies alone together. Her eyes are the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, and her bangs are so nice and her smile…”

In his head, Walker wants to make a comparison to something he’s feeling for another person. But he won’t let himself. Pretty eyes…hanging out alone together. His breath is catching, and Amber’s voice fades a little in the background. And that dance…

“Walker? Walker!” Startled out of a daydream, Walker feels Amber’s arm in front of his chest and suddenly sees the curb drop away in front of him. “Absent-minded much?”

“Call it an artist’s trait,” Walker says dizzily. He can’t stop thinking about the crush—shit, a crush—and it’s like the world is falling to pieces. It can’t be real, not over one movie and an air hockey game and a couple walks home from school. Maybe if he doesn’t think it, then it won’t be real.

“Walker.” Amber’s statement pulls him completely back to the surface, where he faces Amber’s scrutinizing gaze. “Are you going to ask anyone to the dance?”

Oh no. Walker opens his mouth to say something, and then doesn’t. They keep walking, but Amber’s eyes are staring him down with all the intensity she used to have as Grant’s resident mean girl. It’s the look she gets when she sees something she wants—or wants to know—and will do anything to get it.

“Um.”

“Um? Don’t give me that, Walker Brodsky. I spill my guts to you about Iris regularly. Now it’s your turn: who’s your crush?”

Walker blushes, reaching above his head to tug on a tree branch. “Amber, I—“

There’s a small voice in Walker’s head, and it’s trying to overcome the wave of anxiety he has about this situation. The voice is saying: Amber will understand.

Amber, who came out as lesbian when she was a freshman in high school. Amber, who goes to the LGBT alliance and activism meetings on a regular basis and cites it as her most important extracurricular, even more than dance or studio. Amber, who cries while listening to Heaven by Troye Sivan. Amber, who is staring at him right now with her Annabeth Chase-esque gray eyes and inquisitorial eyebrow raise. Amber, who has dated—

“Jonah.”

Amber doesn’t miss a beat, but Walker is already dizzy from the weight of the word.

“Jonah! Of all the people at school, you chose Mr. Heartbreak himself?”

“Um.”

Jonah is Mr. Heartbreak, isn’t he? Walker thinks of Andi, and the disaster that was the final six months of her and Jonah’s relationship. Jonah, who Andi always like more than him. Jonah Beck, who Walker first met at the art gallery, and then at the color factory, and then at canoeing. A couple months ago Walker ran into Jonah outside the skate shop, and they ended up making plans to see a movie in town they both wanted to see. Then, Walker started seeing Jonah more at school, and they were partners on a Bio assignment. The events keep spilling over themselves in his mind, and Walker feels two things: one, feelings. A crush. Like he had on Andi. The second thing is what has been washing over him for months and what kept him from telling Amber in the first place: he’s scared.

“Yeah,” Walker says, just to affirm it. “I like Jonah.” And there it is, again, the feeling in his chest of relief and anxiety all at once.

Amber nods as the rolling park ends and she clicks her key fob in the general direction of her station wagon. “Okay. Well, considering I’ve dated him, I’m probably authorized to give some advice—“

“No, Amber. He’s not even into guys; there’s no use thinking about it.” Walker slides into the passenger seat and takes out his phone from the glove box to start typing out notes about the statue.

“Walker, you never know. I mean, he’s never said that he does like boys, but he’s never said that he doesn’t—“

“That’s useless,” Walker says, keeping his eyes trained on his phone. “He’s straight, whatever. Let’s go home.” “Don’t play this card. You’re not the first person to fall for someone who you think is straight, and you won’t be the last, not by a long shot. Guess what? Jonah hasn’t said that he’s straight. So you have a chance. Don’t waste it.” Amber’s voice gets quiet at the end, as the grips the wheel of the still-parked car. Walker thinks of Iris, and he sees the pain of pining in Amber’s eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You can’t give up either.”

She shakes her head. “Yeah, whatever.” She sounds just like Walker did moments ago, but Walker doesn’t push.

“So…do you still want to give me some advice on Jonah Beck?”

Amber starts to laugh, and she reaches across to give him a shove. “Of course, Walker Brodsky. Of course.”

————

“Heads up!”

Buffy runs in anyway and snags the rebound away from TJ. She brings the ball back to the top of the key, eyebrows poised in challenge, and checks the ball to him. Then she pounds it into the floor, slipping beside TJ to get in an easy layup.

“That’s 18 to 17,” Buffy pants as TJ sets it back up.

“Careful, Driscoll, don’t get too confident,” TJ warns, crossing the ball to take a shot from just inside the three-point line. The ball circles the rim, achingly close to the net, but rolls back out and sinks to the court.

“Missed me, missed me, now you got to—“ TJ interrupts Buffy’s taunt with a shove, and Buffy laughs as she grabs the ball and shoves it back into his hands.

“I will not,” TJ says, “allow you to complete that sentence.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Buffy laughs. “Don’t worry, I have no interest.”

“Good,” TJ asserts, and his next shot is nothing but net.

Three points later and Buffy has won the game, but they don’t keep score, shockingly. One-on-one has become a daily occurrence after their respective practices, because TJ has to wait for rehearsal to end to drive Cyrus home anyways. Cyrus tried to convince him that he could just go home on the late bus, but TJ has insisted.

“Ready for next Friday?” Buffy asks, once they’re done playing and are just dribbling around.

“I hope,” TJ says, chucking the ball up with zero regard. Buffy catches it and looks over at him.

“You better be ready for Valentine’s Day. I know Cyrus is excited.”

TJ does a double take, and Buffy laughs like she’s caught him unaware. “Well, yeah I’m ready for Valentine’s Day. Or I will be. But the game—“ “Screw the game,” Buffy says, and drives the basketball into the ground. “I mean—sorry. Screw my game, not yours.”

“What’s up? How’s the team doing?” TJ holds his hands out, and she throws it at him. He’s always tried to be somewhat lenient towards Buffy in her captaining, because he knows it must be hard carrying the girls basketball program on her shoulders. When they came to Grant, Buffy had to leave behind her newly-founded middle school team for a program that’s only improvement on Jefferson’s was the fact that it was school-mandated. The past few years Buffy has been constantly trying to mend a rivalry with Kira while simultaneously attempting to take the team to the next level.

“We’re doing alright. But we’ll be playing teams in the region tournament that have AAU girls and are state-ranked. I don’t want to get eliminated in the first round, but that looks like what we’ll be getting. And I’m trying to deal with Kira, but I really can’t—“ Buffy stops.

TJ shakes his head. “You can’t be so hard on yourself, Buffy. Regionals is a hard tournament, and it’s okay if you guys—“

“No! It’s not,” Buffy shouts, and her eyes flash. TJ steps back, because this is starting to feel too much like middle school. “I have to do well, and you don’t get to talk to me like that. Why don’t you talk to me like you would a teammate—“ Buffy stops.

TJ knows some people think Buffy can be harsh, but she’s harder on herself than she is on anyone else. The thing about being friends with her is never knowing exactly how to handle it. If Cyrus were here, he would know, but Cyrus is onstage pretending to be Lysander from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“If you were my teammate, I would tell you to stop worrying and play the game. It goes how it goes. And I’d tell you to get along with Kira. You have to,” TJ says.

“Yeah,” Buffy breathes. “Sorry. Now pass me the ball.”

TJ obliges, and she dribbles in for a layup. He doesn’t know if he handled it right; but, he did something. Which is better than nothing. Now back to the matter at hand.

“So, Driscoll,” he calls. “What else has Cyrus said about Valentine’s Day?”

“That’s not for me to tell,” Buffy shrugs, starting to smile. “But I hope you’re taking him to the dance.”

“Uh, what kind of boyfriend do you think I am? Of course we’re going.”

“Alright, good,” Buffy says, taking a jump shot.

“And,” TJ says, excitedly, “It’ll actually be fun. We’ve got the games, which everyone is coming to, and then the dance in the gym. Cyrus is coming over after, and we’re going to bake cookies and watch a movie—“ “Okayyy, I do not need to hear about your big date,” Buffy cuts in. TJ bites the insides of his cheeks so she won’t blush, because he had been planning a sort of date with Cyrus. But Buffy doesn’t need to know that. “But you’re right, it’ll be sweet. If your idea of romance is dancing in a sweaty gym in the dark.” TJ, who had been jogging back from the ball rack where he put away the basketball, stops to put his hands on his hips. “While you may be a cynical human being, Cyrus is a romantic—“

“So are you, TJ Kippen, don’t even try.”

“I refuse to acknowledge that statement. Buffy, you must come to the dance. It’s a part of the high school experience: the big game and then the sweaty prom.”

“Sweaty prom.”

“Sweaty prom!” TJ yells and does a spin around the gym. It’s exhilarating, he thinks, to have caring friends and a team he love to be on and a boyfriend who likes him back and has for over a year. And speaking of said boyfriend—

Cyrus enters the gym, and they both hear his hard-soled theater shoes from across the room.

“Cyrus!” Buffy shouts, and runs over to him. TJ follows. “Save me from TJ, he’s trying to force me to go to… wait for it… the dance!”

Cyrus snorts, and swings his drawstring bag over his shoulder. “TJ, are these accusations trustworthy?”

“Very,” TJ says, pulling in Cyrus under his arm.

“In that case, I support them. Buffy, we need you to go the dance! Who else will ridicule their music choices and teach Gus how to do the cha cha slide?” “First of all, the instructions are in the song. Second of all—“ Buffy’s phone dings from inside her pocket, and she stops immediately to check it. TJ raises his eyebrows at her as she frowns at the tiny screen, then stops frowning and smiles a tiny bit. TJ runs through in his mind who it could’ve been—not Marty, who Buffy parted with freshman year. He shrugs it off—a mystery for another time.

“Got to go,” Buffy says, and rushes off to the locker room.

“Buffy,” Cyrus calls, then shakes his head. “She’s been weird lately. I’m not sure what’s up.”

TJ nods absentmindedly, then turns to Cyrus. “How was rehearsal?”

Cyrus’s eyes go wide. “Some freshman dropped a set piece on Amber and she broke her pinky!”

“WHAT.” TJ feels his voice get quiet.

“Yeah, it’s okay though, it’ll be healed in two weeks. Show isn’t for another month. She said it feels fine.” “Fucking—sorry, fricking—freshman. Idiots, all of them,” TJ says, pulling Cyrus by the hand over to the bleachers so he can grab his bag.

“Can’t argue with that,” Cyrus shrugs, and they start to head to TJ’s car. “Oh, and Amber told me to tell you she’s staying out late tonight, so don’t wait up for her.”

“She’s going out with a broken pinky?”

“She’s got a tiny cast; she’ll be alright.” TJ squints, unconvinced. “Anyways, how was your practice?”

TJ pulls Cyrus against his side. “The usual, you know. You’re bringing the whole gang out to the games on the 14th, right?”

He nods and wraps his arm around TJ’s waist. “I can’t wait.” Then he does that Cyrus-smile: with his lips upturned to his cheeks, and his eyes intense. “It’s Valentine’s Day too, you know,” he says sweetly.

“Oh, trust me,” TJ says. He puts both his arms on Cyrus’s shoulders and pulls him into a kiss. “I know.” Cyrus blushes when he pulls away, and TJ spins him towards the car.

“Movie tonight?” Cyrus asks. TJ bites his lip, then shakes his head.

“I wish. I’ve got precalc homework which is going to take me approximately four hours,” TJ says, slipping into the drivers’ seat. “Ms. Walters is evil, I swear.”

“I’ll be sending good luck in your direction,” Cyrus says as he buckles his seatbelt. TJ drives to Cyrus’s house, and on the way they listen to Billie Eilish and discuss the day’s events, their feelings towards pineapples, and Degrassi, their show. By the time TJ pulls into Cyrus’s driveway, it’s gotten dark and Cyrus’s eyelids are slipping closed. TJ smiles over at him and bops his nose with his index finger. Cyrus blinks awake, focuses on the house, and smiles a sleepy smile. Struck, as he is daily, by how cute Cyrus is, TJ leans across the seat and kisses him. Cyrus takes TJ’s hand, squeezes it, and tumbles out the door with his bags.

“See you tomorrow, underdog!” Cyrus turns to wave back at him, and TJ can still see the soft smile on his face.

As he drives away, TJ stops at the intersection that breaks off back to the Kippen house, and he takes a left instead of a right. He thinks about Cyrus’s excitement over Valentine’s Day and the dance as he pulls into the Target parking lot. Cyrus Goodman, he thinks, his own smile filling his features, you deserve the world.

#andi mack #am gift exchange #friendom gift exchange #valentines exchange #wonah #bandi #tyrus #writing #fanfic

32 notes · View notes

jasntodds · 6 years

Text

Bottle Of Red, Case Of Blues [t.h.]

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: Drinking, Angst, fluff, hints of sex (??)

Prompts:

"This is the moment.”

Summary: “Afraid to call and see what's good or is it simply understood there's a reason you don't want me around.” - Want Me Around

A/N: Italics are flashbacks! This is for @madmadmilk ‘s madmadsummer! Also, reminder that I’m removing everyone who doesn’t interact from my tag list!! Lemme know if you like/comment/reblog from a different account!

Masterlist

The bottom of Tom’s black socks and his blue pajama pants kept him seated on the shingles of his roof. His knees are bent and his arms are rested on top of them, a bottle of Jack held in his hand as he overlooked the backyard. Crickets could be heard when cars weren’t passing by the and the moon illuminated the landscape. It smells just like summer, a happy-go-lucky season and yet he’s alone on his roof, drinking past midnight.

Tom was crazy about you. Goosebumps and butterflies were permanent feelings and features when you were around. He swore you’d be the death of him if not from your laugh and horrible jokes, then the way you made his heart feel like it was going to combust with a single touch. You just made him so happy and he smiled like an idiot when you texted him. His friends and brothers teased him but he brushed them off because he had you so nothing else mattered.

He remembered the first time he took you on a date. It was mid-June and it happened to be on the chilly side despite the summer season. Tom had the idea to go out for dinner and then take you to one of the parks with a lake where you could see the stars. It’s cliche but you didn’t mind. Tom’s a walking hopeless romantic and it was cute.

“This has to be the most cliche thing I’ve ever done.” You state, your arm locked with Tom’s as he lead you closer to the lake.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks, his brows raised.

“No,” You chuckle. “Of course not.”

“Good.” He takes a sigh of relief.

Normally, Tom isn’t nervous but he really wanted to impress you. He wanted the night to go perfectly and even though the waiter had mixed up your orders and he nearly spilled wine on your clothes, it’s gone smoothly.

He lead you to a bench and offered you his jacket while he wrapped his arm around you. You sat on that bench with your head leaning on him and soft music playing from his phone as you looked at the stars by the lake that glimmered against the moonlight. It really was the perfect date and that’s the night Tom decided he’d be careful with you, make sure nothing happens and you go on your pace. Not his.

Tom’s hand gripped the bottle tighter as he brought it to his lips. The alcohol burned his throat but he didn’t so much as wince with the sensation. He’s used to it by now and part of him even enjoys it. It’s momentary relief from the pain he has no control over. At least when he drinks, it’s something he can control. It might help memories fade but it also helps ground him. It’s an odd combination but it works.

Tom unlocks your phone, your messages on display, and he catches the time, just after two in the morning. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, his grip tightening around the device. Flashes of you cross his mind as if you were right in front of him. 2AM. It’s a special time and now the only thing he can think about is the first time he kissed you and he has to chuckle because the only reason he remembers the time is because you’d missed the train back to London so you and Tom had to catch a later one.

“Hey, at least we got be together longer.” Tom smiles, sitting beside you.

“Yeah, but we both have work in the morning. We’re gonna be dead.” You roll your eyes but a smile is softly tugging at your lips.

Tom looks at his watch and back to you. “Yeah, but,” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s an adventure.”

“Yeah?” You laugh, eyes widening as you turn to face him.

“What do’ya call a train ride at two in the mornin’, darling?”

“An accident.” You quip, but the smile stays.

“An awfully great accidental adventure.”

“That’s a mouthful.” You toss your head back, laughing.

Tom watches you laugh, himself softly chuckling with you and you’re so special. It’s only your second date and he’s head over heels. It was supposed to just be a fun day in a town away from London, just because. Neither of you had set plans, you just wanted to go and it turned out to be one of the best days Tom’s ever had and it’s because he was able to spend it with you. His fingers were intertwined with yours nearly the whole time, if not, his arm was around your shoulder or your waist. He couldn’t keep his hands off of you but it was always innocent and unexpecting. Gentle.

As your laughing subsided, Tom gathered up his courage. “Would it be alright if I kissed you?” He grins and all you do is nod.

Tom cupped your face and pulled you into him, his lips against yours. The kiss is soft at first but quickly becomes eager and needy. Butterflies exploded through Tom’s body, his bones aching, wishing he’d asked hours ago. His heart picks up in his ears and he swears this is the best kiss he’s ever had.

“This is the moment.” You giggle, just barely pulling away from his mouth.

“What?” Tom raises a brow before pressing another kiss to your lips.

“I've been waiting all day for you do that.” You pull away just enough to whisper the words, Tom chuckling in response.

“Guess I’ve to make up for it then, ya?” Tom wiggles his brows, bringing your mouth back to his

A car door slammed form the neighboring driveway, pulling Tom back to reality. He sighed and took another drink, his hand lightly shaking. He curses himself for the light tremor while he watches his neighbor slam the back door of the car. His neighbor seemed angry about something or another and for the life of Tom, he can’t quite bring himself to care. He doesn’t care because the only thing running back through his head is you. It’s always you running through his head in a hard hit of memories. So, he locked his phone, knowing there’s no point and allowed memories to cloud him again. He remembered your first fight which happened to be the day he decided he really loved you.

“I can’t do this!” You screamed, a storm rumbling above you.

“Get in the fucking car! You’re gonna get sick!” Tom moved towards you after slamming his door shut.

“No! Leave me alone!” You yelled, turning on your heels and crossing your arms over your chest as you continued to walk down the street.

You and Tom had gotten into a fight. It started over something small but then it just escalated to everything neither of you wanted to say. You went in on him over a girl he had been hanging out with. He went in on you on never giving him space. The fight turned into a shitstorm. The next thing either of you knew, you were screaming that you were leaving and slamming his door behind you. It only took Tom a few minutes to swallow his pride and go after you.

“No, I’m not leaving your ass in the rain!” Tom jogs up to you, making you pick up your pace.

“Tom, go the fuck away.” You demand over the pouring rain.

“No!” Tom yells.

“God, get out of my fucking face, Thomas!” The use of his full name nearly makes him start screaming all over again.

“This is stupid!” Tom yells over the thunder echoing in the streets.

“Is it?” You challenge, stopping dead in your tracks to face him.

“Yes! It is! Now get in the bloody car!”

“This isn’t stupid! You just want me to go with you so you won’t feel guilty if something happens!”

Tom looks up for a split second, the veins in his neck popping out with his anger. “Of course I’ll feel guilty! Because I never should have let you leave in the first place! I’m sorry, alright?” Tom rests his hands on your shoulders. “I am sorry! For everything I said. I don’t mean any of it.”

“You’re just saying that.” Your voice cracks with the lightning above you.

“No,” Tom shakes his head. “I mean it, I do.” You watch him, wanting to challenge him but before you can, he says the unexpected. “I love you.” Tom says and it’s the first time he’s said it.

“You love me?” You ask and part of you thinks he’s lying but his eyes are telling you a different story.

“I love you and I’ve loved you since that day on the train! I should have told you-”

You stop his words, colliding your lips into his. Tom relaxes into you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against him. Your hands comb through his wet hair and the only thing that breaks your kiss is more thunder. You pull away and every ounce of annoyance and anger you felt towards him, evaporated. You smiled and shook your head.

“I love you, too!”

Tom shakes his head and finishes off what’s left in the bottle. He wishes that was the last of the fighting. He should have learned from that one, not to let you walk away. He should have learned to make you talk it out. But, he didn’t. He let his anger get the best of him and he’d pick fights and then you’d pick fights and it was a never-ending cycle. Slamming doors and raw throats. The last fight was the usual, jealousy. The fight went on and on until you swore you’d never come back if you left and Tom didn’t stop you.

“Tom?” A voice pulls his attention back. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He says, clearing his throat.

“Well, I’m awake, care for another round.” He can almost hear the devilish smirk dancing with the words.

Tom sighs, shaking the memories of you. “Yeah, coming.”

Tom gets up and is met by a girl leaning on his windowsill, the complete opposite you. Just another one night stand to try and help him get through the night. Another night without you.

Tag list: @thumper-darling // @spiderlingss // @negative-love // @sleepyboyholland // @tmrhollandkay // @peter-i-got-homework-parker // @carrotsunshine // @hasozterfield // @pickachurose // @pookiepookie8 // @catnolannn // @Finn-the-pigeon // @findawaytoglow // @Malecordie // @Somebodyoncetoldmeimsad // @brookssbabe // @mysteriouslyluckymoon // @hopelessdestielromantic // @zenzedana // @mikalaka // @Blackberryporcupine // @deanslittlebitch // @jxvnv // @shelteredheart // @50shadesoflaurmani // @Lisamnieto // @writingforbucky // @dangerousluv1 // @chayceschultz // @bellagrayson-wayne // @satan-chicken // @mysticsthinking // @aussie-holland // @wtfholland // @distressedhollandfield // @TWD1DSNFREAK // @chingonaconcha // @tiny-friggin-human // @Batfam04 // @spiderboytotherescue // @loserparker // @miajane601 // @cancerous-lizard666 // @shawnsassymendes // @Tomhollvnds // @acciorinn // @yeahbutmarvel // @draqcnheartstrinq // @bpdsx // @avengersgirllorianna // @soccer-mom-karen // @and-everythings-not-lost // @spidermanswifi // @tomsfireheart // @aw-spidey // @notthepersonyouwerelookingfor // @Tomsbabyquackson // @spidey-pal // @postapocalyptic14 // @im-finallly-clean // @starlightfound // @707-deserves-better // @Maddie-leighhh // @wolfie-doggo // @the-crime-fighting-spider // @hellomywonderfulwildflowers // @random-ass-user // @cherrysoul // @Marvel22girl // @ditchthesticks // @lilackimmi // @coach-mccall // @Gangnaengie // @Coolranchqueen // @mimiloh // @psychael // @randomfandomsshallwe // @lionheo04 // @lovelynerdytraveler // @taliaa-gracee // @filmbypeterparker // @sigh-stars // @lionsfandomsandbearsohmy // @softboyhollands // @peter-i-got-homework-parker // @laucontrerasv // @shuriismyqueen // @necromancer-inwell // @fairydustparker // @dharma-babe // @internetnetnet // @minibog // @ohdamnerons // @spideymood // @hollandsmuse // @iwatchedastimeranout // @justarandomfangril // @fifistydia // @rosecoloredshawn // @foreverbeingthunderbuddy // @frostymoon11 // @billowingbanshee // @solarspidey // @hollandharrison // @fellownarnian // @flirtygerty // @itsybitsypetey // @your-ordinary-girl // @theshortegg // @spider-mendes // @vampires0 // @weird-book-lover1 // @fame-works-quicker // @stephie-senpai // @amberthefiredemon // @suyinc // @leni-lion-luke-larb-logic // @periwinklechild // @moonlightandgalaxies // @cjnotthedj // @t-hollandd // @hollandsthirl // @parkerstcr // @meetmysecretstars // @trashqueenbitch // @movinoutxx // @justtheusualfangirl // @spiderlingsblog // @iamthepenguinwhosearseisonfire // @writings-and-stuff // @buckyboy-soldier // @sskidizzle // @shawn-darling // @liberty01 // @ba-nds // @magical-fandoms // @greedysiren // @theridersonthestorm // @peachesnmei // @angelfiregaming // @broken-pieces // @angelicshinigami // @writtenbypics // @alilblogger // @Dontdowonder // @sarcasticqueen02 // @SarcasticSara04 // @aclass-trash // @http-nataliaa // @hi-mishamigos // @stylesbucks18 // @avahodge // @sunshine-marvel-hearts // @johannaapagan // @meyrapp // @paigeypooo // @bookfrog242 // @everything-jeronica // @lilleone // @lefreakette // @patron-saintof-sluts // @this-is-mik // @scottish-velvet // @cheneyq // @it’s-peter-fucking-parker // @cheneyq // @pandas1923 // @hamiltrin // @httpmcrvel // @cryo-bucky17 // @jenlou2309 // @rumoured-whispers // @assumeimapenguin // @bitterbagel // @curlyboyholland // @hither-to-undreamt-of // @littlemsrantsalot // @Baileyxrudesalx // @Theoneandonlyeclipse // @sensitivegoat // @just-a-random-fangril // @light-the-buh // @owlsparks // @heartlessfeelings24 // @stareome // @ninni880 // @insanecurlieeeefriessss // @kaliforniacoastalteens // @ninjamcfluffly // @crescentstarknight // @tommylovestrains // @cosmetologynerd // @transspideyman // @inspiredbynewt // @im-on-something-different // @peterparkers-waffles // @petermyspiderson // @slickerbeans // @marvels-hoe-duh // @5-secs-of-4-idiots // @Risabeee // @wombatholland // @peterparklr // @rock-n-roll-queens // @underoossss // @mishchiefmanaged49 // @desir-ae // @tomhollanderp // @hvllanders // @tomblrholland // @chels-writes // @ewolfwitchwisegirl // @marvelspidey-tomholland // @cannibal-ivy // @beesarebettertahnpigeons // @dixonsbugaboo // @we-are-marvel-fans // @mazewitch // @sarcasticallystydia // @my-babies-are-ash // @cali // @im-emotional-nice-to-meet-you // @happysynonym // @darlingxtom // @wubbawubwub04 // @sighspidey // @headsup-itsmostlypeter // @mummy-woves-you // @spideyluke // @hannahjoy2139 // @smexylemony // @dude-whatawave // @1enchantedfantasy1 // @flashcal // @Petersmask // @hoodash98xx // @spiderdudeparker // @spiderbliss // @iaiabear // @me-a-hopeless-romantic // @holland-parker // @Whitieclappingwhentheplanelands // @whoopsitsme // @artclutteredhowell // @spxderbarnes // @darlingxtom // @amazonianbitch098 // @quicksoldier // @ninjamcfluffly // @mishchiefmanaged49 // @lafayettes-baguettes-1 // @heyspiderparker // @calmdownyall // @beckyblender // @sydthekid443 // @killmemonger // @thellamalord // @beansparker // @tooturntashbash // @stormbornbarnes // @teebae7 // @deadlyaffairs // @lemirabitur // @softpetcrparker // @lntensified // @shay-grace18 // @lltrashll // @katelynseabreeze // @popluckbih // @fandoms-stuff // @PetersGalaxy // @acourtofsinsandtragedies // @nichu // @lostnliterature // @hareliketherabbit // @ladylogolepsy // @sincerelymlg // @plethoraofpuppies // @dabbingangels // @webfluidbih // @itsemmyb // @i-fucking-rock // @afterglowparker // @larbingmarvel // @babynora83 // @milaakilla // @damnhisfaceisliketheskyatnight // @sholla4-314 // @thollandstuff // @super-fire-breathing-girl // @evanstns // @spideyziam // @anoffensiveintrovert // @indecisivearia // @calumhoodcakes // @lonelylittlebi // @peterficparker // @sylviestars // @stop-wonder-think // @sabinatheteenage // @yohoyohoafandomlifeforme // @brokenuntilmay3rd2019 // @lizzie-143 // @deadlyaffairs // @tinyspiderling // @vendylewin // @southsideprincessx // @brianasyouth // @http-natiii // @Laciedsl // @built4broadway // @just-saying-26 // @ironspideyboy // @haha-lmao // @bbypeter // @miraculouspaladins // @alltoowhalee13 // @blackawsum // @dabbingangels // @silhouettecherie // @holyhollland // @abucketfullofweird // @we-flower-fan // @supernatural-girl97 // @ilovepizzaandimhot // @unearthemotions // @runningcirclesroundmymind // @Xoitsjustmexo // @spider-strange-iron-loki // @lizcrist50 // @sireennotsiren // @melmelmel21 // @tommyhoe // @princess-shurii // @crystalevansc306 // @stop-wonder-think // @rae-gar-targaryen91 // @c-ly-g // @Flowerchild8341 // @fucking-reddie // @bluparis // @blehblve // @trashsiara // @grace-sully // @captivatedrose // @taybugstuff // @notlog1c // @nichu // @peters-vlogs // @brokenuntilmay3rd2019 // @sevoiolla // @cuddlyklaus // @spideyflash-peterbarry // @artofotherness // @cynicallystiles // @fandomxobsessions // @a-jumbledmess // @blueoceanwavez // @biplrbitch // @griff1ndor // @thefuriousquake // @grungesocieety // @mooonymoo // @paljungmu // @osne-s // @0hanx // @thecrazyoneshavetakenover // @brokenuntilmay3rd2019 // @thgleslie // @marvelshawarmaeatters

#madmadsummer #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker headcanon #peter parker imagine #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland headcanon #tom holland imagine #spider-man #spiderman #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman headcanon #spider-man headcanon #spider-man imagine #spiderman imagine #imagine #imagines

769 notes · View notes

robininthelabyrinth · 6 years

Text

Fic: Nocturne (25/30) - Ao3 Link

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairings: Mostly Gen

Summary: In which Cor Leonis loses his temper, accidentally acquires a kid, and tries to single-handedly dismantle the Lucian immigration system – and that’s before he and his lawyers find out about this Prophecy business. If the Astrals think Cor’s going to let his kid’s best friend die without a fight, they’ve gotten the wrong cheetah ‘taur.

(a young adult novel set in @kickingshoes’ ‘taur AU)

—————————————————————————————— ——————————————————————————————

It's not like Noctis is an expert at this whole hero business, except maybe in video games (where he kicks hindquarter like nobody's business), but he's pretty sure accepting the bad guy's invitation to a party is, like, a bad idea? Or something?

"We've thought of that," Dad tells Noctis when he brings it up. "But we don't see how we can avoid a full-fledged siege of the Rock otherwise – and a siege we will more than likely lose, and lose badly, since Niflheim is both closer and has greater forces than we. So, in lieu of any better options, we go to have fritters, roast meat, and fruitcake with the enemy."

"Fruitcake with a fruitcake," Noctis says.

“Be nice, Noctis,” his mother says, drifting through the room. "Regis, do you think Noctis can wear his traveling clothes, or are those not formal enough? I want something sturdy, in the event of disaster, but good enough to pass as appropriately formal..."

"Perhaps the dark blue travel outfit, instead of the black?" Dad suggests. "It's a little less used, but still thoroughly broken in..."

Noctis throws his hands up into the air. "What do we care? The only person we'll be impressing is Creepy McCreepytaur!"

Noctis' parents look at him with injured "you're not getting it" expressions that quickly shift into "well maybe he’ll understand when he's older" ones that are even more annoying.

Cor, who's sitting on the floor near the fire with Prompto, snorts, though, because he's cool. He gets it.

"Don't worry, Noctis," he says, running a brush through Prompto's silky fur. Prompto likes it when Cor does it for him, rather than just doing it himself; Noctis isn't sure if that's a canidaetaur thing, a laziness thing, or a Prompto thing. Either way, he's totally going to go over to demand some brushing as well, even though he'll probably get bored of it after two minutes. "No matter what you wear, we'll be there to back you up. With an army."

"Quite literally, in fact," Uncle Clarus puts in. "We're fully expecting an ambush, and we're bringing all the forces we can spare from Insomnia's defense. We'll all be there, hanging back in the event you need us."

"Even Gladio and Iggy and Prom, right?" Noctis says eagerly.

That gets frowns from the adults. "Noctis," Dad starts, "I don't think that that's –"

"They helped me with all the other Covenants!" Noctis argues. "Maybe they're necessary!"

"We are fulfilling the Prophecy in a non-traditional manner," Iggy volunteers from where he and Gladio are playing checkers. Luna, Iggy's usual opponent, isn't there, since she's off packing in her quarters (picking her clothing, more likely), so Gladio has volunteered himself and is losing amiably. "Our presence may be necessary. You don’t know for sure, and why take the risk of not bringing us?"

"You're children," Aunt Cyrella points out, but she sounds thoughtful. "And it will undoubtedly be quite dangerous. Though you've been in dangerous situations before..."

That's a good sign!

"I'm fairly sure I don't like the idea of sending children – any children – up against the Accursed," Uncle Clarus says, frowning. "Much less ones he already has reason to know of."

Less good.

"You know, while we're at it, I don't like that we have to kill this Accursed Izunia fellow," Scientia says from where she's nose-deep in some book. "We're a nation of law, by Bahamut's scales; we ought to try him by jury, just like anyone else."

"Oh, come now, Scientia, really," Aunt Cyrella objects. "Please remember that we're talking about a person who is, as far as we can tell, quite literally the incarnation of the Starscourge."

"Doesn't matter," Ms. Scientia says firmly. "The Lucian charter doesn't qualify between individuals, no matter their crimes or, er, composition: all sentient beings get a trial by twelve of their peers. And you can't say he's not sentient, not with all the trouble he's caused."

"But really, under the circumstances, Scientia..."

"Oh, I'm not saying we can do it," she concedes. "Just that it would be nice if we could do it legally."

"I don't know where we could even hold him for long enough for a proper trial," Cor says thoughtfully.

"I've given in already, Leonis; there’s no need to rub it in further."

"Hey, no, I'm agreeing with you," he protests. "It would be preferable if we could, but I don't think we can. Besides, the battlefield has its own laws."

"Hmmm. True enough, I suppose."

"Well, I still think the very idea is absolutely ridiculous," Aunt Cyrella huffs. "The fact that you're both still concerned with the rights of –"

"I think the blue will do quite well," Noctis' mom decides before Cor and Scientia's hackles can go up any further. Her voice is calm and gentle and also somehow manages to interrupt everyone's conversations with no effort whatsoever, pulling everyone's attention to her instead of to their tiff. "What do you think, Noctis?"

Noctis groans.

"I don't think he cares," Gladio translates. "Did we ever make a decision on whether we're coming or not? Because if we're not allowed to come, we're just gonna try to stow away. Cor will help."

"He will not," Dad says, giving Cor a hard look.

Cor shrugs noncommittally.

He totally will.

"Cor!"

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh, yes, but you 'didn't say anything' in a way that speaks volumes. Don't think I don't know -"

"This entire discussion is irrelevant," Mom says with a sigh. "We've seen that the Accursed has his ways to get into the city regardless, and if he launches another attack on Insomnia while we're abroad there won't be anything we can do. So we may as well bring the children – it's the Inferniad holiday, after all, which is meant to be celebrated by bringing families together. Not to mention that we aren't exactly leaving anyone at home to watch them, except perhaps for Cyrella's mother..."

"She's watching Iris," Aunt Cyrella says. "That's all she agreed to do. You try to push three boys on her, she'll lead a palace revolt."

"Successfully, too," Uncle Clarus mutters, his fur going flat. He's always been a bit afraid of his mother-in-law, which has constantly been a source of hilarity to Noctis and Gladio because Grandma Romulea happens to be very sweet and so near-sighted as to be half blind even with her frankly enormous glasses.

"So we're going?" Iggy asks eagerly.

"Not to the party itself," Mom says. "You're not invited."

"But otherwise yes," Scientia says. "Consider it a contract."

Iggy breaks out into a momentary grin, then gets control of himself again. "Thank you for this opportunity," he says politely.

"You may assist by wrestling Noctis into his traveling clothing," Dad says wryly. "He needs to try it on before we go."

"Nooooooo -"

"You have to."

"I can do it myself! Don't sic my friends on me!"

And that, as far as Noctis can tell, is that, and next thing he knows they're on their way to the Rock of Ravatogh for the world's most screwed up Inferniad party ever.

They go in an airship, at least – a small one, with Aranea driving and being more awkward than he might've believed possible after having known her for a few weeks as a Crownsguard. Apparently she has a totally different approach to Noctis' Dad and Luna's Mom than she has to regular people - far, far more respectful and awestricken.

Like, Noctis can't blame her, but it's super annoying.

Luna grabbed Noctis to sit by her, and made sure her other side was right next to the wall, which probably means that she and Ravus still haven't made up. Luna's mom looks all pinched up about it, too.

Ugh, Noctis is glad he doesn't have siblings. They sound like way more trouble than they're worth.

When they get close to the Rock of Ravatogh – bare of snow and unseasonably warm as always, no matter the weather - Noctis looks out the window and abruptly realizes exactly why his parents and all the other adults agreed to this whole ridiculous thing.

There's an army already there.

MTs, all of them, standing in rows and rows, unmoving tin soldiers with glowing red eyes – just deadly.

There's a lot of them.

A lot of them.

Noctis thought the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive force that's following behind them at a far distance was impressive, but it's not anywhere near as impressive as this.

All the MTs are just standing there, out in the open, unmoving, and their army is encircling, as far as Noctis can tell, the only pathway up the mountain. Trying to get past them...

Yeah, okay. That would be impossible.

It'd definitely be impossible to do it before Niflheim called for backup from its massive airship fleet.

Its slightly-smaller-than-previously airship fleet, thanks to Aranea.

Aranea lands their airship without any of the MTs taking a step in their direction, although their heads all creepily rotate to focus on them.

All together, all at once.

Creepy.

"Good luck," Aranea says, and she sounds pretty doubtful about their chances. "I'll wait here until I see you safely up."

"They might fire on you once we disembark," Luna's mom says.

"I have shields for a reason, your Ladyship," Aranea says. "I don't think they'll let me stay more than a few minutes, but those minutes I can, I'll be here."

Luna's mom smiles at her and puts a hand on Aranea's lower back, just lightly. "You're a good one, Commodore," she says, and when she lifts her hand away, it's glowing a little.

Aranea looks dumbfounded for a second, and then extremely honored. "Yes, my Lady," she says, looking even more awestruck than before.

That must be the Oracle's Blessing.

(Big deal. Luna can do it too.)

They get off the ship.

Once the MTs see that all six of them are there – Dad and Mom and Noctis and Luna and Ravus and their mom – they abruptly move, choppy uneven movements like the creepy quasi-robots they are. The ones of them in the front turn to the side in a single uniform movement, opening up a narrow path between them, just large enough for one or two ‘taurs to pass through, just barely, and the back rows march in a turning style to stand side-by-side to continue the walls of that path all the way up the side of the mountain.

Up and up and up the mountain.

It's like watching dominos, except instead of falling they're rearranging themselves into a different pattern with perfect precision.

So, so, so creepy.

"I'm glad I brought my cane," Dad sighs. He has an old wound in one of his forelegs – he has a knee brace that he wears for it, more and more often, and he's been using his cane to get around. It's a nice cane – it goes up to his chest in height so that he can lean against it, like a staff, and it's very pretty – but Noctis worries. He knows that the Ring drains the King's health, but surely it shouldn't be doing it so fast..?

If his Dad's ill health is part of the Prophecy, Noctis is going to be super mad at someone.

Probably Bahamut.

"We'll go slowly," Mom says firmly. "There's nothing wrong with being fashionably late. Sylvia, if you would..?"

Luna's mom takes Dad's arm – her hands glowing again, this time focused more on healing him so as to make the climb easier – and they all start going up the mountain.

Per Mom's instructions, Luna goes next, and then Noctis, and then Ravus, and finally Mom, covering their tails.

It's pretty slow going. Worse, with MTs on both sides watching them go, it's hard to even really enjoy it – they're basically stuck in single file, twisting and twining their way up the mountain path, and they can't even really talk to each other or anything to make it less boring.

Ugh, Noctis really hopes this isn't actually a trap. Or, if it is, that Cor and Uncle Clarus have some really awesome plan to get them all out of it.

The MT path ends up diverging from the actual pathway and going up some sheer rock, forcing them to follow that path instead, and that's even harder on Noctis' dad, making his breath come faster and his limp worse. If Noctis didn't hate this Accursed guy on principle already, he definitely does now.

And then they finally get to a cave, and inside that cave is –

Oooooh shit.

"Is that a Lucian tomb?" Luna's mom murmurs. "It resembles the one in Succarpe."

"It is," Regis confirms. "The Tomb of the Fierce – the last of the Royal Arms that Noctis requires."

"Indeed it is!" an extremely obnoxious voice purrs from the side. There's a leopard 'taur there, half in shadow, half out, his eyes hidden by the shade of his hat but the whiteness of his teeth entirely evident as he smiles. "Please, come inside – I insist! You should feel entirely free to collect your little...trinket."

"Chancellor Izunia," Dad says icily.

"A pleasure," Mom says. "As ever."

She sounds amused and a little fond.

Noctis' Mom has the weirdest sense of humor.

The Chancellor pulls off his hat and holds it to his upper torso, still grinning. "Your Majesties do me great honor in accepting my little invitation. I've set us up a nice picnic further in – please, do follow me."

He waves casually at the MTs, causing them to start marching back down the mountain, and then the Chancellor turns his back on them – he's got to be immortal or something, because literally any of the adults could probably get him right between the shoulder-blades without even trying, and he seems utterly indifferent to the idea – and saunters in.

Literally saunters.

The rest of them all follow slowly, the adults looking suspicious (well, except Mom, who mostly looks interested in the cave walls and not unlike she's on one of her visits to the general populace, calm and collected as always), but nothing happens when they walk in. The Chancellor even walks right by the tomb as if it's unimportant.

Noctis hesitates when they get close, looking up at his parents.

"Go ahead, Noctis," Dad says, his eyes still fixed firmly on the Chancellor.

Noctis tries to absorb the Mace as quickly and quietly as possible. Well, as quickly and quietly as is possible when the weapon turns all glowy, rises up into the air, and stabs him in the upper chest.

At least it's not accompanied by an orchestral score or anything. That would be weird.

Even if Noctis has played enough video games that he can very vividly imagine how it would go.

Still, it's kind of a relief to have it. He has all thirteen of them, now – Luna's mom gave him the Trident earlier (he gave the real one back at once, of course), and he's had a copy of Dad's sword since forever. He kind of expected it to be a bit more of a moment, some sort of gold star "here! you've done it! you've got them all!" but honestly that might just be the gamer in him. This is real life, not a game.

He shakes his head and quickly catches up to the others. The Chancellor is leading them deeper inside, to a big cavern where there is, in fact, a series of blankets and picnic baskets laid out in a circular fashion, surrounding the nine-pronged candlabras traditional to the Inferniad.

"How nice it is for us to all be together, on this of all days," the Chancellor says cheerily. His voice feels slimy. "Now, first things first – who among us will light the candles?"

"Chancellor Izunia –" Luna's mom starts, sounding very stiff.

"Please, please! Call me Ardyn," the Chancellor – Ardyn – says. "We're all friends here, are we not?"

"It's very easy to be friends when you have an army outside the door," Mom says, her cheerful and sincere good mood making even Ardyn's intimidating creepiness seem a little less scary. "Wouldn't you say?"

"I do find that it helps," Ardyn agrees, smirking conspiratorially with her. The smirk is noticeably less fake than all the other expressions he's had on so far, less rehearsed and fake, but that's probably because he likes Noctis' Mom. Everyone that Mom likes likes her back, it's like her superpower or something. "But then, that's why I expect that you brought your own, wouldn't you say?"

Dad and Luna's mom stiffen - Noctis is pretty sure Ardyn wasn't supposed to know about their army - but Noctis' mom is entirely unperturbed. "It would be rude not to meet courtesy with courtesy," she says cheerfully. "And we do so try not to be rude. Etiquette is so easily forgotten these days."

"Well said, well said," Ardyn says, looking vastly amused.

"Is there any chance we can get to the point of these discussions?" Ravus growls. He growls very well for an ungulaetaur.

Ardyn tsks.

"So impatient," he says. "The follies of youth! But youth, of course, represents the future. And on that note, why shouldn't we have our dashing prince and lovely princess light the candles, as the youngest of our little company? I believe that's the tradition."

"Very well," Dad says slowly after a few moments. "Luna, Noctis, go ahead."

Noctis looks at Luna. She doesn't look particularly happy about it, but she's straightening her back in a way that suggests that she's going to do it.

And, well, if Luna's going to do it, then obviously Noctis will as well.

So they head into the center of the circle to the candles, while the adults all settle down in a loose semi-circle around them, and they light the candles together, reciting the traditional Inferniad blessings.

"How lovely it is," Ardyn says when they finish. "Ah, youth and beauty – and they make such a lovely couple indeed."

Noctis, who'd taken Luna's hand in his for the candle lighting, immediately drops it. "Couple?!"

Ardyn chuckles. "I see the prince is not yet old enough to properly appreciate the bounty that has been placed before him."

"It's not that," Noctis says, wrinkling his nose at the thought of Luna being called a 'bounty', whatever that meant. He's pretty sure Ardyn doesn't mean like a bounty hunter. "We wouldn't be a couple anyway. Luna likes girls!"

(Pity, too - Noctis would totally have married her and Prompto both if he could.)

Still, Noctis' announcement gets the smug, self-satisfied look off of Ardyn's face, if only for a moment while he blinks at them.

"And has a girlfriend already," Luna adds, her voice a little waspish. She reaches out to take Noctis' hand again in order to guide him over to the blankets to sit down. "Assuming my input is at all relevant here, of course."

"Hardly the fairytale match you thought it would be, Ardyn?" Mom says wryly. "But then – we haven't really done any of this the way you thought it would be, have we?"

"Indeed," Ardyn says, but the smug look is back on his face. "I must say, it's positively heartwarming, really, to see all of you working together on the duties of the Chosen King – the Prophecy of Bahamut is so cruel, wouldn't you say, your Majesty? After all, if it all goes the way the Astrals intend, you'll be giving up both husband and son to their destines as Kings of Lucis."

"We have no intention of giving up anything," Luna's mom says. "There is always light, even in the midst of darkness, and where there is light, there is hope."

"Such charming philosophy," Ardyn says, then settles back, looking them over. "Charming, yes – quite charming. Six of you here, six Astrals above and below, and yet between the two groups, it is we mere mortals who are chosen to pay the price for the Astrals's folly."

"That is still better than encouraging it," Dad says. He inclines his head to the cave entrance. "Or do you deny that you invited the Starscourge to Niflheim, so that it might grow stronger?"

"You misunderstand me entirely," Ardyn says, hand over his upper heart, clearly insincere. "I wish for nothing more than to see your lines united so as to see the Prophecy properly fulfilled – Chosen King and Oracle, come together at last to defeat the darkness!"

"I suppose that would be important to you, wouldn't it?" Mom says musingly. "After all, you yourself sprang from such a union."

Ardyn's face goes utterly flat, all humor disappearing. He clearly wasn't expecting that.

Mom pours herself a cup of tea from a thermos she pulled the picnic basket, all casual and awesome.

"The line of the Oracle and the line of Lucis do not often unite," she says, still causal as if she's commenting on the weather. "And almost never through arranged marriages, the way you implied would be appropriate for Noctis and Lunafreya – almost never, that is, except for once, centuries ago, a handful of generations after the world was turned and the fight against the Starscourge began in earnest. A near cousin of the Oracle was a lion 'taur, through some well-placed marriages, and so able to meet the already established Lucian standard of only marrying lions. And so they married, and had two sons."

She studies a silent Ardyn.

"Isn't that right?" she asks.

"It is," he says. His voice has lost that nauseatingly intimate tone he'd been using up until now; it's very flat. "Tell me, what exactly is it that you think you've found?"

"Izunia," she says instead. "What a strange surname for you to take – that of the younger brother that took the throne of Lucis instead of you."

"The throne of –" Dad says sharply, even as Luna's mom stiffens.

Noctis looks around. He's not sure he understands.

If Ardyn is centuries old, and he was once in line for the throne of Lucis – a line that has been unbroken from the very beginning, when Bahamut blessed them with the Ring and the Crystal – then that means...

"You're a Lucis Caelum," Luna's mother says blankly.

"And a Nox Fleuret," Ardyn says, his eyes glittering. "If one believes my ancestry to be true."

"It is true," Mom says quietly. "Genetic drift was always a possibility, even if no one knew about it back then. Two lions could have a leopard for a son – even an eldest son."

"And yet the throne went to the second son," Ardyn says. "A second son, with a different mother, as leonine as the first, but he was born a lion. And thereafter the line of the Lucii and the Nox Fleurets diverged thereafter forevermore."

"But –" Noctis says, still unsure. "But that means you're..."

"Oh yes, my young Chosen King," Ardyn says, and smiles. It's not a nice smile. "That makes you and I family. But then, isn't the Inferniad traditionally celebrated by families coming together?"

"What happened?" Luna asks, her eyes wide. "If you were Lucis Caelum and Nox Fleuret both...? How did you – why did you..?"

Ardyn laughs. "Let me tell you a story," he says. "It is about a young King-to-be – a young healer, by virtue of his mother's side – who traveled throughout the land to fight the Starscourge, using his abilities to pull the plague from the bodies of his subjects into his own so as to free them from their burden. And yet, when he returned home, his family and his subjects all declared that he was too corrupted to take the throne that was rightfully his – they declared, further, that he had no right to the throne, his true heritage made questionable by simple virtue of the spots on his back – the spots of a leopard, rather than the clean lines of the lion - and because of this, they had him executed. But the Starscourge he had absorbed – the countless daemons he took into himself, rather than let them afflict his land and his people – oh, it would not permit him to die so easily. He did not die. Instead they chased him out, and wiped his name from history."

He turns his eyes to Mom, arching his eyebrows. "Or at least, so I'd thought. It appears a whisper of that story survived, deep within the archives of Lucis."

"The Starscourge corrupts," Luna's mom says with a frown. "To take the daemons into yourself, rather than to purge them – your judgment would have been tainted, your reason unbalanced. That would be why you were denied the throne, not your heritage or your spots."

"They would never have turned on me if not for that," Ardyn hisses, suddenly fierce. "The line of the Lucii, so obsessed with remaining pure – it could not tolerate something different. Anything different!"

"You're mad," Mom observes, her voice neutral – all amusement gone. If anything, she sounds regretful. "Perhaps you were only angry, once, but now you have become consumed – by the Starscourge, and by your hatred."

"Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps. But really, who can blame me?"

He rises to his paws, and so do the rest of them. Noctis doesn't like the way Ardyn's face has gone twisted with anger and the remnants of condescending humor. It makes him seem much more dangerous than the condescending asshole he was just moments before.

He steps back as Ardyn steps forward.

"But now, this time, this time it will be different," Ardyn says, his voice low and his eyes fixed on Noctis. "Now I will face the Chosen King himself – younger than I'd thought, perhaps, but no matter. I will face the Chosen of the Astrals, the Chosen of Prophecy, in the full bloom of his power and might, he who received all the inheritance that should have been mine, and I will show the Astrals who condemned me to my fate the ruinous folly of their ways, of their cruelty –"

There's a muted sound of an explosion, and the room shakes, causing them all to stagger.

"What's happening?" Dad shouts.

Noctis looks at Ardyn, assuming it's his fault, but no – he looks as surprised as any of them.

Another explosion – not in the room, Noctis realizes, but on the mountaintop above them. And then another, and another

"It's a Niflheim bombing run!" Luna's mom exclaims. She’s more familiar with them than most, being from Tenebrae.

"Well, those certainly aren't our people doing it," Mom says, grabbing onto Dad to help him keep his balance as the cavern quakes and ominous cracks begin to run up the walls. "They know we're here - and anyway, we wouldn't use up the bombs like that."

"They've turned on me," Ardyn says poisonously, realizing. "Niflheim – they've turned on me - they're trying to take out two birds with one stone –"

He turns his face back to where Noctis is standing, towards the back of the cavern with Luna.

"It's too soon," Ardyn says, and his voice has gone horribly raspy. "You have not fulfilled your quest yet. You cannot die, Chosen King, not yet, not until your mission is done – I will have my revenge done properly –"

His face is different all of a sudden, his eyes yellow lights in a pit of blackness, with filth the color of tar spilling down his cheeks and out of his mouth, his skin gone grey like a corpse – the corruption inside revealed –

A giant rock falls from the ceiling right next to Luna, making her scream, making Noctis look up and realize just how much the ceiling of the cavern is fragmenting.

"Luna!" Ravus shouts. He charges forward, knocking both Luna and Noctis back just as the ceiling begins to collapse, and the three of them tumble down together, falling backwards – backwards through where the wall of the cavern used to be – backwards and down, going down through some newly-revealed fissure in the wall, tumbling onto some slippery slide where their paws and hooves can get no grip.

Sliding down and down and away, into the center of the volcano.

"Noctis!" someone shouts after them, frantic, and through the echoes Noctis can't tell if it was one of his parents – or if it was Ardyn, seeing his revenge slip away from him.

#final fantasy xv #noctis lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #lunafreya nox fleuret #ravus nox fleuret #regis lucis caelum #aulea lucis caelum #sylva nox fleuret #aranea highwind #cor leonis #clarus amicitia #cyrella amicitia #apollonia scientia #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #gladiolus amicitia #nocturne #my fic

14 notes · View notes

yung-pendejo-blog · 5 years

Text

Here's What 5 Connection Experts Want to Teach You About Love

Relationships put on t look like they utilized to (which's a good thing). But what does it truthfully take to make a modern romance work? As component of Committed, we're exploring partnerships ranging from a book marital relationship in between high-school sweethearts to a gay pair producing a life together in the traditional deep South.

If binge-watching Gilmore Girls, Rumor, or Lifestyle | The Guardian The Great Better half has shown us anything, it's that relationships are messy. Individual experience verifies it too: From our eighth-grade romance to our newest break up dramatization, "love isn't easy" is a life lesson we understand all also well.

No matter your status single, dating, engaged, or married partnerships take work. And whether they finish with splits and also empty Ben & Jerry's or last until for life may rely on many factors, but your very own activities, words, and also ideas most certainly play a role.

One point that'll give you a benefit in the game of love? Taking in all the wisdom you can from relationship therapists, scientists, intermediators, as well as a lot more. Below, we have actually distilled it down to the absolute best recommendations 15 professionals have learned. Despite your individual scenario, their words might aid you reveal the key to durable happiness.

1. Do or say something daily to reveal your gratitude.

" Saying and also doing little, simple expressions of gratitude on a daily basis yields big benefits. When individuals really feel recognized as special and also appreciated, they're better in that partnership and even more determined to make the relationship much better and also stronger. And also when I state basic, I actually imply it. Make tiny gestures that show you're taking note: Hug, kiss, hold hands, buy a little gift, send a card, take care of a favored dessert, put gas in the car, or inform your partner, 'You're attractive,' 'You're the very best daddy,' or simply claim 'Thanks for being so remarkable.'".

2. Understand every relationship has worth, no matter how long it lasts.

" There s no such thing as a stopped working love. Relationships just develop right into what they were constantly suggested to be. It s best not to try to make something that is implied to be seasonal or momentary right into a lifelong partnership. Release and take pleasure in the journey.".

3. Never ever take your partner for provided.

" This may appear apparent, yet you can not envision the number of people involve pairs treatment far too late, when their partner is done with a connection and intends to finish it. It is very essential to recognize that every person possibly has a breaking point, and also if their demands are not fulfilled or they don't really feel seen by the various other, they will certainly greater than most likely discover it elsewhere. Many people assume that just because they are OKAY without points they want so is their partner. 'No connection is ideal' shouldn't be used as a rationalization for complacency.".

4. Keep in mind to take breaks.

" A close friend instructed me that despite exactly how in love you are or for how long you have actually been together, it's important to take an exhale from your collaboration. Hang out with partners till late in the evening, take a weekend trip to check out family, or simply hang around 'doing you' for a while. Then when you go residence to Yours Really, you'll both be charged and all set ahead together even stronger.".

5. It's not what you combat regarding it's how you battle.

" Scientists have discovered that four dispute messages are able to anticipate whether couples continue to be with each other or obtain divorced: contempt, objection, stonewalling (or withdrawal), and also defensiveness. Together, they're known as the 'Four Horsemen of Separation.' As opposed to considering these negative strategies, battle relatively: Search for places where each companion's objective overlaps into a shared typical objective as well as construct from that. Also, concentrate on making use of 'I' vs. 'you' language.".

1 note · View note

imagine-darksiders · 7 years

Text

Forgive this thing omg it’s a mess I wrote in like an hour..

I just wanted to explore how an early friendship with Death might function. Like, you’ve known him barely a week and you’re both still getting the hang of each other’s personalities. You are missing your friends, you’re getting touch-starved and frustrated looking at everything that’s happened to humanity. So, naturally, you take out your anger on the only person available to witness your anguish.

---

“I hate you.”

Death, who had never heard a hostile thing from you in the few weeks since you came crashing down into his world, looks up in bemusement.

Still, he supposed it was only a matter of time before you came to your senses, although he couldn't say the sting he felt at those words didn't cut through him as sharp as any blade.

But so often had he heard, or rather, felt the words in the past, that Death can only huff at you and returns to running the whetstone over Harvester's already razor-sharp edge.

“Join the club,” the horseman states quietly.

There's a deep, hot sigh from the human in his company and the distinctive sound of a stone being booted spitefully over the side of a rocky crevice, at the bottom of which it's swallowed by a thick blanket of fog.

“Not you,” is your biting retort, “Well...Not exactly.”

When the horseman doesn't respond, you spin around to frown at the side of his head and scrub at the skin beneath your eyes, surprised to find wetness there. “I mean, you. Nephilim. Angels. Demons. The Charred Council and every other flipping creature who seems to have it in for my species!”

Brushing your hands roughly through your hair, you clench your fists tightly into the locks and begin to pace up and down in front of Death.

“Why does everybody in this damn universe seem to have a say in humanity's fate? Everybody except for humans!?”

The whetstone is placed delicately to the side as the horseman leans forwards and plants a hand on each of his knees. Peering at you through narrowed eyes, he asks, “Are you truly so self important as to believe that you know more than the powers that be?”

A lone demon's roar of outrage reaches your ears from somewhere in the city, far from your little campsite but you think it adequately portrays how Death's words made you feel. Whirling on him you snarl raggedly, but you're devastated when it comes out sounding no more intimidating than a kitten's mewl. “No, I don't think I know better than them, you know I don't think anything of the sort! That wasn't fair, Death.”

'You're right, of course,' he gripes to himself in private. That wasn't a fair thing to say, but he's curious to know the heart of the issue and pushing you seems to be the best way to find out.

Death racks his brains quickly for the best way to try and help you to understand the order of things. “Humanity is a young species,” he at last explains softly, “There are things that will happen – have happened to you that seem without reason or justness. The End-War was always going to occur-” he grimaces, “-just not as soon as it did.”

Your hands are trembling now, though something else has joined your anger. “To Hell with you, we're not toys that you get to break when you're done playing with us! Why is it, that whenever the cosmic shit hits the fan, somehow it's always Earth that takes the beating?”

Humming, Death offers, “Earth is the easiest target?”

“This is serious, Death!” you cry with frustration lacing your tone.

He holds up hand placatingly, “Balance, Y/n. It must be maintained.”

“But we were progressing so much!” you argue. “How is it fair to just cut us down when we're in our prime and set us all the way back to square one!? All of those thousands upon thousands of years just gone because of your 'balance'.”

The tail-end of your loud rant echoes off into the night and you're left panting and clenching your teeth against an onslaught of tears. Silence settles over the camp, whilst Death's ears twitch to listen for any approaching demon that might have strayed too close after hearing you yell.

The horseman observes you quietly with a thoughtful glimmer behind his burning eyes whereas you allow your whole body to slouch from sudden, overwhelming exhaustion. The quiet stretches on for a long time before it's broken.

“What happened to us?” The whisper is quieter than a breath, softer than Death had ever heard you speak. “We used to be great. We cultivated half of the planet to suit our needs. We looked at the boundaries we were given and thought, 'you know what? That can't be it. There has to be more than this.'” A smile tugs at your lips fondly. “We walked on the moon and still it wasn't enough. We reached even further, to the stars and then beyond to where we dreamed our destinies lay. We may have had our heads buried in the sand from time to time, but we always looked back up to the stars.” A single tear escapes the confines of your eyelid and trickles steadily down to your chin. Death watches it's journey with mild curiosity, wondering what it must feel like to be so vulnerable.

“And now look at us.” Your smile falls sharply when you gesture with a sweep of your arm out to the wasteland of a city and shake your head despairingly. “All of that development, evolution and improvement. All those good people, just..... Gone.”

The tear you'd cried is abruptly followed by several more.

“Death, we didn't deserve this. Some of us might have, sure, but not all. Most of the people on Earth did not deserve to die. Not down here....Not like this.”

It isn't long before your heart feels too heavy to hold up and suddenly, the concrete where Death is sitting looks as comfortable as anywhere else in the camp.

Sniffing, you sidle up to the horseman and collapse to the ground with a thud, aware of Death's blazing gaze on you the entire time. You've given up the battle to stop the tears from pouring down your face, uncaring of something so pointless anymore. If he sees you cry, so be it.

A stale wind blows over the city and lifts with it the stench of decay and rust. Copper on the breeze is no longer an unfamiliar scent, especially having been around Death for a few weeks now, but it still isn't pleasant.

The horseman beside you tears his gaze from your prone form to raise Harvester into the air and tilt it this way and that, inspecting the curve of the scythe closely. Bright moonlight glints off the sharp edges and illuminates the now clean blade. With a hum of satisfaction, Death places the scythe on the ground in front of his feet and leans back, putting his weight on both arms and turning his head up to the stars. Slowly blinking back tears, you follow his gaze.

“Funny things, aren't they? The stars,” you begin, voice a little unsteady from crying.

Grunting, the horseman acknowledges your statement but doesn't respond otherwise.

“I mean, they're just big balls of hydrogen gas and other weird elements I can't remember, but we find so much meaning in them.”

A rumble of soft laughter interrupts your lamenting.

“Humans finding meaning in the meaningless,” Death chuckles, “Someone had better inform the scribes.”

That, at least, pulls a tired giggle out of you. “Stop the presses,” you translate for yourself.

The horseman casts a secret glance down at your face and when he sees the smile growing there, he feels an odd sense of pride at the accomplishment. He's thankful that the mask hiding his face also hides his own gentle smile when you tilt your head up at him.

Your eyes drop to the horseman's hand that rests by your own and you find yourself thinking about the last time one of your friends had hugged you. For some, frustrating reason, you could not begin to recall the person you'd hugged last.

It's funny. What you're about to do feels harder than any battle you'd faced yet...

“Death?” you ask timidly without taking your eyes off his bandaged-wrapped hand. He examines you intently and waits for you to finish your thought.

“C-could I...maybe.....” You swallow thickly and choke back a sob that threatens to burst from your throat. Bravely, you finally throw your eyes up and force them to lock with his far more intimidating ones, gazing imploringly into their depths. “Please. I-I'd like to touch your hand, if that's okay? Just to have someone to hold onto. Can I?”

The very moment the request leaves your lips, you wish you could swallow it back up and pretend you'd never asked. It sounded so childish. So needy.

Death meanwhile, could not be more surprised. His eyes widen comically and his jaw actually drops fractionally before he remembers himself and snaps it shut. This is the first time you'd asked if you could willingly touch him. Until this point, he'd picked you up, nudged you in a specific direction or helped you up when you fell, of course. But now you've just insinuated that you want to initiate physical contact with him. It's not a regular occurrence for the being that people would usually, actively avoid.

But he supposes that given the state you're in and the harmlessness of such an action, not to mention the very minimal threat you'd pose if you were to try anything, he could allow the small comfort you clearly so desperately need.

Slowly and more than a little unsure, for once, Death nods down at you and remains still as your face relaxes in momentary relief. You can't allow yourself time to be nervous though, so you stretch your hand out towards Death's.

Before you can touch it however, the horseman shifts. For an awful moment, you think he must have changed his mind. But he simply turns his hand over so that the palm is facing skyward, inviting you to lay yours in his. The generosity and level of trust behind Death's gesture is not lost on you. You know he's not fond of even good friends laying their hands on him, so this is monumentally meaningful.

Once again, your hand resumes its journey towards the pale, corpse-like appendage resting on the ground beside you until your fingers slide delicately, reverently over the palm before coming to a stop. You allow yourself to release the breath you'd been holding, only to lose it again when the horseman's hand ever so slowly starts to close over yours. The tips of his clawed fingers meet your skin and he ends up engulfing your relatively tiny hand entirely in his own.

Apparently, that simple, easy point of contact means more than either of you had initially anticipated. Without warning, a cry of anguish erupts out of you and actually startles the eldest horseman, who's hand clenches over yours tightly for a brief second. In an automatic response, you squeeze your thumb beneath his palm and cling to him desperately.

“I'm s-so sorry!” you whimper. “I don't know what's wrong! I just needed to-to-”

With an internal sigh, Death gives your arm a tug and rises to his feet, pulling you with him. When you're standing upright in front of the horseman, he jerks you towards his body brusquely but invitingly. You hesitate, but in reality, it only takes a heartbeat before you're colliding headfirst with his wiry, sinewy chest.

Death merely blinks at the unexpected suddenness of the motion, but otherwise remains perfectly still.

You both stand like that for a long while.

After what honestly must have been close to a half hour of crying against the horseman's cold, grey skin, you finally heave out one last sigh and move your arms from their position at Death's stomach. Instead, they rise to drape themselves around his neck. He tenses at the movement, but then settles once more. You decide that you'll feel embarrassed about all this in the morning. But for now, you raise your head from his chest and peer up at the horseman apologetically. “Thanks for letting me get that out in the open, buddy,” you say softly, “Sorry for using you as an emotional punching-bag.”

His eyes find yours and they seem so full of understanding, you briefly consider the possibility that you'd fallen asleep against him and this is simply a dream. “So does that mean you don't hate me?”

Your mouth falls open slightly and you wince, “Oh, God. I didn't mean that, Death. Please don't think I hate you, I really don't.”

Faint laughter rumbles from behind Death's mask as he waves your apology away with a hand. “It's fine, young one. Believe me when I say it wouldn't be the first time somebody has said such a thing.”

Your expression softens, “See now, there's another injustice I just don't understand. How could anyone hate you?”

“You haven't known me for long. Give it time,” he grumbles.

He's right. You really haven't know the horseman for long at all. But you know enough to recognise that you certainly don't hate him. Far from it. You were just....angry. But looking at his bright, orange eyes that cast themselves up to the moon and seem so full of melancholy and millennia of regrets, you can't find it in yourself to harbour any ill-will for your bizarre new friend.

“Well, I don’t think I will ever hate you,” you conclude.

He scoffs sceptically and folds his arms over his chest.

“You’re naive and foolish. But don’t worry, even you might see, in the end.....”

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #imagine darksiders #death #reader

108 notes · View notes

qqueenofhades · 7 years

Text

the trash saga of flynn and lucy: xii

one of these days i should come up with an actual summary for this, but you know it anyway: smut, pain, more smut, the abrupt appearance of a plot, more pain, and general bad choices. the trash saga of flynn and lucy or ao3, for your convenience.

“I think it’s been too long,” Wyatt says tersely, shifting his weight and looking up the road. “If she was just scoping things out, she should be back by now. Something’s wrong.”

It’s clear that Flynn isn’t going to need much convincing on this front, as his gaze has been fixed on the mansion like a heat-seeking missile for at least the past ten minutes. It’s only the presence of Lucy in their midst that has prevented him from plunging in and fucking up all the available percentage of Rittenhouse’s shit and then some, but it’s also clear that this isn’t going to constrain him for much longer. “I told her. Her mother’s one of them.”

“How would you even know that?” Wyatt says, but clearly more as an old reflex, his general impulse to fight with Flynn, rather than actual disagreement. His brow is creased. Neither of them are doing well with the idea of leaving Lucy by herself much longer, even if they’ll be in much more danger there than she will. “It could still be an accident. Somehow.”

Flynn makes a scathing noise in his throat. When it comes to those bastards, he does not believe in accidents.

Both of them manage to wait about thirty more seconds before Wyatt loses all ability or pretense of chill whatsoever. “Right. I’m going in. You with me or what?”

He figures he doesn’t actually have to ask that question, as while Flynn still may not exactly be his sworn brother-in-arms, they are what the other has, and Lucy is something that at least they can both prioritize. Flynn beckons Wyatt with a jerk of his head, and they proceed surreptitiously up the muddy road, doing their best to look like they’re simply late for the meeting. They merge in among the continued stream of arrivals, which by now has mostly slowed to a trickle, and head up the steps, until the doorman stops them. “Names?”

“Dr. Jekyll,” Wyatt says, not missing a beat. He jerks a thumb at Flynn. “He’s Mr. Hyde.”

Flynn bores daggers into him with his stare, but this answer evidently impresses (or at least confuses) the gatekeeper sufficiently to allow them to sidle on past. They step into the foyer, glancing from side to side, wound to the point of total explosion if anyone comes out or confronts them, but all they can hear is murmurs from behind closed doors. Rittenhouse does not appear to notice that two of its mortal enemies have just strolled in, which is either a very good thing or a very bad one. Wyatt has that cold shiver on the back of his neck that every soldier remotely worth their salt has to pay attention to. That sense that something is not right, is in fact very wrong, and if you don’t figure it out fast, it might just be the last thing you’ll ever do.

He exchanges a look with Flynn, and both of them draw their guns, advancing down the hall in recon stance, toward the half-open door at the back. It looks as if it leads into a parlor or a sitting room, and there is a flicker of movement from the other side. Wyatt takes the lead, thinking of clearing supposedly derelict buildings in Afghanistan, when there were IEDs or tripwires or other traps hidden in there, after something was dangled to lure the guys in. Some of those, they recognized in time and bailed accordingly. Some of those, they didn’t.

He shakes his head, fighting away the momentary flashback, and checks that Flynn still has his back. He does, so Wyatt doesn’t see anything for it. There’s not really any point in doing this the diplomatic way, so he takes a few quick steps and kicks the door open.

Inside, three women whirl to face them. The first is definitely Lucy, which Wyatt has half a second to feel relieved about before he registers that the expression on her face is one of aghast and frozen horror, as if she would have given anything for them not to have just walked in right now, and now that they have, the actual trap is about to blow. He doesn’t know why. The second woman is a faintly familiar-looking older blonde, and the third –

She’s likewise familiar, though Wyatt has absolutely no notion why. His first impression is that she’s tall – remarkably so, at least six feet – with sleek dark hair and high cheekbones. Young, probably early twenties. Unless she’s Black Widow, she doesn’t look like the most dangerous Rittenhouse operative in existence, especially in long skirts. But she’s standing with her arms folded and an exquisite eyebrow raised, a faint, mirthless smile playing at her lips. Flynn and Wyatt skid to a halt, realizing that this isn’t exactly an open-firefight situation, but not lowering their guns just in case. Lucy’s still looking at them as if this is her worst nightmare. And then, the dark-haired woman turns around and smiles.

“Well,” she says. “Hello, Daddy.”

For a long, impossible moment, these words simply hang in the air without registering, without making any sense to anyone. Then they start to percolate, and Wyatt blanches. Starts to get what he thinks she said – but it can’t be true, it can’t be possible. According to Lucy, they lost her, fifteen years ago in 1814. This can’t be – but yes – but it –

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Wyatt’s reaction, however, is nothing compared to Flynn’s. For a brief, magical moment, the only emotion that lights his face is pure, impossible, radiant joy. He stares at her – at his daughter, grown up and strong and beautiful, given the life she never got the chance to have, to realize her full and formidable potential. All he can see is her, all he knows is that she’s alive and safe and standing in front of him, warm and real and breathing on her own. It’s probably the last thing that will pass through his mind when he dies. Inadvertently, he reaches for her. “Ir – Iris?”

She makes no move to take his hand. Continues to smile, but instead of soft and shy, it’s harder, colder, curdled. “Oh yes,” she says. “It’s me.”

Wyatt has a bad feeling about this. Has a very bad feeling about this. As well-attested, he is not Garcia Flynn’s biggest fan, but this is about to turn too cruel too fast, and Wyatt’s not a sadist, doesn’t enjoy or feel vindicated or thrilled by watching a man be crushed to dust in front of his eyes. “Hey,” he starts. “Why don’t we just – ”

Nobody pays him any attention whatsoever. Iris and Flynn’s eyes are locked on each other. Her lips are still drawn over her teeth, but there’s nothing remotely smile-like about her expression any more. “Surprised to see me?” she goes on. “After you left me?”

Flynn’s mouth opens and shuts. Nothing comes out.

“After you failed me?” Iris starts to circle him, sizing him up, as if to see once and for all that the giant in her mind is nothing more than a crumpled, shattered mortal man. “Left me behind? Betrayed my mother with her?” She throws a scathing look at Lucy. “I must not have actually mattered that much to you, did I? Just as long as you could go on your mad rampage and burn down everything in your way? You failed me, Daddy. You failed me. You let the monsters come, and you stood back and let them eat me. And you know who saved me? You know who didn’t fail me? Rittenhouse. Rittenhouse saved me. I owe everything to them, and you wouldn’t even leave me that, would you? No, you still want to tear them down.”

Flynn’s face is dead white, his eyes two pitted chasms. The silence is absolutely murderous as Iris considers him, angling for her next point of attack. She’s almost leisurely about it, with that same sort of intense and calculated rage as her father, the violent and single-minded and deep-burning desire for revenge, and the knowledge of how to exact it for maximum pain. Yeah, Wyatt thinks dazedly, she’s Flynn’s daughter, all right. She’s just like him. Except she’s on the diametrically opposite side of the conflict, standing here and pledging allegiance to the organization that destroyed their family in the first place, that Flynn has dedicated his life and then some to taking down. Wyatt’s honestly not sure how the man is still standing upright. If this was him, if he was facing Jessica stabbing him like this, twisting the knives, telling him with this cool, brutal, and uncompromising hatred how he failed her, his spine would be snapped. He’d be on his knees. He’d be on the floor. He’d be through it.

“So,” Iris says at last, when nobody else in the room moves to interrupt. There’s no way they could. “Now you get to see how this ends, Daddy. You know, of course, that we can’t permit you to continue on your destructive little odyssey. And they’re not particularly interested in keeping you in a jail cell for the rest of your life. But we will do this properly – and for that matter, fittingly.” She glances sidelong at the older blonde woman. “Yes?”

“Take his gun.” The woman – Jesus, Jesus fuck, is that – Jesus, it is. Carol Preston, Lucy’s mother. The one she was so grateful to have back, alive, healthy, even as it warred with her shock and disbelief over losing her sister. Wyatt looks at Lucy, and sees the same expression on her face as on Flynn’s, the same stunned, numb, disbelieving heartsickness. “Make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble. Emma will be by soon to pick him up.”

Iris moves forward briskly, plucks the gun out of Flynn’s unresisting hand, and pulls a pair of modern handcuffs out of her silk pocket. She puts him into them, to which Flynn likewise offers no struggle. Wyatt raises his own gun convulsively – even knowing he can’t shoot her, and also can’t shoot Lucy’s mother – and Lucy screams, “DON’T!”

Wyatt jerks it down, even as Lucy’s paralysis breaks. She lurches forward, grabbing her mother’s hand. “Don’t. Mom, don’t. If you – if you loved me at all, if anything you ever told me was real, if this – ” She stops, gulping vainly for air. “Mom, please, please, don’t do this.”

Carol Preston looks at her daughter pityingly. “Lucy, honey. I’m doing this exactly because I love you. You know who this man is, what he’s done, what he’s trying to do even now. What he did to you. He erased you.”

“He did not do that to me!” Lucy’s voice is almost a scream, fists clenching. “Rittenhouse did it to me! And you – you’ve been lying to me my entire life!”

“I wanted you to know, when you were old enough. The same way I meant to tell you about your father. When you’d understand, when you’d be ready to join us. I am so proud of you. I always have been. But when you take your rightful place at John’s side and become the greatest and strongest of all of us, Lucy, see – ”

“No.” Lucy’s voice is a whisper, silent tears starting to track down her cheeks. “No, you can’t do this. Iris – Iris, please. Listen to me. Before, what happened, when I – ”

“If you didn’t want me to join Rittenhouse, perhaps you shouldn’t have abandoned me to them.” Iris cinches the cuffs tight and forces Flynn to his knees. It doesn’t take much forcing. “And you don’t get to tell me to do anything, you know. Not after you wanted me out of the way so you could carry on your little affair with my father, without having me as a distraction and a burden. At least he meant me well, once. You never did. Homewrecker.”

Lucy opens her mouth as if to gasp, but can’t even get that far, as her mother’s elegant brow furrows. “Oh dear. Lucy, is that true? Have you – well, you know. With him? That is unfortunate. Not irreparable, but still unfortunate.”

Wyatt can actually feel himself about to defend Lucy’s right to sleep with Flynn if she damn well pleases, in a mark of how terribly and blackly perverse this whole situation is. Neither of them, for that matter, appear to have anything to say themselves. The ensuing silence is the most hideous, choking, clinging thing that anyone has ever heard or felt or tasted. Then the door swings open, and Emma Whitmore strides through.

Everyone snaps to attention, Wyatt snapping his gun up in something close to relief of having a target that he can actually shoot, even as he knows that if he does, all of them are dead too. Flynn jerks, as after all, Emma shot him a few days ago, and she’s clearly prepared to do a lot worse. She regards Iris coolly, up and down, and raises an eyebrow. “Well,” she says. “You look different, for sure.”

“You fucking bitch.” Flynn speaks at last, in something close to an actual snarl. “You – ”

Emma grins icily. “What? Outsmarted you? Is that what’s bothering you the most? You would have killed me as soon as we were done anyway, I’m just serving you a dose of your own medicine. How many times did I manage to hit you, by the way? I thought it was at least twice. You should be looking worse. Then again, it’s going to be much more fun to kill you like this.”

“Where are you taking him?” Lucy bursts out, in wild panic. “When?”

“That’s not really your business, is it?” At a look from Flynn that suggests he’s thinking about getting to his feet and charging her, Emma glances at Iris, who gracefully interposes herself between them. “We have the Mothership now, after all, and we’ve put a lot of thought into selecting the most appropriate venue for his trial. We’ll be transporting the org there to watch. It’s only high-ranking Rittenhouse that get to go, and after all, you’re not, are you?”

With that, she and Iris haul Flynn to his feet, one at each elbow, as Lucy lets out a sound as if she’s been stabbed. “Stop,” she says desperately. “Stop, I’ll – I’ll – ”

“You’ll what? Join Rittenhouse? Kind of ironic, if you’re trying to save him.” Emma looks amused. “You know, Lucy, you should have lied. Told me that you were knocked up. It would have disqualified you from any chance of being John’s wife, and you would never have had to know about any of this. But, well.” She shrugs. “You’re an honest person. It’ll get you killed one day, no doubt. Don’t make it be trying to rescue him from the fate you know he deserves. I’ll leave you to handle her, Lady Preston, should I? Iris, come on.”

With that, the two women march Flynn away, the door slamming behind them, as Lucy lets out a gut-wrenching scream and throws herself after it. Wyatt catches her, holding her as tightly as he can, knowing it’s not enough, not sure that he has ever hated anyone more than he hates Carol Preston right now, throwing her a look of complete and utter, withering scorn. “Wow,” he says. “Lady Preston, huh? Lady Rittenhouse? Mother of the fucking Year.”

Carol’s lips tighten briefly, but she remains unruffled. “I certainly don’t expect you to understand having to make hard choices for your children, Mr. Logan, no. I’d be an awful mother indeed if I didn’t want this wonderful future for Lucy. Once everything’s straightened out – ”

“Straightened out?” Wyatt’s voice cracks a little himself. “Is that really what you call this? Look at her! Look at your daughter! You are breaking her heart!”

“As I said. Hard choices.” Carol glances at Lucy, who is shaking silently in Wyatt’s arms, and seems, for a moment, genuinely distressed. “I’m surprised you’re taking Garcia Flynn’s side in this. I wasn’t under the impression you had any particular affection for the man.”

“Yeah?” Wyatt says savagely. “You know, I think I’m discovering a bit more right now. Flynn might be a – ” he tries to think of a good synonym for total lunatic – “little intense, but at least he’s not an actual monster. You people have no soul.”

“We have a larger goal, Mr. Logan. We always have.” Carol evaluates him with those cool, reserved eyes. “You know I can’t have Lucy attached to such an unsuitable man, the very one who’s been trying so hard to destroy everything we stand for. If you come around, if you join Rittenhouse, there’s a chance that we might consider you an appropriate – ”

“You must really think I’m stupid, don’t you? I heard all about the plans to sell Lucy off to John Rittenhouse. And yeah. Tough choice. Join the Evil Empire or the Death Eaters first?”

“You’re wrong.” Carol shakes her head. “You’re both wrong. I just wish you could see – that you could both see – the true good that Rittenhouse wants to do in the world. Of course your perspective is warped and blinded, and I take my share of responsibility for that. If I’d raised Lucy Rittenhouse from the start, we wouldn’t be having any of this problem.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt says again. “There’s a problem here, all right, and it’s definitely your fault. However, I can promise you it’s not the one you think it is.”

Carol makes a noncommittal noise, as if to say that they’ll have to agree to disagree. For a few more moments, there is no more sound except Lucy’s ragged breathing. Then she completes her brief and silent breakdown, somehow manages to find the strength to pull herself together one more time, and disentangles herself from Wyatt. Turns and regards her mother with that same chilling, depthless contempt, eyes flat and jaw set. “You don’t make any choices for me,” she says, not shouting. Not even raising her voice. Quiet and calm and utterly, unforgivingly lethal. This is the Lucy that dropped Jesse James with a single shot while the men were arguing about whether or not they could, the Lucy that, when pushed too far, might be the most dangerous of them all, simply because nobody would ever see it coming. “You don’t control my life, my future, or the people I choose to love. And you don’t get to dictate how I get back to any of that. I want my sister back. I don’t know whether you remembered she was gone, and honestly, I don’t want to. I’ll try to save you, to prevent things from going back to the timeline where you were dying, because you are my mother. Because I owe you that, if nothing else. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t want to. That I won’t wish with my entire heart that I could, because I don’t think I can ever trust you again. That I can ever even look at you again. So, Mom. I hope this was what you wanted. I hope it’s worth it, for you and your beloved Rittenhouse. Because if not, well. You’ll have paid the entire world, your entire soul, and been left with this in return.”

And with that, while Carol is blinking as if she’s just had something heavy swung into her face, Lucy whirls precisely, surgically, on her heel, and beckons to Wyatt. Holds her head high, shoulders square – God, this woman, she is a force of nature, she is elemental, she is primal – and doesn’t look back. Walks out of the parlor with her entire life burning down behind her, and does not shed a single tear.

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

“We have to,” Lucy says, still quietly, as speaking any louder feels as if it might rip open the gaping wound in her chest. “We have to save him.”

Wyatt gives her the look which says that he knows she means well, but he honestly has no idea how they’re going to pull that off. Or even if they should. There is the whole idea of not leaving a part of the team behind, but as recently as their last mission, Flynn was still their enemy, bombarding Fort McHenry and playing an indirect part, even if not the prime mover, in changing history to what they encountered the last time they were in the present. “Lucy,” he says at last, quietly. “I don’t agree with what happened, I don’t think even he deserves this, and I know we can’t just step aside and let Rittenhouse do what they want, but. . . how would we even start?”

“You heard what Emma said. They’re moving him out of 1829, they’re taking him somewhere, somewhen else for whatever big spectacle they’ve planned for his downfall. Which my mother has probably planned, in fact.” Lucy’s chest contracts again until she almost can’t breathe, fighting against an overwhelming tidal wave of despair. “She’s using the Mothership to shuttle the various Rittenhouse luminaries there to watch the show. What is it, ancient Rome? So they can throw him in the arena with some lions and have the full experience?”

“Probably.” Wyatt stares bleakly at the sky. They’ve been let go, as they’re not what Rittenhouse was after – that entire scene, that entire trap, was staged precisely to catch Flynn, and it’s worked to a nicety. Besides, Rittenhouse clearly thinks they’ll be back of their own free will soon enough, which might actually be the case. “But the Lifeboat’s dead. We can’t follow them.”

“Yeah,” Lucy says, carefully offhand. “We can’t.”

Wyatt’s gaze swivels to her sharply. “Lucy – I don’t know what you just thought, but if we split up one more time – ”

“Look.” Lucy closes her eyes briefly. “We both know that if I put my mind to it, I could argue my way into a spot on the Mothership. It probably wouldn’t even be that hard. My mother is running this, John Rittenhouse thinks we’re practically engaged. I can play that. Wherever, whenever they’ve taken him, I can get there too.”

“Yes, but then what?” Wyatt presses. “The two of you are going to outrun all of Rittenhouse, he’s going to agree to leave behind Iris even if she has been brainwashed to hate him, and you’ll make it to the Mothership in time to activate the remote-retrieval and signal Rufus to pull you out? You still, as far as we know, can’t go back to 2017. So are you – ”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, all right? I don’t have the full plan. I don’t have much of any plan. I just.” Lucy stops, staring down at her hands. “I can’t let him die, Wyatt. I can’t do it.”

Wyatt blows out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“It’s. . .” Lucy’s lip quivers, ever so slightly. “What Iris said, I think it – ”

“No. No, it was not your fault, okay? Listen to me.” Wyatt reaches out and grabs both her hands, making her looking at him. “It was not your fault. It wasn’t Iris’s either. She was a little girl, those bastards got hold of her, of course they managed to get her thinking and saying everything they wanted her to. What happened with you and Rittenhouse, with your mom, that isn’t your fault either. Okay, Lucy? Okay?”

Lucy takes a long, slow breath. She isn’t sure she believes it, but she appreciates him saying it. “Okay,” she echoes at last. “But I can’t leave either of them, Wyatt. I – don’t ask me to.”

Wyatt manages a faint, wry smile. “So,” he says at last. “You’re choosing, huh?”

“You and Rufus will always be the rest of me. Always.” Lucy tightens her grip on his hand. “And you need to stay here and get the Lifeboat fixed, find a way to communicate with Rufus. I’m pretty sure even Rittenhouse isn’t going to buy a convenient change of heart from you in three hours. Besides, someone has to figure out if there’s any chance of stopping whatever they did here, or if there’s any way to get history back on track. I can’t ask you to risk yourself for Flynn. I have to do this by myself.”

“Maybe,” Wyatt says. “You could ask me to risk myself for you, though.”

“I know. I do.” Lucy keeps looking at him steadily. “But I can talk myself onto the Mothership. I can’t talk you. And Flynn, whatever it is with us, I don’t know myself. But I just. . . I can’t help but think that we were always supposed to meet, somehow. God, fate, whatever. Something brought us together, led us to each other. Whatever that is, I have to see it through.”

Wyatt is quiet for a moment, as they still sit holding hands. “Okay,” he says again, at last, barely more than a whisper. “If that’s what you want, Lucy. If you really think you can, but – you know there’s a chance you can’t make it back at all. That they’ll just kill him, and you’ll be stuck as one of Rittenhouse’s creepy cult fanatics forever, wherever, whenever. If you go, I just. . . I just want you to be sure that that’s something you’re willing to do. To sacrifice.”

“I know.” She does, far too well. “And I’d do the same for you, or Rufus.”

“Not quite, though,” Wyatt says, very softly. “It’s something different. With him.”

Lucy pauses. Then at last, just as softly, she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess it is.”

The plan is almost simple, when it comes down to it. Wyatt stays in 1829. If he can keep trying, and get the Lifeboat somehow operational, he can install the remote-retrieval patch and be extracted to 2017 by Rufus. Lucy will go back to Rittenhouse and pretend she’s seen the light, that she’s thought it over and agreed her mother is right, that this is what she wants. Then she’ll get a seat on the Mothership to whenever they’ve taken Flynn, try to find him and Iris, and save him from whatever terrible fate Rittenhouse has in mind for him. After that is when this all turns decidedly hypothetical. If they can make it to the Mothership in time, and if they can trigger the override, Rufus can get them home. If that matters. If Lucy’s back. If Flynn himself can even stand to look at her again, or agree to leave Iris, even knowing what’s become of her. It feels like every possible outcome ends with Lucy losing him somehow, and yet. No matter how utterly, cosmically impossible this appears to be, she’s simply not prepared to do that.

She and Wyatt bid a brief, understated goodbye, trying to pretend this is nothing more than an ordinary parting, checking out between missions, when both of them know that the Time Team is now officially and possibly permanently broken up, in three different years in three different centuries. There is no certainty at all of ever seeing each other again. She doesn’t know when exactly Rittenhouse has taken Flynn, but her hunch is earlier. Maybe a little earlier. Maybe a lot. They don’t really want a fair trial for him, after all. They want him to burn.

When Wyatt’s headed out for the Lifeboat, when he’s out of sight and she can’t see him at all anymore, Lucy turns back and starts toward the mansion. She’s going to need to play her role well, and there can’t be any mistakes. They’ll be plenty suspicious as it is, but if her status as apparent Rittenhouse princess is worth anything, she has to milk it for all it’s worth. All she can think of, the one thing to keep her focused, is that they’re going to pay. They’re going to pay for this, for her, for Amy, for all the lies, for Flynn, for Iris, for altering the entire fabric of history, for Wyatt, for Rufus, for everything. They’re going to pay. They’re going to pay.

She manages to make it inside again, smiling and apologizing for her earlier breakdown, asking to talk to John. She can’t face her mother, even and especially to lie that she’s come to join her, and her mother knows her too well; she has a better chance of working on John, who’s so desperate to believe her anyway. It takes a bit of persuading, but she gets an audience with him, and manages to choke down her umbrage. Smiles. Flirts a little. Brushes her fingers along his arm. Gives him the general impression that if she gets to go with him to Flynn’s trial, they can be Rittenhouse-married and Rittenhouse-boinking to get started on their Rittenhouse-babymaking, just as soon as that awful traitor is taken care of. She, of course, will choke him with a curtain tie sooner than letting any of this actually happen, but it does the job. He says she can come. He’d be honored.

Lucy may throw up in her mouth a little at that, but manages to hide it. She waits until the door opens and Emma appears, clearly intending to pick up the Big Boss for the main ride – then stops dead at the sight of Lucy. “Well, well. What are you doing here, exactly?”

Lucy forces a twisted little smile. “I’m going with John, of course.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Emma regards her with cool suspicion. “That’s what you’re doing, is it?”

“What else would I be doing?” Lucy takes John’s arm and smiles again, with teeth. “I’m Mr. Rittenhouse’s special guest. Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” John says. “Yes, Miss Whitmore, she is. I’m happy for her to accompany me.”

Emma divides an utterly unconvinced glance between them, but she also can’t contradict her benevolent overlord to his face, even if she clearly knows what is actually going on here. With another I’m watching you look at Lucy, warning her not to try anything, she sweeps a bow and leads them out to the Mothership, which she has evidently just landed on the lawn. It is supremely out of place among the staid nineteenth-century brick mansions, with its glowing blue lights and smooth white plasteel shell. Lucy wonders how much they have to pay the cops to look away in this part of town.

It appears they’re the last ones to go; everyone else has already had their ride, including her mom. It’s just the three of them leaving 1829 now, the same as they arrived here, but of course, utterly different. Lucy fumbles the seatbelt buckles as best she can, then leans back. With her best version of a winning smile, she says, “When are we going?”

“Not really something for you to worry about, is it?” Emma triggers the door latch, and it cycles shut as they prepare for the jump. “Since you’re coming as one of us?”

Lucy doesn’t want to kill anyone else. Really, she doesn’t. Once was more than enough, and it’s not something she wants to repeat. But just then, she seriously considers it.

“No,” she says instead. “Of course not.”

When the Mothership lands, the door opens, and Lucy has to allow John to help her out, a blast of sea wind hits her face, there are no lights that she can see, and a few Rittenhouse goons waiting with horses and a lantern. Her hunch about earlier appears to be dead on the money, and she spends the ride trying to work out where and when on earth they are. It’s warm and sticky; it feels like summer. It’s coastline, it looks like New England, and when they reach the town, it appears to be seventeenth-century. Late, if Lucy had to guess. This is a little before her area of specialty, since she works on American history, and this is clearly still colonial, well before the Revolution. While John and Emma are climbing down and discussing something with the men, Lucy takes the opportunity to glance at a broadsheet posted on the wall of what appears to be the village inn. It’s dark, and she has to lean in close. Nonetheless, the words jump out at her.

Their Majesties Court of Oyer and Terminer, UNDER William Stoughton, Lieutenant Governor, & Crown Attorneye Thomas Newton, does Here Convene and Provide for the Just & Regular Detection and Punishment of those Suspected of the Abominable Crime of

W I T C H C R A F T

& Other Satanick Sorceries and Devilish Evils

in Salem Town, Province of Massachusetts Bay

1 6 9 2

Anno Domini

In the Third Year of the Reign of Their Protestant Majesties

KING AND QUEENE

WILLIAM & MARY

of Great Britain, Ireland, & Etc.

Earlier. Yeah, earlier. Lucy would say so.

She thought they wanted Flynn to burn. That they didn’t want a trial, they wanted a baying mob. That there wasn’t going to be justice. Only murder.

Apparently, she was exactly right.

She jerks around as John and Emma finish their conversation, and pretends not to have noticed the bill-paper. Allows herself to be shown inside the narrow, creaking inn with them, thinking that at least the one good thing about having landed in the middle of a frothing witch hunt is that there will be no question of her and John having to share a room(though if Lucy recalls, a substantial proportion of Puritan brides were already pregnant on their wedding day, as – surprise, surprise – if you try to force everyone to live by a strictly repressed and zealous religious code, it’s going to backfire on you). She gets her own, as John insists, while Emma continues to look openly skeptical. “Sir,” she starts. “Sir, Lucy has been – with him, I don’t think we can trust her by herself, I should share with her, I should keep an eye – ”

“Nonsense,” John says earnestly. “She’s not a prisoner. She chose to come with us.”

“Because she wants to rescue him!” Emma has apparently decided to throw caution to the wind. “I know you can’t see that, you actually think she likes you, but she doesn’t, she just wants to get close to Garcia Flynn and – they’re sleeping together, John, she’s just using you to – ”

At that, John looks actually stunned, so that for a moment Lucy winces and thinks everything is about to blow up. But the look of anger on his face is turned on Emma, not her. “How dare you. Lucy – Lady Preston – is just as trustworthy as I am, and she will be treated that way.”

Emma flicks a glance at Lucy, as if to ask her just what mad skills she has to get two men as dissimilar as Garcia Flynn and John Rittenhouse so desperately attached to her and all but eating from her hand. Lucy flashes back another demure, inscrutable smile. She’s enjoying seeing Emma be frustrated, though of course it’s also useful for her if they loosen her leash. Wherever they have stashed Flynn, she doubts it’s here, and she’s going to need to find him fast.

Further attempts from Emma to talk John around fail, and once Lucy is finally alone, she waits long enough for them to hopefully think she’s asleep, and the inn has gone more or less quiet. There are some seventeenth-century clothes laid out on the bed, which she thinks it wise to change into. In the middle of a witch hunt, the last thing an already-strange woman needs is to draw more attention to herself, so Lucy strips off the nineteenth-century dress, corset, and boots and gets herself kitted out as a good Puritan housewife. As if this place wasn’t Scarlet Letter-enough already. But Lucy is going to have to work with what she’s got.

She opens the window cautiously. It’s narrow, made from ashy lime-glass, and there is a drop down onto the steep timbered roof below. Lucy is not the most coordinated person in the world, and secret sneaking out is not her forte, but she manages to swing a foot over the sill, and then another. Shoots a wary glance back, but the door to the room remains closed. Then, taking a deep breath, she squeezes through and pushes off.

She has half a terrifying moment to be suspended in midair before she hits the roof with a thump, claws wildly, kicks, wonders if someone is going to get suspicious and come out to look, and clings to a fistful of splintered board, feet dangling off the edge. She grunts, swears under her breath, makes more or less sure that she’s not going to break her neck, then lets go. Another tumble, a plunge into what absolutely smells like a compost heap below, and she rolls away in the mud, breathless, dirty, and winded, but free. Then she picks herself up, looks around warily – the town watch is not going to think highly of anyone out after nightfall, and if she isn’t careful, she’ll be hauled up in front of the Court of Oyer and Terminer herself – and runs.

Salem is dark and for the most part, quiet. You wouldn’t know that it’s about to play host to one of the most infamous episodes of public mass hysteria in history, and execute twenty innocent people, fourteen of them women, by hanging – despite the popular stereotype, they don’t actually burn them at the stake. At least, this time, and at least before Rittenhouse arrived from the future to co-opt said hysteria, and use it to stage the spectacular downfall of their most dedicated enemy. They, in fact, probably are going to burn him, just to finish things off with a bang. Tell the townsfolk that he is the Devil Incarnate, that he’s the reason for the outbreak of witchcraft, that they have to destroy him to save their souls. It’s not going to take much.

Lucy tries to keep her fear at bay as she searches – if they have Flynn down some dank dungeon or thief-hole, she probably won’t be able to find him in time. But at last, as she turns into the small square before the church, she sees the stocks and pillory set up in front of it, on a raised dais that still smells of sawdust. There’s someone sitting in the stocks, legs locked in place, head down, motionless. By the looks of things, people have already been busily attending to their public duty of throwing rotten food, stones, sticks, and other garbage at the offender.

“Flynn?” Lucy whispers. Starts to run, hurrying up the steps. “Flynn!”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t even look up. There is a gash on his cheek, and between that and the two bullet wounds, he is clearly in considerable discomfort. But he doesn’t appear to notice that either. It’s only when she kneels next to him and tries to take his face in her hands that his eyes even attempt to focus. When they do, he mostly seems confused. “Lucy.”

“Yes. It’s me. Come on, I need to find some way to get you out of these.” Lucy looks around for any helpful implement that she can use to break the stocks, if anyone has left out a hatchet for wood-chopping, that kind of thing. “The Mothership isn’t too far. If you can re-activate that retrieval program you were talking about, Rufus can get us out – or at least somewhere – and we can see if I can come back to the present, or meet up with Wyatt, or – ”

She’s babbling, anxious and on edge and too relieved to see him again, feeling it twisting in her gut, still wrapped around her heart, but he still doesn’t react. He seems, if anything, angry. “What the hell,” he says, half to himself. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Breaking you out of jail, by the looks of things.” Lucy tries to pry at the stocks with her hands. This, of course, does not work. “Are you okay to run?”

He just keeps staring at her, dark gaze flat and empty. This is more unsettling than any rage she’s ever seen him in, anything he’s ever tried to do. This is Garcia Flynn with absolutely no fight left in him.

“Just go,” he says after a moment, apparently deciding not to bother with the question of how she got here. “Just leave me here.”

“So what?” Lucy flares back. “You’re going to give up? You’re just going to let Rittenhouse kill you? Burn you alive? You can’t let them win!”

Flynn just keeps looking at her without a word. It’s evident from his face that he’s pretty damn sure they already have.

“There’s no point,” he says at last. Again, half to himself, as if he’s not entirely sure she’s really there, and doesn’t want to be caught conversing with thin air. “There’s no point. It’s all been for nothing. Iris is right. I failed her. I failed Lorena. There’s no chance of anything. It’s all gone.”

Lucy understands this viewpoint, she does. She also slightly wants to smack him, despite his current decrepit state, because while this may all be true, it’s also true that she’s here, risking her ass to rescue him – Rittenhouse might not outright kill their precious princess/hoped-for future co-Supreme Leader, but she doesn’t think that it’s going to be grand declarations of love and insistence on preferential treatment forever, or even much longer. Emma’s clearly already more than willing to get her out of the way, since John doesn’t want to, and this is definitely going to blow things to hell, if they’re caught. She finds something that looks like a crowbar, wedges it into the stocks, and tries to get up enough leverage to budge them. Still nada.

“Stop,” Flynn says roughly. “Lucy, stop.”

“Shut up,” Lucy grunts, sitting on the crowbar in an effort to use her body weight, but five-foot-five-inch scholars are not exactly sumo wrestlers in this department. “Whatever you want to do is usually the exact wrong decision, so you can understand why I’m ignoring you.”

Flynn stares at her, so thrown that she thinks he might laugh, but his face remains too bleak for that. She shoots a look over her shoulder, fairly sure that she saw someone light a candle in a window, doing whatever the Puritan version of peering through the curtains at the neighbors is – that kind of thing probably happens a lot around here, given the, you know, witch trials. She has a feeling as well that if he put his mind to it, he would be able to bust out of these stocks, no problem. A trained and hardened secret agent like Flynn has probably been in far worse binds than rudimentary seventeenth-century wooden pieces of crap like this. But he’s also just as clearly past the point of caring. Figures he deserves whatever happens next.

As her own efforts are getting nowhere, Lucy stops. Doesn’t know what to say to make him want to fight again, when she likewise feels the same, questioning if there’s any point in continuing to resist something so strong and so evil and so determined to steamroll everything and everyone they believe in and care about. She leans forward instead, so their foreheads brush. “Come on,” she says at last, quietly. “Come on, Garcia. Let’s go home.”

She doesn’t know where that is, or how they’d get there, or if he’d want to, or any of that. But something deep and drowned in his eyes seems to surface, ever so slightly, at that. He looks at her again, as if actually registering her presence, and frowns, brow furrowing. “Lucy?”

“Yes,” she says tartly. “Who did you think?”

He doesn’t say what he was thinking (probably for the best), but at last, slowly, he gives the stocks an experimental shove. Takes the crowbar from her, pries hard, grunts in pain at the strain this is putting on his wounded shoulder and side, and then with a rattle and a crash, sends the top half of the bar flying. Pulls his ankles out, grimacing, rubbing them to restore circulation; his feet are bare. She helps him up, they jump down, and get set to run – and then, all at once, a torch flares in their faces, making both of them blink and cringe. Then another one, and another.

Someone pushes his way through the crowd: an unpleasant-looking fellow with a double chin and an elaborate white wig, a high clerical collar and black robes. Not that Lucy can be entirely sure, but she’s pretty sure it’s Cotton Mather – Puritan minister, intellectual architect of the witch trials, and general A-number-one dickhead – who is regarding them with hard, bitter glee. “Well, well,” he booms. “The Devil Incarnate and his concubine, the Mother of Demons, before you in the flesh, good people of Salem! Seize them. Seize them! You know what is writ in the Holy Scriptures. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

“Seriously?” Lucy pants. “Seriously?”

Flynn shoves her behind him, groping for the gun he doesn’t have. More torches are flooding the square from every side. If Emma decided that badgering John about her suspicions was getting nowhere, guessed that Lucy was going to make an attempt to rescue Flynn, and decided to tip off the citizens’ militia instead, she –

She’s done her job pretty damn well, actually.

Lucy didn’t expect to die by being burned as a witch in 1692, obviously. No sane person would. But it also, barring a miracle, appears to be what is going to happen to her. Emma will have taken particular care with this. Made sure there’s no chance of John, or Carol, accidentally interfering. Distracted them with something, told them to stay inside, let the provincial natives roar off on their little witch hunt. Rittenhouse might not get their full spectacle, but at least they’ll ensure Flynn is dead. No way to prove that Lucy’s death was anything other than a tragic accident. Regrettable, of course. But perhaps – once they think about it – for the best.

In short:

They are completely fucked.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #the trash saga of flynn and lucy #(i apologize in advance)#(sorta)#(muahahha)#timeless ff

14 notes · View notes