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pandorasword · 1 year

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Chaeri as the 8th and youngest member of BTS.

Red Gardenias

❒ pairing: Jungkook x 8thmember!OC

❒ genre: Romance

❒ words: 11k+

❒ summary: In which a bouquet of flowers can be worth more than a thousand words

❒ warnings: None I guess

❒ notes: The first part is set at the London stage of the Love yourself World Tour, but Jungkook didn't got injured; Inspired by a prompt found here on Tumblr; Bold and Italic at the same time indicates a sentence said in English. CHAERI'S MASTERLIST

October 2018; London

"You know, this whole thing has really got on my nerves."

She'd lost count. She'd fucking lost count of how many times, since the beginning of their tour, gals tried to sleep with her boyfriend. Fucking groupies.

At the end of concerts, in the backstage area, they were constantly being introduced to the group as 'sisters' of... 'cousins' of… 'friends' of...

She could not totally blame the girls , in the opposite scenario she would have also taken advantage of acquaintances in order to meet loved celebrities, but from here to shamelessly hit on them would have been beyond belief.

"You know I don't even look at them."

Chaeri walked fast, slipping off the stage gloves she had kept on during the last performance. She glanced sideways at her boyfriend, who was supporting her pace smoothly

"That doesn't piss me off any less, and you know it."

"I know but-"

"If I could just tell everyone that I am your girlfriend these things wouldn't happen anymore."

The sentence barely whispered, but clear enough for him to hear.

There could certainly have been many benefits in being the only girl within a group with 7 other men, but the basic rule of not being able to establish romantic relationships with each other in any way made it all very tough when you were madly in love with one of your bandmates. They were quick to arrive at the door of the changing room where Chaeri would undress and shower before getting into the vehicle that would take them back to the hotel. Jungkook made sure they were alone and away from prying eyes before taking her face in his hands. His eyes filled with bitterness for what even he could hardly tolerate

"I know, love. But we have to keep this up for a while longer, we can't risk it now."

Chaeri closed her eyes and abandoned her face against the boy's hand, and the anger flowed out of her body as if drained in one go. The mere touch of her boyfriend had the power to calm her and keep her hot head at bay.

“Don’t you see how messed up is this?” Jungkook had no need to look into her eyes, which were currently closed, to sense his girlfriend's discomfort “We have to pretend like we’re not together, just to please a bunch of old men in suits?”

“It’s not just about pleasing them. It’s about protecting ourselves. We could ruin everything we and the other members’ve worked so hard for”

Chaeri took a step back, moving away from the gentle touch the boy reserved only for her “I get that, but it’s killing me to keep this a secret. I want to be able to hold your hand in public, to kiss you whenever I want. Is that so much to ask?”

“No, it’s not. But we have to be smart about this. We can’t just throw everything away on a whim. We have to plan carefully”

Chaeri was aware everything Jungkook was trying to tell her was reasonable, yet she could not tame the negative feelings she was feeling at that moment.

“How long do we have to keep this up? One more year? Two-Five years?!” Her voice rose without her being able to control it, she was getting nervous again

Jungkook moved closer to her, his finger on his lips to make her speak quieter. Their chests almost touched and Chaeri's back was pressed against the door of her dressing room

“I don’t know, but we will find a way to make it work. We always do” Jungkook's voice was so soft that it was hardly audible to her, only because they were awfully close

“I just don’t want to look back on our lives and regret not being honest about who we are”

“And I don’t want that either. We have to be patient. We’ll find a way to be together, in public, without risking everything we’ve worked for”

“Sometimes I think this situation is preventing me from feeling loved in the right way"

His fingers stroked her cheeks and yet there were no further words between them, knowing that what Chaeri said was the truth for them both.

October 2018; Netherlands

It took a WHOLE night - literally - for Chaeri and Taehyung. A whole night of flying and then a car ride to convince the staff in charge of their schedule to slightly alter the well-organised plan they had drawn up months ago.

They had just landed in the Netherlands, Amsterdam to be precise, after leaving the night after their last show in London

As usual whenever they were about to visit a city for the first time, Chaeri and Tae had spent the hours before the flight scouring online for all types of information about the place. One of the results at the top of the long list - right after the world-famous Red Light District - was the 'Keukenhof Gardens' only about 30 km away from the city.

As lovers of aesthetics, the two had set themselves the task of finding time to visit the site.

It was not simple, though, to convince the staff who were rather stubborn about using the limited time they had available for productive use. They were rather quick to give them permission when the boy casually proclaimed that if he couldn't see the flowers, well, he would surely go in search of some other kind of plants. If you know what I mean.

"I read there are many shops in the Red Light District that sell this kind of th-" "We said OK Taehyung, stop it." "I was just saying that-" "No" "Unnie, let him finish what he was saying" "I've had enough of both of you. Been hearing you brats talking all night, please let me sleep at least in the car" "God, thank you. I couldn't stand them any longer either." "Yoongi hyung!" "Shush"

. . . . . ◟੭

The pictures on internet nowhere compared to how beautiful the place was in real life.

As they arrived to the Keukenhof Gardens, all of them were immediately struck by the beauty and vibrancy of the flowers. The gardens were bursting with millions of colorful tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and other flowers, creating a stunning display of nature's beauty. “The gardens cover over 32 hectares and feature over 800 varieties of tulips, making it one of the largest flower gardens in the world”

The presence of a guide made the experience even more complete, except though Chaeri hardly understood anything he said. Luckily their trusted translator had followed them and made every single word understandable even to her ears.

“The gardens were originally created in the 15th century as a kitchen garden for the nearby castle. They were then transformed into a flower garden in the 19th century, and have since become one of the most popular tourist attractions in the Netherlands.”

“Joon, can you ask him which section of the gardens is his favorite?”

RM, only a few steps away from her, agreed to her request only after telling her that one day they would have to resume their English lessons

“Oh, that's a tough one” The guide replied, pointing his eyes at her “I think the English landscape garden is particularly beautiful, with its relaxed and natural feel. But I also love the South Asian garden, which is known to have some rather rare flower colours”

After patiently waiting for a translation to the man's words, with her imperfect English she said “I wanna see it”

“I'd like to draw your attention to the beautiful Red Gardenia. This flower has a rich history and symbolism attached to it, and I'm sure you'll find it fascinating”

She spotted that flower just a second before the guide mentioned it. Squatting down on her knees, she lowered herself to its level, wanting to admire its magnificence better.

“In many cultures, the Red Gardenia is associated with secret or forbidden love. It's said that giving someone a red gardenia is a way of expressing your love and affection for them, even if you can't do so openly. The flower represents the passion and intensity of a secret romance, and the longing to be with someone you cannot fully have”

She couldn't stop the direction her eyes took, straight towards Jungkook, only to find that he had also had the same response.

He also crouched down, quietly, to study the flower closer.

"Funny how such a majestic blossom can symbolize something to be kept secret" The girl was tempted to caress with her fingertips the silky petals just a palm away from her nose, but the rules about 'look but don't touch' did not allow her to do so.

"Perhaps that's exactly the reason. The more majestic something is, the more you want to protect it and keep it secret." Jungkook.

They were still talking about gardenias, weren't they? . . . . . ◟੭

She was exhausted. The tour had been going on for months and the fatigue of all the wonderful nights spent singing and dancing with the fans was starting to take its toll. Chaeri was like this, in a rush of adrenaline and energy as long as her body was moving but at the exact moment she stopped, her eyes so heavy she could barely keep them open.

She waved quickly to Yoongi, Jimin, Hobi and Jin who, like her, were one by one entering their hotel rooms. They all shared the same floor. Of the other three she only knew that they had gone to get something to eat at the hotel restaurant, but she was too sleepy even to do that.

Chaeri swiped her magnetic card over the door lock to trigger it, the lights inside turned on automatically. The bed was a mess with the inside of her suitcase almost entirely spilled onto the sheets. When she had left that morning, she was far too in a hurry to put things away. She was regretting it so bad.

Okay, she was going to take a shower then pack and finally go to sleep. She walked into the room as she began to shrug off her jacket and boots, then her eyes picked up something that did not blend in with the faded white colors of the room.

A bouquet of red flowers rested on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

Not simple red flowers, but red gardenias.

She approached the bouquet and was hit with a wave of sweet, floral fragrance. The gardenias were carefully arranged in a tall glass vase, with their vibrant petals not yet fully open to reveal their intricate centres.

As she looked at them, Chaeri noticed that some of the flowers were slightly wilted, as if they had been left out of water for too long. She couldn't help but wonder if this was a reflection of their own relationship in recent weeks. Wedged between the stems, a small note. She didn't need to read the signature at the bottom of it to know from whom they had been sent.

I love you just as much as I always have, even if others can't see it

Her heart softened. That love consumed her and put her back together every day.

She headed back to the door, without shoes or jacket, determined to reach him.

How stupid could she have been to spend the time between them complaining rather than making the most of it?

All she had to do was take a step outside to literally end up sent back inside.

Jungkook was right there in front of her, one fist still raised in the gesture of knocking on the door.

"I was just about to…" She didn't give him a chance to finish what he was about to say, she grabbed onto his hoodie and dragged him into the room, closing the door behind her.

She lifted herself up on her toes to reach his lips, as if they had been water after a long time in the desert.

Her hands ended up in his hair and pulled the points of it.

He was hers, regardless of whether others saw them or not. Hers. Hers. Hers.

Life had given her a blessing and she wasn't going to waste it.

Jungkook bent down just enough to grip her thighs with his hands and pull her up, making her cling to his body better

"This leads me to assume that you liked my flowers"

Chaeri laughed against his lips "Very clever of you"

He carried and placed her to the bed, exactly on top of all the clothes strewn on the sheets. He snuggled right between her legs, again reaching to be a breath away from her face. He placed his forehead against hers, making their noses touch "We'll figure this out. Together." "Together."

Chaeri suddenly felt hopeful. They were going to make it work. Wouldn't have it any other way.

+ The next day Chaeri was photographed by paparazzi at the airport with a beautiful gardenia in her hair

#bts 8th member #bts female member #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenarios #bts eighth member #bts addition #bts au #bts au fic #bts imagines #bts female addition #kpop female oc #kpop female member #bts x reader #bts #bangtan sonyeondan

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sasusakusatellite · 2 years

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title: Sand into Silver summary: "You know, I didn't mind at all. Not having a ring." Sasuke didn't either. Not until now. SasuSaku. Set in Sasuke Retsuden (light novel spin-off). Oneshot. notes: Contains spoilers for Sasuke Retsuden. Reading this light novel in Japanese (been studying the language for the past 6 years), so I have to do rough translations of the relevant dialogues (there's 4 of them in italics). Also, I lost access to my main account viasatellite (still waiting for tumblr support to get back to me). :/

and HAPPY SASUSAKU MONTH!! for ssmonth22 prompt “Confession"

_____________

Uchiha Sasuke has never been a man of words. He does things the way he knows how, his reasoning very much personal, and even when questioned, finds it a waste of time to explain himself.

He doesn't need to, he reasons. Not when his actions speak for themselves. And they don't lie; he doesn't hide. Over the years of being married to Sakura, he has learned how not to. She deserves nothing less than the real him, after all.

Sakura is his wife, his family, and all the missions, the distance, and absence in their wake won't ever change that.

"Yeah, but still, you're married so you should always be together."

He stares ahead, recalling Jiji's words. He thought of explaining, of dwelling on the subject for a little longer and presenting his counter-argument. Sakura is his wife, and will always be his family, and under the same sky, they're together.

He didn't.

But as if to contradict himself more than Jiji, he gives in to the feeling that has been boiling inside ever since that conversation. He has yet to put a name to it.

So he takes Sakura's hand, touches her bare finger, and with chakra, forms sand into silver.

"There. Now you have a ring," he says tersely before letting go.

It's his response, albeit late, to Jiji and his insistence on the importance of proximity and proof of bond.

"Don't you wear wedding rings in your country?"

But they're Sasuke and Sakura, and what they share is beyond those. It has never been about being visible.

Sasuke starts walking ahead, not wanting to linger on how his wife is now admiring her hand with the silver band and a beautiful ruby on top of it, glinting in the moonlight.

They are, after all, together here for a mission, and that comes first as their priority. Not him wanting to prove anything to anyone, not him feeling —

"Are you jealous?" Sakura asks, and even without turning to look at her face, he knows that tone.

"No," he answers, continuing ahead.

"What if someone like me took her away from you?"

Sakura has had thousands of patients, and Jiji is just one of them. It can't be the first time that someone has admired her for her kindness and dedication to her work. Jiji probably only admires her a bit…differently.

But Sakura will never be taken away. Sasuke knows that and trusts that to be true. There's no reason to be jealous. He can't be.

Sakura catches up to him.

"Sasuke-kun…!" she hums as she stops by his side, looking at him, a twinkle in her eyes.

Sasuke pauses and faces her. "I'm not jealous."

She smiles some more. Then, it occurs to him. Sakura never hides anything. Between the two of them, it's he who has more reasons to hide.

She stretches her hand out against the moonlight once more, her eyes sparkling with adoration.

"You know, I didn't mind at all. Not having a ring."

"I didn't think we'd need —"

"But this is so beautiful! Thank you…I'm so happy," she sighs, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.

He smiles to himself. "I should've gotten you one before."

"I didn't think it was important. And I like it more this way," she responds happily, still admiring her ring.

It's the little things that he misses the most when he's away from her for long periods of time. Like the scent of her hair: a reminder that someone awaits his return, that he is dearly loved, and most of all, a reminder of everything he needs to protect.

"Sakura."

She looks up.

"I'm sorry," he mutters.

Alarmed, she steps away to get a better look on his face. "What for?"

Sakura is his wife, and nothing will change that. But he now wonders if it's okay, if she views physical distance with the same nonchalance that he does, a logical necessity for their line of work. And if she's okay.

A part of him wants to ask if she ever gets tired of welcoming him home only to let him go so soon again.

"For having to leave you each time, for all those years."

She heaves a sigh, and he detects a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"You are my husband," she starts, stepping closer to Sasuke.

She holds out the hand with the ring he made for her and touches his cheek.

"And nothing will change that," she continues, smiling ever so warmly, her thumb caressing his skin.

He leans into her touch, closing his eyes briefly, the gentle contrast between the warmth of her skin and the metal coldness of the ring reminding him of their bond. He is married to this wonderful woman, to his Sakura.

He turns his face, pressing a soft kiss into her palm. He opens his eyes and smirks when he sees her blushing furiously. She pulls her hand back and turns the other way, folding her arms as if to hide the hand now in heat.

In a huff she complains, "Doesn't mean I don't miss you every time though!"

And in one motion, he's there behind her, his arms around her waist, his face next to her ear. He feels her tensed up for a moment before slowly relaxing into his embrace.

He relishes the softness of her hair, breathing her in.

"I'm glad you're here, Sakura."

She hums in response.

And all thoughts of the mission forgotten for a moment, he slides down to her neck.

"You're right. I was jealous," he rasps.

He feels her shiver. "And I can give you more than a ring…"

He places a firm kiss on the side of her neck, his lips tracing up to the back of her ear, down her jawline, never getting enough.

"Sasuke-ku —"

"…to show just how much."

He spins her, claiming her lips, intent on showing and making his actions speak for themselves.

His hands all over her.

It's been a while.

…

Fin.

(almost went from fluff to smut real quick. O.O)

#sasusaku #ss fic #ssmonth2022 #sasusaku fic #sasuke retsuden #my writing

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goodbyenorthernlights · 1 year

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I think I've mentioned before that I RP Rezo on dreamwidth sometimes, and the RP community on dreamwidth does a lot of ooc/meta chat on a second website called plurk. I keep my plurk account private (and I do not particularly recommend plurk as a site, tbh, I'm just there because it's where other people are) so. Figured I'd repost some of the stuff I've written about Rezo for the 1.5 people on tumblr who might be interested.

Here's a meta post about Rezo and Zelgadis's relationship that I wrote 9 months ago, featuring some commentary (in italics) from the Zelgadis-mun I was playing with at the time.

Gonna ramble a bit about my take on Rezo and Zelgadis's relationship, so, uh, CW: Child/familial abuse and general dysfunctional family stuff.

This need to ramble inspired by a tumblr post I saw along the lines of "does turning your grandson into a chimera count as physical abuse."

Now idk how one would classify that because obviously nobody in the real world has been able to do such a thing. Although I'm sure there's a precedent for people doing nonconsensual medical experiments on their children, which would probably be the closest analogy?

Anyway, after a bit of thinking I kind of picture that Rezo would have been like. A mixture of psychologically abusive and neglectful.

wrt the neglect I also think a lot of it would have been cultural- like WE'D consider a guy letting the teenager in his care go on dangerous raids against bandits to be a blatant act of supervisory neglect but in the Slayers 'verse nobody really bats an eye at Lina, the teenage protagonist, going around getting into zany adventures.

And this is headcanon but I imagine Rezo started working as a healer at a similar age. So if anyone called him out on that he'd just be ???? and think they were like. Smotheringly overprotective.

But based on the way we see flashback!Zelgadis behaving, I do think Rezo was generally pretty good to him as a kid. I can see him being distant, and/or leaving a lot of Zelgadis's actual care up to other people, but I don't think he hit Zel or insulted him or anything like that.

I think the abuse started very suddenly and rapidly got worse, basically.

Basically, imagine you've been raised by your grandfather. He runs a nonprofit and is very busy with it, so he isn't around as much as you'd like, but he's always been kind to you and you also know the people he works with and they're always kind to you as well, and life is generally okay.

But then when you're fifteen he drugs you out of nowhere and you wake up missing a kidney, and after that he just keeps getting colder and more distant and starts getting involved in crime and makes you help him out and it all comes to a head a few years later when somebody finally fucking shoots him.

And then you're just left there like ????? well i'm gonna need a fuckton of therapy after all that.

Also, as Zelgadis's player, the fact that it was a revelation made him wonder how much of Rezo's prior actions were less about 'I love my grandson' or 'I have an obligation to this kid' and more 'I have a hidden agenda'.

Yeah, it's a wonder Zel is capable of trusting anyone at all after that happened. I imagine there might have been warning signs that Something Is Wrong With Rezo but 1) Rezo was doing his level best to hide them, and 2) Zel was a kid, not fuckin' Psychologist Sherlock Holmes, so from Zel's perspective it came entirely out of nowhere.

I mean, I assume it's why he stuck with Rezo because you get the sense that he honestly didn't believe anyone else would believe him over Rezo. He was shocked Zolf and Rodimus sided with him when he did defect

Yeah, I can imagine that the adults Rezo was interacting with were more "Hmmm" about him, it just kind of varied on where they went with that "Hmmm"

I think Zolf and Rodimus probably went "Wow okay so he's ACTUALLY a bastard" especially after he cursed Zel, whereas Eris went "oh no...... poor little meow meow......."

i do not know what to conclude about dilgear and noonsa although it is interesting to me that they're both nonhumans.

#Slayers

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nonniefromthelobby · 1 year

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Same anon as before, about the RPC . I think how a days, people do care more for the looks, every once in a while you to find someone that's in it for the writting. But coming to the indie either you already know a couple of people or its mostly radio silence. It makes me sad a lot of good writers get looked over because their blog is "Simple" or they have a FC that people don't want to write with, because in the end the point should be writing. Idk what could be done, trust me I've debated in my head a lot! I understand and of course respect the fact that people have topics they don't want to write about, but coming to the indie I think you should keep an open mind to give other people a chance to write their characters, refardless of the looks of their blog and the fc they have.

Yea and that is messed up in a way. But still I get it, almost like you ‘gotta have a hook,’ in a sense. And total side note only so much you can do with a blog when its Tumblr vs Javascript error time.

Now that is what makes me sad too because you can only go for so long feeling like you are posting to the void. That was something else I did enjoy so much with my time here, the interaction. It seemed like once people had less of an issue about simply jumping into an open or replying to a post. Now its total radio silence or rudeness on such an unnecessary level. Plus tagging doesn’t seem to be the answer either to get you around those you are looking for. I know things change but what?

Yes 100% everyone has their ‘no’ topics as long as that was respected that seemed to be the biggest hurdle out there. Followed close behind that was who or what kind of characters they wrote with. Starting out in an anime fandom I wrote with just as many flesh and blood fcs as I did anime ones from my own fandom as well as crossovers. (This makes me soooooo nostalgic) Once again it seemed like it didn’t matter as much or something because now I feel like save for a few that wouldn’t be an easy thing to pull off.

I could care less about how a blog looks as long as it’s not neon green background with red italic script lol. So many blogs were out here making people cry with replies and were using that Elephant Theme it wasn’t even funny. Then with the fc thing my mind always thinks, ‘okay you wanna write against X or its for shippy stuff’. That’s cool too, but can we also add emphasis on how important it is to have all levels of platonic ships out there?

My main thing now is just still trying to find my people because I know everyone couldn’t have gone to Discord and Guilded because still too many people are saying the same stuff we are.

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lightleckrereins · 3 years

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Gabriella Slade talk team liveblog

Earlier today during the Gabriella Slade V&A talk @six-costume-refs and I got talking. This is a slightly edited (for spelling and clarity) version of that chat because us figuring out costumes is mostly chaotic.

The actual notes on the talk can be found here

Elisabeth is italics I am bold

Happy six explain day?

Happy six might explain day

Here we go

Whooooo!

Join the v&a membership email list!

Lady I live on the other side of the planet

Mood

Gabriella Slade says Beauty and the Beast UK tour has the original design

Gabby it is not the same design

No it is not the same design

New batb looks plain

I knowwwww I wish it were more elaborate

Just imagine a gabby Slade designed batb

..................I can't figure out what the fuck that would look like

Like I can think of all her usual design elements and it could look really cool but also wild?

Something like bedknobs?

Period but like crazy and intense with unexpected details

Yeah? It'd be really interesting to see

Everyone remembers how they were introduced to six

Mine was instagram doing something good for once and showing me the dluh performance they did right before WE opening

Mine was seeing early buzz about it sort of coincidentally? And then I got into it at some point during the 1st tour

yeah okay I sort of got into the show Aug 2018 but obviously couldn't really engage much with it from the US until Sep when the cast recording came out

Let's talk about the six costumes

Finally we are talking costumes

Yes I've been waiting lol

Gabby has prepared some slides

SLIDES SLIDES SLIDES SLIDES

THIS IS WHY WE ARE HERE

We added more embellishment and details to the costumes

Oh we know

yes!

Fashion inspiration slide

THIS IS A GOOD SLIDE

Things I didn't expect to see on the six inspiration board: bdsm

Costume details slide

SCREENSHOT TIME

OOH

I'M TAKING SCREENSHOTS OF ALLLLLL OF THIS

“A lot of people are active on social media about six and love the costumes

hello I run an entire account about them

Please hire us

And yes why have we not been hired already Six? Have you seen our screenshots?

Exciting projects?!?!?!

OH she's doing Cher, of course she is

New Six alts soon too I'm sure

So many questions we will need a series of chats

YEAH WE DO NEED A SERIES THANKS

We need a private chat please and thank you

We do need a private chat

Costumes are quite different from the original

hello y'all let me please direct you to our blogs where we break down all of those differences lol

The Broadway design is staying for all productions

OH IT'S STAYING?

Broadway has different boots and number earrings

Hello

I hate those earrings

They go against the point of the show

Okay fair point

They really love their suede on the boots recently but it's such a smart move

The new “Broadway designs”

Gabby dear you started the new designs on Australia not broadway

She did

Gabriella Slade: you have to be bold when approaching directors you want to work with

Us emailing SIX tomorrow like hi our Tumblrs are our websites and Gabriella Slade told us to be bold so we're emailing you

I am like three seconds away from doing that

Do it

They're going to need a US Tour person soon

True

But I don't have a work visa 😠

I forgot about work visas

If the show ever comes here I will personally fight whoever they give the job if it isn’t me

You should very much fight

Talking about cosplay and fanart

HEY THAT'S ME

yes!!!!!!!

Btw

I was one of the inventors of the sixsona even if instagram thinks otherwise

Yeah I remember that

I’m sure everyone in here has seen the show many times

OH HOW I WISH I HAD SEEN IT MANY TIMES

Nope

I still live on the other side of the planet

#six the musical #six costumes #six explain #this was way more chaotic originally

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absent-angel · 4 years

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What’s in a Name

Fandom: Fairy Tail

Summary: The first time she sees him her home is on fire. [NaLu] [Fae AU] [@nalu-week 2020 Bonus Day: AU]

Read it on ff.net

AN: Well, I’m late per usual but it’s here! Also, I’m sorry but I don’t have the patience go through at search out all the italics tumblr doesn’t recognize, so if you want to read it as it was written please use the link. :)

Word Count: 6106

Warnings: Language

The first time she sees him, her home is on fire.

Flames are clawing up the walls, smoke blacking the ceiling. She coughs into the sleeve of her lace trimmed nightgown and tries to stifle her sobs long enough to scream for her mother. She is only ten years old, and the only thing she remembers from the fire safety course last year is to stop, drop, and roll. She's not on fire, but after a few moments of running aimlessly around her room and choking on smoke, she sinks to the ground anyway. It is easier to breathe down there. The room is filling with smoke and through the cackling and popping of the flames she can just barely make out the sound of the frantic voices of the staff on the other side of the wall.

Again, she screams for help but the smoke gags her. The air is so hot that she feels her lungs blister with every breath she takes. Most of her room has been engulfed, and the ceiling is starting to rain down blackened sheets of drywall—hitting the floor like a bomb. She knows she should move but she doesn't know where to go. Her bedroom door was long since engulfed by the greedy flames, and the only window is blocked - her pink velvet curtains have long since turned into two towering pillars of heat and flames. There isn't nearly enough room for her to get through. On her hands and knees she crawls under her bed, because it seems to be the only safe place left.

Her face shines with a mixture of sweat and tears as she presses her cheek against the wood floor. She gasps for breath, lungs burning for oxygen. The edges of her vision are starting to go black and she forces herself to take larger gulps of ash-laden air. When she calls out again her voice is dry and cracks with every syllable. Still, she forces the words out in a coughing wheeze. "Please! I don't—want to die!" More tears slip down her cheeks, she can almost feel them evaporating on her flushed skin. The voices on the other side of the wall have faded, and all she hears now is the hissing and popping as the fire consumes.

Her eyes, already burning from the heat and smoke, begin to feel heavy and she feels the overwhelming urge to sleep. Slowly, she blinks, and when her eyes reopen she sees something that wasn't there before. By the curtains she sees a man.

She should be suspicious of the fact that the smoldering heat and open flames seem to have no effect on him—but she isn't. With every last bit of strength, she tries to drag herself toward him. She only makes it to the foot of the bed. He doesn't see her, she knows he doesn't, because he is humming and eating the flames licking up her curtains. "Help," she pleas, but it is only a weak hiss of air passing her chapped lips.

His dark eyes snap to hers, an alarmed expression parting his lips, before her world fades to black.

A week later she wakes up surrounded by clean white floors and starched linens. There is a mask strapped to her face and wires taped to her skin, and dazedly realizes she is in a hospital. She expects her mother to be there, but it is Ms. Spetto that comes rushing to her bedside; tears following the deep wrinkles around her mouth as her time worn hands gently cup Lucy's cheeks. Her lips move around the same words, over and over again. By the fourth time she repeats it, Lucy is able to wade through the fog of painkillers enough to understand.

“I’m so sorry.”

Lucy is ten years old, and the day she wakes up—relieved to be alive—is the day she finds out her mother is dead.

The second time she sees him it is at Burning Man.

She is twenty-one and so out of her league, but a classmate convinced her to come along. She is angry and determined to rebel against her father in every way possible so she does. It takes her a day and five semi-permanent coloring kits to get her hair ready. Cana (her classmate) helps her dye some of the blonde strands into rainbow colored streaks. Lucy admits that she's concerned about the turn out at first, but now that she has the colored strands weaved into two French braids she is more than happy with her decision.

Everyone seems so bright and full of color, so full of life. She is lost in a sea of costumed bodies, sky high sculptures, cleverly modified "cars", friendly smiles, and booze. Lots of booze. The sun is mercilessly hot, and she knows that her shoulders will likely be burned even through her sunscreen (and the thick layer of dust she had accumulated from her traditional virgin roll in the dirt upon her arrival). It is nothing like she has ever experienced, and she is glad that Cana convinced her to come.

Her friend disappeared hours ago—Lucy assumes she is probably back in the tent doing she-doesn't-even-want-to-know-what with her boyfriend. She takes a drag of her beer and shivers when she finds it is still cold. The bikini top and shorts she is wearing do little to keep her warm, but she knows that once she joins the throng of dancers she will probably be wishing for the cold.

Night descends and people are lit up with any and every possible glow-in-the-dark accessory imaginable. The large sculptures dotting the desert are aglow with a mixture of Christmas lights and LEDs, but the one in front of her is a cacophony of large billowing flames that—if not for the smoke and heat—would almost look like clouds. Adrenaline pumps through her veins, quickening her pulse as she is torn between fear and awe and the towering flames. She has made sure to find a spot upwind to avoid the smoke, but she can still feel her breathing beginning to tighten. Her asthma doesn’t flare up often, but when it does smoke is usually the culprit; fitting since it was the burning air and toxic smoke she inhaled when she was ten that gave her the condition in the first place. She reaches for the inhaler she stacked in her front pocket—just to be safe.

Then she sees him.

He is everything she remembers and everything she has forgotten. He sits on the crude arm of the sculpture, grabbing handfuls of flames and slurping it up as if it were soup. She can’t hear anything over the music, but his leg swings idly to the beat and, somehow, she can almost hear him humming along.

Lucy goes still—frozen in a sea of moving bodies. A man next to her asks if she’s ok, but she barely registers it. By the time she does, he’s already laughing her off has having a good trip. She watches as he disappears into the crowd, hoping that when she looks the fire eating man will have disappeared.

He hasn’t.

He’s staring right at her, with those eyes she remembers most. The same startled expression parting his mouth; fire painting him in orange, red light.

Her inhaler drops. Lucy runs. Maybe she is on a bad trip—maybe someone put something in her drink—but she doesn’t care. Even if it isn’t real, it’s real to her. She doesn’t want to stare at the face that has haunted her for more than a decade. The face she has told no one about, because even as a ten year old she knew better than to believe in strange men that eat fire like it’s a meal.

Adrenaline is making her pulse race and her mind foggy. She should have ran back to her tent—Cana’s boyfriend being there or not—but instead she finds herself surrounded by cold, empty desert with the fire (and other people) at her back. The air she gulps down is cold, but she knows the goosebumps dotting her exposed skin are from far, far more than just the temperature. There are a hundred of things she should be worried about—snakes, coyotes, real men that might see her as an easy target—but all she can think of is dark eyes and flames and the wheezing in her chest.

She forces herself to stand upright, dutifully recalling her doctor’s instructions should she have an attack without her inhaler, and tries to calm her racing heart and reign in her short, gasping breaths. It’s just her mind playing tricks, she tells herself. Just childhood trauma coming back to haunt her. It was a big fire, she should have known it would trigger a reaction. Really, what had she expected? Only, each inhale of cold, dry air seems to only make the pain in her chest coil tighter; every breath shorter.

Suddenly the fire-eater is the least of her concerns. She has to turn around—has to find the spare inhaler she has stashed in her duffle bag. If she doesn’t—if she passes out, here, in the dark corner of desert—she won’t live to see the sunrise.

She turns, squeaking out a scream when she finds a face not a foot away from her’s. A face that, even in the darkness, she recognizes.

He tilts his head, brow furrowing as he watches her gasp. His hand wraps around her neck, too light to bruise but too firm for her to escape. Fear prompts her to claw at his hand, fighting against his hold, but then something strange happens.

The coil in her chest loosens, the whistle in her breathing stops. She can breathe.

Lucy’s heartbeat thunders in her ears, but as his hand retreats her breathing slows, deep and measured and so blessedly normal it’s shocking. She stumbles backward, tripping and falling on her bottom, but she is too numb to do anything else but stare. She doesn’t know what he did but she knows it saved her life, and she isn’t sure how she should process that. “How?” she asks, the word cutting through the silence.

He crouches down, head tilted and eyes curious. “You can see me?”

Lucy swallows, trembling. She doesn’t dare repeat her question. “Am I not supposed to?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he gives a small, perplexed shrug. “I don’t know. No one has before.”

“That’s a lie,” she murmurs, before she can think better of it. But he doesn’t seem offended. “I saw you. You were eating the curtains.”

He recoils, disgusted. “Gross! Who the hell would eat curtains?!”

“They were on fire,” she says, confidence growing the longer she sits there. He hasn’t hurt her—he’s never hurt her—and she gets the feeling that he never will. Why would he bother saving her otherwise? Her vision has begun to adjust to the dark, and he seems much less scary now that he’s more than a shadow. The pink hair helps too. “I was a little girl, and I saw you.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, seeming torn between awe and complete confusion. The way he looks at her is disconcerting… like he doesn’t know what she is, even though she’s the one that should be perplexed. “How’d you do that?”

Her shoulders lift into a weak shrug. Beneath her the ground is still relatively warm from soaking up the sun’s heat all day, but even that is rapidly leaving, and she shivers—teeth on the verge of chattering now that some of the adrenaline has waned. “I didn’t do anything,” she grumbles, sitting up and rubbing her arms with her palms. “You were just, there, and I saw you.”

Glancing at her hands, he frowns. “Why are you doing that?”

“What?”

“That thing with your hands. And the shaky thing.”

“Because I’m cold? It’s cold out here.”

“It is?” He looks around, as if temperature is something that can be seen instead of felt. “Huh. Guess I didn’t notice.” His feet lift, crossing underneath him, and it’s as if gravity has ceased to exist. Perhaps, for him, it never has. In the dark, his eyes burn inhumanly bright. “What’s your name?”

A warning trill traces her spine. Lucy doesn’t remember all of her mother’s teachings, but she remembers this: names have power. Back then it was merely a rule for storybooks; realms with magic and fae instead of electricity and cars. Still, her mother’s voice rings, clear as day, that one can never be too careful. “What’s yours?”

His grin is wide, almost approving, as he laces his fingers behind his head. “You know, you really are the only one that can see me. Do you see other things too?”

Lucy stares at him, a sudden swell of emotion stirring in her chest. “I thought I imagined you,” she says, barely above a whisper. “No one could tell me how I got out of the house. You... you did that, didn’t you? You saved me?”

He shifts, looking uncomfortable. Mouth parting, he’s on the verge of offering an answer when his body tenses—eyes snapping to the dying flames yards away. He frowns, looking genuinely disappointed. “Well, damn. Guess this is goodbye.”

Lucy shakes her head, “Wait! You didn’t answer—“

He flips something toward her: a coin, gold and glinting despite the darkness. Out of instinct, she catches it. The metal is inhumanly warm and unnaturally bright, and it momentarily shocks her into silence. When she looks up he is sending her a dimpled grin.

“Call me!”

Then, between one blink and the next, he’s gone; and Lucy wonders how she could possibly call when she doesn’t even know who or what he is.

The third time she sees him, her shoulders and cheeks are still burnt from the Nevada sun, but she is at least in the privacy of her own home.

Her father has always thrown money at problems to make them go away, and Lucy is no exception. It is easier for him to shower her with gifts through the mail than to shower her with time, and though it still sends a shot of bitterness through her heart she has learned to at least appreciate the practicality of his seemingly endless pocketbook. The cozy two-story Tudor style home he bought her, just around the corner from her college campus, is particularly well loved.

The wallpaper is old—some of it even original—and peeling in some places, and the oak floors speak back to her with every step, but she loves the warmth it provides; so unlike the cold, polished marble homes of her youth.

There are multiple fireplaces. Lucy has never used them, but she considers them thoughtfully now; despite it being the heat of summer. She rubs the coin between her fingers restlessly.

She lights a match—hesitating long enough to feel the heat brush her fingertips—before flicking it into the fireplace. The crumpled balls of paper take a moment to catch, but once it does the fire flares to life; the flames licking at the bricks. But nothing changes and she frowns—disappointed.

In her front pocket, the golden coin hums; emitting a heat she can feel even through the denim of her jeans. She pulls it out, stares at her reflection in the polished surface, and wonders. Her eyes flick to the fireplace, considering, and tosses the coin into the flames.

She stares, waiting for something (anything) to happen. After a few long seconds she begins to think nothing will, but then—between one blink and the next—he’s there, bouncing on the pads of his bare feet and a dimpled grin stretched ear to ear.

“Bout time! What took you so long?”

Lucy sits, practically falling into her favorite wingback chair, and stares up at him in disbelief. “I... can’t believe that worked.”

He links his hands over his head, stretching. Lucy tries not to notice the way his muscles flex beneath his open vest. Perhaps it was a mistake calling on him during the day. Between the harsh shadows the Burning Man fire cast and the desert darkness, she had failed to realize how inhumanly handsome he is.

A pink eyebrow raises questioningly. “Well, why wouldn’t it?”

Lucy flushes. She prays to whatever the hell god is listening that he didn’t notice her staring and forces herself to focus on the conversation instead of his pecs. “Why would it?!”

He opens his mouth, but whatever answer he was preparing to give her is cut off by the dimming flames in the hearth. “Don’t let it die!” he yelps, bordering on panic. “Throw something in there! Quick! If the fire dies, the door shuts!”

Hastily, she looks around for something to toss in but it wasn’t like she was prepared for any of this. She doesn’t buy firewood—why would she when this is the first time she’s ever dared to use her fireplace—and the crumpled pieces of paper she had lit were just junk mail. “I don’t have anything else!”

He growls, an inhuman sound for an inhuman man, and points to the stack of books on her side table. “There!”

Lucy blanches. “That’s my history textbook!”

“Who cares!? They got most of it wrong anyway!” he snaps. The last of the flames is retreating into the embers. “Hurry!”

It is a testament to her stress level that her sanity lapsed enough to throw her three-hundred dollar textbook to its fiery grave. She watches, gaping, as it catches—a whooshing pillar of ink fed flames.

Delighted, her guest tastes a sample and makes a face. “Geeze, did no one teach you how to build a fire? You kinda suck at this.”

Lucy’s face hardens. “I try to avoid it.”

“Why would you so that?! Fire is awesome! It cooks stuff and keeps people warm—“

“It killed my mother.”

His smile falls. “Oh.”

Silence presses down on them, so awkward it’s stifling. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she gathers her courage to ask the question that’s haunted her for years. “You were there,” Lucy whispers, her heart aching. “Why didn’t you save her too?”

He rubs the back of his neck, unable to meet her gaze, but there is an apology in his voice. “I can’t interact with people of this plane—I don’t really exist here.”

Lucy shakes her head. “But you saved me.”

Frowning, he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well yeah. Wasn’t going to leave ya there.”

She can’t tell if he’s being oblivious or stubborn, but her frustration rises regardless. “But I’m from this plane.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Of course I am!”

He doesn’t argue, but his stare is pointed. Knowing. When he shrugs it feels placating. “Ok.”

Lucy feels like it’s anything but, and when the fire starts to die she doesn’t feed it.

She doesn’t see him for another three months.

Honestly, she hadn’t planned on calling on him at all, but it’s Christmas Eve and all her friends have fled the campus and returned home for the holidays. Christmas is a holiday she hasn’t fully celebrated since her mother died. She remembers that the Heartfilia mansion used to be so lit up with lights and garlands it would glow from the street. Ms. Spetto liked to joke that it could probably be seen from the moon.

The fresh scent of pine and the magic of the holiday left with her mother, though, and her father has never so much as put a wreath up since. When Lucy was in the dorms she would try to add a bit of cheer, but it always paled in comparison to the grandness of her childhood memories. When she received the keys to her home, Lucy vowed to go all out come Christmas.

Garlands drape over the fireplace mantels and twine between the railings of the staircase. The Douglas fir she had to physically wrestle into submission sits—slightly leaning—in the corner of the living room, lit up in row upon row of white lights and branches heavy with the glass ornaments she found at the superstore around the corner. The fire is crackling merrily in the fireplace, and a mug of hot cocoa warms her palms.

It is all picture perfect—something straight off a holiday card.

It feels hollow. Forced.

Lonely.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, quelling its quivering. She doesn’t want to spend her Christmas alone; not again.

From the fireplace mantle, partially hidden behind the heavy garland, the gold coin winks at her. She stares at it until her cocoa grows cold; torn between the desire to fill the emptiness in her heart and being sensible enough to know better than to invite a strange being into her home (again) for no other reason than to have some company.

Lucy considers herself to be logical, for the most part, but right now she’s tired of putting responsibility first. Right now, she wants to take a page out of Cana’s book and just say fuck it.

She stands, making a beeline to the dining room and fishing out a bottle of Kahlua from the back of the alcohol cabinet. Dumping a generous amount into her (now cold) hot chocolate, she doesn’t even bother to stir before taking a several gulps. It slides down her throat, smooth and warm, before settling in her stomach. It feels like courage, or perhaps it’s simply recklessness. Either way, she takes the smooth faced coin from the mantle and tosses it into the fire before she can talk herself out of it.

He takes longer this time—a good three blinks—but when he arrives there is a holly crown weaved into his hair and a pink flush to his cheeks. His clothes are different from all the times before; finer. High collared and made from a golden material that reflects the flickering light of the fire. “Hey,” he breathes, an excited (relieved?) smile pulling at his lips. “I didn’t think you’d call.”

For a moment she can only gape at him; struck by how otherworldly—how Fae—he looks. “Um, I, well. I just thought... you know, it’s Christmas?” She pales, realization dawning as fast as her embarrassment. “Oh, but, you wouldn’t celebrate Christmas. Would you?”

The chuckle he gives is light, and blessedly unoffended. “Nah, can’t say I do.” He gestures to his clothing. “But we go all out for the Winter Solstice. So similar deal, right? With the whole eat, drink, and be merry and whatnot?”

Despite the alcohol making her thoughts fuzzy, Lucy has enough presence of mind to know better than to invite a conversation of religion with a near stranger (let alone a mythical being) so she nods. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.” Then it clicks, and she feels her face heat. “Oh, you were—did I interrupt the, uh, merrymaking?”

He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I was getting sick of seeing Ice Prick’s smug face anyway. He’s always an extra pain in the ass this time of year.”

She blinks, but decides she really doesn’t want to know. “Oh. Well then, um, would you like some hot cocoa?”

His answering smile is boundless; bright with an enthusiasm that Lucy knows is worthy of far more than what she’s offered.

For the remainder of winter break, Lucy lights a fire in the living room hearth every evening.

She never enjoys it alone.

Cana looks at her strangely when she returns from break, eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

Lucy frowns, sitting in the seat beside her. The coffee shop is busy, but the line is mostly frantic to-go orders of students who hit the snooze one too many times. The sitting area is practically empty saved for two or three others. “I missed you too? How’s your dad?”

“Drunk,” Cana says without a beat, her lips thinning. “Seriously, though. What’d you do? Your aura is freaking me out.”

Lucy doesn’t typically put too much faith in the idea of psychics, but Cana’s has a history of being uncannily right about things she doesn’t have any business knowing. Also, she’s sorta made friends with a fae over Winter Break so who is she to judge? “What are you talking about?”

Cana rests her chin in her palm, a painted fingernail tapping thoughtfully against her cheek. “You’re... bright.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lucy tried to interpret Cana’s baffled expression. “And that’s...bad?”

The brunette snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. Her eyes continue to stare over the rim. “It’s fucking weird. I can’t read anything off you. It’s like staring straight at a lightbulb.”

Lucy doesn’t have an explanation—she’s not even sure she even understands—so offers a shrug and a sheepish smile. “Sorry?”

Cana hums, shaking her head. “It’s pretty,” she consoles, eyes tracing something Lucy can’t see. “But it’s fucking weird.”

“Why can I see you?” Lucy asks, staring up at the ceiling. The wood planks are unforgiving on her joints, but the warmth of the fire (and perhaps that glass of wine) has made her too sleepy to care. Monopoly money and plastic houses are scattered over her coffee table, a few of the paper bills littering the floor.

Her guest pauses in his inspection of the thimble, brow raised. “Why does anyone see anything?”

She huffs, eyelids heavy and words mumbled. “Why do you keep answering questions with more questions?”

His grin is crooked but soft. “Because I won’t lie to you.”

She hums sleepily, lids drifting shut. It feels good to rest her eyes. “You can tell me anything.”

They both know it’s the truth. Sometime in the last six months he has become one of her closest friend, her most trusted confidant. At least a couple nights a week, she calls on him. They play board games and watch movies—one night Lucy taught him how to bake chocolate chip cookies. He still hasn’t told her his name. Lucy hasn’t told him hers either.

The chuckle he gives is as warm as the fire at her back; his voice a promise. “Someday I will.”

Lucy is asleep before she can answer.

On the anniversary of her mother’s death, Lucy lights a candle.

She tries to sniff back the tears, but they press against the backs of her eyes—building in pressure until they spill over her lids. The tiny flame dances, moved by her uneven breaths. It hurts. Ten years later and it still hurts.

Legs weak, she sinks to the floor, hand over her aching chest as silent sobs wrack her body.

A hand rests against her back. Lucy doesn’t look to see who it belongs to— it’s too warm to be anyone but his. She curls into herself, unsure if she feels irritated by him coming uninvited (the candle, she thinks, it must have been the candle) or relieved that she doesn’t have to fall apart alone.

“I didn’t call you,” she tells him, voice cracking. The coin is in her front pocket, hidden and far from the open flame.

A callused knuckle brushes a tear from her eyes before it can fall. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “you did.”

She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater. She still doesn’t understand, and she hates when he gives her these vague responses, but she’s in too much pain to fight for an answer. “But how’d you open the door? The coin—”

He offers a brittle smile. “There’s more than one way to pick a lock.”

His arms wrap around her, pulling her close until the heat of him surrounds her. It feels so good to be held—to be touched— something in her breaks and she releases a low, keening sob. His hold tightens, a hand reaching up to caress her hair. Lucy can feel his lips brush against her forehead, his words whispering across her skin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

Her fingers grasp his clothing, and she inhales his spiced scent in between gasping breaths. She’s sorry too.

Wake up.

A kiss of warmth at her lips, magic in her lungs. Hands shake her. Rough. Begging.

Breathe. Come on, breathe.

Lucy opens her eyes with a gasp, ragged and raw. Pavement digs uncomfortably into her shoulder blades, and her chest aches with every inhale. Her vision is blurred, but she can make out his pink hair through the fog. One side of her face feels hot, and she rolls her head to the side to investigate.

Her home is on fire.

At first she thinks she’s only reliving her childhood nightmare, but the familiar man—fae—hovering over her grips her upper arms with a strength that is bruising. “You idiot,” he hisses. There are tears clinging, unspilled, at the corners of his eyes. “Why the hell didn’t you leave the ashes in the fireplace?!”

Lucy blinks, trying to clear the blurriness at the edge of her vision. “Ashes?” she echoes. She had cleaned those up, swept them into her trash can. The hearth was filthy from all his visits. “But they were cold.” She knows—she checked. It had been hours from when the fire died and his visit ended.

She can hear the piercing echo of sirens and knows they are for her.

His hands move, callused palms cupping her cheeks; so gently they tremble. “Idiot,” he repeats, softer this time. Almost an endearment. The piercing echo of sirens reach her ears, Lucy knows they are for her. He leans down till their foreheads touch, his breath warm against her lips. “Those ashes almost killed you,” he whispers, voice rough. “If you didn’t leave my coin downstairs—” he cuts off, cringing. “You weren’t breathing. When I pulled you out. You weren’t breathing.”

Lights, red and white, flash over her front yard. Someone with heavy steps and full fire gear runs toward her; shouting something Lucy can’t bother to make out. She’s too focused on the fear, the relief, in her friend’s dark eyes.

The fireman is kneeling beside her know, opposite of the fae that saved her. His fingers check her pulse as he speaks to her (Miss are you alright? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?)

Lucy doesn’t answer, doesn’t even glance his way. To do so would mean breaking eye contact with her best friend, and right now his presence is offering her more comfort than any human could. “What’s your name?” she rasps, reaching for him.

“Natsu,” he answers, taking her hand in his. His fingers, callused and warm, trace her cheek, and Lucy knows that what he’s given her is far more than just a name. “It’s Natsu.”

She wants to thank him—for saving her, for his trust—but she’s being picked up, pulled away from him, and set in a stretcher. A mask is strapped over her face, IVs taped to her arm, and she fights to hold onto his hand. “No,” she mutters weakly, “No, I want to stay with him. Stop...”

They keep speaking to her, encouraging and emphatic, but they don’t listen to her requests. She struggles, gloved hands push her down, but then Natsu is there beside her—reaching between the bodies surrounding her to grasp her hand. “It’s ok,” he says. “It’s ok. Don’t fight them.”

She holds his hand with a white-knuckled grip, relieved that he doesn’t let her go as they load her into the ambulance. The paramedic puts a stethoscope to her chest, listening to her pulse, as the doors close. Beside him, Natsu kneels beside her, thumb stroking over her knuckles. “I’ll stay with you for as far as I can,” he promises. Lucy nods, but her eyes are starting to feel heavy.

He makes it four blocks, before a pained grimace overtakes his features. His lips part, probably trying to warn her, but he isn’t quick enough. He disappears, torn away from her by the boundaries of his magic, but when her fingers close she finds that he didn’t leave her empty handed. Sitting, comforting and warm, in her palm is a familiar gold coin.

Lucy closes her fingers around it, tests the taste of his name on her lips, and falls into sleep.

They discharge her after two days. The doctors tell her it’s a small miracle she escaped without any damage to her lungs, but Lucy knows better.

She’s breathing better than she has in the last decade—since before she survived the fire that took her mother. Natsu has given her more than his name, more than his kiss. When their lips touched, something in her awoke. She can feel it, even now, lazily curling around her soul—sleepy and languid; a cat in front of a warm hearth. It’s new but she knows, instinctively, that it is hers.

Long ago, her mother used to spin her stories of the Fae and their blood—how the magic often slept, hidden, in plain sight for generations before awakening.

Lucy knows why she can see Natsu; knows why he was able to save her.

She goes home; what’s left of it. Beyond the yellow caution taped perimeter is a charred skeleton of what used to be her house. Most of the walls have buckled, little more than piles of blackened brick and ash. Of all four fireplaces her home once boasted, only the one in the living room is recognizable. The stack is short, but after a bit of digging Lucy is able to find the hearth.

With soot blackened hands, she fishes her discharge papers from the plastic, hospital issued bag she was sent with and diligently crumbles each page until the hearth is full of her makeshift kindling and—gleaming on top—his coin. It won’t burn for long, she knows, but as she brings a lighter (her only purchase between the hospital and home) to the paper, she hopes it will be enough.

The moment the paper catches, she can feel his presence behind her—a subtle shift in the air, the spiced scent of magic. She faces him, heart fluttering in her chest.

His fingers brush over her eyelids, a soft smile curling his mouth. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, awe darkening his gaze. “You can see.”

“Yes,” she murmurs, holding his palm to her cheek. The calluses lining his fingers brush against her skin, warm and welcome, and she sighs—leaning into his touch. “I can see.”

His grin is interrupted by a shudder—so minute she would have never known if she weren’t holding his hand—and his eyes flick over to the fireplace. Lucy doesn’t need to look to know they are running out of time.

Quickly, before the fire goes out completely, she kisses him. Chaste, but branded with the heat of a promise. “Lucy,” she whispers against his lips. “My name is Lucy.”

Natsu sucks in a quick, startled breath and stares down at her as if she is something amazing. Slowly, his lips curl and his cheeks dimple—eyes lighting up. “Lucy,” he echoes—savoring each syllable as if they are the finest gift she could give him. Lucy suspects they might be.

He brushes a stray hair away from her face with a tenderness that makes her pulse flutter and her eyes close. When he kisses her, it is soft and unhurried despite the dying fire behind her. It feels like coming home. Her fingers grip his vest in what she knows is a vain effort to keep him beside her.

When he pulls away she opens her eyes, and finds the world different. There is stardust tangled in Natsu’s hair; magic in his smile. Where her blackened hearth once stood is a bridge made purely of light and something so other it makes her heart ache with the desire to touch it. “I thought it was a door?” she murmurs, entranced.

Natsu’s forehead rests against hers, his lips so close she can feel the force of his smile. “It was. Fire is my doorway, the coin I gave you is my key. But you, Luce... Don’t you see? You’re the bridge.” He kisses her temple. “You’re the best of both worlds.”

He steps away from her, hand held out in invitation. Framed by the bridge’s ethereal light, he looks every bit like a Fae from her childhood storybooks. “Come with me?”

When Lucy takes his hand, their fingers lace.

#Naluweek #nalu #nalu fanfiction #fairy tail fanfiction #my fanfiction

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go-diane-winchester · 5 years

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If you don't like Misha, this post might make you smirk.

I did this post yesterday and then deleted it because the OP made me feel sorry for her. Luckily for me, someone reblogged it and my momentary stupidity is now remedied. This whole scenario makes me smirk.

Yesterday's post:

Doll face found @dean-supernatural-akf ranting in the main tags, including the Jensen tag, which is why she forwarded this biased drivel to me. Thanks sweetie. I scrolled though OPs blog, trying to figure this person out, because she ships wincest and destiel, apparently. And she hates the haters. It is convenient and dismissive to label those who don’t agree with you, don’t you think? Label them rather than proving them wrong conclusively, because that would be difficult and you might lose the argument because of a lack of intelligence. So call them names and be done with it. Her rant is in italics, and my rebuttal in bold.

Rude and Missunderstood.

I CAN LIKE MISHA COLLINS AS AN HUMAN AND ACTOR WITHOUT BEING ONE OF HIS MINIONS.

Shocking right?

Here have a seat and lean back.

Very recently i got heavily missunderstood, and i’m making this post so it won’t happen again.

I asked someone if their blog is real . Because it was so full of hate against this actor named Misha Collins.

This guy right here, and I bet when you are one of the anti misha people then you even share the same look on your face right now, congrats.

Listen… I love JENSEN and i love JARED. And yes i love MISHA too.

But i don’t follow him around like a dog, i don’t kiss the ground where hes walking on.

AND i also don’t do this with J2.

Why is it that when there is an entire blog dedicated to hate for Jensen or Jared, there is no bleeding heart rant like this about that blogger? But if you write a blog about all the mean things Misha and his fans do, you are a “horrible human being” with “toxicity and hate in your heart”. No, I would prefer to call it discernment. I wont like someone just because “it SPNFamily darn it, haters don’t belong”. So if Misha gives me consistent reasons to hate him, I am still not allowed to hate him because I will be ejected from SPNFamily? What is this? A communist fanbase? Nobody is allowed to have their own opinions? Everybody must think the same way and feel the same fairytale happy feelings? Which dandelion world did you pop up from?

I fight for all of them, i fight against the hate that all of those three get and Misha gets more hate then J2 and thats a fact.

Misha gets more hate? Really? You mean like death threats? Like people tweeting him directly that they wish he was dead? That kind of hate? Please, show me where the hate is. Bring me your receipts. I want to see all the hate that Misha gets.

And it’s so fucking unfair, i have seen blogs and people that wish that he would die, a man with two children and wife.

This is so sick and it’s so not okay.

Prove it. Screenshot and show me where all these horrible people are. I will put it in a post. I always do. The death threats and death wishes for J2 have been screenshotted and are on my blog. So I have proof for my claims. Bring the proof for your claims. Its called making mature statements. Quantifying your claims. So please, set me straight. Show me all the nastiness poor Misha gets. I would like to see it.

About the Misha minions, MISHA ISNT THE ONLY ONE WITH MINIONS.

Shocking again, right ?

From under which rock did you emerge? Misha named his fans minions. Very disrespectful. No other actor has ’‘minions’’. Benedict Cumberbatch didn’t like his fans referring to themselves as Cumberb*tches. I respect him for that. Misha did the opposite. Shocking, right?

The people who only love J2 hate on Misha. And the people who love all of them hate back against the anti Misha people.

That is an incredibly simplistic way of putting it. And it gives me the impression that this rant was written by someone who is young and idealistic in their notion of how the world works. How come you don’t talk about the people who like Jensen and Misha and therefore hate Jared? You cant. You cant because that would be problematic to the narrative you are vomiting right now. Those cockles perverts are the ones that tweet him, telling him that that they cant wait for him to die. Receipts on my blog.

The way you support J2 is the same way that Misha’s people support him.

Actually no, J2 fans don’t get angry when Misha is interviewed for Elle magazine, yelling “where’s J2”. They don’t ask “Whose line is it,anyway?” why they excluded J2. They don’t threaten to burn Misha alive in his house for being anti-destiel and/or making a joke about Jensen. That happened with Jensen. I have the receipts. The same group were discussing kidnapping Jared’s kids. That group was made up of 3500 people. So many haters slipped up your radar? Well, now you know.

Minions and bitchy people are EVERYWHERE.

It is such a useless fight, don’t like someone?

THEN SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT.

Yeah, take a page out of your own book. If you don’t like the “haters”, as you dismissively call them, then don’t put this incorrect, unsubstantiated, unquantifiable rant in the main tags. In fact, keep your uninformed opinion to yourself.

What you do when you hate someone so badly and make a whole tumblr Blog about it then you are not better as those highschool bullies.

Dealing with the entire subject of hate, in the most abstract manner, without any analysis into your darling actor’s bad behavior and without taking into account the nasty behavior of his fandom, shows that high school is all you know. Hopefully, one day you will grow up and think on broader terms.

Cyberbullying is a serious subject, and thats exactly what you do with Hate Blogs and Hate tweets and Hate comments.

Keep using the word “hate”. It will abrogate all the legitimate anger that the J2 fans have against Misha and his hellerminions. Hellers are the biggest cyberbullies in fandom. They sent hate directly to J2. Some of the things they write will shock a person who has a real disdain to hate, not a daffodil like you who thinks Misha is infallible and doesn’t deserve an anti tag. One said that she couldn’t wait for Jared to die. And she tweeted that directly to Jared, along with a praying emoji. Oh, you don’t know about that? Well, then I guess you are not an authority on who is SPNFamily and who is not, now are you?

You want to be a bully ? You love spreading hate ?

THEN JUST FUCKING BLOCK ME AND DON’T REPLY TO THIS.

Don’t reply to this? Then why put it in the main tags, as well as inappropriate tags, and still hope that nobody disagree with you. Aren’t we childish?

What happened after the post was put up:

She DM's me and says that she has since changed her mind because she did another post about the hate that J2 get, and if I could please remove my post, because she was suffering panic attacks over it. I said I would, but she is going to remove the above misleading post and provide me with proof that Misha gets death threats. Caught between a rock and a hard place, she said that she came across the death threats on two blogs, that had blocked her for some mysterious reason, which is why she couldn't screenshot the evidence. I found what those reasons were, when I went to those blogs:

@castiel-needs-2-go

@destiew-must-go

I searched through their blogs, and found nothing. No death threats. They just point out the truth about Misha. That is it. She accused them for nothing. Of course, that didn't occur to me until today, because I still felt concerned for her because the poor kid was suffering panic attacks. So I deleted the post. Today I find this message from her:

''So i asked like 10 different people Misha stans and Misha haters about those things you said he did. Nobody has ever heard of it, no one. You are telling your lies man, i aint stopping ya. But you are a horrible person if you need to attack a 19 year old on the Internet and 'Call me out' just because it gives you a kick. And just because you disagreed. My post will stay deleted because it wasnt up to Date anymore, but it wont be my last one. People like you need to be stopped, people like you are the reason why this fandom sucks so hard. Bye Bye. You are the sick one here .''

The weird thing is she attached this gif:

I don't know whether she thought it was going to hurt my feelings or something but, it actually helps to show her true identity. She is not a wincest fan. She is a Sam-hating heller in disguise. Who would have thunk it?

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