#decision. I would rather him go out while he's feeling okay and relatively content then wait until he's in severe | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yslkook · 3 years

Text

IF I GOT YOU (7)

mind of mine masterlist

summary: one month later...and things start to come to a head. you feel more at peace than you've ever felt, but as usual, what remains peaceful is always interrupted.

pairing: “badboy” jk x “shy/reserved” oc

warnings: cursing, alc, excessive use of pet names, HELLA HELLA toxic friendship and dynamics, suggestive content (hooking up and other mentions)

word count: 4066

a/n: if you want to be tagged, send an ask plz. would love to hear your thoughts

Despite a month going by from the last time you spoke to Jungkook in the park and put all of your feelings out in the open, spring air, you feel lighter than ever. Maybe most of that has to do with the simple fact that you’ve finally cut out a toxic, deadweight from your life. Regardless of what ends up happening with you and Jungkook as friends or more than that, at least you are at peace and happy with being yourself.

Besides, it’s not like you don’t ever see him. You see him when you visit the tattoo parlor (but you haven’t allowed yourself to be alone with him and he hasn’t initiated), you’ve seen him at impromptu nights out, at Yoongi’s apartment. Neither of you allow yourself to be alone with each other, since you had both agreed to wait. Even your text message thread with him is dry, though.

You miss him, hoping that a notification of his name with the bunny emoji attached to it flashes across the screen. But it doesn’t.

For all of his bravado, he feels somewhat shy around you on the few occasions that he’s seen you. Jungkook will go out of his way to avoid you, hiding (as much as he can) behind Mina and Mei.

He misses you. Jungkook misses the feel of your lips molding against his, the way you felt in his arms, but most of all he misses your shy smile and your loud laugh. He misses the way your eyes shine when you speak about something you’re passionate about.

Mina had said you were both being stupid, taking time away from each other when you both are denying the inevitable. But it made sense in your mind and his. You want to know what kind of person you were without the burden of Sora’s judgment weighing heavily in every frame of your life. You take the time you need to take to recenter yourself and feel somewhat whole again.

It doesn’t take you long to adjust to life without a former best friend. You quickly begin to notice how different you feel, how differently you approach basic things that you hadn’t really put much thought to before.

It feels so refreshing to not feel like you’re walking in some metaphorical shadow of someone who didn’t really care about you. Well, you think on some level, she did care. But along with the insignificant way she made you feel, it’s not enough to justify it. And you’re really grateful that you don’t need to anymore.

In fact, you’ve already deleted most pictures with her on your social medias. You haven’t quite been able to block her yet, but you think you’ll be ready to do that soon enough.

The ever elusive notion of time really does seem to heal nearly all forms of hurt.

“So,” Yoongi starts, sitting next to you on his new black leather couch and handing you a glass of red wine.

“Don’t start with me,” You say, poking his shoulder.

“I’m not starting anything with you,” Yoongi shrugs, but his eyes twinkle.

“Oh? That’s the voice you use when you have gossip or when you’re about to interrogate me,” You mutter, rolling your eyes with a fond smile.

“Maybe it’s a little of both,” Hobi chimes in, sitting on your other side. He leans back and drapes his legs over your lap, to which you instantly rest your hands over his legs.

“How lucky for me,” You mumble, taking a long swig of your wine. You’ll need it.

“How’s that witch doing,” Yoongi asks bluntly.

“I don’t know, I told you I cut her off and kicked her out of my house like a month ago,” You reply, “Did you forget already?”

“No, I just like hearing that you finally came to your fucking senses,” Yoongi says, “She was awful, but I’ll commend you for sticking it out for this long. Cheers, the witch is finally gone-”

“I believe the phrase is, ‘ding dong, the witch is dead’, but this will suffice,” Hobi says and yelps when you swat his shoulder.

“Don’t be rude,” You say, “But… thank you for helping me see the light. Even if it took a while. And I’m sorry it affected our friendship, too.”

“Ah, well, we’re all here now,” Hobi says, pulling you in for a side hug.

“Yeah. So cheers,” Yoongi says again, raising his glass to you both, “Cheers to you for choosing yourself. And to new beginnings.”

“You’ll make me cry,” You say honestly, offering your friends a watery smile.

“As if we’ve never seen you cry before,” Hobi scoffs. And it’s true- they are two of your oldest friends, and even if you’ve come to the realization that maybe you hadn’t been the greatest friend to them… That bond is hard to sever, and you’re grateful that they’ve always had your back.

“Drink up,” You say with a smile, “Cheers to new beginnings.”

Yoongi has always been a little sly, unassuming but always with several tricks up his sleeve. When he so desires to cause a little mischief and stir the pot a little. And Hobi is all too happy to engage.

Which is how you end up several glasses of red wine and rose deep (yes, you mixed, rookie mistake but who cares. You’re in the presence of some of your greatest friends, after all).

And then Yoongi goes in for the kill.

“How’s our Jungkookie,” He asks, without missing a beat. You choke on your wine and wince when it somehow gets lodged in your nose.

“I don’t know. Think he’s good,” You finally respond, your words sounding slurred, “Ask Hobi. They work together, if you didn’t know.”

“Oh, thanks for the information. I had no idea.”

“Happy to be of service,” You say, leaning into Hobi's side, “Ikindofmisshim.”

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch that,” Yoongi says, a self-satisfied smirk blooming on his lips. He heard you, of course he did, but you don’t seem to pick up on it.

“I said I kind of miss him,” You reply, a dreamy look in your eyes, “Do you think he misses me, too?”

Hobi chokes back a laugh but you hear it and offer him a glare. “Don’t make fun of me!”

“Nobody’s making fun of you, stupid,” Yoongi says poking your forehead, “And yeah. Your man doesn’t shut up about you. Always with those eyes around you.”

“He’s not my man,” You whine pathetically.

“Yeah, that’s a mystery to both of us,” Hobi says, “How long are you both gonna keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“This weird awkward dance you both do around each other. Avoiding each other when we’re all together. It’s kinda funny, like we all know you both wanna fuck so bad-”

“Shut up! That’s- that’s not- shut up!”

Yoongi and Hoseok both burst into laughter, drunken giggles loud in the living room and you can’t help but laugh with them.

Clubs were never your most favorite place to unwind, but you make an exception for tonight. For Mina and Mei, you’ll make an exception. The three of you had gotten ready together in Mei’s home, in between sips of cocktails that she had poured out. Mina had done your makeup for you, giving you the sharpest eyeliner you’ve ever seen on your eyelids as well as a bold red lipstick.

It’s not a club night if there is no red lipstick involved, after all.

Your makeup usually looks good when you apply it yourself, but Mina has a genuine eye and skill for makeup artistry. You recall her telling you that she’d always dreamed of going to beauty school but hadn’t pursued it. You had told her that it’s never too late to fulfill a dream and she had only smiled at you.

“Hey,” You say, “Is Jimin coming tonight? How’d your date last week go?”

“It was really good,” Mina says, something sweet in her voice, “He made me dinner and dessert. And then I sucked his soul from his cock an hour later and he even made me squirt. And yeah, he’s coming tonight to the club. We’ll see what happens...”

“Wow,” You nod, listening with wide eyes, “That sounds amazing. I’m really happy things are going well for you both. Including the horny stuff.”

“The horny stuff?” Mei laughs, “You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” You say, playfully shoving her shoulder, “It’s no joking matter that he made you squirt.”

“Yeah, I high fived him after,” Mina says slyly, “It was… a night. Can’t wait to have another night like that. But I’m gonna make him work for it tonight.”

“As you should,” You nod solemnly, “What about you Mei? Are we drinking until we blackout or are you playing hard to get with Seulgi?”

“Who says we can’t do both?” Comes Mei’s muffled response.

“Cheers to that,” You reply, “Are… Jimin’s roommates coming?”

“You think you’re slick, huh?” Mina snorts, “You wondering about Jungkook?”

“N-no, I haven’t seen Taehyung in a while either-”

“Tae’s coming, but Jungkook isn’t. Something about having a long week and wanting to chill at home.”

“Oh, gotcha,” You say, cheeks ablaze as you avoid her eyes. Unable to hold the slight sting of disappointment from your voice.

Mina and Mei see right through it but they say nothing, only handing you a refill of your now empty glass.

Despite the relatively steady stream of drinks in your hand (an illusion, really, you’ve been nursing the same two drinks all night), you’re almost completely sober. In fact, you’re more tired than anything else. It seems that Jungkook had the right idea to stay home tonight. You’re rather benignly jealous of his decision.

You enjoy dancing and singing with your friends, feeling the thrum and excitement of music and your close companions bursting through your veins.But environments like this overwhelm you sometimes. All of the flashing lights, sometimes smoke and all of the people… Tonight seems to be one of those nights.

“Wanna dance?” Comes a rich, velvety voice behind you to the right. It’s Taehyung, and you’d rather dance with Taehyung than anyone else in this club. With the exception being Jungkook, but he’s not here right now.

“Okay,” You nod, taking his hand when he offers it to you. Your thoughts flit to Jungkook briefly.

Taehyung is good company, always keeping you with a smile on your face and filling you up with laughter. He keeps you close with easy, gentle movements as you both belt out the words to whatever song is playing on the speakers. But Taehyung has always been observant.

“You don’t really wanna be here, huh? I’d take it personally, if I didn’t know you,” Taehyung teases.

“No, it’s not that,” You murmur, “Just have never been a big club goer, that’s all. Jungkook had the right idea in staying home.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung muses, “What are you two doing?”

He’s almost as blunt as Yoongi (who’s also in some corner of the club. Usually, he keeps you company at things like this, but conveniently, he’s nowhere to be found.).

“If I knew I was going to be interrogated in this club, I would’ve drank more,” You say dryly. Taehyung laughs at that and squeezes your shoulder.

“You both deserve to be happy. Just want you to know that.”

“Thanks, Tae,” You say, a grin spreading across your face, “I guess you’re not as sleazy as Mina says you are-”

“Me? Sleazy?” Taehyung gasps, pretending to be affronted. You roll your eyes and offer him your hand.

“Wanna dance?”

Taehyung turns you around and holds your hips tightly in his hands, dancing with you to the beat of the music. It’s nice to be held like this, even if it’s a little dirty.

You don’t notice a pair of sly eyes watching you from across the club.

By the time you excuse yourself to catch a breath and grab some water from the bar, you realize that most of your friends are off doing their own thing. It gives you a second to people watch from the second floor of the curb and lean on the railings, taking in your surroundings. Despite stifling a yawn.

You relish in the cool feel of the icy water flooding your senses, waking you up a little more. You wonder if you can convince Yoongi to take you to get fries or tacos after the night ends. At the thought of tacos, you salivate a little.

But your taco fueled fantasies are broken when a few girls try to push past you to get to the bar. You mumble a soft apology, but it goes unheard. The unmistakable sound of a voice, a voice that you’ve only recently been able to put out of your mind, breaks through the barrier and it makes your heart drop.

It’s an angry call of your name. Your stomach churns, and suddenly you’ve never wanted to learn the art of teleportation more.

Sora, in all her bitter glory, stands in front of you with a full drink in her hands. Beside her are two of her friends, looking resigned and trying to plead with her that they should go.

“Missed me so much that you followed me here, huh?” Sora sneers.

“I’m not even going to entertain that with a response. Or you for that matter,” You say tiredly, trying to step past her.

“All your friends left you. Look at you all alone,” She says and you roll your eyes with a dry laugh.

“I’d rather be alone than have anything to do with you, Sora,” You reply easily, “I’m leaving now-”

But she sidesteps you again, gripping your forearm and looking at you with so much animosity that it makes your skin crawl. Had she always looked at you like that?

“I can’t believe you just dropped me like nothing. After I gave you everything,” Sora says, as if you had said nothing at all. She’s clearly a little drunk, telltale signs of her drunkenness clear on her face. Her words are slurred and she stumbles a little on her feet. You cringe. You don’t want to have this conversation with her whether she’s sober or drunk.

“You treated me like I was nothing,” You snap, “I don’t want to discuss this with you. Now let me go.”

“Or what? There’s nobody here ‘cept you and me, babe,” She says, her lips twisting into a cruel smirk. Her friends have disappeared and warning bells start to go off in your head. She’s right, all of your friends have dispersed. But you manage to fish your phone out of your purse while she rambles to you and send a text to the groupchat, simply stating “pls help, Sora is here”.

Dread seeps into your pores. You just want to be done with her presence.

“Sora, just let me go. Nothing you say will change anything,” You say heatedly, “Fucking let go of me!”

You try to yank your arm out of her grip but her nails are sharp against your skin.

“I loved you, you know that? I fucking gave you everything, you were my best friend,” Sora hisses, “I just wanted to you be happy. To see that I’d do anything for you.”

It takes a minute for the dust to settle but you suddenly begin to understand. “You hurt me! That’s not friendship or l-love, or anything remotely close to it. Nothing you say will change that. I don’t want you around anymore. Take a hint, Sora,” Your voice is cold and deadly, nothing like what Sora is accustomed to.

“Please, let me go,” You beg softly, “Why won’t you let me go?”

Tears spring into your eyes, both from the force she’s holding you with and from how much this is exhausting you.

“What does he have that’s worth all of this?” Sora hisses.

“It doesn’t matter what he has. I like him and I enjoy spending time with him, that’s all that should matter, and I’m not explaining Jungkook to you,” You say coldly, “You lost the right to know a long time ago. If you took your head out of your ass for two seconds, you’d know that this friendship was over months ago.”

By now, both of your voices have raised in volume and pitch, attracting the attention of bystanders. This makes no sense to you, your head is starting to hurt from the implications of her words. You just want to go home. By now, Yoongi has seen your text and is trying to get to the bar to rescue you from Sora.

“He won’t give you what you need,” Sora exclaims.

“Shut up! Just fucking stop talking about him,” You shout, “I’m so fucking sick of this, just leave me the fuck alone. Your opinion doesn’t matter to me anymore, just drop it!”

You feel the need to defend him though, “He’s kind, he has a big heart a-and, you know what, I don’t need to explain myself to you. Just fucking drop it! Leave me alone!”

“You are so fucking blind! You’ve always been such an oblivious fucking bitch,” She screams at you and your blood goes cold. You’ve seen her angry, but not like this not when her eyes are blown over with rage.

Yoongi’s heart is beating in his ears as he tries to find you- this club is fucking huge, where the hell could you be? He’s already sent a text to Jungkook, telling him that you might be in trouble at the club and that nobody could find you.

“Where is he then? If he’s so kind, he must be here right?”

“What the fuck is your problem? You’ve always had a stick up your ass about him specifically- I mean you’ve always have a stick up your ass, but with him it’s like something crawled up there and died-”

“You couldn’t even cuff him? You dropped me for him and you didn’t even cuff him?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“What are you afraid of, babe?” She sneers cruelly, “Afraid he’ll find something he doesn’t like? Or are you afraid you’ll find something that you don’t like?”

Frustration and hurt boils in your belly, causing wetness to pool in your eyes. You shut your eyes tightly, willing the feeling to go away. With all of the calmness you can muster, you throw her hand off of you and rub your forearm gingerly.

Before you can say anything, her eyes narrow to slits. You don’t even have time to react before you feel a sudden wetness drench the front of your top. Remnants of her drink are splashed on your torso and you gasp, rage flaring through your veins once more. How dare she throw her drink at you? Before you can do anything though, a pair of arms circle your waist and you’re pulled into a strong chest.

You recognize the scent of his cologne immediately and the feel of his leather jacket. “Jungkook,” You mumble, looking up at him. He immediately gives you his jacket and pushes it through your arms wordlessly.

“Hi,” He murmurs, taking in your wide, nervous eyes and the trembling of your hands. He brushes a thumb over your cheek before standing in front of you and you take his hand in yours. Jungkook squeezes reassuringly.

He offers Sora a long, hard look and a shake of his head. She almost balks at his intense gaze. Almost.

“C’mon baby,” Jungkook finally says, “Let’s get out of here.”

“My knight in shining arm-” You shiver once you’re both outside the club, away from the eyes of strangers. You cut your train of thought off when he pulls you close to him, cupping your cheeks with both hands. Worry dots his eyes and he presses his forehead to yours shakily.

“Jungkook?” You say softly, “Is everything-”

He exhales, a shudder felt against your skin. He seems to be at odds with himself, an internal battle dancing in his dark eyes. But Jungkook makes up his mind and cradles your face again, the gentle pads of his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“I missed you,” Jungkook croaks, “Shit, I miss you so fucking much. Can I kiss you, baby? Is it okay if I kiss you?”

You nod instantly, breathing out a soft ‘yes’. Whatever this recent development means for both of you, it makes sense. You want this and you want him.

And then he kisses you as if it was meant to be, as if he’s been thinking about your lips every minute of every day- soft, balmy lips against your chapped, red lips. Jungkook swallows your gasp, somehow brushing against the parts of your heart that missed him. His kiss is sweet and desperate as his tongue traces over your teeth before dipping further into your mouth. Your knees weaken slightly, but he holds you steady with one arm around your waist and his other hand cradling your cheek.

You’re overwhelmed by him and from the events of the night. Whatever wetness had gathered in your eyes clings to your lashes before dropping down your cheeks.

“Baby,” Jungkook says softly. He gathers you in his arms, hugging you tightly. You sink into his hold on you, inhaling deeply. The faint thrum of his heart calms you slightly.

“I missed you,” You reply, voice barely above a whisper, “Fuck, I missed you a lot.”

He kisses your forehead with a small smile, the hint of his dimples making you smile, too. Jungkook looks at you as if you’re transparent, trying to study the reason for your wet lashes and the tear stains down your face. A feeling of understanding passes between you both, calming your racing heart and your nerves.

“Jungkook,” You murmur, “Take me home.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Yours,” You reply, not really wanting to be in your home just yet, “It’s only fair, since you spent the night at my place last time, right?”

“I guess I can’t argue with that,” Jungkook chuckles. He kisses you one more time before adjusting his motorcycle helmet over your head. When you wrap your arms around him, you press a kiss to the back of his neck and behind his ear.

He shivers.

Jungkook can tell you’re in your head a little bit, a little quiet and shaky. Even as you head into his bathroom to change into the clothes he’d given you, you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. When you returned from the bathroom with a bare face, you’re lost in thought, biting down on your bottom lip and chewing harshly.

He’d pulled you into his arms, applied his clear balm on your lips, and chided you for treating your lips like that.

You only smiled weakly at him and meekly asked him to hold you under his covers. He doesn’t deny you.

He’d caught the tail end of Sora’s tirade at the club, and he’d begun to understand. He thinks you had begun to understand, too.

“Hey,” Jungkook whispers into your hair, “Do you want to talk, baby?”

“I don’t know what to say,” You admit softly, pressing your hand over his.

“I can talk for both of us,” Jungkook says, kissing your temple, “Can I do that?”

“Yeah,” You mumble, threading your fingers through his and squeezing.

“I heard some of what Sora said,” Jungkook says and you tense up but he wordlessly tells you to relax, “I think in some weird, twisted, fucked up way. She loved you and her way of showing you how was keeping you to herself. It’s shitty, but it made sense to her. But you don’t owe her anything, baby. Not a damn thing.”

“Yeah,” You sigh, “I feel really gross and I don’t know why.”

“That’s alright, baby,” Jungkook says, rubbing your arm, “You didn’t know. That’s not love, not really. You’re safe here.”

“I know,” You say, turning to look at him with a small smile, “I trust you.”

You turn fully in his arms, resting your head on his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. His heartbeat lulls you to sleep, as well as his gentle fingers over your back. It’s so easy with him, and you don’t need to think too much. Just how you like it.

Tags: @kookdbean @codeinebelle

MoM Tags: @tiemeuptogoldenchains @boymeetsparadise @jungkooksseuphoria @kaepjjangiya @drumsofheaven @ppeachyttae @tae-bebe @yiyi4657 @mygscafe @beeeetsandskzreads @maichiverse @hordanhearsawhooo @anonymous2505

#jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x you

416 notes · View notes

geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde · 3 years

Text

Let It Be Me

Hello all! It’s finally time to post my Novigrad Exchange fic! Big thanks to @ohnomybreadsticks and @jaskiersvalley for taking the time to organize this! <3 And of course thanks again to Socks for the beta help <3 <3

This is for the incredibly talented @journeythroughunknownlands

Geralt overdoses on potions and the most efficient way to burn them off is with an orgasm (or two... or more). Queue Jaskier, loyal best friend who is always willing to lend a helping hand (or other body part 😏). Seasoned with a hearty sprinkle of pining.

This will be cross posted on AO3 later today.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: frottage, blow jobs, anal sex, bottom Geralt, multiple orgasms, pining, requited feelings, happy/hopeful ending

3.9k words

Geralt felt the potions burning their way through his veins, lighting him on fire; he had taken too many. The endrega colony was much smaller than anticipated and the fight was much shorter than it would have been otherwise, far too short of a fight to help him burn off the toxins in his blood.

His skin felt pulled tight, and he knew just what he would look like. His paler than normal complexion would be marred with black veins, his eyes would look like pots of ink, the color of ichor, he would look every bit of the monster humans thought him to be.

Fuck, if he didn’t find a good way to let off some steam and work this out of his system, this would take hours to wear off. He was out of White Honey and didn’t have any honey suckle on hand to make more, and he doubted he would be able to find any.

Looking around the clearing he was in, he quickly dismissed the idea of getting himself off. He was painfully hard in his trousers, and a quick wank would be the most efficient way to burn through the toxins, but this wasn’t the place for it. There was far too much noise in this particular forest, making him wonder what curious creatures would come to investigate. He also didn’t bring any of his… toys with him. He didn’t need them, of course, but they made things a bit more enjoyable and typically sped up the process. No, he needed to get back to town and figure something else out. It was unlikely he would be able to find a whore willing to lay with him, no matter the coin offered, and he really didn’t have much to offer.

He could always try to sleep through it or take care of himself back in his room where his toys were, though that would mean making his way through the inn looking like he did, if the innkeep would even let him up to his room.

Sighing and deciding that he really had no good option, he turned, his trophies in hand, and began the trek through the dense trees back to town.

Geralt really should have stayed in the forest. He had known better but ignored the small voice in the back of his head trying to talk sense into him. Instead, he allowed himself to return to town despite everything he ever learned at Kaer Morhen, despite every bit of real-life experience reminding him that exposing himself to humans in this state was an awful idea.

If the toxins in his blood felt like fire, the horrified stares were even worse, like daggers stabbing into his already sensitive skin.

Thankfully, he managed to get to the inn without incident, despite the stares, despite the hatred and fear he could smell emanating from everyone he passed. And despite the shocking waves of pain and pleasure shooting through him as he walked with his erection straining against his trousers. The silence in the inn was unsettling though, all speech coming to a halt as he stepped through the door, and he had to push down a wave of embarrassment, knowing that everyone would be able to see his erection. Silence, though, meant he wasn’t being kicked out and allowed him to make his way up the stairs and to his room.

His room that he was sharing with Jaskier.

Fuck.

He hadn’t thought about it until he opened the door, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jaskier’s presence had become such a normal and routine part of his life that he hadn’t even thought about the bard being there, about having to deal with Jaskier in this state.

There was no way he would be able to stay in the room like this. He had to fight back his arousal for the bard in the best of times, and this couldn’t be called the best of anything. The bard’s scent was already one that intoxicated him, and now with all of his senses heightened, there would be no way he could stay in the room with him, it would be pure torture if he tried. Quickly making up his mind as Jaskier stared at him in surprise, Geralt stomped across the room to grab his bag of toys, there was no chance he would be able to ride this out with Jaskier not even ten feet away, smelling and looking the way he did.

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s voice clearly, though his racing mind couldn’t parse out the words. He could smell the bard’s confusion, hear it in the tone of his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to even grunt out an explanation as he made his way back to the door. All Geralt could focus on was the sudden need to go back out to the woods and take care of himself. It had been a long while since he had last gotten the opportunity to use some of his favorite toys, so he might as well make the best of an awful situation.

As he reached for the knob on the door, he felt a sudden tug on the bag in his hand and he spun around just as it ripped, the contents spilling on the floor. Geralt couldn’t think of a time in which he had more desperately wished it was true what they say about witchers, that they felt no emotions. Geralt let out a frustrated growl, the absolute mortification within him warring with the anger he was feeling at Jaskier for trying to stop him just led to more desperation for a fix to his situation. He had just wanted to escape the inn and take care of himself, solve the problem in the relative privacy of the woods, but no, nothing ever went that simply for him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was tentative in a way that it normally wasn’t, far more hesitant than the rather direct bard ever bothered being. Geralt’s eyes snapped up to meet Jaskier’s as the witcher willed himself to remain calm. He was sure his face would be turning red from embarrassment if it wasn’t for the poison affecting his complexion and he sent off a silent thanks to whoever was listening that at least he was spared from that.

“Geralt? Are you okay?”

Geralt wasn’t sure he understood what Jaskier was asking. He had expected Jaskier to be more afraid of him in this state, having never seen his reaction to taking potions before, and far more concerned by the toys now scattered across the floor, rather than if he was okay.

“Fine,” he finally grunted out, hoping Jaskier would stop looking at him with such concern. It wasn’t a look that he needed directed at him, he would be fine if he could just leave.

“Fine?” Jaskier squeaked, “You don’t look fine! You look like you’re dying! Geralt, are you poisoned? Are you dying? Can I help? What do I need to do?”

Taking a deep breath and nearly choking on the scent of the bard, even more overwhelming this close, Geralt finally managed to motion to the floor, littered with his rather extensive collection, “Potions. Those… help.” There was no way he would be able to say more, not about this subject, not in his current state. Possibly not ever.

He watched as Jaskier stared at him consideringly before looking down at the floor, and then back up at Geralt. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, but Geralt didn’t know how to explain it any better.

Jaskier reached up, touching at Geralt’s face hesitantly, “This is because of your potions?” Geralt nodded, leaning into the touch. It was just this side of too much but it felt so good.

Humming softly, Jaskier glanced back at the floor, “And those… help?”

Geralt nodded again, still relishing in the contact of Jaskier’s hand pressing gently against his face. There were so many feelings thrumming through him, embarrassment and worry and arousal but Jaskier’s touch seemed to almost calm them. Unfortunately, it seemed that it couldn’t last and Jaskier pulled away, making Geralt whimper at the loss.

“How do they help?” Jaskier asked as he knelt down in front of Geralt. The witcher watched in horror as Jaskier meticulously gathered the contents of the now destroyed bag before placing them on the small table in their room. “Is it something about the toys themselves? Or is it just the… result.”

Geralt could feel his throat closing up as he choked out, “Result.”

Watching Geralt closely, Jaskier made his way back across the room, concern still written clearly across his features, “Where were you going?”

“Woods.”

“Do you… normally take care of this in the woods?”

“Yes,” Geralt felt just as weak as his voice sounded suddenly, he felt exposed like a raw nerve and it hurt.

“Can I help you?”

Geralt felt his entire body seize up as his mind slowly caught up with Jaskier’s question. Letting out a whine, he found himself reaching out for Jaskier before he even knew what he was doing, before he had even made a conscious decision.

Jaskier stepped closer, allowing himself to be wrapped in Geralt’s arms as the witcher buried his face in Jaskier’s neck. The bard smelled so fucking good and Geralt wanted this so badly, had wanted it for years. But Jaskier didn’t, surely. Geralt should let go.

But Jaskier’s hands were suddenly trailing up and down Geralt’s back comfortingly, and Geralt couldn’t let go, it felt amazing, like nothing he had ever allowed himself to experience before, and he couldn’t give it up. With any luck, the bard wouldn’t hate him for his actions tomorrow.

Inhaling deeply and letting the bard’s scent wash over him, Geralt made up his mind. He would get whatever he could from Jaskier tonight and then spend the rest of his life making it up to the bard.

He felt Jaskier start to pull back and he only gripped harder, clenching Jaskier’s doublet in his hands. Jaskier made a soft sound, “Hey, it’s okay, but we should take this over to the bed, okay?”

Geralt could hear the logic in Jaskier’s words, but he didn’t want to let go. Instead, he shuffled forward slowly, his face still buried in Jaskier’s neck, until he could feel the impact as the back of Jaskier’s knees hit the mattress. He urged Jaskier back on the bed, settling himself into Jaskier’s side, still hiding his face.

Jaskier’s hands began running through Geralt’s hair, making the witcher let out a purr and Jaskier chuckle, “I always knew you liked your hair played with. Is this what you want, darling? To lay here and cuddle until you feel better? Or do you want more?” Geralt didn’t think he would ever want to let go, but he needed more. As nice as this felt, he could still feel his cock, hard and heavy and uncomfortably pressed against his pants.

Whispering his answer, Geralt practically begged for more.

Suddenly, Geralt found himself on his back, Jaskier hovering over him. The bard’s scent was now tinged heavily with his own arousal and Geralt couldn’t hold back another whine as he bucked his hips, seeking friction. Jaskier smirked down at him, lowering his body until they were pressed against each other. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s own hardness pressed against his and he groaned out at the sensation. How many nights had he dreamed of this same thing? Of being pressed up underneath Jaskier, desperate for pleasure to be wrung from him, at the mercy of Jaskier’s talented hands.

And mouth.

Gods, he’d had so many fantasies about the bard’s mouth, taking him apart, bringing him damn near to tears. And now here he was, with all of those fantasies in arms reach. His lust had completely fogged his brain, completely overpowering the potion-induced fire in his veins, replacing it with an even more powerful burn.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jaskier asked, his voice low.

All Geralt could do was nod, his hips still grinding up desperately into Jaskier’s. The fire was raging inside him now, completely overwhelming him. He wasn’t sure exactly how Jaskier managed to get both of their clothes off, but the next thing he knew they were pressed together, skin to skin. Geralt was crying out from the sensations, both too much and not enough, as Jaskier kept talking to him. The whispered words doused the fire just for a moment until Jaskier’s lips chased his words, reigniting the fire to burn even brighter. Geralt had never understood poets when they said they had found themselves out of their mind with pleasure but then again, he had never experienced this.

He was unbelievably hard, his cock ached and throbbed where it lay, pressed between him and Jaskier. It could have been seconds or hours that he spent rocking against Jaskier for friction before he found himself so very close to the edge of orgasm.

Jaskier licked a stripe up Geralt’s neck to nip at his ear, “That’s right, Geralt, take what you need. You look so beautiful like this, just take what you need.” It was Jaskier’s words, whispered like a filthy secret in his ear, that finally tipped him over just as he asked, “Are you going to cum for me?”

Geralt let out a mewl as his body shook under Jaskier, his orgasm hot and intense, feeling as though it may never end. He felt hazy almost, the once intense fire settling down to a manageable smolder even as Jaskier trailed kisses down his body. Watching closely, Geralt found himself enraptured at the man above him, groaning as Jaskier continued down, licking up Geralt’s spend as he went.

“Fuck, Jask,” he gasped out as the bard continued on, his tongue lapping at Geralt’s still hard cock.

The bard smirked, “Ready for another round so soon?”

“The… potions. They keep me… excited.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to work them out of your system.”

Any response Geralt might have thought of was lost as Jaskier promptly wrapped his lips around the head of Geralt’s cock. Geralt could barely stop himself from thrusting forward, fucking into Jaskier’s mouth. It looks so pretty, stretched obscenely around Geralt as he bobbed up and down.

Geralt gasped as he felt a finger probing at his hole, circling it slowly, applying a slight pressure but never pushing in. Just as suddenly as the contact had started, it stopped, Jaskier pulling his mouth away as well, making him keen, his arms already reaching toward the bard, desperate. “It’s okay, darling. Let me just get some oil, okay? This will be much more enjoyable that way.”

Oil. Right. If he was going to be fucked, then oil would make it better. That made perfect sense to Geralt, but still he followed Jaskier’s form greedily and he hurried over to the odds and ends now strewn across the table in their room, picking up a small bottle, and heading back over to the bed, a small smile on his face as he positioned himself between Geralt’s legs.

Geralt made a satisfied noise as Jaskier set a hand on his thigh, stroking up and down, “Is this what you want darling, what you need? Want me to fuck you?”

“Please.” The plea was ripped from Geralt’s throat almost as if it weren’t him speaking. But it was him and he had never before felt so desperate. He wanted Jaskier fucking into him, wanted their bodies writhing together. He wanted the best kind of fire back, lust and passion burning his veins as he looked into Jaskier’s eyes. Fuck.

Thankfully, Jaskier needed nothing more from Geralt, and wasted no time, slicking his fingers and going back to toying with him, “Look at you, so needy for this, I bet I could slip right into you with no prep.”

Fuck, Geralt couldn’t help but groan, “Please, anything, please.”

“Shh it’s okay, soon. I want to make this good for you,” Jaskier’s voice was soft as he leaned forward, locking his lips with Geralt’s as he pushed a finger inside. He hadn’t been wrong, Geralt took the finger easily, more than ready for the feeling. Rocking his hips, Geralt searched for more.

Pulling back and smiling at Geralt, Jaskier’s eyes crinkled up at the corners in the way that always made Geralt want to smile with him. “Are you feeling good? Ready for more?”

Geralt tried to speak, he really did, but all that came out was a needy sound as he ground down on Jaskier’s hand.

“I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you.” Soon after, Jaskier was pressing another finger inside him, thrusting in and out and it was so good Geralt could do nothing but pant and whine as he moved in time with Jaskier, seeking his own pleasure.

It was so good but it was still just a tease of what was to come.

“Jaskier, please, fuck. Fuck me.”

“Okay, just one last thing.” Before Geralt could even register the sentence, Jaskier had leaned down, wrapping his lips around Geralt’s cock again, just as he curled his fingers, pressing against that spot inside him.

Geralt cried out, his body shaking as he came so hard he saw stars. Relaxing back onto the bed, Geralt whimpered helplessly as Jaskier released him, his fingers slipping from his hole.

“Do you still want more?”

Opening his eyes was a struggle but he managed after a moment, shooting a glare at Jaskier, “Fuck me.”

Jaskier chuckled, “Alright, alright, I’ll get on with it, then.”

Geralt watched in a daze as Jaskier pumped his own cock, covering it with slick. The man was large and it would certainly be a stretch. His own cock was already hard again, twitching as he thought about how good that would feel inside of him. Moving forward, Jaskier lined up and began to push in, gasping as he did so.

It had been so long since Geralt had been fucked. Typically when he was out wandering the continent, all he had with him to relieve this particular want was his bag of toys, and fuck it felt so much better when it was the real thing.

Geralt watched as Jaskier sunk into him, their hips meeting softly as Jaskier panted above him. The stretch was amazing, just the right amount of pressure to make it overwhelmingly good. Geralt tried to stay still, he did, but after a while he had to move. The roll of his hips pulled a grunt from Jaskier as he threw his head back in pleasure.

“Just a moment, fuck, you’re tight.” Jaskier was breathless, gasping out his words, sweat beading on his brow.

Geralt had never seen him look more amazing.

Jaskier began thrusting in and out of him slowly, the burn of the stretch and the feeling of fullness sending sparks of pleasure through Geralt. It wasn’t long before Jaskier sped up, shifting more until finally, he moved just right, drawing a yelp out of Geralt as he hit his prostate. A smirk lit up Jaskier’s face as he pulled out and thrust back in, his aim precise as he once again hit that same spot again and again. The bard kept going, sending Geralt into a frenzy of begging and crying out. The fingers of Geralt’s hand were threaded with Jaskier’s, held down above his head. Geralt’s other hand was gripping at Jaskier’s back, his fingers digging into the soft skin as Jaskier kept thrusting.

“Won't- last,” Jaskier gasped, his free hand coming up to wrap around Geralt’s cock.

It was likely only seconds but it felt like hours when finally he felt himself falling again, his orgasm rushing through him, his body relaxing into a boneless mess as Jaskier thrust once, twice more, freezing his motions and shaking as he spent inside of Geralt, finally collapsing on top of him.

“I don’t know if I can move,” Jaskier said, his voice muffled from where he had buried his head in Geralt’s chest.

“Mmm. Don’t.”

“Okay.”

And then Geralt was asleep.

The first thing Geralt noticed was how dry his mouth was. It wasn’t unusual, not after a hunt. His potions would have that effect on him most of the time, particularly if he struggled with burning them off. He went to shift, suddenly noticing the heavy weight on top of him. Opening his eyes, Geralt couldn’t see anything but a mop of brown hair. Inhaling deeply as he tried to gain awareness of his surroundings, he was assaulted with the scent of Jaskier and himself and sex.

Oh fuck.

Geralt shifted slightly under Jaskier, making the bard startle awake on top of him. Jaskier seemed to gain awareness quickly, rolling off of Geralt quickly, his cheeks blooming a brilliant red on his otherwise pale face.

“Ah,” Jaskier cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the room, “good morning. I trust you’re feeling better.”

Geralt nodded, sitting up and reaching for the pitcher beside the bed, drinking straight from it. He felt some of the water spill out, dripping down his naked chest, but paid it no mind as he tried to wash the dryness from his throat.

Fuck. He really came back to the inn with potions burning through him and let himself fuck Jaskier. Well, let himself be fucked by Jaskier. Well… begged to be fucked by Jaskier.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Putting down the now empty pitcher, Geralt shot a furtive look at Jaskier, feeling the guilt pooling in his stomach. Jaskier was loyal to a fault, something Geralt had taken for granted for so long, and now here he was, after a night of going out of his way doing something he had no interest in doing, looking at Geralt with nothing but concern for the witcher. Jaskier was too good for Geralt, he didn’t deserve to have to deal with situations like this.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier looked taken aback, “For what?”

“Making you feel like you had to help me last night. I appreciate it but… I’m sorry.”

“I… Geralt I offered to help. I never felt obligated and you never did anything to make me.”

It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it? Geralt’s needs had been far more than anyone could be expected to help with. Jaskier should have sent him on his way and spared himself the trouble.

“Geralt?” Jaskier said softly, moving closer and reaching up to cup Geralt’s cheek, “Thank you for trusting me with this. I’m glad I could help you.”

Whether it was the earnest sound of Jaskier’s voice or maybe just Geralt’s need to believe that someone really did want to be there for him, he was unsure. All he knew was that he never wanted to break Jaskier’s gaze. His eyes were so incredibly blue, bright pools of crystal clear water begging for someone to dive in and Geralt found himself ready to jump.

Before he noticed what was happening, Geralt had already leaned into Jaskier, making his eyes widen, surprise written across his face. But he didn’t pull back. No, Jaskier’s eyes flicked down to Geralt’s lips before once again meeting Geralt’s gaze. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was him or Jaskier that initiated the all encompassing kiss that followed, all he knew was it was something he had wanted for so long and felt so right.

Maybe, next time potions were burning through his veins and he wanted to crawl out of his skin, Jaskier would meet him and apply this affection like a balm, soothing Geralt in a way he had never before experienced. Maybe from this moment forward, he wouldn’t wait for Jaskier to realize he deserved better and move on. Maybe, just maybe, Geralt had really found happiness.

Check out my masterlist!

Tag list: @stinastar @feraljaskier @bastardofmothman @hailhailsatan @moonysrz @its-onions @elliestormfound @dapandapod @jaskierswolf @fontegagrilledcheese @negativenuggetz @veritasrose @feral-jaskier @kozkaboi @kueble @llamasdumpsterfire @selectivegeekwithstandards @dani-dandelino @holymotherwolf

#novigrad exchange #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #the witcher fandom #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier

212 notes · View notes

reidyoulikeabook · 3 years

Text

M is for Maybe One Day

Ship: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid

Warnings: Discussion of marriage and children.

Word count: 1.7k

Summary: Spencer and reader have a conversation about their future.

A/N: This is the angst free version of part M! If you’re looking for the version that contains angst, that’s here. This is the main scene from the story and is designed so that people who don’t feel comfortable with the potentially upsetting content from the angst-version are still able to enjoy this version. Let me know what you think! :)

Part of The A-Z of Spencer Reid but works as a stand-alone.

You’re awake before Spencer is. You don’t want to risk waking him up by disentangling yourself, so you stay right where you are, unsure of what time it is. You’re infinitely happier curled up in his arms than you would be by being bestowed with that knowledge.

It can only be early, anyhow. There’s only a trickle of light pooling under the curtains. The big living room light got left on last night, you knew Spencer needed it to keep the darkness at bay. It pokes into the room through the gap in the not-quite-closed door, allowing you to get a relatively good look at him.

His hair is a wreck. Even in sleep, you can see the bags firmly indented under his eyes. His mouth is open. No snores come out, only tiny breaths escape the lips formed into an ‘o’ shape.

He looks peaceful.

Unencumbered by any of the worries from yesterday. You close your eyes, deciding that getting a few more hours sleep can’t hurt.

It’s then that he moves. He wiggles his fingers, more than likely trying to wake up the arm that’s gone dead with you lying on it. You open your eyes, and his face floods with guilt. The exact face he makes when you find him hobbling around the apartment without his crutches.

“Sorry,” He squeaks, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I was awake already,” You reassure him, adjusting your position so that he can move his arm, “Did you sleep well?”

He visibly relaxes, his voice raspy with sleep, “I slept okay. Better because you were here.”

You hum. Opening your arms, you nod for him to move. He does, coming to settle himself with his head resting on your chest. There’s a peaceful lull. The residents of Virginia aren’t awake yet, so you’re enveloped in the kind of quiet that only comes with the early hours of the morning. No cars racing past or mothers upstairs on a mission to suck every piece of dust out of their apartment, and potentially yours too.

You feel the low rumble of his throat before you hear it, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You’re not quite sure how long you lie like that. In this liminal space between asleep and wakefulness, night and morning. Your brain starts to wander, trying to settle on anything to use as a rope to escape the reality of last night that bites at your ankles.

For some reason, it settles on Derek. The image of him at his desk.

Planning to raise the next generation of Einsteins?

“I was thinking,” You murmur, playing with a piece of his hair, “I was talking to Derek last week. He was talking about Garcia, and how they’ve spoken about having kids. I mean, I know they’ve been together a lot longer but, it got me thinking.”

He pulls back. For a moment, you’re afraid you’ve gone too far. Then he swallows, his lips curling upwards into a small smile.

“Would you want to-” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat, “Would that be something you could see yourself wanting someday? To marry me?”

“I’d love to marry you,” You tell him, lifting your fingers to his face to trace over the familiar lines of his cheekbones, the points of his face a dot-to-dot you could connect in your sleep.

He smiles, “Would you be Mrs Reid?”

“Of course I’d be Mrs Reid. I’d hate to disappoint the aquarium.”

“Well in that case-” He pretends to move, as if to shift towards the bedside table.

“You don’t have a ring in there.”

“Not yet.”

“It’d be a bad place to keep it.”

“Or it might work as a double bluff.”

“I know your bluffs. Double or triple or quadruple.”

He scrunches his nose, “I don’t think I’ve ever quadruple bluffed.”

“You might one day.”

“I suppose if you’re going to be Mrs Reid you’ll get the chance to find out.”

"I’d like to be Mrs Reid,” You tell him, sincere once more, “I can’t imagine myself ever being with anybody else.”

“I can’t imagine what my life would look like without you in it now,” He says, his voice painfully earnest, cracking a bit at the end.

“Neither can I.”

There’s a shift in atmosphere. Small but significant, one that has you staring at him. Trying to piece together how this ended up being your life. How you went from co-workers at desks next to one another exchanging pleasantries, a man you called Dr Reid for the first week of knowing him until he cracked and insisted you called him Spencer. How you transformed from that to this, caterpillars entering a caramel chrysillis and making it out the other side, soaring through near death experiences and aquarium trips and job offers at Caltech.

There’s been a lot, really.

He interrupts your thoughts, so softly it barely jolts you, “I-I’ve known it for a while now. I’m not sure when I realised but I think that, that we just make it work.”

“We do,” You agree, “That’s what I said to Derek. I think we just understand each other.”

“I never really felt like anybody ever understood me,” He mumbles, his voice dropping as it becomes more sincere, shifting his face more into the pillow, “My whole life I um, I sort of felt out of place. I didn’t always understand peoples jokes or know how to talk to them. I didn’t think I’d ever find somewhere I felt like I belonged.”

His voice wavers. You kiss the top of his forehead, not interrupting, just reassuring.

He continues, “Joining the BAU changed things. Meeting Morgan and Garcia especially. They made me feel like, for the first time in my life, I had friends. Who weren’t annoyed by everything that I said.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” You tell him, your hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck to play with the stray hairs there, “You never do and I understand why. But you’re more than smart. I love your brain, and your memory, and I admire all of that. But you’re also thoughtful,” You punctuate each assertion with a kiss to his knuckles, “And kind. And funny. And you make me feel so loved.”

He sniffles a bit, lifting his head. You can see the tears sparkling in his eyes, and you bring your interlocked hand to his chin, your thumb resting there. He swallows, and you pause for a moment before speaking again.

“And if I was ever going to have a family, there’s nobody I’d rather do it with than you.”

“Really?” He’s winded by the assertion, his breath catching in his throat, “You’d want a family with me?”

“Of course I do. love you. You’d make the most amazing dad in the world Spence.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. Look at how you are with Henry and Jack. You’re the best Uncle ever,” You murmur, “Raising kids with you is the best decision I could make.”

He‘s quiet. Soaking it in. He holds you tighter against his body, essentially putting you back into your place against his neck. The comforting scent of him, and the feeling of his big hands rubbing steady circles on your back, is grounding in the extreme.

Though you’re soothed, you can tell when he’s thinking. His jaw tightens, just a little bit. As if he’s chewing the words. Trying to decide whether to swallow them or let them slip out.

“I think I’d um, I’d retire.”

Slip out.

“You’d what?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice but it filters through.

“I’d probably um, I’d probably look into teaching. I don’t think I could ever leave our children. Not,” He sniffles, and you know without looking that there’s a tear making its way down his cheek, “Not when there’s a chance I might not come home. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“Okay,” You say, “I’d support you whatever you wanted to do. I was only surprised because I know how much you love the job.”

“You love yours too. I’d never expect you to give it up so we could have children. Not unless you wanted to.”

Of course that’s part of it.

“I know,” You reply, “I know. I guess I wasn’t thinking about the practicality of it. But I know what you mean.”

He swallows, “It’s more than that. I just um. I’d want to be around. All the time.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you can tell there’s more he’s not saying. You adorn his Adam’s apple with a soft kiss, and he lets out a puffy exhale.

“I um, I never thought that this is something I’d get to want. Kids and a wife and a family. Now that it is, now that I get the chance,” He trails off, swallowing, “Now that I have that chance I would never do anything to risk losing it. Or missing a single moment of it. I want to give them a happy childhood. I want to teach them to play chess and watch cartoons on a Sunday and just give them...give them a lifetime of good memories. Not a lifetime of them staring at the door wondering if I’m going to make it home.”

He wants to give them what he never had.

Shifting, you adjust, looking him in the eyes. A tear is making its way down his cheekbone, one you thumb away. Cradling his face in your hands, you can’t help but smile. They aren’t sad tears like you’d expected, his eyes gleam with pure adoration. He’s not sad about the past. He’s happy about the future.

The realisation brings a tear to your eyes, and you can barely get the words out past the lump in your throat, “Maybe one day we’ll be waking up on Saturdays to take our kids to the park.”

The love in his eyes is mirrored and magnified in your own. You can’t be certain whether it’s that or your words that coax another tear out of his eye, but it’s barely passed the bridge of his nose before he’s giving you the biggest wateriest smile, “I’m looking forward to that day.”

So am I.

Next part: N is for New Place (i promise it’s onwards and upwards from here!!)

#the a-z of spencer reid

78 notes · View notes

joonkorre · 3 years

Text

letters and words

@drarrymicrofic prompt: love letter

was thinking of tgcf’s hualian playing around with the supernatural and. it hit me.

just a quick one since i have a ton of WIPs to take care of. enjoy. AO3

“He says to take better care of yourself now that he's not here.”

“Of course,” Narcissa says, dignified in her hollowness. She merely looks at his face, her curiosity in his rapidly moving hands having faded long ago.

Harry sighs inwardly. When he first started this career, he had expected his Master of Death status to be enough for clients to believe him. As it turns out, it usually takes about ten sessions and an expensive investment in the Scale of Truth for them to even start looking at him with something other than polite indulgence. His work has spoken for itself, though, and to his contentment, the number of skeptics is dwindling by the day.

One Narcissa Malfoy remains unimpressed, however. Strange, considering she’s the one who wrote three letters consecutively to plead for a moment of his time like he wouldn’t readily accept.

Death is unbiased. It doesn't discriminate, only takes and takes. If he doesn’t grow to be unbiased himself, how can Harry even dare to approach its throne, let alone work with it?

Still, Narcissa pays the Scale of Truth no mind and agrees with his statements as if she anticipates everything he says, like he’s a fraud. Either way, Harry doesn’t really care. He’s here to do his job and give this woman peace of mind. So, his eyes never leave the planchette.

It darts from one letter to the next, Harry so used to each one’s placement that he can generally tell what the spirits want to say before they even finish.

“He asks if you know he loves you,” Harry says. His head is bent down and focused, missing the slight twitch in Narcissa’s fingers. “Do you know he loves you?”

If it’s not for the flickering of withering candles, the room might as well be completely silent. Narcissa pauses, before:

“Interesting question for a mother,” she says. “‘Do you know he loves you?’”

Harry looks up. The way she phrases the question doesn’t make sense; it's like she’s asking someone else. That is, if there’s any other person in the dusty, hazy room except Harry. The planchette quivers then, jackrabbiting across the board.

“Better answer him,” Harry murmurs as his eyes are pinned on the little wooden heart. It makes no discernable word, then stops altogether. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Narcissa stirs her tea absentmindedly. She stares at him. “May I have a question for him in return?”

Harry gives the same answer he’s been giving her every time she asks him this question: a nod.

“Am I the one he loves?”

Harry shoots a glance at the woman. What kind of question is that?

“He hated Lucius, you see,” she explains, “and held no love for his peers. They’ve either abandoned him or died, and he couldn’t find it in himself to dwell in their memories.”

“So, logically, you should be the one person he loves?”

“Indeed.”

Harry nods.

“Hmm,” nods again. “Okay. Alright.” Not weird in the slightest.

Harry repeats the question and the planchette draws a decisive line toward the word ‘Yes.’ Something clinks. The two occupants of the room look in its direction at the same time.

The Scale of Truth tips heavily to one side, the peacock feather apparently way heavier than the obsidian orb on the other side. The spirit has lied. A lot. Harry frowns and prepares himself for the oncoming fit of jealousy.

Instead of shouting or even a hint of biting snark, Narcissa smiles her first smile in the five sessions they’ve had. It doesn’t reach her eyes, but it does make her look a few years younger. Good genes, Harry notes. Wonders that if her last relative was still here, the age-regressing effect would also be noticeable on that pinched face.

“He let go of love so easily, that boy of mine. I had hoped for him to let go of what little he had left before he went, at least, to make his journey less full of burdens,” Narcissa sips her tea, pausing for a moment.

“On the contrary, it’d seem that it’s only grown,” she continues. “That boy of mine. My boy. He had never been one to keep his emotions in check very well.”

Harry can’t deny that.

“Is another question alright?”

A swift turn to the ticking clock on the far wall, and Harry can tell they have but a few minutes left of today’s session.

“Yeah, sure. Please make it quick, though,” he says.

“Of course,” Narcissa nods. Then, staring at the planchette, she asks, her voice softened. “Who is the person he loves, then?”

Harry hums. Good question. Even better if there’s a reply. But, well, even after two repeats of the question, the planchette only lies there.

Minutes pass. Harry is more than happy to wait it out for a little longer just to ensure that Narcissa’s question is answered. But if no answer comes, then he’d have to finish the ritual and make both of them wait until next week for another session. Many clients drive themselves spare when situations like this happen, and while Harry thinks Narcissa’d rather eat mud than be associated with those people, it doesn’t sit right with him that an old woman would have to wander the lonely halls of this forgotten mansion, wondering what her son might have said. But since they've just been sitting here, waiting...

“Alright. Seems like we're gonna have to continue this next time,” Harry concludes, moving the planchette toward the ‘Goodbye’ carved in the bottom of the board. “Good-”

Something brushes against his cheek. A press. Soft and fleeting, then it’s gone.

“-bye.”

Harry almost throws the planchette on the table and risks the consequences for such a disrespectful act, but he refrains from doing so. Setting it down without a sound, he leans back against the squeaking armchair, leaving his equipment unpacked. Hesitant fingers against a stubbled cheek, Harry catches Narcissa’s eyes.

“Did he do something?” She asks.

“Yeah.”

“So he did,” Narcissa peers at the yellowed windows as if she can clearly watch the overgrown garden. “How do we know if a spirit is at peace?”

Harry pulls his hand from his cheek to rub his chin, eyes still a bit glazed over. “When they no longer respond to the ritual’s call.”

The clock ticks on.

“Well,” Narcissa says. She smiles once more, her eyes now curving along with it. “Thank you for what you’ve done for me, Mr. Potter. For him.”

“Oh, that’s, that’s just, I’m just doing my job.”

“And you did it perfectly.”

Uncrossing her legs, Narcissa strolls to the fireplace with an effortless glide that's been startling in its absence. The pouch she retrieves from the mantle is generous, nearly bursting with coins. When the lazily floating candles extinguish themselves with a hush at the wave of her wand, Harry snaps out of the fuzzy fog that's permeated every corner of his head.

“Mrs. Malfoy, your second payment isn’t due until—”

“You have no need to burden yourself with us anymore,” Narcissa pushes the pouch toward him. “He’s done what he’s yearned for all these years. He is free and finally at peace, and that is all I ever wanted for him. Another session is not necessary.”

She smiles kindly.

“Thank you.”

Harry vaguely feels himself say, “You're welcome,” then averts his eyes. He doesn’t look at the Scale of Truth. He doesn’t look at the board nor its planchette.

He doesn’t look at anything at all.

#drarrymicrofic #drarry #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #drarry fanfiction #harry potter #draco malfoy #master of death harry #tw // mcd #ouija enthusiasts i wholeheartedly apologize for not caring to obey any pre-existing ouija-related rules #in this fic it's only a tool harry uses to communicated with the dead #ghosts in the hp universe remain when they have unfinished business or simply want to stay #idk but in my head i imagine that only really powerful ghosts can have a form and be perceived by mortals #draco isn't very powerful #he only has one thing he's been working himself up to doing #bc mothers know best narcissa has known what to do to help her son pass on #joonkorre writes

41 notes · View notes

fafulous · 4 years

Text

Take Me Home (4/5)

Andy Barber x Reader (Post!Defending Jacob)

Summary: After the unfortunate events of the trial and after, a depressed Andy Barber decides to call it quits and start a mundane life far away from Newton. He decides it is best to have a fresh start away from prying eyes and alone, but he never thought his caring neighbor (and her son) would change all of that.

Chapter Warnings: MAJOR D.J. SPOILERS (BOOK Ending), Reminiscing the Loss of a loved one.

Andy soon came to realise that walking out on you was never ever really a solution. In reality he knew with his current state, without you he was doomed.

He needed you because he has no one. He needed you because it was his chance at something new; something no one would understand.

He needs you because in between all those shenanigans in these few months, he was falling hard for you.

But he did what he had to that day because he just wanted some space. In his head it seemed to be fine, but alas it hurt like a bitch.

On the other hand, Nikolai had no idea what was going on. It only took him minutes to fall in love with his new room. The lights, the colour of the room made him so jubilant, later on only to see you a bit unhappy. You were able to deflect from your son’s questions, but how on earth were you going to tell him that Andy won’t be meeting him anymore.

It hurt. So hard. All you needed was one conversation with him to settle things away but he wanted his space and so you half heartedly respected it.

Nikolai on the other hand was hitting a real low seeing you unhappy the whole day sporting stuffy red eyes. Like any other kid, Nikolai jumped to the conclusion that their mother is crying because she got a boo-boo or lost her favourite toy.

But that little brain of his pieced it slowly once he realised Andy never visited them for any of the dinner nights.

“Mommy pwese don’t cwy” his nimble fingers wiping your fat tears rolling down your cheek.

“I know peaches. I’m trying so hard to get Andy back okay. I’m sorry for crying around you like this baby.”

“B-but Wandi pwomised he neva gonna hurt you mommi…”

“Oh Niko,” you wiped the cookie crumbs around his tiny lips, “Your little brain won’t get it. It’s okay.”

“No. Not owkay. Wandi hurt you. Wandi bad. I don’t wike Wandi cahr now.”

You couldn’t help but surpass a giggle. “Niko. Andy is never bad. Never. He is just feeling sad and lonely. We just need to tell him we have him and love him okay?”

Love? Too soon. Maybe it’s more than like but it was too late to change it for your son and for yourself. You always saw how Niko’s eyes sparkled whenever Andy was around; he was soon accepting him to be a member of the household.

“Owkay,” he dug his head to your neck, “I wike Wandi and his cahr.”

–

The following week were hard for you and him. From sharing couches to kisses, now the only thing you both shared were small talks.

Yes. Small Talk. Or texts rather.

Andy told you he finally found a therapist to speak to and slowly expressed his wish to still visit Nikolai till you both figured out what was happening between you two.

Why did this have to get so complicated?

You on the other hand replied he was free to do so because to be real, the little kid missed him too. So, the next day he asked you for permission if he could take Nikolai on a car drive.

You had no idea what would go on in his head at times. From seeing Andy’s perspective, he was denied of the choice of telling you his story. It was his fucked-up childhood, his story that he wanted to tell you. Not a pity tatter-tale gossip story that was to be heard from your characterless, ex-husband.

Andy later in the evening sent a message that he was ready, and you saw the man your heart so longed for.

His eyes were back to being sunken, those blue irises not having the guts to meet yours. His hair was ruffled like he just woke up from a nap. Looking at him made you realise how much your hands were twitching to just hug him. You were reminded of the first night you spent at his house; that blue sweater he gave you while you two made out on his couch for the first time was now worn by him.

You walked towards him as you held Nikolai’s convertible baby seat to be fixed in his car and he was kind enough to open the door for you.

Andy on the other hand knew he had to- no, wanted to strike a conversation with you; but didn’t know what to say.

Hey long time huh?

Y/N. Hey, how are you?

Hey listen…

Nope nothing came out of his mouth while you fixed the seat.

He took in your appearance too; that ray of sunshine that beamed from your smile was non-existent; replaced with a forlorn look that he hated to see on you. The past few days were definitely much harsher on you than it was for him. Andy knew he couldn’t get any more foolish. He had to get back to what you two had before.

He needed it.

“Have we gone back to square one? Because of what? My ex-husband?”

Andy came out of his tiny reverie and focussed back on you. He didn’t pay attention, but he did realise you said something bitter that meant to sting him.

“Honey listen-”

“Oh, don’t you honey me Andy. How could you? How could you be so- so-“ you tried so hard to not break into a stream of tears.

How could you be so hateful to yourself Andy? Did you not trust me?

“How could you just desert me like that? D-did you think I was going to throw away my second chance at life for something you father did? Did you want to throw away your second chance at life because of your father who has no role in our lives right now?”

He sighed dejectedly, disappointed with himself. Hearing your voice break wrecked him, “I know Y/N. I was an asshole that day, leaving you without an explanation.” He found himself taking steps towards you and cupping your cheek, tilting his forehead onto yours, “I am so sorry hon- Y/N. I am sorry.”

You bit your lip and looked up at him, his eyes still closed; now content that he and you could just touch each other after a very long time.

Any other situation, you wouldn’t let a man walkover you so easily after fucking up. But this was Andy. The man who made you believe in second chances. You gave him a first chance already, and now it was again your turn to give him one more.

“You weren’t an asshole Andy,” you held on to his hands, “Its just, I don’t know…”

“I know you know exactly what you want to say Y/N. Just say it.”

You could hear Nikolai running around his circles with his unicorn plush doll behind you, “I was angry when you left, but at the same time I tried to understand your point of view, your emotions and your feelings about this whole situation. But I think or- or I know that I didn’t deserve to be ghosted like that Andy, because I liked you for you, not what your father did, especially when we had something so good going on.”

He removed his hand from your cheeks and looked down like a disappointed child. He knew he was at fault and so he didn’t say anything; head hung in shame looking at the little, carefree boy that he loved so dearly.

“It’s only had if you want it to be,”

“What do you mean?”

You saw a glint of that eagerness that Andy always had with you before, “I told that we had something good going on? It’s only had if you want it to be…“

Andy took some time to find his words. Again. It was the second time he fucked up so bad and here you were, taking him back even after he exploded like a mine. Was this woman for real?

“Of course, I want this honey. I always want us. You’re always so good to me.”

He reached out to graze your cheeks, but he was blocked by your squealing son.

“Cahr Wandi! Can we gooo?”

You were surprised that you weren’t interrupted by your son sooner, but nevertheless your son’s new founded patience was found to be a blessing in disguise.

The cutest sight unfurled before you as Andy made grabby hands at your son, only for the latter to be scooped into Andy’s arms like a cocoon.

“Come on Y/N, join us wont you? For a drive?”

You shook your head, “I think I’ll pass.”

“Y/N. I want to really make it up to you. Like real time. Please come with us?”

“I know Andy, but who will make dinner if I come along with you boys?”

Andy slowly grinned at your implications. He never ceased to be impressed by your gracious generosity and the small acts of kindness.

“I’m not mad, not as much as I was before I promise,” you dared to but tiptoed to place a kiss on his cheek, “We can talk over dinner today.” You saw how his cheek sported a cherry red tint, slowly creeping up till his ear. A teenager in a old man’s body.

“Peaches,” you turned to your son right now jumped into Andy’s arms, nuzzling his face in that soft sweater, “Be good and behave okay peaches? Don’t trouble Wandi- I mean Andy for anything on the way okay?”

Everything drowned inside a chorus of laughter when Andy realised how you had called his name. Niko had no idea what the humour was for but joined the chorus when he found his two most favourite people in the world giggling.

Were you forgoing all that pent-up sadness that this man gave you this week? Yes. Yes you were.

And you would soon realise that it was the best decision you made.

Hours passed by and the boys came back home. Nikolai was gleefully pulling onto Andy’s beard and curiously asking him when he was going to get a ‘bweard’ like him and heard both the boys animatedly inhaling; the smell of aromatic food that stirring their tummies.

“MOMMY IS MAKING PAWSTAHH!”

Andy was so confused. You always made the best Italian food for your child.

“Let’s just say after that episode we had with Chad, I was cooking boring greens and ordering takeout for the little one and me. I lost the will to cook. Thought I’ll revive the poor kid’s taste buds.”

It was always these small gestures that pulled you towards Andy; like this one. He tugged you by your shoulders and placed a soft kiss on your forehead and then cupped your cheeks so lovingly.

“Sorry Momma bear.”

“Shhh. It’s okay grumpy cat,” you winked.

Dinner on the other hand did go relatively smooth than you expected it to. Andy explained himself, his feelings and what he felt that day when he left you and tried his level best to process your emotional state that day.

The baked pasta was licked clean by your two boys and you while Andy also spoke about his past few days with his therapist, who seemed to help him more than he possibly could ever think of. Over a glass of wine, Andy held your hand promising you that he wouldn’t do any more foolish stunts that ended up hurting all of us in the process.

But as you and Andy were doing and drying the dishes, you felt that he was holding back something.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“That thing you used to do when I used to pick movies that you don’t like.”

His grin could make your whole body mushy and soft like a teenager having their first crush “So? Is that my fault honey?” he feigned hurt, glad that he could now call you back with his favourite sweet name.

“Nah,” you playfully tapped his shoulder. “You give me that look so prominently so that I understand that you want something from me, or you want me to do something for you.”

Andy looked so lost and you knew something was biting his thoughts because he enjoyed doing domestic chores with you; his favourite being you washing the dishes and him drying them out and keeping them inside the cupboards. He didn’t reply until the last wine glass was kept inside the cabinet

“It’s just-” hesitated Andy. You waited patiently for him to find his words.

“It’s about Jacob.”

“Oh.”

For a startling few seconds, you held your breath; thinking about Andy’s son was something wrecked your thoughts and heart every single time.

“My therapist says that I haven’t, you know, fully processed Jacob’s death. Like I’m holding on to something. But parents don’t, right? They can’t move on from their child’s death right? It’s practically impossible.”

You weren’t sure what to say but you nodded, gripping on to his arm and gesturing to sit with you to the couch where little Niko dozed off with two of his stuffed dolls clenched in his hand.

“But she did say one statement that made sense to me, I don’t know. It made sense about how we can’t forget our children who are no longer with us but we can learn to accept the fact that they are no longer with us.”

Oh bub, how much have you been through? “Do you agree with this Andy?” You asked him to keep yourself strong during this conversation for him, and you did.

“Of course, yeah. Maybe. But the thing is I think I haven’t accepted it honey.”

You took both of his hands and squeezed reassuringly, “I have no idea what you are going through bub but I’m glad you are talking to me about this. Take your time; its going to be hard, but I’m right here okay? Whatever you need, I’ll do within my best ability.”

He hummed, but still hesitant.

“Andy its okay, tell me. Talk to me bub.”

He squeezed your palms even more tightly, turning towards you completely. “C-can I ask you a favour? I mean you can say no, I will understand.”

I’m ready to give you all the happiness in the world to you bubba. “Anything for you Andy? Tell me now.”

He didn’t meet your gaze, but instead shifting his focus to trace your knuckles, “My therapist told me to visit Jacob’s grave whenever I was ready, to mourn him, to accept he is no longer with me and you know…talk to him I guess. To process my emotions. And um…Oh god I am a bubbling mess Y/N.”

“Hey its okay baby take your time. There is no pressure.”

“I can’t do this alone honey…I need you there with me. Can you come with me to the graveyard?”

How could you ever say no to this solemn situation?

“Of course, honey. Absolutely anything you need.”

And what seemed like after ages, Andy Barber enveloped you into his signature bear hug. Both of you left a huge sigh of breath, relief washing over that both of you were slowly getting back on track.

Until you heard a rugged whimpers from the little boy beside Andy.

You didn’t want to tell Andy about this, but Nikolai’s nightmares were back and the little boy was finding it difficult to sleep at night. The new nursery still did not work for him, so he ended up sleeping on top of your chest; your heartbeat probably soothing him to sleep.

But Andy the experienced father he was, quickly scooped him into his arms and started cradling him, rocking him side by side with his arms protecting him, humming a familiar soft tune that seemed to calm you in the process too. You saw how Niko’s head was cushioned between Andy’s pecs and muscles, slowly relaxing and nuzzling into his touch.

Niko’s scrunched up face was now back to a peaceful baby lost in slumber.

Andy met your gaze and blinked at you with a smile and it conveyed so much than you think.

We got this baby. We all gonna get through this.

–

The decision to take Nikolai along with you and Andy was refuted by the latter saying that a young boy like him shouldn’t be visiting such desolate place.

“Children are the embodiment of new birth, new life. And graveyards, quite opposite.”

But you knew secretly he also didn’t was your son to see him in such a vulnerable position. You were grateful for the fact that the rough patch between you and Andy was solved; for the little boy saw Andy as his new father figure with Chad gone away with a new girlfriend.

Talking about Chad, he did not make efforts to meet his son; and you didn’t bother contacting him. Better off without him you wondered.

The drive to Jacob’s grave was a couple of hours away and ride in itself was a quiet one. Andy and you were informally dressed in dull colours, hearts dull too. You knew it was a big step for Andy and you were going to support him till he thinks he is over it. Car windows were rolled down, the fresh air making efforts to refresh you both.

You could also see Andy’s urge to interlink his hands with you while your drove and you did; Gripping onto his palm or occasionally rubbing his shoulders or thighs throughout the ride would help him calm down and relax his creased forehead.

When you both got down from the car it was so hard to read Andy’s thoughts. He came over to you and interlinked your palms and made way to the place where his son was buried.

Jacob’s grave was flowerless when arrived. Andy soon fixed that after leaving a wreath of Jacob’s most favourite flowers, daisies.

A graveyard, a place of death, sprouting trees filled with life here and there. The irony of life.

You didn’t know the boy but the aura of the graveyard, the impersonal feeling towards the dead even though you have no idea who they were beneath the stones made you heart sink. It then came to your senses.

The boy was just fourteen.

Both of you sat down near his grave, not caring about the grass and mud staining your clothes. He finally took away his palms from yours.

Andy spoke some kind words, rekindling memories of his son’s favourite pastime, his favourite stories and one of his embarrassing yet kind-hearted moments. He sought an apology on behalf of his mother, trying to make Jacob understand that his mother loved him so much, that it unfortunately ended tragically.

Another thought popped into your head, how couples these days separate over trivial matters, over materialistic matters, and infidelity. But Andy? He separated because his wife- No no. You didn’t want to complete that thought.

But after a while passed and you decided give Andy some needed space. He was probably going to be anxious, but it was for the best.

“Andy, you feel a bit better?” you whispered.

“You can say probably.”

Here we go. “I’m going to leave you two alone okay?”

“What? Honey. If I can’t-”

“You can Andy. He is your son, remember that. So, don’t hold back. I know you wanted me to be here with you and I did and I’m so proud of you, bubba,” you stroked his hair. “But unintentionally you may be holding back on expressing because I’m here and that’s normal.”

Why are you so good to me?

“I’m just going to be near the parking lot okay? I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him with a peck on his cheek and made your way back.

You shed your tears while you sat inside his car, thinking about the little boy. It was difficult thinking of losing a loved one that you gave birth to. He was too young. Too fucking young.

Oh, this cruel world, how you hated it so immensely right now.

Half hour passed by and you saw Andy making his way towards the car. It was so strange to think of this, but he didn’t look red eye rimmed like you; he looked the same with much more solemnity. He didn’t cry and that slightly bothered you. Maybe you had to accept the fact that different people process emotions differently.

He got into the car and took in your red eyes. He knew you had cried. Seeing you like that made his pull your lips onto his for just a chaste kiss, the first time you two felt each other’s lips after an eon. All he breathed into your lips was that we are going to be okay and drove back home with no word exchanged. For the upcoming hours, the fresh air offered you comfort, drying out those spilt tears along with the lingering touch of his palms; interlinked like their souls.

After coming back, you took advantage of Andy’s silence and maneuvered him to your home. He seated himself on the couch pulling out his phone and wallet from his pants and placed it on the coffee table.; trying to steal a quick nap while you picked up Nikolai from your neighbour Mr. Arthur.

Andy sleeping gave you an immense sense of peace, but for the little boy in your hands; not so much.

“WANDI!!!!”

He groggily woke up thanks to Nikolai running towards him, lying on his chest like he does with you. “Hey buddy.”

“You home yaay!” Probably meant that he was excited to see the man in house like the usual dinner nights. Nikolai calling him and telling he was home pricked him and at the same time felt so right. As cliché as it sounds, he always has heard this quote where Home is never a place with four walls to cover your head; home is where the heart is.

His heart was with you and Nikolai.

After eating Andy, and you began to do your dish washing routine, this time he washing the dishes. He was slow, but that was alright, you had all the time in the world.

Niko on the other hand was singing all the rhymes he learnt from daycare in different pitches, earning a chuckle from the both of you here and there. He was also carelessly playing with Andy’s phone and wallet, both of you seeing that the little boy had dropped all the contents of the wallet on to the floor. Once they were done Andy picked up the falling things patiently without chiding the little one like any other adult would.

He picked up his Dollar bills, receipts and then a forgotten thin strip of a photo roll.

It was him and Jacob.

The roll had four pictures of him and his son posing for the silliest pictures, the first three with their tongues sticking out in the goofiest angle possible. The last one however was so pure; Andy giving a forehead kiss to Jacob because he was so proud of his son, remembering he had bagged the highest grade in English that term in school.

Minutes pass and he didn’t notice his waterworks brimming. A blink and they would fall down.

And they did, when he heard Nikolai nudging him by the thigh. “Why you cwyin Wandi?”

That startled you enough to stop whatever it was you were doing and went to see what was happening.

Oh bubba.

You sat near Andy, touching his thigh for comfort while your son got closer to the photo that was in Andy’s slightly quaking hands.

“Who that Wandi?”

“Th-thats my son buddy. His name was Jacob.”

“Can he play with me Wandi?”

Everything just pricked. The boy’s innocent questions and Andy’s realisation of his emotions. This was too much to bear.

“No buddy he can’t-“

A hand around his shoulder, it was you. When he looked up his eyes were blurry from the tears that were falling. He was so upset he didn’t even realise you were next to him. It was you. Only you.

It was then you realised it finally that it hit Andrew that his son was dead.

“You don’t have to answer that Andy. He’s just a kid. It’s okay.”

The little one feeling that he had said something wrong hugged his arms with his little arms. “I’m sowwy Wandi. Don’t cwy.”

“I’m not buddy, I-I’m not.” He reassured the kid, and falsely assuring himself too.

“Wandi, I’m feelin sleepy…” “Yeah, let’s get you to bed buddy,” he cooed with his quivering voice.

“Andy I’ll take him-” But he refused to and took the child. You took a few minutes to pull yourself together after witnessing Andy so vulnerable. Even in these moments, he took care of your son. When you reached the nursery, Andy was whispering a lullaby to a dozed off Niko for a good ten minutes. He even spoke to the little boy, telling him that the measly Audi car painting he did in the room was going to protect him and his nightmares; and the boy believed because Andy said so.

Few minutes later and Andy didn’t refuse to hold back.

“I held Jacob like Nikolai, put him to sleep like Nikolai. My sweet precious baby, my innocent child Jacob. He didn’t do anything and he is away from me Y/N. Far far away-”

Andy let out a loud whimpering cry, the sound swallowed when he buried his head into your neck and your tears began streaming, him sobbing uncontrollably the next minute.

Andy and your tears began streaming; you pulled yourself together soon but Andy? He was weeping uncontrollably. You only could take him in your arms and offer him comfort. No words could heal his wounds instantly. He buried his face into your neck, his safe place, which made you remember the initial days with Andy when he lent a shoulder when you cried. Now it was your turn.

You whispered in ears how it was best not to do this near Niko and maneuvered Andy to your room. He held onto your arms as you took him to your room. You urged Andy to talk to you if the visit to the grave was still bothering him. He sought recluse in your safe place again, lying down on the bed, head tucked in your neck.

“Andy you can tell me anything. I promise it won’t affect whatever is between us.”

It was too twisted, he was distraught. He ranted about Laurie and how she unravelled into killing her own son. He slipped some details of how Laurie always kept bringing up past incidents of his son to prove that Jacob was the possible killer. He kept blaming himself that he was too weary with Laurie and that he should’ve seen her actions. Your whole body pricked; he was crying as he said all this.

You couldn’t imagine Nikolai and yourself in that situation. It brought tears to you eyes but wiped them off before he could see it. You let him talk as much as he wanted to, calming and soothing Andy in the process, running your fingers through his hair gently. You comforted him as much as you could and kept reminding yourself that this was the first time he came to his senses and realised he was crying out for his dead son; and so you were patient.

“My own wife murdered him Y/N. My Jacob. If I had been more attentive”

“Shhhhh Andy,” you cooed into his ear “Your circumstances were horrible. Don’t blame yourself bubba, none of this was your fault okay? Jacob’s death was out of your hands, it was an unfortunate accident Andy.“

Andy could stay all day in your embrace, his head on your gentle shoulders while your soft hair caresses made him doze off to sleep.

But his head felt like it was going to explode and he couldn’t let you see that.

“I’m going back home honey. I think I need to be alone tonight. I- I am not abandoning you okay, I promise, I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

“Andy are you sure? Stay with me, I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I- I think I need to be alone for sometime you know? Please don’t be upset.”

“I’m never ever upset okay? As long as you are sure bubba; whatever you think is best for you okay? This house is always open to you.”

Kisses on the cheek were exchanged before he left your home. But you stayed awake, in the hopes he’ll be back because deep down you knew, he needed you.

You would give him space, and why not?

He was your home.

–

Andy soon realised he couldn’t. Staying alone was the worst decision he made.

Yes he did get the desired space he absolutely needed for like an hour and he did try to cease his crying, but his heart, oh his heart was pounding like nobody’s business. Anxious. Alone. Not cared for.

The walls of his room closed around him, his breathing becoming rugged, the laughter of his dead son echoing in his head. But he remembered he was cared for. By you. He had only you now.

He wanted, needed your soothing embraces, your kind words, your optimism, your affection. Everything.

He just wanted you now.

He had to forget. It was a bit past midnight, but it was you. His reliable rock; soon to become the love of his life. He had to forget what he was going though and in a moment of desperation, he texted you. His thought was confirmed, you would always be there for him.

—

Last and Final Part 5 on its way :)

#Defending Jacob #Andy Barber #Andy Barber Imagine #Chris Evans Imagine #Chris Evans #Andy Barber x reader #Chris Evans x reader #Andy Barber Smut #Chris Evans Imagines

381 notes · View notes

readyplayerhobi · 4 years

Text

Flower | 28

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff

; Word Count: 4.3k

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: After a month of no Flower...here’s a chapter. Please reblog and let me know what you thought in comments or an as! I’ve been struggling a lot with writing lately and feedback really does help to motivate me!

; Flower Masterpost

Taking in the sight of the tattoo gun and all the necessary accessories that are being prepped in front of you, you can’t help but purse your lips in slight worry. As excited as you were for this, you were also afraid that it was going to hurt. Because getting a tattoo wasn’t a quick process.

Nervously, you glance over at Hoseok. He’s sat on a stool that Jay, the tattoo artist, had brought over for him while you sit on the padded, leather chair. Taking in your uncertain expression, he gives you a bright smile before squeezing your hand to give you a little reassurance. Which you need, because you were a big baby when it came to pain.

“You’ll be okay, I swear. You’ve watched me get tattooed before.” Hoseok says sweetly, white teeth flashing for a moment as he grins once more in another effort to soothe your worries. It doesn’t work though, as you almost immediately begin to frown upon remembering the one time you’d gone with him to watch him get tattooed.

“Yeah...and you ended up crying in pain.” Twisting his lips in a grimace, Hoseok’s expression is suddenly unsure before he sighs deeply in acknowledgement. Lifting your hand, he kissed the back of it gently before running his thumb along the thin, soft skin.

“Hey...I was getting tattooed on my ribs. That’s one of the worst places to get done because you’re tattooing on bone and muscle. Jay can attest that yours isn’t going to be that bad, I swear.” His tone is gentle and you can tell he’s trying to keep you calm. Glancing over at Jay, you watch as the tattoo artist finishes up his preparations before giving you a wry smile.

“He’s right. I won’t lie, it might hurt but if it does, it should get better hopefully. If it gets really bad though, tell me. We can stop if you can’t handle it. You will end up with only a partial tattoo but...” His shoulders shrug casually beneath his Amon Amarth shirt and you want to complain. But then you realise he’s right, and he’s only telling you the truth.

Grinding your teeth together, you sigh deeply before nodding at him in acceptance.

“Okay. I’m a big girl, I can cope with this.” That line is directed at Hoseok, your tone slightly sarcastic and he snorts in response. Leaning forward, he gives you a quick peck on the lips before settling back and starting up a conversation between the three of you once you approve the positioning.

There’s a brief pause before you feel Jay’s cool, glove covered fingers pressing against your shoulder to make sure he gets the right angle. Your first dip into the tattoo world as going to be a small one; just a watercolour style tattoo after extensive research. Jay had frequently tattooed Hoseok over the years and so had been Hoseok’s number one recommendation, leading to him creating a pretty little cherry blossom flower design.

The first press of the tiny needles makes you flinch slightly as they begin to prick and you wince at the slight sting before breathing out slowly. It’s not as bad as you’d thought it was going to be in reality though you certainly wouldn’t want to have to sit for hours upon hours and have large, intense pieces done as Hoseok does. Still, you felt like this was a little bonding moment between you the two of you.

Even if there was a third person here, but whatever.

You weren’t getting the tattoo because of him exactly, but you wouldn’t deny that he’d been a big part of why you’d finally made the decision. Tattoos have always been something that you thought were pretty but they were also something you’d never considered getting as they were permanent. But Hoseok’s love and pride for his own had led to you gaining a new appreciation for them too.

When you’d told him that you wanted to get one, and what kind of style you wanted as well, Hoseok hadn’t asked if you had a special meaning behind it. One of his philosophies, when it came to tattoos, was that you didn’t always need to have a special reason to get a tattoo. It was more than acceptable to get something just because you thought it looked cool or pretty.

You’d discovered early on in your relationship that Hoseok had a real axe to grind against anyone who wanted to gatekeep tattoos and make it so that you always had to have some sentimental reasoning for it. He’d said something along the lines of ‘this isn’t fucking American Idol or X-Factor and you don’t need to have some dying relative to get it. Just get something cos it looks badass if you want.’.

But you did personally have a reason for getting it. Firstly, you’d made sure that Jay made it look pretty enough that you wanted to go through with the pain and have it on you. The second reason, which was incredibly cheesy and you’d rather die than tell anyone the meaning because you can’t handle emotions well, is because it’s a flower.

Part of it was that you’d met Hoseok on an app called Flower, which had led to the most important relationship you’d ever had. It wasn’t his name or anything, but more symbolic of how you’d met. The other major reason for it was that it was a symbol of how much you’d grown over the past year, becoming more confident in yourself and accepting that while you may have weaknesses, they didn’t make you weak overall.

Your research had shown that the cherry blossom, aside from just looking pretty, was also seen as the symbol of renewal and life. They’re only around for a few days, maybe a few weeks, every year but they’re bright symbols of beauty and happiness. Your own life had been renewed in the last year with all the changes that you’d experienced and you just wanted a little reminder that your while you’d struggled, your life was just as bright.

And that kind of cheesy talk was exactly why you wouldn’t explain the meaning to anyone. Not that Hoseok had pried too hard, though you were certain he’d probably at least figured out the whole Flower app connection. He hadn’t mentioned anything though.

As a result, you’d decided to get the tattoo on your first anniversary together. Which obviously, was today. It truly boggled your mind to realise that you’d been in a relationship for a whole year now. A year of being romantic with someone and them not getting bored or tired of you. Hoseok was still here and he loved you more than ever.

Technically, you didn’t have an actual anniversary. Neither of you had formally asked the other to be in a relationship. It had ended up being one of those weird adult relationships where you just start dating and just never stop. As a result, you’d both agreed that you’d the anniversary of your first date to symbolise the beginning of your relationship.

It was the first time you’d been together after all, and neither of you had even looked at anyone else since then. A whole year later, including many moments of bickering, confusion, anxiety, panic attacks, depression and moving your whole life around, here you both were. Still together, very much in love and tentatively looking forward to the future.

As a result of moving in the last month, the two of you had initially agreed not to get presents for each other today as a lot of money had been spent buying the things you needed to fill and decorate the house. Yet it had become quickly apparent that you both seemed to have secretly agreed to spoil the other with the excuse of ‘it’s our first anniversary, I can’t just get you nothing!’ being thrown around a lot.

You’d been bought the cutest fluffy Pikachu that you’d spotted in a store earlier today and he’d promised to pay for this tattoo given it was your first. And you weren’t any better as you’d bought him the BluRay boxset of the Godfather along with a gift box of flavoured teas that he’d been surprisingly excited over.

After your meltdown in the house the other week, it felt nice to be back to being happy. You still weren’t completely content or settled, but you’d managed to get yourself to relax enough to not snap or get grumpy with Hoseok anymore. The house was mostly finished with only the yard needing to be done, but you’d both agreed to wait until springtime for that.

It didn’t feel like home yet, but you knew it was just a matter of time.

But yeah, your anniversary was going pretty great so far. Even if you were having to put up with being pricked hundreds of times with the tattoo gun. You tried your hardest to ignore it and instead focused on Hoseok. He was busy talking to Jay while occasionally stroking his thumb over your hand, absentmindedly comforting you.

Looking him over carefully, you took the time to simply admire him. How you’d managed to end up with such a stunningly handsome man as your boyfriend, you’d never know. Or understand, not that you were ever going to complain. What was even more baffling to you was the fact that along with being one of the most beautiful people you’d ever seen, he had a heart that was perhaps even more beautiful.

You were sure that if you’d ended up dating anyone else, you would have probably had multiple arguments that resulted in someone storming out by now. Or the relationship would have been ended long ago. Yet the most you’d done with Hoseok was bicker over small things with the incident the other week being the most friction you’ve had so far.

That was probably solely down to the fact Hoseok seemed to the unnatural patience of a saint. Something you didn’t take for granted, that was for sure. Just the thought of it has an overwhelming surge of love swelling in your chest.

You wished that you were the kind of person who could easily vocalise your feelings. It frustrated you eternally that you weren’t because there were so many times you wanted to tell him you love him. Instead, you gently poke at his hand with your free hand. Happiness fills you as he smiles at your way of telling him that you love him, poking your calf gently in response while carrying on his conversation.

He’d probably never realise how important he was to you. How much he’d helped you to grow as a person and with your personality. You owed him a lot and you would happily spend as long as he let you repay it. Not that he’d like that idea if you told him of course, but you didn’t care. You loved him, more than he’d ever know.

Tuning back into the conversation, you realise that they’ve been talking about the next tattoo that Hoseok wants. He was planning on getting a watercolour style tattoo similar to yours only he was contemplating having it be space-themed to match his sleeve. Jay is nodding as he discusses options with Hoseok, occasionally checking on you with a gentle touch before carrying on once he realises you’re okay.

And then the conversation moves back round to you and your tattoo. Jay had designed it after Hoseok had made the appointment for you and you’d emailed over what you were thinking. He’d sent over the design and tweaked it to your desire and finally, you were here today, getting it done.

But apart from that, he didn’t have much knowledge of why you wanted it. Given Hoseok was a long time client of his, he had trusted that your boyfriend had given you enough information to make sure you were knowledgeable at what you were getting into. He’d sent over stuff as well but you’d discussed it in depth with Hoseok to make sure you were comfortable.

“So how come you decided today to get your first tattoo? And I’m honoured to be the artist you chose by the way.” Jay says, his tone sweet and you look to him giving Hoseok a slightly sarcastic smile. He’s given one back by your boyfriend and you snort, rolling your eyes at their interaction. As if Hoseok would let you go to anyone else other than his trusted artist.

“Err well...I’ve been considering it a while but wasn’t sure whether to get it or not. And Hoseok said I should try and go to you if I did want it as you’ve always done good work for him, so...yeah. I just decided I want it.” You mumble out, shy at explaining why you’d finally gotten a tattoo. There’s nothing more to say on that and Hoseok squeezes your hand in reassurance before taking over the conversation for you.

“And it’s today because it’s our anniversary so...why not get your first tattoo on your first anniversary, right?” Hoseok grins broadly, letting his fingers lace with your own and you feel yourself go warm at his pride and the affection laced into his voice. Jay pauses what he’s doing for a moment to look at you both with surprise.

“It’s your anniversary today? Oh man, congrats. Happy anniversary,” You grin at his good wishes for you both before he carries on, the needles pressing into your skin once more. “A whole year, that’s great. How did you both meet then?”

Hoseok glances at you with a small smile, wrinkling his nose slightly until you give him a smile in response. He seems happy with that and kisses your hand once more, playing with your fingers as his gaze turns back to Jay.

“Online dating, believe it or not.” There’s a snort of what sounds like amusement from behind and you frown, wondering what’s so amusing about that. Lots of people get together through online dating. That’s the whole point of it. Or is it that someone like Hoseok was on an online dating service? It still confused you, in fairness.

“Oh yeah? Take one look at the pretty lady and decide she was going to be your girl?” He teases and you see Hoseok’s smile turn devilish.

“More like she saw this handsome specimen and decided she wanted a piece of that.” Now you’re the one pulling a face at him, rolling your eyes at his bravado while being secretly amused the whole time. He wasn’t wrong in reality, only you hadn’t been quite as bold as he made you out to be.

“Would you and your ego like some space? I’m sure I can arrange that for you. Also, we love a woman who knows what she wants and goes for it.” Jay applauds you, smirking at Hoseok’s outraged face in pure glee and you can’t help but laugh softly at them both. It was obvious they’ve known each other awhile with how they interacted and you liked how Jay made you feel at ease.

“It wasn’t as...bold as that.” You murmur shyly, looking down at your hands as you recall the panic and anxiety you’d felt after messaging Hoseok the first time. It was hard to believe you’d come so far since then. Even harder to believe that outrageously attractive man was now not only your boyfriend but living with you.

“Ignore her. She’s weirdly bold in ways you wouldn’t expect. But anyway, yeah. Officially one year together today. Can you believe it?! Me? In a relationship with the prettiest and funniest girl for a whole year?” Hoseok snorts as he makes an incredulous face while Jay laughs as well.

You’re not sure what to make of that at first before you recall that they’ve known each other years and Hoseok had been pretty notorious before you. Though his compliment does make you squirm in embarrassment, a desperate need to deny his words bubbling inside you.

“I’d say it’s shocking but honestly, you’ve been looking at her with the biggest heart eyes this whole time. So not really. I’m happy for you both though.” He says and you can practically hear the smile in his voice even though you can’t see him. It’s not too long before he’s finished with you, cleaning up and showing what your tattoo looked like to you to make sure you’re happy and then covering it.

You were beyond pleased with the tattoo, excitement flooding through you as you’d looked over it and realised it was even better than you’d hoped for. Grinning at Hoseok as you stood up, you gripped his hands tightly before wiggling with a bright smile.

“It’s so pretty!” He’s smiling at you in agreement as Jay cleans up his workstation before you all move over to the front desk to pay. The sweet receptionist from earlier is there, covered in even more tattoos and piercings than both men with you. At her request, you show off your new tattoo with a happy smile and accept her compliments with joy.

“How much again?” Hoseok asks, pulling out his wallet. You frown at him immediately, lips pursing into a pout as you remember he’d said that he was going to pay for it but he just tuts at you, shaking his head. “Shh, anniversary present, remember?”

Pushing at his stomach lightly, you sigh as you realise you’re not going to win this argument. Not that you were even arguing really, but you knew that Hoseok would refuse point blank to let you pay for this. Plus, you would admit to enjoying being spoiled by him sometimes. It wasn’t something you were used to but you couldn’t help enjoying it when he did it.

“Actually, it’s on the house today,” Jay says with a smirk, looking you both over with what looks suspiciously like fondness in his eyes. “Consider it my present to you both for your anniversary. Maybe you can make this a little tradition and I’ll see you both for many more years.”

Hoseok is silent and you look up to see his jaw dropped. It’s not often you get to see him so surprised and you can’t stop the giggle that leaves you at the sight of it. Smiling at Jay, you thank him profusely and squeeze Hoseok until he’s muttering out thanks as well.

“It’s nothing. Use that money to spoil your girl today. And I hope you’re okay with being spoiled.” Jay grins, tilting his head at you as he practically gives you both an order. It might not be overly feminist of you right now but you certainly weren’t going to say no to it. You’d never had an anniversary before and damn it, you wanted the full experience!

“I will, I promise. Thanks, man.” Hoseok reaches forward and does that whole man hug thing with Jay, causing you to roll your eyes with the receptionist in amusement. Jay doesn’t try anything with you and you suspect Hoseok had probably told him you weren’t fond of physical contact from others. Instead, he gives you a nod of goodbye as you both leave.

“That was nice of him.” You murmur, brow rising as you take Hoseok’s hand and link your fingers together. He hums in acknowledgement, lips twisting slightly as a light frown touches his forehead.

“It was. So you like your tattoo?”

“I do, it’s so pretty. I didn’t think it’d look this good but...I like it.” Smiling up at him sweetly, you don’t miss the way Hoseok’s eyes soften as he looks down at you. Jay was right, he did go all heart eyes around you. Not that you were going to complain though.

“Good, I’m glad. I’ll make sure we look after it properly. For now, though, I’m hungry so how about we go get something to eat?” He throws his arm around your shoulder, hands still linked together so that you end up with your arm crossing over your chest. Laughing at the movement, you happily push into his side as he pulls you even tighter to him before agreeing.

“Okay, but you pick. We’ve been sat there for over an hour now just for me. Your choice.” Hoseok’s about to complain before sighing and giving in, letting go of your hand to purse his lips as he hums in contemplation. Your lower lip juts out at the loss of contact with him and you momentarily pause in bemusement at how much you’ve come to love physical affection from him when you dislike it from others.

“Let’s recreate our first date and go to the Indian restaurant. Only this time, let’s not talk about girls throwing up on my dick and end the date with us going home and having some hot anniversary sex instead.” Raising a brow at him, your lip quirks in amusement momentarily.

“You never cease to amaze me when horny, you know that? You just literally talked about someone vomiting on your dick and then went straight into having sex. Ew.” Wrinkling your nose, Hoseok snorts in amusement before grinning broadly.

“Look, we’ve established many times by now that when I’m horny, my IQ drops to almost single digits. Anyway, we’re not doing it now. We’re gonna eat and then go do it.” Laughing, you stop to wrap your arms around his waist and hug him tightly, resting your chin on your chest to look up at him as a confusing array of positive emotions bubbles and swirls around your body.

“Okay...that sounds good…” You trail off, brows creasing as you feel so many words and emotions stalling in your throat. Like a lump, you can’t get past. Instead, you squeeze him harder before pushing up onto your tiptoes to kiss him. He lets you, amusement causing him to chuckle slightly as he carefully hugs you back.

“I love you too. Now let’s go eat, I’m so damn hungry you can probably feel my belly rumbling.”

Wincing slightly, Hoseok manages to shift until his arm is sliding out from underneath you. Massaging feeling back into it, he clenches and unclenches his hand before settling onto his back more comfortably. As much as he loved to cuddle you at night, he did often end up with a dead arm.

Sighing quietly, he stares up into the darkness of the bedroom. Your breathing is slow and steady, a calming and soothing sound to his ears as you sleep comfortably. Without even realising it, he's smiling gently before glancing over at you.

A whole year. He'd been with you for a whole year. If someone had told him this two years ago, he'd have laughed. Even though he was in a much better place than when he was a teenager, he knew that some part of him had avoided relationships. Like he still hadn't felt worthy of one.

He did now. He had to. You didn't deserve anything less. And if that sounded cheesy then dammit, it was his first anniversary. He was allowed.

Thinking over everything that has happened in the last year, he feels immense pride at how much you've grown. How comfortable you've become in yourself around him. How happy you are. There were bumps along the road of course, but the two of you had gotten through it.

Expanding his cheeks almost childishly, he lets out a slow and deep breath as he contemplates just how mushy he's being. If the guys could hear his thoughts…

And it's then that he realises he hasn't even posted anything today. Nothing to declare to the world that you'd both made it a year. Even when people hadn't expected you both to last a month.

Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he unlocks it and opens Instagram. Choosing the right pictures takes him a solid 10 minutes. He has so many and he wants to make sure that you'll approve of each picture that he chooses.

Finally, though, he settles on them. A selfie of you both grinning broadly from today, the photo of him kissing your cheek from his birthday, a picture of you sat reading a book in your old apartment, a selfie of the two of you kissing and finally, a picture of you holding Kasumi and smiling so big.

Each one gets edited carefully until he's happy with them, moving forward to the part where he has to write. Glancing at the time on his phone, he sees that he has fifteen minutes left of his anniversary.

So he starts to write.

Jungsevenfold: Today we celebrated our first anniversary!

One whole year of being with the funniest, kindest and on occasion, strangest, girl I've ever met. I've learnt many things being with you, from discovering I like board games to the fact it's a bad idea to destroy the moon.

I'm never quite sure what you're going to say and I love that. I love the way your mind works, what you find funny and so much more. We're often told we're mismatched but I think it's working out. Better than anyone thought.

I think this is long enough and mushy enough, so I'll finish up. Y/N, my princess, my little meeple; I love you ❤🥰. So may we have many more years!

/cheesiness

Posting it, Hoseok watches it upload and feels a momentary pang of embarrassment at what he'd written. But glancing back over to you, he pushes it away. You deserve for him to yell his feelings.

Rolling over, he places his phone back before smiling to himself and wriggling into the covers. You're hard enough on yourself, so if a little embarrassment on his behalf can make you smile.. then it's worth it.

455 notes · View notes

sagedgeek · 3 years

Text

Acceptance

Part 5 of The Whispers of Fate (A Rey Djarin fic)

Summary: Din learns the importance of his new responsibilities, and finds it’s creating an unwanted conflict in him regarding the fate of his new bounty. Meanwhile, Rey’s beginning to feel the concealed aftershocks of the child’s latest display of his abilities and it creates a surprising tension in their relationship.

Rating: Gen (Platonic)

Word Count: 4.6k

Previous Chapter ~ Masterlist ~ Next Chapter

After his rather unpleasant runin with the mudhorn, Din finds himself at the peak of exhaustion. His armor has been wrecked and he can feel the heat of bruises beginning to swelter along his back and arms. But he’s satisfied and relieved that he survived, and the children made it out relatively unharmed. Physically speaking at least.

The baby saved him, using some sort of sorcery to lift the 20-ton beast right off its feet. It had drained the child of all his energy and he still lay there dozing quietly in the pram floating alongside them like all life had been sucked from his tiny body. It was proving to be rather worrying, considering the kid still hadn’t shown any signs of waking up after several hours of travelling. Din tells himself the worry he feels is just a matter of earning less pay for not bringing the promised bounty in alive, but he’s never been all that great of a liar. Even when he first encountered the child in that bunker, he’s felt conflicted. He’d never encountered a bounty quite like him and it fed into the culturally ingrained partiality he holds towards children. Children were sacred. And now… after he quite literally owes his life to the small thing, there’s a sense of honor and duty aggravating the conflict.

So, he refuses to acknowledge it, preferring to condition his feelings as he would for a simple business transaction, because that’s all it was. There was no attachment necessary; child or not. This was a bounty.

But then he looks down at Rey, sitting beside him on the trunk, and he feels a sharp twist of guilt in his chest which causes him to stir uncomfortably in his seat.

She’d fallen quiet ever since the incident, silently staring out at the desert landscape through the orange tint of her visor as she again wore the oversized helmet on her head. Her clothes were crusted in dried mud, as was her face beneath the helmet, and some had even dried in her hair, but he knew that wasn’t what was bothering her. She’d been radiating a nervous energy ever since the incident, and she was skittish. Din never thought he would see the day where he witnessed the strong and eager young girl to act so shy and hesitant, continuously toying with the folds of his cloak that she’d gathered in her lap. She refused to speak or meet anyone’s gaze despite Kuiil’s numerous attempts to coax her into a conversation.

Din has seen this happen before… she was in shock. His near miss with the wooly beast had startled her, and she’d been in hysterics at his side trying to pull him away from its corpse after he’d driven his vibroblade into its meaty neck. And she damn near devolved into a sobbing fit when he told her he had to go back in that cave to retrieve the egg for the Jawas. She refused to stray more than even a foot from his side, practically glued to his hip as they had walked, and even now as they sat on the drag trailer led by Kuiil and his blurg, they sat hip to hip.

He never should have allowed her to convince him into letting her tag along.

The heavy silence continued to follow them on their journey and neither child looked to be snapping out of their trances anytime soon. Once the sun began to set and they’d been travelling for a good few hours, it was easy to see Rey was finally beginning to fall prey to her exhaustion. She swayed from side to side, eyes blinking lethargically as she continued to nod herself back awake. Din looked at the other kid then, still sleeping peacefully in his pram, deciding to check on him and let Rey succumb to her sleepiness in her own time.

“Is it still sleeping?” Kuiil asked.

The question peaked Rey’s attention and she quickly blinked awake to turn and look over at the baby floating along on Din’s other side.

“Yes,” Din responds, reaching out to grab for the cradle. He adjusts one of the blankets while he’s at it, then pulls back before he could do any more.

“Was it injured?”

Rey turns her head up to look up at him, eyes red and wide with question.

“I don’t think so. Not physically.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Rey squeaks, speaking up for the first time since they’d left the Jawas. She drops his cloak and lays her palm on his leg with a question in her eyes. And Din places his gloved hand atop of hers to offer a small pat of reassurance.

He found that he didn’t like it when she was scared or upset. Particularly when it was his fault.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Kuill answered for him when Din hesitated to answer her. “Explain it to me again… I still don’t understand what happened.”

“Neither do I.” He mutters.

He turns back to Rey, and she’s staring down at her lap now, where his cloak remained draped over her legs like a blanket. Her eyes drooped once more and he could see the tears trailing down her face through her visor, which had cleared a path through the dried dirt on her cheeks.

“Why don’t you get some rest, kid.” He told her. He thought she would fight him, but she didn’t. She just turns over her palm beneath his and grabs his hand, gripping two of his larger fingers in her fist tightly as she shuffles even closer. He glances down at their hands and his head cocks slightly to the side in confusion. Her helmet hits against the metal of his armor with a sharp click, and she grunts as she tries to situate herself in a position that wasn’t uncomfortable while wearing the helmet. Then he feels the soft weight of her head press against his upper arm as she lies against the dirty fabric of his tunic sleeve just beneath his right pauldron. Din could feel the warmth radiate from her tiny body and he knew this time she wasn’t sitting close just because she was cold…

So, he curled his other fingers loosely around her smaller ones, thumb gently stroking back and forth over the back of her mud-stained hand.

She made a soft contented noise, which near startled him, but then she sagged against him with relief and immediately her breathing evened out to small puffs, and just like that she was asleep.

He waited for a few more moments just to make sure she was asleep before he so much as twitched, body stiff and tense in his uncertainty. And when nothing terrible happened he relaxed, easing the tension in his shoulders. Then he reached over with his left arm to pull her a little closer so she wouldn’t end up slipping off the crate. When he did this, she jostled just a bit and he froze in place while she shifted against him. She ended up pulling her knees up towards her chest and turning further into him, but otherwise she remained asleep. The bend of her knees draping over one of his legs.

Her neck was bent at an odd angle, so he reaches up slowly to remove the large helmet from her head, setting it aside so she could rest comfortably without it. He pushes back the mess of hair that’s disrupted once he removes it, clearing it out of her face with gentle fingers and he moves his arm to wrap it around her back as her head falls into the crevice of his arm. He tells himself it’s just a matter of making her more comfortable or preventing her from slipping off the swaying sled as she slept, but he knew better. A primal sense of protectiveness flushed through him, and whether it was misdirected worry for the baby in the pram, or just the inevitable development of adoration he felt for his new Foundling, he couldn’t tell. All he knows is now there’s something new here besides the sense of duty to his creed.

He’s spent his life following that call of his creed. Every decision and whim, every choice he’s had to make and everything he’s ever learned has been in an effort to fulfill his duty to his tribe and the Mandalorian creed. There’s never been anything else, or anything more. He wears his armor, he speaks the language, and he provides for his tribe. He sacrificed the menial appeals of living to lead a life of honor and order. He’s always prepared to die, walking into every battle or conflict knowing that only two outcomes will ever come out of it. He’ll win… or he’ll die. And he’s always been at peace with knowing that one day his life will end by satisfying the wish of every Mandalorian; the honor of a warriors death. He’s come close more times than he could count, and never had It fazed him to dread over what ‘could have been’ if he hadn’t sensed the knife aimed at his back, or the sniper lurking along the dark roofs through the night. He was prepared to die at every moment… yet this time was different … For the first time, he was tempted to run away. He was afraid. His hand had shook as he lifted his blade and, kriff Rey’s screams called out for him to run, to move, to do anything but kneel there and wait for death.

And Maker he was tempted. He didn’t want to die; not yet. Not now that he has something new to live for, but he never lowered the damn blade.

Then the kid saved him… And Rey ran to him, collapsing right on top of his body to cling to him as she sobbed, tugging and pulling at his arm and clothes in an attempt to move him away from the downed creature.

She worried for him. And she trusted him-- depended on him to protect her and take care of her. It was a startling realization he came to while he lifted her the best he could and limped away from the corpse because she refused to let go. He’s been alone for so long; he hadn’t encountered these things so potently since he was a child… before the Mandalorians, and even then he was the one who depended on his parents and, later, the Mandalorians. Sure, the tribe depended on him to bring back currency and other essentials to survive in the covert, and they worried for his safety, but none would bat an eye at another loss to add to the long list of dead warriors written along the hall of memories of Mandalor.

And now he sees her here, sitting beside him, looking to him for comfort and trusting he will watch over her as she slept. It provoked an instinctive blaze of determination in his belly that had not been there before, and he holds her closer.

He can sense Kuiil staring back at him, and he looks up to lock his gaze with the Ugnaught.

“She told me your story.” He says, turning back to face the path. “It is surprising to see such a strong attachment after only a few days.”

Din nods his head, looking out at the horizon as the sun finally slips past the orange rocks. “My tribe said the same about her.”

Kuiil pauses. “… I was not speaking about her… she is a child; it is expected. Yet you… a Mandalorian of your nature? Now that is a surprise… and yet you do not tell her you are as her father?”

Din stiffens slightly in his seat. It’s a notion he hasn’t acknowledged since the kid had been pushed into his care. It was one thing to be a caretaker, another thing entirely to be a father.

“I’m not… on either counts.”

“But she is your Foundling?”

“I am not her father. She has a family that I’ve promised her I’d look for.”

“Do you intend to?”

“Yes.”

Kuill turns back around to look at him, then nods towards the pram floating alongside him. “And what of that one?”

“What about it?” Din growls.

“According to your creed… he is a Foundling as well. Is he not?”

And that was exactly the line of thinking Din had been refusing to trail down.

“It is also according to my creed to honor my word and provide for my tribe. This child is a bounty, and will bring honor and resources back to the Mandalorians… I already have one too many Foundlings as is.”

“Well, honor your word you must,” Kuiil mutters. “I have spoken.”

***

Rey proved to be an invaluable asset in rebuilding the Crest.

Din hadn’t intended to wake her when they came upon the ship. He had laid her down on the trunk and draped his cloak over her as a blanket, but soon the loud clang of metal woke her from her slumber, and she was insistent on helping.

Her understanding for such a young child was impressive. Of course, there were several holes in her overall knowledge which she would get frustrated by, but Kuiil was there to patiently walk her through whatever it was she struggled with. She sat right beside him on the ground, leaning against the Ugnaught as she watched him explain and rewire the device in his lap. Din watches them as discretely as he could, happy to find that Rey found a friend she trusted and admired.

That’s when he decides he needs to accept every aspect of this new responsibility. Protecting her from the dangers of the galaxy isn’t his only job… it’s also his job to teach her about the universe, the different languages and cultures, and the history of his own people. She needs training on how to defend herself, and how to survive when he’s no longer around for her to depend on. So many things… but he thinks this particular interest of hers is a good place to start. Kuiil was much more knowledgeable regarding mechanics, but Din knew enough, and he intended to teach Rey whatever it was she wanted to know. And if he couldn’t provide the knowledge… then he’d do his best to find someone that could. The kid was smart and had so much potential. He didn’t want her to be held back because of him.

Soon they’re all three standing in the threshold of the hull, the closed pram parked snuggly near the ladder rungs, and Rey has Kuiil wrapped up in a tight hug. The Ugnaught gladly hugs her back just as tightly.

“I wish you would come with us.” She mutters into his cowl after he turned down Din’s offer.

“Don’t fret child. I’m sure we will see each other again.” He holds her by the shoulders and pulls her back so he can look down at her. “I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for and know you will always have a place to stay if you ever find your way back here.”

She nods sadly. “I’ll miss you though.”

“Don’t waste your woes missing me little one. You have a long life of adventure awaiting you, and there is no need to look back. One day you shall return, and we will pick up where we left off, there will be nothing to miss, only something to look forward to.”

Rey’s nose puckers cutely. “I’ll still miss you though.”

Kuiil chuckles and Din smirks beneath the helmet. “And I, you.”

He looks up at Din. “Take good care of her Mandalorian,” then he looks back down to Rey, “and you take care of him. He will need you more than you think.”

He lets go of Rey, giving her a gentle nudge closer to Din, and he lifts a hand to rest on her shoulder as they watch Kuiil leave. He gives Rey one last wave and walks down the ramp, mounting his blurg.

“Good luck with the child,” he says with a final wave to Din. “May it survive and bring you and your tribe a handsome reward… I have spoken.”

Din nods goodbye, and Rey’s left arm rises to wave at him enthusiastically.

The ramp slowly rises at Din’s command from his vambrace, and he uses the hand on her shoulder to steer her towards the ladder rungs leading up to the cockpit. The pram follows them up, and he situates it in the seat opposite where Rey usually sat.

The girl was at the control panel, peering out the viewport, down to Kuiil who was waving up at her with a smile on his face.

“Take a seat,” Din tells her, as he begins powering up the engines.

She does as he says and scrambles for her seat, eager to help with liftoff, which mostly consisted of pressing a few buttons and flipping a few switches that didn’t do much of anything Din couldn’t do himself up front, but it kept her happy and satisfied her eagerness to help fly the ship.

From what he’s seen though, she’s good at following instructions which is a very important skill in his opinion, and she knows her fair share of ship mechanics, so he makes a bit of a spontaneous decision that he’ll know he’ll grow to regret.

Maker knows she’ll never leave him alone about it after this.

“Would you like to pilot the ship?” He asks her, tilting his head to the side just a bit in acknowledgement.

She jumps from her seat with a wide grin on her face. And Din was happy to see that her worry and fear seemed to be gone and she was back to her happy, hyper self. “Really?!”

He nods, a small smirk growing beneath his helmet. He pats his leg in invitation.

She jumps at the opportunity, rushing up to his side. She just about launches herself into his lap, but then hesitates after she has both hands braced against the metal plate on his thigh. She looks up at him nervously, like she was making sure she had permission.

“C’mon,” Din coaxed gently. He grabs her arm and lifts, helping her climb onto his knee.

She knew quite a bit already, but Din still walked her through the process and kept a steadying hand on the yoke and throttle as she lifted the ship off the ground. It was a bit of a shaky start, but Din couldn’t really expect anything more of her when she’s had little to no practice. Once they were in the air, hovering slightly above the muddy ground beneath the ship, she grinned, waving at Kuiil again to show off what she was doing, but Din quickly grabbed her hand and guided it back down.

“Don’t take your hands off the controls, kid. Don’t need you to crash once we just fixed her.”

“Oops, sorry.” She apologized, gripping the control in both hands again.

The ride was still a little bumpy as she guided them out of the atmosphere, even with Din’s help, but otherwise it was pretty damn good for her first try. Of course, he won’t be letting her fly on her own anytime in the near future, but with some practice and some time she’ll make a mighty fine pilot. He’s sure of that.

He sets the coordinates and soon they’re cruising in the right direction.

“Why don’t you go down to the hull and get cleaned up?” He suggests to Rey, already beginning to lift her off his lap. “I’ll come down and prepare food, then you should get some sleep. It’s been a long couple days.”

“I’m not tired anymore though!” She exclaimed. Her feet hit the floor as he places her down and she grunts in irritation.

Din knows better.

“You need to sleep.” He argues.

“But I wanna play with the baby when he wakes up!”

Din stands. He towers over her in the small space. He doesn’t mean to, but he does.

“He’s not waking up anytime soon. Now it’s time for bed.”

“Can’t I at least say goodnight?”

Din nods and waits for her. Rey approaches the pram, grasping the sides of the round cradle as she tries to rock him awake.

“Baby,” she whispers softly, “Baby.” She frowns and reaches out to touch him. “Are you sure he’s okay?” She asks Mando with a worried crease between her brows.

Her palm rests for just a moment over the baby’s forehead and Din hears her gasp sharply in terror. He stumbles forward a couple steps in worry, trying to find the danger that had her so panicked.

“What? What is it?!”

Her hand doesn’t move; she doesn’t move. Her face is partially concealed by the dimness in the cabin, but her eyes are open wide and welling with tears, the stars and tiny lights reflecting almost perfectly in the dark. Din reaches out to touch her, but as soon as he does she snaps her hand away from the pram, cradling it against her chest like it’d been burned. She breathed heavy and stumbled backwards as quickly as she could manage without tearing her fearful eyes from the baby. She collides right into him.

“What’s wrong?” He still didn’t know what had happened, and now Rey began to cry, full with ugly sobs and strained keens of fear. She turns abruptly and reaches her arms up in the air towards him, eyes squeezed shut as the tears leaked from them.

Din doesn’t know why he thinks to do it, or why he does, but he lifts her off the ground by the underarms and holds her against his chest. “What is it? What happened?” He asks again. He didn’t like not knowing what was bothering her so severely. Had the baby hurt her with his sorcery? Was it something else in the cradle that she had touched? Was it the baby himself?

He frowned and looked over at the child in the pram. He didn’t look to have any thorns or quills… but Din had only ever touched him with gloved hands so he couldn’t have known.

Her arms begin to wrap around his neck, but he grabs the hand that had touched the baby and pulled it around so he could examine it for any wounds or lingering slivers.

There was nothing.

Maybe the baby’s skin was poisonous to the touch… he’s seen it before… but hadn’t Rey touched him before now? And, again, there was no rash or inflammation on her hand. Then again, it was dark.

He was helpless with no clue as to what had Rey so upset.

He soothed his thumb over the unharmed skin and turned his head to turn his gaze back onto the sobbing girl. He lifted his hand to clear away the loose hair that had matted to her face due to the tears, and when he pulls his hand away her arms loop around his neck and her face drops into his cowl. He braces one hand against her back, completely clueless.

“Why did he make me see that?” She sobbed into his collar.

“See what?”

“I don’t know! T-That!” She emphasizes, “An-and now I feel weird and hurted all at the same time!”

Din frowns then looks down at the baby. He reaches beneath the rim of his helmet and tugs off his glove with his teeth then reaches out to place a few fingers on the baby’s forehead.

Nothing.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere!” She curls further into him, grunting in discomfort as she shifts to try and get situated against his cuirass. Now, unwrapping her arms from around his neck to clamp her hands over her ears and whine.

“Ok, well let’s go down and get cleaned up, and I’ll check you out, alright?”

She nods but doesn’t relinquish her hold where she’d wrapped her legs around his waist tight to compensate for the lack of her arms around his neck. So he carries her down the ladder and bends down to place her on her feet in front of the fresher. It takes some coaxing and a few minutes for her to calm down, but soon she’s apologizing and wiping her tears away quickly before disappearing behind the door.

She comes out with freshly cleaned hair, looking down at her hands. She sits down on a crate he pulled out for her across from his, and she held out her hand towards him, palm up, to examine.

He takes it gently and looks closer for any sign of injury or inflammation that he might have missed in the dim lighting earlier.

“It doesn’t hurt no more. Just tingles a little. An-and I feel weird.”

He drops her hand and holds out the small plate he prepared for her, consisting of some jerky and freeze-dried greens he’d stocked up on last he was on Nevarro.

“Weird how?”

She shrugs and gnaws on the jerky. “I don’t know. It makes me feel all floaty,” she places a hand over her stomach, “but in a nice way, but also bad.”

And that didn’t make a lick of sense. So, Din just sighs, writing off the incident as a minor accident.

He notices she’s staring at him.

“You’re hungry,” she states definitively, tilting her head slightly to the side then holding out her half-eaten piece of jerky.

As endearing as it was for her to constantly try and care for him by offering portions of her food, he holds up his palm to decline and begins to stand. “I’m fine. You finish eating and go to bed.”

“Are you going to bed too?”

“No,” he shakes his head.

And she stands from her crate with a frustrated guffaw. “But you’re tired and hungry! You gotta sleep.”

Din mutters in frustration, because, yes, he was well aware that he was tired and hungry, but there was a time and place for everything and now wasn’t the time to rest or eat. Not for him at least. For her, it was most definitely bedtime as soon as she finished her meal.

“I’m not hungry or tired. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You are! I can feel it!” She continues to object with a sharp glare.

Din sighs and gently takes the now empty plate from her hands and guides her towards her blanket nest.

“Well, you continue feeling whatever it is you want, but for now you need to rest.” She grumbles something nonsensical as she crawls beneath the covers he was holding up for her.

“You’re stressed. What are we doing tomorrow? Is it dangerous?”

Din sighs and situates the covers beneath her chin. “You are filled with many assumptions this evening, aren’t you?”

She stares up at him, waiting for a proper answer and he relents. “I’ll tell you what we’re doing when the time comes. Now… go to sleep.” He places his hand over her entire face in an effort to silence her and make her close her eyes, but she only giggles. He might huff out a small laugh too after he removed his hand to reveal her wide eyes staring up at him in delight and her grinning mouth, but no one needed to know.

He turned out the lights and headed back up to the cockpit, only to find the baby had awoken. The baby stares at him and watches closely as Din takes his seat.

“Nice to see you’re still alive, kid.”

~ Next Chapter ~

A/N: Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts :)

41 notes · View notes

palmett-hoes · 4 years

Text

this was originally meant to be a response/follow-up to @i-did 's post about race in the aftg fandom (that you should read). i ran it by him first and asked permission to add, but then we decided it was too long so i should make it its own post

---

i want to talk about fandom's take on the twins' race because it's rather glaring in the fandom that andrew (and then aaron by necessity) are often portrayed as the only white characters on the team and i have to question why?

there's nothing in the backstories that would mean writing them as POC would fling them headlong into offensive stereotypes that the fandom hasn't bypassed over to make another fox a POC.

they have a history of addiction? but it's okay for matt and seth to be addicts and be brown.

they're violent? but it's okay for renee to be non-white and a former gang member.

they're blond and 'pale'¹? but allison can be a WOC and bleach her hair without saying it explicitly? renee can have white rainbow hair no matter the AU? neil can be a blue-eyed redhead and still be drawn darker skinned half the time?

'pale' in and of itself is a very vague word that's only brought up in the context of comparison to notably dark skinned nicky. it's completely relative, and multi-racial families where people look wildly different from each other exist (pretty commonly). or if you're prescriptivist how about the multiple ways a POC can still be a natural blond including but not limited to pigmentation conditions or being mixed race? similarly, i think less than a quarter of the FCs i've seen for andrew over the years have been natural blonds themselves.

so if our holdups aren't about racial stereotyping and they aren't about the incredibly vague character descriptions, then why are the twins always white when it's approached as a good thing that no one else is? when i've seen multiple different posts lauding the fandom for adding diversity where nora didn't write it, except for here?

to be completely, bluntly honest, it's because we as a majority-white fandom are uncomfortable when we are not the central characters. or maybe we are uncomfortable when people of color ARE the central characters. i don't think there's much of a difference.

we are comfortable writing and drawing nicky, the upperclassmen, then kevin (in that order) as poc because, simply, we use them as background characters. they are rarely the main characters of fics, or have their own storylines in them; it all revolves around andreil.

additionally, while i've used neil up to now as an example of the fandom being OKAY with writing POC, let's also admit that it's an,, imperfect representation, as he will often be racially ambiguous with no explicit ethnicity, he will be the lightest skinned of the foxes of color, and he will still have eurocentric features. also it's genuinely a toss up as to whether he's drawn brown or not, there are still plenty of white neils, much more than there are white dans and matts and renees (not an attack on anyone who draws white neils, simply a statement) and FCs and edits of him still tend to be white people.

he's a bit of a schrödinger's person of color, not really any one thing or another, very few people being willing to take a hard stance on him and do the work of taking that decision under consideration when writing and drawing him.

(quick shout-out here to @hi-raethia for making content about an explicitly chinese interpretation of neil).

(additionally, to be as clear about my intended message as possible, this isn't a statement on the politics of passing or undermining the ethnicities of lightskinned poc, this is about a lack of detail being put into making a character a character of color in any thoughtful, meaningful, or significant way)

so when i talk about the centralization of white people in fandom, neil gets to be included, perhaps with a footnote indicating that this is somewhat of a more complicated statement than it is with lily-white andrew minyard.

nevertheless, i feel comfortable saying that 75% of fandom content revolves around andrew and neil, major exceptions only being jerejean which are often stand-alone from the foxes, and the rising branch of kevaaron shippers. however both of those ships are actually subject to this exact same criticism, as ships between a a flat-out white character and a dubiously "non-white" character who can also be white sometimes. it varies.

conspicuously, content about the UPPERCLASSMEN tends to revolve around andrew and neil.

fics where the upperclassmen are the pov character are often outside-perspective fics on andreil.

HC posts about the upperclassmen, especially matt, will devote major portions to his time spent helping, hanging with, and thinking about andrew and/or neil.

secondary ships like danmatt or renison tend to be just that, secondary ships moving in the background of andreil-focused works. they get more of a,,, scenic shout-out than a storyline

it is only comfortable for us to write these characters as characters of color if they revolve entirely around white characters

so after all that? what should we do, as a white-majority fandom? what should YOU, specifically, as a white person, do?

i hate to talk about a problem without also talking about solutions, and i try not to carp on something i don't want to be an active part of fixing. public criticism without an action plan only leads to hurt feelings and guilt, and that's never my intention when bringing this up. my goal is to address a general problem, not anyone specific's personal failings.

in all honesty leaning completely into all of the foxes being people of color, though i think neat and i certainly support, is not the best solution, and would be more of a hollow action than anything else without addressing the underlying problems that lead to the development of this dynamic.

i think the best thing to do would be to 1. do some research on writing poc, usually by following some writing-specific blogs like @writingwithcolor or @pocinmymedia . look up the 'black best friend' trope and really spend some time tjinking about it. spend an hour seeking out a random assortment of blogs that interest you that are also run by people of color. checking through tags like drawingwhileblack or blacktober may be good kickoff points.

tumblr is great because with an hour of active work to find these blogs, you can then go months passively seeing content from them. try not to interact, actually, simply watch and listen and become familiar with general trends and concerns in different communities. remember that every blog is run by an individual person, not an elected representative of their race, and always keep this in mind.

you are teaching YOURSELF that people of color are individuals, they have interests and inner lives that don't revolve around whiteness, that don't revolve around YOU

at the same time, 2. challenge yourself as a creator to make more content about the upperclassmen, specifically. make art about them doing stuff as a group separate from neil and andrew's group. find a compilation of 'draw the squad' memes and draw/tag the upperclassmen only. make jokes where they talk to each other. write some meta about their character motivations. write a fic where andreil isn't even mentioned, it can be super short, you can even use a prompt generator.

as a reader, reread their backstories in the extra content. reread son nefes. use ao3's filtering system to read some fics about JUST the upperclassmen, few and far apart though they may be.

if we've decided that the upperclassmen are people of color then lean into that, and learn to CARE about them on their own merit, because they are the most underutilized characters in the fandom. we need to make content centralized around them to combat the fact that fandom centralizes whiteness

#txt #fandom #the foxes #dan wilds #matt boyd #renee walker #seth gordon #allison reynolds #my posts

101 notes · View notes

cinaja · 3 years

Text

Before the Wall part 52

A/N: Wow, this chapter took far longer than I had planned. I'm sorry for the delay. But on a positive note, I think it's about 14k words long, so I guess that's about the length of two normal chapters.

Tw: wanting-to-die (I still don't know if that's a trigger) in the 5th scene.

----

The days after Jurian’s death pass dizzyingly quickly and excruciatingly slowly all at once. Everything feels wrong. It’s like the world got knocked out of its usual course and is now spinning around aimlessly. Nothing goes wrong, exactly, but things certainly don’t go right either, and throughout it all, Drakon feels like he never quite manages to catch his footing.

It seems that there are a million of things to be done. Nephelle and the other cartographers spend the first day after the battle mapping the mountain range, returning with the result that the Callian Pass as such no longer exist. There might be a new pass through the mountains somewhere, but the old one is at least currently not usable for an army, largely because several mountains fell into it. This information gets Drakon a dressing-down by the council for destroying the important strategic location he had been ordered to hold. (“Maybe if you cared so much about that pass, you should have gotten the reinforcements you promised there in time,” Sinna, who accompanied him to the meeting, snaps at that and Drakon’s mind drifts to Helion’s warning.)

They burn their dead – mercifully few, largely thanks to Miryam – on the first day after the battle. Unfortunately, they can’t extend the same decency to the fallen enemy soldiers, since most of them are buried under tons of stone. Drakon feels terrible about it, but there’s little to be done. So instead of worrying about the dead enemies, he talks to his soldiers, tries to reassure them. He meets with his ruling council. He sits in meeting after meeting with his military leaders.

Throughout it all, he can’t stop thinking about Jurian. He still can’t quite believe that he is actually dead, keeps thinking that he’ll only have to winnow over to his camp and be able to talk to him. From when his family died, he knows that it will likely take a while for the truth to fully settle in. After that, it will still suck, but differently. At least that terrible rift between knowing Jurian is dead and not being able to believe it will vanish, and maybe eventually, the pain will become bearable. At least that’s what he’s been told.

Sinna offers that they can talk should he want to, but he doesn’t take her up on the offer. Not because he thinks she would be harsh about it – generally, Sinna makes exceptions in her usual bluntness for things that truly make him upset. No, the problem is that he knows that Sinna isn’t mourning Jurian’s death. She didn’t even like him, at least since him and Jurian had their falling-out. Even though she would try to be sympathetic, it wouldn’t exactly be genuine, and they certainly couldn’t talk about what went down during their last conversation. About the lie he told, and how Jurian died still believing it. Hating him for it. If he’s being honest, the only person he really wants to talk to about that is Miryam.

But unfortunately, Miryam isn’t talking. She does speak – asks after the army, how the clean-up is going – but she refuses to answer any personal questions. Not a word about Jurian or Artax, or the mountain range she blew up. The healers assure him that physically, she will be fine. The injuries were serious but not life-threatening. The only comment Miryam offers is that yes, she is in pain, but it’s nothing she can’t handle.

Drakon does his best to help her, but he’s quickly running out of ideas. Miryam tells him she doesn’t want to be touched, but she doesn’t want him to leave either, so Drakon spends as much time as work will allow just sitting in a chair next to her bed, a safe distance away.

He manages to get his proposal to the council finished in the time, but it is apparently bad enough that Zeku simply hands it back to him upon reading and asks if he maybe wants to rework that a bit before submitting it to the council.

On the way back from Telique, Drakon steps by to visit Andromache. She tells him a bit about the funeral preparations for the evening. Apparently, it is going to be a grand ceremony, over a thousand attendants. All Drakon can think about is that Jurian would have preferred something a little less formal.

“Will Miryam come?” Andromache asks, and Drakon nods.

“Sure,” Drakon says.

She didn’t show much of a reaction when she told him about the funeral, but if Drakon knows one thing for sure, it’s that Miryam wouldn’t miss Jurian’s funeral. Still, he should probably talk to her in advance. Actually talk, that is.

But for the first time in the last two and a half days, Miryam isn’t in her room when he goes looking for her. Fortunately, it turns out that mating bonds are extraordinarily useful for finding people. All Drakon needs to do is to focus on Miryam and then follow his gut feeling. He runs into a dead end once because the mating bond unfortunately doesn’t come with a map of the castle, but on the second try, he finds Miryam. She sitting alone up on the battlements, letting her feet dangle over the plunge below.

“Hey,” Drakon says lightly and sits down next to her.

Miryam just keeps staring down at the pass. Her eyes are completely empty.

Now, Drakon just needs to come up with something to say.

“How are you feeling?” Drakon asks. It is a rather inadequate thing to say, but several days in, he has run out of smart ideas for how to get Miryam to talk.

Miryam shrugs. “I blew up a mountain range,” she says flatly, which is a slight exaggeration and definitely not an answer to his question.

Desperately, Drakon tries to come up with a proper reply. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that non-answer, but can’t just not react. Not when Miryam is finally talking. Besides, for all he knows, Miryam might actually be upset about the mountain range. It’s unlikely, considering everything else, but not impossible.

Cauldron damn him, he is bad at this.

“I never liked that mountain range anyways,” he says, if only to get that empty look to vanish from her eyes. He gestures vaguely at the partially-crumbled mountains surrounding them. “It’s much prettier this way.”

For a moment, he thinks Miryam won’t react. But then, she slowly turns around to him. There’s the barest hint of a smile on her face. “What about the mountain goats, though?” She asks.

“Oh.” Drakon buries his face in his hands, although he is far too relieved to actually be embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d remember that. In my defence, I was panicking.”

“I suppose I gave you good reason for that,” Miryam says, glancing over at a mountain that is now missing its entire top half.

They sit together in silence for a while after that, both staring at the mountains. The silence is heavy, but more bearable than it was before.

“I’m sorry,” Miryam finally says, breaking the silence. “I know the way I’m behaving is…” She shrugs. “Shit.”

“It’s really not,” Drakon says. “You don’t need to always act perfectly. Sometimes, it’s okay to simply be in pain.”

Miryam seems to contemplate that for a bit. For a moment, Drakon worries that he said the wrong thing and he will shut down again, but then, she shrugs. “I just…” She winces slightly. “I don’t want you to think… When I don’t want to talk, or don’t want to be touched, it’s not because I don’t trust you, or because there’s something wrong in our relationship.”

“I thought so,” Drakon says. At least he hoped so. “Still, thank you for telling me.”

“One day, I’ll be able to explain,” Miryam says softly. “But not now.”

Drakon nods. At least when it comes to Artax, he already has a general idea of what it might be. With Artax’s reputation and Miryam’s reactions to him, it isn’t hard to do the math. Either way, he is rather glad Miryam erased the bastard from the universe.

He isn’t going to ask further. Even though he hasn’t gotten Miryam to talk, even though he knows he probably should, he simply can’t push her. But it turns out that isn’t necessary at all. Now that she started, Miryam seems to be adamant in her decision to talk, even if she doesn’t want to.

“I don’t know how I’m feeling,” she says. “It’s just… It’s too much. I’m furious and sad and in pain, and there’s just so much that I don’t even know what to feel first. And I can’t…” She shakes her head.

Drakon would much like to hug her, or at least reach for her hand, but Miryam hasn’t given any hint at wanting to be touched, so he remains sitting where he is, a safe distance away, waiting for her to continue.

“I miss Jurian,” Miryam mutters.

“I still can’t believe he’s dead,” Drakon says. “I always thought that if anyone made it, it would be him.” Well, him and Miryam both, but saying that seems like bad luck.

“Me too,” Miryam says. “The last time we met, we said we still wanted to talk. I keep thinking about that.” She turns to Drakon. “Did he ever find out? About us, I mean.”

“No,” Drakon says. “I never told him. And he never knew that Amarantha captured you because of him, either.”

“Good,” Miryam says. “Then at least he didn’t… At least he…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but Drakon still understands. At least Jurian didn’t die feeling guilty over getting Miryam captured, or betrayed because of the marriage. At least from his point of view, things between them were mostly fine. Drakon tries to comfort himself with that knowledge. That while Jurian might have hated him, at least he must have been relatively content with his relationship with Miryam when he died.

“But how did you keep him from finding out about Amarantha?” Miryam asks. “Didn’t you tell him that I’d been captured at all?”

“I told him it was because of me,” Drakon says. He tries and fails to sound nonchalant. “I thought it might be better if he hated me than…” This time, it is Drakon who doesn’t manage to finish the sentence.

There are tears burning in his eyes and he quickly wipes them away. He came here to comfort Miryam, not be comforted by her, damnit.

“I’m sorry,” Miryam says softly. “And I know that probably changes little, but I think that this was a very kind thing to do.”

They fall silent again, then. But after a few moments, Miryam slowly reaches out and takes his hand. Squeezes it.

“Thank you,” she says. “For being there. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Likewise,” Drakon replies.

They remain sitting on the battlements for another few minutes before Drakon remembers that they’ll still need time to get ready for the funeral. Still holding each other by the hands, they walk together through the castle. They only part ways in front of their respective rooms, although Drakon can feel that Miryam is as reluctant to let go of him as he is. It’s like they are both scared that once they leave each other’s sight, one of them will vanish. But neither of them voices that fear or asks the other if they might change together, so in the end, they each vanish into their own rooms.

There is a colour code for funerals. Black is the most common colour, standing for mourning – for anyone thinking to send a message, it is certainly the safest option. Most people use it for the cloth, and so did Drakon. He chose silver embroidery to go with it, the colour traditionally representing respect and admiration for the deceased. It’s a colour only used on rare occasions, but for this, it certainly fitting.

He took a while getting dressed, and when he finally steps out of his room, Miryam is already ready. Once again, she somehow managed to somehow shove down her emotions far enough to appear entirely composed. But her show of self-control isn’t what makes Drakon stop dead in the doorway.

Miryam, it seems, went for a different colour theme than him. The silk of the long dress she is wearing are also black. The embroidery running all over it, though, is red as freshly shed blood. The colour of anger – and vengeance. Declaring to the entire world that while she is mourning Jurian’s death, she is also furious, and she intends to avenge it.

----

Miryam draws quite a few stares as she walks through the halls of the palace of Telique by Drakon’s side. They are early, but many of the guests seem to have arrived already, and most of them are gaping at Miryam like they’ve never seen her before.

A part of it is probably the dress, since red is certainly a bold choice of colour. Going to a funeral basically declaring that you want revenge for what happened is not a usual move, especially for high-ranking politicians. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the smartest choice, but when Miryam commissioned the dress two days ago, she was furious enough that she wanted the entire world to know. Now, she is less angry than sad, but it’s a bit too late to change her mind, no matter how much she might wish she had opted for silver embroidery like Drakon did.

Still, she doesn’t fool herself into thinking that the dress is the only thing that draws stares. Knowing how quickly rumours spread, news of what she did to Artax – and the mountain range surrounding them – had likely made it all around the Continent within hours of the fact. And so people stare.

If Miryam is being honest, she can’t blame them for it.

Three days after the battle ended, Miryam still hasn’t figured out how exactly she feels about what she did. Somewhere in the mess of her emotions, she came to the conclusion that she doesn’t feel bad about what she did, but rather feels bad about not feeling bad.

It’s not that she feels any kind of sympathy for the soldiers she killed. It might be rather cold, but they were voluntarily fighting a war with the sole purpose of keeping slavery going – were likely slave-owners themselves – so as far as she is concerned, they don’t deserve her pity. And as for Artax, he certainly got what he deserved. Possibly deserved worse. But no matter how much the people she killed might have deserved it, Miryam doesn’t want to be the type of person who murders hundreds, maybe thousands of people and doesn’t feel bad afterwards. She doesn’t want to erase a person from existence either, no matter how much he might deserve it.

She crossed a line – she that she once promised herself to always steer clear of – and now, she can no longer say for sure if there are any lines she wouldn’t cross if it became necessary. Really, she can’t blame those people for being scared. She is scared herself.

“Do you want to go to the courtyard already?” Drakon asks.

Miryam nods and links her arm with his. At least now, she can stand the feeling of being touched again without feeling like tearing off her own skin. She actually finds the contact comforting, and right now, she can use any bit of comfort.

As they walk through the palace, Drakon asks, “Are you okay with holding the speech later on?”

“I think so,” Miryam replies. She spent the last sleepless night trying to find the words to express her feelings. She failed miserably, but the speech she came up with is still good enough. At least that’s what she hopes.

“If I can do anything to make it easier, just tell me,” Drakon says.

Miryam doesn’t manage to reply. It’s a kind offer, but that fact just makes her feel worse. No matter how much Drakon might give her a pass for her behaviour, she still isn’t being fair. She knows that he is mourning as well, and by all rights, she should be trying to support him as much as he is supporting her. But no matter how hard she tries, she simply can’t drag up the energy.

Before she can manage to come up with something to say, they reach the courtyard where the funeral will be held. It is the biggest one in the palace, able to take in almost two thousand people, and for today’s funeral, it will be filled entirely. A pyre has already been constructed in its centre, and Miryam quickly averts her eyes.

Instead, she scans the courtyard for familiar faces. Until the ceremony begins, her and Drakon will be expected to talk to some of the guests. Making pleasant conversation is the last thing she wants right now, but there’s no way out of it.

“Zeku is over there,” Drakon says lightly, nodding in the direction.

Miryam follows his line of sight and spots Zeku standing with a group of Fae nobles towards the edge of the courtyard. As if noticing her attention, he looks over. Miryam beckons him over and is gratified to see that he excuses himself with his companions and starts walking towards her.

“I need to talk to Zeku for a bit,” Miryam says to Drakon. “About what happened in the last few days.”

It’s another thing she doesn’t feel like doing, but it’s necessary. Both Andromache and Nakia sent her letters complaining about Zeku’s behaviour during her absence, and Drakon’s accounts matched theirs. There is some kind of problem there, and it would be unwise for Miryam to leave it unattended for longer than necessary.

“Sure,” Drakon says. “Good luck.”

Miryam lets go of him and walks through the crowd towards Zeku. He inclines her head to her.

“It’s good to see you alive and well,” he says. “I had worried we’d seen each other for the last time. My condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Miryam replies. She scans the people around them; no one is close enough to easily follow their conversation. “We ought to talk,” she says, voice lowered to a whisper.

“Now?” Zeku asks.

Miryam nods. “Better to get it over with, don’t you think?”

Zeku’s face tightens. “As you wish,” he says. “Then perhaps we ought to take this to a more private location.”

He offers her his arm, but Miryam declines with a slight shake of her head.Fortunately, Zeku doesn’t seem to take offence. He just puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking towards the edge of the crowd. Miryam quickly follows after him. She expected him to take her to one of the private meeting rooms, but he instead leads her towards the gardens. A public place. They never talk in public places. With a flick of his wrist, Zeku erects privacy wards around them, but they are still plainly visible to anyone who might be watching. She doesn’t like this.

Miryam glances around, but the garden seems empty, but appearances can be deceiving. She turns back to Zeku.

“Have I done anything to upset you?” She asks.

“What gives you that impression?” Zeku asks lightly. Normally, she would have played along, but today, she has no patience for games.

“Don’t you dare,” Miryam says. “After all these years, the least you owe me is honesty. If you are reconsidering our alliance, I want you to tell me outright, not go behind my back in the council when I’m not even around to see.”

Zeku is silent for a moment. He runs his fingers over the petals of a rose blooming on a bush next to them. Presses his finger against one of the thorns lightly, not hard enough to draw blood.

Please, Miryam thinks, trying hard not to let her desperation show, please tell me this isn’t true. Tell me I’m wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Zeku finally says, and Miryam only barely manages to keep her face impassive. “But I’m afraid our alliance will need to end here.”

“And may I ask why?” Miryam asks. She is proud of how even her voice sounds, even though she is screaming inside. His behaviour had pointed towards this outcome, but she had still hoped… This is a disaster.

“You know why.” Zeku still has his attention on the roses. If Miryam didn’t know better, she’d say he was purposefully avoiding eye contact. “The situation you’ve brought upon yourself – it can only end badly. And I don’t wish to be involved in whatever fallout there will be.”

“You don’t wish to be involved?” Miryam echoes. “Funny, that’s not what you said when this alliance was benefitting you. Alliances work both ways, you know?”

Zeku turns around to finally look at her, eyes dark. His long, fanned ears vibrate slightly. “Don’t twist this around to make me into a bad ally,” he says, tone growing tense. “I warned you. I warned you again and again, but you wouldn’t listen.” He glares at her. “No, you just had to keep playing leader of the Alliance. You married your way into Continental royalty. You decided to duel Artax and blew up a mountain range in the process, showing to the entire world just what you are capable of.” He gives her dress a pointed look, but doesn’t comment further on it. “With everything you did, you cemented your position as the future leader of the Continent further – declared that you wanted this position. And so with everything you did, you became a bigger threat to your allies. A threat they won’t stand for forever.”

Miryam realizes she began to shake her head slightly and stops. She glances down at herself, at that damn red embroidery, a symbol that will be takes the wrong way by the entire Fae half of the Continental royalty. She should have gone for a different dress. She should have kept herself in check during that duel. Blowing up mountain ranges and declaring that she wants vengeance for Jurian’s death for all the world to see might be what she wants, but it certainly doesn’t fit with the image she needs to portray.

She didn’t think. Didn’t think at all in the last weeks, it seems, and now, it’s going to cost her.

“Everything I did,” Miryam says slowly, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice, “I did to free my people. You think I am doing any of this for power, for my own gain? All I want, all I ever wanted, is for my people to be free and for this horror to finally end. What do I care who leads the Continent?”

“You really expect me to believe that you don’t want power, do you?” Zeku asks drily. “You started a Continent-wide war. Made yourself into one of the most powerful people on the Continent. Married into royalty. And you say power doesn’t matter to you?”

Of course power matters to Miryam – but only ever as a means to an end. She wants to free her people, and to do this, she needs a certain amount of power. Enough to be able to get people to do what she wants. (If people were more decent, that wouldn’t be necessary, but they aren’t, so there she is.)

“I have no interest in leading the Continent,” Miryam says, and this, at least, is the truth. She does not want to spend the rest of her life playing games, acting pleasant with people who look down on her, pretending she doesn’t care or doesn’t notice that all they care about is their own gain. She is tired of the rules, tired of the stares and the whispers that follow her everywhere, tired of being made to do things she doesn’t want to fulfil other people’s expectations.

Zeku shakes his head. “No one will ever believe that,” he says. “I’m not even sure if I believe it.”

No. No, he needs to believe her. Zeku can’t withdraw his support for her. He is her most influential Fae ally, if she loses his backing, she will be done for.

“Once the war is over,” she says, “I will vanish off the Continental playing field and gladly spend the rest of my life well away from all this. I promise.”

Zeku lets out a low laugh at that. “Once the war is over.” He shakes his head. “You don’t truly think that everything will be fine once the war is over, do you? That all that is wrong with this Continent will miraculously righten itself if only we defeat the Loyalists.” His smile vanishes, and now, he looks sad. “You might be able to end slavery, but you can’t stop prejudices and a sense of superiority many Fae have through war. The only way to do that will be hard work, and I sincerely doubt that there will be many Fae willing to do that. They will see no reason to.” He sighs. “So the only way to get change you dream of to actually happen, to ensure safety and equality for your people, would be by having the power to make it happen. You see where this ends, don’t you?”

Miryam doesn’t reply. She desperately wants to disagree, but she doesn’t know how. Zeku is right. She does like to think that all will be fine once the war is over – this belief is what keeps her going. She cannot look into the future and see only more struggle, one battle following the next in an endless row. She needs to believe that there is hope, some kind of light at the end of the tunnel. But she spent over six years working with the council. Too long for her to still believe they would ever choose the right way over the easy one. And if they really ended up refusing to work for equality, if they ended slavery but changed nothing else… Miryam knows herself far too well to believe she would ever be able to stand by idly.

Zeku seems to take her silence for confirmation. “I’m truly sorry, Miryam,” he says. “Believe me that I did not wish for it to end like this.”

“Then don’t let it end like this,” Miryam replies. “No one is forcing you!”

“I have a duty to my country, to my people who need me to maintain a position of strength.” Zeku doesn’t even look angry, just tired and sad. “For their sake, I cannot reach into a falling blade.”

Miryam is angry now, angry and desperate and it’s making her reckless. “If I had married you instead of Drakon, none of this would be a problem, right?” She snaps. She isn’t even trying to convince him anymore, but she is so furious, so scared. “You are just angry that the position I’m in doesn’t benefit you.”

“I believe you know me better than that,” Zeku says. “And your accusations won’t change my mind. I will still support the treaty Drakon is working on, but you, I can no longer support.” He hesitates. “We’ll win this war,” he adds. It’s almost like he’s trying to comfort her. “There will never be slavery again on this Continent.”

“And I will die.” If there was a threat before, it is now basically certainty. Without Zeku’s support, the other Fae will lose another reason to hesitate with acting against her. He’s as good as signing her death sentence and he knows.

He looks at her for a moment longer, seeming genuinely upset. “I’m truly sorry,” he repeats, then turns around and walks away, leaving her standing alone in the garden.

Miryam stares after him as he walks away, completely motionless. He truly cut off alliances with her. She doesn’t know why it stings so much, why she expected differently. Yes, their alliance included protection, but she always knew that it was limited. Him risking his life for her was never part of the deal. Still, after six years of being allies, Miryam had hoped… She had hoped Zeku would care enough to still help her.

She should have known better.

She looks around the garden. Still, no one else is visible, but surely there is someone watching. Someone is always watching.

Come on, she tells herself. Get moving. Don’t show them you’re upset. Slowly, Miryam straightens. Lifts her chin, schools her face into neutrality. Any spy that is watching won’t be able to report back to their employer on how much Zeku’s refusal to help hurt her. Whatever good it will do, but her dignity, her reputation, will remain intact for the time being.

I’m going to die. The thought keeps echoing through Miryam’s head as she slowly walks towards the palace below. They are truly going to kill her. Her own allies. And she doesn’t know how to stop it.

She spent her entire life playing games, defeating impossible odds, but this time, she is out of options. Backed against a wall with no way out. She cannot convince the Fae that she is no threat to them, and they will not allow her to simply continue on as before. And she cannot defeat them either, not when she still needs their support in this war.

I’m going to die. The certainty of the thought feels strange. She lived a long time with death hovering above her, but she always fought it. Now that all she can do anymore is accept what’s about to come, Miryam finds that she can’t.

She so badly wants to live to see the world she is fighting to create. She wants to live in a world where humans are free, where the shadow of death and slavery doesn’t hang over every step they take. Maybe she’ll even find a way to fix herself somewhere along the way, to leave behind the nightmares in her past. At the very least she wants a chance to try. After all this, she thinks the very least she deserves is a shot at being happy.

You’ll get everything you ever wanted, she tells herself. Your people will be free. So what if your life is the price?

But her life isn’t the price. She won’t die to free her people, or to help anyone at all. She will be murdered by her own allies over a threat that’s all in their heads and it simply isn’t fair.

Miryam reached the palace by now and is walking aimlessly through it, keeping to the side corridors where she is mostly alone.

Life isn’t fair, she tells herself. You’ve always known that. And this one time, you won’t be able to change it. Accept it and move on.

She doesn’t want to accept it, though. She can’t accept it.

Miryam stops walking. Alone in the corridor, she leans her head against the wall. She thinks of Jurian, murdered only a few months away from winning this war he sacrificed everything for. Will this be their fate, then? Both of them dead needlessly and before they could reach the future they were fighting for?

It isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

Miryam realizes there are tears running down her cheeks. She doesn’t even know when she started crying, but now, she can’t stop. No matter how much she tells herself that the middle of a public corridor is the worst possible place to have a breakdown, that she should at least wait until she gets somewhere more private, the tears simply won’t stop. She is sobbing so hard her entire body is shaking and she simply can’t stop.

She isn’t even entirely sure what she is crying for. Jurian or herself or how terribly everything wrong in just a few days… Wasn’t there once a time when she had everything under control? Now, she can’t even control herself enough to stop these stupid tears.

Steps approach from one end of the corridor. Now, Miryam should really get a grip. Being found sobbing uncontrollably in a corridor is the last thing she needs. (Although who know – convincing the council she is completely overwhelmed and losing her grip on herself might just get them to let her live.) But she still can’t get herself under control and she can’t hide, so she at least turns around to face whoever is approaching.

Fate, it seems, has decided to take some small amount of mercy on Miryam, because the person walking up to her isn’t one of the Fae members of the council, but Nakia. The old queen stops in front of her, watching her closely out of dark eyes. Miryam attempts to discreetly wipe away her tears, but she is still crying, so it doesn’t work very well.

“Come along,” Nakia says.

Without waiting for a reply, she puts a hand behind Miryam’s back and starts leading her down the corridor. They only need to walk around a few corners before they reach a guarded door. One of the guards opens it for them and they step into the suite beyond. Nakia’s rooms, it seems.

The queen dismisses the two servants inside with a few quiet words and deposits Miryam on the couch.

“Water?” She asks. “Tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea,” Miryam manages.

Nakia nods. There is a kettle already standing above the furnace, and she pours a cup for Miryam, putting it down on a small table in front of her. Then, she goes rummaging around in one of the cupboards, finally producing an artfully stitched handkerchief. She hands it to Miryam.

“You may keep it,” she says. “I’ve got dozens, since I keep getting gifted with them.”

“Thank you,” Miryam says. She tries to study the handkerchief in her fingers, but her vision is too blurry to make out the artful decorations, so she just clings to it as she cries, crumbling the fabric in her fingers.

Nakia shrugs and sits down on a couch opposite of her. She doesn’t say anything, simply lets Miryam cry.

After what seems like an eternity, the tears finally stop. Miryam wipes away the tears as gracefully as possible, as if being graceful now will somehow keep up appearances. Her face feels swollen, and her throat is scratchy. She takes a sip of tea.

“Thank you,” she tells Nakia, who is still watching her in silence.

“I’m sorry about Jurian,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “He was a good man. Deserved better.”

Miryam nods. There is a new tightness in her throat that has nothing to do with the tears and makes it impossible to speak. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to hearing Jurian referred to in the past tense. If she’d had any tears left, she might have started crying again.

Nakia seems to consider for a moment, then adds, “It wasn’t your fault, you know that, right? There was nothing you could have done.”

Miryam simply stares down into her tea. She distinctly remembers a time when Nakia told her that everything – the war and every risk and death associated with it – was her fault, but bringing that up seems petty now. They moved past that time, and besides, it is impolite to call out other peoples’ empty words of reassurance.

Still, Nakia’s words offer an escape route. Not her fault – and wouldn’t that be pleasant? To simply hand over responsibility for all the terrible things happening around her to someone else. She could probably argue that all this just happened to her, that she had no idea what she was doing. After all, she is only a young woman just shy of twenty-five, in way over her head. No one can truly expect her to somehow be able to fix all this.

But the thing about giving up responsibility is that in doing so, you also give up credit. If Miryam isn’t guilty of the terrible things that happened, then it wasn’t her who achieved all the good things, either. And anyways, pretending she was just an uninvolved bystander, someone being pushed around without plan or agency, would be a lie. She knew what she was doing, and even when she didn’t, she at the very least chose to keep going anyways.

It was her who started and led this war. She was the one who failed to save Jurian. By the end of it, she will likely have gotten herself killed as well. But she will also be the one who brought about the end of slavery, who saved millions of humans and changed the world. And I would do it all again, Miryam thinks, and this, at least, is true.

“I know it likely feels like it, but sometimes, bad things simply happen and there’s nothing you can do about it. Live as long as I have, and you will learn that.”

I won’t, though, Miryam thinks, and for a moment, she desperately wants to say it. Nakia, though not a politician, did this for so much longer than Miryam. Maybe she will know an answer, a way out. She got this far on her own, but now, she desperately needs help, someone to tell her what to do next. And she knows that Nakia, gruff though she might be at times, would try to help her. She would not just abandon her. Even if it meant going to war against their allies, Nakia would help her.

Unfortunately, that is exactly why Miryam can’t say anything.

If she tells Nakia, tells anyone, that the Fae half of the council is currently contemplating her death, it will drive a rift right through the Alliance. Nakia and the other humans would stand with her, that, she is sure of. Humans stand as one, they certainly don’t let their own be murdered by Fae. But if none of that ended up helping, if Miryam still died… it would shatter any hope of peace. The treaties her and Drakon worked on so hard, that hope for a peaceful future, all of it would be for nothing. There might just be another war, more deaths – and Miryam doesn’t think her life is worth quite this much.

She doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to accept it. But if the alternative is another war, more death, and at the end of it possibly the humans losing… well, she can accept that option even less. She will never be able to accept that option. So she simply takes a sip from her tea and doesn’t tell Nakia about how the next big funeral might well be hers.

----

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Andromache asks.

She is standing in front of the mirror, checking over her outfit for the evening one last time. The dress is relatively modest, made from rich, black velvet, with a high neckline and long sleeves. It’s closer to Miryam’s preferred style than to Andromache’s own, but it is certainly fitting for a funeral. The embroidery on it is dark blue, signifying close alliance or personal friendship to the deceased.

“Rhys isn’t doing well,” Mor says from where she is sitting on the couch. She is wearing casual clothes, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. “I really want to check up on him.”

Andromache nods and straightens her silver necklace. In the last few days, Mor only left Rhysand’s side when there was no other choice. He has been sent to some hidden property in the Night Court along with some healers, and from the limited information Andromache gets through Mor, he is in a bad state. His injuries aren’t life-threatening, but apparently, Illyrians tend to react badly to injuries to their wings. With Rhysand, the physical strain seems to be less of an issue than the mental one, so Mor has been trying to be there for him as much as possible.

Andromache understands and approves, and she doesn’t think she ever hinted at having a problem with it. Still, Mor is fidgeting in her seat.

“But if that’s a problem…” She hesitates. Bites her lip. “Of if you just think I should come, I could maybe… I mean, I’m sure Rhys wouldn’t mind if I came an hour later.”

Andromache sighs. “I’m not going to be angry if you don’t come to the funeral, Mor,” she says. “How you feel about Jurian is your matter entirely.”

She still isn’t exactly fond of Mor’s opinion of Jurian, but she decided that it’s best if she stays out of it. It is not for her to judge Mor’s feelings in that regard, and for the sake of their relationship, Andromache can accept that. After all, being in a relationship sometimes means compromise, and since Andromache very much wants to continue this relationship, compromise she will.

Mor looks relieved. “Thank you,” she says. Nervousness gone, she grins at Andromache. “You look stunning in that dress, by the way.”

Andromache smiles back at her and tugs a loose strand behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says. A look at the clock reveals that she has only half an hour left until the funeral begins. She doesn’t have a long way, but it would be inappropriate for her to turn up at the last moment. “I should go,” she says. “Do I see you in the evening?”

“I’ll try,” Mor says. She scrunches up her nose slightly, which makes her look very cute. “I mean, unless there is some big trouble with Rhysand, I should be able to make it.”

“That’s wonderful,” Andromache says and means it. In the last few days, they’ve barely seen each other, and especially with the funeral this evening, she thinks she could use something to look forward to.

With a wave over her shoulder, Andromache walks out of her rooms. It only takes her a few minutes to get to the courtyard where the funeral is being held, and one look at it should that it was a good thing she decided to come early since everyone else certainly did. The courtyard is already nearly full. The council is completely present, although Andromache wonders whether all of them actually care about Jurian’s death or just about their appearances. But there are also other guests, people for the city and common soldiers, most of them humans. Some of them are crying.

Andromache makes her way through the crowd, people moving aside to make space for her, and scans it for familiar faces. She recognizes a few council members and advisors, but she has no interest in speaking to any of them. Finally, she spots Drakon standing towards the edge of the crowd, one of the people closest to the fire. He is accompanied only by four of his guards, Miryam nowhere to be seen. Andromache walks over to him. Both of their guard details break away as she approaches, moving aside to give them some privacy.

“Miryam’s not here?” Andromache asks by way of greeting.

She scans the crowd again, but she thinks she would have noticed by now if Miryam was around. Crowds tend to move around important people in a certain way, and that makes them easy to spot. It’s like they are stones thrown into water, casting out ripples around themselves.

“She wanted to talk to Zeku,” Drakon says. He glances towards the pyre in the centre of the courtyard. “She should be back soon, though.”

Andromache privately hopes Miryam is giving Zeku an earful for his behaviour in the past days. It’s a good thing that she’s back now to deal with it. Andromache and her will have to meet sometime in the next days to get her caught up on what happened in the while she was gone as well as work through some paperwork that remained unfinished in the last days. So far, they haven’t even gotten the chance to speak yet, although Andromache sent Miryam a letter with the most important details. The reply was polite and perfectly neutral, which is generally a bad sign.

“How is she?” Andromache asks, because she doubts Miryam is going to tell her and she really doesn’t want a repeat of the wall-spell-situation.

Drakon seems a little uncomfortable at the question. He starts drumming around on his leg and looks away. Andromache only understands why when he says, “You probably should ask her about that.”

Andromache sighs. Inconvenient as it might be, she does respect Drakon’s unwillingness to share private information about Miryam with anyone else. Even more importantly, though, it means that Miryam is at the very least talking about how she feels, which is more than Andromache expected.

By now, the sun has almost set. The funeral will start soon.

“Will you speak during the ceremony?” Andromache asks, changing the subject away from Miryam.

It is common for those who were close to the deceased to hold little speeches at the funeral. Miryam will go first, as she was closest to Jurian, but after that, anyone who wishes may speak. Andromache prepared a speech herself, and she is sure many of the councilmembers will have done the same – some out of genuine care, more out of politeness.

To her surprise, Drakon shakes his head. “I don’t think Jurian would want me to,” he says. “I would like, of course, but…” He shrugs. “Considering that Jurian’s last words to me were him threatening to kill me, I really don’t think it’s my place. It wouldn’t feel right, don’t you think?”

Andromache flinches. With all that had been going on in the last few days, she hardly thought about that incident at all anymore. If she’s being honest, she hardly thought about how Drakon might feel after Jurian’s death at all, much less about what it must be like for him to know that Jurian, who was once his closest friend, died hating him.

“You did the right thing,” she says. “You couldn’t have known… I mean, who could have known it would end like this? You were just trying to help him.”

“Fat amount of good did that do,” Drakon mutters, and really, there’s no way for Andromache to contradict that.

She briefly considers telling Drakon that Jurian never truly hated him, but discards the idea. Kind as the words might be, but it would be a lie, and she is sure Drakon would know. Jurian did hate him. Unfair and born out of pain it might have been, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Drakon says in an admirable attempt to sound light. He almost manages with his tone, but his eyes betray him. He keeps glancing towards the pyre where Jurian will soon be burned. “I’m doing alright, really.”

Andromache is about to tell him that he is a terrible liar and she doesn’t believe a word, but Drakon already turns away from her and towards one of the entrances to the courtyard. Andromache follows his line of sight and finds Miryam stepping into the courtyard, side by side with Nakia. Nakia is wearing black and silver, same as Drakon, but Miryam…

Andromache turns to Drakon. “Bold choice of colour,” she whispers as around them, people turn to stare at Miryam.

If the stares bother her, Miryam doesn’t show it. Back straight, head held high, she walks through the parting crowd, heading for Andromache and Drakon. She gives Andromache a tight smile as greeting, then takes her place next to Drakon. Nakia, who walked over with her, nods to them both before stopping next to Andromache.

Before any of them get the chance to say anything, a trumpet blast from the battlements cleaves the air. Another joins in, then another, and around them, the crowd falls silent as the doors to the courtyard’s main entrance open.

In the days leading up to the funeral, there had been some discussion on what the ceremony would look like. Nakia had been in favour of a Sythian ceremony, given Jurian’s Scytian ancestry. Her wishes had been honoured in parts – for example, Jurian’s horse had been taken to a farm on the countryside, forbidden from being ridden by anyone else now that its rider was dead – but in general, it had been quickly agreed on that they would need a neutral ceremony, one that all humans could get behind. So the bier that is slowly being carried out into the courtyard now is not being born by riders, as is Sythian tradition, but carried by one soldier from each human kingdom.

The crowd parts to make space for them, the silence is almost eerie. Andromache looks at the body lying on the bier, covered with a white clothe to spare the guests from having to see what was done to him, then away again. She insisted on seeing the corpse without the cloth – a mistake, she decided. It will be a while before she will be able to chase that image from her thoughts.

Finally, the silent procession reached the pyre. The soldiers carefully place Jurian’s body on the wood, then step back, vanishing into the crowd. For a moment, no one moves.

Miryam steps forward slowly. The light of the setting sun catches on the red embroidery of her dress and makes it seem aflame as she walks forward. She stops a few steps away from the pyre and surveys the crowd, then turns to look at the body laid out on the pyre. She stares at the cloth covering it like she can see Jurian’s corpse straight through the cloth. She doesn’t move, doesn’t make to speak.

The silence stretches on too long. With each moment Miryam remains standing there, it seems to become heavier until it’s like there’s a physical weight pressing down on them all. The crowd is becoming restless. No one quite dares to speak, but people are shifting around on their feet, glancing nervously at each other.

Miryam is still standing with her back to the crowd. Her shoulders are bowed and she seems far smaller than usual. With a start, Andromache realizes that she should probably have asked Miryam if she feels up to speaking at the funeral at all, if she knows what she is going to say. People are unsettled enough by Jurian’s death as it is, and it is absolutely vital that the main speech at his funeral eases their concern – Andromache should have considered that maybe Miryam, whose reaction to Jurian’s death was to blow up a mountain range, might not really be suited to the task. But maybe she got a bit too used to always turning to Miryam to fix their problems in the last few years.

----

Miryam is going to fall apart. Sitting in Nakia’s rooms, she tried so hard to pull herself together, tried to get a grip on herself, but no amount of bracing herself could ever have prepared her for this.

They covered Jurian’s body with a cloth, likely to keep from shocking the attendees further, but Miryam still knows what is hidden under the white fabric. As if summoned by her thoughts, the image of is mutilated body rises.

He is dead. For the last few days, Miryam tried hard to avoid the thought, to not think about his corpse lying in that tent, but now, she can no longer push it away. Jurian is dead, and no matter what Miryam does, she won’t be able to change it.

“We still wanted to talk,” she whispers. Her voice is slightly uneven. “There was so much… so much I still needed to talk to you about.”

That’s what her mind keeps jumping back to. During their last meeting, she had wanted to speak to him, to finally clear everything up and find a way to move forward together as friends, without all that weight hanging between them, but Jurian was distracted and her mind was on the wedding, and so that they had decided to talk tomorrow. Only there had never been a tomorrow.

She’d thought they would still have time. She knew, of course, that anyone could die any time, but she never really thought… They should have had time. But now, they are out of time, and they will never get to have that conversation.

Tears burn in Miryam’s eyes and she turns away from the pyre, only to come face to face with a crowd of funeral guests staring up at her. Miryam nearly flinches back from the weight of their stares.

A speech. She is supposed to be holding a speech, damnit. But when she tries to remember the words she prepared in advance, her mind comes up completely blank. The people are still staring at her. Miryam can only stare back helplessly.

She needs to say something. Now. If she loses it in front of the assembled Continental leadership as well as hundreds of other guests, she will be done for. Well, maybe she will manage to ridicule herself enough that no one will bother to have her assassinated anymore, but far more likely is that they will still kill her, just with far less hesitation.

She looks over to Drakon, who is still standing in the front row, and takes a deep breath.

“I think death always feels sudden,” Miryam says, addressing the crowd. She has no idea where she is going with this, but since she still can’t remember what her original speech was supposed to be, she will simply have to improvise. “Even in war, when you know that the odds of everyone making it out alive are slim, you still never quite expect it.”

She straightens, lets her gaze sweep over the crowd. “I’m sure many of you know the feeling. Maybe you lost friends, or family. People you cared about.” She glances over at the pyre, then quickly looks away again. Her throat feels tight and she has to swallow before she can continue. “And many of you, I am sure, feel this way right now, just as I do.”

Now, the crowd has calmed. They are watching in anticipation now, a sea of faces staring up at her, waiting for her next words. Waiting for her to give them hope, to ease their pain or at least describe her own. Miryam just wishes they would go away, that they would leave her alone with her grief and stop imposing on a situation that should be private.

“I lost…” she begins, but breaks off. How can she even begin to describe what she lost, what Jurian was to her? There are no words that could ever come close to describing. “Jurian and I,” she starts over, “knew each other for nearly eight years. We were together every step of the way, fought together to get us to this point.” She shakes her head. “I cannot even begin to describe the loss I am feeling. There are no words… no words that would be big enough, and I refuse to make my feelings smaller for the sake of being able to express them.”

She pauses, not entirely for effect. She just needs to breathe for a moment, to will her voice to remain calm. At this point, she should probably speak of her relationship to Jurian, of what he meant to her, but she can’t put this into words either, and she certainly doesn’t want to share it with these strangers.

But are they strangers, though? She might not know them, that is true, but they are all in this together. United in this war, but also in that moment. After all, didn’t all these people come here to mourn Jurian today, just as she did? And who is she to claim that loss for herself alone?

“But I know that today, we are all united in that loss,” she continues, changing the focus of the speech. Away from herself and towards the broader picture. “Not everyone here might have had the privilege of knowing Jurian personally, of being able to call him friend, but I know everyone here cared about him in some way.”

Well, looking at Shey, who is standing towards the front of the crowd together with the other councilmembers, probably not everyone. But right now, she couldn’t care less about Shey. She will have to deal with him, and soon, but not right now. This moment belongs to Jurian, no one else.

“I think that Jurian was just that type of person. He didn’t only inspire loyalty and courage in the people around him, he also gave them reason to care about him – partially because he so clearly cared about them,” Miryam says. “Those of you who worked under Jurian will know that he treated his soldiers not only as subordinates, but also as friends, and that there was little he wouldn’t have done for them.”

There are murmurs of agreement throughout the crowd. Most of Jurian’s soldiers died in the battle against Amarantha, but there are still many who worked under him for at least a short amount of time.

“But we don’t just mourn Jurian as a friend, a comrade or a commander,” Miryam continues. “He was all those things, but I believe that to most of us, he was more.” She pauses again, collects herself. “Jurian fought this war long before most people even spoke of war,” she says. “And more than most others, he stood for this fight. He was always there, from the very beginning, and I believe everyone here knew one thing for sure: That he would never give up. Jurian would do whatever necessary, and he would see this war through until the end.”

She takes a deep breath. “If there was one person I would have bet on to survive this war, it would have been him,” she says quietly. “And I know I am not the only one here who has a hard time imagining how this war, this future will look without him.”

The sun has set almost entirely now, and Miryam is done. The crowd is still staring at her, expectant, waiting for her to go on, but Miryam doesn’t wish to continue. No matter how much reason these people might have to be here, this isn’t what she wants this funeral to be, and she doubts it is what Jurian would have wanted. It’s a public spectacle, a political act. And Miryam doesn’t wish to lay her pain bare for all to see. It is hers, and the only person she will ever speak to about it, the only one who will ever come close to understanding, is Drakon.

Her speech might not have been perfect, but what does that matter now? She is sure Jurian would understand. He never did like big ceremonies and political games, and he certainly wouldn’t appreciate his funeral being made into one.

She is done. At the edge of the pyre, a torch is already burning, and as the closest living family to Jurian, Miryam will be the one who has the honour to light it once she is done with her speech. She reaches for the torch and turns around, ready to light the pyre. As she does, her gaze meets Andromache’s. The looks panicked.

It’s enough to make Miryam pause. It doesn’t take long to realize why Andromache is so panicked – if she ends the speech like this, she does so on a negative note. More than that. She sounds like she is losing hope, and that could be fatal. Jurian’s death was likely already a blow to general morale, but if Miryam now speaks like it is a danger to the war effort… It will be bad.

Miryam stares down at the burning torch in her hands.

“But I know one thing for sure,” she says, looking back up at the crowd, hating every moment of it. “That he wouldn’t want us to give up. He would not want us to despair or doubt over his death, he would want us to keep fighting.” She lets her gaze sweep over the crowd in a way that tends to make people feel like she is looking directly at them. “And the best way to honour his sacrifice,” she says, “is for us to win this fight he gave his life for.”

With that, she turns around, away from the crowd and the staring faces. There are tears in her eyes again, and she allows them to fall as she looks, one last time, at Jurian’s body laid out on the pyre.

I’m sorry, she thinks. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you, and that we never talked. I’m sorry I let your funeral be made into some political show, and that I didn’t find the right words to say what I feel.

“We will win this,” she whispers. She isn’t sure if she believes in an afterlife, but she hopes that somehow, somewhere, he can hear her. “I promise.”

Then, she dips the torch forward. The flames lick over the wood, greedily eating it up. Miryam turns away before they reach Jurian’s body and walks back to where Drakon is standing.

----

Jurian isn’t dead. That much, at least, he knows for sure. After all, if he was dead, he wouldn’t be able to think about whether he is dead or not, and he wouldn’t be able to see the grey floor below.

But he isn’t alive either. How could he be alive when he can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe. When he doesn’t have a body.

This is a nightmare. A complete and utter nightmare. Jurian is terrified, but without a body to react, even the fear doesn’t feel quite real. There is no racing heartbeat, no sweaty palms, no physical reaction at all, and so the emotion feels strangely flat, like it is all in his head.

His field of vision moves. The floor vanishes, and for a moment, the room spins around him; then, Amarantha’s face comes into focus in front of him. He wishes he could close his eyes – or rather, his eye, since that’s all he seems to be anymore – but he can’t even do that, so he is forced to look at the monster in front of him.

“Did you already get used to it?” Amarantha asks. She sounds almost curious, as if this is the most interesting thing she’s seen all year.

Jurian obviously can’t reply, but he hopes he at least looks angry. No, he hasn’t gotten used to it, and he doesn’t plan to. This can’t be his future. It can’t be. That’s what he tells himself, how he tries to keep himself from giving in to despair. This isn’t forever.

His allies, his friends are still out there, and they won’t just leave him here to rot. They will come to save him. Miryam will come, and she will figure something out to make him right again. She will. She must.

“Or do you still hold on to the belief that your little mortal will come save you?” Amarantha taunts, as if she read his mind. “She won’t come. Chances are she’s already forgotten you.”

No. No, this isn’t true. His eye begins spinning wildly, startling Jurian who didn’t want to do this, and it takes him a while to get it to still again.

“Why would she lift a finger to save you when she already found such a splendid replacement?” Amarantha asks. Her mouth twists into a small smile. “Oh, that must sting, right? To do anything for that woman, to murder my sister, only for her to leave you for one of the very Fae you hate so much.”

Jurian’s thoughts move wildly. He is angry – or scared? Distraught? Without a body to react properly, he has a hard time telling, but whatever he is feeling, it isn’t good.

Miryam wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t have married a Fae, and she wouldn’t just abandon him. No matter the disagreements they might have had, she simply wouldn’t do that.

“Her and Prince Drakon didn’t even bother showing up to your funeral,” Amarantha taunts. “They certainly won’t bother to help you.” Amarantha’s smile widens and she lets Jurian’s eye dangle closer to her face. “You better get used to this,” she says. “Because this is going to be forever.”

All Jurian can do in reaction is to look around wildly, eye spinning so quickly that he can’t even make out his surroundings.

He isn’t dead. But oh, he wishes he was.

----

The pyre burns down slowly. Drakon stands next to Miryam, so close to the fire that he can feel the warmth on his face, and listens as speaker after speaker steps forward. Andromache’s speech is good, as is Nakia’s, but after that, it quickly goes downhill.

Next to him, Miryam simply stares and stares at the flames as they devour Jurian’s body. Drakon isn’t sure if she is listening to the speeches at all. Sometime during the ceremony, she reached for his hand and is now clinging to it. Her grip is too tight for comfort, but Drakon needs something to hold on to almost as much as she does, so he doesn’t say anything.

The speeches end far sooner than Drakon expected. When his family was burned, the speeches went on for hours, lasting until long past midnight. (Drakon still vividly remembers standing alone by the pyres, trying desperately to hold back the tears and just wanting the ceremony to be over already.) This ceremony isn’t even half as long, and while all of the human councilmembers step forward to say something, Zeku is the only Fae to do so. Drakon almost regrets his choice not to say anything, almost changes his mind, but he can’t shake the feeling that Jurian would hate it if he did. He would likely see it as Drakon trying to claim a friendship that, at least in Jurian’s mind, ended years ago already.

The pyre has burned down entirely by the time the last speech is over. For a moment, everyone stands in silence before the first guests begin to move. Quiet conversation rises. Neither Drakon nor Miryam move. Drakon’s eyes are burning again, but he blinks the tears away.

By the time Miryam finally stirs, most of the guests seem to have forgotten about the actual funeral entirely and shifted their focus to either the food or their political goals.

“It was a good speech,” Drakon says to Miryam. “Jurian would have liked it.”

“He would probably have found it too political, though,” Miryam says. She glances around the crowd. For a moment, her face twists in something like disgust. “Just this once. I wish they could leave their stupid political games aside just this once. Do they have no decency at all?”

Drakon nods, tugging his wings in close to his body. “Maybe we should have insisted on a smaller funeral. Or held it together with the armies.”

“Maybe,” Miryam agrees, looking around the crowd. “Can we go somewhere quiet, please?” She asks softly.

Drakon frowns. The official part of the funeral ceremony is over and they’ve stayed as long as propriety demands. What follows now will likely just be tedious conversations with various nobles. Still, Miryam and him were closest to Jurian out of all attendees, and it seems wrong for them to leave this early.

On the other hand, none of what is about to come will actually be about Jurian. It will just be politics, impersonal and cold. It is not, Drakon thinks, what Jurian would want his funeral to be like. He would likely have preferred something quiet, a small ceremony with his friends or maybe the soldiers he worked with in attendance, possibly a dinner afterwards. He most certainly wouldn’t have wanted his funeral to be anything that involved Miryam being made uncomfortable, this much, Drakon is sure of.

“Sure,” he says.

Together, they walk through the crowd. People stare at Miryam and nearly jump aside to make space for them. Apparently, no one really wants to talk to her today. Maybe because they wouldn’t know what to say – or maybe because what happened at the Callian Pass got them scared.

This way, they make it almost to the edge of the crowd without being forced into any conversations. Unfortunately, their luck doesn’t hold. Just before they reach the edge of the courtyard, one of Drakon’s least favourite councilmembers steps into their way.

“Emperor Shey,” Miryam greets. She gives the barest nod, and Drakon quickly mimics the motion, inclining his head a bit deeper than she did.

Shey returns the greeting. “Your Highnesses. My condolences.” His mouth twists into a slight smile as he glances towards their joined hands. “If condolences are in order, that is."

Drakon tenses. Next to him, Miryam does as well. “They are,” she says, tone far more biting than usual for her.

Shey merely gives her a smile, sharp as a knife. “Quite the speech you gave there,” he says.

“I wish I could return the compliment,” Miryam replies, “but you didn’t give a speech, as I couldn’t help but notice.”

“A purely political consideration,” Shey says, ignoring her tone. “I’m sure you of all people understand the importance of sending a message – after all, you did it so very skilfully in the last few days.”

Miryam tenses further. “That wasn’t a message, at least not in the way you think,” she snaps. “Contrary to your obvious belief, you and any possible messages I might send to you aren’t high on my list of priorities. And I honestly think both our lives would be far easier if you stopped assuming that everything I do somehow relates to you or your political games. Because I can assure you that it doesn’t.”

Without giving Shey the chance to reply, she spins around and stalks off. Drakon hurries to follow after her. He can feel Miryam trembling next to him.

“I need to get out of her,” she whispers once they are out of hearing range. “Right now.”

Drakon nods. They quietly peel away from the crowds. Together, they walk through the corridors to the courtyard from which they can winnow. Miryam doesn’t specify where she wants to go, but there’s really only one place Drakon can think of for them to get some peace and quiet. Cretea.

This time, he doesn’t winnow them to his usual landing spot for visiting the cave. (He needs to visit Ghost again sometime soon, but today, they aren’t on Cretea for him but simply for some privacy.) Instead, he takes them to a spot about five miles south. There are ruins there, hidden in the jungle and overgrown by wines and trees. Drakon discovered them on the way to the cave once, and he was never able to figure out what the buildings were before time reduced them to rubble. Some kind of palace, or maybe a temple, from the looks of it. He always wanted to go explore them sometime, but with the war, he never found the time.

Him and Miryam sit down on a fallen pillar, the paintings that must have once made it beautiful faded beyond recognition and the stone cracked in places. Even with the few steps they walked, there are leaves and twigs caught in the hem of Miryam’s dress and she starts carefully plucking them out.

Drakon lets her finish in silence, giving her the chance to say something should she want to. But she doesn’t say anything, barely even looks at him or anything else, so once she is done, he asks carefully, “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

He feels bad for pushing her so shortly after the funeral, when all he wants to do is take time to mourn Jurian in peace. But there is something going on, that much is clear from the conversation with Shey and the problems with Zeku and the fact that hardly any Fae spoke at Jurian’s funeral – and if even Drakon can tell that there is a problem, then they are really in trouble. For all that he wants to give Miryam time and space, for all that he himself would like to mourn in peace, if there is some big political mess they are in, he needs to know.

Miryam is silent for a moment. “I messed up,” she finally says. “I miscalculated on some things, and I made mistakes, and I...” She shakes her head. “It’s all messed up,” she whispers. “Everything is out of control, and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not sure if I even can.”

----

Telling Drakon about what happened is far easier than Miryam initially thought. As soon as she admitted that she lost control, that she doesn’t know what to do, the words basically seem to flow on their own. She talks about the conversation she had with Zeku before getting kidnapped and the one earlier today, how the Fae all seem to be jumping at shadows and she doesn’t know how to stop them. Drakon listens in silence. With each word, his expression darkens.

“Shit,” he mutters when she is finished. He runs a hand through his hair, wings trembling slightly. “And Zeku is just going along with this?”

“He’s just trying to look out for his people,” Miryam says. “You can’t really blame him for that.”

With a few hours of time to calm down, she got over her initial anger and realized that she really has no right to feel betrayed. After all, feeling betrayed implies some kind of betrayal, and there was none. Miryam disregarded Zeku’s advice and brought herself into the situation she is in now – Zeku had every right to cut off ties. He didn’t owe it to her to risk his position for her, and actually was rather nice about the entire matter. He could easily have withdrawn support for the treaty they are working on, for all their political goals, but instead, he only cut ties to her personally.

If anything, Miryam should probably be grateful.

Still, feelings aren’t entirely rational, and so Miryam still feels rather like she has been used and then discarded. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t quite shake the feeling that it must have been Zeku’s plan from the beginning to let her take the fall should anything go wrong, that he supported her partially because she was no one of consequence, and, when it comes down to it, replaceable.

This, of course, isn’t quite fair either. Partially because having a back-up plan was well within Zeku’s right, but mainly because Zeku, being a lesser faerie, has always been in a delicate position on the Continent and is just trying to do what he has to to make sure his people are alright. Miryam can respect that. In his place, she might even do the same.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” she says, changing the subject away from Zeku. She can’t change anything about his actions now, so there is little use discussing them. But with how things are currently developing, there is an agreement she needs to make with Drakon.

She has the feeling that he won’t like what she is about to say, but it’s important. She thought about it while sitting in Nakia’s suite and came to the conclusion that this is the only logical next step.

“If this goes badly,” she begins, then stops herself. There’s really no point finding pretty words around what she means. “If I do get killed,” she starts over, “I want you to promise that you’ll go along with whatever story they come up with.”

Drakon, as estimated, does not like it. He twists around to her, feathers ruffling slightly. “What?”

“There will be some kind of cover story,” Miryam says. “An accident, I assume. And you have to pretend that you believe it. You can’t ever question it – not to the Fae, not to the humans, not to anyone.”

“And why would I do that?” Drakon asks. “Assuming you do get murdered by our allies, I’d say the last thing I would want to do is help your murderers get away with it.”

Miryam sighs. She knew this wouldn’t be easy. “I don’t want anyone to find out,” she says, “because this would split the Alliance in half and ruin any chance of lasting peace between humans and Fae. And I don’t want you to let on that you know, because if you do, you will be murdered as well.”

Drakon jumps off the pillar they were sitting on and starts pacing in the grass in front of her. “I can’t believe you are just accepting this,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’m not,” Miryam says. And she really doesn’t. Part of her is still raging against the unfairness of it all. She simply came to the conclusion that she likely won’t be able to change anything about it, so she ought to start planning for that.

“No, you’re right. You’ve skipped right over accepting it and are now coming up with plans to cover up your own murder.” Drakon shakes his head. “This isn’t a fallback plan, or a last option, Miryam. You aren’t even trying to come up with a way to get out of this alive because you are so busy planning for what will happen after your death.”

Miryam winces. She can’t quite deny that Drakon has a point. She did spend more time trying to come up with plans for what to do after her death than with ways to actually stay alive. And yes, upon closer examination, her trying to help cover up her own murder is a bit messed up as well, but she isn’t doing this for fun. She does it because it’s the only way.

“Do you think this is what I want?” She asks sharply, jumping to her feet as well. “I don’t want to die, but I’m backed into a corner and I have no idea how to get back out. Besides, Clythia told Jurian that she had a vision I would die before the war is over no matter what. And I don’t usually believe in this shit, but I’m beginning to think she might have been right, and if she was, I never stood a chance either way.”

Drakon freezes. “There’s a prophecy?” He asks, and Miryam realizes that he actually didn’t know that yet.

“Yes,” she says, “but prophecy or not, I am in trouble and all I’m trying to do is come up with the best possible solution.” She runs a hand through her hair, sighing. “And if I am about to get murdered no matter what, I don’t want to drag this Alliance and any hope for lasting peace down with me.”

Drakon lets himself drop back down onto the pillar. His annoyance seems to have evaporated. “It has only been a few hours, Miryam,” he says softly. “A few hours since you spoke to Zeku, and yet you already seem to have decided that you don’t stand a chance.” He glances up at her. “Do you remember what happened the last time you just decided you would die and that there was nothing to be done about it?”

Miryam feels her cheeks heat. She remembers all too well. After all, the experience of nearly tearing herself apart with her own power is hard to forget – as is the knowledge that none of this would have been necessary if she had just asked for help. (She also remembers all too well that her refusal to talk about her problems back then played a role in eventually ending her relationship with Jurian, which is another thing she really doesn’t want to repeat.)

Maybe, possibly, Drakon has a point.

“I don’t know how, though,” she says softly, letting herself drop down to the pillar next to Drakon. “It’s all just too much. The Alliance, the War, all the things I need to do, all the responsibilities…” She shakes her head. “I really don’t want to die. But I don’t know where I’m supposed to take the energy to keep this from happening.”

She is so tired. So wrecked with pain and anger and loss. Jurian is dead and she is still there, and even seven years in, they still haven’t won this war. She doesn’t know how long she will manage to keep this up anymore, how far she can push herself before she falls apart entirely.

Miryam leans back to glance up at the sky, tries to let the glittering stars comfort her. “Maybe we should run away,” she says with faked lightness. “We could just not go back. No one would ever find us.”

“We could rebuild one of the houses,” Drakon says, immediately jumping on to her line of thought. He glances around the ruins surrounding them. “Well, maybe not this one – it looks more like a palace, and I think it might just collapse around us if we try. But some other house.”

“Doesn’t need to be stone,” Miryam adds. “We could use branches and leaves, maybe clay, and build something from that. That seems more doable without actually knowing much about building houses.”

She isn’t being serious, of course, and she knows that Drakon isn’t either. Neither of them would ever run away. But just for the moment, it is nice to pretend. Just for tonight, they can dream up a future that will never be, pretend they can just walk away and live normally, away from all the struggles that dictate their lives.

“There are plenty of fruits, too,” Drakon says. “I don’t know all of the plants, but I’m sure some of those are edible.”

Miryam grins, and it only feels a little bit hollow. “Would be a new experience for you,” she teases. “Having to find and make your own food.”

“Guilty as charged,” Drakon replies lightly. “At least for the finding part. Sinna did show me how to cook.”

“Really?” Miryam asks. “I’ve never seen you cook.”

“Well, I’ve never seen you cook, either, and since you managed to make it through half of the Continent on your own without starving, I assume you can at least prepare a meal,” Drakon points out. He grins, then adds, “I’m afraid I’m not very good at cooking, though.”

“I can teach you,” Miryam says, grinning, and for a moment, she can actually imagine the life they are making up. Peaceful. Content. Careless.

But then, the image of the burning pyre flashes through her mind. Slowly, her smile fades and she glances out at the dark forest surrounding them. “We could never,” she says softly. Sadly.

Even if Miryam could walk away now, even if she could leave it all behind, she knows, with more certainty than she knows anything else, that she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She has responsibilities, promises she made, things she fights for that are far bigger than her own life. And Zeku was right – even if she managed to end slavery and free her people, she would never be able to step by. No matter how much she might wish for a quiet, peaceful life, she would never truly be content with it while there are people suffering and she knows she could help them.

Drakon sighs. “No,” he says. “We couldn’t.”

Miryam nods. Same as her, Drakon would never be able to leave the world behind to burn. And he would no sooner abandon his people than she would. He wouldn’t be the man she loves if he was so easily ready to shrug off his responsibilities.

“Promise that you’ll try,” Drakon says. “That you won’t just give up. Then…” He hesitates, and Miryam can almost see how he struggles with himself. Whatever he is about to say, he doesn’t like it. “Then I will go along with your plan,” he finally says. “Should it go badly.”

“That’s fair.” Miryam doesn’t know how she is supposed to try, or where she’s going to take the energy, but if it buys her a chance to actually survive this, it’s going to be worth it.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed

#me: 5-6k words a chapter sounds like a good length #also me: writes twice as much #*also* me: 'I wonder why this chapter takes me so long...'#anyways this is basically one big 'fuck you' to the way canon writes the relationship between Miryam Jurian and Drakon at the War's end #miryam and drakon were absolutely HEARTBROKEN about Jurian's death and no one dare say anything else #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

18 notes · View notes

klynn-stormz · 3 years

Text

Written in the Stars

Hi everyone! Today is my day to drop my January Joy fic!! It was only supposed to be a one shot, but that didn’t work out so well, lol. I have split it into two parts and the second part should be posted within the next two weeks! So without further ado, here we go, I hope you enjoy it!

AO3: 1 |

Summary: Emma Swan is enjoying her small town life in Storybrooke, a place where she can raise her son, practice her magic, and lead a relatively normal happy life. What she doesn’t expect is Killian Jones moving to town for business and turning her quite life up on it’s head. She’s not about to let some stranger interrupt it, easier said than done when everyone, including her magic, seems to push them together

Part 1:

The snow-covered meadow glimmered under the full moon, a layer of untouched smooth snow had crossed the expanse of the forest Emma had walked through. There was something about the way the new snow shined brightly against the dark wood of the trees that made her think she had gone through a portal to a new enchanted realm. Under the watchful eyes of the moon and stars, Emma made her way to the middle of the meadow and took a moment to breath in the cold air. This was her favorite time, the sun had set long ago, the sound of the night animals was quiet and soothing, and not another soul was in sight. This was a time when she could be herself. She set her basket on the ground, it was already brimming with the herbs she had collected from the forest, and brushed the hood of her silvery white cloak off her face, then went to work on her favorite ritual.

The set up was easy; the symbols drawn in the snow, much easier than in the dirt in her opinion, the herbs needed laid on the outer circle, she stood with a goblet in the middle and uttered the enchantment into the still night. It was a little later this year than she normally preformed, but her duties in town kept her busy until nearly 10 days after the New Year. Henry had finally put his foot down and insisted she preform it tonight, seeing that it was affecting her so. Preforming it late wouldn’t stop the renewal ritual from working, as it always did, she had just felt off until she was able to perform it. The coven in town had performed one on at midnight of New Years, but she rarely participated in the coven activities, preferring instead to keep to herself.

Storybrooke was the perfect place for her and her son, from a young age her abilities had made it hard to stay in one home long. Left on the side of the road as a newborn she had been sent through the foster system, placed in families until her powers scared them to much for her to continue living there. Many hardships and trials had been sent her way, and each time she picked herself back up again. Eventually ending up in a quiet town of Storybrooke, finding others who practiced as she did. She wasn’t close to many of them, but they and all of Storybrooke had snuck their way into her heart and become family. Henry had taken to Storybrooke quickly, finding friends on the first day of school and worming his way into the hearts of all of the people there. His happiness at their newest home was what sealed her decision to stay, he needed stability and he needed a real home. Now, 5 years later, they were well settled in.

The ritual completed, the spell seemingly hanging in the frigid air, Emma breathed a deep sigh of relief. A feeling of comfort washed over her as the cleansing and renewal ritual did its job. She carefully picked up her basket and walked to the edge of the meadow, waving her hand the grooves she had created in the snow disappeared as if she had never stepped foot there. Making her way back through the woods to a cozy cottage at the end of town, one she was lucky enough to have a view of the forest and the ocean in, she could never have realized how the new year would change her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re completely blowing this out of proportion!” Ruby complained.

“I’m really not.” Emma rolled her eyes while popping an onion ring into her mouth. She was having lunch with a few of her friends at Granny’s. Ruby was insistent on talking about the disaster that was Emma’s dating life, a topic that seemed to be a favorite among her, Mary Margaret, Ana and Elsa. “I’m not doing it again; I will not go through another Walsh incident.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Mary Margaret exclaimed, flushing slightly. “How was I supposed to know that he was a creep? He seemed so nice as the bank! Besides, I’m sure that this new man, his name is James, will be much different.”

Everyone at the table stared at her till she muttered something about Emma becoming an old maid. Normally Emma would be put off and make them promise to stop setting her up, this would be met with mumbling and no eye contact. Normally. Today was different though, it was a cold fresh February morning, and there was something in the air today that made her feel content and almost… safe. It was a rare feeling for her, even in Storybrooke she rarely felt that way. She wasn’t quite sure she could trust the feeling, not one to get her hopes up.

“I think we should get back to talking about Ruby’s date.” Elsa suggested. She was reserved, much like Emma, while her sister Ana was the most people person Emma had ever met. She gave Mary Margaret a run for her money on talking and gossip.

“I’d rather talk about the new ship that just sailed in!” Ruby deflected.

“Storybrooke has a fairly large port, why would a ship be anything special?” Ana paused, then hurriedly continued. “Not that ship isn’t special, I mean everyone is special so that must make it sort of special. Although, if everyone is special no one is right? Wait no, that’s from the Incredibles isn’t it, I need to stop falling asleep watching movies. What I’m trying to say is what makes this particular ship interesting? I’m sure it’s very interesting, but we do get ships in and out of port all the time, and they are all interesting too, especially the ones that trade in magic, but you never want to talk about those ones. I think that we need to discuss—”

“Okay, that could go on for awhile so I’ll just answer your question now. The Captain and his brother are major hotties and we definitely need to find out more about them.” Everyone at the table was aware that once Ana got started it was best to interrupt her before they spent an hour listening to her ramblings. The current record was actually an hour and twelve minutes before they couldn’t take it anymore.

“Of course, it would be because you think they’re attractive.” Elsa rolled her eyes at Ruby’s wiggling eyebrows.

“Oh, believe me, if I wasn’t in an exclusive relationship, I would eat them up.”

“I knew it! I knew you and Victor were finally serious.” Mary Margaret’s gleeful cry made Emma’s ears ring.

“As fun as this is, I better get back to work.”

“Emma you’re the sheriff you can make your own hours, it’s a Monday, nobody wants to work on a Monday!” Ruby whined.

“And as the sheriff, it’s my responsibility not to spend three hours talking about potentially hot newcomers at lunch and instead protect and serve.” She responded drily. Turning towards the door, she was met with a loud chuckle and vivid blue eyes staring into hers.

“I assure you, love, I wouldn’t mind if you continued to talk about my attractiveness.” The man gave her a grin that might have stopped her heart, she wasn’t quite sure at the moment, to lost in his eyes. His dark hair brushed over his forehead, she wanted to run her fingers through the strands and brush her palms against the stubble lining his jaw. When she got ahold of herself, she prayed that she hadn’t been staring to long.

“As I said, I have better things to do.” She sniped, her defenses up, even if they felt different. Normally her magic would be on edge with a stranger near her, but now it seemed to lean towards him.

That was ridiculous, she was just imagining it.

She hoped.

“Well, then it’s best I introduce myself to the law enforcement of this lovely town. Killian Jones at your service.” He bowed slightly and her eyebrows went up.

“Planning on needing the Sheriff’s department anytime soon Mr. Jones?”

“Only if the Sheriff is the one to respond.” His wink sent a shiver through her that she worked hard to keep hidden.

“Emma Swan then,” Forcing her voice to sound clipped and uncaring. He reached down and took her hand; the reaction of her magic was immediate. Bursting around her in little near fireworks that only she could see, she panicked and attempted to reign it in. Her magic never showed itself to other people unless she willed it to; not even Mary Margaret, Ruby or Elsa had ever seen it, though they knew she had it. He didn’t help any by lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. The magic continued to burst around her until he dropped her hand.

“I should be going.” A quick mumble and a nod of her head was the last thing he saw before she rushed out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the rest of the day Emma stewed over her magic, it had taken her a long time to come to terms with what she was, and even longer to learn to control it. As light magic was magic that was inherited and based on emotion, it was harder than dark magic. While dark magic took practice, research and patience, it did not require emotion; Emma’s magic was some of the strongest that Storybrooke had seen in a long time and they relied on her control over it to keep their little town off the radar of those who would exploit it. The local coven worked hard to protect the town, and expected her to do the same.

She needed to know why her magic reacted differently to him. A flash of Neal went through her mind and her stomach curled at the memory. A man who had taken advantage of a young girl all alone in the world, who had made her believe she was special. The only good thing she had gotten out of that relationship was Henry, and Henry would always be her top priority.

“Hey mom!” Henry barreled through the door, eyes bright and full of his adventures from school. Her shift finished, she grabbed her jacket, phone and radio, and hugged him.

“Hey kid, ready for some dinner? I was thinking pizza.”

“Works for me! We have a new project in English, we get to write a short story.” He dumped his backpack on her desk, then sheepishly picked it up at Emma’s raised brows. “I was thinking I could interview you about some of your magic and—”

“How about we get some dinner, go home and you can tell me your story over dinner?” Emma asked, grabbing the phone to order.

Later at their apartment, while they ate their dinner and had the tv playing in the background, Henry told her about his idea. He had gotten nearly to the end when he paused. “I don’t want to spoil the whole story for you.”

“I thought your teacher said you were supposed to write a short story kid.” She teased him, impressed with his imagination. He’d always had such a wonderful view of the world; Emma was pretty sure she would be buying copies of his books one day. “Why do you need to interview me?”

“Well, if the princess, Evil Queen, and Dark One are going to have magic I need to know how to write it! I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“Alright, tell you what. You get all of your homework done on Friday, and on Saturday and Sunday we will go through a few basic.” He grinned and hugged her tight. When he was all tucked into bed and Emma was reading in her room, she couldn’t help but think of blue eyes and dark hair. Her magic sparked again, a light skittering across the room. She would worry about everything tomorrow. Banishing thoughts of him, she willed herself to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Killian Jones had seen much of the world in his days, he had seen wonders and mysteries, magic and mayhem, good and bad people, and most everything in-between. As a Captain in the Navy, before he lost his hand in a tragic storm that he nearly lost his brother in, and as a sailor building a business with his brother when they left the Navy. He had been everywhere he’d ever dreamed. Yet, none compelled him as much as the blonde haired, green eyed sheriff that had magic bursting around her as he kissed her hand.

He’d heard the lasses at the table talking about him and his brother. The long-haired brunette excitedly exclaiming their attractiveness and looking for gossip about them, while the blonde goddess rolled her eyes and looked for an excuse to leave. Seeing her had nearly stopped his heart, he was quite sure of that, only to have it pounding in his ears when their eyes met and time stopped. He could have stared into them forever, wanting to lean closer and brush his lips over hers. He wanted to gather her in his arms and find a private room to kiss her till neither could breathe, after all he wouldn’t need air so long as he had her. He was brought back to himself by the sound of her voice, a bored tone with a hard edge, as if she was putting on a show with it.

Her eyes shined out at him and he was sure she felt the same as he had, though he was no less embarrassed at where his thoughts had gone immediately. He reigned himself in, flirting just enough with her to get her name. Emma Swan. Fitting, he mused, she had the elegance and grace of one, with high enough walls he knew he’d get pecked if he pushed.

He didn’t think he’d mind much.

The moment his lips touched her hand, the white sparks of magic had lit around them, fascinating him. He would have asked her what they were, but for the panic in her eyes when she realized what was happening. He pretended he saw nothing; it could wait till a later date. He had a feeling it would be long till the next meeting.

When she was gone, he’d ordered at the counter, found a table and waited for his brother. All of his thoughts revolved around Emma.

“She’s totally single you know.” Came a voice from behind. He turned in his chair to see the group of woman Emma had been with staring at him, a little bit of mischief in their eyes. The one who spoke gave him a wolfish grin. “In case you were wondering.”

“The sheriff?” He clarified.

“That’s the one, utterly single and refusing any sort of set up.” The woman with a pixie hair cut and the kindest eyes he’d every seen, replied. “She’s naturally suspicious of people, so you’d have to try pretty hard if you wanted anything to happen.”

“That is,” Now a woman with frost in her hair and ice in her voice spoke up. “If you’re planning on sticking around.” He smiled at that.

“My brother and I recently moved our business headquarters to this town, as it’s a good port and unique. We’ll be here for a long while.”

“Oh that’s just lovely! Emma takes awhile to warm up to people, but you’d definitely want her on your side since she’s the sheriff. Just don’t break any laws and annoy her and you’re good to go.” The final woman had a voice that sprinted instead of walked, he wasn’t sure her mouth was even moving at the speed the words came out.

“Thank you, ladies, for the advice. I’ll take it into account.” His brother walked through the door then and he was distracted greeting him, nodding a farewell to the women as they left. He smirked slightly when the icy woman ran into his brother and uttered a quick apology, the moment couldn’t have been more than ten seconds and his brother looked starstruck. Looks like they’d both have better reasons to make Storybrooke their new home.

Liam and he spent the next hour going over some of the logistics of moving the company. It was almost done, the last thing to deal with was selling the old building they’d had back in England. The move to Storybrooke would be better in the long run, while the port wasn’t as big as the one they’d been at, most of their business and suppliers were closer, saving them money in the long run, and they’d just signed three new contracts with new contacts.

Having heard of Storybrooke’s… unique circumstance, they were drawn to wanting to experience it for themselves. Their mother had been open about her magic from the time she had met their father, he had never really liked it, but dealt with it to be with her. She raised Liam and Killian to believe and practice as well, and though she had died when both were still young, her lessons had stayed with them when their father did not. Neither Liam nor Killian practiced regularly, feeling there were others much more talented that could keep the balance better. However, they preferred a place where they felt comfortable and free. Both had stepped off their ship onto the Storybrooke dock and could feel the rumors had merit. There was magic here, and it seemed to welcome them.

“Well little brother, it’s time to find some housing I believe. I’ve scheduled a meeting with a realtor tomorrow who will walk us around some of the houses they have here.” Liam clapped his brother on the back, heading towards the back that led to the Bed and Breakfast rooms they’d booked for the week.

“You mean younger brother,” Killian corrected. “and as long as you know I’m getting my own place then that should be fine.”

“Of course, you’re not living with me anymore. It’s time for you to stop mooching off of me and get your own space.” The teasing tone made Killian roll his eyes as he bumped into his side a little harder than necessary.

“Goodnight Liam, see you tomorrow.” Killian went to sleep and dreamt of green-eyed swans and magic.

#captain swan fanfiction #cs ff #klynn-stormz #cs january joy 2021

34 notes · View notes

indecisivedolly · 4 years

Text

Silent Words - Prologue

Warnings: angst, multiple character deaths.

Word count: 961 words

A/N: I just want to say that this is my first writing EVER and it was a rather impulsive decision (with the storyline already being written out for a while). I never really thought I would do something with it, but now I am; surprise! I just really hope I can do this story as I have been imagining it justice in its written form. Please feel free to message me your opinion and/or feedback on the story; I’d love to hear it!!

November 11th, 2003

Fall was nearing to its end, but it had already felt like midwinter in Paris. That didn’t matter for Y/N Roux, the eight-year-old daughter of Nour Roux and Irina Reyes-Roux. She would always like it when the colors of the leaves began to change and detach from its source of life. She always thought that it was a beautiful gesture of the leaves to detach themselves from the tree so that it could stay alive. But eventually, when it had enough life to share, the tree would bring the leaves back to life so that they could all be together. That’s what family does for each other, right?

“Stop daydreaming so much and get dressed, we’re going out. All of us.” Her mother sternly said as she disengaged herself with her many thoughts once again. The eight-year-old looked at her mother confused. “I thought you said it was dangerous for us to go out all together.” Came her soft voice. She never really knew how to talk to her mother, one second she would be like all mothers were, soft and kind, and the other second she would be like a cold and distant relative. Her mother sighed, ”Dragă, I know I said that, but we can’t live our life locked up like this, unable to live our lives to the fullest right?” She caressed her eldest daughter’s cheek in an unnatural way; she was never really good at this. “Will Sarah come too? Please tell me she’s coming too, I really miss playing with her.” A hopeful question, how cruel would you be to deny such a sweet innocent soul’s request? Too innocent. “Yes, Sarah is coming, daddy is coming too. We’ll all be going out together, like a normal family.”

There it was, like a normal family. This family was far from normal, with Dad being one of the biggest weapon dealers in Europe and Mom an assassin. Of course, the Roux sisters were raised in such a way that they were distanced from their parents’ profession but yet able to defend themselves might that ever be necessary. “My angels, are you ready yet?” Came a low but sweet voice from the hallway. The eight-year-old shot up, clothes, jacket and shoes already worn as soon as she heard she was going out with her whole family. She ran up to the source of that beloved sound and crashed into it. “Papa! I missed you. You told me you wouldn’t be gone for longer than 2 days!” The latter she said as stern as she could, but everyone could see that she was thrilled to see her father again. “I’m so sorry my dear, traffic’s been awful.” He said jokingly. “That’s okay, you’re here now! Are you ready to go?” She said without waiting for an answer while pulling his large hand with her mitten clad one along as she followed her mother and younger sister to the door. She was never really allowed to go out, so going out with her whole family for the afternoon was like visiting the autumn carnival, and did she love autumns. “Hey, I got you something.” Her father crouched to meet her face as her eyes widened. “Really? What is it?” She said rather impatiently, she was never really a patient one. “Close your eyes now.” She did so immediately and felt some tugging on her neck. “Open them up.” Before the sentence was finished she opened her eyes as she felt her dad lifting her up to look into the mirror. It was a silver necklace with a blue butterfly hanger. Before she could thank her father, her mother interrupted the sweet moment. “You’re spoiling her too much, making her way too soft for her own good.” She flinched at the coldness of her mother’s voice, looking at Sarah who was holding her hand.

Without another word, they walked out the door. She followed her mother and sister, squeezing her father’s hand as a silent way to thank him for his present, not daring saying another word. She silently climbed into the car while her mother was buckling Sarah up and her father sat in the passenger’s seat. She never understood why her father never drove and why she always had to sit behind her father. After being in thought for a while, she realized her mother had already started driving and was now yelling at her father. She looked at her sister who was wearing that same frightened expression. She held her hand, trying to silently console her younger sister. Then she felt her younger sister’s hand glide into her mitten with a playful smile. She started tickling her older sister’s hand, which resulted in Y/N giggling. “Do you like the necklace daddy got me?” Y/N turned her body to her sister so that she could catch a full glimpse of the butterfly dangling from her older sister’s neck. Sarah nodded. “I’ll make sure you’ll get the same one as me, then we can wear it together.” Sarah smiled and looked out the window contently, her small hand still snuggled up in her sister’s mitten. They never resembled each other that much; Sarah and Y/N’s features being the exact opposite of each other. But even though they didn’t look alike, they were still happy to be sisters forever. The stressful sounds of her parents’ arguing slowly started fading, until it was just Y/N and her younger sister having a moment full of pure bliss. If it was up to her, moments like this could last forever.

Unfortunately, moments like that never lasted.

The car crashed and bliss turned to darkness. Before the darkness engulfed her, a ghostlike creature emerged from the shadows.

Memories like that, those last forever.

Taglist (if you wanna be included, send me a message!):

@saiyanprincessswanie

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x criminal!reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky fic #bucky barnes #thewintersoldier #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x mob!reader #the winter soldier #marvel fanfiction

64 notes · View notes

janekfan · 4 years

Note

yeeeEEEESSSS I love your writing so much!!! I'm here with a prompt!! so i have a personal headcanon that Jon and Tim gave each other their spare apartment keys back when they were still in research, because neither of them know many people they trust for emergencies. so what if, idk. there was an emergency? :) (if you want a more specific prompt i could think of one!!!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740198

@taylortut This was great! I too have done what Jon did...we try so hard T_T

It wasn’t a surprise when Tim called out for the third time in a row, but Jon was getting worried. He was usually so hale that to be laid low like this was really out of the ordinary and Jon spent all day waffling between going to check up on him and minding his own business. They each had a key to each other’s flats for emergencies, considering they were, as Tim put it, two eligible bachelors living a lonely life.

This was an emergency?

Right?

Or something like one?

It was probably too late really to go back on his decision considering he was already on the train and he checked again on the contents in the bag despite having checked out front of the tesco immediately after their purchase. Lemsip, some sort of blue sports drink because he remembered Tim saying it was superior to all other colors, his favorite soup, popsicles for his throat if it was sore, tissues, crackers, tea, honey, lozenges...

Maybe it was too much.

Maybe he’d forgotten something.

Jon checked again as he stood shifting nervously from foot to foot outside the flat before knocking quietly and letting himself in.

“Tim?” He slipped off his shoes, glancing around the sitting room before locating him curled up on the bed seemingly caught in between hot and cold. Tucked up in a veritable mountain of blankets and quilts, he had one leg hanging off the bed. “Hey, Tim.”

“Nnnngh…”

“I thought as much.” Shivering and sweating, he looked absolutely godawful when Jon folded back the covers; sniffling and coughing and making pathetic little noises that Jon responded to sympathetically. “When’s the last time you had any medicine?” Tim shrugged with one shoulder, hair messy and sticking up in all directions, but he’d been sleeping for a little while and when Jon pressed the inside of one wrist against his blazing forehead he decided it had probably been long enough. He poured an electric glass of blue and handed Tim an open blister pack of pills, waiting until he’d downed both before tucking him back in and gently shushing his muttering.

Jon unpacked the rest of his supplies, leaving them where Tim would easily find them, now confident that he’d made the correct call before checking in on him one more time. Asleep and considerably less flushed, Jon felt alright leaving him, placing a note with instructions to call him should he need anything else underneath a glass of neon liquid and leaving the way he came.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Jon had been feeling out of sorts all weekend and coming into work certainly hadn't alleviated any symptoms. If anything, he felt worse and though Martin did what he could and made him tea and made him go home relatively on time, Tim was just angry; snapping at him when he blocked the narrow archive hallways, slow from still healing injuries and aches brought about by his cold and drawing attention to the fact that Jon was damaged goods. It wasn't a good feeling, especially when Sasha seemed to join in on the fun in her backhanded way. Or maybe not really at all? Maybe he was misinterpreting it, probably. They’d been so upset with him lately and his paranoia and he didn’t mean to, really he didn’t. Rather than think on it any longer, Jon let his head fall to his desk, closing his eyes against the thin line of hallway light because even that small amount was like looking into the depths of the sun.

Couldn’t record.

Couldn’t research.

Couldn’t ask anyone for help with either task.

Or for. Well. For help at all, really.

And he thought he might like a little help at the moment. Someone to bring him lunch knowing he wasn’t feeling well even though he wouldn’t be able to eat it. Checking in to see if he was set on medicine. Asking after him so he could deny feeling so poorly only for them to see past it and send him home.

He wished someone would just…see him.

He'd always had trouble accepting that his actions had consequences and learning those types of lessons never had been his strong suit.

Martin’s tea was the one bright spot in his day. He could and did look forward to that in the afternoon. Would just lay here until then. Waiting for a bit of perfectly steeped comfort. And he didn’t disappoint because if Martin was anything, he was reliable.

“Jon, you look dreadful.” Blessedly, the light was still off because Martin was smart like that, in the little ways that really mattered, and he was silhouetted against the door, blocking the beams just waiting to fall over him and dig the icepick deeper. When he opened his mouth to answer, nothing came out, lips forming around the shapes of the words he’d tried to say and quickly forgotten in mild surprise at how sore his throat was. He reached for the tea with trembling hands and when did that happen? Pulling it towards him across the desk and sipping from the rim without lifting it. Hot. Lovely. Full of honey and lemon and the noise he made was wholly unprofessional. Humming, he let his eyes close, taking another swallow. “I think you should go home early.” Large and cool against his skin, Jon leaned into the palm on his forehead. “Yeah, you’re burning up, you shouldn’t be here.” Sad at being scolded, Jon hid in his tea and Martin let him finish, pen scratching against a scrap of paper. “Can you make it on the train?” Probably? He made it here didn’t he?

“Y’yes, Martin.”

“Ah, there you are.”

“Thank you. For, for the tea.” Really.

“‘Course. Now, here.” He pressed the note into his hand, wrapping his scarf around his neck after he did so while Jon tried to parse the information. “You’re to stop off at the chemist, all right?” Jon nodded, the squiggles dancing in front of him and he knew Martin’s handwriting wasn’t that bad. “Give that to them, they’ll help you collect the medicine, alright?” A hand on his shoulder caught his attention. “Alright?” He nodded again. “I’d go with you, but, my mum.” And again. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own? I could ask Sasha or Tim--”

“No! No, no need to bother them. I’ll, I’ll be fine.” He could feel Martin looking him up and down, he could feel the weight of his disbelief.

“I’ll see you to the door.” Gently, he steered him through the archives, “I’ll be texting. You’ll be answering.” Nodding, he knew Martin was watching him as he set off towards the station.

By the time Jon staggered into the sitting room, he was ready to collapse. He was weighed down by several medications and the instructions on how to take them and he would make sure he took them. And drank water. Because Martin said and he’d been disappointing so many people lately that the thought of disappointing one more made tears sting the corners of his eyes. A buzzing woke him from where he’d fallen asleep on his couch.

Did you make it home? Oh. Yes. Martin did say. Jon stared at the screen before shoving himself up. He should take some medicine and go to bed. Bed, that sounded lovely. Laying down sounded lovely.

Yes, thank you, Martin.

Good, get some rest. DO NOT come in tomorrow.

Yes, Martin. He waited a few seconds before sending again, Thank you, Martin.

The next day passed in a blur of different medications, glasses and mugs of water, and shifting from bed, to couch, to overstuffed chair in his restlessness, sleeping hours wrapped up in each in between responding to Martin’s texts.

Martin was surprised, to say the least, at how well Jon was keeping in touch. He responded to each inquiry within a few hours, hopefully spending the time between resting, was taking medicine, and keeping himself hydrated. Martin was. Well, he was a little stunned, to be honest.

Got medicine. Even a glass of water. He’d included a blurry picture of said glass and it was so Not Jon, Martin’s laugh got away from him.

Doing fine, thank you, Martin. His standard response.

You don't have to keep checking on me. What Martin was sure was his guilty response.

I'm alright. There was more and more time in between these. More time, and fewer words, and worry settled heavy in his stomach.

tired Unnerving.

And then on Saturday, nothing at all.

Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong and when Jon didn’t text back, or pick up the phone when he called on repeat, he rang Tim.

“Martin.” No. There was no way he was going over there. He’d sooner chuck the key into an open drain and walk into the next fear ritual voluntarily than check on him.

“Tim, I, I can’t, or I would. Please. Please, you have a key and I just know he’s in a bad way.” He sighed. Martin’s voice was shaking on the other end of the line and Tim knew that if he could have been there for Jon, he'd be there already. "Just, just a quick look. To make sure--to make sure."

Make sure.

"Please, Tim."

"I. Fine. Fine. Five minutes, that's all I'm wasting on him."

All told, Jon didn't live more than a few stops away and Tim thrust his hands into his pockets angrily, hunching into the collar of his coat and swearing under his breath. Jon was fine. He was ignoring Martin because that's what he did to people. At the door he stood waiting before finally rapping his fist sharply against it.

"Oi! Jon!" A few seconds of silence and he was counting down his promised minutes. Cheating he supposed because he had yet to see him, but whatever. "Open up! It's Tim!" Who else would it be, you miserable, paranoid, overblown librarian. He'd have to use his key and even touching it made his stomach flip. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be far away from here and he couldn't even do that. But for Martin, he twisted the key in its matching lock, shoving into a chilly sitting room strewn with half-empty mugs and glasses of water littering each flat surface. "Jon?" No sign of him yet, he could have stepped out. Tim picked up his phone, balanced on the edge of a scratched and worn table. A string of missed calls and increasingly panicked messages ending finally in threats to send Tim I know you have a key Stoker. "Christ." He wasn't in bed, the small thing practically hidden beneath every blanket in the place and he pushed into the bath, flicking on the light like he'd suddenly appear and gawping like a fish when he did.

Curled up on the freezing tile, shivering fit to fly apart and soaked through with sweat, lay one ailing Jonathan Sims.

"Jon?" Ashen and struggling to breathe, he didn't respond until Tim kneeled and shook one bony shoulder and even then it took far too long for him to become anything other than barely aware. Face twisting up, Jon blinked, pulling in a labored lungful of air and gearing up to use it.

“T’Tim? How…?” Fucking hell, even with a foot out the door--

“Enough with the paranoia!" The flinch was like a physical blow and Jon began hacking unproductively into his folded elbow.

“S’sorry...din’t…” Breathless and trying hard to catch it. Flooded with guilt, Tim dragged a hand down his face. Here he was in his flat, miserable and ill and now Tim was here out of nowhere shouting at him? “Sorry. D’you n'need somethin'?” He’d always been small, a subject of much contention when things used to be good, but his voice, small and tired--he was barely there, skin and bone, burning away into nothing if the flush high in his cheeks meant anything. He was just sick. Hit hard with a bad flu and trying his best to manage it alone. And how did that make him even angrier? There was medicine scattered around and he even had an empty glass on the floor with him--he'd been trying and instead of just asking for some damn help!

"Do I--no!" Yelling at a half naked man lying on the floor. Nice Tim. What energy Jon had was gone, and he was back to gasping between words, confused.

"Then… I, I don't… What--" He heaved for another gulp of air, like he couldn't get enough.

Multiple types of meds, some with overlapping ingredients. Idiot had probably overdosed himself on the different kinds, too disoriented to keep careful track.

"Jon, how much did you take?" Tim grabbed him now, fingers digging painfully into his hot, hot skin.

"Dose… the, the dose."

"How much?" He demanded and Jon whimpered, ducking his head.

"I, I--" Shaking harder now and crying silently, huge tears rolled down his face. He was scared of him, afraid and pushing himself off the tile in an attempt to put more distance between them only succeeding in bouncing his temple off the tub. With a hoarse cry he curled into himself, and he'd hate the comparison, but like a dying spider. Hunched forward and protecting his no doubt aching head with gangly too thin limbs. "Instructions… M’Martin said. Said water an’ an’..."

Tim was terrible at this. Barging in, yelling and shouting. Jon probably didn't know which way was up, let alone how much medication he took trying to get through this by himself with his only connection being the phone he'd left on the table. Clearly, he hadn't been well enough to retrieve it.

Damn it, Jon.

"Let me see." Another squeak, wretched and sneaking from his throat. "Jon." Stern, not angry, scooching forward and he could see one red rimmed and wary eye peeking between his fingers and the curls escaping from their tie. "Lemme take a look." Gently and after a moment's more scrutiny he was allowed to touch, to guide his trembling hands away, brush back the tangles to examine the forming bruise. It didn't look too bad. Certainly no more than either of them had experienced before. What was bad was the heat under his palm, the tiny shivers, the way his chest stuttered trying to pull each breath into his body. “Okay, the floor isn’t the place for you.”

“S’sorry. I--” Cut off by another fit, this one harder than the last, and it left him winded, apologies forced out by halves. “Been d’dizzy…”

“You don’t need to apologize for being ill, Jon.”

“M’sorry.” Tim sighed, reaching for him again and hating the way he shrank away. But he supposed just minutes ago he was shaking him.

“S’alright, boss.” Relieved by the way the old nickname relaxed him, he hefted him up and Jon was like a new colt trying out his legs for the first time, hands fisted in Tim’s shirt, inhale, exhale, shallow and fast.

Safely deposited on the bedside, Tim handed him an oversized shirt from the half-open drawer, recognizing it as his own, left behind sometime before. It would have been big on Jon back when they worked in research but now. The fight to yank off the sweat soaked tee took it out of him, evidenced by the way Jon had just tossed it on the floor and now he was bare chested, ribs beginning to show, all scarred skin and exhausted shaking. Tim hated it; this man was a stranger and he shouldn't be. He slipped his shirt over his head, leaving him to figure out how to get his arms through the sleeves.

“Lay down.” He’d arranged the pillows to keep him up off his back while breathing was still a chore. “Text Martin.” Tim pressed the phone into his hand, stepping away and returning with a cold compress, smoothing it over his forehead and checking to make sure he’d fired off a message. It was short and poorly spelled, but Tim knew it would put Martin at ease, especially when he followed up in a moment or two.

And he sat at the other end of the bed. Feet up and legs laid beside Jon’s.

Watching.

Watched.

Until even half out of his mind, Jon had to ask.

"Y’you’re staying?" Eyes barely open and just above a whisper.

"Well.” Tim crossed his ankles and took out his own phone to pass the time, settling into a comfortable position. “Since you went ahead and poisoned yourself, guess I have to." He nudged his blanketed thigh with a toe. “Go to sleep, Jon.”

#TMA #The magnus archives #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #they share keys!#prompt fill #sickfic #tmafanfic #sick character #sick jon #sick tim #Hurt/comfort #accidental overdose #of cold meds

59 notes · View notes

faefictionblog · 3 years

Text

Meeting the Dog (2/3) - Keith’s Old ‘Friend’

Continuation of my one-shot fic "Doggy!" and the Second Part of the “Meeting the Dog” series (now turned multiple shot) this time with three video game playin nerds.

Tw: Lemon Demon content, honestly this ones not that bad it’s more fluff than anything

---

Despite what people may think, Keith isn’t actually that brave, he’s more....Impulsive, more fight than flight since really he was scared of everything- not to say that he doesn’t have any flight in him...he’d just rather rap something to death then run away. Some may call that brave, and other’s may call that stupid- Senpai was on the small handful of people who didn’t realize just much Keith reacted by fighting, until he had to watch the man run, and despite being his girlfriend, Lucy had never seen her Boyfriend get scared enough to genuinely run from something.

So both of them may or may not have been a little caught off guard when the spooky best friends decided to drop by during one of their hang outs to introduce them to their new dog. The three had heard the dog was relatively friendly from Pico, but...anything that was friendly in the eyes of two kids who love horror movies and someone they might call borderline homicidal was probably a stretch from both parties. They didn’t realize how big of a stretch it really would be until it was to late.

The three were playing videogames in Lucy’s room, Lucy laid out on her stomach on the bed, Keith on the floor, and Senpai on a dark red beanbag the girl had. They all perked up and looked towards the door when they heard several people coming up the stairs, the door to her room opens and in pops the two little kids, giggling and almost falling over from their little piggy bag ride. They stay upright though and wave happily. “Were here!!!”

Another set of footsteps was still coming up the stairs, much slower than the two kids before it, but in the meantime Lucy waves and Sen calls back a “Hey Skid, Pump!” and Keith beeps out what was probably a hello. The kids continue to giggle excitedly, looking down the hall and back while exclaiming with the utmost excitement.

“We’d like you to meet Mister Lemon!”

Sen and Lucy both perked up at watched as the Lanky figure started to appear in the doorway, but they missed the fact that even just the name caused Keith to stiffen and freeze mid wave, setting the game controller down, all three watched as the monstrous face appeared in the doorway, bulging eyes, a way-to-big to be normal smile, the fact that the thing was bigger than the door and had to crouch to even follow the twins in was horrific.

Of course Lucy and Sen were concerned looking upon the thing, but it only took a split second of resignation for their blue haired partner to start scrambling backwards on the floor, beeping loudly in fear, hiding behind the closest thing he could get his hands on, which at this moment seemed to be Sen in the bean bag, he nearly toppled the other over as he got behind him and clung to the baby blue button up the other always wore.

The sound and scramble for cover made the two look at the smaller adult with wide eyes of shock, more concern spilling onto their face. Lucy turned her attention back to the creature to keep conversation with the kids and it while Sen redirected full attention to the man clinging to him like a frightened toddler, he hadn’t seen the other act like this...it was strange. What was this lemon man capable of?

“He looks very interesting boys- where’d you find him?” Lucy pipes up with an awkward smile, leaning away from the creature as it approached her, seeming looking her over for a moment while the kids talked about everything, how they found Lemon, what they had been doing while they playeneeds the demon- it all sounded relatively safe, even if it might have been slightly out of context coming from a couple of kids. Meanwhile Sen wasn’t having much luck.

“Hey, hey keith, calm down, what’s wrong?” No response. He was still hiding in the other’s shirt. ”Are you scared of the kid’s dog?” the grip on him tightens more and he takes that as a yes. Brows furrowing, he decided that he...probably should get the guy away from...whatever this lemon freak was. He looks back up to where the kids were, noting their backpacks as an idea springs to his head and he coughs to get everyone’s attention...including the lemon as it does a 180 degree head turn to face him which is just, absolutely not normal and totally freaky in this current moment. He almost rethinks his decision but....godamnit Keith.

“Pump, Skid, why don’t you make yourself at home and i’ll take your dog out for a walk in the backyard- then we can all play video games together, or even watch a movie-”

“GASP! Ooga Booga?!”

“I-...yeah sure, we can watch that.”

“Yay!!!”

Sen looks back to Keith, who is finally looking back at him, and he notes with genuine concern the fear in his eyes, the way he clings a little tighter- not specifically for Sen just...for anyone, he doesn’t want anyone to be alone with that thing- Sen swear he even hears the man voice a soft “No.” just barely under his breath, to quiet for anyone else to hear- Even Sen, probably wasn’t supposed to hear that with how soft it was, but he knows Keith needs to better compose himself before he can be in a room with this lemon. Sen gently gather’s up Keith’s shaking hands in his own and kisses the top of them. “I’ll be back soon, you should go sit with Lulu.”

He pulls away carefully, and begins walking down the stairs, though he doesn’t miss the fact that the spooky friends take his seat, or the way Keith watches after him before finally moving to lay with Lucy on the bed. He also certainly doesn’t miss the Lemon’s overly lanky and absolutely massive form begin to follow him to the backyard. For such a creepy.... thing, it was well behaved.

He walks with it following in tow all the way outside the doors to the backyard, where he sits on the porch. He notes that it...doesn’t go wandering off or anything, merely stands there maybe 5 or so feet away from him on the porch. He wants to ask....but what is he really expecting from this thing? A heavy sigh drags it’s way from his mouth as he looks over at the monster and asks.

“So, what’s with you and Keith? You two know each other?”

His question was met with a moment of silence and he almost smacked himself for thinking he could talk to something that might not have had any flipping sentience to it. until eventually, a low gravelly voice, airy like it was out of breath all the time and choking met his question, with broken speech that barely pieced together.

“...Rap battled...threatened........girl in...dreams...........”

Sne blinks and stares, noting that the things mouth didn’t even move when it talked, exponentially creepy. Though the first part of the answer did not surprise him, It was probably harder to find people who HAVN’T rapped with Keith in this town than who had, the second part was what really got him.

“I...In his dreams-? How did you-”

the door to the backyard opened and Sen was surprised to see Keith of all people was who was coming to check if they were okay. Keith beeps softly, looking down at his feet and Sen looks between him and the monster before coughing and joining the little blue haired man at the door, waving lemon to follow them. He’ll figure more out later, they were busy now- and Keith was here.

It was strange, concerning, but given the fact that the creature wasn’t doing anything now made Sen and Lucy feel better about letting him stick around. Keith uneasily agreed, that it was fine, even if he was still scared, he had the other’s...maybe he could get used to this new ...uh...dog.

#fnf boyfriend #fnf senpai #fnf girlfriend #fnf skid and pump #fnf lemon monster #fnf lemon demon #fnf fiction #fnf ship #fnf pico mention #fictional writing #fic

15 notes · View notes

pearl-pilots-in-chains · 3 years

Text

Ice Cream Expertise (All the Little Lights #1)

Fandom: Neon Genesis Evangelion

Ships: Kawoshin

Rating: G

Summary: Shinji is faced with a dilemma of sorts, and is characteristically indecisive. Fortunately, Kaworu is there to give some helpful advice. Or maybe just call himself an ice cream expert. Let's be honest, it's a bit of both.

Notes: This is intended to be the start to All the Little Lights, my attempt at a relatively happy Evangelion high school AU featuring the pilots we know (and maybe love) actually getting to live a normal life (including all the cute gay romance they deserve). That said, it also works totally fine as a one shot. Considering it's an AU, there's going to be some rather interesting deviations from canon, some of which are alluded to here. So, if something seems off, that's probably because it is.

As usual, any errors, grammatical or typographical, are mine. I apologize in advance.

This was originally posted to my old AO3 on May 21, 2020. I hope you enjoy it!

_________________________________________________________

Shinji Ikari was not having a good day. No, perhaps that was an understatement. He was having a distinctly bad day. School had been tedious to say the least, considering that testing week was approaching, and the teachers seemed to be doing their best to “prepare” the students using every form of academic torture known to humankind. Okay, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it had been a hectic hell all the same. Not to mention the fact that his best friend Touji was going through a rough patch (not the first one, mind you), with his girlfriend Hikari, which led to a tense mood within their friend group outside of class as well. Adding onto this was the fact that he was getting worried about his sister (what wasn’t new?) Rei, who had been especially quiet the past week or so, even by her standards. That was usually a sign that her depression was going through a rough spot. He had wanted to mention something to his mother about it, considering she usually had better luck at getting through to Rei than he did when his sister was going through a difficult time, but unsurprisingly, he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He was gone too often, and his mother was gone too often. There was all of a one to two hour period when they were both home and awake on any given night. Rei always ending up alone probably doesn’t help her state of mind improve either. I wish she had more friends. People she could connect with.

And, of course, to top all that wonderful baggage off, he had had work after school, which had gone lovely. Just lovely. A simply wonderful group of customers had come in, and stayed for a better part of three hours, ordering intermittently while they all talked (way too loudly, in his opinion) at their shared table, which, in a predictable move, they hadn’t even bothered to clean off. He was a barista, not a waiter, despite what some people seemed to think. To make matters worse, they had been laughing so hard partway through their “discussion,” that one of the party had practically flung her iced latte through the air by accident (how someone could do that by accident, was a whole other topic for conversation), sending its contents flying halfway across the room (in a bafflingly impressive display, he had to admit, as irritating as it was). Of course, he had drawn the short straw and been the one tasked with cleaning it up. His boss seemed to get a special satisfaction out of giving Shinji all the “fun,” jobs. Okay, maybe Mr. Anno’s not that bad, but he still gets a kick out of watching me suffer. Or something like that.

Shinji sighed as he pulled his car into the store parking spot. As he exited it, he glanced down at his phone. 7:16. That meant he should have enough time to get home and get dinner going before his mother got home. These days, it seemed as though she worked progressively later and later. It had been a couple months since she’d been home before 8. She was almost certainly still out at the base at that moment. Whatever project she’s working on now is one of the more intensive ones.

He headed for the doors. He was planning on making stir fry, which meant that he needed to get soy sauce for sure, since he knew they had run out from the last time. He thought they had most of the rest of what he needed at home. So, this should be a quick run. Just in and out. After a day like today though, he was tempted to grab something sweet. Come on, after this whole mess, I think I at least half deserve something to take my mind off of it. Just a little.

Inside, he made a bee line for the condiments aisle. Alright, first things first. Get what I need. Then, maybe, I’ll just check out what they have. He grabbed soy sauce, and then wavered for a moment, trying to decide just for what he was in the mood. Okay, just something little. Nothing too big. I am going to be cooking, after all. Hmmm . . . I mean, it’s probably not the best idea, but . . .

Making his decision, he set off for the frozen section. Once again, he paused when he arrived at the aisle, looking through the glass freezer doors at the available options. I’ll just get a pint. That should be more than enough. Even if Rei goes for some too. ‘Cause mom hardly ever eats anything sweet, so I doubt she’ll have any. He tilted his head, tapping the soy sauce bottle against his thigh as he considered the selection. Why are there so many flavors? I didn’t even realize they sold Pumpkin outside of November. And Lime-Raspberry? What would that even taste like? Who comes up with these things? I’ll go for something classic. I could always do Vanilla. But, that’s a little boring. I don’t even really like it that much. Chocolate’s always classic, except that Rei doesn’t like it. And her favorite is Cookie Dough, which I don’t like the texture of . . . there are way too many choices here. Running his eyes over the racks, he did a quick count. Forty-two different flavors. Why are there forty-two different flavors? I wonder if anyone’s ever tried them all. Then again, that might take a while. And be kind of pricey. Dammit, I’m getting distracted again. The only conclusion that Shinji was coming to was the fact that he liked ice cream far too much, and was wasting far more time than he should be trying to pick out something. Maybe I should just get the soy sauce and head home. He peaked down at his phone. 7:29. Yeah, I’ve already been here longer than I should be.

A voice interrupted Shinji’s thoughts. “So, what’s your drug of choice?”

Shinji head snapped to the side, his concentration broken. “What?,” He asked, a little surprised.

The source of the interruption was standing a little further down the aisle, casually leaning on one of the freezer windows, his head cocked to the side, watching Shinji with a friendly smile on his face. Shinji thought the interrupter looked to be about the same age as him, though that fact was complicated slightly by the fact that though his face was youthful, his hair was an ashen grey. He must dye it. Is grey hair a style though? The interrupting individual sported a pair of black jeans and a band shirt for a group whose name looked vaguely familiar to Shinji. Porcupine Tree . . . I feel like Rei might listen to them. Maybe. Not to mention the fact that the newcomer had red eyes. Red eyes. Okay, so maybe this is a look he’s going for. I mean, those are definitely contacts, right? Unless there’s a genetic mutation I’ve never heard of, I don’t think humans can be born with red eyes. Which means that they’re contacts. Which means that the hair is almost definitely dyed too. I’m pretty sure that’s not what ‘scene’ looks like . . . there’d be brighter colors . . . and I don’t think it’s emo either . . . I’m pretty sure his hair would be black then . . . huh . . . maybe that’s goth. Yeah. Let’s go with that. In addition to making him second guess what scene fashion looked like, Shinji’s visual analysis of the interrupter also led him to a more definite conclusion. That regardless of what category his fashion fell under, he was pretty cute. Seriously Shinji, focus here, and stop thinking about how some random boy in Safeway who asked you what type of drugs you like is cute. Don’t be an idiot. Sure, you haven’t been on a date in months, ever since Martin broke up with you, but he was a manipulative jerk anyway— Shinji realized the interrupter had started talking again, which snapped him back into reality and out of his wandering mind.

“Yeah. What flavor is your favorite. I mean, out of the forty-two, there has to be one you’d pick, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Probably cookies ’n’ cream,” Shinji answered, feeling more than a bit confused. On an afterthought, he added, “You’ve counted all the flavors too?”

“Not a bad choice,” the boy said with a firm nod. “Although, I’m more into mint chocolate chip myself. And yes, I’ve counted them all. It’s an important part to being an ice cream expert. Keeping track of the available flavors at the nearest store.”

“Okaayyy.” Shinji’s tone betrayed his uncertainty concerning just how he should deal with this stranger. “Ice cream expert?”

“Yep, that would be me,” the boy replied matter-of-factly, as though the question was a pointless one. He strolled over to Shinji and extended his hand. “Kaworu Akagi, ice cream expert, at your service.”

Shinji shook the offered hand, deciding he should be polite, despite the fact that his perplexity had not been substantially diminished in any way. This guy is . . . interesting, to say the least. As their hands met, Shinji was struck by the strange, but intense, sense that this wasn’t his first time meeting Kaworu.

“Shinji Ikari.” Against his better judgement, he decided to follow his introduction with, “Have we met before?”

Retracting his hand, Kaworu pursed his lips, ostensibly mulling over the question in his mind. After a few moments, he shook his head. “I don’t think so. At least, not that I can recall. I just got into town a few days ago. Why do you ask?”

Shinji shrugged, trying to play off his earlier question. “Oh, I think you just reminded me of someone I used to know.”

Kaworu nodded, seeming to accept this answer. “Ah, that makes sense. So, have you come to a conclusion, or would you like a second opinion?”

Shinji raised an eyebrow. “About the ice cream, you mean?”

“Indeed. That is the topic on the floor, as they say,” Kaworu responded nonchalantly.

Shinji blinked. “Who says?”

“Why, they do of course.”

“Oh. Umm, alright.” Shinji looked back through the window, surveying his options once more. A obvious choice didn’t present itself. “Well . . . I suppose a second opinion probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“Great,” Kaworu stated, his tone even and pleasant. “Any occasion in particular you’re buying for?”

Shinji shook his head. “Nope, not really. Just . . .” he hesitated, uncertain how much he wanted to tell someone who was still basically a stranger to him. “Just a bad day,” was what he ended up deciding on.

Kaworu pretended to stroke nonexistent hairs on his chin, nodding slowly as did so, in an amusing imitation of the stereotypical philosopher. “Hmm . . . ice cream for a bad day, you say?”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess so.”

“I’d have to recommend Cherry Chip for that. It’s a guaranteed mood improver from my experience. It is nearly impossible to feel down while you’re eating Cherry Chip ice cream.”

“Really?” Shinji’s ice wandered down the display, finally locating the flavor in question. Fortunately, they had it in pint size, which meant that the option was on the table. He couldn’t think of any reason not to go for it. As far as he knew, Rei liked Cherry Chip. At least, he thought she did. He wasn’t entirely sure that he’d ever seen her eat it. For that matter, he wasn’t entirely sure that he’d ever eaten it himself. Which means it might be pretty good, and I just don’t know it yet. You never know. “Really. Trust me, I’ve tested its potency. It won’t let you down.”

“Alright. Why not?” Shinji opened the door and grabbed a pint of Cherry Chip. He examined the container in his hands for a few seconds, before looking back up at Kaworu, who now seemed to be smiling in encouragement, which had the effect of making him look even cuter than before. Come on Shinji, don’t get distracted! Sure, he might be attractive, but he’s also a self-proclaimed ice cream expert. . . not sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing yet, to be honest.

“That’ll do the job,” Kaworu remarked, in a straightforward tone that made it sound as though he was utterly confident in the truth of his words.

“I’ll take your word for it.” Shinji furrowed his brow as another question popped into his mind. “Hey .. . you said you just got into town a few days ago. How is it that you already know all the different flavors they have here?”

“It was one of the first things I scoped out after we got into town. Always important to know what kind of ice cream game you’re going to be dealing with. Plus, I had plenty of free time once we finished unpacking, considering I won’t be in school up here until the fall.”

“Ah, okay. That makes sense.” Almost on a whim, Shinji was tempted to ask Kaworu where he had moved from, but decided that could come across as prying a little too much, since Kaworu hadn’t offered that information. As it was, Kaworu gave a partial answer to the question without Shinji even verbalizing it.

“School down south ends earlier. Though, to be fair, it also starts earlier there as well. We left a couple days after my semester ended. Which means I currently have relatively few obligations, other than locating and obtaining a job for the summer.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Shinji still wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, but he decided to field a question of his own. He figured it could come across as a polite inquiry, rather than being nosy, taking into account what Kaworu had just revealed. “So, what brought you up north?”

“My mother got transferred out to the base,” Kaworu returned offhandedly.

Shinji tilted his head in response to this answer, the gears in his brain turning. Well, that’s interesting. He almost wanted to make some sort of follow-up remark expressing their similarity in that regard, but he decided that might be a bit too much to say for the moment. Instead, he merely offered a casually, “I gotcha.” He continued with an amiable, “Well, welcome to Asherdale,” along with a more ironic, “It’s halfway decent, once you get used to it.”

Kaworu’s face broken into a grin at the humor, an expression that Shinji couldn’t help but feel made him look all the more attractive. Oops, getting distracted again. . . don’t do that . . . too much.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Kaworu said warmly.

“No problem.” The thought suddenly entering his mind, Shinji shot a momentary glance down at his phone. Hmm, what time is it? The answer was 7:37. 7:37?! I’ve been talking for eight minutes?! That felt like four or five at the most. I have to bail, now, if I’m going to make it home in time to get cooking.

He looked back up at Kaworu, who was still watching him, his gaze soft, the smile still on his face, his head tilted to the side. Shinji had the strange feeling that if it had been anyone else, the observational pose the boy had struck would have looked unusual, to say the least, but somehow, on Kaworu, it didn’t look half bad. It gives him a kind of elegant aesthetic . . . okay, where did I come up with that? I definitely need to head out.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry to leave so quick, but I need to get going.” Shinji cringed a little internally, hearing the awkward tone in his voice. You could have said that in a way that didn’t basically announced the fact that it made you flustered. Great going.

“Understandable. You wouldn’t want that ice cream to melt before you get the chance to test out its powers.”

“Haha, yeah, you know it.”

Kaworu nodded, imply that yes, he did indeed know it. “Why don’t I give you my number?” He remarked. “That way, you’ll have someone on hand for any future ice cream dilemmas.”

“Ahhh . . .” Okay, that was actually kind of smooth, in an odd way. And . . . it’s not like it could really hurt anything. I mean, he didn’t even ask for my number. Which means he’s not even necessarily flirting with me. It’d probably be a bit of stretch to say he is. After all, if I have his number, and he doesn’t have mine, that means I can choose whether I want to text him or not, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Which isn’t really a good way to flirt with somebody. I think I’m stalling again here . . .”

Shinji noticed Kaworu was watching him again, waiting for a response. “Sure. Sounds like a good plan.” He pulled out his phone and hastily created a new contact, before offering it to Kaworu. “Here, you can put it in.”

Kaworu nodded, his smile remaining intact, and typed in the digits, before handing it back to Shinji. “It was nice to meet you, Shinji Ikari,” he commented affably.

“You can just call me Shinji,” Shinji quickly responded.

“Alright then. It was nice to meet you Shinji.”

“You too . . .” Should I use first and last name like he did the first time? Or just go with first name. I don’t want to offend him, if that’s the sort of thing that’s important to him. After all, he does seem a bit, umm, particular.

“You can just call me Kaworu,” the boy suggested, his smile widening.

“It was nice to meet you Kaworu,” he finished lamely. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yes, maybe so.”

Shinji nodded again, spun on his heels, and promptly made for the registers. Well, that went excellently. You meet a boy who’s kind of cute, even if he is a little eccentric, and straight off the bat, you’re second guessing yourself and fumbling for words. Fantastic.

Shinji shot a brief glance back as he reached the end of the aisle, to see that Kaworu was now retrieving an ice cream carton of his own from the merchandise freezer. Shinji turned away again before the boy could look back in his direction. Don’t want him to think I’m staring at him or something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shinji collapsed back onto his bed with a satisfied sigh. He was glad to have finally reach it, after the nigh-interminable day. Well, maybe not quite interminable. But definitely overlong. Without much thought, he grabbed his phone from his nightstand and spun in about in his hands a couple times, feeling the sensation of the textured case against his skin.

Dinner had been a success, such as it could be, anyway. He had impressed himself with just how fast he managed to throw things together when he went into slight (well, maybe more than slight) panic mode.

The ice cream had been a success as well. He had to admit, Cherry Chip was a pretty good flavor. He still wasn’t sure whether he had tried it before or not, but he was glad he had definitively tried it now. Rei had also enjoyed it, which was an added plus. In fact, their mother had even had a bowl, something altogether unexpected. Apparently, Cherry Chip ice cream was one of the sweets she would indulge in. Didn’t see that coming. All in all, the majority of the pint was no more.

Powering on his phone, Shinji was faced with another choice for the evening. Unlike his earlier ice cream deliberation, however, this cerebration was of a cursory duration. After a few seconds, he had composed the text, and was hovering over the send button. Alright. Let’s do this. He tapped the icon.

Shinji I.: Thanks for the recommendation. It was a good choice! Lol. This is Shinji, btw.

The response to his message came swiftly. Wow, he must type fast.

Kaworu A.: Happy to be of service. I’m glad it worked out.

Shinji found a smile edging its way across his lips. Maybe, in spite of everything, today wasn’t such a bad day after all.

#evangelion #fanfic #kawoshin #shinji ikari #kaworu nagisa #shinji x kaworu #neon genesis evangelion #eva #fanfiction #high school au

19 notes · View notes

onyourzeus · 3 years

Text

all alone | kyh

ykcyj ➝ arskyh

title: all alone pairing: kang younghyun (youngk of day6) & you genre: heavy angst, fictional universe words: 3.7k

inspired by: 50 proof by eaJ (give it a listen if you please, here) author’s note: this is my first fic in years, feedback appreciated.

content warning: alcohol use, swearing, description of anxiety and loneliness

any requests? check my pinned post if i’m accepting any at the moment, thanks!

It’s not a matter of when, but of how you’re going to stop yourself. They keep saying it heals with time, but no one ever tells you how much time you need to feel completely fine again.

So, instead of waiting for that moment, you take it upon yourself to numb the pain inside. It’s easier to keep it bottled up, then pretend to wash it away with age-old whiskey taken from a nearly empty cabinet.

Your friend reminded you to buy anything other than 50 proof alcohol, but that’s what’s left on your grocery list nowadays.

She’d come by to keep you company, but there’s always an excuse. An emergency meeting, a family gathering, a blind date across town.

It’s okay, you text her repeatedly. At this point, you’d rather she focus on herself than judge you for decisions affecting your life.

The moment they get angry at you, it is time to push them away.

You’re not about to be the reason for another falling out; another heartbreak; another memory turned sour and hard to swallow.

A big gulp of fiery hot liquid comes into contact with your throat, and you exhale with a wince. Ah, just the way you think you like it.

But no one’s stopping you, so why not keep going? You haven’t reached your limit yet, even though you’re not sure what that would look like. It’s no matter, though, it’s your apartment— your bathroom floor, your money, and your own fate decided.

Once the tears trail down your cheek, you have a moment of self-awareness. What are you doing? Glancing at your slippers, sweaty oversized shirt, and frizzy strands of hair sticking out of your head— when exactly did you start looking like this and decided, “Yeah, I feel comfortable in my own skin.”?

You dart your tongue out slightly, tasting salt on the corner of your mouth. It’s wet as the tears keep coming. Tonight’s one of those nights, you laugh sarcastically.

You’re probably going to play russian roulette with your medicine cabinet tomorrow; you’ll either be lucky and find a couple of painkillers lying around or be reminded of the emptiness that surrounds you. Usually it’s the latter, but maybe you’ll be lucky this time?

You scoff loudly at the idea. Another gulp of alcohol, and it stops the tears momentarily. Just so you can indulge in the sound of your heavy breathing, vision blurring the sight of your kitchen.

Your phone lights up on the couch, buzzing and emitting a soft light that disturbs the dimness of the room. It can’t be your friend, it was a double date night with her co-worker, or some shit you don’t really care for. Although you remember pieces of memories that include you being in the same exact situation a few months prior; it’s a bit hazy now, probably due to the alcohol.

But also because you use what coordinated strength you have to approach the ringing sound. You can’t make up the caller ID which should be the first red flag that you shouldn’t answer the phone.

You never do when you’re like this, but something inside you just doesn’t care anymore.

You slide your finger across the screen, fumble through the circles you can make out until a static hum goes off louder than usual. Finally on speaker mode, you put the phone back on the couch as your body drops down on the floor.

Resting the bottle on your side, you cradle your heavy head against the palm of your hand and exhale a long drawn out, “Heyyyyyyy, who’s this?”

God, you sound horrible.

You hear nothing but static, and wonder if there never was a call at all. “Is anyone there? Hello? Hello?” You’re starting to get annoyed, grabbing hold of the bottle’s neck and taking a short swig. It causes you to cough, your fist pounding helplessly against your chest.

“What are you doing?” He sounds sad, disappointed, and concerned on the other end. You don’t know who it is, but the knots in his voice deem familiar to you, somehow.

“Who is this? I’m gonna call the cops on you,” you drawl out, not understanding your own logic. “Why are you calling me at—” you try and check for a watch on your wrist to no avail, so you leave the question at that.

Hiccuping, you blurt out, “I don’t know who you are.”

“It’s Younghyun. Leehi keeps calling me, asking to check up on you. Did you receive her messages?”

Frankly, you understood at least two words with his reply. Leehi and messages, immediately you seethe with anger once again. Your friend on the double date texted you? With droopy eyes, you check your notifications, and the caller is telling the truth.

10 text messages left unread, and none of those words she sent mean shit.

“Tell her to fuck off.”

“I won’t do that. Where are you? At the bar or in your apartment?” He keeps asking all these questions he doesn’t have the right to in the first place. You feel your face scrunch up in frustration, figuring out who’s so concerned at your well-being so randomly on a Thursday night.

“I’m not telling you anything. I don’t know you! Please stop bothering me, sir,” your voice cracks in the end, a semblance of fear creeping up onto you. This is why you never answer calls with alcohol controlling your system.

“It sounds quiet in there, so you’re in your apartment,” he continues, ignoring your nonsensical pleas. “I’m nearby, can you please stay put for another 20 minutes or so? I’m coming to check up on you.”

“I told you I’m calling the police if you even come near my doorstep!” Your frantic tone causes your body to shiver, welled up tears leaving eyes that start to sting.

No one has been at your apartment for months; it’s not that they don’t ask. You don’t want them to come in. You don’t want anyone to see how you’ve been when you’re all alone.

He calls your name on the other end, and again, and again he whispers it like a gentle reminder. A song to soothe your anxious mind, and it works. For a moment, you remember the feeling of comfort and security in the form of arms wrapped around you, and this very same voice to calm you down.

“It’s Younghyun, okay? Please take deep breaths, you’re okay. You’ll be okay. I’m on my way very soon,” Younghyun instructs. His hushed voice contrasts your shaking whimpers, yet you follow what he says with relative ease. It’s so familiar, fragments of flashbacks filling your mind one after the other.

“Please unlock the door soon so I can come inside. I don’t have a spare key anymore,” he continues. That’s weird, he always had it to access your apartment whenever he wanted. You were the one to insist on that, too, since he basically lived with you for… a while.

Reality tries to get in the way of the memories, you block it off for just a little bit more with the last drop of alcohol. It should last you throughout the night.

In a daze, you do what Younghyun told you: unlock the door, and take deep breaths. You don’t want to be completely sober, so you refrain from drinking water even if your throat has been begging you to.

A lucky soju bottle hides itself from an empty carton of milk inside the fridge, so you grab it hastily. No shot glasses needed, you go straight for it.

Younghyun didn’t tell you to stop, so why should you? But something in your stomach suggests you do. It’s a wincing pain you’ve had before, but this time it digs deeper than that. A liver concern, dehydration, or perhaps guilt?

You couldn’t think any longer as you heard a soft knock against the front door. Followed by Younghyun coming in quietly, his steps barely audible. As if he’s never set foot in your apartment before. Or at least, maybe it feels different this time.

As if you haven’t seen him and remember his presence anymore.

“Hey,” he greets you quietly, and his voice is so much better in person. “It’s dark in here.”

You’re not sure how to move forward from here. You’re back on the floor, head laying weirdly on the couch that your neck has started to hurt. Your hands hold tight onto the soju bottle as if it’s about to be taken away from you. It’s the one tangible thing keeping you grounded. Your mind begins to float away again upon seeing Younghyun’s face.

He has that effect on you, but you didn’t consider it ever happening in months.

You think you’re sleepy, but really you become hyper aware of his every move. It’s just hard to see with droopy eyes, and the silent steps he takes on the hardwood floor.

He turns the light on the hallway to the bathroom, and even with its faintness you squint at the source of any kind of brightness in the room.

“Sorry, I just didn’t want to step on anything,” Younghyun apologizes. He places a plastic bag on the kitchen counter and takes out what looks to be a bottle.

Definitely not alcohol, you frown.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” you tell him first, the croak of your voice so heavily dissimilar to the friendliness of his. Yours sound guarded, unsure of yourself. “I have this,” you add as you sway the soju bottle in the air. The liquid spills on top of your head, and Younghyun is quick to take it away from you.

“H-hey—” you argue, but the cold bottle of water has now replaced your source of alcohol, and your lips continue to curl downard. Younghyun shortly laughs at your reaction, but you don’t find it funny.

“That was mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Give it back.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Prick,” you mutter under your breath. “Don’t let it go to waste, then, drink.”

Younghyun sighs, shaking his head while meeting your figure on the floor. The soju bottle remains on the counter, out of your reach. His slanted eyes point towards the neglected bottle around your grasp.

You find yourself staring mindlessly, his face showing smooth textures and a hint of base make up doning his features. You’re in awe, just like before, of the beauty in front of you. So close to touch, just the tip of your fingertips to graze against his skin.

If only you didn’t feel so guilty and looked like shit.

“Staring at me won’t make you sober up any sooner,” he chastises you, sitting with his legs crossed. He looks dapper, a fine suit without a tie and two buttons opened up. Was he at a photoshoot? A company dinner? A date?

That last thought shoots a strange numbing sensation on your chest.

“Why are you here?”

Younghyun looks taken aback at your bluntness. It doesn’t seem like you’re drinking that water anytime soon as your focus shifts at his presence in your apartment. He lets it go this time, then, entertains your question for the sake of your satisfaction.

“I told you. Leehi called me. She’s been worried about you recently.”

“Oh, has she?” You sass him just for the sake of it.

“Yes,” Younghyun doesn’t give in to your bluff, his voice suddenly firm and unnerving. “She cares about you a lot, and I understand if she hasn’t had the time to come see you very often anymore, but she works long hours and—”

“Why are you defending her? Did you just come here to lecture me like a little kid? I know how the world works, Younghyun. I know people can be busy, and that they have their own fucking problems to deal with. I know, okay? Fuck, I know that!”

The words just leave your mouth like poison, it was ready to spill out of your guts all of a sudden. It just needed an opportunity to.

You didn’t expect it to come tonight— in front of Younghyun, out of everyone.

Maybe that would slap him cold and hard with what’s going on. Maybe that’s the final straw with you, not the uninviting welcome to your apartment, not the refusal to drink the water he’s bought you, but the words you have spoken. It’s always been the most hurtful.

You avoid his gaze, suddenly feeling small and even more guilty of how you’re acting. You know you’re not supposed to lash out like this, you hate angry confrontations that can be avoided. But this is why you drink alone, cry alone, and fall asleep when the sun goes up— alone.

Younghyun was never supposed to be here witnessing this.

Just like how you predicted, you see him stand up and walk away. It’s what you deserve, right? No one ever wanted to stay.

But you don’t hear the door slam shut following his departure. You don’t hear his footsteps trudge their way out of the door, out of your life once again.

Younghyun approaches the corner of the living room where the heater is, and turns it on.

“I don’t know how you do it, but I won’t be able to stand the cold like this,” he says with the same gentle, knowing tone of his. “I hope you don’t mind me turning the heat on a little bit. Are you warm, though?”

You don’t understand what’s going on.

Yes, it’s been a chilly autumn season but not that you cared. The alcohol hits you from within, igniting unfound frustration, anger, and desperation in every corner of your soul then almost instantly numbs it all for you.

With parted, dry lips you manage a meek shake of the head. The sweat on your shirt dried up, and your shorts aren’t doing any better making you feel cozy either. You compensate by hugging yourself, the condensation of the bottled water touching the goosebumps on your skin.

“You should probably drink that before it gets lukewarm,” Younghyun suggests, walking three steps forward to sit next to your figure. He gives you space, almost like a shield in between your bodies in which either of you are afraid of breaking.

Finally, you relent to his wish and chug the water in seconds. It cools your throat along with your state of mind. A bit more stable now, with the way you see things, and process your surroundings. Your conscious eyes land on Younghyun’s worried gaze, and you struggle not to fall back into them.

“I’m… not really mad at Leehi, I hope she knows that,” you quip quietly. The haziness drifts away from your consciousness and floats midair. It clings to the barrier in between you and Younghyun, frosting up unseen glass as Younghyun studies your features carefully. And he waits for more of what you have to say.

You don’t follow through anymore, so he adds to the conversation. “I’m sure she knows. She’s just concerned about you.”

You reply with a subtle nod, wishing you had more water to drink.

“I’m worried about you, too.”

And he says the magic words that start the first broken piece of glass stopping you from seeing him eye to eye. You turn your figure away from his sitting one, knowing that the more you attempt to find the answers in his eyes the harsher the tears will come from your own.

“You shouldn’t be. I’m fine.” What a massive fucking lie, you think bitterly. It’s not like you to lie out loud, You say what’s on your mind when needed. And if it isn’t, then you know best not to bother others and keep it to yourself.

“C’mon, we both know that’s not true,” Younghyun disagrees— in the most polite way he can that it hurts. It hurts to hear him pander to your childish behavior right now, to have him tiptoe his way around your insecurities.

This is what you didn’t want to happen, and yet in the end you meet your own demise this way.

“How can I help?” He urges on.

He can’t.

“I want you to feel better.”

You won’t.

“Please tell me how.”

You don’t even know the answer to that.

He sighs, but he tries hard not to let it bother you. Younghyun’s always been like that, so perfect and so accommodating. Wasn’t that supposed to be a sweet gesture from a lover? To know your needs, and meet you in the middle. You basically met a match made in heaven with him years ago.

What went wrong?

“I can’t believe you still have that shirt,” Younghyun points out. He pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them tight. He’s trying to look so small, innocent.

It’s funny, you think, and recall the nights he convinces you to be the big spoon for once. His sturdy frame was difficult for your arms to gather in one warm embrace, but whenever you tried he never complained. And it was nice.

You try to regain focus, and look down at the shirt you’re wearing. The print has faded so much that anyone who didn’t know its history wouldn’t have guessed what words were imprinted on it originally. But you do, and for a moment you thought you had forgotten— or at least, actively erased from your mind.

But this shirt has always made you feel like you have a sense of connection to this world, to a person you once held in your arms.

“I can’t believe we had Dowoon design that logo before. Nobody really told us how it really looked,” Younghyun chuckles in the night air, temperature going up a few degrees.

It wasn’t hot, you weren’t bothered, it was just… right.

And suddenly, you remember what he’s talking about. Because you were there, and you were this close to dropping the truth onto them that yes, it’s hideous, no one will buy your merch, but the grin on their faces and the spark of excitement in the room was too huge to disrupt. You then convinced yourself that yes, their fans won’t mind, they love you for your music. They love you for you.

You were supposed to love Younghyun for who he is.

“I liked it— eventually,” you admit and Younghyun raises an eyebrow. Defending yourself before he gets a say, you add, “It’s a sort of charm you and the others had. Up and coming in the scene, innocent boys singing their hearts out because you have nothing better to do.”

“Hey now, I was in college with you. I had midterms literally the day after our first official gig,” Younghyun corrects you lightly, and you do remember that. You’re starting to remember it all, like a kaleidoscope of days, weeks, and years through Younghyun’s starry eyes.

You don’t realize the barrier has begun to shatter until you feel the heat of his hands hovering over yours.

“What is it? Tell me, please. Tell me what’s on your mind,” you hear him say repeatedly. He has even moved so much closer to you, his hands grasping yours the way you held the bottle of whisky for nights on end.

He holds you like he cares, like he doesn’t want for you to disappear. For a second time.

“I let you go. I let you go, and now I’m left with nothing but haunted memories of you. Of us,” you sob into him, the sturdiness of his body keeping you from shaking terribly.

Younghyun wraps his arms around you, the way he would when you fell asleep waiting for him late at night on the weekends. Younghyun cradles your fragile figure within his tight embrace, the same way he’d tuck you in bed when fatigue overcomes your system. Even when he’s tired himself, even when he’s on a tightrope of his own priorities— he made you his first.

But you didn’t want that, you knew that wasn’t good for him, his career. The peak of his fame alongside friends he’s known as family for so long would be right around the time you decided to move to a different city and pursue your own passion.

There was no way it’d work. You’d be too far away from their studio, his and his bandmates’ apartment, the company building, everything. Everything Younghyun built from the ground up with his talent, his opportunistic mind, his own purpose in life.

The visits happened less often, the calls coming in at hours you couldn’t accommodate for anymore. People flock to him, and it’s the sort of crowd you flinch at, disassociate yourself with, it’s not who you want to be.

But it was Younghyun’s, and you loved him so much to take that away from him.

And yet, in the place you’ve buried yourself deep; hours away from where you once lived with Younghyun, months after the dreaded decision you falsely stood your ground for. He’s here, with you.

Does he still love you now?

“Don’t think too much right now, okay? You worry your pretty face with all your troubled thoughts like that,” Younghyun reassures you softly. If you had the strength to react to his superfluous words, you’d do so just like before. But exhaustion overcomes you— from the drinking, the sobbing, and the weight of your guilt draping over Younghyun’s shoulders as he embraces you even further.

You don’t deserve such warmth, such tender love, you hurt him. He can’t love you after that.

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” Younghyun shakes his head, ruffling your hair next to his face. He lets you go for half a second, and before you know it his hands are secured around your waist again. You don’t protest, but your eyes seem mesmerized by the way his demand you to see him.

“I’m sorry,” he shares your words, “for not coming sooner.”

The next sunrise doesn’t sting you in the eyes this time. This time, you fall asleep without nightmares accompanying you in bed. And this time, you wake up to what seems like a beloved past of yours. But it’s not, it’s the next day, and Younghyun stayed.

You let him.

#young k scenarios #young k x reader #young k imagines #day6 scenarios #day6 imagines #by:jiae

36 notes · View notes