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sunny-sings-sooth · 3 years

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Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

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Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

#Apollo #apollon #apollo deity #greek mythology #greek gods #greek myth #daphne

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stagkingswife · 2 years

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2 and 20 for the ask game! ^^

2) What draws you to your gods? What do you like about them?

I’ll be honest here, as much as I dislike the language of “calling” that is often used to describe why people pick the entities they do, but it really is the best word for how I feel. I don’t think my gods “called” to me necessarily, I use “calling” here more like how some people describe their careers as a calling. I was chosen sure, but like how one gets chosen to do a job. I had the right skills, knowledge, personality, etc that at some point Oisin decided to pick me to do this work he needed on behalf of his family.

I love how old they all feel, even Wren who presents as a child. I’ve had encounters and relationships with a lot of entities in my 25 years, and The Forgotten Ones are the most ancient entities I have ever felt. So returning them and bolstering them with my worship feels like an act of preservation. I also love how much they clearly love one another, they are clearly a close knit family. Despite the hardships they may have gone through that lead to their fracturing they all put the rest before themselves.

20) List a few deities you worship and associate each with a quote you think represents them best

I hope you’re prepared for a lot of lyrics from musicals and quotes from fantasy novels…

Drove: “Even gods understand that a shepherd can’t neglect the sheep. A god who didn’t understand would not be a god worth believing in.” Terry Pritchett - Wee Free Men

Amaranth: “Try to remember a time of September when grass was green and grain was yellow.” The Fantasticks - Try to Remember

Clovis: “Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.” Sunday in the Park With George - Finishing the Hat

Flint: “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination.” Albert Einstein

Axe: “I love not eh bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” - JRR Tolkien - The Two Towers.

Pesse: “Feel her bow rise free of mother sea, in a sunburst cloud of spray. It stings the cheek while the rigging will speak of sea miles gone away.” Stan Rogers - Bluenose

Or - “foam is white and waves are grey, beyond the sunset leads my way.“ Bilbo’s Last Song

Skelly: “Out of what we live and we believe, our lives become the story that we weave.” Once On This Island - Why We Tell the Story

Vega: “Are you lookin' for the moon? Would you dance with her tonight? Would you chase across the shadows as she goes slippin' out of sight? Leavin' common sense behind you for a joy that ends so soon, Rushin' through the forest blind, never knowin' what you'll find” Tom Paxton - Looking for the Moon

Wren: “Well, what you get does the wind talk? What nationality is the storm? What country do the rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does the thunder go when it dies?” Ray Bradbury - Something Wicked This Way Comes

And I tried sooooo hard to find quote, or lyrics, or anything I liked to reflect Oisin and Brona, but I think I am too close to those two, too lost in their vastness to pick one aspect or facet to capture in a quote. I tired, but I kept finding additional quotes for the others by accident.

From the polytheist ask meme.

#the returning #the forgotten ones #ask stag stuff #ask box meme

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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Title: Cold As Ice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Fae!Yandere!Todoroki/Reader

Synopsis: Todoroki, the King of the Fae, seems to have lost his vulnerable, helpless, idiotic little mortal. He's as displeased as you'd expect, and he does plan to make his anger known.

TW: Graphic Violence, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Animal Death, and Imprisonment.

One of Shoto’s greatest pleasures was recalling the spring you’d first met.

Parts of it were true. Fae couldn’t lie, but they could omit, and he never failed to find a new detail to leave out whenever he recalled the months he’d spent in the mortal world. He told his court of the weeks you’d spent attending to his wounds and soothing his pain, or the charming cottage you shared and how quaint human civilization had become, since his last visit. With a small smile, he would speak of the livestock you’d tasked him to feed and the herbs you’d mixed into your tea, creating a concoction his fleet of servants could never seem to replicate. His favorite memory was the kiss you’d shared when he was finally healed, before he departed to return to his mysterious ‘homeland’. He loved you, and you loved him in return. It was something out of a fairytale, for him.

He didn’t tell them of the translucent blood that stained your hands for days after you freed him from the thawing ice, or the strange symbols he drew in the snow until it dissolved under the warmth of the spring sun. He never saw fit to mention the mare he beheaded, whose organs he carved out and jarred and kept in your pantry, if only to remind you of your companion’s slaughter. He wanted to make you seem like a willing partner. A sweet mortal who didn’t know better than to love a fae, a soulmate born into the wrong world. But, soulmates didn’t have to be held down to be kissed. They didn’t have to be threatened into returning their admirer’s affections. They didn’t have to be dragged into a land they did not know and thrown at the feet of a man they did not love. They should not hate their lover, not as you hate Shoto.

They should not run as soon as they’re given the chance to.

Shoto thought you preferred him to death. That was his mistake, his underestimation. He thought, if you were given the option of throwing yourself from the window of your tall, lonely tower, you’d be more scared of the inevitable injury that would entail than spending another day in your captor’s company. Now, with a hand clasped to the numb, throbbing shoulder that’d broken your fall and the bare soles of your feet beating harshly against the frozen ground, you thanked whichever gods were listening for his assumption. The forest, with all its winding roots and outstretched branches, was your safe-haven, the brisk air filling you with a sense of freedom, of strength. You weren’t sure how to get back to the human plane, not without magic, but a damp, dark cave would be a sanctuary compared to Shoto and all his fineries. You would be content with misery, as long as you were the one to choose it.

But, it was a hopeful dream. Already, you could hear the crack of hooves against soil, the soft footfalls of those agile enough to chase after you without a mount. This was just another hunt, to them, and you were an animal to be tracked and captured, to be skinned for your fur and declawed and thrown back into the wild because they thought that was better than putting you out of your suffering. Your revenge came in the form of boredom, in how easy you were to catch, in the refusal to indulge their desire for clever prey. Rather, you ran blindly, searching for a hole to hide inside of, a frozen lake their horses wouldn’t be able to follow you across. Simple methods, but fool-proof ones. Strategies even you wouldn’t be able to blunder.

A woman called out, a bird of prey screeched, and you spotted a knock in a barren cliffside, a deep hollow in an overlap of rock. It would be a tight fit, but if you held your breath and worked quickly, you might be able to find your way inside. You’d almost overlooked it in your panic. Surely, if you were quiet enough--

You never got a chance to finish that thought. Without warning, a gust of ice-cold wind washed over you, and something sharp and burning embedded itself in the back of your calf, your knees buckling as soon as the arrow found its mark. You collapsed, catching yourself with your injured arm out of instinct and screaming as a bright, primal burst of pain etched itself into your bones, your flesh, your being. But, that didn’t stop the hilt of your aggressor’s sword from colliding with the nape of your neck, cutting the sound short and sending you back to the ground. You didn’t try to catch yourself, this time.

With some effort, you roll yourself onto your side, gritting your teeth and tilting your head back to state up at the two faeries who surround you. Your found the woman first, a knight with a sword at her hip and a small, tight-lipped scowl. Yaoyorozu, the leader of the hunt, her hair darker than the night sky and her skin pale enough to put the falling snow to shame. A beauty, like all her kin, almost human if you looked beyond her swirling eyes and the pointed tips of her ears and nails. You had to remind yourself that she was one of the reasons for your current vulnerability.

Beside her was Shoto, a bow slung over his shoulder and an arrow missing from his impeccable quiver. His expression did little to betray him, all regal neutrality and flawless perfection, but his anger was present in his wings, outstretched and taunt behind him, in his white-knuckled grip on his chosen weapon. You met his eyes, and in a moment, his hand was around the shaft of another arrow, ready to send it through your chest with little more than a flick of his wrist. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped it, a fleeting look of self-scrutiny and pity passing across his expression. You could try to convince yourself that it’d been a reflex, that he didn’t truly want to be more destructive than he had to be, but you’d be lying if you tried to say there wasn’t the slightest hint of hesitation. Just another sign that his generosity wasn’t the reason for his delicacy.

He simply didn’t want to break his newest toy so quickly.

Yaoyorozu spoke first, addressing her ruler rather than her prisoner. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been treated as more than an extension of your captor. “I can call the others,” She said, her gaze flickering vaguely over the blood pooling underneath you. “We’ll need a healer if you want your pet to walk without a limp. I didn’t think to bring one, but the castle isn’t far.”

“I’ll handle it,” He replied, kneeling beside you. So close, you could make out the thin lines running through his translucent wings, flowers of ice and glass that deserved a better place to bloom. The corner of his left-most wing was scarred over, burnt to a leathery crisp, not unlike the matching scar over his nearest eye. In the back of your mind, you fantasized about what it would be like to rip them from his back, to crush thin skin and impossible formations in the palm of your hand and render him as flightless as yourself. Shoto chose to pretend he didn’t know what you were thinking about. “This is my responsibility. Gather your pack and have a medic waiting for when I return.” He paused, letting his temper flare with a narrow-eyed glance in your direction. “You shouldn’t have to rush, I intend to take my time.”

Yaoyorozu bit the inside of her cheek, but she didn’t protest. Rather, she nodded, bowing her head as she turned, following her footprints back into the tangled woods. As soon as she’d disappeared into the darkness, Shoto took the time to sigh, to glare properly the next time he bothered to face you. His bow fell to the ground, abandoned and forgotten. You weren’t particularly concerned. He had a dozen more waiting to be used on something helpless and disobedient.

“You humiliated me,” He started, his hand drifting to your injury, freeing his arrow before a gloved thumb drove itself into the open wound, his touch as agonizing as a hot iron rod against unprotected skin. You had to fight not to lash out, to condemn yourself to a fate worse than momentary discomfort. There was still a knife sheathed at his belt, and you could only be thankful he hadn’t thought to use it. “I trusted you to go without restraints, to go without guards, and the first thing you think to do is prove to my subjects that my lover would rather risk death than be with me. Tell me, does that sound like behavior I should reward?”

You didn’t answer. Your arm was going numb, equal parts due to the fracture and the chill, and you couldn’t tell him anything he wanted to hear. That’s what it came down to, in the end. How you could make Shoto happy, even if he claimed to be willing to return the favor.

He shook his head, pulling away from your wound and taking up your chin. His hold wasn’t tight, nor did he make an effort to force you into a submission more demeaning than your current surrender, but those small shows of grace were nullified by the feeling of your own warm blood beginning to stain your skin. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

You didn’t have to think. You barely had to open your mouth. As soon as your lips parted, the words were already falling from your tongue, a blunt, shallow river of things you knew you’d regret. Things Shoto would make you regret. “Eat shit and die. You can impale yourself on your own crown, for all I care.”

His frown barely wavered. There was a beat of silence, an idle evaluation of your current state, but his disdain was never vocalized. He didn’t bother to. He didn’t have to.

You didn’t see his hand move, not before the grip of his knife was making contact with the back of your head, your vision going black before pain had a chance to follow.

Your contempt for the Winter Court was the only thing that rivaled your loathing for Shoto.

It was a place of joyless, merciless conduct, of cruel smiles and stone painted with gore, although the colorless blood of fae rendered the violence a sightless affair. Two guards were flanked at your sides, but neither dared to look at you, staring straight ahead as they opened the massive oak doors of Shoto’s throne room. The quiet was heavy, tense, but you didn’t attempt to make conversation, not as the panels of wood slid away and a narrow carpet came into view, a rich navy to guide all newcomers to the elevated stage on the otherwise of the room. He could’ve easily come to you, sent a servant to alert him when you awoke or been waiting there himself, but he wanted a show. He wanted you to grovel at his feet, and he wanted his subjects to see you do it.

Oftentimes, you wished you’d been taken by a member of the Summer Court. You wished you’d never been taken at all, of course, but you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would like to exist in a land without ice and sleet and stares that are only barely concealed. You’d visited their valley once or twice with Shoto, and although they weren’t any less wicked than their cold-blooded counterparts, they hid their malicious intent under charms and spells and tricks, traps that kept their victims rooted out of delusion rather than fear. It’d be a deceptive fate, but compared to the reality of the Winter Court, it couldn’t be unpleasant. If Shoto could simply invoke your name when he craved control, you wouldn’t be favoring your right leg over your left as you dragged yourself down the well-tread pathway.

There were sneers from the stands as you passed by, harsh whispers of rumors and tales that were just untrue enough to burn at their tongues as they spoke. You tried not to pay them any mind, but it was difficult. Your latest ‘betrayal’, as Shoto had put it, would only fuel their distaste for their ruler’s mortal partner. Perhaps if you were something else, they’d be entranced. If you were an abnormality or a beast or something dangerous, you’d be able to do more than run and make noise and disobey rules they hadn’t thought not to follow. But, you were human, so you were boring. A feral mutt whose tricks had long-since grown old.

You came to a stop in front of Shoto’s throne, a massive structure of silver and velvet and ornate carvings of every woodland animal you could imagine. You didn’t attempt to meet his eyes, only dropping to one knee, assuming the position he’d force you into, if you didn’t fall into on your own. You didn’t speak, though, letting Shoto greet you with a tone so stoic, you had to wonder whether this was a punishment or an execution. “How are your injuries?”

“I’ll live, unfortunately,” You replied, under your breath, rolling your shoulder back, making an effort not to wince. You didn’t want to show weakness, not when he was already so far above you. “The healers say I’ll need a few days to recover fully. That won’t interfere with…” You trailed off, your eyes flickering around the courtroom. Searching for any sign of a looming threat. “That won’t interfere with what you have planned, will it?”

He huffed, a small pout pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he accepted the announcement without further argument, leaning back and letting his chin come to rest on a closed fist. With his free hand, he gestured for you to come closer, an indolent wave barely worth the energy it took to execute. Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet, only pausing when Shoto tapped his thigh. Disappointment washed over you, but any shock was minimal. If he couldn’t have his revenge, then your shame would serve as a consolation prize.

You clung to your last scraps of dignity, keeping your expression stern and your posture rigid, but Shoto freed you of that with an arm around your waist, dragging you into his lap, your side soon flush against his chest and your back pressed against his armrest, your legs left to tangle with his. He was quick to deflate, to melt into you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, the affection intimate and sickeningly underserved. The tips of sharpened teeth brushed against your skin, but thankfully, abstained from taking root. The last thing you wanted was another wound to fret over. “Can’t you bring me the smallest relief?” He asked, chilled breath washing over your skin, earning a shudder. “An apology, words of remorse, a purpose, anything. I don’t want to be bitter with you, beloved. Any sign that you care for me is a sign I’ll take to heart.”

He sounded exhausted, exasperated. You attempted not to let his disposition faze you, keeping your gaze fixed on the furthest stone wall. “My words would bring you no comfort,” You muttered, more to reassure yourself than to convince him. “There’s nothing I can say to quell your anger. You saw what I did, and you know why I did it. An excuse would only frustrate you.”

You felt him grit his teeth, his hold around you tightening. His wings flickered before resuming their trained motionlessness. “You have no reason to despise me--”

“I have every reason.” You didn’t wait for him to finish, nor did you have any interest in letting him. This was a dance you’d practiced many times, a song you could identify from a single note. You would sing along, but you wouldn’t let Shoto act as if you’d never done so before. He didn’t deserve your patience. “I’m a prisoner here, Todoroki, I’m your prisoner. You provide for me, and I understand that you think you’re being kind, but no amount of luxury can make this place my home. I don’t belong here, I’m…” You were different. You were alien. You were lesser. “I’m not meant to be here. I’m not meant to be with you.”

Early on in your captivity, you’d convinced one of Shoto’s servants to smuggle an iron knife into your chambers, the weapon forged in the human world and stolen from a fae noble with questionable intentions. When Shoto next visited you, letting his guard down in favor of rambling on about his day and the ongoings of his court, you’d driven the dagger blindly into his chest over and over and over again, only stopping when one of his knights dragged you off of his limp body. You didn’t have to say it’d been useless. Cold Iron was effective on most creatures, but you’d need something much stronger to kill a fae as powerful as Shoto, whose veins took the shape of snowflakes and whose wrath bunt with the heat of glowing embers. The servant was killed by sunset and your knife was melted down into two nails, both of which were then driven into your heels as retribution. You hadn’t been able to walk for a month, but Shoto told you time and time again that he was being lenient, that was being merciful. You’d believed him. The fire in his eyes had nearly been enough to melt his frozen heart.

Compared to his current rage, his fury back then seemed like child’s play.

“A prisoner, you see yourself as a prisoner,” He spat, pointed talons biting into your hip, cutting through fabric and skin and drawing blood before he thought to stop. “I’ve never asked anything of you. I gave you a castle, beautiful clothes, a life befitting divinity, and you say you feel like a prisoner just because I urge you to tolerate me in return.” He paused, scoffing, letting out a breathy, humorless laugh before he went on. “If you’re a prisoner, you’re a rather coddled one. That’s my fault, isn’t it? How can I expect you to learn your place when I treat you like a lapdog?”

“That’s not what I meant,” You responded, hastily, avoiding his question. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m only trying to--”

“You’re trying to earn your discipline, apparently,” He warned, nearly snarling against your shoulder. His fingers found their way to your hair, taking you by the scalp and jerking you backward, just far enough to allow him to glare, to bare his teeth and growl. “I’ve kept you safe. I’ve let you live in leisure because I wanted to believe your pathetic human mind would let you be motivated by gratitude, rather than fear. I can see that allowing you to love me on your own terms isn’t an option, anymore.” He wretched you upward, forcing you to straighten your back, a pitiful whimper escaping from your lips before you could suppress it. “If you think you’re a prisoner, then I’d be more than happy to treat you like a prisoner. It’d be a shame not to give you what you’ve been begging for, wouldn’t it?”

You moved to argue, to apologize, to do whatever would sway Shoto’s resolve, but by the time you opened your mouth, he was already calling over his guards, metal gauntlets soon clamped around your forearm and your shoulder, ready to dispose of you at the slightest omen of their King’s will. Shoto only leaned back, watching as you lost your composure, as you panicked. He didn’t yell, nor did he lecture you further, but as always, his rage found a way to make itself known, if only in the grin that ghosted across his lips. Satisfied and decided. The smile of a man pushed to the edge and far too prepared to push back.

The smile a monster, finally ready to devour its prey.

“This might be a change for the better.” His tone was one of sterile contentment, a serenity that ran deeper than his voice could ever portray. You had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to shake him, again, not so easily.

You had a feeling he wouldn’t give you the chance to, again.

“You might finally come to see how loving I’ve been, when you’re stripped of my favor.”

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simplyswooningk · 3 years

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Fanfiction Teaser: The Strategist| Coming April 2021 to FF.net and A03 | Chapter One, “The Professor & The Madman”

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Ron and Hermione

Premise: Begins Post Half-Blood Prince. “Wars are not for children,” Arthur said with a deep sigh.

“It’s a good thing I’m not a kid anymore, isn’t it, Dad?”

The Strategist

“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”-J.R.R Tolkien

“The Minstrel-Boy to the War has gone! In the ranks of death, you will find him. His father’s sword he hath girded on and his wild harp slung behind him. ‘Land of song,’ said the warrior-bard, ‘Though all the world betrays thee. One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard. One faithful harp shall praise thee.’”-Thomas Moore

One:

The Professor & The Madman

Ronald Weasley had never seen Hogwarts so silent. The place seemed frozen, stuck, dead. He shuddered at his train of thought. It had been barely an hour since Albus Dumbledore, largely regarded as the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had ever known, had been laid to rest.

His murderer, Professor Snape, was gone, had left like the ruddy coward he was along with the rest of the Death Eaters. Snape had never been anywhere near Ron’s favorite teacher, but he never could have imagined anything like this. To make matters worse, Dumbledore had trusted Snape. That mistake had cost him everything.

Ron found himself sitting on the Quidditch Pitch. It was empty, no one had a thought for Quidditch. The days of worrying about his Keeper abilities and how to pass his N.E.W.T.S seemed as far away as his life before Hogwarts.

His parents were catching up with old friends, but they had announced that they would be leaving in two hours, his mother was especially was eager for him and Ginny to be at home. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he wouldn’t be staying long.

Dumbledore had given Harry Potter a mission. You Know Who had a secret, several of them it seemed, and they had to find them all and destroy them. Horcruxes.

He, Harry and Hermione Granger were setting off a mission to find and destroy each of those Horcruxes. Seven of them. Two had already been dispensed. And one would only be gone when He Who Must Not Be Named popped his clogs for good.

Apparently, they could be anything. One they knew about. It was the locket of Slytherin. But who knew where they would find that?

And then there was this mysterious R.A.B character who had somehow stolen the locket. No one had the foggiest idea who he was. So, they were heading headlong into disaster without a clue as to what to do.

He honestly shouldn’t have been surprised. After his first year at Hogwarts, having to deal with a giant, living chess set and then a murderous diary, a violent tree and a killer snake in his second had pretty much taught him to be prepared for anything.

There was a part of him that wanted to just go home. A part of him that wanted spend a quiet summer at home, go to Hogwarts for his seventh year and start life in the real world.

But he knew he was kidding himself. With Dumbledore gone and You-Know-Who gaining ground every second, if they didn’t end it, there wouldn’t be a real world. So, he would fight. There was nothing to do but fight. He knew Hermione felt the same way, but if he could’ve kept her away from it all, he would. More than anything, he wanted to keep her safe.

Harry had disappeared somewhere off with Ginny, and although he had had his reservations about their relationship, there were far worse guys for his only sister to date. Although she couldn’t have picked a more troublesome bloke.

Then again, Ginny had always liked trouble. She'd be coming back to school next year. Ron couldn’t imagine what Hogwarts would be like without Dumbledore.

He looked up to the window where the old Headmaster’s office had been. It was hard to imagine anyone else ever being there.

Hs eyes fell to the window where Potions class was. Snape had taught there, pretending that he wasn’t a Death Eater, pretending that he could be trusted. The whole thing made him want to vomit and then punch something.

And then he thought of Slughorn. He apparently had written a fucking book for Voldemort: How To Make A Horcrux: A Guide for Fucking Demented Psychopaths. His mother had often told him that not all Slytherins were evil, but the whole lot of them seemed to be nothing but trouble.

But then again, if he’d wrote the book, he might have the answers.

He made his way back into the castle, grabbed the Marauder's Map from Harry’s trunk and searched for Slughorn’s name. He was in a part of the castle Ron had never ventured. But there was no time for trepidation now.

He made his way to the Teacher’s Wing. He found himself outside Slughorn’s quarters. He knocked, but there was no answer. Normally, he would’ve turned away, but it was no time to waste on civilities.

He walked in. “Professor? Professor Slughorn?”

He heard some shuffling about and he instantly reached for his wand. These days, no one could be too careful.

“Oh, Mr. Wemby!” Ron fought the urge not to roll his eyes. This man literally had taught generations of his entire fucking family and he couldn’t remember his last name. It wasn’t as if they all bore a strong family resemblance and had the same hair color.

Oh, wait a second, it was.

What made it worse was that he’d nearly died because of Slughorn and a box of Love Potion-tainted chocolate cauldrons.

“How are you, my boy? Avoiding more poisonings, I hope?”

“Doing my best, sir,” Ron said with a smile. “If I might have a word?”

“Certainly, my boy,” said the aged professor and Ron noted that he took a rather pointed look at his hourglass. “Although I am in quite of a hurry.”

“You’re leaving Hogwarts?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t dare. Now, with everything that’s happened. You-Know-Who will come for this place, I guarantee you. Someone will have to help watch over the students. No, I was just heading down to the greenhouses. With Death Eaters knocking on every corner, there’s a couple of plants that I should like to have on hand.”

Ron nodded and squared his shoulders. “Well, I won’t take up too much of your time, sir. Sir, I’m aware of what you gave Harry about...You-Know-Who.”

Ron watched the professor’s face go white. “Sir, believe, I’m not here to give you a hard time about it,” he said quickly. “I just want your help with something.”

Professor Slughorn’s back straightened. "I've already given Harry everything.” His voice was stiff and dismissive, but Ron didn’t have time to get upset.

“I know. But I was just wondering, is there anything else you know that might be helpful. You see, Harry’s going to try and destroy all of the Horcruxes. That’s right, he did make Horcruxes, sir. Six of them, apparently. I'm going with Harry. Me and Ms. Granger. Is there anything you know that may be able to help us? Anything about Horcruxes, anything about You-Know-Who. Dumbledore said you were his favorite teacher.”

The professor scoffed. “Ah yes, my claim to fame. The favorite teacher of the Darkest Wizard our world has ever known. What a nice epithet that will be, I’m sure. Of course, Harry would go for the Horcruxes. He’s Dumbledore’s man through and through.” Slughorn turned thoughtful for a moment. “That may not always be a good thing, mind you. Sit down, Weatherby.”

Ron did as he was told.

“I really shouldn’t tell you much,” the professor began. “It would be quite... well, I suppose none of that will even matter.” He sighed and Ron thought he was looking at a man who was clearly at war with himself.

“I’ve often thought about that night, the night I told him about some of the darkest magic known to Wizarding kind. I believed his curiosity natural, admirable. How wrong I was. The first thing you ought to know is that none of the items will be insignificant. They'll be things that were important to him. But they’ll also be things considered magically significant. He likes power, he like things connected with the past. Dumbledore—,” his voice caught briefly as he mentioned the old Headmaster, “may have told you as much. And his favorite place is this school. It is the only place he ever felt at home.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Do you think one of the objects is here, sir?”

“Well, there could be no better hiding place, could there?”

“Sir, do you know how to destroy one?”

Slughorn sighed. “I have never learned the spell to create one. But a good wizard is curious about such things. But only curious. What I can tell you is that making horcruxes is not an easy business, my boy. Destroying them is far, far worse. There's only a couple of things in the world that can do so and most of them will kill a wizard just as easily. Basilisk venom, for one. I don’t think I need to tell how hard that is to come by. And no, I haven’t got any. If I did, I'd give it to you. There’s also Fiendfyre. It’ll destroy the Horcrux but if you’re not careful, it’ll take you right out with it. And then there is a Potion.”

“A Potion?”

Slughorn nodded. “Horcruxes, my boy, can be anything. Including flesh and blood. Now normally, you’d just kill the living thing and the Horcrux inside it right along with it. But, if for some reason, you want to remove the Horcrux without killing the host, there is a potion for that.”

Slughorn got up from his chair and walked back to a cupboard, shuffling about for a moment before picking out a small vial with a reddish-black liquid. He brought it back to the table and handed it to Ron.

“This is Actuscaria. It's one of the rarest potions in the world. It's incredibly tricky to make and it has about a thousand different uses, one of them is destroying Horcruxes inside of living things.”

Ron looked at the potion, fascinated, more fascinated than he’d ever been by a potion before. “How does it do that, sir?”

“Actuscaria can only be made by love.”

Ron looked at the professor, blue eyes clouded with confusion.

“As in the act of love.” Ron still looked perplexed. “As in making it, Mr. Weasley.”

Understanding dawned in Ron’s eyes, he turned bright red and eyed the bottle curiously. He was so fascinated that he didn’t realize that Slughorn finally got his blasted name right.

“But not just any act of love Mr. Weasley, the first act of love. To put it into frankly, the potion is made from the blood of a virgin witch.” Ron turned even redder, but if Slughorn noticed, he didn’t let on.

“The blood that is shed during the act of deflowering.” Ron blushed again, this time the color of a ripe tomato. “Also, the blood has to be combined with the seed of the wizard who has deflowered her. Given that she has been deflowered, this combination happens rather naturally. Also, you need the entire fingernail of each of their left hands. Combine that with three drops of phoenix tears, brewed in a cauldron made from dragon’s eggs and the fire lit only with elm wood for eight days and seven nights. But the most important part of this is that the witch and wizard must be in love. Not some childish, silly infatuation, but truthfully, truly in love or it will not work. Horcruxes are formed by murder, a violation against nature. But the act of love, true love at its purest is the very affirmation of nature. It’s Old Magic, you see, nothing more powerful. Guard it, Mr. Weasley, with your life. Even if you never have cause to use it, it’s worth five times its weight in gold.”

Ron reached out a slightly trembling hand to grasp the potion. It seemed so unremarkable, so ordinary. It didn’t look revolting like Polyjuice or deadly like Night of the Living Death.

“Thank you, Professor...for everything,” Ron said, standing up. “I’ll need to finish packing.”

Professor Slughorn nodded and Ron began to walk away. Right before, he reached the door, he turned around.

“Professor, is there anything, anything else at all that you can tell me?”

The aged potions master looked up from his desk. “Yes. Godspeed, my boy. Godspeed.”

Ron nodded. That wasn’t terribly helpful but he knew he meant well. Which considering the circumstances, was probably the most anyone could do.

“Mr. Weasley,” the professor called out before Ron had reached the back of the classroom. “Before you go, if you have a moment, feel free to take whatever you’d like from the Potions Storeroom. If you’re going to try and stop...him, you never know what you may need.”

Ron nodded and with one final farewell, he left the Good Professor to ponder that one fateful conversation. Ron had learned this year how much damage one action could cause.

As he headed back to Gryffindor Tower, he thought of everything the Professor had told him. Was it possible He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had hidden a Horcrux at Hogwarts? He didn’t pretend to know how the psycho thought, he left that up to Harry.

But if you were going to hide something you never wanted anyone to find, where else would you hide it?

He arrived in the Gryffindor common room, which was all but deserted. Hermione was sitting on the couch her legs propped up on her trunk, clearly deep in thought.

He was supposed to meet his parents and Ginny in the Great Hall in a hour and a half. Hermione would be coming with them and then taking the Floo Network back to her house.

She looked sad, she looked worried. She looked beautiful. All he wanted to do was hold her.

It hadn’t been the best year for their friendship. Theirs had always been a friendship of push and pull. But the past year, there wasn’t any pushing, only pulling away.

He honestly didn’t know where it had all gone wrong. Okay, so he did.

Jealousy, immaturity, insecurity, Ginny’s goading, Lavender’s sudden attention, Quidditch fears and Quidditch glory; it had been a toxic cocktail.

They were back on good terms finally. Near death experiences tended to make people forget pettiness. It was nice to know that they could never really be angry with each other. He never doubted her being there when it counted. He hoped she thought the same.

But that was part of the problem...he didn’t know what she thought...of him. He could read her moods like the back of his hand, could tell when she was angry, moody, stressed. He knew how to piss her off like nobody else. But he hadn’t quite worked out how to make her happy.

He had just begun to realize that was what he wanted to do, possibly, probably, definitely more than he wanted anything else.

Denial had long been his picked poison when it came to his feelings for Hermione, but now, now he didn’t want to hide them anymore. But there were a million reasons he had to.

There were a lot of things unsaid. It didn’t make sense to say them now, not when the whole world was at stake. If they lived, there would be time to say it all. But of course, that was a very big if.

“Hey,” she said with the smallest of smiles. He returned her smile and came to sit beside her.

“Where’s Ginny?” he asked. “Mum and Dad are going to be in Hogsmeade in an hour.”

“She’s down at Hagrid’s...with Harry. I think she wants to spend as much time with as she can.”

Ron nodded and then shook his, not needing that particular image in his head. Harry had been his best friend for the better part of six years, but still there were just some things one didn’t want to imagine about their little sister.

“How are you?” he asked. “I mean, really?”

Hermione shrugged. “Fair,” she responded. “It’s a lot to do. A lot to plan. I’ll be coming to the Burrow next week.”

“So soon?” he asked. Not that he minded. But Hermione usually didn’t come to the Burrow until the last week of summer.

“Yes,” she said rather quickly and he got the distinct feeling that there was something she wasn’t saying. “Is that all right?” she asked, brown eyes searching his.

He turned red. “Of course. Of course, it’s all right. I just thought that maybe with everything that’s going on, you’d want to spend more time at home...with your folks.”

Hermione shrugged. “With everything that’s going on, I'd love to never leave home. But that’s not really an option, is it? No use in prolonging the inevitable.”

“Have you thought of what you’re going to tell them?”

Hermione didn’t answer for a long moment and then just shook her head. “I don’t know how to have that conversation. But in any event, have you thought of what you’re going to tell Mrs. Weasley? That's the real dangerous one, isn’t it?”

Ron, despite his worry and trepidation, laughed. “You’re right about that one,” he said with a grin. She grinned back and for a moment, everything was okay.

“We’ll be okay, Hermione,” he told her with confidence he couldn’t quite justify.

She scoffed slightly. “You sound certain.”

“Well, you’re coming, aren’t you?”

She smiled, the first one he could remember seeing that reached her eyes in a long while. Then he remembered his conversation with Slughorn.

“I went to speak to Slughorn,” he said. “To see if he knew anything that could help us.”

Hermione frowned at that. “Ron, we’re not supposed to tell anyone! You could put him in danger.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Hermione, for Merlin’s sake, Harry already told him something. And in case you didn’t notice, all of us are already in fucking danger.”

Hermione bit her lower lip and exhaled loudly, the way she always did when he was correct and she didn’t want to admit it. “Well, what did he say?” she asked finally a long pause.

Ron proceeded to say tell her the gist of his conversation with Slughorn. Although, he left out the part of the instructions for Actuscaria. There were some things he just didn’t feel comfortable talking about. Not with her.

Besides, Hermione being Hermione, she would, at some point, look up the recipe anyway.

“Basilisk venom,” she said once Ron had finished his story. “Where on earth are we going to find Basilisk venom?”

Ron thought for a moment. “I know where. Come on,” he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. They had no time to waste.

He dismissed the way his heart was beating as nerves and anticipation and not having anything to do with the way her hand felt in his. No, that had nothing to do with it at all.

They stood there for the briefest of seconds, hand-in-hand, eyes searching into another and for a second, the never-ending fast-fowarding tape that had been their experience at Hogwarts seemed to pause.

But that moment, like all moments akin to it, ended too quickly.

“We’ve got to hurry,” Ron said blinking rapidly, breaking the intensity of their eye contact.

“You mind telling me where we’re going?” Hermione asked as they raced down the steps of Gryffindor Tower.

“Girls’ lavatory on the second floor.”

“What?” Hermione asked as she ran beside him, their hands still tightly clasped.

“Chamber of Secrets,” he said in a hushed whisper though the halls were nearly deserted.

They got there in record time. Ron had never known it to be so easy to sneak around Hogwarts. Without Dumbledore’s presence, nothing felt safe.

He didn’t like that feeling. Hogwarts’ had been his family’s home from home for centuries. Despite everything he had been through in his six years there, he had never felt truly, truly at risk.

Of course, the Ministry would do everything they could to keep everyone safe. But if he was going to judge by the stories Bill had told him about the early days of the First War, he wasn’t exactly filled with confidence.

But now wasn’t the time for his fears to get the better of him.

He gripped her hand tighter as they entered into the bathroom and found themselves facing the row of sinks.

He felt for the Snake-shaped clasp hidden since Tom Riddle had walked these halls. It felt weird doing this without Harry, he had to admit. But he had a feeling had things were going to get dicey, Harry would need all the help he could get.

“How do we get in?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Parseltongue,” Ron said as he thought back to the last time he’d been there. Parseltongue always sounded creepy and disturbing to him, but Harry mumbled it a lot in his sleep. Ron had only picked up on it subconsciously, but he hoped he had enough not to botch it.

The whispery, slithery words felt unnatural and harsh on his tongue, but it worked. The tap began to move and Hermione gasped in awe.

“Oh, my god,” she whispered as the tunnel to the Chamber of Secrets opened.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to jump,” Ron told her. “You may want to hold on.”

Hermione peered down the tunnel, eyes wide. “Hold on to what?” her voice was highly confused.

“To me,” he said motioning to his shoulders.

“Oh,” a blush crept across her face and Ron pretended he didn’t notice as he fought his own burning cheeks. Her arms wrapped around the top of his chest and he prayed that she couldn’t feel his heart beating, though he knew it was pounding.

Her little hands clasped around him, delicate and dainty but he knew what damage those hands could do. The contrast simultaneously amused and aroused him. But he shook himself of those thoughts. Focus, focus, she’s only a girl.

But of course, even as they jumped down the tunnel, he knew he was kidding himself. She was The Girl. The Girl He Wanted, The Girl He Needed, The Girl He Loved. Love?

It seemed so foreign, yet as they whooshed down the tunnel, he could think of no reason to dispel it. He loved her. When the fuck had that happened?

It was unsettling to be with the notion of love as they were sliding down a dark, creepy dangerous tunnel in preparation of an even more dangerous mission where the best-case scenario was if they won, they most likely be dead as a result.

They slid down the tunnel and Hermione rapped his shoulders tighter as their speed increased.

Ron cast a silent Cushioning Charm because the memory of barreling into hundred thousand mouse skeletons was far from his favorite thing.

They landed with a thud and Hermione’s hands instantly left Ron’s shoulders. He was surprised by how instantly he felt the loss of her touch and how much he longed for it again.

“Oh, my God,” Hermione said as she looked around. There was rubble, dust and ash everywhere.

“We’ll have to bombard our way through,” Ron told her pulling out his wand. “Three tons of rock dropped last time, so let’s be careful.”

Hermione nodded and pulled out her own wand. “I’m right behind you,” agreed with a grin.

He took her hand in his. “If we need to make a quick exit, Side-Long Apparation?”

She nodded and they pressed forward until they reached the Chamber Door.

Another round of Parseltongue from Ron later, the door opened and they found themselves in a room which they had only heard about secondhand from Harry and Ginny.

“Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” Hermione asked as they entered the Chamber.

Ron pulled a look. “Are you serious?” he asked. “Yes, I've spent my free learning the secret language of psychos.”

“Not all Slytherins are evil, Ronald.”

“Name one you like.”

He had her there. She gave no answer and merely shrugged.

They both paused when their eyes fell upon the basilisk skeleton.

“Bloody hell,” whistled Hermione as she took the whole thing in.

“Hey don’t sweat it. It's dead. We’ve got living monsters to worry about. What's that Shakespeare quote you always say, ‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here’?”

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. “I said that once three years ago. You remember that?”

Ron colored slightly and shrugged in reply. “I guess. Let’s get the fangs.”

He started to kneel down, reaching to grab a fang.

“Ron, wait! We should remove those with magic. What if you accidentally scratched yourself?”

Ron had jumped back at her words. “Oh, right. Brilliant, you are.”

She smiled at that and pulled out her wand. They carefully magically removed twelve basilisk fangs from the remains of the vicious snake. Hermione conjured up a backpack for them to place them in.

“You know, Ron,” Hermione said as she zipped up the backpack. “This is going to be really dangerous what we’re doing.”

He nodded, as she rose to stand right in front of him. “Have you thought about it, if we don’t make it?”

She nodded and then shrugged, though he thought he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I have. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? What matter is—,”

“Harry,” he finished for her. “Harry has to make it through. That's what the prophecy said.”

Hermione sniffled. “Harry,” she agreed. “God, if I had known that we may not be coming back next here, that we may not be coming back at all, I would’ve done so much so differently.”

He looked at her for a long moment, wondering if she was talking about what he thought.

He looked down at his shoes. “Me too,” he began rather meekly. He lifted his face to meet hers again and smiled. “I think about all that time I spent worrying about Quidditch. Like that matters now.”

“Ron, I’m sorry about the birds, if I never apologized for that before.”

He grinned. He hadn’t been expecting her to say that. “Thanks,” he said honestly. “I’m sorry about...everything.” Although, he couldn’t remember what he apologizing for. But he figured it was best to cover the bases.

She chuckled lightly. “You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, do you?”

He shook his head, amused by her ability to see right through him. “Not really, no. But I figured it couldn’t hurt. I'm sorry about Lavender.”

She shook her head. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault she fancied you. I just overreacted...a bit.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A bit?”

“All right, a lot. I just I can’t believe you fancied her.”

“Well, I didn’t...I mean not really.”

“Ronald, that’s horrible.”

“I know,” he said somewhat guiltily. “It’s just she fancied me, and I guess I fancied that and before I knew it, it had gotten out of hand. Then you weren’t speaking to me—,”

Hermione scoffed. “Oh, so you were trying to stick it to me by snogging her? Real mature, that is.”

Ron found his ire rising. “Oh, and just what the fucking hell were you doing with McClaggen, then? Research into the mind of right arrogant pricks?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t!”

“Well, I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t....” he trailed off, not wanting to finish that sentence.

But Hermione was having none of that. “If I hadn’t what, Ronald?” she folded her arms and waited and he knew she would wait. Because the only person more stubborn that him was her.

He knew he wasn’t about to admit to rational behavior, which is why he did not want to admit it.

“Ginnyutoldmeukissedkrum,” he said quickly and primarily to the floor.

“What?”

He sighed. He didn’t want to have this conversation. But maybe, just maybe, now wasn’t the time to leave things unsaid.

“Ginny told me you kissed Krum.”

Hermione blinked very fast for a few moments, the way she always did when she was thinking. She looked confused, then she looked agitated, then she looked annoyed. Very annoyed. At him.

“You mean two years ago?” she asked her voice dripping with derision.

His eyes looked at the floor again. “Well...yeah.”

“Let me get this straight: you started snogging Lavender because Ginny told you about me and Viktor?”

“Well, I started snogging Lavender because she started snogging me, but I can’t say that didn’t have something to do with it.”

Hermione shook her head and rolled her eyes. She raked a hand through her hair. “This is all so silly. You could’ve talked to me about that, you know?”

“I can’t talk to you about him,” he said honestly. “It makes me crazy.”

“Why?!” she exploded. “Why does it drive you so mad?”

“Because,” he snapped, just as heated. “Because,” he said somewhat more calmly once he saw the look in her eyes. “I just...it’s the thought of him with you...instead...instead of me.”

He hoped he didn’t look as crestfallen or as foolish as he thought he sounded. But he was sure he saw pity in her expression.

“Oh, Ron,” she said softly. She shook her head again and he knew she was thinking that he was an idiot. “You didn’t even know I was a girl back then.”

He colored. “I did. I knew you were a girl. I just didn’t know back then that you meant something to me...as a girl, you know, not just a friend.”

She blinked and her face lifted in kind of a smile. “It’s all right,” she said. “I understand.”

“You do?” he said, surprised.

She nodded. “I go red with rage when I think about you and Lav-Lav.”

“I noticed,” he said wryly thinking of birds pecking his flesh.

“You know, all this could’ve been avoided if we had only spoken to one another,” she said with a resigned sigh.

He nodded. “You’re right. You're always right.”

“Not always.” She looked

“You know if I had known if we weren’t coming back here next year, if we might not be coming back at all...I would’ve asked you to the Yule Ball. I would've gone to Slughorn’s Christmas Do. But in my defense, I didn’t know you were asking me out.”

She raised her eyebrows, but he didn’t give her a chance to respond.

“I mean maybe I thought or maybe I hoped but it doesn’t matter. The point is if I had known how high the stakes were going to get, I would’ve done a lot of things.” He took a breath, not wanting the moment to pass. “Most of all, I would’ve done this.”

He leaned forward, way, way, way forward, since compared to him, she was practically house-elf sized. He waited for her to stop him, waited for her to push him away or flee from the expanding closeness between them.

In the back of his mind, he didn’t know if he had the right to do this, after all, no admissions of feelings had passed between them. Then again, maybe when you knew each other as well as they did, words were a little less necessary.

He kept leaning until their faces were inches apart. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding dramatically.

His lips brushed against hers, softly, slowly asking a question. He thought he felt her gasp or shiver or something he couldn’t quite name. Her lips were soft and they tasted like honey. He pressed his against her lips harder, asking the question again.

She answered, her lips playing over his in return. God, he was kissing Hermione. And she was kissing him back. It was nothing like those lung-collapsing snog marathons with Lavender. It was soft and sweet and...intimate.

He dared himself to be bold, there was no point in turning back now. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She felt small and frail against him and a wave of protectiveness ran through his veins, barely reined in by his desire to keep kissing her.

Her mouth opened and suddenly her taste was everywhere, on his tongue, in his mind, in his heart. Her hands clasped around his shoulders, bringing him deeper and he heard her moan slightly.

That one, little breathy exhalation went straight to his cock. All the things he wanted to do to her rushed through his brain in a series of flashes. Suddenly his lips were on her neck, chasing the sound that fell from her lips. Her skin was feather-soft against his lips and all he wanted to do was mark it, claim it as his own.

His lips lingered on a spot underneath her chin which caused another raspy moan, louder than the one before to fall from her lips.

Ron felt himself harden, and they were close enough where he knew she could feel it. Something in the back of his mind told him to stop, but he couldn’t. He was addicted to having her in his arms, on his skin, and the sounds and shudders she made as he touched her. His lips sought hers again for another deep, nearly bruising kiss.

His hands began to roam up her waist, she shifted closer to him, her foot kicking the backpack. One of the basilisk fangs fell out and clattered to the ground.

That one sound snapped Hermione back into reality. She pulled her lips away abruptly. Her hands left his shoulders and she moved an inch away.

Ron’s eyes shut open, afraid that he had gone too far, pushed past the limit. He waited for to say something. Waited for the inevitable heartbreak he knew was coming.

“We can’t do this,” she said softly.

He instantly deflated but tried to hide it. “You’re right,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound shaky. “I’m sorry, I should have never. I didn’t mean to...take advantage of you and I can’t blame you if you want to slap me or hex me or send more birds but I've still got scabs from that so if you could lay off—,”

“Ron, what are you talking about?” She looked up at him, confused. “You didn’t take advantage of me.”

They both blushed as the weight of their action sunk in.

“Soooo,” Ron tested the waters. “You don’t want to hex me?”

She laughed softly. “No, no, quite the opposite actually.”

He couldn’t help but beam at that. She placed a hand on his face, cupping his cheek. “We can’t do this...not now,” she quickly amended. “Right now, we don’t matter. The only thing that matters is—,”

“Harry,” interjected Ron. “The only thing that matters right now is Harry. Harry has to make it through.”

She dropped her hand from his face and matching sad, resigned smiles crossed their faces.

“We could die,” Ron said briefly. He wasn’t sad, or even upset about it. He knew it was a fact.

Hermione nodded. “We could. But that really doesn’t matter either, does it?” She shook her, frustration clouding her features. “You know, this year was a waste. When I think that we could’ve just...”

“Spent all year snogging,” Ron suggested for her. No use in beating around the bush anymore

She rolled her eyes. “You did spend half the year snogging.”

Ron shrugged sheepishly. “Well, yeah, but she wasn’t you.” He enjoyed the smile on her face at his words.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not of dying. I’m more scared of what’ll happen if we don’t win. But I was scared of dying before I lived.”

“You’re not anymore?” she seemed surprised.

“Nope,” he said with a rakish grin. “I’ll get to remember the last five minutes for as long as I live. So, if You-Know-Who pops my clogs tomorrow, that’d be all right.”

She laughed. “You’re impossible.”

Ron grinned. “Yes, and you love me.” He had meant it as a joke, it was supposed to be a joke. But she didn’t laugh. She just stared into his eyes for a long pause.

When she did speak, her was clear and earnest. “I do.”

He felt like he’d gotten hit with a Stunning jinx. But then she was staring up at him with her huge brown eyes, a hint of fear at the edges and he realized she was waiting for him to say something.

“I do too,” he said quickly. She smiled and reached for his hand again, their fingers intertwined.

A long, sincere beat passed between the two of them. But it ended all too soon. “So, if we win and we don’t die,” she said an edge of humor. “Can I get one of your Weasley sweaters?”

He laughed. “You can have them all.”

“And your Quidditch jersey?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he said, mockingly scandalized.

They stared at each other again and All Ron wanted to do was kiss her again. He thought she was thinking the same thing too, but she looked away.

“We’ve got to go. Your parents will be ready to leave soon.”

He nodded. She was right. “Yeah, yeah, we should. Oh, I totally forgot. Slughorn said we should go to the Storeroom, pick out whatever we think we may need.”

Hermione went straight into Hermione mode. “Ronald, why didn’t you say so? We haven’t got all day, have we? Let's go!”

She picked up the backpack, shrunk it down and stuck it in her pocket.

“Ronald, come on!” she beckoned him forward and out of the Chamber.

Despite everything, the danger they were in, the uncertainty of the future, and the deranged, powerful psychopath who wanted to destroy everything he held dear, all he could think of was if and when he’d ever kiss her again.

#fanfction #hp #hermione granger #ron weasley #romione #post-hpb #teaser

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yacoka · 3 years

Text

SHOOTING STARS

pairing — yamaguchi tadashi x reader

genre — slightly angstish? but overall fluff I think

beta — @doughnuts-5ever

note(s) — my piece for the to infinity and beyond collab!!

-ˏˋ please reblog if you enjoyed this! ˊˎ-

YEAR ONE

you’re a novice with trembling hands and a shaky stance. the weight of the bow is unforgiving, the string cruel, cutting deep into your fragile skin. the wind blows harshly, and you’re not entirely sure what, nor where the target is. so there you remain, eyes closed and bow drawn, snapped arrows scattered all around.

first days of anything are never easy, not when you’re entering a new phase of life, into a new environment all alone. sometimes it gets eased by the people around you, the friends you make. sometimes it doesn’t.

your first day of highschool stretches on for almost half a year, and you’re still where you’ve started - alone and lonely.

it has never been easy for you to make friends, and it certainly didn’t help you didn’t really know how to. you suppose it’s partly due to the fact that you could never decide on what to say and what time to say it. too many conversations had been killed by your ill-timed inputs, and eventually, you stopped trying.

loneliness is not a foreign companion, and you’d like to think you’ve made good friends with it. but it leans a little too heavy on you, every step takes a little more effort. it wraps its arms around you like a lover, whispering in your ears as you watch the group of teenagers in front of you push each other around, joking and laughing and having fun.

your head dips a little lower and your shoulders slump a little more. it’s just another day; another long, lonely day. you’ll be okay.

or maybe not.

a hard shove has you flying backwards, and you yelp in shock and fear. wide eyes meet yours and a hand reaches out to grab your arm, stabilizing you.

“hinata, you idiot!” a voice rages, and it snaps out of the shock-induced haze you’ve settled into.

“are you alright?” the boy in front of you asks, and you register who exactly it is that’s still holding your hand. his hazel eyes are filled with concern, and you can’t help but get distracted by the stray strand of green hair standing up.

“i- uh, yeah-” you stumble out. the warmth of his hand is distracting, and maybe you’ve been out of touch with talking to people for far too long. “fine.”

he eyes you worriedly, and there’s a moment of hesitation before he nods and lets go of you. “i’m so sorry about my friend, we were just messing around, and it got a little… out of hand.”

“it’s fine,” you shake your head lightly. “i’m okay, it’s-”

“i’m so sorry, are you okay?” another boy jumps right into your face, all pink-faced and messy red hair. “i didn’t mean to run you over, kageyama just bet me i couldn’t run backwards, i’m so sorry-”

he’s yanked back by another boy, this one taller than the previous two. “i’m sorry about this one, he’s lacking a few brain cells tonight.” he shoots you a bland smile before dragging the redhead away, another boy following after them.

“you’re sure you’re fine?” he asks you once more.

“i am, don’t worry,” you smile at him reassuringly. “i should get going, thank you for catching me.” without waiting for his response, you bow quickly, speeding off home.

you know it means nothing to him, but you remember how good it felt to have someone be concerned, to feel like someone cared. it's a fleeting thought, but you thought, just maybe, he could be someone to you.

you’ve only just begun to familiarise yourself with the bow, and you’re a far cry from a perfect shot. you’re still a little lost, beaten and bruised by the harsh snaps of the bow’s string. but you’re learning, and the arrows aren’t as cruel as they once were. they too, have learnt to have patience with you. you shift your feet, and you wait.

it’s almost the end of the year when one of your classmates approaches with a nervous smile.

“hey, y/n right?” she smiles politely. you know of her presence, the blonde girl reminiscent of wild daisies along the road with a sweet spring personality to match. she’s even prettier up close, and you can’t help but panic a little at the realization that you don't know her name.

how could you have shared a class with her for almost a year and not know her name?

“i’m sorry, i must’ve got your name wrong! please forgive me! i was so sure you were y/n, i shouldn’t have made assumptions, please forgi-”

“no, no, i am y/n!” you cut her off quickly. “that’s my name.” a nervous chuckle slips out of you.

“oh,” her shoulders slump in relief. “that’s good. i’m yachi! yachi hitoka.”

“uh, hi yachi.” you greet her, awkwardly shifting on your feet. this interaction had been going on for longer than you were prepared for, and you were very well aware of how bad your conversational skills were, especially without preparation. thankfully, yachi seemed to get the hint and gets to the point immediately.

“i’m one of the managers for the volleyball club, and shimizu, the senior volleyball manager, is graduating soon, and we’ll need another manager to help us out. do you think you’ll be interested in joining us?”

the very idea of helping out a club, where you had to interact with numerous people, for the next few years, was in short, terrifying. but it was as if yachi could see the very thoughts floating through your mind, and she was quick to add on, “i know it seems really intimidating! i thought so too when i first joined. but everyone was really welcoming, and i think you’d be a great fit. please just consider it?”

at her hopeful smile, you couldn't say no, not without causing that adorable expression to fall. so without thinking, you blurt out a yes, you'll try out being a manager for a week. the grin that yachi gives you almost makes the nerves that follow worth it.

you somehow find yourself outside the gym after school, nervously listening to the squeaking of shoes and slamming of balls. a couple of minutes passed, and you gathered your scattered bits of courage into a tight fist, holding on to it for dear life as you push open the doors.

you’re instantly greeted by yachi, who as it turns out, was about to go and find you.

“hey, y/n! this is shimizu, she’s the senior manager.” you smile politely at her, introducing yourself. it doesn’t take long for the rest of the volleyball club to notice your intrusion.

“who’s this?” a grey-haired boy sticks his head over shimizu’s shoulder. she elbows him back lightly before introducing you to the boys who had been quick to gather around the entrance.

it was intimidating, the stares that were locked onto you, analyzing you. you weren’t used to this much attention, and your discomfort was clear as you shifted nervously on your feet, eyes darting around in slight panic. it ran from face to face, hurriedly try to connect the names that were being thrown out. tanaka, asahi, nishinoya, hinata, yamaguchi-

yamaguchi.

you gaped a little at the overly familiar face standing in front of you. that was the boy that had saved you the night before. and that must mean- yes there were the others, the one who ran you over, and the over two who had barely exchanged a few words before leaving.

(no, your shoulders did not relax slightly at their familiar faces. and no, your heart rate certainly didn’t raise at the sight of yamaguchi. you were perfectly composed, as much as you could be under the scrutiny of so many people.)

the polite smile you give is accompanied with a slight bow, and as you greet them officially, your eyes lingers a little longer upon the green-haired boy. maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something else, something new.

YEAR TWO

the target finally comes into view, with black and green circles that surround a pulsing, bright red. for the first time you see something with stunning clarity, and you know where you need to aim for. your arms raise in preparation, the arrow poised, and you wait.

it’s been a little over six months since you’ve joined the volleyball club as their manager, and yet it feels like forever as you sit with your fellow second years below the large oak tree in the courtyard. there’s a soft murmur of conversation and laughter, mixed in with a little bit of chaos as hinata and kageyama get up to their usual schemes.

yachi reels them in just enough to keep things from exploding, though tsukishima certainly doesn’t help anything with his snarky jabs and snickers. you laugh once again as he throws another passive-aggressive comment at the two, leaning against yamaguchi’s side.

the contact leaves sparks jumping across your skin, and the circus comes to life within you. yamaguchi doesn’t seem to notice how affected you are, in fact even seeming to shift so you could lean on him more comfortably. no one notices anything, or so you think until yachi makes eye contact with you. she gives you a knowing look, and you flush deeply, pulling yourself upright.

(you miss the slight downturn of yamaguchi’s lips when you do so, and the subconscious shift of his body following yours.)

you manage to tame the turbulence of emotions within you, and with a fond smile, you watch your little group of friends as they chatter on about everything and anything. it’s sharp contrast from last year, where you were alone and lonely.

now, you had a group of people who you loved and cared for, and who loved and cared for you in return. it’s another day filled with laughter and joy, with burdens to be shared, and company to be had. you’re grateful for them, for all that they’ve brought into your life, even the chaos that trail behind them.

loneliness wasn’t foreign to you, but it also wasn’t as close of a friend as it used to be. instead, these five had filled the void it was so determined to maintain, and they pushed you to grow as they did, to aim for higher heights, even when it seemed impossible.

and as yamaguchi smiles at you when you try and fail to catch the grape that hinata pelts at you, you realize, the warmth you once so desperately sought now curls in the corner of your chest, hidden behind your ribcage.

you had them now, and they had you.

even with a clear target, you can’t seem to take the shot. it’s frustrating, and your arms ache from being held up for so long, your fingers bloodied. the bowstring is stained red with your aching failure, and you’re sure your limbs have gone numb from being frozen for too long. but still, you maintain your position, set in determination.

there’s a running tally in the club room of who gets the most confessions out of the second years, and at the very moment, yachi takes the lead with eight. it’s a wonder it isn’t more, though you know there have been many who had been scared off by the boys.

(tsukishima and kageyama, to be exact. hinata and yamaguchi were much too friendly to ever be seen otherwise.)

and it looks like there’s another score to be added to the tally as you watch a freshman approach yamaguchi, one hand holding a letter and the other a box of chocolates. he greets her with a bright smile, and the sight sends dull, rusted arrows into your heart. it isn’t the first time he’s been confessed to, though it still hurts the same every time.

you can’t help the bitter smile that rests on your lips as you watch them. there’s a mixture of admiration and anger that bubbles in your chest; admiration for the courage the girl had to confess, anger for not being able to do the same. there’s a box that sits beneath your bed containing a bunch of letters you’ve written to him, though none of them have ever made it out of your possession.

it’s horrible of you, you know, to enjoy the look on their faces when yamaguchi turns them down, and the sick relief that settles your jealousy.

Today though, your heart drops into your stomach when yamaguchi accepts the chocolates, something he’s never done before. was he accepting her confession? a warm hand lands on your shoulder and you jump, whirling around to see tsukishima staring down at you.

“he didn’t,” the blond says firmly, his hand still firmly planted on your shoulder. “he won’t.”

biting back the tears that threaten to fall, you nod your head shakily. but the sight that greets you when you turn back around taunts you with deafening doubts you’re not sure tsukishima can quell.

“how can you be so sure,” you whisper quietly. “he looks happy enough with her, doesn’t he?”

tsukishima remains silent as yamaguchi pulls out of the hug, but his grip tightens, and you know he’s here for you, no matter what.

YEAR THREE

the target calls out to you, it dares you, it taunts you. but still you remain waiting, no matter how much your arms ache, how heavy the bow feels, how painful your fingers are. the tension’s drawn too taut, but you’re no stranger to it. you’ll hold, you’ll persevere on. you won’t shoot until it’s time.

it’s valentine’s day, and there’s a flurry of activity as people rush around trying to profess their love to someone. there’s a mess of chocolates flying and candies scattered around with a few people fighting to gift their present first. you’ve never been a fan of the chaos that valentine’s day brings, and there’s an underlying bitterness that comes from never being on the receiving end.

fighting through the crowd that had formed outside yamaguchi and tsukishima’s class, you managed to squeeze through the doorway. someone grabs your arm and yanks you further into the classroom, and it is only due to spending so much time together that you know it’s kageyama.

his grip was always gentle, but firm enough to guide you around.

“hey guys!” you grin cheerily at them. “so who’s got the most goods this time round?”

hinata raises his hand proudly. “i got three more chocolates than kageyama, suck on that!” he sticks his tongue out at kageyama.

kageyama scowls, grabbing one of the chocolates at the table and pelting it straight at hinata’s forehead. “just you wait, i’ll beat you by the end of today.”

“how much did you get y/n?” yachi cuts in gracefully, smiling at you from behind her pile of sweets. “i bet many people confessed to you, huh?”

you grin weakly at her. “none, actually. i don’t really talk to anyone outside of you guys.”

she frowns slightly at this. “well, that’s alright! do you want some of mine? i won’t be able to finish it all. too many sweet things isn’t good for me anyways.”

“no, that’s alright. thanks yachi.”

yamaguchi yelps suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention upon him. he’s scowling at tsukishima, rubbing his side in pain while the blond smirks in faux innocence.

“yamaguchi, are you okay?” your question has him flushing a violent red as he turns his gaze upon you.

“ye-yeah! i’m fine, tsukki just got a little handsy is all,” he waves a dismissive hand. you don’t miss the subtle glare tsukishima shoots him, as well as the hand that sneaks another pinch into his side. “also!” yamaguchi’s smile tightens. “i made some chocolates for you!” he thrusts out a black box tied off with a red ribbon.

your brows raise as you exchange an appreciative look with kageyama.

“for us? thank you yamaguchi, you’re the best!” hinata dives for the box, and snatches it out of his hands. he’s quick to delve into it, sounds of appreciation falling from his chocolate covered lips as he devours a good third of it.

“they weren’t for- nevermind, save some for the others hinata,” yamaguchi sighs exasperatedly.

“aye aye captain,” hinata replies with a salute. “these are really good!”

you also don’t miss the way yamaguchi keeps glancing at you, nor the flush that refuses to subside after you complimented his chocolates. though you refuse to feed into the voice that whispers to your heart that he likes you, he likes you just as much as you do him, you have a chance, a real shot here, you can’t help the flutter your heart gives in response.

the crowd begins to disperse into clusters of families and friends, and you fight your way through them to find your friends. you take three elbows to the chest and a couple near accidents before you find them standing under your usual tree.

“we did it!” you greet them breathlessly, throwing yourself onto the nearest person in a hug. the rest join in, and you’re surrounded by some of the best people in your life who have made memories worth keeping, who have helped you fly.

it takes a long while before the hug dissolves into slight tears and messy thanks and goodbyes. before you even realized what had happened, only you and yamaguchi were left standing alone beneath the tree, the other four having been caught by other friends wanting to say goodbye.

“so,” you smiled at him through watery eyes. “this is it.”

he grins at you, and it hits you how much you feel for him. you wished you had more time, more courage, more of him. what you would give to be able to say the words that have resided in your heart for a long time. i love you, i love you, i love you. you are made of the night sky, of stars that shine so bright, peace that brings so much joy. you are my wishing star, and there’s nothing else i’d wish for than you.

but you stay silent, a prisoner to your fear, chained by the doubts that have never left. instead, you do the only thing that doesn’t require speaking, one action that speaks of the thousand words you’d like to say - you offer him your second button.

yamaguchi’s grin widens into a smile, filled with hope and something too complex to be defined by words. his hand reaches out, shaking ever so slightly, and he offers his to you as well. it takes a moment for you to comprehend his silent response, and another before you slide your hand into his, your buttons clasped between both your hands.

his hand is rough from years of volleyball, but you find you don’t mind it when his free hand slides up to cup your cheek. it’s a tender gesture, and you melt into his touch.

“we took a while, didn’t we?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours.

“just a while,” you hum, shifting even closer to him. “but it’s worth it.”

your arrow flies, and it flies and flies, and it lands. it lands with a gloriously solid thud, dead center of your target. you’re a far cry from a professional, but your shot has finally landed, and you’ve won more than a bullseye.

you’ve won love.

#haikyuu yamaguchi #yamaguchi tadashi #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #yamaguchi x reader

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drbibliophile · 3 years

Text

Sunday Romance 05-30-21

Prompt: Invisible strings

Word count: 1364

Tagging: @sunday-romance @sophiaroe @viawrites-andacts

Not a lot of romance in this one, but if I ever flesh it out, perhaps there could be. I was caught by the idea of strings and knitting and yarn and this happened. There is some yearning, though.

The knitting was going well. She had the pattern established enough that she didn’t need to look at it. The cables told her what to do. Since it was in the round she didn’t even need to bother with the back side. She could settle back in her rocking chair, enjoy her tea, and listen to her fire crack and pop contentedly. It was rather lovely. She could relax and just enjoy herself.

That was until she noticed the pattern going awry. She frowned, staring at the cables that should have laid perfectly flat, but didn’t. It was like an invisible string pulled the knitting too tight or too loose. She studied the sweater again, realizing with growing irritation that there were more problems in the pattern, more places where invisible strings had made the knitting wrong. Blessed Eldona, she was going to have to undo at least the past hour’s work if not more.

She growled, thumping the knitting onto her lap. She glared into the fire. This was his sweater and she had been thinking of how the bright yellow would contrast well against his brown skin. If the pattern was off it meant that something was off with him. From how the pattern was off, it meant he was in bad trouble. Good trouble? She’d just have undone the knitting and left him to his own devices. However this was bad trouble and bad trouble meant she had to help.

“Blasted balrogs,” she muttered as she stood. “There goes the thrice damned day.” She shot the sweater another glare. “You owe me,” she snapped. “You owe me good.”

Tucker held his sword out in front of him. Not that it was going to do much good. After all, there were eight of them and one of him. Once again he questioned the choices that had brought him to this moment. With equal frustration and resignation, he recognized that he would have made the same choices if he could wind back time. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. His ideas usually did start out well until they stopped being good. Like now. Blessed Eldona, how was he going to get out of this one?

The leader… what was his name… Garein? Gar?... yes, Gar… glanced at the people with him. A sneer crossed his face, making his half-orc features that much more terrible. Tucker sighed. He probably shouldn’t have thrown that parting shot about Gar’s parentage when he’d taken the box. That was unnecessary provocation.

Of course, he hadn’t expected to get cornered in this alleyway. No. He had fully expected to make his escape over the rooftops, but he had stepped on the loose tile. He managed to not fall to his death or a broken leg, but it had meant crashing into the kitchens. The servants there were not pleased to see him. He had tried for the stables, but those were not the means of escape he’d hoped for. He had managed to scramble over the wall, but it had delayed him. His pursuers had found him and here he was. Back against a wall and looking at a world of hurt.

Gar took a step towards him. The zing of an arrow followed by the thwack embedding itself in the space between the cobblestones at his feet stopped him. The half-orc frowned. In quick succession seven other arrows landed with precision at the feet of the others. Tucker studied the arrows. Black shaft with black and red fletching. The Wraithling’s arrows. Her arrows. Elation lifted him at the same moment dread filled him. She was not going to be happy with him.

Gar snarled and took another step towards him. The arrow grazed his face to embed in the doorway behind him. He stopped. She silently dropped down next to him, a swirl of black. She had her bow held before her, an arrow already in place.

“Back off.” Her voice was low, dangerous. “Do not test me.” Gar growled something long in Orcish. She snorted. “True but such is his nature.”

“Hey,” he protested.

She snapped a sharp look at him, fire in her fathomless black eyes. He swallowed hard. She turned back to the people before them. “However, he is not for you,” she repeated.

“He stole from me!” Gar roared.

She leveled a hard look at Tucker. “Return it.”

He frowned. “But…” he started.

“Return it.” The hard edge in her voice brooked no argument.

He wanted to argue. He did. He’d gone through a lot of work and trouble to get the box. However, he knew that look, that tone in her voice. If he wanted to walk away from this encounter alive, he would do as she demanded.

“Fine,” he snapped. He removed the small ebony box from its place under his tunic. He tossed it to Gar who caught it easily. “No hard feelings?”

Gar’s response was a string of what he could only imagine were orc curses. “You have your property,” she said. “Now go.”

Gar glared at him one more time, but departed. His people followed him. She kept her bow up until they could no longer hear their footsteps. She eased her stance and went to collect her arrows. He started to speak, but she silenced him with a glare. He contented himself with helping her collect her arrows.

She pulled the last arrow out of the doorway and replaced them all into her quiver. “We better go before they come back.”

“They’re coming back?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Come on.”

She led him out of the alleyway. “Thanks for saving me,” he said.

“Again.” She moved briskly, sticking to the shadows that suited them both.

“Again,” he conceded. “How did you know I would need rescuing?”

She snorted. “The yarn told me.”

He frowned. “The yarn?”

She made an exasperated noise low in her throat. “I was knitting your sweater and the pattern went awry.”

“Oh.” She stopped, pressing them both against a wall. Angry voices passed ahead of them. “But…”

She faced him. She lifted his left arm and pulled down his sleeve to expose his wrist. Her fingers touched his skin. Shimmering silvery thread woven into a simple bracelet appeared. She looked up at him.

“We are bound, Tucker. I will always know when you're in trouble.”

He nodded, having stopped breathing when her bare fingertips had touched his skin. She had that effect on him. She released him and his breath returned. With it came a rather disconcerting thought.

“Always?” She nodded as she started down the street. “But you didn’t rescue me in Cardenia.”

She threw a smirk over her shoulder. “No, I did not.”

“Why? She turned to him. “Because sometimes you deserve the consequences of your trouble.” Her smirk faded. “But I will keep you from death if I can.”

“Small comfort,” he muttered as he kept pace with her.

Her smirk returned. “But comfort enough.”

He wanted to argue the point. Yet he couldn’t. Knowing that she’d keep him from death was a good comfort. Not that he would admit it nor that he’d long ago lost his heart to her. That definitely would not do. One did not fall for the Wraithling. At least she didn’t chide him for his choices. She just would appear, rescuing him when he truly needed it. He studied her, memorizing again the lines and curves of her face. He’d heard of others being bound like she was and resenting the bondage. Yet she had accepted it with good enough grace. She even had been knitting him a sweater.

That thought brought puzzlement to his face. “You were knitting me a sweater?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It is one way to keep track of you.”

“Oh.” He hoped his disappointment didn’t reach his voice. “If you say.”

“I do.” She paused, black eyes sliding back to him. He couldn’t read her expression before it cleared to something more amused. “Come. I hear the Blue Carmelian has Zanteri fantasy cake and you owe me for rescuing you. Again.”

He nodded. “Yes, yes, I do.” He waved his hand. “Lead on.”

#sunday romance #sunday love #my writing #interesting idea of strings attaching one to another #Poor Tucker in love with his Wraithling #Angst

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mythicamagic · 4 years

Text

Sesskag week Day 5: Horror

Summery: Kagome resurrects Sesshoumaru using Tenseiga. He swears to repay the debt by any means necessary.

AN: Written for Sesskag Week Day 5 - Horror. I decided to write this with more the feeling of horror after experiencing something traumatic rather than for the genre of horror, so this is more angsty and hurt/comfort with fluff at the end. Enjoy!

Warning: Some gore so rated M

4,000 words

(all prompts posted on Ao3, fanfic.net and Dokuga)

Fall of the Mighty

Gulping hard and sucking fast breaths into her lungs, Kagome ignored the ache in her fingers and fired another arrow.

Sweat rolled down her temples, hair damp with humidity. She dashed to the side and narrowly avoided being cleaved in two by a boar demon, reacting off sheer adrenaline rather than skill.

She'd paid the Western Lands a visit with the intention of delivering some happy news. Sesshoumaru had been busy fending off small invasions for weeks, but Jaken had reported that there'd recently been a lull in activity. She'd thought it safe to visit.

Rin had progressed well with her studies at the village. Kagome thought he'd want to know that the petite teen now expertly rode horses without falling off and could render foes unconscious with the right herbal concoction.

I thought he'd want to know, to cheer him up...

Because he did so love to hear news of his ward's progress.

Getting caught up in the crossfire of one of the West's latest battles had not been part of the plan. Kagome glimpsed Sesshoumaru every now and then, gliding above the fighting soldiers in his true form. She wasn't sure if he'd noticed her presence.

Wincing upon seeing him collide with an enemy, her eyes widened. Wrestling in the grey overcast sky with a snake-like youkai, spittle and blood lashed out. Ravenous growls clapped above the battle like bursts of thunder. Rows of sharp teeth lunged and tore into flesh, ripping through sinew and snapping bone.

Kagome cried out, feeling a pain in her side. Shooting another demon between the eyes, she pressed a hand to the wound they'd lashed into her hip.

Despite the injury, she became distracted again, watching as the two giants twisted and scrapped, soon colliding atop a hill. Racing towards them, she panted hard, willing her body not to give in to exhaustion.

By the time the dirt had settled from the collision, their forms had changed. Inhuman, beautiful men drew swords and slashed at one another in a deadly dance. Bakusaiga couldn't seem to consume the grey-haired snake youkai, perhaps indicative of Sesshoumaru's power running dry.

Kagome focused on fending off approaching soldiers, firing again and again. She happened to turn when a blazing snarl ripped through her ears and in a blur of motion the unthinkable happened.

Swords met and parried, before both demons struck unexpectedly. Sesshoumaru's sword impaled the enemy through his chest- just as the snake's blade cleaved through a pale neck.

Kagome's eyes flew wide. Horror slammed into her chest.

Long silver hair was sent flying into the air. It happened too fast and yet agonisingly slow at the same time, like a punch being slammed into her gut only for Kagome to register the hit seconds later.

Hitting the ground with a sickening thud, the head of the Killing Perfection rolled twice before lying still.

Horrible keening, wailing noises filled the air. Kagome's lungs and mouth hurt, and she belatedly realised the agonised screaming was coming from her. Hurrying forward blindly, she tripped and scrambled over bloodied earth. The snake demon gave a wheezing cough, sinking to both knees. He then fell onto his side, eyes glassy.

Kagome approached the two collapsed corpses, trembling. With a whimper, she tried not to look at Sesshoumaru's bloodied, decapitated neck, unable to accept what she was seeing. Scrambling shaking fingers at his hip, she ripped Tenseiga out of its scabbard. Coughing and pressing a hand to her mouth, blue eyes squeezed shut.

Everything felt like too much. A buzzing noise filled her ears, heart thudding dizzyingly fast.

She forced herself to swallow and crack stinging eyes open, gauging the distance from his body to the silver-haired head about 20 meters away.

"Oh come on," she croaked. Setting Tenseiga down, the contents of her stomach churned. Stumbling over to it with legs like jelly, Kagome stared down at his upturned, handsome face. Half-open, golden eyes stared at her with hazed pupils.

Coughing and moving back to retch, the war-torn landscape became blurry as hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she emptied the contents of her stomach. Her nose and mouth strung with fire, breathing ragged. Swallowing thickly and wiping her mouth, Kagome made a noise of distress before madly lurching down. Numb, shaking fingers slid from a regal jaw to touch striped magenta cheeks, lifting his head from the ground. She didn't know how to explain the horrific weight, whether it felt heavier or lighter than expected.

Kagome could barely see a thing through her thick, unrelenting tears. Sobbing, stumbling and quickly placing the head down before his body like he were a doll to fix, she panted.

Leaning to grab Tenseiga, Kagome's stomach lurched again. Controlling it, she grit chattering teeth and straightened.

Holding the sword over Sesshoumaru's corpse, the miko waited.

Nothing.

Blue eyes widened. Kagome began to tremble violently with terror.

"No. No, no, no- please! Please, this is for Sesshoumaru!" she burst. "You were made from his father's fang, right?! I know I'm not a demon but so help me you WILL save him!" a snarl tore at her bile-laced throat.

Forcing reiki onto her fingers, Kagome allowed the holy power to spill out onto the hilt. Pink energy then skittered onto the blade, causing a noise of distress until Tenseiga glowed blue. Panting and not verbalising her victory, Kagome continued to whisper pleas and prayers even as she noticed small ghostly imps. They crawled over Sesshoumaru's body, readying chains around limp striped wrists.

With a cry, Kagome slashed the blade down madly. They shrieked upon being severed in two, fading away.

The ensuing silence sounded too loud. Tenseiga glowed and rattled in her hand, bathing her slick skin blue. Sesshoumaru's head now lay attached to his body, but he did not stir.

"S-Sesshoumaru?"

Crouching, and then weakening, Kagome's knees hit the ground heavily. Reaching out, fingers wobbled and touched soft, light bangs, bumping into his smooth, stern brow. She didn't realise she was still crying until tears began to land on his upturned, pale face. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop them.

"Why are you crying, miko?"

The air froze in her lungs, Kagome's head whipping up. Sesshoumaru gazed at her, golden eyes bright and very much alive. Confusion marred his expression, attention drifting to Tenseiga still gripped in her hand. His eyes then flew wide with understanding, tensing.

Making a strangled noise, Kagome ducked down and clutched at broken armour, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing loudly like a child. Sesshoumaru remained frozen beneath her, and when she did not stop, he slowly curled an arm around the wailing miko.

---

Kagome had returned to the village severely shaken. Her friends had noticed and inquired, so she'd explained almost everything to them about getting caught up with a battle; neglecting to mention what had happened to Sesshoumaru.

She silently vowed never to tell another soul.

It didn't make it easy to deal with since the fighting itself wasn't what had upset her. Because of this oversight, her friends figured she'd be over it in a few days. As if confirming this, Kagome carried on as normal, burying the ugly blemish of memory and covering it with pleasantness. She started smiling again and even laughed when Shippo made his jokes or pulled pranks.

Something she did not anticipate was Sesshoumaru's unexpected arrival about a week since that awful, traumatic day. She'd figured he'd be busy with battle clean up for a while and would need to deal with war and politics, but he strode into the village languidly, in no hurry.

Kagome turned and busied herself with hanging some clothes up to dry outside Kaede's hut. Expecting him to ignore her and make a beeline for Rin's hut, she stiffened upon hearing boots deliberately drag on the earth behind her.

"Miko," his voice sounded crisp and clear.

Shippo squeaked from where he sat nearby, nibbling on a lollipop and observing them keenly.

Glancing over one shoulder and finding his proximity closer than necessary, Kagome forced a smile. "H-hi, Sesshoumaru. What can I do for you?"

Holding her gaze with rapt attention, Sesshoumaru's jaw ticked. "You have done enough," he uttered. "It is time this one returned the favour. I have come to repay you for your actions on the battlefield. Your assistance was…instrumental in our success."

"Wow, really, Kagome?" Shippo pipped up. "You downplayed it so much, what happened?"

"N-nothing!" Kagome laughed nervously, grabbing Sesshoumaru's sleeve and tugging. She shot him a warning look, gesturing to follow. "Uh, wanna help me gather herbs?"

Sesshoumaru's expression turned flat, however, he nodded and followed her away from Shippo's prying eyes. Stopping under the shade of the trees, Kagome faced the demon lord. "Look, you don't need to repay me. I didn't…do anything to make you feel indebted to me. Let's just forget it ever happened."

Burning, flashing eyes snapped to her face. "This one does not intend to ever forget, nor can I ignore a life debt. Proclaim what you want and it shall be yours."

Kagome groaned, running a hand through her hair. "I don't want anything!"

Noticing his unblinking, direct stare and pensive silence, she could tell he wasn't about to take 'no' for an answer.

"Geeze you demons always have to drag me into your weird rituals or traditions, huh?" Kagome grumbled. "Fine…" thinking for a moment, she hummed. "Kaede needs moss from a certain type of tree and some other herbs collecting. Help me get those and we'll count that as the repayment."

Expecting him to refuse, judging by the flinty look of disapproval he shot her way, Sesshoumaru surprised her with a regal incline of his head. "Very well."

---

They'd spent several hours doing what she assumed he thought of as 'peasants work.' However, Sesshoumaru hadn't complained once. In fact, he worked diligently, considering he looked like he'd never done a hard days work in his life and had impeccable, flawless claws.

Kagome covertly surveyed her own blunt, slightly chipped nails. Setting down a full basket of herbs, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. After passing over their hard work to Kaede, the former Shikon Miko wandered back to Sesshoumaru. Noticing him inspecting green-stained fingers with distaste, she smiled.

"You're off the hook now. Thanks for your help though, it was definitely sufficient payment, buddy-"

"No."

"W-what?"

Sesshoumaru dragged cool, icy attention away from green digits. "Do you presume to think that collecting moss equals the life of this Sesshoumaru?"

"Of course not, but-"

"Then more will be done to repay the life debt."

Kagome groaned, spreading her arms wide. "Like what?" At his stony, unrelenting expression, she sighed. "I guess...Sango mentioned something about babysitting."

She assumed he was about ready to throw in the towel, but Sesshoumaru set his shoulders and raised his chin. "Hn."

---

Kagome had never seen Sesshoumaru be used as a jungle gym before. If someone had told her she'd be witnessing three children climbing over the Killing Perfection's furs, clambering his back and swinging from imposing shoulder armour, she'd have called them a liar.

Miroku and Sango's children evidently adored him.

"Who knew he'd be so good with kids," Sango muttered to her behind her hand.

Kagome smiled, remembering his silent protective steak when it had come to Rin and Kohaku. "It's not that much of a surprise, is it?" she giggled, watching him catch Mitsu mid-fall without even acknowledging it.

As she observed him and cared for the children in Sango and Miroku's eventual absence, her stomach began to twist, tears pricking her eyes.

Ducking out of the hut and having to take a breather, Kagome forced the image of limp silver hair and glassy eyes back into its box. For some reason, witnessing him so attentive and alive in a domestic setting was messing with her emotions.

The sunset streaked the skies with vibrant red plumes by the time they were finally relieved of their duties. Walking through the village with her taciturn companion, she noticed the demon hadn't left. Glancing at him, Kagome shook her head.

"No way. That's it. This is getting ridiculous, Sesshoumaru. I'm a simple gal, I don't need much. Your help has been more than enough to repay the debt, I promise."

The Daiyoukai did not budge. Kagome stomped her foot, huffing.

"I'm done for the day! I can't keep making up tasks for you to do!"

Sesshoumaru looked thoughtful for a moment, as though registering that she may indeed have a point. "I should like to offer you something needed, rather than complete a simple task that you do not care about."

Frowning, she folded her arms and started to walk towards her hut. "Sure, sounds nice. I do need a new cutting board."

Heavy youki slid like water over her back. She felt his gaze with a visceral thrum of awareness, skin pricking in response. Kagome adjusted her priestess robes and pressed down the answering whisper of her powers.

"This Sesshoumaru extends an offer, miko."

Kagome stopped, shivering. "What is it?"

"You will look at me."

Gritting her teeth and whirling to face him, the embers of fire immediately died in her eyes at his intense, watchful expression. "I will mate you, should you wish it," he said succinctly.

Everything in her stopped and spun, backtracking to try and understand his train of thought, until her very being came at a standstill. A secret, buried flicker of emotion wormed its way into her heart.

"Why?" she breathed. "Why would you…do that?"

Sesshoumaru observed her, heavy attention dragging away to glance at the far off tops of the trees. "Upon completion, your lifespan would increase to match mine. An extra 2,000 years of life is something humans have coveted for years. Therefore mating would be a worthy repayment."

Kagome listened in silence, shifting slightly under the Daiyoukai's level, studying gaze. He continued with languid immediacy, new hesitance leaking into his words that hadn't been there before.

"It has also been suggested that the actions carried out that day by your hand may have been guided by...feelings. Personal attachment, different to simple friendship."

"But I-I-" curling shaking hands into fists, Kagome felt her heart constrict. "I'd...hate for you to extend that offer to me just because of a stupid life debt."

"If you do not harbour feelings for this one then why did you save me?"

Kagome took a breath, glancing away. Tears stung her eyes, the words tumbling out of her mouth unbidden. "I never said that I didn't," she confessed quietly. God, I never wanted to have to tell him like this.

Now the quiet, gentle crush she'd harboured for him felt exposed, like a cocoon being pried open too early. She felt vulnerable yet soldiered on. "But that had nothing to do with it. I saved you because you're my friend, first and foremost. Besides I couldn't...I couldn't just leave you there. Do nothing."

The demon's expression had morphed into something else now, however, she couldn't decipher what it was, tired from constantly tensing, relaxing, laughing and revolving around him all day. He took a step closer but Kagome backed up.

"Don't ever try to marry me out of some sense of duty again, Sesshoumaru."

"Miko-"

"No, please," her voice wobbled. "Leave me alone for a while," she mumbled, turning on her heel and hurrying away.

---

She felt a little childish, arms wrapped around drawn-up knees and sitting at the base of the Goshinboku. Even if she couldn't confide in Inuyasha about the memories of the battle, the sacred tree that felt like a part of their bond remained a pillar of support. Something sturdy that she could ground herself with.

Groaning, Kagome buried her face in her arms. I can't believe I confessed like that. What a mess.

Sensing a presence draw near and the familiar brush of cold, pressing youki, she lifted her head, spying black boots. Sighing, Kagome dragged her gaze up- only to be surprised when Sesshoumaru stooped to her level in a smooth crouch.

Heat flamed pale cheeks into a vibrant red, back pressing against the unrelenting bark. She realised a little belatedly that his armour had been removed. "What are you doing? I told you to leave me alone for a wh-"

"I find it difficult to believe you could care for me," he stated bluntly, face expressionless. Only his eyes gave him away, unable to appear casual.

Her breath caught in her throat, butterflies kicking up a storm within the confines of her stomach. Kagome glanced away. "What makes you say that?"

"You have been unable to look at this one for some time."

Her body stiffened, fingers tightening in her clothes. Ah, she'd been caught. It was true, the whole day she'd had to glance away from him every so often. Looking at him for long periods of time uninterrupted hurt. "I-I can't…"

"Why?"

"B-because," her tone became thin, fingers clutching hard at her legs until her knuckles bled white. "Every time I see your face I just remember it- h-how it looked in death. I can see the red line around your neck where he beheaded you-" Kagome choked on a sob, shuddering. "When I look at your eyes, they're not bright and full of life. They're vacant and glassy. Your mouth is grey, skin pale, and there's so much blood, I can smell it-"

"Enough."

Sesshoumaru's face loomed suddenly close, her chin caught and turned- forcing her to stare into his very real, very bright burning eyes. "That is enough," he said in a softer tone. "I am alive, miko. You made certain of this. Feel."

Taking her hand, the demon pressed her palm against his chest, heedless of the danger. She could easily let out a burst of reiki and wound such a vulnerable part of him, but the Daiyoukai, a peerless predator, left himself open to hurt.

Kagome's breathing hitched, feeling the thud of his heartbeat. It thundered strong and quick beneath her touch. "I'm sorry," she said in a hushed tone. "It must be harder for you- you're the one that died, not me."

"Hn, but I do not remember dying. Only waking to the sounds of crying."

His thumb dragged over her fingers, and Kagome swallowed. "I-I think I know what you can do for me," she murmured.

Making a non-commital noise, he tilted his head questioningly.

"Come here."

Sesshoumaru stared, watching as she shifted her legs down and gestured to her lap. He blinked with vague confusion. Kagome huffed and blushed, touching the side of his head gingerly.

"Lay your head on my lap...please."

The demon lord seemed impressed by her nerve, arching a brow. She remained quietly hopeful until he shifted and indulged her. Leaning down, Sesshoumaru rested his head onto her thighs, the grass warm and cushioning his back.

Warmth flooded Kagome's cheeks, gazing down at him. However, her attention shifted to his neck, and those terrible, piercing memories came flooding back. She could see the severed flesh, Sesshoumaru's body, feel the weight of his head-

Clawed fingers seized her hand, forcing frozen fingers against the warm skin of his throat.

"I am alive," he uttered.

Kagome exhaled, feeling him drag her palm over his neck. She then touched him of her own accord, brushing a free-hand into silky silver tresses.

Sesshoumaru exhaled a warm puff of air, and she felt him swallow beneath her finger-tips.

With each caress and explorative drag of her hand over the handsome plains of the Daiyoukai's face, she no longer remembered that awful day. Instead, her mind re-wired itself, committing the sweep of his nose, the arch of his brow, the high cheekbones, his hard jaw- to memory.

Snowy lashes slid shut and the demon tipped his face slightly into her palm. When soft lips pressed against the heated skin of her wrist, Kagome jolted.

"Y-you're um...letting me take a lot of liberties with you."

"Indeed."

Smiling slightly, she stroked a rich fall of hair away from an elfin ear. "Thank you," she said quietly, reluctantly forcing herself to stop touching him. Greedy fingers curled into her palms. "I feel...a lot better now. I'd say the life debt is paid off now."

Sesshoumaru's honeyed gaze cracked open. "It seems so," he rumbled, unmoving.

Reeling, the miko tried to pluck casual conversation out of thin air, floundering, wondering what to say, before a clawed hand reached- tangling in black hair and tugging.

Kagome squeaked, her neck craning down to follow Sesshoumaru's silent demand. Feeling a soft pressure against her lips, the miko's blood heated. She quietly gasped against his mouth, and he drank in her startled breath, claws lightly scraping her scalp.

Gaining control of herself, she slowly relaxed. Dark lashes fluttered shut, and she returned the kiss, hands carefully framing his face.

"I did not intend to insult you earlier, miko," breathy words escaped into the hairsbreadth of space between them when they parted. "Merely, this one has watched and waited. Before the battle, I did not think such...sentiments would be welcome."

"Why would you ever think that?" she said in a hushed tone, stroking a magenta stripe.

He made a lazy, pleasant noise that sang right down into her toes. "Inuyasha," he muttered, and she immediately understood.

Kagome smiled and gently pressed another kiss to his lips. "We've both moved on. I thought that much would be obvious."

"Hn. Jaken certainly thought so. It was he who suggested that you possessed feelings for me based on what happened on the battlefield. I did not initially agree...but then I became foolish."

"So instead of confessing like me, you repackaged your feelings into an offer of marriage entirely to do with duty," Kagome snorted, tapping his nose. "You know you're surprisingly dense when it comes to romance."

Sesshoumaru frowned and huffed, jaw clenching in a way that bespoke of his agreement. "I am not usually," he rumbled with mild defensiveness. "It seems you have this effect on me, ridiculous miko."

Quietly giggling, Kagome cradled him closer. "Ditto," she hummed. "You know I don't think I'm quite over the whole 'dead Sesshoumaru' thing after all. We'd better keep touching. It's the only surefire way of staving off the horror."

Amused golden eyes flicked upwards in a haughty version of an exasperated eye roll, humming in acceptance to her suggestion. With a tug she easily followed, Sesshoumaru guided her smiling mouth back down to his.

Their sweet and teasing airs did nothing to dispel the lingering memories, however, and it would take many nights awakening in a cold sweat to truly handle them. Still, with each nightmare, the Killing Perfection remained a newfound constant at her side.

When she cried, he would lick her tears away, and the miko would curl into his rich furs, lost to contentment anew within the safety of his arms.

End

#sesskag #sesskag week 2020 #skw2020 #sesshomaru x kagome #inuyasha #Sesshoumaru #Kagome Higurashi

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