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#the slender stream with its singing arms
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She had suffered so much, Nerdanel had known that, but seeing glimpses of what the poor girl had endured and survived made it unbearably real.
Nerdanel could feel herself shaking with the effort of holding in her tears, but Maglor was so calm, so very calm as he settled onto the bed beside Celebrian, every movement slow and careful.
She didn’t look at him, her gaze blank and unseeing, but she didn’t draw back when he took her hand and eased closer, still singing softly. Celebrian’s keening quieted but her mind was still leaking, the pain and anguish in the tangled fragmented images so heartbreaking and overwhelming that Nerdanel did not know how Maglor could bear it but he didn’t falter, his golden voice steady. The notes he wove shone bright as stars, a gentle blanket of light and sound that he enfolded around her.
Celebrian.
A shiver went through her, her small slender hands quivering, but Maglor kept still, watching her face closely.
Celebrian. I’m with you. It was a dream, not real.
A soft broken sound escaped her lips, another image flooding her mind, of darkness and cruel clawed hands around a slender arm, digging in so tight that blood ran. But Maglor sang another soft melody, brushing the image away as if he were waving away mist. In its place he sent an image of the room, himself and Nerdanel, the calm peace and quiet of the night lit by bright stars visible through the filmy curtains.
You are safe, sweetheart. No harm can come to you here. Can you feel my hand holding yours?
A slow blink, then the blankness in her eyes receded a little as she nodded her head slightly, turning toward him. The faint light of the lamp reflected off the silver streams of tears on her cheeks as she looked up.
“Maglor?”
Her voice was a thin hoarse thread in the stillness, her lips quivering as she began to cry, burying her face against his chest. Maglor drew her close, tucking her head under his chin, his movements still slow and careful.
Nerdanel felt her tears spill free at last, watching as Celebrian curled into Maglor, her slender fingers fisting in his sleep shirt so tight her hand shook. He gathered her up onto his lap carefully, never breaking his song.
At a glance from her son, Nerdanel quickly wiped the moisture from her cheeks and came to sit on Celebrian’s other side, brushing the sweat dampened fall of silver hair back from her neck so the cool night breeze could dry her skin.
It had been a long time since she’d had elflings who had woken from bad dreams, but it came rushing back to her as she rubbed gentle circles on Celebrian’s back, humming along softly with Maglor’s melody that had become a familiar lullaby. It was the one she had sang to all her children, long, long ago, but most often for Maglor who had always begged for the song whenever he was in need of comfort. And now they sang it for Celebrian who quieted, her breathing growing slow and deep as she let herself fall into the safety of their soothing song.
She wondered how many nights Maglor had spent like this, watching as her son rocked Celebrian like a child until she was deeply and truly asleep. Then he rose, pulling the tangled sheets back and settled her into the bed once more. Nerdanel stood and helped him straighten the sheets and blankets, drawing them up around Celebrian who now slept peacefully as a child.
Only once they had slipped out of the room did Maglor’s calm falter, his face twisting with emotion as he slumped against the wall. Tears were silently flowing down his cheeks, and he smoothed them away with a sleeve before pressing a hand to his face and breathing deeply, trying to regain his composure.
“She needs to go to Lorien,” Nerdanel told him in a low voice, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. “She needs more help than can we can give her.”
And judging from her son’s haunted face, Nerdanel knew that Celebrian was not the only one who desperately needed healing.
“She won’t go if I cannot go with her,” Maglor returned, voice muffled and tired. “And I cannot, no matter how much I want to.”
He extended his hand toward her, palm up. The scar on his hand shone silver in the pale light as he met her gaze, his eyes full of so much grief it made her throat ache.
“Lorien burns evil,” he whispered. “I have already burned once from Father’s hallowed jewel, and so I cannot - I cannot -“ His voice faltered in shame and misery, looking away from her horrified stare.
The sight of the scar on his hand made her heart grow cold.
He believed - no. He could not, and yet she saw in his eyes he did.
Despair and fury rose in her like a raging flame, and she wrapped her arms around her son, drawing him close.
“No,” she said against his hair fiercely. “No.”
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fernvictor · 1 year
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fern, your friend :)
bells in santa fe - halsey // the first step - frantisek kupka // night sky - ocean vuong // miracles of each moment - kazuaki tanahashi // composition - jean degottex // bohemia lies by the sea - ineborg bachmann (tr. mark anderson) // untitled - helen frankenthaler // mahmoud darwish // unknown // unknown // everything is illuminated - jonathan safran foer // untitled - luis feito // the one who goes away - sujata bhatt // untitled - gottfried honegger // suprematist composition: white on white - kazimir malevich // the slender stream with its singing arms - jeffrey levine // ecriture no. 070201 - park seo-bo // bells in santa fe - halsey 
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idabbleincrazy · 1 year
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I’ll Be Home for Christmas
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Fandom: Angel (Buffyverse)
Rating: E
Pairing: Spangel
Word Count: 1621
Warnings: pwp, morning sex, holiday fic, smut, oral, anal fingering, biting, teasing, anal, poetic porn, stream of consciousness, bottom!Angel, d/s undertones
Summary: Sometimes, the best gift is the one you didn’t even realize you wanted.
A/N: wrote this for the morning sex prompt instead of what i originally planned. ah, well.
Squares Filled: Morning Sex ( @mfbingo xmas edition)
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Angel woke to the feeling of something cool and damp sliding over his inner thigh. Muggy-headed, he pried open one eye and groaned, the light streaming through the necro-tempered window causing his head to throb. Letting his eye fall back shut, he felt the cool, slippery, something pause for a second before resuming its path. He felt like he should be worried that whatever was on his leg meant him harm, but he couldn't sense any danger through the cloud of fog that was his mind, so he laid there, trying to remember the events of the previous evening. Besides, whatever it was, it felt good enough traveling over his seldom-touched skin that he could feel himself starting to respond to the soft ministrations. 
Last night had been Christmas Eve, he remembered that much. The team, Spike and Harmony included, had come up to the penthouse that evening to have a small celebration, what with Lorne being unable to attend Christmas dinner over at Fred's due to an emergency of some sort with one of his clients that just couldn't wait until after the holidays. He knew there had been plenty of alcohol, enough that by the time the others had left, he was pleasantly fuzzy-headed and whiskey-warm, the humans, and even Harmony, giggling and singing carols as they left. He was pretty sure he'd made sure to call them all company cars to get them home safely. Pretty sure. Have to check on that later; wouldn't do his soul any good to find he'd been somewhat participant to a drunk driving accident. Soft, damp slide along the crevice where thigh met hip, southerly parts waking faster than his brain under the gentle licks.
He remembered inviting Spike to stay after the rest had left, the flowing alcohol leaving him in a good enough mood and recalling some of the better parts of their shared past. Remembered breaking open the good bottle of brady, splitting it with the blonde as they talked and even laughed. Remembered hands gaining a mind of their own, fingers lingering on skin as they brushed away stray locks of hair hanging over too-blue eyes, or caressing, whisper-soft, the back of a hand as glasses were refilled. Puff of cool air, scratch of teeth across his stomach, twitch of cock as tongue dipped into navel.
He remembered darkened glances that skittered away just as quickly as a head could turn. A fumbled, clashing kiss under the sprig of mistletoe Harmony had hung above the doorway to the kitchen. Inviting Spike to stay the night rather than stumble home or risk wrapping his Viper around a lamp post. Remembered not stayin' on that bloody couch and big-arsed orgy bed, and struggling out of clothes, nearly tripping over a pant leg, crawling under cool silk sheets that felt like a balm to liquor-heated skin. The comforting feeling of an arm laid over his stomach as sleep overtook him, firm chest against his back and soft purr rumbling through them both. Fingers teasing between legs to skirt over sensitive skin, lips mouthing through coarse curls, ignoring the thick length reaching for attention.
Unsure of why Spike had chosen to wake him in such a manner, and not much caring to question it further, Angel let out a soft groan as he felt the blonde teasing around the base of his cock. Another pause, uncertainty rolling off the slender vampire between his legs, and Angel shifted, wriggling his hips in search of continued attention, a silent approval of the impromptu rekindling of their intimate relationship. Hands slid down his thighs, pushing at his knees to urge his legs wider. Lips continued where they left off, soft pressure of mouth against alert skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. Throb and ache as the most needful part of him was bypassed once more, pleading whine bitten back as he squirmed, trying to direct that slick tongue, over, over, please, God, just an inch to the right. 
Hands on his hips, pinning him to the bed, his own reaching beneath the covers, one threading through sleep-mussed curls, other batted away as it crept towards his aching shaft. God, he's never been tortured this pleasurably; Angelus would never have stood for it, the demon too insistent on instant gratification when it came to carnal pleasures, want, take, have; the soul always longed for it but Angel never kept a lover long enough to receive it, never thought he deserved it. Forces himself to think on his sins, pushing away the creeping feeling of bliss. Remembers driving Dru mad, turning William from the soft poet that lingered within to the hardened vampire that killed viciously for more than a century. Danger passes, soul still firmly attached. 
Still Spike teases, head dipping lower, nosing against heavy sacs, inhaling deeply at the juncture of leg and groin. Crunch of bone and the mosquito-sting of a fang piercing thin flesh, feline-rough tongue soothing it away and growling moan of hunger as the faintest trace of blood hits his nose. Angel remembers now, and knows what it will take to bring that mouth where he wants it, where he desperately needs it. Remembers carrying out this precise form of torment upon the lithe blonde a fair few times during their eighteen years together a century ago.
Whispers Spike in a voice rough with sleep, alcohol, and barely repressed pleading. Writhe, groan, twitch of muscle as he tries to nudge that stubborn head towards the aching shaft now lying flat against his stomach. Another needle prick, rough lap of wet muscle, closer, but not close enough. Subaudible whimper, wrists pinned down at his sides when he fails to tug those curls those scant inches to the right, buck of hips met with a warning rumble vibrating against his flesh. Can't take it anymore, needs that mouth on him, needs to know it's as good as he remembers. Caves. Please, William, need you.
Opens his eyes at the approving groan, looks down, sees the comforter shift and rise as Spike kneels up, lets out his own thankful moan as cool mouth descends, slides down his aching cock. Fingers still clamped around his wrists, stopping him from being unable to touch, to direct, to do anything more than lay there and let the feel of that wet cavern engulfing him, aching tip of his cock pressing against the contracting entrance of the blondes throat as he swallows around him.
God, yes, yes, don't stop. Don't ever stop. Wants to thrust, needs to buck and writhe, wriggle, squirm, feel every inch of his aching shaft buried in that tight throat that feels closer to home than he's felt in too many decades. 
One wrist freed, feels fingers pressing in beside his throbbing cock. Tries to tangle his hand in gel-crunchy hair and receives a smack for his troubles. Sucks in needless oxygen as he feels slippery wet digits slide over his balls, down his perineum, lower, slipping between his cheeks. Louder moan, as slick fingers circle around tight ring of muscle, clench, relax, clench, relax, unsure. Breathes, pants, deciding. Mouth pauses, suction gone slack, questioning. Fingers still going round and round, gentle, waiting but persistent. Decision made, he keens.
Yes, God, Will, yes. Legs spread wider, muscles relax, inviting. Please, yes. Eyes cast up to the ceiling as that blissful, sinful mouth resumes its motions. More, fuck, please, William, need more.
Low groan, the feel of the rumble shooting through him, eyelids fluttering, struggles not to thrust up. Fingertip presses, muscle gives way easily, welcoming. Oh, Jesus. Spit-slick digit slides in as head bobs, distracting Angel from the intrusion, leaving the elder vampire unsure whether he wants more to thrust up or bear down, Spike's free hand preventing either. Slippery finger pumps in and out, slow, too slow, please, faster, need it. Speed increases and Angel moans, long and loud, cock leaking pre-cum that gets lapped away only to be replaced by more.
Fuck, yes, so good. Spike. Will. Oh, God, more. 
Back arches as the second finger slips in on the next thrust, restricting hand moving away to tug on full, aching balls to distract from the sting, stretch, burn. Feels fingers wriggle, scissoring as he adjusts, relaxes around the probing digits. Keens, whimpers, whines, sounds he hardly recognizes as his own. Feels orgasm looming, creeping, too soon, not soon enough.
Not enough. Hands free from slender yet strong restraints, he tugs, scrabbles, claws at Spike's shoulders, pulls him off his hard, so hard, cock, drags him up his body, out from under the covers, fingers still pumping, thrusting, stretching. Legs wrap around slim waist as that beautiful, God, so beautiful, demonic face looms over his own, feels an equally hard erection pressing, rubbing, sliding, against his own.
Merry Christmas, Sire.
Merry Christmas, Childe.
Lips devour, cherish, mold around each other. Crunch of bone and pierce of fang into stroking tongue, blood filling mouths, mingling, shared, savored. Third finger sneaks in, and full, so full, need more. Thrust down to meet each instroke, push up to grind cock against cock as fingers retract. More, Will, need it, need you. Take me.
Wriggle, whine, slide, growl and plead, and ah, yes, that, do it, Spike. Whimper as the fingers disappear, mouth moves away, inhale as fangs slice into a thin wrist, moan as blood drips onto his cock, back of hand brushing against the urgent erection as its match is slicked.
Christ, so hot, luv, like this. Bloody beautiful, all needy and desperate.
Please.
Blunt pressure against the loosened rim, pushing, pushing, past the clenching, pulling muscle. Mouths meet again as hard, velvet steel slides in, stretching. Remembers, mm, yes, this, this is home.
~~~~~~
All Things Spike: @leatafandom @captain-peroxid3​ 
Other: @countblucas​
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ruiniel · 11 months
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Darkness flows past me like swift currents over crumbling stones.
I remember water, mist, the blue skies. There were others around me, lingering in both languish and peace beneath drops of silver dew that shone in the gloom. The echoes of their shadows once brushed mine, but now I am alone.
There is nothing here but the Door and the Night as I charge ahead, leaving it all behind. Somewhere dwells the knowledge that I have done this before; that I am the moving piece of a great unknown, ever fringing the edges of a long-sought goal, never reaching it.
I yearn for the stars, for their pale glow; to feel the cold, and the heat, the wind and the hearth. There is a faint reminder of frigid gusts tugging at my hair, hissing beyond branches of towering trees.
The pull urging me on is foreign yet familiar, stern but gentle, like mighty hands cradling a newborn babe. A deep voice rumbles in soundless chants, striking true, and a flash of light blinks in the abyss.
Within me, brims memory.
A forest of eternal dusk looming above, blotting out the light of day. Myself, lost amid its boughs. There is soft moss beneath my heels, then water swirls around my bare feet.
I see Mother, willowy like a wraith, swaying about a shadowed glade with me in her arms. Dry leaves fall, caught in her long, sable hair. Her lilting voice is forlorn, her eyes are weary. Even so, she sings to me.
I rush through the vast emptiness. A heavy hammer and a burning forge, and a great wall where a tall figure stands alone turned from my sight.
Bright strands, the color of the sun, streaming in the wind, and I long to run my fingers through them.
Pain. It wades through me like a bruising gale, lined with desire, ambition, enmity, envy; hatred.
So much hatred.
The floodgates open to every moment of struggle, every hidden glance. I recall my own mistakes, great and small, the trickling poison of my thoughts. Oblivion means peace, but the past swells around me like murals melting into one another, turning endless ripples, waves, tides in the sea I've never known.
Shackles around my ankles, burns on my face; and the biting chill of damp, hidden recesses. Breathing is a chore, and molten eyes scour through me as grinning shadows claw at my shame and mock my desires.
Burning, yet voiceless, no flesh, no heartbeat, nothing; but here lie illusions that once made a life.
A flaming white city with towers crumbling into nothing. A blade slashing at me, wielded by slender, desperate hands. All these memories cling to me, and I cannot but sink deeper into their mire; soot on my face, cruelty in my eyes, malice in my heart.
I remember. Guilt stretches me so thin I break asunder to scatter in the careless darkness, but as I writhe and churn, a tunneled path opens ahead.
I cannot follow. Please, not again.
The silver thread is cut; my plea fades into silence.
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cherrryu · 2 years
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Luna and Solis
Summary: You fall for the only son of your family's generational loathed enemy
Pairing: kth and fem! reader
Word count: 647 words
⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧ ─────┈⊰᯽⊱
You smelled like fresh rose petals, akin to the unthorned blooming genus rosa within the grand Capulet garden wall. With every step forward, your golden linen satin dressing gown swayed, identical to the ocean's tides. Upon reaching the comforts of your sleeping chamber, you couldn't help but admire the magnificent pools of moonlight, which streamed through brilliant venetian gothic windows. In a twinkling of an eye, warm, shallow breezes found themselves softly caressing your figure, hugging you softly, as you tenderly strided toward a small brick balcony. Joyous activities expectantly continued to fill the midnight spirit, as the Venetian Masquerade Ball commenced indoors the family tower home.
However, you were wholly incapable of regarding the bal masqué, as well as your privileged visitants. Your soul was more preoccupied by the intoxicating stranger you had tenderly brushed with your chaste lips. Masked in mystery and draped in sin, he had birthed an obscene desire deep within you. You were simply a nocturnal beauty irresistibly drawn toward the sunlight's luminance. Had you known you were fluttering toward affliction, you may have been able to hold your fondness back.  
Unfortunately, you had become a victim of Cupid's devious golden arrow. Woefully having the unfortunate luck to love a loathed enemy, the only son of your family's greatest foe. A Kim. 
A murmur of fresh air began stroking your intricate locks, as if whispering the promises of unconditional love. You leaned across your balcony, overlooking the rich orchards and the stone courtyard. Having only the enlightened moon as a witness, your blushing cheeks were laid upon your graceful hands. And as you rested your eyes closed, head curved to the right, you couldn't help but wonder what both of your families would do if they knew. 
Ceaseless tragedy had always corrupted the timeless city of fair Verona. Sweet Cherubs had looked down from The Garden of Eden and scoffed at the endless brawls. Both noble families had clashes that were so endless in fact, that only Angels could recall the origin. Despite being a Capulet, your blood ran cold, reminiscent of the vicious resentment growing every generation. Your beau would surely be savagely murdered and you forlornly married away to another man. 
With wide opened eyes and orbs in heaven, you observed the twinkling stars calling for your acknowledgment, easily illuminating the melodious nightingales. Were they perhaps singing a symphony of his sweet charm? Or was it a composition describing his disreputable rebellion? You leaned over your balcony as if trying to get a good listen. A hand was then tentatively brought to its stoney face, idly playing with a plump, saturated orchid leaf growing atop the walls. Out of all the treasured flowers in Italy, he was the most precious to you. Your heart never beat as lively as it did with the fairest flower of them all.  
The moon's celestial body shone proudly, shining a pathway for the emerging creatures of the dark to wholly frolic in. You found your eyelids heavy, drowsy with infatuation and weariness. Yawns flowed through your cherry lips. Mellow fingers once again, found themselves laid upon your delicate cheek. Your long eyelashes continually fluttered, akin to a great Monarch's wings, signaling a hunger only slumber could quench. You extended your slender arms. Slowly stretching itself back into a familiar position. 
In spite of your desire for rest, you silently perched atop the rough balcony. Your moving fingers encircled your elongated legs from under the tender texture of the nightgown. Warm touches intertwined with your longings, had you covertly wishing your beau was the one encircling your legs from under the garment instead. Holding your head high, you abruptly let out a lover's sigh. 
"O Taehyung, Taehyung! wherefore art thou Taehyung? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. "
⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧ ─────┈⊰᯽⊱
Authors note: This was inspired by one of my favorite classical tragedies, Romeo and Juliet :) l'm currently thinking of continuing writing this story, hence its not necessarily done yet.
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luthienne · 3 years
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Jeffrey Levine, from “The Slender Stream with its Singing Arms”
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shattersstar · 4 years
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bluebelle
and if the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent (part one)
pairing: alucard x reader
excerpt: it seemed as if each corner of the castle held something of you; a bouquet of flowers you had picked for one of the halls in the east wing, a book you half read discarded in a barely used study, the faint flour fingerprints on the railing from when you made banana bread and had gotten so excited it turned out well you dragged Adrian into the kitchen despite the mess on your hands. The brush of your lips even lingered on his skin, the softness revered and remembered. It was warming to find all the parts of you in the tomb that had become his home yet again. (title comes from bluebelle by frank carter and the rattle snakes)
warnings: alucard being loved and appreciated, fluff, minimal angst
a/n: well I couldn’t work on requests till i got this out of my system. kinda stressed abt posting for castlevania bc i dont think? ive talked about it on here before? buuut i can’t stop thinking abt alucard after rewatching season two so here we are. anyways feedback is appreciated.
You weren’t by his side in the morning, the sun slotting from the vaulted windows cascaded a stream of warmth that didn’t touch your skin. He startled, fingers curling into the cool sheets. You’d been gone for a while and he hadn’t heard you leave, he—
Adrian had slept. Through the night.
That thought was almost as jarring as your lack of presence. He let his palms dig into his eyes, sliding out from under the covers and dressing quickly. His steps were always light, even against the old floors of the castle. You once mentioned you didn’t think he walked around the castle, merely hovered when you first moved in. Mostly because it was easy to find you, your step not nearly as cautious as his, your scent always lingering through the air, like a trail of crumbs.
Although now, it had become harder to find you because of it, it seemed as if each corner of the castle held something of you; a bouquet of flowers you had picked for one of the halls in the east wing, a book you half read discarded in a barely used study, the faint flour fingerprints on the railing from when you made banana bread and had gotten so excited it turned out well you dragged Adrian into the kitchen despite the mess on your hands.
The brush of your lips even lingered on his skin, the softness revered and remembered. It was warming to find all the parts of you in the tomb that had become his home yet again–but still, it made finding you down a bit more difficult.
He’d begun to rely on sound more, listening from the dragging of ladders around one of the many libraries, the boiling of the kettle or even your voice muttering nonsense to yourself. Sometimes singing, but once you realized he could hear it at great distances, your face burned hot and you only hummed absentmindedly these days.
Your love also reached great distances, bounding higher then the gothic walls you two dwelled in, tendrils of your affection brushing over him like calming waves, as if you somehow purposely emitted your feelings. A secret empath perhaps, humming with love and nudging at his scarred chest until he let you in.
He knew all of that was facetious, nearly musings to keep his thoughts on you as he made his way calmly through the labyrinth castle. You had called it that, still getting lost in it to this day and shouting for him when you’d get frustrated enough. You’d pout when Adrian would casually walk over to where you found yourself, nonchalant and even a little amused. Though, the spike in adrenaline that flowed through his system each time that happened contradicted his calm demeanour each time he approached. He always moved in a flurry, zigzagging and hunting through the daunting walls till he could locate you. He didn’t want you to worry, to see his first thoughts went to danger, he knew you wouldn’t be happy with that. He knew you’d stop calling for him if it meant his fear would take over, that you’d likely stay lost for a lot longer all for him.
It was a dangerous thing, the way you loved him.
He sometimes wished you had been together before his mother died, so that his love wasn’t weaponized against him. There was always going to be a fear attached to his love, everyone waiting for the day he’d break like his father, that his love for you would drive him mad and the cycle of destruction would repeat. It was destined to happen in so many minds, cycles were tricky like that, promoted to be broken, but never as easily as suggested.
That was until you made it easy. You pulled him to your chest and toyed with his hair, skin drying from the bath and voice speaking all the truths he needed to hear into existence. It seemed as if the path he was supposedly destined to be on crumbled before him. He didn’t actively choose to be different, be good, be better, there simply was never the option to be bad once he realized he loved you.
Even now, unable to find you, fear trickling into his stilled heart, there was no anger bruising his soul. The thought of losing you hurt, more than any adjective could place, but it’s a wallowing kind of hurt, the cold grief stricken kind that doesn’t ignite hellfire, but tears. Adrian hadn’t even realized his eyes were brimming with them until your voice carried, a small shout followed by a laugh. His head all, but snapped up, focusing on it and soon he was in the doorway, a sense of calm replacing the creeping anxiety as he found you atop a desk, trying to place a box onto one of the many shelves in this study. The study you had claimed as your own, in love with the large circular window that overlooked the forest instead of the crumbling estate. You didn’t fear the Belmont’s as many had, but rather didn’t find the appeal in staring at a pile of wreckage.
A huff of amusement echoed in the back of his throat when you’d said that casually over dinner, coming to regret the statement when it was passed onto Trevor the next time he visited. Amusement almost laced his mind now as he watched you for a moment, you shoved the box a few times, its contents rattling as you were just a bit too short to rest it securely. He contemplated offering his help, but sure calling attention to himself would startle you, the box likely to fall.
Instead he moved swiftly, behind you in a half a breath and reaching over your shoulders to push the box the rest of the way. You still startled, jumping with a small gasp, your arms dropping back down. You both stood there for a moment, your back rising and falling against his lean chest, his arm slipped to his side, fingers brushing yours as he did. You glanced over your shoulder at him as he climbed down from atop the desks surface. You smiled as he extended a hand to help you, palm face up. He guided you to step onto the chair before settling on the floor, fingers shifting to interlace with his as you pulled him close, chests bumping. “Good morning beloved.” You hummed.
“I believe it’s past noon.” He commented, earning an eye roll.
“Well then good afternoon.”
“No beloved?”
“You’re being quite the tease for someone who’s slept in—leaving me to my own devices this morning.”
“I can see that didn’t go too well.”
You feigned offence, both hands now in Adrian’s as you stepped back, a mix of a gasp and scoff falling from your lips.
“Someone’s in a mood.” He contemplated the statement, drawing you back in with a light pull in his direction. It used to be alarming how easy it was to get you close, how you didn’t shy away, how you were ready to feel him as long as he’d let you. Your chests bumped again, your hands sliding up his arms and around his neck. “And don’t say its because you woke up alone.”
“Hm.”
“Ah, I know you too well. That means you owe me a kiss.”
“It does?”
“Of course, my intelligence deserves a reward, no?” A grin flickered over his face, fangs flashing as he let his slender arms wrap around your frame, one hand resting between your shoulders blades—urging you even closer, your head tilted and lips meeting his slowly.
“Everything you do deserves a kiss.” He sighed, breath fanning over your face.
“Maybe I’ll hold you to that.”
“I don’t object.”
“Good.” You kissed him again, this time a little harder, a bit more than a greeting. Your fingers curled minimally in his hair, tongue swiping against his bottom lip, a silent ask of permission. He granted it with ease, tasting the berries on your tongue and inhaling the warmth of cinnamon radiating from you. Maybe you had been baking again, he wondered momentarily, lips still moving against yours. You pulled away first, chest rising and falling visibly as you let another smile warm over your features. He was almost a little dazed looking at you, barely noting the strands of hair that fell over his face, your fingers quick to tuck them back behind his ear. “Your hairs messy.” You commented, holding his face in your hands as you leaned back, taking him in. Your smile shifted into something curious, brows pulled inward as your gaze flickered across his face. You studied him, the gears in your brain churning out questions you already had the answer too. “Did you think I’d gone? When you woke up?”
You did know him, far too well.
“For a moment, yes.” He had learned it was better not to lie to you, to hide things at times, yes, but to outright lie left a bitter taste in his mouth (and you’d always figure it out anyways).
“Well I’m sorry for worrying you my love, if I had left the grounds I would’ve written a note, or woken you up even, but I didn’t think about doing that if I wasn’t far.” You explained, eyes full of sincerity. It was so human, something he mimicked, but never obtained in the same way you did.
He nodded at your words, forehead resting on yours.
“But is that not it?”
“What?” He recoiled slightly, unable to hide the surprise that found its way onto his face.
You did know him far too well that this had to be magic, you had to have read his mind and understood something deeper. He still found himself alarmed at this moment, your ability to read him surpassed even that of his mother.
“There’s something else isn’t there? You’re upset about something else.”
“I’m not upset—“
“Adrian,” You warned, his mouth snapped shut, “Please don’t lie to me.” He relented, his shoulders tight with defence dropped as your thumb brushed over the porcelain of his cheek. “But we can talk about this later. Okay?” You knew when to push and when to pull and when to give in to him just as he needed. You smiled up at him, nose nudging his affectionately. Love dripped through your words and danced in the corners of your eyes
Yes, later is fine. Right now he needed to be held.
You let your fingers slip into his hair, toying with it, nails kindly swirling against his skull. You were good at soothing him, words, actions, everything. It all calmed the choppy waters that stirred beneath his rib cage and he melted into you. Adrian let his eyes fall closed as you pulled him into a hug, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other wrapped as best it could almost the expanse of his shoulders. He let his arms hang limp, nose pressing into the side of your neck as he breathed you in. Taking in your scent, not where it hung in the stale castle air, how it lingered on door knobs to forgotten rooms you likely tried to open or dwelled on the various pots and pans.
He took you in from the source, your perfume and rainwater from the previous night washed over his senses, along with that still confusing note of cinnamon. Maybe he’d bring it up later, but for now he wanted to love in the safety of your arms.
532 notes · View notes
lu-undy · 3 years
Text
Un-alone, Chapter 3
Here it is!
Was it only the water of the shower?
Non, his tears were mixing with it. His tears, and his blood. 
Lucien had only slept for a few hours. When he had come back from the gym, he cried himself to sleep, only to wake up on the carpeted floor of his hotel room, his head and hands on the coffee table, next to the letter. 
But now, he was taking a shower. 
He couldn't go to the funeral covered in bruises and dried blood. Non. He even thought that he couldn't go to the funeral at all. But he had to. This was his wife that they were putting underground, and he hadn't seen her in years.
Lucien rocked back and forth under the shower head. His eyes were closed and his arms wrapped around himself. He kept bumping his forehead against the tiled wall, a low drumming that gave him the illusion that time was stopping around him, that he could take that time, without it passing, without losing it. His tears did not stop.
He had talked to Marie, sometimes, on the telephone. Whenever his work took him to the United States, he would always stop at a public telephone booth and call the number he knew by heart. 
Like a teenager on the phone with their secret lover, he would speak low to her, for no one else to hear, even though the booth was closed and no one paid attention to him. He would lazily play with the phone cord around his gloved finger as he murmured words of love and longing to her. 
He would ask how Jérémy was and on the few occasions that it was Jérémy himself who picked the phone, Lucien would freeze, and it would take him a few seconds to clear his throat, collect himself and ask to speak to his mother. 
He had heard his son grow over the phone mostly. His voice went from a little boy's to a man's. The first time that Jérémy picked up the phone with a deeper voice, Lucien's eyebrows had jumped. 
"Who is this?" He had asked.
"It's Jay." The voice with the Boston accent answered. 
Lucien's jaw had dropped. 
"Jérémy?" His lips mumbled. 
"Yeah, funky accent you got there. Who's this?" 
The Frenchman gulped down hard and a trembling hand went to his brow. 
"May I speak with your mother, please?"
"Sure… Ma'! Phone's for ya!" 
"Hello?" The feminine voice was a delight to the spy's ears. 
"Marie?" 
"Oh, hey… Jay? Why don't you go out with your friends?"
Lucien waited for a few seconds. 
"Yeah, Lulu? Hon'? How are you?" 
"Jérémy…" He answered. "His voice…"
"Yeah, he's growin' up. He reminds me of you, in his own little way… Lulu? love, are you here?”
The spy had to look up to swallow back the tears that came to his eyes. His son was becoming a man…!
Last time he held him, the little boy could hardly walk. 
And Lucien remembered how he used to feed him, put him to sleep, play with the little blond baby. Ah, putting him to sleep was what Lucien would remember all his life and beyond. There was something of a deeper connection when the lights were out and baby Jérémy looking up at his then much younger father, with his hair still all black. The father would sing to his son and if at first Jérémy would play and laugh with him, soon, the deep and soothing sound of Lucien’s singing would put him to sleep. 
“I heard you sing to him.”
“Oui.” Lucien would slip in the bed with the woman who stole him off of the million arms of other, non important women. 
“What song is that?”
“A lullaby.”
“Sing it to me.”
“It is not in English, Marie.”
“I know, heard you purr like you do when you sing in French.” She laid her head on his chest and he switched the night lamp off. “So go ahead.”
Lucien looked down at her and smiled.
“Ne m’oublie pas,
[Don’t forget me.]
Je vais devoir m’en aller.
[I have to go.]
Ne m’oublie pas
[Don’t forget me.]
Tu ne dois pas pleurer.
[You must not cry.]
Même quand je suis très loin de toi,
[Even when I am very far from you,]
Tu restes dans mon coeur
[You remain in my heart.]
Je chante en secret chaque soir
[I sing in secret every night]
Pour que tu n’aies plus peur.
[So that you don’t feel scared]
Ne m’oublie pas,
[Don’t forget me,]
C’est à regret que je pars.
[It is with regret that I leave.]
Ne m’oublie pas, 
[Don’t forget me,]
Quand je chante, tu es dans mes bras.”
[When I sing, you are in my arms.]
He sang it again, translating himself and Marie looked up at him with a distraught smile on her lips. 
“We will miss you, hon’.”
“Me too.” He squeezed her tighter and adjusted the blanket on her back to better cover her.
“But we won’t ever forget you.”
Their eyes met and soon, their lips. 
Meanwhile, the old Lucien sighed under the continuous flow of the shower, the white noise of it covered his sniffles. He mechanically stopped the water and stepped out. 
He readied himself. Black suit and tie, black hat too and assorted, varnished shoes. 
He raised his eyes to the mirror and hated the sight. He had nothing against the suit, it did its job, making his cinder hair appear even lighter, the bags under his eyes and his slender cheeks a show of death itself. Non, what he hated was the insult of a man that stared back at him. 
Lucien put his gloves on his still bruised knuckles, to hide the misery he now had to, and made his way out without anything in his stomach. 
The taxi ride was as silent as it had been since he had learnt the news and jumped into the first plane for Boston. He had left Paris hurriedly, taking only what the letter from the American secret services had told him to. 
The flower is withering. Black suit. 
Of course, Lucien had trusted Fred with keeping an eye on Marie and Jérémy. But that telegram had killed him. He had wanted to see her before it was too late but Marie's lungs gave up before the Frenchman set a foot in America. 
"Here we are, Sir. And I'm sorry for your loss."
The driver's voice cut Lucien's train of thought. He paid what he owed, maybe more, God only knew, and he left. He passed the black wrought iron gates of the cemetery and walked resolutely to the group of people that he did not recognise. 
He kept his distance from them all but couldn't help hearing their low chatter. 
"Where's her husband?”
“Who?”
“Jay’s dad. Isn't he gonna come? Even for that?" 
"I don't know… Jay said his father's dead."
Lucien lowered his hatted head and frowned, exhaling from his nostrils angrily. 
"Mary told me it wasn't actually true."
"She lied to him?"
"No, he made this up because he got fed up with people askin' him about his dad." 
Lucien looked away but soon, silence fell. The coffin was brought forth and the priest started speaking.
He spoke at length about the courage of this single mother who raised and provided for those children, how she did a formidable job at it despite an absent and cowardly father. 
If only they knew… 
But where she was going, Mary would still see her boys, her little men. She would still be there for them. 
Such nonsense, Lucien was thinking. 
Mary was gone. She was dead. She wasn't there anymore with anyone. She wasn't there for Jérémy, she wasn't there for him, she was there for no one! 
Lucien thought he'd better get used to the hard truth rather than sugarcoat it with nonsense like that. 
Oh. 
They started lowering the coffin. 
Lucien heard the sniffles, the cries, the muffled tears in Marie's family. He wanted for the whole show to be done with to stay with her, alone. 
It lasted quite a while. As he eavesdropped on the conversations, he learnt that some people were family, some were friends, others, neighbours. 
They all put flowers down, candles, words on a letter that would crumple under the rain. But they eventually left. 
The Frenchman took a few steps forward, coming out of his hiding, and crouched down. 
"Marie…" 
Words failed him. 
"Ma petite fleur."
[My little flower.] 
He sniffled. 
"I beg you to forgive me." He paused. "I wasn't at your side when you most needed it. I failed you." 
Lucien wiped a tear with the back of his gloved hand. 
"I failed you as a husband, and I failed myself as a man. I took vows that I did not uphold."
No, Lulu, hon'... We agreed on this. I knew you had to be far for work and you only wanted to protect us. It's ok, it's alright-
"Non." Lucien answered the voice that he could only hear in his head. "Non, it is not alright. I swore, Marie. I swore that I would take care of you from the moment I said 'I do' in front of that priest and until death do us apart. I…" 
Had he been alone in his lonely room, he would have gone through yet another fit of sobs, of pulling his hair off his own head, of rocking back and forth like a madman. But he was out in the open and most importantly, he was right in front of the tombstone that shall haunt him from now on. 
"Hey! Who the hell're you?! Get the hell out of my Ma's grave!" 
Cold sweat. Lucien tapped a button on his watch and his silhouette vanished in a thin cloud of smoke. 
"Hey! What the-?!" 
The young man stopped, a few feet away from his mother's grave. Unbeknownst to him, his father was standing right in front of him, a hand on his own mouth and tears streaming down his face. 
More than twenty years. More than twenty years had passed and he was now seeing his son. 
Mon Dieu, he had his mother's kind eyes even though they were red with tears and slightly swollen, he had her gentle gaze, Lucien could see it. The blond boy had grown up and his hair had darkened to be dirty blond now. 
He had short hair and seemed uncomfortable in his black suit. Ah, he surely wasn't used to wearing one.
"Jay, you comin'?"
"Yeah, Auntie…" 
“Hurry up or I’ll send your brothers!”
Unbeknownst to him, Jérémy was squinting and staring through his very invisible father. He left soon after but Lucien remained, petrified. 
That was… Jérémy? 
The baby he had held in his arms all those years ago was now a man nearly as tall as him.
He stared at him as he made his way out, following the crowd, his family that surely somehow was Lucien's too. But he had never met them, never talked to them. He knew the names or the existence of a few of them, when Marie would tell him about them. 
But both had wanted to keep their private lives very much private. Marie knew her family would never approve of her marrying a stranger. Lucien was the only man to ever treat her as a woman, he knew that, she had told him that. He made her feel taken care of in his hands, even if he was absent most of the time. It was the respect he treated her with that made her cling to him at all costs, he knew it.
When he told her about his job and what he had to do sometimes, she had nodded. 
“Do you understand, Marie? I… I cannot be the family man that I should be. My job requires me to… to do unthinkable things that no one else can and… Sometimes, if you knew what I do, you would… You would doubt my feelings for you.”
“No.”
“Pardon?” He had asked in his mother tongue.
“No, Lulu. I know that you love me sincerely. And I love you the same way. I don’t care what your job is. I… I know you love it too and…”
“Marie, I am sorry.”
“No, let me finish.”
He was holding her in his arms, in their bed that morning.
“I had Fred talk to me.”
“Merde…” Lucien mumbled to himself.
[Shit.]
“He explained to me that you were a… a war hero…?”
He sighed, frowned and looked away.
“Is that true?” She insisted and he shook his head.
“Non. I just did what had to be done and what no one else could. It could have been anyone else. I just happened to be there at those times and places where my skills came in handy, nothing more.”
“Pff…” He looked at her and she was smiling. “Fred also said you’d say that. You’re a war hero and certainly, you’re my hero.” She leaned her head on his chest again and left a prude kiss.
“I know this is selfish of me but…”
“But what?” She raised her head to him and he held her hand in his.
“But I wish I could keep you forever, just for myself.” He closed his eyes but soon, he felt her shift on the bed. She lay down and pulled him to lay his head on her chest. 
“You say it as if it’s impossible.” She answered.
“I told you. I am away most of the time and this mission is coming to an end soon. I will have to leave.”
“What if we get married?”
Lucien’s eyes couldn’t have snapped wider.
But today, he could hardly keep them open. 
“Petite fleur…” He addressed the tombstone, as if Marie could still hear him. “Je suis désolé, mon amour.”
[Little flower… I am sorry, my love.]
Later that day, when he was alone in his room, drinking again, Lucien heard a knock on his door.
 “Go to hell.”
“L, it’s me.”
Lucien sighed. He recognised that voice. He stood up from the carpet and opened the door. 
“L? Hi…”
Lucien returned to sit on the sofa, the bottle of whiskey hadn’t left his hand. 
“What do you want?”
“Just to offer my condolences.” Fred closed the door and came to sit next to his French friend, who took a gulp of the bottle straight. He was still wearing his black attire, although the collar of the shirt was open and the buttons were undone. Seeing his old time colleague so disheveled made Fred frown. "I've never seen you like this before, pal… I thought you were the kind of sailor to have one woman in every harbour…"
Lucien raised dangerously piercing eyes to him. He did not like Fred's comment.
"Sorry. Didn't mean it to sound bad or anythin'. Is there anythin’ I can do?”
“Help me quit.”
“Yeah, you should quit your drinkin’, pal.”
“I did not mean it for the drinking.”
Fred’s eyebrows jumped. 
“You wanna quit your job?”
Lucien nodded.
“It killed one too many.” He took a generous gulp of the whiskey that now dripped at the corner of his lips. He wiped the mess with the back of his forearm.
“L, you know you can’t just quit. Besides, I was comin’ to talk to you about it.”
Finally, Lucien raised his eyes to his colleague. 
“We got some work to do. Well, you have.” The American got a cigarette pack out of his jacket and offered one to Lucien who winced and shook his head. Instead, the Frenchman went to grab his own cigarette case and let Fred light one for him. “Ah, yeah, you like yours French, eh…”
They puffed on their cigarettes and Fred looked around them. 
“Mind if I get myself a glass?”
Lucien motioned him to go ahead. The American went to the mini bar. 
“They knew up there that you’d like to retire after this. And if you don't mind me sayin', you and I aren't gettin' any younger. So they’ve sent me to suggest somethin’.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow and watched his friend grab a glass and pour some wine. He squinted to see the label and rolled his eyes, force of habit. As much as Lucien appreciated Fred, his taste in wine left a great deal to be desired…
“They say that you should get someone to work with you.”
“Non.”
“Hold on, let me finish…” The American spy joined his French colleague on the sofa again. “They say you should train a young one to replace you.”
Lucien’s eyebrows twitched. 
“Not that they’d manage to fit those big shoes of yours but, y’know, someone to replace you while you go and retire. What would you do? Go back to France, I guess?" 
The Frenchman sucked on his cigarette harder as he frowned. 
"Non."
"I knew you wouldn't like it so I told them. They're ok to give you an alternative." 
Lucien shook the cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and Fred noticed the bruises on his hands. 
"You could drop field work completely and train the young ones."
"Pff…" Lucien exhaled the smoke from his cigarette in a long gust. "And where is the choice? Either train one or train them all? Is that the choice that the country that I have lost everything for is giving me now, hm?" 
Fred could see his friend's fingers shake. He was mad and barely holding himself back. His chest betrayed his fast and short breathing. 
"Seems so. If that's any consolation, I'm trainin' one of them kids too. He isn't bright, hasn't learnt the job like you and I, but he works hard." Fred tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and lay back on the sofa. "They're givin' you a few days to think."
"I should go and kill them." The Frenchman said calmly. "One by one. Start with their loved ones and as they wonder what kind of curse had fallen on them, I would deal with them all."
"You can't get to your Minister of Defense…!" Fred scoffed but the gaze that Lucien gave him made him stop his chuckle sharp. "L…?"
"I could." 
"But you won't… Right?" 
The Frenchman stood up and went to the door that he opened and held wide. 
"Good night to you, Fred." 
"L…?"
"I said, good night."
Fred sighed. He walked to the door but didn’t leave yet. He turned to his French colleague and looked him in the eye.
“Don’t do anythin’ you’ll regret, eh?”
Lucien exhaled a bitter sigh of smoke.
“See ya.” Fred left and the Frenchman shut the door. 
He came back to his solitude.
11 notes · View notes
bubblywrites · 3 years
Text
All Of The Good Things
Bruno Buccellati x Reader
Summary:
Y/n was the love of Bruno's life. When she died, Bruno became broken. He tries to push through the pain for their daughter Mari, but he ultimately struggles to make it through their day to day life. All he can do is reminisce on all the good moments he had with his wife.
Word Count: 5,248
A/n: The reader has curly hair, but you can ignore that detail if you don’t have that hair texture. The fic is based off of Jhene Aiko’s song Eternal Sunshine
Bruno was awoken by the warm kiss of sunlight and angelic humming. The tune held a sense of joy but had a hint of sadness. Bruno felt himself relax further as soft hands gently grasped his face to move him on to pillowly thighs. Slender fingers ran through his blue-tinted black locks with occasional soft tugs. Bruno let a smile creep onto his face as he sighed through his nose. The beautiful humming stopped.
“Did I wake you?” You asked with a faint chuckle. Bruno kept his eyes closed as he responded to your question. “I thought I could pretend to be asleep, so I could hear more of your humming.” He said in a groggy voice. “Well you failed at that.” You said. You gently pinched his cheek. Bruno let out a low laugh. “I did. Could you please continue?” Bruno asked. “No problem.” You responded.
You began to hum your song again. Light notes flowed out of you with grace. Words soon followed. Bruno snuggled further into your thighs as you sang.
“Is it strange for me to say that If I were to die today There's not a thing I would change I've lived well Maybe I have made mistakes and been through my fair share of pain But all in all, it's been okay, I've lived well And the more that I see, the more that I know I don't know anything, at all Like the more that I breath, and start to go slow Oh, one of many things, I can only recall All of the good things, good things All of the good things, good things Only the good, the good, the good Only the good, the good, the good” You stopped your song. Bruno kept his eyes closed but raised an eyebrow at your sudden silence. He felt light taps to his forehead.
“It’s time for you to go to work Bruno.” You said. Bruno scrunched his eyebrows at your statement. He reluctantly pulled himself from your thighs to sit up on the bed. He stretched his arms which created defined creases along the toned muscles of his back. A view he knew you enjoyed since he slept with no shirt on. He raked his fingers through his bed hair. He turned around to catch you in the middle of your.
“Do you enjoy the view cara?” Bruno joked. “I do every morning.” You said. Bruno chuckled at your response. “Do you know what I enjoy every morning?” Bruno asked. You crossed your arms over your chest and gave him a small smirk on your face. You blinked at him slowly. He loved when you gave him sass. It gave him a chance to wipe the smirk off your face and teach you lessen.
“What?” You questioned. Bruno scooted closer to you. He gently grasped your face and brought your forehead against his. He looked into your (e/c) eyes with an intense gaze. He had to stop his smirk when he saw light pink creep unto your face. Bruno tilted his head to press his lips against yours. The kiss started off chaste but became hungry. Bruno pulled you into his lap and snaked his arms around your waist. You rested your hands on his shoulders. Bruno licked your lower lip asking for entrance. You refused him.
“She’s still acting sassy.” Bruno thought to himself. Bruno used his right hand to pinch your peaked nipple through your pajama shirt. You opened your mouth to let out a squeak which allowed him to slide his tongue into your mouth. He engaged in a dance with your tongue. A dance that only the two of you knew. Your soft moan spurred Bruno on. He held you in a desperate embrace as if you would disappear. You two broke the kiss for air. Bruno held you against him as he laid back down on the bed. He peppered your face with kisses. Your giggles were music to his ears. Your singing, humming, laughter, moans, and cries were beautiful performances meant for his ears alone. You were his personal symphony. You stopped your giggle fit and cusped the side of Bruno’s face. He leaned into your touch to bask in your warmth.
“Its not like you to get side tracked Mr. Workaholic. But I won’t play into anymore of your affections. You need to get ready for the day. Plus you need to wake up Mari.” You said. Bruno’s face grew sullen. He grabbed the hand that held his face.
“When I wake up to get ready with Mari, you won’t be there.” He said in a broken voice. You two held on to each other tighter. You gave him a sad smile.
“I know Bruno, but you have to get ready for work. You have to get ready for Mari. You have to move on Bruno.” You said. Bruno’s eyes shot open at your words. How could he possibly move on? There was only one love of his life. There was only one woman who could be a mother to his precious Mari. There was only one woman who could bring him happiness. There was only one you.
“How could I move on from you amore mio? You and Mari are the only women who I can hold close to my heart.” He said. Bruno’s voice shook. Tears spilled from his eyes as he held a vice-grip on your hand and waist. He felt your warm fingers wipe away his tears. You moved closer to him to press a kiss against his forehead. “Bruno, amore mio, you have to get ready. You have to get Mari ready. You have to wake up.”
Loud buzzing rang through Bruno’s bedroom. Bruno turned to look at his alarm clock with pure malice. He slammed his hand on the device to turn it off. Bruno lifted his hand to wipe the grogginess away from his eyes. He stopped when he noticed the tears that streaked down his face. The sunlight streamed into his room to kiss his skin. But the kiss of the sun felt more like a cold grip on his body without your morning songs. Bruno moved to get out of bed. He did not dare look at the other side of the bed. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of your lack of presence. Bruno stared at the drawer next to his bed. Your perfume, charm bracelets, and makeup decorated the top of the drawer. They never moved spots since the day you passed. His head sunk low as his mind raced with memories of your morning routines.
“Why do you even wear makeup? You're pretty without it.” Bruno asked. “I don’t just wear it to feel prettier. I wear it because it’s fun. It's like I allow myself to become my own canvas. I am able to tell a story with my face.” You responded. Bruno grabbed your hand to kiss it. “Your bare face tells the best story of all.” Bruno said. You blushed at his words. You wrapped your arms around him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Bruno gripped his dark locks so tight his knuckles turned white. Before he could let his mind wander to more memories of you, a small knock came from his door. Bruno attempted to wipe the dread from his face before he answered. “Come in.” He said. The door creaked as a tiny body entered the room. Bruno stared at his three year old daughter, Mari. Mari had his blue-tinted black hair, but it was your curly hair texture. She had his eyes, but everything else came from you.
“Buon giorno, Daddy.” She said. “Buon giorno, Mari.” Bruno responded. He opened his arms wide with a smile. His smile was tired and felt strained, but Bruno wanted to try his hardest to look happy for his daughter. Mari ran into his arms. He embraced her as tight as he could. After a few seconds, he pulled away from the hug. Bruno rested his hand on the top of her head. He twirled her curls around his fingers. Mari did not look as tired as he did, but she had changed. Her childish laughter could no longer be heard through the halls of the house. She smiled less and slept more often. It made the house quieter and colder.
“Daddy!” Mari yelled. Bruno turned to see Mari turn the corner in a rush. She jumped at him. Although surprised, Bruno caught Mari with ease. “What's got you screaming and running through the house bambina?” Bruno asked with a smile. “Mommy is chasing me. You have to help me.” Mari said with giddiness. Before he could act, you entered the kitchen with your radiant smile. You looked at the two with an exaggerated maniacal face.
“She found me!” Mari yelled. Bruno pressed Mari closer to his chest. “I see I have two tickle victims now.” You said. You laughed like a villain in a child’s television show. Bruno put Mari down to step in front of her. He put his arm in front of her. Bruno cleared his throat.
“I will not let you harm my princess you villainess queen.” Bruno said. Bruno had to try hard to hold in his laugh. You jumped at Bruno, but he caught you with ease. He gave you a soft tackle to the floor and attacked your sides. You erupted into laughter. You tried to push him off of you, but Bruno only applied more pressure onto your body.
“Get her Daddy!” Mari said enthusiastically. Bruno turned to give Mari a heroic smile. Bruno didn’t notice you took advantage of his distracted state to grab Mari. You pulled her which caused Bruno to fall on top of you. Mari landed on top of Bruno’s back.
“You guys are heavy.” You whined. Bruno looked at you with a grin that stretched ear to ear. Mari giggled into Bruno’s back. The laughter and joy in the kitchen resonated through the whole house.
Bruno let out a sigh as he realized he will never have moments like that again. He picked Mari up to take her to her room. As he walked down the hallway, he tried hard not to look at the pictures that littered the wall. All of the pictures were filled with your smiles. A smile that once brought him so much joy now brings him pain and regret. He can’t look at your exquisite paintings because all he can think about is the happy look on your face when you made them.
When he entered Mari’s room, he stared at the intricate design of her room. The walls were painted with blue waves that crashed against each other along with an assortment of colorful fish to match. Beautiful seashells and conch shells hung from the ceiling. Mari’s bed sheets had cerulean and white stripes to match the eyes she got from her father as well as his favorite color. The carpet was seafoam green to match the sea aesthetic of the room.
“Your eyes have always reminded me of the sea. Since she has your eyes, she will be a child of the sea, so her room should match.” You said.
“How do you even come up with these conclusions.” Bruno said with a laugh.
Bruno blinked away the tears that resurfaced from his memories. “Daddy are you okay?” Mari asked. “I’m fine. Are you okay?” Bruno asked. “I miss Mommy.” Mari said. Her eyes started to water. Bruno held her close and rubbed her back.
“I miss Mommy too.” Bruno responded. Mari sniffled and wiped her eyes. She kicked her feet, a signal for Bruno to put her down. He obliged as he went to rummage through her drawers to find her comb and hair products. Once he found the items, he called Mari over. She crawled into his lap. Bruno attempted to comb through the mess of curls on Mari’s head, but the comb got caught in her hair multiple times. He yanked the comb in frustration which caused Mari to yelp in pain.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you bambina.” Bruno apologized. He kissed the top of her head. Mari turned around to kiss Bruno’s cheek. “It’s okay. Mommy said to comb at the ends and-” “To comb section by section while applying conditioner and curl cream. I remember, thank you.” Bruno said. Mari wiggled in his lap as she nodded her head. Bruno laughed and kissed her forehead. She settled back into his lap to let him continue.
“Bruno, I told you to pay attention while I do her hair. You're gonna have to do it on days I leave earlier than you.” You scolded.
“I’m watching (Y/n), I’m watching (Y/n).” Bruno said. “No you’re not. You’re staring at my butt.” You responded. “Are those new shorts?” Bruno asked, with a smile plastered onto his face. “Bruno!” You yelled.
Bruno smiled at the memory. He pulled Mari into a hug. She squeezed his arms back. “I should’ve paid more attention when your mother did your hair. All I could do was put into a ponytail.” Bruno said. He motioned to grab the baby blue mirror on the dresser to show Mari her hair. She moved side to side to get a good look at herself. There wasn’t much of an expression on her face. Bruno gulped.
“Do you like it?” He asked. “Yes.” She responded. Her voice was laced with confusion. “I don’t have to lick your face to know you're lying.” Bruno said. His face formed into a pout. Mari giggled.
“Its not ugly. Its just not as pretty as mommy’s.” Mari said with a hint of sadness. Bruno patted her head and said, “I know, but thank you for trying to like it.” “I don’t have to try. I do like it. Good job Daddy.” Mari said. She gave him two thumbs ups. Bruno chuckled before he thanked her for her honesty.
“Before we get dressed, we have to eat so you don’t mess up your dress. What do you want to eat?” Bruno asked. Mari bounced as she gave her response. “I wanna eat plantains and eggs.” Fried plantains and eggs were your favorite breakfast dish. It was strange to him at first but it grew on him. Mari on the other hand, took an immediate liking to the meal. Bruno put his index finger and thumb to his chin while he looked at the ceiling.
“The eggs I can do. I might burn the plantains though.” Bruno said. “Daddy, the kinda burnt ones are the best ones.” Mari responded. Bruno looked at Mari surprised. His surprise was short lived as he broke into laughter.
Bruno picked up Mari to go downstairs. He was greeted by a silent kitchen. Mornings were never quiet with you. The silence was dreadful and lonely. The cold floor tiles were cruel to his feet. The white marble counters looked dull without your vibrant dishes splayed on them. Bruno stared at the counter for a moment to admire your colorful knife set. The ones you bought to make the kitchen look more lively.
Loud upbeat music played as Bruno made his way downstairs. There you were, engaged in a dance as you prepared breakfast. Bruno leaned on the wall to take in the sight. You swayed your hips to the beat of the song and gave an occasional butt wiggle. Bruno tiptoed around the kitchen in hopes you would not see him. He was as graceful as a ninja. Once he got behind you, he grabbed your hips and pulled you close to him. You jumped, which made you let out a scream. You turned around in his grasp. You smacked his shoulder in a playful manner.
“You scared the life out of me Bruno.” You said with a smile. “What do you have to be scared of? Were the only ones here.” Bruno said with a chuckle.
Bruno sighed. He put Mari down so he could start his scavenge of the fridge. He put his hand to the side of his neck as he realized the fridge was empty. He looked to the counters, but all there were was leftover takeout boxes and one plantain. Bruno brought the fruit to his nose. He took a whiff and scrunched up his nose.
“This one’s been sitting on the counter for too long. Sorry Mari, I guess we’ll have to grab breakfast on the way. Your mother would scream if she saw the state of the kitchen right now.” Bruno said. Mari’s face became sullen. Her head sunk low while she twiddled her thumbs in her lap. Bruno frowned at her action.
“Its okay. I’m not very hungry anyway. We’re gonna eat later anyway.” Mari said. Bruno knew that if you were here, Mari would throw a fit that she could not have plantains and eggs for breakfast. She tried to be more behaved ever since you passed. Bruno sighed. He walked over to Mari so that he could grab her little hands.
“I’ll tell you what. We can pick up some plantains and eggs from the farmers market today. We can have them for dinner tonight.” Bruno said. “Okay.” Mari responded with a small smile.
Bruno picked up Mari to head back upstairs to her room. He opened her closet to pull out her small black dress. The dress was a simple short sleeve with little black frills at the bottom. Your sister picked it out for her. Bruno dressed Mari in little time.
“Stay here while I go get dressed.” Bruno said as he tapped her nose. “Make sure to comb your hair Daddy. Its been messy all morning.” Mari said. Bruno ran his fingers through his hair. It slipped his mind to fix it when he woke up. You probably would have reminded him. Bruno walked back to his room and closed the door behind him. Contrary to Mari’s room, you and his shared bedroom was rather simple. The walls were painted white, the bedsheets on the king sized bed were navy blue, and the carpet was a light beige. The only things that made the room standout were the paintbrushes that laid on the table and dressers and the curtains. The curtains were white with black spoon shaped polka dots. They were identical to his signature white suit.
Bruno opened the closet to take out his black suit. The suit was like his white one except the dots were white instead of black, the chest area was closed, and it lacked his golden zipper accessories. Bruno put on the suit in no time. He stood in the mirror to tie his tie but stopped. His eyes lacked their usual shine, darks circles and bags adorned his eyes. There were a few breakouts on his forehead and cheek. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Bruno grabbed his comb to run it through his hair. He sectioned off a large strand of hair to do his braid.
“Let me do your braid.” You asked. “Alright.” Bruno responded. He moved to sit on the bed. You stood between his legs and started to work in his hair. Bruno sighed as he let himself relax into your touch. He shifted closer to you to take in a deep whiff of your tropical scent.
Bruno finished up his braid. He took one last look in the mirror before he set out to leave. He glanced at the dresser and paused when he saw your tropical scented perfume. Bruno pondered for a moment. He contemplated on whether or not he should wear it. It was a scent he loved on you but thought it would be strange if he ever wore it. He shook his head and grabbed the bottle. Bruno sprayed the scented liquid onto himself three times before he exited his room.
“Mari, were leaving.” Bruno called out. Mari ran out from her room. She raised her hand towards Bruno to grab his hand. Bruno intertwined his fingers with hers. They put on their shoes and left for the church.
When Bruno and Mari arrived at the church, his gang was there. Your siblings were there as well. After you died, missed calls and unanswered text messages from them piled up in his phone. He declined any in person meetups with them. He couldn’t look them in the eyes or muster the courage to talk to them. The only one he talked to was (S/n), your sister. It was a one time conversation he had with her to ask her to pick out the funeral dress for Mari and to discuss the funeral details.
Everyone looked at him but said nothing. Their eyes were filled with sympathy. They all knew that anything they said would not lift Bruno’s spirits. As he went to take his seat with Mari, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see who it was. He was greeted by emerald green eyes and all to familiar golden hair.
“Giorno.” Bruno whispered. “May I speak to you?” Giorno asked. Bruno turned his head to Mari. She gave a small smile to Giorno. He smiled back at her with a small wave. “Buccellati, I’ll look after her.” Mista said. He popped up out of nowhere. Bruno almost did not recognize Mista without his hat. With his short brown hair out, Mista somehow looked more mature.
Bruno nodded at Mista. He made his way out of the church’s sanctuary with Giorno. Bruno admired the stained glass and red checkered flooring. The church was beautiful. It would always be beautiful to Bruno since this was the church where he married you. It was only appropriate that he had your funeral held here.
They stopped at the doors of the sanctuary to talk. “Buccellati, you look tired. When was the last time you slept properly?” Giorno asked. “The last time I slept properly, (Y/n) was in bed waiting for me.” Bruno responded. Giorno swallowed.
“I want you to know none of this was your fault. No one could have ever predicted the chauffeur would get into an accident.” Giorno said. Giorno looked Bruno in the eyes with intensity. His expression was soft but held a sense of dominance. It was like Giorno offered all his sympathies to Bruno but wanted to command his friend to care for himself. Bruno turned from Giorno’s gaze. His face was overcome with guilt.
“If I never suggested she take the chauffeur to her art show, she would still be here.” Bruno whispered.
You were not part of the gang. You were a civilian who made a successful art career for yourself. You and Bruno met when you two were thirteen. You were a girl left alone in this world to care for your three younger siblings. The owner of Libeccio, was a friend of your father’s who took you and your siblings in. Bruno met you there. At first you were a bother to him. He would answer in short sentences and one word phrases in an attempt not to be rude, but to let you know to back off. However, you were persistent. You bothered him constantly to try to talk. He wanted nothing to do with you since he was part of the mafia. However, one day Bruno yielded. He sat down and had a full conversation with you. The conversation was meant to be short, but Bruno found that he enjoyed his time with you. His talk with you allowed him to open up a little. It made him feel happy that someone sat down to really look at him. Someone truly wanted to know more about him without the urge to have something in return. He continued to talk to you at the restaurant, in your room, his house, and your secret hideout: a rooftop of an abandoned building. He knew the more time you spent with him could put you in danger, but he wanted to be selfish when it came to you. With you, he could be himself. With you, he had someone he could confide in. With you, he had a true friend that looked past his mafia ties to see the real him. With you, he fell in love. With you, he had a daughter. With you, came your death.
Your art show was about a month ago. The show was meant for you to promote some of your most recent pieces. You said you would be fine if you drove yourself, but Bruno insisted you take one of his chauffeurs. You took his offer. When the chauffeur arrived, you kissed his and Mari’s cheeks, excited to see them at your show. However, you never arrived at the show. Your car was hit by a drunk driver. You had a stand ability that could heal, but the crash caused you to fall unconscious. You were unable to heal yourself. Bruno did not find out about the accident until an hour after it happened. By that time, it was too late. The doctors could not save you. Giorno could not save. He could not save you.
Bruno clutched your hand as he stared into your lifeless face. He cried into your palm.
“Please, amore mio, don’t leave us. I can’t lose another person I love.” Bruno pleaded. You did not answer. You would never be able to answer him again.
Bruno turned to look at the sanctuary. The church staff had brought in your casket. Bruno gulped. “The ceremony will be starting soon.” Bruno said, in a voice no louder than whisper. Giorno said nothing as Bruno walked back to his seat next to Mari. Mista still sat with her. Mista gave Bruno a saddened face before he patted his shoulder and went back to his own seat.
The priest came out in his white robe to say his prayers. After the priest gave his piece, All of your siblings came up to give their sentiments. Bruno wished he could focus on what they had to say, but his eyes were glued to your casket. He did not get a good look at your face from his distance. In all honesty, he was scared to get a good look at you. He did not know how he would react if he got a second look at your dead body. Bruno’s was pulled out of his stupor when he saw it was his turn to speak about you. Bruno trudged up the stairs of the altar. He saw your face. It was peaceful, but you had a scar that ran diagonally on your right cheek. Bruno began to tremble. He bit his lip as he stared at your body. He slowly turned around to look at the guests. Your siblings and Marco, the owner of Libeccio, along with his son were sitting on the left side of the room. Narancia, Mista, Fugo, Abbacchio, Giorno, Mari and others who knew the two of you were on the right. Bruno gulped. He opened his mouth but found no words. How could he summarize his life with you? Where could he even begin to talk about how much you meant to him? Bruno used all his might to force some kind of words out.
“(Y/n), was the light of my life. She was my happiness, my joy, my everything. (Y/n) was my, uhm, my...ah.” Bruno stuttered. He could no longer form coherent sentences. He hung his head low so he would not cry. But he hung his head more so in shame that he could not say more about his beloved wife. Everyone poured their sympathies to Bruno with their eyes. They all understood that your death would hit Bruno the hardest. Unable to speak, Bruno slowly walked back to his seat. After some more words from other attendees, it was time for everyone to pay their respects to you. It broke Bruno when Mari started to cry and scream for her mother. It took everything Bruno had to not wail alongside her. He held Mari close to try and soothe her. He repeated to Mari over and over again everything would be okay. The repetition of the phrase was an attempt to try to convince himself that everything would be okay.
Everyone left the church to move to the burial site. Not many words were shared at the burial site. Everyone said what they had to share in the church. Bruno watched as men put your casket into the ground. Mari squeezed his hand as tight as she could as she continued to cry. Bruno held her hand with just as much force. Every small pile of dirt that landed on your casket tugged at Bruno’s heart strings. Soon the whole was filled. You were truly no longer of this world. People tried to give Bruno and Mari words of encouragement as they left, but Bruno drowned their words out. Marco came up to Bruno. He put his hand on his shoulder before he spoke.
“She really loved you Buccellati. Keep smiling for her and Mari. She needs you more than anyone right now. Also talk to them.” Marco said, as he pointed his thumb to your siblings. “(S/n) and the others don't blame you for their sister’s death. They're your family too. So am I.” Marco said. Bruno looked at Marco’s face ready to cry. Although his black hair was greyed and his brown eyes were adorned with crows feet, Marco still looked young for a fifty-five year old man. Marco became a second father to Bruno after he started his relationship with you. Marco was protective of you when it came to boys but never with Bruno. Marco trusted him. Bruno knew he would always have a special place in Marco’s heart and vice versa. Marco gave Bruno a strong squeeze and a smile. He let go of Bruno and ruffled Mari’s hair before he took his leave. All of his team members knew not to say anything to him. They knew he needed this time alone with his daughter. Everyone left one by one until him and Mari were the only ones at your grave. The two of them stood in silence as they stared at your tombstone. The silence was broken as Mari began to sing.
“Is is strange for me to say that If I were to die today There's not a thing I would change I've lived well Maybe I have made mistakes and been through my fair share of pain But all in all, it's been okay, I've lived well And the more that I see, the more that I know I don't know anything, at all Like the more that I breath, and start to go slow Oh, one of many things, I can only recall” Mari sang.
Bruno began to shake as Mari sang her song. It was the song you wrote and always sang around the house. It was the song you sang or hummed to him almost every morning. Bruno could no longer keep up his mental damn. He let his tears fall, but he smiled through them. He looked at Mari as she smiled back at him. They sang unison, “All of the good things, good things All of the good things, good things Only the good, the good, the good Only the good, the good, the good”
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Text
I Have My Ways
It’s Stiles’ first full moon since he was bitten and he’s struggling.
For @staffofoppression
(You can read it here on AO3)
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He ran through the shadows and the darkness that surrounded him. He wove his way through the undergrowth. His bare feet pounded the damp earth as he ran through the dense woods, splashing the cool mud against his pale skin.
There was a dull pain as the jagged twigs and outstretched branches scratched and clawed at his bare skin, but the pain didn’t seem to register in his mind; all he could think about was running.
Around him, the usual autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, filtered streams of silver light surrounded him seeping through the canopy and dancing across the ground.
The glow of the full moon lit his world, filling him with energy and spurring him on. The burning power filled his veins, igniting his soul as he ran.
Among the darkness of the woods, he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows as eye-like rings watched him from all angles.
The cool air filled his lungs, the bitterly cold chill biting at his pale cheeks.
He bounded over fallen trees and large logs, leaping over tree stumps and felled branches.
He didn’t stop running, not until he saw the wolf.
The large black wolf stood in front of him, blocking his path. Their fur was as dark as the night and their eyes glowed with a bright crimson glow.
Stiles slowed to a halt, his broken, panting breaths turning to a misty cloud in the cool night air. He felt his eyes burn with power as they glowed in response to his alpha.
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head into his hands as he slowly regained control of himself.
The wolf slowly rose, morphing back into their human form and walking over to Stiles’ side.
“Are you okay?” Derek asked, gently prying Stiles’ arms away from his head and craning his neck to look him in the eye.
Stiles nodded, looking up as he let out a measured sigh.
“I lost control for a moment,” Stiles told him.
“It’s alright,” Derek said soothingly. “These things happen.”
“I thought the bite was meant to cure things,” Stiles mused. “Why does it not work for ADHD?”
“Because ADHD isn’t like other disorders,” Derek said. “It’s not like epilepsy or pneumonia; your brain is just wired differently.”
“So I’m a werewolf with ADD?”
“Don’t all dogs have ADD?” Derek said light-heartedly, hoping his joke would cheer Stiles up somewhat.
Stiles dropped his head, muttering something that Derek didn’t hear.
Derek took another step forward. He gently slid a finger beneath Stiles’ chin and coaxed him to look up and meet Derek’s soft gaze. His eyes flickered red and a small smile toyed with the corners of his lips as Stiles’ lit up with a golden glow in return.
He cupped Stiles’ cheek and leant forward, pressing a tender, loving kiss to Stiles’ forehead
“You should probably chain me up,” Stiles said, dejected.
Derek shook his head, chuckling slightly as he said, “You would only find a way to escape.”
“I can’t trust myself,” Stiles said, grimacing as he felt the hypnotic call of the full moon burn at the back of his mind. “I don’t want to end up hurting someone.”
“You’re not going to hurt anyone,” Derek promised. “The worst you’ve done is run through the woods. You’re not snapping or snarling. You haven’t hurt me and you’re not going to hurt anyone else.”
Stiles dropped his gaze, staring down at his feet.
“It’ll take time to get used to all of this; to learn how to control it,” Derek said softly. “This is only your first full moon and you’re already doing better than the others.”
“It doesn’t feel like I am,” Stiles admitted.
“You are,” Derek reassured him, his voice soft but firm.
Derek pulled Stiles into a tight hug, holding him close for a moment. As he stepped back, he wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, guiding him back through the woods in the direction he’d come from.
“Let’s get you home.”
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Derek had done a good job at restoring the Hale house. The walls were covered in crisp white paint. A few of the support beams that framed the room had been replaced—the large beams weathered, scarred and stained in an effort to match the surviving beans that had been burnt and distorted by the fire; bent and twisted like body of Atlas bowing beneath an unimaginable weight.
The house smelt of sweet dew and crisp pine trees, but there was a lingering bitter smell of ash that never seemed to fade.
There were scattered signs of history and new life mingling among the ruins. There were pieces of furniture that had been restored or salvaged, wooden tables with charred legs and warped paint like scars. The walls of the hallways were lined with photos of the Hale family—pictures that Stiles and the pack had helped Derek track down—and new photos; photos of the pack.
Two large windows framed the front door, silver moonlight streaming through them and illuminating the angelic swirl of the sparkling particles of dust.
Stiles stepped into the hallway, his head bowed in shame as Derek shut the front door behind them and locked it.
Stiles made his way into the living room.
There were two large sofas and two arm chairs, arranged in a circle that faced the fireplace in the centre of the room.
The fire was lit, the warm glow filling the room and the sound of crackling soothing Stiles as he watched the wavering flames dance about.
A row of old hard cover books with fragile withered and frayed spines sat atop the mantle, held upright by two bookends that Derek had made himself. Beside the books were more photographs and an arrangement of little trinkets that Derek had collected over the years or that the pack had given him as gifts.
Derek stepped up behind Stiles, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him back against his chest.
Stiles let out a deep sigh, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment as he relaxed, falling back into Derek’s arms and melting into his warmth.
“I still think you should chain me up,” Stiles said after a while.
“I have another idea,” Derek said.
He scooped Stiles off his feet – delighted by the sound of his playful laughter – and carried him over to the couch.
He carefully laid Stiles down on the cushions, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to his lips before straightening up.
“You’re just going to make me lie here?” Stiles asked, somewhat sceptical. “How are you going to stop me from getting up?”
“I have my ways,” Derek said with a coy smirk.
Derek shifted into his wolf form, gracefully climbing up onto the couch and laying on top of Stiles.
Stiles burst into a fit of laughter, shaking Derek as his chest rose and fell with his chuckling.
Derek stretched out, pinning Stiles down. He laid his head down on Stiles’ chest, looking up at the man lovingly.
“You’re really going to just lie there?” Stiles asked.
Derek nodded.
“This is your brilliant plan to make sure I don’t move?”
Derek nodded again.
“Is this because I said that there was an unspoken law that says you are not allowed to move when a pet lies on you?”
There was a glint of mischief in Derek’s eyes that seemed to say ‘yes’.
Stiles chuckled.
“You know what?” he started, but his argument died away in his throat. He shook his head, smiling as he said, “You’re right. I’m not moving.”
Derek lifted his head slightly, licking Stiles’ chin.
Stiles screwed up his face. “That’s gross.”
Derek shifted slightly, resting his chin on Stiles’ chest and settling. HIs eyes slowly drifted shut as he fell asleep.
Yeah, I’m definitely not moving, Stiles thought.
He carefully lifted his hand and gently patted Derek, running his fingers through Derek’s soft fur.
Exhaustion began to take its toll on him. Stiles’ eyes grew heavy. He wrapped an arm around Derek as his eyes drifted shut and sleep pulled him under.
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When Stiles woke the next morning, the golden light of morning bled through the large bay window of the living room. The fire had long gone out, the embers cold and the grey ash piled at the bottom of the fireplace.
Beyond the window he could hear the sweet twittering of singing birds.
But what was most noticeable was that Derek wasn’t there.
Stiles let out a weak groan as he pushed himself upright and looked around.
Derek had laid a soft blanket over him, the soft fabric pooling around his waist as he straightened up.
He slowly rolled his shoulder, feeling he tense muscles ache. He’d been bitten nearly a month ago, and although the wound had long healed, there were times when Stiles could swear he could still feel it.
He carefully pushed aside the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the couch. He screwed up his face when he looked down at his feet. His pale skin was covered in dried mud and scratches that were darkened by dried blood.
Stiles carefully set his feet down on the floor, wincing as he put weight on his tender feet. He rose from the couch, slowly hobbling out of the living room and into the kitchen.
Derek stood by the kitchen bench, a cup of coffee in one hand as he flipped through the newspaper with the other.
Stiles dragged his feet across the hardwood floors as he crossed over to Derek, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and burying his face in the curve of Derek’s neck.
“Good morning,” Derek said softly. “How do you feel?”
Stiles let out a weak moan.
“Maybe this will make you feel better,” Derek said. He set down his mug and picked up another cup on the counter, holding it out to Stiles.
Stiles pouted as he took the mug of coffee from Derek. He cupped it in his hands, letting the warmth seep into the palms of his hands. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the rich smell of the bitter coffee before sipping at it.
“What’s wrong?” Derek asked.
“Nothing,” Stiles replied.
“Stiles,” Derek said, craning his neck to look Stiles in the eye.
“I was hoping you’d still be there when I woke up,” Stiles admitted.
A small smile turned up the corners of Derek’s lips. He grabbed the front of Stiles’ shirt and pulled him close. He turned slightly, leaning back against the bench and wrapping his arms around Stiles.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He reached up and gently brushed aside a stray strand of hair that fell forward in Stiles’ face. He leant forward and pressed a tender kiss to Stiles’ cheek.
“So that’s your plan for every full moon now, you’re going to shift and lie on me so I can’t move?” Stiles asked.
Derek pretended to think about it. “Yeah, pretty much.”
A mischievous smile played across Derek’s lips.
Stiles rolled his eyes.
“Hey,” Derek said, a touch of offence in his voice. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it did,” Stiles submitted. He sipped at his coffee.
“How do you feel?”
“Exhausted and full of energy at the same time,” Stiles replied.
“The energy is because of the moon. For a few days before and after a full moon, you’ll feel more energetic than usual,” Derek explained. “And feeling exhausted is normal after a full moon, especially if you spent most of the night running through a forest.”
Stiles looked down at his dirty feet covered in scratches and sneered.
“I need a shower,” Stiles said, stepping back from Derek and setting the empty coffee mug down in the sink.
“Yeah, you do,” Derek teased. “You stink.”
“You stink,” Stiles replied out of habit.
Derek smirked. “I guess I need a shower too then. Mind if I join you?”
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the-goth-catte · 3 years
Text
A Shifting of the Sands: I
The sun might have set over the barren, rocky desert of Thanalan, but the heat had yet to fully abate. Perhaps a bell, maybe two, had passed since the radiant disc that burned so bright, and hot, over the arid landscape had set, and blessed darkness had descended to give its slowly-cooling relief to the denizens of the scorched desert. As the sun had sank beneath the glittering domes and spires of Ul’dah, the sky had come to life with a myriad of blazing, brilliant colors - painting both the sky, and the imagination, in rich hues of orange and red, fading up to purples and deep blues, eventually merging all together into the blackness of the abyss at the crown of the world. As the moments ticked past the colors played out their panoramic show for all the world to see, living art dancing gleefully in the skies above them; at dusk slowly ilmed its way toward full night a sprinkling of stars began to twinkle into existence in the darkness that replaced the vivid sunset; only the brightest appeared at first, their brilliant radiance defiant against the dying of the day’s light. But as the world descended further into darkness, their brethren began to shine fully into view until the sky was once again alight with color. This time, instead of broad swaths across the entirety of the horizon it was a dazzling show of faintly shimmering lights across the heavens, like little camp fires on some far and distant shore.
Y'naalie Vhenna had sat on a moss covered rock, the gentle mist from the slow running stream-turned-waterfall wafting over her sweat-coated, exhaustion-laced limbs. Beneath that slowly fading sky, magenta eyes watching the colors bleed from the day as the twinkling lights of the stars slowly showed their radiant faces. The day had been long for her - most days, truth be told, were - and these quiet moments in which the world transitioned slowly from the glaring, bright heat of desert day to the calm, strangely serene night were some of the scant few in which she could find a measure of peace. From well before the rising of the sun at dawn Naalie was hard at work within the halls of the gladiator's guild, honing her craft to be the fiercest underdog that stepped foot onto the blood sands. Being as short as she was, as slender as she was, Naalie was no stranger to not being taken seriously in the world of combat; larger foes oft looked down their noses at the diminutive gladiatrix, scoffing away the woman against whom they had been pitted due to her stature. These disdainful, dismissive looks from gladiators and fans alike only drove her to train harder, fight harder... so that she could show them just how ferocious she can be. And that is why Naalie rose several bells before the dawn began to lighten the horizon, shuffling her way to the hall so that she could be the first in to practice her maneuvers... and why she was oft the last one to leave, leaden limbs carrying her out into Ul'dah by instinct alone. Not wishing to return to the cramped, crowded apartment that she shared with the remnants of her tribe, Naalie often found herself wandering beyond the city walls and into the desert proper; if she got here at just the right time of night, like tonight, it was a sight to behold and worked some sort of magical wonder at easing some of the tension that perpetually plagued her body. As the world fully gave way to night, the little nocturnal creatures began to stir themselves to life; night time insects began to chirp their songs to one another, creating an almost organic melody that carried across the barren wastes while keen-eyed birds made their shrill calls and gentle coos in search of dinner and companionship. And all the while, the splashing of the small waterfall behind her added a soothing soundtrack that Naalie could sit and enjoy for bells on end. A gentle breeze picked up the mist from the falling water, carrying it across the rock upon which Naalie sat and out toward the arid landscape beyond; what little moisture in it wouldn't last long, this verdant oasis seeming to cling jealously to the precious water and plant life it had carved out for itself. A backward glance from Naalie was all that it took for the idea of slipping into the water to form in her mind; despite the retreat of the sun, it was still quite hot in the desert... and coupled with the weary exhaustion, the thin film of dried sweat, and the need to do anything relaxing, well... it was too much for the blonde Miqo'te to resist. Never shy about nudity, even when around others, Naalie surmised that she was alone enough to justify shedding her training clothes without undue attention; making short work of the wardrobe, and glad to be out of the clothes that clung limply to her skin, she was soon slipping into the knee-deep water with a newfound energy. Slender legs splashed through the dirty, sand-laced water without a care, seeming to take a certain glee in making noise and kicking up the water; by the time she'd shuffled underneath the crisp, falling water there resided a small, content smile on her thin lips. With her head back, Naalie allowed the cool water to soak her hair and flow over her face; rivers of the sweet, refreshing liquid ran down her body to join once again at the pool in which she stood. She was the proverbial stone in their path, the obstacle around which they must flow to continue their journey eternal. But what a delightful stone to be, if for that moment alone. Clap. Clap. Clap. Three staccato bursts of sound, so innocuous and innocent, snapped Naalie out of the quiet reverie of her moment of oneness with nature. The Miqo'te turned, hand reaching quickly for the blade that always rested at her hip. The blade that was, specifically, not at her hip at she stood beneath the cold, flowing water. Fingers clenching futilely at empty air, the gladiatrix grimaced as she realized her potentially dangerous predicament.  Standing just shy of the lapping edge of the sandy pool were three figures, two tall and imposing uniformed men flanking a short, swarthy, gaudily dressed Lalafell man. His hands held still before him, motionless after the dramatic announcement of the trio's arrival; gloves of black silk padded the percussion of his palms, muffling the sound somewhat against the song of the desert night. The gloves, like the rest of the flowing and colorful silks he wore and seemingly limitless number of gemstone encrusted jewelry bedazzling his figure, spoke of an ostentatious amount of wealth. The smirk on his lips, the gleam in his eye, all suggested this was a man who seldom, if ever, didn't get what he wanted. Money. Power. Influence. Danger. All writ large on the smug expression of that little Dunesfolk. "Who-" Naalie began, only to be cut off by the little man. His arms retracted, folding lackadaisically over his partially bared chest; Naalie could see the glistening of oiled and perfumed chest hairs peaking out from the edges of his robe, catching the reflection of the wan moonlight. For some reason, that was what caught her eye beyond all else. "Who I am isn't necessarily what you should be concerned about," His voice, gods, his voice. Grating and nasal, it was every bit unpleasant as one would assume from looking at him. "It's who you are that is why we're here." He went on, leaving no room for interruption, "The Crimson Jaguar, Ul'dah's scappiest little gladiator! Not undefeated, but quite impressive in the arena. A darling favorite of the Jewel and her people, not to mention the bookies who rake in the gil hand over fist with every hard-fought victory you claw for yourself. I'm a fan, I'm quite impressed. Smitten, even. To think, I'm in the presence of the Crimson Jaguar. Boys, can you believe it?" The little Lalafell asked, glancing up to the two men on either side of him; a dull chorus of laughter echoed following his prompting, though from the sound of it neither men truly understood what they were laughing at.  "Can't believe it, boss." "Nope, I don't believe it." With the snap of his fingers the two goons fell into immediate, practiced silence so that the only sounds were, once again, the singing of the crickets and the splashing of falling water. There was something uncomfortable in that man's stare, something intense and foreboding. The slowly spreading, more-than-slightly sinister smile did nothing to allay that notion. "Now, if I remember correctly..." the nameless man went on, "... you have an important fight coming up, don't you? Against, oh... what was his name...? Boys, do you remember?" "Sure don't, boss." "Nope, boss, can't remember." Snap. "Bjornulf. Bjornulf the Hellsbeast." "Oh, boss, it was Bjornulf." "Bjornulf, boss, I think is the guy's name." The chorus chimed in. "Bjornulf the Hellsbeast," the man echoed once again, clucking his tongue as if, for some reason, this provoked some sort of thought in the devious little cogs of his mind. "You know, my sweet Crimson Jaguar, the odds they have in the betting houses? You to defeat that monster of a Hrothgar by over 50:1! Ul'dah's rising star." He paused his speech, only to begin a slow, idle pace around the water's edge without ever coming so close as to sully the shoes he wore. "A lot of people stand to make a lot of gil when you win that fight. They'd be crazy to bet against somebody who has shown as much skill and determination and drive as you have. I mean, could you even imagine the payout if somebody were to go all in on Bjornulf and he won?" The Lalafell asked; at first, the question seemed innocuous enough, but the tone with which it was delivered... the narrowing of the eyes, the arching of the brow, the curling of the lips. It wasn't a question, it was a suggestion. An offer? A threat. As the realization dawned on Naalie, the Lalafell's smile grew all the broader... and feigned innocence. Little shoulders lifted in a shrug, prompting the jingle-jangle of excessive jewelry to call out in the still night. "I'm not going to thro-" Naalie began, before once again being cut off. "Nobody is asking you to throw anything," The Lalafell cut in once again, his tone harsh. "But, if it happened... the payout." His demeanor shifted, his smile returned, and his shoulders shrugged their nonchalant little shrug. "And I'm certain your patrons would reward you for your valiant effort, win or lose. There's no shame in it, after all... right, boys?" "No shame, right boys?" Left goon echoed. "Left boys, no shame." Right goon said. The Lalafell paused at that, merely shaking his head a few seconds later. "You don't know who I am, Crimson Jaguar, but I know who you are. And I know who pulls your strings. Work with me and we can go far. Don't, and..." his golden eyes shifted to the side, brow arching with an unspoken implication. "... well, you're a smart girl." An awkward moment of silence followed before the man turned, giving a wave by the wiggling of his fingers, and walked away into the desert with his cohorts.
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orangeflavoryawp · 3 years
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Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 7
Finally catching up on posting my chapters on tumblr now that I’ve got the time to do the freakin’ formatting, lol.  I’ve been lazy.  My bad.
“From Instep to Heel”
Chapter Seven: Taken
"(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)
Did you like it?
The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.
Read it on Ao3 here.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin
* * *
"You slept well, I hope, brother?" Aegon's eyes crinkle with his smile as he bites off a piece of salted seabass.
Jon offers a tight smile in return, leaning back in his chair at the table, shoulders bunched. Aegon does not wait for the ladies of the house to join them, tucking into his breakfast with poised and slender hands. Jon picks at a piece of brown bread, eyes lingering over his untouched plate. He glances to the door again, half expecting Sansa to walk through it this very moment. "Not particularly," he sighs, tearing off another piece mindlessly.
"Yes," Aegon muses, "I see you're clearly distracted."
Jon raises a brow at him.
Aegon continues chewing, waving a hand nonchalantly, knife in his grip as he speaks, "The first night can have that affect."
"And you've enough under your belt to advise me on it?" Jon bites out, tongue smarting instantly when the words leave his mouth. He pulls a sharp breath in, turns his gaze to the table.
Aegon stops chewing, swallows slowly – demurely. A humoring smile tugs at his lips. "A wife is different."
Jon does not argue him that one, but he decides to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, drawing his shoulders back, trying to ease some of the tension there.
Sighing almost wistfully, Aegon sets his cutlery down. "Daenerys has not changed much since that first night." A chuckle lights his lips, almost nostalgic. "Still as demanding and insatiable as ever."
Jon scrunches his nose in distaste, resisting the urge to reach for his wine, wash the lump of bread in his throat down.
"I don't imagine Lady Sansa was so, however."
Jon's gaze snaps to his brother, hand clenching into a fist atop his thigh. He draws a slow, tight breath in.
Aegon cocks his head at Jon, leaning back easily in his chair, eyes glinting sharply – a violet lance cut through the brisk, morning light streaming through the windows. He smiles again, the ends of his lips curled like the whip of a dragon's tail. And then he returns to his food, resuming his meal smoothly. Another bite. A slow, long chew.
Jon watches his brother, knuckles white. "Is this really the conversation you want to be having over breakfast?" he manages tightly.
Aegon makes a small sound of contemplation in his throat, glancing back up at Jon. "My appetite isn't so easily curbed, brother. Is yours?" Aegon swallows, a flash of teeth peeking out beneath his curved lips.
Jon grinds his jaw, his bitterness curling like smoke in his chest – sour and lung-scraping.
Aegon continues with ease. "I do hope at least you enjoyed your evening, brother. Mine was terribly lonesome." He laughs, short and disturbingly bright. "Daenerys would not have me last night."
"I can hardly suspect why," Jon snaps dryly, mouth clamping shut when he realizes what he's said.
Aegon watches him with unblinking eyes, rolling the food around his mouth leisurely, wrists resting atop the table edge, cutlery still in hand.
Jon thinks of the petal crushed under Aegon's boot in the garden, and the flick of the riding crop to the backs of his calves, and the smooth, weathered stone sitting pointedly atop their father's desk.
And then he thinks of the way Aegon had stepped back from Sansa at the wedding feast, a relinquishing sweep of his arm and a brotherly smile aimed his way – how he had not objected to Jon's intrusion, nor his brusque manner.
Jon swallows tightly.
But of course.
He should have known better. Aegon forgets little, and forgives even less.
Jon smooths his hands along his thighs, chest constricting, waiting, poised at a knife's edge.
(He should have known better.)
Aegon leans forward across the table, smirk adorning his lips, brows arched in a conspiratorial look, as though eager to share a well-kept secret. "You've never spilled in a woman before, have you?" he asks softly, almost carefully to any other ear.
Jon hears the edge to it, easily enough.
He works his jaw, eyes fixed to Aegon.
His brother leans back smoothly, smirk still curling the edges of his lips. "Too fearful of spawning a bastard, weren't you?"
Jon has no answer for him, can only turn his gaze away, fix it glaringly to his wine glass, feel his skin prick with a resentment too familiar.
"They're not such terrible things, you know – bastards," Aegon says nonchalantly, setting his knife down to reach for his own glass, bringing it to his lips before he pauses, as though in sudden remembrance, "When properly kept."
Jon blows a breath through his lips, heated and halting, unable to keep the glare from his gaze when he looks back to Aegon.
His brother only offers him a lifted brow, lips stained red with wine when he pulls the glass from his mouth.
Jon feels the words brimming in his throat, rancid and airless – a choke, a strangle – feels his mouth open even still, a recklessness blooming beneath his skin, as heady as it is unfamiliar, and –
The door swings wide, Sansa stepping through, Rhaenys following behind her with a dour expression.
Jon swallows that slice of shame back down –stinging and raw.
"Sisters," Aegon greets, and Jon does not miss the address, nor does Sansa, it seems, as she stops short, blinking doe-eyed at him for a spell, before she's nodding her greeting, cheeks a faint pink, stepping gracefully toward the seat beside Jon. She doesn't meet his eyes.
Rhaenys lets out a scoff at Aegon, shaking her head with pursed lips, settling into the empty space beside him.
Aegon cocks his head in question, eyes drifting to the closed door. "You seem to have lost my wife along the way," he says, amusement lilting his tone.
Rhaenys reaches for the sugared plums instantly. "Daenerys says she's too ill to break her fast with us this morning." Sucking a piece of fruit between her teeth, Rhaenys sends a meaningful look Aegon's way, swallowing after a pointed chew. "She sends her regards." A sugared smile follows the words.
Jon manages to bite back his scoff. It isn't the first time Daenerys has sought to spite Aegon with her absence.
Aegon picks the napkin up from beside Rhaenys' plate and raises it to her with an arched brow. She takes it with a roll of her eyes, dabbing at her sugar-smeared mouth. "I'll have to see to her later, then." His gaze flicks to Jon and he has the unexplainable urge to grab for Sansa's hand next to him. He resists the inclination – only barely. "Make sure she's not too unwell," Aegon finishes, his violet gaze settling back on Rhaenys
She's already filling her plate, well past the conversation.
Beside Jon, Sansa is quietly cutting into her own food. He takes a breath, wills the lingering rage from his face, tries to smooth his brow and his frown and his hardened gaze, dipping his head to catch her eye. "My lady?"
She flickers soft blue eyes up at him and for an instant, they stay staring at each other.
All at once he remembers the way his palm had fit around her thigh and the gasp she'd sounded at his ear and the drowning, bone-singing heat of her when he'd finally sunk inside her. His gaze flicks to her mouth, and watches it purse.
When he glances back up to her eyes, he finds her staring unblinkingly at him, fork halted halfway to her mouth. She clears her throat, settles the fork back to her plate.
Jon glances away, wiping a hand down his mouth. A gruff exhale leaves him, and he reaches for his own fork, eager for a distraction. "I'm sorry for leaving before you woke this morning," he says softly, careful not to let the conversation reach his siblings' ears. He glances up to find the two already occupied by their own discussion, and looks back to Sansa with a barely discernible sigh of relief.
She only nods, glancing down to his hands as he digs into his quickly cooling roast.
"I...had matters to attend to," he mumbles.
He feels the lie shrivel up along his tongue even as it tastes air.
Blessed air.
And that's what he had needed – after waking groggily in the early hours of the morning, body curled loosely around her sleeping form, half-hard at her backside, and he'd wanted nothing more than to trail his fingers down the smooth line of her arm, and then lower over the curve of her hip, her skin warm and supple to the touch, and he'd nearly rocked into her on instinct, lulled by sleep and hazy desire, before the night rushed back to him in a flood of memories.
The pained whimper she'd tried to smother when he'd first entered her, the stiffness of her frame, muscles bunched achingly tight, the way she'd squeezed her eyes shut, those soft, iridescent blues blanking out into shadow -
The way he'd clearly hurt her.
(Warnings mean little to nothing in this house, and Jon should know that by now.)
He swallows thickly, pausing in his determined cutting, eyes blinking furiously down at his plate.
Jon had torn himself from the bed that morning, dressed as swiftly and quietly as he could, and then left Sansa to her slumber.
He tells himself it couldn't have been helped.
He'd tried to be quick about it, tried to bring himself to completion without prolonging her pain, and truth be told, it wasn't particularly difficult when she was so warm beneath him, so soft and breathy, so tight around his cock.
It's easy to get lost in Sansa Stark, he finds.
Except, there's a smaller, more insistent part of him, that tells him he is wrong.
"I intend to do my duty," she'd said, and it had been his unraveling
Jon glances up to Rhaenys, finds her watching him with a perceptive stare. He growls his frustration beneath his breath, tearing back into his food.
Sansa does not answer him, only nods mutely, gaze flicking back to her own plate.
His eyes sting.
And what a stupid, foolish hope.
(The realization is blinding.)
He understands now, what he'd been so adamant to smother before, what he'd been unable to admit to, even in the darkest parts of him.
He wants her.
He wants her – maddeningly.
"You will never be more to her than duty."
He only wishes she wanted him back.
* * *
"Alright, I've been patient enough I think," Margaery says on a laugh, shuffling closer to Sansa in her seat. "You must tell me how the wedding night went. Was it everything you'd hoped for?"
Sansa blinks alarmingly wide eyes up at Margaery, hand stilling halfway off the table, cream puff caught between her thumb and forefinger. "The wedding night?" she manages after a gulp.
Margaery cocks her head, a mischievous smile tugging charmingly at her lips. "Yes, of course. From what I saw at the feast, your Jon simply couldn't wait to get you back to your chambers." She shivers deliciously, leaning closer to the younger woman over the armrest of her chair.
Sansa drops the pastry in her hand back down to her plate, going for the napkin in her lap, throat tightening. "Yes, well, it was...unexpected." She smooths her hands over the napkin in her lap, the breeze from the open gardens fluttering strands of copper around her face.
"I'm sure," Margaery smirks. She urges her on with a waving motion of her hand.
Sansa bites her lip, and then she turns fully in her seat to face the Tyrell, brows furrowed sharply. "Margaery, he... he tried to touch me... well, there." She bites her lip again, a flush of remembrance branching through her, cheeks heating.
"I should hope so," she says, a laugh bubbling at the edges of her lips, before she catches the expression Sansa wears, her smile wilting instantly. She clears her throat, straightening in her seat. "And that...unsettled you?" she asks now, voice calmer.
Sansa wears a worried thumb into her opposite palm, watching the motion. "I didn't want him to," she says, and she remembers, instantly, the heat that had suffused her when he did, the almost uncontrollable urge to shift her hips up toward his touch, to chase that fluttering thrum of nerves that ricocheted through her. She clamps her mouth tight around the words, chest tight with her embarrassment.
Oh, but what would Margaery think of her? What would her mother think of her?
"Sansa," Margaery says, infinitely soft, her gaze concerned, body shifted toward her. "Did he..." She stops, brows bunched tightly together, voice working over hoarse words. "Did he hurt you?"
Sansa blinks back up at her, head shaking vehemently. "Oh no, I mean, yes, well – Mother always said – I mean –" Sansa sighs, takes a deep breath, tries to control her raging heart. "I knew there would be some pain the first time, but I... I didn't..."
Margaery's hand curls over hers in her lap, stilling the nervous motion of her thumb against her palm. The touch is light, comforting. "Sansa," she begins, eyes imploring on hers, "When he kissed you, when he touched you, did he not – "
"Oh, he never kissed me."
Margaery blinks at her, suddenly alarmed. "Sansa."
"I couldn't... I couldn't let him."
Margaery's brows dip down in confusion. "You couldn't...?"
She shakes her head, hand turning beneath Margaery's to link her fingers through hers, palm to palm. "I wasn't ready for that. To be kissed – oh, but I want it to mean something, Margaery. I want it to be more than expectation, and I couldn't help remembering all those stories from the books, and the songs, and the tales, and is it wrong? To want such a thing? Even still? Is it wrong, Margaery?"
It was too intimate.
His hand on her thigh, and his stiffness pressed between her legs, and the heat of his bare stomach braced against hers and still -
None of it could compare to the intimacy of his breath fanning her lips, his dark stare through the candlelight, the pink tip of his tongue edging out to wet his lips.
He could fuck her ragged and still, she'd never be as breathless as she'd been in that moment, when he'd stared at her, leant down, moved to take her mouth with his.
To taste and touch and know each other.
To share breath.
No, Sansa had not been ready for such intimacy. And even when he'd slipped inside her, and even when he'd spilled inside her, and even when he'd fallen asleep beside her once they'd taken their turns at the wash basin – even then -
She couldn't let him kiss her.
Margaery rubs a comforting thumb along her knuckles, a sad sigh leaving her. "Oh, dear girl."
"It will come with time," Sansa says reassuringly, mostly to herself. "With care and time, I will try to love him. And maybe then..." She trails off, eyes glancing over the table. She never finishes the thought.
Margaery stays silent at her side for many moments, just holding her hand, letting the silken afternoon light dance across the table set. And then she makes a sound like a hum, thoughtful and cautious, leaning back in her chair as her hand slips from Sansa's. "Sansa, let me ask you something."
She raises a brow in question, expectant.
Margaery seems to mull over her words a moment, expression still cautious and concerned. "When he touched you – when he tried to... to ease you – did you like it?"
Sansa's mouth parts, cheeks heating.
(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)
Did you like it?
The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind.
Sansa swallows tightly, eyes searching Margaery's. "That would be... improper."
Margaery cocks her head, voice still soft and careful. "Why?"
"I do not love him." The answer leaves her far more readily than she expects, and it carves a longing in her chest she isn't prepared for – a gentle throbbing between her ribs. She swallows back the trepidation.
Shifting in her seat, Margaery inclines her head toward Sansa, eyes focused. "And what if I told you that didn't matter?"
Sansa stares at her, brows scrunched in thought, hands bunching together in her lap once more. "What do you mean?"
Margaery blows a steady breath through her lips, a thoughtful expression gracing her face. "What if I told you, there can be pleasure regardless of love? What if I told you, you deserved it, even still?"
Sansa blinks at her, a frown marring her features instantly. "But I don't..."
"Dear girl, there is already enough grief in this world without you sabotaging your own marriage. Let the man please you. It seems he wants to, at least, which is more than can be said of most husbands."
Sansa's frown deepens, an uncomfortable warmth unfurling in her chest, something close to yearning, if she lets herself linger on it for too long. "And what makes you think he has any interest in that regard?"
At this, Margaery throws a baleful look her way, lips pursed as though in disappointment. "Anyone who saw him with you at the wedding feast couldn't say otherwise," she remarks pointedly.
"Gods, but that was embarrassing," she sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, hands tightening in their hold atop her lap.
Margaery seems to notice the shift, straightening somewhat, interest piqued. She rests her hands along her armrests languidly, a finely-arched brow aimed Sansa's way. "Was it, now?" There's a devilish curve to her lips that Sansa thinks she should be wary of, but she's too caught in her remembrance of the night to notice.
She huffs her irritation. "Of course," Sansa presses on a heavy exhale, chin turned up. "To be so... so rude and brazen, in the midst of everyone, and to the crown prince! To paw at me like some... some... possession. To touch me so in public." Sansa scoffs, her derision staining her tongue. "No, no, I did not enjoy that one bit." Her chest heaves, her hands wringing in her lap, tongue caught behind her clenched teeth.
Margaery merely peers at her.
She finds the look disconcerting, a hesitance washing over her when she looks at the Tyrell, suddenly small and unsure in her midst. "What?" she asks tentatively, barely trusting the word.
A slow, knowing smile slips across Margaery's lips, her hand reaching for Sansa's once more.
Sansa startles at the touch, but doesn't pull away. She glances down to their joined hands, finds her gaze fixed to Margaery's sun-touched hand as she swipes a comforting thumb along her knuckles once more.
"You know," she starts, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips, "It'd be okay if you did, Sansa."
Sansa only furrows her brows at the words, her confusion lighting her face.
Margaery's smirk goes full-blown. "If you enjoyed it, that is."
Sansa pulls her hand from hers, a sharp breath sucked through her lips. "Margaery!" she scolds, even as the smile touches her lips.
But the other woman only laughs, settling back along her chair. She takes a moment, smothering her chuckle behind a graceful hand. "Don't be so cruel to yourself, dear girl." Her smile grows fond, and then an abstract sort of sorrow lines her face, softening her beyond measure. "You don't have to love him," she says, hand tightening over Sansa's. "That's not what this is about."
Sansa sighs, her humor leaving her instantly, eyes drifting to their joined hands.
"We women deal with enough pain in this world without having to endure it from our husbands," she says solemnly, hand tightening over hers. "Take your pleasure where you can, Sansa. And do not be ashamed of it." Her eyes are fervent on hers, imploring, and Sansa feels her chest constricting beneath the look.
Did you like it?
Sansa thinks of the way he'd yanked her to him, the dark gaze he'd leveled Aegon with, the greedy press of his fingers along her ribs.
Did you like it?
Gods help her, but she did.
And nothing had scared her more.
* * *
Sex becomes perfunctory.
"I'll be gentler," he says on the second night, voice hesitant – the pale imitation of an apology, even in its sincerity – and Sansa fiddles with the tie of her robe, standing near the bed.
He's watching her from the threshold, his tunic already unlaced, and when she nods in response, a cool breath leaving her with the motion, he takes a breath, flexes his hands at his side, and then strides across the room toward her.
It begins anew.
They each know what is expected of them, after all.
When he eases into her this time, it's impossibly slower, a long, ragged breath leaving him, his jaw clenching at the effort. Beneath him, Sansa bites her lip, seizing up again, staring up at him in the dark, never looking away, and he has to glance down to her chest, the edge of her shift still adorning her, has to brace a hand along the bed at her head and still himself, let her adjust.
She reaches for his shoulder with a gentle squeeze, an indication to move, and Jon does.
Her legs fit around his hips easily now, her hands more sure at his shoulders. Every night, he still finds hazel oil at her folds when he sets himself to her entrance. Perhaps he is foolish in hoping to find otherwise. She doesn't jump like that first night anymore though, when he touches her between her thighs to line himself up.
He never touches more – knowing how unappreciated it is.
He never tries to kiss her either, and he thinks he hears the light breath of relief escape her lips when he drops his head to her shoulder instead, unable to bear her gaze any longer without wanting to crash his mouth to hers, to hike her thighs higher up his hips, to reach between her legs and ease some of that tension out with a wet thumb.
So, he braces his mouth to her shoulder, panting into her flesh, pumping into her with a steady, even pace that draws no whimpers but draws no winces either, and this he will have to be satisfied with.
Because if he cannot bring her pleasure than at least he can avoid bringing her pain.
He tries to make it good for her, in what little ways he can – always settles her with the pillow beneath her head, tries to massage the smooth flesh of her thighs when he's spreading her wide, manages to keep his teeth from catching along her collar bone with his ragged need, never drops atop her when he's finished, passes her the wet cloth from the bedside basin first and keeps his dark gaze turned from her when she's sopping up the seed spilling from her cunt with flushed cheeks and a still-heaving chest.
One night he swears he hears her breath hitch when he angles himself deeper, strokes inside her along a spot that has his eyes rolling back, her nails digging into his shoulder blades as her knees tighten at his waist. But when he finally looks down at her, her eyes are closed, her brow scrunched, as though she is trying to ride something out, and Jon thinks it must be pain.
He curses himself and draws back out, keeps to shallower thrusts, misses the curl of her nails along his back when her grip relinquishes him.
Another night she lets him cup her breast through her shift, his hand toying at the end of the fabric until she nods hesitantly, his rough palm closing around the mound unsurely, the sigh raking from him when he feels her heat beneath his touch, her heartbeat beating a rhythm against his palm, and he squeezes – gently. She arches imperceptibly, a sound curled in her throat, and she turns her head away. He barely contains his growl of impatience, dipping his head to her throat instead, lips latching to the skin there and palming at her through the shift, rutting until he spills, and her heartbeat never wanes, still frantic beneath his hand. He stays inside her for as long as he can get away with, pulling from her when she touches a delicate hand to his neck, the press of her fingers light enough to send him spinning, aching and desperate again.
He rolls from her with a hand raked through his curls, jaw clenching, his control like a taut string she plucks at precariously, unknowingly.
Because her every sigh he wants to drag out into a breathy moan, every rise of her chest he wants to bow into a delicious arch, every purse of her lips he wants to draw into a needy howl of his name.
To have her writhing beneath him, whining at his ear, coming apart for him with a splintered cry and her cunt clenching around his cock, to watch her break and crest and surge beneath his hands, to drive her to madness for him.
To draw it wildly from her – like a snarling wolf.
To sink his teeth in her and let her do the same.
To taste.
Sansa buries her face in his shoulder when he grunts his release atop her, a low curse panted in her hair, his fingers dug into the flesh of her hip.
She'll drive him mad soon, he knows.
She sleeps always with her back to him.
Jon takes to sparring with the eldest Stark often, a means of releasing some of the frustration he cannot release upon her, and Robb offers little but a raised brow when he comes demanding his presence in the training yard with a scowl and a nod jerked in the opposite direction. Robb always follows with a laugh, and more than once, Jon has found himself panting ragged at the end of a fight, tugging the collar of his tunic open harshly, chest heaving, sweat matting his curls to his forehead, and his body's absolutely thrumming, absolutely screaming beneath his skin, ready to rip and roar and -
And fuck.
Jon rakes a hand through his hair roughly, catching sight of Sansa at the edge of the training yard, gripping at the column she leans against, watching him with unblinking eyes.
He thinks he must be imagining the way she licks her lips, the way she bares her throat just so, the way her nails curl along the column.
(Because he can't be the only one – he just can't be.
Even when every trembling line of her body is telling him otherwise.)
Jon frowns at her presence, mouth opening, but never getting the chance to speak.
"It's been a while since we've had a turn, brother. Shall we?"
Jon's gaze whips to Aegon coming up behind Robb, swinging a blade casually, the hilt rolling through his fingers with practiced ease.
Robb frowns at the motion, eyes alighting the blade. "Live steel, my lord?" he asks cautiously.
Jon bites his tongue.
And so, the punishment continues.
Aegon's eyes dance with violet exhilaration beneath the afternoon soon and Jon nods toward Robb, motioning for him to join his sister. "Step aside, Stark." It isn't said callously, but Robb seems to recognize the edge to it regardless. He joins Sansa at the edge of the yard without further word.
Jon sighs, catching the blade Aegon tosses his way, and the spar begins.
Aegon has always been exceptionally good with a blade, but Jon's always been better. He weaves around Aegon with surety, stepping lightly, letting his blade miss just barely, letting Aegon's swings avoid him just barely.
It is a dance he learned the steps to long ago.
He is a well-kept bastard, after all.
Jon swings low – too low. And Aegon parries it easily, as he'd expected, knocking him back, and Jon stumbles a step, muscles tensing in anticipation, ready for the blow, as he turns his head just enough to miss the brunt of Aegon's responding swing, but not enough to miss the slice of the tip up his jaw, a thin arc of blood catching the air and Jon winces at the pain, a hand clamping over the wound when he stumbles back.
Aegon smiles triumphantly, blade stilled in an over-arch.
Sansa's gasp of "Jon!" has him nearly biting down on his tongue, and it takes all of him not to turn to her, a feral sort of need curling in his chest.
Aegon's blade tips into the dirt. "Well fought, brother." The words are accompanied by an appreciative nod, a narrowing of his eyes, fair skin glinting with a sheen of sweat that Aegon somehow manages to make look graceful rather than grimy.
Jon pulls his hand from his cut, collaring his glare, a tight swallow his only answer.
And then Sansa is at his elbow, one hand turning him in her grasp and the other reaching for his jaw. He pulls from her more harshly than he intends, but he doesn't think he can manage to bear her searching touch or her scrutinizing gaze this very moment.
Sansa retracts from him slowly, clearly hurt by the rejection of her touch.
Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens his eyes on the exhale.
Aegon is standing with his hands behind his back, sword still held in his grip, head cocked toward Sansa. "Did you enjoy the match, my lady?"
Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, folds her hands demurely before her. "You are an exceptional swordsman, my lord," she says softly.
Jon's gaze snaps to her finally, watching the way she doesn't meet Aegon's eyes, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a motion of unease. He narrows his eyes at her.
"Well," Aegon begins, a light smack of his lips following the words, "With such a fair lady in the audience, I imagine it is any man's wish to prove their prowess." His smile branches out like a spill of rich wine, his head dipping down toward hers, voice lowering. "I admit, I am not immune to such powers, my lady," he says without faltering, eyes never leaving hers.
Jon glances to the side, fist already curling, tongue already tart with his rage.
"You're too kind," Sansa answers, and Jon feels her gaze on him, her figure a rigid line in his peripheral.
Jon presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds it there, tries to drown out the rush of blood.
To rip and roar and fuck.
His hands burn for her – maybe especially so with Aegon eyeing her so intently.
But his brother only chuckles, glancing back to Jon. "You should tend to your husband, Lady Sansa." His voice goes hollow – a dead expel of air. The ends of his mouth ease down, his smile uncurling like smoke. "He's bleeding," he says, sharp and cursory.
Sansa's hand slips along Jon's elbow, curling along the crook of it. "I shall," she says evenly, no tremble to be heard.
Jon, however, is practically quaking with his fury.
It doesn't abate until Aegon is stalking from the courtyard, until Sansa is turning him in her hands for another look at his jaw, huffing at his reluctance, until he meets Robb's eyes over her shoulder, intent and watchful.
Until Sansa is tugging him from the yard and he's trailing after her skirts, mouth full of useless words, his hand clutched in hers.
Until the spot between her shoulder blades becomes a blur beneath his heavy stare.
Until he is too far gone to ever turn back now.
* * *
"Take off your tunic," she says, wringing out the cloth in the basin beside him. When he doesn't move to do so, Sansa glances over to him, finding him leaning with his elbows over his knees, a bemused brow quirked. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "The blood will set if we don't clean it immediately," she explains, motioning to the splatter of blood along the collar.
Jon considers her a moment quietly, and then he's reaching along his back for the material, tugging it up and out of his breeches, over his broad shoulders and head. He bunches the tunic in his hands, holding it out to her expectantly, chest sweat-lined and sun-kissed.
Sansa keeps her gaze deliberately fixed to his as she grabs for the soiled garment, handing it off behind her to the waiting handmaid without breaking her stare. Her throat flexes tightly, and Jon seems to catch the motion, a slow, predatory smile tugging at his lips, half hidden in his beard.
Gods, but she can clearly see every sinewy cord of muscle she'd only ever seen before by candlelight.
The handmaid exits the rooms with the tunic swiftly, closing the door behind her, and then they are alone.
Jon leans back in his chair slowly, hands sliding over his thighs, shoulders pulled back as he watches her.
Sansa frowns at the deliberate display, reaching for his chin with perhaps a bit too much force and turning his head away from her. "We'll have to clean the cut," she gets out in a hoarse voice, dabbing the wet cloth to the wound.
Jon lets out an exasperated sigh, but does not fight her touch, letting her clean the thin cut down the length of his jaw. Sansa is focused, brow furrowed, swiping the blood clean that she can through his beard, dipping it back into the water, wringing it out, drawing it further and further down his jaw. She hardly notices the soft puff of his breaths or the way he watches her out of the corner of his eye, so intent on her task as she is. She cocks her head to see the underside of his jaw, to swipe at the blood drying there, tipping his chin in her delicate hold, and he acquiesces easily. But the light isn't good, and it's a bad angle from where she stands at the edge of his knees, so when she presses into them on instinct and he parts them for her, her skirts brushing along the inside of his thighs as she steps into the vee of his legs, she doesn't even note the shift, instead, taking advantage of the new position to better see the trail of blood drying along his throat.
She bends further, hair slipping over her shoulder, fingers perched beneath his jaw. Another swipe of the cloth. Slow and measured. Sansa watches the faint bob of his Adam's apple, the flex of sweat-soaked skin across his throat, and suddenly she remembers the way that throat had looked above her just the other night, with him braced atop her, driving into her with sure and steady thrusts. She remembers the clench of muscle along his neck when he'd spilled inside her.
Sansa's lips part, an unsteady breath leaving her. She's suddenly very aware of how close she stands to him, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest beneath her, how she need only lean a handful of breaths closer to bury her face against his neck. She presses harshly along the half-dried blood marring his jaw.
"You could have parried that last swing," she manages in a thin voice. She clears her throat, swallows back the quiver, hopes he doesn't notice it.
Jon doesn't answer her.
She frowns at the silence, wet cloth dipping along the edge of his collar bone now. She huffs. "Why didn't you?"
Jon takes a slow, deep breath, and Sansa can't help the way her eyes drift to the broad expanse of his muscled chest at the motion. She averts her eyes quickly.
And then he's reaching for the hair spilling over her shoulder, fingers snaking around the end of a softly curled tendril. Sansa stills with her hand at his throat, glancing at the gesture from the corner of her eye.
A sound brews in his throat, low and contemplative, his dark eyes fixed to the strand of copper between his fingers. "At our wedding feast," he begins, ignoring her question, "When you danced with my brother – were you not as upset with his familiarity as you were with mine?"
Sansa grips the cloth between white knuckles, drawing back enough to properly look at him. His hand at the edge of her hair keeps her from stepping back out of the space between his legs. She wonders if he intended it so. She stays resolutely silent.
A short, subtle quirk of his lip lights his face before it's gone. "Or did you welcome it?"
Sansa swallows tightly. "A lady must always be courteous."
Jon's gaze drops to her laced-in side, the fingertips of his free hand suddenly grazing the edge of her waist. His voice is low and breathy. "And your compliment on his swordsmanship? That was courtesy?"
Raising her chin, Sansa watches him with wary eyes. "A lady must also be conscious of her station."
Jon scoffs at the word 'station', his hand folding more surely around her waist, giving it the slightest tug so that she stumbles even closer, her hands going to his shoulders to steady herself. She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth at the jostle, watching as he gazes up at her, his face hovering just above her stomach. "A lady must be so many things," he mocks, his other hand curling tightly over the hair in his grip. "One has to wonder if she manages to ever be herself amidst all that decorum."
She remembers his warning to curb her tongue, suddenly. She smarts beneath the hypocrisy. Sansa's chest tightens with her frustration, the air stalling in her throat. She stares down at him with an air of incredulity.
Jon's hand branches over her waist possessively. "Or have I simply married a pretty little doll? Easily filled with other people's opinions about what she should be?"
Sansa's eyes narrow so quickly he almost misses it, her jaw clenching beneath her ire. His responding smirk incites her more, and she's reaching over to the basin then, dropping the cloth back into the water unceremoniously. "I've watched my brothers sparring often enough back home to recognize a thrown match when I see one."
Jon's hand tightens over her waist, his mouth pursing up at her.
"If even I can see it, who else do you think has noticed?" she says sharply.
Jon untangles his fingers from her hair.
Sansa raises her chin, a tight breath drawn through her lungs. "I doubt Prince Aegon would care very much for you coddling him, were he to know." She moves to step back, but he reaches for her with both hands now, gripping at her hips, steadying her against him as he glares back up at her, eyes hooded and dark.
"You have a particular interest in what my brother cares for?" he intones darkly, fingers curling tight along her hips, bunching in the fabric of her dress.
She glares back just as intensely, trying to ignore the way his steady grip lights a heat even through her heavy skirts, his fingertips marring the curve of her hips with his imprint. A long, charged moment passes between them, with neither relenting, until finally, Sansa brushes a delicate hand to the cut at his jaw, eyes still steel, mouth still cut into a sharp frown. "I'll call Maester Gregor to stitch that for you." She doesn't acknowledge the quiver underlining the words – swallows them back quickly. Her hand falls from his face. "Have you any further need of me, husband?"
Jon grinds his teeth, still glaring up at her, a shadow passing over his face, and then gone. He releases her instantly, almost forcefully. "No," he says simply, gaze falling to the wayside.
She steps from his overwhelming presence immediately, pretending to miss the clench of his fists along his thighs when she does.
"My lord," she says, nodding in farewell, before turning for the door and never looking back.
* * *
Daenerys is pregnant.
They discover it when she doesn't arrive for breakfast one morning, Aegon striding into the room to his chair, hands resting along the back of it as he blinks dazedly at the table.
Rhaenys pulls the spoon from her mouth. "No Daenerys tonight? Is she ill again?" A worried furrow of her brow mars her features.
"I've just come from the maester," he says slowly, eyes drifting to his sister's. "She's with child." He releases the words on a heavy breath.
Sansa's mouth parts, her shock overcoming her for a moment, before she regains her manners, setting her napkin to the table with a warm smile. "That's wonderful news, my lord."
His gaze flicks to Sansa, settling on her a moment, before returning the smile with a lilt of his lips, an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Lady Sansa."
"How is she?" Rhaenys asks, spoon stilled over her grapefruit.
Sansa glances to the princess at the tender exhale of her words.
Aegon steps around his chair, settling a hand at the back of Rhaenys' head. "It is no more than the common sickness, they say. She is well." He offers her a reassuring smile, fragile and barely there.
The image is striking to Sansa.
Aegon's hand falls from Rhaenys' hair when she nods in answer, lips pressed into a concerned but warm smile.
"Congratulations, brother," Jon says beside her, voice gruff as he leans back in his seat. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"
Aegon looks at him, then to Sansa, and then just as swiftly, back to Jon. "Yes," he says, "It is." A lick of his lips, hands returning to the back of his chair.
It's a decidedly delicate flicker of movement, nothing deliberate about it. It's almost...unnerving, in its fragility – the way Aegon's fingers curl around the back arch, the way his chest fills with his breath, lips turning up into a faint smile.
Sansa shifts in her seat, hands smoothing out over her thighs, before curling in her lap. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. He's staring at his plate now, his hand curled into a loose fist along his armrest, and he's so close, she realizes suddenly. Close enough to touch.
Her hand moves to curl around his forearm, hovering hesitantly in the air, before retracting back to her lap. He takes no notice, and Sansa breathes deep, settling the roaring pit of her stomach.
To taste and touch and know each other.
She sighs, eyes flicking back up toward Aegon. He's watching her steadily, and Sansa almost startles at the look. She flutters another encouraging smile toward the prince, throat tightening. "I'm sure you're very happy," she says.
Aegon cocks his head, a thoughtful purse to his lips. "I am, my lady."
Jon picks his fork and knife up beside her, cutting into his food with a single-minded focus. "The quail's getting cold."
Sansa turns to him, mouth open to scold his brusqueness, but she sees the tight clench of his jaw, and her mouth closes abruptly.
It isn't until later, when she's walking the gardens arm in arm with Margaery beneath a slowly waning sun, that she thinks on it again.
That stiffness in his jaw, the muscles of his arm flexing – all cold and callousness when he's bristling beneath something, and yes, she's become accustomed to his moods long enough to notice when he's bristling.
She wonders when that happened.
Maybe it's because she knows now, the gentle ease that can be found in his palms, the vulnerable quake that can be found in his breath, the decidedly not cold and callousness of his gaze when she's spread beneath him, taut beneath his fingers like the chord of a harp.
Maybe it's because of the way he looks at her these days.
Maybe it's because she's starting to look back.
"Margaery," she says, clearing her throat.
The Tyrell cocks her head to listen, a quirk to her lip in answer.
Sansa's hand tightens along Margaery's elbow. "Do you think Aegon and Daenerys love each other?"
Margaery laughs, short and bright, tapping Sansa's hand affectionately as they continue their stroll. "I think there are many things those two feel for each other, but I cannot rightly say whether any of it is love." She offers an impish grin. "Why do you ask?"
Sansa's gaze turns toward the path, lips pursed. "I don't know. I think I just..." She sighs, shaking her head. "I suppose there must be something of love between them, indiscernible as it may be to others."
Margaery plucks a nearby low-hanging flower off the vine, twirling the short stem between her fingers as they continue. "Because they're expecting?" There's something incredulous to her tone. "Sansa, any beast can breed."
She's taken aback by the words, even as softly-crafted as they are, melodically spoken, no hint of malice.
(The image of Jon, sweat-lined and panting above her, streaks through her mind. Her stomach turns without warning.)
Sansa bites her lip. She thinks, instead, of the look Aegon had let flutter across his face, perhaps even without meaning to, earlier that morning.
More exposed than she's ever seen him, except perhaps during their dance at her wedding, his eyes sweeping out over the room for his salt-haired wife upon her question.
"It is the wish of every marriage, is it not?"
Sansa blinks back the memory, another one stealing swiftly behind it. Jon's breath fanning her lips, his chest hard-pressed to hers, a dangerous glint to his eye – how the heat of him had burned her to the bone when he took her in his arms across the dancefloor, even as her sharp tongue cut into him with a branding chastisement.
He'd only held her tighter, never relinquished his hold, let her rebuke him without interruption.
That heat hadn't dissipated until well into the night, long after he'd spent inside her for the first time, long after she laid awake staring up at the canopy, listening to his soft breaths behind her, wondering if sleep eluded him as well.
She thinks she should have turned to him then, broached the silence, reached for something tentative and shadowed between them – something to hold onto in the comfort of night, where they may be free to be 'Jon and Sansa' outside of 'husband and wife'.
(She hadn't though, in the end. She'd only pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned her face into the pillow, craven and lonely – but mostly –
Mostly, afraid.
Of herself, more than anything.)
"That's not it," she tells Margaery, brows furrowing, steps never stalling. She glances out across the gardens, catches sight of the fountain coming around the bend, the faint light of dusk glinting off the waters like a mirage. She keeps her silence for many moments, watching the soft splash of water as they glide past, her throat tight.
Margaery fondly taps her cheek with the flower, a cheerful motion, even when her voice goes solemn, hesitant. "Is this about you and Jon?"
Sansa gives her an exasperated look but Margaery is undaunted. She merely raises a brow, a pointed look thrown Sansa's way.
"Jon and I – we..." A heavy sigh, a one-shouldered shrug. "We're still learning each other."
Margaery gives her a sharp look, barely managing to keep the disappointment from her face.
If she thinks Sansa a coward, she kindly doesn't say so. It wouldn't matter, though.
Sansa already thinks herself coward enough.
She sighs again, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. "Gods, I'm pathetic."
Margaery stops then, her hold on Sansa halting her as well, and she turns fully to her, eyes searching hers, lips tipped into a pretty frown.
Sansa blinks at her, brows raising in question.
Margaery takes a breath, hand sliding down Sansa's arm to clasp along her own palm. "Do you think Daenerys happy?"
She blinks at the question, glancing down to their joined hands, and then back up. Margaery is staring at her intently, and Sansa finds herself growing hesitant under the gaze. She fumbles for her words. "I don't..."
"In your eyes, does she seem happy to you?"
Sansa clamps her mouth shut, the words stalling along her tongue. She takes a breath, shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "No," she manages, a soft expel of breath.
Margaery only nods, a gentle thumb grazing over her knuckles. "And do you really think a babe is going to change that?"
Sansa bites her lip, a sudden sorrow lighting her bones. She thinks of Daenerys' self-assured words and her perfect posture and her unabashed gaze, all exceedingly graceful, and yet... somehow empty.
It saddens something great in Sansa.
"No," she answers – truthfully.
Margaery looks at her a moment longer, contemplative. "A babe is not the highest aspiration of love, Sansa, no matter what your Septa told you," she scoffs gently.
Sansa opens her mouth –
"Nor should it be," Margaery continues, hand tightening over hers.
Sansa's mouth clamps shut, her brows furrowed.
"Duty is all well and good, Sansa, but will it keep you warm at night? Will it weather the years with you? Will it grow old and grey beside you?"
Her chest aches at the words, her eyes stinging suddenly. She lets out a rueful laugh, the sound catching in her throat. "Take my pleasure where I can?" she asks, repeating Margaery's earlier words with a sardonic smile.
The other woman only offers a comforting gaze, patting her hand once more before releasing it, winding her arm through hers and continuing their trek through the gardens. "Quite," she says succinctly, chin tipped high.
The light has grown dim across the gardens, and they turn back toward the keep in unison. Sansa considers the other woman a moment longer, before leaning into her, whispering almost conspiratorially, "Do you think pleasure can become love with time?"
Margaery mulls the question over, rolling the stem of the forgotten flower between the pads of her fingertips once more. "Perhaps. For some."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then it is still pleasure," she says simply.
Sansa raises her brows at that, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
It's not an untruth, really.
And what guarantee does Sansa have that her union with Jon will nurture love? What guarantee has she at all that he even wants the same?
Sansa looks ahead, steps light and even, hand crooked into the hollow of Margaery's elbow.
Wolves have never been craven things.
So why should she start now?
Sansa draws her back straight, eyes instinctively searching for the high window that is hers and Jon's bedchamber.
Yes.
She will take her pleasure where she can.
"Sansa, would you..." Margaery trails off, fingers clenching around the flower in her grasp, a nervous sort of tremor making her shake her hand out, tossing the flower to the wayside with a long look. She breathes deep, tucks her hand more surely into Sansa's arm. "Would you find it terribly improper of me if I asked to write your brother back at Winterfell?"
Sansa turns wide eyes to Margaery, but the other woman's staring intently ahead, cheeks deceptively unflushed in the growing shadows, a nonchalant sway to her walk that is entirely too contrived in Sansa's eyes.
She smiles devilishly. "Well, I don't think he'd particularly appreciate letters from a strange woman, even one of such a noble house."
Margaery glances at her, brows raised, mouth parted with no sound coming out.
Sansa can hardly contain her giggle. "Though my brother Rickon is too sweet to tell you such himself," she teases.
Margaery stops, mouth gaping, and then a laugh breaks from her, a hand swatting at Sansa's arm good-naturedly. "Sansa, you terrible thing, I meant Robb," she near shrieks in laughter.
"Oh, Robb, is it? Just Robb? Not 'Lord Robb'? So intimate already?" Sansa cannot curb her smirk as she watches Margaery huff.
"You're teasing me."
"And rightfully so." Sansa beams.
Margaery tuts dramatically. "I find this friendship terribly one-sided, Lady Sansa. I am aghast at your insensitivity to my plight."
"Oh, how unladylike of me."
Margaery nuzzles at her cheek, laughing.
Sansa can hardly imagine why such a self-possessed woman would need her approval or opinion, but she is glad to give it, nonetheless. She clutches at Margaery's arm, keeping her close, smile never breaking from her face. It's a meaningful look she gives her, a warmth blossoming in her chest. "Take your pleasure where you can, Margaery," she says.
Margaery presses a swift, full kiss to her temple, smile etched against her skin, hand braced to the back of her head. "Then I shall," she whispers gleefully.
Sansa shakes her head at her, pulling back slightly. "Though I do imagine Robb is like to be the one to write first. Horrendous restraint, that one."
Margaery's laugh fills the night air.
Sansa is warm all the way back to her room.
* * *
Sansa sits at her vanity table, turning the vial of hazel oil over in her hand. She glances back up to her reflection in the mirror, braid undone over her shoulder, the thin silk robe parted over her white shift, the faint outline of her breasts barely visible in the flicker of candlelight atop the vanity.
And this is what Jon sees each night before they go to bed.
Sansa sighs, placing the vial back on the table top.
Do not be ashamed of it, she tells herself, repeating Margaery's words like a mantra. But she doesn't quite understand how it works without it.
She closes her eyes, thinks back to that first night he'd slid his fingers up her folds, and the jolt that shot through her at the touch. She curls her fingers around the edge of her shift at her thighs.
Maybe it all starts there.
Her knees part hesitantly, her eyes still fluttered closed, drawing the hem of her shift up her thighs, settling it at her hips. Taking a long, slow breath, feeling the tightness pricking at her chest, she trails a finger over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, dipping down between her legs.
She imagines spreading her legs for him, the warm, rough pressure of his palms urging her thighs apart, settling his weight in the cradle of her hips.
A shuddering sigh escapes her parted lips. Her hand presses against her clothed cunt, a sharp drop in her gut jerking her hips unconsciously at the motion. She snaps her eyes open.
Her image in the mirror is the most scandalous Sansa has ever seen, thighs parted eagerly, shift bunched up at the waist, chest already heaving, cheeks flushed, and then there – there – her cunt pushing toward the pressure of her palm, fingers curling down over her smallclothes. She gasps at the image, her hand retracting, and she brushes something – gods, something wonderful, a shudder racking her, a soft moan caught between her teeth, surprising herself, and before she even knows what she's doing, her hand is returning, seeking that spark, that surge, fingers more sure now, pressing over her smallclothes for something – for –
"Ah!" Sansa whimpers, hips jerking, fingers finding home. She rubs at the soft nub through her smallclothes again, feeling the dampness, head lolling back, hips bucking up into her own tentative touch, and another moan makes it past her clenched teeth, nearly loud enough to cover the sound of the door unlatching, but not quite, and Sansa rips her hand from between her legs, fumbling to replace her shift, smoothing her breath out, feeling that clench in her cunt even now, aching and eager, and she bites down on her lip to keep from trembling just when Jon stalks through the door.
Her eyes catch along his in the mirror when he stops short, the door slipping closed behind him.
For the horrifying stretch of an instant, Sansa thinks she's been caught out.
Her mortification is almost enough to drown out her arousal.
(Almost, but not quite.)
Jon's brow furrows as he steps toward her. "Are you well, my lady?"
Sansa releases a forced chuckle, a practiced scoff. "I'm still unused to this heat," she says, brushing the hair from her shoulders, hoping the light sheen of sweat at her brow is not construed otherwise, nor the faint flush of her cheeks she still catches in the reflection.
Jon stares at her a moment, considering, before nodding silently, seeming to accept her answer, and then making his way to the bed. He sits along the edge and goes to remove his boots.
Sansa feels the air rake from her chest in faint relief. Her body is still wound tight, her skin thrumming, heat lancing through her, and she watches Jon undress in the reflection of the mirror, hands curled over her knees in anticipation, lip caught between her teeth.
He's down to his sleeping tunic when he sits back along the edge of the bed again, his back to her, a heavy sigh leaving him.
Sansa stands with a surety she hasn't felt in many moons. She makes her way to the bed, settling along the opposite edge. In her peripheral, she can see the vial of hazel oil still lingering atop her vanity – untouched.
It will be the only thing untouched tonight, she promises.
With trembling fingers, she begins to slip the robe from her shoulders. It flutters to the furs just as Jon's voice hits the air.
"Forgive me, my lady, but I – I think I've had the wrong of it all this time."
Sansa stills, hands curled along the material of her robe, ready to drag it from the bed, her gaze flicking over her shoulder toward him.
His back is still to her, his hands hung between his knees as his elbows rest along his thighs.
She licks her lips, shifts to pull a knee up along the bed, angled toward him. "My lord?"
Another sigh racks him, and he's rubbing his face then.
Sansa's chest tightens inexplicably.
Jon straightens finally, turning so that he can meet her gaze across the bed. "When you said you wanted to be a proper wife."
Her mouth opens, words ready along her tongue, but the look in his eye stops her.
They stay staring at each other across the bed, half-turned with their backs to each other, half-leaning into the other's words.
And then Jon offers a rueful chuckle. "You wanted civility, not affection."
She thinks she means to say something, she must, she surely will but... but the words lay dying in her throat. She swallows them back like turned wine.
"But I'm a bastard," he says, gaze falling to the bed. "And it seems I exceed at neither." A light quirk of his lip, the curl of his fingers in the furs, fist white-knuckled and stiff.
Her gaze stays rooted to that fist, chest rising slowly and steadily. Her throat is dry, her tongue heavy. She does not meet his eyes.
"I apologize, my lady," he says now, turning from her fully, back a curved line, like a scream.
Or a howl.
Sansa blinks back the imagine, eyes stinging uncontrollably. She shifts over the bed toward him, hand outreaching. "Jon - "
"We should get some rest." He goes to put out the bedside candle, dousing their room in darkness.
Sansa can still follow his outline in the dark, still make out his form in shadow. She has grown used to the shape of him, the weight of him. She has learned to find him in the absence of light.
"Jon, please, I – "
"It's okay, Sansa," he says lowly, already turning under the covers, gaze fixing to the canopy of the bed. "Duty can take a night's respite."
Sansa curls her lip back in a trembling grimace, hand bunching in the furs, that sting at her eyes a sudden, wet sheen. She blinks back the tears in the cover of darkness, grabbing for her ends of the furs. She shuffles into her side of the bed, curling on her side, watching him.
He takes a breath in, heaves it back out.
Sansa curls her fist beneath her chin, huddled in the furs. "I don't think you exceed at neither," she says softly, watching him in the night.
He makes no move to turn to her, but she can see his eyes searching the dark – skyward, unfixed.
She almost reaches for him.
But instead, her hand stays bunched in the furs beneath her chin until sleep takes her, Jon's outline painted in shadow against the backs of her lids.
* * *
Jon wakes groggily to a noise at his ear, the film of night still dowsing him, sleep still fogging his mind. He blinks in the darkness, a grumble lighting in his chest. He's laying on his back, a warmth at his side, a steady rocking. Another sound at his ear – low and breathy.
Jon stills.
He blinks again, quickly, a hand rubbing at his eyes, straining to see through the shadows as he turns his gaze to Sansa beside him, half-draped over him. She's on her stomach, one of her legs thrown over his, fist bunched in the sheets at her cheek, her warm center pressing into his thigh and she's – she's –
Jon's throat goes dry.
Sansa rocks into him in her sleep, slow and even, rubbing herself against his thigh. Even through his breeches and her rucked up shift, he can feel the throbbing heat of her, her cunt damp against him. Another sigh leaves her, and Jon's gaze snaps up to her face, watching her lashes flutter in her sleep, her mouth pursing tight. He takes a moment, blinking wildly at her, jarred by the sight of her. And then he shifts just slightly beneath her, pressing his thigh more firmly against her.
The soft moan that leaves her has the blood rushing to his cock instantly. His mouth drops open as he watches her. Another rock of her hips against him, a keening sound in the back of her throat, and Jon's breath comes quicker, his thigh pushing against her cunt on each intoxicating grind.
He can feel his growing hardness pressing into the thigh she has between his legs and he shifts slightly on his side to better fit into her rocking. His eyes never leave the enthralling expression on her face, watching the scrunch of her brows, the purse of her lips, the pale column of her throat flexing as she strains in her sleep, drawing closer to him, back arching as she grinds against him, and she's wet, Jon finds, so unbelievably wet, and his mouth goes slack, his breath hitching, a maddening haze overtaking him, and he grabs at her thigh before he can stop himself, fingers inching up past her bunched shift, fixing to her hip. His fingers dig into her flesh, dragging her into him, grinding her against the hard muscle of his thigh, eyes fixed to the look of rapture on her sleep-touched features. His hand reaches further, encouraged by her breathy moans, grabbing at her ass and dragging her harshly against him, pressing his cock into her hip as his thigh wedges further between her legs, pressed up against her slick cunt, that sodden, intoxicating heat of her, grinding her against him, and the chest-rattling groan rakes from him before he manages to bite it back.
Sansa stills.
Jon's breath stalls in his throat and he stills as well, blinking deliriously at her in the dark, hard and aching at her hip, fingers digging into her flesh.
Her lashes flutter, her fist uncurling in the sheet beneath her, eyes lifting in a sleepy daze to catch brilliantly along his. Her breathing is short and shallow, her body stretched taut, a line of precarious rigidity. She blinks at him, her eyes focusing in the dark.
Jon barely breathes. They lay staring at each other, chests heaving, legs entangled. He watches the light of recognition in her eyes, even amongst the shadows, the flicker of a tremble at her lips, her tight swallow as she fixes him with a wide-eyed stare.
And just when he's about to release her, to draw back, to turn from her in heated shame and attempt to will his straining erection down, curled as far away from her on the bed as he can be – he catches the tentative shift of her thigh against him.
Her mouth parts, her breath hitching, and he doesn't dare move. She's still staring at him when she shifts again, this time just as hesitant, but it's a shallow rock of her hips rather than the simple press of her thigh.
Jon sucks a breath between his teeth, fingers tightening over her hip.
She seems to catch the reaction, because then she's biting her lip, brows drawn down in concentration, eyes never leaving his when she rolls her hips very purposely, very surely against his thigh now, a thready moan building in her throat.
Jon's control snaps. He grips at her thigh, pulling it from between his legs, ignoring her delicate whimper at the loss and shifting her so that her leg is swung over his hip instead, angling them so he's on his side fully, pressed into her, his other thigh braced at her center now. She sighs at the return of the pressure, an instinctual roll of her hips meeting him when he presses more forcefully into her. Her eyes go hooded, fixing to his mouth, the hand that was bunched in the sheets reaching tentatively toward his hip, anchoring there to steady herself against his thrusts. Even in the dark, he thinks he can see the pinks of her cheeks at the motion, at the steady rock of their hips, her cunt rubbing incessantly at his thigh through their clothes, and the thought has him impossibly harder, groaning in the space between their panting mouths.
"That's it," he tells her, voice gravelly from sleep and desire, hand guiding her hip against him. Watching her chase her pleasure like this, her cunt soaking him through his breeches, her chest heaving, her lip swollen and plump beneath her teeth, eyes hooded and fixed to his – it has him near on delirious. "That's it, Sansa, just like that," he grinds out.
She moans so prettily at his guidance that the sound staggers the breath in his chest. He ruts into her mindlessly, watching her face screw tight. His hand leaves her hip and fumbles for her shift, tugging the sleeveless thing past her shoulder, almost baring a breast entirely when he stops his frantic tugging, glancing back up at her, eyes boring into hers. She nods fervently, never stopping her grind against his thigh or her enticing mewls. Jon doesn't wait for a second confirmation, yanking the material down, breath catching when a perfect, pale breast spills out, nipple a dusky pink and pebbled to hardness. He cups her eagerly, groaning at the responding sigh that leaves her. He palms at her breast as she rubs herself more fiercely at his thigh, her hand curling tight at his hip.
Jon licks his lips, hungry, aching for a taste of her, growling impatiently as he dips his head down and takes her nipple between his lips, lapping at her, sucking eagerly. Sansa cries out, arching into him, panting above him.
"Fuck," he groans into her skin, teeth catching at her nipple, relishing the tremble that racks through her. His hand returns to her ass, hauling her against him, rutting shamelessly against her still-clothed cunt like a green boy. Jon imagines the slick heat of her, that tight cunt sheathed around his cock, so absolutely drenched for him, as he fucks her senseless, burying himself deep inside her again and again. He clamps down on her nipple, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, moaning with her in his mouth, sucking her harder.
"Jon," she gasps sharply, and the sound of his name in her breathless voice has him quaking, so painfully hard against her, wedging his thigh up, grinding her against the lean muscle of his leg, mouth releasing her breast on a needy growl.
"Come on, Sansa, just like that," he grunts. "Harder. Yes – fuck, just like that." His teeth catch at her collar bone, his tongue lashing at her sweat-slicked skin. "I want to feel that hot, wet cunt rutting against me. Want to hear you moan with me between your legs."
And she does moan – loudly – at his urging, grinding wantonly against him now, nails digging into his hip. Her eyes screw shut and Jon pulls back just enough to watch her, just enough to catch the disarming scrunch of her features as she chases her high, whining low in the back of her throat, pressed nearly flush up against him. "I want to see you cum for me, Sansa," he groans out, gaze fixed to her, breathless, and she cries out sharply, shuddering against him, wet and throbbing at his thigh, fingers like talons at his hip, face screwed tight, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, the pleasure crashing through her. He's spilling instantly, vision going white, grunting into her shoulder as his hips jerk painfully, the force of the hardest orgasm he's ever had washing through him in waves and waves and waves.
It seems an age before he's able to regain his breathing, his thoughts.
"I've got you," he mutters, voice coarse, rocking into her languidly, steadily, drawing her close. Her hand edges up from his hip, gripping at his tunic, an anchor. She's trembling, her chest heaving, her mouth at his ear. "I've got you," he says again, swallowing thickly, ignoring the sticky mess his seed has made in his breeches, against her shift.
Like a fucking green boy.
Jon sighs, biting back a curse.
(Too far gone to ever turn back now.)
Sansa's fist doesn't unfurl from his chest until sleep well and truly claims her.
"I've got you," he breathes into her hair, ragged – taken by the sight of her.
Taken – wholly and recklessly.
"I've got you."
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lycanthrowup · 3 years
Text
a compilation of every time sapphique is mentioned
Who can chart the vastness of incarceron?
It’s halls and viaducts, its chasms?
Only the man who has known freedom
Can define his prison.
    -Songs of Sapphique
There was a man and his name was sapphique.
Where he came from is a mystery. Some say he was born of the prison, grown from its stored components. Some say he came from Outside, because he alone of men returned there. Some say he was not a man at all, but a creature from those shining sparks lunatics see in dreams and name the stars. Some say he was a liar and a fool.
    -Legends of Sapphique
Once sapphique came to the end of a tunnel and looked down a vast hall. Its floor was a poisoned pool of venom. Corrosive steams rose from it. Across the darkness stretched a taut wire, and on the far side a doorway was visible, with lights beyond it.
The inmates of the Wing tried to dissuade him. “Many have fallen,” they said. “Their bones rot in the black lake. Why should you be any different?”
He answered, “Because i have dreams and in those dreams i see the stars.” Then he swung himself up onto the wire and began to cross. Many times he rested, or hung in pain. Many times they called on him to return. Finally, after hours, he reached the other side, and they saw him stagger, and vanish through the door.
He was dark, this Sapphique, and slender. His hair was straight and long. His real name is only to be guessed at.
-Wanderings of Sapphique
You are my father, Incarceron.
I was born from your pain.
Bones of steel; circuits for veins.
My heart a vault of iron.
    -Songs of Sapphique
The eyes in the corridor were dark and watchful and there were many of them. “Come out,” he said. 
    They came out. They were children. They wore rags and their skin was livid with sores. Their veins were tubes, their hair wire. Sapphique reached out and touched them, “You are the ones who will save us,” he said.
-Sapphique and the Children
    Walls have ears.
    Doors have eyes.
    Trees have voices.
    Beasts tell lies.
    Beware the rain,
    Beware the snow.
    Beware the man
    You think you know.
-Songs of Sapphique
Sapphique rode out of the Tanglewood and saw the Fortress of Bronze. People were streaming into its walls from all around. “Come inside,” the urged him. “Hurry! Before it attacks!”
He looked around. The world was metal and the sky was metal. The people were ants on the plains of the Prison.
“Have you forgotten,” he said, “that you are already Inside?”
But they hurried past and said he was deranged.
        -Legends of Sapphique
Down the endless halls of guilt
My silver thread of tears is spilt.
My fingerbone the key that broke
My blood the oil that smoothes the lock.
        -Songs of Sapphique
“Where are the leaders?” Sapphique asked.
“In their fortresses,” the swan replied,
“And the poets?”
“Lost in dreams of other worlds.”
And the craftsmen?”
“Forging machines to challenge the darkness.”
“And the wide, who made the world?”
The swan lowered its black neck sadly.
“Dwindled to crones and sorcerers in towers.”
    -Sapphique in the Kingdom of Birds
Do you seek the key to Incarceron?
Look inside yourself. It has always been hidden there.
    -The Mirror of Dreams to Sapphique
Sapphique strapped the wings to his arms and flew, over oceans and plains, over glass cities and mountains of gold. Animals fled; people pointed up. He flew so far, he saw the sky above him and the sky said, “Turn back, my son, for you have climbed too high.”
    Sapphique laughed, as he rarely did. “Not this time. This time I beat on you until you open.”
    But Incarceron was angered and struck him down.
        -Legends of Sapphique
All my years to this moment
All my roads to this wall.
All my words to this silence
All my pride to this fall.
    -Songs of Sapphique
He fell all day and all night. He fell into a pit of darkness. He falls like a stone falls, like a bird with broken wings, like an angel cast down. His landing bruised the world.
    -Legends of Sapphique
He awoke and found them all around him. The old, lame, the diseased, the half-made men. He hid his head and was filled with shame and anger. “I have failed you,” he said. “I have journeyed so far and i have failed.”
“Not so,” they answered. “There is a door we know, a tiny, secret door. None of us dare crawl through, in case we die there. If you promise to come back for us, we will show you.” Sapphique was lithe and slender. He looked at them with his dark eyes. “Take me there,” he whispered.
        -Legends of Sapphique
I have walked a stair of swords,
I have worn a coat of scars.
I have vowed with hollow words,
I have lied my way to the stars.
    -Songs of Sapphique
Sapphique, they say, was not the same after his Fall. His mind was bruised. He plunged into despair, the depths of the Prison. He crawled into the Tunnels of Madness. He sought dark places, and dangerous men.
    -Legends of Sapphique
How could you betray me, Incarceron?
How could you let me fall?
I thought i was your son.
It seems i am your fool.
    -Songs of Sapphique
Once Incarceron became a dragon, and a Prisoner crawled into its lair. They made a wager. They would ask each other riddles, and the one who could not answer would lose. If it was the man, he would give his life. The Prison offered a secret way of Escape. But even as the man agreed, he felt its hidden laughter.
    They played for a year and a day. The lights stayed dark. The dead were not removed. Food was not provided. The Prison ignored the cries of its inmates. Sapphique was the man. He had one riddle left. He said, “What is the Key that unlocks the heart?”
    For a day Incarceron thought. For two days. For three. Then it said, “If i ever knew the answer, i have forgotten it.”
    -Sapphique in the Tunnels of Madness
I could breathe fire on you,” the wirewolf growled. “Do it,” said Sapphique. “Just don’t throw me into the water.”
“I could gnaw your shadow away.”
“That’s nothing, compared with the black water.”
“I could crush your bones and sinews.”
“I fear the terrible water more than you.”
The wirewolf flung him angrily into the lake.
So he swam away, laughing.
    -The Wirewolf Returns
Sapphique leaped up, overjoyed. “If you cannot answer, then I’ve won. Show me a way Out.” Incarceron laughed in its million halls. It raised a claw and the skin of the claw split and the dragonskin Glove curled off and lay on the ground.
Sapphique was alone. He picked the shining thing up and cursed the Prison.
But when he put his hand into Incarceron’s he knew its plans.
He dreamed its dreams.
    -Sapphique in the Tunnels of Madness
So he rose up and sought the hardest way, the road that leads inward. And all the time he wore the Glove he did not eat or sleep and Incarceron knew all his desires.
    -Legend of Sapphique
Hand to hand, skin to skin,
Twin in a mirror, Incarceron.
Fear to fear, desire to desire,
Eye to eye. Prison to prison.
    -Songs of Sapphique
He opened the window and looked out at the night. “The world is an endless loop,” he said. “A Mobius strip, a wheel in which we run. As you have discovered, who have traveled so far just to find yourself where you started from.”
Sapphique went on stroking the blue cat. “So you can’t help me?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”
    -Sapphique and the Dark Enchanter
I fooled the Prison
I fooled my father.
I asked a question
It could not answer.
    -Songs of Sapphique
A great Fimbulwinter will close down on the world. Darkness and cold will spread from Wing to Wing. There will come one called the Unsapient, from far away, from Outside.
He will plot and scheme with Incarceron.
They will make the Winged Man.
    -Sapphique’s Prophecy of the World’s End
What makes a prince?
A sunny sky, an open door.
What makes a prisoner?
A question with no answer.
    -Songs of Sapphique
When he was born, silent and alone, his mind was empty. He had no past, no being. He found himself in the deepest place of darkness and loneliness.
“Give me a name,” he begged.
The Prison said, “I lay this fate on you, Prisoner. You shall have no name unless i give it to you. And I will never give it.”
He groaned. He reached out his fingers and found raised letters on the door. Great iron letters, riveted through.
After hours, he had grasped their shape.
“Sapphique,” he said, “will be my name.”
    -Legends of Sapphique
“The fault is yours,” the Enchanter said. How could a Prison know of Escape but through your dreams? It would be best to give up the Glove.”
Sapphique shook his head. “Too late. It has grown into me now. How could i sing my songs without it?”
    -Sapphique and the Dark Enchanter
He worked night and day. He made a coat that would transform him; he would be more than a man; a winged creature, beautiful as light. All the birds brought him feathers. Even the eagle. Even the swan.
    -Legends of Sapphique
People will love you if you tell them of your fears.
    -The Mirror of Dreams to Sapphique
Once he had crossed the sword-bridge he came to a room with a banquet of fine food spread on a table. He sat down and picked up a piece of bread, but the power of the Glove turned it to ashes. He picked up water but the glass shattered. So he traveled on, because he knew now that we was close to the door.
    -Wanderings of Sapphique
As the Beast i took your finger.
As the Dragon i give you my hand.
Now you have crawled and clambered into my heart.
I can’t see you anymore.
Are you still here?
    -Mirror of Dreams to Sapphique
The dove will rise above destruction
With a white rose in her beak
Over storm
Over tempest.
Over time and the ages.
And the petals will fall to the ground like snow.
    -Sapphique’s Prophecy of the World’s End
He raised his hands. They saw his coat was feathered like the wings of the Swan when it dies, when it sings its secret song. And he opened the door that none of them had seen until now.
    -Legends of Sapphique
He sang his last song. And the words of that have never been written down. But it was sweet and of a great beauty, and those that heard it were changed utterly.
Some say it was the song that moves stars. 
    -Sapphique’s Last Song
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bowieandqueen11 · 4 years
Text
Best Friends, Always / Vanya Hargreeves Imagine
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Request: Hey there! Can I request an umbrella academy fic where the reader is number 8 and was closest with Vanya growing up? Years then go by and they drift apart. But when they reunite reader wants to be like a sister to Vanya again. Also the reader has the power of pyrokinesis! 
Ahh i keep on meaning to write for Vanya so thank you @billhaderstrashbag​!! <3
Comments are much appreciated!
Swinging your legs off the edge of the tiny beige bed, you can’t help but smile.
The room was small, neatly made, with only a straight backed chair, a small bureau without any mirror, and a desk in the corner by the slit window. There was a pair of drapery curtains, no pictures on the stone walls, but it was nice - stifling, but also familiar. With the two of you in the room, you had made it feel like home.
Vanya kept a few little knick knacks by her bed: a little heart and a silver crane you had made for her, a picture you had snapped of the two of you (although she kept is slightly hidden - if Allison found out that you had stolen her polaroid camera from her drawer you’d never hear the end of it from Luther), a gold necklace you had bought her for her birthday.
It was her favourite possession, the half heart of the best friend locket, the other half which you had hung around your own neck. Well, her favourite except for her violin, of course.
She stood by the foot of the bed, her eyes scanning the notes that rest on the stand, one foot in front of the other. A look of total concentration covers her face, not noticing Klaus run past, ducking as a knife hits the edge of her doorframe.
‘Diego, what the hell, scheisse!’  
‘Well, you better run faster!’
There’s something about the way the violin sings that sets her heart into the deepest of symphonies, deeply harrowing and torrential in the way it encompasses her body. Its slender strings caress her fingers, its curves are tenderly traced under her palm, and to her, nothing in the world can possibly compare to the sense of empowerment which is achieved with the most marvelling mix of notes. 
You close your eyes as you listen, allowing the flames to bounce leisurely along your fingers as you begin to sway to the notes. You don’t even notice she had stopped until you hear Vanya shouting.
‘Y/n! The curtains!’
Glancing to your side, you watch the sunlight stream through the gap in the curtains, bringing the hope of a new afternoon. Though the window is closed you can smell the roses just outside. A smile spreads over your face. It isn't the fragrance of those blooms you detect, but rose perfume on the drapes; Vanya always did like to bring something of nature into her room.
It took you a moment to see the flames, before Vanya had grabbed a blazer from her wardrobe and fanned them down with a panicked expression.
‘Vanya, I’m so sorry! Ohhh Reginald’s going to murder me.’
‘It’s fine... he never comes in here anyway’, she murmurs as she slides down next to you on the duvet, ‘I’ll just ask Grace to get me another pair from the attic. Or I can do without, I enjoy waking up to a rising sun. Makes me feel... less alone, I guess.’
‘You’re not alone, idiot’, you say with a giggle as you bump into her shoulder, ‘I’m right here.’
‘But you’re special.’
‘And you’re not? I don’t know anyone else who can play the violin that well. You don’t need powers to be extraordinary, Vanya.’
You wrap an arm around her shoulder, allowing Vanya to snuggle in. ‘You're the only person I know that gives extreme hugs.’ You snicker in reply,  ‘well, it’s because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’
In that moment your arms squeezed a fraction tighter and Vanya breathed more slowly, her body melting into yours as every muscle lost its tension to the cold air. This was life, real life. 
She never thought she’d be this happy again.
~
Your umbrella is a splash of colour on this sweet greyscale day, a day when one could feel as if they had walked in an old noir novel. Your hand curls around the handle, and the canopy stretches above you as if it were the blossoms of a rainforest.
You stood there together, you and Vanya, at the front of the funeral. Everyone's heads were down. Maybe it was them showing respect of maybe there were too afraid to look up in case everyone else figured out how nonchalant they were about the whole affair. Vanya was the only one sniffling, although you couldn’t tell if it was due to the rain pelting onto her reddening cheeks, or due to the ashes Luther was dumping onto the damp ground. She looked smaller somehow, hunched, and you felt your stomach lurch as you looked away, You couldn’t bear the thought that this is what she had become when you had left her.
‘I thought there would be more wind’, he adds as he looks around, almost embarrassed. Klaus’ hand reaches out to grab onto your shaky one, until you slap him away. He only shrugs in reply, placing a blunt into his mouth and managing to light it with the tips of his fingers as Five wanders back inside, an awful look of nothingness in his eyes. 
It was done. He was gone.
You managed to make your way over to Vanya, catching her attention with a small cough.
‘I’m sorry Diego was such an ass to you. He’s been a bit cranky the last few days. Luther too.’
‘It’s alright. It’s been a hard time for all of us.’ It's crazy how things can turn upside down. You see the person every day and suddenly, they're gone and when they go, a part of you goes with them too. 
‘Do you want to get out of here, get some breakfast? Maybe go to Griddy’s, like when we used to sneak out of my bedroom window-’
‘Y/n, we’re not kids anymore.’
‘I know-I know, but still...even if we can’t be kids, I want to be sisters again. Except this time, I’ll actually be a good one.’
Vanya shuffles as she glances at the ground, her mouth slightly twitching at the side.
‘Do you still play the violin?’
‘Yeah... I’m part of an orchestra now.’
‘I’m glad! I’m so glad - I hope you’ll let me come see you practice. That always was my favourite part of the day, waking up and hearing the music through the Academy walls...’
You reach out to place a curl of her hair back behind her ear, letting your hand rest on her shoulder. You can see in her eyes  as she tries to make contact with you, that her brain has built some new walls so she didn’t have to feel so alone anymore. 
Her sigh was of a softly deflating; it was as if a tension had lifted yet left her with a melancholy instead of relief. But there was also a glimmer of hope in the spark that flew through her eye.
She reached up to fiddle with her neck, allowing a slightly tarnished locket with the word ‘best’ to land on her rain splashed fingers, finally building up the courage to look you in the eye.
‘Best friends, right?’
‘Always.’
Kofi?
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tamoria · 3 years
Text
Prologue
The moon hung high above me, smiling as I tug my long woollen bratt tighter around me to banish the chill. Not long past high night. The stars dance mischievously between the clouds, teasing and playing as they do in the early spring. I count to five in my head and pull myself up to check what I had been left. My boots tossed haphazardly beside an old stump with two long dowels
leaning against it and the two bowls I had molded last night sitting atop it. I had shaped the bowls in a rush after forgetting about them in my preparations and cooked them quickly in the fire. Between the two bowls, on a long leaf lies a small crystal shard from the sea to the west, it is shy and quiet. Even in the shadow light it glows, bright and beautiful. I dare not touch it for fear of my dirt-streaked hands smudging or tarnishing it. It seems embarrassed by this. The slender stone cutting knife to the otherside of the bowls is less bright, in fact it is almost cruel as it glares at me, convinced I will not succeed before dawn breaks and we will all be here again another year. I go over the order in my head, “fire, tea, rain, wind, sleep.” I will not forget this time as I did under the same spring moon once before.
I turn a full circle, slowly, squinting through the dark to see anything else that does not belong. I don’t know this glade, so we must be far from home. The trees here - tall and wide, know not my name and I know not theirs. They are strong, sweet pine. Less familiar to me than the great oaks. The small woven pouch I was looking for catches my eye. It is nested in the ivy at the base of a large tree that towers over us. I place a hand on the trunk and thank it quietly before carefully detangling the pouch from it’s sleeping spot. My fingers find the lump of knot and pick it apart, pulling the rough strands of twine through each other. I upturn the pouch and count the small smooth pebbles as they tumble out. They are all luminous white and shining in the swaying shadows. I count them again - it is unlike Tadg to make mistakes and six pebbles is clearly a mistake. Surely I’m just tired, maybe the light is playing with me. Once more I count, as I place them back in their pouch.
“One for the Sea,
Two for the Sun,
One for the Sky,
The last for Falling.”
There, in the middle of my hand, the sixth pebble sits lost. I hold it against my palm with two fingers as I organise myself, tying the small pouch to my belt by the dangling twine and gathering the cutting knife.
I make my way around the circle of the glade, collecting small clippings of plants, leaves and delicate flowers. Turning into the centre at the end of a full loop and placing them on the stump. Then again around the perimeter of the glade, each time moving a couple of steps further from the middle of the clearing. I continue this until the stump is covered with small offerings and then walk one final loop, this time laying my hand on a stone, tree or bush every few paces and speaking words of protection and containment to mark my perimeter.
This time last year I was halfway to finished, believing I had the know;edge I needed to make things up as I went along. I was so used to the praise Tadg gave my work that I had forgotten the inherent order that makes these things safe, and in some ways, possible at all. I had been impulsive, I had riffed and played with the way and was sorely reprimanded for it. Leading to me being back in a glade late at night, trying to prove myself. This time, however, I will not be so arrogant as to assume my breath and my hands and my voice are no more than vessels. I will be gentle and reverend this time.
With a small fire kindled, I gather a handful of pine needles and crush them in my hands before placing them in the second of my bowls, the first already full to the brim with water from the small stream on the edge of the glade. Once boiled I split the water and pine needles equally between the two bowls and allow the tea to brew. All the while singing The Song of Danu under my breath. I drink the sweet pine tea quickly, glad for the comforting warmth of it and place the bowl on top of the other to form a spherical shape. Around this, a small altar, the long spindly sticks covered in leaves lean against the bowl to form a frame, flower crowns of various sizes and shapes surround them, and intricately designed patterns made up of small leaves spread out and away from the structure.
I allow the quiet of the night to seep in and fill all the gaps, I breathe with the trees and the ancestors as I speak my dedication to Danu and her children. I rest then, finding the moss bed I had woken in only hours before and once again pulling my bratt closely around me.
When I wake the second time a thin line of orange graces the horizon and the sky above has paled from deep inky blue to a lighter ceruleum.
The clearing shines with the life of a new day, all my small offerings from the night before now covered in a thin layer of dew. I do not have long this morning so I check on things quickly. My altar to danu still stands and after a small amount of tweaking , the leaves on the spindle sticks and the small flowers - wilted now, are back to their former glory, fresh in the morning light. I peek through the pyramid structure to see my bowls and find them just as they should be, collapsed into each other and locked in embrace. My work won’t be so hard this morning, I think with a flutter and a small smile.
My sitting circle is formed, four of my pebbles laid, two by my each knee as I sit cross-legged on two behind me, where my head and shoulders would rest if I were lying down. I start, feeling my breath move me first, once my mind is clear, I begin to feel myself lift away and hold amongst the trees above me. I tie the long strands of wind around my fingers and push the clouds around until I am happy with the dark grey cloud that sits directly above. A small amount of encouragement is all that is needed to coax the rain down. It is - a first, a light drizzle, unsure if falling is the right thing to do. It mists my face and the young leaves around me. I laugh at it’s caution and turn my face up to it, welcoming the cool droplets. This merely encourages the rain to gain confidence and before long I am dancing amongst the points of the young spruce and the rain is falling with abandon - free and delighted. The relief washes over me and I hear the faint rolling of thunder far in the distance. I have done well, I think, Tadg will be proud and I will soon have my own title as Master Druid. I allow the rain to continue a few minutes longer, reveling in my success before I call it to cease and feel the forest floor beneath my heavy boots once more.
Immediately I go to tweak my altar, making sure it is still worthy of the great Mother Goddess’ approval. I feel my stomach pang with hunger and for the first time, remember how long it’s been since I last ate. It has been at least four days - it was before my time in the dark caves, though not long before. When I am satisfied that the altar is again the proud and beautiful thing I made the night before, I continue my work.
Again I lower myself into myself into the sitting circle and try to leave behind thoughts of dinner and the cold and my title. This time I bring the breeze to me, plucking strands from the air. I gather a dozen and then walk around the clearing, tying them loosely to a twig here and there, small stones, leaves and tufts of grass. I return to the middle and with arms outstretched at my sides I turn slowly, sending the wisps tearing from their tetherings and spinning around the clearing. The wind darts around trees, dipping under low branches and prancing along the stream. My fingers reach out then to play with the breeze, pulling and twisting it. I tangle it up in my hands and watch it unfurl itself as it dances around wildly.
It starts to pick up speed, pulling other wisps in as it speeds around. Safe enough, the barrier of containment around the clearing can hold much more than a strong breeze. It is just growing faster than I expected. As I think this, I begin to get worried, repeating it again to convince myself. It dances around me, whipping my thick bratt and leaving me goose bumped and shivering. I turn quickly, throwing my hands out as the wind takes my altar in its wake, leaves scatter, wheeling through the air. All around, there are branches falling from high in the trees, crashing loudly on the soft forest floor. Once more I lower myself in the sitting circle, close my eyes and desperately beg my mind to clear. I need to catch the wind before it escapes. Building always and nearing the teachta mountains.
I focus on the perimeter, fighting hard to hold it steady. There are at least three villages between here and the sea, where the wind can blow itself out. There is no explanation for this small wisp becoming so powerful. It has been years since I last lost control of anything. I try to put my doubts aside, knowing the only way I can smother the storm is to empty my mind. I pray for strength.
Snap.
I hear the perimeter break loudly and refuse to open my eyes, knowing that will make it real. If I open my eyes I will have destroyed at least three villages, probably more. So I sit, heart thumping, with my eyes tightly shut. It is quiet before I open them, jumping when I see Tadg standing there, all bone, hunched and withering - more so than last time I saw him somehow. “Lets go,” he says, glancing behind.
Over his hunched shoulders I see the downed trees, the three men acting as Tadg’s guards - wind beaten and dishevelled, and the sparking in the air. The containment wall is fully disintegrated. Tangled strips of it lie where they fell, still marking a circle, inside of which is damaged but standing. Beyond, the forest is not far from flattened. I gaze in shock, trying to understand.
“You have sat here long enough Feada. Lets go. Now.” His words are firm and so are his bony fingers digging into my arm as he pulls me up.
I try to explain, or maybe just defend myself, “It sped up so quickly! It was only a minute or two before it was too strong to control. I don’t under-”
Tadg interrupts me, voice calm and smooth, “they have come.”
The simple statement feels like a hand around my throat. I stop asking questions and instead give him a knowing and concerned look as I pass his shoulder and walk to the men behind, my breath trapping.
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baekberrie · 4 years
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☀️rooftop pt.5➣ bbh☀️
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☀️Genre: Romance, angst, fluff,  bakery & island! au
☀️Pairing: Baekhyun x Reader/ oc
☀️Previous  
I want to stay by the sea Watching turn into red
Sat down with the people Listen through this song
Moon is slowly rising I see the trees are moving
Sky is brighten through the moon
Streams of sunlight swam inside the room and its warmth absorbed into the thin duvet covering two bodies huddled together. Cicadas were singing in the summer heat and the ocean brightly reflected the spotless blue sky as it waved gently with its calming melody. The window stood open, and the girl's thought had been to welcome any fresh breeze, but to her dismay, it only let in more heat. The air was stuffy but it didn't wake up either of the two who were so passionately sharing even more warmth, rending them scorching hot.
When the temperature had finally gotten too much for her body to handle, she felt herself gently succumb into consciousness. A gentle stream of air was spreading on the skin of her collarbone and glancing to the source of such thing, she suddenly became incredibly aware of how warm it actually was. With Baekhyun's face nestled in the comfort of her soft chest, from his pink lips left small breaths as he slept all over her. The girl herself was surprised to find her legs impossibly entangled with Baekhyun's, her arm over his waist and the other had served as a pillow for the side of his head. To find herself embraced by an angel in such manners in an early summer morning was just as beautifully exhilarating as it was embarrassing. For Baekhyun's beautiful, yet sneaky hands had found their way under her top, fingers spread all over her back, feeling the hard surface of her shoulder blade and spine underneath their touch.
Looking down at the boy, she couldn't help but be mesmerized by his endless beauty, as he was so beautiful even in his rawest, most vulnerable of states. His skin shone golden underneath the sunlight and his dark, disheveled locks fell unevenly yet softly across his forehead.  Heartache found her at the sight of his swollen eyes and the dried trails of tears decorating his flushed cheeks. Before she could even think her actions through, her fingertips had already reached to delicately caress his cheek. The heart in her chest jumped when Baekhyun's eyes squeezed and he stirred awake, eventually looking up from her chest- only to meet gazes with her. Realization seemed to hit him as the cheeks flushed even redder within seconds and without knowing how to handle the situation, Baekhyun opted to hide his face back in her soft chest. But soon after, with a gasp, he realized that it hadn't been any less embarrassing to do that. Hurriedly, he jumped from her and closer to the wall behind him.
With the heart crashing against his ribs, he avoided her gaze while pushing a hand through his hair in a flustered manner. The girl kept quiet for a while, only taking in his groggy but extremely delicate figure, his ways of moving and his expressions. The blush coloring his fair skin and the sun enhancing the beauty of his blue orbs. Just him and his ethereal self in the mess of her bedsheets, the oversized hoodie hanging down his milky shoulder and the small dust particles floating around him as if magical. Her hand searched for his, carefully threading her fingers through his slender and soft ones before breaking the peaceful silence.
"How are you feeling?" She murmured and Baekhyun's gaze found hers again. Sadness pooled within his eyes at the question, and just like yesterday, he looked broken, a huge urge to pick up the broken pieces of his heart and fix them filled her chest. A trembling sigh left his slightly swollen lips while his palm went to rub some sleepiness out of his eyes.
"I'm-" He started hesitantly, voice raspy and sleepy. "I'm sorry, for how I treated you, I didn't mean to push you away like that," remorse was dripping from his words and the girl couldn't help but frown, she knew he hadn't meant to be as harsh as he had been, she would have never held a grudge against that. But there he was, apologizing.
"Oh Baekhyun, no, don't apologize." She scooted closer to him, now sitting cross-legged in front of him on her bed.
Baekhyun shook his head in disagreement. " And I have to thank you, for coming to get me, I was delirious and I, when I think about what I was about to do, I get scared of myself." he breathed out, searching for comfort in her eyes that were so intently following his every movement, heart listening to his every word.
"I don't want to leave like that. I used to think that I lost everything, you know? But things are different now. I really don't want to go." Baekhyun's hand that was still in hers tightened the hold, and the action sent her heart jumping in every direction, expanding endlessly in her chest. "And if it wasn't for you, I would've done something unforgivable, towards myself, towards those who love me,"  Baekhyun was speaking his heart out, letting every hidden thought, every emotion unravel through his voice, words that tumbled down from his lips. "Something unforgivable towards who I love." He said, looking into her eyes as he spoke the last words.
"Deep down, a part of me knew that my parents were long gone from this world, so I shouldn't have made that scene. But the part of me that couldn't accept it was stronger, and I completely lost my mind." He admitted brokenly, and the girl cupped his soft cheeks with her palms, looking deeply into his eyes. She was going to reassure him, that it was okay, he was allowed to be sad.
"Baekhyun, accepting or not, it's okay to let your emotions spill, you need it. And whenever you'll lose your mind, I'll be there to make you reason. You're not alone, Baekhyun." She reminded. " You have Jongdae and Junmyeon too, aunt and uncle Byun, don't forget that."
He nodded in her hold, a little smile made its way on his lips, his hands reached to hold hers on their spot upon his cheeks. "Thank you," He whispered, his eyelashes kissing his cheeks as he looked down for a few moments, before meeting her sweet gaze again. Suddenly and without a warning, the boy advanced forward, capturing her lips in a quick yet lingering kiss.
"I really like you," Baekhyun mumbled shyly, but despite the furious blush on his cheeks, he kept his sincere orbs locked with hers, his hands on hers. " I'm so thankful for you."
And her chest burst, were it fireworks, butterflies or a whole flowery jungle blooming within her- she didn't know, but it was a beautiful feeling that tickled every corner of her body. A type of happiness that closed her throat- as if no words could ever be enough to describe what she was feeling. The only thing she could do to cope with the overwhelming emotions was throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close for another kiss. His lips were mellow and sweet against hers as they both couldn't help the hint of a smile forming on their mouths. Baekhyun's arms gladly snook around her waist and pressed their chests together, so that their enamored heartbeats could meet and melt together into one beautiful melody.
A kiss so full of happiness and lighthearted feelings, so full of love that it was addicting, impossible for either of them to part. Although their breaths had reached their limits long ago, Baekhyun could only tilt his head to the other side to kiss her from a new angle, tongues briefly meeting for a sweet taste.
A sudden knock on the door made them break apart with a startled gasp, Baekhyun flew to the end of her bed while the girl desperately attempted to make her messy hair look presentable after that Baekhyun's hands had run all the way through her locks just a few seconds ago.
"Yes?" The girl loudly called after the knock as she dipped off the bed and walked closer to the door. In the corner of her eyes, she could see Baekhyun shyly biting his lips that were by now shiny and moist, a soft hue of pink caressing his cheek.
"It's me!" Mrs. Byun said and something in her voice sounded different, almost a bit troubled. Indeed it wasn't usual that the lady would come by her doorstep first thing in the morning, but maybe there was some special occasion going on.
"Listen, sweetheart," She continued, luckily, without asking her to open the door and let her in. "Try to get ready quickly because there is someone downstairs that says he knows you and needs to see you." A frown quickly made its way on both hers and Baekhyun's faces. Mrs. Byun sounded as if she couldn't trust her own words. This island was tiny and everyone knew each other, by now, the girl had become a part of the huge family too. If Mrs. Byun didn't know this person, how could she?
"I'll be down in five!" She then said, despite her confusion. As Baekhyun's aunt disappeared from behind the door, the two looked at each other. Something was not right.
"Are you sure you're not expecting anyone?" Baekhyun hesitated as she made her way back onto the bed, but the girl had no clue of who could possibly want to meet her, and at such an early time. She shook her head adamantly. " I really don't know."
Eventually, the boy just shrugged his shoulders, leaned on his hands and crawled closer to her. His lips landed on hers shortly before he gently pushed her off the bed. "Nonetheless, you should hurry and not let them wait," Baekhyun soothed. "I'll catch up in a few, okay?" He cocked his head to the side, and up until now, she had never known that he could look that adorable. For a moment, she contemplated ignoring everything else, just so that she could stay with him like that, forever. She sighed in defeat.
"Fine," she gave up, "fine."
☀️☀️☀️
Her feet speeded down the stairs as she made her way into the lobby. Thousands of different questions were popping into her head one after another, and all of them remained unanswered. That, until she pushed through the glass doors and as soon as she stepped foot into the area, two big and doe-like eyes met hers immediately. They were so familiar, in fact, she knew them so well that her heart squeezed painfully in her chest upon seeing them, him. She could've never forgotten the mellowness in their gaze as it had been one of the few memories from her past life that she had kept close to her heart.
Suddenly, she was brought back to a few days back when she and Baekhyun had just found each other again at the summer festival after getting lost. These had been the exact same pair of eyes that she had briefly met in the distant crowd but had barely had any time to recognize. The air knocked out of her lungs when the realization finally made its way through her body and the person in front of her wasn't mere confusion anymore, but reality.
The rather short boy by the brown hair and soft features stood up from his seat and was about to walk closer when the girl got out of her confused state and ran directly into his strong arms that he had without any hesitation opened as fast as he had seen her take a step towards him. The scent of home, lavender, and fabric softener hit her senses so overwhelmingly so that she found her head spinning as if on a roller coaster, she gasped for air. "Kyungsoo-" She breathed out, his hold was so tight, so real, and yet the fact that he was there was the most surreal thing she could've ever witnessed. "How did you get here? How did you find me?"
"I've searched for you with all my might, do you know how worried I was? How worried Minseok was?" His deep voice spoke full of emotion, face buried in her shoulder as he tightened the hold around her. The girl's heart clenched with guilt, knowing how much pain her leave must have caused to the people who loved her, "I'm sorry", she murmured, sorrowful.
Kyungsoo loosened the hold around her, calling her name in the most nostalgic of manners, fingers clasping gently around her wrist, his touch overflowing with familiarity.
"I came to get you," He said.
"Let's go home." His lips spoke eagerly as if he hadn't waited for anything but to pronounce these words. While for her, it felt as if every glass was shattering around her, destroying the beautiful trance of familiarity and bringing her back to the bitter aspect of reality. The shock was all she could feel as she looked at the boy with lost and wide eyes, barely registering the loud gasps of her fellow colleagues witnessing the scene.
"G-go home?" She repeated confusedly, letting a hint of disbelief unraveling through her voice, but Kyungsoo, being the attentive boy he was, caught on it and wasn't afraid to show that her hesitancy had hurt him.
Kyungsoo's gaze shifted in the span of one second from her to the figure who had appeared behind the girl and had grabbed her wrist, sliding it carefully from Kyungsoo's hold.
"What is going on?" Baekhyun asked, eyeing the stranger warily as his hand curled protectively around her own, making Kyungsoo's gaze harden upon the action. Before any further misunderstandings could blow up, the girl stood in between the two.
"Baekhyun," She took a deep breath, "This is Kyungsoo, my stepbrother, and Kyungsoo, Baekhyun is my...Boyfriend." It was visible how Baekhyun had wanted to keep a straight face, but the new unexpected label had sent his shoulders up tensely while a soft blush covered his cheeks, and suddenly, his strong gaze cowered away from Kyungsoo's. Upon the news, to her utter confusion, Kyungsoo's face fell. Hurt pooled within his orbs. So much sorrow had she never seen in a pair of eyes, especially not his, and could just not understand why it was that he was gazing at her as if she had just broken his heart.
"We should talk about this somewhere private." Kyungsoo eventually established.
And that was how she found herself leaning on the railing of the bakery's rooftop, with the wind rustling nicely through her locks as the salty sea breeze filled her nose, just like always, the distant sound of the waves lulled her heart. But this time, things felt completely different, for it wasn't Baekhyun standing next to her, but Kyungsoo whom she hadn't seen in months, Kyungsoo whom she had never thought she'd ever see again.
His silence was something that she had grown up with, he was a person of few words, and in that aspect, he resembled Baekhyun more than she had ever realized.  His delicate fingertips tapped slowly upon the railing while his eyes were squinted in concentration, his eyes lost in the sea.
"You know," It was Kyungsoo to break the silence with the vibrato of his extremely low voice that in some odd way suited so perfectly to his soft and young features.
He smiled slightly while taking in her figure, "You look beautiful, so happy since we last saw you," He noted sincerely, and even if he meant nothing but to be genuine, she couldn't help but blush at the blunt use of words. The boy directed his gaze back to the scenery, sea reflecting into his big and glassy eyes.
"Ever since you left, Mom and Dad started getting themselves together. I know they've said that they would so many times, but this time, they weren't empty words. Your leave really woke some sense into them. They miss you too, and they regret everything. I can see it."  He explained solemnly and her heart fluttered with happiness at the good news, a smile broke out on her lips- but was to falter the slightest at what he said next.
"Although they're getting better, healthier, both physically and mentally, there's still this cloud of sorrow hanging above of their heads. Truly, I believe it can only dissipate by your presence. "
"Kyungsoo, I-" She breathed out, "I'm so happy to hear that they are better," She really meant it when she said she felt happy, but there was something more, eating at her heart, something she didn't dare to say. As if it would break her heart if she did, but most of all, Kyungsoo's, and she didn't think she could handle that. Not when his face brightened like the sun at its rising state, with his lips taking the shape of a soft heart as he let her witness the rarity of such a happy smile.
"Then come back home," He said full of hope while taking both of her hands in his. "No more suffering will occur, everything will be alright, we'll be a healthy family again."
"Everyone is waiting for you, they miss you," Kyungsoo added, " I miss you," he whispered, bringing on of her hands to his face and nuzzled into it.
"I- I am really happy to see you and to hear that things have changed for the better, but Kyungsoo I-" She stammered, not knowing how to formulate herself. When she had run away, all she had thought about was putting her painful past behind her shoulders but to cherish the best she had. She had never imagined that the day would come where she would have to choose between two of the most important things in her life.
Tears sprung in her eyes, crystalizing into her lashes, fingers drying the traces of sorrow on her features. "I don't think I can leave this Island, Kyungsoo. I love everyone back home with all of my heart, but I love these people too, so much." She cried into her palms, and the boy remained still in front of her, trying to understand what she was meaning.
"You don't want us anymore...?" Kyungsoo murmured brokenly, confusion and plea found his words and the girl shook her head adamantly in disagreement.
"No! Of course, I do, I miss you guys too." She protested.
"Is it because of that boy?" Kyungsoo then asked, not showing her the expression on his face, and she was shocked to hear such disbelief in his question. As if... As if it broke him to know that someone had gotten a hold of her heart.
"Kyungsoo," She pleaded, "There was a reason I left. You know I never truly felt part of that family, no matter how much I love all of you." It wasn't like she wanted them out of her life, but maybe that was how it appeared to the boy who had gone all that way just to bring her back home where they waited for her. "But here, things are different. I feel like new, like a better version of myself. I don't feel limited by my scars, I've been accepted for them and as bad as it makes me look, I truly feel like I belong here. I don't think I can handle leaving this place behind."
Kyungsoo bit his lip as he tried again, "Won't you give us another chance?"
"Please, come back home." He took her hands in his again.
She sighed defeatedly.
☀️☀️☀️
Her sandals had been left behind on the sand a few meters back. She was with slow steps nearing the shore where the calm waves were reaching and pulling back soothingly. The sea fragrance sank into her skin and she took a deep, very needed breath that she then let out. The wet sand was sticking underneath her feet as the water washed it away from time to time. She had never come to wonder why Baekhyun liked walking alone by the shore, but now that her heart was heavy and she was feeling so helpless and conflicted, she finally understood. It was so comforting and the gentle breeze cleared her chaotic mind. As she sat down a little farther away from the shore, she noted how the sand felt so soothingly warm underneath her touch and she couldn't help but bury her head in her knees for further warmth. It didn't make much of a difference, but what truly did, was the soft fabric of a hoodie being suddenly draped over her back from above.
Her head shot up to look at whoever had lent her the clothing but only by seeing the color of the hoodie she knew couldn't be more sure. That hoodie and that scent, they had been draped over her shoulders so many times that she could by now recognize it anywhere. The action made her heart swell in her chest as she watched Baekhyun sit down next to her.  His bare feet buried deep in the sand like here's had done, the hair was unusually wavy and extremely fluffy as it swung with the gentle breeze, t-shirt flickering slightly in the wind.
"Hey," He murmured while gazing up at her with the mellow eyes of his. "It took me half an hour to make your brother tell me where you had gone, you know?" She couldn't help but crack a little smile despite the pains in her heart, for she could imagine Kyungsoo being overly protective at any time even when it wouldn't be necessary.
Baekhyun then to her surprise reached out with his hand toward her face, two of his pretty fingers caught the stray hairs that had fallen onto her face and gently placed them behind her ear, fingertips caressing the apple of her cheeks until the rest of his palm came to cup her cheek. "Somehow, I feel like I am always looking for you." He admitted. A little smile played on the corner of his lips while the pad of his thumb had unconsciously begun stroking her skin.
The girl blushed slightly at the statement but returned the smile.
"Are you troubled?" Baekhyun then questioned, concern was pooling within his diamond-like orbs as he kept their gazes locked the entire time. " I bet something is on your mind if you came here all alone. You can talk to me about it if you want. I'm not the wisest person, but I'll help you." The boy offered sincerely and the girl had to push the urge to hug him in away with all her might because she was sure that any further kindness from Baekhyun would make her burst into tears.
A shaky breath left her lips and her eyes closed to try and calm herself down from the storm of emotions crashing into every corner of her body. Although there was a sharp lump in her throat hindering from talking smoothly, she was able to ignore it and eventually told Baekhyun about her conversation with Kyungsoo, how conflicted and hesitant it had made her feel, and the boy silently listened to it all. All of her sorrows, all of her heartaches, he took them in, to soothe her and caress her heart into calmness.
Baekhyun circled his arms around his knees while resting his chin upon them, in his eyes reflected the sea shimmering with beautiful moonlight. He parted his lips to speak.
"I think that you shouldn't limit your happiness because of me, or the new people that you cherish on this island. If you believe that you will find happiness back at home with your family that has changed for the better, you should do it. Maybe it was all meant to be, you know? That you found your way to this island, and God made his wonders. Your family got better and now it's time for you to return. If you want to give it a try, don't try to limit yourself." Baekhyun spoke calmly, his voice low and she found it to be even more soothing than the melody of the waves.
"Will you be okay with me leaving? Won't it matter to you at all?" She whispered brokenly, she knew that Baekhyun could be right, but his encouraging to leave was somehow pinching her heart and increasing the pain. Did he want her to leave? But she knew that these thoughts had been wrong when Baekhyun's face appeared before hers, a serious expression resting on his features.
"How can you for a second think that I wouldn't miss you? You saved me from me. You are very important to me.  I'll never forget you, hence, no one on this island will ever forget how you appeared out of nowhere with your bright self, the grannies would always tell me how you reminded them of the sun. You really do to me too." Baekhyun then leaned his head cutely on his arms that were still around his knees and the honey-sweet smile found his lips again.
"Your smile feels like the warmest time of the day, and it's also the happiest. I think that- no," He chuckled to himself  "I don't think, I'm sure that I... that I love you. And if letting you go back home means that you'll smile like that often, I'm willing to let you do that. You deserve it."
The girl was sat still in her position as her eyes pooled with burning tears, Baekhyun's figure became a blurry silhouette until the thick tears spilled as if waterfalls from her eyes. The boy was quick to catch her tears with his gentle fingers, the sincere and reassuring smile still present on his face.
"And I know that just a few days ago I was a broken and incredibly sad boy who almost took his life, but you truly made me stronger, and I can make it if I know that you'll be happy. It'll visit it you, no matter how far it is, hm? It's okay, everything will be alright." He soothed and by now the girl had no strength to keep the overwhelmingly strong feelings from toppling over her self control. She cried silently underneath her breath until the noise morphed into loud and unstoppable sobs erupting from her throat as she threw herself into Baekhyun's embrace.
"I don't want to leave," she despaired while burying her face deep into Baekhyun's chest, finding extreme comfort in his heartbeat pulsing against her ear and the delicate fragrance of fabric softener calming her ragged breath.
He had her caged safely into his arms, hold strong around her trembling shoulders as a hand caressed the back of her head comfortingly. Baekhyun let their bodies rock gently while he guided his lips closer to her ear so that he could whisper:
"Your happiness is our happiness, please, do what your heart tells you to do. Don't hesitate."
☀️☀️☀️
The boat was rocking from side to side and the unpleasant feeling of seasickness was making its way through her head as she watched the boy in front her put down the only thing he seemed to have carried with himself while on this trip; a backpack that looked as if it was about to burst.  On the large display of the boat shone the word Seoul brightly. Even just by reading its name, her heart squeezed the slightest but she forced herself not to dwell on the pain. The departure had been announced to take place in just five minutes when Kyungsoo had hurried his way closer to the girl and without any warning pulled her to his chest. Holding her as if the last time he'd ever see her. She knew that wasn't it, and yet, when he held in that despaired manner, with his usually gentle hands clutching her shirt and locks within his fingers so that he could remember their texture, it truly felt as if she would never meet him again.
"I'll miss you," Kyungsoo whispered when tightening his hold and sorrow unraveled through every syllable, it was all she could remark, how sad he seemed.
"Kyungsoo, I'll miss you too, take care." The girl reciprocated the embrace, holding him just as close in hope that he wouldn't feel like she was abandoning him. "I promise, I will come over as often as I can. You are still my family and I love you."  Kyungsoo nodded in the crook of her neck, his trembling breath hit her warm skin. "I'll wait for you." He said simply, reluctantly letting go of her body. Their eyes met and once again, the girl could get a glimpse of his broken heart through the sorrow in his orbs.
"I love you." The boy said, leaving her completely shocked as he retrieved from the deck and into one of the many cabins. Those had been words they'd tell each other frequently, but there had been no hint of brotherly love in the way he had just pronounced the words, no brotherly love in the enamored gaze that had meant so much more as he had taken in her last expressions before leaving. The drumming heartbeat was echoing loudly in her ears as she stepped down from the boat and made her way to Baekhyun who had been waiting by the dock all the while.
Noticing the upset expression upon her face, the boy knew to not break the silence and settled with running his fingers soothingly down her palm before intertwining them together. The walk to the bakery had been extremely quiet, but her thoughts had been all but that. How could she have been so oblivious all of this time? She couldn't find it in her to forgive herself for all the possible time she had hurt Kyungsoo's feelings by being so dense. On the other side, she couldn't help but find it so incredibly unfair for Kyungsoo to leave her with such a sudden confession in her hands. A confession that she wouldn't know how to handle for the longest of times, for she didn't know when she'd meet the boy next.
Her chaotic train of thoughts was interrupted by the loud ruckus made as soon as she and Baekhyun had stepped back in the bakery. Everyone seemed shocked to see her there, indeed the last time they had witnessed the girl there had been when Kyungsoo had in front of everyone stated that he would've taken her back home.
A gasp left her lips when Jongdae had suddenly come rushing towards her, tackling the girl into the tightest of hugs, spinning her around in his arms. "I thought that you were leaving and that I would've never seen you ever again!" he had exclaimed incredulously, and yet, so much happiness was present in his voice. "I'm so happy that you're staying."  The words leaving Jondae's lips were like a caress to her heavy heart, and for a while, the happiness these people had for her presence was made it possible for her to forget the weight of Kyungsoo's words.
Although Junmyeon and his reserved self, he still expressed his own happiness with a genuine hug, and like his brother, told her how thankful he was to her for always giving them so much happiness.  While Mr. Byun had been happy to the verge of laughing,  Mrs. Byun had shed a couple of relieved tears for she had also come to cherish her so greatly so, that she had been so extremely joyful when she had seen the girl walk through the doors again.
By the nightfall, the girl found herself, as a part of her daily routine, on her favorite spot at the rooftop where she watched the calm sea and the starry night reflecting onto it as if a mirror. Baekhyun's presence next to her, she had only then realized how essential it was to her whole being. For even if pained by the fact that she had been forced to choose between who she loved the most, next to him she felt complete. One thing that she had learned from this incredible journey of hers was that her home, in the end, truly always would be where the heart is. And Baekhyun had her heart, the people in the bakery cherished her heart. It was okay to make the choices that were the best for her well being. She had learned that it was okay to love herself and allow herself what would give her happiness. She hadn't left kyungsoo nor Minseok, either of her step-parents. Like Baekhyun had said, if they got better after her leave, it meant that it had been for a better cause. She didn't regret doing what she did.
She didn't regret staying by the sea, where she felt that she belonged.
"Baekhyun?" She whispered into the night. The boy squeezed her hand that was in his.
"Hm?"
"Can we sleep under these starts tonight?" She continued and was a bit disappointed when Baekhyun's hand left hers, though, she couldn't detach herself from the milky way tracing the whole night sky.
A familiar hoodie was draped on her shoulders, followed by Baekhyun's arms that snuggled around her waist and pulled her closer to his chest where he could place his soft lips on the shell of her ear. A smile burst on her lips, for she knew what would come next.
"Only if you'll let me lend you my hoodie, my love."
Fin.
☀️☀️☀️
Hello, my loves! First of all, I want to say that I just finished writing this and that I haven't double-checked it, I'm sorry for any mistakes and weird things you might come across. I hope this isn’t complete disaster, I promise I'll look at it soon!
Onto the real deal. I want to sincerely thank anyone who spent their precious time following me on this adventure of mine! This story was so inspiring and fun for me to write and I can only hope that everyone who read it felt the same! I hold so many nostalgic feelings for this story as I was inspired to write it when walking on the beautiful streets of Trastevere in Rome.
So, this has been the story I wanted to tell. I hope it touched your hearts, gave you happiness, and that everyone could learn something important from it.
I love you all very much and you all deserve the very best. So please do be kind and love yourselves, it's okay to do so. You're beautiful.  Much love and affection, your P.💕💞
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