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seabass17 · 3 years

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All that’s left | Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

A/n: This is my first time writing something based on a video I found on TikTok, it’s not exactly the same, but it is kinda the idea. I hope you like it and please let me know if you might want a part two. Also, I apologize if you find some errors, im doing my best since English is not my first language. Anyway, happy reading!!

All that’s left masterlist

Pt. 2

Warnings: angst, mentions of injuries (broken ribs, cuts, dislocated shoulder)

Word count: 2.5K

Summary: She still can’t get used to the feeling of being left behind by the people she once called family. After being hurt, she decides that she will give them a chance, and when they failed, she then makes the decision to disappear and start brand new. Of course, she leaves a letter that will left the team standing in the dark, and with more questions than answers about a lot of things, while discovering that she has more of one past that she let to know.

The sound of the rain hitting against the window of my living room was the only thing that could be heard in the silence of my apartment. I looked over my desk where the paper is waiting for me to pick up the pen and get this over with, but somehow, somewhere deep inside of me, a part is waiting, holding on to the smallest of hope that maybe, just maybe, he is going to come knocking to my door asking why the i haven’t showed up to the compound for the last three days, or why i didn’t text nor call the rest of the team. I wanted to see if they would notice my absence so I left the compound on Thursday. I got the answer to my question when Sunday arrived and my inbox was clear; no one noticed. Today is Tuesday, my apartment is thirteen minutes away, fifthteen if you literally fly or speed up, but still, no one came or text.

To be honest, I'm not surprised, that doesn’t mean it hurts less though. I know i should probably think this through instead of making the impulse decision of grabbing my things and get the hell out of here, going somewhere i can start fresh, somewhere i can start over and get a chance to get over all the things that happened, find people that actually cared for me, or maybe not finding anyone at all and die alone.

I stand up from my bed and go to my desk, it’s time to get this over with. I start writing the only thing that they get to keep.

“Dear Avengers, You’re probably wondering where I am, or you just don’t care, maybe you don’t even find this. If someone from the building finds this, keep it in case they ever come looking for me; thank you. So, this is it, this is my goodbye. You should consider yourselves lucky, given the fact that none of you even deserves a goodbye because you are the ones causing it. I could tell you the reason why I'm leaving, and you know what, I will tell you. I chose to trust you. The one thing I feared the most was trusting people, but when I joined the team, I thought ‘well, maybe i can trust them, they are my team’, guess what, I was wrong. You should really look out for your teammates Stark, oh, and by the way, you might want to look deeper into why the operation that saved those 30 civilians on may 20, didn’t go south, you might even discover its the very same reason of why i didn’t showed up in the compound for a week, yeah, they were busy torturing the information out of me for a week; information that, by the way, i didn't give, hence why the operation went great. Something even more funny, is that behind every mistake, every wrong that each one of you have ever done, I’m the one that suffered the consequences. Don’t believe me? Then you might want to do your homework, because dear teammates, I’m the one you couldn’t protect. By the time you find out the things you’ve done, I will be long gone. I'm very good at disappearing, Natasha (once she figures it out) can confirm that. I wish things would be different and we could be… family, but that’s never going to happen; not anymore. As of now, there will be no record of my name ever existing, everything that once belonged to me, will be burned, and as of me, well, I am no one.”

I fold the piece of paper and put it in the envelope, once sealed, I write down the word my name in the center so they know. I take a last look at my apartment. Everything is intact, the furniture that came with it is the same as always, the only thing different is that it seems empty without all my belongings. I grabbed my luggage and exited the apartment and then went downstairs.

“Hey Richard” I say to the man that is in the reception like I always do

“Hey miss, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I'm leaving, for good. If someone comes asking for me, my friends, you tell them that you haven’t seen me. Oh, I left a letter for them upstairs, could you please make sure that it gets to them? Only if the show up, do not sent it”

He looked at me a little sad and confused.

“Oh, well, you will me missed miss, I hope you find happiness and yes, i promised i will make sure they get your letter”

“Thank you Richard, for everything, oh, and this is for you” I handed him an envelope with some cash. He looked like he was about to say something about how he couldn’t accept it but I cut him off. “Please, just take it, please”. He sighs but takes the envelope.

“Thank you miss…”

I smiled at him and then turned around to grab a cab. I'm supposed to be in the airport in 30 minutes. Once in the airport, the only thing left is to start again, be someone brand new.

*3rd person POV*

Friday morning was a little colder than usual in the avengers compound, everyone on the team was up and in the kitchen having breakfast. Everything was normal, until someone noticed that someone was missing.

“Hey guys” Bucky said right before taking a bite of the pancakes Wanda made earlier for everyone. “Have any of you seen y/n?”

The team stayed quiet, realizing that they haven’t seen her for quite a while, not until Barnes brought it up.

“Uh… maybe she took a trip?” Steve broke the silence while the rest started thinking when was the last time they had seen her.

“No, she was here when we arrived from the Jersey mission, it must have been like what, two days, maybe three?” Tony said. Bucky could feel his insides burning and twisting.

“No… that was eight days ago” Vision intervened. The avengers felt like someone just blew up the white house. Her teammate was missing for eight days and no one even noticed. Bucky was the first one to react by getting up and running to her dorm, only to find it exactly the way it was when he last saw her. He searched her dorm looking for something out of place that could tell him that maybe you were in trouble and that he has to come save you, but he is left desperate when he doesn’t find anything.

“She’s not here, everything is intact” He informs once he is back in the kitchen.

“Everyone” Steve calls out, “get dressed, we’re going to look for her. Let’s start in her apartment”

The team leaves to change their clothes and next thing they know, they are in her building. Without saying a word to the receptionist, they all made their way up to her apartment.

“Hey! wait-” he goes unnoticed because the avengers are already on her door. Wanda knocks on the door.

“Y/n? You there?” no one responds. “Y/n come on, don’t be mad at us” Natasha says.

After a few seconds they all start to worry when the door is unlocked, and they worry even more once they see the apartment completely empty.

“What the-” Bucky says

“Where are her things?” Wanda asks to no one especifically

“Where is she?” Thor says

“What the hell is going on?” Tony says a little louder

Bucky storms out of the empty apartment and goes to the man in the reception

“What the hell happened to apartment 108, where is y/n y/l/n?” he asks with worry and anxiety in his voice.

“I’m sorry, but, who are you?” the man asks the rather intimidating group of people in front of him.

“We’re the Avengers man” Peter says and the man suddenly realizes and his face changes from a confused one, to a sad one that makes the team’s stomach drop.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he sighs, “She left me indicated to give this to you” he hands them an envelope that looks like it's been sitting there for a while. Bucky stares at the envelope like it's some kind of nuclear weapon that if you touch it, it could kill you. Wanda notices, grabs the envelope and stares at the paper in her hands.

“When did she leave this?” She asked

“Three days ago”

“And why didn’t you send it to us?” Tony asked, getting angry at the poor man.

“Because she specifically said to handed it to you, if you ever came looking for her”

Bucky could feel the tears in his eyes start to form.

“She said that? `Ever’?” Bucky asked almost to himself. The man slowly nodded. Natasha could feel how her stomach started burning from the guilt and the pain of not noticing that her friend was missing for eight days, little does she know that the entire team felt exactly the same.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y pull the records on the mission on may 20 and also show me the status of y/n on that time” Tony said to the AI and after a few seconds later, pictures of the building that that was about to be blown out by HYDRA with 30 civilians inside showed up. While the avengers were sitting in the conference room looking at the pictures, the AI started talking.

“Mission of may 20. Information was given that HYDRA kept 30 civilians inside the building with the intention of blowing it up with them inside. Source of the information unknown. The Avengers came to the building and successfully rescued the civilians safely moments before the building was blown up. Agent y/n y/l/n was on an undercover mission on a HYDRA facility at the same time, the communication was lost three days before the civilians situation, and around the same time, the information about the building was given anonymously the very same day that communication with Agent y/l/n was lost; Agent y/l/n returned a week later. Medical record found, access denied”

“Override, Tony Stark” Tony said after a good couple of seconds, the pieces starting to fall in place.

“Access complete. Medical records of Agent y/l/n on may 27th. Access restrained: Agent y/l/n. She presented with several cuts all over her body, three broken ribs, a second grade concussion, a sprained ankle and a dislocated shoulder. Patient refused treatment and was only given medication for the pain”

The seconds were passing and no one in the room would break the silence. The pieces were starting to fall in place, Tony felt nauseous. He yelled at her for being irresponsible for staying a little longer than she should have in the undercover mission, given the fact that she checked in on june 10th, meaning that she waited two weeks for her injuries to heal enough so that he could yell at her for not being good enough. He fell down to his chair, feeling like if he stayed up, he might throw up.

“She was the one that gave us the information about the building” Sam broke the silence. “She was the one that got tortured, and still managed to pass through the data so that we, could be the heroes while she was the one that got beaten up”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, where is she?” Natasha asked the AI, and it responded after a few seconds.

“No information found”

Natasha frowned, Bucky looked up to the screen to see the red sentence. It only made him want to scream more.

“What does ‘no information found’ mean?” Bucky asked on the edge of falling apart.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y” Steve called

“No information available” it said this time.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, look for y/n y/l/n” Tony said, thinking maybe he needed to check what was wrong with the AI.

“No records found for y/n y/l/n”

“Detail,” Stark said.

The AI showed what it said before, there was no record of her name, it was like it never existed. No phone number, no mail address, no nothing, just a little picture of an abandoned building or mansion somewhere in the world.

“Wait” Natasha said, “I know that building, F.R.I.D.A.Y, do a close up on that picture”

“What is it?” Wanda asked

“It was where The Red Room used to operate” tha AI responded

“Why does it appear related to her?” Bucky asked, fearing the answer

“The picture was taken when a girl escaped The Red Room in 2002, she eliminated four people on the way, the age or who it was is still unknown” the AI responded.

“Oh god…” Natasha whispered but Bucky manage it to hear it

“Natasha, what is it?” he asked

“2002, that’s three years after i managed to escape, there was a girl, we were some sort of friends, i promised that i was going to get us out of here, but i couldn’t take her with me so i left her. Two years later I contacted someone on the inside so that I could get to her and plan her escape, but she was angry at me and said that she was fine, a year later she did escape, killing four people on her way” Natasha explained. Everything makes sense now, why she looked familiar, why she had exactly the same skills as Natasha. The team noticed it too, but they assumed it was because she had trained very hard to be an avenger.

“What was her name?” Vision asked.

“Eliza” Natasha said

“Wait a minute…” Bucky said, lifting her head looking at Natasha. “Was that her real name?”

“No, she didn’t wanted to say her real one” Natasha said

“Eliza, that’s y/n’s grandmother’s name” Bucky said and the room fell into a silence where you could hear the wind outside.

“In the letter…” Steve started, “She said that you could confirm that she was good at disappearing completely once you figured it out, so, does this mean that…”

“Y/n is Eliza” Natasha concluded

“She was in The Red Room” Bucky added.

“She said in her letter that all of us did her wrong,” Sam said, “how are we supposed to know what the hell we do to her? She’s been in the team for what, two and a half years? And just now we realized that she was the one that gave us the data that saved 30 people and got her tortured, and that she was trained in The Red Room like Black Widow here. What else are we missing?” he added.

“Guess there’s only one thing we can do” Steve said, looking at Tony.

“And what’s that?” Wanda asked

“We find her”

#avengers #bucky barnes #imagines #marvel #bucky barnes angst #bucky x female reader #the red room #natasha romonova #tony stark #steve rogers #wanda maximoff #peter parker #hydra

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aitarose · 3 years

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A HUNDRED LIVES (H. IWAIZUMI) pairing: iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader

synopsis: only real relationships stand the test of time, some fair better than others—but in the end, all that truly matters is telling them you love them. all that mattered was how hajime would finally confess.

word count: 2.2k

genre: childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, slight angst, mutual pining

warnings: mentions of death

notes: i hated the way this was and i’ve had it finished for like a week and a half but now it’s in second person because i rewrote the whole thing ok aha enjoy! reblogs are very much appreciated like pls tell me what you think about this i kind of love it?? or do i? idk

↳ DIRECTORY

You knew that congratulations were in order, one for not only you, but the entire third year class of Aoba Johsai. The third year class that you’d grown up with, the people that’d graduated together from their high school duties. The very people that you’d grown up with, known for years on years, were moving on from Miyagi and saying their goodbyes.

It was saddening, knowing that you’d all have to leave your past behind, grow up and move on as an individual. You, yourself, hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that you’d be moving to Tokyo—the city of stars and big dreams. There was something solemn about the thought—beginning a life on your own, away from the friends and family you’d grown used to seeing every day.

Which was why today was all the more important, why it mattered so much in the hole of your mind. It was one final hurrah, one final farewell to all of the fleeting people you’d come to love. All of the classmates from first period, advisors who’d suggested career paths, family friends and relatives that’d seen you grow up—and him.

Iwaizumi Hajime.

As children, you and Iwa had been as close as you could possibly be—spending nearly every day with one another as you were next-door neighbors, only separated by a thin wooden fence. One that was commonly crossed, as it was impossible to stay away from his energy—he’d been your first friend, first crush, the very first boy you’d ever daydreamed about while the sun was awake.

Perhaps it’d been his smile, the joy on his face as he’d swing you back and forth on the playground. How he’d try his best to teach you how to set and spike, lecturing Oikawa as he’d complain about how you were never going to be good at the sport, and ignoring his best friend’s claims of a secret little crush on his favorite girl.

And though those times had been fun and all, the moments in which you’d meet each other between the dividing fences of your backyards during the evening hours, Oikawa long gone—and run off to the countryside to play in the old and sturdy tree house that your father had built the two of you, had always been amongst your favorite memories.

They were the memories that were always on the back of your mind, itching to be recalled, reenacted—the longing you had for him never truly going away even as you grew apart as time went on. That part of your brain, the part that might’ve loved him only taunted you—taunted you with the brokenness of the bond you thought would always last.

Your greatest wish was that you would’ve been able to keep in close contact throughout the late middle and high school years—but life had come in the way, life had ruptured your attachment to him—the responsibility of upholding your family after the death of your father had surpassed your need for Iwa, creating an abyss with no bridge to cross.

No bridge except a tiny, frail wooden beam that would only be stepped on in the times where Iwaizumi and his boasting best friend would stop at his house to hang out when after-school practice had ended. While it was rare that his path would cross yours, there were some sparing moments in which you’d miraculously be outside to greet them.

It wasn’t like you and Iwa weren’t friends anymore, it was just that you’d each let the void amass for so long that there was nothing you really had in common—nothing except the bright pink flush on the both of your faces as Oikawa would poke fun at his ace’s face, causing Iwa to drag him into his house with a stoney and angered expression.

And that was it. That was the only interaction you’d ever have, the only time you’d speak to the boy you thought you loved.

Which was why you weren’t all that surprised when he hadn’t decided to show up to your graduation party despite the handwritten letter you’d dropped off on his doorstep. His absence was deafening, making it all the more difficult to say your goodbyes as the person you wanted to see most, didn’t care enough to bid a farewell.

So, you’d decided to take matters into your own hands and somehow move on from the lost dreams that you’d once shared with Iwaizumi. The only reasonable way being to let go of that broken connection, the connection that had started with your little hideaway—the hideaway amongst the trees that you’d found yourself climbing up now.

The calloused wood of the ladder splintered beneath your hands, scratching the taut skin, sanding its softness—no doubt blistering it to oblivion. You winced, curses flowing under your breath as you hesitantly reached the top, not exactly knowing what to expect as the treehouse had seemingly been abandoned for years.

Pushing your nerves aside, you crawled into the tiny space, forgetting how much younger and smaller you’d been the last time you’d sat in the little alcove. Looking up, your eyes grazed over the clean walls of the hideout, free from overgrown plants and cobwebs and dusted to near perfection—there wasn’t a single thing out of place.

It was surprising, the sight of your childhood playhouse having been taken care of after you’d assumed it had been forgotten—after you’d forgotten. Someone had to have been maintaining its structure, keeping it tidy and homey—that someone being the boy sitting directly across from you, scaring you half to death as his irises grew wide in shock.

“What the—” You started, tripping over your own feet as you fell backwards towards the opening of the doorway. A small scream grew on your lips as you began to free fall, nearly out into the open air before Iwaizumi reached out—catching your wrist in his, reminding you of the times when this was a common occurrence—when he’d never fail to keep you on your feet.

“You alright?” He breathed out, large hand gripping your wrist, continuing to hold on even though you were standing between his arms. It was comforting, the feeling of being so close to him, back in the presence of the boy who’d you’d lost oh-so-long ago—the boy you’d been hoping to see at some point before you had to leave for university. “I see you’re still a bit clumsy.”

Rolling your eyes and stepping away from his familiarity, you crossed your arms, one resting over the other, clear confusion in your eyes. “And I see that you’re still attached to this little shack.” There was a hint of humor in your tone, laughter being vocalized, but pain within its context. “It looks amazing, though—for how long it’s been.”

Iwa scoffed, shaking his head as he bit his lip—mouth itching to say something, then refusing to do so. Perhaps it’d been a snarky remark, or maybe one of sadness, whatever it’d been was lost, now a mystery to your ears. Instead, he patted the stray couch cushion next to him, offering you a seat—the seat that had used to be yours.

You sat in silence, together yet apart as the sun was setting over the far away fields. With every second, every sun ray splitting off and being reborn in moonlight, you could feel your adolescence slipping away—the thought of being dependent and a child losing meaning, losing importance, losing validity and need.

Thoughts running wild, chaos in your mind, the only constant being fear and anxiety in retrospect to the unknown that was your future—your future miles and miles away from everything that you’d come to love. Noticing the stress in your stature, Iwaizumi took a deep breath—wanting to hold your hand, but stopping himself before he could try.

“It hasn’t been that long, you know.” He said softly, glancing over at you. A little smile grew on his face at the furrow in your eyebrows, the slight upturn of your lips, and scrunched nose. If there was any beauty in the world, any beauty at all—Iwa believed that you were gifted with all of it. “I used to come here every night.”

“Yeah, Hajime—I know.” You responded, scoffing as you called him by his first name, the only name you’d ever known him by. “We both did, I was here too—” In the midst of your smart-assed response, he shook his head. There was something about his posture, energy, that made you stop in your tracks—it was one of his little ticks, one of the things that you’d never failed to remember.

“But that’s just the thing—you weren’t here.” He mumbled, tapping the top of his knee with a finger as he leant back against the wooden walls, a reminiscent look in his eyes. “I’ve always been here, Y/N—always kept this place perfect for you, on the off chance that you’d come back. On the off chance that we’d keep our promises and not forget about each other.”

There was a sense of solemnness to the words spouting from his mouth, the truth that she had in fact left him behind—all with reason that he undoubtedly understood—but that didn’t make up for the lost years and memories that they could’ve had had she not been so distracted with the troubles of life and reliability.

“This is going to sound ridiculous since you’re leaving soon—” Iwa mumbled under his breath, internally cursing at himself at the horrible placement of his timing. “—but I’m not going to lie, Y/N. I really did think we’d end up together, somehow. When I proposed to you in that corner over there with that grass ring, I meant it. I meant every word.”

“Even if that ring had fallen apart two seconds after I tried to slip it on you.” A laugh bubbled from your throat, recalling the memory from when you were children—how he’d given you a kiss on the cheek along with getting down on one knee. The two of you had had a makeshift wedding after that, gathering all of your stuffed animals and placing plastic chairs beneath the tree—saying your vows with your parents in attendance, watching fondly at the pure sight.

Biting your lip, you turned to face him and his gaze that had already been intent on seeing you. There was a ghost of a grin on his features, wistful wonder in his irises, his hair messy and sticking in every direction due to the static—yet he was still the most handsome boy you’d ever seen. “I’m sorry.” You placed a hand on his, stopping the fidgeting nerves in his lap, and calming the rushing blood in his veins.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long.” Wincing at the thought of your carelessness, the complete disregard you’d kept for his feelings along with your own. You’d had no intent on leaving Iwa behind, you’d just been so caught up with your own problems that he’d gotten lost in the mix of it all. “I must be a pretty shitty wife.”

Iwa laughed loudly, head dropping back at your remark. The moment was filled with deja vu, reigniting all of the feelings and love you’d buried under the hauntings of your mind. He always seemed to manage to make that broken part of you feel whole again, with his directed remarks and little jokes. “You’re not wrong, left me all alone after the altar—that doesn’t exactly scream ‘perfect wife’ material.”

Those words seemed to trigger something in him, a feeling that he hadn’t yet overcome as his expression turned stoney. Placing his empty palm above yours, hands stacked atop one another in a tower, Iwa grimaced, choosing his next set of sentences very wisely—knowing full well that they could make or break whatever chances he had with you.

“It’s alright though.” He whispered, his warmth heating the radiating coldness that was you. “Since I’d rather live a hundred lives of loneliness, then see you suffer even a minute of sadness.”

With his emotions bare, confessions out on the table, the things he said were more meaningful than those three little words themselves—you couldn’t help but feel your heart grow. The love you held for him overcompensating for every mistake and pain that you must’ve caused him—the only goal listed in your head being to make the rest of your time count, make the rest of your lives worth something together.

Leaning forward, ignoring the look of surprise on Iwa’s face as your nose touched his, you smiled through the outflowing sentences—outflowing thoughts that were spouting out like raindrops in a thunderstorm. “Sounds like you might be living a pretty lonely life, then.”

He chuckled, calloused hands cupping your cheeks as he pulled you in, pressing a soft and long-overdue kiss to your awaiting lips. It was euphoria, the absolute bliss that was being with him, the boy of your dreams. It was a kiss that you’d spent countless nights thinking over, countless fleeting wishes of him holding you exactly as he was now.

While your future had always been uncertain, there was at least one constant—a constant that would hopefully always be right within your grasp, right within your arms to hold on to, listen to, love wholeheartedly. Iwaizumi Hajime was it for you, he was the endgame that you’d always been searching for.

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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

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soft prompt ideas: comforting each other, cuddling, waking up together/going to sleep, going on a date, idk just being in each other’s company? i’m terrible at being specific but i hope these help!

hi bby<3 thank you so much to u (and everyone else!!!) for sending in prompts, they brought me so much joy and now i have SO many little soft things in the works:’)

yesterday ended up turning into a long day and i didn’t get to finish most of the things i started, but i wrote this while i was freshly showered and in bed and wanted to quickly whip up some bedtime softness to end the day right!! so here is the softest, quickest pre-11x07 bedtime one-shot and ode to the gallagher house, i hope u enjoy<3

Ian turned the creaky handle to shut off the shower, stilling the scalding water that had been beating a steady stream onto his body, soothing his aching muscles and weary bones. Ian was tired—after he and Mickey had gotten back from their various security stops around the outskirts of the city, he’d promised to help Lip track down and deliver parts to the people who’d bought the odds and ends of the stolen bikes, and then he’d somehow ended up in Lip and Tami’s living room that was half-packed into boxes for hours, silently sipping a beer and listening to them tag-team their attempts at persuading Ian to convince Debbie into wanting to sell the house— an effort that was a lost cause, and they all knew it.

It was kind of funny— they’d all gotten so close to losing the house so many times before, from being pulled out by DCFS officers to being kicked to the curb by fucking Patrick, to feeling desperate ripples of fear as they watched the house be put up for auction for a bunch of Northsiders and boujee fucking families who picked through the bare skeleton of the rooms as they pleased— so it was funny that after all of that, after their front door being plastered with more bright orange eviction notices than they could count, that the eventual thing driving them out of the house in the end would be a Gallagher himself, just because Lip wanted some extra cash. Ian got it— they were older now, and Lip had a kid to worry about— but he couldn’t help but feel a soft pang in his gut, something muted and dull but still there, every time Lip nonchalantly mentioned “fixing the house up” and “making gentrification our friend” and “getting on with our lives”—even though he and Mickey had readily agreed, at the family meeting that Mickey now had a right to be a part of, that it made the most sense to sell the house and for the two of them to find a place of their own.

And honestly, that prospect was a little terrifying; it sounded silly, but this crumbling house, with its paint stripping away and its roof nearly caving in, had pretty much been the only constant in Ian’s life for as long as he could remember. He had memories, ones that were soft around the edges, of him and Lip and Fiona sleeping curled in the backseats of cars and, on a few of the worst nights, on playgrounds or stoops or streetcorners when Frank and Monica were too far gone— and then inevitably one day, one sunny afternoon, they would come home to this sturdy gray house, and even then Ian understood that this was a place he could always return to. He didn’t really know what a world without the Gallagher house looked like; he always found his feet leading him back to these four walls, even those months when he was living with Mickey and he’d walk the silent moonlit city blocks back home to splash in the pool with everyone on those muggy, late summer nights. Thinking about the comforting sag of the Gallagher house was one of the few things that kept Ian going in the colorless cinderblock walls of his prison cell; the concave mattress of his single bed at home wasn’t much better than the inch-think foam pad he scrunched onto each night in his cell, but it was still familiar, it was still home, it had still held him through all of these years.

Lip wanting to sell the house was just another bitter reminder, along with the changing storefronts of the Southside neighborhood stores, the people walking by with baby strollers and shopping bags of organic groceries, the notches on the closet door that showed how much Franny had already grown, and the tinny sound of Fiona’s voice wafting through a Facetime call, a voice too small and too quiet to fill the absence she’d left behind—that things were always changing, that life wasn’t going to stop for any of them.

Ian clambered out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, scrubbing his face with his hands to try to clear his head. The hallway outside the bathroom was still, the only sound the soft hissing of the radiator—when the fuck did this house get so quiet? There was no boisterous laughter wafting up from downstairs, no clanging in the kitchen, no WWE blasting from the TV at full volume; Lip and Tami had moved out, Liam was grown up and preferred steady conversation to the classic Gallagher screeching, and Carl was either off at the station for the night or doing god-knows-what in the basement— when did silence start to sink into these walls, without anyone really noticing? Even Frank was getting quieter, somehow, giving more blank stares than quick replies when they talked back and forth in the kitchen.

Ian stepped out of the bathroom and crept down the hallway, walking carefully in case Franny was sleeping; there was a comfort in the melody of the creaking floorboards, reminding him of all the nights when he’d lay awake staring at the ceiling, sometimes gripped by the swirling black thoughts he thought he’d never be able to shake off, and he would hear Fiona tiptoeing around in the hallway, checking in on everyone while she tried not to wake them. Ian gripped the handle of the flimsy accordion bedroom door and slid it open as quietly as he could muster, ready to crawl into bed and hopefully snap out of all this wallowing.

And… oh.

The lamp on the bedside table was still on, shining a soft glow into the cramped room— but Mickey was curled up and fast asleep on Ian’s side of the bed, his mouth half-open and his head tucked to his chin, his hair slightly mussed and ruffled by on the pillow he was gripping onto. Ian smirked—he knew it was getting late, and Mickey might be asleep when he got home—but there was something so soft and innocent about the way Mickey was laying, like he was breathing in the scent of Ian’s pillow, that made him stop for a moment before mindlessly crawling into bed next to him. Ian let himself linger in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the steady waves of Mickey’s breathing, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and the innocence in his sleeping face that was so bare and open that it almost hurt to look at.

Instantly, Ian felt something bloom in his chest from the pit of uncertainty that had been planted there. The Gallagher house had always been his home—but he realized in a sweeping moment that his best days here, ones where he felt solid and settled and himself rather than someone he was pretending to be, were the days when Mickey was nearby, the days when Mickey was just down the road.

Mickey made up the only other home he’d had, the only other place he’d felt this safe; they’d built a cocoon around themselves in the equally-as-shitty Milkovich house, smoking and laughing and whispering into each other’s skin in the darkness. Even as Ian’s grip on reality felt like it was slipping through his fingers, Mickey’s warm body next to his kept him rooted, in the same ways Mickey’s thrumming presence beside him kept him safe in all the blaring uncertainty of federal prison and imposing cell walls and the press of too many strange bodies in orange jumpsuits. Ian had always felt safe in the Gallagher house—but so much of that, since he was a scrawny fifteen year old, was because of the nights he spent awake in bed thinking up pipe dreams of a future with the loudmouthed kid he worked with at the convenience store, or when he could crawl into bed after a late night EMT shift and feel the solid, grounding weight in his chest as he remembered his road trip with Mickey to the border, and thought about Mickey having some kind of a better life in Mexico. So much of that feeling of home, especially through all of the epic highs and colossal lows, was just knowing that someone out there, by some miracle, loved Ian as deeply as Mickey Milkovich could— knowing he had a doorstep to run to when his own house was infiltrated by Monica and some stranger threatening to take Liam, or a bed to crash in for months when everything else in his life felt like shifting, unstable ground. So much of home was right here, and it always had been.

Ian quietly slid shut the squeaky folds of the door, discarding his towel and throwing a threadbare t-shirt over his head—and then he gingerly stretched out onto the opposite side of the bed beside a sleep-soft Mickey, his body radiating heat and the ends of his hair still damp from his own shower, smelling of the fresh scent of cheap shampoo and very slightly of toothpaste, mingling with the earthy smell of cigarette smoke and the other scent that Ian could only just describe as Mickey. Ian let himself lay there for a moment, listening to Mickey breathing— just breathing.

He reached over Mickey’s torso and shut off the bedside lamp, enveloping the room in a heavy cloak of darkness—but this time the silence didn’t seem so bad with Mickey’s steady breaths punctuating the quiet. He slid a hand over Mickey’s waist, resting his chin on the crook of Mickey’s shoulder and breathing in deep—he could feel Mickey’s heartbeat vibrating into his own chest, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage as he held him close. Ian felt all the latent tension, the lungful of air he didn’t even know he had been holding, drain out of him—and it started to make him feel weirdly light and giddy to imagine sometime in the near future when he and Mickey would actually have a place of their own, a place where they could ride out the silence together just like this— a place with clutter and creaking floorboards and slanted moonlight of their own.

If the Gallaghers were “getting on with their lives,” like Lip had said—then this right here was the only thing that Ian was moving towards, just like he always had been.

#lol this was very contemplative and not very narrative heavy #but i hope u enjoyed??#i wrote 90% of this in my phone notes lol #also the fiona hall of shame got me feeling weirdly emotional about how much ian must miss fiona!!!!#anyways ty so much for the prompt<333 #gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #gallavich fic #ian and mickey #shameless #shameless fic #ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich

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natthebattygeologist · 3 years

Text

A Brush with a Cursed Lily

Royal Court AU

King’s Advisor!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

A/N: So here it is, a second part to A Kiss From a Rose. I’m sorry for the wait however I got very busy with work and my university projects. I do so hope you enjoy this. It’s written slightly differently to part 1 as this is all from the Reader’s POV.

I just want to thank @cockslut-padalecki for allowing me to write part 1 as part of the #notmyninth writing challenge and I hope that this angsty follow up does A Kiss From a Rose proud.

Word Count: 2208

Warnings: Angst, angst, more angst, some light fluff, swearing, implied smut, grief, mentions of loss.

Reader’s POV

I ran around chasing after the little squirt who was currently avoiding his bath-time before tripping up and landing square on my backside in a patch of tall Calla Lilies. They were a stunning shade of deep violet and brought back the memories of 6 summers ago. The day I was married off to my best-friend, Steve Rogers, Lord of Rosebury-upon-Sale. I chuckled to myself as my husband rounded the corner of the orangery with our son, covered in mud head to toe, a huge smile plastered on his face. The last few years had been trying at times, and unbearable in others but somehow, we managed to make it through.

“Frolicking in the flowers are we, my petal?” A deep laugh resonated from Steve’s chest as he took in the sight of me, dishevelled and dirtied from my tumble.

“Yes, it’s a rather delightful hobby I have found. Quite the thrilling end to chasing our little gremlin child. Now if you would be so inclined as to help your pregnant wife out of the flower bed, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Come now love, you know I love to see you in a fluster, but I suppose it would do the baby no good leaving you there.”

I took the hand he so graciously offered me and took our muddied little boy from his father’s hold.

“Now honestly Charlie, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Prince as muddy and dirty as you are right now, you little rascal. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed, then maybe we can go and visit Uncle James before bedtime.”

----------------- 4 Years Earlier----------------

The King summoned us back to court, and what was meant to be a joyous visit quickly became a permanent stay. Upon our arrival we were greeted by a bleary-eyed Prince and an equally as troubled Princess. The King was dying and had called upon his advisor to help prepare for Bucky’s transition into power. To anyone else nothing would’ve seemed amiss, except it was.

When James’ back was turned, I had witnessed Princess Maia acting rather strangely, gathering bouquets of foxglove and trimmings of deadly nightshade. I was almost certain of her intentions but feared my own safety and so kept it to myself, until one night where I couldn’t bear the burden this knowledge held over me any longer.

“Steve, my love, I have something troubling my mind.” My voice came out a hushed and broken whisper.

“What worries you so my petal? I know it hasn’t been easy for you being back, and having to pretend to like Maia, I assure you that I am always here to listen to you and love you.”

“Well, you see, I think I know why the King is sick. On several occasions I have witnessed the Princess with my own eyes gathering bouquets of foxglove and cuttings from the nightshade bush down by the lily patch. I worry that she is poisoning the King, taking advantage of both his and James’ compromised states to hold a sway over decisions that will likely see our kingdom lost to that of her own father.”

I spoke confidently now, having been an integral part of the court for all my childhood. Steve knew better than to question my knowledge of how things ran. He also knew that I would be one of the first to notice if anything was awry, be that with the account books or even the numbers of armed men stationed at each watchtower. After the death of his wife the King only had James as an heir, and so, he vowed that in case any ill befall him I would also be trained, so that if required, I could become a successful Queen someday.

“Steve, I do believe wholeheartedly that this is all a set-up and that we have been blindly infiltrated by our enemy. Things aren’t adding up. The number of guards stationed at The Keep has been halved in sized since the King has fallen ill. It leaves the West of the kingdom in a precarious position. One where an attack could easily happen and be kept quiet. I don’t like the look of it, any of it, and something needs to be done before we are conquered, you are killed, and me resigned to a life of slavery and servitude at the hands of the despicable Wyvern family.” My voice broke and a sob tore through me at the thought of losing everything I have left to the family that has already taken so much from me, starting with my mother shortly after I was born.

“Hush my petal. Tears will do nothing to fix this. The King is aware of the situation, however in our absence the Prince has changed, and he has become blinded by his love for ‘his lily’, though I daresay snake would be the better term for that venomous bitch.” A scoff escaped Steve’s lips before he continued. “The reason the King summoned us is because he has seen what fate has befallen James. He has made his bed, albeit a rather uncomfortable bed, and now he will have to lie in it. The King wishes for you to become Queen after his passing. He wants to stop the plans of Maia’s family before their tendrils of poison can run further into our kingdom than they already have. You my love can bring all this to an end, and I believe you would be able to unite the Kingdoms in a peaceful treaty that could last.”

I curled up into Steve’s side placing a chaste kiss to his lips. He returned it with a hunger and passion before carding his fingers through my hair and tracing them along my jaw.

“Please my petal, let me chase away your worries, after all, if you are to be Queen, we shall need to work on producing some heirs.”

A smirk befell his lips before he ducked his head, nipping at my neck, knowing full well that I would cave to his carnal desires.

--------------- Present Day -------------

After having cleaned up the mucky Prince, Steve and I walked with him through the gardens as evening began to draw in. Fireflies filled the air as we made the trek to the rose garden. As a child it had been mine and Bucky’s favourite place to hide, and on more than one occasion hugs and kisses had been exchanged.

Today this garden holds a whole new meaning as at its centre, beneath a beautiful weeping willow, lay James’ grave.

------------- 3 Years Earlier ------------

Before the King’s passing, he ordered his kings-guard to imprison and execute the Princess for treason against the throne. She was hung at The Keep as a warning to her family that they were next. Their years of planning and scheming had come to an abrupt and distasteful end.

What the Wyverns deemed as an unlawful murder incited a full war between our Kingdoms, it saw both Steve and Bucky fighting on the front lines with me at the helm, as Queen. Soon I had treaties signed with other Kingdoms aligning us for generations to come, until the only one stood against the alliance was the Kingdom of the Serpents. The battle of Roseknappe in the Western borders was the bloodiest battle of all. By this time, I was no longer part of frontline action as I was holed up in the castle under the watchful protection of my elite Queens-guard. When news got out that I was with child the Wyverns stopped at nothing to try and kill me or at the least cause me harm enough for my body to rid itself of the heir I now lovingly grew inside of me. But they needn’t have worried.

When I was around 5 months along tragedy struck our kingdom. The arrival of my husband looking grey in pallor, with sunken eyes and covered in injuries was the first sign that something was very wrong. When the two had left to fight they rode off, side by side, settling any grievances they had over the arranged marriages and uniting to fight to save the Kingdom and keep me on the throne. Steve’s return signalled the end of an era and feelings in my gut that had been dormant for years surfaced in cry of grief so great that it silenced the birdsong for days. Although James was not King, he was still a beloved Prince. My first love and the person who would forever hold a piece of my heart.

In my grief-stricken state I had fallen and managed to land with the sharp riser of the marble stairs squarely in my abdomen. The shock I was in meant that I hadn’t noticed the blood that began pooling nor do I remember what happened over the next few weeks as the doctors and healers frantically worked to keep me alive.

“Steve? Steve? Where’s James? I…. I want to see him. I…” I was interrupted by Steve coming over and pulling me tight to his chest.

“Praise to the Old Gods, my petal, are you okay? Are you in any pain?” worry had seeped into his tone and what looked to be a pang of guilt crossed his normally stoic face. “My love, how much do you remember of the last three weeks?”

A confused expression befell my features before Steve decided to continue.

“Oh, my sweet love, James... James isn’t coming back. The fight at Roseknappe, he saved my life by taking the arrow that was meant to pierce my heart, he sacrificed himself because he wanted me to be able to return to you, so I could love you the way he was never allowed to. So that I could raise a family and keep our Kingdom strong. He died in my arms after begging me to pass you on this letter that he wrote, almost as if he knew he wouldn’t make it back from this war.”

Fresh tears began to fall as Steve handed me the bloodied paper.

My dearest Rose,

How I wish things had been different, and that it was I that got to hold you in my arms at the end of the aisle. I begged my father to change his mind, but he wouldn’t budge. I will never forgive myself for the horrid things I said to you when father made you queen. I was poisoned by the words of a traitor and knowing now I hurt the one true love of my life is the reason why I will fight so hard to save you.

If you are reading this it means I am gone my sweet girl. I know that you will grieve me but please, for my sake as much as your own, I want you to love Steve as wholly as you once loved me. I beg of you to take care of yourself and to keep me close as you grow through the years. I am sorry I will not be there to see my little nieces and nephews, but I know that you and Steve will be the most wonderful parents.

That day in the rose garden, after your first dance in front of the court, when I kissed you. I wanted to tell you then just how much I loved you, but I couldn’t do it. It’s almost as if in my heart I knew you would never truly be mine.

I love you my Rose and I will see you in the next life,

Your Prince,

Bucky

4 months later after grieving the loss of the Prince, the Kingdom was celebrating, not just a victory of war and a long lasting treaty of peace, but the birth of their future King.

Prince Charlie James Buchanan Rogers, heir to the throne of Rosehall and Duke of Snowblossom Grove.

----------- Present Day ----------

“…… and that is the story of how your brave Uncle James battled the terrifying Wyverns to protect your mummy.”

I could hear Steve talking with Charlie as I sat on the bench staring blankly at the grave, wishing with every ounce of strength that I could, hoping to gain just one more moment with my soulmate.

“Come Charlie, let’s get you into bed, then tomorrow we can go riding and Papa can show you the waterfall where him and Uncle James decided to scare me into thinking that your Papa had drowned. Really, they just wanted mummy to go swimming with them, but they knew I wouldn’t go unless there was an emergency.”

After settling Charlie into bed, I took a stroll around the halls before heading to my shared chambers. Laying on the bed next to Steve he protectively wrapped his arms around me, as if he could shield me from the pain the world would throw at me.

“I love you Steven Grant Rogers. It may have taken me a while but, I have always cared for you, and I vow to you now that I will love you until my dying breath.”

“I know my petal, as I will love you, and Charlie, and this little one that we have yet to meet, until mine.”

Taglist: (My Humble Peeps)

@missyredbean

#steve x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #royal court #notmyninth

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daisylincs · 3 years

Text

Soulmates can be romantic or platonic, met early on in life or well into the grey years, male or female, few or many - the only thing Skye has always known for sure is that she doesn't have any.

Most people have two, or even three or four or five, right from the moment of their birth; denoted as different-coloured lines shimmering on their wrists.

Skye might have had lines there when she was a baby, but by the time she's old enough to understand what their absence means, they're long gone.

(Soulmate lines, they say, can only fade for two reasons - one, if the person the bond represents passes away, or two, if they change so completely that the bond doesn't recognise them anymore.)

Skye doesn't know why her lines faded, and she doesn't really want to. What she does know, though? She desperately wants more.

There is no feeling more lonely than a bare wrist, than the knowledge that nobody cares enough about her to even think about loving her - because no matter how despairingly she wishes for it, none of her many foster parents or siblings show up as lines on her wrist.

Eventually, she starts thinking it's her fault - because how can't it be? Even some other orphans have lines on their wrists.

She starts to accept it, eventually. She's broken, unlovable. Nothing to be done about it.

So she runs away, joins a band of people who'll never see her face, and tells herself she believes in their mission.

(She even meets a boy there, and he's as broken and distanced as she is - more, even. Still, she can't help hoping that they might find something in each other...

When nothing shows up on either of their wrists, she persuades herself she isn't disappointed.)

She has all but given up hope on soulmate lines, whatsoever, when the door of her van is pulled open mid-speech, and her whole life is thrown upside-down.

Her first soulmate line appears not long after, when she rushes into the arms of the little British scientist who would have thrown herself off the plane to save them all - a slight burn on the inside of her wrist as she is hugging Jemma tight, and when she glances down a moment later, there is a single line there.

It's a warm hazel colour, like Jemma's eyes, and when Jemma feels the matching sting on her own arm, she glances up at Skye, her eyes crinkling in a smile.

Her line, she is shocked and deeply pleased to note, is a deep purple on her friend's skin.

A couple of weeks later, when she and Fitzsimmons are singing Moana at the tops of their voices one movie night, she feels another small burn on her wrist.

This line is light blue, like Fitz's eyes.

She receives her next line the first time she hugs Coulson - there are tears in her eyes, tears blurring her entire soul as he confirms her worst childhood fears.

But she doesn't miss the slight burn on the inside of her wrist.

When she looks down, the line is the same dark blue colour as his favourite suit.

The next soulmate line catches her completely by surprise, though, in retrospect, she doesn't know why.

Before she is shot, she has three lines on her wrist; blue blue hazel.

When she wakes up, there is another there, deep black and somehow steady and reassuring.

She doesn't have to look to know that there will be a purple line on Agent May's wrist.

She never receives Ward's line, though she tries, working to get as close to him as possible.

(Later, after the reveal, after the fall, she's glad about that, and disgusted at herself.

Ward's line, she thinks, would have been the same sickly grey as his prison suit.)

The months pass, and she is content with her life at SHIELD, with her four soulmate lines - four more than she ever thought she'd have.

Then one morning, she wakes up to another, bright and golden as daylight.

She knows immediately who it signifies - only Trip, after all, could be behind something that was so essentially sunshine personified.

(When that line fades, she spends many a cold night in her quarantine cell waking up and reaching for it, then breaking into wracking sobs when she inevitably found its comforting, warm tingle missing.)

She almost misses it when her next line burns itself onto her wrist - she is readying herself for her first jump (her first non-Lola jump, that is) and Hunter, bless his secretly sweet soul, is helping her with her parachute’s straps.

When he steps away with one of his signature quippy remarks, there is another line on his wrist, this one a warm, rich amber.

Skye wonders where that colour comes from, but that night, when Hunter toasts to their successful mission with a bottle of Bendeery’s, she realises.

She’s amused, but also touched, oddly - because the little lighter flecks in the amber of the line are a very similar colour to Bobbi’s hair.

(She thinks that everything about that line suits Hunter, really - sarcastic, standoffish and rebellious at first glance, but compassionate and deeply caring once you got to know him.)

Bobbi’s line makes itself known at a much more dramatic time - Skye is terrified, her body shaking from the inside out, and holding onto the steadiness of May’s black line on her wrist for strength as she fights this not-her-SHIELD agent.

There is a shot, Bobbi screams, Skye holds up her hands and somehow blocks it - but as she does, she feels a burn on the inside of her wrist, in time with the genuine no!! that flashes in Bobbi’s eyes.

It is a long, long time before she gets to look at that line, but when she does, it is a deep emerald green - stately and beautiful, but with echoes of great power behind it.

Much like Bobbi, she thinks.

(Later, in colder years when she can’t hear Bobbi and Hunter’s laughter and bickering anymore, she likes to sit down in the quiet of the common room and brush her fingers over their lines, side by side and still strong against her skin.

They’re still out there, she knows, and it is a comfort.)

But before that, she is in Afterlife, and she wakes up to a deep red line on her wrist one day - red like the reddest roses, like love immediate and ever-persevering.

She thinks it’s her mother’s line, and her heart has never felt happier.

(It is only later, hugging him in a cold SHIELD corridor before sending him off to be lost to her forever, that she realises it was her father’s line all along.

The line fades when his memory does, but on particularly good days, she thinks she sees the faintest shimmer of a rose-coloured line there, as though just a hint of love was carried through despite the TAHITI program.

She loves him all the more for it.)

Mack’s line comes somewhere in those trying weeks, when both her parents are gone and she just needs a partner - he is there for her.

And one night, so is his line, a gentle forest green.

(She doesn’t get that particular cosmic joke until she meets Yo-Yo and Turtleman becomes a thing, and then she laughs so hard that she nearly splits her sides.)

Lincoln is the first romantic soulmate she gets a line for - and she notices it, cliché as it is, right after their first kiss.

It is apt, though, seeing as she’s trying to protect him, and he’s trying to protect her, and they’re full of grand announcements about how much they mean to each other and... yeah, it’s kind of a mess.

But when he’s with her again, and times are happier, she teases him mercilessly about the colour of his line - a crackly yellow-white, like lightning according to him, (according to her, it’s like popcorn, as an eternal cosmic punishment for that terrible popcorn joke he had to go and make when they first met.)

She even gains a shiny silver line in the middle of a mission when Joey jumps in front of a stream of bullets for her.

Things are good. Things are so, so good.

Then, Hive.

When Lincoln’s line fades from her wrist, in perfect time with the flicker of the little dot of the quinjet on her screen, it is like her entire world fades to grey.

Everything she’s always believed? It’s still true, only worse than even she ever thought.

It’s not that she’s unloveable - it’s that she should be.

(Just look at the deaths she’s caused, so shortly after their lines appeared on her wrist! Just look at all the danger she’s put her friends, her team, her family in -)

She leaves. She leaves to protect them.

And as she crouches in her van, or in dark alleys, she screams at the lines on her wrist, “go away go away go away! Stop caring about me, I don’t deserve it.”

But they never do, and slowly, slowly, she returns back to their source.

Elena’s is the first new line she receives - as bold and bright an orange as that favourite striped sweater of hers she used to love wearing around base.

Daisy hasn’t seen it in a while, but when the line appears on her wrist, it feels like a tangible reminder that she hasn’t lost everything. Not yet.

She returns, and though they are forced to live through the two living hells that are the Framework and the Kree-ruled future, they get through it.

(They are a soul family, after all. They have to.

And whenever she fears for any of their safety, Daisy just has to touch the lines still standing out against her skin to know that they’re still okay out there.)

Then Coulson’s line starts to fade.

She doesn’t notice it at first, since it’s just a slight blackening at the edges, but after he collapses on them, she does, and it's shattering. He won’t even let them try to save him!

But she won’t accept that. She will not lose another soul line.

Instead, she... gains another?

She isn’t even sure when exactly it happened, when his stupid jokes started to become endearing instead of just dumb, when his ridiculous fascination with everyday things became almost sweet - but when they’re on a spaceship shooting up to meet the Kree together, she reaches for his hand.

And she feels the now-familiar burn of a line on the inside of her wrist.

To her amusement, his line is bright yellow - lemon yellow. He blushes furiously at that, but she laughs it off.

Her laughter fades fast when not one, but two lines disappear within a few days of that.

Fitz’s is first, and her heart stops as she clutches onto her wrist. Yes, a lot has happened between them lately, but she never wanted him dead, and he... he was her second line -

Then his line reappears.

It’s faint, and pulsing in and out, but it’s there.

(She and Jemma both cling to that in the year that comes, searching through the dark, lonely depths of space in a desperate attempt to find him and steady that line.)

When Coulson’s line fades, she thinks it might be the worst pain of her life - but she watches May’s line, and how it stays ever-steady, ever-strong on her wrist.

She draws her own strength from it.

And they get through it, until eventually, they are there: one final mission.

She never does get a line for LMD Coulson, despite the hell of an emotional ride it was to see him again.

It’s fitting that way, though. He agrees.

(That doesn’t stop her from signing her name in purple ink onto his wrist when they send him off on his world travels - because even if it isn’t quite the same, she will always care about him.

He stares at her name for a long, long time, then pulls her into a tight hug. And she understands.)

The next line she gets surprises her almost more than its timing does - it’s a time loop, for crying out loud!

But she wakes up after the umpteenth repeat, and it is there, solid and blue and so unbelievably Sousa that she could kiss him.

(She does, actually.)

The line that hurts the most of any she’s ever received is one that fades mere moments after she receives it, though. It is a regal, midnight blue, and it appears in a fierce burn when Jiaying steps in front of Malick for her.

She watches the line fade as she cradles her mother’s hair, and through the tears that blur her world, she manages to be grateful that she got to see what her birth line would have looked like, at least.

She knows that Jiaying did love her unconditionally now, at least.

And eventually, eventually, a new line appears where Jiaying’s was once cradled - this one is orange and fiery, with all the force of its owner’s powers, and with all of her natural love for the nebulas she explores so keenly.

It isn’t a replacement - it won’t ever be.

But it’s a blessing of a different kind.

And - the Daisy Johnson who watches the stars with her sister and her new love is a far cry from the one who believed she was unloveable all those years ago. She has a whole ream of soulmate lines now (including those three, lemon amber and green, that she still checks every night before they turn out the lights, just to make sure they’re still alive and well.

They are.)

Watching those stars, Daisy thinks that, ultimately, soulmates aren't born, they're made.

And she’s made herself the best soulmates she could ever have dreamed of.

(Daisy Johnson Soulmate AU headcanons for the @agentsofchallenges AoS March Madness challenge! <3)

#daisy johnson #soulmate au #daisy johnson soulmate au #headcanons #soulmate au headcanons #ghsjdhfkjhsdfkjsdhfk these got SO out of control; oh my WORD #but I... I kind of freaking adore them #😭😭😭😍😍😍#daisy is just the best okay #and i LIVE for her relationships with everyone else on this show #THE BEST 💜💜💜#lily's headcanons #lily's march madness

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apothecaryave · 3 years

Text

Familial Pains

Going home was never the pleasant experience poetry dictated it should be, not for Aveline. But she had run clean out of excuses, each letter she’d received somehow containing more guilt than the next. It was to the point where simply seeing the familiar parchment of her mother’s stationary made her stomach drop. The longer she tried to put off opening it, the larger it grew in her head, taking over the desk and all other correspondences until she at last slit it open with the resigned panic of war prisoner set to meet her execution at last.

We are well, her mother assured her, save for the pain of your absence. Aveline always rolled her eyes at the sentiment, convinced the money she sent on the regular was more than enough to ease any such sorrows.

She’d never been close with her mother or her brothers, and her biological father was not a man she entertained any notion of reconciliation with. It didn’t matter that the injury he’d caused her adoptive father had been an accident, or that he had shown her paternal affection despite the infidelity her birth was proof of. All she had to do was recall every lost, confused, then guilty expression of her adoptive father whenever he couldn’t recall where he was or why he happened to be holding a sack of coin in hand.

That innocent panic of his before she explained that they were headed to the show he’d been looking forward to, and that what he was holding was the simple payment given to him after dropping off a promised shipment of medicine on their way — no apology could fix that. No number of ‘sorry’s and ‘I didn’t mean to’s would make it any less difficult to explain to her real father, over and over again, what was happening and why it was happening when all she wanted was to spend a simple, happy evening visiting the man who never should have loved her.

But it could never be so simple as avoiding the faces and voices that brought all her old feelings up from under her skin. Now her bothers had married; there were nieces and nephews to spoil, mild ailments of aging to remind her of her mother’s mortality, and a compounding sense of familial responsibility she had never escaped.

Aveline was not a son: she would never inherit the farm, nor had the land been of any real consequence to her livelihood once she had left the village. But she was still the eldest, and by far the most financially successful, and despite the emasculation, her father and brothers had benefitted greatly from her contributions over the years. The farm, as she was often told, was thriving and expanding thanks to the newly hired hands, tools, plants, and all other investments that had brought the once humble landscape into extensive orchards capable of sustaining the quickly growing line of Durands.

She couldn’t deny that a part of her still, despite all reason, was planted firmly in that farm. As the carriage rolled down the road, she was surprised by how little had changed over the years. The overgrown streams were still overgrown, long grass grasping at the energetic splash of water that escaped with crisp, melodious sound. It suddenly felt not so long ago that she explored those slippery rocks barefoot, braving the wicked chill as she searched for colorful pebbles to collect.

It was her home itself that had changed the most. The carriage came to a halt at a place she never would have recognized had it not been for the orchards surrounding it. Gone was the humble cabin — a cozy one room affair with a loft where the whole family had slept. In its place was the sort of town house she might have expected within Gridania, more than three times the original’s size replete with a second story and three chimneys.

“Time has been good to us all.” Aveline murmured to herself as she stepped out of the carriage, one hand occupied with a large bag. She gave the coach a handsome tip, but scarcely managed to turn around before not a few, but six children came bounding out of the front door.

The eldest (or so she assumed, the girl being the tallest among the gaggle) stopped short a few feet of embracing her, instead throwing her arms up excitedly in a bright, “Auntie Aveline!” The other children joined her in a semicircle with the same chorus, and Aveline was suddenly helpless with awkwardness. Being the eldest of her siblings, unmarried, and utterly foreign in the place that was once her home, even ‘hello’ felt strange on her lips. Did she call these charming strangers darlings?

“Aveline!” Ah, that sharp, high voice meant to be softened with affection could belong only to her mother. Though far from elderly, her mother’s face had new wrinkles, and though she hastened without delay toward her daughter, Aveline could tell that her knee was still giving her trouble.

“Mother.” Aveline tightened in her mother’s embrace, suddenly and guiltily wishing that she’d been stolen up by her niece’s arms instead. Those young eyes were so bright and innocent in their childish delight — no expectation, no disappointment, just wonderment at the mysterious woman their grandmother had undoubtedly spoken of.

Her mother, on the other hand, noticed this off-putting tension immediately, and disapproval muddied her gaze as she stood back with her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Aveline, what sort of greeting is that after all this time? Your father and I have been aching to see you!”

Aveline grit her teeth. Of all the words she might have said, those were among the worst. That she should feel any familial guilt over that man was a notion capable of making her turn her back there and then to run after the carriage that was already trotting off.

But Aveline had been raised to be a polite girl, and the reservedness she saved for the most difficult of her apothecary clients was in full force. “I’m sorry, Mother — it was such a long trip. But I’m delighted to see all my nephews and nieces in such good health. As ever, you look lovely in blue.”

Her mother glowed at the compliment and gave her shoulders a squeeze before leading her inside along with the gaggle of children. Everything afterward was a blur of activity. There wasn’t even time to feel further awkwardness, for she was reintroduced to her brothers’ wives, their children, and the veritable waterfall of things that had changed about the Durand farm. Their well-to-do lifestyle was obvious in every detail, from the crisp cusp and polished buttons of her brothers’ shirts to the small but comfortable sitting room near the front of the house. Here was a proper growing estate where the Durand name might take root and thrive for generations.

And she had no place in it.

Not that she was unwelcome, of course. Her nieces and nephews gushed over the presents she had brought them, pastries from her shoppe with dolls and toys thrown into the mix for good measure. Young children were easy to buy gifts for, and their pure adoration for so simple a gesture made Aveline happy in a way she’d not felt in a very long time.

She found, too, that her sisters-in-law were easy women to get along with, mild and kind-spirited and far more than her brothers deserved — a point they smirked at when they saw her sisterly admonition cast over her shoulder. Though her brothers still couldn’t pass on their old habits of teasing her, the barbs had diminished greatly with age. She didn’t know them as well as she might have liked to, she realized, and a sudden emptiness threatened to claim a sliver of her heart. How much had she missed, and was all her time spent away as worthwhile as she liked to believe?

It took only the entrance of her father to remind her that it had not been so. The room felt stifling the moment he entered. He was a tall man, a proper elezen with the lean musculature and pointed ears to prove it. He all but loomed over the gathering of hyurs, entirely out of place with his elegantly angled features. Even his poise was different and she hated it, that natural grace not at all in line with a family of humble farmers.

How was it, after so many years, that her rage could bubble so hotly to the surface? There was no provocation in his expression, just a deep sorrow and gentle resignation in the face of her rejection. He asked nothing from her, no affection and no acknowledgment, greeting her gently and assuring her that she was welcome.

And that just made her angrier. She wanted desperately to hate him as the villain he was, to charge him as a negligent, cruel, awful man, but it was plain his place was firmly rooted in the home. Her brothers admired him, her mother unrepentantly loved him, and his direction had undeniably been key in turning the poor fortune of the Durand family around. Aveline had merely speeded along the careful seeds he had sown, and one look at the gorgeous orchards peeking from the windows assured her of this.

Thus, all the awkwardness returned once the children had settled and she was left in the company of adults and exceptionally delicious apricot wine. As the sun set, casting a warm glow about the sitting room, conversation slowed, turned serious, and she was faced with the questions she’d feared the most.

“Are you never going to settle down, Aveline? You always go on about your bistro and that apothecary of yours, but never your personal life. I hate to imagine you lonely.” Her mother’s face was all concern, though the last of her words pierced Aveline’s pride with the subtlety of a lightning bolt.

Aveline’s hand tightened around the curve of her wine glass, but she let the sensation go almost immediately. Had she been a male, she mused, a lifestyle of keeping lovers in lieu of marrying would have made her an eclectic, but not unredeemable rake. As a woman, however, she might as well have been a spinster. An artist or businesswoman could still have merit in the eyes of her family, of course, but to lack a man with a ring on his finger was lacking all the same.

“I’m many things, but not lonely. I’ve lovers who bring great enrichment to my life and that is all I desire.” Aveline struggled to reign in her smile as her mother gasped (and frankly, the rest of the room’s company as well), the latter caught completely off guard by her daughter’s unmistakably proud admission.

“Such men can’t provide you with a family, my dear. Do you not want a family?” Of course her mother pressed the issue, her shameless hypocrisy making Aveline’s ears hot. That wretched man sitting beside her mother, her birth father by all technical terms, had sired her as a bastard child. The father of her brothers, the man her mother had married, was the selfsame person who had been injured and willing to die some place quiet after coming to the ridiculous conclusion that the shameless elezen in front of her could provide for the family better than he ever could.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to ruin her mother’s new dress and shatter her wine glass at the woman’s feet. Her whole body trembled with fury, and she very nearly forgot the question entirely. It took every onze of willpower in her body to restrain herself, and the fury slowly, painfully cooled into ice. Silence filled the room while she did nothing but sip from her glass.

“Mother…” Oliver, the youngest of her two brothers, had enough sense to intervene, but not the words to do so effectively. Did he share the same sentiment, even in the smallest way? The full intensity of Aveline’s gaze fell on him like daggers. The way he recoiled, stunned and penitent, made her sick with the realization that he simply wished to avoid conflict. How prudent of him, wanting to keep the peace at the price of bottling all her ugly feelings away.

But it was selfish, to step back into their lives and cause a scene. Here was blissful happiness, a simple life managing orchards and making fruit products. All the old wounds had been forgiven and healed over years ago. They didn’t need an emotional knife to start the bleeding again.

Aveline ignored the throbbing in her head as her mind wrested full control of her emotions, twisting them so they could fit back into the depths of her chest. Her voice wouldn’t shake, but it remained empty when she spoke. “It’s quite fine, Oliver. What I want from my lovers isn’t a traditional thing. On all accounts, they lead lives far more exciting than I do. To tie them down in any regard, be it to my particular lifestyle or as my only devoted partner, would bring no one happiness.”

“Oh, Aveline, you’ve always been so unselfish. But you seem so unhappy, and I—”

Aveline cut her mother off with a not-quite-subtle thud of her hand against a nearby end table as she set her glass down. She stood quickly, brushing off her skirt with one quick, angry flourish. “The orchards have been calling to me since I first laid eyes on them. Please do excuse me while I catch some fresh air.”

Who in the seven hells was her mother to decide whether or not she was happy? A woman didn’t bask in adultery and presume her bastard child’s life would be a happy one. If anything, Aveline decided, she had learned how be happy despite her mother’s infuriating weakness. She took these feelings out on a pebble as she kicked her way along one of the orchard’s paths, finding petty satisfaction in its helpless skitter before her fury.

At length, she came across a stream marking the end of the orchard. The sun had set some time ago, leaving the world washed in pale moonlight. Beyond the water lay the forest proper, deep and dark with the tall shade of trees obscuring everything. She was utterly alone.

Something inside her snapped at last. “You half-witted, pompous strumpet! How dare you! How dare you pass judgment on my life! You weak, disdainful, miserable cretin, basking in some bastard’s love while father suffers! You have… no right…”

Her whole body trembled as she shouted into the trees, the world silently absorbing her furious tumble of insults. It still wasn’t enough. Forgetting all decorum, she bent over, snatching up pebbles and twigs to toss into the stream. They made a wonderful cacophony of splashes, but more importantly, helped to temper her outburst through simple exhaustion. A few of the flatter stones even managed to skip a few times across the water before disappearing forever.

“If I’d been your son, you’d be celebrating my success!” Splunk! “But you abandoned father! You abandoned me!” Sploosh! “What sort of mother speaks of marriage when she has no dowry set aside? You selfish, ungrateful—” Aveline had escalated to the biggest rock she could lift without hurting herself, slinging it into the water with the force of both arms. It made a magnificent splash high enough to reach her, the cold water splattering over her dress like a furious downpour of rain.

Her eyes were wild and wide as she glared down at the water. Breathless and bent over her knees, all she felt was an empty sense of satisfaction for having let the words out. How long had they bubbled under her every smile? She hated every reminder of such feelings, all of them irrevocably leading back to her mother. Weak. How could a woman be so weak?

And why did she still feel so angry over it? Any rational person would tell her she was overreacting — the rational voice in her head said as much. She was deep into her twenties and far beyond blaming any insecurities on her parents. The past just insisted on being so very present, her mother’s incessant happiness, her happy family and idyllic life hammering deeper every miserable memory she had of her father.

Even as a child, scarcely a decade old, she’d sensed death in her adoptive father’s intention when he left home. There had been a panic in her she hadn’t understood, an urgency that warned her she might never see him again. No matter how old she grew, she’d never forget his gaunt face, defeated and hopeless as he sat listlessly beside the road.

“Go back home, Darling,” He’d told her. And she’d refused, clinging to his sleeve as she sat next to him. He was too numb to consider her feelings, and found himself rambling on about his every insecurity. His wife didn’t love him — she was better off with a man who could make her happy. He’d mucked up his first ever attempt at running a farm, threatening starvation on his own kin — they were better off with a competent man who could keep them fed. He no longer had a reliable mind, the head injury impairing much of his ability to remember the most basic things throughout the day — he was better off without himself.

Every day since, she had battled his each and every defeat. Before he gave up his merchant business peddling goods across the realm, he had been a competent and optimistic man. So she told him to be a merchant again, and like an old man remembering how to skip, he’d found some friends, some debts, and took to the road as if he’d been born for it.

He’d needed help at every step, too. When he inevitably bumbled a deal or forgot where he’d put his earnings, she’d been there to take on odd jobs to keep them fed. When he got them lost on a long road between cities, she’d been there to forage and shelter and guide them back on the right track. She still remembered how much the hunger had hurt, how scary those dark nights alone were. But there had been happy moments, too, gazing under the stars and having her first earned coin dropped into her hands.

Over time, it had gotten easier. She’d matured rapidly and learned quickly how the world far beyond her village worked. And, in time, her father had found some comfort and shelter in an old friend from Gridania. The blessed woman offered him food and shelter on the pretense that he manage her stable’s finances and help look after the chocobos. More than that, she genuinely cared for him, perhaps even loved him, given the looks she saw them exchange when they thought she wasn’t looking.

She had no reason to be bitter, not with her fortune, her lovers, and all that had evolved in her favor. And yet, standing amid the familial bliss of her mother’s farm, she felt pity for the girl who had parented herself into adulthood. There was no shaking the feeling that something precious had been taken from her, yet she had no right to feel that she was lacking in anything.

“Are… Are you alright, Aveline?” Colin, the oldest between her brothers, was timid as he approached. The crunch of his footsteps was followed by the warm glow of lantern light.

Her senses returned to her abruptly, and she absently wiped at her damp cheeks before turning around to face him. “I’m fine. There’s no cause to worry.”

Colin bit his lip, and her stomach twisted at the thought of what he might have overheard. “I’m glad. I heard shouting.”

Oh. Well. “I might have been letting off some steam. There’s nothing you need concern yourself over.” Her expression was a guilty one, and the streaks of mud her hands had left on her cheeks didn’t add any dignity to the moment.

“I see.” Colin’s gaze lingered, brimming with concern, but all that followed his simple statement was a long and awkward silence. “You can tell me about it if you want.”

Aveline blinked, surprised. She expected him to urge her back to the house, not to expand on her irrational outburst even more. “There’s really nothing to say. Not more, at least.”

Her brother shifted uncomfortably before stepping closer. When he saw the extent of her dampened clothes, the line of his mouth flattened into yet more concern. “May I see you back home? It wouldn’t be right if you caught a cold.”

Her pride and a stronger need to be alone very nearly turned him down, but they’d set aside a guest room for her and it would be significantly warmer than the evening air steadily giving her goosebumps. She sighed and relented with a nod, placated by her brother’s worry.

The walk back was a slow and quiet one. Were it not for the perfect silence, she likely wouldn’t have heard his muttering.

“I have regrets, too.”

Aveline lofted a brow at this curious confession, not having expected it in the least. “I beg your pardon? Not about Mother, surely.”

“It’s more to do with you.” Colin ducked his head, uncharacteristically bashful. “I haven’t been much of a brother.”

“You can’t blame yourself for the distance of our parents. Though you were a miserable tease when we were younger, it’s nice to see that you’ve outgrown the worst of it. I don’t know how your wife would stand you otherwise.” Her smile turned wry — it was good to tease him as a sister should.

Her brother answered with a faint snort. “Lily always felt so delicate to me. You know how she struggled carrying our first child, and the first thought that came to my mind was that if anyone could help, it was you. You’ve always been so far ahead of me, strong and untouchable. I was so foolish, never thinking of how vulnerable you must have felt.”

“Where… is this coming from?” Aveline felt a prickle of something uncomfortable. Her brother had never been one for feelings, and she frankly hadn’t been one, either.

“I just…” Colin rubbed at the back of his neck, never meeting her gaze. “I just want you to know you’re not alone. I know I’m too late, and I’m a poor excuse for family, but this is your home, too. No matter how you feel about Mother, you have a place here if you ever want it.”

Aveline didn’t know what to say, and silence fell naturally between them again. On the one hand, she was perfectly ready to inform him that she would never want a place where her mother resided, but it wasn’t an offer from her mother. For once, utterly independent of his family, Colin had decided to be a brother.

“Thank you.” The two words were the most she could manage in the moment. All other thoughts led to old pains and complications she was too tired to consider, and so it was a brief and awkward goodnight when she finally stepped into her room.

#ffxiv roleplay

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automaticenemycrusade · 3 years

Text

Joyride: Ch. 2 - Kit’s Caravan

“Why is it my job to babysit?”

This had been the fourth or fifth time Nord was being complained to by Irro about their little arrangement, and while it went without saying, he was growing just a tinsy bit weary of it. From what he could tell, she had grown impatient and bored in the week that followed, in the week they all bargained for. The one day he promised them proved just as unfulfilling as the last, just as the next day did, then the next, then the next, but today, he always said, today would be the day where he could be careless.

He responded flatly, and with a hint of exasperation, “Because that’s your job.” What more did she expect? He supposed it made sense when he gave it some deeper thought. There must have been a reason for the vixen to blatantly leave behind her sibling. Maybe she sought escape from just that, from babysitting. In any case, he pushed it aside. He could discuss theories with himself later, because for now, Irro still looked irked.

“Okay, but why is it my job to babysit?” Out of all the odd jobs the caravan had to do on the Sandpiercer, she was burdened with the delicate task of caring for the smaller ones, including the more menial of duties, like in her current case, changing out Raysik’s diaper. If one couldn’t tell already, it was the responsibility that she hated the most. Nord could never tell why, nor would he ever ask. It’s anyone’s guess as to the latter.

“Because it’s your job, like it’s Rheana’s job to babysit Lynsol, and it’s Jole’s job to cook, and it’s my job to…” He trailed off. Fortunately for him, his cousin had just arrived to finish off his sentence. How convenient.

“To do everything else. We get it, big guy. Say, I’m starved, you think you could head out and-” And then he was cut off by another, by Raysik.

“Go faster! I wanna playyyy!”

“Yeah, I know, and it’ll go faster if you stay quiet for five more seconds.”

Then the boy started kicking his legs, and then the whining ensued, and then a sharp, “FASTER.” bellowed from him. Irro was next to join the cacophony with an unnecessarily drawn-out groan, and soon, Lynsol with his whimpers; Rheana with her pleading; Jole with his sly comments. Nord’s ears began to wilt, draping over the sides of his cheeks and pinning there to block out the raving chatter. It wasn’t working.

“Please shut up, please.” But in spite of her begging, Raysik continued to wail, which caused her to raise her voice and vice versa. Syllables grew more prolonged, cries grew louder, and Nord continued to shrink.

Nord interjected, “Raysik, pl-” but was cut off again.

“It hurts…”

“I know, honey.”

“Hmph!”

“Stop moving so much!”

Nord tried at it again. “Guys-” Again, he was cut off. Rheana’s added attempts at silencing them fell on deaf ears.

“Too loud.”

“Please quiet down.”

“Faster!”

“I’d be done if you’d stop kicking!”

And again. “Guys, listen to me. Guys?” And the cycle repeated, again. “Please.” And again. “No one’s listening to me--guys!” And again. “Guys!” Until the words eventually blurred together in a cluster of inseparable sounds, until Nord simply couldn’t take it anymore, and it was only with a thunderous stomp and a booming, “GUYS!” that silence finally descended upon the wagon. They all stared back at him with those same starry-eyed looks, waiting and anticipating. He didn’t have to utter a word for the caravan to fall into a chorus of apologies and resignations. He was almost awestruck at how much sway he held, but proud all the same. “Thank you.” And with that, he moved to open the door and head outside, for he was in desperate need of fresh air. He was stopped by the familiar stammer of a vixen though, namely Rheana.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“Outside. I need some air. I won’t be long.”

She nodded faintly, adding, “Okay.” And not another word was spoken as Nord departed out the door. In fact, it wasn’t until he made it a few yards away that he heard the chatter start up again, though from this distance, he couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad. Either way, it wasn’t his problem right now, and he trusted Jole enough to keep things orderly in his absence, even if the fox was the living incarnate of chaos. He’d freely admit to that too. For now, he needed time to himself, time to think, time to collect his thoughts. Despite how free-rein this trip of theirs was, he rarely got the time to do just that. It was better spent tending to something or doing a chore, the very thing he wanted to escape when he agreed to this. This was meant to be his temporary reprieve! Yet all it had been was another way for fate, or karma, or kismet to kick him in the butt.

He couldn’t complain though. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t grown fond of their little family in the week he had known them, even if they came to odds every now and again. Today, though, felt like the worst of them all, at least in terms of everyone’s physical shape. Lynsol had been feeling ill since the day before, Jole was lacking his usual pep, Irro was bored, Rheana was paranoid, and Raysik was oftentimes impatient. Nord, on the other hand, was lost. This wasn’t the first time he had come outside in the name of retrospection, nor would it be the last, and he could guarantee that. He felt aimless, dull, and he wasn’t at all pleased with how accustomed he was growing with the shackles of leadership. It scared him how much they all looked up to him, how much faith they had in him, because he knew he didn’t deserve it. Deep down, he knew he was both their blessing and their curse.

He hated it. He hated it so much. He just wasn’t sure who ‘it’ should be. Though, as per the usual, his train of thought was derailed once a voice reached his ears, a voice calling his name. His eyes shot up to the sky, in fear that time was once again slipping away. How long had he sat out there? An hour? More? He looked over to Jole--who had just arrived at his side--and opened his mouth, though he found the words had already abandoned him. His cousin, however, was happy to fill the silence.

“Nordyyy,” He started. “You good?” Nord had to wonder how many times those words had been passed between them at that point. Too many times. “I’ve been sensing some off vibes from you.”

“I’m just stressed, is all. We’ve been out here a week, Jole. I don’t--” He stammered. “What do I tell their parents when we get back? Why are we still out here?” A sharp pain hit his gut, like all of his stupidity was just now donning on him. What was he thinking, being so selfish? What was he thinking? He wobbled and shot up onto his feet, sputtering, “We need to go home. All of us. We’ve been out here too long.” And then he pivoted and started walking, but to his surprise, a hand to his shoulder hindered him from going any further. He turned his head to send the most boggled glance at Jole. What was he doing?

“Hey, hey,” He reeled Nord back in, cooing soothingly. “Just take a sit down, big guy. I can tell things have been weighing on you lately, but you don’t gotta worry, ‘cause I got everything handled behind the scenes. It’s the big, deep desert, Nordy. They’d be stupid not to expect a delay or four.” He spoke slowly and enunciated his words, which, to his success (Nord could only guess), got his cousin to start nodding along, for better or for worse. “Remember what this is all about, ‘kay?”

“We’re educating the kits? The authentic caravaneer experience?”

Jole shook his head. “Fun, bud. Fun.”

Despite all the cozy reassurances, Nord remained unconvinced, and with a shrug of his shoulder, continued his traipse toward the wagon. He was stopped again. “What.”

“You’re stressed, I get it,” The ashfur put his hands out in front of him, appearing as understanding as he possibly could. “But you don’t wanna ruin all their fun, right?”

Nord scoffed. He knew that was a lie. He knew that was a lie. “Jole--”

“Shh-shh-shh,” Jole put a finger to his cousin’s lip. “I got an easy fix. You’re tense, you’re worried, and that’s fine, I am too sometimes, but me? I got a solution.” He raised his hand, wiggled his fingers, then dug deep into that overstuffed coat he had grown prone to wearing, before pulling from it the smallest satchel Nord had ever seen. He’d be better off calling it a pouch with buckles and straps, though it’s what was inside that Jole sought to grab his attention with. A crudely-carved pipe that, once he caught a whiff, smelt absolutely rancid. Jole, however, was waving the thing around like it was the key to a Sethraki fortune. “This’ll make you feel a million times better.”

Nord retrieved it from him tentatively. “What is it?”

The ashfur shrugged, as if he himself wasn’t all that sure. “Gift from Dad. He has, like, fifty of ‘em, and he decided to send me one, so…” He paused, itching at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t wanna put it to waste, right?” And to push the point, he nudged it further into his grasp, which worked. Somehow.

“How do--” And Jole immediately hushed him, as his hand delved back into his coat and pulled out a little sack--a packet--which he tore open and slipped its contents into the bowl of the pipe. It appeared to be an array of milled herbs and plantlife. Nord couldn’t help but wonder what the end goal here was.

“And then,” He paused and held up a finger, before bolting off back to the Sandpiercer, where he snatched up a twig--of all things--and held it to the lantern light to set the tip ablaze. Once he brought that back, to Nord’s sheer confusion, he held it to the bowl and set the flame to the herbs. Nord recoiled in disgust. That did NOT smell fragrant. “Easy as that.” Jole popped a grin. “Now, you smoke it. Puff-puff.”

His counterpart had never quirked his brow higher, though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by the prospect. Nord shuffled the device awkwardly in his hands, uncertain as to how he should take it, but with Jole’s guidance, he got the proper hold eventually. “Puff-puff,” He repeated, bringing the mouthpiece to his lips. “Puff.” And he proceeded to do the exact opposite and inhale, hacking and sputtering once the mix of herbs went the opposite way. Jole nearly slapped him upside the head for that one.

“Puff.”

“Right. Sorry.”

And he did just that. Puff. Smoke soon trailed from his nostrils as his shoulders began to sag, a distant, “You feelin’ it?” catching his ear. For the first time, he felt relaxed. He was amazed! What kind of magic was this? “What?” He stuttered, though he found the word only played in his head, or if it did come out, it was faint. Time was moving faster, the world was spinning--it was both a dream and a nightmare. The pipe itself had left his hand, before finding itself there again but a second later. Puff.

Puff.

Nord couldn’t have told anyone in full confidence how long he’d stood there, in that spot, with pipe in hand. It could have been as little as five minutes, or as long as a day. He wasn’t sure. But, when he eventually returned from semi-consciousness, he found that he was alone again, with delicate footsteps approaching close behind him. He didn’t dare to catch a preemptive glance at whatever was coming to greet him, and it was anyone’s guess as to why.

“Hey,” they said. It was Irro, unexpectedly. “You’ve been out here a while.”

He didn’t find that as off-putting as he probably should have. He asked for this the minute he took Jole up on his offer. “Yeah,” he replied lazily, his movements sluggish. “Just needed some me time, I guess.” With that, he left them at an awkward and wordless impasse. That is, until his eyes landed on the pipe still planted in his hands, when shame and guilt took hold. He couldn’t hide it anymore. “Hey,” Irro looked back at him, wide-eyed. “Don’t be like me. Okay?”

She turned her gaze elsewhere when he said it, placid-like. She probably wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart, but she was here, she had made that decision, and now she faced the consequences. She shrugged. “Dunno why. You seem kinda,” She made a so-so gesture. “Prime example-ish.”

Nord chuckled half-heartedly. “Do as I say, not as I do.” And that, too, squeezed a titter out of the vixen. Not a word more was exchanged between them, but he didn’t mind. He was satisfied with the company. He--and he assumed she too--fell into a fit of admiring the sunset, a sight he too often missed, just as it was descending past the horizon. It was nice. This was nice. “--Irro?”

And she was already gone.

♦

To no one’s surprise, the day that followed didn’t prove any more thrilling than the last, nor the next, nor the next. A week turned to two, weeks turned to a month, a month turned to six, and months turned to a year. A year. A year away from home and family, a year Nord had kept the children under his care away from their mothers and fathers. A year turned to more drags of the pipe; it turned to more of Jole’s stupid reassurances; it turned to more impatience, paranoia, and boredom, but on a lighter note, it turned to stronger bonds; it turned to more days spent as a family; it turned to memories that Nord could enjoy well into his golden years. In time, a year turned to four.

Nord had lost count of the days. With each sunrise and sunset, he had to remind himself it wasn’t the one from the night before. Sometimes he’d forget to do so and lose a day, and those added up very quickly. He’d often lose weeks at a time if there wasn’t something particularly memorable that happened in them, which didn’t happen often, because little changed from day to day. Today was no exception.

Here he sat, aboard the Sandpiercer, watching the vulpera mingle with one another, and awaiting something, anything, to happen. Though it excluded the company of Jole and Lynsol, the others did their best to entertain him, with some being more fervent than their peers. Rheana--bless her soul--could talk his ear off all she wanted, but her efforts were for naught. To Nord, it was but another day, where nothing ever changed.

It was unsettling. The deeper he fell into his own head, the more the voices around him dimmed and the less physical response Rheana received. Then came the abrupt hammering at the door, and his senses were instantly reignited.

“We got a big problem here!”

♦

Jole had never been one for theatrics. Of course, he had never been all that good at telling the truth either! But, if there’s one thing he was ace at, it was coming up with bizarre and ludicrous games for the whole family to enjoy. They came in all variants, all styles of play, and while he had his preferences, his utmost favorite of them all was Valley Hopping. It was a simple enough game to play: you picked an opponent, you picked a valley, you picked a starting spot and a finish line, then you met up, you clapped hands, and you ran. The best part? It didn’t matter who won the race. It only mattered how much stuff you managed to grab along the way, as that’s how points were tallied. Plantlife, herbs, metal scraps, whatever one could spot mid-dash. And today, that’s exactly the game he wanted to play.

Step One: Pick an Opponent. Easy enough. There was no one around that he was particularly on board with, or vice versa. More so vice versa. The siblings had some steady vibes, but one was really annoying and the other hated his guts for whatever reason. She’d say otherwise when she got the chance, but Jole saw right through her. That’s another thing he was ace at. He was ace at a lot of things. Was he getting off topic? He was getting off topic. There was the other vixen, but she was subpar competition, and Jole was looking for something fresh, something exciting. Lo and behold, in came that little, dappled bundle of sunshine. Lyn, Lynnie, Lynman, Lynster, Lil’ Lyn, Lynsol. Bingo.

“Lynnie!”

“Mm?”

He stuck out a hand. “Wanna go Valley Hopping?”

“Me? Really?” He already looked giddy. Jole’s handiwork, no doubt. “Oh, but,” And then it evaporated. Jole would have scoffed-- “Nordy said I had chores to do today. He says I gotta start being more independent.” He scoffed. Lynsol, true to his nature, took notice of it and elaborated, “But I wanna go! I can do stuff after.” And there came that smile. Who could say no to that smile? Not that Jole was planning on saying no anyway.

“Not a worry, Lynman, I’m sure the big boss won’t mind. We’re here to have fun, aren’t we?” He gave the boy’s shoulder a light punch, which was met with a similarly light titter. That’s one step down.

Step Two: Pick a Valley. This step might as well have been a formality. Vol’dun was practically made of valleys. Instead of doing the thing Nordy might have done, like pull out a whole-ass map to pencil down the approximate locations and the threat of the local wildlife and the Sethrak activity in the area, Jole was going to do a thing called “winging it,” which as you may have guessed, was another thing he was ace at. All the same, he and Lynster wandered around the desert for quite some time before landing upon a quaint little canyon in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t his go-to, but it would do.

The ashfur swung his sack onto the ground, announcing with prolix, “Allllriiiiiight! Now all we need to do is pick a start and finish,” Step Three, by the way. “and we’ll be more golden than a troll king buried in a family tomb. I sayyyyy, here to there!” He pointed vaguely. “Easy-peasy.”

Lynsol looked unsure of what to do with the jumble of words that just escaped Jole’s lips, but damn it if he didn’t try anyway-- “Okay!” He paused, briefly looking off into the distance, supposedly where Jole had pointed. He was far off, but Jole gave credit where it was due. The boy looked back. “Where?”

Jole waved his hands dismissively. “Details, details! Just follow me and stop when I stop.”

“Oh, okay!” Lynnie’s eyes darted off elsewhere, before darting right back. “What if I get in front of you?”

He would have scoffed if not for-- You know what? Fuck it. He scoffed. “First of all,” He rose a pointer finger. “You won’t. Trust me,” then rose a middle finger. “And second of all, it doesn’t matter who wiiins! C’mon, y’know this. Just matters how much stuff you grab along the way.” He flicked at Lynman’s ear. Playfully, obviously. In any case, he looked more than on board.

Step Four: Clap Hands. Technically Step Five, but they had already “met up,” per se, so they were allowed to skip around. Plus, it was his game, so he could do what he wanted. It’s not like having fun was meant to be orderly. Was he being bitter? He was being bitter. After a quick readjustment of his vibe, he led his opponent to their starting spot, as it were, before arching low enough that his chest would meet his thigh and his knuckles would meet the sand. He extended his hand out at his side, where it would soon meet the flat of Lynnie’s.

“Remember, it’s a test of perception, not speed.” He probably didn’t know what ‘perception’ meant, huh? Jole elaborated, “Who can eye gooder.”

“Okay!”

“No looking back, no backtracking. Oh, and mind the hornets.”

“What?”

“OKAY. ONETWOTHREEGO.”

And with their resounding clap, they set off into the canyon, with that previous sound becoming completely overshot by the sound of their footsteps, and soon enough, the heaving of their breath, though that may have just been Jole. Did the vigor of youth count as cheating?-- Whoa. He nearly missed that clump of star moss. Keep it cool, keep it frosty.

Running, and running, and running. He couldn’t waste even a moment to look over his shoulder to see the state of his competitor. It’s not like he could have overtaken him already! This was the kid’s first time playing, and there were a lot of tactics one had to learn to--

And there he was, like some mystical, blazing arrow that had been shot from the bow of a Loa. Did Loa have bows? Jole had never been too poetic-- FOCUS. And so he began to speed up, his feet slamming into the dunes like it had just insulted his mother, which, admittedly, wasn’t all that good of a simile, because Jole wouldn’t have cared. Worse yet, now they were heading into the brush and briar, which meant thorns to jab at their toes. At the very least, he was ahead of Lynster again, though he was deeply regretting not opting for his go-to. He knew that valley inside and out! He would have had the advantage! When he asked for something exciting and something fresh, he wasn’t asking to lose.

Not that he was going to lose, of course.

And that mentality stuck! That is, until Jole found that he had collided with a branch. WHAM! But as quick as he collapsed, he ascended back to his feet. A distant, concerned, “Are you okay?” rung out behind him, probably from Lynnie, definitely from Lynnie. He called out in reply, “NO BACKTRACKING.” which received an even quieter, “Right! Sorry!” in turn.

He repeated the process again, over and over, in an almost mindless fashion. What he thought to be absolute centuries of droning and braindead collection turned out to be, to his surprise, a singular minute. He blanked. Did he just pull a Nordy? He wouldn’t be given the chance to process that, as he was tugged back into reality by the click-clacking of… something. He could have stopped running to investigate, but therein lied the issue. It required stopping. It’s not like he had to pin it down. It could have been something as simple as the rustle of their knapsacks, which it no doubt was now that he thought about it.

Still, that gut feeling wasn’t going away, and it was rare that his gut feelings were wrong. The click-clacking grew louder, so loud that it crept into the realm of familiarity. He knew exactly what he was hearing, yet at the same time, he was denying it. A contradiction unto himself. His first instinct was to keep running, but then he heard the grunts, the panicked cry, and then one, sharp, “JOLLY!”

And that finally convinced him to grind to a halt. He huffed out a breath, then weakly pivoted on his heel. His knees were numb. Everything was numb. But none of that mattered when the adrenaline took hold. He would remember vividly what he saw that evening: that same dappled bundle of sunshine batting away at a hornet--the ugliest one he had ever seen--with a twig. Maybe they were all that ugly. He had never gotten this close to one before, willingly or not.

The ashfur watched as the hornet’s stinger, like some disgusting, throbbing quill, sunk into Lynsol’s back for the briefest moment, before fight or flight took the reins. Jole barreled into the fray, hefting up a branch two times his size and swinging it at the thing. Never had he been so pleased to hear the crunching of a carapace than in that moment, but he couldn’t stay long. Despite every muscle in his body pushing him to finish the bug off, he knew he had to do the wise thing, just this once.

And that’s just what he did.

He hoisted the boy into his arms and ran. He ran like he never had before, which may have been a lie. He was only vulperan, so he had his limitations, but, you know, dramatic narration and all. This isn’t to say he wasn’t trying, he really was trying. He really was. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t want it to be his fault. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be.

“I’ve gotcha, little guy, don’t worry.” He didn’t sound all that certain, which isn’t to say that he wasn’t. He definitely was! He just didn’t sound like it. “Just hold on for me, ‘kay? ‘Kay. Alright.”

He hadn’t gone too far, thankfully, so it wasn’t long until the Sandpiercer was in sight. He wasted no time in colliding with the door and banging on it relentlessly. Between his panicked breathing and his incoherent cursing, he sputtered out,

“We got a big problem here!”

♦

When Nord threw open the door, he was greeted with a relative who fancied himself a visionary, carrying the limp body of a dreamer. In all his life, in all the terrible, abhorrent news he had seen and been given over the years, in all the times his heart had sunk, it had never sunk so fast as when his eyes landed upon the aimless, dull blues of Lynsol’s, staring back at him pleadingly. His hand had never flown up so quickly, and he had never pointed at Rheana with such fury before. His voice had never bellowed so loudly, nor had it ever sounded so angry. His suggestions became demands and his propositions became orders. In an instant, he had changed. In an instant, the gravity of the situation had broken him.

As soon as he received the rug he had asked for, he swept himself outside, laid it on the ground, and barked, “Put him down on this!” which his cousin was more than happy to oblige. His hands landed on the boy just as the opportunity arose, checking every place one could tell a pulse from, repeatedly, as his mind lay fragmented somewhere between paranoia and blind hatred. This time he wouldn’t let the seconds slip away from him, because he was going to count each and every one of them. His eyes shot back up at Jole. “What did you do.”

The ashfur looked disturbed, to say the least, but as per his nature, he had the divine ability to evaporate his own tension as if it were as easy as flipping a switch. “I dunno. He was out playing in the canyon, I think. I didn’t know what he was doing, but I looked away for one second and I found him like this.” He rose the boy’s head, high enough to gesture to the venomous wound that lay in his back. The rampant anxiety clung harder. “Sting, I could guess.” He shrugged. Shrugged. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all.

“Well, did you clean it? He should be fine if you disinfected the wound. You cleaned it, right?” Nord’s breathing only grew further out of pace, while Lynsol’s began to waver.

Jole paused. “I, uh, I didn’t find him soon enough. I didn’t know what to do--” He choked.

“Then it’s infected. It’s infected.” He muttered a swear. “There’s an antidote. It’s the,” He clapped his hands together in a desperate attempt to reignite his memory. “The stalk, near the caves, to the north. Get some, quickly.” He waved off the ashfur, but he did not leave. He blanked at him. “Jole, go!--”

“Do you want me to die too?! I can’t go! It’s almost night, the Sethrak will--”

“He’s going to die, Jole! Are you just going to stand there and gawk while you could be, I don’t know, TRYING?” Nord’s eyes fell back down to the boy, who now clung to his arm. He clung back, if not with a tinge more force, before his attention shot back up to the ashfur. Why was he still here? “JOLE.”

“I CAN’T DO ANYTHING.”

Nord’s heart beat within his chest faster than it ever had. He felt faint. Every solution he calculated in his head lost its legs at an unprecedented dead end, everything he and his merry band of children could do would do next to nothing. What could he do? Why didn’t he go back? Why didn’t he say no?

There was a huff of breath that reached his ears--Lynsol’s--that caused him to envelope the boy with his own body. The rise and fall of his chest staggered, as Nord desperately tried making out the words he was supposedly being told.

“Can’t breathe.”

“I can’t breathe.”

Nord muttered back, “It’s okay, Lynnie, shhh… It’s okay.” as he laid him back down while remaining just as close. His hand went to frailly claw at his throat to emphasize the point, the truth that Nord wished to do anything but accept. “Remember when I said you’d help us all learn how to keep our chins up? Well, you did it, Lynnie. We need you to keep doing it. I need you.” And in that single space of time, his surroundings became just as unclear as when he took a drag of the pipe. The world seemed to slow, solely to trap him in this one torturous moment. He couldn’t hear any other voice, any other breath, besides the boy’s, not even his own. He stared into the eyes of happiness itself, of sunshine, of hope. He stared into those eyes just as they began to flicker. Every word he ushered he couldn’t hear; every minor reassurance fell on deaf ears. He was all that mattered. Why didn’t they see that? He wanted to scream, to berate, to separate the wall, but he, too, was limp, just as that little bundle of sunshine was.

Lynnie.

And then the light died.

#irromemoirs #wowrp #wowrpblog #wyrmrestaccordrp #vulpera #voldun #vulperarp #worldofwarcraftrp

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kyberborne-a · 3 years

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@volteney | continued from here!

it is pure defiance ( of the law of the sea , of war , of diplomacy ) but he has never known her to be anything but defiance made flesh . if someone would work out of a burning ship wreck alive , it would be jyn , and if someone would look smug about it , it would be her as well . at this point of knowing her he has accepted to not assume - and even less to underestimate her . if she’d be an animal , she’d probably be a cat with the way she had so many lives that never seemed to run out . we are one and the same , a fox of infinite chances and a cat sticking endless landings . there is a reason she is one of the most trusted people around him , why she was one of his most valued crew members back on sea too , and why he would always fall back on her if it came down to the tricky and the dangerous , to what needed to be done . his trust in her is unparalleled , has grown into its own moving and sentient thing in his heart , and he would never turn away from her . not in danger , and not as a king . even less as her friend .

“ jyn , i know this . i might know it better than anyone else , ” he tells her as her friend now too before he’d ever speak to her as a king . she has not only been vital to the survival of the country , but to his as well , and even when he showed the demon she had not strayed from him . the fear and worry had been there in him , of course , but she defied that too . at this point , he does wonder how much it would take for them to break apart and let go of each other , or they have simply surpassed the moment that was possible and are now steadfast , lasting beyond sense or time . he’d not be surprised by that discovery either . “ that doesn’t mean i take great joy in knowing you gone , if even for a short time only . i always fair better when i know you are just around the corner . shocking , but true . ” or not shocking at all , not when they have spent so many years working and existing side by side , then such an absence can leave its mark .

she has always worked best on her own, trusting and depending on no one except for herself, focusing on her survival rather than a cause for someone else. even with the partisans, she’d sometimes felt like an outsider, by herself despite being present in a large group of people. as saw’s goddaughter and his second-in-command, there had always been a level of separation between her and the average soldier, especially when they found out that she’s grisha. in the years following, she’d come to the conclusion that she was better off working alone – not only was she more efficient when no one else got in her way, but she could better protect her heart when she only had to worry about herself.

in the early days of her. . .partnership with nikolai, she’d stubbornly refused to work with anyone else. eventually, as she’d grown more comfortable, playing nice with others became less of a chore and more of a preference. while she certainly isn’t against going out on a mission by herself – she knows ravka needs nikolai here more than she needs him with her – it feels. . .strange, foreign, uncomfortable, knowing that he’ll be here without her watching his back.

her lips quirk up into a small smile as she packs her bag, rolling up her clothes into tight balls to take up less space, wrinkles being the least of her priority. “ i’ll be back before you know it, majesty, ” she replies with more confidence than she feels but eyes sparkling with mirth nonetheless. “ i doubt you’ll even miss me. ” it’s a quick reconnaissance trip to ketterdam that likely won’t take more than a week ; considering the significant amount of time she’d spent in the city combined with her knowledge of the criminal underground, it hadn’t been a difficult decision choosing who to go. it’s an easy job and she’s more than well-equipped to handle it – they both know it – but that doesn’t ease the worry she feels deep in her gut. while nikolai’s inner circle can certainly keep him safe without her, she’s more comfortable in the position of his de-facto bodyguard, to ensure for herself that he’s in safe hands. “ though – stay out of trouble until i come back, yeah ? if i hear you’ve somehow gotten yourself killed, i’ll drag you back from the grave myself. ”

( i’ll miss you too, nik. )

#✩ ➝ nikolai lantsov. ( volteney. )#✩ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜsᴛ / ғᴇᴇᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀᴇ. [ grishaverse. ]#the two of them are like the picture that's like #'do not separate them'#of the two stuffed seals on amazon #LKEGJAKLERHJETHEA #DO NOT SEPARATE THEM!!#SHE CANNOT PROPERLY VOICE HER FEELINGS #BUT HAS THEM ANYWAY!!

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theresnosuchthingasmonsters · 4 years

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(Prompt: “I’m going to take care of you, okay?” with John and Ainsley, sent in by @silvershewolf247)

-----

Daddy once told her that there was no such thing as monsters. But that wasn't true. He had been one of them the whole time. Daddy had also told her that if monsters did exist, they would never come hurt her. They wouldn’t dare. Now, she understood why he’d said that. Because daddy had been the monster that the other monsters had nightmares about. Either that, or he had been their king, and they had obeyed him without question.

But with their king gone, she knew it wouldn’t take long for the other monsters to come.

And the monsters did come.

Ainsley could hear every little bump they made in the night. They were not the distant, dampered sounds of her brother getting a midnight snack from the kitchen below, nor the sounds of her parents going to --or returning from-- late night galas or hospital shifts. No, the sounds she heard were the sounds of softly thunking rubber-soled boots. The kind with a deeply-defined waffle pattern on the bottom. The kind that were always some shade of deerskin brown. The kind that smelled good in the stores, at least when they were virgin boots that had never touched the earth which they were meant to grind under their heels.

That night, Ainsley slipped out of bed and wandered downstairs.

She was exhausted of being scared, and she was exhausted of feeling grief and confusion. She was so emotionally worn out that her fear had ebbed into a numbness that consumed her. She felt too hollow to care about her self preservation. She only wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t sleep when those monsters were downstairs, making their distant, gentle, thunk, thunk, thunking noises.

She chose to haul along the biggest and supposedly scariest of her stuffed animals; the one that would keep her the safest in daddy’s absence because it was the most like him. Her biggest, fuzziest brown bear --the one with little white felt teeth that looked like they belonged in the mouth of a stuffed shark.

The girl stood in the hallway, wondering if she should wake Malcolm or mommy and inform them of the monsters downstairs so they could handle the situation. The thought caused her guilt. She knew they both had had trouble sleeping lately, too. She felt that she herself had to be the one to deal with the monsters that night. She had to be strong, like her parents had always told her to be. Strong, and brave, like Malcolm always seemed to be.

She took her time down the stairs, sliding one hand along the banister in the dark. She silently waddled towards the main floor of the large house with big, slow, careful steps as she imprisoned her bear against her chest in a one-armed hold. She was careful not to trip on his dangling paws.

Ainsley stopped on the stairs as the kitchen came into view, deep and black and cavernous. A shadow shifted, spotting her, and as the child’s eyes slowly adjusted to the night, she saw that it was not a monster. It was a man.

They didn't speak. They both remained very still, and simply stared at each other. The child didn't scream. She wasn’t scared. She was only numb, and tired.

She couldn’t see the man’s face; only his frame. He was outlined in a vague silhouette, backed by a hue of the kitchen that was more blue than black. She noticed that he had a beard and wild hair like daddy’s before it was combed. But he was not daddy. Even in the dark, and even while relying on sleep-deprived eyes, she could tell that he was someone else. Someone new. Yet someone just similar enough to her father that it made her think of him, and wish it was him.

Her lifeless expression animated only enough to distort with homesickness, and she saw the stranger in her kitchen as little more than a ghost. Not a monster. A ghost of her father. A shadow that he’d left behind. A part of him that the light did not touch. A part of him that had never revealed itself, until now.

A part of him she’d never met before.

At the time, Ainsley didn’t understand that human beings could be monsters, sometimes. She didn’t understand why they called her father one, even though he didn’t look like or act like one. She would later learn that her father was a monster, on the inside, and that this visitor was also a monster, on the inside. Just not the kind of monster that was born from cluttered closets or crept beneath the floorboards.

Except, in this man’s case... maybe he was that kind of monster, too.

“Who are you?” she mumbled, breaking their brief silence.

The man didn’t answer her at first, frozen with caution. He split his attention between the child, the higher reaches of the staircase, and the nearby door leading to the basement. With a whispered rasp, he replied, “A friend.”

“What are you doing in our house?” the girl mumbled with innocent, lethargic curiosity.

The man hesitated again. “I’m… picking up a few things,” he explained carefully. “For your dad. That’s all.” His voice possessed a rugged, grinding quality, like gravel, but was also somehow smooth, like silt.

He was daddy’s friend. Ainsley processed that for a moment, removing her hand from the banister to hug her stuffed bear with both arms. “Don’t come upstairs,” she told him. Her despondent demand was a simple one.

He would obey it, on one condition. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here.” As he made his negotiation, he tilted his head and his voice lightened --like how daddy’s head tilted and like how daddy’s voice lightened when he gently told her not to let her mother know he’d allowed her to have a cookie before dinner. “Okay? It’s a secret.”

Ainsley’s baby cheeks shifted as she struggled to swallow around a small lump that gradually welled in her throat.

“Your mom would be pretty mad if she knew I was here,” the man warned, taking a slow step closer. His boot gently thunked, once.

The six-year-old promised him nothing. She looked at his hanging hands, seeing that they were empty. “What are you picking up for dad?” she asked. Was the man lying, or was he having trouble finding whatever it was that daddy wanted him to pick up?

“Just… some papers,” the man shrugged, taking another step with a gentle thunk of his boot. “Whatever the cops didn’t take.”

“Mommy burned everything.”

The man ceased his stalking. “What?”

“She burned everything the cops didn’t take,” Ainsley muttered with a pout. All of daddy’s clothes, and all of daddy’s books, and all his little trinkets, and all of the sketches and comic strips that he’d drawn for her.

“Oh.” The man visibly relaxed. A lot. “Well. Good.”

A distant confusion crossed the girl’s face. Why was that good?

The man became much more interested in the basement door than the stairs, and he stepped towards it with a few more quiet thunks of his boots. This time, he moved without caution, but perhaps instead with haste. “I’ll be going, then.”

“Will you tell daddy I said hi?”

He stopped and glanced back. “Yeah. Sure.” He continued for the basement door, reaching out to pull it open.

Feeling a flash of panic --the first thing she’d felt since the numbness began-- Ainsley hurried down the last few stairs to the main floor and spoke up again. However, her voice quivered, and she hugged her bear tighter to try and stabilize her emotions. “And --will you tell daddy I’m not mad at him?”

The man hovered in the open doorway to the basement and looked at the child again.

Ainsley felt the lump in her throat swelling to its full size, and her eyes were already beading with moisture. “Will you tell daddy --I --miss him?” She grimaced and strangled the stuffed bear in her embrace, inhaling sharply through her words as the sobs came. “And --and that I want him to come --h-home?”

The man stared at her from the shadows as she succumbed to tears.

A rather loud hiccup of sorrow spurred him to rush over to the girl, glancing at the staircase as he hushed, “Heyhey shhhh, shh shh,” with his arms outstretched, aiming to grab her shoulders. She thought about burying her face in the fur of her bear to hide her crying, but as he descended to his knees in front of her, she found herself lunging forward and darting straight past his hands to bury her face in the fabric over his shoulder.

He didn’t really know how to react or respond, but he kept his focus on the stairs and placed a hand on the back of her head to keep her face pressed against his collar and muffle her crying. “Shhh, shhh.”

The man was wearing a sweater, but not the winter kind that were thick and wooly like daddy’s favorite sweaters. This man’s sweater was more of an autumn one. Light, and simple. Akin to what a man might wear as a pajama top. It had tiny weaves that were tightly-knitted and canvas-like. Hugging him didn’t feel like hugging daddy. His shoulders had less surface area to rest her head against, and his body was more firm than squishy. But he was still big and tough and warm and produced the faded scent of a forest.

His shushes worked, and she sniffled into a calmer state of crying.

She peeled away from the puddle she’d created on his shoulder to wipe her eyes. Between each pass of her balled fist, she saw his face. She studied the tangle of the soft, wiry hairs in his beard and the slight squint of his eyes, which were only just starting to grow crow’s feet.

“It’s alright.” The man held her shoulders tightly and nodded with a small murmur, “I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” He rubbed her whole back with a strong hand that could push her right over if he applied any more force. It was soothing to her, like a deep massage. “You want some water or somethin’?”

Ainsley shook her head and wrestled around the lump in her throat to mutter, “I want cocoa.”

“Cocoa, huh?”

She nodded.

He glanced up to the second floor again before standing. “Okay. Alright. Come here.” He guided her to a spot in the kitchen, continuing to speak hushed words to her between throwing cautious looks behind his back. “You stay right there, and you hold onto your bear, and I’ll get you some cocoa.” He glanced at all the cupboards and did a double take at the knife block before scratching a hand through his loose, wavy hair.

Ainsley pointed out which cupboard had the cocoa powder. The man quietly and carefully fetched it, and a mug, and shoveled a couple spoonfuls of powder into the mug before moving towards the refrigerator. The child would have told him that he was doing it wrong (you always boil the milk first, then add the powder) but she forgave him for not doing it right, like how daddy did.

A broad, harsh ray of light poured over the man with a nearly holy-like nature as he opened the door of the fridge. He knelt behind it as cover, fetching the milk and making as little noise as possible. Behind the door of the fridge, he slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out a special ingredient to add to the concoction.

Ainsley climbed onto a stool at the counter, slightly scraping it against the floor as she did so. It startled the man, and he shushed her again. She sat her bear on her lap and watched him stir the cocoa with a coffee stick. “Is daddy okay?” she whispered, hugging her bear tight.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” the man muttered without interest or concern, quietly placing the mug of half-mixed, cold cocoa in front of her. He kept looking up at the stairs between watching her. “Drink up.”

She used both hands to hold the mug as she drank from it, and tried not to feel too disheartened that the beverage wasn’t warm and creamy like the kind daddy always made. “Is he sad?” she asked with a chocolate mustache.

The man didn’t tell her ‘no,’ so the answer was clearly, ‘yes.’ But he wasn't sorry about it. “It’s his own fuckin’ fault he’s in prison,” he grumbled, explaining, “He wasn't careful, and he didn’t listen.”

Ainsley whispered between two more large sips. “That’s a bad word.”

The man kept his mouth shut and didn’t say any more bad --or worse-- words.

She wasn’t incredibly enthusiastic about drinking the rest of the subpar cocoa, and when she pushed the mug back towards him and told him that she was done, he took it and dumped the rest in the sink without scolding her for failing to finish it. She didn’t have to finish it. She’d consumed enough.

“Now, go back up to bed,” he instructed, pointing to send her away. “Hurry, before you fall asleep.”

Looking forward to being able to sleep again, she clumsily made her way down the stool and back toward the stairs. Partway there, she realized she’d dropped her bear, and turned back for it. The man had already scooped it up and was carrying it over to her, still cautious of the stairs as he drew closer to them. “Go on, get up there.”

She took her bear from his hands and hugged it tightly before waddling up the stairs one step at a time, holding onto the banister again. He didn’t follow her. He gravitated towards the basement door. When she was halfway up the stairs, she turned around and asked, “Are you going to come back?”

Her voice made him stop again, but he struggled to decide how to answer her.

“Please?” she whispered. Her look reminded him that he had vowed to take care of her.

“Yeah. I’ll be back,” he promised. “Go to bed.”

The girl continued up the stairs, her steps more sluggish. As Ainsley went in her room and climbed into her bed, she heard the steady thunk, thunk, thunk of his distant boots in the rooms below her. The sounds gradually faded away, and she easily slipped into a deep, peaceful, sedative sleep, no longer afraid of any monsters that may come for her in the night.

The monsters would not come.

They wouldn’t dare.

Daddy had sent a guardian angel to keep her safe and to take care of her in his absence.

----

I hope you enjoyed it @silvershewolf247! Want me to write a short scene? Send me a prompt with a pair of characters! Check out my #starter and #prompt tags for more ideas and responses!

#john watkins #prodigal son #ainsley whitly #prodigal son fanfic #prodigal son fan fiction #ainsley #john #asks #ask #starter #starters #my writing #mine #john and ainsley #prompt #little ainsley

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jenovahh · 5 years

Text

想不起来 - 17

What a cold, dark place.

Though you suppose that would be expected for an Ascian.

You’ve abandoned the Scions, using everything within your seemingly infinite well of power to silently vanish from your bed and venture to the shores of Lakeland. The water laps gently at your feet as you dip a toe in and you silently thank Soroban once again for the gift of breathing underwater.

You never considered yourself the strongest swimmer, but thankfully you have a manta ray at your side who does most of the work for you, your eyes barely catching the shimmering coral reefs as you glide by atop your companion. All you must do is focus on that tug; that tether that binds you and he together, more aware of it’s presence than ever before.

Somehow it did not feel so strong before his absence, and you wonder that even when he disappeared to wreak whatever havoc he had caused, a piece of him stayed with you.

Perhaps he had really meant it when he said he would be watching from the shadows.

A stream of bubbles flow from your mouth as you reach deeper depths, the rays of the never ending light having long since abandoned you. You admit you feel a bit cold, a shiver running down your spine as trepidation trickles down your neck.

Were you going to your death? By his hand? Or would you turn? Would he truly sit there and watch it happen, emotionless? Would he decide to save you?

The questions had bounded through your head in your unconscious state, worn and torn from your battle at Mt. Gulg. You had felt as close to death as you had ever felt that day, your heart piecing itself together as much as your body had been.

Suddenly there is a spark down your spine; recognition. He knows you are close.

He knows you are coming for him.

The water somewhat shifts around you, the manta ray warbling in fear as you become swept into a current. You grip its reigns tight, wishing you could soothe the beast without it coming out as garbled mess and inhaling lungs full of water.

You came.

Your eyes widen as the water around you almost seems to dissipate, the manta ray floundering for a moment as it quickly adjusts to no longer sailing through water, but air instead. Water still clings to your form as the manta ray whines in distress, as if some external force is trying to steer it somewhere.

Alone too. How noble of you.

You can do nothing but cling tight to the leathery skin of your flying companion as it’s ushered to wherever it’s being taken. Carefully you hold the reins tight in one hand, calling your energy forth. Even with so many of your memories returned, you could not reach that magnificence you once held; the ability to create with just thought. At most you could only physically manifest your gift in the form of ambient light, which came in handy during nightly trips. The glow starts off weak, steadily glowing until you have a decent orb in your palm. Still it’s not enough to see past what’s ahead of you. Biting down on your lip in frustration, you try not to let it get to you, that feeling of being lesser. Of deserving his condescension.

Come with me. I can show you everything.

It was always tempting. Looking back on those memories of being able to create, of being able to bring things into being by just thinking about it, you had been tempted on multiple accounts to ask Emet-Selch to help you reach into those powers. To reach that former glory you knew he saw every time he looked at you. But knowing what you do now...would it be worth it?

What would it matter anyway? You were dying, he had said so himself. Slowly turning into a Lightwarden, the very thing he had tasked you to kill. A bitter smile twists your lips; had he foreseen this? Did he treat you so kindly, love you so deeply just to let you become a monster?

The connection somewhat zaps you, a spark of anger you realize, and you wonder if you’d been broadcasting your feelings as clear as day. Immediately a soothing note travels up your spine, the sensation cool; an apology.

I do not mean to be quick to anger. Not when you actually have come as I requested. You have...always brought out the worst in me, in a way.

Staring ahead, you gasp as you see twinkling lights in the distance, and you wonder just what he had hidden beneath the murky depths.

Anticipation crawls up your spine, though whether it is your own or his you cannot tell. The light you had conjured fizzles from your hand, which now raises to cover your mouth as your eyes widen in awe of the picture before you.

A magnificent city rises from the depths, so tall that the bottoms of most cannot be seen. There are trees of lavender lining the streets, tall, robed figures walking underneath their boughs. The opulence would floor you, were you not several malms in the air atop your manta ray.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Your lips tremble as you finally enter the cities bounds, a feeling of wistfulness curling through you...a sense of...belonging.

Welcome home, Warrior of Light.

When salty droplets run down your face, you tell yourself it’s just seawater.

#Emet Selch #Solus zos Galvus #FFXIV #ff14 #Shadowbringers #XBQL

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lettersnorth · 4 years

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The Hideout

The vegetation was suffocating. The trip through the narrow ravine had started out simple enough but now it was as if each step was a hard won victory. The vines looped around her boots, snaring her, the broad-leaved ferns slapped against her face, blinding her to what lay ahead. She should have brought a long blade of some sort, nevermind the fact she'd never wielded a sword in her life.

Aislinn was about to give up. The aetherlocator must be on the fritz again. There was no way anything remotely of interest lay in this tight, dense pocket of the Shroud. She'd been reluctant to enter the dark forest at all. She had an innate mistrust of a landscape that hid the wide sky. There was something of the claustrophobic in it. Her boot caught on a vine, her advancement abruptly stymied. With a sigh of exasperation, she kicked, tugged and pulled until the blasted vine snapped and she went careening forward several steps and suddenly found the world opening up once more. She had broke free of the narrow ravine.

“Good riddance” she muttered as she tugged on the edges of her coat to straighten it back into place.

The ravine had opened up into an isolated gorge that, upon a cursory glance, was nothing special. However, as she stood there picking stray bits of vegetation from her hair, she noticed a door, of all things, built into the rock wall. Odd place for a door.

Though there was no sign of activity, it was always better to err on the side of caution. Aislinn dug a small metal sphere out from her shoulder bag. Nondescript with no discernible purpose, it looked more like a paperweight than anything else. At least until she twisted its two halves on a point along its diameter and the sphere hummed to life, a red glow of circuitry flowing over its surface as it powered up.

She tossed the sphere out towards the mysterious door and waited. The little sphere went to work, bobbing and floating along, held aloft by its aetheric core. Strictly speaking, it was only a drone. Programmed to scout ahead, take readings and report back. A handy thing to have when, like Aislinn, you weren't the type to rush headlong into anything.

When it was apparent the little sphere had found nothing to be concerned about, Aislinn approached the door. There was no handle, no lever, nothing that gave any indication as to how a person might gain entry. However, a low hum emanated from it, causing her skin to prickle with awareness. Odd glyphs lay deeply carved along its weathered stone surface. She peered up at the carvings, wondering if she had stumbled upon an old Gelmorran ruin, lost to the sands of time.

She was no historian and certainly no linguist but she did know patterns. Every language in existence followed some sort of pattern, even mathematics. And yet she couldn't discern one here. Aislinn had an inkling the glyphs were a facade. An inkling that was all but confirmed as she made out one stylized word carved along the door's edge.

"Obedience." She read aloud as she ran her hand over the rough hewn texture.

Letting go a snort of derision, she stepped back. Perhaps she was in the right place after all. Who else but a man like Garrett would carve such a thing into his entryway?

"If I was a megalomaniac like Garrett, how would I want to enter my lab?" She asked the little sphere as it bobbed around her legs. Of course it gave no answer.

She studied the carving, turning the ridiculous word over in her mind. To say that Garrett was an arrogant man would be like saying a hurricane was a breeze.

"Or how would I want to force any visitors to enter? Maybe that's the right question." She said, narrowing her gaze as she nudged her glasses back into place.

With every fiber of her being crying out in protest, she bent low into a bow of utmost submission, feeling utterly foolish and glad there was no one to bear witness.

The door whirled to life, swinging open to allow access to the dark corridor beyond.

"I shouldn't be surprised." She murmured to her little sphere as she and it moved beyond the door.

The sphere tumbled on ahead while Aislinn allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. If she had thought the door a fake for a Gelmorran ruin before, now she was certain of it. The corridor was a long hall of metalwork and piping, her footfalls clanging out against the metal catwalk, no matter how softly she tried to tread. Though the sphere gave no sign that anyone else was here, Aislinn reached over her shoulder and withdrew the gun she kept at her back, feeling better with its reassuring weight in her hand.

Another door lay at the end of her journey. Though this one made no pretense that it was anything other than a door. Pushing it open and stepping into the next room, Aislinn suddenly found herself in a nightmare. The large space held several operating tables, replete with restraints, their metal surfaces painted with what she was certain were old bloodstains. As she moved slowly about the room, the disgust and uneasy dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. Tools, scalpels, solvents, any number of things she wouldn’t want anywhere near her, lay out on trays or strewn among the shelves. She had known the man was evil. She needn’t look any further than what he had done to Bertram to see that, but somehow being face to face with the evidence of his work made it that much more real. She stood in the center of the room as she holstered her gun with a shaking hand, her mouth having gone dry by what she had seen and by her own imagination of what it would be like to be in this room, an unwilling subject of a gruesome experiment.

In an attempt to look past the macabre scene, she fixed her eyes on one corner of the room and spied a stack of papers. Surely not. Garrett wouldn’t be so careless. She moved towards the papers slowly as if they were a flock of birds that might take flight if she moved too fast. But once she had them in her hands, she sifted through them quickly, her eyes hungrily scanning the pages, growing more and more incredulous with each page turned. These were research notes. Schematics. Exactly what she needed if she was to understand the device implanted in Bertram. Old perhaps. Dated. Why else would they be here in a room coated in a fine layer of dust? But they were a starting point. Quickly shuffling the pages together, she tucked them away in her pack, glancing once more around the room for anything else that might be of use.

That was when her eyes landed on the crate of bodies. A cry of astonishment escaped her as she rushed back several paces, bumping up against one of the operating tables with a crash that echoed in the empty laboratory. As she stared, wide-eyed at the desiccated husks, their grotesque faces thrown in sharp relief by the glow of circuitry from her wandering metal sphere, she caught her breath. They must have been failed experiments. Dumped in pile like so much garbage. Was there no end to the man’s depravity?

But then that small part of her she always worried about, the part of her that she feared resembled Garrett a little too closely, looked upon the tangle of bodies and drew a different conclusion, sanitized of emotion. If one of those bodies had a device implanted in them, she would have what she came all this way to find. Guilt immediately fell over her in a wave. These were once living, breathing people. They had lives, homes, families.

She stood there in the gloom for several moments, arguing with herself but in the end, she stepped towards the bodies. These people were beyond saving but there were others, still breathing, who needed the answers one of those devices might hold. She lamented the absence of Ren and his axe. Without him, the gruesome task would be painstakingly slow and stomach turning. Because she knew from experience removing the device from the body was delicate work. Work that needed to be done back in the lab. She would need to remove the head and take it with her. Kneeling next to the body closest to her, she checked for a device with a trembling hand. There. In the forehead. She drew her hunting knife, took a fortifying breath and got to work. There was nothing else to be done for it.

So intent she was on her task that she failed to notice her little sphere as it began to sink closer to the ground, almost as if it was being drained of power. That the air around her was growing thinner could be easily overlooked as her own nervousness. She was in a mad scientist’s hidden lab, sawing away at a dead body. Shortness of breath was to be expected under such circumstances. It wasn’t until the light from her sphere dimmed to the point that she could barely see what she was doing that Aislinn looked up and took notice.

She stared uncomprehendingly at her little scout. It was then that the sound of shuffling footsteps reached her ears. Her head snapped towards the doorway. She wasn’t alone. And she had a good idea as to what those shuffling steps heralded.

#ffxiv rp #ffxiv writing #balmung rp

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afantasticbeastwriter · 5 years

Text

For Your Protection || Newt Scamander x Reader

Genre: Angsty (but with a happy ending!) Word Count: 3,515 Prompt: “Can I request an angst with a happy ending? The reader is Newt’s girlfriend and a Muggle, but when Newt gets kidnapped, she goes to save him, despite the fact that she could get killed. But everything turns out okay!” A/N: Thank you @nelson-and-murdock for this request! Yay, my first semi-angsty fic! I got real into this one. PLEASE let me know what you think, I think you will love it! Also feel free to request something to me if you are interested! I’m always looking for more requests. Enjoy!

“No, you are not joining me.”

“Oh come on,” you wail, flailing your arms down in frustration, “you always take me on your trips. What makes this one any different?”

Sorting items into a bag from his desk, Newt warily frowns. “Madagascar’s tribes are highly unpredictable. You know that, {Y/N}.”

“So?”

His eyes fluttering shut, Newt sighs. He brings his bag over to you and tosses it on your lap. Its contents rattle a bit as they hit you, but he does not seem too phased by it as he sits across from you on his cot. “So,” he replies, curt, “the risk is far too great. I am not jeopardizing your life for a field trip.”

Your eyes narrow. “Field trip? Is that all you see our trips together as?”

“Now, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“I just don’t understand why this situation is suddenly so much more dangerous than all the other times I’ve gone along with you. It’s Madagascar. People are unpredictable. Cool. Great. So have the other hundreds of people we have encountered together.” Folding your arms, you shoot a poignant glare Newt’s way. He looks away frowning, but you hold your glare firm. He is not going to win this battle by pouting. At least, not without a fight from you. “Just tell me.”

“Can you not take my word for it?”

“Does it sound like I want to?”

“They kill muggles, {Y/N}.”

Blinking, you lean back in your seat. “What?”

He repeats himself once more. “They kill muggles, the wizards. Years of botched colonizing attempts forced drastic measures of protection.” Looking down to his lap, Newt fumbles with the edge of his coat hem to distract from his words. “You would not stand a chance if found to be a muggle.”

You pause. “Well, I’d just have to watch out. You know,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows and straightening an imaginary tie around your neck, “be stealthy and hope I fit in.”

“T-That’s not a chance I’m willing to take,” Newt says matter-of-factly, and the sheer hardness and worry in his voice is enough to make you reconsider your position altogether. He does not deserve to worry. He’s done nothing but love and care for you ever since he’s met you. Seeing him worry is comparable to seeing a puppy whimper. You cannot stand it. But, you really cannot stand the thought of being alone while Newt is off risking his life without you more. So, even though you shrink back and pretend to accept defeat, your mind continues racing with scenario after scenario of how you can find a way to join him once he leaves. You thank your lucky stars Queenie is the Legilimens and not Newt.

The rest of his preparations for the trip happen in silence. He stays busied packing, while you watch and occasionally help when he calls you over. The tension in the air is far-too-noticeable. You feel increasingly uncomfortable under it, but you do not dare say a word in fear it will make things worse. You wait for Newt to finish doing his work off to the side. When he finishes, you do not look at him until he calls to you.

“You know I would bring you if I could,” he tells you, his eyes full of sadness as his hand cups your cheek. “Be good to my creatures in my absence.”

Slightly guilty, you hold his hand against you and sigh. “Of course, Newt. Be careful, please. You know how I worry.”

“I know.” He says it barely audible, but you feel its weight nonetheless in your chest. With one gentle kiss to your lips and another emotion-filled look more, he steps out of his flat and disappears into the night with a swift crack, off to Madagascar.

Though he’s nowhere near his destination, you jump right into action.

Calling Bunty up is not something you do happily. Though sweet and about as threatening as a kitten, you are all-too-aware of her flame for Newt. He may not be wise to it, but you were once in her shoes pining over him, and you know too well how far she would go to get him if given the opportunity. The last thing you want to do is give her more hope toward that opportunity becoming a reality, but you cannot deny the fact she is expertly skilled in the treatment and care of Newt’s many creatures, nor that you need someone who Newt trusts to be able to look after them. She cheerfully accepts, swearing to keep your traveling a secret.

Next on your list is to secure travel. While you trust boats and quite enjoy the water, you are sure there is next to no chance of a boat getting you to Madagascar, or even near it, in time. It simply cannot be done without a little magic. Though you are a muggle, you have watched Newt and been on enough trips with him to know a bit about wizard travel methods. You especially know about travel by port key.

Seamus Knitrel, an odd fellow with a long beard, round glasses, and dark eye circles, is one wizarding connection of Newt’s. He provided you both travel for some of Newt’s most worrisome adventures after his old connection retired from the business. His name was the first to pop into your head when Newt refused your companionship, and he is the first person you call as soon as you finish securing Bunty. With the promise of some galleons Newt gave you for emergencies, he agrees to help to get you to the province Newt said he would be exploring. Anything for a friend, he says.

You leave in the morning, a bag with an undetectable extension charm Newt gave you for Christmas last year in tow as you journey through the busy London streets. Though no one knows exactly why you are walking or where you are going, their eyes seem to watch you as if they do. You feel utterly paranoid the entire way, all the way until you meet your destination. It’s a small flat of land in the middle of an old, abandoned castle perhaps fifteen minutes from town. Seamus meets you ten minutes after you arrive in a dark green coat, its collar standing up and hiding him from the crisp air around you. He looks you up and down and gives you a small, slightly patronizing smile.

“You sure you’re ready for this, lass?”

You meet him with a sure nod, your hands clutching your bag’s strap firmly. “Yes. When do I leave?”

“Two minutes now,” he says. He walks over to what looks like an abandoned cauldron a few yards from you and motions for you to come over to join him. When you do, he points inside it. “When I say go, you step inside. It’ll take you to where you’ve gotta go.” Pausing, he chuckles to himself. “Mr. Scamander know you’re doing this?”

“No,” you reply, “and if I give you a few extra galleons, I’m assuming it will stay that way. Are we clear?”

Seamus smirks, his hand reaching to stroke his beard as you dig in your bag for your money. You hand it to him and watch him examine it, his chuckle returning. “For a muggle, you’re quite sharp, dear. It’ll be our little secret. What’s he tryin’ ta’ find in Madagascar?”

“A Sapphire-Eyed Aye-Aye.” A lot like the muggle-known Aye-Aye, this creature Newt is after poses a distinction to that of its primate brothers of beautiful, piercing sapphire eyes and the ability to change scents of anything they desire. Newt loved the prospect of studying it and its ability, and given its brother species’ not-so-great relationship with natives, he wished to ensure he could preserve the species somehow. You very readily supported his choice to go find one – of course, until he told you you could not go with him.

“Them’s beautiful creatures,” Seamus affirms. Looking down at the cauldron, he sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Thirty seconds. You got a way of getting back, lass?”

“Newt is my way back.”

He looks you up and down, pauses, then huffs. You can see his judgement all across his face, but you shake it off. You have more important things to worry about than this raggedy man’s disapproval of your methods. “Good luck, then. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven.”

As he counts down the rest, you prepare yourself and fix your eyes on the cauldron. It starts to shake and quiver, causing an awful racket in the otherwise calm ruins that is almost unnerving. You focus on it until Seamus hits one. With a hop, you find yourself suddenly whirling in the air, the world around you changing and spinning at a most nauseas rate. Had Newt not taken you this way before, you would have thrown up or panicked, but you are a seasoned veteran. It does not remotely phase you, and when it comes time to land, you feel as well as you possibly could.

The area you land in is perfect. You can see the small village Newt had spoken about just off in the distance. A fire burns in a pit, and you notice a few villagers scattering about on their daily duties. It’s just as bustling as Newt had described to you. You cannot help but wonder if he is somewhere nearby lurking about, perhaps already on the trail of the Aye-Aye. From the non-threatened demeanor of the natives, you can at least safely assume he has not been caught yet.

It gives you hope.

The only way to hunt Newt in this unfamiliar territory, you reckon, is to hunt for his creature of choice. Wherever it is, he will be. Without any magic, it’s your best bet, so you start off looking through the trees. In your short time discussing the creature, Newt had claimed the creature would be found up in the trees, right near the canopy, where the foliage would be most dense. It is not exactly the prime hour to find him, as the Aye-Aye is nocturnal, but you still train your eyes to the treetops. Newt has his ways to get around conditions and find his creatures. Sunlight does not strike you as one of the things he cannot work with.

Sure enough, about twenty minutes into your search, you hear what sounds like an Aye-Aye call come from a few yards away into the jungle. Upon searching, you realize quickly that it’s coming not from an Aye-Aye, not even a Sapphire Aye-Aye, but your lovable boyfriend, hanging in a tree nearby what looks to be an Aye-Aye nest. He’s in his element in times like this, and watching him go after a creature is one of the things that makes you fall more in love with him time after time. You smile and lean against a nearby tree to watch.

And then, the atmosphere changes.

An eerie feeling of being watched comes over you. While you are able to hide and get rid of this feeling, Newt is not. Your eyes follow him as he continues to call to the Aye-Aye and stop, horrified, when you catch a view of a native wizard pointing his wand right at Newt. You do not even think of what can be done to you, what unwanted attention you can bring to yourself, when you scream Newt’s name. You just do it, and even though it makes your location known, the wizard is unable to reach you with a spell. He is, however, able to reach Newt and send him falling to the ground from the canopy. Thanks to your warning, he was able to grab a hold of his wand before his fall, so he does not hit the ground with the intended force of the other wizard. He is dazed though, and you watch in horror as he is taken under control by the man. No matter how much he seems to try and wiggle out of his grasp, Newt just cannot escape being taken away toward the village.

A tear falls down your face.

Newt and you had been in trouble before. In Australia, he actually was struck by a severe spell that cut his skin in the most painful of ways. You had been horrified by it and brought to a ridiculous amount of tears at the sight of him. But Newt did not panic. Instead, he worked to keep you calm and help him help himself. He taught you how to use Dittany, and he made sure to demonstrate that calm in the face of fear or chaos was the best way to go.

In your current situation, you had his lesson on repeat in your mind.

You wipe your eyes before sneaking your way toward the village. In the struggle to keep Newt, the man had all but abandoned looking for you, freeing you to go after them. You use this advantage to dart between trees and plants until you find a safe place to rest – a water well not too far from where they lock Newt up. He finds himself locked in a cage with two large guards standing on either side of it, watching him and glaring at him as he pleads his innocence. They ignore him, but he pleads on, especially to the leader who caught him. You frown as the pleas get more urgent and his hope of leaving gets more bleak.

It becomes clear as his words fall on deaf ears that these people are not going to simply let him go or have him out of their sight any time soon. The only way to save him, you decide, is for something serious to provoke them to turn their attention elsewhere. Your mind thinking, your eyes fall on the one thing that could do just that: the fire. As much as it hurts you to think of the fire possibly getting out of control and harming any creatures, you know it is the only way to distract everyone long enough for you to do something. The risk, in this case, is well worth the possible reward.

You wait until only the guards are paying attention to Newt. He no longer is fighting, sitting on the ground probably contemplating his next move and sorting through fears of his own. When the timing is right, you grab a fallen branch from nearby and make your way to the unattended fire. Eyes firmly trained on the guards, you carefully dip the branch into the fire and ignite it. To your luck, no one notices you make your way from there to the largest hut you could see far enough away from Newt’s cage in the area. Taking a deep breath and a quick glance Newt’s way, you drop the branch on the hut and sprint away.

It ignites exactly how you planned.

The guards, along with anyone nearby, immediately rush to the hut. It’s a moment of mass hysteria, and in this panic, you find it all too easy to get to Newt. He looks at you as if you are a ghost.

“{Y/N}? Wha…how are you…I don’t-”

“I’ll explain later,” you hurriedly say, “but right now I need to get you out of here.”

“You need to leave. If they catch you, they will kill you.”

Watching the fire grow out of the corner of your eye, you shake your head. “I don’t care. Your safety is my main priority.” Slamming the lock against the bars, you groan and look to Newt with a flash of panic. “Do you um…do you have like a wire or something I can use to get you out of here?”

“No, but I do have Pickett.”

“Why didn’t you use him sooner?”

Newt casts his gaze to the ground. “Well, having two monstrous men standing mere feet from me on either side did not exactly prove for the best conditions to do so, so…”

Sighing, you gently call the creature out of Newt’s coat. He crawls out at the sound of your voice and happily gets to work, his little arms turning the tumblers. It’s a silent and tense few seconds as he fumbles with the lock, but in no time, Pickett gets the job done. Newt breaks out and grabs his wand, which was cast aside just out of reach from the cage by the guards to taunt him. With it in hand, he grabs your arm and immediately disapparates.

The two of you reappear in a place you had been before. It was in South Africa, not too far from the coast but safe. The last time you and Newt had been there was to retrieve a stray Occamy. Coming back to it, you hardly have the same enthusiasm for adventure as you did before. If anything, you really, really wish you could go home.

You also wish Newt did not have such a disappointed look on his face.

“Well,” he says after brushing off his jacket, “care to tell me why you are here?”

You frown. “No ‘thank you’? No ‘I would still be in captivity in the middle of Madagascar if it were not for you’?”

“You should not have been here, {Y/N}.” Newt rubs his forehead. “I deliberately told you not to come and you put yourself in the line of danger.”

“You did, too!”

“I am armed with years of experience both at Hogwarts and out, as well as a wand,” he fires back, “and while I am appreciative of your help in creating a diversion, you could have been killed by creating it.”

You roll your eyes. “I was fine.”

“You were lucky,” he replies sharply. Pickett dives down into his pocket, scared by his tone, and Newt softens. He does not want to scare you, and he does ‘angry’ poorly well. He cannot hold the emotion for long at all. “So sorry. Just…just the thought of you hurt, o-or even killed because of me,” Newt chokes up, breaking your heart a bit, “that’s my worst nightmare, {Y/N}. It’s why I made a point to not have you come.”

“What about me, though?” Wiping a tear from your eye, you fold your arms. “Why are you the only one allowed to worry, huh? I sat at home and was terrified not knowing where you were or if you were okay. I barely got any sleep last night.”

“You’re allowed to worry,” he says softly. “You cannot defend yourself, however. No amount of self-defense classes or martial arts training stops a spell, and the villagers kill people like you on sight. Bringing you along might save you worry, but it is irresponsible on my part. I should be tried for murder if I ever allowed you to come along on such a trip. Understand?”

Your arms unravel and hang to the side as more tears fall. He is right. He is completely right, as much as it hurts to admit it. You were scared, and in being scared, you ignored the glaringly obvious threat to yourself. Your love for Newt made you feel invincible, it clouded your judgement, and it could have cost you your life and possibly even Newt’s in the process. Remorse brings even more tears to your eyes, and you find yourself leaning into Newt seeking comfort. He is not a fan of hugs, but he still brings you in close, his head resting on top of yours as you start to shake. You feel him sigh against you.

“Please don’t cry, {Y/N}. I’m not mad at you.”

“I-I ups-set you, though.”

“Hey,” he soothes, “it’s alright. Look, no more Madagascar adventures for me for a while. We’ll go only where we can together.”

“B-But Newt, the Aye-Aye-”

“Will be safe for a little while longer until I can recruit the proper help for a trip,” he finishes as he rubs your arm to calm you. “When I go, I’ll ensure a way to communicate to you of my whereabouts and safety. Well, and someone to keep you from running off again.”

Sniffling, you give a feeble push to his coat. “Too soon.”

“Too soon, then.” Newt gives you his famous half-smile and pulls back to see you. “Though, and forgive me for asking, may I know how exactly you got here?”

“Seamus’ portkey.”

Blinking, he chuckles to himself. “With what money?”

“The galleons you gave me for emergencies,” you reply.

“And who is watching the creatures?”

You bite your lip. “Bunty.”

“You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t do something like this unless I was really serious about it Newt,” you murmur. “I love you.”

Newt smiles. “I love you, too. And seriously, thank you for trying to save me, though ill advised.”

You poke at him, causing him to blush and inch away from you and making you grin back. “You’re welcome. Try not to need saving so much, you weirdo.”

“It’s wizard, actually.”

“Newt-”

“Sorry, sorry.”

#newt scamander #newt scamander x reader #fantastic beasts #fbawtft #fbawtft imagine #newt #Newton Scamander #newt x reader #fbawtft fanfic #hp imagine #hp reader insert #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #fantastic beats and where to find them #fanfic #fantastic beasts imagine #fantastic beasts fanfic

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spookyspaghettisundae · 5 years

Text

Lonesome Country Roads

Paul wandered along the empty road. He walked alone.

Not in a perfect line, for his legs were tired and he had no idea where the next roof over his head awaited him. He was alone on his cross-country trip, happy to find out where the road would take him. But also a bit creeped out from this stretch of forest area with nothing but wild animals all around.

Crickets chirped, owls hooted, and raccoon scurried through the dark forest that swallowed both ends of the winding paved path. Or at the very least, those were the creatures he wanted to imagine being out there. Although not a single human being was around for miles, Paul’s environment was anything but quiet. Still, he heard a car approaching from behind him. He turned to look back over his shoulder, peering over the top of his heavily packed hiking bag a couple of times. Only on his third glance did he see the headlights shine through the trees that obscured the curve. The vehicle swerved into sight, shining its bright lights onto the walking man.

Paul winced and narrowed his eyes. Then he did what he had been doing for the past days. He held up his hand with an outstretched thumb, signaling to the driver that he wanted to hitch a ride.

The last twenty vehicles aside from a trucker had never stopped to give him a lift. Some had slowed down and taken a careful look before speeding off—presumably because he was not an attractive woman, Paul thought to himself more often than not. But contrary to prior experiences and much to his surprise, this black sedan now slowed down and then came to stop completely, right by the side of the road where he had been walking.

Paul blinked and then hunched over to look into the passenger seat window as it automatically rolled down for him. It took him so long to believe that someone stopped so readily for him that he only lowered his arm with a few awkward moments of delay.

On the driver’s side sat a man with greasy shoulder-length hair and thick black rings under his eyes. He gave Paul a tired look. The inside of the car smelled like the mixture of an ashtray and a poorly-cleaned toilet. Crumpled up wrappers of fast food and other trash littered the backseat and the floors inside the car. The whole interior had a grimy and unclean look to it.

Paul stared at this stranger with a feeble smile playing upon his lips and he thought that getting inside this vehicle had to be a textbook case of hitching a ride with a serial killer. Then again, Paul had blonde dreadlocks, was unshaven and wore washed-out old brand clothing that belonged in the wardrobe of a hipster—he too might as well have been a textbook case of the serial killer you pick up as the seemingly-innocent hitchhiker.

In a whiskey-soaked voice sounding like it was about to break out into a hacking cough at any given moment, the driver asked, “Where you headed?”

Paul stammered his way through naming the next town. If this guy turned out to be alright, he could see if he could travel any farther with him than that. If he only took him past this Godforsaken forest, then that would be just as well.

The driver sneered, possibly at the mention of the town. But then he nodded and opened the passenger seat door and said, “I’m headed that way anyway, so feel free to hop on in.”

What was it that his friends always said? Gotta live a little—no risk, no fun.

Paul sat down inside the car and placed his pack onto his lap. He closed the door behind him and buckled up. Then the stranger drove off.

The next minutes passed in awkward silence. A thick knot in his gut prevented Paul from opening a conversation, even if just to exchange names or small-talk somehow. The stranger turned out to be quite the smooth driver. The way he maneuvered the car down the lonesome country roads was quite the opposite of what Paul had expected from the smell and sound of this guy. He had almost expected a bumpy ride of maniac on wheels or the swerving of a drunk. Instead, it reminded him of the way that really seasoned taxi drivers handled their vehicles.

The quiet was almost suffocating. Not just the weight of his own pack on his knees made Paul uncomfortable, but how he felt even more isolated now than before. He felt more alone than when he had been walking down the road for hours on his own.

There was something desolate of how the headlights illuminated the empty road before them, this sea of vast nothingness between the winding pathway of trees lining both sides and making it seem like no other world existed outside of this forest.

“So, where are you from,” Paul asked in what he considered a safe attempt at breaking the ice. The driver blinked and shot him a short glance without answering. “I’m from Jersey,” Paul said, followed by a short and nervous chuckle.

“Oregon,” said the driver.

“You out here on these roads for work, or,” Paul asked, attempting to pose a question. But he let the “or” trail off indefinitely, making the ensuing silence infinitely more awkward.

“Vacation,” the driver finally replied. He kept his eyes on the road. His eyes narrowed and his lips turned downwards into a frown.

Paul swallowed quietly, afraid now to even clear his throat although he would have needed to do that badly—just in order to rid himself of the fearful imaginary lump that had lodged itself in his pipes.

Then the thumping began. He wanted to mention it, as they drove in silence, because Paul—at first—suspected something like a flat tire to be the cause of it. But the car continued to glide along with the same smoothness. It eventually dawned on Paul that it was coming from the back.

From the trunk.

He looked out the passenger seat window, seeing nothing but silhouettes of dark trees painted against the backdrop of the dark blue sky. It was not like he wanted to look out there, rather that he wanted to avoid eye contact with the driver.

Who might not have been a serial killer, after all. Maybe he was “only” a kidnapper.

The thumping stopped.

Paul waited for it to suddenly continue, and he continued to wait for what felt like an eternity.

Nothing.

He bit his lip until he tried to broach the subject of the unnerving sound, or rather, of its absence. Instead, he croaked, “So, how are you enjoying this part of the states?”

Paul’s words did not hang in the air for long. But instead of the driver responding, the arrhythmic thumping continued. Paul forced himself to blink in order to conceal his instinct to flinch in response to hearing the sound’s return. He swallowed again and turned his head slowly to look at the driver.

The nameless man kept his eyes locked on the road in front of him and he never blinked. Either he did not hear the thumping, he pretended not to hear it, or he did not care.

What really freaked Paul out was the latter—that he picked up Paul despite knowing that a hitchhiker might hear the person locked in the trunk. That he did not care if there were any witnesses.

Because if he did not care about witnesses, it meant that he would not leave any.

Paul’s heart raced and only now did he realize how all the blood had drained from his hands and feet, rendering them as cold as ice. His fingers clawed into the latches on his hiking bag. In his mind, he pictured himself ripping open the door and jumping out of the car while it was still in motion, rolling in the dirt and then running off to get away from this psycho.

At the same time, he told himself that he was just being foolish. And that he might get himself killed if he jumped out of a moving car at its current speed. Besides, there could just as well be a rational explanation for everything: the driver might just be a jerk who put an unruly dog or other pet in the trunk. The fact that he did not care about taking a hitchhiker was because he had nothing crazy to hide.

Paul tried to tell himself all those things to calm his nerves, but it didn’t work. He worried that his first instinct—his paranoia—was on the money here.

Before he could dwell yet more on the thoughts going around in circles in his mind, the driver pulled over and let the car roll to a gentle stop. He pulled out the keys and stared at Paul. After an awkward moment of looking him up and down and Paul only glancing back at him through the corners of his eyes, the man said, “Sorry, gotta take a leak.”

Without further ado, he got out of the car, walked around its front where the glaring glow of his headlights illuminated him to the point of him looking like a ghost for a split second, and then he disappeared into the unfathomable darkness of the forest.

Paul’s heart beat faster than ever before in his entire life. He needed to know what was in the trunk. If this guy was some sort of lunatic who had locked anybody in there, he needed to free the victim and run away before he got back. This—now—was his only opportunity.

In a moment of strange clarity and dubious heroism, he hit the switch on the dashboard to unlock the trunk, and rushed out of the car without shutting the door behind him.

He reached the back of the car to find the trunk’s lid popped open and inside—

Well, the sheer oddity of what he saw simply paralyzed him.

Lying in the trunk was the nameless driver: same greasy hair, same rings under the eyes. The entire trunk’s inside reeked of urine, like a stronger version of the smell inside the car’s cabin. The only differences were that this driver looked at him with eyes wide in terror and his mouth was sealed by crinkled silvery duct tape circling all around his head. The man’s hands were tied together under layers of duct tape wildly wrapped around them, in a way that stopped him from even using his fingers. His entire face screamed of desperation and fear, pleading Paul to free him. Only labored, muffled groans escaped the tape-gag that kept his mouth shut.

When Paul heard the sound of gravel crunching underneath a boot behind him, the man’s eyes also fixated on someone behind the hitchhiker, upon which Paul spun around.

It was like looking into a mirror, except that the eyes of his double were devoid of passion and tired. He looked the stranger up and down, but it was not the stranger anymore, it was himself. The blond dreadlocks, the scruffy beard, the hipster outfit. A perfect clone.

“Which one of you do I keep, and which one of you do I dispose?”

He heard himself pose that question, but it did not come from his own mouth, it came from his mirror image in front of him. It sounded just like him.

Then he saw the big hunting knife in his hand.

Or rather, in the hand of the other him.

Paul tried to run, but he did not get far. The first stab hardly slowed him down, but the next five really cost him speed. A slash must have severed something that forced him to limp along, and finally, the doppelganger stood above him and stared at him. Paul begged and his eyes welled up with tears, but the next dozen stabs eventually silenced him. The forest grounds began swallowing his blood and the stranger left his body out there to rot.

The thing, now looking like Paul, returned to the car and dragged his original victim back into the trunk, for in the meanwhile, the real owner of the car had stumbled out of his cramped prison and staggered down the road, though not far enough to escape this evil thing. He kicked and impotently screamed against his gag but the creature was as strong as five people.

Once it had locked him back inside there, it sat back down in the driver’s seat of the car it had appropriated. It readjusted the rear-view mirror and inspected its new appearance.

It did not smile, it did not laugh. It showed no signs of emotions.

Instead, it revved the engine and drove off, continuing down those lonesome country roads.

—Submitted by Wratts

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girlwise-a · 5 years

Text

THE TREE ON THE HILL: AN ANNABETH DRABBLE.

Excited, perhaps, was a bit too happy of an emotion to describe the surge Annabeth felt as Grover – a satyr, as he previously mentioned – exclaimed that they were getting closer to the camp that promised them all safety. Thalia, Luke and she were all used to making their own safe place in their past journeys, so it would truly be a welcome change from what she’d experienced before. A more apt emotion to describe it all would be anxiousness, unplaced between fear and joy. All things considered, she should be happy to know that she would finally have asylum, a place where people knew exactly what they were doing, and a chance to get answers she longed for. Yet, ever present still was that lingering fear of the unknown, something she refused to place lest she feel “weak”, or whatever emotions she refused to feel. They’d all gotten through the worst, right? Grover knew what he was doing, right?

They’d passed another lake ( or was it the same one from before? ), hardly any monsters in sight. At that point all lakes seemed to look the same, and though in between periods of focused silence Grover swore he knew where they were, the three knew differently. Their only guide seemed nervous and lost, there was no hiding that. The eerie silence, an eye of the storm, almost too quiet judging from their past experiences. Annabeth was suspicious, and she supposed Luke and Thalia felt the same way judging from their silent reactions. Grover seemed happy go lucky as ever, if a bit nervous, and if she wasn’t so anxious she might have found it as a relief. She was focused.

“Almost there,” Grover exclaimed, confidence returning to his voice. It bounced back from the edge of the woods against the dead silence. Before Annabeth had the time to feel relief at the sign clearly reading “Camp Halfblood” in the distance, Grover’s yell of glee was returned with a roar in the far distance. His ears tucked down, eyes wide as he looked behind him, the joy in his voice having quickly drained. Luke’s hand hovered over the hilt of his weapon and Thalia readied hers, as well as Annabeth. The three was fully prepared to fight whatever foe decided to appear if it came down to it. They were all so close to safety, and agreed to run if they could help it. What was once a simple growl became a cacophony of them, Annabeth was unsure if there were 3, 4 or 5. Either way, they were unmatched. They all knew it. Though Annabeth, Thalia, and by extension Luke proposed to fight, Grover seemed to think differently. His body, skiddish and horrified, began to retreat up the hill to camp. Hurriedly, he instructed for the rest to follow suit. No one could blame him, really. It was a horrifying situation. Unsure of what to do in the dark, Annabeth ran towards Thalia who charged towards the monsters.

As Annabeth ran, her foot caught a branch on the ground, causing her to face plant and her ankle to begin swelling almost immediately. Fear filled her eyes as the others scattered in different directions though it was clear that Annabeth was prepared to fight. Before she knew it, Luke footsteps neared towards her and his arms were scooping her up bridal style as he began to run towards camp.

Realization struck. “…Thalia. Thalia, Luke! Where’s Thalia?”

As Luke’s breaths forced out in steady heaves and his arms held Annabeth close to him, his speed increased as another deadly roar sounded from what was getting further and further away. Thalia’s voice, in the distance, taunted the creature as sickly gnarls rumbled the ground. Things like “hey, asshole! I’m right here!” and “it’s me you want, right?” Resounded from the direction they left their friend, and Annabeth seemed all the more panicked with every word.

“Luke…?” First, trying to lift above the noise, then louder, ripping through her throat, “LUKE. WE CAN’T LEAVE THALIA.” Helpless was Wisdom’s daughter’s words as they became more desperate, more horrified. Sobs choked her throat as she banged on her friend’s chest, clawing at the fabric that separated air and skin. With every squirm, Luke’s grip tightened. Through the passing moments, all seeming to go in painstakingly slow motion, she felt more and more helpless. It was useless. Thalia was gone with a final roar from whatever monster threatened to attack. Grover was long gone. Annabeth still steady in Luke’s grasp, they passed the threshold to camp and furthermore to safety, but how was Annabeth to feel safe without Thalia? Normally she wasn’t one to blame herself, but this was different. Regrets filled her mind. If only she hadn’t tripped and hurt her ankle…

“We’re here,” Luke exclaimed breathlessly, tears choking at his throat. Or was that him gasping for air from running quickly? She couldn’t tell. Annabeth still wept in his arms, but her once ripping demands now played like choked back sobs, “she’s dead, and we promised we would all do this together,” through quickly hoarse tone. Luke simply held Annabeth as she cried, and perhaps he did too though not as openly.

They both realized just how little they could do, so for a while they held each other, hoping for the best but knowing the worst was more likely. After a moment, Luke asked for a medic to look at Annabeth’s ankle, later discovered to be a sprain. Always focused on the others, trained to not think of himself, Luke would later discover cuts and bruises to match Annabeth’s, but neither injuries as bad as Thalia’s, which seemed beyond repair. Daily, Annabeth would ask if Thalia somehow made it back. Her stubborn hope kept herself able to recover from her injuries and continue to fight.

Until, of course, she saw the tree on the hill. Thalia’s tree. Where her body might’ve laid in all its tough glory, she no longer stood. Instead, a tree, as strong and relentless as she, guarded camp. She walked towards it, hands brushing over the wood as Chiron, a centaur, explained what had happened in their absence. He explained that the tree was in fact Thalia herself, guarding the rest of the camp and serving as a comfort beacon for the rest of the campers. It stood tall at the top of the hill, proud and steadfast as its roots intertwined with the dirt beneath it. It was fitting for her, really, but that wasn’t enough. That would never be enough, because that tree wasn’t her, not really. That tree couldn’t hold conversation. It could simply stay and protect, as if that was the only thing Thalia was good for. She was so much morethan a tree. Annabeth’s introduction to camp was the cherry on top of her time alone, filled with monsters intent on making their life some sort of twisted nightmare. Without Thalia there, for the longest time Annabeth was unsure what to do. Yet, she preserved. She stayed strong and continued moving forward, because that’s what she would have wanted. She and Luke made a bond that seemed unbreakable that way, to never let that happen to either of them again. And for a handful of years, it worked.

Every time she left camp and returned back, she made it a point to touch Thalia’s tree, as if to say “I’m still here. Because of you.” The guilt she felt became easier to manage but still weighed upon her like chains and manacles to her arms and legs. Still, she kept moving.

Because that’s what Thalia would have wanted, and if anything, Annabeth could do that. She could be better. She could prevent this from happening ever again.

#drabble.#* bio // theseus. odysseus. orpheus. perseus. ...annabeth.

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toalternate · 5 years

Text

THE TREE ON THE HILL: AN ANNABETH DRABBLE.

Excited, perhaps, was a bit too happy of an emotion to describe the surge Annabeth felt as Grover -- a satyr, as he previously mentioned -- exclaimed that they were getting closer to the camp that promised them all safety. Thalia, Luke and she were all used to making their own safe place in their past journeys, so it would truly be a welcome change from what she'd experienced before. A more apt emotion to describe it all would be anxiousness, unplaced between fear and joy. All things considered, she should be happy to know that she would finally have asylum, a place where people knew exactly what they were doing, and a chance to get answers she longed for. Yet, ever present still was that lingering fear of the unknown, something she refused to place lest she feel "weak", or whatever emotions she refused to feel. They'd all gotten through the worst, right? Grover knew what he was doing, right?

They'd passed another lake ( or was it the same one from before? ), hardly any monsters in sight. At that point all lakes seemed to look the same, and though in between periods of focused silence Grover swore he knew where they were, the three knew differently. Their only guide seemed nervous and lost, there was no hiding that. The eerie silence, an eye of the storm, almost too quiet judging from their past experiences. Annabeth was suspicious, and she supposed Luke and Thalia felt the same way judging from their silent reactions. Grover seemed happy go lucky as ever, if a bit nervous, and if she wasn't so anxious she might have found it as a relief. She was focused.

"Almost there," Grover exclaimed, confidence returning to his voice. It bounced back from the edge of the woods against the dead silence. Before Annabeth had the time to feel relief at the sign clearly reading “Camp Halfblood” in the distance, Grover's yell of glee was returned with a roar in the far distance. His ears tucked down, eyes wide as he looked behind him, the joy in his voice having quickly drained. Luke’s hand hovered over the hilt of his weapon and Thalia readied hers, as well as Annabeth. The three was fully prepared to fight whatever foe decided to appear if it came down to it. They were all so close to safety, and agreed to run if they could help it. What was once a simple growl became a cacophony of them, Annabeth was unsure if there were 3, 4 or 5. Either way, they were unmatched. They all knew it. Though Annabeth, Thalia, and by extension Luke proposed to fight, Grover seemed to think differently. His body, skiddish and horrified, began to retreat up the hill to camp. Hurriedly, he instructed for the rest to follow suit. No one could blame him, really. It was a horrifying situation. Unsure of what to do in the dark, Annabeth ran towards Thalia who charged towards the monsters.

Realization struck. “...Thalia. Thalia, Luke! Where's Thalia?”

As Luke’s breaths forced out in steady heaves and his arms held Annabeth close to him, his speed increased as another deadly roar sounded from what was getting further and further away. Thalia's voice, in the distance, taunted the creature as sickly gnarls rumbled the ground. Things like "hey, asshole! I'm right here!" and "it's me you want, right?" Resounded from the direction they left their friend, and Annabeth seemed all the more panicked with every word.

“Luke...?” First, trying to lift above the noise, then louder, ripping through her throat, “LUKE. WE CAN'T LEAVE THALIA.” Helpless was Wisdom's daughter's words as they became more desperate, more horrified. Sobs choked her throat as she banged on her friend's chest, clawing at the fabric that separated air and skin. With every squirm, Luke's grip tightened. Through the passing moments, all seeming to go in painstakingly slow motion, she felt more and more helpless. It was useless. Thalia was gone with a final roar from whatever monster threatened to attack. Grover was long gone. Annabeth still steady in Luke's grasp, they passed the threshold to camp and furthermore to safety, but how was Annabeth to feel safe without Thalia? Normally she wasn't one to blame herself, but this was different. Regrets filled her mind. If only she hadn't tripped and hurt her ankle...

“We're here,” Luke exclaimed breathlessly, tears choking at his throat. Or was that him gasping for air from running quickly? She couldn’t tell. Annabeth still wept in his arms, but her once ripping demands now played like choked back sobs, “she's dead, and we promised we would all do this together,” through quickly hoarse tone. Luke simply held Annabeth as she cried, and perhaps he did too though not as openly.

They both realized just how little they could do, so for a while they held each other, hoping for the best but knowing the worst was more likely. After a moment, Luke asked for a medic to look at Annabeth's ankle, later discovered to be a sprain. Always focused on the others, trained to not think of himself, Luke would later discover cuts and bruises to match Annabeth's, but neither injuries as bad as Thalia's, which seemed beyond repair. Daily, Annabeth would ask if Thalia somehow made it back. Her stubborn hope kept herself able to recover from her injuries and continue to fight.

Until, of course, she saw the tree on the hill. Thalia's tree. Where her body might've laid in all its tough glory, she no longer stood. Instead, a tree, as strong and relentless as she, guarded camp. She walked towards it, hands brushing over the wood as Chiron, a centaur, explained what had happened in their absence. He explained that the tree was in fact Thalia herself, guarding the rest of the camp and serving as a comfort beacon for the rest of the campers. It stood tall at the top of the hill, proud and steadfast as its roots intertwined with the dirt beneath it. It was fitting for her, really, but that wasn't enough. That would never be enough, because that tree wasn't her, not really. That tree couldn't hold conversation. It could simply stay and protect, as if that was the only thing Thalia was good for. She was so much more than a tree. Annabeth's introduction to camp was the cherry on top of her time alone, filled with monsters intent on making their life some sort of twisted nightmare. Without Thalia there, for the longest time Annabeth was unsure what to do. Yet, she preserved. She stayed strong and continued moving forward, because that's what she would have wanted. She and Luke made a bond that seemed unbreakable that way, to never let that happen to either of them again. And for a handful of years, it worked.

Every time she left camp and returned back, she made it a point to touch Thalia's tree, as if to say “I'm still here. Because of you.” The guilt she felt became easier to manage but still weighed upon her like chains and manacles to her arms and legs. Still, she kept moving.

Because that's what Thalia would have wanted, and if anything, Annabeth could do that. She could be better. She could prevent this from happening ever again.

#* muse :// annabeth. ( i've always been a smart girl. )#drabble.#hi

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