#yes Faroe Gone will have a happy ending

[groenendaelfic]

Faroe Gone Final Chapter Sneak Peak

So there's still lots of editing I need to do before I can post the whole thing, but with tomorrow looming I thought I'd share something "happy" and "cheerful" to distract y'all.

Have fun reading the beginning of the final chapter and hope you enjoy! 😇

Simon doesn't know if it's the sudden fog, his tears, or the fact that all he wants to do is be a fool and turn back around again—the first one, definitely the first one—but he drives back to Tórshavn at almost a snail's pace.

It doesn't matter. He has well over a day until the ferry makes its return journey to Denmark and nothing else to do except go over his time with Wilhelm again and again, replaying the good times and the pleasurable times and wondering if he could have said or done anything to change the outcome of his journey—other than realizing that all of his feelings were mere nostalgic illusion and fantasy, which of course turned out to not be the case.

Quite the opposite. Real Wilhelm was so much more than what Simon made him out to be in his head. There's so much he's missed. So much he doesn't know yet and which he desperately wants to find out.

It hurts, and yet there's nothing else Simon can do, no other choice which wouldn't hurt more sooner or later.

No. Simon tried. He did the best he could and that is enough. It has to be enough.

Simon had to leave while he still could.

The road ahead of him is empty, no one else in sight. No people, no cars, no sheep. Nothing except the wet, cold fog swallowing up everything and a rushing noise in his ears which might be the wind or the ocean or Simon himself.

Simon blinks away another tear and keeps driving, turning up the heat and hoping it will help.

It doesn't.

On the next island he passes a camper van. It's parked, and Simon thinks he can make out a brave tourist trying to take a picture, but he isn't sure. It's not as if there's much to see except an endless wall of grayish white.

Maybe that's the fascination.

Wilhelm told him that there are thirty-seven words for fog in the Faroese language, and while Simon laughed and told him to stop kidding, he's sure he's already experienced half of them, and it's only been two days.

Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but contemplating the uselessness of taking pictures of fog is a lot more bearable than lingering on the fact that he'll never get to be with Wilhelm again, never feel that satisfied ache in his muscles, not like this, and really how long can a grown man cry before he's all out of tears?

Pretty long he guesses.

Simon once stopped Ayub's baby daughter from attempting a daring escape on all fours, and Simon swears she was crying forever. Not that he blames her.

Crying is cathartic if it's anything, but if she could produce that many tears because of nothing more than a foiled plan to explore the stairway, then how many will Simon be able to shed before he's all wrung out? He’s a lot taller than her after all and guaranteed to not forget the reason for his tears even after being presented with some candy.

Simon doesn't want to know.

Simon wants to keep driving through this fog forever, because all that's waiting for him at its end is the mundanity of his never-changing life and a scandal revealing the Crown Prince to have been the victim of underage revenge porn thanks to his second cousin and presumed successor, and that is guaranteed to make it worse, to drag Simon’s name back into public awareness.

He should probably call home and warn his mom, warn Sara, but facing them will be torture of an entirely different kind, and also the investigative journalist they chose is a good one, one bound to build a case and not blindly believe her sources before going public, so there is still time.

Not too much though, as there is an impending deadline if the Royal Court and the Prime Minister are to be believed, or at least Simon would really prefer news of August’s deeds to overshadow him being taken into the line of succession.

Not that he’s so naive as to think a mere article can do more than delay the proceedings at best—although one can always hope—and ideally the journalist and whoever else gets a say in choosing the right time will see it the same way, but all of that is still more than half a week away, so why burden his family before he absolutely has to?

No, he's not going to call home yet, but maybe he should reserve a room before he gets back to the capital.

He decides to do it the old fashioned way and pulls over at the next opportunity. A viewpoint, or so he presumes the sign a few meters away from him would tell him if only it was clear enough to see.

He wipes at his cheeks and opens his phone. There are plenty of options for him to stay at. Small, privately owned places, holiday homes with kitchens and living rooms, quaint little hotels doing their best to sell their Nordic, rustic charm to tourists wealthy enough to make it there, and of course a camping ground, because unlike Sweden, the Faroe Islands don't allow one to set up camp anywhere else.

Simon doesn't choose any of them. He wants a warm but bland room, boring and inoffensive and as likely to be in Tórshavn as on the other side of the world.

Something as far from Wilhelm's colorful and most definitely handmade and expensive wooden furniture as he can get, and so he books himself a room at the first—and only—international hotel chain he can find, something he'd never do otherwise, and pretends that he's looking forward to it. The hotel has a fitness center after all and well over a hundred rooms. Simon is almost going to feel like back home in Uppsala.

Not.

He sighs and makes sure he received a confirmation for his booking, before he throws his phone onto the passenger seat and sighs again.

Somehow, magically, or rather because he's on a windy archipelago in the middle of nowhere, the fog is starting to clear. He can see a few meters of grass now, and then a cliff, and below it the cold, dark ocean pretending at being calm.

Simon wants the fog back, but when has he ever gotten what he wanted, and by the time he's back on the road he swears he can see a tiny patch of blue sky up ahead.

The hotel is on the outskirts of town and exactly as impersonal as Simon hoped it would be. He isn't hungry, and so he goes straight to his room and falls face first into bed.

The sheets are white and the pillows are white and they smell bland and clean and inoffensive, nothing at all like Wilhelm, and why would they?

Simon hates them. Simon also hates the hotel, but it's not as if he's in the mood for sightseeing, and as he isn't willing to take a shower yet—what? He's alone, no one's going to smell him, and isn't that the entire problem?—all that's left to do is turn on the TV, because he's for sure not touching his phone again any time soon.

Not when that would mean having it confirmed with every passing minute that he was a fool to leave Wilhelm his number. Wilhelm isn't going to call, but Simon would rather live in denial for as long as he can.

The TV does not greet him with an info screen as Simon expected, but an English speaking news channel, the volume turned up way too loudly, and Simon turns it off again as fast as he can.

Wallowing in self pity it is then.

Unfortunately Simon's usual answer to bouts of self-pity—angrily jerking off to thoughts of Wilhelm—is not an option right now, because Wilhelm is the entire reason for his misery, and so he grudgingly reaches for his phone after all and starts up a game which would work much better on a computer screen.

He's just about to finish off the newest boss, when a text message pops up.

If I do it, it reads. Then can we

The sentence stops halfway through, and Simon almost has a heart attack.

The delay in his reaction is enough for him to be killed instead, but it's not as if Simon notices.

Wilhelm. It has to be Wilhelm.

He taps the message, and while that makes it larger, it doesn't change the words.

He almost calls Wilhelm back right away, because Wilhelm is swaying, is reconsidering, and Simon wants that, he wants it so bad, to have Wilhelm back in his arms and his life, but also Simon already told Wilhelm that he can't be the only reason Wilhelm returns, that this is a life changing decision if there was ever any, and that Wilhelm needs to make it for himself and not for a hope of them maybe working out, and so he doesn't.

Instead he waits an excruciating minute and then another, just in case Wilhelm wants to add something or pressed send too soon, but no further message follows.

Simon curses and swears and kicks up his feet, because now he has hope again and that is great, but also torture. He doesn't want Wilhelm to get the wrong impression, doesn't want him to think that Simon wouldn't be willing to pick right up where they left off if he could—in the bedroom that is, not when it comes to fighting—and maybe they could also go on a date which has been nineteen years in coming.

Simon wants that. Simon really wants that. How can he not, now that he's had a taste, has spent time with Wilhelm, just Wilhelm, has had breakfast with him and done chores with him and played with his dog. Simon wants Wilhelm back, now more so than ever.

Simon knows he's an idiot, thinking of romance and dating when he just left the love of his life behind, and even if he hadn't, a returning Wilhelm would have much different things on his mind. He'd have to. He'd have no other choice. Things like his dying mother and the throne and the public reacting to his return after ten years in exile.

Wilhelm wouldn't have time for Simon, no matter how much Wilhelm would want him. Not for weeks and not for months. Simon would have to sneak into an assortment of palaces with the eyes of the entire nation on nothing but them if he wanted any time with Wilhelm at all, and Simon wouldn't want that. Simon doesn't want secrecy and sneaking and lies. Not that'd even be an option, what with the press and curious bystanders everywhere.

There is another option of course. The only one Wilhelm would ever consider coming back for. The one which at first glance sounds perfect because it means being with Wilhelm and standing by his side. It would also mean giving up everything else in Simon's life though, but what has he really got to lose? Why stop being foolish now?

Wilhelm told Simon that he's it for him. Wilhelm loves him. Simon's already traveled across an ocean. What's one tiny text message compared to that? Why can't he be selfish just this once and fuck the risk and the idiocy and the fear of what will be in one year? In five? In ten?

It all might end in disaster, but it might also not, and why should he be miserable if there's even the slightest chance at some fleeting happiness. After all it's not as if the email Wilhelm sent isn't bound to upend Simon's life anyway, and it's not as if Wilhelm is actually going to come.

Simon wants to be happy.

Simon wants to be happy and now there's a chance for it and so why not take it? He's done stupider things before, like coming here in the first place, so he might as well go all the way.

He doesn't text Wilhelm a yes, doesn't make any promises. He texts one word and one word alone, followed by a number, the name of the hotel and his room number, and maybe that's the biggest promise of all.

He doesn't regret it. He couldn't stay, not without making his inevitable departure even worse, but now he's done his part and the ball is in Wilhelm's court, all the balls are, and Simon is here and waiting.

For a ferry. For Wilhelm. For the life they could have had.

Fuck.

#it was editing this #or throwing myself a pity party #because for the first time ever #I could attend all the Eurovision events live #with nothing stopping me except my own morals and conscious #so clearly I'm boycotting it all #and that's the easy choice #no pity party for me #hello editing #I'm not saying Simon is staying at the Hilton Garden Inn #but I'm also not not saying that #yes Faroe Gone will have a happy ending #faroe gone #young royals #young royals fic #fic snippet #wilmon #fic update

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Try, Try Again - a Malevolent one-shot for the Malevolent zine, This Too Shall Pass

The King in Yellow worked for a month to get Arthur to spill the information he wanted. Eventually, he got what he wanted through a made-up Bostonian, Adam Fry.

What happened in the month before Arthur woke?

So many things.

AO3

Written for the @malevolent-fanzine, This Too Shall Pass

————

You’re losing so much blood.

“How much is too much?” Arthur whispers.

Fuck. Arthur, if this is the end, I… I’m sorry.

“You and me both.”

The entity feels far, quiet and fading, and then it’s gone.

#

“Ready?” says Parker, tucking brass knuckles into his jacket pocket.

“As ever.” Arthur dons his hat, tilting it forward just enough to shade his eyes. It won’t make him look tough, of course. That’s not the goal, anyway; Parker’s got “tough” covered.

58 Pelican Lane is creepy, but strangely familiar.

Arthur can’t think why it’s familiar, but he pushes that weirdness aside as they try to figure out a way in.

The back window jimmies open easily enough (why is it familiar?), but the house yields no clues—except for the weird symbol on the wall, a creepy figure which… which…

Wait. That’s the wrong symbol. Isn’t it?

“Fuck this,” says Parker, scowling as they exit the place. “We need to try the next lead. You said you knew where she went.”

“What?” says Arthur, because something isn’t… right.

“Amanda? Amanda Cummings? The whole reason we’re out here?” No one could do dry disapproval like Parker.

“I… yes, of course, we…”

Come to think of it, had Parker ever worn a yellow tie?

He hadn’t. There was some reason he… he…

“You said you knew where she went. Well, this lead’s obviously a bust. Where’d she go, Arthur?”

And Arthur almost answers.

Almost blurts Harper’s Hill, but then he remembers with a little jolt that Parker never wore yellow, because idiots possessed of racialism could be swayed or scared or subdued, but always got stupid when they saw him wearing yellow, always devolved into some kind of ching-chong chant if he did, so he could never, ever wear that hue.

Something is so incredibly wrong. Arthur stares at him.

Parker’s eyes are yellow, too.

“What the fuck?” says Arthur.

Parker sighs. “Of course, you’d make this difficult,” he says in a deep and terrible voice, and—

#

Tess is nearly out the door and Arthur is annoyed. “How long did you say you’d be gone?” he says, trying not to sound too upset, because getting upset is how you lose hired help.

“Just a week or so,” says Tess, pulling on her coat.

Arthur runs his hands through his hair. It feels… less clean than it should, and he remembers he hadn’t showered this morning.

Of course he hadn’t. The symphony is almost done. He’d worked on it until five a.m., then passed out on the couch.

Tess’ timing was just fucking terrible. “I truly appreciate your familial loyalty, and I’m happy for your mother, but I have to admit that I wish you’d picked a different—oh, hello, darling,” he says, because Faroe has materialized the way she does, and is clinging to his leg.

She just looks up at him and says, “Hey!” with that smile, with that life, and Tess suddenly no longer matters, and neither does his symphony, and—

And—

He’s… crying?

“Hey, Mister Lester, you don’t need to take it so bad,” says Tess.

Arthur picks up Faroe.

She’s fine. She’s happy. Her diaper needs changing, but she’s warm, and precious, and heavier than she looks, and she plants a perfect kiss as tiny as a peanut on his cheek, and…

He can’t stop sobbing, ugly crying, and clutches her close and doesn’t know why.

Tess is still talking? “Look, I know it’s tough being a dad all on your own, no little woman to get things done while you work so hard. Hey, tell you what! You remember Amanda Cummings? I bet she could help out while I’m gone.”

“Am… Amanda…” And he can’t stop breathing in Faroe’s whispery hair, and kissing her soft, round cheek, and he doesn’t know why, he can’t remember what, he does not recall the very bad thing that hurts with a density like the core of the sun.

“Yeah. You remember her! She’s sat for you before. Where does she live, again?”

And he almost answers out of distraction, because his attention is split, because he was asked, because—

Faroe’s eyes are yellow.

They were never yellow. They were blue like her mother’s, like unblemished sky, like all the hope in the world that sings.

And he is grieving?

“What?” he whispers.

Tess sighs. “You are trying my patience, Arthur,” she says in a voice like a nightmare, a voice like a curse, and then—

#

Baby Stanczyk won’t stop crying.

Burn it, Arthur! Now! Quick!

Arthur manages to get the flame to light, and the (presence coldness force breathlessness terror) wraith seems to disappear.

“Where is she?” Arthur demands, heart pounding.

She’s retreated into the chair. You did it, Arthur!

“Oh, thank god,” Arthur gasps, curled forward and panting.

Arthur… it’s not over.

“What?”

We need to tell the wraith where to go. Remember?

They did?

It’s her favor. We decided. Remember? Arthur, you need to be smarter than this.

“I… her favor? Whose favor?”

Amanda. Amanda Cummings.

Wait. Was… was that right?

The wraith’s absence is terrible, anticipatory, tight in some worsening way, as if the longer he waits to do this, the more terrible it will become. “I… I thought we… had we decided?”

Yes, Arthur! For fuck’s sake! Tell the wraith where to go!

And he’s so close.

(The baby cries.)

So close to just saying the truth, giving the answer, sharing a thing that doesn’t matter at all in exchange for a good deed, for a dead woman’s freedom, for the safety of an innocent child—

The baby has yellow eyes.

Arthur shouldn’t know the baby has yellow eyes. He’s blind. Why does he know it has yellow eyes?

“This isn’t right,” he whispers.

Fucking hell, Arthur, says the entity, and then—

#

Arthur is singing.

He is so damned afraid, he could piss himself, but by gum, he’s singing.

“I can’t forget the night I met you… It’s all I’m thinking of. And now, you call it m… uh… But I call it love.”

“No, no, no!” says Kellin, and Arthur remembers why he’s afraid, why he’s sitting in a truck going 40 miles per hour next to a madman in a mask, and Kellin’s voice thrums low like unhallowed prayer. “You’re missing a word. You skipped a word. Why, Arthur? What makes you so afraid to say madness?”

Arthur doesn’t know the answer, Arthur feels wrung out, Arthur feels like he’s tilting off a cliff with no memory of finding its edge. “I forgot, that’s all. I just forgot what the word was.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

It is, it is, and he is so afraid. “No, of course not, no.”

“I offered you a ride. That’s not very nice of you, Arthur.”

Such words should not carry such threat.

“You hurt my feelings,” says Kellin.

“I… I’m sorry,” says Arthur, who doesn’t mean it, who feels for the door handle and remembers they’re driving down the road at speed, and if he jumps out blind, he is going to fucking die.

“I forgive you,” says Kellin, “or I will—if you tell me where we’re headed again.”

Arthur! Just fucking do it!

This isn’t how it goes.

Why does Arthur know that?

“Tell me where we’re headed,” says Kellin, too evenly, too calmly, not at all the strained-quiet man who (stabbed chased threatened) scares him so much, and Arthur feels like his head has detached from his body and is floating away.

Arthur! Just tell him!

This isn’t how it goes. “What?”

Arthur!

“Arthur, I need…”

Arthur!

“Will you both shut up, just shut up!” Arthur cries, and doesn’t know why, and feels upside down and spun around and long lost sight of land.

“I’ll stop the truck and let you out if you do,” says Kellin.

That’s not Kellin. Kellin didn’t want that.

Kellin wanted… something the fuck else, but not that.

Who the hell is this guy?

“I…” Arthur is breathing hard. His stomach hurts, and he doesn’t know why, and he feels so alone.

He could just say it.

Harper’s Hill. So easy to say it.

But this isn’t Kellin, and Arthur does not like to be tricked.

In fact, he’s angry that not-Kellin tried. “No.”

Kellin’s seat creaks.

Arthur! He’s got a gun!

Arthur breathes hard, unsure where the gun is pointed, unable to defend.

“Tell me where we’re headed,” says Kellin, and the cold, metal cylinder presses to Arthur’s temple, and Arthur knows he’s going to die, and if he’s going to die, he’s going out petty as fuck.

“Go fuck yourself!” Arthur says, and hears the chamber click—

#

Darkness.

Silence.

Arthur.

“Hello?”

Arthur doesn’t know where he is.

Everything hurts. His stomach more than the rest, but everything hurts.

He groans.

Arthur. You are making me angry.

“I… I what?” Arthur remembers the entity. Arthur remembers Faroe. Arthur remembers… very little else.

He feels weirdly fuzzy.

Mentally doused, somehow, as though someone’s thrown a blanket over the flame of his mind.

That’s happening because you keep resisting me, Arthur.

“What?” says Arthur in a small voice.

Tell me where Amanda Cummings is. Tell me, and this will all be over.

And…

Arthur…

Doesn’t know who this is.

He knows the entity.

This is not the entity.

“I don’t understand,” he says evenly, hardening against the unknown.

Yes, you do. What's the matter, Arthur? You don’t trust me, all of a sudden? That hurts.

And it isn’t the entity, and this is mocking the entity, and this voice knows damn well that Arthur doesn’t trust him, and there is anger in it, and impatience in it, and Arthur—

Arthur is afraid.

He can’t remember what happened, moments before.

But this is not the entity, and his stubbornness lifts its head like the Loch Ness monster and will not dive back down. “I’m not telling you anything, whoever the fuck you are.”

There is a long, heavy sigh. You know, there are moments, though brief, where I can see why the Piece attached itself to you.

Not the entity at all, something much worse, something bringing great danger and looming pain—

“Go to hell!” says Arthur.

And then other moments, says this devil, when I look forward to having you in my hands so I can rip you to pieces the size of the ant you truly are. Suit yourself. We will try again.

“What?” breathes Arthur, and then—

#

An intercom, staticky, somewhere in the background. He can’t make out what it says.

He remembers the lake. The boat. The knife. Kellin, dying on a dock. The severed head.

He has no idea where he is.

Arthur breathes too fast, trying to function, trying to recover. “Hello? Are you there? Um… friend?”

“Well, hey to you too, friend,” says some guy Arthur has never heard in his life.

“Who is this?” Arthur says, feeling utterly unsteady, completely thrown off.

“I’m your new friend, apparently,” says the guy, and laughs.

And the guy talks.

And the guy offers.

And the guy has nothing to do with his past, or his memories, or anything that’s scarred him, and Arthur needs a way out and a way home, and so he finally responds.

“Harper’s Hill,” says Arthur.

“A girl named Amanda Cummings,” says Arthur.

“Wait… did I tell you my name?” says Arthur, too late.

And the voice, so deep, so pleased (like the entity but not, and Arthur could never mistake the two), says, “Thank you, Arthur. Sleep well.”

And he falls.

#

He’s in a bed.

He’s never felt this weak. His breath is shallow, and his own odor smacks him lazily in the face.

He hurts. His body. His soul.

He groans.

 Arthur, relax. You’re in the hospital. Just relax, everything is okay.

He feels like he went ten rounds with a deity. “Where… where are we?”

We’re in Harper’s Hill.

Something’s wrong. “We need to find Amanda Cummings. We need to find her as soon as possible, before someone else does.”

Who’s looking for her?

Why is it so clear now? He was being pumped for information. Who the hell was that guy? What was that guy? Those weren’t guards, those were monsters, and he….

He’d said…

Arthur breathes too fast. “We need to move. God, I feel so…”

Arthur.

“What?”

We’ve been in a coma for over a month.

A month?

Oh, no.

Arthur’s heart aches, and Arthur’s thoughts crawl, but he remembers the answers he gave.

Arthur! calls the entity as Arthur freaks out.

He doesn’t know who Fry is or what he sought, but he does know this much: it’s all gone terribly wrong.

#malevolent podcast #arthur lester #malevolent fanfic #malevolent fic #kiy malevolent #malevolent arthur #arthur lester malevolent

[spectres-fulcrum]

I wrote out a really long Vahnto idea that I kinda want to share but I know no one cares and I feel like I need to read the Ascendancy books before I write it to get a good grasp of Chiss culture/politics/etc but also I want to share it.

But long story short the whole Eli doesn't want to ask Vah'nya out due to not knowing Chiss rules on crew members dating and not wanting to find out the hard way is horrible foreshadowing, not because it's members of the Steadfast dating. But because she is classified as a Navigator and by law, it's a capital crime to engage in anything romantic or sexual with navigators. It comes from a very dark history.

Which worked because before Vah'nya, no navigator had ever reached the Chiss age of majority. But she's 24 when Eli, 37 years old, asks her out. They've been friends/ignoring their feelings for 3 years at this point. Un'hee calls her Ticsen'i(Mama) and him a Basic word-Dad. They spent so many early, dark nights together, helping her through nightmares in his quarters, falling asleep on either side of her only when her small body falls peaceful. They have friends-she has friends. They trust each other when they feel weak, because they know the judgement will never come from the other. After every battle, neither will relax until they know the other is safe.

They love each other, falling in love is the natural next step. She doesn't hesitate when he asks if they can rent a private dining room the next week-just the two of them, as a date. Because it was always coming. And the kiss after the second dinner date. So many star systems and light years have seen them daydream of that moment.

Ar'alani is so happy for them-but as admiral, she has to report them. It could result in Eli's death either way, but this way she can add a petition for an exception to be made for them. Vah'nya is clearly no child-she has served the Steadfast for 18 years. She is an adult and more than deserves to control her personal life. Surprisingly, Eli doesn't recieve an instant death penalty. They agree to debate an exception as Vah'nya is well over the age of majority.

It's a hard 10 months of following guidelines and sneaking into places so they can be together properly. Of the stuffy Aristoca arguing over their lives as if they aren't in the room when they're at Csilla. Some politicians has Vah'nya assessed for trauma signs on the Steadfast and she nearly loses it-she will put up with it on Csilla, but not in their home(ship). They both nearly propose grabbing Un'hee and their bags and Faro(Yes, Faro ends up deserting the Empire for the Ascendency. With Thrawn gone and a rebel fight, it doesn't feel right) and leaving it all behind multiple times. But this is a fight worth fighting. Even when he feels helpless as she sobs in his arms because she's sick of them talking about her life like it's theirs and how all of her friends can date and sleep around and she's bound by children's laws. Faro and Ar'alani gets so much of his anger-seeing them treat her with disrespect, all the non-chiss hatred they show him in the court rooms, having to play docile, not knowing if or when his life will be ended for simply loving his best friend.

They're all kind of shocked when the exception is granted. Vah'nya kisses Eli in front of everyone-and all the stuffy rulers realize they've been secretly sneaking around together all along- and Ar'alani assigns them shared quarters and grants them two weeks leave in them that day. Eli proposes six months later. They live happily ever after... Or as much as realistically possible with Gysks looming, Thrawn missing, and god knows what else.

#vahnto #my writing #eli vanto #vah'nya #why does my brain go to ideas like this #there is very little basis for this but i was like them against the government #I do need to get to bed so not a lot of chatting but I like this idea tbh

[grogusmum]

Seven Tears Part 3

SELKIE!EZRA X F!READER

W/C: 2700ish

Months after being abandoned, she does something rash and summons a selkie, who wishes to bring her comfort and maybe more.

WARNING: Olde timey gender norms, spouse abandonment. Though set in Ireland, and Ireland's predominantly white, Reader is physically undescribed, as are her blood relatives, her missing spouse and his family are white. Church wedding (but no religious details), Irish step dancing. Angst, but you know it’s me, so soft angst. Ezra is a selkie, yes, it deserves its own warning. Excessive use of pet names.

(as always see something say something. please let me know in my DMs if there is a warning I missed)

NOTES: There are many legends of the Selkie, from Scotland and Ireland to Iceland, the Faroe Islands, and the Shetland Islands. All different, but they have a family resemblance. More notes at the end.

This is my first fic with Ezra… wish me luck! ENJOY!

Part 1

Part 2

Gaeilge translations

mo stór my treasure

Ezra shot through the water; his sleek body twisted as he broke the surface. He was a young selkie, bold and curious, always following boats, stealing fish from nets, barking with mirth and woe betide the crew of a seal-hunting vessel, for Ezra, would see to its sinking.  

With the sun overhead, he mounted a large rock to bask with the seals just off the coast, when a young woman caught his eye. She was looking out at the seals, then beyond the rocks to the open water. She smiled as the sea flowed onto the shore, hitting her toes. “Good morning,” she said to the ocean, laughing. She looked up and down the strand, seeing no one, she put a towel down on a nearby rock and began taking off her clothes. After getting down to her underthings… she gave another furtive look and stripped herself of them as well, then ran toward the water, her eyes shining, when she was up to her knees, she dove in. Ezra watched keenly, he waited for her to emerge. Suddenly she breached the surface, shining and radiant. She cast a look around, with still no one on the beach she floated on her back for several moments, then twisted and dove down again. Ezra was captivated. He had never seen a human so adept. He watched her gambol and frolic all on her own. He wished to join her, but even as brash as he was, he dared not.

He continued to watch her, she loved the sea, loved the shore. She spent hours upon hours, swimming in the water, or watching it. Sketching, writing, dreaming, sometimes she came with others, sometimes what looked like family or friends, sometimes with what seemed like a beau. Ezra, eyed the suitors with suspicion, wanting to be the one holding her hand, kissing her, bringing his arms around her and having her lean into him, putting her head on his shoulder, her kissing him back, bringing her arms around his neck.

Mostly she came alone. And every time, he wanted to come closer, wanted to reveal himself to her. One day she made eye contact with him, his heart raced, he did a turn and a flip. She laughed, it was a sweet but hardy laugh, no twittering bird, this one. After that, he would show off and try to pull a laugh from her every time she was there.

Then one day she came with him, they looked so happy, so in love. After that Ezra tried to just put her out of his mind. He could not come to her unless bidden. And with the attraction he saw between them, there was no way he would get called upon.

He never forgot her, though he tried to. She still came, not as often and rarely alone. He resisted showing off for her, until one day she began coming alone again, at times she never came before. Sometimes she just looked out at the water, he could see sadness hung all around her, weighing her down.

One day, he broke the surface to her keening. There she was, wrapped tightly in a wool blanket, sitting on Widow’s Rock her weeping profound. Where was her love, why was he nowhere when she was so distraught? Was he gone?  He watched, waiting to see if she would let the tears fall into the water. She was careful not to. After a time, she cried herself out.

Then the day came, she was on the rock again, crying, though it had lost its passion. He tried to cheer her as he had before, she smiled sadly, and said something that he couldn’t hear. Maybe ‘thank you’. Ezra could have ripped his hide off and wrapped himself around her right there. But that is not how it works… then suddenly it happened…

You walk up the aisle in the emerald dress holding white blossoms. You look around the church, at family, friends, neighbors… and your eyes land on Ezra. He is beaming at you so, that your face warms. Some of the guests gathered notice the electricity between you. There are some furtive smiles, folks happy you have found someone after such difficulty. There are some who are less pleased.

You pass Ezra, pass your Mam and Da, pass your Auntie who is already crying over her daughter. You make your way to the dais, finding your spot next to Courtney’s friends, who make up the rest of the Bridesmaids. You turn, looking down the aisle back where you started, smiling widely as the flower girl and ring bearer take their walk. They had been instructed to watch you for signals. You nod with the music helping with their pacing. When they get to the top, you remind them where to stand. There is a gasp as the ring pillow almost takes a tumble, and various good-natured giggles and guffaws as the flower basket gets unceremoniously turned upside down to empty it of any left-over petals. You hear Ezra's bark of a laugh and find his eyes again. He seems smitten by the children. Then The Wedding March begins.

The ceremony goes as expected. You listen, waiting for your parts as Matron of Honor, no longer a maid as you have been married… these thoughts cloud your mind on occasion, but overall, it is lovely, and you can feel Ezra watching you…

Ezra has never been to a wedding like this. He takes it in, looking around with interest. Admiring the architecture of the church, the flowers, and music. The bridesmaids walk up the aisle, dresses of icy green. They line up on the left side of the room. Then you are standing at the end of the aisle, and there is nothing else. Just you, in emerald, he loves the dress on you. The shoulders he loves to nip and caress, beautifully framed by the off-the-shoulder bodice. You had helped him smarten up with the haircut and you eventually got to that shave and gave him a fine suit to wear. Standing beside you in such finery in the mirror, he felt as if he were the bridegroom and you, his shining bride. He knows his wearing your husband’s clothes causes you some distress, guilt. But, the man, that deserter, made his choice. Ezra is determined to be all that Colin was not for you.

He watches as you make your way up the aisle. To him, it is as if you are floating, so graceful. Then you catch his eye and smile. Beaming. He knows you fear the summoning was a spell put on him, but the tears were permission, not a command. Ezra is here because he wants to be. More than that, he hoped and wished for that day you let those tears fall.

Ezra listens in rapt attention to the vows.

He will hold her and have her as his own as he is hers…

You stand, trying not to think about the last time you stood before the entire village in this building. Saying the words that ended up meaning so little to the man you had stood there with. Trying to turn your mind, you turn your body a tiny bit so you can look at Ezra.

You smile and suppress a pleased giggle at his straight back, leaning forward as he listens to the vows, nodding like he’s checking them off a list. Then, at 'to love and cherish all the days of our life' his warm chestnut eyes meet with yours. There is a fire lit behind them, intense and wanting. Then they turn soft, his brows knit and raised in question.

He is going to be the death of you, in the most wonderful way, you think.  You are still looking at him when it is announced that the couple you are standing witness for, are indeed husband and wife. When the priest invites them to share their first kiss as a married couple the church erupts in congratulatory applause, and you are pulled out of your reverie, still having a job to do, you hand Courtney back her bouquet and they swiftly make their way down the aisle as the guests rise.

The Best Man, Daniel, clears his throat to get your attention, you smile apologetically and take his arm. Ezra looks at the pair of you questioning, then sets his jaw when looking at Daniel. You realize he had not gone to the rehearsal and doesn’t know this was just a formality. So far, his possessiveness toward you did not seem to extend beyond wanting to hold you and be close, that you were his moonbeam. Harmless. But now with you on anothers arm, you get concerned. When you reach her pew, you lean toward your mam with a hurried whisper. She nods and leans over to Ezra.

“Don’t you worry dear,” she soothes, “This is only part of the ceremony.”

“And when is it that she will be back on my arm?” Ezra says watching your and Daniel's backs. Your mother chuckles.

“Soon enough, my boy. She takes her meal at the head table, and they have a dance-” Ezra’s head swivels to her, and she puts a reassuring hand on his, as he grips the back of her pew, “and then she is yours.”

“Okee.”

Ezra’s knee bobs up and down throughout the dinner and the dance waiting to have you back with him. It does not bother him when you go work, nor when you go to your Mam and Da’s, and he did not think it would bother him for you to do any manner of things without him… but he does not like this, to be in the room with you and not have you by his side, on his arm, rounding the dance floor with his hands on your waist. Let alone with this Daniel, cousin or not.

Deirdre, your mother, keeps Ezra company, and Ezra for his part is gracious when they take a turn around the dance floor and gives her his full attention. He also finds that the ring bearer and flower girl have both taken a shine to him. During the dinner you scan his table, confused that you couldn’t find him at first, as all the seats were occupied, until you realize he has a child on each knee, speaking to them most earnestly.

Finally, you are officially released of your duties, and you waltz over to Ezra who is talking with your Da.

“… well, Patrick, that is one fine-looking fishing vessel, I do appreciate how considerate you are toward the sea and her occupants, while you appropriate her bounty,” Ezra says passing a black and white photo back to your father, as he does his eyes meet yours.

He is up before you are at his table and gently passing the almost asleep flower girl, Maisey to your mother, with a quick kiss on her head, his eyes never leaving yours.

“A dance, my pearl?”

“We’ve waited long enough, I think.” You tell him, holding out your hand. Ezra takes it, giving your knuckles a kiss and then in a swift motion your hand is tucked in his arm and you make your way to the dance floor.

“I’ve been watching, mo stór (mu stohr), but if truth be told, I do not know these dances.”

“I’ll show you, we won’t do anything fancy,” you smile.

Ezra had been watching, he places his hand on your lower back, just as the other fellows done, and takes your hand in the other. You show him a simple step, step, touch. As he gets comfortable, Ezra smiles, dimple on display, his eyebrows go up excitedly. And he goes to turn you like he saw some of the others do. You giggle and oblige.

“What do you think? Of the wedding and all.”

“Well, I think we spent far too much time apart, moonbeam. But lay that unfortunate circumstance aside it has been a beautiful affair. Your father and mother were most kind, and the wee ones Maisey and Harry?” Ezra can not continue as to what he thought of the two smallest members of the Bridal Party. He just closes his eyes as though they are just too precious.

You and Ezra dance for a song or two and then the fiddles come out. You beam and pull him to the side of the dance floor, whispering to watch.

The step dancing begins, the bride and two of her bridesmaids make their way across the floor with hoots and cheers and Ezra is captivated, you give an appreciative hoot, and he turns to you expectantly. You give him a smirk as Courtney dances right in front of you with the crook of her arm out, you link your arm with hers and join them, but never looking away from Ezra. He watches toes tapping, though he is restless to have you back, luckily the song ends and the women all break apart going to grab a partner, you dance over to him.

“Care to try,” you say, face glowing with the joy of the dance.

"What happened to nothing fancy?"

You hold out your hands he grabs them and tries his best, which is none too shabby. He likes the sound of the fiddles and the hoots of excitement. He turns his head to look around and sees the little ones dancing, little legs high stepping, hands plastered to their sides. He barks a gladsome laugh.

Really everything is going so well, you think maybe the incident in the tavern would be the end of it. But unfortunately, with weddings, often comes too much drinking and then comes unfiltered words and emotions running high.

Perhaps it was the seemingly blithe acceptance of Ezra in this familial ritual, but Jamie had been muttering annoyance that had turned poison in the ears of any cousin who would listen, and it made its way to your Father.

At a break in the music, a ruckus rises, and everyone stops.

“What is it to you?” Patrick says his voice raised.

Why is it nothing to you?!” Jamie shouts, “she will end up with her belly swollen with his pups! Jamie was sure to say his last with as much revulsion as he could muster.

The music stops completely, and the silence is deafening. Your skin on fire with humiliation. Ezra’s teeth almost bared, you pull him toward the front door of the hall. All the two of you need is for someone to hear any kind of animalistic sound come from him, no matter how justified.

“Come, pay it no mind, Ezra,” you say gently. It looked as if one of your other cousins was planning to stop you, but Deirdre stops them with her hand on his shoulder and a stern look.

Out in the brisk night air, Ezra is seething. You pull him with a firm but gentle hand. You shiver and look down you’ve forgotten your wrap. Tears come at the complication.

The door opens again, you and Ezra brace yourselves, but it is your mam, she has come out with your wrap.

“Here you go my dear,” she says wrapping you in it, rubbing your arms. “Go on home, love, and you pay them no mind.”

She looks at Ezra, pats his arm, “you pay them no mind either, just get our girl home.”

His look at her threatens to bring more tears to your eyes, the look of pained gratitude, and determination as if the two have just made a pact.

“Thank ye, Ma’am.”

With that, he turns you in the direction of the house, wrapped in his arms and you walk home.

Ezra cannot help but think again of the days watching you on Widow’s Rock. He had vowed to keep you from feeling that humiliation and loss again. But here you are. You both are.

Despite the sour ending to the evening, it is a beautiful crisp clear night, the moon full and the stars crowd the sky. Your mind wanders to the wedding itself, to Ezra at attention whilst the vows were given, to the joyful dance.

“All and all, I’d say it was a lovely wedding.”

Ezra gives a laugh that could be heard back at the steps of the hall.

And it is.

To be continued…

Part 4

THANK YOU FOR READING! 💚

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[armsdealing]

▌real name: marcelo giancarlo reyes marconi. ▌single or taken: single or taken depending on the timeline.  ▌abilities or powers: mixology, cards (don’t play poker with him because you will lose; for that matter, don’t play baccarat or faro or even uno -- again, because you will lose), public speaking, gun handling (has been taught how to use them since he was 14), dancing (breaking/hip hop; salsa; merengue, among others), kickboxing (trained since he was 7), playing sports (primarily soccer; he’s a forward winger) + the powers that come with being a werepuma (being nigh indestructible; healing factor; heightened senses and superhuman condition; shapeshifting, and immunity to psychic attacks, just to name some relevant ones) ▌eye color: dark brown. the puma eyes, when shifts into them, are pretty striking: besides the fact that they gleam, the iris is a ring of green/blue inside a ring of yellow. they seem almost hypnotic, and in the dark, they retroreflect light. (reference / 2) ▌hair color: brown ▌family members: gianna marconi-reyes (mother, deceased), ysmael reyes (father, deceased); a lot of aunts and uncles but primarily -- on his father’s side -- berenice and emmanuel reyes, and daniela and adán, all alive; then there’s his many cousins, all of which he’s very close to (acting sometimes more like siblings than cousins). on the maternal side there’s the marconi family which is big and complex on its own right but he’s not particularly close to any of them. it’s worthy to mention that he’s the grandson of giancarlo marconi, a very prominent don in the east coast mob, though.  ▌pets: he doesn’t have any, but he feeds any and all stray cats he comes across, and they end up following him around.  ▌something they don’t like: he doesn’t like stuck-up attitudes and people out of touch with reality. doesn’t like people noseying into his business, either. alas, he chose to work in social media and he deals with both of those things on a daily basis.  ▌hobbies/activities: the abilities above mentioned count as hobbies, frankly. marcelo is so good at them because he enjoys doing them and practices as often as he can. he also likes cooking (it’s a good sign when he cooks for you) and talking walks, running, swimming, watching movies, listening to podcasts, riding his motorcycle, camping, bouldering, hiking, taking pictures (with a camera and his phone), playing instruments (piano + guitar) and singing. he also likes traveling.  ▌ever hurt anyone before: yes. though big on pacifism nowadays, marcelo is not a stranger to fighting, and not just the kind of fighting where you throw a few punches and then quit. i’m talking full blown brawls where bones have been broken and eyes blackened and he’s had to get yanked away from the other party. he used to be much worse when he was younger, when he was more temperamental and less mindful of his own strength, and when his tolerance towards bullies and insults was zero point zero. nowadays you can still catch that side of him under specific circumstances. however, it’s rare -- he much prefers to remain unresponsive to insults and provocations. and as for hurting people emotionally... tbh yes. sometimes, he doesn’t think before he speaks. and sometimes, he does thinks he speaks, but you deserve to hear what he’s about to say (at least according to him).  ▌ever killed anyone before: in his main verse, not just yet.  ▌animal that represents them: puma, cougar, catamount, mountain lion! but if you want other examples, all felines in general.  ▌worst habits: he pours all his emotional labour into other people and none on himself, usually without noticing that people just use him. he’s gotten a bit better at this (he’s lost some “friends” because of it, no doubt), but still... he worries a lot and whats to Help, and he stresses out when he can’t solve the problems of people he cares about.  ▌role models: his parents but that’s kind of falling apart the older he gets. his aunts, berenice and daniela, and his older cousin natalia (played by @neotropical​). his godmother, also named gianna played by @tribeof​​. emiliano @riverbodies. and his best friend ivana played by @neotropical​​. nearly all his role models are women because men kinda suck, frankly.  ▌sexual orientation: bisexual.  ▌thoughts on marriage/kids: he wants both those things very much. he would definitely love to get married someday and have a small, intimate, but fun wedding and he would love to have kids (he’s thinking three) to raise and love. he would be a natural as a father, far from perfect, but definitely the type of parent that just intuitively knows what his kid wants and needs -- and works to help them even if he doesn’t.  ▌fears: as a result of past traumas, marcelo is terribly afraid of losing people he loves, cue him being very protective over them. he can’t stand the thought of them getting hurt, nevermind actually dying.  ▌style preferences: marcelo values his family above all other things, and it shows pretty much in the fact that he carries them everywhere with him and they really have an impact on his sense of style. he always carries his father’s silver cross necklace not out of a sense of faith (that hasn’t been there for a long time) but because it belonged to his father. he has the birthdate of his twin cousins (inigo and ignacio) tattooed on his shoulders in roman numerals, and the names of his parents on the back of his neck. he’ll often wear necklaces with pictures of family members, and pieces that belonged to his aunts, from chains to rings and bracelets. he made paintings and drawings by his little cousins into shirts he often wears. he lets alba sew patches into his jeans. he gets his nails painted by camila and his hair cut by elián. much of his wardrobe is actually hand me downs when not thrift finds and tend to be combined with high fashion clothes that are, more than often, gifts (from either industry friends or, let’s just say, benefactors) -- but yeah, when not wearing sportswear, he’s mixing and matching repurposed clothes with luxury fashion items. point is: there’s a lot of history to a lot of the things marcelo wears and much of it goes back to his family, which he’s gone as far as to immortalize on his skin in some form. ▌someone they love: ivana, his best friend, is basically his soulmate as well tbh and the person he loves the most. on that same tier go charmaine and rafael (@neotropical). in a platonic and familial manner, he loves gianna (@tribeof), zephyr (@isolctions), emiliano and alondra @riverbodies, and honestly.... this list ain’t long enough. he’s so full of love and you’re all missing out on that shit, smfh. of course, he also loves his entire family to bits.  ▌approach to friendships: marcelo would do, and does, anything for his friends and he loves always making new ones. he’s the helpful, generous type that is happy simply spending time with you, but will also try and get you involved with new things he’s doing, and will always be down for whatever you’d like to do. as a matter of fact, involved is the best way to describe the way marcelo always tries to make his friends feel. he’s not nosey or pushy, but if y’all haven’t talked in a while he will often send you a text to check up on you. he treasures his friendships and devotes time to them. as mentioned before, he’s also very protective and very much a mom friend. ▌thoughts on pie: he’s not crazy about it but he enjoys a good strawberry pie now and then! ▌favorite drink: (non-alcoholic) water, and coffee. colombian coffee to be precise: don pablo colombian supremo, but any colombian brand will do. (alcoholic) his go to alcoholic brands are bacardi, havana club, josé cuervo and antioqueño. he loves his mojitos, daiquiris and cubalibres and those are his usual orders, when not ordered plain.  ▌favorite place to spend time at: his apartment. he isn’t gonna pay rent not to spend time in that shit. that being said he equally enjoys both the city and nature. he thrives in the night life and in clubs, parties of all kinds, the neon HQ and high end bars, and he loves beaches, and parks, and forests, and mountains).  ▌swim in the lake or in the ocean: he won’t refuse either, boy just loves swimming.  ▌their type: honestly it’s really flexible. he can date from the sweetest angel to the biggest asshole if you’re ultimately a good person. he likes people that are comfortable in their own bodies, that are confident and got spine without being conceited. mutual interests definitely help, but a similar desire to grow together and put effort into things and each other is even more attractive to him. just be mature and know how to communicate. 

tagged by: i forgot but i love them. tagging: @neotropical​ (ivy), @tribeof​ (gianna or abel) @isolctions​​​ (zephyr or rue), @belissimae​, @withlwolves​​ (maria) @dirtypaw​​ @zkljns @curdledmiilk​ (your pick, someone you haven’t done) @undones​ (griff) @wheelmans​ @strikier​ (yes im tagging all ur fuckin blogs) 

#* marcelo. #greetings loved ones #just popping in to talk about a boy for a hot second #misc.