#but he seems to have twisted himself into so many knots he's forgotten the joy...

[monty-glasses-roxy]

I haven't watched this, but I hope he says it's because he's right, and not because it's boring the shit out of me and probably many other people now too lmao

[imagine-darksiders]

Homesick - Chapter 2

Behind the door.

Warnings: implied child abuse, abusive parents, blood, nosebleeds, angst, themes of childhood trauma, ptsd

Tags: Darksiders, DeathxAzrael, hurt/comfort, angst, Reader, Found family, Reader needs a hug

Chapter 1

---

“What lays beyond that door?”

Azrael's innocent question causes you to stiffen and your steps falter on the landing, knowing precisely to which door he's referring, but unwilling to even spare it a backwards glance.

The momentary delay hardly lasts for more than a second and goes seemingly unnoticed by the angel, whose gaze appears too focused on the locked, mahogany door that stands quiet and guiltless at the furthest end of your landing. Hanging back near the top of the staircase however, with eyes sharp and turned just enough in your direction that they catch the hitching of your chest, Death does notice.

Then, he blinks, and you're suddenly twisting your head over a shoulder to look beyond Azrael at the door in question, a smile on your lips but not in your eyes.

“Oh, that's just a storage cupboard,” you say casually, waving a dismissive hand through the air and continuing your journey to the opposite side of the house, “I've been in and out of there all week stacking boxes of junk up to the ceiling. Now, come this way, all the best human-y stuff is stock-piled in my bedroom.” 

You're too quick to disregard the door, too eager in turning to walk towards your room on stiff legs and Death wishes the angel would turn to look at you so he might also see what the Horseman sees, if only to confirm that he isn't imagining things.

Alas, letting out an intrigued little hum, Azrael clasps his hands loosely behind his back and sweeps after you, all the while pivoting his head this way and that to take in everything your humble home has to offer.

------------------

You had so nearly forgotten what the joy of discovery looks like in another person. To see the eyes of someone else grow wide and bright with unbridled wonder at a world you've long since lost a taste for.

Azrael's fascination at the most mundane of human objects manages to put a genuine smile on your face, though the ensuing pain still throbs like the beat of an insistent drum every time your cheeks press against your bruised eye.

Luckily, the angel appears to have missed your subtle wince.

After first having dragged him away from your television, you've managed to introduce him to many of humanity's other wonders that lay dotted around your bedroom.

Before long, Death had even slunk inside to join you both, taking up the mantle of an uninterested observer and absently perusing your book collection in the corner whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the goings on of his companions.

You've perched yourself comfortably in a bean bag, content to simply sit back and observe whilst Azrael explores your room, his wide, white wings folded neatly against his back in order to spare some of your ornaments from being knocked off their shelves. 

“This... ursine mammal,” he says, pausing beside your bed and poking a finger into the fur of an old, stuffed bear sitting atop your pillow, “Does it serve some purpose?”

You're too preoccupied with fighting back a laugh to answer him right away, and by the time you realise he's watching you expectantly, Death pipes up in your stead, cutting off any explanation you might have offered.

“I imagine it's only there for decoration,” he muses, casting a critical eye over your bookcase and the dozens of unread stories scattered about on the shelves, “But then, I have to wonder if half the things in this room aren't just ornamentation.”

Knowing what he's implying, you spare the back of his head a scowl. It isn't as though you've had a lot of time to read those books he gave you, not between rebuilding your own home and helping humanity come to terms with life post-apocalypse.

“Ah!” Azrael's head shoots up and he tears his eyes from the bear, glancing towards you instead. “It is symbolic, no? In resembling a most ferocious predator, this bear represents the perfect guard for your home.”

He looks so damn pleased with himself, you almost don't bother to correct him, instead wrestling your grin into a pensive frown and nodding slowly. 

“Uh, sure! That is a pretty... exciting way to look at teddy bears.” Hopping to your feet, you make your way over to the bed and sweep a few of Azrael's primary feathers aside, picking up the toy bear and squeezing it to your chest. “But mostly humans use these for comfort at night, when we sleep. We usually get given them as children. And, as we grow older, I... guess we just get too attached to get rid of them. Most humans keep their childhood toys long into adulthood.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Death huffs, shaking his head with a smile hidden beneath the bone-mask, “You humans will get attached to anything that sits still for long enough.”

Azrael, on the other hand, looks as though you've just revealed to him one of humanity's greatest secrets. Rubbing his chin in thought, he says, “Remarkable! I've heard that humans are rather famous for the bonds they forge with other species, yet I never imagined that could extend to inanimate objects as well.”

“Yeah, you'd better believe it,” you smirk, placing the bear down on your pillow once more, “Someday I'll have to tell you about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower.”

At once, the Archangel blinks hard, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line. “A tower? Surely that’s a jape?”

So perplexed is his expression, you throw back your head and let out a bark of delighted laughter. “What are you, Shakespeare? Nobody says ‘jape’ anymore, Azrael!”

Off on his own side of your little bedroom, Death's neck twists around slightly to regard both you and the angel as you engage in a light-hearted back and forth about the use of archaic vocabulary. He doesn't even realise that one corner of his mouth has begun lifting at the sight. 

There is a truth about the Horseman that even he is reluctant to acknowledge, and that is that the constant slew of bad things happening in the Universe is... wearing. It’s wearing. To be on a constant path that always seems to lead towards battle or tragedy? Sometimes it feels as though his entire existence has merely consisted of one battle after another. 

He saves one world, only for another to be torn apart, he destroys a species, and another asks him to fight their war for them, he helps the makers but in doing so, inadvertently kills their elder. Century after century - a millennia of bloody battles and terrible sacrifices and trying to keep his siblings safe - If he ever stopped to think about it... 

Death’s eyes slip slowly shut. 

He has worked... so hard, hasn’t he? Is it really so wrong if he enjoys these moments of fleeting repose? 

All of a sudden, a strangled sound leaves Azrael's throat and Death is yanked from his peaceful reverie. “Y/n!?” the angel exclaims, his expression shifting to horrified in less than a second, “You're bleeding!”

Apparently, mentioning your name and blood in the same sentence is enough to get Death's voice to crack as he whips around properly and barks, “What!?”

Baffled, you raise a hand to your nose, dabbing at a sticky wetness gathered there whilst the taste of salty liquid drips onto your upper lip. “Oh, so I am,” you observe casually, only to have a pair of chilly hands curl unexpectedly around your forearms. 

Without warning, the terrifying visage of the Horseman is looming mere inches from your face and in another instant, one of his hands presses itself to your forehead and firmly – albeit gently – tips it backwards.

“Um... Death, we've talked about this. Personal space, remember?”

The Horseman remains eerily silent as he stares transfixed at the blood oozing from your nose and you squirm uncomfortably when the grip he has on your arm begins to grow even tighter. Meanwhile, his wordlessness allows Azrael to fret aloud in the background.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the angel mutters, pacing back and forth behind Death, never tearing his eyes from the red straining your face, “You shouldn't be having all this excitement. You should be resting.”

It's difficult to hold back your groan of exasperation as you lift your arms and knock Death's hands aside, stepping out of his reach.

“Oh for - It's just a nosebleed! Honestly, what has gotten into you two?” With a hefty sigh, you skirt around the rigid Nephilim, dodge one of Azrael's wings as it tries to curl instinctively around you and march into your ensuite bathroom.

Almost immediately, the angel tries to follow, but he swiftly has the door pushed shut in his face before he can enter and soon, they hear your voice filtering out to them from the other side. “I'm not a baby, guys! Nosebleeds are no big deal, it's just happening because of... well, you know.”

Azrael's stomach twists itself into knots at the sight of yet another locked door standing between himself and his human friend. He's about to call out for you to let him see the damage when an icy chill sweeps across the room and he turns, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of Death staring at him through unseeing eyes.

The old Nephilim's body has gone completely still and there's a haunted look about him, as though he's lost, or perhaps trapped in another time, another place.

“Horseman?” Azrael murmurs uncertainly, feeling the cold prickle at the hairs on the base of his neck. Seconds pass and he receives no answer. Hesitant now, the archangel reaches towards Death's shoulder and, when he isn't immediately shoved away, places a hand on the frigid, solid muscle that bunches under his gentle touch. “Death,” he tries again, and this time the Horseman's head snaps up to stare at him, as if only just realising he's there.

The angel ducks his head to better catch Death's eye, his voice soft enough that only the two of them can hear it. “Are you alright, old friend?”

A long silence stretches between them with only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom tap to fill it.

Then, giving a start, Death roughly shrugs the comforting hand off his shoulder and stalks past the angel towards your window, leaning his elbows heavily against the sill and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Azrael's concern. He doesn't think the archangel has ever been that close to him before, close enough that the subtle scent of old books and clean linen invaded his nose and chased away the awful stench of your blood, effectively leaving his mind clear once again. 

'Idiot,' he chastises himself, eyes still wide behind the bone mask. How could he have frozen like that? In front of Azrael no less. Creator, he'd never live that one down. He had – for lack of a better word – panicked, and it's as embarrassing to admit to himself as it is to have been caught panicking. But...

The sight of your blood... The smell of it, sweet and strong enough that it even settled on his tastebuds...

It's pathetic, really. He is Death. He's seen and caused far more bloodshed than arguably any being in any realm. So why then does your spilled blood hold his dead heart in such a cruel and unforgivably tight chokehold?

The redundancy of taking a calming breath isn't lost on him, yet he does it anyway, tipping his head up to peer out of your window, chest rising and falling with motions he could only have picked up after spending so much time around you.

It's begun to rain, he notes idly. Tiny droplets of water patter down onto the dusty window panes and Death follows the path of one until it merges with several others and is lost in the fray.

Down in the streets below, many passers-by have dived for shelter, yet there are still two figures who remain. One is an angel, whose golden complexion shimmers when raindrops trickle steadily down his face. He's standing in the shadow of a water-logged bus stop and beside him, leaning just a little too close, is a serpentine demon, scales black and glittering like obsidian. The odd pair rest almost shoulder to shoulder underneath the bus stop's awning, each sharing a brief respite from the rain with what was once a well-loathed enemy.

Death blinks upon seeing that their hands are intertwined. Dainty, golden fingers curl loosely around clumsier claws and suddenly, the Horseman feels as though he's intruding on their secret moment, so he turns back to face your room.

Azrael has drifted closer once again and there's a knowing expression on his face that causes Death to frown. Sure enough, the archangel spares your bathroom door a hasty glance before he looks at the Horseman once more. “...Death,” he says slowly, “It's... all right, you know. If seeing Y/n’s blood upset you-”

Hackles are raised in half a second, a set of sharp teeth clack together and Death hisses, “You think I'm upset?”

Judging by the flat look he receives, that is precisely what the archangel thinks.

Despite the obvious vehemence behind Death's tone, he's careful to keep his voice down, ever mindful that you're only a room over. Perhaps getting defensive isn't the best idea.

“There is no shame in it, Horseman,” the angel coaxes softly, “Y/n is my friend as well. There has already been far too much human blood spilled this century.” He casts another, baleful glance towards your bathroom, quietly adding, “I didn't think I would be seeing it again, not this soon. And especially not from our human.”

...Our human.

Death is unnerved by how natural that sounds coming off Azrael's tongue.

Expertly, the Horseman wills his shoulders to slump and his muscles to relax, then, with an unmistakable air of indifference, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns himself deliberately away from the archangel, glowering at your bedroom wall.

And Azrael, wise enough to read the standoffish behaviour for what it is, allows his mouth to fall shut because he knows that, as far as Death is concerned, the conversation is over.

He has a care not to release a weary sigh. But with you shutting him out physically and the Horseman shutting him out verbally, it's difficult for even the composed archangel to keep exasperation at bay.

Just then, your voice calls out to them from the other side of the door. “Ugh, sorry about this guys. It's slowing down, but it hasn't stopped yet. I'll just be a minute!”

“So long as you're all right,” Azrael replies.

When he receives no response from you and no further input from Death, he lets his head drop into a disappointed nod, pressing his lips together. Suddenly, his presence feels a little too big for the space he's occupying. He needs to think.

Azrael leaves your bedroom with a far heavier heart than he'd gone in with, raking his fingers through fine, white hair and expelling a soft breath from his lungs, as if that might alleviate the weight settling across his chest.

So far, this first visit to your home has not gone as he'd hoped it would. Through no fault of your own, mind. But trying to focus on taking in everything you show him whilst he knows you're in more pain than you're letting on is woefully distracting. That's without even mentioning the creeping sense of unease that has been hanging over him ever since he first stepped foot through your front door. 

Briefly, Azrael wonders if Death had noticed the way your breath hitched slightly and your reply had an almost imperceptible, underlying tremor when he asked you what lay beyond the door at the end of your landing. He'd have to ask the Horseman about that later, when he's in a more talkative mood.

Already, the archangel can feel the beginnings of a frown forging crevasses down the centre of his forehead. He composes himself in another breath and finally lifts his eyes from the carpet, only to stop in his tracks. 

That door – that unassuming door to your cupboard lays ahead of him, quiet and solid as all doors should be, just sitting there under a flickering light bulb, as though it had been patiently waiting for him to notice it.

And notice it, he does, because something about the door has changed since he saw it last, something so obvious, yet also entirely unsettling.  

Where it had once been shut tight, now it stands ever so slightly ajar.

Despite everything in him screaming that he must respect the privacy of his host, Azrael's curiosity grows too bold and he finds himself treading silently down your landing, his shoes making no sound on the grubby, cream carpet. Drawing to a halt, the angel's keen gaze sweeps over the wooden door, taking in hairline cracks and mottled rot that a hundred years has left upon it like battle scars on a warrior's face. Slowly, he roves his eyes down to the dull, brass door handle and he immediately falters, doing a double-take.

Sitting atop the handle is a very noticeable, very thick layer of dust.

His brows knit together until they nearly touch and he reaches out to swipe a finger delicately along the brass. When he pulls away, he lifts his hand for an inspection and, sure enough, the pad of his forefinger is now sporting the same, grey substance.

'Why would a door you claimed to use recently have so much dust upon the handle?' The feeling of unease that had been stealthily keeping to the back of his mind now pokes its head out a little more, creeping forwards, daring him to acknowledge it.

'Something's wrong...' a quiet voice tells him.

Azrael's hand reaches out once more, except this time, it curls around the handle entirely and rests there for a moment as the angel's mind starts to race. 'Y/n.... Are you hiding something from us?'

As soon as the thought enters his head, he can't shake it loose. 

Yes - he trusts you - he knows you'd have no reason to lie to him, and especially not to the Horseman. And yet... Clearly there is something beyond this door that you're trying to divert their attention from and whatever it is has you spooked.

Feeling more and more like a common criminal, Azrael keeps one ear on the room behind him and slowly begins to twist the door handle, wincing when its rusty springs catch and squeak in protest.

His wings shiver with anticipation as he pushes the door open.

What awaits him on the other side is decidedly not a storage cupboard...

“A... bedchamber?” he murmurs to himself. 

Within an instant, he's hit by an oppressive wave of must and wood rot. The smell spills like liquid from the room and seeps into your hallway, causing the archangel's lips to curl, though he's quick to smooth his expression out again because there's something far worse lingering below the initial stench, something that – even after a hundred years – still clings to the peeling wallpaper and broken, dust-choked bed in the corner of the room.

It isn't quite magic, more like the residue of a dark and terrible memory. Azrael knows as well as any angel that memories can be immensely powerful things and capable of haunting a place long after the living are dead and gone. Hesitating, he takes a moment to steel himself before stepping over the threshold and entering that old, foreboding bedroom.

At once, he notices that, as with the door's handle, absolutely everything is covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, the television on the wall, the various, glass bottles that stand on a table at the room's centre, amidst which sits a single, yellowing glass.

Against the wishes of his own nose, Azrael takes a brief sniff at the air and grimaces.

Alcohol.

Even the most pious of angels would recognise it.

He dismissively turns his attention from the bottles and glides over towards a worn dresser that stands to the left of the bed, a bed that stinks of an odour he desperately tries to ignore. Upon the dresser are a vast array of what you;d once called 'photographs,' all of which sit inside basic, wooden frames. Inquisitive, Azrael bends down and peers at them, a soft smile worming across his face when he sees a familiar human grinning back up at him.

You couldn't be much older than four or five, but he'd recognise you at any age. It seems even as a child, you possessed that same, mischievous spark in your eyes.

You're standing alone, and in spite of a clear gap where a tooth has fallen out, you're beaming up at the camera so hard, he imagines your cheeks had to have hurt. In fact, the more Azrael inspects the photo, the more he thinks your expression most resembles a grimace, not a smile. He shrugs it off however, and moves on. After all, the facial structure of humans is such that they're capable of expressions far more complex than those of angels or demons. Perhaps he’s only misreading it. 

The next picture sees you looking a few years older, sitting in the lap of a tall, angular man wearing a white shirt that looks to have been frequently stained by all manner of substances whilst his face is stretched into a grin that makes Azrael's skin crawl. Captured in stillness, it looks menacing and shark-like. Worse still is the large hand that seems to have secured itself like a vice around your thigh, squeezing noticeably into the little, blue leggings you'd worn that day.

You aren't smiling as widely in this photograph....

The archangel's face begins to fall as well.

Humming, he moves on to the next picture and in an instant, that creeping unease suddenly rings in his head like an alarm bell.

Again, you're older here, perhaps early into your adolescence, and the smile you'd sported before is barely there at all. The same man is standing behind you this time, and his long, gangly fingers are clamped down over your too-small shoulders, fingernails digging so hard into the bare skin, the resulting indents are even picked up by the camera.

Your lopsided wince that could be mistaken for a smile at a glance shows off one side of your mouth and in it, Azrael can clearly see that you're missing a tooth.

He may not be the most well-versed on human biology, but he's definitely heard that children only lose the same tooth once. And that the process is a natural one.

Through the lense of the camera, your younger counterpart seems to peer up past the glass frame, past the fabric of time and space and straight into Azrael's misty, pale eyes, a silent yet clear plea in the tilt of your brows and the whites of your knuckles.

'Help me.'

All at once, the archangel feels sick. He staggers backwards, away from the dresser and doesn't even notice the golden halo on his back is thrumming with protective magics, pushing them outwards to envelope your entire house.

He doesn't need Jamaerah's second sight to know that you were afraid of that man who's eyes are stained the same colour as yours. Hazarding a guess as to why you were afraid causes Azrael's throat to tighten.

Swallowing hard, he tries to regain his composure. The archangel has always considered rationality to be one of the greatest weapons in his arsenal and if there was ever a time to use it, that time is now. 

'Perhaps... I am mistaken,' he reassures himself, 'I don’t know human customs nearly as well as I-’ 

“Azrael?”

The angel gives a start and jerks his head around to face the door, only to find Death eclipsing it, his eyes blazing like twin fires.

Stepping forwards into the room, he hisses, “What are you doing in here?”

The Horseman is quite certain he's never seen Azrael look so guilty.

Instead of giving him an answer though, the angel slowly breathes, “Where is Y/n?” Soon, he droops in relief when Death throws a thumb over his shoulder and replies, “Still in the bathing room, tending to a bloody nose... You didn't answer my question.”

Beckoning the Horseman closer, Azrael keeps his voice to a hushed whisper and holds the last photograph up in front of him.

“What do you make of this?”

Azrael's behaviour strikes him as so uncharacteristically odd and secretive, Death actually hurries over to him and snatches the picture frame from his hands, making an effort not to appear curious about the room he's never been inside. The angel watches raptly as Death scans the photographs with his luminous, orange eyes. Then, all of a sudden, the Horseman's fingers tighten around the little, wooden frame, hard enough to make it splinter and Azrael knows his worst fears are being realised. He hadn't imagined it.

Death sees it too.

“You guys shouldn't be in here.”

A tiny voice, low and trembling calls from the doorway and the angel's gaze snaps up. Death, in the meantime, remains too fixated on the photograph to bother acknowledging your presence.

Azrael drifts towards you cautiously, as though you'll bolt at any second. He tries to decide whether it would be better to apologise for invading your privacy or ask you why you look so terrified.

“Y/n,” he starts, paying attention to the way your hands turn over one another incessantly, “We were only-”

“... How... How did you get in? The door was - it was locked! You can't be in here... Get out!” Your voice raises in pitch. There are tears leaking from your bruised eye, swiftly turning the skin underneath it slick and shiny and there’s still a trace of blood underneath your nose.

Death finally lowers his gaze from the photograph and holds you captive under a wide and menacing stare. “A storage room, was it?” he asks curtly, showing you the picture clutched between his ever-tightening fingers.

The moment you lay eyes on it, your back goes rigid and all the blood drains from your face. “Put that down!” you demand and lift your foot as if to take a step inside the room, but as soon as you cross over the threshold, you seem to remember something, and quickly jerk yourself backwards, stumbling into the hallway again and sucking down a ragged gasp, blurting, “Just – Just don't touch it!”

“Why not?” Death drawls and tilts his head to one side, calculating, “It can't be that important to you. You've had it locked in this storage cupboard for these past two years.”

He's pushing you, Azrael realises with a sinking feeling, he's trying to provoke you into an honest reaction, no doubt. The archangel doesn't like it, but he likes the look of that man in the photograph even less.

“That's none of your business!” you snap, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your ribs. Unfortunately, your response only seems to stir something in the Horseman, who draws his head back as though you'd struck him a physical blow and he growls, “I hate to disappoint you, but it is my business where your welfare is concerned.”

“My welfare stopped being your concern about two years ago!”

Death falls silent, jaw clenching.

He'd be remiss to say that your comment hadn't struck at a place he guards jealously. He's painfully aware of the angel's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head and he nearly squirms at the pitying look he's receiving.

It would seem that Azrael knows him a little too well.

“You never once stopped being my concern...” the Horseman mumbles, his gaze moving down to the image in his hand. A younger, smaller you peers back at him with woe caught like sleep-dust behind your eyelashes. Death's eyes shoot back up to you again, the softness gone from his voice when he growls, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tensions are high enough that Azrael doesn't think it prudent to mention you'd lied to him as well.

Apparently, a direct confrontation was not the best way to deal with this delicate situation, a fact that becomes clear when you cinch your jaw shut for a moment, gaze flickering to and fro between the angel and the Horseman.

Seeing two of your most trusted friends standing in his bedroom with a symbol of your shame and your trauma held quite literally in Death's grasp sends your heart rate skyrocketing, fear like poison dripping down into your stomach. You can hardly believe they'd invade your privacy like this. Death especially, who knows better than anyone the necessity for keeping some secrets buried.

He doesn't need to learn about that part of your history - neither of them do. You don't want to have them worrying. And God forbid they should pity you.

Squaring your shoulders, you spin about on a heel and begin to march purposefully down your landing to the stairs.

“Where do you think you're going?!” Death barks after you.

Chest heaving, you pause on the first step and cast a heavy frown over your shoulder at the Horseman, matching his ferocious gaze without a single blink. “If you won't leave that room,” you tell him, “then I'll leave this house. And I'll thank you both to be gone by the time I get back.” 

And just like that, you continue to descend your staircase and disappear below the wooden balustrades. Seconds later and there's an almighty 'slam' that signals you've had an altercation with the front door before leaving through it.

For some time, the house is weighed down under a blanket of silence as the pair of unearthly beings are left to stand in the aftershocks of their actions.

“Oh dear..” Azrael's stare is vacant, worried, and he has several fingertips pressed to his lips. “I fear I've reopened an old wound..”

“No. This... isn't your fault,” the Horseman sighs, “I should have addressed this sooner. I've known for some time there was something Y/n didn't want me to know. And, I suppose, I'd always suspected that this room might lead to some answers.”

Taken aback, Azrael turns a mystified look onto the Nephilim. He'd expected Death to lay the blame upon his feathery shoulders, after all, he was the one who first ventured into this so called 'storage cupboard' and upset the proverbial applecart. Still, he finds it somewhat odd that the Horseman – a nosy creature if ever one walked the nine realms – hasn't ever tried to see for himself what lay beyond the door. Tilting his head, the angel asks, “You never thought to investigate?”

At the question, Death averts his gaze and shrugs one of his pale shoulders. “Admittedly, no, I did not.”

“Well... Why?” Azrael presses, though he already has an inkling.

After a moment of frowning pensively at the photo in his hands, the Horseman turns to look at him and he's once again thrown off by the level of emotion in those wild, striking eyes. Death really has grown since knowing you.

“I never brought it up because....” 

“.... You didn't want to jeopardise your friendship,” Azrael finishes for him softly, and Death is only grateful that he didn't have to say it himself out loud.

At the same time, the two of them peer back at the photograph and the archangel is surprised at himself for the anger that boils in his lungs at the sight of that man’s hands on you. Death however, isn’t in the least bit surprised at the presence of his own rage. 

“Horseman...,” Azrael says, his voice eerily calm, “You don’t supposed.... Y/n might be trying to hide something else, do you?” 

"The bruise...”

Furious, orange eyes meet cool and misty white. 

“It isn’t out of the question,” Azrael breathes, “A random attack from human zealots? Or-” 

“- Or something a bit closer to home,” Death finishes as he tosses the photo onto the nearby bed and turns to face the door. 

Outside, rain continues to hammer relentlessly on the house whilst a streak of lightening illuminates the bedroom and the two, imposing beings inside, one with dark magics crackling at his fingertips, and the other with a halo of solid gold on his back that thrums with violent energy as the glyphs on his wings begin to glow electric blue. 

Without a word, the Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper slip from your house and stride out into the coming storm, their ancient minds focused solely on tracking down their human.

[verycrunchymoon]

Love Letters | SFW Fluff

Amajiki x FirstyearFem!Reader

☽ Warnings: mentions of anxiety ☾ ☽ Word count: 1,900+  ☾ ☽ Summary: He felt his heart begin to race as he approached his locker, his eyes quickly scanning the rows as he determined which was his, scouring the forest of blue-gray metal boxes for any sign of pink; searching for any papers sticking out of the thin slots, for any envelopes taped to the front, for even a hint of a left message. "She hasn't forgotten about me.. right?" ☾ .      .      . 

Tamaki Amajiki considered himself to be incredibly below average. His demeanor was sullen and shy, and despite being a part of the “Big 3”, he felt far behind his peers. He watched his feet graze the scuffed flooring of the school halls as he walked alongside his two friends, who were also part of the prestigious school trio. Other students of all grades parted ahead of them as they made their way to the lockers at the front of the school. 

“You were great during training today, Tamaki!” he heard his friend Mirio Togata call back to him, the confident blonde making gestures as large as his strides. “I’m serious, the you used your quirk at the end was really creative!” “Yeah, Tamaki,” his other friend, Neijire Hado, bounced in agreement, “I think all three of us did amazing!! Did you see me when I dropped down in the beginning? Kinda like you did! Did you see who I was fighting? We should get some snacks after this, I’m starving!” 

“Neijire, you’re making a scene..” Tamaki shushed her, glancing around them as they parted to their respective lockers. As he looked up for the first time since they left the classroom, he froze, his eyes locking onto a pink envelope sticking halfway out of the slots of his locker. He felt his mouth and throat begin to dry as he trampled at the sight, his mind racing with possibilities. Why is this here? This isn't what I think it is, right? No, it can't be, why would it be? How could anyone like me? This is too stressful, this isn't happening, this is-

“Tamaki,” he heard Mirio start as his hand pressed onto his shoulder from the side, “what’s taking so long? What’s that in your locker?” “Oooo!!” he heard Neijire squeal in a sing-song voice, “Tama-kitten has a secret admirer!!!” He cringed and sunk his head low at the thought of romantic attention, his face practically glowing a deep, pigmented red. “Welllllll?“ he heard her tease as she leaned around his shoulder, “Show us what it says, dummy!!”

Tamaki gulped and shook as he tentatively opened the letter, careful to preserve the envelope and whatever was inside. The heart-shaped sticker that held the pastel envelope closed was easily peeled away, the paper packaging folding back and revealing the letter inside, folded into thirds.

“I..” he croaked out softly, “I can’t do it.. This is too much, my throat is dry, I can barely think,  I-” he was interrupted by his female classmate grabbing the envelope out of his quivering hands and pulling the folded message out of its sheath. “You’re such a kitten, Tamaki!” she giggled teasingly. “Now then, let’s see what this says” she cleared her throat and began:

“My dearest Amajiki,  you don't know me.. I'd be surprised if you even knew I existed. But I know you. I know you're a great hero, a great friend to Togata-senpai and Neijire-san, and a great student. I know you're a lot more important than you think of yourself, a lot stronger than you seem, and more amazing than anyone could ever know.. especially to me. I’m too afraid and embarrassed to speak to you in person.. I’m sure I’d donk it all up anyways. But, maybe through letters, you can get to know me, and maybe one day I can gain enough courage to see you in person. Whoops, I’ve been rambling a bit.. Anyways, I hope I'm not annoying you with this letter. And I hope you read this, though a part of me wants to hide this and never let anyone see it. Sincerely, Secret admirer from class 1-B”

The three friends stared at the paper with mixed emotions spread across their faces. 

“Wait.. ‘donk’?” “Class 1-B?” “Afraid..?” Tamaki muttered to himself, his face feeling heavy from the blood rushing to his face, “They’re afraid of.. me?” 

Tamaki stared at the letter in awe, his mind buzzing with a strange mix of excitement and fear and happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to meet them, he wanted to know what they looked like and sounded like. He glanced at the stairs that led up to the first-year classes in wonder.

“We should go up to class 1-B and try to see who it is!” he heard Mirio exclaim, and was promptly yanked out of his blissful daydreaming. Of course he wanted to see who it was, but at the same time the thought of confronting a first-year like that sounded so narcissistic. He grabbed Mirio’s wrist as he began towards the stairs.

“No!” he yelped as he stopped him. Mirio and Neijire looked back at him in shock, as did a few other students who heard his voice raise so uncharacteristically. His face flushed in embarrassment and he turned his gaze straight to the floor before whispering, “I.. I don’t want to know who it is yet”.

The two of his friends looked at each other before smirking knowingly. “Alrighty then,” Mirio beamed, “let’s just get to our dorms then, I have a spicy ramen bowl waiting for me and I’m starving!”

The three of them finished quickly and began to walk towards the fourth-year dorm building, all the while Tamaki ran his finger over the edges of the envelope and tried to forget about crushes and secret admirers. Surely it was just a joke from the first-years, trying to embarrass him.. right?

. . .

It had been a few months since the first letter arrived. Tamaki shut the door behind him and sighed before reaching into his pocket and smiling, pulling out another envelope identical to the first. He opened a drawer in his desk to reveal many more letters, each neatly kept in their own folder organized by dates. Some of the labels even had little hearts drawn on them, symbolizing which were his very favorites. He carefully placed the letter he’d received that day and wrote in small, straight handwriting the date, followed by a little heart. He smiled again and sighed dreamily for what seemed like the hundredth time; he couldn't remember ever feeling so important to someone, even to Mirio. This girl made him feel giddy and dreamy and important and so many other things, but he didn't even know her name. 

“This is good,” he thought out loud, though he felt his smile fade, “I’m fine just knowing someone like this exists. Besides, there’s no way for me to ask..” And then he stopped. A single thought entered his mind like a bright torch in a dark forest. How had he not thought of this before? He sped to his desk, pulled out a paper and wrote as fast as he could, not caring that his j’s went too low or his t’s went too high or even that he forgot to write the date. He smiled excitedly and his cheeks ached as he slid the letter into an envelope, sealed it with a piece of tape, and wrote on the front “To Admirer”.

The next day, during lunch, he taped the letter to the front of his locker. He wanted to make sure she saw it when she went to slip her own letter into the metal slots of the blue-gray box. But morning would have been too early; it might have fallen or been meddled with by the time she got there. 

He couldn't focus in class, only scribbling little loops in the edges of his paper and imagining what kind of face she might make when she sees the letter. He felt a small knot of anxiety begin to twist in his stomach as he thought, What if she doesn't like it? But he brushed it aside, and managed to survive through his final period and rushed through the hallways to his locker. The letter was gone, tape and all, and had only been replaced by a small, pink sticker in the shape of a heart. The same kind she used to seal all her envelopes to him. He felt his stomach flip and he smiled wildly, gripping his shirt to keep his hands from flailing wildly out of pure joy and excitement. 

“I did it,” he excitedly blurted to Mirio as they sat on the couches of the dorm common room.

“Did what?” Mirio questioned, glancing to Meijire who shrugged and shook her head.

“I wrote back to her,” he smiled, “the girl who’s been putting letters in my locker, my admirer. I wrote her a letter and she took it!” “Wow!” Mirio exclaimed, and Neijire began clapping enthusiastically, “I’m proud of you, Tamaki!” “Yay, Tamaki!” Neijire whooped, “Go go go! Get that girl!” Tamaki chuckled and blushed embarrassedly, and couldn't stop thinking of it for the rest of the night. He couldn't wait for the next letter and what it might entail. But, there was no letter the next day. Or the day after that, or the day after that. For a whole week there were no more letters. Not even a sticker. He felt his heart get heavier with each passing day. Did he write something wrong in that letter? Did he scare her away by asking for her name? This is all my fault, he thought, I scared her away.. She thinks I'm a freak.. He sulked his way to his locker for the 9th time in a row, and glanced up, only to be jerked out of his depressed daze by a shimmering pink heart. “She still likes me,” he muttered to himself, and ran his thumb over the signature sticker, smiling ear-to-ear.

There were still no letters after that, but every day a new sticker was added to his locker instead., and he placed a piece of tape over every one to preserve them on the metal door. Maybe she just couldn't think of what to say. Another two weeks passed when, on Wednesday, there wasn’t another sticker. He searched and brushed over each one, counting and recounting, but there wasn't a new one at all. There wasn't a new one on Thursday either. He felt his heart begin to race as he approached his locker on Friday, his eyes quickly scanning the rows as he determined which was his, scouring the forest of blue-gray metal boxes for any sign of pink; searching for any papers sticking out of the thin slots, for any stickers stuck to the front, for even a hint of a left message. 

"She hasn't forgotten about me.. right?" he frowned to himself, and turned to look at Mirio only to see a freshman standing like a deer in headlights, with a pink envelope in her hands, sealed with a heart-shaped sticker. They stared at teacher for what seemed like eternity before she began: 

“I-I ran out of stickers” He could barely breathe, only managing to reply with “Oh” before darting his eyes to the floor. A sliver of pink came into his field of vision, and he glanced up to see her holding out the envelope with trembling hands. “My name is (Y/N),” she spoke, and shuffled her feet as he took the envelope carefully.

“My name is Tamaki Amajiki,” he replied.

“I know” “Oh”

[sukifans]

PET • RI • CHOR

[n] a pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather

ZUKO X OC SERIES

SUMMARY: a captured waterbender and the fire prince may sound like an unlikely pair, but kena never much cared about others’ expectations and zuko, well… he was just along for the ride

⏎ MASTERLIST // PART II « PART III » PT IV

Zuko was starting to enjoy his life in Ba Sing Se a lot more now that Kena was a part of it. She liked to visit him during his shifts to sit and do her coursework. Even though they didn’t get to talk much while they were both busy, he liked just knowing she was nearby. She radiated a calming energy from her table in the corner that seemed to make difficult customers and broken teacups a thousand times more bearable. In slower moments he found himself studying her — how her brow furrowed in concentration, the way she chewed her bottom lip, when she tapped her pen against the table as she read, and (his favorite) the small smile that her lips quirked into whenever she looked up and caught him staring at her. Uncle teased him mercilessly and almost always wore a knowing smirk, but it was okay because it made Kena laugh. Hearing her laugh after all these years was his favorite sound in the world and he tried to hear it as often as he could.

Kena liked to coax him out of the apartment when he wasn’t working. She claimed he still looked a little worse for wear after his travels and sulking inside certainly wouldn’t help with that. He complied easily, of course — she didn’t know it, but he thought he’d do pretty much anything for her. He was firmly wrapped around her little finger and, honestly, he didn’t mind all that much. That particular day they were both free and she had decided to take him up to the Middle Ring to visit one of the nicer parks. They sat in a large open field, leaning against a tree trunk in the shade of the foliage and relaying their stories from the years apart. She was trying to teach him how to weave a flower crown like she’d learned from a group of singing nomads but he was pretty miserable at it.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he muttered when he caught her grinning at his lopsided attempt that looked nothing like a crown, even by the loosest definition.

“You’re tying them together wrong. Look-“ she said. She leaned over and slowly showed him the proper knot. His brow furrowed as he watched her nimble fingers wrap and pull at the stems, resulting in a perfect two-piece chain amongst his many attempts.

“I don’t think this is salvageable, Kena.” He looked irritated, dropping it in his lap. She picked it up and pulled it over her head, setting it on her shoulders.

“Maybe not as a crown, but it makes a very lovely necklace, I think.” He smiled at her.

“That’s not saying much. You could make a rice sack look good.”

“Oh, uh... thanks, Zuko,” she responded, taken off guard by the compliment. She looked down at her hands as her cheeks warmed. They sat quietly for a bit, enjoying the gentle breeze on the warm day. She was surprised when Zuko shifted to lay down and set his head on her lap. When he noticed her wide eyes, he sat up again.

“Sorry, was that okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah, it just... surprised me, is all. Lay back down.” She put her hand on his shoulder and guided him back down. Grinning, she set the intricate crown of white and yellow flowers she’d made on top of his face. He squinted up at her. “A crown fit for a prince,” she declared. He rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think this is how crowns are meant to be worn,” he said.

“Forgive me, my liege.” She bowed her head dramatically. “Us common folk know not of such things.” She laughed when he groaned and closed his eyes, moving the flowers to sit on his chest instead. He sighed contentedly when she started playing with his hair, twisting the short strands between her fingers. Cautiously and delicately as one would handle a butterfly’s wing, she ghosted her fingertips over his scar, sending a not-unpleasant shiver down his spine. He cracked one eye open to be met with her questioning gaze.

“My father,” he said in response to her unasked question. He closed his eye again as she frowned and moved her hand back to his hair. “Uncle let me sit in on a war meeting and I spoke out of turn. I questioned one of the generals’ tactics and got challenged to an Agni Kai for my disrespect. I thought I’d be fighting the general, but since I had spoken out in the Fire Lord’s war room, it was my father. I refused to fight and begged for his mercy. He... did not forgive so easily, and- ow, Kena.” Zuko opened his eyes fully when she tugged too hard at his hair.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, dropping her hands. “I just- hmph.” She clenched her fists and sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. “I’m fine. Keep going. How did you end up in Ba Sing Se?”

“Well, I was banished after the Agni Kai. Uncle came with me — thank Agni, I think I would’ve been dead ages ago if he hadn’t — and we’ve been... traveling for the last three years. I think Uncle got sick of being on the move all the time, so now we’re here, I guess.” He carefully avoided mentioning his hunt for the Avatar. He didn’t want Kena to know that side of him because it might push her away. He desperately wanted to be the person she thought he was and he was terrified of losing her again. She was the best thing to happen to him in a very long time. Kena could sense wasn’t telling her something, but she knew better than to push him. He’d obviously been through a lot, and she wanted to be a positive force in his life. Positive forces don’t pry. He would tell her when he was ready.

“What about your mother?” She felt him tense up and she slowly began carding her fingers through his hair again, weaving small individual flowers into the inky black.

“What about her?”

“Did she try to stop the Agni Kai?”

He squeezed his eyes shut again and sighed heavily. “She left when I was eleven. I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t know why, or what happened, or even if she’s still alive, but I know she’s gone because of him.”

“And Azula?” She frowned at his scoff. “I know you two never got along, but she’s still your sister.”

“She only got worse as we got older. She was practically jumping for joy when I was banished because she could be Father’s little pet in peace without her failure of a brother around.” His voice was filled with bitterness as he spoke about his sister, mouth twisted into a deep frown.

“You’re not a failure,” Kena said gently.

“Only you and Uncle seem to think so.”

“Well, that’s because we’re smart. I’m quite proud of you, actually.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “For what?”

“For not going back. It’s very brave of you. You grew up sheltered in the palace and then were thrust out into the world with nothing after losing everything you knew. It’s admirable, how you kept going.”

Zuko felt his stomach churn uneasily. She was too confident in him, too ready to believe that he was as good and strong as he pretended to be. He felt sick lying to her but he knew he would feel much worse if she left.

When he was silent, she continued. “It’s difficult to go through all that and still make an effort to be kind.”

“I don’t think that’s how many people would describe me.”

“You’re a bit grumpy and gloomy, sure,” she laughed at his offended look, “but I think you’re very sweet.”

He ignored the warmth flooding his face. “It’s easy to be nice to a person like you.”

She smiled. “Kindness, compassion, empathy — they are all choices you have to make. If they were easy, the world wouldn’t be in a century-long war.”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things in the past.”

“We all have. We are products of our circumstances. Your whole life you’ve suffered and yet you’re still a good person.”

“I don’t think I’m a good person.”

“Well, I do. Good people make bad choices, too. Being good doesn’t mean being perfect.”

He avoided her eyes, focusing on ripping up the blades of grass. “You sound like Uncle.”

“Like I said, we’re smart.” She used the pad of her finger to smooth the lines between his brow, rubbing away his anxious look. They were silent again for a few minutes while he mulled over her words. She could tell he was deep in thought, so she just continued her ministrations on his hair while she waited for him to speak again.

When he did, his voice was soft. “My father used to say that Azula was born lucky, and I was lucky to be born.”

“What an idiotic thing to say,” she said simply. His eyes snapped up to her. He’d forgotten just how blunt she could be.

“Excuse me?”

“I think you’re luckier being you than her.”

“She’s a prodigy. She’s always been his favorite.”

“Yes, and where has that gotten her? Azula is still a child and yet she’s been driven to the brink of insanity trying to be good enough for your father but she never will be.”

“She was loved.”

“She was used. You were loved, Zuko. What about Iroh? Your mother? Me?” When he didn’t answer, she shook her head. “What your father gives her, that’s not love. You have both suffered at his hands, but you have people who love you. Azula doesn’t have love, she has fear. I feel bad for her. I hope one day she finds peace within herself. I hope she learns to love and be loved.” She propped her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands, leaning over his face as her hair fell around them and shielded them from the rest of the world.

“You loved me?” he asked quietly, staring up into her eyes in amazement. Her heart broke a little at the shock in his expression.

“Of course I did. I’ve always loved you.”

His pulse raced at her words and he leaned up on his elbows to get closer, examining her face for signs of deception. All he saw was the gentle smile that graced her pretty mouth, the raised white scar stark against her brown skin, her soft grey eyes that beckoned him in. He could stare at her until he went crosseyed, memorizing every detail. She’d been cute when they were kids, sure, but now... he thought she might be the most breathtaking person he’d ever seen. His gaze flicked down to her lips and he thought about kissing her.

Before he could move she was shifting to stand, grabbing his hands and pulling him up to his feet as well. She propped the crown she’d made him onto the tangled nest of black hair and tiny wildflowers on top of his head before dragging him out of the shade and into the bright afternoon sun. She sighed happily before flopping down in the grass again to lay on her back, stretching languidly like a cat in the warm rays.

“Come on, fire boy; you need some sun. You still look sickly.” She patted the ground next to her and bent her other arm behind her head.

“That’s just my skin... water girl,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he laid anyways when Kena laughed at his weak retort. She slid her hand over his and laced their fingers together. His palm radiated warmth into hers. She smiled and closed her eyes, tilting her head into the sunshine. His eyes devoured her, admiring the way the light bounced off her high cheekbones and silhouetted the slope of her nose and the gentle curve of her lips. She felt his stare and opened one eye.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

Like you love me, she wanted to say. “Like a weirdo,” she joked instead, poking her tongue out at him playfully. His huff of annoyance was betrayed by the small smile he couldn’t fully hide. They laid there for a while, just staring at each other and basking in the other’s presence with their hands still clasped between them. She scanned his face unabashedly. Anger still bubbled in her core when she saw his scar, only to be assuaged by the way his honey-colored eyes seemed to glitter and glow in the sun. There were no words in any language sufficient to describe how they felt being together again, but they didn’t need words. All that mattered was that it was the best and most content either of them had felt in years. Her heart felt remarkably full when he kept her hand squeezed tightly in his as they made their way back to the Lower Ring in the orange glow of the setting sun.

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the news,” he said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. She looked back at him with raised eyebrows, signaling him to continue. “Some men came by the tea house yesterday afternoon and offered Uncle the chance to start his own shop in the Upper Ring.”

She frowned. “What’s the catch?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “but they offered him total creative control and a new apartment for us. He agreed.”

“Oh,” she said hollowly, “that’s nice.” She dropped his hand and turned to keep walking, looking troubled. Surprised at her reaction, Zuko jogged to fall back in step next to her. He hadn’t meant to upset her.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to hear that. It’s just like we used to talk about as kids, remember?” She sighed.

“I am happy. It’s just... I won’t be able to see you in the Upper Ring.”

“What? Why not?”

“People down here need a passport and approval to get up there. I don’t have either.”

“Oh,” he echoed her from earlier.

“Yeah.” They stopped outside her apartment and Kena avoided meeting his eyes. “But I am happy for you and Iroh. You both deserve better than this.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want it unless you’re with me. I can’t lose you now. Not again.”

She ignored the way her pulse jumped. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will, but I won’t. I- I need you, Kena,” he admitted, voice soft. “Finding you here is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Zuko...”

“Come with us,” he said suddenly, standing in front of the entrance to her building and taking both her hands in his. She sent him a sad sort of smile.

“I can’t just up and leave, even though I want to stay with you.”

“Why?”

“What about Fera? She’s been with me since my mom died. I go to school, I have friends, a job... I’ve been here for years. I had to make a life for myself.” She felt bad when the excitement fell from his face, but she couldn’t just give up the little illusion of normalcy and stability she’d built here in the Lower Ring. It was what she’d craved after a life as a political prisoner and on the run with her mother, on her own, or with Fera.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “I’m sorry, that was selfish. I understand.” She stepped forwards and hugged him, burying her face into his neck and soaking in his warmth like she’d done in the sun earlier. Though he’d tensed at first, he slowly wrapped his arms around her in return and held her tight. He’d buried his craving for friendly, loving touch after his mother left and now that she was here again and offering it so freely, so genuinely, he felt the walls he’d built around himself crumbling. It scared — no, it terrified him to sense himself becoming more vulnerable again (something that had for so long felt all too much like weakness). If he had to be weak for someone, though, he was glad it was for Kena. She was one of only two people in his life who had never hurt him or lied to him or left him (she didn’t leave him, he’d rationalized long ago; she’d been taken away).

“You can still come see me down here,” she mumbled into his skin. “People of the Upper Ring can travel as they please.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll come see you every day, even if it’s just for a little while.”

“Zuko, you don’t have to-“

“I know, but I want to. I don’t want to go another day without seeing you ever again.”

“So dramatic.” She rolled her eyes as she pulled back but beyond her teasing tone he could sense her gratitude.

“I’ve been told,” he chuckled.

“I’ll miss seeing you at Pao’s, though. You always looked so cute in your apron.”

His face went crimson. “I am not cute,” he muttered as she giggled.

“Are you hungry? You can come up for dinner, if you’d like.”

“I promised Uncle I’d help him make roast duck tonight to celebrate the new shop. Thanks, though. Another night,” he said as he stepped back from her. She smiled.

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I want to come by in the morning to see you and Iroh off before you move up the social ladder.”

He nodded in agreement and started to leave, but not before she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him close again to kiss his cheek. She giggled when he flushed again, just as red as the day he gave her that fire lily. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then mumbled something about seeing her tomorrow and hurried away as she laughed. She loved how easy it still was to get him flustered.

A sense of guilt gnawed away at his stomach as he walked back to his apartment. He felt bad about lying to her again, but he couldn’t exactly mention his plan to steal the sky bison as a means to capture the Avatar without admitting what he’d done over the last few years. He felt so conflicted as the two sides of him tore further apart — the side that wanted to be who Kena and Iroh thought him to be, and the side that still wanted to prove everyone wrong by bringing the Avatar back to the Fire Nation. Maybe he could make Kena understand; maybe she’d even go back with him. If he fulfilled his destiny, surely his father would let her stay.

When Kena made her way up to Zuko and Iroh’s apartment early the next morning, she found it already deserted. She frowned as she left, wandering into the street outside. Had she missed them already? Did they leave the night before for some reason? She couldn’t imagine why Zuko would lie to her about something so silly. All she wanted was to say goodbye, whether or not they were actually moving to the Upper Ring.

She walked to Pao’s and asked if he had seen them. At the mention of “Mushi,” the man went into a long-winded spiel about loyalty and betrayal that left her regretting her decision to ask. As politely as she could manage, she excused herself and left the premises. She desperately wished she could talk openly to someone about everything going on. At this point, she’d made up so many fake identities and backstories that it was sometimes hard to keep straight what was real and what was false, and who could know what about her various personas. At one point she’d considered writing it all down somewhere but that would be difficult to explain should anyone stumble across it. Only Fera knew what was happening, and even she was still in the dark about some things. Feeling a familiar sting of loneliness, Kena resigned herself to returning home to wait for Fera to get back from work so she could vent for a while.

Iroh sat by Zuko’s side for the entirety of the day, unable to sleep despite being awake through the night at Lake Logai. He watched his nephew twitch and sweat in his feverish dream state, pressing cloths soaked in cool water to his forehead through the hours. He could hardly even enjoy his tea as he waited for the prince to awaken. Every time his breathing changed, the older man would sit up at attention, watching with baited breath. It now neared sunset, and Zuko had still not opened his eyes.

Watching the sky change color through the window, he thought about rumors he had heard amongst the peoples of the Lower Ring about a benign spirit that visited at night. If one left a white candle burning in the window with a strip of blue cloth hung nearby, she was said to appear and heal the sick and injured. The people called her Tui’s Daughter. The stories reminded him vaguely of the legend of the Painted Lady from the Fire Nation. As he lit the candle, he hoped she would happen through the Upper Ring this night. Perhaps a visit from a spirit is exactly what the prince needed to help along his inner turmoil.

No matter what she did, Kena seemed entirely unable to fall asleep. She tossed and turned in her cot for what seemed like hours to no avail. Something still felt wrong about Zuko’s sudden disappearance, even after talking with Fera about how flaky and dishonest men could be. It was like an itch in the back of her skull that she couldn’t scratch and it her made her antsy and restless. She sighed in resolution and abandoned her attempts at sleep to dress in the bright moonlight pouring in through the window. She had to know he was alright, even if that meant he’d abandoned her.

As she came to the wall that closed off the Upper Ring, she kept to the shadows. The area was crawling with guards and surely Dai Li agents to keep the elite of Ba Sing Se secure and comfortable. She’d snuck into the Upper Ring only once before, and it was the closest she’d ever been to getting caught. She hoped the blind spot that opened during the shift rotation hadn’t been remedied yet, otherwise she’d have to take more drastic measures. Patiently, she waited for the opening.

The spirits must’ve been on her side that night because she was able to slip through into the Upper Ring with relative ease. That, or the Dai Li were occupied elsewhere. Whatever it was she was happy for it because now she was running through the pristine empty streets, searching for some sort of indication of where Zuko and Iroh may be. She didn’t know exactly what it was she was looking for, but her gut told her she’d know when she found it.

A flicker in her peripheral caught her eye and she whipped her head around. A few buildings away, a white candle burned in a window on one of the upper floors. She had to admit she was curious; The people of the Upper Ring rarely called on Tui’s Daughter because they could afford the best doctors Ba Sing Se had to offer. The spirit tended to stay in the poorer areas, especially in the refugee ghettos, because they needed her the most. Despite her desperation to find her friend, she moved towards the apartment with the candle.

Iroh immediately tensed when he heard a creak from the stairs leading up to their apartment. He hoped it was the spirit, but was ready to defend himself if need be. He hid himself from sight when the knob rattled and the front door slowly cracked open. Relief flooded his body when he saw the intruder donned a long, flowing white dress and a black smiling koi mask exactly as the rumors had described.

“Thank you for coming,” Iroh said as he emerged from his hiding spot. “My nephew is very ill, but I’m afraid it is not a natural sickness.”

The spirit had jumped into a defensive position when he spoke. Now that they stood facing each other in full view, she lowered her hands. As he looked on, the realization dawned that this was no spirit at all.

“Iroh?” the woman whispered and the old man hummed thoughtfully.

“I’ll admit I was doubtful about the rumors, but I can say I never expected you to be Tui’s Daughter.” Iroh moved closer and bowed his head in greeting. She ripped her mask off to reveal her face and Iroh smiled when he recognized her. “Hello, Kena.”

A/N: was originally going to end this at crossroads but this is long enough and also seems like a good stopping point for now. thank you all for the lovely response to the last part, yall made my heart uwu and i hope you liked this one just as much!

TAGS: @beifongsss @the-lva-way @lammello @llorom6nnic @idkdude776 @aangsupremacy @royahllty @mamooska8 @bucky-blogs @youneedmemanidonotneedyou @eridanuswave @rosetheshapeshifter @fantasticchaoticwho @bwndito @dancerslovelife @justab-eautifulmess @whalerus

[goldeneyedgirl]

jaliceweek20 day 2: soulmate au

JaliceWeek2020 Day 2: Soulmate AU

Untitled

Notes: I’m so mad this got so long because I was going to write this as a continuation of the Angel/Demon, but I wanted something shorter, and then this would. not. end. I think the premise was far too big. But alas, we have fic! No title is coming to me, so I’ll think of one tonight. If I get the other prompts done, I might even finish off the Angel/Demon version. 

Words: 6581

--

They meet like this:

The new girl, her hair hanging in her eyes, darts out of the classroom like she’s on fire. She runs straight into him, bounces off the wall of vampiric-muscle and hits the floor. 

It’s hardly the thing of great love stories or cinematic meet-cutes, but it is the beginning. 

He mechanically offers to help her up, but she looks away. That’s when he begins to notice - he doesn’t know how it feels for her, but it’s like someone injected ice into his side, where the mark has been for eleven years. She stares up at him for a moment, her hand fluttering at her collar bone before she’s back on her feet and hurrying down the hall like she’s running away. 

—

The soul mark appears when Alice is six. 

It is a twisted ribbon of a mark, from the inside of her left elbow, up her arm, over her shoulder, along her clavicle, over her right shoulder and down to her right wrist. It is enormous for a soul mark, especially on such a small child. And perhaps that would be okay, if it wasn’t for the colour - deeply and unmistakably red; dark in the middle and light on the outside, like she’s been slashed violently with a knife. 

Alice’s mother screams when she sees it, expecting blood to follow, until she realises what she’s seeing. Lillian stares at her daughter, who seems delighted by her positively disfiguring mark. Her little sister has one, her cousins each have one, there’s only her and Uncle Fred that don’t and now she does. 

But Cynthia’s is an elaborate knot of yellow on her right hip that looks more like an abstract flower. Lillian’s own is yellow and mauve, fanning out like sunburst on the back of her neck. She has never seen a soul mark like this, and she feels disloyal when she allows herself to think it quite hideous as she lets her daughter babble away in joy. 

What ugly, soulless individual could inspire such a mark?

(Then, of course, there is the social faux pas that Alice is obviously older than her new soulmate - just old enough for people to talk. It’s still not really acceptable in Biloxi society for the female half of the couple to be older, but it can be overlooked if its only a year or two. Don’t even get Lillian started on same-sex soulmates; she’ll worry about that if it ever comes to pass, pray to god it doesn’t. 

Thankfully, Cynthia was born with her mark, and Lillian with hers.

It’ll be years before Alice herself understands: the soul mark has less to do with birthdays and ages, and a lot more to do with the path you find yourself on - there’s no point having a map to a place you won’t be visiting. That day when she was six years old was the very day that the seeds of the Great Brandon Feud were planted, and her path was gently diverted into that of another).

—

The official reason they move to Forks is because Brandon Shipping is expanding, and the newest office and facility is in Port Angeles; Lillian thinks the small logging town is charming and a more socially palatable place to live, plus she is excited by the idea of renovating an old house (Alice is positive that every Pottery Barn in the Pacific Northwest is standing-by for her mother’s legendarily dull sense of interior design). 

The semi-official reason is that Alice punched her cousin Marcella at the last family Fourth of July barbecue, and both Lillian and Michael are leaving in shame. Alice resents this justification to her bones because one, Marcella deserved it, and probably another one or two. Two, if it had been any any cousin Marcella had said those words to, it would be Marcella who would be punished. And three, the unspoken reason. 

The unspoken reason was that Michael and his brothers have reached a peak in the Great Brandon Family Feud where ultimatums have been made that can’t be taken back, but all of them are focused enough on wealth and status they aren’t stupid enough to actually break up the company. So Michael is - depending on who you ask - either banished to the newest, furthest outpost of the company, or removes himself and his family from a ‘disturbing, irrational, and toxic environment.’ 

The only one who is actually relieved by their arrival in the dreary little town is Alice; wearing neck-to-wrist clothing all year around will be much more comfortable in Forks than in Biloxi. She might actually get to be normal. No sunshine, no swimming pools, no weddings or volleyball or spiteful, nasty little cousins. 

Just school and home and peace of being left entirely alone. That’s been her plan for years now - hide away and not find whomever branded her like this. She can almost see the disappointment in their eyes when they glimpse her, and all that she is. 

Forks seems like a really good place for someone to hide. 

—

The mark hasn’t changed in eleven years - bright red, enormous, and always there. Lillian has tried every kind of make-up and cover-up, every form of medication, every skin treatment but the red still bleeds through insistently. And until Alice was twelve, she didn’t really notice anyone recoiling from her mark - though Lillian always insisted on high-collar dresses and dainty cardigans, even in the summer heat. 

It was Cousin Grace’s wedding that changed everything - Grace was always a sweetheart, and everyone was pleased for her. All the little cousins would be bridesmaids and flower-girls, of course - that’s how it was down in their family. Alice was so excited - Grace was the oldest, and it was the first wedding she’d actually get to be in. They’d arrived at the bridal store, and everyone was gathered, and the dresses were there on the rack, and everyone laughed at how excited little Mary-Alice was to climb into her bridesmaid dress. 

Lillian was distracted, not thinking, as she accepted champagne and talked to Grace’s mother Susan. Cynthia was already being hustled into a fitting room when Alice emerged, already spinning in the pink lace creation with the sweetheart neckline.

And all went silent. The bride, the children, the mothers, the store attendants - all of them froze at the sight of Mary-Alice in her candy pink dress with a soul mark that looked like she’d just climbed off an autopsy table half-way done. 

Grace managed a sickly smile, “you look so pretty, Mary!” she manages in the same voice she uses for her kindergarten class. “It fits well, not too long.”

“That’s all we need, Alice, put your clothes back on,” Lillian manages in a faint voice before she is swept into a corner with Grace, Aunt Susan, and Grace’s wedding planning. 

The dressing rooms of wedding boutiques are not fortresses of solitude and silence. The murmured and slightly panicked conversation between the four woman about Alice’s Mark, about its hideousness, and the photos, oh my god, everyone will be forced to look at it. 

No, make-up won’t cover it - they’ve tried everything they can find. 

She just can’t be in the wedding. She’ll ruin it. 

Alice stares into the gilded mirror in the dressing room, at the dress she was so excited to wear. At the red slash that she has always loved but… it really is terrible, ugly to look at. Not like Mama’s or Cynthia’s or anyone else’s she knows. It’s so awful. 

She puts on her sweater and her skirt, and hangs up the bridesmaid dress she’ll never get to wear, and she’ll sit quietly as the rest of the cousins try on dresses and she won’t even cry when Grace lies to her so sweetly, and tells her that she’s got too many bridesmaids and would she mind terribly if she was just a very special guest instead. 

She wears a long-sleeved navy blue dress to the wedding and hides in the bathrooms when the photos are taken, not that anyone comes looking for her. She stays quiet and good and doesn’t complain about how hot her dress makes her. Cynthia spins on the dance floor in her pink tulle dress, and Alice tries to push down the jealousy. It’s not her little sister’s fault that she’s too ugly to wear a pretty dress. At least one of them gets to enjoy it. Then she wonders what she did to make her soul mate hate her so much they’d mark her like this before they’ve even met. 

—

Twelve is the year she stops complaining about her clothes, stops having to be reminded to cover herself up. 

Twelve is the year she finds she prefers oversized clothing, clothing she can hide in, so nothing but her face and finger tips can be seen.

Twelve is the year she doesn’t ask even once to go swimming with her friends (even though she’s never been allowed before) - and when she swims in their pool at home, she wears a long sleeved shirt over her swimsuit every single time, and only swims just before it gets dark, where no one can see her. 

Twelve is the year that she thinks, maybe if she was skinner, the mark might get smaller. Her mother compliments her on her diet as she fades away, but the mark just seems to get brighter. 

Twelve is the year she successfully convinces her parents and her fancy school to excuse her from gym permanently, because she’ll faint exercising in all those layers, and none of the other students should be forced to see her. (It takes a depressing lack of effort to secure that privilege, everyone praising her for her maturity and practicality, as if they’ve forgotten how much she had always loved gymnastics and volleyball.) 

Twelve is also the year she works out that she can’t cut or burn the stupid thing away, and no one seems upset with her attempts when they get a good look at what she’s working against. 

Twelve is a horrible year. 

—

The day she runs into the tall boy at school, it all goes to hell. 

She hasn’t really made friends at Forks - she sits next to June in Art, and Katie in History, and they’re both nice to her, but they really leave the new girl alone - she’s too quiet to be befriended. All her report cards have said the same things for years now - she’s polite and diligent but just so shy that perhaps her parents should get her help. 

They don’t, because Michael Brandon prefers his eldest daughter to remain silent and unresistant to his will. Plus, what would people think if they found out Alice needed a therapist?

So, she continues on her quest for complete invisibility, like a rabbit in the underbrush, and that leads her into running into the handsome boy she’s seen roaming the halls, and she falls flat on the floor, stunned but unharmed. 

It happens almost immediately, a burn in her chest that is running down both her arms and … no. No, nope, nada, nyet, nein. No way in hell. The burn is increasing and she gets to her feet, ignoring him entirely to go and hide in the library and wait for the pain to ebb. 

It still hurts when the final bell rings, and she stumbles to the bus, head down and headphones on so that no one can call out to her and have her hear. It feels like an inside-out sunburn, and she’s going home to take a cold bath and cry. 

No one else is home, thankfully, when she barges in the back door and straight up the stairs, pausing only long enough to grab the omnipresent tube of aloe vera gel from the fridge - she couldn’t bare to deal with the expected afternoon niceties with her mother right now. She’s got to get the burning to stop. 

Her bathroom is a tiny ensuite to ensure her privacy - her father has made no secret of how disgusting he finds her mark, and her mother only encourages her extreme form of modesty. She almost regrets all the layers - heavy sweater, turtleneck, camisole, bra, skirt, shoes, stockings, underwear - as she sheds them, wanting to scratch the skin from her body out of sheer frustration and discomfort. 

And then she looks up in the mirror and freezes. 

There’s no doubting he’s her soulmate, not an ounce of doubt in her mind. Because her mark has changed, and it is… like nothing she’s ever seen, not in all her research on the topic. Not in endless scrolling on social media of people boasting ‘before’ and ‘after’ soul marks, in delicate little love knots, and spiralling patterns and bursts of colour. 

This is something utterly unique. The ribbon-like shape is unchanged, but somehow, it looks almost faceted like crystal, like under her skin there is the inside of a geode, colours shifting in ripples of scarlet and gold. It feels no different to touch, but no longer does she look like she’s been murdered. And the very ends, on her wrist and arm, they have darkened to a deep and unexpected violet. 

The heat still rolls under her skin but is slowly dispersing again, as if it was just insistent that she had to take a closer look. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Alice feels… well, not beautiful. But not monstrous. 

So she climbs into the bathtub and starts to cry. 

—

She stays in bed the next day, unable to face school. Lillian indulges her claims she’s sick, everything below Alice’s chin tucked firmly under her duvet, and leaves her daughter to rest. 

She can’t do it, can’t face the idea of having to see that boy again, that truly handsome boy, and let him know that when life was dealing out soul mates, he drew her card. Because she hasn’t been made suddenly beautiful by their inevitable meeting. She’s still a tiny, bony, and pale little creature - her own grandmother assures her every Christmas that she’ll never win any prizes for beauty. 

That doesn’t stop her from peaking under the blankets every so often just to see the impossible glitter of her mark, the way it somehow shifts from ruby to crimson to scarlet, with little veins of gold threaded through. She doesn’t understand - it’s just skin, still flat and smooth, the most remarkable of illusions. 

In the end, she kicks off the blankets and throws on a dress and leggings and boots, and leaves the house. Finds herself walking to the school, hoping that maybe she’s lucky enough to one, not get caught by either her parents or teachers, and two, find Him before he leaves for the day. 

Apparently, she’s just the right amount of lucky. She finds him sitting on one of the benches outside the school, running his hand through his hair and looking stressed. He’s surrounded by others, no one she recognises - one guy appears to be reassuring him; they’re all looking for someone. 

A brunette girl catches her eye and points to her, and apparently the person they’re looking for is her. She tries not to shrink under their gaze, as she crosses the carpark and wondering why on earth she’s here, and not still in bed, why she’s even tempting fate by approaching him. It’s going to go horribly, and everyone in town is going to find out about her mark, and her parents will just outright destroy her. 

She falters, and looks up at him. He looks almost hopeful, as he stares at her, raising his hands in peace when he thinks she’s going to back away. 

She approaches slowly, her arms crossed over her chest as she finally reaches the group. 

“Hello.” The boy stands up to greet her and he is so, so ridiculously tall, it’s not fair. 

“Hi.” It’s awkward. All those soul-meeting stories she read online, they all sounded so lovely, and hers is at a bench at school and… this.

“We’ll leave you to it, man,” one of the other boys says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

The blond boy nods and looks at her. He has kind eyes, which is good, she decides. 

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he offers suddenly. “Just around here? Might make it easier.”

“Yes. That sounds okay.” Her voice sounds small, and they move away from the benches, from the witnesses, towards the oval. 

—

His name is Jasper Hale, and he’s eighteen. He lives with his aunt, uncle, twin sister, and his adopted cousins. They only moved to Forks a year ago. He likes American History, motorcycles, and horses. He plays the guitar. He’d like to get to know her. 

She fumbles through what to tell him. Her name, of course, her family. Why they moved. She likes… that’s a weird question. She’s spent so long hiding everything about herself that she can’t remember what she actually likes and what’s just become routine. 

She can do this. 

Her name is Alice Brandon - Mary Alice Brandon - and she’s seventeen. She lives with her parents and younger sister. They just moved from Biloxi. She likes drawing, she likes fashion, and she likes dancing. 

“I don’t know if this is inappropriate,” Jasper begins, as they take a seat on the ageing bleachers at the back of the school. “But, could I see the mark?”

She visibly flinches from the request, but he’s been very patient and seems to actually be invested in this, and she can’t be outright cruel. He’ll leave her alone soon enough. “C-can I see yours?” she manages, hoping to delay the inevitable. 

He nods, looking at her with concern, but hikes up the side of his shirt. It runs down his side, even underneath the waistband of his jeans, all sharp edges and thin lines jerking out, like a spiking heart rate. It’s mostly a dark gold colour, but with violet and scarlet bleeding into parts of it. It’s the most perfectly normal soul mark she’s ever seen, and she’s not sure whether to be disappointed his doesn’t match hers better so they can be freaks together, or if she’s grateful no one else has to live like she does.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, and it’s true. Beautiful colours, the visible representation of a beating heart. It suits him. 

He nods, a slight smile hovering at his lips. “Yours?” he asks, and this time she knows she cannot get out of it. But she also can’t whip off the dress she’s wearing, in the middle of the school oval. 

“Um, I can’t,” she began, looking at her shoes. “Not here.” She makes a gesture towards her chest. “Not the whole thing - but I can show you some of it.”

He’s curious as she rolls up her right sleeve to her elbow, and holds out her arm. He positively gapes at it, and reaches out to stroke it, making them both jump at the unexpected contact.

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. That’s… incredible,” he murmured. 

“Incredible?” she echoes, pulling her sleeve down. He’s staring at her like she’s performed a miracle in front of him, and she doesn’t know how to act. 

“It’s beautiful. But you said you couldn’t show me all of it? How far up does it go?” he asks, furrowing his brow. 

She wordlessly and mechanically draws the path she’s been branded with - for him - and his eyes get wider. 

“I’ve never heard of such a … prominent mark,” he manages. 

“It’s pretty … dramatic,” she admits before sighing and shaking her head. “Before we ran into each other, it was… awful. Hideous - the ugliest thing possible.”

He looks shocked, and moves closer. “Why do you say that?” his voice is low, encouraging. 

“It was so big and bright and everyone hated it, hated looking at it,” she gestured to her chest. “You’ll understand when you see the entire thing. It’s… it’s nicer now, but it’s still everywhere.”

Jasper studied her a moment longer before looking out at the field. “I researched soul marks once, as a bit of a hobby,” he began. “American research on the topic is only very recent, and focused on the science of it rather than the meaning. But you begin to look abroad, or back through history, and what we know or believe it gets interesting.

“For instance, in India, they believe the length of the soul mark determines the length of your time together. Hundreds of years ago, they had a special way to measure a soul mark to determine how many years you would have together. It’s been lost to modern history, but it was once incredibly important a couple to have their soul marks measured and calculated. 

“And then in Ancient Greece, any mark was a sign of great pride. They would cut down their clothing - sometimes quite indecently - to show off - the more prominent the mark, the better.

“And some of the Slavic tribes, they believed that the shape and size and placement of the mark held great significance to the relationship the soul mates would have - the depth and strength of love the pair would carry for each other; that a great size implied that one half of the couple was taking on a burden of pain or suffering from the other, to help them through life.”

She sat there, almost breathless, as he so easily detailed the different things he had found and read. All of them full of acceptance, of hope, and of how… special such a thing was supposed to be. 

“What do you believe?” she manages to ask. 

He looks at her and reaches out to take her hand, gently squeezing it. 

“That there’s nothing you could show me that would scare me away,” he said, and she can feel herself blush. “And that I would very much like to get to know you better, Alice Brandon.”

—

He walks her home, still holding her hand, and they talk about nothing. Movies they’ve seen, music they like, places they would like to visit. He makes it easy to talk, to find things to say. The walk is a lot shorter on the way back. 

Lillian Brandon is not amused to find her so-called ‘unwell’ eldest daughter has snuck out, but is bamboozled and gracious enough to hold back her displeasure when she sees Alice hand in hand with Jasper. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Alice?” Lillian rebukes her daughter, and watches as her daughter appears to shrink back against the tall boy with his gaze permanently fixed on her. 

“This is Jasper Hale,” Alice manages, ducking her head. “He’s a senior.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Jasper replies respectfully, eyeing the uncomfortable girl at his side. “I’d like to thank you for doing me the favour of bringing my soul mate to Forks.”

Later, Alice will laugh until her eyes are watering over the look on Lillian’s face when she computes what Jasper is saying. That this tall, handsome boy who can’t take his eyes off her daughter is Alice’s soul mate. Lillian’s face goes through the full spectrum of emotions - confused, shocked, completely blank, incredulous, and then vaguely dazed. 

The late reveal of Alice’s soul mark is hand waved away with Jasper informing the pair his own didn’t show up until he was seven - that late appearing soul marks aren’t as uncommon as people think. Lillian is utterly flabbergasted and Alice only gets to enjoy it for as long as it takes Lillian to get to her favourite topic - complaining about Alice’s ‘disfigurement’. 

“It’s really quite gruesome to look at - you said your uncle was a surgeon? Perhaps he might know of someone who can tidy it up a little,” Lillian prattles on as the pair sit stiffly at the kitchen table. 

“I think it’s quite lovely, myself,” Jasper responds coldly, but Lillian doesn’t notice the change in his mood. 

“Have you seen the whole thing? Run up and put a camisole on, Alice,” Lillian waves a hand at her daughter. “You’ll understand. We’ve tried everything, but nothing works.”

Jasper looks furious as she leaves the table meekly at her mother’s bidding. Maybe Lillian is right, maybe Jasper will back away when he sees the sheer expanse of all, all that research be damned. 

It feels quite strange to walk around wearing so little clothing, and she’s slower going back downstairs, her face hidden by her hair, as she returns to the kitchen. The camisole is cut low enough to show her barely-existent cleavage, and she really feels like she’s just walking around naked. 

Jasper stands as soon as she returns, and for a split second, she thinks he’s going to walk out, that Lillian was right and she was right and it doesn’t matter it changed, it’s still awful. 

But he moves closer to her, reaching out to gather her hair and push it away from her face. And for the first time since they’ve met, he looks at her. At the faint freckles on her nose, the tiny scar on her cheek, her slightly sunken cheeks, her sad grey eyes, down to the faceted expanse of soul mark that twists up both her arms and meets over her collarbone. 

Lillian shakes her head in despair at the family shame revealed so openly, not remarking - or maybe not noticing - the change of it. 

“I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Jasper’s voice is firm and clear and appreciative and Lillian looks scandalised, and Alice starts to laugh and cry at the same time, and somehow she finds herself in his arms, clinging to him like a lifesaver because she can’t remember  ever being told that in her whole life.  

(It’s a quiet dinner at the Brandons that night, after Lillian reports to her husband what has transpired. The only comment Michael Brandon makes is right before he gets up, staring at his eldest daughter, and rudely congratulating her on catching a doctor’s son. Alice can’t find it in herself to care.)

—

Nothing worth having ever came easy.

Meeting the Cullens goes… fine. She wears a dress with a high neckline and elbow-length sleeves, but then puts a cardigan over the top because old habits are hard to break. She puts her hair up though, because it makes Jasper smile when she does. 

Dr Cullen seems vaguely horrified at the sight of her (Jasper reassures her later that it was how terribly, terribly thin she was, and nothing more), but Mrs Cullen is delighted by her, clasping her in a hug and insisting Alice call her ‘Esme’. 

Jasper’s twin sister, Rose, seems guarded but very polite to her, whilst Jasper’s adopted cousin (and Rose’s soul mate, which explains the very specific description) Emmett is all fun and games, and at ease with her right away.

“Jas said you had issues with your mark,” he says within the first minutes of meeting her. “Get a load of this.” He pulls his t-shirt up, and turns around to show Alice his back. Like Alice, his spine appears to have split perfectly down the middle to reveal a faceted crystal effect in deep pink and forest green. It starts at his hairline, running down his neck and stretches across his shoulders before narrowing again. 

“Very appropriate timing, Emmett,” the other cousin, Edward, sighs. 

“What? Jas was pissed she was upset,” Emmett tugs his shirt down, and Alice isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry that the whole family knows something she’s been ashamed of for so long. “We thought it might be, like, a freaky genetic thing but then Edward’s girl showed up with one like it on her leg. Some people just get lucky, I guess.”

“Ignore him. He’s got the tact of cinderblock wall,” Edward says to her. “He’s never had a moment of self-doubt in his life.”

That makes her giggle a little, and everyone relaxes. It’s a nice visit after that, but both Dr Cullen and Mrs Cu- Esme look at her with worried eyes, and that makes her worry more. 

At school, apparently being Jasper Hale’s soul mate is a scandal of the highest degree. Her locker is defaced twice, and one girl body-slams her into the wall as she walks past. Everybody suddenly knows who she is, and she has a place to sit at the cafeteria, and it’s not as bad as she thought it would be because the Cullens don’t eat much either. 

Jasper fusses over her a lot; he picks her up for school every day in a shiny black truck, and he walks her to every class. He takes her back home every day, and most days they sit in her room and talk. Nothing inappropriate, especially since she has to keep her bedroom door open whenever she has guests. She asks him about college, but he is dismissive of it - entirely focused on her and her plans. He helps her with her homework, helps her move her bedroom furniture - nothing is too much trouble. 

He only leaves at dinner time, when her father comes home. Sometimes she wonders if he’d ever leave her if he wasn’t forced to. 

She knows she runs hot and cold. Some days she clings to him like a limpet, reluctant to seperate even for their respective classes, quiet and solemn. Other days, she is distant, uncomfortable with being touched. Those are the days she drags the turtlenecks and heavy sweaters out, the ones that cover her right to her hands. And then there are the days she is her best self, when her smile is bright and she can wear a top that bares her forearms and forces herself to ignore people staring at her soul mark. Those are the days she can relied to eat lunch, to have a conversation with his family, to be the person she was shamed into not being. 

And Jasper stays for all of it. He doesn’t get mad, he doesn’t insult her, he doesn’t yell. He’s just right there, by her side, right up until graduation. They don’t go to Prom because the idea of wearing an evening dress makes her feel woozy and hide in the immense fabric of one of his hoodies and watch bad movies with aggressive focus. Instead, they stay at the Cullens house, and Mrs Cullen makes them crepes - she eats more than Jasper, she’s sure of it, but they’re very good - and he plays music in his bedroom and they dance there, instead. 

That’s where he admits he’s putting college off for a year and working for Esme - a very successful architect and interior designer - for a year. And not for college money; apparently that isn’t a problem. No, because he wants to wait for her, so they can go to college together. He doesn’t care where - it’s her choice. That she’s letting him tag along is all he needs. 

It’s all very romantic and it’s also their very first kiss, and then their very first make out, and nearly their very first time except she’s still messed up in the head, and the idea of getting really naked with anyone is so bad she hyperventilates and he has to calm her down. 

She’s not sure what he gets out of having her as a soul mate, but she hopes he knows that he’s saving her life. 

—

It’s late August, just before she starts her senior year with Edward and his girlfriend, Bella, when Jasper brings her to the house to tell her something.

She worries the entire trip to his house, piling anxiety on top of anxiety. It’s definitely her - they kiss sometimes and it’s nice, and she doesn’t mind when he sees her in her bra now, but anything else is too much and maybe he’s tired of waiting?

Or maybe he’s realised waiting around for a whole year in a town like Forks for a girl like her is actually really dumb, and he’s going to college after all. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

The thing is, in all her catastrophizing, she thought she had everything covered. Every single thing, from a break-up, to terminal illness, to joining the military, to world collapse. She feels like her head is spinning by the time she gets to the Cullens, and she’s positive she’s either going to faint or vomit by the time he tells her whatever he wants to tell her. 

“We’re vampires,” is absolutely and most certainly nowhere on her list, and she bursts into tears, and the entire family freaks out, and then she has to admit she thought she was being dumped, and both Emmett and Carlisle burst out laughing because apparently Jasper has been mooning over her since the day she ran into him, without exception, and the idea that he’d choose to leave her for some petty human reason is the height of comedy. 

She has to lie down after that revelation, as Jasper and Carlisle slowly explain to her that all those ‘quirks’ she evidently didn’t pay attention to where indicative of being a fucking vampire, with various interjections from Emmett that are unhelpful but funny. 

The end result is that she starts her final year of high school with the knowledge that her soul mate is a vampire - one that hunts animals but is physically unable to drink her blood thanks to soul mate biology; that they will respect her choice to remain human if that is what she wants, but that allowing him to change her will give them forever together. 

It’s a lot of pressure. She loses some of the hard-won weight she has gained, and she’s not sleeping well, and Esme - when she finds out - is fairly pissed they’ve rattled her to that point. When she goes to Esme for advice, the woman is more than happy to offer counsel, to listen to her hopes and fears and dreams and all the things that rattle around in her brain that she can’t stop thinking about.

It’s Rosalie who helps, who finds her in the Cullen’s kitchen inspecting the calories on the peanut butter jar.

“You know, I didn’t want this,” Rose says brusquely, taking the jar out of her hands and shoves Alice out of the way to make the sandwich for her. “I hated Carlisle for years for changing me without consent - I was dying, he made a choice,” the blonde girl says, slicing up the banana. “Then I got my mark, and found Emmett.” She cuts the sandwich likes she’s stabbing a dead thing. 

“Eat. There are a lot of things I regret and I resent about this life. We all have them - I know for a fact that Jasper has sanitised most of his own history to ‘protect’ you, and I disagree with that. But never have I looked at Emmett, had Emmett beside me, and regretted that. I love him more than I thought possible.

"We’re given these damn marks for a reason. I’ve never seen Jasper as… at peace as he has been since he found you. There’s never going to be a time - not today, or next month or even in the next twenty years - that he’s going to look at you and not see his entire world. Stay human, become one of us - only you can make that choice. But don’t make that choice because you think that it will change how it will make him feel. Because that’s not happening,” Rose finished, putting the peanut butter in the fridge. “You’re smart, you’re pretty, you clearly love him. Anything else is just your own neuroses. Eat the damn sandwich.”

She eats the whole thing. 

— 

‘Nothing worth having ever came easy.’ 

She reminds herself of that over and over again when things get hard. When she goes up a clothing size, when she wears a t-shirt that fits for the first time since she was twelve, when she’s staring down a perfectly ordinary bowl of fruit salad. 

When she lets him put his mouth on her soul mark, her chest bare, and her breathing only a little bit panicked. But it feels kind of nice and she makes a few sounds that are embarrassing but Jasper seems to like them a lot. 

When her mother drives her to Seattle to pick out a dress for prom, and she immediately reaches for a blue one. A vintage-style strapless cocktail dress in deep blue that she’s immediately in love with. It fits like a glove, and as she spins in front of the mirror, she chooses to ignore the look that Cynthia shoots Lillian, and Lillian’s wince. She loves it and she’s going to wear it.

And she does. She nearly hyperventilates, and changes into her back-up dress twice (one that covers her from wrist-to-throat-to-knee) before she commits. It’s what she wants to wear, it’s how she wants to look for him, and he loves her soul mark. He loves her. He’ll love her in any dress, but she wants it to be this one. 

And as she comes down the stairs, to go to her senior prom, in a dress that exposes every inch of what she’s tried so hard to hide, his eyes widen and he gapes. He loses all composure for a moment and that makes her laugh and he calls her beautiful, just like he does every day, except she’s almost started believing him. 

And decades later, when she remembers that night, it’s not the snide remarks she recalls. It’s of being in his arms as he dances with her; it’s her hand in his as she tugs him along. The way he looked at her, and the way she looked at him. It was the pride in his gaze, and the love, and the promise that no matter what, they would always be together. 

—

A few years later, her soul mark has changed again. Carlisle affectionately calls her a chameleon before delving into an academic recitation on the biology of soul marks and how great upheavals - physical, mental, or spiritual - can affect their appearance. 

“Duh,” Emmett says after a moment of silence, and even Edward and Rose are sniggering at that. 

Her soul mark has not shrunk or changed shape, as she once wished so passionately. And the beautiful crystal effect has remained, even more beautiful not that she truly sparkles in the sun. 

But the scarlet has faded away, giving way for swoops of gold and violet that twist together in a way that she adores.

It’s the very same gold of Jasper’s eyes.

The very same gold as the diamond in the ring he presents to her, down on knee, and she knocks them both to the floor in her delight and rush to accept. 

It’s the same gold she hopes her eyes will be.

Someday. 

—

[draqcnheartstrinq]

Hate That I Want You (Part 3)

Sirius Black x Pure-blood!Slytherin!Reader

Summary: At first it’s hate, then it’s confusion. It grows into a healthy amount of curiosity until it turns into hate once more. But not towards each other, more towards the idea of wanting what you’ve tried to avoid all your life.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: angst, bad family relationships, mild fighting?

Note: So very sorry for basically not updating this story for over two months. That’s just bad even for my standards I hope you enjoy this one though!

HTIWY Masterpost | Part 4

James loves his quidditch, everyone knows it and nobody is surprised when they see him on the quidditch pitch flying along the field. There’s no match planned, no training on the schedule and still Potter is there on his broom whilst his friends sit in a group on the stands.

Occasionally Remus, Lily, Marlene and Sirius have a go at flying themselves. They’re all good, but of course nothing like quidditch king James Potter.

When the five of them are up in the air, the others cheer and watch from down below. Other students sit in the stands too, watching them or just discussing some of their classes, catching up or admiring the Hogwarts Grounds.

The quidditch pitch isn’t only James’ favourite spot, but also that from many others.

You heard a few fellow Slytherins whispering in the library about how amazing it was to just sit there, reflect, watch the clouds go by and do nothing but breathe. Whenever they felt threatened by the copious amounts of assignments and tests they would go there to unwind and relax.

And so, you were now walking up the wooden stairs, towards the seats and the beautiful autumn sky, trying to finally find a way to ease your mind.

You brought a book, one that you had read a thousand times before but couldn’t get enough of and clutched it between your arms until you found a place to get comfortable. The stands weren’t anything fancy but they gave off a cosy pine smell, the sky wasn’t clear but the sun shone through the clouds in a most beautiful way and most of all… Even though you were alone, you didn’t feel like it.

Clusters of friends were scattered around the pitch, chattering along and filling the air with happiness. In a place like this you could never feel alone because of all the friendly faces around. It didn’t matter what name you were given or the blood you were born with. The quidditch pitch was a safe place and thanks to that one Slytherin in the library you now knew that.

Focussing all your attention on the book in your hands, reading every word as if it was the first time, you didn’t realise the giggles zooming through the air above your head were ones you knew. Until the person flew so close you could basically feel the breeze flying over you and messing your hair around.

Lily was trying her very best to lose James who desperately chased her, in a friendly attempt of course. Her laugh pierced the air and brought a smile to many others’ lips. Even to yours without realising it. James, of course, was much faster on his broom and caught up with her in less than thirty seconds. He reached out grabbing her arm in the air, making Lily scream out of joy and also maybe a little because she didn’t like losing.

Her scream brought your attention upwards, away from your book and towards the duo who hysterically laughed at one another. After a while Lily averted her attention to you too and waved with such a happy smile, you felt your heart grow. You waved back, a little more shy than her but at least just as joyful.

As Lily turned her attention back on flying alongside James, you averted your eyes higher up. Remus was there chatting with Marlene about who knows what, both several feet in the air and dangling their legs off the sides. You couldn’t possibly imagine looking that relaxed while sitting on a hovering stick, being a little scared of heights yourself, but they didn’t seem to mind one bit.

Realising you were staring by now you turned back towards your book but something seemed off.

Not the book, there wasn’t a problem with the book.

You felt off, like something was trying to catch your attention but you couldn’t make out what.

Your eyes roamed back over the stands, catching a few Hufflepuffs sitting in a circle, a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw holding hands whilst whispering to each other. You smiled at that, not caring if it made you look like a lunatic.

But what kept you on the edge of your seat like this? What was making you this uncomfortable you could barely concentrate on one single word of your forgotten page?

After several seconds you realised, much to your displeasure, that the “what” was actually a “who”.

There he was once again, with his long messy black hair and his piercing grey eyes, looking right at you as if it was his favourite occupation. Honestly, as of lately you couldn’t tell if Sirius did it on purpose or not. Contrary to the other years at Hogwarts when he used to only give you attention in the form of barking remarks and swift hateful glances, now for almost a week he had seeked you out in any crowd. You did the same to him you had to admit, otherwise you wouldn’t even have know about his prolonged stares.

His looks weren’t friendly, but they weren’t full of hatred anymore either. They were more like a gaze, as if he was looking at you but at the same time right through you, lost in thought.

Right now, even as you were looking right into his eyes, it was as if he didn’t realise what he was doing. His head didn’t turn or even move an inch to the left or right, his eyebrows didn’t knot together like they did up until a week ago…

Something had been going on inside his head and obviously you couldn’t complain. If Sirius could finally stop holding a grudge against you, purely for the family you were born in, then anyone could right?

Or so you were trying to tell yourself. But you were smarter than to keep on hoping it would get better, it never did in the last six years.

*~*~*~*~*~*

His mood had been swinging from left to right, from cheery and upbeat to plain out irritated by the most insignificant matters.

James talked too loud, Peter chewed with his mouth open, Marlene’s high pitched laugh pierced his ears, professor Mcgonagall called him out for every joke he pulled no matter how subtle they were,... Nothing was going his way.

On top of all of this, there seemed to be an itch in his head he wasn’t able to scratch.

Everywhere Sirius went he saw two particularly unwanted eyes reading a book or concentrating on ink spilling out of the tip of a quill. Green accented robes and an obnoxiously neat skirt flowed around knee length socks, also accented by that same deep colour of emerald green. It’s the kind smile, though, that makes him hate it all more. It’s out of character, those lips aren’t supposed to look that innocent and friendly.

Sirius hasn’t been himself ever since the encounter with you after potions class. He’s tense, stressed even and he doesn’t get why. Was it because you called him out on his obvious ignorance? Maybe because the words that left your mouth that day were both filled with obvious anger but also hurt?

You had genuinely sounded hurt, Sirius now realises that. You looked at him as if he had grown two heads, opening your mouth just slightly before closing it. The corners of your lips turned downwards and your eyes lost the sparkle of that always present wit. Your shoulders had slumped down and you made yourself as tiny as you could without being too obvious about it.

The conversation still rang inside his head every time he so much as caught a glance of your silhouette.

“You honestly still believe I stand for what my family stands for?”

Your voice was so small, you had almost whispered it and if his attention wasn’t solely focussed on you he would have probably missed what you were saying.

He knows his reaction to your fragile demeanour made you stand up straight again. As if seeing his perplexed eyes was enough to remember what you were dealing with. He could see it in the way you pulled your books against your chest, how you twisted your face into a scowl.

That angry look, that was the one he recognised.

It made him snap back at you, like he always did, trying to put you back into place. But your answers…

They weren’t what he expected, they weren’t what he wanted to hear. His plan was to confront you, to finally get the hateful words to spill from your mouth and proof his friends wrong, so he could tell them how wrong they were about trusting and defending you.

“Do your family’s actions reflect onto you? Have you ever considered I could be in the same bloody situation as you are, or is the hate towards Slytherins just so damn huge it doesn’t even matter what my opinions are? You’re just going to keep accusing me of sh*t I’ve never done, or better, never even said!

“I never shared their love for our bloodstatus let alone my whole opinion on who’s worthy and who is not! It may be a surprise to you, Black”, you made sure to spit out his surname as if it was a pawn on a chessboard, “but I consider someone worthy as soon as they step foot in this world, from there on it’s up to themselves if they deserve to walk among the others or not.”

Those definitely weren’t the words he expected.

That night wasn’t one where sleep found him quickly. Questions kept sliding through his mind, all basically asking the same damn thing.

“Some people don’t wish to be disowned and thrown on the streets, Sirius! Of all people I would think you would be the most understanding of that!”

Was he wrong all along?

Now he sat at dinner, three weeks later, with a fake smile plastered on his lips. Irritation, rage, frustration,... Confusion.

All those years he had known you, walking along with your parents at King’s Cross, not once had you stepped out of line with them. When they grimaced at muggleborns, you turned your head the other way. When your parents talked to his you made sure to get as far away as possible. He always held that against you, believing you wanted to get away because he, a friend of muggleborns, was there right next to them.

Were you just scared?

He had heard stories from his parents, from before he ran away and left them for good.

“The (Y/L/N)s had a particular encounter with a mudblood, Walburga, have you heard?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Don’t worry though, they put the vile bastard in it’s place.”

He remembers conversations like that too vividly, vulgar and sickening details following suit.

How you hadn’t left after all that your family had done, said and inflicted upon innocents… It remains a mystery to him. It’s why he always saw you as one of them. You didn’t seem bothered or even fazed by all of it. You never talked back, never gave a kick.

When someone asked you about it you just ignored the question and went on with your day.

How could you? Why would you?

Sirius questions everything, sitting there whilst shoving potatoes around his plate.

You remain a mystery he can’t seem to solve.

*~*~*~*~*~*

When the owls come flying through the Great Hall the next morning, you expect to see grandma’s tiny brown one to land in front of you, lay down a letter and ask for some petting. It’s routine by now and it’s what keeps you grounded, makes you realise there’s someone outside of these school walls that still cares.

This time that doesn’t happen, though. You see other people receiving The Daily Prophet, others get letters from their parents and family at home.

Grandma’s owl never appears.

Instead you see a black one, as dark as the nights on Hogwarts grounds, fly towards you. It lands gracefully and for several seconds you can’t help but stare.

This isn’t what’s supposed to happen, grandma never forgets to write.

Even though this isn’t the owl you expected, you still recognise the stark yellow eyes that contrast with the deep feathers. It’s your family’s owl.

The loud screech of the bird takes you back to where you are, momentarily pushing down the panic away from your head. It settles deep, making you feel nauseous as you take the letter from the sharp beak. Your owl flies away without any hesitation.

Other people around you have been alerted by the loud noise coming from your place as well. Of course they have to keep staring, making your nerves even more prominent. You do as you do best, though. You plaster a fake not bothered look on your face, lay down the letter next to your plate and keep eating like nothing had happened, like your stomach wasn’t refusing every bite you took.

As you tried to calm down, over time you were able to make out the details of the letter. The handwriting of your mother on the front, the big black seal known to be your family’s,...

And then you noticed the obvious red colour of the envelope.

The letter was a Howler. You were definitely not opening that in front of everyone, it was staying shut until you were in your room, alone, with no roommates to disturb you.

For the remaining time of breakfast you kept your eyes on your plate, anxiously thinking about what could be written inside. You dreaded having to listen to your mother’s voice, most probably screaming at you for some unknown reason.

But most importantly, why didn’t grandma write?

Why did it have to be your parents instead?

Lost inside your own thoughts, leaving breakfast on auto-pilot and with a blank stare in your eyes, you just forgot

You didn’t even realise you  left the Howler right next to your still half full plate.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Sirius saw everything, never diverting his eyes away from you for more than ten seconds.

He saw your hopeful smile when the owls started flying in, saw how that smile slowly turned into a frown the longer you waited. Your lips had fully fallen open when a black owl landed in front of you.

He saw your hesitation, heard the loud shriek that made you jump in your seat.

He saw the red envelope.

And there it was again, that unbothered look you always glued onto your face, the one that makes him angry every single time he sees it.

He always addressed it to you actually not caring, but now he just couldn’t. You had looked so devastated and almost terrified just a second ago.

Were you hiding what you were feeling?

Was that what that look was? You just didn’t want others to see what kept going on inside that confusing head of yours?

That would be exactly what Slytherins were good at. Sirius now sees the sly move, realises how good you are at lying. Not with words but with your demeanour.

He definitely doesn’t miss you leaving, head down shoulders slumped because even you aren’t that good at telling lies. He spots the red paper still on the table, left and forgotten about.

There’s a big decision now, right in front of him. Is he stooping that low?

“You okay there, Sirius? You’ve been awfully quiet”, Lily remarks and everyone turns their heads his way.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just not been feeling too well since waking up.”

“Have you guys gone partying without us again?” Marlene asks with a pout hanging off her lips, big round puppy eyes following not long after.

“We wouldn’t dare”, Peter answers before everyone chuckles at the thought of that happening last time. The girls had been mad for weeks.

“I’m done here, I’m full as can be”, Remus says after a while, standing up and pushing off from the table, “If anyone feels like joining me before having to leave for class-”

He can’t even finish his sentence before basically everyone at the table follows his lead and leaves their plates for what they are. All except Sirius.

“Aren’t you coming, mate?”

“I’m going to talk to my brother first, it’s been a while”, Sirius responds, not lifting his gaze from the Slytherin table. Unbeknown to his friends it’s not because his brother is sat there.

“As you wish. Let’s get going, guys!”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Just when you’re about to turn another corner, you snap out of it.

Emptiness is refilled by panic and you’re running before you’ve even realised you were standing still.

The letter! How could you forget to take the stupid letter?!

Your heart beats like crazy and your breathing is deep and irregular. How much more could go wrong today? It’s only half past eight in the morning, classes haven’t started yet and here you are, running your lungs out of your body because of a Howler your family left you.

When the entrance of The Great Hall comes into sight you finally let yourself slow down. Still your legs move in an obvious fast pace, stressed and rigid with your hands fidgeting in front of your stomach.

Just as you reach the grand doorway Sirius Black walks through. You see him hesitate for a second, locks eyes before he quickly gathers himself and walks the other direction. You couldn’t care less at this moment. He’s not what’s concerning you right now. It’s that bloody red letter right next to your plate.

You enter, scan the Slytherin table trying to recall the exact place you sat at.

Penny still sits there, the fifth year Slytherin you know from spending too much time in the library. She sat not too far away from where you had been eating only minutes ago.

As you pass seat after seat, even passing the one you could swear you had been seated, you didn’t see a single letter. No Daily Prophets, no regular white letters,...

Not your very prominent red letter.

“No”, you breathe out. No one hears you.

“Please, it has to be here.” This time you speak louder.

“Everything okay, (Y/N)?”

You look up, silently thanking Merlin for this sweet girl, Penny, for at least caring enough to check on you. You’re quite sure you look like you’ve seen a ghost, figuratively speaking of course.

“No, I-I’m sorry for bothering but have you seen an envelope lying right at this spot? A red one?”

You wait as she looks down to where your letter should’ve been. The longer she takes the more you lose hope.

It’s been several seconds now, you’re almost sure she’s going to ignore your question and get on with her day but then she speaks up as if she only just realised what you asked.

“The Howler you received?”

Of course she knew you received a Howler, Penny was known for being an observant girl, still you had slightly hoped she didn’t notice. You had hoped no one noticed. Obviously that wasn’t the case.

“Yes, Penny, the Howler”, you answer slightly annoyed she had to bring it up in front of her friends. She seems to realise her mistake, though, and looks at you with apology written across her face.

“Actually, yeah we saw”, Duncan who sits in front of the girl answers, “Sirius Black picked it up and left.”

That’s when everything starts to spin. The words have barely reached your ears but you know enough, he’s going to ruin you. This is going to ruin everything.

You swear tears are starting to form in your eyes but rapid blinks keep them from rolling down. You can’t lose it now, not in front of everyone. The breathy voice that leaves your lips is a dead giveaway of what is going through your head right now, though.

“And you just let him take it?” It’s barely a whisper, but you know Penny heard well enough. She turns her head down to her plate, guilt prominently edged onto her features.

“We thought he was going to bring it to you”, Duncan answers, also slightly taken aback by your demeanor.

You shake your head, not believing what’s happening still. “Oh yeah, because we all know Sirius Black is such a good friend of mine.”

The response is filled with frustration and most probably a lot of obvious resentment, but you can’t get yourself to care about that right now. You’re running again, this time out of The Great Hall, trying to catch up with the guy who has your whole future on this school right between his fingers.

*~*~*~*~*~*

He feels wrong. The red envelope clutched in his right hand is burning into his skin. This doesn’t feel right, no matter who the piece of paper belongs to. Why did he do it? Is he so desperate to make your life hell? Is he so set on proving you’re a horrible person?

Sirius doesn’t have the answers to his own questions, he regrets taking the letter and it’s now stressing him out.

This isn’t about doing the right thing anymore. Now he is being the horrible person out of the two of you. He debates walking back to your spot and laying it right where he had picked it up, but it was too late for that. Everyone would’ve seen what he did, if he went back they would only confront him about it.

The more distance he puts between himself and The Great Hall the worse he feels. He takes steps by two, looking down at the red letter in his hand with your name elegantly written on the front. It’s definitely a Howler from your parents, he recognises the black stamp that seals the lid from the many letters your family had sent to his parents.

Why would they send you a Howler?

Maybe they were going to praise you? That could be it, they were only trying to brag about how good of a Slytherin their precious daughter is. Amazing grades, never out of line, always proper and prim,...

But the more he thinks about it the more he starts to question whether his friends were right.

Howlers weren’t sent by loving parents, they were always sent by people who had some bone to pick. Sirius remembers the time Martha, a Hufflepuff, received a Howler from her grandparents, yelling at her because apparently if she didn’t start studying for her OWLs she would be in big trouble when she got back home.

Or that time when Kyle tried to pull a prank on one of the professors but injured a student instead, his parents were livid.

Sirius stops walking, now taking that bloody letter into both hands, staring at it as if he wanted to burn it right then and there.

Anger fills his head as he focuses on your mother’s handwriting. What could your parents possibly be humiliating you for? There was not a chance you were doing anything wrong, anything against their standards. You studied hard, got amazing grades, were good at pretty much anything that involved magic.

The fact he was becoming concerned for you, a (Y/L/N), confuses him to no end and it makes him even more livid.

Nothing made sense anymore.

“Sirius Black!”

Your loud voice echoed through the halls like never before. Not once has Sirius ever heard you scream in all those years he knew you. It takes him back to reality, out of his thoughts and into the world where he can feel nothing but loathing at your mere presence.

After the initial shock he turns around, a prominent glare is fixed onto his face.

And there you are, getting closer with every second, walking with loud steps but still as gracious as ever.

Before he realises it you’re right in front of him, eyes wide and deep breaths filling the air between you. You’re seething, staring daggers at him. If looks could kill, Sirius would be lying on the ground with a cut open throat right now.

“If you give it back I won’t speak a word about this to anyone, Black.”

He expected you to make a scene, but you surprised him with an almost gentle voice, a whisper so no one else could hear but him. It’s a big contrast to your body language.

Your outstretched hand is patiently waiting for him to lay the letter on your palm.

“No can do, (Y/L/N).”

He turns away from you, trying to walk away as quickly as possible but you don’t let him.

Sirius feels his hair being tugged backwards, his scalp stinging from the pull. You know it’s a low blow, almost childish if this was any other situation but you’re so angry, so furious, so full of hatred right now that it’s the only thing that makes you feel satisfied.

His guard is down as he is too distracted and startled by the move you just pulled, literally, that it’s easy for you to grab for the envelope in his hand.

When he feels the paper slipping between his fingers he grips on tight, refusing to let go. He’s in too deep by now, he’s not giving up on that letter.

Sirius never meant for you to be humiliated, as nasty as he could be sometimes, never once did it cross his mind to harass or demoralize you in front of everyone at school. His hatred was private, he made sure only you knew about his distaste. Yes, others picked up on the grudge between you two after a while but never was anything said in full public view.

Never, absolutely never did he mean for this to get so far.

One of you must have pulled too hard, maybe the stamp was weak from the beginning,...

When the black seal broke away from the envelope there wasn’t enough time to realise what was happening.

Before either of you could react your mother’s loud voice filled the hallways and you were there in the middle of everyone listening.

Sirius stumbled back out of pure shock, eyes wide pleading for something to stop this.

Had he gone too far?

Yes, he did. He realised it as soon as he saw your face.

Your tears dripped and hit the floor right between your feet.

TAGLIST:

@iamthepenguinwhosearseisonfire​​ @wangmangagavroche​​ @songforhema​​ @fortisfiliae​​  @the-apple-princess​ @youlook-likehell​ @oliviaharddyy​ @slytherpuffgal​ @supermassiveblackhope​ @this-silent-area​ @madmaiden2890​ @simply-hamilton​ @cindywayne​ @aikeia​ @coffeeismylife28​ @remusandsiriusxreader @evolutionofkatep

[isidar-mithrim]

Letters from Hogwarts – Gus

For more than a thousand years, every summer, in the United Kingdom, the lives of a lucky cluster of eleven years old are radically changed.

These are the stories of four of them.

The first was that of a boy who lived for too long in the belief that he wasn’t a wizard, the second is that of a boy who lived for too long under the illusion of being one.

{Second installment of the “Letter from Hogwarts” series, but it stands alone}

{For this fic I have to thank immensely Hilda, Mah and @sazzy-hp-dw for their help and betaing! <3}</p>

{‘Letters from Hogwarts’ on tumblr: Neville, Remus and Hermione; on Ao3: Neville, Gus, Remus and Hermione}

__________________________________

Of missives, felines, and promises

He was chewing a delicious hazelnut biscuit when a decrepit owl glided uncertainly into their kitchen, landing with a thud right in front of him and making the milk wobble inside his mug.

Gus felt a surge of blissful joy and amazing relief, and with a thundering heart he hastily freed the thick envelope from the owl’s leg.

The owl took advantage of his distraction and pecked at his abandoned biscuit. In different circumstances Gus would have felt resentful, but this time the yearning to read the letter was too strong for him to be annoyed.

He opened it with trembling hands, cracking the wax seal without even looking at it, and with religious respect he took out the parchment covered in orange ink.

Chudley Cannons

Summer Camp for young beginners.

Your broom keeps unsaddling you, but you dream of becoming the Captain of your House Quidditch team?

You’ve never spotted a Snitch, but you want to break the record for the fastest catch?

You failed any attempt to get the Quaffle through the two hoops, forgetting that there was a third?

You are an excellent Beater, but your teammates keep losing teeth?

Then you’ve picked the right course for you! Fly with us and become a Champion!

Shooting Stars are supplied.

Detailed information about costs, schedules and locations of the course overleaf.

Gus put down the sheet of parchment and didn’t even bother to turn it over, a bitter taste in his mouth replacing the thrill of joy he had felt mere moments ago.

After the umpteenth humiliation suffered on the Quidditch pitch, his mother had suggested that he enroll for that stupid course promoted on the radio. I’m sure your broom will start listening to you, after a bit of practise, she had said.

He had dwelled on it for a while, but then she added a promise too sweet to be ignored. You’ll shine, at Hogwarts.

He had been full of optimism and good intentions when he sent the letter, and yet he couldn’t find the will to be happy with the news, his mind wandering towards fresh memories that stung more than he was willing to admit.

“Look! My Hogwarts letter!” Kresten had shouted ecstatically a week ago, running towards them and waving it with pride. They had spent the whole afternoon dreaming of their future Houses and wondering about wand woods and cores, betting on how many they would have to try before finding the right one.

The morning after, it had been Gus’ cousin Alan and their friend Jacob to celebrate, and then it had been Horatio’s turn.

“What about your letter?” Kresten had asked the following day, and Gus still wondered if he had only imagined the malice in his voice.

“Mum says it’ll arrive soon,” he had lied, his tone challenging in the hope of concealing the insidious anguish that had been creeping inside him more and more every day that went by without a letter.

“When will it arrive?” he had asked at dinner the day before.

“Soon, sweetheart.” His mother had given him a strained smile, before lowering her gaze to her plate.

Too caught up in the past, Gus was startled when his mum stormed into the kitchen.

“I’m warning you, you won’t go out until you’ve tidied up…”

She trailed off, her wide eyes fixed on the letter in front of him.

“Merlin… it arrived…” she murmured, as her bewilderment slowly morphed into amazement. “It arrived!”

She rushed towards Gus to squeeze him into a crushing hug.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you! You’ll see, they’ll be able to teach you the most incredible magic, at Hogwarts!”

Gus tensed at her excited words, but she didn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with kissing his head and saying stupid, unwelcome things.

When she finally let him go, he glared at her, hoping this time she wouldn’t miss his gloomy frustration.

“It’s not my Hogwarts letter,” he hissed against the lump in his throat.

His mum froze, her eyebrows pursed in a confused frown. “What do you mean, it’s not?”

“It means it’s not!” yelled Gus with mounting rage. “It’s only,” he said, clenching the letter in his fist, “that sodding,” – he crumpled the hated parchment with his fingers – “Quidditch course,” – he crushed it between is hands – “you wanted me to join!” he shouted, throwing the paper ball in her face with forceful contempt, before running into his bedroom and slamming the door with all his might.

He was sulking on his bed when his mother knocked gently.

“Go away!” yelled Gus, but she ignored his protest.

He turned onto his side to face the wall, kicking it in frustration, and heard her light steps getting closer. He curled up in defense, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

He felt the mattress sagging when his mother sat down beside him, her side brushing his back, her fingers softly caressing his hair. He jerked his head away, but his mum didn’t relent, running her fingers through his strands with tender, placating movements.

His anger faded, replaced by a deep, aching sadness that pressed down on his chest and clenched his throat. Silent, spiteful tears ran down his cheeks, and eventually he was sobbing in his mother’s arms, his snot damping her shirt.

“It’ll come, you’ll see,” she murmured, and in the comfort of her hug it was easy to delude himself that it was true.

*

“Alan will buy his books and all the rest this Saturday,” Gus mentioned casually during lunch. “We could go too.”

His mum hesitated. “Why don’t we go this Friday, instead?”

“But I want to go with Alan!” he complained, annoyed.

“Saturdays are always so busy, though…”

“We can’t go alone. I don’t have the list.”

His mum smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, I can ask Aunt Agnes to give me a copy.”

He huffed. “Okay, then…”

*

Gus left Flourish and Blotts with his brand-new pewter cauldron full of interesting books.

“Now there’s only the wand left!” he said excited, walking towards Ollivanders with a spring in his step.

His mum gave him an exaggerated grin. “Of course, sweetheart.”

When he reached the wand shop, he rested his hand against the window and peered inside.

“Look how many there are, Mum!” he said, enthralled by the sight of dozens of shelves packed with small boxes. “C’mon, let’s go inside!”

He was about to open the door, when his mum held him back.

She was still smiling, but now her expression seemed strained… Fake.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the letter, before buying a wand?” she asked with a too high-pitched voice.

Gus swallowed. “Why?” he asked harshly.

His mother let out an awkward laugh. “Well, you see, nobody ever buys a wand before receiving the letter… I’m not even sure that it’s allowed, so we really sh–”

“But I’m eleven!” Gus cut her off. “I want to start casting spells!”

“You know children can’t do magic outside of Hogwarts, sweetheart…”

“But all my friends have! Horatio fell from his broom and bounced without breaking a single bone; Jacob once spilled pumpkin juice on Alan but he didn’t get wet; Kresten made the mud stains on his new trousers disappear, because he was scared his mother would ground him, and –”

His mother sighed, her forced smile fading. “Those… those weren’t real spells, Gus…”

“Of course they were!”

She shook her head. “They were just… just bursts of accidental magic,” she explained in a low voice. “You see, it’s normal for children to accidentally do wandless magic, from time to time… Every child does.”

“But that’s not true!” objected Gus, clenching his hands. “It never happened to me!”

“No,” said his mother, her eyes glassy, and Gus felt his stomach plummeting. “No, it never happened to you, because you… you are not a wizard, Gus…”

He looked at her in shock, shaking his head in betrayed disbelief, his mouth opening and closing without uttering any sound.

“I… of course I am… I… I have to be…”

His mother swallowed, her features crumpled in sorrow, and Gus hated her for this despicable show of weakness.

“I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart, I know I should have told you sooner, but –”

“YOU’RE WRONG!” shouted Gus, a sour taste in his mouth, his inside twisted in a knot. He couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t bear her, with her sickening lies and her deceiving smiles, and when she grabbed him from the shoulders, Gus wriggled free.

He ran away with angry tears running down his face, feeling like his whole world had just been ripped apart.

*

He was crying in a forgotten alley, his back pressed against cold bricks and his forehead resting upon his knees, when he felt something wet grazing his fingers.

He shot his head towards it and saw a black kitten brushing his tiny snout against his bare skin.

“Go away,” he mumbled, but didn’t move his hand.

The kitten probably sensed his lack of conviction, because it didn’t pull back, preferring to lick his fingers. It tickled a bit, but in a pleasant way, and Gus tentatively turned his hand over to caress its neck.

“Where do you come from, kitty?”

Its soft meow was covered by the rumors of hasty steps, and a moment later a girl with dirty blond hair darted into the alley.

She stopped abruptly when she saw him, her breaths deep and frequent, a hand pressed against her right side. When she lowered her gaze, her eyes went wide. “Tibbles!” she exclaimed, running towards Gus and lifting the docile kitten in her arms. “I was at the Magical Menagerie, and,” - she took a deep breath - “a nasty cat fled from the owner’s hands and scared him off,” she explained with a hint of resentment, taking another deep breath.

Gus nodded in understanding, feeling a bit sorry for her and for her kitten, but also for himself. He would have liked to stay alone with Tibbles for a bit longer.

“I searched for him in every alley,” said the girl. “Thank Merlin you found him.”

“It wasn’t me who found him. He was the one who found me.”

The girl threw him a suspicious glance. “That’s weird. He doesn’t like strangers.”

“Well, he likes me,” said Gus defensively.

She quirked an eyebrow, studying his face. “So it seems,” she conceded eventually, scratching Tibbles’ ears. “Anyway, I’m glad he isn’t lost. Mr Paws would have gone barmy if I had come back without him.”

Gus felt a sting of annoyance. “Is Mr Paws your father?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. If his own dad were still alive, Gus certainly wouldn’t call him by his surname.

The girl scoffed mockingly, and he didn’t know if he felt more irritated or humiliated.

He crossed his arms in a challenging pose. “What’s so funny?”

“He’s not my father, silly boy,” she clarified with a slightly patronising tone. “He’s Tibbles’ father. I have to bring him back to him, by the way, but you can come with me to the Magical Menagerie, if you like. You seem a bit lost.”

“I’m not lost!” he spluttered indignantly.

The girl shrugged. “Suit yourself, then,” she said, heading towards the entrance to the alley with Tibbles secured firmly in her arms.

Gus watched her walking away, but a moment later he jumped onto his feet, wiping his face with the back of his hands.

“Wait,” he called, rushing towards her. “I’m coming too.”

She shrugged again. “Fine,” she said, looking at him with an odd expression. “Do you want to carry Tibbles?”

Gus hadn’t expected the offer, and he nodded eagerly, stretching his hands to grab him. The kitten snuggled cosily in his arms, and this was all Gus needed to endure the endless, dull chatting of the girl, who had taken it upon herself to tell him everything about her crossbred cats and Kneazles.

The Magical Menagerie was smelly, noisy and packed with cages on every wall. There were animals of every kind and colour, from cats, toads, and rats to weird furballs and double-ended newts.

“Arabella!” exclaimed the witch behind the counter, pulling off a pair of heavy black spectacles with which she was examining an adult cat with black fur. “Did you find him?” she asked urgently, while the cat raised his head and meowed.

The girl pointing her thumb at Gus. “He did.”

The witch pressed a hand to her chest at the sight of Tibbles. “Thank Merlin,” she said with relief. “I’m sorry about what happened, dear. I won’t charge you for Mr Paws’ examination, and feel free to grab a packet of cat treats on your way out.”

“I will,” said Arabella without any trace of embarrassment, before taking Mr Paws from the counter. She then turned towards Gus, looking right into his eyes. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Gus,” he said a bit defiantly.

“You’re the boy they’re looking for, then!” said the older witch, her eyes wide. “Your mother was here a moment ago, she was worried sick!”

Gus felt a rush of vicious satisfaction at these words. “Serves her right,” he muttered.

“Come now, lad!” scolded the witch. “I’ll go find her. You stay here.” She pointed a menacing finger at him before looking back at the girl. “Arabella, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait a bit more. I’ll show you the new kittens when this matter is solved.”

“It’s okay,” said the girl, nonplussed.

As soon as the witch was out of the shop, Gus dashed to the door, but only to find out she had locked it. He swore and kicked it, frustrated.

Arabella looked at him with curiosity. “Why are you avoiding your mum?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said, scowling. “Why do you know that witch so well?”

“Weren’t you listening?” she asked, annoyed. “I told you, I picked all my cats here. I want the seventh one.”

“What do you do with all these cats, if you’re only allowed to bring one to Hogwarts?”

For the first time, Arabella was lost for words. She lowered her eyes, swaying slightly on her feet. “I…”

“Do you really have six cats?”

“Of course I do!” she said indignantly, raising her head again to glare at him.

“Then how –”

“I’ve never been to Hogwarts, okay?” she cut him off aggressively. “Are you happy, now?”

He stared at her, taken aback. She was taller than him and obviously a few years older. “Why not?” he asked in a low voice, his heart thundering in his ears.

“Because I’m a Squib, that’s why.”

Gus had no idea what she was talking about. “A what?”

“Someone without magical power born into a wizarding family,” she said with impatience. “Are you taking the mickey or have you actually never heard of it?”

Gus stayed silent. Squib. So that was what people like him were called…

“I’m a Squib too,” he admitted, finally saying out loud what he had secretly known since forever. He felt relieved, in a way.

“Oh.” She didn’t look particularly bothered. “Well, that’d explain why Tibbles liked you, then. Cats love Squibs.”

“They do?”

“Yes, Albus Dumbledore told me so, in person. See, my parents know him.”

Gus was quite impressed to hear that, but he wasn’t particularly keen to tell her.

She rolled her eyes. “You know, Dumbledore?” She had spoken as if she was talking to a two-year-old. “Hogwarts’ Deputy Headmaster, the greatest –”

“I know who he is!” said Gus with resentment. Blimey, he had five Chocolate Frog Cards of him! Of course he knew who he was. Everybody did.

The girl’s miffed answer was lost, because at that moment the owner got back, his mother in tow.

“Gus!” exclaimed the latter, rushing to hug him. “I was so worried, I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

He didn’t answer, making sure to put on a reproachful scowl. When his mum looked at him with dismay, Gus felt cruelly pleased.

The owner stepped in, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you help Arabella pick her new kitten, lad?”

She had spoken with a conciliatory tone, and even if Gus hated to admit it, he was intrigued by the offer. He glanced at the girl and she shrugged, so he looked back at the witch and nodded. “Okay.”

“C’mon, then,” she said briskly, leading them behind the counter. One by one, they took all the cats and Kneazles out of their cage, no matter their fur colour or their age, and Gus and Arabella held them all in turn.

“What about that one?” asked Gus with surprise when the witch skipped one of the cages.

“She’s the one that scared Tibbles,” said Arabella with bitterness.

“Can I see her?”

The witch looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure? I can’t guarantee you that –”

He nodded with decision.

“Very well, then.” She opened the cage with cautious movements, and the kitten showed her sharp teeth, jerking a paw forward with her claws out.

“Nasty kitty!” yelped the witch, withdrawing her hand.

Gus got closer, intrigued. Ignoring his mother’s frightened “No!”, he bent forward and took the dust-coloured kitten, who snuggled meekly in his arms, purring happily.

Gus turned and met the baffled gaze of the three women in the shop. “Can I keep her, Mum?” he asked. Only silence followed. “Mum?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she said, coming back to earth. “Of course you can keep her.”

*

His mum knocked on the door and peered into his room without waiting for an answer.

“It’s Alan,” she said with a smile. “Why don’t you go and say hi?”

Gus kept caressing his kitten’s fur. “Tell him I’m not here,” he said, lowering his gaze and hoping she would take it as a hint to let him be.

“It’d do you good to go out with your friends, once in a while…”

“I don’t want to see them.”

“Gus… They care about you… I’m sure they’d understand, if you talk to them…”

“Nobody cares about Squibs,” he said stubbornly. “Except cats,” he added on a second thought.

“Please, Gus…”

“I said, tell them I’m not here.”

“Okay,” murmured his mum, defeated.

He thought she might have been crying, but he didn’t bother to check.

*

Gus refused to meet his friends for the rest of the summer. He would rather stay alone all the time than tell them why he wasn’t going to Hogwarts, or why he would never own a wand.

He made a habit of watching them play, perched on his windowsill, his cat always at his side. He couldn’t say when he had begun to resent them so much, so agile on their broomsticks, so happy and carefree, so good at reminding him how different he was.

“One day, we’ll go to Hogwarts too,” he promised to his cat on one of those awful afternoons. “And I swear that not a single student will dare make fools of Mrs Norris and Argus Filch.”

[salty-apples]

The Bard

The crinkle of stiff crisp fabric filled the room. In the absence of other sounds to break the silence, the action of loudly smoothing her skirts as they pooled about her in awkward angles broke the monotony of existing. 

"Another one is here, madam," an elderly voice called from behind the door. She sighed and sat up straighter. It would not do to present one's forlorn self before a guest. She sighed aloud, the cue for the doors to be opened. 

She had the best of everything. A charming house by the sea. Hundreds of servants. Baubles and fripperies of every kind filled her closets. Even the attentions of the crown were hers to hold- a situation Her Majesty resented greatly. Everyone knew who her patron was and accorded her the respect her station called for. So why did she still feel less and yet, in need of more? 

Her guest was unknown to her, as unfamiliar as the latest batch of ornate combs her patron had sent to her that morning. Her gaze followed the movements of the other person in the room as he settled himself on the ground and arranged his instrument before her. 

The instrument pulled her attention as soon as she saw it. The servants had carried it in before him, treating it with as much care as they would a child. Wrapped in leather and bound with strings, she could not tell what it was. Her interest was piqued, in the instrument and its owner. 

Gently, her guest loosened the strings. Her eyes followed his hands as they pulled apart tight knots. She took in the length of his fingers, inwardly marvelling at how slender they were on a person who seemed to her to not be the kind to possess such digits. As he unwrapped the instrument, she continued to look him over and she wondered as she had wondered about the others who had come before him. 

The guest seated on the floor failed to notice her scrutiny while he set the instrument to rights. It was an odd looking thing- a large long box with a wide hole in its centre. Strings ran along its length attached to tiny rods which he twisted until he was certain it was just right. Nowhere in the kingdom was there an instrument like this and perhaps, it was a dream given life by its owner. 

Hands hovering over the strings, he looked up her. She nodded and settled herself on her couch. She turned away to look out of the window, sure that just like before, she would have to turn away another eager musician eager for a wealthy patron. The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips and it remained there until the first notes were played. 

Her guest saw the look on her face when she turned away from him. It made him think, wondering what kind of thoughts the Prince's mistress could have to twist her features so. Many songs he had prepared before today. All the favourites loved by the nobles he had performed for on his journey to her home. None of them seemed right. He had heard of her beauty; of her charms and grace. Here instead was a person who seemed dissatisfied with life- almost restless with inactivity. No, not one song he knew fit her. For her, a new song must be sung. 

It must have been the instrument or his voice or even the two but slowly, she began to turn. Hollow haunting notes coming from the stringed instrument wove themselves between words sung in a voice which mirrored the sounds the instrument made. The words were insignificant, fading away as they passed through her ears and struck her heart with a force she had not felt for years. Entranced by the performer, she felt her mind move and her heart leapt in her chest as her ears followed closely the rising and falling of his tones. 

She closed her eyes, allowing the music to fill her chest. She could feel the room begin to come alive and if she was not mistaken, there were others outside the door feeling just as she was. Before her mind's eye, the words he sang filled the room, took form and exploded into colour. Memory spurted and gushed from the spring of remembrance and a young woman from a lifetime ago danced in a poppy field under a moonlit sky. 

Faces rushed into her head. Scenes long forgotten. Some were hazy like the early morning fog but the vivid ones stayed put. She took hold of them, holding on tightly for dear life as she rode the wave of exhilaration and joy the music brought to her. Oh! How young she felt again. Her feet tapped the floor, recalling for the first time in a long time that they could dance. 

His voice began to ebb, gently fading away into nothing. His fingers strummed less, the strings singing their closing notes. Her heart took notice and began to riot, panic rising to replace euphoria. This song was hers- she was sure of it. It had to stay. It just had to. 

"What is your name, young man?" She had to know who he was, this person who had charmed her when she opened her eyes. 

"Tiwar is your servant's name, my lady," he answered with a shy smile. 

"Tiwar...," she repeated slowly. An uncommon name. Fitting for an uncommon guest. 

"Well Tiwar, how would you like to play for me tomorrow?" She hoped he would want to stay. A talent like his could not escape the notice of the other nobles and if she did not act quickly, she would lose her song. 

The young man beamed, pleased at the request. "For you, my lady, it would be an honour." 

[manlethotline]

Theo and Boris are having Christmas Eve dinner.  It’s their first holiday being a- whatever it is they are now, and neither of them knows exactly how to approach it.  Hobie’s ornate Christmas tree seems too formal, and Boris’ traditional drunken bacchanal with his gang seems too rowdy.  Instead they settle for a quiet evening in, Chinese food at the still undecorated apartment Boris is renting now that he has a real reason to visit New York.

It feels oddly reminiscent of Vegas- just the two of them, cheap Christmas lights taped to the walls, the hum of the TV in the other room, and Boris’s boots discarded by the door.  Only this time there’s food on the table, this time they’re just a call away from Hobie and Gyuri and as many loving embraces as they can give.  This time they’re safe.

“Chinese food on Christmas,” Boris says.  “Bobo would be proud.”

Theo laughs- he laughs at everything Boris says lately, making up for years of emotion swallowed and buried.  Laughing and weeping and talking, actually talking, shattering the silence he hadn’t known had been killing him.  It’s tiring, all this feeling.  More tiring than he ever could have believed.  But nights are always easier with Boris beside him, even if he does spend half the time checking text messages.

Tonight though, tonight is just for them.  Whatever they are now.  Blood brother isn’t right, though they are bonded in blood, but lover catches in Theo’s throat.  Old habits die hard, and he still finds Kitsey’s forgotten socks in his drawers sometimes.  But at night, looking at the way Boris’ hair curls across the pillows, and the way the moonlight catches his nose- crooked in a way you would never notice unless you studied his face as devotionally as Theo does- and the way his eyebrows wrinkle and dart at messy dreams, Theo can just see something over the horizon.  He’s getting there.  A few more therapy sessions, a few less drinks, and he can see himself arm in arm with Boris at one of Hobie’s little parties, discreet gold wedding bands on their fingers.  Holding hands in Central Park like they had never been afraid.

But that will be then, and for now Theo is content to work on falling in love all over again with Polish nursery rhymes and too-strong coffee.

Boris smiles at him from across the table.

“I know you said wait.  But I got you a present for Christmas Eve.”

Theo protests with a smile- they’d agreed to leave the presents at Hobie’s, open everything on Christmas Day with Popchyk and Pippa and lots of silly smiles.  Tonight, they’d agreed, was just going to be them together, nothing flashy, just a few Christmas specials and hot chocolate and Theo���s head in Boris’ lap.  Of course, Theo has broken his promise too- there is a carefully wrapped dvd of S.O.S. Iceberg hidden behind the TV that he plans to pull out with a smile later that evening- oh no this one must not have made it to Hobie’s, oh well might as well open it here- but still he plays the part Boris is clearly hoping he will.

“No, not ‘til tomorrow- Popchyk will be disappointed if he misses anything!”  Boris waves his hands in one of his almost apologetic shrugs.

“Well, this seemed a little- ah, personal, to give in front of everyone.”

Theo cocks an eyebrow, and with a nervous grin Boris reaches under his chair and pulls out a ribbon wrapped tube of paper.

“Here, just see for yourself.”

As Theo picks at the ribbon- Boris isn’t so good at the delicate bows, and overcompensates by double knotting- Boris stares, almost nervous.  There is still something within him, a remnant of the boy who wept by Theo’s pool, begging Xandra to let him in, that is always afraid he will somehow tear down the world he has built for himself with one misplaced word.  Sometimes, when he watches Theo doing the ritual of wiping his glasses, studying the way his nose scrunches at the smudges, everything burbles in a hot mass of joy and dread.  As many times as Theo tells him he is not a thief, it is still hard to believe.

Theo has gotten the ribbon off, and stares at Boris, who is biting his lip and watching with brows furrowed at the way Theo’s fingers hover over the paper.

I am, Theo thinks to himself, opening a Christmas present from my boyfriend.  He pulls the rolled up poster flat, and doesn’t know what to say.

It is, of course, not even a shadow of the real thing.  The image quality isn’t particularly good, a little pixelated at the edges, and it doesn’t catch the light or reflect itself in feather-light brushstrokes.  But even flattened and drained, it is still so familiar it catches Theo’s heart and twists it viciously.

His Goldfinch.

He lower the poster so that he can see Boris’ eyes and sees he is grinning.

“Did you get this made custom?”

“No, no- a museum in Amsterdam was selling them in the gift shop.  Celebration for it’s return, you know?  I thought it- I don’t know, I thought it was funny.  For the kitchen, maybe?”

The golden throat, the beady eye, and the gossamer thin chain around its ankle.  It all seems so sacrilegious, printed on cheap cardstock.  The museum’s logo is in the corner, and for a moment Theo feels something that is almost jealousy.  That the thing he agonized over, wept and treasured, the thing that was his and only his so profoundly it was practically a part of him, was now being mass produced and distributed to who- tourists?  He can’t stop staring, eyes tracing familiar patterns across wings and delicate feet.

“Well?  Is it a bad gift?  Am I cruel to make fun of you like this?” Boris asks, and even though he is laughing, Theo hears the quaver of real insecurity in his words.  He forgets sometimes that Boris- perfect Boris, confident and jovial and worldly, is as terrified as he is.  As unfamiliar and fumbling with pet names and coffee dates and saying ‘I love you’ at the end of phone calls.

He looks at Boris again, at his narrow eyes and teeth too big for his mouth and the single black curl winding over his cheekbone, and for a moment the entire world is transparent.  The Goldfinch poster will hang in the kitchen, and the edges will start to curl as Boris constantly fills the kitchen with smoke insisting he can cook.  How Hobie will insist on contributing to the apartment’s decor and it will suddenly be filled with embroidered pillows and antique books.  The postcards Boris sends from all over the world taped up at the posters edges, though the sometimes utterly incomprehensible notes that Boris writes him on legal pads and hotel stationary are always stashed in Theo’s drawer.  Pictures from the first- second really- time Boris convinces Theo to come on a trip with him and they spend three weeks gallivanting in Italy like every other tourist, Boris kissing Theo’s sunburned neck and Theo dragging him along to museums and historic sites.  The puppy photos of their new dog- Popchyk Two, Boris calls him, though Theo always flicks his arm- that’s morbid dear, his name is Myshkin.  That even though the nightmares will never really stop, neither does Boris tossing an arm over Theo’s waist and pressing his forehead to his shoulder, and when that doesn’t work he flicks on the bedside lamp and reads aloud his foreign language books until Theo at last eases himself back into sleep.  Pippa gives them a rainbow flag for their anniversary and they actually hang it out the window and nothing bad happens and they wear each other’s shirts so often they stop differentiating between them and they all smell like the same mix of shampoo and wood varnish and things grow warmer and smaller and while there will always be years they both lost to sadness and hurt there are so many more that they give to each other with smiles and whispers and promises.  And even though it is a poor quality picture and will only get worse in the flickering light and inevitable water damage, the beauty of things comes not from within themselves,but from the love they are given, and Theo will love Boris and Boris will love Theo so much that everything near them will radiate with it.

“You like it then?” Boris asks, tapping a chopstick against the side of his plate.

“Yes.  I love it.”

And he does.

[unpack-my-heart]

Above, Beneath, Betwixt, Between - Chapter Seven

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @violetreddie @tinyarmedtrex @mrs-vh @eds-trashmouth @annoyingtozier @burymestanding

Read on AO3 HERE

No sooner than Eddie had appeared in the doorway, he collapsed, body folding in on itself messily, a crumpled piece of paper abandoned on the deck.  Stan and Mike sprang into action immediately, loyal attendants to their fallen prize, scrambling over each other to get to Eddie first.

Richie didn’t move.

He watched them haul Eddie to his feet, he watched them tentatively let go of Eddie’s arm, encourage him to take a small step forward, and watched Eddie fall onto the deck once more, flailing arms and buckled knees. He watched Eddie’s face twist, shifting through distress, anger, frustration, a brief visit to joy before swinging straight back to distress and the cycle began again. They seem to have forgotten him, standing slack jawed on the grass below, as they haul Eddie back to his feet and usher him back inside, sheet still wrapped tightly around his torso.

Dazed and confused, Richie followed them inside, dragging his feet slightly, reluctant to break the spell, anxious that this had all been a fever dream, the imaginings of a sleep-drunk brain, and that he’ll walk into the house only to wake up in his frigid bedroom, the ghostly spectre he’d grown so fond of drifting on the moors. Spectral. Not flesh but air and heat and … longing.

But, when he walks inside the house, Eddie’s there, an image in soft pink skin and flushed cheeks, and Richie feels sick. His stomach churns, because it’s different now. Their dynamic, the Eddie he’d grown used to over these past sprawling months, has gone. He’s disappeared, a relic of the past. Now, sitting on his new couch, protective plastic sheeting crackling underneath him, is an Eddie reborn. A phoenix rising from the ashes of what once was. Ten hours ago, Eddie would have walked straight through that couch, drifted through it like smoke, leaving no trail, no indication he had ever passed through. Now, he’s sat there, with Stan holding his wrist, checking his pulse.

His pulse.

Richie wondered idly whether he’d notice the difference, whether he’d be able to hear the blood rushing through Eddie’s veins, whether he’d be able to hear each thump of his newly beating heart as screamed out, with voice anew, I am I am I am.

It’s different now. Eddie’s talking to Stan, voice shaky and unstable, answering Stan’s torrent of questions with his newly vibrating vocal chords and holy shit that’s Eddie’s voice. His real voice. His voice as it should have been, how it once was. It’s deeper than it was before, now it doesn’t melt and bleed into the air, syllables lost to the breeze, or whole words that floated skywards so that only the birds could hear.

“So, to address the elephant in the room, or … maybe the elephant that isn’t in the room, your arm,” Stan said.

The space where Eddie’s arm once was, where it should be, is empty. The socket is smooth, unblemished flesh, as if his body had never had any intention of sprouting another appendage. There is no indication that Eddie had ever had another arm, no indication that the recorporealisation process had gone wrong, and energy that should have manifested his left arm had been sucked away, absorbed into the reaction and lost forever.  Eddie looked vaguely concerned, and kept scratching absently at the armless shoulder-socket, as if trying to slough the skin away and allow the bone to extend and blossom like the trunk of a tree.

“Eds?” Richie said, voice tundra cold against the warm air, and it almost makes him jump.

“Richie?” Eddie replies, and it’s happy, so happy that Richie starts crying on the spot. Stupid fat tears fight their way out of his left eye and chase each other down his cheek, skating on the ice of his skin before pirouetting off his chin.

“Are ye crying, soft lad?” Mike asks, voice honey smooth, and it just makes Richie cry more.

Several minutes lost to Richie’s sobs later, and he’s crouched in front of Eddie, who’s still sat on the couch.

“How do you feel, Eds?”

“Honestly? Rather weird. My arm, my … my no arm itches and I can’t scratch it properly and it’s driving me insane”

“Oh, that’ll be energy residue. There will be some left over energy hanging around that area for a few days, maybe a few weeks, a few months at a push and definitely not more than a year. It’ll stop eventually,” Stan supplied over his shoulder, already knee-deep in plates of metal and large segments of complicated looking circuit board.

“Very reassuring,” Eddie replied sardonically, and they continued to bicker back-and-forth, playful stuff with no real bite, but Richie wasn’t listening.

From where he’s crouched, Richie realises with a jolt of excitement tinged with fear that he could reach out and touch Eddie. He could place his hand on Eddie’s knee, and it wouldn’t fall straight through to the couch. If only he were brave enough, he could reach out and feel Eddie’s skin, soft and warm and alive, under his fingertips for the first time. For the first time, he could pull Eddie to his chest and cradle him, he could poke him in the stomach when he’s being fussy, or he could grab his hand and close his eyes and breathe when they’re lying outside on the grass, listening to the grasshoppers.

“Rich? Are you listening?”

“Huh, wha’?”

Eddie pulls Richie out of his introspection with a dopy grin, all lopsided and too many teeth.

“Stan was asking where I was going to live now, y’know … I can live, and I was wondering whether you’d mind, and  if you do mind it’s certainly no problem, Mike’s agreed that --”

“Eddie”

“Yes, Rich?”

“If you leave me I’ll never forgive you”

– X –

The morning after, Eddie still can’t walk. Richie quickly realises that he must take it upon himself to teach Eddie to walk again. Like a mother hen teaching her chick to run, Richie stands at one end of the room and yells encouragement to Eddie, who shuffles, snail slow, towards him. More than once, Eddie trips over his own feet, or slips on a rogue corner of the carpet, and falls to the floor, comically slow, arms flailing, mouth caught in a surprised ‘O’. Richie always catches him, sweeping him up in his arms.

Sooner than Richie could have expected, Eddie manages it. He walks, unaided, with gritted teeth and a knotted brow, from one end of the living room to the other. He’s almost panting by the time he reaches Richie, but he’s done it. Richie hoots with joy, and wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and hoists him up into the air, a trophy. Eddie squeals, and smacks at Richie with his one-arm but he’s grinning, a grin so wide Richie’s sure it’s going to split his face in two. Eddie still looks unstable, bambi legs wobbling slightly with each step, but he’s mobile. He stumbles around the small house, running his fingertips over every surface, touch-starved and greedy, he picks up seemingly random objects and holds them to his nose, smelling them, he eats more than his fair share of dinner every evening, and Richie’s punched in the stomach when he realises that what he feels for Eddie isn’t platonic. It isn’t anywhere close to platonic, having skated past that junction several hundred miles ago, and Richie watches Eddie as he walks purposefully into the kitchen, mug in hand, babbling something about learning to swim, and Richie knows it’s not platonic, it’s not anywhere close, because it’s love.

– X –

A loud crash comes from the kitchen, and Richie sits up in bed with a start. He hasn’t heard that kind of crash since Eddie became physical over a week ago. Eddie can walk almost normally now, occasionally tripping over but mostly he strides with determination. Sleep-drunk, Richie charges down the stairs two at a time, desperate to lay eyes on Eddie, the physical Eddie, to dispel any fears that the last week had been nothing but a cruel trick played on an impressionable mind. Luckily, when Richie skids into the kitchen, Eddie’s standing there, a vision in tartan pyjamas, staring at a mess of ceramic shards and honey-coloured liquid on the floor.

“What the fuck happened, butter-fingers?” Richie asked, grabbing the dustpan and brush out of the cupboard to sweep up the shards of mug.

“I -- you’ll laugh at me, I don’t want to tell you”

“Eds, I promise I would never laugh at you, ever never ever”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise”

“I … I tried to walk through the wall”

Richie released a bark of laughter, before clamping his hand over his mouth.

“Sorry! Sorry, I couldn’t help it. You tried to walk through the wall?”

Eddie nodded his head, morosely.

“I guess I was tired, I’m – I’m still not used to feeling tired, you know? It makes me feel rather odd. I guess I forgot I was … real”

Eddie looks so desperately sad that all the hilarious thoughts of Eddie walking full pelt at the wall evaporate from Richie’s mind.

“Oh, Eds. Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry”

The pet name falls out of Richie’s mouth before he can stop it and Eddie flinches.

“Shit, Eddie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just –”

“Rupert used to call me sweetheart,” Eddie replies in a reverent whisper and all the air gets punched out of Richie’s lungs. “I haven’t thought of Rupert for … I don’t know when I last thought of him”

“It’s okay to move on, you know?”

“Is it? Is it okay to move on when he never can?”

“Don’t you think he’d want you to be happy? To remember the fun you two had together, to remember and cherish your love but … to grieve it, and grieve him and …”

Richie’s words fail him, and he flails his arms, a useless attempt at expressing himself non-verbally. Eddie seems to be able to read him, though, as he hums thoughtfully. The mess on the floor glistens in the moonlight.

“I suppose he wouldn’t want me to be sad forever”

Neither of them speak, then. They clean up the mess, and Richie takes the shards of ceramic out to the outside bin, wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll. Eddie’s already upstairs when he comes back in, and Richie can hear the tap running, the sound of someone spitting toothpaste into the bowl of the sink, and then the door opens and it’s Eddie, Eddie who’s stood there in his stupid tartan pyjamas, and his old man slippers and his tousled hair and his tired eyes and he’s got toothpaste smeared on his chin and Richie can’t help it. He pulls a surprised and initially resistant Eddie into an embrace. Eddie’s stiff at first, but soon Richie can feel his muscles loosen and he becomes jellied and pliant in Richie’s grasp. They stand in the darkness of the upstairs hallway, Eddie’s face buried in Richie’s neck, with one Richie’s hands carding through Eddie’s hair, the other wrapped loosely around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Eddie whispers, and it’s small, a mouse that crawls from Eddie’s mouth and squeaks in Richie’s ear.

“Whatcha thanking me for, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“For … for helping me. For being kind. I haven’t known much kindness in my life, or in my death I suppose,” Eddie laughs at himself, an ugly sort of hiccup snort that makes Richie bark out a surprised laugh, too, and then they’re laughing at themselves, and each other, but they’re still hugging, anchored to each other in the tempest of confusion that their lives have become in the past few months.

“I am so very lucky that you bought this house,” Eddie says, staring at Richie with glittering eyes and Richie tries to convince himself to kiss Eddie, caution be damned, but he can’t because he remembers.

He remembers the letter he got the day before, sat in his bedside drawers.

Instead, he presses a chaste kiss to Eddie’s forehead and pulls away.

“Goodnight, Eds”

– X –

Richie only manages three hours of pretending to sleep, of staring at the ceiling and watching the shadows dance, before he gets up. He tiptoes across the room, cringing slightly as the door groans open, and then shuffles across the landing to Eddie’s room. The door was wide open, so Richie pokes his head in only to discover the bed empty. It wasn’t made though, and when Richie presses his hand to the mattress he finds that it’s still warm.

He immediately knows where Eddie is.

He walks back to his room, less concerned about the groaning floorboards now, and opens the curtains. He spots Eddie immediately. He’s standing at the mouth of the lake, throwing stones into it, watching them skate across the surface and then disappear into the depths, never to be seen again. Richie crosses his arm, and leans against the support beam, and watches.

Eddie looks beautiful. His skin, solid but pale as marble slate, shines in the frosty light of the moon. Richie watches him walk towards the grass, and then, suddenly, he’s off, sprinting towards the trees in the distance that border the forest, the forest that Richie knows Eddie spent a lot of time in immediately after his death. Richie watches him, watches him sprint like a cheetah towards the darkness of the trees, before he skids on his heel, and sprints right back again. Right back to Richie. Right back to their home.

Richie stoops, and opens the bedside cabinet and pulls the letter out. The bright white paper practically glows in the moonlight.

Dear Mr Tozier,

I am writing to inform you that your visa (business - fixed term) is set to expire in less than three months. You will need to return to your home country before the given date, or risk criminal sentencing.

Please be advised that, should you wish to extend your residency in the United Kingdom, you must apply to do so from your home country (The United States of America).

Please do contact my office if you have any further questions,

Yours Sincerely,

James Brown

Immigration Officer

[peacehopeandrats]

Pop Ins

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold Additional Tags: Fluff, A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), Fun, Travel

Summary: Inspired by the January Monthly Rumbelling. The Golds visit a land where only light magic exists and nine year old Gideon has a rather unexpected adventure.

Notes: This is part of an eventual work in my Growing Up series. Inspired by the Monthly Rumbelling prompt “How on earth did you get up there?” The rest of this story will be included when I get to it, but for now, enjoy this little snippet of life with the Golds, in a realm where only light magic exists.

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Gideon watched his Papa spinning at the wheel and tipped his head curiously as the man's movements created a thick yarn. It looked solid and strong, but there wasn't enough of it to be useful for much of anything. He could imagine it being a pull string for an attic door, or maybe a kind of belt, but that was about all.

“Did you put everything into your boxes?” The words were his mother's. They ricocheted through the almost empty house, making the question seem more mysterious than it was. Packing days always stressed her, but this one seemed different somehow. There was a nervous energy in the air that he couldn't quite understand, not to mention the many whispered conversations between the two in the last week, hushed arguments that stopped the minute he set foot in the room.

Of course, his Papa might have something to do with that. He sat spinning while his mother dashed about, frantically checking corners and closets for forgotten stockings or bars of half-used soap that, for some reason, needed to come with them. This had never happened before. It was why Gideon was so curious about the final product.

“Yes, mother,” Gideon called back, eyes fixated on the movements of his Papa's fingers. He felt spellbound, but in a good way, and reveled in the closeness that came from watching his father work.

“There. Finished.” The wheel creaked to a stop and his Papa held out the yarn. “Go on,” he commanded. “Pull.”

Gideon took hold and gave a gentle tug.

“Ah,” his father croaked playfully, swatting at the air between them. “Give it a real pull. Everything you've got.”

Again Gideon pulled, but this time, with all of his might. The yarn gave ever so slightly, then held. He looked down at the thick fibers in his hands and decided it felt more like a tiny rope than yarn. “What is this for, Papa?”

“I'll show you. Come here,” his papa said. “You're meant to wear it.”

So it was a belt, even if it didn't seem to be a useful one. He moved closer, arms raised, and let his father tie the chord around him, testing the knot with a gentle tug. One end had been left longer than the other, so unbalanced that it nearly dragged at his feet. Both he and his Papa studied the end result, but while Gideon found the new item awkward and clumsy, his father seemed to be fairly pleased.

“Yes. That will do nicely.”

At this, his mother appeared, hands on hips, head tipped to the side. “Are you sure it will be long enough?”

Rumple gestured at the floor. “Do you want the boy to trip himself up every time he takes a step?” Rumple chuckled and patted Gideon on the shoulder. “I think this will be just fine.”

Gideon looked from his mother to his papa and back again, blinking in confusion. “So... why do I have to wear this?”

“Your father and I found a special realm,” his mother explained as she sat in a chair beside the spinning wheel. Light from outside pushed through the window and shone on the streak of gray that had grown in her hair. Gideon's eyes flicked away, unwilling to admit the sign of his mother's mortality, and rested instead on the ring she wore. Reading his action as a need for reassurance, she reached out to take his hands in her own. “It's a place of light magic, where darkness has never been seen... that we know of, anyway. We're going to find out if that's true.”

Gideon felt his eyes go wide with hope and he spun so quickly to face his Papa that he lost his balance and had to be steadied by his mother's quick reflexes. “Do you think they can help?”

His Papa's face softened, eyes sparkling with excitement. “We hope so.”

“But...” He looked down at the new belt that had been made for him. “Why do I need this?”

“You'll see,” his Papa told him before kissing the top of his head. He looked at Belle then. “Are we ready?” She nodded and stood, holding out her hand for Gideon to take, even as she draped an arm through Rumple's.

Together the three made their way to the front door of the place they had spent the last year calling home. As always, he and his father were forced to pause while his mother hovered, staring into the living room as if looking for the final, forgotten item to put into one of the boxes or crates.

“I'll come back for it all when we're settled,” his papa told her. He said the same thing whenever they left, but it never seemed to make her ready. She had to be ready on her own. That was what Papa always said, when his mother wasn't around to hear.

Finally, the door was closed and they faced the green space that lead to the road. Rumplestiltskin pulled a bean from his pocket and tossed it forward, causing a ring of sparks to fly out from the ground where it landed. The bright light formed a circle that spun and spat like the sparkling fire toys Gideon loved to watch at night celebrations.

He blinked in surprise. "Papa..."

"Well, that's new," his mother said at the same time.

“They warned me it might be different,” his papa shouted in an uncertain voice as he squinted at the burning edges of the circle they faced. The noise of the whirling portal was like the wind of a horrible storm. “The latest beans come from a new harvest. Some kind of hybrid.”

"Is it safe?" Belle moved closer, put her hand on his papa's shoulder and squeezed. It was supposed to look like every other touch, but Gideon could see the white in her knuckles, showing her worry.

His papa hesitated, then shrugged. “Should be fine,” he told them in a voice that Gideon wanted to believe but couldn't quite. “The giant knows, I should think." He turned and lifted the end of Gideon's new belt, gripping it tightly. "Whatever happens, son, don't take this off. Do you understand?”

Gideon nodded as the three of them stepped into another land.

* * *

The portal let them out in the middle of a cobblestone street. The sun was low and bright in the sky, a sure sign of the morning hour. They had been lucky to arrive in the earliest part of the day. Any later and the roads would have been busy with people. For now, the quiet allowed them to take in their surroundings in peace without being run over on a busy city thoroughfare.

Rumplestiltskin stepped to the curb, bringing his wife and son with him. He looked up and down the rows of buildings, memorizing their location and taking in the culture of the place. It seemed surprisingly modern for a magical realm, though the architecture did bring back memories of old cities in the Enchanted Forest. The various tweaks and accents along the road hinted at an evolved technology. There were bulbs in the street lamps and the hinges and handles on the doors all appeared sleek and contemporary. Europe, he decided finally. Perhaps somewhere in the United Kingdom...

"It's like home," Belle said with awe as she alternately gazed up at the roofs and peered in through windows. “This could be any town in the Enchanted Forest.”

“I was thinking England,” Rumple amended as he took a step forward. “But both make a good match. There was certainly a feel of home in Europe as well.” A tug in his hand reminded him that he was still tethered to Gideon.

“Papa," the boy told him."You can let go now. We made it."

Rumple turned a smile at him."I'm afraid I can't," he said tenderly, hating that he was keeping things from his son. For Gideon's safety, he and Belle had agreed to keep the nature of the local magic a mystery for as long as was possible. Neither of them wanted him lost to the realm forever. "You see, this realm has a very special kind of magic, one that might try and take you away from me. I need to hold on until I am sure you will be safe. All right?”

Confusion and concern crossed Gideon's face, but he nodded his agreement. “All right, Papa. But if more people show up, can we... at least make it look less like you have me on a leash?”

A laugh erupted from Rumple, creating a strange tingle throughout his body, but when his son scowled at him, the sensation stopped. “I'm sorry.” The apology came with a playful scrubbing of the boy's head, causing him to grunt and twist away. “There are people here who wear something similar,” Rumple explained finally. “You'll see.”

“Well, can I at least know what kind of magic I need to be ready for?”

Rumplestiltskin thought about his options. Telling Gideon what to expect might cause him to use the magic unnecessarily, putting him in a situation that the unschooled had difficulty getting out of. Not telling him would, of course prevent Gideon from purposefully using the magic, but might cause a panic if he were to stumble across it by accident. He weighed this thinking with the fact that he had made a promise to Belle and sighed heavily under the weight of it all.

Standing ahead of them, Belle unknowingly put an end to the debate. "Where do we start?" She looked back at them with such love and excitement in her eyes that Rumple began to feel the flutter of pure joy rise inside of him.

He cleared his throat to center himself and nodded down the street."That looks like an inn a few buildings down. We can get a room and then explore a bit after we have eaten.”

Belle beamed and hurried back to take his arm, kissing his cheek once she reached him.

Gideon rolled his eyes playfully as they walked on, though one hand was rubbing idly at his belly. After a few strides he made a face, wrinkling his nose and scrunching his eyes tight. "I don't think... I don't think I feel well. My stomach is... different.”

"That's the magic here,"Belle told him. "I feel it too. It's a little bit like butterflies or bubbles floating around all inside of me."

“Try not to think on it too much,” Rumple told them, trying to hold the rope tightly without giving away his worries. "Everyone in this realm has magic. They are born with it and grow up with it. They are so used to the feel of it that the price of the magic doesn't bother them. The truth of this place is not that everyone here has magic, but that the magic here has everyone."

"It sounds dangerous," Gideon said with a swallow.

"Only if I let go." Rumple insisted as they reached the inn.

At this,Gideon took his hand and squeezed hard. Rumple squeezed back in reassurance as they went inside.

* * *

The lobby that greeted them was tiled in dark stone and had rich, wooden accents in the cream colored walls. While the decor certainly implied that the inn was older, the structure itself had been modernized. Electric bulbs hung from the ceiling, shining their warm glow on a room that had a “restored” quality about it. The historic stone exterior had easily hidden the updated beauty of the building's interior, Belle thought, as they were approached by a woman with a friendly greeting and a bright grin.

“Welcome,” she said with a bubbly cheer that was almost infectious. “Can I help--?”

The moment Rumple turned to greet her, the woman froze, her eyes narrowing to slits. “We haven't had your kind here before,” she said sternly. “It isn't that you aren't welcome, you understand, but I couldn't claim to know your needs or be able to fill them.”

Belle saw her husband's chest expand slowly and then contract as he let out a long, slow breath, and caught Gideon doing much the same. Though Rumple's smile never wavered, the boy's turned to a frown. She knew the slight hurt both the father and the son who took such pride in the man he called Papa. Eight years of traveling to places that never heard of the Dark Curse made these kinds of introductions a part of their distant past and now here they were, suddenly reliving everything in one conversation.

“I understand that this is a realm of light magic,” Rumple answered warmly. “And I did expect to stand out like a red rose on a bush of white flowers, but I can promise you I have no use for the magic I was cursed with. My wife, my son, and I are on a quest of sorts, to rid me of the darkness so that I can continue sharing a life with them as it was meant to be lived.” He sighed and adjusted his stance, gesturing out into the lobby and back to the street. “We had hoped that coming here, we might find a way to at least lighten the burden, even if we couldn't find a cure.”

“My husband has not cast even the simplest spell in over nine years,” Belle insisted as she pressed closer to his side. “He gave up magic when our son was born.” It was a simplification of their history, but they never explained Gideon's full history to anyone, even in a realm that would understand it.

The woman stared at them for an exceptionally long time, her eyes locking with Rumplestiltskin's and peering as if they could drill a hole through them straight to the truth of the matter. When she finally nodded, it was a short, sharp gesture of acceptance. “I believe you,” she said at last. “You do realize you will be met with much the same greeting wherever you travel in this realm?”

Rumple nodded slowly. “I knew what I faced before we left home,” he admitted. “I am willing to wear cuffs that prevent the casting of-”

“Oh, no, no,” the woman snorted, flapping at the air as if warding off complete nonsense. “That certainly won't be necessary. I simply mean to warn you that your welcome will not always come so easily with other members of the community.”

The corners of his mouth twitched up in a weak smile. “I expected that, yes.”

“Well...” She looked at each of them in turn, sizing them up again as her bubbling personality returned. “We only have one room available, but you are welcome to it. It has one bed, and we can bring a cot for the boy.” She talked as she strode across the room to a desk at the corner, then pulled open a drawer and took a key. “My name is Jane and if your travels brought you here, then your visit was most certainly meant to be.”

“Why is that?” The question was Gideon's.

“Because the magic here takes you to where you are most needed. Everyone in this realm is born with this gift and it causes us to flow in and out of peoples' lives like leaves drifting on the wind,” Jane told him, bending forward over the counter to tap the tip of his nose. “One minute you're having tea with your friends, then the next... Woosh! You're off to another realm where you are needed.”

Gideon's eyes blinked. “Without a portal?”

“No portal necessary,” Jane told him. She opened her mouth to say more, but Rumplestiltskin made certain to interrupt her.

“We'll take the room, if you don't mind. It has been a long day and we would prefer to rest before our meal.” He held out his hand expectantly.

“Of course, of course.” The woman plopped the key into his palm with a winning smile. “If you need anything, simply ask.”

“We will,” Belle said as they made their way upstairs.

The room was on the second floor and Rumple handed Gideon the key so that he could do the honors. Eagerly, the boy unlocked the door and opened it a crack to peek inside, then burst into a fit of laughter.

Worried that the magic might claim him in his lighthearted state, Belle put on her best worried expression and added a sterner tone than was necessary to keep him in line. “Gideon! We are out in the hallway.” She shushed him and nudged him to go inside.

“Sorry,” he said as he entered. “I couldn't help it. Miss Jane said the magic would take us where we needed to go and she was right. Papa needed to go here.”

“Why say that?” Rumple's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, then blinked in surprise at the room they had been given.

Belle grinned at him. “Oh, look, Rumple,” she said, placing a hand on his chest and throwing out her best mocking tones as she tried not to giggle. “It's purple.”

The walls were actually a pink that practically matched his old home, but the four post bed was covered in a rich purple bedding with golden accents, a pattern that was perfectly duplicated in the rest of the room's furniture.

“Very funny,” he grumped as he shut the door behind them.

* * *

In here will go one of their adventures, in which Belle and Gideon meet a shopkeeper who does actually need their help, and who might be able to help them in return. But let's skip that for now so that we can get to the prompt that started this whole work in the first place.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin strolled quickly down the cobblestone street, the heels of his shoes clicking out his nervousness. Belle had insisted that she and Gideon wouldn't go far on their little excursion, yet up to this point he had been inside of every shop within three blocks of the inn and he was continuing to miss them. Each shopkeeper, without exception, had first given him one of the calculating glares that he had become used to in this realm, then pointed him farther down the street, across to the next block, or indicated that the pair had just turned the corner.

There would have to be rules, he decided. The next time they traveled to a realm without cell phones, the three would stick together no matter what.

The sound of shattering glass caught his attention and Rumple spun on his heel to locate the origin of the noise. Across the street from where he stood, he saw an open shop door and from the door came a collection of painfully recognizable giggles.

“Oh no,” he muttered to himself as he sped to the entrance. “No, no, no...”

A week. They had managed to keep the magic from getting to Gideon for a whole week and now, after all of that effort, it seemed as if they had failed.

Dashing in to the shop, Rumplestiltskin took in his surroundings. The items for sale all seemed in perfect condition except for a single vase that had toppled to the stone floor. He stood beside it and rotated in place, checking each corner and shadow of the room. The silence was wrong, not just because he was certain he had heard laughter, but because the hush in the room felt forced.

Without warning, an explosion of laughter erupted from above, the kind of outburst that could only mean someone had been holding their breath in order to contain themselves. Slowly, Rumple tipped his head upward, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, where Belle, Gideon, and a woman who was presumably the shopkeeper, were drifting in the rafters.

He circled below them, staring up in amused disbelief and felt a grin widen on his face as he positioned himself under Belle's skirt. The hotel manager had quietly warned her of the dangers of such garments in this realm, but Belle hadn't listened and now she would be paying the price, though Rumple suspected Belle wouldn't mind paying it to him.

“Not that I'm complaining about the view,” he finally called up to them, a statement which made Belle squeak and fiddle with the fabric tangling around her legs. “But... How on earth did you get up there?”

“We laughed up!” Gideon chortled as he made swimming motions with his arms. “That's what the magic here does, Papa. It's why we felt bubbly all the time. The magic isn't just light magic, it makes you float when you feel light.”

“Yes,” Rumple harrumphed as he shifted position so that he was under Belle again. “Something I warned your mother about repeatedly.” He gave her a wink and a wicked grin.

“Rumple!” Belle shouted at him and kicked a foot in the air as if to shoo him away, but only succeeded in tipping herself to an angle that gifted him an even better view.

The woman beside her helped to set Belle straight, then waved down at the ground below. “Hello,” she said with a winning smile. “I'm Nina Twigley.”

Despite himself, Rumple found his hand raising in the air and returning the wave. “Hello,” he said cordially. “Can I presume you are the one responsible for my family's predicament?”

“Oh yes,” Nina admitted with a giggle. “It's quite my fault. I don't really know what got over me. You see, I'm one of the few in this realm who has trouble with this sort of thing and-”

“It's my fault, Papa,” Gideon told him. The boy was now doing somersaults in the air. “We were talking about Miss Twigley's string being like mine and that she used it to keep herself still so she could work, and then I made a joke. Well, I didn't mean to, but I did. Then she started laughing and floating and when I tried to pull her down, I slipped and then I started laughing and then mother did because I was floating upside down...”

“It's no one's fault,” Belle insisted. “We were just having a good time.”

“Well now that you've had one, I would like my family back, please,” Rumple told her. “I was expecting them for dinner.”

Nina waved her arm as if she were directing traffic. “Come and join us, then,” she told him, in no uncertain terms.

“I can't,” Rumple answered simply.

“Oh.” Nina's face relaxed, her smile disappearing as she lost several inches of lift. “Yes, of course, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean...”

Rumple shook his head, feeling the weight of his darkness more than ever before. He wished he could experience what his wife and son were going through right now. Well, perhaps not the flying part. He hadn't ever wanted that, not even when he was in Neverland, but the drifty feeling of pure light would be nice to feel just once. He also had to admit that there was some appeal to the idea of catching Belle as she drifted by and hiking up her skirts to test his abilities while adrift.

“I'm afraid we have to go,” he said finally.

“Do we have to?” Gideon began to sink to the floor. The motion was at first slow enough that he didn't notice, but once he was halfway, he blinked in surprise. “What's happening?”

“Your heart isn't light any more,” Nina told him. “When you have to be serious or sad or mad... Your heart gets heavy and the magic stops working.”

Rumple caught Gideon's ankle once it was within reach and pulled him down to his side, then took hold of the long belt they had been using and grasped tightly to the end. “All right?”

Gideon nodded. “Yes, Papa. But do we have to go?”

“You do if you want dinner, and I thought you were a growing boy.” The tease sent Gideon to chuckling and drifting again. Rumple smiled and nudged him back to the ground, glad that he still had the power to make his son happy

Once Gideon was settled at his side, Rumple looked up at Belle and held a hand to the sky for her. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, unable to speak words that would possibly hurt her.

“I can't,” Belle told him.

Her words provided the means for the perfect sadness between them and Rumple spoke it tenderly. “Then you will be without us forever.”

Belle dropped like a stone and Rumple rushed to catch her, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her to the floor with the kind of precision that only years of dancing together could produce. Once she was in his arms, he kissed her, pressing his body against hers.

“I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered. “I had to-”

“I know,” Belle said as she draped her arms over his shoulders and clasped her hands at his neck.

Behind him, Rumple heard the thud that could only signal Nina Twigley's return to the shop's floor. He turned to the woman once she was settled and gave a slight bow. “I'm afraid we must say goodnight, Miss Twigley. I think my son is in need of flying lessons.”

With another giggle, Gideon began to drift, but Rumple kept his hand firmly on the boy's belt. After speaking her own farewell, Belle's fingers wrapped over his and the two of them walked their son back to the inn as if he were a laughing balloon.

[homesweetsewer]

Harmless Part 3 (Donatello x Fem Reader)

Part 3 as promised...2 more to go! I hope everyone is having a great weekend. Tagging @gummiwormsandonedirection as requested. I hope it meets your expectations!

Part 1 is HERE

Part 2 is HERE

Donatello sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the surface. His plate of pizza sitting forgotten in front of him. Raph and Casey were seated across the table, busy arguing over the latest Knicks game while Mikey stuffed his face with pizza while having a friendly debate with April over whether hand tossed or pan pizza was the superior pie. Donnie barely heard any of it. His eyes kept wandering from his watch to the door of the lair and back again. Leo had been gone for quite some time and it was beginning to really eat at him. With every minute that ticked by, the nervous knot in his stomach wound tighter. His brother was only supposed to check on you and make sure you really were alright and report back his findings. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly be taking so long.

“Hey...”

A gentle hand on his forearm made him jump in surprise. Donnie turned his head to see April looking at him with a concerned expression on her lovely face. Normally, her touch and close proximity would have sent a pleasant shiver straight through him. Right now, however, all he was capable of feeling was a deep concern for you and the uncertain status of your relationship. He blinked at her, “I’m sorry, April...what did you say?”

April bit her lip worriedly. It wasn’t like Donnie to zone out and it especially wasn’t like him to ignore her. “I asked if you were alright. You seem like you’re a million miles away.”

“Oh,” Donnie chuckled but it lacked any real humor. “I’m fine just...uh...thinking about a project I’m working on,” he lied. He didn’t know how to adequately express his fear that he’d somehow drove the person closest to him away.

“Oh,” April smiled, completely oblivious to the turtle’s inner turmoil, and gave his arm a squeeze. “What kind of project?”

“Um,” Donatello wracked his brain, trying to visualize the many half-finished experiments that littered his workbench. Finally, he stuttered out the first thing that came to mind, “It’s a perpetual energy generator based loosely on Nikola Tesla‘s fuel less generator schematics...”

April’s eyes clouded over slightly, the woman obviously having no clue what he was talking about. Still, her smile widened, “Well, it sounds brilliant, just like you...”

“Th-thanks,” Donatello stuttered, his face heated at the compliment but he suddenly felt quite uncomfortable. He couldn’t enjoy April’s company when he very well may be losing you. He carefully extricated himself from April’s grasp and quickly stood from the table causing her to frown. “I’m, uh...I should probably head to the lab.” He fidgeted, “You know, get back to work while I’m feeling inspired...”

“Oh, uh, sure,” April nodded, utterly confused by the terrapin’s suddenly standoffish demeanor. “Need any help? It’s been a while since we worked on anything together.”

“No,” Donatello blurted a bit more forcefully than he intended. He internally cringed at April’s surprised expression but he needed to be alone with his thoughts. In a softer tone he added, “There’s lots of, uh, volatile compounds. It’s probably safer if you didn’t.”

“Oh...okay...” April reluctantly agreed as the turtle turned to take his leave. “Maybe another time then?”

“Yeah...Maybe,” Donnie called back over his shoulder as he practically fled to the solitude of his lab. “Thanks for the pizza!”

“But you didn’t even eat any of it,” April huffed under her breath as the ninja disappeared from sight leaving her completely baffled.

No sooner had Donatello secured the door to the lab behind him, he’d collapsed into his chair and reached for his phone. No missed calls and no new messages from you or Leo. Surely, he thought, if there’d been an issue or had you not been alright, Leo would have let him know. His brother knew how worried he’d been. How could he not be worried when his very best friend in the entire world suddenly decided they wanted nothing to do with him? He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where your relationship had jumped the tracks but he would have given anything to fix it.

Honestly, he hadn’t realized just what a huge part of his life you were until you suddenly weren’t around for him to talk to and confide in. Guilt gnawed at him because he knew that meant he’d taken you for granted. It’s just that...it was so easy to settle in and be comfortable around you that he really hadn’t given it much thought. He hadn’t needed to. The two of you just clicked. You were pleasant and easy to talk to. You enjoyed the same types of music and movies, you both loved to read and often swapped books, you both loved learning new things and, though science and technology were not your strongest subject, you showed a genuine interest and fascination in his work that he was both appreciative for and proud of. When he was with you, he wasn’t a mutant turtle living in the sewers and you weren’t a human girl cavorting with monsters. You were simply two close friends enjoying one another’s company and sharing the joy you found in your common interests.

God, he missed you.

The intensity of his lonesomeness surprised him. Sure, he had his brothers and April...even Casey, but they weren’t a replacement for you. The pair of you had grown incredibly close since that fateful night they’d rescued you from a pair of thugs who’d knocked you unconscious and dragged you into a dark alleyway to do God only knew what with you. It had never dawned on him at the time that those first few tentatively awkward moments between you would blossom into such closeness and camaraderie. Certainly, you cared for his brothers and spent plenty of time, especially, keeping Mikey entertained, but, it wasn’t completely lost on him that you seemed to prefer his company the most. It was that tiny bit of knowledge that sparked a proud satisfaction within him.

He was your favorite, or at least he had been. Now...now he wasn’t sure what had happened between you but he desperately wanted to fix it. He wanted, no, he needed his best friend back. With a heavy sigh that bordered on a sob, Donatello buried his face in his hands and hoped that Leo returned soon. He didn’t know how much more worry and uncertainty he could take.

Donnie wasn’t sure how long he’d remained sitting idly in his lab—it wasn’t like him to remain still when there was so much he could be doing, but his heart just wasn’t in it. Eventually, he became aware that the sound of revelry from the living area had quieted. With a tired groan, he rose and made his way over to peek out of the door. The living room and kitchen areas were devoid of people and most of the lights were off meaning April and Casey had taken their leave and Raph and Mikey had turned in for the night. 

Curious, he stepped out and closed the lab door quietly behind himself. He took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the change in light, blinking behind his glasses as he made his way through the space. He felt as though he was moving on autopilot as his feet directed him to Leonardo’s neat, little corner of the lair. A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach at finding his eldest brother’s gear still gone and his bed empty. He still hadn’t returned. Now Donnie was really starting to become concerned. He backtracked quickly, making a bee line for his own niche, fully prepared to suit up and go find out what was going on for himself. It seemed he wouldn’t have to, however, as Leo’s voice stopped him suddenly in his tracks.

“Donnie, what are you still doing up?”

Donatello spun toward the sound to find his eldest brother sauntering toward him with a curious look on his face. Instead of answering his brother’s question, however, he made a demand of his own, “Where have you been all night? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“You sound like dad,” Leo chuckled tiredly. He smirked at his younger brother as he passed by, heading to his room. “Gonna send me to the Hashi?”

“I’m serious, Leo...”

The blue clad ninja sighed as he unstrapped his gear and began stowing it away, “Where do you think I’ve been? You’re the one that asked me to go check on her...”

“Yeah, I did,” Donnie frowned, “But you’ve been gone for over three hours! What were you doing?”

“Well,” Leo took his time removing his mask and carefully folded the scrap of cloth before answering. “She invited me to have dinner with her...”

Donatello bristled, “Dinner?!”

Leo nodded, turning to face his younger brother. “Yeah, dinner...Indian takeout. Her parents were out for the night and she really didn’t want to be alone so afterwards we ended up watching a movie until they got back.”

“You two had dinner and watched a movie together?” Donnie felt strangely put out. He’d been practically begging you to come over for over a week to have some dinner with them and watch a movie and you’d blown him completely off but you apparently had no problem sitting down with just his brother to do the same. It hurt and he reluctantly admitted to himself that he was feeling just a little jealous. Okay, maybe more than a little. His eyes widened behind their frames at that realization.

“Yeah,” Leo confirmed. “Look, Donnie, we talked and she’s not mad at you.”

“She’s not?” Donatello may have been the taller of the two of them but he suddenly felt very, very small as his brief burst of anger was smothered by gnawing anxiety. “Then...why is she acting like this?”

“She’s...” Leo tried to search for the right words. “She’s worried for you.”

“Me?” Donnie’s face twisted in confusion. Why on earth would you be worried for him? As far as he was concerned, it was his job to worry for you.

“It’s complicated,” Leonardo shook his head. “Something was brought to her attention and it’s been weighing on her, that’s all. She wasn’t sure if she should bring it up, or how to bring it up for that matter. So, she’s been staying away.”

“What?” The purple ninja’s brow furrowed, fresh worry bubbling in his chest, “What is it? Maybe I can help.”

“The thing about that is,” Leo tried to explain, “the person that can help doesn’t see the problem and, well, that is the problem.”

“What?” Donatello pondered his brother’s words as he pushed his glasses up his snout. “Leo...that doesn’t even make sense.”

“It will,” Leo mumbled and, quickly changing the subject, asked, “Was April here?”

“Yeah,” Donnie nodded. “Why?”

“Was Casey with her?” The blue banded leader asked pensively.

Donatello let out a snort of irritation, “Isn’t he always?”

“Did they leave together?”

Donnie shrugged, “I don’t know. Probably. Things just felt...weird, I guess. I went to the lab and by the time I came out everyone was already gone so I didn’t see. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Nothing...forget I asked.” Leo continued to turn the April/Casey situation over in his mind even as he tried to reassure his brother. It would need to be dealt with, yes, but right now comforting Donatello was his main concern. “Like I said, we talked and she’s not mad at you, alright? So stop worrying about whether or not you did something wrong. You didn’t. Understand?”

Donnie sniffed as he felt wannabe tears burn behind his eyelids. He hadn’t messed things up with you and that had been his biggest fear. He wanted to feel relief but could sense there was a lot Leonardo was leaving unsaid. “Yeah...okay.”

“Good.” Leo clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Because she’s coming over tomorrow night...”

“She is?!” Donatello brightened considerably at that statement. His best friend was coming back. He wasn’t sure what Leo had said or done to convince you to return but he was willing to forgive him the evening he’d spent with you in exchange for whatever magic he’d managed to work while he was there. He’d certainly not been getting anywhere with all his calls and texts. Still, he found himself feeling the slightest bit apprehensive. After all, you had run out on him the last time. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Leonardo assured. “I made her promise. So no more moping, okay?”

Donnie couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Sure, Leo.”

Though relieved to see his brother in better spirits, Leo couldn’t help but think they weren’t out of the woods just yet. There was still Casey and April to deal with. He wanted to say more but found himself biting back a yawn instead. “I gotta turn in...I’m wiped. You should probably get some sleep, too.”

“Yeah,” Donatello nodded, suddenly realizing how tired he truly was. He rarely slept much as it was, his inventions and experiments always keeping him up till an ungodly hour. Fretting over you, however, meant he’d been sleeping even less than normal. “You’re probably right. Goodnight, Leo, and...thanks.”

“Sure thing, Donnie.” Leo smiled at his brother but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Donatello was too elated to notice.

To be continued...

[blustersquall]

58 for Isabel and Arthur. Please!

Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed - kiss. Finally getting around to this. I’m so sorry for the long wait!

This got so long. Some spoilers for later in the game. Especially pertaining to Arthur’s past. And some light n-s-f-w content. Nothing horrifically graphic.

Probably not what you wanted, Nonny. I apologize. T-T I will try harder.

@ineedpeetalikehekneadsbread @rdr-oc-appreciation

Micah’s voice grated on Arthur’s last nerve. Accompanied by Bill guffawing like a sycophantic fool, it was a wonder Arthur hadn’t shot the both of them yet. He didn’t know why he agreed to the small stagecoach job Micah mentioned. Probably because of his stubborn pride, and it was something that got him out of Shady Belle and away from all the tension. 

The job wasn’t hard, and the take wasn’t worth putting up with Micah and Bill for an afternoon. It definitely wasn’t worth it when Micah began making comments about Isabel and the other women in the camp. How they were “unwilling to fuck you even if they had a gun to their head”. That was his exact phrasing, and it put Arthur’s teeth on edge just to think about it. He didn’t like Micah thinking about any of the women in camp in such a way, let alone Isabel. 

He must have given his inner feelings away because Micah spent the time waiting for the stage and the ride back to Shady Belle talking about Isabel, and what he wanted to do to her. None of which was pleasant to imagine or listen to. Not that Arthur could really say much about it. He and Isabel agreed to keep things between them as private as possible. He didn’t want to paint a target on her back and they were already the topic of camp gossip - no need to add more fuel to that fire.

As Micah crowed to whomever was nearby about the success of their job with Bill garnishing the story with extravagant details, Arthur went into the old, dilapidated building. It was late-evening. Pearson had served the evening meal and most everyone was outside, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the company of each other. Arthur was hungry, and planned to join them once he was changed and a little calmer. 

The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he ascended and he glanced through the broken wall boards into the room where Abigail, John and Jack were staying. It was empty. In his own room, he closed the door and leaned against it, releasing a long, heavy sigh when the world was finally shut out. 

“That’s a big sigh.” Arthur opened one eye and peered to the other end of the small room to where his bed was. Isabel was sitting on it, a closed book between her, and her dark hair loose from its usual braid. The lamp in his room illuminated her with a soft, haloed light which seemed to move with her when she rose to her feet and began to approach him. “Long day?” She put her book on the table covered with his map.

“Micah an’ Bill.” Arthur said. He removed his hat and shucked off his jacket. “It ain’t worth talkin’ about.”

Isabel smiled, “then don’t talk.” She closed the space between them, sliding her fingers beneath his shirt collar and rising onto her toes to kiss his forehead. Arthur automatically offered his temple to her affection, his hands finding their home on her hips. The kiss on his forehead was followed by several more, on the bridge of his nose, the end of his nose, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. Soft, feathery kisses that made his skin tingle pleasantly and his stomach knot like a young, inexperienced man with his first love. 

In private, Isabel gave her affection with such freedom and unabashed joy, Arthur wasn’t sure how best to react. He didn’t know if he should reciprocate with as much willingness, or if he should let her take the lead, and remain more stoic. He was still finding his feet with her. Mary was never hugely affectionate towards him, and her upbringing meant that it was Arthur’s responsibility to offer his arm, or initiate a kiss. Isabel... Isabel was so different, and unique to many women he’d met. She kept him on his toes, that was for sure.

When she finally kissed him on the mouth, her lips molding seamlessly against his, Arthur all but melted. It was amazing and a little alarming how such a simple gesture could so easily cause the stresses of the day to slough off him. All the lewd and distasteful things Micah said became nothing more than white noise and Arthur’s tiredness receded. Pressing his hands into Isabel’s hips, Arthur stepped further into his room, away from the door. He held her steady, his voice rising into an appreciative murmur when she parted her lips and the kiss deepened. 

She rose her arms, draping them around his neck and shoulders, stumbling back when Arthur moved them into the room a few more steps. Isabel hit the the dresser, and a few objects toppled on the shelves. He squeezed her hip in one hand, the other snatching at the fabric of her shirt and pulling it up from where it was tucked in. Dragging her away from the dresser, Arthur caught himself before he toppled back onto the table covered in ammunition, knives, and arrows. The edge of it pressed into his lower back, and Isabel pressed her body against his.

Burying one hand in Isabel’s hair, Arthur guided her to tilt her head back. His lips on her neck, he grabbed one of her thighs and pushed against her; the two of them stumbling back until they clattered into the table covered with Arthur’s map. They were both laughing, Arthur’s muffled by Isabel’s throat under his mouth as he lavished her skin with kisses and soft bites. He hoisted her up onto the table, slotting between her legs. Isabel’s fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, undoing the top five before Arthur even realised she was doing it. He yanked his suspenders down his arms, eyes squeezing closed when Isabel guided his lips back to hers, and the kiss she greeted him with was searing and desperate.

“Is--” Arthur groaned against his mouth. This was not what he had in mind for when he returned to Shady Belle. In fact this was not something had in mind with Isabel for some time. His gun belt hit the floor with a loud ‘thud’ - loud enough that it shocked Arthur away from Isabel’s lips to check it wasn’t someone at the door. 

As he peered over his shoulder, waiting for another potential knock, all he could hear was Isabel breathing fast beside him and his heart crashing in his ears. His cock was hard, and for the first time in... he didn’t know how long, Arthur wanted to enjoy himself. It wasn’t something he did. He wasn’t like Lenny, or other  members of the gang who would go with a girl for a night... But right then, with Isabel and the heat between them, he wanted to.

“Everythin’ okay there, handsome?” Isabel ran her fingers back through Arthur’s hair, bringing him back to the present and to her. Satisfied that there was no-one demanding his attention, slid Isabel down from the table and led her the small distance towards his rather simple, and sad looking bed. She deserved more than this. More than a rough cot and blanket. More than a broken down old plantation house. More than him. But it was all he could offer. He was all he could offer. And, for some unknown reason, she decided he was enough for her. He was what she wanted.

She sat, and he stood, curling his hands around her face and kissing her soundly. The frantic need of before cooled somewhat. He did not want to rush this. Her. Them. He was out of practice and, he realised with some amusement, worried. 

“I��m fine,” Arthur brushed his nose against hers, back and forth enjoying the small hum of contentment and appreciation he heard from her. He undid the knot in her neckerchief and let the material fall to the floor. Perching one knee on the edge of the cot, sharing soft kisses and breaths that were starting to quake, Arthur unbuttoned the top few buttons of Isabel’s shirt. Her exposed skin was flushed red, and she lay back winding her arms up over his shoulders and beneath his own shirt. Her palms lay flat on the top of his back, moving to push the material off him. He rose one arm, then the other, laughing at the struggle Isabel had to remove the garment from him.

Her legs parted invitingly, Arthur settled over her, wrapping both arms over Isabel’s back. Her kisses were heated, and she nipped at his lower lip while her hands explored. He could feel her touching him, mapping the muscles in his back, the dip of his spine and the broad stretch of his shoulders. She twisted his hair in her fingers, swallowing an involuntary moan when Arthur rocked his hips forward to grant himself some kind of respite from the confines of his jeans. 

“Arthur,” Isabel murmured, arching her head back and biting her lip into her mouth to muffle her own groan. Her hips moved, meeting Arthur’s slow and steady rhythm and the staggered sigh that escaped her only spurred him on, “oh God, Arthur...” It sounded like she was whining. Her blunt fingernails pressed into the top of his back, and she arched up into him, her body quivering.

Burying his face into the curve of her neck, Arthur rutted at a steady pace, grunting and groaning, his skin humming under Isabel’s touch and the excitement she brought out in him. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, pulling at her shirt to expose more skin to his exploring lips. He wanted to know her. To map the unknowns of her body before him, and learn them by heart. 

Her voice rang in his ears, and then another. A second voice. A woman’s. A voice from his past. Younger. Feminine. As breathless and as heated as Isabel’s was right then. A voice he knew, yet thought he had forgotten. It all flashed before his eyes. The ride to the house, and the dread that filled his whole body. The image of the two crosses. One large. One small. Their names carved in the wood by hand. 

Eliza Ingram.

Isaac Morgan.

The consequences of his actions. The actions of a young, rash, angry young man. A son he was never there for. And a woman who was still much a child herself, who became a mother to a son of an outlaw. Two deaths on his conscience. Two people who needed him, and who he failed. The blood of innocents on his hands. Lives ruined by him and his reckless, selfish behavior. 

What if the same happened again? Now? With Isabel? Could he risk it? To have another child only to potentially lose them? This life was dangerous. They were hunted at every turn and the world was closing in around them more and more each day. Could he risk a life time of danger and the burden of a child, all for a moment of bliss? What would Isabel think of him if a child was the outcome of his loving her? What would she do? What would he do?

“Arthur?”

Isabel was beneath him, her hands braced on his bare shoulders and her hair spilling out around her like a dark halo. She was beautiful. Her lips parted and reddened. Her cheeks flush with a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, her neck and her chest. She stared at him with wide, confused eyes. Watching. Waiting.

Arthur’s stomach twisted with the regret and the guilt that now threatened to swallow him. “M’sorry.” He heaved himself up to sit and grabbed his shirt off the floor. He rose to his feet as it pulled it on over his arms, feeling small and ashamed. 

“Did I do somethin’ wrong?” Isabel’s voice was quiet and feeble, and that only served to make Arthur guilt increase. He turned and watched her button her shirt avoiding his eyes.

“No,” he went and knelt before her as she sat on the edge of his bed. “It ain’t you. You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” He sighed and bowed his head until his forehead touched her knees. Isabel slid her fingers back through his hair. “I need t’tell you somethin’...”

Yay - emotional trauma?I just don’t see Arthur as being comfortable moving onto a physical relationship with someone without being honest about Isaac. I think he would have a lot of reservations and be worried about the same thing happening. Not just the chance of a child being conceived and born, but also the child being killed. 

Uh... happy valentine’s day???I hope you enjoyed - please let me know what you think in comments/reblogs/rags. Or you can message me if you prefer.

[alulaspeaks]

Someplace Quiet

Title: Someplace Quiet Category: Gen Rating: T Warnings: Major Character Death Summary:  Death said Sam was fated to kill Rowena, so she shouldn't be surprised to see him. The only problem is he should have died decades ago. Word Count: ~2k Notes:  Thanks to @wetsammywinchester for the speedy beta that really helped pull this thing together. Read on AO3

The bellboy opens the door to the suite, rich mahogany glowing in the warm, orange light. He looks ridiculous in his red jacket and the little red hat that has come back into fashion in these “retro” hotels. Despite the ridiculous nods to a bygone age, Rowena still prefers the old style luxury hotels. Give her red carpet and golden mirrors, and alcoves with overstuffed leather chairs that no one ever sits on over metal, and chrome, and wall-high windows with the projectors built in to change the New York skyline into Paris. If Rowena wants to go to Paris, she will go to Paris, but she hasn’t felt the need for a long time.

“Was there anything else?” the bellboy asks as he fidgets with his sleeve. His eyes skitter over her and away, something suspicious in the tilt of his mouth. It won’t do to have him go downstairs asking questions. There was a time when Rowena would have pinned him to the ceiling for less, back when the joy of her power was in being strong enough to be so carelessly cruel without fear of consequences. Now she prefers to focus on the finesse of subtle magic, getting what she wants with the fine application of practiced skill. It would be a simple matter to slip the boy’s worry from his mind. It’s the smart move, but somehow it doesn’t feel worth the effort.

“Run along, dear, I’m sure you have work to do,” Rowena says, raising a pointed eyebrow.

The boy swallows and spins on his heel. She doesn’t bother to watch him go, slipping off her coat and draping it over the settee. The soft thump of someone catching the door makes her freeze in her tracks.

“You’re a hard woman to find,” a deep and familiar voice says.

A chill runs down Rowena’s spine and she turns to find Sam Winchester standing in her doorway, impossible but for the fact that he’s Sam Winchester and impossible gave up on him a long time ago. The light catches on the gray at his temples and the sheen of sweat on his throat. He looks exactly like he did the last time she saw him decades ago, except for the new tears in his shirt, the soot on his fingers, and the notable addition of the pearl-handled gun in his hand.

“Why Samuel, you haven’t aged a day,” Rowena says, sidles around the table, closer to her purse with the hex bags in it. “What’s your secret? Do you moisturize?”

“Don’t,” Sam snaps. Rowena freezes and looks up to find the gun pointed at her heart. Sam may not have aged, but there is something different about his face, something unnerving.

“Are you here to kill me?” she asks, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. She’s never forgotten what’s written in her book of fate, though she believed Sam gone years ago.

“No, I’m not going to hurt you.” Sam opens his hands so the gun hangs from his thumb by the trigger guard.

“And what about your brother, would he say the same?” Rowena asks and sits down at the table.

“Dean’s gone, has been for a long time” Sam says, voice flat. The look on his face doesn’t change and Rowena understands what is different in Sam. His once expressive face has lost its animation, every expression muted and constrained as if he is made of stone. The thought makes her jaw clench. How many times has Rowena looked at her own unchanged face in the mirror, untouched by centuries of time, and wondered if she weren’t made of something other than flesh?

“I need your help.” Sam sets his gun on the sideboard and kicks the door closed behind him, coming to her empty handed. He sits across the table and looks her in the eye. “Something happened to me. I can’t die and I want you to help me figure out why.”

Well, that is unexpected. Rowena eyes Sam up and down, puts the holes ripped through his clothes in a new perspective. There is raw skin beneath but no blood, and he hasn’t aged. A new puzzle is a pleasant surprise.

“Give me your hand.” She should extract a promise from him that he will leave once she helps him, but she doesn’t. When they parted ways last time, soon after Michael was dealt with, she made sure they were even, all favors called in. Everything neatly squared away, with no intention of ever seeing him again. So much for that. She holds out her hand and Sam lays his palm against hers. “When did it happen?”

“I don’t really know. After Dean… well, the world still needed saving. I tried to keep it together for Mom and Jack, but after awhile I just stopped being careful, you know?” Sam fingers one of the slashes in his shirt and Rowena pushes away thoughts of the bellboy that she should have hexed. “At first I thought I was really lucky, surviving wounds that should've killed me, but it didn’t take long to figure out that I wasn’t so much surviving as not dying.”

Rowena calls up her power and presses in against Sam’s skin. She knows as soon as it touches him, but she keeps him talking as she feels out the different threads of energy that tangle up in Sam. “How did you find me?”

“There was a hunt across the street. Saw you arrive. It was dumb luck.”

Rowena hums, she wouldn’t call that luck. She follows that thread of emotion all the way until it meets a road block of energy that shouldn’t be there, and now there can be no doubt.

“You can’t die, because you aren’t human anymore.”

Sam’s mouth presses into a grim but unsurprised line. “Then what am I?”

“I don’t know,” she says as she sets Sam’s hand back on the table. “Something new.”

“Can you fix it?”

“You stumbled into immortality and you want me to… fix it?” Rowena can’t help but laugh. She spent years and years of dedicated study to solidify her power and cheat death at every turn.

“There was a girl tonight. I wasn’t being careful and she almost died and for a second, I didn’t really care.” Sam’s eyes are shadowed, and Rowena catches a glimpse of something ancient behind them. “I’m tired, Rowena, and I don’t know how much of me is left to give. All I’m asking is that you help me become human again. I’m not saying I’ll die tonight or tomorrow or anytime soon, but there has to be a way to stop me if I go off the rails. There need to be consequences for me, too.”

“Sam–” Rowena starts, thinking to say something about mistakes and change, give back what they told her long ago, but he cuts her off.

“You know where monsters go when they die?” Sam asks and Rowena nods. “Dean was still human when he died.”

“But you don’t know where he went or if you’ll go to the same place,” Rowena snaps.

“I can tell you he isn’t in Purgatory” Sam says, “and a one in three shot is better than no shot. Wherever I end up, if Dean is there too, he’ll find me.”

The naivete of that makes Rowena want to scream. Hell is hell and the empty is empty, what chance do they really have? But then she remembers about impossible and the Winchesters, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so strange.

“It doesn’t really matter why, does it? The question is, will you do it?”

She thinks long and hard about the chances for blow-back. Sam may not want to kill her, but messing with something this unknown could backfire. Still, there is no way to know for sure, and it makes sense, doesn’t it, to turn an immortal threat into a mortal one. That’s all this has to be.

“You’re sure?” she asks, and Sam nods, smiles at her for the first time.

Rowena takes his hand again, threads her power in along his veins to the twisted threads of energy knotted in Sam’s core. She closes her eyes and sinks into her task. It’s delicate work, pulling at them enough to untangle them, snapping the ones that don’t belong but leaving the essential ones. There’s one thread of power that’s so enmeshed in Sam that she dares not pluck it out, she works around it until the last strand of foreign energy is severed and the job is done.

“Oh,” Sam gasps and his hand goes clammy in hers then pulls away. When she opens her eyes, Sam’s bent over in his chair, hand on his stomach, forehead creased.

“Sam?”

“It worked,” Sam says voice wet as he leans back in his chair. The seam of his lips is painted red, he lifts away his bloody palm, and Rowena can see the gaping gashes in his stomach through the holes in his shirt. He sighs, face slipping into something like relief.

“You knew.” Rowena says, gut clenching. He’s dying right in front of her and he knew and now there is nothing she can do. Her power holds together and pulls apart but it doesn’t heal.

“I wondered,” Sam says and flashes her a strained half-smile.

“Does it hurt?” Rowena asks, though she knows it must. She wants him to tell her it doesn’t, that pain is something you can transcend, even if she’s never managed it.

“Yeah.” Sam coughs, covering his mouth and his hand comes away covered in thick black blood.

“Oh Sam, couldn’t you have lied to me one more time?”

Sam laughs, red splattering the corner of his mouth, “No, it-it’s good that it hurts again.”

Something must show on her face - disbelief or worry, she doesn’t know, hardly knows what she’s feeling - because Sam’s eyes soften.

“It’s okay, it can’t last forever. Nothing ever does,” Sam says and it sounds well-rehearsed, like something he’s told himself a thousand times, and for a flash of an instant Rowena hates him for still being kind, for forcing her to witness this, for making her want to reach out and hold his hand so he won’t be alone. It doesn’t last long; she can’t hate him, even if that would be easier.

“You’re a terrible guest, getting blood all over my carpet.” She says, because she can’t stand the silence or the way Sam’s legs squirm under the chair, in too much pain to sit still.

“Not yours,” Sam grunts, flicker of a smile subsumed by a wracking cough. He doesn't manage to cover his mouth this time. His hands white-knuckle the armrests and his mouth works silently, struggling to speak. “Thanks,” he says, half-swallowed and strangely clipped. His leg kicks out, and he groans long and low in his throat.

“Hush, now,” Rowena says, her own voice strangled, but Sam has already fallen quiet. His hands slip from the armrest to land upturned in his lap. He doesn’t move again.

A half hour ago, Rowena thought Sam Winchester was long gone and that she escaped her fate. Now she knows that she has. Nothing has really changed but somehow the world feels emptier. She sits there for a while, staring at the carpet and waiting for a Winchester miracle, but it doesn’t come, so she slips on her coat and grabs her bags. Halfway to the door she stops, thinking of the bellboy and his stupid red hat again, of him finding Sam slumped in the chair and not knowing who he is, the enormity what he’s done, the good and the bad of it. The strange hands that will touch his body and lay him out on a cold slab and cut into him as if he were any other John Doe. She can’t stomach the thought of it. She turns back.

A wave of her hand and the blood disappears from his mouth and between his fingers, the puddle on the carpet. Sam’s chin is slumped to his chest, hair falling across his eyes. She reaches out without thinking, hesitating for a moment when she catches herself, but not enough to stop. She brushes back his hair and knows with a sharp and aching clarity that it was a mistake. The look on his face defies her understanding, not a smile, not exactly, but something gentle and welcoming, the beautiful lines of his face made soft again. The image crawls inside her and she’ll never unsee it, knows it will linger for as long as she lives.

“Is this how you do it?” she whispers, tucking one last strand behind his ear. She slips a hex bag on his open palm, wrapping his fingers around it. She steps back, whispers a spell under her breath and Sam’s body bursts into flames. When it’s done, she opens the balcony door, calls up a breeze, and watches it carry Sam’s ashes away.

She looks out over the lights of the city, breathing deep of the cool night air. There is life and power in her yet, but now there is something else, too; a kernel of an idea. When Paris and New York can no longer hold her, if her heart grows too cold again, there is someplace she can go, someplace quiet. For the first time in a long time, death doesn’t feel like an enemy to outsmart and Rowena doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with that.

[crowkingwrites]

War Creatures (Ch. 23)

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Summary:  In a crossover of the Nine Realms and Westeros, you find yourself in the dawn of a rebellion. Odin, Lord of Pyke, has made alliances with your family, House Grover of Highgarden. Your father’s army will join Odin’s army to overthrow the King and take the Iron Throne. There is just one cost to this alliance.You must marry the dark, young prince Loki.In a world where Kings do as they wish, where war is an oncoming storm, and peace is nothing but a dream, you are lost but brave. Loki is more powerful than he seems, and love will grow from the flames of war.

Words: 3990

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108748/chapters/34144290

It was days before the wedding between Elise and Fandral. I had rarely spoken to her because she had been so busy, and I was keeping the Eyrie as beautiful as I could. With all the gardens I put into place, Loki’s green decorations and banners, and the wedding decorations, the Eyrie had turned into a woodland fantasy.

I stood at the entryway admiring my own work. The flowers and vines that arched the gate were a friendlier touch to welcome more guests as they came in. Sif had made herself at home with Aegir. She accompanied me as I made my way back inside the Eyrie.

“Your friend Elise,” she started. “Is she ready for marriage?”

“As ready as she can be,” I responded. Looking around, I saw people preparing for the event. My men spoke of drinking with Fandral later on during the night. People were excited and morale was high, but I felt my own heart sinking.

“From what I’ve heard from my ladies in waiting, she seems to be very nice,” Aegir wriggled in her arms and she bounced to keep him occupied. Sif looked to me again. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said as we entered into the sept. Elise looked around in awe of everything coming together. She stood out among the other ladies in waiting. She looked so happy. “She’s very happy.”

“And you weren’t,” Sif interjected.

“What? What do you mean?”

“You’re jealous. I was too when I heard a dear friend of mine married someone she loved.”

“I’m jealous because Elise is getting married?”

“You’re jealous because she’s living your dream. She got to choose who she married and she loves who she is marrying. You and I did not get that luxury,” Sif pointed out the truth. Elise’s blonde hair waved loose behind her as she pretended to dance with the other ladies-in-waiting. It was hard to swallow. In times where multiple kings thirsted for the throne, Elise had all the reasons to be happy. I wanted those reasons. I wished I could share her joy.

“You’re right,” I swallowed.

“Go talk to her,” Sif urged me. “Friends should be happy for one another, not grow apart.” With Sif’s advice, I walked towards Elise. Perhaps, I should’ve been more honest instead of distant. Did Elise notice? Is she even aware of how much I’ve avoided her? Has she been so self-involved that she forgotten me? The thoughts hurt, and my emotions showed as the ladies in waiting walked away from Elise and away from me. I watched them slowly make their way back inside the castle. Elise walked over to me, her face in concern.

“Are you alright?” she greeted me. “You look tired.”

“Maybe I am. It’s been a busy couple of days.” I said. Elise took my hand smiled gratefully.

“And it shows. Thank you for everything. You’ve done such a great job. All of this,” she gestured towards the sept and the castle. “It looks more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. You’ve been such a wonderful help. And thank you for being the best friend I could have ever asked for. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have met Fandral.”

“I did no such thing. You found Fandral all on your own.”

Elise shook her head, laughing. “You’re too modest. You married a dark prince, and because of that I found a knight made of the brightest sun. I would have never found someone like him if it weren’t for you and your marriage. I owe so much of my happy life to you. I consider myself lucky to be your best friend. Not many ladies in waiting get the same treatment I do. I owe my entire happiness to you.”

Elise kissed my hand gently and pulled me into a hug. It had been so long I had forgotten how gentle and tight he hugs were. She tucked her head into my neck as I embraced her. I felt the winds pick up around us, pushing our hair around. I smelled how sweet she smelled. Then I realized, my best friend in the entire world was getting married, and I spent this entire time loathing and hating it. I squeezed her once more before I pulled away.

“Thank you. I needed to hear that,” I told her. Elise smiled and took my hand again. Now was not the time for pettiness. Now was the time to celebrate love in its truest of forms.

The night before the wedding was buzzing with excitement. The Eyrie was filled with Fandral’s family, Elise’s family, and other friends who were close. Even the dwarves of the Eyrie were excited to see one successful wedding go through. I sat in Loki and I’s private quarters, bouncing Aegir up and down on my knee. He laughed and I spat raspberries into his round stomach. Loki entered our quarters, more drunk than usual.

“Ah, there you are,” I smiled, noting his unbalanced walking. “Did you have a good time with the boys?”

“Thor is still an irresponsible drinker,” he said, attempting to sober up in front of me.

“As are you.”

“No,” his voice was low as he wagged his finger at me, leaning against the wall. “I am fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,’ he said, almost too quickly as he started to fall over. He caught himself and stood straight up. I giggled and brought Aegir closer to me.

“I think your uncle is being silly. Do you think your uncle is being silly?” I talked in a high-pitched voice. Loki rolled his eyes and lounged on the furniture. I kept playing with Aegir. Wisps of his blonde hair tickled my nose. His fingers wrapped around mine. I felt that deep love again. I looked up to notice Loki watching me. A stupidly wide smile stuck on his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “I just had a thought. That’s all.” Loki moved himself up.

“You said Thor was there. Did you—

“No, we didn’t,” Loki interrupted me. He looked down in a sort of shame. “I wanted to enjoy the evening as brothers. We haven’t had much time together like this in several months. Talking about the war would’ve ruined things.”

“I understand,” I nodded. Aegir yawned in my lap. Loki followed suit by yawning louder and stretching his legs. I hummed. “Time for sleep.”

The next morning, ladies in waiting, Sif, and I gathered around Elise and her dress. Her light blue dress had pink flowers and some golden vines connecting them. Her hair was braided in knots and twists. If Fandral had been a king, then this truly was his queen. Elise turned to her mother who had served my family for most of her life. Her mother had tears in her eyes to see her daughter so happy.

I felt an overwhelming happiness come over me. At first, tears tugged at my eyes, but then I found myself beside Elise, trying to hold myself together.

“Oh stop it!” Elise nudged me. “My mother’s already crying!”

“You just look so beautiful!” she shouted. Many of us laughed, sharing the same sentiment. Even though I wore my husband’s colors, I felt more loyal towards Elise on this day than ever before. I walked her towards Loki. When he saw her, he smiled.

“You make a beautiful bride, Elise,” he said, taking her arm. Elise smiled, hiding her laughter. Loki opened his mouth again. “Second to my wife, of course.”

“Of course!” Elise winked. Her smile turned grateful yet again. “Thank you for walking me. That was very generous of you.” Loki and I turned towards the sept to see her mother join her father in the front row. He sat in his seat patiently, a cane in his hand.

“We do what we can for those we love,” Loki told her. “Fandral means the world to me. Seeing him finally finding love brings my brother and me a lot of happiness.”

“Thank you, Loki,” Elise said. Music started to play as everyone made their way down the aisle. I looked on to see others trying to get a glimpse of the blushing bride and their future king. The last time I made this walk, Elise and I’s roles were switched. She was a dutiful bridesmaid, and I was the bride. It was a strange feeling at first, but as I took my place among the other ladies I watched Loki present Elise to Fandral with Elise’s father watching on.

Suddenly, the war did not exist. King Malekith’s dreadful crimes did not happen. Wars and revolutions did not break out across the nine kingdoms. And if they did, none of that hatred happened in this mountain kingdom. Elise looked to Fandral and both said the words to each other.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother,” they said to each other. There was only love here. Love that grown from the war, fighting, and violence. I looked to Loki as they said the vows, and he smiled genuinely at me. Maybe he thought the same thing I did: we had grown to love each other too.

As much as I couldn’t admit it to him, I cared deeply for my husband. I meant what I said after the attack on Highgarden. I made vows to him because I believed in us. Every day since then, he showed me that he could love in return. He made vows to me because he wanted to be a better husband. Every day since then, I stood by his side and supported him.

Loki held my eye contact as he couldn’t stop smiling at me. I couldn’t stop smiling at him. I had almost forgotten the world around me. It was as if everything had disappeared and only Loki’s smile had existed. I bit my lip and looked down. He had won the staring contest. I felt too bashful to continue.

I glanced once more, and Loki still smiled my way. Maybe he did love me. Our friendship had grown too strong to consider it a friendship, but not strong enough to be considered love. It was a weird game he and I played every day.

Elise and Fandral kissed each other and went on their way. Loki and I followed in pursuit. He held my hand in his and kept me close.

“And now, we get to the fun part, yes?” he said into my ear.

“Yes, now we get to the fun part,” I confirmed.

The reception was held in our large hall. Dwarves and humans both dined in company of each other. While some men showed and bragged about fighting and war stories, some older women told stories of wisdom to younger ones. Then the drinking began. Several toasts were made towards the new, happy couple. I made a silent one for myself.

Marriage is hard, but I had a feeling Elise was truly ready for something bigger than herself. I toasted to her and growth with her new chapter. As I took a sip of the sweet red wine, I saw Thor speaking with Loki. They spoke in low tones so no one can hear them until Thor’s voice raised just slightly. Loki took his arm and guided his brother towards a more secluded area.

That was going to be a hard conversation.

“You saw it too?” Sif said behind me. I nodded.

“Yes, it doesn’t look good from my end.”

“I agree. For what it’s worth, Thor really does love his brother. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. His words may sound brash, but he means well.”

“And for what it’s worth,” I added. “Lord Odin is very old in his age. Thor may be young and eager to be King, but I believe my husband is the better fit.” Sif nodded.

“While I have to disagree with you, I am happy for the new couple,” Sif looked to Elise and Fandral enjoying yet another toast from close friends. “May their love be enough.”

“May their love be enough?” I turned.

“It’s a saying in the Westerlands,” Sif’s dark hair moved with her. “May their love be enough to withstand the storms, the wars, and the hate. May their love be enough to fight the temptation, the lies, and the sin. May their love be enough to fill them both with happiness.”

“That’s such a thoughtful saying,” I admired Sif. She was only two years older than I was, but she was years wiser than her age. She was perfect for Thor. Where Thor was loud, intimidating, and filled with laughter. She was patient, eager to listen, and filled with a knowledge of life. “You and Thor fit together wonderfully.”

“Thank you,” Sif linked arms with me and guided me to the large empty area as the music started to play. “Now, I never got to celebrate my marriage with you. You never got the chance to celebrate your marriage with me. I ask you now, can I have this dance, little sister?”

I took her hand quickly. “Of course you may!” Sif and I started to twirl and step with the music as sisters. Soon, others started to dance and join us. Colorful fabrics from nobles graced the floor with proper waltzing. Dwarves in ordinary clothing tried to follow with them. I looked on as a highborn lady offered her hand to a common dwarf. He shyly took her hand and showed him how to dance.

Elise joined in the fun and dance with her new husband. Fandral glided her across the floor smoothly. His eyes only on her as they took the spotlight. Everyone watched them and admired their love from afar.

Suddenly, I felt Loki tap on my shoulder. He took my hand quietly and led me away from Sif. When I looked back on Sif, Thor was speaking quietly in her ear and she was frowning. The conversation did not go well at all.

Loki led me away from the hall and into the quiet corridor. It was darker there. Twilight had just passed through the windows as the evening settled in more. “It did not go well, I take it,” I frowned at him. Loki shook his head.

“He did not agree with my ideals and my goals to be King of the Nine Kingdoms. I did not agree with Odin being King either,” Loki stood in front of me, looking devastated.

“So what happens now?”

“He will go back to father and report what happened here. I am no longer their ally, and they are no longer mine. You and I are on our own to find more allies to fight for our cause,” I looked down, feeling bad. I had just danced with Sif to celebrate our union as sisters. It felt so short lived. It felt unfair.

“Are we their enemies now? Will they attack us?”

“We are enemies now, but not tonight,” Loki continued, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Thor and I did agree on one thing: to enjoy tonight. To celebrate our childhood friend and his new wife. Tomorrow, we are enemies and Thor will leave. Tonight, we are brothers as you and Sif are sisters.” Loki gave me a half-smile before it faded away.

I heard the music growing louder. I looked towards the brightly lit hall to see almost everyone joining in on the celebration. I turned back to Loki to see his blue eyes looking towards the night sky. His mind had wandered away from me. I took his hand and his attention snapped back to me.

“We never celebrated our wedding the way I wanted to,” I told him.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He shook his head. “I was awful to you back then. We did barely anything to celebrate our union.”

“Well,” I smiled at him. “I have always wanted to dance with my own husband at a wedding.” Seeing what I was trying to hint at, Loki’s face lit up. He stepped back and bowed to me.

“My lady, my queen,” he said. “May I have this dance?” He offered his hand to me and I took it. Loki rushed me towards the dance floor. I giggled all the way there. Months ago, he wouldn’t dare touch me. Now, he wrapped his arm and round me and took my other hand. He started to waltz with me across the floor. I let him take the lead. Loki danced with me in tune to the music. His hand felt natural on my waist just as his eyes felt natural looking into mine.

Loki smiled down on me while the music swelled. His mouth spoke into my ear.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. I nodded to him, wondering what he thought of in his mind. Loki placed two hands on my waist and lifted me up into the air and twirled me around. When I landed, I felt as though my heart was still in the air, flying around like the most musical bird. Loki kept dancing with me into the next song that played. This time, he picked up the pace in tune to the quicker beat. We flew across the floor like a pair of birds that flew together in the sky.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked me in the middle of the song.

“I am!” I laughed. “I didn’t realize you could dance so well.” Loki smiled and bit his lip.

“It’s a good talent of mine,” he said. He twirled me around then brought me close to him. The music swelled once again. I heard violins make sweet sounds as my heart beat faster. I could not keep my feelings inside much longer. Not when he looked at me like that. His blue eyes smiled at mine like I was made of gold. I opened my silly mouth.

“I love you,” I confessed out loud. Loki paused, digesting what I just said. His blank face turned into a slow smile.

“I love you too,” Loki kissed me gently. Both of his hands going into my hair and holding my face there. He pulled away quickly, realizing where we were. My face was flushed from all the emotion I felt. Loki looked to Fandral and Elise who were dancing to the music. Everyone else was either dancing or drunk. Loki took my hand and rushed me away from the celebration.

“Where are we going?” I asked him as he kept running away from the wedding party.

“I don’t know!” Loki laughed as he stopped in front of stairs. He turned to me and picked me up. Maybe I was drunker than I realized. Maybe I was a silly girl. But I was sure of one thing. Loki was leading us to our bedroom.

When we reached our destination, Loki closed and locked the door behind him. We paused for a moment, realizing we were alone and we loved each other. We rushed to each other. My hands went to his chest, undoing anything I could get my hands on. Loki’s hands went to work on my corset. The strings loosening each row he went up.

I kept kissing Loki as his tongue slipped into my mouth. His armor fell to the ground while I pulled his tunic over his head. Loki’s hands became aggressive when he tugged away the corset leaving me in a vulnerable state. He had never seen me like this. I never let any man see me like this, but Loki kept going, pushing me towards the bed.

The rest of my clothing fell in different places on the ground while Loki lowered my body onto our bed. He paused and looked at my naked form. His eyes traced every line and curve of my body, and then he started laughing. I felt a pang in my stomach.

“What’s wrong? Am I ugly?” I asked him.

“No, you’re perfect,” Loki’s lean body was over mine. “You’re much more beautiful than I imagined. If I had known, I would’ve done this so much sooner. Knowing that I am the first one to have you like this makes this all the more precious to me.”

Loki started to kiss me again. His arms wrapped around me. His breath was hot and I felt breathless and an excitement surge through me as his kisses made their way down to my neck. My breath hitched at every time he sucked on my skin. I saw the dark marks form down my body as his fingers hovered over my most sensitive part. His fingers itched to touch me intimately.

“May I?” he asked me softly. “I’ll be gentle. I promise, little dove.” He waited for my consent. He was the Dark prince who did anything he wanted. He hurt anyone he wanted. He took anything he wanted, yet he asked for my consent to touch me. I nodded my head.

Loki’s fingers entered and I moaned. His two fingers made slow work as they went in and out of me. I felt the sensation of electricity go through my body as he kept going. Loki’s mouth found mine again and I moaned into his mouth. His thumb then found my bundle of nerves as he rubbed around in circles. I moaned louder.

His lips moved against mine as his tongue slipped in and out my mouth. I felt beads of sweat come from my forehead. Loki pulled out his fingers and we both looked on to see him separate his fingers. My substance between them, glistening and wet. Loki jumped off the bed, and I watched him.

Loki let his pants fall to the ground. He threw off his arm braces and any other undergarment he wore as he stood at the front of the bed. His black hair was already wild and a distinct mess. His dilated eyes stared at me, wanting him, needing him. Loki crawled on top of me again. My eyes wandered down to his size. It was larger than I imagined, and it looked intimidating. Loki chuckled.

“Are you nervous, love?” his face inches from mine.

“Yes,” I said. “I heard that it hurts.” Loki separated my legs with his own. His hand lifted my hip.

“I promised I would be gentle love. Trust me. Look at me,” Loki kept my attention. As he inserted himself inside of me, I felt the pain at first. It stung and tore through skin. Loki slowly pulled out and smoothly went inside again. The first few time he did that, the pain was still there, but it did not matter. Loki watched me moan and sigh from his movements.

Loki went faster, seeing I was enjoying myself. He kissed my face as his hips pounded harder and harder into me. Both of us breathed hard against the other. Loki buried himself in my neck, kissing and sucking at my skin. I grabbed his hair, trying to keep a hold of reality. But I felt my body winding up like a clock. I didn’t quite know what was happening, but it felt good.

Loki thrusted himself into me faster and faster until I felt my body let go of itself. I yelled Loki’s name louder than I realized. Electricity surged through my body again as it was sent into a crescendo before it fell. Loki moaned loud as his body raised and thrusted hard into me. His eyes closed as I felt his warmth go inside of me.

Loki pulled out of me and fell into bed next to me. Both of us tried to catch our breath as we looked to one another. His blue eyes never left mine, and for the second time that day I believed both of us thought of the same thing: we were truly now than ever before husband and wife.

Taglist: @angelicshinigami @sugarwastaken @carilov09 @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @i-theredqueen @sleepylunarwolf @trashpandabarnes @loki-0fasgard

[mae-gi-writes]

Wrong Number (Baekhyun x OC) Part 3

Synopsis: In which Hwang Jinae insistently leaves voice messages to her boyfriend every night since he’s gone to Veterinary College, only to discover that she has been confessing all her struggles and hardships to the wrong number. More specifically; to his roommate Byun Baekhyun. 

Part: One / Two / Three 

When Jinae finally sees Taehyung’s face the week after, she wishes she had checked his identity before actually opening the door. It’s almost a reflex for her to push it back in his face, but Taehyung is faster. He presses his palm against its wooden surface, his gaze pleading. 

‘What are you doing here?’ her voice is cold, distant. 

‘I can explain.’ he tells her as his chest heaves up and down, an indication that he has just run up the stairs to her flat. He shouldn’t be here, his campus is on the other side of town and from his dishevelled appearance and the bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, it can only mean that he has boarded the first train to her neighbourhood as soon as his conference was over. Jinae doesn’t know whether she should feel touched or irritated by his presence.

‘Explain what?’ 

‘Everything,’ he quickly brushes a hand through his brown locks, eyes glittering with a mixture of apprehension and nervousness of being misunderstood. There’s some sort of panic in there, as well as the feeling that if he manages to explain himself, if he can convince her that it hadn’t been out of mean will, then everything will be fine and they can go back to how they were before. 

But that’s not how it works. Jinae’s been too hurt for too long and she isn’t sure how much more she can hold on. 

But she nods and lets him in nevertheless, eyes still narrowed as she watches him take a seat on her couch as gingerly as he can, as though one silly mistake might get him thrown out again before he can utter any other apology. She asks him whether he’d like something to drink, but he quietly denies and waits until she settles on the other end of the couch before clearing his throat. He has her attention, for she is waiting for him to say something, anything that might dispel the awkward tension in the air. For once, Jinae is glad that all her housemates are away, for it would’ve been one heck of an awkward encounter for them to be bustling around casually when the atmosphere is clearly charged with electricity and open wounds.

‘So?’ she prompts when the silence drags on for what seems to be forever.

Taehyung clears his throat. Plays with his hair. He is nervous, she can tell by the clenched jaw, the tightness at the corner of his eyes. 

It takes another long moment. Jinae counts up to ten in her head before he finally opens his mouth and says: 

‘I’m sorry. I don’t have any other excuse. I realized it when Baekhyun told me, but you have to believe me. I didn’t mean to forget, I just had so many things going on at the same time--’ he breaks off for a minute, shaking his head at his own stupidity. Jinae’s cold gaze is enough to chill his blood from its warmth, ‘--Please Jinae. You know I wouldn’t lie to you.’

Her eyes linger on him for a moment. ‘I know.’ 

But she clamps her mouth shut into silence. It is deafening, it’s like they’ve been separated by moving tectonic plates with no means of closing this sudden distance. Jinae can feel the emotion clogging up the back of her throat, but she doesn’t know what to say, what to do. Forgiving Taehyung would mean to erase every little thing he’s done and bypass all the small mistakes, and Jinae isn’t sure whether she can be brave enough to jump into his arms so willfully when she is still reeling from the blood loss of so many open wounds.

‘Are you still mad at me?’ Taehyung asks, voice breaking at the last two words. It’s almost like he’s choking back a sob. 

Jinae’s face doesn’t give anything away but her eyes are as cold and as hard as steel, ‘I can’t say I’m not.’ her voice can cut through skin, slicing the air with a sting, ‘But you need to talk to me. How am I supposed to know how you’re doing if you don’t tell me? How am I supposed to be there for you when I don’t even know what’s going on in your life?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he scrambles in his seat, moving closer towards her and grasping her hands into his. His eyes search her own, begging to be understood, to be forgiven for the mistakes that weren’t intentional. He can see the pain etched across her features. It feels like a slap in the face. His tone becomes more desperate, ‘I’m sorry, Jinae. I didn’t mean-- I didn’t want you to suffer so much.’ 

A crack appears in what seemed to have been her mask. A soft sobs echoes through the back of her throat, before she suddenly wells up with all the unshed tears that she’s been restraining inside her chest for as long as she can remember. 

Jinae doesn’t really know what had been the final conclusion of that night, only that they made up and Taehyung had gone home with a soft smile and a promise that he’s going to change himself into a better man. She remembers feeling a slight anxious twist in her heartstrings when he’d uttered those words, unsure whether she can really trust him or not. But she’d decided on the latter before going to bed in the early hours of the morning, finally content that this whole issue has been resolved for now. 

-------xx-------

Soon enough, Jinae’s fight with Taehyung is forgotten and pushed aside when he clearly demonstrates signs of commitment during the few weeks to come. He doesn’t hesitate to message her every morning with a small message telling her to have a good day, while he manages to take her calls every week whenever he has free time. On her side, Jinae tries to be more flexible in her expectations for she is aware of his busy schedule. 

On the other hand, Jinae is happy to note that she has acquired herself a friend albeit the fact that he lives on the other side of town and is actually her boyfriend’s roommate. Baekhyun had sent a text asking about things between her and Taehyung, and when one text turned into two, it blossomed into a never ending stream of messages between both parties. Jinae is glad for Baekhyun’s constant friendship, especially in times when Taehyung cannot be around for her. He’s someone she can confide into, one of the very few people that she feels comfortable with without having to try too hard. Baekhyun listens to her and hears her voice for the words she speaks, not for the expectations he has of her nor of the fake label he has pinned onto her being the moment she’d walked through the classroom doors. 

It’s not until the mid-semester break that Taehyung invites Jinae over to his campus. At first, she had been over the moon at such a proposition, only to realize that she’ll not only be seeing her boyfriend but also the young man who has turned out to be more than just a mere mutual acquaintance. She isn’t sure whether it’s because of Taehyung that she is excited, or because she is actually going to put a face to the name that has become like home to her. 

Cold winter wind is expected on that day and Jinae makes sure to bundle up before heading out, hands clasped around her bag and slowly turning whiter by the second as she sits on the train, her beige coat wrapped around her in a soft cocoon of comfort. She looks out at the passing fields of plantations and wonders briefly what it is to lead such a simple life dictated only by the rising sun and the growth of crops. Sometimes, she wishes to be that kind of person, for they don’t seem to be having any superficial worries, living in the present without a single ounce of restraint on their identity. 

‘Jinae!’ she hears Taehyung’s voice booming through the train station as soon as she steps onto the platform. Before she even has time to blink, she is suddenly enveloped in her boyfriend’s arms. She gets a whiff of his perfume, gets a sense of his warm structure folding around her in such a familiarity that it brings tears to her eyes. 

‘How was the trip?’ Taehyung asks when he finally draws back to look at her face. She gazes at the shadow of stubble adorning his jaw, the dark blue rings under his eyes like half moons, and her heart clenches. 

‘I’m fine,’ she draws on a smile and ruffles his hair in affection, ‘it wasn’t too long. How are you? You looked hella tired.’ 

‘I am,’ he grabs onto her hand, pulling her along with him towards the parking lot towards his shiny glittering mercedes. He had received the gift by his grandfather a few months earlier as a gift for his promoted scholarship and though Taehyung had been awestruck at such an expensive gift and had wanted to return it in favour of his grandfather’s domestic comfort, it hadn’t been arguable to refund it back to its initial owner. 

Nevertheless, he’d been more than happy to oblige to the older man’s wishes. 

She had told Baekhyun about her impromptu trip to their campus. To Baekhyun’s joy and excitement, he’d immediately asked her for the time and date, jumping up and down like a little kid when she mentioned that it would be sooner rather than later. There’s a nervous knot tightening in her stomach now that she thinks of meeting the man with no face but such an important, familiar name. It causes her to grow silent the more they approach Taehyung’s residence, which the latter is  blatantly oblivious to and is instead chatting away like crazy about his hectic schedule. 

‘Baekhyun’s asked me so much about you when I told him you were coming over.’ Taehyung says as he guides her up the staircase with her suitcase in tow. His smile is happy and contagious, so much so that there’s a slight pang of guilt in Jinae’s chest as she thinks of the unknown friendship that had blossomed between her and his roommate, one that she’d potentially made sure to conceal. 

What Taehyung doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she decides. And plus, there is nothing to hide. 

‘Baekhyun! I brought us a guest!’ Taehyung comes hollering through the doorway while Jinae bends over to slip off her shoes. 

When she straightens up again, she is surprised to find an unfamiliar face looking back at her with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. 

Baekhyun. 

He is much more delicate than she had imagined, with soft almond-shaped eyes that make her think of a feline, a defined jawline that constructs his narrow face, and thin lips that suddenly curl up into a smile of greeting. He has light brown hair, probably from a dye, but while Jinae isn’t really fond of superficial colours, she thinks that this shade of maroon really compliments his facial structure. 

‘H-Hi.’ she can’t help but stutter out her greeting, to which his smile grows even wider. He greets her back, ‘Hey.’ 

His voice is deeper than on the phone, deeper than she’d imagined it to be. For a minute, she can’t help but stare at him, wondering how this is the man that she’s been pouring her heart out to for the past few weeks. He seems familiar and yet like a total stranger at the same time, for she can finally put a face to his name, can finally conjure up a mental picture of what Baekhyun actually looks like. 

‘Baekhyun, this is my girlfriend, Jinae.’ Taehyung flits about in barely restrained excitement and doesn’t even notice the awkward tension in the air. She almost jumps out of her skin when his hand comes to a rest at the small of her back, ‘Jinae, this is Baekhyun.’ 

‘Nice to meet you.’ she extends her hand out in greeting, which he takes after a slight hesitation. His smile catches her off guard. It’s pure and light and genuine. It makes his eyes crinkle up into crescents, ‘likewise.’ 

She can’t deny the sudden tightness in her chest when she retracts her hand, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ she says lamely in an attempt of conversation, tongue practically drying out for she doesn’t know what to say. 

‘So have I,’ and it’s the way he smiles that makes his face go all youthful and dazzling, just like that of a child’s. 

Taehyung ushers her through the small apartment and brings her over to his room. Jinae tries to shove the image of Baekhyun out of her mind as she focuses on Taehyung’s constant stream of chatter, allowing his deep alto to soothe her nerves and responding with as much excitement as he is exhibiting at her presence. She should be happy to be here, and she is happy. It’s been ages since she’s seen Taehyung and the fact that he’s making so much effort for her brings a certain amount of warmth to blossom through her chest. 

That’s right, she tells herself adamantly, she has practically the best boyfriend in the world, and there is no questioning that. 

She doesn’t see Baekhyun for the rest of the day, mostly because Taehyung brings her out to visit his campus before stopping by one of the cute corner coffee shops to grab a quick lunch. They catch up with stories and tell each other of their experiences up until now, moving on to their high school friends and reminiscing in the memories that they each hold dear in their hearts. He brings her to the park next and they spend their afternoon walking through the grassy pathways, sharing scoops of ice cream by the boathouse while watching the sun set in the horizon. 

He receives a phone call as they are climbing up the stairs to his flat, and from the frown that appears on his face, Jinae doubts that it is good news. 

‘What is it?’ she asks tentatively when he cuts off the call with a darkened serious expression clouding over his features. 

‘It’s just-- I think I’ll have to go to the lab,’ he looks guilty, but Jinae shakes her head before pushing him lightly towards the exit.

‘It’s your work, Taehyung,’ she says with understanding in her tone, ‘If you have to go, you have to go. I don’t mind.’ 

He gazes at her for a few beats of silence, ‘are you sure?’ 

She smiles, ‘I’ll be fine. I have Baekhyun to keep me company.’ 

‘Alright.’ he produces the apartment key and with a small kiss onto her temple, he’s off running into the night, leaving her sighing at his retreating presence. He’s always been this way, she thinks to herself as she walks up the remainder of the stairs and stops in front of his door. You should get used to this by now, Jinae, she pep talks inwardly, you should get used to his work being the number one priority in his life even when you’ve never been. 

JInae is about to pull down the door handle when it suddenly swivels open to reveal a slightly dishevelled, messy-haired Baekhyun in sweatpants. He gapes at her for a moment before realisation dawns on his face, which is when he realizes that she’s alone. 

‘Where’s Taehyung?’ he peers over her shoulder, only to catch sight of Jinae’s slightly distraught expression. 

‘He had a lab emergency,’ she explains, not wanting to sound desperate or pitiful. In Baekhyun’s eyes, she has already reached a level that can only be attained by a fool of a girlfriend, and him seeing her in this state is enough to bring more shame to her. Impulsively, Jinae feels the back of her neck flush in embarassed heat. 

‘So you’re free now?’

Her head jolts up, a frown decorating her face in curiosity, ‘Yeah.’ 

‘Alright then,’ before she knows what he is doing, he has grabbed onto her shoulder, swivelled her around and is propelling her down the stairs, his grip firm and warm, strong. 

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ there is clear panic in her tone, but she can feel the boy’s grin when he replies, ‘Making you not waste your time.’ 

The city is different at this time of night, the lights scattering across the perimeter and alighting the streets like a series of stars. The air is chilly and cuts across her skin, making her nose turn red and her hands to dry out from the cold. Baekhyun has let go of her shoulders and is now walking alongside her, a beanie flattening his bangs and his hands tucked deep inside the comfort of his pockets. 

‘Where are we going?’ she can’t help but ask, to which he tells her to be patient before leading her through a series of small alleyways that don’t inspire any sense of comfort. She jokes that one would think Baekhyun is trying to murder her, to which he jokes that nobody will miss her anyway because it’s not like she has that many friends in the first place. 

‘A karaoke bar?’ Jinae can’t hide her shock as she gazes at the multi-coloured light beams striking the dance floor and the barman that’s busy concocting a series of drinks for a few waiting guests. Baekhyun sends her a look as if to ask her whether she’s kidding, and when her face stays just as serious, his jaw drops in surprise.

‘You’ve never went to karaoke before?’ there is definite horror in his voice, causing Jinae to shrink slightly on herself while cursing inwardly at her lack of experience. Baekhyun probably thinks of her as a total geek and that’s not really helping her in this situation.

But to her surprise, the young man bursts out laughing before grabbing onto her forearm and dragging her over to the counter. ‘You will thank me for this later,’ he says while reserving a booth for two people. 

Since there are only two of them, it takes little time to clear out a space and find a suitable both. So they cut the huge line of waiting groups and Jinae can’t help but notice how many people greet the said young man on the way. She loses count of the times he’s stopped and interrupted with small talk, smiling when he introduces her and avoiding their gazes that seem to drag over her like rakes attempting to push and pull at every layer of her skin.

‘You weren’t joking when you said you knew a lot of people,’ Jinae comments when they finally reach their desired booth and Baekhyun closes the door with a sigh of relief, ‘You’re practically like the mayor of town.’ 

Baekhyun’s eyebrow shoots up in amusement, ‘was it impressive?’ 

‘Kind of.’ she shrugs, ‘coming from someone who barely has any friends, it makes me wonder how much energy you have to deal with so many people.’ 

‘I love people,’ he flashes her a smile, one that is contagious and makes her want to smile back, ‘Unfortunately, they don’t seem to like me back as much.’ 

‘Nonsense,’ Jinae interjects, ‘Did you see how many people greeted you out there? How many people actually talk to you?’ 

‘They might talk to me,’ he looks away then while his jaw clenches, ‘but like I told you, they barely know me.’ 

They’ve talked about this before. She’s heard of the rawness of this tone, the hurt and pain that lies beneath his words. It’s something entirely different to actually see his expression; the bunched up frown of his eyebrows and the tightness of his mouth. The way his eyes darken like he’s seeing something that is making his blood boil, as if it’s something that hurts him and renders him helpless at the same time. 

Jinae’s hand aches. She wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, tell him that it’s not the case where she is concerned, but then she remembers that it’s best to let this moment pass. Baekhyun’s expression is one that suggests that he doesn’t like any kind of sympathy and that her actions will just add more salt to the already open wound. 

So she makes a grab for the microphone instead before pressing it into his hand. When he looks up in surprise, she sends him a soft smile, ‘come on.’ she says and pulls him to stand beside her, ‘Show me how to karaoke.’ 

-------xx-------

The hours slip by into a natural kind of oblivion. Jinae barely checks her phone and loses track of the time as Baekhyun torments her till she sings her heart out. The initial dismay at Taehyung’s disappearance is replaced by the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She jumps up and down, climbs onto the table and sings like she’s never sung before, until her lungs ache for breath and her throat is croaky. Baekhyun does just the same, acting like her number one fan and jumping around to the beat of the songs as he hollers a series of cheers even when she ultimately fails at the high notes. 

Jinae learns that Baekhyun can sing. That he can actually sing as though he’s been professionally trained to do so. They end the night with a soft ballad, his soft yet masculine vocals filling her ears as she drowsily basks in the feeling of his voice wrapping her into a soft cocoon of warmth. There’s a richness to his baritone, a soulful melody that seems to ignite every bone inside her body with emotion. She can’t help asking why he hasn’t auditioned for a singing agency yet, to which he replies that he has bigger dreams than standing on stage. 

It’s shy past three in the morning when they finally stumble into the flat. To Jinae’s dismay, Taehyung is still not back from his laboratory yet and when she checks her phone in hopes that he’s left any sign of life, there is nothing that comes up on her blank screen and she forces herself not to throw her phone against the wall. 

‘You alright?’ comes Baekhyun’s question. She swivels around to see her friend with a concerned furrow of his eyebrows. 

‘Yeah, just tired.’ she makes up a lie as smoothly as she possibly can, making sure that he doesn’t catch sight of the tears at the corner of her eyes, threatening to cascade down her cheeks. It’s not even a big deal that Taehyung isn’t here, for his work is definitely something important to deal with, one that he cannot just throw away because it’s what will guarantee his graduation and success. And yet, her stomach still drops at the thought of him ditching her for that stupid project. Most of all, she feels sorry for herself. She would’ve never guessed to be that pitiful. Baekhyun must take her for such a fool. She must look pathetic in his eyes.

‘Jinae,’ Baekhyun’s call halts her steps. His voice rings through her like an echo of her own reality, ‘I’m sorry.’ 

What for? She wants to ask, though it’s clear that he is the one apologizing for Taehyung’s ignorant nature. But she doesn’t need his pity, at least not right now. 

Taking a deep, staggering breath, she exhales shakily through her nose before saying a soft, ‘it’s not your fault.’ before closing Taehyung’s bedroom door in his face and shutting off any attempt at contact. 

Her heart hurts and her head is pounding from the after effects of alcohol. She can’t help but curse softly as her brain tries to recollect the few memories that she can actually remember, horrified that she has actually spent more time with someone other than her boyfriend. She doesn’t know whether she is to blame or whether to be angry at Taehyung for his absence, for as frustrated as she is about her boyfriend’s neglect towards their relationship, there is a guilt swimming inside her heart because she has actually enjoyed that evening spent with Baekhyun. 

What am I doing? She thinks, raking her fingers through her hair and tightening her hands into fists, clamping down onto her dark brown locks. This isn’t right. It hasn’t been for a long time. 

Jinae reaches for her bag on Taehyung’s study table, before her hands suddenly knock over a few documents on the hardwood floor. With a groan, she crouches down to pick them up, only to frown when her eyes flutter drowsily across the letters imprinted on the white page. 

Her blood goes cold. 

Her heart practically screeches to a halt. 

No, is what pops into her head, repeating like an echo, no no no. 

In her hand, written in a professional black font, is a word that makes her heart drop down to her stomach. 

It reads: Kidney transplant patient: Kim Taehyung. 

-------xx-------

A/N: DUN DUN DUNNNNNN!~ This just turned dark and I can't wait to see what the next chapter will bring ;) hehehe. what do you guys think of this chapter?! Thoughts? Hate it? Comment down below :)  Thank you to all those who are taking their time to read and comment their thoughts on the story, it really gives me confidence to continue to write. It makes me glad to share this with you, and it makes me even happier to know that some are enjoying the story that I enjoy writing. Thank you all, I love you <3 

see you soon! 

- nutmeggu