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capsized-heart · 5 years ago

Text

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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lovelytarou · 4 years ago

Text

you make me go uwu

pairing: midoriya izuku x reader

genre: fluff, angst

tags: inspired by the song uwu by chevy

a/n: i'm just projecting my izuku feels and me literally going soft whenever i see his chubby face in the manga ang going uwu over it, also i still have a christmas hangover so sorry if you don't celebrate that or not fond of it! hearts, reblogs & feedbacks are greatly appreciated 💗

midoriya izuku is a lot of things.

he's one of the best students at UA and was quite known to be a reckless person who never thinks twice about helping someone. his knack for breaking his bones was a testament to that fact.

he's no doubt going to be one of the best pro heroes out there soon, with a big heart, a kind soul, and a courageous spirit.

midoriya izuku is a lot of things and possessing such cute, squishable cheeks is one of them. or more likely, being cute is one of them.

this thought occured to you when he offered to help you in one of the classes you're having trouble with. being at such close proximity made you aware of just how green his eyes are and when the sunlight hits them just right, they look like beautiful gems. or how he always seem to mutter under his breath when he's thinking too hard, or how his right leg would unconsciously shift to you like he wanted to get closer.

but one of the things you noticed the most, is his cheeks while he puffs them out of frustration.

he's gonna give me a heart attack one of these days with how cute he is

incident #1

you were currently at the cafeteria, sitting at a table with the dekusquad (kaminari came up with it, izuku claimed their little group don't have a name) which consists of ochaco, shouto, tenya, and izuku.

everything is going well, the group had already bought their food and are now digging in after a collective, “itadakimasu!”

you just had the most fortunate opportunity to sit in front if izuku, of all people, who is too busy eating.

he paused for a moment to answer iida's question who's beside him and it made his cheeks bloated with the food inside.

you choked on your drink because you just felt your heart swell with how cute he looks. it almost reminded you of a hamster.

shouto who is sitting on your left, gave you a concerned look and offered you his water.

“are you okay, l/n-san?” his question made izuku turn to you both, you felt your cheeks heat up when he looked at you while looking like that.

“i-i'm fine, thanks.” you took the water from him and gulped it down to clear your throat, and cool your nerves.

“you should chew your food properly when eating or else you'll choke!” iida scolded, waving his hands in a chopping motion you all grew to be familiar with.

“s-sorry...” you can't help but scratch at your nape in embarrassment.

incident #2

“midoriya, you're up.” aizawa called one afternoon on another day of training.

the rest of class 1-a stood back while izuku stepped in front. this was another one of aizawa's endurance training and one of the challenges was to beat a bunch of the robots from the entrance exam once again. how he can call this endurance training, you don't know.

“SMAAAAASH!” you heard izuku yell, tearing through what was once a robot and turning it into scraps of metal.

he did this to the other robots and he landed on his feet with a very serious look that instead of making him look intimidating, it actually made him look more adorable.

“he's like an angry bunny–” you cut yourself off with a hand on your mouth as you laughed quietly, another flush blossoming on your cheeks.

“i know right?! look how cute he is, but he's scary when he shows how strong he is like that.” mina added, looking at izuku who's walking towards the both of you now.

you immediately composed yourself when his eyes landed on you.

“y/n! are you okay? your face is all red! are you sick? do you need to go to recovery girl? shall i take you to her? what if you're overheating?! it's so hot out and your hero costume's probably too heavy–” he began to ramble and you can only stare at him with wide eyes as he continued with his wild thoughts.

quickly dismissing him with a hand on his mouth as everyone started to look at the two of you, izuku stared down at it and felt flustered at how soft your hand felt on his lips.

he's practially kissing your palm, do you even register what you're doing to him?!

“shh! i'm fine! it's just...you're so–” you were about to tell him that he's just so damn cute but you were called by aizawa.

“uh, i gotta go! see ya later!” you scrambled away from him, heart beating fast inside your chest.

that was close.

incident #3

“hey, y/n? can i ask you a favor?” you looked up from your phone when izuku approached you on the dorm's common room.

worry is written all over his face as he fumbled with his fingers, thinking about you being too busy even though you're literally on your phone all day.

there he goes again.

before he can overthink more, you smiled at him warmly and stood up from your seat.

“sure, what's up?”

izuku gulped, “well, uh, i was thinking of a gift to give to someone but i, um, don't know if they'll like it? i kinda, um, need your opinion on it, if that's okay?”

he stared at you with big doe eyes and you can't help but swoon when he looks at you like that. of course, how can you say no to that face? he looks like he'd cry any moment if you denied him.

“alright! what gift did you get for this particular someone?” you teased, nudging his side.

he led the two of you to his room, which isn't the first time since it became a usual thing for the two of you to study together there or simply hang out and talk about your problems, about what you did that day, rambling about your favorite heroes...basically this has became your second room. and your's his.

“um, i got them this,” he opened his bedside drawer and pulled out a small box. inside it, he revealed a beautiful necklace with a letter D as a pendant.

“it's for ‘deku’ which sounds kind of cheesy since it's my hero name, but i just thought that if i gave it to them then that means i'm with them wherever they are,” he reached for something inside his shirt, showing you an identical looking necklace with a familiar letter on it.

you don't want to assume things, but whoever is this particular someone that izuku is going to give the necklace to, they sure are one lucky person. not only is he kind, thoughtful, caring, and not to mention cute, but they'd be lucky to have someone like izuku fall for them.

ignoring the sudden pang of hurt in your chest, you forced a smile on your mouth and cooed at him.

“aww, that is so cute, izu! i'm sure they would love that very much. i know i would! if they don't, you can just always give it to me,” you joked, laughing to mask your hurt.

“r-really? you think so?” when you nodded in response, izuku heaved a big sigh of relief, “well, i trust you, y/n. i'm sure they would love this.”

after that, you excused yourself out of his room and proceeded to go to yours. sleep didn't come to you easily that night, thinking about the special someone that izuku was talking about and how much it would hurt once you saw them together.

over the years you spent being his friend, you never thought you would harbor such deep, intense feelings for the green-haired boy. you don't doubt he has great things ahead of him, and because of that, you started to like him for how strong he is and how he continues to be a better hero, and an overall a great person. that awe soon turn to adoration. and before you knew it, you're falling hard for izuku.

last incident

it's christmas, and the day before, aizawa had made all of you draw lots for your secret santas. your heart stopped when you saw izuku's name on the paper you pulled from the bowl.

you didn't think too much of it and decided to give him something all might-related and called it a day, still a little sour over izuku falling for someone else.

when the dreaded day came, everybody was so chaotic and high on their holiday spirits. even bakugou, which they convinced to wear a santa hat and haul the gifts in a bag. although, he still had a big scowl on his face and basically threw the gifts to their designated owners.

“shitty hair!” bakugou barked, pulling out a gift from the bag. kirishima hopped over to where bakugou was sitting and accepted the gift with a big smile on his face.

“whoa, bakugou! you're my secret santa?!” he asked in shock, eyes shining.

“it does says my name there, doesn't it, idiot? now hurry up and open your gift already,” kirishima did just that and bursted into tears when his gift was a crimson riot themed crocs. he thanked bakugou over and over while the latter hid his smile poorly with a cough.

“whatever. dunce face! you're next!” he practically threw kaminari's gift to him which the boy almost failed to catch, earning him a snigger from the explosive boy.

“man, why do you gotta be the santa for christmas? you're cruel!” kaminari pouted, turning around to go back to where he was squished in between sero and mineta.

“you got a problem with that, dunce face?!” he growled, his palms crackling with his quirk. kirishima tried to diffuse his anger.

when everything is calm, bakugou proceeded to dig into the bag for gifts.

“here, you shitty nerd.” he tossed your gift to izuku, you almost yelped a ‘be careful!’ but izuku had great reflexes and caught your gift swiftly. his eyes widened when he read who his secret santa was. your eyes met each other but was abruptly cut off when bakugou called your name.

“y/n! here's yours,” he was oddly calm when handing you your gift, albeit a little bored.

that received a lot of complaints from your other classmates and you can only shake your head while chuckling at their antics.

deciding to get some time for yourself, you went to the balcony for some air and sat down on one of the steps at the entrance.

placing the gift on your lap, you read the tag attached to it. it was wrapped in a simple green wrapper with red ribbon that finished the look.

to: y/n

happy holidays!

from: D

the name made you curious and even if you hated yourself for it, lit a sparkle of hope inside yourself. what if it was him who gave you the gift?

you had no time to dwell much on the thought and opened the gift instead. your breath hitched in your throat as you recognized the familiar box. lifting the lid with shaky hands, you felt your eyes sting as you looked down at your gift.

it was the necklace that izuku showed you before. you were such an idiot for thinking it was for someone special and did not think it was for the secret santa.

you carefully lifted it in your fingers and the light from the inside catched the D attached to it. it was beautiful. izuku's words echoed inside your head.

“i just thought that if i gave it to them then that means i'm with them wherever they are,”

“did you...not like it?” the boy in question appeared beside you and upon noticing your tears on your face, he immediately thought it gave a negative effect.

gasping, you quickly wiped away your tears and shook your head wildly at him.

“izu, no! i-i love it! actually, it's kinda funny...”

“funny?” he tilted his head in confusion, concern still etched onto his face.

“i was sad that you care a lot about someone else to give them this wonderful gift. i didn't realize that you would give something like this...to me,” you laughed through your tears, sniffling a bit.

“why would you think that?” his voice is so soft and genuinely confused that you can't help but feel your heart beat even more, and fall for him harder than you should.

“because,” you think of a way to word your feelings better but instead what came out was, “you're you and i'm...me,”

it was stupid, but with the overflowing emotions you're feeling right now, it's hard to voice your emotions.

izuku huffed, his cheeks puffing up once again because of the action.

“what do you mean by that? i mean, you're the most amazing person i've ever met! and you're always there for me when i'm sad, and happy and-and...whenever i'm with you, i always feel this...this...warmth! it's like, when you come home after a long day and you just felt safe and comforted. or-or when my mom cooks my favorite food it just makes me feel fuzzy inside! it's like when i watch my favorite video of all might over and over again and i never get tired of it,” he sighed after his long speech, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stared at you with determination.

“what i'm getting at is...i care a lot about you, y/n.” he let out in one breath. he stared up at you with big eyes, those damn eyes that never failed to make your heart jump and stomach do flips.

chuckling at yourself, you raised both of your hands and squeezed his cheeks with all your might making him yelp in pain.

“ow! y/n...” he whined.

“sorry, sorry! i've always wanted to do that!” you snorted.

“i care a lot about you, too, izu–” he suddenly kissed the corner of your mouth, making you shut up in shock. he had a smirk on his lips, amused by your reaction.

“i've always wanted to do that,” he threw your words back at you. feeling your whole face heat up, you turned your back towards him and held out your hand holding the necklace.

“whatever! just help me put this on, will you?” you felt his hands take the necklace from your grasp. you shivered when you felt the cold metal touch your skin but it was quickly replaced by his warm hands.

“there.” he mumbled, voice far too close to your ear. before you can thank him, you felt his lips brush your nape where the lock was and squealed from the contact.

the idiot only laughed at this and ushered you to stand up, helping you to your feet.

“let's go back inside, i heard they prepared a lot of food today.”

without thinking, izuku grabbed your hand and led you inside the dorm. you could only let him drag you as you stared at your joined hands, playing with the necklace hanging on your neck before staring back up at izuku who's smiling at you.

he's the best gift that you could ever ask for.

#💫.izuku midoriya #bnha fanfiction #bnha fluff #bnha izuku #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya x y/n #izuku midoriya #my hero academia fanfiction #my hero academia #tarou writes 🌹

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cheri-translates · 5 years ago

Text

[CN] Gavin’s Same Path Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Gavin’s Qixi Collection: Date / Call 1 ♡ / Call 2 / Records / Event / Special Call

Legend has it that the Qilin is a lucky beast. If you can obtain a Qilin, all bad luck will be eliminated.

MC: Does the Qilin really exist...

Before me is a towering mountain. I’ve walked for four days and four nights in order to get here.

The elder of the temple had pointed to this mountain on a map and told me that if I crossed this path, I’d be able to see a Qilin.

MC: May the gods bless me, that I may find the Qilin soon. Otherwise...

I take a deep breath, entering this legendary mystical mountain.

The mountain is incredibly quiet and deep, and it looks as though no one has ever visited.

After exerting much strength, I only manage to climb halfway. I lean against a tree and gasp for breath, patting my grumbling stomach.

MC: So hungry... and I’ve finished the food I brought...

When I raise my head, I see something gleaming not too far away. Curious, I walk over.

MC: It’s a pond!

Schools of red carp swim unhurriedly in the clear water.

MC: Great! I wouldn’t have to worry about being hungry now!

I carefully bunch up my skirt, stepping barefoot into the stream.

There used to be a small stream in the village where I would often fish. My skills can finally come in handy.

Sunlight wisps down the shadows of trees. In the cool water, I hold my breath and bend down, stealthily approaching a fish which is swimming slowly.

Plong--

A small stone flies through the air and pelts into the water. The fish disappears in an instant.

MC: !

MC: Where did that stone come from?

I scan my surroundings, but fail to find anything out of the ordinary.

Not giving much thought to it, I once again focus on my grand undertaking of catching a fish.

Another red carp swims over to my feet lazily. Perhaps due to the sparse number of visitors, these fish aren’t very wary of humans.

MC: Since you bumped into me yourself, you can’t blame me.

I stretch out my hands joyfully, the tip of my nose almost smelling the scent of grilled fish.

Plong--

With another soft sound, a stone accurately plops near my feet, channelling a wave of ripples.

The red carp immediately swims away.

MC: Who is it?!

I turn around angrily, certain that someone is causing trouble for me.

The trees in the mountain are lush, and everything is so calm and quiet that even the sound of a falling leaf can be heard clearly.

MC: You better show yourself obediently. When I catch you, you’re doomed!

I roll up my sleeves fiercely, preparing to return to the shore. However, I end up stepping into mud.

MC: !

My body lurches forward. In the middle of my panic, I see a white figure flashing across the green mountains and forests.

The bamboo forest sways, and a soft robe brushes across my cheek. My waist is held firmly by a pair of arms.

At this moment, my five senses are amplified. Water flows underneath my feet, and I smell a clear and cold breath. I blink, shifting the sleeves away from my face.

And I meet a pair of amber eyes.

The wind coursing through the South Mountain, the leaves falling into the pond, and thousands of sceneries all pause before him, becoming accompaniments to his wilful eyes.

MC: ...who are you?

??: The person you were looking for just now.

He places me on the shore before looking me up and down.After verifying that I’m harmless, he turns around to leave.

MC: Hey, young gentleman.

[Trivia] MC calls him 公子 (“gong zi”), which typically refers to a pampered son of a wealthy family.

I stop him.

MC: Thank you for just now!

??: It was no trouble. There’s no need for thanks.

MC: Are you looking for the Qilin too?

??: No.

His response is short, but he suddenly pauses in his steps after brushing past me.

??: You're injured.

MC: Hm?

Following his line of sight, I discover that the sole of my foot had been cut by something at some point, and is currently bleeding.

MC: It hurts!

??: ...you didn’t seem to feel it just now.

MC: It suddenly started hurting once you mentioned it.

??: ...

He squats down, signalling that I should show him my calf.

MC: Young gentleman, you-

While checking my wound, he interrupts me.

??: My name is Gavin.

He applies some medicinal herbs. When he lifts his head to look at me, the gold coloured ornament used to tie his hair glints with a brilliant light.

Gavin: I’m not called “young gentleman”.

Once my wound has been wrapped, Gavin stands and casts me a glance.

Gavin: The water here has poison in it. If you aren’t careful, the poison will spread even further. Even though your wound isn’t serious, it’s better to rest for a while before moving again.

MC: All right... um... Gavin.

Gavin: What’s wrong?

MC: Why didn’t you let me catch the fish here?

Gavin: All the living creatures on this mountain have a certain spirituality. It’s best not to disturb them.

MC: But...

I can’t help but swallow my saliva, rubbing my stomach which has been starving since this morning. I raise my head and toss Gavin a pitiful glance.

MC: You can’t bear to see these spiritual fish get eaten, but you can bear to see an innocent young lady starve to death on this deep mountain?

Gavin: ...

Gavin: You can choose to leave this place.

Rays of light break free from the dense leaves, illuminating Gavin’s face.

Gavin: There’s a village not far from the bottom of the mountain. Head down the mountain now, and you should make it in time for dinner.

Gavin’s indifferent expression tells me that I wouldn’t get to eat grilled fish today.

MC: Sigh, I guess there’s no other choice then.

I scan my surroundings, then bend down to pluck a dandelion. I eat the dandelion puff, and a faint sweet scent of greenery diffuses in the air.

Gavin’s eyebrows arch upwards involuntarily, and shock flashes in his eyes.

Gavin: Human... [coughs], why do you eat everything?

MC: It’s nothing to fuss about. You don’t allow me to catch fish, so I have no choice but to pluck these dandelions to eat. This much is allowed, right?

There are many dandelions in the area behind Gavin. Perhaps this mountain is truly filled with aura. They are much bigger than normal dandelions.

MC: It’s not convenient for me to move with my leg in this state. Could you help me pluck a few? They’re just behind you.

I lean over to point, but Gavin suddenly turns his head, finally looking at me seriously for the first time.

Gavin: Are you sure you want to stay here?

MC: Of course. I already said that I'm here to look for the Qilin. I won’t leave until I find it.

Gavin lowers his eyes slightly and looks at me, a few strands of hair falling on the side of his face.

Gavin: These are not the only edible things on the mountain. Once your leg recovers, I’ll take you to find other kinds of food. By then, if you still want to search for the Qilin, I’ll bring you there.

MC: Are the fruits on this tree green plums?

Looking at the tree filled with green plums, I turn around excitedly and ask.

[Trivia] Plums symbolise perseverance, hope, and beauty thriving in adversity. As plum trees blossom between two seasons, it is also seen as a symbol of spring - bringing warmth, transition, and the promise of fruitfulness.

Slight hesitation flashes across Gavin’s eyes.

Gavin: They should be.

He reaches out, plucks a few, and hands them to me.

Gavin: Try it.

Not putting much thought into it, I take the fruit from his hand. After wiping it on my sleeve, I take a bite.

MC: Oo!

Gavin: How is it?

MC: It’s so sour!

I cover my face to hide my expression, which I’ve lost control of due to the sourness of the fruit. I splutter, making “pooh, pooh” sounds.

MC: This fruit is obviously not ripe yet!

A smile flashes in Gavin’s eyes, but he conceals it with a cough.

Gavin: Is it very sour?

He holds up a fruit and gives it a bite. Then, he nods.

Gavin: It is pretty sour.

MC: ...

My eyes trail from the silver coloured patterns on his clothes to the expensive-looking jade ring on his waist. I sigh knowingly.

MC: So you’re truly a son from a noble family. Just from a glance, I can already tell you haven’t gone through many troubles in life.

I mutter softly, and Gavin casts a glance at me.

Gavin: What did you say?

MC: Ah, nothing much.

He looks exquisite - probably a noble son from a family near the mountain, which explains why he doesn’t have experience differentiating sweet and sour fruits.

I raise the green fruit in front of Gavin, and speak in a serious tone.

MC: These types of green, hard fruits are not ripe. You can’t eat them. Next time, don’t eat them by mistake. They’re really sour.

With an exaggerated expression, I spend a long time explaining this to Gavin.

Gavin watches me. Sunlight pours down on us, illuminating his smiling side profile.

Gavin: Mm, I got it.

His eyes seem to contain the entire amber of summer. Even if he simply looks at me with a glance as light as the wind and clouds, it’s enough for me to get lost in them.

MC: Gavin, why did you agree to look for the Qilin?

Gavin: You’re very persistent.

Gavin: I’ve never met someone who would put so much effort into a legend, so... persistent.

For some reason, Gavin’s face turns a faint red when he says this.

MC: Your face seems to have turned red?

Gavin: You misperceived.

He coughs, then turns his head slightly.

Gavin: I remember that in the legend, only people who have crossed the Southern Border at the top of the mountain can find the Qilin.

MC: Mm, that’s right. But this legend is only found in the ancient books of the temple. How did you know about this?

Gavin doesn’t respond, walking in front of me.

Gavin: I’m the only one who is familiar with this terrain. Let’s go, I’ll take you to the top of the mountain.

MC: We should be reaching soon, right? We've been walking for so long.

Gavin: It will be in front after we cross this mountain stream.

With the tips of his toes, Gavin flies across the river surface, leaving me stunned at the other side of the river.

Gavin: What’s wrong?

MC: ...have you ever considered that not everybody has your skills. For example, me.

Separated by the swift current and steep rocks, Gavin and I look at each other.

Finally, Gavin reaches out his hand to me.

Gavin: I’ll catch you from here. You just have to take the first step.

MC: Y-you said it. You definitely have to catch me.

Trembling, I take the first step. My toes touch a stone in the water.

Gavin stands on the other side of the river, maintaining his posture of reaching out to me. Separated by the water, his gaze gives me an incomparable peace of mind.

At this moment, the stone underneath my foot starts to loosen.

MC: Ah-

I frantically attempt to stabilise myself, but lose my balance and am about to fall into the water.

Gavin: [in the gentlest of gentle voices] Don’t panic.

Along with his voice, he stands on the stone in the middle of the river, wrapping me entirely in his arms.

MC: Phew... that scared me.

Gavin: Are you very frightened?

I look up from his arms, and see an almost-smirk on his face.

MC: Such a deep river - it’d be strange if I wasn’t frightened.

Gavin: I see.

MC: Huh?

Gavin: You have been pulling on my clothes. And you haven’t loosened your grip even till now.

Only now do I realise that both my hands are gripping onto Gavin’s clothes tightly. Because of the amount of force exerted, his clothes have gotten ruffled, revealing his nice chest.

I hurriedly avert my eyes, my face turning red.

MC: [coughs] That is... I’m sorry.

I hurriedly retract my hands, following Gavin as we step onto the final path.

Gavin: We’re here. This is the other side of the mountain.

Gavin turns around. The look in his eyes carry a certain peace and quiet, as though he has known the answer from the start.

Gavin: Looking at this, are you disappointed?

At the other side of the mountain, there isn’t a Qilin beast. There isn’t even a pathway.

What’s in front of me is a cliff of ten thousand feet. An ancient wind brushes past my dress, as though mocking humans for overestimating their strength.

MC: So, a legend is just a legend...

While I speak, a sudden wave of dizziness overcomes me. My vision becomes blurry, and even Gavin turns into several shadows.

I try to stabilise myself, but countless images of dandelions appear in front of my eyes. I suddenly recall the dandelion I ate in the afternoon.

MC: Gavin... I think the dandelions here are poisonous...

Before I can finish speaking, I feel like a bow snapped into two. Suddenly, I fall off the side of the cliff.

The howling wind sweeps past my ears. My arms hit the sharp rocks, drawing long streaks of blood.

The sky grows increasingly distant, and there’s a burgeoning fear in my heart.

Gavin: Hold onto me tightly!

Suddenly, a white figure steps off the cliff, catching me while I’m in the abyss.

MC: Gavin...

Under the Baizhang Cliff, the hand Gavin holds mine with is searing and powerful.

But my eyes involuntarily fall onto the horns that have appeared on his forehead.

They are golden coloured, and have an ornamentation I have never seen before.

I clearly remember what was written in the ancient books of the temple--

In the South Mountain, the Qilin appears from the cliffs. The Qilin has horns on its forehead. It circles the clouds, and the world is peaceful.

It turns out I had already found the Qilin from the very start.

Gavin: It’s okay now. I’ll bring you up.

Gavin carries me up into the clouds. I feel the poison spreading in my body, and I'm unable to make a sound. I lean into Gavin’s arms and lose consciousness.

By the time I wake up, the moon is already at its peak. I open my eyes, and what I see is clothing with silver patterns.

MC: !!!

I’m sleeping in Gavin’s arms!

Gavin is leaning against a rock, his large clothes wrapping me in his arms.

I turn my head slightly. His hand is supporting the back of my head, and he looks to be in a light sleep.

My movements cause him to stir. A pair of brilliant eyes, which opened suddenly, look into mine.

Gavin: Don’t move. Your poison has just been detoxified.

His voice sounds a little weak.

I touch his hand, and it’s extremely cold.

MC: Gavin, were you the one who detoxified the poison?

Gavin: It happened too suddenly. I gave you my blood to drink.

His right hand is hidden under his large sleeve, and I can only see some traces of blood.

His face is as pale as snow, and I feel worried.

MC: How... much blood did you let me drink? Why is your face so pale?

Gavin looks at me, revealing a slightly resigned smile in his eyes.

Gavin: Not much. I have a unique physical state, so my wounds don’t heal easily. It’s difficult to stop the bleeding.

So what’s written in the ancient books is true. While the Qilin is a harbinger of auspiciousness, it also bears the consequence - the slightest wound would lead to unstoppable bleeding.

Even though he already knew this would happen, he still helped me detoxify the poison, even though we simply met by chance.

Noise resounds from beneath the mountain, and several flaming torches gather on the mountain path.

??: There was a sudden golden light on this mountain today. The Qilin must have appeared! This time, we must definitely find it. Only then can we save our village!

Hearing this, I’m shocked.

The people from the temple arrived so quickly...

As the lights linger, Gavin straightens up, his eyes cold.

Looking at his pale complexion and the traces of blood on his sleeve, I block his path.

Gavin: What’s wrong?

MC: I know that you’re the Qilin.

I stare straight at Gavin.

Gavin: So?

Several images flash across my mind--

The moment he flew down and carried me in his arms. The seriousness on his face when he squatted down and tended to my wound. The cold wind under the steep cliff...

MC: So, let me help you.

Gavin lowers his eyes slightly and looks at me, a complex emotion in his eyes.

Gavin: I don’t need your help. Those mortals at the foot of the mountain were sent by the temple. They have always been searching for the Qilin. The scent on your body is the same as theirs. You’re from the temple too, aren’t you.

The trees are silent. The cold moon makes no sound. The god I’ve been searching for is standing before me, robes stained with the heavy night.

Right now, I have so many things to say. But under Gavin’s penetrating gaze, I only convey one thought.

MC: When you rescued me, I decided to stop looking for the Qilin. I... I never wanted to hurt you.

There’s a subtle movement in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.

Something occurs to me then, and I can’t help but ask softly.

MC: So from the moment I stepped into this mountain, you already knew who I was... Then why did you still help me find the Qilin? And why did you rescue me? And reveal your real identity in front of me... Weren’t you afraid that I’d be conspiring with them...

Gavin: I wasn’t afraid.

He stares at me. His pale face doesn’t hide his sarcasm.

Gavin: For thousands of years, you weren’t the only one to climb the mountain in search of the Qilin. But no one ever found it. Why do you think this is so?

His eyes cut through the night and pause on my face. His tone is calm.

Gavin: Taking you to look for the Qilin was merely to let you lose hope early and return home. Revealing my true identity in front of you later on... that was something I didn’t expect.

In that moment, I understand everything.

As long as he doesn’t take the initiative to get close to humans, even if thousands and ten thousands of years pass, no one will be able to find the Qilin.

A god who could have chosen to hide away had rescued me multiple times. He saved me - someone who was looking for him as well.

The thoughts in my heart become increasingly resolute. I meet Gavin’s eyes and say firmly.

MC: Since that’s the case, let me help make the Qilin remain a legend forever.

Gavin is slightly shocked, but he quickly turns his head, rejecting me.

Gavin: No. If you help me, the people from the temple will make things difficult for you.

MC: That wouldn’t happen. I’m the temple elder’s only direct disciple. I have a pretty high position, so no one will make things difficult for me. As long as I say that I couldn’t find the Qilin, they will leave.

I pat my shoulder, pretending that it would be an easy feat.

With my slightly anxious expression, Gavin finally agrees.

Gavin: All right. I trust you. But you have to guarantee your own safety.

I nod vigorously.

He takes off the jade ring on his waist and places the warm and clean jade ornament into my hand.

Gavin: No matter what, this time, you’re the one saving me. If there are any wishes you want fulfilled, just shatter it, and I will appear.

Gavin’s eyes are searing, and his tone is serious.

Gavin: Trials and hardships are inevitable.

I keep the jade ornament. As the noises draw closer, I take a few steps forward, but can’t help tossing a final glance at Gavin.

He looks at me from afar under the moonlight. The bamboo leaves are flying, softening his outline.

[Trivia] In ancient China, jade was worth more than gold. It’s more a symbol of virtue than a mere accessory. Jade is believed to bring people good luck, and protect its owner.

I walk out of the forested area and see the people from the temple.

People from the temple: MC! How was it? Have you been to the top of the mountain? Did you see the Qilin?

Hidden under my sleeve, I grip the jade ring tightly. I pretend to look extremely disappointed.

MC: I didn’t... there’s only a cliff at the top of the mountain, and nothing else.

People from the temple: A cliff! The records in the ancient books were actually wrong?

I never tell lies, so they accept this information easily. However, the person standing at the forefront suddenly turns to me, his tone serious.

Person: MC, the elder already said that if we can’t find the Qilin, you will have to be the Guardian of the temple. You will have to bless the village day and night in the temple. Do you remember that?

I nod slowly.

MC: I remember.

When we leave, I turn back towards the mountain.

MC: In the future, in this lifetime, we will probably not have the chance to meet again. Take care, Gavin.

Once we return, I’m locked in the temple.

A long time passed after that, and I got used to being accompanied by ancient books from the temple every day.

Outside the window, the moonlight is slightly cool. I retrieve the jade ornament, looking at it closely under the moonlight.

MC: I wonder how Gavin is doing now...

There is a sudden gust of wind. I hurry to close the window, and the jade ornament I left at the side gets blown to the ground, shattering into two halves.

MC: Why is it broken!

I hastily reach out to pick up the jade ring, but the wind has become so strong that I can no longer move.

The wind grows increasingly louder, causing leaves to rustle. Before my eyes, a gigantic golden mark suddenly appears.

It appears one stroke at a time, and looks very ostentatious.

The wind chimes under the eaves make a final sound, bringing with it the faraway echo from the distant valley.

Gavin: It’s finally broken.

I lift my head in shock.

The crescent moon hangs in the sky. The wide leaves on the ancient trees sway with a cold shadow.

A youth dressed in white leans against the eaves, a wine flask casually placed on his curved leg. His head tilts as he looks at me.

His other hand holds onto the shattered jade ring.

Gavin: Have you thought of a wish?

Stunned, my head looks towards the man underneath the moon.

MC: Gavin...

With a soft laugh, Gavin tilts his head upwards and finishes the wine in his hand. Then, he flies down in front of me.

Gavin: Mm, it’s me.

He looks me up and down, then furrows his brows slightly.

Gavin: You’ve been locked in?

MC: Mm... not really. There was a flood disaster. I failed to bring the Qilin back to eliminate bad luck, so I have to be in the temple to use my power and pray for the village.

Gavin: Back then, on the mountain, you didn’t tell me that you’d be confined once you came back.

MC: That’s because I was worried you wouldn’t let me help if I mentioned it...

Gavin watches me silently. Moonlight, like a light summer breeze, falls on the corners of his eyes and brows.

Gavin: Why would you help me when you would be locked up? Simply because I rescued you?

MC: Isn’t such a reason enough?

Gavin: It’s not enough. You sacrificed your freedom. It’s too heavy a price to pay.

Gavin’s eyes are incomparably clear and bright. The gaze of his lowered eyes appear as though he’s looking at me for the very first time.

Gavin: Why would you do it?

Gavin’s face is illuminated by the candlelight. His gaze brings with it persistence, and also warmth.

The wind flips through pages of a book on the table. A little panicked, I hold up the book to cover my face, wanting to conceal the inexplicable emotions in my heart.

MC: T-there’s no reason. I just didn’t want you to be discovered by them.

With his line of sight blocked by the book, Gavin doesn’t speak. After a long time, his voice sounds in the quietness.

Gavin: “A handful of firewood is tied together, and the stars in the sky are shining. What kind of night is tonight? Can I see my beloved?”

[Trivia] I provided a very loose translation of what Gavin says, which is: 绸缪束薪, 三星在天, 今夕何夕, 见此良人.

It’s part of a poem from 诗经 (”shi jing” - “the book of songs”)

There are split views on what this poem means, but many scholars believe this poem celebrates a wedding, where both parties are teasing each other in the bridal chamber.

MC: !

I hurriedly set down the book, and realise Gavin is slowly reciting the poem on the page I accidentally flipped open.

MC: ...if you know the meaning of it, then read it to somebody else.

Gavin leans against the window, his eyes shifting from the book to me.

The night is beautiful, and the galaxy seems to be within reach.

Gavin: Of course I do. But you moved too quickly, and I didn’t get to see the next line. What is the next line?

He has a serious expression on his face, as though he genuinely wants to know what the next line is, and nothing more.

It was just a random poetry collection I had read when I was bored. To think the wind would blow the pages to this particular one...

This is a poem written for a lover. And I’ve never read it to anyone before.

A corner of my heart feels a slight tug. I don’t dare to look at Gavin’s face. With my eyes lowered, I recite softly--

MC: "I want to ask you - how does one kiss this beloved person?”

[Trivia] This is very loose translation of what MC says, which is: 子兮子兮，如此良人何?

As mentioned earlier, this poem is meant to convey the warm, sweet love between newlyweds.

I feel a sudden, gentle touch on my forehead. Widening my eyes, I lift my head and watch as Gavin takes the book and looks at me with a bright smile.

Gavin: Your wish - I have heard it clearly. Wait for me.

It has been several days since Gavin left.

I heard that an oracle spoke to the elder of the temple one night, and he released me.

As such, I am no longer locked up in the temple, and only have to make blessings at the temple from time to time.

But one thing has been out of the ordinary.

MC: No way, I just wanted to plant some flowers. Why did I dig out gold?

Weakly, I pick up the gold piece. This has happened numerous times.

Ever since Gavin and I parted, I tend to meet with “good luck”.

While I’m looking at the gold piece in distress, I hear a commotion from afar.

??: The flood has subsided! The flood has subsided!

The elderly woman from next door is walking back from the field, her face filled with unparalleled joy.

MC: Granny Tian, what happened?

Granny Tian: MC, the flood has subsided!

MC: What?!

Granny Tian: It must be the protection from the gods. Last night, a gigantic rock suddenly fell from the South Mountain, forcing the river to change course. Because of this, the flood is gone!

MC: South Mountain... the river changing course... could it be Gavin?

Granny Tian: What? Who’s Gavin?

I immediately find an excuse as a cover.

Not long after, the village hosted a grand festival to commemorate the resolution of the flood.

I walk into the crowd wearing a white curtain hat, and I can see joyful faces and blooming fresh flowers.

The weather is fine, and dandelion flowers are floating in the wind.

On the altar of the temple, the elders have completed the sacrificial ceremony. A few young women wearing curtain hats are rushing to the altar. After placing all kinds of personal items on it, they pray devoutly.

This is a very ancient custom. It is said that on this day of the festival, the gods will hear the voices from mortals.

Which is why females like praying to the gods on this day in hopes of obtaining their beloved.

Young lady: With blessings from the gods, may I meet the husband I am longing for...

After observing for a while on a lower platform, I’m just about to turn around and leave when a young lady calls out to me from the altar.

Young lady: Sister MC! You’re from the temple, so your prayers will definitely be effective. This is a rare festival - why not give it a try as well?

MC: I...

Although I initially want to refuse, the encouragement from the women nearby leaves me no choice but to step up to the altar in resignation.

I place the shattered jade ring on the altar, close my eyes, and make a pious prayer.

MC: May my homeland experience good weather from now onwards, and may my loved ones be together. May... my beloved person live a safe and smooth, worry-free life.

Suddenly, a faraway wind courses past, stirring my heart.

The wind pauses before me, then envelops me, lifting me up gently.

A huge, golden coloured mark appears in the air. This time, I can see the pattern clearly.

It’s a Qilin, surrounded by auspicious clouds.

At some point in time, Gavin has appeared in the air, his white clothes making a rustling sound, like a god descending from the heavens.

The young women standing near the altar look towards Gavin, utterly flabbergasted. Then, they hastily kneel on the ground, trembling while asking with excitement.

Young lady: Great god, have you graced our mortal realm after hearing our calls?

Gavin’s eyebrows arch upwards, and his lips curl into a smile.

Gavin: I am not a god. And I didn’t come because I heard a call.

His clothes drift in the air, his hair ornament reflecting a brilliant light.

Gavin: I hurried across the mountains and rivers over a thousand miles, just for one person.

Flowers fall out of my basket, scattering all around.

I fall into Gavin’s embrace. He holds onto me firmly, and I am encased by his clean and cool breath, which brings with it an ancient wind from the mountains.

My curtain hat is blown up by the wind. I frantically reach out for it. When I turn my head, I see Gavin’s smile.

Gavin: The flood has been resolved. Your mission is completed.

I nod my head nervously. Gavin sees this and lets out a laugh.

Gavin: Do you still remember the wish you made that night?

I look into Gavin’s charming eyes, my heart beating like a drum.

MC: I remember. I want to see the views you see, and experience the world you experience. I want... to be by your side.

I once thought my life’s desire was to find the Qilin.

But when I was about to give up, he suddenly fell into my life, carrying the light-filled sky.

At that moment, I was certain that he was a legend belonging only to me.

Gavin stares at me. He suddenly laughs, tapping my forehead gently.

In that instant, golden light weaves around. The auspicious clouds gather, and all the flowers bloom.

Dandelion petals dance in the air. The auspicious clouds accumulate under our feet, and the sound of wind chimes drift from somewhere.

Gavin’s voice dissipates in the air, drifting towards the people on the ground.

Gavin: I helped your village resolve the flood. In return, I will take the most beautiful lady on the altar.

The wind surrounding us causes flower petals to swirl in the air. When the flowers fall and the wind has scattered, two people have vanished from the sky.

A very long time later, a beautiful legend arose in this land.

Legend says that on this big altar, a young lady’s devout prayer drew a god who rode the wind.

The god took the young lady away. In exchange, the land received many years of peace.

Nobody knows what happened to the god and the young lady after that.

But dandelions bloomed and filled the entire mountain.

- End -

...did the dandelions end up outside a certain grandmother’s house in Gavin’s Old Haunt Date? 👀

Phone call: First // Second

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc gavin

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mountainpoem · 4 years ago

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Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

1 Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road. The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.) 2 You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe that much unseen is also here. Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial, The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied; The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town, They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted, None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me. 3 You air that serves me with breath to speak! You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape! You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides! I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me. You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships! You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs! You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! You doors and ascending steps! you arches! You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me, From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me. 4 The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me? Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost? Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me? O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, You express me better than I can express myself, You shall be more to me than my poem. I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also, I think I could stop here myself and do miracles, I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me, I think whoever I see must be happy. 5 From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. I inhale great draughts of space, The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine. I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness. All seems beautiful to me, I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you, I will recruit for myself and you as I go, I will scatter myself among men and women as I go, I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them, Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me, Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me. 6 Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me, Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not astonish me. Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth. Here a great personal deed has room, (Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men, Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.) Here is the test of wisdom, Wisdom is not finally tested in schools, Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof, Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content, Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things; Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul. Now I re-examine philosophies and religions, They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents. Here is realization, Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him, The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. Only the kernel of every object nourishes; Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me? Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me? Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos; Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers? Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls? 7 Here is the efflux of the soul, The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions, These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they? Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank? Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me? (I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;) What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers? What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side? What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause? What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what gives them to be free to mine? 8 The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness, I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times, Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged. Here rises the fluid and attaching character, The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman, (The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.) Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old, From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments, Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact. 9 Allons! whoever you are come travel with me! Traveling with me you find what never tires. The earth never tires, The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first, Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d, I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. Allons! we must not stop here, However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here, However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here, However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while. 10 Allons! the inducements shall be greater, We will sail pathless and wild seas, We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail. Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements, Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity; Allons! from all formules! From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests. The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer. Allons! yet take warning! He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance, None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health, Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself, Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies, No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here. (I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes, We convince by our presence.) 11 Listen! I will be honest with you, I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes, These are the days that must happen to you: You shall not heap up what is call’d riches, You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart, You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you, What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting, You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you. 12 Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them! They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women, Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas, Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land, Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings, Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers, Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore, Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children, Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins, Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it, Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases, Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days, Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood, Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content, Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood, Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death. 13 Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless, To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to, Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys, To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it, To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you, To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither, To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it, To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens, To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through, To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go, To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts, To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you, To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls. All parts away for the progress of souls, All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe. Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance. Forever alive, forever forward, Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied, Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men, They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go, But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great. Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth! You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you. Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen! It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it. Behold through you as bad as the rest, Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people, Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces, Behold a secret silent loathing and despair. No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession, Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes, Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors, In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly, Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere, Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones, Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers, Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself, Speaking of any thing else but never of itself. 14 Allons! through struggles and wars! The goal that was named cannot be countermanded. Have the past struggles succeeded? What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature? Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary. My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion, He going with me must go well arm’d, He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions. 15 Allons! the road is before us! It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d! Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d! Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d! Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher! Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law. Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

#song of the open road #walt whitman #poem #poetry #travel #freedom #free #love #beauty #go

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jjyusmile · 5 years ago

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a thousand days | the boyz

word count: 1,063

notes: happy 1000 days with the boyz! i wanted to give something that shows my appreciation for everything that they have done for me (in the last year and a half) and for all deobis since debut. we can all agree that tbz deserve everything they have achieved and more ... i hope y’all have a lovely day <333

__________________________________

it had been a thousand days since the peace began. the first morning of spring began with a blinding sheet of white as the kingdom awoke brightly with a morning glow. an orange hue glistened against the spring snow reflecting against the aged stone of the castle; the aura of the burn from the sun held a power strong enough to ward off any enemy that came its way.

at the highest point of the castle laid the blossom chamber at the tallest turret of the kingdom. the room was brightly lit through beads of radiance that shone through the stain glass windows decorating the rounded walls. the turret walls were adorned lavishly with velvet ivy along the walls and spiralled up the pillars that held the structure of the brightly lit chamber. the room was filled with colourful flowers, each petal representing the life of a civilian that the crown princes swore to protect. from the beginning, the flowers were delicately cared for by the representatives with the upmost preservation.

before the peace, the turret stored weaponry. it is difficult to imagine how a chamber filled with radiance and admiration was used prior for destruction and ruin. what was once seen as mere holes in the fortification used to fight off any evil was replaced with panels of stain glass windows carefully decorated to commemorate the honour of each crown prince and their legacy. twelve windows allowed the sun to shine a light upon the future of the kingdom each day. in the hours of darkness, although each window was invisible to the naked eye, each glistened silently awaiting the morning sun to rise again.

at the center of the blossom chamber laid a pool of water flowed calmly under a hypnotically mystical current. as the water swirled mimicking a whirlpool, an array of devoted lotuses and water lilies floated harmoniously along the surface. the movement of water continuously whirled if the peace is maintained in the kingdom. a ray of light shone through the surface from a mystic source from the ceiling. it might appear out of the ordinary, yet to the crown princes, this light was the source of the future. the protection of the kingdom depended on it.

surrounding the pool were twelve thrones sat side by side. each beautified with blooming flowers that shimmered as the sunrise glowed against their delicate petals. these thrones were vital to the kingdom as their presence intends to maintain the peace. each throne graced a flower specific to each crown prince.

each morning, the moment the sun beams through the north window, each crown prince would enter the blossom chamber to take his place at his assigned throne. yet, today is no ordinary occasion. a celebration was in order to commemorate a thousand days of peace in the kingdom.

on this very dawn, the last to enter the chamber is the eldest of the crown princes, sangyeon; atop the eldest’s head garnished a crown decorated with his representative flower, the dahlia. rosy pink petals graced his forehead in a stark contrast to his auburn locks. a glow glimmered against his honey skin as he stepped into the sunlight as he held his head high in grace and honour. like his fellow princes, the eldest was donned in a loosely fitted gown that overflowed with petals of his respective flower.

the crown princes are the most influential individuals in the kingdom. each civilian admires the leaders for their courage, their knowledge and their authority. the role of the crown princes is simple - it is vital for each prince to preserve their representative flower to ensure the kingdom is safeguarded, always. as long as the petals continue to blossom each spring, the year ahead is to be full of contentment and healthiness.

on either side of the eldest surrounding the whirl pool were his deputies, each with a specific aspect of life to protect. often ordered by maturity, you found his eldest representatives, jacob and younghoon, who were embroidered with lilac roses and petunias. to their left was hyungjae, graced in white peonies, who chatted with the blue orchid prince, juyeon, and kevin whose throne was covered in fair gerbera daisies.

by the south window overlooking the kingdom were chanhee, keeper of cherry blossom and changmin, the violet tulip prince. last to take their seats were the youngest of the representatives; these four princes, like the others, graced flower crowns of their representative flower... haknyeon’s forehead radiated with fragrant jasmine petals. hyunjoon’s soft skin blushed against the dusty hibiscus flower atop his head. the prince with a flower that echoed his own name was sunwoo with the vibrant sunflowers in a chain placed on his head. lastly, the youngest, who sat assertively beside the eldest, was eric, who positioned a ring of forget me nots upon his forehead.

the twelve princes faced inward toward the water with assertive grace. despite the battles these men faced before the peace, their aura radiated fiercely with remarkable power and authority. as they took their thrones to begin their thousandth day in command, the excitement echoed throughout the chamber. do not mistake this excitement with ease… the path these princes had taken should never be taken lightly. many battles were fought to grace the thrones that they hold today.

as each prince takes his respective throne around the glistening pool, its significance remains vital to the foreseeable future of the kingdom. as the light that radiated through the windows sparkled against the surface of the water, the princes could see the reflections of their civilians. the positive energy that diffused from the reflections were absorbed by the petals that lay upon the surface. since the first day of peace, the princes oversaw the lives of their civilians; they shielded them from harm, they cherished their dreams and they overwhelmed them with adoring love and support to ensure their happiness remained.

since the start, the crown princes protected their kingdom to indemnify the loss that befell before the peace. it had been a thousand days since they swore an oath and since that day, their kingdom has admired them generously. as the light chatter dimmed amongst the leaders, the eldest stood from his throne and spoke the first words of the season with a gracious smile...

“the long winter has passed... come to me with the spring of yours...”

#tbznetwork #the boyz #the boyz short story #1000 days with the boyz #tbz #deobi #deobi writer #the boyz au #the boyz story #the boyz fiction #tbz fiction #deobiwritersnet

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if-weshadows-haveoffended · 5 years ago

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Harana - Padawan!Obi-Wan x Reader

A/N: Man I really sat on this wip for 3 whole ass years. OBI-WAN AND INFINITE SADNESS? I DON’T KNOW HER. I ONLY KNOW TEA AND MIST DIFFUSERS. There are some sneaky references to Casablanca in here and a section of Anne of Avonlea.

Harana in the rural Filipino tradition is the act of courtship by serenading (with guitar) and often has the serenadee to respond back in kind (also with guitar). Often your bros would help you woo a girl by being your back up players and singers. Imagine Romeo and Juliet balcony but with significantly more guitars and second-hand embarrassment. Also the wookiepedia entry on music is absolutely WILD. (Reposting bc tumblr hates me and the tags were broken)

Title: Harana Tags: @fangirltothe-end , @hellotherekenobi Words: 1650+ Masterpost: here (x) Prompt List: here (x) Mixtape Archive: here (x) The Obi-Wan Kenobae playlist (x)

Perhaps you’d foolishly consider yourself a hopeless romantic.

It just seemed one of those days: sunny and the breeze just a touch warm, the scent of Ithorian roses and Sachi blossoms drifting upon it as you spent a day idly reading upon the balcony of your apartment. Somehow it was as if nothing could go wrong. Not spilling your tea all over the counter, not making your bath far, far too warm, hells not even the dozens of unopened messages on your comm could ruin the quiet serenity you were feeling.

And you may as well enjoy it after all, this reprieve from the tedium of study would only last for a few more days. You’d spent enough time watching holo-movies and idly playing music upon your old guitar as it was. It was time to finally work through that pile of reading you had always intended to get to.

The sun was slowly descending beyond the rolling hills at the horizon and you were well into your bookchip now. A story you felt viscerally, had read and re-read so many times and yet you yearned and pined and loved alongside the protagonists of the story. You would always smile, feeling your soul alight as your eyes traced the words upon the screen. Perhaps that explosive, violent love was never for you. The ones they showed in holodramas where the lovers would dramatically meet at the docking bay for one last passionate kiss. A confession and a farewell all at once. No, you ached for something quieter. Something as constant and warm as sunlight.

‘Perhaps, after all,’ you read, ‘romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a Jedi knight flying down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music; perhaps… perhaps… love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship- ’

You were suddenly pulled out of your reverie at the sound of footsteps and the murmur of a voice.

“Who’s there?” Your hands gripped at a small blaster in the folds of your dress in reaction to the sudden sound, eyes frantically scanning the deceptively serene balcony. Datapad in hand, you slowly made your way to the wide stone ledge. Carefully brushing off fallen blush-coloured petals you precariously leaned over, checking for any assailants below the ledge. Granted it was a stupid idea, but it was worth a shot anyway.

What you hadn’t been expecting was a young man sitting on a balcony ledge below, quietly singing to himself as he stared out into the far distance.

Kriff abort mission, no, nooooooo….nah... nope can’t do this.

You really couldn’t, he looked far too peaceful with one leg tucked under his arm, the other lazily over-hanging his ledge as half-lidded crystal eyes stared out to the peaceful idyll of distant lakes and hills. And yet, you were still there, half-falling off your ledge and staring at this boy as if you’d been ordered to memorise his appearance in order to assassinate him in the marketplace tomorrow. But something tugged at the back of your mind as you took in his relaxed robes in a sort of cream colour, the brown cloak discarded carelessly upon the balcony floor and what appeared to be a braid peeking out from behind his ear-

Oh no, oh kriff… oh kriff, kriff.

You were unaware that the Jedi were even allowed to sing. You’d always been taught that they were a hermit-y sort that didn’t do the whole singing-and-dancing-and-women-and-drink-and-wine-and-merriment sort of thing. Probably spent their free time herding shaak and the like.

But clearly you were very, very wrong.

He was a wonderful singer. His voice carrying the romantic yet mournful tune that you must have heard somewhere before. Was it a play? No, it must have been one of those sweeping holo-movies that always seemed to make every being in the room cry as the battered cantina owner lamented the return of his lost love. What was it? He’d refused to have that song played ever again? And yet he did, drinking whiskey, a single tear falling down his noble features. They’d always have Correlia, he’d say, assuring himself that he truly was fine and not crumbling apart within.

And that young man was still singing the tune, and you… you were simply transfixed at his beauty and his serenity, wondering what other power in the galaxy had blessed him so with coppery hair that glistened just so under the blaze of the setting sun.

“Hello there!” He turned suddenly and cheerfully waved to you.

There were many things you would tell people in the future about that time you first encountered the famous General Kenobi; “The Negotiator”. His kindness, his laughter, his smile…What you wouldn’t tell them, was the absolute mess you’d made of yourself while you fell off your balcony ledge and onto your tiled floor.

Like a complete and absolute ass.

Oh and your pad had tumbled off the marbled edge and cluttered upon the tiles of the Jedi’s balcony.

But it was alright with the coppery-haired piece of shit, apparently. He was profusely apologising and bounding up with his magical force powers to stand upon the narrow ledge on the other side of the stone balustrade.

“Are you alright?” He tilted his head in confusion, padawan braid swinging against his chest. You felt your mouth open and close, but you doubted anything escaped. “It appears your pad has smashed itself into smithereens.”

“I-I,”

“You can speak Basic, can’t you? If not, I can translate into-” He offered very quickly,

“No, of course I can speak Basic, I was just…” Gingerly, you prised yourself off the floor, dusting down rumpled skirts and staring at the odd Jedi. “You’re a wonderful singer,” you blurted.

“Well thank you,” He replied, a little flustered, a hand moving to fiddle with his cute little nerf tail.

Cute. Cute? Kriff, you’d only been talking to the boy for the last thirty seconds. Surely this was a new record.

“I didn’t know Jedi sang,” You rambled on and you simply knew that heat would be pooling up in your face for the boy to see-

Oh no, it was fine, he was turning a rather charming shade of pink too. It only seemed to get worse, didn’t it? Oh of course, of course he was cursed with dimples. You really should have just cut your losses and fled.

He laughed, swinging a leg over your balustrade and sitting upon it. “Oh we sing sometimes, my master says it drives him up the walls. But I am sorry, I’ve been terribly impolite. I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan learner.” He held out a hand and you took it, shaking it as well as you could given your dazed circumstances. You were pretty sure, however, that you at least managed to give him your name.

“Well, Y/N, however can I make this up to you?” He gestured to the mangled, metallic remains below. “It is more or less my fault and-”

He still had not let go of your hand, and despite all common sense, you found no reason to let go. How could you? Obi-Wan (you had the sneaking suspicion it would roll off your tongue) continued rambling and you merely stepped away, your hand fighting to remain in his until you were too far, finger tips brushing against a calloused palm.

“Wait here,” You said, placating the concerned look that had passed before his face. Your feet traced the path through your room, eyes frantically scanning for the sight of warm Kashyyk wood before hefting it into your hands and quickly returning to the waiting Jedi. You noticed with some amusement that he’d balled his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “That pad was old anyway,”

He raised a sceptical brow, “Your face certainly said otherwise,”

“It doesn’t really matter. I’d read that story enough times to recite it in my sleep.” Heart pounding in your chest you mustered the courage to sit beside him, transferring the guitar to his awaiting arms. “Do you play?”

“A little. It was an elective.” He responded, “I’m sure it’s nowhere near as good as you,”

“Flatterer.” You briefly met his gaze, transfixed by their colour. Like a lake mirroring a cloudless sky. And you knew that you were lost. “Well, I’ve been starved for someone else to play with.”

“Have you now?” His teasing was going to be the death of you.

“Yes, now go and be all chivalrous and play something wonderful.”

“Any particular requests?” He asked, focused upon adjusting his hands upon the frets, fingers outlining the ghosts of chords. “Well?” He found your eyes once again, the answer slipping from your tongue faster than you could have ever expected.

It didn’t matter in that moment that a bemused Jedi Knight sat a floor below, basking in the comfort of the living force and the gentle sound of singing above him. It didn’t matter that he should really be bundling that boy off into their ship and off to debrief a council that would be mildly irritated at his choice to delay their return by a day or two.

All you knew- all you were consumed by- was the feeling of your fingers sliding their way along metal strings to familiar positions, passing a well-loved instrument back and forth and exchanging laughs as you missed notes. And if your hands lingered for too long upon his as you performed yet another exchange, you didn’t care.

No, all that mattered in the universe right now was the sound of your voices carrying the half-remembered tune of a song you both loved. And perhaps, just perhaps, this was that shaft of illumination you had hoped for.

#obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan imagine #star wars x reader #star wars imagines #prequel trilogy #ewan mcgregor

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dontshootmespence · 6 years ago

Text

The Perfect Storm

Summary: Both brought up in strict, religious households, Sam Winchester and Y/N have to fight their biology to remain celibate and pious - if only to please their respective families. When the right set of circumstances fall into place however, the two find they are unable to fight it - and more importantly - they don’t want to anymore.

Pairing: Alpha!Priest!Sam x Omega!Reader

Word Count: 3,341

Warnings: Breeding, knotting, biting, public sex, sex in a church.

A/N: For those of you 18 and over! This fulfills my “breeding kink” square for @spnkinkbingo. Way more lead-up than smut. Whoops? Just how I roll, I guess.

Sunlight streamed through the windows of the town’s church, casting the flock in light; the light of God and the light that diffused the darkness. The church’s youngest priest, Sam Winchester, knew all about hard-fought battles in the darkness.

“Darkness is all around us,” he spoke, his voice wavering slightly with each word. He gripped the ruddy oak pulpit with an iron grasp, steadying himself before he continued. Those around him - his fellow priests, his apathetic father sitting in the pews - they would recognize Sam’s falter as an overabundance of emotion; steadfastly pious, he spoke with passion, having overcome the darkness of his own body. “Darkness comes in many forms, not the least of which is deep-seated in the biology of human life.”

Clearing his throat, Sam glanced down at his notes before returning his gaze to the flock before him. “In the Second Book of Samuel, David, an Alpha, lingered and watched Bathsheba, an Omega claimed by Uriah. It was after this that he entertained his lustful thoughts, which led him to commit two contemptible sins of the flesh - adultery with Bathsheba and the murder of her Alpha, Uriah. However, in the Book of Genesis, a servant named Joseph was left in charge of his master - Potiphar’s - house. When Potiphar’s wife, an Omega in heat, continually invited Joseph into her bed, he declined, and when he felt he could decline no longer, when the temptation became too much, he fled his master’s home so as to not commit a sin of the flesh. Had David acted as Joseph had, he would have been among God’s chosen people. We are among his chosen,” he said, pointing toward various members of the flock. Each word filled the flock with a growing sense of pride. “Every time we are confronted with the desire to sin, whether it be a sin of the flesh or something else entirely, we flee. Flee and keep the faith that God is with us in everything we do. Our biology does not determine that we must sin, but we must be ever vigilant so as to not succumb to the temptations around us. As long as we have faith and keep watchful, we will ascend to God’s kingdom. Peace be with you all.”

“And also with you,” the flock returned.

-----

A sharp smack to the back of the head brought the young boy’s eyes back toward the front of the church. “You will keep your eyes on the lecturn,” his father spat softly. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes.” A glare straightened him up further. “Yes, Sir.”

With contempt, Sam stared forward, eyes searching the boring old church for something to focus on instead. Unfortunately, nothing was as interesting as the lecturn, clean and unblemished - pristine - how his Beta father insisted he be. Easy for him to say. Betas didn’t have those urges. He hadn’t presented yet, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t an Alpha. Sam knew it in his bones. Words flew in one ear and out the other as he tried desperately to stay alert.

Before the priest had finished his homily, a pungent aroma slunk through the church. The scent of bitter coffee made Sam sigh in delight and as he inhaled, it ended off with a light bit of orange blossoms. Something about it stuck with him, lingered as the service went on, concluding just in time for Sam to run outside the church doors and into the fresh, cool air outside. It was overwhelming and the church had grown hotter and hotter until it was nearly unbearable.

“What is your problem?” His father asked, smacking Sam in the back of the head when he left the service. Touching his skin, he could feel it; his worst nightmare. “Are you able to smell more deeply? Hear better? Sore throat?” Sam swallowed hard as he felt himself swell under the material of his pants. He was an alpha. “Yes.”

Heat prickled his skin like a fire when his father grabbed his arm, yanking him toward the car to get him home.

“Ow, Dad, stop!” Sam exclaimed as he was thrown into the car. Why did that hurt? That shouldn’t have hurt. “What’s your problem?”

Drawing stares from other members of the flock, his father glared his way. “Disappointment.”

The ride home was torture. Everything felt amplified. Skin fiery, nerves on end, the smallest sound of his clothing rubbing against the material of the car playing as loudly as a marching band. He couldn’t shake the scent he’d caught in church. “What am I supposed to do?” Sam asked. He’d heard about Alpha ruts, but no one had ever taught him about them.

Finally at home, his father yanked him inside, taken aback when Sam growled and pushed him away. The short bit of bravado was short-lived as he felt a palm crack across his face so hard he got knocked to the floor. “No son of mine is going to be acting like a sex-crazed animal,” he spat, pulling him up from the floor and dragging him down the hallway with more force than Sam had ever experienced.

“Dad! Dad, stop!” Sam screamed. He got dragged down the hallway and into the basement toward the concrete room his father insisted he never go into. And now he knew why. This was where he was going to spend the remainder of his rut, and all the ruts to come. He yelled himself hoarse as the door closed in his face, but it was of no use. He was stuck here in agony with no Omega to bury his knot in.

Glancing out the slat in the door, Sam saw his father, steadfast and determined to break him. “Once this is over, the real training will begin. Biology be damned.”

-----

What served as her room approximately 25 days a month, now served as her prison - a 9′ x 10′ room with all the amenities of home - bucket in the corner for bathroom purposes included. Y/N swallowed the pill with a bit of water, nearly crushing the glass against her wooden nightstand as she threw the prescription bottle across the room.

“These pills are useless,” she whispered to herself.

Ever since she’d presented as a teenager, she was locked in this place for at least 2 days out of her five-day heat - a punishment her parents deemed worthy for being born a sexual being. At first, she’d welcomed the pills. Her parents told her they would get rid of her heats and she’d be able to be the godly woman He wanted her to be, but they didn’t work and she wasn’t - at least she didn’t fit the picture her parents painted.

The pills didn’t help. Breathing through the unbearable pain didn’t work. Nothing stopped the fire spreading through her veins. Nothing helped except relieving the tension that caused it all. But every time she did, she lived in fear of her family. What would they do to her if they caught her touching herself? What would God say? But why would God make her this way if she wasn’t meant to do what she was about to do?

As she rubbed her thighs together in futility, she cursed the God that made her this way and placed her hand flat against her stomach, inching down slowly until she was teasing at the waistband of the plain cotton panties she was forced to wear. She’d barely ghosted her hand over her flesh, but she could already feel the relief.

“Forgive me Father,” she whispered as she dipped one finger in between her soaking folds. One finger turned into two and two to three more quickly than she wanted to admit, but each addition released the pressure building within her more and more and all she wanted was sweet relief. To find her Alpha, the one she was meant for, was what she truly wanted, but her family was going to ensure that never happened.

A minuscule moan left her lips and she bit her tongue, not wanting to give herself away. But she couldn’t help it. She fucked herself with her fingers, harder and harder until she had to turn her face into the pillow to keep from crying out. Her face turned heated with the overwhelming tornado of pressure and relief and embarrassment. The squelching sounds that emanated from between her legs felt so loud. Whether it was or her heightened senses were making it seem that way it didn’t matter. She was so close to feeling a modicum of relief and then she heard it. The slamming on the door, the rustling of the key in the lock.

“God help me.”

-----

Glancing in the mirror that morning, Y/N slipped the last of the concealer over the bruise that had bloomed near the corner of her eye, walking downstairs to meet her parents for their usual Sunday journey to church.

As her father slipped his hand around the back of her neck, it felt different than their typical Sunday. This journey was a punishment. This journey was meant to parade her in front of her God to bear her shame.

Silence swallowed the family home on their ride to the church, her body going numb to the world around her. Mind racing with competing thoughts. God made her this way, didn’t he? Was it not His “fault” she was the way she was?

In the instant the car door opened, she knew her life had changed - the scent of patchouli and freshly-cut grass flowing into her nostrils. Her heat hadn’t ended and the scent set her nerves on edge again. It was an alpha. She’d detected alphas before, but this wasn’t just any alpha, this one was hers. In her bones, she knew it to be true.

Walking inside, she took a seat in the pew between her mother and father, her eyes searching for who the scent could possibly belong to. When he stepped out on the altar, she could tell it was Father Sam.

As he spoke, her mind fogged with the scent of him, clean and strong, commanding, though his demeanor said just the opposite. She could see the struggle inside him. He wanted to let his alpha out and he was being forced to keep it inside, like her.

His lips spoke the words, but his eyes portrayed the lies, wavering as they flickered from scripture to flock. When his eyes finally fell on her, his breath hitched and everything else fell away. “Faith isn’t seen. It’s felt. Faith is having strength when we feel like we have none...Faith is hope when all seems lost.”

-----

For weeks, he’d debated not taking his blockers, but when he saw her, the softness of jasmine and rose still lingering about her body, he knew she was the one he’d been made for. He could feel it in every fiber. This sense of completeness put humanity’s feelings on alphas and betas and omegas under a magnifying glass. There was no way that this feeling could be wrong. People were wrong.

Sitting down, he picked up his pen yet again, fingers straining white against his grasp - anger and passion and a new sense and determination and purpose flowing through him. But as the pen glided across the paper, he was stopped in his tracks, that lingering scent causing his cock to strain against the confining fabric. It had been days since he’d seen her and yet he couldn’t shake her from his mind.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. “Yes?”

“Samuel.”

“Sam,” he snapped for the millionth time. He hated being called Samuel despite it being his birth name. He continued, bringing balance back to his voice. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re going to be teaching lessons on the weekend to a young woman from the flock. Her family believes she’s straying from the path.”

His mouth went dry, hoping. “What’s her name?”

-----

Conflict raged through her mind as she readied herself for her lessons. Y/N had imagined life outside her family before, but actually entertaining the idea was something else entirely. Did Sam feel the same pull to her that she did to him? Would he want to abandon the life he had? Could they do it? Were they strong enough? Every answer and no answer at all swirled through her on their way to the church. “I will be back in an hour and a half,” her father said. “Pay close attention to your lessons. You’ve been slipping and I won’t have you straying from the path.”

She replied defeatedly, not knowing what the path before her truly held, and walked inside.

The crisp scent of grass flooded back to her, hitting her like a wall as she knocked on his door. “Who is it?”

“Y/N,” she said softly. “I’m here for my lessons.”

For a moment, she feared he wouldn’t answer when he didn’t respond. Opening the door, he brought her in without a word. “I was told you’d be coming in today,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I haven’t had much time to prepare your lesson for today. I was told on short notice, but if you’d like to take a seat we can start.”

She swallowed hard and smoothed out her skirt as she sat down, subtly inhaling the muskier notes of his scent that she hadn’t caught onto before. Her heart hammered against her chest when he sat down beside her, flicking open the Bible to the passage he wanted to go over with her. A slickness formed between her legs and her cheeks reddened. “I can’t do this,” she said, standing up and backing up against the door. “My lessons need to come from someone else.”

His frail composure broke. “Why?”

“You’re an Alpha. I can smell it on you. I’m an Omega. I can’t be with you. My family won’t allow it...God won’t allow it.”

Sam approached her slowly, his skin slick with a thin veil of sweat. “Are you sure God won’t? Or is it just your family? My father too.”

When he stood flush against her, her back against the door, she reached out and combed her hand through his hair, tilting her head up to meet his lips. Sam roughly grabbed her upper thighs and lifted her up, pressing her between himself and the door. “We must keep quiet.”

A hint of a smile formed on her lips. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to abide, but she gently pulled his bottom lip between her teeth and slipped her tongue inside his mouth, breaking the last of their collective resolve. “You know there’s no coming back from this,” he said, burying his head into the crook of her neck. He wanted to take her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life, but if they crossed that line there would be no going back. “If this happens...”

“I’m yours,” she breathed.

They were both tired of fighting against themselves.

Sam locked the door and spun around with her in his grasp, placing her down on the table before kneeling on the ground and ripping her panties from her legs. Her slickness called out to him and he tongued her slit, groaning at the headiness of her. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes going glassy with need.

Y/N slipped her hands into his hair and pressed his mouth to her pussy, closing her legs tighter around him. As his tongue slipped inside her, his fingers assaulted her clit, the pressure more intense and more fulfilling than anything she had been able to give herself. “Sam, please,” she choked out softly. “I need to come. I need you to make me come.”

Groaning into her sex, Sam pressed himself tighter against her, unable to get close enough, to get a good enough taste of all that she was. While he licked at every inch of her, she writhed and bucked against his face, her breath hitching with every swipe of his tongue. She reached underneath her baggy cotton shirt and bra, pinching her nipples as she came undone and shook against the desk.

Sam growled into her when she came and stood up, her slickness still on his lips. “You need an Alpha?”

“No, I need you, Alpha.”

His eyes went dark and he reached down to grab the hem of her shirt and pull it and her bra up and over her head before pulling a nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the needy bud.

“I need you.” She’d never known a need this bone-deep before.

“You want me to fuck you full of pups?” He growled against her ear, the vibrations traveling down each inch of her skin and toward her pussy.

Y/N’s skin prickled with fire as she reached out and pulled his cock free. “Please,” she said in a choked whisper. “Please fuck me full. I want it. I need it.”

As he placed the head of his cock at her entrance, teasing her folds and the slickness that had gathered there, he nipped at her collarbone with increasing intensity. Skin slick with sweat, she grasped his head and held him against her, begging for the sweet assault of his mouth.

When he finally slide inside her, he had to cover her mouth to keep her from screaming. He bit his own lip so hard he drew blood, the copper taste driving him even more mad with lust. “I’m gonna make you round with my pups, Y/N,” he breathed heavily, thrusting into her with a force that scared him - a force that he’d never been allowed to unleash before and was petrified he would never be able to reign in.

With each thrust of his cock, she cried out into his hand and clenched her fingers around the bulging muscles of his upper arms, fingernails tearing into his skin. “Come inside me,” she begged. Sam pinned her down to the table, his knot beginning to swell inside her and all she could think of was being with him a million miles away, fucking and living and existing.

Her back arched against the table and she grasped at the corners of the table for an anchor, something to keep her grounded as her mind was spinning. “Let go,” he said, bending down to clasp her nipple between his teeth. “Don’t think. Just be.”

As she began to shake, his knot filled her walls and he buried himself inside her to the hilt. His come spilled into her, hot and fulfilling in a way she never knew she needed until right this minute. Sitting up, she pulled his mouth to hers and begged him to never let go - a promise he made without hesitation.

Minds foggy, they remained connected, fevered kisses turning more soft and hopeful until he removed his cock from her, watching as his seed dripped from her lips. With two fingers, she pushed his come back into her, the image of his pups in her belly making her shiver. She already felt the loss of him inside her. Now that she’d been with him, anything else felt wrong. “How will we leave?”

“Pack bags and I’ll drive by tonight. We’ll drive and drive and drive until we can’t anymore and then it’ll just be you and me.”

“My family will come after me...”

“They’ll have to come through me,” he snarled. “My father will have to come through me. Anyone touches you and they’ll lose an arm.”

Minutes ticked by and their plan came together. They’d need certain things to get by at first - some clothing, a bit of money - just enough until they could get settled into a new life, but they new more than anything that this is what they were meant to do. If God truly existed, he wanted them together, they were sure of it.

@heycasbutt @veroinnumera @stusbunker @emilyshurley

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #alpha!sam fanfiction #alpha!sam #alpha!sam x omega!reader #alpha!sam x omega!you #alpha!sam x omega!y/n #dontshootmespence #the perfect storm

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