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jawllines · 4 years

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“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing.

Harry and Y/N are witches, they hate each other, and something’s coming

19K+ words

(A/N: Hiii!! So, I’ll be honest I know absolutely nothing about real witches at all, so what is in this story is not fact! it’s just an AU and doesn’t speak toward any of my real witches out there unless i accidentally got some things right. Happy reading, I really liked writing these guys I hope you like them just as much!!)

It was dark.

Both in the state of the sky and the feeling that slithered through Y/N’s body while she tended to the Brugmansia finally flowering in her garden. The shift in the air could have easily been inculpated by the cool breeze that blew past her face, shepherding clouds thick and heavy with autumn rain, but Y/N knew better than that. Those feelings typically bring her peace; the rattle of thunder soothes her aching bones while fat drops paint the pavement, wet the dirt to mud, and feed the drying grass.

This feeling made her bones rattle. It crawled beneath her skin like billions of tiny beetles unearthed within her vessels; her stomach churned, her shoulders were weighed down, there was a gnawing pain at her temples, so fierce she held her hand to them. The cold brass of her ring cools her heated skin. This feeling was vile, it was awful, for fuck sake what was causing it?

She stood from her crouched position and slid back into her store. Technically, she’d closed about three hours prior so she should have been home well by now, but when she’d finally gathered her things in her duffle at 12, she looked out the back window and noticed some of her moonflowers had begun to bloom. There was a small part of her that had been reluctant to step outside at all, but she needed to greet them and water them, no matter the odd, unfamiliar troubling sense that had initially confused her. She ignored it -- she thought maybe she was just nervous to say hi to them, sometimes she was.

(Flowers and plants hold a special connection with their caretaker, from a tiny seed to a flourishing garden, they place their lives in the care of the earth or a human. If not properly nursed, their wilted petals appear so quickly, a silent plea for water, or sun, or even a little attention -- Y/N found that plants liked a little attention. That’s why she spoke to them, she cooed and gave them well-wishes when she left them alone. They felt just a part of her family as any blood relative had, from the moment she had sliced the tip of her finger in a torn brush and the petal she’d touched afterward fused together her tiny wound. Her nan had always told her that maybe she was a bit closer to plants than others were, so she probably shouldn’t share this with kids in her class because they might be jealous of her (Y/N knows now her nan just didn’t want her getting picked on.)

It was clear to her now that this feeling was a bit more than that when her goose pimples sunk back into her skin after stepping into the warmth of her store. Though it was not just because she had been keeping her shop pleasantly warm as the nights grow colder and longer; she kept herself protected in here. In between these walls lied a sanctitude that kept all evil out, in all manners, of all species, besides two.

One of which is her bunny, Thumper, who in all ways but emotionally was her familiar. He was a ghostly white Holland lop, with big dopey ears that she slid her fingers beneath and flipped up and down in spare moments. She accuses him of being evil because he’s always nipping at her fingertips, demanding food with a stomp of his foot, and gives the silent threat that he’ll nibble on her plants if she really pisses him off (he stands by them, twitches his little nose and shows his two front teeth until she gives him what he wants -- it’s usually more hay). He’s nothing but a little, greedy nuisance that showed up on her step one day and hadn’t left since.

The other. . .well, the other was Harry Styles.

Y/N liked most witches, no matter their point of interest. She knew that there could be a certain level of distrust amongst the syndicate -- hexes, and curses placed upon one another, but she tried to stay out of that -- she held no disfavor toward most of the others either. Everyone connected with things very differently, what she may connect with might not be that of what her neighbor connected with and that was okay. Her nan’s emotions had been in accord with the sea, and even though Y/N spent most of her life fearing water, she bore no judgment.

What she does is done in the mind of good favor, of bettering oneself with the world around them in a way that would beneficial to not only them but the people in their lives. Open up otherwise closed eyes to the beauty of the spirit and soul they possess, and the beauty and soul that the world around them held. The town she had moved to at 20 was so rich in natural beauty, ponderosa pine and hemlock trees grew tall in an extensive, juniper green forest almost always clouded with thick fog, the soil was soft and fertile, the air was crisp and clean. She felt happy here and wanted the others around her to recognize how lucky they were to be in an area so free of sordidity.

There was an empty shop up the brick road of the older part of town, that had been crowded in cobwebs, leaves that had blown in from the broken window, and animal droppings. Her nan came to help her clean it up (her mum had too, but she was dog tired after her workweek so spent most of the visit asleep on Y/N’s couch), and did something short of absolving the land so that she could grow a garden behind the store, in the clearing of 200 or so meters before it meets the mouth of the forest. She sold herbs, people came to her for intricate, meaningful bouquets with flowers that could not be found in just any store (and she was good to her plants, so if she asked very kindly, and sent them with a packet that produced a very special brew when dumped in the water, they would live very, very, suspiciously long), plants that would liberate people of their aches and pains so long as they tended to them, journals of reused paper, scrubs, oils. . .there were many things. She offered classes too, to help people learn how to better cater to their flowers.

That had been a year ago, so she was still finding her footing, but not six months into this happy reality she had created for herself, Harry Styles had come to town. It took nothing but a few minutes of coming to contact with him that he was a bad apple, and when the once sweet-tempered town had begun mottling with dark splotches, she knew for sure. Harry was like her, but his book of shadows had pages filled with wicked words of revenge, conjuring demons and letting them wreak havoc. His business was more under the cuff -- he posed as a writer who needed a scenery change for his work, but Y/N knew it had to be more than that -- but he did his bidding in the night, seeding through clubs, in alleyways, in the forest. . .if someone knew about Harry, it was because they knew a guy who knows a guy.

And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, he refused to leave her be.

This is why it almost makes sense that the bell of her store would jingle brightly no matter the fact she’d locked the doors hours ago, and her attention would be brought to the pest himself. He wore a sweater that threatened to swallow him whole, and baggy, holey jeans he rolled at the cuff showing off his bat printed socks, stuffed into grandpa-Esque loafers. The necklace he always wears around his neck (a small pendant that she had never gotten close enough to make out) is sat atop of his sweater today rather than hidden beneath it as it usually is. His hair is getting longer, more unruly with his warm brown curls than it had been when she first met him -- she really hadn’t known he’d had curly hair until the more recent months when it had started growing out.

His eyes were always the same soft, crystal green that matched his character none, and a pawky smirk on his mouth as he dragged his fingers along the lavender jars placed on her shelves, “Shouldn’t you be home by now? I figure it’s past your bedtime.” He leans down like he is about to pick something up, and when Y/N peers over the counter, she sees him slide his hand beneath Thumper’s soft white belly and pull him up to his chest. That was another indicator that Harry was just no good -- he was the only human that he liked, and the little creatine didn’t even like her.

“Shouldn’t you?” She flips it, continuing to gather her things so she could head home for the night.

“You know these are my typical hours, Babe -- everyone wants to curse someone at 1 AM, there was a study done in the east end.” He pets between Thumper’s ears as he sets him down on the counter beside the cash register, before he reaches out for the wooden crafted incense burners, “Have these cheap little things been selling any?”

“Piss off,” she stuffs her phone into her purse, then flips through her things to make sure her wallet was tucked in there as well, “What do you want, Harry? I’m about to go home, if you wanted to come around to bother me you should have hours ago.”

Harry feigns a gasp like he does any time she curses, “Thought good little witches didn’t have such foul tongues?” He flicks the candle jar on her counter, an apple scent had been melting around the wick for the better half of the day, “I don’t want anything in particular, just passing through. You know you’re right in the way of the forest, don’t you? S’kinda of obnoxious when you’re trying to summon imps at the cave -- they hate the bloody “stench” of the flowers.”

“Good,” she retorts, “You shouldn’t be summoning around here anyway, this area’s off-limits.”

It was barely an agreement but still an agreement nonetheless -- if Harry left her be, she would leave him be because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted a fight, Harry could start one and he would fight dirty. All she asks him is to stay away from her store and her flat, and to keep away from certain areas of the forest where the soil was always soft -- in return, he would do his activities, sometimes he would need her flowers for different spells and she would turn a blind eye to what he was doing. She does a few gentle protection spells here and there but otherwise, he’s a free man to do as he pleases, just so long as he respects her request. He’d seemed perturbed by the conditions none -- had even chuckled and said as long as he let her keep her “pretty little flowers” he could get away with murder.

A heavy, weary sigh leaves him, “Yes, I’m well aware,” he rolled his eyes before crossing his arms on top of the counter and tucking his face in his elbow, “Gimme a moment though, it’s warm in here and I was freezing outside.” He muffles into his sweater.

Y/N had almost forgotten what she had felt prior to coming back inside, but his words bring it clearly to the forefront of her mind once more. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hearing the floorboards creak beneath her as she wondered if he’d felt it too. It couldn’t have been him -- no, he was powerful but by no means powerful enough to conjure up something like that. And she’d like to ask him, but Harry has never been someone who took her seriously -- he would just make a joke of it, probably, or tease her. It wouldn’t be worth asking.

But the feeling that she’d gotten is chewing on her memory, so she asks anyway, “Hey,” she began and the only indication that he was listening to her is the fact his fingers stopped tapping against the wood beneath them, “Did you. . .when you were outside, did you feel that?”

He picks his head up from the crevice of his arm, “You’re gonna have to be a bit more descriptive than ‘that’,” his brows are raised as he continues, “Are you talking about the new pleasant but cold breeze we’ve gained for autumn, or the gut-twisting odious one?”

Y/N looks at him impassively, “The latter, idiot.”

“Yeah, I felt it,” he ignores her insult, “What about it?”

The skin between her brows pinches, “Are you not concerned? It felt. . .bad,” she couldn’t think of a better word to describe it, “I didn’t like it at all.”

“Are you scared?” There is delight swimming in Harry’s gaze as he stands up straighter, “Don’t tell me Glinda the Good Witch herself is scared of a little frightening feeling? I thought you were tough as nails and all that, hm?”

“Never mind, forget I even brought it up,” she tried to dismiss it, as she slings her purse over her shoulder and plucks Thumper up to sit him in the cradle of her arms -- she knew better than to ask him like she might get any comfort at all from his words.

He steps up and in front of her before she could start toward the door, “Oi, listen scaredy-cat, I don’t know if you’re aware but I deal with shite like this all the time, which means I’ve got a few banishments spells up my sleeve. If it’s really something that awful, I’ll cast it back to hell, easy as that.” Harry follows close behind her as she exits the door, feeling the same shiver of fear slither through her body, “I do want to see what it wants first though.”

“Of course you do,” she utters in disappointment, “Just keep it away from my garden, please.”

“I’ll try,” he tells her just as she reaches her car before he dips into his pocket and reveals that he’d stolen a baggy of chamomile, “If I didn’t keep your precious garden safe, then I wouldn’t have anywhere to get enchanted chamomile, and it works lovely in a sleepy time tea, I’ll tell you that -- your lavender is shit though. Never puts me to sleep like it ought to.”

She pops open her car door, “Stop taking stuff from the store, or I’ll start lacing it with laxatives.”

“While you’re doing that, won’t you plant them Clathrus mushrooms? I reckon the imps would prefer them way more than the mums.” He looks serious -- not a trace of a joke laced in his features and somehow that leaves Y/N more irritated than if he were laughing at her as he spoke.

Her response is blunt, “No.”

“Listen --”

“Harry, I’m not going to plant mushrooms for the damn imps!”

. . .

When Y/N had met Harry, she was angry.

She had never been a very angry person. Seldom has someone or something truly has gotten so deeply beneath her skin that she felt the need to yell or grump about it -- mild irritation was never off the table, but true, unadulterated wrath and resentment? It was rare she ever felt the need to even make a snide comment. And that wasn’t to say she was better than anyone else, she was just mild-tempered and forbearing. . .it took a little more than a remark or two to make her angry.

But when she was angry, she was an amalgamation of vexation and fire, and there was no surer way to disrupt her peaceful demeanor than to compromise her flowers.

The day had been uneventful up to that point. It’d been a week since Harry had moved into town and Y/N was surely feeling the negativity that followed in his wake, but she was focusing on maintaining the tranquil, idyllic environment that she had around her previous. As much as she would have loved to seek him out, ready to squabble, tell him off for bringing any dark energy into such a calm place -- she had to come at it pragmatically. She and her friend Niall (who wasn’t a witch but knew about her) had both agreed that while it was aggravating, they didn’t know him. They did not understand the depth of his power, or what he was here for, nor had they understood wholly what he was capable of. Y/N had felt his presence, but Niall had confirmed it after hearing the underground chatter of a dark witch who made promises to turn glitter to gold.

She was on her way to her store. Though she was closed on weekends, she always went by to check on the flowers, water them, tell them about her day, and with her was Thumper who would be hopping around the grassy field and gnawing on the blades. It was very peaceful -- the time she spent with her plants -- so she always looked forward to it, but that day she was filled with trepidation as she parked her car. Something was off. . .not in the air, but with her flowers -- she could feel it deep in her marrow that they were in pain.

So she huffed it to the back of the store, and there she found Harry, two of her purple vervains nestled against his palm. He noticed her before she could even think to say anything, and something short of relief had flushed through him, “Oh thank fuck, you’re here,” he sighs, referencing her garden with a wave of his hands, “I cannot for the life of me remember what hazel looks like.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, stomping toward him, but instead of shoving him to the ground like she wanted to, she dropped to her knees and caressed the remaining vervain, “Why would you pluck them like that? They aren’t ready!”

“Ready? They’ve flowered haven’t they?” His brows had been tilted while his mouth dipped in a frown, “I need them for an incantation, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed these two. Aren’t we meant to help each other out?”

“You should have asked, you prick,” she pointed up at him, “And even if you had, I would have said no. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re really disturbing an otherwise pleasant place. I wish you would leave.’

Harry feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest, “You wound me,” he mocks her, “Listen Glinda Good Witch, we all gotta get by somehow, yeah? Not all of us talk to plants or whatever it is you do. So do you want me to pay or --”

“Those won’t work for whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she cut him off, “If it’s something with cruel intent, it won’t happen -- they were grown to do good.”

“Which is exactly why I needed them from you,” he wiggles them in her direction, “Well, I need to get going. You’re awful in particular about a garden that is subpar at best. Wish you well, see you later.”

Then he left. No guilt, no apology -- he just up and left, and Y/N was livid.

(Later that night when she had explained the situation to Niall, he was nothing short of outraged, so they had tried to find out more about Harry. Anything about him, really, but he leaves a very little paper trail in his endeavors -- from public records they find that he’s 25 and from Holmes Chapel, and from a google search they find he has two books out, published online, and doing decently well. There was nothing else apart from that, he kept his socials pretty dry, and what he did post was nonsensical drivel.)

Y/N thinks about this, as she sinks into her tub, the burning water scalding against her skin. Harry had always driven her mad but he has never seemed half as angry as she was -- hell if anything he always seemed like he enjoyed it.

He was just absolutely rotten.

. . .

Harry thinks Y/N is just absolutely rotten.

There were many reasons that he had classified her as such, but namely what he was concerned about now was how she kept her shop closed on the weekends.

Who kept their store closed the entire bloody weekend?

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to see her -- Harry actually found the girl quite plaguy. Her opinions on his practice were priggish, not unlike the others like them he had met in the past. There has always been an unfaltering stigma that was carried with what he did, one that was quite hard to shake within the factions of other witches that are sprinkled across the world. He’s seen as careless, cruel, greedy, and selfish -- he doesn’t practice magic for the love of the world around him, to feel a deeper, spiritual connection with the fecund soil that covered the earth, or with the water gently slipping past rocks along a stream bank. They look at him and see someone who shakes hands with the devil and ruins lives for a cookie.

Harry lets them think as they wish, he has no patience to attempt correcting them. If they’d bothered to learn an inch about him at all before passing their judgment then they would have a clue about his true character, but the jury had already made the decision before Harry even realized he was on trial. They never really wanted to give Harry a chance, so he knew he would be hated no matter where he decided to reside. The pack mentality that they carry is the reason he has to move around so often though (more than any 25 years old was typically doing) he gets run out of a lot of areas because a group of soft witches decides he’s no good.

That’s what drew him to this place -- there was practically nobody. He could sense when there were more like him loitering around an area, and made an effort to keep a decently low profile so that he could stay around longer (but they always managed to find him), but here, he only sensed one. That had been good enough for him to know this was the right move -- the beautiful scenery surrounding them; the soft bed of dirt that Harry’s feet would sink into easily; the dense, damp fog that covered the forest floor in the early mornings; the lush, green trees and how life seemed to remain there when it was meant to be waning in the colder months -- all of that, had only been a plus.

When he’d met Y/N, he knew that she disliked him, but Harry had expected as much so it disturbed him none. If anything, he was delighted to have a purer witch than himself around, all things considered. There were no others that she could develop a hive mind with to drive him out of town, but she was no competition to the businesses that he provided, and when a decoction called for an obscure plant or an unsullied petal -- well, a Garden witch was not the worst kind to have nearby. She may be devout in her notions that Harry was a disagreeable, repugnant being, but she was good at what she did. Anything done with her plants was twice as effective as any other person’s flowers he’d used in the past, so it was necessary he bothered her often.

She refused to sell to him -- something about her doing business with a demon, or whatever she’d said -- but so long as he doesn’t go and cut them from the stem himself, she helps him out. Will give him the plants he needs, and in return, he doesn’t taint certain areas of the town and the forest that she declared were off-limits. It was a spoken commercial agreement that both of them went by and because of it, their lives near to one another were comparatively peaceful to any other situation Harry has found him in prior.

That didn’t come without its faults. They butt heads often, their bickering is nonstop, and Harry could think of many things he would rather do than have to stay in a room with her for longer than the ten minutes it takes him to get what he needs. It was fun to fluster her -- getting beneath her skin was an easy feat that he found a lot of joy in, and sometimes she gave him a run for his money. He always kind of liked making a normally mild-tempered person grump at him a little, if not for his impish ways, then so he could get to know them as their full self.

So he wasn’t mad that she was closed because he particularly wanted to see her, no, he was mad because he was exhausted. Absolutely drained. The business was incredible when you’re the only dark witch willing to do some questionable, immoral things, but that also meant long nights and incredible emotional toil -- it wasn’t a walk in the park to conjure up a bloody demon!

Ever since Harry had started this path, he’d had immense trouble sleeping at appropriate times, if he could fall asleep at all. He guesses this was what he gets in return for what he practices, and it could be worse so he doesn’t mind it too much, but it was still a hassle. It had been a good four years since Harry just had a good, peaceful night of sleep.

Up until he had moved here, of course, because the same little garden witch that thought he was the devil incarnate, made a tea he could brew that set him right to sleep. Kept him asleep the entire night too, which had always been an impossible endeavor spanning back to when he was a child, but there was something about her chamomile -- hell, it really knocked him out.

He tested his theory -- part of him thought that maybe chamomile was suddenly working for him, but no matter the brand that he tried, or the amount of tea he drank, none of it could compare to what Y/N’s did. When he visited her store, he took what he could to hold him off to the next time he came by. He hadn’t realized how low he was though when he had seen her last and she threatened to lace it with laxatives -- he should have taken two because he used his last bit the night prior to the one he’s suffering through right now.

And he could have gotten more this morning if she didn’t close her stupid shop on weekends!

If Harry were not positive that he needed to rest, he wouldn’t bother to be trying. There was nothing worse to him than the laying in his bed and waiting for sleep that refused to come...it felt like he was being stood up by a date. It hasn’t happened often, but enough that Harry could match the feeling low in his stomach, indicative of discontent and sadness while he waited. . . . .and waited. . . .and waited. . . .and waited.

It was useless -- the universe’s retribution for summoning spirits to the living world left him with what a doctor might diagnose as chronic insomnia, but none of the treatments did him any good. No mortal medicinal could soothe him of this ailment. So one would think he would be smarter about keeping a hearty stock of it at his disposal rather than one at a time, but Harry never claimed to be the best at planning ahead.

And now here he was, staring at his ceiling fan whirl, his cat at his side while he contemplated if breaking and entering her shop was against his morals (he had a few left, surprisingly).

God, she was so rotten!

. . .

“Have you felt weird lately?”

“Hm?” Niall’s face scrunches up in confusion, his mouth stuffed full of noodles he just slurpped into his mouth, “Wha’ d’ya mean?” He muffles out, reaching over to her side of the table for a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.

The record store that Niall worked at wasn’t too far from Y/N’s shop so if her day wasn’t too busy, she would step away from the store for her lunch break and seek him out. It was never a planned ordeal; Y/N would stop off somewhere to get them something to eat and appear at his storefront, the sharp ding of the bell knotted on the door alerted him of her presence. He was always one of two places: in the back, tuning the old guitars the owner would bid on different websites, or he was in the front thumbing through the record baskets, organizing and reorganizing them by name. Sometimes he would be sat behind the counter, with his feet kicked up just beside the register but Y/N scolds him for that (he’s always wearing a dingy, scuffed pair of shoes that have no business seeing the light of day, let alone be shown off to others).

His head would perk up, he would look toward the door, and his face would bloom into one of sheer delight as he would call over to her, “Oh, thank fuck! Thought I would go crazy if I had to listen to myself think for one more second.”

Today was no different. She brought him ramen from the place three buildings down from his own, where she bends down a street that feels more like an alleyway and the door is hidden beneath a brassy fire escape. The owners were always very kind to her, and since she came often and tipped well, they would give her free bowls if they were in the mood. Y/N never liked the idea of a one-sided relationship with a business, so she always brought them herbs, and gardenias to plant at home (they were the husband’s favorite). She takes their fliers and posts them up in high traffic areas too, and when they have their business cards made and an extra hundred or so, she slips them in the paper baggies that she gathers her customer’s things in before sending them on their way.

Niall was grateful. He did a little cheer, left his spot from behind the counter, and urged her to follow him to the back where the break room was located (if a customer came around he would hear the bell and duck his head out to greet them, but for the most part their Tuesdays were pretty uneventful). He told her he had sensed her coming so he already had two stools set out for them to sit on, and napkins placed in the middle of the table, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure they had been left like that last time she was here.

Try as she might to let her mind flee from the dark, hazed feeling that had overcome her last week, she couldn’t. Even as she listened to Niall prattle about some Gibson Les Paul custom that the owner purchased a while back, she struggled not to wonder what it was that was worming itself into her brain; slick tendrils of dismay overcame her. The true, unadulterated, execrable feeling only truly hits her in the night if she is outside the safety of her home or her shop, but otherwise, it was memories of this haunting aura that struck her throughout the day.

She couldn’t place her finger on it though, what it could be. There are feelings she garners when Harry summons certain spirits, but she can typically tell when he’s doing that, and they’ve never felt so. . .evil, before. What Harry deals with is evil, sure, but this was so smothered in turpitude that she couldn’t make it out. Like spilling black ink over a letter written in blue.

That’s why she asks Niall -- it feels too strong for it to be something only felt by her and Harry. It would also soothe her mind if someone had felt it as horribly and heavily as she did, considering it wasn’t affecting Harry enough that he would try to banish the damn thing before things went sour.

“Like, do things just not feel. . .off, to you?” She didn’t want to feed him any impressions of what she might be speaking about -- she would like to know if it were true to him. Niall is sweet as he could be, but not always when it was appropriate; he would tell her he did just to spare her from feeling foolish. It’s why she thought berets were her thing for about a month when really she looked like a washed-up indie artist trying too hard (Niall had agreed they weren’t her best fashion venture, but he certainly didn’t think they were that bad).

His face contorts in a pout as he mulls it over in his head, stabbing his fork into the noodles and catching a bit of pork on two of the pronks, “Hm, let’s see. . .” he looks like he’s spinning through a Rolodex, “I have not for the life of me mustered enough energy to have a wank in about a week, that’s some cause for concern,” when she responds with a blank stare, he holds his hands up, “Okay, fine -- Butternut was biting at the air when I took him on his walk the other night -- like. . .chomping at it, I was actually gonna ask you what that might be about.”

Now, don’t get Y/N wrong, any other time Niall would have told her that his great Pyrenees puppy was yapping and chomping at the wind, she would have brushed it off. “Niall, you’re just going to have to accept that he’s going to be a big, sweet dummy when he’s older.” But she was so desperate for something, anything -- because if something felt it other than she and Harry, then she wouldn’t feel quite as crazy.

“Sometimes it feels a bit like something’s watching me,” he tacks on at the end, taking the brown napkin from the stack in between them and dabs roughly at his mouth, “At night, when I’m walking Butternut, I get these chills but there’s no wind around.”

Y/N leans forward, thankful, “Yeah?” she presses, “Is it like -- describe it. What does it feel like?”

“Y’know, I do forget you’re a witch until times like these,” he leans back in his chair, a heavy sigh slides from his lips before he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back at the moment, “I’ll tell ya what, it’s fuckin’ -- it’s a bit like I feel it right down to my bones, but then --” he opens his eyes, raises his closed fists and flicks his fingers out at her, “Poof, s’gone as quick as it came and I forget about it. My nan used to tell me that was the devil patting your shoulder, but if it went away quick s’because an angel kicked his arse out of there.”

It’s enough, Y/N decides, so she nods and relaxes back in her seat, “Okay, good.”

“Good?” His brows furrow, as he reaches for his can of soda and the aluminum can crinkles beneath his fingers, “Tell you that I get chills and you’re relieved? Should I be relieved too, or worried?”

“It isn’t anything to concern over, I don’t think,” she explains to him, “If anything changes I’ll let you know.”

Niall uses one of his fingernails to dig the dirt from beneath the other, “Did that Harry bloke muster some horrible demon up again?” His voice is laced with vexation. Niall wasn’t a hard guy to get along with -- he was loud and Irish, could chat up a storm about anything and everything, and while he could be scrappy at times, it was for all the right reasons. He was equanimous in most situations, even-tempered to a fair degree; if Y/N were in a situation where a cool, calm collected head would be the best approach then Niall was definitely the person she wanted on her side.

(Like when they had to drive home from a day trip to the massive lake just north of them, but the roads hadn’t been pretreated for the icy sleet that gripped the pavement. He drove them the whole way on the windy roads with little traction from the tires to the road, and was still bobbing his head and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio).

But Harry Styles? Oh, the mention of his name could dig right beneath Niall’s skin. Y/N would like to think that it was because he was so cruel to her, but she knows that there are two main reasons Niall is not too fond of him nor his craft. One of which is the fact that he slept with Liana (she happened to be one of Niall’s flings at the time -- there were plenty, but Y/N only remembered this one’s name because she shared it with a woody stem rooted to the forest soil that made for easy climbing), and the other, the fact that he had helped the captain of the opposing summer footie team with one of his enchantments to make them win. There are few things Niall cares for so deeply that he would dislike someone, but his sex life and his footie were two things a person just couldn’t mess up for him.

“No, it wasn’t him this time,” she clears her throat, pushing the rest of her ramen around idly, “It’s a bit too strong to be his doing -- more sinister too. He conjures mostly petty demons; the little ones that don’t have much better to do anyway. This is something. . .I don’t know, it just feels different.”

Niall sighs heavily, “Well, thanks for that, reckon I won’t be sleeping tonight,” he pushes the container away from himself to signify he’s done and when she takes a peek inside and sees nothing but a few noodles limp along the sides, “I like that you keep me in the loop, but sometimes I wish you would let me live in ignorance.”

“You know, I would apologize, but you’ve gone into an in-depth description of your arsehole to me so I thought any boundaries and forms of secrecy were long gone by now.”

His brows furrow features contorting into that of the same desperation he had come to her with two months ago, “Ugh, c’mon! You’re practically like a witch doctor or somethin’, I thought you would have a cream or something for it.”

“You had a hemorrhoid, Niall, for fuck sake! Even if I were a “witch doctor” then I would never let you put anything that came from my plants on your filthy bum.”

Niall stands, gathering their trash from the break room table but using his free hand as he passes her, he swats her shoulder, “You better be nice to me, or you’re gonna have to start eating lunch with Styles.” He steps on the level for the waste bin, throwing the trash in the bag, “Though I think you two would just end up hate fucking and the food would go cold.”

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “I would never let that Gremlin near my naked body.”

“Listen, I’m not saying I want the guy anywhere near your naked body,” he plops back down in his seat, “What I am saying is that you lot have such unbridled sexual tension it is practically palpable when I’m at the shop with the both of you. Maybe it’s ‘cos the two of you are the only witches, and opposites at that.”

Y/N snorts, “Maybe if we were in some enemies to lovers film, sure.”

After they finish their break, and Y/N realizes that she’s been with him for a little over an hour, they make plans to meet up tomorrow for a movie and she heads out. The air was cool -- when she had made her way over here the sun had been glittering rays down that bathed the world in gold, but it was now hidden beneath an overcast of thick clouds. Rain always carried a familiar scent just before it started to pour and Y/N had forgone a jacket, so she huffed her way back, breathless by the time she made it up the hill and saw Harry leaning against her door.

The sight of him makes her exhausted, but not in the usual way it does. He looks awful -- and typically he doesn’t! Y/N could admit that Harry was gorgeous; his hair always appeared soft, loose curls dispersed along the brunette strands, his eyes are a sea green, tender in his gaze when he wasn’t being an absolute prick and always bright (even when he was). His lips were pink, shaped perfectly, and his skin is typically smooth but even when he grows out his facial hair it still manages to look good. He had dimples. . .hell, Y/N would place a bet that he’d made a deal with the devil to look like that.

But today, he just looked worn down, and exhausted, like he might not have slept the entire weekend. His eyes were closed, his hands were in his pockets and his chin was tilted down towards his chest. If not for the way his head perked up immediately when her foot crunched into the gravel pathway leading up to her store from the small parking area (that was more so a beaten down, once grassy area now just dirt with tire tracks in it), she would have thought he was asleep standing up. There’s relief in his eyes when they meet her own, which she isn’t used to seeing from him, “Thank fuck.”

“You look horrible,” Y/N slides her hand into her pocket, pulling out her keys so she could unlock the door, “Budge over.”

“I feel it,” he rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Go on and open up quickly then. Why the hell do you keep your store closed on weekends?”

Y/N fits her hand over the knob, twisting it and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Thumper greets them at the door, nudging the top of his head against her ankle, “Do you work every night?”

“No --”

“I keep it closed on weekends for the same reason why you don’t work every night,” she heads toward the counter, settling her things down and reaching in for Thumper’s hay stash so that she could give him some, “What’re you here for? You usually come around to bother me later.” She chances petting at Thumper’s head for a moment, and since he was preoccupied with his hay he would allow it.

“Fuck!” Y/N startles, popping up from behind the counter, looking back up only to see Harry with wide, disgruntled eyes, “Where’s your chamomile?”

Her brows dip, “I’m out right now, so --”

“How the hell did you run out? Shit, what am I going to do now, hm? Shouldn’t you keep up with shite like this?” He’s going a mile a minute, he’s walking closer to her, distress was written all over his face and Y/N is alarmed to a fair degree -- Harry’s always seemed very collected and calm, it was seldom she ever seen him have more emotion than pure elation to fuck with her or displeased with her presence.

“ -- so I’m going to make more today. What’s going on with you? Why are you so pissy over it?” She finishes her previous thought, watching as he leans against the counter, propping his face up with his hand and she could now more clearly make out the bags beneath his eyes.

He rubs at his temple with the finger closest to it, “The only way I can sleep is with your bloody tea,” he grumbled, “That’s why I come around all the time -- well, that and to fuck with you, but mostly the tea.”

“Oh?” She reaches down, plucking Thumper from where he’d been positioned by her feet and setting him on the counter. He thumps his foot at her once but eventually makes his way over to Harry, sniffing at his chin before resting right before him. Y/N wasn’t necessarily doing it to be nice, but the energy he was exuding could really dampen the growth rate of her plants, and Thumper had a soothing way about him that drew all that negativity out. It was one of those odd little familiar powers that went unexplained for the most part. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders, but the tension in them begins to dissipate as Thumper snuggles beneath his chin, “Reckon I pissed off some demon or summat -- usually it isn’t this bad. Without your tea, I can at least get to bed for three hours before waking up and catch cat naps during the day, but nothing was working this weekend. I think I’ve slept a total of two hours?”

“Christ,” she tuts her tongue, but her brain starts churning, “Do you think it has anything to do with that. . .with that thing, that’s around? That feeling?”

Harry huffs a sigh, “Fuck, here you go again -- Babe, listen, I can barely keep a coherent thought, so why don’t I just give you some money and you make that tea for me, alright?”

“That’s no way to ask,” Y/N chastises him, and though she is already beginning to gather the supplies she needs so she could go out and harvest her leaves, she taunts him, “You’ll have to say please, or I might just decide to wait on this batch.”

“Please,” he wastes no time in saying, “Pretty please harvest the chamomile so that I can sleep and I promise I’ll sit and theorize with you over whatever the fuck thing you’re feeling.”

Y/N could go through the trouble of doing a blood binding with him to ensure that he wasn’t lying to her, but she felt that was a little on the extreme side so she took his word for it. She could easily harvest her chamomile here at the shop -- she had two doors behind the counter, one that led to her garden, the field, and the forest outside while the other led to a backroom that was made into a little kitchen area. It was easier for her to do things here rather than at home and have to risk tainting them in transport; for the best results to any enchanted item, one has to seal it immediately and it should only be reopened prior to use.

She wouldn’t allow Harry to hover over her while she worked, so she sat him behind the counter and told him to not speak to any customers if they come through (“Wasn’t planning to,”) while she went to work. Y/N gave Thumper a look when he had started to follow her, and with a small thump of his foot (his way of saying Fine!) he hops himself into Harry’s lap and settles there. The tension once again eases from Harry’s features, soothing the pinch in his brow and the way his lips had been pursed in a frown.

It was silent as she set to work, and save for a few customers who filtered in and out (at least a dozen of them, only eight purchased something but her Mondays were always pretty slow so that was expected), there wasn’t much to disturb what appeared to be a dozing Harry. He looked much more peaceful than she’s ever seen him, and for a brief moment she contemplates sending Thumper back home with him, but she shakes her head physically as if to expel the thought from her brain. What was she going on about? She would give him his tea and send the heathen on his way. No matter how empathetic she felt for him (she had struggled with issues sleeping when she was a lot younger), there was no need to go out of her way. . .even if she could admit that the sight of him cuddling with a bunny was a little too sweet not to be documented somewhere.

She’s finished drying the leaves and carefully stirring them in the fine powder that she still had leftover from her last batch (there were many flowers from her garden ground up and enchanted with an incantation, which sounds like a simple enough task but the entire process took a little over a week -- the magic had to be purified several times, and the potential adverse effects had to be mollified. . . if she didn’t, instead of pleasant dreams of floating in clouds, her customers would be in an unsolicited astral projection) in a little over an hour. Y/N takes care to bag them delicately, adding a little extra in the two bags she would be giving Harry so that he would bother her less over it.

By the time she’s retreated from the back preparation room, she finds that Harry is awake now, eyeballing her Intimacy and Romance section. When he sees that she’s returned to the front, he holds up the small, cardboard parcel, “I didn’t know you doubled as a Pulse and Cocktails.”

“That’s a natural aphrodisiac,” she tells him, walking over to her empty chamomile shelf before she begins to fill it, “You might want to take some so your partners will actually desire you for once.”

“Oh, Honey,” he shakes his head, a look on his face almost like he pities her, “Don’ know a thing about how people desire me. Barely have to take my cock out for them to be gagging for it -- kind of how you are, but won’t admit it to yourself.”

Y/N kisses her teeth, “Alright lecher, come and get your chamomile then,” she plucks the two remaining bags from the box she brought them in and holds them out for him, “You should look into some spells to combat that though -- if a demon is purloining your sleep, then it’s probably still hanging around and like deluging your flat with negative energy.”

“Dunno’ if you know this, but I work with demons often, I’m always surrounded by negative energy,” he plucks the chamomile from her grasp, before reaching in his pocket and producing a small wad of cash that he places in her palm-- Y/N opens her mouth to decline it (she felt that his money was earned in a dishonest way and would not accept it for her flowers, because it felt as if she were disrespecting them. . .she would much rather give it to him for free), but he cuts her off, “Oh, hush and take the money. This is from a care package my Nan sent me, so it wasn’t earned in any rotten way, you spoiled brat.”

She sighs, clutching the money in her hands, “You still better keep your end of the deal,” Y/N tells him, “I want to talk about this. . .whatever that feeling is, around here lately. And I want you to be serious about it!”

Harry was already retreating, waving his hand up at her, “Yeah, sure thing, I’ll have my secretary get in contact with you --”

“Harry --”

“M’only joking. I’ll come around Friday.”

. . .

Later that night, with Thumper snuggled in her lap snoozing, Y/N looks into purging a home of sleep stealing spirits.

She’s only curious.

. . .

Sleep comes gradually, then all at once, like the shift between summer and fall.

Wind whistles past window sills singing shallow songs of change, while red apples ripen on their branches in the orchard during harvest season. The air grows colder in the mornings and at night, the day is still steeped in the sun’s benevolent kisses of heat at first until even that begins to wane. An aesthetic of reds, oranges, forest greens and golden hues occupy the minds of many as the leaves start to stain with color. Everyone waits with bated breath for true autumn to come around the corner.

And when it does, it’s with a cold slap of air against the face when they step outside. The air carries that distinct autumn smell, the world is chilly enough for thicker jackets and long socks, rain comes in sheets during the evenings, and the colorful leaves that had drooped from the trees adhere to the concrete, or in matted piles on the forest floor. Suddenly, the warm drink in everyone’s hand is a little less for the excitement and impatience for fall to begin, and more so to warm their cold palms from the onslaught of biting wind.

It isn’t autumn, and then it is -- just like sleep. Harry’s awake one minute, and then he’s passed right out.

Well, with Y/N’s help, bless her. Sure, she had been rotten before, but she made him a new batch and sent him off with two hearty bags full of tea that would soothe his worries and put his arse to bed. Plus, he had cuddled with her sweet little bunny Thumper for a while and he had a feeling the little bugger was exuding some sort of her soft magic unto him in the form of calming waves. When the rabbit sat in his lap, all the tension eased from his muscles and he sank into an otherwise uncomfortable chair like it was the softest mattress he’d ever been privy to. So by the time he came home, started the kettle, drank a mug full, and hot tailed it to his bed, he was asleep before his head could even quite hit the pillow.

It was so good. His dreams were pleasant, his sleep was heavy, and deep, and lasted around fifteen hours -- which in the grand scheme of things, made him feel a bit like a sloth, but he knew he needed it. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what had happened that he just couldn’t sleep even a little bit, but he has no interest in investigating now that he had a full night’s (and partially day’s) rest. Plus, there was no time to do any exploring when he needed to make up for the work he’d missed in his time exhausted -- his powers are nowhere near as strong if he is tired, and it’s incredibly dangerous to be working with little sleep. He could mess up, and a mess-up could mean someone would likely end up possessed and -- albeit how interesting they are -- Harry’s intrigue with exorcisms ended after the seventh one he performed.

After he woke up, showered off, and ate brekkie, he sat down with his kitten and they cleaned his crystals and a few amulets before he set on preparing some of his finer elixirs, that he always waited until he was down to the last drop to begin making more canisters of considering how extensive the process was. It would be easier if he had someone else to help out, but the only other witch within 160 kilometers of him, he wouldn’t label as the type all too willing to help him break into a blood bank.

But he did have his kitten Oat. He was his little miracle -- Harry had been so sad when he learned that witches could have familiars, but the animal would come to him and he was supposed to just know. At that point, he’d been practicing for three years and the only feelings he could sense from any animal around him were fear and disdain, so he had thought that maybe he just wasn’t meant to have one. Which felt horrible. . .he loved animals.

One day, when the chill in the air rosied his cheeks and the cardigan he sported did little to shield him from the cold, he was taking a walk in the forest nearby. He’d left the trail, but not because he was working. . .if he were honest, he thought that the garden that Y/N kept out there was quite magnificent. It flourished even in the winter, a meadow of flowers that’s petals never frost, and the ground never grew hard. There was an air around it that made him feel warm and pleasant, so he visited often without letting her know. Which was what he was doing, walking through the small path that she had created so that she could tend to them (he’d seen her water them once when he’d come unknowing that she was there to cater to them).

And one moment he was looking at what he believed to be an oat grass, he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left that he looked toward (it was a bird flying away), and when his gaze returned to where it had once been, there a small kitten was laying. She was the kind of small that made his heart ache, with her eyes barely open as she yawned and stretched very wide -- she wasn’t there, and then she was. Harry always liked to say she was born from the soft soil of Y/N’s garden which was why her grey fur felt like clouds and she always smelled sweet as heliotrope. . .and, well, she smelled a lot like Y/N too. He may not be all too fond of the girl, but she did always smell nice.

She hadn’t grown bigger than one of his boots, the tiny little thing, but not because she was malnourished in any way (Harry always made sure she was well-fed), he just thinks she’s finished growing. He couldn’t tell her breed, but if he had to guess she was some mix between a munchkin and a ragamuffin cat. Harry knows all familiars have their duties and special abilities, but he wasn’t quite sure what hers was -- he just knew that he loved her to bits and pieces, and couldn’t ask for a better little ball of fur to sit on his shoulder while he made coffee in the morning.

What Harry did know, was that none of the demon’s he had ever conjured had ever bothered her, and she loved to be rubbed behind her ears.

So Thursday night, when the town grew quiet and the air was still, Harry ventured out with his tote bag slung over his shoulder. It was easy to move about relatively unseen in a place like this, that wasn’t so big there were people constantly looming around the corners of every nook and cranny, but wasn’t so small that everybody knew everyone’s business. It was a pleasant in between, where he could snake through the mouth of the forest, walk a trail and end up on the other side of town without having been seen by more than a few critters. He typically made this journey relatively late, without a worry or stressor in sight -- it only took him about an hour and a half to get everything done.

Today though -- today, he felt off. It hadn’t been immediately when he’d stepped outside, but after some time in his walk, goosebumps prickled his skin and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t quite decipher what was making him feel like this when the wind hadn’t rustled the trees in a few minutes, but it put him on guard. He disliked the feeling and had only truly sensed it to this degree that night Y/N had originally questioned him about it. It was an unsavory sensation, and for it to even make him feel uneasy was saying something tremendous.

He attempts to ignore it, even though it only grew stronger the closer he was to his destination. He weaves through the trees, stepping over the thick roots, crunching over fallen leaves, and appreciating the scent of autumn as he goes. It was a nice night, despite the chill that ran just beneath his skin. . .it was the kind of night that he might go out on his balcony and sip on his tea until he grew weary enough to step inside. Oat liked to sit outside with him, curled peacefully in his lap and resting without a care in the world (she made him feel not so lonely all the time, which he appreciated immensely).

Harry was thinking about how that was precisely what he was going to do as soon as he returned home after he had emerged from the trees and walked through an expansive field, toward an old road that led him back into town and entered the blood bank (after melting the lock with one of his crystals). Though he sensed something strong when he was walking down the cold, dark hall. . .or someone that is, who -- before he could register their presence -- ran straight into him as they were peeling around the corner and nearly knocked him on his arse (but definitely knocked them on theirs).

“Fuck sake!” He cried out, steadying himself, looking down at the assailant, “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’ll -- oh, Y/N?” He pauses, confusion laces through his brain as he recognizes her, “What’re you doing here so late?”

Y/N was on her bum, scowling at him as she gathered herself before flattening her palms to the cold, white tiled floor and pressing up to a stand, “I could ask you the same question.”

“It would be a silly one if you did, ‘cos you and I both know what I’m doing for a living,” he watches as she swipes her bum of the dust adhering to her sweatpants -- he had never seen her so dressed down before, in a dark-colored hoodie that just about swallowed her whole. She appeared much less ferocious this way -- not that she appeared very ferocious before, but he is always intrigued to see typically put together people in their sleep clothes. . .he thinks it says a lot about a person. From Y/N’s choice of pajamas, he could tell that she probably kept her flat on the side of too cold because she liked to bundle up. . .she felt safe that way, he would guess, and he would bet 50 quid that there was bunny hair all over it because -- despite his grumpy tendencies -- Thumper loved a good cuddle.

“I felt it again,” she says after a moment, her voice only above a whisper, though there was no security here -- or anyone, for that matter since the place closes at 7 PM, but her eyes still shift around like she’s a high schooler ditching class and the headmaster's down the hall, “. . .that thing, y’know, while I was getting ready for bed, so I followed where it felt grossest and came to check it out to see if it led me anywhere.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, “Well that was stupid,” he derides her, fixing the tote around his shoulder and shifting weight from one heel to the other, “What were you going to do if you found something, hm? Fight it off with your bunny and rose petals?”

Her scowl returns, “Piss off,” she utters before her gaze flickers to his tote and the reason he’s here becomes clearer to her than it had been before, “You shouldn’t be stealing blood. Isn’t that unethical?”

“It’s either this or siphoning it from a live vein, Babe, and while I’m aces at plenty of things, I have not been properly trained to set up an IV. I only take the blood that’s about to expire anyway,” He nods down the hallway, toward the refrigeration where they kept all of the baggies, “You might as well continue investigating while we’re here because it’s coming from that way -- plus you can make yourself useful by keeping the door propped open for me.”

In all honesty, Harry expects more fight than he was given considering how often she seems to object to every move he makes, but she merely rolls her eyes and starts ahead of him. The feeling does grow stronger the further they descend into the hallway and he knows Y/N can feel it too, from the way she shuffles just a little closer to him, and he can hear her breathing hitch to a small halt as they stood before the door and it felt like it had all been focused just behind the door. As strong as the taste of frozen orange juice concentrate, it made his face pucker just slightly as he raised his fingers toward the keypad and began punching in the code.

And there’s nothing.

Actually, as soon as they open the door, the dark, odious feeling that had been encompassing both of them disappears entirely. “Whoa,” Y/N pushes her hand against the door and keeps it open, taking one step inside of the room, “There’s a lot of blood in here.” His gaze flickers back at her, as she looks around, looking more intrigued than disgusted -- there was a lot of blood, 8 by 5-meter room just filled with it, so he could understand some of the awe. The more he returns, the less awe he feels, but he reckons that was to be expected.

“There are about five other refrigerators in this building too,” he tells her as he lowers to his knees, cracking open his tote, “This one’s computers are easier to get into though, and doesn’t say the date and time the amount was changed so nobody knows anything is missing. Easy peasy.”

Y/N nods, “Right. Stealing blood -- easy peasy,” she leans against the door, “What is it that you use it for?”

“It really depends,” he murmurs as he pulls out a rack, counting out the baggies he needed, “Some demons like blood more than ash, so they come when called and are more willing to help you out when given a little gift. There are a few spells that call for it, and elixirs are twice as potent — sometimes I have to drink it, which is...unpleasant,” he hears her shiver, “—but it makes the outcome better. All in a day's work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N hummed, “That’s...different. I think the weirdest thing I’ve had to drink for a spell was doe milk and I felt guilty the whole time. Like I was taking it from a fawn that needed it.”

Harry huffed out a laugh — Y/N was a soft little thing, comparing drinking blood to milk — sometimes he forgets how sheltered her world of magic is compared to his own. It was easy to forget with all the spiteful words she could throw his way, but to see her out of her comfort zone. . .it’s refreshing. Not because she is less confident in her surroundings, but because she is more open to his own If someone would have told Harry they would be even remotely civil with one another in a room full of blood, he would have snorted before asking what they were snorting.

“I oughta call you Bambi then.”

He was on his last baggy of blood, checking the expiration date, and logging it into the computer when the dreadful feeling returned. Like a fly to rotting meat, it clings back to the room they were in tenfold. From behind him, a sharp clatter and Y/N’s squeal startles him to look back at her, “Harry!” She cried, pointing ahead of her, “The walls! L-look at the walls!”

Harry follows her finger, watching as a thick, black substance oozes from the wall’s coving. When Y/N had noticed as much, she knocked down a stray IV pole that had been left in here, and it lay at her feet where the same black ooze had begun seeping up from the trim of the floors. In all his time doing what he does, Harry had never seen something so odd, nor had he ever felt something this grotesque overcome his being. It makes him act quickly, and while he doesn’t speak, he does fix his tote over his shoulder and practically jog the short distance to Y/N, knocking her out of the room, grabbing the door by the handle, and swinging it shut. He had hoped to seal it in there, whatever it was, but when they look down at the floor, the goo bleeds beneath the door and they both take a startled step back, “Oh fuck me,” Harry mutters to himself, shaking his head.

“What the hell is this?” Y/N is panicked -- it’s very clear in her voice, and while Harry was a tad thankful not to be dealing with this alone, he can’t say that a soft which, who planted pretty flowers and made sleepy time tea was necessarily the backing he wanted in the event he had to exorcise a demon. He didn’t even have the proper tools for it. . .he didn’t know what he was exorcising, fuck sake -- “Harry, shouldn’t we --”

“We need to leave,” he states, pivoting on his heel and hustling down the hall, Y/N was quick to scurry behind him, though she still murmurs some protest.

“We shouldn’t just --”

“Listen, unless you have any idea what that is and how to clean it, let alone banish it to hell, I saw we have a better chance through those doors than we do staying in here for even a second more,” he told her, holding out his hands to the crash bar, shoving the heavy door open, only looking back to make sure that Y/N had made it through, seeing that the black ooze had been following them before he promptly slammed the door shut.

This was one of the back doors, so it spits them out to the graveled employee parking lot that dances along one of the many mouths of the forest that surrounded them. They’re both out of breath, adrenalin zipping through their veins in a tidal wave as their chests heave and they stare at the door. They wait for it to crawl beneath these doors. . .they wait for the building to either be overcome by sludge or combust from whatever sinister being had decided to preoccupy this space.

But nothing happens.

The wind picks up, the leaves rustle against the branches, and as if it were a gift from the Earth, the sordid feeling blew right away with it.

“What the hell was that?” Y/N asks for the second time.

Harry straightens out from where he’d been crouched, inhaling the cool air, appreciative to be in it.

“Do you think for a second, with my reaction, that I have any fucking clue?”

. . .

Y/N doesn’t have people at her flat often.

Actually, apart from Niall and a few maintenance men, nobody had ever really come over. Not for any particular reason, really, and not because she didn’t want them to necessarily -- the opportunity just rarely arose, or more so, she didn’t often allow it to. If she were going to meet someone then she would meet them somewhere else, and they would part ways after they were finished (again, apart from Niall, who would simply follow her home, kick his trainers off, and head toward her couch which he had told her was simply the comfiest he’d ever been on). Her home was her humble abode. . .it was where she came to destress after a long day, and where Thumper sometimes waited for her debating whether or not he wanted to nibble her bathroom rug to shreds.

Not to mention she had plants growing here too, and flowers that she held dear to her, and while people are more reluctant to go touching what isn’t their business at a store, they are much less disinclined to give that same respect to her plants. Once Y/N had a maintenance man over to fix her faucet and she’d walked out from her room to see that he was caressing her snake plant’s leaves. She couldn’t blame him -- the plant had a very encompassing presence about it and had a way of drawing people in if they weren’t careful. . .hypnotized by the way it made them feel. All of Y/N’s soil and seeds are charmed with special incantations and concoctions that took her years to perfect, she would be disappointed if they weren’t causing people to leave all semblance of professionalism to even for a moment feel as if they were in a room with such clear air, their lungs felt renewed and they deemed it necessary to get closer.

But then she had to apologize to her snake plant for nearly two days after! It had been so upset with her, she could feel it, so she started being even more careful about who she let in. If she was going to go out of her way to have someone over, then there was a good reason for it. . .or it was Niall.

And a demonic, gooey substance sweating from the walls of a blood bank, was well enough a good reason to have Harry over.

It took some coaxing on her part -- he was convinced that they needed to just go back to their respective flats and go to bed, but Y/N was adamant in vetoing the idea. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow anyway, so we might as well just go ahead and do it tonight -- and you are not leaving me alone after whatever the fuck that was!”

After a good ten minutes, he finally relented as long as they could stop by his flat so he could get his kitten. Y/N hadn’t known that he had a kitten and thought maybe he would bring out some ragged-looking thing, but she was surprised to see through her windshield window that Harry was approaching her car with a small grey kitten. Her face contorts in the way everyone’s face might when they see something small and cute, “Look at her,” she coos once Harry opens his door, “What’s her name?”

“This is Oat,” he answered, holding her out for Y/N to pet, “Be careful, she’s vicious.”

Y/N pet at her head and Oat’s eyes shut as she nuzzled into her palm, “Oh yeah, what a panther.”

Apart from the nerves that had already materialized from what they had seen in the blood bank, she was a little worried about inviting him into her home. When she visualized her safe space, Harry was not typically who she saw sitting on her couch when she came in from the kitchen, holding mugs of warm tea. Yet there he was, introducing Thumper and Oat to one another (who merely sniffed each other, then immediately cozied against her olive throw blanket on the end of the couch), and Y/N is handing him his steamy mug.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, immediately nursing the mug between his palms and lifting it up to his mouth for a small sip -- the steam disperses around his face in plumes, “And it wouldn’t make sense for. . .for whatever that is to just be a demon.”

“What?” She inquires, taking her seat beside him on the couch, her body twisted so she was facing him entirely. Y/N had adjusted the temperature to something that would be a bit more suited toward having a guest -- when she’s alone, she keeps it ungodly cold so she has an excuse to bundle up in her clothes and blankets. There’s nothing like feeling safe in a cocoon of various fabrics with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly.

Harry strategically places the mug between his knitted socked feet, steadying it there as he begins to play with the thick, brassy tiger ring on his index finger, “Demons are strong, sure, but if they’re gonna be that strong there’s typically two reasons for it: they have already inhabited that area, or someone is controlling them behind the scenes. I would be more inclined to believe the prior, but I’ve been going to this blood blank for about a year now and unless there were some pentagrams I’ve missed or a gruesome ordeal that never made the papers in the past two weeks -- then there’s no reason for that to have happened at the hands of a spirit. Even a blood demon isn’t strong enough to make what happened in there happen, and they literally feed off the substance in the room.”

“So you think someone summoned it or something? I thought you were the only one around here that did that?” Y/N probes, trying to look in his eyes but she keeps getting distracted by his rings -- how many did he have? She thinks he nearly has one on each finger, and he’s plucking them off and placing them on different knuckles as he speaks. Y/N wonders if it’s something he does in response to a stressor, like how she picks at her nails.

“I’m the only witch that summons things around here, but not even I could conjure something that feels that vile.” He explained, fitting the last ring against his knuckle before he pops the bones in his fingers, and Y/N watches as the skin stretches and moves around the muscles in his hands, “I think someone is trying to manifest something without the proper safeguards in place. . .the lack of protection charms, crystals, and spells can invite much more heinous creatures to the living world. They feed off shite like that -- naivety. . .thinking that any person could decide they’ll have a demon carry out a job for them. It’s easier for them to take advantage of them that way.” Harry exhales, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of the mug— she’s given him the one that has intricate, realistic drawings of beluga whales on it, not for any other reason apart from that one was her favorite and she liked to see it in use, “And with a full moon coming up? Recipe for disaster.”

“Oh shit,” Y/N holds her tea closer to her being, “That’s why the feeling is so profuse and disagreeable in the air then, ‘cos they aren’t containing it right? When I was looking into a little bit of what you do, I read that there are containment spells so the demon or spirit doesn’t have free range to do as it pleases, but the spell is dependent on the demon in question and the severity of its power.”

Harry looked pleasantly surprised, “Yeah, that’s right -- what’re ya looking up what I’m doing for?” He settles into her couch, “Have you got a crush on me or summat?”

If Y/N rolled her eyes any further back, she thinks they would have done a 360 in her eye sockets, “I fell down a rabbit hole the other night when I was trying to figure out why you couldn’t sleep,” an impish grin slides onto his mouth, “And not because I’m “in love with you” -- I just thought it would be interesting to know if your insomnia was the reason of a demon because that would mean one of my items combats against that and wins. My. . .most of my magic is based on prevention when it comes to dark things like that, not really to fight what’s already there.”

“So your flowers don’t like -- I dunno, Little Shop of Horrors it?” He teases, motioning to her Hoya plant that had just begun to bloom for her, “I reckon when I think of plant magic, I think of you snapping your fingers and thorned ivy whipping around to slow assailants.”

“No, none of that,” she laughs lightly, shaking her head, “They’re much too nice and gentle. . .they only want to help. And I’m rarely in a situation where I would need thorned ivy whipping around.” Y/N locks eyes with Oat for a moment, whose eyes close nice and slow before she reopens them and Y/N thinks she might just melt, “What do we do then? How do we stop it?”

He slides a ring with teddy bears from his pinky and spins it between his forefinger and thumb, “There’s nothing to do -- if we don’t know who the problem is, then we can’t fix anything.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the action makes his already loose cardigan slide down his arms, revealing more of the cream-colored shirt he wore with Smokey the Bear on the front reading Only YOU! can prevent forest fires, “All we can do is wait for the next fucked feeling and hopefully run into the person causing -- oh,” Harry pauses, motioning toward her, “You’ve got a new friend.”

Y/N’s confused, brows knitted until she feels a paw press against her shoulder and the telltale purr of a happy kitty. When she turns her head, she finds that Oat has snuck her way up to her, and is now attempting to perch on Y/N’s shoulder. She presses closer to the back of the couch so that she had a better footing, and in return Oat bumps at her cheek with the top of her head, “You’re so cute, stop it,” she murmurs, and when she takes a breath through her nose, she smiles, “She smells like my heliotrope flowers too! How are you the familiar of such a grumpy, cruel lug, huh?”

“Oi,” Harry mutters, “I resent that. I’m not grumpy or cruel, you’re just rotten.”

A retort plays at Y/N’s mouth but her phone screen lights up from where it’s sat on the coffee table and strays her attention. She’s confused -- the only person who would be messaging her this late was Niall but she’s almost a hundred percent certain that he was supposed to be out at the bar tonight. It is him though.

Fuck me, have ya looked at the news? Is this that thing we were talkin bout?

Harry is a nosy bugger, and after reading the message with her he reaches for her remote, “You told him about it?” He turns on her telly, quick to open her TV guide, “So he knows about you?”

“Yeah, he knows -- turn to 3,” she tells him, and soon enough the local news is playing out, big bold letters on the blue band stretched across the bottom of the screen.

MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER ON GIRLFRIEND

He turned the volume up, so they could hear the news reporter who was on site. There was yellow caution tape stripped around a house, police lights, cops walking around in the back, and frightened neighbors who had left the comfort of their homes to investigate what was happening. The woman on screen had long blonde hair that whipped when the wind blew and muffled her microphone feed, her face set stony as she recounted the events as the police had told her, “. . .has no recollection of the event, and is claiming the “walls” were dripping in blood and demanding that he do it. Jacobs is being taken in for further questioning and pending a psychiatric evaluation -- his girlfriend Amanda Wilson is being rushed to hospital that’s all anyone knows right now. Back to you Tom...”

“Oh, fuck sake,” Harry groaned, shaking his head, “Now this is a problem, problem innit?”

“Was it not before?” Y/N takes the remote from him, turning the volume down, “Do you -- does that sound like anything you’ve dealt with? That would try hurting someone like that?”

He presses his knuckles to his eyes, sighing, “Not that I remember -- I’ll have to do some digging. . .this is bollocks, you know how bad this is for business? Nobody wants to mess with dark magic when shit like this is going on.”

“Aish, don’t think so selfishly. People are in danger,” she tsks at him, “And we’ll need to -- what are you doing?” She asks as he removes his feet from where they had been on the couch, reaching down for his loafers like he was about to put them on.

“S’getting late,” he responded, “I was g’na head home --”

“No you’re not,” she told him, her face dropping in borderline disgust as he seemed genuinely confused with her, his face twisting, “We experience something like that, then see the news, and you not only want to separate, but you want to walk all the way home, alone, in the dark? No way, that’s too stupid, you’re staying here.”

Harry’s brows dipped in, irritated, however, he did stop reaching for his loafers, “But --”

“Listen, we may not be fond of each other but I’m not letting you put yourself in danger,” she tells him, before adding quickly, “And you are fucking not going to leave me alone after that! Are you mad?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be doing you a favor without bothering ya with my presence. Never thought Miss. Good Witch of the North would want me breathing her air for too long.” He ripostes and it reinvigorates any distaste for Harry that had been easing throughout the night the more they spoke. He always did that -- always made her feel like she was some stuck up prick who never gave him a chance, but she would have if he hadn’t started out being such an arse to her. Sure, the circumstances they had met under weren’t fantastic. . .she snapped at him for taking her flowers without asking, but he could have just apologized -- could have said sorry, and they could have started over but he was immediately put off by her she presumes, because ever since he’d been nothing but cruel to her. His knocking her out of the room in the blood bank was probably the first kind thing he’d ever done for her, and she isn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t just in his way while he was trying to get out.

So she glowers at him as she pushes from her couch, “Sod off. I’ll get you some blankets.”

He almost immediately replaces the spot that her body had been with his legs, stretching out as far as he could and his feet flop on the arm of the sofa, “Reckon you should make me some of that tea though, so I can sleep.” He called after her. Thumper hops off and follows after her, while Oat finds her spot at Harry’s side and cuddles into where his cardigan’s extra fabric bundles. Y/N goes to the closet in the hall that leads to her bedroom, pries it open, and reaches to the top shelf where she keeps her extra blankets and pillows. Despite how irritated he makes her, she grabs him one of her heavier quilts, because even with her heat kicked up higher than normal her flat has very poor insulation, and the night’s into early mornings get pretty cold. She’s about to grumble at him that he better thank her for this and the bloody tea, but when she returns to the living room. . .he’s asleep.

Harry just fell right to sleep.

She’s confused -- understandably, she thinks, because she remembers how much of a fit he’d thrown about her tea and how she was closed on weekends so he couldn’t have any of it. Had whined how he wasn’t able to sleep without the tea, and she had only given him peppermint tea tonight, so there was no reason that should have put him to bed.

Yet there he was, fast asleep with his arms crossed over his chest.

Tutting her tongue quietly, she unrolls the blanket she had chosen for him and strategically places it over his legs. She is careful to move Oat so that she doesn’t suffocate under the covers as she pulls them over, up to Harry’s chest before replacing her in the spot she had snuggled prior. She pauses for a moment before she leaves them, taking in a completely relaxed Harry -- not that he doesn’t seem relaxed all the time, but he’s just. . .calm. His muscles have melted against her couch cushions, his brow has soothed and his amaranth pink lips are soft and parted. Gentle, easy breaths slip through his mouth. . .Y/N thinks that she likes him like this. Not spiteful, or crass -- this Harry doesn’t seem to hate her. This Harry is warm and comfortable enough to just fall asleep on her couch.

Thumper thumps his foot against the floor, his not-so-silent request that they go to bed and Y/N snaps out of whatever hypnotic state she’d been in watching him rest. She feels creepy but shakes it off, reaching down to pick up Thumper by his belly and cradling him to her chest as she leaves the living room, keeping her lamp on for him in case he wakes up to have a wee or anything.

It’s when she goes to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water to leave at the coffee table for him, that she can feel Thumper judging her. This is only confirmed by the way he is looking up at her when she looks down at him, his small, pink nose twitching, and she can just sense him repeating Harry’s tease of have you got a crush on me or summat? -- it’s not like he hasn’t questioned her before. She reckons if Thumper could actually speak and not just implant little thoughts of his in her head through whatever little bond they have, he would be very free with his accusations about who she might have feelings for.

Y/N rolls her eyes.

“No, I don’t,” she disagrees with him quietly, “What do you know about crushes, hm? You’re just a bunny.”

. . .

It had been a while since Harry had worked.

Though he was always hesitant to call it work, all things considered. Y/N had once described to him that what he did was lurk around seedy clubs and wait to be recognized by a sorry sap that wanted something they didn’t want to put much effort towards, and Harry can’t necessarily say she’s wrong. He preyed on the lazy; men and women who couldn’t be arsed to obtain a goal without the help of a little magic no matter how negative, and Harry couldn’t really fault them for it. One, because sometimes goals are unattainable with literally anything other than a demon's help, and two because he gets a hefty wad of cash in his pocket for his trouble. How hypocritical could he be to deprecate their usage of dark magic when he is doing the same thing. . .when he relies on that more than anything, even the silly little romance novels he writes so that nobody questions where his money’s coming from.

It was a Friday night, and since he was no longer tied to the commitment of meeting Y/N to discuss the horrible, no good, terrible thing that was slithering its way through town and apparently spurring bouts of attempted murder -- he was able to visit a club. Though Y/N had made him lock pinkies with her that morning, telling him to keep his eye out for anything suspicious that may or may not have led to the events from the night prior.

Promise me that you’ll keep informed on what’s going on there, okay? And promise me that you’ll tell me about it.

The club he’d visited was one of the more popular of the four he frequented, and within the walls, amongst the gyrating bodies in scant clothing and sweat-drenched skin, were many of his regular clients. One of which had been blowing up his phone for the past week telling him how he desperately needed help, and he needed it ASAP. Harry finally replied to his message with a simple time that he would meet him, and that they would discuss the cost once he’s explained what is being asked of him. This guy, in particular, wanted many frivolous things, and typically his requests revolved around wealth, though Harry thought he had more than enough. And while Harry could do a few simple spells that would bring the money gradually and don’t come with the dangers that a demon will, he refuses. Harry has always told each of his clients that a spell and a demon could do the same thing, but demons brought faster results, albeit potentially precarious consequences.

And when it comes to summoning, things can get a bit tricky. If the person who is summoning is the person who will benefit from the demon’s will directly, then it may come with a price, and that price may or may not be hidden between the lines. Especially when it is someone who has no clue about the actual process, offerings that could be made without including their soul for the taking, and spells that could be done that would protect them. After doing this for so long, Harry had developed and harnessed enough power that it was rare a spell every backfired or a demon ever bested him, but if Bradley Evans tried this himself, he’d be good as dead.

This is why, no matter how this man grates every open end of his nerves with a dull blade, he continues to help him. Again, Harry gets paid an obscene amount of money for what he does, so he sucks it right up -- and it’s not as if this money is just for him. He has people to take care of, his own personal gripes with the smarmy, rich, meat-headed pricks that want him to summon Clauneck for a trip to the Bahamas matter very little in the grand scheme of things.

He’s leaning against the far back corner, at a table that he’d claimed for the night and a cherry mango cocktail that wets his lips and stains them red. He really isn’t scouting for suspicious behavior like he had promised to, only because his mind had floated elsewhere entirely. Like how, after so long of only ever being able to rest with help of Y/N’s chamomile, he was able to fall asleep without the help of anything. He had asked her about the tea that she and he drank prior to him passing out unprompted on her couch, but she told him it was just a store-bought strawberry tea that was a guilty pleasure.

It perplexed him greatly. He only remembers her demanding him to stay the night because she didn’t want to be alone (and if he’s honest, neither had he after the night they had), he remembers her standing and him stretching out on her couch, and he remembers asking her for the tea that would help him sleep.

And then he remembers waking, feeling refreshed, and renewed. Confused, but reinvigorated, he had a wee before poking around in her kitchen for something to satiate his grumbly stomach. Y/N was still asleep -- he’d peeked his head into her cracked open door only to find her dreaming peacefully, relaxed, and content. As creepy as it felt to stare at her as she slept, he did watch for a moment. It was different to see her without the accompanied scowl he usually coaxed upon her face -- the blissful gleam that exudes from her now is the same that he sees when she’s tending to one of her gardens.

He brewed two chai lattes in her Keurig with Oat on his shoulder like a bird and she woke as he was taking the second mug, setting it on her kitchen counter, “G’morning,” she yawned, Thumper hopping behind her, looking just as sleepy, “Did you sleep through the night? I made you a cuppa and kept it in the microwave in case you woke up.”

His heart had lurched. . .a genuine clench that Harry had not felt in a while.

“Oh,” he blinked at her owlishly, “I slept just fine, but thank you.”

“Mm, good,” she was so sleepy still, Harry remembers wondering if she was even fully awake speaking to him, “I have sliced fruit in the fridge if you want, for brekkie.”

It was a domesticated scenario that Harry had not been privy to.

Had it been her flat? Maybe the plants that she had strewn about the room were all enchanted, singing sweet songs of sleep that lulled him to sleep without him knowing. All he could recall was feeling so unbelievably comforted and no matter how cold it was in that damn flat, he felt so warm. . .so warm, and it smelled so good, and Oat was snoozing happily at his side. Plus she had wrapped him in this quilt that was heavy and smelled nice -- he thinks, in that moment, he finally understood why babies liked feeling contained in a swaddle blanket. Regardless of what happened at the blood bank, and what they found out on the news, Harry felt safe in her flat. And he probably wouldn’t have left either, if he didn’t have to work.

He’s so caught in his reverie, that Bradley’s arrival truly startled him. A clearing of his throat catches his attention, dragging his unfocused gaze from the crowd of dancers to Bradly, dressed in a Lacoste polo that thought was ugly but he would never say it aloud, “Oh,” he straightened up, bringing the rim of his glass to his mouth and taking a small sip of it, “Right then, what can I do for you? Another trip to Barbados?”

Bradley shakes his head a little frantically, and it's only then that Harry takes in the actual appearance of him, that surpasses the Lacoste and zeros in on the panic that decorates his face, “I need like -- like a demon protector or some kinda spell or -- I don’t fucking know, or something.”

“Oh --” his brows dip, “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”

He starts to nod, then switches it to a shake of his head, and that morphs into a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know man, I just don’t feel -- I don’t feel safe. I wondered if one of those demons from before were like. . .after my soul or summat.”

“Not possible,” Harry dismisses the idea, setting his glass down on the high round table, “When I work with them we make a spiritual, contractual agreement that they are bound to. If your soul was not on the table, then it will never be on the table -- it must be something else,” he thinks for a moment before a slither of realization stokes the fire in his brain, that sets the coals aflame and heats the cogs to a churn, “What -- explain to me what you’re feeling?”

“Like something is watching me,” he blinked, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning most of his weight onto it, the scent of liquor wafts over Harry’s face when Bradly breathes, “It’s heavy and. . .it’s like swimming in ink. It’s horrible and frightening, and I’ve never -- I’ve never been one to rely on vibes, but mate, they were bad. . .they were like -- vile. Vile vibes, man.”

Harry thinks, while his description is repugnant, he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but there wasn’t much he could do. Harry can make protection spells that are generalized but he doesn’t believe that any of them are strong enough to fend off whatever this thing is. In cases like this one, sometimes dark magic is not good to fight dark magic, it can only make it grow and fester like a nasty, infected wound. He really did not want to try that out on Bradley. . .he may not be fond of the guy, but he didn’t wish anything ill on him.

“You wouldn’t come to me for a protection spell, for something like that,” Harry begins, “You would need --” You would need Y/N -- is what is about to leave his lips, but it drops away. As much as it’s true -- as much as Harry knows that the reason he felt the safest he’s ever had in Y/N’s presence was whatever protection spells she had put in place and strengthened -- he couldn’t. The thought of sending someone like Bradley to someone like Y/N, makes him feel sick. “Give me one second, yeah? Stay here.”

Y/N gave him her number that morning, telling him that it was silly for them to be unable to contact one another. Harry saved it into his phone and sent her a picture of Oat so that she would have his, but left it at that -- he had assumed, until this moment, that he would never have a reason to have her number. If he ever wanted anything from her he would just show up at her store.

But here he was, scrolling through his contact list to find her, pressing her number and holding his phone up to his ear. It only rings twice before she’s answered it, “Hello? Is everything okay Harry, did you get a lead?”

Harry laughs in disbelief, “What’re you, a detective?” He cleared his throat so he could speak over the music clearly, “I need you for something, and I’ll give you half. And before you get all high and mighty, it isn’t for anything bad -- one of my regulars is experiencing the same fucked thing we have only it’s more vile vibes opposed to blood seeping from the walls. Need a protection spell -- whatever you use for your flat and store.”

She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Harry questions if his service dropped, but her voice reappears.

“Where are you?”

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is flagging Y/N down to his spot in the club where he stood next to Bradley whose friends kept coming around wondering if Harry was his pull for the night. Her jumper with a printed bunny right in the center made him chuckle to himself -- it was more than clear that she had not planned on coming out tonight, and if not for Harry, he thinks she would have spent three more hours at her store tending to the garden there if not for him. When she sees him, noticeable relief makes her shoulders slump, and as she gets closer, she reaches into her pocket, “Thank god,” she called over the music, “I’ve been in here for three minutes and if I got knocked into one more time I was going to lose it.”

She produces two things -- one is a tiny vial, with an unidentified green liquid, and the other is a small baggie of her tea. Harry takes both from her hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs, before dipping down closer to her ear, “Go over to that empty table near the bar, I don’t want this guy seeing you clear enough that he could ask you for anything ever again.”

Though she was confused, she listened to him, slinking her way over to the table while Harry turned to Bradley who had been looking at his phone, before both were placed in front of them, “Thank you,” he tells him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How much?”

“850,” Harry says without batting an eyelash. Typically his business runs closer to the thousands but he cuts the guy a break since he’s scared.

“Each or what?” Bradley asks as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, flipping the leather open and beginning to thumb through his bills.

“No, just 850,” he takes the bills from him, folding it between his fingers, “I shipped your crystals last week, did they come?”

Bradley nods, a big grin on his face, “Oh, fuck yeah dude, I almost forgot! I already transferred you the money for them right?”

Harry thinks it’s a shame that he doesn’t keep track -- he could really scam him if he wanted to, with these black crystals bathed in the water of Asmodeus (they increases stamina and aids them in not being shit in bed; it was a fucking full-day event to get Asmodeus to recognize the clear stream water, in an incubator that he checks every 15 minutes or so to see if the water has been touched red) “Yeah, you sent double the amount ‘cos your buddy wanted some too, right?”

“He loved them, mate, he’s way less narky too now that he’s getting his dick wet.”

Harry holds back a grimace, “Alright then, stay safe. You know how to contact me if you need anything.”

Bradley bids his goodbye and Harry seeks out Y/N, who is picking idly at her fingernails and bobbing her head slightly to the music. When he gets close enough to her, he starts on his spiel as he waves the money toward her,

“Listen, Babe, you used your plants to help him, honestly you deserve way more than this -- a fucking Nobel Prize probably,” he holds it out to her, “Here.”

She shakes her head, but not in the way she would if she were refusing it because she was disgusted by him -- no, instead she closes his hand around it again and presses it closer to his body, “No, no, you keep it, he’s your guy or whatever.”

Harry tilts his head, brows knitted, “But they’re your plants.”

“Yeah, but I would just feel guilty taking it from you so --”

He sighs, counting out 450 of it, taking her hand, opening her fingers, and sliding the bills into her palm, “Even split then. If you’re going to utilize something precious to you to help someone like that fucker, you deserve a little compensation for it. “

Y/N must realize that he wasn’t going to let it go, because she finally folds it in her hands, slipping it into her pocket, “What’s with that guy then? Why do you not like him?”

Harry can see it clearly; the image of his childhood self, his family struggling to make ends meet but going to primary school with the wealthier kids. The ones who laughed at his faded shirts, and holed winter coats -- who would ask him to their birthday parties and talk shit about the gift he’d scraped up coins for doing miscellaneous work around the neighborhood. He thinks about how he knew they would go home to kitchens full of food, and bountiful dinners that they would never appreciate, while Harry never took seconds because no matter how hungry he was, he made sure their bellies were as full as they could be. And Harry remembers how the headmaster did nothing to quell his worries because those kid’s parents could buy out the school if they wanted to.

He sees it all, and he hears it all, and for a moment -- selfishly -- it makes Harry wish he had never given Bradley the protection spell at all.

But he only shakes his head, “He’s just a prick,” he answers simply, before nodding his head toward the door, “Reckon we should get out of here, it smells like piss.”

It’s always a little easier to leave the club than it is to enter it, so they’re out in the cool air soon enough. A small line had formed outside since Harry had been in there last, and as they step out, a group of three is let in through the rope chain that the bouncer is policing. This part of town is always bustling late into the night, so neither feel the cold brush of fear they have been when they’re out in the dark -- or at least the relaxed way Y/N is looking around tells him that she’s pretty content.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” She asks him, pointing at the 24-hour diner right across the street, that had been strategically placed there because people who are drunk and high who just sweat out half their body weight love greasy food, “I skipped dinner today.”

“What a coincidence -- so did I.”

They got a booth in the far back corner, where the white and maroon tilted floor glistened wet from a recent scrub from the mop, and the air smells of lemon pine-sol. This along with the fact that the black leather seats were dusted of the crumbs that usually mottles them, Harry would assume that they had come just in time for their 12 AM clean up, where the first batch of besotted clubbers had left a mess and they were waiting for the second wave to come through. He didn’t miss the eye that the waitress had given them, looking them up and down like she was trying to decipher what state they were both in, but when neither of them wobbles in their stance, or slur through their words asking for a table, she relaxes and asks them where they’d like to sit.

After they get settled and order their food (Harry convinces her to get one of their malted milkshakes with him -- his favorite was strawberry and after she confessed that she never had their strawberry malt, he was insistent on her trying it), Harry’s curiosity is suddenly piqued as he thinks of something he hadn’t thought of before, “How did you make it over to the club so fast, hm? Do you just have jars of this stuff made laying around?”

Y/N sticks her clear straw in the icy glass of water she’d been poured, stirring it like there was anything to mix, and the ice cubes clink together soundly, “No, no, I actually don’t make protection spells unless I’m asked directly -- or usually that’s the case, but I was already in the middle of making some for you and me, so I had a little leftover.”

“For me too?” Harry inquires, genuinely surprised by the concept that she would make him something to keep him safe. She nods though, like it was silly that he thought she wouldn’t have, only this time she reaches into her purse and retrieves two much larger vials with little cork tops, and one bigger bag of the dried leaves, accompanied by a smaller one tied with red ribbon.

“I was doing some research while I was at work --”

“You do a lot of research, don’t you?” He cuts her off and she nods.

“Mhm -- and there’s this like. . .there’s this elder witch who lives an hour or so drive away from us who I think might be immortal, but that’s beside the point. She has this blog that I was scrolling through and she linked her email, so I messaged her and she sent me her number and told me to call her immediately.” She slides one of the vials over to him, along with the tree leaves, “When I did, she told us that we were in a little more danger than everyone else ‘cos like -- whatever this thing is could start trying to feed off of us, especially you. Said that we needed a potent protection spell, and I told her about mine. You feel safe in my store and in my flat right? Like -- like whatever that thing is couldn’t get to us?” He nodded, eyes fixed on hers, “So this is a version of that suitable for our bodies. The tea leaves are for your flat, and then this little bag here --” she points at the one tied closed with the small strip of red ribbon, “-- this is a tea version of it safe for Oat to drink.”

Not only had she made him some, but she also made Oat some too? As much as he disliked her before, he can’t help how this warms his heart, zipping through his body and makes him feel just as safe as he did when he was wrapped in her quilt snug on her couch. Harry wonders if this is what she’s like all the time with her friends. . .he wonders if this side of her, that researches and makes protection goodies, brews him a cuppa just in case he woke up in the middle of the night and comes out in the depth of night to the seedy clubs she despises just because he called and asked -- if that’s what they get to see. If that’s what he would have seen had their meeting been any different.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the vial and the bags, looking at them against his palm, “A lot. You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I did though,” she takes a drink of the water through her straw, “I may not agree with what you do but we’re the only two witches here and there is power in unity, even if our versions of magic are different. We have to be there for each other -- Thumper agrees, and that’s a lot coming from him because he doesn’t like much of anybody. . .he barely likes me,” she holds her hand up, the index finger of her other going from finger to finger as she lists off the ingredients, “So we’ve got fern, anise, leaves from the ash tree in the forest, fennel -- the nice old woman told me to hold off on the mugwort unless we’re planning on astral projecting or doing anything with divination, but if we felt that it was necessary we could wear a wreath of it around her necks. That’s an old wives tale though, I’m pretty sure.” She wiggles her fingers, “All that and a little bit of moon water, and we have ourselves a little protection spell! I dipped my finger in for a taste test and I’ll be honest, it’s awful and plant-y but I reckon we can toss them back like a shot and chase it with a sweet drink like juice or something.”

It hits Harry that he gave Y/N very little credit for what she did, but now as he’s looking at something that she’d made specifically with him in mind, that wasn’t just a glorified sleepy time tea, it puts some things in perspective for him. Sure, she’s been a dick to him in the past, but he was a dick too, about her magic. While he isn’t going to start kissing the ground she walks on, he decides then that he’ll be more mindful of her craft. Plus, from the amount of time that they’ve had to spend together in the past two days, she’s tolerable when she isn’t on her high horse about him summoning spirits and ruining the town. She’s even helpful.

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I really mean it, I appreciate this a lot.”

Y/N smiles at him and it’s a smile that he’s never been gifted before. A smile that makes him smile back, as she places her elbow on the table and holds out her pinky toward him -- she’s big on pinky swears, he’s finding.

“We’re looking out for each other, okay? I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. . .I swear it.”

Harry locks his pinky with hers without a second thought.

#WRITING #WOOOOOOOOO #SPOOKY #YAHTZEE #I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT BECAUSE I LOVE IT LOADDS #AND I LOVE YOU LOADS #HAPPY READING :D #HARRY STYLES

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dreamingofaizawa · 3 years

Text

Seraphim

This has been stuck in my head for days, okay? I know it's not MHA. But it's been plaguing my thoughts. My teratophilia is swirling like a hurricane with this man at the epicenter:

Anime: Blood of Zeus on Netflix

Yandere(ish) Seraphim x Fem! Reader

***18+ Fic***

Please make your way out of the current window if you are not over the age of 18. Thank you.

Warnings: Dub-con, body horror (?) he’s a fucking demon okay?, cumflation, overstimulation, belly bulge, creampie, size kink, kidnapping, kinda yandere-ish behavior if you think about it for a minute

Word Count: 2k

Author’s Note: Alright, this man is a mass murderer and a complete psychopath with horrid trauma. But he’s hot, and my teratophilia and size kink are THRIVING. I couldn’t find his height anywhere but he’s probably like 7 feet tall or sum cause he TOWERS over the other people in the anime. Idk what possessed me to make this so weirdly soft. Anyway, days of horny thoughts of this man have accumulated to whatever this bullshit is.

*Polis = A Greek city-state

Enjoy the filth~

You'd managed to duck down behind a low stone wall gating off a farmhouse on the outskirts of the polis. The demons had appeared in the treeline when the full moon was high in the sky, flooding the land in cool blue light. There was no warning as people were either killed or gathered into the square, fear wreaking havoc on the minds of men and women alike.

You had to run, get to another polis and warn them of the oncoming bloodbath. But you needed to know what was going on. Quickly, quietly, you snuck past and through homes, sticking to the shadows and creeping up on the square. You were just close enough to hear the commotion among the townspeople. The beating of large wings and a loud ‘thud’ silenced the square, and a voice boomed out.

“I am Seraphim. Leader of the people of Melidoni, the people you call demons.” You listened as he offered strength and power to those who chose to convert to their creed, their species. Those who didn’t would be slaughtered. The choices were to convert, or die. You didn’t stick around to hear who chose which fate, instead beginning to move through the shadows again.

As you neared your previous hideaway, you figured you should try to pack supplies for your journey, especially considering you had no idea how long you’d be travelling. You slipped into one of the homes and searched quietly, gathering supplies as you loaded a burlap sack. You’d been so focused on your tasks, so convinced you’d been silent and sneaky and could slip away, that you were shaken out of your focus by a loud thud just outside the stone wall lining the yard.

You froze, heartbeat in your ears as you waited with baited breath. A loud crack rang in your ears, making you jump and cower backward away from the splintered door. The figure that stepped in struck fear into every fiber of your being. He was huge, having to bend down to fit through the entrance, his shoulders nearly too wide to fit in the frame.

His skin was deep blue-gray, darker on his extremities and the horns protruding from his head and shoulders. Red marks littered his body like rivers of lava, and his eyes were pitch black with blood red irises. His left eye was different, a gold band in a strange shape surrounding the pool of red. Long white hair held with leather bands fell over his shoulder and down his bare chest, save for the leather strap holding his cloak on his back.

As he stood back to full height, your legs began to shake. If you weren’t paralyzed with fear, you’re sure your legs would have given out underneath you. The demon towered over you, all corded muscle and thick skin. Slowly, he lumbered closer to you, heavy footfalls vibrating the earth under your own feet. He stopped just in front of you, your chest nearly touching his abdomen as you looked up and he glared down at you.

A small smirk curved at the corner of his lips as he lifted a clawed hand, a thick finger hooking under your chin to keep your gaze up. “Hello, pretty.” His voice was deep, and you recognized it nearly instantly. This was Seraphim. The gods had forsaken you, and you’d been caught. You had a choice to make now. Convert, or die. A thumb swept across your cheek, swiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

A sound rumbled in his chest, something between a hum and a chuckle. “Don’t cry, pretty. You won’t die.” His statement had your mind reeling. Was he going to force you to convert to a demon? He wasn’t giving you a choice like all the other townspeople? He bent down so his mouth was at your ear, his breath hot on your neck and shoulder. “You’ll live, pretty, as a human. So long as you give me what I want.”

You were afraid to ask, but it was necessary. “W-what do you want?” Your voice was so quiet you almost thought he couldn’t hear you, but his pointed ear twitching next to your face told you he could hear even your smallest breath. A hot, wet tongue laved at your pulsepoint and travelled up to your jaw. Large hands grasped your waist, squeezing and gripping lightly as his voice sat heavy in your ear. “I want you.”

Tears fell down your cheeks at the realization of what was about to happen. You were going to give your womanhood to a demon. Though it was a small price to pay for your freedom and life. You were suddenly lifted off the ground, a gasp leaving your lips as you wrapped your legs around his waist and gripped his thick neck where there weren’t horns jutting from his body. His hands moved down to encompass your ass, squeezing the supple flesh as he moved and licked at your neck.

You were placed on the bed and he got to work undressing you, and soon your robes were a pile of fabric pooled on the ground as you lay naked before the demon. You grasped the pelts underneath you, shaking as his blood red eyes greedily raked over your form. You squeezed your eyes tight, trying to distance yourself from your current predicament, but a large hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed just lightly enough to be a threat.

Your eyes snapped open and Seraphim leaned close, his breath fanning over your face. “Don’t close your eyes, pretty. I want you to watch me take you.” With that, he released your neck and began to undress himself. Your eyes blew wide at the sight of him, a heat twisted with fear beginning to seep into your belly and between your legs. Was he even going to fit inside you?

He was as thick around as your wrist and nearly as long as your forearm, veins running up his length. Your body shook at the thought of taking him into you, afraid he’d split you in half. A deep chuckle bubbled up from his chest at the sight of your trembling. “Don’t worry, pretty. I don’t want to break you so soon. Especially since you are untainted, pure.” He lifted a hand and you watched as the claws shrank down and gray skin turned tan. His hand was now human, though no smaller than it was previously.

You didn’t know how he could know you were still a virgin, but at this point it didn’t matter. A thick finger teased up and down your folds, gathering the little slick there and moving to rub at your clit. The contact had you gasping and jerking, and his other hand gripped your hip, keeping you still as he rubbed that little nub. It didn’t take long to have you soaked, and he stopped his ministrations on the little bundle of nerves to dip a thick, long finger into your tight heat.

Even just one of his fingers was a stretch, and your walls clamped down around the intrusion. He pumped and curled his finger until you relaxed around him, then pushed a second passed the tight ring of muscle. Your fingers dug into the pelts beneath you and you clenched your jaw as you winced, the stretch burning for a few moments before you relaxed once again. His fingers curled up and hit a spongy spot inside you, making you let out a breathy moan.

A third finger pushing into you had you squirming and whimpering, the burning stretch becoming uncomfortable, and the fourth was painful as he maneuvered his digits inside you, stretching your walls further than you thought possible. It took a bit for you to finally relax, chest heaving and sweat beading at your forehead, and he rubbed your clit harshly. It only took a few swipes for you to cum on his fingers, clenching down hard as your back arched off the pelts and your mouth fell open in a silent shout.

When you came down from the high he pulled his fingers from your core and licked his fingers clean, groaning as he sucked your juices off his digits. The feral look he shot you made your breath hitch. His hand turned back and he gripped the back of your knees, bending them so your thighs were pressed into your chest. “Hold your legs for me, pretty.” You obliged, and he lined himself up with your core before pushing into you slowly.

Even just the tip of his thick cock had you wincing, nails digging into your thighs as you tried to relax around him. He growled as he slowly pumped himself into you, bit by bit, until he hit your womb and you cried out. It hurt, but it felt so, so good. He stilled his hips, allowing your fluttering walls to adjust to his size. His large hands came around your thighs to cup your face, trailing down to your breasts and toying with the flesh.

The demon had far more patience than you thought he could possess, waiting until your cunt stopped clamping down on his length before replacing your hands with his to grip your thighs, pressing them into your chest as he pumped his hips into you. With every thrust his pace became heavier and quicker, pulling heavenly, sensual noises from your throat. Your voice rang out with every snap of his hips into yours, your body on fire as the pleasure washed over you in waves.

One of his hands pulled your leg and rested your ankle just beside his neck, then moved down and began rubbing at your swollen little clit. The knot in your belly tightened quickly, burning hot in your abdomen until it finally snapped and your legs shook with your orgasm. He slowed to a stop and pulled out of you, flipping you over and yanking your hips back, a hand pressing into your back so your face was in the pelts and your ass was high in the air.

He filled you in one thrust and began a bruising pace, bending over you and biting marks into your shoulders, claws digging into the flesh of your hips. Growls and grunts filled your ears, Seraphim’s deep voice harsh and heavy with lust. You were extremely sensitive from your orgasms, tears beginning to roll down your face at the pleasured pain wracking your body. His hand rubbed over your lower stomach, feeling his length pounding into you.

He grabbed your hand and held it to your stomach, his voice gravelly and heavy. “You feel that, pretty? I’m right here.” Feeling him through your skin had you falling over that edge once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, mouth dropping open and drool falling to the furs below you as you came hard around him.

He thrust a few more times before halting completely, filling you up with a long, low growl into your shoulder. His cum filled you, your belly distending a little with the sheer volume. Slowly he pulled out and lay you on your back, smoothing a hand over your stomach and pushing down on the bulge. You moaned out and he watched his seed gush from your gaping hole, your body trembling with exhaustion.

Your breath was ragged as you tried to steady yourself, and Seraphim dressed you just as easily as he’d disrobed you. “Can I go now?” you asked, still in a bit of a daze. His laugh shook his chest and shoulders. “No, pretty. Of course not. Your fate lies with me now.” Your brows scrunched together in confusion. “But you said…” He lifted an eyebrow. “I said you’d live if you gave me what I want. And I said I wanted you. You’re mine now, pretty.”

You resigned yourself to your fate, too exhausted to try and fight him. He lifted you in his arms and carried you out, mounting his manticore and lifting off into the sky. You rested your head against his solid chest, soaking up the warmth from his body as you drifted off. You vaguely registered Seraphim’s voice over the whipping wind. “That’s right, pretty. Rest up. You’re mine now, you’ll need all the energy you can get.” You didn’t let his words linger in your head before your mind faded to black.

#seraphim x reader #blood of zeus #seraphim #seraphim blood of zeus #seraphim boz

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bakugohoex · 3 years

Text

𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

In which Erwin chooses to take you on on an aquarium date, the closeness he feels as you both submerge yourself, hand in hand looking at all the different types of sea life.

𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒

pairings: erwin smith x reader

word count: 1900+

a/n: damn all the dates are complete, also I don’t actually advocate for like aquariums and sea life centers but it was used for the purpose of this date.

𝐆𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

He truly believed he had nothing to worry about as he left your apartment a week ago. He never thought that the stupid kids would actually think of date ideas that would make your head sway. But here he was scrolling through the group chat where all of the boys had talked about the highlight of their dates. He was the only one left, tie loose against his neck as he laid against the balcony, early morning wind rushing through his blonde locks. He had everything planned out, he’d made your date special, but you had seemed to enjoy every single one of their dates from the smallest to the biggest.

Could he ever compare to that? He pulled at his hair before sending you a time and location, the stupid photo he had of you lighting up the top of his screen. He took a heavy breath as he still had a career and life, maybe you’d found that attractive. He didn’t know but as he stressed over what suit to wear tonight you were going through your own mental breakdown.

You had been in your bed for most of the day, Erwin’s text this morning not helping to settle your nerves. One more date, one more night and then the big decision would occur, you began to stare at the unopened letters. Wanting to read them all, read the confessions that they had given to you but as you looked at the arrays of pink, your gut was aching at the stress of it all. The fear of losing them all came too sudden as your eyes watered in your empty apartment.

Through the tears you saw the framed pictures around your bedroom, having one with every single one of them in it. Eren, Jean and Armin when you guys went out for Sasha’s birthday, Reiner and Porco when the three of you went to a music festival. Levi and you after one of your late-night coffee runs having forced him to take a photo with you and the sunset and Erwin and you at a black tie event he had invited you to a couple months back. Tears disappearing as you stared at the fond memories, you’d have your memories at least.

You found yourself wearing more formal clothes, knowing that Erwin would most likely come in a suit, you wanted to match in some sense. The address had been something you knew of, a new aquarium that had just opened up. You knew that with all the hype online about how it was a hot spot for taking the family out or going on dates it was always packed. Both you and Historia having tried to get in but being pushed back out by a family, you stepped outside of the uber, thanking the man as you saw Erwin walking from the other side.

“Hey.” You waved as you opened your arms to hug him, he happily took the hug, eloping you tightly as he couldn’t help but stare at how perfect you looked.

He let go, hand lingering near your own as you moved closer to his side, “you look beautiful,” he complimented before feeling your hand wrap around his own.

“Thanks, you don’t look too bad yourself.” Your other hand moving to his suit jacket lapels, pushing them back onto his broad chest. “So what we got planned for tonight?”

“I know the owner of this place.” He paused looking up at the large building, he didn’t realise the true extent of how big the exhibit was. “He said we could have the place to ourselves.”

Your eyes widened at how he swung the keys in his other hand, “all to us.”

He nodded as he unlocked the door, putting the alarm code into the side before beckoning you in, “they’re in glass they won’t bite you.” He moved his arm on your back keeping you close beside him.

“Which way should we go first.” You ask seeing a map at different ways to go and see the sea life.

He put his hand around your eyes as he stood behind you, spinning you on your heels a couple times before making you stop. “Pick a direction.” The three options were right in front of you as you picked the option closest to the door. He let go of your eyes as you stared at the direction, still feeling dizzy as he kept you a hold.

“Don’t faint on me.” He chuckled as you swat his chest with your hand.

You give a soft giggle back, “next time you’re picking the direction.”

“Of course.” He put his hand out for you to take as you both began walking towards the entrance, walking past the doors, you both saw the glass ceiling and walls, small sharks and different types of fish and other sea life cascading around you both. Your eyes widened as Erwin had the pamphlet in his hand of different sea life, the only light coming from the ones inside the glass, blues sheltering you both. It was something so beautiful so close to home, you both moved closer towards the wall, the intricate details of the fish who swam aimlessly.

“It’s…It’s so pretty.” Your hand had moved to the glass, touching it softly as if one hard push would crack the delicate material. Erwin hadn’t realised your words had to be to the scene, all he had seen was you and you were the prettiest thing in the room.

He stepped closer to you, hand against your back as you both stared at the different types of sharks. The way the sharks moved from your side to the arched bridge on top of your heads as your eyes fixated on the shark moving from one to another. “Looks like I’ll have to compete with another thing for your affection.”

“Aww, Erwin.” You had known Erwin long enough to realise how much he hated not getting his way. He had barely known your friends, but here he was competing against them, your hand moved to grip his face, his cheek nuzzling into it as you looked up at him. “Whatever happens, we’ll always be in one another’s lives.”

“Who else could take the job of sending me messages of the definition of commonly used words?” He joked as he touched your cheek back, the urge to kiss you was prevalent, but you stepped back, putting your hand out to continue on with the rest of the scenery.

“Come on, there’s more to see.” He gladly grasps your hand, warmth engulphing him as you drag him to the next part, different types of fish in tanks as you both looked around. “…there are more than three trillion five hundred billion fish Y/n, even if they could breath on land we could win.”

“Piranha’s Erwin, they have a bloodlust for us, we’d be dead.” You chuckled as you walked past another area, you both talking about the different facts that were in the pamphlets. It was always comforting with Erwin, having met him in your first yeah when he had recently graduated himself. He had grown as a career man, ready for the future he had, he was always so smart, so perceptive but being around him, seeing a version where he had let loose around you made you smile.

“What’s got you all happy?” He asks arm around your waist as he grips you closer to his body.

You shake your head, “nothing, it’s just you, all of you this week have shown me a different side.”

“Is that a good thing?” He questions waiting to hear your reply as he takes you to a different section of the place.

“Yeah it is.” You rest your head against his arm as you both continue to walk through the exhibits. Erwin didn’t know how he felt, the closeness making him fall even more in love with you, the beauty you had capturing him in a matter of seconds. Who could resist you, who couldn’t love every part of you with those soft eyes, that smile that could melt a man and most of all that voice you had. That beautiful voice that captured him, you had to be an angel sent to him because he truly didn’t know how he had got so lucky to have met you.

“Erwin.” You softly say poke at his side, he nods getting out of his trance as you continue, “if…if you were in my position what would you do?”

He felt like the right person to ask, he may be biased but he was older with more life experiences than you ever had. “Selfishly I’d tell you to pick me, but I will always want the best for you Y/n, pick who you truly like.”

You nod as you nuzzle closer into his arm, “I really enjoyed tonight.”

“You did.”

“Yeah I liked just being around you, watching the animals and fighting over who would die first in a fish invasion.” You chuckle the last part as you both round the corner to what looked like the final area that you could both be in.

“What do you think is past those doors?” You question as both of you stand to the bleak hallway, that was in front of you.

He gives a smirk before opening it, “ladies first.”

“Pussy.” You mock as you step forward, Erwin’s hand meeting your back as he guided you through the darkness. “I can’t see anything, get your phone light out.”

He nods as you hear shuffling behind you, he puts his flashlight on as you both see glass surrounding you both, it had been exactly what it looked like from the first section. But scarier, you grabbed Erwin’s hand out of dear before he flashed the light to the side of you both, both screaming at what you saw.

A much larger shark having looked directly at the light, teeth open as if it was ready to eat you both. Erwin had seen how your breathing had been heavier, clinging onto his jacket as he grabbed your hand dragging you to the end of the corridor. His light flashing to the side as you both saw more and more scarier sharks. “Whe…When was that part of the exhibition?” You squeal as you get pushed through the doors.

Finally seeing the entrance you almost felt grateful, heavy breathing as your face felt flushed, “you screamed at sharks.”

“You screamed as well, idiot.” You controlled your breathing looking at Erwin before laughing with him, it was unexpected and a horrid thing to see at night.

He saw how you came closer to him again, hand latching in his own as you smiled at the man. “The area's lights probably got shut off.”

“Tell your friend he needs to tell people about that part.” You chuckle again lightly as Erwin looks down at your hand.

“I will.” He knew tomorrow was an important date for the two of you, looking at that twitch of your mouth to suppress another gleam. You met his eyes as you moved closer to his body, “I hope whoever you pick realises just how amazing you are.”

You didn’t meet his eyes at his unexpected words, the date had come to an end. With another perfect date occurring, the choice had still not been decided as he helped you back outside into the cold. Every one of the boys had something that you loved about them, and with a choice as hard as yours. The threat of losing them all was significant as you thought back on every single one of the dates you had and how each one of them had made you feel special.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄

#erwin smith x reader #erwin smith #attack on titan #attack on titan x reader #aot #aot x reader #snk #snk x reader #shingeki no kyoujin #shingeki no kyoujin x reader #fluff #attack on titan fluff #aot fluff #erwin smith fluff #choose your path #bakugohoex's choose your path #erwin smith x y/n

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rose7420 · 3 years

Text

Hey! I just wanted to say that I love your g/t Loki work! Would you be able to write one where Loki is living on Asgard in this cabin all by himself because he was banished? Thor brought Peter and Y/n to Asgard (but they're both small). Y/n asks about Loki and finds out what happened to him, so she sneaks off to find the cabin. Oh! Also, Loki could not like humans because of what happened with NYC, so when Y/n sneaks into the cabin, Loki finds her, but instead of the nice giant she thought she was going to meet, he acts cold towards her (causing her to cry). Then Loki's soft side comes out and he tells her to not be frightened of him :)

Cabins and Curiosity

This was a request from the lovely @lokiismyhubby who came up with an amazing prompt! Thank you so much for letting me write this for you!

Y/N was amazed by the looks of Asgard. As Thor carried Peter and her in his large hands she constantly peeked over the edge of his fingertips to see more. As she leaned over for the third time, she was quickly tugged back from a pull on her arm.

“Y/N no! You’re gonna fall if you lean over too much.” Peter exclaimed.

Y/N shook his hand off her arm and continued to lean over Thor’s hand. It was odd that Thor had not picked up on the conversation happening right in his own palms. She wondered if he could even hear them from all the way up there.

“Oh Peter I’ll be fine, don’t worr-” Y/Ns words are cut short as her grip slips from Thor’s fingertip and she rolls off the edge of his hand. Her stomach plummets and the breath leaves her lungs as she falls to the awaiting, unforgiving ground. She screams with terror and closes her eyes waiting for the dreadful, deadly impact but it never comes. She sees that she has ended up in another palm. She looks up at Thor who with very quick reflexes caught her in the nick of time.

“Little one, you gave me a heart attack. Is that what it is called on your planet? I don’t understand why it is called a heart attack. Your heart is not attacking-”

Peter cuts Thor’s outspoken thoughts off with his own worrisome thoughts. He sits in the opposite hand of her and yells across the gap.

“I told you to stay still! Are you okay?” The shock is wearing off and Y/N nods her head assuring Peter she is okay.

Thor approaches a towering door, much taller than Thor himself. He gently shifts Y/N into the hand bearing Peter and opens the door. Thor walks through the magnificent hallways lit with light from the glowing torches perched on the walls. Thor comes upon a door and enters the room. The huge bed in the middle is draped in red sheets, the same color as Thor’s cape he often wears. He deposits Peter and Y/N on the gigantic bed and kneels down to their level.

“Alright little ones, I need you both to wait here while I take care of some things.” Thor tries to keep his voice low, but it booms to her ears reminding her of his largeness. Both teenagers nod their heads and watch as Thor returns to his full height. A shiver runs down her spine but a question pops into her head.

“Where is Loki?” Y/N asks curiously. She has yet to see the God of Mischief. Thor stops in his steps and comes back to the bed, kneeling. A sad look appears on his face. “Loki was banished from the royal palace. He lives in a cabin that I know not whereof. Promise me you won’t go searching for it little one?” Thor looks into her with eyes that plead her not to go searching. Peter agrees immediately not to go near the cabin. But her curious soul yearns for adventure. Why not venture out to search for the banished prince? These desires cloud her thoughts and she quickly looks up at Thor and nods her head in agreement that she will not go looking for Loki. If only Thor knew the lie she had told right in front of his face.

Later that night, Y/N has made her way outside. She knew it was a bad idea but at the current moment, she has no care. Earlier Thor had let it slip that he actually had lied and did know where Loki lived. Mentioning a small pond, wooden cabin, and plenty of tall trees. It seemed like enough information to go off of. So she had sneaked her way out of the palace and started walking towards the sound of water. She knew she would have little luck tonight at finding the cabin but she wanted to give it a try. The grass she stood in was taller than her waist, every rock she came across seemed like a boulder to her and the sound of woodland creatures roared in her ears reminding her she was no longer at the top of the food chain. She continued to search high and low for the cabin that housed this interesting god. Her legs were becoming weary and she had brought no water or food to drink. Yet, she kept going and pushed herself to find any source of Asgardian life. As if her thoughts were answered she came upon a golden light shining through the darkness. Her knees wobbled with relief at her discovery. She climbed the great, wooden stairs and stopped at a towering, wooden door. It stretched up and up seeming to never end. However, there was a gap at the bottom where the door itself didn’t quite reach the floor. The perfect size just for her tiny form to slip through…

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

Y/N’s eyes widened at the sight of the giant’s home. Everything was out of her reach. Chairs that were higher than buildings and tables that spanned further than Central Park. Caught up in her fascination she did not notice how a great shadow cast over her, but she did notice the tremendous footstep that rattled her bones. She turned back slowly, not entirely ready to see the giant that hovered intimidatingly behind her. However, before she could fully see him, the back of her shirt was pinched cutting her air supply off. She frantically clawed at her shirt collar desperately wanting air back into her lungs. She didn’t even notice the green eyes staring with malice at their capture

“P-please sir, I can’t breathe,” Y/N said with a break in her voice, tears escaping her eyes.

“How in the nine realms did you find your way here you pathetic animal?” Loki snarled with disgust.

Y/N was terrified she couldn’t get air into her lungs and this man, who she presumed to be Loki, did not look exactly thrilled by her arrival. He shook her tiny form, increasing the pressure on her collar. Her vision started going black, with the lack of oxygen and her limbs felt weak. The darkness greeted her with pleasure willing to take her away from this horrid decision she had made.

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

Loki was infuriated and disgusted that this pathetic mortal had made its way into his home. The charms he had set after he had been banished allowed him to know of when an intruder entered into his house, or anyone of that matter. He didn’t receive very many visitors. His fury blinded him into plucking the girl off the floor with no gentleness in his touch. He heard her say something but her voice was too faint to hear, even though she was directly in front of his face. He watched as she grabbed the collar of her shirt and had asked her how she had found her way here. However, he had not expected her to go limp in his hold. His heart dropped as she went still, and he studied her for a moment before realizing her tiny chest was not moving.

He had suffocated her.

A mere child and he was killing her.

He immediately released her shirt letting her fall into his opposite palm. She landed like a ragdoll, and onto her stomach. He nudged her onto her back. Panicking, he lightly pressed a fingertip to her chest to make certain her heart still beat. A weak thumping relieved him that she was alive still. His eyes stayed glued to her chest watching for signs of life, she inhaled very shallowly, exhaling with a shaky breath. After several moments he watched as she groaned and shifted, awaking at last. Her eyes searched her surroundings then stopped upon his face. He felt her body stiffen, then as her little limbs scrambled away from him, almost off of his palm to a deathly drop. He quickly closed his hand into a fist, trapping the terrified girl inside. He could feel her hysteric fists hitting the skin of his palm. The tiny movements made his heart wrench.

He had never liked mortals but despised to see such an innocent child who had shown such curiosity at first, now to be petrified of his own person. With his fist still shut, he walked to the table. He lowered his hand down onto the wooden surface and unfurled his fingers. The tiny mortal was sobbing and holding her arms over her head, poised in a protective crouch. Guilt ran through his heart.

“Oh, little one. I am so terribly sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.”

Her cries continued and he tilted his hand slightly for her to gently slide down onto the table. She looked awfully tiny, barely reaching the height of his thumb. He noticed how she wore a thin shirt and pants, perhaps she was cold? He conjured a blanket of her size, that did not even span the entirety of his palm and lightly draped it around her shaking shoulders. The small scrap of fabric swallowed her form immensely and he watched her dainty fingers grasp at the ends to pull it tighter around herself.

She finally dared to look up at the god with red, swollen eyes studying him to see if his act of kindness was just a ruse for false hope. He allowed a small smile to show on his face, trying to gain the girl’s trust even more.

“Hello, there little one. My name is Loki, may I ask yours?” Loki whispered.

The tiny girl shook her head quickly unable to speak.

Loki took no offense to her distrust but kept speaking. “That’s okay. There’s no hurry. Please allow me to apologize for my previous actions. I meant you no harm, if I had known I was hurting you I would have stopped immediately.” He said soothingly. The girl stared back at him with wide eyes, but, they no longer held the palpable fear as they had earlier which eased his heart.

He did take notice that she was still shaking and as she attempted to stand, her legs gave out on her sending her falling onto her rear with a squeak of discomfort.

The poor thing must be exhausted.

“Are you okay little one?” Loki asked, trying his best to not scoop her up in his embrace, afraid of scaring her again.

To his surprise, she actually speaks. “C-can I have some w-water, p-please?”

“Of course give me one moment.” He conjures a cup and fills it in his sink with a droplet of water returning to give it to her, delighted that he was able to do something right.

She hesitantly takes it from his fingertips and starts gulping greedily.

How far did she come from? He thinks to himself. He knew Thor liked to bring mortals to Asgard. But for this small one to walk that far must’ve drained her completely of energy.

As he looks back at her he sees her body slowly falling to the tabletop in a sleepy daze. His heart drops thinking that she is hurt or stopped breathing again, but he sees she is unharmed and just tired.

He gingerly slides his hand under the tiny girl ferrying her to his bed to lay her on a pillow blanket and all. As he starts to slide her off his palm she lets out a cry and unconsciously clings to his pinkie with her arms. He finds the small action endearing and instead lets her off onto his chest, with her grip still on his finger. He has not the heart to pry her off, so he leaves her from be. Even when his arm cramps and becomes uncomfortable.

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

In the morning Y/N wakes up to a rising and falling platform. Heavy, loud snores interrupt her thoughts, and she turns around to find herself on the chest of no other than Loki. She gasps in astonishment that she slept on his chest for the entire night. And he had caused her no further harm. The rhythm of his breathing changes slightly, she looks up to see his green orbs looking at her. She is not as scared as she was last night but she still is wary of the god. However, she feels no ill intent from him as his hand curls around her preventing her from rolling off his body as he sits up. A loud knock interrupts their peaceful and quiet session of the morning.

“Loki, where is she? I know you must have Y/N.” Y/N recognizes it to be Thor’s voice.

“So thats your name little one. Y/N, I like it it suits you.” Loki says peering down at her with a small grin.

Y/N blushes faintly at the compliment and grips onto Loki’s fingers as he moves to open the door.

Thor stands there with a very unhappy and concerned look on his face. He immediately spots Y/N sitting in Loki’s hands.

“There you are little Y/N. You had Peter and I worried.” Thor says.

“Who is this “Peter”?” Loki questions.

Thor begins to respond but is taken off guard when a tiny head pops out of his chest pocket.

“Y/N! I was so worried! How dare you leave me!” Peter pipes up from Thor’s pocket, looking immensely tiny compared to both gods.

“Little one! Did you sneak into my pocket?” Thor asks very astonishedly.

Peter ignores Thor and starts climbing out of the pocket taking a free leap onto Loki’s palm that bears Y/N, immediately hugging her tightly.

Loki’s smooth voice rings out, “Well… what a nice reunion to have...in my hand.” he deadpans.

Peter and Y/N are oblivious to his comment only happy to see each other again.

Loki looks down at the two tiny mortals ready to hand the small ones back to Thor when he feels Y/N grasp tightly to his pinkie.

“Little one you cannot stay here, go back with my brother. He will take good care of you.” Loki assures her.

Y/N shakes her in disagreement. “B-but I wanna stay with you L-Loki. Please.”

Loki looks up from the pleading mortal to Thor who nods his head. After all he had done and she still wanted to stay with him? How could he even say no?

“Alright, and you Little Peter? Will you be staying as well?” Peter nods enthusiastically saying:” Y/N and I are inseparable, where she goes I go.”

“Well, I guess it is settled then,” Loki says gleefully, looking forward to getting to know these tiny mortals better. Y/N says nothing but looks up at him shyly, and hugs his finger even tighter.

#giant/tiny #gt #giant Loki #loki fandom #tiny reader #shrunk #small #tiny #Asgard #tiny Peter

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rosy-cheekx · 3 years

Note

from the dialogue prompts! 6: “go away” “no, not until i know you’re okay”

Oh boy this one was hard to write for whatever reason, but she’s done! just in time for us to pretend a world in which Jon or Martin’s lives are ever in real danger doesn't exist....right?

AO3 Link in source on OP

On Being Fine, Absolutely Well-Adjusted, and OK

Martin supposed he should count himself lucky. He hadn’t needed to go to the hospital after the Prentiss attack, had come out with only a few worm scars to show for it, god especially when he thought about Jon and all the worms he and Sasha had had to corkscrew out of him, his face and neck and arms and legs—

See? Martin shook his head, clearing his mind’s eye of the silver and crimson kaleidoscope. It could have been worse. He scratched at his calf, where a close trio of scars had begun to heal, skin-tight and shiny, and, at last, remembered he was supposed to be washing his hands. He was glad the unisex Archive lav didn’t have a mirror by the sink; he didn’t need a reminder of how tired he must look.

The return to work had been difficult, but not as bad as he had expected it to be. Knowing Prentiss was dead had made it easier to return home, though he had immediately spent his first pain-free day rearranging the furniture, as recommended by his therapist. (He had lied to her, of course, claimed an attempted break-in + assault had traumatized him. It wasn’t that far off from the truth, anyways.) So Martin had been spending his evenings repositioning, redecorating, cleaning; anything he could to erase Jane Prentiss and those horrid things from his mind. It wasn’t easy, and Martin still spent nights awake, hyperaware of the smallest sound of squelching or the smell of rot. But he was alive, he reminded himself at home in the mornings, concealing eye bags and trying to reassemble his appearance into some approximation of normal, and shouldn’t that be enough? He hadn’t been seriously injured, like Jon or Tim, hadn’t had to risk a lonely end save them all like Sasha. He should be the most well-adjusted of the three of them.

So why was he here, in the Archive toilet, gripping the edge of the sink so hard he might crack it?

Martin released his grip and watched his blood flow back into his fingers, flexing them. He should really go do...something. Work, probably, if Jon ever decided to stop speaking to him like he was a jigsaw with too many pieces. He splashed some water on his face and exhaled deeply. He was fine, he could-

“Oh shit!” Martin yelped as he turned to face the door into the bullpen. In the reflection at the corner of the mirror that hung on the back of the door was a shiny, squat, silver worm. “Fuckfuckfuck!” Martin cursed, backing into the door and pulling his shoe off with one hand. He patted for his beltloop, where had taken to keeping his corkscrew, and huffed to find it gone. Of course. He was trying not to be paranoid.

Picking up his shoe, he threw it at the worm, half-hidden by the rubbish bin. It bounced harmlessly—or, maybe it hit? Martin couldn’t tell. Either way, the worm moved, and that was when Martin’s vision greyed dangerously, heart leaping to his throat. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe? Why couldn’t he breathe? Was it the carbon dioxide? No. The fire alarm wasn’t going off. Martin’s thoughts raced and he desperately jiggled the door handle, only to find it turning against him. Oh god, it was her. It was-

“Martin?”

It was Jon.

“Jon? Jon, fuck, hey, don’t come in, okay? There’s a worm and I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

…is what he would have said if he could catch his breath. Instead, all he could let out was a raspy, strangled “Jon.”

“Martin, are you alright in there?” Jon’s voice was too calm, too casual for the bile rising in Martin’s throat.

“W-worm.” Martin sputtered as he heard a click of a cane through the door; probably Jon taking a step backward at the word. “Got-gotta kill it,” he babbled, more to himself than to Jon. He could try with the shoe again, but it hadn’t worked the first time, and that would leave him unprotected if he wanted to step on it.

“No! Martin, don’t-”

Oh, he could step on it. Seized in a moment of something, a peculiar blend of bravery, fear, and plain exasperation, Martin crossed the few squares of lino between him and the worm and moved to step on it with precision. To his great surprise, it rolled out from under his foot, glinting against the overhead lighting.

“What?” Martin mumbled aloud, and the realization hit him all at once: this wasn’t a worm at all. Cautiously, he picked up the metal tube and spotted a small label on the bottom. The thin silver tube contained MAC #239: Not Like Other Girls, according to the reddish-brown sticker.

“Lipstick?” Martin whispered to himself, slumping against the wall of the bathroom and letting out a relieved sob. He had been terrified of lipstick?

The realization that should have calmed him down instead sent him spiraling. Martin Blackwood wasn’t always the calm one, but he was always the shoulder to lean on. He couldn’t do this, not have a breakdown in the middle of his workplace, not with—

Tapping came from the door outside. “Martin? Do I need to break the door down?” Jon was still outside, Martin realized with a start.

“Uh-” Martin choked back a sob. “No, no, it’s alright, Jon. I’m fine.”

“You certainly are not.”

“It was just a-a bloody lipstick tube, Jon, I’m alright. Just leave me alone.” Martin shuddered a breath as he swiped at his eyes with the hem of his sweater, praying to anything and everything that for once Jon would just do as he was told.

“No.” Of course not. “Not until I know you’re okay.” Jon’s voice was softer now, a part of Martin realized. The gentleness of his tone struck Martin and he found himself shakily standing and moving to the door. Unlocking and opening it, he saw Jon, leaning heavily on the medical cane he had been given after the incident, eyes a mix of panic and concern, like the way one might eye a wounded animal. Somehow, that look managed to make Martin feel small, protected, loved, and it warmed something in him.

It was that look that broke something in him and Martin felt a taut string inside him snap loose. Tears welled up in his eyes and he desperately swiped at them with the sleeves of his sweater, leaning against the doorframe. “I feel so stupid,” he mumbled, choked laughter mixing with his tears. He held up the lipstick tube, which he had pocketed earlier, and held it up to the light. “It doesn’t even look like them, not really, I-I-I just saw the squat and silver and panicked.”

Jon’s hand was on his arm, but he was quiet, not saying anything until Martin had collected himself, heaving sobs to hiccups to shallow breathing as he brought himself to baseline again. “Martin,” Jon said quietly, flexing the fingers that held his bicep, “I know you’ve had a rough few months.” Martin scoffed. “Fine, okay, maybe rough doesn’t begin to cover it. What I mean to say is, well…” Jon’s mouth floundered for a word properly, lips forming a few different shapes before settling on, “are you, you know, getting help?”

“Yes, Jon, I’m in therapy.” Martin surprised himself with his own honesty. “But there’s not really much I can say, you know? Not without getting carted off to a sanitorium or getting doped up on meds of some kind or another. I mean, evil worms haunting my house and my workplace? A worm woman determined to kill me and everyone I care for? Not exactly something cognitive behavior therapy will fix.”

Jon sighed in assent, nodding. “That’s fair, I suppose. I just-Martin.” The hand squeezed his elbow and Martin felt a jolt of electricity run through his skin. “You’re allowed to hurt, you know?” Martin’s eyes must have given away his thoughts because Jon continued, voice soft and gentle.

“We all suffered, Martin, but you were the one who was locked in your home, and then the basement where you work, for months on end. Just because you’re not-” he shifts to wave his cane idly, “-doesn’t mean you haven’t gone through hell alongside us.” Jon’s voice has taken on a hardness to it, an insistence Martin last remembered seeing when they were locked in Document Storage together, when Jon was so afraid of being forgotten. It made Martin shiver, not from fear but from something in the way Jon’s eyes bored into him. He was determined to make Martin believe him. Who was he to refuse The Archivist’s words?

So Martin listened, letting Jon’s insistence settle in his chest. He had suffered; he had lost months of his life to Jane Prentiss, he couldn’t sleep without a fear of worms crawling into his skin and mouth at night. He didn’t feel safe until he was in the Archives at his desk, the one that surveyed the whole room and had two fire extinguishers still tucked into the drawers. As Jon spoke, Martin let his muscles relax slowly, until he was leaned up against the alcove in which the door to the toilets stood, helpless under Jon’s gaze and yet feeling the strongest he had in weeks, if not months. Tears welled in his eyes and he heard Jon hesitantly break off.

“Ah-Martin? You-ah shit, I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice had lost the severity it had previously held and was back to its quiet insistence. “I’m sorry, you-you didn’t ask for a soapbox.”

“No, no,” Martin shook his head, raking his nails through his hair. “I...I think I needed to hear that.” He smiled; a shaky, fragile thing. He scratched the back of his calf awkwardly, trying not to dislodge Jon from where he was precariously balanced between the hand on his arm and the hand on the cane. “Thank you, Jon, really.”

Jon smiled and shifted his hand from Martin’s arm to his hand, squeezing gently before releasing it and sliding the lipstick tube from his hand before turning to the bullpen. “Anytime. C’mon, let’s see if this is Sasha’s or Tim’s. I think it’s more Tim’s color, hmm?”

#jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #fanfic to a tea #cw panic attack #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic

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oonajaeadira · 2 years

Note

for the horrible asks

24, 52, 62

💜💜💜

Hello my lovely Kay. Let's see what beautiful tripwires you've laid for me. (Sorry, I got a bit wordy.)

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?

I was always best at anything that allowed for creativity, experimentation, or unconventional thought. Drama, music, art, writing, English, philosophy, lab sciences. I was absolutely horrid at anything that had to do with absolutes or memorizing set facts--math, physics, history, geography, civics. There were exceptions. "Logic" was offered as a math course and I was good at that because theoretical thinking. I loved my art history courses and had better luck memorizing names and dates because of the subject matter--apparently I dig paintings better than wars. But then, when it came to art, I never got really great at anything 2D, but let me make something you can touch and turn around in your hands and I was better. If gym can be a subject, I excelled as long as I could compete individually--I ribboned in gymnastics and swim team--but failed horribly at any team sport (not because I don't play well with others but because I developed late and was always waaaaaaay tinier than most of my classmates and got picked last and trounced).

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

I just answered this for Kitty, but I'll say no for the most part. I kind of look at life like a Plinko machine. Maybe fate wanted me to end up on the left side of the trough and dropped me over that side of the board. But I bounce through all of the pegs of the weird choices in my life and suddenly I'm over on the right side. If I had bounced of one particular peg differently, I might have ended up on the left...or not! It might have bounced me to another peg that would maybe lead to the same path later.

There are certain events that sucked in my life--like the time I got fired from SAG for a stupid mistake while I was living in LA. It really really hurt at the time. But if I'd kept that job, I would have loved it and lived in denial about the shitty relationship I was in and I would have stayed longer in a life that was killing my heart. Being let go gave me reason to examine things, and ultimately come back to where I belonged and have a life that's so much better. Did it happen because I something knew I needed to come back to Minnesota and feed my art? I don't think so. But in the end, that was the silver lining. And the lining ended up clearing the entire storm.

62: What makes you happy?

Heh. Well. You asked.

Telling stories about human things. Being present during a really good meal. The beautiful things that humans create with their own hands. Watching/aiding an artist to succeed and find pride in themself. Watching my talented friends use their hearts to make wonderful things. Museums. Autumn. Traveling. Animals, but mostly red pandas and anything that is small, furry, round, or awkward. Solving a problem with creativity. I could list a dozen or more very specific meals from specific restaurants. The one week of the year that the lilac hedges bloom in my yard. The way my SO fills out a t-shirt (he is also broad of shoulders and chest) and the way he smells and his damn big hands. Pedro Pascal being the biggest sweetheart and goofball and talented effer on the planet. Playing a really quirky role in a really weird play. Having a calm and respectful conversation with my father. Playing a good board/card/dice game with friends. Getting off a plane and having someone waiting for me. Comfortable silences. Solitary silences. Silences with sun and breezes. A really nice fitting pair of dark jeans and my high-top Vans. Embroidery. Writing. Walking around a new city but feeling right at home. First coffee of the day and iced coffee in summer and Mexican mocha in the winter. The baked goods my BFF makes for me. The way my elderly dog still hops in joy, but only with her front feet. My heater fan and down blanket and wool socks. Directing a cast that all get along and are voracious to create something wonderful. Touching/moving other people with my writing/art. My sister's Christmas cookies. Witchy aesthetic. Mystical aesthetic. Wes Anderson aesthetic. Good horror films. Animated films. 80's pop culture/music/fantasy films. Stickers. When people are happy and they cry. The capacity of the human heart to feel wonder, joy, sorrow. The little things. The big things. Our very good luck to experience life. Life.

Living a life makes me happy.

70 Horrible Questions

#ask games

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astrohawritings · 3 years

Text

Help, Araminta

∆ Fluff

∆ Sanha is badly injured

∆ First piece of Writing after a while (I've had exams and I've been trying to prepare for those) Apologies if it's not up to my usual standard!

∆ 1.3K words

∆ Sanha x Araminta (I gave MC a name, feel free to input your own!)

∆ I saw the prompt on Instagram originally, but it came from here!

Araminta lived in a house upon a mountain. Araminta walked with a slightly menacing stride. Araminta always made sure her face was fixed with a rather terrifying glare every time she went out, even to fetch the mail. Araminta was someone people avoided as much as they could. Araminta was someone who could make another shiver with fear by simply breathing in their direction.

Araminta was the villain.

Or so she was thought to be. The truth?

Araminta was a sweet woman with a heart of gold. She regularly took care of animals that ventured up the mountain to her home. Dogs, cats, goats, the odd horse, they were all welcomed with open arms by Araminta. But where Araminta succeeded with animals, she failed spectacularly with humans.

You see, Araminta was a lonely woman. But she preferred it that way. Since a child, she struggled with social anxiety, the thoughts of ' God, why did I do it that way' nagging at her mind every moment she was awake.

It didn't matter how long ago it'd happened, the thoughts drifted in and out as she fell asleep at night, and as she awoke in the morning's golden glow.

Which was part of the reason why, when one particularly uninteresting day, as the sun reached the edge of the sky, far above the mountain, Araminta thought of hiding from the source of the knock on her door. But her curiosity was stronger, as was her desire to interact with another person. So she fixed her face with her usual menacing glare and yanked the door open. Within a second of opening the heavy door, she gasped, reaching an arm out to wrap around the forearm of the person standing opposite her.

'...Didn't know where to go...' The man mumbled, tilting his head up slightly to look at the woman. He hissed sharply, before mumbling again, '...Can you help me..?'

The man closed his eyes tightly, face screwed up into a grimace. One arm was wrapped around his mid-section, as one would if they had a horrid stomach ache.

Araminta lead him to the couch she had been resting on moments prior. Helping him lay down, Araminta gave him a visual once-over.

Blood, both fresh and dried stained his arms and shirt which was torn in places. Small cuts and the early signs of bruises littered the tanned skin of his cheeks. The tinges of red surrounding his left eye told Araminta that he had likely been punched in the eye and that he would have one hell of a black eye the next day. With a soft sigh, Araminta pulled his stained shirt away from his chest, peeking at the wounds underneath. She quickly prepared a cotton swab with disinfectant, lifting the material and swiping it gently over the fresh wounds. She flinched at the hisses that escaped the young man, his jaw clenched tightly and hands in fists by his sides.

'Sorry~' She mumbled, glancing at the bloodied swab for a split second before setting it to the side and preparing another one, repeating her previous actions. She then ripped open a dressing and taped it over a laceration.

Her eyes flicked back and forth from her hands to the man's face to gage his reactions. 'So, Sanha,' she began softly, moving away to place the used materials into a rubbish bag. 'What in the good heavens happened for you to be carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey?'

Sanha chuckled between short breaths, grimacing at the pain that followed the sudden change in breathing. 'Just a little fight.'

'You're one of the best fighters in the village.' Araminta responded almost immediately. Despite her secluded living situation, she knew of Sanha's reputation.

Before he could respond, Araminta had begun to clean the wounds on his arms, dressing the ones that needed to be dressed. Sanha could only lay still, eyes shut tightly as if it would lower the level of pain spreading across his body. After what seemed like ages for Sanha, she stepped back, wiping her hands off with a wet wipe. Setting some painkillers down beside him, she set about cleaning up, putting the kit back into its place and tying the bag off and setting it aside. 'Okay. You can rest here for a bit. Do you plan to go back down the mountain this evening, or will you stay here?'

Sanha groaned softly, exhaling his answer. 'Can I stay tonight? I'd rather not aggravate my injuries again.'

Araminta nodded. 'I'll call the village and let them know you're here.' She picked up the bag and left the room, putting it by the back door and fetching a glass of water for Sanha. She set it down beside him, heading for the landline on a side table nearby. She sat down, punching in the number of the village's office.

'Hello, Mayor Lin's office. This is Mindy speaking, how may I help you?' The call was answered quickly, with a secretary confidently reciting the few lines. Araminta cleared her throat.

'Hello, this is Araminta speaking,' she paused as Mindy greeted her and asked how she was. 'Good, good. Listen, I'm calling to let you know that Sanha is in my house. He was very injured, but I've treated him. I'll send him back tomorrow.' Having passed the message on, Araminta said her good-byes and hung up, sinking back into the chair. She silently watched Sanha rest, not daring to disturb the quiet that had descended upon the room. For a moment, she thought he'd drifted off when..

'Araminta?' Came Sanha's deep voice. 'Are you still there?'

'Yeah,' She answered, shifting in her chair, leather creaking under her weight.

'Thank you. I was a little worried about annoying you, but I knew I wouldn't be able to make it home.'

'You're not annoying me. How come you were fighting up here? And why, if I may ask.'

'We didn't want to fight in the village. We'd get in trouble, I guess?' Sanha mumbled. 'And it wasn't anything much. This guy was just being disrespectful. I had enough.'

'Hm.' Came Araminta's reply. Silence settled over them again, and soon both fell asleep where they were.

Sanha awoke the next morning, to the almost blinding sunlight reflecting off the snow and into the living room. Araminta was in the kitchen, fixing something for Sanha to eat when he woke up. She walked back in, smiling faintly as she noticed he was awake.

Setting a plate down, she moved to sit down again. 'I've already eaten,' She spoke, almost sensing his concerns before he raised them. 'Eat up; I'm going to take you down to the village soon. It would help if you got your wounds properly treated.' Sanha nodded, doing as she said.

It wasn't long before Sanha was hobbling down the worn path bordered by lights, leaning heavily on Araminta's shoulder. She gently held his hand in one of hers, staring at the ground ahead, scanning for any dangers. The trip passed quickly, with no events and eventually, the voices of those living in the village filtered up the mountain. A few people were standing by the entrance to the path, chatting idly between them.

'Sanha!' One called, and Araminta recognised him as Junha, Sanha's older brother and an nurse in the hospital. She shifted Sanha's weight onto Junha's shoulder and smiled faintly, waving to him before turning to begin her trek back up the mountain. Sanha looked back, starting to say something, then deciding against it. As the two moved in separate directions, both knew that it would likely be a while before they met again, though it wasn't for lack of trying - well, on Sanha's part anyway. He knew that as soon as he was released from the ward, he'd trek up the mountain if only to tell Araminta that he was okay; to show how quickly he had healed.

With that in mind, he sped up his hobbled pace, wanting to get to the ward quicker, so that he could leave quicker. He knew that it wouldn't happen like that, but he didn't much care.

He had found that the villain wasn't so bad, and he wanted to know more. And, perhaps, one day, the rest of the village would know too.

#yoon sanha x reader #arohanet #astrohawritings #astro #astro imagines #writeblr #astro kpop #yoon sanha #sanha #sanha x reader #park jinwoo #kim myungjun #jinjin #mj #astro moonbin #masterlist #cha eunwoo #astro sanha

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shenanigans-and-imagines · 3 years

Note

Thanks, I'm sorry I'm a minor but I love monster au's, so what about a captain rex Werewolf au where the reader has to calm Rex down so he can transform back to human

A/N: Don’t apologize! Monster AUs should be for everyone. Next year I’ll make sure to make a PG option, that was my bad. Also, I decided to put this more in a fantasy setting than Star Wars, so, there’s that.

You didn’t know what happened. One minute you were walking with Rex the next you were pushed to the ground as three wolves jumped into the clearing.

You barely got your bearings before Rex transformed before your eyes. His clothes tore away as he grew in size. You could hear the bones of his body crack and bend. He fell on all fours. His grunts of pain turned to growls until finally a piercing howl echoed into the night.

He had told you about his werewolf nature. You had even seen him transform, but you always knew it was him behind the elongated limbs and yellow eyes. Now, you weren’t so sure.

He set upon the wolves like the beast he always warned you about. He was much larger, and more humanoid, using his extra reach and strength to swipe at the snarling animals.

You stared in horrid fascination at the violent dance. Teeth and blood and claws blurred across your vision. The wolves quickly discovered they had underestimated their prey. Some tries to get away, but Rex stayed at them until they whimpered for mercy.

Somehow their cried broke you out of your spell as you finally found your voice.

“Rex.”

He turned to you. His teeth were bare, with the marks of blood staining his muzzle.

The distraction was enough. The wolves turned tail and ran into the dark of the forest.

Rex spun towards them, making like he was about to run after them.

“Rex!” you shouted.

He looked to you again, his agitation growing at the lost of his prey. Still, the wildness in his eyes had lessened somewhat.

Cautiously, you reached out your hand.

He cocked his head, his nose sniffing the air.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you did not lower your hand.

He crept towards you. The light of the moon illuminated the clearing, giving you a perfect view of his blood stained claws and massive frame.

You should have been afraid. You had ever right to be. But, his body language was that of a scared dog waiting to see if their owner would yell at them.

He finally came close enough you could feel his warm breath on your hand.

Taking a chance, you leaned forward and touched his nose.

Rex leaned forward into your touch. A low rumble of content came from his chest.

You came closer, eventually wrapping your arms around his neck.

You didn’t know how long you held him, but slowly, you felt him shrink beneath your touch.

The fur disappeared. Cracks and growls turned to soft groans and gentle breathing.

Human hands wrapped them around you as a human voice whispered in your ear.

“Are you alright,” Rex asked.

You pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. A small smile came to your lips. Honey brown, just like they were supposed to be.

“I’m fine,” you assured. “Are you?”

He nodded, but the way he averted his eyes told you differently.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s part of who you are,” you said, gently. “You never have to apologize to me for that.”

He shook his head. “No. I shouldn’t have lost control like that. I could have hurt you.”

“Those wolves could have hurt me too. Personally, I trust you over them.”

“This isn’t a joke, Y/N.”

“Does it sound like I’m laughing?”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Y/N...”

“No,” you cut off. “I’m not going to have you apologize for saving both our lives. And I’m not going to have you angsting about “putting me in danger” or where ever you’re planning to take this conversation until you at least put on some pants.”

He looked down, his face morphing into deep embarrassment as he realize his state of undress.

Without thinking, you took the cape around your shoulders and offered it to him.

He took it gratefully, his ears still red as he wrapped it around himself.

“Fine, but we’re finishing this discussion when we get home,” he said, roughly. He moved to stand, but he soon stumbled as he body was still healing from the transformation.

You were by his side in a second, holding him upright.

“Y/N...”

“Don’t start,” you said, sharply. “Let’s get you home.”

Rex raised an eyebrow, but quickly decided it wasn’t the time or the place.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You nodded in acknowledgement. Sometimes werewolves could be so stubborn, but then again so were you.

#star wars #the clone wars #captain rex #captain rex x reader #the clone wars imagine #star wars imagine #werewolf au

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angelictaehyun · 4 years

Text

PAIRING: guardian angel!taehyun x fem!reader

GENRE: guardian angel au, soulmate au, fluff, angst

WC. 8,400+

WARNINGS: major character(s) illness, minor alcohol usage, mild language

SYNOPSIS: Kang Taehyun, a sassy, young guardian angel, didn’t think anyone could be more of an absolute mess… boy, was he mistaken.

PART ONE || PART TWO || INTERLUDE || PART THREE

taehyun was right, something you didn’t care much to admit.

you absolutely adored kai.

if you searched “lovable younger brother” in a dictionary, no doubt kai’s picture would appear beside the definition. he was childish, a bit odd, sweet as honey, and outstandingly attentive. the dynamic was quite different with him. he was just as protective and loving as taehyun, but there was a complete lack of emotional attachment.

you found it refreshing.

with taehyun, it was almost like you were drawn to each other both physically and mentally as if a string were pulling you together. the longer you remained apart, the more you hurt, but you hid it as best as possible— kai was bright and bubbly, you didn’t like the idea of him seeing anything less than that.

you fiddled with the fabric of your blanket, mind full of incoherent thoughts, while kai engrossed himself with the movie on the television screen. lately, you often found yourself like this— detached and numb. however, if there was one person to reel you back from the empty feeling, it was kai. you watched him with a fond smile. you were thankful for the young boy, just being in his high-spirited presence, seeing his smile, hearing his obnoxiously loud laugh... it made things hurt just a little less.

“hey, kai?”

he turned his head slightly but kept his eyes glued to the screen, “yeah, what’s up?”

“i think i’m going to turn in, i’m getting sleepy,” you mumbled quietly.

your cracked, dull voice didn’t slip past him. he was concerned of course, but you were hesitant to let him in, to let down your barriers. he sighed to himself before giving you his full attention along with a soft smile, “okay. goodnight y/n, sweet dreams.”

“sweet dreams,” you repeated.

“actually wait, y/n. uh, i just wanted to tell you that i know i’m not him... but i’m always here to talk if you want,” he stated shyly. you felt guilty. you wanted to let him in, really, but everything hurt all the time and you just didn’t have the energy. he didn’t know how much you wanted to talk to him, to cry on his shoulder, to eat copious amounts of ice cream with him, but you were hesitant. hesitant and very much in pain, both mentally and physically.

you simply nodded your head in acknowledgment and gave a soft smile before making your way to your bedroom. you climbed into your bed and wrapped a plush quilt around your feverishly warm body which contrasted the cold, empty bed. you clutched onto a plushie and tried to drive away the negative thoughts, but to no avail, they plagued your mind once again.

just forget about him, he’s never coming back.

you laid there, fiddling with the sheets beneath you, hesitant to fall asleep. lately, you absolutely despised sleeping. your unconscious mind enjoyed playing cruel tricks on you, constantly making you dream of taehyun. the dreams mocked you, reminded you that he would never come home. you hated the moments right after waking up. for a few minutes, you were able to lay in bed, believing everything was alright, that there was no heartbreak or loss. you missed being held by him, having his warmth beside you as he played with your hair and hummed a sweet melody. it never failed to lull you to sleep— his touch was always soothing.

you both came such a long way.

going against every bone in your body, you squeezed your eyes shut and let yourself indulge in the memory of the first time he ever held you close.

taehyun sat on your bedroom floor, irritated and resentful, as you turned on high school musical for the fourth time in the span of thirty-six hours. he narrowed his eyes and flashed you an exhausted, disgusted gaze but you failed to notice, your head easily hidden in the mountain of plushies, tear-stained tissues, and blankets on your bed. you had an annoying habit of mumbling along to the movie and singing— more like yelling— along to the musical numbers. you had the vocal abilities of a brick and he promised himself that if he had to listen to your off-key, horrid singing one more time, he would tear his beloved wings out. he settled himself on the edge of your bed, picking away at the stuffed animals and blankets surrounding you.

“y/n... talk to me. please,” he begged. he was hoping to distract you from the movie and forcing you to speak was the only way he truly knew how.

you paused the movie and snapped, “leave me alone.”

“see, here’s the thing. i can’t exactly ‘leave you alone’ since it’s quite literally my job to constantly be by your side,” he reminded you smugly. you peaked your head out from under the blankets and threw him a lethal glare. he threw his hands up and surrendered, “fine. have it your way. can you at least move over so i can watch too?”

you sighed before unwrapping yourself from your makeshift blanket burrito and scooting to the side. you sat shoulder to shoulder as an awkward silence fell over the room. he inhaled sharply and glanced at your expectantly but not before mentally preparing himself for your random musical outbursts.

“well, what are you waiting for? ...press play.”

if there was anything worse than your singing, it was your crying and boy, were you doing a lot of crying... you were always a sucker for romantic movies. you clutched your hands to your chest, happy tears spilling over as the ending credits rolled. though, you were quickly brought out of your post-movie haze as you felt light taps on your head. you slowly turned to the side to see taehyun awkwardly patting you, his amusing but unhelpful way of comforting you.

yeah... this doesn’t seem right, he thought to himself.

he retracted his hand only to hesitantly circle his arm around your shoulder and pull you into him. you immediately tensed yet you didn’t pull away, the reasoning beyond you. you adored how he smelled like sweet cinnamon and gingerbread; you did your best to ignore the way his scent made your heart flutter. he cringed to himself before squeezing you tighter— he wasn’t much for physical affection. god, the things he did for this job.

you opened your eyes and shook your head fondly at the memory, a humorless laugh escaping your lips— it was amusing how awkward and hesitant you both were. you tried conjuring more memories but your tired eyes fluttered shut and your mind went blank. in that moment, a dull ache manifested in your chest but you paid no mind, sleep washing over you quickly.

· ──────────────────── ·

the following morning, you woke not to the soft sunlight streaming through the window, but to the sharp pain in your lungs which encroached on your ability to breathe. you gripped your pillow harshly and let out a muffled sob, attempting to relieve some of the pain. unfortunately, this had become a common development, so you tried your best to ignore the pain and hide it, especially in front of kai. you didn’t want to worry his pretty head, especially when telling him wouldn’t relieve any of the pain, it would just make the both of you miserable. you slowly rolled out of bed, trudging into your bathroom to wash your face. you wanted to maintain some semblance of normalcy, it kept you grounded and your mind off of taehyun. you found the pain usually subsided the longer the day went on, so you did your best to cope.

you tried ignoring kai’s heinously loud snores as you trudged out the front door. his body was curled up on the wooden flooring of your living room, hidden underneath his iridescent wings as if it were a substitute blanket. you glanced at his bedroom, which was less than six feet away, and sighed. his ability to sleep anywhere was amusing, though a bit concerning.

lately, kai had taken a liking, though you would argue obsession, to cold brew. it was partially your fault though, your caffeine dependency had exponentially increased, consequently rubbing off on him. being the good older sister you were, plus the fact that once again, you woke up at an ungodly hour, you decided to run a few errands and pick up coffee for you both before he woke up.

you dragged your exhausted body into the nearby café, the scent of java and freshly baked goods waking you up instantly. beomgyu stood behind the counter, a sunny smile already plastered on his face as if he were waiting for you.

“ah, you’re late! i was starting to worry i wouldn’t get to see my favorite customer today,” he mused, a cheeky grin appearing on his stunning features. that handsome face and lively personality reeled in a lot of tips, you just knew it. though, he reserved his extra friendly smile for you, or at least that’s what he told you. seeing you, an old friend from high school, was always a highlight of his shift. you were one of the few reasons he enjoyed working the morning rush.

before you could comprehend his statement, he continued, “same order, right?”

you gave him a half-hearted smile and nodded, hesitant to speak as you feared your hoarse, sleep-filled voice would betray you. he flashed you a small wink and turned around. he danced behind the counter, humming to himself quietly as he made your iced coffee. he was always so full of energy, even in grade school— age didn’t change that fact. you watched as he gracefully poured sweet cream into your cup, the coffee turning light brown— just the way you liked it.

“y/n.”

you admired the way the milk cascaded down the plastic cup and blended with the coffee. it distracted you from the ache in your chest.

“y/n,” beomgyu repeated, snapping his nimble fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. you were so embarrassed.

“oh god, i’m sorry, i wasn’t paying much attention.”

“hm, i could tell,” he chuckled softly, a silvery sound you always loved hearing. he handed you the coffee and scanned the cafe before discretely sliding a sugary pastry across the counter. you tried protesting but he didn’t budge, shutting you down instantly.

“hush. lately, you’ve been out of it... ever since that boy left. trust me, i get it,” he sympathized, flashing you an understanding smile.

“thank you,” you muttered sheepishly, accepting the warm cookie.

“mhm, don’t mention it, it’s my job as a friend to make sure you’re well-fed and you’re looking a bit under the weather. i’ll see you later this week, yeah?”

you nodded softly, “of course.”

when you stepped outside, you stared at the bright sky and let the sun warm your skin, happily relishing the moment. you didn’t know much about angels, save for the fact that they exist, but you liked to think taehyun sat perched on a cloud and watched over you.

when you arrived home, the scent of burnt food was the first thing you were greeted with. dirty dishes were splayed out across your kitchen island and bits of pancake batter stuck to the walls. a nervous kai stood in front of the stove, attempting to not burn another pancake and easily failing. you set the coffee on the countertop and sighed, “kai, what are you doing?”

“hey! y/n! wow, you’re back so soon! how was the café?” he asked, hoping he could steer clear of the upcoming scolding but much like the pancakes, failing miserably. you didn’t answer his question, rather you studied the messy room, eyes instantly landing on an unused fire extinguisher. your eyebrows lifted curiously.

“... just in case,” he explained. he shrunk in on himself and shifted uncomfortably. he didn’t want to upset you, especially not when you were heartbroken. you nodded your head understandingly, chuckling to yourself as you began preparing a bowl of pancake batter.

he seemed stunned, “you... don’t seem mad at me...”

“ah, you were just trying to make us a nice breakfast! why do you think i’d be mad?”

“oh... i don’t know, i just thought you’d be upset,” he mumbled softly. in response, you smiled mischievously before dipping a finger into the batter and swiping a bit on his nose. he grinned in return, taking his own handful and splattering it on your cheek.

“oh, you’re definitely gonna pay for that,” you challenge.

he stood on his tip-toes and stuck his tongue out childishly, “you’re going to have to reach me first.”

you both giggled and played until there was more pancake on your clothes than on the stove. he might have been a couple centuries old but he had such a young and active spirit. his smile was outstandingly bright and it brought you so much joy. because of him, for the first time in a long while, your smile was genuine and you couldn’t feel any pain.

· ──────────────────── ·

you were quite wrong.

taehyun wasn’t sat atop a cloud. instead, he was curled up on soobin’s old couch with a scorching fever. he shook violently, the pain overwhelming him, but all he could focus on was the thought of you. he thought about your crinkly eyes when you laughed at one of his stupid jokes, the small bites you took from your food and the way you insisted it helped you savor the food when really you were just picky. he thought about the way you always clutched onto his shirt when he kissed you, the way you couldn’t help but sob at a sad commercial, and the way you would try to hide your blush when he flirted with you. though, the thought that occupied his mind the most was your vibrant smile. god, your smile. it was art. it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he’d seen the world; he’d been alive during the renaissance but he thought your smile outdid any piece. he would’ve done anything to see it again. the thought of you broke his heart, shattered him into little pieces, but he couldn’t stop.

he groaned in agony, grasping at the seams of the nearest pillow. soobin watched the younger from the opposite side of the room, a worried expression painted across his face, “jesus tae, what the hell is wrong with you?”

taehyun ignored the question, the dull ache in his head muffled the older’s voice anyways.

“you’ve been like this for months, this is not a normal breakup,” soobin continued. it was true, ever since he left you, his health had been deteriorating to the point where soobin knew this wasn’t just heartbreak, it was something beyond that. taehyun wondered how you were faring, he hoped you were doing better than him. he was clueless, the only thing soobin told him was that you were a little under the weather— understatement of the decade.

“bub, something is seriously wrong. angels shouldn’t get this sick. you need help. i’m sure someone will know what to do,” soobin assured hopefully. the older shook his head helplessly, his mind trying to run through all the potential reasonings for the sickness. he hated seeing taehyun this way.

taehyun might not have known much, but he knew what would at least quell the pain. though selfish, something an angel should never be, he knew he had to see you.

· ──────────────────── ·

your condition went to shit almost overnight.

kai had tried everything: tea, warm baths, herbs, all sorts of therapeutic techniques, and every single medication on the planet. none of it helped in the slightest. the pain which had started in your chest had spread downward, running from your ribs to your lower extremities. your sickness was working it’s way out, slowly overtaking your body, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. even the doctors couldn’t find a solution. while kai spent most of his time frantically scrounging for new healing techniques and medication, he was often found right beside you, attached at the hip— something you hadn’t experienced since taehyun. kai always held your hair back when you puked, wrapped you in blankets when you shivered, and prepared soup for you when your throat was sore— albeit the food was near inedible. he was the perfect guardian angel. he loved you so much, he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost you.

kai was out, once again, fetching a random medication that he didn’t even think would work, but he told himself it was better than nothing. it pained him to leave you alone, but he knew he had to try. you, on the other hand, made a beeline for the wine bottle you kept hidden in the back of your pantry, the second kai shut the front door. you liked to think you were handling your heartbreak well, or at least masked it flawlessly. looking back on your breakup with yeonjun, you scolded yourself for handling it so childishly. with taehyun, though not necessarily a normal breakup per se, it was far more unbearable yet you handled it... maturely. or at least that’s what you told yourself. you plastered on a false facade of normalcy, keeping everything bottled up, ignoring the little voice in your head that told you this was an unhealthy way to cope. but looking at the bright side, at least you were functioning and there wasn’t a disgusting pile of used tissues growing beside your bed.

this particular night was the only time, for just a few freeing minutes, you didn’t hurt. the pain subsided and was pushed to the back of your mind— all thanks to the light buzz of the alcohol. you stood on your small balcony, wine glass in hand, staring out into the cold darkness of the night. your mind was a bit fuzzy and despite the frigidness of the air, you felt warm.

“taehyunie... i miss you so much,” you giggled to yourself. not often you called him by that nickname but you knew he secretly loved it. you leaned carelessly against the edge of your balcony and looked to the heavens, mumbling taehyun’s name until you were shouting. a part of you hoped that repeatedly calling his name into the darkness of the night would bring him back to you— much like the bloody mary tactic.

you closed your eyes and tried again, “taehyun!”

your mind was too fuzzy to acknowledge the glow burning beside you. before you could comprehend the situation, a hand was roughly tugging you away from the balcony. you were instantly pressed against the glass door behind you, the wine bottle getting ripped from your hands easily. your vision was blurry but the second his figure came back into view, your vision became clear as day. taehyun stood in front of you, as beautiful as always, but noticeably paler and thinner— even his wings lost their captivating glow.

“jesus y/n, are you trying to wake the entire apartment complex, what are you doing?”

his presence was immediately sobering.

you were at a complete loss of words, too stunned by his presence to speak. he hovered over you protectively which eased your mind and heart. he stood so close to you, practically sharing the same air. it was unbelievable. you slowly brought your hand up to his face, too scared to move any faster in fear that he might vanish into thin air. maybe this was a lovely fever dream, but the way he let out a shaky breath and wrapped his hand around your small wrist told you otherwise. he was finally with you, his home, after so many weeks apart.

you threw your arms around his neck and gasped, “i can’t believe it worked.”

he immediately wrapped his strong arms around your frame and breathed you in. he missed your warm hugs, the way you always smelled like lavender and fabric softener, and he especially missed the way you fit perfectly in his arms like he was meant to hold you. holding you was like holding a piece of his heart. he rested his chin on the crown of your head, closing his eyes momentarily before opening them once more and shaking his head, “wait, wait, what worked?”

“oh! i called your name until you appeared.”

he tucked a couple of loose strands of hair behind your ear and cooed, “silly girl, that’s not how it works.”

a light blush painted your cheeks, a bit embarrassed for thinking that was the reason he came. he chuckled softly and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before continuing, “i was already on my way here, i just needed to make sure you were okay. but i don’t have long, soobin will notice i’m gone.”

you nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking in and stinging. he brushed one hand against your cheeks, tracing over your cheekbone lightly while his other hand gripped your waist, “let me kiss you.”

his bluntness shocked you but you didn’t shy away. his eyes flitted around your face, wanting to capture every detail before he kissed you. when he finally leaned in and pressed his plush lips on yours, it felt like oxygen returning to your lungs after holding your breath for so long. the sounds of the cars driving below, people chatting amongst themselves, airplanes flying above— it was all silenced, the only thing that mattered was him. all he could feel, see, touch, breathe... it was all you. the unspoken finality settled in the space around you, telling you it would be your last kiss. you didn’t notice the tears slowly streaming down your face until you tasted salt on your lips, but that didn’t stop him, if anything it drove him to kiss you deeper.

he wanted to kiss all the tears and pain away.

he pulled away to wipe his thumbs under your eyes, catching the loose tears as they fell uncontrollably. he didn’t fare much better as his vision became blurry but he tried to hold it in as best as possible. you clutched onto his shirt and let reality sink in, both acknowledging that this would be the last time in each other’s touch. your cheeks were puffy and flushed red. he couldn’t help but smile— your raw beauty was enchanting.

“i love you. i’ll always love you,” you whispered, voice hoarse from the crying. he wiped the tears from your cheeks. you leaned into his touch wanting to savor every second.

“you are the love of my life. i might not be by your side anymore, but one day, i will be. i know it. i’ll come back to you and we’ll be together again. i promise you i’ll never lose hope,” he declared, pressing a long kiss to your forehead.

“please don’t go. please. just stay with me,” you begged, desperately grabbing his hands in a final plea.

“babygirl, i have to go, i shouldn’t be here,” he whispered softly. he hated hurting you. he absolutely hated himself for it, for having to leave you. your body racked with sobs as he pressed a final kiss to your lips, “goodbye, my love.”

and in a flash of light, he was gone.

your hands grabbed at nothing but air. you stared ahead at the lively city beneath you, a stark contrast to the dead, lonely emptiness you felt. his sweet cinnamon scent still lingered in the air around you and you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to relish in the last bit of him you’d ever get. unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long as a searing pain shot through your body causing you to double over in pain, the white behind your eyes quickly turning black.

· ──────────────────── ·

the harsh fluorescent lighting cast down upon you in the most unpleasant manner as you groggily woke from your deep slumber. your eyes trained on the ceiling above you which was littered with old water stains and peeled paint. your mind ran wild with frantic thoughts but was quickly silenced by a pain shooting down your left arm. the cardiac monitor beside you mirrored the panic you felt, the tempo of your heartbeat increasing with each rushed thought and you suddenly became increasingly aware of the needle stuck in your arm and the rough sheets scratching your bare legs.

“hey, y/n, shh everything is alright. you’re in the hospital,” a familiar voice explained.

you craned your neck towards the sound, wincing from the dull ache in your neck. your vision was a bit hazy but you could still see the outline of a thin boy sitting on the hospital bed beside you.

“don’t move too much, you’re pretty bruised up,” he continued.

you quickly distinguished the soothing, deep voice, “... beomgyu?”

“hi princess. shh, don’t strain your voice, you’ve been out for a couple days now. you need some water,” he stated softly and you could hear the concern laced in his voice. your vision sharped, landing on his bright yellow sweater. he stood out like a sore thumb, especially considering the drabness of the hospital.

“beom, what are you doing here?”

“ah, i’m your guardian angel of course! i have to watch over you,” he joked cheekily.

your eyes practically bulged out of your head and you were left at a loss of words, no, this can’t be real.

“... jeez y/n, i’m kidding. obviously, angels don’t exist,” he clarified, scrunching his nose concerningly. you flashed him a small smile and mustered up a nervous laugh in response. if he noticed any hesitancy from you, he didn’t mention it.

“right... anyways, i’m here because you haven’t shown up at the café in a few days and also i’m your emergency contact. remember?”

your mind flashed back to a very blurry night, where both of you made silly promises and spilled drunken confessions. you were fighting with yeonjun, yet again, and you ran to beomgyu’s apartment crying. he comforted you with alcohol, ice cream, and poorly plotted movies. you both felt alone, having only each other to rely on, so you both made a pact to always be there for each other. step one was making each other your emergency contacts, though, you didn’t quite get to step two, considering you both passed out on his living room floor.

“... huh, that was so long ago,” you mumbled.

“yeah, you’re telling me, thank god yeonjun’s ass is out of your life, i still can’t believe he cheated on you,” he grumbled angrily. you simply hummed in agreeance.

silence filled the room as both of you reminisced on old times. a part of you wished you could go back, and though you fought with yeonjun quite a bit, it was far less painful than what you experienced now. you tried to ignore the sadness, letting your eyes study the environment. the room was cramped but homey, the warm sunshine that streamed through the windows reflected off the white walls comfortingly. the hospital floor you were on was quite high up, the sky seemed closer to you than usual. you let a soft sigh escape your lips as you watched a puffy cloud float by. your thoughts ran loose again but the one thought that stood out the most was about him— the boy you had lost. muffled sounds traveled through your ears but you didn’t process them until beomgyu called your name.

“... and y/n, you’re pretty lucky, i think that boy of yours came back! you’re totally right, he’s really cute. he’s been attached to your side but i think he’s out talking to the doctor right now,” beomgyu rambled on.

his statement captured your full attention. your heart fluttered at the thought of taehyun being back by your side. you eagerly shifted your gaze towards the door, awaiting his return, completely ignoring the throbbing ache at the nape of your neck. your vision was still blurred but you were able to distinguish the tall, lanky frame of a boy trudging through the door.

“oh! perfect timing, here he is!”

“y/n!” the boy excitedly shouted. kai’s voice was unmistakable and you despised the way your heart dropped, just slightly. he’d been your rock for the past couple months. you were unfair, even now, when all kai did was diligently watch over you and love you. he hovered over your injured body, grabbing your hand to hold against his chest. you could see the obvious glint of worry in his eyes, he truly did care for you.

“you’re okay...” kai whispered softly. he sat on the edge of your bed and circled his thumbs over your hands soothingly. he turned to face beomgyu, “hey, thanks for watching over her while i was out, i appreciate it.”

beomgyu wasn’t blind. he knew this wasn’t the boy who broke your heart, the boy that would never come back. he watched your body deflate when kai stepped into the room, hope leaving your body. he flashed kai a cheery yet guilty smile, “yeah of course! y/n and i go way back, i’ll always look out for her.”

kai directed his attention back to you, noting the slight confusion and panic you held despite being around people you loved and cared for. he nodded his head understandingly, “two nights ago, i came home to find you unconscious on your balcony. your body was so cold but for some reason, your forehead was really hot. i brought your here for testing but the doctor can’t find anything wrong with you. they said your brain activity and vitals are normal, not to mention the fact that you have shown no physical symptoms. i tried to convince them to keep you here so they can monitor you but they’re sending you home.”

your body relaxed as you processed the information. your illness, whatever it was, didn’t concern you as much as it should have. it’s not that you didn’t care but the gravity of your situation hadn’t fully settled in. your physical appearance, though sickly and pale, fared much better in comparison to your internal health. your lungs were caving in on itself and your heart was becoming significantly weaker. you never got better, only worse, and kai blamed himself. he knew something was off yet he kept his distance, not wanting to upset you. he didn’t know that his efforts were a waste and nothing he did would help.

kai shuffled around the small room and let you sleep once more but you couldn’t. instead, you kept your eyes shut and listened to the easy, casual banter between the two boys, both forming an instant connection. it warmed your dying heart. you so badly wished you could be that person for kai— a reliable friend, a confidant. even though he was the guardian angel, you did your best to look out for him as he did you, you just preferred doing it from a safe distance. he treated you like family, like an older sister, but your relationship arguably should’ve been a lot closer for the time you spent together. you pushed him away and built unnecessary walls, and what was the point? your heart was heavy but it wasn’t from your illness nor was it from the heartbreak you felt— it was from the guilt of shutting out the one person that loved you unconditionally.

after a few hours of faux sleep and trying to contain your smile from the sound of the boy’s muffled laughter, you were discharged and brought home. kai insisted on carrying you from the car, up the stairs, and into your warm bed, refusing to leave your side for even a split second. if you moved, he would follow you around the apartment like a lost puppy. it was heartwarming, the amount of compassion a single soul could carry. yes, kai was an angel, but his ability to love and empathize was beyond any supernatural explanation— it was just the way he was built.

he sat beside you and wrapped you tightly in a blanket, “are you feeling any better? do you want anything? i can go make us some snacks if you want.”

you softly smiled and shook your head, “no, it’s alright. i think i just want to rest. maybe i’ll get some homework out of the way or i’ll just go back to sleep.”

the thought was quickly retracted when something lodged in your throat, coughing only worsening the feeling. kai rushed to grab a towel and watched helplessly as you hacked into the soft fabric, rubbing your back in an attempt to comfort you. when you pulled away, both pairs of eyes directed to the blood splattered across the towel, though before either one of you could react, a white-hot pain overwhelmed your body. your heaved breathes struggled to escape your lips but your agonized scream didn’t. you clutched onto his t-shirt before collapsing into his lap, knocking out cold.

· ──────────────────── ·

after six panic-filled calls with kai, soobin frantically paced around his house— a nice perk of being an elder angel with a lack of guardianship duties. honestly, his job description was pretty vague. he spent most of his time wandering the earth and enjoying the beauty it had to offer. he didn’t have to watch over a human, rather, he watched over younger angels, making sure they performed their jobs correctly, and on the rare occasion, having to strip wings if an angel went buck wild and succumbed to sin.

taehyun’s symptoms were less severe due to his supernatural status— the effects of illness would manifest slower. sure, there were a few times he did nothing but writhe in agony... but it wasn’t as often as you. he was more or less deteriorating from the outside, the illness working its way in. he was concerningly pale and what once was smooth, hydrated skin was now dry. the rosy, soft lips he used to kiss you with were now severely chapped but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. it was rare that taehyun slept, even with you. he preferred to watch over you, stroking your hair and pressing kisses along your shoulders while you dreamt, but lately, he’d been so drained of energy and all he could do was sleep.

soobin watched the younger curl up and shiver despite being under three wool blankets. something about this specific situation seemed oddly familiar to soobin— the way both you and taehyun were deteriorating at an alarming rate. the sickness worked oppositely amongst the two of you, his illness painfully manifesting exteriorly and working its way in versus your illness which began internally. similarly, your pain stemmed from the torso and worked its way to your extremities while his began in his limbs and worked its way up to his chest. it was the same disease but it worked inversely, and soobin, for the love of god, could not pinpoint why he felt like he’d seen this before.

soobin hesitantly made his way onto his back patio, wanting the younger to sleep in peace. the chill air was refreshing especially with taehyun’s rising body temperature warming the living room, making it insufferable. he plopped onto his old, rickety rocking chair and closed his eyes, drowning out everything but the bird’s chirping. the wind lightly brushed against his skin comfortingly and he welcomed the gentle touch. it was calming, the way the leaves rustled amongst the golden sky— he wished the world was always this peaceful and serene. a small brush against his ankles revived him from his near-sleep state. when he peered down, there was nothing but the wooden boards under his feet but he swore he felt a distinct touch. a lightbulb flickered in his mind.

“oh shit.”

as if the world was falling apart, he scrambled back into his house, realizing the familiarity of the situation.

“taehyun, taehyun, you need to wake up,” he shook aggressively. taehyun didn’t budge, instead, he let out a small, annoyed grunt of acknowledgment. soobin continued, “taehyun, you need to get up. i know why you’re sick.”

the declaration seemed to wake the younger but he didn’t display much enthusiasm due to his unabated exhaustion. he cautiously opened one eye and grumbled as if that sufficed as a good response.

soobin scratched the back of his neck and continued nervously, “um, well, you see... you’re... soulmates.”

taehyun slowly sat up and leaned against his elbows, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. he shook his head, he’s kidding, right?

“no, i’m being completely serious,” soobin deadpanned as if he could read the younger’s thoughts.

“fine, humor me.”

“god, it was such a long time ago, but when i was young, i went to a beach. wait. no, it was the woods. yeah, the woods because there was a willow tree. anyways, it was windy and—”

taehyun quickly cut him off, “bin, you’re rambling and not making any sense.”

soobin inhaled deeply, regaining his thoughts before starting again, “okay, when i was younger, i came across an old, prophetic-like scripture. it told a story of soulmates that were separated from each other and because they weren’t together, their physical and mental state deteriorated. uh, there was also something off about the ending... it was pretty wack. it kind of warned me about another set of soulmates... i don’t really know how to explain it, but i think you and her are the next set.”

taehyun audibly scoffed. a bewildered expression covered his face as he eyed the older as if he weren’t in his right mind.

“hyung... soulmates... hate to break it to you, but they... don’t exist,” taehyun tried explaining slowly, hoping his pace would make soobin understand.

“aiya, stop talking to me like i’m a child. i didn’t believe it either but it makes sense. you both have this weird, mysterious illness that’s only getting worse but the only time you felt a bit better was when you saw her a few weeks ago. and yeah, before you say anything, i know about that. you’re the worst at lying.”

taehyun deflated into the couch but not before a harsh coughing fit. his lungs felt so restricted and the air felt thinner.

“hyung, i think i’m dying,” he stated weakly.

“no shit.”

the entirety of this situation crushed soobin. one of his oldest friends, the young boy that loved him like a brother, was dying. it was so painful to watch but he didn’t feel helpless anymore, he knew exactly what to do.

“get up. let’s go see y/n.”

taehyun perked up, just slightly, his energy too drained he could barely move. the older dragged him off the couch and wrapped a wing around the sick boy, trying to keep his shivering, weak body warm.

· ──────────────────── ·

much like soobin, kai was frantically pacing back and forth when the oldest dragged taehyun’s limp body through your front door. sunshine streamed through your windows, brightening the room yet everything felt dull as if all the life and energy in the room were slowly seeping out of the apartment.

“um, she’s in her room,” kai mumbled worriedly.

just from that small interaction, taehyun could see how scared the youngest was, how much he loved and cared for you. he felt grateful and indebted to kai; he was so glad that you had someone like kai watching over you, especially if he was unable to. with little energy, taehyun trudged to your room, the other two boys following closely behind. he opened the door slowly, heart absolutely shattering when his eyes landed on your pale and gaunt frame. he could’ve sworn he could see droplets of dried blood at the corners of your mouth. though as ill as you seemed, he couldn’t help the swell of love and energy that surged through his chest now that he was breathing the same air as you. he practically ran to your bed and enveloped your smaller frame in his. he wrapped his arms around your waist and breathed in the lovely lavender scent he’d grown so fond of.

the other boys coughed lightly, feeling a bit like they had stumbled in on a personal moment. taehyun paid no mind to them though, especially not when you looked so beautiful sleeping. he lightly nudged your arm to wake you but when you didn’t move, he peered down at you concerningly.

“hyung, she hasn’t woken up in the past five hours and i’ve tried everything. the only thing i know is that she’s breathing,” kai clarified.

he was right. you were still breathing but it was so faint and shallow, he shed a tear. you were so lifeless and his heart skipped a beat when you took a bit longer than usual to inhale.

“she’s dying,” taehyun whispered to no one in particular. he pulled you against his chest tightly in a weak attempt to warm your frigid body. he stroked your hair and weakly hummed a sweet song, something he always did when you slept.

“bin, why isn’t she waking up? i’m right next to her, i’m holding her in my arms like i always do... she should be awake,” he sobbed. he felt like he was on the brink of insanity, having you so close yet so far. once again, soobin stood helplessly and picked at his fingers nervously. he really had no idea what to do. he thought that being with you would fix everything but it didn’t.

kai spoked up first after a few moments of painful silence, “hyung, i think you need to lose your wings.”

soobin and taehyun glanced at each other before throwing kai a confused look, both intelligently questioning, “... huh?”

“think about it, it makes sense. you might physically be next to her but you can’t truly be with her while you have your wings. with them, you’ll always have something standing between the two of you,” kai explained diligently. soobin stood dumbfounded, the cogs in his mind turning exceptionally slow.

“i think... he’s right. aw, when did you get so smart, huh?” soobin cheekily asked, ruffling the youngest boy’s hair. kai brushed his hand away playfully, blushing softly at the newfound attention.

taehyun felt your body temperature drop and he wrapped you firmly in a quilt. “take them. i don’t want them anyways, not if it means a life without her,” he whispered.

“tae, it’s not that easy, your wings can’t just be taken away in a snap, there’s a process for this. it’s all very... bureaucratic. an elder angel has to approve,” soobin explained softly, not wanting to upset the younger.

“well, it’s a good thing you’re practically ancient, heck, you were alive to have a crush on cleopatra,” kai joked, trying his best to lighten up the somber mood.

“wait, kai has a point. you’re like, a thousand years old, and you’ve been an elder angel for a couple of centuries now. this isn’t some random case of an angel gone wild, the both of us will actually die. please soobin,” taehyun begged shamelessly. the desperate plea broke soobin’s heart.

“you’ll be mortal again, an average human... you’ll die one day,” soobin reminded while slowly inching towards the bed. taehyun glanced down at your sleeping figure, tracing his large hand over your arm. he understood the cost but he didn’t care. he’d been ready to give up his wings long before he met you, but now he had a reason. he brushed the wisps of your hair away from your forehead before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss.

he looked at the two boys. taehyun thought they looked scared, maybe hurt, or maybe both. he flashed them an apologetic smile but truth be told, he didn’t feel sorry, especially not when it came to being with you. he took a deep breath and sighed, preparing himself for what was about to come.

“do it.”

to be frank, it hurt a lot more than it should’ve, but that was to be expected from an inexperienced elder angel. taehyun felt every single agonizing second of his wings disintegrating to nothing but dust, the only thing grounding him was the thought of you. he clutched onto your body as if you would ease his pain, but in some ways, you did. he entwined his hands with yours and buried his face in the crook of your neck as the pain grew increasingly worse. though still unconscious, your breaths grew rapid, matching his, like you were experiencing the same aching pain as him. when his wings were fully gone, soobin and kai shared the same pained expression— they had lost their brother, but the idea of taehyun’s happiness did much to quell their hurt. taehyun smiled to himself, feeling free after so long, and entangled his legs with yours. he pressed his lips to the back of your head softly before a familiar darkness washed over him, gently lulling him to sleep.

“he’ll be okay... right,” kai asked, his worried expression growing more concerned with each fleeting second.

“yeah bub, he’ll be fine. both of them will be. they have each other,” soobin gently confirmed. he circled an arm around kai’s shoulder and ruffled his hair affectionately.

“you did good, kai.”

· ──────────────────── ·

you woke up first with a dull ache between your shoulder blades and a warm body pressed against your back. you remained oblivious to his presence, your mind trying to reel in the events that occurred before you fell unconscious. the pain in your chest was practically gone and you felt lighter as if a weight had been lifted off of you.

it wasn’t until he slightly stirred behind you that you realized his presence, the familiar scent of cinnamon and nutmeg suddenly overwhelming your senses. you were scared to turn around, you almost believed it was another realistic fever dream but your instincts told you otherwise. when you looked at him, he was still asleep, his beautiful features softened by the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. you nearly shed a tear as you delicately traced a finger down his sharp jawline, fearing he would dissipate into thin air at even the slightest bit of pressure. he seemed livelier. his skin was clear and glowing, the apples of his cheeks were painted pink, and his overall appearance seemed healthier.

his eyes fluttered open, your gentle touches peacefully waking him up. immediately, a deep sigh of relief escaped from his lips. you weren’t just some beautiful dream; he was finally next to you, his home. you didn’t say a word but judging from your trembling lips, you couldn’t even if you wanted. your mind ran rampant but all you could think about was how you were back in his arms. you didn’t notice the tears falling until you felt the pillow beneath you dampen. he pulled you into his chest and threaded his hands through your hair, pressing gentle kisses along your forehead. your walls broke and you sobbed into his chest, overwhelmed with the grief of losing him but also with the joy of being back in his arms.

“it’s been so hard, tae. it’s been so hard without you.”

he closed his eyes and sighed, “oh baby, i know. but i’m here now and i’m never going to leave you again. i promise.”

you ran your hand along his back, stopping when you hit the area where the base of his wings usually started. even when he hid his wings, there were still two visible slits that sat between his shoulder blades, but you could neither see nor feel them anymore. you tensed and swallowed harshly, “um, where are they... where are your wings?”

you already knew the answer but his answer still shocked you.

“they’re gone... i’m not an angel anymore, but please don’t worry, i promise you i’ve wanted to be human for so long. it’s just, because of you, i finally had a good reason to give them up.” he meant every word he said. for the first time in his life, he felt free and unhindered. as an angel, he was able to see the world, meet new people and he loved it but he’d been alive for so long and as much as he truly loved caring for others, he felt lost, almost hopeless. at least until he met you.

you were confused and left with a lot of questions but you didn’t quite know what to say. he wanted to answer all of your questions but he’d gone so long without your lips on his so he leaned down to press a gentle kiss. you let a soft sigh escape, the feeling of his touch after so long was both relieving and comforting. he soothingly ran his hand along your waist, the other threading through your hair. there were so many things left unspoken but the kiss was able to say it all. when he pulled away, you were left breathless and dazed. he kept his face hovered over yours and his eyes shut, wanting to savor the moment.

“i love you,” you whispered.

he missed hearing you say those sweet words. his hand gripped your waist and he shyly smiled, “i love you too.”

honestly, you’d miss his wings, though the more you thought about it, they symbolized his immortality and his inability to truly be yours.

“so... i guess this makes you a fallen angel,” you hummed.

“i guess so since i’ve fallen for you,” he mused cheekily. you lightly pushed his shoulder, his corniness making you cringe, but you couldn’t help the obvious blush that dusted your cheeks. he chuckled softly, entwining your hands once more and pressing a light kiss to your temple. you smiled at him, realizing you were granted a second chance— a bright, wonderful future where you could grow old with him.

“i’m home,” he whispered against your skin. you let out a content sigh as you curled into his chest and closed your eyes, listening to his steady, human heartbeat.

what a beautiful way to begin the rest of your lives together.

#taehyun x reader #taehyun scenarios #taehyun imagines #txt x reader #txt imagines #txt fanfic #txt scenarios #kang taehyun #taehyun #tomorrow x together

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heli0s-writes · 4 years

Text

Good Enough

Summary: From this ask: i read your deadcrush miniseries and ig i got caught in the feels and love the way you write 💛 i was wondering if you could write something bucky x y/n where she’s younger but they’re in a stable relationship and she becomes pregnant? like she‘s happy and excited but bucky is kinda worried bc of his genes, past, etc.

A/N: So sorry this took like five months! 2.5k words. Fluff with a little cussing involved.

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

“How do you feel about the color orange?”

It’s a Friday night in the tower, almost bedtime when you embark of a journey of questions, carefully placed breadcrumbs for Bucky.

“I feel… fine?”

“Light orange or dark orange?”

“What’s dark orange look like? A dirty penny?”

“Light orange it is.” You scrunch your nose at the thought of painting a room the shade he’s imagining.

“What for?”

You shrug.

When you both brush your teeth, you take glance at him in the mirror, eyes trailing from his brow to his chin, attentive to the way his nose slopes and his jaw cuts. Jesus, you’d be lucky if--

Bucky mutters from behind a mouthful of toothpaste suds, “What is it?”

After four years it makes sense that he would be able to figure out when you’re keeping thoughts to yourself. He’s in your head, Bucky Barnes. Even when he’s not there, you’re thinking of him. Every second of the day, really. It’s Bucky breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all other hours, too. It makes you a little bewildered with joy that you can feel so much for a single person.

Even before he kissed you at the end of that horrid mission--- when you nearly drowned in some lake in Scotland. He had plunged into the murky depths, arm gushing blood, yanked you up onto shore and performed CPR. Your ribs nearly broke and Sam was by his side, head in his hands. Get up, get up, get up, goddamn it!

With a final two-handed press into your chest where the slightest bit of crunching could be heard, you spat. Two mouthfuls of foggy blue-green right into his face.

FUCK!

Sam sighed in relief, leaning back with his hands on his waist because if you hadn’t woken up, he thought, Bucky would have burned down the entire country.

I think--- another sputter as you attempted to catch your breath—the fucking Loch Ness monster--- fuck. I think I saw that shit.

Blinking the prickling from your eyes, you struggled to see clearly from the swelling of your lids. Your sternum felt bruised, and in front of you, Bucky looked about ready to burst into tears.

You got a little—haha—my spit—on your face.

He snarled and you reeled back in response. He snarled and shoved you back into the mud and kissed you until you coughed again into his mouth, a final splash dowsing a blazing moment.

Sam looked away with a grin and spoke into his earpiece, updating the rest of the team of your status. She’s up. Well—sort of. Barnes is kind of all over her.

Even before that moment, your head had been swimming with all thoughts of him along with desperate attempts to drive them away—make them small and unseen so you don’t trail behind him like a lovesick idiot.

He was the damn Winter Soldier. He was a legend and you were just a loud-mouthed kid, only twenty.

You had been rough around the edges, needing a lot of preparation and training before you could run any missions. There was a lot of difficulty at first, especially when it came to Steve. You were always too clumsy, too brash, not enough pirouettes and cartwheels. Whatever.

So, after days of doing nothing but getting scolded and running simulations alone with FRIDAY, Steve dragged Bucky into the weight room where you were throwing a seventy-pound medicine ball around like it was a can of soup.

Punch her. Steve had commanded with a smirk, a little irritated that earlier in the day you kicked his legs out underneath his shield. Punch her with your arm.

You almost shit yourself. And Bucky looked like he could have, too. It took a lot of yelling from Steve, yelling back from Bucky, and incomprehensible yelling from you before Bucky was so overwhelmed with the noise that he just did it.

That powerful arm pulled back, whirred, launched itself forward and you had bat it away like a ping pong ball, feet grounded assertively. Wide blue eyes pierced you, made your heart leap into your mouth, and when he did it again you were so struck by him it hit square in your chest.

Steve clapped his hands together. Great. Meet your new training buddy. You two rough each other up—Buck, you get her right because she’s inconsistent and I’ve got her signed up for a patrol three weeks out.

As Steve promised, three weeks later, you were crammed into a tiny car next to Bucky. The second his shoulder rubbed against yours, you found yourself thinking that you were either going to have his baby, or you were going to die alone.

It was a joke, to start, but you really had it bad, finding yourself more anxious and fearful, and covering it up with smart quips and comments in hopes of throwing him off.

Barnes, you get The Avengers Ass Award from me, Cap be damned.

Absurd bantering during jogs together when he would stop to pull his hair back and you were struggling to keep up. Your spine tingled when a strand of hair fell forward and hung over his face. Bucky are you from Tennessee ‘cause you’re the only ten-I-see.

He would laugh and wink, call you baby, and egg you on because kids are inexplicable, and Peter Parker’s twitter feed had opened his eyes to all sorts of compliments used in the modern age between friends.

Yeah, you would grin, totally, friends. Me and you, totally, definitely, friends.

Eight months later, Scotland turned the whole thing sideways.

Yeah. We all knew. Y’all are stupid-cute. Sam had snickered. In your ear through the comm link were cheers and whooping. Bucky turned red like the cut on his arm.

“What about green? How do you feel about green?”

“You’re doin’ the thing again.” His comment borders on annoyed as he gives you a sideways glance, throwing his toothbrush back in the cup with a tinny clink.

“What thing?”

“Pretending you’re deaf.”

“Okay...” You smirk, “but what about green? You like green?”

He scoffs, moves so that he’s behind you and swings both arms around to lock over your middle. His chin rests on your shoulder, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your cheek. Once again, you’re reminded of just how much you adore him. Your tummy flutters with nerves as his eyes find yours in the glass, big and curious.

“What’s goin on with you? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Tell me what you’re thinking.

The fallout of Scotland lingered awkwardly after the plane ride when he rushed back to his room taking long strides and not giving you another glance. He didn’t even have the courage to look at you—only facing the side wall, tucked himself behind the button panel.

Two weeks passed before you cornered him in his own room and spoke those words that would eventually become an integral part of your relationship.

Tell me what you’re thinking, Bucky. If it was a mistake, tell me. If it wasn’t, tell me. You’ve been avoiding me and look—Barnes, I want your goddamn babies, but c’mon. You gotta throw me a bone, I’m shit at reading signs.

There was a strange look in his eye, an overcast sweep staring at his hands clenched together tightly, and for the first time in a long time he didn’t laugh at your jokes. The plates whirred to his left, the knuckles turned bone white on his right. You opened your mouth silently. Three breaths passed before you pushed him up against the wall, using all your strength to peel his hands away.

Then, a kiss. The softest of kisses you could give another human being. Because he was made of memories and regret—pieced back together in the form of Bucky Barnes as fragile as a glass menagerie. You didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking again—it was all over his face: He wasn’t good enough. He was a broken thing. You deserved better. Someone your age, maybe someone who could give you a different life.

So, as you had always done, you bat it away and grabbed him by the face. The second kiss had bruised you both. Sam didn’t let either of you live down matching cut lips for a month.

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask quietly, ignoring Bucky’s question as you snuggle up next to him in bed.

“Darlin’… I’m tired. Either tell me what it is, or lemme go to sleep.”

You pout and ram your forehead into his arm childishly, “Just tell me!” Usually he thinks it’s cute when you act like this, but tonight he’s had enough of it. He calls your name in a low tone, the same kind of voice Steve uses when you’ve been too nonchalant with mission orders.

In the dark, you grip onto his hand and press your cheek against his arm, commanding your throbbing heart to still just for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to Clint’s place last year?”

“For Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. And he—he had some of Laura’s family over?”

“And that wretched green bean casserole?”

You laugh a little, swallow thickly, “Remember after dessert when I asked to hold the baby?”

Bucky pauses, digs around in his brain for the moment, “Yeah—you said it was ugly and…”

The lamp on the end-table floods the room orange as Bucky sits up and peers down at you still attached to his elbow. There is recognition in his eyes and suddenly he looks his age—pallid, gaunt, and so deeply afraid. You can only manage a tiny lopsided tug of your lips.

“Are you?” He asks, voice shaking.

You wring your hands nervously, shut your eyes, and hope that when they open Bucky’s expression would change from pained to elated.

“Shit, baby. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Okay, guess you’re not taking it well.” Your face burns with embarrassment before the heat falls into your stomach like stones. It should have been a moment of bliss—when the man you love would scoop you up into his arms and spin you around while confetti flakes sprinkles from the sky. Then, fireworks, shot by Iron Man would spell Baby Barnes! in the background.

Instead, Bucky looks like he might die on the spot.

He can’t help but feel so worthless, because he hardly feels like he deserves you most days, much less face the thought of bringing an entire person into the world. A child. An innocent. And him—unworthy of goodness.

He chokes, “Baby, I—the, fuck. I can’t give this kid—” He sputters and groans, throws his head back against the wall and you think you might hear the plaster cracking behind his skull. Your face twists into a look of irritation.

“You better not say what I think you’re going to say.”

He looks up, shocked, then quickly ashamed.

I can’t give you the life that you deserve. You’re… you’ve got better options than me. You deserve to be with someone your age.

Four months after the near-drowning and the most perfect, sweetest, kiss. Four months after telling you he would love you, Bucky pulled away in the middle of the night and shut himself out of his own future. You had laughed, and then cried, and then let him have his way. Okay. Yeah, if you really think so.

The next week, Tony threw a party for the new SHIELD recruits and you had gotten extremely drunk off eight mouthfuls of whiskey. Across the room was one very expensive Japanese vase, standing five feet tall and gaping at the ceiling.

The recruit next to you watched in awe as you tossed all empty shot-glasses clear over the heads of seventy people and they crashed into the chasm of the urn, hand up dramatically as if you were making a 3-pointer. Steph Curry with the shot, boy!

Tony sent Bucky a contemptuous look and mouthed fix this the same time the young man’s arm snaked around your waist. Then, you clasped your hand over his with a wolfish grin and waltzed with him out of the room.

Bucky stormed after, snatching you off the recruit who was happily kissing you against the wall. Bucky scowled, squared his shoulders and demanded to know what you were thinking.

With a wide and slow sweep of your outstretched hand, you bowed, teetering just a little.

Buck, you said I deserved better. Here it is. Its name is Henderson.

Bucky pointed at the agent, suddenly caught in the middle of a quarrel he never intended on seeing. The Winter Soldier, looking like he could level the floor, and you, just as strong, glaring back matching his ferocity. You think this … boy –a condescending scoff sent Henderson shrinking down-- could give you better?

He’s my age! Wasn’t that your suggestion? Hey! Henderson, you can give me ‘better’, right? Go grind on each other at a club like us kids do? Make-out in public and dry-hump in the car before fucking all night at your place? Or hey--- let’s fuck all night right here! Do you know—Henderson, do you know whose room is two doors away from mine?

Henderson had been smart enough to sneak away before he could see Bucky press you up against the wall and latch his mouth onto yours. Tears were streaming down your face, way before your tirade had finished. It poured and dripped and wet the front of both your shirts. Bucky Barnes, you’re full of--

He didn’t let you finish. He held your face and wiped your tears. He kissed you again for the last first time, rekindling the fire he had been trying to extinguish.

It would burn, Bucky thought then, until you chose to leave him, because he wasn’t going to leave you again.

“Say it to me again.” You hiss, “Try me.”

“Baby…”

You crawl on top, grab his face with one hand and squeeze until his cheeks mush up and his mouth hangs open. “Don’t be so fucking self-deprecating! I don’t like it! You’re being mean to my Bucky and I’m gonna beat you up because I love him!”

“Un--- o—okay- hon, leggo—” the words escape him pinched together, but you are stubborn. You hold on longer, glare at him harder until he lets out a long-suffering sigh, relenting with a smile—still crushed by your thumb.

Happily, you give him a kiss on the cheek and let go. Bucky rubs his jaw where your fingerprints feel like they might bruise more than just his ego.

A tentative look at your belly, still smooth and firm. His hand finds the plane of it, fingers brushing the skin and over newly forming goosebumps. A surprising amount of excitement flutters in his own at the thought. It’d be good. A good baby. Made up of him and you, and the love you’ve fostered in him, too.

“Mmm, so… green?” You mutter, leaning down to kiss him once more. “How do you feel about green?”

Bucky laughs into your mouth. Defeated. Elated.

“Yeah. Green’s good, honey. Green’s good.”

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95 @typicalangel @wretchedgoddess @readeity @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya @geeksareunique @wildefire @satanxklaus @jhangelface0523

#marvel #mcu #fanfiction #reader x bucky #reader x bucky barnes #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #reader insert #fluff #bucky barnes x you

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phykios · 3 years

Text

the marble king, part 10 [read on ao3]

His wife had taken ill, a statement that was simultaneously the best and worst one Percy had ever thought up in his short, eventful life. It was the best, because of the simple fact that Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter was his wife. At night they shared a bed, and during the day they shared each other’s company. Though she did not love him, and had only married him in a bid to, rather ironically, retain her freedom, she wished for him to stay at her side, and he was blessed with her presence in turn.

Yet it was also the worst, because Annabeth, the love of his life, had taken ill.

He worried for her constantly; her pain was his pain, and the thought of something happening to her was simply unthinkable. Consumed with anxiety, he did what he always had done since they had been children, and he was overwhelmed by the magnitude of his own feelings. When he found her throwing up over the side of the boat for the fourth morning in a row, he swallowed his fears, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“The sea never used to affect you this strongly.” Percy teased, even as he rubbed at her back. “What would all the other shieldmaidens say if they could see you now?”

She only groaned in response. He offered his handkerchief as she made to whip her mouth on her cloak. Once she was cleaned, she exhaled, leaning against him.

“And to think, your father told me your family was descended from an Aesir sea god,” Percy continued, offering his own sea strength to steady her.

“Vanir,” Annabeth said. “We are descended from a Vanir god, who in turn was descended from a sea god.” Percy only had the vaguest idea of what that meant, based on Alejandra’s stories, but he so loved to hear her correcting him once more, even when she was feeling poorly, for it meant she was still herself.

“Regardless, the sea flows through your veins, Anja,” he jested, tone light. Many of these northern words felt odd in his mouth, but he loved to speak her given name. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“That neither Frey nor Njord were gods of motherhood,” she moaned.

His thoughts stuttering, he frowned at her for several long seconds. “Motherhood? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything, phykios.” She groaned, her head resting on his shoulder, and her hand going to her stomach.

Like fog dissolving in the morning sun, the meaning came to him, quickly and suddenly. But surely it could not be so; they’d only laid together once.

Gently, terrifyingly, he placed his hand on top of hers, over her belly. He could not sense a difference through her clothes. “You are pregnant?” Percy whispered. He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

“Yes.”

Percy felt tears prick his eyes. Were he less in control of his feelings, he would have taken her by the hand, lifted her up, and spun her around in elation. “You are with child?”

“I am,” she confirmed. Pulling back from him a bit, she looked at him, eyes keen and discerning. “Do you mind?” Her words were mild, yet in her tone, he could sense just the barest hint of trepidation, of fear of disapproval.

“Mind!” He laughed, a few of his tears escaping. “Of course not!”

Energy surging through his limbs, he nearly stood up and began to dance. Annabeth, his wife, his truest companion from his earliest days, pregnant with his child! They were to have a family together! How could he not be so elated, when this was every dream of his come true?

But then, he then realized, while children had been his most secret desire, it had not, necessarily, been hers. It had not even been the point of their marriage. Annabeth had married him for freedom from; to be trapped in motherhood, tied down with a child, may have been the very thing she hoped to avoid. “Are,” he swallowed, suddenly afraid, “are you very displeased?”

“Displeased? I…” She held his gaze for a long moment, looking on him with wide, uncertain eyes, and then shook her head. “No. As long as you are not unhappy, then neither am I.”

“I am happy,” he said quickly. “I am very, very happy. Ever since dear, sweet Esther was born, I always imagined myself to be a father one day. I simply thought it would be impossible.” Demigod lives, particularly those of his more immediate, more powerful peers, were short and bright and violent--to say nothing of his financial situation. As well, there was that fact that he had had a difficult time dreaming of children who had not been mothered by Annabeth.

“So you are not upset,” she asked again, seeking confirmation.

“I am most certainly not upset,” he promised her.

He was ecstatic. His whole self felt lighter, happier, better than it had in years, and not just since the fall of their city, but several years before that, at least. Annabeth, his wife, his great love, building a family with him… it had been a dream far too fragile to speak of. And now it had come true.

Her unsure expression, however, caused him to temper his outward reflection. Just as he opened his mouth to question if she required anything, she once again leaned over the edge of the boat, and vomited into the sea below.

“There, there,” he said, rubbing at her back, making sure to keep her cloak and dress, billowing in the wind, out of the way so it would not get dirty. “Come, sit.” he said, after she had caught her breath, submitting to his guiding her to a bench. “Can I get you anything?”

She waved off his offer, eyes closed against the salt spray. “These are normal parts of pregnancy, I am given to understand. When I spoke with the cook at my cousin’s house, her warnings made me fear it would be worse than it has been.”

His jaw dropped. “You knew before we left your family?”

She glanced at him, a little scathing. “A woman knows these things, Percy.”

Of that, he had no doubt--but that was not the issue here. “It cannot be safe for you to travel like this.” His earlier fear gripped him, curling cold fingers around his heart. He looked out at the sea around them, the breadth of his father’s domain now transformed into a dark, terrible labyrinth, where dangers lurked about every corner. “You should not have left your cousin’s house.”

“You were going to leave me there,” she accused.

“No, I--” he began to argue, before cutting himself off. She was correct, of course, though not for the reasons she assumed, and sadly, there was no good manner in which he could explain why, not without divulging all the secrets of his heart, and causing her more discomfort. “I wanted--I want you to have as happy and comfortable and challenging a life as possible. I had thought you would find that among your family and the politics of the Kalmar Union, but, I swear, if you had told me of the baby, I would have chosen differently.”

Happily he would have tolerated the strange food and horrid climates of Svealand forever for her sake, for his family’s sake. He thought once again of the parade of little girls dressed as Saint Lucy, then imagined his own daughter, with Annabeth’s blonde curls and grey eyes, joining it. His heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“We are not so far from your family, and a long way off from Italy,” he said. It would be a simple enough task for him--he did not even have to inform the captain. “We can still turn back, so you might have your confinement and give birth in all comfort.” Her father and Magnus would want nothing more than to take care of her in her condition, and she would far more likely welcome their concern than his.

“We are going to Italy,” she said, mouth set.

“But if you are unwell--”

“I am fine,” she snapped. “We are going to Italy, and there we shall have our child. Does that thought upset you?”

So caught off guard by her tone, he almost missed the most delightful and pleasing combination of words to ever exist: our child . His and Annabeth’s child. The most precious gift he had ever received, the dream of a lifetime.

“It does not,” he said, though he could not entirely quiet his internal concern. “If it is what you wish-- what you truly wish--then we shall continue on to Venice.”

They held each other’s gazes for a moment longer, imparting such thoughts and feelings as neither of them could understand. Then she smiled, beautiful, yet somehow sad. “Surely,” she said, “you wish to raise your child on the shores of your father’s sea.”

She knew him far too well, for he could not deny the appeal.

Then, all of a sudden, he was gripped by an overwhelming fear: Annabeth was with child . Even the most formidable fighter could only do so much while burdened with carrying another life. He remembered how his mother, heavy with little Esther, struggled to walk to and from the local market. What if they should come across another band of cruel bandits? What if she should hurt herself on the road to Italy, or if Percy should find himself injured or ill, unable to help her or protect her?

Seemingly from nowhere, a small bundle of white fur appeared at their feet, and the little cat jumped up beside them, giving a perfunctory sniff to the fabric of Annabeth’s dress before climbing on top of her, pressing her paws back and forth on her thigh the way Percy’s mother used to prepare her bread. Satisfied, then, she walked in a circle before settling down for her midmorning nap, tucking her paws beneath her body.

Admittedly, Percy had been somewhat skeptical of the cat, which Annabeth had taken to calling “Freya.” He liked animals, cats as well as dogs equally, and cats did seem to take a special liking to him. He remembered fondly the many cats of Constantinople following him after a hard day’s work, looking up with expectant eyes as they sweetly begged for part of his daily catch, then absconded with his discards into the dark city alleyways. So while he did not mind Freya’s presence, she seemed to distinctly prefer his wife, sticking to Annabeth’s side like a burr on cloth, laying ownership to her lap, sometimes hissing at strange people who got too close.

Percy could sympathize, on several points.

From Danzig, then, he decided, they would set out on the Via Imperii . Were it yet summer, perhaps they could have sailed the whole way to Venice, but he feared the might of spring storms, and would not risk her life, nor their child’s, for something as intangible as expediency. He remembered well, too, how their voyage upriver had sapped him of his strength until he had been unable to do naught but sleep; to exert himself to exhaustion on the open sea, miles away from any shore or safe harbor, could prove even more disastrous.

Immediately, Annabeth’s hands descended on the cat, scratching the underside of her chin with one while the other stroked the length of her back, and Freya purred, loud enough Percy could hear it even over the crashing waves, blinking her eyes sleepily back up at her. His wife smiled, quite taken with their furry companion.

There was so much more at stake now, he realized. Not just his own health, nor hers, but the health and safety of the life they had made together. In his heart, he swore on a river whose name had once struck fear into the hearts of men and gods alike, he would work every day to prove himself worthy of this woman who made such sacrifices for his sake.

Aloud, he merely said, “Thank you.” Two words which could not encompass all the gratitude he held for her. Were he able to pay her back its weight in gold, she would be the richest woman in the world.

Annabeth cast him a fond, if tired, look, her countenance still vaguely green. “Do not thank me yet,” she said. “I am told that it gets much, much worse.”

“I look forward to it,” Percy replied, turning his face into the sun.

***

He had hoped that Annabeth’s sickness would lessen once they returned to dry land. But after three days traveling through Pomerania , she was still sick in the mornings.

“Your child preferred the sea, methinks.” Annabeth said as Percy passed her water. She smiled her thanks and drank deeply. “But it could be much worse, I suppose. I’ve heard it said that many people feel the sickness all day, for weeks. Mine is, at the very least, limited to the earliest morning hours--and you have been most accommodating.”

With their not inconsiderable fortune, Percy had managed to procure for them a cart and a horse, so that they could keep up a lively pace while allowing Annabeth to rest as much as she required. “I have not been accommodating,” Percy protested. “You are with child.” My child , he did not say, but thought it, giddily. “It is the very least that I could do.”

“Well, regardless,” she said, “it is very appreciated.” Then she groaned, dropping her head forward.

“What is it?” he asked, reaching out a hand to steady her.

“Have we any more food? I am ravenous.”

They did, because Percy wished to spare no expense on his wife and hopeful daughter. And besides, it was Annabeth’s money, they should spend as much on her comfort as needed. They’d left the inn early in the morning, but he had gotten them some bread and hard cheese before they had begun the journey. “Here, have the rest,” he said, handing them to her.

But she pushed the parcel away. “No, no, have we anything else?”

He did not, but he would not let himself fall into a panic. “When we arrive in Stettin ,” he promised, “I shall purchase whatever it is you desire. Tell me, if there were anything in the world that you could have, what would it be?”

Whatever she needed, he would do his best to provide: that was the vow he had taken, and this was merely his first challenge.

Thoughtful, she looked towards the clouds, her lip between her teeth.

“...Olives,” she said. “I would be very happy for some olives.”

Percy laughed. Of course. Athena’s proclivity for the fruit was renowned. “Then olives it is, my lady.”

It was a simple enough task, on the surface, to procure some olives for his pregnant wife. As a child living on the shores of the great Roman lake, olives had been plentiful and ubiquitous; at the agoge , the children of Demeter and Athena had cultivated a small grove of olive trees, partially for their own use, but also to sell at market. Though there had been neither olives nor olive oil in Svealand, as it was far too expensive to import from so far South, Percy assumed that he would be able to locate some here on the continent. Stettin was the Northernmost city on the Via Imperii , and surely some of the stuff must have wound its way through the lands controlled by the Legion.

Day after day, town after town, any time they passed through a settlement, they stopped at market so that Annabeth could rest, and Percy could scour the stalls and alleys for olives--and day after day, town after town, he found none. Not a single hamlet between Danzig and Stettin carried the malakes fruit. Every day he would return to his wife empty handed, and every day she would smile at him, her eyes shining, and thanked him for trying.

Her cravings continued. He could sense it, the way he could sense a storm, her mood souring as the days dragged on.

They stayed an extra night in Stettin to let the horses rest. It was a Monday, the start of a fresh, new week, the day the merchants and farmers brought in their weekly produce. Surely, Percy thought, perhaps foolishly, surely a market of such a large city would have even a small bottle of olive oil? What civilized city did not have a healthy supply of the stuff? Rome had once spanned nearly the entire continent; the well worn roads were proof of it. Surely, they had left some sort of culinary mark.

Apparently, he was a fool. The only oil to be found was made from pumpkin seeds--a favorite of some of the members of the Legion. He knew it to be bland, tasteless, and not at all fit for his wife. As for the olives, the merchants all looked at him as though he had grown a second head, those who understood a little Italian anyway, for those who could not merely stared at him as he fumbled his way through the few Frankish words which he knew.

He felt oddly numb, returning to their accommodations empty-handed. Would she be disappointed? Would she regret leaving the comfort and security of Svealand, where all her needs had been provided for?

Yet she had merely shrugged, brushing her hair with the comb that she had pilfered from Alejandra. “It is no great hardship,” she said, a little distantly, as all her attention was focused on the task in her hands. “I shall survive without it.”

On their bed, Freya the cat yawned, very sweetly, before readjusting her position, standing up and walking in a circle, then settling down and returning to her slumber.

“Still,” said Percy, “I recall the many trials and tribulations which my mother endured before she had borne my sister; if there is something which I can do to ease your burden at all, I should very much like to do so.”

Sighing sharply through her nose, Percy tensed, fearful that she would refuse him outright out of pride, only for him to relax as she merely tugged her comb through a particularly stubborn knot of hair. His fingers twitched in the folds of his clothes, his very nerve endings alight with the mere thought of feeling the soft, golden strands for themselves. He felt, somewhat worryingly, as though he had begun to develop a minor obsession with the feeling of her hair, every time it brushed up against his skin as she moved against him on the cart, or rolled over towards him in their shared bed. To watch her daily ritual, an act so tired and uneventful to her, yet one so captivating to him, with such eagerness and attention would have seemed, on any other man, to be the mark of ill-temperament and evil tidings. Percy, however, was able to content himself with merely looking.

“In truth,” she said, “it is not the olives themselves which I crave, though there is not much I would not do for such a treasure. Just as your child preferred the sea, I can only assume that my current propensity for salt is your doing as well.”

“Salt?”

“Salt,” she confirmed. “Any salty food will do, I think.”

“Salt,” he repeated, suddenly thoughtful. Salty foods were certainly in great supply here in the North; now a whole new world had been opened to him. Then--”You believe that I am the cause of this?” he asked, frowning.

Indelicate, she raised a brow at him. “Are you not? Why else would I have such a craving for saltwater?”

“I thought you wished for olives.”

“Olives?” She made a face. “I think not.”

Percy blinked, feeling as though he had missed a vital step in their conversation. “I beg your pardon?”

Huffing, she threw her comb down, evidently done with her grooming for the night. “Never you mind! I wish to retire.” She stood, undoing the various ties and laces of her dress, while Percy stared at her in slack-jawed awe and confusion. “Go and… cavort with a young man, if one should make himself available to you.”

Then throwing back the covers of the bed, disturbing poor, sweet, Freya, who leapt to the floor, her ears turned back in displeasure, she climbed underneath them, turning away from Percy.

It was barely evening. The sun could still be seen from the window.

“I… very well,” he said, carefully. “If it please you, I shall go and fetch us some food.”

“Do whatever you wish,” she replied, muffled by the sheets. “Good night.”

Feeling very much as though he had just summoned, and then subsequently banished, a hurricane, Percy retreated from their rented room, shutting the door as quickly and quietly as possible so as not to disturb his wife.

That was… unusual.

Not, the constant, shifting hunger pangs, mind; his mother had had similar, if perhaps less intense, culinary desires which could turn on a lira at any given moment. In truth, there was much about pregnancy for which he had already been prepared, having assisted his mother in the arrival of his little sister. When a woman was suffering such emotional and mental torment, it was best not to argue with her, and to placate her as quickly and thoroughly as one could, something which Percy was more than happy to do. No, what was strange was her peculiar comment, her order for him to go and seek out the company of someone else--of another man.

To abandon his wife for the pleasures of another was unthinkable, and not in the least because his spouse just so happened to be, in a bizarre twist of fate, the great love of his life. Again, he recalled how his mother would occasionally spit curses at her loving husband for the most minor of infractions, so the fact that Annabeth, who had tied herself to him in order to escape the pressures of an uncaring, unfamiliar political snare, who had, presumably, not gone into the arrangement expecting or even desiring of a child, and who, historically, had only barely tolerated his presence, was to be expected.

That she had specified he should search for the company of another man was the odd detail in this situation.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him how he had not eaten since this morning, so consumed was he in the hunt for olives, and so he made his way downstairs to the ground floor of the inn, to purchase some dinner for himself--and for Annabeth also, who would almost certainly be ravenous when she awoke, and hopefully, in something of a happier mood.

***

They had picked up a fellow traveler in the city of Lipsi , who had warned them off continuing further down the Via Imperii . “Many wars,” he had said, “much fighting--it would not do for your lovely wife to be caught up in all of that.”

As much as Percy wished to protest, that Annabeth was more than capable of handling herself, even in such a state, she had been so fatigued as of late that he did not wish to risk her safety. Therefore, himself, Annabeth, and the traveler, an itinerant monk named Johann, turned West instead, along the Via Regia . The detour would not put them too far off--once they reached the city of Trever , they could then turn South, towards Basler , and continue through the valley.

Percy and Annabeth had come upon the man as he rested by the side of the road, his curiously shaven head something of a beacon in the dark, green forest. Though Annabeth had initially protested, Percy, being in possession of a horse cart, felt offering him assistance would have been, at least, the polite thing to do. Now they sat all three of them in the front of the cart, Percy in the center with Johann to his left, while Annabeth alternately dozed off, attended to her knitting, a blanket in the making, or stroked sweet little Freya, who had become ever more protective of her mistress’ growing belly.

He was an interesting man, this Johann, pleasant and good-natured. He had embarked on a cross-continental journey of his own, one which ranged from his hometown of Cölln , all the way to the resting place of St. James in Hispania . “Fifteen hundred miles,” he said, ruefully, in perfect Italian, “and I am the poor fool who twists his ankle barely out of his own door.”

“Lady Fortuna must pass us all over some time,” said Percy.

“On the contrary,” said the monk, “your presence is proof of her blessing.”

Perhaps it was his joviality, or perhaps it was the warm sun, beating down on them, wrapping Percy in comfort, but he was in a merry mood as well. “I would have thought you to say that all blessings came from the Lord.”

“And who is to say He did not send you to me, miserable thing that I am?” said Johann. “There is a story I heard once, of a man who found himself in a lake. A pious, devoted man, he had only the utmost, unwavering faith in our Lord, faith that He would deliver the man from the waters before he drowned. Well, by and by, a man comes up to him in a canoe. ‘Sir,’ says the sailor to the man, ‘there is space in my vessel here; climb aboard, and I shall bring you to land.’ But the man refuses, saying, ‘I have faith in the Lord. He shall save me.’ And the sailor goes on. Not long after, another man comes up to him, in yet another canoe. ‘Sir,’ says the second sailor, ‘I have come to rescue you, for the waters are bitter cold, and my wife has a warm fire and a dry bed reserved for your use.’ But once again, the man refuses, saying, ‘I shall remain, for the Lord shall see me through.’ Well,” Johann shrugged, the corners of his lips tugging in a smile, “predictably, this poor, pious man drowns after some time. A person of deepest faith, he arrives at the gates of Heaven, whereupon he is given an interview with our Lord Christ, and he asks, ‘my God, my God, I had unwavering faith in your infinite mercy. Why did you not deliver me from the watery depths?’”

Clearly a practiced storyteller, he paused, a silence which begged to be filled by his audience. “And?” asked Percy. “What did he say?”

“At this question, our Lord Christ shakes his head, and says to the man, ‘My child, there was not much more that I could have done, for you refused the two boats which I sent to you.’”

Percy couldn’t help it--he laughed. “I daresay,” he said, “I have never met a man of the cloth so jovial as you.”

“That is what sunlight does to a man,” said Johann, full of good humor. “My brothers may think they have the better of it, sheltered from wind and rain with their books, but to cage me within four walls was anathema to my entire being, for I have always had a singular talent for making things grow. Did not all of creation begin in a garden? Thus, the gardener is a blessed man indeed.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled, a little uneasily. That Percy and Annabeth were not, strictly speaking, devotees of the trinity, and did not quite understand the finer details of the faith, had not quite come up in conversation yet. He sincerely hoped Johann would not ask.

“But you did not tell me your destination,” said the monk, looking on them both eagerly. “What calling of yours caused our two paths to intertwine?”

Percy glanced towards Annabeth, who had decided to ignore their sudden companion altogether, in favor of observing the trees as they passed. “My… wife and I are on our way to Venice.”

Such a simple phrase, “my wife,” yet Percy could not think of another combination of syllables which had ever given him nearly the same kind of joy.

“Venice, eh? That is quite the journey. Are you on a pilgrimage as well?”

“Ah, no--well--” Though, he considered, were they not? They went to seek spiritual enlightenment of a sort in a far off land. Did that not count as a pilgrimage by any standard? Certainly not in the sense which the good monk was implying, yet nonetheless, it was indeed a pilgrimage. The only difference was that they were not at all certain their destination held the answers which they sought. “We are hoping to… find our fortune there.”

Johann looked him up and down, and then at Annabeth. “Your fortune?” He asked. “I must commend you, sir, for you do not look like you need another one.”

Feeling the telltale flush in his cheeks, he glanced once again towards Annabeth, who, strangely, acted as though she hadn’t heard his comment. He was correct, of course, but Percy was not certain if he appreciated other men saying so--even a man of the cloth.

But the monk continued. “Venice is supposed to have one of the most magnificent cathedrals in all of Christendom: the Chiesa d’Oro . They say it is modeled on the great St. Sophia of Constantinople--of course, I have never seen it myself, so I cannot verify such a claim.”

Even the thought of St. Sophia, of her golden domes and radiant light, made Percy’s heart ache for home--a home to which he could never return. “St. Sophia was a masterpiece to behold,” said Percy, a little wistfully. “I am hard-pressed to imagine another temple quite as awe-inspiring.”

With a little thrill in his gaze, Johann leaned in, closer to Percy. “You have beheld the Church of the Holy Wisdom for yourself? Is it as beautiful as they say?”

“More than that, sir, there is no other place quite like it. To tell you truly,” he said, chuckling a little, “my wife and I both hail from Constantinople.”

For a moment, Annabeth looked up and over at him and their companion, narrowing her eyes, but then she just frowned and went back to her knitting.

Johann frowned as well, though more confused than upset, unlike his wife. “From the city itself, you say?”

Percy nodded.

“Then, if I may be so bold, how have you found yourself in these parts? Unless I am very much mistaken, one does not usually feel the need to travel to Saxonia on one’s journey to Venice from the holy lands.”

“Not usually, no,” said Percy. “However, the two of us, we were…” He paused, uncertain of how much information he was willing to share with this virtual stranger. “I was stationed on the walls,” he said. “We fled the city just as the Ottomans broke the siege, then traveled North, to her cousin’s estates.”

“I see,” said the monk. “You were deep in the thick of it, then?”

The all-consuming flames and the blood-curdling screams of his memory, they faded more and more each day, as all battles did, for he was a soldier first and foremost, and war tended to blur together after a point. By contrast, sometimes he still awoke in a cold sweat, drumbeats in his ears as he relived the terror and panic of watching the gods flee the city in which they had dwelt for a thousand years, no more powerful than a crop of refugees. “Yes,” he said. “We were.”

Johann hummed, linking his hands together. “The loss of life is always a tragedy,” he said, “even that of a heretic. Alas, that the city of Constantine fell so far from grace that they had to be punished so!”

Percy shifted, uncomfortable.

“Yet,” he went on, still in that same, blasted, affable tone, “even in the face of great sorrow, there is cause to celebrate, for the Lord saw fit to spare you and your wife, and see you to safe harbors, no?”

He glanced towards Annabeth, who continued at her weaving, seemingly unaware of the monk’s comments. “Well, I--”

“If you will permit me, sir, let me bless your wife and unborn child, so that he or she may grow strong and pious in the loving embrace of the Lord.” And he opened his hands, all set to begin his little ritual.

With a thought, Percy pulled their cart to a stop, suddenly, bracing an outstretched arm against Annabeth so she would not be knocked forward. Freya, jolted from her mid-morning nap, mewed, pitiful. “Percy,” said Annabeth, in their own tongue, “what--”

“This is where we part ways,” said Percy to the Christian man. “Disembark, and quickly.”

He sat, slack-jawed. “I beg your pardon?”

If Percy had been more in control of his emotions, then he may not have uttered his next words. However, later on, he found he did not regret them. “My wife and I are not interested in blessings from your trinity gods.”

“My--” he sputtered. “You--”

“I will not repeat myself--you are no longer welcome to travel with us.”

His pale skin flushed with anger, the monk chose not to argue with him, but did disembark, as though he could no longer bear their presence. “Heathen,” he hissed. “The Lord knows your heart, and for your lack of faith, He shall smite you down to the depths of the underworld.”

Possessed of a fury he did not know he could feel, Percy drew himself up to his full height, reaching deep within himself to the core of his being, the part of him which could summon typhoons, slay monsters, and cause the very earth beneath them to split--the part which could more than terrify a simple fool. “And there we shall be welcomed as heroes,” he said, “for we personally know the lord of the dead himself.”

White with terror, the monk touched his face and shoulders, chanting Latin beneath his breath. Leaving him to it, Percy snapped the reins on the horse, and they took off once more, leaving Johann in the dust.

Annabeth, twisted around in her seat, peered back at the retreating figure of their one-time travelling companion. “Do not mistake my confusion for disappointment,” she said, “for I, too, am glad to be rid of him, though I must say, that was very suddenly done.”

Percy scoffed, twisting the reins between his fingers, something with which to ground himself. “Had I known what he would offer,” he nearly growled, “I would have expelled him sooner.”

Curious, she tilted her head. “What offer was so odious as to force him from your sight?”

Blinking, Percy turned towards her. As always, his heart raced at the sight of those grey eyes on him, though at this moment they were wide in innocent confusion. Percy frowned. He had thought she was a better listener than he, on most occasions. “His offer to bless us in the name of his lord.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that what he said?”

“Did you not hear him?”

“I did,” she huffed, annoyed. Again. She seemed often annoyed with him these days. “But as I cannot understand Italian, clearly I missed a few things.”

She--”You--what?”

Lips pursed, heat rushed to her cheeks, though she did not let up on her steely stare. “Yes?”

“You cannot speak Italian?”

“I have just told you so.”

“But--” Percy sputtered. “But--how did you--how did you take orders from your commander?”

The Venetians and the Genoese had comprised most of the command posts on the wall and had not bothered to learn the local language for themselves. Knowledge of Italian, therefore, had been crucial to the defense of the city, something Annabeth would certainly have known.

“My commander was a fool and a drunkard,” she said, turning her nose up, “and perished one night after he fell off the wall.”

“Then… who--” But he stopped himself before he could finish his question, for there was only one reasonable answer. “You took command of your unit.”

“Obviously.”

“And none of your men took issue with a woman leading them into battle?”

Her stern gaze transformed into a glare, narrowed and piercing. “Not when it guaranteed them victory.”

For a moment, Percy could do nothing but stare right back, in disbelief and incredulity. She must have led her little cohort for months, the warrior woman of Constantinople, Areia made flesh. No wonder the northern portion of the wall held for so long.

Then, out of nowhere, he laughed.

“And what, pray tell, is so amusing?” his wife asked, lips thin, brow furrowed.

“Nothing, nothing,” he chortled. He could not say from where such delight had come, nor why it had suddenly taken him over thus. Perhaps it was simply the knowledge that, no matter how much time had passed, Annabeth’s character remained remarkably consistent from the first day he had known her. She would always find a way to command, to control--and, save one obvious exception, to deliver victory. “Oh, Anja,” he said, fondness warming him up from the inside out, “I beg of you, do not ever change.”

“I shall endeavor not to.” She said, faintly. She seemed at a loss for words for several moments, a rarity with her, then spoke once more. “You… you called me Anja.”

Percy frowned, “I know I struggle with your northern tongue, did I not pronounce it correctly?” He had attempted to divine the subtleties in the difference between the Ana that he had always known her to be, and the Anja her family called her, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

“No.” Softly, sweetly, a smile curled the straight lines of her mouth, even as she turned her face out to watch the trees as they passed, raising a hand to rest delicately on her stomach. “You were perfect.”

***

Percy laid out his cloak over the smoothest rock he could find. It was a nice cloak, of a much higher quality fabric and weave than to which he was most accustomed. Had he been a smarter man, most likely he would not have used the garment for such a task as this--but he was used to his clothes being worn out, multipurpose things. The hot velvet could find another use as a blanket until the warmth of early summer passed them by.

Having prepared her seat, he then rushed back to the wagon, reaching his hand out for Annabeth to steady herself on it. “I am not an invalid,” she chided, stretching her leg down to the earth. “You do not have to take such precaution with me.”

“It is no trouble.” The days, slowly but surely, were getting longer, Helios’ chariot lingering for a few more minutes every evening. They could certainly afford to stop and rest for a while should she require it. Once she had revealed to him her condition, he had resolved to mold the pace of their journey to her level of comfort and satisfaction. To ensure her health and the health of their child, Percy could stand a few unexpected delays.

Supporting her with his arm, he led her to the makeshift seat of stone, situated in a patch of sunlight bracketed by the shadows of the trees behind them. With an adorable little grunt, her sweet face scrunched up, she sat down upon it, sighing in relief. “There,” she breathed, hanging her head. “That’s better.”

The town of Trever was still a little ways off, but they could still see the rise of the town walls over the rolling hills. He noted, with some displeasure, the towering spindle resting on top of the ancient gate--was there nothing these trinity men would not claim for themselves?--but chased the thought from his mind, focusing instead on the more pressing issue at hand. “What is wrong?”

She had not explicitly told him why they should stop, only that she was desperate for relief of some kind. Rather than push for a reason, he had chosen instead to indulge her. “Some water, please?” she asked, her face drawn.

Nearly tripping over himself, he leapt up onto the wagon to retrieve the water skin before delivering it to her, kneeling down before her. “Are you alright?” he asked again, hiding his concern as best he could. She did not like him to fret so much over her--not that she could stop him.

“I am fine,” she promised. “Your child is just--very active.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Oh?”

She nodded. “Here--feel.” Then, without hesitation, she grasped his hand, and placed it over her stomach.

Percy, by design, had refrained himself from touching her in any manner that was not explicitly one of acquaintanceship since that wonderful, terrible night, not in any meaningful way. In turn, she had not, precisely, refused his company, but had kept him at something of a distance, emotionally if not physically, likely for his own protection. But now she had initiated contact, had invited him in, and Percy was once again caught up in the sublime experience which was being close to Annabeth Fredriksdotter. Her hair, nearly twice as long as it was when they had arrived in Svealand, was bound up in an intricate knot, though loose, gilded strands fell out here or there, as she had left her head uncovered today, insisting that it was too hot for her wimple. Percy understood that it was key to her modesty as a married woman to cover her head, even if she was married to the likes of him, though he could not pretend he did not dislike it, at times. If only she would look at him, though, grace him with her lovely gaze, rather than their joined hands.

So distracted by the sunlight filtering through her hair that he nearly missed it.

A small, nearly imperceptible jolt beneath his fingertips.

Then he felt it again.

He recognized the feeling--it was one he recognized from when his mother was pregnant with his dear, sweet little Esther. “Is that…” he said, trailing off, softly so as not to disturb the moment.

“That,” said his wife, jovial, “is the little monster which has been causing me so much distress recently.”

Swallowing, he blinked back the sudden heat from his eyes. “Oh,” he said, pulling his emotions together so he did not weep. “I am sorry.”

“As you should be,” she said, but she was grinning at him. “Your child is kicking me in the ribs--a skill I am quite certain he got from you.”

He . She thought they were going to have a son.

Something in her smirk riled an old part of his brain. “Kicking was always your maneuver,” he accused, smiling in turn. “If she is kicking,” he insisted, emphasizing the opposite sex purely on principle alone, “it is surely due to her mother’s influence.”

She rolled her eyes at the reference. “Oh, please do not say you are still sore from--”

“I swear, to this day, I still bear the marks from the force of your blow!”

“I have seen you without clothes on,” Annabeth said, “and you have no such mark, believe me.”

A silence fell between the two of them, chilly and awkward. She did not attempt to remove his hand from her person, and nor did he wish to remove it.

“It occurs to me,” she said quietly, after some time, “that I… I have never apologized for how I treated you back then.”

Rubbing his thumb against the fabric of her dress, he shrugged. “That time has long since passed,” he murmured, “and we are two very different people now. Let the past remain in the past, I say.”

“Still. I was--very cruel to you,” she said. “I should not have said those things.”

She had been very cruel. Percy had returned to the agoge after a year and a half spent with the Legion, expecting open arms and welcome smiles from his friends and brothers in arms, only to be met with scorn and derision from the one person whom he had most wanted to see.

After the war with the titans, they had only been granted a short reprieve before they had received an envoy from Aachen, begging Percy’s help with a monster which they simply could not fight on their own, diminished as they were in the realm of Karolus Magnus , far from their ancestral home. Never one to turn down a cry for help, Percy had entreated Annabeth and their former questing companion now turned Lord of the Wild to accompany him. Unfortunately, in the snowy mountains of Dardania, they were ambushed by monsters, and separated. By the time Percy came to his senses, he was in the tender grip of the Latins, and Annabeth was long gone.

A naturally distrustful lot, they would not let him free until he had proven his loyalty to the rootless empire, and they sent him away to train with their patroness in the wilds. Once Lupa deemed him worthy of service, upon his return, they then put him to work, pairing him with his Latin counterpart, the son of Jupiter.

Again, he felt no shame with what he had with Iason. Theirs had been a soldiers’ romance, brief, but deep, intense and overwhelming. In truth, he would not have fallen in with the man, save for that he had been under the impression that Annabeth had left him to his doom in the mountains. The Latins had intimated to him evidence of a person’s quick retreat where they had found him, and had let him come to his own conclusions.

Once the giant Polybotes had been slain, then, and Percy had been released from unwilling service, he had been allowed to return to the shores of Constantinople. There he had received something of a hero’s welcome, with all due honors and celebrations--except, of course, from Annabeth, who had been decidedly not happy with his return. Feelings between them grew fouler and fouler, until, one fateful day, as they were practicing their weapons’ routines on each other’s persons, more hateful words had been traded rather than blows. Quickly, what had been a skilled and professional match devolved into something dirty and mean, filthy trick after filthy trick, until she had kicked him square in the ribs, knocking him flat onto the ground, hissing from between bloodied teeth how she would have preferred it if he had died in Dardania.

After that, Percy had promptly departed for his father’s palace, seeking escape in the form of good cheer and happier people, chasing away his broken heart in the arms of Thetis, and others.

They had not shared a serious or friendly conversation for years--not until the morning the Ottomans broke through the defense of the city.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, unwilling to dwell on that time any longer than he had to. He would not say it was alright, for it was not, but he also had let go of that animosity many months before, in the shadow of the Erechtheion.

“You must understand,” she went on, a little forceful, “I was not angry with you, but with myself. I thought I had lost you to a fate unspeakable--”

“I am not certain I would classify Latin conscription as a fate unspeakable,” said Percy, dryly.

She flushed. “I--I only meant--”

“Annabeth,” he said, not wanting to tread this ground any further, “let it be done. Please.”

“After the war,” she spoke, urgently, “I thought… I had--thought that we would… well.” All at once, she slumped as though the very breath had gone out of her, removing her hand from his, nearly curling into herself. “I suppose,” she murmured, “it no longer matters what I thought.”

She did not need to clarify. He knew perfectly well what she had meant. It was not much of a secret that Percy and Annabeth had held some youthful affection for each other, not even from each other. So easily it could have blossomed into something stronger. “I wanted to,” he said, craning his neck to meet her eyes so she could see the truth of it. He had wanted to, and had planned to. But he was no fool, for he knew that a man needed a way of supporting a family before he could start one. The expedition to Aachen, that would have been his ticket into some of the upper echelons of Constantinople; a letter of introduction from a tribune, prefect, or even a centurion would have done wonders for his social standing and finances. “I swear, I wanted to, but then…”

Her lips lifted in a small smile. Not one of happiness, no. She knew all too well the things they had done to each other, the barbs they had hurled and the wounds they had inflicted. It was the acknowledgement of old sorrows and long-ignored pain which caused her to smile, a pain shared and understood only by the man before her. “As you stated,” she said, “we are now different people, and we cannot dwell on what may have transpired between us.”

A satisfactory answer--tragic, yes, but satisfactory nonetheless. “But we are friends, yes?” he asked, hoping for a little salve for his broken heart.

She raised her head, grey eyes clear and steady. “It is my very honor, Perseus,” said she, a pronouncement handed down from the empress herself, “to call you my friend--my dearest friend.”

It was not exactly what a husband might want to hear from his wife, nor what a man might want from the woman he loved about all things. But for Percy, it would be enough. It was Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter: her hand, her child, her friendship. Perhaps one day, that friendship could be transmuted into something more affectionate, but Percy would not waste his time waiting for a day which would never come, not when she was here, before him, solid and tangible.

“Percy,” she said, very sweetly, “as wonderful as this is, unfortunately, I must ask you to give me some privacy at this time.”

“Oh,” he staggered to his feet, snatching his hand back. “Of course.” This, too, was a symptom of pregnancy with which he was quite familiar. His poor mother’s body had been pushed to its very limit, and she had had to relieve herself quite often. “I shall leave you to it, then.”

Then, face red, he trotted round to the other side of the wagon, where, paradoxically, he could better protect her.

***

Percy blinked, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

“I merely said,” she repeated, unconcerned, “that you no longer have to keep up the pretense. It has been months since I have had such voracious cravings, yet you continue to make a show of your search. It is natural for men to wish time for themselves--I know very well what a man can do with this time away from his wife.” She looked on him flatly, as though she thought he was the fool for thinking her to be one instead. “I am more than capable of amusing myself for a few hours. Please, go on--I am sure the good people of the brothel await.”

The--”I would not do that to you,” said Percy, quietly, a little insulted. Did she truly think so low of him that he would make good on his long-forgotten promise to abandon her to her freedom? Did she not understand that dreams of their brief time together would sustain him as water in a desert, and yet ruin him for any other man or woman? “If you do not believe me, then I insist you accompany me,” he said, firmly. “Allow me to put these thoughts of yours to rest.”

She looked out the window of their little room, where the sun hung low in the sky over Messalia . It had been a hot, July mid-morning when they rambled into town, looking for a place to stay the night before they would put to sea the next day, the streets and corners quiet as the people retreated to their homes for their daily rest. Now, as the shadows began to stretch, the city came to life once more, the hustle and bustle of commerce a dull roar beneath the room in the little inn which they had rented. Through the air wafted the scents of spices, coal fire, and the blessed salt smell of the sea, the glittering, golden jewel that lay beyond the walls. “Very well,” she said. “I believe I shall. A walk outside may do me some good.”

With some difficulty, as her large stomach made everything rather difficult for her these days, she managed to stand up from the low bed, reaching for her wimple which she had discarded previously. Tying it about her face, he was once again struck by the duality of his emotions, that he could feel so disheartened and yet so elated by the same action. Her wimple covered all of her gorgeous, golden hair, as modesty dictated it must, yet the act of hiding such beauty signified, once again, that she was his wife--a cause for great celebration, if only in his heart.

And so they went together on the town.

It was an absolutely marvelous time.

Once again, the sea infused his senses and soothed his entire being--a familiar sea this time, not the strange, frigid waters of the north, but the deep lapis and emerald of his childhood. Every shaft of sunlight felt as the touch of a friendly hand, and every shadow a cool breeze of relief. Together, arm in arm, they wandered up and down the markets, where Annabeth used the time given to her to practice her Italian. She was a remarkably quick study, as he knew she would be, though it did help that the merchants here were much more familiar with that language than they had been further north.

By now, Percy had been to markets practically all over the world. Each one was unique, distinct, with its own set of sights and sounds and smells, and yet, each one had been positively lackluster, almost grey in his memory. Not many men were fortunate enough to have seen so much of the known world, and had lived to tell the tale of it. Today, however, walking about with his eight month pregnant wife in the streets of Messalia, he finally understood what they all had been lacking.

So caught up in his wife’s lovely smile as she admired a particularly ripe set of figs, that he accidentally barreled into another person, spilling the contents of their arms all over the ground. Fruit went tumbling, smashing the earth in rich, dark colors, staining the well-worn streets. “Ah, perdono !” he cried, dropping to his knees to help gather up the items which could be salvaged. “ Scusatemi !”

“ Non, non, mon sieur ,” said the woman, joining him on the ground, “ perdon , per … Percy?”

At the sound of his name, his head snapped up.

She was an older woman, with long, thick brown hair streaked with grey, and eyes that shifted color in the low light. Her skin was tanned a deep brown from hours spent in the sun, and though her face was lined with age, none would look on her and not consider her to be a great beauty.

They stared at each other, in shock and disbelief.

“Percy?” called Annabeth, faint in his ears. “I am in need of your assistance, as I cannot remember the world you taught me--”

“Oh!” wept the older woman, dropping the rest of the fruit she had gathered onto the street, opening her arms to hold him. “It is you!”

And with a deep, wrenching sob, pulled from his chest, Percy threw himself into the warm embrace of his mother.

“ Mater , mater ,” he moaned, burying his face into her chest as she held him close. “Oh, mater !”

“I knew it, I just knew it,” she was saying, over and over again, clutching him to her breast, kissing his forehead, “I knew you had made it out. Oh, lord of the sea, earth-shaker in the swelling brine, thank you, thank you, thank you for my son!”

So caught up in the sudden wave of emotion, he was rendered nearly mute. “Mother,” he finally croaked, taking in the warm, sweet scent of her--cinnamon and cloves and sea salt. To think that he had almost forgotten the particular details, hands calloused from years of cooking, eyes twinkling like stars on the surface of the water. “Mother!”

“My boy!” Sally pulled back, raking her hands through his hair, pushing it from his face so she could look on him more clearly. “Oh, my boy, I never thought I would see you again!”

“Nor I you,” he replied, tears blurring his vision. “How--how are you here?”

“I could ask you the very same,” she said, smiling the sweet summer smile which had lit his childhood as a candle in the dark, “and I will hear all of it--but for now, let me simply look upon you! It has been far, far too long since I have seen your smiling face.”

He was smiling, so wide and genuine that it caused his face to ache, a pain he was more than happy to bear, down on his knees in the middle of Messalia. “I have missed you, mater ,” he said, “so much.”

“Percy?”

Blinking, he came back to himself, emerging from the dream so suddenly made real. The populace of Messalia were not giving them so wide a berth, just barely sparing the two the indignity of being walked all over. Annabeth stood a little ways away, her hand resting on her protruding stomach, light concern falling over her face like a veil.

“Mother,” he said, seized with a strange kind of energy, “here.” With steady hands, he lifted her up from the ground, the ruined fruit forgotten. Annabeth stepped closer to them, trepidation slowing her pace. She had already met his mother a number of times--they had often taken rest at her house when a quest required them to take their leave from the agoge for several days at a time--but even he understood that to meet her as his wife was a vastly different thing.

But his mother, quick as ever, cottoned onto the truth of the matter. “Percy,” she breathed, full of disbelief, “is that--”

“You remember Annabeth,” said Percy, nerves seizing his tongue and nearly stopping it in his mouth, “my--my wife.”

How strange, that weeks ago, the two syllables represented one of the happiest truths of his life, and yet today, he felt as anxious as a baby colt learning to walk for the first time, desperate for the two most important women in his world to feel some sort of kinship.

His mother gasped, her hands flying to her face. “Annabeth!” she cried, taking her in her arms without hesitation. “Your wife! How wonderful! Oh, blessed day that made your way here!”

Annabeth stood there, quite shocked, before bringing her arms up as well.

“Oh, goodness,” said his mother, pulling herself back, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Look at me--I apologize for such unbecoming behavior. But you must come back with me--Paul and Esther will be overjoyed--I will need to purchase some wine--”

It was then that Percy remembered he had, quite indirectly, ruined her groceries. Fruit was not inexpensive, and neither was wine. Percy knew his mother, and he knew she would wish to cook for him in celebration, but he would not see her waste any more of her money on his account. “Allow me,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. “I shall pay you back in full, and then some. Ah, if,” he glanced towards Annabeth, seeking her permission, for it was her money after all, “if that is alright, of course.”

She looked at him, quizzically. “Of course it is alright.”

“Percy,” sighed his mother, “you do not need to--”

“It is settled, then!” Taking her arm in his, he directed them to the fruit seller whom Annabeth had been speaking to just prior, unwilling to let go of his mother for even a second. “We shall have a veritable feast!”

***

Paul, his mother’s husband, had wept upon seeing them. Dear, sweet little Esther refused to let go of her elder brother, stubbornly clinging to his leg. Eventually, she had tired herself out, the poor thing, only allowing her father and Annabeth to take her to bed when she had nearly fallen asleep in his lap. Percy had tried to persuade Annabeth to relax, but she had insisted, looking on Esther with such sweetness and doting in her eyes that Percy found himself hard-pressed to say no. Perhaps she would be so sweet and affectionate with their daughter, as well. The very thought excited him in ways he could not quite describe.

If she was forced to be a mother, then, perhaps it would not be the harshest of fates.

“I am so glad, Percy,” said his own mother, once he had recounted to her the whole, winding tale of his and Annabeth’s journey. Her looking at him with such fondness, it transported him back to that dark, bleak time, when they were all that each other could claim to call their own. Now look at them--families and children, both. Beneath the thumb of a monstrous man, sometimes it was difficult to imagine otherwise. “When the news of Constantinople’s fall reached us… yet I kept the faith. I knew you would survive, and I am so glad you had someone with you.”

He smiled, taking her hands in his, kissing the knuckles there. “All I learned of survival,” he said, “I learned from you.”

She squeezed his hands, warm and solid.

“But you must tell me how you came to Messalia,” said Percy, before he could begin to weep. “How is it you found your way to this place?”

His mother lifted her shoulders, tilting her head. “My story is not nearly so exciting as yours, I can promise you that. Our voyage out of Constantinople was swift and peaceful, and we arrived on the shores of this city far faster than we thought possible.”

“That was my father,” said Percy. “In Svealand, I had a dream of him--he bade me to send you his love.”

Her countenance transforming, she smiled, sweetly, knowingly, a glint in her eye which lifted years off of her face. “I had wondered,” she said, “for our voyage did seem unusually safe.” Then she shook her head, lightly, casting off whatever memories had come to her in that moment. “What else did he tell you?”

Much that he wished to keep to himself, though he was sure she would understand. “Have you ever heard of the city of old soldiers?” he asked his mother instead. He felt all of fourteen years old once more, seeking his mother’s guidance, begging for wisdom from a woman of keen sight and keener instinct.

Frowning, she turned her gaze towards the open window, to the stars which were beginning to show their faces. “I do not know this city of which you speak,” she said quietly.

Percy sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Yet,” said his mother, “I, too, have had some extraordinary dreams as of late.”

At that, he perked up once more, leaning in to listen better. As she had told him, once upon a time, her sight had waned alongside her youth, though she could still occasionally perceive that which lay just beyond the comprehension of most mortals. “What have you seen?” he asked, breathless.

She closed her eyes, recalling. “In a city on a river,” she said, “there is a grand building--a church, made of marble, white and green, and above it rests a red dome, reaching towards the sky, as though it longs to return from whence it came.”

“A city on a river,” he repeated. Another clue--yet, just as many cities had rivers as they did old soldiers.

“I apologize, my son,” said his mother, opening her eyes once more. “This is all I know.”

He squeezed her hands, comforting. “Think nothing of it. We have already decided to seek our fortune in Venice--I have been told that their church there was modeled on St. Sophia. Perhaps this is the dome of which you speak.”

“Perhaps,” she said, unconvinced. “But must you leave us so soon? You will do well in Venice, of that I have no doubt, yet I do not know if I can bear to be apart from you once again. And,” then she grinned, her eyes suddenly sparkling, “I should very much like to meet your child.”

Percy blinked at her, processing what she was saying. Then he flushed, grinning weakly in return. “Ah, yes, well… I should like you to meet her as well.”

Certainly, he possessed no gift of prophecy--he was not, as it were, a child of Apollo--but he found himself dreaming more and more of that little girl with his wife’s lovely hair and eyes, like the children who dressed as St. Lucy. A little girl whom he could lavish all fatherly love and affection upon, rather than a wife who would find it a nuisance at best. She would be his princess; and if her mother could be persuaded, he would call her his Anja.

The lines on her face ran deep, carved from years of laughter and joy which poured forth from her like the sun itself. “Even at such a young age, I could sense the fondness and affection you had for each other. You do not know how happy I am for the two of you.”

A fondness and affection which had now faded on her part--but at least they had resolved to remain friends in a marriage of trust and support, if not love. “When I have made enough money,” he promised, to take his mind off of his situation, “I will send for you and your family, and we will never be parted again. In fact,” he said, struck with sudden inspiration. Rummaging through the various folds of his clothing, he located his purse which carried the rest of the money he had on him, then placed it in his mother’s hand. “Here. A gift, to a wonderful mother from her loving son.”

“Percy,” she tutted, brow furrowed. “Do not concern yourself with me. We are comfortable here, Paul and I; you must focus all of your resources on providing for your own family now.”

“Annabeth has more than enough to provide for herself, her dowry was immense. More land than I thought possible, sold for more money.” he said. “She and our children--our child,” he corrected, cursing himself for his weak tongue, and praying his mother had not caught it, “our child will be kept in comfort for the rest of their days. I carry only a bit for pocket change, so she need not do all the bartering for me. You have done so much for me--please, allow me to do this for you.”

“What do you mean?” his mother asked, picking up the purse, surprised by the weight of it. He observed as she untied the cord, and spilt the contents on her table, the gold coins clinking against each other ever so noisily. “Is it not your money now?”

“I suppose, legally , yes.” he conceded. “But the land we--she gained from her uncle is ancient family land. It would not do for me to leech such things away from her.” Bad enough that she had to be tied to him in motherhood and marriage, but he would not stoop so low as to usurp the use of her finances. “Once I arrive in Venice, I will then pay my own way,” he promised his mother, and his wife, though she was not there to hear him. “I will find work as a laborer, or if I am lucky, perhaps a ship will be in need of a sailor.”

“I suggest,” his mother said, “that you speak to your wife regarding such things.”

As much as he would have liked to protest, said wife reentered at that moment, helped along by Paul. “Percy,” she said, “the hour grows late, and we have left poor little Freya all by her lonesome.”

“Ah--of course,” said Percy, standing as well. Damn that cat, he thought. “Then I believe we must take our leave of you now, mother.”

“I understand,” she said, rising to see them out. “Will we see you again ‘ere you depart?”

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “I shall return to you once more.”

Then she swept him up in her arms again. “Until that happy time, my son.”

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of oil and onion, cinnamon and cloves, hearth and home, and marveled again at the strength of his wife who had borne the pain of leaving her father to travel the world with someone like him. “Until then.”

#my fic #the marble king #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #darkmagyk #percyyoulittleshit #pataytayo #enjoy the idiots!!!!

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