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bonjour-rainycity · 3 years

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Double Heart | Chapter Eighteen ~ Cosima

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Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 4719

Warnings: None

A/n Happy Monday! Oh, and if you like Bucky Barnes, I just posted a one-shot for him! You can find it here. Now, on to the story you came here for!

Late in August, three months after arriving in this new world, plans are made to travel to Lothlórien.

Lavandil’s tearful sniffles in the back of her shop clued me in before someone had officially told me, and my heart goes out to her.

“It gets harder every time,” she had muttered, staring at the ground. “Every time we are separated, a piece of me goes with him.”

Her words have not left my mind since.

They are not even bonded, yet the way not being with him pains her…it breaks my heart in a way that is almost too personal.

Our company is set to leave in five days. In my time here, I have amassed only a small number of belongings, so packing will be easy. I am prepared to go long before the others, who have somehow become busier in these last few days. Even Rumil, who has basically become my best friend these past few months, declines my offer to go riding, citing that he and his brothers have much to do in their remaining time here.

So, with no one to help me occupy my time, I end up in the gardens. I pass the afternoon away wandering through the endless labyrinth, discovering more blossoms that make me sneeze and some that don’t. I pick a few — Elrond said it was alright — to press in one of the journals I’ve acquired — a gift from Lavandil. The journal and the flowers will be keepsakes, tangible memories of my time here in Imladris.

A time I desperately do not want to forget.

In the back of my mind, lurking on the edge of my thoughts is a constant fear — the fear that, at any moment, the work with Elrond will prove fruitful and my memories will come rushing back — at the cost of my memories from my time here in Arda.

A bright, bluish-purple burst under the hedges distracts me from that anxious thought.

A cornflower, fallen to the ground and blown far from its bush by the wind.

I crouch, reaching under the green shrubbery.

“Lady Cosima?”

Flower in hand, I straighten, turning at the sound of the voice.

“Glorfindel!” I’m mildly shocked. Since his argument with Haldir, I’ve seen little of him. Seeming uncertain, he walks to meet me, bowing when he plants his feet.

I curtsey, though I can’t help but chuckle lightly at his formality. “You can just call me Cosima, you know. I’m not anyone important.”

Glorfindel shakes his head slowly, the edges of a smile playing at his lips. “I would be inclined to disagree with your statement, my dear Lady. It seems you have not only captured the attention of two worlds, but of my elven friends.” Before I can ask exactly what he means by that, Glorfindel furrows his eyebrows, gesturing to our surroundings. “I am surprised to find you here this evening. I would have thought you would be preparing for your departure.”

I twirl the cornflower between my fingers. “There’s nothing much for me to prepare. And it doesn’t seem I can be of much help to the others, either.”

A twinkle enters his eye, reminiscent of the playfulness he had the last time I interacted with him. “So you are trying to soak up all that Lord Elrond’s gardens have to offer?”

I smile, taking a look around. “It’s not a bad way to pass the time. I don’t know if Lothlórien will have all these flowers, so I’m taking a couple with me.” Unnecessarily, I hold up the growing bouquet in my hands. “But enough about me, why are you here at this time of day? Don’t you have a million things to do?”

Glorfindel grins, now fully the man I met upon first arriving here. “Ah, you’ve caught me. I am shirking my duties, but!” He holds up a hand to stop my nonexistent chiding. “I will pay for it tonight. Your Marchwarden and I have plans after dinner to surprise one of the border stations. We are going to creep through the area unannounced and see how long it takes for them to discover us. Surely we will be gone until morning.”

I gulp. My Marchwarden? I try to cover up how much that phrase affects me. “So, are you two back to being friends? Or are you still at odds?”

Thankfully, Glorfindel doesn’t get upset by the words I spoke without thought. “Yes, yes, we have been reconciled for weeks now. It is not uncommon for such strong personalities to disagree. All is well — I would have thought he told you.”

I shrug, trying to make the motion look natural even though I suddenly feel like every eye in Imladris is scrutinizing the movement. “We haven’t had the chance to talk much.”

Glorfindel smirks. “Ah, yes, I wondered why my friend had been even more stern than usual as of late.”

I freeze, and the question escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “What do you mean?”

No, Cosima, I chide. Do not engage!

But Glorfindel has already broadened his grin, evidently happy to indulge my pointless question. “He’s increased drills and border patrols, added requirements for promotions, re-worked the training schedule at least five times — he’s even taken his frustrations out on the guard — I worry more when they fight him than if they were facing a pack of orcs!” He laughs, but, after a moment, his expression softens into one of understanding. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

My eyes drop to the flowers in my hand. I twirl the cornflower again, scrutinizing its color.

It is the wrong shade of blue.

“No, nothing happened,” I respond, still not able to meet Glorfindel’s gaze. His questions and the lack of judgement in his voice lead me to share more than I should. “I…I think we both realized we were headed for something dangerous and it’s better to stop while we can.”

“I see,” he mutters, taking in a deep breath. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I force a smile, not wanting to dwell on something that already keeps me up at night. Time to change the subject. “I don’t know about you, but I’m quite hungry. Would you like to join me for dinner? Lavandil and Orophin will be there as well.”

His face breaks into an easy smile, though there’s something off in his eyes. He sweeps his hand forward, indicating his agreement. “Lead the way, my dear Lady.”

{***}

I stare at the clothes laid out on my bed, relying on the meager candlelight to tell me what each item of fabric is.

Lord Elrond said I was welcome to take home any of the pieces I wanted, but the space in my bag will only allow for a few of them. Turns out, the choice is harder than I thought it would be. I have no desire to wear the same outfit the whole time like I had to on the journey to Imladris. That means I should pack more tunic and legging sets. But there are so many pretty gowns I want to take — it doesn’t help that, as part of the payment for helping in her store, Lavandil took me shopping a couple of times. I look over my dresses, all equally loved.

I purse my lips. I know Rumil has three bags…perhaps he would be willing to donate one of them to a good cause. Lavandil hasn’t taken him shopping, so surely he has room to spare.

I creep out of my room, mindful to keep quiet at this late hour. Rumil’s likely to be awake — that ellon is a night owl if I’ve ever met one. I reach his door and knock softly.

But when the door opens, it’s not Rumil on the other side.

It’s Haldir.

I stop breathing. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

He steps back somewhat robotically, making space for me to enter the room. “Cosima.”

I freeze, unable to connect my brain to my feet to tell them to move. I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re supposed to be gone.”

Haldir opens and closes his mouth, likely figuring out how to respond to something that sounded very much like an accusation. “I—ah, I apologize? Do you want me to—”

“No, I uh—” I look to the ground, trying to gather my hopelessly scattered thoughts. Being near him again takes me right back to the state I’ve tried desperately to avoid. “Sorry, no, I only meant that I ran into Glorfindel a few hours ago and he said the two of you would be gone tonight. I came looking for Rumil.”

“Oh.” Haldir furrows his eyebrows, though it looks like the initial shock has faded. “I am sorry — I sent him out tonight in my place. I planned on using this time to write out instructions for training after I am gone.”

I can’t keep myself from smiling. So dutiful. “That’s nice of you.”

Haldir shrugs, looking thrown by the compliment. “It’s my job.”

I blink, realizing that, both mercifully and sadly, I no longer have an excuse to stay here. I should go.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” I take a step back.

“Cosima, wait.”

I halt my exit, but remind myself of my resolve.

Haldir shifts on his feet before rolling back his shoulders, holding the door open with one hand. “I need a break from writing. Would you like to go for a walk?”

Your resolve, Cosima.

I search for any excuse, anything to give me a reason to say no when I so badly want to say yes. “I don’t have my cloak.”

The edges of Haldir’s lips twitch. “Now that, I may have a solution for. Wait here.”

I should go.

Just wait to see what this ‘solution’ is, I rationalize.

Haldir turns and nearly jogs to the wardrobe, burying his upper half inside until he emerges with a sage green bundle. He returns, presenting the neatly folded fabric to me. “This is for you.”

I blink in surprise, taking the bundle from his outstretched hand. Slowly, I unfurl it, and it falls into a sturdy, finely woven cloak. I look up at Haldir and then back to the garment, unsure of why he’s just handed me this, but nonetheless, pleased.

“You cannot wear your red one while we travel,” he explains. “This will blend in much better with our surroundings. Lavandil advised on the measurements, but if it’s too long, there’s still time to get it hemmed before we leave.”

I smile, running my fingers over the soft interior and the slicker outside. “What’s it made of?”

“Wool, but I asked the seamstress to assist in making it as waterproof as possible.” I look up at him sharply, surprised that he would think to include this. “I worry we will encounter rain again and I would hate to have you shivering like last time.”

I run my fingers over the fabric with a new fondness. I’m grateful and more touched than I would like to admit. “Thank you Haldir, really. This is so thoughtful. And practical.” I can’t help but laugh, looking up at him with a sudden onslaught of nerves. “Just like you.”

He smiles almost bashfully, dipping his head in acknowledgement of my words. “I’m glad you like it.”

I swing the cloak around my shoulders, pulling my hair through the back so it lays against the outside of the fabric. Haldir grabs the bag that rests on the hook by the door and retrieves another one of those beautiful leaf-shaped clips. He steps forward and slowly reaches his hands to where my cloak rests along my collarbones. He gathers the fabric and weaves it through the clip, securing the ends. He rests his hands there for just a moment and then steps back, nodding to himself.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

I blink. I have a cloak now. There’s no reason to say no. “Let’s go for that walk.”

Smiling in a soft, hesitant way, he grabs his own cloak and clip from their place near the door and we step outside of his room. In silence, mindful of the late hour, he leads me down a spiral staircase tucked into a corner I’ve never noticed before. As we descend, the sound of water crashing gets louder and the peace of the estate fades.

I halt and, a few stairs below me, Haldir stops too.

“Are we going below the city?”

He looks up at me — I can barely see his face in the dark. “It is perfectly safe — there are no heights to be conscious of.”

It feels wrong to make sound in the darkness, so when I speak, it’s barely more than a whisper. “Okay. I believe you.”

In the dim light, Haldir’s hand reaches up to me. I stare at it, feeling my jaw fall slightly.

“I think you will like where we’re going.” The darkness, the sound of his voice, just being with him after so much time apart — it’s too much.

I exhale a shallow breath.

I place my hand in his.

Tingles shoot up my arm.

We reach the bottom of the staircase, and he doesn’t let go.

It’s dark here, too, and I find myself drawing nearer to him. My arm brushes his and I suck in a breath, both of us laughing nervously. Haldir seems to know the way. His path is confident and sure as he leads us underneath the stone and earth of the city. Then, in a burst of clear blue light, we break from the darkness and arrive on soft grass.

I can see Haldir better now. Everything about him seems to almost glow in the moonlight. He smiles softly, tugging on my hand to encourage me to follow him closer to the water that lies ahead of us. I glance between us to where our hands meet, wrapped around each other.

It feels natural. It feels right.

I should let go.

I grip his hand tighter.

The stone holding up the city gives way to taller grass and trees whose low, swinging branches brush over us as we pass. Ahead lies a rippling lake — across it, waterfalls crash down, their thunderous roar diminished by the distance. Haldir takes us almost to the edge of the shore, then surprises me by pulling me to the left. We duck under a particularly low branch, Haldir almost having to double over completely. I laugh, bending down next to him, and he looks up at me with a carefree grin. We pass under the branch and emerge in a small clearing — an alcove, really. Behind us and to our left are tall, leafy trees, to our right is the stone of the mountain, and ahead, surely for miles and miles, lies the lake. Moonlight dances atop it, glinting in a way that makes it sparkle. And above it, in an endless stretch of sky—stars, a million of them, at least.

Haldir turns to face me.

I suck in a breath.

His eyes — I’ve always admired them, even when they held nothing more than indifference to me — seem to shine in a way I’ve never seen before. They gleam like living starlight, depthless and enchanting. The colors of the night drape him in a glow of soft blue, highlighting the strong edges of his jaw. He looks powerful, beautiful, otherworldly.

This is the first time I’ve truly understood the etherial beauty of an elf.

He smiles down at me expectantly. “Was I right?”

I exhale somewhat shakily, nodding my head. “Yes. Yes, you were right. This place is stunning.”

His smile broadens and he releases my hand to unclasp his cloak.

I miss the warmth of his hand encasing mine.

But I do get my wish from earlier today. Just as he did all those months ago, he lays his cloak on the ground, gesturing for me to sit. I do, folding my legs to the side to allow him room next to me. Before he can say anything, the nerves get the best of me, and I blurt out the first, most basic question that comes to mind. “How was your day?”

He smiles, stretching his legs out on the cloak. “My day went well, thank you. Glorfindel and I spent this morning debating the merits of extending Elrond’s borders by twenty or so miles — it would mean the guards have more land to protect, yes, but it would also provide a larger distance for any intruders to cross, should they break through the barrier. That could give the guard precious extra time to organize and combat the threat.”

I tilt my head. “So what did you decide?”

Haldir raises his shoulders then lets them fall, the action hinting at underlying stress. “It is not our decision, we were merely debating. The choice lies with Lord Elrond, and I cannot say what he will do.”

I chuckle, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re always steps ahead of everyone else. Come on, what do you think he’ll do?”

He sighs. “I think he will not expand the borders. Elrond cares about the security of his people, yes, but he still believes there is potential to stop this evil before his people will have to confront it.”

Tension gathers in the small of my back. Are we really that close to a fight? “And you disagree?”

“I did not mean to scare you.” He avoids answering my question directly.

I shake my head slowly, thinking over his words. Wary, yes, but scared? “I have gotten tougher, you know.”

Haldir smiles and lets out a soft laugh. "Now, that, I would have to agree with." He rolls his sleeve up to his bicep and holds out his arm. I squint in the moonlight, trying to make out whatever he's attempting to show me. "See this?" I shake my head, and Haldir laughs more freely now. "It is almost a bruise from where you hit me two days ago."

Now, I join him in his laughter, remembering my attempt to break free from his grasp during training. “You better watch out," I joke. "Soon I'll be able to put you on the ground."

Haldir schools his laughter but the edges of his lips stay quirked. "I'm sure."

I snort. “No, I actually believe that someday soon I’ll be able to beat you. Or, at the very least, catch you off your guard.”

I don’t actually believe that, of course, but it’s worth the exaggeration to see Haldir’s terrible attempt at pretending to agree with me.

“Ah, perhaps, yes. I would not entirely rule the possibility out.”

“Liar.” I roll my eyes and grin good-naturedly.

He merely holds my gaze with a smile of his own and raises an eyebrow.

I shudder out a breath. I wish he wouldn’t look at me that way. It makes me want things I absolutely can’t act on.

I force my eyes to return to the water, searching for a way to expel the tension that has somehow gathered in the air. “What made you want to come here?”

He shrugs, leaning back on one hand in a way that is almost arrestingly casual, because I do not feel casual. “It’s peaceful, it’s away from the bustle of the city…and it reminds me of home.” He smiles, craning his head back to view the moon and the stars. My eyes follow the length of his neck before correcting themselves to also look at the stars. “In Caras Galadon we live in talans built high in the branches. Common spaces and guest lodgings take up entire trees, wrapping around trunks and connecting with bridges. But my home is smaller, and all the way at the top of one of the oldest and tallest trees in the city…I can look up and I see the stars. It’s like I walk among them, I am so close. And here, though we are quite low on the ground…” His eyes drop to mine. I listen intently, captivated by the love he feels for his home so clearly expressed in his voice. “This feels somehow similar, like it is just you, me, the forest, and the sky.”

The words, ill-thought and reckless, rush from my mouth. “I like it being just us.”

His head dips closer to mine. “Me too.”

Our noses brush against each other. We are so close, so close to losing ourselves in something we cannot control.

I will bring nothing but pain to him.

I pull back just enough to see his eyes, hating the spark of hurt that runs through them. But I ground myself in that, use it as a warning of what is to come if I don’t stop this now.

But stopping hurts me, too. Because I want him. I want to be with him, to be his forever, more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life. Memories or not, this, I’m sure of.

And I can’t have it.

Tears prick at my eyes.

Haldir’s hurt turns to concern and he trails a finger tenderly over my cheek, soothing and catching a tear that has managed to fall. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow, trying to force away the painful lump that has grown there. I can manage little more than a whisper. “You don’t want to do this with me.”

He shakes his head and brings a hand to my lower back. He presses gently, keeping me in place as if he knows I’m trying to find a way out, to talk us both out of doing this. He lowers his head to look directly into my eyes. “Yes, I do.”

I turn my gaze to the waterfall, not able to bear looking him in the eye. “Haldir, I’m temporary. To your lifespan, I…I’m nothing. Don’t waste your love on me.” And something I can’t say, something I’m too weak to admit out loud — don’t waste your life on me.

He brings a hand to my chin, pulling me to meet his eyes. What I see there takes me aback — a fierceness akin to how he looked during the attack. “It’s not a waste, it’s a choice. And I’ve chosen, Cosima. I want this, I want you.”

I shake my head, the tears falling freely now. I bring a hand to grip his wrist, trying to break his hold of my face. He follows my request but immediately takes both of my hands in his, refusing to let me go completely.

He speaks in a low, urgent voice. “Cosima, believe me, I tried. I’ve stayed away from you, I’ve tried to convince myself that there are others, that there could ever be someone else for me. I’ve distracted myself with training and planning and patrols but nothing works. Every day, I wake up and I ache for you.”

I close my eyes, all at once elated to hear those words and grieving his choice. Because loving him is the most selfish thing I’ll ever do.

“I wish I didn’t want this,” he continues. “I know what it means for me. Every instinct for self-preservation is screaming at me to stop, to run away, to fight this—”

“Then do,” I beg, trying to convince both him and myself. “Save yourself while you still can.”

Slowly, deliberately, he pulls his hands from mine and rests them on either side of my neck, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. Despite my efforts, I suck in a breath, my heart beginning to race.

He’s so close, so honest, so…loving. He looks at me with the same reverence he reserves for the stars. He lets out a breath, eyes trailing down my face before meeting mine once more. “It is too late,” he murmurs, lips parting slightly. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

And my resolve breaks.

I push myself forward to close the minuscule space between us, pressing my lips against his. He responds immediately, kissing me with a passion that sends tingles down my spine. His hold on me feels like fire, starting where his hands caress my neck, where his lips meet mine, and running through my entire body. My hands gather in the fabric of his tunic, pulling him impossibly closer. My mind fights between short-circuiting due to the feel of his lips on mine and shouting for joy. Never in my life have I felt so right, so secure, so…electric. Gone are the days of holding myself back, of distancing myself, torturing myself, staying away from the one I truly want to be with.

The one I love.

My back makes contact with the cloak covering the ground. Did I fall and pull him along, or did he push me? All efforts of solving that mystery disappear the moment he takes my lower lip between his teeth, biting down gently. I gasp, my grip on his tunic tightening. The hand that rests on the ground near my side, supporting his weight, curls into a fist.

His kisses slow.

He presses his lips to mine again, this time, as gentle as a breeze. I sigh into the kiss, my hand trailing slowly down his chest. For the first time in all my memory, I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

And I am with who I am meant to be with.

Haldir’s lips leave mine. He balances his weight on one arm and his knees, bringing his free hand to my face to softly brush his fingers over my cheek. Slowly, I open my eyes.

Above me is perhaps the best and most beautiful sight I will ever see. A blanket of stars, brilliant and expansive, floats across the night sky. And in front of them, mere inches from my face, is Haldir, looking at me with a wide, adoring smile. I raise my head to bump my nose against his, earning myself a rumbling chuckle.

He shakes his head slowly. “The relief I feel, finally being able to tell you that I love you, to kiss you…”

I breathe out a weak laugh, knowing exactly what he’s describing. “I wouldn’t call what I feel relief.”

He grins and dips his head to mine, stopping just before our lips touch. “Yes, it is certainly not a peaceful relief. But I much prefer whatever this is to peace.”

“I agree,” I sigh into his mouth as his lips move against mine once more. But then I remember something, and push against his shoulders. He’s said his piece, now I get to say mine. “Hey, for the record, I love you too.”

He laughs indulgently, shaking his head, but I can see real joy lighting his eyes. “And yet you kept me in such suspense.”

I roll my eyes and grip his tunic, pulling him down again.

When we break apart, he falls onto his back next to me. I’m struck once again with the memory of us stargazing in Elrond’s gardens so many months ago. Then, I spent the whole night fighting the urge to cuddle against his side.

Now, it seems, that door is not closed to me.

Experimentally, I scoot closer to him. When he smiles rather than questions it, I pick up the arm nearest to me, moving it so I can lay against his side. He tenses, then sputters out a laugh, but doesn’t push me away. Instead, he cranes his head so he can see me and I grin up at him, happy to see that he wears a matching expression.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this what the humans do?”

“Yes,” I smile up at him, pleased that being this close to him feels even better than I could have imagined. “It’s called cuddling.” I rest my head on his chest. In the silence of the night, I can hear the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

After a moment, his hand comes to the back of my head, running his fingers gently over my hair and down my back. “Surprisingly, I like the human way.”

I smile, tucking my head further into his chest.

I stare at the sky.

And try not to think about what I’ve just done.

A/n YAYYYYYYYYY

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stupid-stew · 3 years

Text

Boiling Rain

my finger slipped again oopsies idk if this is 100% in character but like what if eda kicked lilith out right away and ended up regretting it later

There was nothing worse than a knock on the door for Eda. Especially not in the middle of the night, during a boiling rain storm, when she was fresh out of magic, and she had a kid in the house, and there was no hooty noise to warn her beforehand. What was he up to?

Eda was still new at defending herself without her magic, but she knew her way around a bat, just ask that guy at the bar from her 20’s and his massive medical bill. Whatever she thought, laughing to herself, that jerk deserved it, no medical bill was larger than his ego. Bat in her left hand, doorknob in her right, she simultaneously swung the door open and raised the bat into a defensive position, ready to strike, that is until…

“Lily?”

What she saw before her definitely wasn’t her sister, but that was Lilith on her doorstep. Well kind of, Lilith collapsed in front of her, drenched in steaming water, clearly out of breath, nothing like the perfect prissy Lilith she knew, and what was she wearing? Where was her dress and cloak? Oh, Eda realized, that is her dress and cloak. The clothes were nearly melting off of her sister, riddled with holes. That couldn’t have made her injuries any less severe. Eda had been stuck in her fair share of boiling rain storms, even with the thick skin of the owl beast it had still taken her weeks to heal, she couldn’t even begin to fathom the state her sister was in.

“I’m sorry” came a hoarse whisper from the pile at her feet

“Lily oh my titan-” Eda dropped the bat and turned her head to yell up the stairs, hoping she was loud enough to wake her sleeping apprentice “LUZ, WAKE UP” Her head snapped back to the door frame at the movement of Lilith flinching at her loud voice. What happened to her.

Eda bent down to at least try to get an idea of the injuries her sister had suffered, but before she could get her hands on Lilith, Luz appeared at the base of the stairs. “What’s going on?” she asked, clearly still half asleep. “I need you to go up to the bathroom and grab the first aid kit, not the one in the first aid kit box, the one in the lunchbox.” Eda instructed.

Luz went to move up the stairs but suddenly snapped awake, “Is that Lilith?”

“Luz, later, first aid kit now, please” Eda responded, back turned to the now fully attentive teenager

“Got it…” Luz ran up the stairs, “...the blue or the purple one?” she shouted

Eda sighed, now that Luz was going to be here a while she should make a point to show the kid the ropes around the house “The purple one please.”

Not even a half minute later Eda had the box in her hand and was sorting through the bandages, what was she doing, she didn’t even know how badly wounded Lilith was. Eda set the supplies down and moved to touch Lilith when a pale, terribly blistered hand shot out of the mound in front of her and grabbed her wrist.

“No.”

Eda was confused and jerked her hand away “What do you mean no?”

Lilith took a couple ragged breaths before weakly responding “I don’t want your help, I don’t deserve it”

They sat there in silence for a moment before Eda remembered Luz was still behind her, “Luz, sweetie, could you go grab some blankets and maybe draw up some of those healing glyphs you’ve been working on?”

“Sure” the girl replied softly before quietly stepping back up the stairs

“Edalyn I sai-” Lilith started

“I heard you. I don’t want to hear it. You need help.”

“Not your help-” Lilith inhaled painfully “not after everything I did to you.”

“Oh for titan’s sake Lily, you think just because you made a mistake I’m going to let you lay here in pain? I haven’t even seen your face yet and I can tell you need help, mine or not.”

“No, I shouldn’t have come here, it’s all my fault, I’ll go.” Lilith moved to get up, but the burns weren’t having it and she barely got a push-up’s distance off the ground before her arms gave out.

“Are you kidding me right now? You come to my door in the middle of the night, after having gone through titan-knows-what, covered in burns, your clothes are barely intact, and you expect me to just let you leave?”

Eda wasn’t having any more of it, and reached out and grabbed Lilith’s arm, who hissed in a combination of pain and protest.

“Not on my watch sister” Eda spoke through her teeth. For someone so frail, Lilith was definitely a bit heavier than she looked, though the fact she was drenched probably didn’t help.

She managed to drag the complaining witch all the way to the couch before Luz made her way down the stairs, blankets and a stack of healing glyphs in hand.

“Kid, drop those and come help me please.”

Together they were able to get Lilith into a lying position on the couch, and for the first time see how bad of a state Lilith was in. Not an inch of the witch’s skin was spared from the rains, red blotches and boils acted like massive freckles over her whole body. While taking in the sight of her sister, Eda managed to meet the injured witch’s eyes for a split second, and what she saw scared her more than anything. Of course Lilith’s face was contorted in pain, but there was also shame and embarrassment in her eyes. If I showed up in her state I’d be embarrassed too, but did she really think I wasn’t going to help her?

“Kid can you go upstairs and grab Lilith some clothes from my dresser? Anything you think will fit her is fine, and…” Eda leaned in next to Luz’s ear and in a low whisper “could you take your time? I’d like to talk to my sister in private”

Luz looked at her with understanding “Of course, if you need anything just yell up the stairs.” She eyed Lilith one more time before retreating back up the stairs.

Eda then turned back to Lilith, who seemed unwilling to meet her eye again. “Alright. Let’s get started, you look a mess, so this might hurt a lot more than a little.”

“Edalyn why are you doing this”

Eda chuckled “Have you seen yourself, I’ve never been the best at responsibility, but I think it would make me a bad person to not help someone in your condition.”

“No Eda, I mean why after everything that I did to you, to Luz, why are you still helping me when I am the last person you should want to help, I don’t understand.”

There was a heavy silence followed by a long exhale from Eda. She didn’t respond, instead moving for the pile of glyphs that Luz had left them. “This is going to hurt a lot, and I’m not going to be able to get it all without my magic, the glyphs only do so much, but I think I can make the worst of it at least better.”

For the second time that night Eda was stopped from touching Lilith by a pale shaking hand.

“Edalyn, why?”

“Ok here’s a deal, you let me help you and I’ll tell you why in the end? Sounds fair enough?”

“You really aren’t going to budge on this are you.”

“Nope.” Eda replied, popping her lips on the last syllable.

Lilith flopped back onto her back, shutting her eyes and exclaiming at the, without a doubt, excruciating pain the impact with the couch had caused.

“Real smooth Lils”

“Oh shut it.”

Somehow the older witch’s face turned even more red through the burns and boils.

Eda managed to get through placing glyphs along Lilith’s arms and legs with minimal issue, Lilith didn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much, but even she had to admit it was starting to look better. At some point Luz had come back down with a cream colored shirt and black patchwork skirt for Lilith to change into along with some more glyphs. Eda had sent her back to bed, the kid did have school in a few hours.

“Ok, we are going to have to take off your dress so I can reach your back, looks like that’s where most of the damage is, and…” as Lilith sat up Eda caught a glimpse of her full back “there also doesn’t seem to be all that much dress left to remove. You really got caught in the rain huh?”

Lilith didn’t respond, but instead met Eda’s eyes again, which made Eda suspicious.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes Lilith we have to treat your injuries.” Eda rolled her eyes at her sister, what did she expect when she was out in the rain without protection?

Lilith didn’t look amused, instead she seemed to pale out. She pulled down the top half of her dress and rolled over onto her stomach.

Eda gasped.

Lilith’s back was covered in burns and boils sure, but what shocked Eda was the array of scratches and claw marks all over Lilith’s back, not only her back but they seemed to go up and down her whole body in varying degrees. Some of them looked healed, or on the way there, some of them fresh, some of them even seemed to be infected.

“What the hell Li-”

Was all she got out before she was interrupted

“Forest demons aren’t as nice as they seem. Ever.”

Oh. Eda snapped her mouth shut and silently applied as many glyphs as she could to Lilith’s back and upper arms as she could. Of course, Eda thought, I didn’t let her stay here, she’s got no friends outside the coven, she doesn’t look different enough to find somewhere safe from the coven guard in town, especially not with her posters lining the alleyways, she’s been sleeping in the woods. Where else would she have gone. With their mother? Any number of nights in the forest without a roof was better than one night under their mom’s.

“Thank you.” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Huh? Oh.” Eda had been so busy thinking that she didn’t realize she had finished. “I’ll go to the kitchen to make us some tea, you can change in here, don’t worry about hooty he seems to be asleep.”

Lilith nodded and Eda made her way to the kitchen. Once the water was on the stove, she dove back into her thoughts. All these nights? I kicked her to the curb the night of the incident, it’s been at least a week, it’s rained almost every night. Oh titan, not all of those burns were fresh, that’s probably why Lilith was able to move at all, she was used to it. How has she been eating, bathing, sleeping? She’d been weakened by the splitting of the curse, could she have even defended herself? She could have come around any time- wait. Eda realized that she had told Lilith not to come anywhere near the house… ever again. That’s why she was so convinced she wouldn’t get help at the owl house. Maybe if I had been less harsh, it I hadn-

The whistle of the water being ready pulled Eda back to reality. She quickly placed the tea bags into the mugs and filled them with water and left the kitchen. When she got back to the living room, Lilith was already sitting in her dry clothes, a dim blue light escaping through the thin fabrics from the glow of the healing glyphs. Eda handed her a mug and brought her own to her lips, taking a long sip before sitting down next to her sister.

They sat like that for a while, sipping and waiting. Eventually, much to Eda’s surprise, Lilith broke the silence.

“So why?”

“Huh?” Eda replied, still deep in thought.

“Why did you decide to help me?” Lilith asked, looking into her mug as if it held all the answers “We both know I didn’t deserve it.”

“You’re right.” Eda replied simply. “You don’t deserve my help.”

Looking up from her tea and at her sister with genuine confusion, Lilith asked “So why did you help me then?”

“Let me finish. You don’t deserve my help. You cursed me, you kept your mouth shut about it for decades, until it was far too late, and in a desperate attempt to save your own ass you captured not only me, but my apprentice. My apprentice who I might as well call my own daughter at this point. You hurt her you know?”

Lilith’s eyes reverted back to her mug in shame.

“Oh yeah, she’s got bruises that aren’t even healed yet, that’s why she got looking into the healing glyphs. Plus, she faced Belos. She had to burn her only way home, she’s stuck here now. And me? I lost my magic. The most powerful witch on the boiling isles, now without the witch part.”

To emphasize her point, Eda drew a golden spell circle in the air, only for it to crumble into a pile of dust at her feet.

“Edalyn, I-”

“But,” the younger Clawthorne interjected, “that doesn’t make you a bad person, and I refuse to let it make me a bad person. I don’t know what your reasons were for cursing me, not telling me, I don’t know what Belos promised you, but it had to be pretty big to do what you did. And it’s my fault for not knowing. I kicked you out without even hearing you out, and you got hurt for it, I never even gave you a chance to explain yourself.”

It was Eda’s turn to avoid eye contact now, staring contemplatively into her now empty cup.

“It’s my fault you got hurt. That’s why I helped you. I was so caught up in my own anger that I didn’t think about the consequences of my actions. I’m still mad at you, and you’re far from forgiven, but I think you need help. Let me help you.”

For the first time in a long time, the two sisters met eyes in a moment of understanding.

“Ok.” Lilith said after a moment of comfortable silence.

“Good because I wasn’t really giving you a choice.”

They both laughed at that.

They sat for a moment, before it was finally Eda’s turn to speak first.

“So why’d you come here if you didn’t want my help?”

Lilith picked at her fingers for a moment before responding.

“I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t have anywhere else to go. It was so dark and so hot, I could barely even think, none of the other storms had gotten me this bad.”

Ah, so I was right. Eda regretted.

“It was like my feet took me here, all I knew was I needed to get out of the rain, and before I knew it I was in front of your house on my knees. I expected you to turn me away, I wanted you to turn me away.”

Eda didn’t know how to respond to that with anything other than “Why.”

Lilith thought for a moment.

“I guess I needed you to turn me away, I thought it might feel better to know that for once you would be the one leaving me in pain after 30 years of the roles being reversed, I think after all of that I deser-”

“No.” Eda interrupted. “I might not be the best sister, neither are you, but I will not ever let you suffer in any way remotely close to the way I did. Nobody deserves that, I sure as hell didn’t but neither do you. You will always have a place to stay with me, no matter how mad I am at you.”

They sat for a while longer, both deep in thought. Eventually Eda took both mugs back to the kitchen and rinsed them before going back to the living room, sitting next to Lilith one last time to help her out with the blankets.

“I think the shed is livable, the tower might be a bit too overgrown at the moment but we can work something out. You can stay on the couch tonight, no way you’re going back out into that. We can set ground rules in the morning, just try and get some sleep before the kid wakes up. She’s very excited about the new day, every day.” Eda spoke fondly.

“You really care for her, don’t you.” Lilith asked, a sad smile tugging on her lips.

“That I do. Goodnight Lilith.” Eda responded before stretching and cracking more joints than any one witch should physically be able to. “Woof, even sitting on that couch is enough to make me sore”

“I’m sure it’s just fine, thank you Edalyn, for everything. And goodnight.” Lilith said while trying to find a comfortable position on the lumpy couch. Her injuries, while significantly better, weren’t doing anything to help the situation. It wasn’t long before the soothing warmth of the healing glyphs lulled Lilith into a deep, dreamless sleep, much better than any she’d gotten on the forest floor.

Not even a few hours later, the sun shone on the owl house, waking Luz first, and if she was any quieter than normal that morning, or if she saw a certain gray haired owl lady sleeping on the floor next to Lilith’s position on the couch on her way out the door, she never mentioned it to a soul.

#the owl house #lilith clawthorne #luz noceda #eda clawthorne #eda the owl lady

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srose-foxfire · 3 years

Text

Damirae Week 2021 - Day 5

“The Enchanted Rose” Day 5: Nightmares

Crimson red was all Raven could see. She turned and turned hoping to see anything that wasn’t covered in red.How could this had happened? She had felt so happy just moments ago she had been dancing the night away with Damian feeling so at peace and alive. He twirled her around that huge ballroom floor, he spun her so many times but not once did Raven ever get dizzy. She kept her gaze on Damian, for he was her center.

Once her feet were beginning to feel sore, Damian like the gentleman he was, escorted her back to her bedroom. After bidding her a goodnight Damian turned to leave but then stopped him as Raven lifted herself on his tiptoes to give him a small peck on his cheeks. Raven caught a small blush coat his cheeks as he bowed and then left her in her room. The last thing she saw was his tail wagging. She closed her door and went off to bed, falling deep into a sleep with a huge grin on her face.

Or that was she imagined her night to end like. Instead she was here, in her father’s lands, who she sworn she would never return to. This was the life she was born into and one she never wanted to accept as hers. Raven hugged herself tightly, wanting to escape whatever hell she had just entered. She looked down at her bare feet as a strange shadow started creeping itself towards her, turning her into the demon she feared she would become. Frightened, Raven cried out and held her head tightly in her hands.

“You have to stop letting these fears hold you down.”

Raven open her eyes and gaze towards who had spoken to. There in front of her stood a woman, wrapped in a white hooded cloak. She had her face hidden by the hood, all Raven could make out was her light pink lips and the ends of her black hair just barely peeking out from her shoulders.

“Who are you?” Raven asked.

The woman only smiled beneath her hood, “someone who wants to see you happy. Raven, you don’t need to fear him anymore…” then her smiled slowly turn into a frown, “but you are in danger.”

“Danger? Tell me-”

“I’m running out of time, listen to me carefully. Your friends will need you, when that time comes, call for our Great Mother and she will bestow upon you her blessing.”

Then a gust a wind started to pick up around Raven, her vision started to blur as the woman in front of her started to disappear. “Wait! Is this the Wayne’s, are they in danger because of me? Who are you?!”

“Raven, you hold a light so strong, a light of healing. You will light the darkness surrounding those now dear to you.”

With that Raven woke from her sleep, she clutched her chest as her whole body shivered. Raven scanned her room; nothing was out the norm, through her large bedroom window a full moon shined brilliantly casting away any shadows in her room. Next to her bed was the wooden perch, Sombra slept on. It had only been a dream, she thought to herself. She laid there, fully wide awake, reflecting what her dream could had meant and who could that womanbeen? She seems to know Raven well, but the young girl could never recollect, where she might have ever seen her.

Needing some time to calm herself, Raven stepped out of her bedroom put on her night gown and a silk cover up. She went downstairs to the castle’s kitchen and make herself a cup of tea. She assumed it was a little midnight as the full moon looked to have travel half the night sky. Though now the castle was always illuminated by candlelight. Raven arrived and busy herself to start the fire going underneath the stove top and placed a filled kettle over the flame. Once the water started to boil, she grabbed a tea pot, poured some loose dried lemon grass and hot water. As she waited while her tea seeped, Raven went on a hunt to find a teacup. As she hunted for a cup, Raven hadn’t noticed she wasn’t alone in the kitchen.

“What are you doing up?”

Startled Raven jumped and bumped her head under a cupboard. She hissed at the sudden pain and turn her face to snare at Damian as he stood by the doorway with his arms crossed. “Oh, it rude to sneak up on people!” She turned around and continue to look for the damn cup. “I couldn’t sleep… what are you doing up?”

“I’m always up at this hour.”

“Doing what?”

“Reminiscing” Damian came up from behind her and opened up a cabinet, just to her right; revealing three small shelves filled with assorted and expensive china teacups. “and looking over… somethingthat was left to me.”

“Oh…” Raven said nonchalantly as she grabbed one blue cup and then gestured toward him, “would you like me to pour you a cup?”

Damian gave her a small shrug, she walked around him and poured him some tea. She placed it the kitchen’s island counter, taking a seat and sipping her tea. She felt the drink warm and sooth her soul, making her forget the nightmare she had that had cause her to be awoken. Damian went ahead and sat across from her. He took the china cup and held it by the tips of his claws, careful not to break it. After taking a sip, he sighed, “you’re not going to ask what it is?”

Damian actually looked smug, like he wanted to rub whatever he had in her face. Raven placed her cup down as gently as she could, clasping her hand together, “I cannot believe you perceive me as some nosy girl-”

“You wandered the castle when I told you not to, you wentoutsidedespite me telling you not to go out-”

“You orderedme,” Raven pointed a finger at him, “I don’t do good being ordered around.”

“Touché… something seems to be bothering you. I want you to know you can speak to me.”

Should she tell him? Raven hadn’t had time to reflect on her dream, everything was coming back to her in vague pieces. Danger. That was what she had dreamt, she had felt she was in trouble and somehow her dream made the illusion of someone warning her to keep her eyes open. “I had this dream… well a nightmare of my old home.” That was the half-truth.

Damian clasped his hand together and leaned in closer, “you never once spoke about your home, or where you were headed when you… came to the castle. Did something happen to your homeland?”

“I was exiled.”

~~~~

Damian sat there as Raven told him her story.

“I am the daughter of a demon who governs lands cast in shadows and bloody rivers. Lord Trigon, who stands above all demons and dark magic wielders in all the realms. I was to be his successor, but I wasn’t what he hoped for. The part of me that doesn’t wished to harm others, cause destruction or how my father put it ‘kindhearted’, impeded me to ever fall to my demon side. My father believed my mother’s good nature was the caused for this. He had no use for me, proclaimed one of my lesser but more demon-like siblings would take his reign. So, without as much a goodbye he made me leave his lands. Good riddance, I never once turned back, the minute I stepped out of his forsaken lands, I felt free and alive.”

“Where were you planning to head off to?”

“My mother’s homeland. I never got to meet her; my father killed her when I was very young so I have no memory of her. I found an old journal she kept and there she described her home to be filled with light, a place where anyone could be accepted no matter who they are. My only problem is, she never once wrote the name of her home, so I was traveling blindly. I ask any village I passed through… and after receiving directions from this old woman… I ended up here.”

Damian felt a sharp pain in his chest as he continued to listen to her tale. Raven was heading towards a place she could be accepted and loved. She was heading where she could find a place to call home. Her home. Damian fought tears wanting to escape, he turned his head and looked away as he could feel his heart want to shatter, realizing he could never bring any good. He was a cursed beast, and the curse was designed to darken any light around him.

Here he had this brilliant and kind woman, who could had turned against him at any moment. Instead she brought him warmth and happiness he never believed he needed. What did he do in return? Take away her freedom, rob her of making her own choices. Why did he believe he could give her all the luxuries left in his castle to make her want to stay?

Damian needed to do something right for her, he needed to amend his wrongs and let her know she could maybe find peace here, with him.Just then an idea popped in his head. Damian allowed a small smile to grace his lips.

“Come. I would like to show you something.”

Damian extended his arm out for Raven to take. She timidly reaches for his paw, once she held him, very effortlessly he lifted her and guided the girl outside the kitchen. Keeping silent, Damian lead Raven through corridors, until they reach an open door near the entrance to one of his private and personal chambers. The opening lead to a spiral of stair wells that lead to a tower, Damian would spend much of time. Once the reach the top, it led into a grand torn down room. It was dusty, the walls were covered in spiderwebs, and in the far side of the space was an opening to a balcony.

They walked silently into the room and Damian nodded to Raven, signaling he was allowing her to inspect the room. “This was my own private study; I would come here to train or be away from my family.” He continues to watch her wonder around the large room and stopped as she gazes towards up a shredded portrait, one he destroyed of himself. “It’s the one place in the castle my siblings aren’t allowed to come. Excuse me for the mess, I find solace here since the curse was place. I wanted to show you this.”

Damian points towards a small round table near the exit to the balcony. There in the center of the table, a centerpiece was covered by a thin gray rag. Damian pulled it away, revealing a green rose, though it color was unusually dark. Raven gasp as she noticed the rose was covered by a glass covering and floated above the table’s surface, keeping perfectly still. Though instead of keeping upright, its rosebud was tilted to the side, almost as if it was wilting.

“It’s floating?” She asked.

“There was a rose garden my father had planted, a token for my mother it was his way he proposed to her. Green for her eyes. When she passed away, I took over the care for the roses, my way of keeping her memory alive and one of my closest treasures. When the witch cast the curse and she transformed me, she said she would take everything I held dear would be gone. My mother’s rose garden was burned to the ground, all the beautiful, fully bloomed rosebuds were destroyed. All but one.” Damian gestured towards the single last rose from his garden.

“It’s enchanted?” Raven continue to ponder as she viewed the mysterious flower from all angles.

“That is what I believe as well, it once shined and sparkled. Over the years it’s light simply started to dim, which is why it looks dead. Perhaps it’s was the witch’s way of saying that this curse will never be lifted, but I personally wish to see that some good could come out this.”

“I happen to imagine you view the world differently, correct? Trust me, coming from a line of demons give you that insight… may I?” Raven gestured towards the rose and Damian simply gave her a soft nod. He watched as she carefully removed the glass covering and placed it next to the rose. Raven slowly kept her placed her hands over it, not daring to touch it. She continues to move her hands all around almost as if she could really touch it and then the most marvelous thing happen.

Light. The green rose suddenly emitted a bright glow and burst with life again. The wilting rosebud soon rose itself upright, blooming and slowly spinning in Raven’s hands. Small specks to what appeared to be the rose’s pollen, erupted resulting it looking like the rose was emitting green sparkles.

Damian took a few steps back as he watched his room be filled with this mysterious light and gazed upon the girl holding it. She has a light to share, Damian thought as the rose continued to shine and spun. Damian frowned and lowered his gaze as he knew what he had to do, even if he didn’t want it to happen.

Raven gasped softly and smiled, “Damian, do you see this? It’s beautiful, how do you think this happened-”

“Go.” Damian said rather harshly as he came between Raven and the rose, moving her hands away and covering the enchanted rose once again.

Raven turned to face him with her brows knitted together, she was about to speak when Damian interrupted her, “You are no longer my prisoner, you can go and find your mother’s land.”

“But I-”

Damian then turned his back towards her, his whole form was able to shield the rose’s glow, dimming the room back to the darkness he had become use to. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say, he fears if he did than he would never let her leave. Very hard he held back the tears and kept his voice stern, not letting himself brake before her. “Didn’t you hear me? I said go!” No, I want you to stay. “Go!” Please stay with me. “I don’t want you here! Get out of my sight!

Damian slightly glanced from the side; Raven was still there awestruck by the sudden change of his behavior no doubt. He growled, then turned his whole body, looming over the poor girl. Damian then let out a great and terrifying roared as the castle tremble beneath him. “GET OUT!” He slashed at an old chair next to him, making Raven back away towards a wall.

“Damian, what’s happening?” Raven said in a mere frightened whisper, her voice wanting to crack.

“Get out, I say! You have no business here; I don’t want you in my castle anymore!”

“Please stop.” Raven painfully begged, which only aggravated Damian even more.

Damian snarled, he could feel his eyes swell up with tears wanting to cascade, with a painful heart he cried out another terrifying roar, “GET OUT!”

With that Raven ran towards the door, her steps fading as she sprinted the stairs. In the distance he could hear her pet raven, Sombra squawked, the main castle’s doors opening and banging at their sudden opening. Damian walked to the tower’s balcony seeing Raven wrapped in an old worn out cloak, with Sombra flying at her side, fleeing from his castle never looking back and disappearing in the forest. Not being able to contain the pain in his chest, Damian slump down and let all the sorrows lodged in his heart out.

“Damian.”The young cursed prince looked up and saw his older brother Dick floating towards him. “What happened? Why did she leave? What did you do?”

“I let her go,” Damian said meekly as he stared down to the ground.

Flabbergasted, Dick raised his hands towards his younger brother.“Why?”

Taking one final look at the illuminated green enchanted rose, Damian gave a wearily stare towards his half-brother, who knew more about love than him. “Because I love her.”

#damirae week 2021 #day 5 #nightmares #damirae #damirae week #damiraefic #Damian Wayne #raven roth #raven and damian #damian and raven #Beauty and the Beast AU

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charmandhex · 4 years

Note

If you're taking requests can I have blupjeans 4? Please? :0

4. Kissing on sofa, foreheads pressed together, breathy, soft, tender

Hey anon? Hey anon?? You have Real Good Taste.

Special thanks to @capitalnineteen for helping me not panic while writing smooches for the couple that invented love.

Lup is content. She has every right to be. This one of the Raven Queen’s babiest Reapers (fine, she’d gotten to the point that repeating Taako’s joke had become unironic) is done with work for the day, having exchanged her feathery cloak and scythe for an impossibly soft oversized cream-colored sweater and thick woolen socks. And if that would seem out of place in the Astral Plane, well, it sure as fuck doesn’t at home, where Lup is comfortably curled up on the couch and under a blue and silver blanket from Istus. In her hands is an open book, its faintly musty scent twining with that of the cinnamon and ginger candle she’d lit earlier.

Outside, it’s a crisp autumn day in the Prime Material Plane. A lively breeze races through the rainbow of leaves still clinging to the trees, while far above a far stronger wind sends faint whisps of clouds sailing through a pale blue sky. The chill in the air heralding the season to come still yields to the warmth of the late afternoon sunlight. Only the last reaches Lup here inside though. Golden light pours into the room, setting golden curls and silver yarn shining as well as illuminating the magical symbols and necromantic diagrams painstakingly drawn in the old book.

Okay, so, look, Lup may have picked up the book from a raid on a necromantic cult last week. Maybe.

Lup turns the page and hums. Hm. That’d be an interesting idea for their next at least somewhat condoned if still illicit necromantic experiment.

Okay, she definitely got the book from the raid on the necromantic cult.

The quiet of the room, broken only by the sound of an occasional turn of the page or a gust of wind rattling its way over the windows, is broken by the familiar, delicate rrrrrrrrrrrip of the barrier between this plane and their place of work.

“Hey, babe,” Lup says, looking up from the book as Barry steps through the rift. Her husband’s scythe disappears into nothingness as the tear closes behind him, and he turns to her with a smile.

“Hey, Lup. How is the most beautiful person in any world doing?” Barry asks, taking off his own black-feathered cloak. As expected, beneath the cloak and the scythe and the whole lichy, spooky agent of the Raven Queen vibe, Lup’s husband is as he ever was, one of the plane’s biggest nerds with a denim-clad ass that just won’t quit.

“I don’t know, Barry, how are you doing?” Lup replies, a triumphant smirk on her lips. As expected, even after decades, Barry goes bright IPRE red at the remark.

Barry clears his throat, straightening his glasses, likely trying to will the blush away. Gods, Lup is so in love. “I-I’m great. You?”

“Enjoying my time off, natch.” Lup puts the book down on the coffee table and takes a moment to stretch, cat-like, ears flicking as she does.

“Uh-huh. And how did you manage that?” Barry asks, stepping away toward the line of hooks on the wall where Lup’s cloak already is already hung up.

“I finished my paperwork early,” Lup says, smug and entirely pleased with herself.

Barry pauses, looking back over his shoulder at her. Whatever he sees in her face makes him let out a soft, fond snort as he shakes his head. “What did you bribe Kravitz with?” He calls as he hangs the cloak, trading sensible work boots for slippers. Having fully entered nerd alert mode, Barry quickly returns to his beloved wife.

Lup stifles a snicker, drawing her legs back and patting the newly vacated couch cushion. “How’d you know?”

Barry sits before turning to her, face schooled into solemnity. Lup bites back another giggle. “Well, now, you see, Lup, darling, love of my lives and deaths… liches have True Sight.”

At that, Lup does laugh, and Barry’s face splits into an easy, affectionate smile, the kind Lup might have called sappy if that same smile didn’t turn her own insides to lovey-dovey mush at the sight. If seeing Barry smile like that, at her, because of her, for her, didn’t fill her heart with such love that could anchor her across time and space and still bring her home. But, uh, it kinda does. Like a lot. So she doesn’t say a word, and Lup breaks into her own fond, loving smile.

Slowly, deliberately, just as quietly deliberate as the love they had carefully cultivated for 47 years, Lup rolls forward onto her knees and places her hands on her husband’s warm, steady shoulders. Barry remains still as Lup leans in and kisses him, soft, feather light. Even that simple touch sends a spark through her as the echo of their melody plays in her mind. Lup pulls back and studies Barry for a moment. Half a heartbeat after she does, Barry’s eyes open, and Lup is, not for the first time, struck by the depths of the love in his eyes. Lup’s lips, still electric where they’d touched Barry’s, quirk into a small smile. She leans in again, planting kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, once, twice, three times. The last elicits a quiet laugh, and Lup grins wider as she feels the shaking of his shoulders beneath her hands.

In a flash her arms are wrapped around his neck, tugging him forward as she falls backward into the couch. Barry’s lips are back on hers at once, warm and soft and so familiar. Even in the quiet cycles, where the Light had been found and worlds had been peaceful, there’d always been a sense of urgency, a sense that each kiss could be the last before they lost each other, perhaps for the final time. Now, in the calm and quiet of their comfortable home, in a far happier and more hopeful world- well, they really did have time enough to love each other.

Hey, Lup had said she’d smooch Barry’s brains out when she’d gotten her body back. She most definitely had, but she rather likes continuing to make good on that particular promise.

If the sun is lower in the sky when they finally draw back, breathless, neither of them comments on it. They fidget, rolling onto their sides with Lup throwing the blanket over Barry as well, neither letting go. Comfortable once more, Lup tilts her head in, bringing her forehead to touch Barry’s, their quick breaths mingling.

“Wow,” Barry whispers, seemingly stunned.

Lup might laugh, but for the moment she feels just the same, just as in love and in awe that she is so loved in return. “Taught him how to make elvish bread.”

“Hm?”

“Kravitz. What I traded for paperwork. How to make it. And how to twist it into the right shape.”

That gets Barry’s attention. Gods know he’d spent enough hours having Taako help him practice before presenting anything to Lup. “Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“How about that?”

“I know, about time, huh?” Lup breathes out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Can we really judge? We took long enough.”

“We took exactly the right amount of time; I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Barry’s chuckle seems to reverberate through her, and Lup reaches up to cup his face, running a thumb over his cheek. “Hey, babe?”

“Mm?”

“I think I have a new favorite plane.”

“Mmhmm? Which one?”

Lup leans in to kiss Barry again, but, just before she does, she answers. “This one.”

#taz #taz balance #blupjeans #taz fic #taz fanfic #asks #anon #charm works #i may or may not have googled how to write kissing #i was very stressed y'all #i also found an article that was very bad and very heteronormative #i opened it and said well i'm already better than this shit #cor's advice was much more better and i love her #Anonymous

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nicketynic · 4 years

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between the shadow and the soul (1/1)

Hey fam!! Guess whose laptop is back from four weeks of computer quarantine (a.k.a. two weeks of fix-up and a godawful amount of time in the mail)!!

This was originally intended for @jonsa-valentine. Originally a ~2,000 word take on a Robb Lives, Jon/Sansa falls in love despite her arranged Southron marriage, this grew and grew as I scribbled endlessly in my notebook.

Enjoy!!

“Jon, you shouldn’t be here,” Sansa hissed fiercely as her leisurely stroll through a Redwyne vineyard was interrupted by her lover appearing suddenly from behind a vine-covered trellis. Outraged worry quickly replaced startlement as she took in his appearance: tousled, hurried, still clad in riding leathers. The reckless abandon of it all left her furious. “Have you even presented yourself at Redwyne Hall?”

“No,” Jon baldly confessed, shamelessly sidestepping her outrage as he shed his cloak and pulled her close. “I came straight from the harbor.”

Despite herself, Sansa went unresisting into his embrace, twining her arms around his neck and guiding him deeper into the thicket of grapevines. “Luck must be with you, then. Willas and his uncle are spending the day in Ryamsport, otherwise your absence would be noticed immediately.”

“Or a few well-placed silver stags will delay my arrival being announced until near the evening meal,” he countered, leaning in to nuzzle into her neck.

The rough rasp of his beard and the weathered skin underneath, the calluses on his hands as he entwined them with hers a shock of sensory delight to her system. Pressing her cheek to his and breathing him in, she realized with appreciation that he must have stopped to bathe in Oldtown, lacking as he was the stench of horse and days-old sweat. Beneath an overlay of leather and seasalt instead lingered the fresh, clean scents of pine and snow. Home, her blood and heart and soul all whispered in unison, as she pressed closer and blinked away the prick of tears.

Gods, she had missed him...missed Winterfell, missed the North. Sansa had gotten everything she was dreamed of, a chivalrous husband and a life full of Southron fancy, but she wanted none of it. She longed instead for evergreen and snow and solemn, long Stark faces. She wished for Jon, the embodiment of everything her heart longed for, everything she knew of comfort and love.

As kind and chivalrous as Willas Tyrell had proven to be, as well as he continued to treat her, there was nothing she could do to change the truth of her feelings. She and Willas could have been Florian and Jonquil reborn, and still it would have come to no good end. Sansa Stark’s heart belonged to another, given away long before the Highgarden heir had ever cloaked her in green velvet and golden roses. She felt near-forgotten parts of her sparking alive everywhere Jon’s touch lingered, previously gone dormant under long months of Willas’ absent courtesy. Sansa had no true cause to complain as her husband’s attention was cast more upon his hawks, his horses, and his correspondence with a certain Dornish prince, but it was easy for loneliness to take root in the cracks of their relationship, lacking as she was any real bond connecting her to Highgarden.

Three years without an heir sent plenty a Reacher tongue wagging, but both spouses duly ignored the ensuing gossip. His gaze turned firmly to the south, hers to the north, but they shared a common longing for the approaching summer. Summer brought the tourney season, inspiring the Red Viper and his paramour to journey beyond the Red Mountains. Summer stirred Winterfell’s king to send a trusted proxy to the Reach, protecting the vital grain trade cemented by Sansa’s marriage contract.

Having expected to see Jon in Oldtown in the role of that proxy, a week out yet as Willas wished to visit with his Redwyne relatives before they were due to attend the celebrations for Old Lord Leyton’s seventieth nameday, it should hardly be a surprise that Sansa should be startled and confused with her former lover’s sudden appearance.

Either ignorant or ignorable of her inner turmoil, Jon sighed her name, pressing soft, sweet kisses to her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, and her cheek as he raised his head to face her. “Sansa…”

“You’re mad,” she began, stopping when he winced and quickly corrected herself to avoid referencing the Targaryen heritage he found so abhorrent. “You’re foolish to have taken such a risk,” she finished chidingly, though her hands proved traitorous as they played with the hair at his nape and stroked his neck, soothingly away the reprimand. “You truly couldn’t wait for Oldtown?”

The touch grounded him, tempted as he was to take the rebuke as rejection and back away. Instead, he breathed out slowly, meeting her eyes with determination rather than chagrin. “I’m a fool, aye, mayhaps even more a fool than the Ser Florian of your songs. But I beg of you,” He tipped his forehead against hers, holding her gaze imploringly. “Here, in this moment, don’t send me away. I’ve missed you so desperately. I feel as if I’ve been cleaved in half everytime we part ways.”

“Jon…” Lifting onto the tips of her toes brought her lips to his and she let the kiss linger, slow and sweet as the first tentative touch they had shared years ago, the eve before she was due to depart for White Harbor to wed Willas in the Sept of the Snows. A clandestine meeting in the godswood to share a private goodbye had spiralled out of their control, as they surrendered to every forbidden longing overshadowed by her kingly brother’s negotiations with the Reach to get their people through a long winter, Sansa’s hand the bargaining chip key to secure the necessary grain trade.

For her people, Sansa chose to do her duty, but first sought one last thing for herself. That night, she lay with Jon in the shadow of Winterfell's heart tree, rising again in the hour before dawn hiding away the gentle, fanciful maiden part of her to become the stern, dutiful woman set to marry Highgarden's heir.

Pulling back at the need for breath, Sansa’s eyes were warm and full as she gazed up at her love. “Jon," she breathed. “Stay with me.”

He kissed her again, fumbling with his clothes as his hands were trembling, joy and desperation coursing through him like a maelstrom. “I’m here,” he whispered shakily against her skin as he kissed her throat, her breast as he loosened her corset and let her dress fall. “I’m here.”

Surrounded by the subtle sweetness of blooming grape clusters (so different from the cloying rose aromas permeating Highgarden, much to Sansa’s relief), they lay together upon the traveling cloak Jon had so carelessly shed. Rich, damp earth was soft beneath his elbows and knees, the sun warm against his backside as he kicked his breeches aside and leaned over her lithe form. His lips were soft as a butterfly’s kiss as he traced the constellations of freckles on her skin, clever fingers finding every secret spot guaranteed to elicit a sigh or moan. Her body sang with pleasure by the time she pulled him close and wrapped her legs around his hips, welcoming him into her body.

And as he moved above her, she kept her eyes on his face, tracing over his beloved features, his flushed complexion, the wrinkle in his brow as he concentrated on finding the right rhythm to please them both. Committing him to memory, she slowly let down the guard keeping the dreamy maiden at bay, and it was hope and love enveloping her, practicality hidden away, when he began to show signs of his impending peak. Cinching her legs and arms tight around him, she held him fast when he attempted to withdraw, something they would have never dared that night in the godswood. But Sansa knew his visit couldn’t last forever, and she would be so very, very lonely again when he was gone. “Stay with me,” she urged once more against his lips, swallowing his startled yelp in a kiss as he tensed and stilled, finding his release inside her.

And just like the flourishing vineyard around them, seed took root and slowly began to blossom.

As magic slowly faded from the world after the calamity of the Second War for the Dawn, the seasons falling into a pattern necessitated new alliances between all the kingdoms involved. Two years of winter would follow every three of summer, so on and so forth until cooperative trade was the key to survival.

From then on, when the snows melted and spring finally arrived in full bloom, the future Lord and Lady Tyrell began an extended tour around the Reach and surrounding regions, visiting family and popular tourney spots, building relationships and connections. If they crossed paths with Willas’ dear friend Prince Oberyn more often than not, and Sansa was able to enjoy her cousin Jon’s company during his journey to and from Highgarden as King Robb’s envoy, the coincidence was all the happier for all involved.

Surrounded by the sultry heat of a Southron summer, it was easy for most to forget that Sansa Tyrell was Sansa Stark, Daughter of Winterfell. But the reminder would always arrive when autumn's chill crept in and Lady Sansa's middle began to swell. Babes conceived in summer they may have been, but it was the winter of their birth that left its mark. Edwyn and his storm-grey eyes, little Alya with her Stark coloring; even sweet Minisa and spirited Brynden, fully Tully in looks, were Northern steel through and through when pushed passed their courtesies.

The years rolled by, marked by passages of joy and pain, contentment and heartache. Seasons changed, politics shifted, children grew, and Sansa and Jon became Lady Tyrell and Lord Snow respectively.

Just shy of her forty-fifth nameday, Sansa Tyrell leisurely strolled through the Beesbury family gardens, arm-in-arm with her beloved cousin, Lord Snow. Strong on the languid breeze was the thick scent of honeysuckle and the lazy swell of the Honeywine river, as Sansa cast reminiscent glances toward her companion through the fall of her lashes.

The arm beneath her fingers was firm and muscular as ever, but Jon had grown adorably sheepish about the softening of his middle over the years, the silver shot through his hair and beard, the craggy lines left by hard winters. Sansa herself was well aware of the marks age and children had left, but it was easy to dismiss those insecurities when her mind was full with memories of the night before.

The humid heat of the summer night had bogged down on them, clinging simply to their skin even as they clung closer to one another. Kisses tasted of warmth and sunlight, lingering gifts from the setting sun they'd made love beneath. Under the pallid luminescence of the night, her lover was a pale, solemn thing, meant for winter moons and cold starlight, but it was summer that gave them their union, and summer that touched the taste of their kisses, southron heat he gladly faced just to touch her once more. Cast with the warm glow of a full-faced summer moon, there was no mistaking the naked adoration and hunger those wintry eyes regarded her with, the same amorous gaze he’d given her at sixteen and twenty and thirty.

Once more in daylight, they practiced considerably more restraint, but it was with a mellow contentment that they walked together. Sansa was reluctant to break the peaceful silence between them, but they only had so much remaining privacy before duty forced them to part company once more. Houses Tyrell and Florent were now kin through Edwyn's marriage to the lovely and clever Mara, and so when Lord Beesbury wished to host a small tourney to celebrate his daughter’s betrothal to Mara’s brother Rycherd, all related houses happily donated further funds to make it a grander event for all to attend. Honeyholt was consequently buzzing with activity akin to the hives it was named for, and Sansa and Jon finding a private moment had been a miracle unto itself.

"Have you spoken yet to Brynden?" she inquired softly, watching him thoughtfully as they turned a corner between two appleblossom trees. He winced slightly, and she gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze, remembering how nervous he'd been when they discussed the matter the night before.

Jon heaved a heavy sigh, giving her a sheepish glance. "I have. I addressed the...situation this morning." A small, fond smile curled his lips, almost despite himself given his anxiety. "We were both eager to escape the formalities. It would have been remiss not to bring him along for my morning ride."

Sansa's returning smile was equally as fond and warm. "He favors you more and more every day," are the words she longed to say, but would never dare to do so in such a public setting. Instead, when she spoke aloud, it was to comment, "Bryn would live on horseback if I only allowed him. Wolf blood, I believe Father once called it." My blood. Your blood. Stark blood. He is every bit your son, Jon.

"But wolf blood or not," she continued gently, "He holds to the Tully words as well as his namesake. How did he respond to your offer?"

Jon sighed, softly and wistfully, resting a hand over the one tucked against his forearm. "He wasn't displeased, at least. I'm not certain the surprise ever wore off by the time we returned to the stable." He smiled wanly. "He asked for time to think. I suppose a crumbling old castle and a bastard’s name cannot compare to what Highgarden can offer."

"Jon," she sighed, the soft, tender tone to his name as close as she could come to the "my love" she wished to truly express. "You cannot truly believe any of that. A second son of a Reacher house can hardly hope for more than the tourney circuit. No boy with so much North in his heart could ever be happy as a pampered Southron knight."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Jon's face, and she pressed on. "I've hardly known Robb to be as much a braggart as he was in his letters about the restoration of Wolf's Den. He was so proud to present it to you. To honor you, Jon, in thanks for everything you've given."

"An honor I was hardly worthy of," he murmured darkly, an echo of the guilt and shame he wouldn't be Jon without. As much as he loved her, every time he lay with a married woman, the cousin he was pledged to protect and respect, he felt he violated Robb and her late father's trust in him, rendering his honor a tainted, broken thing he could no longer be proud of.

“Jon.” Bringing them to a firm stop next to a large flowering bush, grasping his forearms so that he would face her, she held his eyes intently. "You're one of the most honorable men I've ever known. Beyond that, you're kind, loyal, and dutiful to your core. How is that not a legacy Brynden would be proud to inherit?"

At that very moment, however, all thoughts of legacy, inheritance, and choice were driven out of Brynden Tyrell's head when he was knocked hard into the dirt, courtesy of his older brother, whose smirking face appeared into his field of vision along with an extended hand.

Heaving a sigh, he accepted Edwyn's hand, pulled firmly to his feet with a pat to his shoulder. A broad grin cut through Edwyn’s thick auburn beard, a low chuckle accompanying his teasing. "Didn't I tell you enough when we were boys to keep your shield up? Get distracted again, and I'll-"

"Ring my head like a bell," Brynden finished irritably, all too familiar with the phrase after a childhood of training with his brother. Eight years his senior and gifted with the stocky Tully frame, Edwyn had more often than not pummelled the lesson into him, but given Brynden’s undeniable skill with the blade now that he was nearly grown, he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of his brother’s teaching.

A round of musical laughter and mocking applause from the sidelines drew a glare and a reprimanding side-eye from the brothers. Alya remained unrepentant, smirking and giggling. Perched on a fence post, one knee drawn up to her chin and her free leg swinging back and forth, she appeared more of a restless child than a young woman on the brink of sixteen.

“Enough, Aly,” Edwyn firmly rebuked, the disapproval in his low tenor difficult to ignore by the younger siblings who so looked up to him.

Deciding that mocking her twin wasn't worth drawing Edwyn's wrath, she snapped her mouth shut against the slew of creative insults she had planned. Instead, she cocked her head curiously toward Brynden. “What has you so distracted, little brother? Even Sanny would have seen that blow coming.”

Brynden didn’t bother to hold back from glowering at his sister for that particular insult, as Sanny was the family nickname for Sansara, Edwyn and Mara’s three-year-old daughter. “If you must know, Uncle Jon asked me to go riding this morning…”

After finishing his narrative of everything that had happened that morning, Brynden was left faced with his brother’s expression, so thoroughly dumbfounded the younger wasn’t certain how to decipher the mood. Before he could begin to question, a sharp clout landed hard against the back of his head.

"Seven hells!" he yelped, protectively clutching the throbbing base of his skull as his ears rang and his head spun. He glared at his sister as darkly as capable through the pained pinch of his eyes.

"You're a complete and utter idiot," Alya hissed into his face, apathetic to the damage she'd caused in the face of her fury. “Uncle Jon offered to take you North, give you his name, and make you his heir! You have to think about it?!”

“Taking on a bastard’s name doesn’t require the slightest bit of thought?” Brynden scornfully shot back, immediately shamefaced and regretful before the words had even left his mouth. Alya’s stormy eyes lit with fury, looking ready to strike him all over again, Edwyn the very face of paternal disappointment.

Opening his mouth to apologize, he was cut off by Alya storming up to him and grabbing a fistful of his hair, jerking his head around and forcing him down until her mouth was level with his ear. "Don't presume to forget the truth of your own origins, Brynden Flowers." The low hiss of her voice was barely audible save for the sheer vehemence of her tone. "Be glad it was love that birthed you, and not the wrong side of some spoiled lordling's bedsheet."

Warring between shock and offense, Brynden could only stare at his sister, disbelieving that she would ever again dare to give voice to such a poisonous idea. He was so certain they left that ugliness behind years ago, fracturing their relationship in sacrifice to keep their world from crashing down around them.

They were twelve the night Alya appeared in his bedchamber, exuberant with the breathless excitement of a newly-discovered secret, words rambling together with a speed he struggled to keep up with. But still, that understanding did begin to bloom, as did the chill of fear climbing up his spine. Anxious panic clawed at his insides, nausea settling in as he looked up and recognized the glitter of excitement in his twin’s eyes.

She was so certain now that she had the answers, to all the questions she hadn’t been able to let go of the older they grew. Why none of them showed a trace of Tyrell save their name, why Father was never unkind but always distant, why Uncle Jon wrote so frequently and remained so affectionate and warm no matter how grown they became, despite only being a second cousin.

What was there to be excited about, if such a ghastly secret was true? There were as many pricked and ready ears hidden around Highgarden as there were roses, and there were plenty of those sickly pungent blossoms to be found around the castle and surrounding estate. The stain of bastardry aside, forgetting the loss of their inheritance and names, Brynden would fight tooth and nail to never see their mother pay the price for such a revelation.

How easily had Alya forgotten their lessons, to not realize the consequences of the Faith being so central to the Reach? Was it truly so difficult to remember Cersei Lannister’s disgrace, or Bethany Bracken’s death sentence? Even as the best-case scenario, if discovering he was a childless cuckold didn’t transform the mild-mannered Willas Tyrell into someone unrecognizable, the most they could expect was for Mother to be dismissed back to the North as a adulteress, taking her children with her bearing the name “Snow.” The shame and the ridicule would follow her, blacken her name and reputation, for the rest of her days. Would their kingly uncle welcome her home, or would he be ashamed and turn them away?

Was it worth ruining all their lives just because Alya needed there to be a reason behind Uncle Jon’s love?

Those fears swirling around his mind, culminating in a maddening mantra for Alya to just shut up and think about what she was doing, Brynden had reached out to roughly grab her arms, give her a harsh, violent shake, and order in a low, guttural growl he couldn’t recognize that she would never, ever say these things again.

He came back to himself a moment later to find a stricken, betrayed look deep in his twin’s winter eyes. Nausea and horror welled up inside him, as hardened steel replaced the pain and she spat at him, jerking herself away to disappear into the night.

It was the last time she looked at him with anything lighter than mockery. And mockery it seemed to be now, making a mockery of the sacrifice he made to keep them safe. His nostrils flared, his fists clenched, his mouth opening to respond-

Thud!

Edwyn’s practice sword hit the ground hard as his patience finally snapped, striding forward until his siblings were within arm’s length. Strong hands grabbed the teenagers by the scruffs of their necks, with just enough firmness that wriggling free would be uncomfortable, and whirled them around to face him, stern mien only emphasized by the dark intensity filling his eyes. “Enough! The two of you will stop this incessant squabbling and remember that you are family and pack, or so help me, I will chain you together for the rest of your natural lives.”

His face softened and he sighed. “You’re not getting anywhere continuing to hide from each other. Speak, and listen. Alya, tell him why it’s important to you that he go north.”

A brief mulish stubbornness appeared in her expression, but Alya’s eyes darted from Edwyn to her twin, vulnerability becoming more apparent the more she made contact with Brynden. “I-my betrothal has been arranged. I’m to marry Wyllam Manderly.”

Wyllam Manderly- heir to White Harbor. Which meant his twin, his other half, was being sent North, separating them for the first time in his life. Unless he accepted Uncle Jon’s offer and went north as well…

Oh. Oh. He swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. “Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

Alya’s eyes went as wide as saucers, but before anything more could be discussed, they were all interrupted by the arrival of Edwyn’s squire.

“My lords, my lady, I’ve been sent to fetch you. Lady Minisa had gone to the birthing bed.”

If there was anything that gave Alya the slightest hope in regards to her future marriage, it was the genuine affection between her older sister and her husband, Ser Samwyle Tarly. Called Little Sam to differentiate him from his father, Samwell, the heir to Horn Hill had been hopelessly besotted with Minisa from the time they were children. It was likely that adoration that led to him indulging Mini’s wish to travel so late in her pregnancy, though thankfully the couple hadn’t traveled far, having been staying in Oldtown to celebrate his sister Maeve’s first child with Lord Hightower.

Samwyle was a big man, tall and broad, his presence readily felt by all those with him in the corridor as he paced back and forth, Redwyne freckles standing stark against his pale, anxious face. Alya watched as Edwyn approached the nervous father-to-be, resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning closer to hopefully reassure and advise. Without the frenetic pacing to keep her attention, Alya found herself shifting restlessly, nothing left to distract her from her racing mind.

Thoughts bouncing from the danger of Mini being in labor to vague, nervous speculation of one day being married to Wyllam and carrying his children, she found herself most often coming back to the fact that her twin, her other half, thought she hated him.

Alya knew she was stubborn, that she was prideful, but even she had been able to admit to herself years ago that she had been hasty when it came to her suspicions about their mother and Uncle Jon. Yes, it had been wrong of him to respond the way he did, trying to force silence on the sister he knew valued the freedom of her mind above all else, but these days, needling Brynden was more habit than true antagonism. Calling him “Flowers” had been a childish thing born of her anger, but still, the only thing that could truly stick in her thoughts…

“Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

She winced at the memory and stared blankly ahead, idly counting grains in the wooden table nearby in an effort to distract herself. A shift in the space, a creak from the bench beneath her, and a warm, solid body appeared at her side. Keeping her gaze affixed forward, she sighed, sliding over until they were shoulder-to-shoulder. “I don’t hate you,” she muttered softly.

The body beside her went slack with relief, shifting closer still until they were hip-to-hip. “I accepted Uncle Jon’s offer,” he offered hesitantly.

Relief rushed through her, and she let her hand fall onto the bench beside them, close enough to feel the warmth of his. They’d held hands so often as children, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d welcomed such a touch from him. “And you’ll visit White Harbor often?”

“So much you’ll think me even more of a pest than you do now,’” Brynden replied honestly. He flexed his fingers, letting his pinkie graze against hers. He lowered his voice, muttering quietly. “I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted us safe.”

Alya sighed heavily, giving into her instincts and wearily letting her head fall to his shoulder. Her twin stiffened for only a moment, relaxing beneath her and gladly welcoming her proximity as he had since the womb. “I know. But we’ll all be well, Bryn. Mama will be accompanying me for a time. And Edwyn will be so proud of you, becoming a lord in your own right.” In his heart of hearts, Alya knew if there was any man that Brynden truly considered a father, it was their older brother. Edwyn had seen them through their childhoods with patience and strength, but he had children of his own now. If nothing else, Uncle Jon at least deserved the chance to guide Bryn through the clumsy first steps of adulthood.

Brynden nodded softly, contemplatively silent rather than brooding. He gently settled his hand on hers and Alya reciprocated, their fingers entwining. There was much more left unsaid between them, so much to discuss and uncover, but for now, two halves were side-by-side.

xx Feeling helpless as a spectator and uncertain how much of his heart he could truly show, Jon Snow could only watch the similar anxiety and tension carrying on around him. Along with his goodson, he winced as yet another sharp cry from the birthing room filled the air.

Afternoon had quickly faded into twilight and later still into the hour of the wolf, and Jon had long since sent the twins to bed and his firstborn to tend his own young family. This left Jon as the only one to let the reassuring weight of a father’s hands rest against Little Sam’s shoulders.

He wondered briefly if the boy bore any resemblance to his father anytime Desmera or Gilly had gone to the birthing bed with Sam’s impressive brood of eight Tarlys and Flowers. Jon and Sam’s friendship had continued over the years despite the distance, but necessity had seen him only sharing in the most monumental milestones of his friend’s life through letters. He looked at Little Sam, saw the near-resemblance to his dear friend save for a few distinct Redwyne features.

Pushing away the melancholy, Jon forced his mouth into a reassuring smile. “Steady on, lad. Wasn’t your father or brother able to prepare you for this at all?”

“Aemon tried his best, but Father was too embarrassed.” Jon’s lips twitched into a more genuine grin, both at Sam’s expense and the reminder that “the little monster” had grown into the happy and respected Ser Aemon Flowers.

Jon nodded sagely. “Fortunately there’s none of that shyness between old friends. It gets easier as time goes on, according to your father. Meanwhile, I’m here with you, and we’ll be strong for our Minisa. Why don’t you tell me what you two have planned once you’re able to take the babe back to Oldtown?”

The next hour passed peacefully with Little Sam’s hopes, dreams of his son or daughter growing up with Maeve’s little Lyonel, Aemon’s Hern and Flora, and Edwyn’s sweet Sansara Samwyle’s happy voice died out as Minisa’s cries reached a crescendo, attention fixated on the door for a short eternity before the oak hinges creaked open, and Sansa stepped out into the corridor, relief mingling with fatigue in her expression.

“It’s done. You have a son, Samwyle. Congratulations.”

“A boy.” Little Sam was euphoric and glowing in his joy. “May I go see them?”

“Of course. Minisa’s expecting you.”

The clandestine couple watched as the exuberant young man all but bound for the room, disappearing behind the door. In the sudden silence, Sansa looked back at her lover, something impossibly soft lingering in her eyes.

“The birth was long and hard. I’m in need of freshening up. Will you escort me back to my guest chamber, Cousin?”

“I’d be delighted, my lady.”

Safely barred behind another closed door, Sansa’s lips stole his breath, soft hands linking around his neck to kiss him deeply, joy and life and love thrumming through every connection they shared. Jon made a soft sound of satisfaction in his throat, arms locking around her as they shared again deep, heated kisses. Nimble fingers slipping beneath the folds of his tunic, she flattened her palm just over his pounding heart, thinking fondly of the deep, unconditional love she knew resided there.

Their caresses slowed, lips parting at the need for breath, and Sansa reached up to cup his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the ages lines around the curve of his mouth. “He’s beautiful, my love. I can’t wait for you to see him. I’m to bring you back once father and son have had their time, and Mini sends her poor husband to bed.”

Torn between elation and indecision, Jon hesitated. “A male cousin in the birthing room? Sansa, are you certain?”

“Yes. You weren’t able to meet Sansara until she was nearly a year old- you deserve to meet this child. Besides, Minisa insists upon it. She’s eager for you to meet your new namesake.”

As his eyes widened, she chuckled and stole one last kiss, a gentle peck to the gaping slack of his mouth. “Come now. Your daughter and grandson await you.”

As Jon watched his daughter hold her newborn son, her lovely face awash with a new mother’s love and tenderness, he felt a pang for a past he hadn’t been present for. He thought perhaps some of it was restored to him in this moment, for it must have looked similar to when Sansa held their children for the first time after bringing them into the world.

Propriety checked at the door, there was no earthly force that could keep Jon back from sweeping over to the bed, leaning down to embrace his daughter and pressing a tender kiss to her brow. Minisa hummed with content, arms twining around his shoulders to return his embrace. She bussed a kiss to his bearded cheek, and when she whispered a soft, nonchalant truth sotto voce into his ear, he found himself passed panic or recrimination. Crystal blue eyes met his calmly, steadily, nothing but love and trust to be found in their depths.

“Come hold your grandson,” she told him simply. No accusation, just a simple, short acknowledgment.

Then there was hardly time to think on it further as Sansa placed little Jon Tarly in his arms, letting him carefully cradle the babe against him. He looked down at the tiny face with reverence and felt his heart swell with more love than he ever felt possible. Just like all those years ago, when somehow Sansa managed to work her way into his heart, giving so much and asking nothing in return, filling all the empty spaces inside him until she was a part of everything he was. How could he ever feel empty again, carrying memories like this one with him for the rest of his days?

#jon x sansa #jonsa #jonsa-valentine #asoiaf #my fic #better late than never

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yamithediaperdork · 3 years

Text

Cutest widdle champion (original characters)

As it always was in Midnight Eden, land of dreams and realm of Lulnyq, Goddess of Night, Shadows, and Darkness, the light was low, mostly from from street lamps as a trio of misshapen shadow blobs with bright red eyes that whenever possible avoided any of the dim light.

They were creatures known as nightmares, who used Midnight Eden for easy access into mortals dreams where they could gain power. Once they were rare and hardly seen in this blessed land atlas, hard times had befallen the once grand realm as the once Intermediate level Goddess had been reduced to a lesser god, and with her lost of power her army of angels who had once served her proudly had been reduced to a handful, and couldn't be everywhere at once.

Thankfully for the mortal's who's dreams would of been infested by this wicked trio, one of the remaining angels, nay, the greatest of them still loyally served his goddess and while he was angry at the lack of faith the mortal's put in his beloved Lulnyq, he would still protect them in her name.

Allimir had been tracking the three nightmares for half a hour now, blending into the shadows with ease as it was only of his gifts from her and had only refrained from assaulting them till now to make sure they weren't meeting up with more of their kind. Seeing them find what they were looking for, a crack in the realm that would make they're journey easier he flew up and came down in front of the trio.

His dark blue and black armor shone in the dim light while his blue on the outside and black on the inside cloak billowed out behind him as he drew his trusted Lance, dubbed Nightblade and pointed it at them.

"I don't suppose you three have obtained permission to visit the mortal realm have you? there ARE strict laws about that sort of thing." Allimir asked dryly.

The nightmares snarled and began to change shape, taking on hulking bipedal forms with sharp claws forming at the end of their arms, and large mouths filled with razor teeth.

"I'll take that as a no. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave then gentlemen." Allimir said politely, trying to give the monster the chance to save themselves.

"Kill the angel, then go to mortal realm?" the nightmare closet to him asked the other two.

"EAT the angel, then go." Said second closet.

"Kill!" the third snarled and tried to shove past his companions.

"-Sigh- Alright, but just remember I DID give you a chance." Allimir said, shaking his head.

Dashing forward he swung Nightblade, willing it NOT to kill, not yet at least, as he caught it across the chests of all three and sent them stumbling back into the full force of the street light,

they're monster forms weakened in the light and they howled, lashing out blindly as Allimir flew up out of they're called down to them.

"this is your LAST warning. Willing leave this place and never come back, nor attempt to enter the mortal realm and I will let you live. Refuse and I'll have no choice but to destroy you!" He warned.

"KILL THE ANGEL!" was the roar from all three and Allimir signed and nodded.

"Very well." he said.

Coming down fast and hard, Allimir willed his lance to kill, as the weapon responded to his will when it came to how lethal it was.

he came down hard point first, going though the middle of one of the nightmares, dispelling it and it faded away with a shriek.

Not leaving anything to chance even before he fully landed on his feet the angel lashed out with a sweeping motion and cut the second nightmare in half right where it's chest would be and it too was gone, leaving one.

"Wait! Mercy!" the creature whimpered, trying to back away.

Twirling Nightblade and pointing it at the remaining beast, Allimir shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but you were offered mercy before." he said then ended the battle with a final thrust.

Lulnyq sat on her throne, watching the events unfold and while she was pleased with the actions of her top angel, she was still somewhat unnerved that nightmares would be as bold as to come right into her city. If only she hadn't of gambled so much of her power and influence in the last tournament of champions things wouldn't be so bleak.

But in her defense she had been so SURE that her champion, would of swept though the other champions with ease instead of losing in his first match, within 20 seconds.

Having been boosting proudly of how powerful her champion was and how he'd make history to her sister the sun goddess, she'd proven right since it WAS the quickest defeat in the history of the tournament.

in the aftermath she'd been bumped down to not just a lesser goddess, but the bottom of the lesser god's and now was at risk of being made into a small goddess which would mean she wouldn't be trusted to run her own realm and a Intermediate god or goddess would have to over see her, and knowing her recent run of luck it would be her brat of a sister.

She had a nagging feeling that the quick defeat had been a set up, enforced by the fact her champion had ditched her after the tournament to become a worshiper of her sister.

"My Goddess, I'm back!" Came the voice of Allimir, and instantly she felt her gloomy thoughts leave.

Yes, the last years tournament of champions hadn't gone her way, but THIS time she had a ace up her sleeve.

Allimir could tell as he walked in and knelt that his beloved Goddess had been brooding again. He wished she wouldn't focus so much on the past but short of telling her to snap out of it (Something he would never in a million years do) the best he could do was act silly at times to try and cheer her up.

"I witnessed your battle, you've proven yourself worthy as always, and in fact, you've done more then that. You've proven yourself worthy of a honor that I know you've been wanting for awhile, but never asked for it because you didn't think it was you place." she said, winking and smiling warmly.

Allimir blushed a little at the teasing tone in her voice. Sometimes despite her height and build, and her long regal black hair and star and moon filled eyes he could almost forget that she was a goddess with how warm and teasing she could be.

"I would never presume to-" Allimir started to say but then his goddess was right in front of him, amazing him as it always did that with her er.. ample backside she could move so quick.

"Ah ah ah, stop being so stuffy and formal. I'm about to give you the great honor of being my champion!" She coo'ed and tapped a finger on his nose and despite himself, Allimir giggled.

regaining his composure, Allimir bowed and then looked up smiling.

"It'll be my honor to serve as your champion my Goddess, and I swear to fight and win for your glory!" He vowed.

"Well duh, I wouldn't be picking you if I thought you were gonna fight and lose for my glory." the semi Chaotic goddess giggled and blew a raspberry. "Now this might sting a little.." She said, taking a few steps back.

"It'll be worth it."

making a finger gun with her left arm and putting her right hand on her forearm to steady it, she closed one of her eyes and stuck her tongue out then a blast of black energy with stars mixed into fired out and stuck Allimir, overwhelming him with new found power even as the world seemed to spin all around him.

"No Longer shall you be called Allimir, strongest of my angel. rise up my new champion and serve your goddess well..Umbraby!" Lulnyq intoned, and walked over to her new champion.

the being once known as Allimir was woozy at first, but looked up with pride to his goddess who suddenly.. seemed like a semi giant to him.

"My goddess, why did..you..What's wrong with my voice?!" Umbraby squeaked.

he'd never had the deepest of voice before but now he sounded like a little boy! Looking down down at his hands he could see they were covered in purple gloves and he was wearing a grayish long sleeve tight shirt, that was fair enough, but it was the SIZE of his arm and hands that had his eyes going wide.

that and as he looked down, he could make out a blueish purple loose shirt over the grayish one and stocking that came up to his mid upper thigh's, colored again grayish.

he seemed to be wearing a hooded black clock and he could feel material on his face which would of indicted he was wearing a mask of some sort.

All this he took in within second but what had his stopped dead in his tracks and eyes going wide even as Lulnyq smiled warmly and giggled, was the massive puffy white DIAPER around his hips at the moment.

"M-M-My goddess, I..what.. " he stammered.

"Shhh it's ok~" She coo'ed, picking him up and cradling him in her arms.

the realization that she hadn't gone, rather he'd been shrunk.. no not even that, but turned into a toddler hit him hard like a ton of bricks.

"I..You..Why am I a toddler!?" he cried out, bottom lip trembling and huffing and blushing.

Normally he would of NEVER raised his voice to his beloved Goddess but his new form while he could feel the additional power, clearly lacked the emotional maturity he'd always had.

"What, you don't like the form I chose?" Lulnyq asked, frowning and pouting a little.

guilt washed over him instantly, and he tried to back track when as she rocked him and despite himself his eyelids were starting to get heavy.

"I..No I just..I was shocked..Um.. I'm sure you had a very good reason for this form mo- I mean my goddess!" He said, almost calling Lulnyq mommy.

"heh, you almost called me mommy!" Lulnyq giggled, taping a finger on his little nose and making him blush and squirm. "Actually, I think I like that.. from now on your to address me as Mom or mommy, Understand Umbraby?"

Umbraby mentally whined and squirmed, so much was happening so fast for the little ex angel now champion. Still, it was a order from his beloved Goddess and he knew he couldn't disobey.

"As you wish." he said, and she looked down at him, waiting. "...Mommy."

Lulnyq squealed with glee and cuddled him close, which while embarrassing and unexpected wasn't half bad.

the only thing that kept him from truly enjoying the cuddles with his go- His mommy, was the thick diaper crinkling around his hips.

"Who's the cutest widdle super duper champion of all time? you are! yes you are!" She was coo'ed and tickling his chin which forced giggles out of him.

"Hehehehe me! I am!" he replied instinctively then blinked and swallowed. "M-Mommy I have a question!" He said, getting her to stop for the moment at least.

"Oh? Ask away, you'll find me a well of information both great and silly." Lulnyq said, smiling all silly.

"..Why am I in a diaper?" Umbraby asked, a whining tone to his voice. "I mean, not to question you, but I've never needed one before, so why now?"

"oh, that's easy!" Mommy said and giggled. "in your old form much like most angels and gods of any level, while you ate and drank you body used what you took in so well you never made waste or needed to tinkle. And that's all fine and good if you're just going to serve in the godly realms. " she paused and sat down in her throne, sitting him up on her lap before going on. "however, the contest is held in the mortal realm and ergo you needed a body that could go there and handled it. Since you've never had to worry about potty training before, I'm just playing it safe and keeping you diapered."

Umbraby hmmmed and nodded, and was about to tell mommy that that made lots of sense when she went on.

"Plus I thought you'd look totally adorable and cute, I've always wanted to diaper you!" She added and pinched his cheek.

'And there it is..' Umbraby thought dryly though he endured the cheek pinching.

With everything explained out to her widdle champion, Lulnyq decided it was time to feed the little champ in the making, his tummy was growling and she wasn't about to let him go night night all hungry!

Poofing a large bottle of rich creamy milk that had been warmed just right out of thin air, she started cradling Umbraby in one arm and moved the ba-ba towards his mouth.

"M-Mommy I promise you I can feed myself!" he whined, cheeks flaring with a adorable blush.

"Oh But I insist! you're going to restore my glory, the least I can do is give you your ba-ba and burp you." She coo'ed.

She could see he wanted to fuss and argue but like the good widdle champion he was, he just nodded his head and opened him mouth.

he seemed to struggle a bit at first trying to adjust to drink from the rubber nipple and so she used a bit more of her skill and power to give him a infant urge to nurse, a trait she had left out at first.

with his new 'power up' so to speak Umbraby was chugging down his ba-ba like a champ, though Lulnyq could see she was gonna have to burp him with all the air bubbles he was making.

"Easy there little guy, it's not going anywhere, you don't have to force it all down at once.." She teased giggling.

Umbraby mumbled something with the bottles nipple in his mouth making milk run down the sides of his milk.

"I can see somebodies gonna be a sloppy eater. don't worry, I'll have lots and lots of bibs for you." She coo'ed, making a napkin appear and dabbing at the little guys chin and making sure none of the milk went onto his little uniform.

even as she did that she had a 'duh' moment and nodded her head slightly, his uniform was gone leaving just his diapers now.

"I don't know why I didn't think of that to begin with! Mommies a silly butt huh?" She giggled and tickled the blushing champ's tummy tum.

Umbraby tried to protest he wanted his gosh darn clothes back, but the ba-ba was just too good to give up. As mommy kept feeding him and made the comment about being a silly butt he found himself giggling and nodding as much as he could.

The rich creamy milk was just so good though it was filling him up in a different way then he'd ever felt before, something he suspected had to do with the fact he'd be -ugh- expelling it back out of his body.

he wasn't sure what to expect when that happened and he wasn't looking forward to it though as the bottle drained to it's last little bit he furrowed his eyebrows getting a confused look on his face as his crotch was getting all warm and damp.

"Hmm?What's wrong little one?" Mommy asked, pulling the basically finished ba-ba out of his mouth with a popping sound as his lips didn't wanna let go.

"I.. My diapie feels weird." Umbraby said and then squirmed more, his chest starting to feel owie. "My chest hurts too."

His Mommy goddess just smiled and poked a finger in the leg hole of the diaper before shifting him around, a towel over one shoulder now and resting his head on it.

"It's ok, you just had your first piddle accident. and the chest thing is you need to be burped because of all the air bubbles you took in." She explained, patting his back softly.

Umbraby blushed bright red at that.

"I..I piddled myself already!? But I didn't even feel it! and Mommy, I don't think it's a burp, I know how to bu-" Umbraby whined, squirming and about to say he could burp himself when a LARGE belch escaped from his mouth, echoing in the royal chamber.

"You were saying?" Mommy asked, amused.

"...Never mind." Umbraby said, burying his face in her shoulder. he had wet himself and belched like a total pig in front of his goddess.

'There was no WAY this could possibly get any worse.' Umbraby thought, tempting fate and as he would soon learn, little boys in diapers shouldn't do that.

Lulnyq was patting her little champion's back, coo'ing and reassuring him everything was going to be alright when a loud brassy fart erupted from his backside, again echoing in the chamber.

"oh my, someones gas powered tonight~" she teased lightly.

before Umbraby could go to defend his gas attack however several more poots escaped and the back of his diaper started to puff out and sag as she held him.

"Ah! Mommy! something's coming out of my butt! My insides are leaking out!" Umbraby cried out, sounding scared and she had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing.

"Shhh, it's ok silly. it's called pooping. you're having your first" and she mentally added 'of many' "Stinky diaper. It's ok." she coo'ed.

"THIS is what p-pooping feels like!?" Umbraby cried and whined, squirming in her arms. "And mortals do it all the time!?"

"well not ALL the time, depends on their diet.." Lulnyq said.

"I hate it! make it stoppp!" Umbraby cried, blubbering now like the little boy he looked like.

"Awww, it's ok. don't worry. Mommies here." She coo'ed and kissed her stinky little champion.

NOT the end.

AN: these characters do NOT belong to me, but are Lancetheyoung's. ^^

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letstalkaboutshtufff · 4 years

Text

Obi Wan x Padawan Reader Never Lie to Me

Pairing: Sith Obi Wan Kenobi x padawan reader

Summary : Reader misplaces something important and tries to find it before her Master can find out.

Warnings: language, sexual themes, *slight smut*

***************************************************

Hello my loves! Ok so I absolutely love Sith obi wan but for some reason I struggle to write him. I tried something and hopefully it's not complete trash like I think it is lol anywaaaaaaays enjoy😚

18+ readers only!

*************************************************

Oh this was bad...this was very very bad....

Okay y/n don't freak out, you can hide this! You can totally hide this!!

Fuck no you couldn't

You groaned sliding down the wall of your chambers. How could you be so stupid?! Losing your lightsaber like that?! Did you have a death wish?!

You could only imagine how enraged your master would be.. you shook your head violently dissipating the horrible thoughts.

No no no, it would not come to that becasue you would find it. It probably fell somewhere by your speeder. Yeah it's there for sure.....probably.....

Sighing you stood up and grabbed a cloak to cover your hip and the usual missing weapon spot that hung there.

You couldn't help but imagine all the horrible scenarios that ran through your mind if Master kenobi found out.

One included merciless unending training, not letting you rest for even a moment.

Another image had you bent over his knee whilst he.... ughhh you could already feel the sting.

Your master and you had a...unique relationship to say the least... he was your master in the ways of the dark side, so you had a strict student master dynamic during training.

He took your training very seriously, leaving little room for error. But as some point his punishments got more....creative..

You couldn't help but feel your face heat up remembering that time you screwed up a mission and he saw to your reprimanding. From then on your relationship became more....personal.

He didnt give you any special treatment, and didnt allow any distractions during training. But the times after training...when he would call you to his chambers and.....

You couldn't help but feel your heart skip a beat, or two, or twenty, and you couldn't help but to recall those moments..

That scent...

Those whispers..

His fingers.....

"What are you thinking about?" A smooth voice cut through your indecent thoughts like butter. You whipped around startled that the man in question was now standing right behind you.

Quickly you made sure your shields were up, something you had made sure to refine. You didnt want him hearing all your dirty thoughts during training...

"I-I was just thinking about the mission.." you took a step back trying to regain your composure. Why did you always manage to act like a floundering idiot when he was around?!

"Hmm, is it really the mission that has you so flustered?" He mused stepping closer.

"Or something else?"he smirked knowingly.

Bastard, he must've read my thoughts before I realized he was here...

"It's-" you attempted to change the subject before he cut you off.

"And I know you know better than to lie to me don't you?" He said slightly more serious. A familiar dark edge to his voice.

You gulped, "Yes master..."

"I was thinking of other things..." you trail off averting your gaze hoping he wouldnt make you say it out loud.

Although he'd technically seen you naked quite a few times now, you still felt so embarrassed regarding anything or your "intimate moments". This was due mostly to the many embarrassing things he made you do....well ok to be fair you didnt REALLY try to stop him...but the second those moments were over you could barely look him in the eyes.

You felt those familiar warm finger gently lift your chin. You met his deep gaze,

"Speaking of other things...you did rather well on the mission, we were able to conquer the planet thanks to your efforts, so I suppose a reward is in order...dont you agree darling?" He whispered the last part in your ear making you shiver slightly.

Oh how you enjoyed those rewards of his...quite possibly the only time he would treat you gently. Well there were those times he wasnt so gentle either...actually maybe you liked those more...

AH WAIT WHAT AM I DOING, I NEED TO FIND MY SABER!!

You place you hands on his chest and gently push.

"A-actually master I wondered if I might have your permission to leave the ship I..wanted too...look around a bit more before we have to leave!" You hurriedly came up with an excuse.

He stepped back, eyeing you for a moment before nodding his approval, "Alright, be back before nightfall" he warned and continued walking down the hall.

As soon as he was out of sight you let out a sigh of relief. Hopefully he bought that story. You quickly made your way to the ship's exit and onto the lush planet known as Misano.

Normally you would've liked a chance to explore and maybe even sneak some souvenirs back. But you had no time for that now. If you didnt find that saber soon you were toast. And it didnt help that Misano turned from a tropical paradise to a frozen tundra trap by nightfall. It was truly a unique planet.

But you could admire it another time, preferably when your life wasn't on the line...

************************************

You looked up at the setting sky as dread washed over you. You had scoured and searched for your blasted saber for hours but it was no use. You had retraced your steps multiple times and even question some of the citizens to see if they knew anything.

You didnt want to even humor the idea but now it was the most likely truth. Some lowlife had probably picked it up and would soon be rolling in credits.

You pulled your cloak tighter around you as the wind started to pick up. You knew you should start to head back before it got too cold but honestly freezing to death sounded better than whatever punishment you master would enforce...

************************************

You were now full on shivering as you made your way back to the ship. The sun had set long ago and you now knew why everyone kept warning you to get inside. Your boots the only reason you could trudge through the many layers of snow.

You must've questioned every suspicious looking citizen however no luck. Your saber was probably gone forever and on top of that punishment you were sure your master was going to be angry that you disobeyed and stayed out later than he permissed.

Ughh I should just let myself freeze over...

Another half an hour later you finally made it back to the ship. Immediately you dragged yourself through the halls to your room and ordered your droid servant to run a hot bath. You were extremely lucky that master kenobi hadn't spotted you yet.

You could barely feel anything and felt horribly tired. Even the steam rising from afar felt like heaven as it reached your frost bitten skin.

You removed your practically stiff cloak but had no energy for the rest so you plopped fully clothed into the steaming water, immediately sighing in relief as you slowly felt feeling returning to all parts of your body.

You rested your head back and took a deep breath, inhaling the warm air.

*achoo* fuck...

you could already feel your nose becoming stuffed and there was a slight scratch in your throat. Perfect, getting sick was just what you needed.

After you were fully warmed up, you drained the water and lazily wrapped a fluffy towel around you. You felt the exhaustion of the mission plus everything afterwards tenfold as soon as your body hit the mattress.

You spread out lazily letting the cool sheets relax your now warmed body, covers discarded on the floor.

Your eyes drooped slowly closed once, focused on the space by the end of your bed, you tried to fight off sleep but it was proving difficult,

You opened them but slowly they drooped closed again,

The third time however you saw a blurry outline of a man.

"M-master!" Like a rocket you sat up, heart beating out of your chest. You quickly pulled up the towel over your chest.

"Y-you scared me..." You placed a hand over your beating chest trying to catch your breath. You had been too tired to even sense him coming.

He stood with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. "I distinctly remember telling you to be back before dark did I not?" He stepped closer until he was right at the end of the bed.

Oh Crap hes mad.... you sat up a little straighter trying to ignore the fact you were practically naked in front of him.

"I'm sorry master, the time got away from me..." your mouth feeling unnaturally dry as the lie left your lips.

You hated lying to him. Well you hated what usually happened when you lied to him and he found out....

He eyed you silently before leaning over the bed intimidatingly close. He leaned next to your ear before speaking,

"You're lying" a dangerous edge to his voice now

You felt your heart stop and a rush of panic fill you. Fuck fuck fuck.

Slowly he came back into view.

His eyes were a threatning color now. A silent deadly warning to choose your next words carefully. You had just broken his one rule. And he knew...

You felt a million emotions running through you. Fear, for getting caught breaking his most important rule. Shame for being stupid enough to lose something so important. And Guilt for lying to the one person you never ever wanted to lie too...

"Ah I-I'm Sorry!!" You blurted out suddenly. "I-I didn't mean too! But so much was going on with the mission!! A-and I must've been distracted and I swear I tried master I really did! B-but no one knew anything and then it started getting dark and cold a-and I didnt know what to do so I came back, but I didnt want you to be disappointed or mad so I didnt tell you the truth and I'm so so so sorry!!" You bowed your head breathing heavily, hardly realizing that your explanation made no sense. Your eyes shut tightly shielding you from his whatever horrible expression he surely had on his face.

A few moments of dreadful silence passed before you felt him shift.

"Look at me" you barely felt the ghostly touch of his fingers guide your chin up.

You sucked in a nervous breathe when you realized you were only inches from his face. His eyes were dark and penetrating. Whenever he looked at you like this you felt completely exposed. Like he could see right through your soul.

"Now calm down and tell me the truth little one" he said dangerously calm. Sometimes that was even scarier then when he yelled...

Taking a deep breathe you gathered your wits and with a deeply ashamed tone you confessed, "I lost my lightsaber.." you could feel burning at the corner of your eyes but you continued through it, "I looked for it everywhere but..." you looked down again dejectedly. What a dumb apprentice I am.. hes probably so disappointed in me.. "I'm sorry Master.."

You waited for what felt like hours until he spoke, "I know" he said in an even tone.

Your eyes shot open in surprise, "w-what?"

"How many times must I remind you nothing happens without me knowing about it."

"So then..." he knew you were lying all along...

"Yes my apprentice" he grasped your chin slightly harder now but still somehow gentle, "When will you learn..." he slowly ran his thumb over your bottom lip, dragging it down, "that you can't hide anything from me.." he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know..I'm sorry, I was just afrai-" he cut you off with a sharp slap to your thigh.

"What have I told you about lying to me?" he caressed your bare thigh making it harder for you to focus.

"That-that I am never to lie to you...no matter what..." your breath hitched as his hand inched closer across your thigh and to your most sensitive area. However just when he was inches away he abruptly removed all contact.

You immediately felt sad at the loss.

"Exactly, and yet you did exactly that" he nodded his head, "I'm disappointed little one, especially since if you had told the truth..." he reached behind him grabbing something and bringing it forward, "you could've saved yourself alot of trouble"

You let out a gasp, "My saber!!" He let you take it from his grasp, you beamed finally feeling whole again.

"But how did you..?" You asked confused where and how he had found it.

"It fell when you jumped on your speeder during the battle" he explained nodding slightly in exasperation.

So this whole time he had it?! And that means he knew all day that you.....

"I shouldnt have lied" you apologized sincerely. "I just didn't want to disappoint you..especially since I did so well on the mission..." you mustered the best regretful expression you could. "Are you angry with me...?" You couldn't help but ask.

After a moment he smiled slightly, resting his rough palm on your cheek, "No..well not anymore, I was more upset that you risked your health by staying out too long, however I do sense your deep regret, so this time I'll let it slide"

Whoa did I hear that correctly, hes going to let it slide?? My master?? Had he hit his head during battle??

"Thank you Master, I promise it won't happen again" you meant it this time.

"Oh I know it wont pet" you shivered at the pet name he called you. He suddenly force pulled you closer until you were basically straddling him. You let out a shriek.

"Because this time.." he placed a firm hand on the back of your neck pulling you in for a possessive kiss.

He pulled away slightly and you felt his hot breathe by your ear, "I'll make sure you remember what happens when you don't." Suddenly you were on you back, towel thrown across the room.

"Whaa what?! I thought you said I was off the hook?!" You blushed fiercely as he force held your hands and legs to each corner and stood back to admire your helpless form.

He smirked wickedly, "I said you were off the hook for staying out too late.. however..." you gasped as you felt invisible fingers begin to tease your most sensitive area.

"For lying to me.." he eyed you with a gaze now hooded with lust and a dangerous glint, "You will be punished until I am certain you've learned your lesson my darling..."

***************************************************Thanks for reading!! I had alot of trouble writing sith obi wan but I tried my best. Let me know if you guys liked this enough and want to see similar Sith obi wan x apprentice fics. Alsoooo 👀if enough people want a mini 18+ continuation of the *cough* punishment.....lemme know🙈

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owillofthewisps · 5 years

Text

beckoning light - part two

notes: this took longer than i thought! in part because i am easily distracted by one shots. and while i know where i’m going with this story, sometimes getting it down on paper just isn’t easy. also geralt is a terrible patient, i feel it in my bones.

also not sure why on earth i thought i could finish this in two to three parts. it will likely not be much longer than that, but it will be longer.

rating: mature. just some dirty thoughts, really.

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 3.5k

part one

the wisps have never lead you astray, but you did not expect them to lead you to him.

He wakes when first light creeps under the shutter.

It is his sudden stillness that stirs you into the waking world, though it takes you a moment to register the frame you’re pressing your knees against is not Asha, but that of a sturdily built man. Your mind moves like honey, dripping slow and sweet with sleep as you flex your toes against brawny thighs. Your companion shifts. You breathe out a drowsy inquiry, a murmuring noise laced with gentle promise and a flicker of heat.

It garners you a rough noise that is edged with its own heat, but there’s a silvery thread of pain woven through the sound. It is not a sound you know, and your eyes flutter open stickily. Geralt, you realize as you uncurl yourself, that drowsy haze melting from you.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, just high enough that you can peer down at him. His eyelashes, long and sooty, flicker like shadows against his skin as he blinks away sleep.

It is hushed in your home, the forest only beginning to stir outside your door, the soft calls of the birds muted by the shutters. The quiet is heavy between you, like the syrupy air of midsummer, so thick that you can taste it. Geralt’s eyes trace the neckline of your shift - you are sleep-hot still, your shift catching on your damp skin and pulling low - before he meets your gaze with the same steadiness of last night.

“Haven’t lost the will to live yet, I see,” you say.

“If I had,” Geralt says, his voice somehow even rougher with the dregs of sleep, “that sound might have brought me back.”

“Best you not die, then, if it’s only a might.”

He huffs out what could the barest hint of a laugh, but then he grimaces, one of his large hands coming up to press against the bandages swaddling his wound.

You push yourself fully upright. How easily you forget, you think, how easily the true nature of pain slips through your fingers. “Let me see,” you tell him, soft and firm, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist and tugging gently.

Geralt grunts, but he lets you peel his hand away. He watches as you examine the bandages swathing him, your fingers playing delicately across the edges, darting away from his skin every time his muscles tense. You cannot tell if it is pain or simply a reaction to the light touches. Perhaps it is both. His bandages are grimy at the edges now, and there’s blood blooming in a thick stripe at the center of his chest, following the path of his wound. The bloodstain is rusty with age at the edges, but the center is still damp, the color dark like wine.

The wound opened sometime in the night, likely, and while you have heard that Witchers heal faster, you think of the wet touch of his blood soaking through your shirt last night and wonder how much more blood he has to lose.

“There is little I can do, I’m afraid,” you tell him. “My healing abilities start with cleaning and bandaging and do not go much further.” You rise to your knees. “Hadrian will not be long, though, and I do have some celandine, I think.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mhmm.”

“I said I’m fine,” Geralt says, catching you by the hips as you swing over him - carefully, using your thighs to brace yourself well above him to avoid any pressure on his wound - to get out of bed. His hands are firm against you, large enough that his fingers splay over much of the plush of your hips, and even weakened by his wound, you can feel the strength coiled in him.

You consider him for a moment. His furrowed brow is damp with sweat, his eyes slightly hazy, and there’s a tilt to his mouth that speaks of pain, but the set of his jaw tells you that you will have better luck pushing a boulder uphill than moving him. “I still need to rise,” you tell him. “You in my bed or not, there are things to be done as the day begins.”

Geralt releases you slowly, his fingers falling away from your hips, brushing over where the fabric of your shift has rucked up from his grip. The heat of his hands leaves ghostly imprints on your hips, the warmth prickling against your flesh until it fades.

Asha uncurls from her spot by the hearth as your feet touch the ground. She waits, head cocked, and then blows out a sigh when you don’t go to the door, every inch of her slumping. “Don’t complain,” you tell her, kneeling by the hearth and beginning to stir the fire back to life. She whuffs, settling her head against your hip, all silken, warm fur, and you run a hand over the familiar curve of her skull.

Geralt has a gaze like irons, you think, something that winds around you and hangs heavy. You can feel his eyes on your back as you work at the fire, coaxing it until the first lick of flame skates up the side of the new log, the orange glow of it gnawing at the wood. He is still quiet.

You, though - you are used to the quiet of the forest, where words are just beneath the silence, in the still judgement of the trees and the fluttery din of the birds in the same breath, in the sound of your feet sinking into soft loam and the hush of dusk under the crowns of the oaks, their branches stretching to blur out the sky. You hear Geralt’s silence and tuck it into yourself to try and translate later. Part of you wonders which came first - his quiet, or human scorn.

The fire is crackling merrily now, a symphony of warmth, and you pour a little bit of water in your hands to wash the soot away. Asha huffs when you flick the excess water at her, her tail thumping against the hearthstones as you laugh. Another quick flick sends water pattering down on her coat, and Asha snaps at you playfully, the click of her massive teeth ringing out through the house as she snags your sleeve.

“Alright,” you tell her. “I’ll stop.”

She lets go and nudges against your hand. You hum a quick tune, smoothing your hand over her proud brow.

The bed creaks. “You’re going to open your wound again,” you tell Geralt, keeping your eyes on the fire as it pops and sputters. You drop a thin birch log into the heart of the flames and watch as it is consumed. “I’m running out of shirts for you to bleed on.”

He grunts.

You come to your feet with a sigh, turning to face the bed. Geralt has pushed himself into a seated position, sweat gleaming on him, his muscles rippling beneath his scarred skin. His chest is heaving, the bandages straining tight.

“You aren’t going to heal like this,” you point out, stooping to collect one of the wooden cups from last night.

“Witchers heal differently.”

“Differently, yes,” you say softly. “But you still need to heal.”

“I’m fine.”

“If just saying things made them true, the world would be a much different place.”

Geralt grunts. The rumble of it makes your fingers tighten on the cup. It’s not far from the type of sound you usually pull out of men with your teeth and tongue, stolen from deep inside, all smoke and heat.

“Drink,” you say, holding out the cup of ale.

Geralt’s fingertips skim across your knuckles as he takes the cup from you. It is a fleeting touch, soft and warm like spring rain. You wonder if it is the type of touch he uses to coax a lover back into bed.

“Drink,” you say again, because though he has taken the cup, he is merely watching you over the rim of it, his amber eyes aglow in the fire’s light. “I’m told it helps with the pain.”

Geralt’s brow furrows for an instant, but then he is drinking. The muscles in his throat flex and play as he swallows thickly. You swallow, too.

Asha whines and nudges your hip with her head. It almost tips you.

“Impatient,” you tell her, steadying yourself with a hand on her scruff. She huffs, nudging at you again. “This is not how we get what we want.”

Asha grumbles, and this time, it isn’t a nudge. You crack with laughter as she headbutts your hip hard enough to send you stumbling back two paces, the sound spilling from you like water. “Alright,” you gasp, little laughs still tumbling through your lips. You cup her head with both hands, trailing your thumbs over her velvet ears. “Alright.”

When you glance up, there is something soft tucked in the corner of Geralt’s lips. It fades under your attention. Asha whines again, and you sigh. “C’mon, then,” you tell her, heading for the door. You reach for your cloak before you remember that it is crumpled near the bed, stiff with Geralt’s blood. The curse slips past your lips, but it will only be for a moment, so you step out the door in just your shift. The chill of the morning bites at you almost instantly, the hard-packed dirt frigid beneath your toes, your breath misting in the air.

This early, the forest is still dark, the shadowed groves like empty maws. The rising sun is shedding more light every moment, but the canopy of the forest will keep the heart of it hidden for hours yet. You gaze into the woods, into the shadows of the trees, the whisper of their rustling leaves weaving through you like a half-remembered melody, and take a step forward.

Asha goes hurtling past like a crack of thunder, jarring you out of the fog that has settled over you, her powerful haunches bunching as she runs, crashing through the underbrush. She disappears into the treeline like a wraith. You wait for a moment, but she does not reappear.

When you step back inside, the fire’s warmth greets you like a lover, coils around you and presses against your skin. You pause just beyond the doorway.

Bathed by the firelight, softened at the edges by the golden glow, Geralt is something hazy, like a dream stealing into the waking world. As he shifts, his muscles flex under his skin, his bicep bulging as he raises the cup to his lips, which shine wet with ale, and you consider returning to bed.

The bandages catch your eye, though, the white of them almost lost amidst the cream of your sheets, and you instead move to the kitchen, running your fingers over the clusters of dried herbs to ground yourself.

“Come,” you say, “you should eat.”

The sheets rustle.

“If you dare try to rise,” you say, tearing off a chunk of bread from yesterday’s loaf, the crust crunching beneath your fingers and laying it on a plate, along with a fat piece of cured sausage, “I will pin you down in that bed.”

“And how terrible that would be.”

You glance over your shoulder. There is heat to Geralt’s gaze, and it pricks at you, makes your fingers tighten around the plate’s edge. “Eat,” you tell him, crossing to the bed, handing him the plate. “Hadrian will have words for me if I do not feed you.”

Geralt grunts, but he takes the plate readily enough. You refill his cup and return the flagon to the kitchen.

You eat as he does, letting the salt of the sausage linger on your tongue before washing it away with the ale. As is your habit, you move while you eat, gathering up your blood stained shirt and cloak from the floor. You hum to yourself as you do. If Geralt minds the noise, he says nothing.

As more light creeps in around the shutters, overtaking the glow of the fire, you realize that you have not yet made an offering this week.

You pull a few small jars from the shelves and settle at the table. Geralt seems content with the silence, but you have always filled your home with chatter.

“What is your horse’s name?” you ask. Part of you is simply curious to see if he will answer. Clearly, he speaks, but you suspect he has little tolerance for meaningless pleasantries, words just to fill the silence.

The silence stretches, and just as you think he will not answer, he says: “Roach.”

“She’s sweet.”

“When she wants to be.”

You laugh softly, prying one of the jars open and peering inside.

The honeycomb is dense with sticky, sweet honey, the faintest smell of clover wafting to you. You scoop out a large piece. The wax breaks easily beneath your fingers, and you drop it into one of the small bowls you use for offerings. The honey trickles down your fingers like sunlight, the color of it reminding you of the golden waves of wheat in fall. You lick at it without thought, taste the salt of your palm just under the mask of the honey’s lush nectar, pull a fingertip into your mouth and suck it clean, and Geralt curses under his breath.

You look to him and there is something consuming to him now, all covetous hunger. Your breath hitches. There is still honey thick on your lips, and you wet them without thinking, the tip of your tongue sliding over the full flesh, catching in the honey, pulling the sweetness into you once more.

A muscle in Geralt’s cheek flutters.

His eyes, darkened to the color of resin in the fading sun, rise from your lips to catch your eyes. You think of those amber eyes peering up at you from between your thighs, and the heat flares low in you, starts to kindle into something fierce. Geralt keeps his gaze steady, snares you with the fever of it. You have known deep, quick attraction before, heavy and fierce, but the Witcher’s intensity robs you of your breath.

Even the fluting birdsong filtering in from the forest cannot pierce the quiet that has settled over you and Geralt. The world feels muted around you, as if your head is filled with cotton, only the thrumming hum of your heartbeat loud in your ears.

Geralt, though - Geralt is clear to you, sharp-edged with want, his massive hands flexing against the sheets. And you want, too, you want those hands on you, pushing between your legs to cup your cunt, and weaving through your hair to fist tightly at the nape of your neck. If he were not injured, you think, you would already know the taste of his skin.

Some distant, blurry part of you thinks of the wisps. You wonder what the forest knows.

There is a knock at the door. It blows the cobwebs of desire entangling you away, pulls you free from Geralt’s burning attention, though the searing spark of it still idles in your belly, as if you have swallowed an incandescent star.

You rise to greet Hadrian as he steps inside. “You’re late,” you say. Geralt makes a quiet, sour noise at the sight of the healer. Neither you nor Hadrian deign to acknowledge it.

“You should not be sitting upright,” Hadrian says to the Witcher. Geralt’s brow furrows, a tempest waiting to unleash, and Hadrian fiddles with the end of his braid. You watch as he winds the ebony strands tight around his lithe fingers. In this fight, though, you would lay your coin against the Witcher.

“And yet I am,” Geralt says.

Hadrian shifts, all lean muscle, and you know that stance. Pain is a stranger to you, something seldom felt, more myth than reality, and Hadrian struggles against the tide of your nonchalance every time he thinks you require healing. It makes that posture familiar, and you know he is digging in his heels to weather Geralt’s storm. The healer is no fighter, but he shores up his defenses like none other you’ve met, lets his patients’ sieges break upon his gates. From the set of his jaw, Geralt recognizes there is a different sort of fight at hand.

You’ve little desire for a headache this soon after daybreak. There is also little you can do to assist Hadrian; he is skilled well beyond your measure. You fetch your boots and slip on the supple leather.

“Where are you going?” Hadrian asks.

“Out.”

“And if I need your assistance?”

“Then call for me,” you say, picking up the bowl of honeycomb. There’s honey glinting sticky on the edge. You swipe your finger through it, start to bring it to your mouth, and pause. You cannot bear to look at the bed. Geralt’s eyes are a dragging anchor on you, fierce and relentless and tethering. He could draw you to him in an instant, you know. You lean over to rub the honey off of your skin on a nearby cleaning rag. “I am not going far.”

Hadrian mumbles something you can’t quite catch. When you glance back, he’s focused on Geralt, his hands gentle as he tugs at the bandages despite Geralt’s glower, his keen grey eyes evaluating. Geralt groans through gritted teeth as the healer begins to unwind the soiled bandages. They pull at the edges of the wound; it starts to leak blood sluggishly.

Geralt seems made of stone. He is all hard lines as the healer begins to work, impenetrable despite the gleam of sweat on his brow.

The stitches are neat and numerous; Hadrian’s careful work reminds you of delicate embroidery. It’s a long gash, digging through much of Geralt’s torso, and you wonder what creature left such a mark. You think such a wound might have killed any but a Witcher.

Hadrian bends over the wound and obscures your sight. Geralt’s eyes find you over the curve of Hadrian’s back, and you swallow. Your fingers tighten on the bowl, but you flash him a small, soft smile, your lips tilting like the gentle curve of a conch shell. It feels like an offering at his altar.

Geralt blinks, and though his expression does not change, something eases in him. Perhaps a smile is the rarest of things to him, a most unusual gift. You think it likely.

You turn from him, from his sunrise eyes, and swath yourself with one of the lightest furs you own. It’s unwieldy, you suppose, but it will do to replace your cloak for now.

The morning air has warmed. It still has a bite, though, a chilly kiss against your skin. You pull the furs tighter around your frame.

The godling’s stump is not far; abundant with moss and small leaves, it is just beyond the edge of the far side of the clearing you live in. The stump is a grand thing, with an entangled root system that lifts above the dirt, dotted with creamy mushrooms and young ferns still unfurling. The godling is a rare sight, elusive even when you were a child, though they would sometimes crawl from their stump to run through the underbrush with you. Now, it is often only their eyes that you see, peering wide and round from the shadows of the roots.

You hum to yourself as you approach the stump. It’s an old song, one that your father taught you, one that resonates with the forest, makes the leaves rustle. You kneel before the stump and push the small bowl close to a section where the roots part, just slightly, just enough for a small body to scurry through.

“Thank you,” you tell the godling, the words soft, “for watching over us.”

There is no reply.

You slide a rock under the bowl, raising it just enough to delay the ants, you hope. You push to your feet and brush the dirt from your shift. Small bits of moss cling to the fabric, and they are damp between your fingertips as you pinch them away.

It is a meandering walk back to your home. You are in no rush, are kept warm with your body heat trapped beneath the furs, and the forest is waking still, small mice darting to and fro at the woods’ edge. You can hear the forest humming.

You pause by your small cellar. It’s little more than a hole in the ground, but it suits your needs. You slide the wooden cover back into place once you have a small handful of carrots, and make your way to the lean-to that is housing Roach.

Her ears perk as you approach. She accepts the first carrot eagerly, nosing up against you for more, and you stroke a hand over her neck.

She’s just pulled the last carrot from your palm when something catches her attention. You peer down the small path that cuts through the thinnest part of the crescent of trees around the clearing.

The lanky form of the alderman is easy to recognize, though the sight of him makes your lip curl. He is not alone. The alderman’s companion is unfamiliar, both in silhouette and in the fact that he is carrying what appears to be a lute.

There is only one place they can be heading, for the path ends at your home.

You cross your arms over your chest, hugging the furs tighter around your form, and wait.

taglist: @fairytale07 @waitingtobeimpressed @imsoft-barnes @ayamenimthiriel @nonamejustshame @1950schick

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #story: beckoning light

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onwesterlywinds · 4 years

Text

Raised Glasses

Content warning for brief allusions to physical and emotional abuse.

Early one evening, well before the sun had set over the city above, Ashe was struck with an urge to go deep into the limestone quarry. She entered from a hidden archway along the city's outermost walls and walked down for nearly a bell until she found the place she sought: past Aster's open sigil-gate, past a thin tunnel where the underground wind blew like whispers, into a winding crevasse along which someone had posted standing torches. That otherwise featureless path led her on and on, until at last the walls widened outward and the ceiling rose up for yalms above her and she stood in a vast subterranean chamber: an abandoned workers’ station.

Dozens of others had already gathered, bringing with their work a flurry of motion and purpose, and others still entered in behind her. Little by little they assembled an entire market - the market, the Undercity's traveling venue for wares of all kinds. Ashe watched the procession of vendors and buyers from a distance as the hall slowly filled with color and noise and activity to rival the city above. As more of the Undercity began to trickle in, merchants and musicians and ruffians and a great many others, she contented herself with wandering about, intent on nothing except sating the fateful urge that had driven all of them there to begin with. Soon each booth and stall sat attended, except for one: a chest-high bar carved directly out of the limestone wall, with a fully stocked shelf behind it but no one present to make or serve drinks.

Ashe made her way around the market three times before taking up a shift.

The only woman seated at the bar raised an eyebrow at her coming but hailed her all the same. "Grand Steward."

"You can call me Ashelia," she said. "What's your name?"

"Jas." She was a warrior of some sort, with a full bandolier of weapons draped across each shoulder. "I'll take whatever's in the barrel at your right."

Ashe lowered a glass to the tap, and it filled with a dark, heady beer. She passed it back to Jas and Jas accepted the drink with a nod, and though the woman offered no coin in exchange, Ashe somehow knew their transaction to be fulfilled.

Other orders came in, one by one, as varied as the people asking for them. Rarely did she recognize the drinks: most visitors called for a specific liquor or else a name scrawled on a bottle's label. Before long, she fell into a rhythm of shaking and tapping and pouring and serving, until the line that had stretched out from the bar slowly settled into a small and comfortable crowd, a lethargic gathering to contrast with the market's stream of people.

"Where'd you learn to tend bar, Grand Steward?" asked a broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard.

"At the Sandsea," she said, then added, "The Riskbreakers' headquarters in Thanalan." Even now, she had little idea if her company's deeds were widely known throughout the Undercity. "Back when the XIVth Legion were setting up their castra all over Eorzea, we advertised ourselves as a tavern. It brought in a stream of adventurers, and it let us keep an ear to the ground for any imperial movements."

"Did it work?" piped up a gruff voice.

"It did." She handed off a whiskey drink to the speaker - a woman with one eye, a woman who had passed her in the Ala Mhigan Quarter only a day or so before. The woman saluted her but held on a moment for her to continue the rest of her story. "Precious few knew of us as anything more than a bar for clan hunters until we stormed the Praetorium and took down van Baelsar." Her mention of the erstwhile viceroy's defeat was met with a brief but hearty chorus of victory cries. "Even then, our reputation was so well-hidden that many Eorzeans didn't make the connection that the Riskbreakers of the Sandsea and the Riskbreakers harrying the Garleans were one and the same until much later."

Someone in a hooded robe shook their head, gesturing languidly with a hand already gripping a flask. "Explains how you practiced. Not where you learned."

Ashe rolled her eyes in what she hoped was a good-natured expression but took the correction in stride, tapping another pint of Jas's choice for a Roegadyn soldier who'd appeared at the opposite end of the bar. "Where else but Limsa Lominsa? I started by watching the barkeeps' hands, to make sure they weren't about to snatch up my purse. By the time I became a proper adventurer, getting dragged around to every backwater alehouse in Vylbrand, it was simply a force of habit."

"Who was Ludo?"

The voice was Stella's, tucked away somewhere in the crowd. Sure enough, Ashe espied a flash of white hair, though the girl crouched as if to avoid further detection.

All other chatter slowly died, and her chest went tight, even as she reached to pour out a glass of absinthe without being prompted. Something had shifted with the speaking of his name, as if he came to life so very briefly - as if she could make out his thin, pale face among the crowd and the whole of the Undercity knew him as well as she did for everything he had done. She did not dare halt the movements of her hands; as the glass stopper clinked against its decanter, the sound resonated amid the lull in conversation that had settled over their shadowy corner of the market.

"Ludo was my former partner," she replied at last. She could not find Stella again, and so she spoke to the person in the hooded cloak. "He and I created the Riskbreakers together."

"Did he die?" asked another of the children. They spoke the word without fear or sadness, as had many of the other young ones she'd known in the desert.

"Yes," she said, her voice a little firmer. "Ludo died. His ashes are buried far away on the other side of these mountains, in a place called Coerthas."

Somehow, the persisting silence that fell in response was worse than the question that had preceded it. And so she took up another pair of wine glasses, poured a hearty serving of red into each, and found her voice again, with a crowd of watching eyes upon her.

"He was... special, and charming, easy to admire and confide in - though he so rarely shared his emotions, or even his goals." It was such a facile thing to say in the Undercity, a place where hardly anyone spoke their intentions aloud. "But once we opened up to each other, I couldn't imagine being without him. Even when he lied, or kept things from me, or gambled with our safety."

Someone standing at the market's grocery lobbed an object that was brightly colored and vaguely grenade-shaped; her onlookers ducked their heads and she caught the lime effortlessly, unthinkingly, in her palm. She took up a knife at the counter, rolled the flat of its blade across the surface, and dug in deep to squeeze as much juice as she could into a shallow glass before carving up its rind.

"Twenty years," she said, watching the last bits of pulp fall over the ice. "The first person in twenty years whom I'd learned to trust, implicitly. But he coveted power over our life together. Over me. I suppose I'd always known it, deep down - I just hadn't wanted to believe it until the truth was staring me in the face."

She topped off the glass of lime juice with a rum that so perfectly matched the gold his eyes had been, and her chest went tight at the memory of those eyes meeting hers for the last time: her jaw trapped under his crushing grip, as he promised her power enough to fell the Empire.

When she slammed the drink down upon the bar, not a soul moved to claim it.

"Promise me," said Ashe, meeting the gaze of the closest of the children - a little girl in a patchwork dress. "Promise me you won't stay with someone if they hurt you, no matter who they are or how much you love them. Find a friend, go somewhere new, and don't let them get near you again."

The girl nodded, and her crowd of compatriots swiftly followed suit. Only Stella's face scrunched up in a childish display of pensiveness.

Jas cleared her throat, and Ashe gladly took the cue to refill her beer. "Anyway, the lot of you should meet my husband." The relatively offhanded quip earned her more laughs from the crowd than she'd expected. "I mean it. He remembers far more of this place than I do, on account of his being six moons older than me, and the stories he tells aren't half as morose as mine. But don't tell him I told you so; it'll go straight to his head."

The conversation shifted like a welcome breeze, and still the glass of rum remained on the limestone bar while its ice slowly thawed. Only when the crowd dispersed hours later along with the rest of the market did the last remaining patron, a stocky woman with her light hair tied up in a high bun, down it in a single gulp before hastening off.

Once relieved of that final burden, it was enough for Ashe to bask in the afterglow of good conversation and a job well done. She doubted she had any obligation to clean up the bar behind her - and many of the bar's guests had simply taken their glasses with them - but she nonetheless lingered for long enough to stack the used dishes into a single empty washbin and wipe a damp rag across the countertop, just as she would have done were she at home in the Sandsea. Stella hopped up onto the crate where Jas had been sitting and watched Ashe's movements on occasion, though mostly she carried out her own private listening. When Ashe ended her shift, Stella followed her closely out of the limestone quarry.

"I'd appreciate it if you were to warn me the next time you do that in public, you know," said Ashe. "It's rather impolite to air someone's innermost thoughts when they least expect it."

Stella gasped. "S-S-Sorry."

When the girl looked up at her, Ashe cast what she hoped was a reassuring, if teasing, smile; she gave no words of affirmation but tousled Stella's white curls, earning her a little giggle in response. Together they traipsed their way back upward and eastward to the areas under the Noble District, until Ashe came to a fork in the path and found that Stella had already vanished from her side.

#Ashelia Riot #Stella #Understory

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syndianites · 4 years

Text

The After; The Athar: Chapter One

Chapter 1/?

Chapter 1 [Here] - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

AO3: This Chapter - Full Fic

Summary: Post Season 2, non-Mianitian Compliant. The crew finally land back into the world after the events of Ruxomar. That should be a good thing, right? But Wag is feeling the burden of everything that has happened to him, and he didn’t even get his magic back to boot.

It’s hard to be happy when life has been so shitty.

Relationships: Sparklington (end-game), Marthlington (temporarily), Sparkanite (Spark x Ianite) (past, mentioned), Motanite

Content Warnings: Death Mentions, Implied Depression, Implied PTSD, Self-Deprecation, Breaking up a Relationship (Marthlington)

AN: I’ve been working on this since September? of 2019! I have 5 chapters done and still going. I wanted to wait to post this until I was done with it, but my impatience has gotten the better of me.

@the-moon-pal I’m coming for your crown king >:)

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They’d made it home a couple weeks ago, to the land of Mianite. It’d been such a relief. They got to meet the rest of the alts, got to watch Dianite meet the other gods- and cringe at the tension that crackled between them- got to find all their homes again. For once, in the past-however-long, there was peace. They could relax.

So why did Wag feel like utter shit?

Right. Because he literally got the worst part of the deal.

He thought his powers would come back when they got home. And they did, for a few hours. Not the full range, but a lot of it. It felt good to be full of magic again. It felt like he was himself.

But then things started to fall apart. Martha grew distant. His powers fell away in fits and bursts. He realized that the rest of FyreUK had moved on after they made amends in Ruxomar. They found their way on. Without him.

Nothing was the same, he realized, as he spent more time around the place they had called ‘home.’

Spark had done what he did best: built a city. Well, more like a village. What had once been a place of buildings thrown about at random and mostly open plains was now sparsely populated. Neatly arranged shops and a few houses took up the space next to the beach. New people had even begun to show up.

Everything was changing around him, yet he was stuck holding onto the past. Holding onto his wizardhood, to his brotherhood, to a partner that was farther now than ever, and- worst of all- he was still holding onto the hope that everything would just… go back. To how it was.

To when he was important.

Well, like fuck is he was going to sit around and loathe his existence. He could at least try to do something. Swear to Athar, he wasn’t going to turn into a lump of depression just because he couldn’t handle change! He’d rather be a walking mass of depression! That way he could at least pretend he was being productive.

Potions or spellbooks? A question as old as time. Potions were a staple in his life. If there was one thing that would never leave him, it was his ability to make fucking potions. Like, fucking make potions. Not potions to help people fuck. On the other hand, the more he poured through spellbooks, the more likely he was to get closer to finding out how to get his powers back.

Maybe his powers left when FyreUK left, taking all the glory of Athar with it. But that was too terrible of a thought, so that got chucked in the ‘not-today-bitch’ bin. Which was a handy dandy mental bin that stored all of his worst problems.

He never could fit himself in it, though.

So potions it was.

Now that he was out of the business of magic, most of his money came from his potion making. He had made yet another little wizard- alchemist? Potion master?- tower. Plopped some advertisements in el Pueblo de Spark and took orders to pass the time. He had to fund his botany experiments somehow. Someone had to introduce weed into this world, that might as well be him.

If he was going down in history for something, that wasn’t ‘Word Renowned Wizard Extraordinaire’, then ‘The Guy who Made Weed’ would sure as hell work.

Wag pulled up his log of orders. Luck, luck, dexterity, healing, luck, love- yeah, those didn’t really work but he’d make it anyways-, strength, luck, yadda, yadda, yadda. Lots of luck. He could probably get away with making a batch or two of luck potions, then work through the rest.

He spared a glance outside. Spark’s little hut-square town was beginning to develop into a pleasant little fishing hole. Surprisingly- or not, given how deep the waters were nearby- the place was actually a fairly hot place for single fish to mingle. Warm waters, nice and deep, lots of cover, and not much human interference. Until now, anyway.

Either the fishermen were starting to get a fair amount of revenue going or they really needed help. Luck potions were among his most expensive. The ingredients were hard to acquire regardless of how you made it.

Rabbit’s foot? Morally and physically hard to get a hold of. Rainbow trout? Terribly rare. ‘Star-light Fruit’? Not even confirmed to exist.

His method was a little more straightforward. A butt load of four-leaf clovers, a tiny bit of alcohol, and a fuckton of glitter. Clovers for the magic, glitter for the look, and alcohol for the feeling of being lucky.

It was a very bullshit potion.

It took forever to find the clovers, let alone collect them.

Athar give him strength.

Giving one last look outside, he tucked his log book in his cloak. Then he went and rummaged through his chests.

Monotony here he comes.

~~~

Wag was halfway through his second batch of luck potions when a distant knock came from his door, followed by the sound of bells. If not for the bells he’d have ignored the knocking. With a stretch, he putzed down the stairs. The many flights of stairs.

He missed being able to make elevators.

Opening the door revealed one Mr. Sparklez, hair tousled but otherwise neatly groomed. He was relaxed, if not a little winded from his trek up the hill Wag claimed as his own.

Wag smiled. “Hey Sparklez, what brings you up to my tower of terror today? Here for a chat or a swanky danky potion?”

He gestured for Jordan to head inside and get comfortable, but the man waved him off. “Actually,” Jordan started, “I was wondering if you’d seen Martha? I needed to ask her something and I haven’t seen her all day. Figured she’d be with you.”

Ah, so Jordan wanted to find Martha.

Ouch.

Doing his best to ignore the squeeze in his chest, Wag kept his smile firmly in place. “No, I don’t think I have. She, uh.” He paused, going for a nonchalant shrug. “She doesn’t come around the tower all that often. I’d ask Spark instead. She tends to hang around him more. Her good ole pops and all, y’know. They do have a lot to catch up on.” Wag tried to ignore how weak his words sounded. He didn’t want it to sound weird that Martha wouldn’t come around, but instead he just sounded pathetic.

Great.

Jordan gave Wag an awkward smile, seemingly uncomfortable with the sad display. “Ah, alright. I’ll ask around for Spark.”

He turned to leave but caught himself before he was fully turned away. Jordan chewed on his words. “Are you-” His eyes swept over Wag. “How have you been? We don’t see you as much anymore. Other than Tom, I guess, but it's hard to get rid of Tom once he decides you’re friends, y’know?”

“I’ve been,” Wag wanted to laugh, but pushed through the sentence, “swell, thank you. I would get out more, but I’m always so busy potion making. Gotta pay the bills somehow.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. It wasn’t the exact truth, but he did spend a lot of time on potions.

Letting his shoulders settle, Jordan gave a small laugh. “Who would press a wizard to pay bills? Someone who wants to catch on fire, I’m sure.” He opted for a friendly smile. “If you ever want to hang out or something, let me know. I’ve been getting kind of bored between Spark telling me how to be a better champion of Ianite and living in an actual, peaceful society.”

Wag waved after Jordan as he began his descent. Yeah, a wizard. A frown tugged at his face while he shut the door.

A real fucking wizard.

~~~

Making potions was rather methodical. Each step took a certain amount of time, each item had certain effects, meshed certain ways with other items. It was like following a recipe, but with bigger consequences for messing up. Cooler results, though.

Wag had just finished melting down the clovers he’d gathered and extracting the essence- which is to say he lit it on fire after sprinkling a generous amount of blaze powder on it- when Jordan had stopped by. Which was convenient, since he needed to wait for the weird half-liquid half-slime to cool off enough to move it. The awkward potions, glitter, and alcohol were already prepped. Now all he needed to do was mix shit together.

Oh joy.

At the very least, it was satisfying to roll the clover essence into little balls to plop into an awkward potion and then watch them dissolve. The clover gave the essence a natural, healthy green color while the blaze powder, which clung to even the most thoroughly washed slime, gave it something of a yellow highlight. Golden glitter gets dumped in to make it feel like you were about to drink something special. Yes, the glitter was edible. No, most people didn’t realize he put glitter in this shit. Then the alcohol was for that background buzz. It was meant to dull the senses just enough to trick people into believing, wholeheartedly, in whatever god-forsaken abomination he just made.

Sorry. What ever divinely crafted, totally safe potion he’d just made.

Sure, he didn’t test it himself, but it seemed to work well enough for the people he gave it to. So where was the harm?

It was fine.

The next part was perhaps the most boring. And he’d spent all day yesterday crawling on the ground looking for four-leaf clovers.

Tagging and packaging. Writing names on slips of paper, tying them to the potion, putting it in a small, padded box to prevent any breaks. Rinse, repeat. It was annoying, wasted money, all that jazz, but it helped the look. Who wants to be handed a regular old potion, by hand, when you can get it in some majestic looking box to really add some sparkle to your magic?

Maybe Ruxomar rubbed off on him in a bad way.

In any case, the look was important, and by Athar was he going to make it look fucking fantastic.

Unfortunately, this task was also terribly, horribly monotonous. Worse yet, it left room for thinking. And thinking was Wag’s least favorite pastime since floating in the Void. Especially since floating in the Void.

It lead to him thinking deeply about himself and Athar knows that most of his life problems could be traced right back to that. His mistakes, his fuck ups, his shortcomings, all of it came back to him thinking way too hard about himself.

Gross.

Instead, he tried to run over potion recipes in his mind. Or any recipe, really. All the different ways to make a fire resistance potion when you don’t have magma cream. Counting how many potions used lemongrass. Figuring out what potions would make it more likely to catch fish. Literally anything. As long as it was potions, it was fine.

Not about himself, not about Athar, not about wizards, and not about… Martha.

Yeah, that last one would be a one hit k-o.

But now that his mind had touched on the subject, it dug in. Sunk it's claws into the delicate stability of his mind. Dramatic, he knows, but that’s how it felt. It was like the more he tried to get the thought out of his mind, the further it burrowed into him. Awful, painful, and not even worth the effort.

Martha… clearly didn’t care about him anymore. Or, well. He winced at the thought. She didn’t love him like she used to. If she, uh. Did in the first place. But this was old news. This was something he pondered after she seemed to avoid him like the plague, seemed to grimace when she looked over and saw him and not him.

Steve.

The name sat heavy in his head. They hadn’t meshed well, ‘specially where Martha was concerned. But they managed, for her, because they loved her.

Wag felt guilty, looking back on it now. For stealing their time together, for messing with their relationship. They hadn’t gotten to be together enough, had lost too much time before-

Yeah, he didn’t like thinking about Steve more than he didn’t like thinking about Martha. Wag didn’t feel like he deserved to think the name, let alone put himself up against his image. Steve was a hero. He rebelled against Helgrind in a cunning, intelligent way, he was selfless in more aspects than any of the heroes that appeared in Ruxomar, and he was the one to sacrifice the most. To sacrifice it all.

Where did Wag stand against that?

Honestly, it was no wonder Martha couldn’t stand to look at him. He was just a reminder of Steve, a reminder that she didn’t have Steve. That she had him instead.

Had she ever loved him?

That wasn’t the point. The point was that Martha was hurting, trying to pick up the pieces of what she left behind in Ruxomar. What she had lost. And Wag wasn’t doing anything to help. He was stuck up in his tower, making potions, trying to forget about everything that he wasn’t.

He should try to look for her.

But the last time he did, he got turned away. She was “catching up with her father.” She was “busy settling into the new world.” She was “trying to get a grip on her new goddesshood.”

Wag was persistent, but even he could get the hint.

By Athar, he got the hint. “I don’t want to see you.” “Don’t come near me.” “You can’t help me.”

He wondered if Spark was doing anything to help her or if he was also caught up in everything that had happened. From what he had learned about the man in Ruxomar, he was devoted to his wife. No, he gave everything for his wife. Learning she was dead after working up everything to see her again?

He had played it well. When he heard the news, Spark kept strong, only letting his tears show. If he had gone home later after parting with Martha, who had her own grief and guilt, crumbling on the inside no one would know. And if he had locked himself away and let everything loose, let himself break, none would be the wiser. But they could guess, they could give him a passing glance, a thoughtful frown.

Wag wondered if he still carried that grief around with him.

Spark had taken to trying to discipline Jordan to be a better champion of Ianite. It had made the man uncomfortable with getting told he could be a better follower and all. Or rather, having it implied that he wasn’t the best follower. Spark was stubborn in ‘training’ the champion of Ianite to be a full fledged follower.

Still, Jordan didn’t appreciate the sentiment.

Wag understood. Having the husband of the very goddess you watched die get on your case about being a better follower? When the crushing weight of guilt hadn’t fully let off your shoulders? He wondered if Spark hadn’t taken to coaching Jordan to make himself feel better, to remind himself that he would have kept Ianite safe, that he would have fixed the world before it broke out from under them.

It sounded like torture.

But it helped settle Wag. Call him selfish, but he felt better knowing other people had real problems, real grief, to deal with. Sure, Wag had his hang up with Martha. Yeah, he had his issues with being-a-wizard-yet-not. But he wasn’t as close to neck deep as Spark was. Like Martha was.

He wished belittling his problems made them feel less suffocating.

Martha. Martha was still pushing him away. And he was letting her. What did that say about him? About their relationship?

A sigh heaved out of his chest. It was like someone stuck a large rock right in his rib cage, tucked neatly between his lungs. Hard, heavy, and an all around burden. Potions. He needed to think about potions.

His hands betrayed him with a subtle shake. How many names did he have left to write? How many boxes did he have left to pack? Fuck if he knew. He had to keep counting, to find a way to wrap up all his issues, his panic, his fear, into a nice little package and tuck it away like a forgotten gift.

Athar help me, Wag tried to control his thoughts, I might drive myself insane by the end of the year.

As if on cue, another knock at his door broke his thoughts. He tried not to feel relieved to rush away from his potion packaging. He was fine, cool as a cucumber.

Throwing open the door, he came face to face with his second visitor of the day. Tom.

Tom was standing in front of his door almost uncertainly, like he wasn’t quite sure why or how he got there. He took one sweep over Wag’s unhidden face and a determined, focus look set in on his own.

“We,” Tom looped his arm around Wag’s in a sudden movement, “are going out somewhere. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Wag let himself be dragged from his house with an aborted motion to close the door behind him. He mournfully watched his door stay ajar. Hopefully no one else ventured up the hill today, otherwise he might be down a few potions.

“Why?” Wag turned his attention back to Tom, who was resolute in his intention of pulling Wag away to Athar knows where.

A grin was shot in his direction. “You look like you need to get out of the house. Also, I’m real fuckin’ bored and you’re clearly in need of some company.”

A wry smile snuck on Wag’s face. “Oh lucky me. We should get some tea, live up to our trademark.”

Tom nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s hit town. Fuck it up. Flaunt our hero-ness and get shit faced.”

“Let’s not get shit faced, and especially not get kicked out of town for making a ruckus.” Wag fondly rolled his eyes. “I do quite like living here and it’d be a shame to have to follow you around to make sure you don’t die.”

Tom gave a mocked offended gasp, free hand coming up to his forehead as he leaned away. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I’d never die if I didn’t live in a community. I’m a rogue, don’t you know.” He sniffed. “I can easily hold my own in the dangerous wilds.”

“Without anyone to pester and annoy?”

“I can pester anything!”

Wag bit his lip to stop a laugh. Tom always brought such energy with him. It was refreshing. Maybe he was right, he just needed some company.

He wouldn’t say that to his face, though.

“I suppose so,” Wag continued, “You are rather persistent. I bet you could annoy the sun into setting early.”

“Nah, I’d blow that fucker up instead.” Tom winked, snuggled back up to Wag, effectively trapping his arm. “I still think we should get shit faced. Drink our sorrows into the drain, throw them up another day.”

Wag mock gagged. “I’d rather keep them down the drain, thank you. Besides, what a waste of alcohol. If I’m drinking, I’m drinking to keep it down. Not!” He quickly cut Tom off, “That I want to go out drinking.” He eyed the sky, giving a disapproving look to Tom when he saw that it was still early afternoon. “No one should be getting drunk before the sun touches the horizon.”

With a pout, Tom leaned into Wag’s side. “Lame. I suppose,” he drew out the word, “we could go get some good old fashioned tea. Call it a pre-game without the game.”

Wag rolled his eyes. He wasn’t looking to out game his issues. That wasn’t a solution. It’d just make him turn into a sad drunk and give him a headache in the morning.

This is why he needed weed back.

But also, he didn’t want to develop another problem. Gotta keep it clean. For now.

Tom still had his own plans, alcohol or no alcohol. “I find when I’m feeling down that doing something batshit stupid makes me feel better. We should go fishing with our bare hands- no, with only our teeth- and no shirt on. Attract ladies and gents to us alike. Are they looking at our finely chiseled chests or our daring courage? Who’s to say.”

“You are far from chiseled my friend. Try soft.” Wag poked Tom in the stomach jokingly. “And who said that I’m feeling down?”

“Hey!” Tom swatted his hand away. “I’ll have you know I’m more ripped than you’ll ever be!” He huffed, squeezing Wag’s arm. They walked in silence for a moment, now upon the town. After wandering the street for a second, Tom spoke again, quieter. “I had this feeling.” Wag eyes him. “It was weird. My gut was telling me to check in on you. And then when you opened the door it was written on your face. Even I’m not dumb enough to miss that.”

Wag heard the unspoken I was worried carried in Tom’s words. Talk about soft. He squeezed Tom’s arm back. “Oh wow, a gut feeling?” He teased lightly, “I think it was just you missing my magical presence. It is hard to go too long without seeing me.” If only that were true. “But I’m here now, and we can go do something absolutely stupid, just for you.”

They share a smile, a quiet thank you floating between them.

Tom gets a glint in his eyes. “Does this mean we can go catch fish with our bare hands?”

“I suppose so.” Wag drawled. “How else are we going to show off our toned figures?”

That got him a laugh, one concerningly maniacal, and he was dragged between houses.

Yeah, he might regret this.

Tom turned and gave him a smile that was all teeth and no common sense. He paused next to the shore, a little ways off from the docks. Shucking his clothes, one Tom Syndicate stood proudly in his underwear, unconcerned about the effect of sunlight on zombified skin. People gave them a look of distaste.

Oh, he was definitely going to regret this.

~~~

Soggy was one way to describe how Wag felt. Wet as shit was another. All in all, he was rather pleased with himself and the rather large, shiny fish sitting in his lap. The fish which so happened to be a fair amount larger than Tom’s.

“Oh fuck you.” Tom spluttered around a mouthful of fish, laying down an arm’s length away. He had gathered quite an amount of fish, a solid number for catching something with your mouth alone. None of them were that large. In fact, most were an average, if not slightly below, size.

Wag eyed the pile smugly. He may have only caught two, but damn if he didn’t go big.

“Well, it seems that I’ve caught myself a winner.” He tried not to look too pleased. The look on Tom’s face told him he failed.

Tom scoffed, letting the fish fall to the sandy floor with a wet fwop. “You got lucky! Clearly, quantity wins the game here. Sure, you caught one big, old, dumb motherfucker, but I caught a dozen other dumbass fish! I should get the win.”

“Wasn’t size the goal here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Before Tom could fire back, a voice from behind interrupted him. “I think the two fools sitting in their underwear soaked to the bone are both losers.”

Wag tilted his head back to see Tucker standing with his hands in his pockets, back slouched, and an easy smile on his face, standing just where the sand turned to grass. Next to him was one lovely fox lady, Sonja herself, and one Sparkle butt, Jordan.

Nice to see the gang all here.

Tom sat up. “How dare you! I’ll have you know we are the best fishers on the island!”

Tucker raised a single eyebrow. “Really now? Are all the other fishers out at sea today?”

“Well excuse you, Mr. Boner. I’ll have you know we caught all of this,” Tom sweeps his arm across their score. “And I think that’s quite the haul.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Fuck you.”

Tucker snickered, moving closer to poke his foot into Tom’s side. “That’s what I thought.”

Wag, meanwhile, was carefully moving his prize to the side so he could stand up. Brushing the sand off himself, he exchanged a smile with Sonja and a nod with Jordan. Sonja gave him a good natured headshake. “And here I thought you were smarter than this.”

Jordan’s eyes trailed down Wag’s chest before flittering away. “Right down to your boxers? Tom must have gotten you good.”

“Well, I was fairly set on getting a nice cup of tea and walking across the beach, hand in hand like real lovers, but Tom was far more intent to go all macho and catch fish with his mouth alone.” Wag leaned in with a hand against his mouth to give a stage whisper. “Between you and me, I think he’s trying to step up his oral game.” He winked.

Jordan groaned, giving Wag what he thought to be a rather dramatic eye roll. That wasn’t even the worst he had to offer, and he’d given him such an easy setup! Sonja waggled her eyebrows and giggled when Tom butted in. “It’ll never be as good as yours dear.” He batted his eyelashes mock innocently.

The group burst into laughter. Tucker stepped closer, swinging an arm around his vaguely damp shoulders. “Hey, it’s nice to see you out and about man. It’s been a hot second. Almost thought you’d drank the wrong potion and kicked it or something.”

Wag nodded seriously. “Quite the real possibility. Why, just yesterday I almost drank real glitter! The kind you’re not supposed to eat.”

“Been there,” Sonja added, “I thought I was going to die when I did. Just gave me a very colorful trip to the bathroom.”

Tom grinned as he moved to elbow Jordan in the side. “I bet our good ole Captain here wouldn’t know the difference. How else did he get his namesake, right Mr. Sparkley Butt?”

“Hardy har,” Jordan gave Tom a fondly disgusted look. “The name’s Captain Sparklez, that ‘namesake’ came from you giving me a stupid nickname.”

They fell into more chatter, giving Tom and Wag the time to put their clothes back on, Tom not caring that he was still wet as he put his suit back on, while Wag just slung his cloak over himself. No point in putting pants on over wet underwear.

The group, all now clothed to some extent, began to wander back towards town. Wag was more than content to listen to Tom ramble on. He would get interrupted by Tucker when he said something ‘incredibly stupid’ and, more rarely, by Jordan, who would correct some technical thing that Tom clearly did not give a shit about.

Sonja drifted next to him, giving Wag a conspiratorial smile. “You’re looking mighty fine in just a robe and boxers. Is this the bedroom Wag special? Or is that sans boxers?”

“The bedroom Wag special is whatever you want it to be.” He winked. “It’s magic all around.”

They exchanged a laugh, falling silent again.

Wag knew that wasn’t what Sonja really wanted to talk about.

She looked back at him, a warm look in her eyes. “It’s nice. To see you out. Been a while, y’know?” Sonja stretched her arms out in front of her. “It really has been a bit since we’ve talked. And since you’ve left the house. But honestly?” Her tail swishes behind her. “I could have made a few more treks up that damn mountain myself.”

Shaking his head, Wag elbowed her side lightly. “It is a fairly tall hill, but I think mountain is a bit of an overstatement.” It was, in fact, a bitch of a climb, but Wag didn’t think it was that bad. He’d put the tower just on the other side of the Glowstone Forest, across from the Priest’s house. (What was it called again? Forest of the Void? Abyss Forest? Obsidian Trees? Yeah, he didn’t know or care).

Left unsaid was a ‘That’s okay, you don’t have to go out of your way’.

He received an eye roll. “Please, the only trek worse than that is up to where Tucker’s first house was. I was so happy when we moved it down the mountain. Well, into.”

It’s no trouble, her words left hanging, I don’t mind.

Wag huffed. How dare she be considerate. “You know what’s worse than a trek up a mountain? A trek up a mountain to get some rare flower, only to be spited by the universe and have not a single flower growing up there. Honestly, I could use some help from someone so used to climbing mountains.” A smirk pulled at his face. “Or maybe just send someone up there for me.”

We could always hang out when I’m playing master botanist. If you’d like.

Sonja smiled at him, but couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “Aw, did you skip leg day? Have some chicken legs over there? That’s alright, I’m sure someone,” she tilts her head, eyes sweeping past the buildings around them, “would be willing. Get a nice little lackey so you can rest your old bones at home and complain about how the cold makes your joints stiff.”

“How dare you,” Wag sniffed, hand held up to his heart. “I’ll have you know, my joints are just fine in the cold! Some of us just aren’t made of the cold, little miss fox.”

Sonja, ever so mature, stuck her tongue out at him.

They kept up some conversation, occasionally stopping to listen in to whatever Tom was saying. Wag, for a moment, realized that he had missed this. Missed them. That even though he wanted to avoid all the new things in this world, he’d always have his friends.

A quiet, hopeless voice asked if they’d leave him too.

~~~

There was nothing quite like hiking up a hill, in only your boxers, a little buzzed, during the night time. The pure amount of skeletons that had sniffed around looking for a cheap shot alone was bad enough, but the fact that his legs already hurt from struggling to fish with just his mouth without drowning? Yeah, it felt more like he was climbing up a mountain that was near vertical.

Fuck gravity.

A pit of warmth had settled in his chest a couple hours ago. Whether it was the alcohol that Tucker, of all people, had got the group into drinking or just the effect of being with friends for a while, Wag felt content. Not a common feeling in recent times. It was nice.

Really nice.

Upon reaching his door, his mind scrambled to figure out why it was left slightly open. He shrugged. As long as nothing was missing or stolen, he didn’t really care.

He made his way inside- making sure to actually close the door behind him- and wandered over to the stairs. Ah, his mortal enemy. Between being a wizard way back when and the magic rampant in Ruxomar, he had gotten way too used to avoiding stairs. Now it was a chore to move up and down the tower. But his bed was upstairs and he was not sleeping on the crappy couch he shoved into the lobby for guests or customers again.

So stairs it was.

By the time he got halfway up the stairs, he wanted to quit. Why, in Athar’s name, did he put his room on the third highest level? Stupidity, that’s why. The view was so not worth it.

When he actually made it up to the correct floor, he pushed the door to his room open, chucked his clothes to one side, and collapsed in bed. Now this, this was worth it. Soft, plush, warm, and very much without skeletons.

The less arrows being shot at him the better.

A soft chuckle caught his attention. Or rather, killed the peace he had wrapped around himself mere hours earlier.

He didn’t move. Not because he was scared. No, he knew who was in his room. He just wanted to pretend, for a moment, like this was something he was used to.

Like coming home to his lover being home wouldn’t surprise him.

The bed dipped beside him and his robed and boxer-ed glory. A hand ran through his hair. Wag tried not to tense.

“Seems like you had a good night out.” Her voice was like silk, soft and pleasant on his ears. “Hopefully they didn’t hassle you too much.”

Wag breathed. His chest was tight, emotion punching at his ribs. “Yeah,” he said, “It was nice to have some time with them again.”

All of this felt so forgein, now. To have her here. Was she here? Or did he drink more than he had originally thought. Shit.

Martha scratched his head. “I do have to say, I’m surprised that you actually left the tower. You’ve been holed up here for so long I thought I’d have to drag you out.” He could hear the smile in her voice. Or maybe he was imagining it. His head was a mess and he wasn’t quite sure what he was making up and what was real.

It was kind of pathetic.

He laughed. “Yeah, Tom showed up and dragged me out. Not complaining though, I had a lot of fun. It was nice to take off from work. Making potions gets boring.”

So did sitting in your own depressing thoughts, but that was more exhausting than boring.

“Oh,” Wag turned his head to face Martha, looking up at her. The darkness made her hair stand out. It looked like a halo around her face, bringing out her lovely lilac eyes. She was just as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. But there was something heavy in her eyes that she tried to wipe away when his own reached her. “Jordan was looking for you earlier. Did he ever find you?”

Martha blinked and the heaviness was gone. Ish. He knew it was there. Somewhere.

“Ah, no.” She frowned. “I’ll have to see what he needs tomorrow.”

He nodded. To be honest, Wag wasn’t convinced Martha was actually sitting here with him. Which was kind of sad. Very sad.

“I can come with, if you’d like,” Wag rushed out, trying not to sound desperate. “We haven’t had much time together, which is understandable with your dad being around and all the stuff you need to do. And, y’know, it’d be nice to walk with you for a bit.”

Oh, he sounded so desperate.

Yikes.

A smile graced Martha’s lips. “Sure, I’d love that.” Wag let out a breath. “We’ll take a stroll, get a nice scenic view of the beach as we go, call it a date-” She cut off. The heaviness came back to her eyes. Wag knew what she was thinking. Who she was thinking about.

It hurt.

“I’m going to go take a shower before getting ready for bed. You can go ahead and sleep, if you’d like. I know you’ve had a long day and you’re probably tired. Don’t force yourself for me.” Martha stood as she said this, fingers trailing in his hair. Then she left.

Reluctantly, Wag got up to do just that. Changed his boxers and hung up his cloak. Buried himself back into bed, under the covers.

Yeah. It’d be a date.

~~~

Martha didn’t like to get up early. Neither did Wag. Normally, this lead to them sleepily cuddling until one felt so inspired as to get up. Normally.

Ever since the group returned to the land of Mianite, Martha didn’t sleep as well. Between nightmares, being a fledgling goddess, and the… absence of certain people, she found herself waking earlier and earlier.

Wag had his fair share of sleep troubles. Where sleep troubles stopped Martha from sleeping as much, it led to Wag sleeping more. The less he slept the more exhausted he was. The more exhausted he was the more he slept. It was a vicious cycle and actually the reason Wag didn’t leave the house as much.

Nonetheless, both found themselves getting ready to leave just after dawn. Martha moved like last night didn’t end awkward and uncomfortable. Bright, cheerful, and painfully affectionate with Wag. Like she hadn’t been avoiding him for the better part of their stay here.

The worst part was that this wasn’t the first time she came back like nothing was wrong. It was almost like she could tell when he was starting to doubt their relationship. Except, he was constantly doubting their relationship. Even when things had been going well. But this time, it was like she knew when he was thinking about how much of a relationship they didn’t have.

Which was concerning if she actually knew what he thought.

Wag, on the other hand, moved like a zombie. Tired, groggy, and barely awake. The picture of early morning beauty. It wasn’t far off from how he used to act, but now it was like someone had chained weights to his feet.

Damn, he was tired as shit.

Martha had set about making some breakfast from the little food he had. Some eggs, some- thankfully not spoiled- fruit, and milk. Wag was pretty sure he didn’t have milk, but he wasn’t going to question it. She was the more magical of the two, now, so it was within reason that she could get milk in the few minutes he’d lagged behind her in getting out of bed.

He, on the other hand, was on the task of making coffee. Coffee was something of a luxury here, since it was so new to the land. It wasn’t grown naturally on the island and Wag wasn’t sure if it was imported from some far off place or if it had been introduced by the earlier dimension hoppers that still hung around. Spark, for sure, seemed to run on the stuff.

That didn’t really matter to Wag, though. He had a plant of it in his garden, for ease of access, but more importantly to see if it could be used to help crossbreed weed into existence. No far off land had procured the plant yet, so he would still strive to be the maker of weed.

Not the best plan in the world, but that wouldn’t matter once he actually made the plant.

He really shouldn’t be encouraging substance abuse.

Surely, coffee would wake him up. Then he could go on a walk with Martha and do that thing they seemed to do where they avoided those topics and pretended like everything was fine. And maybe, just maybe, they’d enjoy the conversation. Maybe they’d feel something again, feel whole for the brief moment where they let themselves forget about the person who was missing, the person that clearly held more place in Martha’s heart for it to have torn so much when he-

Maybe Wag would get his shit together and let things die between them.

Maybe he’d decide that fighting an uphill battle wasn’t worth it.

For now, though, he was content to pretend things were the same. It was better than being entirely, wholly alone. And, deep in his heart, he still loved her. So, so much.

Enough that he knew it would hurt no matter what he did.

They chatted over the food Martha cooked. She complemented his coffee, the beans from the plant he owned, and he told her that the cooking is just as good as it’d always been.

Neither mentioned that it was usually Steve, not either of them, that did the cooking.

They tossed little affections at each other with ease. Like it was second nature. A brush of hands, a quick smile, a peck on the cheek. It was like a dance. As though they were trying to make a show of how much they still cared, how much nothing had changed despite the fact that everything had changed.

Hands loosely held together, they left the house as a unit, holding up a conversation with ease. If either of them tripped up in their speech as they avoided that topic or this word, neither called each other out for it. For all that everything was off and wrong, they made it work. They found a way to shove a cube into a round hole.

Whether it was because they wanted it to work so bad or because the hole was a giant chasm with space for miles was up to debate.

The beach was calm in the early morning. Fishers were stocking up their ships to start up on their daily trip, tightening a rope here, making space there. Few people walked about the town, the kids either asleep or getting hassled to eat breakfast. With so few people out, it felt like they were on the outskirts of life, just the two of them. Like viewing the world through a painting.

That illusion was helped by the sheer height of Jordan’s tree. It was still there, despite the damage it had received when Tom got to it. If he looked closely, Wag could see the remains of burn marks and grooves held in the thick bark. He had heard that, after the heroes had left, Ianite had nursed the tree back to life in honor of her lost champion.

He ignored the fact that Ianite had sent them into the void in the first place.

Wag himself had left before that, called on to help the heroes that he had watched over as a distant wizard. Even now, he wondered if it had been worth it. To lose everything because he was asked to. In his weakest moments, he wondered if it hadn’t been the gods’ way of throwing him out.

That thought hurt the most out of everything in his life and he never let it linger.

It wasn’t long before they made it to the base of the hill that Jordan’s tree- sorry, Jerry’s Tree- sat beside. They weren’t that close to getting inside yet, but it was a milestone.

As they climbed the hill, massive roots stretching out below them, Wag started up some conversation about the different species of trees. He never once mentioned apple trees. It was part of his botany, after all, and important to keep track of. The types of trees, not apple trees. Apple trees were just one of those topics and therefore something they made an unspoken agreement not to talk about.

He pondered, during his ramble, that Martha could have just flown up the tree. She could do that, after all. Wag couldn’t. Not anymore. The worst part was that he’d help build this tree, or, well, make it. Way back then. That was a sore spot to think about, but even still he was in awe of the tree. Not because of the fact that he's contributed to it- no, he had felt a sense of pride for that a long time ago. Rather, because of how it’d regrown.

Ianite’s gentle hand had turned it from merely a large, enchanting tree to a behemoth of divine wonder. Its branches had spread further, with more room between them and the tips reaching towards the heavens. The leaves had shaped up and gotten fuller, surely the size of a full-grown adult by now. Fireflies could be seen lazily hovering about clusters of leaves, giving the tree a pleasant, natural lighting.

Many more platforms and walkways had been built, new buildings having been added on top of that. They stretched from one end to the other. The most daring teased the edge of a branch, hung firmly along the length of it. The walkways were either long rope bridges made of braided vines that shimmered a faint purple or ramps made and reinforced by the same wood the tree was made of, the bottom featuring fancy swirls alongside the support beams.

Other vines, flora, and bushes lined the branches and platforms. Though they looked like they were leeching off the tree at first, a closer inspection- granted you were on the tree to get an inspection- showed they were delicately wrapped around the branches and sneakily planted in hidden pots for a more natural look. The flowers ranged from all sorts of purples- fitting. Buddleias enclosed doorways, Hyacinthus were wound along lanterns strung along pathways, and an abundance of Jacaranda could be found wherever space was made for flora.

The more he looked the more nature there was to see, the more connecting walkways there were strung along, the more everything there was. It felt like the whole world was home under the canopy.

The tree had gone from the house of a solitary man to a city of nature.

It didn’t feel like the same tree.

Wag pushed aside the nagging thought that it was better than anything he could have ever made. Ianite was a full fledged goddess, Wag was- had been- a mere wizard with the idea of godhood in his head. What he made had been incredible for mortal standards, and was still incredible for the standards he had held himself to. It would do no good to compare himself to Ianite, especially when all she had done was repair what was already there.

As they made their way up to the crest of the hill, following the path from the town to the tree as it curled around Jordan’s old home, Wag spared a glance at the birch and quartz house. It was simple, sleek and minimal. It suited Jordan. Of course, Jordan himself had made it, so why wouldn’t it?

Compared to Jerry’s Tree, though, it seemed rather dull and insignificant.

Actually.

Wag spared a closer look at the smaller home. It looked lived in. A frown pulled at his lips. Was someone living there? Who else, other than Jordan, would?

Martha had picked up the conversation now, adding in details about trees that she had seen in her travels long ago, ones he’d never have had the chance to see. There were many interesting species, some magical in the same sense as Silverwoods, some as plain as a simple oak tree, but all more than enough to satiate Wag’s desire to know more. His mind kept getting pulled back to the Casa de Sparklez, though.

A thought struck him, one he’d had just moments before.

Jerry’s Tree looked and felt so different, now that Ianite had tended to it. Like it was a different tree. Did Jordan think the same? Did it feel less like home, after being away for so long and having watched it burn?

Was Jordan living in his older house because the tree felt so forgein?

Martha was going on about a beautiful tree known for the lights its seeds shone, especially during the night hours. It really sounded like a sight to behold. More than that, the gentle, awed look on Martha’s face pulled at Wag’s heart.

Take care of her.

There was a sour taste in his mouth. Wag decided not to mention what he had just noticed. That was Jordan’s business, not his.

Martha was looking at him now, a small, shy smile on her lips. Wag felt like if he said the wrong thing it’d disappear in an instant. Like Martha was used to having her interests pushed aside, or used to pushing them aside herself when people didn’t seem to care about what she was saying.

Take care of her.

He offered a smile back, a genuine one. He really did love her. More than anything, he wanted to keep loving her. But something told him it wouldn’t work. That what they had had started to decay sometime around the end of Ruxomar, around when he left.

No, around when Martha almost became Mrs. a instead of a Ms.

Bitterness clutched at Wag’s heart. For all the love he held for her, he wondered, again and again, if she held the same. If she ever held the same, if she even held something close to the same.

Take care of her.

Looking up at Jerry’s Tree, Wag remembered what it used to be. He remembered watching it burn, the pain he had felt in seeing his hard work get tarnished, in seeing a friend’s home wither away.

Now, though, it was different. Not quite a home, anymore, but reborn. Alive. And maybe, in the future, it’d be a home again, or maybe not. Maybe it needed to burn for it to become what it was now. Jordan would have never built it up to this, but Ianite had.

Maybe that was the secret, Wag pondered. Maybe you had to let things burn to be able to build them up stronger.

He looked at Martha again, at the softness in her face and the hardness in her eyes. His heart pulled in so many directions. Love, anguish, love, despair, love, hurt, love love love.

Yeah, he was going to have to let this relationship burn.

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docholligay · 4 years

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The Great Nugget Caper, 1 of 2

I only got the first half of this done before I leave for my little birthday trip to a bunkhouse in the middle of nowhere, but I hope you enjoy it anyhow! it’s still 1800 words ahaha. In the MaS universe

It would not be fair to accuse Michiru of being a paranoid sort. She was not necessarily given to imagine that the world would not go on without her, that she was the only one who could appropriately care for a loved one’s needs, that the rest of the world was grossly imcompetent on the subject of how to order delivery or fluff a pillow. To an extent, she prided herself on not being overly fussy on such subjects. If Mina wanted to take M.A. to the park herself, Michiru did not worry. If Rei fed Kimi, she assumed Rei was perfectly capable of such a thing. Michiru was not some fearful clucking hen.

But all of us fall short of our best expectations, from time to time, and so it was with the current situation. Haruka had been home from the hospital for two weeks, mostly asleep or halfway there in the first, the second slightly more alert on the couch in the living room. She was, in all medical ways, fine. Or doing just as expected, perhaps slightly better than. They had been warned that recovery from the extensive surgery would be slow, though ultimately largely rewarding.

Haruka had taken it like a champ, she could admit to herself. After fighting against the pain of it just hard enough to prove that she could transfer in and out of her chair herself, and thus be allowed to go home, she had utterly given in to relaxation. Rei and Mina had helped chase her toddler around the house, Kimi was the sweet sort of baby she always had been, and so Haruka had felt little guilt over sleeping for an entire week.

What she did feel guilt over, however, was her mild annoyance with Michiru’s fussing.

It made sense, of course. Michiru had been affected by Haruka’s long stint in medical care after the end of the War as much as Haruka had. Haruka had panicked while they readied her for surgery, over which she felt more embarrassment than guilt, though her doctor had been exceedingly kind, and she had cried a little as she came out of anesthesia, which she supposed was just how she was living her life now that she no longer had that same deep well of anger to rely upon. Michiru had seen her in pain and distressed, and it had reactivated some of her old fears as well.

Haruka told herself this, often.

Patiently.

Rounding into the second week, Haruka had begun to taper down her pain medication, and feel slightly more like herself. She went downstairs in the morning to watch TV and read a few magazines. She ever so slowly and carefully changed her pajamas and washed her hair. She rolled into the kitchen around noon and made a simple little lunch. She colored with M.A. All of which might have been fine but for Michiru’s insistence on helping, or that Haruka was pushing too hard and going to hurt herself. It became a buzzing background noise, like a mosquito to the ear. Haruka let me help you. Please, allow me. I can rinse you. M.A, Papa needs to rest. She had tried removing her hearing aid, to remember, in a twist of cruelty, that her hearing loss only affected the one ear.

The grilled cheese was the last straw.

Haruka had thick cut bacon, peppered and sweet smoked, a gift from Usagi and Seiya for her recovery. Did Usagi understand love outside of food? Sometimes Haruka wasn’t sure, but she would never complain about getting artisan bacon. She had been thinking about it all morning, until she putzed slowly into the kitchen and laid out some simple white bread, cheese, and started to fry up the carbon in a pan. She was going to cook the grilled cheese in the bacon grease. She was a genius.

“Oh, Haruka, you must let me do that.”

Haruka sighed. “Michi, it’s a grilled cheese. I make it for our three year old all the time.”

“No,” MIchiru came up behind her, “the pan is very hot, and remember, she said it would be six weeks at least until you were fully recovered.” she shook her head and took the handle of the pan, “I will make this for you, my love, please, please go rest.”

“It’s a grilled cheese.” she looked up at Michiru. “I’m not doing anything. I haven’t been outside of the house or the hospital in weeks.”

“Haruka.”

Haruka Tenoh made mistakes. Her heart was often in the right place, but who knew where the hell her brain was half the time. Later, she would blame this particular breach of intellect on the pain medication, and her great love of her wife. She looked so worried. She was so insistent. She clearly loved Haruka and wanted her to get better.

She shrugged and wheeled herself back to the living room, gingerly setting herself on the couch. Michiru, a bit longer than Haruka might have expected later, presented her with a grilled cheese sandwich, or what might have been a grilled cheese sandwich in another life. The bread was charred black and smelt of burnt oil, the cheese had flowed out the side and barely caressed her beautiful bacon. The bacon had been slaughtered a second time, crisp to the point of blackness, the gorgeous peppering flacked off. There was no hope for the sweet cure.

For the first time in a very long time, Haruka felt the icy fingers of despair close around her heart.

There are a multitude of reasons to expand our families beyond blood or legality, to create communities that allow support to be a web of many threads and not one singular lifeline. If it had only been Michiru and Haruka against the world, it might have been too much to ask against the frustration of a ruined sandwich, and the thousand small cuts of Michiru’s worry. Luckily, Rei saw everything, even when she could hardly see. She had tried, as gently as Rei knew how, to tell Michiru that Haruka was perfectly capable of doing small things for herself.

“Haruka is perfectly capable of doing small things for herself.” She said, in what she felt was an impressive show of gentleness. “That sandwich looks awf--not like what Haruka wanted.”

Michiru frowned deeply. “I confess it will not win any particular culinary award.”

“Come on,” Rei grabbed her by the elbow. “We’re taking the kids to the zoo.”

Haruka had never loved Rei so deeply as she did in this moment. Bless her stubborn, impossible, insistent personality, at least right now. She picked Kimi up from her tummy time and moved toward the door.

“M.A.!” she yelled upstairs. ‘Your Mama and I are going to take you to the zoo!”

There was a tiny thundering and a shout of pleasure, but Michiru looked at Rei as if she might be both insane and a traitor.

“I can’t possibly leave, Haruka needs--”

“Michiru, I’ll be fine.” Haruka laid her head back on the couch, eyes to the unfeeling ceiling.”

She whirled about. “And what if there is some emergency? A fire? A flood? What if you fall?”

“Michi--”

“That’s why I’m here,” as if on queue, and perhaps on direct text from Rei, Mina came through the door, grinning brightly, her choppy bob bright pink at the shoulders, “I’ll fireman’s carry her over my shoulder and dump her on the lawn.”

Michiru pursed her lips together tightly. For all the sins she could, and would, happily lay at Mina’s feet, she would never let harm come to Haruka if she could help it. Michiru knew this to be true, as well as she knew that Rei was never going to allow her to stay in the house with Haruka.

It is frustrating, to lose, but it happens to us all eventually.

Michiru took her purse from Rei’s outstretched hand and gave a brief huff. As Rei helped M.A. get on her shoes, and clicked Kimi into a stroller, Michiru looked at Mina seriously.

“She needs her pain medication every 6 hours, and she can take an extra if there’s a particular breakthrough. Nothing too strenuous, or I will hear about it, and I will be terribly cross with you--”

“Oh no, not cross!” Mina broke into a peal of laughter, “Calm down. We’re not gonna do anything. We’re gonna make grilled cheese or some shit.”

“Nothing. Strenuous.” She walked back over to Haruka. “You’re certain you won’t need my help.”

“Babe,” she took Michiru’s hand, “I am SO sure I don’t need your help.”

Michiru stood for a moment, still trying to play the chess game, still trying to reason out a way that she could win the day and stay with Haruka, watching her, caring for her, ensuring that she was safe. But there seemed no way to move the king, with all of them set against her, and so she sighed.

“Promise me that you will take care.” She shook her head, “That you won’t hurt yourself in some foolish attempt at bravado.”

“No one wants to do this again less than me.”

She nodded, withdrew her hand, and looked back to Mina. “Behave.”

“Michiru!” Rei snapped from her position behind Kimi’s stroller. “Come on, everyone’s waiting.”

“Come on, Mama!” M.A. tapped her toe and waved.

Michiru put her purse and her shoulder and took her coat, sighing as she followed the little parade out the door, taking one long last look at Haruka. Haruka smiled and waved as they left, and the door shut behind them, cloaking the room in silence once more.

Haruka dramatically threw her head back and sighed. “I love my wife.”

MIna sat down at the edge of the couch. “Yeah, I have to remind myself of that sometimes too.”

“She’s just,” she sighed again, “I know she worries about me, and I know it was a big surgery and stuff but, you know, I, I’m an adult, and I can make a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Mina glanced over at the side table. “Well, if that’s the banner for adulthood, Michiru’s in trouble, that’s for damn sure.”

Haruka chuckled, then looked longingly at the sandwich. “That was Usagi’s special bacon.”

“Our lives are nothing but sacrifice for the princess,” it sounded strange coming out of her mouth. She hadn’t thought of Usagi as the princess for at least a year, she thought, but there it always was. She stood up quickly, as if she could dodge the thought. “What do you want to do today?”

Haruka crossed her arms and looked up at Mina conspiratorially. “I want to get out of here.”

“Like the backyard?”

“Mina,” Haruka adjusted herself carefully on the couch, “I haven’t left the house in weeks. Michi’s watching me like a hawk. I want to go out, to a shitty bar, our shitty bar, and get a beer, and a plate of loaded chicken nuggets, and I want it right now.”

“You realize your wife will kill me if she catches us?”

“Yeah.”

“Noble of you to be willing to sacrifice my life like that.” Mina tucked her hair behind her ear, “Are you supposed to drink on your meds?”

“No.”

“Excellent. I’m in.”

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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 4 years

Text

Roman’s Birthday: A Tale of Self Discovery

I wrote this while listening to Tale of the Mountain by @spectralheartt so it is heavily influenced by that song.

Word Count: 2,778

Roceit, can be seen as platonic or romantic. The name of the kingdom is an anagram of Imagination.

Roman tore through his room, grabbing all the pages he had on his desk and wrapping them with twine, putting them and as many pens as he could grab at once into his bag. His squire stood at the door, the scroll still in his hand. In a flurry of motion, Roman strapped his sword belt on and picked up his shield, bag thrown over his shoulder.

“Aright, I think I’m ready. Do you have everything you need?” He asked the squire in front of him.

“I think so. Shall I get the horses ready?”

Roman nodded. “Yes, that would be best.” He strode out of the room, going down the opposite corridor as his squire. He strode through the halls, searching for the one person who he actually wanted to talk to before he left.

Finding him, he crept into the room to surprise his twin brother. Remus stepped to the side at the last second, causing Roman to fall onto his face instead of pounce on the other’s back. Remus cackled. “Having fun, are we?”

Roman rolled onto his back. “Help me up, would you?”

Remus laughed but complied. “So, are you off?” The usually playful man was serious, face a mask of stone.

Roman nodded as he felt his own face settle into a similar mask. “As soon as the horses are ready. Are you sure you won’t go with me?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. Someone has to look after the kingdom while you are gone.”

“But Father is still alive, he’s the king.” Roman pointed out matter of factly.

“Of course. But someone has to make trouble to keep this place interesting. Besides, I don’t think Mother could handle both of us going to war at once.”

“I’m not going off to war. I’m just going to slay a dragon. I’ll be home before you know it.”

Remus slapped him on the back. “Then get going.”

Roman turned, gripping his brother’s forearms. “Take care of yourself, will you?”

Remus nodded, returning the grip briefly before shoving his brother away. “Alright, stop with the sap.” Roman nodded and left.

In a few minutes, he was off, galloping down the hill and toward the mountain. He let the horse run as fast as they wanted, giving it free rein. The mountain was a few weeks ride away from the castle and they spent the first two hours in silence as Roman enjoyed the feeling of riding for a long while. After they slowed a bit to conserve energy, he began recounting tales of past glory, battles hard fought and won.

The three weeks passed quickly as Roman sang tales in the day and wrote others at night. Soon, they were upon the mountain. For the most part, the horses were capable of traversing the terrain. However, they had to turn the horses back about halfway up as it got too steep for them. The knight prince and squire continued to climb the mountain on foot.

It took them another half day to climb the mountain up to the cave it was said the dragon came from. They entered the cave, camping in the entrance for the night. In the morning, they ventured deeper. Roman looks for any sign of the dragon, eventually seeing a side tunnel with a scale sitting in it. Quietly, he pointed it out to the squire and they both went down the path, making sure to stay low. Eventually, they reached the end of the tunnel.

It opened out into a large chamber filled with treasure. Curled up on the piles of precious gems, suits of armor, splendid clothes, and many other things Roman was unable to see at the time,was a large dragon. It was an olive green with claws as long as Roman’s sword

The squire didn’t stop fast enough and stepped into a pile of gold coins, making a clatter before Roman could pull him back by the collar of his tunic. The dragon stirred, opening an eye to reveal an iris the color of molten gold. It reared its massive head until it was facing the knight prince and the squire. “Who are you? What do you want?” The voice boomed from the dragon, echoing off the caverns until it seemed to come from every nook and crevice.

Roman squared his shoulders, dropping the squire in favor of pulling his sword from its scabbard. “I am Prince Roman of Initiomagna! I have come to slay you, vile dragon!”

The dragon almost seemed to sigh. “If that is your wish, I shall not go quietly.” Without warning, a claw swept within inches of Roman’s chest, causing him to throw up his shield instinctively.

The battle was on. Roman fell into familiar patterns of striking, retreating, blocking, deflecting, and moving. His feet moved on their own as he advanced, practically wading forward in the piles of riches that went unnoticed. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins and almost laughed as he felt more alive now than he had in years. It felt as if he had been drowning while at home but was now able to have his first breath of air in years.

The battle raged for hours, neither willing to give up and surrender, both knowing it would be to the death. As the hours wanned, Roman could feel his strength slipping away. He could feel the fatigue settle into his bones, the adrenaline fading. He knew the battle was almost over, knew he would lose. Sure enough, claws came down and Roman was unable to bring his shield up in time, his sword piercing the dragon’s hide at the same time, seeming to go into the heart. They raked over his chest, leaving deep gouges that filled with blood. Roman fell against a pile, going limp as the light faded from his eyes. He could hear the squire scream and a deep rumble go through the cave, followed by running footsteps. Then, his eyes were closed and he knew no more.

When his eyes fluttered open, he found that he was in a different cave. The sounds of a fire could be heard somewhere off to the side, the smoke funneling through a hole in the ceiling. His armor was off, leaving him in only his under tunic and leggings. He could feel something pressing on his chest but didn’t see anything. Groaning, he tried to sit up, only for human hands to push him back down at the shoulders.

“If you don’t want to rip yourself in half you will stay lying down for the time being.” A voice that belonged to the hands said. The bed creaked and settled as the person sat on the edge of it, looking down into Roman’s face.

Roman looked back up at the person. A male in black clothing, a half cape edged in yellow wrapped around his shoulders. He had a hat on his head and half his face was concealed in shadows. “Who are you?” Roman managed to get out.

The man turned to look at him, his face still in shadows no matter the angle. “You can call me Janus.”

“What are you?” Slipped out before Roman could process that he was thinking it. It was a valid question as he never knew anyone who could manipulate shadows to do something like what he was seeing done.

Janus laughed. “Some call me a witch.” His answer was noncommittal, almost as if that wasn’t the full answer.

“Where am I? Where is the squire I brought with me?”

“When I found you, a wounded dragon was crouched next to your body. You looked dead even to an experienced healer like me. Your squire probably ran back to wherever you came from to tell your family of your joint demise. As for your location, you are still in the mountain, just in my personal chambers.”

Roman nodded, feeling sleep pull at him. He gave into the soft tugging, allowing his eyes to close and slumber to claim him once more. He spent the next three weeks recovering, at the end of which he was allowed to sit up and walk if he took it slow. It took him another few months to fully recover.

In that time, he found that he enjoyed Janus’ company and preferred the simple way of living in the caverns of the mountain to the extravagance of the castle. He learned his way around every nook and crevice, knowing where to sit for the best sunlight, where best to practice his sword skills. He learned the mountain as if it were the back of his hand and came to love it as home.

Within that time, it was also revealed that Janus was the dragon he had come to slay. Janus is a peaceful creature, capable of shifting between dragon form and human form. The only drawback is that, in human form, he still had to bear his scales on the left half of his face. There, his eye was still the molten gold rather than the warm brown of his human eye. His nostril was pointed and snakelike. He even had a fang on that side. When it was all explained that the village was the one to attack Janus first and he had simply gotten back what was his, Roman understood.

They lived in peace together for years, almost a decade when then the peace was interrupted. Roman had been tending the small farm they kept on the side of the mountain when a laugh rang out. It wasn’t Janus’ and Roman certainly hadn’t been laughing at the time so he looked around for the source of the noise. Janus came out onto the mountainside to stand beside Roman as they heard a different laugh ring out.

Eventually, three travelers came up the mountain. One had a black cloak that could have matched Janus’ capelet but covered a tunic of purple. Another was covered in a gray cloak with a tunic the color of the sky. The third was not wearing a cloak but a blue tunic that matched the color of a deep lake. They all came around the bend, the one in gray making yet another joke that caused the one in black to laugh, matching the second laugh that had rung out.

Roman and Janus exchanged glances as they stood there, waiting to be noticed. It wasn’t long before the travelers saw them and stopped in their path. It was easy for Roman to look intimidating as his tunic had been discarded on such a hot day and his scars were on full display. They looked between Roman and Janus, taking in the shadows he had conjured to cover his scales even in direct sunlight and Roman’s scars that proved he had lived through some things.

The one rivaling a lake stepped forward and bowed. “Good sirs, as it is near dusk, might we beg shelter for the night? We have our own food, you will not have to worry about feeding us.”

Roman looked to Janus as he was the original owner of the house. Janus crossed his arms. “What are you doing on this mountain?”

“We are on our way to visit the monastery at the top, sir.”

Janus looked to Roman, who shrugged. “I don’t see why not as long as they watch out for Baby.”

Janus smirked, knowing Baby was Roman’s endearing term for Janus’ dragon form. “Of course, we wouldn’t want Baby to get hurt.”

The one rivaling the sky stepped forward. “Who is Baby?”

Janus smiled and Roman knew he was tempted to say, ‘I is Baby’ as he had said so often. Instead, he said, “Baby is another creature that lives in this cave system. You will treat him with respect if you ever come across him.”

All three solemnly nodded before they were ushered into the caves, the one in black releasing a sigh of relief. Roman moved to stoke the fire as Janus showed them an empty cave they could stay in for the night. Janus came back and Roman looked over at him, the shadows having been dropped to conserve energy.

“How do we want to go about this?” Roman asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do we want to just mention Baby and never show him? Do we want as little contact as possible? Do we want to scare them with stories? What do we want to do?”

“I could conjure some minor illusions to have such things as heavy footsteps, scales against stone, seeing a tail out of the corner of the eye. I know you have been itching to have other people know some of the stories that have been trapped in your head for so long.”

“So, I scare them and you top it off? Sounds like a plan.”

That night, Roman had all three guests sitting around the fire before he started his story. “Tell me, do you know the tale of the mountain?”

The one in purple shook his head, bangs falling into his eyes but he made no move to fix them. The one dressed as the sky also shook his head, bouncing in his seat. Janus just looked on, enjoying how Roman’s eyes lit up as he dove into his tale.

“I swear it’s true.” He recounted how he set out, not speaking from where or his status, intent on slaying a dragon. As he spoke, he made gestures with his hands, having all four people engaged in the story. He spoke of the epic battle between himself and the dragon. “As my heart was set a-pounding, I saw that all that glitters isn't gold. For as I gazed upon the hoard of treasure lost to a collapsed cavern, a mighty dragon sat upon it.”

He recalled the battle, embellishing here and there to the point that Janus was described as having been able to use his witch powers in dragon form as well. He spoke of a fake cavern collapse, the treasure lost to time. When he was done, he repeated his beginning lines. “So tell me, do you know the tale of the mountain?”

This time, they nodded. Roman continued. “Tell me, do you hear the call of the mountain? Tell me, do you feel the soul of the mountain?” He reached out, hand connecting with the ground beneath them. “I swear it’s true.”

Janus smiled as the others clapped. The one looking like a lake didn’t clap, but stared intently at Roman. Finally, he spoke up. “My apologies sir but, did you happen to give us your name?”

Roman’s smile grew forced, fake. He knew how to hide his feelings behind smiles and could almost feel the all too familiar stone mask settle back into place as his face took on his polite company face. “Do, I did not happen to give you my name.”

The man nodded. “However, I do believe that we know you.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Do you happen to be from Initiomagna?”

“Yes. Are you also from there?”

“No, but I have happened to hear the story of the crown prince who went to slay a dragon but lost his life in the process. This left the kingdom bereft as the king and queen died from their grief and the younger prince took the throne. He has been ruling with an iron fist for nine years, wasting resources and draining the citizens of the land of every resource as he went to war with many neighboring countries.” He recalled the facts with such a flat voice one would think he was speaking of the weather instead of the lives of hundreds of thousands of people.

Janus quickly stood and held his hands out to Roman, who buried himself in his chest. Janus rubbed his back. “It’ll be alright. At first light we can set out and help, okay? For now we need to sleep.”

They didn’t have the energy to prank their guests that night as Janus was having a hard time convincing Roman to sleep instead of putting on his armor and murdering his brother. As it was, they ended up sparing with Janus in dragon form until Roman collapsed from exhaustion in the early hours of the morning.

Janus fed their guests breakfast and sent them on their way before gathering up any necessary supplies, this included getting traveling funds from the hoard. He then set up an illusion so no one could steal the hoard while he was gone. Once all that was done, he woke Roman and they were off, journeying to save the kingdom from a tyrant.

#roman sanders #sanders sides #birthday #fanfic #ace writes

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losille2000 · 4 years

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Hoot and Howl, Chapter 1

TITLE: Hoot and Howl CHAPTER NUMBER: 1/? AUTHOR: Losille2000 CHARACTERS: Actor!Chris Evans/OFC GENRE: Paranormal Romance (more on the magical realism side?) FIC SUMMARY: Chris goes on a camping trip to calm the noisy anxiety in his head, but it ends up leading him into his own messed up version of a Disney movie. When he said he wanted to be a Disney prince as a boy, this was absolutely not what he meant. Especially considering that the princess is also, well... about that... RATING: M (sex, language) WARNINGS: Nothing. AUTHORS NOTES: This is the second story in the Seasons of Magic series, so the same “world” as Home is set in. I will continue Home, but this needed to get out. Also, it has obviously been a very long time since I’ve updated and/or written anything of great substance, so please be kind. That said, I do appreciate any concrit if you have it. You do NOT need to read Home to understand this story.

Also a quick message to my readers who are coming back: welcome back! I appreciate you all so much. I know it's been a long, long time since I've updated. A lot has happened in 2 years (for one, I am now teaching full time, and teaching eats all of your extra time). A lot is still happening. But this unprecedented time at home has given me an opportunity to try to write again. Enjoy!

Previous Chapter - Also available on Archive of Our Own!

Chapter 1

The speeding truck, rusted out and sputtering, navigated over a narrow gravel driveway and through dense pine forest for a quarter mile off the main highway until the path opened into a clearing. Inside the clearing was a simple country farmhouse with hunter green shutters and aged white siding, sedate and quiet, but for faint white smoke curling out of a tall stone chimney. A vibrant forest behind the house was aflame in brilliant autumnal colors, cloaking the mountain in shades of kingly red and gold as it reached into a stormy sky.

Chris only wished he could truly appreciate nature’s beauty, rhapsodize on it, photograph it, consider how, even when it seemed like the world was going to shit, there was still… this. But he couldn’t; rather, he kept his eyes keenly affixed on the narrow drive to assure that he and his passenger reached their destination in relative safety.

Relative, being the operative word.

As though to test him, the truck bounced over a particularly uneven patch of gravel. The rear swerved and his heart jumped to his throat, but he was able to right the vehicle with a steady shift of the steering wheel and a determined clamp of teeth on his lower lip. Only belatedly did he remind himself to breathe, to calm the heart once again beating a heavy tattoo in his chest.

Chris inhaled deeply, twice, and instantly regretted it. The cabin reeked of wet dog and man, mud, and the metallic tang of blood. His stomach clenched. Giving in, he took his eyes off the road for just a moment to glance at his companion, who had curled up on the truck’s bench seat beside him. The red and blue plaid flannel he used to wrap Dodger’s mangled paw had soaked through and now just looked dark brown.

“Just a few more seconds, buddy,” he murmured, more to hear himself speak, to reassure himself, to connect again with the world instead of spiraling into another panic attack. He’d been doing so well avoiding them recently, too. “We’re almost there.”

Chris hadn’t seen it happen, really, the incident that led them to this enchanting farmhouse with the green shutters. They’d been out on the river, he and Dodger, two days into a two-week solo camping sabbatical. Dodger skipped between stones and barked at random creatures scurrying around the banks of the river while Chris adjusted the nylon fishing line on his pole, attempting to catch dinner. Then he heard a yelp and a splash; when his eyes darted in the direction of the sound, Dodger was already struggling to swim in the swift river current.

Chris jumped into the icy river immediately, without considering the toll it could take on his unprepared body—the river was just a few feet deep, but it was certainly deep enough and cold enough to freeze every vital organ for a split second and prolong the rescue of his precious friend.

Fortunately, he’d plucked the pup out of the rushing water by the collar just before Dodger was out of reach, and then trudged slowly back to the embankment through thick muddy riverbed, thinking all was fine now and Dodger simply needed to dry off. Other than struggling in the current, it wasn’t a rare occurrence that Dodger’s natural mischief led him to fall in a body of water—be it natural or manmade, like the swimming pool back in LA. Dodger would fall in, get out, Chris would dry him off and then the dog would go lay down, the natural consequence having fully chastised him for being silly.

But this wasn’t like that at all. Only when they made it back to dry land did Chris notice the blood dripping freely from the canine’s front paw, made all the worse from the water saturating his fur. Somehow, Chris had kept it together long enough to rip a piece of his flannel shirt off and tightly tourniquet Dodger’s leg; never mind that he had a stack of towels and blankets in a duffel bag a few feet away, which might have been useful—also—to warm a shivering, scared animal.

Then the anxiety hit him, literally knocked him on his own ass, as he scrambled through his fishing tackle box for the emergency burner phone. The one that could dial out for emergency services and receive calls from his mom, because his mom was the only one with the number.

The phone still had a charge and the old crappy mobile internet had come through for him when he searched for the closest veterinarian, even all the way out in the middle of the Massachusetts wilderness. He’d practically thrown Dodger into the truck and sped away from the campsite, with the fishing line still dangling in the river.

Now that he thought about it, or at least, now that the adrenaline had subsided a bit, he realized the mistake he made. If he even made it back to camp tonight, that pole would probably be long gone. And so was any chance of eating because it would be too dark to do any fishing with the other poles he brought with him. The energy bars and backup rations he packed would only go so far to fill his man-sized stomach—and they were supposed to be provisions to last two weeks. He didn’t want to go back into civilization for at least that long.

Chris grumbled. This was why he didn’t have kids—he could barely handle his dog’s injuries, let alone anything worse. How would he ever react with an actual human child? Leave another fishing pole in the river? Or, if they were at home, leave the stove on and burn an entire house down?

The thought was absurd!

Him having children of his own was a ridiculous idea. He absolutely was not qualified. The fact that his girlfriend was pressuring him to commit to that—to finally settle down—only made matters worse. There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to settle down to have a family, but the other person in the relationship had to understand the difference between wanting something and knowing one’s personal limitations. His level of anxiety, despite all the work he had done learning to manage it over the years, was not at the point where he could contemplate children.

This trauma was a perfect example. Fuck. He probably wasn’t even qualified to have a fur child, now that he thought about. He certainly didn’t feel like he was worthy of the companionship of this perfect spirit lying beside him and whimpering in pain because he hadn’t been paying attention.

He glanced at Dodger again, but the dog didn’t even pick his head up this time, so he reached out to place a reassuring hand on his back. They’d get to the vet, and everything would be fine. It had to be. He couldn’t lose him.

A few seconds later, Chris pulled into a parking spot alongside a tiny Toyota Prius, which he found completely incongruous to the rustic storybook farmhouse sitting before it. These places were made for old beaters like his, or something with a little more substance—even if he did appreciate the owner’s care for the environment.

His old truck creaked to a stop, the noisy clunking machine rattling until it finally fell silent a few seconds later. Dodger whined again and tried to stand on his bad paw, only to slide back down the vinyl seat with the wet shirt rag. He scooped the dog into his arms and pressed his lips to the dog’s head—a completely illogical thing to do at a time like this because it clearly wasn’t going to make Dodger’s paw heal instantly, but it made Chris feel better—and bound up the three front steps toward the second door on the other end of the large porch with the small plaque that read “Dr. Bird, DVM.”

Grateful the door had been left partially ajar, he nudged his shoulder against it and stepped into a room that looked like any other doctor’s waiting room—human or animal—except for the fact that he was the only person staring at a space he wished were filled with a reception desk with a receptionist. Someone… anyone… who could help Dodger. Immediately. All he found were worn vinyl-cushioned benches, magazines piled on an end table, and lamps glowing soft yellow light into the four corners of wood-paneled walls.

There was also another door, this one presumably leading further into the house, but it remained firmly shut.

His anxiety clawed back up his throat and began to strangle him—should he have instead gone to the other vet in the other direction, though another half hour away? Had Dodger lost too much blood? The dog seemed limp in his arms. Was it… was it too late? Should he just barge in through the other door to look for help?

Chris opened his mouth to yell, but his entreaty died on his lips when the closed door creaked open. A massive cat with a fluffy white coat loped into the room, clearly unphased with the seriousness of the situation. He frowned at the odd creature as it stopped just in front of him, looked up and slowly blinked large jade-green eyes. The proximity of the feline made him uneasy; not only was Dodger uncaring of an animal that he would have otherwise had a real problem with staring up at them, but Chris felt the cat was assessing them frankly, and not in any typical cat-like way.

The cat made a soft chittering sound, as though trying to communicate with him. Chris’ frown deepened. This was getting them nowhere, fast. And this cat gave off some really fucking weird vibes. And if he weren’t mistaken, it felt like the animal was rolling its eyes in disgust that he, a human, had not been able to understand Cat.

Was this a dream? Was he hallucinating this? More importantly, what kind of medical professional allowed a cat to be the welcome committee to a place of business, never mind that it was a veterinarian’s office?

The cat “receptionist” blinked again and sat down heavily, flicking its long tail before emitting a rumbling and, if Chris were being honest, perturbed meow. It echoed in the barren room, but the sound was finally enough to pique Dodger’s interest. The dog turned his head quizzically with perked ears.

Dodger yipped twice at the animal but didn’t struggle like he wanted to get down and chase the cat. In response, as though they—the dog and the cat—had somehow communicated the problem to each other, the cat stood back up and trotted back to the door and disappeared.

Chris tried to speak again; a blur of feathers stopped him this time as a large grey bird soared into the room and landed on a perch affixed to the opposite wall. He’d not noticed the protrusion there, as it was made of the same wood as the paneling and blended in with the walls.

The grey parrot with crimson tail feathers turned to look at him, clucking a few times then saying in a strange parrot voice, “Just a minute! Just a minute!”

Chris considered turning around and leaving. This was too strange, and his canine companion was too precious to be dealing with a doctor who didn’t have a proper staff and left the care up to a weird fluffball cat and a parrot. When he turned toward the door, the bird suddenly sounded like a Star Wars droid, booping and beeping and trilling like R2D2, then changed to words. “Don’t go! Don’t g—”

“I’m so sorry!” A new voice—a feminine one, smooth and alto—broke into his periphery. “I was in the middle of something that couldn’t be put down.”

He whipped around to come face-to-face with a blessedly human figure standing before him, all wind-tousled jet hair and large obsidian eyes. Concern etched an otherwise blemish-free face of smooth tawny skin. She was probably the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld, but that notion, too, was immediately forgotten like the beauty of the landscape outside, in favor of the creature in his arms.

“My dog, he—” Chris began, snapping out of his momentary trance.

She swooped into action, flicking her eyes down to Dodger. She hummed and reached for him. “Let me take him back and have a look.”

“Can’t I go back?” he asked, reluctantly handing Dodger over.

She cradled the dog to her chest; Dodger didn’t struggle as she spoke softly. “It’ll be okay, Dodger.”

“You look as white as a ghost,” she said then, her voice now firm. “You need to sit down and calm down. You’re not going to be any help to your dog or to me if you’re freaking us both out during an exam. Let me look at the injury and stop any active bleeding. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, she was gone so quickly he could have sworn she had kicked up a cloud of dust in her wake. However, he did what she’d instructed and collapsed onto one of the old benches, then covered his face with his hands and prayed. He didn’t do a lot of it these days, preferring other forms of soul searching, but he did say a few silent words. Dodger needed to be okay. He couldn’t lose this one constant in his hectic, always changing life. At least not until the dog had lived a long, fulfilled life at his side.

If only his anxiety would let him think positively.

#chris evans #chris evans fan fiction #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fan fic #ofc #hoot and howl #rpf

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ivyveil · 5 years

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Truth or Drink

the one where it's worth a shot, but is it worth the truth?

A/N: Hi! This fic is based off of this video series by Cut (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auBSJIJ_C_8) . I fell in love with the idea and I thought I would do a piece on it. I hope you enjoy! 11.4k

It hadn’t seemed real until you were there.

The set was more professional than you had expected. Considering how much time you had spent with Harry’s old circle of friends, you had anticipated a low budget, maybe with the setting being a friend’s house. But it was genuinely in a production studio warehouse, with props and expensive equipment. You kept forgetting that Harry was doing much better for himself now.

They even had a snack tray, for Christ’s sake.

A sizable crew of people milled around the outskirts of the set, their shoes crinkling up the paper that cascaded down two poles, creating a white wall and floor in front of the camera. The director’s seat was empty and the camera was given a wide berth.

A wooden table had been set up in the middle of the paper floor, with three bottles of alcohol, two glasses of orange juice, and two shot glasses on top. The set-up was cute, probably ‘aesthetic’, but regardless, it sent shivers down your spine. Two chairs sat beside the table, angled out towards the expectant camera and muttering crew. Waiting for you, waiting for him.

It hadn’t seemed real until he showed up.

In a sweater colored with muted hues of greens and tans, and sunglasses pulling back his hair, Harry looked unbearably familiar. In an unsettling way, like you had watched a movie starring him at 3 am and woke up the next morning, dusty and vague memories of him coating your tongue and settling against your pillows.

It even fell down to the way he was walking, how his stance lingered more on the left than the right, and how his eyes swept the room. And how he could make you feel like the only one in the world, when his eyes landed on you and he smiled. He smiled as if you both had a secret no one else could understand, because that was partially the truth.

His boots sounded crisp on the paper. He was clipping his microphone against the collar of his shirt, ducking his head down momentarily to eyeball whether it was right. Which was a reminder of how this was all to be made public, how you two were to broadcast your conversation to countless of strangers who never asked for it, but would readily comment.

And that hadn’t seemed like something Harry would normally be willing to do, but to be fair, you hadn’t spoken to the man for almost a year.

It hadn’t seemed real until it was.

The two of you didn’t properly acknowledge each other, not in the way you would’ve if the meeting had been a casual one. Not riddled with anticipation and nerves.

Instead, you two chose to settle in the chairs and keep your attention on the objects around you. There had been smiles exchanged but the air was still thick, feeling like starch against the back of your throat. You both invented itches on your arms, a sudden interest in how your sleeves were rolled, etc, and ignored that the other was doing the same.

Harry shifted the shot glass so it was closer to him, as if anticipating the inevitable slosh of drunken choices he’d make soon. It was more likely than not, that you two – usually fairly private – would rather drink than confess anything.

“Looks like whiskey, vodka, and-” Harry opened up the third bottle, grasping onto the lid as he held up the bottle to his nose. “-maybe tequila?”

He glanced over, eyebrows raised as he tilted the bottle, presumably for you to smell as well. Perhaps there was hope in his eyes that you two could proceed with grace and without properly acknowledging the iceberg of problems between you.

The fact he could sit there and treat the situation so casually, was so frustratingly Harry that you weren’t sure how you had expected anything different. It had been a long while since you had been near him, but he still knew how to try and make you feel at ease. Like he could still read your mind as well as he had a year ago, that he could feel your discomfort and wanted to make amends.

The problem had been, and still was, that he tried to make up for whatever had gone wrong, without fully acknowledging what had actually gone wrong to begin with. His words never laid out flat what the issue was, and so you had often been left dissatisfied, searching for a resolution that he wasn’t offering.

You sniffed the bottle, because of course you did, wrinkling up your nose as you nodded. Tequila. Some strangled noise came from your throat, and Harry was clearly expecting it, for he giggled and plugged up the bottle again.

You hated tequila.

“Thanks fo’ coming, by the way. Didn’t think you’d agree to it,” he confessed, his fingers lingering on the sides of the bottle as he feigned interest in organizing them. As if a straighter line of liquor would wash away the tension, how quiet you had been, and how strangely surreal the next half hour would be.

Shifting in the seat, you crossed your legs and flexed out your foot. Getting comfortable in a situation that was anything but was not your forte by any means. It was your job as an interior designer, for Christ’s sake, to make every environment graceful and cozy.

But the tension between you two had another layer on top, which was your inherent nature of despising the something not being positioned correctly.

In this case, it was the fact you were even in the room.

“No problem. Sounded interesting. Thanks for-” you paused, unsure of what to say but feeling as though you ought to thank him back, “-thinking of me?”

Harry let out a laugh, unexpected by you, and apparently from him as well. Not that you had anticipated a change, or were even trying to notice, but his nose still wiggled when he smiled.

For the first moment since your friend had dropped you off in the parking lot ten minutes prior, you felt settled. Perhaps not confident enough to last through the list of questions without a single tear, but confident enough that you were both in the same situation. You and Harry could make it work and be alright.

It was a situation set up with the consent of each of you, after all, although that didn’t take away the nervous butterflies and worms writhing around in your chest.

Harry poured each of you a shot of whiskey, holding out the glass like a sense of a peace offering. Alcohol had never been your safe havens, but you figured it was alright to pitch a tent for a day.

You accepted it gratefully, making sure your fingers wouldn’t graze against his as you took the drink. Knocking it back felt like a rude awakening, but a necessary one, to approach what was coming.

The wall of paper rustled behind you, and the director popped his head around the corner. His name-tag read Chris, and you recognized the name as one of Harry’s newer friends, not one of the friends who would recognize you, which was a relief.

Chris was the reason Harry was doing the show, it seemed, as voluntarily airing past relationships was slightly out of character for Harry. His sense of duty towards his friends seemed to outweigh his typical cloak of privacy, and you couldn’t say you were altogether surprised. It didn’t clarify why he had asked you to be the ex on the show, though. He had a handful of others who were more likely to generate “viral content” with their outlandish drama, you knew, yet he had asked you.

“Thank you both for getting here on time. We can go ahead and get started if that’s okay,” Chris clasped his hands together, strutting past the table and towards his director’s chair. He was wearing plaid pants that swished against his legs as they moved, and that was the only noise in the room for a few seconds. Harry and you looked at each other, a bit uneasy that the moment had come upon you both so quickly. He quirked an eyebrow, as if to say there was no reason to delay it any longer. You took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay, here’s how it’ll work. Martha will put these cards on the table. One of you will read out the question and the other will answer. If the person answering chooses not to, that person will have to take a shot. Easy enough. If you wanted to elaborate with your answers, we encourage that as well. And if you need to take a moment, let us know, but the camera stays rolling.”

It was a lot of information at once, and you found yourself nodding without comprehending as Chris rambled on. Your mind, ever the traitor, was stuck on how a week ago Harry had texted you. It was truly out of the blue, since your break up hadn’t resulted in a good, or even shaky, friendship, and you had felt certain he had deleted your number.

Hey, it’s Harry Styles. Know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I have a favor to ask. My friend is doing a new Internet series where exes get together and talk about their relationship, and he wanted to know if I would be willing. Thought of you. Interested? Xxx.

At first, you weren’t sure. The situation seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, if you were being honest. Darkened skies and trees blowing enough to the point their trunks swayed in the wind - that sort of disaster.

There was something about seeing his face that would send you spiraling off, bubbling anger and frustration swelling up your chest when you stumbled on his Instagram those few times. And then those times when you looked him up. And then those times when you took a screenshot the particularly good photos and went back to them when you were in a pit of self-despair. But only those many few times.

“Sounds good,” Harry was saying, and you chimed in with similar agreement. Martha, presumably, moved forward and put the cards on the table. There were a sizable number of questions, enough to keep you two interested in the game and not to be tempted to drink on every one.

Which had been your plan.

“Alright, just introduce yourselves to the camera and then go ahead,” Chris gestured outwards, smiling, before settling back in his seat.

Chris’ facial expression shifted into something more serious, the friendly facade morphing into a professional stare, which made you feel incredibly aware of how awfully slouched you were. You felt like you were in front of your parents, or a teacher, like you were a kid again and had to present yourself well.

Sitting up, you turned towards the camera. It was a large, black pit of emotionless indifference. It was going to record everything and wouldn’t have the decency to look away, if tears were to fall or if blood were to be shed.

Which didn’t feel too melodramatic, if you were being honest.

Harry introduced himself as Harry, an art teacher, and gave a gentle wave paired with one of his charming smiles. You followed suit, opting to just fold your arms against the table, as you introduced yourself as an interior designer.

The truth extended a bit beyond that for the both of you, with Harry also owning a popular photography Instagram working to introduce inner-city kids to film tech. And you were working with the local homeless shelters in the area to improve structural efficiency, as well as beginning your line of eco-friendly furniture.

But the two of you had become wrapped in the other’s threads of intimacy when you were merely an art teacher and an interior designer, and it would be easier to hark back a year ago if you were no longer attached to today’s version of yourselves.

Perhaps it was a hope for the past to emerge once more.

“How long did you two date?” Chris prompted.

“Two and a half years,” Harry answered.

“And how long ago was that?”

Harry looked over at you, raising his eyebrows silently asking you to be the one to answer. You knew he knew, that the wounds were still fresh and it wasn’t some ex-relationship lost in the foggy realm of his mind. So, you obliged, replying steadily and only taking your eyes away from Harry’s for a brief moment.

“About a year ago.”

And then, abruptly, it was simply you and Harry.

The crew faded away, when you two settled in against the backs of the seats and looked at each other. Harry seemed to be toying with some type of smile, probably more out of discomfort than genuinely finding humor in the situation.

“Should I go first?” Harry offered, reaching over towards the pile.

“Yeah, go for it.”

You shifted your legs once more, crossing them so the other was on top. Your fingers rested on the edge of the table, curling against the wood and waiting for Harry to speak.

“Describe how you feel about me right now.”

Harry began chewing on his lip, not harshly, but enough for you to pick up on his nerves. His eyes shot over to the bottles, thinking you’d immediately cop out, but you began to respond.

“I feel like...” you sighed, dropping your gaze from his inquisitive eyes as you collected your thoughts, “I feel like you’re an ex. And that’s not saying a lot but that’s the best way to describe it.”

You nodded, satisfied with your answer.

“Is that a bad thing?” Harry asked.

You shrugged.

“It just is. Feels like an ending brought back up.”

And it did. You had grown a lot since you two had left the other as a broken shell, and meeting up again felt like a continuation that wasn’t supposed to be. Unnatural was a word to describe how your eyes settled on the small parts of him, deciphering what was different now, yet there was a thread of normalcy in how you two could understand the other like an instinct buried deep away.

“Ah, it’s the bad sequel,” he mused, with a grin that deepened against his cheeks when you laughed. With a smirk to himself, he put down the card in the discard pile.

It felt a bit easier than you had expected, to sit across from him. The bitter words you two had left stewing in the other’s mind had apparently evaporated for the time being. Texting Harry back your confirmation while drunk and alone on a Friday night could maybe be chalked down as a good life decision, if the goodwill carried on throughout the video.

“What about you?” you prompted. You weren’t sure if that was allowed, if the game permitted for you to turn the question onto him. But you were intrigued by the ability to ask him whatever, to find out the depths of Harry you never thought you’d be privy to again, under the guise of something that could be easily excused.

“Me?” he asked, needlessly, for there was no one else you could be asking.

“I feel kinda the same,” he spoke as if it were a question, but continued on with building confidence, “I dunno much about yeh life anymore. Remember how we’d go out on the fire escape ‘n just talked-” you smiled at that, because it was one of those things that couldn’t be remembered without being cherished “-but I also remember how we fought. Especially on tha’ last night. But it doesn’t feel bad to be here. Not wha’ I expected.”

You nodded as he spoke, already feeling the analysis of his word choice kick into gear in the depths of your brain. Nothing he said rose red flags, though, and to a sad extent, you understood him. It hadn’t been as painful as your friends had tried to convince you it would be when you were leaving the apartment that morning.

“Alright, my turn?” you looked over to Chris, who nodded towards the pile. It seemed a bit ominous, with Harry being the one to potentially answer now. Because you had control over what was said a moment ago but now it was truly up to him. It made you nervous

“Did you ever have the chance to cheat on me, and did you?”

Time almost seemed to stop, an unbearable delicacy in the way your eyes held contact with his own. An impressive acknowledgment that whatever he said, and especially the moves his body would make, held the potential of ripping a shred into the both of you.

“I had a chance.” Harry nodded slowly, and his fingers began to twist around themselves on the table. “With...with a mutual friend.”

You nodded, not even needing him to go on further. You knew who it was.

Melanie.

You valued female support and girl love for one another, but Melanie was just a straight up bitch. In the ways that men never could see, because the complexities of female language would twist around the way she eyed women up, the way her lips would curl around each false compliment, as if snapping its neck. Her words had a double meaning that only girls could decode, a simple system that carved knives down their back as she manipulated situations to her fancy.

She was in a ‘game’ no one else was playing, but she was in it for blood.

Perhaps insecurities could be an excuse, maybe there were lingering traumas in her childhood that had morphed her into the beast she was today. But it was easier for you to shut down those ideas and accept her in the monstrosity she had become, one way or another, and keep your hand firmly in Harry’s whenever you all were out together.

She had a thing for Harry.

She would sidle up next to him in the booth, when the lights were low enough to mask her demon-slit eyes and let him be blind to the venom-soaked tongue that flicked out of her mouth with two prongs.

(You were being dramatic, but that’s neither here nor there).

She would be cuddly with him, and Harry would insist to you that they were just friends. When his phone went off with her name splashed on it for the fifth time in ten minutes, he’d make up excuses. Say she was interested in his record collection, that she had sent him a link to some obscure new photography magazine that Celtic porn stars had created downtown. It was nothing incriminating but Melanie had her code, and it seemed only you knew how to read it. He was protective over her, almost, and it had bugged you to no end.

You never called him out with direct accusations, though, because you had never thought of him as the cheating type.

You’d always assumed Melanie was in it for the attention and would stop before any buttons could slip out of their hold.

It seemed you had assumed wrong.

“When was it?” you found yourself asking, the question bursting through before you could have enough time to address whether you wanted to know.

“A week before we broke up.” Harry had the decency to look unsettled, clearing his throat and glancing around the room. “I was taking her home after that night out, the one when we went to tha’ bar and we fought so yeh left early-” you nodded, so he cut to the chase, almost gratefully “-and she wanted me to kiss her when we reached the door.”

“Did you?”

Harry shook his head, his lips pursing together as he swallowed.

“No, didn’t.”

You nodded, feeling a swoosh of satisfaction dipping into your lungs. Even though you couldn’t call him yours anymore, the fact that you both had stayed honest made you feel better.

Made you realize that even though your break up felt like exposed film, negatives that could never be altered into something bursting of color, you two still had the foundation of respect. The pictures were still beautiful, even if you couldn’t see what they were.

“You?”

Glancing up from the card to Harry, you noticed his head was tilted down, his eyes up. He was the one who was unsure, now. The delicacy remained and your head tilted to the side as you replied evenly.

“No, never.”

“Ever had the chance?”

You paused, letting the question sink in.

“I guess from random guys at bars ‘n stuff, but I always said I was with you.”

Harry nodded, leaning back somewhat, as if the answer had lightened some burden.

“Was never sure about Shawn, to be honest. Thought he had a thing for you,” Harry confessed with a shrug, a light smile on his lips. His eyes were still honest, still serious, still had the heaviness that you felt in your soul.

You weren’t sure what to say, with the bright lights and the rolling camera, so you just put the card down and nodded up at him.

It was his turn now.

Another card drawn.

“What do you miss the most about us?”

“Our friendship.” Your answer was immediate, no thinking required. “We had so much respect for each other. I remember feeling so in awe about how persistent you were - like the time you crashed the governor’s party to debate school board funding?”

Harry grinned at that, his eyes crinkling more than usual at the memory, as you continued.

“We knew everything about each other, always had the other’s back, and now we just...”

Your hand waved off towards the crew, although it was meant more as a general ‘nothingness’ gesture, but Harry nodded. He almost looked relieved. A more permanent smile was on his lips, and you knew there was one on yours. It was impossible not to look back on that aspect without a consuming sense of fondness, an adoration for what had been.

“Feels weird tha’ I see still yeh face everywhere now, but like...I don’t even know how your family is doing,” Harry said and he glanced up at you, a slant to his eyebrows that spoke more than he could on camera.

“He’s fine,” you murmured, and Harry’s eyes glimmered somewhat. You could tell he was happy for you and you wondered if it were your imagination misleading you when he readjusted on the seat, and his hand went out on the table. Not close enough to be against yours, but it was possible he was trying.

“Did tha’ fucker kick you out?” Greg yelled towards the street, as if Harry were lurking behind a streetlamp watching you shuffle on the doorstep. The street echoed quietly back Greg’s words, without a reply, not even an indignant shout from the neighbors.

“No,” you sniffled, and Greg’s attention was brought back to you. He opened his door wider so you could step out of the rain, looking once more up and down the street, as if still unsure of Harry’s location. Then, he stepped inside as well.

“I just needed someplace to go. C-can’t stay at the apartment. Everything’s j-just a mess right now, y’know?”

Your eyes had kept on the floor, but Greg lifted up your chin with his fingers. He was staring at you in some odd type of way.

Somehow comforting, you supposed, but not having spoken to Greg in forever, you weren’t particularly sure if it was judgment or sympathy he was feeling towards the situation. He hadn’t seemed to approve of Harry the one time they met, but the entire evening hadn’t gone well for your family, so it was impossible to tell.

“I understand. Stay as long as you need, ‘kay?” His answer surprised you and also didn’t. You knew he wouldn’t have let you past his doorstep if he was still angry.

It seemed the pain left by Harry was enough to forgive the harsh dispute that had cracked open your ribcage first, the fighting that had stirred up your temper to high enough levels to really go at it with your boyfriend. Or ex, now, it seemed.

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” Greg’s voice cracked at the end, and you blinked in surprise. “We’re family. Beyond the blood or marriages or what-fuckin’-ever, that’s what we are. I love you, and that’s not going to change. All that shit doesn’t matter right now, ‘kay?” You nodded.

And that was the first conversation you had with Greg in all twenty-five years of your life, that didn’t end with screaming. It was the first time since you could remember that your half-brother hugged you and told you he loved you.

It was the first step the both of you took towards healing.

“And I have no clue how your pet fish is getting on,” you replied, as if your drama with your half-sibling would appropriately compare to Harry’s fish episodes.

You two had bought a pet fish, about a year and a half ago, for one of Harry’s projects – back when he was paying for all of the supplies but was still determined to get the kids what they needed – but Goldie kept dying, and every one of Goldie’s descendants died, as well, none lasting a month and most not seeing it through a week.

Harry laughed.

“No more fish, actually. Decided to stop trying,” he explained, and your lips formed some sort of tight smile. At least, you hoped they had succeeded in doing that, and there wasn’t some sort of disfigured grimace that would be captured on camera.

A feeling of something close to comfort draped over your shoulders as you moved to pick up the next card. The questions had been easy, almost too easy, and you were falling into a lull of belief that you could take on all the twists and turns of the segment. Being honest wasn’t feeling hard.

But it seemed like God suddenly had a call to take, or the Goddess of the Moon had her attention elsewhere, for the easy questions came to an end.

“Do I ever pop up in your head when you masturbate?”

Several of the crew laughed at your reaction. Your jaw had dropped slightly, eyebrows furrowed at the card as if the ink could apologize and scramble into a more appropriate question. You hadn’t expected that at all.

Nor did you expect the familiar swooping feeling in your stomach, because you had the all-too-vivid memories of being with Harry. Knowing his moans, the grip he prefers, the words that, when murmured against his throat at the right second, could send him over the edge.

Harry didn’t seem to mind too much, only looking like a deer in headlights for a moment, before he reached out towards the bottle of tequila, an unsure chuckle mixed with a light hysteria coming from his lips.

“Gonna need to take a few shots for that one,” he joked, shaking his head, before drawing his hand back in. Your heart started thumping rapidly.

Inhale. Exhale. You could feel your cheeks burn, even if the red wasn’t noticeable it was still felt, and the light-headed spin within your mind increased.

But it was going to be alright, you weren’t going to die, despite feeling it in your heart that it could possibly happen, once your friends saw the video in a few weeks time. Telling it to yourself over and over, you blinked at Harry and your face squinted together, in a ‘hell, you gotta answer’ type of way.

Harry was looking at you, his eyes a shade more serious than before. A flicker of confusion registered within the green, as if he weren’t accustomed to seeing you calm down so quickly (despite your anxieties not being apparent to the rest of the room, it seemed as though Harry hadn’t lost his knack for picking up on it) but he persisted on.

Fuck. You realized he was actually going to answer.

It wasn’t that you minded. The thought of him using the memories of you two wasn’t a slap in the face by any means. But it was more the confrontation of it that you were struggling to break through, escaping the ocean waves of wanting to know, while definitely not wanting to know. The waves were lapping up against the sides of your neck as you looked around, but no land was in sight.

You two were there, and the threat of drowning was imminent.

“I mean, yeah. Together almost three years, we had some good times.” His voice quietened by a fraction, as if the words would remain private. A cheeky grin still dug into his lips, a flush sort of pink dusting his cheekbones as he shrugged. But you know what he meant, beyond the clothes draped against half-done canvases and wallpaper samples.

You both knew how it felt.

“An apartment...all to ourselves,” Harry whispered, his fingertips stretching up against the bare mattress towards its edge. The sheets lay, arranged as if by a Greek sculpture, around your legs and Harry’s waist. His arm was around you, his palm laying on the small of your back to cuddle you in closer. He felt warm, smelled like coconuts. His chest rose slow, his breath evening out.

The empty space was now, indeed, yours. Your mind had been whirling ever since you first saw the structure with ideas for patio design and kitchen layout, but Harry had managed to distract you for a quick “house-warming party for two, love, gotta do it right” that had lasted all afternoon.

The sun was dipping lazily against the skyline, streaming golden and orange rays down into the home. Because it was a home now, with Harry and you in it.

“You still awake, love?” Harry tapped his fingers against your back, and you lifted your head sleepily. It felt like a thousand pounds, with your eyes fluttering closed while your mind was trying to open them. Harry chuckled.

“Tired yeh out?” he teased, and you managed to peep your eyes open enough to roll them properly, before propping your head up on his chest.

“Just sleepy. Had a long day moving in boxes. And then again tomorrow...but you’ve got work, yeah?”

Harry made an affirmative noise, soft and gentle as he looked down

His hair had just grown long enough for him to be satisfied; curls caressing his collarbones and laying against the mattress like an angel’s halo. You didn’t have to open your eyes to see it, the image was painted across the skies of your eyelids after a year of admiring him.

“Gonna be another long day tomorrow,” you mumbled around the upcoming yawn, and you felt Harry brushing your hair back. His fingers got caught, at times, against the messier curls, and he would untangle them. You’d do the same for him, if the positions were reversed, but your eyes only felt real when they were closed. Like the genuine rest would start when you weren’t looking around the room, wild ideas forming upon the walls.

You and Harry spent the rest of your first night in your first apartment cuddled. He didn’t even bring out his camera when the sun hit your cheeks just right, instead feeling in his heart like the moment was best at the time it was happening. Never to be seen again, never to happen again, it was yours, and you were his.

“Had some good times,” you agreed, gesturing for Harry to pick up the next card. It sent your heart racing once more, the thought of Harry turning the question on you. The words were in his eyes, anyway, and it went beyond crude nights spent alone with lube and memories, and into something deeper. Something about whether you treasured those times still, whether they had been tarnished by an ending.

The truth was, you did. On the romantic nights when your bed felt empty, an ocean of sheets and cold pillowcases, with that itch of needing something to bring you higher, that you recalled the good times. It felt like in public eye, you had to maintain the appearance that you and Harry weren’t compatible, that something tragic had occurred, something was wrong within the relationship, and it was irreparable. And perhaps that was true, but your feelings had a nasty tendency to not align with the truth. Contradictions galore, your mind would go to Harry and feel something deeper than an ending.

Harry gave a short nod, cleared his throat, and picked up the next card. The opportunity of waiting allowed for you to glance around the room, making eye contact with one sounds-person who seemed particularly apologetic in the way they smiled.

“How long did it take for you to get over me?”

Before you could even think, he put the card down and shook his head.

“I know this,” he claimed, and your eyebrows rose in surprise, “You hooked up with Shawn two months after we broke up.”

It was what you had been trying to avoid in the conversation earlier, how the topic of Shawn had elicited jealousy and concern from Harry, and it was not entirely unfounded. You and Shawn had ‘hooked up’, but not to the extent Harry was perhaps expecting. Shawn had kissed you after a particularly rowdy rendition of Love Shack during karaoke night. It had ended there, because the guilt welling up in your throat felt like bile and you needed some air immediately.

It still felt wrong, even when the person you thought was ‘right’ was across the city, wanting nothing to do with you.

Harry finding out about that night wasn’t a surprise, since your friend group was still, a year later, overlapped in a few areas. What was a surprise was how Harry had taken that one kiss as a sign of you officially Moving On, as if a Facebook relationship status change and a quick peck could alter almost 3 years of passion and commitment.

Three months ago.

The night had begun with dark purples and blues around your figure, the way your curtains draped against empty windows and the pillows were untouched on one side of the bed. Your friends were blowing up your phone, rattling against the side table persistently, trying to call you out of the depressing apartment and into the club life they were thriving within.

You had already decided to join them but didn’t have the fancy of responding yet. The outfit needed to be perfect, you wanted to feel like you were alive through someone else’s light for the night, before making it official. It was a process of shedding who you had been the week prior and stepping into the greasy, sweaty club as if it were an ocean of opportunity.

Through this endeavor, you found yourself deeper in your closet than you typically were. And that’s where it was, a small brown case with a white tag in the corner, gold stitching around the edges. The tag read “Harry” and your heart made a distant noise, six stories below, as it crashed through the floor.

The moment quickly altered itself, adapting a more serious tone, and the thoughts to color-coordination drifted off like smoke from your mind as you crouched down. Picked off the lid. Looked inside.

There were Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked against each other and looped together with multi-colored rubber bands.

Photos of you, photos of him, photos of the two of you together. Some were dirtier than others, some made you blush as you fingered through the stack, but others made you pause. Like the one where you were snuggled against Harry’s neck, with Harry’s smug smile peeking out in the corner. It was taken on your first anniversary with him, when the two of you were so broke you had to spend the celebration cooking each other mac’n’cheese with flowers from the Dollar General out on the table.

Or the one where Harry was laid out on the bed, his hair curling against the pillows, shirtless and sleepily looking into the lens. You remembered taking the photo, standing up with your feet on either side of his hips, his hands wrapped around your ankles to hold you steady. You had taken your time getting the position right, making sure the light fell across Harry’s chest like cage stripes along the butterfly. Harry seemed absolutely smitten that you wanted to take a photo of him, cheekily asking, “Lookin’ good, hm?” in between shots.

You cried that night.

More than you had in months, you cried over what was lost. Even the happy moments made you cry because of their fleeting nature, how quickly they had become distant. You cried because you felt like you were mourning all over again, with the box of photos you had forgotten about in the back of your closet.

Your heels were kicked off, your dress was splotched with mascara from wiping at your eyes, and you sat against the closet wall, your knees brought up to your chest.

Within the tears held the question of what it all meant, why you hadn’t felt cried out over the entire situation. Why there were wracking sobs echoing against the walls, why the apartment suddenly seemed like a graveyard and you were a tombstone.

And within the tears held the question of whether you had let go at all.

“I’ll take the shot,” you gestured towards the vodka bottle, and Harry’s body stilled, somewhat unnaturally, somewhat in shock. He was obviously stunned at whether that was confirmation of you genuinely having gotten over him within two months, which he had said more as an accusation than a sure fact. But you couldn’t find it in you to confirm or deny. It just was, and no matter what the truth had been or was still, you weren’t going to touch on it.

“Alright,” he muttered, and with how his head was turned away as he kindly poured you what would be your second shot, you couldn’t distinguish whether he was still shocked or had made the leap to upset. And you weren’t sure which you wanted him to be.

It was bitter going down, searing your throat a bit, and you shook your head immediately, feeling the racks of shudders going down your spine as you powered on through the shot. Several of the crew members laughed at that, and your head tilted up, leaning back into your neck as you cringed.

“Fuckin’ hate that,” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut, and you heard Harry chuckle quietly.

“Alright, your turn, love,” he gestured towards the stack, and on came the next question.

“Is there anything you want to apologize for?”

The silence extended beyond the two of you, into the scope of the room and surrounding the walls like a thin layer of lace. The itchy kind.

“I didn’t know how to talk to yeh. About what I was feeling, ‘n stuff. Figured we’d be okay, no matter what.” He took a deep breath in and his eyes settled on a particularly dark knot in the wood of the table, eyebrows furrowed as her continued. “I’m sorry for tha’. Shouldn’t have assumed yeh knew.”

“Knew what?”

“How much I loved yeh. How much I wished I could’ve solved things, early on before they got to be too much.” He was choking up at the end, nodding quickly and blinking his eyes. It took a moment before you realized he was close to tears, at the memories and at the loss.

You couldn’t say you felt any different, with your own throat closing up around your words.

“We tried our best,” you said, feeling your lips wobble around the smile as if unsure. Harry shrugged, like he didn’t quite feel the same but wasn’t going to argue. The emotions ebbed upon you both quickly and remained, a wave over your heads that didn’t return back to the ocean like it should’ve.

The final fight between you two could have been avoided. It was the cumulative frustration over months of miscommunication, of Harry always being at work, of him putting his school kids first, of you needing someone there with you, of you never knowing how to speak the words of that question, of both of you deciding to be stubborn instead of empathetic. It was a disaster, a war zone marked by scowls and hot tears and rattling doors.

“You can’t take one day off to fix this?” Your voice was shattered, glass shards etching themselves into the walls. It was quiet, as it always was when Harry had something to say but refused to get the words out. He’d just shut down again, seethe in his frustration, never confess to being pissed off, as if denial in itself could create a false reality where you were Okay.

“I’ve got work,” he said it pained, as if he were powerless.

Perhaps you’d been privy to too much of his loveliness, saw too much of his bright sun, because you no longer believed in that. You knew he could do so much, that perseverance was nothing compared to his willpower, and yet you were never on the receiving end of his dedication and work, just an observer.

It was watching him fight for everything but you that sealed the deal, in the end. You had enough empty spots in your heart from people who had left without a second thought about commitment, who took your love for granted and assumed it would last for miles (and it had, which was the worst bit). You couldn’t allow for Harry to make his mark like that. He didn’t have that power over you like he had for others, you had decided.

Which was why you moved in with your brother the next day. Which was why Harry showed up the next night, still in his work clothes, with his teacher’s briefcase in one hand and your apartment key in the other.

“The fuck is this?” he spat, once you had stepped out onto the porch. The streets were slick with rain, the tree branches were weighed heavily upon one another, and Harry’s eyes were the scorched lightning setting it all ablaze.

“I’m done.”

“What yeh mean, done? Done with wha’? Done with us?”

A stunned silence.

“I said we’d work it out.”

He was trying to speak patiently now, talk down as if you had simply forgotten the way he had made you feel cozy and warm again, with promises and soft smiles, before leaving you once more.

“I asked for you to stay.”

“When have yeh ever needed someone to stay?”

It was blunt, harshly spoken, his eyes unfocusing as he furiously blinked the rainwater from his vision. You didn’t move back, you never invited him beyond the porch gate, somewhat afraid of what you’d do if he came closer.

“In the past two years, not once have yeh ever asked for me. Never asked for my advice, n-never told me yeh needed me. What the fuck ‘m I supp’sed to do with that? Know magically that this one time is when you’re actually gonna open up, genuinely gonna talk things out? Not just take whatever path yeh want, without thinkin’ of me?”

“I asked for you to-”

“Stay. Yeah. You asked for me to stay.” He sighed and whipped his head to the side, attempting to sniffle discreetly. You knew that his hay fever was acting up, and you knew he was trying to pretend it wasn’t. A sub-drama within the original, a dialogue stupidly unspoken.

“And you didn’t.”

“What would I be stayin’ for?” It was a serious question,

“For us? To make it work, to talk about what we haven’t-”

“Okay, fuckin’ fine. Talk. Tell me what yeh want me to know.”

You opened your mouth and closed it several times, unable to know what to say. It was a contradiction of overwhelming emotions and the realization that you had no idea. Everything had piled up on each other and digging through the past had no effect on the future, at that point, and you felt as though you had made your mind up the moment you left your key out on the dining table, a night bag stuffed with your everyday things, and your mind blank, to stop yourself from surrendering to him once more.

You’d never forget how he looked, at that moment. In his loose button-up and jeans, with paint on his knuckles and his hair piled in a bun, he looked helpless.

“I’m waiting.”

After a few more moments, he shook his head.

“I’ll move in with Liam next week.” It was a shuddered statement, as if he had come up with that plan on the way over. And that was the way you two ended, because the cliff had been seen for miles and neither one of you pulled the damn car over.

He paused, his body shifted back towards the gate. His hands were by his side, limp, already having given up far before his mind had, your apartment key loosely between two of his fingers.

A minute later, you were back inside. Sliding down the back of the front door, letting your hands immediately rack through your hair, your vision blurry with the loss and the lack of focus, now that he was gone. Because you were gone, and everything was right, but it felt like devastation.

“Our best,” Harry repeated, but that didn’t even sound like enough.

The studio was silent.

“Kiss on the mouth or take a shot each.”

Approximately thirty seconds later, two shot glasses hit the table. You had downed your third of the day, as Harry scrunched his face as he got down his second. Neither of you had hesitated, both realizing that it would bring the level of discomfort to excessive levels. Perhaps if you two were at a friend’s house, wine bottles being passed around in front of the fire, a brief kiss wouldn’t have been seen as much of anything. But not for a camera. Not for the Internet.

The crew was amused how the two of you were on similar tracks of mind, and if you were sober you wouldn’t have found it as funny. But when Harry had his face all squishy like a boy who just ate a lemon, you couldn’t help the giggles that manifested themselves against your lips.

“Okay,” Chris interjected, and it was the river of smooth liquor that kept you two from jumping at the interruption. You had almost forgotten about where you were.

“Just a quick question,” Chris continued, “One we’re asking all the couples.” He paused for dramatic effect, perhaps waiting for the right camera shot, before asking, “Do you feel you have closure?”

The director was bent forward, as if he were brought to the edge of his seat by something that wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Of course neither of you felt you had closure, and of course neither of you would confess to that. Whether the lack of a proper good-bye still haunted your bedposts was another ordeal, one you didn’t feel particularly keen to jump into.

“Uh,” Harry spoke with the stumbling eloquence you had somewhat missed, “Um-well, I-” his eyes flashed over to yours, and then to the side of the table, “Drink. I’m gonna drink.” You gestured with your hand to the bottles, as if inviting him to it, not quite expecting anything less.

His cheeks were flushed as he poured himself another shot, obviously quite upset that he had to further his count. He was an embarrassing lightweight, which you knew, and Chris most likely knew as well.

But Harry must’ve felt more comfortable with risking himself getting drunk on camera, than answering the question, or else he would’ve just confessed that you never let him have the opportunity for closure. And he had treated you similarly, it was a relationship destroyed like frayed clothing, feathering off near the end and getting caught in every sort of mechanism known to mankind.

You never quite understood metaphors.

Harry took the drink in one swoop, without a second thought, and despite you hoping he’d be the one to pour you a shot again, he was obviously needing a moment or two to adjust. So, you poured your own, saluted Chris with it, and drank.

Another truth avoided, and you were feeling like the haze of life had descended upon you. Warmed up and ready to strike.

It hadn’t occurred to you much, at the time, how drinking could speak volumes louder than an answer, one you could elaborate on. But no man ever said vodka brought him sense, so you continued on with the game, under the assumption that the shot glasses would be there for you if all else failed.

“Your turn,” Harry reminded you gently, nudging the cards closer.

You drew.

“Would you be with me again?”

There were flecks of gold in his irises, which felt cliche and overrated, but you were struggling to find anything else in his eyes. There they were, gold and glistening, and the gold was shifting around as Harry glanced away.

It didn’t quite sink in, the implication of his stance, how heavy the air became to everyone sober in the room. Harry nodded slowly at the question, more in the process of thinking over his answer than the nod genuinely being a response.

He started biting his lip again.

“I’m gonna have t’ drink.”

Particles of the air shifted in that fraction of a second. They turned on their sides and pierced the nothingness surrounding them until there was an invisible knife pricking against your chest. It felt hot and unwelcome, and under the gaze of the entire crew, you were speechless for a few seconds.

“I can get why not,” you mumbled after a while, your fingers fixing your hair, the collar of your shirt, anything but how tightly wound the rope was around your neck. “If it didn’t work once, probably wouldn’t work again.”

“Just don’t know who you are, now.” Harry was nice enough to cover his true intentions as he poured the shot. The glasses clinked as they were rearranged and you noticed they were no longer in a straight line. Perhaps Harry was done with easing your tension, maybe this was it. The real pair, the couple of exes with nothing but honesty, a year too late.

“I’ve changed a lot,” you agreed. “Us ending definitely showed me where I needed to work on myself. Took a while, definitely took a while, but I’m getting better.”

Harry, his lips still pursed and his eyes squeezed shut from the nasty aftershock of the shot, managed to nod. When he was able to focus again, he spoke.

“Exactly. I think what was important for the two ‘f us to learn was tha’ we had areas to work on. And we did do tha’ work, but we can’t relive the past. No take twos.”

His words had become a touch more slurred, his head was nodding more from a gradual lack of balance than a genuine agreement. But Harry’s lips were still poised in a smile, in the dopey way his heart would grow whenever he was pleasantly warm.

You couldn’t say you were feeling that sort of happy high, tipsy warmth and giddy love, but you certainly were trying to keep yourself more put together than he was.

“I’ll go, then.” Harry’s hand reached out for the card, accidentally knocking one out of place. Shuffling them back, he drew up the top one again.

“What should I change about myself for future relationships?”

You were shaking your head before Harry was even finished with the question. Which wasn’t altogether impressively fast, because his speech was slower than normal. And he seemed confused by the words - perhaps more apprehensive - and each vowel was elongated.

There was no way you felt you had a right to answer. It had been too long since the break-up. If it were six months ago, maybe, you would’ve jumped through rings of fire to be able to tell Harry what you thought about him. But the truth was, you felt like you were a million miles away from how you both had coexisted a year ago. It was likely life had done Harry the same justice, and any advice you had that wasn’t founded in bitter resentment would simply be irrelevant.

In addition, if the question had been the other way around, there would’ve been no way Harry would’ve answered. There was a possibility you would’ve just died on the spot if he did - it would’ve been hurtful, to hear what he found was such a fundamental flaw within your character that it simply had to be changed in order to make anything work with another person. Some self-problems were designed to be discovered by the individual, not by their angry exes.

“Why not answer?” Chris spoke up.

“Can’t tell him what to do, he’s perfectly fine. Was both of us that made it not work, y’know?” your words felt like syrup in the way they glided from your tongue.

“Yeh gotta drink,” Harry reminded you, a sloppier grin appearing on his face. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and putting his forefinger and thumb around his lip. Sparks of fire ignited in your chest, from his eyes and how they consumed you. Once more, you were reminded how Harry could make you feel like the only person in the room, and how addictive feeling special could be.

“Know I do, Haz.”

You readied the glass and popped back open the bottle, feeling like that noise would forever be associated with this video, with your heart racing and your fingers moving restlessly.

“Called me Haz, just then.”

You simply nodded at his observation, not bothering to look up at see his reaction. A momentary slip of tongue, but it didn’t mean much. A nickname was all, and you refused to think about it for longer than that.

You drank and then quickly picked up the orange juice. Harry, at the same moment, seemed to realize there was a chaser next to the bottles, and picked up his own glass. There was a momentary break so you both could ease down a little, not feel the punch of alcohol and postpone the gentle sway of future regret and public restroom vomit.

“You ready to continue? Just a few more questions,” Chris gestured towards the last two cards on the table, and you nodded, bleating out a question.

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Yours,” Harry answered, pushing a hand down and moving the cards towards you. You snapped finger guns at him, humming with your lips to indicate that you were impressed by his memory.

It all felt smooth. A gradient of emotions, piled on top of another until the feeling was general existence. And it was nice, sitting across from Harry, seeing him after so long, knowing he was doing okay and he had been trying to improve. The harsh feelings were still there, but they were concealed by the concern of catching up, with the hopes of appearing fine on the camera would translate into actuality.

“Do you think I’d be a good wife?”

Harry’s head dropped down to his hands, his palms supporting his forehead as he moaned something unintelligible. It was a quick change of atmosphere but nothing grossly out of place for two drunk people, as the alcohol had a way of gliding over the rough patches.

You weren’t sure about marriage, in how/if it would come into your life. The topic had come up now and again during your relationship with Harry, especially when he had proposed the idea of moving in together. But the conversation was usually vague on both sides, more in the tone of possibility than probability. It simply wasn’t a major point within the way you two interacted, there was no planning or waiting for a one-knee-kneel and velvet box.

“’F course yeh would,” Harry moaned, and your eyes scanned his face, but the majority of his head was still tucked away.

“Fuck, thought yeh’d be mine, didn’t I?”

Silence.

A blank silence, a blanket of nothing cloaked your mind and your tongue. The thought had never crossed your mind, that he would be planning on proposing. He had never seemed the type to want to settle down quickly. Sure, in the deepest corners of your mind, you had thought what it would be like to take on his last name, or to have him take on yours, and to hold a ceremony to make your love ‘officially’ public, to have the societal relationship cemented by expectation and the ring to physically prove it. But it hadn’t felt realistic.

But there he was, sitting across the table from you, drunkenly confessing he had planned on making you his wife.

And all you could feel was the wet clothes on your skin again, the heavy rain that drowned away your relationship, the sopping weight of an apartment key left behind, the hollow carcass of an apartment that became too empty too soon, the rough edges of Polaroids with scratched handwriting left behind.

Near the end, you had started to think he wasn’t fully committed to the idea of your relationship. That there was a chance he was still looking - not actively, not by any means - but looking in the sense that if someone were to stumble along, someone who made his heart feel like it were floating a million miles in the sky, he would leave. Like he wasn’t completely tied down to you, because he simply was never there. That sense of loss before it had even manifested had brought you towards the edge of neediness, shoving you into desperation without knowing the language of asking for reassurance.

It felt logical at the time. If he wasn’t going to work at the relationship, if there weren’t signs of him planning in the future to cement your love more firmly, that meant he was losing interest. That he would leave, like so many others had, and you were going to be lost in another forest with dense trees of ‘not enough’. So you had lashed out before he could, you had burned the bridge before he had even set foot on it.

Your fear had brought you further away, until the crumpled bedsheets and pillowtalks had faded into sullen silences and avoidance, all while he had thought everything was going to be okay.

Harry lifted his head and dropped his hands onto the table. He looked at you warily, sensing the silence had extended beyond what could be a good thing. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were wet and the golden flecks were magnified.

“Oh.” It was all you could think to say.

Harry sniffled, his eyes batting away briefly as he raised a hand to wipe under them. A curl of hair shifted around the edge of his sunglasses as he moved, falling against his cheek. He brushed it behind his ear.

You were sitting as more an observer than an active member of the moment. It still felt surreal, amplified by the sensation of being drunk and feeling like nothing had a consequence, yet understanding at the core of yourself that this very much had a consequence.

“I’m gonna pick the next one,” Harry whispered, as if the microphone wouldn’t pick it up. You felt a flash of anger at how this moment would be exploited, because you knew it would, and his tears would become a part of the Internet. Floating between particles would be his confession, his vulnerability you hadn’t seen before.

He picked up the last card. You held your breath.

“Do you still love me?”

Despite the studio not having made any noise, a deadly quiet resettled itself into the air like a thick dust, gripping away the oxygen from your lungs. It seemed to affect Harry too, for when he was reading, his voice broke at the end. As if cut off by something other than his choice. His eyes went up to the ceiling, praying for you to not answer.

Your hands were in your lap, your fingers curling around the other nervously as you continued to sit through the worst drinking game of your life. Nothing could’ve saved that moment and it seemed the crew knew that as well. Many of them looked away, others couldn’t tear their eyes off of your quivering lip and wide eyes.

Any response seemed it had the potential to break him, but you couldn’t have him not know. He must’ve known anyway. People can’t wash away their first love like a stain, those kinds of relationships were never meant to fully end.

“Don’t think I’d ever stop. Just who we are.”

Harry’s eyes moved from the ceiling to meet yours. Underneath his eyes was a fine shade of pink, as he was trying to hold back the onslaught of hot tears, and after a moment you realized your eyes must have been the same.

The edges of your vision were clouded, the bottles on the side of the table had been washed out with a visible slur.

He looked at you silently, his lips moving without making a noise. It was clear he was trying to ask you again for confirmation with his own words and not the ones written on a card.

But he was still Harry and the words didn’t come out.

Do you love me?

“We grew up together, y’know? In all the adult ways,” your voice wobbled and a few tears slipped out, painting a fine line down your cheeks. “Can’t not love that. You’re a part of those moments, cherish them and I’m cherishing you.”

Harry made an odd light noise, somewhere between a whine and a noise of agreement. He was clearly caught between lines of emotion, unable to lift his intoxicated head above the waves. The drowning had begun.

You had accepted your fate a while back in the game, but it seemed it was only now that Harry realized the long-term impacts these questions could have. His hands were still on the table, palms down, the card between his fingers. You gently reached forward and plucked the card, placing it on the stack. As if that would help ease his pain.

And it was painful, there was no way around it. The immense loss you two had suffered, alone and unable to grieve with the other, irreparable slashes down your hearts caused equally by yourselves as by the other. It had just been a fuckery. The endings always were.

“Do you love me still?” you whispered, the whole spectrum of concentration you had left in your veins solely resting on the slope of his brow, how his eyes gazed into yours, and settled somewhat. Like it was comforting for him to see you.

Your head tilted to the side as you waited, and in the fog of your mind, you realized you had started holding his hand at some moment. Your fingers were wrapped around his outer palm, but he slowly turned his hand over. Threaded your fingers together. Moved his thumb against the side of your hand in slow, small movements.

His heartbeat could be felt through his hand, a steady rhythm like a song you used to play on repeat for days. You had forgotten what it felt like to dance to it, but your heart remembered the tempo.

“I thought I didn’t, but now,” he paused, a sudden hilt in his throat stopping him from continuing momentarily, “Now I’m not sure.”

No one spoke.

No one moved.

His eyes scanned your face. His lips were slightly pursed, in thought, and his eyebrows were low. His thumb continued moving against your skin, as if it would be a comfort to you, but you knew it was mostly for him.

Chris cleared his throat softly, and whispered something to one of his assistants.

“Okay, you two,” he spoke louder to the two of you, but you were the only one to look over. Harry’s eyes stayed on your face, before dropping to the table. Harry’s thumb moved against your skin once more, slowly but with enough pressure that it was clear he had done it consciously.

“I think we’re good, that’s a wrap. Gonna run through some clips, check audio and lighting, but then you’re free to go.”

You nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat, trying to snap back into reality.

His thumb stopped moving.

You looked over at your hands clasped together, wondering what it would feel like to no longer be holding onto Harry, now that the video was over.

The camera turned its ugly head away, the red light on the edge powering off like a suction of tension being lifted from the room. Chris and a few other of the crew started talking at normal volume, perhaps writing over the moment the best they could by avoiding looking at you two.

Harry sat back and cleared his throat, reaching his free hand up to wipe away at the growing collection of tears within his eyes. His hand began to untangle from yours, as you readied yourself to move on, to get over him again, to feel the impending loss with each step towards lot where your friends would pick you up.

It almost hurt more, losing him a second time.

Perhaps that was why you did it. Maybe it was the instinctive reaction to not ache again, to protect yourself by removing the hurt.

His fingers were barely in your palm when you reacted, leaning forward again to lock your fingers around his. Firmly, with your eyes flashing up to him, a question in your eyes but not yet on your tongue. Harry looked at you, confused but more wary than anything else, before his gaze settled back on your joined hands.

“I would like it if we could go somewhere and talk.”

You hadn’t been able to ask him to settle down to have a serious talk for the past three and a half years, but the words slipped out as naturally as if you were asking him for the time of day. Harry’s confusion deepened before he realized that yes, you had spoken and yes, you had asked for him. Asked for him, after being so vulnerable and stripping away your false sense of brutal independence in order to get together with him for a half hour.

His soft smile indicated his answer was yes, but he accompanied it with a verbal confirmation, a nudge that he was headed in the right direction. Harry was hardly ever shy, but the rosy flush on his cheeks was only partially from the drink, and mostly because of your smile back at him.

Maybe you two wouldn’t talk things out and find that elusive ‘resolution’ nestled between the vast gap where closure was supposed to take root. Maybe you two would flare up in old arguments again and end up storming out, thunder and lighting booming again in your hearts and bitter resentment welling up in your throats.

But at that moment, Harry squeezed his hand around yours, and you felt your chest slowly rise up, the butterflies, forgotten but not gone, stretching out their wings.

Maybe you two could not let go, this time.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! This has definitely been a dear piece to me. Let me know your thoughts here, and check out the rest of my works if you’d like!

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