#preparing my gravestone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teencopandthesourwolf · 10 months

Text

“Here!”

Stiles slams something down on the coffee table to the left of Derek's (Stiles's) laptop.

Derek is searching online, only a little psychotically, in the hope of finding a store that sells these very specific organic coffee beans he tried in a hipster coffee house recently. Derek isn't a hipster—he isn't—he just likes nice coffee, is all. Really, he should have asked the barista to find out not just the brand name but their supplier's address too because this is driving him insane. Maybe he is insane? More likely just incredibly shit at the internet, but he thinks he'd prefer to plead insanity if challenged.

Derek unknits his eyebrows and looks down at… a green thing. It's sort of feather shaped and has many spindles with bronzed edges.

It's a leaf.

His eyebrows knit themselves back together as he blinks down at the thing a couple of times.

“It's a leaf,” he says, because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to say.

Then he looks up—and back and forth at Stiles who is now pacing the apartment and alternating between clicking his fingers and flicking his thumbs and shaking his arms out at the sides of his body; his stimming can get pretty extra when he's anxious.

Derek's frown deepens with immediate concern. He must've really been deep in it with the infuriating Google searching to not have noticed the smell of Stiles's distress when his mate first arrived home.

“Hey, what's—”

“Yes, Derek, it's a leaf. It is a leaf that I brought all the way home. For you. From the cemetery.”

He's still pacing.

“Okay, well do you want to tell me—“

“It's an Apology Leaf. Obviously.”

Obviously.

“And, Derek, do not laugh, because—"

“I won't but could you just—“

“—this isn't funny. I'm ridiculous, I know, and I know that that's funny. But this? This is decidedly deeply unfunny, alright? This is totally not at all funny, Derek. It's like, a thing without one tiny ounce of humour in it, as in not the slightest bit funny in a gazillion sombre years. Do you hear me?” He inhales deeply, holds the breath, then blows it out harshly via puffed-out cheeks as he clicks and flails some more.

Derek hears Stiles and is of course prepared to wait for him to explain whatever this is, because Derek would wait for Stiles until the end of time, if he had to. Although that's not likely a thing to happen in any reality as this is Stiles who can't go for longer than fifteen seconds without talking. But still, Derek thinks it's the sentiment that counts.

“You, Derek Hale, are good, and someone as good as you deserves somebody far, far better than a ratbag like me. Hence the leaf,” Stiles now tells him in a rush of even more confusing words, his chemo-signals tinged with shame for some worrying reason Derek is yet to discern.

Stiles glances over anxiously from his place of animated, mysterious penance—and then looks away again just as quickly while still trying to wear footprints into the recently painted varnish on the wooden floor of their new apartment.

Derek is clueless as to the cause of Stiles's meltdown, but neither things are a first. Stiles struggles sometimes—just like Derek does, who has plenty of his own outbursts (albeit more moody than vocal) that Stiles has to Private Dick his way through.

Derek is also trying his best not to worry too much about thinking that this is somehow his fault, so now sets his mind on attempting to marry these seemingly unrelated things in his head.

He thinks about the facts he's been presented with:

What is, at an educated guess, a Pacific Yew leaf.

and

Stiles's rather unhinged and self-deprecating dig at himself-slash-compliment for Derek.

...Yeah, no, he's not getting better at this game any time soon.

“Uh,” he says helpfully, and Stiles rolls his eyes in that Do I really have to do everything myself around here? way of his which, rude.

Good job Derek loves the kook.

“It was just sitting there, on top of my mom's gravestone when I got there,” Stiles says quietly, incredulously, gesturing at the innocuous leaf.

Then he's off again with the pacing.

“And I knew, straight away, I knew,” he says, getting louder again and laughing in this accusatory sort of way, pointing somewhere into the ether, eyes manic.

Derek scratches his nose. He hopes he will soon know, too, because honestly, he's kind of blindfolded in the dark here.

“She was obviously telling me what a dipshit I was! What a douche I am! A massive ass-hat! Total loser!”

“I mean, that's mostly fair, but maybe total loser is a little strong.” Derek will often speak Stiles's language when Stiles is freaking out, using humour to try and ground him.

Stiles carries on as if Derek hadn’t said anything.

“And I was like, Come on, mom, give me a break, will you? and she was like Seriously, Mischief? You really wouldn't let the special person in your life, your special little guy—”

“You can just say boyfriend, Stiles.”

“—come with you to the cemetery to visit me? Like, as if with that leaf she was reminding me that you are the one person who actually gets this shit, which, I do know. Of fucking course I know. And then—get this—I swear to God, Derek, I felt her literally slapping me upside the head! No fucking word of a lie, man. Like, thousands wouldn't believe me. Millions. They'd say that it must have been the wind or my incredibly vivid imagination. But I know, Der. I know that it was her,” Stiles continues with the confession without stopping for breath.

Derek has thought it before and he'll think it again: the kid's lung capacity is seriously impressive.

“And I also know that I totally should've said yes when you asked me if I wanted you to come with me to the cemetery this morning. Because the thing is, I did want you to. I really, really did. But I just… I just…”

Stiles starts slapping himself on the forehead with both his hands and Derek has had enough of that already. He gets up off the sofa and walks over to Stiles, catching those slim wrists in his grip, gentle yet firm.

“Please don't,” Derek says, imploring Stiles to stop. Derek can understand frustration, but can't stand Stiles hurting himself.

Stiles deflates a little. He then takes a step towards Derek and leans in, resting his forehead against Derek's, their noses lining up like penguins.

“I just—I should have said yes to you when you asked because I honestly, truthfully wanted you there. It's just that I've only ever been there with my Dad. And even then, not as many times as you might think. Not even Scotty has been there with me. It's just a place—it's usually something I do alone. You know?” Stiles' front teeth worry at his pretty lip.

And yes, Derek does know.

So he says, “Because you feel guilt, right? Even though there isn't a thing in this universe or any other that you should feel guilty about.”

Guilt just for being alive.

Slightly cross-eyed with the proximity and angle, Stiles looks at Derek in a way that says he knows just how much Derek knows about this stuff.

“Yeah. Yes, exactly. And I guess I didn't know how to be that with somebody else around.”

“But Stiles, that's completely—”

“No, Der. It isn't, actually. Because you're not just somebody else. It's you. And I'm in love with you.” Stiles finally takes a breath while Derek's heart is busy swelling to twice it's size. He will never tire of hearing Stiles Stilinski say those words to him. “And I absolutely should've trusted in that. In us.”

It is, of course, completely fine that Stiles went to the cemetery alone to visit his mother, but Derek also gets where the kid is coming from. He too takes a breath, now, a big one, because this kind of stuff doesn't come as easily for him as it does Stiles.

He swallows his nerves and pushes on.

“I love you, Stiles. And it's alright that we're not perfect. Neither of us are. Us—you and me—we're both just… Finding our way.”

After a moment, Stiles adds, “Together.”

They smile at each other like huge dorks.

“Yeah.” Derek breathes, and his heart might just burst.

Derek scents Stiles, and Stiles breathes deeply too, now. “Thanks,” he says, then Derek kisses him, just as deep and for a long while, because it's his favourite thing to do in the whole damn world.

Eventually Derek pulls back, runs a thumb over Stiles's mouth and says, “You know what?”

Stiles's brow lifts inquisitively.

Derek lets go of Stiles's wrist and takes his hand instead, leading him back to the sofa and sitting them both down squarely by the coffee table where he had been sat fruitlessly Googling not so long ago.

“I believe you,” Derek says.

Stiles frowns. “Huh?” It's his turn to be confused.

“Millions wouldn't, but I believe you, Stiles. About your mom.”

He reaches across and picks up the Apology Leaf, cradling it for a brief moment in his palm before nudging at Stiles's hand and urging him to take it, which he does.

Derek then grabs the laptop, side-eyeing his previous Google search—WHO NEAR ME SELLS PHOENIX ROAST ORGANIC COFFEE BEANS THAT TASTE LIKE HOME—and forcing himself not to get instantly sucked back into that particularly vexing nightmare, while also trying his best to angle the screen away from Stiles who, if he saw, would fall off the sofa laughing at Derek's admittedly pathetic research skills.

Not everybody is a… Technophile? Cyberpunk? Derek has no fucking clue about any of this shit.

With Stiles now passing comment on the aesthetic qualities of the Apology Leaf, Derek uses both index fingers to tap out the words of the thing he wants to look up, taking no notice of Stiles who is trying his annoying not-very-best to smirk at Derek's sorry efforts in Derek's periphery. Clicking through a few different links, this time Derek manages to find what he's after without any trouble, amazingly. He then hands the laptop over to Stiles, who carefully places the leaf down on the arm of the sofa beside him before fully taking the computer from Derek.

Stiles purses those pretty lips of his as he scans the information on screen, squinting a little.

“Uh, well yeah. It's like you said, Der; It's a leaf. From a Yew, according to this.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Your mother's ghost is infinitely more clever than you.” Stiles's squint deepens further. “Stiles, she is absolutely spot on about this. Just—scroll down the page a bit, dumbass,” and he ducks his head and smiles, seeing as accusing Stiles of Internet-related Dumbassery is really fucking funny because, irony.

Stiles tuts but does as he's told.

Derek gives him a minute to read the passage on the website he found. It says:

The Yew tree can live for many, many years. It has deep connections with magic and the universe. It was regarded as the protector of the soul by the ancient Greeks. You’ll find this tree planted at many burial sites throughout the world as it’s recognized as a guardian of the dead.

It is believed that Odin (from the Nordic legend) hung himself from the Yew for nine days and nights. It’s symbolic of its everlasting and regenerative properties and is often associated with transformation and change after a difficult time. The Celtic tradition honours the Yew tree for symbolising death and rebirth.

Stiles is smiling this gorgeous, open smile by the time he's finished reading, and Derek makes an unrealistic wish to be able to keep it there forever.

“So, you were right,” Derek says, “when you said that she knew. You were just a little mixed up about what, is all.” Derek takes another deep breath. “What your mom knows is that you got the chance to begin again, Stiles. After all the shit we went through, you actually got to start over. With somebody who will absolutely protect your soul with their life.”

Stiles suddenly blinks furiously, like somebody just threw salt in his eyes.

“And you knew it, that she knew... something,” Derek smiles back, lovingly, before that smile turns a little wry. “It's just that you were kind of—now, how should I put this…?”

“No. Do not do it!” Stiles shouts—instantly catching on because he'd easily be the brightest bulb in any box—and he's pointing again, at Derek this time. “Puns are my stupid thing, you charlatan, and I can and will sue!” he warns, outraged yet smiling again as he wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“—barking up the wrong tree,” Derek finishes, his smile now positively wolfish.

Stiles shakes his head and narrows his eyes, but he's chuckling, too as he says, “You do remember that it's you who's the canine in this relationship, right, 'wolf? If anybody's going to be making barking sounds, it's you.”

“Speciesist,” Derek quips.

Stiles pokes his tongue out. Then he's quiet for a few seconds (but definitely no more than fifteen).

“You know, I really was wrong when I said you deserve better than me. We actually absolutely deserve each other, Hale. Because it turns out we are both humongous assholes.”

After a moment, Derek grins more.

“Well, I would have answered that with I love my asshole, but you had to go and use the word humongous, and there's no way I would say that about my asshole—even though I would have technically been talking about you when I said it, seeing as it's actually you that is my favourite asshole.” And he pulls a rare, goofy face, just for Stiles, who laps it up. “Also, thinking about it, I would also have to say that loving my actual asshole is, in fact," he points at Stiles, “your job.”

Stiles dramatically slaps a hand over Derek's mouth.

“Oh my God, Derek, stop! My ghostly mother could be listening in to us right now! Jeez, dude, have a little decorum, won't you?!” And if Stiles saying that isn't ironic, Derek really doesn’t know what is.

“Sorry, mom!”

Grinning even more, Derek pushes Stiles's hand away from his face.

“Hey, wanna know the coolest thing?” he asks.

“Why in the name of anything sacred did you bother posing that as a question, Der? Like, when would I ever say no to that?”

Derek leans over and kisses Stiles again, soft and languid this time. The boy's lips are dry and warm and he tastes just like autumn.

Stiles hums and smiles into Derek's mouth as if he really, truly does love Derek.

After another glorious moment, Derek pulls back, looks at Stiles and says, “Yew trees aren't even native to this part of California.”

for @greyhavenisback my beloved <3 sorry i'm a dipshit, douche, massive ass-hat and a total loser, sometimes xp

(i got the info on tree symbolism HERE btw)

407 notes · View notes

mybutcheredtongue · 17 days

Text

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (see full series list here)

1994

Two nights before Harry's big Ministry hearing, you sit at the kitchen table with Sirius, talking about nothing in particular, easily slipping into your old routine of sitting and talking with each other for hours on end. No matter who you meet, no matter how long you've known them, there's no one that seems to just get you like he does.

Mrs Weasley wipes down the counters in the kitchen, her usual routine before heading to bed, while her husband fiddles with a Muggle children's toy you'd given him. It's one of those things with the metal balls inside, and you have to shake and tilt it to try and get them to fall into place in the holes, usually on the top of a bottle of bubbles.

"Fascinating!" Mr Weasley exclaims happily, shaking it enthusiastically and watching in wonder as the balls miss every hole completely. "And Muggle children play with this, yes?"

You nod, smiling. "Keeps them entertained for a little while. I never liked them growing up — I was never patient enough.”

He continues to play with the toy, his face the picture of wonder and interest. You're glad he's there, really, because you hate the tension between Sirius and Mrs Weasley ever since Harry's return. Neither one of them have decided to apologise to the other — and though sometimes you think about saying it to Sirius, you feel it really should be Mrs Weasley who apologises, considering the awful things she said about his place as Harry's godfather.

You're still on good terms with Mrs Weasley, despite how her words still sit stinging in the back of your mind, but you'd rather forget about it and move on amicably than suffer through this suffocating awkwardness.

A knock on the kitchen door grabs the attention of the room, and you stand up to answer it, surprised when Dumbledore is on the other side of it.

"Dumbledore!" you exclaim, opening the door wider for him to enter. "Wasn't expecting you tonight."

He steps inside, smiling politely at you. "Yes, I do apologise for coming unannounced… Sirius, I would like a word with you, if you don't mind."

Mrs Weasley drops her cloth into the sink, brushing off her hands and seizing hold of Arthur's arm quickly. "It's getting late, we should be getting to bed. Goodnight, everyone."

"Night," you say to them, watching as they scurry out of the basement kitchen as quick as possible and close it behind them. Glancing between Dumbledore and Sirius, you feel a slight awkwardness creep through you. You clear your throat. "Should I go?"

"No," they say at the same time, eyes focused on each other.

Great.

You mentally prepare yourself for the argument that's bound to begin when these two start talking. You busy yourself in the kitchen, doing nothing really but pretend to look occupied as Sirius starts the conversation.

"Well, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Harry's hearing on Thursday," Dumbledore replies, as you mindlessly adjust cups in the press without them needing it.

"And? What about it?"

There's a pause, the only noise being you clinking cups against each other aimlessly. "I expect you would like to accompany Harry, but I am afraid I must tell you that I do not think you should."

"I can't say I'm surprised to hear you think that," Sirius says, a slight bitterness lining the edges of his voice. "But I'm sure you understand that I think I should. He's going to a Ministry hearing, he could do with the moral support."

"He will have moral support from Mr Weasley, who will be bringing him to and from his hearing," Dumbledore answers calmly. "It is far too dangerous for you to leave this house, Sirius, even in your animagus form."

"I'll be careful. I just want to help his nerves — "

"I cannot let you," Dumbledore says, more firm this time. "Not only do I think you shouldn't, I know you shouldn't. It is not worth the risk."

You look up as Sirius glances at you, and Dumbledore follows his eyeline expectantly.

"I'll go with him, Sirius, don't worry," you say with a sympathetic smile. You know how much he was looking forward to getting out of the house. "I'll make sure he's alright."

"I am sorry to say I must tell you to stay here as well, professor," Dumbledore says slowly, and you blink at him in confusion.

"I...I don't understand. I'm not on the run, why can't I go with my godson?"

"Suspicions will be raised if you are spotted within the Ministry," Dumbledore says, looking at you. The prolonged eye contact is making you uncomfortable, and you nervously avoid his gaze and focus on the wooden table before you. "It is best that Harry's visit draws as little attention as possible."

"Then I'll wear a disguise," you reply simply.

"As who?"

You bring yourself to meet his eyes, blue and expectant as he silently waits for you to offer an answer: one that you don't have. "As...uh, a Ministry worker bringing him to his hearing, of course."

You think you might imagine the slight surprise that widens Dumbledore's eyes by a fraction, but it's gone when he shakes his head. "Too risky. I direct the two of you to stay here during his hearing, and not to go with him."

You look at Sirius, your eyes communicating every frustration you're currently feeling — he looks the exact same. You're so sick of having arguments and never getting what you want out of them.

You bite your lip, sighing defeatedly. "Right, fine. We'll stay."

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

After a disgustingly early start on Thursday morning, you wish Harry the best of luck in his hearing and watch as he and Mr Weasley leave the house for the Ministry. You make an effort to keep yourself and Sirius as busy as possible, working on cleaning and redoing the drawing room again.

You run a cloth along the piano, catching the dust and revealing the shiny black surface hiding beneath the grime. You sit down on the bench, pushing it closer to the instrument with your heels and start to play whatever comes to mind, an old classical tune you've forgotten the name of.

When you finish, Sirius comes to join you, placing his hand on your shoulder. "Beautiful. What's it called?"

You shrug, smiling sheepishly at him. "I forget. I'm a bit rusty, to be honest."

"Doesn't sound like that to me," he says, motioning for you to scoot over so he can sit beside you on the bench. "Could you teach me something?"

"You never played?" You say, surprised. "I would've thought this was here for you to play."

Sirius chuckles softly, shaking his head. "It was more my mother. She always wanted me to play, but I refused, of course. Regulus was far better than me — he used to play while she did her embroidery."

You scoff. "Her embroidery? It was the 70s, not the 1800s."

"My parents did not get the memo, apparently." He nudges you with his shoulder, smiling playfully at you. "Come on, teach me something, professor."

You spend the next hour teaching him the basics, gently placing your hands on his and slowly leading him through a simple piece, laughing at the intense look of concentration on his face.

"What are you giggling at?" he says with a grin, looking back at you.

"Nothing, you're just so concentrated," you giggle, beaming.

"Well, it's actually quite difficult, you know...everyone has to start somewhere!" he says in mock offense.

You hum, pouting dramatically at him. "And you're starting off very well." You peck his lips, patting his shoulder as you swing your legs over the bench and stand up. "Come on, Mozart, I think I heard the front door open."

When you enter the kitchen, the atmosphere is very much celebratory as Ron high-fives Harry hard, a great big grin on his face.

"Cleared!" Harry says to you and Sirius, beaming, "of all charges!"

You feel the weight lift from your shoulders and grin at him. "Oh, wonderful, Harry!"

Sirius claps Harry hard on the back, beaming proudly at him. "Knew you'd pull through."

When Harry turns away, however, you don't miss the way Sirius's smile falters and is replaced by a small look of disappointment, before he regains his composure and smiles again. You find his hand and squeeze it comfortingly.

"Listen, you guys, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry — " Mr Weasley starts, and you both immediately turn your attention to Arthur.

"What?" you say sharply.

"Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on level nine, then they went up to Fudge's office together," Mr Weasley replies. "Dumbledore ought to know."

"Absolutely," Sirius says. "We'll tell him, don't worry."

Lucius Malfoy. If Fudge stopped to think for a second why Lucius Malfoy keeps donating so much gold to the Ministry, surely he'd realise that it's not out of the goodness of his lovely pureblood heart?

Dinner passes pleasantly, everyone in high spirits after Harry's great escape from expulsion. Sirius, however, seems more downcast than usual and you're pretty sure you know the reason.

He heads to bed much earlier than everyone else, finishing his meal and bidding everyone goodnight. While everyone else celebrates and chats happily at the table around you, you chew on your lip thoughtfully.

You wait a while before heading up to bed after Sirius, wanting to give him time to himself to think over everything. However, when you open the door to his bedroom you find it empty, and immediately go looking for him. It's only when you enter the master bedroom, where Buckbeak is being kept, that you find your husband, sitting on the floor next to the hippogriff, stroking his feathers absent-mindedly.

"Here you are," you say softly, shutting the door behind you. "Hello, Buckbeak."

Buckbeak cocks his head in your direction curiously, clicking his beak in greeting.

Sirius looks up when you enter, clearing his throat. "Hello."

You make your way over, sitting next to him on the floor. You don't say anything for a few moments, the room quiet and still, before you take a deep breath and start talking. "I know you're disappointed Harry is going away to Hogwarts again."

He doesn't respond, sighing.

"But it was going to happen," you continue, your voice soft and gentle. "That's where he's happiest."

"I know," he says quietly. "I know that. I just...hoped I'd get more time with him. Longer than a few weeks."

You hum, laying your head on his shoulder. "Me too."

"But you'll get to see him anyway," he continues. "Come September, you'll both be gone back to Hogwarts."

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. "I'm not going back to Hogwarts in September, Sirius. I'm staying here."

His expression brightens for a moment, before he seems to remind himself of something and shakes his head. "But you love your job. You're always talking about how much you love teaching."

"I do," you answer truthfully. "But I love you more. I could never live with myself if I knew I had the choice of going back to work or being with you, and I chose my job. I've had a good thirteen years of working there, and I'd like to make up for all the time we have missed out on together instead."

Sirius looks at you as if it's taking every bit of resolve in him to say this. "I want you to go back."

"You don’t seem too convinced.”

He exhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. "I want you there, to look out for Harry. To keep him safe."

"Hogwarts is where he's safest, Sirius," you say. "Dumbledore will be there, he knows best how to protect him — "

"But he's not you," he says simply, his eyes serious. "Dumbledore can protect him, sure, but Harry trusts you. He knows he can go to you for anything. I think that's what he needs most this year."

You sigh, kissing your teeth quietly. "I don't want you to be alone."

"But you know I'm right."

You chuckle humourlessly, shaking your head. "I hate it when you're right."

He pulls you into him, kissing your temple. "I know."

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

"So, any girls, Harry?"

Sirius raises his eyebrows at the boy, everyone else in the room distracted by their own separate conversations and activities. They had previously been discussing Harry's life at the Dursleys, and now Sirius thinks it is high time for him to impart as much (god)fatherly wisdom he can on the lad.

"What?" Harry's face is the picture of confusion.

"You can't tell me there isn't someone you've got your eye on," Sirius continues with a cheeky grin. "Girl, boy, maybe there's more than one — so come on, tell me, what's going on?"

Harry laughs nervously, shaking his head. "There's no one."

Sirius raises his eyebrows at him, unbelieving.

"Okay, there's one girl."

Sirius grins triumphantly, laughing. "I knew it! You make any moves yet?"

"What? No."

"In that case, let me impart some of my endless wisdom," Sirius says theatrically. "Now, Harry, if you're going to listen to anything I say to you now, it best be this: never lie to a woman. Okay? Simple." He brings his hand up to begin listing things off his fingers. "It'll never work, they always know. And if they don't know straight away, they'll find out you lied eventually, and then it'll be even worse for you. It never ends well. I mean — have you ever tried to lie to my wife?"

Harry thinks for a moment, shaking his head. "No?"

"Think again, you're sure you've never lied about your homework or something like that?" Sirius pushes.

Harry thinks again, remembering the time he tried to lie to you about his scar being painful in fourth year. "Wait, I have, actually."

"And did she believe you?"

"No."

Sirius nods gravely. "She is impossible to lie to. I don't know how, but she just sees through it every time — it's impressive, really."

"I hope you're not gossiping about me."

Looking up, Sirius spots you sitting down into the chair beside him, just returning from your guard duty that night.

He smiles. "Never, darling."

You hum, giving him an unimpressed look. "Nice try."

Sirius looks at Harry, raising his eyebrows with a laugh. "See? I told you." He shakes his head, smiling at you. "I've just been giving Harry some advice on girls, that's all."

You snort, giving him an incredulous look. "Girl advice? Sirius, please, you know nothing about women."

"What? I know plenty!" he says defensively, but still in good humour. "I knew enough to get you to marry me."

You smile sympathetically at him, patting his cheek. "That's actually not true, I'm afraid, because I married you for your money."

"Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh."

You look at each other, grinning, before bursting into laughter. When your chuckles finally subside, you look at Harry again. "Seriously, though, Harry, don't listen to Sirius. You don't want to do anything he or your father ever did to get a girl to like them."

"It still worked!" Sirius defends. "We both got to marry the women we loved."

"What did my dad do?" Harry asks curiously, and you laugh.

"What didn't your dad do?" you say. "Actually, do you want to hear the story of how I even became friends with your dad? And Sirius too, by connection — but it was really all James's doing in the end."

"I want to hear this too!" Hermione chimes in, who before had been talking to Remus with Ron.

"What's this?" Remus asks, a curious smile playing on his features.

"How we became friends in fourth year," you explain, and Remus instantly nods in acknowledgment.

"Oh yes, James and his ways."

You clear your throat, grinning. "Now, if I can have your full attention..."

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

January, 1975

You walk along the corridor, a letter clutched in your hands, making your way to the owlery when a voice calls your name.

You recognise the voice, and with an agitated sigh, you continue walking and ignore it. He calls again, before you hear his footsteps pounding along the floor behind you and he skids to a stop beside you, bumping your shoulder.

"Potter? What do you want?"

James Potter falls into step beside you, grinning, his face red and his glasses askew from running. You can't say you're particularly fond of him, considering how he annoys Lily every single day and bullies her friend, Severus. Any enemy of Lily's is an enemy of yours.

"So quick to anger!" he exclaims dramatically. "So demanding!"

You grit your teeth. "What do you want, James?"

"Listen, listen..." he places a hand on your shoulder, pulling you aside. "Now, you and I haven't always seen eye-to-eye, for reasons unknown — "

You scoff.

" — but despite this, I have a trade — a proposal, if you will — of a lifetime to offer you!"

You raise your eyebrows at him again, thoroughly unimpressed.

"I suggest this — trade me a date with Lily, and I'll send you an invitation to the wedding. Sound good?"

He stretches out his hands, wiggling them theatrically and you burst into derisive laughter, shaking your head.

"Oh...you're funny, James, I'll give you that," you say, moving to walk away when he grabs your arm again.

"Wait, wait, listen to me," he says desperately. "Look, I really like Lily, and you're the only one who can help me. You’re her best friend.”

"What about Alice?"

He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. "She used some…colourful language to tell me she will not be helping me."

You nod. "Sounds about right." You sigh, rubbing your forehead. "Look, James, if you really like Lily then stop being such an ass about it."

"What?"

"You're too cocky, James, and you're mean," you say. "Just actually talk to her yourself, no bullshit. And let Alice and me get some peace, yeah?"

You finally manage to leave him now, turning and making your way up to the owlery to post your letter.

If there's one thing about James Potter, it's that he doesn't know how to follow good advice. Sure, talking to Lily would be all fine and dandy if she wanted anything to do with him, but unfortunately for James, she did not. No, to James, this romance is a multi-level scheme, a plan, and you were key to his success.

The best friend angle, he calls it. If he can convince you that he's a decent guy, good enough to date Lily, you can then convince her to go out with him! All he needs is one teeny, tiny little date and James believes that Lily will fall head-over-heels in love with him, and they'll live happily ever after for years to come.

But he can't go talking himself up to you — you'd never believe it for a second. So he sends the next best thing: his best friend.

One morning, on your way to Potions, your bag decides to unceremoniously rip and fall to the ground, sending your belongings skittering along the dungeon floor.

"Oh, no! Do you want some help?" Alice asks, stopping in her tracks.

You shake your head, glancing at your watch. "No, it's fine. You'll be late — save me a seat!"

Alice and Lily quickly head into the classroom while you throw everything back into your bag, cursing at the textbook that's now been covered in ink from one of your inkwells and how you've got dark ink all over your hands now. You repair your bag with a wave of your wand, and hurry into the classroom.

Professor Horace Slughorn looks at you in surprise as you enter and you smile sheepishly.

"Sorry, professor, my bag split..."

"Nothing to worry about, my dear! Take a seat," Slughorn booms cheerfully.

You look around, trying to locate Lily and Alice and the seat they were supposed to have saved you, only to find it's been taken by someone else — conveniently the boy Alice has been pining over for the past few weeks. You stare, betrayed, at Alice, who shrugs and mouths, "I'm sorry!"

You scoff quietly, glaring at the boy and wandering to the only empty seat left, which happens to be right beside Sirius Black. He looks up, raising his eyebrows and smirking at you as you sigh, dropping into the seat beside him.

"Well, aren't I lucky to have you sit beside me?"

"Truly." You glance around and click your tongue thoughtfully. "Trouble in paradise, Sirius? Looks like your girlfriend kicked you out."

You point at James, who is sitting beside Peter and Remus on the other side of the room.

"Is there something wrong with wanting to sit with someone new?" Sirius says, lowering his voice as Slughorn begins his teaching. "A very pretty someone, might I add."

"Save it for James," you mutter, unimpressed. This isn't the first time Sirius has tried his charms on you, and you're not in the mood for it right now.

"Today we will be brewing a hair-raising potion," Slughorn says, smiling happily at the students. "Now, we'll start by chopping up 5 grams of porcupine quills — "

"Speaking of James..." Sirius starts, ignoring Slughorn. "What do you think of him? What are your thoughts?"

"I think he's a git." You turn pointedly away from him, focusing on Slughorn again. You give him a confused look when you notice he's not paying attention to Slughorn at all. "Don't you want to find out how to brew this potion?"

He shrugs casually. "I've already made it before, it's not difficult."

Though you really want to ignore him and listen to Slughorn, your curiosity gets the best of you and you turn to him again. "Why have you made a hair-raising potion before?"

He grins at you. "We put it in Filch's goblet on Halloween. Although, we may have gotten some measurements wrong — "

"That was you?" You say in disbelief, a shocked laugh escaping your lips. "You're the reason Filch lost half his hair?"

"Well, me and James — and also Peter and Remus," he replies, grinning proudly.

You sigh, shaking your head with an amused smile. "Right. Well…I haven't made it before, so if you don't mind, I'd like to listen to my teacher now."

" — next, add the rat tails slowly, mixing the potion counter-clockwise as the tails are added, and it should turn to this sort of blue colour — cerulean, I would say...or perhaps it is more of a sky blue — "

"Really, though, about James..." Sirius interrupts quietly, distracting you again. "He's a good guy. Got a good heart, a real romantic. Don't you want Lily to go out with someone who really cares about her?"

You scoff. "Did James set you up for this? Seriously? He's more desperate than I thought -- "

"Which just shows how much he cares," Sirius says, ever the loyal friend.

"It shows how much of a coward he is," you hiss, your face the picture of attention when Slughorn's gaze flits to your desk to make sure you're listening. "He's too scared to talk to Lily himself."

"Because she hates him!" He sighs, looking at you, eyes big and pleading. "You just need to get to know him, then you'll see — what about this? Hang out with us tomorrow. Spend the whole day with us, and then tell me what you think."

You raise your eyebrows at him, shaking your head.

"Unless..." a smirk tugs at his lips. "Unless you're scared of being wrong. Scared that you might actually like us."

And, despite knowing that this is definitely not worth your time, despite knowing that he only said that to goad you, you bite.

"Fine. One day, that's all you get," you relent, and Sirius grins triumphantly. "But — if I don't like him by the end of it, you have to do my potions homework for a month!"

"Done." He holds his hand out for you to shake, grinning smugly at you, and you take it, letting go quickly. "And when I say the whole day, I mean the whole day. You can't go running off to Lily and Alice at all, you're stuck with us."

You give him a pained smile, gritting your teeth. "Can't wait."

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

"You make me sound so bad in that story," Sirius complains when you finish and you laugh.

"That's how you were!" you defend. "Right, Remus?"

Remus smiles appreciatively, nodding. "I'm afraid so."

"Did it work?" Hermione asks curiously. "What did you think of James by the end of it?"

You laugh, grinning at her. "Oh, nothing changed, and Sirius had to do my Potions work for the month, as agreed" — Sirius rolls his eyes " — but I did have a lot of fun, and we became friends. By fifth year, we were all as thick as thieves."

"Did you really not like my dad?" Harry says, brows furrowed.

You give him a reassuring smile, shaking your head. "Not at the beginning, no. Lily didn't like him, so I didn't like him either. But after that torturous day spent with the lot of them, he really grew on me and now I can't picture Lily with anyone else. You really wouldn't meet another couple more perfect for each other."

"Except for us, of course," Sirius adds.

You nod, an obvious look on your face. "Oh, obviously. We are unbeatable." You tap your chin thoughtfully, racking your brains for another story to tell. "What else can I tell you..."

"How about the time you punched Lucius Malfoy?" Remus offers, casually taking a sip from his goblet.

The trio's jaws drop, and you turn and stare at Remus accusingly, who smiles innocently at you over his goblet.

Sirius laughs beside you. "An excellent story!"

You shake your head frantically, glaring at Remus. "I really don't think this is the story they need to hear — "

"We wanna hear it!" Harry says, grinning and nodding at his two friends.

"I — I don't even remember — "

"I do," Sirius says, smirking at you. He clears his throat dramatically. "Your godmother hated Lucius Malfoy at school, Harry. Absolutely hated him, and for good reason too, 'cause he was a prick — but one day he was picking on her, trying to wind her up, and he said something bad about Lily and bam, she just punched him right in the middle of Herbology, no hesitation."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stare at you in shock and you wince, shaking your head. "That makes me sound awful."

"One of the best days of my life," Sirius says with a proud grin. "You broke his nose, didn't you?"

"Yep," you nod, kissing your teeth. "Got myself a month's worth of detention, too. Professor McGonagall was furious with me."

"Wicked," Ron says in awe.

"You should've seen the look on his face," Sirius continues gleefully. "He was too afraid to speak to her for weeks."

You shake your head vigorously. "I'd like to stop talking about this."

"Oh, stop pretending like you regret it," Sirius says with a scoff, laughing. "You're proud of it — and you should be, he needed to be taken down a peg."

"Oh, well…” you glance at Remus. “At least I didn't eat a butterfly."

Remus stares back at you in shock, his cheeks reddening. "I was six! And I told you that in confidence!"

"You...you ate a butterfly?" Harry repeats and Remus hangs his head in shame.

"I'm not proud of it. It was an accident and I cried for a month after it happened. I...I can never look at butterflies the same."

You and Sirius burst into laughter, while Remus scowls, his face a dark shade of crimson.

He gives Sirius an accusatory look. "You can't say anything, Sirius, when you only took O.W.L. Astronomy because she was taking it."

You snort, looking at Sirius in surprise. "Really? I thought you liked it."

"Hated it," Sirius admits. "I thought it'd be nice and easy, looking at stars and planets and all that but it was actually pretty difficult, and you loved it — you used to go on these long excited rambles about astronomy and I never had any idea what you were talking about."

"I really thought you liked it!" you say sheepishly. "If you didn't like it, why didn't you tell me? Could've escaped my rambles."

He shrugs, smiling at you. "I liked hearing you talk."

You raise your eyebrows, folding your arms. "Didn't like hearing me talk when you put that potion in the showers, did you?"

Remus and Sirius grin at each other.

"It's not like you were the only target!" Sirius says defensively, still laughing.

"What?" Harry asks, puzzled, and you give the chortling Sirius a shove.

"The boys thought they were so funny." You scowl at Remus, though you don't really mean it. "One day, they slipped a potion into the Gryffindor showers that caused anyone who used them to have to walk around with a giant bubble around their head for the rest of the day. It was awful."

Ron and Harry start laughing and you sigh, shaking your head.

"It was very funny, to be fair," Sirius says cheekily and you roll your eyes.

"Oh, shut it."

You, Sirius, and Remus spend the rest of the evening telling the kids the best stories of your school days, and your chest burns from laughter by the end of it.

"Remember the night we snuck out?"

"Or when James sneezed and nearly fell off his broom!"

"You can't forget the time Alice tripped, fell into Flitwick, and knocked him over!"

When Mrs Weasley finally puts a stop to your story-telling and makes the kids go to bed, you linger, sitting contentedly between Sirius and Remus. You drape your arms across their shoulders, pulling them into you with a sigh. "I love you two, you know that? I don't know what I'd do without you."

You mean it, too. You're so happy to be back to some semblance of normal, where you get to see Sirius every day and wake up next to him after so long apart, where you finally get to tell people these stories without worrying about what they'll think, where you get to laugh and joke with Remus and talk about nothing at all.

You're with your family again.

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

“I thought we’d have a little party, not a sit-down dinner,” Mrs Weasley says cheerfully, as she hangs a scarlet banner over the dinner table that reads: Congratulations Ron and Hermione — New Prefects.

The kids had received their book lists this morning, the last day of the summer holidays, which you find quite odd as the book list is usually out far earlier in the year. With the lists, Ron and Hermione had received shiny new prefect badges and Mrs Weasley has been on cloud nine ever since. When you joined her in Diagon Alley to get everyone’s books and supplies, she talked and talked of how proud she is of her youngest son and how wonderful it is that he was chosen. You think it’s sweet.

The town was bustling of course, with parents and children scrambling to get their books and school supplies before the term starts. You met several of your students and their parents and stopped many times to chat and catch up with them – even spending a good while talking to Neville and his grandmother, who has always struck you as an interesting woman. She was one of the few people who had actually trusted you after Sirius’s imprisonment and always appreciates the time you spend visiting Frank and Alice in St Mungo’s.

“Your father and Bill are on the way, Ron, I’ve sent them both owls and they’re thrilled.”

The table is piled high with food and drink, the room buzzing with celebration and cheer. Remus approaches you and Sirius, goblets in hand for the both of you.

“All set for tomorrow, then?” he asks you, handing you your goblet.

“Think so,” you answer with a shrug, taking a sip from your wine. “I’m glad I went to Diagon Alley weeks ago, it was absolutely mad today — all the good parchment and quills were gone.”

Nearby, Moody sets his normal eye on Ron and growls, “Prefect, eh? Well, congratulations. Authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have appointed you…”

Ron looks quite startled at this view and quickly leaves to go welcome Arthur and Bill Weasley, who have just arrived, accompanied by Mundungus in a weirdly lumpy overcoat that he seems adamant to keep on — no doubt housing another unique business venture in his pockets.

“Well, I think a toast is in order,” Mr Weasley announces, once everyone has a drink. He raises his goblet, beaming. “To Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects!”

You grin at the pair of them, drinking to them and then applauding. As you reach for something to eat on the table, you beam at the pair of them. “Congrats, you two. I was never a prefect myself, that was Lily’s job — our teachers reckoned I wasn’t a good fit.”

“Why did they think that?” Ginny asks curiously.

“‘Cause I found rules impossible to follow.”

Ginny laughs, and Hermione looks unsure of whether she should smile or frown at this, and instead chooses to take a large gulp from her butterbeer and chokes on it.

“What about you, Sirius?” Ginny says, thumping the coughing Hermione on the back.

Sirius lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too much time in detention with James. Remus was the good boy, he got the badge.”

“I think Dumbledore might have hoped that I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends,” says Remus. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.”

Soon, Ron is gushing about his new broom to anyone who’ll listen. His mother had bought him a broomstick as a present for his new status. “Nought to seventy in ten seconds, not bad, is it? When you think the Comet Two-Ninety only does nought to sixty and that’s with a decent tailwind according to Which Broomstick?”

“Why didn’t Dumbledore make Potter a prefect?” Kingsley Shacklebolt is saying quietly to Remus, though his deep voice is audible even in chatter.

“He’ll have had his reasons,” Remus replies.

“But it would’ve shown confidence in him. It’s what I’d’ve done,” Kingsley continues. “Especially with the Daily Prophet having a go at him every few days…”

You think that perhaps it’s best to keep Harry out of the limelight as much as possible. Your heart aches with sympathy for him — an orphan boy raised with his spiteful relations, without any knowledge of the wizarding world until his eleventh birthday, and then being thrust into a world where everyone knows his name and his story better than he does. A boy who met two different versions of Voldemort in his first two years, then watched him come back to life at fourteen, and witnessed the death of his classmate. A boy who is currently being vilified by the media and the government simply for telling the truth, and a boy who has to live in fear for his life all because he survived death as a baby.

At the end of the day, he’s just a boy. He’s just a child.

If you could take it all on for him, you would. You would do it in a heartbeat.

“You alright?”

Sirius taps the tip of your nose gently with his finger, looking inquisitively at you. You shake yourself out of the thoughtful daze you had gotten yourself in, and smile at him.

“Perfect. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“About what?”

You glance at Harry out of the corner of your eye, who catches your eye and looks away quickly, acting as though he wasn’t eavesdropping as he makes his way over to Moody. You turn back to Sirius, placing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans with a shrug. “D’you remember all the things the prefects used to get? The fancy baths in the bathroom, the private compartment on the train, the mitching class for meetings…”

“Didn’t need to be a prefect for the last one, did we?” Sirius says with a cheeky grin, and you chuckle.

“Well, we certainly didn’t, no.”

After a while, everyone begins to filter out of the basement and upstairs to their beds. You follow Moody as he hobbles down the hallway towards the doorway.

“You’re welcome to stay, y’know,” you whisper, conscious of the sleeping portraits on the wall.

Moody leans on his staff with both hands, raising his eyebrows at you. “And wait for that house-elf of yours to strangle me in my sleep? No thanks.”

You snort, scoffing. “If Kreacher was going to strangle anyone in their sleep, what makes you think it’d be you?”

“I’ve seen the looks he gives me — there’s murderous intent in those eyes,” Moody growls, good eye wide in warning.

Sirius shrugs. “He has that intent for everyone, trust me — “

He stops as a muffled yell is heard from upstairs, and without hesitating you sprint up the stairs to the drawing room with Sirius, Moody, and Remus following close behind you.

“What’s going on?”

Running into the room, you freeze when you spot Mrs Weasley cowering in the corner of the room, her hand trembling violently as she points her wand at a figure in the middle of the room: Harry, lying dead on the carpet.

Remus pulls out his wand immediately, saying, “Riddikulus!”

Harry’s body vanishes, replaced by a shiny full moon hovering in the centre of the room. Remus waves his wand once more and the moon vanishes.

Mrs Weasley breaks into a fit of sobbing, her face in her hands as her body shakes.

“Molly,” Remus says bleakly, striding over to her, “Molly, don’t…”

You stare at the patch of carpet where the boggart pretending to be Harry’s lifeless body had just been, fighting the urge to vomit.

“It was just a boggart,” Remus says soothingly as Mrs Weasley buries her head in his shoulder, sobbing. “Just a stupid boggart…”

“I see them d-d-dead all the time!” she cries into his shoulder. “All the t-time! I d-dream about it!”

You force yourself to tear your eyes off the carpet, shaking your head to remove the image of Harry dead, but it sticks sickeningly permanent in your mind despite your efforts. Looking around, you see the real, alive Harry standing, panting, at the side of the room. You feel a rush of relief at the sight of him alive.

“D-don’t tell Arthur,” Mrs Weasley chokes, rubbing her eyes desperately with her sleeve. “I d-don’t want him to know…being silly…”

Remus hands her a handkerchief and she blows her nose loudly.

“Harry, I’m so sorry, what must you think of me?” she says shakily. “Not even able to get rid of a boggart…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry says with a weak smile.

“I’m just s-so worried,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “Half the f-family’s in the Order, it’ll b-be a miracle if we all come through this…and P-Percy’s not talking to us…what if something d-dreadful happens and we had never m-made up? And what’s going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who’s g-going to look after Ron and Ginny?”

“Molly, that’s enough,” Remus says firmly. “This isn’t like the last time. The Order is better prepared, we’ve got a head start, we know what Voldemort’s up to…”

She gives a squeak of fright at the name.

“Oh, Molly, come on, it’s about time you got used to hearing it — look, I can’t promise no one’s going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we’re much better off than we were last time. You weren’t in the Order then, you don’t understand, last time we were outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one…”

“Don’t worry about Percy,” you add gently. “He’ll come round. He’s still young and he hasn’t gotten the chance to realise that he needs his family more than his job yet.”

“And as for who’s going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died,” Remus says, smiling slightly, “what do you think we’d do, let them starve?”

Mrs Weasley gives a watery smile. “Being silly.”

“Come on, Molly, why don’t you come downstairs and let me make you a cup of tea to help you relax?” you offer soothingly, leading her out of the drawing room.

When you slip into bed some twenty minutes later, sleep escapes you for quite some time. The image of Harry’s unmoving body burns in your mind, a seed of worry gnawing at your gut. You dream of Harry’s corpse on the drawing room carpet and of Cedric’s lifeless face on the dewy grass of the quidditch pitch.

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

-> all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

thank you for all your patience, I know this chapter was a little slower than usual to come out. also sorry to anyone who read like half of this chapter because I accidentally posted it before it was finished and didn't realise for ages. love you all <33

HUGE thank you to my incredible taglist lovelies:

@mothraantics @wholelottalove05 @izuoyarmin @devoid-swanky @carpe000diem @mooonyxoxo @hyperspeedo @idkman5335 @elanna-elrondiel @murielisacertifieddilf @penelopied @jennifer0305 @imgondeletedis @wooyoungsrightsock @wolfdragon0424

74 notes · View notes

cookiescribble · 1 year

Text

First Day

A/N: this has been in my head for a long time because I have random trivial star trek knowledge and whenever they show spencer talking about star trek in the show i go all heart eyes so I wrote a little blurb 🫶🏻 also I had fem!reader in mind when I wrote this but I realized I didn’t actually make any references to gender so 🤷🏻 - mod angel

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader

Summary: Spencer bonds with his new coworker over Star Trek.

~~~

It was my first day at the BAU, and I was a little… intimidated being here. I had been mostly keeping my head down and staying quiet, since social interaction wasn’t something I was great at. I was okay just watching the others interact with each other for now.

“Hey, kid,” Derek called out, beckoning Spencer. “I need your help with the crossword.”

Spencer walked over to Derek’s desk, which was next to mine. “What’s up?” he asked.

Derek pointed to the newspaper with his pencil. “7 across: James _ Kirk (Star Trek). 8 letters.”

Tiberius, I thought instinctively. I considered saying it out loud, but he hadn’t asked me, so I decided to stay quiet.

“Tiberius,” Spencer said, almost as fast as I had thought it.

I smiled to myself. I was always the only one who knew about geeky stuff. Until now, I guess.

Derek finished filling in the crossword. “Thanks. I knew it was always James T. Kirk, but I didn’t know what it stood for.”

Without thinking, I spoke up. “Actually, in the third episode of The Original Series, someone who’s fighting Kirk prepares a gravestone for him and it says James H. Kirk.”

Everyone turned to look at me, staring at me with open mouths. I blushed. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But now I felt uncomfortable sitting in this silence.

I cleared my throat. “Um. So. Yeah. It wasn’t always James T. Kirk, as you said. They didn’t mention his full initials until-“

“Episode 13: The Conscience of the King.” Spencer cut me off, his eyes lighting up like he had been dying to talk about this. He walked over to my desk and leaned on the front of it. “The first time they mention it is when Spock is checking his background and speaks it into the computer.”

I nodded, smiling. “Yeah, and they don’t mention the name Tiberius until the 6th movie, The Undiscovered Country.”

“Oh my god, there are two of them,” I heard Emily say.

Either Spencer didn’t hear her or he was purposefully ignoring her. “Actually…” he started, sitting on my desk. He was bouncing a little. “The first time the name Tiberius is mention is in The Animated Series episode BEM.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” I admitted. “I’ve never actually seen The Animated Series. Actually, I’ve only ever seen part of The Original Series…”

That only made him sit up straighter. “Do you want to watch it? I have every episode on DVD. I’d be happy to show it to you sometime.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that. I’ve always wanted to finish watching it, and watch the other shows too. If you don’t mind me imposing…”

He shook his head. “I don’t mind at all. Not a lot of people I know are interested in Star Trek, so I’m happy to show it to you if you’re interested. You can come by my apartment sometime and we can watch it.”

I nodded. “That sounds great. I appreciate it.”

I heard people whispering in the distance.

“Did he just-“

“Shh, don’t say anything, you’ll jinx it. I think this is the first time in history that this has ever worked.”

“And probably the last time it will ever work. This is definitely a unique circumstance.”

I blushed a little as I heard everyone talking about us, but I continued chatting comfortably with Spencer for a while before everyone was interrupted by the news that we had a case. But I was really relieved that, despite feeling so overwhelmed about starting this job, I had been able to make a friend on my first day.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x male!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfiction #mod angel

994 notes · View notes

sunflowersteves · 1 year

Text

just to see you smile || m.o.

pairing || Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary || as Spider-Man, Miguel was forced to be prepared for many situations, like multi-universal travel, but losing you and Gabriella wasn't one of them.

author's note || do i only know how to make angst for this man bc damn

warnings || grief, main character death (reader), heavy angst, some fluff, potential spoilers, gabriella isn't the reader's child, miguel is anti-therapist, non-canon (sorry miguel ik)

masterlist

“I thought I might find you here,” Peter says. Mayday makes grabby hands at Miguel beside her, little chubby fingers grabbing onto his soft sweater. Peter looked down, taking note of the fresh, bright marigold flowers and the sweet, sugary bread that sat on top of the gravestone.

Miguel’s eyes closed—breathing in and out of his nose as if to control the space around him. It was getting harder and harder, though, as time passed on.

It had officially been three years. One-thousand nine-hundred and five days.

Miguel didn’t say a single word. He just stared at the gravestone in front of him, hoping that Peter would leave. If Mayday wasn’t here, he definitely would have left by force, if needed.

“C’mon, I’ve told you before.” Mayday giggled and babbled at her father’s words. “You need to talk to someone about this stuff.”

He paused, gauging Miguel’s softened expression on the engraved stone. “You already know the damage you’ve done—t-to Miles.”

This time, Miguel just scoffed. He turned to Peter, and his eyebrows furrowed at the sight of his friend. Miguel had large bags under his eyes and a familiar pain that was etched across his face—one that Peter knew too well. “Yes, I’m sure Ezekial Sims from Earth-616 will solve all of my problems and grant all of my wishes.”

Peter just sighed and subtly rolled his eyes. They stood in silence, with the occasional babble from Mayday. Peter, though, just continued to stare at the man in front of him.

He was broken—pieces of him scattered across the memories of you and his daughter. It was all he seemed to think about in the shining sunlight or the dark, drastic moonlight.

“All I need is them, Pete.”

Peter nodded in understanding. He knew. He understood that kind of deep-set pain never went away, but Peter also knew that everything eventually got better. No, it wasn’t time. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, as the saying goes.

Miles helped Peter. Miles dug Peter out from the sinking hole that he had been placed in by life and the atrocities that continued around him. It wasn’t time. It wasn’t sulking. It wasn’t crying in the shower.

It was Miles. The goofy, talented, and crazy smart kid made Peter realize he needed to take that leap of faith. He got therapy, cleaned himself up, and he got better. Honestly, for Miguel, Peter wasn’t sure the last time he saw the brooding man laugh—let alone smile at anyone or anything.

What Peter didn’t know was that Miguel smiled quite often.

He smiled when he looked at the glass-shattered photo of you in his bedroom. He smiled at the video of you and his daughter making a mess in the kitchen. He smiled as he daydreams about what you would do if you saw him now with every single Spider-person in all of the universes. He smiled at the video he took of you on the beach with the sand scratching against your leg and wind blowing against your dress.

So in his defense, he smiles all the time.

“C’mon, Miguel, stop!” You laughed. It was loud and boisterous against his ears, and he wanted to cherish the sound for all of eternity.

He held onto you even tighter, the waves crashing up against his knees. His smile is bright—just as bright as yours. “I made a promise, pumpkin. If you don’t shout the words, I’ll drop you.”

You squealed in anticipation, and your hands only seemed to latch onto his shoulders even more. “date prisa ahora.” He whispers against your ear. You only seemed to grip onto him tighter, but your smile seemed even wider.

“Okay, okay!” You breathe, shoving your head into his neck. “Humph. Humph.”

Miguel grinned. If you saw him now, you would see a certain teasing gleam in his eyes. “What was that? I can’t hear you, pumpkin.”

You screeched again in his arms as he faked a slip of your form. He was still grinning ear to ear, and he couldn’t get enough of the laughter that bubbled up around your protests to him.

Something deep and connected possessed his entire chest. He could feel that ounce of love that blossomed beneath his heart and prodded against his stomach.

“I love you!” You shouted. Some of the fellow vacationers along the beach had turned their heads at the booming sound. Miguel laughed—the sound rumbling against his chest, and it made you bounce in his arms.

“Was that so hard?” His arms tightened around the underside of your neck and the other holding up your legs. He slowly, yet surely, backed up from the roaring ocean and cascading waves.

“Extremely, and I’ll never say it again,” You teased.

Miguel gasped in defense, placing a hand on his chest. Without the support, you shrieked and grabbed onto his shoulder. “Miguel!”

He shook his head, his smile only widening as he just couldn’t help it. “And just when I thought I was gonna say it right back, pumpkin.”

Miguel opened his eyes. Peter was still there with his daughter, which prompted a gut-punching sigh to release from his lips. He shook his head, desperately wanting the memory to no longer sear against his brain. He wanted it to be real.

“Just know you’re not alone, man.”

He nods. The pain of your passing. The ache of Gabriella’s passing. It was all becoming too much. He didn’t think it would hurt anybody, let alone the two of you.

But he did. He really, really did.

With that, Peter takes his leave. May had most likely needed a nap by now and was going to take her home to Mary Jane. He looked back one last time, and he swore he almost missed it.

A single tear slid down Miguel’s face as his eyes stayed locked onto the two headstones. It was as if his eyes couldn’t leave—like you and Gabi would be gone if he did.

Ultimately, he knows he’s not alone. He’s never alone—not as long as yours and Gabriella’s memories are still etched into his brain.

He’s never alone.

Miguel rubs his eyes, the sleep that hovered around them still prominent. He looked over to the bedside table to read the clock. 4:45 am.

He heard a crash of pots and pans in the kitchen. A smile rose onto his face at the sound of laughter in the kitchen. He quietly puts on some pants that were discarded on the floor.

He then shuffles over to the door of the bedroom, and his feet pad against the wooded hallway. He hears another crash and then a gasp. His ears perch at the sound, and his shoulders tense—his mind thinking the worst. Then, his large frame sags in relief as he hears another fit of laughter and giggles.

He finally makes his way into the kitchen, and it was a sight to be seen. Miguel leans on the doorframe while he watches you and his daughter. You two are covered in flour and sugar—from head to toe.

“Gabi!” You laughed, wiping some of the sticky dough from your cheek. She had just smeared some across your face in an attempt to get you back for getting chocolate on her arm.

“I got you!” She yells in glee. You laugh again at her antics and lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah, kid. You definitely got me that time.”

Her eyes shine brightly up at you, and then they see the tall form in the corner of the kitchen. “Papa!”

She runs over to him and crashes him into a hug. You turn around and smile at a very sleepy Miguel. You were tired too, but you also didn’t have a spider verse to run.

“Gabi had insomnia again.” He nods in response. God, he was really tired. It was starting to become unbearable as his eyes slid close again. “Want to try a cookie?”

He decided right then and there. Fuck sleep. How the fuck could he say no to that?

Miguel blinked. He blinked once more. Before he knew it, tears cascaded down his face at the sweet memory of his family.

He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t sob. He didn’t cry out. He just stood there and let the tears drip onto the grass.

Miguel, you’re never alone. He reminds himself.

He is never alone.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara angst #miguel o'hara fluff #marvel #marvel fanfiction #spiderman across the spiderverse #acros the spiderverse fanfiction #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you

394 notes · View notes

adore-laur · 11 months

Text

COME HOME TO MY HEART

— an angsty continuation of home is a feeling that takes place months after ☕️

——

Standing under a bleak sky copious with death, Harry is just another person in a black ensemble of mourning that rivals the white winter scene. Snowdrifts heap over inscribed gravestones, and willow trees weep frigid tears along with everyone else at the street-corner cemetery. It's a sorrowful evening; not even the pastel pink wisps of a brumal sunset are able to lift spirits.

As the coffin is lowered into the ground, its sleek wood collecting flurries from above, the surrounding air grows colder in lamentation.

A departure from life is impossible to prepare for, isn't it?

Harry hangs back from the crowd by a bare maple tree. He wears a long black coat with deep pockets for his hands. To anyone else, he's an intruding spectator, but in actuality, you personally invited him to be a crutch of support since your parents can't be that right now.

He promised you he would be here, yet the way you've been gazing up at him with indecipherable eyes every now and then tells him you didn't quite believe him.

When you had called him out of the blue and relayed the upsetting news about your grandfather's passing, his heart had ached in a way it hadn't ever before. It ached for you, his grief-stricken girl, and also for your family, who were always generous throughout the years. In the week since he arrived back in his hometown, he gave you time to deal with the initial grief independently. There was no need to barge into his ex-girlfriend's life and attempt to be your saving grace. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, he'd wait for you to ask and then lend it to you without a second thought. Your level of comfort with him isn't something to be presumed.

Nonetheless, it's an unfortunate circumstance just to be able to see your face again.

The crowd disperses once the loose dirt is shoveled back into the ground. Crumpled tissues in hands and hushed chatter signify the end of the funeral burial. It didn't feel right for Harry to attend the service, as it was for close family and friends only. Even now, a nagging feeling inside his gut tells him he doesn't belong in such a sensitive area.

He pushes himself off the tree trunk and searches for your familiar figure that has suddenly disappeared. He mentally prepares what he'll say to you and is highly aware that there's no right way to go about condolences. He just needs to be as gentle as possible.

Eventually, you emerge from a huddled group and lock eyes with him again, with a slight smile that mends his aching heart for the time being.

"You look like a spy," you say, your boots crunching in the snow as you walk toward him.

He laughs softly but doesn't say anything. Instead, his empathetic side takes in every part of your face, looking for an emotion to pinpoint so he can comfort you in the most chivalrous way possible. He notices your dissociative eyes with prominent bags under them, your tinted nose from the cold, and your chapped lips that make him yearn to kiss the rawness away.

He's so close to you again. Has your hair gotten darker due to the seasons changing? Why do you have such beautiful eyes, even on a dreary day? Does the eyeliner you have on come from the pencil stub you've owned since high school?

Knowing his own boundaries, Harry thumbs a quick swipe across your shivering chin and then wraps you in a tight hug. You instantly melt into him, your arms looping around his torso—just like that one night on the rooftop.

"Your hair is so long," you mumble into his coat.

He releases you before the intimacy starts to hurt too much, but he keeps a protective hold on your upper arms. "Do you hate it?"

"No, it suits you." You swallow and look at him, your teeth chattering a bit. "Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies sincerely. "Gramps was a great man."

"He liked you a lot."

"Did he?"

You give him an almost scolding expression and say, "Of course he did. When I brought you home for Christmas the year we started dating, he took me into the kitchen and told me you were a keeper."

Harry's posture stiffens. "I didn't know that."

"It was our little secret," you say quietly, snowflakes falling onto your eyelashes. "Um, have you had a chance to talk to my parents yet?"

"I don't think they'd want to see me," he says while removing his hands from you. He tucks them back into his pockets since they're becoming numb.

"Why not?"

"I just have a feeling." He's been having a lot of those lately. "Not often that an ex-boyfriend shows up at a funeral, you know?"

Frowning, you glance around and say, "It's not like they hate you or anything."

God, he hopes not. Yet he wouldn't necessarily blame them, considering he broke their precious daughter's heart.

"Where are you going after this?" he asks, not wanting to delve into his regrets.

"My parents' house," you reply, your breath visible in the frosty air. "To my childhood bedroom. Hopefully, I'll get some sleep for once."

You haven't been sleeping? He could've guessed, but he didn't want to assume. He wonders if you still light vanilla candles and turn on salt lamps to rejuvenate your energy, according to you.

"Did you drive here?"

"No, I rode with my mom and dad."

Harry shifts his footing and clears his throat. "Would they mind if I stole you for a bit?"

You blink quickly. "What do you mean?"

"I just want to talk," he elaborates, scratching under his nose. "Catch up. That's all."

There's an apparent hesitance when you nibble on your bottom lip. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything you want." Truthfully, he just misses hearing your voice. "I'm staying here with my mom for a while since my winter break starts soon. And, well, you're the only person in this town I enjoy talking to."

"Are you kidnapping me from a funeral?"

"Maybe don't put it like that."

A genuine laugh escapes you, and Harry's knees almost give out. "Sure, let's go," you say with a smile and a lighthearted shrug. "Being here is making me sad."

"Okay. Let me say hello to your parents really quick."

You scan the cemetery, then ask, "Do you need me to come with you?"

He scrunches his nose and toes the snowy ground with the front of his boot. "Please?"

After he politely shakes hands with your dad and gives your mom a long hug, he walks you to his black Jeep parked on the side of the road by the first row of graves, his elbow hooked with yours so you don't slip on the pavement slush. The first thing he sees is that his windshield has iced over from the bitter cold.

He sighs and fishes for his keys, then unlocks the doors. "Here, start it for me and turn the heat on. I need to scrape the ice off."

You take his keys and slide into the passenger seat. Harry makes sure you're situated and then grabs his ice scraper from under the backseat. After a few minutes of manual labor, he gets behind the wheel and shakes snow flurries out of his hair.

"Where on earth are your mittens?" he asks when he notices your hands are tucked under your legs.

"I didn't bring any," you reply defensively.

"Love," he stresses as he pushes his hair back. "It's bloody freezing out. Give me your hands."

"Maybe if your stupid Jeep didn't take forever to warm up."

Harry doesn't make a snarky remark since he knows you're sensitive right now. He just cups your hands between his and blows warm air on them to increase your circulation. They're soft and fit so well between his palms, like they were molded to be held by only him.

"Ready to go?" he asks between blowing breaths, focusing his gaze on you.

You study the snowflakes sticking on the windshield. "Where?"

He gently sets your hands in your lap and then reaches across to buckle your seatbelt before fastening his own. "Is Edge of Town still your favorite café?"

"Yeah," you say bemusedly, turning toward him with widened eyes of innocence. "Why?"

Putting his car in reverse, he places one hand on your headrest and smiles at you. "Let's get some coffee there, yeah? For old times' sake."

——

Sitting across from Harry at a corner table in the dimly lit café, you can't believe you almost forgot how handsome he is as you both sip from cinnamon lattes, careful not to disrupt the intricate art made from steamed milk on the surface.

All the slight changes since you last saw him have become your focal point, his hair being the most staggering. It's now tied up into a bun, and you're not sure why, but it makes him look different. His facial features have gotten slightly older; the high school baby face you fell in love with now showcases physical maturity.

He's different, but somehow all the same.

You've spent the last half hour catching up with him, which has proved easy since college is a relevant topic in both of your lives. You learned that he's getting his degree in the spring of next year, and then he's going to find a job somewhere in Europe to start the next chapter of his life. You're proud of him. He's always had a good head on his shoulders.

"Have you ever had marshmallows in your coffee?" Harry asks, tapping his foot against yours under the table.

You set your cup down and blankly stare at him. "No, you freak."

"It's good," he claims, wiping his lips with a napkin. "You should try it."

"You know, your taste in beverages hasn't improved over the years. Don't even think for a second that I forgot about the ginger ale."

"Excuse me," he says offendedly, "it helps fight the common cold and digestion problems. It's the perfect drink to have in the wintertime."

"Absolutely rancid," you mutter, taking another sip of your coffee.

As you continue your subtle ogling, your eyes catch brown leather peeking out of his coat pocket. The familiar journal of his catapults you back in time, flashbacks playing in your head from all the vivid occasions you've seen him carry it around or write in it. He had never let you look at his entries, always making a show of hiding his secret words from you. Looking at it now, you see that a page toward the end has some sort of bookmark sticking out.

"You still have that?"

Harry looks confused. "What, digestion problems?"

"No, oh my God," you say with a burst of laughter. "I meant your journal. You've had that thing for ages."

"Ah." He pulls it out and sets it next to his coffee cup. "Yeah, I still have it."

You admire how worn the cover is, decorated with permanent marker scribbles on the cracked material. "Are my terrible drawings still in there?"

Nodding, he smirks and leans back into the booth, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll show you later. They're quite abstract."

The space fills with comfortable silence for a while, and before you know it, you're walking out the door with him and into the night. You don't remember ever getting up, but the numbness in your brain might have caused it. The past week has felt like a fuzzy dream you've been stuck in. Grief is a peculiar thing.

Under the snowy sky, hometown nostalgia in the dead of winter creeps under your skin. When you look around at the sidewalks you used to walk with your grandpa, everything suddenly hits you hard. Your lips wobble as you try to blink back the tears, but they fall without warning.

Harry quickly wraps both arms around your shoulders, resting his cheek on top of your head. "It's okay to cry," he whispers, kissing your hair. "I promise you it's okay."

You sniffle and say, "Whenever we see each other, I always end up crying."

He hums. "Sorry. I don't mean to."

"No, it's not you this time." You bury your nose in his coat and let the woodsy scent of his cologne distract you. "I just always realize how lonely I am when winter comes around. It gets harder as I get older." Swallowing and shaking your head, you continue, "I used to adore winter as a kid. I would play outside in the snow for hours and then come inside to drink hot chocolate. I wouldn't care if the sky was gray or if my fingers would freeze. Nowadays, I just stay in my room when it's gloomy, unless I need to go to work. Growing up isn't as fun as I thought it'd be."

"You still have my number," Harry replies softly, pulling you closer. "You can always call or text me when you're feeling lonely."

"I had to pay by the minute when I called you about my grandpa since you were in the Netherlands."

"And is that so bad?"

You smile and sniffle again. "No, it isn't. To be here on an empty street in the freezing cold, crying and joking around with you—I've missed it. Not the crying, but you know what I mean."

"I know," he murmurs. "I've missed it too."

"Will you be celebrating Christmas with your mom?" you ask, hearing a car drive by. "She's still living here, right?"

"Yeah, I'll be at her house." He cradles the back of your head and gently pulls it away from his coat. "You should stop by. She always thinks of you."

You look at him and say, "All good things, I hope."

"Always." Taking your hand, he starts walking further down the sidewalk. "Follow me."

Harry stops at a streetlight and releases his hand to pull his journal out again. He flips through the pages until he gets to one toward the end. "When we said goodbye in the summer," he says, "I walked around town and wrote about all the places we used to go—places where we had good memories. You can read what I wrote if you want."

"Really?" you ask. Harry nods, so you take his journal from him and read the black ink that fills half the page.

The streetlight on the corner of Lawton Avenue. I kissed you under it on New Year's when the clock on my phone turned to midnight. Your lips were cold, but they lit a fire inside of me. What I would give to feel them again, even if they just pressed against my cheek like you did when we said goodbye.

"Lawton Avenue..." you trail off, your eyes dancing around the area where you stand. "Isn't that—"

"This is the same streetlight," Harry interrupts quietly.

You exhale incredulously, gazing up at the familiar light. "It is. I remember now."

"This feels right, doesn't it?" He steps closer until his boots touch the tip of yours. "Me and you being here. It's like something keeps bringing us back to one another. Does that sound crazy?"

"Gramps," you choke out.

He tilts your chin up with his knuckle. "Hmm?"

You take a deep, shaky breath. "I almost wasn't going to tell you that he passed, but then I thought about how much he liked you. He always went on and on about how nice of a boy you were. How he saw the love in your eyes."

"He loved you. I only saw him a few times, but I know that he loved you so much."

"I know. I think he brought us back together."

"Well, he was right about the love in my eyes," he says, his gaze piercing your soul. "I don't think it's ever completely gone away."

Logical thinking goes out the window when you tell him, "I love you. I shouldn't anymore, but I do.

Harry cups your cold cheeks. "Stop. You don't get to say that."

"I love you," you repeat, your voice becoming thick with emotion. "You still mean so much to me. Just like what you said to me back in July."

"Right person, wrong time. That's what we decided on the rooftop."

"But I didn't mean what I said."

That night was five months ago. It's wild how one day and one look at him can change all your feelings. The love you thought you lost with him is coming back as an unraveling epiphany.

Sighing, Harry looks down at the sidewalk blanketed in snow. "You told me it would never work," he says.

"I didn't know what I was saying," you reply hastily. "It was so overwhelming seeing you again after two years."

"I don't understand," he says, slightly frustrated. "You made it seem like we were better off never seeing each other again."

You wipe your tears that are either from the brisk air or your own misery. "I'll be your friend, I'll be a one-night stand, I'll be anything. I just want to be someone to you again."

He glimpses at your lips. "You are. You're everything to me."

"But the distance—"

"Fuck the distance."

It was the only thing that broke the relationship.

"You were so good, Harry." Resting your forehead against his, you breathe out a landslide of emotions. "Such a good boyfriend. You loved me better than anyone."

"I still love you," he says, placing both palms on your neck. "Years ago, it was high school love that I didn't fully understand. This... hey, look at me." Your chin is tilted back up with his thumb. "This right here is even more real to me. This is why I asked if we could try again."

"So, what now?" you ask, looking into his eyes. "Do we try again?"

"We try again."

"How?"

"If the distance fucks everything up," he says with his warm breath hitting your lips, "then we know we aren't right for each other. But I'll go through that possibility if it means I don't have to love you from afar anymore."

"Just come home," you plead desperately.

"I am home. Technically, right?"

"No, you don't get it." You grip his shoulders. "Come home to me. To my heart."

He kisses your cheek twice, the first quick and the second longer. "I'm right here, baby. I'll stay for as long as you need me to."

"I want you to stay here." Your own voice sounds distant. "I miss you all the time."

"I will," he affirms, his eyes fluttering shut and his voice fading. "I'll come home to you."

Just as you're about to kiss his lips, something taps the back of your hand. The streetlight you're under goes dark, and the vision in front of you fizzles out as you blink rapidly to find yourself back in the café, staring at your latte.

"Hey," Harry says tentatively, squeezing your fingers with his. "You all right?"

Snapping your head up to him, you blurt, "Sorry. I zoned out for a bit." You shake your head and repeat, "Sorry."

"That's okay." He looks out the window—the snow is falling harder than it has been all day. "I was just saying that your parents will probably want you to get home soon since the roads will be getting bad. I can drop you off."

Your throat tightens. "Um, sure. Yeah, I'm ready to head out if you are."

"Okay," he says while standing. "Stay here. I'll start my car since it takes forever to heat up."

You just weakly smile as he walks out of the glass doors. Sinking in your seat, you try not to think about where your mind has drifted. It felt so real, so wildly vivid. His voice, his words, his touch—all of it made sense. In your head, you do everything right. You let him in, not push him away. You talk it through, not avoid the burden you carry. You keep your chin up and do not give up at the first sign of doubt.

After lightly slapping your cheeks, you sigh and put your coat back on. When you get up to shove your arms in the sleeves, you see that Harry left his journal on the table. It sits vulnerably next to his empty coffee cup, the string tied loosely around the cover.

You shouldn't, but you do.

Quickly opening it and flipping to the page with the bookmark, you skim the messy ink on the damp page. It looks fresh. Dried dots from snow darken the paper in various places, but you only focus on what the words spell out.

She's under the willow tree, more beautiful than the weeping branches crystallized with icicles. I sit here in my car, wishing there was a way to let her know that I would do anything she wanted me to.

My love for her warmly courses through my blood, protecting me from the brutal winter. If she opened her heart to me, I could make her my home again. Light those vanilla candles and kiss her like I used to. Tell her all about how she makes me a lovesick fool with no cure. Give her my time and apologize for ever walking away from the best thing that slipped through my fingers.

Where she goes, I follow. There's some powerful force that refuses to keep us apart. Why can't she see it? I can't be with her if she doesn't yearn for me like I do for her. I understand the distance and why, in retrospect, she sees the potential downfall. However, I see the beauty that could flourish from it if we just tried.

I want to come home to her every day, but how do I even begin to tell that to a girl who doesn't feel the same?

Fuck the distance.

The café door suddenly opens with a chime, making you slam his journal shut. Thankfully, Harry doesn't notice since he's too busy looking down and stomping his snow-covered boots on the welcome mat.

You pretend you're picking up his journal for the first time and say, "Don't forget this."

He glances up, eyeing what you hold. "Shit, thank you." He walks over and takes it. "Wait, I never got to show you your drawings."

"It's fine," you tell him. "They're probably really embarrassing."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I'm pretty tired."

His gaze dances around your face, then falls to your hands, fidgeting with the zipper on your coat. "Let's get you home," he says softly. "You can try to sleep on the way there."

You end up doing just that until he pulls into your parents' driveway. Opening your eyes, you squint at the bright beams of the headlights reflecting off the house's windows. You look over at Harry and find him staring at you, his face barely visible in the dark.

"We're here," he whispers.

You nod sleepily and unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you for… making today a little easier."

"Of course." He rubs the back of his neck, not knowing where to look. "I hope you get some sleep tonight."

A chasmic pang. A searing sting. A residual twinge.

Why?

Because the words you tearily whispered to him before shutting the car door cause you to fall into bed and clutch the blanket until sleep overtakes your heartache.

You're a good man, Harry.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles au #harry styles #adore-laur #come home to my heart

187 notes · View notes

cdelphiki · 6 months

Text

Jason and the Three Terrors spoilers

So I got an ask I'm going to put under a spoiler to answer! I'm going to include a snippet of my draft of a side story I'll post eventually, showing what's going on in Gotham right now!

HI I LOVE YOUR COMMENTS. Okay, to answer: We do!!!!! I don't now how much of the details will be put into the actual main story, since it's all Jason's POV, but I am working on a side story that's from Tim's POV. I might have it just be one "big" fic where I also have Bruce and Clark's POV and it's basically just jumping through part II showing what's going on with all them. Also Alfred will be preparing rooms for them all, just not quite yet. Bruce knows the kids won't be coming to him yet, but he and Clark are both working toward the four of them moving to Gotham to be with Bruce.

Tim basically figures it all out, Bruce had left the case to him to deal with, and Tim figures out Clark is in contact with the defectors pretty quickly, and once he makes the connection to Jason and Damian being Bruce's kid, he brings all the info to Bruce and Bruce is PISSED lmao. Anyway here's a small snipped from Tim doing the detective work: Its the most polished part I have, but it's still a rough draft. (This takes place on either Friday or Saturday morning, when Tim went over to Clark's house that same Saturday morning.)

Tim finally tracked down the League kids. It was surprisingly difficult. Whoever was on their side was good, because the paper trail of them going through airport security was wiped almost immediately after they left the airport. Tim couldn’t find any close up photos of them anywhere.

So it took him a week to figure out where they’d gone, but once he finally figured that out, it didn't take too long to track them down.

They’d bought train tickets to Metropolis, and Tim found where the teenager had exchanged his fake New York drivers license for a real Delaware one. Which was pretty damn impressive.

But it meant Tim had a clear photo of him.

And his first name.

And honestly? Tim was very, very confused.

Because this kid looked exactly like Jason Todd, just bigger, with straighter hair, and a white streak in his hair.

But Jason was dead.

Bruce grieved him way too hard for that to be fake. Jason was definitely dead.

But this kid went by the name Jason… Jason Johnson. Which was Jason Todd’s adoptive mother’s maiden name.

And the eyes were exact.

Tim had run them through a program to compare them to Jason Todd’s and, well. It said exact match. Same with a facial recognition.

When a new photo popped up on his newly created alert, Tim easily pulled the Daily Planet employment records and was able to double confirm. This definitely looked like Jason Todd.

But if he was Jason, why hadn’t he come to Bruce?

Was the League threatening him? Was he afraid to come to Bruce because of that? He’d gone to Metropolis, which was close. Did he know that the bats would figure it out, find him, and help him?

Tim was honestly ready to go straight to Bruce with all this, but he hesitated. Jason’s birthday was coming up in a little over a month, and Bruce was not handling it well.

If Tim was wrong here…

So Tim needed to gather more evidence.

The first thing he did was enlist Kon.

“Tim why are we doing this,” Conner asked, after he’d flown the two of them to Gotham Cemetery. It was just before dawn, so the cemetery was completely abandoned, giving them perfect privacy.

And it was way too early for Bruce to be awake, so he wouldn’t notice what Tim was doing, either.

“I have a hunch, okay?” Tim said, as he walked the last few paces over to the gravestone that said Jason Todd.

Conner stayed back where he landed and said, uncertainly, “This feels wrong. Isn’t it wrong? Like… grave robbing?”

“It’s not wrong,” Tim shot back, “We aren’t digging him up. Just looking.”

“What if I don't want to look?” Kon whined back.

Which was fair enough. Tim didn’t want to look inside coffins, either. But this was necessary.

“If I’m right, there’s nothing to even look at,” he said, “It’s empty down there.” And if it wasn’t empty down there, then they were dealing with a clone.

But the clone clearly wasn’t doing what Ra’s wanted him to do, because he’d gone and stolen three kids right from under Ra’s nose.

Kon held his gaze another long moment, clearly hoping Tim would change his mind. When Tim held the gaze firmly, and didn’t budge, Kon dropped his shoulders and grimaced.

And, finally, looked down at the grave they were standing near. He took a deep breath, then really looked, and his eyes went wide.

“Damn,” Kon exhaled, “You’re right.”

Tim couldn’t help his grin.

“How are you right?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said, “that’s what I need to figure out next.”

#jason and the three terrors #spoilers #spoiler alert

55 notes · View notes

jartnell · 3 months

Text

Do you think Tom Hartnell said "It won't change what we do for him" to Golding because of John? Because he lost his brother and remembered the pain (it wasn't as fresh anymore but he was still carrying it with him) and whether he knew someone personally or not he couldn't stop thinking "That's someone's brother. He was John to someone"

Also, John's body was prepared really carefully and he had a blanket and pillow in his coffin, and while a lot of that can be put down to Tom (and potentially Strickland if you believe they're cousins), maybe he was thinking something like "My brother wasn't anybody to a lot of the people who helped while he was dying/after he died. I need to give that care back to them"

Because at least John got a coffin and gravestone. At least he had a proper funeral. They can't bury the men killed by tuunbaq beacuse there's so many bodies and relatively few men to bury them, and everyone's ill and weaker than they were two years ago. But he can try to honour them. He can help clean them up and give them a collective send-off. Friends, family, co-workers, it doesn't matter. It won't change what they do for them

#im so normal about them i promise #thomas hartnell #john hartnell #the terror

43 notes · View notes

cosmetichorror · 1 year

Text

Remember that hc I wrote about the poes from TOTK? I wrote it as a warm up before I get to all my requests

—

Wild was strange. It was no secret to the eight others and certainly nothing he tries to hide at any point in time. Right off the bat everyone knew he was a wildcard, very spontaneous and reckless, yet he still held a sort of noble tone. Some of his actions told the others he must have had some kind of fancy past, one he can remember in body but not in mind. And yet despite every action and strange comment he has made across the last few months of traveling, nothing could have prepared them for this one secret he didn’t know was a secret.

The stars shine brightly this night, all complimented by the crescent moon. A soft breeze blows throughout Kakiriko village this eerie night, rustling the grass and kicking up the occasional leaf. Time leads the chain ahead, as he is familiar with this land. It is his Hyrule, after all. His eyes scan the surrounding town. No one is out, most prefer to sleep at this late time. But he seems set on checking on the graveyard.

“I’ve just got a feeling…” he mutters to the others, not really caring if anyone hears him or not. As the sign for the graveyard comes into view, some of the boys look between each other.

Warriors places a hand on his hip, “What are we doing here?” He asks, looking over to Time.

“I suspect there may be some monsters here we need to take care of.” Is what he responds with, pausing for a second to look over his shoulder at the others, before carrying on without another word. Most of them sigh, exhaustion weighing in on them. But Wild, however, seems intrigued.

“Graveyard, eh? Don’t think I’ve seen any of this caliber, save for the makeshift one in my own Kakiriko.” He casually says, examining the sighs, before pulling out the Purah Pad and snapping a quick photo. “Most graveyards I’ve seen are villages that were ransacked by the calamity, or the occasional mass grave.” With his eyes downcast, he sighs and shrugs it off. “But ey, what can you really do? At least we’re working on it.”

Legend gives Wild a pat on his shoulder and a sad look, but the Champion waves him off. “‘M fine! Just a tad strange to think about is all.” He tells him. And so they continue on.

Entering the graveyard was sort of surreal. An almost ghostly fog surrounds the countless gravestones that decorate the grass. Time glares at seemingly nothing. “They’re here.”

Sky looks at him with a nervous chuckle, “Well that’s not ominous at all.” He scuffs his feet in the dirt for a second, taking a big look around. “Sooooo… Who exactly is here?”

Time pulls out his sword, muttering a single word. “Poes.”

Wild’s ears twitch as he visibly perks up at this, a small smile creeping up on his face. “Poes, you say?” He immediately runs ahead past Time, ignore how he has his sword drawn.

“Wild, wait!-“ but as Time calls out, a Poe comes running towards Wild.

First thing Wild notes is how different it looks from his poes. It looks more disheveled and somewhat angered. Then again, if he were a Poe, he might be angry too, so he won’t judge. Second thing he notes is how it seems to be wanting to attack him. Huh, that’s new. But as the Poe comes charging in and before the others can reach him, a teal glow shoots out of Wild’s chest.

At first it appears to be some kind of orb, but swiftly it seems to grow arms, legs, a head and armor. Along with that comes a sword and a shield. With a swift, experienced swing the ghost knight sends the aggressive Poe tumbling back.

The others stare on in shock as this ghost points its sword at the growling Poe.

“Calm yourself, brother. Anger will solve nothing.” He tells him. Surprisingly, the poe calms down, while still holding it’s angered look.

“What. The fuck?” Wind mutters out, his head cocking to the side as if another view will make this make sense. It doesn’t, it just makes everything sideways.

Time runs up and grabs Wild’s shoulder, about to scold him when the champ brushes him off. “Not now. After.” He says, then begins to walk to the poe.

“I know you’re angry… I’d be angry in your situation too. Your feelings are valid, my ghostly friend. But attacking me will not make you feel better, I promise…” he smiles and reaches out to touch it. “You must be so tired… being a spirit for so long. I can help you rest, friend.”

Now it was the poe’s turn to perk up, looking at Wild excitedly.

“Come with me, buddy. When I get home, I’ll help your spirit rest. You can finally move on. How’s that sound? You up for it?” Wild gives a bright, toothy smile. With his hand outstretched, the chain waits with bated breath, not wanting to anger the poe and cause it to lash out. But, the poe doesn’t.it walks forwards and leans into his hand, and its form vanishes, curling into a blue flame like orb much like the knight was just a few moments ago. The orb floats into his chest, and Wild stretches out before turning to the knight.

“Thank you, friend. If I may ask… who are you?” He asks. And the knight chuckles, taking off his helmet and holding it against his body.

The knight doesn’t need to say a thing, because as soon as his helmet is off, Wild’s ears twitch and his eyebrows raise in surprise. In a swift, muscle memory movement, both of his arms fold behind his back as he straightens his posture.

“Captain!” He calls out, holding back a smile. The captain laughs and ruffles Wild’s hair.

“Ah, buddy, no need for those formalities!” He speaks and wraps an arm around his shoulder, bringing him close. “Just look at you! You’ve gotten so big! And your hair- it’s longer! It’s a good look. You’re all grown up, kid.” He gives a bittersweet smile. “I remember when you were just a tot, runnin’ around your Pa’s leg, asking when you’ll be big enough to hold a real sword. Now look at you!”

Wild can no longer hold back his wide smile as he turns and brings him into a big hug without a word.

“Your dad would be proud of you, buddy.” He whispers as pats his back. They stay that way for a few seconds, before they separate, smiling at each other.

“Thank you.” Is all Wild can force out of his mouth. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here, I’ll let your spirit rest as well next time we’re in the depths. Promise.” He rubs the back of his neck- a nervous tick of his. But the captain smiles at him.

“Don’t be sorry. Seeing you kick monster ass is pretty neat, I don’t regret my time here.” He tells the champ with a light, playful shove. “But, before I return to a true poe, I have something for you.” He hands out the sword he was holding. It looks pitch black to him and the others at this moment, but when Wild grabs it, it takes form into a true sword with a golden and purple hilt. A royal broadsword. Wild brings the spirit into a one armed hug.

“Thank you, thank you! I really needed this!” He laughs a bit.

“Yeah, I noticed.” The spirit responds with a hearty laugh, patting his shoulder. “See ya next time, kiddo.” And just like that, his form curls up into that same orb, and floats back into his chest.

Wild casually turns around and walks back to Time with a wide smile.

“Man, that poe sure was pissed off, eh? Are they always like that?” He asks, before taking in Time’s absolutely flabbergasted state. “…Time?” And when he looks to the others, he sees them all in similar states of shock. “What’s up with you guys?”

Wind runs up, grabbing him by his shoulders and shakes Wild around. “Fucking Farore what the hell was that?! How did you do that? You’re friends with a GHOST? and you DIDN’T TELL ME?” He nearly shouts, and Wild shakes his head.

“That wasn’t a ghost, that was a poe!” He casually responds.

“Not the poe, that ghost knight that showed up!” Wind tells him.

“Yeah… that was a poe.”

“WHAT?!”

#totk minor spoilers #totk depths #lu fic #linked universe #wild lu #lu wild #lu wind #lu time #poe #warm up #haven’t wrote Lu in ages so I needed something to get my gears turning again

267 notes · View notes

lupincentral · 1 year

Text

Have you heard the news?

Lupin III is diving into the world of live action once again, with Jigen Daisuke ‐ a spin-off film releasing “worldwide” on October 13th, 2023, exclusively on Amazon Prime Video!

Tetsuji Tamayama, who previously portrayed the character in the 2014 released feature film, will be returning to the role of Jigen.

Yoshimasa Akamatsu (BD ~Akechi Tantei Jimusho, Corpse Party: Book of Shadows) has produced the script for the film, and Hajime Hashimoto (The Detective Is in the Bar franchise, AIBOU: Tokyo Detective Duo, Shimauma, Signal) is directing.

In preparation for his reprising of the role, Tamayama states in an interview with Natalie that he has watched the Lupin the IIIRD spin-off film Jigen’s Gravestone, and hopes to bring this cooler, more mature version of the character to television screens come October.

Details on the plot are currently scarce - however, the Natalie article mentions that it involves Jigen searching Japan for the world’s greatest gunsmith, after his trusty combat magnum is in need of some TLC (and said gunsmith just happens to run a rather curious watch shop)…

More details on the film are to be revealed closer to its release date. For now, you can check out the films first trailer embedded below, and its announcement over at website Natalie.

youtube

After Lupin ZERO wrapping up at the end of last year, and VS. Cat’s Eye releasing in January, a live action Jigen spin-off is not where I expected TMS to go next with the Lupin franchise. It is, however, in my opinion, a welcome diversion from the norm.

I would be lying if I did not first meet the announcement with some scepticism, though, mostly due to the series’ less than stellar track record of live action adaptations (the amazing 2017 Inspector Zenigata spin-off drama aside). Taking a moment to think back, I quickly realised that while the live action film directed by Ryuhei Kitamura did not win the hearts of fans back in 2014, it did do one thing right - the casting.

Shun Oguri as Lupin III and Tadanobu Asano as Inspector Zenigata were big gets for the film, and both appeared to take their appearance throughout it seriously. Meisa Kuroki played a gorgeous, cunning Fujiko, with Go Ayano trying his best to bring the stoic samurai Goemon to life. It was Tetsuji Tamayama, however, that best looked the part. Fans on social media were swooning over his Jigen as soon as the character portraits were revealed, with some saying he was made for the role.

Despite issues with pacing and its overall narrative, all of the main cast members represented their anime / manga counterparts well, and if there is one positive to take away from that film, it would be their performances.

This gives me hope for Jigen Daisuke - with fresh writing staff and a keen new director to the franchise on board, with an actor we already know can do the character justice, both Amazon and TMS may be on to something special, here. Now slightly older and more experienced, I have full confidence Tamayama will exceed that of his already good performance as Jigen from 2014.

I’m looking forward to finding out how this comes together. Keep an eye out for a full review of the film come October, which I will aim to post up on lupincentral.com a few days after its release.

#lupin iii #lupin the 3rd #lupin the third #anime #lupin #manga #lupin the iii #lupin 3rd #lupin sansei #Youtube

190 notes · View notes

sssailorvanya · 9 months

Text

i’m miss world [riddle rosehearts]

part one | not edited, please ignore any mistakes! | wc: roughly 1k

You’re not entirely sure how you became the King of Hearts. You had always fancied yourself to be more of an Alice—bold and bright and daring, charming in a roguish manner, curious to a fault. Not to mention your status as an inter-dimensional traveler. Like Alice, you had fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in a fascinating new world, so different to the one you called your own.

And now you had been thrusted into the role of the meek King, a pitiful figure that many knew nothing about. Searching through Twisted Wonderland’s expansive historical records yielded nothing. The King’s name was never recorded and his mythical gravestone, lost to time itself, supposedly had the carving: ‘The husband of the legendary Queen of Hearts.’

That was it. Nobody knew his name, the duration of his life, his birthplace; the historians of Twisted Wonderland could never uncover any information regarding the King of Hearts, despite their greatest efforts. He was rarely ever seen in public during his lifetime, and he was firmly attached to the Queen’s side the few times he was presented to the world. There was a total of three pictures which had been taken of him, all very similar: a blank-faced King leaning into his eternally furious Queen, her hand forcefully latched over his.

You were surprised to find that the King’s appearance did not match the puny cartoon depiction of your world. If anything, he greatly resembled you.

Riddle had painstakingly explained to you how the three existing pictures of the King were heavily coveted. One picture belonged to the ruling family of the Briar Valley, another belonged to the royals of Sunset Savanna, and the final picture belonged to the Rosehearts.

“The Queen is very important to my family,” He spoke stiffly, holding your gaze intently. You found it harder and harder to look him in the eye as the days passed and the weeks blurred together. “We are not her direct descendants, but we are connected to her through her sister’s children.” And didn’t that just send you down another furious spiral of tireless research and ink-stained hands? This fearsome, bloody Queen supposedly had a sister. A sister who had children of her own. A sister who was the ancestor of the red-haired boy who was holding you captive.

You remember your shaky hands preparing tea for him in the exact order you knew he preferred. You remember him tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. You remember the bright red roses – authentic, not painted – decorating the vase which had been placed on the table. You remember the exact moment when you asked, “Did the Queen not have any children of her own?”

And you remember the hideous look in his eyes as he answered your innocuous question.

“She did not. The King did not give her any.” He raised a delicate pinky finger as he sipped his tea, a clear sign that the conversation was over.

You swiftly moved on and you did your best to forget his bizarre mannerisms and ominous answers.

Because if your suspicions were confirmed to be valid (and if you were right—oh, if you were right, you would eat your own beating heart), then you knew that you had more in common with the King of Hearts beyond physical appearance.

“There’s not much about him, your majesty,” Cater Diamond laughs pointedly as he avoids your gaze, his eyes trained on his phone. “Even his Magicam hashtag has, like, nothing. That’s totes sad!” His laugh becomes slightly shrill as you say nothing, your eyes boring into him. Out of all the card soldiers, it is Cater who sympathises with your plight the most. Perhaps it reminds him of the days when he, too, was a captive, forced to dress in glitter and frills for his sisters’ amusement. He never looks at you anymore.

“I have never known much about him,” Trey Clover admits gently as he smiles down at you weakly. “He’s a proper mystery. Very unique too. The other members of the Great Seven didn’t have spouses, but the Queen did.” He is kneading dough as he talks with you, preparing treats for the upcoming Unbirthday party. “Why the sudden interest, your majesty?”

You don’t like being referred to as ‘your majesty’. It is a recent development, urged by Riddle who resented other people for having the audacity to say your name.

You smile and shake your head, leaving him to bake his treats. You’ll get your answer from someone more rebellious. Someone far less willing to be complicit to your unhappiness for the sake of his Housewarden.

You find Ace Trappola in the endless, beautiful gardens of Heartslabyul. He’s dressed in pink from head-to-toe and he’s looking very disgruntled about it. The flamingos are milling about him as he sorts through their food. He is alone, which is strange, but it works in your favour.

“On Wednesdays, we wear pink!” You say cheerily, unable to help yourself. Ace stiffens and then relaxes, turning to face you with raised shoulders. “Hey,” He says nonchalantly.

Ace doesn’t call you ‘your majesty’. He doesn’t use your name either, but this is something you’re willing to forgive. Being on the end of Riddle’s genuine wrath is terrifying and some battles are not worth picking, let alone fighting.

“It’s a reference to a film from my world,” You say easily, falling into step beside him and ignoring his obvious flinch. “I think you’d enjoy watching it.” Ace frowns at you, as if to express doubt, and then shakes his head. “Whatever. You need something?” He asks carefully, but you don’t miss how his bright eyes dart around the area. He’s looking—no, he’s checking to see if there is any trace of Riddle nearby.

After all, wherever you are, Riddle is only a few steps behind.

“Do you remember when we met?” Your tone is hushed now. “It was you who explained the Queen of Hearts to me.” By the mutinous expression which is slowly spreading across Ace’s face, he clearly remembers your chaotic first meeting.

“Help me, Ace Trappola. You’re my only hope.” You say quietly. Your words are heavy and your tone is grave. You feel guilty for burdening him, but you do not feel bad enough to retract your words. What you said is true. Caged in the rose-scented, ivory-leafed walls of Heartslabyul, your only ally is the hotheaded ginger.

Ace is silent. His solemn expression greatly contrasts with his hot pink clothes. He sighs and then he frowns, his lips forming a rebellious pout.

“C’mon then, Prefect. Lay it on me.”

You smile, and it is genuine. You haven’t been called ‘Prefect’ in a long while.

“I need you to—“

Once you finish explaining exactly what you needed from Ace Trappola, you step back and stare at him. He meets your gaze evenly and then shrugs his shoulders.

“Alright, Prefect. I’ll see what I can do for ya.”

Before your lips can form another real smile, he holds up his palm. His face is troubled and his eyes are unreadable.

“Don’t get your hopes up. It won’t be easy,” He warns, and then he picks up the flamingo closest to him. The flamingo blends into his pink jacket seamlessly. It’s a cute animal, you notice idly. The bright eyes, soft feathers, and fascinating beak support your thoughts; the flamingoes are really, really cute.

You’ve always been more interested in the hedgehogs, though.

“Bye.” Ace says warily, looking behind you as if a hideous monster had suddenly materialised into thin air. He takes the flamingo with him and you watch the pink pair go on their merry way, wishing – not for the first time – that you could be as free as the animals of your rose-adorned prison.

A steady hand lands on your shoulder. You don’t need to turn around to see who it is.

You already know.

You always do.

“Hello, Riddle,” You say mildly, still staring in the direction Ace went in, “It’s a nice day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

He hums in lieu of an actual answer. You turn around, lace your fingers with his, and let him lead you back to your shared dorm room.

Tomorrow will be a new day. It’ll be different.

You’re counting on it.

73 notes · View notes

chirp-a-chirp · 2 months

Text

Seeker

Fandom: Ikemen Prince; Characters: Leon Dompteur, Clavis Leouch, Carla (OC); Leon X OC story; Tags; fluff, angst, feels, a few spoilers/oblique references from Leon and Clavis routes, references to death and slavery; Word Count: ~1750

Synopsis: Leon seeks to talk to someone very important in his love’s life. Clavis hides his pain the only way he knows how. Also, introducing (in passing) an OC paired with Leon Dompteur who works for Clavis—Carla!

Folks who might(?) appreciate this fic: @candied-boys @katriniac @leonscape @x-daedalus-x @reborn-elven @ae-yeongmi @ikeprinces-stuff

…

“So, you’re abandoning my seeker? Not very heroic of you!”

Leon resisted rolling his eyes at Clavis’s dramatics and the unofficial title given to Carla. As Clavis’s assistant, Carla’s main job was to seek things. Some items were simply those Clavis couldn’t be bothered to find himself—test tubes, compounds for explosions, Sariel-sized nets. A job with no end given Clavis’s antics. But Carla also found things of substance—missing children from Bloodstained Rose day, reunited with their parents; jobs for former Obsidian citizens crossing into Rhodolite; surpluses of food for the Leochian orphanage.

Carla was a seeker. A seeker of adventure. Of ingenuity. Of hope. This vibrancy was among the many things that attracted Leon to Carla. And it was that vibrant hope that made Leon want to do things right with her.

“It’s necessary.” Leon looked up at Clavis as he prepared for his journey.

“But you still need to pitch woo to Carla!”

“I don’t wanna hear you say anything about pitching after the lake incident.”

“But I saved the diplomat from drowning!”

“After pitching him in the lake in the first place.”

“Irrelevant!” Clavis cackled, unrepentant. “But more relevant, you’re deserting my seeker!”

“No. I’m leaving to talk with the most important person in her life.” Leon wrapped his cloak about his shoulders.

“Ah, so me!”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Her father.”

Clavis inhaled loudly. He hid the rush of pain flooding his chest with a sharp bark of laughter. “Asking for dear old dad’s permission to court his daughter? How quaint!”

Leon stepped closer to Clavis, challenging the third prince’s mockery, seeing the truth behind the mask. “Not exactly. I want to tell him how I feel. The influence he’s had on Carla, the joy she brings. That though he last saw her in tears, she’ll live with a smile on her face. If she’ll let me.”

Clavis was silent for several seconds. “You’ll find it to be a very one-sided conversation.”

“I know. But still.”

Clavis’s gaze faltered at the resolute expression reflected in Leon’s amber eyes. Clavis turned his head to avoid his stare and whispered, his mask briefly slipping.

“Tell her father I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm?”

Clavis whipped his head back to Leon, plastering a smile back in place. “I mean, tell him I say hi, haha! You should thank me for distracting Carla while you go gallivanting without her!”

Leon huffed and began to leave. He turned around, hand lingering on the door knob. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Clavis’s eyes rose in shock, the reflexive quip snuffed from his lips by the serious look in Leon’s gaze.

“Mr. Demandeur made his own choices. He chose a dangerous path—however noble. He made the choice to live that life—not Carla, not you.” Leon opened the door. “The consequences of that life are his and his alone.”

…

A lone rider trekked deep in the woods. The underbrush was thick with small saplings, broken branches, and rocks littering the forest floor. A horse stopped underneath a clump of mature trees; light filtered through the tree canopies, highlighting a meticulously cared for gravestone.

Richard Demandeur

Loving Father and Husband; Restorer of Freedom

The gravestone was the only thing not covered in moss, leaves, or other forest debris. Though the gravestone was several miles from Leouch, the reverence in which it was kept pristine showed the value the man had in life. A few conversations with the townsfolk of Leouch informed Leon that when Carla was not in town, Clavis paid for others to keep the grave clean.

Leon dismounted from the horse in silence, gathering his thoughts. The horse dropped his head, picking up on the solemnity of the moment. Three white roses were placed neatly on the ground by the stone marker.

“Hi. I’m Leon.” Leon knelt on the ground, lightly touching one of the rose petals. “I had hoped to meet you in person one day. Carla speaks of you so vividly, I didn’t know you were gone until recently.”

As a commander of soldiers, Leon was familiar with death. It was always in the back of every soldier’s mind—the notion that one day, you may never come back. That ensuring others security and safety meant risking your own. But he was trained for that life—as were the men that served under him.

Richard was not.

At an age where many considered slowing down, Richard sped up his life’s impact. In the last 5 years of his life, Richard and Carla had helped more than 100 people escape to Rhodolite—people seeking freedom, freedom from starvation, a slaver’s whip, Obsidian darkness. What he lacked in physical strength he made up in sheer determination and ingenuity (along with some well-placed Clavis traps) in secreting these people away from lives of despair. That bravery and idealism was matched in his daughter Carla, who joined him on his escape missions, and who worked afterwards to ensure these people were successfully integrated into Leouch into new jobs. Bakers, tutors, craftsmen, and their families were living their best lives thanks to a father-daughter duo who gave them that chance. It was an idealism steeped in practicality that especially earned Leon his respect. And admiration.

“Carla misses you. She always will. I hope to be someone to help ease that pain of hers.” The forest was eerily silent—not even the wind stirred. It was as if the trees and all the woodland creatures around them were focused solely on listening to Leon. He continued.

“I’m another prince in your daughter’s life. No, not like Clavis.” Leon could hear Carla’s laughter as he recalled her stories of Clavis and Mr. Demandeur. Richard had been a willing tester of Clavis’s inventions—the smoke bomb, the tickling fingers that made a soldier drop their weapon, the invisible shadow that made one able to blend seamlessly into the night. The testing typically resulted in disaster—tar stuck for days in his hair, skin turning shades of purple and gold (“Can’t you at least pick colors that look better on me!” Richard would lament to Clavis and Carla’s delight)—but the moment the testing proved positive, Richard was the first to sing Clavis’ praise—and mobilize another rescue mission with Carla with those inventions. The Leouch inventions were integral to the rescue missions, and had a 100% success rate.

Until Richard’s last mission.

“I admire people like you.” Leon sat on the ground and peered at the gravestone as if it were a person conversing with him. “People like you give hope to those without it. To people like me.” Leon clinched his hands as he recalled his childhood—his true childhood, a legacy that never left him, the days that weighted on him like a stone attached to his back.

Leon ran fingers through his hair, shaking away the tendrils of bleaknesses that gnawed at him. “You see—I’m a prince, but I wasn’t born one. I was a slave—like some of those you rescued.”

Little by little, Leon spoke. Of hands raw from work; of a back aching from unhealed whip marks and stones hauled from quarries; of a belly so empty he ate moss to quell its rumbling. He had only told one other person these things—Carla.

“I used to think life would always be that way.” A series of unending days steeped in drudgery. “But then, I was given a second chance. A chance to change my life—by taking on someone else’s.”

Leon closed his eyes, picking up one the white roses. He slowly opened them before going on. “You see—I thought I had to earn that chance. And that the only way to do that was to become king. To become Leon Dompteur. To dedicate my entire life towards the kingdom that took me in for a single coin.”

“That is, until I met Carla.”

Leon paused, his thoughts drifting towards the woman he loved. His heart squeezed tenderly at the image of her in his mind—her skirt twirling as she danced with him, the way her eyes sparkled as she talked with townspeople, the mischief in her voice at modifying another Clavis trap. Her stories. Stories of freedom. Stories that made Leon feel alive again.

“Your daughter is wonderful. I know, I’m not telling you something you’re unaware of.” Leon laughed. “She’s vibrant, brave, caring, passionate about everything. And everyone.” Leon’s lips quirked wryly. “Well, not everyone I hope.” The horse whinnied suddenly as a large branch fell to the ground; Leon’s shoulders jolted at the sound.

“Hey, there’s no need for THAT.” Leon placed the rose on top of the gravestone, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “I said hope.” Leon tapped his knee with his fingers before continuing.

“With Carla, I remember who I am. She reminds me there are different ways to dedicate your life with meaning.” Seeking life in the everyday—tavern dinners, town dances, talking with shop keepers—and the extraordinary—daring rescues and escapes, free from royal confines and restrictions—was profound.

“With Carla, I’m Leon. Just Leon. And she’s taught me dedication can be to a kingdom and to a person.” The man Leon was when he was with Carla was the most genuine version of himself—a man of unwavering passion, love, and commitment. And it was something he didn’t want to lose.

The feelings that threatened to spill from Leon’s lips were so overwhelming it was nearly impossible to distill them into words. He settled for simplicity. Words tumbled quickly, flowing with a winding warmth.

“I love your daughter. So, so much. If she’ll let me, I’ll always be there for her. And carry on your mission alongside her. I hope you approve.”

The air stirred gently, leaves twirling and landing on Leon’s hair and shoulders. Sunlight flickered from the treetops, lighting the grave and Leon. Leon’s eyes widened before he smiled gently.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Leon got up and nodded at the grave. His lips lifted slightly. “Thanks Dad.”

Another branch fell on the ground nearby, scattering a flurry of leaves everywhere. “OK, geez! I guess I haven’t earned the right to call you that yet!” Leon’s voice cut the revenant air with a laugh. “How about Richard?”

A strong breeze picked up. A few branches swayed perilously overhead. “Mr. Demandeur?” The wind slowed down.

“Mr. Demandeur. Got it.” Leon mounted his horse. “I’ll bring Carla with me next time.” Leon glanced upwards at the trees. “And Clavis.” The wind died completely. A beam of light streamed down on Leon and the horse.

“Good. Clavis misses you too.” Leon rode away, parting with one final statement.

“We’ll make you proud sir. All three of us.”

#ikemen prince #ikeprince #ikemen prince leon #ikemen prince clavis #leon dompteur #clavis lelouch #fan fiction #fanfic writing #ikemen cybird #otome

25 notes · View notes