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rel124c41 · 6 months

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PSILOCYBIN AND HONEYCOMB. jade leech

There is something terribly wrong with the queen bee. Gentle and kind. Out of her mind. inspired by @merakiui dabbles and @pathosprit asks about god!floyd/cultist!reader

tags: alternative universe - cults, implied/referenced drug use, old gods, falling in love, blood and gore, beekeeping, fluff and smut, unhealthy relationships, thought projection, gentleness, inspired by psilocybin and honeycomb by harley poe, murder

word count: 11,895

When you are ten, round-faced and small, you watch the Reverend heat up the branding iron. He twirls it in the fire like it is a marshmallow, making sure the iron is covered evenly with a brilliant scarlet red. Gold dances over the thick, ebony gloves that the Reverend wears and shadows jump across the stone creases of his aged face. You watch the sigil rotate in numerous circles.

A foreign hand pulls up your dress, exposing your stomach and underwear. You keep watching the circle of iron and fire; as the speed of the Reverend's hands pick up, the two materials blend together in a racing whirlpool of a red and gold comet. Beautiful.

“It won’t hurt will it, Mom?” Your small voice is full of terror; your wrists tremble in the hold of the two adults pinning you down to the table.

“No sweetie, no it won’t.” Your mother, the unmarried woman who got pregnant, presses a kiss to your forehead.

When the Reverend presses the branding iron down on the skin on your hypogastric skin, right under your belly-button, it is the last time you know fear.

By the stream, God – The Odd One – calls and beckons and sings.

Hands fall idle in surprise. You were not expecting a summon from Him today. Raising your head from your task, you listen closely. It could have just been the snapping branch under a rabbit’s foot or the breeze blowing too roughful in a bush. You wait patiently for that divine melody to resume itself.

In the pregnant pause, a white dress rustles through the current of the stream. Its arms wave helpless. Under the water, the fabric mimics a dead gray hue.

There is no secondary call or beckoning. Holding your breath long enough, you fall back into your task.

White dress in hand, you scrub it with a mixture of mammal fat and lye. The cleansing agent bubbles and carries down the stream. If the heart of your God resides anywhere on land, it is here, your favorite place; in His heart, you do your laundry, domestic.

The Reverend would be appalled at that thought. You think with a smile. Water collapses from the dress as you wring it out. But it is an entirely true thought. The deeper you venture in the forest, the more you can hear Him. It is only when you reach for the robin egg blue dress does He come back, voice oscillating through nature.

A testing call? Dropping the garment, you listen intently, waiting to see where you can jump into the melody. After a beat, you find your place in the song. The construction of the deut sounds like this:

A stream sweeping in a downward incline, splashing in playful, petite waves as it tickles lower. It is bordered by plentiful grass. Like boats caught in a fierce storm, a handful of pine-cones freckled in the water move across the stream. Rocks break apart the smoothness of the water. The song emphasizes that the rocks give it a fresh uniqueness rather than damage the serenity of the stream.

The chorus is a bumble bee landing on a black dahlia. Silk, ebony petals curl off the center like a hundred thumbnails in a bouquet. In the light of nature, the black of the flower shines a red-violet. Nestled in the middle like an arrow in a bullseye, the bumble bee robs and rapes the center of the black dahlia, stabbing at the nectar with their needle-thin legs.

Carrying your voice higher, you sing about the breeze. The breeze puppets the leaves to give a graceful, continuous wave to the visitors of the forest. The bridge focuses on an earthworm. It is alone, red with speckles of earth. You take your voice past its limit when you find yourself singing about a forest fire. The ballad continues under two watchful, olive-brown eyes.

Unnoticed, the son of the village’s livestock handler watches you break your vocal limit for God. So devoted to him. Piety works itself over the tendons of your throat, pushing and pressing too hard, like a violin’s bow. As the unknown, dueting voice, Jade watches and listens to your consecrating voice, peeved.

Around you, Jade finds that his inhibition has been escaping.

He has been alive for numerous generations, witnessing patterns of human speech, human practices, and most importantly human fears. Fear is older than Jade. Older than the sediment on the ground that you sing to. Thus, innate fears often stay with generations – the fear of death, thanatophobia, is a prominent recurrence.

As the God of nature, Jade knew. He had felt men press their heads into the crust of the earth, begging for the other men chasing him to let him live. Felt people rack up dirt with fingers, feverishly pleading for the resurrection of a sick son or sick daughter. Felt fists pound the trees in frustration for the souls he collected and ate.

Even still, they worshiped him. Thinking they would be allowed into a paradise, ignorant that the old door death opened was a door made of teeth and tongues. Even with the false promise of paradise, thanatophobia reigned supreme and trumped all other fears in humans. In all humans except you.

You. How strange you are, altering the rules of humanity, since your tenth birthday.

You focus on nature; he focuses on you.

As you two sing together, he feels that familiar retreat of inhibition. All of it dissolves into the color and shape of nature like a technicolor sea, blending together. Everything he thought he knew about humans changes with a tiny paint splosh, ruining the masterpiece he made.

“Oh, look at you. All alone,” a voice breaks the song.

Rounding around, you glare at the intruder as God falls silent. You look at Jade as if you two were hunters and he had just scared off a deer you had been tracking. God galloping away off on hooves. Vexation like a gleam in your eyes.

“What do you want, Jade?”

Jade Leech is perhaps the most annoying villager in your town, sticking to you like his surname suggests. He had shown up with his mother and father about three years ago when you were twelve. Usually, outsiders did not join the congregation, but the Reverend spoke positively of them. You trusted your Father’s judgment until the boy proved to hold great interest in you and all the things you did.

“I was just checking up on my dear friend, (Name).”

He is not even respectable about your status. The village calls you ‘One’ for Chosen One. At ten years old, you lose your name like one loses a sock. Not Jade; he likes to call you by the name your mother picked.

“How kind of you,” sarcasm drips from your throat, sore with singing.

“You’re most welcome. You’ve taken to changing the spot where you wash your clothes.”

“Yes, I was hoping someone wouldn’t find me here.”

“It is very nicely secluded so I am sure that they won’t be able to locate it.”

I thought so too, your inner thoughts mourn.

“Though it might be a bit dangerous. So far off from the ocean and village. Why, who knows what kind of coyotes or animals could be wandering around in the thicket.”

“I assure you, I’m quite alright in the wilderness.”

It is a true statement. You were particularly blessed when it came down to manners of the environment and the animals which it housed. Call it divine intervention, call it confidence. Whatever it is named, you are spared a lot of trouble that could potentially come from inhuman footprints.

“Who knows? That unwanted company might seize the opportunity and attack.” Jade’s olive-brown eyes watch your back. Your shoulders move with the pattern of your scrubbing. Sweat latches tight to the curvatures of your visible skin. “Like right now, going for your jugular.”

“Try it, Jade,” you challenge, smiling – not in a friendly way.

Accepting the challenge, Jade stands back and watches your shoulder fall still. The smile on his face is not shark-toothed but it beams with the animosity of such a creature. You have other teeth to worry over. Fangs full of venom, a water snake has wrapped itself around your arm, sneaking up from its hiding spot under the dress and soap.

A copperhead snake twines itself up your forearm like an orange-brown vine. Immediate, your hand falls comatose, not waiting to disturb it. Here. Here is where the human pattern of thanatophobia should come into play. Jade waits eagerly for a shriek; copperheads are venomous, he is certain you know this.

You do not tremble with your actions. You do not tremble with your voice. Irking Jade further, you reach a finger from your opposing arm over the copperhead’s head. The snake does not acknowledge your stroke, continuing to squeeze, as you move down and grasp the tail.

“Jade.”

“Hm?”

“You should step back. This is dangerous.”

A fire of anger ignities on Jade’s shoulders. Cheek twitching, he glares at the back of you. You were concerned for his safety? There is a venomous snake acting friendly with the veins in your arm, yet you told him to stand back. So caught up in disbelief, he misses you successfully unwrapping the copperhead from yourself.

Which you proceed to throw in a bush, just a foot or two away from Jade is standing. “Bravo,” Jade says, unflinching. He stalks towards you.

“Told you to move.” You pull your clean dress out of the water, wringing it out.

“I do not see how you can be so composed in the grip of death. It is perplexing.”

“Death is always at our sides.” In the water, Jade’s shadow oscillates like a match’s sparkling flame. A quarter of it folds over your shoulder. “Why would I have any reason to be afraid of it?”

“You are the sacrifice of this village.” Jade puts a hand to his heart, leering expression painting itself on his face. Waits patiently for you to get frustrated with him. “I think it is natural that you would think about it more often.”

You look up at Jade, trying to decipher why the thought causes him qualms. Into your wicker basket, you lay the slightly damp dress. Task finished, you bring the basket to your hip as you stand up from the stream.

“I have no qualms over it.” Then the conversation dies as you walk off, nobody’s buttercup.

The stream babbles as you walk alongside it. Like a puppy barking at your heels, you two move in sync. Somewhere in the bush, you think you can hear the sound of the copperhead rustling. A person disinclined towards the very thought of death, that is who you are. Embracing it, you jump upon the fallen, precarious log that hovers over the stream.

You glance at Jade who watches you. Then, wicker basket in hand, you step with a note on your tongue. Walking down the log to the other side, you say with each footfall, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” Your voice goes higher as your steps evolve into stomps.

You crash onto the other side, leaves crunching, as Jade asks, “What was that?”

“Something I’ve been orchestrating.” You challenge him with a look, separated by running water. “You should try it. You never sing at any of the entheogens.”

Before the village drinks the holy wine mixed with the holy mushroom of God, the entheogens ceremonies call for everyone to sing. You have never seen Jade’s mouth so much as twitch. Though, surprisingly, no one ever makes a fuss about it. The village turns it back on any of the blasphemous actions of Jade Leech.

“Unless you sing like a croaking toad … ah, then I suppose it all makes sense. It would be a disgrace to your parents if you sang. Unfortunate.”

Jade’s brows furrow. Got him. As he walks down the log, forgoing the stomping you did, he sings the rising scale, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” He lands by your side, hopping off the behemoth log. There is a golden firecracker of satisfaction in his olive-brown eyes.

“I did not know you could sing like that.”

The firecracker sizzles out as Jade’s brows shoot up. He feels a light pink start to tiptoe up to his cheeks.

Your voice is soft like honey, full of awe. Your reticent inhibition around Jade melts at that moment. Like snow on spring ground, you warm up eternally – just a bit! – to the invading pest that is Jade Leech. Someone who has been like a mite in your otherwise well kept paradise. You take him in a different light: cropped black hair, slim face, and olive-brown eyes just a bit less obnoxious. You had only heard such a singing voice from –

“Come. Let us go unless that someone you want to avoid finds this spot.”

The thought disappears. Blinking, you watch Jade stalk off. When you regain yourself, basket in hand, you walk just a bit behind him. Like the stubborn child you are, you bite the inside of your cheek, thinking:

Jade sounds good when he sings.

You two continue silently back to the village, Jade leading. It is a content walk, not even many rocks or lifted ground to trouble the path. Nature sings around the two in a musique concrete of twigs, leaves, and dirt. It is only when you feel a small tug that you wander off.

Jade watches with knowing, incorrectly colored eyes.

Your eyes sparkle upon a holy sight. More than a dozen light brown and ivory white jellyfish caps stand up straight in grass off the path. Like toads in mud, they break through the dehydrated grass in poor camouflage. Psilocybin mushrooms. The mushrooms that your congregation holds in high regard; a mushroom on piety par with a cross or a clerical collar.

Like the winner of an Easter egg hunt, you go to collect the mushrooms. Prizes God had hidden from you so you could search and prove yourself. Carefully, you start to put them in your wicker basket, sprinkles of dirt landing on the top dress.

Shadow folding over you, Jade inquires, breaking the silent retreat, “How many more days until you die, (Name)?”

No one should ever smile at such an inquiry. Yet, here you do, proud of the psilocybin mushrooms in hand, you answer with a big grin, “1,746 days.”

“Jade Leech, you little thief! Get back here right now!”

You look up upon hearing those words. Four buildings away, you watch as a towel crack on the back of Jade’s spine as he walks out of the bakery. The head chef seems to be the one caterwauling at him, twisted towel weaponized like a claymore. A sly smile is plastered on Jade’s face despite the hit.

Idiot; no one steals from her and leaves without a tussle. She, the head chef, is caterwauling like a soaked cat. A smile still emerges on your face despite your previous trouble. Speaking of those troubles –

You turn back to your work. There are not many jobs for you to take in the village. As the ritual’s sacrifice, labor is something you do not need to concern yourself with as the Reverend says. Attending prayer services, purifying yourself, and connecting with nature are your top priorities. You stretched out the limitations on the last priority and managed to convince that soft-hearted Reverend to let you start beekeeping with two village elders.

If our God is in every mushroom, every flower, every faucet of nature, it must be alright for me to care for His holy insects too? : that pathos and ethos argument won you the rights to take up beekeeping.

Right now, you are troubled by your job. Hairy white sections are on the lower burr comb and cells. It festers on a block of the hive where the queen is. A sign of another pest within the hive. However, none of the other signs were present upon last inspection. Of course, the sign of incursion would be near the queen – the most sensitive and paramount part of the hive.

The queen bee eludes your gaze right now, worker bees swarming around. You go to see if you can get a few to walk on your hand when something breaks your line of sight. Your hand stills. Held out to you is a half-ripped piece of bread.

Not taking it, you look up at the smiling face of Jade. Far away, surprisingly not giving chase, the head chef shouts: “Little devil child! You pest!” The grin on Jade’s face widens, teeth flashing at you.

“If only she knew the half of it. Here.” Jade holds up the bread, trying to appear generous in his motives. “Freshly baked.”

“Freshly stolen,” you correct. You take it either way. Stealing is frowned upon by the congregation but you have no fear left to worry about consequences. A tiny bite leaves you pleasantly surprised. Sourdough. You go back in for a bigger bite.

Jade sits down beside you, eating his own share and looking into the broods. Glancing up from your piece, you say, “You did that on purpose.”

“Stealing is often a motivated task.”

“No. You got caught on purpose; you’re slippery enough to steal and not get noticed.”

“I assure you that I was trying my hardest to not get caught.”

“Ah I see,” you say, wholly unconvinced.

“Your mind is not at ease. Usually you smile more when attending to your bees.”

Like a chipmunk, you stuff your cheeks with sourdough to avoid answering. “It is unlike a person of your standing,” Jade continues. Your standing: your life’s merit as a sacrifice. The reason that everyone calls you One instead of (Name). The Chosen One connected to the Odd One through nature and, thus, nature’s creatures.

“Sumtin’ s ‘rong wit the quee.”

“Pardon?”

You swallow, “Something’s wrong with the queen.” You spear a crescent into the bread’s crust with your nail. Despondent, you explain, “There are signs of an infestation near her section. I also noticed the capped cells were full of holes and overall seemed frail. That’s a sign of Varroa but I haven’t seen a single mite or deformed wings.”

“Always the queen isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand why I can never raise a healthy queen. The cell caps of hers always appear healthy, but halfway through, she suffers from signs of unknown invasion.” Quarantining your bees is the most viable option but you would rather solve this matter before taking a drastic measure. If only you could locate her –

You jump when Jade presses his hand close to the honeycomb structures. “Hey, be careful! You need gloves!”

“You do not wear gloves.”

“That’s different!”

“Hush.”

At that word, you happily wait for him to get strung. With his inexperience, it should only take a short amount of time. Sourdough in hand, you sit back to watch the show. Bees crawl like pouring vinegar over his pallid hand, curious, and you huff at his gentleness. Any moment now. Any moment comes but it comes with Jade pulling hand away with the queen bee on his forefinger.

“How did you –”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“I hate you.”

Jade smiles wide at that. The queen on his finger flicks her wings as he moves his hand to hover between you two. She seems fairly healthy despite all the disturbance around her. “Trying to steal my job, Jade,” you ask when he passes her to you.

“Do not even entertain the thought. I do not particularly enjoy insects. They may be entertaining for an hour or so, but I am content with the thought of their entire colony going up in flames one day.”

“Monster.”

Jade smiles in his you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it way.

Jade stares up at the statue of himself, contemplative.

For five out of thousands of years, Jade has passed time wearing fake human skin. Fake pallid hands find themselves stroking his neck for gills no longer there. Those hands hesitate over touching his ears, feeling thick muscle and bone instead of a thin membrane of skin. His trepidation around looking-glasses has eroded over the half decade. But, Jade still finds himself not entirely accepting parts of the body he puppets.

Walking around in the wrong skin is like wearing clothes too small. It squeezes over him like latex, tightening when he moves a certain way and constricting when he looks at it too long.

His hands especially are wrong, lacking webbed structure and the correct hues. How his fingernails flush purple and his fingers red when it is cold … it disgusts him. How his veins are blue under sand toned skin … it is a sickening sight. The human body wrapped around his working brain and working heart, it is the most grotesque part of this trail. Sometimes, he wants nothing more to shed it off an amphibian.

Jade takes his vexed gaze off his hands and returns to staring at the monument. Cleaners are put on rotation to polish and scrub down the entirety of him, forbidding moss or dirt to lay upon him. They are quite meticulous about it too. Meticulous like how a mother bathes her child. They scrub behind his ears, over the ridges of his dorsal fin, under the extended points of his claws. He has seen real, palpable joy on the faces of those given the job.

The sculptor … died about 2,050 years ago if Jade’s memory is right.

Withstanding the test of time, here the effigy of his true form lies, propped up on a block of marble chiseled to look like a sweeping wave. His face is sculpted in a polite mien with the slightest hint of malice. Smiling with teeth yet not with all his teeth. Just the top row. In stone, his tail dips in backwards J and is hooked upward like the frozen neck of a screaming horse on a carousel.

If asked, Jade thinks he misses his tail most right alongside his hands. The only change that he does not mind is his hair. Living on a warm island with long hair would have been bothersome, especially on his neck. The cropped style is nice; his real hair would have made him sweat.

Then, staring down the effigy of himself, Jade realizes he made a mistake earlier. He knows he misses swimming the most. His tails and hands: they are mere tools to propel him when in the sea, so deep in his plunge that it feels like he is moving universe to universe with each wide stroke.

Only less than three years remain until your death. 819 days if his memory serves correct. And this time it does; he is as certain as stone is hard. But such a long time in fake skin feels like the lifespan of a human, dragging day by day. Each inhale of the sun and exhale of the moon feeds the bugs crawling on his skin, uncomfortable in this fake skin.

Jade wonders, scratching his forearm, if he should speed this sacrificial ritual as he watches you race across the field towards him. He glances down at your nude human feet. Quadriceps, sinew tendons, and bone propelling you forward until you skid to a stop in front of him – with a jar in your hands?

“Look what I have!” There is a big, prideful grin on your face. With a flourish, you raise up said jar. And Jade responses –

“Wow. A jar. How marvelous.”

Your expression flattens at that. As if retreating, you pull the jar to your ribcage, protective arms around it. “It’s not just any jar. It’s my – Itchy? I think we have some medicine in –”

Jade pauses his scratching to interrupt. “No, I’m quite alright.” The marks running up his skin are angry and red, yet miraculously not bleeding. “So,” leaning in, he grins with all his teeth and says, “what’s in the jar? Must be revolutionary with how fast you ran over here.”

“It is!” Pride relights your body. You unscrew the jar with flying fingers. Then, you hold out the open mouth of the jar towards Jade, waiting for praise.

“Ah, honey.”

“Not just any honey; it is the last flow of honey.”

“I see. There is no more honey after that. So we will eat pancakes without honey soon, correct?”

“You’re not getting it, are you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Hmph.” You bring the jar back to your chest as Jade ponders on why humans are so sensitive. “The best months to harvest honey are from July to mid-September, right? And it is mid-September, right?” Jade nods at both your inane questions. Still not getting it. “Honey is the sweetest and best when you collect the last honey flow. The nectar flow from this is the one they make in the summer! It is going to taste Godly!”

“Careful what words you use, (Name).”

You two glance up at the company you keep. Though his gray left eye and yellow right eye are the same hue of stone, they seem to shine. Something fierce and glowing breaking through inert expression. You smile mischievously. “I’ll make it up to him when I’m dead. Now. Taste this.”

With a roll of olive-brown eyes, Jade leans in to observe the jar which you are once more offering him. Inside, the yellow honey tilts like a slow avalanche with the degree you hold it at. Gold gleams like the surface of the ocean under sunlight, almost sparkling. I almost miss home, Jade thinks as he dips his index finger in.

Oh.

Finger in mouth, Jade does not want to admit it but you are right. This is perhaps the best honey he has sampled before. The nectar slides down his tongue, touches his throat, and slugs down to his stomach. It is almost an addictive taste.

It is an uncleaned sweetness that melts down his throat. Like blasphemous scripture.

Jade really should not show you his enthusiasm for it; your pride will only increase knowing he enjoys it and you will grow more annoying. Yet, as if pulled by strings, he sticks his finger back into the jar. Before tasting, he asks, “What did you say the difference with this flow is?”

“It is the last flow of the season. With the bees hibernating soon, you can maximize the honey you are collecting by being patient. But there’s really an entire system to it, making sure you don’t strike too early or late.”

“Would it not be the sweetest during summer when the bees are most active?”

“Nope. Patience is the key; beekeeping is a waiting game.”

A waiting game? He watches you stick your own finger in, feasting on the rewards of your patience. The later harvest yields a richer taste. How splendid of his sacrifice to say just the words he needs to hear to understand himself and motives.

Eventually, almost telepathically as if both of you know what your companion is thinking, you and Jade stare up at the statue. Your saliva-coated finger and dry fingers place the cap back on the jar, leaving it unscrewed yet lidded. Jade waits until you are enraptured with the sculpture before he turns his attention to you.

You stare, contemplative. The sun is three hours off from its peak. Thus piscine shadows of the statue fall onto awaiting blades of grass. The silhouette of his dorsal fin like a knife and the silhouette of his hunched shoulders, leaning in like he is going to burst to life any moment. He has this hardly contained enmity is his expression, upturned eyes too sharp and smile too tiny.

“Can’t you just see me and him, together in paradise?”

“You two will make a lovely couple.”

“Heh, that’s what they all say.”

Jade studies your profile. There is just a tiny droplet of animosity in your worshiping eyes that he is desperate to uncover the truth about. You are bitter about something. However, whenever Jade tries to peek into that hate circuit rivering itself through your cortex, he gets nothing.

He supposed he could ask; if he is going to bid his time in other realms, he has more time to analyze the ecosystem of your brain. You startle when he speaks. “(Name). If you were not the chosen one, what would you do with the rest of your life?”

The expression you give Jade is easy to read: confusion. “If I wasn’t the – why, I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.”

“But try to. Try to imagine your twenty-first birthday.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Jade.”

“I am as serious as death.”

You shake your head furiously. “There is no other choice to make, but I am using my choice and have chosen to be there. As the chosen one.”

Jade, with all his immortal life wisdom goes huh? at your verbal affirmation.

“Such a boy,” you mourn, frowning up at his statue. You shuffle your bare toes on the ground, feeling the dirt cling onto them and tune into the radio of nature for a bit. After a contemplative moment, you say, “I am nobody’s buttercup. But I must do something so I will do that.”

“I see.”

Taking your words as a challenge, Jade leans in. Your nose scrunches, thinking he is going to do something odious and ruin this perfect, honey-coated day. If you were built in the image of your God, you would want his teeth so you could snap at Jade’s nose. The sentiment grows when Jade flicks the lid off the jar — it frisbees through the air — and scoops up a handful of honey. Some of it doesn’t even make it into his mouth!

“Hey! No stealing from the chosen one!”

“You never said there was a time limit on the honey you offered.”

“Well, there is one now! We have to make this last until next September! I have only two Septembers left!”

Jade laughs, licking the honey off his wrist. He makes another grab at the jar as you rush away from him, trying to retrieve the lid. “Back! Back, you heathen!” And the smile Jade makes as he chases you around the field is a perfect copy of the expression that is carved into stone.

Time passes like it always does. Life is a constant stream that connects in the ocean of death, making itself the estuary of mortality.

Those two Septembers pass and twice more you successfully harvest the perfect honey flow. Even when Jade jokes all sinister that you should enjoy these last moments of good food, dipping sourdough into honey, you never even shake. At the apiary, all the jars are empty, trails of gold stubbornly clinging onto the glassware. You and Jade make the effort to scrub all the ones you used clean until they shine.

“You’re not afraid at all,” Jade asks, watching you scrub the remains of your presence from the world. All you are: congealing honey on a rag which you will dip into the nearby stream, which will carry you away to a water funeral.

“Not at all.” It must be true. Because under the winter’s sun, your hands are steady and determined. Because when Jade asks how many days are left, you respond with an unshakable voice. Because Jade thinks with some sort of thrill unlike any he has known, you have been waiting as patiently as he has.

It is only when the number of days decrease and shrink down to the number seven does Jade’s patience break.

There is no sunshine shining down on you but you are still as bright as ever. Under the silver moonlight, you twirl and run and even cartwheel in the open field. You have been forgoing any sort of sleep, utilizing all the hours in a twenty-four hour day until you pass out from exhaustion, nature as your mattress. No one in the village disapproves of it, seeing it as you embracing your God. Jade wishes someone would though. He has unfortunately been dragged out for the past seven nights by you, wanting his company.

And I still have seven more to go, Jade thinks, leaning against his statue. He never thought he would grow tired but even a human body has limits. Sleep addles Jade’s brain as his neck bends as if he is caught in prayer.

He snaps back up when you shout. “Jade! Jade look!”

Seeing that you have his attention, you launch right into it. You take a running start, hands up in the air. Cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, ending with a front flip. Supernaturally energetic, you raise your arms up in your success, dress billowing around you, ready to accept the claps.

Jade manages a few light ones and says, “Well done, (Name).”

You smile happily. “Praise me more; this is the last week I’ll be alive to hear any sort of praise.” You twirl and watch the white of your summer dress puff up in a jellyfish shell. “Make sure they do not neglect to make mention of how good I was at cartwheels in the legends and stories.”

“I won’t, (Name).”

You fall back into it. Among the tall grass, you do a wide variety of different exercises and a variety of different dances. You move with the ease of an autumn leaf, trusting the wind. To the unheard and unsung song of nature and God, you gyrate around. Like God’s personal instrument, you bend yourself to the symphony that no one in your village has ever heard.

I’ll miss dirt, you think just as you blindly twirl into a patch of fireflies.

Fireflies explode around you like a firework. Wide-eyed and gasping, you pause with your hands raised up. Buzzing and rapid, the tiny comets of gold lift up from the flora and paint the night with tinier stars. Gripping the train of your dress, you rotate yourself to make room for the fireflies launching up to the west, laughing all the while.

Eventually, they dissolve into the sky, leaving your eyes chasing after them. They dissolve in dying breaths and dying heartbeats. You watch the last of them flicker out, finding a new patch to lie on or traveling too far for you to see them.

Oddly, an invisible bruise on your chest starts to ache.

Dirt encrusted feet carry your body before you comprehend what you are doing. Wildly, like something monstrous is at your heels, you run into the nearby thicket of trees, determined to reach the deepest part of the forest which surrounds the village.

“(Name)?” Jade squints at your fast-retreating form. “(Name)!” He picks himself off the statue as you rush into the forest, almost like you are in a panic.

“Catch me!”

The chase prematurely begins.

Jade dives into the forest after you. Pushing branches out of his way and jumping over protruding vegetation. Hundred elements of nature flicker across his vision as he runs and runs. Shadows elongate and distort under the occluding moon. He elbows his weight on a tree so it pushes him faster. Blanketed under nebulous black, the world beats with a thousand different songs.

All the while you are hollering and screaming. Screams evolve into frantic giggles and hollering matures into singing. Do Re Me Fa Sol La Ti Do, your feet race down the cliff slide in the pattern of the musical scale.

Your body is an instrument, Jade. Listen to it and you will be closer to God. Narcotic words you once said, deranged out of your mind. Narcotic words that you said while certain that patches of grass were growing from the planes of your skin. Narcotic words he had not paid much mind to. Closer to God, hm?

The crunch of leaves as you two run are like lyrics, right? Yet, the soles of his feet are like the percussion too? Guitar strings tendons pull with different frets and notes. Piano key fingers reach out and crush the branches in his way. His most powerful instrument is acting strangely though. His voice. That particular instrument is doing something it has never done before: laughing.

Is this what being human is, always running? He thinks this might be the faintest sniff of what it means to be a human: always running away from time. The epiphany is not about being human through sweet acceptance or love. His first taste of humanity is in the sweat of running and running while chasing.

Closer to God. Closer to humans.

At times, your aptitude is unreadable to Jade … that aptitude that guides you to never fear death. He wonders why there is such a wide gap between you and others when it comes to the terms of death. Closing in, he thinks: This Is The One. His fingers reach out, A0 from C8 scale running across phalanges. He could push you. With the momentum doubled with the rocks –

Still running, you turn to laugh at Jade. The pure joy on your face is blinding, hands up your shoulders and dress swaying. Your smiling face brightens at the sight of him (one close-eyed, titanic grin directed at him) before it winks away, flickering behind a tree. Jade watches as he loses you as you gather speed and sprint harder. Miraculously, you disappear from his sight, breaking the distance Jade had attempted to close.

God and human, you two run frantically through the forest. You throw out insults about his speed and he throws out his laughter in your duet. When the ground starts to decline, Jade finally figures out where you are heading to. He pumps his legs faster as the thickness of nature decreases gradually.

He breaks into the clearing by the stream, hoping to beat you, only to be confronted with the sight of you crouched by the water, twirling something between your fingers.

“Th-The forest is teething. I can feel it.” You pant like a dog. Jade watches the process of deflate and inflate; with each behemoth breath you take, exhausted and spent, your shoulder and ribs move with the hard work of your lungs. “It –” You choke around the salvia in your mouth, breathless. “It is the start of something here.”

“Teething?”

“Yes. Like babies do.”

I’m teething, Jade contemplates, unsure of what that word really entails. He knows little of human babies. It is only until you show Jade what is in your hand that he thinks he gets it.

“Look at this.”

From your hand, you present a black dahlia flower with a bright sunny center to him. The sunny center squeezes into a tiny circle then widens out in the average size. It is like a nostril, flickering and changing shape with each inhale and exhale. It is trying to breathe but as a flower it does not understand how to do that with a lineage of photosynthesis written in its body.

That flickering feeling of the beginning is so thick in the air. The start of something is here. It permeates in your bones. All through your skin, it permeates.

“It is certainly …” Jade trails off, not really used to seeing this side of himself.

“Beautiful,” you supply. There is a warmth in the space as Jade sits down besides you. The space between you is bright despite the midnight. “Can I tell you something? And you must keep it a secret.”

“Go ahead. I am as quiet as a church mouse.”

“I had this vision during the last entheogen.”

You still remember it. Swallowing the wine and, from within, bringing out the divine. Psilocybin on your tongue, you laid in a technicolor sea, holding up the receiver of your brain and waiting for that connection with God. You had a vision about the sacrament that is less than a week away. You look up to the sky as you speak. The moon is past the peak of midnight noon.

“I was at the ceremony. The sky was completely cloudless so you could feel the warmth of the sun. I was walking down to the slab bed. Dressed and ready.

“But when the Reverend told me to say my final prayers, I couldn’t.”

The black dahlia gives a sneezing breath at that. “Why couldn’t you?”

“My mouth was full of bees. I opened my mouth.” You look at Jade and decide to demonstrate. A fist moves up to your face before stretching fingers out like you are cupping a ball. “And blaaah, a hundred or so bees flew from my mouth.”

“The singer’s last ballad.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it is your mind rationalizing with the fear of your impending death.”

“Do not make me laugh.”

You are smiling, secondary to laughter. Returning attention to the black dahlia, you see the breaths have dwindled down to delicate stutters. It only stops breathing when you set it into the stream, watching it float and spin once. A dance in water, the revelation makes you grin softer. Your little theater show is only interrupted by Jade.

“What are your opinions on the ceremony? Now that it is so close, realer almost.”

You contemplate for a moment on the navel of the world, or as others call it ceremony. “I’m quite content with it.”

A picture paints itself: the stone rock, the slab bed, the omphalos alone in a field of psilocybin mushrooms, devoid of life beyond yourself. It is a bed you will eventually rest down upon and let the Father of your religion cut out the heart in your chest.

“I’m not going to die,” you whisper. Rejuvenate with that fact, you shuffle your body until your knees are tilted towards Jade. You lean in with flame eyes, a whirlpool of heat in them. Your next words cause the black dahlia in the stream to go breathless in surprise. “I’m going to find out if I’m really alive.”

“Th –” Jades breathes out a tiny laugh. “That is quite contradictory, (Name). Such an event would not inspire such a thought.”

“Well, it’s true so you have to deal with it.”

“I will burden myself with knowing it and trying to understand it.” He puts a hand to his heart in promise.

“Good. Agonize over it.”

You take to putting your feet in the stream as you reposition yourself. Spreading out your legs, you draw up your dress to your thighs. Dirt floats up and follows the path the black dahlia is being pushed away to as water cleanses your soles. The percussion of your heart beats through your toes as you wiggle them, trying to gather warmth under cold water.

You look like a high renaissance painting: ideal and perfect in Jade’s eyes. You blink your own eyes when your body is slowly moved. “I waited.” Before you question Jade’s harsh words, his hand on your chin, the start of something new blossoms and the forest sings.

You pull away from the kiss first. Eyelashes butterflying open, you gaze upon Jade with a fondness he has never seen. “How do I taste?”

If Jade will be your only kiss, he thinks it makes sense that you want to know what you taste like. He will not allow you to kiss another in the next six days. Considering it, his focus narrows to his mouth. Your bacterial corpse rests on his taste-buds, measuring and remembering the taste of you. Floral notes are encrusted with a sort of raw grime.

“Earthy and sweet.”

Giggling, you dive back in for another kiss.

You think this has been a long time coming which is why you can fall into it so easily. Your amygdala – once a ripe grape – is dried up like a sun-kissed raisin.

Cupping Jade’s face, you feel no indication that is the wrong course of action. Grass and dirt tickles your flesh, teasingly happy. Nature reaches slippery hands into your brain, infecting you with dopamine. This all feels so unnaturally right.

It takes about seven kisses in total before Jade’s hand starts to run itself up and down your thigh. Across a field of goosebumps, he draws his hand from the ankle freckled with water to the midpoint of your upper thigh. It is only when he moves up to the barricade of where you placed your dress that you grab his wrist. Partially in his lap, you squeeze the bones of his wrist.

“You’re not here for too long so what could go wrong,” Jade, eyes closed, asks the question towards your hesitation.

“Only two things are required of me in six days,” you kiss Jade to appease and because you want to. “That I die in six days on my twentieth birthday and that I remain a virgin.”

“Surely we can negate one of these constricting restrictions. I say that God is being a bit selfish.” Jade seethers inside, hiding it well with his returning saccharine kiss. Hoping to persuade and because he wants to. There is no possible way that his own rules are going to leave him with a painful stiff, is there?

“I think the man can handle one lapse of judgment from His prized singer. He knows you well. Say ‘oh dear God’” He vocalizes a facade of your frightful feminine voice, nipping at your ear. You giggle at the foreign sensation. “‘There is this awful, stealing, odious man down there and I. Fell. From. Grace.” Jade punctuates each word with a kiss. He moves down the musician’s scale of your throat, returning to his own deep timbre.

You shiver and, against better judgment, relax the hold on his wrist. “I do not fear the wrath of any man or God.”

The tune of acceptance, Jade thinks as he kisses down to your breasts. When he cultivated from the ceremony, it was only the human hearts he ate. This meal will be a new experience for both you and him. “Good. If you started being frightened, I would find you weak.”

“Is that so? I thought you were always veering for me to be more,” you gasp, toes frozen in the stream, as Jade cups over your sex. He lies his hand over it but does nothing more. “-- Veering for me to fear death?”

“Is this your death?”

“It could certainly be close to that.”

“Well, let this be the sweetest death you could ever know.”

With skillful fingers, he unties the back of your dress with only one hand. Though it comes undone quite quickly as if he has taken scissors to it. Strange. You do not focus on it long as tiny knives fall over your shoulder, removing the sleeves of your summer dress. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. Jade sucks hard on your right breast.

The sensation sends a ripple of goosebumps along your arms. It feels sweetly blasphemous, all the attentive kisses pepper to your breasts. A taste of something new and at its peak. You twitch when you feel Jade’s blunt nails move from cupping your sex to trailing a finger over the space where hip and thigh meet.

“Wait,” you stop Jade. His mouth falls away, teeth sharpening a bit with annoyance. He looks up at you, big olive- brown eyes gleaming. “I’m – Well –” You glance down at his hand that is swallowed under your dress. “It’s not a pretty scar,” you whisper.

“I’m sure it’s beautiful like the rest of you.” Before you can protest, the rest of your dress is pulled over your head. He leaves you in only your panties, sitting in the dirt by the stream. Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” Jade grabs the hand that goes to block his sigil. It has never looked so appetizing on a sacrifice until you. He licks his lips. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s still a scar.”

“Not to me,” Jade says, pressing his body against you so you lay down.

Delirious, like you are floating off a substance, you go to unbutton his long sleeve, wrestling your hand from him. Your skull is cushioned by your dress, bundled into a ball. The sharp point of sticks hit your skin. Wet sediment, a mixture of sand and dirt, clings onto you.

Under the ground, a foreign heartbeat drums. It hammers in a rhythm over your spine, bottom, shoulders, and soles. It is a mimic of the heart resting in your chest, syncing with nature in some incomprehensible way just like black dahlia managed to breathe. Chary thoughts dissolve from your head when Jade moves down to press a kiss to the sigil.

You manage to wrestle the shirt off Jade, using it as a rope to pull him, meeting in a kiss of tongue and teeth. Let go of your inhibitions, the forest beckons. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. You float with the floating pine-cones as Jade presses himself against you.

“God,” you moan, breaking away from the kiss.

“Come now, you know my name.” Jade teases. He works himself out of his pants, patient in his motions. “Can’t you say it?” The head of his penis kisses the wet spot of your panties. His grin is so familiar like you've seen it somewhere else before .

“Jade.”

That is all it takes, panties torn by claws. A dozen frenzied thoughts crash into your mind when he pushes himself into you. You cling feebly to him like a caterpillar to a leaf. He thrusts in, starting slow and then fortissimo-ing the act. The sound increases, skin on skin, along with the speed, inch by deeper inch. It feels like your insides are being ripped out of you. I think I’m dying is your most prominent thought. Then, you cum, singing in moans.

It is, in all senses of sensations, la petite mort.

“Aaah — mmmmph my God aah!”

You push your hands against the trunk of a tree. On trembling, fawn legs, you stand with arms outstretched in a tight caress of the pine. Behind you, down the long arch of your spine, Jade presses kiss to each golf-ball indent of bone. Heat spreads like a virus to your shoulders, smoldering, as you feel his length lightly trace down the curvature of your bottom.

Butterflying eyelashes glance up at pine. Your head feels heavy like a whirlpool heat courses through it, scarlet and yellow. Salvia holds itself heavy in your mouth; stimulation – if pushed any further – will have you drooling from your blissed out state. Even disoriented, you recognize nature and the creatures it keeps.

Jade stills when he sees you moving your right hand off the tree. There is something on the tip of your finger. “Keep your hands there. You will need to keep yourself balanced.” He kisses your last vertebrae, eyes glowing, as you ignore his words.

“Cen-Centipede,” you manage to say, breathing heavily.

You hold out your finger to him. On your index, the orange legs of the arthropod flow like oil down your knuckles. With deep fondness, you watch it move. The same fondness is found in Jade’s eyes. He stills you look strangely beautiful: two leaves threaded in your hair, the streaks of dirt that birthed themselves on you when Jade plowed into you, and admiring a centipede in the middle of your third sex position change.

“Yes. I see.”

Jade says, resting his chin on your shoulder. Leaning over you, his length makes a pointed reminder of existing when the warmed blood of it hits and throbs on the center of your ass. “Pretty thing, isn’t it?” You nod before moving your arm down, letting it crawl off into the ground. Over your shoulder, you drag Jade back into another kiss. “Earthy and sweet,” he says, feasting on a taste he will have the pleasure of knowing for eternity.

Around you, the forest sings happily. Surrendering to that wonderful melody of nature, you put your hands back to the pine, using them to keep yourself upright. A slug of drool falls off your bottom lip as a soundless gasp exits you. You and Jade met; he presses himself into your cunt, two harvests of cum soaping and sucking him in easily.

The taste of you is entirely sweet like a honeycomb. The sensation of him is hallucinogenic like psilocybin. Earthy and sweet.

“S-Ssso deep.”

Your left leg twitches when Jade starts to move, experimenting with his speed. He was insatiable the first two rounds; he thinks he will test that beekeeping patience of yours. Yet, at only the first thrusts, Jade finds it a futile effort.

Your hand twitches on the pine at a foreign sensation. Where Jade’s hands rest on your hips, there is a difference in texture. There is silk between his fingers like some type of webbing. You startle at the odd sensation. Going to look behind you, you ask breathless, “Jade?”

“Cl – ugh – Close your eyes. Listen to … fuck … Listen to the forest.”

The thought of that strange texture of his hands is punched out when he finds a finger to your clit, rubbing in circles.

Fucked dumbed and drolling, you manage a “Fuck Jade!” before all your vocabulary burns itself from your brain.

“You have kept me up for the past week … (Na-Name) – uuk! –” Skin slaps in a thundering clap. Subconsciously, you tighten and moan. Summoning his breath, Jade leans in towards your ears, “I hope you can judge my next words fairly: I won’t stop until dawn. It will be a sleepless night for us.”

The night fills itself with the song of your moans.

“Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Like a bisque doll, you are washed by the village nuns. Two flank you on each side, one designated for your arm and the other for your leg. Assiduous, they move soapy towels down the length of your spidery limbs. Bisque dolls are beings without autonomy. You certainly do feel quite similar, disjointly watching a foreign hand lift your arm, twisting and rubbing soap on each finger with care.

Joints and skin do not belong to you anymore. A sterile hand lifts your left leg higher. Heart, not your possession.

Split into fourths like a filet, you try to remember who said those words: “Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.” As you are being stewed and cooked into a gallimaufry, you find that the past is not what you think about.

You are thinking about the cloudless skies outside. You are thinking about what it will be like under real warmth, not the warmth of bath water. You are thinking about whether tomorrow it will rain or remain sunny.

“Is something wrong, One?”

The image of skies dissolves in your mind. You blink in surprise. Head off in the cloud, you do not know which of the four nuns spoke. Between all the pallid moon faces cloaked in black, you choose to look at the one cleansing your left arm. You two met curious eyes.

“Your face was scrunching up. I was wondering if you were feeling any discomfort, One.” Your right arm talks to you.

“I’m quite alright. Thank you.”

Your left leg chimes in, soapy brine slathered on it. “If you feel any sort of stress, please let us know.”

Now that silence has been broken, your right leg says, “I cannot imagine being stressed on such a wonderful day. Ah, I’m so terribly envious.”

“I am quite at peace on this holy day,” you smile as to appease the fear all your limbs display. Moon faces hum their agreement, tranquility only broken when you say softly, “but –”. You gaze at the bathhouse’s windows, glass blocking off where nature carols. “How much longer? I long to be outside.”

You glare at the shoes on your feet.

Flanking both your sides, the congregation sits in the village’s woodsmith-made chairs. Beyond you, the stone slab lies; behind you, the statue of your God. Yet, what is most vexingly is in front of you: the sight of shoes on your feet.

Each birthday, you were dressed in the ceremony clothes and made to practice. Each birthday, you gave no fuss over the attire. Letting them dress the bisque doll, you resigned to putting on the empire dress with the square cut to display your iron branding on your stomach. Down to the fiber of your being, now, you wish you could take off the blasted shoes.

Your pointless glaring only stops when a voice approaches, asking, “Did I ever tell you about your grandfather?” You turn to the Reverend with a smile. The ceremony is commencing.

With a soft voice, you answer. “Not often enough.”

The Reverend always walks the sacrifice down the aisle. You suppose this might be a bit more sentimental, considering who you are to him, which is why he talks to you. Gently, you two find yourself joined at the bend of your elbow.

“He was a religious man. Devoted in a way the others around him were not.

“He would go out in forests people were too scared to venture into. The villagers would find him, sketching things they could not see in nature. It frightened and delighted them too, his sketches. He would polish that very statue like each day it would bring him luck. Each day before he went out in the forests, that was his routine.

“When he died … he died saying it was all for vain.” Your lips press together tightly. “A man so devoted and so close to God, shaming it. It was perhaps the worst day of his sons and daughters lives. On his deathbed, he brought upon such … shame to his family. Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Ah, that is where you heard it. You remember finally, you had heard it in the future which is now the present. That was why you could not remember the speaker because he had not spoken those words yet. You did not think you would find the future in the entheogens; how curious.

You two start towards the stone slab. As nobody's buttercup, you keep your eyes straight and refuse to yield towards distractions. Devote unlike your grandfather. Devote unlike your unsourced father who knocked up your mother exactly twenty years and nine months ago.

“I tell you this because I am incredibly proud of you. I have witnessed such growth from you. Piety flows in your bones as if God has smiled upon you Himself. My child –”

You look towards the Reverend, curious.

“You have been good.”

Nature stirs. At least, this time, the queen bee in my honeycombs is healthy. I leave behind something good.

When you reach the sacrificial table, you part like droplets rolling off a leaf in opposite directions. You press your hands on the omphalos, kneeling down and bowing your head. Eyes closed, you listen to the words you have heard since your tenth birthday.

You cannot help it – your mind wanders back to the past. Not searching for the merit of life, simply remembering how you became the Chosen One. A decade ago … such a long yet short time, such a juxtaposition.

The ritual involves the ocean. The ocean in which that faithful stream bleeds into. Every twenty or so years, just after the sacrifice predating them dies, everyone below the age of ten is made to stay underwater. The one who remains the longest is regarded as the Chosen One. Time slipped from your fingers like sand, underwater. A minute is an hour, an hour is a minute.

When you walked out of the ocean, your mother ran to embrace and to collapse to the ground crying. You had been underwater for a full twenty-four. The villagers thought you got swept up a riptide and died like some three year olds and two year olds of the past. Blue-lipped and shivering, you told them you thought you were the first one out.

There is no way you should have survived and felt as fine as you did.

Since then, nature talks to you like a baby conversing with an adult. You can make some syllables, understand the babbles that make up baba mean dada, and read the unconcealed emotions clearly. Now, it sings along with the Reverend, soft and gentle … somniferous almost.

You know you shouldn’t but –

You glance, barely moving your head, at Jade. He is staring right at you. His eyes are different, tiger eyes of flaming black and flaming gold. Somniferous eyes stare at your soul. Promptly, you pass out.

You wake up.

Your feet are encrusted with dirt. A multitude of trees enter your eyesight and the sound of a running stream worms into your ears. You are standing by the river where you washed clothes as a young teenager; the place where you and Jade had sex seven days ago; the place where you broke God’s trust.

Yet, no fear is present. Chest unusually light, you stare at the familiar pattern of trees dotted across the opposing side of the river. To your limited knowledge, this is you facing divine judgment. Retribution must be collected for your only sin.

You can accept that.

Curious eyes fall across the wilderness as your vision clears. You can not really tell what song nature is singing; there is a disconnect between you and the world. Blocked from the majority besides a single instrument: buzzing. You hear the harmony of humble bees buzzing, which you search for the source of. When you find it, a gasp breaks apart your lips.

Spread across the planes of your two arms are a thousand octagonal holes. Skin drenched in a mixture of golden honey and scarlet blood, the only breakage is pitch black, tiny honeycomb structures dug in your flesh. The concave pits freckle the entirety of both arms.

From the inner elbow and wrist of your left arm, two bees emerge from two separate holes. From the radius of your right arm, another bee. The rest of the colony is inside your skin, tickling your nausea.

That is not all that summons that high-pitched gasp. Clenched in the Swiss cheese flesh of your hands is a knife covered in blood.

You watch as the once cement knife starts to vibrate back and forth the longer you stare at it. Whole body shivers rape your bones and the shining red knife trembles with the movement.

For reasons unknown, your parted lips spill out one last rhythmic note, “J-Jade?” The world goes black.

You wake up.

Black, directionless water swallows you. There is no end or no beginning, so you float in the abdomen of the universal ocean, body tilted and head heavy. No calamity stirs your buoyant bones. Quite peaceful, you exist like a free-roaming satellite, untethered and left to bounce alone in directionless galaxies. No light, pitch black.

This is what you have always wanted from death. No God paradise, just a nebulous space to drift. This is the ideal death. Body propelled and caressed by unsourced waves that rock you peacefully to infinite sleep. No stars, pitch black.

It stops being peaceful when you need to take a breath. Water instead of air travels in. You have no mouth or nose. Body manipulated, water goes in the waiting nostrils of the seven pairs of holes in your abdomen and the three pairs of holes in your thorax. And, suddenly, that tranquil black gains a blinding hue of pain.

Depressing, the water does not float around you but pushes onto you. It clings like you are a magnet. The tiny caves in your thorax and abdomen flicker with agony, gathering more water. It clings to you like spandex. You throw an arm and leg into the atmosphere, and the absence of everything (beginning and end) is no longer a comfort. It clings like a leech, suctioning itself to you and filling the spiracles.

Mouthless, your heart throws out an unheard scream. The world goes blinding gold.

You wake up.

The first texture you feel is the cold granite on your cheek. It is a welcome balm until the granite grinds painfully on your pelvic bone and the skin of your breasts. Disorientate, you push yourself away from the surface. The granite rumbles under your hands … no, the granite is soundless but there is a rumbling. Still sitting on the ceremony’s sacrificial slab, you open your eyes.

The village is on fire. There is no building left intact. Flames rumble and tremble, fueling their physical form with all that a house has to offer. Red and gold climb upon the outer walls and black climbs out from the pumpkin innards of each house.

Snip-snap-woosh-woosh. The conflagration’s volume drowns out any and all sounds of nature. Beyond the roar of fire, you hear absolutely nothing.

Irrational, you turn your head in the direction of where you know the bee colonies are. You cannot see them through the thick plumes of smoke, separated from you by several burning buildings. You knew you would not be able to see them; why even look in their direction? Regardless, you squint even more to try to catch a glimpse.

If the queen moves, they would too. Survival instinct would make them take flight, right?

On the verge of tears, you start to squirm on the slab, taking your hand behind yourself and moving it by your thighs, angling your body so you can lean closer and squint at the flaming barricade, one of your legs slides off the slab, perhaps there is time –

“(Name).”

You look behind and down at Jade Leech. He rests with his arms folded on the slab, knees in the dirt. On his index is the queen bee, walking around and around in circles on his nail.

Your heart falls in despair. “She’s sick … She has a parasite.” Even when vocalizing the issue, you do not want to accept your own words.

“She does; she has had it for a while.”

“Is there anything I can do for her?”

“I’m afraid not. Soon the egg in her stomach will hatch. And the pupae will break out of her throat and head. It is truly odd. Usually, when bees have parasites like these, the bees throw them out of the hive. They kept her though. Even when there was something glaringly wrong with her.”

“Because she’s the queen.”

“Precisely.”

You and Jade watch on in a moment of silence. The queen rotates on twitching legs. Zombie-like, her tiny legs will give out momentarily and she tilts on the perch of Jade’s finger before getting back up again relentlessly. Circle turning into an octagon as she stutters in her steps.

Your hand drags across your face, flustered. The single, heavy as an anvil tear spreads thinly on your cheek. You blink the rest away.

Jade glances up from the parasite-raped bee. “Are you afraid?”

“No … I’m sad.”

Jade considers that. Mourning is a human process when death happens; mourning is like kintsugi to the heart, repairing it layer by layer. In the face of death, one sheds a predictable tear. The queen bee twitches, losing her strength. Jade mourns that he might never see true fright on your face, like missing a piece in a chocolate heart-shaped box.

He falls out of his pondering when you gently press your finger to him. Under the light of dozens of suns, gold and red flickering over, you are ethereal. His eyes fall helplessly to his sigil. He allows you to move him at your heavenly will.

“What happened to the ceremony,” you ask, taking the queen from him. You cup her like she is the tiniest pearl or the fragilest shard of sea glass. “Do we still have time to complete it?”

You do not receive a verbal answer. Instead, Jade gently pinches your chin in his hand, pulling your focus away from the insect. A warm smile settles on his face, olive-brown eyes soft with admiration. Then, grip steady on your mandible, he turns your focus to the open field, on the opposing side of the burning buildings.

When his hand falls away, your mouth falls open with the loss of stability.

The attending nuns and villagers are dead. A deep cavern is cut like a mouth across their throats, blooming a million liquid roses that stain their white garments. In their chairs, their heads are tilted back to display the rings of muscles in their body. Dead eyes face up the heavens, ignorant of their God who is venturing on land and swimming in the oceans of Earth.

The Reverend though – he lies in the middle of the walkway. He is headless, body supine and incomplete at the shoulders. All that remains of an indication he had a head is red splattered upon the grass. This butchery is inevitable. A priest of your religion is not allowed to impregnate women, under your God’s vow of celibacy.

“Oh.”

Is this punishment? Life snuffed out from your devoted village, leaving you and Jade who had broken the rules. You look down at your dying companion; she is halfway through a rotation, legs trembling on a trembling hand. Nature feels disconnected from you and yet, simultaneously, you feel like nature nestles herself in you.

“Oh, look at you. All alone.” Jade purrs, almost singing.

“I – I’m assuming you did this. Or God did this.”

“You are correct on both parts.”

“Do not toy with your words, Jade.”

“I'm as serious as death. Here, let me show you.”

Raising his hands, Jade presses palms to mouth. As he tilts his head back as far as possible, he follows along with his hands, running them up and over. Upturned olive-brown eyes quell with the pressure. Cropped black hair trembles with the motion. And when his hands finally return to the granite slab, Jade stares at you with a new right eye that shines a honey gold. His hair is considerably different.

Different, not unfamiliar. Far from unfamiliar. You have seen that style of teal hair with a single black strand since birth. In paintings on your mother’s nightstand, in books shelved away in the school, and carved into a towering stone effigy.

You think you have always known, looking so intently into nature thus looking so intently into Jade as well.

The queen bee on your finger grinds to a halt and dies. Crushing down in enclosing fists, the ceremony narrows; all the world is lost to you besides God’s/Jade’s voice. Nature beckons. He beckons. The fists you make are a comforting caress.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Never.”

“Prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Sing for me.”

Swallowing thick saliva, your chest puffs with air peppered with ash. You two stare at each other. Then … you sing.

Tongue volatile, you sing. It is not a melody that follows along with the rhythm of a river or the instrumental of an insect. You sing out your heart, sending it out on delicate honey bee wings.

#jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland

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latinasforace · 1 month

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Crimson Petals in the Night ( Giyuu x Blood Hashira F! Reader )

n/a: hiii i’m starting a new series!!! hope you all r interested. This is just the introduction but I will have the first chapter ready by tmr (hopefully…)

:3 enjoy!

reader is female coded!!!! & the blood hashira. Abilities will be explained later on. oh and i’m hsing she/they for reader.

& pls keep in mind, this is taking place 2 YEARS BEFORE CANON EVENTS. so 2 years before tanjiro’s family was attacked & nezuko turned.

INTRO CHAPTER

The moon hung low in the night sky, its silver light spilling over the quiet garden like a gentle kiss from the heavens. The world was draped in a cloak of darkness, with only the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional song of a nightingale breaking the stillness.

The garden, though dirty and wild with untamed plants and broke pottery, abandoned, held a certain charm—a promise of what it could be with tender care, bathed in the soft glow of the full moon, feeling like a hidden relic from a time long forgotten. The silence is almost palpable, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves as the night wind weaves through the dense, overgrown foliage.

A small, arched bridge stretches across a narrow stream, its wooden planks creaking faintly under the weight of time and neglect. The water below glistens with a silvery sheen, reflecting the moonlight like scattered pearls on a dark canvas.

At the far end of the garden stands a small shed, its wooden walls weathered and darkened by years of exposure. Vines snake up its sides, clinging to the structure like nature’s determined attempt to reclaim what was once hers.

The shed’s roof, once a testament to craftsmanship, now sags slightly, covered in moss and creeping ivy. It blends seamlessly into the surroundings, as if it has always been a part of the garden’s quiet, melancholic beauty.

The flowers, though still vibrant in their hues, grow haphazardly among thick clusters of weeds and vines. Their petals catch the moonlight, giving the garden an otherworldly, almost surreal quality. It’s a place that feels both real and imagined, where the boundaries between the physical and the fantastical blur.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers, creating a heady mix that lingers with each breath.

In the heart of this quiet abandoned sanctuary, a young woman knelt, her delicate hands cradling a handful of seeds. Wearing a kimono of the finest silk, with a contrast of deep black, adorned with intricate red flowers that seemed to bloom across the fabric like a garden at midnight. Her hair caught the moon’s light, making her appear ethereal—like a spirit of the night, come to bless the earth with new life.

She pressed the seeds gently into the soil, her touch careful, as if she were whispering secrets to the earth. There was a calmness in her actions, a peace that belied the danger lurking in the shadows beyond the garden’s borders.

But peace was not meant to last.

“Why are you out so late at night?”

The voice was stern, edged with authority, cutting through the tranquility like a blade. The young woman did not startle; instead, she looked up slowly, her eyes meeting those of the man who had spoken. He stood at the edge of the garden, his form partially obscured by the shadows, yet the intensity of his gaze was unmistakable. The man wore the attire of a Demon Slayer, his half patterned haori billowing slightly in the breeze, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The figure in the kimono tilted their head slightly, a confused expectation reflected on their face. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

His eyes narrowed, clearly unamused by the casual response. “There are demons out at this hour—deadly ones. You’re bound to get eaten, standing here so vulnerable.”

“Is that so?” The figure’s voice was soft, yet there was a teasing edge to it that suggested they found his warning more amusing than frightening. “And here I thought the night was for everyone to enjoy.”

He stepped closer, the moonlight revealing the sharp lines of his face and those b. “This isn’t a game. If you stay, you’ll get yourself killed.”

There was a brief pause, and then the figure let out a soft, almost mocking laugh. “Oh, I see… You’re worried about me.” She leaned forward slightly, the red flowers on her black kimono catching the light as they did. “Do you make a habit of rescuing strangers, or am I just special?”

He didn’t answer right away, taken aback by the unexpected response. There was something unsettling about how calm they were—how unafraid. He had expected fear, or at least concern, but instead, they seemed to be toying with him, as if the danger he spoke of was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“You should leave,” he said, voice hardening as he tried to regain control of the situation. “Now.”

The figure regarded him with a knowing smile, their eyes glinting with something that almost resembled mischief. “Perhaps I will,” she replied, her tone light and unhurried. “Or perhaps I’ll stay a little longer… The night is still young, after all.”

For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He was used to dealing with fear, with people who needed protection—but this young lady, with this mysterious aura and defiant calmness, was something else entirely. A puzzle he wasn’t sure how to solve.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the figure alone in the garden. Despite his warning, she felt no fear—only the quiet satisfaction of having stood her ground.

As she continued her work, a faint glint of metal caught the moonlight, hidden among the gardening tools and materials by her side. A closer look would have revealed a deep crimson blade, its hilt wrapped in black and red, with a guard shaped like a blooming rose. But the swordsman, now long gone, hadn’t noticed—his attention too focused on the mystery of the woman herself than to notice the subtle hint of her true identity as a slayer.

She watched him disappear into the shadows, her smile lingering as she resumed their task, planting seeds in the dark earth with the same deliberate care as before.

The night air was cool and still, but the tension left behind from their exchange hung in the air, like the scent of something yet to bloom.

To be continued…

#giyuu tomioka #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer x reader #giyuu x reader #giyuu tomioka x reader #hashira reader #giyuu x fem reader #kny #kny fanfic

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shibaraki · 1 year

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BE STILL MY INDELIBLE LOVE ┊ CHOSO

tags: GN reader, shark mer choso, mating behaviour, accidental acceptance of courting, fluff, interspecies relationships, blood + mild gore (fish death), biting (plenty of it), fluff, forbidden love vibes

wc: 1K+

↱ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server — written using @petrichorium’s prompts: “This is… food? For me? I can’t eat this” and “A cloud of blood billowing from a thrashing creature” ↲

Curiosity is just shrouded gluttony. The need to see more, know more, devour as much of the world as you can. Your village elders impressed fear on the young to keep them from treading far afield. They punished those that set foot beyond the borders. Do not leave the boundaries. Do not enter the woods.

You always had been an insatiable child. Restless and unhappily kept in your four walls. The hunger never settled. It drew you to stories of eldritch creatures cast away by God, tales woven with drunken mariner whispers, pages in books quickly torn at the spines and burned. A travelling scholar once told you that the Earth was covered in salt. The sea. The monsters you sought resided there, finding home in the briny depths.

There is a vein outside the village where the salmon run upstream to complete their life cycle. Every river led to the ocean, that much you knew. The first time you crept out of the village had been on impulse. You walked for miles, closely following the sounds of free flowing water until you stumbled upon the inlet. You recall how your feet sank into the mud, grit of silt and icy embrace, and how the oppressive current worked against you as you trudged downstream.

That is where you found Choso.

Where the treeline flanked the narrowing river on either side and rose to create a tapestry of foliage that obscured the sun, in a palatial veil of gold, you saw him; large and angular, a shadow moving on the riverbed. Half fish half man. A long dark tail and a pale belly that blended into skin. Torqued fins, caudal and pelvic, another beginning at the base of his spine, standing proud and tall. Black hair plumed around a gentle face, markings cut across the bridge of his nose. Serrated teeth hidden behind soft lips that tore into your ankle and unearthed a merry scarlet waterfall when you came too close.

Monsters are defined by their aberrance. Monsters are unnatural, wicked and ugly. On your second visit you quickly learned that Choso was none of those things, watching in awe as he drug himself onto the banks and cradled your injured heel. A long tongue too rough and dextrous to be human lapped over the scabbed wound in apology, his saliva numbing the residual pain.

Monstrous? No. To you, he is about as threatening as a limpet. You returned to his neck of the river every day since—rather, every day possible. He is the one to receive your first and last words. With each sun cycle and mark left on your skin your neighbour’s expressions grow more sour. Monstrous are the grating whispers, louder still, the eyes pinned to your every move; endured, only if it meant seeing Choso once more.

A cloud of blood billowed from a thrashing shadow in the dark crevasse. You wait in the mud, cushioned by dry grass pressed flat under your thighs. The surface ripples violently and eventually settles into foam, fizzing out in broad rings. The stillness breaks where a head rises from the water. Red rivulets paint Choso’s chin, running down the column of his throat and staining his gills as he drags himself ashore.

You hold a trepid breath. One swing of his large, muscled arm and there’s a severed fish carcass hauled into the dirt. It comes apart like wet paper, viscera spilling out in a streaming tide. “Eat,” he states firmly.

Choso doesn’t speak often. When he does it is usually just to demand something of you. Give when he needs to tend the thin wounds his teeth leave. Come when you’re too far from him. Watch when he wants you to pay attention as he dives deeper to perform strange, intricate dances for you.

Eat is a recent addition to his verbal repertoire. For some reason he is intent on feeding you. “This is… food? For me?” you smile ruefully, apprehensive as you poke at the dead eyed fish head at your feet. “I can’t eat this, Choso.”

He huffs. The currents break around a too-big tail as he crawls to your lap. You fall back on the soft earth, knees parting to accommodate his breadth. The fins on either side of his pelvis press into your navel. You reach out to cup his face in your palms without much forethought, drying blood now chipping under your fingers.

Something warm and pleasant coils in your chest when his whole body shudders. His gills flutter around a long exhale. You laugh quietly, relenting when he nuzzles his head against your midsection, blood smearing your clothes. Sometimes it felt as though he was trying to dig into your bones.

Head whipping to the side, he takes the flesh of your forearm between his jaws with just enough pressure to pierce skin. The flat of his rough tongue rolls over the wound, blood congealing. Satisfied, he noses at the sensitive skin of your wrist before returning your hand to his jaw. You barely flinch. Choso has done this so many times now you’ve lost count. He steadfastly refuses to tell you why but there’s never any malice in it.

A thought crosses your mind. Your arm falls limp to the side where his own lies. You feel him seize when your fingers enclose around his forearm. Choso stares unblinking while you bring his wrist to your mouth. Pliant, allowing you to shape him as you please.

His skin is thick and tough and so unlike your own. A rumbling purr begins to resonate in his chest as you sink your dull human teeth into him, biting down harder than you’ve ever tried, eyes clenched shut with the effort. Your jaw locks, a soft pop rattling around your skull when the scales break.

You reel away as his blood fills your mouth, sticking to your gums. The taste of copper pervades your senses. Hare brained, your elders called you. Foolish glutton. But in that moment, when Choso braces himself over your body, pinned back to the verge, he dubs you something new.

Crowding close to nip at your cheek, he murmurs, “Mine”.

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #choso x reader #choso x y/n #m.choso #just to be clear: the biting is courting behaviour

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zombholic · 11 months

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𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 — rebekah mikaelson

summary — you couldn’t help but swoon over the original without her even having to compel you, instead of matt being in the lake with elena its you but with a twist.

description — poc fem!reader, tvd rebekah!au, sexual themes but no smut.

— 🩸　　 ◦ ✺ 　 🦷　 ⟢ —

The first time you met Rebekah in Mystic Falls you were already so fascinated with her but with your childhood friends completely having a war with her and her siblings you kept to yourself.

Being one of two humans in the friend group you were surprised that you lived for this long especially Matt Donavan, he literally gets himself killed every other day.

You were in charge of taking Elena out of Mystic Falls, she was unconscious in your car as you began to drive over Wickery Bridge. A tall silhouette appeared in the middle of the road causing you to slam onto your brakes serving off the bridge and into the deep lake.

The water wasted no time sinking into your car, bashing your hands and elbows onto the windows at fear of you and your best friend drowning.

Panic rose into your body as you started sucking in the water that filled up your lungs, the burning sensation making you hysterical until all pain vanished and the little light around you turned black.

Your body shot up as water shot out of your lungs, you gasped breathlessly finally feeling relieved that you were able to breathe again. Another subtle gasp had caused you to snap your head to the side only to see the blonde with relief written all over her face.

“Darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were in the car or else I wouldn’t have don—“ You were quick to cut her off.

“You tried to kill me Rebekah!” Anger brewed in your voice.

“No, I tried to kill Elena but besides—“ You eyes widen as you started to become aware of your surroundings. You were in the Mikaelson’s Mansions more specifically lying in the original girls bed.

“Elena! Oh my god Elena!” Sobs started choking out of your throat thinking you had killed your best friend.

“No, love. She’s alive, don’t worry she’s alive” Rebekah’s hand rubbed your face trying to soothe you.

You looked up at her confusion plastered across your face wondering how you even ended up here rather than at the Salvatores house, her baby blue orbs sadden.

“They left you in the lake to perish Darling, I hid when Stefan left with Elena when I saw it was your car and I saved you just in time.” She explained with her voice so gentle, her soft hand still caressing your face.

“They— no, they wouldn’t just leave me to die.” Your heart sunk deep into your stomach, forcefully pushing her hand away from you. Denial kicked in realizing that your once close friends didn’t even think twice to come back and even give you a proper burial if they thought you were even dead.

“Why, why would they leave me, I have done nothing but risk my life for them—“ Your throat swelled up as your heart ached, the emotion pain started becoming physical and all you could let out were extricating sobs.

Rebekah pulled you into her lap and held you close to her chest as tears streamed down your now puffed up face. “Shh sweet girl, you’re okay, you’re safe with me.” Her soothing voice slowly calming you down, little hiccups now escaping your lips.

“Why did you save me? I thought you hated me.” Your little comment made her chuckle, she so gently lifted up your chin to have you look at her mesmerizing face.

She licked her lips staring half lidded at your lips then back to your eyes, the supposed dangerous vampire leaned down and pressed her lips against your swollen pink ones. You wrapped your arms around her neck and laid back on her mountains of pillows having her crawl on top of you, caging your body beneath near.

She pulled away having you desperately chase back for more getting a smirk as she saw her red lipstick smudged into your soft lips.

“I don’t hate you baby, I hate the people you associate yourself with.” You felt your heart beating fast just by her words alone, are you sure she didn’t compel you? No, you wore a vervain bracelet that Bonnie gifted you when all of this went down.

“I didn’t even think you would be interested in girls? Let alone me.” You gave her a sweet smile, your stomach starting to do flips with the way she looked at you like you were the most beautiful creature she’s ever laid her eyes on.

— 🩸　　 ◦ ✺ 　 🦷　 ⟢ —

authors note — GUUYYSSS SHOULD I MAKE A PART 2 BUT IT’LL HAVE SMUT 😩🙌🏽

#lesbian #lgbtq #wlw #rebekah mikaelson #rebekah mikealson x reader #rebekah mikealson x fem reader #rebekah mikealson drabble #the vampire diaries #tvd universe #the orginals

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14thgalerie · 1 year

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25 — part 3 (alt/ext. ending)

• pairing: exhusband!james potter x reader

• now playing: scott street by phoebe bridges / this is me trying by taylor swift

• word count: 6.1k

• genre: angst (as expected)

— based on this request, i unconsciously changed up some details as I was writing this but here you go! I'm not really the biggest fan of this as I haven't been feeling up to writing recently

part 1 part 2

There is silence around him, and there is time. For a while, he thinks he has all the time in the world, but the heavens have never been on his side and they never will.

James

It was cruel. To feel the ropes that tightened each day on his beating organ even in his sleep.

Above, a dark navy sky drifts with flurries of clouds, moving in slow motion.

James

When his eyes fluttered open, his vision remained the same of the dark surroundings. Something that was not news to him. The sound of birds chirping outside of the house along with the gentle stream of the river in the distance largely contradicted the condition of his closed-off room.

James

He hears it again. The voice rang through his ears constantly in the past weeks. When he tilts his head to the direction of where it came from, it doesn’t take long for his vision to be filled with warm, hazy hues of orange. Only then did his mind register the light that entered through his swept curtains.

“Darling.” He called so softly that even his ears could barely register the sound.

He leaped up, ignoring the groan of his limbs. He blinks once, twice, and then he says your name. Realising his mistake when he first called you by his preferred call name from when you were still together. “What-” He stammers. “What are you doing back here?”

A brief pause before his eyes widened. “Not that I mind! It’s just- you know-”

You let out an amused exhale. “Yes. Frank let me in and asked that I wake you up myself because he has to rush off for something.” You explain as your eyes kept their focus on the body that was fidgeting across from you.

“Oh! Yeah, he has this appointment for the dentist that Marlene met when she settled in London for a while.” His eyes never stayed far too long on one object, constantly shifting and yet it often settled on you. The red Mary Jane flats that you always wore. Hair that seemed to be a lighter colour than when he last saw you.

“It’s his wisdom tooth, huh? I just got mine removed the other day actually.”

But his eyes never meet yours. They remain fixated on the bump that is poorly hidden beneath your clothes.

A fusillade of questions went through his bewildered mind. Had you already found someone and couldn't help but plaster to his face the future he lost? Was this another image that would haunt him for the rest of his days?

“James.” You call out again. “Can we sit downstairs?”

He nods, unable to articulate a word for he knew it would all be a jumble of syllables.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting its warm light on his pale hands which sat on his lap. You had decided to sit in the backyard, finding your old home to be too cold and missing the warmth that kissed your skin on the way here. James went ahead while you stayed behind to grab the two cups of tea you had prepared before you went up to the bedroom.

“Hey there, I hope you still like your tea like before.” You gently placed the fragile ceramic on the table in front of him before you sat on the seat beside him.

“Two teaspoons of sugar.” You simultaneously said. His shocked state was broken by the laughter that came over him at your action. You also giggle, especially as you see genuine joy finally creep through his mein.

“So um, I guess I should speak first then.” You say out loud, after taking a sip from your cup. “I’m quite sure you have seen this stomach of mine already earlier. I mean, it’s gargantuan, it would be impossible not to.”

You pause to check on him and see the reaction on his face. To which you received none, for his face remained as blank as a whiteboard on the first day of class.

James couldn’t understand the emotions that waved over him at the worst fear of his coming true. Millions of thoughts shift and begin inside his head, none of them coherent enough to be pierced together. All he knew was that everything within him lost sight and he is left dwindling at your whim.

Breathe. Breathe.

“Yeah, how far along are you now?” He asks, trying to keep his voice still.

He watches as you exhaled heavily, your countenance now similar to his. You bite your lower lip, struggling to keep the flow of your sentences going.

“About five months now.”

James instinctively calculates the months in his mind.

No.

He shakes his head. His eyes plastered intently on the wet grass in front of him.

“She’s yours. Not that I had been with anyone after you.” You reply, knowing it must have been the first question that came to him. Still trying to gauge the thoughts that he could be having. The latter, you muttered under your breath, unsure if he even heard it. So you quickly said something to cover it up. “If I counted right, it would’ve been from the last time we slept together a few weeks before we officially separated.”

The world slows down to an adagio, and he’s all caught up in the moment before he speaks. He heard it. His ears piqued at the words that were laced with a tiny hint of vindictiveness. But he didn’t bother to give it a second thought when his mind was still stuck on one thing. “A girl.” He laughs but it was more in disbelief. The world has apparently not been good to you either, giving you a gift that reminded you of his faults. “I wanted a girl.”

“Yeah.” You say, giving him a huge smile. “I know, and you finally won again.”

Your hands reach out to wrap around his own pair, veiny and cold, a sharp contrast to his. His fingers curl around your fingers, laughing inwardly at his body’s automatic response to your touch. He doesn’t know how this was a win for him. His child would grow up, unknowing of her father who withered away miles away.

He couldn’t accept it. The idea that another person would be taking his place beside you in watching her first steps. Laughing at her incomprehensible mumbles.

“Please,” He nearly shook at the voice that came out of his lips. Surprising both you and him. “Stay.”

He stands, without dropping your intertwined hands, and drops to kneel in front of you. His dark, searching eyes locked onto yours. In the depths of his irises, emotions swirled like a tornado, and in the middle of it all, a man lies.

“I know I said I would not ask any more from you, but that’s the one promise I cannot stand behind. I’ll do better now. Just please, give me this chance and I swear I would forever be by your side.”

You pull your hands away to which you were met with resistance. He relaxes when he feels your arms wrap around him, combing through his dark hair. “Well, it seems you still have that habit of not letting me finish.” You joke. Though it could be seen in your expression, the hesitance, the drawback.

There is no doubt that you were still hurting from the repercussions of your ex-husband’s choices in the past. He couldn’t blame you for it, he is still suffering from it so he could not even imagine the level of your pain.

But before he could see it, you reverted back to your carefree expression as he pulled back to give you a playful glare, his red cheeks still smeared with the trails of his tears. “I was gonna ask you before you interrupted me if you want to give this a chance. An attempt to see if we could do this together. “

You made him stand and sit beside you, which he obediently followed. He finds himself being able to breathe properly again for the first time in a while, the smell of fresh air sifting through his lungs once again. The familiar comfortable weight on his shoulders that took the shape of your head in its place again.

“So, should we kick Remus out of the guest bedroom so we could paint for the nursery?” He jokes as you both silently watch the light blue sky covered with an abundance of clouds that looks so fluffy that you wanted to lay in them.

You burst out in laughter, imagining the look on Remus’ face when he hears of this news. “He might just kick the both of us out when we do that.”

“But uh- I wanted to also ask you if it’s alright that we stay in my apartment instead?” You hesitatingly ask when silence befalls you again. “It’s just the idea in my head that so many things took place in this house that I would rather not be reminded of again.”

His heart clenches once again at the remnants of the consequences of his choices left on you. But he understood where you came from, and frankly, he felt the same. “Whatever you ask, darl- Y/N.”

“You can call me that. Don’t worry.” You assure him, knowing that he was walking on eggshells and you didn't want it to be like that now that you were welcoming this baby to your lives.

“I missed having someone hear me call you by that, darling.” He says. Was this suffering enough for all that I caused her? He asked himself. Was it even close to the hurt and anguish that I have traded for the ceaseless love she untiringly gave to him?

He doesn’t believe it is. He doesn’t even believe that all of what had just occurred in the past hours were real. He was fully expecting to be shaken awake by Remus, with a scowl on his face, muttering about how love is useless and shouldn’t be as needed as it is.

The tides have receded and all is calm and how it was.

James was surprised that you had left for another home miles and miles away. In a place where there is little to no trace of magic anymore. You were a step closer to the future you had always dreamed of.

A life away from the chaos and destruction that your world is currently in.

He doesn’t dwell on this fact any longer, instead taking it as a moment to appreciate that you had accepted him into this life. He remembers, from your trip on the way here, that you instantly got approved to be dismissed for a while from the missions all of you had been taking to ensure your and the baby’s safety.

Although he wasn’t quite as lucky, as he still needs to report back every now and then to perform his duties to the wizarding world. But they must’ve been in a good mood then, to allow him to take less time so as to assist and accompany you before your birth.

“I’ve been working at this cafe around the block.” You mindlessly mention, hanging your coat by the closet as he enters the bright and homey apartment. The natural light that comes in through the large French windows and the balcony lights up the whole place.

“That’s nice, are they treating you any good?”He inquires, wanting to absorb as much information about you as he could. You nod. He rushes back towards his bags which he had left by the stairway when he sees you about to pick them up. “I’ve got it! Why don’t you settle down for a while and rest up from our trip? I don’t want you carrying all this heavy stuff since it could hurt your back.”

You snicker, “I’ve been carrying much more heavy stuff in the past weeks since moving in. I don’t think two duffel bags of clothes will do much damage.”

“Still. I’m here now, and as much as I know you can surely carry this, I don’t want you to. I’m scared for you and the baby.” James worries.

“Yeah, use the baby to guilt me. I can almost see a little girl version of you with a smile so wide asking for things that she doesn’t even care for.” You say, leaning both of your arms on your waist.

He laughs wholeheartedly, “Hmm, I might but I also might not.” Coming forward to pull you down on your cream couch. “Maybe she will grow up to be as nice, loving, and loyal as her mother. I’m sure she’ll be attached to your hip.”

“Yeah right, as if your stubborn ass would allow that to happen.”

He doesn’t reply anymore, instead exhaling an amused breath. The rest of the day was spent in mostly comfortable silence, while the two of you bicker over each song that plays on the radio; he had stood up to turn it on when his eyes glanced at it. Only coming to an agreement when it came to Laufey— a fact that surprised you by a whole lot but also made you the happiest woman on Earth. He laughed when you squealed in excitement. It was like the two of you were back on stage one, a chance to do it all over again. A small movement by his side caught his attention.

Your warm fingers slowly inched in around his hand before enclosing it in the palm of your hand. The soft skin of your hand as it rests on top of his made his heart race in his chest and it takes a moment before James could manage to get a hold of himself. A minute has already passed when he also clenched her hand tight and placed their hands on his lap.

It’ll be a while before everything goes back to the way it is, but he’s got all the patience in the universe.

— Two months later

James had never been so honest in his life than when he promised he would do everything within his power to be there for you and your family. It would be a long and difficult process but even when the two of you are well below 6 feet underground and your daughter has made a life of her own, he would still be at your will.

When the world reached its final stage of collapse, he could do nothing but watch it unfold. He didn’t know when exactly it happened. He was content with the roof that hid the dark sky away from him, in peace with the light you brought him. But when your world is built with the scraps of destruction, it is bound to crash onto you.

It just so happened that it was his that fell off the axis.

James felt that the more he tries, the more he’s losing you. A thought that made him chuckle dryly because it’s so ironic when you lay peacefully asleep in the room you both share. He knew that you also were trying, even forcing yourself to feel the love that was even remotely close to the love that you used to have for him.

It wasn’t to say you felt nothing for him anymore, it was only that it wasn’t what you both expected it to be. It’s just that he is nothing but the father to your child now, not the one you saw yourself spending years alongside.

This wasn’t all simple insecurities for him, he knew it was a fact. He did not mean to, but he happened to overhear a conversation you had with your neighbor who you had become close friends with.

But to him, it didn’t matter. All he wanted was to make you feel loved and safe in his arms.

He feels you nestle your cheek in his arms.

“I’m sorry.”

He hears you mumble in your sleep, he had half a mind to wake you up. But he found himself unable to do so, investing in the way the wind flowing from the open window made your eyelashes flutter.

He studies you carefully. You had all these little intricacies that he would like to believe no one else saw except for him— something of you that he would like to keep to himself. He desires nothing more than to think that no one but him knows about the birthmark behind your ear, nor the scar on your hand from when you scratched yourself while riding a bike.

He longed to have every detail of your being ingrained in the deepest parts of his brain. He wanted to feel the intricate texture of your existence.

“Hi there…” You groggily say.

“Hi.” He leans down to press his lips against yours. You have gotten used to the feeling of connecting your lips to his, but the look in his eyes when he pulled back instantly filled you with a surge of anxiety that made you fully wake up. They reflected a kaleidoscope of emotions— too many to process but what stood out was the misery and acceptance behind it.

“James…”

“I love you.” Yet, he still tried to play his luck.

“James…I kissed someone else, we have to talk about it.“

The cold wind blasts with bitterness as you leave through the large heavy doors of your apartment building. Hugging your cardigan closer to you and holding your tote bag tighter to your chest, you rush towards the supermarket nearest you. James had gone back to meet with Remus and the others after Dumbledore had called them suddenly. Seeing as your plans to go to the park with him had to be put on pause, you decide to finish a few errands.

“Welcome to Flamingo’s!” A staff greets you when you enter. Heading straight toward the long aisles, grabbing whatever item you need, and placing it on the large cart in front of you. A ridiculously large one. Truth be told you were completely baffled at its size when you grabbed it.

But as much as you claim to hate it, you’re having the time of your life; feeling like a child pretending the cart was a formula one car and the aisles were a race track. The lack of shoppers made it all the better because you didn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone. Quickly grabbing your items like they were some boosters from a game as you swiftly went through the aisles. It felt nice to completely let go and just pretend like she’s living as a carefree person, especially with how busy she has been lately.

You had just turned the corner when a sudden yelp brought you out of your daze. You drew your bottom lip in between your teeth at the sound. Scolding yourself for thinking that you wouldn’t accidentally hit someone. You turn to face the person to apologise for your careless actions when a clear, deep voice cut you off before you could even do so. “Y/N? What are you doing?”

His brown hair was damp and pulled back, indicating that he probably took a quick shower before he headed outside. His tall form was clad in a pair of old jeans, a plain white shirt, and a dark hoodie.

“Remus? What are you doing here?” You were confused, you thought when James said he was meeting with the group that Remus was a part of it.

“Grocery shopping?”

The two of you walk-in unison toward the cashier. “Oh, I thought you were meeting up with the rest of the Order.” You mention. “I wasn’t needed when I asked. But James and Sirius were called specifically.” He explains as you were lining up, his hand gesturing for you to go first.

You feel a weird flutter in your stomach all of a sudden. You dismiss it as one of your pregnancy things. With weak legs, you moved forward as the line progressed. Trying to compose yourself before he caught up.

“Why didn’t you call to tell me that you were dropping by?” You ask. Genuine curiosity scratching at your brain. During the time that you and James were still apart, he had been driving up to your place to help you out. He was one of the few people you told of your pregnancy. “I wanted to give you a surprise since it’s been a while since we met up.”

“So, what are you cooking for me today, Chef Lupin?” She observes while taking a quick scan of his basket.

“Bold of you to assume this is for you, lady.” He chuckles. “This is all for baby Olive.”

“For the last time, Rem, I am not naming my baby Olive.”

“Well, even if you don’t, I’m calling her Olive after you made me buy a kilo of olives just to make me eat it instead.” He snarkily replies.

Feeling a warmth creep up on your cheeks, your head shifts away so quickly that you feared you may have gotten whiplash from it. In your movement, you see one of the cashiers' signs for you to move along. Not realizing that both of you had already been at the end of the line. Before you could push the cart, a long arm beats her to it. Your cart gets pushed by your company.

“Stop being a gentleman, you’re gonna make women fall for you.” You jokingly tease him.

You settled beside him, watching the man handle your groceries. Your eyes focused on the screen before you. “Only for you.” A silence ensues at his reply. Remus guffaws at the curl of your upper lips, not even a beat after he said the cheesy line. “But I’m being honest here, I only do it with you. Well, except for the obvious like helping other people when they need it, but I mean that I enjoy helping you. ”

“Why?” You ask incredulously.

“I just do.” He said while crossing his arms over his chest.

But right before either of you could utter a remark again, the man in front of you called the total. “That’ll be $235 in total, should I separate your items?”

You each make a move to give cash first before the other but alas Remus still beats you to it, quickly finishing the task. “Please do, thank you.”

Free food for you, then.

You take a seat provided just a few steps away from the counter, drumming your fingers on the blue plastic chairs beside you. While Remus leans on the hand bar of the cart, patiently waiting for the cashier to finish, occasionally assisting with lifting some items.

Inside your head, as your ears circled in on the sound of the hustle and bustle of the market that had become busy as you were in line, your mind wanders to what it would be like if Remus was the one that you liked back then. The love you held for James was visibly wavering with every moment you had spent with Remus in the aftermath of your divorce, he had willingly helped you out even when you told him not to for fear of being a disturbance to him.

Just as the brunette began to straighten up and pivot the wheels of the cart to face your direction, you shake away the thought. Baffled because this would be a betrayal to James, despite what he did to you.

“Let’s go?” He asks. You nod, taking your place beside him, engaging in some more small talk as you head out the door. If you would call rants about the horrible noise that your neighbour makes in the middle of the night as small talk, however.

The man instantly moves to help you with the bags. Taking four at a time, telling you as he neared to just stay by the trunk and organise each of them to make everything fit. You silently give a nod in agreement, swiftly moving to not make him wait while carrying such heavy items. After all, it’s a relief that you didn’t have to carry all of these all the way back while you were nearly seven months pregnant. Building an efficient system in less than a minute.

The picture of the two of you reminds you of your childhood, watching as your parents do the same before it all went to shit. An air of domesticity is no doubt always felt when you are in their affinity. You stifle a smile that was threatening to form at the thought. You need to stop thinking like this.

The sound of the metal cart clanging as it hits the end of the line clamours in the parking lot. He walks towards you in the hazy yellows and oranges behind him. “That should be it! Should we go or do you need to drop by somewhere else?” He gestures for you to move out of the way of the trunk door, finger pointing to the passenger door which he had unlocked already. You shake your head, quietly replying with the former option.

Prying your eyes away from him, you make your way inside the car. Quickly settling inside the car, although with less ease than you had before as the last time you rode this truck was when you were lighter during your early pregnancy. Emitting a low groan, eyebrows knitted and eyes staring off to nowhere, you lean back and rest your head behind you.

To say you were delighted by the realisations coming to you would be a joke. It was an attraction that you knew should and would never fruition into something more. Accepting it as soon as possible would be right for your mental well-being. But nothing’s ever set in stone and you’re currently sitting in the passenger seat of a friend that you have stared at far more than any normal person would and waiting for him so that he could drive you home.

Stop doing that to yourself, Y/N.

“Are you good?” Worriedly, he asks, “You look like you’re in pain. Have you got a headache or anything?”

You let your eyes adjust to the bright light that enters through the windows, shaking your head from side to side in reply. You force yourself to hold your head up high, locking contact with the gold optics, brightened by the varying hues of the setting sun. Remus flashes a soft grin with his eyes smiling alongside. “I’m glad, but are you sure? I could drive you to the clinic if you want.”

Then and there, all at once, the rest of the world blurred and all that you could see was Remus. Remus, who had granted you the opportunity to be at the receiving end of his care when you really needed it, looked at you with as much fondness as you would others, unknowing that you noticed it. Nothing had existed as beautiful as he was. He smiled and you felt yourself spiraling down deeper into the hole that you had dug and covered over and over again yourself over time.

For once, you feel the apples of your cheeks rise again in true joy; not believing that you could ever feel this way, this happy, ever again and with anyone else.

You reach forward with your arm and grab his face to pull him towards you until you feel the slightly cracked but soft lips pressed tenderly against yours.

The softness of your kiss conveyed a depth of feeling that surpassed the transcendence of words. His hands were frozen by the steering wheel moved to pull her closer, as if afraid that she would slip away.

In the arms of one another, time seemed to lose its meaning and the world outside melted away.

“What do you mean that you know?” You whispered, your voice a trembling echo.

You force your body to sit up and face him properly. Checking over his entire figure, afraid to see one of your biggest fears of hurting him.

It was inevitable and you knew it.

You were on the other side of this only months ago, and despite it all, you had never wished for him to feel the same. It was excruciating.

“Remus told me himself, explained the whole thing.” He explains as he looks down on his lap. His fingers played with the wrinkled fabric of his pajamas. The sight leaves you feeling a sense of deja vu.

“I knew he was going to you back then, at first it was because I asked him to because I was curious how you were doing. But then he started to act differently, describing what was up with you similarly to how I did back when we first started dating.” He explains further.

“I didn’t notice it at first, Sirius did. I thought it was something Sirius made up in his head just to mess me with me again but then when I met up with Remus around two weeks ago, he dropped the bomb on me.”

“I- what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. I mean- how could I? I had just heard from one of my best friends that not only did my ex-wife kiss him, one that I am still in love with, might I add, but he also reciprocated it because he wanted to.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“Right, so can we please forget about this and go back to sleep?” His voice pleaded, cracking with the force of his emotions, desperate for you to meet his gaze and for you to close the distance between you that widened with every second.

“I know this might be just your form of revenge towards me, and I forgive you! I really do! So can we please-“ His voice faltered.

He paced back and forth, his voice breaking with each syllable. “Could we please move on now? Can you please love me again?”

His emotions were laid before you, like vivid paint that once again smears the stark white canvas which had just been replaced. Letting you see all that he could give.

“No, James.” Your response was firm, tone strong to leave nothing for discussion anymore yet it is also strained. The stars shimmer in the clear, night sky bearing witness to the tumultuous end of your love and most of all, your struggles.

“This is unhealthy, I tried. I tried relentlessly to dismiss the blaring warning signals that echoed within me solely so that I never took away your right to be a father to your child. Regardless of all that came between us, she did nothing to receive only half of the affection she deserved.”

Your words were laden with pain, a silent plea for him to stop, to wave the white flag, but his unwavering love was an unstoppable force that consumed him entirely.

“Y/N-“ He started. His voice cracking at the weight of his inadequacy. The inability to give the love she deserves and to be the recipient of hers.

Yet, before he could even begin again, she interjected, speaking into reality the words that would solidify the end of your shared path.

“You are a great man, James. I really do believe that, but I don’t think I can love you anymore like you expect me to. That’s just it.”

“I don’t hold any hatred in my heart for you. I really don’t, even if you make me think otherwise. Nothing will ever change the fact that you were by my side for years, long years where I knew nothing except that I love you. That will never change, and I’ll always care for you albeit it’s taken a different form now.”

He is silent, a sense of defeat in the celestial orbs that once brightened like the night sky.

“You have been an incredible husband, I even dare to call you my soulmate. It’s just that we weren’t bound to last as husband and wife even if we wanted to. God, I wished for nothing more when I first went back home to you that this would work because this emptiness without you was unbearable.”

With a heavy sigh, choked with emotion. “Yet, as painful as it is to hear me say this, I think it was because you were this one constant presence in my life that when I lost you, I missed you so terribly that even when I felt my love for you slowly differ by day, this urge to recapture the past had consumed me.”

In denial, in sorrow, in defeat was his only state at the moment.

“I love you.” His voice was laced with despondency.

He moved to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear before he caressed your cheek as though he were comforted by the mere presence of you right now. He had no answer for everything you had said, as it always is, you were correct.

It only felt that there were a thousand knives being poked through him now as if he were a dummy as he chooses to accept that.

In hindsight, if there were any person who he would’ve stood behind in confidence when it came to you, it would truly be Remus. The two of you were closer than with any of his friends, knowing each other before you had met James.

But it was the knowledge that Remus loves as wholly as one should that assure him that you were in perfectly good hands.

Of all things, he never wanted to force you to do anything, even if it meant that he had to let you go for the second time. This time, however, it hurt so much more because it proved to him that even with a chance, he would never have you back.

The only thing he’s got is one last night with you.

“Y/N?” He meekly calls your name.

You hum in waiting, tired and in pain similar to him. This wasn’t any easier for you, you truly did want to mend this hurdle in your relationship but it simply wasn’t meant to be.

“Can you hold me to sleep one last time? You can leave whenever you want but please let me have one last sleep where I am still yours.” He asks, even if it makes him feel so pathetic, to be asking you for something as small as this.

Without any hesitation, you move to pull him back with you to lie in bed. You wrap your arms around his back as you let your head rest on the top of his, cocooning him with your entire body.

James couldn’t stop his tears from falling.

“Do you know?”

“What, love?”

“There were days that I wouldn’t go out nor would I sleep, I would just sit at the desk and watch outside the window. Outside, there were those tall grasses, who swayed in unison with the records playing in my room, unaware of our differences.” He says. You stare out the window, imagining the view outside your old house.

“The ones we planted flowers on?” You wonder. He nods.

“I sat there till the sun came up and the blossomed into new beginnings, wondering why I haven’t when the only difference was that my sun was in a picture frame.”

You remain silent.

“I love you.” He whispered. The genuineness and remorse are clear in his voice. “I know.”

He picked up the apologetic tone in your voice. The pain in his heart was hollow and deep, striking the centre of the organ and reaching throughout his entire body, throbbing, throbbing.

“Can you say it too? Lie if you have to. I just need to hear it.” He whispers.

“I love you too.” It hurts you, to know that he believes that you have to lie only so he could hear you say the words that seemed so normal back then, words that now feel like you took advantage of. “I love you so damn much, James.”

James could do nothing but quietly sob in your chest until he succumbs to the heavy weight on his eyelids, aware of the fact that in the morning, his only companion would be cold sheets once again.

In the dead quiet of the night, with no one else to hear it, a hum in the tune of Happy Birthday remains the only sound to be heard.

James had only turned 26 when the gravity of his promise had become an ephemeral spencer that despite his earnest desire, had lost all semblance of significance.

masterlist

#harry potter #marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter angst #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #the marauders

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writer-of-the-lamb · 8 months

Text

loyalties, moralities

based on my gameplay experience/choice i made

It is indeed a terrifying reality that one can be curling within oneself in pain, yet the world is sunny and bright.

The sky laughs as you scream internally, begging for rain or thunder or mighty black clouds.

The Lamb sat in his tent, facing the hatchery outside. Nestled within the hay was the first child the cult had bore, fiddling and cooing.

His loyalty was purer than any he had ever felt.

Any he had ever heard of.

In the span of 3 gentle days, the child had reached a VII level. One that took even the cowardly followers themselves months to even come close to.

One that was attached to a life that could break the seal to Anchordeep where Kallmar waited.

The Lamb stared, stone faced, as thoughts roamed his head, scratching at his forehead in manifestations of energy. He creased his eyebrows.

The crown sat atop him as always, restless. Its eye swirled back and forth, mirroring the insides of the Lamb’s mind.

Narinder arrived with the sound of crunching grass. He sat beside him, silently, his eyes following the line of the Lamb’s to the child.

Specks buzzed around the air, darting around streams of sunlight. The trees on the outskirts of the cult swayed in their thick barrier.

Narinder softly inhaled the summer air, exhaling and turning to the Lamb.

“There must be another way.”

The Lamb’s gaze did not move. The crown’s eye swivelled to Narinder, almost processing his words.

“I can’t progress if Anchordeep is locked.”

“I know.” Narinder replied. “But what happens when we inevitably reach Silk Cradle? And then the Great One beyond, living in my own previous realm? Will we keep using chil-”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it.” The Lamb said, eyes still unmoving. The child’s eyes met his in a crinkled smile of soft cheeks and pure admiration.

Narinder let his hand rest on the Lamb’s knee, thinking.

“If I were to-”

“No.” The Lamb interjected, finally turning to face his spouse. “I will kill every last follower we have before I even consider that.”

Narinder frowned, looking into the Lamb’s eyes - inky black and glimmering with frustration. He picked his words carefully, removing his hand from his knee. “...Why the hesitation…over a sacrifice now?”

The Lamb’s eyes flickered back to the baby, now moving its hands in a juvenile fascination. “Because he’s a child.” The Lamb said simply. “I’m not that heartless.” he chuckled emptily.

Narinder watched the red crown with a gaze holding centuries of emotion. “Are you?”

#cotl narinder #narilamb #cult of the lamb #cotl #oneshot #the lamb #fic #sins of the flesh

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thoughtfullyrainynightmare · 1 year

Note

Yay your asks are open

Can I please get headcanons with Fuegoleon, William, and nozel with an s/o who sings beautifully and sings them a soft lullaby as he lays his head on their lap when he has a headache from overworking?

Yes they are!! ^^

Oh this was so cute that I just had to jump on it, and... I got a bit carried away ^^' Whoops. But I do hope that you like these ^^

Pairings: Fuegoleon x gn!reader, William x gn!reader, Nozel x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff

Fanfic type: Oneshots

Warnings: None

Total length: ~2.6k

Fuegoleon

Dusk was beginning to peek from behind the horizon and with it, just behind the treeline, you could see a veil of orange, red and gold, almost as if the warmth of your home was reflected in the world that opened before you from the window. Though, at times, you mused to yourself that it was only fitting to see such sunsets from the Crimson Lion Kings’ living quarters. It was a mere thought that tugged the corner of your lips up for a short while, in passing, whenever it occurred. But just as a summer breeze, in was soon swept away.

The door behind you opened, which made you turn around, only to see your husband return much earlier than anticipated. Not that you complained, oh no. In fact, it was much better this way, that he came home early every once in a while to get some rest.

But, just as soon as he stepped through the door, your expression turned into a frown, as the gentle loving smile you had grown to know, wasn’t there. Instead, he was pinching the bridge of his nose, and his head hung low; as low as it might hang when speaking about the king among lions.

His hair draped over his shoulders, and his cape was hanging from his left arm as he held it against his body, as if having shed some weight off of his shoulders.

Which in itself, perhaps, shouldn’t have been surprising. If anything, it was a wonder how he could carry the weight of his responsibilities with such elegance and poise to begin with. But, then again, he was special. He was strong and brilliant.

However, now, something was the matter, which is why you needed to ask about it.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquired, voice soft and gentle like silk to his ear, as in it there was also a welcome to home.

“Yes,” he replied as a faint smile appeared on his lips while hanging the cape away. “It’s just that… I think the last week has taken a toll on me, as I have a headache.” He admitted. And in the admission there was a hint of a … not quite shame, but perhaps apprehension. Because he knew that he ought to take good care of himself. After all, he was always telling you to get plenty of sleep, and remember to rest, while working ungodly hours himself.

“Then you should rest,” you said, speaking out a fact with a kind, understanding smile. Because you did understand him. You understood his drive, his motivations and wish to be the best version of himself while wanting nothing but the best for his knights and the kingdom. But he shouldn’t do it at the expense of his health.

Which he knew.

“Come one,” you urged with a near whisper while taking his hand and leading him towards the bed, with which he complied.

Of course he complied. Because though he might have had to retire early for the day, because of a headache, and simply not being able to process information, having you there made it all the more sweet; being home. Though, he had to wonder, if it would have felt like being at home in the first place without you being there. Because home was no longer a place for him, it was a person; you.

And as you laid together in bed, him placing his head onto your lap as you sat against the headboard, he could already feel some of the tension and dreariness off his body seeping away from him.

You sank your fingers into his hair and let the silken locks run through your fingers, gentle like a summer stream on a warm evening just washing over his body.

“Would it be easier if I removed my hair tie?” He inquired while looking at you with those eyes that were not quite royal purple and not quite lavender, but something else instead. A combination of silk and velvet that pulled you in time and time again.

“Maybe, if you like this that is,” you smirked, earning a chuckle from him as he lifted himself just enough to take off the hair tie and settle back down, head securely in your lap.

And just like that he closed his eyes, sinking into the sensation of your fingers brushing against his scalp, through the vermillion locks that bore the slightest scent of lavender. His chest rose as he took a deep inhale, and lowered back down with a steady, low, exhale that held the slightest hint of a hum.

With it, you begun humming a tune that had grown to be fond to you. A comforting melody of a lullaby that he had grown to know well too, and yet not quite well enough for his taste. A melody that he had only heard you hum, since you thought it to be, perhaps, strange to be singing a lullaby to him.

“Which song is that?” He thought to ask, this time, as he laid there, concentrating on the feeling of your touch.

“It’s a lullaby,” you answered with the faintest of senses of amusement in your tone.

“Oh,” he uttered, meaning nothing more with it. “Will you sing?”

There was a hint of absurdity in the request, but only a hint, a speck of dust on an open ocean. Because, he loved to listen to you sing.

“You wish to hear?”

He chuckled, only a little, and almost too quietly for you to hear. Almost, but not quite. “I love to hear you sing.”

And with it you, in turn, chuckled under your breath, before breathing in, and beginning to sing: “Golden slumbers kiss your eyes…”

His smile grew wider, more content, softer and more relaxed, as if all the burdens of the world couldn’t reach him anymore.

“Smiles await you when you rise…”

His breathing grew more calm and deep, speaking of how he was supposed to dose off out of exhaustion, the weariness in his bones. But he had more than earned a good rest. So, you sang, and let him drift away as you held him, with a wide, proud, loving smile on your lips.

William

Light cascaded in through the window, painting the entire room in various hues of golden light with the setting sun, as if creating a veil between the world that existed outside and the room itself. A welcomed state of being that allowed one to settle in for the night, for the evening, and to shed the burdens of life behind the bedroom door. Though, sometimes, it was easier than at other times, which was only natural.

And from the way William walked in through the door that evening, told you enough.

It’d be one of the days, when shedding that burden would be harder.

His eyes were down, and his chin was hanging low, but still he tried to give you a faint smile as a greeting.

And yet there was something in his demeanour that spoke of something else, an added sense of trouble.

“How was your day?” You asked with an innocent question as he put his cloak and mask away for the day.

His steps were heavy, nearly dragging. And the exhale, nearly a sigh, was almost defeated.

“Long,” he replied after a brief pause. “And I seem to have gotten a headache too,” he continued, almost as if an afterthought.

“Well… you do have a lot on your mind,” you told, with faint, careful amusement, to which he replied with a quiet chuckle.

“That I do,” he agreed as he sat onto the bed and took off his boots.

“You should rest, for the evening,” your voice was gentle, warm and loving, but beneath the layers there was a hidden sense of insisting. Because that was what he should do. He should rest, and take his mind off of work, for at least a short amount of time.

“I’ll try,” he sounded absent minded. He sounded like he knew that he should, while being simultaneously reluctant to do so, because of the age old dilemma of needing to think about it in order to think of a solution, and that allowing him to do something about it. Only that he had more of a habit of staying in thinking of even a better solution, as he had difficulties, at times, in settling for one.

But that was an observation that you had made, as his spouse, and it would stay as your observation.

“I know something that will make you feel better,” there was a hint of a tease in your tone, as if laced with a delicious smirk that he could hear.

And so, he turned his head, to look over his shoulder with a curious hum.

“Mhm,” you grinned while climbing onto the bed from the other side. “Come here,” you tapped the covers next to you, close to the head of the bed. “I’ll sing for you.”

His eyes fell again, but this time his lips were tugged up into a smile, as if burden was leaving him layer by layer, and relief took its place. “Like my beloved songbird,” he spoke out loud, but it sounded more like something he was thinking. Because you were his precious, beloved songbird; his nickname for you.

“Like your beloved songbird,” you teased as you settled against the head of the bed, and sat with your legs straight in front of you. “Come rest your weary head, and I’ll sing,” you repeated with a smile and a smirk. Something that was a bit of both, but was quite neither.

There was another, inaudible chuckle from him, as he crawled over the sheets to you and placed his head onto your lap.

“Is this alright?” He asked while settling down, because he didn’t want the weight of his head to cause discomfort to you.

“Yes, it’s alright,” you replied while running your fingers through his hair and over his scar. You could still remember the day when he had first shown it to you, and it had been clear from his eyes, his demeanour and the words he had said, that he was terrified to his bones of you leaving him.

But how could you have? He had trusted his insecurities onto you, and he was still as handsome as ever, perhaps even more handsome, because of it.

And now, as those deep purple eyes of his, like amethysts, closed and settled into the sensation of your fingers running over his skin, your smile was as wide as ever. The golden light of the setting sun cascaded onto his complexion as he took a deep breath, and sank further in into the moment.

“Now it’s time to say good night…”

The corner of his mouth tugged further up as the first notes left your lips.

“Good night, sleep tight…”

As if whatever headache would have been there had subsided into thin air with the sound of your voice.

“Now the sun turns out his light…”

And who knows, perhaps, it had.

“Good night, sleep tight…”

But what you did know, was that the man, the person you loved with all your hear, was drifting into sleep right there, in your arms, to the sound of your voice.

Nozel

Most would perhaps have said that the halls of the Silver Eagle base, or their part of the castle, was cold and hollow, as if painted with silver, snow and ice. But, for those who knew better, only one was true. For those walls might have bore the colour of silver here and there, and though you could understand why the cold of winter frost had howled through the halls, once upon a time, to you, here and now, the specks of silver glimmered in the light of the setting sun, and made it seem as if the star sky was right there on earth itself.

And it was there, under that glimmer of silver and light that the door to your bedroom opened, and revealed the frowning face of your beloved.

His eyes were down, and his chin was lowered, which wasn’t an unusual sight per se. Because there was a lot on his plate, and he wore his heart on his sleeve while at home. He didn’t hide his emotions from you.

“Rough day?” You asked with a compassionate smile and a gentle tone that flowed through the air like feathers caught in a breeze.

“It was,” he sighed while putting his cloak away. “All of it gave me a headache.”

“Hmm,” you hummed with a hint of a tease. “Or it was rough because you had a headache?” You suggested, making him glance to you.

“Does it matter?” He quirked on eyebrow.

“It matters if you haven’t remembered to drink enough water and eaten well,” you told him while reaching him.

And he still looked at you, but didn’t say a word. Which told you enough.

Your look told him enough. Because you had had this conversation before, and he assured you that he’d eat and drink and take care of himself. But it was sometimes difficult being in the position that he was.

So, you did also understand him.

“Have you eaten now?” You asked while brushing his hair back with your fingers.

“Yes, I ate right before coming here,” he replied, and there was no lie in his eyes or his tone, so you nodded.

“Then come on, let’s get some rest for that gorgeous head of yours,” you smirked while tugging his hand closer to the bed.

“Just my head?” He asked with tired eyes and a tender smile, and you laughed.

It was a short, and yet loud laugh that left your lungs. Because he didn’t joke often. Only once in a blue moon.

Most would have argued that he didn’t have a ‘fun bone’ in his body, but you knew better. He had a sense of humour too. He just didn’t show it. Because he wasn’t supposed to be funny. He wasn’t supposed to make people laugh.

But it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t have been able to make a joke, when he was comfortable in doing so.

“All of you,” you corrected with a slight laugh while climbing onto the bed and pulling him with you.

The sheets were soft, silken, perhaps far too comfortable, as if a silver cloud floating through the air as you crawled to the headboard and propped yourself against it.

“You can rest your head on my lap,” you told him while patting your thigh and smiling to him.

And again, he said nothing, but instead followed the suggestion and settled his head onto your lap.

His arms wrapped around your body, and his legs tangled together with yours as he closed his eyes, and breathed in your scent as it seemed he was ready to drift off into sleep.

“Somewhere over the rainbow…”

Your ran your fingers through his hair, which was thick and lush; silken much like the bedsheets under you.

“Way up high…”

The rising and falling of his chest grew more and more heavy, tranquil.

“There’s a land that I heard of…”

As if the melody, the sound of your voice was making his worries and troubles melt away and his pain subside like storm clouds.

“Once in a lullaby…”

The word you would have used to describe him in that moment, would have been ‘adorable’, something that one wouldn’t have thought of the dashing captain of the Silver Eagles. But… he was, in fact, adorable. Behind closed doors.

#fuegoleon x reader #fuegoleon vermillion x reader #william x reader #william vangeance x reader #nozel silva x reader #nozel x reader #black clover fanfiction #black clover x reader #black clover oneshots

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fullofgutsndopamine · 6 months

Text

or: 5 times Ludwig wanted to tell you he loves you + the 1 time he finally did.

tw: cursing, mention of anxiety, one mention of

"my girl", dick joke

one

"if you like this you should be tried for crimes and i'm not fucking kidding. like, this is-"

You've long since learned to tune Slime out.

ludwig would kid, when he's wrapped in sheets with you at night in a too small bed, when it's hard to tell who's limbs belong to who's, that Slime likes to hear himself talk-could argue with a wall and someone come out of the conversation still thinking he won-

you turn the cup over in your hand, weighing options, moving the liquid around waiting for it to become familiar.

"hey."

ludwig's voice is so quiet you'd almost miss it. his face is red and his head is down, like he's talking to his lap, his hands folded on his lap. you can tell he's been chewing on his nails again, the bloody stumps stare back at you-

“hm?”

a gentle nudge, would look more like a shoulder bump to an unsuspecting viewer.

"y'okay?"

it's gentle, shared. this isn't your scene-would rather be alone with him or a max three people at any given moment, definitely not in front of a shitty web camera to a few thousand people judging your every move, watching you carefully.

"'m fine."

it comes back strangled and you wonder if he knows the invisible hand around your throat, choking you.

"proud of you."

your head whips to him, afraid you imagined this-instead he's back to the camera, his online persona is on:

"Slime," he says, "if you think that you're truly fucked and beyond saving-*

two

"You can't possibly think a straw is two holes. No one i date it thinking I-"

"Ludwig," you huff, "Use your fucking brain. there's one at the top and-believe it or not-the bottom. that’s two!-“

"you're so fucking dumb" it sounds a lot like "i love you" on his lips as it lingers and buzzes. He blinks and hopes you read morse code, the i love you that he's throwing his life preserver to you.

As if checking on you again, his shoulder bumps with yours, a shared wink.

three

"it's late," you'll say gently to ludwig, his glasses pushed up his face and his hair disheveled, obviously fucking with it as an anxious habit, "you should get some rest."

your chin rests on his shoulder and you both act like you don't feel how he deflates, relaxes around you.

"This video-" he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"can wait until tomorrow."

you finish for him, hands hard on his shoulder, a gentle kiss to the top of his head: "come on," no movement, "the beds too big without you."

he snorts, his eyes slanted before he lets you take him by the hand, gently walk backwards as you pull him towards the bed. he flops in after you, his head on your chest as you draw constellations on his back, waiting for sleep to find him.

four

"give me a hug, please."

it comes out more like a demand than a question, his hands snake around your waist and his chin on your shoulder.

"that wasn't an ask."

you're teasing, obliviously, your hand wraps around to ruffle his hair affectionately,

ludwig carries this invisible weight on his shoulders, some invisible boulder he won't dare let you know, how his shoulders slowly are giving in and coming into this pressure

"you okay?"

his voice is muffled into your neck, "never better."

"lud-"

"shh," he says, "you're ruining the moment."

his voice is muffled in your collarbone.

five

ludwig comes out of a crowded gas station with his hair dishelved, a million different directions obviously anxiously messing with it in a crowd of people.

"chips?"

"yeah?" it's a question, like he's afraid it's a trap.

he's quiet for a second before his voice comes back quieter:

"¡ got these because they're your favorite," he pauses for a second, like that's too familiar too sweet has to add, "duh."

"hardly a road trip."

you're eyeing the bag carefully. it's a ten minute ride at best, picking something up at the store for him before a stream.

he shrugs, brings his sunglasses over his face, trying to hide the red across his face

"want one?"

you pop the bag open gently, going through the bag before picking the best out, gently feeding him one as both of your faces are red.

+ one

ludwig's eyes are heavy next to you. you can tell even with his eyes on the road, slanted and narrowed, glaring at the yellow lines on the road.

"hey," you nudge him, the familiar movement between you two, the same song and dance that you two always do, narrowingly missing feet, "pull over, let me drive."

his voice borders on slurring: "what kind of boyfriend would i be if i made my girl drive home?"

it's obvious he's trying to smirk, to come off as this confident version of ludwig, but instead it comes off as a grimace, an uncomfortable look.

"you'd be a boyfriend who wants to get me home safely. seriously-let me drive, cmon."

he groans but obeys, the click of the turn signal as he flicks it on, eases to the side of the road.

puts the car into park, rests the side of his face against the too rough seat: "i owe you. i'm sorry i'm a shitty boyfriend-"

"cmon ludwig," you say gently, "you don't mean it. move over, let me drive. i'll get you home safe."

"US."

"hm?"

you're in the drivers seat, clicking into the seatbelt as he fumbles with the seatbelt, his hand outstretched over the gear shift, he wiggles his fingers, an obvious invitation.

you roll your eyes but link fingers with him gently. his eyes are already closed when he speaks

"¡ love you."

for a second you're afraid he's sleeping, talking in his sleep-wouldn't be the first time.

"don't leave me hanging like that."

your eyes snap to him, his eyes half shut but a lazy smile on his face as he rubs the pad of his thumb over your hand.

"¡ don't know what you're talking about."

he groans, shuts his eyes:

"¡ love you, i love you, i love you." he lets out a sigh like he's been holding it for a long time, "i've been too big of a pussy to say it."

you hum, turn the volume in the radio up, let him sit for a second, the pink in your face rising, can hear your heart in your ears, how you've been waiting for this

it rolls of your lips as easily as you'd hope:

"¡ love you too."

#caroline writes #ludwig #ludwig ahgren fanfiction #ludwig ahgren x you #ludwig ahgren x reader #ludwig ahgren x y/n #ludwig ahgren fanfic #ludwig ahgren fic #ludwig ahgren #ludwig x you #ludwig x y/n #ludwig x reader

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seths-rogens · 2 years

Text

HERE IS THE REPEATED IMAGE OF THE LOVER DESTROYED

AO3 | Part 2

The sounds of battle were almost completely quiet by now. It had seemed, for a while, that the clanging of swords and the screams of wounded and dying men weren’t getting any quieter, no matter how far away they walked from the battlefield.

It was slow going. Stephen was unsteady on his feet, steadily losing more blood as they continued on. He only remained standing because of the weight Edmund took, hoisting his arm around his shoulder and steadying him at the waist.

One of Stephen’s hands sat clutching at the back of Edmund’s armour, while the other pressed tight against the wound on his abdomen. He could feel the warm, wet red of his blood slipping down over his fingers and dripping onto the forest floor. He had been stabbed before of course - it came as part of the job - but never quite like this. He could feel himself dying, his life slipping through his own weak grasp.

It was no longer a case of ‘if’, but ‘when’.

He hoped no one was following them, as he was surely leaving a stark crimson trail behind, and he would hate for them to catch Edmund. He deserved his freedom, not a cruel death at the hands of a man who craved power over all else.

Despite their opposing crests and colours, Stephen had become quite fond of Edmund over the previous months. He had been wary at first, of the man in the deep purple cloak who came to his chambers at night whispering the secrets of his enemies.

That was treason, he could be killed for that, people had been killed for less.

And yet, in spite of this, every Tuesday, at 9pm on the dot, when the castle was dark and the wains were sleeping, Edmund would slip in through the cracked window. He would sit at Stephen’s small dining table, a goblet of wine in both their hands, sipping idly as he detailed King Henry’s next nefarious plan. An invasion here, an execution there. His cruelty was becoming far too normal.

Stephen couldn’t tell you when their meetings progressed to more. When they moved from the table to the bed, lying next to one another like parallel streams. When Edmund’s standoffishness became tender, gentle. When they finally bridged that unspoken divide.

Edmund fantasised of a better, freer future. A peaceful one. He would whisper about it at night, under the blankets like they could hide from the world.

He believed Stephen would be the one to start and lead the revolution, to build an army and fight back. Take the crown for himself.

Stephen hadn’t been so sure. He was only a Lord, after all, presiding over a small town of a few hundred since the deaths of his parents. He didn’t think people would follow him - didn’t think they had reason to - but something about Edmund’s ferocity almost made him try anyway.

Stephen was surprised when the townsfolk rallied all too quickly to follow him. He turned to Edmund with a confused smile, receiving a told-you-so smirk in return.

They had a war to fight.

Yet now, here they were, a crown traitor traipsing through the forest with the dying would-be king half hanging off his back.

Stephen dug his heels, bringing them to a stop. “You’ll have to go on without me. I don’t think I’ll make it much further.”

Edmund stumbled, nearly dropping Stephen from around his shoulders. Stephen winced, sucking in a breath as the action tugged on his wound.

Edmund searched his face, trying desperately to meet his eyes. Stephen denied him.

“No. I cannot. We must keep moving.” Edmund grit his teeth, readjusting his grip and taking another step forward.

“Ed-Edmund… You must leave me, I am only slowing you down.” Stephen spoke desperately, avoiding Edmund’s watchful eye. It was over for him, he knew that, but he couldn’t let Edmund get caught. “If you stop me here you can still escape before someone comes looking.”

Edmund dropped his hold on the arm around his shoulders to instead grip Stephen’s jaw and force eye contact. His touch was first but still gentle. Edmund was always gentle. “I will not leave you, my liege. There is still time for you yet. Okay?”

A pit opened in Stephen’s stomach, he felt a prickle behind his eye. “Okay.” He whispered.

Stephen ducked his head. They took another step forward, then another.

“We keep walking,” Edmund grunted. “If we walk to the edge of the forest, we’ll see it. Your manor is just over the ridge. We can make it.”

He spoke with a sick sort of desperation, a refusal to be swayed ran tight like a bowstring down the line of his body. It was only a matter of time, Stephen knew, but if his presence offered Edmund comfort, then for this short while he would allow it.

They were quiet for a while - the only sound the squelch of wet leaves beneath their boots - as they made slow progress through the forest.

Stephen could feel his eyes drooping, his hand falling limp from where it clutched his side. He stumbled, falling to his knees and dragging Edmund with him. He heaved in a gasping breath as Edmund dropped to his own knees in front of him. He felt warm, calloused palms cup his cheeks, a thumb stroking softly over his cheekbone.

“You have to stand up, Sire. We’re almost there. I can see the break in the trees.”

“Edmund, I am no king.” Stephen covered Edmund’s hand with his own, wetting it with his blood. “I never was.”

“You were mine.” Edmund whispered. “You are mine.” He sniffled, biting back tears. “Come on, if you just stand up I can carry you, and we can make it. We can get you help.”

“No.” Stephen heaved a breath.

“Stephen, please.”

“No.” Stephen smiled. “It is my time. I have accepted that.”

“No.” Edmund shook his head. “No. We can still help you. I can still save you.”

“Edmund. My love. I am not long for this world.” Edmund choked out a sob. “Lay me down. If I am to pass, I would like to be comfortable.”

Stephen could only stare, taking in every feature of the other man’s face as he laid him down, as he cried for him. He was set down on a bed of leaves, soft green moss and small white flowers. It was a beautiful place to die, he only felt sorry to mar it with his blood.

Edmund knelt beside him, running tender hands through the dirty strands of his hair. “I do not want you to go. I am not ready.”

Stephen reached up, caressing Edmund’s cheek, stroking away a tear. “You will see me again.”

“Not soon enough.” Edmund cried, forcing a shaky smile.

Stephen could taste copper in his mouth, though he could no longer feel the pain of the hole in his side. He felt drunk, his movements sluggish. He smiled, but at the way Edmund flinched, he assumed it must be gruesome.

“Sunshine, my love. If I am to die, would you kiss me? Just once more? I have a long road ahead of me.” His voice was weak. Each word trailing after the other.

Edmund smiled, a beautiful sight for Stephen’s tired eyes. “Of course, my sweetheart. One for the road.” He chuckled wetly, leaning down and pressing a hard kiss to Stephen’s red lips.

___________________

When Edmund pulled away, still cradling his lover’s face, he sucked in a harsh breath. Stephen’s bleary eyes gazed up at the sky, to where the sunlight dappled its way through the high leaves like stars.

“Can you see that, Edmund? The stars are out already.” A soft smile fell upon his face, his eyes awe-filled. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

It was daylight. Several hours from night. Stephen was fading fast.

Edmund could not pull his eyes away from the man beneath him. He held back a whimper. “They are. Just like you.”

“Oh, Edmund. You flatter me.” Stephen laughed, his breath whistling in his chest. “Would you get my dear Robin. She does so love the stars, and I think I can see a new constellation. I’m sure she would like to name it. Though perhaps I should, I did find it first after all…”

“Yeah? What’re you going to name it, my dear?”

Stephen smiled, meeting Edmund’s gaze. “Mîn frîge, sunnanscîma. For you.”

Edmund laughed, though it sounded more like a sob.

Stephen’s eyes glazed over, a gentle smile still tugging on his lips. He fell limp in Edmund’s arms.

“No. No!” Edmund near yelled, shaking Stephen’s body in his arms. “No, please, it isn’t time yet. I need more time!” His voice cracked, dropping to a whisper. “We didn’t have enough.”

Edmund curled over Stephen’s chest, as tears spilled down his face - wracking sobs that shook his whole body - and mixed with the red blood that still painted his lips.

He cried until he was tired. Until his body felt weak and empty.

He pulled away, adjusting Stephen’s limbs so he was lying straight, clasping his sword against his chest. He looked dignified.

If not for the blood, he would have looked as if he was sleeping.

Edmund surrounded his body in the flowers he found around the edges of the meadow - pink corncockle and pale bluebells. He weaved him a crown of yellow blossoms and white snowdrops, and laid it to rest upon his head.

He looked regal. Like the king he was never able to be.

Edmund wiped the blood from Stephen’s mouth and knelt back. It was easier to pretend he was asleep. That with a nudge, or a whisper in his ear, his lips would pull into a smile and he would open bleary eyes. That he would tackle Edmund into the flowers, pressing kisses everywhere he could reach.

But Stephen lay still. He would not awaken.

Edmund sniffed, wiping the tears from his face. He leaned forward, cradling Stephen’s face in his palms and pressing one last, lingering kiss to his lips.

He stood on shaky legs and turned, began to walk away.

He couldn’t turn back. If he did, he’d never leave.

———————————————

aaaa hello it’s been a long time since i’ve written or posted fanfic so i hope everyone likes this!

i don’t have many steddie mutuals but it would be very cool to kinda join the gang lmao

sorry for the MCD, this came from a writing prompt i was given in one of my classes and i couldn’t help myself!

Mîn frîge, sunnanscîma = ‘My love, sunshine’ in Old English

reblogs appreciated!! <3

#MAIN CHARACTER DEATH #MCD #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #king steve #except almost literally #my fic: hitri

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kikiiswashere · 5 months

Text

Children of Zaun - Chapter 24

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, smut

Chapter Summary: Rynweaver pays Heimerdinger a visit. Grayson and Bone have a talk.

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 3.2K

Heimerdinger knew it was coming. He could only stave off this meeting with Rynweaver for so long.

It had been three weeks since the Children of Zaun had made themselves known. Three weeks since security measures had gone into effect. Three weeks since the investigation started. Three weeks – and there were no new developments or leads. And Enforcers were no nearer to tracking down the stolen money.

Rynweaver and the other families who had been stolen from were growing restless and agitated. Heimerdinger couldn’t say that he didn’t entirely understand. While money held little interest for him, he understood the frustration of having one’s belongings snatched away. Sometimes scientific research fell that way, too. Sometimes what you thought was safe, thought was yours, was suddenly slipped out from beneath you.

Money was one thing. Ideas were another.

Heimerdinger shook his head, ears flopping from side to side, and returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. The new budget reorganization lay before him, and it turned his stomach more than he wished it would. A sidelong glance went to his fireplace, where not long ago the chair Katya Slostov had thrown into the hearth had lain, broken and splintered.

He didn’t know if she had told Viktor about the tuition increase, if he knew that his place at the Academy hung in the balance. He didn’t think so. Viktor had been carrying on like usual: pensive, studious, and dedicated. He gave no sign that he was aware that anything was afoot. Heimerdinger did not approve of keeping the boy in the dark, but Viktor was not his ward. As much as he disagreed with Katya’s decisions, he had no right to trample on them.

Instead, he focused on supporting the boy where it was in his power: in the classroom.

He praised Viktor openly for the initial sketches he had done for the boat he was planning on building in next term’s robotics curriculum. The ingenuity of its shape and proposed motor mechanism caused the yordle’s chest to puff with pride.

Viktor was leaps and bounds ahead of his classmates; even some of the older students. It would be a tragedy for him to cross the Bridge and never come back. To have his burgeoning genius swallowed up and snuffed out by the maw of the Undercity.

The soft, warm buzz of the intercom on his desk pulled Heimerdinger from his thoughts. He stared at the blinking red light by his right hand, letting the signal drone for a beat longer than he normally would.

Finally, he answered. “Yes, Miss Banforth?”

“Professor Heimerdinger, Sir Thade Rynweaver is here to see you.”

Heimerdinger utilized the last moments of privacy for his face to crumple and warp into an expression of long-suffering annoyance.

“Yes, yes. Of course. Send him in, please.”

Heimerdinger gathered the budgeting materials on his desk and stowed them away in a drawer. The door to his office quietly clicked open, Ivy graciously at the knob, directing Rynweaver inside.

Thade was dressed in his usual preferred black ensemble: tailored trousers and waistcoat, and shoes with a lacquered shine. Today, he also wore a knee-length wool coat, silver thread and buttons glistening in the cold-season’s watery light that streamed in from the window behind the desk.

“May I fetch you anything?” Ivy asked.

“Nothing. Thank you,” Rynweaver answered.

Ivy pulled her lips between her teeth and looked to Heimerdinger. He looked kindly at her, mustache lifting at its tips. A gentle shake of his head excused her, and she bowed out, the door softly snicking shut.

“Blessed Snowdown, Mr. Rynweaver.”

“And to you, Professor.”

Thade draped his coat over one of the chairs in front of the desk, and took the other for himself.

“Did Miss Banforth not offer to take your coat?”

Heimerdinger eyed the expensive article, its black so pitch that it sucked up light like a sponge.

“She did. But I trust you understand my hesitancy in handing my things over.”

Heimerdinger’s ears folded minutely.

“I understand how frustrating this is for you and the other families involved, Mr. Rynweaver.”

Thade reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a slim, silver cigar case. He pulled a matching lighter from his trouser pocket. He did not ask if he could smoke, pulling out a thick cigar and lighting it as if it were his own home.

Heimerdinger’s pink nose wrinkled, his eyes pricking at the intense smell of the smoke.

As Thade went to tuck the case away, he stopped and gestured it to his host, a thick eyebrow lifting.

“I don’t smoke. But thank you.”

“It is frustrating,” Thade sighed, settling into his seat. “And I know that LeDaird is doing everything within his power to right this wrong. To not only recover my funds, but to also put a stop to these terrorists. Stop them before they can do anything truly heinous.”

Heimerdinger nodded, but his mind whirred, wondering when Rynweaver was going to get to his reason for this appointment.

“How may I help you today, Mr. Rynweaver?”

A thick plume of sweet, eye-stinging smoke rose above their heads, refracting the sunlight streaming in through the window. The smoke slowly spun through the air, its tendrils leisurely unfurling and dissipating before the answer came.

It annoyed Heimerdinger, this power play.

“My grandfather told me stories about you, Cecil. From his father, who in turn heard them from his own. Stories about Piltover’s brilliant and dedicated founder. A Yordle – a being tied to spirit and magic, and yet you favor scientific progress and humanity’s growth. Foregoing your, arguably, natural inclinations to bear this great city-state.”

Rynweaver gestured his hand to the space above Heimerdinger’s head, signaling to the sprawling cityscape below the window.

As the man spoke, Heimerdinger’s plush coat hackled and puffed under his clothes. He kept his face open and neutral, but inside he was bristling. Mostly because of Rynweaver’s arrogance and, thus far, vague motives. It also irked him to be called his first name by someone who was not invited to do so. The generalized, vague, and misinformed commentary on his race’s cultural background made his blood hot.

“I am flattered your grandfather spoke so highly of me,” he decided to say. “He was a good man.”

Thade nodded in agreement. “He loved this city. As did my father. As do I, Cecil. As do you.”

He took a lengthy drag from his cigar. Heimerdinger’s ears twitched, sensing that this meeting’s point was about to be revealed.

“I understand that LeDaird is doing everything within his power right now. And yet, no results have been yielded. Not an inkling of information, much less the recovery of my and the other family’s money.” He rolled his cigar between his fingers, blue eyes following it carefully. Then, his voice darkened, “Honestly, I am not anticipating seeing my coin again. Those sump-snipes have probably spent it or sent it away to some secure location. They are most likely preparing a more serious strike.”

The heat in Heimerdinger’s blood chilled, leached out by how Rynweaver’s eyes seemed to go black.

“The Enforcers need more teeth. The Undercity needs to be made afraid. They know how to tolerate a squeeze, a slap on the wrist. These Children are unprecedented, and Piltover must be protected.”

“They are Piltovan citizens, Mr. Rynweaver.”

“And yet some percentage of those citizens committed a terrorist attack. The rest protect them with their silence.” Rynweaver looked at Heimerdinger, cold fire blistering in his gaze. “They do not love Piltover as you or I do. Surely you can see that. We need to protect our city of progress.”

Heimerdinger’s ears tucked back, his thick brow dropped. Lowly, he asked, “What would you have me do, Mr. Rynweaver?”

Thade crossed his long legs. “I am asking you to consider throwing your weight around more. You are Piltover’s founder and greatest champion. While the idea of Council is to ensure a system of checks and balances, and an equitable division of power, everyone knows that push come to shove, your word is law.

“Give LeDaird more leash and tighten up on Bone’s. Allow captains of industry – such as myself – who employ a large populace of the Undercity to use our influence to help flush out these traitors.”

“It is not that simple – “

“It could be though,” Rynweaver bit back. “This is your city, Cecil. And these Children are threatening it. Do not let them.”

With that, Thade lifted from his seat, cigar in hand. He paused and looked around the office before stepping over to the fireplace and crushing the ember end into the hearth’s wall. He tossed the remains into its ashy mouth and went for his coat.

Sliding his arms in their sleeves, he addressed Heimerdinger once more, “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

Heimerdinger’s pink nose twitched at the sudden use of one of his titles.

Thade strode for the office doors, and over his shoulder wished again, “Blessed Snowdown.”

The cold season was always hellish on Bone’s illness. The chill in the air froze the blight in his lungs and trachea into sharp, painful, icy stabs every time he ventured outside. Which made it difficult for him to put his ear to the ground and try and learn about these Children of Zaun.

He did his best, though.

In the days following the Council’s bulletin and subsequent decisions about movement and trade in the Undercity, he hobbled up and down the streets of the Promenade and upper Entresol attempting to glean information from anyone he could.

What hurt more than the pain in his lungs, were the looks of distrust he received from some of the Undercity citizens he approached. The ache sat low in his stomach and tugged down on his heart. He never thought something would stand between him and his people.

He lived for them, would die for them.

It was in those moments – when he was looked up and down, suspicion curling their lips, and doubt in their eyes – that Bone feared he had failed. That he had spent too much time across the river in Piltover’s mighty towers. That all the work he had attempted to do, and what little he had achieved, had gotten stuck in the blankets of kelp that stitched either bank of the Pilt together.

Had he lost that much touch with his constituents?

One afternoon, though, when the sun sat bright and heavy in the sky, he caught a small break.

He had shuffled into a small café that sat on the lip of the Promenade, near a conveyor car station. He’d spent a few hours canvassing the Skylight Commercia to no avail. Disheartened, and chest burning from the cold, he decided to stop and get something warm to drink before limping home.

The few patrons in the establishment looked up as he stepped in. Only a few nodded, the others kept to their drinks and thin sandwiches. Bone coughed into his scarf and approached the cash register. He ordered a mint tea and paid with two gold hexes. When the cashier blanched and sputtered, trying to explain that she did not have the change for such coin, he insisted she keep it regardless.

Bone perched himself on a stool seated in front of the large, greasy windows that looked out onto the conveyor car station. He watched all manner of people and creatures pile into, and traipse out of various cabs. The color and diversity of the Undercity always tugged at something prideful in him. Despite its setbacks, he loved that so many beings from Runeterra settled here, made the Undercity a veritable melting pot.

As the cashier brought him his tea, Bone watched as a conveyor car operator exited his vehicle and trot towards the café. He was a big man – wide, with skin the color of rust. The café’s door jingled merrily open as he pushed through, and a flurry of greetings were sent his way.

Bone’s stomach and heart dropped further. Was it jealousy?

“Tolder!” the cashier greeted. “Usual?”

“Yeah. ‘N can I get,” his gruff voice ground to a hum as he eyed the glass display case full of sweet breads and pre-made sandwiches. “Can I get one o’ the wharf rat tails? They’re muh boy’s favorite.”

“Sure thing.” She placed a steaming paper cup on the counter, and then whipped a paper bag open, reaching for a pastry drenched in glaze at the front of the case. “You gonna be at The Last Drop tonight?”

“Plannin’ on it. Hopefully there’s some idea o’ how to get these fuckin’ enforcers off our backs. Pigs.”

Bone’s ears perked at the man and woman’s exchange. He knew The Last Drop – what Trencher didn’t? – but it had been years since he’d last gone, back when it was under original ownership. He had heard through the grapevine that the previous owner had died in recent years and had passed the establishment to a longtime employee.

Something about what the pair said caused his heart to flutter in interest, his gut poking him with intuition. Bars, taverns, restaurants had long been places for Undercity citizens to meet and gripe about Piltover. But there was something more concrete in their tones, more bite. The word ‘idea’ felt weighty. Promising.

“Thanks fer the coffee and Rat Tail,” the man said, slapping a fistful of coins on the counter and heading for the door.

Bone watched the man stride back towards his conveyor car, and his mind whirred. He sipped at his tea, thinking. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the woman behind the counter take a wet rag and wipe down the sides of the display case. He wondered if LeDaird or Grayson had, or were planning on investigating The Last Drop.

Draining his cup, Bone stood and limped to the counter, placing the small ceramic mug near the register.

“Thank you.”

The woman looked up from her dusting, and nodded, her lips a thin line.

As he opened the door, a gust of cold, salty wind blew past him. Hurriedly, he pulled his scarf up around his mouth and hacked into it, leaning heavily on his cane. Behind the wet fabric, he grimaced. His lungs burned and throbbed, and he felt light-headed. Indeed, it was time to head home for the day.

As Bone approached the building his loft was in, he was surprised to see Captain Grayson standing in front of the building’s iron and glass door. She was dressed in her uniform and captain’s hat, but her breathing mask was slung around her neck. She remained still, hands behind her back, seemingly unperturbed by the way people walking by would give her a wide, wide berth.

Bone winced. He wished she wouldn’t meet him at his home. It was difficult enough to get his people to trust him; having the Captain of the Enforcers on his doorstep could only cause his constituents to pull away further.

But it had been challenging for he and she to touch base. The minute the Children of Zaun’s letter fell into LeDaird’s hands, Grayson’s time and priorities were automatically spoken for.

“Councilor Bone,” she greeted as he limped up.

“Captain Grayson,” he wheezed from behind his scarf. He glanced around and said, “Come upstairs. I don’t want us to talk here.”

He led her inside, and up the winding metal stairs to his front door. Grayson thought it odd that an old, sick man would be made to have to deal with stairs.

“Is there not a lift?”

Bone coughed and shook his head, wispy hair fluttering side to side.

They arrived at a large, ornately carved door and the Councilor used a key to let them both inside.

Grayson said a quiet thank you as she stepped through the threshold, her eyes habitually roaming over the new environment, taking notes. Small, with high ceilings. Large windows looked out over the river at Piltover, its skyline looming. The space was sparsely furnished and had no noticeable smell.

Behind her, Bone had begun coughing again as he removed his coat and scarf. He batted her away as she stepped over to help. He thumped his cane against the wood floor as the last gasps of the fit lurched from his throat.

“Follow me,” he wheezed, shuffling in the direction of a small, but neat kitchen.

With shaky hands, he filled a glass with water and took a careful sip. His throat burned and head throbbed.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” he finally said, turning. One hand held his cane, the other braced against the countertop.

Grayson watched him carefully. He looked worse than usual, and she was concerned she’d have to leap forward and hold him up.

She set her hands behind her back again, and said, “I am here to touch base.”

A small derisive huff shot from between Bone’s teeth. “Of your own volition? Or on orders from the Sheriff.”

“Both.”

The Councilor nodded and renewed the grip on his cane, standing as tall as his short stature would allow. There was a moment before she spoke where he took her in. Like the first time he’d met her, he sensed her goodness. Her reasonableness. He knew she was the tool he needed to get enforcer brutality in the Lanes under control.

“Sheriff LeDaird is wondering if you have heard anything.”

“Only LeDaird?”

Grayson’s lips thinned. “Admittedly, I am curious, too. There are terrorists in the Undercity, Councilor Bone. My focus right now has to be rooting out the Children of Zaun. You and I cannot do our work while they are free.”

Bone’s wooly brows dropped, knowing she was right. He couldn’t get what he wanted without her. He couldn’t have her time and resources while she and her team were investigating terrorists. The idea to tell her what he had overheard today in the café crossed his mind. But he kept it to himself. After the last several days of doing his own searching, and experiencing the unexpected withdraw of his community, he was nervous to give Captain Grayson anything. It was bad enough that people had seen her on his step.

What good was securing Grayson’s time if his own people didn’t trust him?

There had to be another way.

“I have not heard anything, Captain.”

Grayson looked disappointed as a sigh blew from her nose, arms dropping to her sides. Briefly, Bone felt badly about withholding information from her. But, if he could get to and disperse the Children before the Enforcers closed in, there would be minimal bloodshed, he would hopefully recement his people’s trust, and he and Grayson could carry on with his plans.

“I am sorry, Captain.”

She nodded ruefully. “Thank you. Let me know if you hear anything.”

She turned and began to head back toward the front door.

“Captain Grayson,” Bone called. She turned, eyes questioning. “When you need to seek me out, please do it at my office.”

The smallest embarrassed flush tinged the tops of her wide cheeks. “Yes, Councilor. Apologies.”

He waved the concern aside, and kindly said. “Blessed Snowdown, Captain.”

“Blessed Snowdown, Councilor.”

Notes: A quick lil' chappie. Comparatively speaking 😅. What do we think? Will Heimer cave to Rynweaver's pressure? Is Bone making a good decision leaving Grayson in the dark??

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear yout thoughts in the comments or reblogs ❤️

Coming Up Next: The Children celebrate Snowdown at The Last Drop. After weeks of avoiding him, Katya asks for a moment of Silco's time.

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @dreamyonahill @sand-sea-and-fable @truthandadare @altered-delta

#children of zaun #coz #arcane #arcane fanfic #heimerdinger #grayson #original characters

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simpforfandom231 · 8 months

Text

The it-girl's soft side

In the bustling halls of Braxton High, where the hierarchy of popularity is as complex as the curriculum, Maeve Rosewood was the quiet enigma that defied expectations. With her soft red hair cascading like a gentle waterfall around her shoulders, and captivating blue eyes that held a world of hidden thoughts, Meave was the epitome of a shy, nerdy girl.

Her reputation as the cute, silent scholar with an undeniable flair for history was well-deserved. In the hallowed halls of academia, Maeve's brilliance shone, making her a standout student. But beyond her academic prowess, Maeve harbored a secret world of talents that few were privy to. She possessed a voice that was both soft and sweet, capable of weaving melodic tales in the form of songs, while her fingers danced effortlessly across the keys, creating harmonies that echoed with emotion. Unbeknownst to many, she was also a skilled gamer, finding solace in the pixelated adventures that awaited her on the screen.

Maeve's appearance, though elegant, betrayed her true nature. Freckles adorned her face like constellations in the night sky, a subtle reminder of the whimsical charm that lay beneath her reserved demeanor. Despite being undeniably attractive, Maeve chose the sanctuary of her books and her passions over the allure of popularity, content in the company of her two closest friends.

Ruby Landdale, the fierce companion in this trio, brought a contrasting energy to their circle. With her blond hair and brown eyes, Ruby's athletic frame hinted at a strength that complemented her bold spirit. Though not the stereotypical popular girl, Ruby exuded confidence and a love for feline companions, a facet of her personality that added an unexpected layer to her persona. While Meave found comfort in history, Ruby navigated the complexities of economics, proving that their bonds surpassed the boundaries of academics.

Completing the trio was Olivia Paxton, the brown-haired, green-eyed dynamo of the girl's soccer team. Despite her slightly higher standing on the school's social ladder, Olivia chose the genuine companionship of Meave and Ruby over the superficial allure of popularity. Her ability to stand up for herself, combined with her genuine warmth, made Olivia the bridge between the worlds of Maeve's quiet introspection and Ruby's fierce determination.

Together, Maeve, Ruby, and Olivia navigated the intricate tapestry of high school life at Braxton High, where the bonds of friendship triumphed over the superficial distinctions that sought to divide them.

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows of Braxton High as Meave, Ruby, and Olivia made their way to their lockers. The rhythmic hum of chatter filled the air as students hurried to exchange books and catch up on the latest gossip. Meave deftly navigated the crowd, her fingers lightly grazing the pages of her history textbook as she approached her locker, marked with a subtle assortment of stickers that reflected her eclectic tastes. Ruby, with her characteristic confidence, strode alongside her, occasionally tossing a friendly smile or a quick nod to familiar faces. Olivia, carrying her soccer gear, brought up the rear, her green eyes scanning the bustling hallway.

As the trio began to gather their belongings, Meave overheard snippets of a conversation nearby. Huddled in a corner were Margot and Billie, Rachel Zegler's loyal minions. The air seemed to crackle with the aftermath of an incident involving Peter, a fellow student known for his passion for chemistry and his gentle nature.

Ruby's eyes narrowed as she caught wind of the conversation. "Did you hear what Rachel did to Peter in chemistry class?" she whispered to Meave and Olivia, her voice tinged with concern.

The three friends leaned in, their curiosity piqued by the brewing drama. Olivia frowned, her soccer bag hanging over her shoulder. "No, spill the details. What happened?"

Meave's soft voice joined the conversation, her eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "Yeah, tell us."

Ruby, with a glance over her shoulder to ensure their conversation remained discreet, recounted the incident. "So, Peter was doing his thing in chemistry, you know, being all passionate about it, when Rachel decides to mock him. She made fun of him in front of everyone, ridiculing his enthusiasm for science."

Olivia's expression hardened. "Seriously? That's low, even for Rachel."

Ruby nodded, her blond hair bouncing with determination. "We can't let her get away with that. Peter doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

Meave, though usually reserved, felt a surge of empathy for Peter. "We should do something. Maybe talk to him, offer support."

Olivia, her wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders, hesitated for a moment before voicing her concern. "Guys, I get that what Rachel did to Peter is messed up, but we need to be careful. Getting involved with Rachel can make things worse for us. You know how she operates."

Ruby crossed her arms, her expression defiant. "I don't care, Liv. Peter's our friend, and we can't just stand by while Rachel bullies him. We have to do something."

Olivia sighed, her green eyes reflecting a mix of caution and empathy. "Look, I'm not saying we should ignore it, but we have to be strategic. Rachel has her claws deep in this school's social scene. If we challenge her openly, she'll make sure we regret it."

Meave, the usually reserved one, chimed in with a thoughtful tone. "Olivia has a point. We don't want to become targets ourselves. Maybe there's a way to help Peter without directly confronting Rachel."

Ruby's expression softened as she considered the potential consequences. "Fine, but we can't just let Rachel get away with it. We have to find a way to make things right for Peter without putting ourselves in the crossfire."

Olivia nodded in agreement. "Exactly. We need to be smart about this, strategize, and maybe gather more information before we take any action. We can't afford to underestimate Rachel's vindictive nature."

The three friends exchanged a determined look, silently acknowledging the delicate balance they needed to strike. While the desire to stand up for Peter burned within them, the reality of dealing with Rachel Zegler's influence demanded a more cautious approach. Braxton High, with its intricate social dynamics, would prove to be a challenging battleground, but the trio was prepared to navigate it together, ensuring justice for Peter without falling victim to Rachel's schemes.

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

In the heart of Braxton High's bustling corridors, Rachel Zegler moved with an air of calculated confidence. With her stunning dark brown hair flowing effortlessly down her back and her brown eyes radiating a mix of confidence and cunning, Rachel commanded attention wherever she went. Her killer body, sculpted through a combination of genetics and an unwavering commitment to maintaining her status, drew glances from both admirers and envious peers alike.

Freckles adorned Rachel's face, strategically placed as if to add an extra layer of charm to her already striking features. While her physical appearance was captivating, it was her sharp mind and shrewd understanding of the social dynamics that truly set her apart as Braxton High's undisputed queen bee.

As she navigated the crowded hallways, Rachel's gaze was not solely focused on her surroundings but rather on the power dynamics at play. Her two loyal minions, Margot and Billie, trailed behind her, mirroring her confident stride. Margot, with her sharp features and keen eyes, exuded a sense of unwavering loyalty, while Billie, with her flowing locks and polished demeanor, complemented the trio, forming a formidable alliance.

Rachel reveled in her position atop the social hierarchy, her influence extending like a web throughout the school. Despite her popularity, or perhaps because of it, Rachel harbored a penchant for exploiting the vulnerabilities of those who dared to challenge her. A reputation for cunning schemes and razor-sharp comebacks preceded her, leaving a trail of defeated foes in her wake.

Her interaction with Peter in chemistry class had been a calculated move, a demonstration of her prowess in maintaining control. To Rachel, it was not just about belittling an unsuspecting classmate; it was about reinforcing her dominance and instilling fear in those who dared to question her authority.

As she passed by lockers and groups of students, Rachel's thoughts focused on the intricate dance of power that defined high school life. Unbeknownst to her, a trio of determined friends had just caught wind of her latest exploit, and they were quietly plotting a course of action that would challenge the very foundations of Rachel Zegler's reign.

As Rachel Zegler and her entourage glided through the hallway, a subtle hush trailed in their wake. Meave, Olivia, and Ruby exchanged glances, recognizing the imposing force that was Rachel. Meave, however, felt an unexpected chill as her eyes locked with Rachel's confident gaze.

Caught in the intensity of that moment, Meave couldn't look away. Rachel, with her signature smirk, acknowledged the trio's presence and, to their surprise, delivered a sly wink in Meave's direction. The unexpected gesture left Meave momentarily stunned, her cheeks flushing with a mix of confusion and intrigue.

Ruby, always quick to respond, nudged Meave with a playful smirk. "Well, well, seems like the queen bee just noticed us. Or rather, noticed you, Meave."

Olivia, more cautious, shot a wary look at Rachel's departing figure. "Don't read too much into it, guys. Rachel's up to something, as always. Let's not get entangled in her games."

Meave, still processing the wink, shook her head, her soft voice carrying a note of uncertainty. "Yeah, you're probably right. Let's focus on helping Peter without getting too close to Rachel's radar."

The bell echoed through the corridors, signaling the transition to the next class. Meave and Olivia headed towards their history class, and Ruby made her way to the politics room, each carrying the weight of their respective subjects. Braxton High, with its maze of classrooms, seemed to morph into a battleground of academic pursuits.

As Meave and Olivia entered the history classroom, they found themselves amidst the familiar rows of desks arranged for the day's lesson. The room buzzed with conversations and the shuffling of papers as students settled in. Ms. Thompson, their history teacher, welcomed them with an enthusiastic smile that hinted at the passion she held for unraveling the mysteries of the past.

Taking their seats, Meave and Olivia exchanged a glance, silently acknowledging the shared journey through the labyrinth of Braxton High's academic challenges. Little did they know that the day would present them with a twist that involved none other than Rachel Zegler, the enigmatic queen bee of their high school.

Ms. Thompson announced a group assignment that would explore the socio-political implications of historical events. The anticipation in the room rose as students exchanged ideas, forming alliances for the task at hand.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent politics classroom, Ruby found herself surrounded by eager minds ready to dissect the complexities of governance and power. Mr. Hastings, the politics teacher, outlined their project – an analysis of contemporary political events with a focus on diplomacy and international relations.

Back in the history class, as Meave and Olivia were contemplating potential group members, a familiar voice cut through the air. Rachel, with her trademark confidence, spoke up, addressing the entire class.

"Hey, Meave! How about we team up for this project? I think our combined brilliance could make it a masterpiece."

Meave's blue eyes widened slightly at the unexpected proposal. Olivia shot Rachel a discerning look, sensing the ulterior motives that often accompanied Rachel's actions.

Rachel continued with a sly smile, "I've heard your insights into historical events are quite intriguing. It could be an enlightening collaboration."

Meave, though taken aback, managed a nod. "Um, sure, I guess."

Olivia, however, intervened with a raised eyebrow. "Rachel, what's the catch? You never just team up for the sake of academics."

Rachel chuckled, her brown eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, Olivia, you always see through me. Let's just say I find Meave's perspective on history fascinating, and I thought it would be a shame not to explore it together. Besides, I'm sure we'll learn so much from each other."

The air in the classroom crackled with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism as the trio reluctantly formed an unexpected alliance.

As the history class came to an end, the students gathered their belongings, ready to navigate the next challenge – a joint project exploring the intricacies of historical events. As Meave and Olivia exited the classroom, the lingering unease from Rachel's proposal still hung in the air.

In the crowded hallway, Rachel approached Meave with a confident sway in her hips, her dark brown hair cascading gracefully over her shoulders. The subtle hum of whispered conversations seemed to pause momentarily as Rachel leaned in, her lips curving into a sly smile.

"Meave, darling, I'm excited about our little project rendezvous at my place. I'm sure we'll find the perfect mix of brains and beauty to make it unforgettable," Rachel purred with a teasing tone that sent an unexpected shiver down Meave's spine.

Meave, momentarily stunned, managed a polite smile. "Uh, sure. Your place it is."

Rachel shot a wink at Meave before gliding away, leaving an air of mystery in her wake. As Rachel disappeared into the hallway crowd, Olivia and Ruby joined Meave, their eyes questioning.

"What was that about?" Olivia asked, her green eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Meave shook her head, bewildered. "I have no idea. She just said we'll meet up at her house for the project."

Ruby chimed in, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Well, that's unexpected. Be careful, Meave. Rachel's not known for being straightforward."

As the trio made their way through the hallways, they couldn't help but speculate about Rachel's motives. The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, and the three friends found themselves outside, contemplating the impending collaboration.

Nervous anticipation gripped Meave as she pulled up to Rachel's imposing residence. The grandeur of the estate, coupled with the knowledge of Rachel's formidable reputation, left her with an undeniable sense of unease. As she approached the front door, Meave couldn't shake the feeling that this collaboration might prove to be more complicated than any historical event they were meant to explore.

Taking a deep breath, Meave pressed the doorbell, and the echo of its chime resonated through the lavish halls of Rachel's home. Moments later, the door swung open, revealing Rachel standing there in all her casually elegant glory. The sight left Meave momentarily speechless.

Rachel, sporting sweatpants and a snug tank top, exuded an effortless allure that clashed with the extravagant surroundings. Despite the casual attire, there was an undeniable grace in the way Rachel carried herself. Meave couldn't help but feel a pang of self-consciousness, suddenly aware of her own more modest outfit.

With a flick of her dark brown hair, Rachel greeted Meave with a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Well, look who's here. Meave, darling, do come in."

As Meave stepped inside, her eyes inadvertently wandered, taking in the opulence of Rachel's surroundings. The grand staircase, the chandeliers casting a warm glow, and the air infused with a subtle hint of luxury—Meave couldn't help but feel like a fish out of water.

Rachel, unfazed by the palpable discomfort, led the way to the living room, where textbooks and notes were scattered across the coffee table. With a theatrical flourish, Rachel gestured for Meave to take a seat.

"Make yourself at home, dear. We have a project to conquer, after all," Rachel declared with a mockingly sweet smile, her diva attitude undiminished by the casual attire.

Meave, feeling a mix of nerves and bewilderment, sat down, arranging her materials with a sense of awkwardness. Rachel, on the other hand, took a seat with the regality of a queen on her throne, completely at ease in her own domain.

Throughout the evening, Rachel maintained her mean-girl, diva attitude, punctuating the collaborative effort with subtle jabs and condescending remarks. Meave, determined to rise above the tension, focused on the task at hand, though the challenge of navigating Rachel's complex personality proved more daunting than any historical puzzle.

As the night wore on, Meave couldn't shake the feeling that this collaboration would leave an indelible mark on the dynamics of Braxton High.

As the evening unfolded, Meave found herself surprised by the unexpected turn of events. Instead of the anticipated clash of egos, Rachel was surprisingly engaged in the project, working alongside Meave with a level of dedication that surpassed Meave's initial expectations.

With textbooks spread across the coffee table, the two girls delved into their exploration of historical events, tracing the threads of the past with an intellectual fervor that bridged the gap between their divergent personalities. Rachel's insightful contributions and genuine interest in the subject matter left Meave in awe.

In the midst of their collaborative efforts, Rachel interrupted their research with an unexpected offer. "Meave, do you need anything? A drink, perhaps? Snacks?"

Meave, taken aback by the sincerity in Rachel's voice, hesitated before responding, "Uh, sure, I guess a drink would be nice."

Rachel, with a faint smile, gracefully rose from her seat. "I'll be right back."

As Rachel disappeared into the depths of her extravagant home, Meave exchanged a perplexed glance with herself. This wasn't the Rachel Zegler she had expected – the manipulative mean girl was momentarily replaced by someone surprisingly considerate.

Returning with a tray of refreshments, Rachel set it down on the table. "Here you go, Meave. Tea or coffee?"

Meave, still adjusting to this unexpected turn of events, stammered, "Tea is fine, thank you."

Rachel poured a cup of tea, her movements fluid and deliberate. The two girls continued their work, sipping tea and exchanging thoughts on historical events. The walls of animosity seemed to crumble as the evening progressed, revealing a side of Rachel that Meave had never imagined.

As they worked together, Rachel subtly dropped her usual diva facade, showing a genuine interest in Meave's opinions and insights. It was as if the layers of Braxton High's social hierarchy were temporarily set aside, leaving only the shared passion for their project.

Unbeknownst to Meave, Rachel was harboring a secret crush, carefully concealed beneath her composed exterior. Her interactions with Meave, fueled by a desire to impress and connect on a more personal level, revealed a vulnerability that few were privy to.

As the night wore on, Rachel's mansion transformed from an imposing fortress to a space where two unlikely allies shared a common goal. Meave, fully immersed in the project and captivated by Rachel's unexpected kindness, couldn't deny the sense of camaraderie that had developed.

As the evening progressed, Meave found herself more and more captivated by the unexpected soft side of Rachel Zegler. The tea, snacks, and engaging conversation made the collaboration on their history project a surprisingly pleasant experience. Meave couldn't help but marvel at the transformation happening before her eyes.

"Who would've thought Rachel Zegler could actually be nice?" Meave teased, a playful grin on her face.

Rachel chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "Well, Meave Rosewood, there's always more to people than meets the eye. You might be surprised if you take the time to look."

The banter continued, each comment and exchange revealing another layer of the complex personalities beneath the surface. For a brief moment, it felt like the walls of Braxton High's social hierarchy had crumbled, leaving only the genuine connection between two individuals bound by a shared interest.

However, as they say, old habits die hard. Rachel, ever the it girl, couldn't resist the allure of her mean girl persona for long. When Meave playfully pushed the boundaries of their newfound camaraderie, teasing Rachel about her temporary departure from the usual diva attitude, Rachel's defense mechanisms snapped back into place.

"You know, Meave, this little truce doesn't mean you get to forget who I am," Rachel retorted with a smirk, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm still Rachel Zegler, and this project doesn't change a thing."

Meave, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, decided to tread lightly. "Fair enough, Rachel. Let's just focus on the project."

The tension lingered, but the work continued. As Meave reached for her tea, the cup slipped from her fingers, and the liquid spilled onto Rachel's lap. Time seemed to freeze as Meave's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, my gosh, Rachel, I'm so sorry!" Meave exclaimed, scrambling to grab some tissues to help clean up the mess.

Rachel, at first appearing shocked, quickly recovered and gave a dramatic sigh. "Well, isn't this just perfect? Ruining my outfit."

As Meave dabbed at the wet spots, Rachel's gaze shifted, and a sly smirk played on her lips. Meave, oblivious to Rachel's devious thoughts, continued apologizing.

"It was an accident, Rachel. I didn't mean to—"

Rachel interrupted, her tone dripping with mischief. "Accident or not, Meave, you really should be more careful."

It was then that Meave noticed Rachel's subtle change in demeanor. The smirk on Rachel's face widened as she saw Meave's gaze unintentionally shift to where the tea had left its mark on Rachel's tank top.

"Oh, what's this? Admiring the view, Meave?" Rachel teased, her diva attitude firmly back in place.

Meave, caught off guard, blushed furiously. "No! I was just trying to help clean up!"

Rachel, relishing the moment, laughed. "Well, consider it a lesson, Meave. Even when I'm being nice, I'm not one to be underestimated."

The atmosphere, once filled with camaraderie, had shifted back to the familiar dynamic between the quiet historian and the enigmatic queen bee. As Meave awkwardly tried to navigate the aftermath of the spilled tea, she couldn't shake the feeling that the delicate balance they had struck might be more fragile than she had initially thought. The rest of the evening would reveal whether this unexpected collaboration could withstand the challenges that lay ahead.

Despite the accidental spill and the return of Rachel's diva persona, Meave couldn't shake the lingering embarrassment. The air in Rachel's opulent home felt charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the history project.

As Meave continued to mop up the spilled tea, Rachel, with an air of innocence that contradicted her reputation, pretended not to notice Meave's discomfort. She casually strolled to the kitchen, leaving Meave momentarily flustered.

"So, Meave, what do you think about delving into the cultural impact of the Renaissance?" Rachel called from the kitchen, her tone light and seemingly innocent.

Meave, trying to regain her composure, responded, "Uh, sure, that sounds like a good angle to explore."

As Rachel returned, Meave couldn't help but notice the subtle sway in her hips and the way her tank top clung to her slightly dampened skin. Unbeknownst to Meave, Rachel was orchestrating a silent seduction, tapping into the art of allure that had made her the it girl of Braxton High.

Rachel leaned over the table, her eyes locking onto Meave's with a mischievous glint. "You know, Meave, it's surprising how working on a project can create such... intense moments."

Meave, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone, stammered, "Uh, yeah, I guess so."

Rachel's lips curled into a sly smile as she leaned even closer. "You seem a bit flustered, Meave. Is everything alright?"

Meave, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, nodded awkwardly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Let's just focus on the project."

Rachel, seemingly unfazed, continued to toy with Meave's composure. "Oh, I fully intend to focus on the project, Meave. We wouldn't want any distractions, would we?"

As they delved deeper into the Renaissance, Rachel's subtle touches and lingering glances heightened the tension in the room. Meave found herself growing increasingly hot and bothered, her focus wavering between the history project and the enigmatic girl sitting across from her.

With each innocent comment and sultry gesture, Rachel maintained an air of detachment, leaving Meave to navigate the unfamiliar territory of desire and confusion. The it girl of Braxton High had managed to weave a subtle web of seduction without overtly crossing any lines.

As the night wore on, the temperature in Rachel's home seemed to rise, and Meave couldn't shake the feeling that she was caught in a delicate dance orchestrated by the irresistible queen bee. Little did she know, Rachel's enigmatic charm was just one facet of the complex game that would unfold in the corridors and classrooms of Braxton High.

As the night progressed, Rachel couldn't help but revel in the effect she had on Meave. The subtle shifts in her body language, the nervous glances, and the occasional stammering—all signs that Meave was more affected than she let on. The it girl of Braxton High had always enjoyed the art of influence, but tonight, she found a different thrill in knowing she held a unique power over Meave Rosewood.

As they continued to work on their history project, Rachel couldn't resist pushing the boundaries further. She leaned in closer, her lips inches from Meave's ear, as she whispered with feigned innocence, "You seem a little distracted, Meave. Is the Renaissance getting to you, or is it something else?"

Meave, acutely aware of Rachel's proximity, felt a shiver run down her spine. She stammered, "I... I'm just trying to focus, Rachel. Let's finish the project."

Rachel pulled back, her brown eyes dancing with mischief. "Of course, Meave. Focus is essential. But you know, sometimes a little distraction can be... enlightening."

Meave, attempting to divert her attention back to the project, found herself increasingly drawn into the magnetic pull of Rachel's teasing. The air between them became charged with an electric intensity that neither could deny.

As they discussed historical figures and events, Rachel's playful touches and suggestive comments continued to fuel the flames of desire. It became evident that Rachel wasn't just interested in completing the project; she was reveling in the game of seduction, relishing the power dynamics that unfolded between them.

"You have this incredible way of making history come alive, Rachel," Meave remarked, her voice betraying a mix of admiration and something more.

Rachel, with a coy smile, replied, "Well, I believe in adding a personal touch to everything I do. Keeps things interesting, don't you think?"

The tension in the room reached a palpable peak, and Rachel, sensing Meave's growing vulnerability, decided to take the teasing a step further. As she reached for a book on the shelf, her fingers brushed against Meave's hand, sending a jolt of electricity through both of them.

"Oh, sorry, Meave," Rachel said, her voice dripping with insincere innocence. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Meave, now fully aware of the game Rachel was playing, tried to maintain composure. "It's... it's fine, Rachel. Let's just finish this."

As the night wore on, Rachel's calculated maneuvers pushed Meave to the edge. The it girl, reveling in her ability to turn the tables, couldn't resist a final, daring move. With a smirk, she leaned in, her lips brushing against Meave's ear.

"I must say, Meave, you're quite the fascinating project," Rachel whispered, her breath sending shivers down Meave's spine. "I wonder how far this distraction will take us."

As Rachel pulled away, the room hung in a charged silence. Meave, flustered and intrigued, couldn't deny the magnetic pull that Rachel had skillfully woven around them. The it girl of Braxton High had succeeded in turning a simple history project into a complex web of desire and intrigue.

The charged atmosphere in Rachel's luxurious home reached a boiling point, and Meave, feeling the intensity of the moment, couldn't resist the magnetic pull any longer. In a bold move, she closed the distance between her and Rachel, capturing her lips in a kiss that held a mixture of desire and uncertainty.

For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still as Meave's heartbeat echoed in her ears. The unexpectedness of the kiss left Rachel momentarily stunned, but as Meave pulled back, a flicker of surprise and something deeper flashed in Rachel's brown eyes.

Meave, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions, stammered, "I... I don't know what came over me, Rachel. I'm sorry."

Before she could fully comprehend the implications of her actions, Meave attempted to retreat, but Rachel, ever the enigmatic manipulator, seized the opportunity. With a swift, almost predatory grace, Rachel pulled Meave back into the embrace, her lips claiming Meave's in a more assertive kiss.

The atmosphere crackled with a newfound intensity as Rachel, now in control, deepened the kiss. Meave, torn between desire and apprehension, couldn't deny the electrifying chemistry that existed between them. Rachel's soft, teasing demeanor had given way to a more dominating presence, and Meave found herself surrendering to the unexpected allure of the it girl.

Breaking the kiss, Rachel whispered against Meave's lips, "You're full of surprises, Meave Rosewood. But don't worry; I can be just as unpredictable."

A mix of emotions danced in Meave's blue eyes—confusion, desire, and a hint of fear. Rachel, however, remained composed, her expression revealing a complexity that transcended the usual mean girl facade. Behind the confident exterior, there was a softness reserved exclusively for Meave.

As Rachel continued to explore the boundaries of desire, Meave, lost in the intoxicating whirlwind of sensations, couldn't help but be captivated by the magnetic pull of Rachel's touch. The it girl, now revealing a more vulnerable side, guided the dance between them, each movement a testament to the unspoken connection that had ignited between them.

Meave's initial boldness had triggered a shift in the dynamics of their relationship, and as Rachel continued to dominate the girl with both finesse and a hint of genuine affection, Meave found herself teetering on the edge of an emotional precipice.

"I never knew you could be like this, Rachel," Meave whispered, her voice laced with a mix of awe and vulnerability.

Rachel, with a subtle smile, replied, "People are full of surprises, Meave. You just have to be willing to explore."

The night unfolded in a symphony of desire, a delicate dance between two souls navigating uncharted territory. The it girl of Braxton High had found herself entangled in a connection that transcended the superficial, and Meave, despite her initial reservations, couldn't deny the undeniable allure of Rachel Zegler.

As dawn approached, the tangled threads of desire and intimacy began to weave a complex tapestry that neither girl could easily unravel. The corridors of Braxton High, witness to their secret liaison, would become the silent keepers of a story that transcended the usual high school drama.

Little did Meave and Rachel realize that the complexities of their connection would redefine the very fabric of their lives, creating a bond that surpassed the expectations of their peers.

In the hushed aftermath of their intense make-out session, Meave found herself panting softly, her lips swollen and her senses ablaze. The room was cloaked in a charged silence, broken only by the rhythmic beats of their rapid breaths. Rachel, her usual mean girl facade now completely shattered, giggled softly, her brown eyes filled with an unexpected tenderness.

"Well, that was unexpected," Rachel remarked, her voice carrying a playful lilt.

Meave, still catching her breath, managed a shy smile. "Yeah, it definitely was."

The air between them crackled with a newfound vulnerability as Rachel, usually the picture of confidence, hesitated for a moment. A soft, almost wistful expression crossed her features before she spoke, her tone uncharacteristically sincere.

"You know, Meave, I've had this crush on you for years. It's just something I never thought I'd actually act on."

Meave's eyes widened in surprise, the weight of Rachel's confession settling between them. The it girl of Braxton High, now stripped of her mean girl armor, revealed a side that Meave had never expected. The unexpected sincerity in Rachel's voice left Meave grappling with a mix of emotions.

"You... you have a crush on me?" Meave repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rachel, seemingly unfazed by the admission, nodded. "Yeah, I guess I do. It's weird, right? But I can't deny the attraction, the way you've always intrigued me."

Meave, still processing the revelation, felt a strange mix of flattery and confusion. The lines between their roles at Braxton High had blurred beyond recognition, leaving them standing on unfamiliar ground.

"I had no idea," Meave admitted, her voice a fragile whisper.

Rachel, with a soft smile, reached out to gently tuck a strand of Meave's red hair behind her ear. "Well, secrets have a way of staying hidden, especially in high school. But tonight, everything's out in the open."

The room seemed to shrink, leaving them suspended in a moment of uncharted intimacy. Rachel, typically the puppeteer of social dynamics, now found herself in uncharted territory, her heart exposed in a way that went against her carefully curated image.

"I never expected tonight to turn out like this," Meave confessed, her blue eyes searching Rachel's for understanding.

Rachel chuckled softly, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "Life has a way of surprising us, doesn't it? Sometimes, we end up exactly where we never thought we'd be."

As the night wore on, the two girls navigated the uncharted waters of their newfound connection. Rachel's mean girl attitude had given way to a softer, more genuine demeanor, and Meave found herself drawn to the complexity that lay beneath the surface.

Their conversations ebbed and flowed, touching on everything from high school drama to shared dreams and fears. The layers of Braxton High's social hierarchy seemed to dissipate, leaving only the vulnerability of two girls who, against all odds, had found a connection that defied expectations.

Little did Meave and Rachel know that their unexpected journey would continue to unfold, revealing twists and turns that would redefine the contours of their lives. The corridors of Braxton High, once witness to their secret liaison, now held the echoes of a story that transcended the boundaries of friendship, desire, and the unspoken connections that bound them together.

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A/N: simply based on Mean Girls :)

#rachel zegler #lucy gray baird x reader #lucy gray x reader #lucy gray baird x you #fandom #lucy gray x fem!reader #lucy gray #lucy gray baird #fanfic #tbosas

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paarthurnax59 · 1 year

Text

"Never to Be"

Chapter 4

Warning: violence, angst and swearing.

May 4th 2012

It had been a few weeks since you had seen Steve at the Café. Everyday, you had been waiting to see him and watched for him at his usual spot on the café’s patio. It was a Friday, and it was also your day off. After the heartfelt conversation that you had with Katie, you decided to go for a long walk in Central Park. Walking through the lane of beautiful trees, you noticed the buds on the trees were about to bud in New York City, finally telling you that winter was over. The gentle warm breeze brushed against your body as you breathe in the flowery scent of a new spring. You reached the bridge in the middle of the park and leaned against the edges and looked down at the river streaming under the bridge.

You mind comes to what Katie had said in the ally. About Dean and the trauma he had put you through.

“Of course. (Name), what you have experienced was abuse. Emotional and mental abuse, and not a lot of people break from that.”

It also started to make you wonder about if Dean truly was abusive to you. Her words echoed in your ears as you looked up at the sky, thinking about everything that had transpire in the past few weeks. Meeting Steve, the rumor about him wanting to go out with you, your emotional meltdown, and confessing to Katie about your past. Your never thought one man like Steve could cause this much emotion in you. Never would you even think a man like Steve would even be interested in you. Not in a million years. Steve was everything you weren’t. He was pure, clean, righteous, brave, and looked up to by everyone. Literally everyone in America is inspired by the man that defended the world from ultimate destruction form the maniac known as Red Skull. Making the most heartbreaking sacrifice so that people like you could live their lives.

But you on the other hand…were a broken, young woman trying to find her lace in the world. It certainly wasn’t going to be with the Winchesters, let alone Dean. He made that clear that he had no room in his life for you. A single tear falls to down your cheek while you coiled yourself drawing your arms close to your body. You choke out a sob as you let your mind wander to a dark place, filled with confusion and insecurity.

‘Why am I doing this to myself? Why can’t I just forget about my old life? Forget about Dean?’ You whined mentally as you tried to hold back another sob from your throat when you suddenly…

BOOM!

An explosion was set off to the northeast of your direction, making you stop crying and turn to the horror that was arising. Out of nowhere, A large beam of blue light shot up from a distance. It looked like it was in the direction of Stark tower and soon, flying vehicles started to scatter around the city. On those vehicles looked like were monstruous creatures that were now starting to shoot at the skyscrapers in the city. Your eyes widen at the sight, feeling helpless and scared, now realizing the city was under attack. Your heart rate skyrocketed watching people run in terror in the park to get away from the explosion. Instead of running away, you stood still, frozen in your spot watching the destruction unfold. Your breathing stopped and you refused to move until a hand wrapped around your arm pulling you away.

“Lady! What are you doing?! You need to get out of here! The city is being invaded by aliens!” Shouted one male police officer you didn’t noticed until he was pulling your arm. “We have to get out of here, miss! Now!Look up there!” He said as he pointed at the direction tried to drag you away and you almost went with him, when another explosion was set off to the west, where your apartment was. You face to turn to your home, knowing full well Katie was home doing homework.

‘(Name), what are you doing?! Run!’ Said the voice of reason trying to get you to move before the blasts came your way.

‘I can’t leave Katie! She still at our apartment!’ You shot right back, hoping a burst of courage will arise in you to save your friend.

‘There is nothing you can do, (Name)! You aren’t strong enough! This isn’t like hunting a ghost or a demon. This is a full-scale invasion! An alien invasion! There is nothing you can do for her! You have to leave!’ The voice shouted back again. You stood still a bit longer before you made your decision. You looked at the cop that was holding your arm and looked own at his waist belt and saw his gun. With your swift movements and before the cop could even react to you, you grabbed his gun and the extra bullets.

“What are you doing!?” He shouted angerly as he saw your burning gaze staring down at him.

“Protecting my friend!” you shouted without stopping for anything as the people ran from the explosion. You got out of the park and towards the direction of your apartment building. As you ran as fast as your feet can carry you, the voice in your head chimed in as you headed into the heart of the destruction.

‘You aren’t going to make it, (Name)! She’s done for!’ Said the voice in a panic but all you did was just shook you head.

‘I have to try! I can’t let another person I care about die! Not if I can help it! I won’t be able to live with myself if I ran like a coward while Katie needed me!’ You replied while still charge down the street do the very best not be hit by a speeding car and aliens shooting at people. One driver nearly hit you and shouted at you for being so insane as to run in the street. You didn’t listen nor did you care, all you were concerned about was getting to your apartment to save your best friend. You prayed to any angel that was listening that she was okay if they even cared. Reaching to yours and Katie’s apartment, you jaw dropped at the sight of seeing a big chunk of the dark red building blown off, where your apartment was.

“KATIE!!!” You screamed frantically as you ran into the building as some of the other tenants ran out in fear. You climbed up the long stairway as fast as any normal human can carry them. When you reached your floor, your legs sprinted to yours and Katie’s apartment. You saw that the door was blown off, making your heart race like rocket. As blasts and explosions went off around the city, you slowly lifted the gun with the finger on the trigger, ready to shoot if necessary. You entered your shared apartment and looked at the destruction. Nearly all the glass was broken in, the furniture was demolished, the fridge was knocked over and half of your wall was missing, exposing you to the chaos that was ensuing throughout the city. You shook your head, no longer caring about the state of the apartment. Now, you are just wanting to find your best friend and get her out of here.

“Katie. Katie!” you shouted while being on your guard knowing you could possibly be attacked at any given moment. “Katie, are you in-” you stopped when you stepped on a broken glass and looked down. It was a photo of both you and Katie that once hung on your wall. It was of you and her at Coney Island last summer. You were feeling depressed, and Katie suggested that you both go to the famous amusement park. The photo showed you two standing in front of the Farris Wheel smiling as you hugged one another, with the biggest smile on your face. It was one of the best days of your life. Your chest began to hurt as you breathe heavily, and your emotions got the better of you. as you looked at the picture and could not stop yourself from sobbing, you screamed out your friend’s name.

“KATIE!!” Heartbreak overwhelms you as you call out to your friend, hoping that she was still alive. Then, you heard a very faint cry coming from Katie’s room.

“(Name)…I’m in my room.” You heard a weal cry in the other room and quickly ran to her room and bust open the door. Your heart shattered when you saw Katie on the floor holding her leg, wincing in pain.

“Katie!” You practically fell to the floor, despite the broken glass and wood that scattered all over the floor. You brought yourself to her level and grabbed her shoulder and brought her into a hug. “Katie, are you okay?!” You cried holding her in your arms as more tears began to stain your cheeks.

“No…my leg…I think it’s broken.” She winced and howled holding on to her leg and cried withering in pain. She looked at your hand and noticed that there was a gun in it. “Where did you get the gun?” She asked you between hissing in pain.

“I…took it from a cop.” You answered honestly, hoping Katie won’t upset by it. However seeing the sour look on her face, you knew you weren’t so lucky

“What?!” She shouted at you with a tint of anger.

“It was an emergency! I had to get to you!” You defended you actions, knowing full well you would never be able to sleep well at night if something happened to her.

“(Name)…you shouldn’t have come back…You could be killed…”

“Knowing you were here? I don’t think so!” You countered as you ripped off some of the fabric of your shirt and grabbed two long pieces of wood on the floor and wrapped it around her leg. Once it was securely fastened around her leg, you turned your attention back to her. “If I help you up, do you think you can stand?” You asked with strong determination.

“You won’t be able to carry me.” She retorted, basically trying to get you to leave her behind and save yourself, but that wasn’t going to work. All your life you have had people defending you and protecting you, look where that had gotten you. You lost all of your friends and family because you felt like you never did enough, at least in Dean’s eyes anyway. God, why even during catastrophic intergalactic invasion, you still let Dean get to you. Why in the world does that man have such a unbelievably strong hold over you? Why do you care? Why should you care? Pushing those thoughts away, you draw back your focus onto Katie. As you refused to listen to her protests, you placed her arm over your shoulders. One arm holding on to hers and the other with the cop’s gun. The blonde then looked back at you with astonishment and you back at her, as the fire grew inside you.

“Watch me.” You gritted and hoisted her to her one good leg and stood up. “Just hop on your good leg. Keep yourself balanced and I will do the rest. Now, let’s go.” You finally say as you both slowly walked out of the apartment and to the hallway as the sound of the blasts being shot from outside.

“They’re getting closer!” Katie panicked as she was confirmed right when you hear the sound of Manhattan being pulverized by the alien army outside. You pain no mind as right now your only objective was to get Katie out of the building. The both of you reached the top of the steps and breathe heavily at the thought of what you were both going to do at this point. You looked Katie who was scared out of her mind and furled your eyebrows, knowing full well of what you needed to do.

“Katie, I’m going to need you to hop on my back.” You said as your roommate looked at you like you were insane.

“You won’t be able to carry me, (Name)!” She shouted but once again, you refused to listen.

“Just do it!” You shouted at her, making her flinch. You know you are going to have to apologize to her later, but that will have to wait. If you both make it out of this that is. Katies then nodded and then released her arm from your shoulders and hoped behind your back. Once she got on you, she wrapped her legs around you and you started to walk down the stairs, slowly but consistently. You didn’t have time and needed to be as fast as possible before anything else happens. Katie watched you with such amazing curiosity as you didn’t faulter as you took each and every step.

“How did you get strong?!” Katie shirked as you went down the steps with her on your back.

“I work out. A lot!” You answered back as you remained focused on get closer to the bottom of the steps. You were halfway down when another small explosion goes outside, making the building shake and the both of you scream.

“You must leave me, (Name)! I’m done for anyway! I’m slowing you down!” She tried to convince you to leave her behind to save yourself.

“NO, I WON’T! I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU BEHIND! IF WE DON’T MAKE IT, WE WILL DIE TOGETHER!” You shouted with so much agony and rage, that Katie didn’t even recognize you at that moment.

“You have done so much for me, Katie! So much that if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive today! For taking me in, getting me a job and encouraging me to go to nursing school and build new life!” You cried your confession while Katie just silently listening to your rant, all the while you were trying so hard to not lose your balance while trying to carry her down the stairs. You continued to go down the stairs as you shouted. “Most of all, you cared about the things that I went through! You didn’t judge me or turn me away when I told you about my past! No one in my life has done that for me! No one! Not even the people that I had considered friends did that for me! You had given me a chance at life again, Katie! I am not going to let you suffer a horrible death alone if there is something that I could do about it! So shut up about me leaving you behind because that is not happening!”

You screamed with every step until you finally reached down to the first level of your apartment building. With Katie still on your back, you ran out and got her off your, back up against the wall, before you collapse on the ground. You back roughly slide down against the red stone brick structure, breathing heavily trying to calm down your anxiety. Katie watched in horror looking at the city being attacked and turned to you.

“We can’t stay here, (Name). Those monsters that are attacking will find us.” She explained as you finally had relaxed your heart rate and you concurred with a nod.

“I know, but we can’t get anywhere without help. I’m pretty damn sure your leg is broken, and I am too tired to carry you again.” You admitted you watched the aliens attack Manhattan. I was like watching “Independence Day” in real life. Alien monsters shooting buildings attacking people, cars and buses on fire and buildings being blasted into rubble. A blast hits right above the both of you and some pieces of your apartment building started to fall above. “Look out!” you shouted as you pulled Katie and yourself away from the wall before the debris fell on top of you. You were now both on the sidewalk and coughing as some of the bust got into your lungs. You went to Katie who was groaning in agony and pain lying on her back. “Katie! Are you alright!?”

“I’m…LOOK BEHIND YOU!” She screamed as you looked behind you and saw disgustingly ugly monsters. They come at both of you slowly, like a lion ready to pounce on a mouse. Your eyes turned angry as you picked up the gun your dropped to the ground and aimed at the monsters.

“Back off! Or I will shoot!” you warned the monsters that were coming closer. “I SAID BACK OFF!” You shouted back once more, but the monsters just kept on coming closer to you. You huffed in anger and frustration, closing your eyes for one second. Your nostrils flared as you reopen them looking around the aliens closing in on you. You take the bullets you placed in your jacket pocket and loaded the gun. “Fine. Your funeral.” You muttered and then with as much control as possible, you shot as the monsters start come after you. You kept your focus and shot at them right in the head until every one of them fell to the ground dead.

“(Name)! to your left!” She shouted again and you turn to shot at another alien that was about to pounce on you when it was climbing a car. Shooting it right in the head as it’s body fell flat on the concert paved ground. Another snarl could be heard, making the both of you turn around. Before you could shoot, a smooth deep voice hissed from behind you.

“Well, what we have here.”

Said a very dark voice from behind you and quickly turn to see the who. You were now faced with a man dressed in strange green and gold armor, a helmet with long golden horns. Green cape draped over his body, flowing freely in the breeze. His face pale and eyes green as emeralds with hair black as a raven’s feathers sticking out from his helm. Deep down you knew this man was an enemy. You watched him as he his thin lips curved into a wicked grin as he looked at you.

“My, my, my. You have some real spirit in you, pet.” Said the creepy man as he walked closer to you and Katie. You stood closer to Katie and knelt to her, keeping her safe from this insane looking man.

“Not a step closer, pal!” You demanded as you raised your gun to him. Aside from his apposing form, his steps ceased, in turn made him chuckled at your pathetic attempt to protect your friend.

“Do you really think your Midgardian weapons can hurt me, little girl?” Asked the man as he twisted the large spear in his hands, walking back and forth in front of you.

“I’m willing to find out if you try to come closer to us!” Threatening him again, you don’t lower the barrel of your gun at him. Not for one second as he was circling like a vulture. “Who are you?! What do you want?! Are you the leader of this invasion?!” You interrogated while trying to keep your breathing even as you looked up at him.

“Well, since you have insisted, my dear, I will introduce myself, seeing as you are going to be very familiar with me.” He said as he stopped moving and looked at you. “I am Loki of Asgard, your new king, and you will all kneel before me.”

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#steve x reader #the avengers #captain america fluff #angst #supernatural #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester #marvel

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