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reinvent-and-believe · 4 years

Note

48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.

“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.

The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”

A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.

“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”

Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”

Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.

He’s not sure why he bought it.

He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.

They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.

“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”

“So...it’s a pretty weed.”

“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.

Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.

The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.

Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.

Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.

Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.

In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.

It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.

It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.

(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)

The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.

Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.

The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”

Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.

(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)

“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”

Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.

“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.

Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.

A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.

“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”

“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”

There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.

Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”

“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”

Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.

Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.

“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”

Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.

“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”

“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”

Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.

“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.

“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.

He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?

Except...

Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.

The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.

Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.

Sometimes I want things I can’t have.

“Geralt?”

The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.

“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”

Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.

“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”

When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.

“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.

Geralt nods.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.

His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Geralt.”

He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?

“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.

And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”

And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.

His kiss tastes like sunlight.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #the witcher #my fic #anon asks #prompt fill #thank you so much for this absolutely lovely prompt!!!!! i'm so sorry it took me months to actually filling it!!!

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highsviolets · 3 years

Text

INTERVIEW NO. 1: RACHEL @djarinsbeskar

hello hello! i am so happy to announce that rachel — aka the immense talent that is @djarinsbeskar — has agreed to be my first interviewee for this new series! thank you to rach and to each one of you for all of your support. to read more about the project, click here, and to submit an author, click here.

| why rachel? |

Rachel captured my imagination from the first time we interacted as mutuals-in-law. She’s bursting with energy and vivaciousness, with a current of kindness just underneath everything she does. Her work is no exception. Oftentimes gritty, raw, and exposing (in … ahem…more ways than one), Rachel challenges her readers to dig deeper into both the story and themselves. Her smut brings a particular fire as it’s laced with need, desire, and mutual trust that leads us deeper into the characters’ identities and how physical affection can mimic other forms of intimacy. She’s a tour de force in this fandom and an absolute joy.

| known for |

Engaging with and encouraging other authors, cultivating inspo posts, attention to world building & character development

| my favorites |

Stitches

Boxer!Din

Full Masterlist • Ko-Fi

| q & a |

When did you start writing? What was that project, and what was it like? Has that feeling or process ever changed over time? Why?

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t writing. I was an avid reader, as I think most writers are—and I remember, after picking up Lord of the Rings—that I could live so many lives, experience so many things, all from the pages of a book. I could make sense of the world through words and ink and paper. And it offered me a level of peace and clarity I wanted to share with others. So, I started writing.

My first project I remember to this day, was a short story about a dog. I had been so heartbroken when I learned that dogs were colourblind. I must have been about seven or eight at the time, and I was fixated on this idea that dogs couldn’t see the vibrant hues that made the world beautiful. It was something I wanted to change—and with all the righteous anger of a child not getting their own way, I sulked over the fact that I couldn’t. Until I wrote it down.

“How do dogs see colour?”

And much like my writing today, I answered myself.

“Dogs don’t need to see colour. Dogs smell colour.”

And so, I wrote a story, about a puppy being brought on different walks by its owner. And with every new street it walked down—colour bloomed with scent. Colours more beautiful and vibrant than we could ever hope to see with our eyes. And it gave me solace and helped me work through an emotion that – granted was immature and inconsequential – had affected me. To this day, I still smile seeing dogs sniffing at everything they pass on their walks. Smelling colour. It gave me the key to my favourite thing in life. I don’t think my process has changed much since then. Much of what I write is based on a skeleton plan, but I leave room for characters to speak and feel as they need to. I like to know the starting point and destination of a chapter—but how they get there, that still falls to instinct. I think I’ve found a happy medium of strict planning and winging it that suits me now—and hopefully it will continue to improve over time!

When did you start posting your writing, and on what platform? What gave you the push to do that?

I mean, fanfiction has always been part of my life. I think anyone who was growing up in the late 2000’s and early 2010’s found their way to fanfiction.net at some time or other. The wild west compared to what we have now! My first post was for the Lord of the Rings fandom on fanfiction.net. It was an anthology of the story told through the eyes of the steeds. Bill the Pony, Shadowfax—it was all very innocent. That was probably in 2010 when I was fifteen. I had been wanting to share writing for a long time but was worried about how it would be received. I didn’t really have a gauge on my level or my creativity and – one of the many flaws of someone with crippling perfectionism – I only ever wanted to provide perfection. That was a major inhibitor when I was younger. By wanting it to be perfect, I never posted anything. Until that stupidly cute LOTR fic. It was freeing to write something that no one but me had any interest in, because if I was writing for myself then there was no one to disappoint, right? And that was all it took. I had some pauses over the years between college and life and such, but I’ve never lost that mindset when it comes to posting.

What your favorite work of yours that you have ever written? Why is it your favorite? What is more important to you when considering your own stories for your own enjoyment — characters? fandom? spice? emotional development? the work you’ve put into it? Is that different than what you enjoy reading most in other people’s fics?

I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise when I say Stitches. While not original, I mean—it follows the plot of the Mandalorian quite diligently, it is the piece of work I really hold very close to my heart. Din Djarin as a character is what got me back into writing after what must have been five years? He inspired something. His manner, his personality—he resonated with me as a person in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. And gave me back a creative outlet I had been missing.

It’s funny to say out loud—but I wanted to give him something? I spent so long thinking about his character that half my brain felt like it belonged to him—how he reacted and responded to things etc. and of course, like every dreamy Pisces—I wanted to give him love and happiness. So, Stitches came along. Personally, when writing—it’s a combination of characters, emotional development and spice (I can’t help myself) and when we can follow that development. With Stitches, it’s definitely the spice that is the conduit for development—but I adore showing how the physical can help people who struggle to communicate emotions too complex for words.

I don’t usually read for Din, as most people know—but I do enjoy reading the type of work that Stitches is. Human, damaged—but still with an undercurrent of hope that makes me think of children’s books.

You said, “much like writing today, I answered myself.” Could you talk about that in relation to Stitches?

So, I’m endlessly curious, it has to be said. Especially about why people are the way they are. Why people do A instead of B. Why X person’s immediate thought went to this place instead of that place. And I’m rarely satisfied with superficial explanations. One of the most exciting parts of writing and fanfiction especially, is making sense of that why. There can be countless explanations, some that are content with what is seen on the surface and some that go deep and some that go even deeper still.

Stitches is almost a – very long winded and much too long – answer to the questions I was so intrigued by about Din Djarin, about the Mandalorian and about the Star Wars universe as a whole. I often wondered what happened to people after the Rebellion, the normal people who fought—the people in the background. What did they do next? Did some of them suffer from PTSD? What was the galaxy like right after the Empire fell? That first season of the Mandalorian answered some of those questions, but I wanted to know more. So, I created a reader insert who was a combat medic—and through her, I let myself answer the questions of what happened next.

Regarding Din as a character, I wanted to know what a bounty hunter with a code of honour would do in certain situations—what made him tick, what made hm vulnerable. I wanted to explore the discovery of his identity. Din Djarin didn’t exist after he was taken from Aq Vetina. He became a cog in a very efficient machine of Mandalorians—and it was safe there. I wanted to see what – or who – might encourage him to step into his own. Grogu was that person in a familial sense, but what about romantically? What about individually? There’s so much to explore with this man! So many facets of personality and nuances of character that make him so gorgeous to write and think about.

Talk to me about the Din Djarin Athletic Universe. How does Din as all of these forms of athlete play off who you see him as in canon?

The Athletic Universe! How I adore my athletes. Despite being in a modern setting, I have kept the core of Din’s character in each of them (at least I hope I have!). I like to divide Din’s character into three phases when it comes to canon because he’s not as immovable as people seem to think he is. We discussed this before, how I see Din as a water element—adaptable, but strong enough that he can be as steadfast as rock. But I digress, the first phase is the character we see in the first episode. Basically, before Grogu. There’s an aggressive brutality to Din when we see him bounty hunting. He works on autopilot and isn’t swayed by sob stories or promises. He has the covert but is ultimately separate. Those soft feelings he comes to recognise when he has Grogu are dormant – not non-existent – but they haven’t been nurtured or encouraged. This is the point I extracted Boxer!Din’s personality and story from.

Cyclist!Din on the other hand—is already a father, a biological father to Grogu. And his personality, I took from that moment in the finale of Season two where I believe Din’s transformative arc of character solidified. He was always a father to Grogu, but I do believe that moment where he removes his helmet is the moment, he accepts that role fully in his heart and mind. And that is why I don’t believe for a second, that removing his helmet was him breaking his Creed. In fact, I believe it was the purest act he could do in devotion to his Creed—to his foundling, to his son. The Cyclist!AU is very much the character I see canon Din having should Grogu have stayed with him. This single dad who isn’t quite sure how he got to where he is now—but does anything and everything for his child without thought. It’s a natural instinct for him, and I like exploring those possibilities with Cyclist!Din.

You also said, “he has the covert but is ultimately separate.” What does it take for him — and you — to get to that point of being ‘not separate?’

I mentioned this above, but one of the biggest interests I have in Din as a character is his identity. He’s a Mandalorian, he’s a bounty hunter, he’s the child’s guardian but those are all what he is, not who. I think Din is separate while being part of the covert because he doesn’t know. I don’t think anyone can really be part of something if they don’t know who they are or, they struggle with their identity. It’s curious to me—how you can deceive even yourself to mimic the standard set for the many. In the boxer verse, he identifies himself in relation to his boxing—and every part of his outward personality exhibits those qualities. But when he’s given a softer touch—an outlet of affection, and comfort—we see the softer side of him surface. It’s very much the same with Stitches Din. Identity is like anything, emotions—relationships, bodies. It needs nurturing to thrive, an open door—a safe space. At least, that’s what goes through my mind when I think of him.

Who is your favorite character to read?

Frankie because there are so many ways his character can be interpreted and there are some stellar versions of him that I think of at least once a day. Javi because he reminds me of kintsugi-- golden recovery, broken pottery where the cracks are highlighted with gold. I also adore reading for Boba Fett, Paz Viszla and the clones!

Is there anything else you want your readers to know about you, your writing, or your creative process?

Hmm... only that I am quite literally a gremlin clown who is always here to chat Din, Star Wars, literature, book recs and anything else under the sun! I like to hear people's stories, their opinions etc. it helps me see things from alternative points of view and can truly help the writing process! Other than that, I think I can only thank readers for putting up with my ridiculously long chapters and rambling introspection. Thank you for indulging me always! ❤️

#pedro pascal #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #djarinsbeskar #chat with cris #author interview series #tuserdaniela #userastrid #usernobie #userhai #pedrostories

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twentytarot · 3 years

Photo

hi everyone! another requested reading today: we’re talking about your most memorable sexual encounter. the topic itself is 18+, but nothing written here will be explicit. pick the image that sets your thoughts off and scroll down to your respective pile for your reading~ 🌫

before we get into this fully, i’ll just quickly explain: this reading is done with only 5 lenormand cards, which is a lot less than my usual. this is basically because my other decks were not having it period lol. i shuffled and they pretty much went kid-holding-cross.jpg. 😂i don’t usually talk about anything frisky with my cards, so it wasn’t very surprising to me, but my lenormand cards have given me sexual messages without me asking before so i had a short conversation with them for this reading.

PILE ONE: LILY

perhaps you don’t really remember this the way you wish you did; i’m getting more of a “what the hell was that” kind of vibe with this group. you were a little naive, and the other person had more experience. you loved completely purely, and, well... maybe they had some other calculations into mind and it caused you to lose out. or maybe you were just kind of blundering and kind of really unsexy about the whole thing, and it made everyone awkward. it probably ended with you getting played or let down lightly, and part of you wonders if you can even blame them. maybe you remember this encounter the way we all remember that one embarrassing thing we did ten years ago that haunts us before a test no matter how much brain bleach we use. i’m sorry this reading brought it up again. 😂it’s all good, buddy. chin up! it happens to the best of us.

PILE TWO: HONEY

this is pretty cute— your most memorable sexual encounter is the one with your forever. it’s likely that it happens only after you moved in with this person and the both of you have built your lives around each other. you remember this encounter the most for how innocent it was. it’s like one of you would do something and the other one would be like “wait no that was off” and you guys would run it back and try again without much worry or embarrassment. you also remember it because you learned a lot about your person during sex; you learned to read their body language better and you figured out what they liked and didn’t, and stored all that information away for future use.

PILE THREE: APPLE

i don’t think you were very old when this encounter happened, i’m seeing maybe 19-23? group two’s encounter was memorable because they learned a lot about their partner, but for you it was the other way around— you learned a lot about yourself and your own body in this encounter. you were in a place where you were secure in what you knew about yourself, but there were parts of you that you hadn’t even met yet, if that makes sense. i feel like you might have been feeling a little isolated and you didn’t even realise that you didn’t know the key to being liberated until you met this person. this person made your world 3D, and, well, the sex was a significant part of it. they were a safe and grounding space for you to bloom and feel comfortable discovering sensuality and sexuality.

PILE FOUR: HAMSTER

oh man, how did it take so long for this reading to appear? anyway, yeah. you remember this sexual encounter because it was good. perhaps you’re usually the funny friend, and you’ve always felt like the humpty dumpty of the group. maybe you even let others say things about your body and your ability to be attractive and sexy, and you let those words write over your own. this sexual encounter shut all those voices up immediately. it was like suddenly you knew that you could be seductive too, that you are sexy, because the person you had sex with found you irresistible in a way you were sure you were not. for some reason, this person is a little far from you, and there are a few different ways this could resonate: 1) this sexual encounter happens on the phone or a video call, 2) this person is from a place far away from you or out of your social circle, or 3) this encounter will happen pretty far into the future. regardless, you’ll hate your reflection a little less after this. :)

#pick a card #pick a card reading #pick a pile #free tarot reading #tarot reading #pick a pile reading

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raffinit · 4 years

Note

Sylvaina concept: Jaina flaunting her magical prowess (in battle, in court, in defense of her kingdom/wife, dealer’s choice here) and Sylvanas being awestruck/overwhelmed by it

this got way out of hand but i have ZERO regrets

can Jaina actually do what she does?? who knows??? i say she can because this is an au where jaina can do whatever she likes

------

She understood, even in some peripheral way, the power the Lord Admiral wielded.

Not merely for the titles Proudmoore held, but Sylvanas could remember hearing tell of the last living heir of Kul Tiras even in the early days of Jaina's time in Dalaran.

Long before she had ever crossed paths with Jaina Proudmoore as Banshee Queen — as Warchief —she'd known of Jaina's reputation.

Powerful. Wilful. As impressive as she was terrifying.

Age and experience had done precious little to temper the burning flame of righteousness and ambition in Jaina. She'd simply learned how to channel it.

The thought seemed to unsettle the Alliance more than her vibrant temper.

The last thing Sylvanas would think to call Proudmoore was ‘unassuming’. No one could look at Jaina and forget the hidden wealth of power she wielded. Perhaps it was easier for humans, who lacked dearly in the way they perceived the world, but they as elves were both blessed and cursed with the ability to be keenly attuned to the otherworldly pull of the arcane.

It certainly explained some part of Tyrande and Vereesa's fascination with Jaina.

She had seen Jaina on the battlefield countless times. Knew the arcane signature unique to only her wife when the earth came to life with the scent of scorched ozone and sea breeze.

Whether they had been on opposite ends of the chessboard or pressed back-to-back against a swarm of enemies, it was undeniable — the way Jaina rocked the earth they stood on. The powers of a banshee were certainly vast and terrifying, but Jaina held the forces of nature in the palm of her hand with the strength to either cradle a fragile life or crush it entirely.

It fascinated Sylvanas to observe Jaina. No doubt, the fascination was reciprocated; for such an avid mind, there was no pretending that the functions of an Undead creature as powerful and unpredictable as a banshee didn't drive Jaina to the point of madness for her need to understand everything.

That was one other thing. Jaina had the curiosity to kill a cat ten times over. It was almost child-like; the way her head would tilt this way and that, her bright eyes wide and intent on whatever it was that drew her attention. She watched, then understood, then applied.

Sylvanas remembered the day Jaina joined her and the Dark Rangers for a bout around the training yard. Remembered the keen, almost feline way Jaina’s eyes trailed after them around the yard. Remembered the way those bright blue eyes glittered with curiosity when she allowed some of her own prowess to come to light.

“Your powers,” Jaina said that night, as they were bedding down. “That thing that you do — when you siphon life force. What do you do, exactly?”

Sylvanas eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. “Kill them, obviously.”

“Well — yes, but do you take their soul? Their essence?”

“I drain them of everything. The very breath in their lungs. The light in their eyes.”

“It fuels you?”

“In some way. Though like living creatures, I do need to watch what I ‘eat’.”

“How so?”

Sylvanas shrugged again. “It feeds my body, but what I feed it can be more of a detriment than a benefit. Beings touched by arcane are ideal. Corrupted ones…” She tilted her head vaguely.

Jaina hummed thoughtfully. “It’s not something all Undead can do, is it? It’s something only banshees can control.”

“Others have variants of it. Necromancers. Priests. They all channel a bastardisation of fel magic in some way. Though none are as…” She waved a hand. “Dramatic, I suppose.”

Jaina’s mouth curved with amusement, but there was certainly something darker in her eyes that prickled at the base of Sylvanas’ spine.

“Surely you mages have something of the sort in your arsenal of magic.”

“Perhaps,” Jaina replied, far too flippant as she turned over onto her side. “Goodnight.”

Sylvanas knew the calculating little gleam in those eyes. There were no further questions in the days after, but she began to notice the slightest change in Jaina’s scent. Soft at first; faint. Something earthy and bittersweet like the scent of wood rot blooming from beneath the mulch of a damp forest floor.

It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, but it was no less unsettling.

The last thing she expected Jaina to smell like was an Undead.

It was there a moment, then gone the next. At times, she caught Jaina’s eye and saw something almost knowing and coy there. Tempted as she was to press; to pry about such secrecy, being knee-deep in a war against the Old Gods left precious little time for idle conversation.

They were in the heart of the battlefield when it came to light again. Back-to-back, as they often found themselves in recent times, facing off waves of corruption that came in all shapes and sizes.

The Light gave them a wide enough berth to manoeuvre, but the swarms seemed endless. Sylvanas’ power stores drained and restored in turns with such speed it made her almost dizzy with it. It was insidious; she was taking in too much fel, too much Twilight.

She gathered the darkness around her and Wailed once more — pulling in the gathering crowd of corrupted soldiers around them and draining all she could.

Then she staggered, Deathwhisper gripped tight in hand as she bent to a knee.

Jaina’s hand settled on her shoulder, fingers sliding between the straps of her pauldron. “Sylvanas.”

She batted the hand away and rose to her feet with some effort. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Jaina snapped. “You take any more of them inside you and the Old Gods will stick in that thick skull of yours.”

“Did you have a better idea?” she shot back.

Jaina’s hand shot out and fisted tightly to the front of her breastplate. Her eyes widened as she was yanked forward in a rush and a pair of lips crushed against hers.

It felt, rather frighteningly, as if Jaina was draining the very life force from her.

She knew the sensation as well as she knew her own skin; knew this brimming power of death magic. There was no one else who could wield it as she could, and yet —

And yet.

She wrenched herself away, claws sinking deep into the meat of Jaina’s arms —

Then gasped.

Black and purple veins crawled across Jaina’s skin and up into her face. It ate away into the vibrant blue of her eyes until they glittered like an obsidian sky. Her alabaster hair came apart from its thick braid, unfurling around Jaina’s head like a living creature.

Then she grinned.

Her voice carried the same eerie echo of a banshee.

“Together,” she said, and Sylvanas’ ears flicked at the reverberating trill of it. “One last Wail.”

Sylvanas licked her lips and tasted sea breeze. It was a blank of memory after that — she couldn’t remember much outside of taking Jaina’s back once more. Of opening her mouth and Wailing. Of hearing the resonating echo of it in Jaina’s voice; amplified and augmented. Of watching their enemies crumple into a pile at their feet, left as nothing more than smouldering husks.

When it died away, Sylvanas found herself swaying in place. Jaina leaning at her back.

It had been a lifetime since she felt the exhaustion of war.

Jaina’s hand clasped sluggishly to her neck, cold and clammy. She could barely comprehend the mumbled, slurring command. “Catch me.”

Sylvanas turned in time for Jaina to collapse into her arms, bloodless and trembling. The blackness had faded away, the obsidian sky had given way to blue once more. She gathered the mage close and told herself that the tremble in her voice and arms were nothing more than exhaustion.

Quietly, and with no small amount of awe, she said, “That was...incredible. I’ve never felt —”

“So powerful?” Jaina finished, smiling wanly. “Neither have I.”

“What did you do?” Sylvanas demanded, sweeping Jaina into a bridal carry and marching back through the ranks. They were out in the open still; even with a pile of bodies at their feet. They were sitting ducks. “You look close to death.”

Jaina gave her a wry smile. “Magic trick. I learned how to do what you do.”

Sylvanas stared at her. “I thought fel magic was forbidden to you.”

“Not fel magic,” Jaina replied. “Death magic. Necromantic power.” Her head lolled as they moved, resting wearily against Sylvanas’ chest. “I might vomit on you. Fair warning.”

“Why would you subject yourself to such a thing? Curiosity kills, if you didn’t realise.”

Jaina huffed and found enough strength to lift her head and glare at Sylvanas. “When you’re married to a martyr with a penchant for running headfirst into battle, the end tends to justify the means.”

The absurdity of it made Sylvanas bark out a laugh. “You expect me to believe that you did this for me?”

“Yes,” Jaina said simply. “You’re my wife. For better or worse. Now please hurry up and get me to a bucket because I really do need to vomit.”

“Remarkable,” Sylvanas murmured, shaking her head, despite the smile that was slowly beginning to spread across her face. “Ridiculous. You’re lucky I like you.”

“Aw. I’d kiss you again but I don’t want to risk throwing up in your mouth.”

“Kisses can come later. For now, let’s just make sure you haven’t permanently damaged yourself.”

#anon #ask #anonymous #sylvaina #fic drabble #this is more than 1k words tho so is it REALLY a drabble?? who knows #idk if jaina can do this but in my head she can #what is happening exactly?#beats me #who are they fighting exactly??#YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE #Anonymous

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internalsealpanic · 4 years

Text

Do It Yourself Hauntings

Summary: You and Terry get extremely bored while on a group date as you walk through a haunted house. Terry has a brilliant idea that’s sure to chase away your boredom.

masterlist

a/n: Guess who is flagrantly avoiding homework to write a fic? So this is Cat!Reader x Terry McGinnis. Reader is still as gender neutral as I can make them so I went with the name ‘Stray’. A tid bit I could not write in organically is that reader is painfully shy in their civilian identity but has little to no inhibitions when in their night time persona. Another clarification is that this is the outfit I had in mind. It was legit the thing I had my heart set on when my lizard brain said Catwoman character.

Warnings: Adult language, clowns, clownery, and this maybe a tinsy bit spicy at one point (I tried) (kind of? Look, I just don’t want anyone going all mother superior on me. Just in case. ).

You were incredibly, stupidly, magnificently bored.

You shifted on your heels, letting them click and echo trying to distract yourself from the thrum of excess energy surging through your body.

It-It didn’t work.

The clicking only made you more anxious, plucking at your taut nerves like well-tuned guitar strings.

It probably didn’t help that you just came back from a dazzling night of heists and getting shot at. Adrenaline still flowing through your veins like molten ichor. Heart still floundering in your chest as if- at any moment- the cops would come rushing in and you would have to make your daring, if not dramatic, escape.

Between this and the sorry attempt at jump scares the poor underpaid actors subjected you to, your head started aching and your mood plummeted into something vile. Thankfully, your group was none-the-wiser unless all of them spontaneously decided to master micro-expressions then you were the picture of an apprehensive young adult trekking through a cheap haunted house.

Why did you agree to this again?

Pulse still pounding loudly in your ears and content with letting the others have their fun, you silently fall into the back of the group. There was a higher chance that you would encounter the cringe-inducing scares but you weren’t too concerned. Nope. You were more worried about the very real possibility that you might deck Nelson or Chelsea or Blade or whoever the fuck decided that girls need to play scared to make guys feel cool. Ok, yeah, the last one.

When Chelsea did another ill-timed flinch, scrabbling for Nelson’s arm, and Nelson ate it up, you swore your eyes would roll their way out of their sockets. Whoever popularized this needed to be shot. Twice.

There was always a possibility that they weren’t faking it, that they were genuinely terrified but you highly doubted it considering if anything actually scary happened, Nelson would be the first one to run.

Neck deep in your musings, you hadn’t noticed as Terry slowed to keep pace with you. He leaned down close enough to brush his lips against your skin and blew a light gust into your ear. You jumped clutching your ear feeling the heat spread through your body. You twitched away. The memory of his lips against your ear making your stomach dance. Your skin prickled with curiosity-

You glowered at him. You prayed that the embarrassment plain on your body language did not dampen the venom in your eyes.

“Told ya I could be scary,”

He winked.

You sighed.

Of course, he hadn’t let that go.

You rolled your head to the side and shrank into your puffy leather jacket trying to hide the bright flush of your cheeks. From the absolutely smarmy grin he gave you, he was enjoying this. Was this payback? It was probably payback. Payback for all the slag you said over the comms, the flirty little touches, or all the little kisses you dealt him every time you encountered him in the field.

Here’s a novel concept! Maybe don’t dish out what you can’t take.

“Compared to this place? Yeah,”

“Ouch, what’s got you in a mood?”

You leveled him a look. Terry leveled you with his own. You tilted your head ever so slightly to show the bruise blooming on your collar bone. He winced. His jaw clenched. You instantly regretted showing him when his brows were carved with guilt. Normally, you liked looking at Terry. Easy on the eyes kind of handsome. He only looked punchable in the Batsuit. But you could never stand the guilt and worry on his face, especially when you were the cause. It wasn’t even his fault. You took the blow knowing your armor wasn’t quite as enforced. That was on you.

You sucked in a breath and rolled your shoulders contorting yourself away from the ever-present need to apologize. Instead, you waved your hand vaguely at the cheaply constructed haunted house. “Admit it, this place is-”

“isn’t that-” He looked around rubbing the back of his neck. “-bad?”

“Terry, the scariest thing about this place is how many credits I wasted,” you deadpanned looking down at your, now, lighter wallet. It wasn’t physically lighter but you were a drama queen and you had a point to make.

Terry chuckled at your antics and rolled his eyes. “It’s got its charms,” You raised your brow and crossed your arms. His shoulders slumped then straightened, a teasing quirk to his lip curling. “Still better than doing that family studies paper,”

Ok, that you could agree on.

The rest of the walk was marginally bearable with you and Terry providing quiet commentary on each scare. It was hard to hold back laughter. Your body shook, nearly falling into a giggle fit several times. You got dirty looks from the others several times for the transgression of ‘ruining’ the mood. You were a little impressed that they had managed to make a mood for you to ruin. After all, what’s more romantic than zombie clowns and warehouses?

Your sides ached. You really wanted to just let out a laugh, a real full belly laugh but you hated your laugh. Terry, you thought, was aware of your broken plate laugh. Why did he keep trying to draw it out?

Your group made it into a large clearing. Your anxiety immediately ratcheted up with the wide-open space but relaxed after scanning the room. There was nowhere to put

Creaking and scraping of old rusty metals resonated in every corner.

Terry nudged you and pointed upward, directing your attention to the silhouette moving around in the rafters.

Your heart stopped momentarily but picked back up again as soon as you saw the graceless way the figure moved around.

A clown covered in gore and shards of metal jumped down from the rafters landing in the middle of your ragtag group. You scattered. You heard a few gasps. You even saw Nelson flinch. You took some petty satisfaction in being right.

You yawned less concerned with the crazy act he was putting on and more with how the hell he hasn’t landed on a single patron. You made your boredom plain. You’ve seen crazy. Your sides throbbed in protest of the reminder.

You looked down to distract yourself only to be met with the sight of floppy red clown shoes. Genuine, floppy, red clown shoes. You pinched the bridge of your nose and bit your lip. Your body trembled from trying to contain the laughter roiling in your stomach.

The man continued to spout something about keeping you all here for his entertainment. Blah. Blah. You crossed your ankles and leaned ever so slightly into Terry’s space, cocking your head to the opposite side. You yawned into your hand muffling the sound as best you could in an attempt to be polite. Terry had other ideas.

Terry leaned down into your ear making an exaggerated snoring sound. An ugly snort tore its way out of your nostrils loud enough to be heard over the clown’s overly dramatic soliloquy. You felt everyone’s eyes on you. You clamped your hand over your mouth to stifle the onslaught of snorts rising up from your chest. You narrowed your eyes at Terry who, at the moment, was also fighting his own fit of laughter. You couldn’t keep the smile off your face as you, in solidarity, tried not to laugh too hard at the expense of the wannabe Shakespeare actor.

You kind of felt bad.

Maybe.

Ok, you did. But not nearly enough to actually stop laughing. In your defense, Ace had more acting chops than this guy. But kudos, he was really into the bit.

He lunged at the two of you, fuming with smoke coming out of his ears. Terry grabbed you pressing you to his side and wrapping a protective arm around you. You let out an embarrassing little squeak. You witnessed as he cataloged it into the ‘stuff y/n is never gonna live down’ part of his brain. ‘Cute’ he mouthed silently. You cursed yourself. You turned to cuss at Terry-

The clown lunged at you again, murderous intent plain as day on his face. He snarled as you two dodged him easily with a quick sidestep. In the corner of your eyes, you could see the other actors look on in bewilderment. One of them shook her head clearly exasperated. Ok, so you unintentionally pissed off one of the actors. Great. Now, what?

The man lunged for you again. Dodging gracefully, you two turned on your heels and bolted leading him away from the group. You could hear the group collectively cheering him on behind you as you made your escape.

Technically, you could just knock him out and maybe go back to the group. One of you was the goddamn Batman while the other was Stray, thief extraordinaire, after all. But between the gasp of laughter and the playful grin stretching across Terry’s face like hell that was happening.

You two ducked into a corner tired and panting. You press yourself against the cool metal of the wall with Terry shielding you from view.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You whisper, shrinking into your leather jacket feeling keenly aware of your lack of undershirt as the heat radiating from his skin pressed against yours. He leaned against you, closing the gap between the two of you. His panting breaths fanning against your skin, lips brushing against the bare skin of your collar. You bit out a curse as the color on your cheeks darkened. You swallowed a lump, heart floundering again. You felt him smile against your skin.

You like to say it was anger that flared up in you. You really would but the heat suffusing in your body said otherwise. You pushed at him weakly. “We have to get back,”

Terry stepped back giving you space. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“You sure you want to? Bozo is still looking for us. That and you’ll probably still be bored,”

You tapped your foot and tilted your head considering it. You looked into his face searching for something. You sigh inwardly. “Yeah, no. I really don’t wanna go back. The scariest thing is still the amount of money we wasted and I have yet to be scared shitless,”

He smiled at you victoriously. “I have an idea,”

You blinked at him.“Ok, great job! Now, I’m pissing myself with fear,” You teased. You weren’t a fan of Terry’s ideas half the time but hell if they weren’t entertaining.

Terry rolled his eyes at you holding out his hand. “You brought your goggles, right?”

“McGinnis, I didn’t exactly have time to go home and-” You stilled, feeling his eyes trail down your chest before darting back up. Normally, when you were in costume, you left the zipper of your jacket open showing tantalizing glimpses of your soft flesh. Terry was absolutely not opposed to your costume choice unless you were in danger which was rare (thank you very much). This was what led to your current blushing predicament not that the other aspects of your costume were any less complementary. You sighed inwardly before stammering out “Yeah, I have my goggles,” Fishing them out of an inner pocket of your jacket, you waved them around half-heartedly.

“Schway! Come on follow me,” He said grabbing your wrist before you could see the flush creeping up his neck.

You rounded a couple of corners before stopping at a beam. He looked from left to right brow furrowed. He tapped his foot twice then somehow decided to go left. How the hell Terry managed to find his way around in the dark was a complete mystery to you. Your first guess is echolocation but the second, more logical guess, was that Bruce was a paranoid old man. Like a normal human, you were entirely dependent on the night vision mode of your goggles.

You stopped when Terry stretched his arm out in front of you. You squinted seeing another group of bored-looking patrons. You turn to Terry who was looking at them and seemingly analyzing the group and it clicked.

“Oh,” you whispered quietly as you understood what he was planning. He threw you a playful smirk knowing you wouldn’t be able to resist this golden opportunity to fuck around.

“I would like to go on record and say this is a terrible idea,”

“And yet you’re going along with it,”

You were about to protest but couldn’t really think of a good defense.

“You know, if you really wanted to scare them you could have just dressed up as old Brucie,”

You huffed and put your goggles on before crouching low. He followed suit bending low.

“Weeell, sorry. Your gremlin mug was the best I could do on short notice,”

You made a face of mock hurt which made him chuckle. “Am not,”

As it turns out, two vigilantes well-trained in sneaking around are actually pretty good at scaring people. In the last 5 minutes, you’ve scared four different groups of patrons all with varying reactions but all equally hilarious.

“Yanno we could probably scare Nelson,” Terry hummed innocently trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. You answered him with a vicious smile. “You just want payback for the prank he pulled yesterday,”

“And you want to see him piss himself,”

This was true.

“Ok, fine. What’s the game plan?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Terry chuckled knowing he’s got you hook, line, and sinker. You scoffed but let him lean closer to you to whisper his maniacal scheme.

“If this works I am going to cry-” You crowed ducking behind another row of boxes as you quietly trailed your group. “-Hand me your jacket,”

Completely avoiding your outstretched hands, he draped his jacket over you like a strange leather veil before giving your head a quick pat. “Hope you brought tissues then,”

“Like slag, this is gonna work,” You said quirking your brow and tilting your head to make the doubt plain on your face. Even with your vision impaired by your new headpiece, you could still admire how nice he looked in his shirt. Not that you let it show. You hoped.

“Just watch and learn nonbeliever,”

“Oh god he thinks he can pull off miracles now,” You sneered climbing on to his broad shoulders.

“Shhhhhhhh”

You pouted down at him crossing your arms. He shrugged his shoulders, the movement drawing a surprised yelp from you in turn making him snicker. You were about to open your mouth when your smoke trap was triggered.

Ok, this was a blatant abuse of your equipment but who was gonna tell you off? Bruce? Probably but the man was allergic to fun so being at a Halloween fair was, likely, safe.

Thick waterfalls of white smoke cascaded down from the rafters, blanketing the floor with a thick mist of curling smoke. The group stopped almost mystified by how well-timed the eerie effect was. You had to hold back a derisive snort when they all turned to each other confused.

Because, yes, this is what your hours of booby trap training have been leading up to.

Truly, a magnum opus of spite.

You could already see Nelson readying himself to bolt even as Blade and Chelsea hung off his arms. Petty satisfaction bloomed in you.

Ok, you may be a gremlin.

You threw your voice in a shrill cackle letting it echo and bounce in the room over the too slow circus music playing in the background. It was a chilling sound, the kind that rattled in bones and traveled up the spine. One that you’ve only ever used for pranks during long nights at the lab. You even felt Terry freeze up beneath you. His grip on your thighs getting tighter. How on earth you didn’t yelp or squeak or make any other little noise at that was the true miracle.

“Wha- what’s going on?“ Blade squeaked, pressing into the group.

"Didn’t we just pass the last attraction?!”

“Are you sure it was the last?”

“I don’t know man!”

The group shrank in on itself as the conversation grew more panicked. You felt Terry shaking from holding in laughter. You nudge him softly with your heel. He took a breath and nodded to tell you he was fine.

“Oh children, there’s no need to fuss,” You coo sickeningly sweet. You see them swallow taking in your presence heavy as it was.

“The fun’s only just beginning!” You shriek flicking on the orange lights of your goggles. Your shrill, shrieking voice transmuting over the speakers filling the room.

They screamed, scrambled, and scattered. Your nearly 10-foot silhouette hovering over them. They tripped over each other. Some of them pulling at each other. Some stepping over feet in their haste to get away. Pure terror etched themselves on their faces.

You let them all sprint to exit, watching their forms all disappear before bursting out into laughter.

“Did- Did you see their faces?!”

“Please tell me you were recording,“

“wait-” You choked grabbing for your goggles. You made a show of checking and letting your shoulders fall in disappointment.

Terry looked crushed. A vicious grin carved across your face. “Relax, I was,”

Terry’s slumped against the crate as he leaned back. He ran his hand through his black hair and began to laugh again.

You put your goggles back to your jacket pocket. You clutched at his jacket letting your ugly laugh tumble out of your lips. Terry planted a kiss on your nose making your breath hitch.

"What was that for?!” Your hands flying to your nose. Your fingers traced the small patch of skin he touched.

“You were just too cute,” He laughed ruffling your hair.

How do you respond to that? How could he say things like that so casually? Does he not know how many heart attacks it gives you?

“Jerk”

“PFFFFT”

“Don’t ‘pfffft’ me!” You bit out, throwing his jacket at him.

“Pfffft”

He stuck his tongue out at you.

“I-”

“Ahem!”

You both looked up to see a security guard and Bozo glowering down at you. You gave them both what passed for a sheepish, but not exactly, apologetic look.

The burly guard picked you both up by the scruff of your necks and hauled you out of the building. He tossed you out back as Bozo yelled “stay out” from the comfort of the guards back.

“Kick us out yourself, coward!” Terry yelled, shaking his fist like an old man. You slapped your forehead in an effort not to encourage him. Bozo glowered at him from behind his meat shield. Terry snarled. You grabbed his arm to stop him from doing anything stupid.

“I knew it was you two,” Max sighed, hand on her hip.

“How’d you guess?”

“Circus music,”

You looked at her uncomprehendingly before remembering your well-documented discomfort with circuses. You slapped your hand against your forehead. Terry, helpful as usual, snickered at you.

But before you could throw hands, Max spoke cleared her throat.

“You dumbasses are lucky they don’t press charges,” Max aggravated pinching the bridge of her nose. You had the decency to look a little sheepish at the accusation but Terry looked pleased which earned him a chastising look.

“Sorry, ma’am” You both grumbled as she pulled you both up.

All three of you walked in tandem. Max let up the responsible act.

“Not the worst group date you’ve been on, right?” Terry nudged.

“No, guess not,” You scoffed, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Stiiiiill not as bad as that time you got us caught by the Joker Gang~”

“That wasn’t even my fault,”

————————————–

Thanks for reading! Also please do not do this in real life. They will get mad at you even if their haunted house does stink.

taglist: @batarellabatarella (YOU BITCH I GOT ANOTHER BATBOY FOR YOU), @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders (I wanna drag you into Terry hell), @l-horizon11

#batafm #dc x y/n #dc fanfiction #terry mcginnis x reader #terry mcginnis #october #my writing #batboys #spooktober

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ashsapple · 4 years

Text

Tamaki Amajiki - Stargazing

This is my gift for @soradragon for our discord server’s secret santa. I hope you’ll enjoy it, Happy Holidays Sora <3

Life with a pro-hero wasn’t always easy, their schedule was always packed and between interviews and rescue missions they rarely had time for their partner. Which is why when Tamaki came home tonight, you weren’t expecting him at all.

Sat on the couch of your shared living room, you were trying to select a movie to go with the mood you were in.

Tamaki had been busy this week and you missed him, the holiday season was always more dangerous because of all the crowds forming outside and the multitude of events in preparation. Dressed in your comfiest clothes, you had decided to take time for yourself to forget your sorrow and somehow get in a more festive disposition. So when you heard a key enter your front door’s lock, your whole body tensed up.

Eyes locking on the front door, you grabbed the remote control and slowly got up, the door cracked open and a “Sunshine ?” resonated in the room. Dropping your “weapon”, you let out a laugh and headed quickly to the front door. Your boyfriend was standing in the doorway looking slightly confused with a blush covering his cheeks.

“ Sunshine are you okay? I heard something loud, did you drop something? Are you hurt?”

“No, no Tama I’m fine, sorry. I thought you were a thief, and I grabbed the remote control in a desperate attempt at self-defence.”

He breathed out a laugh and you smiled at his relief. Stepping forward and wrapping him in a welcome hug, you let your mind wander.

Tamaki had been struggling with anxiety ever since he was young but his constant worry about others weirdly helped him in his job.

You two had met during his internship in Fatgum’s agency while you worked as the secretary’s assistant. You don’t think you could forget how panicked he looked when he first entered the building: slumped over, eyes locked on the ground with his entire body slightly trembling. He couldn’t let out a word after arriving at the secretary’s desk and you don’t know how he managed to get to Fatgum’s office after being in such a frantic state.

The first few weeks after his arrival were quite peculiar, he looked alone most of the time and seemed to avoid every contact he could with other individuals. So when you arrived, bento in hand, one Thursday and asked if you could eat with him, you thought he was going to refuse.

Yet a few minutes afterward, here you were sitting on the bench next to a tense Suneater, eating your lunch. You quickly managed to make this a ritual of some sort. You two ate together at least once a week when he was at the agency and you had noticed his shoulders always seemed to relax when you were around him.

During that year, you had learned that Tamaki Amajiki was a wonderful listener. He never interrupted you in your passionate rambling and always wore a small smile on his face when you got lost in your thoughts, sometimes leading you back on the trail you had formed, others letting you find your way back in hopes of learning even more about you.

Stepping out of your dreams, you looked up to meet the eyes of your partner. Seven years had gone by now and Tamaki became a high ranked pro. His anxiety still got the best of him at some points but his firm resolve and the bit of self-confidence he managed to build up over time made him one of the most beloved heroes of the nation.

Smiling softly at your expression, Tamaki stepped out of your embrace and let his bag fall on the ground. He took off his shoes and walked towards the kitchen, turning on the heating plate.

" I'm making some hot chocolate, do you want one darling? "

You nodded at that and began to prepare a tray, setting down cookies you made during the afternoon on it and opening a small bag of marshmallows. The sweet scent of chocolate soon filled the room, and your heart swelled with bliss. You filled the cups and moved to carry the tray to your couch before the spark of a candle caught your eyes. Now heading to your balcony, shine changed into soft lighting as you got closer and candles multiplied on your path.

"Tamaki, are you out there ?" you slipped your head out of the window to see him, standing outside trying to lay down big blankets for you two to relax on.

"Ha... huh I'm sorry, I thought this would take less time but lighting all those candles and trying to lay down our blankets directly to surprise you with ended up being way more difficult than I thought, I feel like I've ruined the surprise I'm so sorry Sora, I just wanted to create a small place for us to relax by because I know we didn't get much time together these last few days but I didn't succeed-"

"Tama" you whispered, stopping his panicked rambling "It's ok, you can relax, thank you for your surprise. I wasn't expecting it, it's really sweet of you to think about us" you topped your sentence with a smile.

Stepping forward, you put the tray down, right next to the messily laid blanket.

"Tama, can you ?" you asked while grabbing two corners of it, you smiled when he mirrored your actions and let down the fluffy cover "Thank you, darling".

Tamaki and you were now sat, hot chocolate in hand, narrating your day to each other and laughing at a few jokes you would get out at all the perilous adventures he lived trough.

"How do you manage to not quit after all that ?"

"Sunshine, I have no idea. I like to think that it always ends up helping others and I have to put my quirk to good use. Yes, I do admit, some situations are quite terrifying but rescuing is one of the best parts of the job."

"I mean, the scariest thing I've ever done looks like a piece of cake next to yours" he laughed for a bit before turning his head towards yours.

"And what would that be ?" he sounded genuinely confused. You looked at him then burst out laughing.

"Pretty sure it was six years ago, I had this really big crush on a guy I met during one of my internships." His eyes widened as they filled with worry. "I don't know if you know him, his name was Tamaki Amajiki" you laughed "He was really cute, and I had no idea how to ask him out, I was sure he was going to reject me."

"Don't be an idiot, I was head over heels for you already."

"Well, I wasn't aware of that at the time! My heart was beating out of my chest and I thought I was going to stop breathing when your eyes met mine after I called your name that day"

---

"Tamaki ?" your hands were shaking behind your back "Can I speak to you for a second ?"

The hero in training rose from his seat, nodding. You were fiddling with your hands now, cold sweat running down the nape of your neck.

"So, we've known each other for a year now and huh... I think I might have developed a crush on you" lowering the volume of your voice at the end of your sentence. Seeing his frozen expression, you kept going. "And it's perfectly ok if you don't like me back because I would hate to ruin our friendship but I also wanted you to know how I feel because I felt like it was important in a way."

You looked up from the spot on the ground you were starring at to see a pale and close to fainting Tamaki.

---

"I thought you had a heart attack at that point," you added.

"I was not expecting it !" he said, defending himself. "It was a shock"

---

"Tamaki, are you ok? Did I break you? Oh, gods, I broke you, I'm so sorry"

"No, no" he whispered. "I-I'm fine, huh I like you too. I- are you sure you like me? Because I know I can be a lot and difficult to deal with at some times but I'll try my best to not be too annoying"

"You're far from annoying, and yes I do very much mean it. I like you and I would like to go out with you. If that would be fine of course"

"Yes." he responded quickly "Sorry that was quick, I- hum, I'm really happy that you do" he smiled at you, the tip of his ears reddening before he hid his face between his hands.

---

"Well, that fear was all worth it. I'm really happy that I managed to make a move. And that I'm still here with you today."

"How could I let go of you Sora, you're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Oh, but I wasn't planning on doing so." you laughed.

"Apart from my scary experiences at work, I've had my fair share of frights in our relationship"

"I know, I'm terrifying."

"We both know that's not what I meant !" he said, blushing "I meant that even if I wasn't the one to confess, I've had my "shaky hands and sweaty palms" moment" he paused for a minute, tearing his eyes from the stars to look at you, snuggled in his arms, reddened nose and cheeks.

"Do you remember the first time I told you that I loved you ?"

---

It was in late March, the year you started dating. The cherry trees had started blooming and you and Tamaki were planning a picnic date in one of the parks near UA.

---

"Of course I remember, I tried making takoyaki for you and failed miserably !" you said, laughing at the memory.

"They were not that bad, I swear"

"You're only saying that because you love me Tama, you're not impartial"

---

So there you were, sitting on a blanket under big cherry trees with not so well made takoyaki and other snacks stuffed in a basket sitting in front of you.

"Are they good ?" you asked tentatively

"Well, I- I wouldn't say they're awful" he paused for a bit

"There's a "but" right ?" he sighed.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. Don't be sorry, it's not your fault, you're not the one who made them. Here let me taste them" you grabbed one and did as you said... Just before almost spitting it out. "Eww, Tama, you liar. Those are disgusting, how could I have made this..." you gasped "How could I have let you eat all of those ?"

"Now you're being dramatic Sora. They're not terrible, there's just room for improvement"

"That's just a nice way to put it," you breathed out a laugh "they are terrible, and you're way too nice. I guess the day has come for us to realize that you are the good cook of our relationship." you giggled, shortly followed by him.

His laughter died down as he gazed at you.

"I- hum I love you" he looked down, blushing. "I wanted to say "I love you" for the first time without stuttering, but that failed"

You smiled brightly, a spark in your eyes.

"I love you too..." you let out "I also failed my takoyaki, so I guess we both had to fail at something"

---

"I was right, we were even, we usually are"

"Are you implying we didn't change ?" he wondered

"In a way... I mean I still love you as much as I did at the time, well, maybe more. But I hope my takoyaki skills improved, for your sake"

"Well, that's debatable"

"Hey !" you hit him lightly, laughing at his blushing ears. He still felt bad teasing you sometimes but you were glad he felt confident enough with you to do it.

You settle back inside his arms, your back against his chest. Empty hot chocolate mugs left out on the tray and plate of cookies almost clear after all the reminiscing.

You couldn't wish for anything other than this, living and getting the chance to stargaze with Tamaki Amajiki.

#tamaki amajiki #bnha #bnha fanfiction #oh gods i hope you'll like it #secret santa gift #tamaki amajiki x reader #boku no hero academia

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lluvguts · 3 years

Text

sore eyes // boreo

pairing: adult theodore decker / boris pavlikovsky

genre + warning: some angst, swearing, implied sex

word count: 1778

summary: theo and boris have been hiding some things, and theo finally cracks

words in translation: Птица- the bird // Такой идиот - such an idiot

read it on ao3

A text message from Theo’s phone echoed, then resonated in the dark; the ceiling was haloed in the screen’s soft blue light moments before returning to black. Different sheets that held familiar smells. Theo reached out from under the blankets with a sleepy hand for his glasses and stopped cold.

Kitsey: Hey you! Still spending the night at Hobie’s? Wanna grab a bite to eat in the morning? I can swing by the shop :) xoxoxo ♡ ♡ ♡!!!

A rustle next to him. Theo set the phone back onto the hotel nightstand with a hollow clatter before Boris could turn over and inspect. The barely there tickle of his hair against Theo’s bare neck, a subdued breath from behind warming the still air. Boris extended a hand to pull Theo’s upturned shoulder back down into the sheets, murmuring nonsensical Polish—words that would have soothed Theo, in years prior, but now only made him lie unmoving around his touch. The refusal to accept; the wave of shifting light casting foreign shadows along the walls, an inky blue prelude to dawn. The city awakening, another night unfurling into the real world: leaving Theo unsure how to place his relationship with Boris among the daily trivialities of his own life. A piece that does not fit anywhere, no matter what age or chapter they decide to burst into. It simply would not work.

Theo knew Boris was not asleep—his undressed body was emanating delicious heat, closeness that made Theo flinch as he neared. With his back to the curtain he was bathed in shadow, accentuating his downturned jaw and angular form—all the more resemblant to Theo of a sculpted Hermes, or that of a Baroque painting: shaped hues of milk white and hushed blue contours that dipped into the crevices of his body, the brief suggestion of color, only a brushstroke of width, blooming under his sharp cheeks.

His hand the only thing touching him. It crept lower, a delicate dance of fingers across skin, towards his exposed abdomen until Theo flung out a hand in warning. Ironclad grip.

“Boris.”

But he only chortled out a tired laugh, his dark eyes open and one expressive brow furrowed.

“What? Are you still upset over your bird that you cannot enjoy? Let me touch you,” Boris ignored his request—along with the hand locked onto his wrist—and continued to tease with soft touches that drove him mad. Theo brushed Boris’s hand away and sat up.

“Stop. I can’t do this anymore.” Theo said and pulled the thin bedsheet over his middle.

“Cannot do what? Have fun? If this is about Птица, you know there are ways to get it back.”

Theo could not address the crippling shame he felt about the painting. The years of its guarded presence holding Theo afloat. Gone. “I can’t..I can’t keep hiding. It’s wrong. And technically, this is an affair.”

“Hah! Affair,” He spit out the word like it was poison to his lips, “As if snowflake would care. She sleeps with her love, why can you not with yours? Hmm?”

Theo did not reply. “We are adults, Potter. Grown men. She can do what she likes the same as we.” Boris went to the nightstand on his side—Theo’s heart sped at the curve of his taut skin, how his bare hands had felt every scar, caressed each shoulder blade, trailed a finger in unadulterated bliss down the dip in his lower back—his toned muscles twisting as he reached for a cigarette. The days spent craving his body against his own, how desperately Theo missed it during the daytime: a fact he couldn’t face in the present moment, not with him so close, his lips soft even in a sneer.

“You make this sound like it’s an acceptable thing.”

“What has it been these past ten years then? Vegas? Was that something you forgot?” Boris spoke around the cigarette, his voice icy and holding every drop of contempt for the lost time they spent emerging into adults—the things left unspoken finally dusted off and frowned upon.

“Like how you forgot to reach out to me all this time.” Theo said bitterly

“Pfft. Is different thing. Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. It is directly connected and you know it.” Theo crossed his arms.

“Is directly connected,” Boris rolled his eyes and mimicked him.

“So what then?” Theo asked over Boris’s imitation, his voice growing louder, “Why come all the way out here? Why stay? You could have left the second you saw me in that pub. An easy way out, really. With the painting lost forever and all.” Theo felt the anger rise from where it had been sitting vacant all these years; he had no issue with the bite behind his words, or what it might do to their secret nights spent together. Kitsey might be happier with Cable but it didn’t matter to Theo: he couldn’t live with the shame it would cause if the Barbours found out about Boris, or Hobie. Having to come clean.

Boris leaned up against the headboard—completely bare and unashamed in the fact—to point a finger at Theo. “I stayed for you. Hah! I even took painting for you. If not, would have no reason to be back. Would never see you again.”

Theo let out a mirthless laugh. To conceal the knot of worry threading its way into his mind. “That’s your excuse? To ‘see me?’ We were childish and stupid in Vegas. Apparently nothing’s changed.”

“Fuck you.” Boris stamped out the cigarette and rose from the bed, facing the curtained window and allowing Theo to gaze with confliction at his back. His dense set of black curls magnified in the filtered sunrise. “Thinking I can come back, we can be together, like this. With no worry. Такой идиот.” He muttered to himself.

But he heard him. Theo crawled across the bed and took Boris’s forearm to spin him back. “What did you expect Boris? You can show up in my life, let us have a few good fucks and think everything’s alright? The same?” He had a pained expression flash across his face, his eyes once bright but were now shaded with emptiness at the brief moments he had hope.

“Of course not,” Boris said quickly, but Theo knew that fallen face, even now he did a poor job at hiding what he was feeling, “I came here on business trip. And found you! Was fate that brought us together. Don’t you see it, Theo? And now is fate asking us to be here.”

“Fuck fate, Boris. You can’t just expect me to drop everything and go. Hell, even be sleeping with you. I’m engaged to be married, you have a wife—or was that a lie too? I practically own the shop, I can’t just up and leave Hobie like that. I have a life here.” Theo ignored the ache in his stomach remembering the sight of Boris, after ten years, finally seeing him. The joy that overcame him, the memory of how it made the fierce wind that afternoon not as harsh; his tired eyes had lightened when his arms found his shoulders, small mannerisms never forgotten.

“You expected me to drop everything, that day. In Vegas I had a life, and still you wanted me to go with you. What is so different now?” Boris wiped his face with a rough hand and glared at Theo. His black eyes glittered with hidden emotion: regret for what could have happened, their future dangling by a what-if.

“I told you. I just can’t. I can’t have sex with you anymore. Not like this. It’s wrong on so many levels—I have a fiancé, whether or not I love her. I still have ties. And I am in no way flying across the continent on some drug heist for you. It’s not my fault that you lost the fucking painting.”

Boris sighed. His face undeniably hurt. “So harsh, Potter. I do not know what time has done to change you, but maybe you do not mean things you say.” His smile was only a quirk of his lips, not reaching his eyes. Empty.

“And now, as I think. If not for your little bird, maybe we would have never met again. Last goodbye under that street lamp.” Boris continued, his face hollow. Theo didn’t like where this was going—the broken look in Boris’s eyes as he bent to pick up his clothes strewn across the carpet.

“Where are you going?” Theo asked with bated breath as he watched Boris button his pants, his overcoat, shirt.

Boris, who could never keep his mouth shut. Left without a word.

If only Boris could see, Theo thought, he was doing this for their own good. Because really, what else was there to do? Theo wasn’t chained to Boris, and neither was he. They were adults. They had lives to live—regardless of their love, the ardent connection that stemmed from boyhood, no matter how many times they tried to make it work.

This wasn’t a relationship. Theo had to tell himself compulsively as he gathered his own clothes off the floor and left Boris’s hotel room. To meet Kitsey, to pretend he was at the shop. That everything was going as planned. But Theo started to wonder: was there any way to make things the way they should? Could there be one?

So that Theo could wake to Boris’s sleeping shape in the morning, the face he loved, rather than Kitsey’s? Go their separate ways, different relationships, yet remain on parallel paths: could Theo ever imagine introducing Mrs. Barbour to Boris, while Kitsey stayed with Tom? Would she smile in the same tender, personal way that she often did when Theo was in the room?

Theo knew he had it all wrong. He was afraid of losing Boris; the shame that resided deep in his bones was only at himself—surfacing words: coward. Trapped. Isolated. Stuck in an engagement meant only for the bettering of others. Not what he wanted.

Stay. We can make it work.

A dull, festering throb started at the base of his chest, worming its way to his heart. Clung to the back of his throat. Skull pounding a new kind of headache down the busy streets, searching with sore eyes for a familiar overcoat, thick black hair blowing in the wind. His life raft out of the choppy future he was forced to drown in.

Last goodbye under that streetlamp.

Theo: Boris. Call me.

#fanfic #boreo #boreo fanfic #angst #boreo angst #the goldfinch #tgf #the goldfinch fanfiction #adult theo and boris #fanfiction #m/m romance #i miss this fandom so much where is my tribe

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goldenvoicedminstrel · 4 years

Link

realised after posting it’s actually @feanorianweek and even day 2, so have some Maglor

The sun was hidden from the sea that day, the rough waves turned murky grey in a perfect mirror image of the dull clouds overhead, both divided only by an endless pale horizon. All around, the colours had disappeared from the earth and Maglor wondered, if perhaps this was what the void looked like. An endless space devoid of colour, sound and feel.

An endless nothingness to isolate one from one’s own existence and drive one mad.

It was a far more frightening thought than any darkness or torture.

Is that what my brothers feel? he asked the only person still listening.

Does it matter? he answered his own question. He would never join them now, it had been much too long since he had failed to follow his brother’s example and throw the Silmaril into the waves with his body still attached to it. Too many years of wandering and suffering had passed, that had made his next step and the next note of his lament as unescapable as the passing of the hours and years. He had woven the mourning resonance of the Noldolantë into the music of Arda itself and himself with it.

Even if he did not care if he lived, he had been surviving for so long he thought he might not know how to die anymore.

The coarse sand and stones were biting into the soles of his bare feet as he walked, having long since discarded his worn through boots. Now the quiet crunch of his steps in the sand formed an imperfect metronome for his song.

“I fixed it.”

Curufinwë stands before him, hands outstretched and in them a little box, ticking away with the steadiness of his own heart beat.

“It was easy, Atar did not even have to show me how. Now you must not be cross with me anymore.”

Again his feet lost their rhythm, one sinking a little deeper into a puddle of water that had been hidden under the wet sand. Around his foot he could feel the pull of the waves towards the sea, dragging the sand with them and hollowing out the ground he stood upon. He stepped aside instinctively, onto a sharp shell that cut through his skin.

“Careful, Laurë!” Maitimo calls and the white towers of Alqualondë glitter behind him, shining with the colours of the Mother of Pearl fragments inlaid in their walls.

“Let me see that. Where was that head of yours again?”

He picked up the shell. Its hard, curved form was broken and the white edges ragged, now tinted pink with his blood.

“Káno, look what I found!” A smudge of silver races towards him, so fast, that his light hair whipping behind him in the wind blends into the pale morning light around him. When Tyelkormo opens his small hands they reveal a cone shell and, emerging from it, the scarlet claws of a hermit crab. “Can we please take him home with us?”

He thought his hair might be turning pale too. Grey, like that of the Edain, when their spirits and bodies started to wane after long years of sorrow and grief. His skin seemed grey as well, and sometimes he thought it was because he could see the grey sky through it. Perhaps he was just becoming a part of that greyness around him, fading into a lament on the waves, his song lost under the cry of the gulls and raging of the sea. Another gull flew over his head, so close this time that he could feel the gust of wind from its wings in his hair.

A shrill scream comes from the other side of the beach, followed by a bought of laughter.

“You sound like the gulls, Moryo!”

A dark haired elfling’s face is turning an impressive shade of red as he scowls at his brother.

“I do not!” he cries and crosses his thin arms, but when his indignation shows no effect, he quickly ducks down and picks up a handful of wet sand, hurling it towards his still laughing brother.

“Stop laughing at me, Tyelko!” he insists and the blonde’s face immediately turns grave, as he bends down in an exaggeratedly somber manner to pick up his own lump of sand.

“If this is how you want to play…” he says, and the scene quickly dissolves into childish screams of laughter.

Little wet droplets were running down Maglor’s cheeks. Ah, he thought, it must be raining.

There was an opening in the high basalt cliffs, nothing more than a crack in the dark structure looming over him, a comfortable shelter for a child perhaps, but not enough to hide a grown adult. He walked past and let his scarred hand trace the stone. It was as rough and blackened as his own scorched skin and its sharp edges seemed detached from under his unfeeling finger.

The wind blew sharper now and the dark strands of his dirty hair tangled before his eyes, obscuring his sight. He listened instead to the desperate howling of the wind trapped in the small cracks and hollows of unmoving stone.

Two red-haired children cling to him, the vibrant colour of their hair burning with the curb’s fire behind them and their identical faces are flushed with excitement and the only recently abandoned heat of the flames.

“Tell us a story Káno! About why the wind howls so. Does it sing like you do? What does it sing about?”

His hair was whipped away from his eyes again by another violent gust of wind, but the darkness stubbornly remained. Was it night already? There were no stars he could distinguish, not even in the West was his father’s creation visible to the hopeful eye. He clenched his hand and walked on, the howl of the wind lost beneath his own.

He walked until the path before him rose away from the soft sand and up on uneven stone, crumbling away under his feet as he climbed, the small pebbles falling endlessly into the abyss beside him. He would not sleep, only make one step after the other until he would drop from exertion, too exhausted for even dreams to find him, may they be horrible- or worse- good.

He stumbled.

There was a bird at his feet, the white feathers making it visible to him even in the night- no, that was the dawn breaking over the horizon.

One of the creature’s wings was twisted and its neck broken, overstretched into an unnatural position on the ground, his honey coloured beak turned away from its body as if pointing out the way ahead.

Did the storm do this to you? he asked, but the dark eyes gave no answer.

He touches the impossibly soft feathers with a trembling hand and suddenly, for the first time since he has been born into these immortal lands of Aman, he understands that even here nothing lasts forever. He thinks of his grandmother, lying as beautiful and lifeless as this little bird while his father strokes her soft hair. The bird must have a mother too, or little nestlings screaming for it, and if it doesn’t, how lonely it must have been. Perhaps it is a silly thing to anguish about, but he has a vivid imagination and a soft heart and has never seen death before.

Through his tears he sees his father hurrying from his forge, alarmed by his young son’s despairing wails.

“What is it, Makalaurë? What has happened? Are you hurt?” his father’s face is tight and pale and his hands are running over his child’s small form, trying to find the cause of his hurt, to fix it as he always does. “Please, tell me why you are weeping,” he asks again and spots the lifeless bird in the same moment. His shoulders drop in relief and his features relax into a sad smile as he pulls his sobbing son into a tight embrace. “It is alright ‘Laurë,” he whispers to him. “Everything has its time.”

He turned away from the bird and walked on as the sun rose higher into the clear, blue sky.

His father, who then had been so much younger than he must be by now, and so anxious about any sadness befalling his newly formed family.

Maitimo had been an easy child in that regard, and really in any other regard as well. Happy and content, with the sure confidence of someone who had grown up with all of his parent’s praise and attention and who, deep down, believed he deserved it. Kind and courteous to everyone and widely loved- and later admired- in return. When he had been quiet, it had been with thoughtful consideration or the comfort that needed no words. Maitimo had never been despairing.

He himself however, befitting the poet he would become, had been much more volatile. His joy had been delightfully loud but his sorrow even louder. How unsettling these first fits of despair must have been for his father, who had always lived under the shadow of his mother’s fate.

His brothers had shed tears too, of course, but they were easily quietened. Tyelko had cried in pain after falling out of a tree and Moryo often in anger. Curvo had sometimes teared up in frustration and the Ambarussa had sobbed in fear the first time they had heard the tale of their father’s mother and discovered that there might be a force in this world that could separate them after all. But Maitimo…

The hard stone under his feet had softened into dry earth and the narrow path was being overtaken by yellow and green patches of grass and finally a thick carpet of heather, the sea of small green leaves parted by spots of rose and purple flowers. A twig snapped underneath his weary feet.

The air is filled with the fragrance of blooming petals as he wanders through the labyrinth of thick green hedges and thorny bushes heavy with blossoms of every colour. Even now, thirsty and irritated as he is, he marvels at the beauty of it all, his parched throat aching to burst into a verse of song in celebration. Yet first he needs to find his brother, as his father had sent him out to do hours ago. But today Maitimo seems to have disappeared from the face of Arda entirely and his grandfather’s rose garden is his last hope. There is a spot there his brother had shown him when he had been but a little boy- his secret hiding place he had called it.

He ducks under the low branches of a young tree and carefully pushes away some of the dense shrubbery before he stills.

He hears their laughter before he sees them, sitting in the grass, a bottle of what must be grandfather’s good wine lying forgotten next to them. They are leaning against each other and speaking in hushed, excited tones, and suddenly his brother is throwing his head back and is laughing, laughing until there are tears running down his cheeks and he has to gasp for breath. He is still holding onto Findekáno’s arm as his giggling cousin wipes away his tears of mirth.

Quietly he turns away and leaves, reporting to their father that Maitimo is nowhere to be found.

The sun was high in the deep blue sky and the sea glittered faintly beneath it.

Maglor’s path lead him down again, away from the heather, towards the waves where the smell of salt perpetuated the air he still breathed. He did not hear the gulls anymore and the light breeze that seemed to caress his cheek was too weak to drown out his lament.

When his feet sank into soft sand again, the sun was already setting and suddenly the sky was set aflame in the same shade of red he had loved and hated and grieved more than anything else.

And again he walked on. Was it raining again?

And when Maglor walks the shore alone, his brothers walk with him, and on the wind his father’s voice whispers: “Why are you weeping, Makalaurë?”

#today on making myself sad at 1:30 am #maglor #i love you bby i'm sorry #makalaure #maedhros #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #ambarussa #feanor #feanorians #silmarillion #just realised it's #feanorianweek #and maglor day as well here #tis fate #golden writes

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milktaru · 4 years

Text

MAFIA AU! - Jaehyuk

Treasure’s Jaehyuk - “They don’t need to know” + “Why can’t I get you out of my head?” + “Do you want that?”

🖋 requested by @no1nas

Theme: mafia au!, it’s angsty but not super heart breaking, honestly i got carried away it’s kind of long (ooops)

Warnings: mentions of blood, weapons, violence, wall pining (but not smutty enough to be considered smut lol)

a/n: yes, it is a treasure mafia au. i saw the opportunity and I took it. sorry not sorry

Fear is an insidious feeling. It starts nearly imperceptible; as it didn’t even exist. Then, it suddenly thrives until it feels tangible and maddening.

The metallic pistol you are carrying on your left hand resonates with your fear. It is bitter, cold, and burning. If you try hard enough, you can taste the metal and despair on your tongue.

The dreadful feeling creeps on your fingertips, like a delicate but cunning touch. It crawls up your arms, spreading through your neck, your collarbones, finally arriving in your heart. It rushes into your atrium, diving deep in your soul as the last blow.

As you get closer to your target, the beautiful young man tied to the old wooden chair in your basement, the fear and you become one. The man squirms and tries to cry for help, but you are apathetic.

The fear is the predator, and you are his prey.

Growing up as part of the reckless mafia, you always knew your destiny was arranged marriage.

There were a ton of families for your father to choose from. You could get settled with the son of the Kanemoto family, who had just assumed the head of the mafia after his father's passing. Or, it could be with the son of the So family; although your father always referred to him as the “too shy and scared boy”. Even worse, your father might prefer the son of the Takata family. You hated this option because their son was too loud and boisterous for your liking.

Well, if the decision were up to you, you would definitely prefer the Yoon family.

Your parents were friendly with the Yoon family, and you had spent your childhood playing tag and hide and seek with the only two sons of the Yoon mafia: Jaehyuk and his older brother.

You appreciated both of the Yoon’s prodigies. They were pleasant, sympathetic, and treated you with much respect. It is true; however, that you were closer to Jaehyuk; in age and in personality. Jaehyuk’s older brother was equally nice, but he was three years older than you and a little bit more reserved and nonchalant.

The contrast between the two brothers got even more discernible in your teenage years. You and Jaehyuk loved to talk about your dreams: traveling the world, stargazing at the highest peak of Earth (so you could touch the stars!), and rescuing abandoned cats. Jaehyuk’s older brother, on the other hand, was too busy with the role of Mafia’s successor and had no desire to daydream.

Metaphorically, his older brother was a fighter, whereas you and Jaehyuk were more of the lovers type.

On your 17th birthday, you realized that maybe Jaehyuk was more than just a childhood friend. He could also be your real lover.

The sound of loud voices competing for dominance, glass and bottles clinking, and nicotine smell was making you dizzy. After one night of standing still on your high heels and serving as the mafia new toy, you earned to take off your tight and impractical dress and take a nap till the end of the week.

“She’ll grow up to be a fine woman.” You heard one of the capos of the Grazzi family saying.

“And a great wife too,” his henchmen said while opening one more bottle of alcohol.

Oh, god. It was disgusting. You wanted to roll your eyes at those types of comments. Heck, you wanted to scream and cry and even throw some punches. However, you knew better than to make a scene. The last thing you wanted was to piss off your vicious father.

Glancing sideways to your mother, absorbed in a deep conversation with another lady, you were ready to apologize and go back to your room. You stopped mid-action when you heard Jaehyuk calling you from the back of the ballroom. His silhouette barely showing, covered by the deep shadows that the blue lightening in the room provided.

You sneaked towards him, hoping no one would notice your escapade from the humiliating social gathering.

“You’re beautiful tonight" - he greeted you, taking your right hand and caressing it slowly with his thumb - “ you always are.”

You answered him with a faint smile. You wish you could say more, but the birthday party made you exhausted.

As if he read your mind, Jaehyuk made you an offer, “Would this dazzling lady do me the honor of getting the hell out of this place?”

You chuckled, nodding while looking around you. Happily, no one appeared to be paying attention to your little agreement. You let Jaehyuk guide you towards the empty and dark gardens outside the ballroom.

As you got there, you both got lost in comfortable silence, gazing at the night sky and enjoying each other’s company. Jaehyuk’s smooth skin glowed with the moonlight. Although he was a member of the mafia, to you he would always be your enchanted prince, ready to rescue you.

Bravely, Jaehyuk broke the quietness by holding your face between his hands.

“I’ve been thinking about our childhood these days, all the things we’ve done together, and how much we've grown up “- he stammered, searching your eyes for some form of reassurance - “To be honest, I've been thinking a lot about you these days.”

He swallowed hard, letting his stare run from your eyes to your plump lips, “Why can’t I get you out of my head?”

At his confession, your heart beat harder inside your ribcage as it desired to slip out and run away. At that moment, you understood that if you could not achieve freedom in your life, at least you would allow your heart to be free.

And you knew what your heart craved: the handsome, young, and brave man in front of you, still waiting for an answer. So, you came closer to him and lightly tiptoed, reaching for his lips.

On your 17th birthday, Jaehyuk gifted you your first kiss.

After that day, all of your other firsts would be with him too. And, just like he had experienced, you would never be able to get the thought of him out of your head.

When you completed twenty springs, your father announced it was time for you to get married. According to him, there was no sense in wasting money with a daughter if she was going to stay at home and be as useless as rotting fruit.

Leaving your home was not your worst nightmare. When you were with your family, this was exactly how you felt: like rancid, decaying fruit. Not much could be worse than having to put up with your authoritative and sexist father every day.

As you got closer to your secretive fiancé's home, you started to squirm nervously in your car seat. However, all the nervousness left your body when you finally arrived. You knew the facade of the house; you recognized�� the gardens on the front because you spent your childhood playing there.

It was the Yoon mansion.

Yes, it was a logical and somewhat predictable choice: your families were already close, and your marriage with Jaehyuk would strengthen the bond.

You entered the huge house peacefully. It seemed like a dream to be able to marry the man you loved.

Each stride you took towards the dining room felt like a step closer to freedom. You elegantly took your seat at the dining table, observing Mrs. Yoon’s immaculate porcelain plates and intricate table cloth.

When your eyes finally found Jaehyuk, his face was not that of a man about to marry his beloved. His eyes were wide, his skin pale as he had just taken a fright. His whole body expression screamed despair.

You tried to understand what was going on. Why was Jaehyuk not happy? Did he not love you?

Jaehyuk was fidgety, his body faintly curved towards the exit. He wouldn’t stop peering at you, almost as he wished to send you a message.

Mr. Yoon cut your line of thought, standing up proudly and lifting his cup filled with the most expensive drink of his collection, “I would like to propose a toast to our crucial alliance with the YLN family.”

You felt your father lifting his cup from your left side, beaming with equal pride.

Mr. Yoon continued his toast with a loud, commanding voice, “And, of course, let us toast to Y/N’s marriage with our oldest son.”

You once read in a book that there are moments in life in which time stops. But you had never experienced it.

That's it, until that announcement.

You lifted your cup robotically, and equally as roboticaly you got through the rest of the meal. You never once took your focus out of your plate because if you did and met Jaehyuk’s stare, you knew you would break.

Run.

You complied with the only command in your head. After taking a bathroom break before dessert, running was what you did. It seemed there was nothing else to be done other than succumb to your most primal wishes.

Your legs hurt, your breathing was shallow, and you had no idea on what floor or corridor of the enormous Yoon mansion you were. You just knew you felt the need to run as your life depended on it.

Not even a meal had passed after you lost Jaehyuk and your chance to be happy, but your heart already felt ripped into shreds.

Too stuck in your deranged mind, you failed to notice someone grabbing your arm and pulling you into a small room. Your captor’s hand was cold, and you tried your best no to scream and let your father discover you were not in the bathroom as you promised.

At the same time, it was agonizing and soothing to recognize that the cold hand holding your arm belonged to Jaehyuk. Looking at your prince, you felt the strong urge to cry.

How could life be so unfair and cruel? How could it torture your soul so mindlessly? Maybe the universe was laughing at you both. Maybe, it was the star’s plan all this time - gifting you with consuming love, letting it bloom inside your hearts, and then plucking it as if it was weed in a farm field.

“Baby, ” Jaehyuk gasped in between passionate and messy kisses he placed on your lips. “it’s okay. We won’t let them separate us.”

He’s too desperate to care about your surroundings. You trip on the carpet, hitting your back with a loud thud on the cold wall. Jaehyuk pins you to the wall, not wanting to separate your bodies.

“They don’t need to know,” he murmurs.

Like every terrible plan ever made, at that moment that idea seemed great.

It took two short months for Jaehyuk’s older brother to discover that the glances shared between you and his brother weren’t only out of cordiality.

He was mad, of course. But, not hurt.

Honestly, he couldn’t care less about you. He didn’t mind if you did not like him. Also, he didn’t mind that you refused to sleep with him on your honeymoon on the Yoon’s family country house. He could search for sexual pleasure in other places. Anyways, you weren’t even his type.

However, what made his blood boil was the fact that his younger brother had the petulance of stealing something from him. That was unforgivable.

Ever since childhood, he was meant to be the best, the successor of the family. He should have the best toys, the best devices, the best clothes, education, and grades. He was to be on top, and his younger brother (that fool!) could content himself with the second place.

In his family, there would be no sharing. Never.

Little did Jaehyuk’s older brother knew, he committed his worst mistake when he decided to knock on your and Jaehyuk’s hideaway door. Holding pictures of your most intimate moments in his dirty and jealous hands, demanding you to stop your affair at that moment. Or else, he would tell the whole Family about your filthy secret.

It is true, supposedly you and Jaehyuk were not the type to clash or engage in conflict. You were not fighters but lovers.

Lovers - in all the meanings of the world.

And love is a dangerous creature because when cornered and nudged, it feels threatened. Threatened love transforms itself in raw panic. And this panic, so ready to fight for its survival, converts into fear.

And fear does not forgive.

“Do you want that?”

Jaehyuk reaches toward you with his left hand, touching your index finger, already settled in the trigger. His other hand holds his brother's head roughly. Jaehyuk wants to end this fast since he cannot take his brother squirming and struggling against the chains holding him in the chair anymore.

Although he would have pulled the trigger the moment you both carried his brother to the country’s house basement, he did not want you to regret a decision that could stain you forever.

He was patient, for you, and only you.

“Once you pull it, there is no turning back.” He analyzes your glossy, terrified eyes. “After this, we will probably have to run away.”

You are scared, yes. And you are also shaking, yes. But you couldn’t care less about the consequences of your actions anymore. You just want to be free and live the rest of your life with the man you truly love.

You can feel the heat of Jaehyuk’s hand creeping on your fingertips, like a delicate but cunning touch. It crawls up your arms, spreading through your neck, your collarbones, finally arriving in your heart. It rushes into your atrium, diving deep in your soul as the last blow.

Yes, you are love itself. And you are the fear.

Together, you and Jaehyuk pull the trigger. The bullet draws one straight and fixed-line, ripping through the man's glabella.

You do not need to look twice – he is dead and the chair holds now a souless body.

There is blood splattered everywhere – in the basement's ground, in your clothes, in Jaehyuk’s hands.

It is going to stain, but you do not give a fuck. The fighter is dead.

And the lovers are finally free.

#yg treasure #treasure imagines #treasure scenario #jaehyuk #yoon jaehyuk #jaehyuk imagine #jaehyuk scenarios #treasure #i love angsty things im sorry if it sucks #jaehyuck bby i love u ;)

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heartofsnark · 3 years

Text

This Is Love (Chapter Twelve): Evil Comes In Disguise

Notes: This one is shorter than others but it felt like it took me so much longer, I blame Cyberpunk 2077 for stealing my one braincell for a while. Also, I have a tendency that the longer it takes me to write something, the more insecure I feel about it, so I ended up cutting this chapter a bit shorter than I originally intended. But I think it works and I hope you enjoy!~

Word Count: 8686

Chapter Warnings: Talk of physical assault, hospitals, POV switches, Joseph visions, me trying to write police investigations/interrogations to minimal success and struggling to write Jerome for the first time properly.

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

And the clock ticks and ticks and ticks and ticks. Every second feels like an eternity. Every moment of silence seeming to stretch on for hours. Her nerves fray with each one, worry blooming like a flower in her chest. The tension palpable as the three deputies and Sheriff wait to hear what will become of the town pastor. Dahlia’s mouth starts running before she can stop it; to distract herself or her distraught friends, she doesn’t know.

“How long have you all known Pastor Jerome?”

“Oh, Jerome’s been in Hope for…fifteen years or so,” Whitehorse tells her, thinking a minute over the exact timeline.

“He took over the Falls End church when I was thirteen,” Hudson adds, “so yeah, fifteen years.”

“Wow,” Dahlia can’t help but exclaim, astounded by just how long they’ve all known the pastor, he’s been with the county for more than half of Hudson and Pratt’s lives.

“St-,” Pratt swallows his words then starts again, stuttering, “still remember my mom making me give my first confession to him…I was terrified I was gonna go to hell, get kicked out of church, break my mom’s heart.”

“What did you do?”

“His mom caught him looking at porno mags,” Hudson rats him out, laughing. Whitehorse cracking a smile and Dahlia snickering.

“I was eleven, shut up,” he tries to defend himself through his own laughter, “yeah, Jerome thought it was funny too, told me everything was okay and then it was.”

Rook can just imagine it, Pratt as a kid, terrified that god’s going to smote him for looking at a tit. There’s a bittersweet quality to the four smiling and laughing at the memory; the anxiety and fear still looming but it’s a little easier to breathe. The weight crushing down on them is a little lighter than it was before.

“If he makes it out of this, we need to go back to church,” Hudson tells Pratt after a beat of silence.

“We do, don’t we?”

“Officers?” A man in a doctor’s coat calls out to them, the same one who stitched her head back together before.

“Is he okay?”

“We stabilized him; we got the bleeding under control and it looks like we won’t have to transfer him after all, he should be fine to recover here. We’re still monitoring him, but things are looking up.”

There’s a sigh of relief; maybe just from Whitehorse, maybe from all of them. She can’t even tell. Things are looking up, Jerome is likely to live and none of them will lose someone who clearly means so much to them.

“What exactly is it that happened, doctor?”

“Someone out in the valley called 911; the heard scratching at the door and when they looked he was collapsed on their front step. That’s all we know at this point, but as I told you, this was clearly an assault. The bruises, the bleeding, it all matches with brute force assault and with the severity we do believe it was multiple people who attacked him.”

“Who the fuck would wanna hurt Jerome?” Hudson asks, more to herself than anyone else.

“You’re all free to stay in his room, so you can question him when he wakes up, but I don’t know how reliable his memory will be with what he’s been through.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

The four go into the hospital room and Dahlia clenches her jaw when she sees him. Bruises mottle and color the friendly face she’s seen around the county; a myriad of red and purples across him. One eye swollen, stitches and bandages in places where the skin broke. They were trying to kill him; that’s all Dahlia can think. This was an attempted murder, his body is hidden under a hospital gown and blankets, but she can see from his arms that the damage extends over his body. A IV gives him a steady drip of fluids to keep him stable, a heart and oxygen monitor letting the staff know he’s staying that way.

“Jesus fuck…” Pratt whispers under his breath.

Hospital coffee and more stories of the pastor pass the time as the four settle in; the time Jerome comforted an emotional fourteen year old Hudson when she spilled communion grape juice on her white dress. Whitehorse talks about how often he’s visited the church to talk with Jerome.

Hours pass of the four talking, Dahlia downing five or more paper cups of coffee across the time. And then a cough sound rings out, a shift of fabric, the pastor slowly waking up. Whitehorse calls out for the nurses; the deputies shifting in their seats as he comes to.

The nurses flood in, checking on Jerome’s vitals, ensuring he can comfortably sit up in his bed. He’s an older man, not as old as Whitehorse, but probably as old as Jacob or Joseph. Mid to late forties. With short dark textured hair and a dark beard.

“What the hell happened?” Whitehorse asks when the nurses are done checking on the Pastor.

“John Seed,” The pastor begins, and Dahlia clenches her jaw, “he and members of Eden’s Gate kidnapped me, he tried to force a confession from me and when I didn’t comply; they beat me and left me in the woods. I tried to get help the best way I knew how, but I passed out before I could speak to anyone.”

Dahlia doesn’t have time to think, to ruminate on what this means, what might be going on; Whitehorse telling her to grab the evidence collection kit he brought in. There’s not much to be collected, but their best bet of getting any conclusive evidence is swabbing Jerome’s fingernails. There’s nothing to get fingerprints off of, no weapon, no duct tape, no bindings. No bodily fluids exchanged, thankfully for Jerome’s sake. But, if he fought back, grabbed at his attackers, there’s a chance the blood under his fingernails could belong to them. That he managed to gouge their skin deep enough to leave a trace.

“Sorry, this might hurt a bit,” Dahlia gives a gentle warning when she sees the broken and bloodied state of his nails, gently swabbing blood from under them, making sure to collect from each finger before dropping it into a vile.

“I think I’ll make it,” he manages to say, a slightly dry laugh, his voice deep and resonant.

“I know you will, but still don’t wanna add to it.”

“Jerome, you said John Seed, did you recognize anyone else?”

“Lonny, Theodore, and Patrick were the only ones I know I saw…The way John talked he was doing it because of Joseph, that he ordered it… Eden’s Gate is getting worse every day.”

“Don’t worry, Jerome, we’re gonna do everything we can, Hudson, take the sample back to the station to see if we can match it to anything already in our database. Pratt, Rook, want you to start pulling the peggies in for questioning and getting DNA. Start with Lonny Stevenson, Theodore Rossi, and Patrick Michaelson. No arrests, not yet, just questioning. We’ll handle the Seeds later, alright?”

“Understood.”

There’s a heavy tension in the cruiser as Pratt and Dahlia climb into it. Jerome is alive, there’s a weight to what he’s told them and to their duty to get justice for him. Pratt’s knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel, jaw clenched, and shoulders wrought with tension. Pastor Jerome has been an important figure in his life. She can’t imagine how hard this must be for him. She thinks of how much worse she might feel if it were Lloyd or Whitehorse in that hospital bed, someone she were close to. Dahlia squeezes Pratt’s shoulder as they drive, hoping her empathy shows through the touch. Even as strangers, her stomach is in knots, though it may be because of her…connection to the accused.

Despite their constant encroachment on boundaries, stepping on the line but never quite over it, Dahlia had maintained her hope that the Seeds and their flock were good at their core. That’s why she turned Cassie into their hands, but everyday there’s something new. And this is the worst yet. If they’ve truly done this, if they’re ordering full out assaults on people, that does a lot more than just cross the line.

One of their three main suspects, outside of the two youngest Seed brothers, works at the Green-Busch Fertilizer Plant, an Eden’s Gate owned business. And for possibly the first time since she began working in Hope County, Dahlia is the one leading the charge as they get out of the cruiser, Pratt not trusting his own voice.

“Patrick Michaelson,” she calls out and a man steps out, “we need to have a word with you down at the station.”

He’s generic by Eden’s Gate standards, too long hair and a scraggly beard. His arms are covered, so she can’t check for scratches or bruises along them.

“I in any trouble, deputies?”

“Just need to ask some questions; Theodore Rossi or Lonny Stevenson here? We need a word with them as well.”

“No, but I could ring ‘em for you?”

“We’ll chat first, then you can call them from the station, alright?”

“Whatever you say, officers.”

The last thing she wants is for them to have a chance to put together a story and alibi before they start questioning them. They allow Patrick into the back of the cruiser, he seems to be maintaining his cool. And the tension in the car only strengthens as they take him back to the station. Dahlia watches him in the mirror along the way, waiting for some sign of anything to peek through, for a sleeve to ride up and to see scratches from Jerome’s nails, something. But nothing of the sort happens.

Dahlia has never actually had to interrogate or question anyone, she realizes once they’re at the station and having Patrick take a seat. She doubts he’ll give them much information. If he’s innocent, he won’t have anything of interest to tell. If he’s guilty, he won’t want to tell them much of anything. Getting a DNA sample is what’s going to be the most important thing, if they get some conclusive evidence, something that links one of the Eden’s Gate members to Jerome’s assault the rest will come much easier.

“Coffee?” She offers, as she pours black coffee into three paper cups.

Patrick murmurs a small thanks before he drinks from the cup before they start asking him questions. Hours pass of trying to ask the same questions in slightly different ways or tones. Dahlia trying to stay friendlier in her tone while Pratt is terser, due to his personal connection. But getting more than a ‘I was at home, last night,’ is like trying to get blood from a turnip. He refuses to give a DNA sample as well.

“We about done here?” Patrick asks with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Fine,” Pratt grumbles, “I’ll walk you out and you can ring Lonny and Theodore for us.”

Dahlia taps her fingers against the table as the two men walk out, breathing a sigh of relief when Patrick leaves his coffee cup. It takes a few minutes and then Pratt comes back, he collapses into his chair and groans, she can feel the stress radiating off of him.

“Well, that was a waste of fucking time,” he grumbles.

“How you figure?”

“How you figure anything else?’ He looks at her incredulously, like she’s grown a second head and breathed fire.

“Left his cup,” Dahlia pokes at the little Styrofoam cup, “our property, we wanna swab it for DNA, our business and don’t need anyone’s consent for it.”

“I’ll run it down to evidence, you brew another pot for the next two.”

“On it.”

Pratt runs that down, the cup bagged and labeled with Patrick’s name, she’s sure. Lonny and Theodore aren’t far behind. And their questioning goes much the same. They don’t give particularly direct answers and refuse to give DNA samples. Theodore avoids talking as much as he can, mostly opting to glare at the deputies after his first insistence that he has no idea why he’s here and has no obligation or desire to talk. But, he does at some point break his sourpuss expression to take a drink of coffee. Lonny is cockier, more aggressive, making snide comments but he drinks coffee at some point too; so that’s all that matters.

By the end of it all, three cups are sent down to evidence to be swabbed for DNA to be tested against the DNA found under Jerome’s fingernails. If it’s from any of them, they’ll know by hopefully the end of the day. Evidence based cases are rare around here, so the forensic team stated they can fast track it, hopefully

Pratt and Dahlia rest in the bullpen office, Hudson joining them. There’s a somber air to the entire office. Hudson’s leg bounces with nervous or angry energy, Dahlia isn’t sure which. Meanwhile, Pratt is wringing his hands until the skin rubs raw. Their worry is palpable as they wait for either more information or direction. The oppressive silence has started to weigh on Dahlia’s shoulders, she’s tapping her fingers against a table.

“You know,” Dahlia says after too long, “you guys can go see Jerome if you want, I’ll call if any info comes in.”

She knows they’re worried about him and want to be there to check on him. There’s no reason for them to sit here and suffer when she can just let them know when the analysis comes in.

“We’re not gonna leave you to man the station by yourself,” Pratt dismisses her out of hand, as if the idea that she can be left alone is ridiculous.

“I think I can manage for an evening, anything happens, I know how to reach you all.”

“I’m going,” Hudson declares, “I trust Rook and I’m driving myself crazy here.”

“Thank you, Hudson…” Dahlia says with soft smile, Hudson actually trusts her and isn’t acting like she’s a child.

“You coming?” Hudson asks Pratt, looking at him expectantly.

“I’m not leaving Rook here alone.”

“I’m an adult, you know that, right?”

“If Eden’s Gate was willing to attack Jerome, who knows what else they’ll do. And you’re already on their radar, were before this.”

“What, you think they’re gonna storm the station?”

“Who knows anymore.”

“I don’t have time to listen to you two bicker, I’m leaving,” Hudson tells them before walking out of the station.

Dahlia chews her lip once she’s left with Pratt. This is already a stressful day and not the time to let her wounded ego guide her behavior. But it is wounded. She’s not a child, young sure, but not a child and by no means incapable. Pratt has been coddling her and trying to limit what she does since the beginning of her job, she thought it was lessening, but… Does Pratt seriously not think she’s competent enough to be left alone for a few hours? Is she that unreliable? Incapable? Does he think that little of her?

She doesn’t lend a voice to these insecurities or anger; not the time or place.

“Don’t pout,” Pratt says after a few minutes.

“I’m not.”

“You are, I can physically see you pouting.”

“Even if I was, it’s not important.”

“Seriously, Rook? You wanna be a brat right now?”

“Seriously, Pratt? You wanna be a patronizing dick right now!?” Her voice is harsher than she intended.

“Deputies?” A voice calls out, one of the workers in their piddly little forensic department poking their head into the open office.

“Yeah?”

“We got a match for the DNA found under Jerome’s fingernails.”

“Who’s our guy?”

“Patrick’s matched, we couldn’t find any traces of Lonny or Theodore’s.”

“I’ll call Whitehorse,” Pratt says before getting out his cellphone, “figure out what we’re doing next.”

Dahlia only nods, not trusting herself after her outburst. Her fingers still tap tapping against a desk as Pratt speaks to the sheriff. She can only hear Pratt’s side of the conversation as he explains what they were just told and agrees to whatever Whitehorse is telling him, before he hangs up.

“So, what’s our next move?” Dahlia asks, voice cracking more than she’d like.

“Arresting Patrick and questioning the Seeds. He wants a lighter touch with John and Joseph, his words, not mine.”

“Lighter touch meaning…?”

“They can be questioned together if they want, given a day and the chance to come in on their own terms. Whitehorse doesn’t want us ruffling their feathers unless we get something conclusive on them.’

“I’ll never get why he wants to walk on eggshells around them.”

“Because they’re nuts and got a good hundred or more people who’ll fight for them.”

Dahlia shrugs, she gets that, she guesses. But its still hard for her to wrap her head around that the men she’s met could order an assault on someone else. A part of her is still holding onto the hope that Patrick just acted on his own, that John and Joseph had no idea. But, Jerome says John was there. And John’s not exactly a face he could confuse with someone else…

“C’mon, let's go get Patrick.”

He’s at his house at this late hour, knocking in the door of his little farmhouse. Patrick answers the door, face souring the moment he sees the officer. His lips are sealed, not speaking a word to the deputies as they read him his rights and bring him into the station. He refuses to speak for a long while, even as they book him and try to ask him a few more questions.

“I wanna call my lawyer.” Is all he says after an entirely too long drag of silence.

“John, your lawyer?” Pratt asks.

“What of it?’

“We need to have a chat with him too,” Dahlia informs him, “so we’ll be happy to call him for you.”

“Fine.”

Dahlia stretches out her back as her and Pratt leave the interrogation room, this day has been her longest yet, but they seem to be getting somewhere. She looks over to Pratt.

“Want me to call up John or you wanna do the honor?”

“I will, they like you too much.”

“Have zero idea what you mean by that, but alright.”

Pratt grabs the station phone and rings up John’s number. Dahlia chews her fingernails as she waits, biting away at them and chipping her nail polish in the process. When she runs out of nail that goes past her fingertips, she chews at the skin. Mind racing as Pratt talks to John, she feels like her thoughts and feelings are tearing into two directions. What she wants to be true and what evidence supports. The older deputy hangs up the phone and Dahlia looks up at Pratt expectantly.

“John says him and Joseph can be here in a few hours, chances are Jacob will be with them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Anytime either of them have been questioned, Jacob’s there, just to look mean I guess.”

She nods, thinking of what she read so far in the Book of Joseph, of the abuse in the Seed family. It doesn’t shock her at all that Jacob has a protective streak, that he wouldn’t want his younger brother’s far out of sight. She does find herself wondering why Faith isn’t following alongside her siblings as well. Her fellow deputies didn’t seem to know much of her at all, Hudson not even knowing what she looks like. Hell, the youngest sister hasn’t even been mentioned yet in the Book of Joseph. Though given the hefty age difference, perhaps she wasn’t born yet during the memory Joseph chose to open it with?

Dahlia takes a seat while they wait for the Seed brothers, graciously accepting the cup of coffee that Pratt offers her. Her leg taps as she drinks at it, listening to the clock tick away as she waits for the Seeds. Her fellow deputy sits next to her and she can tell the day has been wearing on him. She doesn’t know why, what it is that pushes the impulse forward, but she thumps her head onto his shoulder. A soft form of contact, comfort, whether it’s an offering to him or a selfish desire of her own, she isn’t sure.

But Pratt responds by leaning his head towards her, over top of her own. His hair tickling at her skin and his scruff scratching at her skin. She can’t help but smile and press in a little closer, just appreciating his presence in this quiet moment after such a drawn-out day.

“Shit!”

Pratt’s sudden yell jolts Dahlia awake, her skull knocking against his. She blinks sleep from her eyes, when did she even drift off? How long was she sleeping against his shoulder? Her hands and the bottom of her jeans are wet; the cup of coffee and it’s contents now on the floor as well as her shoes.

“Fuck,” she curses under her breath, she must have dropped it when she fell asleep, “sorry.”

Dahlia goes and gathers up paper towels, cleaning up the mess. She didn’t even realize she was that tired.

“Don’t sweat it, shit has been crazy around here lately, I nearly dozed off myself.”

“You telling me this ain’t typical.”

“God, no, county’s usually more boring than watching paint dry. Lately, feels like county’s gone nuts.”

“Eh, I prefer the crazy, keeps things interesting at least.”

“Deputies,” the on shift desk worker pops their head into the room, “the Seed brothers are here.”

“We’ll be there in a second.”

Dahlia finishes cleaning up the mess and sighs, that weight back on her shoulders. It’s way past their usual shift hours and the day as a whole has been a lot. But they may finally be getting to the root of what happened. They’re getting some justice for Jerome, Patrick is a damn near guaranteed arrest. They just need to get to the bottom of John and Joseph’s involvement. She took this job to help people and that’s what she’s doing, Jerome has a right to feel safe in this county and as much as she hopes the Seeds are good, if they’re hurting others, it needs to be shut down and now.

Mess cleaned; Dahlia and Pratt go out to the waiting room to greet the Seeds. John and Joseph look relatively cleaned up. Though John always looks some version of prim and proper. She’s positive she’s never seen the youngest sibling in a shirt that wasn’t a collard button up and she’s certainly never seen his hair in any state other than slicked back. His shirt of choice today is purple, no vest or trench coat, just the buttons left undone to show the sin marked across his chest and the sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos across his forearms.

Joseph is wearing a shirt which is an accomplishment for him, a stiff white button up done up to his throat and a black blazer over it, nearly overkill in the heat of August. Perhaps he only wears clothing in extremes, either half naked or completely covered. His greasy dark hair is pulled back as usual and despite the late hour, his yellow aviators are on.

And then there’s Jacob, black tee and jeans with his typical camo shirt tied around his waist. Dog tags, key, and rabbit’s foot hanging from a chain around his neck as they always do.

They’re superficial observations, what the brothers wear, but she can’t help but take in the stark contrasts of the brothers. Joseph trying to look more put together and less crazy, John in that same state but every day, and Jacob genuinely not seeming to give any sort of a fuck.

“Deputies,” John is the one to greet them, grinning and Dahlia folds her hands behind her back, trying to still her body and straighten her back to present a confident front.

“John,” Pratt returns the acknowledgement with a nod, “I-“

“It seems you have one of our flock members contained on the bas-“ John cuts off Pratt.

“We actually would rather speak with you and Joseph before we discuss that case,” Dahlia cuts the youngest brother off in turn, not letting him dominate the conversation or set the tone for this.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I assume, you’re both comfortable with answering some questions for us?” She cocks her head to the side, trying to stay nonthreatening, not that her five feet of being could ever be threatening.

“Of course, that would be no problem at all,” Joseph is the one to speak next, giving her a smile, eyes soft despite the circumstances.

“Actually,” Pratt cuts in, a twitch in his jaw, “I’ll be asking those questions alone.”

“You’ll what?” Dahlia levels a glare at her partner, ready to throw him through a window, but unable to do so. He’s pushing it, he keeps pushing it.

“I think it’ll be best if I conduct the interrogation alone.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You girls need a minute, or can we get this shitshow on the road,” Jacob says, the deep rasp of his voice cutting through the spat. And she doesn’t miss the clench in Pratt’s jaw at the emasculating choice of words.

“Come on back; sorry for the trouble,” Dahlia says, a tight lipped smile as she leads the Seed brothers to the interrogation room. She’ll deal with Pratt and his overprotective bullshit later. It’s a quick walk down the hall and she politely opens the doors for them, she thinks she sees Jacob rolling his eyes.

“Go ahead and take a seat, we’ll be just a moment,” Dahlia tells them, giving a small nod when Joseph thanks her. She lets the door shut behind the Seeds and turns her gaze back on Pratt.

“Rook-”

“What the actual fuck, Pratt?” She keeps her voice low, but her tone is terse, how could he try to strong arm her out of the interrogation.

“Look, you’ve spent a lot of time with them, regardless of if you’ve wanted too or not. They’re fixated on you and you’re just too close to them to be interrogating them.”

“You’ve known them longer than me! You’ve known them for years! This is a rural county, it’d take me longer to meet all the cows here than it would the people!”

She wants to wring his neck, he’s entirely too protective of her and for no real reason. More now than ever she realizes she made the right call not telling anyone about the mute “angel” Eden’s Gate member who swung on her or the vandalism of her trailer. Pratt already barely wants to let her handle ticketing people and now he doesn’t want her interrogating suspects. It’s ridiculous. She’s a grown adult woman, she needs to be allowed to do her fucking job.

Dahlia is done listening to this nonsense, she decides, and makes a beeline back to the interrogation room. Pratt isn’t going to stop her from doing her damn job. She opens the door, her coworker trailing behind her, as she steps into the interrogation room.

The Seed brothers are sat at the table. Jacob’s legs open wide, sat relaxed in his chair, completely disinterested by most appearances but he still watches the deputies from the corner of his eye. She’s reminded of a predator lulling prey into a false sense of security before it strikes.

Joseph sits between his elder and younger sibling. His elbows on the table, hands politely folded, not a hint of anxiety in him either. Seemingly calm, but his gaze is intense on the young deputy as she enters, never straying away from her. He never looks over at Pratt, the other deputy’s warning that they’re fixated on her ring through her mind.

John is sitting back in his chair and his gaze is just as intense, but there’s more manic energy behind it. In him in general. Perhaps he’d look calmer, more serene like his brothers, if not for the constant bouncing of his leg, the movement starting to shake the rickety table.

“Sorry about that,” Dahlia starts before Pratt can find a way to force her out of the room, “would either of you like any coffee or anything before we chat?”

“No, thank you. We’ve done this song and dance before, deputy, you can’t sneak dna off of us,” John dismisses her off with a sneer.

“Okay then, no coffee, understood,” she rescinds her off as she sits down at the table across from them, Pratt sitting next to her.

“Look, let's cut the bullshit,” Pratt speaks up, “a person was attacked, beaten badly. We got evidence, won’t say what, that connects one of your church members to the attack. And its being alleged that he did so on Joseph’s order with John supervising the whole thing, and...you’re just hear for window dressing I guess.” He gives a dismissive look to Jacob at that last part, no doubt his attempt to give a little revenge jab for his comment earlier.

“Why I’m here ain’t any of your concern, princess.” Jacob says, voice low and the threat within it not subtle.

“Okay…” Dahlia cuts in with a clap of her hands when she sees the way Jacob and Pratt are glaring at each other, this is an interrogation not a pissing contest, the last thing they need is Pratt trying to fight Jacob and getting his ass kicked, “this is already going off the rails, good job everyone. Now, while his wording was...abrupt, uh that is the reality of the situation. There are some heavy accusations being levied at you two, so we were hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” John responds, rolling his eyes, “these are completely baseless accusations.”

“We do have evidence linking one of the men, a member of your church, to the assault. Our witness and survivor is credible. At this point we have no reason to believe they’d lie about what occurred.”

“They persecute us the same as they did the prophets before us, the faithful handed over to courts and councils, sheep sent out amongst wolves,” Joseph speaks sudden, voice intense as he stares into Dahlia’s eyes, a chill rolls up her spine, a tension pulling in her shoulders that she can’t quite shake.

“Seriously,” Pratt scoffs and for the first time Joseph’s eyes leave Dahlia, harsher and colder at the older officer, “you really think this is about your church, that someone would make this shit up just to get at you, think they beat the shit out of themselves too just to spite you?”

“Of course not,” John speaks next and she can’t help but notice the jolt in his body language, “I’ve yet to speak to our flock member you’ve find evidence of. But even if he’s done what he’s accused of, surely, you can’t expect us to be held responsible for the actions of every member of our church. We have hundreds of followers, you cannot reasonably expect us to be accountable for any of them who may stray from our ways.”

“The witness specified you were there, John. Not just accountable, but physically present for assault.”

“And there’s no evidence of that, you said so yourself, and as I’ve told you before, there are many in this county who aren’t above taking any chance to sully mine and my family’s name. Who’s to say, they didn’t see their assault as an opportunity to bring down our entire church.”

“May I ask where you were last night?”

“Had dinner with my family, as I always do, and stayed in for the night. Rather boring, I’m afraid.”

“Anyone who can confirm this story?” Pratt asks and Dahlia tries not to roll her eyes; his family would be the ones who can confirm it and ...they’re mostly here and biased.

“My brothers who are sitting right here, my sister if you feel the need to ruin her night as well.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Then are we done here?”

“This isn’t a formal arrest or detainment,” they don’t have anywhere near the evidence or that, “so, you’re free to leave if you so please. Though, there’s still the issue of Patrick who requested counsel with you.”

The brothers have made it clear they want to leave and that the deputies won’t be prying any more information from them. So, Dahlia escorts them out.

“You two can go on home,” John tells his brothers, “I’ll call someone to get me once I’ve sorted this out.”

“We couldn’t possibly leave you behind, we’ll wait,” Joseph squeezes John’s shoulder than looks to Dahlia, “assuming that would be okay.”

“Of course, don’t expect you to ditch your brother.”

“It is tempting sometimes,” Jacob mumbles under his breath, a smirk pulling at his lips when John glares at him. Rook has to press her hand to her mouth to avoid laughing at the brotherly teasing.

“Jacob…” Joseph gently chides.

“Regardless, you two are welcome to sit out in the waiting room, there's a vending machine if you need anything or if you’re not interested in that I’m sure Nancy can get you set up with coffee or food from our break room.”

“Thank you, deputy.”

“I’ll be out, shortly,” John says the final word pointedly as his brothers go to the waiting room, then turns to the deputies, “which room is my client in?”

“Room 103, I’ll be right in, go on and get settled,” Pratt tells him and John leaves down to the room where Patrick is being held. Dahlia holds her tongue until the youngest Seed brother is out of hearing range.

“Think we can get anything else out of them?”

“Fuck no, he’s going to tell Patrick to keep his mouth shut, insist that there’s another explanation. Like getting blood from a turnip, we’re just going to have to deal with what we have. DNA should be enough to convict Patrick, as for the rest, we’ll have to see if Whitehorse feels we got enough to do a full investigation. But, we don’t have much.”

“The evidence against Patrick might be enough to subpoena Joseph’s sermons, get warrants to search the church and houses?”

“Maybe,fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face, he looks exhausted and she’s sure she’s not much better, “what time is it?”

“Nearly four in the morning.”

“Fucks sake, okay, their foul mood makes a bit more sense.”

“Yeah, I can take care of the talk with John and Patrick, like you said won’t be getting much from them, so you can head home or check on Jerome.”

“No, no, absolutely not. I’ll take care of this, you go home and get some sleep.”

“Pratt-”

“Rook, you were the one passing out on top of me. Go home and sleep.”

“I-”

“Please, for once in your life, just listen to me.”

“Okay, just this once,” she bows her head, feeling like a scolded child, “but we do need to have a serious conversation about you babying me, you know that right?”

“I don’t baby you.”

She blinks and widens her eyes, has he heard a single word he’s said to her all day. Refusing to let her stay at the station alone, not wanting her to call John, and not even wanting her to be involved in the interrogation. And that today alone, she can’t count the amount of times he’s told her not to be the one to issue tickets, to stay in the car during calls. She knows they’ve lost an officer in the line of duty. And she knows she’s a lot younger than Pratt or Hudson. But this is her job as much as it is theirs.

“Okay,” Pratt scratches at the back of his neck at the incredulous look, then gently puts his hands on Dahlia’s shoulders, “serious conversations can wait until we’ve both slept, alright?”

“Fine, I’ll go home and crash, get yourself some sleep when you finish up here, okay?”

“Okay, will do.”

He drops his hands from her shoulders and gives a small pat to her arm as she turns to leave. As much as she’d rather Pratt be the one going home to get some much needed sleep, she can’t say she won’t be thankful for a chance to crash.

“And Rook,” Pratt calls out before she can get through to the waiting room, she turns to look at him, “stay away from the Seeds, please.”

“Don’t push it.” She rolls her eyes, overprotective ass, she pushes through the doors to the waiting room.

Dahlia gives a friendly nod of acknowledgement to Joseph and Jacob as she moves past them, looking towards Nancy.

“I’m gonna go home and crash for the night, any news comes in, don’t hesitate to call me, alright?” She explains to dispatch, not fully trusting Pratt to let her know if it’s up to him, throwing on her leather jacket and already searching for her pack of cigarettes. She’ll catch a smoke break before she rides home, her nerves needing the nicotine fix.

“Alright, dear. Drive safe.”

Dahlia waves a quick bye to both Nancy and the Seed brothers before she leaves the building. The air is cold, temperatures drop quick at night out here, a start contrast to the hot muggy days. A dark sky hangs above her except where stars breach the abyss. Goosebumps prickle up along her neck where the air hits, she put a cigarette between her lips and lights it, breathing nicotine deep into her lungs. She tilts her head back, blowing smoke from her mouth, white billowing around her.

“Deputy,” Joseph’s voice calls out and chills run along her spine, “you know, smoking is really a terrible habit.”

“We all got our vices,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, making sure to blow the smoke away from Joseph.

“That is true, I know that better than most…”

She nods when he trails off a bit, his church seems to focus a lot on sins and vices, overcoming them she assumes. Sins marked across the skin of so many of its members. Silence falls across the two, for once Joseph breaking eye contact, a rare moment for him.

“Is there something you wanted…? Can’t imagine you’d rather wait out here in the cold.”

“Yes, actually, I think there’s a lot we need to discuss. Faith told me you have concerns about your friend, Cassandra.”

“Cassie, yeah,” she corrects, not sure why it bugs her so much to hear them using Cassie’s full name.

“Yes, John always was wishing to speak with you regarding the orchard and… I’d hate for this… incident to color your opinion of me and my family.”

“I understand and I’d love to talk all this out with you, but-”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Yeah, sorry,” she frowns, feeling bad about it, “its been a rough day and I just am ready to crash, I’m sure you must be exhausted too.”

“Of course, I understand, which is why I’d like to invite you to have dinner with me and my family.”

“Uh, what?”

Dahlia blinks and coughs on cigarette smoke, taken aback by the sudden invitation. He’s here for an investigation, she just interrogated him, and he’s concerned with inviting her to dinner to… preserve some sort of good image? While a formal investigation isn’t opened on him or John yet, needing warrants and authority to do anything more, but one is right around the corner.

“We try to have dinner as a family, my brothers, sister, and I, as often as possible. A luxury we couldn’t indulge in for so much of our lives, I think it’d be a wonderful opportunity for us all to speak and for you to know my family separate from church or police interrogations. So, would you like to join us for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Uh…”

This could be her only chance to talk to him about Cassie before a formal investigation is launched and it becomes a conflict.

But it could already be a conflict, since they are hopefully not far away from launching that investigating.

But, she could use it as a chance to probe around, see if she can unearth anymore evidence in the Jerome case.

But, anything procured without a warrant wouldn’t be admittable, so the most she could do is see it and then know what to go back for once they secure a warrant.

But, even just getting a chance to ask questions without the environment of an interrogation room, might get some truths out. As well a chance to ask about some of the other strange things going on in the county. From roadblocks to the issue of the weird “angel” that assaulted her.

But, they could be dangerous, if they do have anything to do with Jerome’s injuries…

But, she’s not weak and it’s not like she's looking to antagonize them. She can ask her questions and be polite.

But, Pratt would kill her. He literally warned her to stay away from the Seed family five fucking seconds ago.

“Sure, I’d love to,” she tells him, ultimately unable to say no to his earnest little smile.

“That’s wonderful, our dinners are at John’s ranch house, I’m not sure I have anything to write the number down on…”

“I can use the memo app on my phone, what is it?”

“Oh.” He seems taken aback for a moment when she gets out her phone, but recovers to prattle off the address, Dahlia typing it in.

“Did I get it right?” She asks, moving to stand closer to Joseph’s side, so he can see the phone screen.

“Uh, yes, that’s,” he reaches out to touch her phone and accidentally closes the memo app, pulling his hand away like it burned him, “oh.”

Dahlia can’t help but laugh, watching the older man fumble to deal with tech. He’s older, sure, but he’s not pushing his sixties or anything. He ducks his head and she can see a very subtle flush of red flare up his cheekbones. Its the most human he’s ever seemed to her, just an older man who hates phones, embarrassed that he has no idea how to use one.

“Don’t worry, it saved,” she explains, pulling it back up.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Alright, see you and your family tomorrow.”

She tucks her phone back in her pocket and waves bye again, getting on her motorcycle. Dahlia slides her helmet on and starts the journey back home, mind racing and heart heavy with the events of the day.

Joseph sits in the passenger side of the truck, Jacob driving and John sitting in the back, as they leave the police station. It's late, nearly early enough for him to be waking up. John made a grave mistake, trying to punish Pastor Jerome for leading people astray, away from Eden. A noble intention, but he did it out of wrath and anger, letting someone else’s sin fuel his own. His impulses placed them back in the sight line of the police. They can recover from this easily enough, as frustrating as it is. The bigger issue is once again working to reign John in and working to change the junior deputy’s view of them.

The Lamb plays a vital role in the collapse, she was chosen to be the one who brings about the end, how exactly she will do so remains to be seen. But, he’d rather she do it alongside them stepping into New Eden by their side after she helped cleanse the world, rather than doing so in spite of them with no understanding of the gift she was given.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jacob scolds their younger brother, always protective of the project and them being found out by law enforcement, he’s more than a little irate about John’s mistake.

“Jacob…” Joseph still chides him for cursing, a nasty habit his eldest brother struggles most to break. If Joseph’s being completely honest, he’s not certain Jacob is trying to break it all.

“Pastor Jerome is a fraud, he is leading people astray and spreading lies about The Project, he had to be taught a lesson.”

“Who cares? His people abandoned him for us, John. He can talk all he wants, no ones fuckin’ listening.”

“Oh, so suddenly you’re above corporal punishment, are you going soft on me, Jacob? Do you allow your soldiers to say whatever they please, reward them for their insolence?”

“Jerome’s not a soldier and unlike you, when I teach outsiders a lesson, I’m not dumb enough to let them walk away from it.”

“Brothers, stop,” Joseph speaks over them, not yelling, but his tone stern enough to end their incessant arguing, he makes eye contact with his youngest brother through the rearview mirror “Jacob is right, John.”

“But Joseph-”

“You endangered The Project, our mission, our family; for the sake of satisfying your own wrath. You put all of us at risk and for what? So, you could indulge in your sins?”

“He was spreading lies, telling people you were dangerous-”

“And that made you angry, it made you wrathful. And so you lashed out to make yourself feel better, instead of speaking to me, instead of seeking out the word and confronting the sin inside of yourself, you sought to quell your anger through violence.”

“I’m sorry, Joseph.”

“I know. Righteous anger and swift justice has its place. There will be times to cut off the hands that wrong us, but this was not one of them.”

“I understand… I already spoke with our flock members in the station, they’ll dispose of the evidence and secure Patrick’s freedom. Without it, the investigation will end and he won’t be punished for my mistakes.”

“I knew you’d take care of it in the end,” he tells him, watching the relief flood John with the smallest amount of praise after being scolded, “I invited the junior deputy to dinner.”

Jacob slams on the brakes on a thankfully deserted back road, causing Joseph to jerk against the seatbelt and John to slam his face against the seat in front of him. John yells out from the sudden impact and Joseph turns to look at his eldest brother in confusion.

“God damn it, Jacob!”

“John!” Joseph scolds when his baby brother takes the lords name in vain, he can see a bruise forming on John’s forehead already.

“He tried to kill me!”

“Am I the only one who understands that we’re criminals?!”

“In the eyes of man, perhaps, but in the eye of -”

“Eyes of man are the ones that matter, right now, Joseph! You’re inviting a fuckin’ cop into our lives, into John’s house. A cop who just interrogated us less than a fucking hour ago and you want to feed her for her trouble.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were scared, brother. Jacob Seed, scared of a little girl.”

“Well, its a damn good thing you know better, or that shiner would be the least of your problems, brother,” Jacob nearly spits the word brother, glaring daggers at John.

“Jacob,” Joseph gets his older brother’s attention, Jacob has always been the strongest willed, has always asserted his opinions even if he’d do anything for the family, “are you doubting me?”

“No, of course not, I just don’t understand why you’re doing this?”

“We have cops within our flock, Jacob.”

“Yes, converted cops who benefit us. This deputy can’t walk into a church without puking her guts up, she’s a problem waiting to happen.”

“She has been making a problem out of herself, trying to keep me from purchasing the orchard, enabling the greed of this county.”

“Look, I know it can be difficult to understand, you’ve not heard what I’ve heard. The Voice hasn’t spoken to you, as it has to me, my decisions are not without reason. Reasons that will be revealed in time, the junior deputy is important, bringing her into our flock is a priority. Understood?”

“Of course, understood, Father,” John concedes, using Joseph’s formal title. Joseph looks to his eldest brother, who’s scarred jaw is still clenched tight.

“Understood?” He repeats himself, he knows Jacob wouldn’t go against him, but his willful nature… something Joseph was envious of in childhood now leads to the occasional butting of heads.

“Understood.”

Jacob starts the car back up, driving Joseph and John back to their homes. John to his ranch house and Joseph up to his church, where he has a cot in the back of it. The sun is starting to come up when Jacob drops him off at the church compound, before driving back to Saint Francis.

Eyelids heavy with exhaustion, Joseph is quick to return to his quarters, a headache starting to creep up along his temples. He changes for bed, then kneels before his bed, bowing his head for prayer and folding his hands together. Hands pressed together tightly, his rosary pressing into his skin.

And he prays.

He prays for John to find his way, to battle his sin and win the fight.

He prays for Jacob to one day fully let go and accept the word.

He prays for Faith not to stray from the path.

He prays for his flock and family, he prays for their faith not to wane, he prays for them to be strong enough to weather the collapse, he prays for the persecution of his family to end, and he prays that he can save more souls; specifically the junior deputy. That he can find a way to reach her heart, help her see her gift, and learn the importance of her role before it’s too late.

Then a sharp pain shoots from his temple across the rest of his head, like lightning shooting through his skull. The darkness of his closed eyes fades away into a new world, a vision of New Eden, a paradise he’s been shown and promised so many times he knows the sight of it by heart. The bright blooming pink flowers and modest homemade homes of a commune, a return to nature, to innocence.

His family and flock there, older versions of themselves, dressed in more rustic handmade clothes. Less clear and less certain than last time. But he sees John, Jacob, and Faith with children clinging and playing around them. And he can’t explain the feeling, that they’re all his children but his siblings as well.

The five year old boy with a head of dark curls and blue eyes that looks so much like Joseph as a child, the boy who called him papa.

A girl around three with bright ginger hair, a face covered in freckles. She grins and blinks, sun in her eyes. She reminds him so much of Jacob, head held high with a crown of red.

Maybe a year younger, another girl has straight dark brown hair and big wide blue eyes. Eyes that remind him so entirely of the young baby brother he cooed at as a child.

The oldest of them, clings to an older Faith’s skirt. A young boy of ten maybe tweleve, so much older than the smaller children. Hair dark as pitch, olive skin, and green eyes setting him apart. He looks different from the others, perhaps his family tie not one forged by blood.

His family, those he has now and those he will gain, the family he will be gifted. But, there’s something missing…. Pieces of the puzzle not yet in place.

Weak clumsy fingers grab onto his bed as his vision subsides, the reality of the world he’s still in returning to him. His head pounds and throbs, agony radiating throughout it, as the collapse draws closer his visions are getting more and more frequent. He can only hope as he falls into bed that he’s keeping himself and his family on the right path to find paradise.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #joseph seed #john seed #jacob seed #this is love

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otomegamesandme · 3 years

Text

A Lily in A Sea of Red

Fandom: Piofiore: Fated Memories

Pairing: Leo/Lili

Rating: T

Warnings: Mild references to violence

A/N: This is more a character study then anything, and I'm still sad there isn't more fanfic for them. I might write more, but for now here's this. Also on AO3 if you'd prefer to read it there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32233639

News spread quickly among the Falzones. It was necessary. If the members didn’t keep on top of things, it could be the difference between lost turf wars, lost members, lost Falzone bosses. Efficiency had gone up since the last boss’s passing, leaving Dante the newest leader in tragedy’s wake.

This time the whispers were of a young woman. Soft and saintly, an aura only someone of the Church could have. It was unknown why she was staying at the mansion, other than Dante’s claim Yang’s gang was after her. It was for this reason Leo was placed to guard her. The idea made him nervous.

He was a skilled shot, had to be so he didn’t get killed. Hand to hand combat was a little harder, since he was smaller than most the men he’d find himself against. Protecting someone inside the mansion, though, was something he convinced himself he could do.

The first time he met her she’d been filled with nerves, and so had he. She’d held her hands together in a formation like prayer, and he noted it was to stop her hands from shaking. He knew her name, but when he heard her say it, the sound was peace in spring.

“Liliana Adornato.”

After the first meeting he’d mouthed her name in bed, wondering if he’d ever capture such a feeling again.

The two fell into a routine, it was easy to. Being around her was a break from the chaos he was used to. Having meals together, snacks together, conversations together, were so different than what he was used to. Although this was his family, and he owed his life to the Falzones, he couldn’t help the loneliness that crept up on the worst of days. He was aware of his failings, and although he wished nothing more than to prove his worth, he still felt like a child stumbling over each step.

With Liliana, he felt weightless. Perhaps it was under false pretenses, he was a killer after all, and the sunshine he showed was as artificial as the moon reflecting the sun, it brought her comfort. At some point, during those first weeks, he’d nearly forgotten who he was as well.

The first time there’d been an attack on Lilliana, it’d been outside as she had visited the church again for the first time. The Lao-Shu had been waiting and watching. It was something that didn’t feel natural to them. What they wanted, they took, and what they wanted was always beneficial to them. Leo couldn’t pinpoint where Lilliana fit into it all.

He’d taken her hand and ran, because his duty wasn’t to fight it was to protect. Her hand trembled in his, but there was a gleam in her eyes that spoke of her determination to survive. He hadn’t had time to process the way that struck him, as the two zipped through side streets.

Afterwards, when they’d made it to the Falzone mansion, Liliana had asked if it would be alright to have tea together. Her nerves were shook and he was a master at lightening the mood. The two spoke for hours, until her eyes were heavy lidded. Before they’d parted ways, she placed a hand on his shoulder, smile lazy in her exhaustion.

“You can call me Lili.”

He didn’t know how a simple sentence could make him so tongue tied, “Are you certain?”

“Yes. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Despite the violence which had broken her naivety, she still considered him a friend. If Leo guessed, she still considered everyone here as someone she’d grown to care about in some way. The surprise of it all made a smile bloom across his face, “We are.”

It didn’t take long for Leo to wish for them to grow into something more.

The will of the family was put before anything. And Dante Falzone represented this will. Leo was only meant to be her guard, and it was obvious to Leo Lili meant something to him. If Dante wished it, who was Leo to go against it. He was given the gift of a family and in return he offered his loyalty. And besides, Lilli only saw him as a good friend. And as a boy.

He was sunshine beaming through rainclouds, offering her joy on the worst of days. When things in the city got worse, when a new drug started circulating through town, when people died in front of her eyes, when she was caught between the feud of three mafia families, he was there. He offered conversation and distractions and laughs. On the days it was too hard for her to leave bed, he offered comfort.

His hands would comb through her hair as she cried out the shock in silence. The reactions became less severe, and she had mastered the art of masking her horror long ago. But in these moments alone, she broke. Except Leo couldn’t bare to leave her alone.

As the weather became cooler and autumn entered it’s late stages, Leo had gotten permission to take her to shop for warm clothes. Everything she had was so thin, and while she insisted she hadn’t minded, she also hadn’t left the manor in a while. Dante had wanted things to calm, and there’d been a lull in violence for the moment.

After a lot of insistence, Leo got permission, and the two headed into town. Lilli’s eyes always filled with melancholy whenever she went out now. The city had changed, from a place of vibrancy to one of lifelessness.

“Things will get better soon, I promise.”

Lili startled at his words, looking as though she’d just woken from a daydream, “I know they will.”

She’d been praying for weeks now, for this very thing. Sometimes when he’d gone to her room to remind her of dinner, he’d hear her whispers. He never could interrupt her prayers, so he’d listen to the muffled words, and offer a prayer with her. For her. It was the only thing he felt he could do.

Now, he offered his arm, feeling oddly bold in doing so, “Come on, let’s make the most of the day.”

When they returned, they were greeted by news of Nicola’s betrayal.

Broken morale followed in the week after, then a quiet anger underneath. The oppressive atmosphere that once existed outside had leaked into the Falzone household, electrifying the air. Any reprieve they had was encased in suspicion of everyone else. If their leader’s right-hand man was a traitor, then it was possible anyone else could be, too.

“Maybe it’s foolish of me, but I think there’s a reason he did it,” Lili stared at her tea, the opaque liquid reflecting her face back to her. Her hands were clasped in her lap, nails biting skin. Leo wanted to take them in his and rub away the nail marks left behind.

He glanced at the table instead, mirroring her actions, “I want to believe so, too. Everyone knows they’ve been best friends ever since they were children. It’s hard to believe he would do this without a reason.”

“I can’t help but feel this is my fault,” the line struck Leo. He rushed to protest, but she was faster, “All of the events happening here have been the result of my existence in some way. Maybe I bring tragedy.”

“Lili…” He felt her pain like his own. For all the years he’d been part of the Falzone family, he hadn’t been one to stand out. He wasn’t as strong, as quick, as coordinated as those around him. Sometimes he wondered if he’d been better, would old members still be alive. The sentiment Lili shared was one he resonated with.

She gave a choked laugh, “I’m sorry, Leo. I know you try so hard to cheer me up. I just can’t help but worry—”

Tears pricked her eyes, and Leo went to her without thought. His hands cupped her cheeks, and her eyes widened. Carefully, he wiped them away, cradling her face in his hands. She looked so small, when he saw her like this.

“You are a gift not a tragedy,” his voice was one he could hardly recognize. Underneath, he felt all the things he’d wished for, encompassed in a single phrase, “This is not your fault. The three families have been warring for years, it was bound to come to this eventually.”

Lili’s hands came to rest over his. A part of him expected her to pull them away, but instead her fingers traced along his skin, as if not comprehending. Her eyes were still wide, but her tears had stopped, and in that moment it was the only thing that mattered.

“We’ll be happy again, Lili.”

“We will be.”

Neither of them had strength in those words, but there was determination in their blood. A spark was back in Lili’s eyes and Leo smiled in relief. Lightly, softly, he ghosted a kiss across her forehead before he pulled away. He was aware he shouldn’t have, but the soft blush on Lili’s cheeks kept bay any regret.

His job was to protect her, and he’d long decided it included her heart and spirit as well.

#piofiore: fated memories #piofiore #piofiore fanfic #piofiore leo #piofiore leo x lili #LISTEN #I know there wasn't a proper kiss but it didn't feel right in this context so #If I write another fanfic it'll solely be so I can do the kiss scene #also guess I write fanfic now ajsjs #these are so funny

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avversiera-writes · 4 years

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imagine this - senju tobirama/you, part 2 of 2

Summary: In which Tobirama ponders about what his life has amounted to, if what he has done and all of his accomplishments were enough.

What happens if he makes it from his last fight, and comes home to the news of his unborn child. Life, as it is, ensues.

Read Part 1 here.

Available on AO3.

“Here is a list of names,” Tobirama says flatly, as if he’s negotiating the terms on a treaty. “Tell me which ones you like the best.”

You look down at the parchment displayed in front of you on your dining table. You stare at him, unimpressed with your hand around a spoon. It is like he is about to start a business meeting.

Tobirama retrieves it, probably feeling a little bad, and you realize that he is just as eager about naming your firstborn child. You sigh, and you hold up your hand.

“Give it,” you command this time.

Tobirama watches your face, looking for clues if you do not mean it.

“Tobirama,” you call him.

Tobirama hands you the list again, and you go over it.

The names listed here are few, but they are well thought of.

“So?” Tobirama asks, and he sounds eager, if you ignore his face betraying his emotions.

You go over the names again, lingering on each one to see which one resonates with you more.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I have to meet our baby first.”

Tobirama is silent as he reaches for the list. “You are right.”

You refuse to give up the list. “Do you think you’ll have a son or a daughter?”

Tobirama lowers his hand and grabs his chopsticks instead. “I hope for a child that takes after you more.”

“So it doesn’t matter?”

Tobirama shrugs. “Either way, they will be raised by us to be a good shinobi and a good citizen to this village.”

You nod, but only glumly.

“You do not want them raised like that?”

“Well, I do not know. I want them to, so that they can fight for themselves. But I want them to have a choice,” you explain. “You and your brother founded this village so that children can be raised safely, so that they can be given more. I want them to know that life isn’t all about war.”

Tobirama looks down at his food. He had his share of war and fighting, but he is not a fool and he will not let any of his children be raised in ignorance. “Fair point, but I am inclined to disagree–they have to be raised as a shinobi.”

“I know, I am not saying they would not be, but we have to let them choose their life too.” You roll your eyes, but you know that the two of you can talk about it some more later. “I bet, in no time, they will want to take after your footsteps.”

“The child is not born yet. Do not assume.”

“Hm-hm. Pretty soon you will get a taste of your medicine. I just know it.”

Tobirama seems to be happy about that, and the two of you spend the rest of breakfast in comfortable silence.

It is lunch time, and Tobirama is taking a break off from work to walk you around the hallways of the Hokage tower. You know that tensions between several shinobi villages are arising again, and you know that his attention should be somewhere else right now, but no matter how much you reason to him that you are fine, Tobirama won’t leave you alone, especially when the due date is predicted to be tomorrow.

It is so unlike him, but so like him at the same time.

Years ago, you would have never believed it that you would end up with Tobirama and become the mother of his child, but here you are, carrying your baby to the full term, swelling and heavy and ready to bring them out to the world.

After Tobirama’s work in the office, he accompanies you to the hospital, where preparations have already been made for your labor.

Because everything is going as planned, Tobirama had few words to say. While his shoulders are tense, he tries to keep a calm face around you and he does not leave your side unless he is doing something for you.

You feel fine, until your water broke and your contractions began. Your body is slowly being cracked open, preparing itself to bring your child into this world. You know that it was no easy job, but the fact that you are going through it now makes you nervous. As a shinobi, pain does not faze you. As a mother who is about to meet her child–well, that is another story.

“Are you in pain?” Tobirama asks, his voice hushed. He brings his hand to your forehead and smooths back the hair from your face.

“I’m alright, so far,” you reassure him, though the pain rivets through your body. “I am very uncomfortable, though.”

Tobirama massages your forehead, unsure of what to do for you.

“Have you told your family?” You ask him, but your breaths are quickening.

“No," Tobirama replies. "I figured you can use the peace...my nephews and their children aren't really known for being quiet."

You chuckle lightly, but it quickly turns into a hiss.

"What is wrong?" Tobirama queries worriedly.

You try for a reassuring smile but it has come to the point where the pain is not abating.

"He's coming," you hiss without thinking.

"He?" Tobirama repeats.

You cry out and you grasp on his arm. "Tobirama-"

Tobirama's jaw tightens, and the people who are going to help with your birth come in right on time.

Your husband does not leave your side, and takes your hard grip on his arm stoically.

The labor goes on forever, and it makes Tobirama restless and more uneasy. He knows that everyone is doing their job as they should, but you are in pain, and it has been hours . His hand and his arm have gone numb from your grip, but he does not let go because you need him there. He will not walk away.

“My lady, almost there, push!” The lead midwife urges.

Tobirama almost loses his balance as you grip his hand with newfound strength. Your screaming is suddenly replaced with a high-pitched cry that narrows down his world. It does not register to him at first that his child is born. The cries are muddled as if he is observing from underwater, but suddenly, it shatters his dream-like wonder and he snaps back to reality.

“Lord Nidaime, it’s a healthy baby boy!” Someone tells him, and he watches, stunned as a little child is placed on your chest, alive and just so, so small.

The baby keeps crying, and it is so loud that Tobirama is at loss of what to do. You are also crying, and Tobirama hates to see you cry. He stares at you, not yet registering what actually happened. For all of his years of fighting, his own child’s birth was the least thing he expected to watch.

You look to Tobirama, who is now staring at your child with a stupor that is mixed both with wonder and fear. There are not many things Tobirama fears, almost nothing can daunt him, but at this moment, Tobirama looks ready to fall to his knees.

You smile, and you reach for his hand, which you have let go to hold your baby. You squeeze his fingers reassuringly, and finally, he looks at you.

“Come here and hold your son,” you tell him.

Tobirama takes his child into his arms, and you note the slight trembling of his fingers. Then, Tobirama holds your son securely into his arms and there is no sign of him letting him go in the near future.

The Second Hokage looks down on the baby’s small and pudgy face, and an unfamiliar warmth blooms throughout his chest, and for the first time, he feels a crippling fear and a pure love that is on a whole other level. He does not know how to protect such a tiny human being, someone who is made from you and him. He will inherit every good thing he has made, and he will be the heir to all the enemies that he has made.

This child is his . His world suddenly shifts, and it is turning in a new direction. Everything he has known at this point does not contend with his child.

This child is his, he is now a father, and a father is not something he has foreseen for himself, or has even planned for. He did not know how to be a father either, because his own had raised him for war and he had spent his childhood protecting his siblings from him. He does not want this child to be raised like the way he was raised. He does not want to be his father.

His son is so small, that he is afraid that his calloused hands that are used to battle might hurt him. He can be easily hurt.

But his son is now laying quiet in his arms, asleep, probably tired from crying.

Tobirama is rendered speechless, and he can only content himself by staring at his son. There is nothing he would not do for him, but he tries his best to put that thought at the back of his mind because letting these emotions get the best of him has him panicking. For all of his life, he has been taught to hide his heart, but now, all of the walls have faded away like dust and he is wide-open.

Your husband looks at you, his red eyes more alive than you have seen them.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “And I am sorry.”

Tobirama dies, and for all his life of pragmatism, his one and final dream dies with him. A dream of his own that he could never make happen. He spent a lifetime attending to other people’s dreams, planning them down to its last detail, and for all of his skills of making things happen in reality, of manifesting what was once a half-formed thought from his brother’s lips, there was nothing of his own he could make come true. The only things he has left in this world were his forbidden jutsus and his inventions, some that might be hidden to the public forever. In truth, he will be nothing but a face on the Hokage mountain.

At least, in the end, he dies like a true shinobi, a fate that people like him have to meet and not question it.

At least, you are alive.

Imagine this , but life, in reality, as it is, ensues.

The cries of your newborn makes all the pain from the labor go away, and the only thing you desire in this world is to be able to hold your child.

The baby is immediately brought to your arms after being dried and swaddled, and a new wave of tears come to your eyes. The world as you know it, is completely shaken, broken down and built new at the same time. Your child is alive, and warm, and it cries strongly. You have a son, and your son lies on your chest, and the more you hold him against you, the calmer he becomes.

“Hi,” you sob to greet him. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”

You are not alone anymore; it is just the two of you. You take a look at his face and your heart squeezes from the newfound unconditional love that you have for your son. There is nothing in this world that you would not give to him.

“Welcome to this world, Senju Yukihira,” you whisper, and then you bring your other hand to the side of his head. “Thank you, for being born.”

The first few months were hard, and even though you and your son have the rest of the Senju clan, it really is just the two of you most of the time. The more time you spend away from them, the more you are alienated. Tobirama is dead, and as time moves on, his death only serves to sever your ties to his family. You even consider moving back to your family’s land, but you want your son to be raised in the village that his father built and be protected by it. Yukihira’s home is here, and you do not want to alienate him from his origins.

To how much you want him to know about that, well, that is just something the two of you will have to deal with later, when his world becomes more than just his own perspective.

Today, you bring your son around the village. No one looks at you or greets you anymore, and honestly, that is fine by you. Your world has gotten a lot smaller, and your priorities have shifted to your child. The less you are known, the dangers you have to face also narrow.

Now that you have a tiny thing with you all the time, everything has just become scarier, although one look at his face erases all the worries. The all-encompassing love you feel for him is the scariest thing, for it is the only thing that is capable of breaking you completely.

You glance at the Hokage monument up ahead, where Hiruzen’s carved face is almost finished.

Then, you look at Yukihira, and you see hints of Tobirama on his small, pudgy face. The shape of his eyes, and the slope of his nose, the set lips and the typical Senju handsomeness you see taking form later on–he is easily the best of you and his father. That you will make sure.

Yukihira fusses and you coo at him to settle him down.

“It’s alright, love,” you murmur. “Do you want to meet your father?”

Yukihira stares at you, and then when you poke his cheek, he breaks out into a smile.

“You look so much like him,” you comment with amusement.

Yukihira giggles, as if he begs to differ. Or maybe he is pleased with the comparison.

You sigh, and you continue on your way, but then stop again when your baby starts to fuss.

“What, you want me to talk about him some more?”

Yukihira starts to gurgle and you rock him gently.

“Fine, fine.”

You glance back at the Hokage mountain, and you smile softly at Tobirama’s face, even if it is stone cold and downright intimidating. It is a comfort, that even in death, he remains a steadfast presence.

You would have never imagined this , you say to him in your mind, feeling light-hearted for the first time in a while.

You look at your child and you start talking about his father again, and for now, with him in your arms, all is right in the world.

END.

///

buy me a coffee !

#angelica writes #'til death do us part #Tobirama Senju #Senju Tobirama #tobirama x reader #naruto fanfiction

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