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inb4belphienaps · 3 years

Text

crying over spilt milk

warnings: none word count: 2285

“Truth be told, I’ve been having these dreams. Dreams almost of another life, a past life perhaps. One that I’d lived and seen and breathed through at some distant point in time.”

I read over my words, holding the letter in my hands.

“They are, by far, the most intricate and detailed dreams I’ve ever had. Usually, I don’t remember them. But these…these feel too real, too specific, too thought out to be anything except something akin to memories of a bygone era.”

I recall a few of them with some difficulty. That was always how dreams worked, like trying to grab mist with your bare hands and having nothing tangible left as evidence.

“Shall I confess?

They have now become a source of entertainment for me, having increasingly rooted themselves in my mind, to the extent that I find myself looking forward to (for lack of better phrasing) the ‘next installment’.

It’s bizarre, I’ll admit. How eager I am to get to sleep as soon as the clock shifts from afternoon to evening, when the hour hand turns to six and I wonder if I’ll see him again…”

as you slowly float back up to the surface, the first sound that hits you is the singing of birds. their bright and cheerful chirps filter in with a hint of irony. though they're pleasant, quietened by the curtains hanging over the windows, it means that it's still rather early.

there's a chill in the air and you turn over under your duvet, tucking your feet in further towards your knees, eager to keep the warmth on your skin. and yet, you open your eyes, not needing to blink any sleep from them. oddly enough, you're more awake than you'd thought. whatever dream you'd been having is far from your mind as you bask in the scattered sunlight dancing on your walls.

such serenity ignites a type of mild excitement in you. and with that in mind, you will yourself to get out of bed.

you draw back the curtains and glance outside, looking out at the landscape, where the sun is shyly peeking over the hill. dawn is only just breaking and as you open a window, a gust of wind greets you, sending a rush of floral scents your way.

you can place notes of rose and lavender, and maybe honeysuckle too. the scenery is beautiful, and you lean against the ledge to admire it. clear skies and waves of green, dotted here and there with reds and pinks and yellows. there's a calmness to the color and vibrancy. something you hadn't stopped to feel in a long time.

it stays in the background. while you pour yourself some tea and sit down for breakfast, and when you turn on the radio to the crooning of some ballad you can't quite place. and even as you set about doing the laundry, humming every now and then to a tune only you seem to know.

the basket you use is one you've weaved yourself (in an attempt to be impassioned by a new hobby). it's small and sturdy and it does the job. you wonder whether it'll last you, hoping that if it breaks, it'll at least do you the favor of waiting until it's empty.

though it doesn't take long, you're startled to see the sun in the sky as you step onto the gravel path, basket in hand. it seems to stare down at you and wink as clouds roll overhead, creating capering shadows on the field as you start hanging the wet quilts one by one.

a couple of bees follow you around as you go about your business. and when you stand still to breathe in the smell of freshly washed linen and admire the warm glow cast on those sheets by the light, a butterfly flutters past.

it brings with it the distant ring of a bicycle bell. you look to the east where a man in uniform comes riding up the hill and the smile on your face could bring shame to the flowers lying near your feet.

"good morning", he says, slowing and stopping a foot or two away from you. he tilts his cap and you note the way in which his fringe barely covers his right eye.

"good morning", you reply. "it must be exhausting having to make that trip every day."

he laughs. it's sweet.

"i don't really mind."

in his hand he carries a metal basket and neatly arranged inside are six glass bottles full of milk.

"how many would you like today?", he asks, and you have the urge to tell him you'll take everything he has to offer. but of course, you don't say this aloud.

"just the one, please."

as he picks up one of the bottles to give to you, you swallow your spit and gesture towards your house. the shadows continue to dance above it, making it seem fluid despite its usual rigidity.

"can i get you something to drink? a coffee, perhaps?"

he appears taken aback, eyes widening a fraction before he smiles, and you feel your heart leap into your throat.

"i'd like that very much. a coffee sounds great."

you momentarily freeze, having expected him to refuse your offer. and then you're taking the bottle of milk and your basket back inside as he follows after you. you turn back to him as he enters and the sheets you'd hung flail slightly behind him, almost like a set of wings.

"cream and sugar?"

"um, no. but could i trouble you for some ice?"

an iced americano, you think. placing your basket on the floor and leaving your bottle on the kitchen counter, you busy yourself with preparing his beverage.

"my name is belphegor, by the way. i think you should at least know who it is that's been delivering you your milk."

you pause, having taken a mug out of the cupboard, and meet his gaze. his tone sounds a little indignant. were you simply being sensitive?

"it's a pleasure to officially meet you, belphegor."

the both of you exchange a shared laugh (the sudden bit of formality is embarrassing). he's the first to look away, breaking the eye contact that has goosebumps erupt on your skin. hm, perhaps you were overthinking things. only, the problem is that you're not sure you have any ice in the fridge.

"were you listening to music?"

"yes- oh", you say, confused at the static that greets you. "the program must've finished."

he glances at the radio and then at you. in your bid to locate the instant coffee you have, you don't notice.

through a strange coincidence, you find it sitting pretty on the top-most shelf of the pantry. you frown, wondering if you'd placed it there by mistake.

belphegor is about to open his mouth to speak again when he sees you reach upwards, fingers brushing across the jar mere centimeters out of your grasp. you're on your toes, leaning forward, barely balancing as you try your hardest to take it.

the man remains silent, watching you with a detached type of curiosity.

darn shelves, you think, as you stretch as far as you're physically able. still, the glass slips from between your fingers and you resort to stepping on a sack of flour. right as you grab it, the corner of the sack slides out from underneath your foot and you gasp, knowing all too well how this was going to end.

but there's a hand on your shoulder and a solid chest against your back, and a pleasant voice in your ear that suggests otherwise.

"so much trouble for a coffee."

his breath tickles the nape of your neck and you twist around to thank him, unprepared for the amused expression painting his face. from here, you can see every freckle, every eyelash, and every stray hair left untamed by his cap.

"you okay?", he asks, too close and quiet. too intimate that you forget yourself for a second.

"i'm...i'm fine."

those furrowed brows of his make you think twice and you place a hand to his chest, marveling in its warmth. you can feel his heart beat. it's steady, unfazed by whatever silly accident had happened just now.

"thanks", you mutter, swiftly removing yourself from his arms (firm and inviting). "i'll uhh...i'll make your iced americano, shall i?"

he doesn't say anything as you take a spoon and measure out the ground powder. and the silence lingers as you bring a pot of water to the boil. your thoughts, however, are that much louder, that much more pronounced. you were never one to invite strangers into your home. why was he such an exception?

"you can stop staring."

belphegor chuckles and you hate the fact that you can't ignore it. his laughter, it twinkles, and it has you looking at him all over again.

"i was keeping an eye out for you. in case you decide to make a habit of falling while i'm here."

you scoff, opening the fridge door to remove the ice tray. six cubes blink up at you and you ease three out, popping them into his mug in rapid succession. it's a tad violent and some of the coffee sloshes out onto the counter.

"thank you for your concern. but it's really not necessary."

he walks towards you, and you remain fixed on his bowtie, hoping to avoid being trapped by his alluring purple irises.

"if you say so."

and he takes a sip. and you find a cloth to wipe the spilt coffee with.

"it tastes good", he says. "maybe i should ask you to make me one every morning."

"tough luck", you reply, glancing at him as you clean. "i'm afraid this is the last of my hospitality."

besides, you didn't have it in you to continue acting an utter fool around him. something about his self-assuredness serves as the antithesis to your nervous energy, fueling it further to the point that you're doubtful about whether he'll return tomorrow.

"is that any way to talk to your knight in shining armor?"

oh. nevermind. that question makes you want to slap the handsome smirk off his face.

you give one last swipe of the counter, as if to stand your ground, and straighten up. yet it only leads to disaster.

the lonesome bottle of milk that you'd put atop it, comes crashing down onto the tiles, spraying its contents along every surface and scattering glass shards in its wake. the knot in your stomach tightens and you refuse to acknowledge the man who hasn't budged an inch.

he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

"what am i going to do with you?"

as you stoop down to gather the glass, he mirrors you.

"i can-"

"it'll be faster with the two of us."

apparently, it's your turn to watch him. you slow your movements as you focus on his hands, how meticulously they pick up each broken shard and how conflicted you feel about him doing as such. in your daze, the edge of a particularly sharp fragment digs into your thumb and you flinch.

"fuck-"

he reacts before you do, tossing the glass he's holding into the bin and taking your hand in his to help you remove the fragment.

"this might sting", he mutters. that was the last thing on your mind. did this man have no sense of personal space?

the fragment is tossed out with the rest of what used to be the bottle and you're about to reluctantly thank him for a second time until he's bringing your thumb up to his mouth.

"wh- what are you doing?"

he suckles gently on the cut, putting a stop to the bleeding, and you're rendered speechless. when he speaks, all you can think about is his lips.

"can't you be more careful?"

"not with you here, no", you say, finally admitting to the reality that was beginning to suffocate you. you can't pay attention to anything other than him.

"figured it out, have you?"

"figured what out...?", you ask, leaning in as his voice drops to a whisper.

"you have a crush on me."

you stare, perplexed, and you tear your eyes away from his mouth to look at him. there's a secret lingering in his facade. of words unspoken and confessions kept hidden. what does he know?

"prove it", you mumble, perfectly aware of how ridiculous a demand that was.

except he obliges, closing the gap between the both of you and meeting your lips with his own. they're soft and as you snake your hands around his neck, his cap comes loose, falling to join the mess on the floor.

neither of you care to address it and he pulls you back up, hugging you to his front and wrapping his arms around you. it's intoxicating. bitterness lingers on his tongue and there's the faint taste of cigarettes. but you're kissing him like someone starved. or perhaps someone parched.

sparks fly beneath your eyelids and rouge caresses your cheeks. (or was it the ghost of his palm against them?)

there's a need, an intensity to the way he grips you and the way clenches his jaw when you tug at his hair. you match him blow for blow, digging your nails into his shoulder and moaning softly into the kiss.

when you part and rest your forehead against his, you're not the only one who's out of breath.

"belphie", you whisper and the look on his face is a mystery in itself – surprise and longing, haphazardly hidden behind a mask of indifference.

"thank god i brought another five bottles with me, huh?"

#yeah move along it's another belphie piece shut up #obey me au #obey me writing #obey me fluff #obey me belphegor #obey me! belphegor #belphegor x reader #belphegor x gn reader #my writing 🐇

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smells-like-mettaton · 3 years

Note

For your sensory fic requests: How about 35 with Alpydyne?

Rating: G Word Count: 1595 Prompt: "jumping into a cold pool" Read on AO3: here

---

Alphys blinked as cold poolwater splashed her in the face.

“Eight points!” Toriel announced from her beach chair. Next to her, Frisk held up a sign with the number seven painted on it. At least, Alphys was pretty sure it was a seven; it was hard to tell without her glasses on. She doubted Frisk would have rated Sans’s cannonball a one.

“You guys are too easy to please,” Flowey grumbled. His pot sat under the big umbrella next to Frisk. “I give the smiley trashbag a two. I didn’t even get wet.”

“Try standing over here,” Alphys suggested, drying her face on the hem of her terry-cloth dress.

She knew she’d been too close to the splash zone, but Undyne was about to leap from the diving board next. Alphys wanted to have the best view possible for the anime-worthy flips Undyne was sure to show off.

“How does he do that, anyway?” Undyne’s eyes narrowed at Sans. “He’s gotta be using blue magic to make himself heavier.”

“Being heavier wouldn’t, um, actually help that much,” Alphys pointed out. “For an optimal splash, you want to displace as much water as possible, so volume is more important than weight. Of course, if you don’t weigh enough, you won’t sink at all, and then the splash would be p-pretty lame.”

“Dang, Alphy, you’ve been holding out on me! I didn’t know you knew so much about cannonballs!”

“I don’t?” Alphys blushed. “I mean, I don’t have any p-practical experience. Just, um, the physics of it. Which, might be why Sans is so good at it, too?”

“That’s good enough for me!” Undyne grinned before scooping Alphys up in her arms.

“What?” Alphys’s eyes widened.

“You’re gonna help us get the best splash ever!!”

“Help—us? What do you—you’re—?”

Her eyes darted around, searching for help. All she saw was Papyrus wearing his black sunglasses and giving her a gloved thumbs-up.

“I BELIEVE IN YOU, ALPHYS! SHOW MY BROTHER WHO PUTS THE COOL IN POOL!”

“Th-there’s no… oh whatever.” Alphys gave up protesting.

Undyne tore off Alphys’s dress, revealing the red bikini underneath, and tossed it to Papyrus.

“DON’T WORRY! I’LL KEEP YOUR CLOTHES PERFECTLY DRY!”

Alphys trusted Papyrus on that. He hadn’t gotten near the water at all today, despite being the one to suggest the pool party at Toriel’s house. He had provided some pretty good spaghetti puffs for them to snack on, though.

“You ready, babe?” Undyne asked.

Alphys was not, and absolutely would never be, ready to cannonball into the pool with the love of her life. What if she tripped off the diving board? Well, that probably wouldn’t happen, considering she doubted Undyne would set her down. But what if she hit her head on the pool floor, or her swimsuit malfunctioned—

She quickly shoved down that thought.

“Ready!” she squeaked out, her face hot enough to evaporate any water left on it.

“That’s what I’m talking about!!”

Undyne grinned down at her, gave her one breath-stealing smooch, and then sprinted towards the diving board.

Alphys’s stomach somersaulted as the board bent and propelled them upwards with a loud BOING. Her claws dug into Undyne’s scales, but Undyne just hollered in delight.

“NGAHHHH!!!”

They hit the water in one unified ball of teal, red, and yellow. It probably looked awesome, but she could hardly dwell on that with the cold water engulfing her.

She managed to hold her breath until Undyne kicked them to the surface.

“You were AWESOME!” Undyne beamed.

Alphys spluttered a little, a few drops of water still caught in her snout.

“I, uh, I was?”

“HECK YEAH YOU WERE!!”

“I’m soaked to the bone,” Sans said from the edge of the pool. “Think you even managed to douse the little weed there.”

“The chlorine’s going to give me a rash,” Flowey grumbled. “Seven points.”

“Nine points!” Toriel added. “I’m going to need a new towel.”

Frisk’s sign seemed to read “zero,” but when they straightened out the soggy poster, the “one” in front of it became visible.

“What did I tell you!” Undyne hugged Alphys tight. “We’re the coolest!”

“Heh… I guess we are pretty cool.” Alphys grinned up at her shyly. “That was, um, actually pretty fun!”

“Does that mean you’re up for best two out of three?” Sans asked.

“Why not?” Alphys smirked. “It feels pretty good to kick your butt!”

“That’s the spirit, babe!”

“Don’t get too cocky.” Sans winked. “Hey Tori, you wanna show these nerds how it’s done?”

Toriel grinned, showing her gleaming fangs.

“I suppose I might as well, since I have been ‘dunked on’ already.” She stood, brushing off her black one-piece swimsuit. “Papyrus, would you do me the honor of taking my place on the judgement hall?”

“OF COURSE, TORIEL!” He saluted, but stood far back behind the beach umbrella. “I AM READY TO JUDGE FROM A SAFE AND RESPECTABLE DISTANCE!”

Alphys was tempted to join him, but Undyne stayed near the pool’s edge after climbing out. Besides, she was already wet.

“I’ve never, um, actually seen Toriel swim before,” Alphys admitted.

“Me either. They both look pretty confident, though.” Undyne frowned.

“You don’t think they’ll beat us, do you?”

“Nah. It’s best two out of three, so even if they show off this round, we’ve got time to make a comeback! Not that we’ll need it!!”

Alphys wasn’t so sure. Toriel had more volume than herself and Undyne put together. And if Sans was somehow using blue magic…

Toriel scooped Sans up in her arms, and the two of them glowed briefly as they leapt from the board.

“GET DUNKED ON!” They shouted in unison, before unleashing a splash that was more like a tsunami.

Alphys ducked behind Undyne, but couldn’t completely dodge the incoming wave. Papyrus cried out from behind them. When Alphys caught sight of him again, he was holding Flowey’s pot, and they were both safe and dry on the opposite side of the pool. Only Frisk looked completely unperturbed, still sitting in their beach chair and holding up the soggy “ten” sign.

“...Okay, that was pretty impressive,” Undyne admitted as Toriel paddled towards the edge of the pool, Sans resting sloth-like on her back.

“What was that?” He asked Undyne with a grin.

“Nothing, nerd!”

Toriel laughed. “I think they are saying they got ‘owned,’ dear.”

“Hey! We’ve still got one more round! We’re gonna crush you dorks into the dirt!! Right, Alphy?”

“Er…”

“FLOWEY HAS A BETTER IDEA!” Papyrus jogged over to them, still carrying the disgruntled flower. “WHY DON’T YOU TELL THEM, FRIEND?”

Flowey rolled his eyes.

“You idiots could just jump at the same time. Listening to you fight argue about who’s better is getting boring.”

Undyne blinked. “That’s… actually not a terrible idea!”

“I’m fine with it.” Sans shrugged.

Alphys nodded in agreement. While cannonballing with Undyne had been fun, she was a little afraid of what lengths Undyne would go to to beat Sans and Toriel.

“YES, FLOWEY IS FULL OF GREAT IDEAS! NOW, WE WILL BE WATCHING FROM AN EVEN SAFER DISTANCE, READY TO RECORD YOUR RECORD-BREAKING EXPLOITS! NYEH HEH HEH!”

Papyrus ran off, his feet fluttering as he hovered up to the roof of Toriel’s house. Alphys had long given up questioning his disregard for the laws of physics.

“Would you like to stand back too, my child?” Toriel asked.

Frisk shook their head and flashed a thumbs-up.

“Suit yourself, kiddo.”

“Alright! Let’s do this!!”

The four of them lined up at the diving board. Well, Undyne and Toriel lined up, with Alphys and Sans in their respective embraces.

“Um, are you sure this board is meant to hold—?”

As if Alphys’s words had been a spell, the diving board snapped beneath their feet. She barely had time to shout before they were all tumbling into the water, a mass of limbs and scales and fur.

She resurfaced quickly, spitting chlorinated water from her mouth. “Undyne?”

Undyne burst from the water, her wet ponytail slapping Alphys across the face. “That. Was. AWESOME!!!”

“Er… was it?”

Toriel pulled Sans out of the water by his skull and set him on her shoulders.

“Uh, sorry your diving board took a dive, Tori.” He grimaced.

“It is not your fault, dear. I should have foreseen that.” She didn’t look upset, thankfully. “I will install a new one eventually. For now, we should give Papyrus the show he is expecting, should we not?”

“Heck yeah!!”

After removing the broken diving board from the water, they once again lined up at the edge of the pool.

“You ready, bro?” Sans called out.

“THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS ALWAYS READY!”

Alphys grinned as Undyne counted them down.

“One… two… THREE!!”

Undyne and Toriel leapt into the air. Alphys felt a tingle of magic shoot through her, and then they were plunging back towards the water at record speeds.

The water seemed to flee from the force of their collective impact. The resulting wave roared in her ears and rocked her very core.

Undyne tried to carry them to the surface—but she didn’t need to. Alphys could nearly stand up in what was left of the pool’s water.

“Wow.” Sans blinked down from Toriel’s shoulders. “Uh. Looks like you won’t have to water your lawn for a while, Tori.”

She laughed, and soon the rest of them joined in.

“I suppose that is enough swimming for today,” Toriel said with a smile. “Who wants pie?”

#alphyne #fic tag #safeutdr #tali writes #prompt requests #thanks square!!

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when-picnic-remember-snacks · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1

This is my newest fic, an AU of The Old Guard with everyone’s favorite immortal husbands! It is so far untitled. In this AU, Joe and Nicky are new teachers at an ///unrealistically/// liberal private boarding school. They live in adjacent apartments in a dorm. Joe teaches history, Nicky teaches Latin and Italian. Over the course of the year, the two grow close and a relationship begins to blossom.

DISCLAIMER: I am not Muslim, but I am doing my absolute best to write Joe as a multi-dimensional, imperfect, complex Muslim character. It is frustrating to me to see Joe’s relationship with his faith cast aside in other fics, and I want to portray him as someone with a real, complex relationship to his religion (without assigning my own narratives to it). Despite my best efforts, there may be times when I fall short, and I am not afraid to edit and revise my work (even after publishing it!). Please bear with me!

The new apartment was small. Really small. Nicky wasn't sure what he expected of an apartment that was nestled in a dorm for high schoolers, but he at least expected it to be clean. There were stains on the walls and carpets, and before he could settle in, he resigned himself to a day of literally scrubbing the remnants of previous occupants from his new home. Starting in the kitchen, he donned yellow rubber gloves to his elbows, grabbed a few rags, a sponge, and a bottle of spray cleaner, and got to work.

After an hour, he was satisfied with the results. The appliances gleamed, and there were no more food stains on the walls. The grout between the tiles was a more respectable grey color, and the whole room smelled of bleach. He leaned against the counter and wiped his sweaty forehead with his elbow, looking down to see that his grey shirt was visibly soaked in sweat. The early-August heat did not pair well with an apartment lacking central air conditioning.

As he moved into the living room, there was a knock on the door leading to the hallway. Cazzo, Nicky thought, hissing through his teeth. He crossed the room and opened the door, realizing one second too late that he was wearing a sweaty, bleach-stained grey t-shirt with old basketball shorts that had a giant rip near the hem. Sexy. He became extra aware of his bizarre, decidedly unattractive outfit when he found himself looking into the soft brown eyes of a very handsome man. He opened his mouth, completely lost for words.

"Hello," said the man in his doorway. His voice was soft and musical, and he had a gentle accent. "I'm Joe, I live right next door and I figured I should come to say hi before you think I'm a bad neighbor." He laughed, and Nicky realized how rude he must seem, staring at this man from his doorway.

"Hi, I'm Nicky," and he extended his hand to shake. Joe glanced down at it, one eyebrow cocked. Nicky sucked air in through his teeth, cursing himself, then pulled off the yellow rubber gloves. Thankfully, Joe just laughed again and shook Nicky's hand with both of his own. There was an awkward moment where they stood, still holding each other's hands, before Nicky said: "I would invite you in, but it's a mess in here right now and it smells like a swimming pool–"

"Oh, no, I don't want to intrude, please," Joe reassured him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then, seeming unhappy with that, tucked them behind his back. "I just wanted to introduce myself." He backed up a step, rocking on his heels.

"I'll tell you what, though," said Nicky quickly. "I should be cleaned up by tonight, you should come over for a drink." He bit the inside of his lip, worried that he was coming off too friendly, but Joe smiled. It made Nicky's heart race a little.

"That sounds very nice, I would love to," he said. "I will bring a bottle of wine?"

"Yes, that sounds perfect," said Nicky. "7:00?"

"See you then," Joe waved awkwardly, then turned and walked the few feet to his door. "Bye," he said with a nervous laugh.

"Bye," said Nicky. He pulled the door closed and leaned against it, tilting his head back and blowing air at the ceiling. He looked at the apartment, suddenly panicking. He glanced at his watch. 10:26. Which gave him… seven and a half hours to clean and move into his apartment. "Fuck," he said quietly, then sprang into action.

6:30 rolled around, and after hours of diligent work, his apartment was presentable. The walls were clean, the carpets de-stained and vacuumed, and he had moved his furniture into place. There still wasn't anything hung on the walls, but he had installed all of his books on his bookshelves. Well, the books that would live in the living room. There were three whole boxes and another set of shelves in his bedroom.

He was still drenched in sweat and he smelled like bleach, so he stripped off his dirty, sweaty clothes and showered. He took a long time shaving his stubble and making sure that his eyebrows were tamed. Then he glanced at his watch, swore, and rushed into his bedroom to put on clothes. It was almost 7:00, and he was running behind schedule. He hurried to the kitchen. He was pulling out wine glasses when he heard a soft knock on the door. He crossed the living room, running his hands through his hair, and opened the door.

Joe was standing there, holding a bottle of red wine. Nicky admired how well his shirt fit, then remembered the situation at hand. "Come in, come in!" he said, stepping aside to let Joe in. He reached to take the bottle of wine from Joe, who handed it over and looked around.

"It's very nice in here," he said generously. His eyes widened when he saw the bookshelf. "May I?" he asked, gesturing towards it.

"Oh, of course, please," said Nicky, setting the wine on the counter. "Do you want anything to eat? I don't have much right now but if you like cheese I have some meat and fruit to go with it."

Joe paused, weighing his next words. "I try my best to keep my food halal, even if I do have a drink from time to time. So the meat… I can't eat it, I don't think." The corner of his mouth twitched, a little embarrassed.

Nicky kicked himself. "That's no problem at all, I have some shrimp in the freezer, maybe shrimp cocktail instead?"

Joe turned to him, smiling. "That sounds lovely. You Italians and your insistence on feeding everyone." At Nicky's questioning look, he laughed a little. "You have a very subtle accent. Only confirmed by the books." He gestured at Nicky’s extensive collection of Italian novels.

Nicky smiled. "You got me. I lived there until I was ten. Most people don't notice," he said, not including how he had tried his best to suppress it when he was a teenager and therefore lost most of it.

"I have an ear for them. Accents, I mean," Joe said simply, turning back to the books. "How many languages do you speak? I saw Italian, Latin, English, what else?"

Nicky felt himself blush a little. "Those are the main three. I know a little Greek, and if you know Italian it's not too hard to pick up Spanish, so I can get by." He paused. "I'm teaching Latin and Italian this year," he said. "I just finished my master's in Italian literature."

"Oh, congratulations to you!" said Joe, tearing himself away from the bookshelves and joining Nicky in the kitchen. "How can I help you?"

"Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. Have a glass of wine," he said, gesturing to the glasses and the corkscrew on the counter.

"You will have one, too," said Joe, deftly opening the bottle and pouring two glasses of wine.

"I can't say no to that," said Nicky, taking the glass.

Joe raised his glass slightly, his eyes trained on Nicky's, and said "To your master's degree! And to our new jobs." Nicky tapped his glass against Joe's, and they drank.

The wine was delicious, tart and full. It was much nicer than anything Nicky would have bought himself. Joe held eye contact with him as he took another sip. Nicky felt his heart squeeze and forced himself to speak. "So, what are you teaching?" He turned to the freezer and pulled out the shrimp, trying to conceal the furious blush creeping up his neck.

"History," said Joe, leaning back against the counter as Nicky grabbed a bowl, dumped shrimp into it, and filled it with water. "They have me down for intro to ancient world and a study of Islam elective." He took another sip of wine.

"Are you coaching anything?" Nicky felt like he couldn't control himself, he just kept spouting off questions. He was terrified of what might happen if he let himself sit in silence with Joe.

"Not much of a sports man," said Joe. "Not playing, anyways. I'm going to proctor after-school art this fall."

"Are you an artist?" Nicky raised his eyebrows and smiled. It made sense to him, that Joe would be an artist. He couldn't put a finger on why, but Joe had a certain warmth to him that made him seem like a painter. Or maybe a potter. "I would love to see your work."

"An amateur," said Joe, blushing a little. "I don't have a lot here, most of it is at my sister's house. Just a couple sketchbooks and a painting or two here." He paused, and Nicky could tell he was a little uncomfortable. So he searched for a way to change the subject.

His cat, Bruno, made a very opportune entrance. He had spent most of the day curled up on the cat tree in Nicky’s room. Joe's face lit up at the sight.

"Oh my goodness, what a handsome man that is!" he cried, setting down his glass and kneeling. He reached out his hand, and Bruno chirped as he rubbed up against it. Joe scratched under his chin. "What's his name?"

"Bruno," said Nicky, smiling. Bruno was a good judge of character, and Nicky always felt better about someone if they liked cats. Joe had plopped himself down on the tiles with his back against the cabinets, thoroughly entertained by Bruno, who had laid down against Joe's leg and was purring loudly. "He's a great cat."

"I can see," said Joe, grinning up at Nicky. He leaned down and kissed Bruno's forehead, then stood back up. He took another sip of wine. "What a wonderful little cat," he said, watching Bruno trot off towards Nicky's bedroom.

Nicky checked the shrimp, then pulled the cocktail sauce from the fridge. "These are ready, do you want to sit in the living room and eat?" He drained the water from the shrimp and picked up the bowl.

"Yes, please. Could I wash my hands first?" He pointed to the sink.

"Oh, of course," said Nicky.

Joe carefully washed his hands and dried them, then picked up Nicky's wine glass and carried it to the couch.

"Thanks," said Nicky, sitting down a couple of feet from Joe. Joe propped one ankle on his knee and relaxed.

"Where did you go to college?" Joe asked. He kept his eyes carefully trained on Nicky's face as he picked up a shrimp, dipped it in sauce, and popped it into his mouth.

"I did Northeastern for undergrad, and Middlebury for grad school," said Nicky. "You?"

"University of Chicago," said Joe. "I'm going to do some work this year towards my master's at Harvard." He blushed a little, embarrassed, then took another sip of wine.

"That's great!" said Nicky, taking the last sip of his wine. He set the glass down on the coffee table. "Where are you from?"

"Originally?" Joe said, raising his eyebrows. Nicky started to panic.

"Oh, no, jeez, I didn't mean–"

"I'm messing with you," Joe laughed. Nicky relaxed a little. "One immigrant to another? I'm from Morocco. We emigrated to New York when I was thirteen." He took a sip of wine. "And based on your accent, I'm guessing you moved from Italy to… Boston?"

Nicky laughed. "Can't slip anything past you, huh? Yeah, we moved around a little but we were always around Boston. You know, lots of Italian families there. And my family is pretty Catholic, so they liked being around other Catholics."

"Ah," Joe nodded. "Do you see a lot of them? Your family?"

"Not really," said Nicky, looking down. Joe seemed content to leave it alone.

They sat in silence for a few moments as Joe finished his glass of wine, then stood. "I will go grab the bottle," he said, crossing to the kitchen. Nicky watched his back as he went, watched how he tread softly and how his broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. He shook his head a little to clear it. He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap, and tried to calm his breathing. This is not happening right now, he told himself. You just got here. But he had a twisting, hot feeling in the pit of his stomach that was growing every second he spent with Joe. It hadn't even been an hour, and it was threatening to outgrow the limits of his chest and spill out into the world. He felt his cheeks burn with a familiar shame.

When he looked up, Joe had his soft brown eyes fixed on his face. He was a few feet away, holding the bottle of wine. There was a small crease between his eyebrows. "Is everything alright?" Joe said, sitting down and tilting his head to the side. "I hope I did not upset you, asking about your family. I know things can be… Well, things can be complicated." He smiled, and Nicky's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

"No, no, it wasn't you," Nicky sighed, then rubbed a hand over his eyebrows. "I mean, yes, my family is... But I think I'm just tired. Long day," he finished lamely. His heart sank. He barely knew Joe, who was gentle and kind and seemed genuinely interested in being friends, and he was already shutting Joe out. Withdrawing deep into the dark space within him, where he kept all of his most secret feelings tucked away.

"I understand," said Joe, setting the bottle of wine on the coffee table. "Would you like to call it a night? I would not be offended." Nicky looked up and took a deep breath.

A quiet, insecure voice in Nicky's head screamed out for Joe to stay. To stay and look at Nicky with his incredible brown eyes and his gentle concern. To smile and listen to Nicky talk about his family, his life, his intense love for Italian literature. To stay and stay and stay so Nicky didn't feel so terribly cold and alone. But that voice was drowned out by the others, which called for him to shut the door tightly behind Joe and never let him back in. To force the warm feeling growing inside him back down until it died.

"I'm really sorry," said Nicky. "It's just been a long couple of days. I feel so rude inviting you over and then kicking you out after one drink–"

"No, please," said Joe, reaching out and clasping Nicky's shoulder. He smiled gently. "Remember, I just finished moving in myself. I completely understand." He stood, and Nicky looked helplessly up at him. "Nicky, really, don't worry. Actually, here. Come over tomorrow for coffee, at 3:00," he said.

Nicky stood up and tried to hand the bottle of wine back to Joe, but Joe waved him off. "No, no, you keep it. Maybe we can finish it another night," he said, smiling.

"Coffee sounds great," Nicky said, forcing a smile. "Again, I'm really sorry." Guilt was washing over him in waves; guilt about being a bad host, guilt about kicking Joe out, guilt about the rising tide of warmth in his chest that swelled every time Joe spoke. Or looked at him. Or pushed his dark, curly hair back off his forehead.

"Nicky," said Joe. "You don't need to apologize. You were very kind to invite me over tonight. And I will see you tomorrow, for coffee." He crossed to the door. "Goodnight, Nicky." He gave Nicky one last, warm smile.

"Goodnight," Nicky said, and watched Joe walk out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Nicky collapsed back onto the couch and put his head in his hands.

#the old guard #netflix the old guard #joe x nicky #nicky x joe #niccoló de genova #niccolódegenova #niccolo de genova #yusuf al kaysani #yusufalkaysani #marwan kenzari #luca marinelli #fanfiction #fanfic #the old guard fic #the old guard fanfiction #nicky x joe fic #joe x nicky fic

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adulttrio-imagines · 4 years

Note

“My hand was made to fit into yours. That’s all there is to it.” - for Hisoka;-)

“Label it however you want, I truly do not care.”

Hisoka replies without even looking up from his phone. He’s propped comfortably across your new couch, snuggled under a pile of blankets he stole from your bedroom, head lolling off the armrest as he snacked on your sweets. He spares you no second thought, giggling to himself as he scrolls through the web, thoroughly unaffected as the world around him shuffles in repetitive motions.

You huff, and set your laptop aside. It’s not for the first time he has brushed off your efforts to put a name to your… relationship. To call it difficult would be an understatement, if you could even use such a term to describe whatever it is you had with him.

He chuckles again, and your phone lights up with a beep. It’s a filtered photo of him in a fake mustache with an eggplant in hand. You turn to see him looking up at you, cheeky grin spread ear to ear across his face. He waves and tosses you a familiar piece of candy. Bungee gum, it expired two weeks ago.

You chuck it back at him, he lets it nail him in the head, ear splitting grin never leaving his face.

It was never meant to be like this. Your lives were never meant to intersect, they were tangent lines that ran close but never met. But somehow, you met him in the eye of the storm, a beautiful mess of red and gold who saved you from your assailant one rainy night, followed you home and for reasons unknown, upended your entire life and has stuck with you since. His visits were sporadic but interesting, mind constantly skipping two steps ahead of yours, and you found yourself swept into the deep undercurrents of his torrential downpour with no way of escape.

He was a whirlwind of color, dancing continuously before your eyes, from the tips of his fiery hair to the manicured ends of his painted toes, a flying mustang that stormed through the skies, running faster and faster alongside unseen monsters, soaring through perilous thunderclouds, reaching out to something beyond your existence.

And it scared you.

“Isn’t this enough?” You remembered asking one day as twilight fell, when he barged into your home, thick with bloodlust and doused in blood, staining the walls a dark red as he dragged a clawed hand through them, leaving angry scratch marks in its wake. You should have left him then, you suppose, when he push you against that very same wall and started fucking you hard. You should have cried and screamed for help (it wouldn’t have helped, you both knew that) when he whispered unimaginable threats into you ear, the smell of death lingering in his breath as he ravaged you, leaving bruises that made you limp for weeks on end after that; your knight in shinning armor. He shattered your idealistic notions of him that very night.

But it wasn’t as if he hid who he was. He made that very clear from the start, when he crushed a man’s skull with a single bare hand like rotten fruit on your second date, or when he easily snapped a man’s neck in half just because he was in a weird mood and could do it. You were a fool to believe he could be satisfied that easily, even stupider to believe he could ever be content with what he had in front of him. He was a voracious man with an insatiable appetite for thrill and excitement. There was always something he was chasing after, too far and too bright for you to see, you had to turn away and shield your eyes from its glare, or risk going blind and losing it all.

That was just the type of person he was, standing above the rest on top of the mountain he carved out himself, towering miles overhead, removed from everyone and everything, where nothing but the sun and the howl of the wind could ever touch him.

“Is it lonely up there, all by yourself in your castle of pride.” You said once, it wasn’t a question. He laughs derisively, but his nails dig unnecessarily deep into your arm when he pins you and forces his tongue down your throat, teeth clinking loudly against yours.

It wouldn’t be fair to call him a complicated man, but it wouldn’t be fair to call him an honest man either. He was always clear with his motives, but never his intentions, his actions laid bare before you as he clouded his goal with a shroud of deceit; a walking contradiction who spewed sweetened lies intermingled with bitter truths, showered in layers of secrets and lies,

as if to protect himself.

He didn’t trust you, but he didn’t need to. What could you do against him?

“What are you afraid of?” You’re both drunk of copious amounts of alcohol, faces flushed bright red as you lean against the back alley wall, ignoring the stench of filth rising all around you as his hand creeps up your skirt. Instead, he sings you a story of broken men and angry gods between voracious acts, sweet lies crooning in your ear.

He never speaks of his past, and neither do you offer to divulge into yours.

It was ridiculous to try and get a straight answer from him, a lost cause trying to gain his attention, and a futile effort for trying to maintain it. Yet, even coated with a layer of death is he beautiful for reasons you cannot explain, and you can only stand and wait for the tide to pull you in, dragging you into an endless hurricane.

Somehow amongst all the madness, fate continued to weave it’s interconnecting strands of circumstances, and you both fall into a routine.

He doesn’t officially move in with you, because god forbid he gets tied down, but you were never one to make things official anyway. It’s easy to say he’s more like a stray cat, coming and going as he pleased, snacking on your food or lounging in the living room as if he owns the place.

You don’t know where he actually lives, but the expensive colognes that line your dressing table make known that he’s no traveling pauper.

You get into the habit of leaving sticky notes around the house. Just simple things, like shutting the patio door whenever he left or to take off his shoes before he even thought of entering your house. He responds by sticking his own notes on your various houseplants, naming them obscene words and the occasional crude drawing.

You don’t know who he is, but you do know this. He’s painfully meticulous in his appearance and can spend hours highlighting the slope of his cheeks and the curve of his lips, he has freckles climbing all through his shoulders, his left ear is slightly smaller than his right, he sings in the morning but never at night, and sometimes when he smiles, his eyes are more caramel than amber.

He always finds a way to bother you when it’s least convenient, and disappears whenever you need him most, as if he has a built in tracker of sorts installed deep in that brilliant mind of his.

He calls it magic; you call it being a pest.

Sometimes he leaves for days on end, but he always returns, sometimes with murder in his eyes and bile in his hands, his nen a torrent of poison when he creeps into bed, staining your sheets and shaking you awake, demanding for more (there’s nothing for you to give) wild and unhinged as he tears into you (he gets what he wants anyway).

It’s the quiet moments you like best.

It’s the blissful mornings that smell like coffee and honeyed French toast, it’s the rainy afternoons where you’re both sitting across the other with a deck of cards at hand and the television blares white noise in the background, it’s the late evenings where you sit outside to read and the smell of honeysuckle lingers as you sit and enjoy each other’s company, it’s when you both start laughing so hard at the same time that your sides ache, it’s when he smiles at you when he thinks you aren’t looking; without fuss, without fanfare, without secret codes and hidden meanings, you both just exist, just as everything is meant to be.

It’s so normal, and so pleasant you can almost forget what he is.

When the morning sun barely peaks over the fairway mountains, painting the whole room soft shades of violet and velvet blue, you like watching the way his chest moves up and down like calm seas with each intake of breath, the way he stretches out across the bed, you likes the way his face naturally looks without the usual layer of makeup hiding it all.

You both hide yourselves from the outside world in different ways.

It becomes a fun game to see how long you can get away with tracing the features of his face before he awakens, the curve of his lips, the sharp peak of his nose. Your fingers dance all over his face, planting feather light kisses wherever they linger. The urge is uncontrollable, he looks so human when he is asleep that you finds it difficult to believe that he is more man than beast.

Sometimes your roles are reversed and he’s staring at you instead. He’s difficult to read on the best of days, and by the time his stare stirs you from your slumber, his smirk is the first thing to greet you. Most of the time his lips are twisted into a smug satisfaction, taunting as he smiles patronizingly at you, eyes crinkled into amused crescents. He’ll tap your nose and laugh at whatever expression your grumpy morning self makes, before rushing right in to plant his lips against yours and initiating round two to finish whatever you both started last night.

But there are time when he just stares, unreadable and distant, his eyes taking on a lifeless glazed quality. He doesn’t say anything, or do anything, as if the whole process of breathing is too laborious for him to do anything but. Silence echoes, an unfamiliar drumming sound beating right below your ear as the unnatural quiet stretches infinitely. His stare buries holes deep into your soul, eyes glinting and burning yellow, like cosmic lights, fiery and all encompassing, swallowing you whole and leaving you struggling to breathe, but he doesn’t move. You don’t understand those moments no matter how hard you try, they scramble your head and tear through whatever thoughts you can scavenge, but you understand that he is thinking and rearranging everything in his jumbled up head. He never speaks of these days, but you’ve seen the way he jerks during his dreams, the way his back arches and the odd angles he contorts himself into, silent screams and gasping hands that search for others lost and never found; you recognizes them well. At those times, you go in, resting your forehead into his chest, counting each beat of his heart, reminding him that he is still alive and not six feet below and rotting compost for worms. The constant thumps of his heart are a surprising comfort, the feeling of the warmth generated from his body spread all around you like a soft blanket. Sometimes you remain like that, unmoving until the sun reaches its peak in the everblue sky, glaring into your eyes and you moves away to get breakfast ready, but never does he push away.

There are days where he pulls you in and holds you close, gripping you so tightly your bones crack and ache for weeks after it. Those days his heart races like shooting stars careening off the universe, lost and directionless, fizzling endlessly until they get extinguished from exhaustion. Cotton candy and spiced liquor mingle with the earliest rays of dawn, and you both fall right back asleep, curling into each other like quotation marks, fingers filling the gaps between hands perfectly, a rare moment of tranquility created in your small universe.

I’m here.

You never fail to remind him that during those times. His memory is sharp, and his trust is hard to come, but you do so anyway, for there isn’t much else you can otherwise. He needs to know that, you tell yourself between breathless kisses, hands desperately clutching at each other, even if he cannot find it in himself to believe it.

I’ll always be here.

You close your eyes, darkness flashing momentarily as heat radiating from him in scorching waves burn unseen marks throughout your skin. One day, he will leave; it could be today, tomorrow, the following week, the next year. Through choked sobs you learn that try as you might, you can never tell when would the time he walked out of your door be the last, and you knew better than to try. But you will wait for him, for you were too young, too dumb, too headstrong to stop yourself for falling so, so deeply into him, and he’ll always have a home with you.

You brush his hair aside, the fiery shades of red and pink were soft to the touch, and felt like sheets of velvet in your hand as you fill in the gaps of his fingers with yours.

“My hand was made to fit into yours.” You squeeze your hands tightly together, “that’s all there is to it.”

#hunter x hunter #hisoka #slight angst #hurt/comfort #fluff #writing prompts #more of a 'what's it like dating hisoka'#eh oh well #asks #my writings #izabo-san

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moonsandstar-s · 5 years

Text

for the first time.

[a post-battle heart-to-heart between the shadow that stopped running from the light and the sun that stopped being afraid to shine in the dark.] "It's over," Yang says, the words delivered like a promise. "You and me, we made it out." Blake's stuck on the gorgeous view outside the airship's window, words blooming and dying just as quick in her mouth. Somewhere outside of her chest, her heart beats a half-remembered song, flying fathoms above the white-capped ocean, suspended miles below the moon, learning what it's like to be winged again. "This is what freedom feels like," she tells Yang, believing, for the first time, that it's true.

read on the archive / other works [for the first time by the script leaves my heart half-broken and half-healed each time i listen to it. & many blessings to the devil/angel erin @twelveclara who is. the. best. editor. in. the. universe.]

Seven years since that story began. Two years, three months, seven days since it swerved off-course. A train uncoupling and sending the world flying away with it. Two years and six days. A candelabra extinguishes in the dark; she’s never known how to read the language of her life. Now she watches the treeline by the ocean skip past the fogged-up airship window and tries to breathe without fear hissing down her neck for the first time since she was twelve years old. Blake’s cross-legged on the floor in the cargo-hold of the airship, freezing her ass off because her coat is history. Her heels lie abandoned off to the side, feet sore and aching from the heat of the battle. It’s just her and the grumble of the engine and too much to be remembered. Sometimes, it’s really nice to ditch the brave-face. In the weak winter light that filters through the vents, she can’t stop staring at her hands, stained with the color of a sword that must be halfway to the ocean right now, slowly drying to rust on her shaking fingers. She scrubbed off most of the the blood an hour ago, the cleansing waterfall mist beading like crystals on her knuckles, but minuscule reminders are still trapped beneath her nails, embedded in her skin. She sits and aches and agonizes like a blocked-up dam. Feeling untethered. Gravity suspended. Every blink sends her vision reeling back like a video that can’t properly load, spurts and flashes of a winter sky, perfect and blue as a mirror, Wilt curling through the air, the icy mist flurrying from the thunder of the falls, Yang’s eyes like the dangerous dawn sky before a storm, Adam’s; like oceans, like ice. So much red and so much blue and nothing between. She is drowning in the fire, her battered body remembering it all, her cheekbone still sore, her abdomen whispering of today and a ghostly night months and months ago. She’s not reliving it anymore, but she still remembers. And it’s the memories that hurt more than the leftover wounds. She’s in her body still when the past comes knocking on her door, but it’s like a spectator sport, almost, a shadow-clone that can take the blame, a shadow of herself, picking up that broken blade as Adam lunges, because it’s not her that lunges for Gambol Shroud. It’s not her that kills Adam. But it is. Every time. She’s the catalyst; she’s the broken balance. Her hands slipping against the too-hot blood that slicks the weapon’s hilt. Her body electric with the memory of the metal grinding up against his ribcage; her shaking fist bumping up against his broken chest. Adam, staggering, stopping, falling out of sight: she kills him, every time. No other choice to make. And no choice but to watch the summary of a whole life vanish in between one heartbeat and the next.

These memories are hers and this will take some days, she thinks, undoing him from her world. She’s never known a life without Adam, never known a heart that doesn’t jackhammer out of her chest when he’s close, but she’s coming to understand this life. Coming to learn how to paint new colors over the stain of his soul on her skin, lilacs and golds and whites. Trying to remember how an artist creates instead of destroys.

“Blake,” says a voice from the doorway. Blake looks up and sees the sun. “Oh,” she says. “Hey.”

“You’re shivering. Are you cold?” Blake presses her knuckles against the ridge of her brow. “Yeah. My coat’s probably blown halfway across Argus by now,” she says ruefully. “Maybe Cordovin will use it as white flag to plead for Ironwood’s mercy, do you think?” “When hell freezes over,” Yang says sincerely, still hovering on the threshold. In her hands she’s clutching a blanket, fingers knotting nonsensical patterns in the corners. “Can I come in?”

Blake inclines her head. “Please.” Yang’s steps are light, but there’s a gravity there that’s not familiar, each movement measured, exact. She pauses in front of Blake only to offer her the blanket, which she gratefully accepts, before circling around to her side and sitting close enough that Blake can smell the faintest scent of old smoke, close enough to see the faintest shadow of a bruise threatening her cheek. Yang hooks Blake in closer with her arm, the weight a warmth over her shivering shoulders, and Blake welcomes the respite she provides from the cold. “Bad news about this whole Ironwood-swooping-in-to-save-the-day ordeal,” Yang says suddenly, “is that he’s bound to notice I’ve banged up his gift to me.” She laughs, a low sound like the purr of the engine, as she walks the metal tips of her fingers across Blake’s wrist. “Charity has its limits, especially for boneheaded military commanders. I think he’ll be pissed.”

“Let me see it,” Blake says. Obligingly, Yang rests the prosthetic across Blake’s lap, and she stiffens at the traces of rust-red on the fingers and joints. The past that won’t be washed away just yet. Happiness has a cost and it’s remembrance of what you did to get there. Some shadow stirs behind Yang’s eyes, but all she says is, “I couldn’t get all of it off, either.”

Blake’s fingers explore the ridges of singed metal, goosebumps exploding up and down her forearms. The prosthetic’s side panel is destroyed, steel curling and charred from the heat of Adam’s charge, exposing a fine meshing of wires and chambers on the inside. It’s a tangle of intricate clockwork, each gear blackened but unbroken. The damage is undeniable, but it’s still functioning as well as it ever has. “I’m thinking of installing a new panel,” Yang continues, frowning slightly at the charred gashes. “Battle wounds are overrated, and this just looks cheap. Do you think Atlas shops carry purple spray-paint?” “Purple?” Blake grins. “Why not yellow again?” “Complimentary,” Yang retorts. “You look good on me, you know.” She runs a considering finger down Blake’s arm, brow knitted. “Maybe we should get you something gold once we get there. A new coat, maybe, to keep you warm.” “You keep me warm enough without having to waste lien on some ornate Atlas frippery.” Blake pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders and curls closer towards Yang. “If a space heater and the sun had a kid, you’d be that kid.” Yang returns the smile before it sloughs away, a solemn lilt entering her voice. “The others were asking about you, earlier. Wondering where you were. They asked what happened up at the comms tower that kept you from responding to Jaune’s signal.”

Blake wonders if one day she’ll be able to take the mention of it without seizing up, but today it’s fresh, closer than her own skin, suffocating her. “What did you say?”

Yang breathes out, golden strands of hair fluttering in the slipstream, and despite her misgivings Blake’s still caught up in fascination at the sight of her, of all these little details; a precious thing lost and found and then almost destroyed again. They’re not whole, but they’re getting there. “I didn’t have to. Weiss told Jaune to bug off, Ruby jumped in to stop them fighting, and I took the chance to come and find you.” Yang shifts, pulls Blake a little closer against her side. “It’s crazy, after everything, and that huge fight with the mech, they’re all happy that we’re all okay and celebrating together because we’re finally on the way to Atlas - after everything we went through - I just can’t get into celebrating. I just wanted to be with you.” Blake feels like a storm run out of rain, charged and boiling with nothing left to give. The clouds won’t subside and there’s no lightning left to strike. Just the wet pavement and the heavy, heavy sky. Yang makes a small noise of alarm and Blake realizes she’s digging her fingers into her arm hard enough to draw blood, her knuckles bloodless-white. Gently, Yang reaches over and squeezes Blake’s vice-like grip until it slackens, delicate as a bird broken on the ground. “Oh, baby,” she says, so softly, her voice aching. “It’s okay. We’re still here. We’re going to be alright.” “He’s gone,” Blake whispers, head falling against her knees. Her eyes burn, but no tears are forthcoming; in that spinning, stretching silence, she’s infinite. She’s run through the uncertainty and fury and sorrow and resignation over and over and now they feel like something tired, an obligatory pain that no longer hurts. But looking out the window at the dull white light reflecting off the snow-choked sea, the gulls crying out as they climb higher into the beautifully empty blue sky, the high whistle of the wind as it runs over the surging waves below them, she finds her heart twisting in her chest with something new. In the center of her soul, some unbreakable cord, stretched tight enough to strangle for seven years, unraveled at the last, and the newfound freedom feels like falling foot-first into the sky.

“I feel empty,” she gets out. “I should feel relieved. I should be happy. I just feel… nothing.” She swallows around the lump in her throat. “I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted… I wanted...” Her voice shatters, and she goes with it. Yang’s fingers tighten on her shoulder, clinging as desperately as Blake clung to the slick stone on the waterfall bridge. For fighting on. For life itself. “You didn’t want to kill him, Blake. I didn’t want to. He didn’t give us any other choice but to choose the worst option.” She splays her prosthetic hand wide before the two of them, shining in the dim light. “It’s easier for me to believe I was trying to kill him during the whole fight, but I wasn’t, and neither were you, and I can’t lie to myself. Even if he was throwing his best into cutting us down. We just wanted him to give up and leave us alone. I just wanted… I don’t know.” She laughs, a helpless, choked little sound. “I wanted for him not to have happened to you. To us. Or I guess for him to just… realize he couldn’t make you love him again.” For him to realize a heart can find another home, Blake thinks, but Yang’s still going on, her voice more distant than the mountains touching the shallow sky. “I thought… when he lunged at you… when he tried to grab that blade before you did, that I was going to lose you again if I didn’t do what I wasn’t strong enough to do back at Beacon. I knew there was no going back from that split-second, you knew it, and he must have, too. And we ended him so he wouldn’t end us. I just… sometimes you’re defined in a moment by the choices you make in a heartbeat. The choices where you have to be yourself without thinking about it at all. And we chose to survive.” Her eyes burn like an oath in the dusky light. “And that’s okay.” “A choice.” A sob extinguishes itself in Blake’s throat. She’s had an armful of choices, of decisions, of vows, kept close to her chest for her entire life. She should hate that in the moment it mattered most, only one promise was not worth her own death, but worth the death of someone who was once worth every choice in the world. “I never wanted anyone to die. I never...”

Yang stares hard at the flaking blood trapped on their hands, both of their hands. “Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll feel real, you know? That he’s dead. That we don’t have to be scared anymore. We’ve killed hundreds of Grimm, and I don’t think that’s the hang-up - taking someone else’s life. Killing is just another part of what we do. It’s defense. Against evil and hatred. And we were just acting in defense. But I understand, I do. It’s like you’ve lived in the same room as a ghost for all of your life and you’ve only ever seen the pieces of your life shift around from the influence of this thing that you can’t even see, but you know it’s there, it exists.” Yang shakes her head, frustrated. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that… you can’t feel bad because you chose us, Blake. For choosing yourself. You can’t blame yourself for wanting happiness over wanting forgiveness for someone who never deserved it. ”

“I spent so much time in the shadows because Adam always made me feel like that’s where I belonged,” Blake chokes out. “I don’t know what else to believe now that he’s gone.” Yang traps a lock of Blake’s hair between her thumb and index finger, tucks it behind her ear. She leans in and presses lingering lips between Blake’s brows, her breath slow and stuttering, the kiss a thing gentler than snow against the sea. “I know, Blake,” she whispers. “But the shadows are just shadows. They’re not you.” Blake closes her eyes, giving herself over to the singing rush that dances through her head at Yang’s touch, like sunlight glancing off a stream, dispelling the shadows bearing Adam’s blue eyes. Louder than a shout in the dark. The thing that makes the scars seem smaller. It slept dormant ever since she ran from Beacon all those months ago, but she’s been relearning it day by day. It’s Yang’s presence, Blake thinks, the inexplicable ways she makes tomorrow not seem like such a scary thing. Her resolve and her grin and her fierce devotion. Something about Yang makes her fall in love with summertime all over again. “Thank you,” Blake breathes. Yang pulls back by degrees, still kneeling inches from Blake’s nose. Foreheads almost touching, but not quite. Her calloused hands rest on Blake’s knees, the distance between them so close, much too far. Blake can see new details, freed from the weeping that prevented it before: the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Yang’s nose, the tilt of confusion in her lips, the way the winter ocean reflects gray in her eyes. “For what?” Blake surrenders to the impulse she’s had since the train’s journey to Argus, since since the afternoon falling gold through the windows, since Yang; she brings a hand up to cup her jaw, but Yang doesn’t need the encouragement; she leans in, meeting Blake halfway through, their kiss softer than sunlight. It’s brief; Blake knows this because her heart crashes like thunder in her ears, she tastes salt and smoke and something sweet, and then the crash subsides and they’ve broken apart, foreheads still leaned against one another. Time steps to the sidelines and leaves only this: the purr of the engine, the distant song of the ocean, two mismatched heartbeats finding solace in the stillness, after everything. “For loving me,” Blake says. Yang’s eyes blaze and she closes the distance between their lips again, her kiss hungry now, seeking, hands sliding up from Blake’s knees and drawing her in, close, closer. Her thumb, patterning out slow circles, finds the ridged rise of the scar and stays there, the contact sending lightning strikes down Blake’s spine. Where Adam’s touch brought fire, fury, Yang’s brings warmth - just warmth. Just safety. Her touch says home.

“Don’t thank me like it’s some big thing,” she murmurs against her lips. “Way too much credit. Loving you comes easy.” Blake leans back a little, runs a finger down the side of Yang’s face, lost in what she sees there; the hectic flush on her cheeks, the glisten of her lips. Now that she’s kissed Yang already, the impulse hasn’t died down; if anything, it’s stronger than it ever was. She just wants to breathe her in and never stop. “You make me start to believe in that again.” Yang breaks away, sitting back on her knees. She reaches out to wind a loop of Blake’s hair around her thumb, nibbling her lip. “Okay, I’ll be honest with you here.” She lets the curl spring free, a nervous grin flitting across her face. “I know I wing, like, everything, but I don’t wanna wing this. I want it to be, like…. I want great. I want us to be great. I just… is there a way to do this proper, or do I just…” She gestures expansively, suddenly pensive. “Ask you flat-out?”

Blake leans in and plants a swift kiss on her lips, searing like flame. It’s addictive already. Brew happiness and bottle it; that’s kissing Yang. “That depends,” she says, mock-sweetly, folding her hands atop her knees. “What is it that you want to ask me?” Yang socks her in the leg, laughing loud. “Blake Belladonna.” Blake mimics her irritation by folding her arms. “Yang Xiao Long.” Her laugh subsides into a lopsided, flush-cheeked grin, lighting her expression from the inside-out. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, I’ll tell you.” She clears her throat and leans forward, the intensity in her eyes taking Blake aback. “I’ll tell you that you’re my better half. That you make me happy. You make the moon shine twice as bright in a night sky. When you’re in the room with me, you’re who I wanna be around. When you leave it, I miss you. I wonder when you’re coming back and if it can be sooner than it already is, because when you’re with me I’m at home. In a fight, there’s no one else I trust more at my back. You’re who I want to talk to, who I want to share my secrets with, who I want to make smile. When you’re here, the sun shines. When you’re gone, everything is grey.” Yang’s smile has died down under the weight of her words, but it’s still there, flickering in her face, at the edges of her lips. But it’s earnestness, more than anything, knitting her brows and shining in her eyes. “I’m tired of only you and then just me. I think we work better as an us.” She catches Blake’s hand, hugs it between her own, warm skin and cold metal, and brings it close to her chest. “What do you think?” “Girlfriend,” Blake says, unable to force back the smile threatening to spread over her face, “the word you’re looking for is girlfriend, Yang.” “Ass. You could’ve just said yes or no.” Yang brings Blake’s hand to her mouth, her breath ghosting against her knuckles as she huffs out a laugh. “I was trying to do some profound speech, to be all - poetic and poignant and shit, like you, and you’ve gone and made it seem all - ”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. It was a beautiful speech. I loved it.” Blake’s laughing and she wishes she could bottle up the feeling flooding through her veins at that moment; it’s the antonym of Adam, the antonym of every thought that’s anchored her to the belief that she’ll never discover light again. Maybe love, maybe joy. Maybe a combination. It’s a glow with Yang’s name written all over it. “Okay, here’s what I think: I think that the best thing fate ever did for me was pushing you to come talk to me in the ballroom two years ago,” she says. “I think the best thing I ever did for myself was choose you. And I think - ”

She’s interrupted by Yang leaning in and kissing her, smolderingly, achingly slow, but it’s hardly an interruption she protests. Anyways, it’s a spectacular exercise in self-control, Blake thinks, breaking away from it to manage on a choppy, breathless breath, “Yes.”

“Huh?” Yang wrinkles her nose in an adorable confusion and Blake can’t resist the swelling of her heart.

“Yes,” she repeats. “I’ll be your girlfriend.” “Oh,” Yang says, and then the smile that bursts across her face has nothing on the weak winter sun struggling through the clouds. “Come on, don’t sound so smug. Like you were ever gonna dream of saying no to all of this in a million years - ”

“I don’t regard myself as being incredibly stupid, so, no,” Blake admits. “But don’t get too cocky with yourself. We’ve still got a long way to go with each other.”

“Noted,” Yang says, and then: “Just think how disappointed Ilia and Sun are gonna be when you see them again, though!” “Why?” “You’ve been on the make-it-to-Atlas-or-bust mission for only six days,” she exclaims, “and you’re already hitched.” “We’re not married, Yang.” “Maybe not,” Yang announces, “but I’ve got plans, great plans.” She leans in, her prosthetic stroking across Blake’s stomach, erasing the pain of the scars, the nights of lonely uncertainty, promising something new, light, together. “And we’re gonna be together in every single one of them. That’s a promise.” “A promise,” Blake whispers, daring to believe it, surprised to find that the belief comes easy. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” She leans in, then, presses a kiss to Yang’s temple, her lips lingering close to the warmth. Yang’s hand tightens wordlessly on her own. The silence fallen between them is close, but it’s comforting, like a friend long-lost and then returned in the aftermath of chaos. Blake thinks it might be restoration. The thing that makes fault lines shift back together again. Outside the airship window, the sun finally breaches the gray bank of clouds, shining against the sea like a beacon.

#bumbleby #RWBY #Blake Belladonna #Yang Xiao Long #Bumblebee #RWBY V6 #RWBY 6 #RWBY Volume 6

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