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fromthedeskoftheraven · 4 years

Text

Always kiss me goodnight

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Content: Pining, kissing, mention of food, oh no there’s only one bed, helmetless Din (but it’s dark), baby Yoda is an adorable tiny terror

Word count: ~2200

Note: I swear I was only going to write one Pedro character fic. Has this kind of thing been done a million times? Yes. Am I doing it once more? Also yes. It’s self-indulgent hours and this little love letter to our favorite space dad and his green baby has been nagging at my mind since I first watched the show.

Tagging the people who asked (If anyone wants to be tagged or un-tagged in any future fics since it seems I’m well and truly back on my bs just say the word): @songsformonkeys @yespolkadotkitty @emesispo @beccaplaying

———————————————

Fatigue has caught up with the little green child now that his belly is full, and crankiness along with it. The Mandalorian has been known to lovingly call his adopted son a womp rat, but when the baby gets overtired, a rancor is more like it.

This time, you can hardly blame him. The three of you have spent the better part of the day traveling, finally landing on this backwater planet late in the evening. With some searching and a small fortune in credits, Din managed to find a safe, out-of-the-way place to stay, leaving you and the child to eat and settle in while he went to scout the bounty’s location for the next day’s work.

As the child’s fussing gains momentum, you hustle to the small sink in the corner of the room.

“We’ll wash your face and go straight to bed,” you promise him, letting the water warm before wetting a cloth and wringing it out thoroughly.

In the mirror, your own face looks as exhausted as he obviously feels. The bed in question is little more than a pallet with a mattress and some blankets, but it might as well be a royal welcome at this stage of the game.

Despite your gentleness, the baby erupts in an indignant whine as you wipe the cloth over his face and ears. “I know, little love,” you soothe while he struggles in protest. “Almost done.”

He quiets when you scoop him up into your arms, pressing a kiss to his fuzzy head. You hum bits of a song from your childhood, rocking him from side to side, and his little face crumples with a yawn. His tiny fingers curl into the fabric of your tunic and his head goes heavy on your shoulder, but still he fidgets, making pathetic little sounds in the direction of the door.

“I know,” you murmur again, still swaying on the spot. “He’ll be back soon.”

You’ve grown to love the child and you know he’s fond of you, but as far as he’s concerned Din is the one who hangs the stars in the sky. He’s always a little agitated when his father is out of sight, and truth be told, so are you.

“I know what we can do,” you say. “Let’s make a plate for your buir for when he comes back. Don’t you think that’ll be nice for him?”

Neither you nor Din are sure how much the child actually understands, but you don’t let it stop you talking to him. If nothing else it makes you feel a little less alone in the long hours when Din is hunting his quarries.

His drooping ears twitch upward with this suggestion. He watches with interest as you lay a plate with some of the fresh fruit, bread, and stewed meat Din bought from the innkeeper for your supper.

“There we go. Now then, bedtime for little ones.”

You turn to survey the sleeping area with a stab of nerves. The minuscule size of the room isn’t a challenge -- the Razor Crest has made you an expert in living in small spaces -- but the lone bed is a wrinkle you hadn’t expected.

Din, ever pragmatic, had been quick to point out that it was plenty big enough for the three of you, and it was only one night. He was right, of course.

Still, you’d never been so grateful for dim lighting, sure that your secret longing for the Mandalorian was written plainly on your flustered face.

You couldn’t have said exactly when your feelings for Din Djarin had strayed into dangerous territory. Somewhere in the months of traveling with him, caring for his child, helping maintain his ship, reminding him to eat, and tending the worst of his wounds your initial wariness turned to admiration, admiration to fondness, and fondness to something alarmingly like love.

It’s a fool’s errand.

For all his kindness to you Din is an island of a man, set apart from the world in his shell of beskar and the even more unyielding armor of his creed. Even if his heart is big enough to encompass the child, you don’t dare to hope there’s room for you too.

And now this bed -- this one kriffing bed -- sits there mocking you and all your silly fantasies of you and Din and the child being a real family, bound together by love instead of convenience.

You turn off the light overhead, leaving only the small, sickly lamp at the table to light Din’s way to his supper.

The mattress is clean and the blankets are a bit threadbare but soft, and the baby only has the energy to grumble a little when you lay him down on the side closest to the wall and tuck the thickest of them around him. Yawning widely, he stretches out a hand toward you, fingers grabbing at the air.

The gesture warms your weary heart.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

You lie down beside him and face away from the table, mindful that Din will need privacy to eat. The little body shuffles closer to you, curling into your shoulder, and a surge of fierce affection pricks your eyes with tears. You wrap your arm around the baby to hold him close as the full brunt of the long day overtakes you.

“Good night, little love,” you say around a yawn, just as your eyes fall closed.

***

You wake with a start. The windowless room is pitch black, and in the absence of any landmarks your brain races to orient itself.

At your back, the child’s soft, snuffling breaths. A well-worn blanket draped over you and a slightly lumpy mattress beneath.

The inn, you remember in a flash.

At your front...something warm and broad and solid. You’ve nestled into it in your sleep, one arm thrown over it, your hand grasping soft fabric. A familiar, comforting scent surrounds you, a scent you cherish from laundry days and the cramped quarters of a small ship.

Oh, Maker.

You clearly slept through Din coming back and getting into bed, and now you’re wrapped around him like a second set of clothes. The rush of blood into your cheeks flames so hot you worry he must feel it through the base layers he’s wearing to sleep.

Shrinking into yourself, you begin to pull away, as stealthily as you can. If you can just get back to your own side of the bed and brazen it out in the morning, maybe he’ll never be the wiser.

Slowly, so slowly, you release the handful of his shirt you’re holding and move your arm from where it’s resting across his chest...

In the darkness, a hand encircles your wrist.

Oh, Maker.

You’ve watched Din wrestle enough uncooperative bounties into the carbonite chamber to know you’re not getting away from him if he doesn’t want you to. But his grip on your wrist is light, gentle. His thumb rests on the place where your pulse is fluttering like a trapped bird, whether from embarrassment or his closeness you’re not entirely sure.

“Din.” It comes out barely a whisper, sabotaged by the sudden dryness of your mouth. You swallow hard and try again. “Din, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s all right.”

His voice is a revelation. Free of the modulator’s rasp, it’s warmer, richer, somehow softer and more resonant at the same time. You’ve never even been in the same room with him when he has his helmet off, and the realization that he’s right there, a breath away, is dizzying.

Silence stretches before he speaks again, more quietly. “It’s...nice.”

Your brain fails you entirely. “Oh.”

You search desperately for something more intelligent to say, but his thumb is drawing feather-light circles over the soft skin of your wrist and your pulse is thundering in your ears. Those touches, so delicate from a man so strong, blur your thoughts like liquor and drag a confession from your lips before you can bite it back. “I’ve always wanted to hold you.”

You wait, blessing the darkness that swallows your shame, and hope he’s not going to tell you to pack your things and find a job in this bleak little skug hole for when he leaves you behind.

Instead, you feel the mattress shift and know he’s turned toward you.

The sudden fear of breaking Din’s creed is overwhelming, even in the dark. Instinct has you squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that white specks float behind your eyelids.

“I can’t see you,” you say quickly. “I promise.”

“I know.”

His thumb moves from your wrist across your palm, uncurling your fingers to map each one in turn, trailing up to the tips and back down again. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone’s bare skin.

He sighs, which is nothing new, but this one doesn’t sound exasperated. It sounds almost...content. “Mesh’la,” he murmurs. “Beautiful girl. I thought so the first time I saw you.”

You’re overcome with a wild, childish urge to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming.

His praise gives you a rush of courage to ask for something you’ve only dreamed of. “Din...can I touch you? Is it allowed?”

His only answer is to cradle your hand in his, bringing it to rest on his cheek.

Stubble prickles your palm as your fingers slowly trace his scruffy jawline and the thick column of his neck, savoring the feel of him. His hair is soft, long enough to curl at its nape, and when you comb your fingers through the tousled strands he makes a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. It reverberates through your body like a bell, making your head swim with the thrill of affecting him.

You only just resist the urge to suck a mark into the spot where his pulse races under his warm skin.

Your greedy hands move on to discover a strong brow and the curved bridge of a prominent nose. A mustache frames lips that are more plush than you imagined, a note of sensuality in an angular, warrior’s face.

“Can you tell me what color your eyes are?” you ask, fingertips traveling over his cheekbone.

“Brown.”

Brown. You see them in your mind’s eye, soft and dark, expressing all the things he doesn’t say out loud. Stroking his lower lip, you repeat his own word back to him: “Mesh’la.”

Din’s mouth twitches under your fingers. “You can’t see me.”

He has no idea. His body warming yours and the sweetness of his voice calling you beautiful is everything you’ve ever wanted and thought yourself unworthy of having, and he thinks you’re only talking about his face.

You cup his cheek, smile at him, even though he can’t see it. “I don’t need to, Din. I just know it. I always have.”

“You’re so good to me.” His hand catches yours in his large one, his voice rough with some nameless emotion. “To me, and the baby. All the time.”

“You deserve everything good,” you whisper past the lump in your throat.

He’s caressing your hand again, holding it in place to press his lips to the pad of your thumb. “I want to kiss you, cyare.”

Your exhale is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please.”

His hand moves to cradle your head as he closes the distance between you. If you were expecting him to pounce, you’re completely unprepared for him to linger, breath hovering over your lips for a long, agonizing moment as he brushes his nose over yours.

You’re almost startled by the first touch of his lips, a little chapped but warm and lush. His mustache is softer than you thought it would be, and so are his kisses, a series of slow, gentle presses of his mouth. Like he wants to do with his lips what you’ve done with your hands, sketching and learning.

It’s only when you slide your hand into his hair again that something inside him breaks. His arm snakes around your waist, holding you to the refuge of his broad chest as he slants his mouth over yours, claiming you in earnest. He’s possessive and tender in equal measure and the tease of his tongue against yours, his teeth nipping your lower lip, the span of his hand on your back has you drunk on him and whispering his name between kisses like a prayer.

...Apparently not quietly enough.

A little hand scrabbling at your shoulder blade brings you out of your haze. As you pull away from Din the baby is climbing over you as quickly as his short limbs will let him. He wedges himself between the two of you with a delighted coo at Din, hands flailing to find his father’s face.

Din heaves a sigh, but there’s no malice in it. “I’m here, ad’ika,” he says, with unmistakable fondness. “We’re all here.”

You can’t stifle a breathless laugh as the baby snuggles into Din’s arms, making himself comfortable for the night.

Your Mandalorian surrenders good-naturedly, wrapping an arm around you with the child tucked safely in the middle. He presses a kiss to your forehead before settling on the pillow beside you. “Sleep, cyare.”

Drowsiness is already fuzzing the edges of your mind again, but it catches on the word he’s said twice now. “What does that mean?” you murmur. “Cyare?”

You feel him smile against your temple, one last brush of his lips. “Share my bunk tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you.”

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #pedro pascal #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader

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meliorist-midoriya · 3 years

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chasing the sun

synopsis: there’s something screaming in familiarity—in mourning—deep in his soul at the sight of you, a complete stranger. this is the price you pay for resurrection, the sun whispers as it rises.

pairing: takami keigo x fem!reader

genre: angst with a happy ending, reincarnation au

warnings: mentions and depictions of death, major character deaths, mentions of war (+ description of a battlefield scene), injuries, blood.

word count: 11.7k

a/n: happy (extremely belated) birthday, bird boy. and aaaa my baby’s here, she’s finally here! i’ve been working on this fic for a little over two months now, and i’m so happy to see it fully fleshed out! thank you to @dimplesum for beta reading, and the tumblr chaos server for listening to me yell all the time abt this fic :’) disclaimer, i did as much research as i could, but any historical depictions are not 100% historically accurate and i have taken some creative liberty, so please take the historical scenes with a grain of salt!

important: there will be songs linked throughout the fic to be played in accordance with the scene, i do hope you listen to them for the full experience! it is okay if the ost ends before the scene as that is also on purpose. the beginning of the song will start with 【 ☀︎ 】 with a link to the song. with that said, i hope you enjoy, and happy reading!

crossposted on Ao3

【 ☀︎ 】

Dawn finds Keigo, the youngest government official in the empire, stumbling upon a lone concubine in the eastern lotus garden.

He’d been searching for solitude, away from the viper’s nest of samurai-turned-aristocrats, strutting around the castle with their now-useless weapons strapped to their hips, discussing poetry and politics instead of battle and war tactics.

It’d been disgustingly easy for them to make the switch from warrior to bureaucrat, taking the status boost in stride. Those who couldn’t, they stayed with their lords if they were lucky. The warriors who weren’t… Keigo would need an abacus to count the ones who weren’t so lucky, the countless rumors and reports of wandering rōnin with familiar names never failing to reach over the palace walls to get to him.

(Oh, what he would give to join them.)

Of course, he’d been intending to brood ponder over this in the seclusion of the garden he’d discovered a few days ago, staring at the green buds of the young lotuses in the water until his head spun. The sight of the concubine sitting in his spot (that he was certain was too secluded to be found) told him fate had other plans, however.

He cleared his throat and forced down the grimace once he saw the concubine jump, startled, before trying her best to smoothly turn and bow without looking too flustered.

“Good morning, madam.”

“Good morning—”

He smiled through the static in his brain at the mention of his surname, messily tacked to the honorific that he would never get used to.

That name… it’s not mine. Don’t call me that.

A discordant mess of jumbled kanji that sounded nothing like the powerfully elegant names in the court. The ill-fitting characters standing out like an eyesore on his documents, the syllables falling awkwardly off the tongue in conversation.

Wholly fitting for an outsider like him, really.

The mention of that name grated something terrible in him, and he settled for keeping his teeth grit into a smile. A sheltered concubine wouldn’t know, of course she wouldn’t know. Practically no one did, so he had no one to fault but his own cursed sensitivity to a name he wanted to burn.

“Do you mind if I join you?” The slight twitch in her demure smile was answer enough, but he’d set aside time for this escape, and damn if he was going to let it go to waste.

“Of course not. Please, don’t mind me, my lord.”

He dipped his head in thanks and you bowed in return, the silence hanging in the air settling into something stiff and awkward.

A minute passed…

Then another…

Then five…

Keigo was going to go mad at this rate. Neither of you had any intention of leaving the rare pocket of seclusion, and the competitive whisper in the corner of his mind told him that leaving first meant conceding, meant losing.

(In his world, losing meant death.)

Keigo’s had enough of losing in life despite his dumb luck, thank you very much.

So, he did what he knew he did best. He talked. Shattering the awkward silence in an effort to coax the tranquil silence he was searching for back into the little gazebo by the pond. Maybe if he ran his mouth long enough, you’d get tired and leave.

“You’re a new face in the palace.”

With an expectant gaze, he watched the telltale shift from awkward to apprehensive, the rigidness of your stature sharply contrasting the flowing brocade of your kimono as you looked back at him with a too-sharp gaze before casting your eyes away to the green buds in the water. Had he been any slower, Keigo would’ve thought that the conflicted expression you quickly smoothed over was solemn (it was anything but).

“I would say the same to you, my lord, but every face in this castle is a new face to me.” You tilted your head with a thin-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Although… I’m sure an official who just arrived at the castle for his yearly residence would be an especially new face. Please excuse my rudeness.”

Keigo blinked. Once, twice, his jaw relaxing into a disbelieving smile at the sight of your steely gaze bright with a challenge and a smile sharper than the blades at his waist, the unsaid words ringing clearly.

Two could play at this game.

Well, now, this was new.

Perhaps it was your defiance that remained steadfast in this castle, or the blissful ignorance that made you one of the few to look at him straight on instead of down your nose. A little voice whispered that this would change in due time, the politics and power struggles confined within the castle never failing to break down even the most resilient. Those that didn’t know how to play the game correctly simply… vanished.

“Someone’s well-informed, I see.” He folded his hands behind his back, his wish for tranquility long forgotten. “I heard a new concubine has just entered the castle as well. A consolation prize, of sorts, from the farthest reaches of the country. Of course, as I’ve been gone for a year and have only been here for four, I’m not too sure.” He flicks his gaze to you, accepting your challenge with a knife-sharp smile of his own.

“I am curious as to what this concubine’s name is, however.”

You arched a brow, the thin-lipped smile widening into something sweet (that looked better on a fox rather than a beautiful concubine), and you bowed. Any trace of that stiff apprehensiveness dissolved into a graceful fluidity that seemed to disappear within the rippling silk of your kimono.

“Lady Y/N. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

To this day, he’ll never admit how surprised he was at your reverence, nor how his heart did a funny little flip in his chest when you giggled at his flustered response. What kind of fool gave respect to a commoner picked up from the slums?

You. Except you were no fool, and maybe that’s why he kept coming back like a moth to flame.

Time passed, and he found himself in that little garden day after day, morning after morning. Listening to the concubine who told vivid stories of lands he could only dream of, foods he found himself craving, and tales of warriors past.

The conversations at dawn soon turned into stories of the past, the laments of the present, and dreams of a bleak future. With delicate hands and gently prying words, you two unlocked every bar and lock you’d put over your souls and allowed yourselves to lay them bare for each other, the intimacy of a bond forged in secrets and solidarity far stronger than any alliance or contract.

You two confided in each other in that garden, staring at the dew on the lilypads as you two whispered how you didn’t belong in the palace. How the confines of grand walls with ears and eyes were no place for the adopted commoner and a concubine far from home. Two people in this big world who were just lucky enough, fortunate enough to end up within this lavish palace, your lives guaranteed splendor and comfort.

Then again—you two would share a conspiratorial laugh—maybe you two were unfortunate instead. What was splendor and comfort when you had to constantly watch for a knife in your back or poison in your cup? When a single misstep could cost you your life?

Conversations shared with you, the concubine with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, were the most fulfilling he’s had in ages. Maybe it was the sense of formality that the intimacy of the waterside gazebo stripped away, or the unraveling realization that he hasn’t breathed this freely in ages, that he was looking forward to these moments in the morning. The intimacy shared in the garden he selfishly liked to call his own little world.

Keigo catches the smile you hide behind your sleeve when he steps into the gazebo, and he realizes you’re being selfish, too.

He didn’t know how the conversation got here, he didn’t know why he had a hairpin meant for you tucked into his sleeve. All he knew was that when it came to you, he was helpless to the whims of rambling and buying a pretty hairpin made of red jade because it reminded him of a sharp wit with a pretty smile.

“I live for this country and I die for this country. Well, not that there’s anything much to die for anyway.” Keigo’s laugh is empty, and your melancholic gaze even emptier. A fog had blown in that morning, covering the pond in a soft cover of white, and your soft voice and softer touch on his arm (careful, almost) silenced his dry laughter and left his throat even drier.

“What you would die for is also an excellent reason to live, is it not?”

Your words, whispered into the stillness of the moment, resonated so loudly within his soul and forced a shaky breath out of his lungs as he gazed in awe at you. At the soft, ethereal glow in the fog cast by the rising sun breaking through the clouds, the scent of bloomed lotuses wafting in on the breeze that rustles the dangling pieces of your hair ornaments. He is weak to whims when it comes to you, so he pulls out the hairpin burning a hole in his sleeve to slip into your hair with shaking hands unbefitting a swordsman. Keigo watches your eyes sparkle like the gem in your hair, and his heart lifts with hope as he whispers his devotion into the warm morning, carried by the wind into a sea of blooms.

“I’ll live for you, then.”

And with a smile, you fall in love.

(Keigo falls even harder.)

【 ☀︎ 】

He should have known.

“I don’t know what I was expecting from the son of a criminal.”

He really should have known.

“What was that fool thinking, taking a street rat like you in all those years ago?”

Honestly, he’d like an answer to that, too. Too bad the old man was dead and left him to inherit a position he didn’t even want. To think he’d agree with the emperor for once in his short life.

“Tsk, a son will follow in his father’s footsteps, after all. A grave in Kozukappara should suit him well.”

Keigo should be concerned that he couldn’t feel how the coarse dirt dug into his knees anymore, his cheek still aching from where the guard had punched him.

(Okay, yes, he deserved it, but he could’ve done without tasting iron.)

The sadistic glee in the guard’s face after he landed that “disciplinary strike” told him otherwise. With a bitter grimace, he spat red into the dirt.

How long has he been kneeling here? Minutes? Hours? The words echoing over and over in his head pulled him away from his present reality, bringing him back to the blur that was the past two days.

(Three? He couldn’t be sure, time passes oddly in a prison cell.)

The servants whispering about a concubine being expelled from the harem, the handmaid being promoted to concubine suspiciously quickly, and sudden memories of too-loud rustling coming from the treeline that he’d foolishly brushed off. All of it culminated in the form of palace guards dragging him from his study all the way to the harem to throw him at the emperor’s feet.

“Could the street rat not keep his hands off the women of the court? Plenty to pick back where you came from.”

Keigo wanted to vomit at the cloying stench of sake, unpleasant memories rushing to the forefront of his mind and forcing his limbs to lock from age-old fear. Not like he could use them anyway, with heavy hands on each shoulder pinning his knees to the tatami and his blades having long been tossed away in the struggle to drag him here.

“Oh, my lord, haven’t you heard?” A sickeningly saccharine voice pulled the man’s attention away to coo at the woman curled into his side, cradling a bottle of warmed sake. “Apparently the small-time nobleman who adopted him, did it knowing he was the son of that criminal you were having trouble with all that time ago.”

The grip forcing his head down loosened from the resounding laughter that rippled around the room, just enough to allow Keigo to glare at the loose-lipped concubine. Your opportunistic maidservant who’d been all too willing to take your place in the harem, having taken her chance and fleeing with it. Her tittering giggles and power-drunk grin grated his ears, and he kept glaring. Daring her to look back, to look him in the eye without feeling an ounce of guilt for what she had done.

Almost as if she heard his furious challenge, she took a glance at the man pinned to the floor (trying to look down her nose like she had been looked down on. Pathetic fool.) only to jump at the righteous fury burning in his gaze, fear clouding her conscience for a precious moment.

More, Keigo urged, rage bitter on his tongue, Guilt, shame, despair, all of it.

I hope you regret this for the rest of your life. Lament, as punishment for ruining hers—

“Don’t assume what I have and haven’t heard, woman,” The drunkard grunted, holding his cup out for her to pour with shaking hands and a meek surrender, “But, the man was losing his mind from age. What was that fool thinking, taking a dirty brat like this in all those years ago? Too useless to bear a son nor keep a wife, so he had to stoop low enough to take in a criminal’s son from the slums.”

Righteous fury welled up in his chest, and his body moved before his brain could catch up, spit landing at the emperor’s feet. Almost immediately thereafter, his head whipped to the side, cheek smarting from the sharp strike the guard’s knuckles had indented into his swelling cheek. He grit his teeth as that same cheek came down on the tatami, someone pressing his head into the ground.

“Years upon years of trying to force yourself into nobility, and you’d think you’d learn some respect along the way.”

Had he not been the one with his face pressed into the ground, Keigo would’ve laughed at the shade of fury-red the man’s face was turning. Sake did not treat him well. The concubines at his side, fearing for their lives, immediately rushed to whisper soothing words and calming pleas. Somehow, it worked, and he reclined back into his seat with a heavy sigh, draining the sake in one gulp.

“The son of a criminal shall inevitably become a criminal. Now that I think about it, this is a wonderful opportunity to get rid of an eyesore. A grave in Kozukappara should suit him well.” A sadistic grin split his lips around the cup, chortling with laughter at his own (terrible) wit. “Being buried next to his criminal father! What a filial son!”

The table shook from the force of a fine porcelain cup slamming down on it, as if the emperor were stamping his death certificate right then and there.

(He was.)

“Get him out of my sight. The next time I want to see his head is on the gates of Kozukappara.”

Keigo the official had died in that room, and the man that was dragged out by his shoulders left the castle as a criminal.

“Done saying your prayers?”

Slowly, he looked up from the white paper fan set in front of him in place of the tantō that should’ve been there for his use (obligatory seppuku, his muddled brain supplied with annoyingly familiar haughtiness, so the ex-warrior could die a warrior. What a joke—) to the man he’d chosen to be his executioner. Normally, he would’ve snapped back with something witty, something sharp, but going days without water wasn’t treating him well. A heavy sigh, and the man ran a frustrated thumb down the bright blue wrap of his katana hilt.

“The concubine, of all women? An imperial concubine, at that. I’d expect you to know better than that, my friend.”

Ah, the static in his head was a little stronger today. Wonderful.

“I thought I knew better, too. At least I get to die to someone with a steady hand.”

He scoffed, thumb running over the blue hilt again. Keigo idly remembered seeing the man rub his burn-leathered skin the same way countless times, the anxious habit having stubbornly ingrained itself into his being since childhood.

“Must you be so dark?”

“When am I not?” He managed to muster up a slow grin. “I’m hurt, I thought my closest companion would’ve known this after years of keeping swords out of each other’s backs.”

The heavy gong announcing his execution sounded, and he watched his best friend’s melancholic gaze glaze over into soulless steel that mirrored the blade drawn from its hilt. Keigo dipped his head with a solemn smile and shut his eyes in resignation.

I really… should’ve known…

“Keigo!”

Everything paused for a breath, in shock at your shout breaking the stillness of the moment. He didn’t have to lift his head to know who was crying out, trying to delay the inevitable certainty. A sharp smile and an even sharper tongue reduced to nothing but cries and desperation.

“...I’ll continue.” The executioner ignored your desperate “No!” as he shifted his stance, scarred hands steady as he placed the blade against the back of his neck despite the pain Keigo knew he was in.

It would’ve been nice to hold you in his arms, at least once—

No, for eternity.

The blade came down and, like a lotus facing the sun in supplication, you screamed your despair into the heavens.

That day, the blood red sunset matched the crimson pooling on the execution ground’s floor.

【 ☀︎ 】

Dawn finds Private First Class Takami Keigo marching into a small city on the way to the front lines, rifle slung over his shoulder and feet aching.

They’ve been marching through the night, and for the first time in his life, he found himself grateful for Japan’s humid summer nights. He’d take sweat over losing toes from frostbite any day.

But, he decides, sighing in relief along with the rest of the company at the sight of a town once they crested the hill, there was nothing like the relief of a warm bed and any food other than the tasteless military rations.

“Tired already?” The low voice beside him would’ve made him jump had it not been so familiar.

“Aw, what’s this? Is Touya-kun worried for little old me?” Keigo shot a grin at the man marching next to him and dodged the elbow that he aimed at his side with a short laugh.

“A tired soldier is a dead soldier.” A pause, and the next response came backed with a dry laugh. “Not like it’d affect you and your monstrous instincts, anyway.”

“Yes, as we’ve been told a thousand times, General.” The teasing tilt to his voice came easy, and he let his best friend elbow him this time, too busy laughing at his annoyance.

Should he have been a little more worried of the captain catching him messing around? Yes, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Judging by the restless shifting rippling through the soldiers, no one was too worried about getting a scolding when they were so close to a warm meal and rest.

“Think the inn will be big enough to house all of us? Another night sleeping on the floor doesn’t sound all that nice to me.”

Touya scoffed as if his question was the stupidest thing he’d heard all day, keeping his gaze straight as he adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, the company shifting around them into formation as they approached the gates.

“You’re complaining like it’s anything new to us.”

“Harsh.”

The conversation faded after that, the rough dirt under his boots soon transitioning into the packed earth of the town’s main street as residents gathered to whisper and gawk at the soldiers passing through, the sight of their uniforms a jarring eyesore in this sleepy town.

A sleepy, familiar town.

Keigo’s mind was spinning. His restless gaze kept flicking around the too-familiar buildings and shops and people that remained after all these years. The restaurant with the broken kitchen window that was too easy to sneak into, the grocer who still kept his trash bin too close to the alley, the old woman sitting in front of her izakaya who always had ginger candy and a meal to give.

They slowed to a stop in front of the large inn, and he stared up at the building that looked much smaller than he remembered, the interior much less grand than he’d imagined it to be as they filed their way in, and he found himself in the room he once dreamed of sleeping in. There, Keigo sat in near disbelief, on the futon that wasn’t as soft as he thought it would’ve been.

“How time flies, huh?” He looked up to see Touya dropping his pack next to his futon and sitting down across from him with a melancholy grin.

There was too much Keigo wanted to say, nostalgia bitter in the back of his throat, so he settled for a matching smile.

“Old Man Yasutaro never got around to fixing that boarded up window.”

Touya barked out a surprised laugh, Keigo’s smile widening into a self-satisfied grin.

“You ever think he did that on purpose? He always did stock too much food.”

“Are you kidding?” Keigo shuddered at the phantom pain of the beatings he earned. “He was scary whenever he caught us, there’s no way mean ol’ Yasutaro would do all that just for a pair of orphans on the street.”

“Mm, I don’t know, he was always pretty sweet to Granny Tamayo, so anything that made him look good in her book.” Touya leaned back on his arms, the melancholy melting into the ease of bittersweet nostalgia. It was easier to smile through the painful memories rather than dwell on the past, so Keigo let himself toss his head back with a laugh.

“God, her ginger candy was the best.”

“You sure it was the candy? Or the granddaughter who always snuck an extra piece to you?” That earned Touya a frustrated noise of protest and a half-hearted kick he dodged.

“That was ages ago!”

“And you still react like a little boy!”

Keigo groaned, burying his face into his hands as if that would tune out Touya’s cackling laughter. It was short moments like this that took the weight off his shoulders, the murmurs of public dissent, the leaked plans of a planned riot, the magnitude of his actions tomorrow morning.

(Civilians. Of all things, why did it have to be civilians?)

He suddenly pushed himself to his feet, the heavy weight having pushed itself back onto his shoulders and slotting the familiar hum of alertness back into place. Touya gave him a knowing look that he, decidedly, ignored in favor of getting out before his mind swallowed him whole.

“Dinner is supposed to be in a bit, we should get going.”

“Wonderful job of changing the subject, really.”

“Wonderful job of being annoying.”

Touya dodged another swipe of the leg, laughing at his displeasure as he stood to follow.

“Why thank you, I try.” His grin widened with a certain glint in his eye that Keigo found himself dreading. “Now let’s get going, I heard some of the guys are at Granny Tamayo’s izakaya.”

“What?”

“My, isn’t that little Keigo? And little Touya?”

Keigo faltered halfway through the entrance, smoothing his grimace into a smile as he watched the old lady totter over from her seat with all the coddling of a grandmother. The soldiers within earshot (who were already drinking and eating away. It was barely sunset—) paused to gawk and grin at the endearing interaction.

“Not so little anymore, Granny.”

“I’ll say. Are you eating alright? Is the military treating you well?”

“Granny!”

“What’s this? Speedy and Torchface have some history here?” Keigo kept his smile smooth, only shifting it just the slightest bit into what he knew would look like a sheepish grin instead of the pained grimace underneath the surface. Boisterous laughter that only alcohol could bring rippled around the spacious izakaya, the men cracking jokes over drinks and food.

“Careful calling him Torchface, he has the temper to match.”

Ah, there it is. Touya shouldered past him to stalk towards the offending table with a scarily wide grin, pulling the loose-lipped rookie into a chokehold, his wide grin unmoving.

“‘Has a temper’ my ass, you’re just jealous that a guy with a bunch of burn scars has an easier time with women than you idiots.”

The laughter only grew louder, Granny Tamayo’s expression softening at the interaction before turning back to Keigo with a nostalgic smile.

“Not so little… I see.” She motioned to the table Touya had made a space for himself at, shoving the rookie (who was still in a chokehold, poor kid) aside to make room for him. “Take a seat, dear, and the drinks will be right out.”

The too-loud laughter and incessantly clinking glasses filled the space up with ear-grating noise, and Keigo wanted to leave. Search for peace and solitude in the quiet streets in a way that was strangely familiar.

(For a fleeting moment, he thought a quiet garden would be nice.)

However, he’d rather eat with the company of drunks rather than the void of his own mind and the horrors silence tended to bring, so the migraine starting to brew in the back of his head was a small price to pay. As was the heavy arm slung over his shoulder from some random soldier, alcohol-loosened and heavy, and the awkward conversation he found himself following along with perfectly tailored humor.

“Alright, I have two beers as well as a few rounds of edamame and—”

The familiar voice stopped short, and Keigo felt his heart stop in tandem. Slowly, he looked up and saw the girl who used to sneak out an extra candy when her grandmother wasn’t looking, now a woman in the izakaya uniform balancing trays in one hand and two mugs in the other.

“...Keigo?”

Almost as if the locked gates had been thrown open, a new rush of memories past had overcome him. Jaunts through the town disguised as adventures, clumsily dancing around an old gramophone and calling it a waltz, and the start of blossoming love. Keigo simply smiled, easygoing and familiar, like it hadn’t been years since you saw him run to the military with Touya the first chance they had, drawn by the promise of food and shelter. Like he hadn’t left a malnourished boy and come back a man with more scars than skin.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“‘Been a while.’” You rolled your eyes, setting down the mug in front of him with a huff. “The two most important people in my life run off to join the army without so much as a word, and that’s what you say?”

His words stopped halfway up his throat the moment he saw Granny Tamayo come up behind you to pinch you on the arm, the half-formed response morphing into a laugh as he watched you flinch back with a surprised (and betrayed) yelp.

“Y/N, darling, don’t be rude to the customers.” You pouted, rubbing at the sore spot on your upper arm.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“It’s fine, Granny. Nothing new, right?” At the sight of his cheeky smile, the old woman scoffs, something endearing, before nudging him out of his seat despite your noise of protest.

“Well, since you two seem to be talking of nothing but the past, why don’t you go take a walk down memory lane?”

“Wha— Grandmother! There’s still customers—”

“Kaede can handle it just fine! Shoo, shoo, get out of my hair.”

Without missing a beat, Granny Tamayo smoothly plucked the trays from your hands and nudged you two towards the door as the soldiers watching roared with laughter and cooed jokes at the two “childhood lovers”. Keigo turned towards Touya, almost desperately, in a futile search for— what? Escape? Wasn’t he looking for escape in the first place?

“Wait, Granny, come on. Touya’s part of this too, isn’t he?”

“Don’t drag me into this, a trip down memory lane isn’t for me!” With an arm still slung over the now-wheezing rookie’s shoulder, Touya raised the cup of sake he’d ordered as if in toast. Whether it was to Keigo’s mortification, or to the potential opportunities this meant, Keigo didn’t want to know.

Probably both.

(...Probably the former, if he were to be honest with himself.)

A flurry of drunken laughter and lighthearted jokes, half-hearted protests that fell on deaf ears, and insistent pushing at his back later, he found himself standing outside the izakaya, blinking up at the full moon before looking over at you.

“...Did we just get kicked out?”

“I think we did.” You snorted, scuffing a mark into the dirt path with your heel, and Keigo wanted the earth to crack open and swallow him whole. What was he supposed to do? Stuck with the remnants of a rekindling love, the awkwardness that tended to come with years of estrangement and words that failed him when it came to you.

Well, there’s really only one thing he could do.

Talk.

“So, what’s new with you?” He immediately cringed at his choice of words, forcing himself to school his expression over into an easygoing smile instead of recoiling like he so desperately wanted to do.

Nice going there, Keigo, really.

“...Same old.” Your quiet answer snapped him out of his thoughts, and he tilted his head, almost like he was beckoning you to continue. “Same old town, same old job, same old life. I pretty much walked the path everyone knew I was going to go on as the granddaughter of the izakaya’s owner.”

You looked up with a sheepish grin, the bright moonlight casting the world (and you) in a silver glow, and Keigo felt his heart leap into his throat.

“Not the most exciting to a man from the military, huh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve seen a lot—” Keigo rubbed at the identification tag hidden under his clothes by force of habit, the leather cord heavy around his neck. He has seen a lot. Too much, to be exact, but how would he even begin to explain the horrors of man to someone… “normal”? How could he?

For someone whose wit and silver tongue helped him survive all these years, he was awfully tongue-tied tonight. Or maybe it was just you, and the surreal lightness settling into his soul that had him stumbling over his words.

“But you’ve seen enough?” You finished his sentence with a wry grin, and the surprised laugh found itself past his lips before he could catch it. How could he forget? You were always, always a step ahead of him. Back then and even now.

“Enough of my barracks and Touya’s face? Yeah, definitely.” You swatted his arm with a huff, and the familiar action made the next laugh come a little easier, his chest a little lighter as the awkwardness slowly dissipated into something… comfortable. Normal.

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Well, that’s your answer, Y/N. Don’t know what else to tell you,” He shrugged in mock ignorance, and you groaned, going back to worrying at the deepening scuff in the dirt.

“What, so, we both had boring lives?”

Far from boring.

“...Yeah, I guess so.”

You pursed your lips and stared out at the quiet street, the beat of silence almost bordering on awkward by the time you broke it with a resolute sigh, starting to walk forward into the moonlight.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to make up for it somehow.”

“And how would you do that?”

“By going back to when life wasn’t so boring,” You hummed, spinning to face him and grandly spreading your arms, as if you were presenting the lantern-lit street to him, “C’mon! Tonight, this main street is memory lane!”

“Aren’t you taking me out of town at one point, though?”

“Oh, hush. Are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming, coming.”

Oh, your smile was radiant, and Keigo had to force himself to keep moving instead of gaping like a fool.

(Was it possible for him to make you smile like that all the time?)

For the next hour, time seemed to stop. The moon stood frozen in the sparkling sky, watching two star-crossed lovers go around town, laughing and reminiscing on what could’ve been. What could be, if Keigo were to be bold. You took him down Main Street as promised, and he found it hard to relate to the memories you spoke of, associating each store with scornful stares and pitiful ignorance. Eventually, you two looped around to the outskirts of town. To the river that looked more like a creek now, and the quaint houses and maze of alleyways. To familiarity.

He smiles as he watches you skip rocks in the creek, laughs when you wrinkle your nose at the dog that always seems to only bark when you two pass by Old Man Yasutaro’s gate, and revels in the memories.

“You still suck!”

“Hey! It’s not like we skip rocks all the time in the military.”

You merely rolled your eyes and continued to skip ahead, the slow and awkward trudge from before revived into the enthusiastic step he remembered, fueled by the joys of nostalgia and escape.

This, Keigo realizes, is nostalgia.

Not the pain of remembering a past he wanted to forget, not looking at alleyways to remember what used to be his childhood, not thinking of the shops as someplace otherworldly. Rather, it was this. The joy of reminiscing on good times. The joy of breathing new life into old memories.

The joy he now knew was to be found in you.

“Hey.” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see you grinning, the moonlight illuminating something akin to mischief in your eyes. “Remember that old gramophone we could never figure out when we were little?”

“You mean you could never figure out. I didn’t want to touch it because Granny Tamayo is a scary, scary woman.”

And a dirty street orphan’s hands had no place on such an expensive thing.

You rolled your eyes and he chuckled, following along anyway as you set off down the path with a new purpose. The route was familiar, and Keigo already had an idea of where this was going, but who was he to speak when you were nearly buzzing with excitement?

“What I mean to say is: I figured it out, so—” You spun in place again, taking his hand, and his heart damn near stopped, “—would you like this dance? To some actual music, this time.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? A proper lady needs the proper etiquette, after all.” His cheeky grin betrayed the politeness of his words, and you scoffed, tugging him along.

“Like you would ask me first.” Keigo’s tongue stalled around a response, scrambling for a proper comeback because you were right. Deep down, he knew that he still never would’ve asked you first for anything. It wasn’t his place. First, as a kid on the street compared to the granddaughter of the izakaya owner. Now, as a man with blood on his hands compared to an innocent civilian, untainted by the shadows of war.

Who was he to ask anything from a normal person?

“Lead the way, then.”

There was that radiant grin again, brimming with excitement and sending him reeling. Keigo couldn’t help but let your enthusiasm rub off on him as he followed you to the little communal courtyard behind Granny Tamayo’s home, where he knew that she liked to keep that Western gramophone to play for guests. You broke away to go and try and work the old machine, mumbling to yourself as you fiddled with the knobs and rifled through the records filed away in the ornate cabinet it was sitting on.

He took the chance to look around the empty courtyard, struck with the realization that it hadn’t changed at all in the years he was gone. He left all those years ago, only to return to a town that seemed almost frozen in time. It was too far from the cities for all the modern inventions to catch up with it, so the only things that changed were, well, the people. Keigo most of all. What if he hadn’t—

The sudden burst of music and your shout of victory cut off his wandering train of thought, and you walked back into his line of vision with a triumphant grin.

“I still don’t know how to fix the tempo, so the song’s a little slow. You’ll have to forgive me for that.” You offered up your hand and tilted your head, still smiling. “May I have this dance?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Like you’d ask me first.”

【 ☀︎ 】

Keigo grinned in well-earned defeat, and his hand slipped into yours with the other on your waist. The music swelled, and he took the first step.

One, two, three, one, two, three…

With too-slow, clumsy steps, the two of you slowly began waltzing your way around the small courtyard. You still kind of didn’t know how to work the gramophone—the song almost eerily slow, despite the years of fiddling—but that didn’t matter in the face of the giddy smiles shared, your soft laughs when he spun you in a flash of spontaneity, and the nostalgia of old times.

Before, he was a scrawny kid on the street who clumsily tried to follow the steps of the pretty girl playing a song on her father’s gramophone. Tomorrow, he would be Private First Class Takami Keigo, fighting for his life on the battlefield. Tonight, he would be normal again, slow dancing to Clair de Lune playing off an old, off-beat gramophone with you in his arms, mourning a start he didn’t get to have.

(As normal as a kid scrounging for scraps on the street could’ve been.)

Your voice, soft and wavering, broke the stillness of the moment, as if it were something taboo that shouldn’t have been uttered into existence at all.

“Keigo?”

“Yes, beautiful?”

You flushed at the endearment, the next words shattering his illusion of happiness within nostalgia with the renewed vigor of confidence in the face of the impossible.

“Will you come home?”

Home.

A simple word, really. And yet it dropped like a stone in his chest. Home meant a roof over his head. Home meant warm food on the table. Home meant a simple life in a sleepy rural town. Home meant the promise of a new beginning.

To you, “home” probably meant nothing more than the place you had known all your life.

To him, “home” meant you.

So, like a dreamer in love, he answered with all the confidence of a fool.

“Yeah... I will. I don’t care how long it’ll take me, but I’ll come home.”

He thought the shaky lilt to his voice would’ve given him away, or the way his step faltered in the already clumsy waltz as if trying to step around what he knew should’ve been the answer.

Instead, you laughed. Something soft, and let him spin you once more.

“Well, I’ve already waited a couple years, what’s a little more waiting?”

Keigo had to keep himself from double checking if this was real. Dancing with you in the moonlight as he tried to step around the reality of that answer with all the awkward grace of a scared child.

One, two, three, one, two, three…

Truth be told, the both of you knew the answer long before you had pushed the question into desperate existence, searching for a shred of hope. That his simple answer should have been an realistic “I don’t know” or a pessimistic “no promises”, instead of a foolish “yes.”

Instead, he slowed the waltz to a sway, pulling you close to both ingrain the feeling of you into his soul and to hopefully hide the resigned melancholy of a soldier being carted off to uncertainty.

And, for a traitorous moment, Keigo wondered.

Dreamed, even.

What would it have been like to have a “normal” life? Instead of grasping the hand of desperation, would he have grown out of the side alleys and homes made of boxes into a “respectable” man? Maybe he could’ve gotten a job at the grocer’s, at Old Yasutaro’s restaurant, or maybe even Granny Tamayo’s izakaya. Could he have—he pulled you closer, pressing a ghost of a kiss to your temple—could he have courted you the “right” way? Brought you flowers and honey-sweet words of praise and promises of a happy future, instead of a single night dancing in the moonlight with a brittle promise hanging in the tense air that the both of you clung onto like a lifeline. A promise that Keigo wasn’t even sure he could fulfill.

He would later come to regret this single moment. Of this, he was sure.

(But, as you lifted your head from his chest with glassy eyes and a shaky smile, he knew he wasn’t alone in this regret.)

Keigo knew the words that you wished to let fall into the night air, in hopes of making that brittle promise tangible. Of giving life to a bright future with three little words. The reality crawled up his throat like poison, bitter and cloying, something that he knew shouldn’t be said. Keigo settled for gently wrapping his hand around your head to pull you closer, filtering the harsh truth into something a little softer, the bittersweet tone marking the unspoken truth as a reality instead of the dreams of a future.

One… two… three…

“Don’t,” He muttered, heart tightening as he felt you go rigid in his arms, “I know. Please, God, I know—”

You slowly relaxed in his arms with all the bitter acceptance of a night before battle, and he murmured the next words into another ghost of a kiss. A whisper against your lips, seen only by the fading notes of a song in the moonlight.

“—but don’t.”

【 ☀︎ 】

Keigo’s breath was rattling, ears ringing with war cries, death wails, and everything in between. The once-blue noon sky was now a startling haze of ash gray, thick with the choking scent of the world burning.

He couldn’t even tell where the carnage started or ended anymore.

(Would it ever end?)

How long has it been since the first shot?

(Too long.)

Would he live to see the sunset?

(Of all times to worry about this, why now?)

The incessant drill of artillery fire was nothing new to him, as was the stench of the battlefield that could only be described as death. What was new, was something that pushed his aching body to keep moving, the autopilot state he usually entered backed with something raw. Something like fear.

Something like the will to survive.

The pain that set his nerves on fire has long since faded, all the pain of countless wounds blending together into something numbed by the adrenaline of survival. Were the wet patches on his uniform sweat? Blood? Both? He couldn’t tell anymore, all he knew was survival and the persistent voice whispering deadly distraction in the back of his mind.

Civilians. You’re fighting civilians, you mur—

The skin of his back prickled, the telltale whistling of something flying screeched in his ears, and his reflexes yanked him to dive out of the way before his mind could catch up. Not even a second later, another explosive detonated behind him and heat blazed across his back. His nerves screamed fresh pain into his senses and he grit his teeth, ignoring the concerning sound of sizzling over the ringing in his ears in favor of ducking into cover, collapsing against the wall of a destroyed building.

Since when did regular people know how to make bombs?!

In the next breath, someone else had ducked into the small shelter he’d found in this hellscape of a city.

Well, the remains of one. All hell broke loose once the other side brought homemade explosives into the fray and now, as he stared at the burning and destruction, Keigo wondered if those Westerners who muttered meaningless blessings whenever they passed were right.

If this “Hell” they spoke of really was on Earth.

He turned his head, suddenly sluggish, to the man that had joined him in the makeshift cover, and grinned at the familiar face.

“Hey, man.”

(Maybe giving his body a chance to slow down was a mistake.)

Touya ignored his exhausted greeting, instead opting to yank a rag from his pouch as he pulled Keigo to sit up so he could press the rag into the deep gashes the shrapnel had gouged into his back. Keigo immediately groaned in protest at the stinging pain, despite how necessary he knew it was.

“Fucking— how did you even survive that?”

“Dunno,” He let out a weak laugh, “Don’t think I will—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll kill you myself.” Despite his harsh threat, Touya pressed the slowly darkening rag deeper into his wound. A desperate (futile) attempt to stop the life pooling onto the floor underneath them, steadily flowing from the deep gashes in his back and all the other wounds peppering his body.

“Isn’t that the exact opposite—” He hissed in pain at the pressure on his wounds, “—of what you want?”

“Shut up.”

“You know you don’t want me doing that.”

(He was right. Keigo running his mouth meant that he was breathing. Meant that he was alive.)

Touya pressed his lips into a thin line, Keigo blearily tracking the way his burn scars pulled with the movement.

Grounding himself, that’s what he’s supposed to do during times like this, right? Hell, he didn’t know. Not every day he came so close to death. Touya really needed to look into something for those sc—

“For the love of the gods, I am begging you to shut up.”

Ah, he said all that out loud? He managed to muster up a sheepish grin, despite Touya’s grim expression.

“Ooh, Touya? Begging? That’s a first, I should stay awake to hear it.” Keigo didn’t have to look to know that the rag was soaked through and Touya was fighting against the inevitable at this point. Keigo? He… he was too tired to fight to keep his eyes open. Too cold.

“Maybe you should stay awake to go home, loverboy.”

“I should.” He fumbled to find purchase, pressing his palm into the ground and scooting his feet closer for leverage. “Can’t leave Y/N waiting after all.”

Maybe it was the delirium from the blood-loss, or the desperation of this cursed situation, but Keigo tried to pull himself up. To move, to get somewhere safer, somewhere where he could survive. His palm slipped on the blood-slick floor underneath him and he came crashing down once more, his strength disappearing along with it as he slumped against Touya.

“Ah—”

“Shit, I’ll get you to the medic.”

Keigo groaned at the pain of his wounds being jostled as Touya tried to haul the deadweight of his sluggish body up. The reality of the situation weighed heavy on his shoulders (or was it his strength leaving him?) and he licked his chapped lips, whispering the grim truth into the ash-hazy air.

“I’m not gonna make it to the medic.”

“How many times do I have to keep telling you to shut up?” Another attempt to pull him to his feet, and Keigo managed to push out a weak laugh.

“Just a couple more times.”

“Hey… hey, c’mon now, I still have to make fun of you and Y/N for being the most disgusting couple I’ve ever met.” He carefully shook Keigo, trying desperately to get him to keep his drooping eyes open.

“Aw, don’t tease Y/N too badly.”

Something changed in Touya’s voice, a block in his throat that he had to force his words through, and he clutched the dripping rag closer to his wounds as he muttered out his response.

“I won’t.”

“Good, good,” Keigo’s hands clumsily fumbled for the cord wrapped over his chest, tugging at it until it came loose. “Hey, can you tell Y/N that I’ll do my best to come home? In any way I can.”

“...Just do it yourself.”

“Mm, that would… that would be nice. Coming home, I mean. I promised… Y/N… I would…”

His words faded, and Touya froze, arms suspended in midair around the slumped form of his best friend, his stunned gaze locked on the identification tag hanging from a limp, bloody hand.

“Kei...go?”

【 ☀︎ 】

Waiting was agony.

You used to think you were a patient person, years of dealing with drunks, horrible customers, and everything in between training the patience of a saint into you.

Today, however, revealed that you were anything but. The moment the company had crested the hill and out of sight, your anxieties slowly overcame you the farther they went. Working in the izakaya helped, the constant flow of customers and orders kept you on your feet and your thoughts off the battle that was no doubt waging mere miles away. Every so often, a wandering patron would come in murmuring that they heard bits and pieces of the battle, and you forced yourself to forget again.

All that effort was lost once the company’s runner came barreling through the town, shouting that the soldiers were on their way back. That they needed spaces cleared for the wounded and their lodgings secured. They called for the doctor, they called for food, they called for supplies.

If you didn’t know any better, it would’ve sounded like a cry for help.

Word spread like wildfire, and the rush of serving customers turned into the rush of trying to help prepare for the soldiers’ return. None of it helped get your mind off the one thing you didn’t want to worry about. If anything, it just shoved all your worries to the forefront of your mind, accompanied by the dull headaches of something you hoped were just random fantasies.

(Fantasies of a lotus garden, a guarded grin, a red hairpin, a betrayal—)

Would he have to be wrapped in the bandages you were carrying? Would he have to rest in the bedding in your hands? Would he be able to eat the food your grandmother was preparing?

Then, they came.

A slow straggle of wounded and weary men, leaning and limping on each other as they slowly trickled in through the main street.

There were many things that wouldn’t happen, you would later realize, watching the company trudge back into the town. Their formation was shaky from the hobbling wounded, and you felt your heart drop as you desperately searched the noticeably thinner crowd, trying to peek through the uniforms and bandages and dented helmets for any sign that he had come home. That he had survived.

How many men did they lose?

(Too many.)

You watched the flow of soldiers slowly follow their commander to their lodgings and the doctor, the once boisterous crowd now silent and battle-worn. The rookie that had just been under a chokehold the other night was now cradling bandaged wounds and a gaunt expression that only told of his first brushes with death.

One soldier broke from the crowd to make his way towards you, and—for a fleeting moment—you hoped.

And just as quickly as it came, that hope you had soon sunk into despair once you saw who it was, and what he held in his scarred hands.

Across the street, a man broke rank, with a heavier burden than most would’ve thought and few would ever experience. He hoped that no one would have to experience this, a death and the task of delivering such news weighing heavy on his shoulders.

Life, Touya thinks, is cruel.

It left such a brilliant mind like Keigo to starve with him on the streets.

It forced him to run to the military in desperation, searching for steady food and shelter.

It snatched away the one man who had salvation waiting for him.

Death, Touya grieves, is even crueler.

Keigo would never get to go home.

He wouldn’t get to see the joy on your face once you welcomed him home with open arms.

(How could he? When your expression twists into something akin to dawning horror instead of joy, watching Touya make his way up to you with downcast eyes and a heavy bundle of fabric carefully cradled in his palm.)

He wouldn’t get to start the new life he deserved, in a sleepy rural town with the one he adored.

He wouldn’t get to fulfill his promise to you.

A promise that everyone knew was too risky a promise to make. Yet, he believed enough to make it to you.

A promise that Touya holds back on his tongue because he knew this—a little metal disc on a bloodstained cord—wouldn’t fulfill it, not when he hands you the neat square of scrap fabric and watches your tears flow before you even open it. Not when you slip out a worn identification tag, holding it up to the sunset to try and make out the letters you already knew were there.

A lantern illuminates what the fading sunlight could not, casting the stamped characters of Keigo’s bloodied name in an amber glow, and you crumble.

【 ☀︎ 】

Dawn finds Professor Takami, Head of the Sociology Department, first through the doors of the campus café with essays to be finished grading in one hand and his laptop bag in the other.

The cashier greets him with a familiar warmth as he steps up to the counter, his staple order already halfway punched into the register with a knowing smile that he forces himself to return. There’s a nervous energy simmering under his skin that he can’t seem to shake, and it shows. The barista (Touya. His name is Touya. He literally has one of the guy’s essays in his hand, fucking hell. Get it together, Keigo) shoots the normally easygoing professor a worried look as he slides the warmed pastry across the counter to him, the full sleeves of swirling blue and black ink a stark contrast against the smooth wood of the counter.

“Everything good with you, Professor?”

“Perfect, now that I got my pastry. Think I’ll be even better once I drink some coffee.”

Nothing was perfect, and he couldn’t even put a finger on what it was.

He plastered a convincing smile on his face as he picked up the too-heavy plate, careful to hold it steady before making a beeline for his usual table. The faster he got to sit down at his usual corner booth and sort himself out, the better.

He knew that he would just drown himself in grading papers instead of figuring out what was making him feel off, but it was the thought that counted.

The hum of energy under his skin was nothing new to him. Something deep inside that made him almost jumpy, wary of the peaceful days that had consumed his entire life, lying in wait for… something. For what? Keigo wished he knew.

(For battles yet started, for warcries yet sung, for survival yet fought for.)

All he knew was that the strange hum that threatened to vibrate him out of his own skin was different this time. Wrong. It didn’t help that his sleep had been suffering for the past week, plagued by dreams and nightmares both of eras past, the blurry picture of the same person a constant sight in the swirling mix of history. Images flickering between a secluded lotus garden and an elaborate kimono to an old izakaya and Clair de Lune at moonrise. Images of yearning and blood and tragedy and endings before the beginnings.

At least his conversations with the once-intimidating Japanese Literature professor got a smidge more interesting.

With the resolute click of a red pen, he swept away the thoughts clouding his mind as he resigned himself to his fate of just dealing with the strange mood for now, fully intent on getting to work. Years of repetition and muscle memory had him opening up his email with practiced ease, quietly sighing to himself as he waited for the doubtlessly endless emails from students and colleagues alike to load.

Would procrastinating just the tiniest bit by fiddling with the rolled cuffs of his sleeves or pushing up his glasses for the nth time help at all?

No, but it let Keigo expel the weirdly restless energy in what ways he could, the creeping sense of foreboding setting his nerves into overdrive. The page loaded and he frowned at the onslaught of emails he knew were going to flood his inbox.

Hell, he expected them to.

What he didn’t expect were the contents, the subject lines all variations of “Did you know?” and “There’s no way” and “I can’t believe it” from colleagues he didn’t even talk to regularly. Sure, the email from the cultural anthropology professor made sense, but the graphic design professor? The head of the business department?

Before he could open the first email of many, his laptop chirped out the familiar ‘ding!’ of a new email, the sound rippling through the café as everyone’s phones and laptops lit up with the same message.

A schoolwide email? Okay, th—

The world slowed to a crawl, everyone in the packed coffee shop silencing almost at once and the shocked whispers rippling throughout the space only serving to make the silence all the more deafening (“Hey, check your email.” and “Look at this.” and “No way.” and it was too loud someone please make it stop—), his ears near ringing as he struggled to tear his gaze away from the picture embedded at the top of the page.

“Looking a little rough there.” The cotton suddenly stuffing his ears muffled the barista’s voice and would’ve made him jump out of his skin had he been focused on anything but burning the email into his eyes. God, he’d barely even registered the guy coming up to serve his coffee, what was wrong with him? “Professor? Was it that email?”

“Y-Yeah, I just read it.” He cleared his throat and slid the mug closer to himself, taking a sip of the scalding hot coffee to ground himself as he stared at the picture of you.

The barista merely arched a pierced brow and muttered a soft “ah.” before going back to his spot behind the espresso machine, vibrant blue eyes tracking the rattled professor suspiciously. Keigo was too preoccupied to thank him as he usually would’ve. Too preoccupied with what was staring back at him from his laptop screen.

A picture placed right under the subject line plastering “Unfortunate news about Prof. L/N Y/N” across his screen, the few words in the body text (that he could pick out through the sudden tidal wave of memories past clicking into place) painted an image that he couldn’t help but mourn.

After being reported missing… remains found… will be missed.

Will be missed…

Well, now that he thought about it, Keigo had been missing you all his life, hadn’t he?

Both figuratively and literally, always arriving after you left and vice versa, never really seeming to connect in person. Any emails were shrouded with a veil of professionalism that he couldn’t pierce through. Yet, there were things so irrevocably you that he knew to pick out now. The jovial note at the end of your emails, the unapologetically confident sharpness to your words, the extra mug you left for the next person that passed through the faculty lounge (that somehow always ended up being him on the days he was rushing to his next lecture).

All these things, all these moments, and the fool had passed all of them by.

The restless energy humming under his skin through his entire being disappeared much quicker than it had come, its job done, leaving a gaping void in its wake that was shockingly familiar. Almost as if this wasn’t the first time this had happened, where the curtains never raised on the beginning you two could’ve had. He took a shuddering, stabilizing breath (that didn’t work), too numb to feel the freshly brewed coffee scalding his tongue that he had hoped would pull him back to reality, hoped the sweet taste would wash away the bitterness at the back of his throat and the splitting headache of years upon years of memories crashing into him like a tidal wave.

Professor Takami had work to get done.

Keigo could mourn later.

Even as he convinced himself of that, he couldn’t even bring himself to brush the dead lotus petals off his work, the sight of the wilted centerpiece only bringing more pain. The cruel coincidence of the once bloomed flowers now dead in his hands didn’t go unnoticed, and Keigo desperately tried to bore the printed words laid in front of him into his mind.

As if doing that would sear away the sudden onslaught of memories, dead lotus petals igniting a yearning for a long-demolished lotus garden and a pretty concubine who didn’t belong in the palace (or was it a small town and the life he could’ve had?) and the love that slipped through his fingers once more.

Did you go through this too? When he—

The half-graded essays lay untouched for the rest of the day, red ink disappearing in the crimson light cast by the setting sun.

【 ☀︎ 】

When did I…?

He blinked down at the concrete under his feet, stunned, before looking up to see an endless sea of trains passing in front of him. The incessant rushing of the trains around him had replaced the silence of the hotel room he was supposed to be sound asleep in, the too-rhythmic noise of the train tracks surrounding him in an almost ethereal white noise.

I had just gone to bed… How did I end up at a train station?

He winced at the glare of the midday sun reflecting off of the last car of the train passing in front of him, before stopping short at the sight of someone standing on the other side of the tracks—alone—revealed by the passing train. His heart leapt into his throat and pushed a name he didn’t know and wouldn’t remember out of his lips. There was no way he knew her, the multi-layered kimono and elegant hairpins looked like something out of a millenia-old ukiyo-e print and wholly out of place in a modern train station. But... something deep in his soul knew that it was right, and it sang as he watched the woman turn around.

“You’re dreaming right now, Keigo. Go back to sleep,”

“What…?”

“It’s true,” The woman tilted her head with the soft smile that he’d missed so much (missed? Wasn’t this his first time seeing it?) and the ancient hairpieces jingled and swayed with the movement, his gaze locking on a familiar crimson gemstone catching the sunlight, “Don’t believe me? Try to count some numbers, then. One… two…”

Another train hurtled past, blocking his view once more as her painted lips moved soundlessly around the final number.

“Three.”

Keigo sat up with a gasp, staring at the soft shafts of light the sunrise painted on the walls.

It was the start of a new day, and he found himself mourning something lost that he couldn’t even remember.

Dawn finds Hawks, the number two hero, leaping out of his Tokyo hotel window, wind catching on vermilion wings to buffer his descent to the sidewalk.

He was far from home, his current mission dragging him all the way to Tokyo from his agency in Fukuoka. Sneakers touched concrete, and he started down the path where he was supposed to meet with the last person he wanted to see right now. Especially after that mess with the High-End Nomu. He shuddered, spreading his wings as if to remind himself that they were all there, recovered after that hellish fight.

Come to the location on foot, he’d been told, and don’t be conspicuous.

Weird request, and it was kind of hard to remain inconspicuous when he was the number two hero and had a pair of bright red wings announcing his identity to the world. Alas, he needed to cooperate or else he’d end up jeopardizing the entire mission, so Keigo settled for ditching his hero costume in favor of casual clothes and a cap to hide his identity. He pulled a mask over his nose and tucked his wings closer to further help conceal himself as he walked down the street, dipping into the first alley he saw.

His path through the grid of alleyways and side streets had already been mapped out the days before, so it was just a matter of making the short trek there. Unfortunately, the area wasn’t the best, and Keigo found himself slowed by sidestepping trash and the occasional bottle of liquor. The scent of stale alcohol only brought unpleasant fragments of memories, and he pushed them aside in favor of quickening his pace.

“My, not every day I see such a bigshot hero pass by.”

He almost tripped over another bottle, wings ruffling in surprise as he cursed himself for being caught off guard.

There was an old woman sitting there, a steaming cup of tea in her hands as she sat outside her quaint little storefront.

A flower shop, in this secluded side street?

“Ah, sorry, ma’am, you have the wrong person. I mean, me? The number 2 pro hero?” He was quick to deny her, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. She merely hummed and took another sip of her tea.

“Do I? Well, this old woman’s eyes aren’t what they used to be after all.” She set down the cup and stepped out of her chair, shuffling over to the water feature on the other side of the doorway that served as an attraction. He could see why, the soft rush of the small waterfall and fragrant lotuses drawing his attention the more he stared.

Suddenly, the woman plucked one of the younger lotuses, patting the stem dry before handing it to him with a smile.

“Uh—”

“You saved my son that day, from the Nomu attack in Fukuoka. This is the least I could do.”

Against his better judgement—he really needed to get going to catch the train in time—he took the half-bloomed lotus in his hands and pulled down his mask to smile at her.

“Your eyes are… actually pretty sharp, ma’am. Thank you.”

She laughed, sitting back in her seat and sent him on his way. The rest of the walk went smoothly after that, and he soon found himself jogging up the stairs to the station, muttering under his breath as he checked his watch.

Right on time.

【 ☀︎ 】

A strange sense of deja vu creeped into his chest as he stepped onto the platform in Minami-senju station. He’d been feeling off all day, and the weird sense of familiarity that had been tugging at the back of his mind didn’t help. Luckily, he’d managed to arrive in time to catch the noon train so the rest of his schedule should hopefully go smoothly from here. A departing train screeched into motion, and he winced at the rippling glare of sunlight that reflected into his eyes, the strange deja vu rearing its head again.

Keigo stared at the train passing in front of him as he idly twirled the lotus stem in between his fingers. The words left his lips before he could catch himself.

“One… two…” He cut himself off with a sigh, dropping his head and dragging a hand over his face.

It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Keigo.

His head shot up at the sound of his name, the world darkening under the shade of a passing cloud. Did he just imagine that? He had to. The train station was practically stranded, and there was no one even close enough to call his name without shouting across the station (if they even knew his name in the first place). Despite his better judgement, he wet his lips and shut his eyes, the strangely familiar words passing his lips once more as he desperately tried to recall the familiarity he longed for.

“One…”

I want to see you.

“Two…”

I don’t even know who you are, but I miss you anyway.

“Three—”

Suddenly, the steady rhythm of the train tracks silenced and left him with the raging drum of his heartbeat, the blood rushing in his ears as he stared at the person standing on the other side of the tracks. The emerging sun smiled upon him, casting the world in light once more as his voice locked around a familiar name he’d never spoken.

It started as a hushed whisper, and he swallowed the lump in his throat to call the name thrice ingrained into his soul.

“Y/N!”

The familiar smile that bloomed across your lips was answer enough as he pushed through the newly arrived train to the other side, to you. He reached out, clawing through the rush hour crowd (why were there so many people? Why were you so far? Closer, closer, closer—) and he nearly sobbed in relief as you fell into his arms, clinging to each other as your souls finally, finally, melded together as one. Now and forevermore.

The questions could come later, but now... he had a promise to fulfill.

He was home.

notes: minami-senju train station is located in very close proximity (a two-minute walk) from what is left of the kozukappara execution grounds, where a temple now stands in its place. he’s made quite the journey to come full circle, hasn’t he?

#takami keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo x reader #hawks x reader #bnha oneshot #hawks x reader angst #mha oneshot #bnha reader insert #mha reader insert #reincarnation au #from the typewriter #pocuties #cw death #tw death #cw blood #tw blood #cw war #tw war #if you'd like me to add a warning please let me know!

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goldenvoicedminstrel · 3 years

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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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hydra-collector · 4 years

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a sanders sides analysis of “far“

far, if you’re not aware (which honestly you probably werent) is an album by regina spektor (the same one as ‘one more time with feeling’ from logan’s playlist) and regina spektor has songs that work weirdly well with sanders sides so i’m going to give each song on the album a side. i might do this again with ‘what we saw from the cheap seats’ but its not as weirdly perfect as far.

this ended up being really long, so it’s under the cut.

the calculation: logan, no question. it’s basically about trying to 'calculate’ love from what they saw around them, mostly in media, because don’t understand it. they’re desperate to make it work, so they try again and again “beating their hearts against each other” and eventually, it sparks. intrulogical if you’d like someone to pair it with, since roman has all the romance with thomas.

eet: this one was more difficult, but i think its a lot of patton. after all, the summary on genius literally says “’Eet’ is a wistful, introspective song brimming with nostalgia. The overarching themes seem to be about a person’s development of morality through their experience in their childhood.” it connects a lot to ‘moving on’ in that respect, where thomas wishes he could go back to the times he remembered in patton’s room. if you don’t already know, eet is the backspace key on a typewriter, but since it actually prints letters, you can’t really go back. i also think the line “using your headphones to drown out your mind” is perfect for virgil. i think in “someone’s deciding whether or not to steal/he opens a window just to feel the chill/he hears that outside a small boy just started to cry/’cause it’s his turn, but his brother won’t let him try” janus could be the thief, trying to decide what thomas should take for himself, and obviously remus would be the brother that’s crying because he doesn’t get his turn to be listened to.

blue lips: janus or logan. part of it is kind of like an analysis of society, but it’s mostly about death and aging, which i think both of them will have thought about. the line “the pictures in his mind awoke/and began to breed” definitely reminds me of remus, intrusive thoughts and stuff. its preceded in one verse by “and no one saw and no one heard/they just followed lead” which i think could be about how thomas won’t let himself talk about remus’s thoughts, or janus’s lies, or even logan being tired of how thomas just tries to do everything everyone else does.

folding chair: roman, i think. part of it, patton, maybe. it’s hard to articulate exactly what i mean, but i think a lot of it has to do with being tired and lonely. i think maybe what i’m thinking with roman is that he’s been living so long one kind of way, but it’s not a happy kind of way. like he wants to do something (maybe flashbacks to ‘broadway here i come’ mayybe) or become a dark side, but he’s scared. “now i’ve been sitting on this abandoned beach for years/waiting for the salty water to cover up my ears/but every time the tide comes in to take me home/i get scared, and i’m sitting here alone.” i’m still not completely sure why this came off as roman to me, but maybe someone else would see it better. i don’t think it fits nearly as well as the other songs, but hey, i said i’d do all of them.

machine: janus or logan. kind of surprised it’s not a definite ‘logan,’ with its name, but it’s a lot about society and there’s a transition from “pre-war apartment” to “post-war apartment” which doesn’t fit logan very well at all. and rather than being ‘i am a machine,’ it’s “i’m hooked into machine.” i think that implies that the machine is society (forgive me if that doesn’t make much sense, genius doesn’t have much on this one) because we’re so intertwined, so connected to each other and functioning as a society, possibly how the government wants us to. some of the lyrics make me think it’s about some alternate universe, like “I collect my moments/into a correspondence/with a mightier power/who just lacks my perspective/and who lacks my organics/and who covets my defects,” which is the only reason i didn’t take logan out of the characters completely.

laughing with: janus, if he’s singing it sarcastically. i think he would be making fun of the people who ‘laugh at god.’ also the line “no one laughs at god on the day they realize/that the last sight they'll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes” which i think would’ve resonated very well with janus before svsr. not gonna say much else bc i can barely listen to the song as it is, much less analyze it.

human of the year: maybe also janus, but then again maybe moreso roman or patton. i say janus mostly because it has a very creepy vibe to go with the fictional award of “human of the year.” but roman or patton fits more with the receiver of the award. at least roman would probably give up anything to be deemed that great person, that hero.

two birds: anxceit babyyy. or roceit. it’s really weird because i can’t really tell whether virgil is leaving the wire or janus. the obvious option would be virgil, leaving for the light sides, but the subtler option is the callback. then again, i’m not sure if the one on the wire would change to roman or the general light sides if it was the callback. i also don’t think that virgil wanted janus to come with him, which doesn’t make sense for how the one bird would ask and the other would lie (hehe deceit) and say he was going to come. then again, that could just be a different interpretation of how virgil left the dark sides. in my opinion, though, roceit is much more fun. “i’ll believe it all:” roman. “i won’t let go of your hand:” janus. roman is lying to janus, he’s saying he wants to go to the wedding. janus is trying to just get him to go to the callback. roman’s tempted by it, tempted by how janus is treating him. the line “one more or one less, nobody’s worried” could maybe be janus trying to convince them that it doesn’t matter if they go to the wedding, that lee and mary lee won’t really care. anxceit’s also fun, though.

dance anthem of the 80′s: doesn’t really have a side that it fits in canon, but i think it’d be interesting to put it with patton in an AU. the character is peppy and innocent at first, but it descends into a more depressing tone. i also think the heteronormativity does it a favor in its context. again, it has nothing to do with canon, just thought it’d be cool in an AU.

genius next door: logan, or remus. this song hurts me every time i hear it, since i’ve started associating it with logan. it’s pretty much about this kid, the genius, who’s presumably depressed and goes into the lake each night, holding his breath until he comes back up. this ends up being a bad idea, because at one point he holds his breath too long, and dies in the lake. mostly as i’ve thought about it, i’ve considered logan, but honestly it kind of fits remus better, like how he “didn't care as long as he was able/to strip his clothes off by the dumpsters/at night while everyone was sleeping/and wade midway into that porridge/just him and his secret he was keeping” (the porridge is the lake.) in addition to that, they describe his death as “and the genius next door was sleeping/dreaming that the antidote was orgasm.” sorry for y’all having to catch me referencing other songs, but in the mountain goat’s “amy aka spent gladiator 1″ he says “do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive/do every stupid thing to try to drive the dark away” (which i think is also a very remus song) so he’s describing how it feels good to risk your life. the adrenaline will make you “feel alive,” which is probably why the kid in the song did it (which i saw in the comments someone compared to being the ‘orgasm.’) and while this is not a good idea, considering what happened to the genius next door, i do think it’s a very remus thing to do if he was depressed.

wallet: patton. it’s a very cute song, and it’s pretty much just about how the singer found a wallet, looked at it a little, then returned it to the owner. the singer says “i have no wallet/i keep my cards together with a blue rubber band” and i think that would be something patton does. “you'll never know me/i'll never know you/but you'll be so happy/when they call you up” is probably how patton would feel returning it. finally, something not depressing.

one more time with feeling: i don’t need to choose a side for this one, it’s already logan. i do want to share my thoughts on it, though, ‘cause it seems i disagree with a couple people (plus i didn’t analyze his playlist so i haven’t said anything about it before.) “everyone takes turns/now it's yours to play the part.” he’s supposed to help thomas, as he did in dwit and tried to in svsr. “and the misery inside their eyes is synchronized and reflecting it to yours.” they didn’t listen, though, in svsr and it took half an hour in dwit. for the chorus, “hold on/one more time with feeling/try it again, breathing's just a rhythm/say it in your mind until you know that the words are right/this is why we fight,” i think maybe he’s trying to be interesting to them. to just get through it, and practice and practice until he has the words that they’ll like. that’s just my little hc, though. “you thought by now you'd be/so much better than you are/you thought by now they'd see/that you had come so far.” these lines hit the hardest for me. remember how logan was in the beginning? especially in moving on, he seemed to have no compassion for thomas’s feelings. but hasn’t he gotten better? i think he’s trying to be better to them, to be kinder about emotional problems. and he has come far, but not as far as he would’ve liked, especially considering that he hasn’t seen them appreciate it. he was hoping that they’d notice, that they’d be glad he was doing better. that they’d be proud of him. but they aren’t. they just disregard him even more, unable to forget about who he was, unable to consider how far he’d come (maybe projecting a little.) i also think that the “this is why we fight” could be him talking about how because they don’t listen, he’s exhausted from getting angry at them each episode, and they get annoyed but their ignorance is why they fight.

as a whole, i think he’s just trying again, and again, and again, and i thought, maybe he’s trying with feeling. like, he’s trying to feel for them, trying to care. maybe it has to do with what he did in svsr, where he hinted at his feelings, how he felt like they didn’t care. and they didn’t say a thing. they only could’ve reinforced the idea that even though they’ve tried to tell him that he feels, they don’t care. i went on a whole rant about patton, roman, and thomas in svsr and i could again, but that’s not related to the song.

man of a thousand faces: roman, loosely. at first i was like “man of a thousand faces?!?! janus?!?” but it actually barely fits him at all. it might actually be about drugs, but we’ll ignore that. “his words are quiet like stains are/on a tablecloth washed in a river/stains that are trying to cover for each other/or at least blend in with the pattern” could represent his mistakes, his ideas, maybe stuff that didn’t turn out. and maybe the better ideas will cover up his mistakes. “good is better than perfect.” it could be that his perfectionism is driving him insane, and he needs to start reminding himself that it’s better if he starts reaching for at least just good. “and i’m crying for things that/i tell others to do without crying” is such a roman line i...

anyway that’s the album. if you read through this i’m... impressed.

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coffee-and-cookies-mochi · 4 years

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different

Different

(one last attempt, one last plea.

or, the meeting once more in yunmeng but…in a different ending, entirely.)

+eng trans of wangxian’s conversations are from exr translations ; all credits are to the translator.

lyrics (in italics) are from ‘different’ by winner.

(also posted on my ao3)

***

i’m just different

i can't be a nice guy

you might be hurt because of me

but please don't leave me

even if i'm a bad guy

***

If Lan WangJi had to be honest, he had no idea what to expect, or what he should do, even.

He had no idea why he is Yunmeng, or of what he seeks here.

(You do, his traitorous mind reminds him. It was of your own volition why you are here.)

Despite the agony and freezing, clawing jealousy he feels in his heart as the ghastly ladies touch Wei Ying in ways he hadn’t even imagined, Lan WangJi still tries to say what he truly wants to say.

“Wei Ying, it is still best if you come back to Gusu with me.”

It is frustrating, however, that the words sound all wrong and garbled. The words are not the ones he truly wants to convey—of what his heart truly cries for ever since he’d seen Wei Ying in a different light.

‘Allow me to protect you. To help you. To get rid of the darkness creeping in your heart and in your soul. This isn’t you, Wei Ying, this isn’t helping you—!’

And it gets worse, after that. Words that were so careless and ridiculous and hurtful, like piercing jabs of a sword—as if Wei Ying is brandishing his own words as how he would wield SuiBian, but Lan WangJi, for all his helplessness, can only receive the jabs.

This is getting nowhere, but Lan WangJi is desperate.

“What can I say?+” Wei Ying spits, and Lan WangJi fights back a flinch. “Even though I don’t think that I’ll regret it, I don’t like it when people take guesses at how I’m going to be in the future, either. +”

For a brief second, Lan WangJi sees the sixteen-year-old Wei Ying in the class, explaining how resentful energies can be harnessed as a tool. For a brief second , Lan WangJi sees the insistent Wei Ying back then in XuanWu Cave, planning how to annihilate the tortoise and struggling to survive.

For a brief second, Lan WangJi sees the odd sparkle in his seemingly dead gray eyes—a sparkle he’d once thought that dimmed when Wei Ying was cloaked with resentful energies.

“I am the one who was out of line+,” Lan WangJi manages to say (mumble) helplessly, desperation and agony starting to crack him on the inside.

Am I the one who does not still see, Wei Ying?

Or is it you who refuses to let anyone see?

Or is it—?

For a brief second he sees that Wei Ying again, convincing him of impossibilities and stupidities and all sorts of things Lan WangJi had once considered ridiculous, yet Wei Ying always proved that he can, that he will, that he will shine anyway.

Is not his very presence now—albeit freezing but definitely alive—the very proof that he still glows in the brightness Lan WangJi has associated him with, despite walking on the dark, lonely path?

Is not Wei Ying’s existence now, after all the horrors brought upon by the Sunshot Campaign, a proof that he is still the Wei Ying he knew?

Before Wei Ying can say anything, Lan WangJi quickly says, “Please forgive me. It��it seems I…I have doubted you. I am sorry.”

Wei Ying pauses, shock momentarily evaporating the frost in his eyes. Even the ghosts with him seem to be stunned.

Lan WangJi takes this as an opportunity to let Wei Ying see that he cares, that he does not guess on what Wei Ying will be in the future. That he is unlike all the Sect Leaders and the rest of the avenging cultivators who only wanted his abilities to win the war, only to be scorned and discarded and shunned later on.

That Wei Ying can trust him, even a little.

(I truly must have gone mad, Lan WangJi thinks dryly.)

“I simply wish that you will be well, Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi continues, desperately holding on to the brittle chance that Wei Ying will listen. “But if…if my offer of help has offended you, I ask for your forgiveness.”

Bravely (Distraughtly) Lan WangJi meets Wei Ying’s eyes squarely, wishing (and begging) that he will see, truly see—can he not see? Can he not see how real this is, how sincere, how much he loved—?

“I truly am sorry,” is all Lan WangJi manages to whisper, when all he wants to scream is how much he loved the man before him.

Wei Ying is silent, shock still obvious on his face. However, Lan WangJi can see apprehension and curiosity, as if suddenly wondering why Lan WangJi is worried for him. Why he apologized, why he said those words out loud.

Wei Ying has always been an open book, letting his emotions show and echo freely everywhere he went. Wei Ying’s emotions resonate through his laughter and his smiles and the ever-present twinkle in his eyes.

Even if his joyous laughter chilled down to hollow, dark ones, even if his bright smiles morphed into diabolical grins—Wei Ying still wears his emotions on his sleeve, embroidered on a mask of arrogance and boredom.

Something that irked the younger Lan WangJi before, something that caught Lan WangJi’s attention for too long…something that Lan WangJi wished he himself possessed now.

Can Wei Ying see now? See the words Lan WangJi cannot say? Hear the emotions he cannot articulate—?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and Lan WangJi does not sense the usual chill in his voice. It is almost similar to his voice from back then, when they are fifteen and still stuck on the Library Pavilion. “Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi does not say anything; he simply waits for Wei Ying to gather his thoughts and speak.

It is a moment—a long, strained moment—before Wei Ying waves his hand.

“Leave.”

For a second, Lan WangJi thinks the word is meant for him—until the ghosts disappear.

Wei Ying sighs heavily, putting down his wine cup as he stares at Lan WangJi. “If I may ask, Lan Zhan,” he starts, “why are you so…so—insistent with this? Why are you always asking me to give up my demonic cultivation, or return to Gusu, for that matter? Are you so repulsed by me because of this? Or is this you being…”

Wei Ying trails off, biting his lip. Although his words sting, Lan WangJi knows that Wei Ying is struggling with his own words as well, doing his best to word his phrases right.

“Never repulsed,” Lan WangJi answers. “Like what I said, I only want to see you well.”

Not like this.

A short, shallow laugh escapes Wei Ying’s lips. “You’re concerned about me.”

It is neither a question, nor an accusation. But concerned will not be Lan WangJi’s choice of word, if he has to be honest.

“Yes.”

“To the point you’re actually asking me to go back to Cloud Recesses? Do you think I’m not aware of what your clan thinks about demonic cultivators like me?”

To this, Lan WangJi cannot answer directly. Instead he says, “But I will not force you upon it, if you do not want to. I…I do not wish to impose such a thing on you.”

(For would it not be similar to what Father did to Mother?)

Wei Ying merely stares at him, his gray eyes unreadable. For a short moment, Lan WangJi cannot help thinking this…frustration he feels right now might be the same one Wei Ying had always felt whenever he coaxed Lan WangJi to talk or even look at him.

Oh, how the tables have turned now.

“Back then, Lan Zhan, you seemed like you’d drag me there to Cloud Recesses should you get the chance,” Wei Ying mutters, dry amusement in his voice.

“Not anymore.”

A raised eyebrow. “Really?”

This is just so exasperating—to try to speak and express, yet his life and who he is prevent Lan WangJi from doing so.

But he tries. He tries so hard anyway; if there is anything Lan WangJi he’d learned from being with Wei Ying, it is to let his walls down a little more just so the other will understand.

“It…you are not one meant to be restrained,” Lan WangJi sighs. “But to remain as someone free.”

Like a soaring bird to the sky, like the rabbits back in his clearing, like the sixteen-year-old youth carefully making his way back to the Cloud Recesses with jars of alcohol in his hands.

Wei Ying chuckles—and it is not a happy sound. “Am I really free?” he whispers quietly, as if the question is meant for him.

You are, Lan WangJi wants to say, …and you are not.

“But for you to come this far…” Wei Ying trails off, and he looks away. Lan WangJi’s chest tightens at the sight of pain crossing his face.

He wants to reach out and smooth the frown off Wei Ying’s face, yet he stops himself.

(Does he have the right to do so?)

However, the tumultuous feelings inside his chest harshly rock Lan WangJi’s soul, a weak boat against strong waves. They threaten to overwhelm him from the inside, cloud his judgment until he ends up doing something that he will (probably not) regret. His heart constricts further and further until his head slowly starts to spin—

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying’s slightly shaking voice wakes Lan WangJi up from his stupor. “Be honest with me.”

Lan WangJi’s heart pounds with fear and expectation as he waits for Wei Ying to speak. At the same time the desperate part of him softly cries out, ‘When will I not be honest with you?’

Stormy gray eyes meet molten gold orbs. “Why?”

Wei Ying’s whispered question breaks a dam in Lan WangJi’s memories: the night he first met Wei Ying on the rooftops in Cloud Recesses; that day Wei Ying pestered Lan WangJi to look at him; that moment Wei Ying saved him from the Xuanwu of Slaughter; the fleeting instance Wei Ying asked him to sing him a song; the painful memory of Wei Ying dismissing him amidst corpses and vengeful energies—

Why, indeed?

Why is Lan WangJi doing all these; why is he chasing a man who haunts and is haunted; why is he running towards someone, like a desperate man clinging to a heart that cannot be his—?

“I…I like you, Wei Ying.” Lan WangJi’s mouth answers the question Wei Ying uttered and Lan WangJi echoed repeatedly in his mind.

Wei Ying gasps, his face totally blank with stun. “What?”

Lan WangJi pauses. Briefly. He finally realizes what he’d done, what he’d said—

—but it’s too late to run now, is it not

“I like you, Wei Ying,” he repeats, voice firm and eyes never leaving the other man.

“You—you—you what—!” Wei Ying sputters, and Lan WangJi almost laughs at the sight had it been not for the obvious…distress in his face.

And then—Wei Ying bursts out laughing. Loud laughter echoes all over the pavilion, a shocked, hollow, pained laughter that hurts and stings what remains of Lan WangJi’s heart.

This is not the laughter Lan WangJi is used of hearing, not the laughter he hears in his daydreams. This is not the laughter that brightened the Library Pavilion and tingled his heart; this is the laughter that darkens this pavilion even further and breaks his heart.

“Gods, Lan Zhan, no—gods, no,” Wei Ying gasps out, wiping his tears. “Please tell me you’re lying, Second Master Lan.”

“I am not.” Does Wei Ying not see?

“…What.”

“I am not lying, Wei Ying.” Do you not see?

“Please tell me you are, Lan Zhan.” Why does Wei Ying sound like he’s…pleading?

“And if I will not?”

Wei Ying then looks at him, and Lan WangJi stills in shock at the agony in his eyes.

Have I done something wrong—?

“Lan Zhan, please,” Wei Ying whispers, a warning and a prayer. “Tell me you lie. Or jest. Whatever. Take everything back you’ve said.”

“…Why?” Why should I take back the truth of what I told you?

A broken laughter fills the pavilion, anguished and pleading. “Please, Lan Zhan. Just this once. Tell me you lie.”

Lan WangJi doesn’t know which hurts more—his own heartbreak or the obvious torment in Wei Ying’s face.

“I do not lie, Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi says. The words are insistent, words that Lan WangJi will never regret of saying.

Wei Ying groans and buries his face in his hands, fingers pulling at his hair. Lan WangJi is beyond perplexed—what is happening? What is going on, why is Wei Ying hurt at his confession, does he not want to hear them at all—

—is this where everything ends and burns into nothingness—?

“Wei Ying?” Lan WangJi softly calls, deliberately reaching out, aching to comfort the other man. But Wei Ying is too far away, hidden in the cloaks of grief.

It is then Wei Ying lowers his hands, the flash of the expression on his face startling Lan WangJi, then Wei Ying shoves the table aside, grabs Lan WangJi’s robes’ lapels and pulls his face to his.

The kiss is hard and harsh, reflecting the tempests in their own hearts; the kiss is raw and desperate, as if seeking for unvoiced answers for muted questions. Wei Ying’s lips are chapped and hungry as they move against Lan WangJi’s; Lan WangJi’s fingers are laced through Wei Ying’s ebony hair as he responds just as fiercely.

Lan WangJi doesn’t know when it started or when it ended, but he feels Wei Ying’s heavy pants against his face and Wei Ying’s forehead against his. Lan WangJi’s body shivers at the intimate proximity, at the seemingly deceiving reality that Wei Ying is in his arms, catching his breaths.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying chokes out, and Lan WangJi’s wounds sting once more. “Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying,” is all Lan WangJi can murmur, when all he wants is to scream out how he loved Wei Ying so much, how he burned, how willing he is to let himself burn for Wei Ying.

“…Don’t love a broken man, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, and Lan WangJi can hear tears in Wei Ying’s voice. “Don’t love him, Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi opens his eyes, and he staggers at the actual tears flowing down Wei Ying’s cheeks, his head down. Never had he seen him this vulnerable, so open and aching and bleeding; Lan WangJi had been too used to a happy, carefree Wei Ying and to a cold, distant Wei Ying.

“Please don’t,” Wei Ying grabs fistfuls of Lan WangJi’s robes, his body shuddering with emotions he’d repressed for so long. “Please don’t love him, Lan Zhan.”

Please don’t say you love me, Lan Zhan.

Lan WangJi holds him tighter in his arms, lips on top of Wei Ying’s head. How can he not love a broken man, when he deserved all the love and warmth the world can offer?

How can he not love the broken man in his arms, who brought sunshine and colors in his world and gave it a sense of being?

How can he not love Wei Ying?

“I will love,” Lan Zhan murmurs gently, his hand smoothing Wei Ying’s unruly hair. “I have long loved him, Wei Ying. And I will always love him even if he tells me not to.”

Wei Ying falters and sinks deeper into his body, his body still shaking. “He will break your heart, HanGuang-Jun,” he mumbles against Lan WangJi’s chest.

“My heart is his to break.”

Everything that I am is his—everything that I am is yours, Wei Ying.

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying cries softly. “Why?”

Lan Wangji does not answer this time; he simply cradles Wei Ying tenderly in his arms, peppering small kisses on top of his head.

One part of Lan WangJi silently asks—implores—Wei Ying of what he feels for him, if Wei Ying can be his.

Yet the rest is content of having Wei Ying close, warm and alive. Yet the rest does not ask for more; Lan WangJi will wait until Wei Ying answers, if Wei Ying will return his feelings.

But if he does not—

Wei Ying raises his head, red-rimmed eyes staring straight at Lan WangJi’s. His hand gingerly cups Lan WangJi’s cheek, and Lan WangJi leans into the touch.

“I should make you go away, Lan Zhan,” he says very softly. “I should ask you to leave and never return.

“…but I can’t,” Wei Ying smiles weakly, and Lan WangJi softens. “I don’t want you to leave, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“I want to stay with you, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“…what should I do?” Lan WangJi is helpless at Wei Ying’s raw vulnerability in front of him. “All that I am now is a broken man, Lan Zhan. What can I offer you? You—you—you deserve someone more, someone of your righteous standing—”

“No one else,” Lan WangJi cuts him off. “Only Wei Ying.”

No one else but Wei Ying.

Wei Ying sinks back to Lan WangJi’s embrace, and the latter revels how Wei Ying fits so perfectly in his arms, how he fills in the gaps and cracks in Lan WangJi’s psyche.

If only this can last forever—no, for a long, long stretch of eternity…

Wei Ying’s smile is small yet gentle, fingers soft against Lan WangJi’s cheek as he raises his head once more. “Lan Zhan…still, I cannot go back to Gusu with you.”

“I know.” Even if it hurts.

“…I cannot stay with you for now.”

“I know.”

Wei Ying reaches back to pull his red ribbon free from his hair and wraps it around Lan WangJi’s wrist. “Keep this with you, anyway,” he says. “To remind you of me.”

Don’t forget me, Lan Zhan.

In return, Lan WangJi unties his forehead ribbon and binds it around Wei Ying’s wrist. “This is now yours,” he says simply.

Wei Ying gapes in surprise, eyes wide and incredulous. “But, Lan Zhan, isn’t this ribbon important to your sect? The last time I pulled it off you, you got so angry at me…”

Lan WangJi shakes his head. “The forehead ribbon is meant for self-restraint…and only the person the wearer loves and cherishes can touch it as he pleases, other than the wearer’s close relatives and family.”

Wei Ying’s silver eyes shimmer with emotions Lan WangJi can and cannot name. His face is bright, although some semblance of sorrow lingers on his expression.

Wei Ying lifts his face and kisses Lan WangJi once more, slow and tender this time. Lan WangJi can hear and feel all the emotions encased within, feel the said emotions envelop Lan Wangji like an embrace.

And Lan WangJi lets his own feelings reach Wei Ying, lets his love flow like an endless river towards Wei Ying.

And Lan WangJi holds on to the whispered words against his lips until he had to eventually leave Yunmeng, until his world crashed and burned in Nightless City when Wei Ying drowned in madness and bathed in red.

“I love you, too.”

#mo dao zu shi #mdzs #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #romance #bittersweet #confessions #....man when will i get over bittersweet canon divergent plots #i am so sorry

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recentanimenews · 4 years

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Happy Birthday, Space Cowboy: A Shinichiro Watanabe Retrospective

Today we wish a very happy birthday to the Cowboy Bebop director, the one and only Shinichiro Watanabe! Watanabe-san has been a powerhouse in the world of anime for well over two decades, working with acclaimed studios such as Sunrise Inc., Studio Nue, and BONES. His mastery at blending Western and Eastern elements has earned Watanabe a devoted fanbase in many different countries. One of the most consistent aspects of Watanabe's catalog is his skill at successfully amalgamating a variety of genres from sci-fi to Westerns to comedy and more.

In honor of Watanabe's birthday, I'll be exploring the artistic depth of three anime from his impressive oeuvre and celebrating the very special spark that can be found in all his works. Read on for more!

Terror in Resonance (2014)

Terror in Resonance seems critically underappreciated when compared to some of Watanabe's other directorial efforts. Though it lacks the robust character development and sense of immersion found in his other titles, the series still retains many of the qualities that make Watanabe such a globally respected anime auteur.

Terror in Resonance follows two high-school-aged terrorists named Twelve and Nine as they plot a series of bombings in order to reveal the injustices enacted against them — and many other children — during a secret government operation called the Athena Plan. Along the way, a lonely girl named Lisa finds herself enwrapped in the boys' mission, and experiences camaraderie for the first time due to their presence.

The show's basic premise alone reflects Watanabe's willingness to explore uncommon thematic spaces by featuring literal terrorists as two of the main characters. Common in his other works as well, Watanabe invites viewers to feel compassion for characters who inhabit the outermost margins of societal acceptability. The show doesn't endorse Twelve and Nine's actions, but it does position them as isolated characters with real human attributes, acting coherently in retaliation to the incorrigible exploitation they faced as children. Twelve and Nine also make extreme efforts to make sure no one is killed due to their bombings, which serves as an empathetic deviation from standard depictions of terrorists as one-sided, monstrous caricatures.

Ultimately, Terror in Resonance features many trademarks of Watanabe's unique touch: compassionate explorations of loneliness, a tragic narrative interspersed with brief moments of beauty, and yet another gorgeous soundtrack by Yoko Kanno (a frequent collaborator with Watanabe).

Macross Plus (1995)

Watanabe made his directorial debut as co-director for Macross Plus working alongside Shoji Kawamori (the creator of the original Macross). This four-part OVA is the best flying mech, artifcial-intelligence-pop-music-gone-horribly-wrong redo of Top Gun I've ever seen. I remember I first saw it on the Starz Channel back in 2002 or 2003. It was fun to revisit the US dub recently with the fresh realization that Bryan Cranston — aka Walter White, our favorite fictional suburban meth dealer — did the voice acting for the main character Isamu. Isamu is like a more womanizing Spike from Cowboy Bebop, mixed with the arrogance of Mugen from Samurai Champloo, and is an early example of a recurrent protagonist-archetype in Watanabe's titles. The playful comedic qualities Watanabe would become known for were already apparent in much of Macross Plus, such as the scene when Isamu and his rival Bowman bring up old adolescent/high-school gripes while they're both engaged in an airborne mech-duel to the death.

Once again, Yoko Kanno's absolutely incredible score must be mentioned. The soundtrack ranges from orchestral music perfect for dogfights to emotional ballads and '90s trance (there's also a really cool reference to the Aphex Twin album "Selected Ambient Works 85-92" on a bus sign in one scene). Watanabe's first directorial outing already grapples with a subject near and dear to his heart: music. The last episode features an intense sequence involving an AI popstar named Sharon Apple, who takes control of everyone viewing her concert via seductive musical mind control. This scene explores a what-if scenario: an imagined future where technology meshes with the power of music for nefarious — rather than healing — ends. Either way, since Watanabe is a self-proclaimed "music freak," it's fun to watch him implement a plot device about just how disruptively powerful music can be (his most recent anime Carole and Tuesday tackles AI and pop music with a more neutral lens, as an FYI). Macross Plus is not to be missed.

Cowboy Bebop (1998)

I'll never forget what it was like to experience Cowboy Bebop for the very first time when it initially aired on Adult Swim in 2001. I must have been 12 or 13 at the time, and few pieces of media have made such a lasting impression on me. I was already extremely impressed even after seeing the first episode "Asteroid Blues," but it's the fifth episode entitled "Ballad of Fallen Angels" — where viewers are introduced for the first time to the central antagonist Vicious — that completely sold me on the series.

"Ballad of Fallen Angels" culminates in a climactic battle that takes place in a church, with the main character Spike duking it out against Vicious and his goons. The most memorable moment for me is the scene when Spike is thrown out of the top of the church by Vicious. Spike falls in slow-motion as viewers are treated to a montage of his tragic crime syndicate past and his relationship with his lost love Julia. It's such a stunning moment that perfectly echoes the old creative writing adage "show don't tell," since it subtly expresses so much about Spike's life without explicitly battering it over your head. The scene speaks volumes in just a few wordless seconds, with no sounds to be heard at all other than Yoko Kanno's gorgeous choir and piano-based track "Green Bird." I've drifted toward arthouse movies as I've grown older, and I truly think the aforementioned scene was my first time experiencing the ineffable artfulness that I find in the experimental films that move me most. It feels a little silly and overblown to say, but the sequence feels like it contains a large spectrum of life — love, hate, sadness, memories, dreams, etc.

Cowboy Bebop is a show that abounds with moments like this. There are so many moving scenes rich in an atmospheric tenderness that aches with longing, loneliness, and beauty. Intimate scenes where characters in interstellar ships stare quietly at a sea of stars. A view of someone smoking a cigarette alone in a dimly lit alleyway. Or something like the ending of "Waltz for Venus," when a music box-esque song plays while Spike gazes into the sky as spores that can blind drift downward like snow.

I could go on and on about the series — the masterful quality of Keiko Nobumoto's screenplay, the riveting action sequences and lovable characters, the expert blend of genres coupled with breathtaking animation and music, and how Spike's somewhat Buddhist philosophy (whatever happens, happens) influenced my own. Cowboy Bebop truly deserves all the praise and is undoubtedly one of the best animated works of all time.

So here's to you Shinichiro Watanabe. I hope you have a birthday as stunning and cool as the anime you've graced the world with.

What else do you love by Shinichiro Watanabe, and why? Sounds off in the comments below!

Do you love anime? Do you love writing? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

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zoocross0vers · 5 years

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Raspberries Challenge #4: Bambi

Just apologizing in advance, this one’s actually pretty long. Guess I got too excited with this one, hehe ^^”

Oh yeah, there’s a cameo in this one too from too previously seen Disney characters! Yay! xD

Enjoy! :D

@wildehopps-rasps

...

Raspberries Challenge #4: Bambi

Twitterpated

Spring was always such a lovely time in Zootopia. The sun was shining bright with life, the flowers were blooming, and everywhere throughout the city young couples were singing a chippery little spring song!

Let’s sing a gay little spring song,

This is the season to sing

So I’d like to suggest

That we all do our best

And warble a song about spring,

Spring, spring, spring

Let’s get together and sing,

Yes, all over Zootopia couples of all shapes and sizes were getting into the spring spirit. Young couples to be exact -- whether they be of the same gender, same species or mixed species, everyone was showing love toward their significant other in one way or another.

Let’s sing a gay little spring song

Just like the bird on the wing

Things always seem right

When you’re chipper and bright

So let’s get together and sing

Sing, sing, sing

Let’s sing a song about spring,

Spring’s influence resonated everywhere throughout the city, but most evidently at the park. Couples at the park were expressing their love for each other in their own unique ways.

There were two pigs snuggling snouts. A couple of elephants walked along the concrete path, holding trunks. And a teenage racoon gave a teenage vixen a flower. She gave him a peck on the cheek and the young raccoon sighed.

Let’s twitter and tweet,

A young male wildebeest literally tweeted his girlfriend a kissy face emoji with a heart. His girlfriend, who sat on the opposite side of the bench received his tweet and sent him a kissy face emoji as well. They looked back over to one another with a loving gaze.

Practically everyone was falling victim to spring’s influence...

Like the birdies in May

Get into the mood

And be merry today

Forget all your troubles and warble away,

That is...everyone except Bogo, the middle aged water buffalo that served as the Chief of Police in the city’s Precinct 1. It was his day off and the tired old water buffalo napped at one of the park benches. He thought to get away from all the lovey dovey attitudes going on around his neighborhood and assumed the park would be the perfect quiet place to get away from it all -- boy was he wrong.

He took one last snore before sputtering awake. “Wha--? Who-Who's ther--” Bogo looked around to realize that spring truly was everywhere! Nowhere was safe, not even his usual quiet spot in the park. “Oh what now?” he groaned, annoyed with it all.

Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do

Oh!

Let’s sing a gay little spring song

Music’s a wonderful thing

He looked around. There were chippery and merry young couples all around him. It was like a plague! “Hey! Hey!” yelled the grumpy water buffalo, “Stop that racket! Scat! Shoo! Shoo!” His angry shouts fell on deaf ears as everyone continued to sing and act lovey dovey toward one another.

Come on and rejoice,

At the top of your voice

Oh, let’s sing a song about spring

Spring, Spring, spring

“I’ll show them.” He cleared his throat with a very polite, “Ahem,” spoke as gently as he could, “Excuse me, but could you all just please be a little more...QUIET!!!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. That finally got a reaction as all the young couples at the park immediately flinched and grew quiet, greatly intimidated by the buffalo.

“There,” he huffed triumphantly, “That's more like it.” He resumed his nap. Only to be awakened from it two seconds later when everyone resumed their singing again.

Let’s get together and sing

Let’s sing a gay little spring song

This is the season to sing,

Ah, ah, ah

Bogo sputtered awake again. He covered his ears, while simultaneously gripping his head in frustration, “Oh, what's the use?” He got up and left. Opting to seek out a quieter section of the park to continue his nap.

He moved to a quieter, less occupied area and found a lone bench. The grumpy buffalo plopped himself down, “Same thing every spring,” he grumbled annoyedly. “Let's sing a little song about spring,” he mocked, “ Love’s sweet song,” he cupped his hooves and batted his eyes. “Bleh! Pain in the tail is what it is.” Bogo crossed his arms in a huff and yawned. With his eyes growing heavy, he resumed his nap and snored for about five seconds when--

“Flowers sir?”

“Aah! Wha--?!” Bogo awoke in a shock, waking up to the sight of flowers pressed against his face. He looked down to the mammal holding the bouquet of flowers -- it was a somewhat familiar looking red fox with emerald eyes dressed in a green Pawaiian shirt, brown khakis, and a red and blue tie. “What is this?”

“Flowers! It is spring! Care to buy some for your sweetheart? This pretty little number right here is going at half the price you’d pay for it at the store.”

“Swee--? Look fox, I’m not interested in buying flowers!” Bogo shoved the flowers away from his face.

The red fox held on tightly to his flowers, ensuring that they didn't fall from his grasp. “Boy, I’ll bet the ladies just go crazy for you with that irresistible charm--” The fox said, before taking a good look at the buffalo. “Bogo?”

The grumpy buffalo’s eyes widened. “How do you know my name?”

“You really don't recognize me?” the fox scoffed casually, “And here I thought I made more of an impact given how angry you used to get whenever I played in your yard.”

Bogo’s jaw dropped, “Wilde? Nick Wilde?!” the buffalo exclaimed in surprise.

“The one and only!” Nick stated casually.

“My, my you haven't changed a bit! ...What a shame,” he muttered at the end.

“Ha! Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor there Buffalo Butt.”

“Shut your mouth Wilde!” Bogo rebuked in a huff.

Nick gave him a cocky smile, missing this type of banter from his old next door neighbor.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Bogo inquired curiously, “I thought you moved away ever since your mother…”

Nick's ears fell back in sadness. Bogo’s words reminding him of the day he lost his mother years ago when he was a nine year old kit. She had been taken from him when a vengeful criminal stalked and followed them on their way home from school. He could still remember the terror in his mother’s eyes when they reached a fenced alleyway. She had managed to create a hole for him to crawl through and once she was sure he was on the other side, she had told him to run to the neighbor’s home and call his father. Nick initially refused until his mother promised him that she would meet him there. Nick trusted her and fled. The last thing he remembered was seeing her running back out the opposite end of the alleyway, luring their stalker away from him -- and desperately shouting to him to run and not look back.

After that, he could only very vaguely recall hearing a single loud piercing sound...then silence…

His mother never arrived to Bogo’s home as she promised she would.

Bogo called Nick’s father, Jonathan Wilde, who was the highly respected Chief of Police of Zootopia’s precinct one at the time. His father arrived some hours later to pick the boy up from Bogo’s home and told Nick the sad, terrible news that his mother couldn’t be with him anymore.

Given his father’s position, Nick hardly ever saw him during his first few years of life as he was always busy ‘protecting the city from bad mammals’ -- as his mother would put it. Heavy responsibility was hardly the only thing his father had to worry about however, as his position also brought forth many risks -- particularly the risk of crime lords and other criminals vowing revenge on the chief reynard for putting them away behind bars.

After his mother was killed, Chief Wilde had spend countless hours, days, weeks, and months to capture his wife’s murderer, but he was ultimately unsuccessful. Though he never openly expressed his grief, Nick could still see the hurt in his father’s eyes whenever he would ask him about his mother’s killer. The last time he had asked, Nick was ten years old and the only answer his father had given him was that he had asked for a transfer to a different precinct in another district.

Nearly twenty years had passed since then and Nick decided to finally come back to Zootopia. For what purpose he had no idea, he simply felt the need to come back to his old childhood home.

Bogo noticed the fox’s sudden silence and felt a wave of guilt for having reminded him of such a tragic memory. “I-I’m sorry,” Bogo said apologetically, “I probably shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, it's alright.” Nick replied, forcing a sympathetic smile as silence fell on them both.

Bogo cleared his throat, hoping to clear the depressing awkwardness in the air. “Well, in any case... it's good to see you again.” Bogo smiled sincerely.

Nick returned an appreciative smile, then returned to his usual cocky bravado. “Come on, don’t go getting soft on me buffalo butt. Being friendly doesn’t suit you.”

“And there he is again,” Bogo said annoyed.

Nick chuckled, “It’s good to see you too my literal old friend.”

Bogo huffed, once again annoyed.

“Hello there Nick!” a striped gray hare called out from behind the two. He wore a black suit and tie. Very formal looking and had piercing icy blue eyes. “Remember me?” he asked with a large welcoming smile.

“Stripes!” Nick called out happily, immediately recognizing his old childhood friend.

“Right-O!” the hare replied with a chuckle.

Bogo peeked behind Nick, also recognizing the striped hare. “Young Jack Savage, is that really you?”

“Ah, I see you’re here as well Commissioner Bogo. It’s an honor to see you once again sir,” replied the hare politely.

“Nice to see you too Savage. At least it’s nice to know you grew up to be polite, unlike some mammals,” Bogo huffed, glaring at Nick, who simply shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well I suppose I owe that to my mother. She was always quick to remind me of my father’s teachings,” Jack turned to Nick, “How have you been Nick? I haven’t seen you since we were children.”

“Eh, I just moved to a different city with my dad, got bored of it so I decided to come back. Start my own life back home,” Nick replied casually.

“And how goes it?” Jack inquired curiously.

“Well, I just got back yesterday, but I recently got in touch with Finnick and we’re going into business together.”

“Business?” Bogo echoed surprised, “You mean you’re not going into police work like your father?”

“Nah,” Nick brushed off the suggestion with a wave of his paw, “I’m not really cut out for the cop life like him. Not with all the trouble it brought him.”

“I’m surprised as well,” added Jack, “You always seemed so adamant about growing up to be just like him when we were children. To be a ‘Great Chief of Police’ as you would put it.”

“Yeah, well...things change.” Nick brushed it off, attempting to hide the fact that his reluctance stemmed from his mother’s incident. “ Besides,” he grinned coolly, “With my smooth talking skills, I think my skills are best put into business.”

Jack noticed the flowers in his paw, “Are you planning to become a florist?”

“Until Spring ends, you betcha!”

Bogo raised a curious brow, “Why only until Spring?”

“Because,” Nick replied confidently, “Finnick tells me flower sales tend to go up during this time of year here in Zootopia. So we’re gonna strike while the iron is hot.”

Jack scratched his chin pensively, “Yes, I see. That’s actually rather smart. Do you think I can enter into this business venture with you? Father actually wanted me to take over his farming industry, but I told him I wanted to venture out into the city to try my luck with my own business and this sounds like an excellent starting point.”

“Sure,” Nick agreed, “We could use someone with some math and flower skills. Although just so you know, we plan on shifting to selling pawpsicles once summer rolls by.”

“That’s fine. The more experiences the better. Though I must ask who is your supplier for the flowers? Must we look into forming a connection with botanists or farms?”

“No need,” Nick answered without a care in the world, “Our supplier is right over there.” Nick pointed to a flower patch on the park’s grass.

Jack looked on at the patch, confused, “But that’s just a barren patch?”

“Exactly!” Nick replied.

“Wilde, for your mother and father’s sake, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you just confess to stealing those flowers straight from the park’s flower patches,” Bogo stated with his usual gruffness.

“Well if you know a better place to pick wildflowers then by all means let me know,” Nick replied with a cheeky grin.

Bogo face-palmed a hoof on his face, “How are you your father’s son, I’ll never know.”

“Hey fellas!” called a gruff, heavy voice from behind them. It was a small fennec fox with a black and red bowler shirt and black shorts. He pulled a red wagon full of flower bouquets.

“Finnick!” Nick called out happily to him, excited to see his best friend after so many years. “You…” Nick paused, taking a good look at him. He snickered lightly, holding back his desire to laugh, “Looks like you haven’t changed a bit there buddy!”

“I’ll say,” Bogo said equally shocked at his short height.

“Ha,ha. Funny. Like I don’t know you’re talkin’ about my height.” Finnick gruffed annoyedly.

“Sorry about that buddy,” Nick offered him a friendly paw, “Good to see you again old pal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Finnick shook his paw. “So we ready to do this Nick? We’re burnin’ daylight .”

“Sure. By the way, Jack here says he wants to join us.”

“You?” Finnick scoffed, “I thought your dad had a business plan for you?”

“He did, but I don’t want any part of it,” answered the hare, “I’d rather venture into business with you two.”

“Alright then,” Finnick gave in, “You deal with the money, Nick and me ‘ill work the crowd.” He handed Jack the black cash box.

“You boys never change,” Bogo muttered. The three younger mammals turned to face him, “You’ve been doing this since you were kits. Don’t any of you remember? Nick and Finnick here would come up with troublesome schemes...normally involving my lawn in some way...and then poor Jack would somehow end up getting dragged into them.”

“Hey it’s not our fault Jack is a literal dumb bunny,” Nick said casually.

“True, it’s not my fault I’m a--hey!” Jack frowned while Nick simply gave him a cheeky grin.

Out of nowhere, a young interspecies couple consisting of a tigress and a panda sauntered in front of the four mammals -- waltzing with a weightless grace.

The four stared at them dumbfoundedly, but more so the three younger mammals. “Huh, what’s up with them?” Finnick asked confused once the couple passed them by.

“Why are they behaving that way?” Jack added, just as equally confused.

Bogo chuckled, “Don’t you know?” Bogo leaned closer, as if to whisper to them, “They’re twitterpated.”

“Twtitterpated?” the three young mammals echoed.

“Yes, nearly everybody gets twitterpated in the Springtime,” Bogo continued, shifting his gaze left and right as if fearful of others listening in to their conversation. “For example,” Bogo stood, walking in place. “You’re walking along, minding your own business. You look neither to the left, nor to the right. Then all of a sudden...you run smack into a pretty face.” Bogo jumped, letting out a scream to scare the three.

Jack jumped into Finnick’s arms, scared by the buffalo’s sudden scream and terrifying tale. “Get off” growled Finnick, dropping Jack on his tail.

Bogo jittered his knees, continuing with his terrifying description of love, “You begin to get weak in the knees. Your heads in a whirl! And then you feel light as a feather,” Bogo cups his hoofs and bats his eyes, leaping ever so weightlessly into the air, “And before you know it, you’re walking on air. And then you know what? You’re knocked for a loop!” Bogo punched himself on the cheek, spinning in place. “And you completely lose your head!”

“Gosh! That’s awful!” Jack gasped fearfully.

“Dang,” added Finnick.

“Terrible,” Nick said.

“And that’s not all,” Bogo said, stalking slowly towards them, hiding his face behind his hooves, “It can happen to anybody. So you better be careful. It could happen to you!” He pointed at Nick, “And you!” He pointed at Jack, “And…” Bogo stopped, hesitating with Finnick. Would any girl really be interested in a small, child-looking fox like him? Well, he is an adult regardless of his size and face...Bogo reasoned.

“Yes, it could even happen to you!” Bogo said, pointing at Finnick. Finnick merely frowned in annoyance, knowing why Bogo would doubt any female could ever fall in love with him.

“Well, it’s not going to happen to me,” Jack stated after growing terrified of how enslaving love sounds.

“Me neither,” Nick stated as well, equally terrified of love’s hold.

“Me neither. There’s no way I’m lettin’ some filly control my life,” Finnick stated in agreement.

“There you have it,” Nick replied with his cool, confident bravado, “So if you don’t mind, we have a business to run.” Nick gave a confident wink and a two finger salute to the buffalo, leading his two friends with his head held high. His two business associates followed suit, walking away with their backs straight and chins up.

The three poised mammals walked through the park, keeping their prideful strides in tact and pulling their wagon of bouquets.

Not too far ahead of them, a beautiful Gazelle sat beside a flower bush covered with white flowers. With a flower in her hooves, she picked at the petals in a “he loves me, he loves me not” manner, until she was left with only one petal, causing her to sigh with a smile -- surely ending at “he loves me”.

The gazelle’s ear flickered, hearing the footsteps of approaching mammals. She glanced back to catch sight of Nick, Jack, and Finnick approaching in her direction. The gazelle smiled wide when she saw the three young males, but more so when her eyes landed on Finnick.

She blushed at the sight of him, for as tall as she was, there was always something about short males that immediately called to her. Perhaps it was because they tended to have this weird combination of handsome, yet a plushie adorableness to them -- and the fennec in her sights, certainly had both those qualities -- along with an air of confidence to him.

Eager to meet him, the gazelle plucked another flower from the flower bush and placed it in her tuft of blonde hair and then hid behind one of the taller flower bushes.

The three males rolled by. First Nick, then Jack, and last but not least Finnick who immediately stopped in his tracks the second his large ears heard a flirtatious giggle emanate from the bush. He turned to face it and spotted what looked like feminine light brown colored eyes peeking at him from between the flowers. Finnick’s own light brown eyes widened. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing things? Or did this flower bush have eyes?!

Finnick looked back at the flowers only to spot the source of the eyes peeking her head out from the flowers. He took a few steps back when he came face to face with the mystery gazelle’s pretty face. “U-Uh...hey,” he stuttered nervously with a brief smile and looked back at his friends who were still marching, unaware that he had broken off from their group. Finnick tried to walk away and regroup back with the guys when the gazelle giggled again.

Her giggle, it was like a pan flute to mice to him. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her again. Only now she had finally stepped out from behind the flowers and he managed a full view of her. She was tall, much taller than him and she had a very curvy physique. Finnick’s jaw dropped at the sight of her and his mouth felt fry. She wore tight blue jeans and a white t-shirt that accentuated her lovely figure.

The gazelle sauntered over to him, moving her hips side to side. “Hi I’m Gazelle. What’s your name cutie?”

“Fu-Fennec…”

Gazelle giggled, noticing the tiny fox’s nervousness. “That’s a strange name.”

“I mean, I’m a fennec fox!” Finnick immediately shook his head, only now noticing that he messed up on his own name. “Sorry, let me start over,” He took a breath, realizing he’s been acting like a moron. Seriously what’s wrong with him?! A girl is flirting with him! He’s gotta put those smooth moves to work! He stuffed his paws into his pockets and cleared his throat to start over, “Hey, how ya doin’ girl? The name’s Finnick.”

“Charmed to meet you Finnick,” Gazelle extended her hoof down to him. The flower perched in her hair falling to the ground as she crouched down, “Oops!”

“Don’t worry I got it,” Finnick immediately ducked down to grab the flower like a gentlemammal, “There ya g--” The second he lifted his head up to offer the flower back to her, she also happened to look up to him, causing both their lips to meet in a kiss.

The second he felt Gazelle’s lips on his mouth, Finnick’s golden fur immediately grew redder than a red fox’s and his body stiffened as did his upright tail. Finnick fell back like a slab of concrete, landing first on his back, then head, then face and belly first. He peeked up at her. She smiled.

In the distance, Nick and Jack continued onward. “So how much farther till we reach this sweet spot Finn? Finn?” Nick turned back only to realize that Finnick was no longer with them. Jack crashed into the red fox not noticing that he had stopped in his tracks. The hare turned back to look where Nick’s attention was and saw that Finnick was casually walking away with a tall pretty gazelle beside him.

Finnick glanced back and realized that his friends were glaring at him from a distance. Not knowing what to say, Finnick simply shrugged and chuckled as if saying ‘c’est la vie!’ Finnick placed a paw on Gazelle’s calf and continued on his way with her.

Jack huffed offended, “Twitterpated.”

“I’ll say,” Nick scoffed, equally upset at their friend. Nick went over to grab their abandoned wagon with the bouquets. “Great, this was all Finn’s idea and he’s the one to abandon ship. Talk about not letting some ‘filly’ control his life.”

“Fear not, Nick old boy. I still know where most mammals tend to gather during this time of the year. Do you still remember the 'the watering hole’ fountain where we used to play during the summer?”

“You mean the one we used to collect wish coins from to buy ourselves some pawpsicles? How could I forget!”

Jack frowned, “You know mother was quite angry with me when she realized I was doing that.”

“Eh, so was mine, but you gotta admit it was worth it. Now come on we got flowers to sell,” Nick said as he slapped Jack on the back, ushering him forward. The two mammals continued on their way, Nick at the forefront pulling the wagon of bouquets and Jack following close behind him.

Ahead of them in the nearby distance, sat a pale-yellow furred vixen with sapphire colored eyes underneath a tree. She wore beige colored khaki overalls and a striped black and white elbow length top. The vixen sat eating yogurt covered strawberries and reading a romance novel titled, The Business Mammal and the Inventor, a novel about a male business rabbit who gave a young struggling inventor her first big break. She didn’t know what she loved better -- the scientific innovations the female protagonist would conjure up or the depiction of the gentle, yet strong no nonsense attitude of the male rabbit who served as the head of the company and was the only one kind enough to give the protagonist's inventions a chance.

The vixen sighed, bringing the book to her chest. She had just finished reading the best part where the male rabbit shared a kiss with the leading lady, thanking her for his company's success. Though she was a vixen and therefore the natural enemy of rabbits and other lapins, she couldn't help but feel deeply attracted to the male rabbit and the novel. Plus the writer’s descriptions of him -- gentle, adorably naive in a certain way, soft, cuddly, yet strong, proper, brave, classy, a bit uptight and conservative but in a good way -- it had her curious about perhaps crossing the line and dating outside her species. If only she could find someone like him...with those tall ears…

Just then, the vixen heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She turned to see a somewhat scruffy --- yet to be fair -- handsome looking male fox and right behind him she saw just what she was looking for! Behind the fox was a gorgeous male hare in a black business suit! The vixen’s jaw immediately dropped, “Oh!” she let out a dreamy gasp. She just had to get his attention!

The vixen hid behind the tree trunk and waited for the fox to pass. Once the hare was about to pass her by too, she immediately let out an attention grabbing “Ahem.”

It worked! The striped hare immediately froze in his tracks. He turned to see the beautiful vixen curling her long fluffy tail in a coquettish manner. Jack’s cheeks burned red and his eyes bulged at the sight of her. The vixen hid her face behind her tail, then moved it to bat her eyes at him.

Jack felt his gaped mouth grow dry. Strange. He had spend most of his life around foxes both in his neighborhood and even at school and he had always been fine around them. So why was it then that this vixen had such a hold on him?

But perhaps it was that. He had spent so much time around them that there were times he felt like he was one of them. Not to mention, there were times when he felt attraction towards some of his vixen classmates in the past. What with their long fluffy tails and their cunning natures and this vixen was no exception. She was the absolute most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

The female fox coquettishly made her way toward him, humming a light little tune, “La, la, la, la-la, la”. Once right in front of him, she batted her eyes once more to him, “Hello,” she said in a sultry voice, “I’m Skye and you are?”

Jack couldn't say anything. He merely took a deep gulp and felt his bulging eyes pulse as his ears twisted into one another. He was like a deer in headlights. Skye giggled at his shyness, “I don't know if you can tell, but I really like stripes on a mammal. I think they make you look...cute.”

That made Jack finally react, “O-Oh? Thank you, although you really shouldn't call a bunny cu--” As he spoke Skye slowly moved her muzzle toward his and placed a soft kiss on his lips, causing the shocked hare to immediately thump his foot to the ground in excitement.

Skye pulled back realizing his foot has yet to stop thumping. She pressed a finger to his nose, causing the hare to stop thumping his foot.

With an love dazed expression on his face, Jack continued with his previous statement, “But you may call me cute if you like,” he fell forward on his belly during his elated haze, while Skye cupped her paws together and wagged her tail happily.

In the distance, Nick reached the fountain. He turned back to talk to Jack only to realize the hare was no longer with him. Nick’s ears perked in surprise. Where could he have gone? He looked further back and saw Jack curled up on a vixen's tail.

Jack had a goofy smile on his face all the while Skye played with one of his ears. She flicked at it with her paw while once again singing, “La-la, la, la. La, la,laaaaa…” She held onto that last note, flicking his ear even faster. The sensation to his sensitive ears and the excitement of it all caused his foot to thump again.

Nick frowned and shook his head, “Traitor,” he grumped under his breath. Great, now he was all alone on his business venture. Though it was Spring, it was still a fairly warm day so Nick decided to pull his wagon to a nearby water fountain to drink some water before setting up camp to sell.

He started to drink when he suddenly heard a feminine voice speak to him, “Hello Nick.” Nick spit the water back down in shock. He looked up and saw a drop dead gorgeous gray rabbit with the most beautiful yet somehow familiar amethyst colored eyes he had ever seen. Nick gulped and his jaw slacked as the smooth talking fox felt his brain shut off at the mere sight of the pretty rabbit. The mystery bunny giggled, “Don't you remember me, Slick? I'm Judy.”

Judy?! Nick thought, at last feeling his brain function once more. It was no wonder he recognized her! How could he ever forget her? The two met as children when his mother used to work at the neighborhood bakery shop. He remembered that Mr. and Mrs. Hopps used to come all the way from Bunny Burrow to deliver fruits to the bakery. And every time they came they would always bring their little spitfire five year old daughter Judy along with them. Ugh, how much she would annoy him back then. Especially when she gave him his first kiss -- the one he had never asked for! I mean he was only eight at the time. Yuck!

Regardless of that kiss however, he’d always look forward to seeing her every chance he got! He never wanted to admit it, especially not to her, but he actually really liked that kiss.

And now, years later...he was finally meeting her again…

“Carrots…” Nick quietly uttered the nickname he had given her as he took in the sight of her full grown curvy figure that was well complemented by her pink flannel shirt and blue jeans. This wasn't the cute little dumb bunny he remembered. No, this was that same little bunny but now blossomed into a beautiful young lady.

Judy giggled at his stunned behavior and took a few steps forward, causing the nervous fox to take a few steps back. “I'm glad to hear you remember me, slick Nick.”

“H-How could I not remember a pretty--I-I mean dumb bunny like yo--ahh!” Nick fell back, tripping on his wagon of bouquets.

Judy gasped as the fox was covered in flowers and petals. Nick looked up at her, severely embarrassed by what just happened. Who was he kidding...anybody could see through his ‘sly, uncaring’ ruse. He was smitten by the bunny and she was forcing him to display a vulnerable side that no one had ever seen before.

An air of awkwardness lie between them, until Judy snickered a light-hearted giggle. Despite his embarrassment, Nick found himself also snickering a chuckle. In an attempt to play it cool, Nick grabbed one of the bouquets that was still in tact and offered it to the bunny, “For you Carrots.”

Judy’s eyes widened and she smiled. She took the bouquet in her paws and smelled them. She blushed, “Thank you Nick. They’re beautiful.”

Nick felt his heart beat wildly in his chest at the mere sight of her gentle smile. He felt himself blush as he chuckled nervously. Then without warning, Judy moved her muzzle close to his cheek. Nick gasped quietly and closed his eyes as he felt the bunny place a soft kiss on his cheek.

Nick’s eyes immediately popped open as he felt his head spin in a heavenly daze. The corners of his mouth rose in a goofy grin. The red fox sighed, his eyes practically rolling to the back of his head. Bogo was right. The second he felt that bunny kiss him, he felt light as a feather! And he could swear he was literally in heaven, with nothing but clouds surrounding him as far as the eye could see! And there hopping amongst the clouds and enticing him to follow, was a beautiful bunny shaped angel named Judy Hopps.

“Nick…” He heard her heavenly voice echo. “Remember when we used to play cops and robbers? Think you can catch me now?” She said, batting her purple eyes at him.

Nick smiled and without a word, sat up from the ground and made chase for the giggling bunny. It was a classic scene -- a fox chasing a rabbit. Or rather a predator chasing his prey. But in this case it wasn’t for food, but to woo over the prey in question to be his mate.

Nick chased after her through the heavenly clouds he had conjured up in his mind. The two of them leaping weightlessly, practically dancing amongst the soft clouds. Judy giggled and gleefully hid behind a bush shaped cloud. Nick chuckled and peeked through the cloud with a playuful grin, “Oh, Carro---”

He was cut off, as his nose butted against another male fox’s. His heavenly daze was over and was brought crashing down into the real world.

“Nick? Nick Wilde?!” said the other fox, somehow recognizing Nick. Nick stared at him in shock and confusion. A brown cat popped his head out from the bush behind the intruding male fox. “Why look who it is Giddy! It’s good old Nick Wilde!” the taller fox chortled and grabbed Nick in a noogie, “You old rascal! Thought you could get away from us could you?”

“Remind me how I know you?” Nick groaned, struggling to break himself free from the taller red fox.

“Why, don’t you remember me?” the fox elbows his associate as Nick breaks free from his grasp, “He doesn’t remember us Giddy. It’s us! Your old pals Honest John and Gideon.”

Nick’s eyes widened as he massaged his neck, “Honest John?” Memories immediately flooded the fox’s mind. He knew the so called ‘honest’ fox since they were both kits. The other fox was a couple years older than him and he would see him around the neighborhood a few times. Honest John was a bully to Nick growing up and he would constantly tease the younger fox for wanting to grow up to be a cop like his father -- more so because Honest John was constantly getting in trouble with the law and was always quick to remind Nick of their lot in life as no good, sly foxes.

“Ha,ha,ha good to see you remember me old friend!” laughed Honest John with a slap to Nick’s back. “So tell me, is your old fox still failing at being a fox? Or did he finally decide to quit the force?”

Before Nick could answer, Judy called to him, “Nick?” Judy resurfaced from a nearby grove of trees. “Nick,” she looked beside him and immediately frowned at the sight of Honest John. She too remembered the older fox and of how he would torture poor Nick with his demeaning words.

Honest John’s eyes widened and he whistled while his feline associate adjusted his raggedy top hot, wanting to look presentable in the presence of a lady. “Do my eyes deceive me or is that little Judy Hopps all grown up?”

“Hello ‘Honest’ John,” Judy said apathetically with her ears pushed back.

“Well, well! So I see you remember me,” Honest John adjusted his cheap suit’s collar and shoved Nick back on his tail. Judy’s jaw dropped and she glared at him as he swaggered over to her, “I guess I must’ve made quite the impression on you, didn’t I?”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t imagine…” Judy practically hissed under her breath.

Honest John scanned his eyes over her and smirked flirtingly, “My, my. You really have grown haven’t you? Say,” he wrapped an arm over her small shoulders and shoved the bouquet of flowers Nick had previously given to her from her paws, “Given that it is Spring and l’amour is in the air,” Honest John made a rose pop up in his gloved paw via a sleight of hand trick. He offered it to Judy, “What do you say we take a little stroll in the park? Hmm? If you’d like I can even get Giddy here to pull us on a nice romantic carriage. Isn’t that right Giddy?”

His feline associate nodded in agreement.

Nick glared at the taller fox in jealousy. His fear were put to rest however when Judy said, “Sorry ‘Honest’ John.” She pulled away from his arm and dropped the rose he gave her, instead picking up the bouquet Nick had given her. “But Nick and I already had plans for this evening. Isn’t that right Nick?” She looked over her shoulder to him.

Nick smiled. That sly bunny, he thought. She always was quick at thinking on her feet. Nick stood back up with a confident grin. “That’s right!”

“Nick?!” Honest John said with a bad taste in his mouth. “You may have grown Judy, but your taste sure hasn’t. Honestly, a pretty farm girl like you going for a disgraced cop’s con artist son.”

Nick gulped. How did he know that he wasn’t living an honest life?! Was he spying on him and Finnick when they were picking the wildflowers from the park?

Judy crossed her arms defensively, “For your information, I’m not a farm girl anymore. I’ve come back to the city to become a cop myself.”

“What?” Nick gasped quietly underneath his breath. Honest John meanwhile just laughed.

“What? You’re joking right? A bunny cop?!” he guffawed, “I’m sorry to laugh at you my dear, but that it the most ridiculous thing I ever heard! Hahahaha!” Gideon joined him in silent laughter.

Judy scoffed offended, “It’s not funny! A bunny can be a cop! Just look at Nick’s father, many mammals didn’t believe a fox could ever be a cop yet he proved you and everybody else wrong!”

“Right! Next thing you’re going to tell me is Nick there also came back to the city to become a cop too! Hahahahaha!” He and Gideon continued to laugh boisterously.

Judy turned to Nick for an answer, here eyes hopeful. Staring deep into her caring amethyst eyes and glancing back at Honest John and his incessant laughing, Nick took a deep determined breath. “So what if I did?” he asked the fox with his chest puffed out.

“Ha!-Huh?” Honest John and Gideon seized their laughter as Judy smiled wide with happy, cupped paws toward Nick.

“I...uh…” Nick glanced at the happy bunny. He smiled, decided. “I did. I’m going to become a cop just like my old fox and before you know it, I’m gonna be Chief of Police. That is, if a certain bunny doesn’t beat me to it.” He gave Judy a wink, causing her to blush.

“You? Chief of Police? Don’t make me laugh. Judy, you can’t possibly believe a sly fox like him could ever make an honest living when he’s off picking wildflowers from the park’s flower patches.”

Nick’s ears fell back in humiliation while Judy stood defensively for him. “That’s not true!”

“Oh no?” Honest John took the bouquet from her paws and unwrapped it, “Then why do your flowers still have roots and bits of dirt on them? Not to mention if you look around the park, you’ll find some bald flower patches. Care to add some input on a possible explanation to that Wilde?”

Nick’s face flushed in embarrassment as Judy turned to face him with a disappointed look on her face. “I…” Nick was at a loss for words. How could he lose her like this? Over a stupid con that he didn’t even manage to execute. Nick glanced up at Honest John who smirked victoriously at him. The older fox’s cocky face incited a furious fire in Nick.

No...he won’t lose Judy like this. Not because of him! Nick took the disappointed bunny’s paw in his and gazed into her eyes with sincere regret. “I’m sorry Judy. Honest John is right. I did take those flowers from the park and I was planning on selling them to others.” Judy’s gaze dropped in disappointment once more. “But...but then you came along and I managed to give them a better purpose. I promise I won’t ever do something like this again. And I promise you that I will become a cop and do what I can to make right by you and this city.” Nick gave her a sincere smile and she returned his smile. Her faith in him growing again.

Judy pressed against Nick’s chest and stood on the tips of her toes to rub her head affectionately underneath at the crook of his neck. “I forgive you, you dumb fox.” She smiled up at him with a boop to his nose. Nick smiled in relief and he reached down to give Judy a soft kiss on her cheek.

Honest John’s jaw dropped, “What?! You’re going to forgive him just like that?!”

“He at least had the courage and true honesty to tell me the truth and apologize for what he did. When have you ever done anything to live up to your name? Dishonest John.”

Nick chuckled, “Good one, Carrots.”

Honest John growled in anger.

“Sorry Johnny boy, but the lovely Judy and I have a date to get back to. So see ya around, old pal.” Nick gave him a two finger salute.

Honest John huffed and turned around, “Come Giddy. Let’s get out of this dump!” The brown feline immediately rushed to the rejected fox’s side. Both of them leaving the park in utter humiliation.

Nick offered an arm to his new bunny girlfriend, “Officer Hopps.” Judy took his arm.

“Why thank you, Officer Wilde.” The two left together, arm in arm as the sun set on the horizon making way for a romantic evening in their wake.

#zootopia #fanfic #bambi #crossover #disney #raspberries challenge

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knifeshoeoreofight · 6 years

Photo

“Méditation” ( from Thaïs), Massenet

The first time Sid hears the busker in the subway, he’s running uncharacteristically late. He’s bouncing on his heels a little with nervous energy, craning his neck to watch for the next train. The lack of other people on the platform only serves to make him feel even later and more anxious. And then.

Everything in Sid goes quiet as the first perfect note resonates through the station. He’s never been someone to pay attention to classical music, or street performers for that matter, but the sweet, haunting melody takes hold of him so strongly that his feet feel rooted to the spot.

He turns to look. There’s a man down the platform from him, battered violin case at his feet, the instrument itself tucked under his chin. His eyes are closed and he sways a little with the melody he’s coaxing from his strings. He’s tall, and his huge, careful hands make the violin look delicate and small.

No one is paying him any attention, and Sid can’t fathom how they’re managing it. He can’t look away, and his chest feels tight, like he almost wants to cry. He’s not sure what’s happening, music’s never affected him like this before.

He doesn’t have any cash on him, nothing to give in return for what he’s been given. Instead he stares, and listens, until the man opens dark, warm eyes and smiles at Sid as he continues to play.

Oh.

“Story of My Life”, One Direction

Sid puts some smaller bills in his wallet just in case he sees the busker again. He doesn’t, for a couple days. But come Friday morning, there he is. There’s a gaggle of tweens in the matching backpacks of an out-of-state school trip waiting for the train as well, and Sid sees two girls go up to the busker. He’s fiddling with the doohickeys at the top of his instrument but he smiles warmly at them.

“It’s our friend’s birthday?” one of the girls says hesitantly. “I know it’s like, whatever, but do you know any, like… One Direction?” Her thin shoulders hunch a little as if she’s expecting the busker to laugh or blow her off, like Sid suspects a lot of people have done. He half expects the busker to do the same, especially after that classical piece Sid heard him playing before, but he doesn’t.

“Of course!” he says warmly. “My goddaughters love.” He starts to play, and another girl in the huddled group of students swivels around like a bird dog with a scent, expression comically surprised. Her friends laugh and hug her, and they sway and sing along between fits of giggles. The busker watches them with a look of fond indulgence, until he finishes the song with a flourish and the girls applaud him. Sid, for some reason, finds himself smiling from ear to ear. Something about the little tableau is just. It’s nice, is what it is, and it makes him feel happy to be alive.

When the school group has moved on, he walks up to the busker, who’s fiddling with his instrument again.

“That was really nice of you,” Sid says, and drops a five-dollar bill into the man’s open instrument case. The man looks up, and stares for just a moment before breaking into a smile.

“I see you before?” he asks, and Sid feels his face flush.

“I’m here every morning,” he says, and shrugs.

“Have to look for you, then,” the man tells him, and his grin is...almost flirty. “And is nothing, pop song for little girls. People always make fun of what little girls like. So what? Cute song, sweet. Not hard to play, and look how happy they are.”

Sid’s heart is doing some unapproved fluttering about in his chest. “For sure.”

“Baby Mine,” (from Disney’s Dumbo), various

Sid’s got a cold, and he feels like shit. He woke up feeling morose, lonely, and miserable. He should maybe call in sick, but he has such a hard time justifying it to himself. Is he really that sick? So off to work he goes.

As soon as he makes it down the station steps, he can hear that the busker is back, and something in him feels a little...comforted.

Sure enough, there he is, playing with his typical emotion, a gentle sway with the melody, and that lovely smile of his. There’s a couple standing in front of him, two women holding hands, one of them resting her free hand on the swell of the other’s very pregnant belly. That somehow sparks the recognition in Sid’s brain and he realized that the man is playing the lullaby from Dumbo. The scene in the movie where the baby elephant’s mom sings it to him made Sid cry his eyes out when he’d first seen it as a little kid. He looks at the couple and he listens to the music and he just...aches.

He drops his customary five dollars in the busker’s case when the song is over and the women have left.

“You okay?” the busker asks.

Sid sniffles, a little pathetically. “I’m a little under the weather. That was so beautiful, just now. They looked...so happy.” Oh god, that didn’t come out as yearningly as it sounded in his head, did it?

“Yes,” the busker says. His eyes are so dark and so kind. “But you. Can’t call in sick? Should do. Look really bad.”

“I shouldn’t,” Sid says, but breaks into a hacking coughing fit, and the busker raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. Sid’s shoulders slump. “Okay, maybe I should.”

“Call now,” the busker advices. “Get nice tea from shop on the corner—” he motions upwards. “And go home. Take taxi if is long way.”

“Okay,” Sid says obediently, half wondering why the busker is being so solicitous and half why Sid is listening to his directions.

“My name Evgeni, by the way. Call me Geno” the busker says. “Can blame on me, when call boss.” He grins, tongue caught playfully between his teeth.

“For sure,” Sid says, helpless to do anything but respond to the smile with one of his own. “I’m Sid.

“Nice to meet you, Sid.”

“Free Fallin’”, Tom Petty

There’s a homeless man in the station today, curled into a ball in a nest of grimy blankets and cardboard. He’s eyeing Geno suspiciously as he sets out his instrument case. Geno just nods politely at him, and does his usual warm-up of fiddling with his violin’s strings and tuning pegs.

Sid might have looked violins up on Wikipedia to learn what all the parts were called.

“Hi Sid,” Geno calls out jovilly, before becoming reabsorbed in his instrument.

“Hey,” the homeless man says suddenly to Geno, in a painful cigarette rasp. “You know anything good?”

“Maybe,” Geno replies. “What you like?”

“Tom Petty.”

“Let me see,” Geno says, and digs his phone from his pocket, putting in one earbud and tapping at the screen.

“Mm,” Geno says, after a minute or two of listening with closed eyes. “I like it.” Still listening, he picks up his violin, keeps nodding to the music for a moment or two longer, and starts to play.

Sid recognizes the song, it’s one from his dad’s collection of cassette tapes. He had it out in the garage, a ton of old 70s and 80s music that he’d play while he worked on projects out there.

The homeless man half-hums, half-sings along to the music in a rough, stuttering burr.

Sid slips a twenty in his change cup instead of in Geno’s instrument case.

“I’m give him rest of what I get, if he still here in a few hours,” Geno tells Sid, low.

Sid nods, and leans against the filthy wall to listen, and thinks about being a kid, handing tools to his dad while his dad whistled along to the stereo.

“Piano Concerto No. 1,” Tchaikovsky

It snowed last night, the first of the season, and it always makes Sid feel energized and clean, somehow. He makes his way briskly down the station steps, feeling certain the snow was a good omen and that he’ll see Geno today.

He’s refusing to think about why exactly he’s so let down on mornings when Geno isn’t there and ecstatic on days he is.

Today, he’s there, but something seems odd. Geno is usually irrepressibly cheerful, but this morning his characteristic smile is missing. He’s playing classical today, and it’s beautiful.

He only plays a few more notes to finish out the phrase when he spots Sid.

“Hi, Sid,” he says, and musters up a faint rendition of his usual grin.

“That was gorgeous,” Sid offers, not sure what to say. They make small talk whenever they meet but even calling them acquaintances is stretching it. He doesn’t know if he should say anything.

“Thank you. Concerto supposed to be for piano, but I’m arrange melody for her,” Geno says, patting his instrument gently. He pauses, like he’s deciding something, then continues. “When I’m miss home, play Russian composers most. This one Tchaikovsky.”

“Sorry you’re homesick,” Sid says, aching for him. “I’m not from as far away, but I do have an idea of how it feels. My family’s in Canada. My sister is nine years younger than me and. Yeah. Miss her like crazy.”

Geno’s eyes are soft. “Yeah. Pretty shit,” he says, startling Sid into a laugh.

Sid doesn’t have anything more to say that would make Geno feel better, so he just takes up his customary place against the wall next to him, hoping the proximity will convey some sort of solidarity.

By the time Sid’s train comes in, Geno looks a little better.

“Love Theme, (from Romeo and Juliet), Mancini

Geno’s music today reminds Sid of the first time he ever heard Geno play. The same unbelievable, aching beauty. Geno’s also...looking at Sid a lot, too. It’s too much, the lush, gorgeous melody and Geno’s searching gaze. Sid feels himself flush, feels his pulse beat in his whole body.

He wants— has wanted— for so long now to do something, say something. Ask Geno if he wants to get coffee. Anything. It’s a little crazy, he knows. He barely knows Geno, doesn’t know if he even likes guys, and if he did, if he’d like Sid…

While Sid’s still at war with himself, his train comes in. Geno starts forward like he’d wanted to say something, but Sid loses his nerve and goes to get in the train, giving Geno a weak smile and a wave as he goes.

O Mio Babbino Caro, Giacomo Puccini

The nonprofit Sid works for often sends people to gala events in order to network and make advantageous connections. Sid is absolute shit at it, he feels. He’s stiff, his nerves make him come off as bland as unsalted oatmeal. Mario keeps bringing him along anyway, though.

“Well, Sid,” he says with a laugh whenever Sid complains about it. “You’ve got the best poker face on the team. Can’t trust Letang to hold his cool around all the old-money snobs and trust fund babies.” Which, point.

Sid is nursing his champagne and trying to look interested in what the Vander-whatsit across from him is pontificating about, when a smattering of polite applause from the front of the front of the room draws everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a treat for you tonight,” burbles the diamond dripped woman hosting the gala. “As many of you know, world-renowned young violinist Evgeni Malkin has recently begun his term as artist in residence with the New York Philharmonic, to great acclaim. And we’re lucky to have him here tonight, to give us a little taste of what to expect from his tenure. Please join me in welcoming... Evgeni Malkin!”

Geno. Geno is the one striding across the stage, in a tuxedo and tails, giving a casual wave to the assembled glitterati. Geno, bending to speak to the pianist, and smiling charmingly to the audience.

Geno, putting bow to strings and pulling forth a melody, that, while hauntingly beautiful, makes Sid miss the echo and background noise of the subway.

He stays in a state of shock all throughout the piece, until the last note fades and the audience bursts into applause. It would have been cinematic if maybe Geno would have seen him in the crowd, if their eyes had met in recognition, but Sid’s life isn’t a movie and he’s standing too far away from the stage.

He’s in a daze for the rest of the night, to the point that Mario frowns at him and asks him if he’s well. Sid is giving assurances that he’s fine when the hostess swirls up to them in a cloud of bespoke perfume.

“Mr. Lemieux, how wonderful to see you,” she trills. And that’s when Sid notices that she’s got Geno trailing along behind her.

“Have you met Mr. Malkin?” the hostess goes on to say.

Mario shakes his hand, and gestures Sid forward. “Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Malkin, I’ve heard great things. And this is my colleague—”

“Sid!” Geno blurts, eyes wide. “You here!”

Sid’s hand has somehow been scooped up by Geno’s and he’s not even shaking it, just holding on to Sid like Sid might disappear if Geno lets go.

“And you’re here,” Sid manages. “Not in the subway.”

Geno blushes, but doesn’t let go of Sid’s hand. “Ah, yeah. I’m go there for, relax? Remind me of why I’m love music. Play for people who maybe can’t come to classical concert. Try to make them happy. Donate money to charity if anyone give me. Little bit secret.”

“Oh,” is all Sid can say, feeling like he’s drowning in Geno’s dark eyes and warm grip and in the soft, hopeful expression on his face. “That’s amazing, Geno.”

“Call Me Maybe”, Carly Rae Jepson

“Had such big plans, you know,” Geno says into the curve of Sid’s neck. Sid can feel the way his lips arch into a smile. “Big plans.”

“Oh yeah?” Sid asks, and stretches against his sun-warmed sheets. His gaze catches on the crumpled remains of their evening attire, strewn across Sid’s bedroom floor. “What kind of plans?”

Geno gets up, pressing a kiss to Sid’s forehead. “I’m show you,” he says, and the laughter in his voice makes Sid want to pull him back down and never let go of him. He settles for watching Geno’s glorious ass as he strides from the room.

He returns with his violin in hand. The one Sid has learned is a three-hundred-year-old. multi-million dollar Stradivarius. He puts one knee on the bed and grins devilishly at Sid.

“Special Canadian song, just for you,” he says, and by the time he’s moved from plucking the intro to bowing the first notes of the melody, Sid know exactly what he’s playing.

“Nooo,” Sid groans, and flops back among the pillows. “Please. Why?”

Geno has to stop playing, he’s laughing so hard. “Had to do something! Couldn’t let most beautiful man in New York get away! Was going to give you phone number, ask for date.”

Sid smiles helplessly at him. “Go put that terrifying thing back in its case and come here and kiss me.”

And Geno does.

#sidgeno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #hockey rpf #dana writes a thing

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dat-town · 6 years

Text

bed warm, hearts cold

Characters: Hades!Yoongi & Persephone!You

Setting: greek mythology au

Genre: angsty

Warnings: mild sexual content

Summary: “I wanted darkness… I wanted him.”

Words: 3.7k

inspired by the poem Persephone Speaks, written for @bangtan-bookclub’s February challenge as well as in celebration of my dear @lily-blue‘s bday! ♥

You can read the sequel here.

You had met him, the God of Death, in the deadliest corner of Earth, among withering trees and dying blooms, close to his realm, the kingdom of lost souls that had always enthralled you.

You who had come from the light, a land full of flowers and sunshine and warmth. You who had petals blooming under your fingers, blossoms sprouting out of the ground at the touch of your feet. Spring followed you everywhere but not here, not now when you came running.

Where did you intend to go to? Or was there something after you? You didn’t dare to look, not until you ran into a solid, cold body just when you reached the end of the world known to mortals.

"What’s after you, little bird? Did you get lost?” a low grumble of voice asked, resonating through the chest you fell upon. It wasn’t kind, the man’s tone, nor it put your trembling to a halt but when you stepped back on wobbling legs, he held your arm firmly, steadying you. It felt nice.

“No, I… I just needed space,” you mumbled almost ashamed of your childish act but you didn’t regret it. Oh no! You really weren’t ready to… To what? To admit that you were weak? Or too greedy? Was it so wrong to want something selfishly? To put yourself before others, to not care about expectations and consequences? These reasonable questions echoed in your mind poisoning the obedient daughter your mother birthed and freezing the following words onto your reckless tongue.

You looked up hastily, frightened deer eyes searching for help but you were welcomed with the black pupils of soundless misery itself. Staring straight into the dark, endless pitches, you shivered. His eyes were colder than the kiss of water nymphs and it made you wonder. Were all the tales true? Did he really have a black heart carved out of his chest, lying in a golden box with seven keyholes, locked down deep in Tartarus, keys forgotten way before human history? Did he really feed on the flesh of dead bodies and lived among rotting corpses, enjoying the havoc he caused with every flick of his pale wrist?

But oh, the man before you was nothing like the gossips you heard: he had no horns, no bony skull with bloodshot eyes. No, he wasn’t anything like the farmers who feared him described the God of Underworld himself. Nor he was like the intimidating, ruthless ruler your mother had always warned you about. He was rather beautiful, a masterpiece in a vitrine, hidden from the world unworthy to see. Moonless night-like eyes, velvety-looking hair, snow-coloured swan neck contrasting his dark cape was like an art piece on display. An outstanding being at the border between his kingdom, the darkness and the land of eternal dawn. He was truly a sight to behold, so much different from his brothers, the gods you knew too well, the bloodline that betrayed him and banished him out of Olympus.

"You are not from around here,” he commented nonchalantly, stating a fact with eyebrows cocked, head tilted and silky black strands of hair falling onto his forehead.

With quivering lips you didn’t deny the statement. It was too easy to tell: the flowers in your hair had already withered leaving nothing but dry petals in-between your dark locks, the curls around them hanging like grape tendrils. Your flowery dress was crumpled but still smelled like strawberry fields, your arms bare, exposed and suddenly you felt naked under the curious gaze.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the man continued when you didn’t say anything. His thin, rosy lips formed a firm line. The grip on your elbow loosened, and his hands dropped back by his sides. His touch had been as cool as it could get, however, you only felt the numbing coldness when he let you go.

You should have been afraid, shaking in fear and yet, hope bloomed in your naive, child-like heart. Because that was when you heard it: the sorrow in his voice, the longing… the loneliness. Your heart ached for him.

“Can’t I stay? Please,” you begged trembling like a leaf in the storm and the god who had fought too many wars to count looked taken aback. He widened his eyes in surprise, his own lips twitching in a silent scolding, mocking him that a young girl like you just found his blindside and attacked where he wasn’t looking? He was dumbstruck to say the least and decided to simply ignore your question. (What a coward, his heartbeat hissed in shame.)

“You know who I am, right? Aren’t you afraid?” He narrowed his eyes looking for signs of a trap, another slap into his face. He couldn’t comprehend for what reason Demeter’s daughter would have been there at the threshold of his reign pleading for entrance. It didn’t make sense at all. The more so as it had been a while since a goddess stepped into his territory.

“Why would I fear death when what life offers is much worse?” you mused over this question, asking yourself from time to time, but this was actually a first to ask it out loud, voicing it out for somebody who you hoped might understand. But was death really that considerate?

You wanted to believe that you were ready to die, to be free of the chains of the life you didn’t want but you knew goddesses didn’t die painless, peaceful death.

“Why is that?” the man asked the right questions, stepping onto your guts, trampling on them, turning your soul inside out.

“A cage can have golden bars and crystal chains but it’s still a prison,” you said voice sad and melancholic, not taking your eyes off of him. You reminded him of cherry blossoms, songs at sunrises and hope but your confession upset him as no truer words had ever been spoken.

The god swallowed, tasting his own poison on the tip of his tongue and he looked away. How could somebody so young and pretty like you know about pain anyway? And why would you want redemption from him?

“Leave,” he whispered yet it sounded like a loaded order. Leave until you can… until I let you.

It was an unsaid threat but it rang in your ears so clearly. Frightened and hurt, you turned around and ran away sobbing.

This was the first time he made you cry and the last time you listened to him and Yoongi had felt weak for wishing you didn’t.

But you came back. A harvest season later, fresh flowers in your hair, still so young and beautiful. You ran until your slippers almost touched the rippling water of river Styx but you weren’t allowed to cross the border. You were stuck there in-between the life you wanted to leave behind and one you couldn’t have. In the one place you knew they wouldn’t dare to follow you, never.

Yoongi had been watching you from the darkness, a girl as fragile as you struggling to find another way to break into his domain. What a fearless, rebellious little one you were! It fascinated him and curiosity grew in him striking root deep down and the leaves of its tree poked his chest, urging him to move, to reveal himself before you.

“Are you looking for me, little bird?” he emerged from the shadows slowly and soundlessly like death creeped up on humans. He appeared right beside you, leaving only a few steps of space between you. Startled you looked up at him with wide, shining eyes but you weren’t crying. By now, you were stronger than that.

“Your boatman didn’t let me in,“ you replied offended, shakiness missing from your tone, not denying his statement at all.

"He had every right to. That land is for the dead. Or are you that desperate to run into death’s loving arms?” Yoongi croaked an eyebrow challengingly, his gaze not wavering at all. It burnt your inside with the flames of hell but you welcomed the warmth and bathed in it.

You had always loved danger and trouble had been a constant companion of you. Maybe that’s why your mother feared for you so much, hiding you far away from the Olympian gods.

“No. But you are there, too,” you retorted finding an exception to the ultimate rule.

Ever since you met him all that time ago, you often wondered: wasn’t he lonely? Down here all alone, only surrounded by ghosts and corpses and dying memories…

“Somebody has to maintain the peace,” the God of Darkness shrugged looking over the river, at the gate made of metal and bones painted crimson with dried blood. One of the entrances to his kingdom, the Underworld he ruled. If Hell set loose nobody stayed put, it would destroy the mountain of Olympus and Tartarus would swallow everything like a black hole. It was a responsibility too heavy to be carried by one person, you thought.

“What is it like?” you let curiosity take the worst out of you, questions recklessly flowing from your mouth like the water in rivers running fast whenever your father and Poseidon had a dispute. “Is it a dangerous place?”

Maybe it was the phasing or the question itself but Yoongi blinked dumbfounded. Staring at you, dressed up pretty, you looked so innocent but he wasn’t somebody to fool. He knew the game you were playing and he had seen enough to know curiosity could kill if you weren’t careful enough.

“For you, it certainly is,” he nodded imagining the colourful valleys full of nice-smelling flowers he associated with you. “You would suffocate there, in the dark, in the cold and in the emptiness. You would fade away like your precious blossoms. It’s always night there, only gemstones are shining instead of stars and the ground is made out of dust, the remains of dead mortals. The food has no taste and you are always thirsty. There’s nothing and everything there, silent cries of the burning ones and rivers of blood. Dreams, hopes, memories, everything people cannot let go and bring with themselves to death, they are always there, constantly like fog and ruthlessly like plague.”

The sight he described was an art in words like stories your mother told you. She thought it would deter you, ease your nosiness but it was like adding oil to fire. You couldn’t grasp the meaning of the realm of eternal night until you saw it with your own eyes, this world totally different from yours, the land of prosperity.

“Would… would you show me?” you asked bluntly, nibbling on your lower lip.

Yoongi couldn’t believe his ears but you certainly earned his interest. The eldest daughter of Demeter coming to the God of Withering to catch a glance of his kingdom? Merely out of sheer curiosity? It was unheard of.

“Why are you asking? Once you step in and decide to stay, there’s no way out of my palace. We don’t welcome visitors,” he said and even though his voice was freezing cold, his eyes were swimming in one particular kind of warmth. You couldn’t help but fall for it.

“It’s different when you choose your own prison,” like an addiction. Like commitment.

You were absolutely convinced in the veracity of your statement. Unlike him who didn’t seem to agree with you.

"You are naïve to think I can save you,” he claimed leaving no place for argument but you would have rather been naive than a prisoner. Nevertheless, it hurt that he thought you were that stupid… or did he really think he was your last option? You wanted to curl up in your bed in shame but instead you kept your chin high up proudly.

“Are you telling me you are like them? Would you hurt me too?”

Yoongi’s throat closed up hearing the blame and he was looking at the rosiness of your cheeks more closely, searching for cuts and marks and imprints of a palm on your sensitive skin but he knew that physical pain and wounds weren’t the worst.

“Why would anybody want to hurt you, little bird?” he asked quite stunned, barely believing anybody would have had the heart to do so. You seemed so pure.

“Ask your brothers,” you bit out casting your eyes down, nails sinking into your palms forming half-moons.

They were cruel, you both knew. Your father, Zeus had never seen you as anything else than an asset waiting to be sold for the highest bidder. Alliances between gods, their holy and almighty plans, politics you couldn’t care less about while they thought it was so important. More important than your free will or your feelings. Just like Yoongi’s. He didn’t choose to rule over this part of the world, the unliving and unforgiving. But if he left, it would have been chaos.

Therefore, he couldn’t leave but what he could do was to let you in. To let himself have company, to lose himself in your presence trying to solve the mystery of you, this living paradox.

He stared at you for a long while, eyes like black stars and something that couldn’t be comprehended flickered through their skyline. Then he took a step back, towards the river and bent down to put his hands over the water nobody should touch. It stirred, ripples tearing up the surface, pulling a small boat with them to the shore out of nowhere. You gaped at the sight while your heart, that stupid, was already fluttering in excitement. But you didn’t move, you couldn’t. Not until the man allowed you to do so.

“Remember the rules, right? You can’t eat or drink anything from the Underworld,” he warned you, glancing behind his shoulder. His deep voice was stern but still light enough for you to not really pay attention to. All you did was nodding without much care and took the hand he offered to help you onto the unsteady watercraft. It was just another proof of the lies your parents told you. He was so gentle, so reserved, so broken-hearted… How could he have been so bad they were that desperate to keep you away?

“You are cold,” you shivered slightly, involuntarily but hold onto more tightly as you stepped onto the unsteady boat.

“The weather isn’t quite lovely down there. Living things don’t usually survive the harshness of death,” he explained plain and simple but looking at him, you wanted to argue: even if they were only ephemeral beings, they were beautiful. Maybe they were meant to be like that because everything had a definite end. Unlike suffering.

You settled on the boat comfortably as Yoongi showed you around in his realm. Your pretty gown got soaked in the misty fog but you seemingly didn’t care. You were a lot more fascinated by the scenery and the sights you had never seen before.

“Is that a pomegranate tree?” you pointed at a branches growing close to the river, the fruits’ shiny burgundy colour resembling of blood and rose petals. On this barren land it was the first specimen of greenery you saw.

“Yeah, that’s the only fruit that grows here,” Yoongi hummed and quickly changed the topic as you arrived near the Meadow of Asphodel and the place where the dead were judged. Then you stopped by at the gateway of Underworld, the lookout post of Cerberus and the hollow where the Sun never shone. All of it was utterly different from the world you had grown up in, the world you didn’t miss one bit so saying goodbye had never been so hard.

You kept coming back running with wide smiles and more questions. You never talked about what was after you, chasing you straight into his arms, and he never questioned it, just took you to the outer fields of Underworld and told you everything you were curious about. He fell deeper and deeper into you, the forbidden fruit, a bride promised to one of his brothers, so he decided to scare you off, sparing both of you the pain. He showed you his worst side: full of rage and rampage, ripping out hearts just like the king they whispered about, the nightmare everybody feared. You saw the monster they told you about, the merciless god but it didn’t scare you. How could it when you looked into your own soul and saw the same horror and ambitions?

Once you came in a dress of white and gold, the colours of weddings, and he took you to his palace like he had promised long ago. He watched you marvelling at the silver decors on the bare wall standing a couple of feet away, in a safe distance even though his hands itched to touch, to feel your warmth on his cold skin.

“Why are you always calling me little bird?” you blurted out another point of your endless list of questions and you managed to take the god by surprise once again. He felt guilt and want building up in him as his gaze followed your perfect bodyline under the sacred wedding dress. He couldn’t stop thinking about it: had you left before Zeus could bless your union with another man? Or had you only run away after? Who had dared to claim you as his?

“Because you’re just trying out your wings but one day when you learn how to fly, you will leave,” he replied caught up in his own emotions, the lies he couldn’t tell you and he looked you in the eye when you turned towards him.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“I would say you are lying,” Yoongi shook his head ever so sure of himself, eyes not even twitching. It was the saddest truth he knew: everybody left. Whether by accident or intent, alive or dead, with or without saying goodbye but people left one by one. A habit nobody could shake off.

You wanted to prove him wrong, to prove that you were meant to stay not caring about rules, expectations and responsibilities. So you dared to ask for the most reckless thing:

"Feed me,” you pleaded. Oh how much you yearned for the taste of bitter pomegranates in your mouth!

But no, he didn’t feed you, he didn’t bind you to him to stick with him in this rotten hell. No, he did worse: he broke his own damned heart.

He squeezed your hand and lunged forward so fast your eyes couldn’t quite follow the movement. He was like lightning: unexpected and blindingly bright, a flash in the dark. Then he was on you, his body so impossible close to yours, you felt his trembling, you saw the freckles on his cheeks, his dark lashes, his chapped lips and the way his gaze dropped to your pink mouth, slightly open, wet with saliva. It was a new kind of intimacy, one that shouldn’t have happened but you enjoyed every bit of it. The silky texture of his cape under your fingers, his hands grabbing on your waist over the lacy material of the dress and even his breathes hitting your own lips, his inhales stealing your oxygen.

“What do you want from me?” Yoongi asked in a hoarse and desperate voice, clinging onto the last bits of his sanity.

“You. I want you.”

You told him bold and honest because why would you have settled for nameless gods if you could have a king? You deserved a king! And you wanted him.

The crash of lips on your own came as expected but tasted twice as bitter. You melted into him like snow on a hot day, gradually. His kiss reminded you of a rose with thorns: pretty and soft but leaving painful scratches behind. You didn’t enjoy it any less though, oh no, you were hungry for more! You didn’t care about the cold floor under you, his marble throne digging into your back and the baldachin bed not made to be slept on. You stroke down his chest, fingers only stilling on his belt, looking up, asking for permission. He was still the king you adored after all. And he worshiped you like nobody before, touched you like nobody could. You spent your wedding-night with him instead of your should-be-husband, the man your father had chosen for you and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

It was all about passion, power, rebellion and for the sake of not being lonely. It didn’t have anything to do with your cold, unloving hearts. Flowers long forgotten in your hair sprayed all over the bed with pitch black duvet, a lovely contrast of day and night, you and him. He treated you like a gift wrapped up in silk as he striped you bare, out of the gilded dress. You arched into his touch and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen: you on his sheets, ready to give and take, lacking the slightest of fear in your opalescent eyes.

When he loved you, he loved you so well only a king could, giving you exactly what you wanted: harder and rougher when you asked and slower and softer when you were close in order to savour the moment. He called you pretty names despite the burn of your nails on his back and when he moaned your name, it was the most beautiful litany you had ever heard.

Rumours said you were kidnapped, chained to a boat, kept as a slave or a hostage. Nobody knew or believed you were a queen, having a throne, your righteous place beside him, being the only one who made the God of Death weak. They thought you were the victim, innocent and weak but oh how wrong they were! You were more than willing to stay there, in Yoongi’s arms eating the fruit he offered on a plate alongside with his heart. It was all your doing after all, because you had darkness in you and for that, he loved you endlessly.

#bbc monthly: mythology #bangtan bookclub #angstykpopnet #btswriters #bts writing squad #yoongi angst #hades!yoongi #yoongi x reader #suga angst #bts angst #bts oneshot #bts scenario #yoongi scenarios #yoongi imagine #bts imagine #mythology au #hades and persephone

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suspendrs · 6 years

Photo

2017 is finally coming to an end, so i thought i’d celebrate with another fic rec!!! here, have just a few fics i really loved that were posted throughout the year!!

only in love and war by louisexxcobain (3k)

Harry gets called to Dunkirk by the draft, but all that matters to him is getting home to his Lou.

with you in your dreams by lululawrence (4k)

“And how are you boys doing?” Professor Trelawney asked as she came to their table. Her wide eyes blinked at the two of them before peeking into the cup. “Ooh, a heart! How interesting…”

Harry’s eyes widened and he looked at Louis. Louis was just looking into the cup in interest. “Should I note that as well, then?”

“Absolutely, Tomlinson. What others do you have?” Trelawney looked at his scroll and she let out an overdramatic gasp. “Oh my my. It looks like someone definitely has love in their future! Those signs all stand for love, marriage, stability, togetherness, and when combined like this predominantly new love! Very interesting reading you’ve done there, Mr. Styles.”

She gave a wink at Harry and then whisked herself off to the next table.

Or the one where Professor Trelawney plays a very unlikely matchmaker.

strawberry swing by fondleeds (5k)

louis’ mouth tastes like nectarines and summer and his fingers are sticky and grimy with dirt, mulch and tiny wood chips clung to the static of his shirt, in his hair, and above him the swing is floating lazily back and forth.

today they’re nine and soon they’ll be ten and he’s got paint on his cheeks and harry is humming nonsense under his breath and painting tiny m birds on his palm. today they’re at the park and things are simple in the way that only children know.

our garden grows by ladylondonderry (5k)

Harry lives a rather mundane and dreary life, full of the same sorts of routine day in and day out.

One terribly dull and rainy day, a letter arrives from an L.T. who would very much wish for Harry to write back.

Too bad Harry can't figure out how.

baby, hold on to my heart by tightropeofhope (6k)

Here was the dilemma: Louis and Harry were out with their mates window shopping because there was nothing else to do and Louis brought an antique ring, hoping to pawn it off to get some quick cash. It was a small, old thing, all rusted and gold, but it had its charm. The owner didn't take it because of the minuscule crack down the middle of the jewel, so Louis just shrugged and handed it to Harry without a thought.

Louis gives Harry a ring as a joke, but Harry starts wearing the ring everywhere he goes.

let’s go get away by letsjustsee (6k)

When Louis had moved to the island a year ago, he only wanted two things: to serve good food to good people, and to live on the beach. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently the universe thought so, because Louis had only gotten three months of blissful, uninterrupted beach living before Harry Styles moved in to the empty shop next door. Louis was hoping whoever took over the space might be a tour guide, or even another restaurant (with non-competing menu options, of course), but no – he had gotten Harry Styles. The guy who wore Hawaiian dad-shirts unironically. The guy who spent his time making soap by hand out of goat’s milk.

Or, a fluffy AU in which Louis owns a restaurant that's next door to Harry's shop, and Louis is completely unaware how smitten he really is.

sea salt and chocolate by cupcakeL (10k)

“How can I help you?” He looked at the customer and wow, Harry was pretty sure this guy had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. When the guy opened his mouth Harry could almost feel the venom in his voice.

“Do you have some kind of truffle that passive aggressively says ‘fuck you’?”

Or Harry owns a confectionary/café and Louis is an aspiring musician who needs to break up with his boyfriend via truffles.

far afield by quickedween (11k)

Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

murmur by reveries_passions (12k)

"The sun warmed their skin, dried any and all remnants of Louis' tears, made Harry's curly hair glow. The sounds of the city below seemed to disappear; it was just them, overlooking everything, the only two people in the world who understood each other."

in which louis is a little bit empty, harry is a little bit new to all this, and, coincidentally, they're both just about as deaf as two lonely teenagers can be.

sound like a song by allwaswell16 (14k)

In high school, Louis Tomlinson lit up Harry’s world like nobody else, even if Harry did most of his pining from the safety of his tightly knit circle of friends. Ten years later, Harry is ready to make some changes. He’s tired of having so many regrets and not taking charge of his life, and he still hasn’t forgotten how brightly Louis shines. He’s about to get a long awaited second chance.

Or the one where Harry helps out at a farmer’s market and gives Louis free vegetables.

(make you want to) scream by lululawrence (16k)

While Louis' left hand plays with his nipple, his right reaches down and wraps around his dick and that's when he really knows something is wrong.

The dick in his hand does not feel like his own.

damn the dark, damn the light by hrrytomlinson (20k)

“Why is this face of beauty ringing so true?” The genuine confusion in Harry’s voice causes Louis’ chest to painfully twinge. “You’re a complete stranger in my eyes, William Shakespeare, but not in my heart. How is that possible?”

Louis wants to live out every romance plot he has ever written in his own life. He wants to be the protagonist of his own narrative, the hero who finds true love and gets his happy ending. Instead, Louis is stuck with only dreaming of such wild fantasies and writing them down. He can create entire romances in his dreams, yet he can never live one.

you know sometimes words have two meanings by alienharry (22k)

"... Two souls are sometimes created together and in love before they're born." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Harry and Louis navigate the universe.

resist everything except temptation by domesticharry (100k)

The lethargic sound of heels clicking against wood resonated across the sea. Footsteps descended the staircase, every assured step creating a menacing aura as it grew closer. Perspiration gathered along Louis’ palms as the rhythmic sound halted in front of him.

“Captain,” Malik greeted.

Louis watched out of his peripheral as Malik’s boots shuffled back a few steps. Sweat matted the hair along the nape of Louis’ neck as he waited for something to happen. He felt as if a sharp blade was twisting his gut as the silence became tangible. There was a metallic slide of a sword being pulled out of its sheath, the sound startling Louis out of his cocoon of sterile shock. His shoulders jumped as the tip of a blade flattened underneath his jaw. Louis’ distorted reflection stared back at him in the polished metal. Engraved rose petals twisted his appearance as they crawled up the length of the sword. The sword lifted and took Louis’ chin with it.

Standing in front of Louis was Captain Styles.

The one where Louis is the commodore's son who is forced to become a part of Harry's crew when he is captured.

thanks for a gr8 year of gr8 fics everyone!! catch me trying to keep up with monthly fic recs in the new year!!!

#this is short and lame bc i am busy #and i am sorry #but i said i was gonna do it so i did it #i know i left out a ton of fics but uhhhh oh well #fic-rec

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ladyaralia · 6 years

Text

How To Win His Heart

Requested by @dreamblackstar on wattpad :)

Ship: (OC) Yuki x Legolas

Summary: No one knows you can sing, not even your husband; at least until he catches you.

Song: Love Me by Demi Lovato

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Yuki wasn't your average she-elf. In fact, her original body wasn't even of an elf; for she had been transported to Middle Earth from our world many years ago. She was known for her bright emerald forest green eyes and long light brown hair that reached her hips, but most of all she was known as the princess of Mirkwood and wife to Legolas Greenwood.

Currently, she was walking through the vast fauna garden of the kingdom, enjoying the rays of sunshine that was scattered throughout the leaves of the giant maple and oak trees. Legolas had been out on border patrol for orcs and spiders, and she was told to stay behind in case anyone was wounded and needed healing in the medical wing.

The daises brushed her feet and the birds were chattering as she walked, the finches becoming intrigued with the she-elf that strolled through the gardens. Yuki sighed as she flicked back the long piece of hair that had fallen over her shoulders, still a little cross that she wasn't able to attend the border patrol with her husband.

She knew that the guards were posted far enough away that if she called for help they could come, but if she was quiet enough she knew could do what she loved to do most in her spare time; sing.

She let the words flow through her mind as she opened her mouth, her voice was high and soft like a songbird in spring and was capable of enchanting even the foulest of beasts. But today as she sang, it wasn't any beast that her voice attracted, nor any animal or man.

Oh no, here we go again Fighting over what I said I'm sorry, yeah I'm sorry Bad at love, no, I'm not good at this But I can't say I'm innocent Not hardly, but I'm sorry

It echoed through the petals of the flowers and the leaves of the trees, her voice carrying to the guards that stood watch and the curious elf that stood looking from the stairs of the garden, watching her with a spark in his blue eyes.

And all my friends, they know and it's true I don't know who I am without you I got it bad, baby; got it bad

Oh, tell me you love me I need someone on days like this, I do On days like this oh, tell me you love me I need someone on days like this, I do On days like this, I do on days like this Oh, can you hear my heart say No, you ain't nobody 'til you got somebody You ain't nobody 'til you got somebody

His lips were parted and his heart had skipped a beat, he could tell this song was sung just for him. No, he knew it. He wanted to pick her up and spin her around until she laughed merrily, but his feet seemed stuck to the white marble of the stairs and his eyes were glued to the almost ethereal glow of sunlight that filtered around her body as she sang with her eyes closed, her long brown locks slowly swaying in the breeze.

Everything I need is standing in front of me I know that we will be alright, alright, yeah Through the ups and downs, baby I'ma stick around I promise we will be alright, alright

He slowly started to descend the stairs one step at a time, never taking his eyes off of her. Even though it was just a song; he could feel the emotions running through the pitches and pauses she sang, and he didn't want her to ever stop singing.

He was almost near her now, but he stopped in his tracks, knowing that the song had not finished. This song was resonating through his heart and was something only she was capable of doing, and he loved it when he could feel his heart racing from her presence, something he didn't even experience in the chaos of a battle.

Everything I need Is standing right in front of me I know that we will be alright, alright, yeah

The last words were like whispers in the wind, and even the birds had gone quiet to hear her music. It was as if the world around them had held their breath to hear the ending, and it was just enough for her to hear the crunch of leaves behind her.

She let out a surprised yelp as her gaze met that of her shocked husband, whose mouth was still slightly ajar from the spirit of her voice. "Legolas melamin! You frightened me! I did not know you had returned from your patrol." She didn't get a response though, as he stepped forward to embrace her into his well-built chest.

"Tanya nae vanima melamin, why haven't you exposed your voice to me? It was as if I had fallen under a spell by the purest of enchantresses." He leaned his head down to place a butterfly kiss on her forehead, Yuki smiling and relaxing her body into his gentle and intimate touch.

"I suppose I never thought about singing in front of you, I always sing when I feel lonely or bored. But with you Legolas, my heart has never felt lonely." She nuzzled her head into the leather armor he wore, enjoying the distinct smell of the forest and of their room that had sunk into his armor.

He gazed down at her and gently grasped her chin, lifting her fair green eyes to his bright blue orbs. "Yuki... you grow lonely without me and yet it has passed my attention. Please, do not only sing for the moments we are not together, but sing for us my enchantress, you no longer should fear the times we are apart my love."

She warmly smiled up at him as they shared a tender kiss while entrapped in a hug, the birds singing a song that made the moment even more sweet to the elven couple that embraced under the sunlight. Who knew that a simple song could make a moment into a memory engraved forever into the hearts of the future king and queen.

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Translation Key:

Melamin: My love

Tanya nae vanima: That was beautiful

#legolas #love #fluffy #x reader #lord of the rings #tolkien #middle earth #mirkwood #greenwood #singing #demi lovato #secret #elf #elven

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dearlazerbunny · 6 years

Text

Welcome to Gravity Falls

Pairings: None

Genre/Warnings: None

Words: ~2500

- Summary: After deciding to go exploring, Dipper and Mabel Pines of Gravity Falls find themselves in a very different sort of woods…

Hot and dense was the weather of worn Gravity Falls. Standing in solidarity against the muggy air was the Mystery Shack, which clung to its crumbling foundation with an impressive tenacity. Amongst supernatural attacks and incredulous happenings, the only thing that seemed to contribute to the weathered air of sleepiness the shack gave off was the periods of intense nothings it fell victim to from time to time. Today was one such day: the sluggishness of the oppressive heat permeated the town and left it sitting idly underneath the summer sun. Citizens took refuge where they could, gathering at the local pool and lake, but all in all it was a quiet day in a town that was used to being anything but quiet.

Hat angled to block the sun streaming through the window, Dipper Pines sat on the check out counter that hunkered in his uncle’s Mystery Shack, savoring the shade. His twin sister Mabel sat cross legged on the floor nearby, occupied with her sweater-du-jour; a feathered monstrosity whose emerald plumes were of an undetermined origin. Wendy, the gift shop assistant, stood languidly at the cash register, talking in relaxed tone to present company. But mostly Dipper. Clearly, her head was angled more towards him than his sister, so that means she’s talking to him. Right? Right. He adjusted his hat awkwardly and made a half-hearted attempt to understand what band Wendy was dissecting. The unending crush he had on her helped a little in the attention category.

“Man, that woodpecker has been going at it.” The bird in question had been ruthlessly pecking at a tree for the better part of the morning; Dipper was pretty sure the echoes could be heard in the Bottomless Pit. Wendy threw her head towards the half open window.

“Don’t give up! You got this!” She gave a little fist punch in support of the lone song resonating through the trees.

“Why are there so many of those around here?” Dipper asked, swinging his legs against the side of the counter.

“I dunno man.” She rolled her head around to look at him, tucking a piece of red hair behind her ear. “Why does anything happen in those woods?”

Dipper nodded, acknowledging the point. You know, that’s true. Everything weird that’s happened this summer has been coming from the forest: gnomes, minotaurs, even the diary was hidden in an old tree…

Lost in thought, he barely caught the jawbreaker Wendy tossed him from the glass jar sitting to her right. The sugary blue eye stared up at him. “Don’t tell Stan,” Wendy winked as she tossed a ball into her mouth. “Haha, no- no! Of course not. Haha.” Mortified, he shoved the sugar into his cheek before he could say something even more intelligent.

The Mystery Shack’s door tinkled an off-key dissonance. “Soos! Hey! Check out my sweater!” Mabel was giddy as she leapt up and sped her way over to the big man.

“Right on! That sweater is awesome.” He looked around, taking in the empty shop.

“Hey Dipper, Hey Wendy.” Wendy nodded in that completely cool and mysterious way that she did. Not that Dipper noticed or anything.

“Hey Soos.” He worked the gumball over to the other side of his mouth. “Nice job being early for work.”

“Thanks man!” He held out his hand for a fist bump, and Dipper obliged. “So, what’s going on here?”

“Not much. Hey, does it seem strange to you that no one knows why there are so many woodpeckers in the woods?” Dipper asked.

“No. Don’t think about the woods. One time I did that and I got a massive headache. Not fun.”

Dipper made a noncommittal noise. “Well, now that you’re here, you and Wendy can handle the shop. Mabel, can I talk to you about something? Upstairs?”

“Okay! Last one there’s a muddy pineapple!” She was off in a streak of green, heedlessly knocking over an entire stand of t-shirts that read “See what all the mystery is about!” Dipper heaved off the counter and dashed after her, smiling at the laughter behind him. They raced up the old wood hallways and up to the attic, eventually tumbling over themselves in fits of laughter and ending up sprawled on the floor.

Elbowing her twin off of her, Mabel suppressed a hiccup. “I win!”

“Yeah, right, you know I won,” Dipper teased her, poking her stomach and releasing the massive hiccup. She sprang off the floor and landed right back where she was, sending them into fits once again.

“Oh, man.” Mabel wiped her hair back from her face. “Why are we up here anyways?”

“Oh!” Dipper stood up and went to rummage under his bed, emerging with the mysterious six-finger diary he used to navigate Gravity Falls. “What Wendy said down there, about the forest? She’s right! Think about it- name one weird thing that’s happened that hasn’t come out of that forest.”

Mabel twirled her hair. “Mermando!”

Fair enough. “Okay, besides him.”

She shrugged. “Whaddya wanna do about it?”

Dipper assumed his best I Have A Great Idea Voice. “I propose we hike into the woods. As far as we can. We know about what lives in the woods- well, most of it- but how well do we actually know the wood itself?”

Mabel grabbed a hairbrush and ran it idly through her mane, ignoring when it got caught in the curls at the bottom. “Can I bring Waddles?”

“Wha- no! Mabel, He’ll just slow us down! Why do you need to bring a pig?”

“Ugh, you never let me do anything fun Dipper!” She chucked the hairbrush at him, aiming for his face but as it is grazing his arm.

“Mabel…” He rubbed what he liked to call his bicep. “I just don’t want Waddles to get hurt.” She softened. “Tell you what- if we go without Waddles, we can sit on the roof tonight and throw water balloons.”

Mabel chewed her lip, considering the (admittedly) very generous deal. “Okay, fine. But you can’t whine about it being all dangerous up there either!”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, come on.” He held out his hand, and Mabel took it, levering herself off the floor.

“But I am totally bringing the picnic basket!”

_______________________________________________________________

Days later, once the heat had broken and settled into something less scorching, the pair headed off West of the Mystery Shack. Dipper had extensively planned and prepared, boasting a pack stuffed to the brim full of useful things (compass, journal, portable radio…) and Mabel, well. Mabel had indeed packed a picnic basket as promised, as well as an inexplicable small plastic llama she snuck in there underneath the sandwiches without Dipper noticing. Armed with supplies, they headed into the forest following a map Dipper found leafing through the journal. Where it led, neither of them were exactly sure, but it was much better than their previous plan of wandering around aimlessly.

As the day led on, they wound through ravines, hiked up small cliffs, and generally marveled at the seemingly endless wonders of the woods. Flocks of huge predatory birds would take off from the treetops whenever they passed underneath, and caves promised something sinister lurking in their depths. As the sun climbed and then began to set, their food supplied slowly dwindled to nothing more than water. The shadows lengthened and seemed to threaten harm. Unnerved by the silence, barely punctured by the rustling and calling of the wild animals (or.. beings…) Dipper fiddled with the dial on his portable radio. With a crackle, it began to broadcast Gravity Falls’ local news station.

“Today the weather in Gravity Falls is starchy.”

“Oh yeah, I can definitely feel the starch Dipper. Feeeeeeeeeeell the starch.” She made exaggerated grabbing motions in the air in front of her.

They continued on, buoyed by the small comfort of home. The trees seemed to grow smaller as they progressed… Dipper made a note of it in the journal.

“Has it gotten hotter?” Mabel pulled out a water bottle and gulped some down. Dipper shook his head, but made a note of that too. On and on they went, through the rapidly thinning trees and hotter and hotter atmosphere.

“The city pool will be raising its admittance fee to seven dollars, from the previous six fifty.”

“I’m hungry, Dipper.”

Muttering, Dipper held the pages closer to his face. “The book said to turn left at the second rock, but we seem to have-”

“Second rock?! We’ve passed two hundred thousand rocks!”

The radio continued its segment on the new exhibit in the local museum on bullfrogs. “This has been Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner!”

If the twins had been listening, they might have noticed that no such segment ran on the Gravity Falls local news station. But they were not, and so the flippant tones of a man they had never heard fell on metaphorically deaf ears. “Mr. Zackwaski is hungry, Dipper.”

Dipper frowned. “Who?

“Mr. Zackwaski!” She waved her pink plastic stowaway near his face. Dipper ignored her sentiment and turned his attention to the now crackling radio. Fiddling with the knob for a few minutes, the lines on his face grew deeper as he couldn’t recover any sort of signal. Eventually it cut out completely, and the two were left sitting in the ever-growing dark, listening to the night sounds a forest makes. A few birds, some coyotes, and was that… whispering? The wind, surely.

“Where are we, Dipper?”

“I don’t know. Pretty far away I guess. But the compass says we’ve only walked- four miles.” He squinted at the sky. “If we hurry, and ignore that hedge labyrinth on the way back, we’ll make it home a little after nightfall.” The radio suddenly hummed to life. They both jumped as the mechanical noise echoed through the trees.

“And now, a word from our sponsors. Feeling Lost?” Dipper grinned when Mabel nodded her head enthusiastically. “Feeling like life is a meandering spiral into the depths of nowhere? Life is like that sometimes. Sometimes, this pathetic existence feels like a cruel joke played on us unsuspecting bags of meat by some higher power that is known, and also, unknown. Sometimes, we shudder to think that this life as we know it is pointless. Sometimes, we dare to think about life.” “Big Rico’s Pizza. Because no one does a slice like Big Rico’s. No one.”`

“Pizza! Dipper that’s food!” Mabel grabbed the radio and held it closer, presumably to hear it better. A few flocks of startled birds took off from the nearby treetops.

“I don’t think this signal came from Gravity Falls, Mabel. We’ve been here all summer- have you ever heard of Big Rico’s Pizza?”

“The man on the radio is talking about pizza. I want pizza, Dipper!”

He hesitated, listening to the smooth voice resonating through the speakers.

“We should head back. We don’t know where this is coming from.”

Mabel rolled her eyes and started forward before her stick-in-the-mud brother could protest. “So let’s find out. You’re the one who wanted to figure out the forest. There could be a whole city in there and you’re too grumpy to go and find it!”

“Fine, fine. All right, Mabel, stop pulling on me!” Reluctantly, he shoved the radio- which was now playing music, though the man had previously promised the weather- into his pocket, grabbed their gear, and followed after her. As they walked, the signal became stronger. After squishing over a hill, Dipper realized the soil had turned sandy, a rich gold compared to the muddy brown beneath Gravity Falls.

“Weird,” he murmured, scanning the journal for any hint that this was normal for the area. Mabel kept amazing pace- he should have promised her there was an ice cream parlor at the end or something, she’d have moved so much faster- but after walking over the hundredth hill and passing the same trees, he grew frustrated with their walking in circles. The mysteries of the forest seemed to be growing thin.

“I spy with my little eye, something that is green.”

Dipper sighed. “Mabel, this whole forest is green.”

“To make it extra hard, duh.” She giggled, elbowing him in the side. He smiled in spite of himself. “That tree.”

“Actually it was the third branch on that tree, but I’ll give it to you anyways. Your turn!”

They lobbied back and forth between themselves as the shadows grew longer beneath their feet. Fascinating spied objects ranged from “that vein of sand near your pinkie toe” to “your weirdo birthmark” (Dipper didn’t appreciate that one). After a few rounds, Mabel suddenly ran through the clearing.

“I spy something that is purple!” Her voice rang from between the trees. “What are you talking about? The only thing here is-”

He stopped. Rising before them was a weathered, faded sign with drippy purple writing: WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE, established… Dipper wasn’t entirely certain that was a number. The boards were warped, with edges chipped and scored with- claw marks? Further on, they could catch glimpses of small houses and buildings tucked into the dusty desert. Desert? He was 99.9% certain where they were standing should not resemble the Sahara, and yet, here they were. Looking back, the massive trees that had surrounded them for months seemed small and immaterial compared to the dunes and sun rising before them.

Mabel, to her credit, seemed completely unconcerned with the change in scenery or her brother’s incredulous murmuring. “Come on, Dipper! I think I see a road-” She fearlessly scrambled up the nearest sandy hill and kept on, her brother tailing behind her, too deep in shock to do much protesting. Underneath his incoherent mumblings and Mabel’s happy chatter, the man on the radio was speaking:

“Well, Night Vale, it seems we have some unexpected visitors. There are two small life forms entering the East part of town. One wears a hat marked with a tree, and the other a green sweater. Undoubtably, these are marks of the Whispering Forest- perhaps it has started reproducing through humanoid figures? In any case, dear listeners, be on your guard- the Forest is rarely as innocuous as it seems. More on this story as it develops.”

A/N: Because no one can convince me that Gravity Falls isn’t located inside the Whispering Forest…

#gravity falls #night vale #Welcome to Night Vale #crossover #fanfic #one shot #dipper pines #mabel pines #mabel and dipper #cecil palmer #whispering forest #the whispering forest

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