#becoming a designer for jewelry seems so far away all of a sudden but you just have to make it your own you know

[gothwho]

By Otto Jakob

#I haven't seen anything like this before..............I'm going insane looking at his stuff #we had this conversation w our teacher today abt customers that aren't really aware of what we are doing exactly....that this is handmade. #and that's possibly bc of the broad variety that the internet offers and the huge supply of custom jewelry #and then he recommended us to look at this guy's work. srsly if I didn't know any better I wouldn't believe this to be handmade as well #this is so out of this world and yet it isn't! #things that inspire you and make you want to quit at the same time #becoming a designer for jewelry seems so far away all of a sudden but you just have to make it your own you know? be unapologetic abt it #phew okay. anyway. these! #a

[xmyshya]

Soft

summary: I am a firm believer that Atsumu CAN be soft. When he wants to. And now he just might. genre: fluff, crack, smut warnings: fem!reader, soft Atsumu, sexual tension, making love at the end, MINORS DNI special thanks: HQHQ and our lovely Atsumu sessions, you guys gave me so much inspiration for the last part. I love you. I love you all. a/n: I don’t want to say that I’m proud of this one, but I am. wc: 2.7k

Looking at the friend sitting across the table in the quiet corner of this adorable cafe, you can’t help but think how crazy it has been. Mostly because he’s an idiot, but you LOVE that idiot. “Y/N? Are ya even listenin’?” “Uhh… yes?” “What were ya thinkin’ ‘bout so hard anyway?” “Okay, uhm, remember when…”

The gym was huge and offered a lot of equipment, half of it having names you’d never heard before. The only problem? It was constantly crowded. Except for crazy early hours, which is why you were dressed in your tracksuit and drenched at 5 am. Yet, you were still not alone at this ungodly time. On the first day, he visibly hesitated before entering, clearly wanting absolutely no company. You couldn’t really blame him, he was probably followed by throngs of fans and paparazzi every day. The man must have deemed you harmless however, because he stayed. Well, at the other end of the enormous room, but stayed. He came back on the next day. And next one. And another, and soon enough you were nodding at each other in a silent greeting. This odd ritual continued on for a few weeks, until… “Hey, ya… come here often?” Fuckfuckfuck, he was still sporting the smug smile, though his eyes were filled with panic. You stared at him dumbfounded. Guess even celebrities struggle sometimes. “Uhh… I… N-no, this is my first time.” Both of you erupted in laughter. “Miya Atsumu, nice to meet ya.” “Oh yeah, I know.” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean… L/N Y/N, nice to meet you too”

“D’ya really gonna rub it in ma face til the end of ma life?” “Nah, I’m pretty sure I’ll forget when I’m old, so I gotta make use of it till I can.” The blonde doesn’t look happy. Amusing. “So what were you talking about?” “Oh right, so there’s gonna be a party for the team and friends, and… uhh… would you like to… be my plus one?” Of course you would like to. Love to. “Lemme know what colours ya wanna wear.” “Ehh? You wanna match or something?” There is a teasing undertone in your question. He either misses it or ignores. “I’ve always wanted to do that…” But you already know. Black and gold, the colours of his team. Yes, obviously that’s the only reason. It’s completely unrelated to your current imaginations of Atsumu looking smoking hot in a black fitted suit, black shirt, and matte gold tie. Totally not.

You’re still adding final touch ups, when the doorbell rings through the air. “Open!” In response there’s a click of the door, opening and closing, and Atsumu announces his arrival with a sigh saying why aren’t ya ready yet. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” You shift from your bedroom to the hall, and he whistles. Sharply. You know you look good in that black dress, hugging tightly all your curves (extra points for a deep notch on the back and thin golden chains), and golden heels. And now, he knows it too. Just like you assumed, he does look great. So great, that the only image filling your head as your eyes run down and up on him is how much you want to rip that suit off of him. Party? You’d rather have a one-on-one party against the wall he’s leaning on. Or a kitchen counter. Or a sofa. Shower maybe? “Are ya checkin’ me out?” Again that smug look on his face. You really want to wipe it off. With your lips. “Must be your imagination.” You push him out of the apartment and lock the door.

One of the greatest mysteries of this world must be why elevator scenes are so… weird. Weirdly hot. You’re both on the opposite ends of the tiny cube, ogling each other and turning your gaze away. “Ya really look beautiful.” “Thank you.” Silence. “You look great too. Perfect ten.” You look him straight in the eyes, and if you have the timing right… “Very fuckable.” Ding and the door opens. You brush his chest while walking out. Atsumu forgets to leave the elevator.

Party hall is already swarming with people when you arrive. Faces from magazine covers flash here and there, some of them entertaining whoever wants to listen, some whispering mysterious promises in eager ears, some just roaming around in search of god knows what. “I’ll get us some drinks” is one of those promises, and Atsumu leaves your side. He’s quickly replaced by one of those roaming creatures. “You here alone?” He’s much too close to your liking. “Actually I-” “You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunning. I’m Shugo-” “Meian!” The voice of your companion startles you with its sudden proximity, but also brings comfort. As soon as the drink is passed in your hand, you feel his touch on the small of your back. “Oh, I didn’t know you two were-” “We’re not.” “We’re friends.” Both of your replies come immediately. Meian straightens up and smiles. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I went for her?” “Not like I have any right to stop ya.” Miya says calmly, but you can feel his whole body tense up against yours.

“Alright everyone, we’d like to make a toast…” Clinking of glasses interrupts your surprisingly pleasant conversation with the MSBY captain, but soon enough he’s back to flooding you with questions. Atsumu walks away to join his other teammates. “Please excuse me.” You don’t even look at the male next to you, focused only on catching up with the blond friend. His questioning gaze burns a hole at the side of your head. “I came here with you.” “Is that the only reason?” Your eyes meet and you give him a lopsided grin. “Nah, you’re much hotter.” He stands a little taller, visibly more confident, fuller of himself. His hand finds its way to your hip and he pulls you a little closer.

Next two hours are spent on the dance floor, countless people already pulling you back before you even step outside of the designated area. You’re currently trapped in the arms of none other than Bokuto Koutarou, and you could swear you were swayed by the sheer force of his alone. But you don’t mind, his energy of a nuclear reactor and megawatt smile fully compensate for any inconveniences. The song comes to an end however, and you quickly follow him back to the table. “Ya don’t wanna dance anymore?” Atsumu asks when you settle in your chair, looking for something to replenish your energy. “Why?” “Ya looked so happy on the dance floor. And yet, yer sittin’ here now.” “Were you watching me this closely?” His ears fire up like Christmas lights. “I do.” “Huh?” “I do wanna dance.” For a moment you’re both just staring at each other in silence. Then you notice gears turning slowly in his head, and, at the moment of realisation, a light bulb. “May I please have this dance?” He holds a hand out, and you place yours in it. Atsumu leads you towards the swaying crowd, and then pulls you close. So close, that your bodies could merge. “And the next one too.” He purrs in your ear.

Miya’s breath on your skin is hot and distracting. Does he feel you shiver every time he exhales on your neck? He must, you conclude, since his palm is resting on your bare back. “Ya smell so good…” The whisper caresses your ear, his lips so close, yet so far. “Mmm… you too.” And those lips curl up.

It’s not just this dance. And not just the next one either. Many dances later and you’re still glued to his body, surrounded by a muscular arm, and one hand still in his. The other one playing mindlessly with his undercut. “Looks like Meian found someone to take home t’night.” “Hmm? Did you?” You pull a strand of his hair and lightly scratch his nape. “Do that again and I might get dangerous.” “Maybe I like doing dangerous things?” There’s a movement near your thigh, and you both hope those words carry a promise.

It’s well into the night and people start leaving, but it seems like the blonde is still not ready to let you out of his embrace. You lean your head on his shoulder, forehead right under his jaw, and let him rock you gently to the slow music. With eyes closed, breathing in his scent, it feels almost as if you two were the only people here. “Are ya tired?” You only purr in response. “Lessgo home then. Wanna stay at mine?” “Oya?” “I-i-it’s… not whatcha think… A won’t… won’t touch ya.” “But if you won’t, then what’s the point?” He freezes, agape, and you wonder how the hell someone so hot can become so flustered. “But seriously, I don’t have a change of clothes” which is a lie, because you do have spare panties in your tiny purse “or cosmetics, or-” “I’ll give ya somethin’ to sleep in.”

The door behind you closes with a quiet click. God, it feels so good to finally, finally take these heels off. You put your purse on a drawer right next to the door, and proceed to take your earrings off, placing them neatly in a tiny pouch. “Tsumu? Could you help me with the necklace?” He doesn’t say anything, instead coming behind you and trying to unclasp the piece of jewelry. Trying, because his hands shake. You take a sneak peek at him through the mirror, at his focused face and slightly poked tongue. He’s so adorable. In the meantime you reach to your hair and start removing the pins, but soon your hands are pulled away and replaced with his. It’s surprising but endearing how gentle this giant man can be. You close your eyes and just enjoy the moment, as your strands tickle your nape one by one. And then something hot and wet tickles your neck, right below your ear. Oh. Oh. “A… ‘m sorry, a didn’t mean to…” Nononono, come back here. You grab his tie and pull him down to a kiss, a searing clash of lips, slowly beginning to move against one another. One of his hands caresses your back, right under the edge of your dress, the other one pulls your hair gently making you gasp. His tongue slides along your lips painfully slowly, and you chase it with yours until the tips meet. The feeling is electrifying, sending shivers through your whole body.

Undressing Miya Atsumu is similar to unwrapping a Christmas present you’ve been waiting for for months. Button after button, you reveal more and more of his heavenly sculpted chest and stomach, your lips following the hands. He loves it, the feeling of your wet muscle soothing the bites drives him crazy, little purrs he lets out make his chest vibrate. It’s almost unbearable. He decides he can’t take it anymore when you hook your fingers under his pants and start unzipping them, grazing his cock. He pulls you close, sliding your dress off of you, and letting it pool at your feet. And then drags you to the bathroom, where he rids both of you of your underwear. The man enters the shower, extending his hand to you, and you grab it by instinct, before being pulled right under the stream of steamy water. “‘Tsumu, I’m gonna look like a panda!” “Eh? But pandas are cute tho?” “I’d rather look hot right now” He laughs boyishly, almost innocently, as he pumps some of his face wash and rubs it gently all over your features. His calloused fingertips massage your forehead and temples, while thumbs work on your chin and nose. It fills you with millions of bubbles, cotton candy surrounding your heart as fluffy as the foam. “‘Tsumu?” “Mmm?” “Kiss me.” And he does. At first it’s slow and sweet, but as your hands wash away the evening from the skin, there’s more hunger, more passion. Atsumu pulls and lifts you, throwing you over his shoulder as he walks out of the bathroom. “‘Tsumuuuu! The towels! We’re NOT sleeping in a wet bed!” “Who said anything about sleepin’, princess?”

Idiot.

Bonus scene: “Good morning sunshine.”

He whispers against your forehead after your lashes tickle his neck. His palms embrace your cheeks, and his lips on yours are as soft as summer rain. Pecks become open mouthed kisses, invitations and promises of summer heat. Breaths and sighs remind you of a seaside breeze, carrying the freshness of waves and hotness of sand. Your hands are roaming in search of a buried treasure, but no matter how much they find, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. His mouth ghost over the shells of your ears, spilling words smooth and shiny like pearls, while fingers trail new paths under the veil of your shirt. They discover new lands, gliding along the skin, making it bloom in tiny goosebumps wherever they touch. Kisses and licks flow at the surface of your neck, sealing and sucking over sensitive spots, painting them in pinks, reds, and purples. Big palms cover the hills of your breasts, thumbs sweep over the nipples so gently, that you’re not even sure if you imagined it.

Your naked body shivers underneath his, and arches into his warm embrace, as his lips press silent praises into your skin. You open your eyes, and you don’t know which is brighter - the sunshine pouring through the windows, or the sunshine of his hair. You can touch his hair though. So you do, and the soft rivers of gold cascade and tickle in between your fingers. Atsumu raises his gaze and smiles against your skin, lighting up your heart.

Reaching your heat, he pulls the strings of your pleasure with each kiss, each flick of his tongue, and you sing the ballad he composes. In this concert you’re the star, you’re the diva, and he’s merely there to worship you, to accompany your voice, to encourage and appreciate. He’s guiding you through the quiet breathy parts, not much louder than a whisper. He’s caressing the keys, adding more passion, more force, more depth, eliciting notes reaching higher, pushing you through a crescendo, rapidly, lovingly, until you’re nothing but an effusion of pleads and cries of his name.

“Atsumu, come back to me.” You breathe out.

And he’s walking the path again, kissing the ground he steps on, coming back to where he belongs, where he wants to belong. Your eyes meet when he glides into you, slowly, carefully, as if any sharp movement would shatter you and this moment. Atsumu nibbles at your lips and you let him in, let his tongue dance with yours, as your fingers intertwine.

One more push joins your hips, and you both let out a breathy sigh. He pulls back and rolls back in, making sure you feel all the veins, until his tip kisses your cervix. And again. And once more.

“Ah… Tsumu…” And he knows he’s lost.

“God, yer so beautiful.”

You’re sinking in his eyes like molten chocolate, and the whole world ceases to exist. There’s only you and him, and the flame spilling from where you’re joined, overtaking your bodies, minds, and senses. It’s too much, it wells up in your eyes and overspills, and he’s quick to brush it away. A kiss is placed on your temple and travels down your cheek and onto your neck. With a free hand you rub mindless patterns on his back, scrape at his nape, while his roams down along your skin, adorning all the curves.

You moan into his shoulder at the sudden touch. He only grazes your clit and you’re fluttering, pulling him deeper inside of you. The movement is slow, as slow as the roll of his hips, as the drag of his tongue on your throat. But it spreads like a wildfire, floods your mind in waves until everything is drowned in a white haze and explodes in a million stars.

“Come with me”

And he does. He paints his own milky way inside of you, releasing galaxies upon galaxies until he pours everything he has, until he’s empty and you’re full. He does, because he would follow you anywhere.

#haikyuu x reader #atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu smut #miya atsumu smut #atsumu fluff #miya atsumu fluff #atsumu crack #miya atsumu crack #haikyuu x y/n #atsumu x y/n #miya atsumu x y/n #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu smut #haikyuu crack #mysh.supernova.[hq]

[cloud9in]

Driving Lessons Pt 2 (Poppy x Bea)

Long awaited. I hope you all enjoy. This is the finale of the series but I think that Bea and Poppy’s high school stories should be continued.....

Read Part 1 HERE

Tags: @samanthadalton @somewillwin @baexpoppy @poppysmc @clowneryme @thedaft1 @zigxryanz @aleiramacaii

Word Count: 2.6k 

Pt 2: The Date

Friday night had arrived and Bea’s nerves were at an all time high. She practiced breathing exercises that conveniently popped up on Youtube, there was no room for thoughts other than that of a blonde cheerleader. The buzz of her phone prompted her to jump up in excitement. 

1 message from Poppy🙄

 Poppy: I’m 99% sure that you haven’t forgotten about our “date” tonight. But if you did I’m not here to remind you. I’ll be here in 5 minutes. Remember, dress casual. ❣

 A familiar grin crept its way onto Bea’s lips as she reread the message about twenty times, taking note of the heart at the end. It may seem conventional, but even that was a lot coming from Poppy. Another message popped up which induced a smirk from the brunette. 

 Poppy: No, I am not driving the Benz.

 Bea set her phone down and spun around to check herself out in the mirror. She wore black ripped jeans with a red plaid design in the holes, red converse, and an oversized grey and black long sleeve. This should definitely fit Poppy’s definition of casual, right? 

 The blonde arrived outside of Bea’s house just as she reached the front door. Poppy was the first to react, her jaw threatening to drop open as she took in Bea’s appearance, all of it. Luckily, she was the queen of poker face’s and masked her thirsty expression….Bea on the other hand, failed horribly. She stood there wide eyed, her hands hanging uselessly by her sides as she studied the blonde. Poppy wore a white and pink checkered wool skirt, a knitted pink sweater, and a white crop top. Her jewelry also dazzled brightly against her neck. The blonde watched Bea amusingly, “you can quit ogling me now...:”

 Bea darts her eyes away self consciously. “Your uh...jewelry is distracting.” Really Bea. Nice going. She winces at her excuse and Poppy arches an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the flustered mess of the brunette in the moment. 

 “Hmm..well come now. I don’t like to waste time.”

 Like a puppy being offered food, Bea follows Poppy into her silver Range Rover. She gapes at the pristine interior and the stars on the ceiling. “I thought those star things only existed in Rolls Royce’s.” Poppy smirks appreciatively, her fingers flexing on the steering wheel, “Oh they do, but I have my ways.”

 Bea tries to convince Poppy to tell her where they’re going, but she scoffs immediately, not even turning her head in the brunette’s direction. “It’s a surprise.”

 “I didn’t take you for a girl that likes surprises to be honest.”

 “Well then there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Hughes.”

Bea fought the urge to ask Poppy to elaborate, to tell her every last detail about her. What flavor of ice cream she liked, what she loved to do on a rainy day, but there’s that moment of insecurity  that pushes her away from indulging in those thoughts. She didn’t want to seem overly-interested.

 But maybe that’s what Poppy wanted.

 The sudden quietness becomes obvious and Poppy peers over at the brunette, “I could always let you test drive this one. Maybe brush up on your driving skills?” Bea side eyes Poppy suspiciously, memories of Monday night’s driving lessons infiltrating her mind. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious right now..”

 “Of course I’m not! You don’t think I remember what you did to my other baby?! You’re lucky you were hurt in the process, otherwise who knows what I would have done…” Poppy glances quietly over at Bea, her eyes carefully scanning the scar that sits on her forehead.

 Bea smiles sheepishly, her hand reaching up to move her locks back. “I don’t think I wanna know- wait hey! What do you mean I was lucky-”

 “Oh please, you were lucky that I took you to a hospital. You are crazy Hughes, you know that?”

 “Crazy for you? Well now that you mention it…”

 Poppy rolls her eyes but can’t stop the smile that erupts on her face. “...Just let me take a look at it later. I need to make sure it’s healing right.”

 “Whatever you say doctor!” Bea mock salutes the blonde which earns another heavy eye roll, emphasis on heavy, but she didn’t mind. The opportunity to be less than an inch away from Poppy’s luscious lips again? Hell yes.

 “Okay, but what did your dad say? I’m sure he understood it was a complete accident.”

 “Mhm tell that to the insurance company. Which reminds me, you will be receiving a bill in the mail sometime next week for all the damages.”

 Bea nearly leaped out of her seat as her head snapped towards the blonde, who looked like she was having a great time. “Pop...you’re joking right...that is a thing you are doing right now.” Poppy rolls her eyes with enjoyment, letting out a soft chuckle. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Farmsville, I know you can’t even afford a tire. 

 “Wha-...hey!”

 ***

 After continuous bickering which almost prompted Poppy to unlock the passenger side door and kick Bea out...psychically, while they were doing 80 on the freeway, she eventually pulled into a parking lot. The only main source of light was the huge sign illuminating the words, “Animal Shelter”. Bea blinks in confusion for a few seconds before realizing she was the only one in the car. Poppy had already started walking towards the entrance, greeting a man with a….smile? Oh yeah, Bea was definitely curious now. Poppy actually looked relaxed when Bea had finally caught up with her. The blonde noticed her approach and hummed to herself, “took you long enough, hurry lets go inside.”

 “Pops-did you take a wrong turn...this is an animal shelter...”

 The blonde rolls her eyes so far back into her brain as she grasps onto Bea’s words. “No I did not take a wrong turn you imb--.....this..this is the place I picked.” The brunette flicks her eyes continuously between Poppy and the entrance before shrugging, a surprised expression on her face. Before Bea could say anything else, Poppy grabs her hand and pulls them into the store and into the column where cute puppies reached for them. A beautiful smile immediately lit up Poppy’s features as she bent down to pet one of the baby bulldogs. This gesture immediately enraptured Bea as she watched...Poppy? Or whoever this was. 

 Not wanting to disturb the moment Bea leans down to the cage next to her and picks up the golden retriever who happily licks her face. “Woah okay there boy, a little too much tongue.” She holds up the puppy as he barks playfully and wiggles in her arms. 

 “I’m definitely not complaining about your destination of choice, but can you tell me why you picked it?” 

 Bea gazes over at Poppy who looks like she’s in her true element. The blonde sighs and stands up, brushing her skirt down. “Well my parents own the place…and well to put it bluntly, some of these animals don’t have much time left.” 

 She turns towards Bea, watching her safely caress the puppy in her arms, and smiles, “I figured you have a close connection with animals and would want to make them feel loved before they go.” 

 Bea watches Poppy with a warm look in her eyes, and it was funny because Bea had been around the cheerleader a lot, but this...was different. Almost incredible. And Bea knew that this was the start of a feeling that she would never get enough of. 

 “I would. Thank you.” 

 The two girls spend a good amount of time playing with the animals. Poppy helped Bea feed newborn strays with a bottle of milk, more than often grabbing a hold of the brunette’s hand to steady the slight tremble. Bea didn’t want to admit she was nervous because Poppy was very close to her. And Poppy would never admit that Bea was doing everything right, but she wanted to hold her hand because it felt incredibly soft for a girl who worked on a farm everyday. 

 But she wasn’t the only one who was very observant that night. Bea kept her mouth shut about the situation, but this new side of Poppy blew her mind. There was so much to ask, to say, but the moment was too valuable to ruin. 

 The time seemed to go by quickly as the shelter started to close down. The time they spent with the animals felt fulfilling but Bea never missed the solemn look on Poppy’s face as she watched one of the older cats rest peacefully. There was so much to learn about the girl, and Bea thought it was best that she kept this date going.

 Food. That could work. 

 “Hey pops...I know I said you could pick the place but there’s somewhere else I want to take you. If you’re up for it.” 

 If it was anyone else, Poppy probably would have cussed at them for taking up too much of her time. But this was Bea, and something in her couldn’t say no. “As long as it doesn’t involve you and I in a forest alone.” The brunette laughs easily, wrapping her arm around Poppy’s waist without a second thought. “Oh please, do you really think that’s how I’d get rid of you?” 

 Poppy seems to lean into her touch, letting her strawberry blonde locks brush up against Bea’s cheeks, “I doubt you’d be the one getting rid of me darling, but sure.” 

 ***

“....Alright I take it back! I’ll even let you drive the car because I am not eating at a diner.”

 “Oh come on, they have the best milkshakes in town!”

 The brunette drags Poppy towards the diner without letting go because if she did, Poppy would probably scream bloody murder in the middle of the lot. 

 Bea led her towards a booth in the back, only then freeing her arm. Poppy plops into the seat after realizing there was no way she could charm her way out of this. “Don’t look so bummed out, you’ll change your mind when you try the famous strawberry milkshake.” 

 “I have never had a milkshake in my life.” Poppy visibly cringes, her posture stiffening at the thought of a sugary liquid infiltrating her body. 

 “Well today is your lucky day baby.” Bea winks at her and calls over a waitress who seems too comfortable with laying a hand on the brunette’s shoulder. It wasn’t evident whether the severe blush on Poppy’s face was because of Bea unknowingly using a pet name or because of the mystery girl who decided to do the most in her presence. 

 “We’ll have the regular Tasha, oh and the strawberry milkshake please.” 

 “Just one? What about your friend over here?”

 Poppy snaps her head up at the waitress who seemed to scan her every move. Something Poppy was definitely used to. Her hands are the first to make a move, slowly trailing their way up Bea’s arm from across the table. She doesn’t take her eyes off the waitress as she speaks softly. “Oh we’ll be sharing it honey. Put a cherry on top too okay?”

 The waitress reverts her eyes from the two and walks away without a word. Poppy watches her leave, biting her lip with satisfaction. 

 Bea can’t help but smirk to herself. “Oh you cannot take your eyes off of her can you? Relax, she’s an old friend.”

 The blonde scoffs, keeping her hands on the surface of Bea’s skin. “I don’t care who she is. Does she flirt with every customer in here? What happened to having class? Or some sort of decent? I mean do you talk to pigs like this?

 Bea squints her eyes and sighs warily. “Poppy this is not a five star restaurant, and that’s what you call being polite and kind to well known customers. People here are normal, not trained robots.” 

 Poppy shrugs to herself, her eyes darting around to the wall decorations and other people who are chatting happily with their families. The atmosphere did feel warm and peaceful, nobody sat up straight and practiced proper table manners. Nobody judged her for who she was or what designer she wore. There was room to actually breathe. Bea could sense the blonde slowly starting to adapt and relax in their new environment and she couldn’t be more grateful for making the right decision. When their food had come, Bea slid the milkshake towards Poppy and smiled shyly. “It’s all yours if you like it, we don’t have to share.” 

 “Nonsense Hughes, I can’t possibly drink this all by myself…but I call dibs on the cherry.” She steals the cherry from the top and plops it into her mouth, eyes sparkling from the burst of flavor. It was nothing compared to the milkshake though, Poppy swore she saw stars when tasting the sweet liquid. Bea laughs as a whipped cream mustache develops on the blonde’s lips after hogging the shake for herself.  

 ***

 “I’m paying for our next date by the way.” 

 Bea peers over at Poppy who walked her to her front door, “oh so there’s gonna be another one?” She can’t help but smile at Poppy’s sudden shyness. 

 “Well I enjoyed tonight, a lot. Maybe more than a lot.”

 “I did too.”

 The silence that consumed them wasn’t exactly uncomfortable but it was enough to make them stare at each other. Bea’s mind started to fog as she thought about finally closing the distance between them. She wanted nothing more than to mask the silence with a kiss. Bea looks at Poppy, who seems to be lost in thought. 

 “What are you thinking?”

 “What?”

 “You’re usually deep in thought when your eyebrows scrunch together like that. Or maybe you’re just planning on jumping me as soon as I turn around.”

 Poppy smiles softly. “Do you know the feeling when the thing you wanted the most is right in front of you, yet it still feels unreal and almost impossible.” 

 Bea takes a deep breath and nods, “I do.” 

 Okay Hughes you’re gonna kiss her in 3. You’re gonna make the move. Come on. 

 But of course Poppy had other plans. 

 “Mmh!”

 The feeling of Poppy’s soft lips had caught Bea completely off guard. A hum of pleasure escaped her mouth as the heat started to increase between them. Bea grabbed hold of Poppy’s cheek and steadied the kiss, her eyes slowly started to shut as she sunk into the warm, smooth feeling. Bea smiles into the kiss as Poppy’s tongue begins exploring the depths of her mouth, and she bites back a moan when the blonde takes her bottom lip between her teeth, tugging it slightly, feeling the desire pooling in the pit of her stomach. Poppy places her lips back on Bea’s, passion igniting once more as Bea begins to dominate the kiss, her hands finding her way to the blonde’s waist, pulling her in even closer. 

 Poppy felt like she could kiss Bea forever, if it wasn’t for the need of oxygen. When they both finally pulled back, the blonde laughed with joy. “That felt so amazing.” 

 Bea wanted to blow a huge sigh of relief that Poppy initiated the kiss, because imagine fucking that up. She just held her close and basked in the moment. Her lips swelled with excitement as she still felt the ghost of Poppy’s tongue tracing it. Poppy always had something to say, but right now there was so much more she could do. And the first thing she would do is finally make Bea hers.

***

if you want to be tagged in any Poppy fics let me know.

#poppy x mc #poppy min sinclair #mc x poppy #playchoices #queen b #choices stories you play

[canarygirl1017]

Ghosted - Chapter 3 (Teaser)

Pairing: Reader / Jungkook, Reader / Taehyung (past relationship, friends to lovers to friends)

Genre:  College!au, fluff, angst, supernatural drama, smut, friends to lovers, emotional trauma, hurt/comfort

Length:  2, 933k words (partial chapter)

Warnings:  language, episodes of anxiety, panic attacks, sexual themes in later chapters.

Summary:  Living in a world full of things only you have the ability to see, growing up with Jungkook has been your island amidst the chaos. But when your best friend makes an impossible request, your friendship is fractured, and your sudden decision to cut ties and move abroad changes everything. Three years later, Jungkook is thriving at university as he begins his junior year. He’s a star athlete, member of a popular fraternity, and every girl’s ideal boyfriend. He tells himself that he’s long forgotten you and the friendship he never had a chance to mend – that is, until you show up on campus as a transfer student with new friends in tow. It’s been three years, and everything has changed, but the biggest change is you. Your new found determination to use your abilities to help the ghosts you used to live in fear of, no matter how dangerous it might be, makes Jungkook fear he’ll lose you before he has a chance to fix what he broke. College AU.

Disclaimer: Just for funsies, I don’t believe in real-life shipping. But I like to write, and I like fandom, so here we are. Please do not duplicate this work or repost anywhere else without permission.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Ghosted Playlist

Chapter 3

“You ready to go?”

You turned to see Taehyung leaning in your doorway. He was wearing flared jeans and a green paisley silk button-down shirt. The open butterfly collar revealed a vintage Chanel gold medallion, and he’d added light green sunglasses to complete his retro look.

Taehyung had picked out your outfit – a short, cream colored wrap dress with an abstract floral design and long flared sleeves. Knee high rust red boots and pin straight hair completed the look, and for once you felt like a match to his fashionable appearance.

You held up a finger as you opened your jewelry box, looking for the vintage garnet drop earrings you’d found to complement the outfit. You slid them in, moving your hair back to admire how they dangled and caught the light.

“Okay, I’m ready,” you said, turning to find him behind you.

“Almost,” he said, pulling a small box out of his pocket.

“Tae,” you said reprovingly as he opened the box and took out a ring. The antique gold setting was beautiful – an oval opal surrounded by a halo of garnets – and it looked perfect when he slid it onto your right ring finger.

“Now you’re ready,” he said, looking pleased as he stood back to check your appearance.

You raised a brow. “When did you even have time to shop for this?” Taehyung’s little surprise gifts were something to which you’d become accustomed over the last few years, and your attempts to discourage him were usually ignored.

He shrugged and as always, his sheepish grin disarmed you. You reached up and adjusted his collar.

“You look like you’re ready for a Vogue shoot,” you said, smiling back. “The poor girls at this party won’t know what hit them.”

“That’s why I have you to protect me,” he replied.

It was Friday, the final weekend before classes started, and the welcoming activities had ramped up in the last week. You and Taehyung had attended some of them and declined others, but you’d committed to the biggest events of the weekend – tonight’s Musical Eras mixer and tomorrow’s Movie Night on the Quad.

The mixer was being held at the Kappa fraternity house, something that had almost made you reconsider attending because you were certain to run into Jungkook again as you had for the last week. While your anger had cooled, you still felt that knot of anxiety in your stomach whenever you saw him, wondering if he’d still be angry or if he’d just pretend you didn’t exist.

So far, his attitude fell somewhere in the middle – when he saw you and Taehyung together at the supermarket, he tried to hide his reaction, but the little muscle ticking away in his jaw was a dead giveaway. A couple of days later, you saw him in the park while you were walking Yeontan and for once, he didn’t look big mad at the sight of you. You were alone and had considered trying to talk to him, but he was with friends. Not wanting to invite public rejection, you waved at the group and hurried away, noticing the little wrinkle between his brows as he watched you go.

Jin, Jimin and Jimin’s girlfriend, Ayeong, had all been by the house a couple of times. Sera had also visited with her mother, accepting Taehyung’s offer of a house tour since Sera’s mother was interested in how the historical home had been renovated. Jungkook was noticeably absent, though Jin seemed certain that he’d eventually come around.

You weren’t so certain of that. In all the years you’d been friends with Jungkook, you’d never seen him so deeply upset with another person. If someone upset him, he might avoid that person for a while, but he always got over it, and you’d never seen him blow up at anyone the way he had with you.

You always thought you knew him better than anyone, and he you, but now you had to acknowledge the reality of this situation – three years had passed, and the truth was, you didn’t know this Jungkook. Worse, he didn’t know you either and you had no one to blame for that but yourself.

________________

Stepping into the Kappa house was like stepping back in time. The large house had several rooms downstairs, each of which reflected a different decade of music, and everyone had taken their costumes just as seriously. You laughed when Jimin and Ayeong met you out front dressed as Sonny and Cher.

“Very nice,” you said, gesturing to Ayeong’s dress.

“Thanks, I love yours too.”

Thought it was still early, the party was already a crush of people circulating between the rooms. Younger guys, probably freshmen, circulated with drinks on trays which they offered to guests.

“Pledges?” Taehyung asked Jimin as he took a beer.

Jimin nodded. “They have to put in an hour according to a schedule and then they’re free to party. That’s as close to hazing as we get here.”

When Jimin offered you a glass of wine, you shook your head. “I don’t really drink much when I’m…” you paused, unsure how to finish the sentence without being weird. “When I’m out.”

You could see that Jimin understood what you meant. “Got it. We have a dry bar too if you want to call it that.”

Ayeong linked arms with you. “I’ll show her. I’m not really in the mood to drink either.”

The dry bar turned out to be pretty impressive, with lots of juice, sparkling water, club soda, and even fruits you could add. You settled for club soda with a splash of raspberry juice and slices of lemon, while Ayeong created a tropical drink.

“I know Jungkook is being… well, difficult. But I just want you to know that Jimin is so happy you’re back,” Ayeong said. “He said you were all friends since kindergarten.”

“Jimin was always one of the sweetest people at our school,” you replied. “It was really easy to be his friend.”

“Not much has changed then,” Ayeong laughed. “What about Jungkook? Jimin says he wasn’t always such a fuckboy.”

You choked on a sip of your drink. “Jungkook is a fuckboy?”

“Well, a nice one? I think he only hooks up with girls who want the same kind of no-strings fun, so there’s never any drama related to it. He’s not the type to get serious though, which is why I’ve told Erin she needs to move on from her crush.”

Fuckboy Jungkook wasn’t something you could really imagine, nor did you want to. You chose not to think too closely about why it bothered you so much.

But once you spotted him across the room talking to a group of girls, you couldn’t shake that image from your mind. He looked good. Really, really good. He was dressed in tight red pants, a black silk button down, and he’d completed his Michael Jackson Thriller homage with a red leather jacket trimmed in black. When he laughed at something one of the girls said, his dimples appeared.

“I’m surprised Jungkook is wearing a costume – he almost never does,” Ayeong commented.

“He kind of stopped wearing them by the time we were in high school,” you said. “But this kind of party, plus a Thriller homage, is pretty on brand for him.”

“Oh, that’s who he’s supposed to be! I’m really bad at guessing all of these costumes.”

You and Taehyung stuck with Jimin and Ayeong, who introduced you to people you hadn’t met yet. Everyone was welcoming, but two hours in you were starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise. There was also the fact that ever since Jungkook became aware of your presence, you’d felt his eyes on you. You’d hoped his neutral response to you at the park was progress, but you could feel his judgmental stare like a brand.

Every time you glanced over at him, his impassive expression was contradicted by some blazing emotion in his eyes. You reminded yourself that you’d known this would probably be a struggle – that Jungkook would likely be angry with you for leaving. Emmie had even said that no one mentioned your name to him anymore.

You’d just underestimated how much it would hurt.

___________________

Jungkook almost skipped Movie Night on the Quad because he was in a foul mood after the Musical Eras mixer. Seeing you there with Taehyung in your matching costumes had made him inexplicably angry, something Jin called him out on.

“Shouldn’t we be glad that she has good people in her life?” Jin asked him when he stomped around the kitchen the next day, slamming cabinets as he fixed a late breakfast.

“He’s right,” Jimin said. “Plus you know that she and Taehyung aren’t together, right?”

That made him pause. “They look like they’re together.” Fucking matching costumes and all, he thought viciously.

“They dated, but Ayeong said y/n told her it’s been a while since they were together like that. At least six months or so.”

“Who the hell follows their ex-girlfriend to another country? And buys a house?”

“If you took the time to get to know Taehyung, you’d understand that he feels like y/n saved his life. He’s committed to helping her with the ghost hunting because of that, but he also genuinely cares about her. So do Namjoon and Chloe,” Jin said. “They’re all good people.”

“Whatever,” Jungkook muttered, shoving cereal into his mouth.

“Forget it, Jin. He won’t admit the real problem, and we all know his anger default setting when it comes to y/n is because of that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jungkook demanded.

“You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous of anyone that got close to y/n,” Jimin replied calmly. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

Jungkook grit his teeth. “I’m not jealous.”

“Really? So every time a guy expressed interest in dating her back in high school, and you very pointedly warned them all off, that was you just being what? A good friend?” Jimin rolled his eyes.

“Who? Like Lucas? You’re damn right I warned him off. He didn’t deserve her.”

“What about me?” Jimin asked, a challenge in his tone. “I told you that I liked her our sophomore year, and you shot down that idea so fast I was afraid if I pursued it, it would actually ruin our friendship.”

Jungkook stared at him, shifting uncomfortably. “Because you weren’t serious about it.”

“Says who? I was dead serious, Jungkook, and you know it. For that matter, I think even Lucas was serious about liking her. He never said a word about her that wasn’t totally respectful.”

“Yeah, because he knew I would beat his ass,” Jungkook said.

“You’re right – everybody knew that. Why do you think people steered clear of her? Why do you think Grace hated her so much? I told you that Grace wasn’t as nice as you thought she was. Yet you still held tight to y/n with one hand while you chased after Grace. And I figured it was just a matter of time until you realized how you really felt about y/n, so I let it go. But damn, Jungkook, you need to stop taking out your anger on y/n. Let her explain why she left.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then Jungkook asked, “Has she told you why?”

“I asked her,” Jin said. “But I think she’s waiting to talk to you first.”

Jungkook tried not to think about what Jimin said, but now that he was here on the quad, and you were just a few feet away, it was all he could think about. Jealousy.

He couldn’t deny he hated seeing how close you were to Taehyung. The way the other man touched you, or kept a protective arm around you, pissed him off. The way you smiled at him made him even angrier. Still, beneath the anger was something else – a yearning for the way things had been. No one had ever understood him the way you did, and he missed that connection with you.

It was his fault you left. That little voice in the back of his head kept reminding him that you weren’t the only one to blame for this vast distance between you now. He kind of understood why you’d left, but he didn’t know why it had taken you so long to return.

He kept stealing glances at you rather than watching the movie playing on the large screen set up on the quad. You’d been to the concession stand, and he wasn’t surprised to see you eating gummy bears since that had always been your favorite movie snack.

You looked pretty. Your hair was a little longer now than it had been in high school and fell in gentle waves around your shoulders. You wore another floaty little summer dress, the kind you had always liked, small feet encased in comfortable flat sandals. You and Taehyung had joined Jimin, Ayeong, Erin and Jin on a large blanket towards the front of the crowd.

Stubbornly, Jungkook had opted to sit with some of his friends from the baseball team. He was still close enough to watch you – to hear your voice – to just observe you while his mind sorted through his confusing thoughts and emotions. You had glanced over at him a few times, as if feeling his eyes on you, a silent question in your own. And somehow, he knew that you understood that he needed some time.

At the intermission between films, you went with Ayeong and Erin to the bathroom. Jungkook got tacos from a nearby food truck and when he returned, he noticed that you were the only one missing from the group. A few minutes later, Taehyung was frowning at his phone after making a call that had gone unanswered.

“I’m going to go check on her,” he heard the other man say as he stood up.

Jungkook hesitated for a few seconds before following him. Taehyung had his phone to his ear again, though again there seemed to be no answer.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook asked as he caught up to him.

Taehyung turned and scowled at him. Then he sighed. “Ayeong said she stayed back because she got a call from her mom that she needed to answer. Maybe it’s nothing, but she’s been gone for almost twenty minutes, so I just want to make sure nothing happened.”

Jungkook nodded and then they were silent as they walked around the buildings that were still open. The campus was well lit, so it was easy to see the faces of people walking to the dorms or back to the quad. When they didn’t see you anywhere, Taehyung made another call.

“Chloe, I need you to ping y/n’s location and send it to my phone.” He listened for a minute. “Maybe nothing but I can’t find her and I don’t know – I’m getting a weird feeling. Okay, thanks.”

Taehyung’s unease was contagious, and Jungkook shifted from one foot to the other as they waited. Then Taehyung’s phone vibrated, and he studied his screen for a moment before gesturing for Jungkook to follow him. After walking for a few minutes, Jungkook realized they were heading towards a park where students often had lunch or relaxed between classes.

And there you were, a silent, ghostly figure swaying in the moonlight as you hummed a strange tune.

“Fuck.” Taehyung started running.

Jungkook was right behind him. When he reached you, he tried to take your arm to turn you towards them, but Taehyung stopped him.

“Don’t touch her,” he said, a note of warning in his tone. “She’s in a sort of fugue state, and it’s safer if she comes out of it herself.”

Rather than argue, Jungkook walked around to face you, but froze when he saw that your eyes were unfocused, and almost… glowing? It was clear that you didn’t see him, though he was standing right in front of you.

Jungkook’s heart was pounding now. “How do we make her do that?”

“There’s something else here,” Taehyung explained. “It probably tried to communicate with her. Sometimes, if she lets her guard down, or if the spirit is especially powerful, she gets sort of… pulled to the other side. It’s usually because they’re trying to show her something.”

Swallowing hard, Jungkook nodded. “Okay. How do we make her come out of it?”

“We can’t make her, and if we try, it can cause severe shock. She’ll already be in a state of shock when she comes to on her own, so we have to be careful. I’m going to go get the car. You wait here with her and just keep talking to her, okay?”

“Can I touch her hands?”

“Carefully,” Taehyung said. “Don’t pull her or shake her, and don’t try to make her move.”

“Okay.” Jungkook pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Jin, I need you to come to the park right now. The one behind the science building.”

You were still humming and swaying when Jungkook reached out to touch your hand. There was no response, so he carefully took both your hands in his.

“Jesus, your hands are freezing,” he said quietly. “You never dress right for being out at night. You know that you get cold even when it’s not that cold, right?”

He squeezed your hands carefully in an attempt to warm them up. There was no response from you, your eyes still fixed on something he couldn’t see.

A/N: I know it's been a long time since I posted, and I'm sorry about that. If you're still reading, I'll get the rest of the chapter up this week, and there is some fluff in the future as Jungkook and y/n start repairing their relationship. I hope I remembered all the people who asked to be tagged (and got the tags right.) If you’d like to be tagged for updates, let me know.

Tag list: @ggukkieland @jikooksgirl19 @waves-and-woods @kookiesbreaky @koochiekoo @monvieesdaebak

#college au #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #Jungkook smut #bts imagines #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #ghosted

[ddarker-dreams]

hiraeth (i).

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

yandere! don! giorno giovanna x f! reader. collab with @dear-yandere​. read part two here! do not re-upload or use our writing without permission. › warnings: isolation, detailed panic attack, emotional manipulation, and implied sexual relation. › word count: 10k. › art credit: spearthymint.

“You can come out, you know.” 

Giorno’s words are meant as a small but necessary push, but at the moment, his encouragements just come off as chiding and impatient. You know that’s far from the case, as he’s always been tolerant of your missteps and reluctancy when it came to anything involving him, but your nerves on edge right now. This goes against all you’ve been forced to learn, all you’ve been forced to adapt to during your time on this island. Time has always been at a standstill behind these walls, with countless doors you cannot cross and an expanse of ocean that reveals to you nothing for countless miles. In such a situation, most people wouldn’t be standing before their closets in dismay, scolding themselves over what outfit to wear for a date with their captor; but, you supposed you aren’t most people, considering the Don of Passione has taken such a liking to you as to keep you to himself. It’d become commonplace, and looking through the expansive closet almost felt normal, designer outfits tailored perfectly to your measurements, awaiting to be picked. Growing up in a country renowned for its exquisite tastes in fashions and its constant supply of talented designers, you’ve seen clothing like this in fashion magazines or in the windows of boutiques you could never hope to afford; but now, these pieces are entirely yours, free for your choosing whenever you so desire. Under different circumstances, you would’ve felt like a successful model, one that would make your younger self proud with your fine jewelry and expensive makeup.

What would she think of you now?

Giorno has reassured you that you’re welcome to help yourself to everything here, that it’s all meant for you anyways, that your happiness is his. You know he meant it as something romantic, more akin to saying that your happiness would make him happy by extension, but considering your unwillingness to be here in the first place, his sentiment made it seem as if your happiness is something to be taken, something you cannot control. His actions are no different, despite his solemn assertions that keeping you here is in your best interest.

You don’t bring that up to him. It’d… it’d break his heart, considering how far your ‘relationship’ has come. You used to hate him with every fibre of your being. Now, you feel almost giddy to have a rare moment alone with him. A morning date by the beach, something romantic, something personal. This is a first for you both. There was a time you’d dread being alone with him; that time is long past, it seems.

You’re not sure if it’s for the better.

Running your hands over extravagant fabric, you wonder if the day will come when you feel comfortable enough to try these outfits on. It’s a world that goes beyond your limited understanding, too luxurious to feel real. Out of everything in this walk-in closet, you’re drawn to the plain outfits, clothing entirely unbefitting a woman who lives on an island villa with her influential husband. Turtlenecks and long skirts or pants used to be your first choices whenever he’d visit, wanting nothing more than to keep his eyes off of you. You thought it’d make him want you less, view you as undesirable of his money and affections, but Giorno isn’t so easily swayed. He does love you, you can tell that much from everything he does, from the way he touches you like fine art to the way he puts your happiness and safety first, even at the expense of your freedom. Even still, the inclusion of such plain outfits in your wardrobe shows Giorno’s thoughtfulness towards you, considering the little things. While he wants nothing more than to shower you in expensive gifts, your comfort comes first. He loves that about you, how you can find happiness and comfort in the simpler things life has to offer.

But… will he be disappointed at your lackluster selection? You almost chuckle at your own worries, at how natural it all feels and at how foreign it feels at the same time. Choosing a proper outfit is what someone on their first date would be concerned about, not someone stolen from their life and thrown into lavish isolation. He hasn’t gotten under your skin that far, has he? And, do you even mind anymore? 

Shaking your head at the thought, you chastise yourself. Now’s not the time to be thinking about such hurtful things, you’ve had plenty of time to wallow in self pity. Too much time, when he isn’t here. It’s gotten to the point where his presence is enough to quell your lonely thoughts — you no longer dread being at his side. Not nearly as much as before, anyways. Because now, you want to move forward. One step at a time. It’s the only way to live right now, the only option he’s presented to you.

“Is everything alright, amore mio? Do you need help?” He calls out past the foyer, breaking you from your self-deprecating and conflicting thoughts. 

“Y-yeah, just a moment.” You clear your throat, heart racing at his concern. Even the way he speaks… the worry in his voice that shows even in the smallest of actions, you can tell he’s trying. He’s been trying to make your stay a comfortable one, even if it’s always been against your will. What frustrated you at the start now elicits fluttering within your heart, his care borderline touching. Every detail of your daily life has been considered, intended to make you feel at home, going so far as to be mindful of the way he conducts himself around you. He must think you haven’t noticed, but isolation has taught you to be observant. Observant of where he keeps the keys, observant of the pattern in which he visits, observant of what information he’ll let slip when you lower his guard just enough. These thoughts used to plague you day in and day out; they’d become your only hobby, at some point. And yet, beneath it all, he’d found a crack to seep through, someplace just wide enough to make himself at home.

His voice no longer brings dread.

“Sorry, I’m fine. I... I just don’t know.” You continue, aware of how much time has already passed. You’re still hidden in the closet of your chambers, so your voice is muffled, and he hums in response, perplexed by how long you’ve been taking to doll yourself up. You’ve never taken this long before, not with him; you’ve always been content to throw on whatever catches your fancy, even if it hardly matches, and leave your hair undone and your face natural. He never once minded, but the difference in your behavior is stark. It’d be concerning if you weren’t so easy to read, so he settles against the banister with a small, knowing smile. 

You choke back the spit that had been pooling under your tongue in your daze. You’re keeping him waiting. You’re keeping the Don of Passione waiting. You used to relish in the thought, but today, it feels wrong. He’s waiting for you as patiently as he always does, but today is something special, something special to you for once. Today is the first time you’ll go outside, past the doors of this villa. Today is the first time you’ll go outside with him, willingly. Today is the first time you’ll enjoy it. 

You clear your throat, pushing those shameful thoughts asid. The fabric of your tailored sundress feels foreign against your skin, featherlight and airy. The silken skirts feel too short all of a sudden, now that you were one step closer to being under his gaze. He’ll…. he’ll like it, right? It’s a silly question, considering he likes whatever you wear, but you can’t help but dwell on it. You almost want to cancel this date and throw up instead, the butterflies in your stomach feeling more like a swarm than a gentle fluttering. You lean against the closet door and ashamedly sigh. “Giorno, this… this feels embarrassing.”

He always knows exactly what to say to make your heart flutter, so his answer is quick.“Amore, I’m sure you look lovely. You always do.”

His tone is lighthearted, amused even. To anyone overhearing, they might think this is a conversation between infatuated lovers. A husband assuring his wife she’s just as beautiful as the day he met her, as lovers would. No one would be none the wiser. No one would know that this is the first time you’ve been past your chambers in weeks. No one would know that he’s kept you here for months. No one would know.

The ring on your finger feels heavier than usual.

Moving on is such a tricky thing. A minefield you’re forced to navigate, stumbling and failing at times. You wish it was as simple as offering forgiveness, but both of you know it isn’t that easy. He upended your life entirely, turned it on its head, and no amount of remorse or forgiveness can bring back what was lost. All those months spent away from your family, your friends, your job. And yet, today, he’s extending a loving hand to you, giving a second chance. A chance at true happiness, or the closest thing to it in this situation. After all the suffering you’ve endured, it’s only natural to seek some form of solace. You’ve denied yourself long enough, having shed enough tears to last a lifetime within the span of a few months. Forgiveness won’t return what you’ve lost, it won’t excuse what’s been taken. Forgiveness won’t change anything, but neither will hatred.

Now, more than ever, you want to feel normal again. You don’t think of it as giving up, at least… you try not to. Instead, you like to think you’re making good out of a dire situation. Anyone would do the same, right?

You step past the threshold, back into what’s rightfully yours.

“Ah, amore. There you are.” He looks up from his little reverie, a soft smile gracing his features upon spotting you. He chuckles and pushes himself from the railing, setting himself straight to properly greet you. “I was right. You���re even lovelier than the last time I saw you.” He says, laying a gentle kiss atop your hand.

You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to draw attention away from your blush. “You’re too much, Giorno. You saw me just moments ago.” You’re grateful there’s no stutter this time. You’ve grown used to his suave mannerisms, kissing your hand being one of the most common, but it still sends your heart into a slamming against your chest. He has a way with charming you, despite everything he’s done. “And surely, you say that to every woman you meet.” Your eyes flicker away from his, a brief moment of jealousy upon realizing how many beautiful and intelligent women he must meet during trips abroad. It’s a silly presumption, really, considering he’s only kept you on an isolated island, to your knowledge, but the brief bout of jealousy refuses to subside.

“My words hold no such lie. You are lovelier than the last time I saw you, as you always are. Your beauty knows no bounds, amore mio.” He cants his head to the side, his smile knowing, and tilts your chin upward. You’re forced to look into his eyes as he says such sweet words as easily as breathing. “And, I assure you, I only have eyes for you. There is no one I love more in this world, not even myself.” His lips travel downward to place a gentle kiss against the ring on your finger. “And there is no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with, tesoro mio.”

The ring doesn’t feel nearly as heavy.

Gently, he places your hand back at your side and straightens himself. You give him a once over, secretly admiring his ethereal beauty. He’s well-dressed as usual, one of his many opulent and tailored suits hugging his figure in all the right places. The designs are immaculate and fine, grey pinstripes on darker grey fabric creating an elegant and put together look. It strikes you as odd to wear a suit for a beach date, but you don’t dwell on it. He’s a busy man, no doubt having had to clear his schedule just for a quick morning date with you. He’ll leave soon after, you’re sure, and for better or worse, the thought of being without him for another day hurts. You’re left without him for days at a time, and while you don’t always prefer his company, it’s been… comforting as of late. Nights spent by his side have become the norm, your head nestled against his chest as you sleep off the fine wine in your system. Pillow talk is something you never thought you’d indulge in with someone like him, but you’ve looked forward to it these past few weeks. At first, it was another tactic to gain information on him, but somewhere along the line, you began taking solace in his company. It’s all you have. He is all you have.

“That dress looks wonderful on you.” He compliments, enjoying the way the sunflower patterns on your sundress brighten your already-resplendent features. He extends his arm to you, which you accept without hesitation. The skin of your bare arms rubs against the coarse fabric of his suit, sending shivers down your spine. You must look like an odd couple, one dressed for an outing in the sun and the other dressed from a rendezvous at night; a reminder of how different your worlds truly are.

Once he feels you’re settled, Giorno begins leading you down long, empty halls decorated to the brim with tasteful vases, flowers, and paintings. You pay them no mind, their placements and features already burned into your mind from countless days wandering these very corridors, wishing for freedom. And now, what you’ve earned is starting to turn into a tangible reality. You’ve walked this path numerous times, having to stop when you reached a set of locked doors. Doors that lead to the outside world, doors you’ll finally walk past, hand in hand with someone you’re not quite sure you love just yet.

The pep in your step comes to a halt when you’re met with the familiar sight, the roadblock imposing. You almost forget that you’ll be walking past those double doors in a few moments, your body so accustomed to standing in this very spot and looking on in yearning. The shifting of fabric pulls you to reality as Giorno reaches into his suit, procuring a keycard and wordlessly unlocks the door. It’s a silent series of actions, the air growing heavy with tension. From how you tense, you assume he knows what you’re thinking, but doesn’t want to comment on it. If it’s for your sake or his own, you’re unsure.

Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you. The sunlight is blinding, your eyes squinting and arm rising to lessen the impact. It feels prickly against your skin now that there are no windows to block the bright rays. While your eyes adjust to the unfiltered light, Giorno patiently holds the door open. This has been the desire of your heart, coveting the freedom to experience nature as you used to. 

You look over at him, for once grateful for how well he can read you. Even if you had the words to ask what’s on your mind, your tongue would be unable to form them. He offers a slight nod, encouraging you to take your time as you anchor yourself, a bitter tug at his heart that he’s put you in a situation where you need to ask in the first place. Inhaling silently, you gingerly step out, the ground growing softer. When nothing happens, you take another step, as careful as the first. Testing. Praying that this is indeed real life and not a cruel dream that serves to taunt you. How often you’ve dreamt of leaving this place, and it’s become a reality within a few days… even if the path does not lead to your freedom.

Sensing your inner dilemma, he takes a hold of your hand. The touch is light, not meant to constrict you for his own purposes. Should you feel the need to pull away, as if you had been touched with fire, you’d be allowed to. Months ago, you would’ve done just that. To spite him, and for your own satisfaction. 

You intertwine your fingers with his. 

When your eyes flicker back to him, you notice how his soft lips part as if in shock. Did you manage to surprise him for once? He must have never once thought the day would come where you’d willingly touch him rather than flinch away from his touch. But any cracks in his composure are immediately melded, Giorno giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. Without thinking, you return his smile, your sincerity as clear as day. 

“If this is too much for you, then—” 

He cuts himself off when you shake your head firmly, lips set in a straight line. You’d never forgive yourself if you backed down now, not after all the effort it took to get here. Now it’s your turn to gently squeeze his hand back, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. “Let’s continue, okay?” 

Giorno doesn’t press the matter further. You allow him to lead you to a spot he mentioned earlier, though you can already guess where he’s going. The hypnotizing sound of the ocean draws you in, growing louder with each passing step. The loud calls of seagulls fill your ears along with the crashing of the waves against the shore, a sight you’ve missed from your time in Naples. You’ve seen it from locked windows, but it’s not the same. The gentle sea breeze, the tantalizing draw of an ocean without horizon; it’s a beautiful sight, even more so in person. 

Childlike glee fills you, nostalgia of trips to Italy’s many beaches flooding back. It’s different compared to then, no families enjoying their time together under umbrellas or vendors selling their goods. It’s far more private, as if the two of you are the only people left in this world. In your sheltered world, that sentiment holds some truth. Instead of filling you with the loneliness it normally does, you feel connected to him. Closer than you ever allowed yourself to be before, as if this small part of the world was carved out specifically to let you two meet. To let you two fall in love, a handcrafted Eden sealed off from the rest of society. 

Giorno watches, admires the way the sunlight hits your skin for the first time in weeks. You’re beautiful, the wind tousling your perfectly-styled hair, but you don’t seem to care. Your eyes are bright. You’re glowing, the same way you glow when you’re truly happy, the same light he’s grown addicted to over these past few weeks. You’re happier these days, more often at least. He’d begun doubting himself at some point, wondering if your sudden change of heart was a ploy to gain his trust or lower his guard. Countless nights spent watching you sleep after a few hours of intimate touches, wondering if what you feel for him is true. He knows he deserves none of it, not in any sense of the word, but the thought of betrayal hurts far worse than never receiving your love in kind.

But watching you now, he can’t seem to let those thoughts fester. Your happiness is genuine.

While you soak in the carefree atmosphere, Giorno bends down and picks a seashell from the sand, an idea forming. Imbuing the fossil with life, the texture changes to a softer one, bright yellow petals forming into a hibiscus flower. Gently, he nudges you toward him and places it behind your ear, admiring how it compliments your beauty. You blush, but don’t shy away as you normally would. Your eyes are still bright, curious and gleeful, and your lips upturn into a smile that rivals the ones you’d wear before he’d stolen you away.

“You should make one for yourself.” You speak, free of worries and with a hint of amusement at the thought of a great mafia don wearing flowers at your behest. “So we match.” You add teasingly, knowing full well how much of a sappy romantic he is. Matching with you should be sending his heart fluttering right now. Or at least, you hope you can ever have that effect on him.

Giorno chuckles at your suggestion. “I wouldn’t hold a candle to how you look.” 

Your face flushes further at how easily compliments flow from him, always from a true place in his heart. Any and all attempts to catch him off guard end like this, redirecting to praising you in some way. Not one to accept defeat so easily, you absentmindedly place your hand against the newly formed flower, thumbing the petals. The fibers feel so real against your skin, as if this flower was pulled naturally from the earth itself. 

“It’s a shame I didn’t get to see you do this… what else can you make, exactly?” You inquire, tucking your hairs around the petals to keep the flower in place. Giorno has always been keen on giving you vague explanations of his ability, likely so it’d be easier for you to understand. From what you can tell, his ability — a stand, as he’s briefly explained — is one of beauty, able to create life at the slightest touch. Gold Experience brought out curiosity from within you, one of the few reasons you started talking to him again. He’d turn random items into different creatures, earning your attention when you’d ignore him. Your favorites have always been things you can’t naturally find on this island, not without importing it from the mainland. Things like hibiscus, such as the one in your hair, or animals such as fireflies. Things you miss.

Before he can answer, you propose an idea. “Why not make like, a bunch of dolphins? Or great white sharks? Ooh, maybe even a blue whale?” Your voice rises near the end, like a child asking their parent for a new toy, and you collect your chin in your hand for further contemplation.“What else, what else...” 

His hand covers his mouth, hiding how his smile widens at your pondering. Giorno doesn’t stop you from thinking out loud, letting you ramble to your heart’s content. He’s never seen you this talkative before, the sight alone is too cute. Any thoughts about his work scheduled later that day are replaced solely and wholly with you. He’s never seen this side of you, yet, and he’s careful to take note of and admire your little mannerisms. How you talk with your hands excitedly, how your eyes light up and your smile reaches your eyes. It’s the first time he’s noticed you have a dimple, even, as he’s yet to see you truly smile. It dawns on him that there is a side of you he has yet to truly see. A side of you where you’re happy. But, does he deserve that sort of joy? Does he deserve you?

“What? Too much?” You smile and tilt your head innocently. “How about something smaller, more manageable? A... frog, maybe?”

He has his answer; he doesn’t deserve you at all. You’re too precious, too innocent. “A frog? Really?” He sputters out an indignant laugh. “I could make something much more interesting, you know. What about a butterfly? Some birds? Or...” He trails off, noticing the pleading gleam in your eyes.

“Please?” You whine. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen one. They’re so cute…”

“Frogs aren’t even native to this island, amore. Where would he go?”

“He can be my pet.” Your answer is so quick it nearly makes him burst out in laughter. You… you do have a point, actually. It’s not like you have any other company besides him, the rare occasions he does get to visit.

“Fine, but I’ll make it later. Something tells me you’ll be too preoccupied with him if I do so now…”, he laughs at the thought of you gushing at a small animal rather than him. It’s to be expected at this point, but he wants to be a bit selfish today. Just for a few hours.

You puff your cheeks out but eventually relent. The topic of a pet has been on your mind before, now seeming like the best time to approach it. You’ll hold him to his promise later, choosing to occupy yourself with possible names for your promised companion. It’ll remedy the loneliness you feel when he’s not around.

As he’s grown skilled in doing, Giorno redirects you. “Do you enjoy the ocean, amore?” 

Humming lowly at the question, you walk closer to the inviting waves, Giorno following close behind. “I mostly like the atmosphere. It’s fun in the moment when you’re swimming, but then I have to spend hours getting all the sand out of my hair.” You say, and he takes note that you’re quite rambunctious when it comes to beaches. Most people wouldn’t get that much sand in their hair, not unless they were practically rolling in the shallow. It’s a cute thought, but he doubts he’ll get to see you do so anytime soon. Maybe… on the next date, but he can only hope. It’s a miracle you agreed to this one.

As you approach the ocean, the sand slows you down, your feet sinking into it. When the water draws too near, you kick your flip flops off, embracing the grainy sensation under your feet. The sand is calming, a natural exfoliant against the soles of your feet and between your toes, sticking to your skin like sweat. It’s been so long since you’ve gone the length to take care of your hygiene past the basics, and coupled with the relaxing sound of waves hitting rocks, it’s calming. You feel at peace, finally. Your eyes close — content, the moment serene, as if you’re in a little paradise. You realize now is an opportunity to learn more about him, with his guard being lowered. 

Turning your head around, you mirror his earlier question. “What about you, GioGio?” 

He blinks at the unexpected usage of his nickname. You must’ve overheard Fugo calling him it sometime, but even that couldn’t compare. The way it sounded in your voice was intoxicating, compelling him to tell you more if only to hear you say his name again. He hopes you’ll say it again, his pulse quickening at the domestic implications. He gives some thought to your question before answering, pushing away the adoring thoughts. 

“To be honest, I never visited the beach often.” 

Even with all his mysteries, you were expecting an answer like that. In the time you’ve known Giorno, he doesn’t take time to relax. His mind is full of burdens and expectations, jobs that need to be done and the best way to complete them. From what you gather, it’s paid off. You overheard him talking to one of his men before, someone you noticed to be close to him. The nickname “GioGio” rolling off the man’s tongue felt almost laughable in the moment had it not been coupled with reserved praise for how far Giorno had extended Passione’s reach in only six months. Still, you don’t know if pity is what you feel, but it’s an emotion close to that. The only time he’s taken for himself is when he’s with you, and even then, you’ve always given him a hard time. It must be a difficult path, but it’s one he chose nonetheless. 

“We’ll have to change that then,” you assert with a smile, appreciating how the breeze kisses your skin. “I’d… I’d like to come out here with you more often.” 

The confidence you were hoping would accompany the words wavers, unsure if you’re pushing your luck. It’s a miracle that Giorno saw it fitting to bestow this freedom upon you even a single time — asking for more might be too greedy. But your fears melt away when his turquoise eyes soften, not interpreting your plea in a negative light. It could have been your imagination, but you sense a hint of guilt in them. Perhaps, regretting how often he has to leave you alone to tend to his own matters.

“I’d love nothing more than to do that, if you’ll have me.” He slightly bows his head, as if in meek shame.

You eagerly nod your head, accepting the extended invitation. Anything is better than being cooped up for ages, like you’ve grown used to, and if you’re being honest, his company isn’t nearly as bad as you once thought it to be. In fact, it’s almost calming. You used to fear how much power and influence he holds, as if the world itself is in grasp; but now, you seek it out. His presence no longer incites paralyzing, but rather feels like a warm embrace, beneath the composed mask he dons. And even then, you’d hate to give up this newfound freedom, however minute it may be. The ocean feels divine against your warming skin, Italian summers renowned for their heat. Venturing further into the water, now up to your ankles, you look around for any pretty seashells. Giorno lets you do as you please, watching over you with a content air from the shore. 

Crouching down, your hand runs across the sand to continue your search. You hum to yourself as the cold waters splash against your ankles and up your thighs, the sensation welcoming in this heat. The waters are bright and crystal clear, a benefit to your search as you gingerly pick up the shells that stand out to you the most. Maybe you’ll ask him to make one of these into your future pet, the thought an exciting one. The best seashell will be the one you hand to him. Or maybe, you can convince him to turn all of these into frogs… 

You look over your shoulder to find him standing just nigh of the incoming waves. It’s a sweet sight, how he draws as close as his outfit allows him, just shy of the waves touching his expensive loafers. He really is an uptight fashionista at heart. At that, a mischievous idea pops into your mind, a plan rapidly forming to enact your vision. Acting as you normally do, your hands continue to brush against the ground, and you let a dramatic gasp leave your lips. Feigning hurt, you draw your hand close to your chest, a muffled whine pushing past your lips almost unnaturally. Your acting has never been the best, but you hope it’ll do...

Giorno’s eyebrows furrow at the pained noise, and he steps forward without care for his outfit. He’s by your side in record time, bending down and reaching to inspect your supposedly injured hand. “[First], are you—” 

You can’t help but snicker, your free hand brushing against the top of the water and splashing it towards him. It takes a moment for him to process the unfolding events, suit dripping from your playful assault. More giggles leave your lips at his miffed expression, having never seen him look like this before. Not towards you, at least. It feels far more human than how he normally acts around you, that stoic and knowing mask gone for once. You’ve caught him off guard — a feat in and of itself. Not even his enemies can accomplish that much. Then again, you have the advantage of never being on his bad side even when you do things like this.

Giorno lets out a long sigh, muttering quietly to himself as the uncomfortable sensation of salty seawater settles into his otherwise expensive suit. “Sei fortunato sei così carina.” (You’re lucky you’re so cute).

“Hm? What was that, GioGio?” You inquire, too preoccupied with snickering at his expense to notice his words. He can’t allow himself to be upset with you, not when he gets to hear the angelic sound of your laughter. When was the last time he heard it…? It must’ve been a time before, a time long past. Maybe when you were interacting with your friends, or looking at something entertaining on your phone. Not even his little flirtations and tricks using Gold Experience have elicited such a carefree response. If this suit going to the dry cleaners is the cost to pay for hearing it again, it will always be worth it. 

He shakes his head, freeing himself from the heavy burden these thoughts bring. “Nothing. You’re not hurt, are you?” He already knows the answer, at this point, but it’s become a habit to ensure your utmost safety and happiness.

You don’t respond immediately, instead looking over his shoulder in a dreamlike stupor. Giorno is about to repeat his question before it clicks what it is you’re looking at with raw wonder. In the heat of the moment, believing you were in danger, Gold Experience Requiem had been summoned subconsciously. The Stand represents himself, his care for you that seeps into every aspect of who he is. It makes sense why he’d summon his Stand, even if he didn’t realize it in the moment. 

That’s not the problem here though. You’re staring at the exact spot Gold Experience is, it’s no coincidence. 

You look at the Stand with wide eyes, lips parting as you stand up to inspect him closer. He’d be a horrifying sight if Giorno hadn’t told you about his power beforehand. So this is... the personification of his soul? He’s never summoned his Stand in its entirety around you, only using its ability to imbue things with life. The realization that you can actually see it makes him purse his lips, uncertain of what to make of the new information. That means that you’re...

“W-woah,” you stutter out, reaching out towards the floating creature in pure awe. Your hand goes through it, like fog in the air. The Stand looks at you, perplexed despite its lack of proper facial features or musculature, its eyes glued to you as if in similar awe. “What is this, Giorno?” 

Giorno clears his throat, suppressing his worries as to what this could potentially mean for later. A question he’ll have to pose to Jotaro or Polnareff, he’s sure…. 

“It’s what allows me to create life.” He explains carefully, still unsure about how much information to reveal. Gold Experience looks down at you with similar curiosity, inspecting your person thoroughly. You’d be lying if you said it isn’t intimidating, eyes wide blown and seemingly staring through your soul. For some reason, you feel like it wouldn’t dare harm you. 

It draws close to you, gathering some stray pebbles from the sea. Wordlessly, the lifeless rocks turn into an array of colorful flowers, a circular vine holding them together. The Stand places it atop your head almost gleefully, careful to not hurt a single hair on your head. You hear Giorno draw a sharp breath at the display, perhaps not realizing his stand was capable of acting on its own like this. Gold Experience’s gesture is meant to be an act of kindness, a display of love. There’s no denying the pure intentions, even despite how terrifying he looks. Now knowing you’re capable of seeing it, the Stand looks at you almost expectantly, like a child waiting to be praised. Still beside yourself at the unfolding events, you gather yourself enough to offer it a beaming smile and soft ‘thank you’. He seems content enough with your reaction, returning to its user. Its eyes never once leave you, looking at you as if you’re the center of the universe, before it disappears completely from sight.

“I think he likes you,” Giorno clears his throat and hums, calling his Stand back to him. It’s a pleasant display, if not a tad embarrassing. What takes priority now is answering the numerous questions this brings to the table. “Do you feel anything… out of the ordinary, [First]?” 

His inquiry feels out of place, like you’re missing a vital piece of the puzzle. He knows something you don’t. It’s not often he uses your first name either, preferring to praise you with affectionate nicknames. Assuming he must mean your hands, you hold them up for him to inspect, showing all sides are without injury. When his expression stays the same, you wonder if he meant something else. Any other possibilities escape you, so you make do with what little you know.

“Not really, no. I’m just hungry.” you answer in honesty, squirming under his unflinching gaze. Your answer feels out of place, hanging from the air like loose threads, unwoven from its source. Giorno takes a few more moments to consider you, looking for dishonesty and finding nothing but confusion. You swallow thickly at the tense atmosphere, hoping you didn’t mess up in some way. Anxiety captures your hammering heart, and you shrink under his piercing stare. Giorno, quickly sensing your concern, returns to his typical expression, a soft gaze with an equally soft smile, only ever reserved entirely for you. 

“Ah, of course. You haven’t had anything to eat today. Come, I have food prepared.” 

Grateful at the change in conversation, you rush over to his side, warm sea water sticking to your skin in droplets. You don’t know what he’s hiding from you, and at the moment, you don’t care to find out. Nothing could be a worse fate than being locked up again for a transgression you didn’t even mean to commit. As long as that’s not the case, it’ll be okay. Lower lip trembling, you subconsciously take a tight grip of his hand. He looks down at the desperate touch, seeing how your smaller hands fit perfectly into his. Sensing the nervous air in your actions, he gives your hand a light squeeze, calming your nerves ever so slightly. Smitten by your actions, how willingly you still choose to touch him, he lifts your hand up and places a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You’re relying on him. He’s not sure what spurred the sudden change, but he’s going to enjoy it. It’s a modest showing that soothes your distressed mind. 

He’s not upset with you. You won’t be left all alone again. You won’t have to go days without human contact, sobbing and pleading for anyone to save you, to talk to you, to notice you’re gone—

“[First]?”

You don’t notice the tears that sting your eyes until it’s too late. The force makes you choke on thin air, searching for breaths that won’t come. The walls of your lungs are constricting into itself, your heart hammering so hard against its rib cage that you fear it’ll break through the skin and bone. Giorno watches with wide eyes as you unravel in front of him, your hand shooting up to muffle your mouth, the other latching onto his chest like a desperate prayer, begging him to make it stop, to make the thoughts stop, to make your heart still for once. You try to call out for him, to call for help, but the words lodge in your throat like bile and vomit. You choke on each syllable.

The weight of the world is crushing atop your shoulders, its jaws closed around your heart. Something is wrong — this is wrong. Your fingers tighten against his chest, wanting to beat against it, to hurt him, to make him feel the pain you’ve felt. You’re so close. He’s let you get close to him, close to his walls — let you tear them down. Weeks ago, you would have rejoiced in this. Would’ve used his weakness against him, would’ve fought back. If you were stronger, if you just weren’t so weak, you would have been happier. You wouldn’t be in this situation, clinging to a man who took you from life, clinging to a man who makes you question your own sanity. Everything — he took everything from you, and he still can. No matter how slowly you forgive him, no matter how slowly you give into him, he will always have control over your life. There will always be a disparity, a power dynamic — you will always be weak. 

You will always be trapped here, always wondering if you’ve taken a wrong step. If you’ve angered or bothered him. If you’ll see your family again.

Will it always end like this? Whenever something goes wrong, something trivial, something most people wouldn’t dwell on for more than a few seconds… will this keep happening? Will you break down each time? Will you always be this fragile, like glass?

Will it always be like this?

“[F-First],” he nearly chokes, gripping your waist to keep you upright. His heart breaks at the pitiful sight of you, like the air is knocked from his lungs just watching you suffer. He doesn’t understand what caused this, and his stomach sinks at the realization that this must be the norm for you. An underlying fear that things will fall apart with the slightest misstep, an underlying paranoia that incites the bitter bite of anxiety — because of him. Is this how easy it was to break you? Have you always been this fragile? How… how many nights were spent buried against tear-ridden pillows, crying until you doze off and wake up to another day with him? The guilt is overwhelming, the thought of you curled in your bed, surrounded by material things and yet nothing at the same time.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore. Let me help you.”

For all the times he couldn’t before, he comforts you, holds you like a lost child, soothes you in a way only a monster can soothe its prey. And you let him, desperately clinging onto the validation that you haven’t messed up in some way.

His arms close around the small of your waist, holding your trembling form tightly, scared you’ll fall if he takes one wrong step, scared you’ll shatter if he doesn't hold you together. Your sobs are choked, muffled against his chest, but the time of silence lets you regain yourself, the ringing in your ears dying down only to be replaced by the gentle lull of the ocean you adore. Your head is resting against him, those atrocious and lonely thoughts dying down for the time being, lulled into a sense of dubious security. They will plague you again, as they always do, but for now… for now, you’re grateful. He’s the source of your pain, and yet, he’s become the only remedy. It’s only when you pull back, hesitantly, that he releases you, his hand cupping your face. The pads of his thumb wipe away your glistening tears, worry etched into his face.

“Are you okay?”

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur with a pathetic sniffle, eyes avoiding his own. “I didn’t mean to ruin our outing. I’m not sure what came over me… I just, the thought of—” 

He shushes your self deprecating tandem, lips ghosting over your forehead in a gentle, brief kiss, stalling there with momentary doubt that he of all people shouldn’t be comforting you. He’s always had the patience of a saint with you, now is no different. Even when you cursed and belittled him, throwing crashing objects at him, he remained unshaken. This unshakable composure is a part of who he is, and, as much as he hates watching you fall apart for his sake, he is meant to comfort you. To console you, to make this new life he’s given you something you’ll come to enjoy. Your mind has been full of thoughts, self-deprecating and hateful, no matter how close he gets to you. It’s to be expected….

“You’ll feel better once you eat.” He suggests, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

You’re grateful that he doesn’t press the sensitive subject, whether it be out of shame for his actions or pity for your current state. Slowly, he leads you to a shaded area surrounded by hand-crafted flora, set up the earlier in the morning by his own hands. On the ground is a blanket, a picnic basket set in the middle. He helps you sit down, and takes his place next to you. This serves as a welcome distraction from the embarrassing display earlier. 

Giorno opens the basket, pulling out sandwiches that look different than what you’ve had before. They’re put together with care, ingredients dribbling out over the edge. A rather simple selection compared to most of the gourmet food you have here. When asked about it once, Giorno told you that your food is prepared by fine chefs. The quality of the food you had on a daily basis confirmed the fact. This looks different, more intimate somehow. 

He picks up on how you eye it. “I’m not the best cook, but I wanted to try it. If it’s not to your tastes, I’ll have something else brought out.” 

Your fingers brush over his as you gratefully accept it, a quiet thank you leaving your lips. His tone can almost be described as sheepish, and you swear his face looks a tad flushed. Waiting to see your impression of his food, he gazes at you with expectant eyes, trying to play it cool. 

Biting into the sandwich, you’re met with the taste of tarte jelly and savory peanut butter intertwining on your tongue. In a few seconds, you finish it in its entirety, much to Giorno’s internal satisfaction. His shoulders relax at your acceptance, not realizing how much your opinion truly means to him. He had to take care of himself growing up, learning the basics of food preparation for that reason. Much of it had been forgotten now that it was no longer required from him. 

You can’t help but giggle at his serious expression, instantly earning his attention. To hear such a divine sound so many times on the same day, was God smiling down upon him? It’s the only plausible explanation at how well this outing has been going. It’s more than he ever allowed himself to hope for, more than he deserved. 

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he tries to get to the heart of your sudden carefree attitude. “Is something wrong?” 

“N-no, it’s not that,” you hold the back of your hand to your mouth, attempting to stifle the incoming bout of laughter. “It’s just… I was picturing you making this, looking all professional, with a chef’s hat and apron. Heh.” 

Another bout of faint giggles, your earlier panic slowly dying away with each laugh. Giorno’s never given much thought to such things, it falls more into the territory or something Mista would point out. He doesn’t mind being the object of your amusement, not when he gets to see you radiating joy like this. Is it too much to ask for this moment to never end? Duty will call him away eventually, the thought enough to threaten his moral. He knows he’s in deep when he starts debating whether or not the meetings today really require his presence. Unfortunately, they do, as much as he’d prefer your company over greedy and corrupt men.

There’s a lull in the conversation. Unlike him, your thoughts are much less hurried, your thoughts full of thoughts of him who sits beside you, content to stare at the sky and admire the shape of fluffy clouds. Pointing out the ones that remind you of animals or other silly things, explaining to Giorno how they might somehow be connected. A story of your own in the making. Every last drop of your arbitrary rambling, he soaks in as if it held the secrets to humanity’s existence. His intensity in stark contrast to your lackadaisical approach, hands intertwined by your side. A connection between light and darkness. Your head rests on his shoulder, the scent of his cologne mixed in with the ocean air intoxicating. 

Perhaps… perhaps this is what Heaven is like. No. This is better. Sitting here with you, the early morning sun shining down on you both, lifeless and still in the sky — he never wants this moment to end.

“I’m actually a pretty decent cook,” you pipe up, your thoughts still touched by the tasty picnic he’d put together himself. Your sentiment interrupts his thoughts, a proud gleam in your eyes as you toy with the plastic covering that used to hold your sandwich. “Or at least, I never gave myself food poisoning. That must mean something, right?” You giggle, brushing it off. 

The thought of you cooking sends his mind spiralling. Flour smeared against your cheek, hands messy with the remnants of eggs and spices, a cute apron tied around your torso… since when did he become so sappy? It’s unfitting of someone in his position, not that he cares all that much. His enemies don’t know that you’re his greatest weakness as much as you’re his greatest strength, and hopefully, they’ll never know. He’s always thought highly of you, your recent lack of resistance serving to amplify the feelings; he wants to know more, to learn more, naturally, without the need to check in on you through the countless cameras scattered around the estate.

“I’d offer to cook for you, but I think whoever already makes the food is better than me.” You blush and play it off, noticing how intently he’s looking at you. Biting your lip, you begin to wonder if divulging this information to him was for the best. He seems awfully curious now. “Surely you’d prefer meals made by a professional.”

Giorno doesn’t think before responding with unfiltered thoughts. “You’ve made me curious now, amore. I’d love to try your cooking.” 

You look down at the ground, playing with the frays on the edge of the blanket. The difficulties that would accompany cooking didn’t come to mind until he gave credence to your words.This feels too domestic, like a loving wife cooking for her husband after he returns from a long day at work. Would he enjoy your meals? What kind of dinners and breakfasts would he prefer? What kind of treats? Does he want you to make meals each time he visits? Does he have a favorite, something he’d prefer above all else? You said you were decent at cooking, but you don’t have many recipes under your arsenal, at least not from memory. Surely he’d get you some cookbooks at your soonest behest, but with the way he’s looking at you now, you’re certain he’s expecting something much more homemade, something made entirely on your own. He’s never tasted your cooking, after all…. and with how long it’s been since you’ve cooked for yourself, you’ve forgotten if it tastes as good as you remember.

Not to mention, how many tools would you be allowed to use? Giorno’s taking care in proofing the estate of anything you could use to harm him, like knives and forks, which are only provided to you during meals. All the complications alone give you a headache. It serves to showcase how impossible it can be to fully relax in Giorno’s presence, your mind always in fight or flight. A survival instinct to preserve yourself under extreme circumstances. You’d like to think those restrictions would be lessened considering how close you’ve gotten with him recently, but you know him better than that. Always calculating, always prepared, always composed...

Absorbed in your flurry of thoughts, you fail to notice Giorno is closer to you. He’s always given you appropriate distance, stuffing down his own desires in favor of keeping you comfortable. You must have made for a pitiful sight if he’s approaching you like this, brows knitting together in worry over your darkening expression. By the time you notice the stark lack of distance, you welp and nearly back away in fright, startled to find that he’s only an arm’s length away.

“I’m not… really that good, y’know.” you let out a humorless laugh, gnawing on your lower lip soon after. The words can be interpreted in a myriad of ways, far extending past the context of this situation. Your hands ball into tight fists by your side, self-deprecating emotions overflowing. Yet again, you’re on the brink of tears, in what should be a lighthearted outing. 

He doesn’t look down on you, offering nothing but an overflowing well of understanding. Giorno’s touch is light, so light you wonder if you’re imagining it in the first place. His pointer finger goes underneath your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles as he lifts your face up. His face is so close to your own, you feel his warm breath fan against you. Loose golden hair tickles your face, which flushes at his close proximity. His other hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the touch. Accepting any form of solace is your internal justification, but even that feels like a weak excuse now.

What this is… is starting to go beyond that. And it frightens you. 

“You speak so lowly of yourself,” he frowns, not chastising you but pointing it out nonetheless. “To me… I see all your potential, your strengths. You have weaknesses, yes, as do we all. Where others fall short in this regard, you excel. Bettering yourself.” His smile grows weaker by the moment as he recalls more bitter memories. “Even in a situation like this, you have the courage to smile and laugh, to see the beauty in things.” — to see the beauty in him.

He doesn’t mention that.

He takes a deep breath, not having intended to ramble this much. You’re in awe, having never heard words pour from his lips this fast. Giorno’s always given diligent thought and calculating into every aspect of his persona around you, actions and words alike. Everything was meant to higher your opinion on him or to lull you into a false sense of ease. This confession feels authentic, without ulterior motive. Like the confession a boy would stumble through toward his crush, not the love declaration of a man with power beyond your wildest imagination.

He speaks of what he believes, unfiltered or obscured by a hidden agenda. And, despite yourself, you accept it. You embrace it, having never been spoken to in such a way, not by someone who loves you so wholeheartedly. While you might not believe his sentiments on a fundamental level, it’s enough to still your weeping heart. The ache dulls under his words, pacifying you enough to steady your erratic breathing.

His lips hesitantly brush against yours, emerald eyes asking for your permission through golden lashes. When you don’t retaliate or relent, he closes the small gap between your bodies, lips fully pressed against yours. Despite allowing it, your eyes widen at the sudden contact as his flutter closed. Quickly, you melt into the gesture, tempted to bury your hands in his loose golden locks like you have time and time before. The feeling of your lips against his is still foreign despite having spent countless nights in each other’s arms. Those kisses have always been born from passion crafted by the heat of the moment, but this was genuine. This kiss is filled with love, with adoration, and with a sense of longing and belonging he’s never felt before. His composure unravels like loose threads, his hands tangled in your hair, urging your lips impossibly closer to his. 

You lose sight of yourself. Giorno is all that exists to you at this moment. His soft lips, delicate touch, and reassuring words. When your head starts to spin, lack of oxygen becoming apparent in the thralls of passion, you attempt to pull back. He seems hesitant at first, as if not wanting this sweet moment to ever end, but gives into your qualms. You always come first to him. 

Everything feels so warm and tingly. Subconsciously, the tips of your fingers touch your parted lips, in slight disbelief at the whirlwind of events. He kissed you so gently, so passionately, but your lips are reddened and throbbing with excitement and… trepidation. What… what is this feeling? What does this mean? The look in his eyes just now, the gentleness in his touch, the passion in that kiss… it was unlike the rest. Long, sweet nights spent in each other's arms had never been this serendipitous, this loving. Not… not on your end at least. Is that what changed? He looks at you the same way he always does, but has the way you look at him changed? And… to what?

Your head is spinning with the implication of it all. You know the answer; you know you know the answer, but you shoot up from the blanket, unraveling yourself from the embrace of his arms, and dig your feet into the sand. You need time to think.

“[First]? Is everything alright?” He pipes up from the ground. “I didn’t do anything, did I?”

“N-no!” The words lodge in your throat again. Did he do something? To make you feel this way… did he trick you somehow? Is this all a lie? It has to be. There’s no way you could be… “I just… i-it was sudden. I’m sorry, I just need time to think….”, you trail off, breathless. You see his eyebrows knit with worry, and a brief lapse of regret passes over his features, but you don’t stay long enough to dwell on it.

He watches as you start to pace the beach, never once throwing a glance in his direction. He knows better than to assume the worst, always having been patient with your frequent withdrawals whenever things get too… much. Today is a day of fresh starts, and it’s wishful thinking to believe months of trauma could be fixed in the span of a few hours. He’s willing to wait, as he always has, but the sensation of your lips against his is mind-numbing. He wants more, truthfully. He wants to feel that way again, to feel your lips melded against his, like they belong there. Like you belong here, with him. Seeing you react like this is jarring, a cacophonous jolt to the doubt he’d banished to the far shores of his mind. The betrayal and worry on your face is hard to miss despite your attempts to hide it behind a curtain of hair. You’re biting your lip, and even though he can’t hear it, you’re muttering to yourself, unquestionably reprimanding your actions and everything that led up to that moment. You shouldn’t have kissed him, you shouldn’t have let your guard down, you shouldn’t have given into him like that — sentiments you’re no doubt thinking.

And yet, he is happy. It’s a start… but he hasn’t the right to rush you into something you may never truly want. You have no options — to push or guilt you into a relationship, no matter how desperately he may want to, is unfair. So, he exhales inaudibly, stuffing those selfish thoughts to the back of his mind as he always does. Avarice has no place here, not when he’s already taken so much. Keeping his desires to himself, while never a simple task, has grown more difficult. Now that he’s indulged in you once, he wants to come back for more. To experience love as he’s heard described to him countless times. The kind where two souls grow old together, their love never once wavering; a concept he was never keen on believing, considering his childhood which left bitter feelings that tainted his views on love time and time again. All of that changed when he met you.

You are worth the wait.

#giorno #giorno giovanna #yandere giorno #yandere giorno giovanna #yandere giorno x reader #giorno x reader #yandere giorno giovanna x reader #yandere #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #yandere jojo's bizzare adventure #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure #yandere jojo x reader #JJBA #jjba part 5 #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #yandere jjba imagine #my stuff #what a JOurney #locknya

[tundrainafrica]

Title: Green Gold

Summary: 

"The one Levi had picked out was of a minimalist design. The color in particular though was what stood out. At first glance, it looked like a typical gold or yellow. As Levi took a closer look from different angles under a light source, he couldn’t help but notice the way it glowed a bright green and was quick to fall back to a simple yellow. It did it too consistently though that Levi was sure it was not just a trick of the light."

Levi scrambles for a last minute Christmas present and Hange copes with being eight months pregnant.

Same verse as Rough Day, Sugar Rush and Household Planning.

Link to cross-postings: AO3

Notes: I know it isn't Christmas yet but I decided to drop some Levihan Christmas Fluff a little early. I wish you all a happy holiday!

When a new jewelry shop opened in a space adjacent to his favorite tea shop in Paradis, Levi was quick to notice it.

It never did catch his interest though. The hard life he had lived for roughly 40 years had him completely nonchalant at most significant developments. The opening of some ordinary jewelry shop was not at all a significant development that called any attention from the battle hardened soldier, even if it did attract a crowd for the first two months.

That was until Mr. Spasky the tea shop owner brought it up over a round of tea tasting. Levi had seen him exchange a few words with the jewelry shop owner before he would welcome Levi into his shop.  He had guessed that they had become fast friends through the excitement of their tones and the detail they looked too comfortable giving each other. The friendship between those two was something he had brushed away too easily though. Levi was too preoccupied by a cranky pregnant Hange and his own household projects to consider much of anything else.

One day, Mr. Spasky brought up one unfamiliar question which got Levi particularly confused.

“So what kind of engagement ring did you buy your woman?"

"Engagement ring? Woman?" Levi frowned in confusion. “I have a woman?”

“It’s the season of giving so maybe it would be a good time…” The shopkeeper winked.

Levi’s thoughts were elsewhere. Partner. That was the word. By the expression and the tone on Mr. Spasky’s face, Levi could at least tell, they had the traditional woman in mind. Of course they would, they’ve never met Hange.

Hange was definitely pregnant and had been glaringly pregnant for the past few months already. Was she being the traditional woman about it? Definitely not.

Levi only had to be reminded of why he even felt the need to correct Mr. Spasky when he got home from his quick trip to the tea shop that day to find Hange as usual, coping with her six month leave in a very unconventional manner.

It had been two months since he had emailed that letter to the queen and requested for a leave for Hange. And with how Hange looked, hunched up on a microscope with a broken rock next to the table, Levi could tell that she was still far from the acceptance stage.

In fact, she had been constantly scrambling for something to do since she had been put in a leave of absence in the first place. She was probably penultimate month of pregnancy according to the doctor and she was still fighting for control of her life.

The first week into the leave she would take long walks, long enough for Levi to feel the need to circle the perimeter of the block where their apartment was, only to end up pacing by the entrance of the house not wanting to relax until she got home. Even when she did arrive home, Levi found himself only getting more stressed by her little souvenirs.

She was like a cat. The big difference lay in the fact that while cats brought home dead rats and game, Hange would bring home different types of leaves, roots and other plant parts and leave them on the table next to the microscope she had set up on her desk.

“Shouldn’t you be doing other things?” Levi had asked as he watched Hange set up the microscope in their room in the wee hours of morning, when he was about to sleep.

“What other things? I’m on leave right?” Hange had too much venom on the word leave that Levi had to look away and remind himself that it was Historia after all who made the final say. So it’s her fault not mine. He would reassure himself, conveniently forgetting the fact that he did draft the letter. He didn’t reply to Hange’s implicit accusation, instead deciding to hide under the covers of his bed and stay there unmoving, even when it did take him an extra three hours to fall asleep.

By the second week, Levi could barely get a wink at night, too busy wondering what risk lay in a pregnant person studying such strange substances. Levi started to follow her surreptitiously as she went about the town, only to see that she had been getting them from a nearby public garden.

It wasn’t strange at all to see Hange digging through plants, roots and flowers. She had expressed her passion for botany on top of titans too many times to count.

But she’s pregnant. And that’s unsanitary as fuck. Hange being unsanitary as fuck wasn’t anything new though. Levi had known her long enough to accept it.

The circumstances then were different. For a while, Levi considered telling her off. He found himself in a state of panic a second later though completely forgetting that intention, as he realized that it wasn’t just unsanitary. A few inches away, a dog decided to pee on that same soil which Hange was digging through. Somehow that view was what helped him put three and two together to get five. Hange was desperately studying whatever green and brown she could find. And it was mixing with dog shit, cat shit and whatever else made their home in that little bush.  

Levi did not need to consult a doctor to know that it was potentially dangerous for a pregnant woman. He rushed back home, went to Hange’s desk and disposed of all the samples into a bag and threw it out into the dumpster before she could get home.

For the first time, Levi was grateful that Hange did go on such long walks. That gave Levi at least enough time to create a backstory for the sudden cleanliness of her desk and her missing samples. In a state of panic though and faced with the obstacle of limited time, Levi had come up with another idea, an idiotic one, completely unbelievable that it had little chance of working.

Levi was desperate though. Although he did have the reflexes on the battlefield to take down an enemy bent on killing him, scrambling to find a cover up story for a very pregnant and very unpredictable Hange Zoe was another story.

At that rate though, Hange must have been as crazy, desperate and idiotic as him a result of the pregnancy hormones and the stress of being in almost total isolation in a smaller part of town with little to no responsilities. Hange came home to see rocks lined up, in the stead of her previous samples, and continued on her mini research as if nothing had changed.  

They were less alarming test subjects at least. Levi had made sure to wash them thoroughly beforehand. They did not stink as much as the plants. And they had at least caught Hange’s interest enough that she did not ask too much about the missing plant samples, having brushed off the white lie of a bird stealing them.

Overtime, Levi eventually realized she never did believe the lie. She was too sharp for that. In fact, the reason she had accepted such a blatant lie in the first place was because the rocks on the table had turned out to be a more interesting subject. The hammers and nails became an ubiquitous part of her work desk. The meticulous side of Levi was also starting to begrudgingly notice the scratches on the table from the scrape of rock on wood.

From a coping mechanism of studying plants and greens, Hange had shifted to studying rocks. And as Levi started to realize over dinner, rocks were an incredibly boring topic, so boring that he almost missed hearing about photosynthesis and the difference of a xylem and a phloem.

Apparently, there were so many different types of rocks and the ones he had randomly picked out in the garden could have been igneous, hinting to the possibility of volcanic or seismic activity around the area. How she had gotten that from a bunch of random rocks, Levi did not know. She started talking about extracting metals from ores. And she had started to name the rocks too apparently: Gabbro, limestone, basalt. Hearing those names echo in his head, only made Levi miss the plants.

He started to particularly miss the plants a little more when the streets started to line with them, and the main square near their place was fitted with a large tree in the center, decorated with lights and bright balls. A surprising addition to his everyday view on the way to the tea shop.

Christmas. He never really did get used to it. A tradition brought from Marley apparently. With Hange's new obsession with rocks, the large tree in the middle of the square seemed almost nostalgic.

"So it looks like the Christmas tree can amaze even the most serious men," A voice said behind him.

The Christmas Tree was placed in the middle of the square where the tea shop was also conveniently located. And from his good view of the Christmas Tree in the middle, Levi was also a good few feet away from the shop. He only had to look behind him to see Mr. Spassky, having a smoke at the entrance.

That thoughtless comment was enough to make Levi look away from the tree faster than he had wanted to. He entered the tea shop with a Mr. Spassky trailing behind and the tea had helped him cope. By that point, he had almost completely forgotten the Christmas Tree in the middle of the square.

Like always, Mr. Spasky would place a cup of black tea and make conversation. “So what did you get her?”

It was Hange who had pointed out years ago that his birthday was on the same day as Christmas day. For Levi, it was a surprise since he had built a habit through the years of never giving days enough importance to analyze them beyond what was available at face value. At that moment, when the shopkeeper noted that Christmas Eve was that night, Levi could only spit out the tea. It was his birthday. It was almost Christmas. And he had spent too much time and energy keeping Hange sane to have even noticed.

Mr. Spassky was a great salesman and a great marketer. Levi at that moment was at the mercy of his complex emotions constantly flitting from the guilt of disposing of Hange’s samples to his overall exhausted state to the state of panic which would stop by for a visit every few hours, when he would ask the question of  what Hange could be doing back home at that exact moment.

If Levi had been any sharper that day, he probably would have figured it out as quickly as he had figured out the food campaigns of King Fritz years ago that Christmas was merely a seasonal marketing campaign to get people to buy more and that new tradition on giving engagement rings was a piece of all year long marketing tactic to keep the jewelry business alive.

At his most vulnerable though, Levi had become prey to those propaganda and the nagging feelings of guilt, only spread through him, getting stronger with every point they made. He and Hange had been living together for more than a year, Hell she was pregnant with their first child already.

And I never bothered to get her an engagement ring or a Christmas present?   For the first time since it opened, Levi was finally starting to see the value and novelty in that quaint jewelry shop next to the tea shop.

As Mr. Spassky guided him through the doors of the jewelry shop, Levi was quick to notice the different rings on display. What caught Levi’s eye in particular was the display case on the side of the room that sold shiny colored metals, similar to a cavern under a church Levi had visited so many years ago. On the walls were pictures and detailed drawings of couples exchanging rings, only highlighting the tradition Levi had noticed among other couples he had witnessed.

Is there really commitment if there’s no ring?

Is it really love if you don’t buy them anything for Christmas?

Every good romance starts with a ring.

Blatant propaganda. Yet strong and relevant enough for Levi to put enough thought into picking out a ring.

The one Levi had picked out was of a minimalist design. The color in particular though was what stood out. At first glance, it looked like a typical gold or yellow. As Levi took a closer look from different angles under a light source, he couldn’t help but notice the way it glowed a bright green and was quick to fall back to a simple yellow. It did it too consistently though that Levi was sure it was not just a trick of the light.

Green Gold. That was what it was called according to the shopkeeper as he held it up to the late much better than what Levi had done. From the different angles, Levi could see the gleam of gold and the tinge of green.

Levi did not need the confirmation of the color to decide to buy it. Maybe it was the characteristic cloak they would wear from so many years ago which made it such an obvious choice. Maybe it was the homesickness that came and went from living and fighting in an almost all green landscape almost their whole lives then being forced to move somewhere within the city that had pushed him to that. Maybe it was a combination of all that, only supplemented by the nostalgia that came with missing Hange’s obsession with trees.

It probably was the fact that the color green had been so ubiquitous the past two decades of his life. Seeing it as a faint yet beautiful glow had awakened emotions of sentimentality for a life he had lived long before.  

As Levi took in the scenery of the urban jungle which they had been living in for the past few years and the stark contrast to the green they had been fighting in for many more years, maybe he did start to understand her obsession with green. In fact, he did realize with his own impulse purchase, he was a tad fixated with the color green too.

He gripped his small gift bag a little tighter as he arrived at the entrance of the apartment they shared.

“Hange, Merry Christmas.” Levi was completely comfortable with Hange and he was completely aware of that. Yet, for that moment he needed to rehearse it, having occupied himself with whether to say Merry Christmas before or after handing her the present.

Hange returned the greeting with her own questioning look, which could have maybe even been judgmental. For some reason, that had made Levi blush. He looked away as soon as he gave it and went straight to the kitchen to cram the Christmas Eve dinner he had forgotten about.

He allowed himself a last look, only to see a smile creep up Hange’s lips as she opened the gift box. Levi found himself smiling in return, even if he knew she wouldn’t notice it with his back to her. It had been weeks since he had seen such excitement in those eyes as she smiled, that same excitement and enthusiasm he had seen as she recounted to him every development in Paradis. As he was cutting the tomatoes for their meal that night, he couldn’t help but think that that smile gave him the same sense of nostalgia as the color green.

Maybe she felt it too?

“It looks like I was right… I knew they’d put titanium here. It shouldn’t be this hard if there wasn’t any.”

Levi placed the newly cooked pasta on their dining table. Hange was on the living room table, with a lamp at full brightness, hunched over like she was working on something. Just like always, Hange was scratching the table below with a new stone

A shiny new stone…. “Is that the gift I bought you?” Levi asked.

“Yeah…”

There must have been a hint of accusation or anger in Levi’s voice. The face Hange had was reminiscent  to what one would see when a dog is caught chewing on something they aren’t supposed to. With the realization that what they had done is wrong, most dogs would usually chew faster. Hange had done the human equivalent, or more specifically, the pregnant Hange equivalent of breaking into it faster.

“It’s a ring Hange. You’re supposed to be wearing it!”

“But is it really important that I wear it? Isn’t it more important that we find out the secrets of how they make this?” It was an argument which could have convinced any other scientist. Levi was far from what could have been a good target audience.  

“Give me that!” Levi found himself wrestling or at least trying to wrestle someone while avoiding the baby bump which was taking up more than 50% of her waistline at that moment.

“It’s your gift to me Levi! To me! Let me use it like I want to!”

Hange made a good point. That good point and the prospect of wrestling someone who was eight months pregnant with his first child was what got Levi surrendering and just sitting on the sofa within minutes just listening to one of her lectures.

Hange once again scratched the sharp side of the already broken ring on the table then bit it, inadvertently causing Levi more pain for multiple reasons. “See, gold wouldn’t make a scratch like this. This is why it isn’t necessarily pure gold despite what’s written here,” Hange explained as she slid the flier closer to him. “ I’m guessing they used titanium here, similar to the metal they used for our blades and the ODM gear. Maybe even copper or iron?

“So it was a fake,” Levi said bitterly. It was the mention of such cheap metals making its way into such a beautiful object with such a unique shine to it. He felt like an idiot for actually believing it was something pure.”

“This is actually a good thing because if they did make something out of pure gold, it would scratch pretty fast. In fact, the other metals make it so that it lasts longer.”

“That was supposed to be a Christmas Gift,” Levi said, completely ignoring Hange’s explanation.

“It was a great Christmas gift. I’ve never seen this shade of gold in my life.” Hange said.

“Yeah, it was supposed to be an engagement gift too.” Levi managed to add before the blood rushed through his face, leaving him unable to speak for a few seconds.

“Engagement?”

“Mr. Spassky said that most people give a ring to someone when they want to spend the rest of their lives with them.” Levi did not know how he had managed to get that out.

“And you’re falling for that propaganda now? Levi, we’ve been living together for the past two years. We’ve done things. I’m pregnant with our first kid. We don’t need a piece of metal to prove anything.”

At that moment, Levi remembered his own mother who had raised him. She’s done things. She was pregnant with someone’s kid. Yet he had never met his father.

Then what do we have to prove it? Levi didn’t need to ask her. He felt it in how quickly the exasperation of a minute ago gradually morphed into a playful feeling that tickled his chest and the sudden urge to grab her from behind and feel her tummy. He felt it a second later as she put her hands on his and gripped his hands a little tighter. Just the way he had wanted it.

Hange lay back down on the sofa next to him and gave him one of the softest smiles. She started to yawn and lay her head on his. She had fallen asleep next to him multiple times before. At that moment, he appreciated it a little more. As battle hardened soldiers, they would have only ever fallen asleep next to someone they completely trusted. Then and there, pregnant and tired, Hange was at her most vulnerable.

Then what do we have to prove it? The fact that they knew each other inside and out. The commitment to make it work. Their trust in the other to do the same.

At that moment, they were both at their most vulnerable.

“Now that I think about it... I haven’t been able to buy you a birthday christmas present,” Hange said, her voice only getting softer as she buried her face into his shoulder. “Maybe if you let me go shopping downtown I would.”

“You know what would be the best Christmas birthday gift? You not accidentally killing our kid.”

#levihan #levi ackerman #hange zoe #levi x hange #fanfic

[poptod]

None Like You (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: You're the god of the forgotten, and upon birth you become friends with a prince. The bond is lifelong and beyond.

Prompt: Cat

Notes: Your name is Mahjur (again, because it makes more sense for those times rather than a modern name). Gender neutral again!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21614689

Word Count: 25k

Warning: There is smut in this, and it IS underage. I regret writing it now, but it’s historically accurate, and I wanted to show the complexities of the relationship. 

With a deep breath, your eyes opened for the first time. Standing over your lying form was a woman with the head of a cat, and she was smiling, seemingly happy with who you were. To your fortune you didn’t actually need to be taught very much - everything had already been instilled in your mind. Language, images, recognition, all of it you knew, and you knew how the universe worked.

“I have crafted you from the mud of this nile, the Aur,” she had said, and she introduced herself as Bastet, claiming to be your mother. You knew nothing else from experience but that, and you trusted her, which was a good decision on your part. “Your bones are made of alabaster and porcelain,” she said, and she warned, “be careful not to break them.”

You knew how the universe worked but humans were entirely new, with careful rituals that took hours to explain the history of. Beside your mother, both of you in a separate form of a cat, she showed you their inner workings, their worship, how you were one of their supposed gods.

“One day, someone will build a temple,” she said, leading you away from the small village. “They will ask for a god of something very specific, and when the time is right, you will know to come. Do not force yourself into any position.”

She showed you all of Kemet over the span of a month, and then she left you, having her own duties to attend to.

Not long after you found your calling, a young child building the smallest shrine on the edge of a village, asking for protection. She had been abandoned, so you came to her aid, and you blessed her with luck. That was how you found your own footing in the world.

All of that happened in very quick succession, so fast that you wondered how the many years ahead of you would fare. Only two months you’d been alive and you’d grown to quiet popularity. No one spoke aloud about you, thinking that speaking of the protector of the abandoned would bring bad luck, but they built shrines, dedications, sometimes even temples. The hushed word spread so quickly in fact, that you had a garden shrine in Memphis of all places, another two months after you’d found your title.

When you visited, it was in your cat form, staying in the shadows of the temple and watching servants tend to the various cats who had taken up hold in the shelter. It was a nice building, with a short staircase leading to an open area held up by magnificent white pillars. Alabaster stone, you noted, with red design painted on.

That evening, relaxing in the temple, a noise from outside disturbed you. You arose from your rest, nose twitching as you dragged the scent of lion out of the air. The fur of your neck standing up, you came from your spot to meet the animal.

“Hello, Mahjur,” the lion said in a low, growling voice, befitting his long and unruly mane. You did not respond, not fully sure of what to say. You hadn’t ever met this lion before. In fact, you hadn’t met any lion before, and certainly not one that could talk.

“I am Maahes, your brother,” he clarified, sitting on his hind legs, looking considerably more calm once he noticed who he was speaking to. “You are Mahjur.”

“Yes,” you said hesitantly, sitting down opposite him.

“You’ve made a name for yourself - deity of the abandoned. Is that all, though?”

“Can there be more?”

“Yes. Our mother is the goddess of many things. Cats, namely, hence our forms, but also of fire, sunset, dance, pleasure, the home, and… many other things.”

“You don’t remember, do you?” You asked, almost laughing.

“Shut up, you’re two months old, I’m at least three hundred.”

“I’m actually four months old,” you said.

“And have you even once strayed from your current form?”

You hadn’t, but he didn’t need to know that, so you just sniffed, pointing your nose upwards. He scoffed, shaking his head.

“I’m not here for petty sibling feuds.”

“Really? ‘Cause from the way you’ve been acting it seems like -“

“You’re insolent. Thoth has news for you.”

You stiffened. You didn’t have to remember your mother’s advice considering Thoth as you already had the knowledge implanted at your birth - he was, in essence, the god of knowledge. Noticing your state, Maahes continued.

“His only words were, ‘be wary.’ My own advice,” he checked to see if you were still listening, which you were, quite intently, “is to be open to everything. If someone asks you for help, acquiesce. If adventure calls, go, but do not stay still. Be wary. Most of all, be ready.”

“Thank you. I think,” you mumbled, your brow furrowed.

“Be safe. I’ve heard what Bastet made you from, and I don’t agree with the material use. You’re very small, and… flimsy.”

“Thanks,” you said again, more sarcastically.

With a grunt he was off again, jumping off the short ledge of the temple, wandering through the tall grass that the rivers brought.

Throughout the night you contemplated his words, his advice, and the overall conversation. Be wary, Thoth advised you, and it astounded you beyond reason why he would give advice to you. You were hardly known but, then again, you were thinking that as you sat in your temple in one of the largest cities in Kemet. And perhaps your brother was right, maybe you did need to spend more time in your human form. The whole cat thing was mostly for worship and easy travel, but human was supposed to be your main form.

You breathed deeply, taking in the scents you could, for your other form was subpar in that area of things, before switching forms.

Almost as small as you were before. Not really, but compared to the servants still outside of your hiding spot, you were pretty small. In the shadow of the pillars you went unnoticed till dawn, where it’d be painfully obvious that you were a human, and to them, not where you should be. So you left, taking to wandering the streets of the great city, mostly staying in market areas. The homes sort of creeped you out.

It was a lively area, filled with different cultures you had no idea existed, all with their own fabrics, spices, and history. In amazement you walked through the streets, stopping at every stall you could to see what different things they sold. Eventually you figured out that many places sold the same thing but in different quality, or from different places. It bored you, but it didn’t put you off too much, still wandering with a smile.

One stand in particular caught your eye, filled with glittering gemstones and carved bone decorated and molded into fine jewelry. The man who owned the stand smiled as you examined the goods, getting pushed every now and then by the passing crowd. As your eyes trailed over the different necklaces and rings you found a band, thick enough to go around your neck, made of solid gold.

“How much is this?” You asked, and he replied with a hefty price. With a whistle, you materialized the necessary amount of silver rings to pay for it. When the transaction was completed, the necklace was tight around your neck, hanging just below your Adam’s apple and rather heavy. You supposed you probably looked nice, but you couldn’t check until later.

Later that evening you found yourself being the holder of new titles, just as your brother had suggested the night before. Though you hadn’t officially ‘pronounced’ it (you had no idea how to do that) you wanted to be a deity of joy and innocence. This very sudden urge came to you as you watched a boy, older than you by around ten years, play by the riverside with a stick and three rocks.

He didn’t have much, but he was happier than any of the adults you’d seen walking the roads.

You’d later come to learn two things as you followed the child home: number one was that it was rude to follow people home without their consent. The second was that he was not, in fact, a bearer of very little, but instead a bearer of all the riches he could wish for, but it didn’t deter your fondness of the boy. He could’ve chosen from many of the vast gifts he was given but, instead, he picked up a stick and played with the fish. It swirled something inside you, and for the first time in your very short life, you smiled genuinely.

A few more days passed before you even thought to talk to him. In your cat form you could follow him unnoticed in his palace home, and that was how you’d learned in the first place that he was the prince of all of Kemet. It was also how you’d learned his name, and it was the same form you often watched him in. If you were to approach him, it’d probably be best to do so in a form closer to his age. Your current human form was a more average age of twenty, so you switched it around, making a younger version of it.

It then occurred to you, watching him in the safety of the reeds, that you had no idea how to approach him. You hadn’t ever had friends before. Would he be a friend? Were you allowed to have friends? More importantly, how did you make friends? You’d learned from watching that simply approaching someone could be weird and you felt far too anxious to do so.

With a twitch of your nose your form changed to a child, and with your thumbs not in your previous form, you picked away at the mud beneath your feet. Beautiful, fertile mud black with its’ own nurturing. Gulping, you decided that maybe, making friends just wasn’t for you.

He wasn’t doing much. Just kneeling there, one knee pressed into the dirt, arranging the rocks and mud to make a house but it was all too much.

You turned. The reeds brushed against bare skin and cloth as you tried to walk away in silence, but the motion gave away your position in the still of the evening. No wind, no excuse for the noise, and the boys’ head turned in sudden alertness, staring directly at you but not seeing you.

“Hello?” He said after a moment of waiting. “Is anyone in there?”

You just sniffed, your body shaking from nervousness and your hands clenched tight together. Your throat too tight and too thick to form any coherent speech.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said with a giggle, his voice turning from alarm to playfulness. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Still, you couldn’t seem to get your feet to move. So closer he came, wading through the mud and the reeds till he came face to face with you, the two of you now both hidden away in the privacy of the Aur.

“Hi! What’s your name?” He asked, his eyes bright with curiosity, beaming a smile that only served to make you more anxious despite its welcoming features.

“Mahjur,” you mumbled quietly, rubbing your arm with your hand, trying to create some sort of distraction for yourself.

“I’m Ahkmen. Nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand for you to shake. You looked him up and down rapidly, having never come this close to him before. Then you took his hand, trying hard not to grasp too firmly or too loose.

“I’m trying to build a house for this turtle. Want to help?” He asked, grabbing your now held hands and pulling you out of your safety. You tried to say something, only getting out stutters and half words as he sat you down beside him in front of the failing little mud hut. Beside it, a tortoise you never saw before, looking rather unbothered by her failing house. She looked perfectly contented in her shell, but you didn’t say anything. Children were fickle. Then again, by all accounts, you were a child as well. Ahkmen was older than you. By a lot.

“I can’t seem to get the mud to stay though. Not long enough for a roof anyways,” he sighed, stacking more mud on top and watching as it flopped back down onto the ground. Without really thinking you pressed two fingers to the little mud hut, blessing the house and its innocence so that it may stay upright.

“It should work now,” you said to him, still keeping your voice quiet. It seemed odd to use, having never used it for extended conversation before. He nodded, piling the dirt on till it made good walls.

“There we go,” he muttered, pressing his lips together in concentration as he worked.

“The roof… might want to make that out of grass,” you suggested, watching as the roof fell again to both your disappointments.

“You’re right,” he sighed, and the two of you grabbed at the grass, pulling it out of the ground and weaving it into a simple pattern. When the small square was complete, you placed the tortoise into the little hut and put the roof over it.

“It’s good you made a door,” you said.

“Wouldn’t want him to starve to death, right?”

“Her.”

“Oh, okay,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “Want to go to my house?”

“Your house?” You clarified, wondering if this was what friends did. And of course, you already knew his house was the pharaoh’s palace, which might not be the most welcoming environment for an unknown child.

“Yeah! It’s up on that hill,” he said, pointing to the palace in the distance, the regular white painted red and gold in the dying sunset.

“Nice house,” you noted as though you didn’t know.

“I think my mum will like you,” he laughed, grabbing your hand and pulling you along. With stammering words and failing footsteps you followed, tripping over various things (including your own feet) before you made it to the entrance.

Stone raised a few steps off the ground, the entrance lined with magnificently large pillar ordained with paintings, murals, and carvings, all etched intricately by artists many years ago. Guards stood in waiting, pacing the halls in shifts to keep the royal family safe. Torches also lined the walls, and burning incense filled every room with intoxicating white smoke.

“Fancy,” was all you said as he took you to his room.

“A little,” he said, ignorant in his youth of the poverty the people he would one day rule were even now facing.

His room was just as fancy, gated with a large door that he had a little trouble opening. You helped, and with that you saw the grandness of his own quarters.

“That,” he pointed across the hallway to the opposite door, “is my older brothers room. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

You nodded, thinking mostly about royal succession. Ahkmen would, if all went according to plan, not become pharaoh. Turning to your left, you were caught completely by surprise by a new piece of architecture you had yet to see anywhere else.

“Wow! What is that?” You asked, rushing out to the platform that jutted out from the rest of the building. Around it was a railing, keeping you from falling off, and from there, you could see the world. In the distance, the sun had just disappeared over the Aur.

“It’s a balcony?” He said, pushing past the billowing curtains you hadn’t even noticed before to stand beside you.

“It’s a beautiful view,” you sighed, breathing in the cool air.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” he replied.

+

“You’re quite smart,” he commented one day, a few months after your first meeting. He’d taken a shine to you, and you him, and you felt it to be the start of a wonderful, first friendship. “Especially for a baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” you grumbled, crossing your arms as he made his move in the game in front of you.

“Yesterday I tried to give you shoes and you didn’t even know what they were!” He laughed, leaning against his hands as you examined his move and strategy. You pouted, thinking mostly about how you were most certainly not a baby.

“Lots of people don’t know about shoes,” you said in quiet defense.

“But you must’ve seen them around? Maybe on your mother, or father?”

“I don’t have either of those,” you answered on instinct, a sudden pulse of fear going through you before you remembered it’d probably be better if you left it at that. In your child, human form that was always growing, you couldn’t say you had a family. You didn’t, except Bastet and Maahes, and people knew who those gods were.

“What about a brother or sister?”

“Neither,” you said, making your decision and moving the piece.

“No home then,” he murmured, and suddenly the game in front of you was forgotten.

“I stay at my temple,” you said, thinking there to be no actual reason to really hide your identity. Maybe it was your child brain kicking in.

“Your temple?”

“Yeah, I’ll show it to you sometime soon!”

You smiled, and awkwardly he returned it, and the game continued. Eventually he won, having been playing the game longer than you had.

Despite the fact that you’d been staying in the palace for several months, you had yet to run into his parents or his brother. He kept it that way, leading you away from more common corridors, grabbing your hand and bolting out of the room if any of his relatives seemed to be nearby. You never asked him why, as it always felt like an adventure, your heart pounding as you giggled, breathless on the floor after a sprint.

The many near abandoned hallways became well known to you, often unlit and uncleaned. Filled with old carvings and paintings from when they were once used frequently, before the building had been extended to fit more pharaohs and more gods. You didn’t mind in the slightest, coming to enjoy the feel of empty spaces filled with only your conversation with Ahkmen.

You had a temple, offerings, sacrifices. You had respect. An adult body. Godly powers. Sometimes you wondered why you chose to live within the palm of his hand. Then he’d grab your hand, pull you along, and you forgot to question yourself, only existing to laugh with him.

The day eventually came where he brought up the previous subject again.

“You said you’d show me your temple.”

You nodded.

“Haven’t done that yet,” he commented, earning a glare from you.

“Let’s go then,” you suggested, beckoning him away from the palace garden filled with greenery, through the hallways till you came to the streets, winding your way through before reaching the familiar alabaster steps of your temple. Cats still lounged freely outside, purring in the warm sun.

“Tajahul’s temple?” He asked, walking up the steps, you trailing behind.

“Is that what they’re calling me now?” You giggled as one of the cats rubbed his cheek against you.

“It’s a nice name. Not right I’m guessing,” he said as he rubbed his palm against one of the tall pillars.

“You know my name.”

“Mahjur? Shouldn’t this be the temple of Mahjur then, not Tajahul?”

“Yes, but I never gave my name, so it’s understandable.”

“I could tell my father,” he said, looking at you as he sat down. You sat beside him, cross legged as you both leaned against a pillar.

“Actually,” you said after a moment of quiet thought, “that’d be nice.”

“I’ll tell him I had a dream or something,” he plotted, a scheming look on his face.

“You mean lie?”

“I don’t really feel like telling him my new best friend is a new god.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as you laughed.

“Probably not,” you sighed.

That evening you were introduced to the rest of a terribly dysfunctional family. Not as a god, but as a friend. The whole table was set like a typical feast, and though your eyes widened as you entered the room, Ahkmen’s stayed relatively the same, so you safely assumed this was like any other dinner. Surrounded by guards and servants and fan wavers who all looked delighted to be serving their king.

The king, overall, looked bored, paying little attention to anything beside his food. The queen seemed concerned, glancing at her husband, only catching sight of you when she finally turned to face her two sons.

By sheer power of luck, the king was so disinterested in everything that wasn’t on his plate that Ahkmen could easily slip in the fact that you were staying in his room and have close to no reaction from his father. His mother didn’t seem so quick to accept it, but after seeing her husbands’ reaction, seemed a little more relaxed.

His brother sitting next to you said nothing.

+

Your friendship spanned many years after that. Over those many years, you hadn’t had one fight, agreeing to do terribly reckless things together. Each time, without fail, neither of you were punished. Unfortunately, you had sort of become the pharaoh’s third child - at least that’s how everyone treated you. However fortunately, the throne was not going to you. Never to you. Actually, you had suspicions it was going to your friend.

Kahmuh, which you learned was the brothers name, was in all essence of the word vile. Not even truly cruel or barbaric, merely childish in a way that made him unfit to be the royalty he was. Constantly screaming and killing slaves (a habit his parents tried to break him off, unsuccessfully, of course).

In every field you’d run through Ahkmen had been by your side, or you by his, sailing boats down the Aur and watching sunsets from his windswept balcony. The whole world was a newfangled wonder, a toy right in the palm of the pharaoh’s hand, and by extension, his sons’. Only his youngest son.

You found yourself feeling sorry for the older brother, the king to be, having to deal with a sibling far more successful and well liked than him. One evening, when Ahkmen was around 13 years old (and you around three years old, technically), you attempted to speak with him. Immediately he forced you out of his room, and you saw where his parents got their disappointment from.

“Don’t worry about him,” Ahkmen had told you later that night, his arm over your shoulder in a comforting manner. “He’s just odd.”

After that you payed little attention to his antics.

That was two years ago, that night you decided that maybe Ahkmen was the only friend you could have in the life you had chosen. Not that you would ever complain, life was a luxury you could afford to enjoy with him beside you.

A few days before his fifteenth birthday, the Pharaoh offered to take him on a sedan ride, to waltz him around town. At Ahkmen’s apprehension, the Pharaoh quickly explained how well guarded it’d be, how there would be fan wavers, and he could have every need attended. Not that he didn’t get that every day.

“Can I take Mahjur along?”

You looked up from your carving, a technique you’d been trying to recently perfect. It wasn’t going well.

“Yes, of course,” the Pharaoh said with a smile, nodding to you. You nodded back, a more bow of your head. He left after that, his hands folded behind his back as his guards followed him out of the room.

Ahkmen came up beside you, leaning against the wall and sliding his back down till he hit the floor.

“You’d almost think they forgot I picked you up off the streets,” he laughed, his head pressed against the back of the wall as he looked up, his eyes closed.

“Off the river, dearest,” you reminded him, your voice aloft from your concentration.

“What are you carving this time?” He looked over your shoulder, squinting his eyes.

“Trying to work on a face.”

“That’s a face?”

“It’s not done!” You whined, pulling the tablet out of his sight.

“I could teach you how to do hieroglyphs,” he suggested, leaning against you again anyways.

“It’s a bit fancy, isn’t it?” You said, still trying to concentrate.

“Come now, my parents are designing something and you could help them,” he said as he stood, pulling you up with a forceful tug of your arm. Your tablet clattered onto the floor, along with your carving tools.

“If you broke one of those, you owe me a new one,” you said glaring at him.

“Not a problem,” he laughed.

The next morning you did not take him up on his offer. You had a sedan ride that day, and though he’d requested for you to come along, you were reluctant. Slaves never settled very well with you, but Ahkmen insisted they were servants. Paid. You relented your pushing.

What was failed to mention was the exact number of chairs available for the ride. Apparently it was strange for a Pharaoh to own more than two at a time, so him and his wife could ride comfortably. Any more would indicate weakness, or something - you weren’t really listening, mostly caught up in the fact that you were now subject to several miserable hours out in the heat sitting right next to Ahkmen, all squishes up in that terribly heavy looking chair.

“It won’t be that bad… we’ve got fans,” he said awkwardly, shrugging as he looked just as uncomfortable with the thought.

“You’re wearing three layers and a wig. I’m wearing shoes. I hate shoes,” you hissed.

“You’re also wearing two layers of clothing, guilty party,” he retorted back with the terrible nickname, still glowering at you as he was seated.

“I -“

“Now come take a seat next to your husband,” he said with a smirk, patting the space next to him.

“One of these days,” you growled.

“Ah! Who’s the prince?”

You sat next to him, your arms crossed and shoulders tight as you both squirmed at the proximity.

“I’m not going to enjoy this.”

“No one said you had to,” he replied, sliding right into you as the chair was lifted onto the backs of eight people. You winced as you looked down, then in front of you, where the Pharaoh was being marched on a golden throne, surrounded by fans and guards.

“I suppose this is your day,” you sniffed, turning away.

“Thank you nedjem.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The heat of simply being next to him began creeping up your body all day, starting first at the thighs where you touched, whispering up your body, persuaded by the currents of the suns heat. Up to your hips, through your stomach and shoulders before burning into your cheeks, your already red face turning hotter.

“You look awful,” Ahkmen noticed halfway through the day, looking over with a concerned look.

“You look like a dream,” you mumbled, feeling like you were melting through your clothes. Certainly it couldn’t be that hot, right? And the heat wouldn’t explain your heart going haywire in your chest. It wouldn’t answer the weird numbness of your legs or the shaking of your hands, unless… you were having a heat stroke. That must’ve been it.

“No, really, let’s stop off somewhere, alright?” He put his hand on your cheek, testing how hot you’d turned, his face close up to yours.

You swallowed thick, turning away.

“I’ll be alright. We’re stopping at the temples, remember? I’ll be fine.”

“… Okay,” he said, looking like it was the furthest from what he believed but complying anyway.

In a few moments your breathing became under your control, the numbness fading into background fuzz and the shaking stopping all together. If you had, perhaps, been born somewhere near the year 2000 and gone to school, you would’ve had the experience and knowledge to identify what was a panic attack due to a crush. However you’d been born in Egypt, certainly not in the year 2000, and you had been born around three years ago. There was no telling what a panic attack was. Or a crush.

The day of his birthday you didn’t take him up on his offer to teach you hieroglyphs either, swept up in the chaos of the party. You were excited mostly for the music, till Ahkmen explained to you about the specialness of this specific party.

“My parents are bringing in a lot of wine for the adults. I haven’t been able to have it yet, but I bet it’s delicious. And,” he put his hands on your shoulders, staring intensely into your eyes and making you sweat, “I think we can steal some.”

“Wine? Why won’t they let you have any?”

“Apparently large doses of it make you a little dizzy, I’m not sure, but -“

“You do remember who I am, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

You hadn’t ever explicitly said you were really a god, not in a way of, “hey Ahkmen, I’ve been your friend since I was born, isn’t that weird because we met when we were both ten? Well I was born about four months before that point. I’m a god,’ instead more hinted at and replied to in a way that made it clear to, at least you, that you were a god.

“I can just summon wine if you want it,” you said, frowning. This solution was so blatantly obvious to you, but Ahkmen hadn’t ever shown interest in drinking wine.

“Yes I know, but it’s so much more fun this way!” He smiled wide and chaotic, rushing down the hall in his new, golden cape. You followed in your silver necklace, dangling low on your stomach, an expensive gift by your friend a few years ago.

Peeking your head past the corner and into the kitchen, you saw the bustle of chefs preparing food for the upcoming feast. Servants swarmed, perfecting the platters and carrying them out. Off in the distant corner, in a large water basket, sloshed red as blood wine.

“That’s a lot of wine,” Ahkmen gasped, his jaw dropped as it took a few servants to set it in the right place.

“That’s heavy,” you mumbled along with his amazement. “What’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

You nodded.

“Yes, uh, my plan. Well, um… they’ll have pretty much unlimited wine for the party, right? So we just wait for all the adults to get too dizzy to see us and then we sneak in and take a little!”

That was a terrible idea for actual results. No shock factor when the adults found it empty, no finesse except deceit, and there was always the chance that it’d be drunk dry before anyone got too dizzy at all.

“Alright,” you agreed anyway with a shrug of your shoulders, thinking it’d probably be safer if the two of you didn’t drink in the first place. Then again, you’d heard pretty good things about wine from your visits with your brother.

“Let’s go then!” He whisper shouted, careful not to be caught by the chefs as he bolted out, followed by a jumpy you.

It didn’t take long till the two of you were sat together at the head table, gorging on bull and bread, honey cakes and jujubes. All of it utterly delicious, but you still kept eyeing each other, attempting silent signaling for when either thought everyone was drunk enough. The plan was simple, gone over as the two of you ran to the table. Sneak back into the kitchen, there was a whole vat of it there, and all the chefs and servants would be too busy serving everyone to notice.

“This is going to be so much fun,” he giggled, the two of you kneeled side by side, watching the kitchen door from a safe distance.

“Take your cape off, it’s getting in the way,” you mumbled, already undoing the material falling from his shoulders.

“Hm. I thought it looked cool,” he said as he beckons you, slipping past the leaving chefs.

“It does,” you whispered into his ear, your hands on his shoulders as you stood behind him, scanning the room as you kept low.

Keeping close to the furniture you made your way, making sure that no server was coming to refill their cups for serving. Once you realized all of the servers had gotten a refill you jumped, opening up the wicker lid as he grabbed two large cups.

“Aren’t these for serving?” You asked, playing with it in your hands.

“All I could find, hurry up!” He hissed, dipping his own in and pulling it out, running out of the room as soon as you’d done the same.

The two of you giggled all the way back to his room, as though you’d committed a heinous crime you’d never get punished for. In your mind and his, you surely had. You wondered, sitting on his balcony as the stars reflected in dark red wine, if you’d ever get caught. With your legs dangling, you wondered if you’d ever tire of him.

“Do you think you even can get dizzy from this?” He asked, looking at you with a curious frown.

“What, just because I’m a god means I can’t have fun?”

“No, just… biologically speaking.”

You hummed, raising your eyebrows and wondering just as he did.

“Considering Sekhmet could, I think so, but... let’s find out.”

The rest of the evening was spent in an alcoholic haze. Turned out you could get drunk, much to the joy of Ahkmen and the surprise of you. You’d thought with being a god perhaps it’d take it at least a little bit easier on you, but to no avail. When you woke up the next morning, your headache was just as bad as his, and neither of you could recall how you ended up in each others clothes.

“You know, my clothes don’t look that bad on you,” he commented with a smirk, biting his lip in a funny looking way.

“Shut up, will you?” You had huffed.

+

It wasn’t until a few weeks that you took him up on his offer to teach you hieroglyphics. In that time, you’d looked back at the different ones adorning every surface of the palace, finding them to be a sort of art. Your growing interest and his parents beginning to shower him with far too much attention to punish his insolent brother made the both of you desperate for some excuse to spend some alone time together.

“What am I designing anyway?” You asked as he sat you down at the table in his room, papyrus and pen in front of you.

“Not yet. That’s for when you can actually write in this,” he said, giving you another sheet of papyrus with the whole of the main hieroglyphs on it.

“Yikes,” you said, pulling the sheet closer to you. “That’s a lot of drawings.”

“It gets worse!”

“Fantastic, why am I learning this again?”

“Don’t you want to help with my parents design, nedjem? I heard it’s going to be for me,” he teased, nudging you with his shoulder.

“Everything they make is for you,” you sighed, rolling your eyes as he began the lesson.

It started at one lesson per week, but in a second that was decided it wasn’t enough time, so it was upped to one lesson a day. Then his parents came swooping in even more, his brother beginning to target terrible pranks on him and you, and relatives tried to earn his favor so badly seeing as he was the favorite, that he begged you for two lessons a day.

“Three,” you said.

“Yes,” he sighed, a relieved smile bright on his face.

Three lessons a day and you began to get the hang of it quickly, what each image symbolized and how it worked as not an alphabet but an art. While most of your days were spent inside at his table, going over things and learning how to stroke in just the right way, sometimes he’d take you out. Around town, no guards, the both of you adorned in more common clothing, though you insisted on keeping your gold neckband.

“Didn’t they teach you this stuff in, I don’t know, god school?” Ahkmen leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as your finger pressed into the painted hieroglyphs carved in the walls.

“I was born with holy knowledge. My mother filled in many human traditions. But language is so fleeting to gods, she didn’t think it was important to teach me this formal writing.”

“That’s dark,” he mumbled uncomfortably.

“Oh.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Learn to,” you chuckled, looking over at him to find him smiling right at you. Grinning, actually, a little dreamy like. You snorted, shaking your head as you read out what they were saying. Mostly stories, talking about your own relatives or other gods. A whole lot of Ra.

On the walk home, the sun barely touching distant hills, you confronted what it was you were really learning this all for.

“Could I know what this tablet that I’m doing is?”

“My father is making a tablet out of gold. It’s supposed to be connected to Khonsu. We were both wondering if you could do the design; he thinks you’re artistic, I think you’ve got connections so you could use some extra special hieroglyphs or something. What do you think?” He asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with you just as always. He was beginning to grow taller.

“Sounds good. However I don’t think I can call up Bastet for what will probably sound like a school project to her,” you laughed, and he nodded with a chuckle.

“I understand. I’m sure he’ll like whatever you come up with either way.”

After that day you had considerably less time on your hands. The lessons had stopped, yes, but the Pharaoh had decided his sons, and you, needed training. Specifically weapon and hand to hand combat training, ‘just in case,’ as he put it. Out of the three of you, Kahmuh was probably the most excited, and you the least. How could you be the deity of innocence if you were off punching people in the nose?

You didn’t argue with it though. Of course, you and Ahkmen complained to each other behind closed doors, but never to his fathers face. That’d be certain death. When Kahmuh joined you, ranting about how ridiculous this whole thing was. Even if he was the most excited didn’t mean he was at all looking forward to it. It was out of the three of you, meaning the standard for most excited was quite low.

“It’s foolish! We’ve got guards! I’m going to have at least fifty guards surrounding me at all times when I become Pharaoh!” Kahmuh exclaimed, pacing in front of you and Ahkmen as the two of you sat against the wall.

“Besides, that teacher he’s having teach us? I’ve heard terrible things about him,” Ahkmen added, crossing his arms.

“Really?” You leaned forward to look at him better. “What sort of things?”

“He’s really strict, supposedly,” he said.

“And ugly. Violent too, I bet,” Kahmuh growled.

“I thought you liked violent,” Ahkmen said, shifting his position.

“Against you? Yes. But against me it’s horrific. I won’t stand for it,” he hissed, marching out of the room. You and Ahkmen looked at each other, brows raised in a questioning stance.

“What a funny man,” you said.

“If you could call him a man.”

“Oh,” you tutted, elbowing him gently. “Don’t be rude.”

The next day, bright and early the three of you found yourselves in a large, stone courtyard. Laden with statues and pillars, standing taller than the heavens and glaring down at you. You stood in a straight line, chests puffed out and hands at your side.

Neither of them had been joking when they’d said that this instructor man was ugly, and though he hadn’t said a word, he looked very violent, and the way he jammed his staff into the ground showed just how strict the next few months would be.

“You three are used to a pampered life,” he finally said, starting off his speech like any stupid fighter would. “And I - I didn’t know there were three of you.”

“Does this mean I can leave?” You asked, still keeping your position.

“No! Now, do any of you have any basic weaponry training?”

“I’ve stabbed a few people,” Kahmuh said, looking particularly and unsettlingly bright. You knew all too well he was remembering all those slaves he murdered… or maybe Ahkmen had embellished the story.

“Hasan jiddaan,” the instructor said in a cooler voice. “My name is User.”

“Typical,” Ahkmen whispered to you as his back was turned. You almost snorted before remembering you might get caught.

User went on to explain the rules of combat, of fair play, and how to maintain an upper hand while playing cool. He kept you intrigued, though your feet hurt from prolonged standing, and he kept his voice quick and sharp. To the point.

Once he had fully tired all three of you out with his lecture on ethics in battle to the point where at least three or four hours had passed, he gestured to the rack of weapons behind you.

“There you’ll find bows, spears, daggers… maces. I want you to pick one that you’ll master.”

Your fingers danced across the rack, deciding spear and dagger were too violent for you in a bloody way. The maces had beautiful designs, colored gold and black, but still too violent.

“There’s a sling down here,” you noticed, crouching down and tugging on Ahkmen’s skirt.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to choose from that shelf,” he mumbled, picking out a bow and returning to his position. Looking to your left, you saw Kahmuh had already picked out a long, black dagger.

“User,” you called, “can I pick a sling?”

“Yes,” he answered simply, and you grabbed it, standing back in line.

While you and Ahkmen fiddled around with your newfound weaponry, User grabbed Kahmuh for a more private lesson.

“This’d be so much easier if you all just picked the same weapon,” you heard him grumble as he pulled the older away.

“What do you suppose we do now?” You asked, sitting on the floor with your legs splayed out in front of you.

“We could fight each other.”

“That sounds horrible. I could never hurt you.”

“Even if I hit you first?”

“Never,” you said with finality, crossing your arms.

“Look at you. You look like a pouting child,” he laughed, crouching beside you.

“And - and you look like a, uh,” you turned to look at him, coming nose to nose with his smiling face.

“Like a what, darling?”

“Like a - a very handsome, very spoiled prince,” you attempted your insult weakly, having it fall flat as he smiled even wider.

“Why thank you.”

“Would you stuff it?”

“Oh come now,” he grunted as he sat beside you, leaning his hand against your shoulder uncomfortably as he was now taller than you. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t either,” you mumbled.

“You didn’t mean that I was handsome?” He asked, looking up at you with wide, doe eyes.

“You’re absolutely awful, I hope you know that,” you hissed, feeling your face shoot up to the temperature of the sun.

“I do, you remind me every now and then. You still love me though,” he laughed, resuming his relaxed position on your shoulder.

“Sure,” you mumbled, fumbling with the sling in your hands.

The classes from that day forth weren’t as tiresome as they were annoying and dragged out. Why the two others had to wait while one person got their lesson was beyond any of you, but it did bring you closer in shared pain. It was usually right before lessons that Ahkmen and Kahmuh got along the most, whining and grumbling to each other about how sore they were from their previous lessons as you stayed behind them. Other times they returned to their fierce sibling rivalry.

Eventually, once you’d gotten a handle of your weapons, you started on hand to hand combat. That was less fun, the repetition of moves boring the hell out of all three of you as you all punched the air in unison.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never felt more humiliated,” Kamuh whined.

“Really? This outranks the time you slipped in the mud and flew about fifty feet down that hill and into the Aur?”

“Would you stop bringing that up?”

Then came the sparring. Months after the lessons had originally started User thought the three of you were ready enough for one on one sparring, practice for real life battle. It was certainly interesting, watching the two brothers fight in an arena meant for fake fights. The way they fought always felt far too real, their punches too strong and succinct.

“Kahmuh, relax, I think he’s done,” User stopped his movements with a flick of his hand. Ahkmen was on the ground, backing up from his brothers punches as he kneeled above him. You sat at the edge, eyes wide as you willed yourself away from interfering.

“Take a break, Ahk. Mahjur, face Kahmuh,” he said, beckoning you from your place. You swallowed thick, readying yourself as you stood face to face with the boy who had a violent fire alight in his eyes, a residual burning from the attack he had just done.

Once User raised his hand to begin, Kahmuh launched at you, immediately going for a punch to the face. You blocked, throwing his hand off and attempting for a jab to his gut. While he kept his hands in fists, you kept yours straight, for more of a sharp motion than a blunt. You hit your mark, and as he keeled over in just the slightest way you kneed him in the chin. A dirty move, but he stepped on your foot after it, and considering he wore sandals and you didn’t, it hurt a lot. Still you kept your ground, attempting to block every one of his moves and trying to hit some of your own.

Sure, if you used your godly powers the boy would be dead in a second, but that wouldn’t be much fun for any of those present.

Eventually, due to his sheer skill in fighting he won, throwing you to the ground with a sweep of your legs. User stopped the fight from continuing right at that moment, instead of letting Kahmuh finish it as he had last time.

With deep breaths you hauled yourself to sit next to Ahkmen again, puffing your hair out of your face.

“Intense,” you huffed, leaning against the wall.

“I have a feeling these next few weeks are going to be torture,” he mumbled in reply.

“Hey, look on the bright side. If we get better, we can beat him up!”

User, in all his wonderful mercy, let you rest before calling you up again, standing you in front of Ahkmen. He raised his hands, and neither of you did anything, completely confused.

“Hey!” He snapped his fingers in front of your faces. “Start!”

“What?” Ahkmen looked between you and User, just as confused as you were.

“This is a sparring arena. Why do you think you’re in it?” User glared at him.

“You want us to fight? Each other?” You asked, eyes wide and mouth hung open in astonishment.

“Yes!”

You burst out laughing, followed in succession by Ahkmen, who held his stomach as he belted out a laugh.

“We’re not going to -“

“Now!” User snapped, and you jolted back into position, looking warily at your friend. He sniffed, eyeing you as if to say he’d take it easy.

You moved first, aiming a weak punch at his chest that he easily blocked. In return he attempted a hit just as weak as yours at your shoulder, something you learned could disarm. You dodged, successfully hitting the side of his stomach with your elbow. When you hit, he laughed, and you felt yourself get into the motions once more. Hit, but not too hard, dodge, and prove yourself to be better. Thinking of it more as a competition than an actual fight helped you as you moved.

When you tried to land a blow to his shoulder, he grabbed your wrist, and in a flash he twisted it behind your back. You gasped in pain, barely even feeling his other arm pressing your back against his chest. However, you could feel his heart beating fast, beating right into your skin.

“Ahkmen wins that round. Good job - go get cleaned up. We’re done for today,” User said, dismissing the three of you.

As you walked the steps back up to the palace and hopefully to the baths, Kahmuh gloated his victory.

“Wow, you won against two people who couldn’t care less about fighting,” you said sarcastically, waving your hands like it was a big deal.

“You’re just jealous,” he said in a stiff manner, sticking his nose up in the air and running ahead of you.

Slowly, you and Ahkmen made your way into the bathing room, being greeted with steam clinging to your skin and servants at your hand.

“Come, let’s bathe together,” he asked of you, tugging the wrist he had twisted earlier. You winced as he pulled, stumbling closer to him.

“Why?”

“Well we can certainly see each other easier then.”

You shrugged, agreeing. Most of the people you’d met were casual about nudity, but for some reason you couldn’t find yourself sharing the sentiment. It was the reason you wore a cover over your shoulders and chest as well as your legs. All of that was stripped before you got into the tub, sinking into the warm water with a relaxed sigh, feeling the alkaline and juniper perfume relax your muscles and sore bruises.

With closed eyes you hardly noticed Ahkmen slipping in opposite you, sighing in a just as relaxed way as you did.

“See? Isn’t this fun?” He giggled, leaning forward and putting his hand on your lower leg.

“Something along those lines,” you mumbled, sinking deeper into the water to mask your reddening face. A servant pulled you up by your shoulders, tugging the wig off your head to tend to your actual hair which was much shorter. You looked away from your friend, feeling embarrassed to have him see you like that. Usually you didn’t bathe together, so it was rare that he saw you without the wig.

Ahkmen’s hair, in your opinion, was much more attractive than the wig he wore. Sure, it was short, but it was lighter and curlier, and sometimes you felt the urge to push your fingers up into it. Just to test how soft it was, because at least it looked soft.

“Here,” he said suddenly, opening his hand out to you.

“What?”

“Your wrist!” He grabbed your bad wrist, pulling at it again and making you wince. “Sorry,” he mumbled, dipping his fingers into a bottle of honey and slathering your wrist in it.

“People say it’s supposed to help,” he drawled sweetly as servants tugged at his hair, pouring water over his head. You watched, blood running thick through your veins as they did so, feeling his touch on your wrist far more intensely than you should have. “I don’t know how much I believe that, but it couldn’t hurt. Probably.”

You hummed a distant agreement, barely feeling your own hair being tugged from your scalp.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” he apologized, looking up at you with those doe eyes of his.

“We were fighting. It’s not your fault,” you said, feeling the hands leave your head as the servants departed for a moment. He nodded, silent for a moment before speaking.

“Mahjur, you’re… a god. Do you… do you know much about, uh, sex?”

You choked on your own saliva. No, you absolutely did not. Your mother may have been the goddess of fertility but so were fifteen other gods and goddesses and you were not among their ranks.

“Actually I know nothing. Nothing at all. Why?”

“Mm. No one’s bothered to talk to me about it, but I pick stuff up. I think it starts with kissing.”

“Sounds fun,” you said, feeling like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“I wouldn’t know, haven’t done it yet.”

“Really? Aren’t you fifteen?”

“Shut up, would you?”

“Anyway I’m…” you rubbed your wrist, “I’m actually surprised you didn’t break my wrist.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s made of porcelain. Not the best material for bones, but Bastet said she had to work with what she was given, and apparently that wasn’t much,” you sighed, leaning back in the tub.

“Why have you waited five years to tell me this? I could’ve killed you!”

“I just remembered it!”

He threw his hands up into the air with a loud groan, splashing you as he did so.

“Let’s get back to your room, you can yell at me there,” you laughed, grabbing a towel on the floor and drying yourself off.

“I’m not mad, I’m concerned,” he replied indignantly, grabbing his own towel.

“Alright, mother.”

“I’m not your mother!”

Back in his room, he continued to pester and fret over your newly remembered state of fragility. You continually tried to tell him you’d been fine so far, and that you had not yet died, but it did little to comfort him.

“But you could,” he insisted. “What would I do without my best friend?”

“Experiment by yourself, I suppose,” you suggested weakly, sitting on his bed as he paced.

“Experiment on what?” He asked cluelessly, looking at you wish his hands on his hips.

“With your - weird sex thing you were talking about earlier,” you said, waving your hand through the air and whining when you twisted your wrist wrong again.

“You’re implying that if you’re alive I’d experiment with you,” he said out of the blue, suddenly in front of you, stating his aim clear as day.

“Wh - what? I, ha, I don’t know about that, I, uh, just - I -“

“It’s alright if you didn’t mean that,” he said quickly. “I just thought it’d be easier to have someone with a bit of shared experience.”

Well, you did do practically everything together. Maybe this would just be another one of those firsts.

“Uhh… yeah, no, it’s fine. It’s alright, I just - I’ve still got weak bones.”

“I don’t think I’ll forget that anytime soon,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your inner wrist. You hummed weak, high in the throat.

“I still don’t know anything about sex,” you told him as he took off your clothing.

“Neither do I. This is just - from all that weird porn stuff you see in the temples,” he said, putting your skirt and shawl in a folded pile along with his own clothing.

“You actually look at that stuff?” You asked as he pushed you down on the bed.

“Sometimes. It’s good art, you know,” he said, kissing your neck.

“Oh! Uh, I never, uh, mm, never really payed attention to it,” you mumbled, the words catching your throat when odd noises jumped from your chest and through your mouth.

“I’ll take you to see them sometime,” he said, his hands moving lower to your hips in slow caresses as his lips continued kissing at your neck.

“I think I’m good actually,” you laughed awkwardly, your whole body feeling like it was about to fly off at any moment. He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations having a calming effect on you.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing and, I don’t know if sex with a, uh, not human will be different. Do you have the same genitals as us?” He asked, still not knowing what female genitalia looked like.

“I… don’t know? Guess we’ll find out,” you shrugged.

“Just like with everything. Not one damn teacher around,” he rolled his eyes and laughed, moving his hand between your legs. Something sparked down there as he did so, warm and shocking.

“That - that’s good. For some reason,” you added awkwardly to the end, looking up at him. He smiled, moving more decisively as he leaned down to kiss your nose.

“We’re having fun,” you joked, watching as he palmed at his own erection.

“Don’t we always?”

“Not always. Remember when you pushed me into the Aur right as we were getting into the deep part?” You held back a moan as he circled some sort of hole you had down there.

“I’ve told you a million times and I’ll tell you again, it was an accident,” he said, his brows knitting together as he rubbed himself up against you.

“Oh,” you said, the sound involuntary as the new feeling came around you.

“Oh come on, I haven’t even put it in yet,” he frowned at you, wondering if you were alright.

“Put it in?”

“Yeah, like this,” he said, pushing his dick into you. The most incredibly, full feeling ran up your stomach, running sparks through your fingertips and eyelids as you shut them, a pleasant hum ringing in your throat. You barely processed him feeling just the same above you, leaning on his elbows right above you.

“Right. Put it in. That’s… that’s what that means,” you murmured, grinding your hips down.

“Ah, don’t -“ He grabbed your hips, stilling you. “Feels good. Just let me, uh…”

Turns out, neither of you really knew what to do. So he did what felt good; he pulled out and pushed back in, a weirdly wet sound coming from the motion.

“That sounds bad,” you commented, trying to push moans back down into your chest.

“Felt good,” he shrugged, repeating the motion, dragging hums and sighs out of both of you.

“Can’t argue with that,” you murmured, your lips barely on the skin of his shoulder as he continually thrusted into you, soft and gentle. The feeling of skin on skin alighted warmth within you, and you closed your eyes, enjoying the moment. You wondered for a moment if this meant that maybe you couldn’t be a god of innocence, but when he kissed your neck tenderly again, you decided there was nothing more innocent than childhood experimentation and love.

Could you say love?

+

“You probably can’t get pregnant,” he said as the two of you laid down on his bed, a few days after that evening spent together.

“Hopefully not,” you mumbled, scratching your head.

Love. It was such an intense word, so selfish and selfless, absorbing all your time and effort into the protection of just one person. The more you thought about it, you wondered if maybe you’d loved him the whole time. Of course, there many definitions of love, not just romantic, but you knew at this point that it wasn’t just friendship. Probably. Humanity was odd like that.

“Ahkmen?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever been in love with anyone?”

“If I ever do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Because it’ll be with me?

You shook your head, pressing your lips in a thin line.

“I don’t think I even know what love is.”

“Of course you do,” Ahkmen said with a frown, sitting up. You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. “You love the water. The tortoises, and the grass, you love the sky. You love looking at art, and I know how much you love cats, and I’m sure you love your mother.”

“I do enjoy all those things. But is it enough to be considered love? How do I know what I’m feeling is really real? What if I really am some emotionless god?”

“Those are questions even humans ask themselves,” he comforted softly, scooting closer to you. “But… I think you do love those things.”

“Mm.”

“And you love me.”

Of course you did.

“I don’t like being an adult,” was what you said instead. You weren’t even adults yet, still at the ripe age of sixteen. Well, Ahkmen was sixteen. You were six. Technically.

“Why?”

“Too many complicated emotions.”

“Is this because I said you love me?” Ahkmen asked with a sigh, lying down beside you closer than he was before. “If it makes you feel better I love you.”

“As a friend, right?” You asked too fast for your own liking, looking over to make eye contact with him.

He shrugged.

“Why define it?”

You looked back up at the ceiling. Maybe he was right.

“Come now, we can’t spend all day in bed,” he said with a jump, patting your leg as he got to his feet.

“Please?” You asked, pouting.

“You’re such a baby.” He rolled his eyes laughing, dragging you off his bed. “There’s much we can do today. It’s been a while since we’ve gone through town, I want to get you something nice.”

You chuckled, coming to your feet and leaning tiredly on him.

“Okay, but I’m not agreeing to this because you’re getting me something. I just don’t want you to leave without me,” you sighed, trying to stand on your own. He put his arm round your shoulders, waltzing you out of the room.

“Lots to do, so little time!”

It was a surprisingly cool day. The sun didn’t hit quite as hard, though shining just as bright as usual. Cool breezes flew in from the north, and for a few hours during midday you were worried your wig would fly off into the distance. Luckily it stayed put, but you couldn’t say the same for your sanity.

He’d been so terribly close to you all day. Never mind the fact that you already stood uncomfortably close, verging on unbearable during hot days, but what was soft touches of knuckles brushing together was now your palm over his, from simple proximity. Not even from the actual act of holding hands, it was simply because he was standing so close to you it was near impossible to identify the difference between you.

“Should we go swimming?” He asked you, sitting on the edge of the boat, his legs dangling beside yours.

“Sounds dangerous. And it’s not very appropriate anymore,” his mother told him softly, not leaving her husbands side as she spoke. Ahkkmen looked at you, half rolling his eyes and half grimacing. You snickered, elbowing him lightly.

Later in the afternoon you trekked around down with his father, surveying temples and offering meager sacrifices which were more for show than actual use at this point. It wasn’t long till you came to your temple, and as Merenkahre did his duties, you and Ahkmen giggled in the corner.

“So - so there’s. There’s a lot of cats here,” he noticed, gesturing vaguely at the lounging cats. “Can - do you have a cat form?”

“I, in fact, do. It’s been a while actually. I’ll -“ his mother looked at you sternly, “I’ll show you later,” you finished.

The eventful day of town travel ended with a full meal, and a giggly trip back to his room.

“I haven’t felt this good in ages,” you laughed as the doors shut, feeling as carefree as you ever cold.

“Well there has to be a reason for that,” he fumbled, biting at his lips as he collapsed on a seat, staring up at the ceiling. You sat on the ground, watching him sort through his thoughts.

“I think I’ve got a magic penis,” he finally said, his voice far too serious to be joking.

“YOU DO -“ you hushed yourself in case anyone was walking by the room, “you do not have a magic penis, oh my gods,” you laughed, covering your mouth as your face turned red.

“How do you know? You can’t prove or disprove it!”

“No one has magic - you know!”

“Genitalia?”

“Yes! You’re out of your mind,” you said, shaking your head.

“I’m mad, you say?” He asked, furrowing his brow and looking at you skeptically.

“Yes indeed I do say,” you replied.

“Then let’s do something mad!” He laughed, loud and crazy in your face, a childish act. You couldn’t help but laugh along at his antics. He came to your level, pulling you up by the hands with a great heave.

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Get dressed in something lighter,” he said, pulling off his own golden necklace and putting in its’ place a sheer material over his shoulders. You stuttered for a moment, taking off your own shawl and wrapping a much thicker, scratchier material over your shoulders, putting on a shorter skirt. He then turned to you, pulling your wig off and his own with a soft smile.

“I still don’t understand what we’re doing,” you said as you walked down the empty hallways.

“I saw this beautiful cove off the side of the nile,” he finally informed you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along quicker. You stumbled over your feet, sloppily catching up to his speed. You tried to stammer a reply but the heat of his fingers digging into your bones kept you from speaking.

Down from the steps you ran in unison, lit by a crescent moon that hung low and massive in the sky. Off in the distance the lights of the city shone like the stars, more lively and dancing than they’d ever be. Though you surveyed the mass of land out in front of you, all you could feel was the now searing heat of his hand in yours. It made you feel funny, if a little sick in the stomach. You swallowed, now training your eyes on the Aur, shining with star and moonlight.

Eventually your bare feet hit dirt and you continued down the path, tugging lightly at your wrist to get him to slow down.

“Getting tired?” He asked when the two of you stopped in the shade of a tree.

“I’m a god. A higher being. I outrank you by a thousand suns,” you panted, kneeling on the ground with the exhaustion from running.

“Yes, of course, darling,” he chuckled, kneeling next to you and kissing your temple. You grumbled, pushing him off, but he just laughed at you, waiting alongside you so you could catch your breath.

“You’re so rude. And no one besides me believes it!”

“That’s because I’ve mastered the art of deception,” he teased, hitting particularly hot breath on your cheek.

“Whatever you like to tell yourself at night,” you hit back, standing up with a deep breath.

“I don’t tell myself anything at night,” he sniffed indignantly. “I have you to listen to. You snore, you know.”

“So do you.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go!” He pulled you by the arm this time, making sure you kept up as the brush got more intensive, surrounding you in flush greenery lining the banks of the nile. When the dirt turned to mud he stopped pulling you, slowing to a walk as he took in continually deeper breaths of air.

“How that cloth has stayed on you is a mystery,” you panted, pulling at the back of the material on his shoulders.

“I have a pin. Not much of a mystery,” he giggled.

“We’ll never know the answer,” you said, ignoring his statement by pointedly turning your head away. He laughed, tugging you to the waters edge.

Sitting on a rock adorned with hanging vines you watched him. Dragging over the movements of his muscles as he stepped into the warm water, coming up to his knees till it began soaking his skirt. He then took off the shawl, tossing it your way, though you barely caught it, too enraptured with the way he seemed to glow in the light of the moon.

“Are you going to join me, or are you going to sit there?” He asked, smiling cockily at you.

“I think I’m good sitting here,” you said, coughing awkwardly.

“Come on, that’s no fun. I took us out here to do something fun and a little reckless.”

“I’d hardly call wading in the river something reckless.”

“My mother said not to, qualifies enough for me. Now come join me. Please?”

You glared at him, trying to force your way through those sweet eyes of his whenever he asked sincerely for something. Grasping tightly at the rock beneath you, you caved, slipping off it and into the short reaches of the water. Twisting back around, you set your own shawl on the rock

“One day you won’t get the things you want in life by begging,” you said playfully, letting him pull you deeper into the water, till it began soaking your own short skirt.

“Oh, but I’ll always get what I want from you,” he smirked, his hand on the side of your neck, his thumb stroking your jawline.

“I swear to the gods, one of these days I’m going to get you and it’ll look like an accident,” you said in turn, the both of you breaking into fits of giggles as you did.

“Relax, take in the moonlight! It’s a wonderful night,” he advised you, taking the both of you deeper in till the water almost came to your hips.

He wasn’t wrong. You didn’t even have to look around to know that, the feeling of cool water against your legs and the spritz of gentle mist and wind on your face.

“If someone steals our clothes,” you said, getting up close to him till your noses touched, “it’s your fault.”

“If someone steals our clothes I’d be happy to do a portrait,” he flirted, looking you up and down with flitting eyes.

“You’re dirty!” You exclaimed, making sure not to be too loud.

“Come here,” he entreated, smiling soft and pure, focused entirely on you.

“I’m already here,” you grumbled.

He moved in to kiss you, pressing his lips to yours like petals upon your skin. You closed your eyes, breathing in his perfume, wandering his body with your hands. As your hands came around his jaw he moved further into you, kissing deeper with a furrowed brow, grasping at your waist firmly.

“You’re very handsome,” you breathed out as you parted, his kisses trailing towards your ear.

“That’s quite a compliment coming from you,” he murmured, rubbing circles into your stomach with his thumbs. His hands dipped lower, tugging at your already low hanging skirt.

“I’m not having sex with you in the river,” you said firmly, laughing as he pouted.

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” he tried to convince you, pulling you closer so your hips met with his.

“It’s dirty.”

“I thought I was dirty,” he joked, kissing you when you just frowned. His tongue dragged across your bottom lip, pushing in when you parted just slightly. Following your gasp, he brought his knee in-between your legs, pressing up against your crotch.

“Ah, I, uh, guess I could, oh -“ he grabbed your hips, grinding you down on him, “I could make - make an excuse, but, uh, not in the - the water, I -“

“On the shore then? You want me to fuck you in the mud?”

“That’s vulgar!”

“It’s not wrong either,” he chuckled, dragging you back through the water and onto the black shore.

“That doesn’t mean you have to say it. And especially not like that,” you said, your voice digressing into a mumble as he began kissing your neck, pulling at the knot tying your skirt together.

“You loooove it,” he teased, smiling against your skin as you fingered at the edge of his skirt.

“I do not. I love you,” you murmured, feeling heat building up in your cheeks. He was silent, still sucking at your neck and clavicle.

“… You do?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes.”

He threw your skirt to the side, stepping out of his own, shoving his hips up against yours with a thick moan. You gasped at the sensation of him heavy against your stomach, pressing yourself back against the rock behind you.

“Ahk, please, I -“

You needed him to say something. Something to deny or return what it was you’d said, slipping past your lips like the moans now falling freely. But he just stayed silent, chasing the friction he desperately needed against you.

“How… how do you love me?” He asked, his voice rough and quiet as he continued thrusting.

“I - I don’t -“

He slipped himself between your thighs, thrusting at a faster pace that rubbed right against that wonderful spot. At that point you were pretty sure you didn’t have male or female genitalia (as you’d seen a naked woman recently), so you weren’t sure what to call everything down there. All you knew was that it electrified you, enthralling you in pleasure.

“I need you, I need you to tell me,” he gasped, biting into your sternum.

“Ah - mm, I don’t - I love you, I just,” you trailed off, almost jumping out of your skin when you felt him nudge against your entrance.

“Fuck it,” he growled, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist and shoving himself inside you. You let out an all too loud moan, the feeling off him thick and full inside you.

The two of you stood for a moment, gathering your breath and composing yourselves. He kept his hands on your thighs, helping you to stay where you were, nails digging into the sensitive skin. Your own arms were around his shoulders, pulling his chest closer to yours.

Then he thrusted, pushing himself in to the hilt, forcing another moan from your throat. Keeping you in place, your back on the jagged rock keeping you upright, he allowed his hand to come between your legs and begin rubbing you right where you needed it. He was beginning to know your body better than you did.

“Come on, finish with me inside you. I know how good you feel,” he mumbled, kissing your jaw in feather light touches.

“Ahkmen, I - you’re, ah, so good to me,” you gasped, trying not to let his thrusting get in the way of your speech, to little avail.

With a few more well angled thrusts you came undone, muffling your moans by pressing your face into his hair. A few moments after and he came as well, biting hard enough into your shoulder to leave a mark. You were left gasping, the rock scratching your back as the two of you slid to the ground.

“What kind of love?” He finally asked, still panting, but looking at you through hooded eyes.

“What kinds are there?”

“Lots,” he answered, an answer which disturbed you. “Familial. Friendships can be love. There’s… playful love. Obsessive. The point is, there’s lots of love. Romantic is one of them.”

You tried to shift in your position on his legs, feeling his cock drag inside you. Wincing, you gripped his shoulders.

“Could you pull out? I’m sensitive.”

“Oh, sorry. Yes,” he apologized, that familiar wet sound following him pulling out, one that you recognized now as sexual instead of weird.

He kept you in his lap, his hands on your hips to keep you close to him. Looking down at him, the moonlight barely shining through the cover of trees reflected in his wide eyes, looking up expectantly at you.

“I suppose I wouldn’t know how to describe it,” you finally settled for, an answer that was inadequate for both of you.

“Try describing how you feel,” he suggested, and with thought you complied.

“… Good, all in all,” you chuckled, looking down. “My heart beats fast, and I feel like all that I want in life is to make you happy.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, Nedjem.”

“I told you not to call me that,” you grumbled.

“But it describes you so well!”

“It absolutely does n-“

“Just continue with your feelings, please?”

You sighed, leaning your head against the boulder.

“I guess… I want to hold you. But that’s normal, so is the whole kissing thing… I don’t know how to make this more specific?”

“I don’t want to alarm you, but - that’s not normal. At all. Mahjur, are you in love with me?”

“I already said that!”

“No, I clearly remember that, but what it sounds like you’re telling me now is that you’re… romantically in love with me.”

You froze. Was that it? Was he correct? Moreover, if he was correct, how would that affect your relationship? You couldn’t let mere feelings get in the way of your friendship. He was your best friend. Your only friend. You hardly had time to think about what it’d be like when he died, less so if your friendship ended before hand. You couldn’t even begin to imagine that.

“Mahjur? Are you alright?” He asked, cupping your cheek. You stuttered, meeting his eye with shame.

The entirety of your thoughts seemed to escape you, as though your brain had decided to take a vacation, leaving only first instinct for you to act on.

You laughed. Loud, your hands curling into yourself as you did so, your eyes darting anywhere to avoid looking at him.

“Uh… Mahjur?”

“Me? In love with you?” You barked out another laugh. “Please. That’s not… realistic. In any way.”

“You mean you having a crush on someone you’ve known all your life, spent most of your nights with, and slept with several times is unrealistic?”

“Of course I don’t love you, not like that!”

“Well I do!” He finally yelled, his hand slapping onto his thigh with a sense of finality. Looking directly into your eyes, he seemed to burn with his own intensity, teeth grinding and fists clenched tight. You blinked, breath quickened as you examined him.

“Ahk,” you spoke softly, placing your hand on his cheek. He sighed, relaxing into your touch with closed eyes, calming himself. “Let’s go home. I think you need some sleep.”

He’s young, you told yourself. But so were you, that little voice in the back of your head nagged as the two of you put your clothes back on. He’s human, you tried to reason, but the voice just replied, asking if you were really any different. He held your hand, walking the trail back to the palace, his eyes trained on the ground.

A long silence stretched, in which you both consumed yourselves in thought, only kept sane by the touch you shared. Distant, but certainly there, warm and familiar.

Just acknowledge it.

You feel the same; would it really be that wrong?

You moved close to him till your shoulders touched, leaning into him and tightening your grip on his hand just barely. His lips quirked up into a small smile, pressing his own shoulder into you.

“My father asked me when you’ll be finished with that tablet design,” he said as the steps of the palace came in sight. You sighed tiredly, your back slumping.

“I haven’t even started on it. Who’s it supposed to be connected to again?”

“Khonsu. Can’t you remember?”

“Obviously not,” you laughed.

+

It wasn’t as though you were purposefully avoiding him for the next few weeks. You hadn’t meant to - you were just busy. Busy with his father mostly, designing that tablet and what it was meant to do. Something you weren’t allowed to know. Perhaps if he knew what you really were he’d be more patient and willing to tell you, but it wasn’t something he needed to know. Either way, the symbols you were designing unsettled you. Lots of imagery concerning eternity and death, so much so the thoughts began entering your dreams. What could the Pharaoh be planning?

Sitting on the floor of Ahkmen’s room, your back against the wall and your knees up, you fiddled with a small, stone figure. It was supposed to be a woman, but it didn’t look that much like it.

The door opened, and through it Ahkmen dredged himself through. He collapsed on the bed, turning his head to you with a tired expression.

“What’s been ailing you?” You asked, letting the figure dangle from your fingers, supported by a limp wrist.

“My mother is one hell of a party planner,” he grumbled, turning over onto his stomach and staring at the wall.

“What’s the party for this time?”

“Ugh… uh, I’m being anointed Pharaoh by my father. My mother insists that a celebration is in order, so of course she’s inviting everyone we know.”

“And the whole city.”

“And their cousins, yes,” he grumbled, turning to face you again. “What’s wrong with you?”

He must’ve noticed your own passive facial expression, twisted into a mild confusion.

“Your father.”

“Seems we’re both doing well,” he laughed. You chuckled heartlessly, rolling your eyes.

“Something of the like. That tablet of his is… confusing. And dark. Feels an awful lot like he’s about to do some very unsavory things.”

“Have you asked him what it’s about yet? He won’t tell me,” he said, stretching his arms out.

“I have. Hasn’t told me. It’s finished now, so it’s not my problem anymore.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” he shrugged.

“Isn’t it for you though? Shouldn’t you know?”

“It’s a surprise.”

You chuckled, placing the small statue on the ground and getting to your feet. Walking over to him, you collapsed next to him on the bed with a bright smile, linking your arms together. He scooted himself closer to you, breathing deeply as he dug his face into the crook of your neck.

“You smell nice,” he murmured.

“It’s your perfume,” you told him with a laugh.

“Mm. I have to say, I don’t think I’m going to enjoy being Pharaoh,” he said, changing the subject but remaining in his position, arm slung over your torso as he lay on his stomach.

“Why not, darling?”

“My father has hardly any time to spend with us, and he’s always busy with lots of boring stuff. Then I have to deal with my brother,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he mentioned Kahmuh.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s always jealous! I mean, it’s not my fault our parents love me more, it’s really his. I - you know how he acts.”

“Atrociously,” you said.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “And it’s only going to get worse! Imagine his hatred for me, but tenfold.”

“He is the oldest. It’s technically his right for the throne,” you looked over at him, seeing him grimace, “but he, uh, definitely shouldn’t have it. A bit immature, isn’t he?”

“An understatement. Glad you understand,” he sighed, scooting ever closer to you till his lips pressed into the bare skin of your shoulder. Taking a deep breath, you relaxed, allowing yourself a midday nap.

+

In a few days time the palace was crowded with people, flooding with food and wine of the highest delicacies. You hung close to the wall, fortunately allowed to do that considering your status as ‘not royalty.’ Poor Ahkmenrah though, center of attention, was seated at the head of the table. No longer did he don the wig he’d worn so long, but in its place he wore a golden crown, rising high off his head and glittering in the light of the dying sun.

He glanced at you across the crowd, a half smile gracing his features. You just laughed, mocking his pain in a friendly way that he despised. With his head he gestured, asking you to come stand next to him. You sighed, shaking your head, but stood beside him nonetheless.

“Enjoying yourself?” You asked, keeping behind him.

“Not in the least,” he replied, continuing to keep his smile up to keep appearances.

“It’s a far cry from your birthday. When we first stole that wine,” you chuckled, trying to bring his mind off his nervousness and bring it to a happier memory.

“I’d say so. Now,” he grabbed two glasses, handing one to you, “we drink freely.” You clinked your glass against his, taking a sip from the sweet drink.

“Thank you, darling. How do you feel, now that all these people are your subjects?”

“Stressed? Uh - less so, with you,” he chuckled nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he kept his gaze down.

“I’m glad I can be of help.”

Per his request you sat next to him, on his right. To his left sat his parents, and to your left was his brother. It had been a while since you’d even seen Kahmuh, though he seemed to hold the same amount of poison he had before, glaring and tense. For the most part, Ahkmenrah spoke to his parents, leaving you to stare out over the feasting crowd and deal with the negative energy pouring off of his brother like waves of hatred.

Ahkmenrah turned back to the crowd, his mouth open and brow furrowed. He turned to you, gesturing to his parents.

“They’re already making their tombs! They aren’t that old,” he hissed, leaning towards you as he half whispered the words.

“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” you tried to compromise. “Besides, doesn’t it take a while to build those massive things?”

“It’s still morbid,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, still frowning.

“Don’t worry about it. This is your night, love,” you said with a smile. He scoffed but smiled, grateful for your support.

Somewhere near midnight, it was clear how on edge he had gotten. People came up to him, paying respects, bringing offerings that showed the prosperity much of his city had. He wasn’t ever one for conversing with hundreds of people within the timespan of a few hours. Thus, an hour or so after midnight, he gripped your hand, pulling you away from the table and leading you down the old hallways.

“Your parents are going to -“

“They’re too drunk to notice we’re gone, so is everyone else,” he said quickly, his voice low and clearly annoyed. Just from that you could tell how stressed he was, clinging to your hand far too tight and pulling you along in an almost painful way.

You stopped trying to talk to him, stopped pulling at your held hand, allowing him to drag you down the hallways till you came to his room. Flinging open the doors he pulled you inside, shutting the doors and collapsing against them.

“Wow,” you said, sliding down the door to sit next to him. “Someone’s not feeling very good.”

“It’s just a lot. I’ll be fine,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Aww,” you tutted, snuggling in beside him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders and your hand on his arm.

He hummed discontentedly, shuffling closer to you and resting his head on yours. His crown dug into your skull, but you didn’t say anything, just letting him relax.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the future. Everything’ll work out… and I’ll be with you,” you murmured, breathing slow and deep, closing your eyes as you dug your face further into his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t have much else to do,” you joked, feeling yourself grow tired.

His fingers came beneath your chin, tilting you upwards till he captured you in a soft kiss. You moved into it, shifting to a more comfortable position on your knees. He molded perfectly into you, warm and mellow in a soothing way.

“What would I do without you?” He mumbled, still keeping his lips right above yours.

“Probably try to become friends with your brother.”

“Yuck.”

You laughed, resting your forehead on his shoulder as he joined you, the vibrations of his laugh spreading from his chest to yours.

“A very apt word,” you giggled, pressing quick kisses to his cheek.

“Yes - mm,” he grabbed your cheeks, pulling you to kiss him on the lips.

You ended up just sitting beside him, half asleep for the next hour. For the most part you did not speak to each other, reveling in the silence that peace between two good friends brought. When your head drooped, obviously falling asleep, he spoke.

“Let’s get to bed,” he suggested quietly, moving you to your feet.

“I’m sure your parents and your subjects are waiting for you,” you slurred, leaning against him.

“And I’m sure they’re drunk. Bed time,” he chuckled, and the both of you collapsed on the bed.

“Take the crown off.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to wake up with a massive headache,” you said, tugging uselessly at it.

“Fine,” he said, pulling it off and setting it on the ground beside him.

Still fully clothed, you curled up next to each other, falling fast asleep in a half drunk, hazy state.

+

The sun hid just below the horizon when you woke, dragging yourself away from Ahkmenrah’s hold. He mumbled something incoherent, quickly falling back asleep. You smiled to yourself, kissing his cheek before you left to the balcony.

You could still hear shouts from around town, singing and joyful drinking echoing all the way up to the palace where you stood. Dusk rounded the corner, the sky just barely glowing, the curtains behind you billowing in the wind.

Beside you, Maahes appeared. You furrowed your brow, wondering silently why he was there. You hadn’t seen him in forever - maybe he wanted to talk.

But his eyes watered. They were red, and his mouth parted as he took a shaky breath.

“Mahjur,” he spoke, holding out his hand. “I am so sorry for this.”

“Sorry for what? Maahes -“

He grabbed you by the waist, restraining you, keeping you looking towards the city. Behind you the door creaked open, and you could hear Ahkmenrah stir with a quiet mumble.

“Good morning,” he said, sounding confused. “What are you doing here?”

All you heard was footsteps. The person who had entered did not speak, stepping closer to the bed.

“Wait, Kahmuh, I -“

You felt your heart beating faster. Faster, faster, and faster, beating out of its cage at a painful rate, cracking away at your resolve to stay complicit.

“No, what are you doing, please! Help!!”

“Everyone’s asleep, dear brother,” Kahmuh said in a low voice, and suddenly Ahkmenrah’s screams were muffled. A shimmering sound of a blade came from behind you and you twisted, elbowing and kicking your own brother wherever you could just to see. Only to help, you needed to get to him, needed it more than anything, and still -

A slashing sound echoed through the chamber. With a burst of strength you turned yourself and Maahes around, watching, drowning in your own helplessness as Ahkmenrah pushed his brother away, dragging his bloodied self out of the room. Kahmuh ran after him, pulling him back into his room and driving a black knife into the back of your friend, over, and over, and over again, muffling his dying screams with his other hand.

“Ahkmen, no!” You cried, jumping off the ground, pulling as hard as you could, cracking your own fragile bones as you pushed and pushed against your brother. But Maahes didn’t even have to use his full strength. He was strong, you were weak, and easy to hold back.

Even Kahmuh couldn’t hear you. Even as Ahkmenrah stopped flailing, resigned himself to being naught but a body in a pool of its’ own blood, he kept stabbing. Viciously, till the doors of the chamber opened, and the dreadful cry of his mother rang through the hallways, alerting guards and servants alike, calling her husband.

Only then you felt your throat hoarse with your screaming, your cheeks hot with tears and muscles tired from the strain. You couldn’t help it as you continued crying, still desperately trying to get to Ahkmenrah, hoping beyond hope that he was still alive.

You closed your eyes tightly, feeling tears burn through your skin, your nails digging into the arms of your brother. When you opened them, you were not where you were before.

Surrounding you were clouds, alight with a golden haze, and in front of you was your mother. It had been so long since you’d seen her, a rush of joy went through you before quickly dying. Grief had not yet struck you, but it wouldn’t be long till.

“Mahjur, my beautiful child,” she said, and you had almost forgotten how soothing her voice was. She gathered you in a hug and you melted, your tears staining her dress.

“My best friend has died,” you sobbed against her, catching a glimpse of Maahes standing to the side with a remorseful look on his face.

“I know. It’s not your fault,” she cooed, stroking your hair.

“Why did you hold me back?” You opened your eyes, referring now to your brother.

“I needed to. Divine intervention is not allowed in matters of life and death, but more importantly the latter.”

“I don’t even know what half of those words mean!” You cried, knowing full well what he meant. Maahes still shied away, closing his eyes as he watched you sob. “Send me back,” you begged.

“The spirits of the dead roam the earth,” Bastet spoke in a soft voice, pulling you away from her body so she could look at you. “Ahkmen will roam the earth incorporeally, till his tomb is completed, and Anubis and Ma’at have prepared his hearing.”

“His hearing?” You sniffed.

“The rite of passage.”

“Oh,” you said, recalling the afterlife once more. “I need to go back, he’s probably lost and confused.”

“Do what you must, darling,” your mother hummed.

When you blinked again you were back where you were before, facing the bedroom, standing on the balcony. Below you you heard soft crying, muffled by hands. Looking down you saw Ahkmenrah, his form fuzzy and transparent.

“Ahk?” You whispered, kneeling down beside him. His legs dangled off the edge, his head in his hands, the golden cloak he wore so often splayed out behind him. It glittered in the morning light, though still see through.

“Mahjur?” He looked up, sniffing, his eyes red and puffy with tears. His eyes widened, standing up and pulling you into a hug. To your surprise he did not go through you as you had expected, but he felt warm against you, as though he were still alive. Tender and tight you embraced him, burying yourself in his scent and hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” you breathed out, tears pricking away at your eyes.

“I thought I left you behind,” he replied, just as choked up as you were.

“Let’s just say it’s been an emotional morning,” you said, kissing below his ear, moving to his cheek. He laughed, almost cheery, smiling bright as he held your face in his hands.

“I’ve never been more happy to see you,” he cried, kissing you on the lips.

“Not even after that lesson about granary?”

“You’re - unbearable,” he laughed, catching your tears with kisses.

You laughed, pulling him into another tight hug. He breathed deeply against you, holding you firm to him.

“Oh Mahjur,” he murmured, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Uh… it’s a little… morbid,” you warned him, but he nodded, waiting for you to continue. “You need to wait till they bury your body in a sarcophagus. Then you… can do all that, uh, Hall of Two Truths thing.”

“Hopefully they bury me properly,” he muttered, frowning.

“You mean with that papyrus that holds all the truths?”

“Yes, I mean that,” he grumbled, his fingers fiddling with the material of your shawl.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” you said, looking over the edge of the balcony. “You’re royal. I don’t think they’d forget.”

He looked over the edge as well, measuring up the height of the palace from where his room was situated to the ground below.

“Y’think we could survive that fall? I’ve always wanted to jump off here,” he finally said, giving you a mischievous smirk.

“We’re already dead. Can’t get much worse.”

He shrugged, grabbing your hand and pulling you off with him. You expected the wind to whip loudly around you, pulling at your clothes and biting your skin, but it was actually rather pleasant. Together, you drifted slowly downwards, holding hands all the way. With a laugh you looked over at him, finding him in the same state of delight.

The ground soon approached, and you landed with a feather light touch.

“Not quite as risky as I thought it’d be,” he said with a shaky breath.

“Let’s just be grateful you didn’t try it when you were alive, alright?”

Was it the appropriate time to be making death jokes? Either way you’d already said it. It didn’t seem to bother him too much either you noticed as he laughed, falling into you with his side.

“Oh my god, my parents,” he said suddenly, and you could feel the dread killing the joy he felt.

“They’ll be alright,” you tried to comfort, but in that short second he was already too far gone, clutching your shirt and staring into you with wild eyes.

“My brother! What are they going to think?!”

“Your brother?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yes! My brother, oh goodness, they’re going to be so worried! Do you think I could say good bye? Can they even see me?”

It hit you very suddenly, like a punch to the nose that knocked out all your senses, blocking your air. He didn’t remember how he died. How that was possible, how that worked you hadn’t the faintest idea, but you did clearly remember that he did not see his body. He was turned away. What could you say to him? The truth?

“I’m sure your brother will make a good pharaoh. If not, there’s always cousins. And your parents will understand. It’s hard, but they’ll understand.”

“Oh, dearest… do you think we could check on them?”

You exhaled sharply, unsure. You weren’t any more wise than him in your age, and even containing all the understandings of the musings of the universe, you couldn’t find an answer.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” you said quietly, nodding just slightly. “But I think it’d be best to avoid your room.”

“Why?”

“Seeing your own dead body, I’m assuming, probably isn’t a nice experience.”

“Ah. Uh, you’re probably right,” he agreed, pursing his lips together, following your lead around the palace and back up the steps.

Around you people swarmed, but none saw you, multiple walking through you. You’d gone through the experience before, when Bastet was first showing you Kemet, but the feeling was new to Ahkmenrah. Upon the first person walking through him, a man in his golden years, he stopped, gasping and shivering.

“What was that?” He asked, turning to you with wide eyes, desperately wanting an answer.

“Not much - seems like that man just walked through you. You’ll get used to it, it’s normal.”

“It felt like searing heat,” he said with a frown, holding your hand once more and following you.

As you had guessed, the visit did little to really help him. He had gone hoping for closure but was left with more questions and needs than he had arrived with, wishing more and more with each step you took away from his sobbing mother, that he could simply comfort her. You held his hand tight, a reminder each time he looked back that he could do nothing.

It was an intense thing to go through at such a young age. Or so you presumed, you hadn’t ever thought about this - the in-between from life and death. Still walking among the living but not with them. But, maybe, it was something everyone expected. On the other hand it might’ve just as well been something that no one anticipated. Looking over at Ahkmen, he didn’t seem to be doing well enough for such questions. So, in silence you sat with him by the river side. Off in the distance to your left you saw the trees of the cove you’d been to with him. An emotional night, you remembered, but you tried to keep your thoughts on the present. Your friend needed you.

“What do we do till I’m… fully dead? Will you still be able to visit me?”

“One question at a time,” you laughed softly. “Concerning your first one, we can do whatever you want. Regarding your second question, I’m not too sure. I could ask my mother to pull some strings.”

“Who is your mother, anyway?”

“Same woman who made me. Bastet.”

“Ah, right,” he said, seeming to suddenly recall the various hints you’d dropped. “Do you think we can still have sex?”

“Gross,” you said off instinct, shriveling up your nose. “You’re dead and that’s one of your worries?”

“At least it wasn’t my first worry,” he laughed.

“… I guess,” you grumbled, pulling at your clothes to cover more of you.

Both of you sat cross legged next to each other on the banks of the Aur, not worrying for your skirts getting dirty with the mud. A few people came down, a few bathing, and a few coming for better fertilizer. Some came for water, but none noticed you. Life seemed peaceful, almost maddeningly so, completely invisible. Too long, you thought, and one might wonder if they were real at all.

Much of life felt like that, so thank goodness you had Ahkmen beside you. Never one for long, quiet moments that lasted just a little too long, he ranted. About anything at all. Often it was about food, how he hated to lose that of all senses. Most of the time you laughed, just staring at him with a dopey smile on your face as he yelled at the air, his hands gesturing wild and in sharp movements. While people ran around you, caught up in their lives, you never once looked away from him. Everyone else blended together as your whole world came crashing down to a single point - him.

“-and it’s not like they have to follow that rule, right?” He asked, his hands gesturing to the people below.

The two of you sat upon the tallest statue you could find, easily climbable in your inexhaustible state. For the past hour and a half he’d been discussing incest and its’ relationship with royalty and commoners.

“Right,” you agreed easily.

“Commoners are gross most of the time -“

“Don’t be rude.”

“ - sorry - but, they can’t afford the niceties that we can, anyway. So if even they won’t do something, I don’t think we should.”

“I think you’re looking at it from a negative angle.”

“It’s a negative thing!”

“It might be that you think that only because you don’t get along with your brother and, he’s, well, your brother. What about cousins?” You asked, leaning your head on your hand.

“No! I have never, ever found my cousins attractive! I mean, thank the gods my parents aren’t related.”

“What would happen if they were?”

“… You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

A smile broke off your face, cracking you up as you shook your head, sighing.

“Alright, you got me. I don’t really favor it either,” you finally agreed.

“You’re a little trickster,” he said, ruffling your hair.

“You’re a little boy.”

“I’m still older than you!”

Once a day you’d go back to the palace and check how things were going. Every now and then Ahkmen would follow close behind, hiding behind your back like he’d be seen. In those trips with him, you spent the majority of your time hiding how he died and his body from him. Stab wounds or not, dead versions of yourselves aren’t pleasant things to see.

You had learned a good deal - the tombs being built for his parents would be fitted to host him as well, a special chamber in between his mother and father. It all felt too morbid and too real, so you tried not to spend too much time listening to building plans. The only other thing to do was to see how preparations were coming with his body. Mostly making sure they were burying him with everything needed.

“I do not want to go into that hall of truths without that paper!”

“Wow, you’re rather insistent about this aren’t you? Any childhood fears I should know about?”

“I - I just, imagine getting eaten just because you forgot something. I’d get eaten every other day!”

“Ahkmen,” you said, squishing his cheeks together with your hands, pulling him closer to you. “They aren’t going to forget.”

He blushed, frowning and pushing you away.

“Probably,” he mumbled.

With your newfound inability to fall asleep many nights were spent stargazing. According to those living within Kemet, whenever a king died, they became a star. That wasn’t at all correct. You knew that, instilled with such a knowledge of the heavens and everything below that you had to fight yourself each time Ahkmen asked a question to not share too much.

You lay beside him in the great expanse of the desert, staring up into the vastness of the lights, lining the sky with a thick belt and shining so brightly it would’ve kept you up, could you need sleep.

“I never thought of it before,” he said, moving closer to you, “but do you think I’d become a star? I mean, I wasn’t really Pharaoh that long, was I… would it count?”

“Pharaohs don’t become stars. When someone good dies there is a god in the south who takes their body, their ashes, whatever is left of them, and turns them into a star. Thus they keep their soul in whatever way they see fit, and there is a star remembering them. This good person, they don’t need to be a king. In fact it’s often not kings. It’s just… good people. Like you.” You nudged him with your elbow, smiling gently.

“You know a lot about this stuff,” he commented.

“It’s the heavenly knowledge. That, and it’s interesting.”

“What else do you know?”

“A lot.”

“I mean about the stars.”

“Oh, that. Uh… you’re made of dead stars. We all are. When a star dies, which they only do once every fifty human lifetimes, their stuff goes everywhere. Then a very special person is born only in idea, and a god from the east takes the star stuff, takes that idea, and molds them. Then they write their story with the winds of the north and the water underground, and once all is written and prepared, they are put on earth to grow. If they are good, they become stars. If they are bad, they rot and fester in the earth till they fertilize the plants, which, are in turn, eaten by the animals of the plains.”

He looked at you with furrowed brow, his mouth parted slightly, looking thoroughly confused and mildly grossed out.

“Too much?”

“Yeah, bit too much - interesting, though. Didn’t have to phrase that last part like that.”

“Right, right. Sorry.”

He was quiet, before he asked, “what are you made of?”

“Mud mostly,” you said, looking up at the stars, your hands crossed behind your head as a makeshift cushion.

“What else?”

“Alabaster. Not conventional ingredients, I know.”

“Oh my - what happened to you?”

“What? What’s wrong?” You bolted upright, grabbing his hands, scanning his face frantically.

“No, you’re fine but, what do my parents think happened to you?!”

You hadn’t actually… thought of that.

“That’s a question for the morning,” you sighed, caught off guard but glad nothing was wrong. You leaned forward, resting your forehead on his shoulder.

He put his arm around you, allowing you to relax into him. He allowed you to listen to his breathing, to mourn at his lack of heartbeat, lack of pulse, and to adore his warmth.

“I think I like you more with your real hair,” he mumbled, his face pressed into the top of your head.

“It’s much shorter,” you said.

“It’s easier to pull, too,” he chuckled, tugging on it harshly, stopping when he noticed you didn’t budge. Actually, you nearly purred pressing yourself into him more.

“That feels nice,” you hummed.

“Did you just purr?” He asked at the same time.

“Well, I am partly cat.”

“Weird.”

“Rude,” you shot back, going weak when he put his hand in your hair again, petting you and making you warm all over.

“I love you,” he murmured in the silence, and in all the world you seemed to be the only ones alive. Secluded from everything you knew and everything you didn’t, only existing for the sake of each other. It seemed pure bliss, stretching for miles around you, his words echoing in that blissful quiet.

“I love you too,” you replied.

+

In the morning you kept your word, finding the answer to his question. What happened to your physical body? What did they think happened to you?

Turned out the answer was not as nice as you might’ve thought. You suspected that perhaps your physical body simply disappeared. Ahkmen didn’t express his own thoughts on the idea beforehand, so you had no idea what to say when looking through records and finding you died of all the bones in your body being crushed.

“… Wow.”

“Uh, yeah,” you said, blinking at the papyrus in front of you.

“At least it sounds badass.”

“You’re the worst.”

The rest of the day was spent attempting to cleanse yourself of the image of your body mangled and bloodied on the bedroom floor. You thought that perhaps you weren’t even bloody - maybe it was mud that spilled out. You also knew, right as you saw it, that it had been your brothers doing. Not on purpose, simply stopping you from saving your friend.

You kept up to date with the proceedings till you, alongside Ahkmen, watched as his sarcophagus was carried into the large tomb.

All around you quiet seemed to engulf the space. You stood close to him, your shoulders brushing as you watched with unblinking eyes as he was lowered away, locked into a chamber with riches surrounding him. Beside you, you heard him finally breathe once they sealed him in. When you turned to look, he was gone. You panicked, jumping and looking around you wildly for some sign of where he went.

With a blink of your eye you found yourself in a hall, expanding seemingly forever. Fantastically giant pillars lined the walls, humongous statues beside him, art carved intricately into the stone. Sitting at a large, semicircle table made of dark wood that you hadn’t ever seen before, you gripped at your surroundings. Looking to your left, Bastet sat beside you. To your right were more grand deities, ones you had never met before and that you were nearly terrified to be in close proximity to. In the middle of the whole table was Ma’at, keeper of the balance and truth. Near her sat Osiris, who was flanked by his sisters Isis and Nephthys. On the other side of Ma’at was Thoth and Anubis, the latter of who seemed the most solemn of all. His hands were folded neatly together, placed on the table, unnervingly even. Beside Anubis, looking small, was his daughter Qebhet.

All the gods, you noticed, had their heads on. Bastet had her cat head, Anubis with his long snout of a black jackal’s face.

It was silent.

Far too silent. They all stared ahead, into the vast blackness of the never-ending hall, their brows furrowed or looking perfectly at peace, undisturbed by the slow passing of time.

“What’s happening?” You finally asked your mother, nudging at her dress.

“Ahkmen is special, to you. That is why you are here,” she said in a quiet, serious voice. Turning to gesture at the others, she continued with, “they have allowed you to be here. Do not press that privilege. You are lucky you even get to know the fate of your friend.”

You nodded. By all technicalities, even Bastet wasn’t supposed to be there either. She wasn’t part of the judging process.

Anubis stood suddenly, followed by his daughter and Nephthys, all three of which walked down from the platform on which the rounded table stood, walking down the hallway. You gulped, your throat tight as you watched them walk down the hallway to receive Ahkmen’s soul.

Despite wanting to follow you sat patiently, in the everlasting quiet, your eyes closed as you waited for sound.

At last it came, the sound of footsteps, and from the darkness you saw the three forms of the gods joined by a fourth, one you knew to be Ahkmen. You tensed, your hands gripping at the wood, willing yourself not to jump up and greet him.

He kept his face down, the only sound still being the footsteps of the four, till he came to the middle of the room, and the gods joined you at the table. Clutched in his hand was the papyrus he’d been so worried about them forgetting, and when Ma’at cleared her throat, he looked up. She looked at the paper, and with quick, shaking hands he opened it, and began reciting his negative confessions.

“I have not committed sins against me,” he said, his voice firm but anxious, long breaths keeping himself under control. He hadn’t yet truly looked upon the table of judges before him, and had thus not seen you. “I have not wrought evil.”

You closed your eyes, hoping beyond hope that he would be alright. That he wouldn’t slip up, that he would weigh righteous against her feather.

“I have not inflicted pain.”

Please, please, please.

“I… have not masturbated in the sanctuaries of the god of my city.”

You bit your tongue, taking a deep breath. You would not laugh. It’d be inappropriate and immature, you tried to tell yourself.

“I have not carried away the milk from the mouths of children.”

Please, please, please.

“I have not stopped water when it should flow.”

Please, please, please.

“I have not extinguished a fire when it should burn.”

Please, please, please.

“I have not turned back the god at his appearances.”

At long last he looked up from his paper, his eyes immediately going to you, widening upon recognition. His mouth hung open and you nodded, looking at his paper to cue him into the fact that he wasn’t done. With another deep breath, he continued.

“I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. My pure offerings are the pure offerings of that great Benu which dwelleth in Hensu. For behold, I am the nose of Neb-nefu, who giveth sustenance unto all mankind, on the day of the filling of the Utchat in Anu, in the second month of the season Pert, on the last of the month. I have seen the filling of the Utchat in Anu, therefore let not calamity befall me in this land, or in this Hall of Maati, because I know the names of the gods who are therein.”

Ma’at turned to Osiris with unnerving steadiness, nodding in one, slow motion. He stood, his hands on the table to balance him before he came to stand in front of Ahkmen. From seemingly thin air, Osiris pulled his heart out, and with wide, shocked eyes Ahkmen watched as it was placed upon the golden scale in front of Ma’at. You watched in anticipation as Ma’at plucked a feather from her crown, small and white, placing it on the other side of the scale.

The weight jumped a little, but came steady. The two were equal.

You heard Ahkmen let out a breath, breathing steady for the first time since his body had been buried. With a quick glance to your mother, silently asking permission, she nodded, and you jumped from your position, running towards him. Your arms outstretched, you engulfed him in the tightest hug yet, feeling him bury his head into your shoulder, holding you back just as tight.

“I was so worried,” he said, not moving from his position. You didn’t either, keeping him close to you.

“I knew you’d be alright,” you said, brushing his hair with your hand.

Distantly you heard footsteps approaching. Upon finally breaking away from him you saw Anubis standing over the two of you, his eyes steady as they looked between you.

“Ahkmenrah. You have been allowed an easy trial due to Mahjur’s testimony,” Anubis spoke, his voice surprisingly smooth and easy to listen to. You hadn’t given any testimony, you remembered in an instant, but you said nothing. “I will guide you to Lily Lake. There you will meet Hraf-hef.”

“Yes, uh, thank you,” Ahkmen stuttered, bowing slightly in his gratitude. He grabbed your hand, pulling you along as Anubis departed. Without thought you followed, eager to spend just one more moment with him.

Then from behind a voice boomed, echoing through the empty chambers with a lilt that nearly crippled you to your knees.

“My child can not go with you,” Bastet said, but it wasn’t quite her. Like many of the judges, she was partial to having two natures - one for every day (that was usually kind and docile), and one for battle.

“What?” Ahkmen asked, looking confused. It was the first time he seemed to feel confident in his words since he’d entered the hall.

“If Mahjur goes with you,” Bastet turned to look at you, “you will not return. And no one may visit you without getting trapped themselves. It is not a fate you wish to have.”

Eternity with him, locked away in a second world. The past week or so had been just fine, speaking only with him, but it was bound to drive you mad. As much as you loved him, one needed more than just one person they spoke to. Even if those other people weren’t really friends, it was necessary.

“Mahjur,” Ahkmen murmured, soft and pleading as he tugged gently at your hand.

Eternity without him, barred from ever seeing him again. You hadn’t ever lived without him truly. How would you fare? Would you grow away from him, or burn yourself into nothingness in his absence?

“I -“

You tried to speak, stopped when you noticed the weight of his hand in yours began to dissipate. Turning to him you found his form half gone, see through as it had been on earth. You rushed to him, trying to grab him, hold him in place, but he was gone before you could take another step closer, leaving naught but the space between you and Anubis.

Around you you heard the horrified gasps of the gods, but it did little when you were met with stunning silence once more. Consumed in darkness you tried to see, reaching with shaking, scared hands for any sign that you were still alive. Eventually your eyes adjusted to the dingy light, finding there to be no light at all. You were sealed into the ground, surrounded by the many gifts given to Ahkmenrah.

You were sealed in his grace, and a sudden feeling of understandable dread came over you when you heard screaming. Turning around slow and terrified, you saw the lid of his sarcophagus jumping up and down each time it was pounded against, the screaming occupying it in its’ confused terror.

In sudden realization you jumped into action, unlocking the coffin, pushing the lid off, and helping him sit up. Still encased in wrappings you kept your eyes wide, wondering how awful he was going to look.

With careful hands you reached up behind his head, unwrapping him. It came off slowly, and when you were at last done, you were surprised.

He looked perfectly fine. Healthier than healthy, actually, fighting fit and beautiful as the night he was anointed.

“Mahjur,” he said, his voice shaking and his eyes impossibly wide. “This has been a very intense day.”

“I know, darling.”

“I really want to go to sleep,” he said.

“I know. Come here,” you comforted softly, helping him out of his grave and onto the bed they had so helpfully supplied for the afterlife.

“What’s happening to me?” He asked, his voice cracking as he put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“I don’t -“

“This is all that Khonsu’s fault! If he wasn’t so damned sentimental, he’d, he’d… this would never had happened!” Bastet said, appearing before she even seemed to be speaking, pacing in front of you. Your eyes widened as you watched her, pulling at her ears with human hands.

“What do you mean?” You asked, trying not to aggravate her further.

“Oh - uh, just a moment,” she said, turning to the room, her eyes scanning over it. “It’s bound to be somewhere around here.”

As you watched her, you rubbed Ahkmen’s shoulders, helping him try to relax. He was still tense as ever, rubbing his temples as he tried to digest the many things that had happened to him within a very short timespan.

“Here it is,” she said at last, pulling a golden tablet off the wall that seemed to glow with its own ethereal light. She handed it to you, and immediately you recognized the design to be your own. It had to be what Merenkahre was making for his son.

“I know this, I designed it. I don’t know what it does though,” you said, handing it back to her. Ahkmen looked up, watching with the same confusion as you.

“It brings to life that which is dead. Whether that be statues or carvings, or… you,” she said, turning to Ahkmen, who looked like he did not appreciate an old god looking at him.

“Shouldn’t everything in this room be coming to life then?” You asked.

“Look around, child of mine, and see.”

“I can’t, it’s too dark.”

Bastet sighed, a tired, weary sigh.

“Right. Night vision, you don’t have that because you don’t have the cat - okay, here,” she grumbled, lighting a torch with the materials she could find.

Eyes surrounded you. Stock still, following you in their statue forms that could not move. Mummified cats moved beneath their dressings, wriggling like they were full of worms. Paintings whispered about you, seeing for the first time your face.

“Yikes.”

“We’re pulling Khonsu into court in the morning, and you,” she pointed to Ahkmen, “will be there. We will find how this magic works. For now… do whatever you children do.” She left.

You sat, your mouth parted slightly, the torch on the floor illuminating the hundreds of eyes. Ahkmen moaned miserably, putting his head in his hands again, leaning against you as you began rubbing his back again.

“Have you ever met Khonsu?” He asked after a while of you just sitting next to him.

“No. I have heard varying accounts on what he is like.”

“How foolish of my father to do this. What’d he think would happen? That I could free myself of my wrappings, open up an entire sarcophagus from the inside, and open up the giant door holding my own tomb closed?” He groaned, his voice cracking as he said tomb.

“Love blinds the lesser and the nobler to dangers and common sense. Grief can do the same,” you said quietly.

He was silent for another moment before he spoke.

“Mahjur,” he said, “how long have you known me?”

You pulled your hands away from him.

“All my life. I met you when I was four -“

“Four months. Yes. Why… why have you stayed beside me?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“Just answer,” he said, finally meeting your eye as he finished, “please?”

“… You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to stand for. I’m young and I don’t make good decisions which is probably why we ended up with so many reprimands, but my one truly good decision was being with you.”

“In what sense?”

“Hm?”

“You’re with me, in what sense?”

“I - I don’t… understand,” you said slowly, trying to think his words through in a way you might get.

“Never mind,” he mumbled, put off.

“Ahk,” you whined, pulling at his arm. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing!”

“It’s obviously not!”

“I’m still in love with you!” He practically shouted, untangled from his position before tangling himself right back into it, pulling his knees into his chest and hiding his face.

What could you say to that?

“Now isn’t the time, dearest.”

Nice going, that’s sure to make him feel better, you chastised yourself.

“I know,” was all he muttered, keeping his face away from yours. You hurt him, you knew that, and though you weren’t aware of it until that point, you’d been hurting him for a while. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that he still had those sorts of feelings - you thought you were alone in your affections. However, in all reality, it really wasn’t the time. He was half dead and half alive and had just met the more terrifying set of gods, all of which can be a traumatic experience.

You put your arm around his shoulders, letting him fall against your side. He whimpered something you couldn’t fully hear, burying his head in your clothing.

“Things are… difficult, right now,” you said, keeping your voice quiet and low. “But I will always be by your side. I will fight each god if I need to.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he mumbled.

“It’s only common sense if it’s you.”

+

By the time daytime came once more, you’d helped him back into his wrappings, lying him down in his coffin.

“Don’t close it till I’m… you know,” he requested, and you complied, waiting till his cheeks hollowed and his breathing stilled before shutting the lid. You then closed your eyes, following the trail of his spirit back to the court full of judges. The long hall before you was lit by torchlight, the flames flickering as you watched.

Ma’at leaned forward, looking down on Ahkmen with a critical stare.

“What do you propose we do with you?” She asked, leaving your friend to speak.

“I - take away the uh, spell. Then I don’t come to, uh, life, anymore,” he suggested, keeping his head high.

“We cannot do that. It interferes too greatly with the fate of things.”

“But me being there and influencing every one of his decisions doesn’t?” You asked, standing up. Before you could even blink you were standing next to him, placed there by Osiris himself.

“Do you wish to be tried as well?” He asked, his eye wide with questioning near indistinguishable from anger.

“Yes,” you said firmly, standing your ground. Behind you Ahkmen tugged at your hand, trying to calm your anger. You grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers and squeezing in affirmation that this was what you needed to do.

Osiris sniffed, clearly taken aback by your boldness, if not impressed. “Very well,” he said.

In the far corner, Bastet glared at you.

“There can be only one option,” Ma’at spoke once Osiris had taken his seat once more. All turned to her, waiting expectantly for her verdict. “Ahkmenrah will die each morning, and he will stay here and be judged. Hopefully you complete your sayings in time to be allowed into Aaru for a time before you will once more be submitted to life on earth.”

She spoke with such a cool formality, as though she didn’t believe Ahkmen was truly a living thing. Like she was above him in every way. Your fists clenched at her, in all her wisdom and age she was insolent.

“That is unfair and cruel and you know it,” you hissed, practically seething.

“It is the only option. You are young, you cannot know -“

“Yes, I am young, but I obviously know more than you!” You bit back, interrupting her. Right below the surface, beneath that confident, angry exterior you knew this was wrong. You knew how childish you were being but damn you if you were going to let him suffer like this for all of eternity. “It’s in your hands and you know this is the wrong thing to do!”

“Unless you have another option,” she spoke with a thousand fires behind her, backing up every word she used, “this is my final word.”

“Give me time. I will come up with something that will suit both parties,” you insisted, feeling Ahkmen tug at your hand but paying it no notice.

“Until we convene once more tomorrow, we have other souls to judge.” With a flick of your wrist, you were gone. Sent away into some other space, a vast whiteness that spread for eons.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Ahkmen finally said, gasping as he spoke, clutching his hair in tight fists.

“What?”

“You - you argued! With Ma’at, who’s the fucking God of logic and justice, oh my gods!” He said, his eyes wide as he turned to you. He grabbed your shawl in a fist, pulling you towards him in a harsh manner. You couldn’t quite tell if he was excited or angry, the way all his muscles tensed and his mouth hung open.

“I said I’d do anything for you. I wasn’t lying,” you replied, coming closer to him with small steps.

“I know, I know, but… I just… again, I suppose it’s a lot. Very much a lot.”

“You could say that,” you laughed.

“So what’s your plan?” He asked, releasing you.

“My what?”

“To get me out of eternal purgatory,” he said, his brow furrowed and speaking in a suddenly soft voice.

“I’ve got to think. Apparently we can’t stop you from dying every morning and coming back to life every night, so we’ll have to deal with that. Maybe every time you became, uh, this again,” you gestured vaguely to his spirit form which, if you saw in the street, you wouldn’t think anything of, “you could just come here, instead of facing trial.”

“So I’d spend half my time in a dingy cave filled with meaningless treasure and the rest of my time in a white desert.”

“Mm… doesn’t sound as good out loud,” you muttered, beginning to pace.

Together, you brainstormed, coming up with various, shoddy solutions to your dilemma. Every now and then one of you would get up and pace, eventually brought down by the other to the sitting position on the floor once more. This routine continued, till as you were rubbing your eyes tiredly, a thought came to you.

“Ahk,” you started with.

“Yes?”

“What am I the god of again?”

“The forgotten and abandoned. That, and, uh.. what was it… childhood love or something?”

“Exactly! The first part, exactly, I’m the god of the forgotten! I - I need to go for a moment,” you said, stuttering through your words as you went over your idea in your mind, churning it at record speed.

“Wait, don’t leave me!” He cried, grasping your wrist and igniting an old pain from an injury he’d given you long ago. You hissed and he relented, backing off quickly.

“I need to. I’ll be back in less than an hour,” you comforted him, holding his face in your hands. He sighed softly, leaning his head into your hold. “I’ll always come back for you.”

“Do what you have to,” he said finally, his hand lingering on yours as he pulled away. “I will be counting though.”

“I’m counting on it. Get it?”

“Ha, ha,” he said, rolling his eyes, but a genuine snort did come out. You grinned, leaving with a snap of your fingers.

Memphis seemed not to have changed too much. Statues of gods still lined temples and the palace, each and every animal being worshipped in some way due to their connection with a god. Keeping yourself invisible you entered the palace you once considered your home, crawling your way through shadows till you found the throne room. Atop the largest seat was Kahmuh, who seemed to be relaxing away his time. The servants in the room referred to him as Kahmunrah, a name which disgusted you, making you shrivel up your nose.

As you assumed, Ahkmen’s brother had risen to power. That left the other question you had; did he erase Ahkmen’s statues?

Racing around the palace and the streets of the city, it seemed so. Every reference of him was destroyed, the faces of once grand effigies tarnished by the hands of slaves ordered by Kahmuh.

“By all accounts,” you said, addressing the court at large, Ahkmen tucked safely behind him, not one for facing the stares of gods. “Ahkmen is a forgotten man.” The following words you did not wish to say in front of him, but it was necessary for the court to hear, and he needed to be there at all times during its’ proceedings. “History will not remember him, and if I do recall, I am the deity of the abandoned. I protect them. He has been abandoned by his family, and his city, his people, and they have all forgotten him.”

Ma’at looked unamused, but she always looked like that, so you were beginning to think that was just her face. She cleared her throat, looking down at the paper before her.

“You’re a new god,” she said, looking up for your confirmation which you quickly gave. “What do you do with these forgotten things you pick up?”

You stopped yourself from insulting her. Desperately you wanted to be able to respect her, but when she kept degrading Ahkmen, it was difficult.

“I protect them. They find solace in me, or whatever else they need, and I guide them.”

She nodded, closing her eyes in contemplation. You waited, watching each little micro movement of her face. The way she pressed her lips together, the small moment when her eyes closed tighter. You kept waiting, waiting for her word, but she said nothing.

“I would stay by his side when he is alive, and he will stay with me when he dies. I will make sure we do not cause any trouble,” you added when the silence became unbearable.

“You had a habit for causing trouble when you were living as a child,” Thoth noted in a quiet voice.

“It was a time of no great consequence. Please, I beg of you. Life isn’t fair but you can make it so, at least for just this one time,” you asked of them, watching in careful anticipation as they looked at each other, communicating in small looks and quirks. At last she turned to you, her face hiding emotions you could not fathom.

“Have your way,” she sniffed, “and care for this child. But if he is ever discovered, if he ever be remembered, leave him. At that point he will no longer be in your domain, and you must forget him.”

“Of course,” you immediately agreed, not thinking of any consequence. Leaving him when he is known would be better than leaving him when he would be sorely, terribly alone.

You held his hand tight, and with her dismissal you left, keeping him close to you. Your descent back down to the surface of earth was slow, and from your position you could watch tiny people flit about in their tiny lives, thinking their world so much larger than the others around them.

“Are you sure you made the right decision?” He asked, pulling himself closer to you.

“I don’t know. All I know is that you won’t be alone anymore,” you said, speaking softly, not meeting his eye.

“What if I am found?”

“Then you will make new friends.”

“None like you,” he murmured, holding your chin and forcing you to look at him. You sighed, casting your gaze downwards. You’d be utterly alone if he was found.

“No. None like you.”

+

By day you wandered the earth. Staying mostly in Kemet the scenery soon got boring, but it was better than the night. By night you spoke about anything, and soon everything began to run out. It seemed everything experienceable had already been done by you, and in his state, the numerous ways to live were limited. No new foods, no need to sleep. Days and nights grew long, everything meshing together till the only distinct in a hazy grey world was him.

It was the fate you had chosen for yourself. No more stars. No more drink or food, no pleasure such as the sun shining on full skin. It wasn’t long till Ahkmen forgot to count the days, too busy counting seconds, far too concentrated on looking over the carvings of his tomb for the five hundred and sixty fifth time. You kept time though, vigilantly. It was a way to occupy the passing time.

When you suggested leaving Kemet to explore the rest of the daunting world, six hundred years had passed. Six hundred years of feeling half the life of water around your ankles, six hundred years missing the taste of honey, six hundred years remembering what once was. Six hundred years loving him and never telling him.

“Where would we go?” He asked, and despite the years behind him, he still held the excitement of a child. You smiled wide, grabbing his hands in the dim of the cavern.

“I don’t know,” you said excitedly. He grinned, toothy and wide, just as enlivened as you had become.

That morning you helped him back to sleep, kissing his forehead, watching as he turned back into the rubble he had become. Then, pulling yourself out of your own body you helped him, reaching into the gulfs of his tomb and pulling his soul far away from the dank room.

“Which direction?” He asked.

“Wherever the wind may lead.”

With a strong gust of wind you headed northeast, and with all the speed you could muster, you were halfway across the world by midday. Surrounding you were mountains covered in snow, something you scarcely saw. In such large amounts it astounded both of you, shivering despite your half alive states.

“So, where do you suppose we are?”

“Asia?” You guessed.

“What’s Asia?”

“It’s uh, a place,” you stammered, unsure of how to define a continent.

“That’s so terribly helpful, thank you so much,” he sassed, crossings his arms in an attempt to keep warm.

“There should be a fire that way,” you said, pulling your shawl tighter over yourself and pointing down the slope.

“How can you tell?”

“I can smell it.”

“Stupid cat senses,” he muttered, trudging down through the deep snow.

You happened upon a group who called themselves Huns. They could not see you but you still sat with them, enjoying the warmth of their fire and rather joyous laughter. You couldn’t partake in earthly pleasure, but you could certainly appreciate the sound of laughter, and the obvious telling of stories, though you couldn’t understand the language.

“Mahjur,” he spoke softly, pulling you to the side with the biggest, clearest smile you’d seen on him in centuries. “Let’s come back here tomorrow.”

You agreed easily.

When one spends enough time listening to a language, one picks it up. After fifty years that’s what happened to your dear friend, as well as you. The stories they’d been telling you found were not especially innocent stories, but some were entertaining to hear. Ahkmen soon realized both of you were fluent in the language, and thus started a new expedition in his life.

“I want to learn as many languages as possible!” He said to you, and his vigor and excitement melted you, and you so easily agreed.

In your adventures you took him to so many places, interacting with nothing but seeing everything, like absent observers. If strong enough you could enjoy scents, leaning in too close to a pie who’s scent drifted from the open kitchen window, pressing roses too close to your noses to enjoy what it had to offer. You waded through massive oceans, finding warm and cold ones alike that, to both your surprise, ended up actually being the same ocean. The earth was one, big, massive ocean that had some land swelled up in it. Every evening without fail, before the stars could shine, before you could finally see their light again, he disappeared, and you rushed back to his tomb.

You always helped him out of his wrappings, and every night you’d talk about your experiences.

“These Roman people, they have fantastic food,” he said, focusing intensely on the memory of focaccia.

“You haven’t even tried it yet,” you giggled, staring mindlessly at him, caught up in your own admiration of him.

“I know, but you can practically taste it on the smell! And,” he looked at you, raising his eyebrows and pointing a finger at you, “I quite like the language.”

“It’s rather nice to hear, isn’t it?” You mused.

“It’s elegant! I can’t wait till I understand more of it!”

Two thousand years since his death and you returned to Asia, hoping to refresh some of your Hun, finding them speaking an entirely different language. Ahkmen looked distraught upon the town as they spoke the vastly different dialect. You shrugged, turning to him.

“Best thing is you’ll get to learn this one as well.”

He gave a small, sad smile, but agreed, sitting on a bench with you. Together you watched as families passed by, small children and men, women and merchants, speaking a language that sounded like garbled noises but rolled off their tongue so smoothly.

“I’m starting to recognize some similarities,” he said to you on your tenth day of observation.

“Well, it is the same continent.”

“Fair point.”

With the similarities it wasn’t long till he picked it up, speaking near fluently with you.

“Have you ever wondered if we’re actually getting it all wrong? That a thing we’re saying isn’t what we think we’re saying?”

“That was a confusing sentence to hear, but yes. However I think we’re getting it right for the most part,” you said.

Even in all your conversations, endless silences and endless talks he never once brought up what had bothered him so many centuries ago.

“I’m still in love with you!”

“Now isn’t the time, dearest.”

When was the right time?

You finally found out. Years of maturity helped you grow with him, and eventually you found your answer. No time was going to be right till you made it so.

As always, the cave was enveloped in darkness, not a single stream of light getting through the walls. He rested his head on your shoulder, dozing as you both leaned back, sitting on the floor.

“Ahk,” you murmured, your cheek pressed into the top of his head.

“Mm?” He hummed softly, half asleep.

“Do you remember what you said to me,” you took a sharp breath, “when we were being tried?” Anxiety seemed to replace every blood cell in your body, overcrowding your breath and halting your thoughts.

“I said a lot of things I’m sure.”

“You know,” you said, choking up for no particular reason, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Mahj?” He looked up at you, pulling himself away to look at you better.

“What I said must have hurt you terribly. I never meant to do that. I - I was just… nervous, I guess.”

“This… this is about, how I said that I still loved you?”

“… Yeah,” you mumbled, hiding your face in your pulled up knees.

He scooted closer to you, putting an arm around your shoulders and pulling you so you could rest your head on his shoulder. You calmed yourself listening to his breath, feeling the slow up and down against your body.

“I don’t mind so much anymore. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop loving you like that, but. I understand that you aren’t - you don’t think of me like that.”

“Don’t think of you like that? Are you insane? Ahk,” you tugged yourself away from his grasp, looking him in the face. “I loved you more than anything. I still do. My dearheart,” you held his face in your hands, watching as it grew red and teary, “I was scared. I’m not anymore. Not with you. Never with you.”

He let out a laugh, looking down in embarrassment as he grew more red in the face. Looking up he beamed at you, leaning in for a kiss sweeter than any shared before. No more words were shared that night, the only thing to be needed was one another.

Two thousand more years.

Four thousand since his death.

Four thousand years spent together, when one afternoon spent exploring whatever the hell a cars was, he suddenly shot up. You looked up from the black wheels with a concerned look, asking him what was wrong.

“Something’s terribly wrong,” he said, frowning and looking back at you. In an instant that confusion switched to fear, his eyes widening, mouth parting and hand reaching for you as he tried to yell, silenced by his own disappearance. You bolted upright, running towards where he was standing, grasping at empty air, hands shaking from shock.

“His tomb has been opened,” came a cool, familiar voice from behind you. You whipped back around, finding Ma’at in a suit, fiddling with the cuffs, bearing a human head upon her shoulders.

“Is he safe?” You asked, first and foremost, walking to stand in front of her, desperate for an answer.

“Yes,” she answered simply, looking at you as a lesser being, looking as though she was almost sorry.

You fell to the ground, sitting cross legged as you contemplated your own life. You had submitted yourself to this. She sat down beside you, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Visit him if you’d like, but do not show yourself. I will not punish you for that.”

Looking back up at her you found no deception, only a sadness that hit her too close to home.

“Thank you,” you murmured instead of crying, realizing that she was experiencing her own empathy. She nodded, patting your shoulder, and with that she disappeared.

You followed him, close behind, making sure he was safe, never interfering. Cambridge was his first stop, where the both of you, in separate lives, learned english.

Watch.

Watch.

Observe.

Please don’t hurt yourself.

From afar you watched him converse with the other exhibits that came to life from his tablet. From afar you watched him laugh, and from even further you watched him weep.

“I miss you,” he would say to himself when no one was around. He’d gotten a bad habit of talking to himself, but you knew the words were meant for you. They had to be.

“I know you’re listening. You… you wouldn’t give up on me that easily,” he’d say. “Would you?”

Never.

You watched from afar as he was transferred across the ocean, to a new land you never got the chance to see. The whole place was overrun with people, flooding out of the woodwork, flitting about in daily lives that they’d come to regret too soon.

You watched as he was locked in his sarcophagus.

Night after night.

Screaming himself hoarse, pounding so hard on the lid it’d rattle like windows in a harsh storm.

It became so difficult to watch year after year, but you stayed. Just in case. Maybe he could sense you were there. Probably not, but you would never leave him.

A change of the night guard and a healthy dose of thievery and fear led him to finally taking real, fresh air again. You gasped in your own relief, watching as he ran down the hallways, golden cape trailing behind him as he helped the strange man with the debacle he’d gotten himself into.

Sometimes he’d spend the night dancing, laughing and listening to the many stories each exhibit had. You smiled to yourself as you watched him live, glad his existence amounted to so much more than you could give him.

“I, uh,” he said, sitting down with a man who called himself Theodore, “I had this friend, once.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your breath halting in anticipation.

“Friend is a bit of an understatement,” he said, chuckling. “They were… I guess what you would call a soulmate. They gave up a lot for me.”

“Sounds like a good friend,” Theodore said.

“More than that.”

He explained how you were a god, and though it seemed the man didn’t quite believe him, he nodded, acting like he did.

“Mahjur, that was - that was their name.”

“Mahjur? I know that name. There’s a few stories concerning that god.”

You frowned. You hadn’t heard of these stories.

“Really?” Ahk asked, scooting closer. “Tell me one.”

“It’s long, so I’ll sum it up - the lesson is to be kind to everyone, as you never know if one could be a higher man! Such as your friend. In this, uh, story, Mahjur gave up everything to help this abandoned boy simply because the boy had been nice to them once.”

Ahkmen was quiet, absorbing the words, thinking of when you could’ve done that.

“They saved me. It’s foolish, but I think they’re still listening. I don’t think Mahj would give up on me. It’s probably just a fools hope though.”

“Never doubt hope, boy. That’s a foolish thing to do.”

Wise words, you thought to yourself, but you kept your eyes trained on Ahkmen.

“Perhaps you’re right. They would’ve done anything for me, least I can do is believe in them.”

Theodore pat his shoulder twice, leaving with a tip of his hat. Ahkmen watched as he rode off on his horse, resting his head in his hands once he was out of sight.

“I was right, Mahjur,” he said, and you perked up. His eyes watered as he gazed up at the ceiling, never spotting you from your hidden position. “I knew I'd miss you. I knew this decision of yours was a mistake.” His voice cracked and he wiped his eyes, sighing and leaning back against the wall. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes.

That evening, you paid little heed to Ma'at's warnings from so long ago. You snuck in and, atop his casket, you placed your gold necklace, and left before you could be seen. However, no matter what you told yourself, you couldn't stay to watch.

You couldn't come back.

#ahkmenrah x reader #ahkmenrah #night at the museum #rami malek #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader #rami malek x reader

[jeminy3]

Turnabout Monkey Paw

An experimental take on the Defense!Miles and Prosecutor!Phoenix Roleswap AU. First time writing for this fandom.

Left on a cliffhanger to end it on a high note, and because I don’t have a solid-enough outline for the continuation. I REALLY don’t want to pour my already-limited energies into yet another long thing I’ll probably never finish and leave everyone disappointed, I’ve made that mistake too many times now.

Inspiration: The Monkey’s Paw by W. W. Jacobs, The Landlady by Roald Dahl, every other Phoenix/Miles Roleswap AU

Read on AO3

Read on Google Docs

Twitter Post

--

7:31 AM, September 5, 2017

Somewhere in east Germany

A red sports car drives along the winding roads of the countryside. Alone. Aimless. Much like its driver.

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, said driver, feels particularly lost this morning. After a restless sleep and meager breakfast, he decided, groggily, to go out for a drive to nowhere in particular. Perhaps it’s just a part of his new journey to rediscover himself, to find the elusive meaning behind his troubled career… or maybe he’s just especially depressed today.

Miles drives on, and on, past empty plains and dark forests, until he comes upon a small town in the distance. The highway takes him straight through its main drag, giving him a leisurely look at its various shops and local businesses.

He slows down to get a better look at them – there’s no risk of inconveniencing any pedestrians, as the town seems devoid of its citizens this morning, and no one else was on the highway. It’s a bit eerie, admittedly, but in his current state of mind it’s a blessing. No one to bother him, or be bothered in turn by his presence.

The shops are of the usual things – hair salons, restaurants, clothes and other goods. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for – quaint little shops like this just make him homesick for similar places back home, in the small towns surrounding Los Angeles. His father would take him to a place like this every weekend to visit their favorite ice cream parlor...

And at that thought, Miles feels his heart breaking all over again. He tries to shake it off, but the wave of grief is more intense than usual, and he finds himself pulling over to park on the side of the street so he can bury his face in his arms and sob pitifully.

After calming himself and drying his eyes, he looks up to find himself in front of a shop he hadn’t noticed before – a small brick building pressed between two others, old and decaying, with no windows he can see. The sign above its door features a large stylized eye painted in shades of purple and white, sitting above German words that Miles can translate as:

Madame Jacobi’s Fortunes and Trinkets. Read your Future. Change Your Fate.

There’s something strange about those words… they keep bouncing around in his brain, like ball bearings.

Read your future. Change your fate.

Read your future. Change your fate.

The huge, purple eye seems to peer down at him. Judging, deity-like, piercing through his very soul.

Read your future...

Change your fate...

Change… fate?

His head swims for a moment, and he feels his body move of its own accord. Before he’s fully aware of it, Miles finds himself climbing out of his car and approaching the eye, the shop front, the door, and now his hand is on the doorknob.

He pauses for a moment as his senses return to him. (Wait- What am I doing? What am I thinking? I’ve never believed any of this nonsense. Fortunes, horoscopes, magical baubles – it’s all a scam, designed to prey on the weak and impoverished with platitudes vague enough to apply to just about anyone. I can’t- I shouldn’t...)

And yet, as he glances back up at the shop’s sign, he feels... something. Something about this place – or something about his current state of mind – compels him to twist the knob, open the door, and step inside.

What first hits him is the powerful smell of incense inside the shop. He can’t identify it exactly – it’s something like lavender, but much stronger. Next is the dark, mysterious atmosphere created by low candle lights and small neon signs. Its a small, humble shop – probably half the size of the other shops here, made to feel even smaller with the claustrophobic amount of tables, bookshelves and beaded curtains. The goods are what he expected – trinkets, crystals, sculptures, jewelry. Many of them have designs sporting large, stylized purple eyes like the shop’s sign.

Near the back of the shop is a small round table covered in a patchwork blanket, a crystal ball in its center. An elderly figured sits hunched over the other end, draped in dark purple robes.

Miles is struck with a pang of anxiety for standing around and looking foolish while ignoring what must be the shop’s owner, perhaps the “Madame Jacobi” mentioned in the shop’s sign. He carefully approaches the person at the table.

“Ahem- hello?” he greets, in the appropriate language.

The figure straightens, and upon lifting their head to look at him, she appears to be a homely old woman with wispy white hair, and smiles warmly at him. “Hello, sir. What is it that’s troubling you?”

“Oh, I don’t have any troubles,” Miles replies, not entirely truthful, but it’s no important matter, and none of her business. “I’m just... Looking around.”

(Why am I here? I wasn't even thinking… I must be more out of it than I thought. But I can’t just turn around and leave now, that would be terribly rude.)

“I see,” says the woman. “Do you perhaps need your fortune read?”

Miles shakes his head. “No no, I just... er...” (Think, think!)

Glancing desperately around the shop’s interior, he notes the price tags on the various items for sale here.

“Ah- a gift. Yes. I’m looking for a gift for someone.” (That will have to suffice...)

The woman raises a quizzical eyebrow. “A gift? And what sort of person wants a gift from my little shop?”

“Ah- A friend of mine,” Miles says, doing his best to hide his internal flustering.

(What am I saying?! I hardly have any friends to speak of, much less those I would buy strange gifts for out of nowhere! Well… ‘that man’ or his assistant would probably appreciate something as strange as the items here, knowing them, but- ugh, nevermind!)

The woman chuckles softly, and rises from her seat at the table. “In that case,” she says as she carefully makes her way around the shop, “I think I have just the thing for someone like you.”

She reaches a large table dominating the one side of the shop and pulls aside part of the blankets covering it, revealing it to be a repurposed dresser, drawers and all. She opens one of these hidden drawers and retrieves a dark, box- like object from its interior.

She sets the object upon the table after returning to her seat and in the light, it’s now clear that it’s a somewhat large wooden box, with a lid and brass latch keeping it closed. It looks old – kept clean after years of careful maintenance, but definitely aged, from signs of wear and tear at its edges and around the latch.

What’s most striking, however, is what’s carved into the top of the box – chiseled into the dark wood is the image of what appears to be a human hand at first glance, but a closer look shows that it’s grossly misshapen, missing the tips of its pinky and thumb and detailed with what looks like… hair?

And even stranger, carved in the center of the palm and the box’s lid is another one of those strange purple eye symbols.

The woman is speaking again. “I will share this with you, free of charge.” And then, when Miles meets her eyes, her expression suddenly becomes gravely serious. “But only if you agree never to speak of this beyond these doors.”

Miles feels a sudden chill crawling down his back. He swallows lightly. “Uh- Oh- of course.”

The woman’s amused smile returns, eerily quickly and easily. “Good. Now...”

She unlatches and opens the box, pulling out a strange object from it’s interior.

Miles almost startles at it, at first – it appears to be a severed human hand. But in the next moment he sees that what he mistook for flesh is a light-colored wood texture – it’s a puppet’s hand. Probably separated from an old marionette of some kind, the joints of its fingers are fully articulated, and it ends in a disconnected ball wrist joint. Strangely, the tips of its pinky and thumb have been removed.

“This is merely a replica,” the old woman is saying now, “But even if it’s only a fraction, this carries the power of a very old, very dangerous treasure. From as far away as India, I’ve heard, and as far back as the days of English colonialism.”

Miles isn’t entirely listening to her, transfixed by the strange little wooden hand, but he catches enough to ask a question. “What… does it do?”

“It grants wishes,” she says, smiling again. “Tell it what you want, and it shall happen. Anything your heart desires.”

Miles swallows at nothing in his throat, not quite believing any of this nonsense but nonetheless feeling very… anxious from all the strangeness of it.  “Anything?”

“Anything at all,” the woman says. “Like, say- a little more money on your next pay day. Or an old car to be fixed. Or for someone you like to notice you more. Things like that.”

Miles squints. “Is that all?” (Those sound like terrible things to wish for…)

“Of course not,” the woman says, blanching. “I’m just giving you the safest suggestions for this. You know, things that won’t have too many consequences.”

“…Consequences?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman nods, now with that grave expression again. “This is a power that can change everything – The very fabric of the universe. You cannot toy with such powers lightly. So, the greater the wish, the greater the consequences.”

Miles stares at the hand, and suddenly the words on the store sign echo in his mind again.

Change your fate…

Change your fate…

...I see,” Miles says distantly. Again he is gripped by that strange compulsion from before, and now he finds himself reaching for the wooden hand.

The woman looks at him curiously. “Do you know what you want?”

Miles blinks, coming back to his senses, and his throat feels dry suddenly. (...Do I?)

He racks his brain for a moment. He has no desire for anything, material or otherwise. He never has. He has no want for money or expensive luxuries; his car is fine; romance is a laughable idea.

His only sort-of desire right now is his journey to find himself – which so far, isn’t going well. Honestly, he has half-a-mind to give up on this useless crusade and return home, but that would mean turning back on what he told Detective Gumshoe and facing everyone he left behind, like Phoenix…

...No, he can’t face him again. Not now.

There is only one thing Miles truly wants. He’s wanted it ever since he laid eyes upon this shop’s sign. He’s wanted it for as long as he can remember, for years upon years upon years...

“...My father,” he says hoarsely, his throat feeling thick.

The woman’s eyes widen. “Hm?”

He closes his eyes, swallows, pushing back old tears. “...I- I want my father back. He was… murdered, fifteen years ago. I loved him dearly. My life has… never been the same.”

His chest fills to bursting from the weight of his grief returning tenfold, and he takes a few breaths to steady himself. When he dares to open his eyes again, the old woman is staring sadly at him.

“I am sorry to hear that, dear one,” she says softly. “But a wish like that...” she shakes her head, placing the puppet hand back into its box, “That will have grave, grave consequences for you.”

Miles feels a flash of anger as the hand disappears from sight, and he feels an odd compulsion to jerk forward and take it forcefully. He only flinches slightly, as the woman suddenly fixes him with a glare that freezes his blood.

“What you are asking for, sir, would change your entire life, if it was that long ago. So many things can happen in that span of time. The people you’ve met, the places you’ve been, the things you know now – all of that would be lost, forever. I know you are in great pain, but some things in life happen for a reason.”

Miles bristles, both at the refusal and the frankly idiotic platitude, and he decides he no longer cares to keep up his politeness. “I don't care,” he says bitterly. “I would gladly give it all up to see my father again.”

“Would you, really?” The woman squints at him.

Miles is caught off-guard, a little. “What?”

“Are you so unhappy with your life you would simply throw it all away on a whim? Even its good parts? Surely you have found some new kind of happiness in these fifteen years?”

Miles stiffens. “I...”

He feels unsure, now. (Happiness… Have I really found any in all this time?)

Despite his lucrative early career (save for his very first trial) and a long string of victories, deep down, it all felt hollow with the shadow of Von Karma’s perfectionism always looming over him, and the guilt of possibly sending innocent men to their deaths bubbling up from his own soul.

In his personal life, he had almost nothing – his studies and career had consumed him so much for so long that he barely had a personal life to speak of. Even including his fondness for the Steel Samurai franchise. The show, the merchandise, the fan forums – it was an empty source of joy, and he always knew it. Merely stolen moments of respite between cases, temporary escapes into childish fantasy, pointless attempts to reclaim the boyhood that was stolen from him so early on.

In terms of friends... the closest he’s ever had was Detective Gumshoe. He still is his most trusted coworker and confidante, evident in how Gumshoe was the only person who knew where he was right now, but Miles’ trust only went so far. Despite his over-abundance of enthusiasm and sincerity, it could not be denied that Gumshoe was one of the least competent officers in the force and was more often a source of stress rather than comfort. He never could open up to the man on a more personal level.

Larry Butz was a childhood friend, but one he never kept contact with after moving away, and still doesn’t, even after recent events.

And Phoenix Wright…

...Was better off without him.

Despite saving his life two times over, easing his fears and nightmares, defending him against the guilt of fifteen years and miraculously absolving him of it.

Despite the relief in his eyes when Miles found himself rebelling against his own principles, objecting against the woman who would frame the talented actor of his favorite show for her crimes.

Despite the sharp, determined face of the boy he knew, now fifteen years older, now facing him in court for the first time, never losing that determination even as Miles tried his damnedest to put him away for the murder of his mentor.

And despite their childhood together… those brief but precious memories...

No. Miles pushes it all away, pushes away tears again. He can’t go back to him. He’s too far gone. He always was.

He’s closed his eyes again, trembling with the effort of keeping himself together. When he trusts himself to look upon the world without bursting into tears, the old woman appears to be studying him. She shifts to lift a hand and crook a finger at him. “Come here. I have an idea.”

“...Huh?”

She gestures again. “Come here, lean down.”

Miles wonders at this, but decides to do as she says, leaning towards her over the table. He now has a much closer view of the strange box and its contents

She does… something with the puppet hand in its box, some kind of gesture with her hands. Then she lifts a hand, and suddenly presses her index and middle finger against his forehead – hard.

Miles is shocked – either from the sudden physical contact, or the feeling of static against his skin for a moment, maybe both – and he draws back with a strained yelp.

“Ngh-! Wh- what on earth was that?!”

The woman only smiles sweetly. “Just a taste,” she says. “Or a glimpse, you could say.”

Miles flushes, feeling he’s been taken advantage of in a rare state of vulnerability. “You- You don’t make any sense!” he stammers.

The woman barks out a laugh. “Hah! I could say the same for you, sir.”

“Ngh- Oh, forget it! This was a complete waste of time! I’m leaving.”

Feeling every bit like he’s been made a fool by this entire situation since the beginning, Miles turns on his heel and heads for the front door.

The woman calls after him in a sing-song voice, surely mocking him further. “Have a good day, sir! And do be careful.”

“Good day, madam,” Miles says stiffly over his shoulder, the very last scrap of politeness he can offer.

What a waste of a day. He shouldn’t have bothered even getting out of bed. So when he returns to his car and the road, he decides on just that – heading back to Berlin, up to his hotel room, and back into bed.

He does his best to forget that foolish shop and its owner – but he does briefly wonder why she said ‘be careful’ when the season isn’t nearly cold enough to start freezing the highways here.

–

11:36 AM, September 5, 2017

The Rich-Carlton Hotel, Berlin, Germany

The drive back to his hotel was uneventful, and so was the checking-in and climb up the stairs to his floor. His hotel room is just as he left it that morning – embarrassingly untidy because of his lack of energy, but he still can’t find the motivation to clean it. Honestly, he feels even more drained than before, and it takes significant effort just to redress himself back into his pajamas and climb back into bed. His limbs feel like lead, and his head feels fuzzy – once he settles in, he drifts away within minutes.

--

Miles dreams – but it’s strange. Nothing feels solid, or real – even more so than his usual dreams. As if his thoughts are so abstract he cannot even grasp them. All he is clearly aware of is being… somewhere, floating aimlessly, and before him is something large and purple.

Purple? Wait… it comes into focus as he concentrates on the familiarity…

Suddenly, there’s a loud crash, like thunder, that sends him tense and rigid in panic, and the thing comes into clear focus. It is a huge, purple eye, gazing down upon him like some kind of omniscient being.

He’s terrified, but only for a moment. Within the next, it seems to drift close with unseen eyelids, and at the same time, his own vision darkens and fades.

He thinks he hears a voice...

Fate is as cruel as often as it is kind... But to twist that fate can be even crueler... because everything has a price to pay... Here, you shall glimpse such a fate for yourself…

–

Morning? September 6?

Hotel Room?

When Miles rouses, the first thing he feels is his heart pounding in his chest, the dampness of sweat on his brow, and a sick feeling of dread in his gut. But as he tries to remember why or where it all came from, it slips from his mind’s grasp like sand through his fingers.

(I knew it was something important… something… purple? Bah...)

The thought slips further and further into obscurity the more he focuses on it, and the more his waking mind comes into full consciousness. Eventually he blinks his eyes open, sees the slivers of sunrise through the hotel window, and decides to forget about it.

(Just a nightmare again… no matter.)

Miles yawns, stretching his body beneath the covers until he feels the satisfying cracks in his joints, then sits up to rouse himself further. He rubs his eyes and stares at the pale red curtains of his window, watches dust particles dance through the thin rays of morning light filtering through them.

Then, he notices something. (...My hotel room didn’t have curtains.)

He squints at his surroundings, and as his senses become fully awake, he’s struck with a chilling realization. (Wh- where am I?)

Whatever room he’s awoken in, it’s definitely not his luxury hotel room in Berlin. It feels much smaller, and like a much more permanent living space with the larger amount of furniture and items here. Right beside him is a proper nightstand, no hotel phones in sight. There’s a work desk in the far corner, with a well-stocked bookshelf and a decently-sized vanity dresser on either side of it. Various knick-knacks and decorations fill up the rest of the space on the shelves and counter-tops, and a few posters hang on the walls.

Actually, it all seems strangely familiar. (This… looks a lot like my old room back home, actually. There’s my old Signal Samurai poster… and I’m certain that’s my Steel Samurai statue on the desk. Why are they here?)

Miles climbs out of bed, padding across the carpeted floors to study everything more closely.

(The dresser and nightstand look a lot like what I had in middle school... The desk is new, but something I probably would have liked back then.)

He reaches the bookshelf and inspects its contents. They range from various textbooks on law and history to… The Steel Samurai Official Manga? His eyes widen as he studies the books’ spines. (This… this is the complete first series. Is this… mine?)

He reaches out to take a book, then stops, noticing the sleeve of his sleepwear. He’s not wearing his plain silk pajamas anymore – it’s similar, but definitely not the same. The material is more soft and plush, and it’s printed with a pastel-colored pattern of various feudal japanese weaponry, from kunai to shuriken. In short, it’s something he’d enjoy, but only with the most utmost privacy, and it would take great pains to convince himself to purchase it for himself, much less wear it within sight of anyone.

These details begin to form a shattering idea in Miles’ brain, slowly clicking into place, and he feels his heart pounding again. Quickly, he walks to the bedroom door and slowly opens it to peek out.

(The- the hallway looks familiar too… The second bedroom is where I always remembered it. And the living room beyond it… If there’s small kitchen next to that…)

Miles swallows, his fears giving way to a potential hope he can’t bear to hold in his heart. He makes his way down the hall, tracing his fingertips against the wall as if afraid it would float away from him. He lets both his hand and roving eyes stay away from the second bedroom’s doorframe, and the various framed photographs hung here – he thinks he caught a glimpse of one of his old baby pictures, and he simply can’t handle that right now.

He reaches the end of the hallway, spilling out in the living room, and sure enough, there’s a humble little kitchen and dining table filling up the other half of the space.

Miles takes hold of his trembling chin with one hand, covering his mouth. (This- this is just like my old home… It can’t be. It was sold off, after I had to leave…)

Even that desperate thought of denial begins to crumble as he observes these rooms more closely, their familiarity summoning a deluge of childhood memories. The old coat rack by the door, the DVD-filled TV stand, the dining set, the ugly curtains, the old oven that never worked properly…

Dazed and misty-eyed, Miles drifts towards the couch to seat himself before he collapses. Even the musty smell was still here, from these comfortably sunken-in cushions…

(It’s here… it’s older, but still here...)

He closes his eyes and covers his face with both hands, breathing until he regains a decent hold on his emotions again. When he recovers, he notices is a few papers stacked on the coffee table in front of him. The topmost paper looks like a work-related document, with hastily-written notes penciled into its blank spaces.

He reaches out and gingerly picks up the paper from the small pile. The letters are a little blurry, but it looks like a copy of a financial report. When Miles focuses, the text at the very top reads:

Edgeworth & Son Defense Firm

His heart stops, so shocked he doesn’t bother to read the rest of the document, nearly dropping the paper from his fingers. (Can it.. can it be…?)

He doesn’t have to wonder long, as he’s shocked again immediately afterward by the sounds of shuffling, a door opening, and a familiar voice somewhere behind him.

“Son? That you? You awake?”

Miles stands to look, and… it’s him. His father, Gregory Edgeworth, alive and well, standing in the doorway of the second bedroom-turned-office, more real than anything Miles could imagine. And obviously fifteen years older, from the few extra wrinkles in his face and strands of grey peppering his hair, but it’s him. It’s really him.

Which means… the wish came true. His wish. Somehow, someway. Miles could care less whatever forces of the universe caused this to happen, his father is here and alive. And everything else he’s observed is the result of this new reality – Miles never moved away, instead spending fifteen happy years with his now-living father. Following his teachings, helping him run his defense firm, and working to protect the innocent, together.

Miles is trembling now, struggling to speak through the emotion clogging his throat, and eventually he manages a hoarse whisper.

“F- Father…?”

Gregory squints at him over his glasses. “…Yes?”

Miles can’t think of anything else to say, or think in general – so he lets his legs carry him, stumbling, towards his now-living father and into a sudden embrace. He wraps his arms around his father’s torso and presses his face into his shoulder, both overwhelmed and amused at his parent no longer towering over him.

Gregory tenses at the sudden affection, but doesn’t push him away, instead awkwardly patting his back. “Whoa, uh- good morning to you too, Miles.”

Miles can only laugh through his happy tears – of course this would be awkward for him. So calm, so nonplussed. That as far as his father was aware, nothing ever changed, nothing was ever lost. But still, Miles should really get a hold of himself already.

He pulls away and wipes off an embarrassing amount of snot and tears from his face with his pajama sleeve. “S- sorry, I- Yes, good morning, father. I’m just- I’m very happy to see you again.”

Gregory raises an eyebrow at him, but chuckles softly. “You say that like I left, or something. Ah well, hugs are always nice. I’m glad you’re not too grown-up to stop hugging your old man.”

Miles breathes out a laugh. (No amount of aging or societal norms would keep me from appreciating you, father. Ah, if only Wright were here… I hope he is. I must tell him about this the next time I see him...)

“Anyway, since you’re up already,” Gregory was saying now, passing him to head toward the living room, “best start getting ready. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Miles blinks in confusion. “I- Uh. We do?”

Gregory turns to him, concerned. “Yeah? You said you were ready- say, where are your glasses? I thought you put ‘em on first thing in the morning?”

Miles blinks again. “...Glasses?” (Since when have I needed glasses?)

Gregory looks at him strangely. “Yes? You’ve needed glasses since you were sixteen, son. You hit your head or something?”

Miles stares, stunned in confusion again. (Glasses… I suppose it makes sense. Everything has looked a little hazy lately, and my father’s always needed them as well. But- since I was sixteen? That was when… I was under Von Karma’s tutelage. Yes, that explains things…)

Recovering, Miles clears his throat. “Ah- yes, of course. I’d forgotten. That explains all the blurriness I’ve noticed...”

Gregory was cocking his head at him now. “Are you... sure you’re feeling alright? It’s not like you to be this forgetful.”

“I- I’m fine, father. Perfectly.”

Gregory gives an incredulous look. “Well, I hope so. We’ve got a pretty big case on our hands today, especially for you. We’re meeting the client at the detention center as soon as possible, so best get ready now.”

Miles briefly wonders at his father’s behavior and this information he doesn’t appear to be privy to. Then, he remembers – this is a different reality. One in which Miles has been living and working with his father for many years. Gregory knows this, but Miles does not, seemingly having been dropped into this universe overnight to no one else’s knowledge.

(Ah- I understand. Its like the plot of Steel Samurai Episode 26, when a strange curse causes the Steel Samurai and Evil Magistrate to switch bodies for a day. Mostly played for humor, but nonetheless well-executed. The Samurai felt like himself, but to the Evil Magistrate’s minions, he's always been the Evil Magistrate, so he had to play along and pretend to be his own arch nemesis until he could lift the curse… looks like I have to do that too, in a way.)

Miles rubs at his scalp, pretending to soothe an imaginary bump. “Ah- I suppose I did hit my head in the night. Everything’s a little fuzzy… Erm, would you remind me of our client’s name, Father?”

Gregory sighs and rolls his eyes, but not with any true annoyance. “It’s Maya Fey. She’s the sister of the victim, Mia Fey, in case you forgot that too.”

Miles blinks in confusion for a moment. (Have I… gone back in time as well?)

A glance back at the kitchen’s far wall confirms this – there hangs a calendar, currently open on September 2016. (It’s last year again… and if we’re defending Maya Fey, then Mia’s murder occurred just last night!)

“I see,” Miles says. “Is she alright?”

Gregory was busying himself in the kitchen now. “I sure hope so,” he says while retrieving a box of teabags from a cupboard. “Police said they found her with the body and arrested her on the spot. Poor thing’s probably been in questioning all night.”

Miles, with a pang of guilt, remembers how this happened from the prosecution’s side. “Y-yeah, probably...”

Then panic shoots through him as he remembers something else. “Ah- What about Wright? Did the police mention him at all?”

Gregory stops halfway through filling a pot with water to stare at him, brows knit, lips pursed. He blinks a few times, then says, “...What?”

Miles thinks he didn't hear him. “You know- Phoenix Wright? My friend from elementary school? He studied under Mia Fey, wasn’t he th-”

“Yup, definitely hit your head.”

Gregory’s expression grew more and more strange as he spoke, and now Miles finds himself grabbed by the shoulders and briskly turned around as he’s interrupted.

“Wh-?"

“Just uh- go freshen up in the bathroom, son. Take a cold shower or something. I’ll, uh- I’ll get breakfast ready.”

“I- Uh. Okay.”

Miles is gently shoved in the direction of his bedroom, stumbling slightly, and he decides maybe it’s best he do as his father says for now. When he mentioned Wright, something about his father’s expression seemed… grave. Severe. As if he’d spoken of something he was not supposed to mention.

...Strangest of all, it sort of reminds him of the old woman at the fortune shop yesterday.

Miles won’t question it for now. Like the Steel Samurai, he should just play along until he learns more.

–

9:47 AM, September 6, 2016

LAPD Detention Center, Los Angeles

Hours later, Miles was fully-dressed and driving to the Detention Center, using a slightly-different but nonetheless familiar red car, with his father in the passenger seat. He’s also wearing his glasses he apparently always wears in this life – and he has to admit, he never knew the world could look so clear  without the need to squint so often.

He and his father spoke lightly about the case to come, but there’s been a strange underlying tension since their conversation this morning, so they usually fell silent. Miles can’t make any sense of it. He wishes he could remember something from himself in this new life, or at least find a way to ask about his past without drawing suspicion, but he can’t focus on that problem right now, needing to concentrate on his driving.

And once they arrived, he needed to focus on the case at hand. For it seemed Miles was now repeating history, but from a different point of view – and to be completely honest, he’s kind of curious. He can’t remember the last time he was welcomed into a detention center when he wasn’t passing off evidence to the police or brought in as a suspect himself. And as a defense attorney, no less. He has to stop himself from glancing or fiddling at his attorney’s badge constantly, proudly pinned to the left lapel of his waistcoat (it seems he doesn’t wear suit jackets in this universe except for very formal occasions).

(And I don’t have any cravats anymore… all I could find were bow-ties. It makes sense, of course, but I sort of miss it…)

Meanwhile his father, still sporting his trustworthy trench coat and hat after all these years, speaks with the jailers to let them see their new client. Or rather-

“-Yes, my son will be defending her. Miles?”

Miles flinches to attention and does his best to introduce himself, as surreal as it is to say aloud, “Miles Edgeworth, defense attorney.” (It’s so… strange. Not bad, just strange.)

Despite his awkwardness, the jailer seems to approve of him, and soon they’re being ushered into the visiting room. Miles enters alongside his father, seating themselves at a window. Minutes later, a very sad, very tired Maya Fey is welcomed into the room on the other side of the separating wall, and she takes a seat across from them beyond the glass window.

Gregory introduces himself first, removing his hat. “Hello, Miss Fey. I’d shake your hand if I could – I’m the one you spoke to on the phone last night. My son here will be heading your case, with my assistance.”

Maya nods to both of them, and bows gratefully. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“None needed, really,” Greg replies. “How are you feeling?”

Maya stifles a yawn. “Okay, I guess. Just really tired. They were questioning me all night.”

“I see,” Greg says, sharing a concerned look with Miles at his fears confirmed. “At least you sound calmer than before.”

“I think I’m just numb,” Maya says, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’ve had to tell so many people so many times about my sister, so I guess I’m just kinda… used to it.”

A new feeling takes hold of Miles – the cold, bitter grasp of pure, crushing guilt. He’s never interviewed a defendant before, and certainly not like this, up-close and personal and not across the courtroom in a defendant’s chair. And seeing the face of a person so broken by the death of a loved one, a person he already knows is innocent and being framed by a blackmailer (something he can now empathize with, considering his previous life), is quite a bit more than disturbing.

Maya yawns again, this time not quite able to stop it.

“Um- Have you slept at all?” Miles asks, hoping he’s doing a decent job of hiding his inner turmoil. If there’s one thing he’s taken away from observing both Wright and his father, it’s that a proper defense attorney tries not to show weakness in front of the people they’re defending.

“Not since like, the day before yesterday,” Maya says blearily, rubbing her eyes.

“The day before?”

“I just got to this part of LA,” Maya says. “I got off the train from Kurain yesterday afternoon, spent the evening window-shopping and grabbing some food, then went straight to my sister’s office. And… well.” She shrugs again, sighing deeply.

Miles didn’t know any of these details from his original life – and now the guilt in his chest threatens to sink him into the floor at the realization that he’d hoisted so many accusations against this poor young woman, sleepless and exhausted, fresh off a train and simply wanting to visit her older sister, only to find her freshly-dead body. (...I really was a monster...)

The rest of her interview was much like this – Maya sadly recounting the state she found her sister in, her activities in the hours before, and Miles doing his best to appear strong and caring while silently crumbling with guilt from all that he remembers from his previous life. It’s a strange paradox of feeling, to be both thankful that this Maya doesn’t know who he is (or was), but also sort of yearning that she would, so he could apologize profusely.

(This is unbearable. How does Wright do this all the time…? Wait, speaking of…)

Questions about Wright are still burning in his brain, but this time, Miles decides to be a bit more careful than with his father earlier.

“Miss Fey- do you remember anyone else being in that office when you found Mia’s body?”

Maya shakes her head. “No. No one else was there, just me.”

“Not even- Er. Wasn’t your sister working with anyone? Like an understudy?”

Maya squints slightly at him. “No? Mia wasn’t teaching anyone as far as I know. And it wasn’t me, if that's what you mean. I only just got here, and I’m training to be a spirit medium, not a lawyer. At least, I was.”

Miles ponders this. (So Wright wasn’t there? Strange… But now that I think about it, I recall something about another attorney also being involved with her case. Was Wright helping there?)

“Speaking of lawyers,” Miles says carefully, “Has no one else really tried taking your case?”

Gregory’s crossed his arms by now, tapping out a nervous rhythm with one finger. “Nope, no one. She said we were her very last hope.”

Maya nods, her lip trembling. “Not even Grossberg – and I tried. I really tried. I called him ten, twenty times maybe, but he just wouldn’t answer me.”

Gregory makes a surprised noise. “Not even Grossberg?”

“I don't know why,” Maya says, sniffling. “Mia told me he’d help if I was ever in trouble, but… I just don’t know…” Her voice falters, turning watery.

“Well don’t worry dear, we’re here now,” Gregory says softly. “We’ll definitely be paying his office a visit later, though. I’ll grill him if I have to...”

Maya sniffles, but calms herself enough to force a smile. “Y- yeah. Thank you, again.”

Gregory comforts her further as Miles looks between them, still quietly burning with anxiety.

(This is wrong, all wrong- Why hasn't Wright been mentioned this whole time? If he wasn’t at the office, and hasn’t contacted Maya or been contacted, then where is he?)

He finally can’t stand this anymore, and decides to just say it outright. “Pardon me, Miss Fey, but- why didn’t you approach Mr. Wright about this?”

Maya’s smile drops instantaneously, and her eyes widen with a deep, terrible fear. She stammers and clears her throat a few times before speaking again. When she does, her voice is very small, and very scared. “Um- Wh- why would I do that?”

It’s very strange – and when Miles glances over at his father, he’s giving him that look from the house again, as if he’s said something blasphemous.

Miles clears his throat, feeling drier suddenly. He shouldn’t press further if this is everyone’s reaction, but he has to know...

“Erm- well- Phoenix Wright, he’s an attorney, you see. He must have-”

“Miles,” Gregory interrupts, and Miles clamps his mouth shut at the all-too-familiar parental tone of voice – and at Maya’s increasingly dire expression as he spoke, cheeks pale and lips thinning into a tiny line by now.

Gregory glares at him from the corners of his eyes – then nods quickly to Maya. “I’m so sorry, Miss Fey- He isn’t- Erm- Give us a few moments, please.”

Maya isn't looking at them anymore, bowing her head and chewing at her lower lip. She nods quickly, and Miles finds himself tugged by his sleeve and ushered to the other end of the visiting room. As his father wheels around to face him, he feels much like a child again, and not in the good way.

“Miles, what are you doing?! Trying to traumatize the poor girl even more?”

“I- No, of course not!”

“Then why are you bringing him up around her as if you don’t know anything? It’s like- ugh, I don’t know, you've been acting strange all morning!”

Miles feels his ears burning with shame, but it’s still not as hot or insistent as the anxiety clawing at his belly, filled with fear and confusion over Wright – and he can’t suppress it anymore.

“I- I’m not- You're the ones being strange!” he says, all but shouting through gritted teeth. “Why won’t anyone tell me where Wright is or why he isn’t defending her!?”

Gregory stares at him again – that same look, that same sense of saying something absolutely terrible. He takes a breath and sighs harshly, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes – when he looks up again, his expression is of a strange, pain-filled sadness.

“Miles… I know you're worried about him, but please... Let's not be delusional.”

And at this, Miles finally begins to feel the weight of what all this strangeness means.

If he and his father are defending Maya instead...

If Mia Fey didn’t seem to have a protégé anymore…

If no other defense attorneys besides Grossberg seem to have been contacted...

If only a name seems to strike fear into everyone who hears it...

(Oh... Oh no. Oh no, no no. God, please, no…)

Miles swallows deeply, and tries to speak past the lump growing in his throat. “I- I guess I bumped my head worse than I thought. An uh… a reminder may be in order, father.”

Gregory sighs again, replacing his glasses upon his face but no longer looking Miles in the eye. Suddenly he looks… tired. Very tired. He seems to need to gather himself before speaking again.

When he finally does, he says plainly,

“Phoenix Wright is a prosecutor, son. The Demon Prosecutor. The State’s assigned him to this case, and last night you told me that you’re finally ready to face him. Remember now?”

Miles feels his blood run cold.

(Oh no.)

---

#miles edgeworth #gregory edgeworth #narumitsu #wrightworth #defense edgeworth #jeminy writes #jeminy3 art #ace attorney #aa roleswap #defense miles #prosecutor phoenix

[anxiously-unsatisfied-world]

The Heart’s Home Chapter 8

A/N: So, it’s been nearly four months since I updated this? Oops. I got busy writing for other fandoms and cosplaying and stuff but here’s this. Our favorite emo boy makes an appearance! :D

Warnings: Vague indications of abusive parents (like nothing explicit this chapter - the parents are referred to as strict not abusive but still); vague food mention (let me know if anything else needs to be tagged!)

Word Count: 2307

Main Four Sides / Other Characters 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It takes no time at all to decide on what to eat from the food court and Logan goes over to order as he’s the least likely to forget all three of their orders. Meanwhile, Patton and Roman find a table, settling down and waiting for Logan to return.

While they wait, Roman idly starts humming a Disney song which turns into a game where they each sing a line of a song until one of them messes up or forgets the lyrics. Roman has a tendency to make up words whenever he forgets the line (though it doesn’t happen often - not with Disney songs), the new lines sending Patton into fits of giggles each time.

By the time Logan arrives with their food, Roman and Patton are in stitches of laughter as they’ve abandoned the game in favor of making up the most ridiculous lines sung vaguely to the tune of Disney songs.

Logan simply smiles and sets down their food, distributing napkins and everything before sitting down himself. “I see you two are having fun.” Logan comments and Patton nods eagerly.

“We sure are!” Roman agrees, “Our little sunbeam here is really good at coming up with random lyrics that still rhyme!”

Patton giggles softly as Roman praises him, a wide smile on his face. He wiggles happily in his seat as Logan, in turn, gives him a proud smile.

“Then it seems we have a little poet on our hands,” Logan says and Patton manages to light up even further, becoming an utter ball of sunshine and happiness (not that he wasn’t already)

It’s nearly silent while the three of them eat, each too ravenous to consider taking a break to say something when it could be said once lunch is over.

The next store they head into after finishing lunch is Hot Topic, due to the massive amount of fandom merch inside. Patton rushes over to the Harry Potter stuff the minute he spots them, his eyes wide with excitement and awe.

“There’s so much!” Patton squeals as he looks over all the pieces of jewelry and clothing.

“That’s true!” Roman agrees, looking at Patton with a curious expression. “This does bring to mind that we don’t know what your Hogwarts house is.”

“I haven’t taken the official quiz yet but I’ve always thought I’m either a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff.” Patton looks closely at a Gryffindor shirt with a grin.

“Hmm, yes. Perhaps a Gryffindor?” Logan comments, looking lost in thought as he puts together what little he knows of Patton’s behavior and past with the common traits of the house. “Gryffindors do have a strong sense of morals as well as being trusting, both of which seem to suit you.”

“Well, why don’t we buy Gryffindor stuff or generic merch until we know for sure?” Roman suggests. “If you don’t turn out to be a Gryffindor, then you could say you got it because it’s Harry’s own house.”

Patton’s eyes light up at that and he nods eagerly. “That sounds great! Though, I’m curious… What are your houses?” Patton glances between them with a curious expression. Logan seems like a Ravenclaw if the way his room was set up is any indication, but Roman… Roman seems like he could belong to almost any of the houses.

“I am a Ravenclaw,” Logan confirms and Patton grins that he got it right. He then looks to Roman curiously, wanting to know since he can’t seem to put a house to him.

“I am a Slytherin.” Roman presses a hand to his chest, leaning forward and almost whispering this to Patton as if it were some big secret.

“Ooh. Cool!” Patton says with wide eyes. That was one he considered but only briefly so it’s kind of a surprise, but a good surprise.

“Surprised, are we? In addition to being ambitious, we Slytherins are creative beings! Not to mention charming and self-reliant.” Roman boasts, gesturing dramatically and nearly hitting something on a nearby display, causing Patton to giggle at his sheepish expression. “Sounds fitting, does it not?”

“Yeah! It does now!” Patton says happily and Roman grins at him.

They start picking out merch for Patton to take home, though neither Logan or Roman is able to resist bringing something small home for themselves. It certainly doesn’t hurt when Patton mentions that they’ll match since they all got their house variant of the same bracelet, making the additional purchase worth it in their eyes.

After grabbing everything Harry Potter they want, Roman and Logan let Patton wander the store to see if there’s anything else he might like. The Pokemon section catches his eye but Patton decides to go there after making a full circle in the store.

The ceiling-high displays of T-shirt designs manage to grab his attention and keep it upward, so much so that he’s not looking where he’s going. A hand reaches out and grabs his shirt causing him to realize that he’d nearly walked into a display without meaning to.

Patton looks to the source who had stopped him, his eyes going wide with awe, even as the kid shrinks back a bit nervously. The kid lets go of his shoulder and draws his hoodie in around himself tighter.

“Hey,” Patton says softly, able to sense how nervous the boy is. “Thanks for stopping me! Would have hated to knock something over. I can be a bit clumsy sometimes.” Patton says, laughing softly with the hope to dispel some of the boy’s nerves.

It seems to work when the other’s lips quirk up slightly and he relaxes a bit, straightening the purple and black hoodie instead of using it as a protective barrier.

“It was no problem. Is this your first time to Hot Topic?” The boy asks, sliding his hands into his hoodie pocket and watching him with ice blue eyes hidden under a layer of black fringe.

“Yeah! It is. It’s really cool here!” Patton says with all the eagerness he usually has, causing the boy to snort softly.

“Yeah. I’ve been shopping here for a while.” The boy says and boy does he look it. Nearly everything he has on, aside from the purple patches on his hoodie, is black much like the clothes surrounding them.

Patton grins at him brightly and he looks a bit surprised at how much Patton seems to enjoy talking to him. Is he used to people not wanting to spend time with him? Patton’s heart breaks at the thought and he decides then and there that he’s going to become this boy’s friend, no matter what.

“I’m Patton! What’s your name?” Patton asks, tilting his head slightly, which the boy can’t help but find cute. He’s like a puppy, all energetic and innocent-like.

“Virgil.” The boy says before making a face slightly as if anticipating how Patton will react. “I know! It’s a kind of weird name, but I like it. It matches my sister’s, at least a little.”

“Wow! That’s such a cool name and it’s awesome that you match with your sis. Are you close to her?” Patton smiles as Virgil brightens a bit at the question and Patton’s positive reaction.

“Yeah. She takes me shopping as much as she can. She likes this store too. It’s kind of where I got it.” Virgil says, a small smile playing at his lips.

Before Patton has a chance to say anything else, he hears Logan call out, “Patton? Did you find anything?”

Patton gives a half-apologetic smile to Virgil, who looks a bit dejected that they’ll have to part so soon. “Yeah - kinda!” Patton calls in response, knowing they’ll be able to find him as the store isn’t that big.

But before they do find him, someone with long black hair approaches them. “Oh, Virgil, who is this?” Her voice is soft and kind, clearly meant to be comforting.

“Hi! I’m Patton! Virgil helped stop me from running into a display.” Patton says with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, he’ll do that.” The girl says with a fond smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Patton. I’m Violet, his older sister.”

Patton grins up at her, about to say something else when he hears Roman speak from behind him. “Oh, there you are, Patton! I see what you meant by kinda.” Roman laughs softly and Patton smiles at that.

“Yeah. Virgil helped prevent me from running into something while I was distracted by the T-shirt displays.” Patton says and Roman smiles down at Virgil.

“Thank you for assisting, young knight.” Roman bows his head a bit, almost going a bit too far with the dramatics this time. It’s not like he could do a proper bow in the middle of a store like this - though maybe if prompted, he would.

Virgil gives a slightly confused expression but rolls with it, “I couldn’t let him get hurt like that.” Virgil says with a small shrug. He can’t help but bring his arms up around himself, feeling anxious that Roman would respond negatively, even if he logically knows that wouldn’t happen.

Roman just smiles at that before turning and talking a bit to Violet, allowing the attention to fall away from the anxious boy. Virgil lets out a soft sigh in relief and looks at Patton. “Is he always like that?”

Patton giggles and nods, “Yeah. He’s so dramatic about, like, everything but it’s nice.”

“I bet...” Virgil says wistfully. He can’t help but feel a bit envious of Patton in that moment. He can easily imagine how nice it would be to live with Roman as a caretaker, much better than his own current living situation.

Patton notices the slight change in his mood and tilts his head as he figures out a way to brighten Virgil’s expression, not liking the sad and forlorn expression currently on his face. “Hey, Virgil. What is a cat’s favorite color?”

Virgil furrows his eyebrows at the sudden question. “Uh, I don’t know. What is it?”

“Purr-ple,” Patton says with a grin. Virgil covers his mouth as he lets out a soft laugh and Patton’s eyes brighten with delight that it worked.

Patton keeps telling Virgil cat jokes until there’s no trace of that sad expression on his face. When they look back at Roman and Violet, both of them realize that Logan’s arrived, though Virgil looks slightly confused as to who he is.

“That’s Logan. And the one you met earlier is Roman.” Patton explains upon seeing his confusion and Virgil nods.

“Are they your dads?” Virgil asks softly, not wanting anyone other than Patton to hear this.

“Yeah, I guess so. They recently adopted me so I’m still adjusting to having them as parents but yeah.” Patton says and Virgil’s eyes widen, filling with a mix of emotions that Patton can’t quite read. Is relief one of those emotions?

“That’s chill. They seem nice.” Virgil says and Patton easily agrees, talking a bit about his experiences with them so far while Virgil listens to every word.

While they talk, the adults are also talking amongst themselves. It started as basic introductions and has now moved onto talking about the boys. They learn that Patton and Virgil are going to be going to the same school this fall and that they’ll be in the same year.

“That’s good. I was worried that Patton wasn’t going to have any friends at this school.” Roman says, “But it looks like he and Virgil are on their way to being friends.”

Violet smiles and nods, “I know. Virgil usually keeps to himself but it’ll be good for him to have a friend his age.”

“Maybe we should schedule them to hang out over the summer so they can grow closer before the year actually starts?” Logan suggests, already pulling out his phone to exchange phone numbers.

“I mean, if he’s in my care for the day, then definitely,” Violet says, looking a tiny bit uncomfortable. “Our parents probably won’t let him go to a friend’s house, though, they’re a bit...strict.”

Something about that last word sounds off to all three of them as if it’s obvious that it’s not exactly the correct word to describe their parents. But Logan and Roman don’t say anything about it as it’s not their place to, they’ve only just met the two after all. They can’t pry into their home life just yet.

Logan and Violet exchange numbers before they all turn to Patton and Virgil, finding the boys still chatting softly. “Virgil,” Violet says softly to get her brother’s attention. “I think it’s time we let them return to their shopping. We still have stuff to get as well before we go home.”

Virgil nods, looking a bit dejected at having to leave Patton so soon, not when he’s found someone that seems to like him for him that’s not related to him. Patton notices and smiles at him. “Awe, it’s okay, Virge! I bet we’ll see each other again soon!”

“That’s right. You boys will be going to the same school this year - you might even share classes.” Logan says, hoping to cheer Virgil up. “Besides, you might get to spend time together while you’re still on break.”

Virgil nods, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Okay. See you soon, Patton.” He says before walking over and taking his sister’s hand, letting her walk them away.

“See ya!” Patton hollers after him and turns to Logan and Roman, still smiling but it’s obvious that he misses the boy even after knowing him for such a short time. “Now...I was thinking about something Pokemon next?”

Logan and Roman both nod and allow Patton to lead them to the Pokemon section, letting him pick what he wants before they pay for everything. Then it’s onwards to another store.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heart’s Home Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!):  @a-lexicon-of-words , @scorching-scotch , @bunny222 , @but-jesuschrist-im-never-good, @anuninspiredpoet, @echomist13, @ab-artist, @ashlynrivers, @fairytailtwists @just-another-rainbowblog @jays-artwork

General TS Taglist (same as above lemme know):  @anuninspiredpoet, @echomist13, @theresneverenoughfandoms @fiive-second-cookies @sevencrashing, @virgil-is-verge @fandermom @evilmuffin

#sanders sides #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #oc: violet sanders #patton adoption au #my posts

[lighthouseroleplay]

JUDE  CARTER

                          ( 23 ,  cis man , he/him )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  10 am, gare du nord by keaton henson

paint under fingernails, big mugs filled with green tea, hair tied up and out of the way, impatient, tapping feet. bunches of lavender tied up with string, denim jackets covered with patches, binging netflix with subtitles on, ivy crawling up stone. waking up every morning just to see the sun rise in all its red-gold glory, a favorite color that changes every day. margins covered in sprawling sketches, hummingbirds at a window, a furrowed, concerned brow.

    •  lind-carter was an addition to your family that you’d never expected. you and your father were fine on your own, you always had been, and this sudden youngest sister was never something you'd wanted. it was odd, to be suddenly thrown into a family like that, and while she'd seemed fine, you had little interest in the role of an older sibling. it was andrea who talked you into befriending her, in the end, and the rest is history: a sister you'd die for, and a pretty great one at that. she's more driven than you are, though, and sometimes you think she'll do far better than you ever could. most days, you're excited at the prospect of it.

    •  ramirez had a passion for music that rivaled your own passion for art. it was an inspiration to you, and it drew you two closer together over the years. with them, there was no sneers or laughter, no comments about wasting your life on art. there was only constant support from them. one of your doodles were inked permanently on their body, and you listened to every new song that was quickly scribbled on a napkin or in the middle of notes for class. you were glad that someone understood your need to create, and you were happy that they had fallen into your life.

taken by katie  ⧸⧸  nick robinson .

cw: death, car accident

one. 

Nowadays, his childhood bedroom is practically a shrine to every dream he’d ever had. There’s doodles across post-it-notes and the margins of old, wide ruled notebooks he can’t bring himself to discard. There’s the clay pot he made in second grade ceramics, decorated with gold paint and glitter. From middle school, there’s imitations of paintings by all of the well-knowns; his use of color has improved, though his lines are still shaky. Up on the bookshelf, there are graphic novels he illustrated for his friends; he was actually popular among them for making their superhero and goblin and troll fantasies come to life. Beside them, there are Ramirez’s albums, album art done up by him, and the few others by artists associated with Ramirez who wanted covers done by him too. The portraits he did in his senior year, some black and white, most painted, are tucked away in a corner (though Andy Clare’s remains hidden under his bed). There are figurines from when he tried his hand at sculpturing, a box or two from when he considered woodworking. The mailbox outside is painted by him, and there’s a few of the neighbors too, who requested a Jude Carter original on their front lawn when they saw his handiwork. Up on his wall are designs for murals sketched onto copy paper, plans that seemed all too important at one point; half of them haven’t moved an inch in years. 

It is all of him, and yet, it is none of him too.

two. 

His mother died on her way home from work when Jude was five years old. He remembers the waiting in the living room for her to come home, hours later than he ever had before, his father pacing in the room behind him on the phone with every relative and friend they knew. When the news finally came, he cried, a mix of anger and grief and confusion. His parents had gotten into a fight over how safe their cars were. How could she have died in one? 

His mother was an artist too, or so he deduced in the years before his father was ready to tell him about it. There were sketches all over the house, handmade quilts on all the beds, and in a box that never quite got unpacked after they move, there’s  handmade jewelry, all dainty metal and twisting wires. He was thirteen years old and decided she must have had a dream; she must have given it up to settle for a boring life in Olympia, Washington. She must have died with regrets.

When his father found him in the attic, crying over a box of wire jewelry, he rang a different tune. She was happy. She chose to move to a small house in a cul-de-sac and have Jude. She didn’t sacrifice anything she didn’t want to. 

He wore his favorite piece out of the box around his neck for the years that followed, and gave his second favorite to Andrea for Valentine’s Day. Hadley had a few too, and it made his heart swell every time he saw her wearing one. If she died with any regrets, Jude decided, he wouldn’t let her rest with them. Her art should be as loved as she was. 

three.

George Carter grew up in Tenebrin, and he was certain that it was the place to raise his son and heal. They moved at the end of Jude’s first grade year into an old house just up the road from where his father lived for twenty years. It didn’t feel like home at first, just a rickety wooden house with furniture and pictures in smiling faces he hardly recognized. But, slowly they dusted off the surfaces and old wounds, and it grew into something. His father bought the movie theater he worked at in high school from the owner with his mother’s life insurance money, and Jude spent entire summers running around and pestering customers in the years before he was old enough for his father to put him to work. By the time he was in middle school, though pieces still feel missing, Tenebrin finally might’ve been the comfortable spot home was supposed to be.

four. 

In the most confusing parts of his life, art is the only thing that makes sense in his world. It became clear early on that any bit of creativity brought him more joy than any accomplishment through traditional means. Studying books bores him; he’d rather spend hours creating something, even if it turns out terrible and unfinished. Art becomes his sole passion before he can help it, and before long, it defines every bit of the way he is. His style and tastes may change over time and he may not know what he loves most, but most days he figures it doesn’t matter. 

He wants to be an artist, but why does that mean he has to pick just one kind of artist to be?

five. 

He’d never been the kind that fit in easily. In elementary school, it was easy to just call him shy, but by high school it was clear that there was just not a clique with whom he really belonged. 

He was no athlete or jock. Popular kids didn’t give him a second glance in the hall, and he couldn’t blame them. A B-student on a good day, he wasn’t smart enough for the nerds; he appreciated the creativity of the artists, but he’ was not nearly wild enough a spirit to keep up with them. 

But, eventually, he found a peace in not belonging. 

The geeks appreciated his creative mind and invited him to D&D games, and when they saw his doodles, they managed to get him to illustrate graphic novels they pen. They helped Jude with his homework without complaint in the meantime, and those among them in the AV club spent hours picking Jude’s brain with all his knowledge of ancient movie equipment. 

In the artists, he found those who appreciate and rival his creative spirit, and though they all weren’t so compatible, there were some who appreciate his nature. With them, he had opportunities to spread and pursue art, and places to go after dark  if he ever so chose. 

six. 

The first time Jude’s father brought up the woman who owned the bakery, Jude laughed. His father’s stern disappointment and rare anger that day told him that a day he thought would never come was upon them: his dad was moving on from his mother. 

And he hated it. 

But, before he could blink, it seemed like Gen and her daughter, Hadley, were moving into their house. Pictures of his mother were taken down to put up pictures of them; his mother’s decorations removed to make place for the decorating style of a woman he was to call step-mother. The anger at her, the resentment at his father for doing this to him when they were fine and happy and didn’t need them, was difficult to ignore or hide. 

But, it wasn’t his father’s attempts to warm him up to the idea of their new family with gifts and father-son fishing trips that finally convinced him of wonderful they could be as a family, but rather Gen herself. 

She’d invited him to the bakery one morning, forcing him in a room full of baking cookies and flour-dusted surfaces to have the conversation that he’d managed to dodge until now. Jude must have said awful things to her then, accusing of her trying to replace his mother, of destroying the family he’d been perfectly content with. But, she didn’t get angry in return, and when he started to cry, she held him until he stopped.

The next morning, she made him chocolate chips waffles with a smile, and somehow, they were family.

The very concept of a sister, though, was more difficult for him to grasp. He’d gone from the only person in a house to having to share his space and a bathroom with a teenage girl. Maybe she was fine, but for most of those first few years, he wasn’t interested in getting to know her. That was until Andrea Clare entered (and reentered) their lives at the same time, and somehow in her ever charming ways, made him fall in love with the idea of having a sister.  

By the time Jude had graduated high school, he called Gen “mom” regularly, and it felt like Hadley was a sister that had been around his entire life. They were family, just as much as his father and just as important too.

seven.  

After graduation, the community college in Olympia seemed like the best and only option. Unlike so many of his peers, he didn’t have a grand plan figured out. All he knew was what he liked and didn’t like; beyond that he’d decided he needed time to decipher what the universe was telling him. Or something. 

With every passing class though, Jude got no closer to the answers he sought. The world seemed just as, no, more complicated than before. All he wanted to do was draw and watch movies and bask in the art of the world he surrounded himself with. 

Art it was. He wanted to be an artist. For real.

There were small chances here and there to consider it a realistic pursuit. Still, he didn’t know how to define the art that he wanted to do, and he had no idea how to make that a reality. 

So, he kept going through the motions, and he kept making that hour drive three days a week to school. 

eight.  

The September after Andy disappeared, he returned to school as if nothing ever happened. He made it a month pretending like that might be world he actually lived in before he found himself back at home full-time, officially a community college dropout with no real life plan. His parents did their best, he supposed, assuring him that that didn’t need to be the path he took. 

(There were a few shouting matches in the early days. He insisted that they just wanted labor for their businesses, a diligent, dutiful son to wake up early and frost cookies and stay late to kick bums out of the theater. They insisted that they wanted him to be happy; they even pushed him to pursue art. It always ended with them asking what he wanted It always ended with him crying about Andy.)

Eventually a rhythm was found, sound and comfortable: opening the bakery with Gen, working the theater through the afternoon, going out to draw and live at night. At some point, his father helped him move into the attic above the movie theater as a makeshift studio, and the place grew from dusty to clean to littered with paper and paints. For, eventually, only when he was  at peace, did he dare to dream again. He painted murals across the city, decorated banners for town holidays, commissioned portraits for extra cash, made a drive occasionally to sell art at markets and festivals. 

Still, the scariest question lingers, one he can’t push himself to answer. It is the same one his parents pushed on him time and time again after he moved back home. What do you want, Jude? He’s been saving up for years to leave Tenbrin and be a real artist, but truth be told, he still hardly knows what means. He doesn’t really know what he’d do if he moved away; he doesn’t know who he’d be as an artist out in the real world. 

Something keeps him in place, and often it feels as if the town itself isn’t allowing him to move away and move on. Part of him seems to belong to the city now, to the waves that crash upon its shores. Sometimes, if he puts his ears to the water and listens, it sounds too much like the way Andy Clare used to say his name. 

#carter: skel #skel: all #carter #skel: taken

[noahstilinski]

Betwitched - Stiles Stilinski

Sorry this one took a while to post, I had to do some research about paganism! I’m not an expert so sorry if I misrepresented it! Also, I read charm as like a piece of jewelry or smth, sorry again if I misunderstood the meaning (english is not my first language)

Hope you enjoy it!

Masterlist

Requested: Yes

Prompt:  Hey, submitting a request! I’m 25, pagan and do a lot of spells, charms and herb-based work, in the woods, so maybe the reader is an apprentice for Deaton or a solo witch? And Derek or Stiles find out about her somehow, (find one of her charms in the woods?). I think they’d either be really suspicious, or try and befriend her, or be really curious about learning with her. Thanks!

Pairing: Stiles x Reader

Word count: 1650

Warnings: Idk

"Where did you find that?"

Stiles blinked several times at the sudden question, not sure exactly what Deaton was talking about until he traced his glance to the charm dangling from his pocket. He hurried to take it out and hand it out to Deaton for examination. "Yeah about that, I found it when Scott took off and left me alone in the woods" Stiles glared at his best friend, who gave him a sheepish apologies shrug. "Do you know what it is?" He knew it wasn't just some jewelry. The charm had a weird shape, one you don't usually see in gift shop crap or mainstream designs. That, and the fact that he found it just beside what he thought to be a makeshift temple. It had caught Stiles' eye, and he preferred making sure it wasn't some cursed relic or anything. 

"It's a charm belonging to... A student of mine, per say" Deaton began as the boys exchanged questioning glances. "This one specifically helps channeling the earth's power for benevolent spells"

"Bene-- What is this? Witchcraft 101?"  "No" He replied calmly. "It's paganism. It's close to druidism. Not quite the same, but we have some characteristic in common" "So who does it belong to?" Scott finally spoke. "Do we know them?" "Maybe. She does go to Beacon Hills High" Deaton said, shifting his glance to the young alpha. "Her name is (Y/N)" /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ "Hey, (Y/N), wait up!" You furrowed your eyebrows and turned around at the unfamiliar voice calling your name. You watched as a tall, dark haired boy jogged up to you and matched his walking pace to yours.  "You probably don't know me. Or maybe you do, not that I'm assuming you might but--" He paused his rambling when he noticed your raised eyebrow. It was kind of cute, you thought. "Anyway. I'm Stiles"  "I'd introduce myself too, but it seems like you already know my name" You gave him a smile.  "Right" He muttered to himself. "So uh, I kinda found something belonging to you, or so I was told. Here" He reached in his pocket and handed you the charm you had lost in the forest a couple of days ago, when you got caught by the rain and had to leave in a hurry. You grabbed it from him and looked up with wide eyes, clueless as to how he found it and especially how he knew it was yours. "W-Where did you find this?" You asked with a stutter. "How did--" "Hey, I found it totally by accident" He held your arms up in surrender. "And Deaton told me it was yours. I'm not an evil wizard that can trace back possessions to its owner, I swear" You could only blink at the rapidity of the words that came out of his mouth. You went from panicked, to confused and finally to baffled. You had known this boy for a minute and he made no sense to you. Why was he that far in the woods? From where did he know Deaton enough that he entrusted him with your charm? Why would being a wizard was his best alternative explanation? "Uh" You huffed. "Thanks" "You're welcome" He smiled widely, but then it dropped. "I'm not gonna be cursed or hexed for touching it without your blessing, right?" Your first reaction was to laugh. Loudly. It turned heads to your direction, and Stiles sent them awkward waves until it died down.  "Oh god" You clutched your stomach. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?" "I don't know" He shrugged. "You're the witch... Bewitching things. I think" "I think you've got it wrong" You said, a smile remaining on your lips. You had concluded that this boy was not a threat to your secret, and was probably aware of the supernatural by how he dealt so easily--absurdly but easily--with your occupation. "I'm more of a close to nature type of person. I'm not doing actual magic, not like you're thinking" "Huh, good to know I guess" He scratched the back of his neck. He kept walking beside you, like he didn't want to leave just yet. Again, you found him weird, but strangely endearing.  You were curious about him. "... Would you like to see how it works?" You suggested, and he almost jumped in surprise at the offer.  "You'd do that?" He asked, now walking backwards to face you. "Yeah" You half shrugged with a small smile. "I've got a free period right now, and obviously either you're late to class or you have one too" "Observant" He pointed a finger in your direction. "I do have a free period. Let's go" You walked out of the school and crossed the field toward the woods, and only stopped when you were sure you wouldn't be disturbed. You slid your backpack in your hands and sat down on a patch of dry grass. Stiles sat down in front of you, sending you a curious glance. "Why are you trusting me that easily?" His eyes narrowed momentarily as an obvious wave of doubt washed over him. "Well, Deaton obviously trusts you enough to bring my charm back to me" You replied. "How did you even come to meet Deaton?" "Oh, that's a long one" He sighed, leaning back on his hands. "Actually, not that long. Perhaps complicated. Yeah. Not my secret to tell, but long story short, I know too much werewolves and a dark druid pissed me off" "Wow" You blinked a few times at that roller coaster. "I see how Deaton comes to play here" "Yeah" He nodded. "So you're his student?" "Not quite" You said as you reached for some more charms in your backpack. "He helped me with the basics, and guides me from time to time, but our practice differs too much from one another to hold lessons on the regular" "I see" He hummed. "So. How does this all works?" "Well, you see these charms?" You pointed at the four that were lying on the ground in front of you. "Each one represents an element of nature I can draw strength from. I don't have them all here, and I don't have my herbs either, but I still can cast simpler spells with what I've got" "So basically, your environment becomes a source of power, right?" He asked. "Exactly" You nodded. "I can do multiple kinds of spells, but I prefer to stay on the positive side of the spectrum. You know, good fortune and luck spells, spells to end pain. Even protection spells at large scale, but these require more material" "That's awesome" He smiled. "Can you do any right now?" "Of course, it'll even be with the charm you brought me back" You grinned at him as you put back the rest of your charms in your backpack, not to forget them this time. You then drew a construct in the small patch of dirt in between you and Stiles, then grabbed the charm in both of your hands. "This is a strength spell. I will call upon the earth to assist you in times of hardship and give you the power to overcome difficulties. You ready?" He only nodded, not taking his eyes off the construct. You closed your eyes and muttered the first part of the spell, then placed the charm in the middle of the construct. You offered your hands to Stiles, and it took his a second to understand he had to take them.  You chanted the last part of the spell louder, eyes closed and feeling the subtle power of nature take over. Then, it ended and you brought your hands back to you. "All done" You smiled at him. "Alright, this felt weird" He admitted. "Is it normal? Like is it supposed to happen?" "Yes and no" You answered. "Some people might not feel anything, others do. It depends how sensitive to the supernatural you are, and I can only guess you are more than the average" "Is this good or bad?" He seemed worried for a second. "Again, it depends on you" You shrugged. "In your situation, I'd say good. Since you are apparently surrounded by the supernatural, it gives you an edge to understand and anticipate it without being a part of it" "Uh, I guess that explains a lot" He mumbled to himself. "Well, uh, thanks. This is interesting. I mean, really, that's like, totally awesome" "I could show you more spells, if you'd like" You offered as you gently erased the construct from the soil with your hand. "When I have access to all of my stuff, of course" "Seriously?" He perked up at that.  "Yeah" You smiled widely as you stood up. You didn't think he'd be that interested, and his enthusiasm was cute. You certainly looked forward seeing him around again. "Here, text me when you have some free time" You handed him your phone so he could save your number in his. When he gave it back, you walked side by side toward the school again. You made small talk; you learned he was the Sheriff's son, that you had no classes in common and that he was on the lacrosse team. You found out he had quite the sense of humour, and he seemed a pretty smart guy.  He also told you Stiles wasn't his real name, but that he preferred it because it was way less complicated that way for everyone.  "Hey um, it was nice hanging out with you" You said as you paused in from of the staircase when you got back inside the school.  "Yeah, it was" He smiled, and it illuminated his eyes. You definitely liked his smile, you decided. "See you around?" "You have my number" You winked, watching him wave and walk away. You couldn't wait to see him again.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf x reader #imagine #requested

[thescribesloft]

Jeweler’s Hands Excerpt: Stormheight

@ps-nippets, @shamelesslypoetic, @quilloftheclouds, @alinakerrin, @thelimeonade

Beryl raised her hand and for the first time, Obsidian noticed she was wearing gloves made of soft cloth beads. She reached her hand up and pressed her palm against a series of plates in the solid, black and red gate. She traced a line in the stone and Obsidian saw the outline of a circle light up up in the waning light, the electric charge used to deter unwanted visitors deactivated. Before it faded, he caught a glimpse of what the circle really was; A Dragon. 

Skeletal, the Dragon formed a circle with its own body, devouring its own bony tail. Each rib in the circle was perfectly symmetrical, the bones neatly tucked in among each other like ivory beads on a bracelet.

Obsidian watched as the gate swung open with a deep crumbling sound, the creak of rock grinding in his ears. The Dragon split directly down the center as the gate opened into separate doors.

Beryl swung back up into the saddle and quickly guided her mount through the gate. Obsidian, caught by surprise, clutched the animal's mane in his fingers as he was lurched forward.

Before his lay a barren valley surrounded on all sides by the sanguinite walls, caging in the cool lava fields in a deadly embrace.

In the center of it all, perched atop a huge chunk of rock amid a sea of ever-heated magma sat Stormbreach's capitol. The ultimate fortress, impenetrable within its nest of dragon flame. A grand, ironically wooden bridge interlaced with stone arced across the chasm, resolute and unwavering, the rails made of solid black and red iron. Dark green and blood red pennants embossed with the skeletal Dragon fluttered from tall posts at both ends of the bridge, ragged in the stale, overheated air.

The palace of Stormheight loomed up ahead, imposing and and dark, with its terraced roofs and terracotta shingling. There was something inexplicably ancient about the edifice, as if it had been pulled straight from a storybook by the hands of some forgotten giant and dropped in their midst without another thought. More of the megaliths of heliotrope were erected beside the palace, badly mimicking trees, the branches square and awkward, bits of mottled stone crumbling upward in an attempt to imitate the leaves of lifeforms that wouldn't dare grow there. More Dragon-lions crouched at every corner, in various stages of snarling and biting, teeth and claws perfectly carved to instill fear in the observer. They contrasted with the charred wood and singed paper of the palace walls. Scenes depicted Dragons in all their glory, fighting ancient battles and advising mankind decorated the porous paper walls in bright colors,despite their dark surroundings, as if the whole place didn't even belong in that lava-filled hole. Everything was rough and charred as if it had endured the rage of an angry Dragon, but maintained much of its precision and geometry, giving it severely dangerous look.

Huddled around the palace in a thick cluster like a clutch of young hatchlings was the village of Stormheight. Each small building easily more grand than Colorsfall or Silvercling; everything charred and burnt, but not rundown and fading. Even the smallest home was engraved and inlaid with precious metals. Rather than crystals and colorful gems and stones cascading down the roofs of Colorsfall in perfect strands of radiant, prismatic hues or drops of moonlight that grew from the ground into vines of pure silk like a soul poured out of a celestial vase in the gardens of Silvercling, the village of Stormheight was washed by the blood of the mountain and the coal-black bones of some ancient Dragon.

They picked their way across strange, glossy flat lands, hooves clopping the surface like glass. Obsidian found himself gazing at his own reflection mirrored back at him within his namesake. Entire fields of obsidian spanned the valley for miles, shimmering resplendently, just as mysterious as the boy named after it. Every so often they passed by small steaming pits that spewed forth boiling, foul-smelling water. The earth puckered and heaved, belching toxicity as if it was ill and badly needed care. Yellow clouds blanketed the ground, choking any life that had even attempted to show its face there.

They halted at the end of the bridge, the pennants flapping in a sudden breeze. The sentinel were here as well, sitting obediently, watching. Beryl once again dropped from the saddle and approached the bridge.

Almost immediately, the head of one of the sentinels turned toward her with a grinding, crunching sound, it's eyes darting. It watched Beryl with imitated life, animated by something unseen and, to Obsidian, unknown. It moved like an animal, but its movements were stiff and jolting, as if it was frozen in an everlasting shell. It jerked its stony eyes toward Obsidian and he saw no soul within its depths, only the emptiness of carved stone. It leaped fluidly from its pedestal and stalked toward him with sudden animistic hunger, as if his presence had brought it to life somehow and, though it was still clearly stone, it behaved like a real animal, muscles rippling as it zeroed in on the boy, completely ignoring the horse he sat astride. The veins in the suddenly alive stone crawling across its ugly face like ripples in a silent pond.

Beryl spoke to it then, stepping in the creature's path, the language foreign and yet familiar. She spoke with care, choosing words that seemed almost as if she were speaking backward. The Dragon-lion ceased its predatory movement and cocked its head, listening. Eventually, it gave the animal equivalent of a nod and retreated back to its position and Beryl returned to Obsidian. She slipped into the saddle once again and urged the horse forward yet again, this time toward Stormheight.

People stopped to stare as the pair clopped through Stormheight's village. The streets were squeaky clean, except for various clumps of coal cast aesthetically about in artful heaps. Soot lined the cracks of the perfectly spaced cobbles, making the road look like a two lane chessboard. Suddenly the earth rumbled and Obsidian instinctively glanced at the ground should he need to flee the back of his mount. He gasped as the cracks between the stones pulsed red hot. He stared at the road, baffled that the villagers simply kept walking as the road continued to flash and black as if nothing had happened.

The villagers themselves ambled about in leather, velvet and silk of varying dark shades, most notably cream, forest green, burgundy, and black. Not a single strip of cloth was frayed or torn, but the clothes had a distinct, fashionably charred look. Here, jewel-colored hair was also the norm, but piled in more elaborate designs; braids spun into towering spirals held firm by charred chopsticks, some still smoking, having been recently pulled from the flame. No one seemed to mind the heat or the ash-filled air, in fact it seemed to invigorate everyone. Pendents carved from chunks of hardened coal, obsidian, pumice, and other volcanic substances graced heaving breasts, contrasting pale collar bones.

Here the dress code was less restrictive for males but still attractive. Creme-colored silk shirts browned from fire around the edges seemed to be the favorite fashion of choice, usually unbuttoned with the buttons gleaming in the dim sun. Multitudes of volcanic glasses hung around their slender necks in sharp, jagged claws. In Colorsfall, the trend of jewels surgically installed within the skin was only just becoming popular. In Stormheight, it was top fashion. Stones of every size, color, and shape grew from translucent skin like bubbles in newly boiled water. Women preferred reasons to expose as much skin as possible, so stones embedded along the back, shoulders, hips, and thighs were routinely requested. For males, intricate designs clustered on the chest, brow, or along the arms were more pleasing. Some individuals went so far as to embed entire pieces of jewelry into their skin, working twine, leather and even wire within their bodies.

A young woman approached them, beautiful with strands of still-smoking coal turned white nestled within the tiers of her voluminous hair. She bowed as she came close, standing a respectful distance from the horse. Beryl nodded her consent, but kept a protective arm around the boy.

Obsidian watched the woman stare at him. She admired him unabashedly, her eyes roving his bare chest, messy ebony hair, and chalky pallor. She gasped as her eyes met his and she leaped forward, forgetting social boundaries.

“Wow! Those are some gorgeous slits!”, she gestured at his eyes. “What kind of plates do you use?” She reached toward them, but Beryl intercepted her, smacking the offending hand away with a  crack. The woman yelped and stepped back and Beryl kicked her mount. They left her in a cloud of soot.

#Jeweler's Hands #fantasy #dragons #Stormheight #lava #scary castles #jewelry #gems #jewels #rocks #stones #sorry for the bad grammar and spelling!

[selenelavellan]

wishing, hoping, and waiting

A/B/O AU

*awkward shuffling* sometimes I just miss AUs and I need to write something for them ok?

Dirthamen and the Evanuris are @feynites

Selene lets out a long, slow breath as she stares at her reflection in the mirror.

The gown is very fine, with a high halter neckline the tops of which brush gently against her jaw whenever she angles her head downwards. The gradient of it is gentle but striking, switching from a white that matches the curls of her hair until it becomes a deep jet black of feathers trailing along the floor from about halfway down her legs. Her hair has been intricately braided with ravens feathers and obsidian gems and laid over her left shoulder, leaving the long, low dip of the back of the dress open and exposed and only barely covering the curve of her ass.

She is carefully tugging the dip slightly upwards in a vain attempt to gain a bit more modesty when Lord Dirthamen enters the room and her breath leaves her lungs in a rush.

Oh.

His own gown is done in a nearly opposing design. A high collar to frame his face from behind with a low, low dip of his collar that leaves the edges of his hip bones exposed in the front. The fabric is black where hers is white, with a longer train of pale feathers following each slow step he makes. There is a small assortment of jewelry adorning his person; more to mark rank than anything else though she's not sure how he could ever be mistaken for anyone else. His hair has been left long, with only a single hair piece to keep one side from falling in front of his mask, done in the design of a crescent moon.

She swallows, hands wringing slightly while she tries to tear her eyes away from him and finds herself powerless to do so.

It's not like it's news that he's beautiful, she berates herself internally.

But...it's not often it's flaunted like this. His beauty is far more commonly seen in other forms, after all; the way the light curves around his waist when he reaches for a book, the shifting of his features when he is comfortable enough to remove his mask to eat, the way his hair drapes across his desk when he is focused on solving a problem. Hidden moments of charm, like precious, private secrets.

This is a display.

And an unquestionably effective one at that.

She bows her head politely, eyes still unable to leave him as she does.

“Good to see you again,” She greets.

“You, as well,” He manages. It sounds slightly strained, and she frowns.

Is something bothering him?

It has been some time since they attended a party together; their frequency had slowed dramatically after the announcement of their 'courtship' after all.

Which had been the point, of course. He hated those parties and she hated the idea of him being paraded around like some sort of show animal. But this is a party for another event entirely, something Lady Sylaise had deemed important enough to celebrate but Selene had been too distracted by her work to actually read up on. She supposes if it truly matters, someone will mention it.

She isn't planning on actually meeting Lady Sylaise, anyways.

“Are you alright?” She asks, taking a step towards him.

“Yes,” He nods. One of his hands moves into a pocket before pulling out a small, silver mask. “This is for you,”

Selene takes the half mask from him, and up close she can see that it's been patterned to look like a raven spreading its wings wide in flight. She thanks him and carefully arranges it onto her face, activating the enchantment that will keep it in place for the evening.

She smiles, and taps gently on the edge of a wing before leaning forward and gently clinking her mask against his own.

“We match.”

His chest rises and falls (and she tries and fails not to notice how much more prominent such a basic action is in his gown) before his throat bobs and he breathes out a soft “Yes,” that makes her own chest flutter.

Her gaze drops slightly lower and she pulls away with a soft “Oh,” Before she can think better of it, and reaches out to straighten some of the long jeweled chains dangling over his chest. Her fingers brush briefly against the exposed skin as she tugs on the white gold, and the warmth of him brings her back to the situation at hand.

Their courtship.

Their pretend courtship.

She clears her throat and straightens up, awkwardly patting once at the now-correctly-aligned jewelry.

“It was-that is, I mean it was-you've mentioned your sister is a stickler for details and I just...” She lets out a breath. “Sorry. Just...wanted to help.”

“I appreciate it,” He assures her.

The scent of mint and snow begins to rise in the room and Selene shivers under the weight of it-

Before there is a knock at the door.

Ah, she sighs in slight disappointment.

Time for their appearance, then.

Back to playing pretend.

It is always pretend, some part of her mind tries to remind her.

A part that is getting harder and harder to believe, though.

She laces her fingers delicately through his, and offers a reassuring smile.

“Are you ready?”

He nods, hand squeezing hers in acknowledgment.

Then they step through the doors.

Together.

–

It's not a terrible party.

It's almost nice, actually, now that it's not filled entirely with people trying to get into Dirthamens pants.

Not that there aren't still a few people making attempts.

But she spends most of the evening at his side which deters most of the would-be suitors, and when she returns from getting a beverage to find another elf attempting to plaster themselves to him despite the slight curving of his spine she now recognizes as his attempt to politely exit an uncomfortable situation without causing a scene, she just slides her arm around Dirthamens hip and mentions wanting to show him the view from the balcony as she guides him away from the crowd and the noise and into the fresh air of the evening.

Dirthamens shoulders slump slightly in exhaustion once they are out of eye shot of most of the party attendees, and she offers him her drink in case of dehydration.

He doesn't eat as often as he should, she's noticed.

His fingers brush hers as he takes the glass from her hand, mask shifting to sit on top of his head while he takes a long drink.

Selene takes the opportunity to admire his features in the moonlight; they are surprisingly elf-like tonight, and she wonders if its a side-effect of being surrounded by so many people. His jaw is square, and he's only got the one extra eye sitting in the middle of his forehead. She also notes that he is wearing a small amount of makeup, even under the mask. A dark lip and a ring of eyeliner that makes the blue of his eyes pop and his lashes look even longer than they normally do.

“Is something wrong?” Dirthamen asks after she has been staring for likely longer than would be polite.

“What? No,” She answers, back straightening as she smooths out the wrinkles that had formed in her dress while she had relaxed against the railing and stared at her false paramour. “You just look particularly beautiful tonight, is all.”

His face flushes, and she bites on her lip to keep from chuckling at the sudden intensity of it. Without the mask to hide behind, it's surprisingly easy to read him, she finds.

Probably part of the reason he wears it, she supposes.

“You as well,” He returns, glancing off towards the view of the city. “The dress suits you.”

“Thank you-” She starts, breath catching as one of his gloved hands reaches up to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear.

One of her own hands reaches up to catch it before he can pull it away.

They both seem equally shocked by her actions.

“I...” She starts, unsure of where she's really planning on taking the sentence. She's not sure if its an apology, or a confession, or a statement about the weather.

She's just suddenly overcome by the desire for him to keep touching her, in some capacity.

He blinks, one eye at a time, and the flush this time is much more gradual as it sweeps over his features.

“There is no one here to see us,” He reminds her, quietly.

“It's not for them to see,” She responds without thought.

His eyebrows raise, and his throat bobs again.

“I...” She tries again, hand tightening slightly around his. Looking for reassurance, for comfort, for some sort of sign that he feels the same way she does.

A trio of elves bursts out of the doors nearest to them, laughing and stumbling and smelling of an overindulgence of wine.

Selene releases Dirthamens hand, and stares out at the city beneath them.

She lets out a breath.

“We should get back to the party,” She swallows, carefully re-affixing her mask while his own moves back to its usual space.

“Ah, yes,” He agrees, taking note of the trio who don't seem to notice their presence, and are currently preoccupied with disrobing one another in the doorway.

Her index finger links loosely with his own as they re-enter the ballroom.

–

“Earlier...” Dirthamen mentions tentatively once they are back in their room, alone and tired from the events of the party.

“Hm?” Selene asks, yawning slightly as she finally removes her mask, carefully placing it down on one of the tables and idly tracing the outline.

“You appeared to be trying to tell me something.”

Selene blinks, mind hazy in her current exhaustion as she struggles to think of what he might be referring to.

“On the balcony...?” He clarifies.

And Selene feels it click.

“Oh. Uhm,” She takes a deep breath, fingers beginning to untie her braid in an attempt to fight off her nerves. “That was just...”

I wanted to tell you that I'm in love with you, and would like to court you genuinely.

I wanted to tell you how badly I wanted to kiss you on the balcony in the moonlight.

I wanted to take you back into the party and declare my love for you in front of the empire and your family and damn the consequences.

“I just wanted to tell you...”

Obsidian beads start falling to the carpet in quiet droplets.

“that....”

Her fingers catch on a knot in her hair.

“I....”

The material of her gown brushes against her jaw as she pointedly stares down at the ground.

“really....”

Her heart is beating faster in her chest, pounding and pounding in anticipation.

“...like the mask you gave me.”

Coward, she berates herself.

“Ah,” he says, and she thinks she picks up a slight note of disappointment in the air before it is swiftly hidden. “Yes. It seemed an appropriate gift for our current level of courting.”

“Of course,” She nods, swallowing her tongue.

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”

“I'd enjoy any gift you gave to me,” She admits.

His head tilts in consideration. “We have been doing this a bit too long now for flowers and poetry not to raise questions. But it is a sweet sentiment. Thank you for it. You are very kind, to say such things. I apologize for any trouble our false courting may be causing you.”

“I...there's no trouble, Dirthamen,” She laughs, shaking her head in fondness and blabbering on before she can think better of herself, and the familiarity she is speaking to him with. “I would do whatever it took to stay by your side.”

That, at least, seems to have caught him off guard.

Selene can't say she meant to say it aloud, either.

They both stand still and silent for a few moments, in the dim light of their shared room in his Arlathan estate.

“I...am going to go change into my sleep wear,” She finally manages, clearing her throat slightly and retrieving a long, soft undershirt from the wardrobe.

He nods, silent and staring and flushed from the neck down as she excuses herself from the room and enters their bath.

She closes the door.

And then slides down the back of it with a soft groan.

Well....at least the party was nice.

#abo au #dirthalene #i swear i meant to write the next part of treachery au but then i.....really wanted abo au whoops #selene 'i am in love with you and i think you might like me too but if im wrong then im definitely just joking ahahaha' #selene 'i know i just made things awkward so im gonna go get naked instead of dealing with this *finger guns*' #disaster children

[magicallibary]

Unknown Connections

A/N: I might make a part 2 for this one; I don’t know! I can see how it would work so, we’ll see. That said, hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Word Count: 2367 Words  Warnings: I think there’s nothing :)

Summary: A young man starts taking care of a young kid, neither knowing about the child’s past.

It had all started a couple of years ago. A heat wave had been around for a few weeks and the thick, hot atmosphere was starting to affect everyone. Pools and beaches were filled to the brim with people trying desperately to cool down while air conditioning systems were being installed and turned on everywhere. The sun covered streets were becoming more and more empty as the days passed since people would much rather stay inside in front of their fan.

On one flaming night, a young adult named William was preparing himself for a long anticipated rest. A white tank top and a pair of loose shorts that ended right above his knees, covered his rough copper skin. As he walked to his room, a hand tangled in the short dark brown grass of his hair, the sound of a soft knock made his steps stop in a halt. He was about to ignore it and blame it on his imagination when the knock came again, louder this time. An exaggerated sigh fell through his pointy tipped lips while he turned towards his dark door.

Opening the door slowly, William prepared himself to greet whoever was at the other side, but he didn’t expect to find a young girl at his doorstep. For her apparent young age she had rather long hair that was colored a light brown similar of those of fallen autumn leaves, the color seemed to fade into the white of a cloud as the tips of the strands ended. A couple of black dots seemed to be scattered around the wrist of her left arm, that had a tone that could remind you of a silver necklace with highlights of the white tinted sand by the salty water of the beach that were being slightly hidden by the drops of sweat that fell from her forehead. William’s tall figure covered the girl with a shadow while his hazel eyes squinted as he caught her pair of jade green orbs. Her eyes were quite big compared to the male’s small pair and the intense green color of them contrasted the bright white shirt and light blue shorts she wore.

The older individual called out as he looked around for the girl’s guardian but ended up finding no one around. Deciding that he couldn’t just leave her there, William slowly made move to pick her up, making sure not to scare her in the process. As he held her small form, the hazel-eyed male noticed how much colder her skin felt compared to his own. Also, he was now made aware of a shiny necklace that hung around her neck, the name Eira on the jewelry.

“I guess that’s your name.” William whispered, a small smile began appearing on his face as he closed the door and he entered his house, the green-eyed girl in his arms. “Eira?”

That’s how it all had started. William had spent the following days calling and informing everyone he knew about the small girl, who’s name was Eira. Years passed, and the brown-haired male found nothing so he continued to care for Eira like a sister or a daughter. As she grew older, her appearance change a small bit, most noticeably was her curly hair. Her hair remained light brown but the hints of fading white tips were much easier to notice making it seem almost dyed. Truth was, he had grown quite fond of her and the company around the small house truly helped him, though he began noticing things about Eira and he began questioning whether all those things were there to begin with and he hadn’t noticed. One of those discoveries had been her skin temperature. She always seemed to be colder than anyone else, not by much, but it was different enough that the temperature change could be noticed. The other was much more alarming for William. When Eira turned thirteen, William began to make notice of a mark by her left wrist. At further inspection, he learned that it was a simplistic almost mandala-like design of a bird. The wings were extended and curled upwards so the were beside the head while the feathered tail was formed so it made its way away from her hand. William began panicking. Had Eira gone and paid for a tattoo? He began thinking back on the past weeks and found that they had spent every waking moment together, so, when had she done it? William’s chest tightened at the discovery, he didn’t know if he was truly mad at her and somehow he found a way to blame himself for the seemingly permanent mark on Eira’s wrist. That feeling banished and was replaced with curiosity and nervousness after speaking with her.

Eira hadn’t even noticed the drawing by her left wrist and worry laced her voice as he swore to William she hadn’t done anything, that it had been a surprise for her too. Of course, William had trouble believing this, until tears began forming on the edges of her jade eyes. The next couple of weeks were spent trying to find out how this mark came to be and, to none of William’s surprised, he had found absolutely nothing. As time continued passing, both William and Eira had grown to like the tattoo-like mark. Eira felt some sort of strange connection with it. She felt her heart beat slightly faster when someone, even herself, would run their fingers on top of the drawing. Everytime something would become too overwhelming, she would focus on the delicate patterns that made the bird image come together. Likewise, William learned to like the drawing, too. He quickly noticed how her skin was much colder on the place where the mark stood. Of course he had his questions about it, but he decided that those where better saved for another time. He simply reminded himself that one day he would find all the answers he wanted, for both himself and, also, for Eira.

And, one day, those answers did arrive.

One morning, William opened his curtains to find a snowy scenery before him. This alarmed the young adult since as recently as two days before, everyone was talking about a nearing heat wave. Turning on the television to watch the news, he found that no one was expecting the ongoing weather and it had seemingly caught everyone by surprise. Eira was extremely happy about the sudden temperature change, though. William’s strange day filled with weird surprises continued when he saw the short girl run around under the falling snowflakes in nothing but a mid arm sleeve shirt and loose pants. He attempted to dress her accordingly but she refused, claiming that the chosen clothes were too warm for her. At some point, William had to stop pushing Eira into the clothes and he began noticing how her body temperature remained constant no matter how long she stayed out in the cold snow for.

Soon, the night arrived, being colder than the day. William began preparing everything to send Eira and himself to bed, when suddenly he got interrupted by a soft knock. Flashbacks of the night he found Eira began playing in William’s head, noticing that the only difference between that night and the current one was the weather. He slowly reached the doorway and when he opened it, more similarities began rising inside his brain. A teenage girl was what he found by his doorway. She had tanned, tawny skin and was dressed in brown clothes. A long, black cloak reached her toes, her hands hidden in the pockets. She had big, hazel eyes but, by far the flashiest feature she had was her hair. The top of her head was dark, almost black, but where her neck ended the hair was completely orange. The different shades of the flame color mixed together, giving her a beautiful yet scary appearance.

“Where’s the girl?” She demanded, her voice deep, her face serious. Anyone could read her annoyance and desire to finish whatever she needed to do rather quickly.

“What girl?” Asked William, playing coy. He didn’t know why, but he had this strange feeling on the pit of his stomach that told him to be wary of her.

“Look.” The mysterious girl suddenly banged her hand on the wall next to the opened door, blocking the snowy scenery as she began getting closer to William. He, on the other hand, attempted pushing her away from the entrance of his house, still not trusting the flashy-haired girl. “I don’t have time for your little ‘I don’t know’ act, so are you going to tell me where she is or are we going to have to do this the difficult way?”

“Look,” he began, imitating her. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about and, even if I did, why would I trust you?” He raised his right eyebrow as he finished his question, clearly trying to end the conversation.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t trust me.” She pulled the other hand out of the coat pocket, revealing a shiny dagger with intricate orange designs that made it look like a feather on the side of the sharp object. She placed it near him threateningly. “But, I’d listen.”

Before she could say anything else, a voice interrupted her.

“Adara! Leave the man alone.” Another teenage girl said. She stood tall, her skin tone was similar to Eira’s one but the rest of her appearance was different. Her slightly below shoulder length hair was blue that faded into white and her eyes were matching, icy blue and large. She wore a white and blue combat suit with many gray belts and straps. The outfit had a collar than framed around her neck and the sleeves ended after the mid arm point. White fingerless gloves fitted her hands and high white boots started at her feet. On her left hand she held a dagger similar to the brown-dressed individual, but it was decorated with a light blue metal wing, similar to the one of a dragon. Beside her a teenage man stood. His maya blue hair was long and combed to the right. His eyes were the same color as the girl beside him. He wore a similar outfit just fitted for him and he, too, had the same blue decorated dagger.

“And why would I do that dear? He’ll have to tell me where your precious ‘half-sister’ is eventually.” The girl, apparently named Adara, used her fingers to make quotations.

“Can’t you see he doesn’t know?” Began the blue-haired male. “We can’t let you hurt him for no reason nor can we allow you to find the girl for that matter.”

“Well, Lixue, you always say something like that, don’t you? Plus, you need to know where she is and she has to be near for you two to intervene, otherwise you would’ve left me alone. Unless, you don’t know where she is. Then, it’s just a fight for who finds her first. How did you know we were coming anyway?”

“You fire phoenixes were always predictable anyway; you take your heat waves with you everywhere. We are more unexpected.”

Questions began filling William’s head. What was happening? He didn’t even know where to begin. Worry remained in his veins as he started realizing that everyone was talking about Eira.

“Whatever you say, Neve. Well, farewell dears, may the best find the girl.” Suddenly the figure that used to be the one of a female turned into the one of a bird. A medium bird colored in all the tones of a powerful fire flame. As the big wings fluttered away a small trail of yellow sparks stayed behind, burning out after a while.

“Sorry for that, William.” Apologised the girl.  “Despite everything we said, this whole event did surprise us at the beginning, but we’ve learnt to react quickly.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Oh right, I’m Neve Icebound and this is one of my brothers, Lixue Icebound. We are ice phoenixes.”

“Ice phoenixes? What is going on?” William questioned himself.

“Well, you know Eira, right?” Neve began. “She was supposed to be our sister, but, a fire pheonix named Agni cursed her when she was born turning her mostly human. Of course, a few attributes remained like her cold skin but most of the main abilities were lost. Due to the danger we would bring her in her now more fragile state, we had to leave her with you but we gave her a mark so that we could find her, that’s the drawing by her wrist, if you’ve seen it. But now, she seems to be gaining power, quickly. And it isn’t any power, she seems to be stronger than both fire and ice phoenixes which has alarmed them, so they are after her. We are not sure if they want her dead or captured but we can’t allow either. Not just because she’s powerful but because after all she’s still originally our sister.”

Unknown to them, Eira heard the whole exchanged and they learnt this when she pushed passed William to see the other two individuals. Neve and Eira’s eyes locked together and tears began forming in the male sibling’s eyes at the sight of his growing sister.

“You two are really my siblings?” Asked the small voice of Eira.

“Look.” Said Neve, while kneeling to her sister’s height. “Give me your left hand.” The younger girl raised her hand, hesitantly. Neve grabbed her hand lightly and ran her thumb on top of the drawing of a phoenix on Eira’s wrist. Suddenly, the mark began glowing a bright blue color where it used to be black before it died down to its original color. 

A gasp escaped everyone’s mouth, all at once, as they shared an impactful silent moment. The two sisters embraced each other as the silence continued. Until, Eira broke the silence with her sudden concern, looking into her sister’s bright blues with her green orbs.

“Are the fire phoenixes going to hurt me?”

“No.” Answered Lixue, no hesitation in his strong voice. “We’ll protect you. Neve and I. We’ll protect both of you.”

#my writing #my story #my fic #my post #writing #writers #writer #short story #short stories #short fiction #short writing #fiction #small fic #small story #small stories #reading #reader #phoenix #ice and fire #tattoo #my edit #my photo #story #stories

[flyingpups]

Chapter 2

The trek was long and tedious, with the blistering hot sun down on her head. She took great caution avoiding the guards patrol whenever they passed by. There were small cuts and scrapes on the soles of her feet, at least there would be if there wasn’t a thick layer of mud, dirt, and pebbles coating her feet. She had been on the road for several months now, living off the kindness of strangers, whenever the inner demons, that is her hunger would sing their symphonies as loud as they pleased. Some were not as kind as they should be, claiming her to be a vagrant to try to steal their gold. She would often be chased away with someone behind, throwing stones at her. She would receive a different, much kinder response from the mystical creatures of the forest. Though, they were first hesitant the first few weeks of her venture. 

They have a disdain for humans, considering they were hunted, a mere few thousand years ago. When heavy rain downpoured during the night, the forest nymphs would create shelters made of; grass, sticks and leaves to keep her dry. When a blanket of snow encased the ground, the gnomes would fashion her boots made of drakenfalk fur; thick brown and black fur with clawed bumps at the bottom of the shoes. The forest creatures proved to be far more kinder to her than the humans, but she relied on both to survive. Leaving from Destian was a difficult task for the heart, as that was her home for many years. She had to live with the fact that it was her home no longer. Harder in thought but easier to accept, she persevered and trekked onward to whatever future beheld her. 

As she ventured forward, the town of Hiradanza peeked over the horizon. It was a small town consisting of mainly farmers and blacksmiths. She began to recall a tale about a man living here, being able to craft the finest jewelry ever blessed by the heavens. He’d be so talented, they say he could breathe the fire directly into the forge, and spit icy winds to cool the metal. Of course, they were all wise tales but impressive nonetheless. 

As she entered the village, she made sure to pull her hood down as far as she could. Impairing her vision was nothing compared to avoiding the attention of others. This… proved to be a somewhat difficult task as some of the townspeople, kind as they are, attempted to invite her inside their business for a meal, trinkets, or simply just to share fables.  She politely denied with her hand gestures and continued passing through, looking around for an inn to unwind. 

The sleeping dragon. Taking a deep breath, she headed inside the building. It was a small cabin with a rose thorn design etched into the doorway. The interior of the inn seemed to be bathed by the sky, as an ocean of blue light emitted the surrounding area. The walls are painted a calming glacial blue, supplemented with accented vertical dark blue stripes. Hanging from the ceiling were white and blue chandeliers holding candles scented with dragons blood. The flooring is a cooled dark hardwood with a great forest inspired ashen rug to enhance the decor. As she stepped inside, basking in the glow of the room, the innkeeper called her over to the front desk. “Hello ma’am, will you be staying with us tonight?” she asked politely. The hooded girl simply nodded her head and placed 5 coins of silver on the counter. Her demeanor quickly changes to shock when noticing her bandaged fingers; grabbing hold of her hand quickly, she examines it with great caution and detail. Her questions become motherly and numerous, causing the hooded girl to withdraw her hand rapidly.

“I’m sorry,  that was very rude of me. It isn’t my place to question the guest about their history. Please, you may have the room at the end of the hall. It is quite lovely with a view of the stream and the forest. You may call me Lisbeth if you need anything.”, she states calmly, handing her room key and spare wraps for her to use. The hooded girl nodded, smiled through her bandages and briskly walked to her room. Once inside, she closed the blinds, threw her hood onto the floor, and proceeded to fall back onto the bed.

She sunk deep into the bed, unable to move; more so, unwilling to move as she hadn’t felt such comfort in a long while. It was as if the nimbus floated her and soared through the deep oceans of the blue sky. She kept her eyes closed and soared high, higher through the clouds and across vast lands. The sheets were so pleasant and soothing, the feeling of clouds soaking in tepid air had reached deep inside her core. To her surprise, the bed was quite large. The idea of her sinking past the floorboards, or merging with the bed itself popped up silently behind.There was a flame lit underneath her, not sweltering enough to burn her, but pleasant enough to warm her soul. It was too much for her to handle, as the candles dimmed, so did her cognizance soon fade to slumber. She dreamt, she slept for hours and hours, as if she were cursed by the goddess of dreams, she slept peacefully. 

She was awoken abruptly by a soft knock on the door, and a calming voice peeking through. “Good morning sleeping drim”, Lisbeth voiced softly. She entered the room quietly while carrying; spare towels, rag scraps, and a set of clothes to change into. The hooded girl yawned loudly, pulling the blanket over her head, and attempted to drift back into dormancy. Lisbeth simply sighs softly and walks over to her, ripping the sheets off of her. “You have been sleeping for three days now, and frankly the smell is beginning to rot the walls.” she states, whilst covering her nose. Grunting loudly, the hooded girl sits up straight and sighs. Lisbeth takes her by the hand and rushes to the restroom in a haste. She hesitates greatly, backing herself up against the door while protecting her arms. Lisbeth pauses for a moment, glances over to her filthy rags and sits in waiting. “I understand I am not in a position to be trusted” she responds gently. “I won’t force it upon you, but please allow me to mend your wounds before they become infected. If you have any wounds to mend that is.” she reached out her hand in a passive movement. With some reassurement, the girl agreed and stepped forward. Taking off her hood was similar to unwinding a spring, her hair shot out as a large ball of knotted mess. Lisbeth nearly giggled by her unkempt hair, but stifled it away. 

Removing the bindings from the young girl’s hand, she fixates on the teardrop imprint on the girl’s middle finger. “You know, I never received a name from you yet, little drim.” She shakes her head in denial, allowing her to continue removing the bandages. Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Lisbeth lets out a small smile towards her. “Well you are going to need a name if you will be staying here. I’m sure ‘little drim’ wouldn't be a good title for you either. How does Dew sound for a name then. A raindrop falling towards a beautiful flower.” Glancing over to her imprint, she smiles through her covered mouth and nods her head. “Dew it is then, a beautiful name for this budling.” Dew’s arms were smooth as silk, which was odd considering it had been essentially a month since her last bathing. Dew’s uneasiness increases evermore so as Lisbeth continues unwinding her, as if she were a top wound up by a string. For the first time, her scars were in front of a complete stranger, willingly if anything. Lisbeth held her up, and sat her in the tub filled with piping hot water. She reluctantly tried climbing out from the sudden heat. Giving it a few moments, the soothing effects soon melted her composure and caused her to relax her muscles. Though, it was immediately interrupted by Lisbeth dumping shampoo and hot water over her head. With an hour of vigorous scrubbing and silent screams, Dew was clean from head to toe. 

“Will you get dressed already, I picked those clothes out myself Dew.” she proclaims from outside the doorway. Dew bangs on the door hard to insinuate her to shut up. After a few moments, she steps outside from the restroom, her hands wrapped behind her timidly. She was dressed in a combination of blue and green; a deep hooded cloak to cover her face, accompanied with a embroidered golden sleeping dragon design on the back. Her tunic flowed downward towards her hips, with velvet linings on the collar. Her trousers were loose but firm enough not to get snagged on anything jagged. Her shoes were jet black and soft accompanied with matching black socks. She wrapped a velvet green scarf around her neck and over her mouth to conceal her lips. Taking out some long sleeved fingerless gloves from the pocket of the cloak, she spun around, admiring her outfit. 

“I wanted something more colorful for you, but knowing how you came in, it seemed like you did not want to be noticed. So tell me, do you love your outfit?” she asked her, sitting atop her bed. Dew smiled and gave her a thumbs up, enjoying the warmth of her attire.She took a moment to recollect about beast named drake and where it might be. Writing this question on a piece of paper, she asked Lisbeth. “That would be here, the drake is ‘The sleeping dragon’. Though I haven’t heard someone call it by its previous name in a while. Pray chance, where did you hear that name?” she asked Dew. Dew simply shook her head and smiled at her. She collected what little bags she had been gifted with and proceeded to the doorway. “You are always welcome back here Dew. A child shouldn’t be wandering the streets by herself”, she simply nodded her head and closed the door on her way out. Dew takes a moment to look back at the inn, and continues on her journey. At least now, she has somewhere she can come back to. At most, that is what she is hoping for. A new place and a new friend she can potentially trust. 

[bowandawkward]

Trying to write more, maybe?

Written a while ago, but never posted here. I’ll maybe possibly be posting more writing during my week off. Maybe.

Teyrn Allard certainly knew how to throw a party. Anybody who was anybody was there - or, at least, anybody who wanted to be anybody. Her mother’s pale blue gown stood out across the room. Imported Orlesian silk, expensive and excessive and designed to catch the eye. In that, at least, it was effective. She stood in conversation with Lord and Lady Beaumont - and at her side, Cerwin. The slate grey of his clothes and solemn expression put Nalcya in mind of a little toy soldier standing at attention.

The music picked up once again and dancers interrupted her gaze. They floated around the ballroom like dust motes in sunlight, all glittering jewelry and elaborate (impractical) clothing. Peacocks, the lot of them. She shifted, made a subtle attempt at adjusting the corseted bodice of her own dress where it pinched too tightly beneath her arms, and soon gave that up as a lost cause to resume fanning herself. Even the large windows, unshuttered and open to a cool coastal breeze, couldn’t entirely combat the warmth from scores of lanterns and nearly a hundred people gathered in one room. A tiny bead of sweat tickled slowly down the back of her neck.

“Good evening, Lady Trevelyan.” Eyes filled with far too much amusement met her cool sidelong glance.

“Ser Carne.”

“Well, not quite yet,” he said, eyes leaving hers for an apparent examination of his own shoes.

“Close enough. I prefer it to ‘Lord,’ at any rate.” When that failed to win back his gaze, she allowed her voice to soften marginally. “One of those drinks had best be for me, Eska Carne.”

There was the smile. “I don’t know, Nala - I’ve only just managed to escape our mothers. Two drinks hardly seems sufficient.”

“Truer words I’ve not heard all night.”

“As much as I would love to make a drunken spectacle of myself,” he handed over a small glass of champagne, “I’m still expected early tomorrow morning for training.”

“A shame. I seem to recall that the last time we drank together-”

Eska took the flute right back and set them both aside, color high on his cheeks. “That’s quite enough of that, thank you.”

Nalcya laughed, and some of the tension within her eased even as guilt twisted sourly in her stomach. “Well then, if you plan on depriving me of alcohol then you owe me a dance at the very least.” She slipped her fan away in a pocket, cleverly hidden in the excess fabric of her skirts, and gave a delicate curtsy. Eska bent over her hand with the barest brush of lips against her knuckles and tucked it into the crook of his elbow as they approached the floor.

“So,” said the lady, hand coming to rest featherlight on his shoulder, “how is your training going?”

Eska near missed his lead. Nalcya arched a brow at him and he looked away, set them to twirling just to take her attention elsewhere for even a moment.

It didn’t work.

“That well, hm?”

“I’m…improving,” he hedged, then sighed. “I’m not entirely certain I’m cut out for this.”

“Now that sounds like your mother talking.”

“Perhaps it is; that makes it no less true.” Her gaze sharpened and he spoke again, quickly, before she took the chance. “Honestly. I do well enough with the techniques, but when the time comes to perform the duties of a Templar I don’t know that I will be able to carry them out. Maker’s breath, Nala, I’m not even certain I agree with their cause.”

Her hands gave a restless sort of squeeze where they rested, eyes cast stony and unreadable over his shoulder, and they carried on in silence. He caught glimpses of other dancers as they glided across the marble floor. Most he recognized - Ostwick’s circle of nobility, exclusive as they were, was hardly large. Undoubtedly his mother would prefer he spend his time ingratiating himself to one of Lord Dabourne’s three daughters. Nalcya’s family was powerful, to be certain, but his friend had managed to make a somewhat tenuous position for herself with her strong will and independence. If not for the wealth and influence behind the Trevelyan name and her own rather striking beauty, she might have become a pariah rather than a source of social intrigue.

The silence stretched so long he almost decided she had ignored his words entirely. But then she spoke, her voice low and strange. “There comes a time you must do what’s right for you. It doesn’t matter what your mother wants, or what your brothers expect, what anyone else thinks of you at all - not even what we think of each other, Eska. What’s important is what you want. Find what your heart longs for and chase it. There comes a time when you can no longer be caged.” The music drew to a close and they halted, partners bowing and curtseying and parting ways all around them. He saw Alexander Kempshall approaching from his left, no doubt to claim Nalcya’s hand for the next dance. She spoke with a sudden, desperate urgency. “I need your word.”

“My word? On what?” He asked, baffled, and cut a nervous glance to Alexander. He attempted to step back, but her fingers dug with unexpected force into his shoulder.

“Promise me,” she hissed, voice little more than a fierce whisper. “Promise me that you’ll watch over Cerwin. That you’ll look after him.”

“Nala, what-”

Her eyes blazed like drops of molten gold. “Promise me.”

“I promise, but-”

“Lady Trevelyan, may I have this dance?”

Nalcya held his gaze a moment longer, nodded, and stepped back. When she rose from a low curtsy her expression had smoothed, empty of - anything at all, really. A polished mask of courtesy, cold and closed. “Thank you, Ser Carne.”

He knew that she was not thanking him for the dance.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #trevelyan #my writing #oc: nalcya trevelyan #oc: tawny #oc: eska carne