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somewhatgreatexpectations · 3 years

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Just the Two of Us (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader)

Hello everyone! I am so excited for you to read this part. I hope you enjoy!

Songs used are "Open Arms" by Journey (1982) and "Just the Two of Us" by Bill Withers and Grover Washington Jr. (1980).

Summary: The situation in Westview is slowly beginning to unravel. Will Wanda be able to fix it before everything falls apart? With some surprise guests.

The family was all gathered in the living room as Billy demonstrated tricks he and Charlie had spent the afternoon teaching Sparky. The moment was perfect. Well… almost perfect. Even though Wanda was grateful that the twins were happy, she couldn’t help the longing that was burning in her chest. There was a limit to the happiness that she was capable of feeling when the most important piece was missing.

You.

Wanda could see that you were becoming skeptical and that skepticism was causing you turmoil. That was the last thing she wanted. Which is why she made the decision to send you to work as a distraction. As much as it wasn’t what she wanted, she could handle being separated from you temporarily if it meant that your skepticism wouldn’t grow into resentment.

Wanda knew that she had to smile through the hurt. Even if the smile didn’t match the way she felt inside. She was determined to protect the twins from seeing anything other than a happy image - she couldn’t bear the idea of hurting them as well.

“That was amazing, Billy!” Wanda praised excitedly as she leaned over and scratched between Sparky’s ears. “And you weren’t so bad either, Sparky.”

Charlie rushed over to her brother, nearly bouncing with excitement. “That was so cool! Where’s Momma? We have to go show Momma!”

The way the twins immediately wanted to include you in the moment tugged harshly at Wanda’s heartstrings. “Oh, she-she’s at work!” Wanda stuttered out nervously just as the twins were getting ready to run into the other room.

It was clear that her words puzzled the two when Wanda was met with matching looks of confusion. “It’s Saturday…” Billy said wearily.

“No, it’s not. It’s Monday.” Wanda countered quickly in hopes that they would drop the subject.

Charlie shared a look with her brother. “But, Mom, this morning it was Saturday.”

For a moment Wanda cursed herself for having such intuitive children. “There was an emergency at the office and your mother had to go in. End of story.” The twins exchanged worried looks. She sighed. Maybe it was time to try honesty. “Don’t worry, you two. She just… She needed a distraction.”

“From what?” Charlie questioned, her eyes beginning to shimmer with disappointment.

Billy looked at his sister for a moment before turning dejectedly to Wanda. “From us?”

For a moment Wanda was sure she could hear the sound of her heart breaking as she watched the way Billy and Charlie’s faces crumpled with hurt. She swiftly rushed over to gather the twins in her arms. “No! No way! She loves you both so much.” She reassured them as she rubbed their backs. “She needed a little break from me, not you. I promise.

Wanda gently led them over to the couch and took a seat between them. “Sometimes your mother and I aren’t on the same page, but that’s okay. I know it’s just temporary because at the end of the day we will always love each other. Love isn’t always perfect, but it’s always there through every up and down. It’s there even when we fight.”

Wanda wrapped around each of the twins. “Like you two may sometimes fight over toys, but you will always love each other because he is always going to be your brother.” She affectionately stroked Charlie’s hair before turning to Billy and doing the same. “And she is always going to be your sister… Because family is forever.”

Billy and Charlie leaned into Wanda’s side, seemingly content with her explanation. Wanda breathed a sigh of relief that she was able to ease their minds. “Do you and Momma have siblings?”

The question was unexpected and as much as she tried to control it, Wanda couldn’t help the lump that built in her throat. “We do. I have a brother and Momma has a little sister. They’re far away from here.” She closed her eyes for a moment to control the tears that welled in her eyes. “And that makes me sad sometimes. I know it makes Momma sad too.”

The somber moment was interrupted by the sound of Sparky barking at the front door which distracted the twins. Wanda took advantage of the distraction to collect herself. “Sparky, what’s up, boy?” Billy called after the dog.

“Something’s scaring him.” Charlie worriedly leaned over the back of the couch to watch Sparky and Billy replicated the action.

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly with a realization that she kept to herself. “Stay here.” She instructed the twins as she rushed to the door, accidentally letting Sparky out.

The twins rushed up when they noticed the dog run outside. “Sparky!” They called as they followed after Wanda who hadn’t realized that they had followed her out until it was too late.

When she noticed the drone hovering above her, Wanda stepped forward in hopes of keeping it away from Billy and Charlie. “Wanda, this is Captain Monica Rambeau. Can you hear me? I just want to talk. That’s it.”

All Wanda could think of in that moment was protecting her family. That need grew when she faintly heard a voice she loathed float distantly over the sound of the machine. “Disregard. Take the shot.”

______

Anger wasn’t an emotion Wanda felt often, but in that moment the anger circulated so intensely through her body that she was almost certain it would consume her. When threats were made against her she could live with them.

When the threats were made against you or the twins, there would be no forgiveness from her.

The anger only made it easier to open the wall of energy she had created as she marched forward determinedly, not even flinching when she realized there were various weapons aimed directly at her.

When Wanda was close enough she threw the mangled machine at the feet of the man she despised. “Is this yours?” A small sense of satisfaction filled her as she watched the man take an involuntary step back.

“The missile was just a precaution. You can hardly blame us, Wanda.” Hayward said calmly, though his eyes flickered with irritation.

Wanda flexed her hands slightly as she fought to maintain control of her emotions. “Oh, I think I can. This will be your only warning. Stay out of my home.” Came her steely reply as she stared unflinchingly at Hayward. “You don’t bother me, I won’t bother you.”

Hayward’s hands clenched at his sides. “It’s not that simple, Wanda. You’ve kidnapped Y/n Y/ln’s body and have been manipulating her to do your bidding. Y/n’s wishes were-”

Wanda’s jaw clenched. “Keep her name out of your mouth.”

“-to remain under our care. Y/n is a weapon and a danger under your manipulation. She needs to be back under our supervision. To pass away peacefully like she should have when you took her.” Hayward pushed on, his tone condescending. Hoping to push Wanda to the point of reaction.

Again, Wanda flexed her fingers, her willpower fading quickly. “Don’t talk about her like she’s an object. Don’t talk about her at all.” She gritted out. Her eyes gave away the fact that Hayward had gotten to her as they watered ever so slightly. Hayward smirked in satisfaction.

He held up his hands as he feigned innocence. This was only after seeing the way the other agents began to look at him. Hayward was supposed to be most worried about the citizens of Westview not you. “You’ve also taken an entire town hostage.”

“I’m not the one with the guns, director.” Wanda retorted sharply.

Monica stepping forward caught Wanda’s attention. “But you are the one in control.”

“You’re still here.” On reflex, red wisps began floating around Wanda’s fingers. Her patience hanging by a thread.

It was clear that Hayward was livid as Monica took control of the situation. “Wanda, I didn’t know those drones were armed, but you know that… Don’t you?” She continued forward cautiously. “A town full of civilians and you, a telepath, brought a S.W.O.R.D. agent into your home. You trusted me to help deliver your babies. You allowed me to create a bond with Y/n. On some level you know I am an ally. I want to help you.”

Wanda couldn’t help but falter slightly, though the red energy that danced under her fingertips flashed menacingly. “How? What could you possibly have to offer me?” Her voice was quieter, the accent even more pronounced than it was moments before.

Monica took another cautious step forward. “What do you want?”

The moment was broken the second the question was asked. She knew what she wanted. Nothing would replace that. “I have everything I want… And no one will ever take it from me again.” Wanda’s gaze shifted to Hayward, her stare unwavering. Challenging.

With a flick of her wrist all the weapons that were directed at her shifted to Hayward. Wanda walked away with contentment as she listened to Hayward’s panicked shouts to stand down.

The only thing that slowed her down was the sound of heavy footsteps rushing in her direction. “Wanda!” The surprise of hearing the familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

As soon as she turned she met the eyes of Steve Rogers. He stood a few feet away from her, his hands raised slightly as though were approaching a wounded animal. “Wanda, you have to stop.” Wanda’s eyes glistened with contained emotion. “Let’s talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about? Y/n is safe here.” She tilted her head a small frown on her lips. “Don’t you want that for her?”

Steve’s eyes flashed with indecision. Wanda knew he understood the desire to protect you more than anyone. “Not like this.”

There was a subtle shift in her posture as she began shutting down once again. The willingness for conversation ending. “This is the only way.”

“There is always another way.” Steve said determinedly. “Let everyone go. Let her go.”

Wanda’s jaw clenched at Steve’s words. The conversation was over.

Wordlessly she raised her hands, so they hovered before the barrier. “I’ll never let her go. Not again.” Before Steve could utter another would she opened the barrier and stepped through. When he rushed forward to follow after her, he was forcefully thrown back.

As he was standing, Natasha ran over. “What the hell just happened?”

Steve winced as he held his aching side, his eyes never leaving the place Wanda just walked through. “She didn’t listen. When I tried to follow her, she stopped me.”

Natasha stared up at the flickering red wall before her. “Let’s hope we get another chance.”

_______________

The walk home felt longer than usual.

Not that I can even remember how long the walk was before today, you thought to yourself in frustration.

Even though your heart had stopped racing, your thoughts were a disaster. The terror that you saw in Ellie’s eyes kept looping in your mind, leaving behind a residual fear that coursed through your veins. Nothing you did could shake the image as you felt your chest begin tightening in a panic and your palms begin sweating.

In a bid of desperation, you began tugging at the collar of your shirt as it became increasingly more difficult to take in air.

The unexpected sight of the twins and their heartbroken expression quickly grounded you as you managed to take in a few deep breathes. Your worries didn’t matter if one of your loved ones was in distress. “Bring him back, Mom.” You heard Charlie beg Wanda who was kneeled in front of them with a troubled expression.

Your brows furrowed as you came to a stop beside them. “Bring who back?” The twins rushed forward and hugged you as soon as they saw you. Wanda stood up, taking a shaky breath.

The question was answered when you looked over at a teary-eyed Agnes and a small bundle wrapped in her arms. Your heart ached at the sight. You kneeled down and held the twins as you attempted to push back your own tears.

Glancing up briefly, you couldn’t help but noticed Wanda’s pained expression. Her eyes were conflicted. Almost as if she wasn’t sure if she could join in the embrace with her family. The fear that was still racing in your mind froze the words of comfort on your lips.

Instead you dropped your gaze to the floor and pulled the twins in closer.

______________

It wasn’t until hours later that you were finally able to get a moment alone with your wife. You found her organizing as you made your way into the kitchen. “How are the twins?” She asked worriedly.

You pushed a weary hand through your hair as you contemplated your answer. “Well, heartbroken. That’s to be expected since they lost Sparky in such a tragic way… but they’ll be okay.” A tired sigh fell from your lips. “If I’m being honest, I’m a bit shaken up about it too. We only had him for a day, Wanda. How does that even happen?”

Wanda stepped closer to you as her hand hovered over your shoulder, hating the tension that lingered in the air. Hating the fact that she even felt hesitant to comfort you. She dropped her hand to her side. “I- Are you okay, Y/n?”

You leaned back against the counter as you finally lifted your eyes to meet her gaze. You ignored the question. “Something happened with Ellie today.” You could feel pressure begin building in your temples. “Something happened with the computer and-and I saw her.”

Wanda turned and busied herself with organizing the basket of toys. “Well, I’d hope so. She is technically your boss.” She said in a joking tone. Nothing about her posture indicated there was anything light-hearted about how she was feeling.

“No, I saw her. In my mind, not in Westview.” You paused slightly, and you noticed Wanda falter as well.

When Wanda turned to face you, there was confusion clouding her eyes. “Wait, how did you see her if-”

Her words didn’t register as you continued on. “Her personality had completely changed, Wanda. She said someone is in her mind - she was in pain.... Please, tell me you’re not doing this.”

A forced chuckle fell from her lips. “Y/n...” She walked over to you and gingerly took your hand. “Listen, can we just-”

“Share a kiss and move on to the next day?” You interjected with a quirked eyebrow. The frown on your face caused Wanda’s own smile to falter as she turned away from you again and moved out of the kitchen. “Turn in for the night so you can reset our world again?” You pressed as you followed after her.

Wanda spun around to face you, her eyes wide with disbelief. You continued before she could utter a sound. “You can’t control me like you control them, Wanda.”

Her eyes remained locked on yours and you watched her eyes flash challengingly. “Can’t I?”

Just then the sound of music filled the room around you. Wanda began walking away and your head fell as the lyrics floated from the radio. You braced yourself for what you could only imagine was to come next.

“Now that you've come back, turned night into day, I need you to stay.”

The soft music playing in the background lulled you into a trance. The safety you had created in this moment on the roof of the compound prevented the outside world from existing. On this roof all your worries faded away. All that existed was the music and-

“If you could have been anything, what would you have chosen?”

It was a surprise to hear her speak. Most of the time Wanda would just sit next to you without saying a word - always keeping you at arms distance. “I don’t know. This? Saving the world is a pretty sweet gig.” You mumbled distractedly in a playful manner as you watched the clouds move through the sky above you.

Wanda pushed your shoulder lightly in annoyance. You struggled to ignore the way your skin burned under her touch. “I’m being serious, Y/n.”

You smirked, eyes still locked skyward. “So am I.”

From the corner of your eye you could see her frown slightly. Guilt overcame you when you realized she was finally trying and you were shutting her down. “A writer.”

“What?”

“If I was normal and could have lived a normal life, I would have been a writer.” You explained, sitting up and crossing your legs. Wanda mirrored your position. “It would have been interesting to be a novelist with an editor and dealing with signing with publishers, you know? Or a news writer who creates interesting articles.”

Wanda played with her fingers. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

With a short shake of your head, you answered, “I wouldn’t say I am. Remember this is all hypothetical. The life I’d have if I was capable of living a normal life.” You finished with a light laugh.

While she didn’t laugh along with you, a small smile spread across Wanda’s features. The rare sight took your breath away. “It’s a shame we’re so far from normal.”

Your eyes stayed locked on hers as she tugged at her sleeves, her lips still quirked up faintly. You smiled at the sight. “I don’t know. It’s not too bad.”

“Stop, stop, STOP!” You shouted, the music abruptly shutting off and filling the room with static. “That’s- I don’t know what any of that is! It’s not mine!” You shouted, pressing your palms into your temples. Wanda’s eyes glimmered with an emotion you didn’t recognize

Another song began playing.

“Good things might come to those who wait, not for those who wait too late. We gotta go for all we know-”

“-just the two of-” Your singing was brought to an abrupt end when you saw flames coming from one of the pots on the stove. “No, no, no!”

A loud curse fell from your lips as the fire advanced even further from your attempts of salvaging the dish. “Y/n! What-” Hurried footsteps rushed into the kitchen of the compound. Wanda’s eyes widened when she took in the sight before her. Without a word she ran back out of the room.

“Thanks for all the help, babe!” You shouted sarcastically as you hurriedly began filling a bucket with water.

Before you could finish filling the bucket, Wanda ran back in with a fire extinguisher and doused the fire in seconds. “You were saying?” She turned to you with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk.

Sheepishly you rubbed the back of your neck. “Thanks.” You mumbled.

“When we get our own house, you’re not allowed to cook.” Wanda said with a laugh.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Our house?”

A deep pink hue spread across Wanda’s cheeks. “Well… yeah. Someday. If that’s what you want.”

Her words made your heart flutter. “I mean, we’ve only been dating half a year, but yeah... I see it too.” You smiled at her adoringly. “What else can you tell me about our future house?”

Wanda’s gaze bashfully fell to the floor, you found the action endearing. “It would be in a nice little neighborhood with friendly neighbors.”

The fact that she had thought of spending her future with you only made you fall all the more in love. “With plenty of space for our children to play.” You added.

Her cheeks flushed even more with your words and the smile that lit up her entire being was blinding.

You’d be glad if that was the last sight you ever saw.

“You picture having children with me?” She asked shyly. You nodded, and her smile grew even more. “How many do you imagine?”

“Two.” You replied easily. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of your future with Wanda as well.

She stepped forward and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. “That sounds perfect.”

“Enough!” You roared, pressing into your temples even more as you desperately took ragged breathes to calm yourself. The moments that were attached to these songs all flashing in your mind at once. You still didn’t recognize any of them.

The radio crumpled in on itself in your frustration.

Wanda’s eyes widened in surprise at your sudden outburst, it was clear that you were teetering dangerously on the edge of something she couldn’t control. “Y/n. I think you should get some rest. I’m going to go to bed. Come up when you’re ready.”

The racing of your mind worsened as you watched Wanda turn away. “No, Wanda, we’re not done here! What are all these things I’m seeing?”

Wanda’s brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “What things?”

You wearily approached your wife, feeling your palms begin sweating anxiously. You dug your nails into your palm to distract yourself from the fact. “I want to believe that this…” You gestured vaguely around the room. “Was all subconscious and you weren’t aware of what was happening.”

“Aware of what?” Wanda said in annoyance as she turned away.

Again, you followed after her. “What are all these moments? What does Ellie have to do with them? Ellie is a real person, Wanda, and she’s scared! Scared because you are controlling her!” Your chest tightened. “Why did I see her in my mind when I’ve never seen her before Westview?”

Wanda spun around to face you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She shouted back, matching your tone. Her frustration boiling over.

“Stop lying to me!” You screamed as the tightening in your chest became almost unbearable. The floor beneath you began to splinter and your hands tensed slightly.

The familiar red wisps began flowing from Wanda’s hands. “Y/n. This, all of this, is for us. For you. So, please, let me handle it.” She gritted out through clenched teeth as the frustration became more and more evident on her features.

“What are they, Wanda? Why can’t I remember anything before Westview? What even exists outside of Westview?” You demanded as the floor began to splinter even more.

The quiver of Wanda’s lips was subtle, but you caught it. “You don’t want to know, I promise you.”

Your hands flexed in frustration. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Wanda!”

Pain flooded Wanda’s eyes as she turned away from you. The fight in her fading. “You’ve never talked to me like this before.”

The breathes you were taking became more ragged. “Before what? I can’t remember my life outside of Westview! I don’t even know who I am!” You clutched desperately at your chest. In that moment you were sure that your heart was about to burst through your chest. “I’m scared, Wanda.”

Seeing the obvious distress you were in grounded Wanda as she cautiously made her way over to you, gently pulling your clenched hands away from your chest. “You are my wife. You are Billy and Charlie’s mother. Isn’t that enough?” She pleaded as she smoothed her thumbs over the back of your hands.

For a moment your heart rate slowed. You couldn’t tear your mind away from your troubled thoughts though. “If Ellie is under some trance does that mean others are as well?” You questioned in a more subdued tone.

Wanda tore her hands away from yours in disbelief as she stormed away from you. “Do you really think I am controlling everything?” Your brows furrowed as she pushed forward. “That I am somehow in charge of everybody in Westview? Walking their dogs? Taking out the trash? Getting them to work on time?”

An exasperated laugh fell from her lips as she pushed a hand through her hair. You worriedly watched the way tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know how any of this started in the first place.” Wanda insisted, almost as though she was pleading with you to believe her.

All you wanted to do was comfort her when you realized the turmoil and anxiety that she also seemed to be feeling.

You hesitantly kneeled before Wanda and placed a gentle hand on her leg. “Wanda, what you’re doing here is wrong.” She buried her face in her hands and your heart ached at the sight. “It’s wrong, but we can make it right.”

Before she could answer the doorbell sounded. Your hands fell away from her. “I didn’t do that.” You set your lips in a line but didn’t respond. “You don’t believe me.”

A heavy sigh fell from your lips. “Wanda, I want to, but… the timing of the interruption seems a little too perfect. Just like everything else.”

The doorbell sounded again, and you were sure you felt your heart break when you saw her blink back tears.

Without a word, she stood to answer the door. When you saw Wanda was frozen at the door, you cautiously stood and began making your way over to her. “Wanda, who-” you stopped short when you saw an unfamiliar man in the doorway.

“Long lost bro get to squeeze his stinkin’ sis to death or what?” The unfamiliar man asked playfully.

Wanda stared at him as if she was seeing a ghost. “Pietro?” You watched apprehensively as the two shared a hug.

When Pietro pulled away, he lightly nudged Wanda. “You caught a babe, sis. I’m impressed.” Wanda seemed to still be in too much shock to react as he leaned out the door, “Hey, kid! Come out! I think there might be someone you want to see here.”

A moment later a young girl wandered into the entry way. “Y/nn.” The girl quietly whispered and while you couldn’t seem to remember anything outside of Westview you knew there was only one person who called you that.

“Anna…” You breathed out through a choked gasp. Suddenly it felt like your legs stopped working as you fell to one knee and then the other. Wanda rushed over to you.

A soft gasp filled the quiet room. “She re-cast Pietro and brought back Anna.” Darcy said in shock as she watched the scene unfold on the small screen before her. “What a twist.”

“That’s not Anna.” Steve said as crossed his arms. “Anna was only six when Hydra took her from Y/n. This girl is a teenager. I helped Y/n bury her sister. I don’t know who this is.”

Natasha shook her head. “It looks like everything just got a lot more complicated.”

With a cough, Darcy nodded overzealously. “Right. This is a terrible situation.” She turned away from the two Avengers slightly. “Even if it makes good TV.” She added under her breath.

Both Steve and Natasha gave Darcy a disbelieving look as the credits rolled on the small screen before them.

And we have concluded with the 80s! A lot happened here but I'm actually really happy with how it turned out since I feel like it's beginning to take it's own shape. Chaos has ensued!

Annnnyyway... I hope you all enjoyed this part and are seeing the little depths of reasoning behind a lot of what Wanda is doing. As always, thoughts and comments always welcome! Reading your responses is always the highlight of my day. :)

P.s. if anyone wants to be on the taglist for "As it Was" let me know!

Taglist:

@theofficialzivadavid @tquick99 @wandamaximoffpuppy

#wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff fic #wanda maximov #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x y/n #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #mcu fanfiction #mcu x reader #mcu x you #mcu wandavision #wandavision

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for-fucks-sake-h · 3 years

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I’ll Be Home For Christmas

a/n: Hiiii! Huge thanks to @goldenbluesuit for organizing this 25 days of christmas fic challenge! So happy I could be a part of it! And thanks to my girls @andwhenshesays @oh-honey-styles for all the knives 😏 Enjoy babes and happy holidays! x

rated: m, mature || word count: 3.6k

You moved the same ornament for the third time in the last hour. It was Christmas Eve, and nearing midnight. You were trying not to get too antsy… but it wasn’t much use.

His day on set ran late, as it did most of the time. But tonight wasn’t “most nights”, or a FaceTime call that could be picked up whenever. He knew how much you loved the holiday, and how excited you were to share it with him. And he promised he’d be home for it.

He promised.

But he missed his flight, and now he was behind schedule. You knew what you were signing up for with him - the most sought after man you’d ever encountered. He was constantly being pulled every which way. And it didn’t bother you much. No, you really didn’t mind. You just wanted one night, one night where he was on time, when you didn’t get the “running late” text or “don’t wait up” call.

You’d gotten it though. You’d gotten the first call three hours ago… which was two hours after you had expected him to be home. And then another call every hour since. He’d asked you to play the song, keep it playing until he got there. But the minutes turned into hours with no sight of him. You kept waiting, hoping you’d hear the garage opening for him to pull his car inside, the jingle of the bell ornament on the door handle, the patter of his socked feet on the floor.

Instead, nothing but silence.

You were blowing out the cookie scented candle that was perched on the coffee table when your phone rang softly beneath a pillow on the couch. It was going to be the “go to bed without me, love” call, you could feel it.

“Hi,” you answered.

“Still playing the song?” His voice was deep, an easy tone that was saved just for you.

“Harry,” you sighed. “It’s almost midnight, babe.” Despite your words and disposition, Frank Sinatra was still serenading you with I’ll Be Home For Christmas from the record player in the corner of your living room.

“I know, love.” He sounded the slightest bit defeated. He tried, you know he did. “Just keep it on, yeah? Manifesting and what not.”

You smiled softly, but kept quiet. You loved him - you loved him so much. But you also felt like you missed him more than you physically got to love him.

“How is the storm there?” you asked softly, as if you hadn’t already checked the weather at JFK. As if you didn’t already know that inclement weather had his nonstop flight from LA to London changing to a connection in New York, that his flight was delayed, that it was more likely than not that he was stuck there.

“Not good, angel.”

You sighed. You knew, but it hurt to hear him say it.

“Don’t lose hope yet. Jeff’s working on it,” he added quickly.

“Don’t think Jeff is a miracle worker, H.”

Harry hummed softly. “He’s been known to work his magic on more than one occasion.”

You appreciated his optimism. And you hoped he was right. You hoped that Jeff could find some way to get him home. You just… wanted to wake up with him on Christmas morning. You felt selfish for it, but you also didn’t. Because it wasn’t selfish to want him around. Especially for the holidays. Isn’t that what most people wanted? To share the holidays with their loved ones? And who did you love more than him?

“Think I’m gonna head to bed,” you solemnly spoke.

“Okay, love. Just… humor me, okay? Keep the song on.”

***

The slightest tickle against your cheek pulled you from sleep. You could smell his cologne before you even opened your eyes, and you could have sworn it was a dream. The softest touch of his fingers grazing your cheek and jaw, his breath against your temple before you felt the soft press of his mouth against your skin.

“You kept it on,” he stated softly, just before he tapped pause on your phone laying on the nightstand.

“Course,” you whispered, eyes still closed as his lips teased down your temple and across your cheek.

You shifted until you could blindly wrap your arms around his shoulders, his face tucking perfectly into your warm neck.

“Missed you,” he offered quietly, the syllables pressing into your skin to travel down your spine.

You squeezed him tighter, inhaling his scent that mixed with the murkiness from the snow. “How’d you get here?” you asked, your own lips pressing against his neck.

“Told you Jeff had some magic left.”

You squeezed again, his own arms tightening around your waist. “Remind me to send him an edible arrangement.”

He chuckled warmly, his breath cascading across your neck and down your chest, his lips puckering against your skin. He pulled back abruptly, his hand coming up to cup the side of your neck where his lips just were. The early morning light was just barely coming through the shades, illuminating the room in the softest yellow glow.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, his thumb caressing your cheek repeatedly.

“I missed you too.” You pulled him in by his open dress shirt, his lips meeting yours instantly. They were warm and full, emotion in every caress. You missed his kiss; the way you could feel closer to him just by having his lips on yours.

You reached up to push your fingers through his hair, ready to feel the soft, thick strands - only to be met with the hard resistance of hair gel. You were the one pulling back this time, catching a glimpse of his tired eyes and puffy mouth just before you took in the rest of his appearance - a white button down that was undone as far as you could see, a white tank top beneath, and an opened bow tie hanging from his collar.

You leaned over the bed to see black dress pants with suspenders hanging from his hips. He was perched on one knee, his other foot planted on the floor, his knee spread wide to accommodate his close proximity to your bedside.

“You’re still in wardrobe?”

He snickered softly. “Ran out of there so quickly I forgot my clothes. Just bolted as soon as I could.”

You smiled with him, pulling him in again by his open shirt. “Well, you look amazing. Only you could look like this after a night of traveling.”

He did look amazing. And felt amazing. Everything about him reeled you in. Your time apart only heightened how much you loved him - and needed him.

His lips traveled down your jaw and neck, sucking softly with each kiss. Every move of his mouth made your skin tingle in its wake, begging for more.

“God, you’re so warm,” he murmured against your skin, his arms wrapping around you once more as his mouth made its way down your chest to kiss and suck the swell of your breast. “And naked,” he chuckled softly, pulling the blanket down to expose more of your skin. “I missed you so much.”

Your breath shuddered when he took hold of your thighs, turning your body on the bed until he could lift one of your knees up and over his head. His hands caressed the outsides of your thighs, tugging you gently so that your ass was resting at the edge of the bed, your knees spread open for him to slot between.

Your chest rose and fell harshly as the cool air of the room hit your center. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, watching as he looked down between your thighs, knowing you ached just for him. His hair was perfectly coiffed, and if it wasn’t for his disheveled shirt and the utter longing written all over his face, you would have thought he was unphased.

But then his breath caught, and the smallest, moaning sigh slipped from his lips as his hands squeezed your thighs once more, his need palpable.

“Fuck. You’re perfect.” His voice was barely a whisper, and it made you clench down around nothing.

You sucked in a breath. “Please, H.”

“Just a taste,” he promised, flicking his eyes up to yours for a brief moment before returning to your core. “Just need one taste.”

One of his hands smoothed down and under your thigh, his fingers momentarily caressing along the softest part of your inner thigh. He was careful when his fingers skimmed your outermost lips, a ghost of a touch that resembled the faintest tickle, but had your skin burning nonetheless.

A soft moan escaped your bitten lip when he spread you open fully, his intake of breath at the sight of you - glistening with need - was so palpable you felt like you could feel his tongue before it actually touched you.

“Harry,” you sighed, desperation threaded through your tone.

“I know, love. Can see how bad you want it.”

You moaned softly, your hips arching towards him more; a wordless beg.

“Missed me too, huh?”

You didn’t say anything - couldn’t really, not with the way you could feel his words caress the most sensitive part of you. His breath was so warm it was shocking, your knees jerking slightly against your will.

“Be good, angel.” His words were a warning, but his tone was a challenge. And his actions - the way he smoothed his first and middle finger along either side of your clit, so close yet so far from where you needed him - well, that made you think he was just waiting for you to make the next move. Knowing Harry, he liked the beg. He liked it when you were needy and gasping for him. But he also liked it when you showed that you couldn’t take it anymore.

So in a moment of brash decision, you went with the latter, reaching down to take hold of his matted hair and pull him closer to your core. His responding chuckle was deep and laced with arousal, and his breath hit you like a fan on a hot summer day. He hummed from the back of his throat, the softest touch of his lips grazing along your sensitive clit.

“Gonna show me you missed me?” He didn't pull away, simply welcomed the burn at his roots from your tightly fisted hand, all while the tip of his middle finger grazed just barely along your clit. “Want me to lick here?”

“Yes,” you whined, tugging on his hair once more.

That was the thing about Harry; he liked to tease, but he didn’t prolong it. Deep down you knew that he wanted to lick into your warm center just as much as you wanted him to. And he knew it too.

He circled your clit slowly, his shaky breath meeting your wetness in a huff as he dipped the tip of his tongue into you, his nose brushing against the hood of your clit just enough to have you arching into his touch. It was brief, but it had your core clenching on its own accord and your hand tightening in his again even more. You weren’t sure how it didn’t hurt him - you were insistent, squeezing and tugging relentlessly. But you also knew he liked the little zap of pain that zipped down his spine when you pulled hard enough, or dug your nails into his back, or squeezed his neck just right.

When he suctioned his mouth over your clit with a groan, the warmth encasing you as his tongue drilled against your clit over and over again, you couldn’t help your neck from snapping back and your legs widening that tiny bit more for him, ready to absorb every ounce of pleasure he gave. It wasn’t something you thought about, but something you had noticed over time. The way you subconsciously wanted to be as exposed to him as possible, yearning to feel him fully, in every sense.

“Ah, my god,” you gasped, lifting your head to look down at him and watch the pleasure grace his features as he pleasured you.

His hair was disheveled where it stuck out between your fingers, his eyebrows furrowed deeply as his eyes - hazy and fucked out - flicked up to meet yours. His nose pressed against your mound, the smallest crinkle forming on the bridge as he flattened his tongue on your clit more, warm and strong in every stroke.

“I need… more,” you breathed. “I want you inside me.”

He quickly turned to bite into your inner thigh, the zip of pain mixing with your pleasure as his index and middle finger teased along your entrance before slowly pushing into you. “Not what I meant,” you whined despite your core pulsing around his digits.

“Wanna taste you come, angel.” He pumped his fingers slowly, curling up to brush along your g-spot, his breath ricocheting against your clit. “Can I? Will you let me taste it, love?”

Your back arched off the bed, tilting your hips towards him more just as he licked over your clit again. “Fuck,” you moaned, your hips finding a rhythm with his hand and mouth until you were practically fucking his face, pushing down onto his fingers with every pump.

And his groan - the sounds he made as he licked you, his fingers a steady pressure, his other hand gripping your hip tightly - it all worked together to bring you right to the edge, pulling his hair tighter when he had you free falling with a persistent stroke of his tongue. The vibration of his moans only added to your pleasure, shockwaves shooting throughout your body as your orgasm rolled through you. It was intense, overwhelming, exhilarating.

“God, Harry,” you sighed as he eased his fingers from your core, his tongue quickly dipping into you instead, tasting your arousal; warm and heady on his tongue.

“That’s my girl,” he spoke with his cheek against your inner thigh, turning to plant a hot kiss there. “Needed that as much as you did.”

His words sent a shiver across your skin at the exact moment that he kissed his way over the top of your thigh. You sat up as quickly as you could, still shaky and fuzzy headed, but eager for more of him.

A gentle tug of his hair had his mouth landing on yours, warm and wet and tasting of you. His tongue was welcomed, smoothing over yours in a quick pass as a soft moan slipped up his throat. His arm wrapped around you while his other hand found its way into the back of your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back for him.

“I want you so bad I can barely breathe,” he murmured into your neck. You could envision the way his lips curved around the words, feeling every movement on your skin. One of his hands lifted to tug you back by your hair, his glossy eyes meeting yours with an insufferable amount of need. “Will you have me?”

You reached down to frantically tug on his shirt, pulling it from where it was still sloppily tucked into his dress pants. “Fuck. Please,” you rushed as you tugged open the last button and pushed the shirt from his shoulders, wanting him just as desperately.

He pulled you in by the back of your neck, mouth meeting yours fervently, his breathing ragged as he fumbled with his belt and button, pushing his suspender clad pants down just enough. You barely separated when he eagerly pulled his tank top off, his hands quickly finding purchase on your hips as soon as it was discarded. You smoothed your palms over his chest, nails grazing against his collarbones before digging into the tops of his pecs, feeling the way his heart shuddered in his chest.

No sooner was he grasping you tighter and pulling you into him fully; your ass slipping off the edge of the bed and into his waiting lap. You gripped onto his shoulders tighter and all at once he was reaching down to guide his length into you, both of your panting breaths hitting each other’s lips over and over.

“Oh, god,” you shuddered as he filled you, rock solid and almost too warm as you eased onto his waiting length. Your hips moved against his methodically, as if from memory, with no justification from your mind whatsoever, until you were sat fully, his tip prodding the deepest parts of you.

Harry's breath hit your neck first, a groan following close behind to paint your skin in a warm, delicious hue of gold. “Christ,” he exhaled against your clammy skin, pulling you impossibly close, your chests and pelvis pressed tightly together. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Take me so well, love.”

You hummed in response, the sound barely squeaking out between your parted lips as your core clenched around him in a vice grip. An experimental tilt of your hips had your clit brushing against the neat patch of hair at the top of his groin, a sharp contrast to the absolute fullness of having him inside you after so long. And then his hands were guiding you, practically pumping your hips onto his length as a moan ripped from your throat.

“God, fuck me,” he groaned with his face tucked into your neck.

“You feel so good.” Your voice was a whine and a plea at the same time, intent on absorbing everything he gave. He did miss you, every part of you felt his longing rippling off his skin with every move he made; every pump of his hips, every swipe of his tongue against your skin, every squeeze of his hands into your flesh, everything cementing the overpowering feeling of need coursing through your veins.

You moaned against his throat, nipping at his flushed skin as he fucked into you at a deafening pace. And then he was pushing you away from him, a pathetic sound leaving your throat when his cock slipped from you as he pushed you up onto the bed. You blinked heavily, dazed, before you were grappling to get a hold on him to pull him closer. His arm wrapped under your waist, his mouth falling onto yours with a sigh as he shimmied you both up and up, until you were both sprawled out on the bed. His movements were rushed, flustered, more than eager to slip back into you. His weight was overwhelming, pressing you further into the mattress as his tongue teased into your mouth, your taste still prominent.

You both released matching sighs when you reached down to guide him back to you, his hips sinking into yours in one delicious stroke. His hands found your neck, cupping the sides of your throat just enough to make your skin burn hotter as he found his rhythm.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your fingers immediately finding your clit as fire shot through your veins.

He was intoxicating, and chasing your high with him even more so. You couldn’t get enough. He made you feel like every single inch of your skin could ignite in flames at any given moment, and he was more than willing to succumb to the burn.

Harry grunted roughly. “Y’gonna make me cum,” he warned in his deep, honeyed voice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded with barely any breath. His strokes were relentless, and you matched his rhythm as you played with your clit, the nails of your opposite hand digging in the plush skin of his ass cheek. “I’m so close, don’t stop.”

“Won’t- won’t stop,” he grunted out between clenched teeth. “So fucking wet, love.” You could hear the way his skin slapped against yours, the sounds your bodies made so filthy and beautiful it overwhelmed you. “Come on, cum again for me.”

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers speeding up as Harry hit the same spot in you over and over again, his thrusts deliberate and precise despite his own impending release.

“Fuck, please love,” he begged hotly against your mouth, his hips staggering into yours for those last few thrusts, his fingers tightening on your throat just enough to tip you over the edge.

And when you fell, oh when you fucking fell, you floated up into the air first, suspended at the very top of your orgasm for a moment before you were toppling down the side of a mountain. Your legs shook with it, fingers digging into his skin even more, crying out into his mouth as your body convulsed. All it took was three more rough jolts of Harry’s hips into yours to have him slamming into the hilt, stilling with his hips tight against yours as rope after rope of his orgasm filled you, groaning desperately into your mouth.

He all but collapsed on top of you, his face falling into your neck as you both tried to catch your breath. “Your pussy feels like it has its own pulse,” he remarked breathlessly into your clammy skin before he slowly pulled his length from you.

Your legs felt like they were still vibrating as your chest heaved against his, your arms and legs falling out widely against the mattress, Harry’s practically doing the same. You could feel the way his release slowly seeped from your core, too exhausted and exhilarated to care.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” you sighed, a lazy smile spreading across your face.

“Mhm,” he agreed with a chuckle, lifting his head to find your lips and taste you fully. He rolled, pulling you with him so that you were both laying on your sides across the end of the bed. “Let’s shower,” he murmured as he brushed your hair back, his happiness seeping through his tone, “and then we can do presents.”

You nodded with your eyes still closed, pushing your face into his neck more as you scratched up and down his back, breathing in his warmth and love.

You may have missed him a disgusting amount while he was gone - but he always found his way home.

***

[ masterlist ] [ talk to me ]

#ibhfc

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billiejean485 · 2 years

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I need to ask. Why does this Senti thing bother you so much?

Yk, at this point I realized I don't even know myself.

At first, before even Ephemeral, I thought it would mean that Adrien is not a human and that they would go down the 'yeah but he's still so similar to a human!' road. Which I couldn't stomach.

Okay, now I've accepted that he is a human but.... I guess I can't fully wrap my brain around it, you know?

As a 5-year-old I easily could, because the scientific part of it would just fly over my head. I'm freakin' 30. I am doing a massive research for my own books so I could make animals that walk and talk like humans absolutely acceptable by the sci-fi community, even though I'm not even into sci-fi. I wanna make it as realistic as possible.

Then there is that 'I am allergic to magic' part too, and that now combined with ethical dilemmas of acting like a god and creating living, feeling and sentient beings out of nothing, mostly as a tool, and then being like: "Okay, I won't be a merciless arshole, of course I'm gonna let it live after I use it."

Believe me when I tell you, I am absolutely livid about the whole thing. Chat Noir has been steadily growing on me since the first episode, and I finally got enough inspiration to sit down and write a fic (I even had ideas for more, but goodbye to that for now).

I absolutely loved this show; I loved the very idea for that Love Square; for everything that was happening and leading towards the reveal - but this was a turn to a dark and bumpy side road I never would have predicted.

Don't get me wrong - if Adrien was a disabled person or was born in absolutely any way known to man in our real world, I would've loved him 10 times more. But this.... Just playing with the very fabric of a being..... It makes me shudder.

Not to mention he never had full free will, something that is crucially important for a human character. Being so abused that you start feeling that you can't do anything about it and actually having your will rendered uncapable to even psychologically respond somewhere inside of you to what you've been told to do.... It can be a parallel, but it's not the same.

I half-broke when I saw Adrien obviously switching to 'puppet-mode' back in Epheneral, and I'm gonna break entirely if I see him completely will-less like Sentibug was for example, the moment Marinette took the Amok in her hands.

Adrien is not who we thought he is. We don't know how many decisions he made on his own in his life and how many Emilie and Gabriel made for him. Maybe Emilie really wished for a free-willed boy and wanted to watch him grow into whatever he chooses. But we know for a fact that Gabriel and Felix's father are not like that. Everything is a question at this point.

The perfection Marinette fell in love with could have been fabricated. Hundreds of fans have went crazy for 'an image of perfection', how Gabriel called him. We don't know if Adrien truly was obedient and not just made to do things, or even made to be obedient. Maybe his story is yet to begin; in which case you can throw everything you know about Chat Noir into the trashcan.

... I don't know how the creators have handled this. There are so many things that could go wrong in the writing past this point. Not to mention that Adrien's existence will be hanging by a thread - onto the existence of the ring(s), and Felix already has one of them.

It's all just anxiety inducing, and very little pleasure is coming from watching this. But I'm too hooked to what has been to stop because of all the things that might happen.

..... I'm glad I'm not watching this as a young adult or a child. I know for a fact that it would've absolutely traumatized me for life.

#ask billiejean485 #sentiadrien #senti adrien #sentimonster #sentimonster theory #sentimonster adrien #adrien agreste #chat noir #cat noir #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug season 4 #BillieJean485 #BillieJean485 answers

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thedragonnerd · 3 years

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Fic: Love Languages

Headcanon suggested by a lovely anon, which spawned into a fic. Read on Ao3 or under the cut.

Words of affirmation

Receiving compliments or words of encouragement are not uncommon for Namaari. She has gone through life aiming to be the best at everything she does – the best leader, the best warrior, the best Princess – and along with her success come compliments on her fighting techniques, her decision-making skills, and even her ability to look formidable in her formal attire.

As royalty, people lavish her with praises when they see an opportunity to get into her good graces, despite the obvious lack of sincerity behind their words, and it tires her to deal with fawning citizens. She loves her people, but she’d rather they’d love her back truly; false words mean nothing.

Chief Virana does not give out compliments easily, and is often faster to critique than to encourage. Namaari pretends her mother’s approval is nothing more than something important to receive from her Chief, but in reality, she craves hearing soft words such as ‘well done, Morning Mist’, whenever she is lucky enough to have them bestowed upon her.

As she grows up, she decides that sweet words are nice to have, but ultimately unnecessary – nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement is needed, before one can place it aside and move on to more important things. And then Raya comes back into her life.

Raya, who can flirt endlessly with elaborate innuendos until Namaari rolls her eyes at her ridiculousness. Raya, who is quite happy to press herself closer than absolutely necessary in their sparring sessions, just to set out some unspoken physical challenge.

And yet, when it comes to providing a genuine compliment, Raya practically freezes.

‘I like…like your hair,’ she mumbles one day to Namaari, glancing off to the side in order to avoid making eye contact. Her cheeks are flushed bright red, even though earlier in the day she had made a lewd comment about a sword which didn’t even have her blinking.

For some reason, Raya’s lack of suaveness when it comes to providing true compliments delights Namaari, and she hoards each instance close to her heart, happy in the knowledge that every word spoken was genuine in its meaning.

In return, she starts to gift Raya with compliments of her own.

For Raya is not used to receiving compliments, at least not in a long time. Her Ba used to provide encouragement and compliments often, but that was many years ago, and now he hesitates to put them into words sometimes, unsure of how this new dynamic works when he’s looking at a grown-up daughter rather than a small child.

Namaari has no difficulty in sharing them though.

‘You look very beautiful today,’ she tells Raya softly one evening, when they are having dinner. Raya stammers out some incomprehensible response, and spends the rest of the meal staring down at her bowl, occasionally darting her eyes over to Namaari.

‘I love that hairstyle on you,’ Namaari says to her a few days later, watching as Raya braids her hair back with expert precision.

‘Umm…thanks?’ Raya squeaks.

‘Your techniques were excellent today,’ Namaari informs her after a sparring session. This time, Raya just nods, and clears her throat before trying to awkwardly change the subject. Namaari can still see the smile on her lips though.

Eventually, Raya becomes better at both giving and receiving words of affirmation. Namaari learns how true compliments can be more meaningful than expected.

It isn’t the most important aspect of their relationship, but they like to encourage each other all the same.

Acts of service

Raya sees how much of a burden Namaari perpetually takes onto her shoulders, in her duties for Fang. She is so focused on helping her people rebuild and expand, or going away on diplomatic missions to help form better relations with the other lands, that she forgets to take a moment to breath sometimes.

Raya wants to take some of her stress away, by helping her carry out some of her duties or at least be involved in organizing certain aspects of the expansion projects, but she discovers quickly that Namaari is somewhat of a perfectionist. It is almost more stressful for her to find herself out of the loop or uninformed about decisions, than it would be to allow her undertake the duties in the first place, and so Raya finds it more helpful to just back off from the work unless asked to provide support.

It’s also a way for Namaari to feel as if she is atoning for her past actions. Raya wishes she wouldn’t feel the need to do so, but it is something they’ve argued about before, and they always end up stuck in a perpetual loop.

One of the ways Raya can help however, is with her cooking.

Namaari is an awful cook (something Raya unfortunately discovers herself with one ill-fated meal), but she is fascinated by watching Raya conjure something up in the kitchen.

Gone are the days of living off jackfruit jerky; with so many fresh and interesting ingredients at her disposal, and with the occasional reminders from Ba when she is unsure about something, Raya makes a whole array of different foods over the months.

It’s one of the best ways of getting Namaari to relax, Raya finds. Every mealtime when Raya is behind the pot, Namaari will abandon whatever work she is doing, and will sit and watch Raya finish making the dishes. They’ll always eat it together, and for a short while, Raya can feel the stress lift free from Namaari as she laughs over Raya’s words and enjoys good food.

Gifts

The first gift Namaari ever gave Raya has almost become a symbol for their entire complicated history. It represents new friendship, betrayal, and after so many years…forgiveness and a fresh start.

Namaari gives it back to her not long after the return of Kumandra, before she can second-guess herself.

‘It was a gift,’ she says, half-expecting it to be thrown back in her face. But Raya runs her finger gently over the surface of the dragon pendant, and then sends her a small smile. The next day, Namaari sees it hanging around her neck once more.

Once they start dating properly, Namaari can’t get it out of her mind how much the gift seemed to mean to Raya, both times.

‘She still doesn’t have that many personal belongings,’ Namaari informs Sisu, as an explanation as to why she was forcing the dragon to accompany her around endless market stalls in Talon, looking for the perfect gift for Raya. ‘I figure it’s because she was on the move so much in life, she couldn’t carry a lot.’

Sisu makes an ‘mmm’ sound, clearly not buying her reasoning completely, but allows the topic to drop when she’s distracted by shiny objects at the next stall.

Namaari finds a small knife that can be strapped to a wrist and slipped up the sleeve. She knows how much Raya prefers to be carrying at least one weapon with her at all times, and this would be perfect for diplomatic meetings – subtle, and easy to hide. And indeed, Raya wears it continuously after receiving it as a gift.

On another visit to another market, this time in Spine, Namaari spies a comb with a beautifully carved handle.

‘For your hair,’ she says in an attempt to be casual, thrusting it awkwardly in Raya’s direction that evening. Raya loves it, and it is indeed used every night before bed to comb out her braids.

Every time Namaari has to travel on diplomatic missions, she now ensures that she brings back something small for Raya.

‘I love the gifts,’ Raya tells her one day. ‘But I love even more how it shows you’re thinking of me when you’re away.’

One evening, as they are getting ready for bed, a small golden ring drops out of Namaari’s pocket by mistake.

‘Is…is that my old hair band?’ Raya asks, peering over the side of the bed as Namaari scoops it up in a hurry. ‘I thought I’d lost that years ago.’

‘I found it,’ Namaari says defensively, clutching it tight in her fist. ‘I guess…I never asked you if you wanted it back?’

Raya shakes her head with a smile, but the following evening, she steps up behind Namaari, sliding her hand into her pocket. Namaari watches as she pulls out the hair band and threads it onto a small gold chain.

From then on, they both wear a gift from the other around their necks.

Physical touch

Sometimes, everything can become overwhelming, the past traumas so great that it seems suffocating. And in that darkness, sometimes the gentle touch of another is the only thing keeping the world grounded.

Raya goes six long years without receiving a hug. At the time, she doesn’t see it as a big deal – she’s grown up fast, and learnt that the world isn’t the welcoming place her father once hoped it could be. Even moreso, her Ba was the last one to hug her, and she doesn’t mind keeping it that way.

Now though, she finds comfort in the small touches. It’s in the featherlight way Namaari’s nose brushes against her neck as they curl up together in bed, waiting for the morning sun to rise. It’s in the gentle trail of Namaari’s fingers across her back, as they stand talking to others, and Namaari absentmindedly reaches out for her. It’s in the soft kiss against her temple, when Namaari has to go back to work after lunch.

Occasionally, she will need to be encompassed by that comfort, and in this moment, she will go and find Namaari, stepping closer until her forehead rests on her shoulder. No matter what she was previously doing, Namaari will pause everything, wrapping her arms tightly around Raya, and they stand there until Raya can feel as if she can breathe again.

Namaari has a habit of falling too far into her own mind sometimes. She is an outwardly composed and pragmatic individual, but internally, all sorts of doubts and guilt still plague her, and there are days where she can’t shake off the feeling that she isn’t doing enough in her life to atone for her past, or that she is a fraud who has no right in stepping up and trying to lead her people when her previous actions cost them so much.

It’s difficult for her to ask for help in these moments. Raya learns instead to notice the signs of a bad day, or whenever Namaari gets trapped into a downwards spiral, and she will take Namaari by the hands and sit them somewhere quiet.

There they can actually talk, and sometimes Namaari feels comfortable enough to share her fears. But the most important thing, Raya finds, is to slide an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in tight and peppering her cheek and bare shoulder with small kisses.

Raya refuses to let her go until she sees at least one small smile.

Quality time

In the early days of the relationship, there is still so much separation between the two of them. Raya is in Heart, helping her Ba welcome back everyone to their lands, fixing up the buildings, ensuring the harvest gets started…There are so many jobs to do, and Raya knows Namaari is undergoing the same issues back in Fang, coupled with an expansion of their kingdom.

On top of all of this, there are endless council meetings and diplomatic missions, so if it isn’t Namaari being busy with politics, it is Raya, much to her annoyance.

Whenever they do get to spend time together, they ensure no minute is wasted. They have meals together, and spar together, and find all sorts of random ways to entertain themselves. Namaari loves to go out in the evenings and watch the night sky, attempting to teach the constellations to Raya; but Raya decides that these constellations are ridiculous, and so they create their own. Raya meanwhile loves to go for hikes in the woods, dragging Namaari along to discover new plants and wildlife, and occasionally climbing the trees.

They both love to sit in bed next to each other, quietly reading their books, or discussing their day. Sometimes, Raya will lie sideways on the bed, her stomach across Namaari’s legs and her arms hanging over the edge, so she can carve pieces of wood into intricate shapes, with Namaari reads out loud for the both of them.

Even after several years, and living together permanently, Raya finds herself reflecting on the fact that she never gets bored as long as she’s with Namaari.

They are currently lying in a field somewhere in the depths of Heart land, enjoying the sun shining onto their faces and the grass tickling their skin. She lazily wiggles her hand until it makes contact with Namaari.

‘Dep la?’ Raya whispers, and Namaari grunts in response. ‘You don’t get bored with me, right?’

Namaari merely shuffles closer without even opening an eye, resting her cheek against Raya’s shoulder.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she mumbles, and she’s curled up so close that Raya can feel the vibrations of her voice on her skin.

‘Didn’t think so,’ Raya says in satisfaction. They continue to enjoy the peace.

#rayaari #raya and the last dragon #raya and namaari #ratld #raya #namaari #rayaari fic #rayamaari #this was supposed to be a headcanon #but it all was just like 'hello must get out of the brain'#some fluff to keep you guys happy #while i work on the concept au angst

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stephspurs · 3 years

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A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Hi besties!! here is the long awaited part 9!! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did whilst writing it!! a big thank you goes to @emwritesfootball for proofing this part & making sure its up to scratch for all of you lovely readers! Let me know what you think babes hehehe!! Love Always, Steph xx

Part 9. | nona parte

word count; 2006. writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter. next update; Friday 13/08 5pm AEST. Updates are three times/week (Monday, Wednesday & Friday)! tags (as requested by users); @footballffbarbiex @obsesseds-world @abysshaven link to fic masterlist here

The season kicked off in the middle of August and Amelia had been more than prepared for her first match in the premier league. She spent day after day analysing the players in the first team, introducing them to the magical world of rehearsed tactics. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for the brilliant girl; she had to learn how to implement the plays coupled with the speed of the game. But so far, so good. Chelsea have been winning and her plays have been working, the boys were getting the hang of it - no matter how apprehensive they were at the start.

Jorgi played a big part in demonstrating the success of the play, performing best in his midfield role to guide the game and direct the change in play to his teammates. By the time they had played a few fixtures, they had really gotten the hang of her approach to set pieces and began to put their trust in the young girl. They were starting to see results and wanted to keep the winning streak going while they could. The fourth fixture in the new season was one that Amelia was looking forward to, personally: Chelsea v Aston Villa, Stamford Bridge, 3pm kick off.

Jack and Amelia had grown closer and closer, FaceTime‘dates’ as Jack would call them, a weekly occurrence. She had spoken to him just as much as she had spoken to Jorgi - and they were still carpooling to and from Cobham together. Her friendship with Jack was full of easy conversation and flirtatious banter, teetering over the line of friendship but being that they were kept physically apart, the friendship line remained largely intact. One person that had drifted even further away from her, despite her believing that it couldn't be possible, was Ben Chilwell.

Every time she walked into a room that he was in, if he didn't have to be there he would immediately leave. Amelia didn’t understand what the problem was. Yeah sure, they were flirty together in Mykonos but they never crossed a line together, no matter how many times the wine went straight to their heads. If anything, she should be the one running away from him. She was the one who sent him a couple of messages here and there that he just opened. She spoke to Mason, Jorgi, Billy Gilmour - who was another one of the boys she had developed a strong friendship with - and all of them insisted they didn’t understand their friend's strange behaviour.

On the evening before the Villa match, Amelia was laying on the couch in her townhouse binge watching yet another docu-series on Netflix when her doorbell rang. This was strange, most people that came past the house these days had their own set of keys (her parents, her brother, Jorgi) or they texted to let her know they were outside. Her townhouse was three stories high, so if she was upstairs on the top level vacuuming the chances of her hearing the door were slim to none. Either way, she got up off of her loveseat and walked to the front door, peeking through the peephole - she lived in London, alone, she wasn’t opening that door until she knew exactly who was on the other side.

______________________________________________________________

“To what do I owe this visit, Benjamin?”

“Hi, Mils.”

“Wow, nickname basis already - I thought only friends called each other by their nicknames.”

“Did you think we weren’t friends?”

“Well, friends don’t treat friends the way you’ve treated me since the evening I left Mykonos.”

With a sigh, Ben looked down at his feet. I did feel a small bit of guilt for that one, but he deserved it. Continuing to find the cracks in the marble step of my door’s threshold more interesting than facing my expression, I took a step back and forced Ben to look up at me.

“Well, are you going to come inside? I’ve got the kettle on and a really good series going that I would like to get back to.”

With a charming smile, Ben took a step forward, took the door handle out of my hand and shut it behind him. Slipping out of his shoes, he followed me down the short hallway to my kitchen and pulled a seat out at the island bench.

“So, really now - why are you here? Nervous about tomorrow?” I questioned as I took two cups out of the cupboard and brewed one tea for him, one coffee for me. 3 years in Italy and coffee in the evening became the norm for me. It was my comfort drink.

“I’m here to apologise for the way I've been acting towards you for the past six weeks. I’ll be honest, I don’t know why I’ve been like this”

“Cut the crap Ben, you know exactly why you’ve been doing it. Now tell me the truth or, as far as I'm concerned, you never came here tonight and tomorrow we will be back to how we were yesterday - you running away from me and me pretending that it doesn't bother me. Even though all it does is bother me.” Not expecting that outburst to come out of me, and to be fair neither did I, Ben looked me in the eye and stayed silent, choosing his next words carefully.

“The first time I saw you, the night you told your brother off in the rec room at St. George’s Park, I thought you were the most determined woman I had ever seen in my life. Not scared of the 30 grown men who were very obviously all on the same side, literally. Then the next time I saw you, after the final match, how you comforted your brother when you were at the highest of highs and he was lower than low, I thought you had more compassion than every person in that stadium put together.”

“When you came to SGP again the next day and delivered the tactical analysis of the game you won, I thought ‘wow she is so intellectually brilliant’. And then when you turned up in Mykonos, all sunkissed and relaxed, sitting next to me and involving me in conversation with my pals but making me feel like you wanted my contribution...I remember it like it was yesterday. Amelia, you smiled at me and my heart did a somersault in my chest.”

“You shut me down outside the club that evening, and when we came back inside I caught the end of your conversation with Jorgi about Fede. Putting two and two together, I understood all that I needed to. The few days after that we carried on like normal. Then, you left and I didn't know if I would ever see you again to be fair. When you messaged me, I got too nervous to reply because I didn't know how to just be your friend. And then when I thought I had finally gotten through a day without thinking about my friend's little sister, you showed up at Cobham as my tactical analyst. I didn’t know what to do Mils, I don't know how to be just your friend when I've had nothing but unfriendly thoughts about you since the first time I saw you command that room of men you had never met in your life.”

The whistle of the kettle ringing out behind me is the only noise filling the kitchen. I’m staring at Ben; he’s staring back at me with nothing but truth behind his eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

“Benj, what you were feeling, what you are feeling is totally valid and I never want you to feel like you can’t share those feelings with me. You’re right, Mykonos changed things for me. What you were feeling was reciprocated, but Ben, I was going back to Italy. At that exact moment, I had no idea I would end up here. I thought I was enjoying a break before another high-intensity season in Italy. I wanted to kiss you so badly at the club that night, but I knew it would only hurt you. I’m used to being hurt, it's a feeling I've grown to expect. But you, you’re too pure to experience the kind of hurt that comes along with knowing you’re making a bad decision, but doing it anyway, because I wanted to be selfish with your heart.”

“Amelia, can I ask you something?” I nodded, holding my breath as I braced myself for the question poised behind his eyes. “If you were in the mood to be selfish, what would have come from that evening?”

“I can probably show you better than I can tell you,”

Walking around the island bench, I pulled the back of Ben’s chair slightly so he pivoted towards me. Standing in between his tracksuit-covered legs, I ran both hands up his arms until I got to his neck and finally beside his face. Threading my fingers through his hair, I pulled his face towards mine and our lips met. It was as soft as a butterfly kiss but as powerful as anything I had ever felt before. His hands wound around my waist and settled themselves on the small of my back before travelling down and giving my backside a gentle caress, forcing a laugh out of my lips and straight into his mouth. Pulling away slightly, so we both had a bit of breathing space to sort out our lightheadedness, Ben spoke his next words very softly.

“I need you to promise me something, Amelia.You need to promise me that you will stop thinking about my heart before your own. I am old enough to make my own decisions, and the decision to ignore you for these past few weeks has been one of the worst ones I've made in a really long time. But I did make it, and it was because I got scared, and I hurt you, and I am so sorry. The decision to come here tonight however, I feel like it more than makes up for that one very very stupid one”

“You’re such a smooth talker, Benj.”

“Say my name again, Mils, you don’t know what it does to me.”

“Down boy, your tea is going cold and I need to find out who killed Sophie in West Cork.Meet me in the lounge.”

A few hours had passed and it was nearing 10pm, well past Amelia’s bed time, but Ben was still sitting on her couch, feet on the table (despite her telling him to remove them) and arm around the back of her shoulders.

“Chilly, I don’t want you to think I'm not interested in you because I so am, I just don’t want to rush into anything. What I left behind in Italy was complicated and heavy; I'm still trying to learn how to exist without him if I'm honest. I want you to just give me the space I need to grow into my own here in the city, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it's okay, Mils. From what Jorgi has told me about Fede, I can understand why you want to take it slow now. But please, don’t call me Chilly. My friends call me Chilly, and Mills. I thought I made it clear before that I don’t want to be your friend.”

“To me, you’re Benj. Thank you. Wait - what do you mean what Jorgi has told you about Fede?”

“I may have asked a couple times about you, and for the record, he is team Bamelia.”

“Bamelia? That is the ugliest word I have ever heard. Never use it again.”

“How can it be ugly? It's mostly your name, and nothing associated with you could ever be considered anything less than beautiful.”

“Stop being so smooth Benj, you’re going to make me blush in a minute.”

“Good, can’t wait to see how you could possibly look even cuter than you do right now.”

“That’s enough Benjamin.”

“Okay I’m done now.”

Part 10. | parte dieci

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half-bakedboy · 3 years

Text

it’s okay (not to be okay)

(read on ao3)

Pairing: Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz Rated: General Summary: “Great idea. Eddie really shouldn’t be exerting himself right now.”

“Seriously, Buck?” Eddie asked, standing up with a huff.

Buck didn’t have time to be frustrated, because Bobby was instructing him to assist with other patients and he had a job to do.

(Two jobs, if he counted protecting Eddie from himself.)

___________________________

[From: Ana]

Eddie had a panic attack and was taken to the hospital. He’s okay, but he’s struggling, Buck. I can’t get through to him, but I think you can.

[From: Ana]

He doesn’t want anyone to know. Chris had to tell the doctor he was shot. I don’t know what to do.

[From: Ana]

He just dropped me off at my house. Maybe someone should check on him later?

Buck stared down at the messages on his phone, panic thrumming through his body with each passing moment. He ran his fingers through his hair and held in the breath he had sharply inhaled to hold back his own alarm. It was a feeling he was used to, one that he grew to absorb and hold back because he couldn’t let it interfere with his life, his job. He needed a clear head and when he didn’t have one, the panic would become too much to handle, a cross he couldn’t and wouldn’t let himself bear.

Eddie didn’t panic. Eddie was the one who didn’t make rash decisions, who thought through everything before he acted, who kept everyone else calm in each crisis the team had. His level head made him an amazing soldier, a phenomenal firefighter, an ideal father, and… well, everything Buck had ever wanted to be.

So to say he was worried about Ana’s texts was an understatement.

He held his phone up to his ear and when the sound of Eddie’s voice rung through the speaker, he deflated. The familiar sound of Eddie’s always professional voicemail pissed him off more than anything so he wasn’t about to give up. He dialed the other number saved into his favorites and after a few rings, rustling sounded through.

“Buck?” Christopher asked, voice muffled with sleep. Buck checked the time on his watch and sighed.

“I’m sorry, buddy, you go to sleep. I was just trying to reach—”

“Dad’s not gonna answer.”

Christopher said the words so matter-of-factly that Buck felt his heartbeat speed up.

“You think so? Why is that?”

“He told me and Ana not to tell anyone,” Christopher began.

Buck could hear his pout and he wanted to ruffle his hair and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but he had to convince himself of it first. Christopher could see right through him and he wasn’t willing to have the kid lose sleep over his own nerves.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Buck promised, “but can you let me know what your dad is doing right now?”

“He’s in bed. He didn’t even take a shower and he loves showers,” Christopher exaggerated. Buck let out a huff of laughter.

“You’re observant, you know that?” A few moments of silence passed and even through the phone, Buck could hear Christopher’s worry. “Hey, he’s okay, right?”

“I think so.” He didn’t sound sure.

“Well, both Ana and I are looking after him and you know who else is?” Buck asked.

“Who?” Christopher whispered. His breathing was starting to slow, his voice sounding even more muffled as he slowly lulled himself to sleep.

“ You . He’s okay because he has you, just like he always has, got it?”

“Got it,” Chris agreed quietly. “Love you, Buck,” he added.

The line went dead before Buck could say it back, but he figured Chris knew what his response would be anyway.

___________________________

Over the next day, Buck did what he did best. He watched. He noted Eddie’s behavior. He considered the inflections of his voice, the content of his words, the way he handled himself. To any outsider, it was like nothing ever happened.

Buck wasn’t just anyone, especially to Eddie.

He pretended not to notice Eddie’s hesitation when he was tasked with helping Chim wire the air traffic controller. He pretended that Eddie’s hand didn’t feel too heavy on his shoulder when he stood up to quickly diagnose the other man with a potential panic attack.

He pretended he didn’t see the way Eddie’s hands trembled a little more than they usually did after a call while they made their way to the fire truck and ambulances with the victims. He pretended not to see Eddie close his eyes for a few moments and take a deep breath, in and out, calculated like it wasn’t quite second nature anymore.

It wasn’t until they entered the emergency department that he had ammo for confrontation.

“Hey, what was with that doctor on the way in? Why is she asking if you’re alright?” Buck asked. He played nonchalance really well but he could be proud of himself for that later.

“It was nothing.” Buck just stared and Eddie sighed. “I wasn’t feeling well the other day, so… she checked me out.”

“She’s a cardiologist. At a hospital,” Buck supplied. He knew Eddie didn’t think he was that stupid—or at least, he hoped. “Are you saying you had a heart attack?” Buck asked, immediately concerned that maybe he didn’t let Ana and Christopher in on the full story.

“No, I’m not saying I had a heart attack. I’m saying the opposite,” Eddie said smugly, “I’m saying I didn’t have a heart attack.”

“But you did think you were having a heart attack,” Buck appended. He was leading Eddie to the point, feigning dumb for the good of the situation, but Eddie wouldn’t budge.

“Can we just drop this?”

Before Buck could argue, Hen walked over and asked, “Guys, want us to tag you out?” Eddie agreed, but Buck felt his annoyance rise within him. He couldn’t stop himself from his next words.

“Great idea. Eddie really shouldn’t be exerting himself right now.”

“Seriously, Buck?” Eddie asked, standing up with a huff.

Buck didn’t have time to be frustrated, because Bobby was instructing him to assist with other patients and he had a job to do.

(Two jobs, if he counted protecting Eddie from himself.)

___________________________

The front door to Eddie's apartment slammed and Buck could see the tension jerk at Eddie’s shoulders.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Buck questioned.

“There wasn’t anything to tell, Buck,” Eddie said stubbornly. Buck would have smacked him if he wasn’t so worried.

“Nothing to tell, huh?” He held up his hand and counted off his fingers as he listed off, “You had a presumed heart attack and were sent by ambulance to the hospital. Turns out it was a panic attack and when asked if there were any stressors lately, you lied to the doctor about getting shot—”

“I didn’t lie, I—”

Eddie stopped himself when Buck’s glare narrowed even further.

“Your son had to tell the doctor that you were shot,” Buck corrected. Eddie pressed his lips together, unwilling to argue. “You almost have another panic attack on a scene and tell approximately no one only have a full-blown meltdown on a helicopter that’s hanging on by a thread in the middle of a rescue. Am I missing anything?” Buck asked, though it was clear he wasn’t looking for an answer.

“I’m fine—” Eddie began.

Buck waltzed up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him as hard as he could while still being aware of the bullet hole-shaped scar left behind from those few months ago. The scar that might have physically stayed on Eddie, but lingered in the back of Buck’s mind every single day.

“You’re not fine, Eddie! You almost died and you’re sitting here like life goes on and nothing has changed.”

“Nothing has. It was a panic attack, not another near-death experience.”

“You say another like it’s a normal occurrence in people’s lives,” Buck exclaimed. “It’s not! It’s not normal for people to get shot and survive—not once, but twice. It’s not normal for people to just move on with their lives like they weren’t nearly ended. It’s not normal to carry on like nothing is wrong when something is fucking wrong, Eddie!”

“Buck, you should take a step back—”

Buck pushed himself away before Eddie’s hands could press against his shoulders, that thumbprint on his pulse that reminded both of them that they were still there. He leaned against the wall behind him, unable to hold himself up without assistance anymore, and sighed.

“You didn’t tell me,” Buck said, a whisper of admission into the air between them like a secret Buck wasn’t ready to tell.

“I couldn’t,” Eddie muttered.

“You couldn’t?” Buck scoffed. “You didn’t trust me? You didn’t want me to exhaust you with my worry? Give me one good reason why you couldn’t tell me!”

“Because then it’s real, Buck, okay?!” Eddie yelled. He ran his hands through his hair before he pounded a fist against the wall beside him. It would hurt in the morning, that much was obvious by the sound that echoed through the empty room.

“What?” Buck asked quietly. Eddie breathed deeply like he hadn’t taken in air in months. Buck wasn’t convinced he had.

“If you don’t know, then I can forget it’s happening. I’m not reminded of that moment where the pain was so great that I couldn’t hold myself up and only trusted myself to reach out to you to pick me back up. I’m not haunted by the fact that I almost made my son an orphan for the third time in his life. If you don’t know, then I can pretend it never happened and move forward.”

“From what, Eddie? You can’t just move forward. You know that,” Buck prodded.

“Yeah, well, I sure as hell can try .”

They both paused, taking the moment of silence to breathe, to think, to figure out what was next.

Eddie made the first move, walking over to where Buck had leaned back against the wall and matched his position. He pressed their shoulders together, his eyes glued to the way Buck’s chest moved up and down slowly, imitating the movement as if he wasn’t sure he would be able to do it himself.

Buck yearned to reach out and hold him, but instead, he asked the questions that lingered on his mind.

“When are going to let us—any of us—in? When are you going to let me help you ? When are you going to admit that you’re not okay?”

Eddie didn’t—couldn’t—answer, but the shake in his shoulders was unmistakable.

As he slid down the wall, Buck followed his every move, wrapping an arm around his waist to ease the fall. When they landed, Eddie pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a gutwrenching sob that had tears bubbling behind Buck’s eyelids. He held them back as best he could because, at that moment, nothing else could matter but Eddie.

Cries of pain, anguish, fear, every horrible emotion that had been welling up inside of both of them burst from Eddie’s mouth and he fell into Buck for the support he extended. He clawed at the collar of Buck’s shirt, his nails raking against the skin of Buck’s chest, but nothing was as painful as the way Eddie gasped at the breaths that didn’t seem to come as quickly as he needed them to.

Buck held Eddie’s hand to his heart so he could feel the simple rise and fall of his chest and mimic it again. His other hand grasped at the shirt of Eddie’s back to keep his panic away, his own way of anchoring himself there so he could continue to be the solid weight Eddie needed to push through.

Every part of them was entangled and Eddie had no choice but to press his face into Buck’s neck. Buck hoped his heartbeat stayed solid enough to remind Eddie they were both still alive, even if it felt like they weren’t.

“I’ve got you, Eds, I’m here. I won’t let you go, never.”

It was too much to say, too easy for Eddie to read into the double entendre of his words and Buck selfishly hoped he was too lost in his own mind to realize it.

But the words or the touch or the steady calmness Buck forced himself into seemed to ease Eddie out of the attack of emotions that surged through him. Little by little, Eddie’s sobs turned to hiccups, his tears turned to trickles, and the white-knuckled grip he had on Buck loosened but didn’t fall. He breathed in time with Buck, his heartbeat slowing to its correct rhythm, and the tremors in his body settled to occasional chills.

“Buck?” Eddie asked, as if he barely realized what was happening inside of him.

“I’m here,” Buck reassured.

Eddie shook his head and when he finally glanced up, all Buck could see was the redness around his eyes and the tear stains that looked too permanent on his skin.

“I’m not okay,” Eddie admitted— finally —before pressing his face back into Buck’s neck with a whimper like the words were painful to acknowledge out loud.

“Yeah, Eddie, I know.”

Buck couldn’t resist kissing the top of his head and letting his lips linger for just a second too long.

“I need your help,” Eddie said, his voice graveled with emotion.

“You’ve got it,” he promised again.

“Yeah, Buck, I know,” Eddie teased because of course, even in his darkest moment, he had to get the last word in and it had to be something full of that sarcastic barrier he protected himself with.

Buck let him, though, because he figured Eddie knew what his response would be anyway.

#911 on fox #buddie #911 #911 spoilers #5x1 coda #evan buckley #eddie diaz #my writing #im so happy this season has started #coda fics are gonna own me for the next few months alksdjfl;asd #911fic

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jennycalendar · 3 years

Text

ok you know what i think it’s actually really vital that i talk a little bit about tea time. buckle up kiddos.

first off, a brief and relatively spoiler-free summary: the premise of the issue is very simple. the kiddos (aged up, if willow’s mention of being engaged is any indication) are hanging out in the library to help giles with research, swapping stories about what it would be like were giles a vampire. each of them, save giles, gets a chance to tell a detailed story -- xander tells two! -- and each story plays out in a way that says a lot about the scooby that’s telling it AND the way they view giles.

obviously this is a VERY character-driven issue, and it’s a really really interesting look at giles and how he is perceived as well! shit like that is my bread and butter, so this has honestly become one of my favorite things that boom has put out -- possibly my ACTUAL top favorite issue if we’re being real here.

below the cut is a spoilery dissection of every story told -- a literal summary of Every Single Thing that happens in this issue, as well as what it has to say about the scoobies and their perception of giles, so definitely keep that in mind.

as can be seen in the preview, xander’s first story is about giles rising from the grave as an ineffectual british caricature, who is easily defeated by smoldering, sexy xander harris (and xander in turn walks off with buffy and willow draped all over him, cooing about how amazing he is). it’s more of an intro to the premise than anything, but it still sets the tone pretty clearly wrt how xander handles this situation: there’s some laughter and levity, and he’s center stage. obviously a lot can be said about xander’s self-esteem issues and how he overcompensates by casting himself as the main protagonist both in canon and here. however, i wanna save my more in-depth xander analysis for his second, longer, story, so i’ll stop myself there.

willow immediately responds with skepticism: she’s of the mind that giles would be an incredibly serious big-bad level threat. the tale she spins involves giles as a dangerous vampire cleric with access to a cryptic altar, killing xander almost immediately and slaughtering buffy as a sacrifice to create eternal night. her view of giles is more clinical than anything -- and, i would argue, the most perceptive and realistic from a threat standpoint. the guy knows a fuckton of magic and he is incredibly well-read and powerful. he’d have some kind of terrifying master plan. where xander goes for comedy, willow goes straight for logistics, already looking at the battle like it’s a battle rather than laughs aplenty.

xander and buffy have a bone to pick with willow’s story (xander is indignant that he’s immediately and brutally killed, buffy is of the mind that she would easily defeat giles in hand-to-hand combat even if he IS a vampire), so (after one more teasing story where buffy lives and xander dies) willow gracefully alters her narrative to reflect her friends’ objections: after a dramatic tussle, xander helps willow and buffy unceremoniously stakes giles in the heart. still pretty straightforward and plausible. willow sees vamp giles primarily as a threat -- one not easily neutralized. one who could easily wipe them out.

buffy, about to tell her story, is interrupted by xander, who “had an even better idea!” the web he weaves is this time purported as realistic and entertaining: while partying at the bronze, buffy and co. are interrupted by a bunch of balding, greying vampires in curlers and bathrobes, led, of course, by giles -- who is wearing a hair bonnet and disapprovingly informing the bouncers how late it is at eight PM. a knockdown brawl breaks out at the bronze -- old people feeding on and decimating the young -- and culminates in giles and the geezers taking over the band to sing “some terrible song” that’s “probably something really old and bad!” the rest of the story descends into b-movie chaos, with buffy throwing a broken guitar neck up at the stage lights to send the whole thing crashing down onto vampire giles and his vampire old person band. it’s categorically absurd.

the thing that really sticks with me about this story is how dumb it is. xander’s take on giles is not even slightly serious and wholly underestimates him. fandom at large talks a lot about how giles dropped the ball with xander, but i think tea time explores an easily overlooked factor: xander constantly, consistently underestimates giles. in canon, xander’s view of giles is not often challenged: to him, giles is a bumbling, british librarian who regularly gets his ass handed to him by vamps and demons and the like. certainly part of his story’s intent is about laughingly entertaining his gal pals, but there’s a very real and consistent thread involving giles being hilariously nonthreatening.

giles, taking umbrage at this particular tale, calls out both xander and willow: xander’s story, in giles’s opinion, emasculates vamp giles and turns him into a ridiculous caricature -- and willow’s story, though much more flattering, lacks the kind of imagination that vamp giles would clearly have. he then offers a suggestion of his own. it’s worth mentioning here that both xander’s and willow’s stories get gorgeous multiple-page spreads depicting the vampy action, but giles’s is a simple and chilling little thing: this is his vampire story. this meeting, called to ostensibly “research” a vampire altar, is really an excuse to get the scoobies to do his dirty work and find the thing for him. they’re tired and silly because the tea and donuts he’s given them are drugged, and their library location is to keep them out of daylight. he laughs it off when he sees they’re bothered, and the meeting is then adjourned when willow finally finds what they’re all looking for.

buffy’s left her phone in the library, so she doubles back, and accidentally wakes up a dozing giles. just as she’s about to leave, he inquires, casually, “...you never did tell your version of the story.”

and good god here is where it gets interesting.

see, buffy’s take is simple: she’s fighting giles in a cemetery, she’s given the chance to kill him, and she is entirely unable to do it. they share a tearful embrace as she sobs about the unfairness of it all -- “you’re giles! and you’ll always be! ...how will i do this without you? without your guidance?” and as the sun is rising, giles turns her into a vampire, with no resistance whatsoever from buffy. the next handful of pages depict bloody, indulgent violence on the parts of giles and buffy, the two of them cuddled up together as they watch the world burn.

buffy’s tale is the most emotive, the most loving, which makes me so damn soft! i love this girl so much! she is unable to even joke about giles as a foe to be taken down -- he is her watcher. he is her friend. she loves him endlessly and that does not change when he’s a vampire. vamp giles as she portrays him is gentle and understanding, holding her as she cries, because he knows that they’re connected. it’s easily my favorite part of this whole issue.

notably, there is a definite buffy/giles bend that the comic itself tries to contradict. the art is sensual in nature -- vamp buffy all dolled up in a way somewhat evocative of drusilla, giles tenderly caressing her face as he waits for her to wake up. “watcher and slayer connected forever” being the quote chosen to describe the situation. i think it’s kind of what naturally happens in a vamp giles sitch, especially if he turns buffy -- the childe/sire bond is incredibly sexual in nature, especially in canon, and a lot of frustrating human sentiment gets translated into something sexual as well. sex is a big BIG part of the relationships between vampires we see in canon; it would make a lot of sense for that to hold true for buffy and giles.

the comic is reticent about Going There, which i can understand -- though buffy is decisively aged up in this issue (willow mentions being engaged to a woman, later revealed to be tara), the buffy/giles bond is always seen through a father/daughter lens in canon. i do think it’s also important to always recognize how desperately giles wishes to escape the label of father in reference to buffy, pretty much entirely because there is no way to parent a child soldier who you’re also training, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish. point is, buffy very pointedly refers to vamp giles as her father not once, but twice -- once as a human, once as a vampire herself. it’s a very clear attempt, imo, to un-sexualize the vampy experience. the reason it doesn’t totally work, at least for me, is the fact that -- like i said -- the childe/sire bond is VERY sexual (spike and dru, angel and darla, angel and dru) and it seems just totally implausible that vamp buffy/vamp giles (two people who, as human were both VERY repressed) would chastely remain within the socially acceptable version of their relationship.

i can definitely understand why they did their best to blur that line, though. the idea of buffy and giles being romantically involved as vampires is 1) Kind Of A Lot and 2) not exactly the target demographic that i think this comic is going for. but the subtext is there, to the point where the issue itself has to actively obfuscate it, which i think is .... so interesting? especially as a counterpoint to the way i often see buffy/giles in fandom, wherein the father/daughter subtext in canon is at times actively obfuscated in fic in an attempt to push a preferred reading.

the ending i particularly enjoyed: after buffy leaves, it is lightly and ambiguously implied that giles might really be a vampire. works GREAT as a standalone, imo, and the end is like the cherry on top. it’s a really REALLY interesting issue and i highly recommend it for any giles fan.

#meta #btvs comics #buffy and giles #''a little bit'' they say. and write a full fucking essay #anyway i love this issue it's my prized possession i am dying for at least one (1) person to read this insane summary and talk to me abt it

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xtodorcki · 3 years

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this just a suggestion heheh so you don't have to feel that you need to do it 🥰🥰 scenario is jean and reader on and off relationship, the reader is insecure because jean's ex before the reader is so pretty and the reader doesn't feel like they don't deserve jean so for the last time they broke it off and jean being angry and not understanding the reader's point of view decided to make the reader jealous by having a fake relationship with the said ex, now the reader is very devastated, crying most of the time, not leaving the bed etc. connie and sasha were the ones comforting reader and one day both of them decided its enough and confronted jean, now jean felt guilty and all that jazz so reader and jean decided to talk and then boom back together and for good this time. I really cant handle angst on its own so i have to make it angst to fluff 😁😁

“Back & Forth,” Jean x Reader

Summary: having an on and off relationship with Jean because of your insecurities, when you decide to break it off a final time- he practically uses your insecurities to make you jealous.

Warnings: none, angst to fluff

The relationship between you and Jean was never easy or smooth. There were a lot of rocky days and stable days, kinda like a roller coaster. Some days were really good and memorable to you and some days were just plain awful.

Every time you two would bicker, it would always lead to a much bigger argument and eventually a break up for a few days then poof, you’re back in his bed or he’s back in yours.

It was a repeated cycle for over a year and working beside him in the scouts didn’t make things easier on the both of you- in fact it added a lot more stress to the relationship that was barely hanging on by a thread.

You’ll admit that your insecurities and fears did play a massive role in the arguments. You were terrified of losing him, of him losing interest in you and going off to find someone better.

You hated yourself for thinking such thoughts but knowing who his ex was and how his ex looks- you were fully convinced that he had downgraded with you and is going to figure that out eventually and leave you.

Jean was pretty oblivious to your feelings and how insecure you were, mainly because you were too afraid to tell him and also because he was an idiot- he can’t figure things out even if it was right in front of his face.

So the arguments continued, the break ups and make ups continued for months until one of the days you both were more frustrated than usual. You can sense the anger dripping off him and radiating towards you that it kinda scared you a bit.

The argument was a small stupid one that led to him raising his voice at you and making you feel small. He was never the type to hurt your feelings or make you feel like shit during an argument, he usually just made smart ass remarks and then leave you be for a few days then come back.

But this time he was more angry with you to the point where he had startled you from shouting. You couldn’t tell where all the sudden anger came from and you truly felt as if it was all your fault for making him raise his voice.

You tried to hold back your tears and your emotions, you hated to be vulnerable in front of him and since he was pissed off and stomping around the room, you had just decided to grab some of your things you had in his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” He asked even though he knew, it was always the same toxic behavior between the both of you.

“I’m done this time, Jean. I’m not coming back.” You simply said, quickly walking out of his room before he could say anything.

The stabbing pain in his heart had instantly stunned him, making him stare at the bedroom door you walked out of and everything came rushing to his head. The realization had hit him pretty hard and all it did was feed into his anger, making it worse than before.

He couldn’t believe you would easily give up on the relationship you two have built for over a year, he felt as if you never really loved him and it only made him more upset and that resulted in him punching a hole into the wall.

A week had passed, you mainly stayed inside the room you had on the scouts base- you barely would leave. You wouldn’t go to training sessions, wouldn’t go on missions, wouldn’t do anything. All you did was lay in bed and cried, the overwhelming pain pinning you down on your bed, preventing you from moving.

But the one day you had decided to come out and grab something to eat before heading back to your room, Jean sat in the mess hall with his arm around someone’s shoulder. At first, you couldn’t make out who it was until they had turned their head- it was his ex.

“Hey, Y/N.” Connie had called out to you but you had stood there emotionless until Jean had turned to meet your gaze.

The way your heart had dropped all the way down to your stomach, your worst nightmare coming to life right in front of you. You were quick to turn around and head back to your room before the tears could slip from your eyes.

Jean had watched you walk away, he was hoping that the little jealousy plan he was doing was working in his favor. He had missed you way too much to the point where his dumb brain had tricked him into thinking that bringing his ex here could make you jealous and come back to him.

But of course men aren’t that entirely smart when it comes to dating.

Jean had no idea that you sat in your room crying and having the heavy amount of your insecurities weighing down on you. He couldn’t see the fact that you were hurting way more than he was and all you wanted was for him to grow up.

He watched Sasha and Connie follow after you, making sure to bring you a plate of food from today’s lunch, wanting to make sure you were okay and fed.

“Can we come in?” Sasha spoke on the other side of the door, making you quickly wipe the tears off your cheeks and unlock the door for them.

But when they both saw you, they could tell you were crying from how red your eyes were and the way your cheeks were flushed but they decided not to bring that up. Instead they walked inside and all three of you sat on your bed.

“Wanna talk about it?” She mumbled towards you, setting the plate down in your lap and you glanced down at it, not knowing what to really say.

“Is it Jean?” Connie chimed in, watching you play around with the food on your plate with a fork.

All three of you were pretty close so it was obvious for the both of them to know that it was Jean and the relationship you two had. They knew you were beating yourself up over it and they knew that the sight of Jean with the ex he swore he didn’t like anymore, was a lot for you to handle.

“I just don’t feel good enough when it comes to him. His ex is everything that I’m not and it’s obvious that I will never be enough or better than they are.” You managed to choke out, making Connie shake his head repeatedly.

“No, you’re better. They’re nothing compared to you, Y/N and if Jean can’t see that then he’s clearly an idiot.” He tried to reassure you but in the back of your mind, you were set on not being enough for him.

“I love him more than anything, it hurts to not have him here.”

They both stared at you and realized just how much you have been suffering up in your room on your own. They can tell just how much Jean meant to you and that only irritated them more to know he sat outside in the mess hall, acting as if you never existed or never mattered to him.

Sasha sighed, reaching over to embrace you in a hug and soon Connie had joined in. It had made you feel somewhat better, just to know you had people who cared about you but it didn’t help the fact that Jean wasn’t here comforting you like he should be.

“We’ll leave you to eat but I’m coming back later for dinner and you’re coming to eat with us, okay?” She told you, making you somewhat nod your head even though you weren’t sure if you’ll be able to even leave your room now that he was out there with his ex.

When they both left their room, they agreed to one another that Jean needed to be put in his place and Connie had even thought about punching him in the face even though he was also his best friend. They were both furious with him and the way he had made you feel and the way he had easily tried to move on with the ex you were insecure about.

Connie had managed to yank him away from his ex, dragging him in the hall where Sasha waited. The both of them giving him a intense look.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Connie spoke first, his eyebrows furrowed together and the skin on his face getting hot.

“What did I do?” Jean scoffed, looking between the both of them confused.

“You know what you did, why would you bring your ex here knowing Y/N is still upset over the breakup?”

“Since when was Y/N upset? They broke up with me.”

“Didn’t it cross your little brain on why they did all of that? Or are you too dumb to realize their feelings?” Connie was being a bit more harsh than usual but he cared about the both of you deeply, he knew he had to do something at least.

“Look, the only reason why everything happened the way they did is because Y/N feels very low and not enough, comparing themselves to your ex, convinced they can’t be enough for you.” Sasha sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Jean had stood there, in shock almost as everything finally came to his head and everything had finally hit him like a ton of bricks. He hated himself for not seeing it sooner but having Sasha bring it up in a better way than Connie- it made him see all the signs that he didn’t see before.

He didn’t have any ounce of emotion or attraction towards his ex and the dumb decision he made to bring them here to make you jealous and come back to him, it made him feel even more stupid for making the wound in your heart bigger.

He didn’t know what to say to his two friends that stood in front of him, instead he dismissed himself and walked down the hallway towards your bedroom. He was racking his brain, trying to form the right words to say to you.

He didn’t want to screw things up with you, you meant everything to him and the way his heart raced inside of his chest as he stood outside your door. It had taken him a few minutes before bringing his fist up to knock on your door.

In your head, you were convinced that maybe it was Connie or Sasha returning back to your room like they said they were going to do earlier but when you opened up the door and moved your eyes up to meet Jean’s sad gaze, making your heart stop.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh, can we talk? If not I can go.” He stuttered out, the nerves kicking in and the fear of being fear of being rejected.

At first it had crossed your mind to shut the door in his face because at the top of your head was the repeating image of him out in the mess hall with his ex but deep in your heart you had too much love for Jean and you couldn’t handle ignoring him and telling him to go.

Instead you had opened the door wider, letting him step inside and both sat on the small couch you had in your room. There was an awkward silence at first, after all that thinking on the way here he still didn’t know what to say to you to make things right.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He started to say, his eyes trailing off and moving back to look down at you.

“It wasn’t my intention to make you leave that day and I really hate when we argue and break up all the time.” He sighed under his breath, his hand reaching back to scratch the back of his neck as he tried to form good enough sentences in his head before repeating them out loud.

“I don’t want us to continue to be toxic like that, you mean everything to me and I don’t want to lose you.”

“And what about you being with your ex?” You questioned, his sad eyes meeting yours and he simply shrugged his shoulders.

“I did it to make you jealous. It was a stupid idea because I felt like you were happier without me and I just wanted you to come back.” He admitted everything, the dumb plan to get you back failed miserably and now he was here trying to pick up your broken pieces again.

“You’re an idiot if you thought that was going to work.”

“I know I know, I couldn’t see that you were hurt. I never meant to try to replace you or make it seem like my ex is better because they’re not. You’re the only person I want to be with and the only person I’m in love with. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Y/N and I mean that.” Jean confessed the bottled up feelings he’s been having for a while now.

Sometimes he was just never good with confrontation or admitting how he feels but as he sat there in front of you, the heavy amount of guilt weighing down on him for making you feel upset and insecure about the ex he never liked or wanted in the first place.

“Jean..” You trailed off, you didn’t really know what to say because you were just as bad at confessing feelings and emotions. You didn’t want to admit the fact that you’re self conscious and not confident enough.

“I know that you don’t feel good enough or have any confidence in yourself but trust me when I say this, there is nobody else that makes me feel the way that you do. I wouldn’t trade you for the world.” He kept going, the rush of words slipping off his tongue with ease right when they came to his mind.

He would sit there and talk about you all day and all the little things he loved about you. He never wanted to lose you and he wished that he stopped himself from being so stupid and selfish months ago. He hated to think back on the arguments and how he let those stupid fights separate you and make you feel not enough for him.

“I don’t want to lose you.” He finished off his rambling, his large hands hesitating but eventually reaching over to grab a hold on yours and you let him.

The way your heart had felt heavy at the sight of his face and now all you felt was it flutter with such love for him. You never understood how you ended up having Jean, you never seen yourself one to be this deserving of good things but he made you feel the opposite, he made you feel worthy of good things.

“I’m sorry for leaving.” You finally apologized after being zoned out in your endless thoughts and he simply shook his head.

“No, I’m sorry for not listening to your insecurities and feelings sooner.” He sighed, his hand reaching up to caress your cheek while still feeling the intense amount of guilt hang on him.

All he ever wanted was for you to feel loved and wanted and he hoped he made you feel that way but he also couldn’t help the burden of not listening to your feelings even if you never mentioned them out loud, it was pretty easy to see when you were feeling low or upset and he never acknowledged it as much as he should have and for that, it really hurt him.

His thumb had stroked soft circles on your cheek, staring down at you with sad eyes but seeing the small smile on your face had made him a bit more happier. He squeezed your hand before leaning over to plant a few quick kisses to your lips before fully pressing them against yours. The kiss was slow and soft yet passionate and full of sparks, something you missed a little too much.

When he pulled back to look down at you fully, his fingers had moved back to tangle in your hair before you moved yourself to wrap your arms around him and embrace him in a tight hug. You had missed him everyday while you sat inside of this room alone and he had felt the same when he laid in his empty bed late at night.

You meant everything to him and now he would do anything to keep you happy and in place, no more small breakups and no more sadness- he just wanted you to feel good enough again.

This took way longer than it needed to.

I’m sorry for the lag and the constant “sorry and ty for your patience” status. I was doing good until just recently when I experienced a loss in the family. even if it was just a family pet, she meant everything to me and has been around for more than a decade. Its been really fucking hard but I’m managing.

Ty always for the love! Send in some more requests for Armin, Jean or Eren. I love writing about them🥰

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#jean kirstein imagine #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein headcanon #jean imagines #jean imagine #jean x reader #jean fanfic #jean headcanons #jean kirchstein imagines #jean kirchstein fanfic #jean kitchstein headcanons #aot headcanons #aot imagines

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honeysidesarchived · 3 years

Text

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

euphemia volpe has never wanted for very much; a safe place to sleep, a soft place to land. to love someone, and be loved back. she has all of those things now, but it's most unfortunate for her that she has fallen in love with a man who will never be satisfied with what he's got.

pt. i: contact is crisis

words: 3.3k

warnings: language, some depictions of a relationship that is not entirely healthy, extensive use of my very basic knowledge of italian (padded with google translate, thank you google!), and an unfortunate amount of endearments and pet names. this does not deviate from john wick chapter 2's canon ending, so please bear in mind this will contain major character death.

rating: m for mature language ??? probably closer to t, but will change later on.

notes: as some of you may know, this has been (unfortunately) sitting on my drive since i first watched john wick chapter two almost a year ago--maybe over a year! i can't remember. all i remember was seeing santino and going "SOMEONE has got to kiss that man". so you know, here i am. this short-fic (only a few, short parts) will take place over the span of the events of john wick chapter 2. yes i built some tiny amount of lore for the camorra. yes i had the opportunity to write a fix-it fic and did not. no i am not taking criticism at this time !

special uber big thank you to my beta and my wifey @starcrier who read this a year ago and when i casually said, "hey, so what if i posted this" told me to do it. also @faithchel, who through the occasional sly prompt slid in from ask games (i see you) has been a true angel while i sort through this, and equally as encouraging!

and of course thank you to you all, who read this. i know this is not the usual content you followed me for but i appreciate you all the same. <3

“I cannot believe that I will marry a man so stupid.”

Euphemia is practically frothing at the mouth, she’s so mad; she storms into the chic New York loft, tossing her purse onto the nearby counter, her heels clipping against the polished floor decisively. It’s late; the silk slip of a dress draped across her body brushes the floor in a sweeping train, and she balances herself on the counter with one hand while she steps out of the stilettos with the assistance of the other.

“Euphie, luce della mia vita,” Santino says, striding in after her and completely at ease. He is, infuriatingly, as he always is; perfectly composed, his dark curls in place and his suit immaculate. Euphemia eyes him through the mirror of her vanity as he sidles up behind her. “We’re not married yet, princesa, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Luce della mia vita,” Euphemia drawls mockingly. She drips the words in honey on the way out of her mouth, sliding a dainty, glittering bracelet from her wrist and dropping it on the counter. “You sound like a fucking idiot, Santi.”

His gaze darkens, but his voice is still silky when he says, “Watch your tone, cara mia.”

“What for?” Euphemia thinks she wouldn’t be able to watch her tone even if she wanted to; not anymore, not with this hanging over her head. She turns to stare at her fiancé, pressing her index finger to his chest. “You’re going to get killed by Baba Yaga anyway. No point in behaving myself, is there? Idiota.”

“Euphemia.”

“You leave John Wick alone, Santino,” she bites out. “You don’t ask for a thing from him. Of him. About him. I don’t want John Wick near my life.”

Santino grabs her wrist, the hand with the engagement ring sitting on it—snatches it out of the air like a cobra striking, grips it with hands that usually are much kinder.

“Everything that you have now is a gift from me,” he warns her, voice pitched low. “You like your nice engagement ring? Your nice dresses? This nice loft we live in?”

His fingers grip, nearly bruising; these are the only times that he doesn’t handle her with care, that his elegant fingers don’t splay against her skin reverently—when she’s pissed him off.

“I’ve given it all to you, all of these things, this life that you like having and don’t want John Wick near, so I would suggest watching your tone for that.”

There is a brief moment where Euphemia thinks she might finally, right now, resort to the violence of slapping Santino in the face. The threat is not lost on her; it’s Santino’s favorite thing to do when he’s angry. And for her to commit an act of violence against her fiancé would be unthinkable almost every other time, in any other situation. Euphie would not have considered it in the least, but there are times—on occasion—where she thinks for a second that she doesn’t recognize him; that he’s become some amalgam of all of the men who have grabbed her too hard or told her she owes them. Men who have used her meanly.

And Santino has divulged his plan to push John Wick for a favor.

So, yes: she thinks she might, but then her hand is moving of her own volition, sliding the engagement ring off of her finger and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, the more pacifist choice than what her mind is screaming for her to do.

“You have never had nothing, Santi,” she says, biting out the words, “so allow me to enlighten you; I have had nothing before you, and I will be just fine having nothing again.”

His eyes narrow, gemlike slits that sit heavy on her. She yanks her wrist of his grip and says, “And it is a good thing we are not married, si? A divorce would have been so messy.”

“Euphie,” Santino says in a sigh that lacks venom, as though he weren’t just threatening to take everything from her, as though she were the hysterical one, “don’t fuss.”

Don’t fuss, he says, because Santino has only ever had women before that bend themselves over backwards until they break for him; don’t fuss, he says, because he likes and maybe loves her, she thinks, but he doesn’t like or love when she talks back. Santino has always had someone to wait on him, to serve him, and Euphemia has never seen his parents together but she would that his only vision of marriage is that of a subservient, dutiful, loving wife.

“Oh, but my darling,” she coos, very undutiful and decidedly not subservient, “I wouldn’t want you to have to worry about all of the nice things you give me. You can enjoy them all yourself, for the brief time before Baba Yaga kills you for asking him to do a job he does not want to do, when he has announced his retirement.”

It’s a terrible way to feed the monster inside of her. That monster is a pusher, a puller, the kind that picked and chipped away at Santino until he lost that shred of his manicured control and gave her something, anything she could work with. It was impossible to love a man who was so buttoned up there was nowhere for her to put her love.

His expression tightens in the way that she recognizes as his controlled fury; bottling it, merchandising it, saving it for later. Santino is not incapable of killing his sister himself, but for some reason—a reason that Euphemia is sure is only known to him—he won’t. Some stupid shit about blood and family, probably.

“Take the ring back.” Santino’s voice is smooth, belying the danger lurking just beneath. He fishes the engagement ring out of the pocket of his suit jacket, where she’d dropped it, and picks up her hand again; this time, his fingers don’t grip with bruising force, but cradle. Euphemia thinks she might have pushed him, then, right to the line, because his eerie calm is unsettling as his fingers meticulously slide the engagement ring back into place.

He says, “There, you see? This is where your engagement ring belongs and will stay. Here, on your hand. Just like this is where you belong and will stay—here, with me.” His hand comes up to her face; she turns away, and he catches her chin and forces her to look back at him.

“You know I will get you anything you want,” Santino murmurs, “but you have to ask.”

Nicely, is the implied word. A good fiancé, a good wife, wouldn’t storm out of the car after he mentions John Wick in passing, ripping through the loft, calling him names. She knows all of this and she thinks, then maybe I’m not a good anything.

But she can tell when she’s pushed Santino’s buttons just enough—enough to make a point, and not enough to incur his wrath. Not entirely.

“Please, Santi,” she says, her voice still hard but softer than it was before, and already Santi is shaking his head so she plunges on recklessly, “do not cash in John Wick’s debt to you. Ascoltami, I know you—I know you will do something to put yourself and John Wick on opposite sides of the playing field.”

Santino’s gaze is sharp and clear. He drops his hand from her face, shrugging, and says, “So what? I will be playing chess, and John Wick will be playing checkers. You worry too much, Euphie.”

“What you mean to say is that I think before I act.”

He shrugs, and threads his fingers through her hair, reaching up with the other to brush loose strands of it from her eyes. He rumbles pleasantly, “Don’t you trust me?”

Euphemia grits her teeth. Her hands come up to grip his wrists, watching him with a prickle of dread in her chest. “Don’t you trust me, Santi?”

Santi’s gaze darkens. Like that, he drops his hands from her, tucking them into the pockets of his slacks as he turns and wanders further into the bedroom, taking all of his warmth with him and leaving Euphie to marinate in the cold glow of the vanity’s lights.

“You can say no,” she says after him, frustrated. “You don’t have to keep an air of mystery about it.”

“What do I do then, tesora?” Santino demands, turning to look at her from the foot of the bed where stands. “Kill her myself? You know I can’t. You know that you cannot ask me to do that.” A pause, and then, with an added air of entitlement: “And Wick owes me.”

There are complicated feelings wrapped up in the whole of it, she knows; Santino, who wants what his sister was given, but cannot bring himself to end her. Euphemia, who only wants Santino, who doesn’t care if he has a seat at the High Table or if he’s a sister-killer or not, who only wants him to look at her longingly like he did when they first met, just for forever instead of a brief moment in time.

And both of them, intrinsically linked, because Santino isn’t wrong when he says that he’s given her everything she has now and Euphemia isn’t wrong when she says she would be okay with nothing again.

She doesn’t ask it of him; he is right, that she can’t, that she wouldn’t. Gianna has only ever been kind to her, at least face to face, and if Santi’s sister had any reservations about Euphemia, then Euphie would find herself in a completely different situation. Not engaged to the only other heir to the D’Antonio empire, that was for certain.

Instead, then, she says, “I cannot ask you to do it, you’re right. I cannot ask you to do it, and I cannot keep you, and I cannot throw you away, Santino. I was less tired when I had nothing.”

She turns away and walks herself into the bathroom, fingers trembling as she undoes the delicate zipper of the gold dress, letting it pool at the floor in a whisper of fabric. The engagement ring sits heavy on her hand. It’s beautiful—and just what she wants, and also the thing that she fears the most, because she doesn’t know what it means to Santino and only what it means to her.

“Euphie.”

His voice comes from the doorway of the bathroom. She turns on the hot water in the tub, a beautiful porcelain clawfoot that she picked herself. It was one of the first things that Santino gifted to her, the first essence of her in the loft that is now almost entirely half-and-half the two of their tastes.

Euphemia doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t know what to say, so she ties up her hair and shimmies out of the last of her clothes. She can feel his eyes on her, waiting for her to flower into submission and turn around and beg, oh, please Santino, forgive me, but he should know better because she has never and will never do that for him.

“Cara mia.”

“Do not.” Euphemia’s voice wobbles. She slides into the bathtub before it’s full, the water stinging her skin where it touches. “I can’t stand to hear your voice saying sweet things to me when you are willingly walking yourself into your grave.”

“You are being a little dramatic.” He makes his way over to her, kneeling down beside the porcelain tub, ghosting his fingers over her forehead and then the bridge of her nose, fluttering in a way that treasures her and causes her grief all at once. “Just one job, Euphie. That’s all I’m going to ask of him. And then it’s done, and you won’t have to be worried about the Boogeyman.” The pads of his fingers dip into the hot water and then skim along the slope of her collarbone, raising goosebumps on her skin. “And John Wick, whose lifelong peace you are very concerned about, can go back to his dog and his car.”

Euphemia thinks, it’s never just that, with you, because she knows Santino—she knows he’s hungry, has always been hungry, a boy magicked into a man’s skin all hurt and needing and starved, unable to inhibit himself properly. No self-preservation telling him when to stop, never telling him when enough is enough. Not really.

I see you, though, she thought, her gaze flickering over Santino’s face to trace the handsome lines of his expression. She would have never agreed to marry a man before she saw him without his face off; without knowing the monster underneath.

But while she knows this, and she sees Santino D’Antonio for what he really is, she is an idiot and a fool and loves a man sick with the magic of his own perceived destiny, a destiny he believes he is owed, so she says softly, “Promise me, Santi.”

“On my life,” Santino replies with that boyish charm she knows so well. He speaks as though he is not going to leave her in the morning to visit Baba Yaga, as though she doesn’t fear he won’t ever come back. “Now give me a kiss, princesa.”

“I mean it, Santino—”

“I do, too.” He cocks his head to the side. “I won’t ask twice.”

Euphemia acquiesces; not because she fears what he’ll do if he does feel he has to ask twice—because he does hate that—but because as much as she says she would be happy to have nothing again, she is content to bask in the something that she has now, while she has it.

She kisses the corner of his mouth. He slides his damp fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and says, “Do you love me?”

“Of course.” Her voice feels rough with an emotion she doesn’t want any of. “Of course, Santi, that’s why I—”

“All I need is a yes or no, my little fox, not an essay.”

Her eyes narrow. She turns her face from him; he shifts his position at the end she’s leaned against, dragging his hands along her shoulders to ease the tension in her muscles. Her body reacts instinctively to him. She is a long cry from the girl scamming rich men out of their wallets and time, but there are some things she is still weak to; touch, the acknowledgment that she has a body, that she is real, to be reassured that she is alive.

Santino is so very good at that. He leans over the end of the tub and kisses her cheek, fingers working into the knots of her shoulders.

I am so afraid, she thinks, her eyelashes fluttering shut. I am so afraid that I will never see old age on you.

“Tesora.” His voice is a lull. Pulling her back in, pushing her back under, reminding her that to relinquish herself to someone is a luxury she does not want to go without anymore. To let someone else take control, to not have to worry about making decisions all the time; this is something that she always wants.

“Yes,” Euphie says, “of course I love you, Santi.”

She can feel his smile against her cheek.

“Good girl.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tell me your favorite words.”

It’s both early and late; the clock’s cool blue numbers are keeping her awake; Santi’s hand slides along the curve of her hip admiringly above the silk of her nightdress, and his nose brushes the bump at the base of her neck. Euphemia shifts. When she does, the edge of her engagement ring catches on the silky pillowcase, but she doesn’t care—it will always do that, because Santi won’t pick another and Euphie won’t ask him to.

Goosebumps prickle along her skin with the air conditioning, cranked as high as she likes, whispers across it when her shoulder slides out from underneath the comforter. She rolls over to look at him. It’s unsurprising that he’s still awake, and he doesn’t look surprised to see she’s awake, either.

“My favorite words?” she prompts. Santino brings his hand to her face, his thumb dragging absently along her lower lip.

“Si,” he replies. “You are always reading. You can speak a few languages. You must have favorite words, no?”

His request does bring a smile to her face, tired as it is. They may have spent the rest of their waking evening wandering around each other like wounded dogs, wary and licking their wounds, but they are here now, together, in their bed.

Euphie says, “It is late, Santi.”

“And I cannot sleep.” He brushes his nose along her jawline. “But perhaps the soothing voice of my one greatest love will lull me.”

She laughs. Her hand finds his, their fingers interlacing, woven together. He pulls back from her and kisses the engagement ring, but he is waiting. He means it.

“Tendresse,” Euphemia says, the word rolling soft out of her mouth from misuse. Santino quirks a brow expectantly and kisses the pulse point of her wrist. “Tenderness.”

He nods sagely. Against the soft skin of the inside of her wrist, he murmurs, “You are a most tender creature, Euphemia D’Antonio.”

Her fingers slide out of his, running along the slope of his cheekbones and then the bridge of his nose. “That is Euphemia Volpe. If you’ll recall, we’re yet to be married.”

Santino leans in, captures her fingertips playfully with his teeth, and then kisses her palm with a warm, rich chuckle that sends pleasant heat spiraling down her spine. “You will never forget that I was fool enough to say that to you, will you?” he asks. “Tell me another.”

His eyes are just as warm as his voice, and twice as earnest. In these moments, Santino is the most charming; boyish and quick-witted, unburdened by the elements of the world, by his own desires. He thinks of nothing except them. Euphemia feels like she’s in her own little world with him, in their bedroom at three in the morning, while the air conditioner whirrs and ticks and he asks her something so unimportant, like what her favorite words are.

And then, Santino leans in and kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, and the underside of her jaw to prompt her.

“Amore,” she murmurs, feeling like the breath has been sucked out of her lungs by his longing. His tenderness.

“Oh,” Santino says, against her temple, “I know that one.”

When his stubble tickles her neck, she squirms, shifting away from him so hat she can take a breath; but he chases her, leans in and captures her in his arms so that he can nose the hair by her ear and kiss there.

“Euphie, my gorgeous girl,” he says in the way that wrenches her heart; drenched and drowned in adoration. “Perfetto e tutto mio.”

Santino wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, his fingers tracing constellations on her back where the night dress slips away from her shoulder blades. Sweet Santi, covetous Santi; she is his greatest art piece, his favorite collector’s item, and in these moments she has never felt more treasured. There is something equal parts safe and selfish in wanting someone to treasure you.

“Say it for me, Euphie. You know I love when you do.”

She buries her face into his neck. Her eyes burn. He will go to Baba Yaga tomorrow, and she will have to pretend not to know, or it will wreck her. Euphie considers ways to keep him in bed in the morning; delay him, make him forget about John Wick and this glory that he is chasing forever.

“Sono tuo,” she murmurs. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes If he feels them against his skin, Santino makes no indication than to card his fingers through her hair. “Always, Santi.”

Always, always, always yours.

#john wick fic #santino d'antonio x oc #santino d'antonio / oc #spilled ink #c: euphemia volpe #c: santino d'antonio #i have nothing to say for myself except thanks and ily all <3 #scheduled post #x: senza tentazioni senza onore

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thesacramentoflove · 3 years

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(Good Omens) Beelzebub x GN Reader:

3k words - The reader runs into Beelzebub while chasing their daughter, and Beelzebub decides to follow them.

-----

Something stirred, deep within their heart - a feeling so pure, so unbridled…perhaps it was love? They couldn’t be certain, but the tiny wings of many a butterfly toiled to trace the lining of their stomach. They wanted to understand the feeling - that which had been hidden from them for millennia. To whom was it directed? What purpose did it serve? Nothing thus had sent them into such a state of confusion. This feeling…it shouldn’t have been possible. But, perhaps it too was a cog in the wheel of the Great Plan. After all, God often sacrificed sense for inanity.

No…it couldn’t be love.

But this…it seemed so innocent, and the implications…they didn’t bear considering. As a demon, a being avowedly void of the very capacity, well…they should've been immune. It should've been a far-flung fantasy, a tale only told as fiction. But seeing you here, a child hanging from your arm…Beelzebub could feel a spark of…something. It was something wrong, they were certain - positive, and therefore very, very wrong indeed. It was something that defied logic, that gave the demon pause and instilled a confusion deep within. Your meeting, albeit temporary, had hindered their plans to a great extent. They were supposed to be monitoring Crowley (a task annoying in and of itself), not…following some human. Not even an hour had passed since your paths had crossed, and yet they felt such intrigue.

The way you handled your child with care and compassion beyond anything they'd seen thus far, the elegance that shone through even the smallest of movements, that smile…

Beelzebub wasn’t sure which, of the aforementioned, they favoured most. It was a difficult choice, since their mind hadn't bothered to list all of the qualities they'd become privy to. It took neither genius nor seer to tell that you glowed. You glowed with beauty, with love, with…everything demons couldn’t hope to match. You were angelic, without a whisper of effort. You didn’t claim to be an angel, but if ever you did, the smell of humanity would betray you.

Humanity…that was your sole flaw, but your very essence. For Beelzebub to pursue it, to want to…

All of this, all of it…was the result of a single interaction - one that you probably didn’t even remember. You had quite literally crashed into them, while on your daughter's tail. In her defence, she was playing Tag…amid a rowdy throng of people. And in your defence, you had warned her. Several times, in fact. But a child so young is an angel in theory and a devil in practice, paying attention to little unless it interests them.

The memory of your bodies colliding was still fresh in Beelzebub's mind. They could almost…feel you, as though you were still there, still in their arms. It hurt that you weren't, and that you fled so quickly. They remembered the rushed apology, the eyes that avoided theirs, and the glimmers of panic and guilt that couldn’t be concealed. It all happened within a moment, and then you were gone. Beelzebub had put their actual job on hold, to track you down. That might've been an honour, for a demon. The reminder of your humanity was…painful. Your human vessel would eventually expire, falling victim to the curses of illness or age. For that reason, humans were lesser, they were expendable.

That's why, the war…

Beelzebub shivered at the thought, a string of new emotions tying up their heart. They felt…desperate, protective and scared. The threads of fate would not waver at the behest of a demon, but…did humanity, all of humanity, need to be slain…? What if a single human and their child…what if they survived? Would such a thing be questioned, or challenged? If there was a way to keep you, even at the expense of your freedom…

But…was it that same freedom, and all your human traits, that made you desirable? Would you hold that same calibre, if you surrendered your humanity? Would you become an angel and thrive in Heaven, or would some horrible secret rear its head at the time of judgement? Would you join the fallen…the demons? Would you join Beelzebub, and reign at their side, for all eternity? Or would you condemn them, as God already had? Beelzebub found themselves unwilling to entertain such thoughts. Of course you would still be you, angel or demon. And…something had drawn them to Earth, on this day. Something wanted you to meet, they were certain! And, well…demons had ill fortune, but…God would never be so cruel, right?

Something had called to Beelzebub, planted the thought of visiting Earth in their head, and watched it flourish. It had offered up Crowley as an excuse, used the lack of trust between demons to its advantage. Beelzebub had been played right into its hands. But from here, they walked the path blindly. There were no further directions, no sign saying 'THIS IS WHAT YOU NEED TO DO'. They weren't sure how to talk to humans, how to appear as a friend instead of a foe…

Everything was just so complicated. But there you were, playing with your daughter on the grass, and weaving flowers into crowns with the delicacy of a feather. The smile you wore was bright and beautiful, luring Beelzebub in like a moth to a flame. They just didn’t understand why. Why did your arms suddenly look so inviting, and your lips so soft? Why did time seem to still, why had the sun framed your head in such a way that it appeared God herself had descended from the heavens to bestow a halo atop your head?

Why were you so angelic, yet…so human?

God must have been testing Beelzebub. Again. Their heart was beginning to fracture under the weight of decisions. Mere decisions! It was ridiculous…Beelzebub was never so indecisive. This should've been a trifle, in comparison to all the decisions they had to make for the upkeep of Hell. But…how could they choose between advancing (which could result either in rejection - Beelzebub did not get rejected - or you and your child fleeing in palpable terror), or staying rooted in place (during which time you could either make your exit, or someone could 'pick you up' - was that the correct human term?). This choice was so difficult because…something, some flicker of what could only be described as goodness, begged them to leave you untainted, to simply walk away and never return.

It seemed to scream, "Do not sully the human incarnation of this angelic being."

Beelzebub knew that their approach alone would expose you to all kinds of…unpleasantries - even if they themselves had no intent to do you harm. Which they didn’t. And for that matter, they never would. Though, the words of a demon gave little reassurance, and it wasn’t like you could hear them.

They dared not dwell too long on the choices - human life was fleeting, and an hour's silent contemplation to them could be several years to you (unlikely, but they did lack very basic knowledge, so their fear-driven assumption could be excused). They didn’t want to wait…they wanted to call out, to cradle and protect. They wanted the trust of both yourself and your child, but…they still didn’t know why. A human would've laid the blame on love, but love was something demons didn’t understand. They had renounced that right at the moment of their fall. Demons couldn't…love, they couldn’t care for anything! No…it wasn’t love.

Though clearly, there were two exceptions: Crowley and Beelzebub. The latter briefly wondered if the former felt such intense emotions towards his angelic companion. Though, they had met far more than once, and Crowley hadn't made a habit of stalking Aziraphale. What Beelzebub was doing…that was stalking. And it was creepy. Their eyes were so focused, tracing every inch of your body. You wouldn’t know how to act if they just…appeared before you. No, that was definitely a bad idea - bad as in bad bad, like, really bad.

However, their hesitance left an opening for someone else - a wild animal, a vulture, someone who cared nothing for your heart, your mind or your child…someone who only wished to conquer your body. And as if to mock the demon, such a person did show up. Beelzebub was now certain this was a test, with their go-to option (murder) nowhere in sight. No…you seemed much too frail. You shouldn’t have to witness such a graphic display. Beelzebub watched for a moment, as a new form of anger took hold. That human was too close to you. Your smile had fallen, happiness abandoned and discomfort rising to its place. Beelzebub didn’t like that. Not at all.

But this was a test seemingly impossible to pass, and designed for failure. Though, if Beelzebub knew one thing, it…wasn't tests, or humane ways to deal with a given situation. What they knew was confrontation.

This wasn’t your fight, and Beelzebub was poised to prove that.

The stage was set, and they moved towards it, determined to do something…anything, to return your smile to you. This human could rot in the deepest pit of Hell, eternally isolated from both sunlight and warmth, from contact, and most importantly, from you. After today, this cretin would never bother you again, on pain of, well…pain. There wouldn’t be a murder…not yet. Your comfort was the priority, and Beelzebub had to remember that. It couldn’t be jeopardised.

They reached the scene within seconds, acting on the immediate instinct to shield you and your child. Panic and fright painted both your faces, tarnishing that beautiful innocence. That could not be excused. Beelzebub glared at your harasser, but this was a poor deterrent. They backed up a mere three paces, before sneering - acting high and mighty, as though they weren't in the presence of a Lord of Hell, a revered demon.

Still, they addressed you, venom dripping from their words. "I didn't know you had a…partner. When were you gonna tell me that, sweetheart?"

You did nothing to deny the accusation, instead vowing silence and looking between the two figures. You seemed weary, as you should, but you were thankful for the intervention. Without it, well…your imagination conjured some disturbing almost-realities. This new person, whether in or out of the binary, was…helping you. Though their presentation could lead you to believe they weren't interested in good deeds, they were…helping.

And then it hit you. The familiarity hadn't registered until now, as you couldn’t see their face, but…you knew them. Or, at the very least, you'd seen them, bumped into them. Great, now you were panicked, scared, and embarrassed, all in front of your child. You held her close, throughout this entire ordeal. A part of you wanted to run, but you had to somehow repay this stranger's kindness. And you had put them in a potentially dangerous situation, albeit without intent. You hoped this was kindness, and not simply obligation, civic duty or something to a similar effect. That was the impression they gave, but…ulterior motives seemed to be a curse of humanity. No-one was genuine anymore.

"They don't like you. So leave. Now, before I do something I can't take back." It was the first you'd heard of their voice, but you never knew you could find such comfort in a tone so exceedingly dull.

The human seemed to waver. "…Oh yeah? What, you gonna kill me or somethin'?"

"I might." A real and viable threat wove its way between those words. For all God's shit, Beelzebub was prepared to neither play nor gamble - not with you on the line.

And in the intermediate moments, the human acquired a sliver of common sense. Beelzebub was the threat, and the sooner they recognised this, the better.

They stepped back, sputtering out the pathetic excuse of "I, uh…I left my cat in the oven!"

Sheer horror led your child to cry, "Kitty?!"

"He means cake, angel." Though, your thoughts didn’t carry such surety: I really hope he means cake.

Beelzebub watched the human retreat, but kept an ear open for you. Nothing would distress you now - not with their protection. But they had to be absolutely certain. Their expression softened, senses still sharp, still looking out for you and any danger that might endeavour to betide you. They didn’t know how to speak with humans, nor how gentle it was possible to be.

But the effort could be made. "Are you…okay?"

Their question, though rather sudden and unexpected, was…calming. You could tell they cared. "Um…we're okay, yeah…thank you. You didn’t have to do that, but…I'm glad you did. Are you okay? That was a short exchange, but it was charged."

Yeah…you must've been an angel. "Yeah. 'M alright."

"That's good." You smiled. You smiled. "Thank you. Again. Oh, (C/n), what do you say to them?"

At the prompt, the little child at your side shouted, "Thank you for saving us!"

You giggled at their choice of words, while Beelzebub just stared, stunned. "I'm sorry about her, she's easily excited. Cute though, isn't she? She's usually the one protecting me. You showed her up…"

Your tone was so light, so warm, so full of…something - something special. It was greater than relief, or gratitude. Well, it seemed greater. Beelzebub couldn’t really be sure, but it zapped their confidence and made almost…made them weak. And weakness…that was dangerous. Well, it was supposed to be. Yet somehow…it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a thundering heart, a sudden and creeping heat, a soft, fluffy…something, that was so alien but at the same time, so nice.

When Beelzebub didn’t respond to your prompt, you coughed and said, "Well…is there anything I could do? To repay you, I mean…I have to repay your kindness. Um, would you like a coffee, or dinner, or…you could choose something? Sorry, I don't know what you like…"

"I like…" Beelzebub looked around, trying to find an answer in all that surrounded them. They were desperate to keep you talking, to keep your eyes on them, to make you stay. "…those."

You followed their finger, laughing as you did. "The ducks or the flowers?"

Their confusion was so strange and child-like, you couldn’t help the laughter. Still, you had never been one for judgements. You replied in earnest. "The ducks are the animals in the water, the small, fuzzy ones. Ah, see the one over there, flapping its wings? That's (C/n)'s favourite. We come here to feed them, on occasion. And flowers are those - you see them coming out of the ground? They're really sweet, and every flower has a different meaning, but no-one knows them all. It's like a secret language! (C/n) and I love that a lot…"

"You like them? Do you give them to other huma- other people?" They asked, now with a genuine curiosity.

You giggled. "I don't, not personally, unless it's a daisy from the park, which I'll give to (C/n). But…I don't really…have anyone else to give them to. It's usually a romantic gesture, and I don't…I'm not…with anyone."

You hadn't meant it to sound so much like an invitation.

"Oh. Good…Why not?" Beelzebub's tongue couldn’t decide on a narrative, torn between sympathy and a sort of cruel relief.

But in spite of this, your smile refused to fade. "Well…I'm perfectly capable of raising a child alone, and no-one ever really…made my heart soar, I suppose. My other half was…not one of God's nicer creations, I'll say that. I have a catalogue of words I could use, but…well, they would put a dampener on things."

Beelzebub nodded, noting that for later enquiries. "Are they dead?"

You laughed, both amused and taken aback. "No, no…to me, perhaps, but…no. Ah, if you're asking because of the past tense, I only used it because we aren't together anymore. We're, um…four years divorced. I just…focused on raising (C/n), rather than tending to my romantic needs. She is, and always will be, more important."

"What did you mean," Beelzebub started, furrowing their brows. "with the bit about your heart? The 'heart soar'? What…is that? How does it work?"

"Have you ever heard of 'Cloud Nine'?" You waited until they shook their head, to continue. "It's a feeling you get when you're around someone you love, where your heart starts to beat really fast, and you feel like you can fly to great heights. You feel weightless, like any sudden wind could take you into the air. Oh, it's such a magical feeling!...Have you never felt it before?"

As you spoke, Beelzebub's experience, their feelings, gained clarity. Things just…clicked. Had it been that easy all along? And had they known…? Had their heart simply pulled the veil over their mind? Could demons love? Part of them wanted to scream; love was sacred - the antithesis of hatred and the enemy of all evils. The very act, the very thought…were so unbefitting, so un-demon like. But this seemed beyond merely act or thought.

"That's how it feels." They stated, with faux confidence.

"So you have! Isn't it just wonderful?" You paused, then gasped rather loudly. "Oh my…I can't believe I forgot to tell you my name! I'm (Y/n), it's a pleasure to meet you!"

They took your hand, after a fierce internal debate. Their face, however, remained neutral. "Beelzebub, and likewise."

"Oh, you have a biblical name! Those are always so fascinating!" You gushed, taking them by surprise.

"You have a…name. A nice one." They stammered, new to both giving and receiving compliments.

You laughed again, a sound too sweet for their ears. "You don't get out much, do you? Um…would you like to get some food? Provided you can deal with (C/n), of course. We could…talk? Get to know each other…? You seem really nice, and I'd like to, um…"

Demons didn’t eat, but at this point, Beelzebub would do anything to stay at your side. Their acceptance came easily - too easily, by their standards. But they were beginning to reject those standards, at a hawk's pace, rather than a snail's. It might've been concerning, but…why should they care? Loving a human was bad, and demons thrived in the bad. Bad was good, in their books - or at least, the demonic equivalent. And 'good' wasn’t a descriptor that suited Beelzebub, but 'bad'…now that was. Surely then, a little greed couldn’t hurt. But it wasn’t material greed, no…it was far more personal, more intimate. They hungered for your affections, for your hand…for everything about you.

Their very nature justified this sin. Such beautiful, glorious sin. If Beelzebub could fall any further…they would do so with a glad and willing heart.

So this is love. They thought, as a smile crept to their lips. Forbidden love.

#beelzebub #beelzebub x reader #beelzebub good omens #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #gender-neutral #single parent reader #lord beelzebub

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brockadoodles · 3 years

Text

Heartbreak and a New Tattoo - w. nylander

AN: Uhhhhhhhh. Definitely didn’t intend on posting a fic tonight but, cranked this out. It started off as meaning to be fluffy and cute but uh, my angsty cold heart said no? I’m trying to be better about writing shorter stuff, so let me know what you think! I’m gonna tag @broadstbroskis and @jasondickinsonss since they’re my resident willy pals.

Word Count: 2653

Warnings: Angst, happy ending though.

No one warned you that you would lose a piece of yourself when you fell in love. They didn’t caution you about how for every good moment, the ones that make your head spin and your heart race, there would be a chip of your own sense of person falling away. They didn’t tell you that after four years with someone, you slip into their habits, nestling tightly into their life. So much so that you aren’t even sure what direction you’re facing, because everything around you was built by him. It wasn’t that William did anything wrong. In fact, he did everything a partner should. His life was logistically a chaotic nightmare, each step felt like he was balancing on a rope, trying to get to the other side. But he was good at it, he always prioritized you, even when it was hard. The only problem was that he didn’t know the very rope he was stuck on was fraying.

It had started small, the cracks between you. The calls during road trips became shorter, less engaged. By the time either of you realized what was happening, it was just two people who once aligned into one breathing on a deadline out of obligation because it felt like that was what you were supposed to do. By the time you realized that the person you thought you were, wasn’t anyone recognizable without William by your side, you irresponsibly thought that it was time to let go. So, you let go of the visions of marriage and a family, of the house you dreamed of building together once things settled down, of the thoughts of the holidays spent together, each one more special than the last. You let it all go, taking a seam ripper to the last bits of thread connecting your souls. You couldn’t decide what hurt worse, the demise of what you thought was forever, or the fact that William didn’t put up a fight as you packed your things and left.

William didn’t know what hit him when you muttered that you were leaving. He was so sure it had to be a mistake, that there had to be some piece of information missing that would fix everything. He felt his chest caving in, the weight of you packing your bags codifying a new language into his head, one that didn’t include you. He spent weeks circling through the last few months before you ended it. Writing down and analyzing every fight, every night spent without talking to each other when he was gone, trying to piece together what moment made you leave. What he could have done to save the very thing that was destined to fall apart no matter how much super glue he tried to stick to it. You needed to find yourself again, and no matter how badly he longed to help you, he needed to let you go.

When William came back into Toronto in September, he was incessantly telling himself that he was doing better, that the fresh season would throw him back into a familiar enough routine that he could finally adjust to life without you. But familiarity breeds nostalgia, and nostalgia controlled the heartbreak he had spent the last few months trying to let go of. It wasn’t until he was back in the apartment that you shared that the resentment stage of his grief had tucked into his heart.

The resentment was the worst part of the breakup. Because he didn’t want to resent anything about you. He had gotten four years to love you as best as he could, and he didn’t want to replace all of the memories of love with a feeling of regret. He didn’t regret loving you, even if it ended the way that it had. He didn’t regret thinking he was going to marry you, and when he finally moved on from the resentment stage of grief, he realized that sometimes you can put your all into someone and they simply might not be able to give you all of it back. He was slowly starting to thread the foundation of a new rope, he was starting to move on. But when he saw you standing there in your dark blue dress, your hair a bit shorter than the last time he had seen you, talking to Steph, he dropped the newly constructed rope off the ledge.

You on the other hand were spending your summer trying to piece together the remaining fragments of your own being, the person who you were before you met William. You were doing okay, as okay as someone could be when they had just ended a four-year relationship with the person that they assumed would be the one. You spent months lying to yourself about being okay. You spent months trying to convince yourself that you didn’t make a mistake, that you didn’t leave because you couldn’t handle being honest with him about how you were feeling.

It was October and you knew he was back in the city. Hockey had started which meant that his presence was now one you actively had to avoid. You took the long way into the city and back home most days, actively avoiding the arena, knowing that being there would be too much. This half-hearted way of living in the city you called home was manageable, until December when you finally had the courage to unpack the remaining boxes from the home you shared together.

You were going through a notebook when it fell out, Mitch and Steph’s wedding invitation from over a year ago now. You picked up the card, eyes welling with the tears you had shoved down for the last six months as you remembered that weekend. The weekend you realized Will was your person.

“I can’t believe you and Mitch are finally getting married.” You hummed to Steph as you slid off your heels and collapsed onto the hotel bed. You had always admired Mitch and Steph, their relationship was one that was the definition of two people who fit together seamlessly, and made the choice to make it work between them. It wasn’t a fairytale or a whirlwind, it was real and raw and you couldn’t be happier as you laid in that hotel bed, dress and makeup still on, half-drunk from the overpriced cocktails that the boys kept flowing after they crashed the bachelorette party, that two of your closest friends were getting married in just two days.

“God, I know. Is it weird I’m not nervous about it at all?” Steph called from around the corner. You stood up, your feet slightly throbbing from being in heels all night and your mind feeling a bit fuzzy from the drinks as you rounded the corner and saw her taking off her makeup in the mirror.

“No, you and Mitch are just right, ya know? It works.” You looked at her hand, eyes shifting to the diamond sitting perfectly on her ring finger, sparkly and bright and perfect for her. You grabbed your phone from the counter where you had left it earlier in the evening, not wanting to bring it out with you while you and the girls celebrated with Steph. You looked at the home screen, a small notification catching your eye as you unlocked the phone and hit play on the voicemail. Steph grabbed the phone from your hand, a knowing smile on her face as she turned the volume on the speaker up, William’s voice filling the small hallway before you had the chance to stop it.

“Hey baby, you’re probably back in the room by now. I just wanted to say that you looked amazing tonight, and I know we can’t be together tonight because of the traditions and all that, but I love you and will be thinking of you.”

Steph handed you the phone back, a stupid smirk evident on her face that you were pretending to ignore. You went back toward your suitcase, sliding the dress off of your body and throwing on one of Willy’s old sweatshirts and a pair of shorts. You sat on the bed, fingers hovering over your phone as you thought of a message to type back to your boyfriend, a smile lingering on your cheeks from his message.

“You know what he said to me the night he met you? Granted, he was shitfaced, but I still think it’s relevant.” Steph smirked as she came around the corner, crawling onto the other side of the bed and turning to face you. You rolled your eyes at her and set your phone down, ignoring her slightly as she started speaking again,

“He told me ‘I’m gonna marry her one day Stephanie, just wait.’”

You let yourself cry over that memory, and for the first time since the breakup, you realized that you were worse off without him, that you had ended something entirely too good for reasons you didn’t understand. You picked up the phone to call more times than you could count, only to set it back down again, torturing yourself with the idea that you had made your decision, and you needed to lay with it.

You were in such a daze when he walked up to you, nerves settling into your stomach at the sight of him. He didn’t look like your Willy anymore, he looked like a hollow version of the man you still were hopelessly in love with, the one that you ultimately played the biggest hand in breaking. You followed him without a word when he asked you if you could talk because the truth was that you would follow William anywhere if it meant that maybe you could get a piece of him back.

It was awkward for a few moments, both of you riddled with nerves, wondering who was going to dare to break first and say what they were truly thinking about. It was agonizing, being so close to him for the first time in such a long time, and it only made your own doubts about leaving him to come back to your chest in full force. William grabbed your hand quickly, threading his fingers through yours before finally speaking, being the first one to crack the eggshells that you were both walking on.

“Do you sleep well without me? Because I don’t. I don’t think I’ve slept since June when you left.” He said, head hanging down as if the words he was speaking were in some way shameful. Your heart wanted to break for him because you had been in the same situation for so long, nights feeling long and empty without him there. But part of you was almost feeling some weird sense of satisfaction at knowing he was hurting just as badly as you. You weren’t surprised he dove right in, head first. It was what he always did. He had known you for so long, there wasn’t a point in dancing around saying he missed you now that he had the chance to tell you so, he had already been doing enough to push it away on his own. He didn’t want to keep pushing something that he was starting to realize wasn’t meant to go away.

“No, willy. I haven’t slept well since we broke up.” You shook your head, opting to tell the truth because up until this point, lying to pretend you were fine had only left you empty, with a broken heart that you didn’t know how to heal.

“I stayed up until 6 am just because at least then if I called you might be awake. I felt like I was watching myself just get worse and worse, and all I wanted was you. I’m not supposed to want you anymore, William.”

“I would have answered, I would always answer.”

“It’s not the same, you know it’s not.” William sighed softly at your words as he let them run in tedious circles through his head. He had spent the better part of the last six months missing you and replaying the events from the summer wondering if you were both wrong for what had happened. Your love story had been like a journey by train, exciting when you’re young and tiring when you get older. It was great until one of you, who could even remember who at this point, had gotten off during a stop and the other one continued on the journey alone and by the time you both reached the final destination, the two different trips couldn’t merge into one anymore. But the problem was that maybe the final destination was all wrong, maybe you were supposed to get off the train because now you could come back together and start a different trip together, one that isn’t tiring when you’re older.

He looked over at you quickly and let his eyes linger on the features of your face, the ones he used to have memorized hidden by the obvious toll the breakup had taken on you, too. He couldn’t help but think about how if he were to take one look in a mirror that he had been avoiding for the past six months, he probably wouldn’t recognize himself either.

“I tried to call you,” he started, voice tentative and unsure as you turned to look at him. Your eyes were blurry, and your mind nearly blacked out at the five words he just spoke. Five words that maybe could change everything, or perhaps they would have if you had seen the call in the first place. You tilted your head softly as William ran his hand through his hair.

“But, your voicemail was full.” You looked away from him, the pain in your chest creeping back in as you took in his second set of five words. Your voicemail, the one that had been filled with messages from him, from times where you were happy, and from drunken nights after the breakup where he sometimes would call and all you would hear on the other end was silence.

“I couldn’t bring myself to delete them, I just wanted a place where I would be able to hear your voice and have it be just for me,” you smiled sadly, letting the tears blur your vision as you stood up. You didn’t know what to do, this all felt suffocating and overwhelming and yet definitive at the same time. This was it, you were either getting William back, or you were letting him go forever. The choice should have been a simple one and yet it was almost more complicated than the initial choice to breakup had been because at least when you did that, you both thought it was what you wanted. Now you were presented with either putting your heart out in the open, tossing it carefully to the person you had known for so long and putting your trust in him to catch it, or you were running the risk of him dropping it and leaving you crumbled on the floor as you tried to pick up the remnants of whatever would be left after a fumble that big.

“I spent Christmas without you, please don’t make me spend New Years without you, too.”

“I don’t want to spend any day without you again.” You whispered, resting your hand on his cheek. William smiled at you and pulled you close into his chest. He tilted your head up and connected his lips to yours, something that you both had spent the last six months missing. You settled into him, feeling your fears melt with each moment that passed. The breakup had left heartache in both of you, but it was necessary to put your real love into permanent ink on both of your chests. A new start, one without heartbreak and with a new tattoo.

#william nylander #william nylander imagine #william nylander fic #william nylander x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic

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cherrynojutsu · 3 years

Text

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 6/?: Roots

It's pouring rain by the time Sasuke awakens, a tempestuous sort of hush awash a village swathed in grey. He's gotten a very good night's sleep, only waking once around five to groggily hearken as the pitter patter of droplets began against the asphalt and metal of the roof. He'd watched the beads of liquid slowly connect to others, forming small rivulets pulled downwards by gravity on the glass of his bedroom window, before he made the decision to try to fall back asleep. To his bewilderment, it had actually worked; a rare occurrence, as it usually doesn't. No dreams, no nightmares, just blissful emptiness, like he was allowed for once to drink in the moisture of rest like a tonic, exuding into his being much like the precipitation trickling into the soil outside.

It's nine thirty when he rolls out of bed, reluctant to leave the warm requiescence of his comforter, but also wanting to give himself plenty of time to get ready. He'd like to shower before he heads over to Sakura’s, and he also wants to eat something light for breakfast first. He decides on ochazuke, because it’s relatively easy to prepare and he thinks he would like more tea; two birds with one stone. There are sesame seeds in his cupboard that he could sprinkle over the dish, at the end. He sets a portion of brown rice to boil before brewing a cup of the caffeinated green sencha to eventually seep over it.

It smells really good as it permeates into the hot water, earthiness propelling upwards and sinking into his nostrils. He'll have to thank her again today, now that he knows what her gift actually contained.

While he lets things stew, Sasuke considers the kitchen table, where he left the remainder of the gifts yesterday. Now is as good a time as any to find a place for each of them, he supposes. He makes quick work of washing the paring board before setting it aside to dry. The cough drops find a home in his bathroom's mostly empty storage behind the mirror; he takes the two lozenges left from the hospital and puts them there, too, to use before he opens any of the new packages.

He decides that the photo should go on the bedside table, next to the clock. He can always move it, if he changes his mind. It catches his eye for longer than is strictly necessary.

Eventually he returns to the kitchen, removing the strainer from the tea and stirring the pot of rice twice as he waits for it to finish cooking. The barrage has lessened since daybreak, not overly loud, but enough to create an ambient sort of background noise that is a nice change of pace; less of a storm and more of a quenched thirst for the earth, emptying from rooftops down the gutters and into the ground. Sakura’s building is older, too; it probably will sound much the same at her apartment.

He savors the ochazuke once it’s finished, a simple but enjoyable way to start the day, caffeine threading its way into his system gradually. Washing the dishes is his next task, followed by an extremely lengthy shower, temperature near thermogenic. The bruises from his two spars with Naruto are still sore, but not terrible; the heat feels good on the marred skin. Water drifts across more bruising that has bled into existence overnight on his shins, before it sinks between his toes and vanishes down the drain. He’s not sure why he watches it; it just seems compelling today for some reason, everything pulling downward.

When he’s dry, he throws on a comfortable pair of black pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt. He doesn’t want to read more of his book since he has a little less than half left of the one on kenjutsu, so he decides to complete some meal prep instead, testing out the paring board by chopping and slicing various produce; mushrooms, bell peppers, broccoli, carrots, tomatoes, green onions, and burdock roots are slowly removed from his fridge, cleaved into neat pieces, and then returned to their respective assortment of bags and containers. The small bits of metal attached to the board allow for cutting goods with ease, a bit ingenious. It works extremely well, much more efficient than the hassle of summoning a clone to simply stand there holding each item still. It’s not that he doesn’t have the chakra to spare, but it feels more dignified this way.

After enough time has passed, Sasuke pulls on a pair of grey socks, sandals, and his cloak before he leaves, library book concealed and protected by the black garment.

It’s marginally chilly outside, but not terribly cold like it would have been earlier in the morning. Petrichor overwhelms him, an aroma he is well acquainted with. He is reminded of the scent of the foliage the handful of times he passed through the Land of Rain, and also of drizzly days spent as a child here in Konoha. Every bit of vegetation he glimpses on the way to Sakura’s apartment complex is drinking up the liquid greedily, drop after drop of nourishment with which they will sustain themselves and use to grow.

The puddles are starting to join in their crevices, small streams of gentle cascades forming. It captures his attention like the shower drain did earlier, and it feels nostalgic for some reason, like there is some forgotten secret that the land beneath is whispering through the medium of interconnected pools, rippling outward until they touch more solid soil.

His hair is a bit damp when he arrives at her building just prior to eleven. Illumination flows from beneath doorways of variegated colors; everyone else is inside today, too. The tonality is similar to the harmony overheard at his own apartment, as he expected; he finds it comforting.

He knows he’s a little early, so Sasuke takes his time going up the stairs. Once he reaches the sage green of her threshold, he raps twice and waits, studying Sakura’s plants in their terracotta pots. There are a few amongst them that he doesn’t recognize, which is curious, given that he’s wandered so many places and has grown familiar with a vast diversity of flora. There is lucky bamboo pushed towards the back of the array, in the area that gets the least amount of light. A spider plant is to its left, and a golden pothos, along with a snake plant, are sandwiched to its right, towards the corner. A lilac moth orchid blooms near her door, a paler variety than he has seen anywhere else. Coral kalanchoe spill out the side of a taller planter, next to pink and pistachio mums, faded yellow butterfly ranunculus, and a small vessel filled with white daffodils, sunny insides flourishing outwards. There are succulents, too, tricolor lavender scallops sprinkled throughout several of the ceramic containers, along with a strain he doesn’t recognize.

Yarrow and jewelweed emerge from smaller pots on the edge of the spread, which makes him wonder if the few plants he’s unfamiliar with are being grown for useful purposes rather than decorative. Perhaps she keeps them for her work crafting antidotes; he knows that the roots of plants can often carry medicinal benefits. One of them is quite odd looking, now that he is peering down at it closely; dark plum-colored stems spread upwards with circular leaf-like shapes at the crown, trains of spiky white flowers budding from them. Another one he can’t identify has a tiny whitish yellow flower, dwarfed by the huge wrinkled leaves that surround it.

They appear as if they have been tended already, the loam damp as it is outside with no opportunity for warmth to dry them as of yet, though this verdure is more tame, less wild. She must water them in the morning. All of them are so different, yet they are all alike, too, stringy germinations and rhizomes expanding to suffuse through their similar planters.

Her door clicks open, and he shifts. Sakura smiles up at him, sunshine on a rainy day accented by a dimple, wearing an extremely comfortable-looking outfit: an oversized cream crewneck that slips off one of her shoulders a little, and a juniper pair of jogging pants that he thinks would be too long for her if not for the gathering at the ankles.

"Good morning, Sasuke-kun," she greets, eyes he loves radiant on his. "It's almost ready; come in."

He responds, “Morning,” and follows her inside, placing his library book on the console table momentarily, where her lamp is already switched on. As he shrugs off his cloak and toes off his sandals, she drifts back to the kitchen, something likely needing her attention there. He notices as she goes that there is an extremely fuzzy pair of beige socks on her feet.

As he hangs his cloak, he realizes that her apartment smells like roasted tomatoes and toasting bread, overpowering any vague notes of her tea cabinet in a way that makes his mouth water.

Sasuke reaches for his book from the console table and goes further into her living space, where the rest of her lamps are also turned on already; no hard lighting. He assumes they'll read on her couch, so he sets the text on the end table, closest to the side where he’d sat the previous night. There are two blankets thrown over the sofa now that weren't there yesterday, one appearing plush that is a color somewhere between mauve and lavender, and the other one a knit heather grey. It’s probable that they came from her bedroom; perhaps the walls are some variant of violet, a color he would not have expected.

As he turns, intending to join Sakura in the kitchen, his eye catches on a familiar photo, and he stops. Perched on one of the few empty areas of one of her bookshelves is their original Team Seven portrait, in a pale wood frame, near white. It's different in finish from the other frames adorning her walls near the kitchen, much lighter in color.

He is struck by it for multiple reasons; it wasn’t there yesterday, meaning it probably has also come from her bedroom, and it is very close in finish to the wood of the uchiwa fan he gave her as a birthday gift. He hasn’t seen it; Sasuke knows most women keep ornamental fans like that in storage for safekeeping. He vaguely recalls his own mother used to keep hers, though less ornate and made of paper rather than silk, in boxes, stored securely for future use at festivals and such in her closet. She’d shown them to him, once, and he’d seen her carrying them on special occasions, from time to time.

Sasuke studies the picture and the wood grain for a long moment, gaze softening. He wonders if she moved it out here to make him feel more at home.

He breaks his contemplation by making his way to her kitchen finally, where Sakura is flipping a grilled cheese sandwich over in a pan, one of two. A slow cooker lies atop the counter, lid condensed with moisture, with plates, bowls, and spoons laid out next to it.

It smells really good.

Green eyes fall on him, bright and filled with exuberance. "These are on their last minute, I think, so if you wanted to, you could dish up the soup while I finish them. There’s a ladle in there.” She gestures towards the drawer beneath the counter where the slow cooker rests. “It's tomato miso; I hope you like it. It should be done by now.”

His stomach suddenly feels tied in knots in the best sort of way. A gilding of warmth spreads throughout his entire being, veins and arteries and capillaries slowly immersed in something numinous.

“...I’m sure I’ll like it,” he murmurs, reveling in the blush that inks its way onto her cheeks, all the way back on her cheekbones to surround the freckle he’d touched yesterday. She looks away shyly, grinning like he has given her some grand compliment. The corners of his own mouth twist upwards.

Sasuke pulls the ladle from the aforementioned drawer, where it sits amongst other utensils, setting it in one of the bowls already placed on the counter. When he removes the lid, his olfactory senses instantly flood with a wave of savory miso; by the aroma, she must have used red, middle range, a perfect foil for the acidity of tomatoes. When he grabs the ladle again, he stirs it a few times; quartered shiitake mushrooms, kombu, scallions, and tomato chunks - he thinks they are of the plum variety - circle the pot, filling it near to the brim just below the surface. Sakura has made a considerable amount of it, much more than is needed for a single meal for two.

He shifts the plates closer to the slow cooker, bowls set atop them, before ladling soup in, careful not to spill and making sure to get an even mixture of produce with which to fill the broth in each. He rinses the ladle clean, and she mentions that there are small plates in the cupboard to his upper left, to rest the ladle on; he grabs one as she moves to open a different cupboard behind him.

Sasuke returns the lid to its place to trap in the slow cooker’s heat, rotating the dial from hot, past low and into the warming setting. When he turns back to Sakura, she’s shutting the stove off and moving the pan to a cool burner. Both of the sandwiches are resting on a cutting board, sliced diagonally.

The sandwiches smell really good, too. She veers the halves onto the empty space of the plates using the knife, before leaving it, along with the paring board, in the sink.

They each grab a plate and spoon before heading to her dining table, in front of the northern window. The dangling market lamp is already turned on, and fat droplets are slipping down the glass.

It’s a calming lunch they share, a steady lulling of inclement background noise alternating between bites of sandwich and spoonfuls of soup as they watch the street below. The avocado is good in grilled cheese; it’s something he would have never thought to add. Sakura dips hers into her soup, so he tries it, too, and finds he likes it even better that way. The soup on its own is something else, though; filling and savory, near perfectly spiced. She’s a good cook.

“It’s good. Thank you,” he compliments halfway through as she chews and swallows a bite.

She beams at him. “You’re welcome.” She studies him before adding, “There’s enough for leftovers, if you’d like any more.”

He nods and takes another mouthful, looking out the glass thoughtfully. The residential buildings across the way are also lit up, soft light blurred through the fractals of raindrops.

“Do you think Naruto’s doing his homework on a day like today?” Sakura asks eventually.

“Tch.” He turns his gaze to her. “I doubt he’s even awake yet.”

Her grin is mischievous. “You’re probably right. It's his weekend. No Hinata around to wake him up? Definitely still asleep.” She sighs exaggeratedly. “Kakashi-sensei will be so disappointed. Though it’s better than copying someone else’s, I guess.”

“...Did he used to copy yours?” He’s more amused by that prospect than he should be, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

Sakura furrows fine pink brows as if she knows that he knows the answer, too, but she’s still smiling. “He used to ask if he could. I was too good of a student to let him.”

“...Figures.” A ghost of a smile overtakes him, a cleansing sort of sentimental fondness for bygone days during which their third squad member was at his most annoying.

“I think Shikamaru used to let him. It was too much effort to say no that many times.”

Sasuke exhales through his nose, a rendition of a laugh as she takes another bite of her sandwich, dipping it first in the soup and looking amused. Nara would.

He also takes another bite, and mulls over his next words.

Swallowing beforehand, he inquires, “...What’s in Suna?”

Sakura blinks in surprise, analytical eyes quickly working out that he’s referring to her comment yesterday at Ichiraku’s. She turns to the window, smirking and chewing her food as if considering something of great importance. The dimple sinks in and out as her mouth moves; he averts his eyes back to his plate before he gets caught staring.

When she swallows, she’s quiet for a long moment, then says ambiguously, “I’m not sure I should say anything. Insider knowledge.”

Interesting. Sasuke is sure she has the same friendly camaraderie with Nara that she has with everyone else, but he assumes the insider knowledge must have actually come from Ino; she is the type to know everyone’s business, given how much she apparently shares her own with Sakura, and she is Shikamaru’s teammate, though they're both Jonin now.

“...No hints?” He presses, pinning her with a stare. Now he’s more curious; it must be something good, if it’s a secret of this magnitude.

She bites her lip, still grinning, then bites into her sandwich, watching precipitation race down the glass.

“One,” she finally acquiesces, as if it’s a monumental conspiracy. He raises an eyebrow in anticipation.

“It’s in Suna sometimes. Other times, not.”

He narrows his eyes and suppresses an urge to twitch, because that could really be anything, given their line of work, but based on her bemused expression, he’s not going to get more than that. He settles for studying her until she looks elsewhere, a shy giggle escaping her throat as if this is very funny.

“Sorry. Not mine to tell.” She raises another spoonful of soup to her lips.

“...But Kakashi knows?”

She swallows. “Oh, yes. He might have known before anyone else caught on.”

“Naruto?”

Sakura appears to be deliberating. “...Mmm, he’s more observant than when we were kids, so he might. I kind of doubt it though. They’re pretty good friends now, but…”

Sasuke hadn’t known that. He waits for her to finish her thought, staring at her pointedly. Her gaze flicks back up to his after a second.

She shrugs, then. “He’s a good strategist. I kind of think he’ll hold a higher-up position, once Naruto becomes Hokage, if Kakashi-sensei doesn’t promote him before that. He’d be an asset as an adviser.”

Shikamaru became the chief coordinator of the Shinobi Union, after the war. That type of advancement would make a lot of sense. He would be well-suited to assist the Hokage even now, moreso in a few years. It speaks to Naruto’s increase in awareness, Sasuke thinks, that he would be planning ahead to compensate for areas he is less strong in by appointing sensible counsel. A clan head is an astute choice, especially one who has put in efforts to make peace.

It’s odd, to think of the roles everyone in their generation has come or will come to fill, the more he considers it. Distinctively different plants with roots distending into analogous vessels, like the terracotta ones on Sakura’s doorstep.

“Nara’s a good choice for that,” Sasuke finally says, realizing he should respond.

Sakura inclines her head before lifting her bowl to her mouth to drink the last of her broth. She’s finished her sandwich now. He’s about finished with his, too.

This is nice, he thinks as she smiles at him before glancing outside again. “It’s really coming down now, huh?”

It’s the type of question that doesn’t really need an answer, but he nods anyway, because it is. Meager ponds are collecting in the street, rills tracing pathways over the awnings of the building across the thoroughfare. Pitter patters on the roof have grown in intensity to rival those of the early morning. It reminds him almost of the summer monsoons Konoha tends to get, though this clearly isn't one, still being in the throes of spring. Moisture is good for roots, he supposes.

He sips the last of the broth from his bowl, and she looks back to him. “Would you like another bowl? Or maybe some tea? I can brew some while I do the dishes.”

Sasuke considers the offer. It was a pretty filling meal, the soup piquant and packed with produce as it was. “...Tea would be good. I can help.”

Sakura seems like she’s going to protest, so he adds, “Thank you for the sencha… and the rest. I didn’t have loose leaf yet; I like it.”

She flushes, smiling at him softly. “You’re welcome.”

A silence filled by drizzle passes in which they regard each other, and then she’s standing to collect her plates, so he follows her example and grabs his own before trailing behind her to the kitchen.

It’s early enough still that they can have caffeinated tea, so she cycles through the loose leaf options she has as the sink fills with suds; matcha, chai, ginger peach, white monkey, and rose bouquet white. “The white monkey isn’t as sweet as it usually is; I think I got a unique batch. It’s more woody and peppery than anything; I’ve been mixing it with matcha.” There are the pre-packaged versions, too, but she doesn’t read them off, since they have more specifically sweet flavors, like caramel vanilla, banana dessert, and strawberry shortcake.

He picks white monkey at her recommendation of it not being too cloying, and she grabs one of the banana dessert pre-packaged tea bags for herself. Sakura makes short work of setting the water in the kettle to boil before procuring two teacups and siphoning some of the white monkey blend into a small strainer she pulls from another drawer.

Once she’s done that, she unplugs the slow cooker and reaches for something from a lower cupboard - two hand towels - to put on the counter; he assumes one is to utilize as a dish mat and the other is to actually dry with.

“If you really want to, you can dry… But you’re a guest, so you don’t have to,” she murmurs, expression affectionate in a way that makes his neck warm.

So Sasuke helps. She washes and rinses - her dish soap is lemon-scented - and strategically sets each piece atop the first towel he’s laid out. He dries one side of the plates and bowls, then flips them over one-handed to dry the other, stacking them on the clean expanse of counter to his right. It doesn’t take very long with them working together. When she goes to empty the sink, she gives it a scrub and a rinse with the soapy sponge she’s been using, efficient as always, before rinsing any remnant suds from her own hands.

“I can show you where everything goes,” Sakura says, so Sasuke helps her put things away, too, mentally cataloging what’s in each cupboard for future reference. Her storage system is well thought out, organized in a way that makes the most sense for the layout of the space.

When she reaches upwards to put the cutting board back in its place, the sleeve of her top slips further to one side, gravity pulling the fabric downwards on her slender frame and exposing some of the skin of her upper back. There is a dusting of tiny freckles just above the interior portion of her left shoulder blade that he hadn’t known was there. The way they are scattered reminds him of serpens caput, missing only one of the constellation’s general equivalent of stars. He forces his stare away, ears reddening, when she turns to remove the pot from the slow cooker.

“Thank you for helping.” Sakura adds coconut creamer and sugar to her own cup of tea, stirring. “Would you like lemon with this one?”

Sasuke thinks, still a little distracted by dainty freckles, before shaking his head. If it’s woody and peppery, he’ll probably like it fine on its own. She pushes his teacup towards him on the counter with a look that tells him to test it, so he does, and finds he was right; it’s herbaceous, with a scant amount of woodiness and pepper lurking underneath. Maybe the tiniest hint of sweetness, but barely.

“It’s good,” he tells her quietly, before taking another sip.

Apparently the grey blanket is reserved for him; she takes the lavender once they head to the living room, curling up on one end of the couch with it, tea and her book on the table. Based on her bookmark, she’s about halfway through hers. Sasuke does the same on the other end, mirroring her pose, back propped towards the side of the couch with feet extending to the middle rather than going off the front. He keeps his knees slightly bent so he doesn’t invade her space too much, though he doesn’t think she would mind.

He steals one last glance at her before opening his own book to get lost in the different ways to wield a blade. The rain on Sakura’s roof is ataractic, accented by the pleasant smell of tea, the sensation of a full belly, and a warm blanket that smells like her, though it’s more raspberry this time than any lingering antiseptic.

It’s nearly three by the time he finishes his book, mind swimming with descriptions of sword forms. Sasuke peeks at her and sees she’s almost done, too, so he rereads the more engrossing passages, the ones that were particularly well fleshed-out. He’s so relaxed that he thinks he could fall asleep despite the caffeine, if he closed his eyes for more than a few minutes; focusing on rereading should help him stay awake.

Sakura closes her book after a bit; he looks upward at the sound, meeting green.

“How was your book?” She asks, lips twisting upwards; she must have noticed he finished his, despite still reading her own.

"...Good."

“Learn anything?”

“...A bit.”

Her smile widens as if she is amused; maybe he should elaborate, but he’s not sure if practical applications of swordsmanship are something she’s interested in.

Evidently they are, because she questions, “Care to share?”

Sasuke begins explaining the concept of iaido, derived from iaijutsu, the samurai skill of drawing one’s sword and cutting in the same movement, rather than cutting from an assumed stance after already drawing the weapon. It’s a simple idea, one he’s experimented with in the past, but there had been illustrations on a few of the pages showing different forms, and two of them he has never attempted. The pictures helped; he thinks to himself when he visits the library again, he’ll seek out one containing more visual aides.

He expounds upon the chapter on dual swordsmanship, too, primarily utilizing one sword to attack and another to defend; the defensive stances detailed are some he would like to try, specifically tailored as they are to be used with one arm. Some of them he’s already used intuitively, but one of the forms captured his attention, involving a slight variant sweeping of the blade to repel an attacker that would situate them at a more advantageous angle. It could be useful, if he ever needs to draw an enemy into a trap.

“Interesting,” Sakura remarks, and it seems genuine. Maybe it is interesting, in the case of someone who has, at least to his knowledge, never used a sword. He would like to ask her about medical ninjutsu sometime. “So it was a good read?”

He inclines his head to indicate yes. “...And yours?”

Sakura grimaces. “It… wasn’t terrible, I suppose. I didn’t really like the author’s writing style. Ino and I differ in that regard. She reads things more for the story itself than the way it’s told, so sometimes this happens.”

Sasuke raises an eyebrow so she’ll clarify. She shifts slightly, bringing a finger to her chin in thought. “It was too… straightforward. Limited and repetitive vocabulary, not a lot of dialogue structural variation, though it’s well-researched; I’ll give it that. It takes place during the second Shinobi War. A civilian woman’s husband going off to battle, they have to evacuate the area, the costs of conflict, that sort of thing. The ending was sad…” Her voice trails off, punctuated by the plunk of deluge, then she adds, “I guess it makes sense that the protagonist would think in limited language given the rudimentary basic education structure of everything back then, but it’s not very… poetic. It was like the author felt nothing as they wrote it, a kind of detachment from the whole thing.”

He suppresses an urge to smirk, reminiscing on her letters and extensive vocabulary. “...You like poetry.” It’s just an observation, but it’s something he hadn’t known about her, prior to now. Very Sakura.

Color floods across her cheekbones, and she looks at him with an expression that is very tender, as if there’s something else she would like to say. He could stare for hours, entranced by her as he is. “...I do.”

Sasuke wonders, then, if any of the books on her bookshelves are poetry books. He hasn’t read the titles carefully. It occurs to him that she might have more books in her bedroom, now that he’s thinking about it. When he was younger, he used to keep many of his own in his room, too, sorted by genre.

“Did you finish your other book already?” Sakura asks him, then, expression inquisitive.

He nods, eyeing her as he contemplates what he would like to say. He decides not to phrase it as a question this time; he wants her to offer, so he knows he's not requesting too much. Give her an out. She trains with Ino in the morning on Mondays and has lunch with her after, but she hasn’t said anything about her plans for the afternoon.

There’s still something in him that’s nervous, tightening as he speaks, careful to specify time. “...I was thinking of going tomorrow afternoon to get some new ones.”

Her smile unfurls slowly; Sakura really can read him well. “...I was, too.”

His chest rushes with warmth, anxiety released in a single relieved breath; it's not too much, then. The corner of his mouth quirks up, and that seems to encourage her, because she adds, “Ino and I are usually done with lunch by around one. It’s supposed to be nice out, I think. We could…” Her voice trails off, as if she’s considering. “...We could meet at the library around one thirty, and then maybe… take books to a quieter area to read, after. If you want. I... think I know a spot that should be fairly dry by then.”

“...I can meet you here,” Sasuke offers in a low voice, a confession he's more comfortable with now. The way she glows in response as she agrees is captivating.

Sakura invites him to play go with her, after. He agrees, because he wants to, and also because he doesn’t want to leave just yet. They set up the board on her dining table, a gridded battlefield of sorts beneath the market light.

She absolutely demolishes him in the first round, carefully surveying the board before each play of her white stones with careful calculation and syllogism. It’s to be expected, because she has always been smarter than him, but also because he hasn’t played in years and is woefully out of practice, ill-prepared to deal with this sort of onslaught. The second round is closer, but he still loses. It’s a challenge, as he knew it would be; Sasuke finds her moves to be quite roundabout, more about the long haul tactics of trapping than any short and quick route to victory. There are times where he realizes he unknowingly played right into a ruse more than five turns previous.

It’s four thirty by the end of the second match. Sakura’s attention flashes to the clock once as she puts away the board; he helps, sorting his own black pieces into their respective container. He will have to head out soon, though he’s not looking forward to it. He is quite comfortable here, with her.

“It’s still coming down out there,” she muses as she rises to store the box, peering through the glass before turning to make her way to the bookshelf she’d retrieved the set from earlier.

“...It is.” He gazes out the window, distracted by the puddles and their ripples below them in the street. It feels almost as if something is tugging on him to focus on them, suggesting something orphic, beyond simple rainwater.

The soft clicking of teacups and small plates being collected from her coffee table resounds behind him, so he turns to her, thinking he could offer to help wash them.

“I made enough soup for leftovers, so if you want to take some home, you can.” Sakura says, before the words make it out of his mouth. Outwardly he remains blank-faced, but something in him sighs. He’s not really sure what he's going to do with the rest of the day. Sparring with Naruto would be unwise on a day like today; he’d probably catch a cold. He could go by a store and buy a book to read, he supposes.

Being back in Konoha is odd like that. He used to just… walk, if he didn’t have anything to do on his journey, or read her letters, but now that he has had the opportunity to spend time with her, he selfishly just wants more of it. Time spent alone seems dimmer in comparison.

He would like to take some soup back to his apartment, though. It was kind of her to offer; he should probably say something.

She looks contemplative when he looks to her, though, carefully clutching porcelain, and thank you lingers in his throat, unspoken.

“Or… If you would like to stay for dinner, and do something after... you could.”

The faintest of stings begins behind his retinas, something long in the tooth stirring, aged roots buried so deeply he had perhaps forgotten they ever existed in the first place. He thinks it is the feeling of being wanted, of having a place in someone’s home.

He hopes she’s offering because she genuinely wants him to stay. She has a mountain of responsibilities, he knows, although it is her day off.

“...You’re sure?”

Pink brows furrow as if she’s confused how he could ask such a thing; she shuffles her weight slightly from one foot to the other. “Of course.”

An interlude passes in which the torrent measures time, the beat of a ballad that is very old. Her next words are hushed, pianissimo lyrics that he’s sure she has no idea just how much he has yearned for; she’s biting her lip and peeking at him from beneath pink lashes as she says them.

“I missed you, when you were gone. You… can fill as much of my free time as you’d like.”

The daunting prospect of a lonely evening evaporates completely. His tongue feels tied up in his mouth, but he nods, hoping she can read in his eyes his gratitude; he’s fairly certain that if he spoke, it would come out hoarse, not at all suitable as a response to the song she has just offered to him.

Sasuke thinks that she can see it just fine, because she gives him a breathtaking smile that could sustain him for a long time, a drop of honey added to an overflowing teacup in which he sips the surplus, with a tinge of an aftertaste that isn’t too sweet for his liking.

The dishes are tackled together. After they finish, she reheats tomato miso soup and cooks two more sandwiches for supper. Another meal is shared at her dining table, overcast skies overlapping into evening, the lights from the windows of Konoha glowing more and more as time passes. It’s just as good the second time, flavorful and filling.

They watch a geology-focused documentary on her television about lava, earthquakes, and landslides. Sakura questions him afterwards about the little time he was in the Land of Volcanoes, south of the Land of Mountains. He hadn’t stuck around for any extended time due to the extreme heat, but what time he did spend there is seared into his memory due to the intensity of it. He had come rather close to one of the region’s volcanoes, within sight of a smoking center mere miles away with lava tendrils trickling outwards, in the process of cooling but still alarmingly hot.

It makes him feel more appreciative for the rain here today, recalling it. Here in Konoha, he could touch the streamlets if he wanted to; he doesn’t need to keep a distance.

They follow up the documentary with a movie after; this time he tells Sakura to pick one. It’s unique, including some fantasy elements, about a struggle between the gods of a forest and the humans living on its edge that consume its resources. The protagonist is cursed by an animal attack, and seeks out a cure from one of the deities. While traveling, he sees other areas in which humans are ravaging the earth and warring with the gods of nature, a thought-provoking contrast considering they’ve just viewed a program detailing the inner mechanisms and wrath of volcanic eruptions, much like gods of nature in their own rights. The conclusion is open-ended; though the hero tries to broker a peace between humanity and the spirits, there is no feeling of resolution or success, no guarantee that one side will mediate with the other. It isn’t quite what he expected it to be, but he notes that the characters were quite realistic, allowing for the viewer to identify with them and better experience what they must be feeling secondhand; it was not told in a detached sort of way as she’d said the book from earlier had been.

Sakura makes earl grey tea, after, and they visit for the better part of another hour, quiet voices awash in auriferous lighting, relaxed by bergamot malt and lemon slices. She inquires about his travels, which places overall were his favorite in the four other great nations. The way she looks at him as he answers makes his heart thump, as if she is hanging on his every word.

It’s near eleven at night by the time he rises for the entryway. The kiss they share before he leaves feels like the drizzle of the rainwater outside, mellow collections grown slowly but surely deeper from time spent together, inexplicably telluric like submerging into soil.

He steps in a few unavoidable collected pools of moisture on his way back to his own apartment, drenching his socks. It makes him feel strangely nostalgic again for some reason, a reminder of a place’s capacity for change, to absorb something and thrive again.

Sasuke has seen many parts of the world now, absorbed as much as he can through his brother’s eyes, and has just relived his favorites by describing them to Sakura. She didn’t ask him about his favorite place in the Land of Fire, though.

It may easily become Sakura’s apartment.

XXX

When he sinks into slumber, he is pulled further downwards into a memory from a very long time ago, something quondam that has since dissolved.

The recollection is hazy in the ways that dreams are, slightly murky as if he is viewing it through a puddle tinged with the loam of Konoha, but perhaps there is something about Sharingan vision even unactivated that embeds the visual acuity into one’s optic nerves, to live there in perpetuity for eventual retrospect. It is one of his earliest memories, he thinks; he would have been maybe four, meaning Itachi had to have been nine or ten, though there is no one he can ask to confirm.

There had been a summer monsoon, perhaps the first one he was old enough to remember, water temperate enough to exult in without catching cold. Their mother warned them not to be outside too long in the storm, and occupied the covered porch, observing them to make sure they heeded her will. There had been no precipitation for a while prior - he thinks there may have been a drought - so the moisture was welcome. Plashets collected in their sprawling yard, causing Mikoto Uchiha’s prized white lilies to appear as if they were emerging from small lakes. She had expressed concern that they may drown upon Sasuke’s examination of them, framing the boundary of their home, but he, in that naive viridity that small children have before the world beats it out of them, thought they were strong enough to persevere.

“I’m sure you’re right, Sasuke,” his brother had said supportively, before showing him a path that allowed a step in every puddle on their family’s grounds. They had raced to the far end of their property and back; he had clumsily fallen at the end of the first pass, getting soaked, as if he wasn’t already from the warm rain coating both of them from the ashen sky above. Mud stuck between his toes, squelching and cushioning his fall while simultaneously making him filthy. It had sloughed off so easily back then in the deluge, corroding all at once and bleeding into the mess of their yard to immediate murky liquidity.

Itachi helped him up by his left hand, getting covered in his muck before the water rinsed their digits clean, and then he was being challenged to a second sprint. Sasuke emerged victorious this time, though now, looking back with eyes that are not his own, he realizes his brother obviously let him win, trained Shinobi that he was by that point. Coming to terms with that is horrifying, because he can see now that his brother was still just a child, wisdom beyond his years be damned. Sasuke is sure Itachi would have to have killed people on missions by then, completely at odds with the soft-spoken and gentle countenance he portrayed at home.

Eventually there was enough drizzle that miniature rivers of connected pools formed, capillaries of nourishment interlacing everything. Sasuke had been fascinated by the changing landscape, until Itachi had ambled up to the porch to speak with their mother. Disappointment swept into him like a tide; he had thought that his brother didn’t want to play with him anymore. But then their mother had risen and gone indoors, and Itachi motioned for him to join him at the edge, beneath the awning.

She came back carrying a small pile of paper, which confused him. He’d watched, enthralled, as Itachi folded one of the pieces into something reminiscent of a boat, simple yet perfect.

“If you put them by the gutter, the force will push them sailing across the yard,” his brother had said; he remembers the inflection so clearly, strange because it is from a time when Itachi was young enough to have the voice of a child, so unlike the rich timbre he’d held later in life.

He had trailed after his brother to the gutter, and sure enough, the paper boat was propelled by the rain streaming down from the roof; it took off as soon as Itachi let go. Sasuke had stomped after it with approximately zero grace, mud coating him up to his ankles, until it reached the boundary fence, saturated through and less buoyant due to the barrage of droplets dampening it from above.

The absolute joy he felt, when he had sprinted back to tug on his brother’s sleeve to ask if he would show him how to make one, and he’d agreed. They’d returned to the pile of paper guarded from the elements by their mother, and Itachi showed him each step, creating another one alongside him as an example. His small hands were not very coordinated back then; his boat hadn’t turned out as nice, all wrinkled sloppiness instead of crisp, clean folds.

“You just need more practice,” Itachi had murmured. “My first one was messy, too. I’ll help you.”

Larger hands had closed around his, creating skillful creases and shaping with dexterity. The second boat turned out much better. Sasuke had given his first one to his mother, then, so she could race, too. Remembering the smile, the genuine look of motherly gratitude she’d given him, bruises something in his soul, precipitation on frail roots entombed deep; it reminds him of the struggle of swallowing a gulp of water after traipsing through the desert, dry mouth making it almost painful, a gargantuan effort that takes everything in him not to look away.

She’d followed them from the porch over to the corner eaves, staying under the cover to avoid getting drenched, and the three of them had released their creations. Sasuke thinks they had to have given him a small headstart, surrendering theirs just after his, so his boat would make it to the other end of the yard first. He’d run after it, Itachi meandering along behind him at a slower pace, while their mother stayed beneath the awning.

His brother had smiled at him as he jumped puddle to puddle in glee. They’d grabbed the now-soaked paper boats at the conclusion of their path, and brought them up to the porch to set in a pile. Then they constructed and raced more, a veritable treasure of a late morning. For his last of the day, Sasuke had tried folding one on his own again, and it turned out better than his first attempt. Though a little lopsided, it hadn’t capsized, sailing strong in the current unaided just like Itachi’s.

Their mother had made them shower and then drawn them a hot bath after, to ensure they were clean and warmed. She had parted his toes to get the mud stuck there out, soil spiraling and dissolving down the drain as he watched. He’d splashed Itachi in the bath after, and folded one more boat with a piece of paper his mother brought him, so he could see how much time it took for it to sink without getting flooded from above, an experiment in buoyancy.

She made miso soup with rice for a late lunch, with something from their aunt and uncle’s shop as a treat after, some variety of warmed pastry. Itachi had let him try his in addition to his own; Sasuke’s had been strawberry, but Itachi’s tasted of peach, gooey sweetness to top off a perfect day that wasn’t even over yet. Their mother must have made herself some tea, too; he remembers the aroma of jasmine filling the space, warmed by lamplight cast on dark wood. When she’d told Sasuke it was time for a nap, he’d become extremely sullen, because he didn’t want to sleep; he’d wanted to spend more time with his brother. It wasn’t often he was home for a full day, prodigy that he was by then and always on missions.

Itachi had surprised him. “I’ll take a nap, too. It's important to rest sometimes. You can join me, Sasuke.” His refusal morphed instantaneously to greedy acceptance. Sasuke crawled into bed with his brother in his room, huddled in the comforter for warmth as the deluge continued for hours, the dousing on their roof and peaceful breathing composing a conciliating symphony with which to lull him to sleep. Eventually he'd succumbed, tuckered out and content, though he'd tried to stay awake as long as he could so he didn't miss out on time with Itachi.

Ten year olds don't usually take naps. His brother may have feigned sleep just to get him to do as their mother wanted. That realization is trenchant, too, sharp like a blade, because it’s a cycle that would repeat itself until Itachi’s end, Sasuke never understanding until the moment had passed, always a step behind and looking backward instead of forward.

When he’d awakened later in the evening, he’d smelled food cooking, miyabi soup and some kind of grilled fish. Itachi hadn’t been beside him anymore, but after blinking groggily, his brother had appeared like an apparition in the door frame.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Sasuke.”

Drizzle is still pummeling his apartment building when he rouses in a dark bedroom, alone. No one appears in the door frame this time as he blinks unsteadily, throat choked before the silent tears come, because this memory aches, haunting his heart like some kind of drowned spectre, dripping muddy stains onto clean floors. Sasuke moves to wipe them away with his left hand, the one Itachi used to help him up from the mire, until he remembers that he doesn’t have a left hand anymore. Making a paper boat now would take twice as long.

Everything in him hurts, marcid marrow writhing in his bones as if they are dead roots that have gotten a drink after a decade spent in drought, someone trying to nurse something deceased or rotting back to life. He goes to the memorial stone under the tenebrose cover of two in the morning, but it doesn’t feel like his brother is there. All he has of him are the eyes drowning in his sockets and excruciating retrospection, intermixing with the rain soaking him outwardly.

I miss you, he thinks as he tries not to asphyxiate on the memory, hoping that his mother at least hears his thoughts here, echoed in the ponds collecting around the stone that bears her name. He has to leave eventually, because he starts picturing white lilies emerging from miniature lakes, full of life and swaying with wind and torrent, instead of cold and motionless grey granite, and he thinks he is going to start sobbing.

Sasuke returns to his apartment after the better part of an hour and stares out his living room window, nursing a miniscule cup of sencha tea, weak so as not to unsettle him too much. The weather lets up eventually, turning from a drench to a drip between the fine branches of the cherry blossom tree across the street. The puddles slowly begin to sink in, though there are remnants of dirt collected in the grooves of the pathways due to the overflow. The tree is starting to lose its petals; they float atop the collected areas of water, a hint of hope buoyant atop sorrow like a paper boat.

He isn't at all hungry, but Sakura said he should try to gain weight, so he forces down a very early breakfast of plain rice, tasteless, before he goes to rifle through the box in the closet. He averts his eyes as he lifts the lid, fumbling to turn the photo upside down without looking at it and moving it to the bottom of the container before sifting through Sakura’s letters.

He picks a favorite of his, one she wrote to him while he was passing through the Land of Savanna, the first autumn season of his journey.

Sasuke-kun,

I was so happy to see your hawk on the horizon today. I gave him some water since he had a long journey.

The way you described the grasslands changing color in Savanna was lovely. The trees are changing here, too, shedding all of their leaves and making the roads a sea of color. Naruto slipped on a scarlet one the other day coming out of Ichiraku’s. He almost dragged Hinata with him, but thankfully no one was hurt. That's providence, I suppose, though it's not a red thread.

Soon it will be the season for chestnut-flavored everything. Stout squirrels come next, and Tsukimi will be happening, too. I've only ever seen it here in Konoha and once in Sand, while we were on a mission. You'll have to tell me if the moon looks any different where you are. Don't forget to make a wish.

The air is turning crisp here, like the leaves, so I imagine it will be there, too. Please stay warm.

I miss you.

-Sakura

Sasuke comes to the realization then that he’s sitting in damp clothes, and that he is kind of cold; he hadn't thought to grab his cloak earlier, too overcome with mourning. He carefully puts the letter back, and makes the decision to take a hot shower. The heat makes him feel incrementally better, thawing him from the inside out. It also makes him realize his mouth feels dry; he’s probably dehydrated, and needs to drink more than a weakly brewed half glass of tea. He prepares another cup, stronger this time.

A mission summons arrives around nine. He uses the mirror of his bathroom to make sure he doesn't look too disheveled - the shower helped, he thinks, though he’s slightly pallid - before heading to the Hokage’s office.

He's the first one of those requested to arrive, though not by much. Naruto is sitting in his designated chair with the scroll again, looking for all intents and purposes like he just woke up.

"Teme?! Eh, really?!" The dobe turns in his chair to glare metaphorical daggers at Kakashi, who pointedly ignores him. "You're seriously not sending me with?! Bogus."

Kakashi simply inclines his head towards him, not even sparing Naruto a glance. "Sasuke. Good morning. Ready for a mission?"

He nods mutely, wondering what it could be. Naruto whines some more, but Sasuke tunes him out. There's nothing like his teammate’s complaining that grinds on him in the morning, though he’ll inwardly admit it is helping to coax him back into some sense of normalcy.

His replacement walks through the Hokage’s door next, impassive as always. He inclines his head politely at Sasuke, so he returns the gesture. Naruto heaves a sigh. "Oh, come on!"

Sai doesn't miss a beat, turning to Kakashi, absolutely devoid of any kind of emotion as he delivers Sasuke’s favorite invective. "Is Dickless not coming?"

Sasuke barely manages to suppress a snort as Naruto guffaws, launching an entire container of pens at Sai. "STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Not all of Sai's nicknames are poorly chosen. He loathes the one he has for Sakura, but Sasuke doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing Naruto’s. It improves his mood measurably.

Shikamaru Nara saunters through the doors last, looking extremely apathetic already. Shrewd eyes flick to Sasuke’s momentarily, too quickly for him to read anything from them, then to Sai’s, then to the pens Naruto is picking off the floor, before settling on Kakashi.

Interesting. So it’s the escort mission, after all.

Naruto is outright mad now, glowering but past the point of saying anything as he returns to his seat in silence. It seems he at least knows when to give up, these days.

"Now that I have you all here, I'm afraid I must break the news that this won't be a terribly exciting mission. Simple escort to Sand for our diplomat tomorrow. It may be a bit… overkill, but there will only be three of you on the return trip, and my newest batch of missions didn't have anything terribly exciting in it. It's better to complete something useful with enough time to get back in case we need you for bigger tickets next week; it can't be helped." Kakashi shrugs, before adding, "Sending Sai should shorten the trip and make it less taxing, at least, flying birds and all. Shikamaru will lead, like usual."

Kakashi goes on to disclose that they'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. Apparently it's only a four day round trip with his replacement's jutsu involved; this means they’ll leave on Tuesday morning and be back on Friday evening, should nothing go awry. It’s not likely that it will; Suna and Konoha are strong allies at this point.

“Any questions?” Kakashi asks at the end of the briefing. Neither Shikamaru nor Sai say anything; he doesn’t, either. An escort is simple enough, especially one of a fellow Shinobi.

His old sensei smiles in a way Sasuke feels is directed mostly at Shikamaru. “Alright, then. Dismissed.”

Nara strolls lackadaisically out of the office as Sai follows. Sasuke gets the inkling that this will be a rather silent journey, between the three of them. He’s a bit thankful he hasn’t been assigned a mission with more talkative comrades, at least not for his first one back.

“Teme!” Naruto pipes up as he turns to leave as well, so Sasuke lingers. “Wanna spar this evening?”

His brows knit together while Kakashi looks between them, as if amused. Sakura has not invited him over for the evening, but he thinks of soft words yesterday anyway.

I missed you, when you were gone. You… can fill as much of my free time as you’d like.

“The day before a mission? You’re stupid. Pass.” Sasuke says, both because he’s hoping to spend the twilight hours with her, too, but also because he knows it will annoy the hell out of Naruto. They really shouldn't go all out the night before one of them leaves for a mission anyways; if one of them breaks something, Sakura will be stuck fixing it, and it’s supposed to be her day off.

Naruto looks miffed, a lone blond brow twitching, so he adds, “...Saturday, early morning. If you’re even awake. Dobe. ”

Before he turns away from Naruto’s spluttering, he catches an all too knowing gleam in Kakashi’s visible eye. Sasuke is suddenly sure that their old sensei is well-acquainted with Sakura’s work schedule. He can feel the hole being burned into the back of his head by blue eyes and a single dark one as he leaves the Hokage’s office, the dobe still struggling to come up with a response to his quick refusal.

He feels marginally better as he walks leisurely back to his apartment, noting along the way that more of the puddles are already beginning to dry up.

Sasuke fixes something more substantial for lunch, since he knows Sakura will eat with Ino; a chicken curry, fragrant with garlic and ginger and carrots, poured atop rice. He doesn’t have any potatoes, so he substitutes with other produce, a unique mix for curry; bell peppers, green onions, and burdock roots. It’s not bad, but maybe he’ll pick up some potatoes when he gets back from Sand.

He is looking forward to going on a mission again, he realizes as he eats. It’s probably going to be a rather routine one - it’s not likely that they’ll face any enemies in friendly territory - but it will be good to be amongst allies again, contributing to fulfilling a purpose, however slight. Sasuke thinks maybe he should make more of an effort to interact with Sai. It appears as though he and Sakura are close, if he’s been to her apartment; Ino was there, too, he supposes, but still.

Sasuke spends the remainder of his time doing the dishes and making sure everything in his fridge is wrapped well, to ensure it doesn’t spoil in the time that he’s gone.

XXX

Sakura’s hair is damp, pink more saturated than it normally is, when he meets her on her doorstep; she must have showered. The scent of mixed berries is renewed, and suddenly he is certain that it has to be some kind of soap, perhaps a body wash. She has her single fiction book in hand.

“Hi,” she says, grinning up at him with a disarming beauty that makes his heart skip. Her hair clings to her neck when she locks her door behind her; Sasuke focuses on a ranunculus bloom instead, noticing that there are two small cuttings of the flowers missing, taken from its rear portion, until she turns back around.

“...Hi.”

“How was your morning?” She questions kindly as they make their way down the stairs and out the glass door, spring sunshine filtering in.

He blinks once as he considers how to answer. “...Fine. I had a mission briefing.”

Sakura’s lips quirk upwards. “Anything exciting?”

He exhales through his nose, a shadow of a laugh. “No. Just an escort.”

Jade eyes twinkle. “Ah, I’m guessing… Sai and Shikamaru.”

“...Kakashi might listen to your squad suggestions more than Naruto’s.”

She chuckles a little. “No, it’s just that he usually sends them for that. You must have replaced Naruto; he’s the third squad cell member, most of the time. Sai’s jutsu makes it a quicker journey, especially with Temari’s fan techniques; she can create updrafts.”

Sasuke thinks he vaguely remembers a blonde woman who is Gaara’s sister; that must be the diplomat. The sibling of the Kazekage would be well-suited for such a job.

“...Maybe I’ll find out what’s in Sand.”

She smiles while biting her lip. She’s very pretty.

“Maybe,” she finally offers cryptically.

They weave through the road on their way to the library, taking care to avoid the water still lingering; it has sunken into the earth for the most part by now.

Sasuke checks out three books this time. One is another on historical samurai, this one with more illustrations as he’d wanted. The second is a historical account of the establishment of Nunogakure, in the Land of Silk. He had passed through the country twice, and had always been interested in learning more about its history, given the establishment of its hidden village by kunoichi and their record of hostility with the ruling daimyos. The third is a fiction book about an old man at sea, suggested to him by Ichika as she scans Sakura’s books, then his.

“It’s kind of proverbial, and not terribly lengthy. You seem like the type who would like it,” the librarian offers, so he adds it to his pile. It’s not quite an old lady giving him vaguely prophesying teacups, but it sounds interesting enough. He appreciates her kindness; not everyone in Konoha gives him this particular brand of easy acceptance after the debacle that was his past. Sasuke thinks perhaps showing up with Sakura helps. Ichika looks at his empty sleeve for a long moment this time; she must not have noticed the last time he was here, the unfilled end of it hidden by the counter.

Sakura says there’s a spot towards the slope of Hokage Rock that drains off the cliff, a hill that should be dry enough to sit on, so they meander upwards. It’s on the western side, just at the juncture where the grass begins to give way to harsher stone. A wild cherry blossom tree that he spotted from a half mile away is clinging to the precipice, a bit off the beaten path. It must have sturdy roots, he thinks, reaching deep into the dirt and bedrock to give it the strength to soar upwards even here on uneven ground.

As they near it, he observes that it’s losing its petals, too, late in blooming like the one across the street from his apartment; small green buds are starting to take the flowers’ place.

They read for a bit under its branches, sprawled out on the hillside. She was right; the ground is dry here, already soaked into the soil or run off the slope. It’s not too warm or cool out, an enjoyable spring day where everything is freshly watered. The book Ichika recommended is pretty good, full of oceanic metaphors, some of which he finds unnervingly relevant. Sakura might like it; it’s written somewhat artfully. He gets about a third of the way through its pages as the sun begins to hang lower in the sky.

It’s around four when he allows his focus to wander away from his book to her. He's been leaning up against the tree, in the only spot someone could; the rest of the area by the trunk is too asperous to sit comfortably, roots twisting ruggedly, but strong. Much stronger than white lilies, hardy enough to weather even the harshest storms. Sakura is on her back a few feet away, book open above her and pink hair settled in a halo on the grass. She looks extremely comfortable, as if lying like this in the small amount of shade offered is something she does all the time. Maybe this is a place she visits often.

Her book is titled Hazel Wood; he can tell by the cover it must be fiction, but he's not sure what exactly it's about. He's thinking maybe he’ll ask her later. He's also thinking maybe he should ask if she wants to do something after this; he would like to, if she's free.

She shifts slightly, and he slides his eyes to the skyline so he doesn't get caught staring, very suddenly becoming conscious of the fact that he’s been admiring her for the better part of a few minutes. When he looks back over warily, she is picking up a stray petal and situating it between the pages, sticking out like a bookmark to mark her place. Then she regards him, smiling like she's amused.

He arches a brow, unsure what could be funny, but she's setting her closed book neatly aside and pushing afoot to close the distance between them. He tilts his head up towards her as she walks to the tree trunk, and then she's reaching out. Two fingertips skim his scalp, and then she's handing him a cherry blossom petal that evidently had been caught there.

"A bookmark, if you want one," she offers, her expression saying she is incredibly entertained.

He blinks once before taking it, lone hand brushing hers for a millisecond. He's distracted by how soft her fingertips feel again.

"...Thank you." He puts the petal in his book to mark his spot as she straightens.

Now would be an opportune time to query her evening plans, but she beats him to it. "Would you want to stop by the market quick with me and then come over for dinner?" Comely green melts into charcoal when he looks up. "I was thinking of making teriyaki atsuage and cucumber salad, but I'm out of cucumber."

His agreement is immediate, insides twisting pleasantly.

As they head down the hill together to beat the evening rush, books in hand, a single crow passes overhead, swooping low towards the center of the village extending before them.

That’s providence, he thinks, though it’s not a red thread. He stares at it like he’s seen a ghost until it disappears.

He helps her cook this time. Sakura handles the cutting and chopping while Sasuke seasons and turns the tofu as it fries in one of her pans, mixing together mirin and soy sauce to create the teriyaki dressing while she slices cucumbers and tosses them with other ingredients; she loads the salad with peanuts, sauces, garlic, and red chile flakes.

It’s another gratifying evening together. They play three rounds of chess this time, and it’s just as challenging as go; she cycles through positions intuitively, sometimes with seemingly little thought involved. Sasuke thinks she might be analyzing her next moves in her head during his turns, having a few planned out and simply narrowing it down based on whether he moves a rook or a pawn. He comes close to winning the final match, at least. With more practice, he might win once in a while.

Sakura offers to make tea again, after. He accompanies her to the kitchen, and when she opens the cupboard, his throat closes, because two new jars of loose leaf sencha from the tea shop have mysteriously appeared, one for the caffeinated shelf and one for the decaffeinated shelf.

Sakura’s expression is tentative. “I thought maybe sencha this evening. I… picked some up on my way back from lunch, earlier today.”

He nods weakly, tongue-tied and endlessly grateful.

She makes some for the both of them, finishing off her own with sugar and honey. Sasuke watches her swirl the spoon in the now fading luster of her kitchen, thinking the way she takes her tea is like her very being, so sweet.

Verdant eyes peek up at him when she walks him to her entryway, hours later. He sincerely hopes that she’s enjoying spending time with him as much as he is with her.

Then, Sakura’s voice lilts up to him, a quiet murmur, "Will you… come see me, when you get back?"

He blinks, sugar and honey pouring into him now, because it’s almost an answer to the question in his head that he hadn’t vocalized. Then his brow furrows, because maybe he’s failed at conveying that he'll spend literally any amount of time with her that she allows him. Sasuke knows his communication skills aren’t the best, and he has never been in any sort of romantic relationship, so everything is new territory, stunted by his lack of practice.

Her gaze flits away from him. "Just… so I know you're okay."

Oh. She means coming to see her right after debriefing, so she'll know he's returned safe. Something pleasant pools in his belly, sinking to the extremities in a way that feels nurturing. He realizes he is taking too much time to respond; she looks nervous.

"I will."

Jade centers back on him, reassured now, and he's not sure how he's going to go four days without it, this limitless green that soothes him to no end.

"Oh. Good. Thank you." Her expression changes to one that is considerably more relaxed, a tender look directed upwards that he has never seen her wear for anyone else.

Sasuke presses his lips to hers for a long time before he departs, a soft goodbye he’s hoping will convey all the words that are caught in his throat, gratitude and affection that have been stewing there since they were thirteen.

He thinks he feels love press back from hers, a delicate flickering that makes him ache, and perhaps providence. Sugar and honey, too. Sweetness doesn’t hurt him like the recall of pastries does, when it’s experienced secondhand like this.

XXX

The mission goes smoothly. Sai's jutsu does speed things up considerably, and the Sand delegate, Temari, uses her giant fan to give them a boost in places that are lacking in higher gales. He rides with Sai on the way there, while Shikamaru and Temari drift on the other; Sasuke thinks the separation must be so she can use the jutsu, strategically getting behind his replacement's bird to give him a boost before Sai can control it and have theirs catch the subsequent updraft, too.

Sasuke and Shikamaru fulfill lookout roles, him scanning ahead and Shikamaru scanning behind. It is refreshing to see the land from above, giving way from forests to grasslands to the beginnings of desert edges. He finds himself thinking about what his hawk saw, all of the times he brought correspondence to and from Sakura. It’s not as hot this way, traveling through the air with breeze ripping around them, though they make an effort to stay hydrated, still.

Sai is quiet, but Sasuke is, too, so he can't knock him for it. He wonders, scanning the horizon for the upteenth time, if Sai knows what's in Sand that interests their squad leader. He would have to, dating Ino, but he doesn't feel comfortable asking him something like that.

They spend most of the first day in relative silence, only spying a single squad of comrade ninja from Suna traveling hundreds of feet below them, just leaving the desert. Towards the end of it, as they finally cross into the first area that is truly all sand as far as the eye can see, Sai surprises him by speaking.

"Beautiful says Ugly is stupid happy that you've returned. I am certain that Dickless is, too."

The effect the words have on him is a little jarring and complex. There is the immediate familiar disdain for Sai’s inaccurate nickname for Sakura, intermixed with immature amusement at Naruto's epithet. A feeling of brotherhood follows, and his heart blooming with something tender, vines twisting or perhaps not-so-dead roots getting another drink. Stupid happy doesn’t sound like a phrase common to Sai’s vernacular, leading him to believe it was Ino’s exact wording, likely after spending the morning with Sakura yesterday.

He thinks it over as they soar over the last bit of terrain for the day, sorting through the different emotions. His answer isn't hesitant; it just takes preparation for him to muster the gall to vocalize it to someone he's not terribly close to.

"...I am, too." It’s an understatement.

XXX

They arrive back in Konoha on Friday evening, as scheduled. No issues, just more lookout duty and enjoyable wind offering relief from the heat. Peacetime is nice; anyone they saw to or from Sand was an ally, no foes. They only utilize one of Sai’s creations on the return trip, Shikamaru still observing the rear but this time atop the same bird as them. It’s a slightly longer trip, without the diplomat to speed things up, but they still make good time.

It's a bit after six when they leave Kakashi’s office, mission report paperwork folded neatly into his satchel. Naruto wasn't there; Sasuke assumes he's either been sent on a mission or has gone home for the day already. He supposes he’ll find out tomorrow, if a banging erupts on his apartment door after sunrise. It must have stormed again recently; the soil is damp, and everything is faintly greener than it was before.

He finds he missed it, the smell just after it rains that was decidedly not present in Suna, even if it does bring hard memories.

“Good work,” Shikamaru says simply to both of them as they step outside, ready to go their respective ways. It’s not necessary for him to say it, but Sasuke appreciates the acknowledgement. He’s aware it is probably not easy to trust him, after everything. Not everyone has the same confidence in him as Team Seven does.

Sai nods towards Shikamaru, then turns to him.

"Tell Ugly I say hi." His tone sounds almost kind as he turns to part ways from them in the street. Shikamaru glances at Sasuke for an instant, expression not containing an ounce of surprise, but he doesn't say anything as he turns to head the other way.

Tentatively, Sasuke starts out in the direction of Sakura’s apartment. She should be home right now, if she didn’t stay late at the hospital. He wonders as he gets closer if maybe he should wait a bit; she might be in the middle of cooking, or eating dinner.

He wants to see her, though. He's missed her greatly, and she did say to come by; he tries very hard to swallow his doubts.

Soon he's knocking on a sage green door that is beginning to look familiar. The plants are still damp indoors, too; maybe it rained as recently as this morning. It has to have been overcast for a good portion of the day, for the sunlight through the diamond window to not have dried the moisture from her watering them just yet.

Sakura opens the door wearing a smile; it grows wider upon seeing it's him, like she can’t help it.

His heart skips a beat when she says his name. "Sasuke-kun."

"Sakura."

She steps aside while holding the door open, a silent invitation for him to come in, so he does. He stands in her entryway uncertainly for a second, until she offers, "I'm making tenmusu; there's enough for two. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Everything in him relaxes, any and all ambiguity dried by her kindness in an instant. "...I would. Thank you."

Little flecks of gold shimmer in the lamplight, facets atop something burgeoning with warmth. There is love there, in her eyes and upturned lips. He wonders if she can see it in his, if she has any idea of the true gravity of his feelings for her, all of the things that flare to life in his belly at the mere thought of time spent here.

It’s a break in routine, but there is something he would really like to do, something he has been working up the courage for over the past few days, so he takes the risk, pulse quickening; he hasn't kissed her anything but farewell yet, really, aside from their first, which was somewhere in the middle.

It is better than he imagined, vespertine devotion saying hello rather than goodbye. He skims the freckle on her cheek again as his lips brush hers, hand tender against her skin and silky pink locks. When she leans into his touch, he finds himself wishing there was a way for his soul to graze hers, to tell her the utterly selfish thing he wished for after her letter so many moons ago. Sakura’s soul would be warm to the touch, he thinks, like freshly-brewed tea or the flux of a summer monsoon, but much more illimitable, and endlessly ardent.

Her hands on his shoulders are becoming a familiar weight, grounding him like the roots of her namesake.

When they part, she blinks up at him once, and then suddenly her arms are wrapping around his center instead of his shoulders, pulling him close. His heart swells, and he hooks his lone arm around her waist.

She smells like home, he realizes. "...Tadaima," he murmurs against her hair.

"Okaeri," she responds, soft and sweet against his chest.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like gold #fanfiction #2nd longest chapter to date idk how it got this long it just kinda happened lmao #also the paper boats scene was like one of the first four passages i wrote that ultimately became this fic #anyways that's providence

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minuyu · 3 years

Text

undying love [yandere! prince! x female! reader!]

Warning: This story may contain dark and unsettling themes. Proceed at your own risk.

01: The Three of Swords.

“The prince may be the finest man I have ever laid my eyes upon. He is so light-hearted and sparkles like the most expensive jewel in the spotlight. He truly is perfect. I mean, have you seen his countenance ¹? His face has been sculpted by the very gods themselves. Not to mention, he excels in everything that he does. If he so much as looked me in the eyes, I would reach enlightenment. I do not have a doubt in my very words. Oh, he has lips that were made for kissing a maiden’s rosy cheeks. He has eyes that hold me hostage with their beauty, by much greater than the night sky ever could. His accent and words roll off his tongue like silk rubbing against bare skin, so soothing. I tell you, he is the love that all women want but no woman can receive.” The young, golden-haired maiden spoke in a hushed whisper on the streets to a small group of friends who huddled around her. With every dreamy sigh she took between her description of him, white puffed from her lips due to the cold weather. Despite this, the miniature crowd of women were warm in their hearts and cheeks, just at the very thought of the young prince.

“Can you believe that he has never looked at a woman with desire? Despite of this, I can’t blame him. Somebody who deserves their body to be placed in the stars as a constellation is much too good for me. Nonetheless, I still dream every night of him. His love must be the greatest treasure a woman can get.” One of the women among the crowd continue on. The women continue to swoon, packed on the side of the cobblestone street.

The kingdom of they called ‘home sweet home’ was one of cold weather throughout most of the year. Resting on the top of the tallest mountain that was surrounded by a ring of smaller mountains, it granted extra protection from possible enemies. At the foot of the mountains, about a two day walk from the kingdom, laid a deep and dark forest around this ring of mountains that gave them a great advantage over invaders. Tales about the forest had spread around the kingdom like wildfire due to it being so mysterious, but longer than any of the kingdom’s inhabitants. Perhaps, one of the reasons that the people were hesitant to leave the kingdom by foot, was the dark forest. Despite this, Spring still managed to peak out and greet the people with warmth and gracious nature every year. The kingdom was freezing, but with technologies advancing everyday, such as better ways of insulation and heating of homes with radiators throughout the floors and much more, they only got better at surviving the extreme temperatures. One must grow accustomed to the cold before they even think of treading in the King’s territory.

One may be surprised, however their King was one of the very best in centuries. He was one of great kindness and care for the people, a true father of the nation. In that respect, his son made the future of the kingdom seem brighter. Excelling in just about every field, prince Bastiaan, the only son and child of the King and the late Queen, seemed to be a promising leader. One subject of the kingdom could not even batter an eyelash at the royal family. Instead, she preferred to focus on those who were near to her, like other lower-class people who lived among compact housing.

Across the street from where the women had been gossiping, there laid a place where one could get their fortune told to them at a low price. Despite not giving a care in the world for the dearest prince and his father, women often came to her for tarot card readings that would hopefully predict that they would become the prince’s future queen. The shop, rugged in appearance yet strikingly colourful was her home. A big, wooden door with prune paint chipping off due to being worn out by harsh breezes during the dead of winter. On the door was a wooden sign hanging by a thick thread on a nail messily put into the door, that read ‘ Fortune Teller’.

Inside of this shop, their was a small table and multiple beanbags and cushions spread around the floor. Shelves were fulled to the brim of tattered books about astronomy, myths, tarots, readings and so much more. A small chandelier hung from a cracked ceiling, painted with a beautiful mural of golden and purple-toned flowers seeming to rain from the night sky. The chandelier had a purplish hue that made the shop seem all the more magical. In the back, through an empty threshold with a curtain of silver star-shaped beads, was a table higher off of the ground with symbolic carvings of gods and holy symbols in the purple paint of the table. Freshly lit incense stands in a painted ceramic bowl filled with rice, imported from the warmer climates down South, at the center table surrounded by the cloths design.

At the moment, two chairs were occupied. One, was taken up by a frequent client. Her name was Abella, who had also been entranced by the prince but not as much as other women. She came every week to the fortune teller, as she was always paranoid about the future. The tarot card readings gave her a sense of control, or at least helped her to prepare for any events that would take place. Abella had wavy white strands of hair that looked like the snow that fell outdoors much too often. Despite her young age, the white strands of hair were natural. Her face was long and clean, with little makeup placed upon to hide things that she called ‘flaws’. She wore a large, red trench coat that complimented her ruby crimson eyes beautifully. Only her grey, wide-ankle pants were able to be seen under the large coat she wore. She leaned in over the wooden table with the purple carvings with anticipation.

On the other chair opposite from her, sat a young woman with [hair colour] strands of hair. She wore a large and over-sized coat as well, except hers was made out of a porcelain white faux fur. Her [eye colour] eyes seemed like a maze easy to get lost in, and her black eclipse-like pupils focused on the cards as she swiftly laid them out with her [skin tone] toned hand. The back of the cards were identical, all with the same simple symbol of a round, golden circle on a plain, pitch black back. The cards were placed neatly in unison with ease that one could easily tell that the fortune teller, who was called [Name], was a master with the cards before she could likely even speak. Her soft gaze averted to the Abella, inspecting Abella’s face that was scrunched up due to the difficulty of thinking which card to pick. They all looked the same, but let to very different outcomes.

”Pick a card, any card. Your fate will remain the same. Choose the ones that call for you, and it will be true.” You reassure her. Abella was always terrible at making decisions, but with reassurance from the very person who she trusted to help her every week, Abella squeezes her eyes shut and quickly chooses three random cards. [Name] picks up with cards that Abella had chosen, and inspects them.

“For your past, you have gotten Death in the upright position. Death means that you have moved onto a new era of your life quite recently. It may have required some sacrifice and difficulty.” You tell Abella, who looked at you with her eyes as wide as saucers.

”I guess the Death card isn’t too bad.. when it’s the tarot explaining my past. Please, carry on to my present.” Abella says, biting on her lip afterwards in anticipation for what the next card would be. You move your attention back to the cards in your hand and put down The Tower card. Abella had never gotten this card before, so she quirked up at the sight. “What does it mean?” She asks desperately, as if her life depended on it. You chuckle slightly, and gently remove your touch from the tower card, leaving it in front of her and beginning to tell her what it meant, after you could hear the card speaking to you.

”The Tower in upright position. It means that there are big changes coming your way. These changes mean that any part of your life can be affected. Relationships, your job, or even financial circumstances. The chaos that the tower unleashes in this position will usually only affect one part of your life, but quite thoroughly as well. If the structures of your tower of life cannot handle this disruption without collapsing, then I suggest that it is best for you to add some new structures into your life.” You tell her, keeping your gaze focused on her to see the reaction you would receive from such a card. It wasn’t the luckiest card to get in present, but it also wasn’t the worst. The Tower meant that a part of her life will be heavily impacted. And that may be a good thing, as it will also give Abella a chance to build herself up again and choose better decisions in that part of her life.

To your surprise, Abella doesn’t speak out and shout in a blaze of worry, she continues to bite her lip and nods her head, seemingly accepting the card in front of her. It seemed as though she knew what you were talking about and knew that in the end, it would have a positive impact on her life. “Carry on, [Name].” She says, in a more serious tone. She was properly thinking about the road of her life and obviously looked like she wanted to take caution and just live the best life that she possibly could.

Finally, with the last card in your left hand’s fingers, you place it down on the table and tell her what was coming in the future, “You have gotten Strength in the upright position. This is a very powerful card and is generally a good omen. It means that anything bothering you at the moment will seem like nothing in the near future. Time will deal with all of your problems, but this happens all the time. You are lucky, Abella. The Strength card is a very good card to receive.” You tell her, a smile on your face at the good news. You feared that all the readings would be bad omens, but it seems that the Strength card turned the whole table around.

Abella smiles delightfully, tapping her shoes on the ground with joy. “What wonderful news! I was scared that The Tower would lead to more bad. It turns out it will lead me to Strength. I must go through the hardships against me, mustn't I? Thank you once again, [Name]. Knowing what is coming my way truly helps to calm my nerves.” Abella thanks you, before pulling her sleeve up slightly to show a silver watch, which produced the subtle sound of time ticking away. “I’m going to be late for lunch with my friend if I don’t hurry. I’m afraid I may have taken my sweet time.” She says before taking two silver coins out of her coat pocket and placing them on the table. “Thank you kindly for the services once again, [Name]. I’ll be back for another one next week, as per usual.” Abella says, a pleased smile on her lips, completely different to the serious and frightened expression on her face as she was biting her lip earlier. Abella rises from the wooden chair and walks towards the exit of the shop, her white hair looking like a waterfall of snow as it drifted to her tailbone. Soon, you heard the door open and slam shut, meaning that she had left. Now, you sat alone in silence, with the muffles of life outside barely able to be heard. You get the cards and shuffle them up once again before placing them inside a box.

Standing up, you place the pack of tarot cards within a small wooden box on one of your shelves, where it was now accompanied by at least a dozen other decks in the box. Closing the box, you decide that perhaps it was time for yourself to grab of something to eat, after all you could hear your stomach crying out for something pleasant to the tongue. You walk to the other side of the back room and pull open a black curtain, revealing a dark wooden set of stairs to the second story of the building. In the kingdom, most people usually had a shop on their lower floor and their home on the upper one. You found it quite functional and began walking up the steps calmly, despite the planks of wood moaning out with the threats of snapping in two due to wear and tear for decades. You lived in quite an old building. While it was not the best, it still had cheap rent and was home to you.

Alas, your home could never compare to the gleaming white palace of pearl and golden detailing. The palace had towers that stretched up to the heavens and large windows that could barely give one a peek at their lavish lifestyle among the riches that their ancestors had collected through the eras. It may surprise a newcomer, however they were the only family that had ever been on the throne. True, pure blood royalty.

The main doors were large and plain white with golden detailing and a large star in the middle that was made out of stained glass. The stained glass changed, depending on who’s reign it was. During the current King’s reign, it was red with a white flower in the middle of it, standing for fortune, purity and hope. At the back of the palace however, things got even grander with a garden too large for one to walk around in one day and manage to admire every single beautiful thing that it had.

In despite of this, the prince’s keen, dark pearl eyes stared into the forest from his bedroom window, wishing for some adventure, or at least something new. Being forced to try your best at everything was tiring, and it was more tiring having to live up to everybody else’s expectations of you for your entire life. The prince was tall, standing at about six feet and three inches tall, about 190cm. He had a slender build, but his black outfit hid his well-toned muscle that had been build up over the years. Nevermind the fact of him being the best in combat, such as sword fighting especially, he didn’t have a single scratch on his skin that was as pale as the snow. Naturally, his cheeks were dusted with red due to the cold weather and slightly around his eyes as well, that were narrow and accompanied with orbs that were dark like the night sky. His lips had a slight red tint to it, but so subtle that one could tell if they examined him for a moment. His jet black hair was wavy and medium-cut for a man with it split in the middle of his forehead. His hair was undercut as well slightly, giving him an even cleaner look. His hairstyle was truly charming, and was one of the most trendy hairstyles every year. The prince nonchalantly ran his long, slender fingers through his hair and stood up from the window seat, the grey light peaking out from the clouds falling on his shoulders. The prince wore a long-sleeved black shirt was a button-up, however the shirt went past to be buttoned up at the left side of his chest. His buttons were also black. There was a golden dragon embroidered on the prince’s shirt, but nothing was embroidered on his pants. They were plain black as well, and his shoes were pointy-toed and gleamed with ever step, but could never out-shine the prince no matter how much one polished them.

“Your highness, the king awaits you in the amber private tearoom. He wishes to discuss your future.” The prince, named Bastiaan was being spoke to by a man who was neat in countenance despite the wrinkles beginning to form on his face. This man was his personal royal adviser. He had his grey hair slicked back, and the usual uniform of a white dress shirt and black pants but with red detailing, showing that his status was high thanks to the fact he was working closely for the royal family. The only person in the palace who ever dressed to show off their wealth was prince Bastiaan’s father, Alaric Beaumont Marchand Oscar D’Aramitz, who’s old age didn’t restrain him from wearing heavy red cloaks and jewels and badges all across the sash he wore. His pale grey hair still held some black streaks from his early, younger days.

”Very well then.” Prince Bastiaan responds monotonously, face void of emotion. His shoes clacked against the gleaming floor with elegance, and as he reached the expensive door, it was opened by two royal guards on either side. Walking past them, the prince makes his way to his father, the king himself. He could feel a nervous lump in his throat.

As Prince Bastiaan walks along the polished halls, the floor tiled with black and gold marble. The wallpaper was extravagant and light in colour. There were paintings of past rulers and paintings done by famous artists, some of the paintings centuries old. Soon, he regretfully arrived at the end of the hall at a door much larger and grander than the rest, so detailed by gold that you could barely see the canvas that the gold had been laid upon. Prince Bastiaan dusts his outfit off and fixes himself up before running his hand yet again through his dark, silky smooth locks. Then he clears his throat and stands still. At last, the guards open the grand door for him and he is wet with the conservatory. Despite it being winter, the glass was so thick that it was warm inside. The room felt cosy despite being fairly large due to the large fireplace that roared on viciously behind his father. There he was. The man of the era. The man that ruled the kingdom. The man that ruled his life. He sat deep in thought, not noticing his son’s glamorous arrival. Several of his knuckles rested upon his chin as he contemplated deeply about god knows what. The room was dim, most likely ordered to be by his father who disliked bright light, complaining about the strain it placed on his eyes. Instead, the orange light of the fire lit up the room, accompanied by several lavender scented candles scattered about the room.

Prince Bastiaan coughs, gaining his father’s attention. The king turns his head, looking at him with surprised eyes, having not noticed him enter. “You wished to speak with me, father?” He questioned, looking at his father’s grey orbs that matched his hair like the grey stone walls that had protected the kingdom for decades.

”Indeed. Please, take a seat, my boy.” His father responds. The king takes a porcelain teapot with fine blue designs on it from the table, and pours chamomile tea into two matching tea cups. There was a small three tiered tray of savoury treats, all attractively colourful and delicious. Their smell mixed with the lavender, making the room that tiny bit more enjoyable. Following his father’s wishes, the prince swiftly sits down on a matching, large wooden chair that was cushioned with soft, velvet, maroon fabric.

”It is time to speak about a certain topic, my boy. Your future. However, I would like to focus on a specific part. Which is, love. Every king and every queen has had a partner by their side. Love makes us stronger. My son, you are a gift from the heavens. Everyday, with each new achievement you make, I think to myself, ‘Is he really my boy? He’s so talented, and capable, someday maybe he will be as great as me.” The prince’s father begins. The prince stays silent, grabbing his tip of tea gently with his left hand as he pays attention. The only thing interrupting his father was the slight cackling of the fire.

“My son, I wish for you to find a beloved. Perhaps, even a wife. Or even, a meaningless fling with a noble lady to your liking. You must relax. Sometimes, I look at your listless face and ask myself, ‘What happened to the little boy who used to smile at every single thing, as if it meant the world to him?’. I do not wish to find you a wife myself, however I may feel inclined to if you do not find one within the next six months. Or at the very least, a love interest. Every woman in this kingdom rests at your feet, worshiping your status, beauty and intelligence. Surely, it will not be an issue.” The king states.

”Father, this is unfair. I hate to argue with you, I truly do, but I do not wish for any of these women. There is no challenge. They all fall to my feet and would willfully marry me if I so much as glance at them. They claim to love me so deeply, they claim that I am god’s lost child, however they do not know me at all. The noble ladies wish to marry and converse to me for the status and money. My looks and capability are just a bonus. If I marry women like them, what will become of me? I must set an example, and if I get married, my wife shall be an example to the rest of the kingdom as well. I refuse for you to control my love life. I am perfectly capable of ruling this kingdom on my very own. When the time is right, I will marry. If that time never comes, it is of no importance. It is only love.” The prince responds, hands tightening around the arm rests to restrain his temper. In his head he could hear multiple voices of those who have commented on his love life before.

‘Prince Bastiaan is perfect, so why doesn’t he marry already?’, ‘I wish he would look at me and realize that I’d be willing to marry him. He’s a gift from the divinity I tell you.’, ‘Have you seen the prince? He must be quite a loner if he hasn’t ever had a lover at his age.”

You could visibly tell that Prince Bastiaan’s calm response had set the king off with rage. “You will marry. You have six months at most. Do not dare defy me once more.” The king threatens, his voice dangerously low. Full to the brim with anger and disappointment towards his father, the prince raises up to his feet and begins taking swift and large strides along the halls towards his bedroom. Once he reaches his destination, he opens the door himself, leaving the guards slightly confused, only to realize what had happened when the prince slams the doors behind him

His back was now pressed against the door and he looked down at his feet. He knew that he couldn’t impress everybody. He knew that everybody admired him, or at least, everyone except his father. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to find a partner in life, and he truly didn’t wish for one. He had read multiple romance novels from the palace library and all seemed to be filled with heartache and tragedy. He was not about to sign himself up for something that he knew would inflict emotional pain on him. If he was hurt in any way, he couldn’t continue being the perfect man that he was, and it seemed that only god knew how difficult it was to live to people’s standards. With the marker set up so high, even if he was slightly off target, everybody would be disappointed. The prince clicked his pointy tips together before walking towards the window and inspecting the kingdom that lay before him. The kingdom that he was set to reign over.

Prince Bastiaan had heard from whispers on the street that there was a fortune teller. One that could tell fortune with great accuracy, and who’s abilities brought those who didn’t believe in her to their knees. He gazed out, looking for his answer in his mind. If he hired the fortune teller, perhaps it would help with his love life. Especially if she would tell him about his progress every week and what is to come. That way, he could be prepared for any emotional storm that would come. That way, he would learn how to win a woman’s heart with his personality alone. Despite of this, the prince felt his hope slip through his arms as he realized that he did not know what his personality really was. He was a puppet, or even a mere doll that everybody played with. The doll had to be whatever the people wanted, and they wanted a true idol. One that could compete against the greatest gods. Before he could think any further on that matter, a loud knock sounded on the door.

“Your highness, lady Isla from the house of Brodeur has come for your meeting. She is waiting for you inside of the amber private tearoom where you once were. Your father has retreated to his private quarters, so you two will have the tearoom to yourselves.” The royal adviser's voice informed the prince through the door, slightly muffled.

”Yes, I’m on my way.” The prince says. “That’s today?” He whispers to himself surprised. He sighs, deciding that perhaps lady Isla was his only choice at the moment. After all, she was obsessed with him. She stuck to him like glue and whenever they were at the same ball or gala, she would follow him despite the weaves and turns he would make. She often bragged to her group of friends with how she was childhood friends with the prince, despite him not considering them friends at all for that matter. Her affections were completely one-sided yet she never stopped chasing after him. The prince looked back at the kingdom and sighed. Perhaps he should gather some suitable choices for himself before making his final decision. He needed somebody suitable to be the mother of the country. He wanted them to be great, or even greater than his late mother.

The prince spun on his heel and went through the same corridor and door to return back to the tearoom. He had managed to recollect his thoughts, and felt much more calmer now. However, he had no idea how he would appeal as amorous or even properly flirtatious to a woman. After all, he did not find Lady Isla even the slightest bit appealing, not as a lover or a queen.

When the prince entered the room, he saw Lady Isla standing tall and joyfully. At first glance, she seemed neat and mature. She was quite tall for a woman, standing at around 5’9. Shiny dark brown hair cut into a bob. Her diamond blue eyes scan over the prince, taking in all of his beauty with a pleased smile on her face.

“Your highness, thank you for meeting with me today. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.” She says thankfully, grabbing the back of the chair where the king himself had once sat, and curtsied, bowing her head much deeper than required to show how grateful she was. In all honesty, the prince had only agreed to this meeting in order to tell her straightforwardly that he was not interested in her. The love-sickness that was tied to him had grown annoying and was interfering with his work. Now it seemed that we had to do the complete opposite of what he desired to save face.

”You may sit.” Prince Bastiaan says motioning to the chair in front of him. Lady Isla blushes as she sits down on the maroon chair. The fact she was in his presence and could have his full attention for a small while made her feel like her heart was about to pound of its chest. The prince saw her as foolish, especially since she had sat down. Yes, he may have told her to, but she should know that it is required that any royal blood sits down first. It seemed that she had failed in the department of manners. How could a queen not even know the rules, manners, and laws of her own country? Prince Bastiaan sat down opposite Isla and felt pressured by her large eyes piercing at him intently, not leaving his figure for a split second. He felt uncomfortable but decided to use his confidence. He was a prince after all.

The prince looked Isla directly back into her eyes with a listless face. She could feel that her heart was skipping beats like crazy, she was surprised that she had not fallen over with a heart attack. Though she didn’t know that the prince was testing out one of the moves he had learnt from reading romance books. His heart was supposed to flutter at the very sight of her, he was supposed to feel his heart skip a beat. But there was no warm feeling, no happiness, no sped up heartbeat. Nothing. Perhaps it was time for him to accept that he had been granted the gift of being talented in return for his ability to love.

“How was your morning?” The prince asks, as a servant comes over and begins to pour them a pot of freshly brewed green tea. He breaks gaze with Isla and picks up his teacup, taking a small sip out of it to take the warm liquid in.

”It-It was alright. And yours, Bastiaan?” She asked, longing for his dark orbs to stare into hers again. Even if the interaction was over, her heart would not stop beating quickly. Prince Bastiaan put down his teacup as he tried not to flinch with repulsion and her poor manners. Was she a noble lady or a slave? He decided that she really was not the one that was worth the status of being Queen.

”It was lovely meeting you once again today. I have my studies to attend to. Thank you for coming, perhaps we could meet again in the near future. However, I am quite busy today.” The prince lied with his cold tongue. In whatever way though, the noble lady’s heart could not be cooled down.

“That is...is quite alright,” She stuttered out, in disbelief that he had actually said that he hoped that they could ‘meet again in the near future’. Had something changed? Perhaps the prince was finally paying attention to the sort of things that other men his age would. Regardless, the prince just wanted to get out of this situation and as far away as possible. He didn’t want to appear rude after what he had pulled today, it may damage his reputation.

“I’ll be off.” He vocalized, before standing and retreating back to his chambers. He rushed to the window and placed his hand on the clear glass, as if reaching out. Taking a deep breath in. He needed help, desperately. He was afraid to admit it, but this fortune teller seemed to be his only choice. If he was to find his perfect bride within six months, he needed to get help in avoiding women who didn’t live up to the standards. He needed hints. So with that, the prince walked over to the part of his room where a rope hung from the ceiling. Grabbing it with his hands and pulled, ringing the summoning bell. Several moments later, the royal adviser walks inside of his bedroom.

“Summon that fortune teller near the compact housing. The one that the common folk and nobles alike speak of.” He demanded, not seeing any reason to justify his actions. He was simply complying with his father’s wishes, but not so much in the way that the king expected. He spoke with utmost certainty, determined to find the perfect queen, even if there were no feelings of admiration.

The royal adviser simply compiled, slightly caught off guard by the request. “Right away, your highness. I will come back to you with them soon.” The adviser responds, before disappearing once again, the doors shutting closed silently behind him.

Prince Bastiaan sighs sorrowfully, and sits down on a large couch in his bedroom. His room had a black and white marble floor, with wallpaper that was black and golden. Black was his favourite colour. It was practical and fit every occasion. Parties, afternoon tea, funerals, ceremonies, etc. Not only that, but the young prince swore to wear black for the rest of his life after his mother had passed, at the age of eight.

Entering your shop, you move to take your coat off but are interrupted by insistent knocking on the front door. You open it a smidge and peek through to see a young man in full plate armor.

“Are you the fortune teller of this shop?” He asks eyeing you down.

“Yes…?” You answer, opening the door a bit more. You are about to ask what kind of fortune he wants to be read, when he speaks again.

“Prince Bastiaan of the royal family requests your audience.” You stand there with a confused look on your face. You had just gotten home from finishing a late lunch, and several minutes later, a palace knight had come knocking on your door. To tell you that the prince “requests your audience”.

”Why?” You ask, hoping to get some answers. The whole scenario makes you scratch your head, wondering why the prince would want a simple fortune teller.

”You are expected at the palace by ten in the evening, tonight. A carriage will come to pick you up at nine in the evening. Have a splendid day. Long live the king.” The knight states, completely dodging your question. It seemed that your question was either confidential information or the guard did not care to answer. You sigh, seeing that you had no choice. You slam the door shut with anger at the knight who hadn’t even bothered to give you a simple answer. Now, your thoughts will wander until ten in the evening, when you were supposed to meet the prince. Then, you froze. Akin to a statue when you realized that you were meeting the acclaimed perfect prince from fairy tales that young ladies dream about. You had to look your best. If you looked the slightest bit scrappy, god knows what would happen to you. The prince may think that you are disrespecting him with informality and as a result, his father would behead you. Alright, perhaps that was a bit of a stretch, but it was still plausible.

You hurried upstairs. It was already six in the evening and you only had three hours to make yourself look better than you ever have before. You admit, you didn’t care much about royalty or wooing the prince. However, you did care about paying respect to where respect was due. Though you hated to admit it, the prince had a heart of generosity. Not only did he give 90% of his homeless subjects homes and jobs, he helped fill their stomachs until they were stable and able to survive on their own without his aid. Prince Bastiaan had even risked his life in battle more times than you could count for the kingdom, returning without a scratch. He was the rightful owner of the title, Angel of Beauty and Blood. It sounded quite cliche to you, but you knew that it was true.

Your wooden planked floors creaked with every step you made, begging for repair and threatening to break. You paid no mind to the creaks and entered your small box of a bedroom. It was full of herbs, orbs, and dried out vegetables, specifically for making medicines. The white wallpaper was stained yellow and was chipping off of the wall. Some of the wall was covered by a large tapestry of a purple eye, which was pinned up with two small nails. In the corner of the uncomfortably small room was a dresser, with your clothes hung up with thin, metal hangers. There was a drawer at the bottom, where inside were your underwear, tights, shirts, and pants. You reached out for a hanger that held a purple and white dress. It was lilac and strapless, and the chest area looked as though it was a purple-toned water lily. The bottom was quite puffy and had translucent fabric stacked on top in order to add that extra volume. It had small, silver shimmers that seemed as though they could catch the moonlight, and overall, was quite cute and elegant. It had matching, long lilac gloves that went up a few inches past your elbows, and had silver ends with white flowers embroidered on neatly. This dress was once your mothers from what you could tell judging by the tag inside having the words ‘from mother’ sewed into it. You only wore it on the most special occasions, and this one was certainly a special occasion.

You slithered out of your day wear, abandoning your old clothes on the floor before picking them up and placing them in a small laundry bag that hung on door’s knob, handcrafted from an old sack of potatoes. Afterwards, you proceeded to put on your special outfit. You admit that perhaps you had grown quite a bit since your last special occasion, as it was slightly more difficult to zip yourself up into the dress. As you put on the rest of your outfit on, such as the gloves and your white tights due to the cold weather. Afterwards, you went into the bathroom and stared yourself in the mirror. You wanted to give yourself a speech to psych yourself but as your lips parted, nothing came out. You had the lowest rank a person could have, and the second highest rank, only to the king, that belonged to the prince wished to get in touch with you. Yes, you. The [hair colour] haired girl staring right back at you in the cracked mirror. Perhaps you had the right to believe that broken mirrors granted you bad luck. If word got out you met with the prince, wouldn’t business become better? What if they gave you free snacks there? What if you were making a big deal out of nothing? What if you showed up to palace looking like a purple doll while the prince was in his pajamas? Wouldn’t you look like an idiot? In fact, what if business went south? What if people got jealous that you talked to the prince? What if all the women in the kingdom couldn’t accept you?

You shake your head before the anxieties driving around your mind could come back to you any faster. You gripped the edges of the sink with your fingers turning white due to how hard you gripped it. You breathe in. “One, two, three. Breath out gently.” A young man with golden hair and snowy white orbs, looked you right in the eyes as you opened them gently. “Better, isn’t it? If you feel worried, then remember to breathe. I won’t always be here to remind you of that.” He says, a small smile on his rosy lips.

“I feel much more calm now. My nerves.. aren’t as tense. Too bad the sweat on my hands can’t be taken back into my skin, I feel like I’ll form a river. I just.. I’m so nervous for this. I truly believe in this, Florian. I truly do. If I can make even the smallest change-“ You were cut off by Florian’s small, melodic chuckle.

“Yes, I know, I know. [Name], you can change the world. You can do much better than your pathetic excuse of a friend. Keep your head held high. As a famous poet once said, ‘a happy soul is the best shield for a cruel world’. Stay smiling bright like you always are. Now, get out there and knock their socks off!” Florian reassures you, his hands gripping the sides of your arms and encouraging you. His smile shone brighter than a million suns and you felt blinded by his beauty and grace. Your soft fingers gripped into the sides of his arms in return, with stress and darkness. It was as if there was a rain on your parade and the sun had come to personally greet and save you. You regretfully let go of his arms, your own dropping to your sides. You bite your bottom lip and nod, feeling determined.

“You sway the heavens like the branches in the wind. Surely, you can sway this crowd of people with your talent.” Florian says, before squeezing your sides tightly then letting go.

You pant, your eyes wide and shaky. Your legs tremble and you fall down onto your backside, colliding with the hard tiled floor of the bathroom. Who was Florian? Yes, it seemed like a memory, but you weren’t sure if flashbacks got that intense. Your hands felt numb and your fingernails hurt from how hard you had unknowingly gripped upon the sink.

Though you did not like to spread the information, you had amnesia. The earliest memory you ever had was waking up on the side of the street completely stripped of any memory or coin, as though you had been brutally kidnapped then abandoned. You’ve been dealing with it for seven years. Seven years of never knowing who you were, where you came from or what your family was like. It did not make you too sad because you couldn’t miss a part of your life that you couldn’t remember. You occasionally got, what you believed to be, glimpses of your past. They put you through intense emotions, and left you feeling as though you had experienced a panic attack about a hundred times within a minute. Your head ached desperately as your fist weakly hit the floor. God, you wished that you could remember something. Your fist raised from the cold floor and onto the top of your head. However, your hit against the top of you head was weak as well. Your fingers, covered by gentle cloth intertwined with your [hair colour] strands that rose messily out the top of your head.

Getting back up shakily, you stare at yourself in the mirror. There was a small, wooden clock that ticked sorrowfully in the lonely bathroom, signalling that it was already at seven in the evening. Had time really flown by so quickly? Well, time is a construct. It flies by when you long for it to linger for longer, and lingers for longer when you long for it to fly by.

You pick up the brush that rested on the sink and brushed out the tangles in your hair, and styled your hair in a way so that it was neat and tucked behind the ears. Doing so gave you a clean look, as if you were a completely different class. You practiced smiling in the mirror. As you practiced, you suddenly halted. Had you become crazy? Why were you practicing how to smile?

Slightly angry at yourself for wasting time by getting carried off on a tangent, you hurriedly finished up your hair, using all sorts of products to make it smell luscious and look better than it ever had in its lifetime. You finished several minutes after the clock had hit eight. Now, you lightly placed some natural appearing makeup and hugged your faux fur coat tight around your body. You looked at yourself and took out a pearl necklace. It was on sale, and perhaps fake due to the cheap price you managed to get it in, so you had bought it just in case something like this had come up. You slipped on some white flats, not willing to risk a mishap in heels.

It was now half past eight and you were pretty much ready. All that was left was to pack the things you’d need. The prince most likely called upon you as audience due to your fortune telling abilities. You made your way downstairs, switching the light off in the bathroom.

You picked up a white satchel with some embroidery done into it of purple flowers. You had gotten it for such a cheap price despite it being quite the steal, especially since there was purple. You felt connected to the colour, even if it maybe wasn’t your favourite. Your empty satchel felt like a feather as you wrapped it around your body, then proceeded to look around the shelves. The small, brown box called out to you from the shelves, driving you to pick it up. Inside, there was a small, glass orb. The glass orb could give the user a warning to one’s future at the price of a drop of blood. This let the orb know whose future to read, and helped it to accurately show a glance at one’s future.

You began your course of action for the drab, amber box that held around about a dozen different tarot cards. You selected the one that stood out of the pile. The cards had a back of black with the national flower painted upon. It was truly a beautiful selection of cards, so you put it into your bag as well, with all the cards held together inside a black card box. It wasn’t in top condition with numerous scratches on the cover, however you didn’t pay any mind to this, considering it was the tarot cards that mattered.

Deciding to not travel too heavily, you simply place your purse into the satchel, now ready to go. You wait several minutes while sitting at the round table in the back room, eyes straight at the rusty clock. It was ten minutes away from nine in the evening, which was when you were told to be picked up. However, you jumped slightly when you heard a loud, firm knock upon your wooden door, causing the door to threateningly shake, as if it were to fall any moment.

Quickly, you advance towards the oak door, unlocking it shakily. Your hands shuddering slightly as the brass key in the lock turned. You opened the door just by a peak, to see the royal knight’s eyes shift from staring straightforward at the door, towards you. His eyes widened slightly, yet he was quick to conceal his feelings. The royal knight seemed to be around his early thirties, still looking fairly young despite signs of ageing beginning to form. He wore a cerulean and argent uniform with a plain white sash around his slightly built form. There were several badges on it, indicating that he was of a fairly high status.

”Greetings. I came here early to warn you, but it appears that you’re ready.” The knight says, able to see part of your outfit and how nicely you had done your hair compared to beforehand. “Well, I’m glad that we’ll have no rush. We can leave early if you’d prefer. That way, we can be positive, with the utmost certainty that you won’t be late.” The knight suggests, his grey gaze staring at you, waiting for an answer.

“I guess that’s logical. Let’s be on our merry way then.” You respond, stepping out of your house and locking the door behind you. Afterwards, the guard leads you to a black car that was as spotless as a ballroom floor. Waxed so greatly and excessively that you would’ve mistaken it for some sort of gorgeous eclipse. The windows were lined with a pale gold and there were two small kingdom flags on either side of the back. The guard holds the golden handle and opens the door with ease, gesturing for you to go into the car. In all honesty, this felt a bit sketchy, as though you may be getting kidnapped.

Despite your thoughts, you complied and simply stepped into the vehicle, resting against the fine, red leather. The front of the car was separated from the back with a wall, which had a screen inside, allowing the person at the back to open or close it as they pleased. You stay still and gaze outside the window, reality starting to come to you. You really were about to meet the prince. You really were in a royal car. You really were summoned. As all this was processed, you gulped nervously.

“You did amazing, [Name]! I’m so proud of you.” Florian tells you, a bright smile on his lips.

“I know this is a competition but my god, you are good. I don’t think I can win this.” Florian adds before gazing towards the mountains. Your gaze follows his, resting on how the snow fell gently, like a million feathers upon the ground. You smile gently to yourself, seeing the sunset paint the sky purple and red, all as though it was from an expensive painting brought to life.

“I only did well thanks to your great advice. Remembering to breathe helped me much more than I would have thought. All of the methods you teach me are very helpful.” You reply gladly.

”Gosh, this is tiring. I guess we’re working together now instead of going solo. On the bright side, there’s only one more mountain to go.” Florian reminds you before pointing his pale finger towards a tall, dark mountain. Clouds hid the top of the mountain, with shadows from the sky cast a cloak of mystery and dread.

“Are you sure that’s the right mountain? I thought the instructors said that we wouldn’t have to go up a mountain that high.” You speculate, hand on your brow in confusion.

”Please, [Name]. My navigation skills are top tier. You’re lucky I’m helping you. Look at the map, I’ve read it perfectly.” Florian responds harshly, obviously stressed. He didn’t have the best map skills, but believed that he could manage. So, he handed the tattered map over to you.

“Oh, this is supposed to be a competition. Why are you so supportive? Do you have some ulterior motive?” You interrogate him, your gaze breaking away from the frosty mountains and towards your friend with golden strands. His diamond eyes squinted slightly before turning to you. He pouts as he turns to gaze at the mountain again.

“You’ll feel relieved to know that I don’t. I understand how this competition can benefit us both, however. Enjoying these moments with you along the way is much better. I’d be happy to let you win, [Name].” Florian responds, before his smile fades away and his eyebrows knit together, concerned. While you both chat, you continue to look at the map.

”Florian, the map is upside down!” You yell, before sighing heavily. “I can not believe this. This is outrageous. We’ve been walking for a week in the completely wrong direction, Florian!” You complain, a whine escaping your mouth as you kick your legs in a childlike manner.

“What?! Since when-?” Florian is cut off by a knock. Wait, a knock?

”Ma’am, please wake up. I’m terribly sorry to disturb your doze, however we have arrived.” The knight tells you from outside the window, his knuckles gently acting as an alarm for you to wake up to. The knocking had brought you to your senses as your [eye colour] eyes examined the real world around you. Two flashbacks in one night? This was too much for you. You noticed you had a blanket of goosebumps on your skin and that you had been lying there in a cold sweat. Slightly embarrassed, you nod your head.

”Yes, it is no problem. Do not apologize, I’m the one who should be sorry. I apologize for falling asleep in the car.” You reply, your fingers reaching for the handle, only for it to be pulled away by the guard opening the door for you. He had no need to bow, especially since your rank was lower than his. In fact, you were lucky that he was being kind to you at all. You heard many stories of knights who were disrespectful and rude to those in the lower class.

You step out of the polished black car and as soon as you do, a butler steps inside and drives the cab away. You watch it for a second before following behind the guard towards the palace. As you looked up at it, you felt your jaw drop to the ground. It was more beautiful than the paintings or stories could have ever told you.

The palace consisted of pearl and white marble on the outside, with gold intricately interrupting the sheet of white, adding more elegance. The palace was so large yet sparkling clean, as though there was a layer of fresh snow, glimmering with beauty and grace in the moonlight. Marble steps led up to the palace. Taking note of this, you were careful of each step you took towards the top of at least dozens of steps, especially as marble was slippery, and looked freshly washed. This made you thankful for the light blue carpet that extended from the landing at the top of the steps and through the closed doors of the palace that hovered over you.

“We’ve arrived ten minutes early, so please wait in the staff room. Once the prince has summoned you, I’ll ensure somebody comes to guide you to his private library.” The knight informs you. As you both walk towards the main door, two other knights equipped with gleaming gold did some sort of knock on the door, signalling for it to be opened. As the large doors open, you felt all the luxury hit you in the face. Standing in shock at the perfect fairy tale scene. You had no idea that the inside would be able to compete with the extravagance of the outside.

The walls of the palace were tall and were not shy to show off the expensive foreign wallpaper plastered upon them. The floor was made of black jade, with golden symbols detailed upon the jade. On the ceilings hung chandeliers as if they were made of the most expensive pure diamond, crying droplets of light that illuminated the hallway. There was a bright red carpet on the floor that led up to a set of silver and golden double doors at the end of the hallway.

“Please follow me, ma’am.” The knight who was accompanying you stated, leading you down the long hallway. You were still in the hall, your eyes gleaming like a child eyeing their Christmas present and your legs nervously wobbly from the thought of the person you were about to encounter. One’s home reflected the person, and if the prince’s home was this grand, then perhaps, you had underestimated just how meaningful, important and powerful the royal family really was. You knew they had the power to kill you without a single person questioning the act, but you had never known that perhaps the empire was larger than you had thought. How were you supposed to know? Books were not exactly of easy access to you, as you had to buy them or pay the entry fee to go inside the public library.

The knight takes a left, leading you down a different hallway. Stopping at the third door on the right. The door was extravagant, however looked less expensive than the others. The knight proceeded to open the door for you and stepped to the side, his arm pushing the door open.

“Go inside, ma’am. You will be summoned shortly.” The knight states as you walk through the door, only to jump slightly as the knight lets it slam shut behind you. You look around to see several maids sewing and gossiping on a purple velvet couch. Several butlers and cleaners seemed to be resting as well. It seemed as though you had been put in the staff’s resting quarters. Your feet tapped against the grey and white marble floor. You approached a small, round table colored brass. You sat down on the matching chair nervously, hoping not to catch too much attention. Despite your attempt, one of the maids seem to notice your presence at long last and whispers to the other maids before putting down the scarf she was knitting to approach you. She sits down on one of the four chairs surrounding the table, and smiles kindly at you.

The maid was wearing the usual black and white outfit, with her hair a shade of premature grey. Looking to be in her late twenties.

“Hello there, I am Guinevere. I’m the co-head of the south wing’s maids. Are you here for work?” She asks, tilting her head with curiosity.

“Actually, I’ve been summoned by the prince to tell his fortune. It is lovely meeting you by the way, I am [Name].”

¹ countenance ; a person’s face/expression

Status: Edited

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #reader #reader insert #self insert #prince #horror #fiction #romance

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