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stellarislune · 21 days

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Andrew x Darling ; Rewind pt. 2

alternate universe where, two years after your failed confession towards andrew, you became his teacher assistant instead! 🤭

here's the link to part one! make sure to read it first.

YOUR POV

Two weeks after that day.

Here you are at Professor Andrew's office.

It's a neat workspace with his table and swivel chair at the far right of the office. It's a new one, it seems. Probably bought not far from a month ago. How do you know? Because you’re a psychic.

You snort to yourself and then you shake your head, feeling silly for distracting yourself from what you’re doing.

Right now, you’re sorting suspended files stacked and stored on his set of cabinets and shelves lined up against the left of the room. According to him, he did not let Luca touch the files since he filed for a one year leave prior to his engagement with his boyfriend—now fiancé.

Based on his words, you quote, "With him and those files around, he won't be able to leave at all. He's far from the skittish, clumsy assistant that I knew of when he first started. He's passionate and hardworking. He's dedicated to finishing on time. He's quite the perfectionist, .. it's almost an obsession for him to perform at best. Ah— I'm rambling. Just make sure to file them per year. I bought face masks to avoid inhaling dust, it's on my first drawer on the table. Use it."

Luca probably will be reluctant to leave with work unfinished, you agree with him. So, with a mask on and a ton (you’re exaggerating) of folders and files, you began to sort each into their subjective years. A few of the files were former submissions from students throughout the years and let's say you have had a good time reading through a few funny and profound reads in between filing.

“The forbiddenness of a fruit..” You trail off, squinting. The handwriting on the paper has been smudged. You can barely make out what the rest of the sentence was. You pulled the paper closer to your eyes in hopes that, by doing so, you can see the words clearly.

“-even makes the taste of a lemon sweet’, is what it says.” A voice continues. “By Mokokoma Mokhonoana.”

The room is suddenly filled with static energy. One spark and it’ll catch fire. You hadn't realized that you were too absorbed into your work that he was right behind you already; snapping you back into reality.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

The room is on fire and you’re the only one seeing it burning.

You lifted my eyes at him in an attempt to steal a glance, and then you resigned yourself back to work.

You cleared your throat and greeted, "Good afternoon, Professor."

"Ever so polite like always, aren't you?" Andrew jests.

“Uhm, Yes..?" You reply, not sure what to say. "I'm, uh, done sorting the files from the first cabinet and it's all of the 2019 ones, Sir." Might as well give your work report instead. You hurriedly dropped the paper you were reading. While the passage was interesting like most of the submitted works, they are still not yours to mess with.

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Awkward.

"So much work done in so little time. I commend that. Here, take this."

Andrew reaches for his bag and retrieves a medium-sized can with a label named ‘Blended Brews’.

You turned to him and accepted it, seeing how it’ll be rude if you do reject it. It felt cold against your hand.

"—I was thinking of having it myself but I already picked up coffee from the main office. It's iced caramel macchiato. If you don't like it, just keep it there nonetheless. You might get thirsty." He adds, walking away to put his bag onto his desk. Stretching his arms before sitting down in his swivel chair.

You stare at the coffee he probably got from one of the vending machines for a while. Then, you responded, “Ah, y-yes. I’ll keep this for later.” You laugh sheepishly before setting it to your side. “Thank you, Sir.”

Silence follows.

If you remember correctly, he is a workaholic. Always in his office, never out, unless he has classes. While the usual professors may be glad to have their classes end, he always looks a tad bit sad whenever classes finish in your perspective.

You heave a sigh.

“You..”, Andrew began, making you glance at him. He clears his throat and continues,“-you don’t have to call me Sir or Professor, you know. We’re colleagues now, and you’re my assistant. That grants us both the privilege of calling each other by name, yes?”

That does make sense. Is it awkward for him perhaps to be called as such since you are no longer a student? Perhaps. Who knows? Another sigh follows.

“Very well,” you cleared your throat, "As you wish, Andrew.”

You did not know whether it was the way you said it but that garnered a hearty laugh from him. His eyes glistening as he shakes his head. His face is the epitome of amusement.

“With how you spoke, it almost catapults me back to the Medieval era,” His lips lifted a little to the side, forming a mischievous smile. “Are you gonna call me ‘My liege’ next, Listener?”

His gaze bore through yours, your eyes staring right into each other.

Your breath hitches.

Just like the first time your heart raced this fast. Being able to openly look at him without the fear of any other assumptions does something to you.

Andrew has always been beautiful in your eyes, and seeing him like this right now just hardens that thought in your head.

“I might?” You responded cheekily upon gathering yourself. “Or would you prefer ‘Your Royal Highness?’”

“That would be incongruent with how I am—I'd worry too much about taxes, security, and healthcare in my head, that I'll probably end up on the guillotine. Or—I'll be too strict that the commonfolk will initiate a coup against me.” Andrew chided.

“A royal advisor, then?” You grinned. You tried not to snort upon hearing the rather grim hypothesis that Andrew responded with.

“Hm, fitting. Did the option ‘troubadour’ never come to your mind?” (troubadours - lyric poet musicians who usually sing of courtly love in the 13th century). Andrew swings his chair to the left, the angle now facing towards you. He opens his mouth as if to continue further, but he closes it. Then, he says, “Nevermind. I'm interfering with your work now—”

“You'd make lovely pieces,” You interrupted as you sorted the last folders on your left. It contained nothing but old, unreadable papers so you’re keeping them for shredding later on.

“Oh? And have you read any of my work for you to hypothesize such a statement?” His voice sounds.. intrigued.

“You are a literature and history professor. Isn't that a natural assumption?”

“Touché.” Andrew chuckles, his eyes shining with interest.

The atmosphere seemed lighter now. The worries you have running in your head are just melting like glaciers underneath the sun’s direct rays.

You thought working with Andrew might be too taxing for you. You fear disappointing him now, like how you feared disappointing him with mediocre submissions way, way back when he was your literature professor.

However, thinking of it now..

It’s not so bad after all.

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Watch out for part 3 SOON! 💖

#zsakuva #sakuverse #boyfriendaudios #andrew marston #strict professor #cracking the eggshell because listener is still awkward ~#my favorite boy :'(((

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lottiecrabie · 6 months

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As a recent lottiecrabie enthusiast and longtime feral consumer of a certain M Healy related writings, I saw something about a tutor!au. Here are my dreadful, frankly illegal thoughts. Do whatever you will with them, Lady Lottie. Your works kill me in the sweetest, sexiest way and resuscitate me harshly back to life.

1. You're a maths student , year two in the university. He's the newly joined English TA that's been developing a bit of a reputation for his longwinded rants in class and his unconventional assignments.

2. Like what the fuck is "Write about being an influencer in a dystopian world where you have to sell a graffiti eraser for VR devices after artists are actively vandalising the metaverse"

3. Anyway, hallway whispers about how attractive he is find their way to you but you're wholly unconvinced because pfft, really now, this is a cliche. One drunken evening at the local bar and you're jostling shoulders, he's ordering a long island iced tea just because and eyeing your whiskey on the rocks. He's really as pretentious as you thought he was - a dark mop of curly hair, crisp linen shirt and this dense, buttery jacket scented with menthol, marijuana and bergamot. He has a delicious rasp, holding court with his little circle of friends about how fullstops have come to mean something completely different when people text each other in the present day. There's not much you think of it - except one night after you break things off for good with your boyfriend who asks if you've come five minutes. into sex.

4. That night, you find yourself wondering if his neatly filed nails would leave red crescent commas on your skin, if your moans would be the em dashes between his consecutive thrusts. You imagine him seeing you at work, chalkboards filled with a haze of numbers and letters, you're arguing about why pure math PhDs and English PhDs are really two sides of the same coin, languages to explore the textures of the world.

5. You realise you're irrevocably fucked.

The annual debate between your college and the rival one is announced and you want to take part, as you always do, except this time it's a whole series of complex themes that require you to be assisted by someone else. Guess who you're assigned as your mentor.

6. You can't think straight, but you want to impress him so much. He's pretty much unfazed - logically unfolding his stances like an origami blossom. His mind entices and frustrates you : how can you possibly read Shakespeare today and a bunch of e-girl tweets the next and use both of these in your speeches?! Good lord. The longer you resist the urges, the worse they become. He dances in circles around you. Sleepless nights. Scattered sheets and unfinished drafts. Smoke breaks across the campus. Joints rolled with thin paper you bum from the art department, you sit blowing plumes at each other one orange afternoon. He reveals himself in delicate slices - a flash of a tattoo on his taut abdomen, soft voiced calls to his mother, Heroin by Velvet Underground playing from his tinny earphones.

7. He's dissatisfied - there's some verve and rawness that's missing from your stage presence. you're not emoting enough. He jokingly wonders what the cause might be - the lack of sleep, or the lack of sleeping together? Wait, you haven't had sex in months? There it is.

8. He says that sex sells. In order to convince the audience, you need to have seduce them with your mind.

Prove it, you say.

9. He finds May I Feel by e.e cummings and decides to walk around you as you take turns to recite it. By the fifth line, you've had enough. His knees are behind to yours, his skin branding into your stockings. He places his fucking mouth close, so close to your ear - warm enough to entice you with the possibility of a kiss, but instead he takes it away just as swiftly.

10. "let's go said he

not too far said she

what's too far said he

where you are said she" (side note - I recommend listening to the Tom Hiddleston version of the poem!)

You laugh, because it's so bitterly on the nose. He wonders aloud if he's really too far - too far away from you, that is.

His first kiss is like a wine tasting. He sips and nibbles your lips, sweetly parting it with his inquiring tongue. His fingers snake across your body, a low laugh caught in his throat when his hands brush your guilty nipples. Dilated pupils, and filthy promises. His kisses are poisonous, intoxicating.

11. Rutting mindlessly over his desk. Panting, whining in back seat of your car. Wet kisses in a darkened theatre. Hand jobs in the library, leaving the both of you a shivering mess. He is relentless, rendering you feverish for more. He refuses to have sex until he's satisfied his desire to explore you enough.

12. You try to take matters into your own hands and dress in a tiny skirt, with the smallest scrap of lace covering your soaking cunt. You end up over his lap, his handprints still warm on your back.

13. He worships you. He spits in your mouth. He ties your hands to the bedframe. He calls you sweetheart, baby, my darling. He doesn't stop edging you. He makes you read poems and eats you out, with the threat of stopping if you stutter even a little. He makes you think, he makes you dream, he makes you laugh.

14. You don't care about the debate anymore.

oh my god this was so lovely!! love when u guys leave me blurbs like this to read i feel like I’m the one getting bedtime stories for change. you have such a vivid and imagery way of writing it’s so beautiful. the prose is so delicate and effective; i can so clearly Feel and See the moment. i especially love ‘his first kiss is like a wine tasting’ and ‘you sit blowing plumes at each other one orange afternoon’. get on tumblr mama start writing there’ll be a spot opening up soon✊

although this is a lot more professor!matty than tutor!au🕺 (the tutor!au staples are weird loser virgin nerd with cool popular bitchy experienced girl) you actually kinda knocked it out of the park for professor like yeah that guy is making her read poetry while eating her out. yes ofc they’re making out on his desk. well yeah he’s debating you and only getting you more worked up for him

#THANK YOU FOR THIS but seriously pick up the google doc bae #LOVE YOU #professor!matty #tutor!au #ask

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excadrill · 9 months

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tagged by @yj-98 ilyyy 🫶🫶🤍

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

tag as many people as their are wips.. eep.. sorry i'd put this under a cut but it's not working on mobile 😭

ankhgiveaway.sai [i held an art giveaway in february and havent finished the prizes even tho i keep looking at them and going 'i need to and Want to finish this..']

yuukigiveaway.sai [same as above but the person who requested this one deactivated so i. don't know if i'm still gonna finish it]

sonomomo.sai [my current priority 'For Me' wip.. ive shared this wip w some people but ive never done a proper piece for the 'cycle of life and death' thing for them so that's what this one is..💙❤️]

exozinewip5.sai [pokemon zine oc piece, not supposed to share zine wips so idk if i should say more but it's of my beloved gymsona.. this zine will be free + digital and i'll ofc be promoting it more when it's done but it's soooo cute keep your eyes out for this one :3c '5' not bc im contributing multiple pieces but bc this piece is big and slightly intimidating for me so i keep saving different versions when i do major merges]

pocketzine-nymble.sai [another pokemon zine piece, so i can't really say more But it's not the only thing im contributing to this zine, ive just finished all my other stuff already]

oczine-thumbs.sai [thumbs for an oc zine i signed up for that i'll probably drop out of bc im not feeling like a vibe w everyone else there >w>;;; ]

philip.sai [philip piece ive had sitting around basically since i finished W.. about a year ago now i think ? but i transferred it to my '23 wips folder bc i still wanna finish it..it was supposed to be a 'this one will be quick and easy so i'll have smthn i Finished this month outside of zine stuff' but. zine stuff took up all my time and energy oops]

mrtourism.sai [this one's a silly post-canon kirihiko art i've Also had sitting around for like a year. i chip away at this one sometimes but then keep restarting bc im unsatisfied with the lines i wish i could just sit down and finish it bc i Love Him]

platform.sai [ummm silly ryotaro thing i drew after watching the den-o final stage ^__^ not a high priority one but it's cute so like. maybe one day]

punkjackhelmet.sai [file name was bc i was originally doing helmet studies before it turned into a full sketch. punkjack with the beat buckle bc i was doing this right after his special came out 🎃🫶]

colourwheel.sai [ummm well. yeah im not good at finishing art memes when theyre still on trend. i did all the sketches for these but i probably won't finish at this point..]

poppyangel.sai [poppy ex-aid i sketched as a break between big stuff the other day that i like a lot so. maybe will finish but might just post unfinished if i cant find the energy to get to this one sooner. feel bad that i like ex-aid so much but don't have any clean art done for it..]

millirider.sai [toku oc planning :3 i was saying last night i finally figured the helmet out which ive been struggling with for ages so hopefullyyyy i get around to doing a proper ref sheet]

im not at my laptop rn so im doing this off the top of my head but i THINK that's everything.. tagging umm @ankhisms @heartvisor @madaraki @circeancity @horrorcomedies @yu3s @pleuvoire @kosukeiichi @danothan @seashrine @asticassia @eclipse-song @kirider only if you guys wanna 🤍🤍

#simon says

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totally-not-an-awkward-okapi · 1 year

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Got tagged by @measlyfurball13 so time to talk about my relationship to Fandom

Tagging… hell I don’t know. Look if you see this just count that as a tag.

Your Name: NotOkapi or Okapi usually, theoretically you could also use Pidgeon (spelled normally or Like That) but I don’t think anyone’s ever acknowledged that’s the title at the top of my page.

Your Current Fandom(s): As you can see I am currently in Spider-Man hell. I’m supposed to be able to leave Spider-Man hell at the end of the month but in all likelihood Spider-man posting will continue into the foreseeable future.

How did you first get into fandom?: 7th grade I met a kid at fencing camp who was also into Wings of Fire and mentioned that he was active on the Fandom site for Wings of Fire fan content. Fun fact, totally-not-an-awkward-okapi is just the latest variation of my personal naming scheme. It was Not A Robot when I made a disqus account to comment on my favorite webcomics, not realizing that the locks my school placed on internet usage made it unusable. When I joined Fandom my name was Definitely Not Darkstalker since he was the main villain of the series at the time and therefore about as villainous as online bots.

How long have you been engaging in fandom spaces?: 7th grade, unless you count the few times my disqus comments slipped through school security. Or actually I made two question submissions to @tape-hiss as I first read White Noise anonymously. Have fun guessing!

How often do you read fanfics?: Really depends on my fixation! Sometime I go a couple months without reading any, sometimes I read every fic in a characters tag (that isn’t smut, I’m so ace that it just doesn’t appeal to me) in a day. It’s all variable.

Top three characters from your current fandom: I mean, other than Spidey character supreme Will o’ the Wisp? Both Butcherbird and Sandman continue to live in my head rent free. Pretty consistently when my brain is too excited about the next days design to sleep I start putting one of those three in Scenarios (TM).

Have you ever written fic for a fandom?: Sometimes! Occasionally I can’t tell something through art and need to write it out instead. Most of my fics sit for personal reading only in my docs, but I do have a AO3 account for when it needs to be unleashed upon the world. Basically all of my ongoing fics are “I’m going to come back to them someday but right now my brain will not function” though, except for Beneath the Quaking Tree who I’m not finishing out of spite because my Metal Gear Solid emulator broke so there will be no process until I fix or replace it.

Have you ever drawn fanart for a fandom? Sure have! Most of the #my art tag on this blog is fanart.

Share a personal headcanon you feel very strongly about: All my Spidey posting for the month has been AU work, so it’s all kinda headcannon in that way? I guess the ones I feel strongest about are how Butcherbird and Sandman’s brains work. Butcherbird is essentially an unfinished recreation of the Winter Soldier’s programming, which causes odd stops and stutters when he thinks. A little bit of a WIP from my files to try and explain:

They wake up cold. They always seem to wake up cold. Frankly, they don’t remember not waking up cold (they try not to puzzle at that last one). Cold possibly isn’t the right word. Cold implies “chilly” not “I’m pretty sure some of my internal fluids are still frozen.”

The Vulture pushes to the surface, and they let it pass. The Vulture eliminates pain. Good. There is a short burst of acute pain as the body starts shifting, before the body finally gives up on sending pain signals.

Then the Vulture freezes too. Holding pattern. Awaiting orders.

No one is there. Someone should be there. They’ve never woken up alone. Waking up usually means training. Programming. Pain. There’s no one there.

It should be a relief. It is worse. The Vulture paces. It was not meant to go long without orders.

They have contingencies. There’s still space for many more, but digging around it finds an applicable scenario.

They can be taken out of cryo manually, either through the attached control panel or remotely. If certain emergency protocols are activated, it can also be put on a timed release. The latter two are the most likely.

There is a contingency for remote and time release. It has not been uploaded.

Sandman on the other hand is interesting because there’s both “How their brain has always worked” (she has dissociative identity disorder) and “How her consciousness transferring from electric signals in the brain to about one body’s worth of electromagnetic bonds effects their ability to think” (poorly)

And finally, what does fandom mean to you? Getting to hang out with people who’s brains are as messed up as mine is who don’t mind me ranting about consciousness or medieval fashion, and then getting them to ramble about their own ideas and just. Talking about something we both love! Sorry, Measley explained this so much better than I can.

#okapi chuffing #asks and answers

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michaelwavemichaelwave · 2 years

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Thank you so much @paradisecas for tagging me!!!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs. I have deemed that this isn’t just for writing either. Sketch titles? Comics? DnD campaigns? If you have an unfinished project, it counts!!

I like to focus on one project at a time so my active WIP is:

->As Your Ashes Raise

-Michael possesses a CPR dummy

(Being tagged finally convinced me go back and "fix" the part that was bothering me. Aka, I posted it on AO3 back in July, and its been sitting there with a hole in it where I removed part of it. I looked at what was originally there and basically went "good enough." So now what's on AO3 is "complete.")

Here's the ones that are either abandoned or I have no intent of posting

-Eng Lit notes

-Midam

-Midam dnd (this one is literally the post I made a couple months ago. I thought about expanding upon it, that's not happening)

-Sisyphus Rising

-Supernatural- Where Everything's the Same, but Dean and Sam's Last Name is Worcestershire and the Family Business is in Fact also Worchestershire Sauce

They're all Midam except for Sisyphus Rising (Destiel) and the Worchestershire Sauce one.

I'm tagging @baiboop and whoever hasn't been tagged yet!

#spn #midam

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eponastory · 3 months

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Soooo...

I'm taking a break from Devil May Cry for a bit.

Why?

Final Fantasy 7 has entered the chat.

Long story short, I found the old files for a story I wrote way back when (I was 18?), which I kinda want to revamp to FF7Remake and upcoming Rebirth.

Keep in mind I was going through a serious Jrock phase in my life at that time and well... I had a friend that I bonded with over this and also fell in love with Genesis because he was essentially Gackt (hey, I was a teenager, don't judge me!). I still have fond feelings for Genesis (not because of Gackt, but as a character) now that I completely understand what his story really is.

Anyway, this hyperfixation on fandoms coming and going is totally my ADHD and honestly, I'm burned out on DMC right now (until news about the anime comes out or a release date) and I need to switch gears for a little bit. Gotta shake off the cobwebs of useless words and plot lines that built up in my head for DMC. It's okay, I'll be back to it eventually. It may be a week, a month, or five years (if my track record stands because I still have some unfinished Assassins Creed business out there that have been sitting for... well three years now). This is just how it goes for me.

It's burnout and writers block that drives me to revisit other fandoms until I can get back into the unfinished projects. I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this. It happens to a good bit of fanfiction writers. And of course, I'm still working on my original works too.

With that being said, Evan's blog will still be updated. More blogs might appear, I don't know, I'm kinda insane at the moment.

#and there goes my sanity #taking a break #devil may cry fanfiction #devil may cry #dmc #fanfic #final fantasy vii #trade off

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cherryyharryy · 3 years

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i have an idea for a request (it’s totally ok if you don’t want to do it) like an angst-> fluff where one of harry’s songs accidentally gets leaked bc of y/n like she has something on a flash drive and the song is on another and they get mixed up and obviously he’s really mad at y/n and they have a fight he’s super snappy with her but something happens to her like she gets into a really big accidental or something and he forgives her bc he cares about her more tha the leaked song

WC: 2.7k

***

Damage control wasn’t even an option.

Y/n sat there, staring at Harry’s laptop, numb to everything except the blaring desire to go back in time just two minutes. Two minutes is all she would need to undo possibly the biggest screwup of her life.

And the worst part is that this mistake ultimately doesn’t affect her. At least not in comparison to how it will affect Harry. And his band. And his team. Basically everyone involved with his career.

Her mind is equally begging for her to shut down and come up with a plan—an excuse—something, Is there anyway this wasn’t my fault?

She checks the time, her heart sinking to her stomach when she realizes Harry and his team will be back any minute. Any minute and she’s done for.

They’ve only been together for five months, officially. She’s still new to most everyone. She’s that girl Harry’s dating.

“I told you he played in that movie.” Jeff’s voice echoes outside the studio. Y/n closes the laptop and prays for strength.

“I have him confused with someone else.” Harry bustles through the door, a small crowd of people filing in behind him, back to the spots they left an hour ago. “Hey darling,” he greets, “finish your paper?”

Y/n’s frozen, morbidly wishing he had found out about his song leaking on his own so she wouldn’t have to tell him. “Uh, almost.”

He kisses the top of her head and hands her a cup of frozen yogurt. “Your favorite.”

“Thanks.” She sets it on the table she’s sat at while Harry pulls up a chair beside her. “Aren’t you guys still working?”

He waves in the direction of his band, “Mitch’s gotta fix his guitar.” He snickers, and slides his laptop out from under y/n’s hands. “Had a bit of an accident in the car.”

Y/n’s head tingles with what must be nerve damage, her place in this world, her place in this room, decreasing in value as Harry opens his computer.

“It’s gonna melt.” He nods to her yogurt.

“I’m not hungry.”

He furrows his brow. “You alright?”

“Mhm.” She looks around the room, everyone busy getting back to work, light chatter passing among them. “Uh, actually, I uh, I have to tell you something.” Y/n tries to swallow the lump in her throat with no luck.

“Okay…” He shuts the laptop and gives her his full attention.

“Okay, um—”

“What the fuck!?” The room freezes as everyone turns toward Jeff. “Harry someone’s got a hold of your song!”

Harry scrambles to his manager, complete shock on his face as they both stare down at Jeff’s phone. “Fuck.” They start to play a video, the sound of a girl screaming, with Harry’s unconsented voice playing in the background, fills the room. “How the hell did this happen?” He’s gritting through his teeth, neck red, veins bulging in his hands as he rips the phone out of Jeff’s hand. “HOW? Someone answer me!”

Y/N considers keeping quiet. Playing innocent. What good will it do to confess anyway? It’s not like it’ll undo what she’s done.

Sarah chimes in from across the room, “It looks like it happened half an hour ago. That’s when this video I’m looking at was posted.”

Y/n’s staring down at her lap, holding her head up with her fingers pressed into her temples when Harry slings himself back into the chair next to her.

“All that work, all that fucking work,” he nearly growls, “for some cunt to spread my unfinished song around for a buck.”

Y/n peers up to the room, a completely different picture compared to five minutes ago. Now there’s talk of lawyers and pressing charges while everyone shuffles around. Jeff slams the door as he steps out with his phone to his ear, and y/n knows she can’t claim denial, it’ll only make things worse.

“Uh, Harry?”

“What is it?” He doesn’t look at her, eyes glaring at his phone while another video plays of a group of people reacting to his song. “Glad they fucking like it.”

“Harry?”

“What, y/n?”

She shrinks under his gaze, mouth dry as she forces her confession out. “I uh, this is all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m so, so sorry. And I’ll do anything—I know I can’t fix it—but...”

Harry’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing in on her as a morbid silence forms a little bubble around them. “Go on,” he whispers with grit, “finish what you were gonna say.”

She stutters, desperately trying to figure him out. “I’m just sorry. It was an accident.”

“An accident? How did you even manage to do this?”

“I—”

“Do you have any idea what this accident means, y/n?”

She reluctantly shakes her head no.

“How the fuck did you do this?”

“I—I don’t know...I was taking a break from my paper, and, I don’t know Harry.” She’s in tears now, warm and salty as they spill down her cheeks. Her mouth wobbles around another apology, but no sounds make it out.

“Fix it.”

“What?”

He stands up, yanking his laptop off the table, pausing to glare at her one last time. “I said, to fix it.” With that he storms across the room, slinging the door open just as Jeff reenters.

“Harry, your attorney—”

“Forget it.” He turns around and points his phone towards y/n silently sobbing in the corner. “She’s gonna handle it.” He takes one step out into the hall and stops, spinning on his heels to face the studio. “Don’t speak to me until you do.”

Mitch’s guitar that was fixed and propped against the wall, crashes to the floor when Harry slams the door.

Chatter passes around the room one more time, only now everyone seems to be in agreeance—that girl never should have been allowed in the studio, and maybe, Harry should break up with her.

***

Early morning rain fell outside Harry’s apartment. It was still dark, street lamps burning through the fog in the city below. His home fills with coffee as he pours his fifth cup; the prior four never offering more than a few sips before he had abandoned them somewhere, the counter, mantle, bookshelf, because he can’t talk without his hands.

Y/n sits on his couch. It’s velvet and pink and too big for one person. She hated it the first time he invited her over. If he breaks up with her, she’s going to tell him how ugly it is.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do.” She’s exhausted. She hadn’t hesitated to drive over when he finally responded to one of her hundreds of texts in the week since the mishap. But now she regrets it. They’ve been going in circles with the same argument for the past four hours. She’s convinced he invited her over just to be mean. She sighs, rubbing her temples. “I said I was sorry. You know that I’m sorry. And you know that I never, ever in a million years, would have done something like this on purpose.”

“I’m allowed to be angry with you. I have every right to be.”

“Do you, though?” She straightens up on his ugly couch and looks at him leaning against the doorframe that leads into the kitchen. “Aren’t you a little tired of hating me? God Harry, everyone else in the whole world has moved on except you.”

“It’s not everyone else’s song, is it? It’s not everyone else’s months and months of hard work. It’s not everyone else’s unfinished art? Nobody else is having to deal with a girlfriend that is so careless, so thoughtless, that she actually managed to leak my song!”

“Stop raising your voice at me!”

“You had no business snooping around my computer anyway! I told you you could work on your fucking paper, not to go prying around my personal shit!”

“You know what,” she scoffs, shooting up off the couch, “this argument is so pointless. You didn’t want me here so we could talk. You just wanted to torture me because you’re mad that people don’t love your stupid song.”

“What the fuck did you say?”

She brushes his shoulder as she passes by him, and a drip of his coffee spills onto his hand. He curses, and follows her into the kitchen where he lays his final cup down on the island.

“You’re being a baby because people aren’t fawning over you like they usually do.” She shrugs and slings her bag over her shoulder. “It’s not your best song, Harry.”

The veins in his neck strain against his flaming skin. His cheeks are sucked in, and if he bites down on the skin any harder he’ll puncture his face. “Get the fuck out.”

“I was already leaving, dumb ass.” She strides by him once more, practically feeling the heat steaming off his body. When she gets to the front door, she pauses with her hand on the knob. “Your couch is hideous, by the way. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you have to buy shitty looking stuff.”

When she slams the door behind her, the apartment shakes, and cold coffee spills from each cup.

***

It’s nearing five a.m. when y/n backs out of the complex. Her wipers race across the windshield, but do nothing against the downpour wreaking havoc in the city. She does her best to stay on what she assumes is her side of the road, swerving to the right each time headlights blind her.

“Shit.” Nothing is open, and she can’t even see where it would be safe to pull over to let the rain pass. But her home isn’t that far, and traffic isn’t too bad.

She comes to a stop at a red light, only to realize she missed a left turn she should’ve made a minute ago. “Damn it. Fucking hell.”

As soon as the light turns green, she spins the wheel to make a U-turn, and if it hadn’t been for the rain, and her own clouded mind, and Harry’s voice echoing in her ears, she might have seen the truck who didn’t even try to avoid her.

***

It’s the headache from hell that wakes her up. And it’s the sterile smell of hospital that jogs her memory. And it’s a nurse not much older than y/n that says something about you’re lucky to be alive.

She’s poked and prodded and asked a thousand questions before her IV is adjusted and a pill to ease one of the many pains scratching her body is handed to her in a small plastic cup. A police officer repeats half of this process, and somewhere in the mess of her reality, she learns that the other driver was sending a text to his wife when he plowed into her car. He’s at home and she’s here. Lucky to be alive.

She made calls to her mom and friends, and even managed to type out a decent email to her professors for her upcoming absence in class.

When she automatically pulled up Harry’s name on her phone, the last text he sent, the one inviting her over so he could make her more miserable than she already was, sat there in all its taunting glory.

What is she even supposed to say? Hey, I know you hate my existence right now, but I’m lying here in a hospital bed with bandages wrapped around my head. It’d be cool if you stopped by.

It’s not long before the sun pops up and reminds y/n of just how early it is. The clouds part, and it’s like it had never even rained, like it had never even been dark for hours, and if she closes her eyes, y/n can pretend that the past week hadn’t even happened.

***

“How are you feeling today?” The nurse checks y/n’s IV, humming after her question.

“Just sore. Ready to get out of here.”

“We’ve started the paperwork, so shouldn’t be too long. Who’s coming to get you?”

Y/n blinks, feeling stupid she hadn’t thought this far ahead. She doesn’t even have a car anymore. The nurse looks over the computer monitor, waiting for a response.

“Uh, my friend.”

“Awesome. Dr. Kirby has to come check on you one last time before you leave. I’ll go see if he can stop by now, if you want to let your friend know.”

As soon as the nurse is out the door, y/n scrambles to turn her phone back on, and once it is, her lock screen is filled with missed calls and unanswered texts.

She’ll respond later; gives her something to do in the car to occupy her in front of Harry.

She can’t call him. Harry’s not a monster, although the past week doesn’t exactly prove her case, but she knows he wouldn’t refuse to come get her. If anything, he’ll be annoyed she didn’t tell him about the accident sooner. But she’s too emotional to deal with hearing his voice.

She types out a text recounting her last 24 hours, along with the name of the hospital. He immediately reads it, and a moment later he’s trying to call.

To: Harry

I’m too tired to talk rn

She lies. And it works.

From: Harry

I’ll be there as fast as i can

***

“Baby?”

Y/n cracks her eyes open, irritated she never quite fell asleep. Confused as to why Harry’s calling her baby. Angry that she cares. And the next words out of his mouth are ones she’d been predicting.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve dropped everything. You’ve been here all alone, shit. Are you okay? What hurts?”

He’s hovering over her, fidgeting, unsure if he can touch her.

“I’m fine now. Just sore. And tired.”

“Fuck I can’t believe this, I—”

“The doctor already said I can go. I’m not allowed to walk out on my own, so, you need to let the nurse know you’re here. She’ll take me down in a wheelchair.”

“Baby I’m so sorry-”

“No, Harry. You would still be busy hating my guts right now—”

“Hate you? I don’t hate you?”

“Well you did a great job this week making me feel otherwise.”

Harry sighs, gripping the bed frame and dropping his chin to his chest. When he looks back up he has tears brimming his eyes. “I’m sorry,” his voice cracks. “I know I’ve been an ass this week. I—you were right. I took out my anger from no one lovin’ the song on you.”

“Well it’s not no one. A lot of people did. And it’s unfinished anyway. You wouldn’t enjoy a meal if it was only cooked halfway.”

He nods, but y/n knows he’s only accepting her words because of the situation.

“You mean so much more to me than a leaked song. I’m sorry I treated you like shit. And that I—I made you think I hated you. You have every right to hate me.”

“You annoy the hell out of me, but I don’t hate you.”

His lips twitch, but a few tears slide down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She takes his hand off the rail and smoothes her thumb across his knuckles. “You can make it up to me by getting me out of here.”

“I can do that.” He kisses the top of her head and hits the remote to call for the nurse.

“You can really kiss me, y’know. I’m not gonna break.”

He’s hesitant, but slowly lowers his head to press his lips to hers. He’s timid, and his lips are still damp from tears, but it’s more relieving than either of them would ever admit.

The nurse ends their moment when she pops in the room, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. “Hi, you must be y/n’s friend.”

“Friend?” He peers down at y/n, suggestion lacing the word. “Care to explain?”

“Not really, I’m so tired.”

“Mhm.” He clicks his tongue, supporting her arm as she swings her legs off the bed. Once she’s standing and steady, he tucks her hair behind her ear and bends down so his mouth can graze her lobe. “Since we’re just friends, I guess you’ll have to sleep on my ugly couch.”

#requests #requested #harry styles writing #harry styles blurb #cherryyharryy

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tj-wrote-things · 3 years

Text

𝐀 𝐆𝗼𝗼𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝗼𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐬𝐤

𝐧𝐢𝐤𝗼𝐥𝐚𝐢 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬𝗼𝐯 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝗺!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝗼 @itisroe 𝐟𝗼𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝗺𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝗼𝐮𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝗼𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝗼𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

𝐀.𝐍: 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 2𝐤 𝐰𝗼𝐫𝐝𝐬. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐟. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞. 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝗼𝐲:)

-quick little psa, Nikolai and Reader are both kinda ducks cause they’re hurt and stressed. I DONT THINK it’s okay to invalidate a significant other, however I do believe people say things they don’t mean-

•

“Yes, Genya, I’ve checked the place cards, and I told Alina to make sure no one was allergic to anything.” You sighed heavily from your place on the lavish fainting chair, reclining to avoid wrinkling your dress. Tamar widened her eyes, and shook her head subtly at you, warning you of the danger that comes with poking the bear.

Genya turned sharply and raised a fiery eyebrow at you, almost daring you to get smart again. “Listen, wiseass, this is my wedding day, and if anything goes wrong, as my Maid of Honor you’re responsible.” She reached into the smooth mahogany surface of the vanity and brandished a particularly sharp looking razor blade. “Got it?” You widened your eyes and rose from the chair, no longer feeling safe.

“I’m gonna go check in with the band,” you mumbled, speed walking straight to the door. Genya nodded curtly. As you wrenched the door open, you came face to face with Alina, holding the thin, cream colored shawl Genya had requested.

“Be careful,” you whispered. “She’s in a mood.” Alina rolled her eyes.

“And it's probably all your fault.” she smiled, letting the door shut behind you. You chuckled to yourself at the thought of getting a rise out of Genya, a woman who had quickly become a sister to you from the moment you arrived at the Little Palace, no matter how many times you pissed her off.

You made it a few paces from the door before you heard a startling shout from the room you just left.

“Make sure they don’t play a polka song!”

“Alright,” you hollered back hoarsely. “Just save that braying voice for your vows!”

Making your way to the parlour room was simple enough, considering you had done it a thousand times before. The hard part was making it past the boys room.

You were all the way at the end of the hall, and yet you could hear the commotion from within David’s room. As you stepped closer and closer, heels clacking on the pristine tiled floor, the garbled noise of grown men arguing became clearer and clearer.

“For saints’ sake David! You look fine!”

“Genya would say my necktie clashes with my haircut!” Another round of groans erupted, and you smiled.

Of every couple in all Os Alta, Genya and David would take the cake when it came to “opposites attract”. You’d always thought they were perfectly paired, with David’s demure nature and Genya’s strongly worded opinions. They balanced one another, and brought out the best in them both.

You thought that you’d get lucky, and be able to walk past the room swiftly without being noticed, but of course, fate was being a real bitch.

Just as your left foot set down in front of their door, it was pulled open abruptly. One moment, you were striding swiftly through an abandoned corridor, and in the next you were being stared down by arguably the one man you could’ve gone all day without seeing.

Nikolai blinked and cleared his throat, and did the one thing you least expected. He grabbed you, not unkindly, by the arm, and hauled you into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Have a look,” he said, pointing to David, who was standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the room, rolling his eyes everytime Mal tried to convince him he looked fine. “Doesn’t David’s tie match perfectly with his hair?” He didn’t even wait for you to respond. “I picked it out myself, so of course he’d look impeccable.”

Your hunger for chaos just couldn't resist. You frowned mockingly, and rested your chin on your fist. “Well, the knot is a little big…” you moved for the mass of garments piling up on David’s bed, and swiftly pulled out another tie. This one was a dark violet color, and perfect for the occasion, for you happened to know that Genya’s wedding bouquet had flowers of the same shade. You looped the fabric around David’s neck after removing the old one, and tied it, not unlike a sister would. “There.” You patted him on the shoulders. “You look great, David.”

You picked up the skirt of your dress as you went to exit, stopping to pat Nikolai on the arm. “Don’t feel bad about the tie, Nikolai. We both know you have trouble seeing a good thing even when it’s right in front of you.” You left without another word, neck bobbing, but head held high.

He knew what you’d been talking about, of course; your failed relationship. You and Nikolai had been together for all of 7 months, before the cares of both of your positions began to take their toll. As king of Ravka, Nikolai was resolute in his decision to be a great ruler above all else, and he honored that decision in full.

He made regular visits to every corner of his country, doing what he could to alleviate the stresses that formed in the aftermath of the war, and oftentimes took you with him, if you could spare the time. He took special care to attend every meeting and listen intently to any conversation that had anything to do with his beloved Ravka, to avoid making the same decisions that cost his father the throne, and his people their security.

You loved it. You loved him, too. His dedication to a land that had been so neglected by his forefathers was something that you revered in your lover, and respected. And he respected your work, too, and all that you did in the name of the Second Army and the throne. The time you spent together was always treasured.

However, he as King and you as General, there was only so much time to be spent together. It had become routine for both parties, night after night to come home to the bedroom, and find the other fast asleep, unyieldingly busy, or just not there. You slept in the same bed, and yet, you both had felt the cold arms of distance more than the arms of the other. It was only a matter of time until either of you reached your breaking point, after all, it was no easy thing to fall asleep and wake up in an empty room, not when you knew the one who shared it was long gone.

He had walked into your room, late at night after a day of meetings and diplomacies. You were sitting, hunched over, bathed in the light of the oil lamp hanging over you, slowly sorting through and filing away the documents detailing the expenses of the Second Army. He had strode over to you, and placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, squeezing slightly.

You hummed in acknowledgement, unwilling to turn away from the paper before you. “What,” he said. “No hello?” You shrugged off his hand as you reached for your pen.

Signing the line at the edge of the page, you responded halfheartedly. “Nik, I’m really busy right now.” You had hoped that your displeasure at the work laid out before you would be conveyed through your words, but it seemed that was not the case. Nikolai, in all his stressed out glory, believed the displeasure was directed at him.

Retracting his hand and moving towards the bed, he muttered, “Saints forbid I be shown a little affection.” You did not intend to hear him, but you couldn’t help but respond. Not when, just days ago, sitting at the same desk, Nikolai had done the same thing.

“Affection,” you repeated, setting your pen down and leaning back in the chair. “Pray tell, Nikolai, when was the last time you paid me any affection. Or indeed, any attention at all?” Nikolai shook his head, and tugged off his shirt as he readied himself for the night, sighing when he saw your challenging expression. He prattled off his response without a second though.

“I'm the King. You're just a soldier.” You scoffed, and stared at him for a moment, wondering if he would recant, and apologize for all he just insinuated.

He did not. Nikolai crawled onto his side of the bed, his back facing you, and remained silent.

For him to invalidate you, and your work—

“Right,” you said, standing to collect your things. “In that case, I think I’ll stay in the Little Palace tonight. With the other soldiers.” That had been the end of it.

Nikolai’s pride prevented him from approaching you, and your resolve to remain unbroken kept you from approaching him. You knew if you tried to talk about it, it would kill you from the inside out. So that was how it went. You put up with Nikolai, for the sake of your friends, and country, and spoke shortly and when spoken to. Nikolai did likewise.

Until the wedding reception, that is. You’d done your best, really. You really tried to goad Genya and get him assigned to a different table, but of course it wouldn't happen. She’d given you a resolute no, claiming that the Maid of Honor and the Best Man had to sit at the same table and they had to share at least one dance.

You weren't so sure how legit that last claim was, but you didn't have it in you to argue. The lamps dimmed, and the band stopped, making way for the newlyweds to impress the attendees. David was smiling brightly, with one arm wrapped around Genya’s waist as he waltzed them around the floor, only dropping his grin when he gestured to Nikolai to take your hand. Nikolai huffed, and looked at you straight on.

“Genya said we have to dance.” He knocked back his brandy, and stood up, regal as ever, and extended a hand to you.

You looked up from your own unfinished glass humorlessly. “Well don’t sound so excited.” You caught a narrow glare from Genya as she whirled around the floor. You stood and took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the floor.

You were getting too close.

The intoxicating smell of Nikolai’s cologne was shoving you closer and closer to the edge, let alone the warm feeling of his hand on the small of your back. Deep down you knew that if he moved his hand to your hip, it would be over, and you would drown in shared memories of nights spent in tangled sheets and abandoned alcoves.

You cleared your throat, and allowed your own hands to take their place, one in his hand, and one on his shoulder. With a swell of the music, you were off, onto the dancefloor in a flourish of fake smiles and internal screaming.

Nikolai glanced down at you, noticing the way you looked at anything but him. “So,” he said. “I have trouble seeing a good thing even when it’s right in front of me.” You didn't say anything, clenching your jaw. “No, no,” he continued. “You’re right, of course. You stood by my side through… everything. The war, my stint as Sturmhond. It was selfish of me. To not have been by your side when you needed me.”

Oh yeah, you thought. Now we’re definitely too close.

You cleared your throat, and patted his bicep twice, signaling him to let you go. “Goodnight,” you muttered, unwilling to let yourself have this conversation. You pulled away, just slightly, before Nikolai tightened his grip on your waist and pulled you in. “Hey-!”

“Just know,” he murmured, looking at you intently, hazel eyes carving through the thick resolve you had fashioned in the weeks you’d been apart. “I always saw you. I never stopped seeing you. Probably never will.” He let go of your waist, and brought one of your hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckle. “And you were the greatest. Know that I’m not ready to give up on us yet.”

•

#corporalnik #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov #Grishaverse #grisha #darkling #rar #sab #sas #kos #row #shadow and bone #ruin and rising #seige and storm #king of scars #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #tj-writes-things

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

Text

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 3

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Winter soldiers on, the cold and occasional snow giving way to the promise of spring. Her birthday comes and goes, celebrated at her mother’s with her family as it had been before there was someone else to lay claim to her time on special days. The vacant spaces in her apartment that had been occupied by Ethan’s books and clothes, his toiletries, and VHS collection, begin to be filled by evidence of her new, single life. Her solitary toothbrush in the cup by the sink starts to look normal, the indent on her finger where his ring lived begins to fade, and the silence she arrives home to at the end of her workday becomes mundane instead of painful. Though this change was initiated and welcomed by her, change is always hard. She goes through the motions of being okay until one day in early April, she realizes that she is. The budding crocuses bring with them the optimism of a new life, another chance. A third chance, as it were, to get it right. Now she only has to figure out what right is.

Though they’ve always been close, she and Missy become even closer, taking up the space in each other’s lives that would otherwise be consumed by boyfriends or lovers. They are each other’s better half, sharing the minutiae of their workdays and staying available for unexpected illness or the need to move heavy furniture. While every human needs other humans to thrive, the Scully sisters fill that need with each other, shunning the idea of casual dating simply for the sake of companionship. There is no companion more perfect than the one who has known you since before you could understand the need for such a partner in life, and who is by your side not out of obligation, but because their soul is stitched so firmly to your own. They have always pledged their dedication to each other through thick and thin, and the new year of 1997 proves that to be a sincere promise on both their parts.

As such, they sit at their favorite local coffee shop on Sunday afternoon when Missy finally dares to ask her sister the question she’s avoided for the past four months. Not because she was afraid of her reaction, but because she knew Dana wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Have you heard from Mulder at all?” she asks so casually that Dana flicks her eyes up and stares in disbelief, not sure that she heard her right.

“What?” Dana asks, her heart having lept for one single beat at the mention of his name.

“Mulder. Have you had any contact with him, or seen him?” Missy is misleadingly casual, acting as though this is not a question she’s been waiting months to ask.

“No,” Dana says flatly, her eyes dropping down to her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t expect to.”

“Does he know that you and Ethan split?” Missy asks next, her feet folded underneath her in the oversized armchair.

“I don’t see how he would,” Dana posits.

“Have you considered reaching out to him?” Missy tries, watching her sister for signs that she is going to shut the conversation down.

Dana shakes her head glumly. “After what I put him through, I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to hear from. That was nearly nine months ago, he’s probably long since moved on.”

“Have you? Moved on?”

Dana pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how to answer that. What does it mean, to move on?”

“Do you still think about him?” No assertions, just gentle questions, leading her sister to the conclusion she knows she needs to come to.

Dana nods softly. “All the time. Every day.”

“Then I think your answer would be no. You should contact him, Dana. It feels like unfinished business.” Missy has a thing about unfinished business. She believes it prevents you from achieving your full potential in life.

“Missy...what would I even say? ‘Sorry I broke your heart, good news is it didn’t even work out so it was all for nothing’? I don’t want to cause him more pain than I already have.” Her tone is resigned and defeated. Another regret she will come to live with, pinned to her lapel with a collection of other mistakes that she can never quite atone for.

Missy shrugs. “You know what I think. The rest is up to you.”

Missy is right. The trouble is, she doesn't trust herself to make these decisions anymore. She’s proven to herself that she doesn’t know how to make the right one.

———

“Excuse me,” a rough, nasally voice calls from behind her. She turns to see a red nosed young man in the doorway of the pathologist’s office, slumped against the doorframe with watery eyes. “I’m here to pick up an autopsy report, for, um...I think it’s Richards or something.”

Scully has worked with this courier before, and compared to his typical demeanor it’s easy to tell that he’s unwell.

“Are you alright?” she asks as she uses her feet to push her rolling chair over to the file cabinet, retrieving the report in question.

“Uh, not really, no. But if I call out sick one more time I’m gonna get canned.” He leans his head against the cool metal of the doorframe. She suspects he’s feverish.

“You don’t look well enough to work. Where is this headed?” she asks, still holding the file in her hand.

The young man blows out a stream of air and she holds her breath for a moment, not wanting to inhale whatever he’s infected with. He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. “Hoover Building, Behavioral Science Unit. Agent Kissop.” He stuffs the paper back in his pocket and looks around, taking refuge in the extra chair near the end of her desk.

She feels a little flutter in her belly; what are the odds?

“I’ll tell you what,” she begins, “I was just about to head out for the day and I live in Georgetown, so I’m going that way anyway. Can I drop this off for you? You don’t look well enough to drive and I’d hate to see you on the news in the morning if you cause an accident.”

He sighs deeply, the biggest display of excitement he can muster. “Are you sure? I’d really appreciate it,” he says, his eyelids barely maintaining half-mast.

“No problem at all,” she replies, gathering her coat and purse. “You get home and take some Tylenol, okay? And get some rest.”

He nods weakly and she leaves him there, climbing into her car with the file and a pounding heart. She can’t help but feel like this is a sign. She’s been thinking about signs a lot lately, and she’s recently resolved to start paying attention to them.

———

Mulder stands beside the copy machine, doing his Wednesday afternoon ritual of fighting with the toner cartridge and cursing profusely. From around the corner, he can hear AD Kirkbride drumming up his own song of profanity, which is more of a daily ritual than a weekly one.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kirkbride is shouting. “Now that dipshit is conning goddamn doctors into doing his pathetic job?”

Another much softer voice answers him, but Mulder can’t quite make out the words. He moves closer to the open door, bored enough to bother eavesdropping and seeing which of his colleagues is going to get their ass handed to them today.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is sick, that fucking lowlife. He’s sick every fucking week, it’s always something with him!”

“Sir, I don’t know what the history is between you and the courier,” answers the other voice, and it’s familiar in a way that makes him stop in his tracks, his stomach clutching in a mix of nervousness and excitement. “Can you direct me to Agent Kissop, please? Then I’ll be on my way and you can work it out with the courier service.”

It’s Scully. It’s her, he’s sure. He’s been dreaming of that voice for months, the soft sibilant S’s and the way her plush lips rest against her adorable overbite. Without thinking, he enters Kirkbride’s office and sees her standing in front of his desk with a file in her hand and an exasperated look on her face.

“Scully?” he asks, and she turns to him. Her hair is a bit longer, now just past her shoulders, and she’s wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She’s as beautiful as ever, maybe even more than he remembered. She doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. If anything, she looks relieved. Emotion boils up in his chest immediately and he feels his throat constrict.

“You know her?” Kirkbride asks, gesturing to Scully, and Mulder nods. “Great, then show her where Kissop sits so I can call the fucking courier service and tell them to fire that lazy asshat before I strangle him.”

Scully walks towards him and he turns wordlessly to show her out of Kirkbride’s office and down the hall to where Kissop sits. His heart is beating slowly but firmly, his pulse resounding in his ears. What is she doing here? Did she come here to see him? And if so, why? When they arrive at Kissop’s desk, Scully hands her the file and they exchange words that Mulder doesn’t bother to listen to. Then Scully looks at him hesitantly and slowly turns to walk away, towards the exit. He feels suspended, unsure if he can believe his own eyes that she is really here, and entirely conflicted over what to do about it if she is. He’s spent nine months trying to forget her, but she’s as real and alive as ever, standing before him. His self-protective instinct says to let her go, but his heart says to run after her.

“Quit standing here like a dumbass and go talk to her,” Kissop orders him, clearly picking up on some tension though she doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s causing it.

Shaken from his daze, Mulder follows Scully into the hallway.

“Scully,” he calls out, and she stops walking but doesn’t turn around. When he catches up to her, he touches her shoulder and she turns to face him with wet eyes.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another, an expectant feeling hanging over them. He wants to touch her, to feel the press of her body against his again, but he doesn’t dare. That would seem like a relapse, of sorts.

“Would you have coffee with me?” she finally speaks, her voice small and unsure. It’s an invitation she is not at all confident he will accept.

“Okay,” he answers, and they walk out of the building side by side, silently.

They seem to understand without saying so that Mulder will lead them to where they ought to go, which is a little cafe called Burial Grounds just a block from the front doors of the Hoover Building. They stand in line stoically, tension crackling between them like static as they order something that will occupy their hands and give them a safe place to avert their eyes while they talk. They sit at a small table near the door and wait, glimpsing at each other’s faces and then away, summoning courage. Because this was at Scully’s invitation, it seems like she should have the floor.

“Ethan and I aren’t together anymore,” she finally blurts out, and his first instinct is to look at her hand, which is indeed bare of any jewelry. Next he looks at her face, considering her expression and whether she takes this to be good news or bad. She looks pained, but not about what she’s just said. She’s had this look on her face since he first spotted her in Kirkbride’s office. He’s unsure if he should be offering congratulations or condolences, and irritated that he’s being put in the position to figure it out, so he says nothing.

“I’m sure that I’m just about the last person you want to see,” she continues, her ocean irises tracing the logo printed on her cup. It wasn’t a question, but if it were he’d tell her that she’s the only person he wants to see, the only one he ever thinks about. The reason he can’t sleep and, when he does, the only thing he dreams about. “If it’s okay, there are some things I’d like to say to you. I understand if you don’t want to hear them.”

She flicks her eyes up to meet his for a moment and he nods softly, keeping his expression neutral. She returns her gaze to the skull and crossbones bearing the name of the coffee shop.

“I have always believed that life is about making the right choices. That we are presented with an ongoing series of options, opportunities and situations, and that we are tasked with determining the right choice that will put us on the path towards the best possible life. But as of late,” she pauses to take a sip of her coffee, stealing a glance at him before she continues, “I’ve come to believe that there is actually only one choice. One path we’re supposed to be on, and there are signs along the way to pay attention to. The choices might not always make sense at the time, but in the grand scheme of things, they are the ones you need to make in order to have the best possible life. Or the right life, the one you’re supposed to have.”

She pauses and slides her hand across the table, covering his with her own. The soft warmth of her skin electrifies him a little, sending a flush to his belly. She brings her eyes up to meet his, her brows knit with emotion as her chin gently puckers. She’s so beautiful it physically hurts.

“I ignored the signs,” she says tightly. “I made the wrong choice, Mulder. I thought I was doing the right thing, the best thing, but I was wrong. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

He feels his chest tighten, a telltale precursor to tears, and he looks away from her. Why is she doing this? To make herself feel better? She pulls her hand back and sniffs, then stands and slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Thank you for having coffee with me,” she says, and then he watches her leave. He sits there, staring at the pink lipstick that stains the rim of her cup, wishing she’d given him some more time to absorb it all. Wishing she’d never made the wrong choice.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files #x files fanfic #alternate universe

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bau-baby · 3 years

Text

the ultimate loss. 2/?

aaron hotchner x gn!reader

Summary: While you and Aaron are grieving the loss of Haley, an untimely realization comes up on your part after a night of consolation. Will anything come of it?

word count: 3k

warnings: grief, loss

A/N: Holy cannoli I am so sorry for how long this second installment took me!! Also the ending seems kind of rushed and it’s not the greatest, sorry! Now, onward with the story!

read part one here

It has only been a few months since Haley’s service, and you have been at a loss. Ever since the time you and Aaron had together on that patio, something changed. Something that you couldn’t really put a finger on. Neither of you addressed it for fear of messing with things you weren’t ready to face. So you both did what you do best: ignore it.

You’ve filled your time with hours on the job, Aaron has been doing the same. You both merely dance around one another, not allowing your colleagues to pinpoint or figure out what happened. And if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t either. Hell, you weren’t sure Aaron knew what was going on, and he is one of the best profilers you have the pleasure of knowing.

It’s another late night, early morning at Quantico. You’re burning the candle at both ends, losing sleep by the day. You blame it wholly on losing a friend, and sure that was the big, main reason, but you also know it’s a ploy to throw whatever it is that’s happening with you and Aaron out the window for a time.

After-action reports fill your time as the coffee keeps getting brewed and your pen isn’t running out of ink anytime soon. And you always love to think that this is your time away from Aaron, when in reality he’s right up the stairs, hunched over his desk just as you are. You saved your glances for when your hand got cramped or you needed a refill on coffee. What you don’t see was the glances he’d send your way while you were engrossed in the paperwork.

You normally end up staying late at the office since you have a tendency to take some of the extra files from Aaron as well as the team so they could get home quicker.

You finish up a majority of your reports just before midnight, opting to take the unfinished ones home. You gather your finished files, making the short walk up to Aaron’s office before knocking. You hear him faintly say “It’s open,” and open the door.

“Hey Aaron, just wanted to drop these files off before heading home for the night. If you-” Your words die in your throat as you finally look at Aaron much closer. His eye bags were getting worse, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Are the nightmares still happening, Aaron?”

He knows there’s no use in lying, especially to you. He nods as he presses his pointer and middle finger to his temple, trying to alleviate the dull headache that hasn’t left him in so long. It was one of the only constant things in his life, outside of Jack and you. With the headaches and the nightmares saddled on top of the grief, he hasn’t had true peace in months.

You tentatively take a seat at his desk and wait him out. You know that once he feels like talking, he will. He takes his time, twiddling his pen in between his thumb and pointer finger.

“I miss her. I left her at home with Jack almost every day, I was never there for his appointments or for his big milestones. I forced her to be a single mom when I could have easily just been there. I-” He stops, and you can see his eyes are brimmed with tears. You swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“Aaron, she loved you-” He scoffs, “-No, she really loved you. It tore her to pieces when she left, she just reached a point where she had to put Jack’s needs first. She still cared for you. The call I got the day you were admitted into the hospital told me enough,” You look down at your hands, trying to find the words, “You’re a great dad, Aaron. You do your best and right now that’s all anyone can ask for.”

Aaron lets out a huff of breath and leans back in his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to lessen the pulsing headache still fully present. You only hope that your words made a difference, and you start to get up to leave.

“Wait. Please don’t go. I- I can’t stand being alone here anymore,” The admission makes your heart swell while simultaneously hurting for the broken man, and you settle back into your seat. Maybe finishing up the rest of your reports in the company of a friend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-----

The late nights you and Aaron were pulling to keep each other company quickly transitioned to going home early to see Jack, still keeping each other’s grief at bay. Didn’t help that Jack was the sweetest kid on the planet, and one you definitely couldn’t say no to.

There were days where Aaron would just break down away from the watchful eyes of his son. He wanted to remain strong and not worry the young boy, but he knew Jack was hurting too, just as you were. Even if he was vulnerable with you at times, he still kept some walls up and held some feelings to his chest.

And Aaron would never tell you, but some days it was hard to even be in that apartment. The wall has been long since repaired, the bloodstains lifted from the carpet. But that didn’t remove the nightmares that haunted him every time he came home.

He could never forget the acrid smell of Foyet’s breath as he continuously taunted him, the knife driving into his abdomen. He couldn’t forget the fleeting memories that he surrounded himself with, a hopeful yet useless distraction as he was bleeding out on his apartment floor.

He couldn’t forget Foyet’s smile, his laugh that haunted Aaron’s deepest nightmares.

Foyet’s words would come to him in flashes, always coming back to remind him of everything he lost.

“Do you know how much you have to study the human body to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don’t want to brag but I’m somewhat of an expert.”

The humor Foyet found in what he was saying was not ever lost on Aaron.

He always felt the ghost of the knife, cold metal gracing his abdomen that was slowly losing heat due to the blood blossoming around his still body.

“Do you wanna see my scars?”

The image of Foyet’s mangled abdomen was stamped into his brain, a fateful image that spoiled his sleep every night.

“Yours are gonna look just the same.”

And that they did. Aaron hated the scars that riddled his chest, the raised, gnarled skin always a reminder of his failure. He not only failed Haley, but his son that he swore to protect and give a good life. He ripped the life away from both of them. Haley would never see what Jack would become, and Jack would never remember the woman who gave her life to protect him.

No matter how much he trusted you, there was still that wall that held him back from telling you all of this. His rational brain told him that you’d help him work through it, but his trauma-riddled brain told him that he’d end up overwhelming you, even though you both lost the same person, she just had different emotional ties to both of you.

That call that you listened in on while racing to Fairfax was imprinted in your brain. You’d continually tried to tell yourself that you couldn’t change anything that happened, that you couldn’t save Haley. You couldn’t give Jack his mom back, and you couldn’t bring back Aaron’s closest friend.

You knew it wasn’t right to blame yourself. You knew that Foyet had fooled all of you. That didn’t stop you from taking the blame, forcing yourself to relive the worst moment in your career, just to subject yourself to something you felt you could have prevented.

Jack wouldn’t have any memories of his own mother. You would just plant four years’ worth of stories as he grew up, telling him tales of how strong his mother was, and how she was the best thing that happened to his father.

Maybe these similar trains of thought are what led you to be knocking on Aaron’s door late at night. And maybe, that’s what led him to answer.

“Y/N? It’s so late, what’re you doing here?” The opened door revealed a distraught yet cozy Aaron, floppy hair and eye bags in all.

“Can I, uh, can I come in?” You remain composed, trying to regulate your breathing before you possibly could fly off the handle.

“Yeah, of course. Are you alright?”

Now isn’t that the question of the hour, Aaron Hotchner? You aren’t really sure what you feel, so instead of answering, you walk over to his couch and sit.

Aaron trails in behind you, two cups of coffee in his hand. You accept the cup, the ceramic mug already bringing life back into your hands. Aaron sits on the other side of the couch assuming the same position you are: a blank, grief-filled stare aimed at the table in front of you. The only sign of either of you being cognizant is your periodic sniffles. You don’t even realize you’re crying.

“I just miss her, you know?” The sentence comes through a wavered tone, and you hiccup through the tears.

Aaron’s in a similar state, his red-rimmed eyes giving way to a tear-filled, “I know. I miss her too,”

A watery laugh leaves you, “Y’know, one time when I visited Haley, told me about how you two used to be. Before Jack, before…”

Before the divorce. Before she died.

“-just, before. She even gave me a little insight on your stint as Pirate #4 in Pirates of the Penzance,” A watery smile makes its way onto your face, and you hear Aaron huff out a sad laugh, shaking his head as he does so.

“I swore her to secrecy on that. She liked you, honestly. She loved how you were with Jack, and I can’t say that I don’t either. You being here, for us, is something we’ll always be grateful for. Thank you,” The sentence makes your heart swell, as more tears fall down your face. They’re full of grief, sadness, and a love you don’t catch onto right away, but when you do, you force that back down to whatever depths it came from.

You hear the feet padding across the floor before you see him.

“Y/N? Why are you crying?” Jack asks as he clambers up next to you and into your arms.

“Hey, bud, what’re you doing up? Your dad and I were just talking about your mom, and how much we miss her,” You say, rocking the boy as you hold him.

“I miss my mom too. Do you think we could talk to her?” He asks. You could hear how tired he is, and you look at Aaron.

Go ahead, his look says, and you stand up with Jack still in your arms. You pick up the candle and lighter on the way.

You lay Jack back in his bed, grabbing the picture of Haley off his dresser. You light the candle and hand it to him.

“Hi, momma. Y/N is here, and I miss you. I love you,” You continue to listen to the boy, but you can feel the tears pressing at the back of your eyes again. You can’t imagine what this four-year-old boy is going through, trying to understand why his mom isn’t coming home anymore.

You feel a certain pair of eyes on you from the doorway of Jack’s room, and you see Aaron watching you and Jack. He’s got this soft, sullen smile on his face as he hears Jack recount his days since he’s last talked to Haley. Soon enough, the four-year-old runs out of steam and says goodbye, blowing out the candle. You reach over, tucking the covers up to his chin, and tell him goodnight.

You walk out to see Aaron sitting on the couch again, his elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. You sit with him until the early morning light washes over the DC skyline, sunlight peeking into the windows. You both laugh, cry, and sit in silence as you talk about whatever, but the topic keeps coming back to Haley.

“Well, if I want to make it to the building on time, I better go back to my apartment and change,” You say as you get up to grab your shoes that have long since been forgotten, as well as your keys and such. “Oh, I didn’t even notice the time. See you at work,” He says, getting up off the couch too.

“Bye, Aaron. See you at work,” You give him a soft smile, and make your exit.

Aaron doesn’t make light of this, but seeing you leave after the night he spent commiserating with you, made him miss it more than he thought he would. The freshness of it all, the connection you shared with mutual grief, was something he never thought he’d get out of his job.

-----

When you step into the bullpen, you’re the first one there for once. Fresh clothes and a rejuvenated heart puts a small pep in your step, even on no sleep. After the night of vulnerability you shared with Aaron, you felt refreshed, if only a little tired.

For the sake of making sure you actually stay awake, you make two cups of coffee. Made one cup just how you like it, leaving the other one black. You set your cup down at your desk, climbing the stairs up to Aaron’s dark office. You turn on his desk lamp, setting the coffee down. You knew he wasn’t too far behind you when coming to the office, it was only a matter of time before he walked out of the elevator.

When Aaron finally makes it to the bullpen, he sees you already cutting into the reports he left on everyone’s desks the night before. He practically floats to his office, his lack of sleep starting to catch up to him. When he opens the door, he sees the coffee mug at his desk, a sticky note attached to it. Very familiar handwriting fills the note.

Thought we could both use some coffee after our late night.

You know where I am if you need anything, old man.

Sincerely,

A very concerned friend :)

Aaron just shakes his head at the note, a smile he’s not used to filling his face. He looks through the window out into the bullpen to find you with an equally facetious smile on your face.

That’s when it all comes crumbling down for you. The realization hits you as you turn back to your work, and you have to slow your breathing so as to not worry anyone else making their way to their desks.

Fuck.

You’re in love with your boss.

You’re in love with Aaron Hotchner.

You could not have worse timing, you realize. He just lost his wife, you just lost a friend. Neither of you should be open to dating. He isn’t open to dating, and you’d be damned if you were too.

You were never known for your timeliness, but this is a whole other level of bad.

What are you supposed to do? There’s no handbook, nothing to tell you what you’re supposed to fall in love with your divorced boss who just lost his ex-wife. And there shouldn’t be, you’re being careless.

It’s normal for people in grief to come together, and after a loss people make strides to fill that gap. That’s all you're doing. You don’t actually feel this way about him.

That’s what your profiling tells you, but you don’t try to reason with it. No amount of reasoning can fix this. You’re screwed, and you know it.

That’s why you make a vow to yourself- right there in the bullpen.

You are not going to let this get too far too fast, and you are not going to scare this man away. He is your boss first, friend second, and lover will never make that list if you keep up this fast train of realizations and possible confessions.

You get saved from your rabbit hole as you hear Reid and Morgan walk into the bullpen, talking about whatever those two can talk about at 8 AM. You just shake your head at their antics.

Those two really are like brothers.

Slowly, the rest of the team trickles in, and you’re expected for a day of paperwork when JJ flashes a file at you. Seems like you won’t your day of reprieve, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’re glad.

On top of the Aaron Revelations™, It’s been really hard these past few weeks without Haley. You usually went over to see Jack and her often, talking and laughing over some glasses of wine. Now, you just... don’t have that.

But, all that aside, you have a case.

So you put the pieces of yourself back together, compose yourself, and take a breath.

You can do this.

-----

You can’t do this.

You did fine on the case, and you know that. You remained composed, and kept your head on straight. That doesn’t change your realization, nor does it settle your feelings. Professionalism is at the forefront of your mind as you settle into your seat on the jet. Aaron sits next to you like always, and you school your expression for most of the flight, but that didn’t stop your brain from going faster than light.

You lean your head against the window, and hope against hope that everything- every feeling, every thought- would just leave you. They didn’t, but you welcome the sleep that comes like an unknown force.

When you wake, you smell Aaron’s cologne. You’re groggy, and it takes you a minute to realize that his suit jacket rests across your upper body.

“You looked cold, just thought I’d help,” Aaron says, not looking up from his file.

That man never stops working.

“Thanks, Hotch,” You say, sleep still laced through your words. You get lost in the moment, the familiarity of it all sinking into your bones. You smile blissfully, sleep consuming your conscious again

You just miss the small smile Aaron gives you after your eyes close, sleep taking your body again.

#the ultimate loss #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader fluff #aaron hotchner angst #soft hotch #it’s a sad fic #but it’s also cute

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svnflowervol666 · 4 years

Text

Fried Rice and... Kiwi? (Harry Styles x fem!Reader)

Word Count: 2.5k

Author’s Note: Happy third birthday to HS1! Here’s something short and sweet in it’s honor. I came across this gif earlier today and all I could think about was lying on Harry’s tummy and listening to him talk about the album. Hence, this fic was born. Obviously, I had to turn it into dad!Harry, because that’s all I can manage to do ever. Like, literally ever. But, regardless! Enjoy, take care, and TPWK. gif by @stylesinthewild!!!

Three sequential knocks on the weighted, wooden door broke up the playful banter occurring in the studio. It wasn’t a request to enter, more so a signal of arrival and a warning - she was coming in whether they liked it or not.

“Delivery!”

Smells of grease and soy sauce filled the nostrils of everyone inside as she cautiously maneuvered her way around discarded instruments and cords and towards the coffee table with a both arms full of enough take out to feed a small army.

“God, thank you! You’re the best! Been starvin’ all day,” Jeff piped up from the armchair he’d been sitting in.

“Genuinely! You didn’t have to come all the way across town to bring us dinner,” Sarah added, hair aloof and sticking up around her head as if she’d been running her fingers through it incessantly over the past few hours.

“Well, someone,” Y/N sneered, cutting her eyes back to Jeff, “keeps stealing my man away from me and I’m tired of waiting for him at home, so I figured I’d just pay him a visit here instead.”

“A simple, ‘You’re welcome, Jeff,’ would’ve done ya just fine!” he sarcastically fired back as the rest of the room doubled over in laughter.

Harry was up and out of the cushion he’d been slumped back in to grab the paper bags that were balanced on top of his girlfriend’s arms so he could take her hands in his and guide her towards him.

“Tip your driver?” she cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips down at him when he sat back down.

“Hmmm,” Harry toyed with her comment, pretending to pat down his pockets in search for change, “‘Ve only got my undying love and affection and an endless amount of kisses. Will that do?”

“I suppose,” Y/N huffed, leaning in to press her lips chastely against his.

“Okay, let’s see if I got this right,” she directed her attention back to the group as she fished around the bags of food.

“Beef and broccoli for Mitch?” The long-haired, almost-resembling-jesus brunette smirked and nodded as he leaned over to take the white carton from her hands.

“Kung Po chicken with extra sauce for Sarah,” Y/N stated confidently. She knew that one for certain.

Sarah bowed graciously as she swiped a handful of duck sauce from the bag after taking her order from Y/N.

“Hot and Sour soup for Adam and Jeff.”

She handed Adam the plastic tub of hot liquid as if she was presenting him a sacred piece of treasure and cast Jeff’s soup away dramatically as if to say she was still fake-mad at him for keeping Harry holed up in the studio for long hours and couldn’t care less if he spilled the damn thing in his lap or not.

“You’re too kind,” Jeff scoffed, earning a pointed middle finger in his direction from Y/N.

“And last but certainly not least,” she grabbed the two remaining cartons by the thin metal handles and presented one to Harry, “Veggies for the boy.”

“Thank you, lovie,” Harry responded earnestly as he grabbed utensils for the both of them, chopsticks for him and a fork for her (he’d tried to teach her more times than he could count to use chopsticks properly but she could never quite get the technique down successfully) and dug into the steaming heap of vegetables packed to the brim of the container.

It was peacefully quiet as everyone chowed down on the takeout Y/N had brought in, everyone coming to the realization of how hungry they’d gotten after spending the entire day writing, composing, and recording an album. Harry and Y/N sat on opposite ends of the couch, her feet resting comfortably in his lap.

“Wha’ did you get?” Harry asked through a mouthful of food.

“Rice.”

Harry frowned.

“Just rice?”

“Wasn’t that hungry,” Y/N shrugged, “Plus, I might have eaten the leftover pizza from the other day right before I came.”

“Still. ‘S not good f’ you. Need t’ be eating better than tha’,” the newly short-haired brunette (Y/N may have shed a tear when he told her he was cutting it) gathered an assortment of sauteed vegetables with his chopsticks before leaning over the couch and dangling it above her lips, waiting for her to open her mouth and accept the bite.

She managed to catch it all, sans a thin strip of onion that she quickly slurped up before it fell and wiped the remaining sauce from the corner of her mouth with her knuckle.

“You two disgust me,” Jeff called out from across the room, a scowl adorning his features.

Harry smiled that obnoxiously cheesy shit-eating grin that he had become infamous for having in his manager’s direction, being sure to push the chewed up broccoli to the front of his teeth to only add to Jeff’s so-called repulsion.

“I think you’re just jealous that the attention’s not on you,” Y/N stated matter-of-factly, “I’m carrying precious cargo. It’s part of the job description now.”

She gave a snide and over-dramatised rub over her swollen belly where hers and Harry’s unborn child was nestled conveniently on top of her organs, making it harder and harder to move around and have any kind of energy as of late.

“If I recall correctly, I’m carrying his career. ‘S pretty precious if you ask me.”

With a roll of her eyes, Y/N plopped her half-eaten side of fried rice onto the table in front of her and shifted her body so that she was lying in Harry’s lap, her head resting perfectly where his thighs met his toned, yet somehow still soft tummy. Harry acclimated to her new position with ease, freeing one his hands so he could pet her hair gently.

“What did you guys work on today?” she asked, her fingers slipping under the hem of Harry’s shirt to absent-mindedly rub the sparse strip of hair that trailed down from his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his boxers that were just barely peaking through the top of his jeans - similar to how he stroked her bump when they cuddle in bed at night.

“Finished up the master for Two Ghosts and added the keys to Woman, but tha’s about it. Started playin’ with another one, but I’m not sure that it’s gonna go anywhere.”

“Yeah? Was it the one you were playing for me the other night?”

Harry shook his head through another bite of his food and swallowed.

“Think we’re gonna do tha’ one next week. We were just messin’ ‘round w’ this one. Doubt I’ll ever go back to it after today.”

“Well, can I at least hear it before you scrap it?”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and peered around the room, trying to locate the hard drive that held all of their practice runs and demos.

“Did they take the laptop when they left?” he asked.

“Nah, it’s still here. Let me go get it,” Jeff promptly shimmied out of his seat, stuffed to the brim with tofu and bamboo shoots that were mixed into his soup, making him move a bit slower than he had earlier.

Whilst Jeff was digging around in the back room in search of the song Harry was almost certain would get lost deep down in the numerous files of unfinished songs and melodies, Y/N tapped Harry’s stomach with her pointer finger to get his attention and opened her mouth, signaling she wanted another bite of his food. He dropped the veggies into her mouth gingerly, making sure to avoid staining his shirt or accidentally dropping a carrot on Y/N’s nose.

“Thank you for comin’. Missed ye’ all day,” Harry spoke in a whisper so that only Y/N could hear him.

“Missed you too,” she mumbled through her chewing, “She doesn’t move much when you’re gone. Think she misses you more.”

In that moment, he was thankful she wasn’t lying on his chest, because she most certainly would have heard his heart combust and scatter like confetti into his gut at the mention of his sweet baby girl that was set to arrive in a few months time.

“’S she kickin’ right now?”

A wide grin appeared on Y/N’s face and she nodded, taking the chopsticks out of Harry’s hand so she could move it down her waist and press it against the underside of her belly where their daughter was seemingly doing summersaults in the presence of her father.

It always amazed him, each and every time. How there was a human being growing inside of her and he had a hand in creating her. Although he hadn’t met her just yet, he was postive she was the most precious and sweetest creature he’s ever known.

Bursting the sugary sweet bubble they’d trapped themselves in, Jeff arrived promptly with the laptop tucked under his arm. He brought it to life, skimming the dozens of folders within the drive until he found the one he was looking for.

“Found it!” he announced to the room.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

As if it would allow her to hear the song more clearly, Y/N lifted her head from Harry’s lap and sat up beside him instead. She leaned against his shoulder, letting her fingers intertwine with the ones attached to his arm that was pressed against hers.

The beginnings of an electric guitar and Harry’s voice filled her ears, Y/N immediately clocking the sound as something unlike anything he had previewed for her thus far. It was heavier, more akin to the style of an actual rockstar that graced stages across the country in tight pants and ooze sex appeal from every pore in their body (not that Harry didn’t already do that).

Next, she heard the heavy pounding of drums, to which she gave Sarah a raise of her brow and look of approval for her skill. She had absolutely no explanation for the way this song Harry had been so pertinent about tossing in the trash was making her press her thighs together to mediate the heat rising within, but it was there. The dull, persistent throb that made her wish her and Harry were the only ones in the room so that she could straddle him right there on the couch and have her way with him.

Pregnancy hormones. Yeah, that’s what it was. Well, at least that’s what she was telling herself.

And then she heard the chorus.

I’m having your baby. It’s none of your business.

She cut her eyes to Harry, who was undeniably blushing and had his face buried in his free hand as if he was scared to see her reaction. He was smirking underhead his palm, knowing good and well that she was staring at him as the lyrics repeated themselves over and over and over again. When he finally decided to peak through his fingers, he was met with her wide-eyed and stunned expression, to which he burst into a fit of giggles that shook his belly and made his sides ache. Y/N couldn’t help but join in on the laughter, shaking her head at his bluntness, for lack of a better word.

The song wasn’t long at all as it was clearly choppy and unfinished and a product of Harry, as he’d said in his own words, messing around with his friends. Sure, it needed some cleaning up and could use a bit more substinance, but it was by no means bad or anything worth chucking in her opinion. It was very much a song written about her, so she felt like she could stand confidently by that opinion.

“Well, shit,” Y/N huffed as the instruments came to an abrupt hault and all that was left of the recording were dwindling laughter and shuffles in the background while whoever was in charge of the sound board moved to cut the microphones, “That gets right to the point. Doesn’t it?”

“That’s what we said,” Sarah managed to get out in between wiping the mascara from under her eyes that ran when she was laughing at her dear friend’s reaction.

“I mean, I don’t think it’s bad at all. Needs some cleaning up, but I think you should keep working on it,” Y/N said honestly, prying Harry’s hand from his face so she could kiss him on the cheek.

“Oh, gee. Thanks. Didn’t know you were on payroll as a producer too,” Jeff called out contemptuously.

“Umm, without me, you wouldn’t have half of this album. Think I can say whatever I want about the matter. Thank you very much.”

Harry pressed his lips together and pointed at her with his fingers shaped like a handgun as if to corroborate what Y/N had just said.

“Yeh actually liked it though?” there was a hint of surprise in his voice.

He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected a smack on the chest or a scold, not praise.

Y/N smiled at the bashful boy beside her, picking a piece of fuzz from the collar of his shirt and flicking it off to the wayside.

“’S gonna have everyone’s panties in a bunch, that’s for sure.”

She picked up Harry’s arm and draped it around her shoulder so she could properly snuggle into his side.

“That damn kiwi,” she said with a playful sigh.

“Pardon?” Harry looked down, bewildered, to see Y/N busying herself by gently poking the taut skin of her tummy in attempt to get their baby to poke her back with her tiny hand or foot, there was really no way of telling which was which.

“That’s when I said that to you,” Y/N yawned, “I was craving kiwi and fuming mad because you ate the last one and when you asked why I was so worked up about it, I told you it’s because I was having your baby, but it wasn’t any of your business.”

The recollection immediately dawned on Harry, making him smack his forehead with a closed fist.

“That’s where that came from! I couldn’t remember what happened, but I’ve always thought that was the funniest thing you’ve ever said t’ me.”

“Ehhh, it’s top ten for sure. Wouldn’t say the funniest, but it’s up there.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her indifference, but he won’t lie and say that it wasn’t one of the things he loved about her the most. How even though she can be the biggest pain in his ass, she always finds a way to bring light into his life and make him smile even it seems next to impossible.

“So yeh think it should stay in the running?”

“Definitely. If I wasn’t already pregnant, I’d beg you to put one in me right here in this studio after hearing it,” she said nonchalantly.

Jeff mocked a gagging noise, “I think I’m genuinely going to hurl.”

“Oh, be an adult for once in your life, Azoff!” Y/N quipped.

Harry stiffled his laughter into her neck, tickling the tiny hairs that rose to goosebumps with each breath he exhaled onto her skin.

“I don’t think you understand, Y/N. I hear about you two every damn day in this studio. ‘S just like you said, the whole bloody album is about you two not being able to keep your hands off of each other for five seconds. ‘M surprised it’s taken you this long t’ get knocked up.”

Harry remained tight-lipped, having reduced his giggle fit to a minimum as he watched two of the most important people in his life bicker back and forth like children fighting over a toy. He supposes, in this case, he is the toy in question, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

“Gonna make a damn good album, though. Isn’t it?” Y/N’s haughty smirk answered that question all on its own.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x pregnant!reader #dad!harry #dad!harry x reader #dad!harry x pregnant!reader #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing

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rodeoxqueen · 3 years

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AWAS

CHAPTER ONE: BE NOT AFRAID

“Dante and Vergil return from Hell to tie up loose ends from their year-long absence. While they seek a sense of normalcy, the fates send them anything but.”

Contents: Violence, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Banter, Explicit Language, Slight Angst

Rodeo’s Two Pieces:

I'm very excited to show y'all what I have been working on since hell, November of 2020. Thank you kindly for sticking around.

Back to the present, where the world turned on its axis for months without the weight of the blood of Sparda upon itself, the tides had changed.

In the midnight, had the stars laid witness to the damn near impossible. A portal had opened from the underworld, and two brothers stumbled out. Clutching their swords, Dante and Vergil reunited with the human realm.

How long had it been? Of endless violence and humorous quips thrown at the other, as the years of the gnashing of teeth smoothened the rough patches of their disjointed childhoods?

“We’re back, Verg.” Dante chuckled, arm over his brother’s shoulder.

“We are.” Vergil echoed. The obnoxious weight fell off of him and landed on the ground with a thud.

Dante had got on his knees and kissed the earth that they now stood on.

“Don’t be a fool,” Vergil said, staring at the moon. After years of wanting to become one with Hell, he tilted the false king’s crown to admire the clear sky.

Dante rolled to the ground, sighing in relief.

“We’re back.” He repeated. His brother nudged him with the Yamato.

“Get up. We must find our way back.” Eyes closed and a grin across his face, Dante let the wind pass through his bloodied and matted hair.

“Now we sound like a real team.” Vergil scoffed.

After a few moments, Dante got back up. They had arrived back from Hell to a cliffside overlooking a city that was not Redgrave.

“I assume you have unfinished business in Redgrave.” Dante nodded.

“I sure do.”

The portal became a forgotten relic, the Sparda brothers nowhere to be seen, their demonic presence known to the world.

Dante was known for many things, but mainly for how much of a constant he had remained in everyone’s lives. Never changing, staying the same as he was, an unstoppable force of sarcastic expression.

And also a huge manchild.

Vergil rubbed his temples in frustration.

“Dante. When I referred to unfinished business, I was clearly referring to your shop.”

“Yeah? And I was referring to this.” Dante bit into another slice of pizza, practically moaning.

Vergil sat ramrod straight, sitting awkwardly in a pizzeria. The two were the elephants in the room, both slathered in demonic gore and toting swords. People either gawked or left the establishment.

“You are still an idiot after all this time.”

“Yeah, and I’m also still hungry.”

“Surely your business is more important than this.”

“Meh.”

The blue devil waited for him to finish an hour later, the long-held bill lengthening after months of his absence.

Of course, he had to have indulged a few pieces of his own. It was nothing like the gaminess of demon flesh he had forced himself to sustain upon. It was almost melting in his mouth, unlike the resistance of the shank of a demon. He was never one for vegetables as a child, Dante even more so. Yet the crunch of the toppings was well-received to Vergil, deprived of basic human sustenance for a few odd decades.

However, he found it unthinkable Dante would continue to indulge himself in this for as long as he did.

The door reopened and closed once more to reveal the broad daylight of the streets. Clean, pristine, the sounds of cars and people filled in the crisp air.

Vergil’s boots walked upon a paved road for the first time in ages, man-made and unassuming concrete with stubborn weeds growing from the crevices. No mouth-having crimson blooms that grew to a man’s height. Just simple creatures that fell softly to his weight on their fragile stems.

He had never been here before, where Dante claimed to be his home.

“What’s after this for you, Vergil?” Dante asked his brother, swiping a few demons out of his way.

Vergil, also in his triggered form, huffed a dismissive sigh.

“You know, you should stay with me. Devil May Cry’s always got a spare couch to crash on.”

“Why would I do that?” He slashed a horned devil in two, spewed in putrid green blood. Dante chuckled, knowing there was hesitance in his voice.

“Because I’m offering, big brother. When’s the last time you’ve had a place to call home?”

“I believe you know the answer to that question.” Vergil slid onto his knees under a crouching demon, disemboweling it from top-down. A final gunshot rang his ears, a noise he had to get used to with Dante’s reliance on firearms.

Dull thuds and a flash of red, Dante stood above his brother, offering a now-human hand.

The horde was cleared away like dust on a counter, gone with the wind. Vergil and Dante stood in silence, two children again.

The younger pulled his brother up, insistent stubbornness in his eyes.

“I didn’t hear a no to my offer, Vergil.” Vergil sighed, releasing his hold of his brother’s hand.

“You did not hear a yes either.” Dante chuckled, following his already-leaving brother.

From the past to the present, Vergil’s answer had been neither, never spoken of what he was to do after everything. Yet here he was, now the latter of the two when it came to guidance.

There were many ways the two could have made their entrance to Devil May Cry and have it be a smooth transition back from months of Hell. Dante kicking down the door with a loud “I’m back baby!” was simply not one of them.

Vergil saw that a familiar dark-haired woman was sitting on the desk, absent-mindedly waiting for Trish to return. A girl who once blamed him for her father’s corruption, now a woman with no heed to his presence.

Lady had dropped her nail file, eyes wide at the sight of the two brothers.

“Dante,” Lady whispered as if she was greeting a ghost.

“Yep, it’s me. In the flesh.”

“Dante…”

“Did you miss me? Love what you did to the place.” Dante commented at the cleaned-up shop.

Her face of still confusion warped into anger.

“Dante!”

“Oh boy.”

The next thing he knows, Vergil watches his brother get lectured like a dog. Standing up yet with the attitude of a man in a fetal position, Dante let himself become used to the sound of their tirades once more.

“You had the audacity to give the deed to Morrison. Crazy bitches?! Really!” Dante shrugged.

“I mean if I barked up your tree all day you’d be calling me a-”

“Hey, Lady.” Trish walked into the shop, icily glancing at the two brothers.

“Look at what the hellhound dragged in.” Lady pointed to Dante and Vergil.

“Oh please, I could smell them from a mile away.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Hell doesn’t have any spas. Shame we couldn’t freshen ourselves up before coming here.” Dante sassed. Trish gave a pointed look.

“As much as it was nice to do some hot girl things, we could put Dumb and Dumber to good work.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lady gave a toothy smile.

“How do you think we got this place managed? Money. Money that you now owe us.”

“Hey! I never said you had to do anything.”

“You’d be real upset if we didn’t do anything either, Dante.”

Finally, after sitting through an eternity of harsh words and steep bills, Dante had more than ever landed himself in shambles. Again. At least he was liberated to take a shower. After Vergil of course.

He was surprised to find that the water was still running, and even more elated that it was hot water. Man, maybe paying the bills was a good thing. It felt like ages of grime and gore had been swept off his skin, his hair finally a familiar stark white. In the steam of the bathroom, he breathed out relief.

When he stepped out, he was surprised to see Vergil laying on his bed completely asleep. Usually uptight and composed, Vergil curled in on himself wearing some of Dante’s clean sweatpants that caught dust from all the months they were gone.

With a smile on his face, Dante chose the couch for once and didn’t complain.

They all deserved rest, Dante taking his nap with a magazine on his face. Future Dante could deal with this.

He never expected there to be any neater ends than the frayed knots he left in his human affairs. Yet, he wasn’t alone this time. Neither of them was.

The next few days, Dante gave his nephew a call. Well, more like Nero called him and Dante finally picked up.

Vergil had gotten up after days of practical unconsciousness, foreign to the comfort of a bed, a place to stay, yet much obliged to remain where he laid.

He came down the stairs, rubbing his eyes still. Dante’s voice was muffled until he was in the same room, Dante speaking through the phone to his son.

“Hey, your old man’s here.” Vergil shook his head, having no interest to answer, yet Dante kept waving the phone in his face.

Taking the phone, Vergil heard his son take a breath.

“Hey, Vergil. Nice to see you back from Hell. Um, can’t imagine that was a fun time.” Nero said, unknowing of how to speak to his stranger of a father.

“Indeed.” Dante face-palmed, sitting with another one of his accursed magazines.

“Yeah, um. I have your book.”

“Hmm.” Nero sighed.

“Do you want it back? I’m coming over soon for business reasons.” A hint of desperation and embarrassment from Nero went over Vergil’s bedhead.

“That would suffice…”

“Alright-”

“Thank you, Nero.” Vergil blurted, seeing Dante mouth the words “say thank you.”

Nero stopped for a minute, a few moments of silence on Vergil’s side.

“No problem...Vergil. I got to go. Take care, alright?” Vergil hmmed as a response. The line went dead.

Dante’s grin immensely irritated Vergil, a man who was incapable of second-hand embarrassment.

“Stop that. Wipe that expression off your face. You wanted a conversation with me and Nero, there you have it.”

Dante propped his face up with his hand, a cat that ate the canary.

“Nah.”

Vergil growled in annoyance.

Unfortunately for Dante, and luckily for Vergil, bills had to be paid and jobs to be done. Morrison had arrived a few days later, pleased to see an old friend returned from the underworld. Walking in, he was barely surprised that the shop had returned to a pig-sty appearance.

“Morrison! Nice to see you again.” Dante welcomed, sitting at his desk. Vergil eyed the unfamiliar man, reading through a book.

“Got a new job for you boys. About time you got those girls off your backs about having your little vacation in Hell.” A familiar smell of cigar smoke traced the air, Dante leaning back on his chair, intrigued.

“So Morrison, what nasty demonic critters does this gig entail?” Dante asked, arms crossed.

“There’s a demon runnin’ around towns, causing a lot of trouble.” Morrison placed a photo down, blurred and poorly taken. Although, the grotesque purple skin and rippling eyes on its body didn’t leave much to admire.

“Huh,” Dante mumbled. Vergil examined the picture.

“I’ve never seen a demon like this before. Sure is ugly, though.” Dante noted, pointing at a flat and angular head, pallid yellow eyes that bulge out of its sockets on the sides, and needle-like teeth in multitudes.

“My sources say it’s been going North, the last town they passed was here. Just this morning. It’s making some distance, I’d get to it as soon as you can.” Morrison revealed a map, a red circle around a certain landmark.

“It’s scaring the shit out of people and causing some casualties to be contained.”

“Alright, we’ll take ‘em.” Dante stuck his hand out, expecting cash. Morrison tutted, patting Dante’s shoulder.

“You’ve been spoiled, Dante. Nah, you’re gonna bag this son of a bitch and then we can talk about payment.”

Dante groaned, taking the job. Morrison tipped his hat to Vergil. Vergil glared in return.

“It’s been nice catching up with you boys.” He called out, leaving the shop.

The door thudded as it shut, and the two were alone once more.

“Well, we just got our get-out-of-jail card. Come on, let’s get going.” Dante grunted.

“Must you complain about everything?” Vergil muttered.

Outside, it was late morning with a slight breeze. The familiar sounds of a motorcycle came to Vergil’s attention.

Dante had sat on Cavalier, expecting Vergil to get on.

“Must you rely on that garish thing?”

“It’s too bad you can’t fucking teleport somewhere you’ve never been. Get on the motorcycle.”

Dante patted the seat, Vergil obeying for once.

“Ready for your first job?”

“More than you are.”

They tore through the streets of Redgrave, going north.

The sun rose and started to fall, endless roads leading through towns and cities that paid them only a slight turn of their heads.

The map’s glaring red bullseye had become a dead-end of sorts, the two resorting to walking instead.

Redgrave had always felt muggy with the air of hell creatures around. Here, in this unmarked territory, it had felt clearer. But also more unsettling, the idea of a demon scuttling about more of an awful surprise.

They felt consumed by the empty streets, busted in windows, and vacated shops and residential places in their lonesome wandering.

Something before had wiped this location clean of humans, and now something else was lingering in its place.

“This area has been abandoned.” Vergil walked over giant cracks through the ground, leading to a deserted town.

“Not surprised,” Dante answered, thinking about a certain tree, “good thing we don’t have to deal with any more civilians.”

A buzz in his blood reminded Dante that something was certainly there. The alleys were a perfect spot for creatures to linger, waiting for prey.

As below, so above. A ringing through the air was quickly parried by steel. Dante’s sword stopped a shower of needles from stabbing him, a stray one cutting the side of his cheek. It jolted him as a creature bounded the rooftops of the buildings, a hulking mass of reptilian skin.

Vergil raced after the creature, having blocked all the assailant’s long-distance attacks. Claws dug through the tiles, running on all fours from rooftops to silently treading the paved roads.

It’s clearly after an objective.

Dante chased after the beast from the ground, firing shots at the agile demon. Vergil jumped buildings, gritting his teeth at the demon’s inherent ability to evade and attack back, dodging tail spikes.

The streets all lead to the town center, where a fountain long cleaved in two from giant roots, stood.

Dante and Vergil came across the demon, purple skin stretched over its pointed bones, facing a cloaked individual.

“Hey, pal-” Dante was shushed by Vergil, the two standing a distance away from the hunched-over beast, much taller than either of them when standing on its hind legs.

Neither of them had expected another person in this area, clearly an oddity in the shambles of civilization.

“Famulus. Servant of Raphael.” A rumbling growl echoed in the night in response.

“I’m obliged, filthy halfling.” It hissed, crouched over and leaning to leer to the monotonous voice.

“You will tell me where he is.”

“His brothers may have underestimated you, but my master has known of your presence. Sending his best, I, to exterminate you.”

The person said nothing, as all that was all that needed to be said.

“Looks like we found it’s been searching for,” Dante mentioned, alerting the attention of the formidable monster and unassuming humanoid.

Glazed-over eyes narrowed with bloodlust met the twins as they readied themselves for anything.

“I will bring Raphael the heads of Sparda, once I am done with you.”

The hooded stranger turned their head to the two. With their face void of any expression, the twins had no idea what to think of them.

A pulse went through the air, Dante and Vergil’s skin jolting at a sudden warm wave in the air. Milliseconds after, a rotating ring of golden energy rattled through the stones, passing through the spaces in the pavement that lead to Dante’s boots.

Vergil and Dante were thrown like ragdolls meters away by an unseen force, Dante hitting the ground twice and rolling to a stop as Vergil stuck a landing with the Yamato through the floor.

A golden sphere surrounded the bruise-colored demon and the humanoid, who cocked their head in a disinterested manner, glaring at the taller creature.

Dante touched the wall before them, warm and pulsing with life. Despite the magnitude, he noted how it didn’t seem to hurt him, only pushing back from his own applied pressure.

Vergil paid it no mind, conflict occurring right before their eyes.

Famulus lunged at the smaller person who dodged, hands grappling at a giant maw, throwing its body to the barrier.

Tail spikes unfurled and bristling, Famulus’ hackles rose.

On hind legs, the demon stood well-over the miscreant, who allowed the beast to come to them. No matter how fast Famulus struck, claws phased through the empty air where it expected pliant flesh. Even swipes of its giant tail between quick strikes and heavy blows had been easily dodged.

A rain shower of blade-like projectiles flew at them, their body dropping down to avoid several. Dozens stuck above where their head was, a near fatality.

A needle whistled as it was caught by a calloused hand, palm tightly wrapped around the quill aiming for their chest. Several had torn through their cloak, nearly pinning them to the ground. They let out a startled noise, moving themselves up.

Famulus ran at them, prepared to rip them apart while they were down. Surely a cowardly move than preferred, but a move nonetheless.

They whipped their head around, jaw gritted. The same clutched quill was thrown like a javelin straight into Famulus’ snout.

Pulsating pain and white-hot agony made the beast screech, purple flesh burnt and smoking.

They shook themselves free of any spikes, clad in ancient robes. Nothing a common human would wear now. Even a demon could tell something was off about this one creature in human skin.

This was no common miscreant come to place vengeance upon its master. Raphael had requested Famulus to obliterate this insect as if none of his lord’s underlings could defeat them.

You shall return them to their grave, Famulus. A low gravelly voice rang through the demon’s head, a present message. The snake-like eye in the middle of its forehead rolled back and returned when its master’s command became silent.

“Yes, I shall.”

The foe stiffened as if they had gotten the answer they had been looking for. Famulus knew that. And like the devil it was, it goaded their curiosity.

“You will never make it to my master’s domain. I will gnaw on your bones, putrid being.”

If only if Famulus knew that there was no goading a foe that was already plotting several paces ahead.

Lashing out, a meter-long arrow-like appendage was fired at them once more while the demon began to collect its true power from the air around it.

It missed the mark, sinking into the ground to have the intended target land upon the blunt end, balancing coyly. Several more jabbed at the barrier, sticking into the protective sphere as the cloaked being ducked and turned to avoid scythe-like claws and disemboweling long-distance attacks. Famulus struck a blow that surely meant death, supposedly cornering the prey, until they vanished in thin air. A hazy afterimage materialized and faded away, swiped into nothing.

Immediately, they appeared to the side of the demon, who just began to rear its head to perceive this teleportation.

Legs bent as they were parallel to the ground, they drop-kicked the reptilian brute, scaly skin rippling at the impact.

Famulus’s neck snapped the wrong way, letting out a moist creaking noise as the body stayed stubbornly rooted to the ground. Incapacitated, it could not stop the smaller fighter from leaping onto a begotten tail spike from the ceiling of the barrier, yanking it, and falling back down to its capitulum.

The hooked and jagged arrowhead bit through toughened flesh, securing them to the flat of its head, glowing hand pressing against the middle eye, the key to finding Raphael.

A once distinguished demon, Famulus lashed its head about like a common beast. The joints in its neck realigned, sickening crunches with each segment joined.

Pushing their energy into the convulsing eye, Famulus felt its connection to its lord become not of its own.

Paralyzed from the sensation of a pulling force, tugging away at flesh, and seeping their own life force into it, digging into its mind, Famulus’ muscles twitched and convulsed like an animal to be dissected.

Famulus snarled to itself.

The veins leading to the spike stuck in its head pulsed, conducting electricity straight to the open palm. A strained cry left their mouth as they relented their hold.

The final twist of its head thrashed them off to hit the ground.

Flashing images of a lair, of an iron throne, flashed through its mind.

Famulus had failed to hide his master’s location. And with that, its murderous intent grew.

Despite the finality of its fate, its tail swished with anger and boiling rage to either do the job or keel over in defeat.

The thief got up with little grace again.

Its many eyes had noticed the bloodstains within their cloaked form, old wounds from recent battles. There wasn’t much damage left for them to take.

No one could dodge the Mjölnir.

Dante felt the hairs on his arms stand at full attention. Brows crossed, the older Sparda swiped through bits of his hair that lilted up from their slicked-back position.

“Hey, do you feel that-”

A beam of dark lightning was emitted from Famulus’s tail, striking straight into the opponent’s chest, shards of pure energy slicing through the air with a symphony of cracks rattling the street. Several pebbles flitted off the earth, scorching hot.

The lightning was overpowering, the cries of the stricken muted, body curling to itself with arms stiffening at the chest.

Dante and Vergil both believed defeat was imminent, preparing to have to take out the demon themselves.

When the flashes of demonic power died down, Famulus had witnessed the impossible.

Even with the golden shroud having been faltered, the thunderstruck figure had not been smitten.

Famulus’s needle-tooth grin dropped at the turn of events, rearing back on all fours.

Black lightning danced off their skin, flickering yellow sparks onto the cobblestones.

“No one of that stature could be capable of such an atrocity, and still be human.” Vergil thought to himself.

Famulus was the strongest of the Pessulum litter, demons that nursed from the deadliest of storms to emerge the top of their species. The demon had killed bigger and stronger with less than it had exhibited today.

And now, this runt of a creature had stood against it with no fear, not even close to death? Taking its strongest attack with no problem?

A rush of fear chilled its electrified veins. Stories of the being, whispers amongst Raphael’s underlings, its master’s own grinding teeth at the news of his brothers and their sudden falling, proven true by the might of this mysterious being.

Famulus would live with no merit to his name, scorned by Raphael, seen as less by its inferiors.

“If that does not kill you then I will!” Famulus jumped, claws extended like scythes to slice flesh to ribbons.

Clumsily taking one step forward, tense arms fought back to form one hand pointing to the snout of the devil, the other to the skies.

The thunder was released from its subjugation, deafening annihilation.

A blinding beam of sheer gilden lightning shot right into the demon, many opaque eyes centering at the color of death. Through the other hand, thunderbolts went off like firecrackers into the atmosphere, exploding rapidly and chaotically.

“Holy shit,” Dante exclaimed, sparks dancing off the paved path and flittering in the air.

Vergil ground his heels to the ground, the frontward force of the explosion pushing against him.

The blow sank into purpled flesh, veins and nerves turned from putrid black to nearly white, keeping the demon trapped in the air, still positioned to pounce and disembowel. Famulus didn’t even make any noise, the renowned servant burned alive.

Seethingly hot, with the very air molecules shaking at the display, the twins watched skin and bone become ash and dust. Killed by one’s trump card.

Not even a fallen tail spike was left, the aftershocks settling the twice-over-cremated remains scattering to the wind.

The redirection of the lightning strike had taken a toll on the hooded figure, who straightened up shakily, face revealed for all to see.

A pair of eyes were two suns in the dead of night, a contrast to the light blue ones that perceived them.

Standing alone, centered by destroyed store windows and melted streetlights, they seemed impassive to their might. It was as if they weren’t just blasted with lightning, where their fabric was scorched the only evidence of the offense.

Dante and Vergil didn’t know what to do, not knowing if this person would attack them as well.

They stayed where they were, the moon right above their head, shining around their crown of messy hair.

“Be not afraid.”

Voice hoarse, their mouth moved differently than to the words they just called out.

Before the twins could think of anything to say, the figure beyond them collapsed.

Vergil was silent, still processing all of this. Who was this person? What were they looking for? Who was Raphael?

Dante rushed forward, heavy footsteps raising ashes from their resting place.

Vergil followed, the Yamato ready to be unleashed at any hesitation.

Dante turned them over, noting the strange force surrounding them had remained. As if someone larger was there.

A human face from under the worn, textile cloak greeted them, exhausted and at peace with unconsciousness.

Two lines dripped down their face from their nose. Bleeding crimson, a human above all. In-and-out, slow breaths moved their chest just enough to know they were alive.

“A half-demon?” Vergil questioned himself.

“If they killed the demon, do we have to split the cash with them?” Dante blurted. Vergil raised an eyebrow at the inquiry.

Before he could retort, Dante had lifted them, their stature dwarfed in strong arms.

“Let’s ask them when they wake up.”

“Dante, you are not bringing that thing back.”

“You’re right. I’m not. You are. Open a portal.” He said with a shit-eating grin.

Vergil reluctantly did so, the Yamato ripping open the fabric of space. He would regret this, he was sure of it.

#dante and vergil finally arrive #vergil x reader #dante x reader #devil may cry #vergil sparda #dante sparda #nero sparda #lady devil may cry #dmc trish #devil may cry series #series #AWAS

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arrivisting · 3 years

Note

I’d love author commentary on basically the whole scene at Ekkaia in all my war is done (or any individual part of that scene, if your prefer). Taken together, it’s one of the most beautiful and emotionally complex and heartrending things you’ve written, from the description of the sea itself, to the difficulties of Fingon and Alqualondë, to Gil and the ocean and his ‘mother’, to Fingon and Gil beginning to tackle the thorny subect of Maedhros.

I should admit something about all my war is done: it's the most fugue-like my writing has ever been. I jotted down a few notes on my commute into work - I was deeply underwater with my PhD at the time, three months away from submitting - and then the idea of writing a sequel to scion seized me so profoundly that I sat down in the Starbucks where my bus stops, took out my laptop, and wrote instead of just collecting my coffee and walking down to my office. I wrote 15k. In one day. In about five or six hours. I've never achieved anything like that before or since - I do have good days where I can knock 2-4k out easily, but not 15k. (You might note that the posted part of all my war is done is only 12k, but I wrote all the way up into the next bit with Fingon in Tirion that you've read, up until Turgon at the dinner table). I didn't sit down or plan events; I didn't actually know much about what would happen: but I knew they were going to Ekkaia and they'd have some kind of resolution there. These are my phone-notes, from that morning:

You can see, I think, something of the way an idea hits me. I note down a few snatches of plot, not necessarily in any order, some lines I think people should say at some point, although I might not use them, sketch out some things (Formenos's ruins were going to feature more heavily, but they're waiting for a later story).

(It makes me laugh, the words my phone doesn't accept - Gil-galad, for one - and the ones it automatically capitalises from where I've yelled enthusiastically about elf things at people. I never stop long enough to correct spelling etc when I'm trying to get something down).

I clearly knew from inception that I wanted Fingon's place to be called the hill of waiting, and had tried out the name in Sindarin; because my verbs are not good, I came up with Amon Dartha. It was when I was redrafting that I realised Amon Darthir had existed actually in Dor-lomin(!!!) and the name was even more perfect symbolically than I'd meant it to be! Did I know that, unconsciously? I don't know.

You can see, too, that the Sea of Ekkaia was almost the very first point to hit me, and that I knew it and the scene there would be important, and that I knew that the story was about Fingon finding a way to tell Gil-galad that he had been loved, and wanted, and that meant talking about Maedhros; and that at the end I wanted Gil-galad to be gently, impersonally, firmly clear that he would not, could not, be staying to wait with Fingon.

Okay, DVD commentary proper - I'm sorry, I remember awfully little about writing this, given the fugue state and my thesis and everything, so I'm not sure how useful this will be!

“Oh,” said Gil-galad when they broke out of the woods and began to ride down over the dune-lands to the rocky shore. “Oh!”

The Sea of Ekkaia was beautiful, in its own way, but that way that was like no other place in Arda, in either Aman or Middle Earth.

It was a dark-blue that was almost black, even in the late afternoon, and the shore was less sand than gravel, a strange inconsistent rubble of rock and broken sea-shells that had been dashed to pieces by the constant fury of the waves. Staring out to sea, one did not see the far-away horizon the way one did on the gentler coast of Belegaer: there was no gentle faraway blue haze through which one might, perhaps, on a clear day, imagine that Middle Earth could be glimpsed, or at least the Straight Path.

No: instead along the horizon there was a seam of silver light, and then a great blackness, where the Sea of Ekkaia met the Uttermost West that was not quite the Doors of Night, but was certainly the end of Aman itself. If you stood on the shore watching, the seam would ripple with a pulse of light, sometimes green and sometimes white.

It was so far from anywhere the Eldar of Valinor lived. While they clustered around the Belegaer like moths to flame, this shore seemed instead to repel them. Was it the sight of the world’s end itself? It might be; yet Fingon thought there was more to why this wilderness was so little visited, this howling black sea lashing itself against a grey shore. It was beautiful, but not in the way Elves liked things to be beautiful: it was too raw, too unfinished, too savage.

It was too close to where Mandos kept his Halls, which were not only a thing of spirit but also matter, at least in the way that things in Aman were both. Too close to where Nienna’s tower looked out into the Void and where she wept, and wept, and wept. It was too close to death and to rebirth, to judgment and to pity.

There's a little Dawn Treader, I think, in this idea of the uttermost West. I don't know why I thought the seam of the world should pulse with strange light, but it's an uncanny kind of geography, so near Mandos and Nienna, and I like the sense that this is the end of the world, but not the end of the universe.

A lot of this came together serendipitously. I knew some kind of memorialisation of the river that bore Gil-galad needed to be part of his story; that meant going to the sea; and it's clear from the notes that I had already decided that couldn't mean Alqualonde because of kinslaying reasons and memories. (And that that too would need to be confronted). Therefore: roadtrip to Ekkaia. Therefore, the question: what would Ekkaia be like? We don't really know anything about it - only the good qualities of Belegaer. This was really written by a process of inversion, a way of pulling what we know about Belegaer inside-out, and imagining a place at the world's edge, a place that was empty, a place that was uncannily close to difficult things, to Mandos and Nienna; a place that seemed to repel the Eldar as surely as Belegaer drew them like iron filings.

I was thinking visually about New Zealand, too. I spent my childhood summers on the beaches up north, mostly around Tūtūkākā, which are bright and lovely, with golden or white or tawny sand, with gnarled pohutukawa and blue-green water. Like this:

That's what beach and sea meant to me, and it was a shock the first time I went to one of the black sand beaches where the wind howled and the colours weren't blue, green, gold, but iron, grey, navy, black. I loved it, but it felt so other, so passionate, so strange. That shock and that wild beauty and desolation were things I wanted to get at, though Ekkaia would be far more wild and desolate still.

They left the horses in the thin sea-grass, and their shoes, too, and walked down to the water. “I missed it,” Gil-galad said, and closed his eyes, breathing in the brine. “I missed it badly, all the long years besieging Mordor before I died.”

I think Gil-galad would be very marked by his upbringing first in the Falas and then on Balar; you don't lose that, if you grew up by the sea.

The wind took up his long dark hair and made a banner of it as they walked along the rough crescent of rocky ground where the waves met the shore, and around their bare ankles small stones tumbled back and forth in the lace-edge of the water.

When I was young I used to stand in the water and let the waves bury me up to my ankles, watching the water move in, out, spreading skirts of lace overlapping as new waves came in. I could do it for hours. There's something very liminal about the water's edge, between the solid land and the sea, which is why I put this conversation in it, I think. They're in a liminal space and at a liminal moment. It's the scene the whole story has been inexorably building toward, the point where all Fingon's painful scraping-away of his barriers finally reaches his skin.

“Sometimes in Middle Earth it became very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said, his eyes still closed, “in the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.” He opened his eyes and looked towards the Uttermost West where the world ended. “And here it is impossible not to. Look at it!"

This is a little more hopeful than the original version, which I don't have anymore, but went pretty much:

"Sometimes in Middle Earth it was very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said. "In the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.”

It was a comment more about Gil-galad's rueful scepticism than wonder - because he fought the Dagorlad before he died, because he spent the last ten years of his life in mud and blood and filth and horror. I work on the First World War - its literary legacy and traces in the decades after, more than its immediate experience or actuality, because there was a ten-year period after 1918 where it was more latent than overt, a traumatic lacuna of silence, a Nachträglichkeit- and I thought in the blood, and the mud, and the filth was a little too on the nose.

I kept it, though, because Tolkien was drawing on his own memories of the trenches with the Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes, with those blurred lines of solid land and mud/bog, the living mixed up with the remains of with the dead, all the themes you see again and again in the war poetry and the officer war-books. (Santanu Das is very good on this, as is Eric Leed). Paul Fussell is a bit old-hat now, but his argument that WWI altered the sensibility of its survivors because of their close, consanguinous co-existence with the dead is something I still find valuable. I think there's a lot of WWI survivor in the way I think of Gil-galad, actually, I'm just realising - not that he survived the Last Alliance. He's detached in a different way from Fingon. Fingon's built himself a thick layer of repression/denial, a kind of callous to protect himself from confronting or thinking about what Maedhros did, and what that means for him and to him; Gil-galad is entirely present, but somewhat detached in some ways, the way people who came back from war could be. Not that Fingon and Finrod aren't also separated from the Amanyar by their time in Beleriand and experience of war and death, but Gil-galad lived there for millennia, and he fought a longer, harder, more total kind of war than they did.

But he's at the Sea of Ekkaia, as west as you can get. So much of Tolkien is about that endless longing glance west, that movement: why is this very westernmost edge so under-explored?

I wanted Gil-galad to be softened by this encounter with the sea, so I went back and let his wonder be as much at the spectacle itself as the sea, like the greater hand at work he had sometimes doubted being visible was something wonderful rather than something to be bitter about. I wanted to position him to be potentially open to, perhaps, the Valar; perhaps, to Fingon. I hope he doesn't come off as closed-minded: I think of him as having a fair mind, and good judgment, but - despite placing him here between the sea and the shore - very clear personal lines between what he thinks is just, and what is not. Certainly, it helps a lot, never having known the Feanorians when they had not fallen.

The seam of the universe pulsed with light, and beyond it was – what?

Unutterable nothingness, something worse than death.

Perhaps Maedhros.

This is an important line for Fingon. He hasn't though the name of his own accord for much of the story, flinching away from it; it's only come in when Finrod and then Gil-galad speak the name. This is the first time he's thought it clearly of his own free will, and this is I think the first signal that he's brought Gil-galad here to be as honest and earnest with him as he can be, however much it hurts, or however much it might drive him away. Because if he isn't, and doesn't, Gil-galad will be driven away anyway, and Fingon wants to be connected with him, the first time he's wanted that kind of bond with anyone since he returned.

(I think of Finrod as someone who just kept turning up, regularly, and forcing Fingon to associate with him; and then bringing Amarie; and then his children; and not taking no for an answer. It bothers Turgon rather terribly that they seem to be friends now, when they were never that close Before: that Fingon pushes him away, but allows Finrod to keep pushing; that Finrod does push. He doesn't know about Gil-galad, of course).

He's brought Gil-galad here to show him if possible that he was wanted, to conjure up lost Ringwil where she might be felt if not found; and to do the same for Maedhros. This is a signal that this journey to the sea is as much about Gil-galad's missing father as his missing mother.

The almost-forgotten tang of salt in the air always mingled with the smell of blood in Fingon’s worst memories, and he was not the only one who remembered. The waves were gentle around Gil-galad’s feet, but they boiled furiously around Fingon’s, delivering small spiteful slaps at his calves.

Spiteful was probably the wrong word here. I don't necessarily mean a dramatic boiling or bubbling; but the water is harsh where it touches him, the kind of slapping roughness you get when the tide is coming in rough.

It took Gil-galad longer to mark the difference, engrossed in the joy of the sea and spectacle as he was, and when he did, his face changed. There was something terribly sad in his eyes when he lifted them from the water to look at Fingon.

It wasn’t why he had brought Gil-galad here; but Fingon didn’t want to imagine the look he would receive if he brushed aside the silent question. “No,” he said. “I am not forgiven.”

“So I see.”

They could probably leave it there.

But Fingon won't, because he's trying. He's really trying to connect after all the time flinching away from it, and he's remembering what Gil-galad said about talking, and what Finrod said about mistakes and silences in their first life.

He said, “You said you loathed the thought of being the son of – a murderer. But my own hands have not been clean since Alqualondë, and death didn’t unstain them. All the time you thought I might be your father, you must have known I was a Kinslayer, too.”

I tried to signal this in their earlier tower conversation with Finrod, and Gil-galad's changing of the topic, but I feel like it's a little abrupt here.

“Yes,” Gil-galad said, and his expression didn’t change. “And when the knights that had served you came to me, they told me that you killed that day in ignorance, that you came upon a battle already being fought; that you took up your sword to save those you loved and didn’t question whether it was just. I heard that from others, too, those who had less reason to bend facts to a flattering pattern; survivors of Gondolin and of Nargothrond. I did ask."

“Ignorance wasn’t an excuse. I died ashamed of it, and I live again with the shame.”

"Good!” said Gil-galad, and there was no forgiveness in his voice, even when Fingon jerked his head up in shock. Instead there was the stern ring of a king used to weighing the ideals of justice against the world as it was, the king who had walked arm in arm with Eonwë the Maia, led his people through many full-fledged wars, and held court and meted justice to them for an Age. “That gives me a far better opinion of you than any of the stories did! I’m glad.”

I remember talking to you about this in the comments, about what it meant that Gil-galad wasn't forgiving him. I think I really meant condone, but I also don't think it's Gil-galad's place to absolve Fingon - he wasn't the one wronged! - and that it's important to me that, because Fingon does truly regret it, he doesn't wish to be absolved, to slide away from it. I don't mean he ought to wallow in it or flog himself with it daily, but I think it would be important to him to shoulder and own that guilt rather than ever allowing himself to put it behind him or have someone else tell him it’s quite all right.

I think this is a moment where I show that they're quite similar, too, because even if Fingon wasn't aware that a bracing, clear assessment was just what he wanted, it was what he needed, rather than people being kind (which he's had a lot of, since he returned; and which hasn't touched that central guilt he's hidden from them, that he loved Maedhros, who had done such terrible things. It's prevented him from accepting kindness made him block people reaching out to him. Gil-galad is not being kind, but just, and still reaching out).

It felt like Fingon had been struggling to take a full lungful of air for a long time, and now something constricting in his chest had loosened, as it hadn’t even after the Valar themselves had judged him. It was only now that he realised that he hadn’t wanted Gil-galad to forgive or absolve him. He had wanted – needed – Gil-galad to be better than him, to withhold forgiveness when it was unmerited; and Gil-galad had. He had become the shining legacy they had all hoped he would be, the thing they had all somehow done right.

The water slapped at his ankles again, in impatient reminder.

This is too brief a transition. I should have fleshed the join out more.

“I think Ulmo would come to you here, if you called. You were a king by the sea in Middle Earth, and you may not remember it, but it was a river who gave you life.”

Gil-galad looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “What?”

“I brought you here for a reason,” Fingon said. “Where did they go, the drowned and poisoned rivers of Beleriand? I don’t know; but Ulmo might.”

I've really personified the rivers, but I think it's a clear and easy extrapolation from the Withywindle and the River-daughter in The Fellowship of the Ring that I don't need to justify in order to argue that every river might have had its own attendant Maia-spirit. It does make what happened to the Rivers of Beleriand much worse, though, and I wanted to look at the way a character that was a throwaway mechanism in scion ended up being sickened and dying as horribly as Beleriand did; this story was really about following all those lighter bits in scion home, to the end of the line, and looking at the long-term impacts of something that began more lightly. In this verse, Ringwil was a river, but also a person; and I think of her and Finrod as sharing a strange human-river friendship and overlapping enthusiasms.

He clapped Gil-galad on the shoulder, hoping it said all the things he meant it to say. Affection had been so easy for him once, in the life that had been taken from him by the fiery flails of the Balrogs, but now it came hard, and the sea-smell was in his nose, the terrible memories too close to the surface.

He had surely outstayed Ulmo’s tolerance by now. Fingon left Gil-galad there in the water, and didn’t dare glance back until there was thin sandy soil under his feet again.

Only then did he look once more towards the sea.

Gil-galad was standing in the shallows. His broad shoulders were bunched tight, as if he was readying himself for something very difficult, a confrontation with one of the Valar he had long doubted.

Then he spread his arms out, empty-handed, and tipped his head back, and the light on the horizon grew unbearably bright, whiter than white, more silver than silver; and a face began to move upon the water.

I really like this, honestly. Which I can't/don't say often! The temptation to overwrite this was strong, to show this encounter, to describe the Vala: but I think it's often stronger not to show something numinous, to pull away, to let the mind fill it in.

Again, this is Gil-galad as I imagine him: still somewhat distanced from the Valar by the Dagorlad and the things that happened there (and I think perhaps doubly unhappy in that he lived through the end of an Age once before, and that time, at least, the Valar came: they did not come in the Second, nor send so much as a messenger, and such obscenities as the fall of Ost-in-Edhil and the drowning of Numenor had been allowed to happen, and Men and Elves were left alone to come together and break Sauron's grip). Doubting, but not angry; doubting, but still curious. Open to listening.

a face began to move upon the water is of course a deliberate sideways reference to

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

It took a very long time. Fingon could not watch; his eyes dazzled.

Can you tell I was teaching The Duchess of Malfi at this time? Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. That sense of a light too bright and white to look upon; that sense of guilt; that faint reference to life lost untimely. This wasn't meant to be a direct intertextual reference, but that net of meaning was there, lightly. Again, I wanted to under-write rather than over-write. I know I have a tendency to over-write.

And of course - there's a sense here that Fingon is refusing the kind of close enoucnter with Ulmo he could/might have. There's water in his eyes. From the wind?

“Thank you,” Gil-galad said when he rejoined him at last. His eyes were glowing, and he whistled Ceredir to him from where he was tearing ropey roots of sea-grass from the dunes with great relish. “Thank you for bringing me here;” and he didn’t say it the way he’d thanked Fingon for the horse, or the armour, or the sword, or even the lance.

Because this is a real gift, something that means something to both of them, something more honest/painful. Fingon's been trying to connect through gifts but not serious conversation or sharing, like some estranged parents do, throwing money at the problem rather than giving of their time or their selves, and however well-meant, it hasn't worked.

“I didn’t truly do anything."

“You brought me to the Sea. I know – I could see – how difficult it was for you."

"Well,” Fingon said lamely. He cleared his throat. “What did Lord Ulmo say about – oh, I can’t call her your dam! – the Maia who bore you? Did she – was she there?”

The dam pun is Finrod's. Don't blame me.

A little of the light dimmed, but it didn’t quite fade away. “No, she’s gone. Back to the Timeless Halls, he says; but one with him again, Ulmo, at the same time.” Gil-galad made a noise. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it, all the metaphysical nonsense of the Ainur! But he was kind to me, and he told me something of her – that she delighted in the making of me.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I left the flowers we gathered earlier in the waves for her and the sea didn’t dash them back onto the shore. I’m sure Ulmo broke a few laws of Arda there.”

I like this image of the flowers suspended in the water. I had it clearly in mind from before I began to write.

"You were wanted.”

“I’m beginning to believe it,” Gil-galad said.

“You should,” Fingon said. He took a breath. Talking is how you sort things out; and a long time ago, Fingon had been known for his valour. Gil-galad deserved to know how much he had been wanted, who had called himself a political compromise given birth. The truth of that had stung.

And it was less than the truth. Fingon could still remember the first time he had opened his mind to Maedhros over the leagues between them and let him see Gil’s small face through his own eyes, holding nothing back. He had shown Maedhros the dark long lashes and the squashed baby nose, the milk-blister on the bow of Gil’s upper lip, the way his whole head turned an alarming red when he wailed; shared with Maedhros Gil’s fondness for being tossed in the air, his splashing joy in his bath.

This is is me trying to describe a baby without being too sentimental about it, because Fingon wasn't all, oh look at the toesie-woesies, or my son, my son: his eye was more detached, and you see him in scion thinking of Gil-galad as it.

I've been thinking about why Fingon in no way allowed himself to consciously dote on the baby, why that streak of denial that's so strong in his second life was there in his first light, and really: it would have been dangerous to let himself love him, to see Gil as his son and Maedhros's. He was born at a time of terrible loss, after the Flame, when they all expected they could die themselves. He was moved around Beleriand like a game-piece. Fingon was always going to lose him: he wasn't going to get to raise him, after all, until and unless Morgoth was defeated. Maedhros wasn't going to meet him, until and unless &c. It was easier not to let oneself get attached than it was to confront those hard facts and let oneself be hurt by them. Easier to think of him as a baby Finwean prince, and that only: a political pawn, not a son.

Conversely, Maedhros maintains a physical distance, but not an emotional one. Here's a bit from Maedhros's perspective:

Finrod had told him that. They had written, back and forth, in the long months as Ringwil’s belly swelled, as the child formed, as it began to move and stretch and turn frog-like inside her. They had corresponded constantly during the first months of the child’s life in Nargothrond, and during the first months of his life, Finrod had sent long scrolls detailing every change in Artanaro’s weight, his length, his hair colour, his eye colour, how much milk he’d consumed each day: screeds winging forth to Himring until the child was old enough to survive the secret trip north.

Fingon’s letters had been infuriatingly spare of useful information while the child was fostered at Barad Eithel. Beloved, ineloquent Fingon: Fingon, who had nevertheless shown him the child as no reams of paper could.

Fingon had given him forever the rounded bloom of his full cheeks, and the pursed mouth, sullen in sleep: the feathery, rather cross-looking eyebrows, and the small hands with their deep dimples and smaller fingernails, curled into the edge of Fingon’s furred mantle.

Maedhros had felt the way Fingon hovered between wonder and confusion at what they’d wrought: the way he couldn’t quite manage to think of the child as his own, this thing spun out of air and calculation and freshwater into heavy, solid life. He could have loved him so desperately, Maedhros knew that. He was halfway there, hovering in terror on the edge, afraid of falling. If the baby had stayed in Barad Eithel longer; if Fingon had watched him begin to creep around on fat little knees, to pull himself up on the furniture and to take his first steps – to hear the baby babble turn into words and speech – his heart would have opened to him like a flower, and the child would have become the centre of his universe, the sun in his sky.

Fingon had never known what to do with Idril as an infant, either, but he’d easily become an adored uncle as she grew up. If they’d had more time – if the child had been permitted to stay with Fingon even a month longer before being sent for safety to Cirdan –

Well, they’d never had enough time.

There had been few walls between them then, so he had felt Maedhros’s bright joy, the painful love, in its moment of birth: swelling and swelling like a cloud with rain, as though his heart was growing and his blood was leaking out of him at the same time, transmuting into pure tenderness and iron purpose.

I like this because I think of the Ekkaia scene as a cloudburst, full of emotion that has been swelling and swelling and now released. This is one bit of the breaking-through.

He had never needed to ask whether Maedhros considered Gil-galad a son.

“I don’t want to talk about – him,” Fingon said with difficulty, and the salt breeze stung his face, his eyes. “I know you loathe him, and rightly; and I do, too. I do hate him; or I hate what he did. I do! But you should know – you deserve to – that he wanted you, badly, although he never met you; he never wanted the shadow on him to touch you or to taint you.

And this. You can see here where I spun off into cliffs of fall, which isn't a scion story, but sprung out of this speech. It was already there in those sketchy notes, too, a lot of what Fingon's saying here: this important line about hating Maedhros, or what he did (that movement from clear certainty to trying to separate the deeds from the loved one; to urgent reptition - I do! I mean it, I really do! - which means he doesn't, can't: this is the heart of Fingon's guilt, because he wants to hate Maedhros utterly, but he can't, and he is profoundly in denial about that).

“He always wanted children; I took that from him even before the Oath did, but I gave it back to him with you. I loved you first of all for that, but he loved you for yourself. Because you existed, against all hope and possibility and fate and chance; and because you were ours.”

Gil-galad said nothing. There was still a wildflower tucked behind his ear, but the brilliance had quite left his eyes.

“Well,” Fingon said at last. “I needed to tell you that. You should know that you were never – not only – you were wanted very much."

Beloved ineloquent Fingon, &c.

They were some miles from the beach when Gil-galad said, “‘Ours’?”

“Yes."

I was trying to let the gaps and breaks talk for me in the text. Under-writing.

The beginning was full of these little breaks, too, because they didn't yet know how to talk to each other; now at the end, that connection, and their conversations, are breaking down again. It's echoing that ride together at the beginning very strongly, but now it's not Gil-galad trying to become acquainted and Fingon giving light, unsatisfying answers. These are the real questions/answers at last, and the whole story has really been about getting to the point of Fingon and Gil-galad in Aman where they actually could have the kind of conversation Gil-galad was trying to have at the start.

Some miles further, Fingon said, “Did you ever meet him in Beleriand? After I died. I always wondered.”

“No,” Gil-galad said.

It didn’t seem like he was going to speak again, and Fingon had begun to assimilate that knowledge, that pain – that Maedhros had never seen him, had only ever known him through Fingon’s own eyes – when he added,

“But I saw what he did. Have you ever seen a whole city ruined, and known the ruiners to be Elves? It wasn’t even a city, poor Sirion! It was a refuge, a place for the desperate, as far to the West as they could get, as close to the safety of the Sea. They had so very little. No great stone palaces, no towers, no spires. Little enough fresh food. They were able to grow so little, and they lived on fish, and sea-weed, and what brave hunting parties would bring back; and hope. They lived on hope, and they thought Elwing wore it around her throat, but the Valar didn’t come for them: Maedhros Fëanorion and his brothers did instead, and they burned and killed and ravaged. I’d say they salted the earth, but it was salt already. To fall on any innocent Elven city would be a horror: on poor Sirion it was the greatest cruelty I ever saw, and entirely pointless."

They said nothing more.

I like this, too, actually. You see a little here of why Gil-galad might be healthily sceptical of the Valar - they didn't come for them: Maedhros Feanorion and his brothers did instead - and that very post-war experience of seeing a descrated, destroyed town. Worse when you had seen it when it was whole, when you knew the dead and fled.

Sirion is, I think, the worst thing the Feanorions did. I find it worse than even Doriath or Alqualonde (though they're all awful!). These were desperate survivors, huddled together at the edge of the sea for protection. So many of their leaders had been killed or lost. Idril and Tuor had disappeared; Earendil was away; Maedhros and the others struck while only Elwing was there, and she was so young, and so alone, and so damaged already by what they'd done in Doriath. And now they’d come again. There's something about the revictimisation that gets me. It's awful.

I wanted it to be weight and counter-weight - that soft, painful, remembered moment of Maedhros seeing baby Gil-galad through Fingon's eyes, something Fingon has clearly not deliberately thought about since he was reborn, but dredges up now for Gil-galad, because he should know: and which is echoed in the beginning by Fingon's question to Finrod. But Maedhros is still the person who did the things he did, and I wanted to set that soft moment of truth against his deeds at Sirion, another truth, to point out clearly why Gil-galad would recoil so hard from this offering, this honesty Fingon wants to be able to give him. This is the dichotomy at the heart of the story: reconciling Maedhros and how one felt for him with what he did, and how one feels about that. It is irresolvable, at least for Fingon, at least at the moment I've ended it at for now.

I don't know if this is quite what you wanted, @warrioreowynofrohan, especially because like I said, I wrote this story in a frantic fog, but I hope this in some way suffices!

#not!fic

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cordonian-literature · 3 years

Text

Forever Mine

chapter seven

❦ summary — The time for Princess Riley to step into her role as queen fast approaches and finding the future king is Cordonia’s top priority. Commander Liam is aware of that, and has plans to make sure the princess ends up with someone suitable.

➺ chapter warnings: implied smut, manipulation, mild language, violence, character death

❦ catch up here!

➺ word count: (+/-) 1960

*all characters belong to Pixelberry, except those unique to my story*

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The soreness on Riley's hips and wrists along with the ache and emptiness between her legs paired with Maria, her handmaid, still calling to her from the other side of the door, served to fuel her panic and drive her near tears.

After quickly redressing himself, Liam gently pulls Riley's gown back over her, patting her hair down and wiping tears from her cheek.

"What are we supposed to do about," Riley begins to ask, but pauses when Liam squeezes her wrist.

"Stay quiet. I will do the talking," he commands, and Riley is too frightened to do anything but obey.

As he walks them over to the door, Riley feels a warm liquid traveling down her inner thigh. She looks again towards Liam, wanting some sort of assurance that they weren't going to get into trouble with her father, but he doesn't spare her a glance.

"Princess?" The royal secretary, Jean, calls out. "Your father requests your presence! I still must go and collect the Commander as well. Please, do not make this difficult for me."

Liam opens the door in one swift motion. "No need to go collect me, Jean," the Commander says to the royal secretary. "I was with the princess taking a complaint about one of the nobles." He taps her lower back, which Riley takes as a cue to nod.

"Ah... I see," says Jean, taking a moment to stare at Riley's fallen tears. "Well, then, let me lead you to His Majesty's office."

As Maria walks away, Riley and Liam follow closely behind Jean, the dark hallway illuminated by small streaks of light from the windows.

"Why do you think my father is calling us over so late?" Riley asks Liam, hoping for some gentle conversation. She was still trying to wrap her mind around what had occurred between them in the library. The pain in her inner thighs increased with every step she took.

Instead of answering her, Liam pulls out his phone, illuminating his shadowed face for a few seconds before he puts the phone back in his pocket.

Riley asks her question again, and when he turns to look at her, she looks away. His gaze brought a sense of shame in her, even though at that moment she wanted nothing more than his comforting arms around her.

"I'm not too sure," he says plainly, and they continue their walk in the dark.

When they reach the King's office, Constantine sits at his desk with Leo across from him. The old man motions for both Riley and the Commander to sit, then dismisses Jean.

As the man leaves the office, he tries to read the Commander's expression from the corner of his eye.

Was Liam proud of himself, Jean wonders? Being with the Princess alone so late at night was not only dangerous for her but was guaranteed to cause rumors to go around. He was thankful that it was only him and Maria that had heard what was happening inside. For the princess' sake, Jean told himself that he wouldn't tell anyone what he had witnessed.

"I called you all in here to tell you," Constantine begins, "that the end of the season will be Riley's coronation."

Leo and Riley shift forward in their seats, surprised at their father's words.

"There's no reason for you to be surprised, Riley," the King says. "You knew of this before the season began."

"True, but," she stutters. "It... it was never finalized."

"It has been now," the man says. He opens his mouth to say something more, but Riley interrupts him before he can.

"But why? You told me that I would have months after the season to prepare for the wedding and for my role as queen. Why didn't you—"

"Your father has cancer, Riley," Liam interrupts her.

She turns her head to him in shock. "How long have you known?" the princess asks, a feeling of betrayal filling her eyes with tears.

"There's no way you've been telling your Commander these personal issues before your own children," Leo speaks out.

Constantine raises his voice to answer, "Trust me when I tell you that I wished to tell you sooner, but I truly couldn't."

"Bullshit," Leo states, falling back into his seat.

The room falls into stiff silence. Riley stares down at her hands, anxiety and confusion filling her chest. Leo couldn't shake the anger out of his head; how was Liam a more important person to tell compared to Leo and Riley?

Meanwhile, Constantine and Liam give each other a meaningful look, and the King instructs the Princess that she should get some rest before the morning. He tells Leo to stay in the room for a moment longer.

Liam offers his hand to Riley, and as she stands she sees Leo giving her a meaningful stare from the corner of his eye, but she can't guess what his unspoken words mean. The Commander and Princess walk out of the room arm in arm.

As the door to the King's office closes, Liam's elbow falls away from Riley's, leaving her to reach for him, but she takes a step back before her fingers graze his sleeve.

Riley notices someone else is in the hallway, but cannot recognize them. Liam greets the person with a nod.

"Is it still the same person from your message, Commander?" the soldier asks.

"The same three, Zacharias," he states.

"Of course, sir, my apologies."

Three? Three what? Riley wonders. She had complained to him about Michael, so it would make sense that he would call someone else to do the job for him. But who were the other two he was talking about? Could it be unfinished business?

She takes another step closer to him but stops when the soldier's eyes land on her.

Without another word, the Commander and his soldier walk away from each other, and Liam locks his arm with Riley's again to bring her to her room.

He kisses her hand when he leaves her outside her door, and when she's about to sit on her bed and is unexpectedly met with Maria, Riley jumps away.

"My apologies, Princess," the old woman says. "I just wanted to make sure that you made it back to your room safely."

"You don't have to worry about me, Maria. I'm not a small child anymore," Riley claims.

"I know, but," the woman pauses. "I do not think you should be spending so much time alone with Commander Liam."

"Why? Do you have something against him?"

Maria hesitates before answering. "I just think it's improper."

Riley doesn't respond to her statement. "I'm tired," she says instead. "Good night, Maria."

"Sleep well, child," the woman states, watching Riley roll into bed, then leaving the room.

As she walks the halls towards the servant's quarters, Maria feels a brooding presence behind her. She turns to look, suspecting that someone was following her, but the space behind her was empty; everyone had gone to sleep hours ago.

She continues walking through the palace, purposefully avoiding her room, until she circles back to Riley's chamber. Still, she feels something behind her, until Maria builds up the courage to ask, "Who's there?"

She waits for a response, staring at the dark space she had just come from. Maria stands still until the presence becomes dull, until the clouds outside cover the moon, and the small amount of light she had disappears, and she is left in the dark with an unknown stranger.

...

Even though the king had dismissed Jean, he had other duties to finish before his night came to a close. He made his way quickly to his small office and sighed as he sat down.

Jean grabs papers from the files he still has to work on, telling himself that he'll be fine sleeping on the couch in the corner of the office, but his thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Who's there?" he calls out, heart thundering, mind racing through the possibilities.

"It's just me, Jean," Zoe Zacharias laughs as they respond.

"Hey, Zoe!" Jean reacts to the pleasant visit. Though he and Zoe were not friends, they had been working closely since Liam became Commander. "Did the Commander dismiss you for the night, too?"

"Yeah, but I'm not too tired," they state, eyeing the pile of documents on the corner of Jean's desk.

Jean follows their gaze towards the pile. "Heh, must be nice being let out early. I can't go to sleep right now even if I wanted to."

Zoe responds with a light laugh. "How about we go get some drinks?"

"I can't," Jean states, motioning towards his pile.

"Afterwards I'll help you with your forms," they state, holding out a hand to lead him out of the room.

They walk quietly into the palace kitchen, which only has a few dim lights on, letting the two of them see around the room. Zoe walks towards a cabinet and grabs two bottles of wine, while Jean survey's their surroundings, worried that someone might catch them.

"You don't have to worry about someone finding us," Zoe states after they grab the bottles. "The Commander lets me get a drink whenever I want."

They start to make their way back to Jean's office, but Zoe stops and walks onto a balcony and Jean follows close behind.

The two of them listen to the melody of the night, the soft whisper of the wind, the gentle hum of life that had yet to sleep. When the bottles are open and they both take a swing, Jean wonders whether he should confide in Zoe about what he knew happened between the Princess and the Commander.

Zoe worked closely with Liam, even if she knew this information, she wouldn't blabber it on to other workers in the palace, would they?

But when Jean turns to look at Zoe, their eyes already stare daggers into him. Jean's body gives a jolt, and he almost chokes on his wine.

"You look like you have something to say," Zoe states.

"No. No, nothing," Jean claims.

Zoe raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

Jean gulps and nods his head. He considers running back inside to the comfort of his office couch, but Zoe's gaze makes him too afraid to move.

"Is it something about the Commander?" Zoe guesses, causing Jean's body to go cold.

Noticing the reaction, Zoe throws their head back and laughs. They take a swing from their bottle and wipe the corner of their mouth.

"You can tell me, Jean," they say. "I've got plenty of embarrassing stories about Liam. Some that he'd kill me for if he knew that I'd told anyone." Zoe gives him a wide smile. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Oh, thank God!" Jean breathes a sigh of relief. "I thought you were going to tell the Commander and he would... would execute me or something!" The words fall out of Jean's mouth before he knew what he was saying. "I mean I didn't mean to walk in on him and the Princess, and even though I didn't see anything, I still think that it is beyond improper... I mean imagine if the king found out!"

"Exactly," Zoe states as Jean gives out a nervous laugh, staring out into the now moonless night. "Imagine if the king found out."

As Jean kept laughing, the clouds covered more and more of the night sky, leaving him and Zoe unable to see anything in front of them; the light from inside the palace wasn't even sufficient enough. And as the world around Jean becomes darker and darker, his vision turns black, and he is left feeling nothing but an increasing pain in the back of his head.

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a/n: i know this was short but i hope you all enjoyed this :))

@twinkleallnight @gkittylove99 @sweatyrysconnoisseur @kingliam2019 @queenrileyrose @royalromancer @princess-geek @mom2000aggie @claireloutoo @tessa-liam @21-wishes @yourmajesty09

#royal romance fanfic #trr fanfic #trr #trr liam x riley #trr liam x mc #trr liam #trr drake #trr olivia #evil liam #trr drake x mc #trr drake x riley #the royal romance fanfic #trr au fanfic #trr au #choices fanfic #trr choices fanfic

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