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cherryjuicegf · 3 years

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a little favour

Five things Jaskier asks from Geralt and one thing Geralt asks from Jaskier.

3.2k, fluff/mild angst (ao3)

Geralt feels a pair of eyes fixed on him and he tenses. The whetstone in his hand stops its metallic sound and he’s pretty sure the sword is sharpened by now, yet he can’t bring himself to leave it aside and raise his head. He inspects the blade, or pretends to do so. His always stable hands, obligingly fit for a witcher, are now slightly shaking. He chooses to ignore it. He clenches his fists, unclenches. Sweaty. The night is warm.

Slowly, he raises his look, meeting two blue eyes piercing him from across the fire. Jaskier has a pensive smirk on his lips that makes him look stupid but Geralt would be lying if he said he could take his stare away from it. The heat, he thinks. It’s the heat.

He squints. “What?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond immediately, yet he appreciates that he’s acknowledged with a small huff. His eyes continue to peer at Geralt, up and down, like the eyes of a werewolf ready to devour its prey. Softer, though. So softer. Geralt feels bare under his gaze, swallows. Finally, Jaskier speaks. “Tell me a story.”

He can’t be asking for a story, Geralt thinks. It’s not what he wants. Before he even manages to get angry at himself, he kicks the thought out of his mind. Of course it’s not what he wants. So he raises his eyebrows, a bit grudgingly, and tilts his head. “I thought you are the storyteller here.”

Jaskier laughs and he knows he can hear this sound forever. “You know what I mean,” he says and gestures wildly with his hand. “I need inspiration and where else will I find it if not in a story with monsters of the ones you oh-so-minutely narrate?”

A small smile curves Geralt’s lips and he chuckles lowly. He never shares details of the creatures he has to kill. Jaskier knows that, thus the cunning glint in his eyes. He shrugs. “You really want to sing to people about themselves?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier huffs a silent laugh and throws a pebble at the witcher’s feet. “You know what I mean.”

How can I not know, Geralt thinks, how can I not know the reason you’re still here? He scolds himself, then. A friend. His friend. Jaskier is his friend and he never fails to say how Geralt is a friend of his. Still, it makes him afraid, afraid that the more his love grows for that man, the more desperate he will be if he leaves. And he’s not one to get attached.

He indulges him though. With a small sigh and a look in his shining eyes, he does. Do it for me, they whisper. How can he not?

“Have I told you about that bruxa in Kaedwen?”

ii.

“Can’t you just not go?”

Jaskier fiddles with the edges of his shirt and looks up at Geralt. If he listens closely, he can hear his heart thumping against his chest. Already. Geralt hasn’t even left yet. He’d be more than grateful if he doesn’t ever, in fact. By the glare he receives from the witcher, he concludes that’s not going to happen. And his heart beats faster.

“But you said it yourself!” He stands up and approaches Geralt, who’s too focused on his armors buckles to look at him. “The hunt is nearly deadly!”

Geralt snorts impatiently and glances up at him, shaking his head. “It’s deadly for you. Which is why you’re staying here.” He finishes fixing his armor and grabs his gloves, his eyes now fixed on Jaskier. “For me, it’s just dangerous.”

The way he looks at him makes Jaskier shiver. Really, he’s never met anyone before who can be so cold and reassuring at the same time. Geralt’s stare is sharp and imposing, yet he can feel warmth inside his chest as he discerns the gentleness beneath, the one the witcher is so good at hiding. He doesn’t hide it from him, not anymore. That’s what he hopes anyway. As Geralt’s lips twitch in the faintest smile, he prays he’s not wrong. Still, the force of habit.

Eleven people have been killed by a thing whose name he finds himself unable to remember. The dread that suddenly overwhelms him makes his fingers go numb. They could be twelve. They can be twelve. Today. Before Geralt turns away, he shakes his head. “Geralt, please.”

Geralt frowns at him, tilts his head, his voice gruff. “Jaskier.”

Some silver strands fall in front of his eyes and Jaskier’s hand twitches in its place in an attempt to hold from brushing them away. Instead, Jaskier bites his lips and clenches his fists. A lump is choking him mercilessly. Afraid to let him go, afraid to look away from his eyes, afraid he’s not seeing them again. He takes a breath he doesn’t release. “Please come back whole.” Do it for me.

Geralt chuckles and Jaskier cherishes the sound like the most precious stone. The witcher nods before heading out the door. “That I will.”

With a last smile, he closes the door.

In the morning there are heavy steps on the stairs and Jaskier feels his heart returning to its place.

iii.

Geralt reaches the door and stops right before he goes in. For a second, he listens. Smells. Heavy puffs of breath are heard inside the room, the faint scent of tears. He frowns and opens the door. Jaskier is standing beside the window, looking outside silent, as silent as one crying can be. Geralt feels his heart ache.

“Jaskier?”

The bard jumps and turns at Geralt. With a bright smile that doesn’t suit his flushed face, he wipes his eyes. “Geralt! You scared me, you bastard, don’t you ever knock?” He returns Geralt’s gaze and the witcher feels like he’s reading him but that’s good, it gives him the chance to read Jaskier too. He tilts his head and waits for the bard to speak, yet he just turns away again and looks outside at the night sky. Geralt lowers his look for a moment, fumbles with his words. Swallows.

He has no chance to fuck up now. “It was a good performance.”

“Yes,” Jaskier chuckles bitterly and lowers his head, still not looking at him. “Thank you, Geralt, really. It’s not that.” He takes a shaky breath. “It’s just…”

He doesn’t continue. Geralt knows he won’t, because it’s one of those silences that don’t break. He knows Jaskier’s silences well by now, even those few. Still, he can’t take it, he can’t stand watching him cry. He can’t stand watching his bright eyes hollow and his smile distant and not actually there. And he can’t stand not being able to help. So he rests a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and steps closer. “You don’t have to tell me.” He hears his breath hitching for a second, then a sigh, as if relieved. But he still doesn’t look at him. Geralt tries again. “Can I help?”

A hand creeps up and rests on his. A faint smile, now a real one. Finally, finally, Jaskier meets his eyes. His expression is dark for a moment, as if being unable to find a way Geralt could help. But then his eyes light up, just a bit, and Geralt feels his heart fluttering. “Can you…” He pauses, reconsiders. A reassuring squeeze on his shoulder takes away the hesitation. “Can you hug me, for a bit?”

For me, Geralt echoes in his head and the way his voice is now low and small, so different from what it was an hour ago in the tavern, almost brings him to his knees. And now this. A hug. As if he could say no. As if.

So he smiles warmly and pulls Jaskier into a hug, tight, and presses him to his chest as if to shoulder the worries weighing his. He feels Jaskier hiding is face in his shoulder and breathing deeply, lashes fluttering close. Geralt nuzzles in his hair, resists the urge to press a kiss on his head. Like that, just by having him in his arms, he knows he can do anything. Anything for him.

iv.

“Did you try the honey cakes?”

Geralt looks at Jaskier as he gets off his armor and frowns. “You got honey cakes?”

With a laugh Jaskier raises his head from his notebook and shakes his head. “What are you, dear, blind? I spent half an hour in that bakery today.” He sighs dramatically and stares longingly at the distance. “I crave the day when you’ll appreciate how good care I take of you.”

“Because you bought honey cakes?” Geralt chuckles and walks up to Jaskier’s bag, searching inside. Jaskier can smell the honey cakes before he gets them out but he decides to play hurt a moment longer, for the fun of it. Geralt doesn’t play along. “You’re the one who begged to go into the bakery after all, I asked for nothing.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and tries to hide a smile behind a smug expression. He outstretches his hand. “Yes, alright mister Mighty-Witcher-I-need-nothing, now bring those cakes here and finally, have something for pleasure, it won’t hurt you know.” He pouts as Geralt throws the paper bag on the table with a scoff and turns away. He knows, Geralt would prefer to fight a hundred griffins than admit he deserves small luxuries. But that’s where he comes in. He never had a thrifty life after all and travelling with a witcher isn't a reason not to indulge oneself, especially when coin is spare. So he reaches to grab a honey cake. And pauses.

“Um.” Geralt turns his head, hearing his hesitant tone, and raises an eyebrow. Jaskier squints, takes a look at the cakes, then at his hands which are painted with black ink all over. There is a solution, he thinks. He can quite simply wash his hands and eat. Still, he would need to write more afterwards. And wash again. And it really wasn’t that complex but as another thought flashes in his mind and he sees Geralt’s waiting look, he smiles to himself. Clears his throat. “Could you give me one, please? There are some,” he huffs, showing his hands, “technical problems.”

He is sure Geralt doesn’t actually think about it when he takes a honey cake between his fingers. He is sure Geralt realizes what he’s doing the moment his fingers touch his lips and Jaskier opens his mouth and secures the cake between his teeth. And his tongue brushes Geralt’s fingertips and they’re sweeter, oh, so sweeter than the actual honey. He looks up at him, feels Geralt’s fingers shake, shivers. Closes his mouth, his lips brushing once more against cold skin, slowly, daringly. Or savouring, if he’s being honest.

Geralt stares and he feels like he’s melting. The witcher’s hand hovers for a moment before he lowers it and Jaskier can still sense its tingling on his lips, their looks still locked on each other, intense. Jaskier swallows. “They’re good. You should try one.”

Try. For me. He doesn’t know what he wants Geralt to try. Only that, as Geralt’s lips brush against his fingers, exactly where his own were moments ago, he feels like burning and, breathless, he lowers his look.

The doublet is uncomfortable. The trousers are uncomfortable. The shoes are uncomfortable. His whole presence is uncomfortable and Geralt wishes he didn’t have to wear a damned doublet in the middle of July. He can’t complain though. He hears Jaskier’s voice in his head. Don’t worry, it’s thin and exactly the shape of your glorious muscles, it will fit just fine. Aside from stubbornly ignoring the bard’s comment about his muscles, he has to admit that it really isn’t that intolerable as an outfit itself. He just feels small inside it, choking. Still, he doesn’t complain.

He glances up at Jaskier, realizing he’s been talking to him all that time, but the bard doesn’t really seem to bother if anyone hears as he rambles in front of the mirror. “Gods, Geralt, the food. The food is just heavenly, as is the wine, trust me, you won’t regret a moment being at this banquet.” I won’t, Geralt thinks, if it’s to gaze at you. Jaskier turns at him beaming. “Even you, my friend, who asks for nothing, will find yourself craving for another gathering similar to that.”

“I ask for nothing indeed,” Geralt laughs at the way the bard repeats his words back at him, “and I doubt I will ever crave for something such as a gathering. Don’t be so hopeful that I’ll keep coming with you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes with a dismissive huff and fumbles with the buttons of his sleeve. “You’re no fun. Ah, fuck.” He tugs at the sleeve and barely saves its button from falling away. With a sigh, he outstretches his hand and looks at the witcher. “Geralt, can you?”

Of all things, Geralt definitely has no fingers fit to carefully button a shirt. He has however, patience, something the bard hugely lacks of. So he moves to take Jaskier hand in his. And as their fingers slip together, he freezes. Momentarily, yes, since he continues to push the button in its hole. Still, the way their hands touch, the way Jaskier’s skin is warm against his, the way his fingers wrap his delicate yet trained wrist, make his knees weak. He brings Jaskier’s hand closer to have a better look at the button. Dangerously closer. He flips the button inside the hole and hears Jaskier’s triumphant huff, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, his eyes remain focused on the inside of his wrist, veins marking tanned skin. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he leans and places a kiss. He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he realizes what he’s done, and immediately looks at the bard. Blue eyes wide, lips parted. Jaskier whimpers.

“Geralt.”

Stay. For me.

No.

Geralt lets go of his hand and storms outside the room, his heart beating faster that a human’s. Before he closes the door, he smells the salty scent of tears behind him. He doesn’t look back.

vi.

The bandits lay on the ground, three of them, the ones that refused to run when they had the chance. Their blood is forming puddles on the dirt. Geralt stares, panting. He can hear as the heartbeat of the last one vanishes in the wind, so at odds with the birds that are returning to their branches singing.

The birds. Singing. A heartbeat so familiar is now weak as he listens, the smell of blood so terrifying, and his heart skips a beat. He spins around. “Jaskier!”

Time is nonsensical as he runs to the bard’s side and kneels and what he sees makes him want to puke. Not because he hasn’t seen so much blood before, gods forbid, he’s a Witcher. But because the blood is too much. And it’s Jaskier’s. The bard looks up at him, still lost, panting, then lowers his eyes at his stomach, a pool of blood forming slowly. He whimpers. “Fuck.” The way his eyes fill with despair as his look returns on the witcher makes Geralt’s eyes burn. “Do something, Geralt, plea--” his voice is choked in a pained cry.

Geralt shakes his head as if to return to reality. He peers at Jaskier’s wound. It was a sword. It was a damn sword. And it’s deep. Gods, it’s too deep. He looks Jaskier in the eyes and brings a hand on his face firmly. “Listen. Everything is alright. Just stay awake.” Tears flood blue eyes and he feels his heart aching. He can’t let him close his eyes, he’s too afraid it will be the last time he sees them. So he asks, he who asks for nothing, he who needs nothing. “Can you do this for me?”

Jaskier nods frantically, his lips tight as if to suppress another cry. With one last touch, Geralt stands up and runs to Roach standing near, searching inside the saddlebags. If his hands are trembling, he ignores them. Maybe the tremble will go away like that. He returns with bandages and hears Jaskier sob at their sight. He looks at him, helpless but he doesn’t show it. “Awake,” he repeats and proceeds to tear the bard’s shirt open and clean the bleeding dark wound with a wet cloth. Bleeding. It’s bleeding and he sees his nightmares becoming real and he knows, he knows that he should stay calm, that only like that he’s not going to be late. But oh, his hands are still trembling, and his breathing’s short and every time another scream escapes Jaskier’s lips he dies a little more inside. Still, he looks up at him as Jaskier clings on his shirt, his arms, everywhere, desperate. Still, he holds him, cradles him like he’s going to break. He is. “Jaskier. Jaskier, you’re alright.” He snorts, wipes the tears off the bard’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t cry, please. I’m taking you to a healer.”

He raises him on the saddle, climbs behind him, and reins Roach, holding him close. Jaskier is shaking whole, staring at him as if afraid that he’s the last thing he sees. “Geralt,” he gasps and Geralt lowers his look, almost cries when he sees his beautiful face contorted in a pained wince. Blood is staining his lips and Jaskier clings, shakes his head. “Geralt, if I-- I love you, I don’t want to die, please, I don’t--”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re not dying,” Geralt says, more for himself to believe it, and then pauses. And looks at the bard again, at the faint but still-there smile on his lips. “What…” Oh, he can’t do this now. He can’t let himself rejoice, he’s too afraid his joy will be taken away too quickly. Jaskier’s head lolls on his shoulder and his eyes roll on the back of his head and he flinches, terrified, shakes him. “Jaskier! Stay awake!” Jaskier whimpers and opens his eyes. He hurts. He hurts and Geralt hurts even more with him. But he takes a deep breath. “Can you say it again? For me?”

Jaskier huffs a wet, weak laugh. “For you, I can say it forever.” His voice is barely a breath. “I love you, Geralt.”

Geralt is trembling. “Again.” Stay awake.

A cry. “I love you.”

“Again.” Awake.

Roach runs like thunder. It’s close, it’s close.

“I love you.”

Closer, he holds him closer, and Roach runs, and Geralt bites his lips. “One last time. Say it one last time, please. For me.” Stay awake. For me.

“Geralt,” a sob, heart-wrenching, and oh, he knows Jaskier can’t take it, he knows. Only one last time. But Jaskier swallows blood and tears, and with a tired smile, he breathes, “Every time, Geralt. I love you forever.”

The trees fall aside and the town’s gates are open and Geralt lets out a triumphant laugh and finally, finally looks down at Jaskier and promises to himself to never tear his gaze from him again. So he leans down and presses his lips to Jaskier’s, bloody and quivering, and kisses him, and then as he meets his wide eyes, he knows every favour granted was for them. “I love you too, Jaskier. I love you too.” Another kiss, on his forehead, and now he’s warm. “Now hush. Hush, love.”

With a sigh, relieved, exhausted, Jaskier lets his head fall limp on the witcher’s shoulder and finally, closes his eyes. His hand, trembling, reaches to hold a firm one on the reins and if he hears a thank you, whispered like a prayer beside him, he says nothing.

For Geralt, he will have more time, more to give, more and anything, he knows. Anything for him.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #chrysa writes #>1k #fluff #hurt/comfort #yes writing is a coping mechanism so what #i had this wip since last june #fic recs

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orionwhispers · 4 years

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Tear In My Heart // Alfie Solomons

(A/N - hehe im back. im working on a bucky oneshot and a tommy series but both of them are super long and i wanted to take a little breather. this was supposed to be a drabble but you know me... ive got a few more ideas for shorter imagines like this with tommy and alf, requests are open! hope you enjoy. pls reblog and comment. love u see u soon xoxxo - also this is like the smuttiest thing ive written even though its not explicit but wow who am i)

warnings: violence, mention of fights and blood, protective alfie, heavily implied smut, lots of terrible language.

You knew something was wrong when Ollie practically crashed through the door. He took off part of the frame and made the hinges tear from the wood, nails and screws clattering onto the ground. The afternoon had been wonderful, perhaps too wonderful, and as always, real life found a way to shatter your rose tinted glasses.

It was starting to fall into autumn, the air chilly but comfortable, the streets slick with rain and the leaves turning into a sweet, buttery caramel all around you. The house was silent save for the birds singing in the trees and the rattling whip of the wind against your windows. The quiet was a perk of having house out in the country, far away from anything and anyone. Just the way he liked it.

Because to him, all he needed was his girl.

Well, and his dog.

The sun had barely risen when you got up - much to your husbands protests. You felt him stirring from beside you, a solid wall of warmth as he snaked his arms around your waist and pressed sleepy, half drunk kisses onto your spine. You laughed tiredly as his hands curled over everything they could reach, long calloused fingers roaming against your bare skin. He grumbled as you swung your legs from under the duvet and onto the floor, throwing on his white cotton shirt and letting it fall to your knees, trying to ignore the threats he was mumbling about what he was going to do to your boss for making you come in so early.

He made one last feeble attempt to grab you, exhaustion clouding his brain so he could do no more than swipe at the top of your thigh, making you laugh at his wandering hands.

“Stay.” He said, voice raspy and muffled by his pillow.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Alf.” You sighed playfully, grabbing your strawberry slip dress and beaded heels and fur coat, darting into the bathroom to wash up and change. Through the noise of the running water you could hear the bed springs creak as he shifted, the entire frame groaning almost as much as him. Cyril watched you with his big chestnut eyes from the doorway as you fluffed up your hair and patted on coffee coloured lipstick, pinching the apples of your cheeks for a little flush.

You rummaged through your handbag as you made your way to the bedroom door, lost in your thoughts until you heard him speak, all low and gravelly and sending shivers up your spine.

“Oi. C’mere you.”

You rolled your eyes but walked into his outstretched arms, his body completely slumped and covered in thick duvets and pillows, just his tattooed skin and coarse, tousled hair poking out from underneath. He pulled you close into him, smelling like green apples and rum and sex and sea salt, like home. He mumbled something that you couldn’t quite make out, the sun starting to shine through the cracks in the curtains and as you started to get up he tugged you in tighter, placing messy, sloppy kisses down your throat and onto your collarbones.

You smacked his shoulder, grabbing his jaw and holding it still, placing a kiss on his lips, feeling him smile against your mouth.

“Bye, my love.”

“Hmph.”

You made it halfway down the hall before you heard: “Fred is driving you. Don’t even bloody think about walking alone at this time.” Followed by grunts and groans and finally deep, throaty snores.

———————————————————-

You accompanied your boss to a few meetings, taking notes and helping him check stock. After a few hours filled with cinnamon lattes and finger cramps and ink stains, he took you aside at the office and gave you the rest of the day off. You were a little suspicious, and had a feeling his good deed might have had something to do with your slightly intimidating husband, but you accepted it nonetheless and headed to Camden after lunch.

The air was brisk and you pulled your scarf tighter around your throat, dodging puddles and fat droplets of rain as they dropped from the trees. You stopped off at a little cafe on your side of town, buying turkey sandwiches, a garden salad and a platter of seasonal fruit, ignoring the fried sugar donuts and sausage rolls and thick, crispy cuts of bacon. A routine check up to the doctor had lead to Alfie being told that perhaps a healthier lifestyle would benefit some of his ailments, so despite his grumbling and childish ways you were doing your best to make sure he was eating his five a day - no matter how much he protested.

But at the last second you grabbed a cherry jam donut. His favourite.

The rain had become torrential by the time you left, the clouds morphing into a block of ashen, sooty grey, teetering on black. Once upon a time the impending storm would have made you feel nervous, the rattling trees and flashes of lightning had been the reason for many sleepless nights when you were a child, but now you looked forward to it.

Because now it meant something different. You, Alfie and Cyril curled up in bed, the fire roaring and flickering a brilliant orange gold. Your husbands arms tight around you, squeezing softly every time there was a clap of thunder, his kisses warm and protective across your throat, knowing that he’d never let anything hurt you. Drinking tea spiked with rum and playing cards, listening to the rain against the windows, feeling the white burst of lighting every time it struck the sky. Falling asleep next to each other, Alfie always waiting for you to doze off first, unable to sleep unless he knew you were alright.

You had once hated storms, and now you wished for them.

Your umbrella was totally battered by the time you got to the bakery. The bottom of your dress was damp from puddles and your shoes were on their last legs, the satin ruined and black with mud, but you didn’t care, walking through the side entrance with a smile bigger than the moon. A few of the old boys saw you instantly, straightening up and grinning at you, welcoming you with whisky soaked aprons and calloused hands. Back when you and Alfie started dating he had all but forbidden his staff from looking, talking, or even thinking about you, but over the years you had formed a close relationship with his workers - something about your warmth and light easing up the darkness. At first Alfie huffed and puffed about it a little, but he couldn’t exactly blame his men for loving you - he was a perfect example of how you brought a strong man to his knees after all.

“Is he upstairs?” You asked George, one of the distillers. As soon as he nodded you left, your heels clicking against the cool basement flooring. You didn’t bother knocking as you approached the big, intimidating door to his office, instead just grabbing the brass lion head knob and twisting it, hearing the hinges whine in protest.

“What the fuck?” His voice was as deep and rumbling as a low tide, his tone so dark and sharp that it might have scared you, if you didn’t know him as the man who fed the ducks fresh bread at the park and cuddled Cyril when the vets had to give him an injection. “How many fucking times do I have to ask you lot to fucking knock. I mean it’s a - ”

He stopped short when he saw you, eyes going wide and lips twitching upwards just a little. He slipped into business mode whenever he sat at the leather chair behind his desk, but you always managed to chip away at his foundation.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” You laughed, walking around his desk to see him, his legs naturally opening to let you stand in between them, his eyes following every curve and line of your face, settling on the natural rosebud flush of your lips.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He mused, ring clad fingers darting around your waist and pulling you in. He toyed with the buttons on your dress and the jewellery around your neck, his fingers rough and large and as hot as a fire. His day had been shitty so far, but seeing the sparkle in your eyes and the loose curl of your hair had made everything much, much better.

“Hmm.” You said, leaning into his touch, batting away his hand as it slipped somewhere a little too low. “Marcus gave me the afternoon of so I thought I would come and surprise you.”

He blinked up at you, all wistful and love drunk and making your knees turn into blackcurrant jelly. “Did you now?”

“Yep.” You smiled, brushing your nose against his before pulling back and teasingly shaking the paper bag of baked goods in your hand. “And I bought gifts.”

“Yeah. Yeah. In a minute.” He barely registered them, instead dragging you into him, pressing kisses to your lips and letting you wash away any thoughts from his brain, not stopping until he was totally, completely drowning in you.

——————————————————-

That was how you ended up cross legged on the sofa, devouring your new novel and sipping on the rose and oolong tea Alfie kept in the cupboard for when you visited the factory. You could hear the rain pattering down the windows around you, mixed with the scratch of Alfie’s fountain pen and the sound of him rifling through his papers. It was fun to watch him as well as listen to him, the way his eyebrows raised when he read something he didn’t like, the twitch of his nose and the way that he ran his fingers through the coarse hair of his beard, moulding it to a peak at the bottom of his chin.

He watched you as well. When you got so into your book that your brows furrowed and your nose wrinkled. The way your hair was loose and wild, your stockings a soft pink under the stormy sky, your eyes wide and frantic, desperate to read as much as you could. He smiled at the way your leg bounced, how you tried to pick the stems from your strawberries with one hand but then accidentally squished them, the juice running down your wrist. He especially liked the way you were using his winter coat as a blanket, drowning in the fabric like a child, the collar snug around your chin.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

You heard Ollie before you saw him, the crash of his laced black boots thundering up the stairs, the way that he collided with the door rather than opening it first. You and Alfie stood up at the same time, his eyes immediately darting to you, gesturing for you to get behind him.

“Eric’s here.” Was all the boy said, and you watched the colour drain from Alfie’s face.

“Eric?” You said, “Eric Martin?”

Your question lingered in the air as the two men walked around one another, gesturing wildly and talking under their breath; Alfie completely frantic and flustered. You had only heard of Alfie’s new business partner in passing, the two of them had spent the better part of a year talking through agreements and shipments and trying to manoeuvre a deal where the two of them could co exist happily - Alfie’s rum and Eric’s stolen goods sharing a boat so that the city checks would be easier. Alfie had never been particularly quite when it came to business. He liked to include you and get your opinion on things, he trusted you most of all anyway, but he had been secretive when it came to Eric.

You had heard through Ollie and rumours at the club and whispers in the factory that this “Eric” was a man not to be trifled with. Apparently he was unpredictable and violent, and he belonged to one of the major crime gangs in Cambridge. None of this scared you though, many people thought the exact same of the man you shared your bed with, and you knew a side of him that nobody else saw. The gossip was barbed and cruel though. They said he was conniving and underhanded, and that his last two wives had been admitted to hospital with broken and fractured bones.

So Alfie tried cutting him out as much as he could, never wanting to say his name or talk about him in the safety of his home, not with you around. Your home was his solace, and he wouldn’t taint his life with you in blood red - you were too important. You never thought much of it, but watching his reaction, his sudden overprotectiveness and stern frown and rattled demeanour, made you just a little bit frightened.

“What the fuck does he want?” Alfie snapped, pulling your coat over your shoulders frantically and starting to button it up, then helping you tug on your boots and lace them.

“He’s pissed about the Brighton shipment, he says his liquor didn’t get there on time.”

“Stupid fucking...” Alfie’s voice trailed off like smoke, something downstairs on the factory floor clattering loudly followed by distinct, angry shouts. “We told him it was too risky with the police there, he should have fucking listened. We were due a meeting next week, tell him to fuck off and come back then.”

“He won’t listen.”

“Make him.”

“I...” He started, but Alfie cut him off again, standing next to you and taking your face in his large, calloused hands.

“Right, pet. Stay here for a little bit, and when it clears up, Ollie will take you out the back, alright?”

“Alfie...” You started to protest, before exhaling and sighing as he turned to his protégée.

“You got that, Ol? Nothing is to happen to her.”

You were getting a little hot with being ordered around, but the visible anxiety swimming across their faces like the midnight sea was enough for you to close your mouth. Instead of agreeing with his boss, Ollie shook his head, sucking on his lower lip as he tried to think of a way to convey the sincerity of the situation.

“He’s really angry, Alfie. You need to go down, now. Before he decides to come up.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Your fingers clenched, and you darted out to tug on the edge of his sleeve before he left.“Alfie. Please be careful.”

There was a smog of anxiety in your stomach and warning signs ringing like alarms in your mind as he pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing your hairline. You chewed on the edge of your lip as he left, and you wondered how your blissful afternoon had turned into this: your body shaking with nerves as your husband descended down the stairs and into the belly of the beast.

Ollie reached out and touched your shoulder, trying to help you feel calm but his face was the colour of tepid dishwater, paling by the second.

“He’ll be fine.”

You crossed all of your fingers and toes.

———————————————————————

About twenty minutes passed, and the shouting had gone from ear piercingly loud to a low hum, which you found oddly comforting despite everything. You watched as Ollie fiddled with his pocket watch, the two of you waiting until it was safe to head downstairs.After a moment you heard the sound of the giant metal door opening, the one right at the front where the workers came in and the bakery goods were delivered, a clear indication from Alfie that Eric was leaving.

Ollie leapt up and smiled faintly at you, edging you towards the door as you swung your handbag across your chest. You scoffed a little as you walked, turning to face him.

“If Eric is gone, why can’t I stay?”

Ollie merely rolled his eyes, his hand migrating to your lower back as he all but pushed you forward. You might have been able to get away with ignoring Alfie’s orders, but he certainly wouldn’t. “You know Alfie won’t want you here after that. There’s no use fighting him about it, he’ll want you back at home.”

You sighed but conceded, allowing yourself to be guided down the staircase. At least at home you could distract yourself and have Cyril with you, his big treacle eyes were the perfect remedy to a bad day.

You were right beside the back door and ready to leave when you heard a voice cracking like thunder from behind you, something as sharp as a knife and as loud as a church bell. You both froze instantly, every nerve in your body feathering, your heart aching to know that Alfie was alright.

“You little fucking liar.” Cut around the room like barbed wire. “How long were you planning on hiding this shipment from me?” There was another crash, and you could hear liquid trickling and dribbling into a puddle, followed by the sweet, sour smell of alcohol.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re on about mate.” It was Alfie speaking now, his voice lowered to a dangerous octave, and you could picture the lightning like anger on his face. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down? You’ve been sending things off without my knowledge!”

“I said. Fucking calm down.” The sound of a hand slamming down on wood, as fierce as a slap on the face. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me.”

There was another scuffle: rapid footsteps on the floor, the crack of knuckles and the smell of ash. A couple of the boys darted in from the other room, their shirts untucked and hands turning red. You watched them curiously, stepping forward on unsteady heels to try and pinpoint the commotion. You felt Ollie's hand reach for you but you leapt out of his grasp, at the same time a body flew from the next room and landed in a heap next to barrels of aged rum and whisky, the wood heaving from the strain.

You glanced at the man on the floor, his body oddly contorted, his bald head glistening with sweat and his body reeking of putrid alcohol and cigarettes. This was obviously Eric. Your eyes widened in disgust at the drunk, violent man taking swings at whoever he could, wanting nothing more than to get away from him. You saw Alfie emerge from the shadows, his gaze flitting straight to you, his hands swollen and his face flushed with visible anger at the man sprawled on the ground.

Before you could retreat, Eric’s wide, black eyes landed on you, practically bulging out of his head with adrenaline and anger and excitement. “ You know, Alfie.” He asked through bubbles of saliva, scrambling to his feet as best he could, lunging for you. You saw Alfie and a few of his best men move forward, hands ready like cocked guns to strike if they needed to. Eric ignored them, wanting to pack as many fatal blows in whilst he had the chance. “Everybody at the club talks about your little whore of a wife, Solomon’s.”

The room fell deadly silent. His words didn’t affect you at all, but you felt a pool of dread settle in your gut and you stepped backwards, warning him with your eyes. He was at the back of the room, but you could still feel the anger vibrating from your husband, and you heard him smack his lips as he tried to calm himself down.

Eric ignored your alarmed glare, spitting onto the concrete and looking you up and down with pure disgust and shameless lust. “You know that people only do business with you to get to her?”

“Don’t. You. Fuck - ” Alfie’s boots thundered like a stampede, his voice as dark and raspy as midnight, his words sharpened like butchers knives.

“Maybe I’ll have a go at her. Maybe it’ll teach you a little respect. If I have a go at that smug little whore and slap her around a little and....”

He didn’t finish his sentence, Alfie’s cane smashing against the side of Eric’s head with enough momentum to send his teeth flying, small milky white canines lying a few feet in front of you in a pool of sticky blood. He made some kind of noise from on the floor, his hands coming up to protect what was left of his face, his polished shoes desperately trying to grip onto something to help him up. There was a second hit. And then a third. Each accompanied by ear splitting cries, and the sound of flesh against stone.

“Don’t you ever, ever, speak about my wife like that again.” You could just about make out Alfie from the darkness, his silhouette mighty and terrifying, leaning over the shattered body on the floor, filled with a hatred that seemed to overpower him.

“I - ” Eric tried to speak but only blood pooled from his mouth, his body weakened and damaged from the attack. He tried to cover himself with his hands but failed, another ear piercing crack echoing around the room.

You lunged forward, wanting to stop your husband before he went too far. “Alfie! Stop! You’re going to kill him!”

He blinked up at you, his pupils swallowed by black. His gaze lowered from you onto the wailing man on the ground, his words playing on a loop in his brain, digging their nails in every time the record restarted.

He had said those evil things about you.

He glanced at Ollie, finally opening his mouth to speak. “Take her home.”

You struggled in Ollie’s grip, desperate to see your husband and knock some sense into him. Your heart hung heavy in your chest, equal parts terrified that he would either end up hurt or in a more dangerous situation than the one he was already in. You fought hard but Ollie’s hold was tighter, his fingers squeezing you tightly. He tried to be kind but forceful as he pulled you out into the alley, your heard turned back to face your husband, watching as him and the shadow on the floor faded to a dull, awful, obsidian.

—————————————-

You were certain you were going to make holes in the wood. You had been pacing back and forth the living room floor for almost an hour, and Cyril had abandoned his mission of trying to cheer you up, and instead watched you protectively and cautiously from his wicker basket beside the sofa.

You had chewed your sunshine yellow nails down to the wick, and your heart hadn’t stop thumping since you had left the warehouse. Ollie had left you to your thoughts, keeping watch outside to make sure nothing harmed you, and also that you didn’t harm somebody else.

Dealing with hysterical women wasn’t really his forte.

There had been no word from Alfie since you had left, and so you watched the teal wall phone endlessly, hoping that it would ring and you would know he was alright. You were greeted with nothing but ice cold silence, and so you resumed your pacing, biting down on the skin of your thumb until you could taste blood.

Right before you were about to lose all control and demand Ollie take you to see him, you heard the crunch of the gravel outside, and saw lemon headlights flash against the wall. Cyril’s head lifted quickly, and his tail began to thump, but your feet turned to concerted and you were unable to do anything other than wait.

You were as still as a spectre as you stood facing the door, your body prickling with anxiety and adrenaline. A car - you assumed Ollie’s - coughed and spluttered over the rocks and into the road, leaving you alone with Alfie. You heard the key in the lock, practically felt the metal ridges running over your spine as he pulled and twisted and finally came inside, the sky a gloomy, smoky grey, rain falling so harshly it was almost hail.

He was shaped so strongly, his figure so barbed and brawny and beautiful. You felt totally mortal beside a man like him, and he looked even more so like a God when you saw him under the icy white lamp light in the hall.

He was covered in blood. Soaked in it, really. It was matted in his hair and in ugly brown splotches across his once pristine shirt and under his fingernails and smeared across his boots in a shade of red you had never seen before. It was obvious he had tried to clean himself up judging from the uneven patches and water marks, but he had given up, deciding to risk everything and drive through the streets like an abattoir worker, just so he could see you as quickly as he could.

You let out some kind of noise and stepped forward, he caught you effortlessly, the way that he always would.

“Alfie.” You said, wide eyed and innocent and good, and he felt like a sinner holding something so angelic in his arms.

“I’m alright. I’m alright.”

There was blood in his beard, and a plum sided bruise turning nightshade on his upper arm. “Oh God, Alf.”

He shook his head, pulling you in and smelling the orange and cinnamon of your shampoo and the vanilla perfume on your neck and felt the softness of your hair and the curves of your body. The day had been bad. It had started so wonderfully and ended up shattered and splintered into something so awful and malevolent, and now there was nothing he wanted except you, his home.

“We need to - ” You started, but he frowned, his arms engulfing you and tugging you in. He pressed his lips to whatever flesh he could find, open mouthed and desperate, sucking and biting and aching for you.

“No. No.” He whispered into your neck, his voice so small and desperate that your heart throbbed. “I need you, my love.”

You knew what he wanted. How we got when he was like this. Touch starved. Greedy. Insatiable. How he wanted nothing else but the feel of you under him, the weight of your ribs and the feel of your body and love consuming him until nothing was left. Fuck his back and his cane, he needed to claim you and mark you and show you just how badly he needed you. He needed to find religion at the alter of your pliant, yearning body. Show you how much he loved you on the cold kitchen tiles with the rain casting grey shadows and his lips biting your own as the thunder clapped above.

————————-

The tap was still leaking.

Alfie had promised to fix it weeks ago and yet it still dribbled lukewarm water continuously, you didn’t mind for once though, the soft noise it made as it bounced into the water was somewhat calming.

His legs around you were as thick as tree trunks and covered in curly, coarse hair. His arms were tight around you, and you played with the jewels on his fingers as you both relaxed, letting the hot steam cover you both. You were cradled in front of him despite your instance that his back would hurt and it would cause more harm than good. He simply got in the water and dragged you on top of him, letting the pink bath salts do their job.

You hadn’t really spoken since you’d made love like teenagers on the kitchen floor. Afterwards, he tugged you on top of him and held you close, the two of you skin to skin, letting your pulses synch and breathing calm all whilst he stayed warm and throbbing inside of you. Needing to be joined with you for as long as he could.

Then you ran a bath and filled it with all of the expensive lotions and potions you had stockpiled. Cherry and rose and sweet mint and chocolate and lime, things that might have clashed but would easily cover the smell of sweat and sex and thick, coppery blood. The two of you sat in the water, not speaking but filled with love, despite all of the unspoken tension in the air.

You felt him shift behind you. His huge body sent water and bubbles lapping wildly over the tub edge, coating the floor in marshmallow pink. You giggled softly, and the sweet, angelic noise gave Alfie the final push to tell you everything.

“I know what you want to ask me.”

“Hmm?” You murmured, letting round, iridescent bubbles fall through the cracks in your fingers, knowing exactly what he was about to say but feigning innocence anyway.

“You want to know if I killed him.”

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t need to, he continued anyway.

“I did.”

The bathroom fell silent again and Alfie could feel you stiffen under him. You knew from the moment he swung his cane across Eric’s head that he would be buried six feet by the end of the day, but it still hit you like a punch to the windpipe to hear the words aloud.

“Does that bother you?” He asked after a moment, the words thick and raspy, as though they had been stuck in his throat like congealed honey.

“I’m not sure.” You said finally.

It was the truth. You weren’t sure.

You knew he had killed people before. You knew what the war had made him do, what it had turned him into. You weren’t stupid, either. You knew that he often came home with dirt under his nails and blood splattered on his boots and that glazed look in his eyes that made your stomach tie itself in knots. You knew because you had been there through it all, cleaning him up and disinfecting his wounds, talking him down when the memories of gunshots and trenches got too loud, listening to him tell you all of the secrets that lingered in his mind like flies around a carcass.

But if you were being honest, you didn’t care that he had killed. You never judged Alfie or his choices, you understood the way his brain worked and how he made his decisions. Most of the men had been awful. Abusers and violent thieves and con men with dirty intentions. This was the business you had signed up for when you fell for the six foot man with questionable morals but a heart of solid gold. There was no way you were turning your back on him now.

It wasn’t murder that scared you, it was the possible repercussions that led you to sleepless nights and bloody, bitten lips. You were terrified that one day everything would catch up to him, and it would be your husband that ended up in a coffin. He was so powerful and dangerous and magnificent, but he wasn’t invincible.

You were about to say as much but he continued, the water sloshing around the two of you. “Don’t let it bother you. I’d do it again. Kill a fucking million men if I had to. If anyone talks about you like that - if they even think it. They’re gone. Bloody scum. The lot of ‘em.”

You sighed, shifting up and grabbing his hand under the water. You rubbed circles across his palm, conveying your love through actions. “I don’t want to be the reason you have blood on your hands.”

“I’m a big lad right, I can make my own decisions.”

“I know you are Alf, but you know how I worry.”

“Listen to me, right.” He muttered, the candles flickering clementine, his fingertips pressing gently onto the bare flesh of your hip. He cleared his throat, feeling the rise and fall of your chest against his belly. “After the war I had nothing - and then I met you and fuck me you changed everything.”

He paused, reminiscing internally about how you met and your early dates, thinking of toffee kisses and giddy, pure love and fucking in back alleys and winter walks and finally feeling something after the war had shot everything right out of him. “And you are my wife. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

You tugged on his big toe, making him wince and playfully hit you, the air lightened just a little bit, but enough so that the two of you could breathe. “I don’t care that you killed them, Alf. I never have. But God, if something were to happen to you! What if the police start looking? What if...”

A million fucked up scenarios of your beloved in silver cuffs and a bullet in his head made you feel completely nauseous, but he held you tight, grounding you back to reality.

“I’m not going anywhere. And for the cops - they should be thanking me. Got rid of a lot of nasty criminals without them getting their hands dirty.” He pressed kisses to the back of your neck, the tip of your spine, the crook of your ear. “I promise you, my love, everything will be alright.”

The future was uncertain, but you knew that when you married him. Some days were just bad.

Clouded in darkness and tinged with blood and rust. Your relationship had always been a little unconventional, a little rough around the edges and at times, like a small wooden boat on a rough sea. But despite everything your love had been unwavering, as solid as a steel, the kind of dreamy infatuation that people longed for. For every bad day and every fight and every knot that wound itself in your belly - there was also so much good. Sleepy kisses and pillow talk and sharing the parts of yourself that no one else saw. A language without words, the safety of his arms, the home in your hips, domestic mornings and a love that could last through anything.And in that moment, with the storm starting to ease and the sky starting to lighten and his arms around you and Cyril starting to whine for his dinner downstairs...

It was enough.

Because you weren’t just the girl he would kill for. You were the girl he would live for.

#alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons headcanon #alfie solomons oneshot #peaky blinders oneshot #peaky blinders imagine #alfie solomons x reader #writing #alfie solomons hc

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ad1thi · 3 years

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2020 fic recs!! [Part 1]

this idea was stolen from @iam93percentstardust cuz i just,,,thought that this year was absolute shit and it would be nice to make a fic rec list of fics from this year that helped me through it. this will be over a range of fandoms and ships, but all fics were written this year.

fics are ordered by the month they were published. ive tried to keep to five fics per month, but this is not obviously all the fics ive read that month - i just didn’t want to make this insanely long.

im releasing the first half of this on the 1st of December, and the second half on the 1st of January 2021 - because otherwise it would just get so long (and also so i will actually have fics for December)

happy reading!! hopefully you find fics on this you haven’t read yet

***

January

The cat is mighty dignified (until the dog comes by): @five-wow

Steve and Danny find them on the pillow in the corner of the dining area, where Eddie is on his side, ass half on the floor because the pillow is more cat-sized than lab-sized, and Pickles is nestled between Eddie’s front legs, essentially being spooned and looking very I-got-the-cream about it. Pickles’ head is tucked into the crook of Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s head slots perfectly on top of Mr. Pickles’, like a furry jigsaw puzzle.

“They’re cuddling,” Steve points out, unnecessarily.

Or: There is a love story unfolding under the McGarrett roof.

Captain ‘Socialist Rage Muffin’ America: @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah

It takes three months of dating Steve Rogers for Tony to understand why Aunt Peggy once shot at him in sheer frustration.

Alternately titled, Honey, I committed treason again.

The Best Laid Plans (Of Mice and Men): @arboreal-elm-ash-oak

His Dark Materials AU

It was Annalise who noticed their small visitor first.

“Tony,” the spider daemon said softly, skittering up the collar of his dress shirt, two of her eight legs resting delicately against his cheek, “Don’t startle them, but I believe we have a guest. Look, by the coffee table.”

Fourteen Million to One: @tunastorks

Six months after Thanos, six months after Tony’s death, six months after Steve returns to his own timeline, Tony Stark turns up on their doorstep.

Brewed Awakening: @iam93percentstardust

Two years after he comes out of the ice, Steve is drifting through life. On his teammate's recommendation, he decides to go back to school where he meets the grandson of an old friend. He finds happiness with Tony but Steve won't be in Boston forever and someone is out to hurt the Starks. Will Steve and Tony be able to reach their happily ever after?

February

the young, the reckless and the foolish: @bruciewayne

In most universes, they don't know each other, not in the slightest, or they hate each other, in a way that's perfectly logical for anyone who were to find themselves in a similar situation.

In this one, they've known each other since they were four years old and naively idealistic.

This is them over the years, against the odds.

a giant sign: @areiton

“Think you can get him to open the weapons division up again?” his CO asks, his voice hungry and Rhodey laughs because this--

“No. Tony hung up his weapons.”

“That’s not what the suit says,” his CO objects, and Rhodey shrugs.

Tony has always had rules, rules he expects the entire world to live by.

And then there was Rhodey, slipping under them.

my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast: @nethandrake

Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual.

He’s also sad. That’s not unusual either.

What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.

(One night, a stranger enters Steve's taxi. Nothing is the same again.)

Just A Cold: @/delighted

There’s a new text waiting for him. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.

Or, Danny’s sick, and Steve can’t stay away. The usual comfort fluff. With a little cameo from a gently meddling Grace.

An Unexpected Guide: @/Rachel500

Danny Williams has hidden his Guide status to keep being a detective, but his time of hiding is up when he unexpectedly finds his Sentinel, Steve McGarrett in the midst of a tragedy.

March

Why don’t we (Collide the spaces that divide us): @five-wow

When they finally catch sight of each other again through the milling crowds, they’re both a little worse for wear. Danny’s left side is covered in glitter and every time he brushes a hand over his hair, more blue and purple confetti rains down. Steve is- Well, Steve is randomly shirtless, which is all things considered not excessively remarkable, but he’s also covered in smudges of colorful paint and has a very nicely printed bloodred lipstick kiss mark on his cheek.

“What did you do?” Danny asks, because it looks like Steve had a lot more fun than he did.

Or: Steve and Danny accidentally end up in the middle of something entirely new.

A Little Unsteady: @finduilasclln

Written for the Tumblr prompt meme : "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"

Tony lashes out at Bucky for eating his dessert. Only, it really isn't about the dessert.

a national treasure: @starklysteve

Steve isn't looking for an apple and Tony decides his passion is to inspire young souls. -x- OR: the AU where Tony is a Youtuber and Steve is Captain America and somehow they still save the world together.

April

cycle through: @ambivalentmarvel

Twenty-five years ago, Tony Stark disappeared from his family home a month after the tragic deaths of his parents, Howard and Maria Stark, leaving a billion-dollar tech conglomerate without an heir and the world wondering what happened.

Twenty-three years ago, HYDRA gained another super soldier.

Ten years ago, Peter Parker’s parents died in what is ruled as a home invasion gone wrong but he knows was murder, plain and simple, because he spoke to the killer.

And in the present, Project Insight fails, and the Iron Soldier pays the price.

FOREVER-LOVE YOU-I: @/Eudoxia

Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.

Especially for Tony's soulmate.

Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.

(Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)

come build a home out of me: @maguna-stxrk

Steve clears his throat.

“What if I went with you?” he asks nonchalantly, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his ribcage.

Tony blinks a few times, looking at Steve, his mouth ajar. “As a— As my date?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, feeling a little breathless.

“You don’t mind?” Tony furrows his eyebrows.

“I don’t. In fact, you can just tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’m sure they’ll back off, wouldn’t they?”

What.

“I— Huh?” Tony stares at him, brown eyes blown wide open.

What. What. What.

“Huh? Uh, I mean— You know, that way people will see that you have definitely moved on. Monica will see that you have moved on. Right?” Steve smiles, hoping that it masks his inner panic, because what?

Steve Rogers, what have you done?

i don’t have a choice (but i’d still choose you): @nethandrake

There’s a name inked onto his chest, a name written in an all-too familiar scrawl. And it’s— It’s—

Steve doesn’t realize his body is quaking until he’s tracing the tattoo with a shaky finger.

Because of course that is the name etched into the skin. Like a brand, a reminder for everything he has done. An appropriate retribution.

Anthony Edward Stark.

(When Thanos snaps half of the universe away, he unknowingly leaves the other half with soulmarks.)

ua haʻalele ʻoe iaʻu (a ua hoʻomālamalama ʻoe iaʻu): @just-fandomthings

"The truth is, I was shot in the chest and nearly died, and not even three days after I was released from the hospital, you up and left-- and of those two, I'm not sure which one hurt me worse!"

(Coda to 10x22 because come on, we all need a better ending than the one given to us.)

Title loosely translates to: "You left me in the dark (you lit me up)" -- inspired by the brilliant song "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur

May

A Piece Of The Past: @hddnone

It had been so many years since Bucky had gone undercover in the Stark family's mob, he thought he'd gotten away clean.

Then Tony Stark slid into the seat across from him at his breakfast diner, and Bucky's boss has a new case for him.

the privilege of loving you: @starklysteve

“Why won’t you let me touch you?”

It’s a desperate plea, half-shouted and half-whispered, Steve’s voice cracking at the end. Tony stops in his tracks, halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t dare to turn back, and he really doesn’t want to fight, or to leave, to spend the last month of his life away from his husband and their son. But Steve can’t know, can he?

-x-

Or: Tony has palladium poisoning, but he doesn't tell Steve and Peter

your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance): @firebrands

When Bruce is 13, he decides to go to boarding school. It's an opportunity for him to learn about other people, and how to interact with them.

Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.

Bruce doesn’t like it.

IMPORTANT: This fic has them meeting at 14, then progresses slowly until they’re 17. Includes underage drinking and kissing.

This is set before Bruce becomes Batman and Tony becomes Iron Man and I have no explanation as to how or why they just DO Canonically, Bruce is 17 when he finishes school and goes around the world to train, so we're sticking with that

The Real MVP: @sword-and-stars (part of a series)

[“I have saved this Tuesday!” Sokka announces, rattling the bag upon reentry.

Zuko doesn’t even look up from his phone as he deadpans, “It’s Thursday.”

Okay, so Sokka is still having trouble getting his days right without checking. At least he’s gone back to sleeping at night! Going to bed at night is way easier when you have a cute, cuddly boyfriend who starts falling asleep around eleven o’clock. It also helps that he and Zuko are on solid gold butt-touching terms.

It’s been a while since Sokka has been on butt-touching terms with someone and it’s amazing.]

Or,

Sokka knows a guy, gets laid, and introduces Zuko to the merits of an afternoon delight.

When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it): @riotwritesthings

There’s a tiny safe house, with one tiny window and one tiny couch.

And one tiny little bed.

June

Nice Fingers: @anthonyed

A single compliment given by Tony stirs Bucky restless until he caves in and asks him out on a date.

With Steve’s help of course (whether he likes it or not).

The Darkest Touch: @starkrogerrs

This is the story of how Steve finds that it has been ordained that he is to marry a monster he cannot resist aka the God of Love himself, Tony.

It's Cupid x Psyche retold, but with thrice the amount of porn.

The Night Shift: @weethreequarter

Welcome to the Emergency Department of San Antonio General where Dr. Tony Stark joins the team fresh from his most recent tour in Afghanistan and - much to the consternation of the other staff - strikes up an instant rapport with Nurse Steve Rogers. Meanwhile, new resident Bruce Banner refuses to give up on his patient, and Dr. Sharon Carter learns something from her own patients. Throw in a pissed off hospital administrator, Clint using the coffee pot as a mug again, and a major car crash and you have, well, just another night shift.

Wind Beneath My Wings: @iam93percentstardust

Sam first meets Tony Stark in 2005 when he joins the EXO-7 Falcon program.

In jest: @/apathyinreverie

“No, babe,” Danny shakes his head with a grin. “If the apocalypse were to go down while I’m elsewhere for some godforsaken reason, then you stay put and I’m coming to wherever you are.” His grin widens. “And I expect you to have cleared any aliens or zombies or whatever else might be messing with us off the island and to have set up a nice, comfortable military dictatorship for us to rule over by the time I get back.”

It’s a joke.

Of course it’s a joke.

Until it isn’t.

(A the-day-after-tomorrow-style apocalypse AU, where the world decides to end right when Danny is visiting one of the other islands with Grace. Because, of course, it does.)

#adi's rec list #mcdanno #stevetony #buckytony #brucetony #rhodeytony #zukka #samtony #january - june #there's so many different ships on this #and different authors #and it spans three fandoms #so hopefully you guys enjoy this!!

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dw-writes · 3 years

Note

Can I get a request for a John Kennex x Reader? Soulmate Au or maybe even that fate keeps throwing them together? You're freaking amazing BTW *Hugs*

SCREAMS YES??? I LOVE SOULMATE AUS SO MUCH!!!!!! And, I mean, look at him!! What a cutie. What a fucking smartass. I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS!!!!! Also @writerdee1701 here is some John Kennex!! ( @outside-the-government i think ive seen you reblog Kennex stuff but if not!! i’m sorry!)

A soulmate wasn’t something you wanted. You had sat and suffered and cried over thinking that you had one only to lose it because it wasn’t real and for what? Because the world – the universe? – told you that you were supposed to have a soulmate? Because the moment you turned eighteen the first words your soulmate was meant to say to you appeared on your arm?

No way.

So, after months of intensive therapy and accepting a new job in a city on the opposite side of the country, you did what any sane-but-majorly-depressed person would do: you got the tattoo covered.

You brushed your thumb over the healed black band that encircled your left arm, smiling to yourself – your sister, bless her, had suggested adding flowers, and your tattoo artist had been more than happy to include blooming flowers all around the band, even going so far as to outline them in UV ink, so that you could see the pieces that would be covered by the band itself. You tugged the sleeve of your shirt down to your wrist as you walked into the building, ready for another day at work – another case, another job well done.

You sighed and nodded at your MX-43 as you sat at your desk.

“Don’t look so excited to be here.” You looked up at the voice and felt your lips curl in a smile. John Kennex returned it and held out a second cup of coffee. You took with a grateful grin. “Dunno if you heard, but we’re workin’ a case together today,” he said, leaning on your desk.

You arched an eyebrow as you took a slow sip from your cup. It was just how you liked it, and it warmed you from the inside out. “Again?” you finally asked after another deep drink. He nodded. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say we were partners,” you teased.

“I think the captain likes our closure rate,” he pointed out.

“Uh, you mean my closure rate,” you said as you drained your cup and stood, “You just happen to be along for the ride.”

“Oh?” he challenged.

You nodded and grabbed your things from your desk. “Yeah.”

“Those sound like fighting words,” he remarked.

You hummed. “If they were fighting words, I’d say you were there to look pretty, but that’s Dorian’s job!” you chirped. You wrinkled your nose. “You do give good hugs though, so, there’s that.” You patted his chest as you walked past him. “Let’s go!”

Captain Maldonado leaned out of her office as you and John walked past her with a shout of, “Masks!” Both of you lifted your hands and waved over your shoulders.

You didn’t mind sitting in the back of John’s cruiser with your MX, rubbing your thumb over your tattoo as Dorian and your MX rattled off the particulars of the case. You felt eyes on your face throughout the ride but didn’t look up to meet them. When John pulled up to the crime scene, he waved Dorian ahead with your MX and grabbed your arm before you walked past. It took you a moment to look up and, when you did, he was frowning.

“Where are you?” he whispered. You opened your mouth. He shook his head. “Don’t say here, or thinking about the case,” he murmured, “You didn’t hear a word Dorian said on the way here.”

You sighed. “My sister found her soulmate,” you said as you waved towards the bright light line of the ticker tape. John shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked with you. “It’s funny, she’s been living next door to him for a year while teaching in Scotland, and she didn’t know it was him until she ran into him in the hall during laundry day. He had a bird on his shoulder, this big thing, she sent me a picture of it, actually.” You adjusted your mask and pulled out your phone, opening the picture. It was side by side with another photo, one of a bird with its wing in a splint.

John nodded at it. “What’s that?” he asked.

You smiled to yourself. “Before she left, we found a bird in our building parking lot. It had a broken wing, and Maria, she’s got this huge soft spot for birds, so we took it to the vet and they walked us through how to take care of it.”

“And it’s the same bird her soulmate has tattooed, right?” he asked.

“How, how, how does it know that?” you asked, stopped short of the crime scene. You scratched at your arm through your sleeve. “She got her mark when she turned eighteen just like everyone else, and it was a, a, a set of card suits to a losing hand of poker, which turned out to be the exact same hand that Richard had when he lost a bet that ended up with him applying to college to be a teacher.” You shook your head. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

John’s eyebrows were arched high when you finally looked at him. You ran your fingers behind your ears to adjust your mask while he carefully pulled his off and scratched his chin. “If it makes you feel better,” he said with one of those crooked, amused smiles of his, “I don’t understand it either.”

“No, it doesn’t make me feel better, John, because no one understands it,” you shot back, puffing your cheeks. You turned on your heel and stalked towards the dead body and Dorian and your MX were patiently waiting for you by.

“I’m just trying to make you feel better!” he shouted after your retreating form.

“A for effort!” you shouted back.

The case was a bust in terms of being complicated – the body was a mess, but there was a phone left behind, and a tagged post from the victim with someone else, a boyfriend, who confessed the moment he saw you rolling up to his apartment by shouting out of his window and jumping from it. He wound up with a broken leg and was sitting for sentencing.

John paused at a desk in the bullpen when the two of you returned. You glanced back quickly to find him talking with Valerie, and smiled, pulling off your mask. Dorian followed after you as you wandered back to your desk.

“What’s your mark?” he asked when you sat down.

You glanced up from setting your mask in the UV sanitizer. “That’s…” You leaned back and cleared your throat. “That’s a little out of the blue for you, D.” You shook your head, then picked up your keyboard and started to type out your report. “What, uh, what gives?”

“Saw you and John talking about soulmates earlier,” he said as he pulled up a chair. When you glanced up, he smirked. “I can read lips,” he answered.

You gently tossed your keyboard away from you and sighed. Your eyes drifted across the bullpen. John’s smile still hadn’t faded. “Do you know Chromes don’t have soulmate marks?” you commented.

“No, no, I didn’t know that,” Dorian replied.

You nodded, “Mhmm.” Then, scrubbed your hands over your face, you tilted your head back over the back of your chair. “Something about the way that the changing of genetic make-up eliminates whatever code is programed in us that makes the soulmate tattoos.” You dropped your hands. “He could pick Valerie and no one would argue about it.”

“You’re jealous,” Dorian replied.

“Not jealous,” you shot back.

Dorian adjusted his feet and leaned closer. “So, what’s your mark?” he asked again.

You wrinkled your nose and sat up, pulling your keyboard back to you. Dorian continued to stare. You turned your arm over and yanked up your sleeve. He took your wrist to turn your arm out more. “I got it covered up,” you said, stroking your thumb over a spot in the middle of the black band. “I kinda had a melt down after my mark appeared, and when I finally started to really believe that a soulmate doesn’t make a person, I got it covered.”

“So, what was it?” he asked again. He pushed your thumb aside and brushed his fingers over the band. As he did so, you felt eyes land on you. You set your cheek on your fist. The lights on the side of Dorian’s face lit up. “I see UV ink,” he said as he continued to trace the tattoo, “Flowers?”

“Moonflowers,” you answered with a shrug, “They only bloom once and in very specific conditions.”

“Like a soulmate,” he added with a smile. He looked back down at the band. “Is that a rectangle?”

You pulled your arm back and tugged the sleeve down. “Yeah,” you said. You swallowed a lump that had formed in your throat. “Yeah, just a rectangle.”

“No, there was something else—”

“Everything okay here?” You and Dorian looked up. John stood in front of your desk, glancing between the two of you with a concerned frown. You scratched your neck and nodded, motioning to your screen. Dorian stood and pushed the chair back where it belonged. “You sure?” John asked you.

You nodded again. “Yeah.” You sat back, adjusting the keyboard in front of you. “I’m gonna stay and finish this report. I’ll send it in for the both of us, okay?”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” You smiled. “Get outta here.”

He hesitated by your desk, knocking his knuckles against it. “Let me know if you need help, okay?” he murmured.

You stared at him. “John—”

“I’m goin’,” he sighed.

You fished around in your bag and pulled out a set of wireless headphones, then synced it up to your phone, and got to work. Valerie left with a man you didn’t recognize, and Richard walked out after her a few hours later. Captain Maldonado left shortly after them. The lights dimmed and the MX’s headed off to the elevators that took them down to the basement. You stretched your arms above your head and groaned, then tugged the sleeves of your shirt up and twisted around in your seat.

Someone pulled your headphone off. You jumped. John stepped back, holding his hands up. The set dangled from his fingers.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said with an amused smile.

“Why are you still here?” you sighed, rubbing your face. You flopped back into your seat and turned to your computer. John pulled up a chair. He set the headphones down after powering them off, then slid a glass over to you. You stared at it.

“It’s bourbon,” he said with a nod to the glass. You turned your chair slowly until you faced him. “Thought you could use it.”

You picked it up. “You thought right,” you slowly said. He held up his glass. You clinked your own against it with a smile.

As John took a slow drink, he pointed at your arm. You turned it out towards him. “Dorian said it was a moonflower?”

You stopped, the glass to your lips. “Why?” you hesitantly asked.

He stared at your tattoo for a long time. Then, he gulped down the rest of his bourbon and pulled up his sleeve. On the outside of his bicep was a simple rectangle. He turned his arm out and showed you the inside of his arm. The outline of a familiar flower stared back at you. You practically threw your glass onto the desk and slid to the edge of your seat. You traced the flower with a faint touch.

“It was on my leg,” he said after a long stretch of silence. You bit your lip. “Nurse in the ICU was nice enough to draw it better for me after about a hundred ugly little sketches.” You gasped out a laugh, dazed at the fact that it was there, right in front of you. “So, what’s in the rectangle?” he asked.

You glanced up, too engrossed in the fact that your flower was tattooed on his skin. The flower you had thought a good representation of a soulmate - something you made, that was unique, that only appeared after certain conditions were met. You shook your head faintly, and whispered, “The name Reginald in your shitty handwriting.”

“You knew?” he asked.

You licked your lips and hesitantly pulled your hands back. “I dunno, I didn’t know for sure, I hadn’t seen the handwriting since I got it covered up, I—”

John cupped your face in his hands, cutting your sentence off. He leaned in, paused, then closed the gap between you both in a surprisingly soft kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed.

Soulmate or not, you couldn’t believe that he returned your feelings. You gripped the front of his shirt and kissed him back.

#almost human #john kennex #john kennex x reader #john kennex/reader #almost human on fox #almost human requests #almost human asks #hlabounty96

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agentrouka-blog · 3 years

Text

The Waters in the godswood, death and life.

I’ve been looking at some the relationship between Catelyn and the Winterfell godswood and I realized there’s a fascinating connection between the bodies of water and Sansa and Arya.

She put her hand on his cheek, and held it there while he felt how warm she was. "That is how life should feel," she told him. "Only death is cold." (ASOS, Jon XI)

Cold and hot water. Two girls half-fish.

AGOT, Catelyn I opens with a description of the godswood, a contrast between the life-affirming one at home, and the gloomy one in Winterfell.

Opening line:

Catelyn had never liked this godswood.

She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.

The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.

Among the images invoking night (dark, shadows), unease (gloomy crowded, twisted, misshapen) and death (decay, silence) we have some Arya references: stubborn, needles, no names.

It goes on:

For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.

At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful.

The black, cold pool with its death imagery and the terms “faceless” and “vanished children”, the “long face” recall two things:

1) Arya, a vanished child, and the dark pool in the House of Black and White:

In the center of the temple she found the water she had heard; a pool ten feet across, black as ink and lit by dim red candles. (AFFC, Arya I)

and

The dead were never hard to find. They came to the House of Black and White, prayed for an hour or a day or a year, drank sweet dark water from the pool, and stretched out on a stone bed behind one god or another. (AFFC, Arya II)

and

Poisons. She understood then. Every evening after prayer the waif emptied a stone flagon into the waters of the black pool. (AFFC, Arya II)

2) Jon and Ygritte in the cave of Gendel’s children.

Ygritte stumbled into the pool and screeched at the cold of the water. When Jon laughed, she pulled him in too. They wrestled and splashed in the dark, and then she was in his arms again, and it turned out they were not finished after all.

“Jon Snow,” she told him, when he’d spent his seed inside her, “don’t move now, sweet. I like the feel of you in there, I do. Let’s not go back t’ Styr and Jarl. Let’s go down inside, and join up with Gendel’s children. I don’t ever want t’ leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever.” (ASOS, Jon IV)

The cave of flesh-eating lost children. With the dark, cold water. What a prospect. The cave and its memory are always connected to death.

So, we have this association of the Winterfell godswood with darkness, death, cold black water - and Arya.

AGOT, Catelyn II, meanwhile, concerns itself with the hotsprings.

Opening line:

Of all the rooms in Winterfell’s Great Keep, Catelyn’s bedchambers were the hottest. She seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man’s body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards. That was a little thing, in summer; in winter, it was the difference between life and death.

Catelyn’s bath was always hot and steaming, and her walls warm to the touch. The warmth reminded her of Riverrun, of days in the sun with Lysa and Edmure, but Ned could never abide the heat. The Starks were made for the cold, he would tell her, and she would laugh and tell him in that case they had certainly built their castle in the wrong place.

Again the comparison to Riverrun, this time positive. The hot springs are a contradiction, “un-Stark-like” although they are life-giving and healing. Nonetheless, they are part of the godswood.

Across the godswood, beneath the windows of the Guest House, an underground hot spring fed three small ponds. Steam rose from the water day and night, and the wall that loomed above was thick with moss. Hodor hated cold water, and would fight like a treed wildcat when threatened with soap, but he would happily immerse himself in the hottest pool and sit for hours, giving a loud burp to echo the spring whenever a bubble rose from the murky green depths to break upon the surface. (AGOT, Bran VI)

Hot bath water (unlike scalding hot water) is associated with healing and comfort.

A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded him like a hot bath. (AGOT, Bran III)

It connects Sansa to Winterfell, especially:

The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became. Her maids sluiced the blood off her face, scrubbed the dirt from her back, washed her hair and brushed it out until it sprang back in thick auburn curls. (AGOT, Sansa VI)

Or accompanies her castle building.

She heard the door open as her maids brought the hot water for her bath. They were both new to her service; Tyrion said the women who'd tended to her previously had all been Cersei's spies, just as Sansa had always suspected. "Come see," she told them. "There's a castle in the sky." (ASOS, Sansa IV)

Or downright echoes Cat:

"I used to dream of it, in those years after Cat went north with Eddard Stark. In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold."

"No. It was always warm, even when it snowed. Water from the hot springs is piped through the walls to warm them, and inside the glass gardens it was always like the hottest day of summer."

(ASOS, Sansa VII)

And Jon prefers the hot water, too:

The day before last, Jon had made the mistake of wishing he had hot water for a bath. "Cold is better," she had said at once, "if you've got someone to warm you up after. The river's only part ice yet, go on."

Jon laughed. "You'd freeze me to death." (ASOS, Jon II)

And is equally reminded of Winterfell and the godswood:

The warmth took some of the ache from his muscles and made him think of Winterfell's muddy pools, steaming and bubbling in the godswood. Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins. (ASOS, Jon XII)

The hot water conjures images of rebuilding, of castles and gardens, rather than death.

So we have the cold waters and the hot waters both in the same godswood. Tully and Stark, life and death.

Of course, it is Catelyn herself, who has now turned away from life-giving to death.

Lady Stoneheart lowered her hood and unwound the grey wool scarf from her face. Her hair was dry and brittle, white as bone. Her brow was mottled green and grey, spotted with the brown blooms of decay. The flesh of her face clung in ragged strips from her eyes down to her jaw. Some of the rips were crusted with dried blood, but others gaped open to reveal the skull beneath. (AFFC, Brienne VIII)

Which unsubtly mirrors this - but with an interesting twist:

The priest lowered his cowl. Beneath he had no face; only a yellowed skull with a few scraps of skin still clinging to the cheeks, and a white worm wriggling from one empty eye socket. "Kiss me, child," he croaked, in a voice as dry and husky as a death rattle.

Does he think to scare me? Arya kissed him where his nose should be and plucked the grave worm from his eye to eat it, but it melted like a shadow in her hand.

The yellow skull was melting too, and the kindliest old man that she had ever seen was smiling down at her. (AFFC, Arya I)

Which has me hoping...

"Stupid little bitch." Fires glinted off the snout of his helm, and made the steel teeth shine. "You go in there, you won't come out. Maybe Frey will let you kiss your mother's corpse."

"Maybe we can save her . . ." (ASOS, Arya XI)

… will have a pay-off, when “Mercy” returns to “Mother Merciless”.

Baby Persephone returns to Mother, and the images of decay and death from the godswood may stop clinging to Arya, and she might return to something a little more associated with happiness:

The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers. (AGOT, Catelyn I)

Like...

She had Ned's long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. (ACOK, Catelyn VII)

And

One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers.

(AGOT, Sansa I)

Arya in a godswood that celebrates life, rather than death.

Meanwhile the Sansa building Winterfell from snow “in the wrong place” will pay off in having her return to the original hot springs and rebuild there from the ruins, like Jon imagined. Like the original Starks.

Persephone joining Hades, Winterfell rising around her again, like the original did around the godswood. Only this time with a laughing tree.

Brandon Stark built Winterfell around the time of the first Long Night, and its return suggests that whatever happened then was not a cure but a temporary solution. The memory is only preserved in song and legend, the Wall is a divisive penal colony, the dead are marching once more.

The Starks will have to face the conflict that marked the birth of their House. They will need to do it over, and do it right this time.

Winterfell is in ruins, and perhaps it needed to be, in order to be reborn for a time where “Winter is coming” is no longer a necessary warning.

This:

The green and yellow panes of the glass gardens were all in shards, the trees and fruits and flowers torn up or left exposed to die. Of the stables, made of wood and thatch, nothing remained but ashes, embers, and dead horses. Bran thought of his Dancer, and wanted to weep. There was a shallow steaming lake beneath the Library Tower, and hot water gushing from a crack in its side. (ACOK, Bran VII)

and this...

Of Winterfell burned and tumbled, its people scattered and slain. The glass gardens were smashed, and hot water gushed from the cracked walls to steam beneath the sun. (ASOS, Bran I)

and this...

The thatch and timber had been consumed by fire, in whole or in part, and under the shattered panes of the Glass Garden the fruits and vegetables that would have fed the castle during the winter were dead and black and frozen. (ADWD, The Prince of Winterfell)

Will turn to this:

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us. (ASOS, Jon V)

And they will remember this:

In fact, three acres alone are given over to an ancient godswood, where legend tells us Brandon the Builder once prayed to his gods. Whether this is true or not, the antiquity of the grove cannot be contested. And the godswood no doubt benefits from the hot springs that are contained within it, protecting the trees from the worst of the winter's chill.

Indeed, the presence of the hot springs—which pepper the land around Winterfell—may be the chief reason why the First Men initially settled there. One can easily imagine the value that a ready source of water—and hot water, at that—would have had in the depths of a Northern winter. In recent centuries, the Starks have raised structures that have made direct use of these springs for the purpose of heating their dwellings.

(A World of Ice and Fire - The North: Winterfell)

You know nothing, Ned Stark. Cat was right. The hot water is the point of Winterfell. Blood of Winterfell. Key to the North.

Or, you knew one thing:

"Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa … Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you … and I need both of you, gods help me." (AGOT, Arya II)

Persephone bringing life and spring, both of them.

#asoiaf #arya stark #sansa stark #catelyn stark #hot water #cold water #Hot Springs #Winterfell #Winterfell godswood

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theheartsmistakes · 4 years

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The Last Night Part IV

(Author’s Notes: Does anyone even read this part? I’m going to pretend like you all do... Hello everyone! Here is the next installment of my Jordelia fan-fiction based on the characters created by the amazing Cassandra Clare in her trilogy Chain of Gold. This is really turning into what the cool kids call a “slow burn”. I never intended it to have such an extensive plot, but this quarantine is really bring forth my imagination. Anyway, if you enjoyed this please give it a like, reblog, comment, or feel free to just pop in and say hi. As always, thank you for reading! Happy and safe quarantine to you all. P.S. I have added an original character “Martin” for the selfish reason that I didn’t want to kill Cyril. Please forgive the inconsistency.)

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Part IV

“Maybe he should lie down?”

“I don’t need to lie down, mother,” said James, not unkindly, but with a bit of annoyance. “He’s removing a bracelet, not my arm.”

“If you don’t remain still,” said Magnus, his dark eyebrows glistened with flecks of glitter when he arched them, “it might well be.”

Magnus stood in front of James in the center of the Institute library with James’s hand suspended between them while the warlock focused his attention on the seemingly inconsequential silver band that adorned James’s wrist. If one were looking from afar without any context at all it might appear comical. Flecks of blue light danced from Magnus’s fingertips causing the silver to rattle against James’s skin. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or if the bracelet had begun to glow. No. It was most certainly glowing and hot. It rattled and spun until it became so hot that James ripped his arm away on instinct.

Magnus looked up, resigned and slightly paled. “It’s a much more powerful spell than I initially realized.”

“How do you mean?” Will asked from where he sat on the desk under the arched stain glass window cut and stained to look like the angel Raziel rising up to the heavens. Rain hit the glass as thunder crackled against the Institute’s walls rattling the crystal chandelier above them. “Will it come off?”

“It’s the strangest thing.” Magnus picked up James’s wrist again. “An absolute work of genius, actually. It’s as if it’s alive and it’s fighting against my magic.”

“Well I’ve had quite enough.” Lucie stood up from the floor where she had been petting Church in long, absentminded strokes. The cat gave a placid meow when she’d stopped. She smoothed out her dress and walked towards the door. “There seems to be only one thing left to do.”

“What’s that?” Matthew asked from where he stood in front of the door, blocking her way. He seemed more steady than his usual self. His hand wasn’t twitching where it held the door frame; his eyes remained focused and clear. They had all wondered what brought on his sudden sobriety. It seemed after one conversation with her father and he’d dropped the sauce like one of his waist coats that he deemed “out of style”. Will had that effect on people. It was best not to question it.

“I’m going to collect Grace Blackthorn and drag her here so that she can ask James to remove the bracelet her-bloody-self.” Lucie came to a stop in front of Matthew. It may have been the shadows cast across his face, but Matthew almost appeared afraid.

“No, Lucie, we aren’t sure what Grace is capable of,” said Tessa. “You said only moments ago that she confessed the truth about the bracelet, but you failed to think to bring her here to remove it?”

Lucie’s mouth opened in defense, but closed as if she forgot what she intended to say. She turned back to Matthew with a quizzical grimace. “Why didn’t we bring Grace back with us?”

“She—“ Matthew raised a pale eyebrow. “I must say I don’t recall.”

Lucie turned her back against the wall and crossed her arms over chest. Heat radiated to her face despite the chill that surrounded the room. Anxiety prickled underneath her skin like the desire to run as far and as fast as she could.

It’d been a whole day since she last spoke to Cordelia. They’d stood in the foray of her Aunt Cecily’s home after having walked in on her brother ravishing Grace Blackthorn against a wall. It was not an image that would soon evaporate from her memories. A blind rage filled her so suddenly that she feared she might have blacked out for a moment. When she came to, the walls behind James and Grace started to ripple and crease as translucent figures emerged from the atrocious paisley wallpaper. Their fleshless hands reached for the disentangled couple when Cordelia wrapped her hand around Lucie’s wrist and the door closed between them.

No one had seen anything. Not even her brother whose eyes were fastened on Cordelia. No one knew the dark depths to which her power could reach— not even herself.

“I know you’re upset, darling,” said Tessa, from beside her daughter now, “but have faith that Magnus can remove the bracelet and we will figure this all out.”

“We don’t have time for faith and waiting.” Lucie dropped her arms back to her sides. “Cordelia is on her way to Idris and after what James did, she’s likely to rune her room with wards not even the Angel himself can get through.”

James grimaced. Good, she thought. He deserves to be in pain.

“That doesn’t sound like Cordelia to me,” said Tessa and pressed a hand to Lucie’s cheek. “You’re warm darling, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.” Lucie insisted. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment I think I’ll pop into the kitchen for a glass of water while I have faith and wait.”

Tessa looked resigned. “Maybe someone should go with you.”

“It’s only down the hall,” said Lucie, skirting past her mother towards the now empty doorway. Matthew stood beside James, an arm around his shoulder, as the two of them studied the bracelet. Matthew said something in James’s ear that brought a small smile to her brother’s face. Whatever they had fought about only days ago, it seemed not to matter now. Or if it did, other things took precedence at the moment.

Tears stung her eyes as she turned from the scene and exited the room.

The framed pictures on the hallway walls rattled with the thunder. Lucie stopped to readjust one that had tilted slightly of her sitting in a deep purple velvet arm chair studying a book. She secretly hated the likeness— not because it didn’t capture her respectfully— but because of the memory of it. She had to sit for nearly four hours listening to the artist drone on about his holiday in the Americas while her brother clashed swords with Matthew in the training room next door.

“Chin up, dear.” Bridget would say from time to time. “You’ll look like a potato.”

Lucie left the photo off center and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. To her relief, it was empty. Bridget was probably in her room reading or minding the Institute’s many chores. The kitchen always smelt like rosemary, freshly baked loaves, and exotic spices. It was heavenly and had an instant calming effect on Lucie. Memories of being a child and helping Bridget beat dough with her tiny fists until she was covered in flour from her mess of mousy brown curls to her apron came to mind. What she wouldn’t give to have a mound of dough to beat now.

Lucie walked around the center island, covered in a thin layer of flour, to the cupboard that housed the glassware and pulled a cup from the shelf. The pitcher of cold water sat beside the sink; she filled her cup to the brim and took a sip when a slight chill brushed against the exposed skin on the back of her neck.

“Not now, Jessamine.” Lucie stared down into her reflection in the cup. The soft wispy hair around her face stood out in delicate curls she’d inherited from her father. A leaf sat tucked behind her ear. The coal she’d lined her eyes with had run making her eyes appear wide and fatigued.

“Should I return later then?”

The cup fell from her hands and shattered at her feet, but she hardly seemed to notice. She spun around and faced the voice. “Jesse.”

A smile curved at the corner of his mouth. His straight black hair fell against his pale skin and swept across his green eyes that studied her from across the room.

“Where have you been?” The shattered glass crushed under her shoes as she moved forward to meet him. An uncontrollable desire to grab him around the shoulders and collapse into him made it difficult for her to breath evenly. She knew she couldn’t; that it wasn’t possible anymore, but reality rarely dissolved desire.

“Tracking my fugitive mother,” said Jesse, his lips curled over his teeth. “I thought how hard could it possibly be to find a woman who still chooses to wear an enormous Victorian bird hat? Well, it turns out that it’s extremely difficult. If you needed me why didn’t you summon me sooner?”

Lucie averted her eyes to the ink stain marks on her fingers. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

After commanding him against his will to take her to James, she’d made a promise not only to him, but to herself to never command him to do anything again. That included summoning him to her even when she longed to just hear his voice.

“It’s alright, Lucie.” Jesse stepped towards her but stopped. “Why did you summon me now?”

She looked up aghast. “I didn’t.”

“I heard you,” said Jesse, his expression softened. “It was faint but I heard you.”

Lucie shook her head. “Jesse, I promise you that I did not, or if I had, I hadn’t meant to.”

Jesse opened his mouth to reply when he looked to the kitchen doors. “Someone’s coming.”

Lucie waited for the doors to swing open to reveal her mother, or father, or Matthew coming to retrieve her after being gone for too long. The air in front of the door rippled, like heat rising on pavement, until the form of a man materialized out of the haze. He was dressed in a rain soaked driver’s uniform, but his back was bent out of shape and his right leg curved out at an unnatural angle.

“Martin?” Lucie balked, recognizing the man that has driven her carriage since she was a child.

Lucie and Jesse both moved towards the ghost from either side of the room. The water that dripped from his coat splashed onto the floor and instantly dissolved into mist.

“What’s happened to you?” Lucie demanded.

Martin looked between them as if he wasn’t all together sure how he’d come to be standing in front of them. “I was told by others that you would be able to see me; that you would be able to help.” He looked down at his hands. “I feel so strange. Everything and nothing at the same time.”

“Martin?” Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized that he was dead; a ghost standing in her kitchen as he had all of her life. Always casually slipping in to steal a fresh biscuit behind Bridget’s back with only crumbs and Lucie’s giggles left to give him away. He would listen to her stories on long drives and praise her for her prose. He’d laugh in all the right places and made her promise to sign a copy of her first published work, so he could keep it on his mantle. “What happened to you?”

“I was taking Mr. and Miss Carstairs to the London Portal when we were attacked.”

“Cordelia.” Lucie rushed forward. “Where is Cordelia?”

“I don’t know—“ Martin’s body began to flicker and wain, “I don’t have much time. I’m not supposed to be here, you see, but I fear something terrible may have happened. Something truly, truly terrible.”

Lucie burst through the library doors, the hem of her dress wet from her cup of water and her face noticeably pale.

The previous occupants of the room where joined by three more: Christopher stood beside Magnus surveying the bracelet and Thomas towered next to Matthew. Anna Lightwood was holding Church like a baby beside the fireplace. They all looked to her as she entered.

“It’s Cordelia.” Lucie shouted, her hand gripped the wall to keep her stable. “She’s been attacked.”

The room fell silent except for the small yet noticeable ting of metal hitting stone. Lucie’s eyes, along with everyone else’s, looked down at James’s feet where the bracelet now rested half on the toe of his boot and half on the floor.

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peachywise · 6 years

Text

little games

richie tozier x reader

– Part IV || ⋆ Introduction ⋆ Part I ⋆ Part II ⋆ Part III ⋆ Part IV ⋆ Part V (more to be released)

– Synopsis: It was a harmless prank. At least, Richie thought so. Your reaction wasn’t one he exactly expected. (aged up)

– Notes: hey!! i hope you guys like this latest installment. it’s a bit more angsty than the other ones, but it’s sort of the jumping off point for a deeper plot in the story!! let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!! there’s a slight abuse tw in this, nothing is shown, but hinted.

That bastard was playing some sort of mind game, and you were about to snap. Seriously. It had been an entire week since the super glue incident, and Richie had been dead silent. He hadn’t done a single thing to you other than pass you in the hall and give you a brief glance. Part of you feared maybe you had gone too far in trying to take Eddie away from him, but even then, wasn’t this what you wanted? For him to leave you alone? Maybe you had just gotten so used to the fights and the pranks that now you were just… bored.

Yeah. That had to be it.

Still, you felt constantly ready for some kind of bomb to go off. Even Bill had noticed your increased anxiety, and his worrying over you had gotten just as bad as it had been when you first moved here. That needed to change. You couldn’t deal with it.

So, after school today, you fully intended to walk straight up to Richie and ask him what his deal was. If he was done with this prank war, then fine. You’d accept it, and move on. You just had to know and stop living in fear that he was going to chop your hair off with scissors, or pop into your room while you were sleeping a shove a pie in your face. You were anxious for his answer, though you wouldn’t dare admit it. All history class your fingers had been tapping on your desk, leg bouncing, pen clicking. Stan kept giving you odd looks and even Eddie had asked if you were okay. You just laughed, brushing it off. But your eyes stayed glued to the analog clock on the wall, each passing second ticking slower then the last.

Then, with just one call, it was like everything had stopped all together, and all thoughts of Richie dissipated away, replaced by pure fear. “Y/N?” the teacher said, moving to hang the corded phone back on the wall. “That was the front office. Your mother is here for a meeting, and you’re being called down. Something about a suspension?” Giving you an all too bored look, your teacher promptly returned to the lesson as if nothing of great significance had been said.

But it was significant. Terribly, threateningly significant. Your mother couldn’t be here. You needed to leave before she could get to you. In a state of pure panic, you shot up from your desk and didn’t even bother to collect your notebook before you headed straight for the door, not saying a single word to your friends who called your name, or your teacher as you left. Your breathing became erratic, and your vision started to blur due to the cold haze that settled over your consciousness. You just needed to leave, to get out, get out, get out.

Heading in the opposite direction, away from the office near the main entrance, you ran outside, fully intending to round back to the front to walk home, not even waiting for Bill. No doubt Eddie or Stan would let him know what had happened and where you were supposed to be, and he’d be able to put the pieces together from there. Walking down the front path of the school, still trying to calm yourself down and sneak away without anyone seeing, a sudden hand grabbed your forearm and nearly sent you into cardiac arrest, and the panic you had been trying to suffocate came back in a crashing wave, trying to suffocate you instead.

“Let go!” You screamed, ripping your arm away as the school bell rung in unison. Cowering slightly, you wrapped your arms around yourself. You started to run once more, but a masculine voice you instantly recognized called out your name instead of the scratchy, feminine one you had expected. “Richie, I-I, sorry, I have to go home. Let Bill know I left early?” you stated back with a shaky voice, as you begun to walk away without even giving him a passing glance. If he saw your face, he’d know something was wrong and you weren’t sure you could deal with getting made fun of at the moment.

“What, are you trying to sneak away from your meeting with the principal?” That stopped you. Taking in a sharp inhalation of breath, filling up your lungs to the point it almost hurt, you tried to stand a little straighter. “How do you know about that?” you gritted, as your fingers dug into your crossed arms, painfully trying to distract yourself as students started to exit the building, crowding around, bumping shoulders.

Turning around, you saw Richie pull an innocent face, and immediately your heart dropped. He planned this. “Uh, Y/N, what’s up with the pictures of you plastered everywhere?” A new voice joined in, as Bev casually made her way down the front steps, joining both you and Richie as she passed you a slip of paper.

Glancing down, the photo that Bev handed you was a picture used in your old school year book. Your face was bright, smiling with a mouth full of braces with food obviously caught in them and the tag line ‘looking for a prom date?’ added below. You would have been embarrassed, if it weren’t for the revolting anger that started to seep through your bones. Still refusing to look up at Richie, you quietly asked, “so is my mother here?”

Richie smirked. “What? You’re that afraid of getting suspended?” he questioned playfully, but your voice immediately started to cut him off as you whipped your head up, tears starting to fall down your face “Richie, is my mother here?” you shouted, as if that would finally get through that dumbass’s skull. His face immediately fell from it’s previous impish state, to one of pure confusion.

As he took a step forward, his hand slightly outreached, you took a step back away from him. “No, no, she’s not, I just needed to get you to the main entrance to see the pictures, thought I’d freak you out a bit with a fake suspension warning while I was at it,” he stated with uncertainty as his hand dropped back to his side. “Why are you so upset? I’ve done worse shit,” he added, as Bev moved towards you and gripped your hand in hers, giving you the same confused look as you wiped your tears away. Your mother wasn’t here.

You were safe. You were okay. “Hey, want me to give you a ride home?” Bev asked, as she gave a reassuring squeeze to your hand. You nodded your head, as you began to move towards the parking lot, completely ignoring Richie’s previous inquiry.

Richie stepped forward to stop you again. “Y/N, seriously, what’s going on?” He asked once more, this time a little more freaked out. Taking in a soft breath, you dropped Bev’s hand and turned to face him. “Did you forget I moved here to live with Bill, Richie?” You bit out, finally stepping closer to him as you gave him what looked like the worlds most pathetic threatening stare in your mentally exhausted state. “I don’t live with my mother. Next time you try and prank me, use some fucking common sense and get your facts straight,” you snapped, before turning on your heel and making your way back to Bev and her car.

After Bev had dropped you off, it was only twenty minutes until your cousin Bill had made his way home. He immediately veered into your room, a concerned look washed over his face as he sat on the opposite end from you on your windowsill. “I heard what happened,” he stated. You just nodded your head, unsure of what to say. In Bev’s car, you had finally calmed down enough for the anger to dissipate. She hadn’t pushed you to tell her what happened. In all honestly, you figured she had already guessed why the idea of seeing your mother freaked you out so much. You would tell her eventually, but everything was too raw in that moment, and bottling it up was the only way you knew how to cope. Your mother couldn’t come near you anymore, so it was best just to leave the past in the past. At least, you hoped. “Are y-you okay?” He questioned, as he brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them in the exact same position you were in. You gave a tiny smile. “I’m okay, Bills,” you said. “I just panicked in the moment. She’s not here,” you reassured yourself, more than him. Bill gave you a sad smile. “Want me to talk to R-Richie?” he added, and you fiercely shook your head. That wouldn’t do any good. “He doesn’t know, and he isn’t ever going to know,” you murmured, turning your head back to look out at the perfectly suburban street. “I don’t want him to pity me,” you admitted, as you leaned your head back to rest against the wall. “I like it here, Bills,” you confessed, turning to look back at him. “I like your friends.” He corrected you with a slight smirk, “our friends.”

You laughed, nodding your head. “Our friends,” you reiterated. “Eddie, Ben and Richie are s-s-supposed to come over tonight to watch a m-movie,” Bill said, as you raised an eyebrow. “I can cancel it,” he offered. You shook your head. “It’s okay,” you mumbled, as you played with a loose thread on one of the pillows on the windowsill. “Richie unknowingly went too far with this prank. It’s not his fault, but I still can’t face him. I’ll just stay in my room tonight.” Bill’s forehead slightly creased as his head quirked to the side. “Y-you sure?” he questioned, as you turned your head to the window once more.

“Yeah,” you reassured.

It started to rain.

You ended up falling asleep not long after Bill left your room. Turns out, panic attacks take a lot out of a person. The only reason you had even woken up and not slept a good fourteen hours through the night was because you heard the boys start walking through the door. What a loud bunch.

Getting up with a small yawn, you moved over to your desk and quickly scrawled out a note on a piece of paper. You had an inking Richie would try and come talk to you, and you wanted to make it known you weren’t particularly in the mood. Moving to open up the door a crack, you quickly taped up your impromptu sign that read “Beep the beep off, Richie” (your aunt didn’t care all that much for your swearing), and turned to walk back inside. Before you could, however, an unsure voice called from down the hall, “hey, Y/N?”

Turning around to look, your eyes simply brushed over the messy haired boy, in his too big glasses and obscenely patterned shirt. ‘ You flipped him the bird before shutting your door.

After two and a half hours had passed, and you had made a sizeable dent in an essay that wasn’t due for another couple of days, you figured it was safe enough to leave your room. You’d heard the door close once or twice, and assumed the boys had already watched the movie and left.

You were a little embarrassed that you hid out for so long, but even seeing Richie in the hallway had panicked you a little bit. The thought of him knowing what had happened stressed you out, and you were still irrationally upset at his prank. Realistically, you knew you couldn’t blame him.

It still sucked, though.

Getting off your chair and stretching your arms out, you moved out of your room, intent on getting a small snack before you went to bed. As you were about to enter the kitchen, however, the sound of a frustrated voice stopped you.

Hiding behind the wall, you unashamedly began to ease drop.

“You n-need to leave Y/N alone, R-r-richie,” Bill stuttered, and you could almost hear how clenched his jaw must have been. Didn’t you tell him not to say anything? He shouldn’t be stepping in where he doesn’t belong. You hated when he hovered, and if he was going to continue to do this you were–

“Did they say something?” Richie inquired, pointedly annoyed. “Not directly, but–” Bill started to argue. Richie cut him off. “Then stay out of it. Bill, Y/N is a lot stronger than you think,” he started, his tone raised just slightly. “Christ, if they can keep up with the fucking shit I put them through before this, do you really think they can’t get past whatever happened today? I realized I stepped on a nerve. I won’t ask, and I don’t expect you to tell me anything, but I get it, alright?” Well, shit. Did you just start respecting bug eyes a little bit? “If they want me to leave them alone, they would tell me that, you don’t need to protect them so much,” he finished just as you stepped around the corner.

Bills eyes immediately widened as he caught sight of you.

Walking towards the fridge, you opened it and pulled out a carton of milk, before moving over to pour a bit of it into a cup. Both boys were silent, watching you, clearly unsure if you had heard exactly what had gone down.

Turning back to walk out, you clapped Bill on the shoulder as you passed and said, “don’t worry, you can protect Richie instead for what’s coming to him on Monday.”

You heard Richie muttered a soft, “fucking shit,” under his breath as you turned the corner.

– tags: @breaking-biles @ubertrashmouth @strangerthing-havehappend @wolfhard-tozier @sin3at3r @eighties-hoe @multi-parker @nicht-so-schnell @stan-the-losers-club-man @bailey-the-wise @firebreathingslytherinqueen @fearless2beme @winnsmills @of-outerspace @st353days @this-cute-shit-xo @hummingstan @babylovereddie @derrysdenbrough @socially-awkward-nerd @emmaamalie @catching-fire-in-the-wind @mikoalabear @thiccboychic @beepbeeprichtozier

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idolizerp · 6 years

Photo

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON GALAXY’S MAIN VOCALIST HWAN…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 20 DEBUT AGE: 17 SKILL POINTS: 13 VOCAL | 07 DANCE | 00 RAP | 10 PERFORMANCE

INTERVIEW

the little prince.

now, really, midas media couldn’t have come up with a better brand even if they had tried. the little prince was a household name: shot straight out of the stars, wide-eyed, cradling his beating, tender heart. dropped on this earth to question a world of grown-ups, who had all forgotten what was truly important in their every day lives. "it is only with the heart that one can see rightly,” so the novel had said. “what is essential is invisible to the eye.“

and what did the heart see?

midas’ heart set its sights on the one and only lee hwan. lee hwan, the poster child for Everything An Idol Should Be. lee hwan, the veteran trainee. lee hwan, the resident baby genius. cut from only the best cloth, hwan had always been destined for greatness – and, even before galaxy’s debut, he would go on to carry the title of midas media’s ‘little prince’ with pride and unabashed confidence. he was the trainee with his own fanclub, after all. the highly anticipated galaxy’s very own golden boy.

( so where had it all gone wrong? )

galaxy debuts in 2014. during the months prior, marketing had worked hard to keep his fans fed. it was hwan’s face that would pop up first in that green search engine and antoine de saint-exupéry’s novel would take home that loss. the public knew his face, the public knew his name. the public knew lee hwan, the little prince – …but who the hell was galaxy anyway?

the group’s debut was underwhelming at most. the ball was slow to start and it took more effort than they had ever anticipated to get it rolling. galaxy’s golden boy could only get them so far. and with the fanbase that did bloom, fans gushing over their little prince ( “he’s too pure! he’s too good for this world!” ), so grew his critics, as well ( “man, midas favors him. look at that line distribution. he can’t even sing that well?” ). lee hwan, the poster child for all idols. lee hwan, with his angelic face and tender voice. lee hwan, who had always been told that he had enough stage charisma to swallow up an entire audience whole –

yeah. no. lee hwan, the little prince, was pretty fucking disappointed.

and, needless to say, midas media was too.

( but hwan hadn’t given up everything for this. he hadn’t sacrificed his time, his effort, and his life for this. five years as a trainee. transplanted from masan, changwon-si, separated from his mother and his father and everything he had ever known. denied a normal childhood in the hopes of a legacy. promised greatness but shoved into the backseat at the first sign of mediocrity. no, hwan hadn’t signed up for this. and he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. )

hwan worked hard. carried the weight of his title like a shroud and worked really, really – really – fucking hard. weathered the negative feedback on his vocals, endured the company’s sudden reluctance to have him involved in album production. smiled like an angel for the cameras and jumped in with clever one-liners for the variety crowds. he fought tooth and nail, with that perfect, perfect face of his, to make a name for himself. to salvage his group. to endorse his members. to survive in an industry that worked like a goddamn revolving door.

because, let’s face it, if midas wasn’t going to save galaxy’s supposed golden boy, then lee hwan would do it himself. the little prince was his title – and he’d protect that goddamn crown until the very, bitter end.

BIOGRAPHY

circa 2009.

“is this really what you want to do, hwan-ah?”

hwan stares up at the gleaming building before him and swallows around the lump in his throat. his mother’s hand is too cold in his and he can feel his father’s gaze prickling at the nape of his neck. questioning him. doubting him.

hwan squares his shoulders. stands up as tall as he can.

“yes. i love music. i love singing,” he answers firmly. fake bravado saves him and he prays that his hand isn’t shaking in hers. “yes!”

three hours later, he presses a shaky, ink-stained thumb to a paper filled with too many words he does not understand. his father’s gaze is unreadable. his mother’s mouth twists as if she might cry. hwan drags his ink-stained thumb along the curve of her mouth and smiles when he stains her bottom lip red.

“please don’t cry,” is all that he says.

this is what i want, is what he hopes she hears, instead. i promise.

ii.

circa 2010.

he rolls his ankle first. his shoulder injury comes the week after.

most injuries could be brushed off – but the shoulder turns out to be tricky. hwan cannot wear it like the other bruises he hides beneath his hoodies and it refuses to be fixed by a trusty salon pas patch from the convenience store down the street – and so, finally, he relents on the seventh day.

the doctor sets his shoulder in a matter of minutes. eyes his ankle and leaves to update his medical chart. his aunt watches, teary-eyed, from the foot of the hospital bed – but hwan is no stranger to pain and manages to smile shakily by the end of it all. the nurse offers him a small sticker for his efforts.

“you were very brave,” she praises him warmly.

hwan returns the smile. wide and crooked.

“it didn’t even hurt!” he lies. “i’m used to worse!”

this earns him a curious smile. his aunt clears her throat.

“he’s a trainee,” she clarifies. “a trainee at midas media. he’s in his first – no, his second year. injuries… are common. he – he dances a lot.”

“ah,” the nurse clicks her tongue, peeling off another sticker from her roll. she presses it onto hwan’s cheek, now, with a grin. “then here’s one more for you. please don’t forget me when you become a big superstar, hwan-gun!”

“i won’t!” he laughs brightly, rubbing at the sticker on his face. “you and my aunt can join my fanclub as soon as it opens! i’ll make sure you’re the first ones! i’ll even sing for you two when you join!”

the nurse nearly presses her entire roll of stickers into his palms after.

iii.

circa 2011.

“you wrote this?”

hwan can’t tell if he’s in trouble or not. he tucks his hands behind his back respectfully and straightens up just in case.

“yes. yes, i did.”

yongguk stares at the tattered notebook in his hands, hwan’s headphones still dangling from one of the pages. he itches to reach for it but holds himself back. wills himself to stay put, hands politely folded, his expression schooled into the closest thing to neutral as he can make it.

“this…” yongguk starts, voice unbelieving. “hwan-ah, this is…”

he finally looks up from the notebook and meets the young trainee’s gaze. hwan isn’t sure what exactly the producer is looking for but yongguk searches his face like he’s looking for the path to enlightenment in hwan’s crooked wire-rimmed glasses.

“this is really… really… really – good,” he finally breathes out. he slowly sits down. steals hwan’s usual spot against the bookcase but doesn’t even seem to notice. his eyes are already back on the notebook, thumb smoothing over half-finished lyrics, written in hwan’s messy scrawl. “how long have you been writing your own music, kid?”

hwan (he’s pretty sure, now, that he isn’t in trouble. probably. hopefully.) takes an uncertain seat down beside the older man. rubs at the back of his neck and wrinkles his nose.

“i don’t know?” he replies truthfully. “since the beginning? before i came here. before i started. i don’t know. i can’t remember the first song i made. i think i’m just always making music. i’m always listening to something. i always wanna listen to something. i’ve never… i never thought someone else would wanna hear it too.”

yongguk’s voice turns reverent and he reaches out eagerly for the boy’s wrist. pulls him in closer. motions towards the mp3 player and the dangling earbuds.

“let me listen again,” he asks earnestly. sincerely. hwan feels something swell in his chest that he can’t quite place his finger on. it feels like pride. pride in being praised? pride in being heard? his head swims and he feels lightheaded with emotion when yongguk tugs at his wrist again. “let me listen one more time?”

yes, i love music! i love singing!

the memory echoes in his ears and, as yongguk eagerly hits play, hwan suddenly realizes that he wants to add one more thing to that list.

i love music. i love singing.

but i think i might love making music – and letting people listen to it – even more.

iv.

circa 2012.

"is that lee hwan?”

“the lee hwan? midas’ lee hwan?”

“oh my god, he’s even better looking in person.”

“kinda short though, don’t you think? i read in a daum cafe that he’s not even 160cm! maybe that’s why he still hasn’t debuted. they’re waiting for him to grow a few more centimeters, kekeke.”

“shh, what if he hears you?”

“he can’t hear anything, he has headphones in –”

hwan rolls his eyes and sits up straighter. taller. his shoulder aches at the sudden movement and he rests his head against the bus’ glass windowpane for support. the city is speeding by, the sun melting into the concrete horizon up ahead. the school girls to his left fall away and he tilts his chin up, letting the light kiss his face.

he forgets about practice, he forgets about his shoulder. he forgets about the questioning, prying, curious eyes to his left and to his right – maybe that’s why he still hasn’t debuted yet? kekeke – and simply lets the sunset swallow him up whole.

circa 2013.

“is that the best you can do?”

jungah ssaem’s gaze is unforgiving and hwan bristles beneath it. yesterday, this had been enough. yesterday, jungah ssaem had praised him for being great.

“did i do something wrong?” he counters, meeting her glare with his own. if he was older, he would’ve resisted. if he was smarter, he wouldn’t have started at all. but lee hwan is sixteen years old with an ego that barely makes it through the front door and he isn’t about to take shit from a vocal trainer who had failed out of a girl group seven years prior. “i thought i sounded fine.”

jungah’s eyes narrow.

“you sound the same as you did yesterday,” she replies curtly. “did you even practice the points i told you to review?”

hwan is unimpressed and unfazed. he flops back down onto the piano bench and rolls his shoulders back, rubbing at an aching spot with a frown.

“i don’t agree with the points you wanted me to practice,” he answers simply. “if i add in the adlib you want, it makes me sound old. this way is trendier. it sounds better like this.”

“lee hwan, are you really that–”

“good?” hwan lifts his gaze to meet the older woman’s. levels it steadily and yawns once. “yes. i am. i know what sounds good. yongguk hyung already approved, too. i’m keeping it this way. i sound better this way.”

if looks could kill, jungah ssaem would’ve murdered him, right then and there.

luckily, she can’t. obviously, she won’t. not if she wants to keep this job. not as long as lee hwan fucking sits on his stupid throne.

hwan yawns again and reaches for his headphones.

“are we done here?”

vi.

circa 2014.

“i’m proud of you, hwan-ah.”

his mother is shaking and hwan moves to pull her closer. gathers her in his arms and presses his cheek to the top of her head. his limbs are clumsy. he hasn’t held her (she hasn’t held him) since he was a child and he isn’t sure what to do with his elbows. she leans into him anyway.

“you looked so good up there on stage, honey,” she whispers into the collar of his shirt. he can hear his members hollering behind him. “i’m so, so proud of you.”

the words smooth over his heart like a balm.

like a sunset on a bus in june, it warms him from the inside out. fills out the cracked, broken parts of himself. soothes the ache in his shoulder that burns more from bitterness than injury, better than any medication could. i’m so proud of you. he thinks it might make up for the years lost, too. the graduation he missed, the friends he hasn’t seen. i’m so proud of you. does it make up for his father’s absence? does it make up for the years he spent sweating, crying, bleeding alone, in practice rooms meant for five but could only allow one? the disappointment, the hope, the gossip, the hate. his crippling pride and the soul-crushing competition. is it enough to make up for it all? is it enough for him?

i’m so proud of you.

yes, hwan thinks with a slow exhale. yes, it is.

i love music, i love singing!

“this is what i always wanted, remember?” hwan breathes in his mother’s perfume. tightens his grip around her and tries to hold his broken family together in his arms. “this is what i want. this is what i’ve always wanted.”

i’m so proud of you, lee hwan.

vii.

circa 2015.

the first headline reads: much-awaited galaxy debut! overshadowed by produce 101′s breakout season finale?

the second: midas media speaks out on declining record sales. olympus will save the kpop wave!

hwan drops the third ( who is galaxy – ) without even bothering finishing reading the title. his drink is sour and the sunset has been long finished.

he stares outside the black, empty window, regardless.

viii.

circa 2016.

(he didn’t fucking sign up for this.)

ix.

circa 2017.

“lee hwan,” jungah smiles coolly, raising her coffee cup to him from across the hall.

hwan grits his teeth and forces himself to stop, dipping his head in a brief, uncomfortable bow. her smile only grows.

“i heard this unit doesn’t include you?” she taps a finger against the cardboard cup and hums, sing-song. “what’s yongguk doing – not including you on this track? seems strange not to include the main vocalist, don’t you think?”

“this concept isn’t–” hwan suddenly snaps his mouth shut. swallows down the words. the defensive retort that had threatened to tumble out. it burns down his throat like the very coffee in jungah’s hands.

“what? cat got your tongue?” her mouth is twisted in a pleased, unnatural smile. she nods her head towards him dismissively. motioning for him to leave. motioning for him to keep fucking going.

“don’t worry,” she laughs down the hall as she heads towards the elevator. “…we’re done here, lee hwan.”

ix.

circa 2018.

“hwan, i didn’t know you were so clever!”

“your face is a gift from the heavens, to be honest.”

“your recent unit project was done so well, hwan. i heard you’re interested in participating in the actual production for the next one? fascinating!”

“i saw you on that variety show yesterday! you did great, honey.”

“hwan! lee hwan! can i please have your autograph!”

“my son actually told me the other day that he wants to become a singer because of you. he saw you and told me he wanted to become an idol, just like you, bless his heart. can you believe it?”

“hwan – lee hwan!”

i love music! i love singing!

this is what he wants.

whether he’s twelve, or fifteen, or twenty fucking years old.

this is what he wants!

even when he’s loved. even when he’s cast aside.

this is what he wants?

…right?

#id.bio #id.galaxy #id.midas #id.park jihoon

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turntechhex · 7 years

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Answer All The "Go on, ask!" Questions

god dammit ill put it all under the cut because its long

Whats your (full) name?dave koume striderHow old are you?twentyWhats your Birthday?december thirdWhat star sign does that make it?libraWhats your favorite color?pastel redWhats your lucky number?shrugging noisesDo you have any pets?a burrowing owl her name is albinaHow tall are you?5'5" dirk is taller than me by an inchWhat shoe size are you?6What was your last dream about?fighting a porcupineWhat would you do if you won the lottery?use the money so me and my twin can run away and live a happy life far away from where we are nowWould you like to build/design your own house?sureWhich form of public transport do you prefer?the subwayCan you juggle?noCan you solve a rubix cube?noDo you have a cherished childhood teddy bear?nahAre you psychic in any way?nopeAre you a good actor?im decent Are you a good writer?not reallyHave you ever been bungee jumping?god noHave you ever been canoeing/kayaking?yeah a while agoWhat types of holidays do you prefer?ones with lots of foodWhats the furthest you’ve ever been on vacation?we went to prince edward island once its pretty thereWhat was your favorite vacation?the one i just talked aboutWhere would your dream vacation be?going somewhere shady and quiet and rainy with dirk for a weekCan you tap dance?pfft noWhats your favorite animal?any kind of birdWhats your favorite sport?softballWhats your favorite food?oyster burgers Whats your favorite pizza topping?banana peppersWhats your favorite movie?the sixth senseWhats your favorite song?ground control by all time lowDo you want children?i dont knowmaybe somedayif i could find a good person to raise them withwhen im a bit olderDo you want a church wedding?noAre you religious?noDo you like reality TV programs?not really Do you like TV talent shows?yesIf you could go back in time to change one thing what would it be?i would screw over the witch huntersHow many hats do you own?like threeAre you any good at pool?god noWhats the highest you’ve ever jumped into the water from?ive been cliff jumping beforeHave you ever been admitted to hospital?many timesHave you ever had any brushes with the law?the government is actively searching me out so yeahHave you ever been on TV?noDo you prefer baths or showers?showers Do you prefer towel drying, blow drying or natural drying your hair?towel drying so it stays nice and fluffyWhat color socks are you wearing?grayIf you could live anywhere, where would that be?idk somewhere safe and secluded by a forest or in a forestWould you like to be a big celebrity?no i like my privacyHow big is your TV?uh decent i thinkWhat type of music do you like?indie music mostlyHave you ever been skinny dipping?no but maybe somedayHow many Pillows do you sleep with?like sixWhat position do you often sleep in?curled up in a ballpreferably next to someoneWhat do you wear to bed?pajama pants or nothingDo you prefer sunrises or sunsets?sunsetsWhat do you typically have for breakfast?egg on toastDo you like scary movies?no i panic easilyWhats your favorite ice cream flavor?easily Have you ever been in a newspaper?not to my knowledge Have you ever fired a gun?yeahHave you ever tried archery?noWhat’s your favorite condiment?relishWhat’s your favorite clean word?auraWhat’s your favorite swear word?shitWhat’s your least favorite word?flap it sounds weirdWhat was the last movie you saw?emperors new groove What football team do you support?uh none?What’s the longest you’ve gone without sleep?79 hours aboutWhat’s the tallest building you’ve ever been up?im not sure Do you have any scars?i have manyWhen you were younger, what did you want to be when you grew up?i legit wanted to be a great horned owlIf you could change anything about yourself what would it be?change myself so im not so open about everythingWhat’s the longest you’ve ever grown your hair?shoulder length Are you scared of flying?noHave you ever tie-dyed your own clothes?when i was seven or somethingAre you reliable?yesHave you ever had a secret admirer?how would i knowIf you could ask your future self one question what would it be?did you keep them safeDo you hold grudges?dependsIf you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature what new animal would you create?owl and a sharkDo you decorate the outside of your house for Christmas?not really Can you solve Sudoku puzzles?noAre you much of a daredevil?yeahAre you a good liar?hell yesHow long could you go without talking?about an hour i guessWhat has been your worst haircut/style?once i thought that a zig zag cut would be coolCan you ice skate?not without slippingCan you do a somersault?yesWhats your favorite joke?sounds like thats a life hexHave you ever sleepwalked?haha yeahWhats your favorite TV commercial?that one where the kid is dressed as Garth vaderWhat traditionally adorns the top of your Christmas tree?a starWhat would be your dream sandwich?a hot thanksgiving sandwichCan you impersonate anyone famous?noCan you do any accents other than your own?not reallyDo you have a strong local accent?strong like my twin not in writing thoughDo you prefer blue or black inked pens?blackWhen was the last time you had to dress fancy?high school graduationDo you prefer green or red grapes?greenHow do you have your eggs?poachedWhats your favorite saying?theres no need to worry so muchCan you stand on your hands unassisted?yesWhat do you have on your fridge door?notes and stuffWho was the last person to knock/ring at your door?corvusWhat is one thing you wish you could tell your younger self?hold onto him and never let go and dont you dateWhat is your dream?to find someone who loves me unconditionally cheesy i know

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cvptaingiordano · 7 years

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☁

SEND ME A SYMBOL FOR… ( meme - accepting )

☁ FIVE TIMES MY MUSE HAS THOUGHT ABOUT YOURS, AND THE ONE TIME THEY DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. @omenwept

i. he’s sitting in class, gaze stuck on the small window as he watched the cars drive past the street, his attention nowhere near the explanation the professor seemed to be giving to him and the other kids sitting on the chairs between the walls of the small space. thoughts wander back to theo’s words, an invitation to a party that was being thrown at one of the students’s place. he knew for a fact that he wanted to go there with someone, and he didn’t even have to think over a couple of seconds to know w h o he’d wanted to go there with him. rosalie. they’d known each other for a while, hung out several times and perhaps even grown quite close. it was nice to be around her, nice to know that there were people out there willing to stick around him even if that stilinski boy was there - walking through the same corridors as him ( even if mason shouldn’t ) - ––––––– a doppelgänger something he would have never imagined he’d face. the whole situation seemed to cloud his mind several times a day, and as much as he tried to push all of those thoughts away he couldn’t. it was messed up, yes, yet rosalie still was there, sticking by his side through all the stress and insane stuff that seemed to be going on in his life. he’d told her about it all - how his parents had been murdered, why he was there in beacon hills - he’d told her all of that and she still stuck around him. that’s why she was the first one he thought about. she cared and he’d grown quite fond of her in a short amount of time. mason already saw her as his best friend, the one he trusted the most, the one he’d always call first if there was something going through his mind or he simply wanted to chat. that’s who she’d grown to be in his life in such a short amount of time. that’s why he wanted to take her with him, to that party - to perhaps get a little wasted and just forget about all the dumb shit going on in their lives - yet the boy didn’t. the hunter knew it wasn’t her scene.

ii. boredom is something he felt a few hours later ( or more like almost always ). he wasn’t sure how much time he’d spent on the sketch in his hands, wrist moving in slow circular motions as he made quick strokes, the ink leaving its trail across the small book. it’s relaxing in a way and it helped to forget about everything that seemed to be capable of driving him mad. which he felt he was going. why he felt so insecure about everything he did in this town as of late he wasn’t sure. it was almost as if everything he did, wasn’t even good enough anymore. every lead he got lead him nowhere, he wasn’t sure where vampires tried hiding at this point. he’d looked everywhere there - but something told him he had to keep looking. black inked pen continued to leave it’s mark across the sketch, lines curving to form the shape of a face, robotic features added into the mix as he added a taint of roughness to the piece. he wasn’t sure what to do. it’s in moments like those in which he wished to be able to do something about it all, to not be stuck like he’d been the past few days. he pauses for a split second, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he found himself thinking about whether he should tell her or not. it’s funny how he kept on telling himself that distractions would last forever, but they didn’t even last a few minutes. mason knew rosalie would understand, hell he knew that a simple chat about it would help him relax and be reassured that he wasn’t going nuts like he felt he was, yet still he wouldn’t tell her. he trusted her, but the last thing he would want was to cause her any more trouble, to worry her. he knew he already was a butt at lunch earlier today, insisting for them to quickly hurry and get some take away. he’d claimed it would be better than anything else - yet the restaurant he’d talked about had turned out to be closed. shaking his head a small laugh managed to part the boy’s lips as he tried to focus his attention back on the sketch, a sketch which was slowly turning out to look more like her than he would’ve imagined, yet he didn’t think too much of it. maybe one day he’d show her.

iii. he’s standing in a crowded room alone, his back resting against the wall as he stared down at his phone. he hadn’t stopped thinking about calling her to hang out - h o w funny considering he was supposed to be having fun at the place he was at. it was a party, the one place where he was supposed to be interacting socially with others, but instead he was there doing nothing at all ( asides from having eaten the entire bowl of doritos all by himself ) staring down at his phone as he read through their earlier conversation. he hadn’t even mentioned that he would be out tonight ( how odd ) nor had he asked her if she would like to join him. in a way he pushes it away simply, but the fact that he kept on reading back through the conversation clearly proved how he wanted to just call her and hang out. he realized he’d much rather be with her watching some boring ass movie than drinking cheap beer and getting smashed with others he didn’t exactly give a damn about. it almost seemed like he was torturing himself, doing things he wasn’t even enjoying on purpose. truth was he would love for them doing it all together - something different - something where they’d be able to let loose and actually behave like normal teens ( do the stupidest of things together ) it all sounded too appealing yet he never mentioned it - he would never say anything about it. she would think he was losing his mind. quickly mason made himself out of the small place, heading home to do something that would at least allow him to not be miserable once again. - that meant spending the whole night playing some stupid game that would lead him nowhere - it’s once again another distraction.

iv. four a.m and he’s still awake. this time he’s shut down his computer after raging at some kid ( h o w pathetic ) - deciding that it was best for him to just quit for the day. he let the weight of his body fall down against the mattress, his cat jumping on the bed as soon as he did so only for a small sigh to part the boys lips, hand reaching out to touch the furry animal as a gentle grin made its way onto his features. it was easy to be a cat, living with no worries asides from eating, drinking and finding a way to get someone’s attention. it seemed so simple. digits brush across the cat as he remember telling rosalie just that several days ago. only difference was that at that specific moment the boy had been complaining about the fact that she was always off to class, while he was either hanging around the park sketching, at home playing the same game for hours or trying a way to figure out who murdered his parent like they did. the simple thought of the dumb question he’d asked her, his mind going back in time as he wondered whether or not she’d asked herself about his sanity in that moment, he wouldn’t be surprised. it made him want to call her in that moment ( he simply liked it more than sending her a simple text ) but he didn’t want to. the fact that he could wake her up was something he didn’t want to risk. he himself already knew how much it sucked to have their beauty sleep ruined and more so on a friday ( his cat had done this to him on several occasions - how f u n ). maybe he’d tell her t o m o r r o w.

v. digits are hitting the key’s of his laptop, quickly typing away another entry where he explained all the little details which seemed to lead him somewhere. for once he felt accomplished. perhaps this time he would find out the truth behind the reason of that monster’s actions ( if he ever got to them ) - he would finally be at peace as he gave them what they deserve. he show rosalie the bits of information that he’d found. something that lead him out of beacon hills and that’s where he stopped typing away the message he was about to send, deleting the whole thing. he’s overthinking the whole thing, he knew so. as relieved as he was to finally have a lead to the unanswered questioned he’s had these past three years he knew if he did let her know of this that anything could go wrong. not that she would mislead him he knew she would never, but it was something entirely different. he didn’t want to get her involved. with a few clicks he saved the document, closing his laptop as he exhaled softly, the tips of his fingers tapping against the wooden desk quickly. he wanted to tell her, he wanted her to know everything but he didn’t want her to get hurt. if he were to piss anyone off on this journey of his they would possibly try and get back at him in the worst of possible ways. hurting the people he cares about, those including her. it’s a classic, a technique even his parents had used in the past to fight off werewolves, but of course he wouldn’t put her life at risk. he wouldn’t let anyone know that she was even a part of his life. if it meant keeping her safe and making sure that no one would end up hurt, he would do so. she’s important to him, really important. it hadn’t taken her too long to become a pillar in his life, one holding everything together, and that’s why he shut his phone off in that moment, making sure that he wouldn’t say anything he’d regret later. it was better for her to be safe, better if he didn’t tell her anything that might make others aware that in a way he was vulnerable, that he wasn’t invincible, that instead there was something that made him care more about someone else than himself. for once he wasn’t selfish, for once he actually care more than he would have wanted to.

vi. another day goes by without talking to her at all. this time he wasn’t sure what brought these thoughts into him, making him - turning him into someone odd ( someone entirely different ) someone he didn’t want to be. if there was a way for him to stop himself from bringing these thoughts into his head then he’d do so. digits are playing with the phone on his hands, his gaze stuck on the screen of his android as he pondered whether to call her or not, whether to ask her come to the woods, to their spot at the small lake. it’s where he’d hung out the past few hours, as if waiting for her to show up. he knew he had some explaining to do, as of why he’d been avoiding her these past four days. in a way it had been unintentional yet in another way all he’d truly wanted to do was to simply not bother the brunette. how s a d for all of it to be such a mess. gaze flickered across the screen, wondering what he should do. he knew what he wanted - he missed her after all. he wished to be able to talk to her once more and so with a quick shake of his head thumbs began typing away. a quick ‘hello c:’ something that in his world would be understood as an i miss you. it’s tragic for him to suddenly have become so vulnerable, so insecure, yet in a way it didn’t bother him much. it was almost as if things had shifted on his side, his only worry asides from finding out the truth suddenly becoming whether she’d be mad at him or not, whether she’d even answer back, yet he didn’t even give her the chance to type away nor even to come online as he was sending her a voice message this time. ❝ hey - rosalie yeah it’s me !! i uh- sorry for going missing these past few days. i know it was stupid - and i’m sorry but i uh- can you - can w e hang out ?? like right now ?? i’m at… you know where i am yeah ?? the little place we found a few weeks ago - ––––––– so if you want we can - y’know… i’ve got food with me too so if that makes the whole experience better. i won’t open the other bag of doritos i have with me. ❞ he’s rambled, his voice lingering at the end as if he were to say something more, which he felt like he wanted to, like he almost needed to but he sent the audio to her regardless. he wasn’t sure what it was that seemed to have made him so speechless for a split moment. he assumed it was the adrenaline pumping in his veins now that he’d gathered the courage to do this. to finally talk to her again it was - refreshing. still he wasn’t aware of the real difference behind that moment, the real reason why he’d suddenly stumbled over his own words, his self confidence vanishing as he sat there completely vulnerable for a moment. minutes pass as he stares down at his phone, almost waiting for something to happen, but nothing did ( asides for the two ticks turning blue as well as the audio’s color changing ) the boy only found himself feeling more anxious this time yet he decided to wait - perhaps she’d come, perhaps she’d show up like he hoped she would. as stupid as he’d been the boy meant what he said. he’d missed her, with all his heart. after a while he felt a figure sitting down next to him, the corners of his lips twitching as he turned to see who it was. it’s a sudden happiness washing over him, his hand moving to rest on her knee only for his digits to give it a small squeeze as he watched her, offering her a smile as a breathy laugh dared to roll off his tongue. ❝ i missed you. ❞ he admitted, gaze finally meeting her own as he sat there with her - but then he reached down into his backpack, a bag of doritos being quickly opened before handing them over to her, a wide grin spread across his features. ❝ like i’m serious, i really did. see ?? these would’ve already been gone by now but they’re not. ❞ there’s that teasing tone of voice this time, but he was sure she could see the deep meaning behind his words ( he wasn’t one to share his food, even if she’d always been the exception ) - this time things would be different or so he would try to make them be. it’s been enough time wasted - an entire week - he wouldn’t do anything like it again. ❝ we should watch a movie later and order some pizza or something ?? you can chose the sauce and basically everything if you want. ❞ he said before adding. ❝ but just saying - my cat’s probs gonna go nuts if she sees you though. i can already tell you that. ❞

#omenwept #( answered meme. )#// f i n a l l y i've succeeded in shoving this out of ma bum #// it's a mess y e s but i'm dying about the ending y e s #// like i love them so much my smol children #// aND LMAO I ACTUALLY HAVE THIS THING IN MY HEAD WHERE HIS CAT ACTUALLY IS ALL WANTING CUDDLES FROM HER WHEN SHE'S AROUND AND JUST #// BASICALLY IGNORING HIS ASS 24/7 LMAO ???? IDK I THOUGHT IT WAS CUTE AF #// but look at him totally feeling something right there like he legit wants to just be w/ her and tell her everything and keep her safe and #// just :cccccc #// cow shit i'm legit pure cow shit

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