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scaramouche-bully · 3 years

Note

THAT POST ABOUT OVERSTIM MADE ME REALIZE HOW MUCH I WANT TO DESTROY CHILDE HELP. CAN U WRITE SMTH WHERE HIS S/O USUALLY BOTTOMS BUT WANTS TO TRY TOPPING HIM AND HE JUST KEEPS TRYING TO FLUSTER HER AND TEASE HER AND SHE GETS SO ANNOYED THAT SHE JUST FUCKS HIM STUPID 💕💕

— ☆ Wrecking T*rtaglia headcanons

Includes: Childe

[ Top ] Female reader

Contains: Overstimulation, bratty sub, mind break, sub space, aphrodisiacs, anal gaping, dacryphilia, degradation, size kink, slapping, choking, cock-stepping, humiliation, rough sex, stomach bulge, multiple orgasms, masochism + sadism.

— ☆ Overstimulation headcanons - Xiao, Childe, and Scaramouche 🐏 [ GN ]

— ☆ Bratty Sub headcanons - Kaeya, Diluc, Xiao, and Childe 🐑 [ GN ]

[ masterlist ]

Welcome to the "Bully T*rtaglia" club, we are currently taking applications (u‿ฺu✿ฺ). My original draft was sweet but then my computer crashed and I lost everything. So I'm going to channel all my anger into destroying this man (consensually, I promise the ending is soft.).

— ☆ Childe

When you bring up the idea of you topping him, he doesn't take you seriously but he's open to it. While he thinks it's cute that you want to try new things, he's so much bigger than you, and being on top is actually a lot of work compared to being a pillow princess. Are you sure you can handle it?

One of the big issues that came up during your first times was Childe's competitive nature and how fast his recovery time was. He could have came three times and then suddenly flip you on your back and fuck your brains out instead.

Even when he had the patience to be the sub, he would constantly taunt you and be an insufferable brat. Constantly disrespecting you and trying to fluster you. Always reaching down to finger fuck you even when he was stuffed full.

So the next time you brought him a drink, you decided to add something extra. Sitting patiently as he thanked you and downed the entire cup. It only took a few minutes before he began to squirm in his seat.

Childe's face was slowly growing redder and redder, soft pants breaking through the quiet office, his eyes darting to you before settling on the ground. It was amusing seeing him be so quiet rather than running his mouth off every minute. It's only when you start to walk over him in feign concern does he break out of his haze.

Stumbling over himself as he makes wild hand gestures to stop you but as soon as you round his desk, you see his cock straining against his pants, and the embarrassment flood Childe's face. Trying to laugh it off, you're just so pretty he can't help himself, but he's quickly cut off when you prop yourself up onto his desk and step on his cock.

"W-Wait-" Childe groans as his hips buck into your shoe as he grinds against it. Clutching the hand rests of his chair as he leans his head against your knee, soft keens slipping out as you run your fingers through his matted hair as he humps against you. He makes a confused noise when you suddenly tip his chin up, smile sweetly at him, before he's sprawled on the ground as you slap him.

"When did I say you could touch me?" you shot him a cruel look that sent shudders up his spine but also made his cock throb. Whatever you fed him was slowly making him lose his senses until there was just you, you, you. He whines, still on his back, when you take a seat in his chair and dig your shoe onto his dick, randomly applying pressure here and there, his pre-cum wetting his pants as he yelps at the pain. His hands flying up to lift your foot away but he catches himself as chooses to claw his fingers into the wooden flooring instead as he reaches his peak. It's so empowering seeing the man who used to fuck you stupid, whimper and cry as he cums in his pants just from you stepping on his dick.

"P-Please...ah! mm...wha?" Childe looks down confused to see that even after just orgasming, his cock is still hard. His body is so hot that if he doesn't cum again, he feels like he's going to die. He's tries to lift himself onto his elbows and unbutton his pants before you kick him in the chest and send him back down. He's disorientated from the fall when he feels you sit on his chest, cupping his face in your hands to lift him, before slamming his head down. You're almost ripping his hair out with every yank and slap you abuse him with as he yelps like a dog.

"You filthy whore. Did I say you could cum? You ungrateful brat," you spit out as Childe wails in pain, almost knocking you off when he seizes up and shakes. You don't even need to check to know he came again, "Maybe I should gag you and throw you onto the streets. Let everyone here know how much of a pig you are. Is that it what you want?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" his voice is choked up from his tears as he cries over himself. You almost feel bad but he's basically useless in this state, sniffling over himself as he apologizes over and over again. You softly coo at him as you lean over and kiss him sweetly, taking his arms and placing them on your waist as he grips onto you like a lifeline.

"There there Childe. It's alright now, we're going to teach you how to be a good boy. That's what you want right?" you whisper to him as he nods. You pull yourself up even as he grips onto your clothing to stay with him as you unclasp the buttons of his pants and free his cock. Still red and hard in your hands as if he hadn't already orgasmed twice in the span of a few minutes. He's already so wet with pre-come that you don't even need to find lube to jack him off. Ignoring his moans and screams to stop, he's still sensitive, you take him to the hilt in your mouth. Quickly pinning his hips from jerking upwards and choking you, you're the image of content as you swallow around his cock as Childe throws his head back and sobs as he cums down your throat.

“Pl-please, please, mmn- put it in me, please…” he manages to pant you, his mind melted as his eyes blink in and out of consciousness. His body is still burning hot and he can't escape the feeling of being empty. He wants to be filled with your cock, stuffed fill until he can't live without being fucked by you. You've completely ruined him.

"It seems we still have a long way to go. You really are a disappointment Childe," you sigh as you wipe away the stray cum dripping from your mouth as you reach over and feed it to him. He whines low in the throat at tasteing himself but feeling you touch him in some way is the only thing grounding him before you pull away and stand up, "Go on. Finger yourself open for me."

"W-Wha?"

"Childe. I said. Finger yourself open. I won't repeat myself again."

He quickly nods, not ready to disobey you again, as he lifts himself up to get his pants fully off. He knows what you want and it makes the fire in him burn hotter. Using his own pre-come with shaky hands, he reaches over to hold his legs up for you, and circles around his rim before dipping inside. The embarrassment of holding himself open like this and your watchful gaze almost has him cumming again but he can't. He wants to be good. He does his best to spread himself open at this awkward angle but he soon loses himself. He should feel ashamed for getting off on someone watching him but it makes him finger himself deeper and harder. He's taken out of his pleasurable moment when he feels your hand join his. Taking one hand as you spread his ass to see his loose hole. The pre-cum from his cock slowly leaking down. You're absentmindedly lacing your fingers inside him, before pulling both your hands out as you line your strap on to his rim. He didn't even notice you put it on.

"Did you know I had to fake every orgasm because you were such a sloppy fuck? Perhaps I should show you how to fuck someone properly," is the only warning he gets before you grip his hips until your fingernails draw blood, before slamming into him. He throws his head back and chokes on his screams as his cock shoots cum all over his chest.

"Who said you could come?" you spit out as you grip his cock and squeeze harshly as he screams. The overstimulation is too much, it hurts. He's desperately trying to push you away but whatever strength he built is lost. Only able to lay there and take it. He looks down to see his stomach bulge with every thrust you make, the image of you rearranging his insides sends him flying as he tries to cum again but the death grip you have on him, he just can't. He's full-on sobbing as you continue to abuse his prostate, he's going to break, you're breaking him.

"nO! P-PLEASE! STO-" he begging as you continue to pound into him. You push even further, until your cock fully inside him now, and stay there rubbing right up against his prostate. Watching amused as Childe tries to shudder to the large intrusion, the never-ending pressure on his sensitive spots makes him almost feral. You swear he has hearts in his eyes right now.

"Pleasepleaseplease-"

You pull out slowly, just until the tip is inside him, before gripping his wrists as leverage and ruthless slamming into him. Childe parts his hips in a voiceless cry as you finally break his mind and fuck him dumb. He scrambles against the floor as he tries to find anything to ground him, trying to fuck himself back on your cock as he drools all over the floor. His vision leaves him as all his senses focused on the harsh drag of your cock in him, the wet slapping noise that fills the room, and the tears that slip from his eyes down to the floor. His cock throbs with each thrust you force into his body, thighs jerking, as his tongue lolls out.

"Oh!--mh, m-more!" Childe babbles deliriously, he's being reduced to nothing but a warm hole for you to fill whenever you feel like it. Reduced from a harbinger to a whore for you to use. He feels the breath get punched out of his lungs as his abdomen stretches and burns. His hole clenching around your dick that you have to forcefully yank him down to stuff him, "Hahh, you're tearing me o-open."

"You disgusting whore. Can you feel it?" you mock as you take one hand to spread his ass apart, you see his hole is red and puffy, pre-cum from his semi-hard cock leaking down where you're both connected. He shudders that you've fucked him so bad that his hole is gaping. It's when you reach over and clasp both of your hands around his neck and squeeze that he comes crashing down. Wheezing at the lack of oxygen that makes him see white, he feels so warm and content, mind filled with bliss, as he cums. Waves upon waves of pleasure crash into him as his cock finally softens as he relaxes and drifts off into space before slowly losing consciousness.

--- You slowly blink awake to soft kisses being placed on your neck, Childe's lazy form cuddled up to you as you stroke his hair. He's always so clingy the morning after. "Are you feeling alright? I was a bit mean wasn't I?" you ask a bit embarrassed as memories of last night flood your mind. You know you both agreed on what your limits were but you couldn't help but feel a bit worried you may have pushed him too far. Childe props himself on his elbow to smile dumbly at you, you were perfect.

"It was alright I suppose," he chuckles when you lightly punch him in the chest, "I didn't think you would try and drug me like that. You know I could get you arrested for that. " "Ha! Good luck finding someone that will fulfill your perverted fantasies. Besides you're the one that wanted to experiment with them and don't phrase it like that either," you shake your head at him before leaning up to kiss him. When you pull away you take notice of all the bruises and marks you left on him. There's a small part of you that purrs at the claim you made but you quickly shoo it away. It's too early for that. If your back is hurting you have no idea how Childe is faring. "Here, let me get you some water and let me see your head," you offer, pulling yourself up before Childe's arm wraps around you and pulls you down to lay beside him. Placing his weight on top of you so you can't squirm away, even as you swat at his back he smothers you until you give up.

"Stay with me."

"Hah...alright. Just for a bit."

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #childe smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #childe x reader #genshin impact childe x reader #childe headcanons #childe imagines #genshin impact childe #genshin childe x reader

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honeysidesarchived · 3 years

Text

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude ii ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.4k

warnings: none really! just an impending, pervasive sense of doom.

rating: m/t

notes: so happy to have finally gotten this little interlude edited and pieced together! just more soft moments because they deserve it considering what's going to be coming up. thank you everyone who has been reading/interacting with this little love project of mine; it took a minute to get myself dug out of the trenches and posting bite-sized chapters because this is a short-fic is definitely doing something to me (lmao) but we're here!

as always you can find translations on ao3, where it's easier to store them in a place that doesn't get in the way.

There is very little time between when Santino cooks her dinner and when he moves her into his apartment. It happens without much acknowledgment from her; she finds herself swallowed up in moments of casual intimacy that break her down to nothing except a girl in love.

Santino wakes her up by kissing her neck and pulling her against his chest; she makes him dinner barefoot in the kitchen, all of the recipes that her mother taught her, and he drags his hand along her hip to reach over her into the cupboard; he stands still and obedient while Euphemia slides his tie into place, and when he zips her dress for her, he peppers her shoulder with kisses. He tolerates taking a walk through the park, even in the chilliness of late Fall or Winter, because Euphie can’t stand to not get some fresh air once a day. When one of her friends asks why he lets her bully him into the cold weather, he wraps his arms around Euphie with a sly smile and says, “How could I not, when I am the one who gets to warm her up after?”

He is an exceptionally tactile man. There is always a reason for him to touch her, trace each line of her, put his lips against her skin. Santi isn’t a man who loves; he covets. And Euphemia shouldn’t like it as much as she does, but she does. Her therapist says that it isn’t uncommon for a girl who grows up without touching to crave it, desperately, like an addiction.

So, she finds herself living in his loft to feed that addiction—which becomes their loft—and teaching him words in French, and feeding him olives while sauce simmers (and does not boil), and kissing the red-wine taste from his lips. It’s all very romantic and greatly overshadows the moments where Santino comes home raging mad, or when his bad mood takes over their conversation and stirs a fight between them. They’re both hot-headed—her more so than he—and he knows all of the ways to diffuse her while she knows none about him.

But it doesn’t matter, in the end; because Santino always kisses her, and always says, Mi dispiace, cara mi, ti amo, ti amo, ti amo, lip-locking between each break in words until her lungs ache.

Euphie has never wanted to be loved sensibly, anyway.

Making money stops becoming an issue. Santino might have been fine letting her wrap up her loose ends, so to speak, encourages her, even—“You should never leave business undone, my Euphie,”—but he’d never tolerate her continuing to skim out of the pockets of his associates. Not out of respect for them, of course, but because Santino is more than happy to provide.

“I have to do something,” Euphie insists, often. But Santino clicks his tongue and shakes his head, inspiring indignation in her. “That money goes to my mother, Santi.”

“Princesa, what are you worrying for?” He replies every time. In this instance, he is reading over some documents, his voice casual, simple, effective at bringing her to heel. “If your mama needs money, she’ll get it. Tutto quello che vuoi è tuo.”

Euphemia used to think that he was doing it to be generous, but as time goes on, she knows that isn’t the case. If Santino didn’t think he was benefitting from sending her mother money every month, he wouldn’t do it: but he does. Euphemia stops playing at arm candy for other powerful men; he endears himself to her by taking care of her mother; he endears himself to her mother; he’s afforded a sense of control. There is no facet of it where he isn’t getting something out of it. And she thinks, too, that maybe Santino likes it like this, where she is completely reliant on him for everything.

She doesn’t mind so much.

She would, if Santino didn’t drench her in his longing, if he didn’t make her feel, every day, that he is desperate to treasure her. She has always heard about this kind of love—and it is love—and never thought she would have it for herself.

But she does now, and she doesn’t want to let it go.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tea or coffee, mama?”

Santino is busying himself in the kitchen. They’ve been together for a little over a year now, and they’re on a tour of Italy—not for fun, necessarily, but for integration. They have just spent the last week with Santino’s father and sister, and now they will spend the next two days in the Tuscan countryside with her mother.

Two days for her mother, instead of the week that they gave Santino’s father and sister, in part because his father deserves more time and in part because Euphemia doesn’t think she can tolerate her mother in much more than two-day increments.

“Coffee, please,” her mother says, very charmed by Santino.

“Tea,” Euphemia interjects. She looks at her mother—her face is tired, and older than she really is. Euphie knows that this is a side effect of heavy, abusive drinking and years spent in emotional terror, not the passage of time. Still, she finds it hard to drum up anything except distant pity in her heart. “You don’t need the caffeine.”

“Oh, you always ruin my fun.”

Santino re-enters the room with a small cup—it’s an espresso cup, but he’s poured it with regular coffee.

“A compromise,” Santi explains, handing the cup to her mother, smiling handsomely. “To make both of my girls happy.”

Her mother preens, glows under the affection. “You are so sweet, Santi. A perfect son-in-law.”

He has always called her and her mother his girls. His own mother had passed since before Euphemia; and while he knows that Euphie’s relationship with her mother is strained at best, he does what he can to ease it. Because it makes her happy, he says, and if she’s happy, he’s happy.

“Not yet a son-in-law,” Euphie corrects, and Santino flashes her a quick, amused little smile.

“You see how cruel she is to me, madonna? I have asked her to marry me, you know.”

“Santi,” Euphemia sighs, but it has had its desired effect; her mother looks scandalized, mortified at her daughter’s resistance to marrying a man as good and handsome and charming as Santino.

“Effie, tell me that you haven’t been bullying Santino like this?”

“Mama, there is no reason—he is just teasing. Ascoltami, you don’t need to look so horrified.”

“I do not know where I went wrong with you, Euphemia Sancia.” Her mother clicks her tongue, muttering something under her breath and taking a drink of the coffee Santi made her, and Euphemia can’t bring herself to say that not everything she has done wrong in her life is a slight against her mother’s parenting skills.

Santino smiles and leans across to Euphie, bringing her hand up to kiss it.

“Don’t worry,” he says to her mother, his voice blooming with practiced warmth. “I will ask her as many times as it takes for her to say yes.”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest. She knows that he means it; he’s suggested it to her three times, now. It seems to be the only thing he doesn’t mind asking more than once.

“She’s always been fussy, my Euphemia,” her mother says, breaking the magic of Santino’s eyes on her. “Never happy with what she has, just like her father. Except for you, Santi—you are the only thing she holds onto.”

Exasperation and disgust flood over her. Both the mention of the man considered to be her father and any similarities they might share has her mood souring. “Mama—”

But Santino is sweeping in, like he always does when he can tell Euphie is getting tired of her mother, coming to a stand and asking her, “We should get started on dinner, cara mia, don’t you think?”

Just like that, he’s taken control of the conversation again. He sees her flailing and steadies her. Euphemia is certain that he doesn’t love her mother—that he doesn’t even like her—but that he can spend his time tolerating her with charm and grace despite knowing what her mother allowed to go on under their roof is indicative of the man that Santino is.

“Yes,” she replies, standing as well. “You look tired, mama. Take a rest while Santi and I make dinner.”

She wanders into the kitchen with Santino trailing after her. As soon as they’re alone, he winds his arms around her waist and kisses the juncture between her shoulder and neck.

“Is it true?” he asks coyly. “That you don’t hold on to anything except for me?”

She doesn’t want to tell him very much, because he knows already, and because to say it out loud will give it legs. A year together, and she still doesn’t want her feelings for him to have legs. Santino splays his fingers against her sternum and kisses her jaw.

“You know that it is,” she says at last, her voice a little unsteady. She can feel Santi smiling against her skin.

“Euphie,” he purrs, “marry me.”

Yes, she wants to say, as her eyes flutter shut. Yes, I’ll marry you, Santi. Anything that you ask. I’ll do anything for you, if you would just keep saying my name like that.

She wants to say it but the words won't come out. There is nothing quite like the feeling of Santino peeling back each individual layer of her defenses, piece by piece; so close, she knows, he is so close, but not quite. Not yet. She is most comfortable keeping him at arm’s length as much as possible—to kiss and to fuck and to let someone hold you at night is one thing. To let someone in past the barbed-wire of defenses is yet another, impossibly reckless. To be seen feeling anything deranges you, as the poets like to say.

“Sancia, hm?” he continues instead, when she can’t bring herself to answer, as the words stick in her throat. It’s one of those things where Santino seems to exercise a surprising amount of patience, this whole ordeal of to marry or not to marry; later, Euphemia will come to understand that it is because Santino believes their life together to be inevitable, that she will always say yes to him, one way or another.

For now, she turns in his arms, cocking a brow at him. He continues, “It means sacred.”

Euphemia nods sagely and props herself up on the counter. “Buon ascolto, my love. I suppose that means you should work very hard to worship me well.”

Santino laughs. He leans in, trapping her against the counter—though it isn’t much of a trap if she’s a willing participant—and noses the slope of her jaw.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose that it does.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

On the last leg of their tour of families, Santino insists that they spend a few days in Rome by themselves.

The days are used mostly for doing a lot of nothing; neither of them are particularly interested in sight-seeing, but rather interested in seeing each other, a thing which they don’t seem to tire of particularly quickly. Instead, they shop, or lay in bed together until the afternoon, or go out to eat when street lights kick on and the city takes on a life of its own.

“You are much happier, Euphie,” Santino says one evening, smoothing out his napkin on the table absently, “when you are not around your mother.”

It’s not a question, per se, though she knows that he expects an answer. But she is still young and a little petulant, and she likes to push his buttons and make him say exactly what it is he means, so she takes a sip of her wine and replies, “Yes.”

He arches a brow at her. He looks particularly handsome like this, she thinks—not around his family, just eating dinner in a streetside restaurant in Rome, illuminated in warm candlelight and the glow of the streetlights outside.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he asks, amusedly.

“If you ask.” Euphemia sets her wine glass down on the table, and when Santino reaches for her hand, she lets him take it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But it is so boring, Santi, to talk about my mother. Why don’t you ask me about something else?”

The brunette’s mouth is curving in a little smile. “Like…?”

“Like…” Euphie gestures with her free hand, like she has to really think about it. “Euphie, how did I get so lucky to have a woman like you? That is a good place to start. Or, what will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel? Or, Euphie, will I ever be so fortunate as to call you my wife?”

Santino laughs, leaning into their conversation, bringing her fingers up to kiss them. He has long lashes; soft, and dark, and they brush the tops of his cheekbones when his eyes close. Santino glances from her fingers up to her, that boyish grin on his face.

“I already know the answers to the first and last question,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal, but he’s grinning wickedly at her when he says it. She scoffs.

“Dimme poi,” Euphie insists. “I am dying to know, Santi.”

His expression is very sage, very wise, and he nods his head. “Il destino,” he says, winding their fingers together, “e tra un anno.”

There is something very heart-stopping about the way Santino articulates il destino, as though it is fact, as though there is something undeniable about their coming together.

“How do you know?” she asks. “In a year?”

“Because if you do not want to marry me by then,” Santino replies matter-of-factly, “then I am certainly not suited for marriage at all.”

She rolls her eyes, taking a drink of her wine and savoring the way his eyes trail over her, admiring, drinking her in.

“Well?” he prompts. She looks at him expectantly, and he reiterates, his gaze set on her, “What will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel, belladonna?”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest when he looks at her like that; like she is the only person in the entire universe, like she has become the sun that snags him in her planetary pull, like he will never, ever grow tired of looking at her. It sweeps the breath out of her.

“Anything, mio amato,” she murmurs. “Anything you want, if you promise to never stop looking at me like that.”

#john wick fic #santino d'antonio/original female character #santino d'antonio #c: euphemia volpe #f: where there is no temptation there is no glory #spilled ink #john wick oc #i'm fine we're fine this is all fine nobody panic #gonna #q #this so that i can pretend i don't see it djhfbjdf #x: senza tentazioni senza onore

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

The Moment I Knew My Future Was Sweet

pairing: spencer reid x fem reader

summary: spencer Reid plans a surprise birthday for his best friend/love of his life, Y/N. the one hang up though is that Ian, y/n’s boyfriend does not show up.

warnings: crying, kissing, love, another taylor swift inspired fic because she’s a lyrical genius and i’m obsessed...

word count: 4315

author’s note: i was listening to the moment i knew and was thinking that it would make a good fic!

masterlist: (click <-)

The Moment I Knew My Future Was Sweet

Spencer was completely lost looking for purple and white birthday party decorations. He’d searched at least three different stores for Y/N’s favorite shade of purple. Penelope had been helping him plan her surprise birthday party and it was Spencer’s job to get the decorations.

“Hey! Reid, look what I found,” Penelope shouted as she ran up the aisle to meet Spencer.

She was carrying what looked like colorful cardboard picture frames that had “Birthday Girl” and all sorts of Happy Birthday messages and funny sayings written on the edge.

“Don’t you think Y/N will just love these?” Garcia asked as she tossed them in the cart.

“Oh, I’m not really sure what those are but, I’m sure she’ll love it!” Spencer said.

“It’s for taking pictures,” Garcia explained. “You hold them up to your face and take cute photos”

Spencer nodded in understanding. Y/N loved to take pictures and even though Spencer would rather not be photographed, their smiling faces littered her Instagram page.

“Thanks for helping with this, Garcia. I really just want to make this special for her. Y/N is just so amazing,” Spencer stopped himself because out of the corner of his eye he noticed Penelope’s raised eyebrows. His cheeks turned slightly pink at her reaction.

“Come on, Spencer! You should just tell her that you love her,” Garcia said waving her hands in the air.

“She has a boyfriend, Garcia,” Spencer snapped.

“I know, but Spencer, who's the guy that’s planning her surprise party? Who’s the man that’s in every single selfie that she posts Instagram? Who’s the team member that she always rooms with?”

“Garcia, she’s with Ian. I’m not going to ruin our friendship by telling that I love her. She’s with Ian and I’m not a home wrecker”

“You just both deserve to be happy, Spencer. She loves you. I just know she does,” Garcia and Spencer walked over to the cashier to pay for the decoration.

“If she’s happy, then I can live with it. Even if it feels like it’s breaking me” Spencer said at the constant beeping from the register rung in his ears.

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“JJ, is that the food?” Garica called as she walked out of the kitchen into the small living room.

“Yes, Will’s coming in with the rest of the food from the car. Any word from Spence yet on where he and the birthday girl are?” JJ said as she placed down a tray of food onto the kitchen counter top.

“Spencer mentioned that he’s going to drive her over here. He should be getting there soon. She’s got no idea!” Garcia said excitedly.

“That’s sweet. What did Ian think of that?” JJ asked with a questioning tone.

Garcia threw her a look that caused JJ to raise her eyebrows.

“Spencer and Y/N are in love with each other. She won’t do anything because she feels like she’s with the kind of person that she deserves. Y/N is stuck in a loveless relationship because Spencer doesn’t think that she loves him. They love each other, Jayge,” Garcia said.

“And you aren’t the profiler,” JJ teased.

“I spend my days and nights with you all, it’s time that I picked up on all that profiler nonsense.” Garcia said, swatting JJ on the arm playfully.

“That or my obsession with period dramas. Jayge, the pinning is so strong with those too.”

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Spencer knocked on the door to Y/N apartment at 11:32 AM. The time was important because he calculated that it would take her 45 seconds to walk from her couch, look through the peephole, unlock the door and open the door. In those 45 seconds, it would turn 11:33 AM, which was the time that Y/N was born.

Sure enough, the door opened and Spencer was greeted by a smiling Y/N.

“Happy Birthday, Y/N. Happy Birthday!” Spencer yelled from across the doorway.

“Oh my god! Spencer, how, I can’t,” Y/N said looking quite startled.

Launching herself from the inside of her apartment, Y/N threw her arms around Spencer’s neck. He seemed to forget himself and allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of her in his arms. Even though he was the one holding her, he never felt as safe as he did then in that moment.

“Thank you, Spencer. And you even came at the time I was born! Ah, what do I do to deserve you, Spencer. You’re-” Y/N starts.

“Hey, none of that. It’s your day. Your birthday, Y/N. Oh, I got you flowers. Um, but I think that we may have crushed them” Spencer said sheepishly.

Y/N looked at the purple and yellow flowers that Spencer held in her hand, along with a small package with purple wrapping and green ivy decorations.

“Oh, come inside, Spence and I’ll put those in water,” Y/N said, leading him in by the hand.

They walked into her kitchen and she reached to the third shelf of the cabinet and grabbed a vase. Spencer watched as she filled it with water and crushed up a baby aspirin to dissolve in the water. Y/N fluffed out the semi-crushed flowers with a small smile plastered to her face. She looked up at Spencer, who was a little embarrassed to be caught staring at her.

“I love them, Spencer. They are so beautiful,” Y/N said walking over to tug slightly on his jacket sleeve.

“I’m glad. Have you heard from your parents, or uh,” Spencer stops for a second, calculating if he should go down that road, “or Ian?”

“My mom called me, but no, I haven’t heard from Ian. He’s never been big on birthdays or holidays anyway, you know. He’s relaxed like that, I guess” Y/N reasons, more with herself than with Spencer, who just stares at her trying to figure out why in the world her boyfriend would not be here spending her birthday with her.

“Well, we have the whole day to ourselves, Y/N! We can go get brunch or take a walk in the park, anything you want to do, we’ll do it!” Spencer said, smiling at her.

“There’s any other way that I’d want to spend my birthday, than with you, Spencer.”

There it was again. A palatable tension in the air between the two of them. It wasn’t awkward, necessarily, just so apparent and thick that it could not possibly be ignored.

“I have something else for you,” Spencer started as he grabbed the package from the counter and handed it Y/N.

“Oh, Spence! You didn’t have to do that” Y/N said with an excited look on her face.

She opened the carefully wrapped package and tossed the paper on the flood with an eager grin on her face. Inside the small white box was a gold ring with intricately woven vines attached to a delicate chain link necklace. Y/N ran her fingers over the ring and necklace, almost like she couldn’t believe that it was real.

“Spence,” She started, but a small tear pooled in the corner of her eye and she tried to wipe it away with the hem of her cardigan.

“You really didn’t have to do this, I can’t even think of how you found this. It’s exactly like her’s! Oh, Spencer” Y/N said reaching forward to clasp her hands with his.

“Will you put it on for me,” She asked him, pulling her hair from her neck and moving closer to Spencer.

Spencer grabbed the necklace, a replica of her grandmother’s engagement ring, and tenderly latched the clasp. She felt her heart flutter slightly with the sensation of Spencer’s warm breath against her neck. His fingers burned against her skin as he moved her hair back from her shoulder to it’s familiar spot.

Spencer was very aware of the fact that if she’d lean back, her head would rest perfectly in the cook between his chin and neck. He’d feel her soft hair under his skin and be able to hold her close and safe. She moved much sooner than he’d like and faced him once again.

Y/N closed her eyes, just taking in the quiet moment between them. Spencer wished that he could reach out and put his hand to Y/N’s cheek. Maybe she’d melt into his touch. They could play pretend that, for even a moment that they aren’t just best friends, but maybe this is her engagement ring. It’s enough for him, for now at least. They just sit in silence, but he aches to rub thumb along her knuckles. Still, neither of them need to speak, the unsaid words are poetry in itself.

“Thank you, Spencer. This is so beautiful, I can’t even imagine the trouble it might have caused you.” You're worth it, Y/N, he wants to scream. You’re so worth it.

But instead, he just settles on giving her a small smile. Spencer will forever have to contend with his silence. He’ll resign himself to standing by her side and watching as she loves another man.

“Let’s go, Y/N starving”

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“I can’t believe I fought my wallet, Y/N! I’m so sorry that we have to go all the way back to my place,” Spencer feigned an apology and shot Y/N a side glance as he sped down the road towards his apartment.

“It’s okay, Spencer. You know that I wouldn’t mind paying for brunch, it’s not a big deal that-”

“No way, am I letting you buy brunch on your birthday, Y/N” Spencer said putting on the blinker as he pulled into his parking spot.

“Is that JJ’s car, Spence?” Y/N said as Spencer walked around to her side of the car to open the door for her.

“Yeah, her and the boys park here sometimes to go to the park down the street. Henry loves to feed the ducks,” Spencer said, not making eye contact with her.

“Look at me Spencer,” She said, reaching out to grab his sleeve. He kind of wished that her cold hand would slip into his and he’d be able to walk into her party in front of everyone she loves, holding his hand.

“Are you lying to me?” Y/N remarked playfully.

It took everything in Spencer’s being to look her straight in the eyes and tell her that he’s not lying. Especially when she’s looking in his eyes with that look on her face that just makes him want to scream that he loves her.

“Ha! Y/N, I’m completely offended that you’d suggest that I’m lying to you,” Spencer said as he walked up the stairs to his apartment.

“Hmm, I’m going to hold you to that, Mister”

“It’s Doctor for you, Y/N. Why don’t you just open the door?” Spencer said, handing her the keys to his apartment.

She gave him a suspicious look before she turned the key into the lock and stepped into Spencer’s apartment.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Penelope jumped out from her hiding spot behind Spencer’s sofa.

The rest of the guests all chorused many Happy Birthdays as Y/N looked around in shock. Derek and Emily stood up to give her a hug, as JJ and Will stood holding balloons with Henry and Michael.

“Oh my god! You guys! I can’t believe you all,” Y/N said jumping up to hug a beaming Penelope.

“It was all Spencer’s idea, Y/N” JJ mentioned giving her friend a big hug and a kiss on her cheek.

“Spence,” Y/N started as she looked up at her friend.

“You really didn’t have to do that! Thank you,” She finished almost shly.

“I wanted you to have the best birthday, Y/N. We’ve all had a rough year, you deserve it,” Spencer said to her. It was almost like they were the only two people in the room, he thinks. It’s like that a lot, whenever he’s in a room with Y/N. They can be in a pack stadium with screaming people, but the only person he’d be able to hear is her. The only person he’d want to pay attention is her.

“I know you don’t like hugs, Spence, but it’s my birthday and I don’t care!” She said launching herself into Spencer’s already open arms.

The pair hugged and Spencer forgot himself for a moment. He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around the room as she laughed.

“Spencer!” She giggled. He put her down and looked at her smiling face.

“Thank you,” She said quietly, just to him.

“Of course, Y/N” He told her. Anything to make you laugh like that. Anything to allow me to hold you like that. Anything to make you happy.

He might have stared too long, because Derek camed and clapped him on the shoulder. It was a reminder that they were not the only people in the room.

“I’m going to go say hi to everyone,” she said before she left.

Spencer watched her leave and gave a longing stare in her wake. He felt Derek’s eyes on his face and couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes. Besides Y/N, Derek knew Spencer more than most people. He’d be able to read his face, his feelings, and his love for Y/N in a moment. And that terrified Spencer.

“Penelope told me, you know.” Derek said, handing Spencer a mimosa.

“Hmm, did she know?” Spencer replied tight-lipped. He glanced over to where Y/N had walked over to, but he only saw Emily and Penelope talking with flutes in their hands.

“Also, Reid. That necklace she’s got on?” Derek questioned with a cocked eyebrow.

“Yeah. I got it for her. For her birthday. It’s a replica of her grandmother’s engagement ring” Spencer confessed.

Derek looked at Spencer in disbelief. He was in denial. They both were.

“You got a girl who’s got a boyfriend an engagement ring for her birthday?” Derek asked factiously.

“It’s a birthday present for my friend, Morgan.” Spencer said, taking a big gulp of his mimosa. The acid from the orange juice was unusually sour down his throat.

“Friends don’t get friends engagement rings, Reid.” Derek said before he left Spencer to ponder over this predicament.

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“Why don’t you let me or Derek call him, sweetie. I’m sure he just got stuck somewhere. Let me call him for you, please Y/N?” Penelope said calmly as she rubbed both of Y/N’s arms lovingly.

“Penny, he’s not going to come! He missed this on purpose. I’m so done with him-” Y/N said between sobs. Between the champagne and jello shots, she was not drunk but happily buzzed, that quickly turned into an emotional buzz.

“What do you want me to do, honey. Tell me and I’ll make it happen, okay. I’m so sorry, Y/N” Penelope told her, handing her a paper towel to wipe her tears.

“I just want to go home,” She cried.

“Will you get Spencer to take me home, he-” She got out before her shoulders were overtaken by sobs.

“He drove me here. And he won’t mind leaving, he hates parties. We were planning a sleepover anyway,” Y/N turning to hug Penelope.

“Hey, you don’t need that jerk anyway, Y/N,” Penelope said “I’m going to tell Spencer now, okay honey, I’ll be right back”

Y/N stared at the drink in her hand thinking about what should have happened. The pain of the moment was too pungent, so she settled on taking a swig of the rest of her drink. Those problems can wait till tomorrow, she thought.

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“Spencer! Reid, I need you over here,” Penelope called over to Spencer, who was entertaining the boys with a magic trick, much to their enjoyment.

“It’s Y/N. She’s heartbroken that Ian never showed up” Penelope said, filling Spencer in.

“That asshole!” Spencer whisper-yelled as Garcia led him to the kitchen.

“She just wants you to take her home,” Garcia said as they made their way to where Y/N was perched on the countertop.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry, he doesn’t deserve you. You know that right?” Spencer said looking at her teary face and glazed eyes. She didn’t look like herself. She looked faraway and sad; he’d do anything to make her feel better.

“I just want to go home, Spencer, please. Just take me home,” Y/N said with fresh tears falling down her cheeks.

“Come on, Y/N” He said holding her hand as they walked out the door, down the stairs and into his car.

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Neither of them talked on the way home. Y/N looked out the window, just staring at the passerby in an almost wishlike state.

Spencer split his attention evenly to the road ahead and Y/N sitting next to him. Her head rested against the window and her feet were tucked under her legs in a crouched position. It was like she was trying to make herself look as small as she was feeling.

“We’re here, Y/N,” Spencer said softly.

“We’re home, Spence?” She asked, not even wanting to open her eyes yet.

“We’re home, Y/N.” He answered, putting a comfortable hand on her shoulder.

They walked upstairs to her apartment on the third floor just as quiet as their car ride was. She opened the door of her apartment and walked right into her bedroom.

“I’m just going to get changed, Spence” She said before shutting the door and shutting him out of her thoughts for a moment.

Not really sure what to do, Spencer sat on the couch. Was it really just a couple of hours ago that they sat here together? All of the sudden, Spencer heard what sounded like music coming from her bedroom. Spencer recognized that he wasn’t the best at modern popular culture, but Y/N choosing to play music at a time like this caught his profiler instincts.

And what’s a profiler without a genius tech expert, he thought as he dialed Garcia. Spencer placed his ear to the door and started to hear Y/N sob-ridden voice mix with an artist who he did not recognize.

“Garcia,” Spencer whispered.

“Oh Spencer! How is she doing,” Garcia asked. Spencer imagined that the whole party stood huddled in his cramped kitchen listening to every word.

“Ah, she’s singing?” Spencer said with a questioning tone.

“Oh, boy. Hold the phone so I can hear please, this is very important Reid,” Garcia ordered.

Spencer placed his flip phone so it’s speaker would pick up the sad notes echoing from the bedroom.

“Did you get that?” Spencer asked, returning the phone to his ear.

“She’s listening to her ‘cry her eyes out playlist’. This song is about a girl who’s boyfriend skipped out on her birthday party, so it’s hitting home right now, Spencer” Garcia explained.

“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?” Spencer asked.

“That’s the beauty of Taylor Swift, my dear. She’s got a song for every emotion. So maybe you can convince her to listen to her “this makes me believe in love” playlist. And maybe you can tell her how you feel, you know that you love her? That has Taylor Swift written all over it G-man,” Garcia finishes.

“We’ll see about it, Penelope,” Spencer said, trying to figure out a plan to make Y/N feel better. He hung up on his friend and put his ear back at the door.

Spencer felt a little bit uncomfortable pressing his ear up to the door. It was like he was invading a very private moment. As he strained to hear the song playing in the bedroom, Spencer’s legs were rubbed against by a fluffy orange Maine Coon.

“Hey Mabel,” He said crouching down to pet the cat. “Our girl is really sad right now. You always make her feel better though, right May?” He said. Spencer thought that he really must be losing it if he’s having a conversation with her cat.

Suddenly, the music stopped and Spencer quieted himself to be able to hear what Y/N was doing behind the door. He heard her voice, maybe she was talking to her sister or Penelope. Spencer’s heart twinged with sadness that he wasn’t the one she went to when her heart was broken.

“Hey, Ian. We need to talk,” Her voice was muffled between the door. Spencer’s breath was coming heavier with the realization that she was talking with Ian. Ian her boyfriend.

He was not able to hear the other side of the conversation, not that he really cared what Ian said to defend himself. Spencer tried to make due by listening to Y/N’s quiet voice.

“Ian, you really hurt me-” She said, her voice getting high. Spencer knew that was a sign of Y/N getting ready to cry.

“No, you are going to listen to me. Then I am going to hang up and I’m going to toss all of your shit that you leave in my apartment in the trash!” she yelled on the phone.

“You really hurt me by not coming to my party, Ian. But what I realized, sitting here, that I don’t need you anymore. I feel like I’ve given this relationship everything I had. And you don’t even give me the time of day! Spencer was here for me today. He planned this! He was the one who want to make my day special and I love-”

Spencer, who was listening intently to the conversation behind the door, ran as far away from the door as he could. He did not just hear what he did, he tried to tell himself. She does not mean it. Ian will probably call her in the morning and she’ll forgive him. There’s no way that she means that she means that. The silence coming from her bedroom is only broken by her quiet sobs. Spencer was counting the seconds before he could barge into the bedroom and tell her that everything is going to be okay. If he was more like Derek, he’d open up that door and just hold her and tell her how much he loves her. But Spencer Reid is not like Derek Morgan, much to his disappointment.

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Y/N sat on the carpeted floor of her bedroom, mopping up her leaky eyes with an old t-shirt. The initial heartbreak from Ian not coming to her party was gone. It was a strange feeling, she almost felt light. Like breathing was a little easier or the world was a little clearer. The thing was, that if she thought about it, she really did not even miss him from her party. Spencer was the one who planned this, she thought. He was the one who gave her a thoughtful gift. He was the one she went to when she needed to go home. Spencer was the one.

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Spencer was broken from his internal thoughts when the door cracked open. Y/N eyes were puffy and red from crying. She made a motion to Spencer to come into her bedroom with her. Y/N led him over to the balcony window seat that overlooked the city street. It was still early in the evening, so the street was busy with passerby, bikers, and shoppers.

Spencer sat down tentatively next to Y/N, who made a movement to grab his hand. She intertwined her fingers with his and Spencer could not help but think of how warm her hands were in his cold ones. Or how her light blue nail polish reflected light.

“Spencer,” She said nervously. Y/N looked up at him with a shy look on her face.

“Do you love me, Spencer,” She asked him, looking him dead in the eyes.

“Of course I love you, Y/N. I love all of you guys. Penelope, Derek, JJ, Emily-” he said, regretting his answer almost immediately due to the look on her face.

“No, Spencer. I mean do you love me?” she asked, daring to make eye contact with him.

“I have loved you for years, Y/N.” Spencer answered. He lowered his gaze, fearful that maybe she would reject him, fearful that she’d think him loving her is a ridiculous notion, fearful that she’d realize that he’d never be the one for her.

“Spencer, you mean so much to me. And I think that today-” She started, putting her hand to his cheek in an affectionate manner.

“I think that today, I learned that you are always a constant in my life, you are always the person that I want to hold me when I cry. You are always the one who I want to make laugh. Spencer you are the one for me.” She professed.

Spencer sat there looking dumbfounded. Part of him wanted to believe her, believe that she could possibly love him like he loves her.

“I love you, Spencer. More than you can ever imagine.” She told him, dancing her fingers down his incredibly sharp jaw and down his neck.

Spencer, who seemed to come back to Earth, fixed Y/N’s necklace. He looked back at her, like it was the first time that he was actually seeing her.

Tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, Spencer kissed her forehead saying “when I look at you, Y/N, I see something that I never really thought I’d ever get. I see a future, a happy one. I love you so much, Y/N and-”

Spencer’s confession was cut off suddenly by a pair of soft lips pressing up to his. His shock wore off quickly as Y/N kissed the corners of his mouth, up his cheekbones, and all the way to his eyelids. Her overzealous affection caused Spencer to belt out a high pitched laugh. Kissing her tasted like the future. And the future had never tasted so sweet.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fics #spencer x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader

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freddi-in-the-fray · 3 years

Text

Small drabble bc I am bored, and yes I ripped the acrylic nails off my thumbs just to type this out. This will be posted on AO3 soon methinks.

How to Tie a Knot:

When Farah and Saul finally see each other again, after Farah has risen from the dead and after Saul has finally recovered from endless months of torture in the Solarian dungeons, they are unable to move towards each other. Both are stuck, still with the relief and hearts heavy from their forced separation. Never before have they spent so much time apart. Their closeness feeds their bond, but their distance has more than starved it. It’s gone, an empty spindle in both of their chests.

Farah remembers feeling Saul in her bones every time she looked into his eyes, but the man in front of her now is more or less a stranger. His mind is a fortress, and though she wants to, she will never prod his mind with her magic. That kind of invasion is just—it is something she has sworn to never do.

Saul remembers Farah as warm honey that creeps through his blood with a thickness that comforts him as much as it suffocates him. He remembers thinking that he could drown in her if it were possible. She’s all sunshine and summer sun, an impossibly idyllic perfection that taunts him when she’s near.

Their reunion is bittersweet. They’re both breathing, alive, but without that connection to the other, neither are truly living. Farah is the first to step forward, and she places a delicate hand on Saul’s cheek, as if her touch could reignite their bond. It doesn’t. She still feels empty. Tears swell in her eyes, reddens them until they finally spill over and slip off her cheeks. Saul is quick to pull her into his chest. His arms come around her, slide behind her shoulders. Her nose presses into his throat just as one of his hands creeps up her back and tangles in the underside of her neatly pinned hair.

“It’s okay, love.” He murmurs, but the crack in his voice betrays him. “It will be okay.”

Months go by, nearly an entire semester before they break. Being together and feeling so alone is too painful; it fractures their minds until they’re both screaming at each other in the open corridor. Communication has never been a problem for them, but then again, they’ve never really had to communicate. The inability to feel one another eats at their souls until they’re angry and bitter and exhausted.

But then Saul snaps. He reaches forward and grabs Farah by the back of the neck. He drags her forward so his nose hits her cheek and his lips cover her own. Farah struggles to hold back a surprised gasp, but that’s all the specialist needs to feel to know that she feels the same. This rage, this pain…it’s from the silence inside them. The string that tied them together has been severed until they’re only echoes of the pair they once were. The touch of skin on skin is comforting, though, and a timid relationship different to the one they’ve always known blossoms between the two.

Another year goes by, eventless and mundane to others but thrilling to Saul and Farah. They share stolen kisses in empty corridors, sneak from each other’s rooms late at night—or very early in the morning—, and finally make use of some of the abandoned rooms throughout the East Wing. It’s exciting, a new adventure full of discoveries for both of them. Their bond is still gone, still creates a void in their chests, but in some ways, they’ve come to know each other even better without it. Farah recognizes each subtle change on Saul’s face, memorizes every twitch of his brows and dimple on his face. Saul commits her voice to memory. Each syllable she speaks, each tone or heavy sigh she lets out sends shivers down his spine. He knows what she feels just from the lilt in her laughter or soft chokes in her cries. In some ways, this is better than the bond. They communicate openly now. Neither have to prod an invisible string to get the truth because they’ve become accustomed to just saying it. Moreover, neither are shy about those three little words that hung like curtains between them for so many years. They see everything now. They finally see each other.

It’s a rainy Friday evening in the middle of November when Saul gets down on one knee, and for the first time, he is truly grateful that their bond has been severed. Farah, his beautiful, clueless Farah, is completely in the dark about his plans. Her face is full of awe, stuck in surprise when he lowers himself to the ground and takes her hand.

“My love,” he whispers. It is only them standing in a circle of flower petals and dimly lit candles in front of the fountain where they met all those years ago. The lights from the school glow behind them, drape over their faces while the fiery wicks of the candles make shadows dance over their bodies. “I have waited over 25 years to do this.”

He doesn’t get the chance to ask, because Farah falls to her knees in front of him and presses her lips to his so quickly that they forget where they are.

“Yes,” she whispers. They both laugh breathlessly.

Seven months later, on the twelfth day of June, Saul stands in between two trees at the end of several rows of hollowed logs draped in soft green moss. Lights twinkle above him, hanging delicately from the white chiffon drapery Terra hung that morning. An aisle has been cleared, and their closest friends and family sit in rapture as Farah steps into the middle at the other end. She is a vision in white, in lace and ivory that hangs from her like dew drops in the misty afternoon. Saul chokes on his breath. Tears fall traitorously from his eyes, and he lets them. She has her arm linked through Sky’s elbow as he guides her over the pine straw and leaves. Sam stands behind Saul, and Terra stands on the opposite side of the altar. As Farah walks, she blooms delicate white flowers behind her. It’s stunning. It’s everything Saul has dreamed of for over 25 years.

Sky stops them both in front of Saul, let’s put a small chuckle when Farah forgets that she can’t just run into his arms. Both of them are a mess of tears as they long to touch. When she finally steps up, Farah hands her bouquet to Terra so Saul can grip both of her hands in his. His are big where hers are small, steady where hers are shaking, and warm where hers are not. It’s like coming home. Neither are sure what is said during the ceremony. Neither really pay attention. Farah looks so beautiful, and Saul scrutinizes every detail until it is burned into his mind: her smile, the way her tears leave light trails through her makeup, the way her eyelashes fan over her pink cheeks. Saul looks a mess, Farah thinks, but it is the most beautiful she has ever seen him. He tries not to cry, but he does. And she’s grateful to not feel him in that moment, because she’s sure if they still had that bond, neither would be able to make it through their vows.

When Ben clears his throat, Saul jumps at Farah. His arms wrap around her waist and drag her body to his. Her shaky hands grip his cheeks as he dips her backwards into a heated embrace. And the sky opens up. Rain starts to pour down over them, echoing in the loud applause of their audience. And then there’s warmth in their chests. Through the grey cover of steam that rises as water hits the ground, a golden light erupts between them. It feels as though something is being tied back together, an invisible string once broken now reconnected.

Farah pulls back in shock when everything that is purely Saul floods her soul. His love for her, his anguish, his fear, his happiness, his grace, his mind. They all crack against her frantic heart, and from the looks on his face, hers crack against his as well. It’s heavier than before, so much deeper than it has ever been. It’s almost overwhelming, the renewal of this bond, and it feels stronger the harder it begins to rain. She chuckles, her finger coming up to trace the delicate line of his nose and brow.

“Water makes knots stronger,” she whispers against his lips, and Saul smiles at her. Drops of rain splash against their faces as they are reborn together in a summer storm.

#silrah #farah dowling x saul silva #ftws #fate the winx saga #farah dowling #saul silva #fluff

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royivia · 3 years

Text

The Neighborhood

Sibyl Campbell wasn’t even mad when she woke up on a hot ass May morning in her room, drenched in sweat. Instead, she bypassed anger and went straight to resignation because the HVAC system in the Robert Moses Houses was broken — again — and she didn’t have the time or the energy to bitch about it. In fact, the heating and cooling stayed shutting off across Groundview Gardens. It had become a predictable kind of disappointment in the neighborhood, more so than flooding during superstorms or the fact that no matter which part of the neighborhood you were in, you could feel the rumbling of the shuttle every seven minutes.

Sibyl had spent all night coughing and turning in her bed from the claustrophobic heat that agitated her asthma. Her mother had already gone to work, otherwise, she would have heard Mildred Campbell yelling in indignant patwa over the phone at an Arcadian Realty & Management representative “to fix the damn AC” before she threatened to call 311 on their ass, and report them to the city. Both Mildred and the AR&M rep knew it was an empty threat, but to shut her up, they’d call someone who’d tinker with the system and the air would come back on for a couple of days or so, before it chipped out. And then, the routine would start again.

Sibyl checked the weather. It was already ninety-five degrees. She took a puff from her inhaler and scrolled through her timeline. The same picture of a little girl with a big bright smile captioned with different variations of “RIP Destiny’’ and prayers for her family flooded her feed. Sibyl forced herself out of bed. The sweat on her body made her feel uncomfortable. She hauled a clunky, old portable air conditioner out from her closet and plugged it into the wall. Management would fine them for the spike in their energy use, but she didn’t care. She pushed the power button on, and waited for the box to cough out some hot air before it eventually cooled the room down from a humid haze to a lackluster lukewarm.

SOIL had been trying to meet with AR&M, the neighborhood’s collective management company, about the HVAC problem with little to no success for close to three years. They had circulated petitions. Tried shaming them in the local news. They even considered organizing a rent strike, which would have done nothing because everybody who lived in Groundview Gardens received subsidies from the city that made rent practically free. And as much as people were pissed about freezing their asses off in the winter or not being able to breathe during the summer, nobody was tryna fight free rent. So, SOIL decided to annoy the shit out of their landlords instead. On their way into their coolly ventilated corporate office buildings, occupying their lobbies, picketing in front of their luxury condos, and most effectively, managing to damage one, or two, of their solar-powered generators in the hottest month New York City had ever seen. A few arrests and some pissed off rich people later, management finally agreed to hold a town hall to hear from their tenants, which meant SOIL’s next plan of action was to convince as many people as possible to show up. Nefi Ramos saw it as a challenge that they could surely accomplish. Her neighbors were like camels to water in a desert. They were thirsty, and had learned to go without for as long as they needed to, but lead them to a watering hole, and they would drink.

“It’s too fucking hot,” she shouted into her megaphone. She was standing in front of one of the many large screens around Groundview that cycled between ads for things they couldn’t afford and AR&M’s infamous “neighborhoods of tomorrow” promotional video. Most people just used the screens to check train arrival times and the air quality. The next shuttle was two minutes away, and the air was currently “unsafe for vulnerable groups.”

“Are we just supposed to take this shit?” Nefi asked. “We don’t deserve to live like this.”

Around her, the rest of SOIL handed out cold bottles of water, popsicles, and fruit cups from coolers filled with melting ice, along with flyers to people walking towards the train platform. They walked past the demonstration uninterestedly, only stopping long enough to take a bottle of water. Everyone had gotten used to Nefi shouting at them to care about things beyond their control, and learned to tune her and the rest of her angry SOILders out, taking their flyers every now and then only to chuck them into the nearest trash can. This morning, a few people did stop to listen for a second or two, the heat getting the better of them, before they saw the time flicker on the screen behind her, and realized that they’d be late for work.

Sibyl, her camera always strapped to her body, snapped a few shots of her neighbor. Nefi was like a loud older cousin who wasn’t afraid of a little trouble, or frankly anything. She both awed and terrified Sibyl.

“It’s time for these slumlords to sweat,” Nefi went on. “We need to organize. Our voices are stronger together — ”

“What makes you think anyone gives a shit about what happens to us down here?”

Mr. Solomon had been on his way to the bodega to buy his morning loosie, but stopped to sit in his walker, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“That’s exactly what they want us to think, vecino.” Nefi softened her voice in that way she did when she was trying not to shout. “The more we believe that we can’t make them pay attention to us, the longer they get away with treating us like shit.”

“I remember when they first moved people into Groundview.” In the midst of reminiscing, Mr. Solomon started coughing aggressively, prompting someone to hand him a bottle of water which he drank quickly before continuing. “We were protesting and shouting in the streets, but they didn’t care then. They’re not gonna care now.” The history lesson quickly turned into yet another heated debate about neighborhood politics between him and some of the other SOILders trying to convince him to take one of their flyers. Sibyl used the opportunity to catch Nefi’s attention, who waved her over enthusiastically.

“Yo, did you hear?” Nefi handed her a fruit cup. “We finally got a meeting with the overlords! Are you gonna come?”

“Nahhh, Nefi. You know that’s not really my thing…I’m not an activist.” Nefi was always trying to recruit her for some radical ass shit that just never seemed worth the trouble of explaining to Sibyl’s very Jamaican mother.

“Nobody said you had to be. You live in this neighborhood, and have just as much say about what happens in it as the suits who own it.” Nefi sensed Sibyl’s hesitation. “Please Sib! Come so we have more people in the room. You don’t have to say anything. We just want those dicks to see that we have power. People power!”

Nefi was very proud of the fact that she had an uncle, or it might have been a second cousin, who had been a member of the Young Lords and, drawing on their legacy of fighting for the liberation of Puerto Ricans, was always going on about the oppressive nature of renting, and self-determination for poor people, and community empowerment, and, and…

“Aight — I’ll go,” Sibyl assured her, trying to cut her sermon short. Nefi hugged her and thanked her a million times before shoving a stack of flyers into her arms to pass out and post up around the neighborhood.

The singular garden in Groundview Gardens was usually ten degrees cooler than anywhere else in the neighborhood. It was created — not by the architects who had designed New York City’s newest development, but instead — by the community out of desperation as an escape from their cramped apartments. During the days, the older folks used it to grow their herbs, medicines, and flowers for their healing practices. The local farmers grew produce that fed the community. After school and on the weekends, all the kids hung out at the community center at the heart of the garden where they learned to dance, make art, and play music.

By the time Sybil got there later that night, Groundview’s collective of artists had already transformed the greenspace into their Saturday night hangout. One of the DJs was spinning records. People were dancing, drinking, smoking, having a good time. Dante, Sage, and Felix had bottles in their hands when Sibyl joined them at their usual spot. Their clothes were covered in colorful patches of spray paint.

“Did you finish it? When do I get to see it?,” she asked them excitedly. She hadn’t seen her friends in about a week, which meant they were either done with their latest mural or were taking a break before they disappeared for another few days. “Soon.” Dante looked tired, but excitement danced in his eyes. “Shoot anything good lately?” He leaned in reaching for her camera, but she quickly pulled back from him.

He laughed at her and took a sip of beer. Dante was her oldest friend out of the trio. There was a quiet protectiveness between the two of them Sibyl hoped they could always maintain.

“It’s been a minute since I last checked.”

“How come?” Dante asked.

Sibyl usually couldn’t wait to hold herself up in the darkroom at the community center to develop her film, but she had been putting off her latest batch. She’d fallen in love with photography while taking classes at the center as a kid. So much so that one day, her mother came home with an old film camera and Sibyl never put it down. That first summer, she ran around the neighborhood asking to take people’s photos. It felt so natural to her, though it had taken a while to gain people’s trust. Take their pictures for what? What was she going to do with them? Skeptics, but curious, they eventually agreed. They’d uncomfortably pose or force a smile, and then immediately ask her to see it because if they didn’t look good, she’d have to delete it. Then she’d explain how film photography worked, and they’d cuss her out for wasting their time.

Weeks later, she’d find them again — at the corner store, or at the People’s Garden, and give them the glossy prints she’d developed. Through her lens she could see they were secretly afraid she’d see the things they’d all spent so much time and concern trying to hide. But those things would all melt away when they’d see themselves — some for the first time — with the same worth and value she saw in them. After that Sibyl didn’t have to ask. They booked her for quinces and graduation parties and engagement photos. People would stop her when they saw her around. “So you not gonna take my picture? Girl, you know I look good today. Quit playing and snap something quick,” and they’d pose with more pride than before, as if to officially celebrate the triumph of living, something they didn’t know they had accomplished until they saw proof.

After seeing so many of her neighbors’ pictures, some of which she took, circulate in online memorials, something lodged itself in the pit of Sibyl’s gut. She couldn’t fully identify what it was, but it left her with little energy to feel or do anything else outside of going to school and work. But she didn’t know how to explain that to her friends without being weird or bringing down the mood, so she just said, “Been busy with school.” She quickly changed the subject before anyone tried to press her on it.

“Are ya gonna go to the town hall?”

“What town hall?” Sage asked.

“The one with management. About the HVACs.” Sibyl handed them flyers from her bag. “I promised Nefi I’d go, but I don’t want to go by myself. Someone come with me?”

“Pass,” Felix snorted.

“I’ll go. Should be fun,” Sage said with a smirk on their face. “I wanna hear what those assholes say their excuse is for not fixing shit.”

“I’ll save ya the trip. Sorry, you’re too poor for us to care,” Felix mocked. “It’s not like they’re all of a sudden gonna have a conscience ya know.”

“You mad negative bro,” Dante said.

“What?” Felix asked animatedly. “You really trying to spend the rest of your life down here? We all need to focus on getting the fuck up outta here instead of asking them to fix some janky ass vents.”

It’s not like anybody was trying to spend any part of their lives in Groundview, but lately it seemed like the rest of their lives wouldn’t take so long. The sound of the shuttle, more muffled than anywhere else, reverberated throughout the garden.

“I’m out the first chance I get,” Dante admitted. His answer wasn’t surprising to any of them, but this was the first time Sibyl heard him say it out loud. Dante was one of the more talented and disciplined artists in the collective. It would only be a matter of time before he blew up and left.

“What happens when ya leave though?” Sage was upset. “You get out, but what about the rest of us? Not everybody can up and leave right? Shouldn’t we try and make shit better for everyone.”

“That’s a trap, Sage. Shit’s not gonna get better,” Felix said harshly. “Does it ever hit ya, like really hit ya that there’s no future for us here? Everybody’s so busy working to get by, we don’t even have time to realize how fucked up everything is.”

“I’m not saying it’s perfect.” Sage shot back. “I just don’t think we have to turn our back on our community. That’s fucked up.”

“Don’t take it so personally, Sage,” Dante cut in. “Nobody’s turning their backs on anyone.”

“Besides, no offense to Nefi n ‘em,” Felix said, “but everybody’s wasting their time if they think those suits are gonna fix anything.”

Sibyl listened quietly. Groundview was all they ever knew. She had never considered leaving it, and yet she also was afraid to admit that she thought Felix might be right.

The middle school auditorium only had like fifteen people — half were members of SOIL — in there that Tuesday night, which was more than Nefi had expected. The handful of people who told her they wanted to go to the town hall, but couldn’t, were either working, or would get home too late from work and would have to cook dinner or iron school uniforms for the next day. Everyone else couldn’t be bothered; like Felix, they thought it was a waste of time. That nothing would come from it. Sibyl didn’t show. No one who attended the town hall actually thought anything would come from it either. If AR&M had wanted to do something, they would have done it a long ass time ago. The people who did show up were mostly Nefi’s elderly neighbors who were always ready to spit their anger into a mic because if they weren’t going to get a solution, they would at least get to cuss someone out, and have an audience to witness it.

Nefi worked her way around the room to thank people for coming. These things always felt like family reunions to her. Old friends hugging and catching up because they hadn’t seen each other in a minute, with work and family and life moving everybody in this or that direction, even though they all still lived in the same neighborhood. She finished up her greetings and joined the rest of SOIL, huddled at the front of the room. They went over the order of speakers, before Benjy, the group’s designated peacemaker for the evening, asked everyone to quiet down and get seated so they could start. He reminded everyone to keep it civil. Then one by one, people got up to the mic to direct their anger at the empty faces in tailored suits, sitting at the table in front of them, who could all care less about the people shouting at them. There was a lot of finger snapping, and “that’s right” and “tell-em’s” from the crowd throughout.

Finally about half an hour in, a young woman, with a little girl clutching on to the left side of her body, got up to the mic.

“My name is Mercy Brooks, and this is my daughter Angelique.” Her voice was shaking, in that soft, angry, pissed off kinda way that warranted attention. Nefi hushed the crowd down so that she could speak her peace without interruption. “My daughter’s asthma acts up almost every day. She can’t breathe. Ya should be fucking ashamed of yaselves. Our babies are dying down here. Is that what we deserve because we can’t do better? We just supposed to take that shit. You ever thought about what it’s like to live down here, huh? I’m sure ya don’t cause if you did, you wouldn’t think it was right to keep people living like this. Or do ya not care cause it’s not your kids?”

There was silence from the table, which was worse than feigning any sympathy or remorse. It set the room off into chants, which meant it was over from there. AR&M security shut that shit down quick right on cue, and if you weren’t arrested that night, you were brusquely escorted out. Management promised to set up some vague kind of task force with representatives from the neighborhood, but it led to nothing. A fucking disappointment, that’s what that shit was. And it wasn’t a surprise to Nefi or anyone else, but it hurt all the same. A few weeks later, that same woman who got up and spoke, her daughter Angelique died because they couldn’t get her to the hospital in time after she had an asthma attack. AR&M still hadn’t fixed the vents in their housing complex. And they still didn’t change the filters or fix the ducts in the other housing complexes so that it wouldn’t happen again after that. SOIL kept trying to drum up some kind of anger. Anything to get people to feel something. To do something.

Murals of Destiny, Angelique, and every other person who had died that year quietly popped up around the neighborhood. Vigils and altars with flowers and prayer candles accompanied them. But as much as people were upset or sad, no one knew what else to do except mourn and move on because it was clear to everyone that no one gave a damn about them. And so, what was the point?

They called it the Subterranean Housing and Inner-City Tunnels project, or S.H.I.T. for short. A plan to provide affordable housing for everyone who had experienced the worst housing crisis New York City had ever seen. People were evicted left and right. Families were priced out of their homes and neighborhoods. The shelter system, swelled beyond its limits for decades, finally collapsed. The streets and subway were overrun with people in sleeping bags and blankets. So nothing new, but it finally annoyed enough people to warrant action.

Naturally, the city contracted its most blood thirsty developers, AR&M, to help solve the problem, which was kinda like asking an arsonist to put out a fire they had proudly started. To no one’s surprise, they didn’t want to forfeit any of their luxury condos that sat empty while people slept on the streets. Instead, they struck a deal to create the largest scale of public housing of its kind, in exchange for absolute, unregulated freedom. The only problem was there was literally no land left for them to develop because they had already bought it all. And then one day, the chief architect of S.H.I.T. had an epiphany when he felt the uptown 6 train rumbling beneath his feet. There was an entire part of the city he had yet to consider. Where a majority of the people who needed housing were already living. Sprawling housing complexes with multi-unit apartments appeared overnight 150 feet underground, with the pilot site in the South Bronx. A new subway station and miles and miles of foot tunnels connected New York’s newest neighborhood to the world above it.

There were protests, anger, outrage! That the country’s most progressive city could so blatantly, and quickly!, shove all of its poor people out of sight only seemed to bother the poor people because everyone else praised S.H.I.T. as the most innovative solution of the 21st century. New York City had done the impossible, and housed every single person. That was grounds for celebration and federal funding. Plans were quickly announced to roll S.H.I.T. out across every major city in the country. To ease people’s concerns, the mayor at the time, eyeing a presidential run, promised that his own city’s underground neighborhood would just be temporary — transitional housing at best. Transitional to what, no one could answer. Temporary until when? Until they could think of something else. One year became five, became ten, etc., etc.

In time, AR&M and the city eventually added a couple schools, a hospital, a library, and a sad excuse for a park that residents eventually turned into the People’s Garden. Folks opened up bodegas, 99 cent and liquor stores, and made themselves at home. It didn’t take long to accept living where they did as another fact of life because they had no other choice. Over time, the plan to move everyone back aboveground disappeared from the city’s housing briefings. Then, the briefings disappeared altogether. The high rates of asthma and chronic bronchitis that seemed to come from living in Groundview occasionally made the nightly news, but not enough to cause major concern or stop neighborhoods like Groundview from popping up across the country.

There were still those who remembered life before Groundview, and vowed to move out of the neighborhood as soon as the opportunity arrived. They kept the dream close to their hearts. And if it didn’t happen during their lifetimes, they’d make sure it would happen during their children’s. More realized it was a fool’s dream and moved on. Eventually though, everyone adapted to the vibrations of the shuttle inside their kitchens. The white, fluorescent lighting that lit every corner of their world like a harsh, artificial sun. The damp, muggy air that arrested their chests if they tried to breathe too freely. And the humming of the massive ventilation systems that heated and cooled their cramped, windowless apartments — when they decided to work.

An Artist’s Treatise on Survival

I don’t know how we do it sometimes. That is, put up with all the shit that life throws at us. Work jobs that exhaust us with little in return. Take care of our families with little to no support. Do so much with so little. And still be able to smile or laugh in the midst of it all. Then, I remember: it’s because we have to. No one else is gonna pay our bills if we don’t. No one else is gonna put food on our tables for us. No one’s gonna bail us out. Naturally, you learn to hustle. To channel your frustrations into working around the way things are because trying to fix things that were built broken takes time you don’t have when you’re just trying to get by.

What gets me even more is how we’ve perfected survival itself as an artform, and created whole new types of living from abject desperation. We wasn’t supposed to, much less find reasons to enjoy life, but we did anyway. Some even take on the added challenge of trying to make life more bearable, more enjoyable, for the rest of us. For example, sometimes when it felt like there wasn’t much to appreciate. That you were resigned to the fate of being alive and not living and didn’t deserve any better. You’d see a mural. On the way to the laundromat. Or the corner store. While you were running errands. Or walking home, bone tired, from the train after another long, shitty day at work. And like all good, beautiful things, it reminded you to breathe. You didn’t always know who created it. Or couldn’t remember if it was there the day before even though you’ve walked that way millions of times. You just knew that it was, in its own way, encouraging you to make it to tomorrow. Bright bursts of color and story interrupting the mundane, tiresome every day you’d come to accept with no protest. After a while, it becomes easier to accept a simple truth about living. That we can still manage to find a reason to laugh, to enjoy life, despite it all, and that we can be the source of our own power. It’s kind of audacious of us to still try and find joy even if it means creating it for ourselves. Maybe that’s why we do it.

At first, it started off as harmless tagging, and they kept it up chasing the thrill of not getting caught. Then they tried to outdo each other. It became a sport: who could paint the better mural. Get the most buzz around the neighborhood before they got painted over. But the better they got, and the more the murals looked legit, the longer they stayed up. Until they stopped painting over them altogether because people loved them so much. They didn’t belong to the creators anymore. They belonged to the neighborhood. And before they knew it, they’d created something much bigger than any of them could have imagined.

The tunnels just seemed like the next natural step for the graffiti artists in Groundview. Miles and miles of blank walls? Dante, especially, saw something to keep him busy after his brother died. Besides, painting murals felt like the only thing he could do. He’d stopped going to school. He’d just paint. When he ran out of ideas to paint, he asked Sibyl to see her portraits, and he started replicating them across the neighborhood. He was relentless — portrait after portrait. Sage and Felix started helping him out because they worried he would lose it, spending all that time in the tunnels by himself. He was grasping for something, but he didn’t know what it was. Until he saw it, lying on the ground near a garbage can.

The Groundview Residents’ List of Demands

The People of Groundview Gardens demand financial and social restitution for all residents, especially those who developed chronic health issues from living underground and/or have lost loved ones because of it.

The People demand New York City move all Groundview residents back above ground into rent subsidized apartments.

The People demand New York City disband all underground housing policies so that no one else has to live in Groundview Gardens or any other housing project like it.

Until the first three demands are met, The People demand Arcadian Realty & Management fix the HVAC systems in every single housing complex it owns and regularly maintain them.

Once Groundview Gardens is fully evacuated, The People demand New York City turn the entire neighborhood into a public memorial to commemorate the loss of life, preserving the art and The People’s Garden.

After the town hall, and the supposed task force, proved to be a bust, SOIL had created the demands to deliver to the city. They circulated leaflets with the five bullet points, but no one would take them seriously. Dante himself, admittedly, had checked out, and had ignored SOIL’s literature, up until that point. The demands appeared overnight on the walls of the tunnels in bold white paint for everyone to see. They were the last thing everyone saw coming into Groundview and the first thing they saw from the shuttle on their commutes leaving the neighborhood.

Nefi kept waiting for the moment when her neighbors would suddenly realize that they were angry — very angry. They’d decide they were fed up once and for all and refuse to settle for less anymore. They’d riot in the streets. They’d protest in front of AR&M’s offices. They’d refuse to go into work until something changed. Their anger would get everyone’s attention. Her own rage had burned intensely inside her for as long as she knew herself. She learned to channel it through SOIL trying to make Groundview a better place, even though everyone told her it wasn’t worth it; it wasn’t possible; it was a waste of time. But it was either that or literally set some shit on fire. But, it didn’t matter how many rallies, tenant meetings, town halls, or demonstrations SOIL organized. Nefi learned that she couldn’t have a revolution without people. And the people? They were tired and overworked. They didn’t have time to overthrow anything. And, even though no one would admit it, they were also afraid — afraid of change, of what they could lose, of realizing that something greater than what they had come to know was possible. So to save themselves, and Nefi, further disappointment, they rebuffed her again, and again: Nefi you need to chill. Girl you’re doing too much. Don’t waste your time. Nothing’s gonna change. After the town hall, and years and years of holding hope, the fire inside Nefi dulled until she couldn’t recognize herself anymore. She conceded her rage for high-functioning hopelessness. She withdrew from her friends, from her neighbors, from SOIL, only tapping into enough energy to wake up, go to work, and make her way back home. The days bled into each other, so much so that when the night Nefi had been waiting for eventually came later that August, it caught her completely off guard. It caught everyone off guard because it wasn’t the HVACs or the deaths of toddlers, or even the wrath towards AR&M that finally set people off. But it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone who’s lived in New York City long enough because it was the one thing that could incite the level of large-scale anarchic rage Nefi had been holding out for — and that was the MTA.

The night in question, the air was hot, muggy, and heavy with potential. Like any other evening, people were heading home from work, the collective exhaustion weighing down on their bodies, stamped into their faces. They waited together, huddled in a sweaty mass on the sweltering Third Ave-138th St. platform for a train that felt like it would never come. When an empty shuttle finally did arrive in the station, the doors opened to the grating sound of a man’s voice coming through the train’s speaker system:

“Attention passengers. This is your conductor speaking. Due to unplanned construction up ahead, we are disbanding all trains to Groundview Gardens at this time. I repeat, we are disbanding all trains to Groundview. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

This shit had happened plenty of times before. A disruption of service that made it difficult to get home. Everybody was so used to it and had even come to expect it. The inconvenience of being poor and powerless consistently working against them. It too had become a predictable kind of disappointment. Even the audible, collective disapproval was muted and slightly rehearsed, nothing more than a reflex. They would have to find their way home, some two-odd miles on foot, through the tunnels. But that night, Ms. Claudette, who had been on her feet all day at work taking care of her elderly patient and still had to go home and iron her scrubs for the next day, was fucking tired. She had paid her fare. And, she had paid her taxes. She had also paid her dues in this country — twenty-seven years worth of struggle and debasement — for what? This could not be it. Life could not just be disappointment. The least she expected was that the train would get her home like it was supposed to. She decided that she was going to let the conductor have a piece of her mind.

“This is nonsense. Tell me, just tell me, how am I supposed to get home?” Her boisterous St. Lucian accent traveled well beyond her.

Folks who heard her echoed in agreement, hyping her up. “They have the nerve to raise prices for this shitty ass service,” someone said loudly. They all collectively decided to board the empty train. The construction workers in their hard hats and massive boots, the women with their large tote bags and their tiredness neatly folded away into themselves. They were all going to sit on the train, until it started up again. It was going to take them home.

The conductor was tired too. Nothing as deep-seated as his passengers, but something not too far removed. He had no skin in this game though, and his job didn’t pay him enough to care. He was annoyed; they were keeping him from clocking out. And so, after listening to a bunch of people passionately curse him out, he told them to, and I quote:

“Write a letter.”

It happened so fast. I mean, when I say shit popped off before anyone could swallow their spit. Someone knocked over the trash cans on the platform. Someone else, set them on fire, with what to this day no one really knows, but their latent anger seemed to have ignited what they didn’t know was inside them.

The riots lasted for weeks. People boycotted the MTA and didn’t go to work.

The restaurants aboveground shuttered because they were understaffed. Construction on all the new developments stopped because the workers, a lot of whom lived in Groundview, refused to show up. People aboveground had to stay home because their nannies and house cleaners weren’t able to come and relieve them like they had come to rely on. Groundview had forced the city to come to a complete stop. The mayor held a press conference saying she didn’t condone the behavior of the vandals at the train station. SOIL led protests and demonstrations in front of city hall until she had to hold a second press conference to apologize for her statements at the first press conference. She promised she was going to make sure that it would never happen again — not just the riots, but the unnecessary deaths in Groundview, the resentment the residents felt towards the city. They were going to fix the HVACs, and the MTA! They were going to heal the great divide the city had long thrived on once and for all, if, and only if, the workers called off the strike and went back to work. It sounded so sincere, everyone wanted to believe it. Tired of holding all the power, they asked SOIL to represent them at the bargaining table. Deals were made. Hands were shaken. And things went back to a semblance of normal with a few slight adjustments.

Sibyl was heading out of her apartment when she saw a piece of yellow paper on her front door.

60 DAYS NOTICE TO INCREASE RENT

Mildred Campbell 207 167th St. (GG), Unit 10E

Beginning September 1, 2041, the monthly rent will go up an additional 5% for all units located in the Robert Moses Houses. Please make the appropriate adjustments within the AR&M digital payment system.

We appreciate your continued tenancy.

Sincerely, Arcadian Realty & Management

Pieces of yellow paper were taped to every single door she passed on her way to the train. It had been a year since the last time the heating or cooling had stopped working. Everyone held their breath celebrating, just in case that was when the heat would shut off or the air would decide to stop working again, but it never did. The number of deaths and hospitalizations went down, and everyone seemed content enough after the strikes and boycott ended, to go back to work. The trains even went back to running as efficiently as possible for the MTA, always teetering on the edge of collapse, but never actually approaching it for fear of recreating another opportunity for mass rebellion.

On her way to the shuttle, Sibyl saw a group of people congregating near one of the murals. She clutched her camera in her hand, ready to raise it to her face, when she heard a voice she didn’t recognize shouting through a megaphone. It belonged to a man she had never seen around the neighborhood before, and he was walking backwards while talking to a group of people Sibyl also didn’t recognize.

“Groundview is the latest up and coming neighborhood in the city,” his voice echoed. “Some of the most promising young artists have gotten their start in this urban — ”

She didn’t stick around to hear more.

After the riots, small groups of tourists descended regularly on Groundview like vultures to see the murals they had seen in viral photographs. They’d rudely block the paths from the train platform, or take up way too much space on the footpaths of the tunnels posing in front of the murals for pictures. Not long after that came the opportunistic hacks who had never stepped foot in Groundview before, running “culture tours’’ around the neighborhood. The residents felt like they were stuck in some sick and twisted museum. Out of annoyance, they banned the tours and non-residents from the People’s Garden, preserving their one last sanctuary in the community.

Sibyl had been in the middle of it all the first night of the riots. She was on the subway platform on her way home from classes and started snapping pictures once she realized what was going on, catching the fervent energy better than anyone could describe to everyone else who wasn’t there. She had no idea her photos would end up everywhere. But they did, and they not only helped draw attention to the plight of her neighborhood. They also drew attention to the wealth of talent germinating underneath the city. Her photos of her friends, their murals, and the other members of her neighborhood, had also attracted a lot of attention that felt good to the young artists who all of a sudden saw opportunities previously unavailable to them right at their doorsteps.

The shuttle arrived on the platform before her. Sibyl boarded the cool air-conditioned cart; the beads of sweat on her skin quickly evaporated. Nefi had warned them to be careful early on. “These things always end up having you exploit your own people for a cheap come up, and it’s never worth it.” Everyone thought she was trippin’. There Nefi was again just looking for another cause to fight now that her crusade against A&RM had seemed to come to an end. Even Sibyl thought she was overreacting at first. People were finally paying attention to Groundview. If she and the rest of the artists could help show the world how important the lives of the people who lived there were, maybe things could change for the better.

The train disappeared into the tunnel towards the 138th St. station. A lot of things had quietly changed over the last year and a half. Many of the families who had lost loved ones, including Dante’s, received settlements from the city and moved out of the neighborhood, leaving a sizable number of the apartments empty. Leading to perhaps the most visible addition to the neighborhood. AR&M had a couple of the younger artists looking for their own big break paint over SOIL’s list of demands and replaced it with a more “aesthetically inviting” message for the new visitors to the neighborhood: Welcome to the Mural District. Sibyl had only heard the tour guides call it that, in an unveiled attempt to rebrand Groundview. It didn’t take too long to find out where they got it from. The name and the welcome sign led to intense debates between the artists in the collective, including her friends, about people selling out and what they owed to each other as artists and their neighbors, which led to a few people splitting off and doing their own thing. The mural made Sibyl sick to her stomach, and she tried her best to avoid seeing it on her commutes. Then one day, someone started covering it up with black graffiti making the message unreadable.

No one knew who it was because they never got caught, but it didn’t matter to AR&M. Like clockwork the next morning, they had cleaners paint a fresh welcome message over it in time for the daily tours at noon. When the welcome message started appearing on the AR&M screens, the screens started getting covered in graffiti too. After a few months, Sibyl expected the guerilla painters to give up and move on, but they didn’t. Fresh graffiti kept appearing over the mural and on the screens, prompting AR&M to deploy their clean up crews, and then the routine would start again. Sibyl looked out the window in anticipation. “OURS.” The word, written over and over again across the mural, quickly came into view and then vanished out of sight.

#short story #original fiction #creative writing #writers of tumblr #fiction

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iamcayc · 3 years

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Sounds of Gojo | Chapter 15: Playful

A/N: Ooooh my lord, I'm sorry for the delay in posting!

Here's some sweet smut for you all <3

🚨 TW 🚨 This chapter starts with some flashbacks to Kaya's personal trauma, so references of sexual assault, death, neglect ahead

Cigarettes and rum. The pungent smells of both stick your nostrils while you fingers race across the ivory keys.

You can’t hear anything, not even your own heartbeat.

Your parents watch in the distance, haughty smiles taunting you as you struggle to keep up with a metronome waving frantically from its perch on the grand piano. The living room is drenched in harsh, white light, cleaning all the color out of the room except for the ruby puddle surrounding Alexander’s limp body on the floor.

You want to scream, but a palm I’m all too familiar with covers you mouth with its pair gropes my breast.

Tears stream down your cheeks and your breath comes in sobs.

“That’s it, sweetheart, stay focused on the music.” His voice is raspy and thick with intent as he palms your breast hard.

“Good girl, Kaya…”

Your heart thunders in your chest as his hand goes lower, pulling the hem of your uniform skirt up your thighs. Every ounce of you begs your body to fight back, to scream, to do anything but freeze and let this all happen again.

“… Kaya.”

Your breaths come in faster, shorter. Alexander starts to decay in front of your eyes while your parents turn their backs to you. His hand cups your mound and a strangled sob finally breaks past your lips.

“Kaya!”

You start to shake, your body trembling.

“Kaya!”

Satoru’s beautiful blue eyes are wide and dark with worry as he looms over you, his thumbs swiping tears from your wet cheeks. You inhale a slow, shaky breath that still sounds like a sob as the nightmare recedes back into the hole it’s claimed in your memory. He mutters a curse before lying back down, pulling you against his chest tightly, his face pressed against your hair as his hands rub your back slowly… soothingly.

“It was just a bad dream, kitten,” he murmurs.

Rationally, you know this. Especially since this particular nightmare pops up every so often just to remind you that you’ve lived though something extraordinarily traumatic.

But that doesn’t stop you from suffering the panic attack aftershocks for a few days.

The rational part of your brain knows that what happened to Alexander wasn’t your fault.

Just like the rational part of your brain knows that your abuser can’t hurt you anymore.

It’s just that the irrational, shattered, fucked up part of your brain seems to be in the driver’s seat right now and you can’t figure out how to say any of this without sounding like a complete fucking lunatic—

Large hands with familiar callouses cup your cheeks and force you to look in his aquamarine eyes.

“Breathe with me, Kaya.” He inhales slowly before holding the breath for a few seconds. You make a lame attempt to do the same, except it comes in like a sharp gasp and your chest wants to burst from having to hold it in while managing your racing heart.

Satoru exhales slowly, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with the gentlest touch. You mimic him, the exhale going a little more smoothly than the inhale.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs before repeating the exercise.

You mind calms as you breath with him, focusing on the feel of his skin against yours and the lessening pressure in your chest as the panic seeps back into the night. How many years have you spent lying in bed, smothered in your emotions until they decided to give up on you? Too many, honestly.

And now, knowing how utterly safe you feel with a man who has yet to reject you and your baggage, you’re at a loss.

Once your heart slows and the sobs turn into hiccups, you pry yourself free of his hands and slip out of the bed to wash your face. You don’t dwell on the fact that Satoru just witnessed a solid ugly cry, complete with snot. Instead, you splash some cool water on your flushed skin and pad back to the bed after blowing your nose for good measure.

You almost turn on your side to hide, but the giant in your bed snakes his arms around your middle and pulls you over to face him again.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” you mumble after a moment. Satoru frowns and gently flicks the tip of your nose.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Want to talk about it?”

He’s asking you honestly, which is refreshing. Most just badger you until you tell them, but there’s a stronger foundation of trust with Satoru, more so than you had even felt with Zeyan.

“It’s a variation of the same dream I have every year on my birthday.” You start picking at invisible lint on the linens. “Sometimes it’s just a flashback, but foggy, more distant. Sometimes, it’s all the worst parts of my trauma smashed together until I’m lost in it. Tonight, it was the latter.”

He keeps quiet, his fingers trailing along the edges of your body gently. The smell of his sleepy fragrance continues to ground you in the moment, rather than getting lost in the memories.

“I kept feeling his hands on me.” Satoru’s fingers pause on your hip. “My parents just watched me struggle to play while he kept touching me. Alexander was on the floor bleeding out—decomposing as my parents ignored me. I couldn’t get any part of my body to move, I couldn’t stop him, again.”

You suck in a shuddering breath and snuggle up closer to his body, startling him. He recovers quickly, snaking his arm around your waist and working his thigh between your legs to close up any gaps between the two of you. Your body responds automatically to the pure intimacy of the position sending heat through your core, your nerves alert and lust yawning despite the early-morning hour.

“But you woke me up before it got any worse,” you murmur against his chest. His fingers sketch nonsense against the skin beneath your tank top, every stroke feeding a sense of need you didn’t expect after such an intense dream. “So, thank you for that.”

Shifting your hips, you ply a bit of friction to your clit against his thigh. A lick of pleasure flares in your belly at the contact, a flare that kindles something stronger when Satoru’s hips flex into your stomach, his cock hard and needy. He releases a shaky breath as his hands become more insistent: the left pulls you in for a hungry kiss while the right guides your hips into a slow, steady, sultry grind against his thigh. You pull at his lower lip with your teeth, instincts taking over as you melt into the pure pleasure coursing through you. Your mind stops considering the dream and your birthday; instead, you lose yourself in the building frenzy between the two of you.

Your hands come into play, weaving your fingers into his hair and nudging his body on top of your, the feel of his weight as comforting as it is intoxicating. Satoru moans into your mouth as your grip tightens in his hair, pulling at the strands just enough to lace the pleasure he feels while grinding his cock against your mound with a sting of pain. Still, you can sense his hesitation in his languid motions.

As his tongue laves against your neck, you arch up against his chest, reaching down to grip his shaft with a firm hand. His lips separate from your skin with a gasp.

“Stop holding back with me,” you pant, stroking his cock slowly. He rises up on his palms, his head hanging to watch you work his throbbing, leaking manhood. After a second, his hips start to match your pace, pumping to meet your hand as he chases the sensation.

“I don’t—fuck… I don’t want to trigger you.” Your hand tightens. He groans and pumps against your hand harder. “Goddamn, you feel so fucking good.”

Leaning forward, you nip at his earlobe and rub the weeping head of head of his cock against your drenched cunt. He hisses a breath as you work the slick along his shaft.

“I need you, Toru.” His pace quickens but you let go of his cock to get his attention. Aqua eyes with pupils blown with lust find yours. “All I ever want is for you to fuck me and make me yours, over and over again. Please.”

He practically snarls at you as he hooks one of your legs over his arm, his large palm gripping your ass cheek and spreading your pussy wide open as he sheathes himself in you. You both cry out at the feeling, his balls slapping against your ass and the wet, indecent sounds of him thrusting into you filling the night. You will never get enough of feeling him inside of you, against you, on top of you. Sweat-slick skin gliding against each other as you buck your hips to meet his—you just fucking need to feel him deeper, harder.

Fuck. The way his cock stretches your tight pussy sends you higher than any drug or spirit could.

Your lips claim his. Calloused hands spread your legs even wider. Your bodies do everything they fucking can to just meld into one being. Rational thoughts are so far out the window they might as well be in space. All that’s left is the feeling of you milking his cock and his lips nipping—sucking marks all over your skin.

The keening cry you make as your vision bursts into white and incinerating desire floods your body is met with a drawn out groan that pitches higher as he cums with you, pumping his sticky mess into you in an erratic but hard rhythm.

Pure, primal satisfaction settles into your body as you run your hands through Satoru’s damp hair, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. He makes no moves to shift his position, even as he shudders from the hypersensitivity of his cock as you adjust your hips to avoid that gods-awful cramp that tries to separate your pelvic bones from the rest of your body. His gaze locks with yours as you stare up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks, still breathless. His fingers brush limp curls from your face.

“This.” You feel no hesitation as you answer. His mouth quirks into a smile.

“You want to spend your birthday with my soft cock plugging our cum inside you?”

Wrinkling your nose, you flick him mercilessly between the eyes. “No! Jesus, why are you like this? I meant, I want to just be with you today!”

Annoyed by the ruined moment, you jab his side as extra punishment. He squawks, as per usual, and rolls off of you to avoid the next attack. You glance at the clock as you scuttle towards the bathroom; it’s just after 4 AM. A disgusting hour to be awake.

Satoru joins you after a moment, both of you cleaning up quietly before he playfully ushers you back into the bed, curling up around you before you can try and put on a new pair of panties or even a shirt.

“I’m all yours,” he murmurs against your shoulder before kissing it gently. “For as long as you want me to be, kitten.”

Your stomach jolts, warmth blooming in your chest as butterflies take flight in your gut. You lace your fingers with his, nestling into his embrace further instead of responding verbally. You know he didn’t mean within the limitations of today; he meant for the long-haul—the conversation you two dance around like idiots and never really hash out the details.

His slow, even breaths lull you back to a dreamless sleep before your brain can run away with this new information.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re like a cat?” Satoru asks as you yawn for the tenth time on the train. You’re thankful that the route to Shimokitazawa is fairly direct from Yoyogi, though you continue to wish Natsumi opened one of her cafés closer to your apartment so you didn’t have to haul your ass so far when you want some of her famous French toast.

He pulls you closer to his chest, your back all but sealed against him on the crowded train. You know he’s being sweet to cover up the territorial nonsense kicking up against the wandering eyes around you, but in a weird way, you find it flattering.

“All the time.” You glance up at him, catching a glimmer of blue beneath the retro sunglasses from the first time you met. “Kento points it out all the time, to the point that nearly all the gifts he gives me are cat-themed. And it’s no surprise that Yaga made Apollo a cat, either. I’d get some serious side-eye for yawning all the time or asking to take breaks to nap during our training sessions when I was younger.”

A sky-blue eye winks at you from beneath the sunglasses and it pairs up with the Grin. “But you’re my sleepy lil’ pussy, aren’t you?”

“Seriously?”

The Grin widens and the arm curled around your waist shifts, his fingers slipping under the boxy sweater to make contact with the bare skin of your stomach. It’s an innocuous touch, but your body instantly responds with a flare of want and a rush of pleasure at his attention.

It’s annoying how quickly he can get you going.

“I bet I can get you purring right now, too.” His fingers trail along your stomach lightly, the lack of pressure but obvious intent doing exactly what he wants them to: make you wet. “Maybe I ought to give it a try, seeing as you’ve got every guy’s attention right now.”

He’s not wrong. Most of the men on the train have been eyeing you since you stepped on, even though you had Satoru hot on your ass—not to mention most of the men are with their partners or far too old for the attention to be anything but creepy. But, the quiet, wild side of you can’t help but bask in the attention. It’s not like you’re an exhibitionist. No, you’re just petty enough to want to make all the women staring daggers at you insanely jealous for stealing the attention of all the men on the train and call the hottest one of them all yours.

You cock your head to the side, exposing the side of your neck—and the vicious hickie he left there this morning. You can’t see his eyes, but his fingers dare to slip lower on your abdomen, skirting the waistband of your leggings. His cock presses against your lower back with pride as he brings his lips over the bruised skin with a sultry smile.

“Now, that’s not fair, kitten.” He chuckles against your neck just as his fingers slip beneath your leggings, tugging playfully at the band of your thong so the friction taunts your clit just right. “You know I’m weak against seeing all my marks on your gorgeous body, especially your neck.”

“What are you going to do about it?” you taunt, your eyes glancing at the station announcement. A smirk pulls at your lips as you press back against him, earning a rumbling growl and a nip to your neck.

“I have half a mind to warp us out of here and show you exactly what I plan to do about it,” he retorts with a low voice. Fluttering your eyelashes, you snatch his sunglasses, slip them on and dart out of the train just as the doors open to your stop.

You laugh at his yelp of surprise as you dodge and weave through the busy station towards the exit. This playfulness—your instinct says to brush it off as a fluke, a spur of the moment kind of thing, but you know that isn’t really true. You’ve always been playful, even as a kid.

It just got buried beneath the bullshit somewhere along the way.

Not just because of Alexander; though, yeah, he was a big dump of emotional shit.

Just life.

College.

Work.

And, of course, avoiding anything that threatens the tiny semblance of peace you’ve found after stitching yourself back together.

You know you’re at the disadvantage, what with Satoru’s height giving him a bird’s-eye view of your moves, making it easier for him to warp to you. But you still run off, dodging the tourists and locals alike as you rush towards the café. You can feel his aura blur and solidify as he warps tiny steps to close the gap, but you can see the Sleepy Sheep Café sign getting closer and the training you pushed through with Maki and Kento pays off with a final sprint towards the door.

“Got ya!” he shouts as he reappears in front of you so your only choice is to run into his arms.

A peal of laughter bubbles out of you as he spins the two of you away from the door, somehow avoiding the curious on-lookers. He starts laughing with you as he finally sets you down, stealing his sunglasses back before kissing you soundly.

“When did you get so fast?” He pulls out your inhaler from your bag, priming it for you as you catch your breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you huff, mostly because your lungs are on fire. “I’ve always been fast.”

He gives you a look that you ignore as you suck in the medication, holding your breath while holding his stare. After a second, he shakes his head and starts to usher you inside the café; the scent of fresh baked goods hits you like a delightful ton of bricks. You release a slow, steady breath and steel yourself to deal with the ogling girls at the hostess station.

“Welcome in, sir!” the faux-blonde chirps, promptly ignoring you. Unruffled, you look around the café for the head of curls you know is here somewhere while Satoru asks politely for a table for two. It’s only when you’re being led to a table near the kitchen that you hear Natsumi giving directions in the back, her no-nonsense tone making you smile.

“Here is your seat, miss,” the hostess says crisply, indicating the chair right next to the kitchen’s doors—one of the worst seats in the house. A weary sigh escapes as you pull out the chair, making a mental note to start looking for restaurants with male hosts.

“I thought I heard your laugh earlier.”

Natsumi appears from the kitchen, her expressive face set in a deep frown as she takes in the table, especially your seat. Her sharp eyes pin down the hostess, who stares at her, wide-eyed.

“I’d love to know why you sat my best friend and her boyfriend at the worst table in the café on her birthday, of all days.” Satoru watches the exchange with keen interest, chin resting on the heel of his palm as the hostess’s eyes dart between you, him, and Natsumi. You almost feel bad, except that your pity won’t save her from Natsumi’s wrath.

“I-I didn’t realize… I didn’t k-know she…” the girl stammers, eyes landing on Satoru as if he’s going to swoop in and save her from her own petty grave.

“Yeah, I gathered you weren’t using your brain so much as your eyes,” Natsumi drawls. She takes the menus and your hand, pulling you along as she leads you back up to the front. “I’ll be taking care of them. Get back up front and let the others know that Kaya Nissen is a VIP from here on out, you hear me? Pull this petty shit again and you’ll be fired on the spot.”

Your new table is at the very front, by the main windows. Natsumi places the menus on the same side of the four-top, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table with a sigh.

“Sorry about that. If I’d have known your sorcerer is such a chick-magnet, I’d have warned the girls ahead of time.” She pulls her hair up into a messy bun before fixing her eyes on Satoru, assessing him in that intimidating, quiet manner that tends to make men squirm.

You wave her apology away. “I’m used to it when going out with him. Besides, you had no idea I’d show up today, of all days.”

Her eyes land back on you, brow raised. “True. I can’t say I’m not stunned to see you out and about today, let alone hear you actually laugh like that.” She glances at Satoru. “Kaya’s laugh is most-recognized part of her. Ken and I could find her in a crowded mall instantly growing up.”

He looks at you, tucking a stubborn curl behind your ear to expose the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Today is only the second time I’ve heard it.”

“You’re definitely hotter than Man-Bun,” Natsumi notes, completely redirecting the conversation. You and Satoru turn to her, blinking in surprise. You had completely forgotten about that weird run-in at the bar. “What was his name again?”

“Geto.” Satoru goes still for the smallest second before relaxing back into the chair again, draping his arm casually along the back of your chair. You put your hand on his thigh, feeling the hidden tension in the muscle there. “Sorry, I forgot to mention this last night. We went out with Kento a few nights ago and this Geto guy started making a pass—”

“A very lame, chauvinistic pass,” Natsumi interrupts.

You roll your eyes and push on. “Yes, yes, a very blatant pass at me. Ken stepped in but he made a comment about you, so I got a bit defensive.”

“What she really means is she got pissed and put him in his place in the greatest way.” Natsumi snickers as she remembers the night, which surprises you considering how many shots of tequila she’d had that night. “Took his shot of Jameson like a fucking champ and told him that you’d ruined her for all other men.”

Satoru grins at that, his brow arching with smug interest. You sigh, silently cursing Natsumi for giving him something to hold over you for the foreseeable future.

“Right, and then I compelled him to forget me.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he listens, probably thinking about how likely it was that your compulsion actually worked. “But Ken wouldn’t explain how he knew him, or how Geto knows you.”

He shrugs, running his other hand through his white locks idly. “We were close back when we were in high school, you could say we were best friends. Then, we grew up and started down different paths. He’s a teacher at Kyoto Jujutsu Tech, their principal’s right hand goon, really. I’m surprised he was in Tokyo at all, though.”

“I didn’t see anyone else with him that night,” you recall, leaning back against Satoru’s arm as you try to remember that night. You certainly remember puking your guts up when you got back home thanks to the Jameson.

“Hmm. All the same, try to avoid being alone with him, yeah?” He looks down at you, his smile bright but tense at the corners. “If he finds out that we’re together, his interest in you will only get more problematic.”

“Sounds like a dick,” Natsumi points out, crossing her arms. Satoru chuckles as he nods in agreement.

“More or less.” He leans forward, his smile a little brighter, a little less forced. “Now, I heard you have the best French toast in Tokyo.”

You watch the pair of them discuss the best toppings for French toast with a soft smile, the kernel of concern you’d felt when talking about Geto forgotten as you fall back into the blissful bubble that’s become your birthday. Even when Sumi grills Satoru about his salary, apartment, and all the standard points a best friend hits to make sure their other half is well-taken care of, you can’t help but feel like you’re in a dream; when was the last time you laughed this freely, this often?

He dips his head to steal a kiss when Natsumi leaves to prepare the food. You feel his smile against your lips as you automatically let the kiss linger on, the hand you’ve kept on his thigh slipping higher along his inseam.

“I’ve ruined you for all other men, huh?” he teases. His breath warms your cheeks as he nuzzles your neck, no fucks given about the other people in the café watching you two with interest. The hand draped across the back of your chair moves up into your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp expertly and doing some ridiculous things to your nerve endings.

“I knew you’d latch onto that,” you reply, a little too breathlessly than you’d have liked. You palm the growing bulge in his pants once before leaning away and poking him in the chest to keep him at bay. “Behave. We need food and then we can pick this back up later, deal?”

His blue eyes simmer as he looks at you over the rims of his glasses. “Deal.”

Being warped to his apartment the moment you step into the empty alley by the café doesn’t surprise you in the least.

Getting stripped naked and pressed up against the floor to ceiling window of his apartment while he eats you out from behind surprises the fuck out of you.

The noises he makes as his tongue works your clit makes your knees buckle. Your palms flatten against the glass, everything about the situation fogging your head with lust. The idea of being seen—your desire to be seen in such a lewd, exposed position short-circuiting your reason. He works a finger into your hole, the invasion pulling a low moan from you as your legs widen for him instantly at the pressure.

“I love the way you respond to me,” he chuckles as he kisses the small of your back, just above your ass. Another finger slips into you, his pace steady and slow. “My sweet, needy kitten.”

“Toru, please. Please don’t stop,” you whine as you flex your hips back to meet his fingers.

He rises to his feet, his fingers never stopping while his other hand smacks the rounded cheek of your ass sharply. “I have no intention of stopping, sweetheart. This is what you deserve after teasing me all day with that sweet ass in those leggings. Not to mention getting me worked up on the train, or while your best friend interrogated me over brunch.”

He spanks you again, making you whimper and clench at his fingers. “Besides, it’s my kitten’s birthday and she wants to spend it with me. That means spoiling her rotten so she can’t think about anything but how much I’ve ruined her for other men, right?”

You’re never going to live that one down.

Your retort dies in your throat as he pushes a third finger into you, sharp words melting in a drawn out moan. Three sharp thrusts push you harder against the window before his fingers are replaced with his tongue—fuck. You love the way his tongue dives into your dripping cunt, laving at your interior walls with a hunger you hope never leaves him.

“O-oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!” His tongue drags over your tight asshole as his finger slip back into you. “Toru, Toru, Toru!”

The sensation of his tongue prodding your puckered hole combined with the pads of his callouses massaging your fucking G-spot has you seeing stars, the edge of your climax right there. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

I need more.

“That’s it, kitten. Cum all over my fingers.” He bites the swell of your ass. “Cum for me, babygirl. Do that, and I’ll give your pussy exactly what it wants.”

His voice is your undoing. The low gravel tones pushing you over the edge, your walls clenching wildly at his fingers as your words become a slur of his name and—fuckfuckfuck.

Chest heaving, you ride out your orgasm on his fingers and acknowledge the relentless need still churning in your core. You look at him from over your shoulder, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown. He’s still fully dressed and it’s a problem.

“Toru, fuck me, please,” you beg breathlessly.

His lips tip up into a grin as he starts shedding his clothes faster than you’d ever seen to date before he crowds you up against the window again, your ass smearing your slick all over his cock as he kisses you hungrily. Fingers pull your hair back, giving him better access to your mouth as the broad head of his cock pushes into you, the stretch blissful. He groans into your mouth as you reflexively squeeze his cock with your pussy, his hips rolling steadily into yours to get as deep as he possibly can.

“You feel fucking perfect,” he moans, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as his hips thrust into you at a steady, deep pace. “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I constantly want you. I’m fucking addicted to you, the way you feel, the sound of that fucking gorgeous laugh.”

His teeth nip at your neck, making you whimper and arch your back, getting his cock even deeper. His hands work your tits, pinching at your dusky nipples in time with his thrusts. You’re a live wire; nothing but sensory overload registers in your brain as he fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked in your life. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together echo in your ears, mingling with his grunts and moans as he plays your body like an instrument, pulling whimpers and gasps and cries from you in a raw and wild symphony.

“You’re fucking mine, and I want everyone to see you come apart on my cock.” His pace shifts into a steady pounding as he pushes your torso against the cold glass. The change in temperature on your skin makes your pussy clench his cock. “That’s my babygirl. Cum on this throbbing cock.”

You were close before but as his fingers slip between your swollen cleft to rub your juices over your clit, a strangled scream leaves your throat as you tumble head-first into another orgasm, your body spasming against the cold window and his sweat-covered chest. Praise drips from his lips like honey as he grips your hips with his large hands and pulls you back to meet his cock faster and faster. He ruts into you mercilessly, the pressure of another climax building in your core.

“B-baby, please… fuck, oh god.” Putting words together isn’t working. “I’m… fuck! Toru, I’m going to—”

His shallow pants match yours as he works your clit with his fingers again. You scream just as your knees finally give out, but you don’t hit the floor. Instead, you collapse onto his bed thanks to a perfectly timed warp, his hips never stopping their rhythm as he overstimulates the fuck out of you. Like animals in heat, the two of you are a pile of grunts and whimpers, his cock urging you on to gush all over him. Just the thought of it—good fucking gods, you need to give him that. You know that’s what he’s after, why he isn’t stopping.

Another scream rips from your throat as all the stimulation finally breaks you. Tremors shake your body as he half-groans, half-yells your name like a holy litany, pumping his own release into you before you both collapse into a still-connected heap.

It feels like it’s taking years for basic communication to come back to you. Your thundering pulse all you can hear as it matches Satoru’s, his heartbeat pounding against your shoulder blade from where he still lies, catching his breath.

“Well,” he pants, “that confirms it.”

It’s ridiculous, how much effort it takes you to reply, “Confirms what?”

“You’ve ruined me for all other women.”

You know your heart would leap if you had the energy to let it. Instead, you let out a weak laugh and lace your fingers with his, the sentiment acknowledged with his hand squeezing yours.

“Another thing.” He rolls off of you, pushing you over gently onto your back while he remains propped up on his elbow. Aquamarine eyes shine brightly as he presses a sweet, slow kiss to your lips. If time stopped—hell, if the world fucking ended right now, you would die happier than you’ve felt in over a decade. That truth settles deep into your bones as you memorize his face in this moment, a moment you know both his walls and yours a nothing but a memory of a past life. When they finally crumbled, it’s hard to pinpoint; all you know is that this is the clearest you’ve ever seen Satoru Gojo and it’s the clearest he’s ever seen you.

“What?” He smiles and lets his lips barely brush against yours.

“Happy birthday.”

#jjk fanfic #jjk gojo #gojo saturo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x oc #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo is a little shit #geto suguru #itadori yuji #fushiguro megumi #kugisaki nobara #smut #writing #gojo satoru #also on ao3 #ao3

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xpeachesncream · 3 years

Text

off the grid | eight

summary: it was as simple as swapping places with a stranger from across the world to get away from everything back home. that is - until you meet Jimin. things become more complicated as he unfolds a new chapter in your life that you were initially trying to avoid.

pairing: reader x pjm

genre: post-college au, christmas/holiday au | angst, fluff, smut (to come)

words: 2.1k

chapter warnings: cussing, more insecurities and overthinking, crying, mom and dad to the rescue, your friends back home miss you, reminiscing

> series masterlist <

You woke up at the usual 8AM time, looking out at the city view from the bed, checking your phone to see if anything new has popped up. Christmas had finally arrived in Seoul, the sun beaming bright and early. You and Jimin hadn't talked since that night you got into an argument and to be honest, it had been taking a toll on you the past few days. You cried, and you cried. Still unsure of what to do and how to approach this, but you knew sooner or later, you were just going to have to pick yourself up and move on. Thinking about it still left this uneasy, empty feeling deep down.

You were going back home.

The month flew by in a breeze, but overall, you were grateful for your experience here. You were grateful for the new friends you met and the adventures they had taken you. You were grateful having crossed paths with Jimin, being the absolute angel he was. The amount of love and care he had showered you during your time together was more than anything you have ever experienced before. It was unreal. Golden. Pure. Unlike any other.

"Hi baby!" Your mom yells through Facetime, causing you to chuckle as you held the sheets tighter against your body.

"Hey ma, where's papa?" She flashed the camera over at your dad, who was sipping on wine next to her. They sat in their hotel balcony, overlooking the view, waiting for Christmas to hit London since it was only 11pm there.

"Hey sweetheart, how's Seoul?" Your dad asks from his seat, but your mom is hogging the camera, so you can't even see his face.

"It's good."

"Yeah? It's already Christmas there, right? Merry Christmas, sweetie!"

"Merry early Christmas to you and dad." You smile softly.

"We'll definitely do our own thing when we get back."

"Okay, I'm looking forward to it. How has London been?"

"Absolutely amazing. We wish you were here, but Seoul sounds awesome too!"

"Yeah, it is. I've been having a lot of fun since I've been here."

"I see that, I loved all the pictures you've been sending me. Are you hanging out with your new friends today?"

"Um, probably not." Your smile fades as your eyes drop down from the camera to your fingers.

"Oh." Your mom picks up on the mood change quickly. "What's wrong, sweetie? What's on your mind?" You sigh. Those words are triggering; so triggering that as soon as you register that your mom has asked you what was wrong, you break down in tears again. "Oh no, honey. What is it?"

"Mom, I think I messed up. Or, maybe it's my fault for getting so attached. I-I knew what my plan was coming here and I just messed it up for myself."

"What are you talking about?" You hear your dad faintly ask your mom to include his face in the camera too, being that he's worried about you and your well-being as well.

"I shouldn't have gotten so attached to Jimin." Your mom and dad were well aware of who Jimin was, being that you gushed about him and how well he had taken care of you during majority of your stay here. They were happy you had met new people and that you bonded well with them because they knew what you were going through back home. However, they weren't ready for this conversation to happen.

"Oh, honey." She slightly clicks her mouth, the expression on her face filled with worry and concern.

"How stupid am I? I knew I wasn't going to be here for long, but I still pressed on it. I continued on and acted on my feelings for him. And now he probably doesn't want anything to do with me cause I told him this was never going to work. What if he thinks I misled him?"

"Look, you aren't stupid. You hear me? You are not stupid. You can't help what you feel for someone, no matter what you do. It's worse to push that aside and try to suppress it instead of tackling it head on. You'll be miserable doing so."

"But mom, this distance. Don't you think it'll be too difficult?"

"Nothing is ever too difficult, honey." Your dad chimes in. "Every relationship will always have its ups and downs. It will always be a ride no matter what. You just have to figure out if this is worth it for you, because if it is, then none of that matters. You will get through it together."

"Did I mess it up? Was I wrong for telling him that this will never work?" Your mom sighed.

"Your dad and I can't really tell you what to do or what to say in these situations, sweetie. You're the only one who truly understands what you're feeling, no one else. Do you feel like you misled him?"

"I fell in love with him, mom." You cried into the phone, your voice becoming weak.

"Oh, baby." Your mom replies. "I wish I could give you a big hug right now. I think you need to take time and think about this before you come home."

"Just remember that there isn't anything you can't overcome, honey. If he makes you happy, then you should welcome it. Let yourself experience that happiness." Your dad chimes in.

"Whatever you do, we will always be here for you. Same with Namjoon and Yoongi. But, please just choose yourself for once. Be selfish. Do whatever that means to you. It's completely okay to do so." Your mom says, making you nod. Be selfish. The words stuck to you like glue. Do whatever that means to you.

You continue to talk to your parents for a bit as they spill the details about their whereabouts since they haven't sent you as many pictures as you have with them. You were glad they were taking time off and really enjoying themselves, they truly deserved it with all the hard, endless work they have been putting in back home. After the call, you finally head downstairs to get washed up and get yourself ready for today, or whatever the day had in store for you. There wasn't anything open, but you felt like a walk around the neighborhood could do you some good. You just needed some cool, fresh air.

This wasn't how you expected to spend your Christmas, but you were partially to blame. The thoughts flooded your head, the what if's. All of a sudden you were full of regret, feeling like you made the wrong move by pushing Jimin away just like you did. You were (and still are) scared. You were so fucking scarred from your experience with Romeo that you couldn't even bring yourself to appreciate a good man when he came along, and that's what you hated the most about this long-time fight you've had with your past.

If you were to fix this, you weren't sure how. You didn't know if Jimin was done. You remember seeing the hurt plastered on his facial expression and it kills you every time. As much as you were afraid to take this leap, you fell in love with someone who had the purest soul. You couldn't forget how easy he made it seem to care for you. How easy it was for him to show you how he felt. For once, someone showed you that you were perfect how you were, flaws and all.

What did you truly want?

"It's Christmas there, right? Merry Christmas, Y/N!" Yoongi yells loudly over the Facetime call.

"Merry early Christmas to you guys, too."

"You excited to come home?" Namjoon flashes his face into the frame.

"I guess so."

"How do you feel?"

"Better than when I got here, that's for sure."

"That's all that matters, right?" Yoongi asks, still concerned about you and your whole situation with Jimin. To be honest, your friends really wanted you to be happy, but they too weren't going to tell you how to live your life. They just wanted to make sure you were set with your decisions instead of drowning in regret.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What are you going to do today?"

"I'm just going to start packing up my things and cleaning around Yana's spot. Just gotta make sure it's ready for her."

"Where are you right now?" Namjoon squints his eyes as he's looking at your background while you walk.

"Just talking a walk around the neighborhood."

"It looks beautiful there."

"It is. Truly."

"Well, make sure you rest and relax today. You're going to be on a long flight back home."

"Ah, the dreaded 13-14 hour flight."

"We'll be back to bugging you in no time." Yoongi flashes his gummy smile with a thumbs up.

"How's Yana been?"

"She's been good, she's pretty excited to go back home to see her family and friends though." Namjoon and Yana had also taken their relationship to new heights, something you wish you were bold enough to do with Jimin. Joon tried to spare details so he wouldn't make you feel bad about everything going on, but as long as he was happy, you were happy too.

"That's good. I'm glad she really enjoyed her time there."

"She sure did." Namjoon wiggled his eyebrows

"You're sick, bro. The fuck." Yoongi furrowed his forehead and slightly shoved him. As you started to make your way back to the loft, you slowed your pace when you realized there was something sitting on the doorstep. You rose your eyebrow, unable to make out what the item was from where you were standing.

"Hey, look, I'll talk to you both later, okay?"

"Is everything okay?" Joon asks. You send him a reassuring, toothless smile and nod.

"Yeah, I'm just about to get into the loft."

"Alrighty, Merry Christmas again, dude. Can't wait for you to get back." Yoongi replies, with Joon yelling another 'Merry Christmas' greeting before they end the call. Getting closer, you see a tupperware full of food, with a sweater and a small box on top of the sweater. Your heart drops because as silly as it sounds, you knew that tupperware. There was a small note taped to the lid of the tupperware that read 'Mom told me to feed you well.' You smiled a bit to yourself before unlocking the door. You brought the items inside, placing them carefully onto the kitchen island before observing the sweater and box closely. You also knew that hoodie all too well - it was the same black, Stussy hoodie you always pulled from his closet to wear whenever you were hanging out at their apartment. You always liked how his smell lingered on the hoodie, and how he looked so damn good throwing it on. Opening the small box, you find a tiny, black album, full of polaroids. You instantly find yourself in tears, your hands slightly shaking as you flipped through the polaroids Jimin had taken of you during your stay here. Most were candid photos of you, but there were other polaroids that included him, Jungkook, Taehyung, Hoseok, Jin and their other college friends. Your eyes landed on the last polaroid in the album, remembering that moment clear as day. It was at the tower and Jungkook had taken over Jimin's polaroid camera, snatching a photo of you and Jimin with the view of Seoul behind you two. Jimin held you closely, his arm wrapped around your waist, while he planted a huge kiss on your cheek. You smiled from ear to ear as you wrapped your arms around his neck, closing your eyes at how his lips felt against your skin. A note from behind the last polaroid fell out, causing you to crouch to the floor in order to grab it.

Y/N, Merry Christmas. If it's one thing you can do for me before you go back, please hold onto these and remember me. Remember the friends you made and remember our time together.

I'll always hold you close, no matter the distance.

- PJM

You felt your entire body sink against the kitchen island, no longer being able to bear the weight on your own two feet as you cried. And you cried, and you cried. Jimin was everything you had been praying for, the one man who you knew could treat you right and give you the world. There was no hesitation. All you wanted to do was run into his arms and apologize, stay here longer, be selfish. But, you had no idea what was stopping you. Maybe it was the fact that you had everything back home, and you weren't sure if this was too big of a step for you to take.

But God, you would never forgive yourself if you allowed him to get away.

So let's revisit that question one last time: what did you truly want?

#bts #bts fanfiction #jimin fanfiction #jimin #park jimin #pjm series #pjm x reader #jimin x reader #off the grid #otg #writing

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stellawella97 · 3 years

Text

Atelephobia: The Fear of Never Being Good Enough (Shane/Gender Neutral Farmer) - Chapter 1/3

Just posted 1/3 of my first Stardew Valley fanfic!

Read it below or over @ AO3

Summary:

Shane has got 99 problems but never did he think the entire world losing its colour would be one of them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started off as just any other normal day in Shane’s life.

The chickens clucked noisily outside, the cows joining in their song occasionally with their loud chorus of moo’s. None of these sounds woke Shane up in the slightest - he heard them every day and he’d grown so accustomed to the noise, he figured he’d still be able to continue sleeping even if his bedroom floor caved in beneath his bed.

The slightly battered alarm clock sitting on Shane’s bedside table began its shrill ringing at 6:30am sharp. Shane tended to run by a strict ‘5 more minutes’ rule when it came to waking up in the morning however. Refusing to open his eyes till he absolutely had to, Shane managed to turn off the alarm clock by swatting aimlessly with his hand till it met with cold metal and the ringing stopped.

He tried to fall back asleep for those precious extra 5 minutes of peace before he had to leave for his soul-sucking job at JojaMart. However, memories of the night before began to flood back into his mind. Shane had been up in the mountains late at night, drinking again. He faintly remembered seeing the hermit (Linus, was it?) entering his tent, a plastic bag that was stuffed to the brim with what looked like half-eaten food grasped tightly in his hands.

Shane had drunk a couple cans of beer before he decided to enter the mines nearby. It had been dark and full of strange noises neither human nor animal could make but Shane had managed to make it down several floors with a pickaxe he’d found at the mine entrance in his drunken state. As to why he’d chosen to do this, Shane had no idea whatsoever.

He didn’t remember much else except for the sound of a creature speaking in a garbled ancient language, a warm tingling sensation that filled his entire body, and finally the sharp pain that shot through his head as he finally keeled over from the amount of alcohol in his system, smashing his head against the rocky terrain. Oddly enough, his head didn’t hurt at all this morning. Doctor Harvey must’ve patched him up real good this time. Or maybe Marnie had. Who’d even brought him back to the house?

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he was actually found with trousers on this time, Shane heard the sound of the front door slamming shut. Marnie must have gone out to feed the animals. Shane was just about to roll over onto his side to continue his reminiscing when it began to dawn on him that he’d probably been in bed for more than just 5 minutes.

Shane quickly sat up in bed and grabbed the alarm clock. It was now 7:10am! He couldn’t risk Morris docking his pay again this month - he had to get to JojaMart quick. He jumped out of bed and had just put his leg through a pair of jeans when he noticed that it’d turned from blue to gray. When had that happened? He remembered wearing this exact pair of jeans just two days ago and he certainly hadn’t ever bought gray ones before.

It was then that he realized - everything had turned gray from his walls, to the cushion placed in front of the television set, to the alarm clock, and even his own skin.

I’ve finally done it, haven’t I? I died in those fucking mines last night and now, I’m in some kind of Hell?

The thought ran through Shane’s mind as he spun around, inspecting everything in his room for any sign of colour. This was to no avail. Even his favourite pair of boxers was gray with slightly darker gray hearts dotting it. In a moment of pure desperation, Shane decided to pinch himself as hard as he could on his arm in an attempt to find out if he was in fact still alive. He was.

Rubbing the sore patch of skin on his arm, Shane decided that he didn’t have time to waste standing here and waiting to see if the world around him would get its colour back. If he was still alive, he needed to get to work pronto. He quickly pulled on his ratty, old JojaMart jacket that still did its job and ran out of the house, only just remembering to shut his bedroom door behind him because he just didn’t think he could deal with Marnie yelling at him again about the mess of empty beer cans and pizza boxes in there.

Shane ran through town, almost knocking over Abigail who had just left Pierre’s General Store with a flute in her hands. It worried him to no end that even her usually bright purple of her hair (She must dye it, right?) was now a dull gray, but Shane had no time to be stressing about that now. He’d just have to wait till during his break or after work.

Once he’d arrived at JojaMart, Shane immediately went to the employees office to clock in and change into the uniform. He took a moment to glance at his reflection in the mirror and sighed as he noted that the usually bright blue uniform was just as unflattering as always in a gray shade. He walked out onto the shop floor and began stocking the shelves, determined to just get through the day now.

However, he must’ve done something to offend Yoba because Shane’s shift did not go well at all. He’d first managed to trip over his own feet and crashed straight into the display of limited edition shrimp-flavoured Joja Cola that he’d been hard at work stacking up for over an hour. As Shane was stomping angrily back onto the shop floor with a bucket of soapy water and a mop in his hands, he’d then bumped into Pam who’d screamed in rage when she discovered her brand-new jumpsuit was now soaked. Even though he’d apologized profusely to Pam, Shane still had to sit through an hour and a half of Morris’s lectures as well as had his paycheck docked for the day to reimburse Pam for the damages.

Just as he thought his day couldn’t get any worse however, Shane was just about to clock out for his lunch break when Morris asked him to help Sam unload the delivery trucks that had just arrived with a new shipment of powdered butter, gluten pucks and Carbo Cones. This meant he had to endure almost an hour’s worth of listening to Sam go on and on about how awesome some indie band in Grampleton was - which on some days, was fine. Just not today, for Yoba’s sake. Instead of putting up a fuss however (Morris wouldn’t care anyway), Shane simply gritted his teeth and headed out to the back of JojaMart.

It wasn’t till 2pm that Shane finally managed to clock out for his break. He flopped down onto a seat at a small round metal table in the employee’s break room and stared at the silently humming vending machine in the corner of the room. The vending machine sold only JojaMart products, all of them disgusting and overly sweet - Shane had tried each one. At first, he wondered to himself ‘Wasn’t that vending machine blue before?” before it dawned on him for the second time that day that he hadn’t been able to see colours all day. As crazy as it sounded, he’d just been so distracted with work that he hadn’t had time to notice.

Shane leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, biting his lower lip in concentration. How had this happened? Had something happened to him in the mines? Maybe he should pay Doctor Harvey a visit after work, he would know what to do.

“Knock knock!,” a familiar voice suddenly came from the direction of the door. Shane, who had been staring blankly at a spot on the table, looked up to see who had managed to sneak into the break room in surprise but flinched almost immediately, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of colour amongst the gray. Once his eyes had adjusted, Shane saw that the voice belonged to the new farmer that had recently moved into the farm out of the town. They were now standing by the door, their hands clasped behind their back.

He must’ve been staring at the farmer for just a moment too long because they’d then asked “Shane? Are you okay? with an eyebrow raised questioningly. Shane cleared his throat and stood up from his chair, moving to stand in front of the vending machine. It was hard to tell what he was looking at when all the cans were the same gray colour, but he pretended to be deciding which drink he was going to buy to buy himself some time. His heart was beating so fast in his chest, Shane began to wonder if he was about to pass out.

Why’s the farmer the only one who’s in colour? Why of all people has it got to be them?!

Just as he thought of something smart to say, Shane heard the sound of the break room door opening again. He spun around to find the farmer already halfway out the door. However, the farmer noticed at the last moment that Shane had finally turned around and was now looking at them. They hesitated for a moment before saying with a shy smile tracing their lips “I’ve gotta go now but...I’ll be stopping by the Stardrop Saloon tomorrow night, I hope I’ll see you there there?”

“I-I’ll see you there!,” Shane blurted out, feeling his cheeks begin to heat up. The farmer flashed him a warm smile before shutting the door behind them. Shane fell back into his seat and buried his face in his hands, mentally screaming at himself for two main reasons. One, he had sounded way too excited at the prospect of seeing the farmer again. Two, had the farmer just subtly invited him on a date? And did he just...agree to it? What was going on today?!

Not once did he stop to wonder why the farmer hadn’t turned gray like everything else, himself included.

Shane managed to breeze through the second half of his shift at JojaMart without any further mishaps, and had made it all the way back home with his head high up in the clouds. He popped a frozen pizza he’d stolen from JojaMart’s freezers into the oven and entered his bedroom, kicking his shoes off at the door.

He was just wondering if people still brought their date flowers in these modern days when he noticed a small slip of paper that was being held in place beneath a small stone that was smooth to the touch. Written on the paper in a barely legible script were the words ‘Lost your ability to see colour, huh? If you want it back, meet me at the mines tonight at 11pm’.

Shane looked around his room and decided to check the windows. They were locked. Whoever had delivered this note must’ve come in from the front door but Marnie who had been home all day would have said something to him if someone had come looking for him. She hadn’t though, so they must have snuck in without her seeing. Now he knew how they got in, there was still one question left unanswered:

Who sent me this note?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author Notes:

Part 2 will be up sometime later this week so stay tuned for that.

If you'd like my work and would like to support me, please consider donating to my Ko-fi @ https://ko-fi.com/stellawella97 where I am offering custom fanfic commissions for a cup of coffee! It'd really help me out. Thank you <3

#stardew valley #stardew shane #stardew farmer #stardew fanfic #gender neutral fanfic #sdv #sdv shane #sdv farmer #fanfiction #fanfic

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moon-rabbit-music · 4 years

Text

Alright so I’m writing a Teba x Link x Revali fic, and it was originally supposed to be a 1000-2000 word oneshot, but...well, let’s just say I’m at almost 3000 words now and only about 10% of the way through the plot, so. Yeah.

Anyway, I’m impatient and want to share, but I don’t want to break this up into sub-2000 word chapters, so...I’m just posting a big ol’ chunk of it as, uh, a really long teaser, I guess! I hope y’all enjoy :)

___

Teba knows he’s fucked from the moment he meets Link.

He’s met a few Hylians before, but this one stands out. He’s more...colorful than any other Teba’s seen before, with his golden hair and electric blue eyes and the strange hoops adorning his pointed ears. Teba can’t help but think that he’s far prettier than a Hylian male has any right being, a thought which he immediately pushes out of his mind with an angry huff.

At first, it’s easy to ignore. They have business to attend to, and if he feels a twinge of worry every single time Link narrowly dodges one of Vah Medoh’s lasers, that’s just because he can’t live with another injured warrior on his conscience. The ache in his chest when he leaves him alone on the deck of the Divine Beast is just disappointment in himself, for being foolish enough to get himself injured, and for leaving what should be the business of the Rito to a Hylian stranger.

(The genuine worry in Link’s eyes makes him feel a little better, though.)

When Vah Medoh perches directly above the village, there’s a flurry of panic. After a few minutes, as it seems content to simply sit there with its beak pointed toward the castle, the mood turns to conspiracy, which is only elevated when Harth and Mazli fly up to investigate and return with the unconscious bodies of Link and a Rito male that no one in the village recognizes. Teba misses all of it, laying on a small cot and staring dejectedly at the crossed wooden beams of the infirmary ceiling, and by the time Link and the stranger are brought in he has fallen asleep.

He awakens the next morning to see Link curled up on a cot a few feet away from him, clutching the blankets, a hole the size of his hand burned into his shirt on the left side of his stomach and charred flesh underneath. On the other side of the room, a mess of dark blue feathers lies crumpled in a hammock.

Saki and Harth drift in and out of the room all morning, fussing over the three of them. Link wakes around noon, bringing a hand gingerly to his wound and wincing. Teba sits up and clucks disapprovingly, and Link’s gaze swivels around to him.

“How’s your leg?,” he signs, and Teba huffs.

“Better than your side. What the hell happened in there?”

Link laughs, a breathy little sound. “There was a monster, possessing Medoh. I managed to kill it, but it was a hard fight.”

Teba nods slowly. He finds it hard to believe that this tiny Hylian single-handedly calmed the beast that had shot so many of their finest warriors (including himself, he thinks with a grimace) out of the sky, but according to Saki, it had been completely still for the roughly 16 hours since it landed. And, on some instinctive level, he trusts that Link is telling the truth.

“So who’s this?,” he asks, gesturing at the hammock, and Link looks over. His eyes widen, and he starts to push himself up before falling back onto the cot with a small whimper. A flood of worry rushes through Teba, and before he has time to think about what he’s doing he’s on the floor next to Link, carefully placing a wing on his chest.

“Hey now.” He intends it to be soft, comforting, but it comes out gruff. He tries again. “They’re gonna be okay. Saki and Harth will make sure of that.” Link relaxes a little, and Teba nods approvingly. He stays there, watching carefully, until the silence stretches on for a little too long and he coughs awkwardly and shuffles back to his cot. “...So?”

Link frowns, glancing back over at Teba. “I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

Teba raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t believe you when you said you could calm Vah Medoh, and yet here we are.”

“I suppose.” He fiddles with the hem of his tunic, looking uncomfortable. Teba watches with a slowly growing sense of trepidation, wondering what could possibly make him so hesitant to answer such a simple question. Eventually, he spells out a name.

“Revali.”

“...Revali.”

Link nods.

“As in—”

Link nods. Teba can feel the feathers on the back of his neck rising. “This stranger had the gall to claim to be Master Revali, one of the most celebrated Rito warriors in history, who lived one hundred years ago...and you believed him?!”

“He didn’t claim anything. He was barely conscious enough to land Vah Medoh. I...recognized him.”

Teba just...stares. He recognized him? What the hell does that mean? Link swallows and looks away, and Teba starts guiltily.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Link gives him a thin smile.

“I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, I just-” He shakes his head. “You recognized him? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Link shrugs. “I could explain that too, and then you’d really think that I’m off the deep end.”

“Try me.”

Link laughs again, louder this time (and Teba’s stupid heart flutters, just a little).

“If you insist,” he responds, and Teba nods. “One hundred years ago...I was the Princess of Hyrule’s appointed knight. I knew all of the Champions, including Revali.” He grimaces. “After we lost, I was...my body was taken to a shrine on the Great Plateau. It healed me, but took away my memories. I’m only just starting to get them back...”

“Link,” Teba says quietly, and he looks over. Teba hesitates for a moment— it feels cruel, somehow, to question what he says, as wildly unbelievable as it is. He forges ahead anyway. “Do you...do you have any proof of this? At all?”

Link gestures helplessly. “I know it sounds insane. Your Elder, he recognized my Sheikah Slate. He believes I’m a descendent of the Hylian champion, which I guess is a lot more believable.”

“I guess.”

They sit in silence. Link looks at the ceiling, then over at the hammock, then back at the ceiling. Teba thinks about his tunic, a shade of blue more vibrant than he thought possible to make fabric in, an unsettlingly similar blue to Vah Medoh’s lasers. And the eye on the back of the strange slate he carries, identical to the eyes of Vah Medoh’s cannons.

Saki pokes her head in. “Oh, good. You’re awake. And you—” she points at Teba, “you should be lying down.”

“I’m not putting weight on it,” he counters, “and it’s healing quickly. It was a shallow wound.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t push, and he’s grateful for it. Instead, she walks over to the hammock, bending over to carefully examine the unconscious Rito. “I may have to ask Amali to make him another elixir. His external wounds seem to be mostly healed, but his breathing is still shallow.” She turns to Link. “How are you feeling?”

She dresses the wound on Link’s chest and worries over Teba’s leg before leaving, and a few minutes later Harth comes in with two plates of steamed salmon. Link insists that he can feed himself despite not being able to sit up, and it’s not until after he’s dropped three entire bites of salmon on the floor that Teba insists upon helping him. He apologizes profusely, but Teba waves it off. He’d done the same for Harth last week. Link goes back to sleep not long after eating, leaving Teba alone with his thoughts again. He watches for a few minutes, wondering at the strange sense of protectiveness he feels toward this strange Hylian he met only yesterday.

He doesn’t think Link is lying. Even to him, it’s clear as day that he believes every word he’s saying. Which means that either he actually did wake up in a strange shrine on the Great Plateau with his memory gone, or he’s horrifically delusional. Teba knows which one of those answers he prefers.

Then there was the strange tablet— a Sheikah Slate, he’d called it. On his hip, it appeared to be a plain stone slab, elaborately carved and painted but otherwise ordinary. Teba knew, though, that on the side facing inward it was not stone, but a strange, smooth surface that started off dark and lit up when touched. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but Link had mentioned that it let him fast-travel to any of the shrines he’d visited before.

At first, Teba had shrugged it off as some fancy adventurer’s technology, but now that he thought about it, it was...strange. He’d only ever seen two shrines, the one just outside the village and the one near the Flight Range, and they had both essentially just been elaborately carved hunks of rock for as long as he or anyone else could remember. They’d both flared up with mysterious orange light about a month ago, the same day that mysterious tower had risen in the east and Vah Medoh had appeared, circling ominously close to the village. Maybe he should ask Link what he knows about them...

He sighs and turns away, moving back to his cot and collapsing backwards, suddenly aware that he’s tired as well. He should get some more rest, hopefully be able to leave the infirmary by tomorrow and get back to training within the week. He’s not 100% convinced that Vah Medoh won’t start causing problems again, and if it does, he needs to be ready for it, with or without Link’s help.

It’s difficult to fall asleep— he’s not used to sleeping in the same room as other people, it feels weirdly invasive— but after a while of turning the same thoughts over and over in his head until they dissolve into mush, he manages.

He wakes up to dark skies and Saki holding a platter of meat skewers and three elixirs. She hands Teba and Link one each of the former and puts the platter down between them, before moving over to the hammock and carefully pouring the third into the unconscious Rito’s mouth. She briefly examines Teba’s leg as he eats and tells him that he should stay in the infirmary overnight. He nods.

“Thank you for everything,” Link signs as she re-bandages his wound. She nods in acknowledgment.

“Thank you for helping Teba,” she responds, “and our village. We are all very grateful.”

Link flushes, and Teba tries not to think about how cute it is.

He can sit up now, albeit with a bit of a pained expression. It fades as he eats, but he still collapses back into his pillow as soon as he’s done. “You guys have good food,” he signs, and Teba chuckles.

“Amali is a good cook.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Healing well.” He frowns. “You’re in much worse shape than I am, you shouldn’t worry about me.”

Link just shrugs.

“Well, I do,”

he responds, and Teba has nothing to say to that.

___

Fuckin uhhhh yeah

Keep your eyes peeled for the rest of this in like, three months or something IDK

#breath of the wild #teba #revali #link #revali x link #revalink #teba x link #tebalink #teba x revali #tevali #teba x link x revali #tevalink #yes i just made up three ship names don't @ me #my writing #i'm writing these tags like 1000 words in #and oh my god this is going to be so much longer #and have so much more dialogue #than i was planning #edit: i was right

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austarus · 4 years

Text

Harrison Wells (Eobard Thawne) x Reader - Integrated Revelations (1/3)

**A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me.

*I attempted a thing where I try to get back into the groove of writing for my murder speed husband... It’s probably shit, but here goes nothing. Sorta another theory I’ve had and had all these scenes connect together. I’m a shit writer so... Also, I’m dying and crying. Hahaha. I literally am dying. My uni work online is being ridiculously overwhelming along with my work hours for school. I really need a week with no deadlines or work just to get caught up with three weeks of work for certain classes. I really need to take a break. But I can’t, started to loose sleep. Can’t even have time to write or play Pokemon Reborn. Anyway, that a bit of an update from me. I wrote this back in July, hoping to have written a fic a week (which turned out to not happen, but hey, I tried) until October to post things. Also this most likely has grammer errors. I’m sorry. Once again, a shit writer. Please don’t forget to comment, like, and reblog. It means a lot to content creators of all kinds!

Word Count: 3584

Part 2 Part 3

“Well...” Eobard’s raspy voice didn’t seem to alarm the two speedsters that had phased into the Time Vault. The futuristic speedster had sat with a leg crossed over the other, and elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Things just got a lot more complicated, didn't they?” Eobard pushed from the chair, standing up and taking a few steps forward. Nora and Barry looked on, one adorned a look of uncertainty and the other masqueraded his rage and pain through the years. “Barry Allen.” Barry nodded along, gauging the black-haired man’s façade. “But which Barry Allen? Clearly, you're… from a lot later than this one.” Eobard maneuvered his body and pointed to the unconscious form of an earlier Barry Allen.

“Way later.” Barry simply answered, looking indifferent.

“Way later,” Eobard echoed the response, putting emphasis on the word ‘way’. The scientist nodded along, pursuing his lips as his electric blue eyes flickered to Nora. Before anyone could speak, could even move the Time Vault door dematerialized. Nora watched as an earlier version of yourself entered the Vault hurriedly and out of breath. You had entered looking over your shoulder with a tablet in hand. You had been scanning for the supposed Time Wraith that had attacked Barry, but not your present time Barry.

“Eo, I traced-” You froze in place as you turned your gaze forward. Fear crippled your heart as you saw a version of Barry, much older through the years, and a woman not too far off his from his age. You swallowed thickly, clutching the tablet tighter. There’s three Barry Allen’s now?? Who the hell decided to break time? A small throbbing sensation erupted at the back of your head, but you dismissed it. Eobard had swiftly moved to stand in front of you. His eyes connected with yours for a moment.

“You knew?!” The young woman spoke up, stepping forward towards you which caused Eobard to hold out a subtle arm out to the side to keep you behind him. “All those years.” The older man narrowed his eyes at what the female had called out to you. You frowned at her words in confusion. Who is she? An image flashed through your mind of the woman, smiling proudly at Barry while wearing a dark purple and white suit with a yellow emblem. She clearly knows who I am, but… What even happened? Are they from a different future? You pushed away the image to the back of your mind. “How could y-”

“If you even think about touching her, either of you, then you’ll regret ever running back here,” Eobard steely replied. You took a step closer to your speedster boyfriend in case something were to happen and he needed to speed you away to safety. Not that you needed saving, but you were still working on defending yourself via your lessons with the futuristic speedster. So, they’re from the future, and I’m guessing far off from this other Barry, but not too far for him to age too much. You spared a small glance to the cuffed and unconscious Barry Allen on the ground. It hurt your heart to see him vulnerable like that, but Eobard had confided to you his suspicions regarding this Barry Allen. One Barry Allen problem at a time. Taking a breath in, you remained silent and studied the two speedsters that confronted your speedster.

“Let it go.” Barry grabbed onto the speedster’s shoulder, holding her back. Oddly enough, Barry’s words coldly cut through you.

“Now,” Eobard’s cocky attitude returned to him as he established the safety of your presence. He had that kind of affect, putting himself on the air of superiority and intellect with his attitude and words to belittle the person in front of him rightly so to get the desired reaction he wants and anticipates. Eobard knows how to tug on Barry’s strings. “Who's your friend? Let me guess. Jesse Chambers- No. Maybe Lawrence. Wait- Danica Williams-”

“-It doesn't matter who she is.” Barry cut off Eobard’s rattling of names.

You eyed Eobard’s deceptive small smile as he held Barry’s gaze then turned to the young adult. The female remained silent, avoiding Eobard’s icy eyes. “She's your daughter.” You scrunched your face in confusion before the neurons clicked in your head after a few seconds. Lemme guess, she’s a speedster that ran back in time and met a younger version of her father. Weird flex bro, but whatever. You do you. If I was a speedster, I’d do things differently. Obviously not up to scale what with the tampering that Eobard likes to do with the timeline to get his way with things. “You've brought me your daughter.” Your eyes flickered back to Barry before taking another look at the female and seeing a bit of resemblance, other than the fact that she was a speedster like him. Then the article Eo’s been obsessing about did reveal something true. Barry does take Iris as his wife. The West-Allen family. “It's, um... Dawn, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Nora.” The young speedster forced out after briefly glancing at her father.

“Nora. Oh, that's nice.” Eobard turned back to Barry with a smirk, “At least you still have one.” That’s cruel, Eo. “What- Nora- time travel's so weird-”

“Why did you come here?” You found the nerve to speak up, moving to stand beside the man masquerading as Harrison Wells. I’m not going to be afraid; I can’t always cower behind Eobard if something unexpected happens. I need to take things in my own hands. Even if they do find out about- You cleared any evidence of distress at their sudden appearance from your throat, “What do you want?”

“I need him to fix this for me.” Barry held up a broken tube-like device in his hand.

A thought hit the genius scientist instantaneously, his blue eyes widening. Turning your body, you saw Eobard take a few steps backwards, “No...” The headache didn’t go away, instead intensifying slightly by the second. Negative emotions flooded your system at Eobard’s crippling composure. He shook his head at them. “No, if you're here...” Eo turned to face the unconscious Barry, cuffed to his motored wheelchair, pointing to them and him. “And he's here... that means-”

“-You don't get home.” Barry simply stated. Your heart shook, terror and dread feeding into your system at his words. Uncertainty of the future- your future with Eobard- plagued you. How does this all end?

“I get home!” The yellow speedster whipped his head around in agitation, his voice raising with every statement. Barry smirked cruelly as he shook his head. You held your breath at Eobard’s spiking wrath, you hadn’t seen him this angry since General Eiling’s interference with The Flash and Plastique. Even then he’d mask his resentment to pull the strings in the game strategically. “I get home. I go home! I get everything-”

“-You don't go home, Thawne.” The Scarlet Speedster halted the Man in the Yellow Suit. Eobard clenched his jaw. You reached out a hand to rest it on his arm in an attempt to calm him. His eyes met yours for a fraction of a second. You felt the tension hang heavily in the air. “Unless… you help me.” Barry held up his broken device once more, mockingly this time. Your eyes flickered to the ring on his right hand. Similar to Eobard’s. A future version of Cisco must have been able to figure out how to use microtech to compress Barry’s suit. He’s the greatest mechanical engineer that I know. Eobard’s shoulders sagged a fraction as Barry held his ground. Turning around, the genius scientist rubbed his face before kicking the spare Barry in annoyance. Barry, all clad in black, winced because he probably ended up feeling that kick. You and Nora remained silent, eyeing the exchange between both speedsters.

Eobard shifted his body back, hands on his hips and fueled hatred present in his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, you're gonna fix this for me.”

“To do what?”

“Drain dark matter.”

What could Barry possibly need with Dark Matter? Hasn’t it done enough damage? “Whose dark matter?” You crossed your arms with the tablet close to your chest, a frown on your face as Eobard stepped beside you once more.

“None of your business.” Barry sneered at you. You narrowed your eyes at his demeanor, the young man who you gradually grew close to and considered as another brother like Cisco.

“Barry-”

“-It is our business.” Eobard retorted, taking your hand in his tightly. Both men were frustrated at the others persistence.

“No, it's not.”

Eobard started, letting go of you and rounding heatedly on to Barry, “There's no chance that I help you-”

You reached a hand out. “-Eobard, don’t-”

- It's none of your business-”

“-Cicada's!” Nora blurted out. Silence filled the room between the four of your, outbursts settling. You blinked a few times, taking a step back and resting a palm against your temple. Grimacing, you cast your eyes down as images of a half-masked man in green stood with a dagger. A glowing dagger with a look of emptiness and death in his eyes. That man looks dead to the world, as if willing to kill for an estranged purpose. It’s so cold. You shook your head subtly and stood your ground, unwilling to show weakness, but you saw Nora’s eyes shift when she looked at you. Barry eyed his daughter with a sort of incredulous look while a calculating and analytical look flashed through Eobard’s eyes.

“Cicada's.” The name seemed so familiar to Eobard as it easily slipped of his tongue. The hushed tone in Eobard’s voice expressed a calm before the storm. A deceptive man full of secrets and knowledge of many, many years to come. Especially when it came to The Flash. “The one who got away. You want to destroy Cicada's dagger, don't you?”

“We want to save lives.”

A cynical laugh leaves your speedster’s lips as you pursed yours, trying to tease out the logics from Barry. “You want to save lives.” Eobard chuckled mockingly at Barry’s response. “I bet you do. I bet you do. Especially your own, right, Barry Allen?”

“Look, that me,” Barry pointed to the other version of himself in the room, “he's gonna wake up soon. He sees me standing here, your whole timeline is gonna be blown to hell. You're never gonna get home. You know that's true!”

“I know! I know!” Eobard sighed, his facial expression contorted, and his eyes held a different motive as he flicked his gaze to Nora, who hadn’t stop taking glimpses of you. “Where are my manners? Can I get you a cup of water?” You rolled your eyes at Eobard’s ploy.

***

The four of you had moved to the small lab, far from the Cortex in avoidance of Caitlin and Cisco. The timeline was a fickle thing to speedsters, Eobard had told you that. But oddly enough, when it came to Eobard it seemed to be malleable to his every whim. Tools and spare wires littered along the desk your speedster boyfriend was working at. The monitor held a camera feed of the Time Vault where Barry’s unconscious younger version was still unconscious.

How hard did Eobard hit him? Like, how the hell is he still asleep even through all that yelling and seething??

“Here,” you handed Nora a bottle of purified water.

“Thanks,” she quietly spoke, you nodded at her. You really didn’t know what to think about someone who knew you in the future, yet you had no idea who she would be until a few years later. Would I even still be in this time period by then? Or would Eobard had kept his promise? … Nothing’s making any sense right now. You felt frustrated for not really being part of their conversations. You were… just there.

“So, who made this?” Eobard examined the piece of teach as he started working on it.

Barry answered with pocketed hands, “Someone smarter than you.”

“I doubt that,” You snorted as Eobard laughed at Barry’s statement. Leaning against the dark blue beam of the side lab, you crossed your arms avoiding Barry’s gaze when he glanced over to you. You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “If so, then why come here? Why go through all the trouble to come here when you can get help from the person who made it? Why then would you need Eobard’s help?”

“We-”

“It’s… complicated,” Barry sighed before Nora could finish saying anything, pocketing his hands.

“I think that’s an understatement to the type of trouble that seems to find you, Barr.” You crossed your arms. “At least a Time Wraith didn’t follow you this time. Which I’m still having trouble tracking down.” You nodded to his former self on the monitor. Barry rolled his eyes at you.

“You know, Allen,” the yellow speedster wheeled around, electric blue eyes meeting Barry’s green gaze, “for your plan to work, you're gonna actually have to have his dagger in your possession...”

“We've got that covered.”

The villainous speedster raised an eyebrow at the forensics scientists. “You got that covered. How’s that?” He humored them.

“With this.” Nora pulled out a dark piece of metal, holding it out for you and Eobard to observe momentarily.

“What is that?” You piqued up, causing Nora to look over at you. An odd emotion flickered in her eyes. Eobard reached a hand out to it only for Barry to pluck it from Nora’s grasp. Your eyes flickered between the two then back to Nora. She didn’t seem to be cautious around you and Eobard at all. Revealing the reason for aid and showing Eobard exactly what he seemed to want to see. You weren’t a genius, but you obviously saw the pointed looks that Barry subtly gave his daughter. The cogs were turning in your head as well as in Eobard’s. He masked his growing speculation about the two speedsters.

“Is that-”

“It's a piece of Savitar's suit, yeah.” Barry stoically responded, since Nora had already shown Eobard the metallic piece, to Eobard’s oncoming question before he could even finish. Barry knew Eobard recognized the object, shaking his head that that cat was out of the bag for this secret too.

“Savitar?”

“Savitar. The Future Flash and the self-proclaimed God of Speed, kitten,” Eobard simply explained as he worked. Images of a metallic suit flashed through your mind as it hummed with energy; a familiar face shrouded in shadows and a hauntingly course voice. “A twisted time remnant of the man you know to be your friend. Another big bad that Barry’s had to face in the future, primarily due to the mistakes of his growing unhappiness. Isn’t that right, Flash? The pain you’ve caused the people around you just for you selfish wishes.” Barry rolled his eyes but remained silent.

“Eobard, play nice,” you scolded the older man, “they’re still guests here after all.”

“Hmph. You know what's funny about your dad, Nora,” the futuristic genius caught her attention, “is he hates me. Hates me with a passion, and yet a version of him, this Savitar, is a much bigger jerk than I ever was. Did you see the face?” Eobard gestured to his own face, primarily to one side of his face while snickering “Did you- did you see the, like, pizza face-” Nora awkwardly stepped from foot to foot, looking away.

“-Pizza face?-” Eobard Tiberius Thawne you owe me so many fucking answers when we get home because these images aren’t making as much sense as they should.

“-Can you hurry up?-”

“-Yeah, I'll hurry up.” Eobard smugly nonchalantly threw the tiny screwdriver onto the desk. He picked up a different on. “I gotta tell you, Allen, using Savitar's suit, it's a smart idea.”

Barry tilted his head to his daughter. “It was hers.”

Eobard gave her a hard look. His eyes flickered towards you then turned around. “Clever girl.” You picked up an odd indication in his tone. The speedster narrowed his eyes at the tech as he ignited it, illuminating in his hands to signal its functioning aspect. On the monitor, the four of you noticed that the other Barry was coming to consciousness. Eobard inhaled silently. “Oops.” Eobard swiveled his body around to hand them the piece of tech. “Gotta go.” Barry narrowed his eyes, quiet hatred behind them as he took the tech from his nemesis. “I still look forward to seeing how this all pans out. Nora. Kitten, make sure they see their way out,” Eo glanced at you one last time before speeding away in a torrent of red-lightning to the Time Vault. The three of you watched as the villainous speedster reclaimed his rightful place, crossing his legs once more. An analytical look across his features.

You spoke before the two speedsters sped away in a torrent of lightning. “Cicada’s the one with the lightning-shaped dagger, the one that glows ominously? Heartless eyes? Breathing problems?”

“Yeah? How did you…?” Nora trailed off. Barry figured that your powers were still manifesting themselves and it seems that their run back in time has triggered sporadic post-cognitive images to be revealed through certain key words.

“It doesn’t matter how-,”

“Your powers are still developing,” Barry interjected, pocketing the tech safely. “It seems that our visit has amplified what you can do. Let’s just what it doesn’t shift anything else”

He knows about my powers… Right, time travel. “Just be safe. I-I don’t know too much and I’m not sure what the future holds, but whatever trouble you two have run into just be cautious. Not for me, but for the ones you love. The past will always have some sort of domino effect to the future. I may not be able to time travel, but Eobard has taught me a thing or two about it.” You stopped, looking off to the side while rubbing your arm. “Barry?”

“Hmm?”

“Just answer me this one thing.”

“… It depends.”

“I know, timeline and speedster stuff. But…” You took a breath in, “Is he safe?” The speedster avoided your eyes. You swallowed thickly, moving your gaze to Nora. “Does he live?” She opened her mouth a fraction, moved by the desperation evident in your eyes

“I can’t answer that.” Barry whispered without hesitation, an alien emotion behind those eyes, replacing the kindness and warmth the Barry you knew had. It was bitter. “Nora, it’s time to go back to the night it all began.” Barry flashed away to the pipeline. Nora remained.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, your body felt numb at the absence of answers. You turned back to the monitor, running both hands through your hair before picking up a spare tool and frustratingly throwing it at the wall. Picking up the tablet once more, you ran some algorithms and diagnostics privately on your powers as you made you way to the Time Vault.

Eobard’s head perked up in question at your entrance. He remained seated catching your troubled look. You only whispered, “We need to talk after this is over,” before leaning against the wall and tapping at the screen of your tablet. He hadn’t missed the embittered look in your eyes, the prominent frown on your face. A peculiar emotion hidden behind those lovely eyes of yours when the speedster had been so accustomed to seeing lights and twinkling of stars within your irises.

Eobard rubbed his wrist as he attained messy hair due to Barry and Nora’s revelations. You speculated he had been running his hands through it in thought as he tried to decipher the truth and what his next plan of action would be. King vs King. Eobard and Barry. It was a dangerous game and it’s clear that Team Flash are Barry’s pieces to move while Iris was by his side. From the future’s perspective. But you… at this point, you hazard a thought of what Eobard saw of you as. Queen… or Pawn. Pursing your lips, you shoved those thoughts away as your mind reminded you of all you and he had gone through since he had revealed himself and his truth to you. But right now, you were feeling so conflicted and insecure at how everything would play out. He promised to take me home with him… That we could start a life together. I don’t want to be used up and thrown away again. I’m tired of being broken and alienated.

The restrained Barry shifted once more in abrupt confusion as he found himself slumped against the cool metal of Eobard’s motorized wheelchair. A prop to his act. His mind felt foggy and arms felt heavy, particularly his right hand. You stopped tapping and eyed him indifferently because you really had no idea how to feel, but you realized you need to be cautious with how you act and what you say until you and Eobard clear things up from earlier events.

Barry’s eyes darted rapidly to the seated, smirking speedster in front of him then to you then to the metacuffs before lingering back to Harrison. The Scarlet Speedster assessed the guarded expression on your face. You saw this Barry feign confusion, eyebrows raised as he eyed the metacuffs and Dr. Wells. You cracked your neck as Eobard did a little hand-wave gesture to Barry. The young speedster looked baffled, probably at getting caught, as he opened and closed his mouth.

“Now, who are you?”

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umbry-fic · 3 years

Text

nurture

Summary:

But just as a seed knows nothing but darkness and the press of soil upon it, until it finally breaks through the first layer and learns of the world above and its wonders, she knew nothing more than her mission. Knew not of emotions, not of memories, not of herself.

And thus began her growth.

A look at the moments Martel spends with Lloyd and Colette and how that changes her.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Summon Spirit Martel, Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving, Mentions of other characters Relationships: Martel & Colette Brunel, Martel & Lloyd Irving Rating: G Word Count: 9442 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 13/08/2021

Notes: This was written as a treat for @likes-words-and-shrimp as part of the Tales of Sweet Soda 2021 event organised by @talesofexchanges!

For context, this is based on my interpretation that Summon Spirit Martel is just Tabatha, but with a new body, new powers plus the memories of every soul trapped in the Great Seed. This fic also goes into DOTNW events, but isn't canon-compliant as to Martel's appearance in that game.

The original fic makes use of font changes that can't be translated onto Tumblr, but it doesn't affect much. You should be able to read the fic just fine!

~~~

Martel wasn’t just a summon spirit that acted as the guardian of the Yggdrasill Tree, tied to it in a complicated bond of mana. She was the World Tree, in spirit and soul.

In the instant she was born, from the passionate wish of a boy who fought to change the world to prevent any more suffering; from the love of a sister who had been torn apart from her brother through nothing but the cruelness of fate, and the many, many needless deaths that had spiralled out from that one event; from the body of a lonely automaton who only desired to understand the world, Martel was akin to nothing more than the sapling by her feet, which inherently knew that its sole goal was to grow. Born with the knowledge of her role in this world: to protect the World Tree, so long as the world still needed it, still wanted it.

And thus began her growth.

~~~

Martel spent most of her days kneeling by the World Tree, which did not yet reach her waist. With her staff stabbed upright into the dirt next to her, her fingers would rub at the small collection of leaves that clung to the sapling’s tiny branches, not even the same length as her arm. Not tending to it, no, because it didn’t need tending in the traditional sense. It didn’t need refreshing rain to drink from, nor fertile soil to draw nutrients from, nor plentiful sunlight to fuel its growth.

What it needed to flourish was the love and adoration of the people. For them to stop fighting amongst themselves, for the hatred that had stretched on for an eternity to be resolved, for the different races to stop putting each other down in order to declare themselves victors in a bloody competition that ultimately held no meaning.

She would maintain this position for any period of time - hours, days, even weeks - patiently awaiting any change. Time was of no concern to her. Her eyelids did not get heavy, her limbs did not start to shake, her mind did not become fogged. She was not mortal - she did not need rest.

In the blink of an eye, an entire week would pass.

The remainder of the endless time available to her was spent wandering the fields that surrounded the World Tree. This place that was now her home, for she could not leave, was expansive compared to the four walls that Tabitha had known, but claustrophobic compared to the lands others roamed freely. Within the circular constraints of this space tucked away from the world and known only to a select few, were many unexplored nooks and crannies.

She memorised every detail. Every rock, no matter big or small; every fallen log, moss snaking over each inch; every tree, whether it be reaching up to the heavens or barely topping her head; all the colourful animals that ran amok.

Sometimes, coming across certain sights dragged up vivid memories that belonged to the woman with whom she shared a name, but not a spirit. And attached to it, colourful emotions.

A cliff with thick and sturdy roots threading out of its surface that could act as neat little footholds and handholds.

Mithos climbed up to the top, all the time. Whenever we visited. He would sit there kicking his legs, laughing and asking me to join him. And when I did, we’d share some food. Usually a sandwich or two.

A log with a circle of daisies blooming around it, all of their heads turned towards the log like a gaggle of school children attentively listening to a teacher conduct a lesson.

That was Ratatosk’s favourite perch, regardless of what form he took, whether it be a person, a squirrel, or a bird of prey. Kratos planted those flowers. He said that he wanted to make it more colourful for Ratatosk.

A trickling brook, bordered by wild berry bushes.

Yuan would gather the berries. They were always incredibly sweet, and juice would explode in our mouths with each bite. We’d feed them to each other, and then laugh at the mess we made.

Martel would simply shake her head, attempting to clear the voice that was both her own and not, that seemed to fill every corner of her mind, trumping every other thought. She would walk on, unsure what to do with the sudden emotion flooding her heart, enough to make her unsteady on her feet. Relentlessly haunting her were the many ghosts of Martel Yggdrasill, for she had inherited them. And while she held many sets of memories belonging to all who had been sacrificed to the Great Seed, Martel Yggdrasill’s were the most prominent, in this place that had been pivotal to her life, and that harboured the ruins of wishes once held dear.

She was used to holding an incredible amount of information, able to retrieve any of it at once, for Tabitha’s android form was perfectly suited to act as a database. Gone, however, was her ability to compartmentalise and block out certain pieces of information. She dearly missed it.

She was familiar only with three individuals. The first two came as a pair - Lloyd Irving and Colette Brunel, whose faces she already knew from Altessa’s house. People she knew as “kind”, even though she struggled to understand what exactly that meant.

Her first meeting with them as Martel, rather than Tabitha, was right here. She had given them the role of guardians to the fragile sapling, such that they could join her in safeguarding the world’s mana.

She could vividly remember the awed expressions on their faces - the shine in Colette’s eyes, Lloyd’s gaping mouth. Their fervent enthusiasm in protecting this world’s future. They had departed not soon after Lloyd had given the Tree its name, saying that they had to check in on their friends, but left her with a promise to return.

The third individual was Yuan Ka-Fai. A face she knew, once again, from memories that were not her own. He kept away, for the most part, in a little shack he’d built with the help of his Renegades. It was for the best - it didn’t seem like he wanted to see her, and looking upon his face brought a stinging pain which she couldn’t make heads-or-tails of. A field of contradictions from which there was no escape.

There was a fourth, one that she couldn’t physically see, and could only feel the traces of in the lingering mana particles in the air. The ghost of the previous guardian of the World Tree, who had been ruthlessly ripped apart by people who did not even know of his existence, his essence scattered to the wind.

Days passed, much the same as each other. There was an emptiness in her heart, a hole that grew wider with each day and could not be filled. Not by her aimless wandering, at least.

What was it that she yearned for?

She herself did not know the answer.

~~~

It was a day indistinguishable from any other when she first put down roots.

The sun was out of sight, hidden behind grey clouds, the land duller in colour for the lack of illumination. Martel was seated on a stump, the log having long rotted into nothingness, staff resting in her lap and eyes closed as she let herself sink into the peaceful embrace of nature. The wind caressing her skin, the sweet scent wafting from the nearby flower field. The rustling of the leaves above her head, the bubbling of the brook, the birdsong drifting into her ears.

The sudden crunch of branches pierced through her bubble of calm, too loud to be caused by a woodland critter. Her eyes snapped open, fingers wrapping around her staff tightly.

Only to spot, in the distance, the familiar figures of a golden-haired girl dressed in white robes and a brown-haired boy dressed entirely in red, making their way over to her across the flower fields. She released the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

There were no intruders. Not at the moment.

Still on guard, she stood, awaiting their arrival.

“Is something wrong?” she asked the moment they stopped before her, words sharp as a knife.

Was there a threat approaching the World Tree, was there a need to-

“Huh?” Just like that, her thought process was shattered by Lloyd, who rubbed the back of his head in confusion. “No, I… I don’t think anything’s wrong.”

“Then why are you here?” Her mind skidded to a halt completely, her grip on her staff loosening, though the tension remained in her raised shoulders.

“To visit. We were passing through the area, so we thought we might as well.” Colette said, cocking her head. “Does there need to be another reason for us to come here?”

To… Visit…?

“Yeah. We promised we’d be back, didn’t we?” Lloyd said, shrugging as he sat down by the stump, without a care for the wet grass, water droplets still clinging to the blades from the morning rain. Colette took a seat next to him, a wide smile on her face that brought the colour back - the green of the leaves, the brown of the bark.

Their promise…?

Martel had paid little heed to it. It was not an oath. They had no obligation to keep it, no penalty from breaking it, and she had thought it just a common courtesy that held no weight.

After all, why would they return here? There was no reason to. What could possibly be found here, other than the remnants of shattered dreams and the bitter taste of betrayal?

“Sit back down!” Colette gestured to the tree stump. “It’s uncomfortable to keep standing, right?”

“I… Alright…?” she muttered. In truth, she would not get tired, or feel physical discomfort. She couldn’t help but listen to Colette, though. Taking a hesitant step back, and then another, until her legs hit the stump and she sat down. Her back was ramrod straight and she maintained a grip on her staff.

She still didn’t understand why they had come, and it didn’t seem like they were planning to provide an answer.

And one didn’t come, in the few hours they spent here. Instead, the two of them broke out into conversation. Not just amongst themselves, but with her. Filling her in on what they had been up to in the months since the two worlds had become one.

Their journey across the reunited world to collect every Exsphere, to save the whispers and stories and souls contained within each tiny sphere, just as Tabitha had once told Lloyd to do within a cave of luminous green. The towns and sights they had come across, described with so much life behind their voices that Martel felt as if she was no longer sitting on a tree stump, but instead on a bench on a cobbled street, the smell of baking bread drifting through the air.

Lloyd waved his arms around wildly while Colette giggled into her hand - an outburst of energy, against which she was helpless to do anything but absorb every word. But they didn’t stop there. They went on to ask her questions, to ask her what she thought. She didn’t answer, apart from simple shakes or nods of the head, even to open-ended answers where “yes” and “no” were no longer sufficient. Lloyd and Colette didn’t linger on her awkward non-answers, or try to drag answers out of her. They just moved on.

They did not ask her if she’d like to go to these places one day, knowing that she never could.

Martel didn’t quite know how to act. She had never spent this much time with Lloyd and Colette before. They had talked to her back at Altessa’s, sure - they were the ones to seek her out the most, actually. But even then, they were always rushing to places, their plates full with everything that they had to do.

Not like this, where their boundless energy spilt forth without anything to curb it, washing over her.

By the time they left, waving goodbye as she remained still as a stone, Martel’s head was in a whirl from the influx of information she had received. She was exhausted, yet not tired at the same time. Another inexplicable contradiction.

There was a gentle warmth, like rays of sunlight cutting through gaps in the clouds and kissing her skin.

But the sun was still smothered in a layer of clouds, so from whence did this warmth come from?

~~~

Now that the sapling had put down more roots, little buds could start to form on the branches, not yet ready to open and show their flowery faces.

~~~

Colette and Lloyd continued to return every few weeks, to Martel’s utter surprise. They checked in on the World Tree, asking Martel each and every time if they were allowed to touch the fuzzy leaves and dangling branches. Martel would nod, and watch them with eagle eyes as they handled the sapling with the utmost care, muttering well-wishes and cheering over every inch it gained. Colette, on rare occasions, would squat next to the sapling, humming a song that was pleasant to the ears. Perhaps she believed the old wives’ tale that singing to a plant could make it grow faster. Even though it was utterly foolish, Martel couldn’t help but join Lloyd in smiling at the sight.

They continued to regale her with tales of their travels, the three of them sitting around different locations in the clearing - by the stump, on the log, beside the river - her staff never far from her. Eventually, Lloyd and Colette began to bring along tiny souvenirs that they pressed into her palm, which Martel would hesitantly curl her fingers around.

A tiny lantern charm. A statuette of some strange monster she didn’t recognise. Snacks, even - crispy chips in foil packets, fruit tarts wrapped in pretty packages, fruits which exploded with juice in the mouth. She did not require food to survive, but she still ate the gifts, letting Colette and Lloyd’s words wash over her as she tasted sweetness on her tongue and left sugar on her lips. She kept the souvenirs in a little box Lloyd had made for her, one that he claimed was blessed by the elemental Summon Spirits such that it could withstand the rain and sunshine. That seemed a tad impossible. Wasn’t that too much effort to go through? It was more likely that Lloyd was exaggerating. The box never succumbed to rot, however, so she had to take Lloyd at his improbable word.

Eventually, Martel mustered up the courage to answer one of their questions, even if she didn’t know if her answers were logically correct. The fact of the matter was, there probably weren’t correct answers, to begin with. Lloyd grinned, and then further roped her into the conversation. The nervousness had seemingly vacated, almost like it had never been there, as she found herself relaxing in Lloyd and Colette’s familiar company. She was still relatively quiet compared to the endless stream of words that came out of their mouths, but she was comfortable enough to talk, and sometimes even laugh a little at the funny stories they told. Listening no longer left her exhausted to the bone.

She learned to wave as the two children always did, an action she had observed from her days as Tabitha and knew was one of the many practices of “saying farewell”. The first time Martel had done so, barely catching their attention before they left, Colette’s eyes lit up, and she waved back enthusiastically, cupping her hands over her mouth and yelling “goodbye”, the word floating across the distance between them and catching in Martel’s heart.

Walking around yielded fewer shards reflecting the distant past that pricked her heart and made it bleed, but rather crystals of memory showing the two children who kept visiting despite there being no logical reason to do so.

They came here for the simple purpose of meeting her, and she couldn’t wrap her head around that. All she knew…

Was that the hole in her heart was slowly being filled, by the sunny warmth that she now knew was happiness.

An emotion that was almost foreign. For once upon a time, emotions had been nothing more than the result of a series of interwoven conditions, dull and without meaning. She had witnessed only glimpses of true emotions, arising due to errors in the code - or perhaps an evolution, for they were one and the same.

Still, she didn’t understand why a hole had arisen in the first place.

She looked forward to every visit, her ears primed to listen for any little noise, her head perking up every time she heard their footsteps.

Martel hoped Lloyd and Colette would keep making the nonsensical decision to return.

~~~

The World Tree now reached Martel’s waist, the leaves on each branch no longer alone. More buds had made their appearance, tiny spots of pale pink among the dense clusters of deep green.

The branches were a little sturdier now, and birds took to perching upon it, their talons resting on the bark as they chirped joyfully.

But growth always came entangled with challenges.

The change of seasons brought with it stronger winds, mercifully ripping leaves from their rightful places and leaving them to fall gracelessly to the ground, where they were trampled upon by animals without a second thought, noticed by none.

~~~

The Centurion Cores posed a threat not just to the World Tree, but to the world at large. If the wrong person got their hands on them, they could wreak havoc and destruction upon the world. And if they led to Ratatosk’s awakening… There would be no telling what would happen. Even here, Martel could feel the writhing hatred of the previous Summon Spirit, fighting to be unleashed upon the world.

The Cores needed to be gathered and dealt with before any of that could happen.

But no mere person could handle the Cores. Touching them would allow their power to crawl within one’s mind, flooding it with insidious whispers, easily driving anyone without sufficient protection insane.

Which meant Martel could leave the job to only one individual.

Lloyd came alone, without Colette in sight, having been called by Yuan. Martel delivered the news in a flat tone, keeping watch on Lloyd’s expression - the way it crumbled into pieces before her eyes, and then was carefully built back up again into a mask of neutrality. It was not something she’d thought Lloyd capable of, but here was a demonstration, right in front of her.

He did not voice any objection, did not try to shirk the heavy responsibility she was about to set on his shoulders. He simply accepted her words with a nod and chose to silently bear the consequences they brought. He understood that someone had to do it, and he was willing to do anything to protect this world and the people he loved.

Martel saw that. She saw his unbreakable will, and the all-encompassing love he held for this world and the people that meant everything to him. She knew that he was the right choice, perhaps the only choice.

So what was this ache in her heart, as she watched Lloyd leave alone, struggling to keep his head aloft?

~~~

A sapling required care to grow, whether it be by nature’s impartial hands or the gentle touch of a loving gardener.

Through the friendship that Lloyd and Colette had offered to her, Martel had experienced the sunlight that was happiness.

Now it was time to learn of the torrential storm that was grief and despair, and the intruding rot that was guilt.

~~~

Silence reigned supreme again, broken only by small pockets of noise when Lloyd and Colette returned, the atmosphere nowhere near as happy and relaxing as before. Never at the same time, of course, for that could not be allowed to happen. And at a much smaller frequency than before, irregular.

Lloyd was quiet most of the time, taking advantage of the safety provided by the boundaries of this space to take a quick nap, one that sometimes stretched into an hours-long sleep. He did not stir at all, thoroughly exhausted to the bone, except for nightmares which twisted his mouth into a grimace and furrowed his brow, unshed tears pooling beneath his eyelids. Even in sleep, he refused to cry.

Perhaps he was tired of putting up an act all the time, of hiding from and lying to his friends. Perhaps he was exhausted from being accused by the entire world and having fingers pointed at him no matter where he went. Perhaps he was sick of being on his guard at all times, even when he was in his most vulnerable position of sleep. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

There were so many reasons for his spirit to be at breaking point, so many reasons for him to want to curl up into a ball and never face the world again.

Martel would not disrupt his much-needed and much-deserved rest. She simply placed a blanket she’d squirrelled from Yuan’s shack (which she hoped Yuan wouldn’t miss) on Lloyd, tucking it in around his shoulders and watching over him until he woke up. After which, he would leave to continue his mission, back small and forlorn.

Did he, like her, now see ghosts here? All the times he’d come here with Colette… Were those happy memories being turned against him, making him yearn for the past and dread the future?

The silence was draining, closing in upon her heart and dragging it down into murky depths.

Colette, on the other hand, seemed much the same as before. She continued to talk non-stop, actions animated, a smile drawn on her face. If someone didn’t look closely, they would not see past the mask she had effortlessly painted on with a brush gripped in expert fingers. Would not see that the light in her eyes had dimmed, would not hear the occasional tremble in her voice.

Would not realise that she never brought up Lloyd.

Martel didn’t mind playing along, at least at first, talking about whatever topic Colette brought up and nothing more. The stranglehold around Martel’s heart tightened with each visit, however, as more storm clouds gathered above Colette’s head, her voice getting less and less enthusiastic. Until Martel couldn’t stand it anymore, opening her mouth to ask if Colette was alright.

And the dam broke under the insurmountable pressure, Colette sobbing profusely into her hands, sounding like her heart was being ripped into tiny shreds that could never be put back together. Martel desperately tried to pull on someone, anyone’s memories on how to comfort a crying child. Yet at this most vital of moments, the lives that had always tormented her remained frustratingly out of reach, leaving her to awkwardly rub Colette’s back.

At least a weight seemed to have left Colette’s shoulders after the tears dried up, leaving behind nothing but quiet acceptance. She returned to talking to Martel, her smile somehow more genuine, her voice no longer injected with false cheer, her vulnerability shining through. Colette let herself lapse into silence sometimes, and the two of them would simply listen to the sounds of nature around them instead of trying to fill it with fake noise.

There were moments when Martel thought she felt the burn of Colette’s gaze on her back. But the moment she whirled around to catch her, there would be nothing for her to see. Colette’s head would be bowed, nothing but a smile visible on her face.

But it happened so many times that it couldn’t be her imagination. Yet she didn’t know what to make of it.

And when completely alone, Martel did little things, like practice the manipulation of mana. Things the other Summon Spirits had had millennia to master, but that she was a complete beginner in. The mana bent to her will, but she wasn’t certain how exactly to direct it to accomplish the simple task of breaking down her staff and reconstructing it.

She wasn’t just trying to learn how to be a better Summon Spirit, to learn the practices of all the others. She was attempting to ignore the hole in her heart that she was all the more aware of now, for she had finally figured out why it existed.

The silence. The lonely, empty silence.

Even when she’d been Tabitha, there had never been a day when she was alone. Not even her first, for Altessa had already been there, bringing her to life. And he had never left - from the dark, oppressing halls of Cruxis, to the cosy, if slightly mildew-infested house in Tethe’alla. He was not the most talkative of persons, but the house had always been filled with the sounds of life: the hammering in the forge, the thunk of the knife on the chopping board, the creak of doors opening throughout the house.

Then Lloyd, Colette and their companions had arrived at the front door on their quest to reunite the two worlds. And that led to Mithos staying there, who brought a lot more noise by always engaging Altessa in conversation. It might have all been a front. Mithos may have been actively avoiding looking at her. But she still wanted to believe that somewhere under the trickery and deceit, there had been something genuine.

She now knew the answer to the question she’d been asking herself. What she yearned for was companionship.

And in the deafening silence, with nothing to occupy her, she was left to contemplate the many questions that rose to the surface. Questions that she could only consider now, having broken free of the box that her mind had once been constrained to by algorithms, and come to understand the complicated, illogical matters of the heart.

Martel would stare for hours into the brook, observing the features of her face, feeling them with careful fingers. This face that was hers, yet also belonged to another woman.

When others looked at her, who did they see? For Mithos, Kratos, if any of them were still here on this world, and especially Yuan, it must have been Martel Yggdrasill. And the rest of the world did not yet know of her existence and likely never would, hidden from prying eyes. Her existence held nothing but pain in the eyes of some.

Would Altessa still see Tabitha, an android who struggled with emotion but in the end loved this world, even if she did not know how to put that expression into words? Would her existence then hold a bittersweet love, but also the stinging reminder of failure and the typhoon of guilt that could easily carry someone away in its overwhelming power?

Would the other Summon Spirits recognise her as one? Would Ratatosk, if he was still here, recognise her as the guardian of the World Tree?

Or was she something else altogether?

~~~

Who am I?

The words were spinning around in Martel’s head once again, like a merry-go-round gone out of control. She was trying, and failing, to push it down, wanting to just soak in Colette’s company without any distraction.

Colette was leaning her head against the hard bark of a tree, legs stretched out before her and hands resting in her lap, gaze steadily trained on the sky and the birds that flew free within it. Martel, on the other hand, was standing, staff abandoned in the grass.

Martel didn’t pose the question, even though Colette might hold the key to unlocking the answer. The two of them were quite similar, after all - both failed vessels who had now been given a new purpose in a reconstructed world. Perhaps Colette would know the answer, or at least know where to start.

This was her problem to deal with. She had no right to ask anything of Colette. Not after the grievous wound she had dealt to the girl’s heart. To ask anything of her would be pure selfishness.

“Hm,” Colette said, breaking the silence. She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin upon them as her fingers grabbed at tufts of grass, uprooting them. “That’s an interesting question.”

“Oh.” The word slipped out of Martel’s mouth, just as the previous ones had, without her meaning to but unable to be stopped. The question had consumed her entire mind like a parasite until she failed to differentiate between thought and speech.

“No need to be sorry.”

Sorry? She hadn’t…

“I’ve been thinking about that question too,” Colette continued, moving past Martel’s scattered thoughts. “And it’s simple, really.”

How was it simple? How was she anything more than the memories she had inherited, and the face she presented? Yet she could never be Martel Yggdrasill, and she was no longer Tabitha.

So who was she?

“It’s just like Lloyd said, you know?” Colette whispered, pain dripping from her first mention of Lloyd’s name in weeks, her gaze shifting down. “You’re you. You’re Martel, so that’s who you are. Not Martel Yggdrasill, just Martel. And who that is is something you decide, and no one else.”

“I decide…?”

That confused Martel even more. Were people not the amalgamation of who others perceived them as? Was that not even more the case for Summon Spirits, who partly drew their power from the prayers of others, and was therefore most at the mercy of how others viewed them?

“I know it’s hard. Maybe it doesn’t make that much sense. Most things don’t, not really. But it’s what Lloyd said, and I believe him. I always will.” The corners of Colette’s lips lifted into a hopeful smile. “You are who you are. Take your time.”

Time was the one thing Martel had too much of, and the one thing she would never run out of.

“Okay, enough moping around!” Colette declared with gusto, nearly scaring Martel into dissipating into mana, a feat that she had not managed to accomplish on her own. Yet now, bright, tiny particles were flying from the tips of her fingers.

Colette scampered to her feet and grabbed Martel’s hand, not giving her the chance to retrieve her staff before she was dragged off in the direction of the flower fields.

“What are you doing?!” Martel asked, voice two pitches higher than usual, too shocked to do anything but go along, trying her very best to calm her racing heartbeat down. How ridiculous this must look, for her to be led by a girl an entire head shorter than her. Even more ridiculous if someone were to know that she was a Summon Spirit, and Colette was a human. The power disparity was rather silly.

“Bringing you to go make flower crowns.” Colette grinned mischievously, stepping into the thousands of flowers that bloomed, like a blanket of white that stretched beyond the horizon. Her eyes twinkled with that old shine Martel had not seen in a while. “You haven’t done it before, have you?”

“N - no, but -”

“Now's a great time to try! It’s something every child should do.”

“I’m not a child,” Martel whispered, hands shaking as she withdrew from Colette’s grasp. Petals rained down all around them, taken from the flowers and scattered into the sky by the wind.

She was still a weak Summon Spirit, for she drew her power from the World Tree, and it was not yet grown. She would be bested by any of the others, even the mischievous Sylphs. Yet power still crackled beneath her skin, which she could easily release from her fingertips. Even if she was resolved not to use it unless something directly threatened the World Tree, and only if absolutely necessary, it was still there.

No child was meant to wield that much power.

Perhaps she had been childlike as Tabitha, possessing more knowledge than any child should, yet unable to process the workings of the world in the way others did. But even then, she had not been a child.

She had never been a child.

“Neither am I,” Colette replied, turning back. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a futile effort as a gust of wind blew, catching the golden strands within. Stray white petals caught in their hair, getting lost within. White peeking out among green and yellow. “But… Everyone deserves to be a child at least once. And who says you aren’t allowed to?”

There was a sad tinge to Colette’s smile. And in her silhouette, Martel could see another child. And another, and another, and another, within the memories she safeguarded - the many children who never had the chance to be a child, that chance ripped away by the flames of war or the cruelty of others or the destructive power of grief.

“Come on. I promise, it’ll be fun!” Colette proclaimed, sitting down cross-legged and patting the flowers next to her.

Martel hesitantly sat down, accepting the handful of flowers Colette threw into her lap. A few were small when she picked them up, sitting in the centre of her palm, easily crushed into smithereens to leave not a trace behind. So fragile.

“It might be difficult at first, but just follow my instructions and you’ll eventually get the hang of it…”

She let Colette’s voice guide her, following her every word. And just as Colette said, she got the hang of it pretty quickly, until her first-ever flower crown lay in her hands.

She stared down at it, rubbing the rough stems that were, thankfully, devoid of any thorns. It had been surprisingly fun to lose herself in the monotony of threading stems together with her head bowed over her lap, letting time slip by. A completely unproductive activity meant only for children, that she would have never thought to try on her own…

Would it be as enjoyable without Colette by her side?

“Yours is great!” Colette congratulated her, the rapid movements of her hands coming to a halt as she scooted closer to peek at Martel’s flower crown.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared to yours…” Martel snuck a glance at Colette’s lap, where three completed flower crowns were stacked atop each other. Colette was in the process of making a fourth, her progress scarily fast. And all of her flower crowns were beautifully done, with intricate knots and twining stems, the petals undamaged and the flowers cheerfully open to the sun. Colette must be extremely experienced, something she could never hope to match. Hours of hours with Lloyd, most likely.

“No, no, I mean it! And you can only improve with time!” Colette grinned, picking up the topmost flower crown in her stack and reaching her arms up.

Frozen, Martel watched the journey of the crown, knowing what the final destination was - upon her head, where Colette set it down with careful hands. Still, she could not help but reach up and feel the soft petals of the crown, sitting lopsided such that one side fell over her right eyebrow. It was light, yet at the same time, she could feel its weight, and the slight scratch of the stems against her skin.

“Keep it,” Colette said, as if anticipating the objections that Martel was about to voice.

“I… Alright,” Martel replied, releasing her grip and lowering her hand. “But if you insist…”

She took her own flower crown and placed it gently on Colette’s curls, the white standing out among the gold. It did not measure up to Colette’s, but... “Have mine in return.”

This was all that she could do, even if it was just a small thing.

“Thank you.” Colette laughed, that familiar sound that seemed to bring in spring, the flowers around her turning their heads towards her to listen.

Colette continued to weave ever more flower crowns as Martel lay down upon the fields, hair spread below her as she shut her eyes, folding her hands over her heart. Colette hummed the familiar little tune that she hummed to the World Tree, almost like she was wishing for Martel’s growth, for her to put down roots where she lay and burst into glorious bloom.

With Colette’s melodious voice washing over her, she drifted off into sleep. And in the images that played out against her closed eyelids, the two of them were just normal girls, having fun in the fields without a care in the world, shoulders completely free of any burdens, hands clean of blood, and hearts still whole.

~~~

Whether it was a temporary moment of strange lucidity or a dream born of hovering in the state between wakefulness and sleep, Martel didn’t know. When she awoke, a strange memory floated to the surface, its contents shrouded in grey - Colette, staring at her with a knowing glint in her eyes. The girl did nothing more, only bent down and swiped away a petal on Martel’s cheek with a gentle finger. The petal rested in her hand for a moment before it was blown away by the wind, disappearing into nothingness in the sky.

Gone…

Yet when Martel sat up, colour rushing back into her vision, Colette was asleep on her side, the numerous flower crowns she had completed scattered by her side. Her fingers curled close to her chest, strands of hair moving slightly in the wind that had calmed to nothing more than a weak breeze that teased. She looked utterly at peace, furrows washed away.

And it was like nothing had ever transpired - both the strange vision, and the events of the past, dipped in misfortune.

~~~

After Colette left, Martel kept the flower crown, infusing it with a tiny bit of magic to ensure the flowers remained just as pristine as when Colette gave it to her.

It was a silly use of her power. Flower crowns were not meant to last. They fell apart with time, the petals curling as rot crawled up the stems, abandoned at the end of childhood. The flowers were long dead, after all.

She could call her actions childish, even.

So, why?

It was a gift. From a friend.

That was the only reason required. It was just that simple.

And as Colette had said… Who was stopping her from being childish?

~~~

On the World Tree, the first bud burst into bloom.

~~~

“He was so fluffy! I really hope I get to see Timmie again.”

Colette finished her latest passionate tirade about dogs, this time about a “positively adorable little one” she had met in Luin. She could spend a whole hour going on and on about her “exciting adventures”, which mostly amounted to running circles around town with the dog, all her worries seemingly forgotten. “A dog can make any day better!” she had exclaimed once, and Martel was truly starting to believe that.

With one final stroke in the soil, Colette completed her rough sketch of Timmie, dropping the stick she was using.

“Cute,” Martel agreed, trying to imagine Timmie in full colour from just the sketch. Despite the surprising amount of details Colette had managed to infuse into her drawing - such as the rounded snout, stubby legs and droopy ears - Martel was still having quite some trouble. Her imagination wasn’t that great, and she’d never seen a real-life dog before.

“So, I hope you enjoyed my adventures with Timmie! I know I’m not always the best storyteller,” Colette said, rifling through her rucksack and pulling out something wickedly sharp that glinted under the sunlight. “But now I need to run an idea past you.”

Martel squinted at the object in Colette’s hands, making it out to be...

A pair of scissors.

Instinctively, she took a step back, fingers reaching for her staff - only to come to the stark realisation that it was nowhere near her. She’d left it by the river, where Colette had taken a quick rest by dipping her feet in the soothing waters. And in her panic, she was unable to summon it.

Scissors were supposed to be a fairly innocent object, something used to cut fabric or paper. Yet the sight of anything remotely sharp brought back memories of desperate women caked in blood, wielding whatever they could get their hands on in a last-ditch effort to protect their children from being carted off by men in uniforms which sported the crest of an opposing kingdom, taken as liberty to commit whatever evils they desired. Memories of hugging a child close, praying that they would not be next.

And even more sinister, the thought of anything cutting into the World Tree, tiny and vulnerable.

For whatever purpose would Colette be carelessly wielding that for?

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Colette gasped, realising her mistake and quickly hiding the pair of scissors behind her back. She and Lloyd had always taken great care not to spook Martel with their weapons, ensuring that they were in plain sight, (for it would not be reasonable to leave them without any capability to protect themselves,) their hands never straying anywhere close to them. They knew how skittish Martel was around sharp objects. In Colette’s excitement to share, she had clearly forgotten.

“It’s… It’s alright. You didn’t mean anything by it,” Martel replied, wringing her hands together to try and overcome the feeling that they were too empty. Honestly, she was overreacting. Colette only meant well. Martel couldn’t see her ever doing something with malicious intent.

“Sorry,” Colette muttered, still guilty. “But, you see, I was thinking about how Summon Spirits can change their appearances. Like how Gnome takes on this giant animal that Dirk says is a mole? I don’t think you’ve learned to do that yet, so I was wondering if you’d like me to cut your hair for you.”

“My hair…?” Martel pondered, picking at one of the many green strands that ran down her shoulders. Despite her absolute lack of care and the sometimes volatile weather, her hair had remained lustrous, not a single knot within the long, flowing locks that reached her hips.

“Yep,” Colette said, her hand landing on Martel’s shoulders as she began to slowly push her towards a boulder that was of a suitable height and flatness to act as a comfortable seat. “I thought you might want to… Well, separate yourself from the other Martel. Only if you want me to, though! It’s your decision!”

They came to a stop by said boulder as Colette patiently awaited her answer, still studiously keeping the scissors out of sight.

“I’d like that,” Martel replied. She could not yet change her face, but perhaps changing the length of her hair would make staring into her own reflection less painful, make it feel less like she was looking at a ghost who should have long departed this world.

“Then, sit down!” Colette gently pressed Martel down onto the rock, disappearing from Martel’s view as she took her position behind Martel. “And relax. This might take a while, so sorry for that...”

The tension refused to leave Martel’s shoulders, a part of her still preparing for the cold of metal against her throat, for the coppery tang of blood to fill her nose. The panic of leaving herself fully vulnerable was crowding out all else, which she could recognise as extremely stupid in the one rational part of her mind that remained.

She wielded more than enough magic to protect herself from mortals, even without her staff to channel it properly.

Weapons that were not her own just seemed to overpower all rational thought, it seemed.

Martel felt Colette minutely shift behind her, bringing the scissors up to her hair.

“If you need me to stop at any time, just tell me, alright?”

Martel was about to nod, before realising that that was a bad idea. She should not be moving her head right now.

So she didn’t respond. Even amidst the panic, she trusted Colette not to hurt her.

Snip.

The sound of the first cut was impossibly loud in her ears.

I used to cut Mithos’ hair, sweeping the loose strands off his shoulders as I trimmed the ends.

But no one ever cut my hair…

“I actually gave Sheena a haircut a while back. She wanted to try out something new! Um, it didn’t turn out too well, so I hope this time goes better…”

Snip.

“Sorry if your hair turns out jagged. Practice makes perfect, but I’ve only been able to practice on Noishe, and he’s not the most eager participant. Don’t think he feels happy over being a guinea pig. He keeps running away, and that means his fur gets all messed up over being caught in the scissors! Silly Noishe.”

Snip.

Colette continued to blather on, until she ran out of topics related to hairdressing and had to scramble for the most mundane of things to talk about. The upbeat tone of her voice drowned out the sound of the blades snapping together, until it faded away altogether.

Martel’s eyes slipped close, fingers releasing from their interlocked state. The wind carried away her hair like it did petals, leaving no trace behind, like there had never been anything there in the first place.

“And we’re done!”

Martel’s eyes snapped open at the sudden clap of Colette’s hands. The sun had shifted into the apex of its arc, and Colette was now in front of her, bending down a little to observe Martel’s new haircut.

How much time had passed? She must have drifted away…

“How do you like it?” Colette asked, gesturing towards Martel’s hair.

Martel reached up a hand, finding nothing at her shoulders. She went up higher to grip the ends of her now much shorter hair, which reached only to her chin. The difference in weight was disorienting. She felt so much lighter, like whatever had been pressing on her chest had been lifted.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the loss of hair. Perhaps it was much, much more.

“I like it,” she replied, heart swelling. Both with happiness, and with the dark grip of guilt.

Colette had done so much to help her, and for nothing in return, even as Martel continued to hide the truth from her. A truth that had taken on a ghastly life of its own and cast its shadow upon the both of them.

“I’m glad, Martel!” Colette said, plopping down on the dirt. “Oh, would you still like to be called Martel? If you don’t like that name, I can call you something else.”

“No,” Martel replied immediately, and with much more surety than she herself had thought possible. “It’s like you said. The name is mine, and I am my own person. I don’t want to give it up.”

She may hold Martel Yggdrasill’s memories, but they would not define her existence, and neither would they restrain her from making new memories of her own. Neither would any of the other memories she held, though she would continue to protect them, for they were worth protecting.

“Alright!” Colette cocked her head, smile growing even sunnier, if that was possible. “Do you want to hear more about the dogs I met at Luin? There was another one that I named Clay, and he’s so cute! Oh, I’d like to pet him again!” she squealed.

“Sure. But before that…” Martel took a deep breath, preparing the next two, simple words. Words that she had not uttered before, but that she had heard countless times, both in memories and in life, and that was long overdue. “Thank you. For everything.”

There had never been a meaning behind “thank you” before. It was nothing more than an in-built command. And while she understood the purpose the words played, there was no significance behind them. Just hollow words spit out by an algorithm, the moments she truly meant them few and far between, slipping through her fingers just as quickly as it had come.

Why would they ever cross her mind, then? Not until now, at least, having broken through the once impenetrable wall of numbers.

A simple expression was not enough to convey the amount of gratitude she felt for Colette. It was not enough to repay everything Colette had done for her. It was certainly not enough to make amends for everything she had done to Colette. She was, after all, the one that was continuing to stab a poison-tipped dagger into Colette’s heart. This could do no more than put a pitiful bandaid on the wounds that were constantly being ripped open.

“You’re welcome,” Colette replied with no hesitation, not a shred of blame in her words, her actions, her entire self. “I’m glad to have helped.”

There was nothing but sincerity in her smile, and Martel couldn’t understand how.

But she did take comfort in it, as well as garner a single reminder.

There was another person she owed gratitude to and, more importantly, an apology.

~~~

From where she was standing, Martel couldn’t see much of Lloyd. All she could see was his back, leaning against the cool surface of a boulder some distance away, his head of brown hair bowed. He’d been sitting there ever since he finished giving an update on the latest Core he’d gathered, and the rather interesting people he had come across.

She sighed, padding up to Lloyd. Her mind had been made up days before he’d returned. Some things needed to be said, even if it was difficult. It would have been easier, before she understood the dizzying highs of joy and the seeping effects of sorrow. Then the words would not get stuck in her throat as they were now.

But if that were the case, those very same words would hold no meaning.

Lloyd was quietly whittling away at a piece of wood. He’d made quite a bit of progress in the time that had passed - it was starting to resemble a dog, easily recognisable by Martel after the many sketches Colette had shown her. Perhaps it was meant to be a heartfelt apology, a prayer that it might not be too late to mend the broken bonds that trailed behind him. His shaking hands and the tiny bead of blood seeping out of his thumb from a careless slip of the knife certainly supported that.

That only cemented the need to do this.

“I’m sorry,” Martel whispered, breaking the silence and alerting Lloyd to her presence. She didn’t want Lloyd to jump.

The movement of Lloyd’s hands paused as he craned his head up. The rough beginnings of stubble was on his chin, the shadows lurking beneath his eyes deep. This was a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, yet carrying a burden that would break most man’s shoulders. He was incredibly brave.

But even the strongest needed someone to give them a hand when they inevitably stumbled and fell, because everyone had moments of weakness where they needed acceptance. And Lloyd had no one.

She was not the best person for the job. She might not be remotely good at it - she didn’t hold the innate empathy Colette had, that expertise in comforting others that Colette wielded so effectively. She possessed only the complicated knot of emotions in her chest, which she had only just started to unravel.

She was still going to try.

“For everything I’ve put you through. And thank you, for being willing to do so much.”

The apology didn’t relieve the guilt that ate away at her heart. But that wasn’t the point, to begin with. There was no easy way out, and she was not seeking one. She would bear that which was hers to bear, instead of pushing that burden onto others.

It might be far too late, but she hoped it might bring Lloyd some comfort in the bleak landscape that must have been his life.

A small smile broke out on Lloyd’s face. Not the beacon of light he used to be, but it was something. And any shred of hope one could hold onto made a huge difference.

Someone had said that, once. A someone that was not her, but whose memories held much wisdom.

“It’s alright,” Lloyd said, voice rising above the dejected murmur he had used for months. “I knew what I was signing up for, and you hold no blame for that. Thank you, though. It does mean a lot.”

“Can I see…?” she asked hesitantly, sitting down next to Lloyd.

“Sure.”

Lloyd passed over the in-progress figurine, letting Martel take a closer look at it. It was most definitely a dog - the adorable snout, the lovingly crafted ears, the eyes that seemed soulful, even though it was carved from still wood.

“I hope she’ll like it,” Lloyd muttered, frowning as he noticed the cut on his finger. “If I can ever give it to her…”

“I’m sure you will.”

She had no doubt about that. That a time would come, where everything would be better, no matter how long it took.

~~~

That time came. Eventually, all was cleared as the truth came to light. Eventually, peace came to the lands again, as everyone chose to trust in the betrayed Summon Spirit and teach him to trust again. Eventually, Lloyd was finally able to rejoin his friends, to walk freely with them, laugh and talk with them again. But the scars he’d suffered from skulking around in the dark would likely never leave him.

Perhaps both he and Colette may not be able to forgive her for what she’d done. She could accept that, for that was her responsibility to bear. Maybe they would no longer return, or if they did due to the duty they felt they were obliged to, they would act detached instead of friendly.

She could not blame them.

Come what may, she would take it in stride. But still, she would wait for their reappearance, because of the simple wish that she would like to see them again.

In the peace that came after the draining events at Ginnungagap, Martel came to spend more time in Yuan’s company. He no longer acted like a feral cat, backing away whenever she appeared. Perhaps it was the change in appearance, or the new confidence in which she carried herself - she no longer defaulted to old postures passed down through memories. Perhaps her experiments in changing form were starting to show results, even though she didn’t notice any in her reflection.

No matter the reason, it appeared he could stand her presence now. And she was glad, to make another companion and to clear the air. She became familiar with the inside of his shack, taking to sitting at the table and swinging her legs idly. It felt quite similar to the atmosphere at Altessa’s, for Yuan didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk most of the time. She simply enjoyed the silence. And occasionally a cup of alcohol. The taste was certainly… interesting, burning the tip of her tongue and down her throat.

And it was new.

Martel no longer needed to bend down to observe the World Tree, for it now reached her head.

Outgrown a sapling, but not yet a tree. Stronger now, better able to give mana to the world. Many more leaves, who were larger and rough to the touch. A few flowers, peeking shyly out of buds to face the morning sun. An extensive network of roots that she couldn’t see, ensuring steadiness.

On a normal day like any other, wind whispering through her chin-length hair and the sun falling upon the World Tree, the familiar sounds of footsteps floated through the clearing. With a heart that was full of emotions and all the words she wished to say, Martel smiled, and turned to face her friends.

~~~

One day, the World Tree would be a truly massive structure that towered over all, its leaves so dense that sunlight would struggle to filter through the tiny gaps, flowers of every colour popping on branches, and sweet fruits ripening every spring. It would provide shade and life to all that lived in this world.

One day, far, far in the future.

But the important thing, was that it would grow. Slowly, and with time.

And so would she.

#fanfiction #one shot #tales of symphonia #martel #lloyd irving #colette brunel

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andromeda3116 · 3 years

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so like i said i would do no more explaining but i was kinda jokey with that post when actually no i legit did put thought and purpose into this kanej playlist, so here’s a breakdown of the songs on it and which lyric(s)/to whom it applies. some of them, again, are more about the general vibe, but mostly there’s like. an actual reason i picked these songs.

kaz.

o. (not on spotify) the sewers belch me up, the heavens spit me out, from ethers tragic i am born again. [...] is it bright where you are? have the people changed? does it make you happy you're so strange? and in your darkest hour, i hold secrets' flame. you can watch the world devoured in its pain. --the end is the beginning is the end

i. god money, i’ll do anything for you. god money, just tell me what you want me to. god money, nail me up against the wall. god money, don't want everything, he wants it all. no, you can’t take it, no you can't take it, no, you can’t take that away from me. head like a hole, black as your soul, i'd rather die than give you control. bow down before the one you serve, you’re going to get what you deserve.

ii. there’s a shadow just behind me, shrouding every step i take, making every promise empty, pointing every finger at me. [...] i am just a worthless liar, i am just an imbecile. i will only complicate you. trust in me and fall as well. [...] why can we not be sober, i just want to start this over.

iii. i’d walk to you through rings of fire, and never let you know the way i feel. under skin is where i hide the love that always gets me on my knees. [...] i want it now, i want it now. don’t tell me that my ship is coming in. --nothing lasts forever

iv. one: take control of me, you’re messing with the enemy. said it’s two: it’s another trick, you’re messing with my mind. [...] there it goes again, take me to the edge again. all i got is a dirty trick, i’m chasing down the wolves to save you. i tell you i want you, i tell you i need you. the blood on my face, i just wanted you near me. --club foot

v. don’t waste your touch, you won’t feel anything. or were you sent to save me? i’ve thought too much, you won’t find anything worthy of redeeming. [...] reach out and you may take my heart away. --the leaving song, part two

vi. while i waited, i was wasting away, hope was wasting away, faith was wasting away, i was wasting away. [...] inside a crumbling effigy, but you promised. so dies all innocence, but you promised me. --the great disappointment

vii. welcome to the end of eras, ice has melted back to life, done my time and served my sentence, dress me up and watch me die. if it feels good, tastes good, it must be mine. dynasty decapitated, you just might see a ghost tonight. [...] the crown. so close i could taste it, i see what’s mine and take it. --the emperor’s new clothes

viii. all my friends were glorious, tonight we are victorious. [...] i’m a killing spree in white, eyes like broken christmas lights. my touch is black and poisonous. [...] throw the bait, catch the shark, bleed the water red. fifty words for murder, and i’m every one of them.

ix. just like romantic verses, just like a joyous end, just like a memory, it twists me. you land as lightly as the new snow onto the melting boy. you land as gently, you’re so cinematic, bathed in your radiance, i melt. --this celluloid dream

x. i’ll describe the way i feel: weeping wounds that never heal. can this savior be for real, or are you just my seventh seal? no hesitation, no delay, you come on just like special k, now you’re back, the dope demand, i’m on sinking sand. [...] i’ll describe the way i feel: you’re my new achilles heel.

xi. i choose to live and to grow, take and give and to move, learn and love and to cry, kill and die and to be paranoid and to lie, hate and fear and to do what it takes to move through. i choose to live and to lie, kill and give and to die, learn and love and to do what it takes to step through. [...] i’ve been crawling on my belly, clearing out what could have been. --forty-six and two

xii. do you listen to yourself? never live for someone else. do you like the way you feel? nothing hurts when no one’s real. [...] i wanna bullet-proof your soul, would you like to lose control? i won’t let you fall until you tell me so. [...] should have listened when you called my name.

xiii. you have forsaken all the love you’ve taken, sleeping on a razor, there’s nowhere left to fall. your body’s aching, every bone is breaking, nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on. [...] i thread the needle through, you beat the devil’s tattoo.

xiv. i’m insane, but on my toes. i can keep the world balanced on my nose. i had a slumber party with all my foes, now i wear ‘em like a badge of honor on my clothes. if i’m crazy, i’m on my own. if i’m waiting, it’s on my throne. [...] can’t stop me now, i said i got you now. i’m right here at your door, i won’t leave, i want more. --what’s up, danger?

xv. the world is a vampire sent to drain, secret destroyers hold you up to the flames. and what do i get for my pain? betrayed desires and a piece of the game. [...] despite all my rage, i am still just a rat in a cage. --bullet with butterfly wings

xvi. can’t you see i’m sorry? i will make it worth your while. i’m made of dead men’s money, you can see it in my smile. oh, lazarus, how did your debt get paid? [...] when the fires, when the fires are consuming you, and your sacred stars won’t be guiding you, i’ve got blood, i’ve got blood on my name.

xvii. “oh don’t talk of love,” the shadows purr, murmuring me away from you. “don’t talk of worlds that never were, the end is all that’s ever true.” [...] every night i burn, every night i scream your name.

xviii. my heart’s a tart, your body’s rent, my body’s broken, yours is bent. carve your name into my arm, instead of stressed, i lie here charmed. [...] like the naked leads the blind, i know i’m selfish, i’m unkind. sucker love, i always find someone to bruise and leave behind. --every you, every me

xix. it don’t matter, i won’t do what you say. you’ve got the money and the power, i won’t go your way. i can’t take for the people, they don’t matter at all. i’ll be waiting in the shadows, until the day that you fall. [...] kill me if you dare, hold my head up everywhere. --underdog

inej.

i. i’m a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm, and the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold. my blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones, it keeps my veins hot, the fire’s found a home in me. [...] and i’m locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on me. i’m done with it, oh, this is the start of how it all ends. --yellow flicker beat

ii. just how deep do you believe? will you bite the hand that feeds? will you chew until it bleeds? can you get up off your knees? are you brave enough to see? do you wanna change it?

iii. i know it’s a lie, i want it to be true. the rest of the ride is riding on you. [...] wishing you could keep me closer, i’m a lazy dancer, when you move i move with you. --collect call

iv. don’t look ahead, there’s stormy weather, another roadblock in our way. but if we go, we go together, our hands are tied here if we stay. oh, we said our dreams would carry us and if they don’t fly, we will run. now we push right past to find out how to win what they all lost. oh, we know that we want more, oh, the life we’re fighting for. [...] there are no rules that we can’t break. --disparate youth

v. as i move my feet towards your body, i can hear this beat, it fills my head up and gets louder and louder. i run to the river and dive straight in. i pray that the water will drown out the din. [...] there’s a drumming noise inside my head and it starts when you’re around. --drumming song

vi. shoot me down, but i get up. i’m bulletproof, nothing to lose. fire away, fire away. ricochet, you take your aim. fire away, fire away. shoot me down, but i won’t fall, i am titanium.

vii. you’ve been walking, you’ve been hiding, and you look half-dead half the time. monitoring you, like machines do, you’ve still got it, i’m just keeping an eye. you say too late to start, with your heart in a headlock. i don’t believe any of it.

viii. i’m in need of a savior, but i’m not asking for favors. my whole life i’ve felt like a burden, i think too much and i hate it. i’m so used to being in the wrong, i’m tired of caring. loving never gave me a home, so i’ll sit here in the silence. i found peace in your violence, can’t tell me there’s no point in trying. i’m at one, and i’ve been quiet for too long.

ix. i am running, i will meet you halfway. when i get there, will you be waiting for me? and i’m scared that you don’t feel the same. and after all, just how much can i take? heaven help me, i think i’m in love, i’m all in love with you. ‘cause i can’t help myself, i’m falling down, i’m falling hard for you.

x. i never promised you an open heart or charity, i never wanted to abuse your imagination. i come with knives, i come with knives and agony to love you.

xi. stooped down and out, you got me beggin’ for thread to sew this hole up that you ripped it my head. stupidly think you had it under control. strapped down to something you don’t understand, don’t know what you were getting yourself into. you should have known, secretly i think you knew.

xii. go row the boat to safer grounds, but don’t you know? we’re stronger now. my heart still beats, and my skin still feels. my lungs still breathe, my mind still fears. but we’re running out of time, all the echoes in my mind cry. there’s blood on your lies, the scars open wide. there is nowhere for you to hide, the hunter’s moon is shining. i’m running with the wolves tonight.

xiii. a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes. i screamed aloud as it tore through them and now it’s left me blind. the stars, the moon, they have all been blown out, you’ve left me in the dark. no dawn, no day, i’m always in this twilight, in the shadow of your heart. [...] i took the stars from my eyes and then i made a map, i knew that somehow i could find the way back. then i heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness, too. so i stayed in the darkness with you. --cosmic love

both/and.

i. shed a tear for each soul set free, but that’s what happens when you dance with me. pity the man who stands in my way, i’m a nightmare even in the day. i’d be wise with which words you say, ‘cause they could be the last breath you take. [...] call me a criminal, maybe, baby, i’m an outlaw. you know, i ain’t evil but i ain’t a saint.

ii. it’s my own design, it’s my own remorse. help me to decide. help me make the most of freedom, and of pleasure. nothing ever lasts forever. everybody wants to rule the world. there’s a room where the light won’t find you, holding hands while the walls come tumbling down. when they do i’ll be right behind you.

iii. i know you’ve suffered, but i don’t want you to hide. [...] i want to reconcile the violence in your heart, i want to recognize your beauty’s not just a mask. i want to exorcise the demons from your past. i want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart.

iv. you mean that much to me and it’s hard to show. gets hectic inside of me when you go. can i confess these things to you? well, i don’t know. embedded in my chest and it hurts to hold. i couldn’t spill my heart, my eyes gleam looking in from the dark. i walk out in stormy weather, hold my words, keep us together. steady walking but bound to trip, should release but just tighten my grip. night time, sympathize, i’ve been working on white lies. so i’ll tell the truth.

v. i, i came here in day, but i left here in darkness and found you, found you on the way. [...] your sins into me, oh my beautiful one. --silver and cold

vi. you wanna make me bad, make me bad. you wanna pay me back, pay me back. baby, it’s violence, violence. [...] but i like it like that.

vii. hey, baby, can you bleed like me? oh, come on baby, can you bleed like me? you should see my scars.

viii. i’m giving you a night call, to tell you how i feel. i’m gonna show you where it’s dark but have no fear. [...] there’s something inside you, it’s hard to explain. they’re talking about you, boy, but you’re still the same.

ix. you don’t wanna hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies. unaware that i’m tearing you asunder, and there’s a thunder in our hearts, baby. so much hate for the ones we love, tell me we both matter, don’t we? [...] come on baby, come on, come on darling, let me steal this moment from you now. --running up that hill

x. feel my heart burning, deep inside, yearning. i know it is coming. a fettered heart, waking. tainted youth, fading. leave it all behind. delirious again, mesmerize my senses, souls entwine one more time.

xi. there is love in your body but you can’t get it out, it gets stuck in your head, won’t come out of your mouth. sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face, that the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste. darling heart, i loved you from the start, but you'll never know what a fool i have been. darling heart, i loved you from the start, but that’s no excuse for the state i am in. --hardest of hearts

xii. it’s fire, it’s freedom, it’s flooding open. it’s the preacher and the pulpit and your blind devotion. there’s something breaking at the brick of every wall, it’s holding all that you know. so tell me do you wanna go? where it’s covered in all the colored lights, where the runaways are running the nights. impossible comes true, it’s taking over you. [...] where the lost get found and we crown ‘em the circus king. --the greatest show

xiii. but if you’re troubled and hurt, what you got under your shirt will make them pay for the things they did. they said now, teenagers scare the living shit out of me. they could care less, as long as someone will bleed. so darken your clothes and strike a violent pose, maybe they’ll leave you alone, but not me.

xiv. we are ready for the siege, we are armed up to the teeth. be careful how you live and breathe, release what’s broken underneath. how many times do you wanna die? how many ways do you wanna die? [...] you used to do a little but a little won’t fly, right before you hit your prime. that’s where we fell in love but not the first time. --the royal we

xv. and how can we win, when fools can be kings? don’t waste your time, or time will waste you. no one’s gonna take me alive. the time has come to make things right. you and i must fight for our rights, you and i must fight to survive. --knights of cydonia

xvi. look at me go, look at me high and low, look at me picking myself back up from the underground. i’ve died a few times before, i know what it’s like when i can’t see the light, i find a light of my own. [...] we were born alone, and we die alone. what a way to go, now i’m on my own. but i’m not sorry, no.

xvii. broken people, hollow and feeble, they’re rolling, rolling up the hill. [...] breaking in, in, in my eyes, i can’t see like this. i can’t let go, please help me down, i can’t be like this. --sweet

xviii. prey on the powerful, masters of the game, we run with wolves in the shadows, we chase ‘em down ‘til we’re face to face. [...] it’s in our blood, in our blood, in our veins. this is the world we made.

xix. and our lives are forever changed, we will never be the same. the more you change the less you feel. believe, believe in me. believe, believe that life can change, that you’re not stuck in vain. we’re not the same, we’re different tonight. [...] we’ll make things right, we’ll feel it all tonight. we’ll find a way to offer up the night tonight, the indescribable moments of your life, tonight. the impossible is possible tonight. believe in me as i believe in you, tonight.

#kanej #six of crows #listen i stand by my former statement that modern!kaz would be a *huge* fan of nine inch nails #although i will hear arguments for tool #he'd be into like old-school throwback industrial and goth rock #i mean. the barely-restrained rage of some of that genre? he'd be here for it #modern!inej is more of a fan of it than you'd expect but still not like. going to shows or anything #(she really *feels* the rage anthems)#that said #considering how kaz's memory works you know he gets songs stuck in his head like nobody's business #so anytime he annoys her she starts singing like. mamma mia.#if she's *really* annoyed she'll get the dj at the crow club to play abba albums until he apologizes #entirely against his will kaz knows all the lyrics to abba's entire discography because inej is 100% not going to stop the dancing queen #until he's apologized and she doesn't care how much swedish bubblegum pop she has to listen to #this is the one game he cannot win #once the marimbas start it's over. he has lost. the argument is done. it's just a matter of how long it'll take him to admit it.#inadvertently allowing inej to discover his hatred of abba is up there among the biggest mistakes of his entire life #shit i actually didn't mean to post this but like now that i have i guess here it is?#welp.

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jiangchengrights · 3 years

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i wake to you at dawn

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“Alright, I get it,” Wei Ying mumbles to herself from where she lays, half of her face shoved into the pillow beneath her head, the other half just barely illuminated by the screen on her phone, “This dog is friends with that other dog now. Whoop de-fucking-do.”

Usually, these soft animal videos on Instagram don’t annoy her that much, even when they are about dogs, but she’s seen this specific post about fourteen times tonight. She can recite by memory the posts that come after it (a celebrity laying out in the sun, the tagline only the sunflower emoji, followed by one of Wen Qing, looking stern but fond as her lap is completely covered by both Wei Ying and Wen Ning, the tagline for that being ‘Reluctant jie’, and so on and so on) because she’s been frenetically refreshing all of her social media apps in order; she now knows the current lineup of instagram posts and tweets in her feed and has seen every godforsaken not-actually-that-interesting story of all of her friends (which isn’t fair to them, really, considering all of the important ones are here trapped in this same hotel as Wei Ying).

“Oh my god,” Jiang Cheng grumbles from the other side of the room where he lays on his bed (because of course he’s a part of her bridal party. Kind of. He’s walking her down the aisle tomorrow which, okay, makes him technically not a part of her party but she wasn’t about to let him skate free the night before her wedding)(or any of her bridal functions)(not that she needed to worry: he’d taken all planning rights away from her for her bridal shower and bachelorette party, he’d only tolerated the help of shijie) and throws his extra pillow at her, “If I have to hear that fucking dog video one more time, I swear to god, I’ll break your kneecaps. Do you hear me? I’ll have to drag you down the aisle tomorrow because you won’t be able to walk.”

“I thought you liked dogs, Shidi,” she replies, shifting ever-so-slightly so that she can squint at him past her phone.

“Wei Wuxian-”

“A-Cheng, A-Ying,” Shijie hums soothingly, from the other side of the room, “Please rest, for me. Your Shijie needs sleep too.”

“And if you don’t,” Wen Qing pipes up, “I know other ways to make you shut up.”

“Okay, okay,” Wei Ying whines, locking her phone with an audible click and resting it on the pillow next to her head, “I’ll try to sleep. For Shijie.”

Wei Ying does not sleep. She tries, she really does. Turns off all the lights and all the sounds and everything shiny that could keep her just engaged enough to stay awake. She tries to listen to the steadying breathes of her bridal party around her; Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang lay on the bed to her left, Shijie and Wen Qing to her right, Wen Ning passed out on the floor (he’d been invited, truly, to sleep in the empty spot next to her, only he’d fallen asleep long before everyone else and moving him to an actual bed proved to be very difficult when all the adults in the room were half (three fourths) wine drunk and giggling, so they’d just put a pillow under his head and wrapped him in their softest blankets and left it at that). She practices all the meditation tricks Lan Zhan had taught her; tries to calm her mind and her breathing and her heart.

It doesn’t work.

God, she wishes to herself, regardless of however illogical it may be, I wish Lan Zhan was in my bridal party.

With a sigh, she spends some time reflecting. She’s made so many bad decisions in her life, ones that have resulted in no less than three broken arms (sorry A-Cheng), many school detentions, almost getting expelled from university, a car accident that had left Shijie with seatbelt burns and a black eye from the airbag and Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, had left Lan Zhan, who’d been sitting prim and proper in the back seat, with scars that still lingered across the expanse of her back in the shape of all of Wei Ying’s nightmares. She’d chosen to hide away after that for three years in a different city with different hair and a different smile on her face and pretend like she didn’t feel a bone crushing loneliness in her entire being every time she thought of her Shijie, and didi, and her Lan Zhan who wasn’t really hers anymore, and that fact that in her self imposed exile she would never seen any of them again. That was, until Lan Zhan found her and dragged her back home and made her whole again.

Wei Ying was always whole, Lan Zhan would say, has said, I just helped Wei Ying find a way back. Will always bring Wei Ying back.

But with all that behind her and mostly wrapped up, this, tonight, right here, feels like her worst idea yet. She’d been so confident too! Had fought every naysayer, including Lan Zhan herself, with a cocky smile and a wave of her hand.

Brides shouldn't see each other the night before the wedding! She had laughed, and then laughed harder when Lan Zhan’s fingers had tightened where they dug into her hip, Besides, we’re not one of those couples! We can handle one night apart!

And she had been right, for the most part. Of course she missed Lan Zhan, but a night spent apart, having fun with her little family, all of them basking in the shared excitement of her impending nuptials. What she hadn’t anticipated was trying to sleep without Lan Zhan beside her, not when she’s this nervous, hadn’t thought about how deeply she would miss Lan Zhan’s warm weight behind her, her steadying arm firm around her waist, holding Wei Ying together like she did every night. She feels the absence with every shift of her hips that press backwards into nothing, every time she throws an arm out to rest on an empty pillow and the fact that there are no warm, soft, calves to ruthlessly shove her cold toes against.

By the time she picks up her phone again, everyone in the room is peacefully asleep and the clock on her bedside table blinks 2:36, proud and red and rude, if you ask Wei Ying. She gives up on sleep and starts mentally calculating exactly how much concealer she’ll need to cover the bags under her eyes. After all, she wants to look her absolute best for Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan who is so steady and warm and beautiful, Lan Zhan who could open her mouth wide and eat Wei Ying’s entire heart in one bite but doesn’t, instead offering her own heart up on a silver platter for Wei Ying.

Wei Ying opens their messages on her phone, reads through the last few, laughs at the pictures she’d sent earlier in the night of Nie Mingjue, eyes half lidded with alcohol, laying messy kisses to the side of Xichen-ge’s face, who seemed to be accepting them with grace and only slightly tinged red ears. She taps her fingers on the screen, starting a message, lan zhan i can’t slee-

She doubles back, erasing it, deciding she doesn’t need to be whiny the night before their wedding, when Lan Zhan is surely asleep anyways. Again she starts, good early morning, lan zhan! i can’t wait to see you in your-

Too much, that is utterly too much. i love you, she types, hesitates with her thumb over the send button. What if the sound of her phone wakes Lan Zhan up? What if then Lan Zhan can’t fall back asleep? What if Lan Zhan tosses and turns all night and ends up with a headache, overtired on their wedding day of all times? What if this texts absolutely ruins everythi-

Her phone sounds, the little swooping noise it makes when she receives a new message on the thread she’s already looking at. She looks down and finds a link from Lan Zhan to a video of baby bunnies playing together with a message that says, When we return from our honeymoon, I think it is time we get another bunny. Possibly two.

And well. Her decision is made for her really. If Lan Zhan is awake, laying in her own bed in a room on the other side of the hotel, fighting off insomniatic boredom with bunny videos, there’s no way Wei Ying can stay here and allow them both to suffer.

She finds herself glad that Wen Ning is on the floor, though it looks a tad uncomfortable, because she’s able to slip out of bed with ease, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor. The only thing she grabs is her phone, not even bothering to try to find her shoes in the colossal mess that is her dark bridal room, littered with take out and bottles and stripped off clothing. Her nose crinkles, amused, when she thinks of the look of reprove she’ll surely get from Lan Zhan when she realizes Wei Ying walked around barefoot.

She manages to zigzag her way to the door without stepping on anything or making any noise, a feat she will congratulate herself on later. The door opens slowly, making the barest hint of noise as yellow hotel-hallway light floods the entrance to the room. Wei Ying pumps her fist, gloating at being able to sneak out without a single one of her party-poopers (read: caring family) waking up to ruin it for her and make her climb back into her own bed.

That is, until she catches Nie Huaisang’s eyes, watching her from where he lays next to Jiang Cheng. The most dangerous opponent, really, because with one shove of his arm he’d have Jiang Cheng up and yelling, alarming the whole room before she’d even make it to the elevator. She’s not sure she knows the layout of the hotel well enough to make it safely inside Lan Zhan’s room before one of them caught her.

Silent, slow, she moves one finger up to place over her lips, keeping eye contact with Nie Huaisang the whole time. She pleads with him from across the room, imploring him to be cool. He blinks, once, twice, slow like a cat in the sun, and then closes his eyes a third time for good and raises one, slow, thumbs up to her.

Her sigh of relief is the last noise in the room before she shuts the door and power walks to the elevator at the end of the hallway. She is going to buy him the biggest fruit basket. She dances by herself once inside the elevator, suddenly feeling cold and exposed in her red silk sleep tank and shorts, goosebumps prickling her arms and thighs. If only Lan Zhan’s room wasn’t so stupidly far away.

Of course her room has to be far away! Jiang Cheng had yelled when Wei Ying whined about it, the second you start drinking all you want to do is sit in her lap! You’re lucky I’m letting her party stay in the same hotel as yours!

And well, he hadn��t been wrong, per say, she thinks to herself as she tiptoes off the elevator and down the maze-like hall to get to Lan Zhan’s room. She still didn’t appreciate the distance though. She quietly tap taps on the door with one hand, pressing send on a text with the other that reads, lan zhan let me in lan ZHAN!!!

The door opens before her hand has even fallen back to her side. And there is her Lan Zhan, in soft cloud print pajamas pants and a white t-shirt, hair drawn up into a neat bun, eyes tired but awake.

“Wei Ying,” she says, the smile in her voice all Wei Ying needs to know about her welcome. She slides closer, wrapping her arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, grinning when she feels the others arms sneak around her waist.

“Mmm, Lan Zhan,” she hums against Lan Zhan’s neck, moving up to her tiptoes so she can nuzzle her nose against the corner of Lan Zhan’s jaw, “I’m tired, let’s go to bed.”

“I thought I was not supposed to see the bride the night before the wedding,” Lan Zhan replies, but she’s already inching backwards into the room, dragging Wei Ying along with her.

“Who ever said that?” Wei Ying asks, knowing full well she was the one who said that, a smile on her face when she lets Lan Zhan drop her into bed.

“Besides,” she says, once Lan Zhan is settled beside her, reaching one hand up to pet the side of Lan Zhan’s face, thumb rubbing gentle circles across the expanse of Lan Zhan’s cheekbone, “Does it count if there’s two brides? I don’t think so, we cancel each other out, see? If anything we have to do the opposite, you know, we have to see each other extra hard tonight.”

“Hmm,” Lan Zhan hums, her lips pulling up ever so slightly on one side as she leans in to rest her forehead against Wei Ying’s, legs tangling together, one hand sliding underneath Wei Ying’s shirt to spread warm and wide and firm in the valley between her shoulder blades, “Is that so?”

“Yes, tonight we have to,” Wei Ying nods, finally allowing her eyes to close as she presses further into Lan Zhan’s embrace, sleep finally weighing on her shoulders. She lets her head drop down, lips brushing against Lan Zhan’s collarbone, breathing her words right into Lan Zhan’s chest, “And every night too. I’ll tack that on for free, Lan Zhan, every night.”

“Yes, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan sighs against her hair and melts under Wei Ying’s nimble fingers, relaxed at once with the promise of forever, “Every night.”

“I love you,” Wei Ying whispers, one final thing, around a yawn and finally, finally settles for the night. She almost misses Lan Zhan’s whispered reply, I love you too.

But she doesn’t. She never wants to miss a single thing Lan Zhan has to say.

Coda:

For all of fifteen seconds, the world is warm and bright and everything good when Wei Ying wakes up. Toned legs tangle with her own and a soft hand pets her hair away from her face, gentle and comforting again and again. She herself is pressed messily against Lan Zhan’s chest, quite possibly, embarrassingly, drooling ever so slightly. She does not have time to register this, however, before the banging starts.

“Wei Wuxian, I know you’re in there!” comes a belt from the other side of the door, that has her shooting up in an awkward half sitting position, splayed on one-fourth on the bed and three-fourths in Lan Zhan’s lap. Lan Zhan’s hands act as a steadying force, one on her hip, the other on her back, as she blinks deliriously around the room.

Nie Mingjue seems to be in a similar position, probably blinking off a hangover and propelling up from his sleeping position, glaring around the room like he might find the source of their disturbance somewhere inside. Jin Zixuan, on the other hand, groans loud and long, pressing his pillow over his ears.

“I see you are up,” Lan Xichen smiles from the little table where he sits, drinking his cup of tea peacefully, unperturbed by the pounding on their door, “I hope you rested well.”

“I did, thank you Xichen-ge,” Wei Ying tries to laugh around the blush high in her cheeks, only now really registering the fact that Lan Zhan was also sharing a room and not, in fact, alone just waiting for Wei Ying to traipse her way in.

But when she looks down at the woman laying beside her, she sees none of her own embarrassment reflected there, only a fond smile and a soft hand reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ears. Huh, she thinks, revising her earlier thoughts, maybe not alone but definitely waiting for me.

“Wei Wuxian!” comes again from outside the door, though this time it just has her laughing, pushing into Lan Zhan’s hands like a cat.

“When did you get here?” Nie Mingjue asks, rubbing at his eyes. But he stands and stumbles his way over to Xichen and the tea and doesn’t seem particularly hard pressed for an answer, so Wei Ying ignores it.

“Hi, we’re getting married today,” she says instead, meeting Lan Zhan’s smile with her own.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hums while the banging on the door stops. Finally, Wei Ying sighs, leaning down to press her lips against Lan Zhan’s, chaste because they are still in front of Lan Zhan’s brother and her brother in law. She’s still there when the door pops open, revealing a quietly furious Wen Qing.

“Wei Wuxian,” she seethes, taking calculated steps closer, “You were supposed to stay in your bed.”

“I did!” Wei Ying says, smiling wide to prove her innocence, “Lan Zhan is my bed!”

“I am going to-” Jiang Cheng barges through, leaving no one to hold the door open; it swings heavily back straight towards Jiang Yanli.

Before Wei Ying can even shout a disgruntled hey! Jin Zixuan, who was already on his way to the door, catches it with his hand and leads Jiang Yanli inside with a gentle hand and a soft smile that makes Wei Ying want to puke.

But Yanli-jie smiles back, big and happy and unashamed, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Hello, husband.”

“Good morning, A-Li,” he says back, wistful and dopey as he leads her inside with a soft hand on the small of her back. Right in that moment, Wei Ying decides maybe she doesn’t hate him. For now.

“Sorry, Shijie,” Jiang Cheng responds, automatic when he looks back but Jiang Yanli waves him off with a forgiving smile.

“I know it wasn’t on purpose A-Cheng.”

The commotion leaves Wei Ying relaxed in a way she should have known better than to be, because all too soon she is being hoisted away from her warm spot on the bed and dragged out of the room.

“You promised, Wei Wuxian!” Wen Qing snaps, but Wei Ying can already hear the forgiveness in her voice, the amusement. Wei Ying lets herself be dragged along, barefoot again, back to her own room. And then because honestly she’s a little on the edge of too-excited and too-in love she shouts over her shoulder:

“I’ll see you at the end of the aisle, Wife!” and maintains vision of the room just long enough for Lan Zhan, who’d pushed herself into an upright position, turn red and drop back down into the bed with a gasp, like all of the air had been knocked out of her.

Wei Ying’s cackles are only rivaled by the quiet, but pleased chuckles from Lan Xichen.

“Do you have to be such an annoyingly sweet couple every single day?” Wen Qing huffs, letting go of her (fake, Wei Ying is pretty sure) anger entirely, sliding her arm up so they can lock elbows, walking arm and arm back to Wei Ying’s room.

Wei Ying thinks of Lan Zhan, warm around her and ever inviting, even if it was 2AM, even if Wei Ying looked like a ragamuffin, even if, even if, and smiles wide, cheesy, deliriously with all the right decisions she’s made in this life and says, “Yes.”

#wangxian #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #lan xichen #wen qing #wen ning #jiang cheng #jiang yanli #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin zixuan #my writing #my fics #jiangchengrights

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