#something warm and something sacred and something so caring it makes your teeth rot | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fandomxpreferences · 1 year

Text

Heart Of Gold, Hands Of A Healer

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x female!reader

TW:none, just tooth rotting fluff

Summary: Bradley never knew how much he needed love and affection until you gave it to him.

Word Count:2.8k

A/N: Okay lets hope it doesn't cut off this time bc I'm at my wits end

Bradley Bradshaw doesn't consider himself a soft, lovable man. He keeps barbed wire around his heart, isn't very affectionate, and drops his life at the drop of a hat when the Navy comes knocking.

He's large and broad, his body is littered with scars, and his hands are calloused from years of working on his car and flying F18s. When he does have a girlfriend, they never stick around for long. They soon realize he's not a project that can be fixed and lose interest.

They always want to settle down and get married, and they can't handle his closed-off emotions and unwillingness to have anything permanent. So they cut and run, and Bradley lets them. He figures they want him to chase them, fall to his knees in the rain, and beg them to stay. He never does.

He concluded he's got too much baggage, not that anyone ever stuck around long enough to help him unpack it. Women don't like his battered, imperfect body. Sure, he's got abs that rival a greek god, but it's flawed with imperfections that they never cared to get the story behind.

Until he met you.

You blew into his life like a warm summer breeze, and he realized he hadn't been breathing his entire life. You disarmed him in an instant without him even noticing. The cage around his heart fell apart, and he let you in without a second thought.

You make him feel safe and adored, and the weight of his past melts away when you're with him. The second his eyes land on you, the tension dissolves from his body. His shoulders drop a bit, his joints stop aching, and his jaw unclenches.

His dentist has been on him for years about incessant teeth grinding at night, and it turns out the solution is sleeping next to you. He never knew how much he craved affection, but the second your soft hands grazed his flesh, he was hit with the realization that he needs your touch more than air.

He's like a giant next to you, his frame looming over your body when he hugs you. He's frequently found holding your hand up to his, marveling at how your fingers only extend an inch or two beyond his palm. Those hands he loves so much, capable of bringing them to his knees despite the fact he makes fun of you and says they're no bigger than a child's.

You find beauty in all of his scars and scrapes, taking time to get the story behind even the most insignificant mark that even he forgot exists. You make him feel important, always listening intently as if he's telling you the most exciting thing you've ever heard.

You always take your time worshiping him, your fingertips tracing the plains and valleys of his tender skin with feather-like pressure as if they're roadmaps to someplace sacred only you know about.

He's never been particularly insecure; that's not the word he would use to describe it. He just doesn't like the marred places on his body, tissue built up from where it was torn open. A silvery reminder of everything he's been through.

He confessed he thinks his scars are ugly one evening, and you looked at him with such revere that he felt love for himself blossom deep in his bones.

He's never seen himself as anything other than damaged goods, yet you see him in such a beautiful light he can't help but let it shine through him.

You and Bradley have only been official for a couple of weeks, yet it feels like he's known you for a lifetime.

You're sitting at the hard deck, and he notices you staring at the side of his face.

"See something you like?" He jests, but your face remains serious.

You reach out gingerly, almost afraid he'll jump back, and trace the scar on his jaw. Your fingertips leave a trail of fire, and he freezes.

"No one has ever done that before."

You look at him curiously, your forehead scrunched and your head tilted.

"Why not?"

He shrugs shyly and averts his gaze.

"I think they're ugly, and I guess other people do too."

You shake your head and lean forward to press a chaste kiss to the place your hand just was.

"They're part of you, Bradley. Evidence of a life lived. There's nothing ugly about that."

You lay together on the bed that night as he took you on a journey through his life, tenderly loving each of his scars, both mental and physical.

Your lips press barely there kisses on each mark that graces his face and neck, and Bradley allows his eyes to flutter closed. He revels in the feeling, electricity crackling just under the surface every time your mouth touches him.

"Beautiful." You whisper, and Bradley finds himself agreeing. Not because he thinks the tattered skin is special but because he now associates it with you.

"How'd you get this one?" You ask, lips tracing a two-inch long line on his palm.

"Cut myself with a butter knife in second grade." He responds, voice soft like rain in the fall.

"And this one?" You're now focusing on a raised welt on his pectoral, the old mark barely visible. If you didn't know to look for it, you'd miss it. He pushes away the idea that you pay such close attention to him that you were able to pick up on it anyway; the thought makes him want to cry.

"Paintball to my bare chest at close range. My buddy and I did it on a dare in high school."

You hum contentedly and continue on your path.

"What about this?"

Your finger taps his knee, and he smiles softly.

"Varsity baseball. I was known for sliding into home, and one day I caught a piece of gravel."

You smile fondly at the visual and glance up at him.

"Will you show me pictures sometime?"

He swallows thickly and then nods.

He isn't usually one for reminiscing. That was around the same time Carol got sick, and he's never let anyone into that part of his life. He knows you're different; if he told you no, you wouldn't push the subject.

He wants to share those memories with you, and he wants you to know his parents the way he did. It doesn't hurt so bad when you're the one he's talking to about them.

You let him share at his own pace, never expectant and always allowing him to stop whenever he gets uncomfortable. He feels lighter, and he supposes it's because you've seen the darkest parts of him.

Instead of running, you took his pain gently in your hands as if to say, 'Let me help you carry this. You don't have to be crushed under the weight of your grief anymore.'

Your heart is pure, and Bradley has never felt love like yours. It's all-encompassing, wrapping him in golden light and promising never to let him be shrouded in darkness again.

You're lying on his chest, watching as he flips through old photos and albums. Your hand rubs the scar on his palm absentmindedly as he explains each and every one to you. So many women have refused to even acknowledge the marks that glimmer when the light hits them just right, yet you find comfort in them.

"This one was taken a couple of weeks before my dad passed." He explains, and you smile fondly at the image of little Bradley sitting atop Goose's shoulders as he and Carol laugh. You can feel the joy radiating from them and reach out to stroke the laminate paper carefully.

"You look like them. You have your dad's eyes and mom's smile. I can see where you get your goofy and bubbly personality from. They live through you."

You don't realize how much weight those words carry at the moment, and Bradley swallows the lump in his throat. He doesn't think he's a bubbly person, but every time you laugh at one of his corny jokes or smile at him like he hung the moon, he starts to believe it more and more.

"How did they meet?"

You're not paying him much mind, and that's what gets him. You're not trying to be sweet and thoughtful; it's just who you are. There's no ulterior motive or desire to figure out why he's so fucked up just to fix him.

You just want to know about him and how he came to be. It's completely innocent, an act of pure love, and he can't imagine how he got by all these years without you.

"They were both from Virginia originally. They met at mom’s job, and she always said that she didn't notice dad at first, even though he was completely smitten. Apparently, she turned him down a few times, but he kept showing up and making her laugh. I don't entirely believe that, though."

You move to look up at him through your lashes and kiss his jaw.

"Why don't you believe it?"

The question is simple, yet it causes his heart to swell. You genuinely care and want to know more. He'll never get over the fact that you listen when he tells you stories and ask more questions because you're interested in the answers.

"Mom always looked at him like he was her whole world. I can't imagine a time that she didn't see him in that light, even in the beginning. She never even glanced at another man after he died, so I like to believe they were meant to be from the start."

You hum and look back down as he turns to a new page.

"Kind of like us."

He chuckles, and you grin as his chest rumbles under your cheek.

"Like us?"

You roll your eyes playfully and take in the picture of Carol kissing Bradley on the cheek as he grimaces. He can't be any older than five or six.

"I've been head over heels since the second I met you, Bradley Bradshaw."

His breath hitches, and he hesitates for a second.

"It wasn't love at first sight? You had to meet me first?" He teases, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

"Well, of course I noticed how handsome you are. But that's not what got me. It was your energy. You lit up the room without even knowing it. You're this ball of light, yet you don't see it. Usually, men who look like you and have a job like yours are insufferable assholes."

He snorts at this and nods.

"Hangman." He murmurs, and you slap his arm lightly.

"Be nice. Anyway, you're genuine and kind. It's always the most radiant people that are hardest on themselves. As soon as you said your name, you had me hook, line, and sinker. I wanted to know every last thing about you, and I'll never get tired of learning who you are."

You barely finish your sentence before he captures you in a searing kiss. You melt into him instantly, and he wonders how he managed to fall in love with an angel.

"Tell me more about them. The good parts that you think of when you want to smile." You mutter, and he looks down at you.

"On Sundays, we always had breakfast together. Dad would make french toast from scratch, and I would help mom squeeze oranges for fresh juice. We always laughed and made a mess, then cleaned it up together. I miss it."

He has a wistful smile, and you kiss the corner of his lips.

"That sounds nice."

He nearly sobbed when he woke up to the smell of syrup the following weekend and found you making french toast with bacon in the kitchen. It's something else you share now, the two of you dancing around each other as you sing 80s songs and giggle.

The Dagger squad walked in on it one day, and they were adopted into the tradition too. They love how Bradley is around you and quickly noticed that you always seem to be touching him somehow.

Whether you're rubbing soothing circles on his skin, resting your legs over his, or playing with his hair, you're always showing some form of physical affection.

One night while cuddled on the couch, Bradley almost melted into a puddle.

You're only half watching the movie on the TV, your hands running through Bradley's curls while his head is in your lap. That's another thing, Bradley loves being held.

Without thinking, you scratch your nails against his scalp and feel him instantly nuzzle further into your thighs.

"Do that again, please."

You do as he asks, and he lets out a soft groan.

"That feels nice. I don't know the last time someone has done that."

He's practically drooling as he says it, and you continue without another word.

He falls asleep not long after, and you smile down at the man who carries the world on his shoulders.

You always seem to know when Bradley needs a hug or to be the little spoon. He doesn't know how you do it, but you'll never catch him complaining.

Like tonight, you just seem to know what he needs even if he doesn't. His feet are heavy as they carry him to the front door of your shared home, and he heaves a sigh before swinging the door open.

It's like you know what kind of day he had, and without a moment's hesitation, you're standing in front of him, ready to take the weight off.

Your arms wrap around him, and he leans into you instantly. You shift slightly to support him and rub your hand up his back.

"Let's take a bath."

He doesn't respond other than a nod against your neck, and you lead him to the bathroom.

He watches as you run a bath with bubbles and salts before stripping down. He sits still as you take his boots off his screaming feet and carefully remove his uniform.

As soon as he's naked, you climb into the bath together, settling into the large garden tub.

You wash his hair as he leans back against you, and he shutters at the sensation. You rub shampoo into the chestnut strands, your nails scratching his scalp the way he loves every so often. He lets you work as the stress seems to be rinsed away with the suds.

The two of you stay there in silence until the water is cold. You don't pry for details, and he's grateful. He doesn't like bringing work home; you're perfectly okay with that. You know if he needs to talk, he will.

He clambers out of the bath, and you dry him off as exhaustion sets in, threatening to consume him before he can even lay down.

"Stay there." You whisper, and he listens as the door opens and closes.

You're back before he can really process you've even left and hand him clean clothes. They're warm from the dryer, and he tries to figure out when you had time to toss them in there. He wonders if you did it before he even got home, a sixth sense you've developed telling you that he would need it.

The two of you get dressed in silence and pad into your bedroom. You pull back the comforter and climb in, opening your arms as an invitation for him. He crawls across the bed and collapses onto your chest, your arms pulling up the blanket to cover the two of you before securely wrapping around him.

He inhales deeply, the aroma of your perfume and laundry detergent muddling his senses. The sheets have just been washed, and you've sprayed his favorite lavender vanilla freshener on the pillows.

You trace his body the way you always do, and he settles in further, almost laying entirely on top of you. You don't mind one single bit; just happy that you're able to be some sort of solace for him as he drifts off.

He never saw himself having this type of relationship; he didn't even want it. But as he lies here with images of you flashing through his subconscious, an overwhelming feeling of safety envelops him, and he knows he was wrong.

Your love makes him want to fall to his knees and repent for the errors in his previous ways, almost sorry that he'd been robbing himself of this for so long. Then again, he figures he probably didn't miss much anyway. Your love is once in a lifetime; he wouldn't have found it with anyone else, even if he wanted to.

Bradley Bradshaw never saw himself as a kind or loving man until you appeared and showed him what love is. Now, he surrenders himself completely. He doesn't know if heaven is real, but he figures this is about as close as he can get.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #Bradley bradshaw fluff #top gun maverick #top gun imagine #top gun fluff #bradley bradsaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine

2K notes · View notes

quillbriar · 2 years

Text

Thinking about how the point of origin for Alan and Nadia is the bathroom. But for Alan, it’s the bathroom in his apartment, and for Nadia, she’s so afraid of truly facing herself that it’s the bathroom at her best friend’s apartment.

She shirks away from anything remotely maternal or comforting or about brining people together. She’s not hosting her own birthday, that’s too much responsibility to face and accept (both in the sense of believing and being willing to receive) that that many people love her, or at least would care enough about her to show up. It’s easier to pretend she has no friends and to be surprised when she shows up at the party, than having to be the one that brings everyone together.

It’s established that mirrors are a point of reflection, so it makes sense that both of our players start in the bathroom—they aren’t reflecting or acknowledging that there is something wrong in how they are living their lives. But Alan has just finished taking a shower (he’s not wearing a shirt so that’s what I’m assuming has happened) and he’s brushing his teeth, symbolizing his compulsive need to be clean and over-prepared and looking like he’s put together even if he isn’t, truly, on the inside.

Nadia, we don’t even know if she washed her hands, we just know the water is running. Maybe she only turned it on so people wouldn’t bug her and she’d have a minute to herself (not working out too well, by the sounds of the insistent rapping on the door).

Just thinking about how Alan keeps coming back to his home—somewhere familiar and safe, even if gravely cold and sterile—while Nadia is somewhere warm and busy and where she is the reason for the party, but it’s not her home. It’s not her space, no matter how comfortable she is in Max’s apartment. But, honestly, she doesn’t seem that comfortable. At first she points out that it used to be a Yeshiva as a kind of cool fact, almost an armor to show off how much she knows and how intellectual yet unorthodox and anti-authority and devil-may-care she is, pun intended. Yet, as we continue to follow Nadia, we learn that she’s actually unsettled and uncomfortable with the fact that Max lives somewhere that used to be sacred and religious, it should be untouchable, but instead it’s forgotten and renovated.

So there are those differences in the two “first positions”, but also the differences in how the characters are portrayed with their hygiene. As Natasha Lyonne has said, we’ve never seen Nadia take a shower (have we even seen her brush her teeth or wash her hands?). The last difference is Alan rebooting shirtless while Nadia is wearing so much black clothing. Alan doesn’t have issues with isolating himself, he actually depends on his inner circle too much, hence the willingness to be open to other that him rebooting shirtless symbolizes. His issue is not being honest with himself, that’s an internal, personal thing. Nadia, doesn’t let people in, hence the cost and shirt and the jacket. She goes through the journey of realizing it’s okay to have people in your inner circle, it’s okay for relationships to be permanent and healthy rather than meaningless one night stands (or sexualizing self hatred, which is such a perfect Nadia quote). Alan realizes that he has to look at himself directly instead of ignoring how he feels. Sort of like the fruit being rotten on the outside but ripe on the inside, but backwards. Things look alright from an outsider’s perspective (he’s clean, he’s healthy, he’s taking care of himself), but it’s performative and he’s rotting on the inside. The same with Nadia, just different specifics. It’s easy to fool people with confidence and good looks.

Writing and thinking about all this really makes me realize how perfect the season 2 finale is, I love the final shot so much. Nadia stares back at herself, fully accepting her past and her heritage and herself, and smiling. It’s comforting and haunting and familiar yet so mature and loaded. She’s smoking and it’s a bit of a distance, a smoke screen, if you will, from the audience and possibly herself. But it’s also familiar and habitual, we can’t expect to be perfect all the time or become perfect overnight. And she just went through a really wild and rough experience, I think a cigarette is warranted.

#russian doll #if anyone is interested feel free to message me with your own thoughts #I would love to talk with someone about Russian doll #nadia vulvokov #alan zaveri #natasha lyonne #analysis #quillwriting #quillbriar

98 notes · View notes

edenmemes · 3 years

Text

misc poetry sentence starters

❝ one gets so used to one’s own horrors, one forgets how they must seem to other people. ❞ ❝ you remind me what love lives in this skin. ❞ ❝ you are the most phantom-like of all; you are a mere dream. ❞ ❝ i’m not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck—the places floating, finally legible. ❞ ❝ the world was made so we can find each other in it. ❞ ❝ the night isn’t dark; the world is dark. stay with me a little longer. ❞ ❝ i want you desperately. i want your strength and your softness, your hands, all of you. ❞ ❝ is that too much to expect? that i would name the stars for you? ❞ ❝ against your cheek my hand is warm and full of tenderness. ❞ ❝ the world grows green again when you smile. ❞ ❝ your share of pains would fill a sea. ❞ ❝ i’m so stuck on the ‘was’ of people. ❞ ❝ what i love in you is your power of loving, a bit wild, a bit primitive, but absolute. ❞ ❝ i like figuring you out. you are so human and puzzling. ❞ ❝ the unwillingness to try is worse than any failure. ❞ ❝ you wanted happiness. i can’t blame you for that. ❞ ❝ i did violence to my own heart. ❞ ❝ i don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth. ❞ ❝ like a magpie, i am a scavenger of shiny things: fairy tales and dead languages. ❞ ❝ and here you come with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue. ❞ ❝ you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry. only the sun has come this close, only the sun. ❞ ❝ sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof you’ve been ruined. ❞ ❝ when will it cease, this monstrous rage of yours? ❞ ❝ i will plant my hands in the garden. i will grow, i know, i know. ❞ ❝ i had it all and i want it back again. ❞ ❝ i don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual. ❞ ❝ we are two reflections that cross swords with each other. ❞ ❝ as for me, i am a watercolour. i wash off. ❞ ❝ do you dare send me away as though you were were waiting for something better? ❞ ❝ my dear, you are in danger of being burned by your own flame. ❞ ❝ i am three oceans away from my soul. ❞ ❝ you, occasionally, glimmer with a light i’ve never seen before. it frightens me. ❞ ❝ i went to sleep last night so i could see you. ❞ ❝ even the eyes of gods must adjust to light. even gods have gods. ❞ ❝ how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder? ❞ ❝ it does me no good to be good to me now. ❞ ❝ i may look alright, but if you were to look more closely you wouldn’t find a single healthy bit in me. ❞ ❝ i must clothe myself in other worlds. ❞ ❝ suffering is the privilege of those who feel. ❞ ❝ sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine. ❞ ❝ the vigor, the fire, that enables you to love and create. when you lose that, you’ve lost everything. ❞ ❝ i can be bold, because i have you with me always. ❞ ❝ you are shaking fists and trembling teeth. i know: you did not mean to be cruel. that does not mean you were kind. ❞ ❝ not that i want to be a god or a hero, just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone. ❞ ❝ i laughed today. for a second i was unhaunted. ❞ ❝ you are sunlight through a window, which i stand in, warmed. ❞ ❝ there’s something electric in your blood. ❞ ❝ you say you are broken, but broken mirrors like you create the most beautiful patterns of light. ❞ ❝ time doesn’t obey our commands. ❞ ❝ i love you quite passionately, and with a touch of tragedy. ❞ ❝ to feel anything deranges you. to be seen feeling anything strips you naked. ❞ ❝ i love you --- like a storm bursts overhead --- i must confess it; all the more fiercely because you burn and bite. ❞ ❝ and i have seen rivers, not unlike you, that failed to find their way back. ❞ ❝ i am less a god now that you’ve touched me. ❞ ❝ your words are gentle; but my blood runs cold to think what plots you may be nursing deep within your heart. ❞ ❝ you said i killed you --- haunt me then. ❞ ❝ your soul is frail and solemn, loyal and spring-like. ❞ ❝ you look like you’ve eaten the sun, like you drank so much sunlight you’re drowning in it. ❞ ❝ strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty. ❞ ❝ you will hear thunder and remember me. ❞ ❝ ever think it’s possible for us to be happy? ❞ ❝ and i would wonder across all the deserts of this world, even after death, to search for you. ❞ ❝ since we’re bound to be something, why not together? ❞ ❝ i am ashes were once i was fire. ❞ ❝ this mouth will destroy you the moment you mistake it for something soft, for something that is yours. ❞ ❝ it’s no easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness. ❞ ❝ kill the light! i’d rather wallow in the dark. ❞ ❝ i have thought of you often since the darkness. ❞ ❝ with your presence the sun becomes irrelevant. ❞ ❝ there is no god left in this skin. there’s just the ash. just the ash. ❞ ❝ open your eyes, look more sharply, see me as i am. ❞ ❝ what the hell is tragedy? i am. ❞ ❝ i’ve got a lot of feeling for you. you’re kind. ❞ ❝ how beautiful it is, how beautiful, that glow before the stars break. ❞ ❝ so much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone, and yet prepare to live again. ❞ ❝ i am myself. that is not enough. ❞ ❝ i may be mad, god-seized, but i will stand outside my madness. ❞ ❝ my power, which to me is still a curse --- ❞ ❝ ocean sea with its caressing swell; it has so often cooled my heart. ❞ ❝ do you bathe in perfume, and dry yourself in light? ❞ ❝ i like you; your eyes are full of language. ❞ ❝ let me tell you what i do know. i am more than one thing and not all of those things are good. ❞ ❝ you are the cause and the cure --- both. ❞ ❝ i have kisses for the back of your neck. ❞ ❝ your beautiful glance is unbearably cruel. ❞ ❝ we might meet again, someday between dreams at dawn. ❞ ❝ suffering is a terrible fire; it either purifies or destroys. ❞ ❝ lately it hurts more to imagine you are a stranger rather than a destroyer. ❞ ❝ and i say to myself: a moon will rise from my darkness. ❞ ❝ since you walked out on me, i’m getting lovelier by the hour. i glow like a corpse in the dark. ❞ ❝ i will not whine. i will obey and be forever still. ❞ ❝ you move like the moon. ❞ ❝ my eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears. ❞ ❝ in your eyes, the fires of twilight. ❞ ❝ do not haunt my soul; i have done well forgetting you. ❞ ❝ i am no one. i cannot love. it’s in my blood. ❞ ❝ you’re wearing your armor to protect your heart. who can blame you? it only makes sense in a world like this one. ❞ ❝ you are not real. you are a dream of a dream. ❞ ❝ there are so many things i’m not allowed to tell you. ❞ ❝ i am indeed a shameless, evil-minded and abominable creature. ❞ ❝ come this evening --- i am eager for stars. ❞ ❝ i am on fire with that soft sound you make, in uttering my name. ❞ ❝ i want you mostly in the morning when my soul is weak from dreaming. ❞ ❝ to me you are the desert and the sea; everything secretive. ❞ ❝ i thought i was wounded to the core but i was only bruised. ❞ ❝ it is a dead heart. it is inside of me. it is a stranger. ❞ ❝ i live --- but i’m mutilated. ❞ ❝ if there is a light then i am going to swallow it. if there is a god then i’m going to make him cry. ❞ ❝ i am condemned to be a saint or a monster: unable to be the one, unwilling to be the other. ❞ ❝ you will open your wounds and make them a garden. ❞ ❝ i come home --- and i feel like a ghost returning its haunt. ❞ ❝ i planted roses, but without you they were thorns. ❞ ❝ everything inside me is in revolt. ❞ ❝ how this darkness soaks me through and through. ❞ ❝ give me my robe, put on my crown; i have immortal longings in me. ❞ ❝ say something dangerous like i love you. ❞ ❝ listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? ❞ ❝ in times of crisis, we must decide again and again whom we love. ❞ ❝ breathe the scent of little, earthly things. let the twilight touch you. ❞ ❝ my heart is just like the ocean, has storm and calm and tides. ❞ ❝ you became for me a sacred being, not to be touched save in adoring thoughts. ❞ ❝ gods are stubborn. so am i. ❞ ❝ is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured? ❞ ❝ there’s something soft in me. i killed it and it’s rotting. ❞ ❝ beware. beware. there is a tenderness. ❞ ❝ half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. real gods require blood. ❞ ❝ i’m alive. like a wound, a flower in the flesh, the path of aching blood is open within me. ❞ ❝ you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth. ❞ ❝ i have it in me...to scare myself with my own desert places. ❞ ❝ my mouth still houses century-old magic. in my ears i hear a ringing and singing and no god. ❞ ❝ keep talking. i’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice. ❞ ❝ i’m full of poetry now. rot and poetry. rotten poetry. ❞ ❝ this skin is sick with loneliness. ❞ ❝ memories are sharp. they bite. i have spent most of my life trying to grow a thicker skin just to make sure i would not bleed out whenever i felt those teeth scrape up against me. ❞ ❝ i wonder if i will ever find a language to speak of the things that haunt me the most. ❞ ❝ after fury, what do you do with the remains? ❞ ❝ come on, dance with me. the earth is spinning. we can’t just stand on it. ❞ ❝ let’s admit, without apology, what we do together. ❞ ❝ try to find the right place for yourself. if you can’t find it, at least dream of it. ❞ ❝ it takes grace to remain kind in cruel situations. ❞ ❝ i am too full of life to be half-loved. ❞ ❝ today you want nothing because wanting comes too close to feeling. ❞ ❝ there’s nothing more terrible, more alluring, more mysterious than love. ❞ ❝ heavenly wine and roses seem to whisper to me when you smile. ❞ ❝ my soul is devoutly and wholly under your spell. ❞ ❝ will you see the human in my being? ❞ ❝ if i had a flower for every time i thought of you…i could walk through my garden forever. ❞ ❝ part broken part whole, you begin again. ❞ ❝ i don’t know if love’s a feeling. sometimes i think it’s a matter of seeing. seeing you. ❞ ❝ i wonder which will get you killed faster, your loyalty or your stubbornness? ❞ ❝ whether you come as a lover or an exeutioner, i am ready to receive you. ❞ ❝ i think i understand your longing. it looks so much like mine. ❞ ❝ i’ve had so many knives stuck into me. when they hand me a flower, i can’t quite make out what it is. ❞ ❝ i like the sea: we understand one another. it is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have; so am i. ❞ ❝ do i not live? badly, i know, but i live. ❞ ❝ something of you stuck with me. a splinter. ❞ ❝ i clung to your hands so that something human might exist in the chaos. ❞ ❝ sometimes i shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away. oh you never will. ❞ ❝ my golden love, if only you knew, what precious honey you are for me. ❞ ❝ i had an old wound once, but it is healing. ❞ ❝ always this in-betweenness, this almost, this it might be that... ❞ ❝ when i close my eyes, i see you. when i open my eyes i want to see you. ❞ ❝ dark as it is --- you see, that little flickering, is the light of my soul. ❞ ❝ am i a monster or is this what it means to be a person? ❞ ❝ i am talking about evil. it blooms. it eats. it grins. ❞ ❝ sapphires are those eyes of yours, ravishingly sweet. ❞

#rp meme #roleplay meme #roleplay starters #long post for ts /#ill most likely add some more soon <3

587 notes · View notes

keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

(nsfw) ✧ (dark content warnings) ✧ (minors do not interact)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

wc: 1.7k

warnings: abuse, noncon/dubcon, yandere, vomit due to illness, delusion, reader is definitely not mentally well, brief description of injury, hawks is Not nice in this, reader has difficulty eating,

a/n: uhhh it’s 2am, time to post dark drabble lol!! i love like.... deep yandere stuff. when darling’s already been In It for awhile and worn down. mwah. chefs. kiss. anyways, here’s my take!

You want to know what rain tastes like.

Is it different than water from the tap? You had asked him one day. He chuckled but didn’t give you an answer. Just an easy deflection, something unrelated to pull your mind from the outside.

It is easier this way.

It’s so much easier to draw the curtains in the morning. Damn the sun, damn the light— You can take vitamin D supplements and pretend you don’t mind how dark the apartment is no matter the time of day.

It’s easier to ignore the multiple locks (seven. you count them sometimes to pass the time) that are bolted into the door. The time it takes him to open them with all their tumbling gears and thundering clicks is the preamble to his comings and goings.

You know to rise from your damn-near sacred spot on the couch to greet him. You go to him with a kiss on his cheek, and to give him hug so hard, it hurts. You can’t tell if it’s from the strain of your arms around his, or the pressure of his embrace around you. You don’t particularly mind either way. It’s the reminder you need that as empty and dark as the apartment is, he’ll always return.

Always.

You lock your hands behind his back, clasped below his wings. Routinely, you bury your face in his chest while he sways you. He asks about your day, but he isn’t listening. You don’t think so, but you don’t mind. Nothing you say means much, and every day is the same. You sit on the couch and stare at the floor. The walls. The ceiling if you’re feeling more adventurous.

You stopped watching TV alone months ago. No matter what you watched on Keigo’s big, sleek television, it was just a reminder. An awful, unavoidable reminder that the world is quite large, and you weren’t apart of it.

You couldn’t be. You were locked in place— one, two, three, four, five, six, seven — in the little apartment. Wasting away, as much as you tried not to.

...

“You need to eat, baby,” Keigo coax. He holds a deep spoonful of soup to your lips. It smells divine, like chives and cream. “Just a little. For me?”

‘For me.’

Your inability to stomach anything is his problem, just as much as it is yours. That’s just a fact.

“I don’t want to get sick again,” You squeeze your hands. There is a semblance of comfort in the action as Keigo inspects you. Searching.

It isn’t a lie. Your stomach growls and rolls, and it has been all day. Keigo has started to always leave ample leftovers in the fridge in the case you’d actually want to eat them. And you do. Sometimes, you even try! Really try. But the end result is always the same. Your head ends up dangling over the bowl of your toilet while you wretch and writhe.

Acid stings your throat for hours.

Despite Keigo’s... previous treatment, he seems genuinely concerned about this development. You’re hardly able to keep anything down, despite being well otherwise.

(You’re so unwell and have been for so long, he can’t begin to see it. The bruises are perpetual. The scars that you didn’t have a year ago are fixtures he can’t remember you without. The constant tremble you carry is from the drafty apartment, not from the deeply instilled fear you carry. The one he had branded (literally) onto you. Into you.)

(Fucker.)

You shake the thought off and open your mouth and accept the bite. And Keigo, bless his heart, is sweet enough to not shove the spoon to the back of your throat. He lets you suck the soup from it, quietly praising your work.

You manage to eat half the bowl before shaking your head, tummy already twisting in the worst, most familiar way.

Keigo gives you pills then. Four of them, all slightly different colors and shapes. You don’t know what they do, and you knew better than to ask (you’d gotten slapped across the face the first and only time you tried.)

The fourth pill is new, and Keigo, graciously, tells you that it’s for the nausea. That a special doctor is helping him help you. Isn’t that wonderful?

You’re so, so lucky.

(You hurl the next morning once the meds wear off. Your hands shake and your slam your fist into your temples. Begging. You’re not sure to who. Maybe to yourself. Your body. Crying for your wretched form to just stop hurting you. If you weren’t sick, things would be better.

Maybe, you’re begging Keigo. For help. To make it stop. To take care of you and coo that things will be fine as things are so completely not find that you can’t comprehend it. But he is the one who decides when you hurt. Shouldn’t he be able to make this stop?

Maybe you’re begging him to unlatch those — one, two, three, four, five, six— seven locks so you could dash into the world. Scream at the first person you see that beloved, pro-hero Hawks is so beyond deranged and fucked up. Maybe no civilian would believe you. But you were the evidence. You bore the slashes of his feathers. The perpetual imprint of his fingers on hips and thighs. You even had a brand on the bottom of your foot. K-E-I-G-O.

Maybe, you’re begging to whatever god you once believed in to kill you. You don’t care about the means. Be it your hand, or Keigo’s, or random chance.)

You spew into the murky water and try to forget.

...

Keigo’s special doctor comes by. You see the two exchange hands by the door when she first arrives. A flash of bills and coins. Paid off, part of you perks up. The doctor won’t talk about Hawks’ little captive. You’re sure it’s a handsome amount, based on the neutrality of her expression as she takes you in.

To care so little about something like you is hardly a surprise.

She examines you, collects some blood and other samples. Prescribes a few more medicines that have long and complicated names that are hard to pronounce. You try to forget them. You’re happy to be quiet. Sit next to Keigo while he wraps a wing around you and rubs your back in little circles. He’s warm and good, unlike the rot in your stomach.

Keigo praises you once she leaves, wrapping you up in him, scarlet feathers and all. Kisses your cheeks, telling you how well you did. How you didn’t falter, didn’t scream, didn’t let her touch you too much. How you were so perfect for him. You deserve a reward!

He treats you to fresh sheets and more kisses. The kind that feels like how lovers are supposed to kiss. There isn’t too much teeth or tongue, just slow, open-mouthed pressing that makes your tummy flutter in a good way (for once.)

“Isn’t this nice?” Keigo hums against your lips.

You nod, barely eager but not apprehensive either. Treading lightly on a carefully, self-cultivated path between wanting and revulsion. As good as it feels, you don’t want to give him. You don’t remember how.

His lips trail to your neck, to your collarbones. He pushes up your shirt and only leaves little pecks over your nipples and chest. No wounds that draw blood. No hickeys that last weeks.

You don’t realize you start trembling until Keigo has to grip your inner thighs to still you. So, he can coo blessed, little reminders.

“This feels good, doesn’t it?”

“I always make you feel so good.”

“You deserve this, all of this,” he says before pressing his lips to your clit. You’re just wet enough for him to fuck you on his fingers. Enough that when he bullies the bundle of nerves inside you, you coat his fingers in slick and whine. Your voice breaks, over and over, and little, unwanted tears leak into your hairline.

Keigo ignores them as usual. You can be so dramatic.

And Keigo, ever gracious, let’s you shatter on his fingers. Doesn’t make you beg, just whispered hushed adorations as you come undone on his tongue. He hardly toys with you after, and instead lets you fall into the sheets. Properly spend, though not exhausted.

You still shake, but that’s okay. It’s manageable.

Keigo cleans you up with a silken cloth. He wipes between the swell of your breasts, down your navel and to your cunt. His feathers ruffle as he does his work, clearly focused. There’s no speaking during it, only watching and observing.

“Thank you.” You speak without prompting.

Your words are dry and underused. Your lips feel chapped, and your vision is hazy in the dark of the bedroom.

Keigo gives you a smile (full of white-hot pride), clicking his tongue, “Of course, dovey. You deserve to feel good for me. I want you to. I like you like this.”

(He carries that same sentiment that no matter your ‘post-fuck’ state. Whether you’re twitching and dumb from overstimulation. Whether you’re bawling from pain and holding your hand over a too deep, ‘accidental’ wound. Whether your expression is blank, lips ajar, and face tilted to the ceiling.)

You can only agree with him.

What other option do you have?

...

(The doctor calls the following week. Keigo speaks to her in hushed tones from his office, muffled and stern. You only catch pieces of it.

“They do not appear to be suffering from anything specific illness.” The doctor pauses. “The weakness, fatigue, shakiness, forgetfulness, and nausea all seem to be tied back to prolonged anxiety. Constant surges of adrenaline that have pushed them to this point.”

Keigo doesn’t bother asking the source.

He knows it.

(And honestly? He seems a little proud.)

You return to settle on the couch. Ever practiced, you turn towards the door and find the locks.

One, two, three four—

That four one wouldn’t be too hard to pick, would it?

(You’d already tried months ago. It was just a chain lock, but Keigo had nearly snapped your wrist when he caught you trying to tamper with it.)

Five, six, seven—

Your stomach rolls and your hug your knees, still managing a smile when Keigo rejoins you. His wings flex, and he flashes you a golden smile. His phone is locked and in his hand, and you know he’ll ignore it for the night. He’ll wrap you in his arms and smother you with his wings.

It’s better this way, you remind yourself, turning from the locks.

#salem writes #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw dark content #tw yandere #tw vomit #it's vomit from illness btw #tw self injury #please lemme know if i miss a tag #hawks x reader #yandere hawks #i might delete this or repost to my side blog sdklfjla #we will see #for now it is here

343 notes · View notes

honklore · 3 years

Text

is nothing sacred? | quackity

(4.6k+ word count, prince!alex, augur/seer!reader, gn!reader, angst, alex has a sucky dad, reader has a sucky family, karl appears as a time traveler ofc, neg and pos religious themes, deification is the belief that when a monarch dies they will become a god, the rapids is a kingdom in this but it isn’t an smp au)

listen to: evermore by taylor swift, foreigner’s god by hozier, (the end) by levi weaver, exile by taylor swift

There’s a warm spring just outside the monastery. It’s hidden in the mountain, a few miles away from the castle walls and yet you find that it’s too close for comfort.

Every bright and loud fanfare that announces the prince’s coming and leaving echoes off of the hills and pours through your peaceful respite. It’s just enough to make you grumpy.

It’s one of those mornings again, and you find yourself floating in the hot spring, eyes open towards the sun, wishing you had more patience with the dear prince you call your best friend.

Your robe is heavy across your torso, floating around your bare legs as you ponder your plans for today. That is, if the prince doesn’t come visit you.

That would be wishful thinking, though. You don’t have to close your eyes to know that someone has blocked the sun. With a sigh, you sink your body beneath the warm water and submerge, blinking the water off of your lashes. “Alex, this is sacred ground.”

“I know,” the prince replies, squatting down to see you. “I tied my boots around my neck, see?”

You stare at the boot he’s proudly holding up, then shift your eyes to his bare feet. “Why are you here? This is my day off.”

“Excuse me for wanting to see my best friend,” Alex sneers mockingly, rolling his eyes. “Listen, are you coming back to the castle tomorrow?”

“We literally have an augury lesson at one in the morning,” you say. “So, yes.”

“Good, I’m going to disprove all of your theories.”

“They aren’t theories, Alex. I read patterns for a living, alright? I know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not science.”

“Neither is your father deifying your grandfather,” this time you mock him.

He holds a steady gaze, lips quirked into a cheeky smile. “You’ll tell me about the night of my coronation again, right?”

“Because it warned of extreme change,” you say, voice level. “Yet I can’t figure out what’s going to happen. There’s something the stars aren’t telling me, and I have to figure it out to protect you and the kingdom.”

Alex’s eyes are a deep brown that you could probably get lost in, if he wasn’t such a little shit. “Protect me, you say?” He’s flirting now, eyes alight with the thought of annoying you, and if this spring wasn’t so important to you, you would’ve yanked him in already. “Didn’t know you cared that much about me, Y/n.”

Your robes are clinging uncomfortably to your body, accentuating the lines and curves — or lack thereof. “Hand me my towel and look away please.”

Alex closes his eyes and turns his face away, holding out the towel. “Learn anything divine from your swimming trip?”

Alex holds the towel out like a makeshift screen, and averts his eyes while you dry off and change into the clean robe he brought you. As annoying as he is, the prince is thoughtful, and he fills in the places where you lack.

“I was reflecting,” you say, buttoning the front of the robe. “It’s good for you; clears out your soul.”

Alex tosses the towel over your head and ruffles your hair. He chuckles at your protests; taunts you with warmth in his eyes. “You’re so spiritual.”

You glare at him. “I’m an augur.”

“Right,” Alex says, holding the now-wet towel close to his chest. “But you take it so seriously, sometimes.”

“I hate you,” you say, no venom in your words.

“I love you, too,” Alex says. He leans forward, almost as if to kiss your forehead, and then remembers that you’re on sacred ground, and kissing is forbidden.

Still, the very thought of what he might’ve done sends an unwanted flutter throughout your chest.

Wax drips onto the closed letter. You dip the silver stamp into the dark purple puddle, leaving the royal seal behind.

Inside is a letter to your family. It’s a prophecy you’ve received just for them. Despite them disowning you for your gift, you still find it important to warn them of upcoming woe. Like now, for instance, when you wish to warn them about the upcoming rainstorm that could ruin their crops if they don’t take precautions.

You rub your temples and blow out the candle, leaving you in silent darkness.

Your room is on the highest tower of the castle. The turret is small; a circular room with a circular bed and a circular desk and a glass, circular ceiling that showcases the stars to you each night. There’s a telescope standing against the window, a chest for your clothes, and the writing desk you’re seated upon. However, your bathroom is a few stories down, near the bottom of the tower and closer to accessible plumbing.

The door behind you bursts open, and you know it’s the young prince and his lack of basic manners when it comes to privacy. Your privacy, anyway. “What is it, Alex?”

“I’ve been waiting for you in the tower for an hour now, silly,” Alex’s words get softer as the light from the corridor pours in, and he can see what you’ve been up to. He stills, smile faltering. “You had another vision of them.”

“I wish they would stop,” you mutter. If you clench your eyes tightly enough, you can will any tears to suck back into your head. Then you can suffer through a headache, like you always do. You’ve had this “gift” since you were a little kid; you know the ups and downs of using it.

Not that it gives you much choice sometimes.

“Are you drinking the–“

“No,” you snap at Alex. “Look, suppressing them only makes it worse. Prophecies become... darker. I see things I can’t unsee. I have to allow them through.”

Alex has a hurt look on his face, but you can’t tell if it’s because you snapped at him or because he doesn’t want to see you in pain. You selfishly hope it’s the latter.

“We can talk about something less harsh on the mind.” Alex sits on your chest, avoiding your bed. It’s another sacred place for you, same as the monastery grounds. Alex knows the rules of being a seer; the ancient laws you practice. He’s read the same books as you — if just to understand you better. He’s the most loyal friend you can think of: the only person in the entire kingdom who has never questioned your beliefs.

“I can’t stand the thought of them getting hurt,” you admit. “And with the vision about your coronation... I’m so scared this kingdom is going to crumble and it’s going to be because I couldn’t prevent it.”

Alex fiddles with his necklace. It’s a rune, one for protection. You used to wear a similar one beneath your robes, but with your fear of something happening, you’ve made Alex promise to wear it.

“It’s not your job to keep the kingdom from crumbling,” Alex relays. “All you need to do is tell me what you see. Then I hint to my father ways to change the kingdom. After that, it’s up to fate.”

You bite your lip. “Fate has a tricky way of playing its own hand.”

“Then it was never in your hands in the first place, yes?” Alex speaks honestly, but there’s a bit of cheek to his voice that eases your nerves.

You smile sadly. “Your father is too prideful, Alex. I can see it; the ravens, they flock the castle whenever he makes a speech. He wants to become a god. He wants something that’s impossible.”

“He deified Grandfather,” Alex quips, no emotion backing his voice. “Like you said earlier. It’s just to start the tradition, so that when he dies he’ll become holy, too.”

“I told him it was wrong. I told him that the stars foresee ruin if he stays on this trail of pride.” You cast your eyes down to your family’s letter. “No one believes me.”

“I believe you,” Alex’s soft voice urges you to look at him.

He’s quiet. The rune is resting on his outstretched palm and he’s looking at you. “Do you think I’d take these lessons and wear these trinkets if I thought you were wrong?”

“Maybe you do it because we’re friends,” you say. You're well aware of the fact that the prince is the only person in the entire kingdom who advocates for your beliefs. But with the rest of the realm against you, you can't help but think that deep down, he's making fun of you, too.

"You sure do worry a lot for someone who can foresee the future."

You choke out a laugh and run your hands down your face. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm so sorry. I just– I feel like if I can't prevent every bad thing I predict, then it's my fault when they happen. I wish I was ignorant to omens."

Alex tuts. He pouts at you, dragging his lower lip between his teeth and holding it there for just a beat too long. “Let’s skip lessons today. You should rest.”

“Alex—“

“Ah!” Alex stands up. He begins to unclip his cufflinks from the hem of his sleeve before he passes you a coy glance. “That’s Prince Alexis to you, and if I say you should rest, then you should rest.”

You grumble, but inwardly you’re thankful.

There’s an altar, rectified in the middle of the castle courtyard. Though it was once a place of healing — a place seers would go to cleanse their minds — it is now standing in ruins.

You lay down your offerings anyway. Dried rose petals, and a few copper coins saved up. You wait with the objects until a few crows come to diligently take them away. To where? You don’t know. You’ve never asked.

Alex’s father plans to take down the altar and replace it with a shrine of himself. The knowledge of change reeks the air with a foul scent only you can smell.

It’s as if the entire kingdom is rotting and you’re the only one who knows.

You lift your hood off of your face and continue your walk throughout the court. Those you pass politely ignore you, though some choose to sneer at your mannerisms. The king has them wrapped in his prideful rule, and your heart aches for them.

There is no freedom in serving man. This much, you know.

You find yourself in the tower, waiting for the prince to come in time for his lessons.

“Father says he wants me to study more practical subjects,” Alex relates to you.

He’s lying across the balcony floor, and you are perpendicular, with your head on his stomach. You feel every breath he takes, and something about the closeness comforts you in a way you refuse to analyze.

“I’m not sure what else you could learn,” you say. Your eyes are stuck on a chip in the balcony railing. Stone that hardly cracks, and of course your foundation is crumbling quicker than your resolve. “You have lessons from dawn till dusk.”

“And you’re the only tutor I care for,” he says with a flippant sort of tone. “I don’t know what I’d do if I saw you less. I already wish I had more time with you.”

You’ve spoken to nuns and monks and those who swear off love in servitude to the one they worship. Most admit that it’s a lonely existence, and a torture to make up for their sins. You understand that true love must be as sacred as an old god, and to worship another person would be the greatest act of devotion. For how else do you serve a creator than by worshiping the created?

You don’t think kings are meant to be worshipped. No one with that much power should be revered with such ignorance.

But a prince is different. To worship a prince alone, in secret, for just yourself... perhaps that is the most spiritual devotion of all. Perhaps it is the most torturous.

Hearing Alex’s words makes your heart yearn for a future that can never be. You don’t need a vision to tell you that his father will soon grow tired of you. Of course you will soon be sent out of the kingdom, and Alex will forget about you in time.

You know this without a doubt in your heart, and yet Alex still clings to these moments with you.

You’d do anything to keep him safe.

“Where will I go?” You ask. “Where will I be accepted?”

Alex’s breath hitches; you feel it. And you know what he wants to say — you know what lingers at the tip of his tongue.

With me.

Your family sends back the letter, unopened. You try not to cry about it, but the truth is that you feel more alone than ever. Surely you are the last of your kind, and no one cares in the least about what you have to say.

Except maybe Alex. Lovely, beautiful Alexis. He could no sooner harm a butterfly’s wing than deny you your beliefs.

But Alex is not king. He is merely a prince, and the king does not like you. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long.

“You fill my son’s head with nonsense,” the king paces back and forth in front of his empty thrown.

You hide your hands in the sleeves of your robe. “Your Majesty, I only relay what I see. I fear your kingdom is in danger.”

“And you think it my fault? Tell me, what if the stars told me to deify my father? What if I am following my own visions?” The royal cackles. “You have no sensible argument. All you have are silly dreams and lies to propel your own agenda. I will not have you spoiling my son’s brain.”

“Your Majesty—“

“I forbid you to speak on anything of the sort from hence forth. The altar will be torn down, and any peep from you regarding these readings will result in instant banishment.”

The sentence hurts more than it should, considering you aren’t being willed to die. You’re quite lucky in this sentence, considering you can still see Alex. Though, a part of you cracks and splinters to think of suppressing your visions.

The vision of Alex’s coronation still remains. You fear for the prince’s life. You fear the king will have something to do with it.

How do you tell the boy you adore that his father may be his downfall?

How do you get him to believe you?

The warm spring only gets hotter as the seasons change. You sink your head under, and the heat of the water burns your closed eyelids. Your head is killing you; pounding from holding back your emotions: your tears.

The monks don’t even worship the same as you. They lend you their springs and advice, but they aren’t the same. There are no other augurs in The Rapids, so no one else really knows how taxing the job is.

More visions come to you when you’re stressed, so you try your hardest to calm yourself. The water scalds your skin, but it distracts your mind enough to keep the visions away.

It’s all the same. All the visions are the same — Alex gets crowned king and overturns the deifying decree. And only days later, he’s assassinated, and the regent — his father — takes back the throne.

As the old proverb goes: pride cometh before a fall, and the king certainly has enough pride. You just don’t want Alex to get caught in the fall.

“You’re so predictable.” Alex’s voice is warbled.

It takes a minute for the water to release from your ears.

Surfaced, you can see Alex crouched by the bank, careful not to fall in. He’s got that same gentle smile — thin, rouge lips and eyes that seem to shine when they look at you. Alex never judges. He never makes fun of your methods. He’s simply there for you, and your heart longs to be there for him as well.

“This place is sacred,” you blurt. Seeing Alex’s face in the light of the sunset just makes you think of your visions. What would a world without Alex even look like? You aren’t sure you want to find out.

You start to cry, and Alex holds a hand out silently.

He helps you out — holds out the robe for you. His boots are around his neck, and you focus on the thinness of his ankles while you clothe yourself.

“You can’t hold me.” You say plainly.

“I know,” Alex’s voice is watery. “Let’s get you back to the palace, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you sniff. “Okay.”

“I’m not dead.” Alex lightly scratches your arm. Up and down. Up and down. “I’m not going to die.”

Your shoulders are braced against his side. You keep your gaze on the white smoke rising off of his incense cone.

This is his room, and his bed, because those aren’t sacred. His bed can be slept in and snuggled in and kissed in and loved in. He has scratchy cotton sheets and incense that is too old to really smell like anything.

He’s a prince with messy documents surrounding his desk and curtains that haven’t been dusted in days. Some days you wonder if the entire castle has forgotten about him. You don’t want to bring it up — don’t want to ask — but it flummoxes you.

You reach for his hand and stop its motions. “I’m sorry I bring you into all of this.”

“I want you to bring me into everything,” Alex slurs. He’s staying awake for you, and you know it. He rests his temple against your head. “I don’t want you to keep anything from me.”

You hum. His body is warm against yours. Too warm, to the extent where you know you’ll wake up in the uncomfortable sort of sweat that comes when a child falls asleep on you, or when you fall asleep without the window open.

Something heavy squeezes your chest. It feels like your ribcage is sentient — hugging and pressing into your lungs until it’s nearly impossible to breathe without an uncomfortable stutter.

Alex falls asleep quick, so you don’t worry about him noticing.

You settle against him and breathe through your nose. The feeling will pass — it always does. You feel this way whenever Alex reveals something so vulnerable to you. You reckon it’s something to do with the tenderness of his voice, or the earnest squeeze of his hand.

There’s a need to protect him. You want to be there for him, more than anything else in the world.

Stripped of your job — the altar torn down — you resort back to your first and foremost activity: Alex’s best friend and (unofficial) advisor.

In this position, you’re confident in your abilities. You know just as well as anyone that you’d rather die than see the prince harmed in any way.

You’re kicked out of the tower, and your telescopes are left to dust. The king locks the door personally, ardent in his attempt to keep you away from any visions that might harm his reign.

You stay in Alex’s room, on a spare bed mat near the fireplace.

Of course, Alex has offered his bed, but you refuse to bother him any more than you have to. And now, with your rituals forbidden, you need a place to privately gather your thoughts.

The flames lick the stone furnace and you lie still. You watch them dance and close your eyes, hoping to rest without any visions or nightmares.

But the nightmares come, and they’re always the same.

When you wake in a fervent sweat, you know that only one thing will keep you from fearing Alex’s death. So, you crawl beneath his scratchy sheets.

You don’t snuggle into him or bother his slumber. All you need to do is know that he’s here. You rest your smallest finger against his bare arm and fall asleep to the sound of an owl hooting outside the window.

On the morning of Alex’s coronation, fog rises from the earth. You see it as a sign: this day will be confusing and blurred.

Alex is just excited to have cooler weather. The blistering heat has been plaguing the kingdom for days, so to have a day of fog and hollow wind sounds like heaven to the prince.

You wear your runes beneath your robe, and the weight of them is less than the weight of knowing you’re dead if you’re caught. But you need them; need this day to come and go without blood and tears.

Alex cannot see you. He’s far too busy with final rehearsals and receiving guests from far and wide.

You stray beyond the castle, into the square, where traders and travelers have set up shop in the hopes of making a profit.

There’s a sign. Fortunes Read Here. It’s tacked over a purple curtain, and you can see amber light shining through a thin slit. Like maybe someone is in there. Like maybe you aren’t alone.

You walk in.

Disappointment smacks against your ribs like a heavy wave against jagged rocks. It’s a scam. A boy no younger than yourself is sitting behind a table, with a green sash tied over his forehead. There’s a mystical rune of some kind that looks like a portal, and it’s tacked to nearly every surface you can see with dripping green paint. The place looks like that of a madman, and you fear you’re about to be mocked.

“Hello,” he says. He doesn’t offer a name. The blues of his eyes flicker from time to time with a shimmery purple, and you think it’s a trick of the light.

“Are you going to laugh at me?” You sit across from him. “Once I leave, are you going to think of me as just another gullible customer?”

“Can you not tell the future?” He says, and he grabs the crystal ball and tucks it under the table. “I can sense it. You want answers, genuine answers, not some promise of success.”

“Who are you?”

“Karl,” he says. “I’m from the village of The Rapids, but you know, magic is looked down upon. I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them what I know.”

You trace the lines of the rune. Your brain fogs, but as you repeat the motion, it clears up, and you suddenly see Karl, clear as day, standing in a crowd and watching Alex make a speech. “You’ve been there? You’ve been to the future?”

“Look closer,” Karl mumbles.

So you focus on the details, and you can see the black banners of mourning, and the redness of Alex’s eyes. “Oh. This is his grandfather’s funeral. This is the year before I became Alex’s tutor.”

“Walk closer.”

Unsure what he means, you continue to trace the rune, and imagine yourself walking through the crowd. Only Karl moves instead, so you pause your tracing and look at Karl.

He’s got his eyes closed, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Why did you come here? What did you want to see?”

You brought me here, you think of saying, but you wonder if this is what Karl can do. If he can travel to the past and show people what he sees. “I- I suppose I want to know why he was deified. Was it a plot?”

You trace the rune again, and Karl walks over to the king, where he stands apart from the podium. Even though his son is giving a heartfelt speech, he’s not listening at all. Instead, he’s talking to one of his trusted advisors.

“I will make a wonderful god.”

“Prince Alexis hates the new creed,” the advisor observes. “Surely he’ll overrule it once he is king.”

“Yes,” the king says. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

You gasp, and even Karl seems winded as you stop tracing the rune.

He places his palms on the table. “So that’s what you wanted to find out. A regicide plot.”

“I have to find Alex,” you mutter. You stand and rip one of your runes off of your neck. Intuition. “Here, take it. You should go.”

“I can’t go into the future,” Karl warns. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“No,” you think of Alex’s words. “None of us can predict fate. I have to go.”

You run out of the tent, and when you look back, it’s gone, left with nothing but a dirty sign labeled Fortunes Read Here.

Perhaps it’s past tense now.

Your purple robe billows behind you as you rush into the castle in search of the prince.

The staff says they haven’t seen him, the lords are already drunk off of mulled wine. His own tailors are running around, fearing they won’t be able to dress him in time.

So he’s gone, and that means you’re too late.

Or rather, maybe Alex is smarter than you give him credit for, and he’s gone to the one place his father won’t go.

You head up to the tower.

He’s there. Of course he’s there. And he’s in only part of his ceremonial clothes, leather pants and a cream-white collared shirt. He’s leaning his palms against the stone railing and staring out against the wind, like he’s waiting for it to speak to him. Tears slip down his cheeks and drop into the air.

“Alex…” You wrap your arms around his soft waist, squeezing tight to try and convey how thankful you are that he knew to get away. “Your father… He’s—”

“He poisoned my breakfast,” Alex whimpers. He grabs blindly for your arms, and at the touch of your skin, he folds in on himself; shifts around to face you, and buries his face into your neck. “My taster… He thought my taster was out. But he wasn’t. Now he’s dead, and the counsel are trying to figure out what to do with my father.”

“Alex, I’m so sorry.”

He cries harder, and you think your hug must feel weak compared to the comfort he so clearly needs right now. “I have to go tell the lords and the staff. We have to postpone the coronation until everyone involved is apprehended.”

You think of what he does when you feel alone. He visits your spring, and he takes off his shoes. He takes you to his bed and scratches your arm. He kisses your head and hums old lullabies from his childhood until you fall asleep.

So you grab his hand, and you pull him down the few stairs where your old bedroom lies. And you bring him toward your bed, but he stops you.

“It’s sacred to you,” he hiccups.

“You’re sacred to me,” you finally decide, and you let him crawl under your sheets.

You untie his boots and pull them off of his feet, along with his socks. Then you take the blanket and pull it up to his chin. You kiss his forehead and crawl in next to him. And you scratch his arm, up and down, and you hum old lullabies from your own childhood until he falls asleep.

While he’s asleep, you trace the moles across his cheeks and close your eyes. Suddenly, it’s like Karl’s tent, only you can see into the future, not the past. And you aren’t Karl, you’re Y/n.

The sun is bright on Alex’s back, skin tanned and warm. You’re swimming with him in the spring, and all that is sacred to you is him. All that matters is him, so he can float in the spring, and he can kiss you on holy ground, and if he can’t be deified in the kingdom, he can be deified in your soul.

And when you stop your motions, you’re back in your bed. Alex is there, sweet Alex, snoring softly and snuggling into your warmth, like you keep him safe. Like your visions aren’t the ones he believed in at all.

He has always believed solely in you.

#quackity fluff #quackity fanfic #quackity scenarios #quackity angst #mcyt fanfiction #quackity x reader #quackity x you #mcyt x reader #pixiecap//

213 notes · View notes

wen-kexing-apologist · 3 years

Text

Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair

Read here on AO3

Kaz:

There were many things Kaz loved about Ketterdam. He loved how the chaos of the city carried whispers, the way the Barrel opened itself up to those it trusted, loved how the markets were bathed in color when the tulips bloomed in Spring, and above all he loved the clocks, which rung music across the streets and kept his secrets safe within their chimes. Well, he usually loved the clocks. Right now, as he hurtled unceremoniously awake to their incessant tolls, he was concocting no less than seven schemes to destroy every last time piece in Ketterdam.

He sat up in bed, rubbing tight circles into the muscle of his bad leg, stretching the stiffness from his joints. He blinked the drowsiness from his eyes, glancing out the window to where the first rays of daybreak were just beginning to brighten the sky. He rolled out of bed, sleepy and slow, and limped over to his wash basin. He splashed water on his face and ran wet fingers through his hair, his footsteps fell heavy on his hardwood floors and he groaned in pain with every motion. The pain was always bad in the mornings, when the lack of movement made his muscles sore, when his knee didn’t want to bend.

“Tell me, Dirtyhands,” a voice muttered, and Kaz spun around in surprise. The anxious beating of his heart accelerated at the sight of Inej, eyes closed, blanket on her shoulders, and her face resting on his desk, her hair loose, wild, and draped across her arms. “How did you ever complete heists before I came along, with a walk as loud as yours?”

It shouldn’t have surprised him to find her here, the foggy edges of his memory recalled they’d been together yesterday, working until the early hours of the morning. Inej had fallen asleep first, and Kaz, not having the strength to move her, had continued his work until the dreams had taken him.

“Perhaps your ears deceive you, Wraith,” Kaz smirked, pulling off his nightshirt, wiping himself down. “I’m quiet as a mouse,”

“Big mouse,” Inej retorted, the blanket slipping to the floor as she sat up and stretched. She tugged off her vest, and began unbuttoning her shirt, Kaz watched her every move from the mirror, trying to steady his pulse as she drew closer to him. She met his gaze, a rueful look in her eye, a challenge and an invitation. He walked away before she could come to stand by his side, he wasn’t sure he would be able to control himself, he wasn’t sure he could survive his need to touch her if she had drawn too near. But that didn’t mean he was out of the game.

He could feel her eyes upon his back as he made his way to his closet, pulled out a fresh pair of clothes, and stripped himself down completely. Inej’s breath hitched behind him and he bit back a grin. It was terrifying and exhilarating to expose himself like this. But he was competitive and he wasn’t going to let Inej run circles around his temptations. He got dressed, moving deliberately, taking his time. He left his gloves off. He was smug when he turned back around, waiting to claim his victory. But it was quickly replaced by desire, warm and unexpected and delightful, at the sight of her, hair slick and dripping water in graceful lines down her back. She was running a brush through it, working out the knots and tangles, a thin strip of leather pressed between her teeth.

She was breathtaking. Kaz had marveled once, not too long ago at how, after everything Inej had suffered, she could still consider herself lucky. But seeing her like this, with the sunrise painting gold across her skin, with a calm that curved her shoulders, he was beginning to understand what luck could feel like. She buttoned up her shirt, then her vest, and picked her knives up from the desk. She brought each knife up to her lips, whispering a prayer before she tucked them back into their sheaths.

He loved the easy silence that settled in between them. Kaz spent so much of his day plotting, scheming, thinking, that he savored every second of silence he could find. Inej carried silence on her like a charm. Kaz was enamored, enraptured by her, he was studying her every move. When she had secured her last blade, she returned to the mirror, and began to braid her hair.

“Wait,” Kaz blurted, before he was even sure what he was going to say. “Would you teach me?”

Inej, already halfway done, stopped, and looked at him with nothing but confusion in her eyes “What?”

Regret and embarrassment turned his cheeks warm and red “If I told you I was deliriously exhausted, would you forget about that lapse in self control, and allow me to maintain my reputation as a widely feared and extremely powerful Barrel boss?”

Inej cocked her head to the side, batting her eyelashes at him, a giant, teasing smile spreading across her face. She came in close, putting mere inches between them, and Kaz wanted nothing more than to pull her to him, to feel her hand against his chest, to grasp her elbow and wipe that smug look on her face off with a kiss. “And give up the opportunity to blackmail the bastard of the Barrel?”

“Inej,” he pleaded. Inej had gotten him to beg , Saints, she was good.

“Why?” Her question was sincere and curious. Why do you want to braid my hair?

“I- I don’t know,” it broke something in Kaz to admit it, to admit he wanted something with no strings attached. “To see if I can? Because your hair seems so important to you and I-” I want you to know how important you are to me.

Inej’s eyes pierced through to his very soul, the flash of a smile flitting across her face. Kaz would have done anything for a smile like that. “Okay,” she said “This will be easier if you sit,” she nodded her head in the direction of his mattress. “You take the bed, I’ll take the floor,” Kaz obliged, ignoring the pain that radiated up his leg. Inej pulled her knees up close to her chest, her back straight as an arrow. After a minute she turned to look at him, apprehension furrowing her brow, “You have to actually pick my hair up before we can start, you know?”

“Right,” Kaz agreed, and sucked in a breath when she returned her gaze to the window, trying to prepare himself for the onslaught of crashing waves and rotting flesh. But as Kaz dipped his fingers into the ink that was Inej’s hair, the waters never rose, Jordie’s face did not appear behind his eyes. He let out a single, almost hopeful chuckle, when he realized he was fine. There was nothing in the feeling of her hair in his hands to remind him of the harbor. Jordie’s hair had not been as dark as hers, had not been as long; Inej’s hair was sleek and soft and cared for, it felt foreign and familiar against his skin. It was a comfort, it was a starting point, it was an illusion shattered by the realization that Inej had gone completely still under his grasp.

“Are you still with me, Wraith?” Kaz asked the air, pretending to be casual, heart pounding in excitement and concern.

“Yes,” it was a whisper as soft as a ghost. Inej’s arms were wrapped around her torso, her fingers resting gently across the hilts of her favorite knives.

Kaz dropped his hand and took a step back, his fingers twitched, wanting more. But he would not submit Inej to torture. “You sound like you are vanishing. I don’t...I don’t want to be the reason why you disappear,”

“You’re not the only one who has armor on,” Inej said simply. “Now, split my hair into three even sections.”

Kaz tried to steady his hand when he reached out again, why was he so nervous? He brushed his fingers through her hair, wondering if the first time had been a fluke, fearing he would be plunged into the harbor. But the waters never came, Kaz could not contain his smile. He separated out her hair, and thought of all the times he had seen her twist her plait together. Feeling confident in it, he tried to start the braid, but he wasn’t sure what he was doing, and she was sitting too far away. He knew it was for him, to make sure they didn’t touch, but it meant he had to lean awkwardly to reach the base of her neck. He lost his balance and accidentally pulled hard on Inej’s hair, still wrapped up in his hands, as he lurched backwards to steady himself. Kaz’s heart punctured beneath the sharp intake of Inej’s breath, and bled out against her knuckles, which had turned white, clutched tightly around her Saints.

“Sorry,” it was perhaps the second time in his life that Kaz had ever apologized, and the ease at which it passed his lips terrified and excited him.

Slowly, carefully, Inej moved closer, leaning back against his shins. Pain shot through his bad leg in a familiar arc, and he bit his lip and closed his eyes to prevent himself from grunting. The pain made him think of violence, of fighting, the only way he was usually able to handle any form of physical contact. The aching in his leg diluted the euphoria he felt knowing he could touch Inej, her hair at least, without bringing Jordie back to life, but it also saved him from drowning now, with her back pressed up against him. He knew what she was doing, he didn’t blame her for it.

Inej:

Tante Helene had been obsessed with Inej’s hair, the first day they met she had practically drooled over it, with thoughts of how much money such luscious locks would make her. She had been right. There was not a night that went by in that horrible place where someone else’s greasy fingers hadn’t felt it, tangled it...pulled it. Inej’s hair wasn’t just important to her, it was sacred. To have it handled so, it made her feel disgraceful, made her feel abandoned, cursed. When Kaz had shown up, before sense could catch up to her, she had thought it was a rescue, that she would never have to worry about such heinous acts again.

Kaz had warned her when they made their way out of The Menagerie that he was not taking her to safety. The Barrel was a wicked place, a hungry place, it took its pound of flesh from everyone. But, a small, naive part of her hadn’t wanted to believe him. It had only taken a few hours for Kaz to be proven right. It happened just as Inej had begun to feel comfortable, had begun to settle into the cacophony and the chaos of the Dregs. A newer member, Hendrik, someone with too little skill and too much to prove, had grabbed her by the hair and flung her to a darkened corner of the bar. She had imagined all the ways she could destroy him, clawing out his eyes, poisoning his drink, beating him bloody. She had wanted desperately to fight back, but instead her body did what it always had, what she had trained it to do, and she had disappeared. She had hated herself for it, hated that she had shown her weakness from the very first day.

But she hated herself more for having been so stupid as to believe that things would be different with Dirtyhands; that she could become more than just a toy to be passed around. As the last shreds of hope for a different life were suffocated by the hands upon her, a crow-headed cane connected with Hendrik’s skull. The corners of her coat turned red as his blood spread across the floor, she reveled in the sight of it and felt ashamed to have loved such violence. Kaz had been the one to save her that night, because of course he had. She hated the way Hendrik made her feel, like she was just skin, supple and pliable and at the mercy of another’s whims. Kaz had turned her to metal, turned her knuckles into brass, had sharpened her edges and given her claws.

Inej cut off her hair with the first knife Kaz gave her, it had broken her to do so and freed her all the same. She had regretted it, it felt like a betrayal to her former self, to her parents, to her Saints; but it was the one thing in her life she could control. Since then, her hair had grown with her, had grown to something no one else had ever touched. No one, now, except for Kaz.

When he’d asked her to teach him, when he’d said he wanted to learn, she had lost the rest of his request to the sound of her heart, beating in her ear. In all the years she’d been in Ketterdam, no one else had ever cared enough to ask her. When he’d first wrapped his fingers through her hair, years of memories came rushing back, she’d almost collapsed against their weight...and then he’d laughed, a small delighted thing.

Kaz was doing what she’d asked of him, he was trying to get better, and though Inej had spent most of her time in the Dregs working on her own weaknesses, she had yet to conquer this one. It wasn’t fair, she knew, to ask him to do something she wouldn’t do herself. She gripped her knives, because they kept her grounded, they kept her here, safe in the Slat, safe with Kaz. Inej realized, with tentative glee, that she liked this feeling, Kaz’s fingers running through her hair, cautious and gentle.

And then he’d lost his balance.

A fear she’d long forgotten crashed into her body, knocked the air from her lungs. Wrapped itself around her throat and floated upward, forcing her out, making her disappear. There were hands on her, in her hair, pressing down on her chest, holding her arms so they would not fight, or scratch, or claw. Her consciousness clung to the ceiling, her strength jumped out the window.

“Where’s your hairbrush?” his question severed the line, slamming Inej back into her body. Uh oh .

“What happened?” Inej asked, not sure if she actually wanted an answer to that question.

“I...got overconfident,” She wasn’t looking at him, but his words sounded almost sheepish. A different type of panic raced through her.

“I’m not cutting it again,” She turned to meet his eye, when had she leaned against his legs? “so if you mess my hair up, Kaz, we’re having words,”

“If I mess you hair up, Inej,” Kaz replied, his face firm, but eyes shining, “you can take your revenge, I won’t even put up a fight,”

“Well, that’s no fun,” she muttered, bounding over to the desk, grabbing her hairbrush, and handing it to Kaz. Kaz let his fingers slide over her knuckles, she could see the shiver that travelled down his spine, this was an apology.

“Then you can torture me in the meantime,” he whispered. Kaz stretched out his bad leg, keeping his other one bent. He gave a curt nod and a tight smile, and when she returned to her spot on the floor, she pressed her back against him and draped one arm lightly over his shin. With surety, Kaz began to brush her hair. It bit into her scalp at first, but he loosened his grip, and the teeth of the brush began to tickle, to soothe, the repetitive nature of the action brought her comfort. She hummed happily.

“What song does the Wraith sing for me today?”

“One from home,” she sighed, blissful and content and fully in her own mind. “This reminds me of my mother,”

Kaz cleared his throat “I don’t know that I want to do anything that reminds you of your mother,” Inej thought of him, naked before her no less than fifteen minutes earlier, and laughed.

“She used to brush my hair when I was young. She’d press kisses to my temple, twist my hair through her fingers. She taught me how to braid it, how to care for it. She’s the only other person who’s brushed my hair,” her head rested fully in his lap now, and when she looked at him, she felt something in him twitch. His forehead was sweaty, this was challenging for him, she figured she had let him suffer enough for his mistake and so she sat back up and put a little space between them. “Don’t get cocky this time, Kaz. Three even strands,”

“What next?”

“Grab the middle strand with one finger, and cross it over to the right. The strand that was on the right should now be in the middle. Do the same thing on the left side, middle to the left.” Kaz made a sound of acknowledgement, and started the braid. Inej was used to seeing him work, picking pockets and picking locks with confidence. His fingers did not seem so sure of themselves today, fumbling clumsily as he struggled to keep the strips of her hair separated. “And then just do it again, middle to the right, middle to the left, over and over until you get to the bottom,”

Kaz worked as methodically as ever, and Inej had to fight the urge to find a reflection of herself in the window, to check in on his progress. She trusted Kaz would do the best job he could. “And then?”

“Here,” she handed him the thin strip of leather. “Tie off the end, you can just wrap it around and knot it,”

“Alright,” Kaz said, and his bed creaked as he leaned back. But he didn’t drop her hair like she expected. Instead he ran a thumb across the plait he had just made. She thanked the Saints for the joy it made her feel, knowing that Kaz Brekker didn’t want to let her go. “I think I’m done,”

Inej stood up, flitting over to examine his handiwork. It was done with a quality she had anticipated, nowhere near perfect, but it would do for the day. It was a little too loose, and there were pieces of her hair that feathered out around the edges. Pieces Kaz had either neglected or that had already slipped from the braid. She caught the frenetic motion of Kaz’s hands, twisting a coin between his knuckles, and knew that he was worried, waiting for a judgement.

“A valiant first attempt,” Inej decreed, joining Kaz on the bed.

“Now, that’s a kind lie if I ever heard one,” Kaz’s eyes traced over the curves of her body.

“It’s not a lie,” Inej said, and leaned forward, “But, if you’re dissatisfied with the result, you are welcome to try again tomorrow,”

“I might have to take you up on that offer,” His eyes were glued to her lips, Inej could hear the way his breath quickened. And just as he started to close the distance between them, his sheets balled up in his fists, the clocks began to chime.

“I should be going,” Inej whispered, though she could not make out the words beneath the sound of her own yearning.

“Just one more second,” Kaz requested, sweating and shaking, he pressed a kiss to her temple, gentle as a ghost. He moved away instantly, swallowing hard, tucking his hands beneath his arms. He hadn’t been ready for that . The spot where he had kissed her felt electric, felt hopeful, felt empty, she wanted more, but Kaz did not, Kaz could not. His eyes were glazing over, he was about to be lost to the waters again.

She hopped off the bed to give him space, unlocked the latch on his window, and opened it to bring the air in. “Thanks, Mom,” she said with all the seriousness that she could muster.

Inej wanted a portrait of the look on Kaz’s face to hang above her mantle “Fuck you, Inej,”

“I don’t think you’re ready for that,” she said with a smirk, Jesper and Nina had definitely rubbed off on her, and she left him there, cheeks red, mouth agape, her braid swinging behind her, as if waving Kaz goodbye.

#*cries in kanej*#kanej my beloved #kanej fanfic #kanej #kaz x inej #inej x kaz #the crows #six of crows #soc #crooked kingdom #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #crooked kingdom fanfic #shadow and bone #shadow and bone fanfic #dirtyhands #ketterdam #the bastard of the barrel #the wraith

38 notes · View notes

skaryskylar · 4 years

Text

Cherry Wine

Pairing: ZoSan

Type: One-Shot

Summary: There is a song that pervades throughout the land of Wano. Zoro can't hear the words, but somehow he still understands the lyrics.

Also available on AO3

He first hears the song when he's drinking on Kin'emon's porch. The sake O-Tsuru brought is hot on his tongue as it eases its way down his throat, rim of the porcelain cup cool on his lips. The sharp tang of alcohol clashes with the sweetness of plum, just as the heat of the drink clashes against the cool gusts of wind fiddling with the branches of the trees, playing with sturdy sakura wood and pliant, lush leaves like strings of a shamisen.

Zoro grants an ear to its melody. The white katana at his hip hums along, vibrating in its sheath. This was something secret. Sacred. And though he caught the rhythm and flow, the lyrics weren't meant for human ears. It feels like a memory teetering on the brim of his consciousness, the triumph of knowing that it was there and reaching for it before the bitterness of watching it slip through your grasp.

There was a song he could understand though. He hears the familiar thwack-thwack-thwack of a strainer, the cacophony of knives against a cutting board. Light, rich laughter that hung in the air, rustling his hair and easing the tightness in his chest. The stretch of rubber. The twang a of violin being tuned. A resounding slap as a hand is pushed away. Feminine voice mingling with a deeper baritone (Together. Always together those two.) closely followed by a child's squeal. A boisterous voice rising above all the noise, weaving a tale of insects that were larger than men and the valiant hero that dared to tame them.

This was a song of nakama, and it spoke to something deep within his center, allowing a zen even meditation did not grant him. It was one of peace and trust and love that ran deeper than blood.

He knows all the words by heart, even those unspoken.

A whizz through the air is his only warning.

He catches the bowl that was thrown at him with ease. The udon swims precariously inside but does not slip over the rim. He looks down at the thick noodles swimming in the dark dashi. Fresh, green scallions scattered over the swirling narutomaki, a few pieces floating in the broth past thin slices of beef like leaves in a river. He breathes in, savors the rich scent, then raises his hand to catch the chopsticks shot his way.

(He got used to the pain of them smacking his palm a few islands ago. He had missed it during that long week at the beginning of all this, when he wandered the land of Wano with no one to spar with nor a Captain to follow.)

"Hurry up, before Luffy gets his hands on it."

Sanji settles next to him. He can tell by how the air shifts to accommodate his lithe form, plucking the acrid smoke from his pipe and casting it away. Though they did not touch, his entire left side suddenly feels warm. The cool night does nothing to beat the sensation back, encouraging it if anything else, forcing the blonde closer with a shiver.

His hair, golden and wavy without his tools to straighten it, is strung back into a low ponytail. The stubble given a chance to reign for the day took full advantage, casting his entire jaw in shadow, relenting only to the pale, plush lips that tugged on the vice between them.

His eyes were on the stars, but they shift their attention quickly when he notices Zoro staring.

(And he was closer to that memory. He could feel the softness of it in his hands. The song was getting clearer. Wado hums at his side, bidding him to keep reaching and maybe with a final stretch-.)

"It'll get cold dumbass. Hurry up, or I'll give it Luffy."

"Don't push your luck Curly. You won't get this bowl unless I give it to you."

He takes his first bite and tastes the sea. The crisp salt of the ocean and freshness of the unpolluted air. The grit in his teeth when Luffy launched him into the grass. The billow of a mast unfurling. The crash of the waves against the Sunny's strong, sturdy Adam's wood. Early mornings in the crow's nest, a fresh cup of jasmine tea in hand as he stares out to the edge of the blue expanse.

Yes, this tasted like home.

The song grows in its intensity as he eats. The last chord only ends when the final drop of dashi slips down his throat. Sanji takes the bowl from him, making a point to get close enough for Zoro to smell the ginger-spice of oil he used for his skin, before he scowled, ripping it and the chopsticks away from him to return to his kitchen.

As soon as his foot crosses the threshold, the song stops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hears the song again as he walks through the forest. The morning sun sits heavy on his skin, sweat forcing the tan to glisten in its wake. The light that shone through the trees started off the ballad, soon joined by birds that darted about overhead. They seem to follow him as he walks down a rough path, nearly overrun by nature. The soil sinks beneath his sandals without resistance, an easy tempo followed by lively chirps of the birds and the cry of cicadas.

It wasn't difficult to sink into the dreamlike haze. The familiar zen of meditation washes through him, easing his breath and loosening his grip on the hilt of his swords. Which was why he jumps when Wado rattles in her sheath.

He pauses, looks around, and is entirely unsure of where he's found himself. While the rest of Wano is well-loved and taken care of post-Kaido, this area seems to be untouched from Oden's time. The trees grew tall and unhindered by human folly, wildflowers sprouting at their roots in a myriad of colors. Tiny woodland animals dart about, sniffing at his feet, pouncing at his sword. They're curious. Unafraid of him because they have never seen one of his kind.

The most noticeable of them all was the golden fox. It was perched on a branch, lazily flicking its milky tail back and forth as it peers down at him with bemused black eyes. Zoro tightens his hand on Enma's hilt. It follows the movement, then gives a huff, as if laughing at the notion that the swordsman could harm it.

It stands, stretches into a long, arc, then opens its maw in a silent yawn.

Smacking it's lips, the fox gives Zoro one last look, smirks, then scampers down the tree and trots away.

A childish, petty anger surges in his chest at the disrespect. He doesn't hesitate before he goes to follow. The little woodland animals fall over themselves to track his footsteps as he goes deeper into the forest, following the sway of that golden tail. The song in his ears grows louder, sounds forming the beginning of words till he steps into a clearing, and everything falls to a low vibration.

Wado is warm in his hand. Every nerve fires off, putting him on guard. But the clearing is empty save for the overgrown grass and the wooden markers that stood high, covered in moss and rot.

He found his feet stepping towards them before he could resist. The wood is cool against his fingertips as he brushes away the dust, struggling to make out the faint characters etched into the surface.

'Noa'...'Ro'....

"They say that they're proud of you." Kuina's voice says in his ear. Wado's hilt has turned hot in hand as he crouches. He brushes against the wood again, wanting to hear that sweet sound once more, peeling lichen out of the way to make out the rest of the name. So fervent is he in his efforts, that he fails to notice the crunch of leaves underfoot until another, deeper voice rings out, fondness sewn into the tone beneath the harsh words.

"Honestly, marimo. Can't we go to one island without you getting lost? You missed lunch asshole."

Sanji stops a couple paces away. There is nothing remarkable about his appearance. He is dressed in his usual kimono, white and yellow with the sleeves rolled up. He had just come back from work. If the low ponytail didn't indicate as much, then the carefully wrapped bento in his hand would.

Zoro had seen this man in this same position-with a frown on his face and a hand on his hip so many times before. So there was no reason for his breath to freeze in his lungs despite the heat of the day. Clearing his throat, he shiftsdiscreetly, trying to force his heart to jumpstart in his chest and give his brain the blood it needed to think clearly.

A moment of silence grew too long.

Sanji looked beyond Zoro, over to what he was doing, then his face crinkled in disgust.

"Is...Is that a grave marker? You sick necrophilia-loving fuck. Stop touching that!"

Heat flooded his face. He heard a little girl's laughter on the wind as he scrambled backwards, rubbing his hands on his dark hakama.

"I just wanted to read them! Get your head out of the gutter you perv!"

"What'd you say matcha-brain?"

"Exactly what I said Curlicue!"

He felt the kick coming before Sanji even raised his leg. Their timing is perfect, as always. A splinter of wood flies off the man's sandal when the heel meets Enma in a sonic clash. Blue eyes meet his through the burst of flames, merriment dancing in their depths despite the scowl on their owner's face.

He smirks back.

They pull apart and come together time after time again. It is their own elaborate dance, and the steps are much too complicated to be taught to anyone else. Around them, the clearing begins to roar its approval.

Wano's song descends upon the scene seamlessly, ringing in Zoro's ears as if it was always there. The golden fox adds to the chorus, cheerfully yipping as it darts about, watching the fight with the same excited vigor as the rest of the creatures gathered to watch. With each kick he meets with his blade, the words become clearer. Verse after verse, lyric after lyric, kick after kick pushing him higher, sending him towards the finale.

He rushes towards it in a flying leap. Wado sings between his teeth as he bore down on the man, unafraid of the heat of the flames even as they licked his bare skin.

When a well-placed kick knocks his swords from his hands, the song did not falter. He moves with its cadence. Slipping Wado back into its hilt to go no-sword style, he braces himself for impact and grabs Sanji by the shoulders, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Their breaths mingle, a cool gust on the crook of his neck as he presses his nose to blonde tufts, breathes, and listens.

He knows he's close. He can taste it on his lips, sweet as plum sake and just as pleasing to his tongue. The strands of blonde tickle his nose. Vanilla and ginger mingle, scent of his conditioner strong through the man's sweat. He wasn't aware the rumble in the air was coming from him till timid fingers flutter at his shoulders, resting there as if they belonged.

He looks down into deep azure eyes and he hears the song as if it were in another room. There are lyrics, words that slit his heart open and let it weep, an outpouring of emotion so thick he can't speak.

He licks his lips and tilts his head to see if he could get a better listen.

"OI! Zoro! Sanji!" The rustle of grass beneath hooves cut off the song abruptly. The men scramble apart just as Chopper appears from the trees. The deer pants, obviously having run all the way, but his expression is joyous when he clambers up to them.

(The golden fox takes one look at the reindeer and rolls it eyes. After a pointed, pained look at Zoro, it turns on its heel and scampers away.)

"Izo and Marco are setting up a sparring contest! O-Robi's going to use swords! One hundred sword style!"

Zoro is up and running before the kid can finish. The song is left forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hiyori's fingers are a blur against the strings. Nimble, pale, and skilled, they dart across the instrument with a self-assuredness he recognizes quickly. Her shamisen is like his blades: an extension of the self so integral it was like another limb. Her chords blend easily with that song, and yet he can't help but think it is a pale mimicry of the original. He doesn't dislike it, no.

But it still feels like something is missing. The build-up is there. The rush that heats his blood and makes him want to fight is there. But it's surface level. There was a depth to the original that her song didn't achieve.

His time with the cook was the closest he got to hearing the end of it. Was anger the key? Did he need to get pissed off to understand?

(Wado laughs in her sheath, high and feminine. Free and true. It's a sound that never failed to make him feel like a fool, going back to when he was a child.)

He doesn't realize she stopped playing until she speaks.

"You seem distracted."

"Got a lot to think about," He grunts.

"Let me try to ease your mind."

The response annoys him. He wanted a push, a snarky rebuttal. There was no resistance. The pliancy-the way she bends to serve-it's unnerving.

She looks him over and he can't help the goosebumps on his skin. Her eyes are a stunning shade of blue, but they were wrong. This is the blue of the sky, of stability, the promise of 'forever' no matter how stagnant the days may become.

He craves the blue of the sea. He wants to look deep in the whorl of the waves and fall headfirst into the chaos of their storms. He seeks mystery and adventure because they can make him strong. He wants to discover the unknown, to let its tide roll through him. He wants triumph in the face of disaster. An unrelenting fire to forge his swords. The smell of ginger, spices, tobacco, steel, leather and sea salt.

Not this. Not sitting in a tiny room with an empty bottle of sake at his side, idly listening to rehearsed music as his blades waste away and grow dull.

Wado is silent. Even as Hiyori starts a new song, she is silent.

He's growing impatient. He knew it was showing on his face because her fingers began to still on the strings. She looks him over again, displeasure rolling off of her in waves. Sighing, she sets the instrument aside.

"My songs don't please you."

"They don't displease me." He offers, but he sees from the way her face shuttered that it wasn't the right thing to say. He isn't clever like the cook. He wasn't raised to be suave. His tongue is a thick, heavy clod in his mouth that resists even if his lips manage to move in the right way.

Hiyori ducks her head. One by one, she plucks the pins from her hair, setting each to side with careful clinks as waves of her silken, cerulean hair fall over her shoulders. Once they are all complete, she pushes it behind her back, revealing her face and the determination that settles in her gaze.

"Perhaps," Confusion makes his heart swing as she leans forward. Close. Much to close. "I can help with that."

He freezes back as she pulls herself onto his lap.

"Relax," She says softly. His heart batters against his ribcage, heat climbing up his skin as the slow, dreadful realization as to what was going on rattles his brain. Her hands are tiny but firm on his thighs, fingers reaching for the tie of his obi as he begs his frozen mouth to move and resist in a way that wouldn't physically harm her.

But shock isn't easily shook off. It forces a series of syllables that didn't belong to any language out before he finally, thankfully, spluttered a:

"Wait, no! Lady, stop I-!"

The shoji slides open and the voice of the last person Zoro wants to see at that moment rings out bold and true.

"Hiyori-chan!!!! I've got tea for you, then Izo and Okiku-chan helped me make cookies! Maybe you could show me how-! Eh, mosshead?"

This shade of blue is correct. He studies the myriad of navy and azure in the irises as the black pupils shrank. This is the one that reminded him of freedom and the sweet taste of victory. They promised greatness.

But there's something wrong.

Emotions flash across their surface, quick and intense as a thunderous storm. Wado rattles in her scabbard, but that sound is overshadowed by the tea set crashing to the ground, sending porcelain shards and matcha powder arcing through the air. The kettle tips over, hot water streaming quick to socked feet but it was like Sanji didn't notice. He only stares at the scene before him. His hands quiver, shaking as if he were cold, until he regains the sense of mind to clutch at the sleeves of his kimono, abruptly dipping into a low, stiff bow.

"Sorry for interrupting." He says coldly, then he turns and runs.

Zoro's heart hammers in his chest before it loses its place and falls to the depths of his gut. He scrambles to get up through the pain, chasing after the man through the hallway as Wado yells at him to 'run, run, run', bolting past rooms with booming laughter and delicious smells, ignoring Luffy's shouts of his name.

But by the time he comes to a stop at the front door, the yard is empty save for the swaying grass.

The angry chittering at his hip stops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain has a long, mournful solo. There is no chirping of cicadas, no rush of the wind through the trees, no sun to kiss his skin and bid him welcome to Wano's orchestra. There is only wetness and biting cold, barely fought back by the sake in his hand.

He sits alone. Usopp had stopped by earlier with dinner. The empty bowl is at his side, resting against a still white sword, silent as the day its original master died. He watches the world in all its grayness from Kin'emon's porch. How the rain sweeps in and cleanses them all, nature and man alike, dropping its sorrowful tune on the world, slipping its melancholy through his thick haori till it chills his very bones.

The sound of the door opening and gentle yet sure footsteps perk his ears. He doesn't need to look to know who it was. (Sanji's steps were just as graceful, but they were heavier. The only other Strawhat with this grace was-.)

"I'm reading a book about soulmates," Robin says, folding her legs beneath her as she sits down. The wisteria of her perfume tickles his nose, sweet and stark against the fresh scent of the rain. He doesn't look away from the downpour. She follows the line of his gaze and does the same.

"I'm not usually one for fiction, but Franky saw fit to buy me something he'd thought I'd like. The fact that he stepped foot in a bookstore at all speaks volumes."

A stabbing pain shoots through him. He loosely knows the crawling heat of envy, and is sure it wasn't for either half of the couple in particular but that thing that they shared.

Robin could be morbid and cruel but Franky makes her laugh. He loosened her grip on the grotesque, brought her down from the icy pedestal of perfection and lets her bare her weaknesses for the crew to see. Franky is a madman, loyal to his family to a fault, a perverted genius. She forces his kindness, literally gripped him by the balls till he dared to share his visions with the world, to use his smarts to help a boy become a king.

(They are two of the most amazing, worst people he has ever met. Separated, they're horrible. If Luffy asked him to cut them down back then, he wouldn't have hesitated. Together, he trusts them with his life. Would give up his own for theirs. They made each other 'good'. Stable enough to act as parents to a genius, teenage reindeer with a knack for sticking his hands in human bodies. Wasn't it funny how fate worked out sometimes?)

"It's an interesting concept isn't it? One soul ripped into two by the gods, doomed to roam this earth for years just searching for their second half..." A red-breasted thrush flutters into the grass before them. It cocked its head at the two, rustling its feathers even as the rain pelts down, unbowed and unbroken under the deluge. Zoro straightens as its beady eyes settle on him.

Wado gives a little shiver.

"It would be easier if we were birds," Robin continues. "How lovely it must be to find someone that's singing the same song as you."

"I don't believe in fairy tales."

She just smiles softly. The rain does not cease. The melody of Wano does not come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days pass. The repairs on the Sunny are nearly complete. Marco the Phoenix flies back to Sphinx. Momonosuke studies hard to become a worthy leader of his beloved country. Hiyori finds him and apologizes. Outwardly, he accepts it with a grunt. Inwardly, he can't help but bluster. He resents her. Just a little bit. Only time and distance could let him overcome the instinctive surge of embarrassment every time he thinks of the incident.

(He wants to set sail. He wants to set sail. He wants to set sail.)

He trains.

He swings his swords and ignores how they no longer sing. Usopp gives him a wide berth after a particularly snappy remark. Nami forces him into bathhouses, thinking the water should 'cool him off'. Chopper fixes his practice-induced injuries but does not reprimand him. Franky keeps asking if he's okay. Robin sends him those knowing glances, saying whatever cryptic words come to her mind in that moment. Luffy says nothing, places the strawhat on his head, and encourages him to nap.

(His eyes stay wide open beneath the brim.)

He does not see Sanji outside of meal times.

He didn't realize he was looking till one day Luffy plucks the hat back, staring deep into his eyes with that rare, serious expression that made him seem years older than he was.

"Try again. Whenever you think you're going the right way, go the opposite."

The air shifts, and the boy grins once more.

"That's what I do whenever I need to find Law! Guys like us can't listen to our heads! What matters is our guts! The stomach is the answer to all our problems!"

As if summoned, the organ in question gives a loud, long rumble. Luffy groans. He flops over, letting his hat cover his face in the exact same position Zoro had been in.

"Please...hurry...Sanji doesn't make extra snacks when he's angry."

As First Mate it was his duty to follow his Captain's orders. He repeats this mantra in his mind, using this justification to steel himself as he plucks his swords from where they lean against the tree, saddles them at his hip, and begins his search.

Sanji was not at the udon shop. Nor was he at Kin'emon's place. He was not drinking tea at O-Tsuru's shop, nor was he aiding the rebuilding efforts at Oden Castle. He was not at the ship. Not flirting with girls at the geisha house.

Zoro keeps searching. He walks until his stomach begins to grumble and even sake can't silence it.

Mt. Atama was the last place he would've checked.

He finds him atop the hill, hidden in the shadow of a cherry blossom tree. He is not alone. Izo and Kiku are at his sides as they had been since the end of the battle.

(They took to each other quick. The gunslinger said the blonde reminded him of someone he used to know. That sitting in the kitchen as he worked calmed him. Sanji laid his hand on his in understanding and showed him how to make mochi.)

Tama and Toko are seated with them. All five wear flowers in their hair, carefully weaved by Tama if the stems scattered around her are any indication. They chatter and laugh, sharing tea and cookies. The cook's face is flushed red from his laughter. Toko is doing a funny dance that brings tears to his eyes. He only laughs harder when the girl drags Izo and his sister to join.

It's mid-spin that the gunslinger senses him approach. A dark, thin brow arches high, frown playing at painted red lips. Zoro waits as the man leans down to whisper to the girls, tugging his sister by her kimono sleeve to give the two some semblance of privacy.

Of course, the group has to pass Zoro on the way. Izo gives him a look that was less of glance and more of a silent threat, but he says nothing, nor does his swift pace falter.

The swordsman begins his silent rapture, ascending the curve of the hill to meet the golden man waiting for him above. The song starts again. He's in the room where its playing. He can hear every plucked string, the reverb and chorus's lively echo.

"What do you want?" Sanji asks. He's no longer laughing. The light in his eyes has gone cold. Zoro doesn't respond as he sits. The winds stirs, blowing through their hair. He smells matcha tea and flames.

They speak at the same time.

"What you saw that day-."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me-."

They stop, take a breath. Zoro tries again.

"She apologized. For, uh..." He coughs, chest suddenly feeling very tight. "She misread the 'signals' I was giving. She told me to apologize to you on her behalf."

He sucks on his lower lip, letting a short 'tch' rip past his teeth as his heart bounces in his throat. Sanji still wasn't looking at him.

"Well, I forgive her. So you can run and tell your little girlfriend that if she wants to keep you here in this tiny country all for herself, she can. You can stay here with her and make little sword-stabbing babies with weird hair and-."

"I don't want to stay here." The blond freezes. Zoro takes a breath. He reminds himself of his Captain's words and jumped to instinct.

"I want to go to sea." The 'with you' goes unsaid but, if they're listening to the same song, then it didn't go unheard.

The cook's hands are shaking. He pulls out his pipe, struggles to pack it tight and light it up. When he manages to take a long drag, the wind gives him the same affectionate consideration it did the first time, plucking the smoke and casting it towards the clouds.

Sanji watched it fly away. Zoro watched him watch it, tracing the firm collarbone and V-shaped sliver of skin with vicious longing tearing at his insides.

"She'll be disappointed."

"I don't care."

He hears a girl's gasped laughter. Wado rattles in her sheath. He unbuckles all three swords and sets them to the side. Then he takes two quick steps up to Sanji, reaches for the man's jaw and tilts it till they're making eye contact.

(His eyes are so, so blue.)

"Are you singing the same song as me?" He asks, because his mind is blank but his gut has a lot of strong opinions. Sanji pulls the pipe from his lips. Sets it aside. Then his expression crinkles into something exasperated and fond all at once.

"Have you been talking to Robin too?"

He was not stopped when he leaned in. There was no one to intervene when he pressed his lips to Sanji's own and relished the soft, little whine that rose to meet him. He's in the room where the song is playing. He can hear every beat of the drum. The chorus of Wano's ghosts sings about adventure, a great battle, victory, and love of their motherland.

The lyrics let him know he is home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zoro isn't a music kind of guy. He's not like Brook, playing ballads to the calm sea at night, hoping a friend living hundreds of nautical miles away was still listening close enough to sing along. He doesn't play jazz records in the middle of the night like Robin. He yells at Nami to shut up when she sings that old Navy song her mom taught her, and grits his teeth when Luffy hums that weird country song he's fond of. He has no interest in Franky and Usopp's loud, radical rock and roll nor Jimbei's strange underwater yodeling.

But he has a favorite song. He listens to it daily. It's in the smack of chopsticks against his palm when he catches them. And in the clatter of a plate of onigiri set on the ground while he's training. He hears it in a loud- nearly violent-argument over a game of jenga and the screams when the Sunny lurches and the entire tower falls over.

He hears it in soft, discreet touches (that never quite manage to miss Robin's hawk-like gaze if her little smirks mean anything) and in the affection hidden behind spat vitriol whenever a certain idiot lays it on too thick with all the compliments to the sea witch.

The lyrics are easy to remember. The trick is convincing the singer to say them.

You see, you can't just rush him into it.

No, you have to make sure his guard is down. Spar with him in the morning after breakfast to make sure he gets any aggressive energy out of his system. Don't interrupt to get sake while he's making dinner.

(If you can't resist your alcoholic tendecies, then at least stick around while you drink instead of walking away. Compliment how his hands move with a knife in them. Mention that the food smells good. Rest your hand against the curve of his ass and place your lips against that spot on his neck just the way he likes. If he laughs and nudges you away with his shoulder, you're in the clear. If he kicks you away, you will not get to hear him sing that night. Try again tomorrow.)

When dinner is done, the dishes are set to dry and the kitchen is clean, linger in the Crow's Nest. Resist the urge to work out. He'll complain if you're sweaty and that's all you'll hear about for the rest of the night. No, instead open up the overhead dome so that the light of the stars comes in through the glass, bathing the room in a pale, silver tinge.

(Allow yourself a swig of sake. Stare up at the thousands of brilliant blazes in the sky and try to remember where he showed you his favorite ones were. Andromeda. Pisces. Draco. Scorpio. Vulpecula. You couldn't find the Ursas. Make a mental note to ask him to point them out again.)

When he clambers over the ladder, pluck the bottle of wine from his hand before he accidentally breaks it.

Sit next to him as he pours himself a glass. You two will drink, whisper in the shadows, point up at the stars and listen to the stories his father told him of old, legendary sailors and the gods. Then, when the alcohol is done for the night and there's a twin flame in your hearts, he will settle his head on your chest.

(This is the most complicated part. Don't fuck it up.)

You can't rush it, but you can't go too slowly otherwise he'll fall asleep. Run your fingers through his hair. Tease him to rile him up (Never, ever mention the V*nsm*k*s). Let him torment you back and respond to his attempts with nothing more than a low grumble of a laugh. Then, when he shifts his weight to look at you, skinny arms like iron bars on either side of your head, let him lean down to kiss you.

Yeah. Let him lean down to kiss you.

It's a power thing. You don't care either way but he likes having that control of the situation. Let him pry your lips open with his tongue. Feel his fingers trace the ridges of the scar slashed across your chest. Groan as his thumb circles a nipple and hiss when he takes your arousal into his fist.

Listen carefully for the song to start. With patience, you'll find it.

The thump-thump-thump of two heartbeats sharing the same tempo. Scratches against the wood as limbs scramble to reposition themselves. Huffs, groans, whimpers, and moans all adding to create a wonderful melody as you thrust into a sweet, tight heat.

Then, if you've played all your cards right, you'll hear him sing.

They lyrics were simple. A hushed, rapid chant of:

'Iloveyou. iloveyou. Iloveyou.'

#ZoSan #ZoSan Fanfic #op fic #One Piece Fic #My Writing #ZoSan Fic #a03 link #zoro x sanji

51 notes · View notes

alicepink-me · 4 years

Text

The New Guardian

Story Summary: Marinette Dupain-Cheng is an adult in the real world, guarding the Miracle Box in Master Fu's place. She's in love with Chat Noir, but refuses to tell him her feelings. New holders appear to fight the duo and shake up their lives. Marinette makes a tough decision about her future as Ladybug.

Chapter 17: A Team Once Again

Tea and glass shards covered the floor. Adrien stared at Marinette as she paled, still not reacting. Her silence was scary. Marinette took a step away to the side, slipping in tea. Adrien darted forward to catch her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Marinette finally blinked, relieving the burning sensation. Adrien stood her up and embraced her in a bear hug.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" He exclaimed, squeezing her tight. Marinette's mouth fell open. "You had me worried." Her eyes watered and her fist balled. "I missed you so much." Adrien let her go with a smile, holding her shoulders.

Marinette's hand shook before jolting up and punching Adrien right in the cheek. He stumbled back, holding his face in pain.

"Ow, ow, ow . . . " Adrien moved his jaw. "Why did you . . . hit me?" He looked up to see tears streaming down Marinette's face. Her fists were tight and she shook with anger. "Woah, wait what's wrong?" Adrien sprung up.

"Why did you do that?" She gritted her teeth, tears falling to the floor. "How could you do that to me?"

"Do wha-"

"This!" Marinette shouted. Her voice broke. "You're Adrien Agreste . . . "

"Is that a problem?" He asked, stepping closer and dodging shards.

"Of course it is." She sobbed. "It can't be you. Anybody but you . . . " Marinette faced her bed and buried her head in the sheets.

Adrien stood next to her. "Well that hurts a bit." He sighed. "I know it's a lot and you just woke up. I probably made a few mistakes in there somewhere. I'm not really sure what I did. I guess I was a little too excited and ended up rushing things, but I'm okay with waiting. I'll wait forever for you." He leaned against the bed. "I'm sorry if I hurt you though. We haven't talked since high school graduation, or at least not without masks, but even then, we hardly know much about each other anymore. And I'm rambling . . . " Adrien looked over, but Marinette still hid her face. Her cries were quieter now. "Who knows what we could've been or what we can be? I think we could be amazing though. After all, we were good friends before."

"That's one of the problems." Marinette lifted her head, staring at the wall. "You always thought I was your friend, but . . . I loved you. I loved you so much, yet I never told you and I just died away with my high school self. I had to move on because you never cared enough to feel the same. It took years and all I realized in that time was that I could never stop. I could never forget my feelings, but I did find someone I loved even more than you and that was Chat Noir. You were always worried for me and always by my side even if I wasn't there for you. Even if I denied your feelings for so long and put you through so much pain, you stayed with me." Marinette sniffled. "I rejected you everyday and never cared to listen. It wasn't your fault, for I was selfish, but I still wanted to blame you. Now . . . I've accepted what I've done. I know I've done you wrong and I can't make up for it. I wish I could fix it, but I can't. And now . . . you had to be both. You had to be both of my loves and both of my heartbreaks. Double the pain and tears . . . "

Adrien blinked, trying to piece together what she had said. Most of it was new and didn't make sense, but he understood some bits and pieces. "I wish I could've heard that long before we met Willow." Marinette let out a giant sigh. "And I'm definitely not mad." He formed a smile. "Even if you ran, you gotta reach the finish at some point. You can finally slow down."

Adrien looked around the room, spotting a box of tissues on one desk. He snatched it before setting them on the bed and grabbing Marinette's arm. He pulled her up before handing her a tissue. She was a little calmer than before and might be able to think straighter.

"Is this okay?" He asked.

Marinette nodded. "I'm all disgusting now." She wiped her face. "My makeup's running." She looked at the cloth. "Leave it to April to dress me like a corpse." Marinette sniffled.

"You look beautiful." Adrien's thumb wiped the last tear from her cheek.

She frowned. "But what I've done . . . is terrible."

"It's not a crime to love someone, Marinette." Adrien stepped closer. "Unless we're both criminals." He grabbed her hand, delicately holding it.

"I'm selfish." Marinette started. "I don't deserve you being here right now. You could've moved on in Paris and found someone better, yet you traveled to Tibet to piece me back together. Why don't you leave? I rejected you before. Why didn't you stop?" She looked up.

"Was I supposed to?" Adrien chuckled, staring at her hand. "And why would I stop now, knowing that you feel the same?"

"Do I have to reject you again?" Marinette's eyes met his. "If I tell you that I don't care about you anymore, will you leave and forget about me? Find a better life?"

Adrien released her hand and moved his to the sides of her face. "Look into my eyes." He commanded. Blue flashed to meet green in an intense gaze. Adrien didn't move. Their minds spoke for them, without either one moving. Their breaths synchronized with each passing second. "Do you love me, Marinette?" He asked soothingly.

"Yes . . . " She muttered.

Adrien jolted forward, pressing his lips against Marinette's. Marinette blinked as her eyes widened. Her hands raised, unsure, before wrapping around Adrien. Adrien smiled in the kiss, turning his head. She felt so warm, yet fragile, and all he wanted was to protect her. He would even if it meant from herself. Their long-awaited kiss was even better than expected. The emotion within it was never ending.

Adrien pulled back, scanning her face. "There's no need for you to put yourself down, Marinette. If you really wish to blame yourself, then all is forgiven." He smiled. "I forgive you, so you should be free. Nothing should hold you back now."

"Thank you." Marinette smiled as she wrapped her arms around Adrien, easing into another hug. "I'm sorry for running." She mumbled against his chest. "I am really glad you're here though."

"I've ran away from many of my problems too, so you're not the only one." Adrien rubbed her back before looking to the wall clock. "Hey let's sit down. We're gonna be here for awhile." Marinette released him before jumped up to the bed. Adrien followed and scooted next to her. "Well since this has been a very interesting reunion and we've figured things out, I should probably tell you what I did after finding your letter."

Marinette looked up to him. "I'm sorry again."

"Stop apologizing." Adrien clutched her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "If I'm telling my story, I should be the only guilty party here."

Marinette nodded. "I told you not to find me, so . . . why did you come looking?"

"You were my first love. How could I not?" He replied. "My feelings for you had never changed, but we weren't kids anymore, so I switched to a more mature approach. I kept our heroic duties more professional than they were before and decided that secrets were better than for me to annoyingly pine after you. It may have seemed as if I moved on, but I only kept my emotions hidden. Once Willow forced you to . . . admit some things, I planned to tell you how I felt, but that never happened because you left."

"I didn't want to believe you had moved on. I always had hope, yet I refused to tell you my own feelings because I didn't deserve you after all those years of rejection." Marinette looked at their hands. "Kind of like fantasizing over an impossibility."

"How impossible is it now?" Adrien kissed her knuckles. "I ran as fast as I could to find where in the world you could be. I wasn't searching for my partner and I wasn't being a good friend. I was rushing to tell you the truth. I couldn't wait any longer." He smiled. "As you know from high school, I dated Kagami for awhile, but we were in search of different futures. When we parted, my feelings for you only strengthened and I never dated again afterwards. I'd only be wasting time if I did."

Marinette took in the information. "But how did you find me? I doubt your feelings guided your way."

"Don't you remember our mini history lessons? Back when we were seventeen and easily distracted?" Adrien asked. "This was a few years after Master Fu relinquished his guardianship over the miraculous to you."

. . .

4 Years Ago:

"Chat Noir, are you even paying attention?" Ladybug slammed her book shut. She sat crisscrossed on a red carpet across from Chat Noir.

The boy stopped moving his hands and stared at her. "I am I swear. There's just this annoying fly."

"Oh believe me, I know the feeling." She rolled her eyes.

"You were saying something about a temple." Chat said.

"The guardians' temple, Master Fu's home and training grounds for hundreds of students." Ladybug retorted. "The most important location from our history and an even greater power compared to us. It's not a rotting memorial, but a sacred ground that we must not forget." She made eye contact with a judgey face. "But I guess you don't really care. Even if you're the one paying for this hotel room we're in right now, you'd still rather joke than take matters seriously."

"Hey, I'd pay for a thousand nights with you in a hotel." Chat smirked.

"Don't waste my time or I won't show up." Ladybug glared. "It's hard enough for us to find a meeting place like this right outside of Paris, but not too far away. We can't speak about this stuff out in the open, let alone carry documents or miraculous books, so this is our best option. Don't waste it."

"Oh come on, I'm sorry." Chat apologized, scratching his head. "I'm just having a hard time concentrating. I mean, why do we have to know all of this history about a fallen temple. It doesn't influence us now."

"Of course it does. We possess their lost power." Ladybug stared at her hand. "As long as we are Ladybug and Chat Noir, we are the leaders of a massive chain of power. Even if I'm the guardian, we are team leaders together when I disperse other miraculous. Our power of creation and destruction is a fatal equilibrium where one cannot live or emit power without the other." She clenched her fist. "And even so, with Master Fu gone . . . I am the only one who knows his story. I must explain to you what he had passed on to me. His influence won't die with me. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon, but . . . if something were to happen . . . I leave it all to you." She looked up and smiled.

"Don't say it like that." Chat scooted forward. "We'll be together forever. No one will take down Paris' unstoppable duo and no way will we give up like that. I'll learn eventually. I promise." He grinned.

. . .

"So you actually paid attention?" Marinette chuckled.

"I may have had a small crush on my teacher, but her lessons were quite educational." Adrien looked up. "I remember her mentioning something about Tibet and even though it was a long shot, I decided to find the place."

"And then you found me on trial for a bunch of stupid "crimes" agreed on by every hateful elder." She nodded.

"Actually no." He denied. "I found your dorm room first and I had a perfect plan set up to win you over, but then your doppelganger popped in to ruin it all. She even tried to kiss me, so I had to get rid of her first."

"Wait, what?" Marinette turned sideways. "A doppelganger? Did you have a really vivid dream or something? What are you talking about?"

"No, there was actually a girl here and she was pretending to be you. I, being the genius I am, saw right through her and denied her advances." Adrien announced.

"But you've fallen for so many fake Ladybugs in the past?" Marinette laughed. "I don't even know who could impersonate me like that."

"Some girl named Priya." Adrien shrugged.

"Priya?" Marinette growled, pounding her fist. "Oh I have some words for that little-"

"Okay, calm down." Adrien consoled. "She was dealt with already."

"How? I hope it was painful."

He nodded. "Well you have a really, really scary roommate."

"I know, but what did April do?"

"I'm not entirely sure. She was more infuriated that so many people were in her room, but before I even blinked, the other girl was gone and my head was under April's boot." Adrien's eyes widened. "She threatened to kill me if I didn't talk fast enough and practically spoke flames. April is terrifying, so I obviously told her everything. She clued me in on some details she learned from Priya and that was that. Afterwards, we went to find you. We gathered a few allies who we knew would stand with us on your side and formed a plan."

"Then you found and fought for me." Marinette smiled. "And I'm a hot mess." She sighed.

"You're not wrong."

"Hey!" Marinette punched his arm.

"I'm just agreeing with you." He defended.

"After all I've been through, this day needs to be over." Marinette brushed her hair back, touching over her earrings. Both were still there. Marinette's eyes widened. "The Miracle Box . . . " Marinette jumped off the bed and ran to her closet, slamming open the doors. She saw her usual pile of clothes and tore it apart, revealing the old phonograph. Marinette sighed in relief. "It's still here." She smiled. "Everything's where it should be."

Adrien hopped of the bed and moved behind her. "I haven't seen that in awhile." He chuckled.

Marinette grinned and spun around on her toes, grabbing Adrien's face before smashing her lips to his. She wrapped her arms around him, turning her head. Adrien squeezed her back.

Marinette released him. "I've been waiting years for that kiss."

"What about earlier?" Adrien smiled. "I'm pretty sure that was real."

"I was bawling my eyes out before." Marinette replied.

"Oh aren't you two cute." April said, startling them. The couple faced her, both wide-eyed. April sipped her smoothie, eyes scanning the room. "Clearly something went down by the looks of all the glass shards on the floor."

"That was me." Marinette admitted.

"I leave you two to work things out and you trash the room. Fantastic." April raised her eyebrows.

"I'll clean it up." Adrien held his hands up. "Calm down."

April's eye twitched. "Calm down?"

"I didn't mean it like that." Adrien said.

April strutted forward, her heeled boots pounding. "This is my room. Don't-"

"Okay, okay!" Marinette stepped between them, a hand in front of each of their faces. "We don't need to fight. I'll clean everything up and now that things are settled . . . we won't be here long."

April glared. "Great, you two have worked things out. Now can you leave?" Her demonic stare switched to Adrien.

"I live here too." Marinette said.

"I meant him." She looked disgusted as her eyes scanned him. "The cat."

"Where am I supposed to go?" Adrien asked, crossing his arms. "I don't actually attend this academy."

"Did you think you were staying in here? Sleep in the hall like before." April suggested.

"April." Marinette said.

"Oh don't worry." She rolled her eyes. "The last thing I want is a sad kitten on my doorstep, begging to be let in." April slurped her smoothie. "I arranged for you to stay in my friend Xavier's room. He doesn't have a roommate, so there's space for you to irritate him and not us."

"There's that charm." Marinette laughed.

April dug in her pocket before tossing a key. "There. You're all set to go." She opened the door wide.

Adrien looked at Marinette. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"You better." She smiled.

#miraculous ladybug #MIRACULOUS: TALES OF LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR #marinette dupain cheng #Adrien agreste #miraculous #ladybug #chat noir #alice pink #alicepink-me #the new guardian #fanfiction

4 notes · View notes

hungline · 5 years

Text

familiar to me as the sun

pairings: jihope, side vmon and jinkook genre: fluff, angst, fantasy au, rated t warnings: blood, minor character deaths words: 3436

summary: It has always just been Jimin and Hoseok, ever since the beginning.

⇢ part one of jihope bingo 2017

When Jimin wandered off into the surrounding woods near his home at age four, Hoseok and his father found the crying toddler struggling to disentangle himself from a bush.

He was a tiny thing, shorter than half of Hoseok’s own height, but he was loud and he was also noticeable. Hoseok watched as his father bent down to whisper something to the shrubbery and wasn’t surprised when Jimin was spat out of its depths soon afterward.

Jimin’s face was red and splotchy and there was snot dribbling from his nose, but Hoseok could only stare at the splatter of blood that covered the boy’s clothes and most of his face.

It wasn’t his own, Hoseok could tell that it wasn’t.

The scent of magic lingered with the tangy iron smell that shrouded Jimin and it revolted Hoseok because the familiar part of him screamed that magical blood was sacred, yet Jimin was covered in it.

Hoseok’s father wordlessly held his hand out for the blanket in Hoseok’s knapsack and Hoseok obediently handed it over. The fae swaddled Jimin up in it then pulled the sniveling toddler into his arms, being careful to not let any part of him touch the dried blood on Jimin’s neck and chin.

Hoseok scrunched his nose at the odor, but followed after his father when the fae began to walk off in the direction that Jimin had come running from. He could pick up the trail through his familiar sense of smell. The same sense of smell that made him want to gag with one whiff of the blood covering Jimin.

The fae would occasionally let his hand drift over the trunks of a nearby tree and adjust his path. Hoseok kept silent and merely walked alongside his father, being careful to not collide into any trees while he side-eyed the toddler in his father’s arms. The boy wasn’t crying anymore. Instead, he kept murmuring something that sounded an awful lot like “mommy.” Hoseok wanted to pat him on the head and tell him everything was fine and he would be back with his mother soon, but Jimin being covered in blood told him that wouldn’t be the right thing to say.

So Hoseok stayed quiet, talking with his eyes alone as the little boy in his father’s arms finally met his gaze. Hoseok felt his fingertips tingle and a low hum began to sing in his bloodーhis fae blood to be exact. A trail of flowers bloomed ahead of him as his underdeveloped fae magic came to life and Hoseok’s father stopped in his tracks as he looked down towards the children.

Hoseok’s hair was curling and uncurling, his face was turning pink, and if Hoseok’s father squinted just a little bit, he would have seen that the whites of Hoseok’s eyes were tinted a very light green. Jimin’s hand was clenched into the fae’s shirt, his eyes blown wide and his small mouth hanging open. Both of the boys were in shock and although Hoseok’s father knew what had just happened, he merely sighed and continued to follow Jimin’s earlier path, being careful to not tread on the flowers that his son had made.

Hoseok stood unblinking for a few moments before he lurched forward and skipped after his father, the tips of his ears a bit sore and his blood thrumming through his veins. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the dark-haired toddler in his father’s arms. He almost didn’t realize it when they stepped into a clearing where a damaged cottage stood.

But his nose picked up the scent of rotting flesh and spilled magical blood and Hoseok found himself retching into the grass. He heaved again, his stomach in pain and particularly empty until his father’s soothing hand was placed on his back. Hoseok felt the thrum of magic in his father’s touch and he embraced it. He allowed the magic to settle within his bones and calm his churning stomach until the nausea eventually drifted away. Hoseok looked up to murmur a small thank you to his father until he noticed that Jimin was being set down beside him.

“Hobi, look after the boy. I’m going to go inside. If I don’t come out in five minutes, or you hear anything suspicious, you take him and you run. Run as fast as you can and don’t look back, but do not leave him behind. Do you understand?” Hoseok’s father’s tone was urgent and rushed and Hoseok understood the gravity of his father’s orders.

He nodded his head. “Okay, appa. I won’t leave him.”

His father leaned forward to brush his lips across Hoseok’s forehead and Hoseok let his fingers rub at the tip of his father’s ear.

When Hoseok’s father drew away, Hoseok whispered, “For luck.”

The fae ruffled his hair and turned towards Jimin.

“I’m going inside to get your things. You’re going to come live with us now, okay?” The fae made sure to keep his voice low and smooth, so as to not startle the young child.

Jimin blinked up at him and nodded, too afraid to speak in case he cried again. Hoseok’s father handed Hoseok a rag and wet it using water from his canteen before he notched his head in Jimin’s direction. Hoseok merely nodded his head again and scooted closer towards the toddler beside him to start cleaning his face. The fae stood and sprinted towards the cottage, cautiously looking around before he ducked under the slanting doorway.

Hoseok tenderly dabbed at the dried blood on Jimin’s chin, tongue between his teeth in concentration. He didn’t see the way Jimin was looking at him, but he felt it all the same anyways.

“Are y-you a fae?”

Hoseok almost wanted to giggle. The boy’s voice was so soft and so high and it made a blush rise to his cheeks as he thought about whether the boy was actually as soft as his voice.

“No,” Hoseok replied because technically, he wasn’t. He was only half.

“But youー” Jimin struggled to find the right words.

Hoseok arched a brow up in question and felt his hand grip the younger boy’s chin so he could get all the blood off. “What? Do you mean the flowers?”

His blood was thrumming in his veins again and Hoseok was mildly surprised when more flowers began to bloom around the pair.

“Mm,” Jimin hummed, his bottom lip between his teeth and his tiny hands reaching for a few of the buds.

“I’m only half-fae. My mother is a familiar, but my dad,” Hoseok threw a thumb over his shoulder in what he hoped was the direction of the cottage, “He’s a fae.”

“Are you a fa-familiar then?” Hoseok thought it was cute how Jimin struggled over forming his words correctly.

“No. I’m both.”

Jimin hummed again as if that answered everything and left no room for further questions.

“What’s your name?”

Hoseok smiled. “Jung Hoseok. And you?”

Jimin’s answering smile was one of the cutest things Hoseok had ever seen. “Park Jimin.”

“Cute,” Hoseok cooed.

Jimin stuck his tongue out at Hoseok and wrinkled his nose when the elder drew his hand away from Jimin’s chin, the blood gone from his face, but the stench of magic still lingering.

Hoseok was on the verge of saying something else when his father came bursting out of the cottage. In his arms was a ratty blanket tied together to keep the things held in it from falling out. His father’s face was a bit green, but the look on his face made the hairs on the back of Hoseok’s neck stand on end.

He knew what his father had found in the cottage. The fae reeked of death and magical blood.

Jimin was pulled into the fae’s arms again and Hoseok found himself holding the tied blanket as they walked back into the forest, leaving the damaged cottage behind them. Jimin stared over the fae’s shoulders, his little face somber and his gaze glued to Hoseok’s. Hoseok made silly faces at him to try and get a laugh out of the toddler, but the most he got was a tiny amused, smile.

When the three made it home, Hoseok’s mother bathed, fed, and clothed Jimin as efficiently and smoothly as she could. No one said it, but everyone knew why Jimin had fled the cottage, covered in blood and crying for his mother. Hoseok said nothing as Jimin held on a little too tightly to the front of his mother’s shirt when she clutched him to her chest that night, rocking him to sleep.

Hoseok wasn’t surprised to find the toddler tangled up with him in the sheets of his own bed when he woke up the next morning. The scent of Jimin’s clean skin overpowered the lingering stench of blood from the day before and Hoseok allowed the younger to nestle himself into Hoseok’s arms, feeling warm all around.

They never left each other’s sides after that.

When Jimin began presenting at age eight, Hoseok didn't think anything of it.

Hoseok had always expected for Jimin to become a warlock. Jimin’s mother had been one and his father had probably been a familiar like Hoseok’s mother, so it was only natural that Jimin would present as a warlock too. Jimin may have been able to make flowers bloom at will, but Hoseok had been doing that ever since they first met. It was fine though, Jimin was only just developing and Hoseok, even as a child, understood what that would mean.

It would mean that Hoseok would, in fact, be serving Jimin as his familiar once they bound their magic together. Most people would think Hoseok as Jimin’s slave, because a warlock had complete control over their bound familiar, but Hoseok knew better. A bound familiar and their mage would be able to exchange levels of magic between one another. However, only familiars were able to drain their mage completely of magic, a mage wasn’t allowed that kind of power over their familiars.

Hoseok knew that he and Jimin would never use the magic binding against each other though. They were best friends and made for one another. Hoseok didn’t need to worry because Jimin was still just Hoseok’s Jimbles. The same dark-haired boy he shared a bed with during thunderstorms, ate every meal with, swapped clothes with and played catch with everyday from late morning to sundown. There were no differences in the way that Jimin treated him once he began presenting. He was still as bashful and as considerate as ever and he was still Hoseok’s best friend.

The only thing that changed was Jimin had to go to a “special school” for special people like him.

They played catch whenever Jimin wasn’t in class.

When Jimin turned ten, Hoseok’s ears began to grow in.

His mother was ecstatic about it. Hoseok, however, was not.

The other children in the village mocked him. They called him many names (freak, weirdo, half-breed), but Hoseok made sure to not let on how much their words hurt him. His father had told him that to show weakness in the face of the enemy was as close to surrendering as the actual act itself and Hoseok refused to surrender. Especially not to dirty-faced eleven-year-olds who never wore shoes when they went out. Hoseok didn’t think himself better than anybody, but he knew that he would never let what the village children say about him affect him. He still had Jimin anyways and that was enough.

Jimin teased him about his ears sometimes, but Hoseok didn't take offense, not like he would have had it been anyone else teasing him.

Because it was still just his Jiminnie. The sweet, giggly, and fun warlock-in-training who was his best friend. Hoseok would blush whenever Jimin would touch his ears and soon enough, the younger boy picked up a habit of playing with them, often claiming that he was only helping the elder out.

Hoseok knew Jimin was just using that as an excuse to see the blush on his face whenever the warlock touched him.

They kept to themselves whenever they went around the village on most days then.

When Jimin turned twelve, he asked Hoseok to give him his first kiss.

Hoseok, as the most amazing best friend he was, obliged. When they broke apart, Hoseok felt incredibly giddy and Jimin yelped when Hoseok turned into an ocelot.

Jimin rushed them home, with the feline clutched to his chest, and had to be calmed down by Hoseok’s mother when she talked them through the process of Hoseok changing back into his human form. Eventually, a tall, lanky, and brown-haired teenager was beside Jimin again and the young warlock threw himself into Hoseok’s arms, begging him to not do that again, without fair warning at least.

Hoseok’s familiar form had been revealed though and sometimes Jimin couldn’t help but describe some of the elder’s actions as cat-like. Hoseok would stick his tongue out at Jimin whenever he did and Jimin would laugh and ruffle Hoseok’s hair in response. Their play fighting would end with soft, clumsy kisses and smiles being pressed into each other’s skin.

The two never looked back.

They held hands whenever they went out.

When Jimin graduated from his “special school”, he was fourteen.

Hoseok urged him to continue on to a more advanced school where the young warlock could really harness and hone his skills. Jimin avoided talk about continuing his education, he wanted to spend more time with Hoseok before he made any decisions about his future.

Hoseok’s father made the decision for Jimin instead.

It was on his deathbed that the old fae pleaded with Jimin to further his education and really master his magic. Jimin stood with tears in his eyes before the only father that he’d ever known. Hoseok was crying silently beside him, he’d always been right beside Jimin though, and in the last few moments before Hoseok’s father took his final breaths, he blessed them both with the remainder of his fae magic.

Hoseok felt his ears finish setting and his hair curl and a low thrumming began to sound from deep within him, but the feeling of Jimin’s fingers curled tightly within his hand, helped him settle. Jimin was glowing, a light green aura surrounding his figure, and his eyes shown much brighter than before and Hoseok knew that he was in love.

“With my blessing, you must promise to hold each other dearly,” Hoseok’s father spoke, his voice low and raspy. “You both know as well as I do that you were made for one another.”

All either of the two boys could do was nod. They’d learned about the real meaning of their reactions to one another when they first met years ago. Jimin’s nature magic had called to Hoseok’s fae blood and awoken it. Hoseok’s fae blood, in turn, had helped Jimin’s nature magic blossom. Together, they were powerful and Hoseok felt that power like an undercurrent singing through his veins, his airways, his everything.

“Jimin-ah, I want you to do this old man proud and really master your magic. Shiyuk is an old friend of mine, and he would love to have you at his school. Jimin-ah, don’t let your talent whither. Hobi-ah will still be here when you get back,” Hoseok’s father advised, his breathing becoming more labored as he spoke.

“But you won’t.” Jimin’s voice was wobbly and frail, but the squeeze of Hoseok’s hand let him draw strength to continue. “I don’t want you to leave us.”

Hoseok nodded, unable to speak because he knew that if he did, he would only start wailing loud enough to wake up the entire village. Hoseok’s father smiled at them both and held his liver-spotted hands out for the boys to take. They eagerly slid their hands into his and brought themselves closer to the old fae.

“You have each other. You’ll always have each other and it’s peaceful knowing you’ll protect each other when I’m not here anymore. It makes it easier to accept my death.”

“We don’t want you to die,” Jimin mumbled, tears streaming down his face again as he looked at the old silver-haired fae who’d taught him so many things. “We love you.”

Jimin was beyond grateful for everything the fae had ever done for him. He could never repay the fae for all the things he’d done, but if furthering his education was his dying wish, then Jimin would do it. Even if it meant he’d get less time with Hoseok, he would do it.

Jimin would do anything to make his father proud.

Hoseok sniffled beside him and laid his palm flat on the old fae’s chest, speaking an incantation that Jimin learned later was a blessing to ensure that a dying fae’s spirit would remain free once it was released from its shell. The old fae smiled at the pair and took one last deep breath.

His eyes glazed over and Jimin almost didn’t have the heart in him to call Hoseok’s mother back into the room. Hoseok squeezed his hand and opened the door softly, using his eyes alone to convey to his mother what had happened.

They held each other tightly through the night.

When Jimin mastered his nature magic at age eighteen, he came back to Hoseok.

They kissed and clung to each other before they began making plans to find a coven for Jimin. Hoseok’s mother watched on and gave advice where she could, her fingers often running through one, if not both, of the men’s hair. She wasn’t as sad to see them off as she thought she might have been, but when she looked at the soft gazes exchanged between the two men, she couldn’t find it in herself to be upset about their leaving.

Hoseok’s fae cousin, Taehyung, offered them a nice hut in his realm of the forest.

Hoseok declined on their behalf.

Taehyung then suggested that they go and live with his boyfriend’s coven instead. Namjoon was an intelligent wizard and his coven was a mix of music and nature magic combined.

Hoseok gave him a maybe. Jimin sent him a definite yes.

They spent their last night in their childhood home tangled together in the sheets of Hoseok’s bed as they had on their first night spent together.

When Jimin turned nineteen, he found his coven.

Namjoon, Jeongguk, and Seokjin welcomed the two with open arms. Hoseok was ecstatic about having his own room and laughed when Jimin pouted at him. Hoseok gave him a noisy smooch on the lips and followed Seokjin up the stairs where his new bedroom awaited him.

Jimin followed Namjoon and Jeongguk into the greenhouse and watched in fascination as Seokjin and Jeongguk’s plants bloomed to meet him. Namjoon himself specialized in music magic and he worked with Jeongguk and Seokjin together sometimes to make natural remedies. Many people of the village came to them when they took ill.

They never charged for their services either. Jeongguk explained that it felt wrong to ask the villagers to pay to get better. Plus, Seokjin would kill Jeongguk if he found that his warlock had sold their plants. Seokjin was a familiar like Hoseok, but his form was that of a hawk. He liked plants and his heart was soft, and it was clear to Jimin that Jeongguk cared deeply about his familiar.

Jimin felt his heart swell. He could sense Hoseok entering the greenhouse behind him and almost laughed when he saw a few plants attach themselves to Jimin’s other half. Seokjin giggled and asked Jeongguk to help him put their plants away, but all Jimin could focus on were the sweet words that Hoseok was whispering to the plants in an attempt to free himself from them. Hoseok eventually gave up and waited for Namjoon to help him. When he was free, Jimin strode up to him, took his face in his hands and kissed him tenderly.

Seokjin said they were worse than Taehyung and Namjoon. Hoseok claimed they were the cutest couple hands down. Jimin laughed and agreed, laughing even harder when Jeongguk pouted and argued that he and Seokjin were cuter. Seokjin smiled down at his warlock and kissed his cheek, causing everyone to laugh at Jeongguk's flushed and embarrassed expression. Hoseok took Jimin's hand in his and leaned into the younger's side, nestling himself there as if he never wanted to be apart. Jimin felt that he could agree with that.

They were home, for once and for all.

#jihope #networkjihope #btssunshinenet #bangtan bookclub #kwordsmiths #prettyboysnetwork #btsguild #betareadernet #bts #fluff #angst #p:hoseok/jimin #f:ftmats #s:jhb17 #m: fic

17 notes · View notes

just-french-me-up · 7 years

Text

Take my Hand and I’ll Light the Way

Can you believe wonderful @mariuspondmercy shares her birthday with that indie author who wrote a couple of unknown books, loved to complain about the monarchy and didn’t give his characters first names?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PIA!!! MAY YOU HAVE THE BEST DAY EVER ♥ Starting with a little Marisette ficlet that may have you teeth rotting up to the root ♥

"Maybe it's not too late to back out now, right? It was a terrible idea, you know it, I know it, let's just call the whole thing off."

Courfeyrac gave a vicious tug at Marius' bowtie, reducing him to silence. He had been trying to fix the damn thing for five minutes now, but to no avail. If Marius was completely honest with himself, his constant squirming and fidgeting was not helping.

"It's going to be absolutely perfect," Courfeyrac said confidently. "Real romantic. She'll love it. You just need to be smooth and dreamy."

"Experience has made it abundantly clear that it isn't something I can do, Courf," Marius protested, his tone somewhere between mild exasperation and utter distress. "I can't do what you do!"

"Nonsense!"

Courfeyrac's hands went from Marius' bowtie to his suspenders, stretching the straps. "Dress classy," he had said, which, in Courfeyrac's vocabulary, meant anything from a five thousand euro suit to black crocs. When in doubt, Marius had done was he always did and opted for a white shirt, bowtie, and suspenders. That was classy, right? RIGHT?

"Listen," Courfeyrac started, letting go of the straps and subsequently hitting Marius' nipples at full speed.

"Ouch!"

"Shit, sorry! Listen, Marius, honestly, this is perfect. You've thought the whole thing through. There's no way Cosette isn't going to like it. And if everything goes wrong, who cares? She still loves you! She's not going to break off the engagement or anything."

Marius' heart started pounding at the prospect. His palms were getting sweaty and his throat was dry already!

"Oh god! What if she breaks the engagement?"

Two steady hands fell on his shoulders, grounding him.

"She won't, okay? It's going to be fine. You know where to find me if it doesn't."

Oh, Marius knew alright. Suddenly, the thought of Courfeyrac hiding behind the bushes and sexting Combeferre broke the whole decorum he was trying to create. What would people say if they caught a twenty-something in the bushes armed with a handful of lanterns and matches? No, no, he couldn't afford to think about that. Cosette. Cosette was what was important.

The sun was just vanishing behind the trees in an explosion of reds and oranges when Cosette arrived. Everything had been meticulously prepared, from the candles on the grass to the spot Marius had chosen: Jardins du Luxembourg, right next to the big oak tree where he had seen Cosette for the first time. Cosette had proposed there, too. It was something of a sacred place to him. Had he been keener on vandalism (and less scared of getting caught), he would have carved their initials on the trunk.

Cosette, as was often the case, was radiant in her pink polka-dot vintage dress. Marius' heart leaped in his chest, as though it was trying to get closer to her. Smooth and dreamy, he reminded himself.

"Happy birthday, mon amour," he said, as Cosette was gazing at the display in delighted wonderment. A second later, she was in his arms, covering his face with kisses.

"Oh my, Marius! Did you do all that?"

"With a bit of help. I just wanted to make it special."

I liked that, making things special. Cosette wound her arms around his, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"This is plenty special."

Quickly, the sky faded from orange to pink, from pink to purple, and stars started winking at them. Lying on a blanket, their lips still tasting of champagne, Cosette and Marius were looking at them, trying to spot constellations and shapes amidst the lights.

"How was the cake?" Marius asked.

Work had kept him away from the birthday party. That'd teach him to agree to work on Sundays. But in a way, being alone together was better. Calmer.

"Divine. I saved you a slice. It's waiting for you in the fridge, if Gavroche hasn't already eaten the whole thing."

"Strawberry cheesecake?"

"Strawberry cheesecake," Cosette confirmed.

"Then I'm afraid that slice is already in Gavroche's bottomless stomach," Marius giggled.

The boy ate like six and had a mean sweet tooth. Present him with a cake, and said cake will be sure be devoured, indigestion be damned. Marius buried his cheek in the crook of Cosette's neck, gazing at the stars some more. All the myths he didn't know, he could invent. He could link two stars, and make up a story about them. Maybe those two would tell the tale of two people who loved each other, and who did so so much that their love was pinned in the sky, for everyone to see.

A warm light joined that of the stars, floating in the air like a flame carefully away from the leaves. One lantern rose, then two, then three. Cosette sat up, letting out a small gasp.

"Marius, look!"

She pointed at the lanterns, but Marius looked at her instead, and the bright light shining in her eyes.

"It's so beautiful! It's just like in―"

"Rapunzel. Your favourite. I know."

Cosette covered her mouth with her hands, and the light welled up in her eyes until it rolled down her cheeks. A second later, she cupped Marius' jaw and pulled him fiercely into a kiss, leaning all her weight against him. Every kiss felt like a first kiss, though each one had its own variation.This one had a hint of salt, but it was the sweetness of it that overwhelmed Marius. He almost fell backwards from Cosette's ardour.

"So you like it?" he asked as soon as their lips parted, his breathing somewhat short.

Cosette let out a bright chuckle and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She looked up, her chin pointed at the sky towards the lanterns.

"I love it, of course I love it! Oh Marius..."

"Happy birthday," he said for the second time, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. A year from now, they'd be married. A year from now, they'd come back here as different people, yet the same. They would grow together as people, during that year. The future was exciting, for once. Not scary, as it had often been the case for Marius, but something to look forward to.

He was, after all, in good company with Cosette by his side.

#les miserables #les amis #marius #cosette #marisette #marius pontmercy #marius/cosette #mine #written stuff #les mis #HAPPY BIRTHDAAAAYYYYY ♥♥♥#YOU DESERVE EEVERYTHING IN THE WORLD ♥♥#I HOPE YOU LIKE IT ♥#I may have gone overboard with the fluff on this #naaaah there's no such thing #have a wonderful day ♥

33 notes · View notes