Plucked at Midwinter [Yandere Winter Spirit x Reader]
Title: Plucked at Midwinter [Yandere Winter Spirit x Reader]
Synopsis: What's in a name, anyway? The winter spirit reveals a name to his sweet, his darling, his dear.
Word count: 700ish
notes: yandere, nothing else really
“What’s your name?”
He hums, first. His hum is low as frost and the laughter that bursts forth is tossed into the wind, drifting.
“A name, my sweet?” His breath puffs, as yours does, but sometimes you think it’s only for sure. “I’ve been called many things by many people–and many not-so-people”
You ought to take his answer for what it is. A sidestep, a riddle to settle into your stomach. But instead you draw your furs in closer, and press on.
“What names?”
He laughed, before, but now his smile takes on a twitch.
“My lovely, my dear… what names would you like to call me?” He claps, then, surely planning a game that would keep you occupied for hours.
It’s best to think carefully when he does this–and so you do. You draw those beautiful furs, dead and yet warm, in closer and set your face as passive as you can.
“What names?”
He might have been mad. He might have huffed and said you’re spoiling the fun, being too nosy. He didn’t–he doesn’t.
Instead–
He coos at you.
And oh, if his hum is frost, then his coo is the sound of crunching snow. Pleasant and crisp and breaking the silence of the forest. Yet underneath the sound of your own footsteps, behind the trees, is another set that you never see.
Then–he lists the names. Names that mean oh-so-many things. Names that mean frozen and death and hunger; names that make you think of the wailing of parents, the bleating of dying cows in the field.
Despite the fur, you shiver, and he blinks at you. What ice might be in his eyes crackles deeper blue and recedes, for a moment.
“Ah, but sweetling, I frighten you with these. I have some that are nicer, if you please…” And he continues, lighter, leaning back on the snow bank and digging his hands into the fresh white cold.
Now, he tells you names that don’t make you shudder. Names that mean the first fallen snow of the winter, the unique pattern of a snowflake, and a name you’re certain describes the way snow sparkles in the morning.
Names, names, so many names. He rattles them off so easily. But which one is truly his, which one is right? Perhaps you have it all wrong, perhaps he has no one name, but the one for a moment.
“Today,” you insist. “Today… now… for me, what is your name?
At this, then, he finally looks at you with something in his face that reminds you of how old he is–that he is not a human being, and never was, and never will be.
“For you…” He tips his head back, snowflakes from a hundred winters ago frozen on the lashes, and stares up at the snow-coated branches above.
“Eirlys,” he says, perhaps–are you imagining it?--with hesitation. Then again, firmer. “Yes. That one is pleasant. Though it was last given ages ago.”
Eirlys–a snowdrop, then.
You let your furs sag, cold seeping around the edges, and he snorts out a smile at your vague gesture of supplication.
“Who gave you that name?” You ask, and this time, it’s all right if he decides to change the subject.
He doesn’t. Instead, he digs into the snow, disturbing the glistening white until he’s at the dull mounds of brown earth. Rooting around for something that you don’t see.
“A sweet thing,” he says, mildly. “A sweet thing who picked flowers at my doorstep–always late, I think, when I was perhaps ready to leave–and left me gifts in return.” He closes his eyes, remembering, then nods. “Trinkets, always. Silly things from a silly thing. But they were kindly meant.”
He does not say–the name was, too–but you hear it anyway and tuck it into your memory.
“Thank you,” you tell him, when there is nothing left to ask. “I… wanted to know more about you, I suppose.”
He opens his eyes and suddenly taps your reddening nose; the dirt from underneath his fingernails offering a glimpse of the fresh pungence of spring to come. Though it won’t come for you.
“Oh, dearest–oh sweetest.” His cold fingers tuck hair–and something else–behind your ear before he rises, brushing snow off his clothing. “Shall we move on?” He offers his hand as he has so many times before, and as so many times before, you take it.
It’s only when you begin to walk, warm clothing brushing aside the winter chills that come with the breeze, that you feel behind your ear; to see what he left there, a gift, with the dirt and snow on his nails.
Of course–
A snowflower bud, white and pretty; unbloomed, kept hidden underneath the snow.
“ma says there’s an angel in the creek out behind old mr. henry’s shack. she saw it when she was seven years old, playing by herself while her pa helped mr. henry with his hay bales: sliced her bare foot open on a jagged rock, and the angel swam towards the blood in the water.
ma looked right into the angel’s six blind eyes and asked him, “how come you’re down here, sleepin’ in the mud, when you could be up in heaven, plantin’ sunflowers for god?” his wings were like a dragonfly’s, transparent and glimmerin’, and his halo was a ring of algae. the angel grinned, three rows of sharp teeth, and said, “girlie, god has plans for the bluegills too.”
Keaton St. James
(My favourite piece of prose ~ HAPPY EARTH DAY! 🌲)
the parallel between "you know the greatest films of all time were never made" and "you knew the hero died so what's the movie for" that begin and end this album..... absolute brilliance. like we start with the lightheartedly optimistic what-if of a relationship, of a life that only exists in your imagination, and it's easy to believe it could have been the greatest story ever told, because it's abstract. it's fantasy. and then we end on hoax, which is all about the difficult realities of life and love, a story that is very much real and full of challenges and a lot more hurt than you bargained for. and you know how it ends. you know it won't be the fantasy you've created in your head time and time again before. there's no escaping the truth of a losing battle, and yet now that you have this, suddenly the fantasy doesn't hold much weight anymore. "no other sadness in the world would do", no parallel universe is worth this one where things are flawed but yours. what is it for? nothing. it's just life. an imperfect reality that is worth a thousand perfect dreams.
summary: drabble based on the taylor swift song ‘august’
word count: 860
taglist: @clockworkherondale @accio-rogers @mayorofzillyhoo @diademofdraco @drawlfoy @eltanin-malfoy @acciodracoo @socontagiousimagines @ladybuginthetardis @silversslytherin @lushlavenderskies @chrisevansgirl @yosoymuyloca @ncxtyncxty @hello-lemons @shawn-is-bruh @lilyreachelcassidy @missmulti @aestheticweasleys @dracomqlfoy @silentexplorer18 @trashysara @enmorada-a @annalahey @lupinsx @1985mileven @ladybuginthetardis @bored-and-bothered @heavenlycat567 @cleopatera @nkjktk
◈◈◈
You laid on your back, eyes closed, listening to the gentle rocking of your ceiling fan as it spun above you. With every rotation it gave a click, where it was loose on the ceiling, and the highest setting was a little too powerful to be totally safe anymore, but it was too fucking hot for anything less.
Sweat was beading on your hairline despite it.
RRRRIIIIIIIIIIIING!
Your perspiration immediately increased tenfold, and you lept from the bed to sprint into the kitchen. ”I’ll get it!” You’d snatched the phone off the hook before it had even had the chance to ring a second time. “Hello?” you answer breathlessly.
“Y/N? It’s Draco.” His voice crackled over the phone line, but was as intoxicating as ever.
“It’s me.”
“Are you busy?”
“Nope.” A little eager. But maybe you don’t care.
“Meet me behind the mall in fifteen minutes?”
“Okay.”
Your pushing leg is hurting from your fastest skateboard ride to date. The breeze you generated felt cool while you were riding, but now that you’ve stopped you feel the burning in your calf and the heat of exertion spreading across your body. Or is it something else? Draco doesn’t seem to notice either way, thankfully, as you tangle in the backseat of his car.
You remember the terrible knot you’d gotten in your stomach the first time this had happened. It was an accident, honest. You’d been skating at the mall, and Draco had been escaping his house, and one thing led to a four hour conversation and nearly ended when you’d asked, “Are you sure?”
Maybe it wasn’t an accident.
The second time wasn’t. Or the third. Or whatever time this was.
༄
“Will you call when you’re back at school?” You ask one day.
Draco props himself up on his elbows, twisting the bed sheets up even more so he can brush your hair out of your face. Your ceiling fan dutifully clicks above you. “Maybe. Do you want me to?’
“It’d be nice to not be totally forgotten.”
Draco just bends down and presses a hot kiss below your collarbone. “You should come to the beach tonight.”
“But won’t Inez be there?” The familiar knot in your stomach is back.
Draco shrugs. “So?”
“So, she has a big mouth.” You watch the fan. Click. Click. Click.
Draco moves up to your ear. “Maybe you’ll just have to learn to keep your hands to yourself.” He breathes.
Half an hour later, Draco’s slipping out your bedroom window after your mom comes home early. You’ll just have to wait until later to steal more wine out of the cabinet, then.
༄
Later, your backpack is heavy as you skate down the street, illuminated by the streetlights. Spanish moss hangs low across the road, and in some places on the sidewalk you can reach up and touch it. The street lights give way to moonlight as you turn onto the road to the beach. In the distance, you can see the bonfire on the sand.
When you finally reach the dunes above where everyone is, you linger, peering between the sea oats. Inez is near Draco, sitting close on the sand. You don’t understand why he invites you if he’s going to act like this. Shaking your head, you go back to the pavement and keep skating.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, you have to remind yourself.
The street dead-ends, and you have to turn back around. For some stupid reason. You skate past the stretch of beach again instead of turning onto another road. By the time you come back, the fire is just coals, and the beach is empty.
The sand is cool under your toes. You stare at the orange remnants of the fire, and start to tear up. Stupid. Why do you even care? You wouldn’t have wanted to be there if Inez was anyways.
But he did.
“You skate barefoot?”
Draco’s voice makes you jump. You blink rapidly to clear your eyes and turn around. “In the summer. It’s nice to go barefoot at night.”
“Don’t your feet hurt?”
“Not after a while.”
You throw your bag and your board down by the fire, and head towards the surf. Draco follows. “Why didn’t you come when everyone else was here?”
“You know why.”
You dig your toes into the sand. The tide pulls the sand as it goes out, and you sink down. Behind you, Draco wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder. “We broke up a month ago, Y/N. I can do what I want and she can get mad if she wants.”
But that’s not what you’d heard. A break, Betty had told you. Boys always have their own way of viewing things, you suppose. You twist around in Draco’s embrace, pulling your feet from the clutches of the sand.
It was easy to forget all your stress and guilt when Draco’s lips were on yours, his hands up the hem of your light sweatshirt and skating the edge of your shorts, and replace it all with hope and the sound of the ocean all around you.
The End of a Summer's Day [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]
Title: The End of a Summer's Day [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]
Synopsis: It's the end of summer and you've got to bid farewell to your summer fling, whose name you never did learn... until now. Aka--here's the official name for my summer spirit!
Word count: 900ish
Notes: yandere, nothing to warn for really
The hot puff-and-flare of the hot air balloons punctuates the early evening, underscored by the waking of crickets, the lazy drone of a bee here and there, searching for one last flower before bed.
He's sitting next to you on the grassy hill, sprawled on the thick comforter you brought him home so you could watch the hot air balloons while enjoying a dinner picnic.
He--the stranger who's on some vague summer trip he's never properly explained, but it's easy to forgive his dancing around the answers when his words are so sweet and his lips are sweeter.
He's never said why he's visiting your (dull, boring, ordinary) small town and hell, he's never even told you his real name. He's given lots of them. Jack Dawson among them, after you'd watched Titanic at a summer movie-in-the-park event, and he'd earned a playful punch to the shoulder for it.
"Have you ever been in one?" He asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. His hand tickles the grass, then dances toward own fingers; you lace them together without a thought.
This really is the best way to end summer, you think. With champagne prickling your tongue and his hand in yours, a hand (and lips--and body) you'd grown familiar with over the course of the summer.
"Nope. Seen plenty of 'em, they do it all the time here, but..."
There was a childhood, once--yours--all filled with hot air balloon summers, you and your friends racing after them on the ground, arms reaching up, until your little legs grew too tired to keep going.
"Let's go on one tomorrow, then," he suggests, easy, airy, the promise of an adventure falling from his lips.
"We can't."
At this, he sits up a little, props his chin in his elbow. "Why not?"
You glance at him, then return to that last summer sky, dotted with a rainbow of balloons and the endless people inside them.
"It's the last day of summer. They close for the season after today."
Something in his face twitches, shifts. A concerning thought. He gets them, now and then, especially when you remind him that the summer won't last forever.
That your fall classes will start up soon, you'll have to take back your part time job, that he'll have to go back to... wherever he came from.
His grip on your hand tightens, and something in you chokes up. It's unfair, isn't it, to have spent the summer together only to rip it all out at the seams on the last day of the season.
Unfair to him, unfair to you. Unfair to anyone, when it came down to it; this endless cycle of ripping and repairing.
"So I won't see you anymore," he says, finally, each word coming out slow and sticky, like the heavy, hot air in mid-summer.
They contrast against the coolness of this almost-fall evening, where a hint of chill is creeping up from the ground now, with the sun almost gone.
You frown. "I mean... my classes start next week. And I'll have a job again. And you've got to go... wherever it is you're from." And maybe you frown harder, because he hasn't told you about him, the way you've told him about yourself.
He sighs, and you see it again, those thoughts crossing his face. What they are, you don't think you could ever guess.
"I... haven't told you where I'm from." Like it's a revelation, and you almost snort.
"No," you say. "You haven't."
"And I haven't told you my name," he says, brighter, a small grin growing on his face.
"No," you say, a hint of bite behind it. "You haven't told me that, either." You've been calling him everything under the sun but his name, which you don't have, because for everything you've given him this summer, there's still a part of himself kept locked up away from your grasp.
He still hasn't let go of your hand, and when he sits up, he brings you with him, awkward and fumbling for purchase.
"I'll tell you my name," he says, and he's not looking at you, but the hot air balloons, slowly drifting down to land in fields, where no doubt breathless passengers will stumble out of them, legs wobbly, ready to go home and spend the rest of the night talking about the view.
"I'll tell you my name," he repeats, "and everything else." He squeezes your hand. "And then we can still see each other."
You ought to protest. Ought to correct him. Remind him that you'll be going to school 3 days a week and working 2 days a week and surely he lives too far away to drive back here on the weekends and long distance relationship never work out--
You ought to do all these things, but you can't, won't, don't, because he pulls himself closer to you and kisses you on the mouth, tasting faintly of strawberries and champagne and evening air.
"Luca," he says, pulling back, that summer-grin spreading with the flush on his cheeks. "Call me Luca."
Maybe it's just the flush from his kiss, the closeness of your bodies, but you swear the chill of almost-fall air falls away at that moment.
Horrorfest: What's Your Favorite Scary Movie? [Summer Seasonal Spirit x Reader]
Title: What's Your Favorite Scary Movie? [Summer Seasonal Spirit x Reader]
Synopsis: It's not Halloween--but maybe it can be close enough. For Horrorfest prompt: Reader and your summer spirit doing something summerween-y? :o
Word count: 800ish
notes: yandere, implied kidnapped reader, lack of proper Halloween times
His grin is sharper in the dimming glow of the evening. Or is it an unfortunate trick of the light, a spin of your thoughts, worried that you’ve crossed some line, some unwritten rule.
How did you figure out the rules of interacting with a fae spirit of the summer, anyway?
It’s not like you could google it. Well, okay, actually… you did google it. But it didn’t particularly help, because there were too many rules, too many traditions, some of which didn’t seem to apply to him at all.
So you were left to navigate the waters all on your own. Sometimes literally navigating the waters, like when he dragged you to his favorite beach spots.
Not all of which in your own time period–but you couldn’t exactly tell people you picked shells from a beach in Pompeii pre-eruption, could you?
Right now, there are no beaches, no shells, from the iPhone era or otherwise. There was only you and Luca and–
And the perfect Summerween set-up in front of you, laid out in some remote spot he deemed suitable. Complete with a projector aimed at a tacked up sheet, tea candles for the mood, bowls of candy and of course, a USB stick crammed with your favorite Halloween movies.
“Um,” you say, breaking through the sound of the evening insects with a crack in your voice that you clear up as quick as you please. “Thanks for doing this. Uh. The Halloween stuff, I mean.” You don’t mean to sound so vulnerable, but maybe it’s inevitable.
After all, you never got to experience real Halloween anymore. And never would again, if your estimations were correct. You never got to see the leaves properly changing, feel the cool crisp autumn breeze that wasn’t tackled by the humidity of the summer as soon as morning changed to afternoon. To say nothing of never seeing winter, or spring–or anything but summer, weaving in and out of the season again and again with the being next to you.
“I’m sure it will be fun,” he says, but his voice is tighter than normal. “Even if it’s July.”
It’s always July, you want to say; or might as well be.
“And it’s not October,” he continues. “Not autumn.” The words fall like sudden hail, and you wonder–
His grin is sharper, isn’t it? Maybe? You’re tempted to ask if you can feel his teeth, just to check. But maybe it’s not sharp out of spite against you. Maybe it’s sharp out of something else, something that might be worse.
Is he jealous that you’re wanting to celebrate an autumn holiday?
You don’t ask the question out loud, don’t have the guts to do it.
Instead you bring up your laptop, the folder of downloaded movies you picked out earlier. There’s an insincere laugh that bubbles up through your throat, to cut the tension.
“Actually, people like to do this a lot in the summer. It’s a special thing… it’s called Summerween.”
He shifts beside you. Stretches his arms out, leaning backwards on the beach chairs he dragged to the spot. “Really?”
You don’t look at him, just yet. Instead you nod, more sincerity in your smile, and continue sorting through the movies you found. “Yeah. People host events… parties, summer horror marathons for books or movies or whatever.”
He pokes your shoulder, runs his finger down your arm. You shiver, despite the heat still lingering as night begins to seep into the air. “So it’s… more like a summer holiday for you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
You do, turn, then, leaning forward to peck him on the cheek. Whatever tension was still in his body seems to melt away, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder, coming dangerously close to tipping both your beach chairs.
“So what movies did you pick then? Tell me.” He cranes his neck, trying to see what’s on your laptop screen.
Indulgent, you turn it his way, splaying out the thumbnails of what you picked out–
“There are some great summer horror movies, actually.” One of your hands digs into the bowl of candy perched between your legs, tossing an M&M into your mouth. “Midsommar, Jaws, Friday the 13th, The Wicker Man…”
The screen of the laptop makes a kaleidoscope of his eyes, and when his mouth opens a little, widening as he leans closer in interest at what you’ve picked out, you see them–
The little fangs. Sometimes there, sometimes not. Sometimes sharp enough to rip open a fish, sometimes just enough to prick your lips, bringing out a delicate bead of blood when he’s in the mood.
In honor of the discovery, you choose Jaws as the first pick of the night.
Robin–you call him Robin, but is that his name, really?–runs his fingers through the patch of bluebells, and you swear they ring with the lazy movement. His head is currently resting in your lap, fair chestnut hair tickling your thighs through your skirt; a favorite position of his, especially in the afternoon.
“It’s the name you call me, isn’t it?” He only partially tilts his chin to look back at you, his full expression shrouded.
“Yes, but–” you start, finding your mouth feeling sticky, like it did on some other afternoon when he fed you honey by the spoonful. It tasted like flowers. Hard to question things, with a mouth full of honey. “But… what’s your name… really?”
The question you’re asking–the question you want to ask but can’t bring yourself to form, that is–is who are you, what are you, tell me everything, everything, everything.
Because you want to know. Don’t you?
The truth is not a subject you often broach. It’s too hard to look at, sometimes, even in what has felt like an endless spring. But what Robin (or not-Robin) is, what he isn’t, is something that sits on your shoulders like a burden.
You went with him, that’s true. Half-willingly, with your eyes equally half open. You were taken in by the freshness and freedom, the lightness, the promise of paints and lambs and Robin there through it all.
But that’s not all of him, and it never was, and now–
Now, part of you wants to see things as nakedly as you can. Purely. Truthfully.
Robin shifts, and shakes a few wind-blown leaves from his hair with his fingers, like scratching a dog. When he faces you, kneeling on the ground, you know he’s older than he looks. Far more than twenty, thirty, fourty, and just how old did one live, when it was spring forever?
“Do you want to call me another name?” He asks, turning his head a little. He tucks something behind your ear–one of the bluebells–and moves in to kiss you. As always, he misses what you really want. Or doesn’t miss it, perhaps; sees it and steps away from it and shushes you with a smile or a walk or pointing out a freshly born rabbit tucked away in the grass.
“No,” you say, speaking through his kiss, the taste of flowers and a hint of bitter grass. “I suppose not.”
You let the question blow away with the gentle breeze, perhaps to come around again on another afternoon.
Horrorfest: Summer Storm [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]
Title: Summer Storm [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]
Synopsis: You had forgotten what he was. Now you remember.
For Horrorfest request: –“Let's talk, you and I. Let's talk about fear.” –Stephan King, “Night Shift.” And I think this one would be pretty good for your Summer spirit, in a moment of terrifying clarity! Like he's not flippant or playing around/indulging you right now he's serious.
Word count: 600ish
notes: yandere, kidnapped reader
“What would you do, if I left you?”
The question had been asked so stupidly, so carelessly. Not because you were unaware of the weight of it, but because you thought he would brush it off, and you could force yourself to brush it off, for at least another summer.
You thought he would laugh and smear the white globs of sunscreen he sometimes produced from thin air onto your nose; you thought he would push you into the ocean, or find a crab along the beach and threaten you with it.
You thought those things because you had forgotten.
You had forgotten what he truly was, in the lazy haze of those endless summers. He had become lost in the refreshing breezes cutting through the heavy shimmering air, in the taste of melting popsicles on his lips as he kissed you, and kissed you. Lost in the laughter as he pulled you through another season, hot summer grass tickling your legs, saltwater sticking to your skin.
But you remember now. You see him now, sitting next to you, even though he has his sand covered legs pulled up to his chest as he might have on any other summer evening spent on the beach.
“What… did you say?” You ask, even though you know the answer. It’s an answer that cut through the hot hazy fog of your brain and reminded you that the man in front of you was no man at all.
He tilts his head towards, eyes gazing forward, the color of them now the awful gray-green of a summer storm. You want him to repeat it–you don’t want him to repeat it. But he must, and he will; both of you agree upon this without saying a word.
He doesn’t sneer as he speaks. Doesn’t gloat, doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t loom over you or speak in dark growls of a dime novel villain. He merely states a simple fact, spoken into the hot evening as easily as any pleasantry you’ve shared before.
“I would destroy every crop in the country. I would see to it that there is no summer harvest. I would wither everything that dares to bloom in autumn. I would see them all starve come winter and I do not yet know if I would have enough pity for you by the next summer to let anything be picked even then.”
The words join the fireflies beginning to dot the horizon, flickering in your heart in the dying evening sunlight. Unlike the fireflies, the words will still be there by morning, a permanent scythe hanging above your head.
Hanging above the heads of the people you loved–and the people you didn’t. People you didn’t know. Children who had been born since he took you away, some of them perhaps relatives, nieces and nephews that you’ll never hold.
Innocents, not-so-innocents. People who would starve and wither like the crops, if he willed it.
If you willed it, you think, abruptly–and not without the thought catching something dark inside your chest. That same dark part that had not quite forgotten what summer could do, if it wanted.
“But I won’t leave you,” is your answer, a forced lightness to it; a forced breeze of your own, as artificial as the electric fans he sometimes shows you. “I was–I was only asking. To see what you would say.”
His eyes remain storm-gray for a few moments longer, and then he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. Calming himself down, you think, letting the storm ebb away into some other world, some other season.
“I sometimes forget,” he admits, smiling in a way you don’t want to understand, “how often people ask things they’d rather not know.”
A firefly lands on his knee; it glows, then it doesn’t.
