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painless-innit-colourful · 3 years

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(Liveblogging ‘Tommy Faces His Traumatic Past’ stream)

'Hi I am currently thinking about that moment after Tommy asked Ranboo to leave after the Prison moment went badly, and he waited for Ranboo to go and then swallowed and let the atmosphere hang for a moment and held his totem in his main hand (I’m pretty sure; he was definitely holding it) and I am telling you, the shot of fear that went through me as I thought “No... He’s not gonna ask Tubbo to kill him, is he?” Now that’d be one way to overcome a fear of dying, holy heck.'

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Rough edges, shining eyes, a heart of gold. He supposes there's a metaphor or a comparison that could be made there, but to be quite frank, he's sick of the poetic parallels and the dramatic ironies. It's not a tale spun of rhetorical devices and an audience: it's his life, and it hurts.

Appropriately, the skin on his palms is still tender from scrabbling at the walls of the mock cell, and he can feel every groove of the wood the totem's outside is carved from as he grips it firmly. He's doing away with the allusions and analogies and beating around the bush: there's no easy way to ask this, so why make it even harder?

It's going to be difficult. It's going to be painful. It’s going to be helpful in future. Just get on with it Tommy.

Ranboo vanishes up the ladder, and Tommy and Tubbo are left alone in their unused replica of the Final Control Room ('cause their dear friend Eret had a more accurate one). When he turns his eyes to his best friend, Tubbo's giving him a quizzical look. Tommy opens his mouth to begin, but fear stoppers his words, and no sound comes out. He holds fast to the totem and to his courage.

"Are you alright?" His friend's light touch to his arm leads him back. Right. Tubbo. Totem. Question.

"It didn't work." He says despondently. "I couldn't- In there, I couldn't keep it together." "Tommy-" "Look, Tubbo," Like a paranoid exile hiding in a cave, he casts another glance towards the ladder, double-checking that they are truly alone. "And you can't tell anyone this, but I need you to trust me, because I've thought a lot about this."

Tubbo's expression is unreadable for a moment, like his solicitude is elsewhere, like he's remembering something, and then he's back and he's squeezing Tommy's arm. "I trust you, Big Man." And Tommy can tell he's being earnest, so he pushes on. "What is it?" "We had the chance, back in that vault- We had the opportunity to slit Dream’s throat, and we didn't, and- And we agree on this right? Dream... Dream needs to go."

Tubbo seems to think about it for a moment, "You think the revive book isn't worth it?" "Tubbo, I-" If his words could stop clogging up his throat every five seconds, that'd be lovely. "Listen to me, I've been to- to the other side, and I've been here, and I've been in between, and- and I mean this, I would've rather- rather stayed there than be in between again." "Really?" Tommy nods curtly. "Really. It's not worth it." "Well, I'm glad you came back, even if it sucked for you." Lightly, but not without a hint of worry in his voice, Tubbo half-laughs. "That sounded selfish." And Tommy feels wretched about what he's going to ask him to do.

"Look, Tubbo," He clears his throat for good measure. "If I'm going to kill Dream, I can't get into the prison cell and panic. That- That could cost the whole operation, and I can't let that happen." "Tommy, you-" Tubbo cuts himself off this time, "Tommy, do you really have to do this?"

"Yes, I do." His quiet determination matches Tubbo's building exasperation. "I have to do this because he's- he's ruined me, he's broken me and I can't let anything else happen to this server because of our fighting." Their faces and feelings fall to the same resignation as swords impale them against the walls of a room very much like this one, as L'Manberg burns behind their eyelids every time they blink.

"Would you like to try again?" The reproduction of the cell, his tomb, beckons, but Tommy's mind is made up. "I can come in with you this time." A jolt of warmth emanates from his heart at the offer (he wishes it were that easy) and races through his bloodstream, momentarily soothing the aching feeling all around his body, from his head to his feet to his fingertips, and he feels practically like a person again for a few seconds.

"Actually, I- I want you to- Only if you- I won't force you but-" He's abruptly aware of a substantial volume of saliva in his mouth, or maybe he's just too scared to say it out loud. Tubbo waits, his fingers mussing with the end of Tommy's sleeve. "What is it?"

He raises aloft the totem so they're both looking at it, and then very carefully, so he knows he hasn't said it wrong, he says it: "I want you to kill me."

"What?" His adrenaline spikes; no turning back now. "I want you to kill me, and because I have this totem I'll be fine. I can't be scared of dying if I have a totem on me, but I still get scared of getting close, so I want you to kill me. Please." He tacks on hastily, opting to look at the sword at Tubbo's side so he doesn't have to meet his eyes.

"You... Where are you gonna get another totem then?" And Tommy squints at Tubbo for a second, because really, that's what you come out with after that? "I don't know, your husband?" Tubbo giggles a tad despite the concern in his eyes. "Excuse me, I'm the gold-digger here, get your own." And they both crack up, and some of the tension lifts from Tommy's shoulders.

"Okay, seriously, you want me to kill you?" The terse air settles between them as Tubbo's hand floats to his sword. "I- Yeah." "Because then you can't be scared of being close to death." "Mmhm." "So you want me to kill you, right now, right here?"

Tommy nods steadily, and Tubbo, still uncertain, unsheathes his sword. The blade isn't the sharpest, but it'll do the job. Tommy swallows thickly. "I- I trust you. If it were anyone else... Never."

He thought about how, whenever he'd asked to be hit earlier, it was Tubbo who'd stepped up to the plate. Certainly, it was true at the time that he'd felt the jolt of terror and pain, but he was always glad it was Tubbo. There was an unspoken promise in their shared glances, their short requests and careful responses.

“You know I’d never do that, right?” An echo of an old memory, from a less-than-ideal location. “I won’t turn on you or go insane like Wil and Techno.” “Mmhm… And I you.”

"Ready?" Tommy waves the totem around to illustrate, "This better not be a bloody decoy." Their shared smile is forced and wavering, flickering like a candle, shaking like fraying ropes, reaching for a hand that isn't there. The hand is on his shoulder, Tommy notes faintly: it steadies him as the sword pierces his gut, snatching all the air from his lungs. He's drowning in a sudden wave of 'Why here? Why the hell did we stay here?' as a familiar numbing sensation starts to wash over him like the tide, receding in parts and then coming back for more. The darkness entices him - the very same darkness he's been fighting to outrun all along, the same darkness that engulfs him and all his friends in his nightmares. Once, many moons ago, they were all blissfully ignorant of that shadow that stayed firmly three steps behind them and six feet below. Except now, at least for Tommy, death is a memory, and with a totem in hand, he rises to meet it.

Tubbo rips the sword out, and the body of his best friend crumples to the ground like paper disregarded and consigned to oblivion. His weapon hits the ground with a clatter and his sword arm falls limp, reluctant to acknowledge Tommy's blood on the blade as he watches, hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as the totem in Tommy's hand starts to glow, golden light emanating from the emerald eyes and intricate details. About time. About bloody time.

It's pitch black, and the totem is gone. Tommy feels weightless. Tommy feels like a person made of pieces, loosely strung together like a marionette doll. Tommy feels helpless and alone, and quite possibly dead.

Make no mistake; there's also that perverted sense of comfort, ever-present as it seems. A welcome gift, he supposes, to what should be the rest of your eternity. He feels all his 'worldly worries' start to scatter, leaving him feeling so empty he's clawing at nothing to get them back. No worries, no troubles and no meaning. That is the lot of the dead. Yet, Tommy will not be one of them, not today.

Everything returns to him so quickly, it almost feels like he's having aspects of his personality thrown back at him with the force of bricks launched from cannons. Should he reach out to grab them, or should he let them go? The darkness begins to melt away, leading him back to a room full of chests and a friend, and for a second he imagines he hears a familiar voice tease: "You should take off your coat Tommy, you look like you're not staying."

The instant his soul is catapulted back into his body, instincts kick in, and his wobbling legs somehow get him halfway across the room before they get too tangled up and surrender. He doesn't bother cowering - it's Tubbo - instead, he chooses to pull his shirt up to his ribs. The entry site of the stabbing has healed, golden radiance under his skin like godly blood swirling away from the closed wound and leaving it the proper crimson hue of mortals. It worked. He's back. He's back.

Suddenly, he's hit with a force equitable to several small dogs and, oh, it's Tubbo. His arms rest wearily against his best friend's back as the smaller boy buries his head in Tommy's shoulder, folding him into his arms and cradling him tightly. "I- I'm ok- Are you crying?" His response from the shuddering mass of brown curls next to his head comes quietly, "Don't ever make me do that again." "...Okay. I won't."

Eventually, they break apart, Tommy noticing the red rims around Tubbo's eyes as he messes with Tommy's shirt. "Ah, dammit." "What?" He gives a tiny snort-laugh marked with tears. "I've put a hole in your d*mn shirt." He looks down at it too. "That's alright, long as you fix it." Consequently, Tubbo gives him a funny look, which he raises his eyes to meet with bemusement. "Yeah, right. I'll fix it, it's nothing."

Tubbo holds his eye contact for close to ten seconds. "You have..." He shifts across the floor to the left, putting one of the lights at his back, before reaching out and taking Tommy's face in his hands. "You have little flecks of gold in your eyes, dude." "I- What?" Tubbo drops his hands and nods. "You've got gold in your eyes now, boss man." "Does it-" He jumps to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and strikes a pose. "Does it make me even more incredibly good-looking?"

Tubbo snorts. "Something like that. It's not bad, just... After-product of the totem, I'd guess. Which is interesting to know." He gets to his feet too, hand finding Tommy's side and holding on by a fistful of cloth. "Hey, how about, are you alright?" Tommy asked, picking the hand up and slinging it over his shoulder so they stood hip-to-hip, heads tilted up and down for each other’s benefit.

"I'm fine, just... That wasn't the most fun." Tommy ponders for a moment before responding. "I think I'd be concerned if it was." They chuckle a little. "No, but seriously man, thank you, for doing that." He says sincerely. Tubbo smiles back, all of a sudden seeming too tired to even stand, and Tommy stoops a little to catch him before he faints or something. "Just... did it work?"

Did it work? The darkness still terrified him, ripping the warmth from within him, and he wasn't totally expecting to go back there when using the totem. So, points for new knowledge discovered, perhaps? Despite all that, though, the look in Tubbo's eyes makes his mouth move on its own. He looks so weary.

"Yeah. I feel... less afraid now. Honestly." He tacks on, for the dubious non-believer by his side that could always tell when he was lying. "I... I can do this now." "...Okay."

#this was a real pain to edit lmao #anyway! the title for this one is 'help me be brave'#i wrote it on holiday in the lakes on my phone with a bad flu #so y'know #dream smp #tommyinnit #tubbo #clingy duo #dsmp fic #crim writes #please rb & comment! it means the absolute world

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itsmeyourlittlevb · 4 years

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Stressed || Annabeth Chase x reader

Okay so there’s not much content for Annabeth, so I decided to make a small thing for her

(p.s. this was super rushed and un-edited so sorry about that)

annabeth was stressed.

it all started this morning when she woke up 30 minutes after she was supposed to leave for work. she hastily got dresed and made coffe, only for it to be spilled all over her white work dress making her even more late because she had to change. when she finally got to work her boss had yelled at annabeth for being late and told her she had to re-due a whole new building design in the next week because the one she designed was flawed in about three places.

annabeth angrily opened the front door to the apartment and slammed it shut in frustration. she let her hair down from the tight bun it was in as she walked to the kitchen/ dining room, setting her jacket and work things on the wooden table. she kicked off her heels and tights, setting them on the ground next to on of the five chairs that were placed around the table.

as annabeth made her way upstars, she tried to listen for he girlfriend (y/n), but all she heard as silence.

opening the door to the bedroom, annabeth found an empty bed with messed up sheets.

"(y/n)!" she called out, beginning to get worried. (y/n) was a mortal who could see through the mist and while she knew how to fight with a sword, she wasn't very good at it.

"in here!" (y/n) called from the bathroom.

annabeth let out asigh of relief and made her way into the bathroom.

as soon as annabeth opened the bathroom, her nose was hit with the strong smell of roses and peach.

"woah." annabeth muttered. she looked over at the bath to find her girfriend almost fully emerged in the water reading a book. she had four candles in the scent of summertime-peach stationed at the four somwhat-corners of there circular bath. the bath water itself was filled with snow-white bubbles and orange tinted water that had roses floated around the top of it. on the marble counter was a stack of clothes and a small radio that was playing elvis presley hits.

"you wanna join me?" (y/n) asked, quirking an eyebrow in question.

annabeth nodded and soundlessly removed her dark-blue dress and everything under it.

"what is all this?" annabeth asked as she put a foot in the water.

(y/n) shrugged. "i noticed we had some old bath products that were gonna expire soon so I decided to put them to good use."

"and the flowers."

(y/n) shrugged. "just some extra decoration i suppose."

annabeth nodded and fully sat down in the water.

it was heavely.

the water itself was rather warm and came up right under annabeth's chest. roses floated by and the scent of the candles and bubblebath seemed to be stronger.

(y/n) glanced up from her book. "stressful day?"

annabeth nodded, slowly leaning into (y/n) as she pushed her body deeper into the water. "you have no idea."

"tell me about it." (y/n) said, putting a book mark in her book and setting it aside and wrapping her arms around Annabeth.

annabeth's voice held a bitter tone as she ranted to her girlfriend about her awful day starting from when she woke up to when she got home all while elvis was playing n the backround.

(y/n) did'nt say much, just nodding at all the right times and staying quite as annabeth ranted. (y/n) always loved when annabeth ranted about a bad day or a bad experience. of course she didn't like seeing her girlfriend unhappy, but annabeth had this problem where she felt like she was dumping her problems on other people, so she tended to deal with crappy stuff by herself.

"...and that's why i'm angry." annabeth finished off her rant with a small huff.

(y/n) hummed. "i'm sorry about the work thing. that sounds like it sucks."

"it does." annabeth agreed.

(y/n) slowly started rubbing annabeth's shoulders until it turned into a massage as she hummed the elvis song that was playing.

"cause i can't help falling in love with you." (y/n) sang quietly.

"me either." annabeth said quietly, turning to head to give (y/n) a small kiss.

(y/n) smiled at her and annabeth smiled back as she turned around and happily feel more into (y/n)'s body (if that was possible.) she loved small moments like this, where annabeth didn't have to worry about making some life-saving plan or worrying about who else was going to hurt the people she loved. right now it was just her and (y/n) against the world.

and she didn't want it any other way.

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

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say that you’ll hold me forever

If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment on Ao3! It’s totally free and keeps your writers happy!

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In his more introspective moments, Alec would think that the reason night running came so easily to him, the reason he’d slipped into it like a pair of well broken in boots when it was so different from the simple life he’d been leading before, was because it was so like archery. When you got right down to it, both were about breathing steadily, keeping your eyes open, having patience and knowing when to let go. All things that had been his lifeblood since he could walk.

And because both came so easily to Alec, when something was amiss it was like having something stuck in his teeth. If the arrow he was using had warped or was made out of balance, he could sense it in a moment. If his string wasn’t oiled, he knew as soon as he drew it back. If a breeze no harder than a breath were blowing between him and his target, it may as well have been a gale for as much as it made the act feel impossible.

And if something was wrong with a night running job, Alec knew it. And tonight’s particular job felt like he was trying to shoot without an arrow.

It had seemed fine that morning, when he and Seregil had been taking breakfast in the living room at the Stag and Otter; Alec ruffling the ears of one of Ruthea’s last litter on his knee and his lover shuffling through their latest stack of messages for a cat of a very different kind while they ate.

There were a lot of them, some written on fine vellum, some scrawled hastily on notes that had since become crumpled as they’d passed from hand to hand to reach the elusive, far famed and entirely fictional burglar for hire known as the Rhíminee Cat. As Seregil was fond of saying, the nobles did all sorts of silly things in the spring and it was as fine a late spring morning as anyone had ever known. The window was open to a warm breeze and honey gold shafts of early sunlight, the bells of some temple were chiming in the distance and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

Alec barely looked up when Seregil cursed from across the table, he only hummed, “Did it again, hm?”

“It’s these damned nobles,” Seregil scowled, holding two notes and looking between them in exasperation, “They’re too used to getting their own way, it makes them such demanding customers. They want everything done this very night or immediately or bloody yesterday! No regard for a man’s schedule...”

“It’s not the nobles, love, it's the fact that you have no organisation system so you keep double booking yourself,” Alec said patiently, using the distraction to snag the last bit of bacon from Seregil’s plate to feed to the kitten on his lap.

“Well,” Seregil huffed, “Still. It’s inconvenient.”

“We’ll just split up tonight,” Alec shrugged as his little friend stole away with her prize, “You go and get Duke Amon’s ring back from whoever won it off him and I’ll take whichever job you thought was tomorrow but is actually tonight.”

Seregil folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, “I’m not that poorly organised…”

“This is the fourth time it’s happened this spring and let’s not forget the time you didn’t keep a close enough track on things and nearly placed a risque miniature of Baron Carmine in Lady Raya’s bedside table rather than the ring you were supposed to put there?”

Seregil was quiet for a long time, his mouth set in a pout until he grunted, “Fair.”

“So tell me about my job tonight,” Alec grinned, reaching over to play with one of the many curls of dark hair that stuck out from Seregil’s head after a night of tossing and turning. He knew that would chase away his lover’s chagrin.

Seregil hummed and inclined his head towards the warmth of Alec’s fingers, “So some twitterpated noble has got it into his head that he’s going to propose to his beau and that it absolutely, positively must happen tonight. He’s got some ridiculous grand gesture planned in his head, having the ring delivered to them silently in the dead of night so it’s there when they wake up. Surprised he’s not having a dove slip it onto their hand personally…”

Alec chuckled, “Perhaps it was short notice. It would take rather a long time to train a dove.”

Seregil smirked, “Anyway, the problem is he’s gone and left it in his apartments in the business end of the city by the docks, he’s a wealthy merchant of some degree, and he can’t go get it himself without arousing suspicion. So our job is to slip into his place, slip back out again and deliver it to his intended.”

“Too lazy more like,” Alec wrinkled his nose, “Fine, where is this girl who I’m hoping has more sense than her soon to be betrothed?”

Seregil shrugged, “Message only says that the address to deliver it to will be written on a label attached to the box. Probably didn’t want that kind of information floating around the city on a note being handed around some more disreputable characters.”

Alec snorted, “Bet you a gold sester her parents don’t know about this match. Why else be so secretive?”

Seregil raised his eyebrows and simpered exaggeratedly, “Perhaps it’s a heartbreaking tale of true love overcoming societal disapproval?”

“Or some fool making too much of a few friendly glances and thinking himself some heroic knight saving a girl who isn’t even interested,” Alec tugged on his lock of Seregil’s hair gently.

His lover shrugged, shaking him off and sitting back with his tea cup held in his hands, “Whatever it is, talí, he’s paying handsomely. Would you mind?”

“Sounds like the easiest job I’ve done in months. I’ll make sure supper’s on the table for when you get back.”

But that had been this morning and now Alec was perched on top of a very high wall surrounding the lavish building and he was having doubts.

Not about his route into the noble’s apartments, that was clear as day. The building itself was called an inn but it was as far removed from the alehouses and winesinks that could also boast that title as a carriage horse was from a mule. It was more like a miniature manor house, each one of it’s floors a luxury suite meant for the lesser nobles who had made their fortunes on the backs of the sailors and tradesmen that worked on the wharves the inn overlooked. This was the place they’d occupy on the nights of the working week, when business held their attention, but most would also have a place not unlike Wheel Street for their leisure time, where they kept their wives and children.

Alec could see precisely how he would vault from the wall he now crouched on, land on the lip of the roof, follow it a little ways around the shadowed inn and slip into the window of his mark, safely untouched by any lamplight from the main street. It couldn’t have been simpler. But still, uncertainty sat in his stomach like he’d eaten a heavy meal.

He hesitated, trying to summon the clarity of mind that usually accompanied his night running or at least a concrete reason why things felt so plainly wrong but he received no answer except a gentle lifting of the wind that stirred the hood he’d pulled up tight around his head and carefully tucked his braid into.

If I don’t move quickly, what’s going to be giving me doubts will be a bluecoat’s quarrel in my chest he thought with irritation at himself. He abandoned his misgivings on top of the wall and sprightly hopped up onto the roof, his well muffled slippers barely making a whisper as he landed and began the slow, careful walk along the slates.

As he crept along in the shadows, he had to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of such a clear night. Rhíminee never looked more beautiful than when it was observed from the top of some high place Alec wasn’t meant to be, when it was nestled in the purple shadows of twilight, all glittering lamps in winding streets and a hundred yellow eyes blinking as people set candles into their windows, either to go to bed or to welcome new patrons in the brothels and gambling houses of the Street of Lights. The palace and the Orëska House were like looming candles, their towers still a deep orange with the last of the setting sun, their expansive floors the deep purple of true night. There was a sense of the city settling down, heaving some kind of silent sigh as another day ended and a whole new Rhíminee awoke.

And somewhere in it’s shadowed depths, Seregil was about his own business, chasing down a family heirloom some arrogant lord had wagered on a hand at the Dragon.

“Luck in the shadows, talí,” Alec whispered to the twilight, feeling the tug of the bond they shared as the thought travelled along it’s thread to his love.

The latch on the window was tricky though he expected nothing less at such a fine establishment with so many wealthy clients. There was a lot to protect within its whitewashed walls, after all. Still, between his clever fingers and the pick he kept in his braid, it was barely a few minutes before Alec had it open and most of that was looking down for watchmen or dogs in the yard below.

The room was dark, the noble of course off with the love he hoped to make his wife. Alec wondered if he was nervous, holding her tight as she slept, both anxious for the dawn to arrive and rather afraid of it at the same time. He could only imagine how it must feel, to ask someone to share their entire life with you, to hand them a piece of your heart in the shape of a simple loop of metal and gemstone, without something as sure as a talímenios bond.

It made him a little jealous, if he was honest.

He dismissed the thought quickly, seeing no sense in wanting things he couldn’t have. The window opened, he swung himself inside, landing on the rich woven carpet so no one below would hear him. As soon as he righted himself, the feeling came back as strong as it had been outside, the sensation that something was amiss.

There was just a string sense of the place being...unlived in. Sure the trappings of a young, overly wealthy man were spread around the room- fine coats in a number of rich fabrics hung by the door, the walls lined with books and the fine art on the walls, the plush looking furniture and tasteful hangings- but it was as if a layer of dust hung over it all. Alec knew how to read the traces a person left in their home, how to track their daily routines in which chairs had the deepest depressions and which books were always slightly out of alignment based on how they sat on the shelf. And this place held none of that. It was as if the place were deliberately posed, like the set for some elaborate play, but never intended to be lived in.

Alec’s hand twitched for the knife concealed in his boot. He knew a trap when he saw one.

He made no movement for the window or any other escape route. He could handle himself, whatever was about to appear from whatever shadowy corner of this place, but Seregil would scold himself for weeks even with no way of knowing that of both of those notes in his hand, of all the hundreds of summons they received, this would be the one that turned out dangerous. Alec was already dreading the look on his face when he brought the news back to him.

He moved far more carefully now, stepping into the place, heading for the desk where he’d been told the ring box was kept. His feet didn’t catch a single creaking floorboard, no figure moved from any direction. All was silent.

Frowning, he double and even triple checked the locks on the drawers. No poisoned needles, no dart ready to spring, no trap to close around his fingers. It was just an ordinary piece of furniture with a painfully average lock he had open within seconds. And that only made his suspicions deepen.

Seregil had said nothing about who’d sent them the summons, there was no way to tell if this was some secret enemy after them in particular, someone who had a grudge against the shadowy Rhíminee Cat or if this was one piece of a much more elaborate game. All there was to do was find the ring box, see where it needed delivering and wait for the tension to resolve itself. Some hands you just needed to play, even if you knew they were rigged.

First drawer, empty. Second drawer, nothing but a few clumps of dust. The hair’s on the back of Alec’s neck stood to attention, why weren’t there any ledgers or papers, nothing so much as a pen to prove that a living, breathing man actually worked at this desk?

The box was in the third drawer along, a long, oblong shaped wooden box with a metal clasp. Far too big for a ring box, Alec thought. This must be the crux of the trap, the spring wound tight and ready to pounce. He steadied his breathing and felt cautiously for any hidden blade, catch or wax plugged holes. Were they being used as assassins here? Was he supposed to deliver death to this poor woman’s bedside table?

All his search discovered was the promised label, fastened around the clasp. Frowning, Alec checked the paper for any poison dusting one last time before turning it over to read it. He didn’t think he’d be delivering this box tonight, not until he’d had Seregil and maybe even Thero check it over or it could mean death for whoever’s name was inscribed upon it-

Alec’s throat tightened. The name on the label was his own. Not even the name Rhíminee knew him by, his true name.

Alec í Amasa.

No address, just the name. And at a glance, Alec knew the hand that had written it.

Even when he’d been certain this whole affair was a trap, his heart had stayed beating it’s usual steady rhythm in his chest, his breathing had been silent and shallow. But now his heart was pounding in his chest and it was such an effort to keep his hands from shaking as he pulled back his hood and carefully opened the box.

There was a ring, a simple band of polished coppery coloured metal. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw attention; a ring that could be worn on any number of night running jobs and never attract notice but he would always know it was there. But the ring had been threaded around the shaft of an arrow. Not an ordinary arrow, at a glance he knew this wasn’t made for shooting. This was beautifully carved, expertly wrought in polished wood so the shaft had been transformed into a gorgeous scene of an otter and a stag curling around one another as they raced in flight, surrounded by cunningly made flowers that he recognised in an instant. The exact same kind had grown around the cottage where he and Seregil had spent that winter together. The more he looked, the more he saw depths in the design; there were fingerling dragons as small as his littlest knuckle chasing each other around the span of it, there was a mountain range carved into it that reminded him so strongly of his earliest home, there were symbols inscribed all the way along in a clever pattern that spoke of a hundred places and a hundred adventures.

The arrow told a story. It told their story.

And burned into the base of it was a question, composed of two words. Marry me?

Alec didn’t jump when he heard the footsteps behind him and he didn’t turn immediately. First he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes but it was no good, new ones sprang to replace them. It helped that, when he finally did face his lover, Seregil had damp cheeks too. And that familiar, crooked smile he loved so much.

“I...I know it won’t mean anything, not legally,” he was standing in the doorway, dressed in the simple evening clothes Alec had left him in last, looking uncharacteristically nervous, “But...I don’t care. I want it for us, we’re the only ones who need to know. I was thinking...maybe a small ceremony at Watermead, just our friends, some rings, a few words...but I want to be able to call you my husband, Alec. Even if it’s just between us, even if I just get to look at you and think it then...it would be something.”

Alec exhaled, voice soft though it carried over the small space between them, “Seregil, it would be everything.”

Seregil laughed, more tears catching the dusk light outside the window, opening his arms. Alec needed no more invitation than that, flying into his embrace, holding him so tight he couldn’t ever imagine letting go. Whether they were crying or laughing or both, neither could really say, as they sank to the carpet still clasped together.

“You sneaky bastard!” Alec finally managed to get out, grinning against Seregil’s shoulder, “How do I keep falling for this?”

“Ah, talí, but I’m so glad you do,” Seregil murmured back, drawing away enough to kiss him.

The kiss would have lasted until they had no more breath to give, if there wasn’t something Seregil wanted to do even more. The arrow was held fast in Alec’s hand so he slipped the ring off the shaft and placed it gently on his lover’s finger, first kissing the spot where it would lie for the rest of their lives. Now Alec could see there was a twin of it on his own finger.

“I told you about when I was young, yes?” Seregil murmured, stroking his thumb across Alec’s knuckles, “How I would sit in my bedroom back in Aurënen and imagine the person who would be my talímenios, how I would dream of you before I even knew your face...even then, I couldn’t know how it would feel to love you so much. How much you would make me want to be a better man, how every morning simply waking up and seeing you sleeping next to me would make me feel so damn lucky. I didn’t know, Alec í Amasa, how happy I would be with you.”

Alec just shook his head, tears sparkling like diamonds of the most precious sort as they fell to their clasped hands, he didn’t have his lover’s skill with words. He just leaned in and kissed him again, murmuring every time they stopped for air, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

But those were the only words Seregil needed to hear.

#nightrunners #lynn flewelling #alec i amasa #seregil i korit #watchers #nightrunner series #seregil x alec #alec x seregil #proposals #fluff #look I don't know if this is how proposals work in this universe #but let me have this #fic #please reblog and comment!

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fandomregina · 4 years

Note

hi! I was wondering if you could try to expand on the scar on douxie's hand? since we don't have much backstory on it, do you think he got it under merlin or before he met him?

Ah, I’ve already written about this so I can post about it quicker! I’ve tried to look for the scar on his hand before he met with Merlin after he did the trick on Gallahan, but I’m not sure if it’s because you never get a good look at it or just because I can’t see it, but I don’t see anything on his hand when he meets Merlin so that draws me to the conclusion of he got it while training with Merlin!

So, since I’m done with my rambling, enjoy!

Merlin, even though he was supposed to be the world's best wizard, was, simultaneously, the world's worst teacher. All Douxie seemed to be good for was running the man’s errands and doing chores for him here and there. Very little time was spent on Douxie’s magic training and whenever he tried to object to another Slorr milking, it ended as such.

“And don’t-“ Merlin would say, knowing Douxie would object.

“But Master-“

“But Master me.”

So, with Archie’s reluctant help, Douxie began to practice at night after Merlin went to bed. He began with the basics, having the common sense to do such, such as floating small objects and larger ones, practicing magic ruins and their abilities, and small spell castings.

This went on for many weeks.

If Merlin noticed the lack of energy that Douxie had his second week in, misjudging how long it would take to clean up certain spells, he said nothing. If he noticed the ease that Douxie began to move objects with, he said nothing. And if he noticed the growing bags under Douxie’s eyes, he said not a word.

However, Archie did.

“This isn’t healthy, Doux.” Archie said after Merlin left the two to clean up his workshop, his tone full of worry for his wizard familiar. “Take tonight off, please. You’re burning the candle at both ends and it’s not going to end well!” Douxie scoffed.

“I’m fine, Arch! A little eye bags have never hurt anyone. Besides, my magic has become much stronger!”

“Is your magic becoming stronger more important than your health?” Archie asks, scolding the boy.

“To a point, yes.” Archie looks at him, jaw-slacked. Douxie rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you’re that concerned, I’ll only try one spell tonight: a lightning spell.” Archie’s hairs stand on end.

“Doux, you can’t be serious. You know how-“

“Yes, yes, how dangerous it is. I’ll be fine, Arch. My magic has gotten better day by day. I think I can handle a simple lightning spell.” Archie stares at the boy, stunned.

Shaking his head, Archie grumbles out a “This won’t end well…” much to Douxie’s annoyment.

As the day goes by, Douxie having to milk yet another Slorr, the thing that sets Douxie off and allows for things to go downhill from there happens after Merlin comes back from…well, from only Merlin knows.

Douxie was finishing up tidying his Master’s workroom when he knocks a book over and it flips open to a page on lightning magic. Douxie’s eyes light up. “Arch, Arch, come look at this!” Picking up the book as Archie jumps onto Douxie’s shoulders, he begins to read the book. “To cast a lightning spell, you must be emotionally stable and overall calm. If you are not, the lightning will become loose in your body rather than controlled and could injure the user.” Douxie places the book open on the table and Archie jumps down from his shoulders.

“Doux, whatever you think that you are about to do, please don’t.” Archie tries, even though he knows Douxie won’t listen to him.

“I’ll be fine, Arch. I’m just going to try a little bit of lightning.”

Closing his eyes, Douxie presses his hands together, taking a deep breath. Opening his eyes, Douxie begins to read the incantation. “Palmetis tempestas fulmina!” Slowly opening his hands, a single strand of lightning moves between them. Trying his best to remain calm, he smiles and looks over at Archie.

“Arch, I did it!”

“Very good, now put it away,” Archie says as he moves away from the boy. Douxie ignores him, fascinated by the bolt. Expanding his hands, Douxie creates two more. Then two more. Soon he has five bolts of lightning between his palms.

“Hiserdoux!” The door to Merlin’s workshop slams open. “Where is- Hiserdoux! What on Earth are you doing?” Merlin freezes in the door as Douxie looks up, startled. His hands fall apart and the room is suddenly alive. Douxie ducks as a bolt flies over his head, hitting one of the many books behind, beside, and infront of him. When all of the thunder seems to cease, Douxie slowly stands, knowing what was coming for him.

(Had this been a cartoon, a large amount of steam would be coming from Merlin’s ears and the Wizard would be as red as a tomato and if looks could kill, well…)

“Hiserdoux Casperan! You know I forbid you to do magic in my workshop for this very reason! And all of the books you have damaged? I will need a miracle to get them back into their original shape. What have I told you, Hiserdoux! You are not ready for this kind of magic! Can you not do a single thing right and not make my life so hard? Some days I wonder why I picked you up and off that street.”

In Merlin’s anger, picking up the books with his magic and setting them on his work table, he had very little idea what he had just said to the boy. The boy in question stands there in shock, anger, and, he wouldn’t tell you this, sadness.

Douxie turns and leaves the room, ignoring the angry calls made by Merlin for him to come back and clean up his mess. Archie follows close behind, not saying a word.

As he enters his room, slamming the door behind him, almost every small object in the room begins to float as Douxie finally lets his anger out. With a yell, anything glass shatters, and everything else slams against the closest wall. Archie bolts under Douxie’s bed and tries not to get hit.

“Not ready! Not ready?! I’m not ready because you haven’t taught me anything!” He yells, pointing to an imaginary Merlin. “I’ve learned everything I have by myself because your off doing something every day and I’m stuck here cleaning up your messes! Doing your chores! Running your errands!” Something shatters against the opposite wall as he paces from one end of the room to the other. Archie doesn’t step in quite yet. “Some master wizard you are!” A few more things slam against the walls of Douxie’s room before everything finally drops to the ground. Creating a protective barrier around his hand, Douxie yells, slamming his fist into the closest wall, creating a sizable dent in the concrete. Huffing, Douxie walks over to his bed and falls onto it as tears start to fall from his eyes.

“Doux, listen to me,” Archie says cautiously as he jumps onto the bed. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He was just angry and-“

“And what, Arch?” Douxie yells, sitting up. “You don’t hear me yelling at him whenever he does something to piss me off? You don’t hear me saying I wish I had never taken up his offer to come with him, do you?”

“No, but-” Archie tries, but Douxie doesn’t give him a chance.

“I’ll show him.” Douxie snarls. “I’ll show him that I’m able to control my own magic.” Douxie stands, flexing his hands.

“Doux, please, listen to me-“

“No, Arch. I can do this.” Shaking his head and body to try and rid the anger.

“If you’re going to be reckless, I won’t be here to watch you,” Archie says, shifting into his dragon form and flying out the window.

“Good, I need the quiet anyway.” Douxie mumbles. Taking a deep breath, he folds his palms together and tries to relax, repeating the same incantation as before. “Palmetis tempestas fulmina!” Douxie opens his eyes to the singular bolt of lighting in his palms. He smiles. “Can’t control magic my arse.” Distancing his palms more, the bolt begins to multiply. He practices shrinking and growing the bolt until he has a pretty good feel for it. “Now, let's try something.” Taking another deep breath, Douxie folds his hands together like a ball, squeezing, and then takes one hand off.

The singular bolt of lightning is now in the shape of a ball.

But then, the ball begins to grow. And grow. And grow. Until Douxie can no longer control it.

“Oh, fuzz buckets.” The ball flies from his hand and grows into the multiple bolts of lightning. Douxie tries to create a shield but is not able to create it fast enough and his hand becomes his shield. He yells in pain as a bolt strikes it and feels blood begin to run down his hand. A large boom accompanies the bolts as Douxie grabs his hand, curling around it. As the storm subsides, Doxie uncurls, examining his hand.

The wound was already cauterized, but a bit of blood had bled from the wound before it did. Sighing, he leans himself on his bed, not lifting himself from the floor.

He holds his hand in pain as it throbs. Not sure how much time goes by, but Douxie swears he could hear his name being called, but he’s pretty sure the thunder messed with his hearing. Exhausted, he lets the darkness overtake him and take him away from the pain.

He could have sworn, however, he saw Merlin standing over him as he passed out.

~+~+~+~

When Douxie wakes up, he is in his bed, Archie is at his feet, his hand is wrapped, and there is a cup of water by his bedside. Groaning, he grabs his hand, realizing it is no longer throbbing with pain.

“It should be fine in a couple of days. It cauterized quickly, so I didn’t have to do much.” Douxie looks over at Merlin as the man continues to put the books back into their respective places on his bookshelf. “I told you, Hiserdoux, you are not yet ready for that kind of magic.” Douxie scoffs. Merlin does not look over at the boy. “However, I cannot place all blame on you. I have not been teaching you what I should, and for that, I apologize.” Douxie does a double-take.

Merlin, the greatest wizard in the world, Mr. I never apologize because I’m never wrong, had just apologized to Douxie.

“And I apologize for what I said in my workshop.” Merlin slows at the words, making sure Douxie is listening and what he is saying is correct. “I meant not a word.” Douxie sighs.

“And I’m sorry for doing magic in your workshop.”

“Very good. We were both at wrong.” Merlin puts the last book in place. “Please, make sure to never-“

“Use magic as a shortcut. Yes, master, I know.”

“And I will try my best to further your teaching. I have been at fault, I will admit, however, you should not be practicing magic alone. I do not appreciate a tired apprentice and don’t you-“

“But master-“

“But master me.” Douxie smiles.

“Yes, master.”

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shadowthrone-ammanas · 4 years

Text

Ghost Kid Chapter Nine: Secret

“Snatcher!”

Snatcher almost jumped before lowering his book to see that Hat Kid had snuck up on him again. But she didn’t disturb him nearly as often as she had when alive though so he wasn’t too bothered. “You need something?”

“I finished the book you gave me.” She held towards him as she floated closer to hover on the footstool next to his chair. “I need a new one.”

Snatcher put his own book down on the table so he could reach over to take the book from her. He flipped through it to make sure she hadn’t damaged it. That was the deal they’d made; he’d keep lending her books as long as she didn’t damage any of them. Just like the last two, this one was in the same exact condition it had been in when he’d lent it to her so… “What kind of book do you want this time?” he asked as he magicked the book away.

“Uh… I’m liking the fairy tales but what other kinds of books do you have?”

“I’ve been collecting books for almost three-hundred years kid, so I think it’s safe to say I have every kind of book imaginable.” And he was very proud of his collection even if he rarely ever got to mention it. “So just give me genre, I don’t have time to waste helping you pick out something to read. Or if you prefer non-fiction, I got those too, my collection of law books is particularly impressive.”

“Three hundred years is a long time so that must be a lot of books. Where do you keep them all? You have access to a pocket dimension, right? I’m pretty sure you do because what else could it be? But I suppose I could be wrong, I don’t know the specifics of the magic on this planet. But anyway, my point is those can get pretty unstable and fall apart if they have too many things in them so you might want to be careful.”

Snatcher almost asked her what she, a kid, would know about pocket dimensions but she’d already proven herself to be far from a normal child. It was probably something she’d learned about in the same place that taught her how to fly and repair a spaceship at her age. There was something a bit fishy going on there, it was none of his business.

“Yeah, I know,” He said instead as if he hadn’t found that out the hard way shortly after he’d gained enough power to make a pocket dimension. Thankfully he’d never kept his precious books in it. “That’s why I have a personal library. No one knows where it is and no one other than me can get in and out of it so don’t even try to find it kid.”

Hat Kid gasped and smiled wide – not something she did often since her death. “A secret library! That’s sounds exciting. Can you take me to it? You don’t have to tell me where it is or anything and I won’t tell anyone it exists or what it looks like or any of that stuff. But I want to see, please.”

If it were anyone else, Snatcher would’ve said ‘no’ immediately, probably would’ve made it bite too. But… she was so excited about it and… he felt sorry for her so he couldn’t bring himself to crush that excitement. Didn’t mean he was growing soft or actually liked seeing her happy though, he just… sympathized with the hardships of being new to existing as a ghost. And she was a child too, making it that much harder on her. So…

“All right fine,” he said with a long-suffering sigh as he straightened form his chair. “But only because it’s been a while since I last checked on the minions I assigned to maintaining it. I have to cull them every once in a while to weed out the trouble makers and make sure the rest keep doing a good job.” Not true, none of the Subconites ever caused problems – or the very few times they did, it was never major and never in rebellion against him in any way – but she didn’t need to know that.

The look she gave him as he transported them through his pocket dimension suggested she suspected that truth – ugh – but he ignored it. And thankfully she was quickly distracted as they appeared in the library.

The whole place was his most prized possession. He’d made everything big enough to suit his preferred size. The books, the shelves, the lanes between the shelves; all larger than normal and fit just for him. Even the magic candles, the only light in the library, were placed far apart because he didn’t need much light to see well. Overall it was a place meant for him and him alone… and yet he’d brought Hat Kid because he didn’t want to crush her excitement about his secret library.

“This is so cool,” she said, craning her neck up and looking all around, amazement write upon her ghostly features. “The books and the shelves are huge.”

“Are you really surprised?” Snatcher asked. “You’ve interrupted me while reading how many times now? You should know by now that I make my books big.”

“Yes, but I never thought you kept them big all the time. I kind of assumed you just put them back to their normal size when you were done with them.”

He’d done that for a while until he’d made the library. It would maybe be more efficient to continue doing so to save space in the library but… he didn’t want to. This was his space; it was going to be the way he wanted it to be even if it wasn’t completely practical and he wasn’t going to let anyone take it away from him.

“But uh, Hat Kid continued, “can I go exploring? This place is real neat! It’s got a haunted library aesthetic which… I guess it is, huh? I like it.”

Snatcher was again faced with not wanting to crush her excitement but he had to draw a line somewhere. This was his place, she was the first person ever to be down here other than the Subconite librarians, so there was no way he going to let her wonder off unsupervised. So… “You’re not leaving my sight while we’re here,” he said. “I don’t trust you not to make a mess or damage something.”

She pouted. “That’s not fair, you know I’m more responsible than that.” True, but he wasn’t going to budge on this, she had to at least know that about him, right? “But fine, whatever. I can explore with you hovering over my shoulder. I don’t mind, it’ll give me someone to talk to.”

“We’re not staying long enough for you to explore. I’m going to check on my minions, you’re going to pick out a book, and then we’re leaving.”

“Ah but…”

“No ‘but’s,” Snatcher interrupted. “I only brought you down here so you wouldn’t complain and bother me about it for who even knows how long. So take what you can get and be happy.”

She gave him another sad face but otherwise didn’t protest. “Okay.”

***

The Subconites who ran the library were different than the ones Hat Kid was used to. They had similar hoods, cloaks and glowing faces but they were twice as tall and had an extra pair of arms. Presumably the added height and limbs helped them maintain the library somehow, probably having something to do with the sheer size of the books they were working with. She wanted to know more but it was probably rude to ask so she refrained for now.

They all seemed to live in a little alcove off the library. Starting with a room that looked a bit like a receptionist’s room despite the fact that that shouldn’t be needed in a private library. Maybe, this was where Snatcher sent his books when he was done with them, letting the Subconites put them back into the exact right spot. It didn’t matter though, while Snatcher was busy chatting with a group of Subconites about something, Hat Kid could sneak off to go explore.

The hallway leading away from the library and presumably to the Subconites’ ‘living’ area was alluring. She wanted to know if they cohabited differently than the Subconites in Subcon Village or anything else that might different or special about them. The doorway leading back to the library was far more enticing though because it was a special secret library. It had to contain answers to many mysteries. So she tiptoed over towards it. Before she reached it though…

“The Boss has never brought anyone down here before.”

Hat Kid jumped as she turned back to see one of the librarian Subconites had approached her. They even sounded just like the ones she was familiar with.

“You must be something special,” he continued. “What’s your name?”

“Well, people here call me Hat Kid so you can too. But… has Snatcher really never brought anyone down here before?”

“Nope, never has. So you must really mean a lot to him. It’s nice to see him start to open up to other people again more.”

Hat Kid knew Snatcher cared more than he let on but knowing bringing her here meant he care a lot was a nice thought. Because… it was just nice that someone cared. She’d felt so alone since dying. … Heck, she’d been lonely for a long time, it’s part of why she’d decided to stick around and do Snatcher’s Death Wish contracts instead of heading home. It had just been so much worse since her death.

“It’s also nice to see a new face,” the Subconite continued, oblivious to how special his words had made her feel. “We never really leave the library so we never get to meet anyone new.”

“Hmm… so are the Subconites down here special in some way? Or did you just volunteer for this job?”

“We volunteered. Though some of us know things that the Boss doesn’t want people knowing. And some of that stuff may be common knowledge down here now and that’s why we’re not allowed to leave.”

More secrets! “What kind of stuff? I want to know too! He’s my BFF and he trusts me enough to bring me down here so it’s totally okay if you tell me.” Probably not true but who cared? She wanted to know. Before the Subconite could answer though…

“Don’t tell her anything unless you want to lose your head.”

Hat Kid jumped and turned around to see Snatcher was suddenly behind her. Damn it, why’d he have to come and ruin it? She’d been about to learn secrets. It was no fair.

“This is Hat Kid,” he continued, speaking to the Subconite, “dying has unfortunately done nothing to make her any less of a nosy brat. So don’t tell her anything she doesn’t need to know. That’s a direct order, disobeying will be a breach of your contract.”

“I wasn’t going to,” the Subconite said.

Hat Kid frowned at him and then at Snatcher “But I want to know.”

“Too bad kid,” Snatcher said. “And if you ask anything like that again, we’re leaving and I’m never bringing you back. It’s none of your business.”

She sighed, exaggerating it to make sure he knew how disappointed she was. “Yeah, I know.” As much as she wanted to know it was likely sensitive information. Like stuff about his past perhaps; painful to dredge up which is why he wouldn’t want it to be. It was still no fair to be teased with it though, especially since the Subconite hadn’t even been planning to tell her anything. “Sorry. Can we go look around the library a little bit now please? I still need to pick out a new book and I want to see more of this place, it’s cool.”

He glared his disapproval at her for a second or two longer before letting out his own sigh. “Fine, only for a little while. I have stuff I need to get back to in the forest.”

‘A little while’ turned out to be more than an hour. Hat Kid wondered through the library, looking at all the various books, determined to have as much time as he would give her. She asked him about some of the more interesting titles, testing to see if he really had read them all. Seems like he had, impressive.

She eventually settled on a book though, shortly after he expressed impatience for the third time – she didn’t want to push it too far. It was a history book about Subcon.

“You’re not going to find anything about me in that.” Snatcher said with a frown. “It was published while I was still alive so naturally my tale’s not in it.”

“Oh, really?” Hat Kid actually found that idea exciting in its own way. She’d get to find out what the forest was like before Vanessa destroyed it with her ice magic and Snatcher took it back from her and spread his own ghostly influence over it “That sounds neat.”

“It’s more boring than ‘neat’ but whatever, I’m not judging, I sometimes read law books for fun.” He snapped his fingers and the book shrunk down to normal size as he handed it to her. “But now that that’s done…”

He snapped again and the world around them shifted to purple before going back and… they were back in the big reading hollow they’d started in. Hat Kid missed the library already, it had been nice. Hopefully she’d get to go back one day and explore a little more.

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#My Writing #ahit #a hat in time #ghost kid #snatcher & hat kid #fluff #books #ghost kid fic

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peacockwinchester · 4 years

Text

Severus Snape x Wife!Author

I dunno but random inspiration struck. Might not be great but whatever. Hope y'all are doing good!

~Caroline~

I snuck down to the dungeons and into the Potions classroom. Severus was brewing something, as always. I sat in the corner, quietly. Severus looked up abruptly.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, it's warm in here," I shrugged. "My classroom is freezing and I can't get a heater to work in the castle..."

"Alright. I suppose it makes no difference if you're in here. I'm just finishing this, then we can go upstairs."

"Ok."

I watched my husband continue adding ingredients and stirring the concoction. His careful, pattern-like movements calmed me. I had always loved watching him work, even when we were students. He was always so rhythmic. It felt like no time at all before he was packing up his supplies.

He walked over to me, arms full of essays to be graded. I stood and walked at his side.

"Warmer now?" Severus asked as we left the dungeons.

"Yeah. What were you making?" I glanced at the glass bottle of purple liquid.

"An example for the 3rd years."

"Ah. How was Potter today?"

"Insufferable, as always."

"I feel that. He fell asleep again during my lecture. He's turning out like his father..."

"Pity."

I giggled at Severus' dislike for the boy. I wished he would stay awake for my lecture on the Goblin Wars, but he seemed nice otherwise. I pushed open the door to our quarters. I was glad Hogwarts was home for most of the year. I liked Spinners End, don't get me wrong, but I loved the magic and wonder at school. Severus sighed, setting his parchment pile on the dining table.

"If you didn't assign so much homework, you wouldn't have to grade it," I pointed out.

"They need the review. They're all dimwits, and I won't have them blowing up my classroom," Severus shook his head.

"I'm sure it's fine. I'm gonna freshen up for dinner. I'll drag you to the Great Hall this time if you insist on grading instead of eating," I gave my husband a look.

"I don't need food, Caroline, I'm fine," he scoffed.

I rolled my eyes and planted a light kiss on his head. Severus continued his work. I walked into the bathroom to comb my hair and touch up my lipstick. I was surprised when I turned around to see Severus standing in the doorway.

"You looked perfect before," he said softly.

I blushed a little, smiling.

"Thanks, Sev. It was just in case," I pecked his cheek. "Are you coming willingly?"

"I suppose," Severus tried to look reluctant, but I saw the twinkle in his eye.

He laces his fingers through mine, giving me a kiss. I grinned, leading him into the hall and down to the Great Hall.

As always, the Hall glowed happily from the floating candles. Most of the seats were empty, since we were always a bit early. Over at the Hufflepuff table, my son Valerian was reading a book. He glanced up, waving a bit. I waved back.

Valeria was in Potter's year. I almost regretted how much he was like me. He got my house and my disposition. The Slytherins bullied him because he wasn't one of them, like Severus was. Everyone else was cautious around him because they worried he would be as cool as my husband. I wished I could do something, but I knew he had to handle some of it on his own. I couldn't baby him.

We sat at our spots at the teacher's table. We'd been given seats next to each other. Severus looked at me.

"What's up?" I asked, my Muggle-born coming through.

"Nothing. You just seem a bit on edge," he shrugged.

He was right. I was more nervous lately. I was trying so hard to keep a secret, but I'd never been good at that. He only needed to press a little for me to crumble. I had wanted it to be a surprise, one I'd planned, but now seemed as good a time as any.

"I'm pregnant," I whispered.

Severus looked at me, eyes wide. The Great Hall was getting noisier as benches scraped and students filed in.

"What?" he asked.

"I said I'm pregnant," I repeated.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"How long have you known?"

"A week... You know I suck at secrets."

"I do."

Severus gave me a small smile, a bit uncomfortable in front of so many people. I gave him a full grin back. He pulled me into a small kiss, keeping it low-profile in front of the students and teachers. When we broke apart, Dumbledore gave me a wink, as if he knew what that was about. He probably did. At my side, Minerva was smiling.

"What?" I flushed, suddenly embarassed for kissing in front of the whole room.

"Congratulations, you two," was all she said.

My face stayed red and I looked down at my lap. Severus reached for my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. When I looked back out at the students, Valerian had a bit of a frown on. It was his thinking face, but he was probably also embarassed that his parents had kissed in front of everyone. I gave him a subtle thumbs-up.

Valerian had found out about the pregnancy first, because he'd walked past the bathroom as I was staring at the postive test. He was excited, because he wanted a little sister. He told me he wanted her to be cool like the youngest Weasley, who was a first year. I hoped it was a girl too, because I had a few names I wanted to use.

Severus glanced back at me as the food was served. I could see a happy glint in his eyes, though he didn't show it anywhere else. I smiled, relieved that he was happy. I was happy, too. I loved the family we were creating, and I loved my job. I loved Hogwarts, and everything it had done for me.

#severus snape

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storybycorey · 5 years

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Happy Halfway Point, guys!

Thanks so much to all of you who’ve been following along with this fluffy, romantic alphabet of Mulder’s! I hope you’re all enjoying reading Mulder’s thoughts about Scully as much as I enjoyed writing them!

Since we’ve gotten to M (halfway through the alphabet), I thought I’d post the fic up til this point, for anyone who may have seen the individual letter posts floating around and been intrigued. Here is A-M all in one place, for easy reading!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 2163

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days. Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him. Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things. He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there.

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably. Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting. On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer. The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch).

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back. With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now).

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise. His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they’re getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days. Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal. But Dana is an enigma. He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free. It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path.

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know. He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really. But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse. The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly. Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls? Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas? He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between. He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays.

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife? Girlfriend?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes. Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice. He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried. Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away? Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything.

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha. Spin the Globe it was called. They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away. He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head. Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully. Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe. Antarctica.

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder. That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand.

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire. He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand. It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute.

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.”

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip. He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket. The nice thing about it? She doesn’t even pretend not to want it. She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in. They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub. She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years. Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy. He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned.

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it. It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks. He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars...

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres. Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this: In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time.

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks. It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure. Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully. He’s not sure what else he expected. Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day. He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes? Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe…”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.” He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then. Tomorrow…”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

to be continued- we still have N-Z to go, and I promise Z will have been worth the wait!

#The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet #A-M masterpost #msr vignettes

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inawickedlittletown · 4 years

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Anywhere You Go, I Follow (6/8)

Summary:

Buck always believed it to be a curse. The whole being able to see and talk to ghosts thing. That was why his abilities went mostly ignored until there came a time when he actually needed them.

Notes:

The quote comes from Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford & Sons

Warning: There is MCD but this fic has a happy ending.

Word count: 1,259

Masterpost

Read on Ao3

Part Five

Part Six

“So when your hope's on fire but you know your desire, don't hold a glass over the flame”

He was trying not to just blurt out how much he loved him. Buck was sure that he wasn’t doing a fantastic job at keeping those feelings at bay especially with how he had to just keep touching Eddie. His hands wouldn’t leave him. Buck just...he needed to be sure that Eddie was real. A ghost, but real nonetheless. Touch made him real.

“So, what happens now?”

“Now, we have to get out of here,” Buck said and he hoped that his mom wouldn’t give him a hard time. After all, technically, ghosts that made it to the astral plane weren’t supposed to return to the living one.

“How?” Eddie asked.

Eddie had been there too long, Buck realized. It was all there in the way that he didn’t seem all that phased about everything. His emotions had been turned down way low. It made Buck wonder what would happen when they were back on the living plane and everything returned. Ghosts were ruled by their emotions. It was what made them capable of affecting the living plane. It was why they could haunt a place and why they made things complicated. A ghost had killed his mother after all.

“We go the way I came,” Buck said.

It wasn’t a long walk, but Buck held Eddie’s hand the whole way and Eddie must not have minded because he never pulled his hand away.

“Buck,” Eddie said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“How’s Christopher?” It wasn’t worry that brought the question forth but instead curiosity.

Buck felt a bit guilty for not knowing. It was just that his focus had been on this. He’d needed to do this and bring Eddie back. For himself and for Christopher.

“I don’t...I don’t know,” Buck said. “Sorry.”

Eddie gave a short nod.

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Buck added. Everyone cared about Chris. Between Carla and Eddie’s Abuela and Pepa he’d be okay. “And he’ll be even better when we get back.”

It wasn’t a mirror on this side, instead it was a space concentrated with fog that hid whatever was behind.

“It might feel weird,” Buck warned Eddie. “Don’t let go of my hand.”

The space was wide enough they could cross it together. It felt almost like going through a waterfall except that it wasn’t wet but instead it made him feel like every part of his skin had been pricked by a small needle. They were in the mirror room again, then, and Buck’s body lay on the ground.

“What — Buck that’s—”

“Can’t have a body where we were,” Buck said.

Eddie’s hold on his hand tightened. “But then, you—”

“I’m okay,” Buck assured him. “Just have to get back in my body. And then we can go.”

Eddie nodded, but he still held onto Buck as if letting him go would mean losing him and Buck felt a wave of love come over him because of it. When their eyes met, Buck could see worry. Maybe his emotions were already returning.

“You can let go, Eddie,” Buck said.

Eddie nodded but it still took him a moment to let go and Buck noticed that the moment he did his ghostly face went even paler and that his hands were shaking. His eyes never left Buck as Buck lowered himself into his body. And Buck could see the panic within when Buck was reconnecting to his body and it took a few seconds for him to get back.

“Buck?”

With a gasp, he came to.

“I’m fine. Now we have to get out of here.”

“I died,” Eddie said. “I died and I...I was somewhere else and I didn’t. Shit. Christopher. And and and—” his eyes flashed to Buck. “You! You! I never...oh god, I never told you. I, I—”

“You can tell me everything later,” Buck said and he grabbed both of Eddie’s hands. “Right now, I have to bring you back to life and then we’ll have all the time in the world.”

It was a bit surprising that his mother wasn’t there. She must have gone somewhere, though, and he didn’t exactly want to wait for her except that the portal he opened was gone and he didn’t know how he was supposed to get him and Eddie back.

“What happens now?” Eddie asked.

Buck wracked his mind for an answer, for memories of his childhood to remind him of what his mom had told him and Maddie back then. He’d had to go through the trouble of getting the blood and doing all that research in books that spoke about the whole thing vaguely and in internet sites that were half run-down and looked more like they would give his computer a virus than actual answers, to get there. None of that had been a necessity if he’d remembered how that aspect of his powers workers.

“I don’t know,” Buck admitted. “She was supposed to still be here but of course she’s…” he trailed off as the whole room became surrounded by light and then there she was, his mother in her ethereal state and appearing next to her, Maddie.

“Buck,” Maddie said and rushed towards them, her hands reaching to grasp his forearm. She didn’t even seem to notice Eddie at first and then she gasped. “You found him.”

Buck nodded. “Yeah. Have to get him back to his body.”

Maddie froze. “That’s...Buck, this isn’t how it works. If he’s a ghost he has to move on. He can’t—”

“He can,” Buck insisted. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

“Should have learned when I did,” she said almost teasing.

“Maddie. Please.”

Maddie nodded but before she could show him or take him and Eddie back, his mom stepped towards them first. Buck stepped in front of Eddie protectively.

“Despite the circumstances, it was good to see you, Evan. And to meet your Eddie. I won’t stop you or keep you any longer. I hope...I hope this goes the way you want it. His future is quite literally in your hands, Evan. I hope to see you again soon.”

Buck gave her a smile. “Bye, mom.”

“That’s your mom,” Buck heard Eddie whisper as Maddie took both of their hands and then it felt a little like he was floating for a few seconds but then it was over and when he opened his eyes he was on the floor in his apartment next to his candles.

Maddie was standing to his right and Eddie who was glowing just a little — enough to differentiate that he wasn’t alive — was on his left on the ground, looking disoriented. This was what Buck had been wondering about. How would this feel to Eddie after being in the astral plane.

“Is he going to be okay?” Buck asked.

Maddie nodded.

“We have to get to the hospital,” she said. “And, Buck, I really don’t know if this will work.”

“I know,” Buck said. “But I have to try. And if it doesn’t...I want to be able to let him say goodbye to Christopher. She stole that from him.”

“She was only trying to help.”

Buck shook his head. “Mads, she was meddling.”

“She loves you,” she said.

“I guess I actually do know that now.”

“Do you?” Maddie asked.

“She could have stopped me. But she let me bring him with me.” He didn’t add that it made him even more hopeful.

Part Seven

Notes: Just two more parts left. aLet me know what you all thought of this one. :)

#911 fox #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #buck x eddie #911 fox fic #fic #my fic #mediator Buck

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imaginexmeintheuniverse · 5 years

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Sparks Will Fly

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1, 793

A/N: better late than never on this hiatus of sorts i suppose but I've been dragged way back into the hp groove so maybe I'll start writing for that fandom too??? Anyways here's some Fred love for Valentine's day~

You and Fred Weasley have been each other's backup Valentines for as long as you can remember. From when you were kids and gave each other cute cards with animated drawings.

You say backup Valentine, yet you actually did end up being together and going out on what you both assumed to be a purely platonic Valentine's day date every year. There were a few years, here and there, where either you or him thought you might have spent it with someone else, but you always ended up cozied on the couch together, sharing an assortment of sweets by the end of the night— always involving a dozen chocolate frogs that he buys you because they're your favorite.

This year, however, things seem to be different.

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

"Sorry to leave you all alone this year, love," Fred tells you, leaning onto you as you try to complete your homework— key word 'try' because having your best friend who is significantly bigger than you shifting all his weight onto you males it a lot more difficult to write. "But I've got a very special girl I need to impress."

"That's all right," you reassure him, looking up from your page. It'll probably end up like it does every year anyways... right?

"Don't be missing me too much, I don't want you to be lonely—"

"I think I'll be able to manage just fine," you chuckle, turning back to your potions assignment. "Who knows? Maybe I'll find my own date."

"Oh, but you couldn't replace me," he says in a sing-song voice as he lays his head in your lap, rending it completely impossible to continue writing.

"Don't get cocky, Weasley," you scoot over a smidge so that his head drops, but is still next to your leg as you carry on. "So, who is it?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that, love, it would ruin the surprise."

"What? You're ditching me on Valentine's day, and I'm not even allowed to know who for?" You drop your quill and look at him incredulously. He tells you everything, what makes this so different?

"That's right, you'll just have to wait and see like everyone else," he smiles, standing from the couch. "I will say this: sparks will fly."

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

The eve of Valentine rolls around, and you realize that you had barely spent any time with your best friend all week. All the time you would usually spend together— which is pretty much always— has nearly halved from all of his running around and scheming to 'woo' this mysterious girl for the 14th day of the month.

He shovels his food down even quicker than usual, it comes as a shock to you that he hasn't bloody choked, and then he prepares a hasty departure.

"Hey! Where are you going?" You catch him by the wrist before he dashes off.

"I've got romance to brew!" He flashes you an impish smile and turns to leave again, only to have you pull him back again.

"I certainly hope that doesn't mean you're going to stoop so low as concocting a love potion just to get a girl to like you—"

"Of course not, it's a figure of speech," he places his free hand over his chest in mock-hurt. "Y/N, I hope you don't think that low of me; my devastatingly handsome looks are more than enough for the ladies to handle. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to some fire— err things to smuggle— I mean prepare."

"Wow, you're really pulling out all the stops," you settle back in your seat, releasing your grip. "Must be some special girl."

"Yeah, she really is," a daze settled over his voice and his features became entranced with a goofy grin. Now it hits you: this was going to be your first Valentine's day without Fred, and he was going to spend it with a girl he was clearly head-over-heels for.

"Well, best of luck," you offer him the most supportive smile you can muster before he runs out of the grand hall.

Your gaze unconsciously follows his figure and stays there even after he's out of sight, your meal and the rest of the world temporarily forgotten.

"You know," George drawls, observing the scene from the other side of the table. He has, without a doubt, been analyzing the whole interaction.

"What is it Georgie?" You roll your eyes playfully, already expecting a teasing remark.

"If I didn't know any better, Y/N, I'd say that you’re jealous of this girl."

"Yeah right," you dismiss him whilst trying to maintain the lie you're obviously telling yourself, which is that this doesn't affect you at all. You're trying to ignore the pang of envy clouding your heart, thinking about who this girl could possibly be.

George lets out a snort, indicating he doesn't believe a word you said, because other than Fred, he knows you better than anyone. Your expression must have betrayed you because he's reading you like an open book.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that other girl, though," he shoots you a knowing grin.

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

Today is the day. Which day exactly? Right, the one where you find out which lucky girl has stolen your best friend's heart whilst you watch from the corner of a room as he proclaims his love with a grand gesture.

Speak of the red-headed devil, you haven't seen him all day; he wasn't there at breakfast, and he wasn't in the class you shared either— the latter of which was more common for him to skip. You haven't seen Fred Weasley all day, and now even as you sit across the lunch table from his twin brother, he is nowhere to be found.

"Where is he?" George merely answers you with a shrug, even though he obviously knows something you don't, but before you can interrogate him, the entire hall erupts in a chorus of oohs, ahs, and intrigued students looking all around the room.

Allowing your eyes to wander the room as well, you also find yourself watching the scene before you in awe, even though you've grown up in a world of magic. Rose petals are strewn all over the floor, bushels of your favorite flower have appeared as center pieces on the tables, and the floating candles are burning a soft pink hue and have started to move around, presumably into some sort of formation. Just when you've taken everything in, you're taken by surprise again, this time by fireworks. They explode in hearts, all timed like a symphony that carries the same melody as your favorite song, and then fizzle out in colors you've never even imagined.

Returning your focus back to the candles, you see that they've taken the shape of a massive heart and letters inside— your initials.

"What the..."

"Y/N?" Your ears perk up at the sound of a familiar voice and you whirl around to see none other than Fred Weasley.

"F-Fred—" He stands no more than a step away, grinning down at you with the widest smile you've ever seen. "Wh-what are you doing- what's going on?"

"Y/N," he speaks your name with such certainty, like it's the most wonderful combination of syllables that was created just for him. You're already reeling from the shock and seemingly the only person who still doesn't know what the hell is going on— and then he gets down on one knee. He holds up a chocolate frog box up to you with his left hand and holds his wand up in the other. With one swift flick, golden sparks light up the air above his head, forming the words 'will you be my Valentine' as he looks at you with his bright doe eyes. "Please?"

You honestly have no words. All you can do is break out into a smile, and throw your arms around him, nearly knocking him to the ground. He hugs you back tightly, securing you to him with an arm around your waist as he stands. Setting you back on your feet, he doesn't let go as he asks, "Shall I take that as a yes?"

Again, you don't answer him, instead tightening your arms around his neck and pushing yourself up to capture his lips. You think you might hear a few whoops and cheers around you, but you're too engrossed in the moment to fully register.

The domineering narrative on this moment is that it's been a long time coming. If you weren't so busy enjoying the moment, you'd probably be kicking yourself for waiting so long.

When you break apart, you don't let go of each other and he's got the goofiest love-struck grin you've ever seen.

"Although I'm glad at how well this all turned out, I think the chocolate frog may have escaped when you—"

"Mr. Weasley!" Professor Snape calls out as he approaches the pair of you. "To Professor Mcgonagall's office at once for this ridiculous display! I'll let her deal with you accordingly." He always did know how to ruin the fun.

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

You wait outside the head of Gryffindor's office for Fred to come out and when he does, you worry he might be bringing bad news by the look on his face.

"Snape's taken quite a few house points, the sour old man," he pouts, looking a little defeated, but then a corner of his mouth quirks up. "But good ol' Mcgonagall seems to have a soft spot for grand gestures dedicated to her favourite student."

Smiling, you take his hands and lace your fingers through his. "You know, if you wanted me to be yours, you could have just asked," you giggle, pressing a feathery kiss to his cheek. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble for me."

He gives you a weird look for a moment, as though you describing his grand gesture as 'trouble' he went through for you is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

"You are well worth it— in fact, I went fairly tame this year, watch out for next year, you're going get the full Weasley love experience!" You really can't tell if he's joking or not, but you're too happy to care.

"So there's going to be a next year?"

"Of course," he chuckles, bringing up a hand to either side of your face. "If you'll be mine...?"

Now it's your turn to look at him like he's being ridiculous— which he is, because he should know by now that, "I always have been."

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jsyndra · 5 years

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It was quiet.

Awkwardly so, at this point. For a couple of hours now Irelia following behind Sirik, only stopping now and again for water. The other woman was not much for talk, Irelia noted. Not that the dancer minder too much, she took the offered silence as time to ponder.

Sirik moved with such intent that it was clear where her thoughts lay, with the witch in the floating castle. There was a point during this journey that Irelia questioned her resolve to help this woman, she wondered if she even could. A woman who lifted the entirety of Fae'lar into the air and keep it there... Certainly Irelia has faced powerful magic, but she wondered how powerful this woman actually was.

The thought did not last long, however. Irelia had faced worse odds, and she would face them again. No one offered her peace after her family was killed, the least she could do was offer such peace to this woman who sought her out. Conviction filled her heart, Irelia would stand against whatever powers lay within The Celestial Fortress.

After that thought passed, her mind drifted to her family as it often did. Irelia would find herself daydreaming, fantasizing about a life where she returned home from the Placidium and her family was there to greet her. Where she took up no blade, she grew alongside her siblings and danced across the lands for people to view and enjoy.

Irelia recalled when she danced before the violence, the look upon strangers faces as they admired the beauty in it and the gleeful words they offered her. Happiness. That is what Irelia once gave with her dance, yet now it was only fear or bloodthirst. She was taught by her O-ma that violence was never an answer, yet Irelia made it one. She had no choice, and soon it seemed she became it; a beacon for it amongst the rebels.

It spoiled her daydreams, and soon Irelia simply zoned out for the rest of the walk. She just followed behind Sirik like a little soldier, marching to her next battle. Another hour passed, yet it only felt like a few minutes.

"We're here."

The words broke the silence, and Irelia snapped back to attention. Aquamarine orbs scanned the area Sirik had led them to, a small cabin in the forest. It was small, and it seemed to have been there for quite some time now. The nearby forest had begun to grow onto the housing, foliage almost disguising it. If one were not looking for it, they may have simply passed it by without a second thought.

"Where are we?" Irelia questioned, glancing around. She really had no clue, she had lost track of any mental mapping along the way.

"The mage I spoke of-- this is his home." Sirik responded, approaching the door and beckoning Irelia forward. Sirik had been here before, and had an almost casual approach as she knocked upon the door and opened it without answer; like she was visiting an old friend.

Irelia simply followed, a touch of caution in her steps. This was, of course, still a stranger and she did not know where she was. As Irelia began to enter the cabin, the first thing she noticed was the smell. The stench was pungent, seeming to be that of earth and magic-- and everything in between. The most noticeable smell was the mold, likely from the forest beginning to form around the building. She tried not to scrunch her nose in disgust, but she found it impossible.

“You’ll get used to it.” Sirik stated as she noted Irelia’s response, closing the door behind them. In fact, she expected it; she had the same one the first time she had been here. However, over time, Sirik had become accustomed to the scent. She barely even noticed it now, instead if almost felt welcomed. She had spent many an hour in this cabin, searching for a way to make it inside The Celestial Fortress. It was no easy task, and it took quite a few visits to find a spell.

The words brought Irelia no comfort with her entrance, if the smell was not enough than the mess that lays before her would be. Irelia far preferred things at least a touch organized, and this home was very much the opposite. Shelves upon shelves were scattered with potions, books, and what she assumed to be ingredients. The shelving was packed, and that was made clear by the scattered objects across tables and the floor. There were uncleaned stains, and even grass began to grow through the floorboards. Was it even livable?

There was a moment Irelia had begun to regret her decision, but the thought was soon interrupted by a rustling from a room near the back of the cabin. “Sirik, is that you now?” Came what seemed to be an older voice, but certainly none like Irelia had ever heard before. What emerged with those words was a hunched elderly gentleman, covered in a tattered cloak.

“Oh, Sirik! You’d been gone so long I was beginning to worry...” The man commented, and he scurried his way up to Sirik. He looked upon her with affection, and then soon cast his gaze to Irelia. “Is this her now? Oh, she is much prettier in person.” He complimented, returning his gaze upon Sirik and leaning in slightly. “And scarier.” He whispered teasingly, knowing Irelia could hear him.

“Ah, um, yes. This is her.” Sirik commented, hand behind her head awkwardly. She never did get used to the mans odd ways. “This is Irelia, the blade dancer I spoke of.” She turned to Irelia, gesturing her hand at the man. “And Irelia, this is Marvin. He is the mage I spoke of.” She explained, turning her attention back to Marvin.

Well, he may not be the cleanest man, but he was amusing nonetheless. Irelia’s lip twitched upwards slightly, feeling a bit more welcomed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Marvin.” Irelia spoke politely, bowing her head in greeting. “I have heard much about you.” She hasn’t, but she wished to be as kind as possible with a man supposedly teleporting her several miles into the air.

“Oh yes! I have been looking forward to meeting you.” Marvin replied in his silly little tone, quite the eccentric man indeed. “Excuse the mess. I did not intend to clean before you came here, really. But excuse it nonetheless.” He cackled at his own jesting, and soon turned his back and shuffled his way to something else that caught his attention. “Now! As for teleporting you...”

Right to business it seemed, Irelia watched Marvin with furrowed brows. “Are you sure about this...?” She whispered quietly to Sirik, uncertainty clear in her tone. Why wouldn’t she be a touch skeptical? He was definitely... Odd. He was not what Irelia envisioned in a powerful mage, not at all.

“Yes, apart from the sovereign herself, I have yet to meet a mage more powerful than Marvin.” Sirik responded just as quietly, understanding of Irelia’s skepticism. But she knew better than anyone what Marvin was capable of.

That statement only made Irelia more skeptical, she wondered if Syndra was all that scary if this was someone that Sirik considered powerful. “I see.” She responded hesitantly, keeping such thoughts to herself. She was too far in now to really not do this, and... Well, Irelia would give Marvin a chance.

“Here it is, here it is!” Marvin chanted victoriously, now skittering back over to the two women with a book in hand. He also held a map out proudly, many markings upon it that made no sense to Irelia. “This is it! Now we just have to find that damned castle... Oh, dear.” He continued, more talking to himself than either Irelia or Sirik. He continued to babble something or another under his breath.

“Yes, it should being approaching shortly.” Sirik commented, glancing at the clock. “The locations it travels are... Fairly random. Yet I’ve been watching long enough that I note it goes in a particular pattern. That is why I sought you out today, I knew it would approach Marvin’s home in the late afternoon.” She then explained, turning her head to Irelia. “It works out well.”

Marvin perked then, turning his attention to Irelia. “Yes, yes, yes. It all worked out. Listen, child! There are some things you must know about this island before you go.” He stated, turning to dig through a nearby box. “The island’s gravity despite being so high, it is due to the massive amounts of power it possesses. Now! Once you are up there, I can only bring you back down if you are standing where I initially sent you.” He explained, lifting out a emerald pendant from the box and offering it to Irelia.

Irelia took it with hesitance, eying it carefully. “What is this?”

“That is what you will use to tell me when you are ready to come back down! Bah! Were you even listening?” Marvin responded, a touch of annoyance in his tone. “Now, child, you must understand-- whatever is up there is more powerful than anything I have ever encountered. I can feel its magic from here. So, that being said--” His tone became harsh. “I need you to--”

Irelia was expecting some sort of warning, and her muscles tensed.

“To gather me some of the foliage! I’m certain you will have time, just collect a few rocks or grass. Whatever you can. I wish to study it! Oh, it would be quite marvelous...” Marvin finished, a grin plastered on his features. Sirik rolled her eyes at that, but it was the only reason she had gotten him to agree to do this for her and help her with studying the entire thing.

“Um... Yes, I suppose I can do that.” Irelia responded, a bit confused but there was no real reason not to agree. Mages... Always so strange.

“Good, good. Now, let us prepare.” Marvin stated cheerfully, skittering off once more and beckoning the two women with him. “Come, we do not wish to miss our opportunity!” He continued to grin, excited to attempt the spell that he had found. No, he did not test it yet. But that was fine, it was good-- for research. It should work, anyway. If not, oh well. Sirik will just have to find another warrior.

Irelia followed behind the man, as did Sirik. They were led into the back most part of the cabin, the room barely lit if not for a few candles. Azure hues scanned the room she entered, but were quickly distracted by a impatient tug on her arm.

“Come now, no dilly dallying!” Marvin stated, pulling Irelia along and putting her in the glowing circle that lay in the center of the room. “It is almost time. Now, listen once more, child!” He added, stepping back and facing Irelia from outside the circle. “You must remain perfectly still, you and those blades of yours. If you move I may end up sending you there missing a limb or two, it is in your best interest.” He warned. “And make certain you stay exactly where you are in the center of the circle, it is for accuracy. if you are off I could be sending you flying back to the ground.”

Irelia simply nodded, a touch of worry etched upon her features. She tucked her arms to her side, and pressed her legs firmly together; even her mantle of blades tucked itself close to her back. She looked to Sirik for reassurance, and even when it was given from the other’s gaze, she did not feel much better. It simply seemed off, doing such a dangerous task for a stranger. But she had to, it was her duty... Right?

“Very good! Now, prepare yourself. It approaches.” Marvin stated rather ominously, and Irelia nodded in understanding. He soon opened the book in his hand, and his fingers began to glow. He was preparing himself, readying his magic to cast this powerful spell. “It is time!” He announced abruptly, beginning to chant words that Irelia could not even begin to understand.

Slowly, Irelia began to feel her form dissipate, and there was a sense of panic that filled her. Marvin’s words echoed in her mind- don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. She really wanted to, her instincts said to run. But knowing the consequences, Irelia did not move an inch. However, a nervous sweat did begin to appear just above her brow. Not many things did make Irelia nervous, but this... Well, how could you not be?

“Irelia.” Sirik spoke, gazing softly upon Irelia. “Good luck and... Thank you.”

Irelia did not want to move, or even speak, while the spell continued; yet the words were well received. She did not care about being the hero, but at times it was nice to just... Receive thanks for her sacrifice. It was not something she lay awake at night wishing for, but it was better than nothing. At the very least, it made her feel human, not just a weapon for people to use.

Soon Irelia felt her entire form dissipate, and she could not help but close her eyes tightly. Taking a deep breath, she soon felt connection to her form once more. Aquamarine orbs opened as she exhaled, and she soon found herself alone-- and outside. A breeze hit her, long obsidian strands blowing in the wind. Taking another breath, Irelia noted the air felt... Heavier; threatening, even.

Regaining her stream of thought, she looked around. It was completely different from where she once had been, it caused her to feel a touch of dizziness. Despite the sun still being out, the area around her felt... Dark. Unnaturally so, yet it clashed well with the dead land before her. It made her uneasy, yet she still made sure to make note of what it looked like.

Glancing down, Irelia noted the concrete platform she stood in and the tall walls before her. It seemed to be the courtyard, making her next destination an easy guess. Her blades withdrew from its crest, and she began to slowly make her way forward. The tall walls of the courtyard swallowed her, and in the middle of it all sat two large doors.

Irelia continued to move forward, noting the structural damage of the building before even entering it. Each crack in the wall, of which there were several, held an eerie purple glow to them. It was true, this woman’s magic-- it ran through every vein of this island. The thought itself was intimidating enough, even without having seen this ‘Syndra’ yet.

That would change very soon as Irelia reached the doors, her hand placed against one and pushing. Despite how massive they were, they opened with ease; it was as if they were inviting her inside. That made her shiver, and her guard rose. Someone knew she was here, and she could guess who that someone is.

Purple flames decorate the grandiose room before her, leading to the farthest wall of the room. Irelia’s eyes following them, all the way until the end and then they landed upon the centerpiece of the room. A throne. It seemed to be made of melted weapons, what seemed to be hundreds of swords sticking out of the top of the chair. Noxian weapons, she noted, she’d seen them enough times to distinguish them even from so far away.

But that was hardly the most intimidating part of it. No, what the real threat of it was the woman that sat upon it. Syndra. Before Irelia could even take in the sight of this woman, she began to speak.

“Intruder.” Syndra spoke, and her voice was nothing like anything Irelia could imagine. Every syllable coated with power, unimaginable power. Even The Grand General of Noxus did not scare Irelia with her power, but this... This was something else.

“All this effort to arrive in my home, and waste my time. If I were a kind woman, I would offer you a moment to leave before it is too late.”

Irelia stood ready at that, taking it as an immediate threat. Muscles flexed, tension high. Aquamarine focused intently on Syndra’s form... Claws, horns, and sharp teeth... What was this woman...?

“Unfortunately, I am not a kind woman.”

It was then Irelia understood Sirik’s fear, and her toes curled into the ground beneath her. This was no woman, this was the devil itself.

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dholwrites · 6 years

Note

*sniggers* ok ok how are the undateables when it comes to swearing? Do they swear? How do they react when the WoL does?

Aymeric

Aymeric doesn’t swear, he doesn’t see the need to be swearing at all in public. However, spending most of his life around Estinien, he’s heard firsthand a long string of swears. It occurs so often that it doesn’t even faze him anymore than normal chatter. The initial swear that comes out of you does startle him. if it’s a common occurrence, he gets used to it. There was a small competition among his knights, to see if they can get him angry enough to swear. Estinien joined in and won quicker than you could utter a word. He knows Aymeric too well.

There’s a good reason why he doesn’t bring Estinien into big meetings. Aymeric is well aware that he would instantly lash out when they would pull an underhand move. While he's a good prop for intimidating lords from speaking, meetings are forced to a screeching stop to wrestle him to the ground. Estinien doesn’t only lash out with his words but also his lance. Aymeric quietly hoped that with you around, perhaps it would go smoothly still

He spoke too soon. A Lord (Dounon was it?) made an underlining comment of his relationship. It’s something that he can easily brush aside. But the man continues to take small jabs at him until the conclusion of the meeting. Someone could call him a buffoon for this childish behavior. Of course, Aymeric didn’t need to do so. You have that covered for him. The hell that you’ve unleashed from your mouth at Lord Dounon echoed throughout Ishgard. Aymeric has the day marked down on his calendar.

Estinien

He swears like his life depends on it. Sometimes worse than the sailors in Limsa, but you rather not make it a contest. You’ve witnessed him string together the most colorful things when a dragon swooped in and picked him up. Estinien actually holds second place on swearing in the Dragoon Barracks. If asked who is in first place, he will simply grumble to himself and stalk off to brood. Hearing his significant other swear doesn’t affect him. There’s a tug at the corner of his lips every time he hears you use something of his. He’ll actually find it a bit strange if you don’t swear yourself and will do his best to get you to say your first one.

“Just say it already!” He bellows from across the field. Estinien had been persistent ever since he found out. To the point even the largest of dragons doesn’t seem to faze him from his goal. To get you to swear. A stupid goal? Yes. But irresponsibility is in his blood and Halone damn him for being hard headed too. He knows that you’re not scared of them, being in his mere presence gives you more than enough options to pick from. All you really need to do is actually pick. He would prefer if you picked one of his more creative ones but gotta start somewhere right?

He was smirking at you, you could even feel the curve of a smile on his lips as his eyes gleam with amusement. Estinien is pleased, even more than pleased. Perhaps even ecstatic with this result. Of course, he won’t say that. Not now. He needs to see if you’ll do it again when he works with more than his tongue. The hand on your hips tighten their grip as the owner gets back to work between your legs.

Thancred

He can and does swear. He usually doesn’t, because ‘the ladies love poetry'. Thancred claims that he wants to set himself apart from the rest of the other thieves, bring actual charms into the mission. Y’shtola is inclined to disagree. Thancred is extra observate of when you swear. He picks up when you mutter swears under your breath. Like when you’re backed into a corner or when a new problem arose. It felt like he gets to see a smaller part of you. Each word paints a better picture of the person under the title.

You always swore when something didn’t go as planned. In battle, it’s alarming. Especially when you get thrown across the room or face first into the ground. But right now you’re sitting on a chair. Dangling it on the hind legs to reach the table, for a fork. You were a bit too lazy to get up to walk the length. Instead you resorted to see if your Echo could float the fork into your hand. he should warn you, but his curiosity stops him. Your hand hovers just ilms always from the fork, on the other delicately balanced a piece of cake. F’lhaminn had given it to you with the promise of a review. now it stands a higher chance of meeting the floor than your mouth.

A screech from the chair, quickly followed by one of your own. The chair wobbles off balance, starting its descent to the floor. The plate tipping off balance. The slice slowly slip off the plate. Falling. Falling. Splat. Onto your face. The loudest swear he’s ever heard rip out your mouth echoes throughout Rising Stones.

G’raha Tia

He swears more often than he would like to admit. A lot of time out of frustration as he tries to piece together relics of the past. You could physically see the build up before he screams it out into the world. Sure the Allagans have everything on file, but they don’t record the things that people are suppose to know already. Like how to find a book for dummies, G’raha really wishes he doesn’t have to admit that. Hearing you swear wouldn’t drive him away. G’raha would let out a small chuckle to himself, beckon you to sit next to him, and tell him what is wrong.

You didn’t think you would ever see a group of scholarly students duke it out as anything other than theories and ideas. Then again you have a habit of seeing and doing the impossible as G’raha admitted to you. He may or may not be involved in a historical swearing competition with his peers. The rules are simple, figure out what was the oldest swear discovered. Allagans are excluded because everything about them mess up the natural timeline. There’s no way to make sense of this other than listen in. But G’raha had even gotten into a fight over how old the word ‘damn’ is for the last two hours now. Pulling out textbooks the same way summoners summon their carbuncles.

Why isn’t the referee stopping the debate? Who else would G’raha argue with other than the referee.

Cid

He swears when he’s in pain, usually choking it out between gasps of pain from drinking salt water coffee again. Most of the time, he’s a clean slate. Because of his looks, a lot of people would expect a more old fashioned type of swearing. Unfortunately, Cid is dangerously good at figuring out what are the new ones being used and wield it. If not, there’s nothing stopping him from convincing Wedge and Biggs to teach him.

There’s a few things that you know for sure about Cid. One, he likes working with machinery and inventing. Two, Cid might have the patience of a saint but Nero will cut it down to a candle wick. Three, Cid knows Garelean swears. The combination of these facts can lead to many scenarios. Like right now. Cid and Nero hurling insults at each other, Garelean insults that no one else would understand. Well everyone except you.

The Echo helps translate the foreign language into something you can understand. Cid finds out when you started translating and telling everyone else the words being thrown around. Deciding to take advantage of this while he can, Cid calls for your attention in private. Slowly and surely, he starts to teach you every single Garelean swear he knows. Everyday he would put time aside to make sure that you memorize everything he’s telling you. All this effort boils down until Nero once more comes by to annoy him. Now the both of you can tag team and beat Nero at his own game.

Alphinaud

Alphinaud doesn’t swear. The Scions and many adventurers do their best not to around him. There is a bit of an image that they like to keep. This doesn’t mean that he hasn’t heard anyone swear before. A quick trip through Limsa would quickly change that fact. He does have a mental image of you with every aspect of a hero. He never considered if you would ever swear. Pure shock would spread across his face as soon as he hears you voice out a crude word. His heroic image of you has completely shattered.

Everyone makes a big deal out of it. The fact that they’ve caught you swearing around Alphinaud is already bad enough. When he followed it up with a swear of his own it made the situation all the worse. It was something in the moment. The pain shooting through your foot and up your knee. You barely missed the chair right next to the table that attacked you, stumbling with your other to get seated. The pain dulls into a throbbing ache is when you finally turn to your companion. His eyes and mouth wide open, perfectly groomed brow raised in alarm, his ears seem to slightly droop. A face of shock.

Just over his shoulder, you spied Thancred. The wide cheeky grin says it all. You swore. In the midst of the pain, you allowed a word to slip. A nervous sweat broke on your back as you eye the door. A good idea is to make a break for it before Tataru finds out.

“Did you just say ‘Fuck’?” The words were quickly followed by a body hitting the floor. Thancred lays at the feet of his chair clutching his side, dying of silent laughter. You make a dash for the front door. To be greeted with the sight of a stern Tataru. Shit.

Haurchefant

New recruits try not to swear around him. But when you’re being put outside in the freezing water with nothing but your smallclothes, it’s hard not to express your pain. Haurchefant is actually quite open on his opinion of swearing, he doesn’t care. He does occasionally swear when he’s pumped on adrenaline. Sometimes even swearing as he shouts out orders. He doesn’t even realize what he had done until he has returned back into his office.

It’s always a welcoming sight to have you in his office. Sitting by his table, stripped of most of your gear. While The snow storm throws itself at the windows, he basks in the warmth of your presence. though that doesn’t ease the growing stacks of paper, it made the room feel easier to breath in. You took the hot chocolate eagerly from his hand to your mouth. The result: A loud swear as the cup was nearly dropped to the ground. Hearing you swear made him giddy. Like a sudden shot of energy to the heart that he can’t quite describe.

Haurchefant pulls up a chair and plants himself just barely a hairline away. He offers you a trade. An Eorzean swear for an Ishgardian Swear. Sure, he’s heard a few before from the adventurers that have stopped by. But it’s different with you. There’s a gleam in your eye that tells him you’re amused. Haurchefant takes your hands, hot chocolate forgotten on the table, and with his own bright eyes invites you to say yes. He’ll nudge, pout, and dramatically plead until you finally agree to his deal. The storm is easy to forget when you’re teaching an angel to curse.

Hien

Hien won’t swear. It’s considered a crude way of talking and he has been warned against using such a language. Hearing you cuss will makes him cringe a bit, but it will not be something that he could hate you for. You will start to get on his nerves if you purposely swear more often after he had asked you to tone the profanity down around him. This is not a matter he wants to fight you about. Hien understands that it’s a trait that you have, but there’s only so much he can handle when he’s around you.

Recently you’ve picked up a few new words from the Confederacy. A small part of him is already starting to regret asking them for him. He admires their word, he really does. He even found it funny when they sent the both of you to inspect the ship for repairs. But the language sure does need some adjusting to.

You were teasing him, he just knows it. Every time he tries to tell you to stop, you flash him that blinding smile with a squeeze to his hand and he melts. There’s no way for him to stay angry at you. The plan took awhile to figure out, he even enlisted the help of Alphinaud. For every day you don’t swear, you’ll earn points to be traded in for rewards. He’s even made a list; be it a kiss anywhere you like, a dinner date, or even an entire day of just the two of you. It’s a small list. A limited amount but just enough to keep you interested for a trial run. It started off well, a kiss on your shoulder, forehead, and neck. They pick up, a kiss on your nape, collarbone, the inside of your wrists. The list begins to grow. This deal works amazingly. Before long, you were hoarding points until you would have him massaging the aching muscles of your back.

Now has been the longest time you’ve been away. But every night you would relay in your head all his ‘rewards'. It was torture if anything, the damned prince would tease your skin with his lips and fingers until you were close to jumping his bones. Then pull away just to declare you’re out of points! The nerve of him. Armed with more than enough points, you plan to keep him awake. All night long.

#ffxiv headcanon #Anon-chan #ffxiv fanfic #haurchefant #aymeric de borel #alphinaud leveilleur #alphinaud #estinien #lord hien #ffxiv hien #thancred #g'raha tia #cid nan garlond #fanfic #if you can tell where the lord from aymerics one came from #you have found one of my senpai #Hien is also confirmed to have a lot of stamina

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altschmerzes · 6 years

Text

A Good And Sweet Year

a/n: in celebration of today being rosh hashanah, i’ve decided to re-share a fic i wrote last year during k’tavnukkah about cristina yang on rosh hashanah. l’shana tova, happy new year, and enjoy!

A Good And Sweet Year

It’s the High Holy days, and Cristina Yang is performing her own version of tradition.

(or: thoughts on cristina, judaism, and routine)

read on ao3 or continue reading below the cut

Cristina’s first completely clear day off in three weeks comes at the end of a several day stretch of the nagging feeling there’s something she’s forgetting. It’s only standing in her kitchen, finally turning the calendar to the new month, that she realizes what she was trying to remember. In her chicken scratch handwriting, the sharpie she had used when she first bought it to mark her holidays, which didn’t come printed in the dollar store calendar she bought when she’d gone on her ‘apartments should have things in them, right’ shopping spree, is the answer. Somehow, in the mad scramble of life, with the hospital and… everything else, the season has snuck up on her.

Today, this one empty, workless, floating day, is Rosh HaShanah.

After a couple moments of just standing there, staring at the calendar, Cristina says aloud to herself and her empty apartment, “Shit.”

For all that she can’t claim to be an especially observant, religious person, Cristina still can’t believe Rosh HaShanah snuck up on her like that. After all, even Catholics who never go to mass know when Christmas is. Maybe it’s because she’s a creature of habit, wearing routine like a sweater from college, comfortable through the hours spent breaking it in, but Cristina has always observed the the holidays, even if just by seeing the day on the calendar and calling her mother and stepfather, or actually buying food from a grocery store rather than a take-out place for once.

By the time the initial ice water realization of what day it is has passed, Cristina has been standing silently in her kitchen for a couple of minutes. Feeling suddenly grateful that she lives alone, Cristina shakes herself and walks into the living room. A newfound purpose guides her steps and she rifles through stacks of magazines and unopened mail, looking for a pamphlet she knows is around here somewhere. She finds it sandwiched between the carcass of the envelope for February’s electricity bill and an invitation to a high school reunion she hadn’t even considered going to.

Temple Beth Shalom is six blocks away from where she lives, and Cristina has been there all of twice. Once, the first night she got to Seattle, abandoning the daunting piles of unopened boxes and the yawning maw of her empty apartment. Putting off moving in completely had been so tempting, and with the justification of getting at least a brief feel for the local Jewish community, it was a good distraction. Plus, it had conveniently been a Friday night. The second time was during a particularly difficult week, both personally and professionally. Cristina’s head had felt so full it might split open, leave her hollow, grey matter on the floor. She had gone for the sense of stillness, for the way Hebrew still worked on her like sedation, emptying her not with a crack and a gutting but a gentle exhale, a calm clarity. It had worked, and she had gone back to work the next day, with a strengthened resolve and the words of the Hashkiveinu echoing in her mind.

It’s not easy to explain, why she does it. She’s been asked, a couple of times, if she’s religious. The answer ranges from ‘no’ to ‘I don’t know you well enough to have this conversation’, depending on who asked and how irritated Cristina happened to be at that particular moment. She doesn’t light candles for Hanukkah, or carefully examine grocery packaging for pork derivatives, and she doesn’t pray with the clockwork rhythm of her stepfather’s sister, a woman who exists only in the memory of a rainbow, the words ‘zocher habrit’.

And yet here she is, walking down the chilled fall sidewalk in a nice shirt and slacks, because Beth Shalom has a Rosh HaShanah service in fifteen minutes, and, well, what else was she going to do with herself today? Maybe this is just what she needs right now. A fresh start. A new year. A clean slate and a new beginning from which new mistakes will be made, but hopefully better ones, with the wisdom of experience to backdrop them.

In a lot of ways, Cristina supposes as she sits in the back of the synagogue, the first song beginning, Judaism has a lot in common with surgery. The Torah is read over and over again every year, and it’s mastery, not redundancy. A running whip stitch takes hours to incorporate into your being, hours upon hours. So does Hebrew.

Cristina sits alone through the first of the High Holy Days services, knowing full well she won’t be back for the others. She’s busy, and what’s more, a realist. As she leaves though, the woman at the door smiling and wishing her “l’shana tovah” as she exits, Cristina feels good about having gone in the first place. She can imagine what her friends might say, the weird looks she might get, the way Burke would surely turn this into some exercise in mutual discovery, but she doesn’t plan on mentioning it.

No, this was just for her. This crisp, bright day, the Rabbi’s sermon on choices and new pages, turning to a clean sheet but remembering how the book began, it’s just for her.

On the way home she stops in a corner mart, an impulse sending her in and leaving her walking out with a Gala apple in one hand, a honey stick in the other. The honey is sweet and almost flavorless in her mouth, and she walks slowly, savoring the rare moment of quiet. It’s almost like she can still feel the vibrations of the sounding of the shofar horn, deep in her bones, though she knows that’s medically impossible.

When she gets home, Cristina eats the apple in absentminded bites amongst takeout Chinese food born of years of memories of her stepfather, grinning at her and her mother over a box of orange chicken on Christmas. Holidays meant takeout Chinese, it was one of the most important parts of Jewish culture that Saul had passed on to her, and she held onto that one particularly tightly.

It had meant something a little different to her than it had to Meredith, when they sat on Meredith’s couch over chow mein and fried rice last December and tried to ignore the holiday going on around them. The sharing of traditions changes with the shape of a family, she supposed, as she watched George and Izzie lie with their heads beneath the tree, Alex relegated to folding laundry after he lost at cards.

The next morning, as she heads on her way out the door to work, her earlier breakfast of a protein bar and a slammed mug of coffee mostly forgotten, Cristina snags a bagel as an afterthought. She stands on the ferry and doesn’t feel very hungry, staring down at the bagel in her hands and at the churning water far below it. A distant memory crops up in her mind, a tashlich walk with her mother when she was fifteen. Saul’s voice comes back dimly in her ear explaining how his younger brother had once turned, horrified, to their mother, announcing to her, “mama, the fish are eating my sins!” Cristina has never put much stock in symbolism. She prefers Latin to metaphor, and is pretty sure bread is a pretty poor metaphor for sins anyway.

As she crumbles the bagel in her hand, tossing it bit by bit down into the thrashing waves battering the side of the ferry, Cristina thinks about mistakes. There have been a lot of them. There are going to be more. That is the way it has always been, and it would be foolish and short sighted to think otherwise. But maybe there’s something to be said for trying again anyway.

#grey's anatomy #cristina yang #the rest of magic makes a brief cameo #fic: a good and sweet year #i still love this

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shipaholic · 3 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 15

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 15

Crowley and Aziraphale sat facing each other in the dying firelight.

They’d made themselves more or less presentable. Aziraphale had reconstituted most of his clothes from the firmament. Crowley had done the same, and looked immaculate, but had slung a blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He met Aziraphale’s eyes and saw his own seriousness reflected back.

“OK,” he said. “We need a plan.”

He left a pause, in the vague hope Aziraphale would fill it with a bullet-pointed list of Anti-Antichrist measures he’d prepped in advance.

When this didn’t happen, Crowley gave a little cough and went on.

“I know him pretty well, I think. I was basically there his entire childhood. He thought I was imaginary, but I don’t think that matters.”

“Any information will be helpful, I think,” Aziraphale volunteered.

“Hmm.” Crowley scratched his head. “OK. Uh. Friendless kid. Except for me. Maybe I could appeal to his better nature.”

He realised this was stupid as he said it. Adam was literally the reincarnation of Satan. On top of that, he’d had a tailor-made demonic upbringing. The better nature ship had sailed.

He drew a blank on helpful things to say. What else was there? He was utterly detached from humanity? He could remake reality on a whim? Fighting him would be even more pointless than trying to reason with him?

“He hates Hastur?” he managed.

Aziraphale looked blank.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.

Crowley let out a breath. It sounded like a pressure valve wobbling under strain.

“OK, never mind. I’ve got to admit, angel, I can’t think of much that’s useful. It doesn’t look good, basically. Maybe we should cross that bridge when we come to it. Improvise something.”

He could tell by the look on Aziraphale’s face that this was already off to a poor start.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning? We need to get off this planet.”

That should be a bit better. Aziraphale was the ideas man when it came to getting from Planet A to Planet B.

Aziraphale looked put on the spot.

“Ah,” he said. “Er. We could fly?”

“Fly?”

“Right, sorry. That would take years.” Aziraphale fidgeted. He did that when he was stressed. This wasn’t going well.

“How about a portal?” Crowley suggested.

That somehow went over even worse. Aziraphale practically squirmed. Crowley thought portals were his thing.

“Portals are very complicated, Crowley.”

Crowley gestured with both arms. The cape moved with him. He was a bit fond of this cape.

“Don’t you just draw on the ground with chalk and pray?”

Aziraphale gave him an affronted look. “There are calculations involved.”

“Well, you’re clever. Can’t you figure them out?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Honestly, without reference books, or a clear idea of our current coordinates…”

Crowley tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “Well, just remake the one from your bookshop and… adjust it a bit?”

Aziraphale’s expression contained volumes.

“What,” said Crowley. “Would we end up inside a volcano on Jupiter or something?”

“No. It’s far more likely it would do nothing at all,” Aziraphale said, a little snide.

“Great.” Crowley lost the battle. He sounded frustrated. Fine, he might as well let it out. “You may as well try it, then. The only alternative really is that we start flapping and hope we run into another spaceship.”

“Yes, all right. I suppose we have no choice.” Aziraphale’s voice was clipped. Fine. They could both be annoyed.

“Damn right. I’m not flying for four light-years without a break.”

Crowley stood up and stretched his legs. He felt bad already for being snappish. It wasn’t fair on Aziraphale. He was, once again, going to be the one doing all the work. Crowley’s stomach gave a guilty squirm.

“Can I bring you anything?” he asked, a little gentler.

Aziraphale’s gem glowed, and a piece of chalk fell into his hand.

“The coffee machine should work inside the café Zadkiel made.” He still sounded a trifle cool.

“No problem.” Crowley hesitated. He bent down and kissed Aziraphale’s head. Some tension left his shoulders.

Crowley strolled out, leaving Aziraphale to begin the preparations.

~*~

???, ? days until Armageddon

Everything was bloody awful.

Crowley didn’t say it. Neither of them did. But it was hours later, maybe the next day on Earth already, or even the day after that. Adam could have razed the place to the ground by now, and they had accomplished absolutely sod-all.

Aziraphale’s fingers were stained with chalk. So were the ends of his hair. Crowley tactfully wasn’t mentioning this. It wasn’t as if he could get rid of it with a miracle, anyway.

Crowley’s job had been to fetch coffee, which he had done on a loop for the past however many hours it had been, to the point he’d practically worn a footpath between their front door and the café. Unfortunately, Crowley had never so much as switched on a coffee machine in his life. He had a similar heavy industrial device back at his flat, but he had always snapped his fingers to operate it. He listened to the whir of machinery, thought contentedly about how much electricity it was using,[1] and collected the perfectly made cup without further speculation of how it had got there.

Crowley’s attempts to wrangle some coffee out of the infernal[2] machine in the café, however, had gone about as swimmingly as Aziraphale’s attempts to make a working portal.

There was a chalk circle in the centre of the living room. It was around the same size as the one in Aziraphale’s bookshop. However, the squiggles overlaying it looked as though Hieronymus Bosch had had a go. It was as though Aziraphale had tried to duplicate his old portal, and then rotated five degrees and done the same again, laying copies on copies until the pattern that arose could make a physicist’s brain dribble out of their ears.

Crowley’s contribution to the endeavour was about twenty espresso cups filled with congealed liquids[3] that had been undrinkable when they were fresh, littered around the room.

He glumly handed the latest one to Aziraphale. Aziraphale accepted it, eyes wide and slightly mad. He raised it to his lips, reconsidered, looked into it, raised it to his lips again, smelled it, and put it down beside the last one. Crowley, for want of anything else to do, started collecting them all up. He’d stack them in the kitchen. Zadkiel had made them a kitchen, although it didn’t include a sink. Washing up had never been a thing that happened to either of them before. Crockery just got summoned from the aether and banished again when it was dirty.

Aziraphale scrubbed more chalk dust into his hair. He made a noise best described as that of a distressed penguin.

“I’m sure these runes are wrong,” he moaned.

Crowley risked a peek over his shoulder. “Which ones?” he hazarded.

“Who even knows. This is hopeless. I’m making this up as I go along and then filling in the gaps with nonsense. We’ll be lucky to end up in the right solar system.”

Crowley carefully avoided saying anything unhelpful about how some other solar systems were a bit of alright, really. He sat down beside Aziraphale.

“Maybe we should just get it as good as you think you’re going to and test it out.”

“You know we could teleport into a volcano on Jupiter, don’t you?”

“So we’ll climb back out and make another portal on Jupiter. At least it’s closer.”

Aziraphale tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes.

“You know what’s really eating away at me? Not getting a proper look at that book. I’ve never ignored a book before. It was a terrible time to start.”

“A book of prophecy’d be useful right about now,” Crowley admitted.

“I’m sure that young lady back in the Bentley mentioned an Agnes. She can’t have meant…”

Aziraphale trailed off. The prospect that his personal holy grail was within two feet of him for the entire day without him noticing was a thought too excruciating to contemplate.

He gasped, rummaged in his trouser pocket, and pulled out a tiny, charred scrap of paper.

“I forgot about this until now! Look, Crowley! This blew out of the book.”

Crowley scooted over. They both read it.

When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.

“That’s cheery,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale mouthed ‘choose your faces’ several times in a row. His face crumpled. Crowley patted him on the arm.

“Were you hoping it was a portal diagram?”

“Slightly,” Aziraphale confessed.

“It’s good news, in my opinion. If you think about it. We must get through this crisis in order to end up in, er. Another crisis.”

“Unless this isn’t about us at all.”

“Must be.”

Crowley had no hard evidence for this. It would just be really irritating to him, personally, if the one useful thing they’d turned up in the last two days wasn’t even anything to do with them.

“I reckon we should test the portal,” he said.

Aziraphale tossed down the chalk. “Fine. Why not. I’m going cross-eyed staring at the blasted thing.”

They got to their feet, wincing as joints popped. They’d acquired a few middle-aged human traits by accident over the years.

A quick dance and a fusion later, Zadkiel snapped his fingers for candles. They floated into place around the circle and lit themselves. He sat back down, cross-legged, and put his hands together in prayer. It gave his demon half a little headache, but it was ignorable.

He reached out to Her with a question and waited for Her answer.

Like a house with faulty wiring, the portal began, very faintly, to flicker.

Zadkiel prayed with all his might. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and reached into himself, offering himself up. There was something here, he just had to find it.

The portal blipped on, briefly.

A little smoke fart went up in the middle. All the candles blew out, emitting an unpleasant smell.

Zadkiel sat perfectly still. His cheek twitched.

“Fuuuu -”

He split apart.

“- ck!” Aziraphale remained sprawled on the floor. He looked on the verge of tears.

Crowley pulled himself into a seated position. He poked Aziraphale in the side.

“I didn’t think that was a bad start.”

“Yes, clearly we’re in two minds about it,” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley withdrew his hand. He felt a little stupid. Bit hurt, too.

“I’m a pathetic excuse for an angel,” Aziraphale almost whispered.

“Hey!” Crowley felt, ridiculously, offended on Aziraphale’s behalf.

“It’s true. She made me to love humanity, and I abandoned them.”

Well. That. Crowley’s mouth opened, then closed.

“But She abandoned them too!” Aziraphale pushed himself upright. He looked anguished. “What kind of loving Creator would do that?”

“Er,” Crowley said.

He’d personally grappled with questions like these millennia ago, when he was young and angry - angrier - and arrived at the vague sense that he’d drive himself mad trying to understand some people, so he might as well just get on with things. He wasn’t sure how to handle Aziraphale suddenly plunging into the beginning of what was, for Crowley, a lifetime’s worth of existential angst.

“And I don’t even have time for a crisis of faith right now! This is all my fault. This entire scatter-brained plan was my idea. All I’ve done is strand us light-years from home in the middle of nowhere. I thought I was being so clever, Crowley. And daring, to turn my back on Heaven and flee into the night. But I should never have turned my back on Earth. It’s unforgivable.”

“That’s my line,” Crowley joked, feebly.

A tear rolled down Aziraphale’s face. Crowley pressed close and kissed his temple. He had no idea what to say. Scraps of the wrong words tumbled across his brain, but nothing at all that was helpful.

He had to say something, though. No matter how badly it went. He drew a breath.

“OK, so we’ve both been massive cowardly idiots, that’s pretty obvious.”

“That’s incredibly non-reassuring,” Aziraphale hiccupped.

“But it doesn’t matter. You know what we need?”

Decades of pop culture flashed before his eyes. Oh, yes. He could do this.

“A redemption arc.”

Aziraphale looked up. On the plus side, he was no longer crying. On the other, he looked like he might vomit a tiny bit.

“Crowley, please tell me that isn’t a cinematographic reference?”

Crowley held up a hand. “Hear me out. We’ve both been incredible idiots and cowards. True enough. But you know what I’ve learned from humanity? If you show up late after messing everything up, give a speech that’s mostly about yourself, and save the day, everyone will forget the stupid, selfish stuff you did until that point. People have short memories. It’s the worst, best thing about them. You can be a flaming shit ninety percent of the time and turn it around at the last minute, and it only makes them like you more. But.”

He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes. This was the important part.

“You do have to actually save the day. Otherwise you look like an arsehole. So just focus on that. If we pull that off, we’ll be heroes, no matter how often we ran away and put ourselves first and let everyone down.”

Nailed it.

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth ajar.

“Crowley, that was the worst speech I have ever heard in my life. I actually feel worse now.”

Crowley’s confidence wavered. He pulled it back up by the fingernails. Stick the landing. He could do it.

“No, angel. My point is… people are forgiving. They’ll forgive you even when you can’t forgive yourself. That’s… the thing, isn’t it? Grace? Humans have it. You’ll never find it in Heaven, we both know that. You’re right - it was another thing entirely to abandon Earth. So let’s make up for it. I know you can get us back there. And we’ll save them all, together. And if you still want to beat yourself up, I won’t let you. We are on the same side. And you may be an idiot, but you’re also the cleverest person I know. So. Be clever.”

A faraway look appeared in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aha. Crowley tried not to lean forward expectantly.

“I just thought…” Aziraphale said. He sounded like a man basking in a sudden epiphany.

Crowley held his breath.

“...You obviously learned to write motivational speeches in Hell.”

OK. Fine. He wasn’t as moved as Crowley might have hoped. Crowley was willing not to mind, so long as they got a plan out of it.

“She said, playing with fyre…” Aziraphale read the scrap of paper again. “Could she have meant hellfire?”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t know how to make a portal to Hell either, if that’s what you’re -”

“What would happen if our sides summoned us back?”

Crowley blinked. “Kill us on sight, presumably?”

“Well.” Aziraphale looked disconcertingly blithe. “We could always cross that bridge when we came to it.”

So far, Crowley didn’t love where this was going, but he held his tongue. Aziraphale stood up and paced.

“We can’t make a portal from here to Earth, that’s a total dead end. But I can get to Earth from Heaven. And you could get back to Earth if you were in Hell. It’s as easy as stepping on the lift. All we need to do… is get on their radar. Perform a miracle as ourselves, unfused. They’ll see someone dallying around in space instead of preparing for Armageddon and summon us back.”

“And kill us on sight.”

“It’s mad enough to work!”

“I’m not sure about this -”

“We’re supposed to choose our faces wisely. She wrote us a clue… she means us to outfox them.”

He had a point. Crowley took the slip of paper from him and read it again.

“OK. I trust you. Let’s puzzle this out.”

~*~

An angel and demon faced each other over a scuffed chalk circle.

They had made their preparations. If things went according to plan, they would see each other again on Earth. If not… then this was goodbye.

Aziraphale leaned in and straightened Crowley’s tie. They exchanged smiles. Nothing that needed saying had gone unsaid.

“See you on the other side.”

They snapped their fingers.

Crowley made a shower of sparks. Aziraphale, a bunch of party balloons.

There was a pause, long enough for a pair of beleaguered actuaries to go, “hang on”.

Twin thunderclaps rang out.

Both of them were sucked into the air and vanished.

---

[1] None. None of Crowley’s appliances ran on electricity. None of them were even plugged in. Crowley didn’t understand this, however, so he mistakenly believed his coffee maker churned through factory-level quantities of electricity. It gave him a warm glow as he sipped his morning cappuccino.

[2] For once, not a compliment.

[3] And some solids.

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #second big swear #I'm glad Aziraphale and Zadkiel got to split it #why do Crowley and Aziraphale follow up every major romantic moment with needless bickering?#because they're both assigned bitch at birth #I think Crowley learned to read from those demotivational posters hung up in Hell

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laventadorn · 7 years

Note

Asteria pov of Harriet saving her that first time she got bullied.

funny enough, i had actually written this several years ago, but forgot about it! i was going through an old folder of cut scenes or scrapped ideas and found it.

Starshine

“Daphne?” Asteria had whispered months ago, at the start-of-term feast. “Which—which one’s Harriet Potter?”

“The Gryffindor table sits against the opposite wall,” Daphne murmured, cutting neatly into her potatoes. “Harriet Potter is usually sitting with a crop of redheads. She has the most terrible hair … all wild and every which-way… and the most appalling glasses… oh, her back’s to our table. She’s sitting next to the girl with the horridly bushy hair…”

Asteria saw her, then. From the back, she could not make out much more than wild black hair. Harriet Potter was quite tiny. She was sitting in a knot of students who were all laughing and talking and throwing food at each other, but did not seem bothered by any of it. Asteria both envied her and shuddered with relief to be at the much more decorous Slytherin table, where no food was thrown and individual groups kept to themselves. It was quite frightening enough, honestly.

So many new faces—so many unfamiliar sights—the chaos of King’s Cross; the roar and thunder of the train; the crashing sea of all those voices, the whirl of strange faces; the darkness of the Hogsmeade station; the crowds pouring toward the carriages; the terrible, drowning cold of the Dementors, burying her in icy surf, battering, churning; more crowds on the front steps, and Daphne hustling her through them, whispering, “I’ll explain to Professor McGonagall why you didn’t take the boats, why I brought you with me, you needn’t speak to her, Aster, don’t worry”; the long walk down the aisle, beneath the brightness of the candles, past the blurred faces all watching; the walk alone to the Hat, like a march to the gallows, and placing it on; hearing No, no, Slytherin won’t do for you at all, almost as bad as Gryffindor; you’ll want Hufflepuff, where they’re compassionate and accepting, like yourself; or possibly Ravenclaw, you’re certainly clever enough, although you’ll find them rather aloof … No? Well, you’ll regret it in your own time…

But she had to be with Daphne, she thought as she removed the Hat and made her way on trembling legs to the Slytherin table, where Daphne stood to embrace her while the table clapped. She wouldn’t survive such a new, frightening, strange, unfamiliar place without Daphne.

Asteria knew that everyone thought she was dreadfully silly. She cried whenever people had to go away, even if it was only for the day. She could barely breathe when thinking of going away herself. The sight of strangers, even at a distance, tied her heart in knots; and if they should come closer she could barely hold still at the thought of them talking to her; and if they did speak to her, sometimes she couldn’t talk past the thickness in her throat.

“As soon as the Sorting is over,” Daphne whispered to her as Professor Flitwick (for Professor McGonagall was in conference with a student) called Morton, Morbius! to the Hat, “we shall have the feast. You’ll adore the feast, Aster. It has such treats and dishes as you’ve never seen.”

It was a tremendous feast, magnificent and wonderful. The food grew on the plates like spring flowers sped towards summer, and the candles overhead glimmered on the bodies of the ghosts that floated through the walls. At home, the food had been much scanter, and the only light had come from the fireplace and the old lamps Mama lit with her wand. Asteria missed home so terribly. What was Callie doing without them all?

Soon her head was aching and heavy. She knew no one in the Hall, knew no one’s names, except those she’d been told by Daphne … and Harriet Potter. Asteria knew Harriet Potter by reputation, as everyone did. She had loved to read the story of Harriet Potter all her life. It made her so terribly sad, but it was all so incredibly, wonderfully brave. Harriet Potter had defeated Voldemort not only once, but twice, and last year had slain a Basilisk that was Petrifying students who might otherwise have died. Now Sirius Black had escaped from prison to kill her. Asteria had not been able to sleep for a week after hearing. But now she was at school with Harriet Potter … and even though Harriet Potter would surely never, ever have any reason to speak to her, lowly Asteria Greengrass, Asteria would be able to see her and to know that there went someone who was so much infinitely braver than herself, who made her wish, with all her heart, that she too could be brave.

That hope lasted until later that night, when she had to leave Daphne and go to her own dorm. She had never slept alone in her life; one and often two of her sisters had always been there. Now Daphne would not even be in the same room. And her roommates were all strangers, and they noticed that her robes were handmade, and they giggled at her old-fashioned nightgown that had once belonged to her grandmother. And she got lost going to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and once she had got there she realized she’d forgotten her toothpaste, and she was much too frightened to ask to borrow anyone’s. The dungeon was cold; she lay in bed shivering, trying to get warm and sleep, while her dorm-mates whispered excitedly, and whenever she turned over in bed, she struggled awake from formless nightmares that left her heart racing.

By the next morning, Asteria hated Hogwarts. It was too big—it was overwhelming—it was terrifying. The size, the number of people—she had never been around so many people in her life. She was lost—in the the strangeness and the amount of things she didn’t know. Her books were filled with so much knowledge, and just on that first day, the teachers told them so much. She was sure she hadn’t understood any of it, but she had also been paralyzed with fright at the thought of being called on—which would have been a terrifying prospect even if she had known the answer, but she knew she wouldn’t. And all those voices, all the faces, all the people, all the noise—it had all been too much, so that when Professor Lupin had looked at her and spoke, she’d completely lost her head.

Then everyone had made fun of her. They stared at her, and they sniggered, and strange people would come up and say to her, “Not going to faint again, are you?”

She hated Hogwarts. She hated it more than she had when it had first took Leto away, and then Daphne, her most beloved sister.

But she couldn’t tell anyone, because then they’d send her away. It would make Daphne terribly upset to know how unhappy she was. Daphne knew she was unhappy but she didn’t know how very much, because Asteria always made sure she went to bed first so that she could cry in the privacy of the four-poster, without Daphne seeing. Mama wouldn’t like it either—she’d be so disappointed that Asteria couldn’t meet her expectations. Asteria couldn’t disappoint everyone so terribly.

She also hated being in Slytherin.

The Sorting Hat had been right. It was bad enough being teased for being a fainter, laughed at because she was afraid of everything, and poor; but it was even worse to hear the boos and hisses from Nons, as Slytherin called them, called snake and liar by the other first-year girls. There were particular bathrooms the Slytherins used, so they wouldn’t have to put up with the Nons cutting them in line, or barring them from the cubicles, or stealing the toilet paper.

“It’s just the way it is,” Daphne said, with a calmness that Asteria couldn’t understand. “It’s our burden. It is why we must stay strong together, even if sometimes we don’t like each other”—Asteria knew she was thinking of Pansy—“because if we are not strong together, then they can drive us too easily apart. We need allies to survive.”

Asteria had no allies except for Daphne. Leto at school was different. Asteria was frightened of her—not because Leto was cruel to her—in fact, at first Leto had invited Asteria into her circle of friends, happy to show her off, until Asteria had panicked and Leto had to hustle her away.

“Honestly, Aster,” she’d said. “Oh, I am sorry, my love, but you really must learn to get over this, or how will you survive?”

Daphne took care of her, but Daphne was in third year and had her own classes and friends. Pansy was the worst of them, for she seemed to really hate Asteria; Tracey was cool and indifferent, quite frightening. Asteria was nearly comfortable with Millicent because she never spoke to her or looked at her and was just as good as Asteria at fading into the furniture, unnoticed. Only at Hogwarts, people did notice Asteria, and she hated it.

She simply wanted to learn in absolute peace and quiet, unnoticed by everyone, unspoken to by all, except for Daphne. She didn’t even want Harriet Potter to speak to her; she only wanted to admire her from afar.

It had taken a great deal of work to convince Daphne to go to Hogsmeade and leave her by herself. But Daphne had so been looking forward to it, especially getting to spend the day with Tracey. Daphne had never said so, but Asteria knew. Daphne might not even know her own self, not fully, but Asteria saw and understood, though no one else seemed to.

It made her wretched to be left alone, but she would have been unhappier had Daphne stayed behind, disappointed. She spent the morning writing a falsely cheerful letter to Callie and then climbed to the Owlery to post it. It was the first time she had been there alone, and she trembled to make her own way there. But she had gone with Daphne several times, and there had been nothing to fear…

This time, there was.

“Little snakes aren’t supposed be up this high,” said the boy.

Asteria was having trouble breathing. They’d taken her bag away, turned it inside out, blown it up, and popped it, laughing when the BANG made her jump. Her throat felt blocked; her heart was beating so hard her head was swimming.

“Too bad, little snake,” said another of them—there were three, and they were in her Double Herbology class with the Gryffindors. Daphne had warned her that the Gryffindors could be cruel to Slytherins, so she’d tried to stay away from them.

“Not a very good weapon, all this paper,” said the third, waving her letter at her, the one she’d been going to send to Callie when she’d met them coming out of the Owlery. “It sort of”—he ripped her letter down the middle—“just comes to pieces.”

They laughed some more. Asteria had nowhere to go. She was backed up against the wall. She couldn’t move, like her body wouldn’t work.

“What the fuck?”

Asteria was facing the doorway, so she saw who it was first, though the boys had to turn.

It was Harriet Potter. Her shoulder-length hair was wilder than ever, and she was staring at them, at first astonished and then growing angry. Her green eyes were fierce and furious and if she had looked at Asteria that way, so angry and crackling, Asteria was sure she would have fainted dead away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harriet Potter demanded of the boys.

“Oh, come on, Potter,” said one of them. “It’s only a snake.”

“I don’t care,” Harriet Potter said, stalking toward them with such a ferocious glare that two of them backed away. “You get off her.”

“Or what?” said the bravest boy, though his friends looked like they’d have happily complied. “You’ll really show me when you get bigger?” He held his hand out, measuring how tall she was. She only came up to his chin. “When’s that gonna be?”

“I’ll show you what I did to that Basilisk right now,” she growled, pulling out her wand. But he just grinned.

“Ooh,” he said. “I’m really scared.”

“Good,” she said.

Then Harriet Potter punched him in the nose.

What happened next was quite confused in Asteria’s mind. When she came to a sense of herself, she was in the Hospital Wing and Professor McGonagall, looking absolutely terrifying, like a wrathful eagle, was marching the boys away, and kind Madam Pomfrey was telling Asteria that she would be quite all right and things would calm down very soon.

But then Professor Snape swept into the ward and put her into a new terror. Although Daphne insisted he was very kind, he was so fierce that Asteria was quite as frightened of him as she was of Professor McGonagall. She could barely concentrate in Potions or Transfigurations for fear of doing something wrong and either of them speaking to her. She much preferred Herbology or Charms or Defense Against the Dark Arts because those professors smiled. Asteria stared at her feet while Madam Pomfrey drew a curtain round her bed for privacy. She risk a look upward as the matron pulled the curtains closed, and her heart turned over when she saw Harriet Potter looking at her. Her piercing green eyes were curious – at least, Asteria thought they were, as she drew the image to the front of her mind later, over and over again; at the time, she had pulled her own eyes away after only a flash of a second.

“Miss Potter asked after you,” Madam Pomfrey said to her later, once Professor Snape and Harriet Potter had gone. “She’d like to know you’re feeling better soon, so you had best get quite well before long.”

Asteria could not believe that someone so famous and important as Harriet Potter would care so much about what happened to her. She was nobody at all, even among pure-bloods. She felt weak and shaky still, but there was a small spark inside, like a warmth generated by something other than the sun. The warmth stayed inside her, as steady as starshine.

#laventadorn replies #tner tag #asteria reference #two roads diverged #prompt fills #Anonymous

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