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haunted-moon · 4 months

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Long Way Home [Part III]

[Azriel x Reader fanfic]

Synopsis: Y/n is the daughter of a healer in the city of Velaris. After a small incident, she moves to the House of the Wind to work for the High Lord, Rhysand. Everyone in the house seems to welcome her except Azriel, the second in command. Even though he is just blankly polite and does not acknowledge her much, she can't help but fall for him. Does Azriel return her feelings or remain unfeelingly aloof?

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Read Part 1 here.

Read Part 2 here.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Part III

A few months later, Star fall was to commence soon.

Excitement was in the air, and I was looking forward to it too. Rhysand and Feyre were going to host a party, and preparations were already underway. Everyone pitched in to help between their usual duties, chattering about the outfits, the food, song and dance.

Mor and Feyre repeatedly asked me about my outfit for the event. I remained evasive, since I had no plans of actually attending the party. I'd be watching the sky from elsewhere. Even though I helped with the preparations as if I was going to attend, I was gradually emptying my quarters and shifting my things to an isolated property outside the city. This property was situated in a river valley backed by the large mountains surrounding Velaris. It was an inheritance passed down in our family, and I had remodelled the villa and the gardens with the help of my dad. It was a perfect place to avoid others, and I loved it very much. Father, on the other hand, didn't like to be alone for long periods of time and didn't visit it much.

While I was still in the process of shifting my things, I started sleeping less in the nights. I stayed awake at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea, working my anatomy drawings or study notes. The one thing I'd miss when I left was the library, so I tried to make extensive notes and copied important paragraphs from the books I read.

One night, I decided on a change of scenery and took my materials to one of the many balconies, making myself comfortable on the thick carpet. As usual, I had some tea in my favourite cup and lots of lamps to illuminate my work.

I had placed the tea-cup along with a glass jar of coloured pencils on a side table so that I wouldn't accidentally knock them off with my elbow. Leaning against the balcony railing, I was copying a detailed anatomical diagram of an Illyrian wing in my journal.

A sudden gust of wind knocked over the table and shattered the tea-cup and glass jar. I jumped, dropping my journal as I watched the carpet soak up my drink and pencils scattered everywhere. My favourite cup was broken to fragments.

Azriel appeared before I had the time to think what to do next.

"Oh, sorry," he pointed at the shattered pieces.

I sighed. The glass jar could be replaced, but the tea-cup was from one of a collection set of my mother's. It hadn't broken into very tiny pieces, though. Maybe I could put it back together, even if it couldn't be used. I could use another cup for drinking and keep this one back in its shelf.

I unfolded a drawstring pouch from my pocket and gathered all the pieces. Azriel helped by collecting the remains of the glass jar and the scattered pencils. The tea stain on the carpet couldn't be helped.

He didn't leave immediately after we finished, so I offered him a cup of tea while I brewed some for myself. He accepted, and soon enough, we had our own mugs of the hot liquid and sitting next to each other on the balcony floor, looking out into the night.

He cleared his throat. "That cup was important to you."

I nodded. A tendril of his shadow flickered near his neck, and slipped out of sight. "It's from a set that belonged to my mother."

His expression dropped from his usual polite blankness. "I'm truly sorry. If there's any way I can help fix—"

I held up a hand. "It's alright. I'll fix it by myself later on."

I was curious as to why he had appeared here. He had never actually come to a place I was in out of his own volition. I asked him about it.

He did not give a direct answer. "You weren't there in the kitchen. I was looking for you everywhere."

I fell silent, turning over his reply in my mind, unsure of how to proceed. Meanwhile, he laid down his mug and picked up the journal I used for sketching. This journal in particular was just pages and pages of anatomical Illyrian wings with the parts labelled and side information. I had drawn them in every possible angle and technique I could think of.

He slowly thumbed through the pages, his own wings slightly trembling in the breeze.

"These are really accurate," he commented as he stopped at one of the pages. His eyebrows went up, and I leaned over a bit to see what he was looking at.

It was a shaded sketch of a pair of hands, with the palms turned up. And they had scars on them. Azriel's hands, which I had drawn one feverish night from memory. Fuck.

I straightened, cupping my own mug with both hands and intensely staring at it, determined not to face him or acknowledge the drawing. My ears and neck turned hot with embarrassment. He stayed on that page for a long time before closing the journal and carefully keeping it on the carpet between us.

"Why the wings?" He asked after a while.

I shrugged. "I miss having them."

"What happened?"

I narrowed a side glance at him. "I'm sure you know what happened."

One corner of his mouth tipped up. "I do. But I'd like to hear the account from you."

I shrugged. "Nothing much to tell. Father was sent on a mission. Mother was already dead by that time and he had to take me with him since there was nobody else at the time to look after me. The task went wrong, and the enemy soldiers ripped off both our wings and left us to die. Only, we were somehow revived and brought back to life. It was quite a while before I learned how to properly balance myself without my wings."

"This was during the war, yes?"

"Yes."

He turned to me and gave me a once-over. "Your mother was not Illyrian."

I nodded. "She was a high fae from the Summer Court. It's a thing in our family's ancestry. We come from a long line of powerful healers, and not all our mates are Illyrian. She survived my birth, even with my wings, but she died during the second along with the child."

Noticing the sadness that crept into my voice, he changed the subject by pointing at my journal. "Why my hands?"

I blushed, turning away from his inquisitive gaze. "I find them beautiful, that's all."

He opened his mouth to reply, but stood up abruptly, his head cocked to the side as if listening to something.

"I have to go."

Going like this only meant one thing. "Is Elaine in need of help?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears.

He was on his way to one of the archways, and halted mid-stride. "Yes. Why?"

I shook my head, motioning for him to leave. "It's nothing. Go on. Don't let me keep you."

He took a step towards me. "But—"

"Just go."

He left.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

I took a nap right there on the carpet until the early morning rays warmed my skin. When I was awake, I started gathering all my things to go back to my room. Cassian appeared and waved at me as I stood up, my arms weighed down with the books and the empty mugs.

"Good morning, my chicken soup."

I laughed. "Morning, Cassian."

During my stay, Cassian had once fallen ill with a stomach problem and wouldn't eat anything and spat out the medicine. I mixed all the herbal concoction in some chicken soup, its flavours masking the bitterness of the herbs and fed it to him until he was better. From then on, he started calling me his chicken soup and always came to me in case of injuries and other illnesses.

He took some of my books and started walking me to my quarters. "I've fetched you breakfast, its in your room."

"Thanks."

When we reached my room, we unloaded our things on a table and I sat on a chair, keeping the breakfast tray on my lap. He took a seat on my bed and thoughtfully chewed on a piece of fruit.

His wings were gently fluttering and I couldn't stop staring.

"How does it feel to fly?" I asked in a low voice. My wings were ripped before I could do so.

His eyes softened. What happened to me and father was not a secret, everyone knew about it. He suddenly grinned as if he had a great idea.

"What if I show you, instead of describing it?"

I didn't know what to say. "Um, I don't know, I'm a pretty chubby woman, I might be too heavy for you to—"

He groaned dramatically. "Oh, come on. I will be put to shame if I can't carry you!" He stood up. "Finish your breakfast. I'll take you right now."

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Tags:

@kalulakunundrum

@thelov3lybookworm

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 4 here.

Thank you for all the responses to my previous two parts of the story!

This fanfic can also be found in Wattpad, along with other exclusive parts like playlists and pictures. Here's the link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/358573037-long-way-home

Happy reading! <3

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letsgofoletsgo · 2 years

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My Part of a trade for @jeffbytes

“Well, this is it.”

The two Companions approached the flat, which was boarded up and sealed, making it appear abandoned. As Clemintine and Jeff had been talking over the last couple months, he had expressed interest in seeing what her place looked like. She eventually obliged, though it wasn’t anything impressive from the outside.

“Here, there’s a gap in the door that you can go through, just take it slow.”

She pointed to a small opening, proceeding to slide in sideways. Jeff sidled through the jammed door, careful not to chip his metal on wayward cracks or pebbles. He nearly tripped as he entered the flat, grabbing part of the wall to avoid falling.

“Sorry about the door, it's kind of necessary when you’ve got sentinels breathing down your neck.” Clementine chuckled.

“‘S alright, with the state of things outside you’re hardly to blame.” He reassured.

Steadying himself, he looked into the flat, LED eyes going wide. As the room opened into a small kitchen, various potted plants were placed in every which way. Posters, drawings, and diagrams were strewn about the walls, scratches and scribbles detailing all sorts of info.

“I haven’t really gotten the chance to clean up, I don’t get guests too often.” She joked.

“No no, I think it looks really nice!” Jeff piped.

In fact, he found it magical. Everything in Midtown was harshly lit with blaring neon, the rigid stone foundations highlighting their imprisonment. But in here, it felt like a breath of fresh air- or at least, to the extent that Companions could experience. The bustling noise of the streets were absent, replaced with the subtle rustle of leaves or hum of machinery.

“Heh, thanks.” Clem said as she entered a further doorway.

As they entered the living room, Jeff further marveled at the glowing display. Various crystalline lamps give off calming, cool hues, dancing around the central greenish light provided by the towering window. There were many pillows lying about, many stitched and worn from years of use. Even through the chrome of his frame, he could feel the subtle warmth emulating from the space.

“Wow, this looks like it could be the coziest place in Midtown!” Jeff exclaimed.

“I like to think so. It's certainly a nice place to clear your mind at the end of the day.”

Jeff continued to look around, when he focused on a particular set of gems sitting on one of the shelves. They were columns with pointed ends, all of them blue with silver speckles.

“Ooo, these are gorgeous. Where did you get them?”

“Oh, those? I found em in some shop a couple years back.They weren’t cheap. butI couldn’t pass up on gems as pretty as these.”

“I can see why.” Jeff’s eye’s practically sparkled as he admired the multicolored stones.

Clem smiled, watching him eye the stones with childlike wonder. She then lowered herself onto one of the pillows propped against the corner, giving something of a digitized sigh as she felt her machinery slow a bit.

“Hey, wanna sit down?”

Jeff turned around to Clemintine patting a pillow next to her. Upon processing, he hesitated for just a moment, trying to kick the lag before he short circuited. She was his friend, obviously they’ve spent plenty of time around each other, but the idea of being that close to her, it made his servos heat up.

“Er, sure.”

He treaded to the corner, hands fidgeting in the pockets of his hoodie. Sinking down next to her, his screen flickered as he sheepishly grinned.

“It’s not much, but it's home.” Clem said, wist in her expression as she looked upon the room.

“Well, I think it's lovely.” Jeff’s screen shone with shy scenserity.

Clem shrugged. “Thanks. I guess I’m just glad they haven’t found me yet.”

He nodded, still struggling to make eye contact. Clem took note of the atmosphere hanging above them.

“Let’s talk about something happy.” She shifted, sitting up to lean against her hands. “Tell me, you find anything else interesting about humans?”

Jeff’s face lit up, to the point where it reflected on Clem’s screen. “Oh! Yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I found some more books about British cities!”

“Oh yeah?”

“I found this one book that I think was some sort of tourist guide, and from what I could make out, it listed different things to do in each place. Of the ones I read, this one city called Liverpool stuck out to me.”

“Liverpool? Weren’t livers organs that humans had?”

“Well, yes; I admit they had some odd naming conventions, but the town was still very interesting. It said that it was known for its architecture, and had many famous buildings.” Jeff’s expression focused just slightly, digging through his RAM. “For example, there was the Museum of Liverpool, which was one of the most historic museums of the time. There’s also the Royal Liver Building, which was the biggest business building in the city; it was even known for some other things, like Sefton Park! It was 20 acres, and was said to look more natural than man made! It makes you wonder how they did it.”

Clementine felt at peace as she listened to him ramble. She had never known a bot be so interested in humans, let alone so passionate about them, and she found it intriguing to listen to. Even more so perhaps, just listening to him talk about something he loved, the way he got in the zone about it, it was entracing.

As Jeff was still going on about Liverpool, Clem suddenly leaned downwards, placing her head on his tummy. This stopped him mid-sentence, all his functions overridden by the act.

“Y’know, I’m surprised no other companion has thought to make their bodies more cushy. It's really nice.” She said as she propped herself closer to him.

“W-Well, I suppose so,” Jeff stammered, practically hearing himself short-circuit. One thing he remembered learning from humans was that they were able to ‘blush’, where their faces turned red out of strong embarrassment. He figured that if he were human, he’d be blushing pretty strongly right about now. “Just, uh, makes me feel more comfy in my steel.”

“I can see why.” she giggled.

As he managed to get his circuits under control, his eyes fell along Clem’s metallic frame. It just felt so natural, the way her body curled against his. He began to relax, a tender feeling overcoming his core. Everything else faded away in his memory, Midtown, from the Complex. In this moment, it was only them. He closed his eyes, taking the peace as his hand found itself just inches away from Clem’s side.

“You know… I’m really glad I met you, Jeff. You’re my eye of the storm.” Clem said quietly.

“Hey, it's the least I can do,” he chuckled.

As his eyes opened, he focused on the loft adjacent to them, the cool green and blue tones contrasted by the orangy-yellow glow emanating from the draped curtains. He attempted to make out other features atop the ledge, but even his cybernetic vision left him unable to do so.

“Hey, Clem?” He asked, causing her to turn her head to him just slightly. “What’s on that loft up there?”

All she gave was a soft giggle. “You’ll see one day.”

#jeffbytes #selfship #stray #selfship writing

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geminiamethyst · 2 years

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Limitless. Chapter 6: Experimentation?

Chapter 1: click HERE

Chapter 5: click HERE

Chapter 7: click HERE

WARNING! WARNING! There are some depictions of graphic injury. Please proceed with caution if you are disturbed by this.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Wake up!"

Kaito groaned tiredly as he heard this rude awakening. He looked at the digital clock beside him. 4:30am? Why did he need to get up so early? Since he had met everyone else, he had been too excited to sleep when he was scheduled to. He was only able to sleep by time midnight had rolled around. He knew that breakfast was scheduled to be served at 8am until 9am, so he would've had plenty of time to get more sleep until he woke up a little later. Kaito ignored the voice, choosing to sleep a little longer. That was until his door was pounded on harshly again.

"Alright!" Kaito shouted at the door. He begrudgingly crawled out of bed and hurriedly got dressed. Rubbing sleep out of bed, he opened the door, surprised to find it open. The morning hadn't come yet, and the doors are electronically locked during the nighttime hours. Kaito couldn't remember the exact reason for it. Something a ton security measures or something like that. Kaito looked up to see big burly men staring down at him. They wore blacked clothing that looked similar to police or S.W.A.T team body armour. This wouldn't have been that much of a problem, except for the face that they had face visors that covered the upper halves of their faces. This made it impossible for Kaito to tell what the men looked like. Not to mention the baton looking weapons that hung from their belts unnerved Kaito a little bit. He had seen these guys walking around the Facility. Apparently they were security guards or something. Kaito didn't see much of a point, but figured that it was a necessary precaution should a terrorist group or another government attack.

"Can I help-" Kaito started to ask, but he got interrupted.

"You're needed in the lab. Move!" One of the guards ordered as if he were a drill sergeant. Kaito couldn't stop himself from flinching at that. Then the words sunk in. Lab? Oh yeah. White did say that Kaito had to go through some experiments as part of his training. He still didn't see the point with it being so early though. Maybe they needed to get as many people done as possible in one day, depending on how long the experiments are. Kaito complied, planning on taking a nap later on. The lights weren't as bright as they had seemed earlier. They were dimmed down to the point where Kaito thought that he was walking under street lamps at night. It was immensely quiet. Everyone was still sleeping.

Just as Kaito thought that, he suddenly heard footsteps coming from the other direction. He looked ahead and noticed Shuichi walking towards him, also escorted by two guards. Kaito was ready to say "good morning" but he suddenly found himself going mute. Shuichi looked awfully pale and he looked so exhausted that Kaito was worried that he'd collapse with every step he took. How long has Shuichi been awake for? He couldn't have been up all night surely. He might have been awoken a lot earlier than Kaito was if he was returning from the lab now. Shuichi noticed Kaito through half lidded eyes, but didn't have a chance to say anything as they were walking past each other at that point. What happened to him?

Kaito couldn't dwell on it much as he was pushed through a door to one of the labs. They say that it was a lab, but it looked more like a surgical theatre. A hospital chair that folded down into a bed was in the centre of the room with a large bright light hanging over it. There were multiple cupboards all around with diagrams of the human body pinned to the walls. Some of the people in the room were cleaning what looked to be equipment and their hands. If Kaito wasn't told about this place to begin with, he truly would've thought that he was in a hospital somewhere.

A woman approached Kaito. She seemed to be in her early thirties. She had pitch black hair that was tied back so tight that it gave the illusion that her scalp was pulled back with it. She had sharp brown eyes that narrowed almost harshly at the teenager. She was fully dressed in hospital scrubs, just like a normal doctor.

"Kaito Momota?" She asked, her voice sounding cold. Kaito nodded. "Take your shoes and shirt off and give them to one of these two. Sit on the chair when your done." Kaito felt a little unsure about this, but he did so anyway. The sooner this is done, the sooner he can go back to sleep. The guard snatched the clothing from him, not even saying anything. Kaito approached the chair and sat down on it. He didn't know why, but he had a bit of a bad feeling about this. He shouldn't be worried though, right?

"Everything is prepped, Sara." One of the doctors in the room said.

"No, first names. You know the rules." The woman, Sara, snapped. Her coworker muttered an apology as she approached Kaito.

"Miss...Sara?" The teenager asked.

"Dr. Swan to you." Sara snapped again, her tone impatient.

"My bad. What's going on here anyway?" Kaito asked again.

"Just a quick physical examination since this is your first time here, and then we'll be taking samples from you." Sara said, sounding like a robot, as if she had said that line many times before. She slipped on a stethoscope and placed it on Kaito's back, causing him to flinch a little from the cold. "Breathe in. And out." As she listened to his heart and lungs, and continued with his physical exam, Kaito tried to relax again. A physical examination and taking samples didn't seem to be that bad. Kaito didn't know why he was nervous in the first place. However, one thing kept playing back in his mind. It was the condition that Shuichi was in. He really did look like that he was kept all night. Something didn't feel quite right.

"Do you have any health complications such as high blood pressure?" Sara suddenly asked as she finished looking in Kaito's mouth.

"No. Not that I'm aware of." Kaito answered, trying not to feel nervous.

"Good. Lie down." Sara sighed, sounding satisfied as she adjusted the chair into a bed. Hesitantly, Kaito did so as Sara stepped away from him. Suddenly the other people in the lab rushed at him. He didn't have a chance to fight back as they strapped his arms and legs down. Kaito tried to move, but the straps were pulled so tightly that they were digging harshly into his skin.

"Wait! What's this for?!" Kaito asked, suddenly feeling a small surge of panic.

"Safety." Sara sighed. Kaito strained his neck to see where she was. His panic started to rise. The doctor was suddenly dressed up in surgical scrubs complete with a mask and gloves. Kaito looked around at the other doctors. They were all dressed as if they were ready to do surgery on him. This made the teenager believe that more, as he noticed surgical tools placed on a tray beside him.

"Hold on! I thought you were taking samples. Like blood or something." Kaito protested as Sara approached the bed again.

"Tissue samples." She stated, reaching to grab a scalpel.

"Shouldn't I be put under?! Or be given some anaesthetic?!" Kaito shouted, trying to wriggle out of the restraints. This is messed up! This can't be real! It had to be a nightmare!

"Just because you have powers, doesn't mean we should treat you as a human. You're nothing but scum and should be treated as such." Sara said. Kaito looked into her eyes at that point. They were dull and cold. There was nothing in them. No remorse. No compassion. No sorrow. No feelings at all lived in those eyes. She had done this so many times that she is beyond caring about anyone.

"No! Wait!" Kaito protested, looking around for anything or anyone to help him.

"Shut him up." Sara sighed.

"Wai-" Kaito shouted again before something was forced between his teeth, causing him to bite down on it. He looked at everyone. They all had the same look as Sara had. It was like everything that made them human, everything that made them feel, had been sucked right out of them. Kaito watched with wide eyes as the scalpel made contact with the skin of his right arm. He couldn't hold back a scream as he felt the blade dig mercilessly into his skin. He felt it go down deep into his arm. This was the worst pain that he had ever felt in his whole life. The fact that he was terrified as well didn't help. It made the pain even worse. It kept forcing him to tremble from the pain. He couldn't stop screaming. This sample taking thing was going on for way too long.

The pain stopped suddenly. Kaito's throat was so sore that he felt like he might never speak again. His arm was in complete agony. He hesitated, but his eyes subconsciously drifted to the wound. If he wasn't biting down on something, he probably would've thrown up. There was a long cut from his elbow to just before his wrist. The wound was so deep that Kaito could see the muscle under his skin. It hurt so bad that Kaito was literally close to crying. He was actually close to passing out. Black spots started to cloud his vision, and he couldn't hear much of anything. He felt terribly cold, as if someone had shoved him inside a freezer. He suddenly felt something touching his injury. Kaito just barely opened his eyes. Rantaro? What was he...

Oh that's right. Rantaro said that he has healing as his powers. That's good. Right?

That's all that Kaito could think before he fell into a never ending, black, cold void.

A/N I’M SO SORRY KAITO!

#drv3 #OC #kaito momota #super power au #shuichi saihara #Kaimaki #rantaro amami

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lepusrufus · 3 years

Text

Wrong victim

Pure comedic self indulgence because we all need a funny break before shit starts to really go down in To bargain for immortality. Set quite a few years after the game events, around 2025, and is pure ridiculousness so enjoy.

////

Her response to being unceremoniously shoved in the back seat of a car that looked like it's seen far better days was merely an annoyed grunt. It turned into an eye roll when the man that climbed in after her pulled everything out of her pockets.

"Wouldn't want you calling anyone," he said with a toothy grin while waving her phone in front of her.

"Trust me, that won't be necessary," she replied in a deadpan voice. It's not like she would call the police, she wanted them involved even less than her kidnappers probably did. As for other people she could reach out to, a phone call would be redundant really. "Do be careful with it, I'd hate to lose the photos of Daniela sleeping upside down."

After maybe ten minutes of driving down the barely illuminated outskirts of the city, and having her pockets emptied, dagger included, the burly man driving pulled up inside a parking lot. It was large and overgrown with weeds and vines reclaiming spaces that had been left without human activity for who knows how long. The lamp posts were nothing more than useless concrete pillars as they provided no illumination, resulting in her pitiful captors having to use flashlights as they made their way into the dilapidated factory.

Nicole sneered at the sight of collapsed walls and rusty metal walkways, reminding her of the one particular Lord she couldn't stand the sight of. She decided a distraction was needed from unpleasant memories.

"Abandoned factory?" She whistled. "How many cliche movies have you guys watched?"

She let out a chuckle when the man that had previously taken her phone shoved her ahead. Hopefully they wouldn't tape her mouth shut, there was so much fun to be had by mockery alone.

It didn't take long before all three of them entered a dimly lit room, numerous candles placed all around, either on desks or candle supports nailed to the walls. The three more people inside were wearing long black robes and white masks covering their faces. Nicole had to laugh.

"Oh so you're that kinda crazy."

"Shut the fuck up and stay put," the man holding her hands behind her back said while pushing her into a chair.

He then moved to a table and Nicole couldn't help but scowl at how unceremoniously her beloved dagger had been thrown on the wooden surface. Afterwards, he put on a mask not unlike the others, except with red streaks going down from the eye holes, and started to prepare something in the middle of the room. The others joined in on the task, all but the one man that had been put in charge of making sure Nicole stayed put. Because of course she could easily escape five people much bigger than her at any given moment.

She decided to take a look around, at the various dusty books opened on pages she couldn't quite make out from where she was sitting. A few pages were laying around, either with diagrams or with scribbled notes. Had she really stumbled upon a cult? She couldn't wait to have a laugh about it with her family.

"So," she started, craning her neck a little so she could see her captor's face. "Who you gonna sacrifice me to huh? I wanna know before you slice up my throat or whatever you're planning on."

A confused and suspicious look was thrown her way, surely due to the complete nonchalance she spoke with about what would surely be her untimely death. "The… the devil," was his unsure reply.

Nicole let out a small laugh. "Oh trust me, you do not want to meet her. Though devil is not quite the word," she continued despite a few other pairs of eyes landing on her. "Maybe a pissy fungal overlord with an unhealthy obsession for crows. Yes that's more like it," she finished with another chuckle.

The man with a slightly different mask, who seemed to be their self appointed leader, got up from where he was nailing something to the floor and walked up to her in a few long strides. His eyes were barely visible, but anger was clearly distinguishable.

He pulled out a knife, old, rusty and with a black worn out handle so typical of a kitchen utensil, and so incredibly ugly compared to the beautifully ornate daggers that decorated her home. She had to laugh when the dull blade got pressed to her throat.

"Will you shut up for one minute?!" He raised his voice slightly, as much as someone who was doing something they didn't wish to be caught doing would dare to. It didn't deter her though.

"Oh sweetie this is just what foreplay looks to me," she started with a grin that made her wish she had fangs like the better part of her relatives. "But please do me a favor and stay quiet, there's no fun in hunting if my darling finds you within five seconds due to you screeching like a broken squeaky toy."

The man blinked for a few seconds, taken aback both by the words and by the apparent passivity towards having a knife at her throat. He stayed like that until one person that was working with some ropes behind interjected.

"Of all the people you could've taken, how did you find this unhinged bitch?!"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Nicole said, bending slightly to the side so the person that had spoken up would have a clear view of her sickly sweet smile.

After that exchange, her captors seemed happy to move things along quicker, working in silence and begrudgingly ignoring any remarks she would throw their way, including an observation on the downright dreadful quality of the rope they had. Quality that she regrettably got to experience when her wrist and ankles got tied to the nails in the floor, having her lay down in a starfish position. It kind of reminded her of sprawling on the bed she shared with Cassandra simply to annoy the brunette.

After loudly reciting something in latin, the leader bent down, same rusty knife in hand, and tipped her chin upwards to expose the neck. She did let out a wince when the blade sunk deep in her flesh and got dragged downward, towards her chest, leaving behind a choking sensation and the taste of copper in her mouth. The knife however only made it to the base of her neck, before the sound of metal crashing caught everyone's attention.

"What the fuck," the man whispered, thankfully pulling the blade out so her skin had the time to begin stitching itself back together. She still had to turn her head around and spit some blood that made its way into her mouth.

Before anyone else had a chance to speak up, the door was kicked open, one of the rusty hinges breaking completely, to reveal a rather angry Cassandra with her sickle in hand, ready for bloodshed.

There were a few seconds of stunned silence before the blade was unceremoniously thrown into the first person's skull, spinning through the air for only a few meters before getting embedded into the bone with a sloshing sound. Anyone else trying to escape through the one door was met with a similar fate. One person had their knees kicked inwards before a knife held at the same belt as the sickle came down to slash their throat. Another had their head smashed to bits against the nearest wall in the blink of an eye. And last, the burly man that had driven and kept an eye on Nicole, had his heart ripped through the bottom of his ribcage when Cassandra shoved him against one of the tables, scattering the books and papers that were by then stained crimson.

The remaining man, the leader, got grabbed by the shoulders and forcefully shoved into the same chair she had been sitting in not too long ago.

"Stay put and I'll let you live," Cassandra spoke, all the cruelty polished over decades upon decades of sporting the title of the family's most sadistic coming through those few words.

He gulped and nodded, eyes glossed over by the pure human terror now so unfamiliar to both of them.

She then turned around, expression softening like a switch had been turned behind golden eyes. "Nicole," she started, barely an edge of concern and irritation at the sight of her wife's bloody skin.

"Hi babe." The self satisfied grin almost had the brunette chuckling while she retrieved her sickle and Nicole's things.

The weapon was used to cut her free, a grimace pulling the corners of her black lips downward at the same quality observation her wife had priorly made, no doubt. A hand was offered to Nicole to pull herself up, while the other presented the familiar dagger that was gifted to her so many years ago.

"Will you do the honors love," Cassandra asked, with that beautifully sadistic smile.

"Of course," came Nicole's reply as her hand wrapped around the leather covered handle.

With some of the wretched ropes gathered from the ground, Cassandra made quick work of the man's hands and legs, securely tied to the chair and voice frantic.

"You said you would let me live!"

Cassandra laughed, a low ominous sound, while grabbing the mask and throwing it on the floor. She did love to see the terror in her victims' faces after all.

"Unfortunately my wife made no such promises," she finished with a forceful pull of hair that kept his head in one place as she moved to the back of the chair.

Nicole approached with the dagger already out of its holster and tapped the blade's point against her lips in thought for a few moments. She could simply slice his throat and be done with it, or stab him and leave him to bleed out, choking on his own blood. A hum made its way past her lips. No, no that would not do.

She grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt, pulling it up almost to the neck. After a few mental measurements and approximations were made, the tip of the blade finally found its way into muscle, drawing thin trails of blood and pained screams. It took a good five minutes to carve all the intricate details she wanted to, the swirling patterns cutting cleanly through skin, courtesy of her wife keeping the blade sharp and in top condition.

After she was content with the level of detail, and screams subsided to pathetic sobs, she took a step back and, with a hum, looked at Cassandra for a reaction.

"Oh dearest," the brunette said, looking over the man's shoulder and down at the bloody cuts on his abdomen and chest, forming a crude yet not unfitting replica of the Dimitrescu crest.

At the adoration that made its way past the cruelty in her wife's eyes, Nicole smiled and gingerly took a hold of her unoccupied hand, bringing it close to her lips and leaving a small kiss and a barely visible blood imprint on each knuckle.

"I take it that you approve of my… design choice," she asked with another glance down at the jagged lines that formed their family's symbol.

"It's wonderful," Cassandra replied, fangs shimmering slightly in the low light, exposed from the proud smile that tugged at her lips.

A gorgeous smile, really, that made something swell inside Nicole's chest no matter how many times she saw it. Truth be told, her rendition of the crest was quite lacking, never having had the artistic skills to quite capture the intricate details that formed it. Nevertheless, if it brought a smile to her wife's lips, she was more than content with it. How unfortunate that it had to be ruined.

She let out a sigh, still holding Cassandra's hand. "Too bad those pigs at the BSAA would quite disapprove of us leaving such things behind. Oh well," she shrugged, bringing the hand she was holding over to the man's abdomen. "Better it be ruined at your hands."

The next second, claws dug deep into flesh, slicing the muscle and everything underneath all the way up to the throat. It left five deep gashes over the fine cuts of her dagger, but the satisfaction did not dwindle. On the contrary, when the gurgling sounds finally stopped and the body went limp, her smile was still there, turning into light laughter when Cassandra licked her fingers only to visibly cringe.

"Say what you will about the dungeons, but at least we feed our livestock well," she spat, taking out a napkin from a pocket and wiping her fingers clean. "But with that disgusting thing out of the way, let me help you with that," she continued, grimace morphing into a sly smile when her eyes landed on Nicole's still bloody neck.

She gave her no time to disagree, not that she would, before she pushed her backwards slightly into the edge of a table. Nicole wasted no time in lifting herself up on the wooden surface, bringing their faces just a tad closer to being on the same level.

Cassandra dipped her head down, lips leaving teasing feather-like kisses on her jaw before lowering even further so she could drag her tongue up the length of her neck. It made a shiver run down Nicole's spine, that turned into an impatient tug of her wife's hair when the motion was repeated again and again, until no traces of blood could be seen on her neck, save for the crimson stains that made their way to the hem of her shirt.

Their lips met in a hungry kiss, full of fangs and smeared lipstick and the taste of copper so familiar to the both of them, albeit for different reasons. When Nicole's hands went to the first buttons of Cassandra's blouse, their kiss was broken with a sly smirk.

"This is such a dreadful place for such things, don't you think," the brunette said, all too amused by her wife's exasperated sigh.

"You started it," Nicole complained, but before the words were fully out of her mouth, she was tugged off the table and on the way out, ready to get back home and have a laugh about the irony of her capture. They would have to pick up where they left off at a later time.

#cassandra dimitrescu x maiden #unhinged maiden™ my beloved #tw: gore #cassandra being cassantra and comin to save her wifey #don't take this as a clue to how the mutation sequel may turn out #fanfic

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popi-the-fatui · 3 years

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CHILDE BF HCs

(that no one asked for but here they are anyways)

A/N: this man needs some luv. Long post, there is a whole iceberg under the “read more”. Also, I tried to keep a Gender Neutral reader so pls DM me if there are any mistakes!!

TW: DESCRIPTION OF AN ANXIETY ATTACK, SPOILERS FOR THE REX LAPIS QUEST AND CHILDE’S PAST, a little bit of angst

🐋 Let’s bust some myths first: contrary to popular belief, Childe has no experience at relationships or intimacy at all. Non. Cero. The Venn diagram of romantic/intimate stuff and things Childe has done is a void. But it’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that he hasn’t had the time to experience any of these things because he is a busy man: between fighting, training and being a Harbinger, there is not a minute left for him to indulge in other things.

🐋 The problem with this is that Tartaglia is a people’s person. He WANTS to be able to have someone that he can do these things with. At the end of the day, when he comes home tired after a mission, all he wants is someone to be waiting for him with cuddles, hugs, kisses, reassurance, caresses, or just a simple “how did your day go?” Because of this, he has a lot of pent-up love that he has not been able to give.

🐋 In that note, he is also incredibly touch-starved: not only does he want someone to give that love to, but Childe also craves to receive it. When was the last time he was touched by someone in a context that was not a fight? He loves fighting, obviously: he has trained for a big part of his life to be able to defeat everything and everyone. But he is also just a human, and there are limits to how long a person can go without a loving touch.

🐋 So when he finally falls victim to the first signs of infatuation, this poor whale man will have an internal battle: do I reach for them? Would they be better off if they never meet me? Will they accept me? Has my reputation already ruined this for me before it even began? How do I approach them? Do I look presentable? Am I going to scare them away? Childe will be torn between wanting to protect you from himself (as the Fatui business is not an easy pill to swallow for everyone) and protect himself from you (his heart would not handle rejection/disgust very well), and wanting to KISS YOU AND HUG YOU AND KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU BECAUSE ARGH WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO ADORABLE.

🐋 So he finally decides to compromise between these two stances, and let YOU decide whether you want him as a friend, a lover or a stranger. He starts greeting you whenever he sees you in the streets, subtly asking if you would like him to join you in your commissions, inviting you for lunch/dinner after a mission so you can recharge your energy, asking if you want to go and share drinks with him and Zhongli. You know, friendly stuff friends do. And he doesn’t even try to hide the happy smile that escapes him whenever you say yes to him: when it comes to you, there is nothing he needs to hide. Well, except for that one thing.

🐋 He knows that you know he is somehow associated with the Fatui, if his constant trips to the Northland Bank aren’t enough to tell. Usually, Childe dislikes going around things as he much rather hit straight to the point (being the point a fight, a deal or just a simple conversation). But he has grown so addicted to the sensations you make him feel that he can’t help but to try to postpone that tiny little detail about himself for later. He has never had anyone who genuinely wants to spend time with him and that can keep up with him. Childe knows he can be quite intense and that rumors about him aren’t really rumors but WARNINGS, and to finally have someone, even if you’re just friends, that is actively trying to get to know the real him means so much, and he doesn’t want to let that go as selfish as he knows it is because there’s a chance you could get hurt (emotionally and physically).

🐋 Unfortunately for him, everything that goes up must go down, and that fateful day comes when his plans to take Rex Lapis’ Gnosis blows back to him. After that brief, tense conversation with La Signora and Zhongli, Childe’s ego can’t be any lower: it’s not often that he loses, and much less often that he loses while feeling like a fool. He wants to scream, fight, punch, kick. Anything to take out the impotence and anger he is feeling right now.

🐋 You found him in this state while you were looking for him to see if he was alright because a WHOLE ASS PALACE JUST FELL FROM THE SKY and you’re very concerned for him as you haven’t had any news directly from him and all you know is that apparently Childe was the cause of it?

🐋 As soon as he sees you, his blood-lust disappears and he no longer wants to fight something: he wants to cry from shame. Shame at being found in this state. Shame at failing. Shame at what you would think of him now that the cat’s out of the bag because from the look in your face is EVIDENT that now you know how far his relationship with the Fatui goes.

🐋 He falls to the ground, tears finally coming out and he is crying ugly sobs while hiccuping nonsense about how he is a weak, pathetic, disgusting failure and it’s not fair it’s not FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT-

🐋 “Look at me” you softly call to him, but he is panicking and hyperventilating and not responding to anything that’s outside of his head, so you decide to sit on your knees in front of him, gently cupping his face with your hands, caressing his tears away with your thumbs.

🐋 “Childe, look at me. Please?” You try again, carefulness in your tone as to not startle him. And when he finally reacts and looks up, you don’t see Tartaglia the 11th Harbinger, nor Childe the fatui flirt. All you see is a broken man that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, exhausted from constantly fighting against everything the world has thrown at him, and your heart aches for him and wonders how long this man has suffered alone, how long has he suffered in silence.

🐋 “It’s okay, Childe. You’re okay. Can you breathe for me?” You position yourself behind him and put your hands on his shoulders, rubbing circles with your fingers to further calm him. “Breath with me, yeah just like that. Now hold it for a bit and then release it. Keep going, I’ll do it with you. I’m here”

🐋 Childe finds himself finding it easier to breathe with each inhale and exhale, and when he is finally going down from his high, catharsis hits him HARD. Is this what he has been missing all of his life? Is releasing all that pent-up frustration supposed to feel this good? And he feels a little selfish, because he knows he doesn’t deserve your comfort after the stunt he pulled, but Childe can’t help but become putty under your tender touches and your soft words, and he wishes for a different context, for a different past in which he never fell into the abyss, never joined the Fatui, never felt that the only way to survive was to fight. Instead, he wishes for a past in which he is traveling because he wants to, and he meets you, and he courts you and makes your cheeks heat up at something he said. And you are not touching him because he had a panic crisis that he himself caused. No, he imagines the both of you after a dinner date in Liyue. The sky is dark and the stars are shining but the streets are still full of people laughing and talking and the light from the lamps are reflecting beautifully in your hair. You are walking near the harbor, and you are holding his hand and he is giving you a kiss on your forehead because he can’t help himself. In another life, he would have found you and loved you the way you deserve and the way he needs.

🐋 But he knows that now is too late, and all he has left is a mind full of regret because he did, in fact, hurt you. How could you trust him after this? How could you WANT him after this? So imagine his surprise when the first thing that comes out of your mouth is a soft “Are you ok now, Childe?”

🐋 “I- how- what?” He mutters in disbelief. Why are YOU asking HIM that? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

🐋 “You had me very worried back there. I thought you would stop breathing at any moment. You are not hurt, are you?”

🐋 And he laughs. A high-pitched, almost maniac laugh. “You know I was the cause of all of…” he says, moving his arms to signal, well, everywhere “...this, right? I believe you now must know what my real business in Liyue was, and that I’m not just some random Fatui officer”

🐋 “Well… I kind of suspected it? How many ‘random Fatui officers’ are carrying a Vision, huge amounts of Mora and have so many ‘meetings’ at the Northland Bank with the Qixing themselves? I mean, I didn’t know you were a Harbinger, but I did know that you were a higher up in the organization. I’m not dumb, you know?” you answer light-heartedly.

🐋 “Then why would you keep hanging out with me? If you knew all of that, then you for sure must have known that people tend to keep me in a ‘do not trust’ list. People are wary around me, and they should! If you knew of the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve DONE. The reputation surrounding the Fatui, especially the Harbingers, wasn’t built on nothing, you know?”

🐋 “Don’t get me wrong. I do have somewhat of an idea of the things you do for a living. And let me be clear: I certainly do not condone it. And to be honest, I know that things between us would be easier if you weren’t a Fatui and I actually wish you weren’t one” you can feel how his whole body deflated at that, and even if you are sitting behind him, you just know he has a pout on his face, so you resolve for hugging him from behind and rest the side of your face between his shoulder blades, and continue.

🐋 “But in the past weeks, I also had the opportunity to get to know you. Not Fatui you. But human you. I know that you have a family that you love very much and you do everything in your power to protect them. I know that you haven’t had it easy, and that some scars you have still hurt. I know that you absolutely can’t eat with chopsticks, but your pride refuses to give up and you try anyway. I know that you’re a passionate man that holds his dearest people close to his heart. I know that you hate when I’m sad so you’re willing to make a fool of yourself if that means I’ll end up laughing. I know how you wait outside of my building until my window lights up after you get me home so you are sure nothing happened to me. I know by the way you sometimes disassociate from the world around you that you are thinking of home and returning to your family” as you speak, you feel something wet falling on your upper arms, and realize that Childe is silently crying. You have half a mind to stop, but you also know that he needs to hear this, so you tighten your hug a little in reassurance.

🐋 “I also know that whenever I see you with a new wound, I can’t help but worry for you and my first instinct is to check if you are okay. I’m now familiar with the way my heart skips a beat whenever I get to see one of your genuine smiles, especially when the reason behind them is that you get to spend some time with me. I know my eyes soften when I see you talking about something you’re passionate about. The truth is, I care for you, Childe. I really do, Fatui or not. Harbinger or not. And yes, while I would rather you not be one, I still can’t help but long for your company because you make me happy. Because I love you. So don’t underestimate me. I’m strong and so are my feelings. You being a Fatui is not gonna change that”. After this, you two sit in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not an awkward one despite your confession. You know he is gathering his thoughts so you move one of your arms that is wrapped around Childe’s torso to card your fingers through his hair, mindful of the knots that had appeared after the battle. If he doesn’t believe your words, then you sure hope he trusts your actions.

🐋 Childe is the one who breaks the silence when he asks “How could you possibly love someone like me?”. If you weren’t sitting that close to him, you wouldn’t have heard it. He says this so softly, so gently, almost as if he was trying to convince himself and not you.

🐋 “Silly boy” you laugh warmly. “Did you hear anything I just said?” You ruffle his hair, and finally, FINALLY, you can hear him giggle a little. “You don’t get to decide who I love. That’s my choice, and I choose to love you”

🐋 No kisses were shared that day. No grand, magnificent romantic gestures were made. Only the silent promise of two young lovers to love and cherish each other as they were. And maybe, just maybe, you could work things out, together, to build yourselves a brighter future.

🐋 So after all has been said and done: congrats! You are now the proud s/o of Teyvat’s biggest simp.

🐋 Childe is your number one fan. Everything you do is carefully recorded in his mind for later use. He has to go on a mission away from you? Be prepared to be pampered and being taken on several dates the previous week so this clingy man has something to hold on to.

🐋 Also: he is shameless. He will not be afraid of making out with you in plain daylight on a busy street. But fear not! If you happen to not be a fan of PDA, he will try to be low-profile. You are, afterall, a person he treasures and can’t live without, so your comfort comes before his needs. Now, I say “try” because he will still demand to hold your hand and give you the random kiss on your cheek.

🐋 HUGS. FROM. BEHIND. Watch him giving you hugs like Oprah. You are buying something? Cooking? Chilling? Expect to feel a pair of long limbs wrapping from behind you in a tight hug like a koala. It’s his hourly vibe check.

🐋 Very jealous and protective of you. He is very afraid that one day you’ll realize there are plenty of people better than him and you’ll leave him, so please remind this simp that he is more than enough for you.

🐋 He also has nightmares from the time he spent in the abyss and will take sometime for him to realize that he is no longer there, so give him a few minutes for him to come to his senses and then please for the love of the Tsaritsa cuddle the life out of him. Also on this note, I have the headcanon that he prefers being the little spoon. That, or facing each other and he rests his face in the crook of your neck while leaving little pecks there.

🐋 Also you discover, to your surprise and as stated at the beginning , that this man has absolutely no idea how to do relationships. To compensate for this and to give you only the best of the best (as you deserve), he spends time in his travels to read romantic novels to have an idea of what to do, so don’t be surprised if he says or does something corny or cringey.

🐋 The most chaotic “meet the family” you’ll ever have. As soon as he takes you to Snezhnaya, you will have all of his siblings running and tackling you into a bear hug (he sends A LOT of letters to his family about you and if you read them you would not be sure if he is talking about you or a deity).

🐋 He also tries to keep you out of anything regarding the Fatui. It’s a relief that you finally know about how deep his person runs in the organization, but he also wants to spare you from the details of what he does unless something is really bothering him.

🐋 All in all, this golden retriever is your biggest hype man and the most loyal boyfriend. You will never get bored with Childe, as everyday is an adventure with him and he will make sure you to make you as happy and loved as you make him feel.

#childe #childe x reader #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin #genshin impact #mine #tw axiety #tw anxiety attack #genshin spoilers #genshin impact spoilers

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

Text

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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silverdragonoid · 2 years

Text

I wrote a one shot about the Ark siblings and what they did during the Dawn Event and decided to post it here. This was an idea for the official fanfic contest but I submitted something else, so I had the opportunity to write this one properly without a word limit. Also cross-posted this on AO3. I hope you like it<3

Word count: 1586

Rating: general, no triggers

Meanwhile on the Ark

Aeon stares at the big screen in the control center, anticipating. Marina mimics him with her brows furrowed, clutching his hand. Then, it happens. The diagrams start moving, a small red lamp on the monitor starts blinking and beeping in a steady rhythm.

“It has begun,” Aeon whispers, “We can't help Nikki in the physical world but we can still do our part from here.”

He looks down at his sister who looks back as serious as possible. Outside, he notices the wave of the ocean rising. The sky turns dark within seconds. He goes outside and checks on the Heart of the Ark. The water around it swirls as always without damaging it; nothing serious yet, he hopes. It is normal for the Ocean of Memories to turn dark during a storm, but Aeon can’t treat this situation like the others.

The diagrams change exponentially. Aeon runs to the personality mirrors, Marina close behind, and pulls out his phone where he sees the same on the main computer. The selected diagrams show the energy fluctuations of Nikki, Nightbane, the Heart, and you. But a new entity in Miraland appeared and its graph shoots higher and higher.

Arriving at his destination, he sees many personality mirrors crack or turn dark, more than ever before. Aeon’s heart beats faster. He can’t fix them at this rate. There’s a quake. What’s going on? Nightbane’s graph rises, too, but Nikki’s and yours become weaker… and the one of the Heart.

The boy needs to focus. What first? He doesn’t know. Then, he looks at Marina whose expression is worried. It nearly breaks his heart.

He crouches to get on her eye level and hands her his phone. “Marina, I need your help,” he speaks calmly and clearly, “Take this and go to the big mirror. I need you to tell me what’s going on in Miraland. Focus on Nikki.” He takes two wireless earpieces out of his pocket, puts one into his ear and gives the second to Marina. “Understood?”

The girl nods vigorously and puts on her earpiece. “Understood!”

“I’ll be downstairs. Now go.”

She salutes and runs off. Aeon heads into a similar direction until he reaches the stairs that lead to the Heart of the Ark. It takes some time to get all the way down, but he can hear Marina’s voice in his ear.

“The houses are collapsing! I hear screams!”

“Where? Do you see the cause?”

“It’s in Ninir’s capital, right in front of the palace. There are cracks in the ground… a hole, I see a giant hole in the ground!”

Aeon reaches the bottom and what he sees terrifies him. The waves surrounding him and the Heart are like wild beasts trying to grab the crystalline prism. When he looks down, the waters are black, but the blackness is moving. It comes higher, closer.

He tries to not let his emotions show in his voice. “And Nikki?”

“I can’t see her anywhere… But there’s a woman in a white dress floating above the plaza! I think she’s evil.”

Aeon doesn’t understand. Who’s that? Does she have to do with Nightbane or Lilith? Anyway, there are other things that need his attention.

“Find Nikki,” he simply says and tries to manage the defenses around them. He never quite figured out how to operate this part of the Ark but he has to do something, since the Heart’s light flickers. He pulls up every lever as the darkness approaches.

“I see her!”

A relieved sigh. “How is she?”

“She looks unconscious. I don’t know where she is. It’s so dark around her. I hear strange noises.”

“What do the graphs say?”

“Hers and (Y/N)’s are sinking. Nikki’s gradually, but I think (Y/N) is struggling.”

Aeon would try to reach out to them if he was in the control center right now, but he has to protect what the world can’t exist without.

And there he sees them. Countless anonymous eyes shining from the abyss beneath him like stars in the sky. Hundreds, maybe thousands of monsters from the abyss are closing in. Dark water splashes onto the platform now and then. The defenses are giving in.

Marina’s voice appears again. “I’ve listened to that strange woman. I think that new graph belongs to her. It’s so high I don’t understand the numbers.”

Aeon barely listens. More and more water leaks in. He walks on wet floor as he pushes various buttons in the hope of achieving something.

“Dammit, Leonid. Where are you when you’re needed!?” he shouts, his mic muted.

Another quake. He almost loses his footing. Now the entire Ark trembles continually.

The admin stares at the floating heart-shaped prism and contemplates. He can’t tell what’s going to happen, but maybe he should touch it again?

His thoughts get interrupted by a scream.

“Aeon!”

He taps the earpiece, worried. “Marina, I hear you.”

“The water level. It’s almost here. It’s going to flood the Gate of Heart.”

After one last glance at the flickering crystal and the darkness spreading around him, he sprints up the stairs, taking two at a time, but the shaky ground makes him go more carefully than he’d like.

“Brother, I’m scared. The storm is getting worse.” Her once determined voice can barely conceal the fear, but Aeon can tell she’s trying to be brave nonetheless.

“I’m coming.” he huffs in between heavy panting.

Finally, he reaches the surface to the sight of a storm he couldn’t suspect from below. The waves crash against the buildings. The railroad tracks that connect everything flail around uselessly. Luming’s residence rocks on the waves, threatening to topple over. It’s raining so hard Aeon is drenched to the bones when he reaches his sister and hugs her.

They’re standing in front of the Mirror of the World and he takes a look at the situation himself. The plaza and everything surrounding it lies in chaos, heavy clouds block out every bit of hope, everything is bathed in a red, unholy light. In the center of the picture flies the woman, flashing a delighted smile as she watches the world crumble and relishes the cries of despair. People fall into the cracks in the ground and never stop falling.

Aeon takes his phone from Marina and processes the diagrams. The Heart of the Ark keeps losing power and Nikki is still in danger. Only Nightbane and that goddess thrive.

The Gate starts shaking even harder. The first waves crash upon the floor. Some of it reaches Aeon and Marina, and they cling to each other. Aeon doesn’t dare to look at the water, because if he does he’ll see how near the creatures from the abyss are, their claws closing around the foundations of the lowest structures.

Suddenly, the graph that depicts your energy spikes high for a moment, then it drops to the bottom. But in response, Nikki’s regains height, and a few moments later, the siblings observe a flash of light in the hole beneath the goddess. A six-winged, black angel with pink hair rises from the abyss and attacks the women. She radiates a power that wears Leonid’s signature, but also her own, and someone else’s.

“Is… Is that Nikki?” Marina asks with tears of hope in her eyes.

Aeon smiles, relieved. “Yes… Yes, it’s her.”

And she fights the villain with joint powers. Sparks and energy bolts fly through the air, Nikki’s wand clashes with the scythe, everything seems to vibrate from the magnitude of styling power concentrated in one spot.

But Nikki wins, sealing the goddess where she belongs, and the clouds dissolve - not only in Miraland. The waves on the Ocean of Memories decrease and everything becomes brighter as the abyss sinks back to its intended place.

Aeon hears Marina sniffing but he doesn’t say anything, he only holds her tight and strokes her back.

Nothing appears damaged. When he looks at the diagrams on his phone, he’s glad to see that the Heart of the Ark is intact and returning to his usual rhythm. The newest energy source disappeared, although Nightbane’s graph dropped to zero but remains on the radar. Yours doesn’t look much better. At least Nikki’s seems weak yet stable.

He looks around. The Ocean has returned to normal within minutes and the Ark is alright. So he takes his sister by the hand and leads her to their living quarters. The water from the Ocean of Memories isn’t the same as on the planet, so a few towels won’t help to get rid of all the negative emotions caught in their hair and clothes. Therefore he hands Marina her favorite plushie, which she clutches to her body immediately, and fetches them both some of the chocolate Nikki has once brought them from Miraland. The girl is grateful for the treat and the tension in Aeon’s body finally resolves when Marina’s face gains some color.

“I admit,” his sister mumbles after a while, “I was so scared.”

He grabs her hand. “Me too. But you also were so brave. It’s over now so we don’t have to be scared anymore.”

“I always believed in Nikki. I knew she would save us!”

“Yes, she saved us all.” He smiles at her.

After they calm down, they go to the lab to investigate the abyss and what happened to you, and to welcome the dreaming Nikki...

~~~

A/N: Huge thanks for my darling @jacepens for beta’ing this<3

#shining nikki #shining nikki aeon #sn aeon #shining nikki marina #sn marina #shining nikki fanfic #fanfic #oneshot

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ssa-pretty-boy · 4 years

Text

Love and Thunder

Summary: When a thunderstorm rolls in and the power goes out what will Spencer and his girlfriend do to pass the time?

Word Count: 4.4k

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: smuttttttt - fingering, unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT KIDS), penetrative sex

——

The smell of coming rain had been in the air for days. So when dark clouds rolled in, threatening to open up at any given moment, no one really gave it a second thought. But as the day progressed the normal hustle and bustle of the city grew into something more palpable, its people trying to get indoors before the torrential down pour that was sure to come.

Spencer Reid was no exception. Though there was something about a good thunderstorm that he found extremely relaxing, he didn’t want to be caught outside in one. Like the rest of the city’s inhabitants he was speed walking down the concrete sidewalks, eternally grateful that his apartment was only a couple of blocks away from his metro stop.

He managed to make it into the lobby of his building just as the first drops of rain started to sprinkle down. With a grateful sigh, he shucked off his rain coat as he watched the droplets slide down the glass door. The drizzle was slow and lazy, honestly more like a fine mist than true rain. Maybe this was just going to be an average summer rain shower after all.

Taking the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor, he made it to the last landing with an astonishing amount of grace. For someone who was as uncoordinated as Spencer tended to be, it was a surprise even to himself he made it without so much as stumbling. He unlocked the door and was greeted with the sound of pots and pans clinking together coming from the kitchen. Rounding the corner into his tiny kitchen he saw Y/N at the stove, stirring what smelt like pasta sauce with one hand and holding an open book up to her face with the other. She was mouthing the words as she read and Spencer smiled, he found it incredibly endearing and told her as much as he left his satchel and raincoat on the small table tucked into the corner of the room.

Y/N laughed, glancing up over the top of her book with a warm smile as he came over to her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and settled his chin on the top of her head. “Wasn’t expecting you home yet.”

The book forgotten, she tossed it to the counter and leaned back into him, tilting her head up to place a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw. “I was just extra help today so I got cut loose early because of the storm.”

He hummed again, certainly not complaining that his girlfriend was home. “What are you making?”

She took the wooden spoon out of the pot and held it up to Spencer’s mouth for him to taste, smiling when he groaned and nodded his approval. “My mom sent me a new recipe for a creole Alfredo sauce. Everything else is ready so I just have to it throw in and let it simmer for a few minutes. Why don’t you go wash up and I’ll start setting the table.”

——

When Spencer and Y/N were in each other’s company, they had a habit of blocking out the rest of the world. Spencer had always thought it sounded lame and cheesy when he heard couples say such things but when he met Y/N he understood it instantly. They were just so comfortable around each other, so…compatible, that nothing else mattered to them as long as the other was happy. Especially when they were in the comfort of their own home.

They had been so wrapped up in each other, in fact, that they failed to notice the changing atmosphere outside. It wasn’t until they settled into bed for the night, when Spencer finally flipped on the TV and mindlessly turned to the weather channel in hopes of seeing a sunny forecast for the following day, that he realized just how intense this storm was going to get. So much for that picnic in the park with Derek, Savannah, and Hank they’d so been looking forward to. Spencer studied the swirling diagram of colors, noting that area which he and his girlfriend called home was already far into the red and it didn’t look like they would be in the green any time soon.

A flash of lightening brought his attention away from the television and towards the window on Y/N’s side of the bed. Pushing the thick duvet back, Spencer climbed from the warmth of the bed and padded towards the window. He reached out with a little hesitance and pulled the curtains back, eyes widening at what he saw on the other side of the glass. Several of the small trees lining the street had been blown over, the street itself in front of the building was flooded, and a few blocks away it looked as though the power had gone out.

“It’s nasty out there,” he mumbled more to himself than Y/N. She was so preoccupied with painting her toenails, a shade of deep red that Spencer secretly found incredibly sexy, that she hadn’t even noticed him get out of bed to walk over to the window.

“Is it?” She wasn’t really paying him any mind as she finished painting her left pink toe, the very tip of her tongue sticking out between her lips in concatenation as she did so.

He mumbled a soft ‘yeah’ as he sat down in front of her. Grinning at him, Y/N leaned back against the headboard of the bed and screwed the cap back onto her nail polish before tossing it into the small canvas bag sitting on her bedside table.

“You like?” The question was rhetorical, she knew how much he liked the color on her and maybe she picked out specially for that reason. She lifted her foot just in front of his face and wiggled her toes to show off the color of the polish.

Smirking at her, Spencer grabbed ahold of her ankle and pulled her down the bed closer to him, laughing at the squeal that the action got from her. Holding her foot up to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to each toe before slowly beginning to kiss up her foot to her calve then her thigh, all the way up to her waiting lips. “I fucking love it.”

He let put a playful growl as he dove into the crook of her neck and began to place sloppy wet kisses all over the exposed skin, his fingers ghosting over her sides to start tickling her relentlessly. Her giggles ringing out through the small bedroom were like the most beautiful music he’d ever heard. Their playful fun was cut short though by a bright flash of lightening that washed the room in a bluish hue, both of their head snapping towards the window. Holding his breath, Spencer began to count in anticipation for the clap of thunder that was sure to come.

1…

2…

3…

4…

There was the deafening crack of thunder he had been waiting on. It sounded like it was directly over head, the very walls of the building seeming to quake. Y/N let out a squeak, clutching onto Spencer’s biceps for dear life as she hid her face in his chest.

Trying to lighten the mood however he could, he laughed and and pulled back to look at her face. “It’s alright, sweet girl. Just a little thunder and lightning, nothing to be scared of. Well, there’s no need to be afraid of thunder, anyway, seeing as though its really just a sound caused by the lightning. Lightning, on the other hand, can be quite dangerous if-”

With a playful swat to his chest, she silenced him. “As much as I usually love your facts and tangents, that one really didn’t help. Like at all. You know how I am about bad weather! It just freaks me out a little." She admitted the last bit sheepishly, no matter how many times he assured her she had no reason to be embarrassed by her fear of storms, she still hated to admit it. Everyone is afraid of something, he always told her.

Brown eyes flashing, he looked down at her with a smirk before leaning back back down and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before working his way to her jaw.

“Well then, why don’t we do something to take you mind off of it, hm?” He was kissing her throat again as he suggested it, pressing the words into the column of her neck with wet, open mouthed kisses. Her head was already swimming, thoughts foggy as his mouth trailed lower, pulling at the collar of her shirt to get access to her collar bones now. The only response she was able to supply him with was a mumbled “mhm” and a shuddering gasp as his cold hands slipped under her T-shirt to find her bare chest, much more purposeful than the playful tickling had been. His thumbs ghosted over her nipples and she arched into touch, moaning when he pinched the hardening peaks between his thumbs and forefingers.

Just as he pulled the old Caltech shirt off of her, the lamps on either side of the bed along with the TV began to flicker. “Shit,” he cursed as he rolled off of her. “The power is probably about to go.”

Spencer stood from the bed and grabbed his phone from the bedside table just as the electricity flickered off entirely. Switching on the flashlight that was built into his phone, he shone it into Y/N’s face. She squinted into the light, holding up her hands to shield her eyes from the blinding brightness. “I’m going to go get some candles and a lighter. Stay in here, bubs.”

Quickly making his way down the dark hallway, Spencer headed for the hoard of scented candles he knew Y/N had stashed in the linen closet. He scanned the shelves, and spied the decorative basket tucked into the corner of the top shelf. Honestly, he didn’t even want to know how Y/N had managed to get up there. Even for as tall as he was, he had to stand on his tip-toes to reach it.

He pulled the basket down and rummaged through it, crinkling his nose at a few of the names… Pink Sand, Midnight Cashmere, Home Sweet Home. Why did they all have to have weird names? Why couldn’t they just be named what they were supposed to smell like? Eventually he gave up on trying to find normal ones, just deciding to take the entire basket before going to the kitchen to retrieve a lighter from the junk drawer under the microwave.

Once back in their bedroom, Spencer began to scatter the candles all over the small space, lighting them as he went. Before long the entire room was aglow with a soft, flickering light. After finally lighting the last few, he tossed the lighter down onto the dresser before going to flop onto the bed next to Y/N.

Still half naked, she was sitting up with her knees pulled her to chest and staring absentmindedly out of the window. She was too busy worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and watching the rain slap against the glass to pay the slightest bit of attention to Spencer. So he turned onto his side and took the opportunity to watch her.

Right arm propping his head up, he shamelessly let his eyes rake over her from the top of her head all the way to the tips her toes. On their fifth date, he’d noted that candle light made her look ten times as gorgeous as she already was. The tiny flickering flames illuminated her features in ways a light bulb or even the sun failed do. Every date night he had planned since usually involved a lot of candles for that very reason.

Not being able to resist the temptation any longer, Spencer reached up and cupped her cheek in his hand. Y/N turned her face into his palm and pressed a kiss to the center of it. Their eyes locked and Spencer swore he felt his heart swell in his chest as she stared down at him with what could only be called adoration. It was funny how time seemed to stop completely when she looked at him like that. Like he hung the stars and the moon in the sky just for her. It made him feel like he could fly.

She moved to lie down facing him, so close that their noses were just centimeters apart, and ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders. The muscles of his arms tensed in the wake of her touch and she batted her lashes up him, feigning total innocence at her actions as his pupils blew wide. Her hands slid back down his chest, her nails pressing into him just hard enough to leave faint red lines in their wake. “I think we were doing something a minute ago.”

“Yeah, I think we were.” His words were husky as he cupped her cheeks in his hands again and leaned in to kiss her. Winding her arms around his neck, she pulled him on top of her and he fell to rest perfectly between her thighs.

One of his hands slipped into her hair and gripped tightly at the roots, snapping her head back so that he could have even more access to her throat and jaw. A wanton moan accompanied the sharp sting of her nails raking over his shoulders when he bit down hard enough to bruise. He bit and sucked relentlessly at her pulse point, fully intending to give her a rather spectacular hickey to sport the next day at work. When he pulled away to inspect his work he smirked at the mark, his thumb brushing over it with just enough pressure to have her whimpering.

Becoming desperate for some sort of relief from the growing tension between her legs, she started grinding herself down onto Spencer’s thigh. The cocky bastard was smirking down at her as his iron grip forced her hips back down onto the mattress. She was already so blissed out she didn’t even realize his hands had left her neck and hair. “Be patient, princess.”

The use of the pet name had her eyes fluttering shut, the asshole knew the effect it had on her and used it to his advantage every change he got. Kissing her swollen lips once more, he pulled away and sat back on his calves to drink in the sight of her; pupils blown wide, lips red and swollen. When she looked like this, all flustered just from his touches and kisses, Spencer could barely control himself. Before going to crawl back over her, he grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and quickly tugged it over his head before tossing it to join her’s on the floor.

Y/N sat up on her knees, meeting him in the middle of the bed, to kiss him. It was feverish and sloppy, their teeth clashing and nipping at each other’s lips. Both were breathless when they finally parted, heads swimming from the lack of oxygen.

Placing a firm hand on her chest, Spencer pushed her back to lie back down on the bed. Hovering over her again, he dipped his head down to her chest and took her one of her nipples into his mouth. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as he bit down and tugged at it. He released her after a moment and laved over the bite marks with his tongue before he moved to her other breast. She arched up into his touch, hands tangling in his hair as he continued to lavish her chest with attention.

“I love your tits,” he told her shamelessly, placing a kiss on each raw nipple before licking up the valley between them.

Despite the filthiness of the words and actions, she snorted out a laugh and shoved his head away from her chest. He was laughing as he pulled away, “I do though!”

“I know you do. And I love your cock but I would really love if it were inside me right now.” She reached down and started palming him through his pajama pants to emphasize her point.

“Remember what I said about having p-patience?” He choked on the words as she gripped him tighter, his head dropping forward onto her shoulder as he shuddered. When he lifted his head back up his cheeks were flushed and his pupils had blown so wide there was only a thin ring of honey brown surrounding them.

He sat back and hooked his fingers into the waist band of her sleep shorts and underwear and jerked them down her legs. When she was completely naked under him, he cupped her sex and practically growled,“I want to play a little first.”

The words alone were enough to have her moaning and bucking up into his hand, aching for some sort of friction. Spencer ran his middle finger up her slit, gathering her arousal on the digit before bringing it up to her mouth. Without having to be told, she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, taking his finger in her mouth and moaning at the taste of herself as she sucked it clean.

She released him with a soft ‘pop’ and he instantly brought his hand back down to her core. He ran the same finger up her slit again, ghosting over her clit with a few slow, lazy circles this time. Y/N gasped, her hands flying to Spencer’s biceps as he slowly slid the offending digit into her and began to pump it in and out of her.

She moaned out, arching her back off the bed as he started to pick up the pace, curling it up to perfectly stroke against her front wall each time. “More.” It came out as more of a breathless moan than an actual word but Spencer understood her none the less. “Gimme another one, Spence.”

“So fucking needy, aren’t you?” Despite the comment he complied with her request instantly. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as he slipped another long, nimble finger into her aching heat, not even bothering to give her a chance to acclimate to the slight stretch. Spencer’s fingers were fucking into her at a relentless pace, still curling them at just the right angle to have her seeing stars. She had asked for more and damn if he wasn’t delivering.

She was slack jawed as her eyes were rolled back in her head and god damn he had never been happier to have an eidetic memory. The look on her face was going to be what got him off when he was in those cold, lonely hotel rooms across the country.

“Ah god,” she was panting now, her chest heaving as she chased after her high. “Please don’t stop. Please. Please. Please, Spence.”

He added his thumb to her clit and started pressing small, tight circles to the swollen bundle of nerves. A lewd moan ripped from her throat as her hips bucked up into his hand, much to Spencer’s amusement. With a deep chuckle, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Please what, princess? Use your words.”

A delicious warmth started to settle in her belly as she clenched around around his fingers and Spencer had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the tightness. “Please let me cum. Please,” she was begging, her voice raw and breathless. And he would be lying through his fucking teeth if he said it didn’t go straight to his cock. He hummed and sped up his fingers, still making sure to curl upward with each thrust.

Stars flashed in front of her eyes as that warmth in her belly burst into a full blown flame, the fire licking up her body from her toes all the way to her head. Her nails dug into Spencer’s tensed biceps as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of her, milking her high for all it was worth. Even as the pleasure started to ebb, he kept up his ministrations to the point where her mewling moans turned into whimpers. She was spasming around his fingers, her walls gripping so tightly around him that he couldn’t help the bucking of his hips into the mattress below them.

“S-Spencer,” she moaned, her hands finally finding his and trying to shove him away. She could already feel another orgasm building, riding the tails of the aftershocks from the first.

“C’mon,” he purred. “You can do it, baby. Give me another one.”

Her skin felt like it was on fire as her toe curling second orgasm hit her. She was trembling as Spencer worked her through it, his fingers slowing and eventually pulling away from her aching pussy altogether. Another lewd moan was the only sound she could manage at the loss of contact.

“You did so good, princess,” he mumbled as he pressed sweet kisses to the side of her face while she came back down to earth. “You took my fingers so well. Think you can handle my cock now, baby?”

Bleary eyes fluttered open to look up at him and she nodded slowly. Spencer smirked down at her and made quick work of wiggling out of his pajama pants. Y/N reached down to take him in her hand but he swatted her away. His cock was aching and he knew if she took him in her very capable hands he wouldn’t last long at all. “Trust me baby, I’m good to go.”

Grabbing her by her forearm, Spencer hauled her up to sit on her knees before climbing back on the bed behind her. Still fucked out and pliable, she didn’t fight it when he put a firm hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her face down into the mattress. With one hand firmly planted on her hip and the other gripping his dick, he lined himself up with her entrance and slowly pushed in.

Every nerve ending in her body felt like it was a live wire; everywhere he touched he left fire in his wake. She was a mewling mess beneath him as he set a slow but purposeful pace, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into her. There were sure to be finger shaped bruises along her hips in the morning but she didn’t care, couldn’t care as he started pounding into her like his only purpose in life was to fuck her into sweet, sweet oblivion.

“Fuck,” he panted, “you feel so fucking good, baby. So tight and warm.”

The sound of skin slapping and Y/N moans filled the room as he settled into a quick and brutal rhythm, his hips snapping forward even harder. One of his hands slid up her back and gripped onto the back of her neck, hauling her back to rest against his chest. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, her eyes screwing shut at the deeper angle the position allowed. He was so deep and she swore she could feel him in her belly when he took her this way.

“Nu-huh,” he breathed in her ear, thrusts not faltering in the slightest. The hand on the back of her neck came to grip her jaw and turn her head towards the mirror resting on the dresser directly across from the bed. “I want you to watch yourself get wrecked.”

Her eyes fluttered open and looked at her reflection in the mirror, moaning at what she saw staring back at her. The hand he had on her hip slid around her and dipped down to spread her open so they could better see where he was fucking into her.

“Touch yourself for me,” he told her, his voice husky and commanding. She did as she was told, sticking her fingers in her mouth first to wet them with her tongue before bringing them down to her clit and swirling them in small, quick circles. With a particularly sharp thrust Y/N was cumming again, crying out as her vision went completely white this time around.

Her walls clamped down around his cock like a vice and Spencer’s head dropped to her shoulder as he groaned, his thrusts starting to get sloppy. “S-Shit. I’m right behind you, baby, just hold on.”

A couple of thrusts later he was cumming, groaning out a string of curses as he spilled into her. His arms around her waist were the only thing keeping her upright as they caught their breath. As gently as he could manage, he pulled out of her and her lie down before collapsing to the mattress beside her.

After a few minutes of basking in their afterglow, Spencer pressed a kiss to the crown of Y/N’s head before he got out of the bed to get a washcloth to clean her up. As he turned off the faucet he realized there was a sudden lack of howling wind and pouring rain. Making his way back into the bedroom, he peeked out the window before returning to bed.

“It stopped storming,” he mused as he gently brought the warm washcloth up between Y/N’s legs.

She winced at the sensation but was otherwise quiet for a moment before admitting, “Honestly, I had forgotten it was even storming in the first place.”

Mission accomplished then, Spencer thought to himself with a soft chuckle as he tossed the washcloth in the hamper next to the dresser. He settled back down on the bed with her, pulling her back to him. He had just about drifted off to sleep when Y/N started to giggle uncontrollably. He peaked an eye open to look down at her as her shoulders started to shake from the fit of laughter.

“God, the neighbors probably thought we were making a porno.” She was still laughing as she said it but knew fully well that the elderly couple next door probably did hear them. And would no doubt make comments about it the next time they ran into each other in the stairwell.

A wicked grin took over his face as he looked down at her and laughed, “Now there’s an idea.”

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction

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styleswithaseaview · 3 years

Text

crazy, twisted, divine

Cedric Diggory x ravenclaw!reader

a/n: holy cow this is one of my favorites i’ve written. i present to you, the Bad Boy Piece of Information >:) tadaaaaa! hope you like it, lovelies.

taglist: @cedricsbrowncurls @hoe4cedricdiggory

warnings: SO much teasing, loads of swearing, kissing, implied smut. also this is REALLY LONG so read at ur own risk!!

---

Y/N scribbled down notes on a piece of parchment, eyes flicking back and forth from her textbook to the words on her page. With her quill, she drew out small diagrams of magical plants, constellations, and explanations of charms. She was the only person in the library, working into the long hours of the night. Being Head Girl as well as coordinating Ravenclaw’s prefect duties, no one questioned her midnight whereabouts this early in the semester.

Meanwhile, Cedric paced around the castle, memorizing charms and hexes in his head as he walked. With his N.E.W.T-level exams coming up, now was a better time than ever to start with his studying. Although it was only September, he wanted to be prepared by the time June came around. He wanted to be top of the class. He told himself it was for his dad to be proud of him, but he knew the real reason.

Y/N had received three ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L’s and two ‘Exceeds Expectations’. Cedric had obtained the exact same; Y/N was furious. Her best subject was Charms, and Cedric’s Transfiguration. The two constantly wanted to outdo the other; Head Boy and Head Girl usually weren't as competitive as they were.

Y/N’s parents were absent. They abandoned her as a child, leaving her with her Grandma who often couldn't take care of her. She'd luckily lived near Ottery St. Catchpole, where the Diggorys resided, so Amos and his wife had often taken Y/N in. She spent many nights up in their attic, sleeping over when her grandma had passed out and wouldn't make her supper. She was incredibly grateful for their services, but their son, Cedric, always seemed to be in her way.

Her and Cedric we're friends; they'd known each other since infantry. But there was a front rivalry between them; they both wanted to be top of the class, prefects, and eventually Head Boy and Girl. They achieved all these things throughout the years, but not without struggle. Diggory always seemed to try to outdo Y/N, constantly scheming ways to get an advantage. They constantly mocked each other, annoying the other to wits’ end.

As Y/N studied, she remembered her Prefect duties to do at precisely one a.m. She was to walk the castle grounds and make sure each door is locked as well as no students are out of bed; a nightly routine that threw off her sleep schedule. Now, being Head Girl, she had to do it with the Head Boy; Cedric Diggory. She dreaded it, but also looked forward to pestering the Hufflepuff.

She closed her textbook, slipping her items in her bag and pinning her hair up before leaving the library with a swish of her robes. She walked up the stairs, met by a certain brunette at the landing.

“Diggory,” she said curtly, rolling her eyes at the smirk plastered on his face. “Shall we?” said Y/N, swiveling her lamp and walking down the corridor.

“Where should we start?” Cedric said, falling into step with her.

“Oh, the Ravenclaw tower, perhaps? I'd be damned if you could figure out the riddle, ” she teased, turning to a flight of stairs.

“Oh yeah? But obviously, you can, since you're so clever.” said Cedric sarcastically, sticking out his bottom lip.

“I am, actually, yeah. Thanks for noticing!” Y/N responded with a sardonic smile.

“Prove it.” Cedric challenged, stepping ahead Y/N as they neared the tower door.

“Oh I will, ” Y/N replied as she lifted the golden knocker.

“Imagine you are in a dark room with no exit. How do you get out?” the knocker’s booming voice asked.

Cedric’s faced scrunched as he searched for the answer.

“Easy, ” Y/N said. “Stop imagining.” With that, the door swung open to reveal the common room.

“W- that one was easy. I could've gotten it.” Cedric insisted, pacing around the common room.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, pretty boy.” Y/N mocked, nodding at the room’s emptiness before swinging her hips as she walked out.

“Shut up, L/N.” Cedric said, closing the door behind him. She laughed dryly. “Fine. If you want to play it that way, let's go to the Hufflepuff common room next.” he huffed, storming down the stairs toward the kitchen with Y/N close behind.

He pulled her into a nook in the right side of the kitchen corridor, waiting expectantly.

“What now, Diggory,” she said, lips pursed.

“If you're so all knowing, how do we get in?”

Y/N glared at him, starting to search around the small space. All she saw was a stack of barrels.

“Don’t fucking ask me, it's not a riddle. You idiots need to be near the kitchens to even function.” she scoffed, staring at the brunette. He laughed.

“Funny one, ” he said, deadpan as he reached down and tapped a barrel in the bottom row to a rythym.

“See now that's dumb. At least Ravenclaw’s requires some thinking, not a weird ass tapping motion.” she said, glaring.

“You're just mad because you didn't know it.” Cedric said before crouching to crawl through a newly opened passage.

“Like you'd know what I'm feeling,” Y/N remarked before crawling in behind him.

Once they saw that the common room was empty, they continued their rounds about the castle. Finally, when they finished, they both parted ways to their respective common rooms.

“Have fun solving your riddle before you can go to sleep, ” Cedric mocked groggily as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Shut it, ” Y/N said.

“Make me.” Cedric scoffed, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a glare.

“Challenging me? You want me to hex you? I'll do it - I'm better at charms than you anyways, ” Y/N remarked, teeth close to bared.

“You wish, L/N.” Cedric remarked before walking away and off to bed. Y/N flipped him off as he walked away.

---

The next day, Saturday, was rather uneventful. Students milled about the castle, playing chess or in Y/N and Cedric’s case, studying. Y/N decided to take a long nap in the day, do that she could study as well as do her prefect duties in the night. Cedric, meanwhile, slept until noon.

“Ready, pretty boy?” Y/N teased as they met in the corridor. There were dark circles under the boy’s grey eyes, and his hair was dishevelled. He had chosen a jumper and jeans rather than robes; Y/N had done the same with a cream button up tied loosely around her and a plaid skirt.

“Readier than you are.” Cedric snapped, earning a dry laugh from the girl beside him.

“Creative. In your dreams, Diggory. Which you apparently didn't have, due to the terrible dark circles under those eyes of yours, ” Y/N responded.

“Oh, shut up, will you?”

“No, thank you.” Y/N smiled sarcastically, a crunching her nose.

They continued to walk down the hall, continuing to check each door as they moved. Suddenly, they came upon a door that Y/N hadn't seen before. It was tall, and upon further inspection, unlocked.

“What do you think is in there?” Y/N whispered, putting her ear to the door.

“Y/N!” Cedric practically yelled. She raised her eyebrows. “I mean- L/N you better not go in there.”

“What? It's our civic duty as a Prefect. We need to check it out, are you dumb?”

“No!”

“Don't lie to me, Diggory,” Y/N ridiculed, pushing open the door. Despite his conscience, Cedric followed with a scoff.

The pair entered the room, which was dusty and empty until further inspection. Y/N suddenly spotted a tall, dusty golden mirror. At the top said ‘ERISED’

“Great! A mirror! Just what I was looking for!” Cedric satirized, a sarcastic grin on his face. He deadpanned, looking at Y/N with a blank expression.

Y/N shook her head, walking over to the mirror and tracing the words that lined the top. She stepped back, looking into it and gasping.

“This isn't just a mirror, Cedric.” she murmured, looking into his eyes.

“First name basis, now?” he scoffed.

“Shut it. Diggory, I've read about this. It's the mirror of Erised. It shows you your deepest, most true desire.” Y/N said with a glare.

Cedric hummed in response, stepping so that his body was square to the mirror. Looking back at his reflection, he saw Y/N’s arm around his waist and head on his shoulder, leaning up to kiss him.

He gulped, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“What do you see?” Cedric asked, looking away from the mirror.

“Oh, I can't tell you, can I? Or it won't come true, ” Y/N taunted, beginning to walk out the door.

“That's a muggle thing, isn't it,” Cedric said, remembering that Y/N’s grandmother was a muggle and she was raised only partially in a wizarding family.

“Yes, it's for wishes. But that's beside the point. What's life without a little mystery, hm?” She raised an eyebrow before walking out the door.

“Wait, Y/N!” Cedric called, closing the door as he ran after her.

“Ah, first name basis? Later, loser, ” Y/N called before walking up the stairs to the Ravenclaw tower.

Cedric was left stunned. He doubted she saw the same thing he did. She was too calm.

But Y/N had. She'd put up an extra nonchalant facade, worries of if he felt the same flooding her mind. She wished she could deny it, but the mirror was right. She didn't just want to be around him to pester him, although that was fun. She was in love with him. A crazy, twisted, divine version of love.

---

The next day, the pair had potions together. Y/N walked over and sat with her friend, Marietta, and Cedric was across the room with his Hufflepuff mates.

“What’s that smell?” Y/N whispered, furrowing her brow. Marietta shrugged, looking up at Snape.

“Can anyone tell me what the potion in the center of the table is?” Snape’s voice said. Y/N took in a sniff, realization dawning on her. She raised her hand.

“It’s amortentia, sir.” she answered, concern on her face.

“Care to elaborate, Miss L/N?” he said with a grimace.

“The strongest love potion in the world. Its scent mimics what you're attracted to most, sir.” she said, taking in another sniff.

“Care to tell us what you smell?” Snape said, pacing around the room. Y/N got closer to the pot, catching Cedric’s eye from across the room.

“I smell honey, wood, butterbeer, and a warm cologne, sir,” Y/N admitted, blushing, looking down at her feet.

“Interesting, ” Snape said, turning to the next student. What Y/N smelled was unmistakable. Snape went around the room, picking students at random to describe the scent, illustrating how different the smells could be.

“Diggory, care to say?” he said, looking down at the brunette.

Cedric looked contemplative for a second, eyes flicking to Y/N before he spoke.

“I smell vanilla, fresh laundry, and orange blossoms, sir.” Cedric said quietly, face going hot. Y/N looked at him in surprise. She used vanilla shampoo, always had an aroma of clean laundry, and her perfume smelled of orange blossoms and neroli. She blushed furiously, turning away.

“Fuck, ” she muttered under her breath. Marietta looked at her in confusion.

---

“L/N, wait up!” Cedric called after Y/N as she walked down the dungeon corridor. She stopped, turning around. There was an expression on Cedric’s face that was different; it wasn't a snarky smirk, or a glare. His eyes were soft.

“Hi,” she said simply, flashing a taut smile.

“W-what did you smell in your amortentia again?” he asked softly.

“Oh, uh...” Y/N trailed off, fiddling with her hands. “Mainly a woody cologne, honey, and butterbeer, I think,” she mumbled. He looked around, and back to Y/N, grey eyes baring into hers.

He hummed in response, nodding before abruptly walking away, leaving Y/N in the hallway.

---

Throughout lunch, Y/N pondered her amortentia. She sat in the charms classroom with Flitwick, not wanting to bother Marietta.

"Miss L/N, you did excellent on the last quiz," Flitwick told her as she twirled her pasta on her fork. She gazed into the distance, in a trance. "Y/N," he said, waddling over and waving a hand in front of her face.

"Oh! Sorry, what was that?" She jumped.

"Are you alright?" Flitwick asked, looking up at her.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just confused," she said.

"My best student? Confused? Must be some non-academic struggles," Flitwick said, jumping to get in the chair next to her.

"Correct." Y/N said, staring into the distance.

"I'll leave you to think," Flitwick said. "My guess is it's about love."

Y/N smiled. Suddenly, she heard a small whoosh of paper. A note had been slipped under the door. She got up, bending over to read it.

Meet me at the mirror at midnight.

-C.D.

Y/N looked at the paper in confusion. She assumed he meant the mirror of Erised. But why?

The day dragged on, nothing on Y/N’s mind but the tall brunette behind the note. Finally, when it came to midnight, Y/N looked at herself in the mirror before she left. She took a deep breath, walking out the door with a swish of her robes.

She wandered through the corridors, trying to find the room where they'd seen the mirror. Eventually, she came upon it. The unmistakable dusty door, hinges worn and golden. She opened the door.

“Diggory?” she called, looking around the room. She stepped towards the mirror, looking at her reflection. “Oh, there you are, ” she said, looking to her left side. But as her eyes flicked from his figure in the mirror, she saw nothing but an empty space beside her.

Suddenly, she saw writing appear on the glass of the mirror. Three words formed :

I SEE YOU.

Y/N whipped around, looking for a sign of the brunette. His figure stepped out of the dark, wand in hand as he put it away. He’d charmed it to write on the mirror, she realized.

“A-are you serious?” Y/N asked softly, stepping towards the boy. He nodded, an unreadable expression on his features.

“I smelled you, too. In the amortentia.” he said quietly.

Y/N looked into his eyes, seeing the same softness as she'd seen in the halls.

“Honestly, I don't know how I was so stupid.” Cedric said, turning to face the mirror.

“What?” Y/N said.

“See, I needed this mirror to tell me. I needed to see you holding me, touching me, kissing me. I wouldn't admit to myself until I saw it, I wouldn't admit to anyone-” he paused. “That I'm in love with you. Every year, I look forward to seeing you. I kept telling myself it's just so I can pester you. But it's not, Y/N. It's love. A crazy, twisted, divine version of love that hides behind a facade of competition.” he finished, looking at Y/N’s face in the mirror.

“Well, fuck.” Y/N said softly. Cedric chuckled. “I see you. And I smell you. And I love you, Cedric Diggory. Even if I annoy your ass off, and constantly try to one-up you. For fucks sake, I think a part of me wants to beat you because I want to impress you. Make you like me.” Y/N said, walking over to the boy.

He was silent, looking into the mirror with a mix of love and lust in his grey eyes.

“So, what exactly did you see?” Y/N said. “Did I do...” she trailed off, putting her arm around his waist and looking into his eyes. She put a hand on his cheek, kissing him softly. “...that?” She whispered into his ear. He leaned down and swiveled her waist, hands on the small of her back. He kissed her, harder, so passionate that neither could bear to break away.

“You did, ” he admitted as they finally pulled away. “And you smelled like that, too.” he added, voice quiet into her ear.

“What do you say, Diggory? Want to show me how to get in the Hufflepuff common room again?” Y/N said, as he kissed her neck.

“Gladly, ” was all the boy could utter before picking Y/N up and carrying her to his dorm.

#cedric diggory #cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory fic #cedric diggory imagine #cedric diggory imagines

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afairmaiden · 3 years

Text

The Untethering

My submission for the @inklings-challenge. A bit of a slow start, probably could have done more with the theme, and I had planned to add another scene to give it a bit of a neater ending, but I think it will have to stand as it is. *** When did it start? I’ve been asking that question almost since the beginning. I think it happened slowly, then suddenly, so that I was in the middle before I even knew I’d begun. But then, I guess it’s always been like that.

I didn’t have many friends growing up. I never understood how people could just jump into a conversation or insert themselves into a group. I met Marti freshman year of high school, and she always seemed so confident and outgoing, it never occurred to me that she might feel the same way. We had a few classes together and talked occasionally, but it wasn’t until senior year when she invited me to her birthday party that I realized we were actually friends.

*** Martha Merritt was tired. Tired beyond words. Not because she’d had a particularly difficult week at work, or because her mother had kept her on the phone late the night before, or even because she had woken up at five-thirty on a Saturday to finish preparing for a Bible study later that morning, though that certainly hadn’t helped. But if that was all it was, two cups of coffee should have done the job.

It was the first Saturday in October, a gray and windy morning with frost in the air, and it had been with great reluctance that she’d left the comfort of her warm bed, turned on the coffeemaker, and settled down in her usual place, an oversized armchair by the living room window, with a lamp and a side table where she could set her books. With a thick fleece blanket, a hot drink, and a good view of the changing leaves outside, it might have been a pleasant, cozy scene, if she’d had time to enjoy it, but time was short, and she soon found it was far too comfortable for getting any serious work done. Thus she had moved to the kitchen table, where the hard wooden chair and harsh lighting would be less conducive to daydreaming or falling back asleep.

She had gone through her usual devotions mechanically, and immediately felt guilty when on their completion, she could hardly recall either what she had read or said in prayer. She briefly considered starting over, but reasoned there was no time, and thus proceeded to open to the section she needed to study.

She had already read and reread the opening of the book of Romans, copied the first twelve verses in her notebook, and diagrammed each sentence meticulously. Now she meditated on each phase, highlighting and underlining in multiple colors, looking up cross-references, and making note of Greek words. She concluded with a list of what she knew would be practical applications for the passage and the book as a whole, with a particular emphasis on holiness and obedience and encouraging each other in the faith.

Now it was a quarter to nine, the others would be arriving soon, and though studying the Bible usually left her refreshed and invigorated, she was still tired in a way she could not entirely explain, and the usual pride of a job well done was tainted by the feeling that she had been thinking too much of herself, and overestimating the importance of her contributions to the group.

After all, she thought as she closed her notebook and began putting things away, it wasn’t just her study, though it was her house, and her idea, and she usually took the lead in their discussions, and it was only natural she should want to do a good job. But Julia put in just as much work into her studies, and Emma always came up with good questions, and even Ava was starting to get more involved. And Hannah—

The thought was interrupted by the sound of a car coming up the drive. She looked out the window to see Julia’s silver sports car and set out two more mugs and a plate of blueberry muffins. A few moments later she heard the side door open and Julia’s relaxed “morning, Marti,” followed by Emma’s more enthusiastic “how’s it going?”

Upon entering, Emma went straight for the coffeemaker while Julia set her things down in her usual place and grabbed a muffin. “Ava can’t make it. She texted me last night that she wasn’t feeling well. Is Hannah up yet?”

Marti looked at her roommate’s door and then back at the clock with a slight frown, then shook her head.

“Hannah,” she called.

“I’m up, just a sec,” came the muffled reply, and presently Hannah emerged from her room, dressed but slightly disheveled, with an embarrassed smile and a wave to their guests before ducking into the bathroom.

Marti stared at the closed door for a moment, wondering if it would even be worth it to spend any of her already limited energy trying to get Hannah to participate this week. She didn’t doubt that her roommate knew the Bible and could be surprisingly insightful, and she knew that even before she started working nights, she had never been a morning person, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that she at least used to make more of an effort, and that lately her enthusiasm for Bible study had waned somewhat. She was rarely prepared and often distracted, regularly falling behind or jumping ahead of the others’ conversation and often looking things up on her phone while others were speaking only to say, when asked, that it wasn’t exactly related to the verse currently under discussion. And after a few interesting, yet fairly irrelevant rabbit trails, Marti generally thought it best not to ask her to elaborate.

Today, she found, was no different. Hannah’s phone had remained off for the most part, but she had a new toy in its place, a fountain pen with purple ink. While Julia and Emma had no trouble making up for Ava’s absence with a lively discussion on the importance of supporting missions, she followed their conversation in silence, offering little more than the occasional nod as she spent most of her time drawing curlicues and flourishes on a piece of scrap paper.

“You must have something to add,” Marti said at last, trying not to let irritation slip into her voice.

Hannah shrugged. “Not much beyond what’s already been said.”

Marti raised an eyebrow and continued to wait. Hannah shifted in her seat and crossed her arms. Her face grew red, but when she spoke, her tone was flippant, almost sarcastic.

“I mean, I don’t know, we are in the book of Romans. Like, the Romans Road? ‘All have sinned,’ ‘the wages of sin is death,’ ‘while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’ Seems like a pretty straightforward message.”

“Yes, but we can’t just talk about the gospel all the time,” Marti pressed.

“Paul did.”

“Be serious. How does this text apply to you, personally?”

“Jesus died for my sins.”

Marti gave an exasperated sigh, Emma giggled, and Julia broke in, “Why don’t we move on to the next verse?” Hannah said little for the rest of the study. ***

We probably would have lost touch after graduation if she hadn’t invited me to her church. It wasn’t my first time. Actually, I’ve been a Christian for as long as I can remember, though my family stopped attending services not long after my sister was christened. But I learned about different Bible stories and memorized the Lord’s Prayer and pondered the vastness of eternity. I read the New Testament, believed it, listed all the sins I could think of and prayed for forgiveness. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know anything.

But Marti’s family went to church and listened to Christian radio and prayed before meals, and she wore Christian t-shirts and WWJD bracelets and argued with teachers about abortion and evolution. She was fluent in a language I barely knew, a native of the culture I wished to join. In a word, she was cool. I both admired and envied her.

Sometimes I miss her. *** God, thank you for knowing just what I needed to hear.

Marti stood with her eyes closed and palms uplifted, swaying slightly to the music. The pastor had taught on the end of Hebrews 5, and he seemed to be speaking directly to her as he’d focused on the importance of spiritual growth and maturity and pressing on in spite of obstacles, on spiritual warfare and rewards in heaven. His final exhortation, combined with the closing song, left her feeling as if she could face any trial the devil might throw at her in the coming week.

The feeling lasted only until she glanced over at Hannah, who stood looking entirely unmoved. On the contrary, her voice was flat, her expression stoic, and she herself was looking at the clock on the wall. *** I used to love Sundays. The music, the people, the sense of belonging. Sometimes I miss that, but I also know I can never really go back.

When it started, before I understood, I knew there was something, not exactly wrong, but also not quite right. At first I thought it was just me. My fault I wasn’t hearing from God, my fault I couldn’t figure out His will for my life, my fault I didn’t feel what I was supposed to be feeling. And then I found the others.

It started with a video, which led to a podcast, which led to another podcast, and another, and another, and suddenly a whole community of people all raising questions I’d never even considered and confirming what I already knew: It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Some were more measured in their critiques, others unapologetically acerbic, and there were times I resisted and pulled back, when the revelations came too quickly, but they were honest, and many knew from experience how to dismantle the errors I had simply taken for granted for so long, and the truth always won out in the end.

Some call it deconstruction. I prefer untethering. The fact that it’s necessary doesn’t make it any less painful, or lonely, as you disconnect from things you never thought you could stand to lose.

Still, there’s no going back. Not when the songs that used to seem so deep and meaningful feel repetitive and sentimental, the worship leaders’ spontaneity feels rehearsed, and for all the pastor’s passion, there’s something conspicuously absent from his teaching which leaves you feeling empty.

Of course, no one else seems to notice, being as blind to these things as a fish is to the water it swims in. They preach against the zeitgeist, the spirit of this age, when the truth is, they’re as trapped by it as anyone.

It’s all so drearily contemporary. *** Not again.

The words had echoed in Marti’s mind all during the drive home. The tiredness of the previous day had come back in full force, along with a headache, and though she tried to pray, her thoughts raced and her words jumbled together until all that remained was one single plea: Please, God, not again.

“You want something to eat?” Hannah called from the kitchen as she took off her shoes and hung her coat by the door.

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled in reply, heading straight for her room.

“Tea?”

“Maybe later.”

She closed the door behind her and immediately buried her face in her hands and sunk down against the wall. There she sat for some time, overwhelmed by fear and grief and self-blame as she contemplated, with a deep sense of dread, what now seemed to be inevitable.

She had lost friends before. Friends from high school and college, friends she’d gone to church and youth group and Bible studies with, friends she’d prayed with and gone on mission trips with, friends she could have sworn believed, until suddenly they didn’t. And she’d never even seen it coming until it was too late. *** Sunday afternoons follow a certain routine. Every day has a routine, but it’s especially important Sundays. That’s when it usually happens, and it helps to be properly prepared.

After lunch, I do the dishes, water the plants, start a load of laundry, and go for a walk. Then come in, move the laundry to the dryer, brush my teeth, and change into something comfortable. Make a pot of tea, catch up on Tumblr, and settle in. *** She had to talk to her. She had spent some time going back and forth between the Bible and prayer, and now, as night was falling, the only thing that was clear was that they needed to talk.

Her door was open just a crack, through which Marti could see that a light was on. She took a breath, braced herself, and knocked lightly.

“Hannah?”

She waited, but there was no response. After a moment, she pushed the door open just enough to poke her head inside, and was surprised to find the room empty. There was Hannah’s bed, neatly made, with two totes underneath that she used instead of a dresser, then a small side table where her phone was charging, and opposite the bed a plain wooden desk with an old-fashioned lamp, illuminating a glass teapot, tea cup, and saucer beside a number of open books. But Hannah herself was nowhere to be seen.

Marti stood in the doorway perplexed. She could see through the window Hannah’s car still in the driveway, and she was sure she hadn’t heard her go out a second time. At the same moment—she felt guilty at the thought—but it occurred to her that this might be her best, and perhaps only, opportunity to find out the truth, or at least, some clue as to what had happened. And then—

Does it even matter? You’re going to lose her anyway. It can’t hurt just to look…

The conflict lasted only a moment, and presently she was standing at the desk, inspecting the books before her. She found, to her surprise, a well-worn paperback study Bible she had never seen before, with bits of ribbon marking different sections, a daily prayer book, a gold-edged hymnal, a small, thick book of what appeared to be various theological texts, two collections of lectures, one simply a stack of papers, printed off and held together with small binder clips, on the subject of revival, the other a large burgundy hardcover with a number of theses on properly understanding the Bible, and finally, a leather journal with Hannah’s new pen resting beside it. At first glance, its contents appeared largely indecipherable, a jumble of abbreviations followed by a list of theological terms interspersed with Latin phrases.

7 TDP – :20 BOC – :30 DOW readings/psalms – :45 3yr lect. – :55 GO // 3:30 StP/L4T?/KV/RS – 5:30 SC/NC/AC/hymns – 6:30 ?

CF? L+G? — Keswick theology – pietism? simul justus et peccator coram deo/coram mundo magisterial vs. ministerial use of reason Heb. 5:13 — 1Pet. 2:2

She quickly decided against trying to read further, and being drawn instead to the lectures, she picked up the first book and began to read.

Suddenly the light changed as if someone had pulled back the curtains to reveal broad daylight, and she jumped and dropped the book as the air was filled with noise, the sound of a large crowd all talking at once.

Looking up she found herself no longer in Hannah’s room but standing at the back of a mid-sized, traditional-looking church where there was indeed a large crowd gathered, the pews full of men and women in old-fashioned clothes.

“This can’t be real.”

If anyone heard her, or thought there was anything peculiar about her clothes, they paid no attention.

At the pulpit stood a tall, balding man with a dark beard, piercing eyes, and a sharp, professional appearance. Directly in front of him, some space had been cleared and a bench had been placed, and it was primarily to the few people seated there, all of whom seemed to be particularly affected, that he seemed to be directing most of his attention. He was speaking rapidly, with great passion, and she could not at first understand what he was saying, but in a moment it became clear.

“Without holiness no man shall see the Lord.”

He spoke at length on the need for self-examination, on the sins of ingratitude, a lack of love for God, neglect of Bible reading and prayer and church attendance, and the proper manner and motives with which these duties ought to be performed. He spoke of lack of love for one’s fellow man, the need to watch for their souls, and the great need for self-denial for the sake of the Gospel. He spoke against all forms of worldliness and pride and robbing God by misspent time and money and energy.*

Every so often, when he saw that his words had struck home with the people, he would stop and call on one or two to pray that the Lord would hold them in that conviction before proceeding further. The bench before him also began filling up, as some came of their own accord and others were escorted by friends who perceived that they were in the proper state of mind, and it became the subject of much prayer that they would be truly converted.

Though they were undoubtedly experiencing deep conviction and suffering a great deal of grief over their sins, he did not relent or soften his tone as he addressed them sternly:

“No doubt you have heard that anxious sinners must pray for a new heart, but this is only an evasion of present duty, and trying to throw the responsibility of conversion upon God. No, God is willing, but you are unwilling. Present faith and repentance, present and instant submission to His will, present and instant acceptance of Christ, that is what God requires of you, and all else is nothing but hypocrisy and delusion.”

He continued to testify to the immortality of the soul, the vanity of all earthly good, the satisfying nature of religion, the guilt and danger of sinners, the reality of hell, the love of Christ, the necessity of a holy life, self-denial, meekness, heavenly mindedness, humility, integrity, and an entire renovation of life and character.

It could hardly be said that Marti liked this sort of preaching, as it left her, along with the rest of his audience, fairly teetering on the brink of despair, but at the same time, she felt that she should like it, as he seemed to her a sort of nineteenth-century John the Baptist, breaking up the fallow ground of dead religion by calling all people to repent. And here were gathered young and old, rich and poor, evidently doing just that. Certainly all that he said was right and true, and the violent rebellion of her heart only confirmed that up to that point, she had not really been serious about watching and putting to death the desires of her flesh. Still, as the meeting went on and night fell outside, she began to feel much of the initial excitement wearing off as fatigue quickly set in.

Then suddenly, the scene changed, the noise faded, and she found herself in an auditorium where gas lamps were burning and a number of young men were just coming in and taking their seats.

Outside, it was once again evening, and this seemed to be a less formal sort of class, with a good deal of talking and joking while they waited for it to begin. Again, Marti’s presence went unnoticed as she took a seat beside one of the more studious among them, who was at this moment reviewing his notes, and leaning over, she began to read:

Only he is an orthodox teacher who not only presents all articles of faith in accordance with Scripture, but also rightly distinguishes from each other the Law and the Gospel… [This distinction] is not only a glorious light, affording the correct understanding of the entire Holy Scriptures, but without this knowledge Scripture is and remains a sealed book.**

This struck her at once as an overly simplistic explanation, but before she could consider it further, he turned the page, and she continued reading:

4. The Word of God is not rightly divided when the Law is preached to those who are already in terror on account of their sins, or the Gospel to those who live securely in their sins.

5. The Word of God is not rightly divided when sinners who have been struck down and terrified by the Law are directed, not to the Word and the Sacraments, but to their own prayers and wrestlings with God… when they are told to keep on praying and struggling until they feel that God has received them into grace.

She bristled at the word Sacraments and glanced around her with instant distrust, which was only heightened when the man turned to the next page.

9. The Word of God is not rightly divided when one makes an appeal to believe in a manner as if a person could make himself believe or at least help towards that end, instead of preaching faith into a person’s heart by laying the Gospel promises before him.

Now she could hardly help feeling annoyed as she thought that if this was all the depth a seminary education had to offer, it was no wonder the church had been ineffective for so long. Here was a religion which seemed to demand nothing of anyone, but presumed God would do it all, with no need for any sort of personal responsibility or commitment or even a conscious decision.

As she considered this, the door opened and there entered a thin, energetic man carrying a few pages of notes. He too was balding and bearded, but where the first man might have been a lawyer or a politician, he had a more rustic look to him, his hair slightly wilder, his sideburns more pronounced, and a pleasant, slightly comical expression on his face.

Taking his place at his desk, he began to speak of the work of a minister and the necessity of genuine zeal according to knowledge, as opposed to the carnal zeal of hypocrites and fanatics. There was no showmanship in his presentation, but he spoke loudly enough to be heard throughout the whole room, and his tone was, on the whole, conversational, yet with a certain gravity and conviction which seemed to inspire the same in his hearers.

This turned out to be only an introduction to his main thesis:

“The Word of God is not rightly divided when an attempt is made by means of the demands or threats of the Law to induce the unregenerate to put away their sins and engage in good works and thus become godly; or when a endeavor is made, by means of the commands of the Law rather than by the admonitions of the Gospel, to urge the regenerate to do good.”

He quoted from memory a passage from Jeremiah and spoke of the Law being written on men’s hearts, the purpose of the commandments, the worthlessness of forced obedience, and the promises of the new covenant, in which hearts and minds were renewed and made truly willing by the forgiveness of sins.

“How foolish, then,” he declared, “is a preacher who thinks that conditions in his congregation will improve if he thunders at his people with the Law and paints hell and damnation for them. That will not at all improve the people. Indeed, there is a time for such preaching of the law in order to alarm secure sinners and make them contrite, but a change of heart and love of God and one’s fellow-men is not produced by the Law.”

He went on to warn of rationalistic preachers and others who considered the preaching of the Gospel to be dangerous as well as foolish, as they supposed it would only encourage people to be lazy and secure in their sins, and instead consistently preached ethics with the view of improving people’s behavior, without producing any inward change.

He read also from a commentary on the first part of Romans 12:1: “Paul does not say: I command you; for he is preaching to such as are already Christians and godly by faith, in newness of life. These must not be coerced by means of commandments, but admonished to do willingly what has to be done with the old sinful man in them. For any person who does not do this willingly, simply in answer to kind admonitions, is not a Christian; and any person who wants to achieve this result by force applied to such as are unwilling is not a Christian preacher or ruler, but a worldly jailer.”

All this was undoubtedly true, and Marti knew that however suspect his other doctrines might be, she could not, on biblical grounds, contradict him on this point. Indeed, she thought she would have liked to agree with him, and yet there was something there that made her hesitate.

She recalled her pastor’s words from just that morning:

“Death, burial, resurrection,” he’d said. “Growing up in church, all I heard, week in and week out, was death, burial, resurrection. And I saw people who’d been there for twenty years and never made any progress in their spiritual walks. Now, church, the gospel is important, but let’s hear what Paul is saying here: we need to grow up. If we want to reach spiritual maturity, we’ve gotta get past the basics.”

The professor was still speaking. Though there was no condescension in his tone, and she knew he couldn’t see her any more than the others could, she realized she nevertheless felt irritated, even insulted, as she did whenever she had to listen to someone explain something she already knew perfectly well.

She found herself suddenly wishing she could go home, or at least step outside for a breath of air. She stood and looked to the door only to freeze when she found there a familiar face.

“Marti?” *** “You alright?”

She knew before she asked that it was a stupid question, as Marti suddenly looked like she was about to pass out.

“Fine—sorry—I just…never mind.”

With that, she all but ran out of the room, leaving Hannah looking from the door to the book she had dropped. She briefly considered following her, but just as quickly decided against it. She would need time to think. They both would.

She sighed, picked up the book and put its back in its place, then after a moment’s thought, sat down at her desk, picked up her pen, and turned to a fresh page.

I don’t expect you to understand. Not yet, at least. I know I didn’t. Maybe when you’re ready we can talk about it.

It’s different, for sure. Some differences are obvious, others less so, but when you really look at them, you realize just how deep they are. They’re not the kind of issues you can just set aside and ignore, though I tried. I’d like to say it was out of loyalty, but if I’m being honest, I was just too proud to admit I was wrong, and it wasn’t really humility that kept me from speaking for so long.

She paused a moment, then continued.

I thought I knew a lot about church history. I thought we were pretty traditional, and that we were doing church the way they’d done it in the book of Acts, when things were still pure and simple, before the Catholic church took over and complicated everything with their religion. And then I went back to Germany in the early 1500s…

*** Resources for Aspiring Time Travelers: Untethering and Beyond:

Survey of Historical Heresies, Phil Johnson

Judaizers

Gnosticism

Arianism / Part 2

Pelagianism

Socinianism

History of Pietism, Daniel Van Voorhis

Christianity in America, Daniel Van Voorhis

Introduction and Puritans in the New World

Rationalism and Revivalism

19th Century Romantics and Radicals

The Rise of Fundamentalism

Fundamentalism and Modernism

West Coast Christianity

“On the Reading of Old Books”, C. S. Lewis’ introduction to Athanasius’ On the Incarnation

The Proper Distinction between Law and Gospel, C. F. W. Walther

The Life and Times of Jesus the Messiah, The Temple: Its Ministry and Services, Prophecy and History in Relation to the Messiah, and Sketches of Jewish Social Life, Alfred Edershiem

Foxe’s Book of Martyrs

*** *Adapted from Charles Finney’s Revival Lectures, Lecture III: How to Promote a Revival and Lecture IX: Means to be Used with Sinners, and Testimonial of Revivals, Chapter VI: Revival at Evans’ Mills and its Results

**From C. F. W. Walther’s The Proper Distinction between Law and Gospel, 1929

#inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: humility #story: complete #though i might still add an update sometime #i’m thinking it would take place about a month later #but no definite plans

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the-crows-typist · 3 years

Note

Hello! I recently read your azul's ficlet and i'm close to crying at how beautiful it is (its 4am emo hours). If its okay, may I request a ficlet of Jade with a gn!reader with the word 'sleep' or 'rest' (pick whichever suits better!). Thank you in advance! 💖

CW: Spoilers for the movie Your Name (Kimi no na wa), character death, body switching, angst with a happy ending, and slow burn (sort of)

Feedback in greatly appreciated!

Thank you to @opalmaplehibiscus , @jellyfishstuckinwonderland , and @raven-at-the-writing-desk for the input in the making of this fic. I greatly appreciate your help.

The Possibilities are Endless

“My name is..”

“Please remember me...!”

The crowds on the train pushed them apart, a braided bracelet was tossed towards Jade. A lifeline connecting both of them together, a connection between two souls; the face of one that was desperate to keep holding on, they yelled one last time just as the doors of the train closed and their grip on the bracelet wrap loosened.

“My name is—!”

Jade opened his eyes and he was in his room, his very dark room. To his side was his closet and to the other a white wall. The sound of bubbling water churned behind the window of his dorm room and with one slow blink, he pulled himself up and hunched over.

The same dream, the same voice, the same bracelet tossed to him.

He craned his head to his lamp stand where the colorful wrap lay next to his earring, he doesn’t remember where he got it nor does he remember why he wanted to keep it for so long. He took the bracelet and looked at it and thought back to the voice in his dream.

“Please remember me...!”

Pushing himself off he moved to the mirror to fix his appearance, with his brush and hair gel in hand he let out a gasp when the lights of vanity shined light on a note. A note written on his cheek with a marker, a message he didn’t remember writing.

“Who are you?”

It was during breakfast that Jade began to notice the strange happenings around him, how Azul asked if he was feeling better or how Floyd said he was wearing his earring again. “What do you mean,” Jade questioned. “I always wear it.”

“You weren’t yesterday. And you looked so lost like some little guppy, you even forget how to get to class yesterday morning.” Floyd complained, eating his breakfast with a huff. “Was it a prank? Cuz’ you got me good.”

What was he doing yesterday?

He woke up, went to school...No. That wasn’t what happened. He didn’t recall anything from the previous day. In fact, he remembered being at a different place.

In a city full of buildings and faraway from the sea, the familiar smell of white roses, the smile of an unfamiliar fellow and a bento box he had no recollection of him cooking or making.

His uniform wasn’t black but a cream with a tint of yellow, his magical pen was nowhere to be seen and was instead replaced with a pen nib brooch. He touches his cheek, remembering the message written on his cheek. “Who are you?”

“C’mon, you gotta tell me.” Floyd pestered, his arm over Jade’s neck “Was it a prank?”

“Perhaps.” The twins laughed, Floyd pulling close but in his mind he thought of the message, his incapability to remember the previous day. He needed more answers but only questions filled his head.

His notes were a mess and full of sketches. There were sketches of Night Raven’s facade and the students, his classmates. A slew of messy messages on paper, the handwriting worrying as if the person writing was stressed beyond belief.

“The uniforms are black, the gems are pens.”

“Nothing but roses for miles.”

“Wishing well???”

“Where am I?”

“Mr Leech, please read the next line.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trein’s brow raised and he blinked. “Well, today you actually remember your name. Perhaps you were just feeling ill.” A hum of laughter passed through the class. “And your hair is fixed as well; I was beginning to think you and your brother switched places when you came into class with a messy bed head.”

Jade blinked, tilting his head. “I...see. I’ll make sure to not make that mistake again, professor.”

“Good. Continue on reading.”

“Magic transcends all meaning when twilight occurs, when the sun and the moon share the sky for a single moment.” Trein explained, using a magical pointer. “The word twilight means ‘half-light’ when the light of the sun glows and causes refraction in the atmosphere and signaling the end of the morning and welcoming of night or visa versa. At times like this does magic become unpredictable and free-forming and when realities begin to overlap each other for the time twilight occurs. This was used to the advantage of the earliest magician in recorded history.”

Trein faced his students. “Nowadays, these times of day are known as dusk and dawn as the world twilight has fallen out of favor in recent years.”

“It’s probably because of that one book.” A student yelled from the rows behind and Trein nodded his head. “Ah, yes, ten years ago was an odd time for the word ‘twilight’.” Trein blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Who would have thought the human body produced so much diamonds but that is beside the point.” The bell rang and the students began taking their books. “Be sure to read up on your lesson today, we will be having a quiz tomorrow on the topic.”

Jade stayed in his seat for some time and stared at the diagram on the board.

Twilight.

In the back of his mind, a flash of a memory comes to him. He remembers a train stopping by and the droves of people coming in and out. Jade was alone that time, buying something some seeds or fungi. The sun was setting at the time, the yellow sun turning orange and the sky dimming to a nightly violet.

“Jade.”

He didn’t know the person who called out his name nor did he remember what they looked like but he did remember the smile they had, as if they were looking for him for a long time, it was a face relief.

“It’s me.”

He didn’t know who this person was nor did he ever remember their face and yet, at that instant he seemed to have known them his entire life. In his heart was a feeling of warmth, of glee, of content and relief; he was confused by it all. A strike of panic pierced his heart when that smile turned into a confused and upset frown. “You don’t...remember me..?”

The next stop came and people began filing out, pushing the two of them away from each other. “Jade, please remember me!” They said as they were pushed out by the crowd. Reaching up, they pulled the braided tie from their hair and threw it out of him. “Please remember me..!”

He caught the braided tie just as the other let go and doors began to close.

“My name is—!”

“Is there something wrong, Mr Leech?” He blinked, looking to Trein with confusion. He had missed the door and stood by the wall of the classroom. “Ah—I’m sorry.” There was a hissy laugh from Lucius as Trein set him down on the table to collect his papers. “You seem to be in deep thought, is there something on your mind?”

“No, professor, I was just thinking about our topic today.” Jade lied through his teeth and Trein took it with a huff. “I know twilight is a regular phenomenon but I didn’t know that it was an important time of day for mages and magicians.” A nod came from his professor. “Many people nowadays don’t see its importance as magical materials and magic itself have grown and changed over time. With the new technology and the new breakthroughs we have, the archaic practices of the past have since then been abandoned.”

Trein looked to the window and Jade followed his gaze, the sun began to set and the color of orange and violet painted the sky. “Twilight has begun.” Picking up his beloved cat, Trein stretched his back and moved to face the student in front of him. “It’s best to get back to your dorm, you might miss the curfew.”

“Professor, have you ever experienced anything during twilight? Like the way you’ve explained it during class?” Jade asked suddenly, his professor’s eyes widened then looking to the side to think for a moment. “I have but they were more of dreams than the otherworldly claims of recording happenings. I would often see myself in another person’s shoes, seeing a world I did not know about, it wasn’t a pleasant experience but...It was interesting, for a dream at least.”

“I see. Thank you very much, professor. I’ll be on my way.”

He stared at his messy notebook unblinking, the messy handwriting and the sketches were foreign to him. He drew a few doodles but he never put any detail to it nor was he able to do sketches of his peers in movement.

“Where am I?”

Taking his pen, Jade wrote a message. What had happened to him wasn’t a dream, he knew that and he knew that what he was about to do wasn’t a sure fire guarantee that whoever wrote this will see it but the unpredictability of the situation allowed him to push through with an eagerness to see the end results.

“You are in Night Raven College. My name is Jade.”

The night loomed over the dorm, the once blue waters a dark purple and tinge of black. Twilight has ended. Jade closes his eyes for a moment and sighed, thinking back about the lesson and to the confused glances of his peers.

“Please remember me...!” The voice begged, the image of a braided bracelet flowing through the air as it flew towards him. Tugging his sleeve, the bracelet was wrapped around his wrist snugly; its design was simple and bright mix of blue, yellow, and red.

“Please remember me...!”

Jade tugs his sleeves back down, only stepping out of to his bed when he felt tired. The bracelet was removed from his wrist and sat next to him.

“My name is—!”

The voice echoed through his mind, he felt that he should remember it, he felt like he should know who it was, and all he felt was frustration and eagerness to see this unpredictable situation through. He closed his eyes wanting to rest his eyes rather than sleep.

“So this is what Night Raven College looks like. It’s very pretty, your uniforms are very pretty too but I’m not used to the environment there. It’s probably because of the walls or the silence.”

It had been a few days since the messaging through the notebook began with Jade and his pen pal, of sorts. It seemed that his new pen pal had been observing weird happenings to them too. Their classmates telling them of their weird behaviors, one time all they ate were mushrooms.

“I don’t even like mushrooms and because of you I ate a whole lot of them in just one day!”

It seemed that his odd dreams of seeing another world unlike his own weren’t dreams after all. The white and yellow uniforms, the sweet smell of lilies, and the pen nib brooch all pointed to Royal Swords Academy. Apparently the person he switched bodies with studied there.

“And I was told that I ate eel for lunch and it upset my brother. It seems both of us are even on this regard.”

He always wrote messages on his notebook the moment he got home and he preferred it that way rather than waking up to writings on his face and arms. The marker ink was hard to wash off, even with large amounts of sudsy soaps.

“We have a notebook to communicate for a reason, please use that.”

“I like writing on your hand, Jade.”

There were moments that he expressed frustration with them, even anger but that soon dissipated into childish antics of messages written on skin, eating disgusting foods they came to like, and a bond that transcended physical reality. They were from two different worlds and yet, here they were being friends.

All this was just like a dream to him.

“Hey, about that braided bracelet...Where did you get it? I had one just like it before it disappeared; I used to wear it on my hair.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to that. It just came with me, I suppose. I couldn’t part with it for some reason so I’ve been wearing it ever since.”

“I guess we just so happened to have the same braided tie, huh? Hehehe!”

After class, Jade went to experience the twilight hour for once and see the students filter out of school and run about. It was the end of the week and it was a time for fun, brooms flew overhead and magical swirls of dust were thrown about by fun-loving students.

“What I like about your school is that none of you are afraid to get dirty and have fun.” He remembered his pen pal writing. “I love RSA but the uniforms and the rules we live by stop us from having fun like all of you there in NRC.”

He couldn’t blame them, RSA had some rules to go by and the uniforms really stopped them from having fun too. The chaos that he saw in RSA wasn’t like those in NRC, not by a long shot but he could see the charm it had in it despite the difference in school life.

Jade wanted them to experience this first hand one day. In their own body, of course.

He went back to his room when the sun had disappeared and the moon stood in its place. Sitting by the notebook, he took his magical pen from his pocket and began writing his response to his pen pal’s recent message.

“RSA has beautiful scenery, there’s no doubt about it. It’s a nice change of pace from the gothic feel NRC has, I find it rather peaceful. Though the sudden music lessons do tend to throw me off but that is something I will eventually come to get used to.

He tapped his pen on his desk, humming at his short reply. He looked at his wrist; the braid coiled around his wrist and was vibrant under the yellow light of his lamp. Unlike them, he never really gave hints of what his school life was about nor did he give details of what it was like to spend a day in RSA.

“We had a lesson about the magical phenomena known as Twilight. Apparently around that time, magic becomes different and realities begin to overlap...Do you think that’s what’s causing us to switch bodies?”

“Twilight...I’ve heard of that phenomenon too! It actually makes sense, maybe that’s what's causing it but if it’s really true then that’s some real strong magic!”

Jade slept that late that night, the braided tie next to his forehead. For once, he didn’t dream of the train station but of a hand coming up to take his own. No, it wasn’t his hand, it was his pen pal’s hand, and it grasped softly then tugged for him to follow.

He was on a mountain, the sky glittering with millions upon millions of stars. It was a beautiful sight, his eyes widening as the stars grew closer and closer, the heat around him rising and rising; burning his skin and singing his hair. The world around him was destroyed and the last thing he heard was the terrified scream of someone he was beginning to hold dear.

He awoke with a gasp, his eyes tearful and his lungs out of breath. Next to him were a concerned Azul and his brother Floyd. “We could hear you gasping from the hallway.” Azul explained but Jade kicked off his covers and ran to his desk, his notebook, their means of communication was empty. The messages he had collected with them were gone and only his own remained.

His brother tugged at his shoulder. “Look at me.” He was whirled around, their foreheads touching. “Breathe. You’re gonna give yourself an attack if you don’t breathe.”

He closed his eyes, leaning against his brother to breathe harshly. A pair of hands pats his back, Azul’s and Floyd’s, in an act of comfort but none of their touches reached Jade. He was too confused, too shaken up, too anxious. “It was just a bad dream.”

A dream...

What he had seen in the eyes of his pen pal was all a dream...?

Pen pal?

“It’s best that you get some more rest.” Azul said, pulling Jade back to his bed. “I’ll explain to the teachers what happened to you.” Floyd nudged him down and pulled the covers up until his brother’s chin. “We need you well rested, Jade. We’ll have the others check on you every once in a while.”

He forced himself to breathe slowly and carefully, his eyes screwed shut and thoughts in a whirlwind. His memories scrambling and confusing, he tries to remember the train station, the lake that was on RSA’s sloping hills and the falling meteorite.

Had there been a meteor shower? There was no news of it, no indication.

A hand caressed his head, shushing his sounds to silence.

“Sleep, Jade.”

The next day, Jade spent all his time in the library with books about stars and meteors and sleep being the furthest thing from his mind. He poured through the articles about meteor showers, checking online news sites, and pouring through scientific documents.

Nothing.

No recent reports of a meteor shower anywhere near the area of RSA or NRC.

A frustrated sigh left Jade’s lips and he held his head with a huff, burying his fingers into his hair when a fluffy tail rubbed and pawed against his arm. “Good to see you’re up and about, Mr Leech.” Trein stood over him as Lucius stepped over the articles to sit on one of the books.

“I didn’t know you were taking a liking to astronomy.” The professor commented, taking an article and reading through it. “Meteor showers, eh? I haven’t seen those for some time. The last one was beautiful but also very tragic.”

“What do you mean, professor?” Jade stared up at his teacher, slightly surprised.

“You weren’t in NRC at the time this happened but there was a meteor shower that passed by Twisted Wonderland, it was a festive time...But that soon became a tragedy when a fragment broke off from one of the passing meteorites.” He sighed, closing his eyes and setting the paper down. “Though NRC and RSA have been rivals for a long time, I can’t bear to think such a catastrophic event would happen to them.”

His heart skipped a beat, eyes wide in surprise. “You mean to say...”

“A meteorite fragment fell on RSA three years ago, specifically on the field just outside the school where some students were watching the shower. Those poor children...”

The white crystal of his magical pen glowed bright and Jade pushed himself off his chair, figure hunched forward and head hung low. Lucius let out a meow as he scrambled away from the student. “Mr Leech, what are you doing?” Trein demanded but his voice fell on deaf ears, Jade remembers his last dream, the last time he switched bodies. He remembers the falling meteorite, the scream that wasn’t his own, he remembers them.

His pen pal.

In a burst of magic, Jade disappeared from his position leaving a scared Lucius and a confused and upset Mozus Trein.

The landscape around him was heavy, the crater left by the meteorite was massive and no traces of life were seen within the impact zone. The memory of the meteorite fragment falling right on top of his pen pal, killing them instantly played again and again in his head. Jade, normally so aloof and calm, fell to his knees.

They died.

They died where he stood.

For the first time in a long while, Jade screamed his heart out. A wail of agony loud enough to echo through the empty void that was essentially his pen pal resting place. He sunk to his knees and continued crying until his throat became hoarse and painful.

He laid on his side as the sun went down, the braided tie peeked out of his blazer.

“Please remember me—!”

The train station...Was that a dream too? What had he been doing when he was in there? What was he there for?

Who was calling out his name.

“Jade...?”

The sun set over him, the sky turning orange and violet. It was twilight hour.

“Jade..”

“Jade.”

There was a touch to his shoulder and a soft shake. His head turned, his eyes widened. A student from RSA stood over him. They smelled of white lilies, uniform a mix of white and yellow, and their magical crystal a pen nib brooch. There was a familiar gleam in their eyes, a smile he came to know from the many days they had switched bodies.

His pen pal smiled at him, offering their hand for him to take. “It’s really you, Jade. It’s actually you.”

They laughed, pulling Jade into a hug; his tall figure dwarfing them easily as they hugged his chest. Jade sighed, returning the hug soon after and rocking each other back and forth for a few moments the sun shined in the horizon.

“I thought I lost you, y’know?” They said, looking up at him. “I just...I suddenly couldn’t reach you.”

“I thought you had died. I saw the meteor fall on you.”

They looked at each other for a moment and a laugh was shared, their foreheads linked together soon after. “I know but...somehow, maybe...I don’t really know what happened to me. I just couldn’t reach you to tell you what happened on that day. I nearly forgot about you and I cried for days wondering why.”

Pulling away, they looked down to Jade’s wrist. “Hey, that bracelet...”

“You gave it to me in the train station.”

It was all coming back to him now. This person, his pen pal, was someone he held dear for a long time.

He felt comfort.

“Oh yeah! I did, didn’t I?”

“Do you want it back?”

“No. Keep it.”

The two held hands for some time but were immediately thwarted by them pulling out a marker. “Hey, why don’t we write our names? That way, if we ever forget each other there’ll always be a reminder. Ah, but I don’t have any paper with me...”

Jade offered his palm, his smile teasing and knowing. “You always liked writing on my skin.”

They shared another laugh and the marker’s cap was pulled off, Jade looking over the horizon as they wrote their name on his palm. “Your turn.”

He took the pen from them and as soon as he wrote the starting strokes of his name, the marker fell from his grasp.

The twilight hour had ended and the moon took over the sky.

“Eh...? What am I...doing...?”

Jade was found by his peers not long after, taking him in and letting him rest as they descended the crater near RSA. Mozus Trein was their chaperone, explaining to the staff of the rival school and covering his own students.

“Someone he knew died here,” He explained, looking at Jade being covered with a blanket by his brother. Jade’s eyes were closed and he leaned against him, clearly exhausted from the ordeal and exposure to the elements.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, professor.” Said one RSA’s employees, brows upturned and frowning deep. “The meteorite crash was a very tragic event for all schools. I can’t imagine how much grief that young boy has gone through knowing that a friend of his died that day.”

“I hope you can look the other way on this. I know we shouldn’t come into each other’s premises without proper—“

“It’s quite alright. I’ll explain the situation to the headmaster once everything has settled.”

Floyd pulled his brother to his chest and stood up, Azul placing a hand on his back.

“Let’s go home, Jade.”

Jade wasn’t alone that night, Floyd and Azul wouldn’t allow him to be alone. They slept next to him, keeping him company but while the two slept, he couldn’t. The moon shone against his window and gave his room a very soft blue glow. He raised his hand to his face, the message from someone he held dear was still visible but slightly smudged.

“Thank you.”

Bitterness rose in his chest and to his throat, his brows furrowed in frustration. The tears forming stung his eyes.

“You idiot,” he brought his palm to his face, sniffling. “I can’t remember you this way.”

A year had passed and the dreams stopped coming after that night. Jade had picked up the habit of sitting outside during twilight hour, watching the set and holding the bracelet that never left his wrist for more than a second. He wore it everywhere he went but when asked; he never had a proper reason for it.

“I feel complete wearing it.”

The yearly magical shift festival brought troves of customers and onlookers, Jade and his brother sat on a bench and let their legs rest after a long day. “I’m gonna go get something to eat. You want anything?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll buy some myself.”

“’Kay.”

Jade was left alone after that and he closed his eyes for a moment, his nose taking in the different smells of food and perfumes.

There was a familiar smell of white lilies.

“Excuse me.”

A person stood in front of him, holding a brochure. They were a uniform of white and yellow and a pen nib brooch. They smiled at him and familiar warmth bloomed in his chest. “I don’t mean to disturb you or anything.”

Their smile was sheepish but it felt as if he’d seen it somewhere before.

“Do we know each other by any chance?”

“I think so.” Jade’s smile was easy and suddenly their eyes began to water. “I had a feeling we did.”

“Hey,” Jade reached over and intertwined their hands, the bracelet’s colors were vibrant against his skin and theirs.

“May I…”

“Can I…”

“...Know your name?”

#works from the typewriter #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #jade leech #twst jade leech #twst jade x reader #angst #jade ficlets #this took me so long to write oml #twst #twst x reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

Text

Non-binary lich x reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This has been up on Patreon for a week now on early release. New stories for Tumblr go up on Wednesdays at the moment and are available there for a whole week before they hit Tumblr, so if you want to have access to the next one (it just went up), make sure you’re on the $5 tier. I’d love to have you as the newest member of the Patreon supporters!

Anyway, contents: It's 7688 words long, features a non-binary, skeletal lich, is set in a fantasy setting, and I don't think it comes with any warnings. Looking forward to your reaction!!

“So, you’re the new librarian…”

The softly rasping voice behind you startled the life out of you, and you dropped the three-volume stack onto the thick, oak table with an undignified squawk. The boom rang out through the castle library and one or two scholars shot glares at you over the top of their research. Turning, you found yourself face to face with a moving skeleton and your eyes widened even further.

Wearing a long, unadorned, shapeless, black robe with the hood pulled right up over the bare ivory of the skull, the figure had a glowing green light in their eye sockets and one of their teeth had been replaced at some point by a silver prosthetic. More than that, you couldn’t say, but it was apparent that their entire body was just a humanoid skeleton beneath the billowing robes.

And then the penny dropped. “Oh!” you gasped, straightening a little. “You’re… You’re Avery… the court mage…” How many liches could one royal castle have after all?

They dipped their head in a curt bow. “Indeed.”

“I’m sorry, I just… wasn’t expecting…”

Another little bow. “It’s quite alright. I realise that meeting a someone like me for the first time can be somewhat… unnerving.”

You opened your mouth to counter them, but realised it was actually true, and just nodded. “How can I help you anyway?” you asked instead.

They seemed to appreciate the segue into safer waters, and told you the name of the tome they were looking for. “It’s essentially a compendium of plants and fungi that grow only on the fringes of Silver Perch Lake in Aragantia,” they added. “A somewhat… specialised catalogue, I’m aware.”

With a nod, you headed to the vast catalogue system and in almost no time at all, especially given how new you were to the post, you and the court mage were walking silently through the shelves of the royal library in search of the book’s location. Avery made no attempt to talk to you, and you assumed they preferred it that way. After all, you supposed, what could a humble librarian have to say to a necromancer and a mage as powerful as them anyway? In your relatively limited experience of mages, they tended to look down on anyone not powerful or supposedly intelligent enough to wield magic.

As you proceeded further and further into the dark stacks, the light dwindled to almost nothing, and in that moment you cursed the innate flammability of paper and parchment, longing for a lamp of sorts.

Slowing, and trying not to fumble, you squinted and ran your fingertips along the shelves to keep a straight course. During your interview for the position, you’d been told about the glowing crystals that the team of three librarians had access to, but apparently you were still too junior to warrant their secrets yet. It had not been expected, it seemed, that someone as important as Avery would require your assistance. Re-shelving returns in the main library was all you’d done so far in your short tenure after all.

“Here,” the lich said from behind you, the word spoken aloud making you jump all over again, and a moment later, a flickering ball of blue light wafted past you to float a pace or two in front of you. It moved when you did, bobbing slowly.

“Handy,” you grinned back at them over your shoulder. “Thanks.”

In the eerie pulsing light, the dark sockets of their skull and the smooth bone looked almost frightening, but you reminded yourself that this was not an old haunted castle from a horror story, and was in fact the hub of a great trading network whose machinations were aided by the work of the court mage, who also just happened to be a lich and, by extension, a necromancer.

With no expression at all to offer you comfort or reassurance, Avery just lowered their gaze and waited for you to move on again.

The book was right where it should have been - thank all the library gods - and once their skeletal hands had taken it reverently from you, little bones clicking softly as they shifted, Avery turned and left you in the stacks with a short ‘thank you’, the light light for company, and a thousand questions buzzing around your head.

Naturally, the first place you went after that was the section on liches and phylacteries, and there you lost yourself for well over an hour.

After that, the court mage found their way back to the library almost every time you were on duty. To your surprise, they were actually quite chatty, answering your tentative questions about their research with long and interesting answers, leafing through the book they’d just taken out to show you a diagram or ritual, constellation, or phase of the moon, and relaying its relevance to their work at the time without reserve.

“I’d always thought mages were secretive about their work,” you ventured one afternoon as sunlight flooded into the open study room at the back of the library where Avery had set up camp for the afternoon.

At your words, they looked up, an oddly tense and intrigued set to their head and you got the impression that, had they had the body to go with the bones, they might have been smiling curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“Well,” you began, feeling a little warm under the collar. Their close scrutiny made you shuffle and turn a little away from them to lessen it. “At the university, your lot always kept to themselves, you know? And no one else was allowed in their section of the library without a mage escort and a note of recommendation from about fifteen different tutors… I got it eventually, of course —”

“— of course,” they interrupted with a wry smile in their voice.

Their tone may have been light and joking, but it carried the weight of enormous respect too, and you choked for a moment before babbling on again. “I’m not suggesting that anyone should just go in and help themselves to dangerous magical texts, don’t get me wrong… It was just… frustrating to be treated like that, that’s all.”

You turned to find them still regarding you with that birdlike curiosity and for a moment you forgot that they were little more than an immense reserve of magic holding together a stack of humanoid bones and wearing a dark robe. It might have been comical to see them that way, but honestly, in that moment, their blazing intelligence and slightly off-the-wall humour endeared you towards them even more. It wouldn’t have been a secret to suggest you had the beginnings of an almighty crush forming. If you didn’t beat it back soon, it would become unwieldy and unmanageable, and it wouldn’t end well for either of you. A member of the castle staff you might have been, but the court mage was one of the most powerful figures in the entire kingdom, and not meant for the likes of you.

And anyway, who was to say that there was anything about you to interest them anyway? The whole point of becoming a lich was to strip away all earthly connections save for the absolute fundamentals - the skeleton - and become an entity largely made of magic, the better to channel it. There were, you had to admit, one or two cases of liches binding themselves to living lovers, and accounts detailing the fierceness and loyalty of those rare unions had left you breathless as you’d scoured the volumes on liches all those weeks ago, but you couldn’t assume that Avery would be such a person after all.

If they had given a reply, you didn’t hear it behind the buzzing, rushing disappointment in your ears at that thought. Closing yourself off a little, you excused yourself politely and returned to your duties in the library beyond, leaving them alone in the study room. After all, Avery still had to figure out a way to harness the power of the sea itself in order to reduce the risk to life of those currently engaged in preparations to dredge and deepen the large trading harbour along the coast. Such complex calculations were hardly in the realm of a librarian.

About a week later, as you sat in the servant’s parlour one afternoon, where most of the castle staff gathered during their time off, a bookish young satyr, with curly, ash blond hair and contrastingly dark brown skin and horns, the stoop of a scholar, and a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, approached and asked for you by name in a warm, stutter-laced tenor.

“Yeah, that’s me…” you said, turning from your conversation with one of the naga guards. “What’s up?”

“Y-Y-You’re the llll… the lllll…” the words just died on his tongue or stuck there like treacle, refusing to leave one syllable and move onto the next, but he took a breath and on the exhale said, “Librarian…?”

“I am,” you said. “If you need something from the stacks though, I think Timothy is on duty today.”

He nodded. “I… I know. Avery… sss-sssent me to… to llll… to lllllook for you. They’d llllike you to… to… to…” At the repetition, his cheeks flushed a bit, but you waited him out and he rallied. “To attend them in their t-t-t-tower to c-c-consult on something.”

“Oh. Really? What… now?” you asked and the satyr nodded. He had a flighty, twitchy energy to him, but his features were kind and open and you decided immediately that you liked him. You turned back to the naga with whom you’d been sharing tea and easy conversation, and shrugged. “Guess I’ve been summoned. See you later.”

She nodded and hissed, “Good luck…” at you and you followed the young scholar out of the parlour. His large hooves clopped conspicuously on the stone of the passageways and he set quite the pace for you to keep up with.

“Are you… like… Avery’s… assistant or something? I’m sorry, I don’t know the technical names…”

He nodded. “Name’s D-Devon,” he said as he ducked left through a doorway and held it open for you to follow. “Apprentice m-mmage and runec-c-caster.”

“Sweet,” you said, impressed. “I studied some very basic runes for another project a long time ago, but I’m not really magical in any way, so… I didn’t pursue it. Is it as complicated as I remember?”

He smiled sweetly and shrugged. “Varies…”

You smirked and said, “That sounds like you’re being modest and generous, but I’ll let it slide. What does Avery need from me anyway?”

With a soft chuckle, Devon pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and shrugged, beginning to climb a tight, spiral staircase. “Nnnot sure. They’ve been di-di-distracted all morning.”

“Guess I’ll just have to find out. I’ve never been up to the mage’s tower.”

The staircase went on and on forever and you actually had to stop for breath twice, rather embarrassingly. Devon was fitter than his scholar’s physique suggested, but he didn’t comment. You supposed doing this every day would build up anyone’s cardiovascular system in no time. “The view had better be worth it,” you grunted as you started up the last stretch of spiral staircase, and Devon nodded.

“Oh, it is.”

“Thank all the gods,” you hissed.

The door to Avery’s study was open, letting light flood in from the room beyond. For some reason, you’d imagined it would be dark and intimidating, and possibly full of bats and spiderwebs and creepy cursed objects in display cabinets, but theirs was a chamber full of bright light and warm colours. Taking half a moment to catch your breath again, you paused on the threshold while Devon headed on inside with evident and easy familiarity to inform Avery that he’d found you.

“Ah wonderful,” came that papery voice from inside. As you heard it, you wondered how a skeleton - with no vocal cords - could produce sound, deciding to chalk it up to magic and move on. “Thank you, Devon. Would you mind running over the plans for the layline ritual one more time while we have a quick chat?”

“Nnnnot at all,” Devon smiled, and disappeared into another room out of sight.

The delicate tread of footsteps on the bare floorboards announced Avery’s approach, and you stepped inside, not wanting to be seen to be lurking nervously. “Hi,” you breathed, still a tiny bit winded, as they moved into view around the huge trestle table that occupied the centre of the room. It was littered with books and pieces of velum, scrolls, and ancient clay tablets, all stacked at frankly alarming and precarious angles.

“Hello,” Avery said with a real warmth in their voice. You could hear the smile, even if they had no lips to form the gesture. “I apologise for making you come all the way up here. I realise it’s a long way from your usual quarters and duties.”

It was true - the library was in an entirely different wing of the rambling old citadel, and your sleeping quarters were again on the far side of that from the tower.

You shrugged. “It’s nice to see a new bit of the castle, I suppose.”

They tilted their head, the movement almost birdlike. “You haven’t seen all of it?” they asked.

You shook your head. “Only the bits I need to. Besides, I’ve only been here a couple of months now.” And in that time, you’d seen Avery almost every day at your library desk. “What did you need me for?” you asked with no small degree of incredulity in your voice.

With a little chuckle that honestly sounded a little nervous, Avery turned to a small writing desk that was tucked up against the stone wall beside a window with a spectacular view. They picked up a scroll and undid the ribbon that held it together, and you found your eyes fascinated by the tiny finger bones of their hands. You wondered what they’d feel like against your skin and flushed hot again, unable to look Avery in the face.

“This is a copy of an inscription that was found in a tomb just north west of here, and while I am familiar with the writing system used, I cannot crack the meaning of it. I’m sure it’s right there, but… I wondered, since you mentioned you’d studied the Early Peoples, if you might take a look at it for me?”

You blinked. “You can’t read it?”

“I can read it,” they said, “But I don’t understand the words. I know the symbols upon which the language is based, but not the language itself.”

“I thought there was nothing you didn’t know,” you murmured fondly as you stepped over and took the parchment from their extraordinarily delicate looking hand. The urge to touch grew once more almost overwhelming.

A soft snort of laughter almost in your ear sent shivers down your whole right side, the skin prickling into goosebumps. “Please,” they scoffed good-naturedly. “Besides, if I knew everything already, I wouldn’t need to make such frequent trips to the library, would I?”

“And here I thought you were coming all the way down there just to visit me,” you quipped self-effacingly, turning your attention to the inscription and missing they way they went completely still before shaking their head ever so slightly.

It took longer than your pride might have liked for you to figure it all out, and you sent Avery scuttling about their office for three different dictionaries and half a dozen grammar tables before you were happy that you’d got it right. Devon had long ago excused himself for the evening, but you’d barely even noticed him leaving, though the murmur of their soft conversation had drifted around you for quite some time while you teased out a bit of odd grammar.

When you looked up at last, you found Avery standing alone by the window, bathed in the rosy light of sunset. The rich, warm rays made the black of their robes seem dull and almost drab - humble beyond what you’d have expected of a court mage with the coffers of the castle at their fingertips - and the angle of the light blazing into their face almost eclipsed the green, misty glow in their eye sockets. For just a moment, they almost looked like nothing more than an ordinary skeleton in an anatomy lab. When they felt your gaze on them, however, they turned - every bone animated and shifting fluidly, bone scraping with a soft, familiar whisper over bone.

They cocked their head again and you smiled. “All done, I think,” you said, standing from where you’d been hunched over the small, cluttered writing desk, and cracking the tension out of your neck with a grunt.

“Thank you,” they murmured. “I am indebted to you yet again, it would seem.”

You shrugged. “What’s it for anyway?” you asked. “I mean… I don’t really see how knowing that the sun will hit the back of the tomb on the winter solstice is of much use to anyone…”

They gave another little movement of their head that seemed like a pout to you, though you had only the bare skull to go from. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure. The tomb contained artefacts that thrummed with energy, so it would indicate that the Early Peoples had access to - and some degree of control over - magic too. Perhaps that date was of significance to them too. I will have to return to the site on the solstice to find out. Then we’ll know if it was of any ‘use’ as you say, or if it’s just interesting.”

“I see,” you said and your stomach chose that moment to growl at you like a spoiled house cat.

“Would… Would you like to stay here for some supper? I can have food brought up here to my chambers if you’ve missed out…” they said awkwardly, turning away from the window and back towards the central trestle table. As they moved the line of gilded sunlight slid from their delicate brow bones and plunged their skull into shadow again behind the hood. You’d never seen them without it raised. “It’s… later than I realised…”

“I’d have thought you could just magic some food up for me,” you grinned, honestly hoping it would disguise the fluttering nerves you felt at the thought of sharing a meal up here. Plus, their tone had gone inexplicably sad somehow.

They looked down at the table and said, “I could do that, of course, but transmuted food tastes awful, or… so I’ve been told. I don’t eat any more for… obvious reasons.”

“Do you miss it?” you blurted.

They stilled and trailed a bony fingertip across the wood. “Yes and no. I miss the pleasure that eating my favourite things brought me.”

“You still remember the taste…?”

Fixing you with a steady, if sidelong, look, they said, “I’m not that old, you know?”

“I…” you said and then stopped when they started laughing. “What?”

“I have to admit that I find it immensely entertaining any time someone assumes I’m a thousand years old. I’m not. I’m only thirty.”

“Thirty?” you gawped. “That’s… That’s so young to —” again, you cut yourself off before you said something truly insensitive, but Avery didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m used to it. And it is indeed young to have your physical form completely stripped bare in exchange for unfathomable magical power. It’s not a choice made lightly, and it’s not a choice that everyone would be prepared to make. It’s rare these days for someone to undergo it willingly.”

Horrified, you blinked at them. “Willingly? You mean it’s inflicted on people?”

They shrugged. “Rarely. It’s hard to control a person’s soul like that, but with the right runes on the phylactery, it can be done. Mercifully, that wasn’t the case with me though, and if you’re caught, the punishment is severe.”

“So… how does someone so young get the position of court mage?”

With another rasping laugh like dry autumn leaves, Avery said, “As opposed to someone so old and experienced, you mean?”

You shrugged, still kind of mute with surprise at the new revelation, and they laughed again. “Sorry.”

“I went to university with the princess. We became friends, and she saw what I could do. I was still an elf then though.”

“You’re… You’re an elf?”

“I’m a lich,” they corrected, “But yes, I was an elf when I was officially alive. Did my short stature and particularly fine wrist bones not give it away?” they joked self-deprecatingly, proffering their pale wrist towards you to examine.

When you actually reached out and touched them, however, a spark like static jumped between you and you both gasped.

“Excuse me,” they gasped, withdrawing their hand immediately. “I… That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“What was it?” you asked, rubbing your fingertips and thumb together where the skin tingled. It hadn’t hurt, and it left your entire body tingling all over beneath the skin, and heat was rapidly pooling between your legs.

“My magic,” they said. “It’s usually not as forward and ill-mannered as that. I apologise if it startled you.”

“Forward? Ill-mannered?” you asked, amused and intrigued. “You say that like magic has a personality…”

“It does,” the lich sighed, the bones of their ribs creaking softly.

While, academically speaking, you knew what any elven skeleton looked like, you still ached to know the exact shape of Avery beneath the black robes that draped shapelessly over them; the exact way their bones fitted together; the exact colour; any breaks they’d sustained, leaving the evidence in their skeleton… “Alright, but why… ‘forward’?”

“And here I thought I was being terribly obvious,” they muttered.

“Obvious?”

A tilt of their head in your direction served perfectly as a rueful glance, the ardour behind it striking you in the chest with an alarmingly painful pang, and exactly as it occurred to you that you’d learned to read Avery pretty well by now, you also realised precisely what they’d been insinuating. “Oh…” you said, imbuing the sound with significance.

“Oh indeed,” they said bitterly. “Never mind. I quite understand that the attentions of a lich are not… not what everyone would aspire to after all… I apologise if… if I made you uncomfortable. I will not persist.”

“Wait, slow down,” you said, stepping forward suddenly and trying to catch their gaze with your eyes. It was hard to tell where they were really looking, given that all you had to go on was the rough direction of their head and the soft glow in their otherwise empty eye sockets, but when you got the impression that they were looking directly at you, you spoke up. “I’m sorry,” you began.

“Don’t be sorry,” they hissed, trying to turn away.

“No, wait, that’s not… that’s not what I meant!” Finding you had no choice, you reached out and latched onto their wrist. The bones beneath the long fabric of the sleeves felt so achingly fragile that you almost recoiled for fear of hurting them, but you made your fingers loosen just a fraction and stayed put. You needn’t have worried anyway; Avery was tethered and still at your touch in a heartbeat. “I mean, I am sorry, but I’m sorry for being dense, not that you… you know…”

“That I’ve been so poorly attempting to flirt with you for the last month?” they finished dryly.

“Now that I know, why don’t we start over…?” you said, releasing them and smiling hopefully.

Adopting a truly sarcastic pose and tone, they held out their skeletal hand and said nastily, “I’m Avery, I’m a lich, and I’m apparently an appallingly poor flirt.” The ugliness in their voice was not directed at you, however. Avery had turned it back on themselves and it galled you to hear someone so brilliant sound so defeated.

Unflinchingly, you took their hand and stared fiercely back at the lich who had become your friend in these first months at the castle, and perhaps something more. “I didn’t mean to start over that far back, but I’ll play your game.” You added your own name and profession, that you were human, and finished by saying, “And I’m very much open to being flirted with by you, however poorly you think you do it.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Avery said, their thumb playing back and forth over your skin before promptly changing the subject. “You never did answer me about dinner though. Would you like to stay here and eat? Or would my not partaking make you uncomfortable?”

Sensing that they needed a moment’s diversion, you allowed them to skirt around the issue of being interested in you, and shook your head. “Dinner here with you sounds lovely. Plus the view is spectacular.”

“I knew it. You want me for my advantageous chambers,” they moaned, still deflecting defensively.

“I meant that there’s something to keep you occupied while you wait for me to finish, that’s all,” you huffed in response to their teasing. “But if the view bores you by now, I’m sure you could always read to me from some dusty old volume you’ve nicked from the library and neglected to return…”

“You wound me!” they said, placing both hands over their heart, or at least, where their heart would have been if they weren’t just a skeleton anymore. “Is there anything you don’t eat? Would you like wine?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m good with most things, as far as I know, and…” you bit your lip and then reluctantly admitted that actually a glass of wine might be really nice. Your salary was not so meagre that you couldn’t afford a drink or two in the local taverns, but you suspected a wine from the castle cellars might be a little more special.

Instead of ringing for a servant, Avery picked up a quill and a small piece of paper, and dictated their message aloud after a quick flick of their wrist had brought the quill to life. It skimmed across the page like a breeze-blown willow branch trailing through a pond, and as you watched, you wondered if that was what Avery’s handwriting looked like, or whether the script was a result of magic, or the quill itself. Either way, it was beautiful, and you suddenly thought of the rather romantic notion of having love letters penned to you in that hand…

Their voice turned more confident as they dictated the note to the quill. “I am entertaining a guest in my tower tonight. Please have a fine supper for one brought up to the mage’s tower at your earliest convenience, with a bottle of Aktissian red too, if you please.”

“Avery!” you gasped, recognising the quality of the wine purely from it’s location.

They shrugged and finished off the note with another brief gesture, and you watched as it disappeared with a little pop. “I like to dictate my messages in case the person on the other end cannot read. Not all of the castle staff have been blessed with our educations, after all. In such a case, it will read itself aloud.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” you commented.

They shrugged. “It saves me sending Devon, or going myself and terrifying the wits out of the kitchen staff, or ringing for someone to trudge all the way up here, only to have to go back and return later…” It seemed odd to you now that Avery could be frightening to anyone, but you recalled your own unease at your first encounter, and merely smiled at them again.

Wherever the note had gone, it must have reached the right ears, because twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at Avery’s door and a castle servant entered with a large tray.

“Thank you so much,” Avery said as the half-orc set the meal down on the table.

“Anything else you need, mage?”

“No, that’s all, thank you.”

You chimed in with your own thanks and the servant left.

Avery waved a hand at the table where they’d cleared a space amid the chaos of stationary and books, and you sat yourself down. They lifted the lid of the silver cloche and revealed a beautiful supper that looked fit for the princess’ high table. Eyeing Avery, you caught a little glint in their glowing eye sockets, and you assumed that they were pleased too.

In fact, Avery did not read to you while you ate, but they did watch you rather intently. “You’re going to make me all self-conscious,” you muttered. “This is delicious though.”

“Would you rather I not watch you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I’m just not used to such… intense attention…”

“You’re gorgeous,” they murmured awkwardly, voice rich and husky, as though their magic was crackling uncontrollably beneath the surface.

After a pause, during which you encouraged your heart to beat normally, and the poor organ took absolutely no heed of your pleas whatsoever, you said, “So are you…”

If Avery could have rolled their eyes, you were sure they would have. Instead, they just pressed their hands to the table and leaned back in their chair. “I’m just a pile of bones and magic now… I’m honestly surprised you permitted me the indulgence of courting you.”

“It’s not an indulgence, Avery. Well, maybe it is, but it’s an indulgence for me. Each visit you’ve paid to the library has left me in quite a state, I’ll have you know.”

The lich went still at that and then very slowly tilted their head to one side. “Oh?” they asked, voice dipping lower with obvious intrigue. “Care to explain that?”

With a half smile, you set down your cutlery on your empty plate and pushed back a little way from the table to make yourself more comfortable. Crossing your legs, you said archly, “Any time you come close to me, you leave me tingling all over. I don’t know if it’s your magic, or you, or what, but… When you were leaning over my shoulder back there —” you nodded over at the writing desk, memories of their right hand pressed to the wood as they peered over your shoulder at your progress, the heady scent of incense and ozone swirling around their robes, the particular timbre of their voice as they hummed in thoughtful understanding at your translation…

“Yes?” they prompted, voice cracking.

Heat coiled between your legs and in your lower body, slowly filling you with a warm, glowing sensation that shot up your spine and made your head spin. “I could hardly think,” you whispered. “It’s a miracle I finished the translation.”

The light in their eyes guttered and flickered before returning with a new, brighter intensity. Where before it had been a pale, pastel green, it now burned with a searingly hot blue.

“Avery?”

The lich sat there and stared at you before twitching their head and shoulders a little. “Forgive me. We… We probably shouldn’t move that quickly…”

You raised your eyebrows. “How quickly?”

“Quickly,” they said. “You deserve to be courted properly.”

“And what if I’m as impatient as you are?” you asked, heart pounding. Gods, you wanted whatever they had to give you and you wanted it now. You ached, inside and out. “It wouldn’t stop you from still ‘courting’ me if you wanted…”

Avery stood and then stalled. “I…” They growled softly in frustration and started again. “I am… I haven’t… not since…”

“Avery… I know what you are. I know what you must look like under that robe, and I still want you,” you said fiercely.

“Gods,” they hissed, turning to face you, eyes blazing blue.

“Your eyes?” you asked. “They’ve changed colour. Is that your magic?”

They nodded. “What… What would you like from me?”

“Touch me,” you said honestly.

“I can conjure… uh… a variety of physical… um… shapes…” they faltered awkwardly and your brain supplied the rest, but they raised one hand and you found that where the bones had been before, they now supported a ghostly hand. They turned it over to show you their palm and then flipped it over again. You could still see the bones through the spectral hand that moved like translucent, living glass.

You shook your head, “Come here,” you said, and they did.

You stood up and ignored their new spectral hand in favour of running one fingertip around the orbital bones of their skull. Avery shuddered, joints rattling audibly beneath the robes as it shivered down their whole skeleton.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked. “Could you create… a tongue for me?”

With a mute nod, looking stunned, Avery opened their jaw and you saw a glowing, green tongue inside, translucent and glistening.

Pressing your lips to their teeth felt odd at first, especially when the cool of that single silver tooth caught your lips, but when the tongue immediately lapped at your lips, begging entry, you forgot the strangeness of it. You came alive again beneath that kiss as Avery’s hands found their way to your waist and then up to the back of your head where they let their bony fingers snake through your hair before gripping you tightly and tugging until you pulled back with a gasp. Panting and dizzy you let Avery nip at your exposed neck, tongue occasionally laving at your skin, shockingly cool and leaving it tingling.

One of Avery’s hands palmed your groin questioningly and your knees nearly went out from beneath you. “Yes,” you gasped. “Oh gods, please… I want… touch me… please…”

Your chest heaved and you let them steer you back into your chair behind you. When you landed, they tenderly began to undo your waistband, and you lifted your hips to slide a little way free of your clothes. Avery’s eyes blazed as they stared at you, your arousal evident with your clothes around your ankles. “May I use this…?” they asked, opening their mouth to reveal that long, thick, prehensile tongue.

“Gods yes,” you blurted, lifting your hips weakly again. “Please… Avery… I need you…”

The lich knelt before you and hesitantly placed their skeletal hands on your thighs. Looking down at them, nestled between your legs, you felt like you could come just from that sight alone.

“I’m not going to last long,” you warned them, practically shivering with arousal. “Gods… Avery, you’re…” Whatever Avery was to you in that moment, you never got the chance to tell them.

The instant their tongue touched you, lapping teasingly at you to start with, magic and sensation roared through you, ripping along your nerves and wiping your mind blank of all but intense pleasure. The slickness of their conjured tongue, supple and almost like a tentacle as it pleasured you, and the coolness of the mouth behind, set against the firm, unyielding pressure of their bare bones digging into the muscle of your thighs hard enough that it would bruise, drove you to the quivering edge in minutes.

Your hands scrabbled helplessly at the arms of the chair, your hips bucked unbidden up into the sensations Avery was offering you, fire danced along your nerves, and your blood sang in your ears. “Avery!” you screamed in warning, and then, with one final flick and press of their tongue against your most sensitive spot, you shattered.

With your mind blank, vision dark, Avery tore your release from you and prolonged it, either with their magic or just by their presence, until you whimpered and slumped in the chair, limp and spent and ironically boneless.

Finally, after lingering just a little longer, Avery sat back on their heels and stared up at you, one hand still on your quivering thigh. “Beautiful,” they rasped. “Gods above and below, but you come so beautifully.”

“I’ve never… come like that,” you croaked, throat raw. Had you come so hard you’d made yourself hoarse?

Avery summoned a goblet of water from the table to their hand and stood. “Here,” they said.

You drank, and as you set the goblet shakily back on the table, you glanced at them and saw a glistening droplet slide down their exposed ankle bone and drip onto the floor. Seeing where your gaze had gone, they chuckled. “Am I expected to remain unaffected by what you just gave me?” they said archly as you did your own clothes up again, just enough not to be completely exposed any more.

“How…? What…?” You began, but then shook your head and leaned forwards. Tentatively, you reached out a hand for the front of their cross-over robes and unbuttoned them at the waist. Drawing the fabric slowly aside, you felt them tense, but you kept going and they permitted it.

As the final fitting came loose, the robes hung open like a coat and revealed their skeleton beneath. To your surprise, they were not merely an empty ribcage and spine, hollow pelvis and slender leg bones. Constantly swirling inside them like a mixture of phosphorescence and ink, was a kind of magical core. Like an entity all of its own, it pulsed and coiled, writhing with tendrils of light and darkness that played along their ribs and teased up their spine like ivy. “Gods, Avery, you’re stunning,” you murmured and looked up to find their face tilted downwards, regarding you carefully.

Your eyes roved down their body to their pelvis, where the phosphorescent light seemed to have coalesced, spiralling around their hip bone like swirling liquid in a glass and… dripping tangibly down their leg.

“Can I… touch it?” you asked and they nodded. There was a long drip of it running down their femur almost to the knee, so you brought your fingertip up and trailed it cautiously through the strange, glowing wetness. “Is it magic?” you asked as your finger went numb and then began to tingle rather enticingly. Gods, what would that feel like against your body… even… inside you? Now there was an unexpected thought.

“It’s… akin to… oh gods,” they hissed suddenly, their hand flying to your shoulder as you traced a circle through it on the very edge of their curving hipbone.

“Mmm?” you asked, not relenting but not moving anywhere else.

Struggling to form words, Avery tried again. “Akin to when a ghost becomes corporeal.”

“Your magic is coalescing like ectoplasm?”

“In a way, oh… oh… ohhhh,” they moaned, staggering as you moved further up the wide scoop of their hip bone towards their spine and back again. “I can’t… I can’t keep upright… if you do that again… I’ll fall… I…”

“You want to move somewhere else?” you asked and they nodded.

Turning and leading you unsteadily without a word towards a closed door that led off from the study, Avery showed you to their bedroom and then hesitated, as though unsure as to quite what you wanted with them now that you had then naked.

“Bed?” you asked and they nodded, encouraged.

The fact that they seemed to be waiting for you to balk and run stung, but it made you more determined than ever to show them pleasure. Especially since they’d apparently not been with anyone since becoming a lich.

“Tell me what you like best,” you said.

“Your touch,” they blurted immediately.

“Alright,” you said with a tiny laugh. That was a start. “Lie back then.”

They lay down on the dark green blankets of the neatly made bed, their robes pooling behind them like ink, and stared up at you as you followed and sank down beside them.

Watching that swirling magical core for a moment, you reached out and traced their wrist first, working up to their shoulder, and then to that ever-present smile on their bare skull. The light in their eyes now burned a softer blue, occasionally flaring to the intense cobalt you’d seen before when you skimmed a particularly sensitive spot, and their jaw worked as if they were panting and gasping but couldn’t summon the magic to make the sounds.

The storm of essence in their ribcage swirled and crackled, tiny forks of lightning dancing through the clouds where their heart would have been, and you watched their spine flex and arch. The bones of their hands clenched the sheets into balls and as you moved lower and lower down their enchanted body, you watched the phosphorescent light begin to condense again as it hit their bones, running down in thick, slow rivulets to pool in the fabric of their robes, leaving only glittering, darker patches behind.

“Where’s most intense?” you asked, assuming you knew already. The point where the two halves of their pelvis met at the centre proved to be extremely sensitive, and as you ran your finger around it, they lurched wildly, the magic in their chest flaring and sparking again. “There?”

“Yes,” they gasped.

The magic began to grow, solidify, and as you circled the cool bone of their lower pelvis, a long, thick tentacle of magic coiled out of it and wrapped around your hand. It was real and tangible, corporeal, and slick as sin. “Avery,” you moaned as it clenched tightly around your wrist like an octopus’ limb.

“Want you,” they said. In the next moment, the tentacle released you and coiled back on itself, creating a soft passage inside them. Taking advantage of this, you slid two fingers into the channel and crooked them against the solid wall of pulsing magic.

Avery yelled with pleasure, spine arching again like a bow at full draw, magic expanding out through their ribs like a storm cloud, unable to be contained. Pressing hard against their walls, you rubbed intense and tiny circles while the magic flared and reached for your hand in return.

Flowing back and forth like waves of the ocean, Avery’s pleasure enveloped you and you felt it in your own mind as suddenly and as keenly as if it were your own. Their magic was reaching out for you and you allowed the connection without hesitation.

“I’m so close,” Avery whimpered, body taut and thrumming.

“I can feel it,” you whispered.

At that, Avery chanted, “I’m… Oh gods, there, like that… I’m… I’m going to… I can’t hold back any more… I…”

“Come for me, Avery,” you begged, and they broke.

Tendrils of black shadow shot out from their body like vines, filling the corner of the room and staying there like webs, while the core of their magic pulsed and throbbed, blazing with blue light. Liquid magic rolled over your hand as they came and came, body undulating and heaving, jaw open wide in a rictus of pleasure. The sight of it was almost enough to make you come too, but instead you simply stared at the magic you’d brought out and the pleasure you’d wrought in them.

Eventually, the black tendrils evaporated into a fine mist and vanished altogether, and the cloud of roiling magic settled down again and retreated back within Avery’s ribcage. The phosphorescent magic lingered on your skin, however, and as you moved to lie down beside them, you slid your hand down the waistband of your clothes and touched yourself with it still on your skin.

Avery was barely able to turn their head to watch as you brought yourself to another blinding orgasm, but their fingertips brushed against your free wrist just as you neared your second peak and you tumbled over the edge with a grunt and their name on your lips.

In the aftermath, you both lay there for a long time before either of you moved. Swallowing, you turned to look at them and found that the light in their eyes had gone back to green again, though this time it was dark and almost imperceptible. “Avery? You alright?” you asked.

They hummed softly in response. “Tired,” they admitted. “That… That was a lot of magic. I didn’t expect…” they huffed a laugh.

“Did I hurt you?” you asked, horrified.

“No,” they smiled, gripping your fingers in theirs for a moment before they lost the strength and went limp. “Quite the contrary. But I’m spent, in more ways than one.”

“Sorry…?” you ventured and they laughed. “Can I stay?” you added.

“Of course,” they replied. “I’m right in the middle of the bed, aren’t I? Do you have enough room?”

“I could use a little more, but if I lie on my side, I can manage alright.”

“I can’t even lift a finger at the moment,” they admitted. “I’m sorry. If you need me to move, you’ll have to lift me yourself.”

The vulnerability they were offering you struck you deeply. “Alright,” you said. “You sure you don’t mind?”

The tiniest shake of their head was all they could muster.

Sliding your arm beneath their neck and your other behind their knees, you tentatively raised them and nearly gasped at how light they were.

As if sensing your surprise, Avery managed a dry chuckle. “Elf, remember? Bones of a bird…”

You set them back down on the further pillow and nestled in beside them. “Can I put my head on your shoulder?” you asked.

“It won’t be comfortable. Bring a cushion over…” they whispered, nodding at the other side of the room where a modest chaise longue, upholstered in what looked like silk, sat against the wall, adorned with a couple of dainty pillows. The sight made you smile for some reason, and you took the opportunity to clean up a little at a washstand in the corner of the room. When you returned with a cushion, you found that the light was completely extinguished from their skull.

The magic still swirled away inside their chest, and as you laid the pillow down on their shoulder and watched their core shifting lazily - contentedly - you found yourself following them into a blank and blissful sleep.

___

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