#I think I’ve reached that state of shock where I’m not perturbed at all but also HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

themadauthorshatter · 3 years

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... I’ve already made a draft of this and deleted it, but I’m going back in.

This is an AU of what would happen if Mareven was healthy and the end game.

I apologize in advance for any and all MareCal shippers, including myself.

SO! What happens?

Simple.

Everything remains mostly the same in the story except we get more of a doubtful and uneasy Maven as the story progresses, as in he hugs Mare a little longer and is genuinely perturbed when he hears about the ‘bomb’ that went off and looks terrified of Cal when he returns and orders Farley to be tortured. He’s also more hesitant to listen to his mother.

He still offers Cal’s legion to the Guard, but is a little sadder to say it.

THEN WE GET TO THE PLOT TWIST OF THE STORY!!!!!!!!!

Maven plays along, but, as he stands by his mother’s side, he mouths, “sorry” to Mare and goes for a gun on Arven’s belt, shooting him in the leg and warning him not to try silencing him or he’ll aim for something more vital.

It catches EVERYONE off guard, especially Elara, who’s about to risk having Cal or Tibe out of her whispers to get Maven back in line.

Instead, Elara asks what he’s doing and why, as she thought this was what he’d always wanted.

“It’s what you want, Mother. Not me. None of this is right. You’re already the Queen. What else do you want!?”

Elara bares her teeth. “Are you saying you want to live your days with a Red rat?”

Maven pulls Mare to her feet and pushes her behind him, keeping the gun at them, nodding. “I’m saying I'm not following your plans or listening to anything you have to say. I'll die before I let you in my head again!”

Well, wish granted because Mare senses the cameras turning back on and Elara lets Tibe and Cal go.

Only to force Maven to shoot her and Tibe, though Maven actually misses him.

Mare breaks free and they make a run for it, Elara shouting that they are traitors and to arrest them, though she does force Tibe to play the part of concerned husband.

Cal isn't in the room because he races after Maven and Mare.

Speaking of which, Maven leads Mare through the castle and finds a hall that goes toward a servant's passage, so they can escape.

Too bad there are guards that round the corner and take aim at them, not only for staging a coup de ta, but also for attempted regicide.

Cal's there too, aiming a handgun at them and telling them to submit to arrest.

They do and are sent to the Silent Stone cells.

Mare is confused and livid and doesn't want to talk to Maven, who keeps pacing and clutching his head and telling someone to be quiet.

Mare mentally tells him to maybe practice what he’s preaching, but wonders what the hell all that was when they were captured.

Maven sighs and sits down, back-to-back with Mare, and asks her how good she is at picking locks.

Her hands are for picking pockets, not locks.

Maven lets out a semi-bitter chuckle and regards that he shouldn’t have bothered asking because of course she’s better at pockets. he then admits that he’d been so scared of the cells as a boy, his young mind tricking him into thinking that there were monsters or prisoners in the cells.

Speaking of the cells, Mare breaks her silence and asks why it’s so hard for her to use her powers, even asking if Arven is close by listening to them.

Maven admits it would be useful to do that, but no. The cells are made of Silent Stone, which is basically Arven being there without him really being there.

Although she already knows what’s going to happen, Mare wonders what will happen to them, in the Bowl of Bones.

Maven lists off a firing squad, some Silvers, maybe some animals, and the fact that no matter what, the show will not be short; the people want blood and Tibe is going to give them blood, even if it’s his own son’s.

“Not if he can’t find you.”

Both Mare and Maven stand as Cal walks in, dressed formally and holding a set of keys to the cells.

Maven asks what this is and what Cal’s doing as he opens both Maven’s and Mare’s cells.

Cal explains that he’s already had to give Julian a head start and hopes that Maven and mare can do the same, can vanish into thin air before their execution.

Mare asks why they should accept the help, seeing as Cal’s the one who arrested them, but Cal counters by asking who’s idea it was to get them arrested, glaring daggers at Maven.

Maven has his own question: How does Cal know they won’t be seen?

Cal looks away and admits that he hopes there aren’t any Red servants that know how to fix the security system.

Maven and Mare exchange a glance and start walking, but Cal gets between them, shackles them, and grabs their arms, telling them to play along and make it convincing so no one questions anything.

They both do their best reluctant prisoners act up until they pass by Sonya, who inquires as to where Cal’s taking them.

Cal states he’s just taking them to get some cardio before their execution, seeing as how they’ll need every ounce of strength they’ll need.

Sonya spits that they shouldn’t and should actually fight with nooses around their necks so they’re easier to grab and throw around, but drops it anyway, eying Cal before she leaves.

Time’s almost up, so it’s a good thing Maven leads Cal to a servant passage, where they stop and get free, Maven getting his flame-maker bracelets back.

Maven opens the passage, but Cal stops him and Mare, telling them to be careful now, because if they manage to escape, they’ll be fugitives and will get hunted like deer for treason, Maven for attempted regicide, from what narrative that now exists.

They nod and thank him for the help.

Before Mare can follow Maven, Cal grabs her arm again, which makes Mare turn to him.

The two stare at each other, realizing what’s happening and what’s going to happen.

The royals will figure out that Cal helped them escape and will probably have him killed for letting two traitors run free.

Cal is the one who helped her in the first place by getting her the job at the Summer Palace, and now he’s saving her life again, this time also saving his brother’s and risking his own.

Maven shouts for Mare to keep it moving and Mare pulls out of Cal’s grip, backs away, and races after Maven, Cal watching her leave before closing the passage.

His face contorts with sorrow, regret, anger, and pain and he clenches a fist as he hears a sentinel shout that Mare and Maven are missing.

Cal shouts, “They’re this way!” and races down the hallway and away from the bookshelf, trying to make it look like they outran him.

In the passage, Maven leads Mare by the hand as they soon find themselves underground and under the streets, overhearing an announcement to keep an eye out for the two of them because both are armed and dangerous, Mare especially.

Maven groans at his father’s words and muses that at least they’re out.

Mare isn’t as relieved and asks what he was planning with his mother.

Maven stops in his steps and states that she already knows.

Mare does know, she just wants to hear Maven say it.

Maven bites his tongue and clenches his fist at his side, not turning to face Mare as he asks what will happen if he doesn’t tell her.

She’ll make him tell her, make him talk or she’ll shock him until he dies.

Maven tightens his fist but then drops it, admitting he and Elara planned on killing Tibe and using Mare and Cal as scapegoats, sending them to the Bowl of Bones, and having them executed to wrap up the story and solidify Maven as the new King, with no Scarlet Guard and no loose ends to ensure the story of Mare being a Red would slip out.

Mare demands he define ‘loose ends.’

Lady Blonos. The servant girls who dressed Mare as a Silver. Lucas. Julian. Sara. Mare’s family. Kilorn. Cal. Mare herself. All the Reds on the list Julian gave her.

Mare gasps at that last one, sliding down a wall as Maven explains in increasing panic and with his eyes growing teary that he was along with the ride and all for getting the throne the way his mother planned, but then he began to feel genuine feelings for Mare and her plight and no matter how much Elara tried to take those feelings away, they always came back. She did the same with Tibe, making Maven lose his love for him, and had semi-success with Cal, but didn’t fully remove his love for his brother. It also changed when they killed Blonos and the servant girls, and when Tristan died. It opened Maven’s eyes and made him realize that he was going to kill someone he didn’t want to die. he’d already lost Thomas and it was his own fault, but if he was the reason he lost Mare, too, he’d lose his mind.

Maven stops his rambling and joins Mare against the wall, admitting that he knows he deserves whatever comes next, but whatever does happen, he just asks that mare know that he is sorry for all of this, for putting her in such danger that now they’re on the run and risk execution if they’re caught.

Mare turns to him and asks if Elara has the list, if he told her about the Newbloods.

Maven shakes his head; the raid was going to happen in a few hour hours, so there wouldn’t have been enough time for Elara to look through his mind, write down all the names, and the find them in the blood base, so they have a good head start there, too.

After a minute of collecting themselves, and a glare from Mare, the two stand up and keep walking until they reach a fork in the path and wonder which is safer.

The only answer they get is a gun pushed against the back of Maven's head and a certain blaonde telling him to go right or she's painting the tunnel Silver.

Mare turns and sees Kilorn and Farley, with the addition of a certain Barrow we all still mourn, don't lie.

"Shade!"

Mare and Shade reunite, though Maven voices confusion as he thought Shade had been executed.

Shade explains that they tried and failed, making an example by teleporting in front of and behind them, saying with pride that no one's faster than him.

Mare is a mix of happy and sad at the news, but Farley brings them back and reminds them they need to keep going or they'll get arrested and killed.

Maven also gets put back in shackles, but acts as a good sport and doesn't burn them off.

They continue throught the tunnel until they reach a train, climb aboard, and get to riding, merrily on their way to nowhere in particular.

Back in White Fire, Elara slaps Cal HARD in the face and demands to know what he was thinking and where Maven and Mare are.

Tibe gets between them, but Cal admits that he didn't fully know what he was thinking, just that he couldn't let his brother be forced to fight when he's still in training. It would be a bloodbath.

Elara asks if that's the same reason why he also let Mare go, or if there's something he's not telling them.

Tibe also wants to know. He understands letting Maven go, but why a Red rat like Mare? If the people see her lightning powers and Red blood, there will be Hell to pay.

Cal's silent, but Elara solves that with a quick look into his mind, seeing all the moments of Cal and Mare being close and friendly with each other.

Elara asks Cal if he's more interested in dirt than diamonds and Tibe gets the picture instantly, upon seeing Cal's reaction.

Change of plan: Cal is getting his legion back in action, and an additional two hundred soldiers to locate and either capture or kill Mare and Maven. No more catch and releases or else it's Cal who fights in the arena and he'll have nothing but his wits to defend himself.

Cal pales at this and gasps that they can't kill him, because then Norta has no heir.

Tibe only glares at him and tells him not to fail before leaving to let Cal get his army ready.

Cal watches his father leave and is broken by the fact that he legitimately screwed up and that his father, as King, needs Maven, his own son, executed with Mare, someone who never should have had her powers to begin with.

Elara glares at Cal for a moment longer and also walks out of the room, leaving Cal on his own.

#red queen #mare barrow #maven calore #tiberias calore vii #cal calore #tiberias calore vi #elara merandus #au #ua #mareven #healthy mareven #I'm making Cal the antagonist and I'm so sorry #sorry to marecal shippers everywhere

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tvdiaries-imagines · 4 years

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Old Flame: Pt. 15

Warnings: Cursing & a lil touch of NSFW

Word Count: 3371

OLD FLAME MASTERLIST: CLICK HERE

While this 7 hour road trip to Arkansas is taking place, you and Hayley offered many times to take over the wheel but Klaus did not budge. He’s had his fair share of you and Hayley taking the wheel a few times in the past. He’ll never put himself through such horror again.

Other than that, Klaus has informed you of everything he’s learned from Finn so far. You’ve learned that Esther’s first born, Freya did not die from plague, but she was taken by Esther’s sister, Dahlia in exchange for Esther to be fertile. The thought made you sick to your stomach, but if it wasn’t for Esther’s sacrifice, you would have never met Klaus.

That piece of information wasn’t the last of it. Klaus mentioned that every first born in the Mikaelson family belongs to Dahlia and since Hope is still alive, you hope that Dahlia doesn't come after her too.

This family cannot catch a break.

As much as you tried to stay awake for Klaus, he insisted you get some rest and you did just that, leaning your head against the passenger side window. He reached his right arm over his head for his jacket that is sprawled over his seat and placed it over you as a makeshift blanket, careful to focus his eyes on the road at the same time.

Once you are fast asleep, Klaus couldn’t help but steal a glance at your peaceful state. Outstretching his right arm, he rests his palm over your thigh, briskly caressing it with his thumb.

“You really love Y/N, huh?” A very awake Hayley mentioned from the back seat behind him.

Klaus flickered his eyes at the rear view mirror, waiting a beat before responding. “So it seems.” He sniggered lightly.

“Have you told her?” Hayley asked. After not receiving a response from him, she already knew his answer. “I think you should. I don’t know anyone else on this planet that would put up with you the way that she does.”

“Your advice is touching.” Klaus hid his vulnerability with a sarcastic tone. Hayley sighed heavily, displeased that he was making a joke out of her serious advice.

(Later…)

It is now daylight when you, Klaus and Hayley pull up to a house that neither you nor Hayley have ever been to. It is a white two story home with dark brown shutters. Rebekah, Elijah and who you assume is Hope are standing outside, eager for your arrival.

Klaus wastes no time approaching the home and Hayley nearly jumps out of the back seat, rushing towards her daughter. Klaus follows suit and you take your time stepping out of the passenger seat in slow motion. You’ll never understand how much this mother and father missed their child so you kept your distance to allow them this moment with their daughter.

You walked over to Elijah and Rebekah. Rebekah welcomed you with open arms, reeling you in for a tight hug. “Oh, Y/N.” Rebekah muttered, freeing you of her tight hold. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too, sis.” You smiled.

“Has Nik been giving you a hard time?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Of course.”

“How about that dreadful friend of yours, Kai.” Rebekah flashed a look of disgust. “Has Nik killed him yet?”

You sighed, perturbed of the heretic’s whereabouts. “No. I have no idea where he is. But your mother has something to do with it.”

“Esther?” She reeled back, shocked. “How did this happen?”

“It’s a long story, Rebekah. It’ll bore you.” You chuckled faintly. She flashed a nervous smile at you, seeing right through your facade.

“Y/N.” Nik interrupted, appearing beside you with Hope in his arms. You turned to face him, eyes widening at the beautiful infant before you. “This is Hope.” He added.

“Hi Hope.” Your mouth curved into a grin, raising your hand and Hope latches onto your finger, blue eyes staring into yours. You peer up at Klaus, whispering loudly. “She’s beautiful.” You glanced from Klaus to Hayley who both approve of your sweet comment.

“She is, isn’t she?” Hayley mentioned to you in a calm tone, gazing at her daughter as she steals him from Klaus’s arms. “Come here, sweetie.”

You started on helping Rebekah and the men gather wood for a bonfire right in front of the home. Klaus started informing his siblings about the whole mess of their Aunt Dahlia.

“So is there any chance of us running into your psycho Aunt Dahlia soon?” You asked.

“Fable’s over a thousand years old, sister.” Elijah responded, adding a piece of the wood to the neat pile, his sleeves folded up to his elbows. “Dahlia’s long dead.”

“Like Esther?” Hayley added, setting her daughter inside the car seat that is on the ground beside Klaus.

“No one’s going to hurt Hope because no one’s going to find her.” Klaus announced. “That’s enough wood, Rebekah. You’ll burn down the whole bloody state of Arkansas.”

“Well, we’re just missing a key ingredient.” Rebekah pointed out, tone exuberant.

“No, we’re not.” Klaus tensed up instantaneously. Your eyes narrowed, curious as to what the siblings are referring to.

“Yes we are, Nik. Back me up, Elijah.” Rebekah gestured a nagging hand at the noble Mikaelson.

“I suspect Niklaus would rather choke on the ashes.” Elijah sniggered.

“What are you all talking about?” You asked, fed up with being out of the loop.

“Well, before we light it, we write down our wishes for each other to burn for good luck.” Rebekah answered. “It was Kol’s favorite part when we were kids.”

“Neat.” You murmured.

“Further evidence as to why we should ignore it.” Klaus mentioned with distaste.

“Nik.” You nagged, bothered that he’s such a bully to his youngest brother.

“Hope’s first bonfire season. I like it. We’re doing it.” Hayley remarked, turning on her heel as she waltzed inside the house. Klaus let out an exasperated sigh before picking up Hope’s carrier and taking her inside with Elijah following behind him.

“Now Y/N,” Rebekah started once her brothers were no longer earshot, “tell me all about your time with my brother.”

You snorted, hands at hips. “Where do I begin?”

(Meanwhile…)

A moment after, Hayley writes down her wish. She folds the piece of paper and stuffs it inside her front pocket. Then, she grabs a notepad and goes after Klaus who is sitting at the dining table, playing with his daughter that he’s missed so much.

“Here.” Hayley said, placing the notepad on the table directly in front of him.

Klaus stole a glance at the dreaded notepad before bringing his focus back to Hope. “I’m holding a small child, Hayley. The silly wish game will have to wait.”

“You write. I’ll hold.” She responded.

“You do realize it is not I who is to be the husband you can boss around.”

“Oh, right.” She shook her head slowly, as if coming to a realization. “Y/N!” She called, briefly looking over her shoulder.

He narrowed his eyes before handing his daughter to her mother. “Fine.”

Being confident as ever after talking Klaus into writing his wish, she was all smiles. “I wish you would tell Elijah you’re marrying your werewolf suitor,” Klaus mentioned as he’s writing, causing Hayley to come to a halt and frown, “at which point I would pour him a scotch and congratulate him on the bullet he dodged.”

Klaus rips the small sheet of paper off and hands it to Hayley with a smug. She snatched it from him, crumpled it in her hand and marched away with her daughter in her arm, evidently vexed.

You walked past Hayley before finding Klaus in the dining room. “Hey Nik. Did you write down your wish?” You asked. He gestured for you to sit on his lap and you did so by sitting on his left leg, snaking your right arm around his neck.

“Unfortunately.” He replied with raised brows. “Did you?”

“Of course I did.” You said. Klaus stared at you silently with a specified expression that you can easily determine. “And no, I’m not telling you my wish.” You are certain that if you tell him that you wish for Kai’s safe return, his elated mood would quickly plummet and that’s the last thing anyone wants right now. Especially you, since you’ve had your fair share of arguments with him already.

“Alright, love.” He allowed this defeat. He suddenly pats on your behind as a gesture to stand. “Come now. Let’s get this bloody bonfire started.” His tone was far from excited.

After bringing everyone to the front, Rebekah rushes inside the house as Klaus starts throwing lit matches to the wood one by one, in no rush for this bonfire. Minute by minute, the flame grows and Rebekah finally makes her return with a fairly aged Polaroid in her hand. “Hey, look what I found!” She mentioned with excitement, making her way to Hayley, Hope and Elijah who are standing at a fair distance from the flame. “I wonder if it’ll work.”

As everyone looks to Rebekah, Klaus is the least excited about his sister’s discovery. “Oh, bloody hell.” He puts his hands to his hips and looks away from her. You couldn’t help but giggle because you know how much Klaus dreads taking photos.

“Come on, let’s try. Hey Nik, do you think you can cram us into a selfie?” Rebekah walked over to the two you with everyone else following behind her. You thought it was adorable hearing the excitement in her voice.

“Niklaus is the virtuoso of cramming his siblings into confined spaces.” Elijah said snidely.

“Elijah’s got a point.” You chimed, refraining yourself from laughing at his snarky comment.

“I’m so glad I traveled hundreds of miles to visit my mentally ill brother only to have him insult me to my face.” Klaus looks down at the Polaroid camera, prepping it as everyone squeezes together.

“Come on, just take the picture.” Rebekah spat.

Finally, Klaus straightened his arm and raised the camera so that it’s at the right angle. Then, he gives it a few seconds before he snaps a photo. Everyone waited a beat for the photo to unveil itself full of you, your beloved, his deranged siblings that you adore, the mother of his child and their daughter. To put it simply. It’s a photo full of supernatural creatures. The majority mean the world to you. What an interesting combination.

To everyone’s misfortune, the photo needed to be burned for Hope’s safety. Klaus didn’t want to risk this photo ending up in the wrong hands. And as much as it kills everyone, it had to be done. You managed to remember to throw your wish in the bonfire as well. Rebekah, on the other hand, had everyone else’s attention. She was fed up and decided that she wants to do whatever it takes to take Esther down.

As everyone retreats inside, you remain put, staring at where that little piece of paper once was. You reach into your front pocket and dial Kai’s cell phone again, even though it’s a long shot. Frustrated with this loss, you continue calling his phone over and over again until you couldn’t handle hearing his obnoxious voicemail. “God dammit.” You whispered in frustration, staring up at the sky, shaking your head. “Where the hell are you, Kai?”

The flame is now dying down, so you made your way inside, following the Mikaelson’s voices. It seems they are forming a plan to defeat Esther.

After going over the very specific plan with them with a wine glass of blood in your hand, you took a much needed shower in an en-suite bathroom of your choice, then threw a robe on while your clothes are in the washer.

Stepping out of the laundry room, you go back inside the en-suite bathroom and comb your wet hair, freeing it of any knots. The sound of familiar footsteps approach, followed by the creaking of the door opening. “Showering?” You asked Klaus.

“It seems you did without me.” He smirked, freeing himself of his dark long sleeve to reveal his flawless physique. You made sure to steal a glance at him as you continued to brush through your strands.

“That’s too bad.” You answered lightheartedly.

“Indeed it is.” He added, eyeing you hungrily. He caught you off guard when he whooshed towards you and spun you to face him. You gasped at the gesture, hairbrush falling to the ground, awaiting his next move.

You peered up at the lust in his eyes, nipping at your bottom lip. In one brisk move, you are placed over the counter behind you and he leans down, pressing his plump lips onto yours, tongue swirling inside of your needy mouth.

You are his and he is yours. The thought alone made your entire being burst with elation. Your heart was beating so wildly as you wrapped your legs around him to bring him closer to you, feeling him harden by the second.

His hands began making its way to your cheeks all the way down to the knot of your robe, lips never detaching from yours.

Before you knew it, your robe was untied and you were completely naked on the bathroom counter. You were so caught up in this ravenous moment that you hadn’t realized you were naked until he stroked your breasts. The sinful gesture alone made you pool with desire down below.

Klaus separated his lips from yours and silently went on his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders. He licked his upper lip, gazing up at you. “Wet, are we?” Klaus mentioned before starting on his meal.

You.

(Later…)

After a much deserved nap and a cup of coffee, the sun will soon disappear and the moon will make its appearance. You, Rebekah and Klaus hit the road back to New Orleans. Surprisingly, Klaus didn’t drive this time since he’s hardly had any rest, so he had Rebekah take over.

“You remember the plan, love?” Klaus asked you from the back seat.

“Yes I do.” You assured him casually, scrolling through your phone to cure your boredom. You’ve only heard the plan a million times before leaving Arkansas.

“Do you know what to do, Rebekah?” He asked his sister.

“Yes. But if it doesn’t go to plan, will you handle my body with care please?” She pouted. “I may miss the old model.”

“Of course we will.” You chimed in, peering at Rebekah for an ephemeral time before bringing your focus back to your phone.

“If everything goes south, i’ll be there to pull you out.” The hybrid stated. “We just have to take Esther down before she body-jumps. I don’t want all of this to have been for nothing.”

“You and I on the same team, Nik. It must be Christmas.” Rebekah added. Klaus responded with a grin before getting some shut eye during this prolonged car ride.

(Later…)

As soon as you touched down in New Orleans to the Mikaelson compound, you stretched your limbs and wandered inside. Cami, Marcel and Davina were gathered together in the courtyard, prepping for a spell. You shot them a glance before making a beeline for the grand kitchen because you were absolutely famished. Klaus had a quick word with Kol before Kol and Rebekah headed over to their mother’s current living quarters. It was an urgent step for the plan and everyone was in on it besides Esther and Finn.

Many minutes later, Klaus received a text from Rebekah and the two of you drove off into the night to the Lafayette cemetery, careful not to make too much noise before approaching them.

It wasn’t difficult to locate where Esther, Kol and Rebekah were in this large cemetery. All you had to do was follow the only illuminated area as well as use your vamp hearing. “Mother, think this through. You gave birth to this body. You can’t destroy it.” You heard Rebekah plead.

“I am only destroying its flesh. Your beautiful soul will live on in the body of another. I have chosen well for you. A beautiful girl. Strong.” Esther attempted to justify her actions, tone confident. You hid behind one of the nearest tombs.

“Mother!” Klaus shouted, standing tall above another tomb. “Stop the spell.” He dashed to the ground, taking long strides towards the trio. “You and your traitorous son.”

“Nik, I didn’t know anything about it. I swear.” Kol expressed.

“Oh good. I’m glad you two boys are friends again.” Esther said, pleased. “I did wonder what you’d been up to in your time away. Now I know.”

“Stop the blasted spell.” Klaus demanded.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Anything is possible. Take me instead.” Your brows furrowed at Klaus’s offer. You don’t recall him mentioning that. Though instead of dwelling on it, you stayed put until you were needed. You didn’t want to risk screwing up the plan. You hoped that he was just saying it to stall Esther.

“Nik, no!” Rebekah grasped his forearm.

“If only you’d taken my offer when it was still mine to give.” Esther blurted. “Unfortunately, you left me no choice but to make a deal with Mikael.”

“Mikael?” You mouthed to yourself, face contorting as you’re taken aback from the news. You completely forgot about him being alive in general, but the fact that the parents are teaming together doesn’t sound too great.

“When Finn and Kol went missing, I needed a new ally. All he wanted was the right to kill you.” Esther expressed. “Kol, I would ask you to deliver the stake to your father, but it seems your loyalties have been compromised.”

You tighten your grip around the white oak stake in your hand and your nostrils flared as you’re ready to pounce on Esther. In a flash you saw Klaus step towards your direction as if he was just casually pacing from exasperation. You were still undetected by Esther, so Klaus quickly winked at you before turning on his heel and shifting his expression back to an aggravated one. So far it’s selling.

“Stop the spell, Esther!” Klaus roared.

“It’s okay, Nik. I can do this.” Rebekah implied.

“So you’re feeling murderous again.” The mother spat, displeased. “You should know, I’ve already chosen another body.”

“Now!” Kol hollered and that was your cue.

Finally.

You whooshed towards Esther and stabbed her in the neck with the white oak stake. She looked at you with wide eyes as the blood poured down the new wound. You sighed in satisfaction, taking in the win. All went according to plan.

The sound of the witch bowl exploding into pieces near Kol at a distance and Klaus calling his sister’s name snapped you out of your victory. Looking over your shoulder, you find a passed out original sister in the arms of her older brother.

“Uh, did it work?” You flickered your eyes from Klaus to Kol for a response.

“I don’t know.” Klaus replied. “Kol, would you? I need to bring mother inside.” He gestured for Kol to hang onto Rebekah and he obliged. Klaus effortlessly threw his mother over his shoulder and escorted her body inside one of the sizable tombs. You learned from Kol that it’s spelled so that she cannot escape.

Klaus must’ve forgotten that Kol isn’t as strong as he is in his original body because he was slightly struggling to keep Rebekah on her feet. You came to his aid and threw her other arm over your shoulder, placing the white oak stake in your back pocket.

“Sister.” Kol called to you in a low tone, as if not wanting to be heard from Klaus. You hummed, notifying him that you’re all ears. “I’ve gotten mother to tell me your friend’s current placement.”

“You did?” Your head snapped to Kol, eyes widened, speaking in a loud whisper. “Is he alive?”

“Yes.” You exhaled in relief from his response. “But I’ll tell you more once we’re at the compound.”

“Thank you.” You mouthed to Kol who glimpsed at you, then to the ground. After days and nights of waiting, you’re finally going to get your answer.

A/N: So sorry to leave you guys on that cliffhanger! But it had to be done :) Thank you all for sticking with me and I’ll see you lovelies in the next chapter!

TAGS: @ynm1505 @ravenmoore14@xdontxcare @seasiren96@anyasthoughts @woodworthti666 @agentmarvel13@miss-lumiere@elizabeth-ann1090 @physically-a-cheesecake@azhar1422 @morsmornte @retrocontessa @kollover24 @thewolf-and-thesheep @xoxoaudreymarie @dezzym17@siphonersalvatore @yolobloggers @akshi8278 @simonsaysyasss @eggingamazinglove @brooklymw @baseballbitch116 @hyperion-moonbabe @iamjustaslytherinrose @lillianeh879 @hannahzlee @bokettolove @gangofhoes @sashimi-cat @marvel-ousnesss @deathkat657 @rauwz @star-adorned @bobamilqtea @lunareclipse-e @krazykatkay456 @geeksareunique @hybridgirl99 @romyislief @psychicwinnerstranger @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @derangedcupcake @yaniiie @classyunknownlover @britty443 @mockingjayd12 @ophellis @prospathww @the-specific-oceans @riverdaleserpent04 @bank-of-rubytowne @ballet-royale @sunflowersandsins @fakebeech @alka16555 @allllzcatt-blog @hyperion-moonbabe-art3mis @its4everjenny @mikaelson-emma @lilulo-12 @unhappy-hannah @hookedtoherfire @smol-quackson @hxppy-ghxst @ivarthegoddess @nick-1432 @simonsbluee @0moonlightthoughts0 @proudjaden @lalunasuenos @blonddnamedhandz @princekooks @supernatural-swiftie08 @2kayla64 @hernameisnoellex3 @grim91103 @asusualitasterin @un-namedstalker @a-who-e

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thethirdamell · 3 years

Text

I Yield (Borders Yet To Be - Part 1)

@pinkfadespirit tagged me for WIP Wednesday so here’s what I’ve been working on instead of AO. Thank you for the tag! This is part one of who knows how many. I was thinking of making it a one-shot, but it’s getting a bit long, so I’m still undecided on how to handle it. WIP Wednesday Tags: @mikkeneko @verifiedhawke @arcanefeathers @ushauz @wannakissrobits @degenerate-perturbation @thefluffynug @doctorhawke @nightingalerising @loneliii-aura @faux-fires and anyone who wants to share :) Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: Explicit Tags: Romance WC: 3246 Main Pairings (M/M): Amell / Loghain

Summary: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

Sweat. Soaking his hair, his tunic, every inch of his flushed skin. His pulse was thrumming in his ears, so loud he couldn’t hear the harsh grunts he knew spilled from his lips as he took thrust after thrust. Damn him. Damn the Warden. Loghain was exhausted, every muscle trembling as he struggled to keep up with the man’s limitless stamina, his limitless mana, his limitless everything. Amell shoved him hard against the wall, and the sound that escaped him was more gasp than grunt.

Amell didn’t just have him, he dominated him. From the moment they’d started this, he’d been in complete control. Loghain couldn’t move, could barely breathe without the man’s allowance. There was so much strength in him - Loghain couldn’t call on a comparison. Not since Maric died, but Maric had never taken charge of him like this - had never ruined him like this. Amell grabbed him and turned him around, only to throw him on the floor.

Loghain hit his knees, and stayed there, breathing hard. This was what he’d asked for - what he’d wanted - and now that he finally had it - there was nothing left but to surrender to it. Amell advanced on him, but there was nothing hurried in his stride. Like he knew Loghain would stay there, exactly where he’d left him, exactly where he wanted him. Amell had taken everything from him, and there was nothing left now but his dignity, but somehow Loghain knew Amell would take that too.

“I yield,” Loghain said, letting his sword fall from his hand.

Amell stopped. Loghain hadn’t expected him to stop. He expected to meet his end at the Warden’s sword, thrust through his heart before the whole of Ferelden. Beaten. Bested. Utterly destroyed at the hands of the man he’d spent the past year fighting with more fervor than the Blight. Amell unlatched his helmet with his shield arm, and let it clatter to the floor of the throne room.

Dragonscale echoed on the stone in the utter stillness of the Landsmeet. Amell still held his sword, and could still drive it through him. Loghain still expected him to. Amell’s eyes swept over him, a bloody shade of russet that was difficult to meet for how they seemed to see through him. He wasn’t the Regent, or the Teyrn, or the Hero of Riverdane to the Warden. He was just Loghain - and Loghain had lost. He knelt, chest heaving, one hand to the floor and the other to his knee to keep him steady, and prayed Anora would look away.

“... I accept your surrender,” Amell said.

Anora wept. Alistair raged. The Landsmeet gasped, but no one was more shocked than Loghain.

Loghain had underestimated him. He’d thought Amell like Cailan: a child wanting to play at war. He’d never been more wrong about a person. Amell unified the country where he failed, arranging his daughter’s wedding to Maric’s bastard, and winning the allegiance of the bannorn, the elves, the dwarves, the mages, and now somehow, Loghain as well.

Amell wanted him for the Grey Wardens, or perhaps simply wanted his death behind closed doors. Loghain knew enough to know the Joining was often fatal, and far less glorious than a public beheading. It seemed a fitting punishment, all things considered. Loghain respected the man for it, though Maric’s bastard disagreed.

Alistair hadn’t contained his anger to the Landsmeet. Loghain and half the palace overheard their argument when they returned. Alistair locked himself in his room, which just left Riordan and Amell to oversee his Joining. Amell sat on a table, his gloves and a selection of vials laid out beside him, reading over a tome embossed with griffon wings.

He looked no less commanding outside of battle. He had an impressively strong nose and well-defined jaw, but there was something in his eyes. Blood red, shadowed by a strong brow and further accented by high cheekbones. He cut a leaner figure in Warden leathers than he did in dragonscale, and wore the dark blues almost regally, posture strong, raven hair braided back behind one ear.

It seemed only fitting to stare. Loghain should get the measure of the man that had spared him, but Amell was hard to read. There was a strategist in there, alongside a mage, despite Amell’s reliance on sword and shield. Strange Amell hadn’t used his magic in their duel. Or perhaps smart. Perhaps it had all been for show, and Amell could have killed him with a wave of his hand, but wanted to allow him some semblance of dignity before the Landsmeet.

A strong leader couldn’t have weak allies, after all. Loghain had never thought of himself as weak before, but he knew when he’d been bested. Amell was the better soldier. The better leader. The better man. He was competent, but that competence wasn’t terribly comforting if he was just now learning the ritual Loghain was to undergo.

“Am I to understand you’ve never done this before?” Loghain guessed.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Amell said.

“Quiet,” Riordan murmured. “The Joining is complex. He needs to focus.”

“You could at least get me when you're ready,” Loghain muttered, pacing impatiently. The less time he had to think this over, the better. The thought of leaving Anora alone didn’t sit well with him. She was formidable, strong enough to endure without him, but the memory of her tears of relief at the Landsmeet haunted him. He didn't want her shedding any more, and prayed it was mercy, not malice, that had stayed Amell’s hand.

“Trust me,” Amell said without looking up from the tome.

“I don’t see I have a choice,” Loghain said.

In time, Amell set his book aside and cast his spell, blood and lyrium weaving together in the silver joining chalice. It smelled like death, a scent so sweet it was noxious, and Loghain didn’t doubt he’d meet his end at it.

Riordan retrieved the chalice. The old Orlesian still bore the scars from his imprisonment at Howe’s estate, and there was nothing but practicality in his voice when he spoke. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good. From this moment forth you are a Grey Warden.”

“I understand,” Loghain reached to take it from him when Amell stopped him. Amell's hand clasped over his own on the chalice, and felt pleasantly warm contrasted with the cold silver. It sent an involuntary shiver up his spine, and made him acutely aware it had been years since anyone had touched him.

“Wait,” Amell said.

“Change your mind?” Loghain forced a chuckle. “Should we get the guillotine?”

“Join us, brother,” Amell said, his hand still resting atop his own, and it wasn’t just warm, it was soft, his grip firm and steady through the oath. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

“My sacrifice?” Loghain fought back the urge to roll his eyes and wrench away. His pride wasn’t worth the loss of warmth, the loss of contact, the loss of compassion. Amell’s touch was like to be the last he'd ever know.

… strange that didn't seem so terrible.

“Yes,” Amell said.

“My death, you mean," Loghain cleared his throat.

“Death is just death,” Amell said. “If you die, I won't waste it.”

“See that you don’t,” Loghain drank.

Loghain lived, and that was all he could say of the matter. He was stripped of his lands and titles following his defeat, and felt smaller for it. In a strange way, he felt better for it. It was out of his hands now. His successes. His failures. They were on Amell, and Amell seemed to shoulder them well. Amell spent a great deal of time with Anora, Alistair, and Eamon, offering his advice on the state of the bannorn before he left for his fortress at Soldier’s Peak.

Loghain joined him, and all his companions. They hated him down to the last man, but Amell didn’t, or if he did, he didn’t make it obvious. He spoke with him, and ate with him, and acknowledged him the way it seemed he did the rest of his companions. The only distinction seemed to be that Amell watched him with a… unique intensity. An intensity Loghain only noticed because he watched Amell the same way. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, and honestly couldn’t say which of them had started it.

They took the North Road from Denerim towards Soldier’s Peak, and spent the night at a small town inn, where it seemed Loghain should speak with him. Set expectations for whatever there was between them. He knocked on the door to Amell’s room, one hard thump of his fist, and won a polite, "Enter."

Loghain let himself inside. The room, like all the rooms at the inn, was modest. An armchair and a couch set before a low table, where Amell sat with a selection of books and maps, his mabari at his feet. There was also a basin for bathing and a bed, both big enough for two, but Amell was alone.

That seemed strange, for a man like him. Maric had never been alone, not even when he should have been, women from all walks of life walking their way right into his bed. Rowan had suffered for it… but Loghain didn't want to think about Maric or Rowan. He wanted to think about Amell.

There was a lot to think about there. Amell besting him. Amell sparing him. Amell staring at him. His hair, free of its braid, curved to frame one side of his face and the wholly unwarranted raise of his eyebrow. Like Amell was intrigued by his visit, but there was nothing intriguing about him. He was a bitter old man who’d lost his country, his crown, and his companions all in one fell swoop.

… It seemed he should resent Amell more for that.

"Loghain," Amell said, closing the book he'd been reading. "Did you want to talk?"

Sitting seemed too presumptuous, so Loghain leaned on the armchair while he spoke, "What else could I want?"

"You tell me," Amell countered, with a strange lilt to his voice.

"I'm not here for a rematch," Loghain assured him. "Don't worry."

"I wasn't."

… Cocky.

“I passed your test,” Loghain noted, fighting back a smile and wondering why his face was so determined to settle on the expression. “Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems.”

“It seems,” Amell agreed.

“I suppose you think I'm some sort of monster,” Loghain continued. “More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently.”

“I may have to resort to magic next,” Amell said playfully.

“Oh?” Loghain raised a bemused eyebrow, his smile finally escaping. “What was all that nonsense with darkspawn blood and lyrium, then? A puppet show?"

"Something like that," Amell said mysteriously.

"It seems to me that magic has already failed," Loghain joked, though he wasn't naive enough to think the extent of Amell’s magic could fit in one little cup. "I’d recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys next time. Less impressive, but it gets the job done.”

Amell hummed thoughtfully, like he was considering it, before shaking his head. “The plan loses something when you’re the one suggesting it.”

“I suppose it does lack the element of surprise,” Loghain allotted.

"Sit down," Amell waved a hand at the armchair.

It was more suggestion than command, but it still disarmed him. Loghain couldn't remember the last time anyone had told him to do anything. More so, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually listened. He circled the armchair and sat. Amell smirked, like he was pleased with him for following the order, however insignificant. His eyes wandered over him, like he was sizing him, but Loghain couldn’t imagine why. Amell had already beaten him.

What other reason could the man have to stare? Loghain straightened his spine and refused to fidget for it. He knew where he stood with the Warden and he wouldn’t be intimidated by it, but Amell’s stare didn’t seem threatening. It just seemed interested. Silence stretched, and it took Loghain longer than he cared to admit to realize he was waiting for permission to speak.

“Well,” Loghain cleared his throat. “What shall we do to settle things between us, then?”

"Things?" Amell raised an eyebrow.

“Is that supposed to be coy?” Loghain guessed.

“Do you want it to be coy?” Amell asked.

… Was Amell flirting with him? He couldn’t possibly be flirting with him. He was old enough to be the man’s father. His grandfather, if he'd been more adventurous in his youth, but he hadn't. He’d loved Rowan, and then Celia - though not half as well as she deserved - and then no one. Amell had no reason to flirt with him. Loghain had spent the better part of a year trying to kill him, and there was nothing flirtatious in that.

Loghain wasn’t a flirtatious person. He’d barely flirted with his own wife, and he’d never flirted with Maric - no matter his feelings for the man. He couldn’t begin to imagine the scandal that would have come from that, even if Maric had shown any preference for men. His King? It would have been as bad as… whatever this was. Amell was his Commander. Amell was half his age. Amell was waiting for an answer, smirking a little more for every second he delayed.

“What I want is for this to be over,” Loghain said before he embarrassed himself further. “You’ve won, Warden.”

“Amell,” Amell corrected him.

“... Amell, then,” Loghain said.

“There’s nothing to settle,” Amell assured him. “I expect us to work together.”

“Is that punishment meant for me or for you?” Loghain wondered.

“Did you want to be punished?” Amell ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, a flicker of electricity playing over his fingers, but the magic seemed more static than lightning, his expression more thoughtful than threatening.

There was too much to think about there. Amell was absolutely flirting with him. Maric had told stories of the nights he’d spent with mages and their magic, and they assaulted him mercilessly the longer Amell held the spell. The short exchange felt like their duel all over again - Amell wearing down his defenses, and Loghain helpless against him.

It shouldn’t have been so appealing. It shouldn’t have been appealing at all. Loghain didn’t know anything about the man beyond his skill with a blade, but something in the roll of his fingers and the quirk of his lips seemed to suggest it was… quite a proficiency.

“I imagine you must have one in mind,” Loghain mumbled despite himself, wondering after the sensations. Pleasant, no doubt. Something that shivered across the skin. Something that wasn’t serious, and was clearly just meant to tease or torment him.

“A few,” Amell grinned.

“So just like that, we’re allies?” Loghain asked - refusing to read into that grin, that magic, those hands. Amell was just making fun of him, adding insult to the injury of his defeat with this whole exchange. “I can’t imagine it’s so simple. I don’t know what concessions you want from me. I expect my word will not satisfy you.”

“Did you want to satisfy me?” Amell countered.

“Mockery, then,” Loghain deduced. There was no other explanation. He stood, but Amell stood with him, a fast hand catching his wrist when he turned to go. It was the same hand as before - the same warmth, the same firm grip, and Maker - the magic. Amell cut off the spell with the contact, but he wasn’t quite fast enough.

Static rippled up his arm, sending a full body shiver through him. Amell had to have felt him tremble. Had to have known he was making a fool of him. They were enemies at worst, reluctant allies at best, and the thought that Amell might be after more than that was ridiculous enough as to be insulting.

“What mockery?” Amell asked.

“This,” Loghain gestured vaguely between them. “I’ve seen enough Satinalias to know when I'm being made the fool.”

“Fortune favors the foolish,” Amell said - and Maker preserve him but there was something captivating in him. Not just his eyes, but his scent, clouding his head for their closeness. He was something like blood and magic, and it spoke of the same power that had bested him at the Landsmeet and was besting him now.

“Fortune favors the brave,” Loghain corrected the proverb, feeling himself begin to sweat the longer Amell stared at him with those damn eyes, like fire, heating up his skin with all their impossible promises. “I am no fool and I will not be made one. You may have won, but I doubt it was done with sword alone. If not for your magic, I could have taken you.”

“Is that what you want?” Amell asked.

“What?”

“You want to take me?” Amell released his wrist, and caught his collar instead. His fingers barely skirted the fabric, but he might have wrenched for the effect it had on him. Loghain couldn’t focus on anything but the way his lips moved when he spoke, and the thought that they might have been softer than his hands. “You want to take my magic?”

“Damn you, Warden,” Loghain hated himself for whispering, but he couldn’t raise his voice any more than he could raise his head, tilted just slightly so the other man could reach his lips if he wanted. “What do you want from me?”

“You tell me,” Amell countered - his eyes were fixed on his lips, and the warmth of his breath spilled over them with every word. “What do you want?”

“I want you to let go of me,” Loghain lied.

Amell let go, and Loghain regretted it more than all the mistakes he’d made of late. The rest of his mistakes he’d made for Ferelden, but this one-... this was a mistake he could make for himself. It almost seemed worth the risk that Amell might be mocking him, might be too young for him, might be too much for him. Loghain cleared his throat, and took an unsteady step back. “Thank you. Goodnight, Warden.”

“Amell,” Amell corrected him.

“Amell,” Loghain repeated, and beat a hastier retreat from Amell’s room than he had from Ostagar. He took a cold bath in his own room, but he was so flushed from the exchange his skin may as well have warmed the water. This-... this was the real defeat. The real shame. Not at the Landsmeet, but here, in some backwater inn on the North Road, where he met his end not at Amell’s sword but his smirk.

Take him. Loghain couldn’t take him. One look, one touch, and he was ready to yield. The memory wouldn’t leave him, not even when he took a hand to his aching cock and beat a frantic pace against his racing heart. He hated the touch of his own hand - weathered with age and nothing like the supple youth he felt in Amell - but his release strengthened his resolve. If he didn’t even want the touch of his own hand, neither would anyone else.

#loghain #loghain mac tir #dragon age #amell #fanfiction #This is technically still Accursed Ones #Maybe an Accursed Ones AU #We're just trying to figure out how we have to retcon to make this canon #Come join the chaos in the Discord #Where the rules are made up and the points don't matter #wip wednesday #wip

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dracolucius-abraxusmalfoy · 4 years

Text

To the anon who asked for Draco and Harry introducing each other to their respective friend groups, I give you weeks late fluff. This was asked for along with a prompt that led to this post.

this turned out way longer than I was expecting so a- have this full-blown one shot.

________________________________

They told Ron and Hermione last night.

It had been... eventful. Mostly, Hermione had smiled a lot and after Ron had recovered enough to lift his head from the table where he’d slammed it he’d patted Harry on the back a lot and given him many long contemplative looks; like he was reevaluating every piece of knowledge he held about Harry through the lense of Harry-and-Draco. He hadn't said much the rest of the night. Harry doesn’t think he minded too much.

Rose, of course, had been thrilled.

Both her favourite uncles? Together?

Because Draco’s presence in their lives, for all that this new perspective is exactly that, isn’t. He started visiting Teddy and Andromeda first, and then, somehow, very very slowly, that morphed into Draco and Narcissa visiting Molly with Andromeda and Teddy, and Draco taking Teddy to his play dates with Rose and Victoire and Fred and Roxanne. Morphed into Draco’s sudden appearance at Christmas dinners, his presence at Sunday lunches.

No one had flinched. Not Ron, who plays chess with him in silence on Sunday evenings and not Hermione, who after all his misdeeds had invited him to stay for tea after bringing Teddy by with nary a concern. And not Bill, or Arther or even Fred, who Harry imagined would have the greatest reason out of all of them to dislike him. They accepted Draco without question and Harry had been... at a loss, to be honest.

Hermione had gone on and on about how they had all forgiven him and how Harry should too and isn't he just great with Teddy, Harry. You can’t hate someone forever she’s said to him once, in the quiet, murmuring fire loud empty that is the Burrows living room at night. Had looked at him sadly as Harry stared at the door Draco had just left through with his mother. Harry hadn’t replied. He’d simply hugged her, and made his way through the fireplace to his own home, simply laid in his bed, eyes wide open till early hours of the morning in his uncertainty.

Because Harry didn’t know how to tell her that he knew. He knew all that already. He didn’t know how to tell her that he’d forgiven Draco Malfoy for all his crimes the moment he’d lowered his wand. Didn’t know how to tell Hermione that for a very brief moment, over the summer of rebuilding Hogwarts they’d almost been... friends.

So he hadn’t. He didn't tell her any of that. Let her think he still hated him, let everyone think that, and let Draco avoid him. Avoided Draco in equal measure.

They hadn't spoken once in the three years Draco had miraculously become part of his family, for all that Harry silently considered him part of it.

And then, one day, suddenly they had.

It didn't start slowly, but it did start quietly. With Draco’s solid warm presence beside him on the back porch of the Burrow. Still not speaking, but watching the moon ascend into the sky.

Draco had only said one thing, that night. Right before Harry had gone inside. He’d stopped him, and asked, in a quiet, unsure voice, if Sirius had ever shown him the Dog Star. He pointed. That’d been it.

A week later Draco was in his living room, shovelling too spicy Chana Masala from the shitty takeaway place down the street into his mouth.

Harry’d never seen him so unrefined, so carefree, so uncareful in his actions; opposite to his always and total control. And yet, around Harry, he’s careless. And Harry, in return, is calm in his presence, unwound and unanxious, in a state so different from on edge, only as relaxed as he is in Ron and Hermione’s presence. Talking with each other was effortless. They worked.

And here he is, a year later, still secret, and clutching Draco’s hand in his as he stands frozen on Pansy’s doorstep.

He’s been here before. He’s been inside before. He and Pansy are... if not quite friends than friendly acquaintances. She gets along well with Ron, and she’s been coming to Friday pub nights for years. He shouldn’t be afraid of her, and yet, for some reason, he’s terrified.

Finally, Draco convinces him to step up to the door, letting go of his hand in the meantime.

Pansy opens the door and invites them in. She raises an eyebrow at Harry, perhaps a question, maybe an observation, but she does not say anything, just shows them into the living room and sweeps her floor-length skirt up her knees in the heat of it.

Harry and Draco sit down on the couch, and Draco reaches forward to poor them both tea, unthinking in his actions, as he always seems to be around Harry, he carefully slices lemon and picks out the seeds before placing it in a cup and handing it to Harry.

The gesture is so domestic it makes Harry’s heartache and he can hardly stop the push of a smile onto his lips.

Pansy does not interrupt them, and when Harry turns back she is simply watching them.

“Is there a reason you’ve come to visit me, boys?” She asks, and she doesn’t sound perturbed, and yet somehow Harry thinks she’s trying to.

He daren't glance at Draco, but he can feel the tension radiating off him. Wishes he could reach out and touch him without spoiling the speech he had so carefully prepared.

So carefully prepared and, apparently, completely abandoned.

“Potter and I are dating. That is, Harry and I-“

Pansy looks shocked, one eyebrow ticked high enough to disappear behind her bangs.

“Why are you telling me this?” She asks, and she looks... baffled.

Draco’s face crumples “I... Pans, of course, I’m telling you.”

“No. No, of course. Draco, darling, I just-” she pauses for a long moment as she glances between them, eyeing the space between them on the couch and Harry is caught between wanting to, defiantly, move closer, and squish further sideways into the armrest.

She looks them both in the eye in turn.

“Was this supposed to be a secret?”

Bonus:

“What do you mean you knew.”

“Draco, you moved in with him.”

“I still have the flat! I didn’t tell anyone I was moving!”

“When was the last time you were even there Draco?! I thought you were stuck in the lease!”

“I don’t understand, Pansy... How?...”

“Draco, darling, I’ve known since about a week after it started. You were obvious. I genuinely thought you both just hated PDA or something.”

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leelahsrose · 4 years

Text

ERIK KILLMONGER X BLACK!READER : BASED ON THE PURGE, PT 2

• Summary: Jasmine (reader) and her mother prepare for the United States most treacherous and deadly event of the year. Jasmine gets a visit from the person she broke up with days ago: her obsessive ex, Erik Killmonger. Now with no way to get back to her mom, she has to find her way home and hopefully not have to deal with him all night...

Jasmine hops out of her car and grabs the grocery bag from the back. “We not done talking! I’m crazy for you baby.” Her phone rings once again, she couldn’t even answer it because now she had no way to get home. But she did have one choice: run. “You ain’t gon make it baby! Let me take you home.” She ignores him and bolts out of the parking lot.

She was standing in the middle of the street, the sound of the frightening horns was about to go off. Jasmine was in shock, she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. The roaring of motorcycles throw her off, Jasmine turns around and stares up at the gargantuan clock: 8:00PM. The rhythmic beating of her heart speeds up, her hands were trembling viciously. She drops to the ground when she hears the blaring sound of a bomb going off in the distance.

She stumbles up quickly and begins to run toward her house, tears were sliding down her face and flying backwards with the wind as she bolted. Her foot hits something and she immediately stops, Jasmine looks up to the sky and is faced with red liquid descending. She hardly gets away from the substance: it coats her whole body. She stood frozen in the street as the blood trickles down her arms and onto the concrete. Her eyes were widen while she stood there in complete shock. “Jasmine, shit watch out!”

She turns around to see where the disembodied voice is echoing from, Erik and his friends were riding over to her in their motorcycles. She slams down to the ground, her fingers touch the back of her head. Jasmine rubs them together and feels wetness, her vision was blurry and her drenched hair was concealing her face. Her breathing had became deeper, her chest tightening with every second. A horrid scream floods out of her mouth, the birds sitting on the power lines fly away.

She feels hands wrap around her body, Jasmine jumps out of fear. Hearing Erik’s voice calms her as he pulls her up into his arms. Her body was shaking as if it was zero degrees outside, “E-Erik, I don’t understand. I just w-want to go home.” There was nothing but panic surrounding her whole being, he could see the fright swirling through her face.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m gonna get you cleaned up alright?” Erik wipes her cheek of the blood, he leans down and kisses her skin gently. “You can’t- you can’t go home, Jas.” She stares at him unbelievably the look on her face twisting to animosity. “Please believe me, please. You can’t trust them.” His tone scared her, he seem so serious about this and that’s why she was taken back.

“What the hell are you talking about? Those are my parents, Erik!”

“You have to believe me, please trust me right now. I know that’s hard to do but, I’m not lying Jasmine. They’re danger.”

“You want me to turn against my parents when you got me stuck out here in this god forsaken war zone?! You’re out of your mind.” Jasmine begins to walk down the street, he reaches for her arm and grabs ahold. “Don’t touch me right now, I’m over it!”

“Why do you think you moved after they made you break up with me? Why do you think they hate me? Baby, why do you think I’ve been trying to find you for the past year? Because I found out.” His nostrils were flared and the veins in his neck seem to pop out. Her eyes were piercing with tears while she looks up at him, his heart was aching when he realizes she is about to cry.

“Know what?”

“They’re not your parents.” She stumbles back, the tears finally dropping down her cheeks. “I wanted to tell you but they had already moved away with you. It was too late, I looked everywhere for you. I love you-“

“You lie! You don’t know shit.”

“Please, J-Jasmine.” Erik looks up when he hears wheels skirt against the road, his eyes were low as they glare at her parents car. “Baby, listen to me, come with me.”

“Jasmine!” She turns, seeing her mother with her head sticking out of the window. “Sweetie come on, we have to get out of here. Quickly!” Jasmine begins to walk toward the car, Erik’s voice stops her in her steps.

“If you ever loved me, turn back around and come with me.” She switches to him, her eyebrows creasing together.

“That’s not fair, Erik. That’s not fair.” Her voice cracks, she wanted to run to him and into his arms but, her parents. “I’m sorry... I’m sorry. We can’t be together, not again.” He watched as she got into the car, hatred filling his eyes while they drove away. He screams out a string of curse words, Erik turns around and walks to his motorcycle.

When they had made it to the house, they ran inside as fast as they could. Her mother looked at her with unease, she quickly shooed Jasmine upstairs to take a hot shower. The blood ran down her legs and created a puddle at the base of her feet, she felt sick to her stomach and had threw up when she got out of the shower. Jasmine walked to her room, a pink towel wrapped securely around her body. Tears had came down while she was in the bathroom, the look on Erik’s face was heartbreaking to her.

She couldn’t run away with him, she just couldn’t. What he said was all lies, he always had a thing with lying. Jasmine hears a slight creak at her window, she takes in a deep breath. Her eyes switch over to the bedroom door, her mother walks in with a smile on her lips. “We brought you a sandwich.” Her father follows right behind her and she calms herself, they sit on both sides of her. “No telling what he did to you, he disgusts me.”

“He did nothing, dad. He just stopped me from coming home, he shot out the tires. I was so- so scared I didn’t know what to do.” Jasmine breathes out a shaky breath, her mother’s hand rubbing circles on her back.

“Look at me, it’s okay. You’re here now. But, he found you and that’s just not good.”

“You know what he said to me?” Jasmine wipes her tears away and stares at her mother. “He said you two weren’t my parents, w-why would he say that? Why would he lie about that?” The way she tilt her head was slow-like, Jasmine noticed it and was perturbed. “Why are you looking at me l-like that? He’s lying right? You always said he was a liar.” Her gaze switches between her mother and her father.

“He’s lying, sweetie.” Jasmine’s heart fills with relief, she closes her eyes and breathes out smoothly. She feels her hair being yanked back, her eyes open widely as she gasps. Jasmine’s hands grab onto her fathers wrist. “You weren’t suppose to know that information.” Her mother stands up and pulls a knife from behind her back, Jasmine’s heart was beating out of her chest. The fear on her face amused them, she couldn’t move she couldn’t do anything. She was stuck.

“We stole you from birth, your real parents are dead. Killed on purge night. They were wealthy as you can see by this house their money so gracefully supplied for us.” Jasmine’s head shook back and forth, her vision was blurry from the salty tears sliding down her cheeks. “We were going to live as a family, but Erik. He had to ruin it when he found out. We moved to see if that would work, and it did... for a while. Until he ran his mouth to you today. We always had a plan that if it didn’t work out, we kill you.”

“He’ll come back for me, you’re not going to get away with this.”

“Oh really? Where is he now? You broke his heart back there. We won’t be hearing from him for awhile.” She stalked closer to her, the knife raised in her hand and a stoic look on her face. Jasmine screams at the top of her lungs, her voice ringing throughout the whole house.

“No, no! I won’t tell anyone, I won’t t-tell! I swear on my life!” She thrashes around in her dad’s hold, trying to rip his hand from her hair: her head falling back as she yells once again. “Erik! ERIK, PLEASE! PLEASE GOD!” A deafening sound goes off in her bedroom, her eyes glued to her mother. Nothing but shivering breaths leave Jasmine’s mouth, silence crowds the room as the woman falls to the floor. She looks over seeing Erik, standing by the window in all his pride. “Erik, baby-“

Her father rushes toward him, Erik stands his ground and shoots him in his chest. His body flings back and lands on the carpet, Jasmine sits up, her chest moving up and down as she stares at him. “Do you believe me now?” She walks over to him and suddenly kisses him deeply, he drops the gun and picks her up into his arms. He presses her up against the wall and pulls back, his forehead laying on hers.

“I’m sorry, Erik. I do love you... I love you as much as you love me, I’m sorry-“

“Shhh, I know you do. You had every right not to believe me, I fucked up in the past. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving.”

“I don’t want you to leave, please don’t leave me.”

“You got my word and you got my heart.” Jasmine nods her head, her fingers twisted through his locs as she kisses his face. “Just don’t, don’t leave me again.” He squeezes her thigh and she whimpers.

“I won’t.”

“Good. Pack lightly, I’ll get you new things but we have to hurry.”

TAGLIST

@myaesthetic-is-peace @qu33naquarius @queeny-xo @eye-raq @chaneajoyyy @fav-fanfics @middlegroundd @mellowjellow6 @thereality-yourreverie @officialchinatownikes @brxwnshuga @10lbsatatime @brattywriters-anonymous @heyauntieeee @dsduke4321 @sweetpeachjones @curls-and-crosses @enigmaticaphrodite @coconutxraikage @blackchickfics @cgotwat @dreamlloudly @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @hidden-treasures21 @xclusvnani @tiava143 @leahnicole1219 @wakanda-inspired @thekrazykeke @juiicyrockz @muse-of-mbaku @oshaia

#blackgirlsarelit #black!reader #black panther #killmongersprincesa #black panther killmonger #erik killmonger #erik killmonger x black!reader #shuri black panther #tchalla #erik killmonger x reader #writers #wattpad #thepurge #leelahsrose #killmonger fanfiction

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rora-s · 3 years

Text

The Derivative Chapter 10: Influence

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 9

I slammed the door as I came trudging in from the backyard. My grandfather looked up at me from where he was leaning on the counter.

“In a mood are we?” he asked.

“I’ve just been banished from the garage by Charlie and Larry,” I explained grumpily. “Apparently their working on something I can’t see but my book is in there somewhere”

“Somewhere?” Alan questioned “don’t you remember where you put it?”

“I remember where I put it but it has evidently been moved in the course of their work” I informed.

Alan sighed and straightened up “well come on I’m sure I can negotiate for its rescue”

I smiled slightly “thank you”

He led the way out into the backyard and over to the garage. “Charlie you in there?” Alan called as we approached the door then he looked around the door frame “hey your niece needs her book that you two moved around in here” he explained.

“Alright” Charlie sighed “she can look but I don’t want her messing with any of this” he gestured vaguely at the chalkboards and papers he had spread about.

“Wouldn’t dream of it” I muttered looking around for my book.

“What are you two geniuses into now?” Alan asked, looking at the work. “And what are my old city planning maps doing out like this? What’s happening?”

“To me it looks like they’re working in probabilities based off the variables and labels. I'd say some kind of public location” I informed looking behind one of the chalkboards.

“Abby what did I say?” Charlie snapped uncharacteristically.

“Jeez I was just looking not messing” I stated in defense.

Uncle C sighed looking exceptionally stressed “no one’s really supposed to know.”

“Charles, perhaps it would be best to inform your father and the enigma of the impending Armageddon.” Larry objected.

“Armageddon?” Alan questioned as Charlie muttered words of anger to his friend “No, don’t tell me you two spotted another one of those asteroids hurtling towards the Earth, huh?”

Alan was joking but my stomach began to churn as I took a closer look at the math. All the locations were big public areas. Soft targets.

“Several thousand, actually, but that Armageddon we have decades to resolve” Larry objected to my grandfather’s statement.

“Charlie what is he talking about?” Alan questioned with a chuckle.

Charlie was about to brush his father off when he was cut off by the high pitched exclamation of his best friend “a truck carrying nuclear waste was hijacked. Yesterday.”

“What?” Alan questioned.

That was when all the pieces clicked in my mind “wait so the locations you’re narrowing down their possible targets aren’t they?” I asked in shock. “My God”

“Now wait a minute” Gramps spoke up “why didn’t I hear anything about this on the news?”

“Because they’re not telling anyone” Charlie muttered with a pointed glare at Larry.

“What do you mean they’re not telling anyone?” Alan asked with slightly irritation edging his words. “How the hell are people supposed to protect themselves? And what does she mean about targets?”

“In the first place, uh, we- we’re not even sure that there, that there is a bomb, so-”

“A bomb?!” Alan cut his son off.

“Well, we don’t know where it’s going to go off.” Charlie advised.

“Well, maybe not. But I would suggest that, uh, people quickly taking a ride out of town in an easterly direction might be of help right now.” Alan stated.

“Well, possibly not, with these current wind conditions.” Larry mused.

“Look, an evacuation without information will lead to mass public panic.” Charlie pointed out.

“Well, speaking for the huddled masses, I’d rather not have some government official making that decision for me right now, thank you very much” Alan declared, picking up one of his maps off the table which revealed my book underneath. “And what are you doing with my maps?”

“You really are something, you know that?” Charlie snapped at Larry. The two began to bicker as I stepped forward to grab my book. Then Larry finally got a word in edgewise with a sharp point.

“He is a planner and she a budding mathematician”

Charlie turned to his dad who was looking at the maps and realization seemed to dawn on him. “You know what, Dad?” he called “you can help us.”

“How can I help you?” Alan questioned. “Charlie, I’m not a physicist and I’m certainly not an expert on nuclear contamination.”

“But you were a city planner” Uncle C pointed out walking over to the man “you know about urban density, and these are your maps.”

“And another person to run equations would be quite helpful,” Larry added, looking to me. I picked up my book with a sigh.

“I wanted to help. Now I wish I didn’t need to” I muttered Larry just nodded in understanding.

We continued to look over the maps and crunch numbers Charlie and Larry guiding me through some of the more complex calculations. Then Charlie's phone rang. “Hey Don” we all turned to him surprised. “Well don’t we have-” a glance at his watch “-six hours… they pushed it-” he turned to those of us in the room “Ah, he needs to know now.” I looked to the boards raising my hands to my head in complete panic. There was no way to be sure, multiple possibilities.

“Well, we still have algorithms to test and variables to explore here” Larry objected.

“Okay, um… okay, we’ve pinpointed seven likely targets” Charlie spoke into the phone “there’s one in Westwood, there’s two in Century City.” Charlie paused as I presume Don spoke to him on the phone “Downtown. Okay. He needs downtown so,” we all eyed the map pointing out the two possible targets. “Okay, there’s, there’s, there’s two. One in Driscoll Plaza and another in Angeles Square.” Charlie looked at us after seconds of tension “he needs one just one, one of them” Charlie murmured.

“Statistically, they’re both of nearly equal probability,” Larry explained.

“Math can’t tell us which one” I breathed out.

“Right. Mathematically, we have no justification for choosing one over the other” Charlie explained just as Alan reached over and grabbed the phone away from his son.

“Donnie, go with Angeles Square.” The man declared into the phone “I know what Charlie says, but I know these maps, and I would choose Angeles Square. It’s the height of the buildings. It creates what we used to call an urban canyon. The air currents through the buildings spread the radiation much further. If I wanted to inflict as much damage as I could, that’s where I would go. Angeles Square. I’m telling you.” Alan pulled the phone from his ear.

“Great now we just sit and hope” I muttered leaning on the table. Releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

_______

“Well we didn’t do so bad today, did we?” Alan asked, coming over to the table a bit more chipper than any of us.

“No, today, was good.” Larry voiced. “But what about tomorrow?”

“Yeah and Don was still very close to a bomb that could have had nuclear material so” I shrugged picking at the frayed end of the ripped knee of my pants as they were pulled up to my chest.

“Yeah, uh, you know I think I understand why you like helping Don so much.” Alan said “it’s not a bad feeling” he paused. Me, Gramps, Larry exchanged looks as the curly haired young mathematician in the room stayed uncharacteristically quiet. “What’s the matter, Charlie? You’ve got that look that you get when you can’t stop worrying about something”

“He’s right. You seem a little perturbed” Larry agreed.

“You’re still not mad about my pulling that phone out of your hand, are you?” Alan questioned.

“I was going to say Driscoll Plaza,” Charlie admitted. “Before you grabbed the phone out of my hand I was- I was about to say Driscoll Plaza, and I would’ve been wrong.”

“Oh” Alan murmured around the bite of food in his mouth “well, come on, Charlie. I was the one that didn’t give you the right variables. You know, the heights of the buildings.” Alan reassured. “Listen, if you’ve got one failing, it’s only that you don’t think like a criminal. Of course, what does that say about me?” he chuckled slightly

“That you’re a great influence” I replied sarcastically.

“I would’ve been wrong,” Charlie murmured again.

__________

3rd POV.

Don pulled up outside his brother’s house and hopped out of his car. His pace only slowed slightly when he saw Abby sitting on the porch reading. She looked up at him.

“Did you catch ‘em?” she asked.

“Got the guys not the cesium” he replied grabbing the door knob then paused. “Wait how did you..?” she bit her lip and glanced toward inside “ah damn it Charlie”

“It wasn’t his fault. Blame Larry’s fear and my nosiness if anything” she objected.

“So if Dad was helping I’m guessing you were as well then?” Don inquired and she nodded. He growled “Abby you can’t do that and if I wasn’t in a hurry you’d be getting an earful right now alright.” he flung the door open and headed inside Abby hurrying behind him.

He stalked over to where Charlie and Larry were seated at the table “alright we have the guys but they aren’t telling us where the caesium is we think it’s still on the truck and in our perimeter but we have no idea where they stashed it.” He quickly briefed them on the situation.

“Larry and I have been doing some research on tracking radiation signatures.” Charlie replied as Abby took a seat at the table “now between the sense that scan from planes and those you could install at random points in the area, we would be able to triangulate a location for that radioactive material.”

“All right, well, that’s great” Don felt some of the anxious energy he had been feeling coming in here ease away. “How long would it take?” it started coming back as the three geniuses in the room all shifted in their seats.

“Like a.. Like a week.” Charlie replied “or maybe two.”

“A week? Charlie, the truck is leaking radiation, you understand?” Don said insistently.

“He’s right, Charles.” Larry spoke up “I mean, these casks were not designed to contain cesium for extended periods of time. This material in particular has an insidious method of attack.”

“Which is?” Don prompted sitting down next to his daughter.

“Look, even in small amounts, whether ingested or inhaled,” Larry began to explain they spread throughout the entire body, they invade and destroy the soft tissue. Longer exposure and we’re talking acute radiation poisoning; the Walking Ghost phase.”

“That sounds bad,” Abby muttered almost to herself.

“The Walking Ghost phase?” Don questioned that tension within him building again.

“Yes, like the people in Chernobyl. Somebody starts feeling nauseous, they vomit, they start feeling better, they think they are better. But no, it’s- it’s just a grace period. A week later, it’s internal bleeding and certain death.”

Charlie let off a breath leaning back in his chair and Abby brought her knees up to her chest in her seat. “You said you have the guys that stole the truck, right?” Charlie asked, getting to his feet.

“That’s right,” Don agreed.

“They don’t know where it is?” the mathematician questioned.

“Well, Charlie, they’re not talking.” Don explained.

“None of them?”

“No. they’re trying to use the truck as leverage if anything,” Don told them.

“They had a plan going in.” Charlie determined.

“We got ‘em separated. We’re trying to play them against each other, but” Don sighed dread creeping into his gut.

“What about putting them together?” Charlie suggested.

“No, Charlie.” Don objected “you keep suspects isolated in the dark. That’s how it works”

“I understand that.” Charlie clarified “that, that’s not what I’m speaking about. I’m actually talking about something completely different. I’m talking about something called The Prisoner’s Dilemma”

Abby straightened behind Don and Larry nodded “game theory”

“Game theory” Charlie parroted his friend and continued “the mathematics of decision making. How to achieve the optimal outcome from a complex situation. So for instance, um” the man thought up an analogy “say two people were to commit crime. Now, if neither of them talk they each get a year. If one of them talks, he gets no time at all, and the other guy gets five years. If both of them talk, they each get two years. So you see, unless they can trust each other not to say anything talking is the best strategy”

“Yeah, but I already told you they’re not talking” Don pointed out.

“Well, maybe that’s because none of them realize how much the others have to lose.” Charlie advised.

“Risk assessment” Abby muttered.

Charlie smirked slightly at his niece's insight “precisely.”

_________

“I mean it was pretty impressive” Don voiced as he and his family left the restaurant. “These are three hardcore dudes, and Charlie’s up there scibbling all these crazy equations”

“Crazy equa..? You hear that, Dad?” Charlie muttered as Abby started to giggle “Crazy equations. Now, I did a risk assessment analysis based on a model used to determine a bank’s exposure to mutual credit obligations. That’s what I did.”

“Yeah, it’s a compliment. I mean, the point is, is that they bought it.” Don explained.

“Don’s right. I mean the important thing is you’re getting the truck back. Isn’t that enough?” Alan pointed out.

“Yeah, I mean, you know, you can get an award for a performance like that” Don congratulated.

“A per..? It wasn’t a performance” Charlie objected. “It wasn’t a scam. That was math. That was actual math. I don’t make this stuff up.”

“Want to hear about math?” Alan chimed in reaching into his jacket pocket “here, here’s math. Dinner was $102 divided four ways is 25 bucks apiece. Pay up.”

“Wait I’m a minor dependant I don’t have money he does” Abby objected pointing at her father who pulled out his wallet.

“Actually I gotta hit an ATM. I don’t have any cash” Don replied.

“Now that’s a scam” Alan complained and the men descended into bickering as Abby laughed.

“Hey keep laughing and I will make you pay your share” Don threatened. “Especially since I’m considering grounding you”

“What?” Abby questioned her laughter quickly fading.

“I told you I didn’t want you helping on cases math or not and you didn’t listen” Don replied firmly even though the expression on Abby’s face was beginning to weaken his resolve.

“But I was helpful I didn’t get hurt there was no way for me to get hurt” Abby defended “what’s so wrong with crunching a few numbers in the garage every now and then”

Don sighed biting his lip “because your sixteen and I don’t want you getting dragged head first into my world of guns and destruction”

Abby looked to the ground and opened her mouth. Don got the feeling she was about to say something poignant but she hesitated and instead closed her mouth looking back up at her father with a determination that caught him rather off guard.

“Fine I’ll stop whining about working on big stuff for now but once I’m eighteen I’m getting my clearance and you can’t stop me” she declared.

Alan and Charlie both smiled slightly at the girl's stubborn statement. Don sighed knowing there was no way he was changing her mind. So instead he hooked her around the shoulders pulling her into his side as the family continued down the sidewalk “alright kid but right now you’re still grounded.”

Chapter 11 ->

#numb3rs #numb3rs season 1 #Charlie Eppes #Don Eppes #alan eppes #amita ramanujan #larry fleinhardt #terry lake #david sinclair #Episode Related #episode per chapter #fanfiction #Don is a dad #abby calvin #Also posted on AO3 #also posted on quotev

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blazefire-engine · 4 years

Text

Chapter 13 Verse 3

Based on the additional route, Chapter 13 Verse 2, in which we saw Gladio and Ignis traversing Zegnautus Keep. In this fictional piece, we will see Lightning’s perspective. {Spoiler Caution}

AN: So I’ve had this in my files for a whiiiile. I couldn’t bring myself to finish it, but here it is! You might notice the writing is a bit different from my others (and plot points slightly off), and it’s because I wrote this in 2017.

I thought this would never see the light of day! (Heh, get it? Light of day? Because Eos fell into darkness for 10 years? While this fic has been buried for almost 3... Heh...)

With slow, cautious steps, Lightning glanced around the corner. Clutched tightly in her fingers was Blazefire Saber in gun form.

Mere hours ago, the four of them escaped the daemon infested train and infiltrated the capital of Niflheim, Gralea. During their escape, they managed to pull through miraculously unscathed, despite the fact their connection with the Crystal was somehow severed, disallowing the call to summon weapons. They were delivered unharmed to the capital with the exception of one unfortunate casualty; the Regalia, having given its final push, bursted through Gralea’s gates.

Events turned for the worst when they were separated from Noctis. The Prince was weaponless but, by no means, defenseless. However, the unknowns inside Zegnautus Keep is enough reason for the three of them to reunite with Noctis immediately.

As they were about to enter the Keep, Ardyn intervened and somehow, with a snap of his fingers, returned their connection to the Crystal, allowing them to summon their weapons once more.

Making their way in the mazy, military base, Lightning was separated from Gladiolus and Ignis. No doubt it was Ardyn’s handiwork messing with the base’s operational controls and doorways.

Rounding the corner and her weapon ready, Lightning let out a breath as no enemies were in the vicinity.

She was grateful she chose to bring along her trusty gunblade. While she could have opted for her Crimson Blitz or Overture, Blazefire Saber was unique due to its independence of the Crystal. Her two other weapons were bestowed upon her with the Crystal’s connection. The incident earlier made her aware that it is possible for the Crystal’s link to be severed anytime.

The hallways seemed never-ending. The amount of time that had passed was unknown. After a period of silence, she sensed a change as she heard one of the doors hiss and footsteps echoed down the hall.

Lightning spotted a crevice in the hall, big enough for her to hide in. She slipped in and held her breath, her weapon ready once more.

As the footsteps approached closer, she stilled and as a portion of its silhouette came into view, Lightning whipped out her weapon in blade form, appearing like a thorn on a rose.

The figure raised both its arms. Familiar and clad in black, relief surged through her as she wiggled out of the hiding space.

“Noctis.” She exclaimed, retracting her gunblade and returning it to its case by her thighs.

“Lightning!” He surged forward, wrapping his arms around her.

Settling her head below his jaw, she breathed in and muttered softly. “Thank, Eos, I thought I would never find you.”

“I’m alright.” Noctis murmured in her hair. “Why are you alone?”

“I was separated from Ignis and Gladio. This place is a damn maze.”

“At least we’re together now.” They separated from the embrace and he nodded towards her saber. “And I see you have a weapon.”

“It’s a good thing I brought Blazefire Saber.”

“An interesting inscription.” He eyed the writing, “‘Invoke my name. I am Spark.’”

“Yeah.” Lightning looked at him briefly. Odd. She had asked him before, what the inscription meant, but he said he didn’t understand the language. She felt an ominous presence behind her and looked back, but nothing was there.

“You look rather perturbed.”

Her brows furrowed slightly at his words, but continued to glance back.

“There’s this daemon, a foras, who I think keeps following me.”

“It shouldn’t be too much trouble for you then” He winked and they began traversing through the keep.

Long minutes of silence passed as they walked through the halls. Noctis taking point and Lightning guarding the rear. It was then they heard an ear-cringing sound caused by a rogue axeman dragging its axe on the metal floor.

With nowhere else to hide, the two slipped into another narrow, shadowed crevice in the wall. The space just enough for them, however, the front of their bodies were pressed up against each other, breaths mingling into one.

As the rogue axeman passed by without notice, Lightning let out the breath she was holding. About to slip out of their hiding, Noctis blocked her with his arm and slowly tipped her chin upwards.

“I’m so glad you are here with me.” He breathed softly.

With his words, Lightning’s heart began to palpitate. Her duty faltering, wavering, as she became more aware of their bodies, the feeling of his against hers, their breaths mingling into one. She was sure he could feel her heart.

“Noct.” She sighed and closed her eyes as his palm cupped her jaw. How long has it been since they were alone? How long has it been since they’ve touched intimately? To be able to shut away the world, if only for a brief moment, and just be Claire and Noctis, not Glaive and King.

He dived for a rough kiss, molding his lips into hers and their teeth clacking. He pressed his body further against hers, trapping her within the small space. “Lightning.” He mumbled between frantic kisses.

She continued to kiss him harshly, pouring out everything. Everything that had happened since the beginning, King Regis, Insomnia, Altissia, losing Luna, Ignis’ unfortunate injury, losing Prompto, and the destruction of the Regalia. The grief and pain that had numbed everyone, Noctis the most. She didn’t know how to help him, if she couldn’t even help herself.

The kiss continued, she wondered how Noctis wasn’t running out of air. As her mind began to clear, the kiss began to feel different. No longer passionate, but rather aggressive and almost violating. She pulled back a bit to take a breath, but was soon covered again with his mouth, almost suffocating her. As she felt his tongue about to roam over past her lips, her soldier instincts rang alarm bells in her head. At that moment, she abruptly pulled away.

“Noctis, no.” She panted, trying to calm herself and catch a breath. She shoved him aside and escaped the crevice they were in. She looked at him warily. Her instincts still screaming at her. She knew one thing for sure; the kiss scared her. Terrified her.

“I apologize, Lightning.” Noctis murmured as he stepped out of the shadows eerily. “It wasn’t my intention to scare you.”

Her eyes slightly widened.

Lightning.

He called her Lightning.

Not Claire.

And at that moment, her mind ran purely on instinct.

With a flick of a wrist, Lightning converted her weapon into saber form and had its sharp edge by Noctis’ throat.

Her cold blue eyes stared against the prince’s, which were unusually calm.

“Who are you?”

“Lightning, what’re you talking about?”

“Who are you?” She repeated the question, emphasizing each word. Lightning, he never called her that, not after an intimate moment...

A smirk slipped on his lips. “I see nothing escapes your notice, Lightning.”

It was still Noctis’ voice, but she can tell it was someone else.

Ardyn. She clenched her jaw, pressing the blade further. The applied pressure tearing the skin of his throat. A thin trail of blood began to flow.

“Where’s Noctis?”

“Traversing towards the keep.” He replied, unfazed by the sharp edge against his throat. “He’s doing very well for someone without a weapon. Of course, with the power of kings at his disposal… he shouldn’t have a problem.”

“He wore the ring.” She stated.

“All according to plan.”

“So you forced him to wear it?”

“Of course not. It was his decision.”

“You separated him from us. Singled him out... And somehow took and returned our ability to use the crystal’s magic… so who are you? Really?” She repeated the question the third time. But it wasn’t the same implication as before. As a soldier, she was specifically trained to read people and understand their intentions. But this man had his own agenda. What was his plans for Noctis?

“What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “The Great Lightning can’t figure it out?”

“Enough word games.” With a snap of a wrist, her saber switched to gun mode. “You’ll be taking me to where Noctis is.”

As they travelled deeper into the keep, more daemons and troopers appeared and Lightning ticked them off one by one seamlessly, single-handedly while holding Ardyn hostage.

“Very good, Sergeant.” Ardyn crooned and praised in mockery. “What a fantastic display of butchery.”

“Hn.” She flicked the daemon blood coating her blade. “Doesn’t matter how, as long as the job gets done.”

“Interesting.” There was a gleam in his eyes that she could not explain. “Your killing intent. It's very controlled and calculated. You make a remarkable soldier.” She remained silent at his words as he continued on. “Your crusade of carnage is very palpable.”

“Quiet.” They walked until they reached a control room and at the other side, a hallway leading to another open space. Lightning eyed the structure of the room, control panels looked untouched, almost pristine, which could only mean they are nearing to the heart of the keep.

As they strode forward, Lightning paused, eyeing the long hallway littered with dead shock troopers.

“In case there was any doubt: it’s a trap.”

At that instance and with her guard down, he shoved her into the hallway and an energy barrier arose between them, trapping Lightning in the hall.

“I do thank you for the kiss.” Ardyn kissed and blew his fingers. “The Prince is quite lucky.” With a tip of his hat and a bow, he walked away.

She heard crackling sounds behind her. The bodies of shock troopers coming to life from the ground. She cursed under her breath and immediately tried to eliminate them, but that wasn't her only problem. The electric walls were coming closer and if she can’t get out soon, she would most definitely die at this place.

“Dammit.” She panted at the never-ending onslaught of troopers, sweat gathering at her brow, and the walls just kept getting closer. Looks like the jig was up. This was it. After all they’ve been through, this is where it ends. She could only hope that Noctis could reach the Crystal, stop the darkness to come, and return home to Insomnia.

Within her final thoughts, she thought of Noctis and heard him say her name, Claire.

But she heard her name once more over the crackling of electricity and realized that it wasn’t in her head.

“Claire!” Noctis appeared behind the barrier, looking panicked and in despair.

“Light’s in trouble!” Gladio yelled, scanning the operating room for something to get her out.

The Prince scoured the walls. “Hang on, we’ll get you out!”

Ignis shouted. “There ought to be a kill switch nearby - find it!”

Gladio responded, searching desperately. “And how do you know that?”

“I believe it’s the reason we were brought here.”

“Found it!” Noctis pressed it immediately and the crackling died down. He sighed in relief. “Shit. That was close.”

Lightning stumbled out of the hall and into his arms. “How did you all get here?”

Ignis responded. “After we were separated, we received “help” from the usual suspect.”

“That bastard’s playing with us.” Gladio growled out. “But at least we’re together.”

“All but one of us.” Lightning stared at the hallway, which could’ve been her place of demise.

“Claire, you alright?” Noctis asked worriedly, cupping a side of her face. She noticed the way he held her was gentler and wondered how on Eos didn’t she know it was an imposter a while ago.

“Yeah.” She breathed and held onto his wrist. This was him. The real Noctis. “I am now.”

“Reunited with your retainers at last.” The sneering voice of Ardyn echoed in the PA system. “How very touching.”

AN: Urgh. A bit rusty, but I wanted to share my take on Chapter 13 if Lightning was part of the gang.

Totes got inspired by that cutscene when Ardyn was Noctis. And when Noctis had that deep voice… Ohhhh babyyy...

Also, is this still Lightis LOL I gotta say though, Ardyn/Light has some good potential, especially with lore involved…

#lightis #nokurai #noctis lucis caelum #lightning farron #ardyn izunia #ffxv #ffxiii #i wrote a thing #animus #hahaha yikes #what did i do #is this lightis #evil smirk

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turtlepated · 4 years

Text

The Ghost and the She-wolf

Part 6

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This one is looooong. It might be the longest yet. I’m also dumping in some lore, some backstory, and a whole bunch of angst so brace yourselves!

Zhuk, pirate or otherwise, and the Mafia!Beejs brought to you by @monsterlovinghours

[TW: Mentions of torture, nothing descriptive but proceed with caution.]

Tag list: @beetlejuicebeadoll , @do-ya-hear-that-sound , @dilfyjuice , @nikkivfx , @insomni-snacc , @young-erstill

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In a daze, you allowed Zhuk to steer you aft. Being submerged had put out the few remaining fires licking at the ship, and the crewmen had already unlashed themselves and begun to get to work clearing the deck of the blackened and burnt mainsail. Your head was full to bursting with questions, so much so that you couldn’t even decide which to ask first. So you held your silence as the two of you passed through the doorway into the narrow corridor. He paused and you kept going, stilling when you felt his hand part company with your lower back and turning to see where he’d gone. He had managed to squeeze his large frame into one of the small cabins that lined the hall, emerging moments later with folded clothing held in his hand. “Here,” he said softly, offering it to you. “Feel free to use my cabin to change.” You swallowed down a fluttering feeling in your chest, turning and walking ahead of him as he gestured you onward with a sweep of his arm. Zhuk shut the door behind him as you crossed awkwardly to the center of the room, looking around uncertainly as if waiting for his permission. “Ladies first,” he said with a smile, motioning to the privacy screen in the corner. You gulped again, perturbed by the jittery sensations bubbling from deep inside as you padded meekly behind the screen. You tugged the end a little closer to the wall for good measure.

It was more difficult getting the dress off than it had been to put it on, but that was probably more due to your trembling fingers and the uncooperative nature of heavy wet fabric adhering to your damp and chilled skin. After struggling for a few moments you managed to shimmy your way out of the ruined and sodden layers of skirts, pooling on the floor around your feet. The sound of movement from outside your private little nook drew your attention and you stood on tiptoe to peek over the screen. Zhuk stood by his bunk facing away from you, shucking his own drenched jacket and tossing it across the arms of the chair behind his desk. His equally drenched tunic clung to his broad back, showing off the fine musculature between his shoulder blades. Your eyes watched them work as he reached back with both hands and began to peel the soggy shirt off over his head. You were shocked at yourself when you realized your cheeks were warming, torn between looking away to give him the privacy he had considerately given to you and indulging in the chance to see him in a state of semi-undress.

The thing that made you make up your mind, however, wasn’t his admittedly impressive physique that was revealed when his tunic was removed. Your eyes widened as you took in the vast collection of scars that marred the Russian captain’s skin. Two in particular, thick, ropey, and pearly white, ran parallel down either side of his spine and you wondered what could have possibly caused them. You could only imagine the pain he must have endured to receive such ghastly marks. “I suppose you have questions, volchitsa,” he called to you over his bare shoulder and you choked on your own breath, ducking back down before he could see you peeping at him. You cleared your throat, buying time to make sure your voice was at its normal register when you spoke. “Several, yes,” you admitted, busying yourself with getting dressed quickly and angrily steering your wandering thoughts away from visualizing him changing out of his tight, wet breeches. You huffed in mortification as warmth flooded through you from the top of your head to your toes, forcing yourself to focus on your own clothing. It was a simple tunic and breeches, clearly a man’s cut, so not terribly well fitting on your own body. But it was nice to be in pants again and out of the troublesome skirts. “I suppose the first and most pressing is where are we headed? I’ve never heard of Nav.” You jumped slightly as he knocked on the wooden frame of the screen, smiling inscrutably as you tucked the hem of your overlarge shirt into the loose waistband of your breeches. You willed yourself not to squirm as his gaze swept down your body, nodding approvingly. “You look much more like yourself,” he said with a chuckle. “Nav is an island in the North Atlantic.”

You frowned, squeezing between him and the screen when he seemed uninterested in standing aside to let you pass. Heat spiked in your face again, but you studiously ignored it and the low rumble of him chuckling to himself. You went to his desk, where charts and maps and documents were arranged in orderly stacks, flipping carefully through them until in search of one particular sheaf. Finding it, you withdrew a large navigational chart of the North Atlantic and spread it out on top of the desk as Zhuk moved to stand beside you. You could feel his eyes on you, but you concentrated on scanning the map. “Where precisely is this island?” you asked, frowning when you were unable to spot it anywhere. “You will not find the island of Nav on that map or any other, moye sokrovishche. It has never been plotted and it never will be because only the dead can reach it.” At that you jerked upright, nearly headbutting him in the chest because he stood so close. “The dead?” you repeated incredulously. Zhuk nodded sagely in affirmative. “Nav is not it’s true name, it is simply what I call it. The island itself has no name, but given that its purpose is as a gathering place for the souls of the departed, I chose to call it Nav: the name the ancient Slavs used for the land of the dead.”

Zhuk spoke with such surety and confidence, as though he were not spouting nonsense born from myths and fairy tales. But when you considered all that you’d seen since coming aboard his ship: the sea monsters, the waves seemingly obeying his commands, his own startling transformation, you had to question whether or not he really was telling the truth. “If this Nav is an island of the dead that only they can find, how is it that you know how to get there?” Zhuk’s easy smile slipped from his face and a somber, sorrowful expression took its place. “That,” he began with a heavy sigh, propping himself upright with one arm braced against the desk. “Is a story I will tell you another time. For now, tell me what you and Renard talked about when you paid him a visit.” You surprised yourself with how forthcoming you were in answering his inquiry. When exactly had you come to trust him so easily? He hummed pensively as you explained Renard’s plan, revealing that he had been vaguely acquainted with the man during his pirating days. “He was always a cunning and vicious bastard,” Zhuk said with a mirthless scoff. “It’s no surprise to find out that the Navy endorses his methods.” You scowled distastefully. “Not all the Navy,” you insisted. “He’s a monster, and I’ve long thought that by the time the Lord High Admiral realizes that he’s loosed a mad dog on the seas it will be too late to stop him.”

The Perperuna was made ready to sail before sundown and Zhuk, with his mysterious power to compel the tides and winds to do his bidding, was able to set her on her course at top speed. You accompanied him at the helm, a little awestruck by how he seemed to know instinctively which direction to go without need to consult the charts, any sort of tools or even a simple compass. As the ship sailed further north, the temperature dropped considerably. Zhuk had taken one look at you with your arms pressed hard against your middle, breathing into your cupped hands to warm your fingers before he swept off his own greatcoat and draped it around you. It swallowed you, but you were grateful for the gesture and for the warmth. When you asked what he would do when he got cold himself, he only chuckled in that damnable enigmatic way he had. On the second night of sailing north you came up on deck to find a dense fog swirling out over the sea, so thick it was as if the clouds had settled just above the gentle lapping of the waves. The sea was smooth as glass, the ever-present wind dwindled down to almost nothing, yet the Perperuna cruised steadily forward into the fog bank. You padded to the forecastle rail and leaned against it, staring hard into the fog until it felt as if you’d gone blind but you could see nothing. This far north, without breakwater at the bases to give them away, there was always the risk of icebergs. Coupled with this blasted fog and the threat only compounded. What was Zhuk thinking, steering through this mess? The ship had only just managed to stay afloat after Renard’s assault and then being swallowed by a whirlpool.

You didn’t even realize you had company until he settled himself at the rail beside you, copying your posture and gazing out past the bow. You jumped and gasped, startled. How could such a big man move so silently? Predictably, Zhuk chuckled at your little start. “Keeping watch?” he asked, the easy smile you’d grown so accustomed to on his lips. Despite yourself, you flashed a smirk back, not willing to let him think he’d got the better of you. “Someone should,” you retorted with no real venom. “Especially in this.” Zhuk shifted, turning to face you and propping himself against the rail on his elbow. “After all you’ve seen, you still think this ship can be foundered by the elements?” he teased, his eyes glittering despite the low light. You frowned, privately seeing his point but again refusing to concede. Now that you had a moment with the captain, there was a question you had been wanting to ask but had not been sure how to broach. “If you would rather not say, I understand,” you began gently, thinking that it might be too unpleasant a memory to revisit. “But I saw the… the marks on your back…” You trailed off, certain that the shrewd man beside you would know exactly what you were asking.

Zhuk hummed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Yes, I know you did. And I did promise to explain,” he admitted while you ducked your head away, hoping he wouldn’t see the blush rise to your face at the realization that you had been caught spying on him. With a sigh, Zhuk told his tale.

“I was not always a pirate, volchitsa. I had a family once, a village. A home. It was a hard life, but it was a good one. Fighting was never something that I enjoyed, it was a necessary evil to protect those I cared for. Though I did have a talent for it, I must admit. I took that talent and, with many others, joined the ranks of men to fight against the Crimeans to preserve our homeland. I thought I had seen violence and bloodshed before, but this was no battle… This was a massacre. I was the only one to survive, but I was captured before I could even think to escape.” He paused and breathed deeply, letting it out in a long exhale and turning to you. “I do not wish to upset you, volchista,” he murmured. “It is not a pretty story.” You stepped closer to him, pressing your arm flush against his, wishing to impart some sort of comfort. “Tell me anyway? Please?” you entreated. Zhuk nodded and continued. “My captors used the opportunity I presented to test an execution method used by the Nords, to make an example of me. I was stripped of my shirt, my wrists bound together and suspended over my head. They cut me, as you saw, opened my back and pulled my lungs through the wounds.” You made a shuddering sound of revulsion at his description of their cruelty, unconsciously leaning further into him, pressing your head against his shoulder. “Barbarians,” you seethed, furious at the men you would never meet for what they had done to him. “How did you survive such brutality?” Zhuk sighed through his nose, pressing his face against the top of your head and whispering into your hair: “I did not.”

You gasped, stunned, but did not move away. Some part of you had known, deep down, that this was no ordinary man you had devoted yourself to pursuing. Now you knew the truth, once and for all. You could sense him beside you, so still, waiting to see how you would respond to his admission; if you would fear him, recoil from him, the dead man who had saved your life. “What happened?” you asked, feeling the tension leaving him as he sighed again, his breath gusting through your hair. “I was dead, but then I was not. I was brought back and given a task: to gather wayward souls and shepherd them to the other side.” Your brow furrowed, not understanding. “Brought back? How? By who?” “A woman I pray you will never meet, moye sokrovishche. But that is enough for now. We are here.”

As suddenly as it had appeared, the Perperuna exited the impenetrable mire of fog and you could see an island in the distance. Monolithic sea stacks rose up on either side of the ship like the fingers of a giant, standing guard to the mouth of a bay. You could already see that the dark shape of the island was dotted in flickering lights, so it must be inhabited. But Zhuk had said only the dead could find it… Perperuna docked at a wharf in the bay, the crew bustling around making final preparations to disembark while you stood at the gunwale and surveyed what lay around you. It looked like a settlement of some kind, there were buildings that could have been shops or houses, roads clearly laid out, but not a soul to be seen. All the lights you had glimpsed from further out in the bay had vanished, as though thousands of candles were all snuffed out at once. Zhuk called for you as the gangway was lowered to the dock, waiting for you and directing you ahead of himself. It was the first time your feet had been on solid ground in months, and it felt odd to be standing without the constant motion of a boat beneath you.

All around you the crew began to disperse, save for the loyal bosun who was once again conversing with the captain in quiet Russian. As they conducted their business you ventured off to have a look around this island of the dead. So far it was rather demure, apparently abandoned. You meandered from the docks toward the vacant town square, where there was a stone fountain with no water. While studying the statue of some sort of strange serpentine creature that dominated the center, a soft voice behind you made you turn. “Captain?” There was a man standing just at your back. You had not heard him approach and you were certain he had not been there when you went to the fountain. You also knew the man, a midshipman still clad in his blackened and tattered Naval uniform, to be dead. “Captain, it is you!” he said, his voice drifting as if from a great distance. “We wondered where you were, what had taken you so long.” A hard mass was forming in your throat as other forms began to materialize around him, starting out as vaguely blurry shapes like heat mirages that coalesced into the visages of your own crew. They greeted you heartily, relieved to see that you’d finally made your way to the island. When they all fell silent at the same time, all glowering hard at something behind you, you looked back to see Zhuk standing a short ways away, watching somberly.

“Captain… did he bring you here?” asked the midshipman who first recognized you. “You’re with him? After everything we went through?” The man stepped closer, studying you, and you couldn’t help flinching guiltily as understanding dawned in his eyes. “You’re alive,” he said, creating a ripple of murmuring in the ghosts gathered behind him. “You led us all to our deaths, and here you are now with the pirate responsible.” “That’s enough, Brown,” came another voice, and all eyes turned to an officer as he made his way through the assembly. Your own lieutenant, Jonathan Mathers; steadfast and loyal as any person ever could be, smiled warmly when he saw you. “Glad to see you’ve finally arrived, Captain,” said Mathers. The warm rush of fondness and gratitude gave way to guilt, clawing at your insides. “Mathers, I…” you tried to say around the lump in your throat. “I’m so sorry, I never meant any of this to happen.” Mathers’ smile turned sad and vacant, and you realized that he and the midshipman and the other crew were losing their definition, dissolving at the edges as though evaporating like water vapor. “I know, Captain. And I know how you must be feeling. Don’t fret, we are dead, our troubles are now over.”

His gaze cut over your shoulder, at Zhuk, and he stepped in closer, leaning toward you so that you could feel the chill of death curling off him. “But you are alive, and I fear your troubles are only just beginning.” With that they were gone, dissipated like fog and leaving only a faint snap of cold and an ache deep in your chest that stretched up your throat, throbbing in the roots of your teeth and burning your eyes. You felt a heavy hand curl gently, protectively around your shoulder as Zhuk stepped up behind you. “I am sorry, volchitsa,” he said sadly. “I should have warned you.” You wiped at the moisture threatening to spill from your eyes, taking a deep breath. “I got them killed,” you said, your voice hollow and raw but certain. “Oh, now, don’t take it so hard.” Your eyes snapped up, glancing around for the source of the sultry, amused voice that had come echoing from somewhere in the shadows. Gradually you heard footsteps, as well as the soft metallic clacking as of a walking stick meeting the pavement. “The dead do so love to deliver their cryptic warnings,” the newcomer went on, now a discernible shape in the gloom as they came closer. “It makes them feel so mysterious, you see. A bit of free advice, ma cherie?” You could see him now. He was shorter than Zhuk and nowhere near as broad, but there were certain traits that piqued your interest. The pale skin, the greenish tint to his hair. And his striking eyes, one green, the other startlingly purple.

His grin as he watched you taking in his appearance was vaguely predatory, but you felt no fear as he chuckled and delivered on his promised words of wisdom. “Don’t dwell on dead words. Worse than riddles, more often than not, and far less entertaining.” His mismatched eyes drifted past you to the Russian captain. “Zhuk, you old pirate, it’s been a long time.” Zhuk was chuckling as he stepped up next to you, reaching offering a hand. “That is has, Scarabee. I did not expect anyone to be here already.” Scarabee grinned again, a faint sort of glow to his eyes as he shook Zhuk’s hand with glittering jeweled rings clinking on his fingers. “You know I have my ways, mon amie. But why don’t you introduce me properly to your lovely friend?” Zhuk dutifully reported your name and rank to his associate, whose cat-like smile widened as he held out a hand to you in invitation. Swallowing, you laid your hand in his and he bent forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Well, ma jolie, welcome to Carrefour.”

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[Translation: moye sokrovishche – “my treasure” ]

Introducing: Captain Scarabee! It’s my first time writing him and I’m kinda nervous about getting him right.

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in the next bit, say the word!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

#beetlejuice #mafia!beej #zhuk #pirate!zhuk #zhuk x reader #my writing #Pate writes

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achtung-attitude · 4 years

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SEPTEMBER 19, 1981

She was born with her eyes closed, her flesh cold. Her parents wept bitterly as the doctors shook their heads. Stillbirth. Born dead.

But then the infant opened her eyes and silently reached out, gripping a nurse’s scrubs. The nurse screamed. The child's parents stared in shock. The baby made no sound, no sound at all. The girl was named T’onga, her family name Kim. But throughout her childhood, it wasn’t a name that really meant anything to her.

From an early age, growing up in Koreatown, she took an interest in biology. In elementary school, the enthusiasm with which she dissected and examined animal specimens in science class could only be described by her teachers as ‘unsettling’.

She didn’t play with other kids her age. She hardly engaged with her own parents. She seemed to have no emotion at all, spending almost all of her time outside of school in an old, disused warehouse. An infamous place, that other children her age dare not go, especially not with her there. The whispering began before long, from children and adults alike.

“Who does she think she is?”

“What is wrong with that child?”

“It’s like she’s got no heart at all…!”

Terror, disguised as anger. She understood, even then, that the whispers were only a distraction from their fear. And they were afraid. Afraid of her. The girl with no heart.

“I don’t have a heart either,” All-Kill declared to her, in the year 1995, 3 years after the great riots. Earlier that day, O.J. Simpson struggled to put on a pair of gloves, a satisfied look spreading on his face.

“We’re the same,” he continued. “I have no love for this world.”

“I don’t think love is real. And even if it is, I don’t care about what some old geezer has to say about it.”

The man in black laughed. They sat across from each other in the living room of her parent’s house. The girl’s nose was broken, and plastered over with a thick bandage.

They were junkies, squatting in her warehouse to shoot up their poison in the dead of night. In her warehouse. Tainting her space with their filth. Her memories of what happened next were hazy, but she had a distinct memory of leaping onto someone back and stabbing something into their neck. Probably the scalpel she stole from the school lab. She didn’t have it anymore, which was perturbing.

When the adults found them, the junkie’s companions had already fled. It was only the two of them, both pale, barely conscious, blood speckling their skin. He wasn’t dead, nor would he die. But the things they found in the backrooms certainly were.

A wide array of organs of various sizes, but all too small to be human, stored in cupboards and boxes. The investigation came to a total of one dog, two cats, 6 rats and 3 small birds. Hearts, guts, livers, preserved in pickle jars.

“Why pickle jars?” All-Kill inquires.

“There’s only so much I could steal from school. I improvised.” The man in black chuckled at this. “They didn’t suffer,” she explains. “It wasn’t about that. I was quick. I just wanted to see how they worked.”

“I believe you.”

He had come in the night. While the police investigated, her parents had been allowed to bring her home. She had said nothing to them whatsoever. Then he came, knocking on the door while she sat staring at the television. She heard her parents gasp, and a polite request to enter. The man in black came inside, shrugging off his jacket and sitting on the couch across from her. He sent her parents away, and introduced himself as All-Kill.

“What kind of name is that, anyway?” T’onga asks, taking her eyes off the TV for a moment to glance at him.

“One that I acquired. There’s been a lot of violence in my life, I’m afraid. People like your parents gave it to me after a certain number of incidents. It’s crass, I admit, but I’ve come to like it.”

“Hm. They call me the girl without a heart.”

“I know. I’ve heard all sorts of terrible things about you. They used to say similar things about me.”

“It’s stupid. Of course I have a heart,” she says, her voice remaining flat and unemotional, “How the fuck could I live without one? They think because I don’t laugh or sing or cry, that I’m somehow not human, but I am… I want the same things the rest of them want: a peaceful life, in my own space, where I can do the things that make me happy.” ”

“Of course. But they don’t understand that. They don’t understand you, and that makes them afraid. I know what it’s like to be rejected out of fear. The pain that comes with it, it’s almost unbearable. That was until I came to realize the truth: They were right to be afraid… Do you know what’s going to happen to you now?”

“... Guess there’ll be a trial. After that, juvie, or psychiatric care.”

“All that and worse. Did you know your parents intend to disown you? Even if you dodge jail or the asylum, there will be nowhere for you to return to. You’ll be made a ward of state, carted around foster homes. Because your parents… decided you were too much hassle to deal with.”

After a moment of consideration, T’onga responded, “... I’d probably make the same call in their place.”

His face twitched at this. “... You don’t care?”

“They’re not special either. Even if they gave birth to me, raise me, I don’t feel anything special for them. They’re people. Just like everyone else.”

“... That’s wrong,” the man in black declares, and the girl with no heart noticed for the first time something quite strange. “They are your family. No… they should be your family. That means more than blood, genetics, DNA. It’s a bonding of the soul. Parents impart pieces of their own souls to create life, and nurture it into a human being. If they… can betray that bond so easily… then it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that you are the way you are.”

He was angry. Adults have been angry at her before, but not like this. At last she realizes what was different about his. There was no fear in it. He’s not masking anything. He was simply, truly, angry. And to this, she had no answer.

“You don’t belong here. You never have. If you stay here, you’ll rot away, never knowing love, or peace, or the true meaning of family. But I can save you. I can give you a new life, far away from this desolate house. I can give you powers beyond imagination. I can give you a family that will never betray you… What do you say?”

She stared at him, her lips suddenly dry. Still, she couldn’t think of an answer. Words failed her. At last, she nodded once, shakily. She couldn’t read the expression that came over him. He called out, summoning her parents into the room. All-Kill didn’t stand up, rather he raised his hand to them, shaped as if he was holding something between the thumb and forefinger, but she couldn’t see anything there. All she saw was him grazing her parent’s chest, rotating his wrist, and they instantly dropped dead. Eyes open.

“... They’re no-one special, right?” he said, meeting her eyes, wide and bright in the flickering light cast by the TV. He raised his hand, palm facing up. She took it.

There was a little boy in the car he had waiting outside. A boy no older than 3, sitting in a booster seat, mashing two action figures together. She didn’t know what make of car it was, but it looked expensive. All-Kill bid her to sit in the back, and so she did.

“Are you part of the family now?” the boy asked.

“What?”

“All-Kill, is she part of the family now?”

“Yes she is, Sang-ok,” he declared, turning the key in the ignition. The vehicle rumbled into life, and they drove away.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #achtung attitude #t'onga kim #all-kill #ch34

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7-wonders · 5 years

Text

Shatter pt. 9

Summary: Witches? In my Outpost? It’s more likely than you think. Alternatively, the final boss battle of the Apocalypse.

Word Count: 4272

A/N: Wow, can’t believe we’re nearing the end here! I know I’ve neglected this lil’ story for a while, but honestly I was just really lost as to how I would continue it. Thankfully, making a snazzy Pinterest aesthetic board for Shatter helped me to figure out where I wanted to take these last couple of chapters. Feedback is always appreciated, and I would love if you would drop a comment or reblog if you enjoyed this chapter!

Michael’s arms are still wrapped around you while you both remain in a comfortable silence. The songs have long since changed time and time again, with Paul Anka currently crooning through the unseen speakers. Time has passed by at an indeterminable rate, the only constant being the slow swaying that reminds you that you’re actually here, in the arms of your beloved Michael. It’s ironic, how being with the literal Antichrist makes you feel like you’re in heavy, but it’s an oxymoron you’re willing to embrace.

The music cuts out automatically when a knock sounds at the door. You unbury your head from Michael’s chest to look up at him. He doesn’t seem to have an inkling of confusion on his face, innately aware of who it is before the door even swings open. Your lip curls when Ms. Venable storms in, Ms. Mead trailing behind her, an ever-present shadow.

“Ladies,” Michael greets curtly, “I’m a little busy with finalizing my selections for the Sanctuary.” You have to stifle a laugh at his blatant and half-assed lie, pursing your lips to keep from grinning.

“We’re making the selections now, Mr. Langdon, and I’m afraid you didn’t make the cut. Neither of you did,” Venable smirks, believing she’s won some great battle. Michael releases you from his arms, but keeps your hand interlocked with his as you both share a silent conversation with one long look at each other. Michael bursts into laughter, but you remain silent at his side.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to let you have your moment, but I just couldn’t hold back.” Ms. Venable scowls at Michael’s complete lack of fear, so wrapped up in her anger that she can’t see that she’s already lost.

“Ms. Mead,” she snaps, the robot producing a gun from her jacket pocket. You barely even blink when the gun is pointed at you, having already faced death numerous times in just the past two days. “Kill (Y/N) first. After all, we still require blood atonement for the aborted punishment yesterday.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Michael stares at Ms. Mead, the gun quivering in her hands as she freezes. You know what Michael’s planning on doing, your connection with him being evolved enough to where you can sense his ideas, but the dramatics as he allows Ms. Mead’s system to try and override his commands get tiring to watch. You want action; you want blood.

Something changed in you the moment that you got your memories back. For nearly three years, you’ve been used as a pawn in everyone else’s games. To them, you’ve been something to be used, to be won or owned. For Michael, it was his victorious capture as he ‘freed’ you from the coven. Miss Cordelia saw you as the secret weapon to be tucked away and used when the time was right. Ms. Venable asserts her role of power by controlling your every move, even making up her own rules in the hopes that she’ll be able to satiate her need for murder in her corrupt Outpost.

You’re tired of being pushed around and treated like you’re not your own person. Everybody seems to want something from you, regardless of how you feel about it. Even Michael, the love of your life, is guilty of this very same crime. After all, a golden cage, with all of its fine decorations and elaborate disguises, is still just a cage.

The first sign that something is off with Ms. Venable is her eyes widening, mouth falling open. Michael’s perturbed, but he doesn’t show it beyond the crook of an eyebrow. You smile softly, serenely, as your hand clenches and further cuts off her air supply. When a blue tinge appears around her lips, an odd noise escaping from her mouth as her lungs desperately try to fill themselves with the air that they won’t be getting, Michael looks towards you. Still, he doesn’t stop you. When you finally get bored of teasing her, a simple flick of your hand is all that it takes to snap her neck and send her toppling to the floor, dead.

Ms. Mead lowers the gun, stuttering as she tries to comprehend why she didn’t take the shot as commanded, but you can only stare at your hands. They’re shaking slightly, as if your emotions are finally catching up to realizing what you’ve just done. The gravity of the situation, though, doesn’t fall on you like you’re expecting it to. It’s a shock, of course, that you’ve just murdered a woman. You don’t regret what you did to her, feeling nothing but contempt as you stare down at her still-warm corpse.

“(Y/N)?” Michael calls, and your eyes snap up to his. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, “it-it felt...good, to do that.”

“I knew that the poisoned apples plan would be enjoyable for everyone involved. Not only did Venable believe she had killed everyone and won, but--”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you cut off Michael’s victorious monologue, “go back a bit. ‘Killed everyone?’ You’re joking, right?”

“The Outpost residents needed to die for us to win. It was the only way that we could lure the witches here,” Michael sighs, reaching a hand out towards you. “This is why I kept you away, (Y/N). You’ve never been good with the deaths of those that you’ve formed attachments to.”

The room spins as the gravity of what Michael’s just said starts to sink in. They’re all dead, every single one of them. Gallant, Timothy, Emily, Mallory. Your friends, and the only people left on this world, besides Michael, who understood you. You let out a yell and surge forward, determined to use Vitalum Vitalis and bring them back to life, but Michael’s firm arms wrapping around your waist stop you. He hauls you back, entrapping you against his body while you futilely kick your legs against his shins.

“Enough,” he says sharply. “Do you feel that?” When you do calm down, you realize what he’s talking about. You can feel the magic that thrums through the air, magic that you haven’t felt for years.

“Cordelia,” you mutter, eyes shifting up to look at Michael. He’s staring at you, gauging your reaction at the arrival of your Supreme and coven. You don’t need to tell him that you harbor nothing but animosity for the woman, having already sensed it in you from the moment your powers picked up on their arrival. “So this is it, then?”

“This is it. What I--what we have been working towards for years.”

He releases you from his arms, and you stumble as you regain your footing. When you straighten up, you meet Michael’s cold blue eyes. He’s questioning you, trying to figure out your allegiances without breaking his promise to not use magic on you without your permission.

“Hey, remember what I said last night? It’s just the two of us now, no matter what.”

“Promise?” Ms. Mead approaches him, a velvet red dinner jacket in her hands. You can’t help but to smile as you take the jacket from her hands and help Michael into it; even after all these years, he still seeks validation just as much as he did when you first started dating.

“I promise you, Michael.”

“What do you think?”

“Hail Satan,” Ms. Mead says, smiling proudly at her surrogate son.

“Not quite, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Michael holds his arm out for you, looking down at you proudly. “Shall we?”

There’s not an ounce of hesitation in you as you reach your hand out, fingers grasping his firm bicep. Michael kisses you, almost as if he’s claiming a victory, before pulling away. Your eyes flutter shut as he fixes your mussed hair, making sure that you’re both ready for the imminent ‘reunion’ with the coven. Your eyes shoot open again when new life forces burst across the blank canvas behind your eyelids.

“They’ve revived the others,” you mutter, looking up at Michael.

“Then let us go and greet our guests.”

Cordelia’s light, airy voice hasn’t changed a bit. It floats up the stairs, making your back stiffen as your body reacts to your once-mother figure’s presence. Cordelia ended up as a ‘mother’ for all of the girls under her charge at Miss Robichaux’s, and it’s still difficult to come to terms with how she betrayed your trust.

“We need your help. All of you,” Cordelia stands in front of the three witches: Coco, Mallory, and Dinah (although Dinah would slit your throat if she heard you saying that she was a witch). “It’s the only way we can defeat him.”

They don’t notice when you and Michael reach the landing at the top of the stairs, too wrapped up in their own world to realize the lion that stalks them from a hidden perch.

“You’re on your own with that shit. I’m not here to defeat anyone,” Dinah quips, rolling her eyes as if insulted to be brought back to life in an effort to defeat the Antichrist.

“How can any of you defeat me, when I’ve already won?” The six women whip around at the sound of Michael’s voice, and you’re startled to see that Madison and Myrtle managed to survive with Cordelia.

“You haven’t won,” Cordelia steps forward, eyes flickering to you standing arm-in-arm with Michael.

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed the state of the world.”

“It’s almost as bad as your dinner jacket, but at least the world can be saved,” Myrtle speaks up, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at her take on fashion.

“I must admit, Michael, it was very clever of you to reach (Y/N) and take her for yourself before we could find her. Release her from whatever spell you have her under. You know she would never be on your side willingly,” Cordelia says, believing that you’ll come running into her arms once you’ve been rescued from the big, bad Antichrist.

“Whatever spell I have her under?” Michael laughs, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. “Cordelia, I freed (Y/N) from your spell. Imagine my surprise when I learned that you had wiped the memories of my beloved in an attempt to weaponize her against me.”

“No…” Cordelia gasps, finding it impossible to believe that you would turn against her.

“(Y/N)?” Michael calls, and you hum in response. “What do you remember?”

“I remember everything. Being lied to about Michael, led to believe that things would be alright if I escaped him. I remember making it back to Misty’s swamp, and you luring me in with a false sense of security. I remember you tackling me to the ground before forcibly taking my memories away from me, all so that you could use me as some secret weapon,” You say sharply, glowering at the woman in front of you.

“(Y/N) or no (Y/N),” Cordelia is obviously thrown off her rhythm by your admission, but chooses to continue, “the world will still be saved.”

“By you?” Michael’s incredulous tone permeates the silent room.

“By all of us.”

“Hey, get the wax out of your ears, I’m here to watch,” Dinah declares.

“But I’m not,” Coco moves to stand by Cordelia, her smirk fading into a grimace. “Just don’t let me die again, okay? It really sucked the first time.”

“When we’re done, you’ll all wish you were still dead,” Michael’s lip curls into a sneer as your eyes lock with Mallory’s. You can see every emotion that’s currently flashing through her eyes: the confusion, the apprehension, the betrayal, and the determination. You just hope that you can get to her in time to use that determination so that you can both exact revenge on Cordelia for what she did to you.

“I always thought the world would end with fire and ice, not witches and warlocks,” Myrtle says.

“The seventh seal has been broken. Wormwood has fallen from the sky and turned the rivers to blood and fire. The bottomless pit has been opened, and my swarms of locusts and scorpions have ravaged humanity. The world has been remade in my father’s image.”

“Darling…” Myrtle chuckles, “it seems Daddy didn’t tell you the most important rule of bringing on the apocalypse. If you want to finish the job, the thing you have to do first is get rid of all the witches.”

“Big mistake,” Coco pipes up.

“I could annihilate all of you in a second and the world would go on without missing a beat.” Michael’s getting angry now, starting to lose his cool, and you tighten your grip on him in an attempt to calm him down. “You, and all of your work, will be forgotten in the rubble of the past. But we want to give you a future.”

Michael steps forward with you, keeping you side-by-side with him as his equal. When you steal a glance towards him, your heart rate increases. He looks strong, assured, and pissed. He’s ready to burn the rest of his enemies, and kiss you in the midst of their remains. You smirk when he looks at you for a split second, the fire in his eyes evident.

“Fall to your knees and accept me as your lord and savior, accept (Y/N) as your queen and I as your king, and we will bring you to the table as our obedient subjects.”

Cordelia audibly laughs, though the humor in this situation is not evident to you.

“Imbeciles!” Ms. Mead speaks up from where she’s been standing behind you. “Fall to your knees before the king and queen! Hail Satan!”

Michael had never discussed you becoming the ‘queen’ alongside him before, so it’s a shock to hear him implore your former coven to accept you as such. Still, you can’t deny the images that flash through your mind, of you and Michael ruling together and creating a new, perfect world for everyone. It would work, and you’re more than willing to do your part to help, but not in the way that he’s planned it. This carnage, the smoldering remnants of a once-thriving world, are not sustainable for any sort of world, even one ruled by the Antichrist. You can’t watch more people be slaughtered all in the hopes that Michael will be fulfilling his father’s plans.

“The only way we would sit at your table is if your decapitated head were the centerpiece,” Cordelia nearly spits the words out of her mouth like they’re coated in venom.

“Cordelia, you raised me from the dead so that you would have the power of voodoo on your side,” Dinah moves to stand next to Cordelia, the two women looking at each other. “But if you know anything about who I am, you know that the only choice I’d pick would be the winner.”

Dinah bows her head in respect, averting her eyes to the floor as Michael holds his hand out towards her.

“You’re half-right, Dinah.”

“She needed the help of a powerful voodoo queen, but that ain’t you, sis.” You can only gape at the sight of a woman with long, braided hair and a deep Southern accent who can only be Marie Laveau. You had never met her before, your arrival at the academy being a few years after Cordelia’s ascension to Supreme, but every witch had heard the stories of the legendary voodoo queen. “To release me from hell, Cordelia promised Papa Legba the darkest and most corrupt voodoo queen’s soul for mine. You’ll serve him well in my place.”

“You’re a fool, Marie Laveau,” Dinah spits. “You would have done no different if you were queen.”

“No!” Marie Laveau disappears, and then reappears a moment later behind Dinah with a machete. Even those who seem indomitable, such as Dinah, meet their death at the hands of something as simple as a well-placed throat slash.

Dinah bleeds out on the floor below you, Marie Laveau declaring her victory before the woman is even fully dead. Michael, who is completely over the theatrics at this point, looks behind his shoulder towards Ms. Mead. The robot removes her hand, revealing a machine gun underneath. When Cordelia starts speaking Latin, your limbs freeze. It’s been too long since you’ve studied Latin, and your knowledge of the language is too rusty to keep up with what she’s saying. When Ms. Mead starts convulsing and smoking, you realize too late what the spell was.

“Michael--” You don’t get to finish your sentence before the robotic copy of Ms. Mead explodes.

The force of the blast propels both you and Michael over the side of the railing, your hands being ripped apart from each other in the process. Michael, being the Antichrist, is largely unscathed from the fall. You, however, are nothing more than a witch. Your head hits the concrete floor with a sickening crack, bouncing like a basketball from the force of the impact. You don’t remember blacking out, but the next thing you remember is the sound of gunshots breaking through the ringing in your ears. Your head throbs as you’re hauled up suddenly, and a strangled scream rips through your body at the sight of Michael’s bullet-riddled corpse against a wall.

“Shed the ego. Disengage from this realm. Place myself there and say the words. Tempus Infinituum. Then take him out.” You force your eyes to remain open, looking at Mallory who has you propped up against her as she speaks. Cordelia stands on your other side, keeping you steady with a firm arm around your shoulders. The two women drag you up the stairs, ignoring your cries as you lamely try to fight their grips.

“You guys, you don’t have to do this. There’s another way, one that doesn’t involve going back in time and killing Michael.” Your voice is rough from the screaming that you’ve done, and speaking louder than a whisper sends lightning bolts through your head, but you need to stop this. You know what they’re planning to do with Tempus Infinituum, having watched as Mallory went back in time to try and prevent the execution of Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov.

“(Y/N), you are an integral part to saving the world! I promise you, the love that you think Michael has for you? It’s not real. He’s the Antichrist, (Y/N), he’s incapable of love,” Cordelia impatiently explains, hustling you down one of the many hallways of the former Hawthorne school.

“Mallory, why?” You turn your attention to your best friend. “You were in the exact same situation as I was when we got our memories wiped. Neither of us wanted it, why would you blindly follow Cordelia?”

“B-because it’s what we’ve been working towards for years,” Mallory stutters, looking unsure.

“I’m telling you, there’s another--” A sharp pain in your abdomen cuts your sentence off in a gasp as you look down and find a knife embedded in your stomach.

“I should have been on that plane!” Brock, Coco’s old boyfriend, yells. You don’t have time to wonder why he’s here, or inspect just how the radiation has ruined his once-pristine appearance, as he yanks the knife out of your torso.

Mallory and Cordelia both scream as you stagger back, shaking hands attempting to cover the wound that’s steadily producing blood. You sink against the wall, the world turning blurry as your head lolls to the side. Something wet dribbles past your lips and down your face, and you weakly poke your tongue out to make sure that you’re not somehow drooling on yourself. With a faint note of alarm, you realize that blood is coming out of your mouth, too.

Myrtle steps around you to yell something at Brock, but you can’t really figure out what’s being said. Cordelia’s pressing her hands to your abdomen, trying desperately to stop the bleeding while Mallory strokes your face and attempts to comfort you. A flash of light draws your attention towards Myrtle, and you can see that she’s set Brock afire, his burning body falling over the railing. Falling to the ground limply, Cordelia’s face appears in and out of your vision.

Michael can feel that something’s wrong from the moment that he rises again and blows that ungrateful bitch’s head off. He doesn’t start panicking until he realizes that the pain in his abdomen and intense fear he’s feeling isn’t coming from him, it’s coming from you.

“(Y/N)!” Michael’s loud voice cuts through the rest of your swimming senses, coming through like he’s standing right next to you. He’s frantic, something that you’ve never seen from him.

“He’s coming!” Marie Laveau’s voice sounds like you’re submerged underwater, but you’re still conscious enough to know that she means Michael.

“M...Mi--l…” You try to call for him, to let him know that you’re here, but blood blocks your airway and bubbles up past your lips when you try to speak.

“Shh, shh.” Cordelia soothes, urging you not to speak so that you don’t lose as much blood. You’re dead weight now, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you start to float in and out of consciousness, so the three women grab your arms and start dragging you down the hallway. Your eyes focus just long enough for you to see Michael’s bloody face as he tries to get past Marie Laveau.

“...” This time, when you try to say his name, you can’t even force a breath of air that sounds anything like a syllable out of your mouth.

The next minutes pass by in a blur. One moment you’re on the floor, the next you’re in someone’s arms, and the next you’re in a large tub of water. Your ears are ringing too loudly for you to hear clearly now, and you’re only able to catch snippets of the conversation. They’re chanting, each touching your body as they attempt to do something to heal you.

“Can’t...without her!” Mallory yells.

“We...time…” Even Myrtle sounds concerned at the situation, and if you weren’t mortally wounded, you’d laugh.

“I won’t…” Cordelia’s shaking her head profusely, refusing to believe what’s currently happening. Your blood is rapidly turning the water that you’re situated in red, and your eyes focus on Cordelia when Mallory shifts your body to try and make you more comfortable. Weakly, you grip the Supreme’s wrist to get her attention.

“...don’twannadie…” You rasp out, desperate to try and speak. In your eyes, Cordelia sees everything you’re feeling. Your love for Michael, your love for your coven, your regret that things had to end this way. Cordelia realizes suddenly that, while she’s felt weak for years now, she now feels almost as strong as she did when she first became Supreme. Smoothing your hair away from your face and kissing your forehead, she smiles at you before standing.

“Mallory is not the Supreme.” It’s like you’re having an out-of-body experience as you watch the events that are happening as your nearly-dead body sits behind the elder witches.

“What? Cordelia, that’s ridiculous, we’ve been training for--”

“She’s right,” Mallory speaks up. “Haven’t you been able to feel (Y/N)’s power from the moment you arrived here? I’m strong, but my power is nothing like her’s.”

“I know what I have to do,” Cordelia says, casting one last look at you. Your eyes roll back into your head again, but for a brief second your piercing gaze pins her to her spot.

You pass out as Cordelia leaves the room, Mallory lightly slapping your face in an attempt to wake you up. You have that same feeling of time both freezing and passing by at the speed of light, just as you did when you were in Michael’s arms at the beginning of this evening. When air suddenly floods back into your lungs and you jolt up straight, you’re not sure how much time has passed. All you know is that you’re in the same position as you were before you passed out, and that the power running through your veins is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’s cloying, it’s intoxicating, and it charges every nerve ending in your body to the point that you’re surprised you’re not shaking.

“Give me his hair,” you hold out your hand to Mallory, who still looks shocked that you basically rose from the dead. You know what you need to do now, to save the world and save Michael.

“You’re going to…?” She’s not sure what you’re going to do, but hands you his hair anyways.

“We can’t kill him. If we do, Satan will just find another way to conceive an Antichrist, and there’s no guarantee that we can stop whoever that will be. But we can help him, convince him to be on our side and that there’s a way to get what both sides need. I need your help, though; I can’t do this alone. Are you in?”

Mallory stares at you for a second, but you can see that she’s made her mind up even before she moves. You shift to one end of the basin, allowing her to clamber in with you. Immediately, the water starts bubbling and turning black. She grips your hands in hers, holding on tightly.

“I love you and I trust you,” She nods, touching her forehead to yours. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Shed the ego,” Mallory coaches, “disengage from this realm, place us there.” You breathe deeply, knowing the exact time and place that you have to go. Mallory can sense that you’ve successfully completed her instructions, and smiles. “Now, we say the words.”

“Tempus Infinituum!”

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its-flicked-switch · 5 years

Text

When Fox Met Dana

What will happen when Mulder runs into a tearful and more scantily dressed Scully on the outskirts of D.C. on a Friday night?

Early MSR. Set early to mid-season 3.

Rating: Teen and Up

This story was originally written for The X-Files Secret Santa Fanfic Exchange back in December as a gift for @viceversawrites. Prompt: Someone feels insecure about something.

I’m in the process of getting all of my current works posted on Tumblr, but should you be interested in viewing a comprehensive list, visit my AO3 profile.

Once every couple of months, Mulder humors his mother and meets her for dinner. He feels guilty for putting her off as much as he does, especially with Samantha and his father gone, but the guilt he feels following every cancelation always wains in the aftermath of what always turns out to be a torturously long conversation about any and all things non-consequential — gardening, real-estate, and wine tastings … meaningful conversations of merit always monopolized and downgraded to match her level of comfort with little thought given to what he wished or wished not to discuss.

Sadly, this is what he has come to expect from his mother.

The only difference being that dinner tonight started with a lecture. His mother usually reserves those for when the food arrives, but tonight he made the mistake of underestimating traffic. That in combination with the parking being particularly egregious resulted in him being 20 minutes late to a dinner that he had already canceled on three separate occasions. Admittedly, this had not been the best way to start off the evening.

He had anticipated her being irritated when he arrived but had not expected her to be quite so crass.

"It's no wonder I don't have any grandchildren. You should never keep a lady waiting, Fox. It's poor form, even for you. I raised you better," she said to him by way of greeting.

He had known then that it was going to be a long evening but still did his best to bite his tongue, nod, smile, and comment appropriately in all the right places.

When the time finally came for them to part ways, he walked her to her car, opened her door, and kissed her on the cheek as he bid her goodbye. She offered to drop him off at his car, but he declined, opting instead to take advantage of the cool evening air. Her words from earlier still echoing in his mind.

"The work you do is dangerous Fox, and there's no need for it. I have yet to understand why you refuse to take the path so generously laid out in front of you. You went to Oxford for Christ's sake."

Following his father's death, conversations pertaining to his future have come up more and more frequently. She doesn't get it. She never has and likely never will. People handle grief in different ways. Mulder has always wanted answers. His mother, on the other hand, has only ever wanted to forget.

As he watches her pull off onto the side street and drive away, he cannot help but feel relieved that it is over, which in turn, makes him feel guilty. As much as she grades on his nerves, she is still his mother, and a son shouldn't avoid and dread seeing his own mother. Especially when she is all he has left.

Walking down the street with his hands buried deep in his pockets, he is so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn't notice the woman hastily exiting the building alongside him until it's too late to avoid her.

Despite being caught off guard, he somehow manages to get his hands out of his pockets in time to steady her before she loses her balance.

"Shit," he exclaims.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you … Are you—"

When the woman turns to face him more directly, he's immediately stunned into silence.

"Scully?"

As he looks her over to ensure that she is unharmed, he immediately becomes acutely aware of two things.

One, she has been crying.

Two, her breasts are much larger than he thought they were.

Trying not to focus too much on the latter of the two observations, he shifts his focus to her bloodshot eyes and smeared makeup.

"Scully … what are you—What's wrong? Are you OK," he asks, struggling to find words.

The surprise of her sudden appearance in combination with the shock of seeing her dressed for a night out has nearly rendered him speechless, making the interaction all that much more awkward.

She makes a noise that he quickly identifies as being one of annoyance as she takes a step back and ties her coat more tightly around her body in an attempt to cover up and downplay the revealing dress she is wearing, but it's too late. While he may have refrained from staring, he certainly noticed.

"I'm fine," she says, but her tone, body language, and reluctance to meet his eyes suggest that she is anything but.

"You don't look fine," he says cautiously, unsure of how wise it will be to draw attention to fact that her makeup is smeared. "Where is your car?"

Her eyes roam the length of the street and sidewalk as if she's looking for someone.

"I didn't drive. I've called a cab."

"A cab? To take you home? That's going to cost at least 40 bucks from here, if not more … Common, my car is just down the—"

"Mulder it's fine I—"

"Dana?"

The man comes out of nowhere.

Mulder starts to move aside until he sees the look on Scully's face. He's not sure what has transpired between the two of them, but it's quite clear that this piece of shit, whoever he is, is the reason for Scully's swift and tearful exit and that's all he needs to know.

Situating himself to stand slightly in front of her, Mulder gives the man a pointed glance.

"She's leaving."

"Oh, and who might you be," the man asks running his hands through his hair in what appears to be an attempt to calm himself. His rolled up sleeves and partially undone buttons give him an air of casualness that his body language does not portray.

"Fox Mulder. I'm her partner, and she'll be leaving with me."

To his surprise, Scully does not object.

Although the man is clearly perturbed and a bit flustered, he doesn't make a scene. Instead, he walks away shaking his head and mumbling under his breath as he makes his way back into the building.

"Scully, what did he do," Mulder asks, turning to face her.

"It's nothing Mulder. I just want to go home."

He wants to argue with her because clearly whatever happened was a far cry from nothing.

Dana Scully making a tearful exit and hailing a 40 dollar cab is the exact opposite of nothing, but the uneasiness radiating off of her keeps him from pressing her any further, at least for the time being. Because if there is one that is abundantly clear, it's how uncomfortable and embarrassed she is by the fact that he happened upon what has clearly been an unsuccessful romantic evening.

The fact that she has not mentioned seeing anyone actually surprises him. Scully has always made it a point to set boundaries and tell him when he is interfering with her life outside of work, which makes the situation he has happened upon all that much more curious.

Although it's not necessarily any of his business, the fact that she exited a private, high-end building filled with condominiums makes him a bit uneasy.

Leaving a restaurant under duress is one thing, leaving private residence is another. One does not have to be a profiler to come up with any number of troubling scenarios as to why a woman would leave a man's residence in tears.

"What are you doing on the outskirts of D.C. on a Friday night Mulder," she asks breaking their silence as they reach his car.

"Having a very uncomfortable dinner with my mother. I would like to say that she was in rare form tonight, but that would be a lie."

Despite her state of duress, she manages to snort back a laugh as she waits for him to unlock the doors.

"Sounds like we are both batting a thousand tonight then."

"Why Scully, did you just make a baseball referenced joke?"

Although he's not looking at her directly, he can sense her soft smile in the darkness of his car.

Turning up the heat, he pulls out of the parking lot thankful that he has least managed to get a smile out of her.

Just as he is mulling over what to say next to break the ice, he hears a rumble.

"Scully … was that your stomach?"

Sighing and shifting uncomfortably she confirms what he already suspects.

"I left before we ate."

"Wow. That bad huh?"

"Yes. That bad."

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you for driving me. I know it's a bit out of your way."

Knowing now what he needs to do, he changes his course, turning onto the next side street and looping back around.

"Mulder what are you—"

"I know I can be an ass sometimes, but I'm not taking my partner home with an empty stomach and makeup smeared all over her face from crying."

"Mulder, I would really prefer to just—"

"Greek or Italian?"

"Mulder …"

"Greek … or Italian?"

Letting out an exasperated huff of air, she relents.

"Italian."

When they enter the restaurant, Scully immediately excuses herself and disappears into the bathroom.

Unsure of what she will want to eat or drink, he orders them both water and waits. Just when he is about to check to make sure that she hasn't bailed on him and called a cab, she reappears.

"Sorry … I needed to freshen up a bit."

"I'm just glad you didn't bail on me and call a cab," he says with a chuckle.

"Fortunately for you, I'm too hungry to bail," she replies.

Her tone is serious, but there is an edge of playfulness to it that he appreciates.

In the two years that they have been partnered, they have seen and experienced a lot together. They may not always see eye to eye, but he would like to think that they have grown closer. He has certainly grown to respect and appreciate her, and he would like to think that she has done the same — at least on some level.

"I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you …"

"Have you ever been here before," she asks as she begins the flip through the menu.

"Nope. First time."

"Hmmm …"

"Wine?"

After he asks, he internally winces as he recognizes the potential implications of his question.

You wine and dine dates, not partners.

Based on her expression, she has undoubtedly come to the same conclusion. Fortunately, she doesn't appear to be offended. If she is, she has at least had the grace to hide it well.

"No. I'm good."

She has yet to remove her coat, and he has a pretty good idea as to why.

Although he did not get the opportunity to fully appreciate what she was wearing when he bumped into her earlier, he saw enough to get a general idea. The plunging neckline she is sporting is much more risqué than anything he has ever seen her wear before. The black sheer-like material clung to her tightly in some areas while hanging loosely in others, revealing her curves quite nicely.

Scully has apparently been hiding quite a bit in those loose fitting pantsuits. While he has always made it a point to remain respectful, he is still a man. He still sees her — all of her.

When the bread arrives he cannot help but chuckle at the look of pure elation that crosses her features. The basket barely hits the table before she grabs a piece and places it on her plate. It occurs to him that it's quite possible that she has not eaten since lunch, and it's well past 8:00 now.

Braving a more serious conversation, he tries again to get her to open up to him.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sighing, she stops chewing for a minute and looks up to meet his eyes.

"Not really."

Mulder is not hungry, but he grabs a piece of bread to keep her from feeling guilty about eating all of it. He has apparently done a poor job of hiding his disappointment at her reluctance to open up to him because within a few seconds she is taking a deep breath and speaking again.

"A friend set us up. We've been out a few times and have always had a good time, so when he offered to cook me dinner, I accepted."

Nodding, Mulder waits for her to continue.

"But he apparently had more than dinner in mind tonight."

"Did he touch you," Mulder asks before he can stop himself.

It's a highly personal question, but the mere thought of someone touching her without her consent makes his blood boil, especially in light of her abduction and everything else she has been through this year.

The wave of protectiveness and fury he initially felt, however, dissipates quickly and is replaced by guilt as he watches her struggle to determine just how much she is going to disclose. He's clearly made her uncomfortable by asking her something so specific.

"He … He was just … very forward."

"I take it that you asked him to stop?"

She doesn't reply with words, but she doesn't have to. The pointed glance she offers him is enough.

"I take it that he didn't?"

"Mulder … I really don't want to talk about it. I left. I won't be seeing him again. End of story."

He wants to press her for details, but more than anything he just wants the pummel Mr. Run-My-Hands-Through-My-Hair Causal.

Reining in his fury, he keeps his voice as level as possible.

"Well, order whatever you want. Tonight is on me."

"Mulder, that's not necessary."

"I'll give you a call the next time I have dinner with my mother, and you can buy me a couple of drinks."

"Hmmm … that bad huh?"

"Yes. That bad."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry. It's just the way things are."

When the waiter returns, Scully orders chicken tortellini. Mulder, on the other hand, settles for a small salad, not because he is hungry, but because he does not want her to feel uncomfortable eating alone.

"Are you still cold," he asks, trying desperately to keep his voice casual and passive.

He knows he is playing with fire, but the discomfort she is displaying is almost comical. It's clear from the redness in her cheeks that she has more than warmed up since their arrival. In fact, she appears to be uncomfortably warm. Her coat remaining on has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature in the room and they both know it.

Giving him a pointed look of warning, she returns her attention to her bread, picking at it nervously.

While he would certainly enjoy teasing her about this under more normal circumstances, he doubts that tonight is the time to push the envelope. On some level, he can understand why she is reluctant to remove it. He has never seen her in anything remotely revealing. She has always made it point to dress professionally and modestly for work — excessively so, and given what she has clearly been hiding under those loosely fitting pantsuits, he cannot say that he blames her.

Being a female in a male-dominated field is undoubtedly challenging. Although she could clearly use her sex appeal to turn heads and get a leg up, she doesn't. It is one of the many things that he has always respected and appreciated about her. Scully is a woman of integrity. She is a professional, which is why running into her on the street dressed so scantly had come as such a surprise.

"If you're worried about what I'll think about the dress, I've already seen it and happen to approve. There's no need for you to be uncomfortably warm on my account."

Taking a sip of water, she studies his face. Looking for a punchline or some sign that he is being anything other than genuine. When she appears to find whatever it is that she's looking for, she sighs.

"This is not something that I would normally wear … Melissa picked it out … She was ... always on my case about being too uptight. I bought it a year ago, but this is the first time I've worn it … It just felt like it was time to wear it." she confesses.

The mere mention of her sister's name provokes an emotional response that is quickly swallowed away when she reaches for the ties of her coat. Shifting in her seat, she lets it fall off of her shoulders and into the seat behind her.

Mulder had intended to make her more comfortable by encouraging her to make herself more comfortable, but so far removing her coat has only served to make them both more uncomfortable. Fighting to keep his eyes level with hers, he gives her an encouraging smile and takes another piece of bread. He has always thought that she was an attractive woman, but tonight she's not just attractive — she's beautiful … stunningly so.

Her hair, which is typically only curled lightly at the ends, is styled with larger curls, giving it more of a wavy flow that makes it look a good one to two inches shorter. Although he isn't sure if her makeup is darker due to her earlier tears or if she has intentionally crafted it that way, he likes it. The smokey darkness makes the color of her eyes look several shades lighter, giving them a glow that would make the shallows of the Caribbean envious.

"You're staring," she says, raising her brow.

He wants to tell her what he really thinks of date-night-Scully, but thinks better of it, choosing instead words that are more becoming of a partner speaking to a partner.

"I'm sorry … It's just … You look really nice Scully."

Silence falls between them when the salads arrive, but the blush in her cheeks remains as they each busy themselves with utensils and the task of pouring their dressing.

Mulder starts to worry that even nice had crossed a line when she begins to fidget and play with her food.

"Mulder … do you think that I gave him the wrong idea by wearing this," she asks quietly.

God. Surely she did not think that she had asked for whatever had happened between them. He certainly hopes that whatever look crossed his face as he watched her remove her coat did not add to whatever convictions she previously held.

"Scully, what you wear, revealing or not, does not give anyone the right to make assumptions. I have little doubt that he appreciated your … ensemble …," he says choosing his words carefully as he runs his eyes over her, "but appreciating and touching are two entirely different things."

"I just …"

"Look. I don't know what happened. I can imagine, but ultimately, it doesn't matter, because whatever it was … if it's not something you wanted then he had no right — period."

"I was just … I was just trying to loosen up a bit. My abduction and … Melissa … have each caused me looking at things a bit differently than I did before. I enjoy the work we do. I wouldn't trade it to go back to medicine, but that doesn't mean that I don't recognize that there is more to life than working. I just … wanted to try."

"There's nothing wrong with that Scully."

"But tonight made me realize that maybe working all the time isn't all that bad after all."

Now Mulder really wants to know exactly what happened, but he has asked twice already. Would asking a third time make him just as insistent and forceful as the asshole she was with earlier? Probably.

One thing is for certain, that man, whoever he is, better hope that Mulder never sees him again.

"Do you think that I'm frigid?"

She would wait until he had taken a drink of water to ask him that question.

Clearing his throat, he looks across the table at her and studies her for a moment in an attempt to read her. The insecurity and nervousness he sees behind her eyes and in her body language surprises him.

Scully has never crossed him as being someone with underlying insecurities. In the field, she is fearless and relentless, digging in her heels and taking command of each and every space she occupies. But right now, sitting in a fancy restaurant looking as stunning as he has ever seen her — she's unsure of herself.

He wants to tell her that she is absolutely gorgeous.

He wants to tell her that ice cannot scientifically encapsulate fire.

But he says neither of these things, stopping himself short of saying the words — not because he doesn't believe them, but because of what they might imply.

He doesn't want to say anything that would imply that only he sees her in the physical sense. Not to say that he hasn't taken notice in the years that they have worked together, but thinking about it and vocalizing it are two entirely different things. He cherishes their friendship and the last thing he wants to do is say something that would create an awkward tension between them in the future.

Scully has worked hard to build a reputation in man's world, and while her work ethic and professionalism have not gone unnoticed, neither has her physique. Despite the less than flattering pantsuits she wears, she has not gone unnoticed. He sees the longing stares and hears the whispers in the hallways as she sways past, and he knows that she does too.

The last thing he wants is to be misconstrued as being one of those guys.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that," she says nervously.

Dammit. He's been quiet too long.

Snapping out of his rumination, he quickly works to gather his thoughts and put them into words. Giving her a reassuring smile, he tells her what he should have told her earlier.

"No. You didn't. Not really. I just … I don't want to say anything that would offend you or make you uncomfortable, so I was trying to choose my words carefully," he says, studying her expression for a moment before continuing.

"You're a beautiful woman Scully — distractingly so …"

To this she blushes, letting her eyes drift down to her plate.

"Some people can't handle disinterest … it's easier to make the rejection about you than it is to acknowledge that there is nothing alluring about them. Calling you frigid is an out for them … it says nothing about you and everything about them."

Before she can reply the food arrives, but Scully is not looking down at her food, she is looking at him. The intensity of her gaze causes butterflies to form in his stomach and sends shivers down his spine.

She has given him a lot of looks over the past two years, but this one is new.

This look isn't Scully at all — it's Dana.

"Did you pick that up in one of your psychology courses at Oxford," she asks, giving him a soft smile of appreciation as she grabs her fork and begins to eat her pasta.

"Well, I suppose it depends on who you ask. If you ask my mother, my time at Oxford was wasted, given that I'm working for the federal government and not raking in millions with the silver spoon I was given as a child."

"Ah. Was that the topic of tonight's dinner?"

"Among other things."

"Such as?"

"Well, apparently I am incapable of having any type of meaningful relationship since I work constantly and am always late for dinner. She also made a snide comment about giving up on grandchildren that I chose to ignore."

"Ouch."

"And she wonders why I cancel," he says with a laugh.

"I'm sorry that it's like that. I can't imagine not having my mom to talk too."

"I'm used to it."

"That almost makes it worse."

"How's the food," he asks, gesturing to the bowl in front of her in an attempt to drift conversation away from his mother.

"It's really good. Thank you. Thank you for bringing me here."

"Anytime."

The rest of their conversation flows freely. He is actually quite amazed at how at ease he is with her and even more amazed that they have managed to talk for nearly an hour without mentioning any of their active cases. In fact, work hardly comes up at all, which is first. They talk all the time, but never about themselves, their families, or their lives outside of work. It's wonderful. He cannot remember the last time he enjoyed himself so immensely.

After she finishes eating, he picks up the tab and escorts her out the car, this time opening the door for her.

As they get settled into the car and pull out into traffic, she turns to him and studies him as if she seeing him for the first time. Although he's not looking at her, he can feel the intensity of her gaze.

"Thank you again for tonight. It was … nice," she says finally after a few moments of silence.

"I enjoyed it too. I think we both needed to get a bad taste out of our mouth."

As soon as he says it, he inwardly cringes at his word choice.

Smooth Mulder, he thinks.

"Yeah," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry Scully, that was a poor word choice … I didn't mean it—"

"I know you didn't. It's fine."

The ease and weightlessness of their earlier conversation disappears. It's as if a spell has been broken, and he feels absolutely terrible. He's about to resort to turning on the radio when she begins to speak.

"He … He kissed me, which was ok at first … but when I tried to pull back to cool things off a bit he kept pushing … to the point where I slapped him. I've never slapped a man before, but I slapped him."

Until this very moment, Mulder had not realized how much the visual of another man having his hands on Scully actually bothered him — more than bothered him. The mere thought of it steals his grip on the wheel to the point of whitening his knuckles. Although she still has not specifically told him what exactly he did, he knows it had to have been rather egregious for her to resort to slapping him.

The idea that anyone would disrespect her in that way, pushing her boundaries to point the where she felt like she had to physically attack them to make them stop, makes his blood boil.

"I immediately felt bad for hitting him. I think he was just as shocked as I was that I did."

"Scully—"

"Then he got mad … really mad. Said that he had heard that I was frigid, but never imagined that I would be frozen … I made my exit shortly after that."

"Sounds to me like he got exactly what he deserved."

To this, she says nothing, clearly still uncomfortable with the fact that she resorted to striking him.

"Name? Date of birth? Social security number?"

Cutting her eyes at him, she snorts and then relaxes her head back against the headrest.

"Trust me. He's not worth it."

"No, but you are."

Although it's dark and his eyes are predominately on the road, he can see her head turn in his peripheral vision. First to study him and then to look away, suddenly finding something very interesting along with a route that she travels almost daily.

Fearing he has already said too much, he refrains from making any further comment.

When they reach her apartment, he pulls into an open spot and moves to get out when she places her hand over his and stops him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?"

Mulder isn't sure if she's referring to his comment about her being worth the effort or the fact that he referred to her has being distractingly beautiful, but since the answer would be the same either way, he doesn't bother to ask her for clarification.

"I meant everything I said."

Nodding, she shifts uncomfortably, removing her hand from his and placing it in her lap.

"It's just … no-one has ever really said anything like that to me, not in that context anyway."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"There has … always been an agenda," she says, refusing to meet his eyes.

He can only assume that she is referring to intimacy. Is it really possible that there has never been a figure in her life that told her that she was absolutely stunning? Has every guy she has ever been with actually been that shallow? Only appreciating her body in the biblical sense?

"Men can be assholes. I would know."

To this, she laughs … genuinely laughs.

"You're not an asshole Mulder. Well, at least not most of the time. Only when you are ditching me, ignoring hard science, and disregarding protocols that could put us both out of a job."

"All in a day's work."

Snorting, she shakes her head from side to side and looks up to meet his eyes.

"I'll walk you up," he says, reaching for her hand and giving a squeeze. He walks around the car with a purpose, intending to open her door for her, but by the time he reaches the other side, she has already gotten out.

Mulder half expects her to insist that she is fine and to bid him farewell on the street, but to his surprise she says nothing, walking alongside him in silence as he opens the door to her building.

When they reach her door, Mulder feels a twinge of nervousness. It's just them. Mulder and Scully, yet it's not. He can tell that she feels it too by the way she shifts nervously on her feet as she digs for her keys.

"Would you like to come in," she offers.

Swallowing the lump in this throat, he politely declines.

"No, I should go, it's late, and I promised the gunmen I would meet them for an early breakfast."

"Conspiracy theories?"

"Always," he says with a smile.

"Ok … Well. Thanks again for tonight. It was nice."

"Yes. It was."

For a moment they both just stand there, gazing into each other's eyes.

"Well. I guess I'll see you Monday," she says finally, putting her key in the lock and turning it.

"Yeah."

He starts to walk away, but stops himself short, turning back to face her and catching her before she makes it fully inside.

"Scully?"

"Yeah."

Moving to stand directly in front of her, he reaches for her hand and takes it in his.

"Never let someone treat you any less than what you are worth."

Although she's fighting it, he can see the tears working to form in her eyes.

"And what might that be," she asks quietly.

"Whatever it is … I can't afford it."

Giving her a gentle smile he raises her hand to his lips, kisses it, and then turns to walk away.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah."

"You might could if you tried."

With that, she gives him a soft, appreciative smile and then disappears behind her door, leaving him to stand in the hallway with a slack jaw.

Come Monday, neither of them speaks of their impromptu date.

Little do they know that years later, they will each refer to this night as being a pivot point in their relationship — a time where she first saw Fox, and he first saw Dana.

#the x files #msr fanfic #early msr #mulder and scully

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porkchop-ao3 · 5 years

Text

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 1)

Bait

I have been working on this for a little while now and I’m a few chapters in, I’ve finally plucked up the courage to start posting it. This is an Arthur Morgan x female reader (first person POV) fic that’s going to be pretty long! Its very slow burn, too, so keep that in mind.

Reader has been a lone wolf for a long time, and intends for it to stay that way. However, she soon realises that having a little company and help from others isn’t so bad. This fic is going to include; violence, swearing, adult themes and no doubt some explicit sexual content down the line. I’m pretty sure there’s going to be some character death at some point too, but don’t worry! Our main boah lives. It’ll have a happy ending :P (This is kind of my own personal fix it fic muddled in with a romance, so yeah). It’s also chock full of spoilers!

I hope you give this a chance and enjoy! I’m going to be tagging every chapter with #ATINK for easy access (hopefully easy, but you know how tumblr is) but I will also be posting this on Ao3 where my username is PorkChop :)

There'd been a few times in my life that I thought I might die. That time I'd been real sick, when my whole family had been, I was surprised at my luck when I pulled through. That time Henry got more violent than he usually did and had to be dragged off of me by pa. That time I was chased by that buck, very nearly speared on his antlers before I got a clean shot at his head. I guess all those times though, I'd had a seed of hope in me. Somewhere inside I knew I'd get out of it, and that allowed me to keep my head on straight instead of falling into despair.

This time – feeling dizzy and disoriented, rope burn on my arms and legs from struggling, one pounder of a headache and the taste of blood soaked into the rag wedged in my mouth – I failed to find that hope.

I had no idea where I was, all I could do was scream behind the rag, as muffled as the sound was, it was my only hope. I screamed as loud as I could for as long as I could, pushing through the scratchy pain in my throat. It was night time and I was laying in the middle of a road, that's about all I could tell. I'd been rolling in and out of consciousness for who knows how long, strapped onto the back of a horse and getting hit any time I started hollering. I'd heard snippets of conversations, men talking, and one woman. Something about using me as bait.

I wasn't much of a fisherman but I couldn't see what use I'd be, of course if I hadn't been punched in the head repeatedly I might've understood that it had nothing to do with fishing at all.

It came as a nice surprise when finally my screams didn't get another punch to the face and I seemed to be alone. Who knows what they'd done to me, why they'd taken me from my camp. I was hardly worth robbing, but I guessed it was my weapons they were after. That and perhaps all my food.

I lost track of time with all my yelling and sobbing, I felt on the verge of throwing up with that wet, nasty rag in my mouth pushed so deep it nearly triggered my gag reflex. It felt like I was there for hours when I finally heard hoofs hitting the ground, slowing up before I had time to worry about being trampled. The rider dismounted, running over to me.

“Holy shit!” the person was male and had a raspy voice, I saw his boots but before he reached me I heard a gun being cocked behind me.

In a moment of clarity, I understood what was happening. The people who'd captured me were still around, hiding in the tall grass by the road, and they hadn't hit me when I screamed because that's exactly what they wanted me to do. Bait.

“If you've got any brains you'll give us everything you've got in that satchel. And on your horse,” the female of the group said. I heard the rider sigh.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” he groused. I heard the crunch of his boot on the ground as he started to back away. “I ain't doing this, if you've got any brains you let me walk away from this.”

“I ain't telling you twice,” the woman raised her voice and stepped forwards, she was standing right beside me. I had a terrible feeling that – even though I couldn't see her – she was pointing her gun at the back of my head. I whimpered and sobbed, squirming, ropes cutting into my arms.

“You heard the lady!” One of the other guys yelled, then there was an almighty bang… followed by many more.

I tensed up, burying my face in the dirt in some vain attempt at protecting my head from the roar of gunfire going on above me. It didn't last long, and I waited for the outlaws to loot the poor guy I'd played a part in attracting. Imagine my shock when it was him who stepped over me to loot their bodies instead. I lifted my head, finally managing to look at the guy; tall and lean, long dark hair below his hat, a duster coat that dragged on the floor when he crouched down to the corpses surrounding us.

I cried out to him to get his attention, being largely ignored until he was finished with the bodies. He finally turned to look at me and addressed me with a poisonous look in his dark eyes. It dawned on me that he thought I was one of them. My cries became desperate, I tried to enunciate the words help me with little luck. With a heavy sigh he approached me, rolled me onto my back and pulled the wad of material out of my mouth. Up close, when he saw the blood and the state of my face, his expression softened.

“Please! Please, untie me! Those fuckers, they- they- they-” my mouth was dry and my words came out worse than the town drunk's. My throat was in agony.

“Hey, shh, shut up, calm down,” he hissed, studying me closely. He ran his hands up and down the sides of my body and I flinched and struggled under his touch.

Shit. This guy has just annihilated a whole group of gunslingers. What if he's much, much worse than them?

“For the love of God don't hurt me, I'm not one of them, I didn't mean to bring you in on-”

“Shut up! I'm just checking you ain't armed.”

I held my tongue and stayed still, and breathed a sigh of relief when he seemed satisfied that I wasn't a threat. Though, that did mean that those fuckers had stolen all of my weapons. At least I still had my life…

“I'm gonna untie you, but first, tell me what the hell all that was about.”

“I don't know! I was just out in the woods and they grabbed me. Beat the crap out of me. Next thing I know I'm here. I didn't realise they wanted to use me to lure someone in to rob. I promise I ain't one of them, I don't even know who they are. I just wanna get out of here!”

“What's your name?” he questioned. I told him and he continued to stare at me for a few moments, eyes narrowed. “Alright,” he muttered, then rolled me back onto my stomach. He took a knife to the ropes and freed me.

“Oh, thank you!” I breathed, sitting up and rolling my shoulders, taking a moment to sit and gather myself. I felt dizzy.

A glance around me showed corpses everywhere; I noticed the woman of the group was wearing my clothes. That's when I realised the state of undress I was in – just my underthings – and huddled in on myself.

“You need water?”

“No, I couldn't-” he shoved a canteen at me regardless. I didn't protest and drank, only realising then how much I needed it. I could've kept going when I handed it back to him, but I didn't want to drink all of it.

“You need a ride somewhere?”

His question struck me with an unpleasant, sickly feeling. Where on earth would I go? All of my stuff had been taken by my captors, I had no idea what they'd done with it while I had been out cold. My guns were gone. All of the food I had. My tent, my blankets, my clothes. All of it.

“You got a house? A family?”

“Maybe it would've been better if you just shot me like the rest of them,” I muttered, burying my head in my hands. “I've got nothing. Been living out of a tent for the past year, that was my home and it's gone.”

There was an awkward pause as he just stood there looking at me, he obviously didn't know what to do and I couldn't blame him. Part of me wanted to tell him to go away, leave me alone so I could just sit and cry until I figured out what I was going to do.

“Listen… I'm staying pretty close to here. How 'bout I take you there and you can rest up, lick those wounds for a while.”

“You don't even know me.”

“No, but what kind of man would I be to leave a woman out here stranded, hurt, with no place to go?” he questioned, grabbing my upper arms and helping me up to my feet. My head pain flared with the movement and I groaned, screwing my face up. “Come on. I ain't taking no for an answer.”

“Thank you,” I sighed, letting him guide me over to his horse and lift me onto it.

“Name's John, by the way. John Marston.”

John rode me to where he was staying, I was surprised to see that it wasn't a house; it was a campsite of sorts with lots of other people there. As soon as I saw it I began to feel anxious. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be surrounded by a bunch of strangers, one was enough. We were greeted by a lady, stern looking with her hair fashioned into a bun atop her head. She watched me carefully as John helped me down from his horse.

“Miss Grimshaw,” he nodded to her in greeting. “Just had an eventful ride. Found this one not too far away, I think she's in need of a little help. Got herself caught by a bunch of idiots who tried to rob me. I took care of 'em, but she don't have anywhere to go.”

“Well we'd better have her then, come on. Look at you, you're in quite a state,” she seemed a little perturbed by the sight of me. I had no idea what my face looked like but I doubted it was pretty. “I'm Susan. Why don't you come with me and we'll wash you up, get that blood off'a you.”

“John?” I mewled like a little child, asking after its mother. He was a familiar face I wasn't quite ready to be left without.

“You'd better come too, you can tell us more about what happened,” Susan seemed to understand my worries.

“I don't know all that much myself, but sure,” John shrugged, coming along with us as she walked me over to a nearby wagon. As we walked a few people stared, I kept my head down, not enjoying being on display when I was in such a mess.

Susan sat me down on a blanket underneath an awning and wrapped another blanket around my shoulders to cover me. She sent a girl off to fetch a bucket of water, Mary-Beth her name was. While she was away I learned the names of two others, Karen and Tilly, when Susan scolded them for staring. I imagined they weren't particularly happy with me, it was late and they likely wanted to sleep.

Though perhaps not, the sound of a guitar could be heard somewhere else in the camp. Maybe I was just interrupting a pleasant evening. I felt guilty, wrapped up in my head as John relayed what he'd experienced. Mary-Beth came back with the bucket of water, and Susan kneeled down in front of me.

“Hold still,” she said, holding my chin gently with one hand as she carefully cleaned my face with a wet washcloth.

She wiped blood from around my nose, the corners of my mouth, my forehead, my hairline. It was dark but I imagined the water turning a rusty orange as she rinsed the cloth. She cleaned a few scratches on my arms; though I knew they weren't from my ordeal. They were merely hunting wounds, marred by tree branches.

“Not as bad as I feared. You looked much worse with all that blood; you got a couple of black eyes but your nose ain't crooked, your teeth are all there. I think you'll be fine.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll go and explain to Dutch,” John said, getting up from his spot on a wooden box next to me. I watched as he left, then dropped my eyes to the ground. I didn't know John much better than anyone else, but I still felt nervous without his presence. It'd been a long time since I'd had any company whatsoever. It was daunting.

“How you doing, uhh, what was your name again?” Mary-Beth took John's seat. I told her my name without looking up. “I heard John say you got kidnapped, or something?”

“I did. I'm honestly not sure what happened, my mind's still all foggy. I hope they didn't knock all the sense out of me,” I mumbled, and the girl laughed a little, then apologised. “They got me this morning… I think. I've been knocked out for most of it. I was out pulling down my camp in the woods and they came out of nowhere, just bashed me on the head, grabbed all my stuff and took me away. I don't remember all that much, like I said, I've been out.”

Mary-Beth, Susan, Karen and Tilly all stayed near me, listening. I figured I owed them an explanation since they'd been so kind to me.

“I ended up out layin’ on the road. I thought they'd left me for dead so I hollered as much as I could. John turned up and, well, you heard him. I don't intend on intruding for long, I just needed somewhere to stay and figure things out.”

“What about your family?” Tilly questioned.

“I don't have one. Ma and pa are long gone. My brother got himself killed last year. Since then I've been on my own, living off the land, sleeping in a tent.”

“You’re homeless?” Karen asked. I felt a little on the spot so I looked up at her, meeting her gaze.

“Ain't you? Only difference is you've got more wagons and friends here.”

“Can't argue with that,” she shrugged.

“I couldn't afford to keep up with the loan repayments once my brother Henry was gone. The bank took the house and that was that.”

“I'm sorry about your brother,” Mary-Beth said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Don't be. That guy put me in worse states than this on more than one occasion. He was violent. That's what got him killed in the end; started a bar brawl down in Blackwater with a bunch of fellers he couldn't handle. Whole place broke out, I damn near got swept up in it. I probably would've died with him if it weren't for a gentlemen who helped me out of there; I was three sheets to the wind, could barely stand,” I explained with a dry laugh.

“You got a habit of needing to be saved by men?” Karen snorted.

“Karen,” Susan warned.

I sighed and rubbed at my temples then looked up at Susan. “You mind if I sleep here?”

“Of course not. There's some more blankets up on that wagon if you need them.”

“Thank you for your kindness. I hope to be out of your hair shortly.”

“Nonsense. Us folk are no strangers to helping those who need it. Rest up now.”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #fanfiction #ATINK #john marston #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan x female reader

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7deadlycinderellas · 5 years

Text

The first of spring

Ao3 Link

Sansa will tell a single small lie to everyone after. She realized something was up with Arya very early.

They really should have all suspected something when Arya didn’t object to returning to King’s Landing. Sansa even did. The first visit had been exciting, even if it had ended poorly. Their return to Winterfell had felt to Sansa like waking up from a lovely dream, but there was no way they could have stayed with the horse cough sweeping through the city.

So many people died. And it didn’t discriminate. Peasants, merchants, the king’s very household. The king had been spared, but his wife and oldest son hadn’t been so lucky. Sansa had been inconsolable when she’d heard. Her perfect story, ruined. She ignored the relieved look on her father’s face. When they’d returned, their mother had hugged the both of them tightly and gave thanks to every god she knew for returning them to her.

It was recognized, eventually, as the start of winter.

Winterfell gets blanketed in snow. Northerners know how to deal with the cold, they always have. Sansa sits closer to the fire during needlepoint, and Arya scampers through the halls instead of the fields and stable. Sansa begrudges her this less now. She’s had her own experience with seeing something beautiful and it now being forever out of reach.

When the first blizzards of winter clear, they are called back to King’s Landing. Sansa is disquieted, not sure what to expect, but to her surprise, Arya doesn’t object at all. She’s nearly passive, packing her things, then repacking them when Mother criticizes her technique.

They’re all together this time, travelling more slowly for the weather. Mother comes with them this time as well, telling them that she’s not comfortable with them leaving her sight. Robb and Bran look lonely, but certain, behind them as they leave Winterfell.

One night, Sansa finds Arya standing outside the ramshackle inn staring off into the woods. She opens her mouth to tell her to get back inside, but stops when she sees the look in her eye.

“I keep thinking that if I stare out into the trees long enough Nymeria will be there again”.

It hits Sansa like a ton of bricks. This is the same area, probably the same inn, where it had happened. Honestly, most of the road looks the same to Sansa. The anger swells up in her chest again. It’s been over a year, but the injustice still eats at her. Her and Arya haven’t spoken about it, even when they see Bran with Summer or Shaggydog by himself betraying Rickon somewhere unseen.

“If she came back, I would share her.” Arya looks inexplicably childish now. “It wasn’t fair, any of it. Lady wasn’t even there, Cersei had no right.”

And suddenly, Sansa feels just as childish as Arya looks. Deep down, her gut still cries out that it was all Arya’s fault, even though her mind has slowly come to accept that it really wasn’t. When the plague came, suddenly the fairy story Sansa had built up about their time there just melted away.

“The Queen is dead now,” is all she can say. And she didn’t even have it in her to curse her properly for what she had done until she was. She had somehow managed to twist it in her mind that it was somehow alright for her to have done it even.

“I wouldn’t want her, “ she says, a bit haughtily, “She was your wolf, and she rolled in the mud even more than you.”

The retribution for this slight is the realization when they step back inside the inn, that both her and Arya have mud on their shoes. Sansa returning to her usual fastidious self and lambasting Arya for it.

King’s Landing is different. It had been hot before, this time while it can’t hold a candle to Winterfell, there’s a dusting of snow over the grounds, though the days are usually cold and clear.

The hall of the castle feel cold and clear too. The illness wiped out a good deal of the household staff, and they are clamoring to find replacements and keep up with the workload.

Myrcella walks the halls, looking like a ghost. Tommen is usually right behind her. He had been seriously ill but had miraculously pulled through, and the stress has robbed his cheeks of much of their plumpness.

Sansa minds her manners, gives her condolences, and doesn’t say another word.

“I wonder how the king’s doing?” Arya wonders.

“He lost his wife and his eldest son. I can’t imagine well.” True, neither of them had ever seen Robert spend any real time with Joffrey or Cersei. They hardly see Robert at all during their visit, Father saying he spent most of his days drunk, though now he seems to be trying to numb himself rather than give himself life.

“If Mother and Robb died, I don’t know what Father would do. I don’t know what I would either.”

The thought pinches at Sansa’s heart. The idea of seeing her father in such a state is horrific.

It’s a weighty thought. Though, in winter, there are still some pleasures to enjoy here in the south. One day, after a particularly heavy snow, Myrcella invites them to come on a sleigh ride outside the castle grounds. Arya, of course, doesn’t show up.

“What does your sister do all day? I never see her,” Myrcella comments, leaning on the edge of the sleigh as the groom hitches up the horses.

Sansa shrugs. It’s not her job to keep track of Arya’s movements, and Septa Mordane seems to have nearly given up. Mother’s been spending her days trying to assist Father with bringing Robert around, and barely notices Arya as long as she’s back for meal times.

“Probably with her dancing master, or bothering someone in the stables.” she pauses. The first one doesn’t work, Syrio Forel having returned to Winterfell with them the first time, and still there as of now. “I think she might even sneak out and go into King’s Landing some days”.

“Oh, that probably explains why her breeches were muddy yesterday, “ Myrcella comments idly, “She brought me an apricot tart, so I didn’t tell anyone.”

Sansa’s shocked that Arya would so do something so dangerous and flagrantly against the rules, but when she confronts her later, Arya just shrugs.

“There’s lots of ways out of the castle, there’s tons of secret passages. Besides, the city is much quieter now, there’s more room it seems. The baker I bought the tart from said more people are trickling in.”

And so, despite her admonitions, Arya continues to sneak out and spend every few days in the city. Sometimes she comes back even dirtier than usual, but she’s always unharmed, and manages to return on time, though Septa Mordane scolds her repeatedly for missing lessons.

But, a few weeks pass, and Father and Mother say they will return to Winterfell. They’ve convinced Robert to name his brother Stannis as Hand, and feel like it’s a good time to go home. Arya isn’t around to be told, but Sansa promises she will prepare her sister for it.

When she finds Arya, she’s in one of the large hallways. When she notices Sansa, she nods, before running past her.

“Gotcha!” she yells, jumping onto the edge of one of the staircase bannisters and grabbing onto a small cat.

“What in the world are you doing?” Sansa demands befuddled.

“Catching Ser Pounce,” Arya says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “He got out yesterday and I brought him back, so Tommen said I could use him to practice.”

She hoists the cat higher in her arms and pets his head.

“But let’s get you back to your prince now.”

Tommen doesn’t seem perturbed at all by his pet’s condition, and accepts him back happily.

Suddenly Sansa recalls what she was supposed to be finding Arya for.

“Father says we’re returning to Winterfell at the end of the week.”

She’s not sure what surprises her more, Arya’s look of disappointment, or Tommen’s words.

“Oh, I’m going to miss you. It’s nice having other people here.”

Sansa’s suddenly at a loss, and so reverts to her courtesies. “I’m sorry, you must miss your brother terribly-”

Before she can even mentioned the Queen, Tommen cuts her off.

“Not really. Sorry, I know you wanted to marry him, but Joffrey was the meanest person I’ve ever met”.

Arya gives her a look that makes Sansa think she wants to say ‘I told you so’, and Sansa feels the urge to yell at her, but it seems they’ve both become better at controlling themselves.

“Once took my cat and shot it for fun. It was going to have babies, he didn’t care.”

When Sansa and Arya leave the hallway, Sansa has her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sad we have to leave, “ Arya comments, “I’ve got friends here.”

“We’ve got friends back home”

Arya pauses a long time before agreeing.

And so, they return again, to the North and the blizzards and the glowing hearth fires like nothing’s changed. Sansa’s as devoted to her lessons as ever, though her fantasies have been spoiled. Arya’s as disinterested as ever, but she’s not as hostile.

It’s as though seeing the world around her gave her confidence that she could free her restraints.

But for all the girl’s lives seem to go back to normal, their father seems preoccupied. He spends much time having hushed conversations with Maester Luwin and eyeing the sky waiting for ravens. Sansa’s not sure what’s up, and hopes it’s nothing dangerous.

It’s apparently stressful enough that one night during supper he groans and rests his face in his hands. Sansa and Arya both sit up straighter. They’d quarrelled earlier about Arya borrowing one of Sansa’s furs without asking so she could go riding in the cold (“You don’t even wear it anymore, it’s got a hole!”) and worried now that Mother had burdened him with it.

“Maybe I should have stayed. Mediating Robert and Stannis...it’s like dealing full time with you two,” he gestures to Arya and Sansa, “Only you’re both grown men who have an army.”

“Robert and Stannis aren’t your worry anymore,” Mother assures him.

“But I do. Robert’s never been in the greatest of health, and Stannis is clearly still feeling slighted.”

“And the winter is cold and should give them time to reflect.”

Sansa’s brain wanders off at this point. Sometimes she wonders if she should pay more attention. Septa Mordane may tell her that her duty is to be a Lord’s wife and mother to his children, but from what she saw in King’s Landing, there is clearly more to it, and her lack of knowing could be dangerous.

That night, she hears a noise outside of her chambers. Sticking her head out, she sees Arya sitting in the window between their rooms that looks out over the forest. She’s got her furs wrapped around her over her night dress, and though the night is freezing, it’s clear and she doesn’t appear troubled.

“Arya you should be in bed”.

Arya’s voice is oddly quiet.

“I know, I won’t be long.”

Sansa pulls herself up onto the ledge. She gazes out the window. It’s a beautiful night, clear, with a huge full moon and bright stars. If it weren’t so cold, it would be the kind of the night for a stroll.

“Do you think we’ll still fight when we’re grown up?”

Sansa’s taken aback.

“Mother always seems to tell me that we’ll grow up, but we already are, and it doesn’t feel like we’re getting more alike. And she never sees her sister at all.”

Sansa finally finds her words,

“We’ve gotten better at avoiding each other when it matters. This morning aside, we don’t fight much anymore, you haven’t thrown food at me in forever.”

“I didn’t mean that to be personal, I was just mad you were fawning over Joffrey like an idiot.”

Sansa chooses to ignore that.

“You’re right thought, we should try and get along. We’re both going to be ladies after all.”

Arya snorts.

“Everyone can say that, but I’ll never be a lady. Even if I get married off to some drunk old lord twice my age, I’ll never be able to be what they want me to be. Even if I did want to be, I’m not good at any of it. That’s you.”

Arya jumps down from the window.

“But I don’t want to end up like Robert either. He’s the king of the Seven Kingdoms and still squabbling with his brother like a child.”

And with that, Arya stands up and returns to her chambers. Sansa stays for a moment n her spot, gazing out into the winter night.

The winter days are feel long, and the weeks and months longer. Clearer days have snow fights and winter rides. Days heavy with snow bring thick stews and roaring fires, and songs and stories to try and hold off the raging of the winter wind. During those days of blizzard, Arya finds the only reprieve in the handful of letters Jon has sent from the wall.

Six moons or so after Arya’s fourteenth naming day, Winterfell has a series of clear days that seem to go on forever. Old Nan calls it a “little summer”, and tells everyone to make the best of it.

During the first days of this little summer, a stranger comes to Winter Town, and Father says all the children should come to greet her.

The stranger is a girl Robb’s age with dark hair and blue eyes, who comes up the Kingsroad on a mule, leading a team.

She introduces herself at Mya Stone. Sansa bristles at the name, recognizing it as a bastard’s name, like Snow.

“Why’d you come up here during the winter?” Arya wants to know, petting one of the beasts on its face.

“I’m from the Vale. My team and I lead people up to the Eyrie, but in the winter there’s not too much call- too treacherous even for us. Your father wrote and requested my team come to Winterfell to help with transporting goods from White Harbour.”

She feeds her mount a carrot as a treat while she unsaddles him.,

“You might like riding one,” Arya tells Sansa. “They’re more solid than horses and won’t even try to do anything dangerous”.

The beast is a bit smaller than the rest of the steeds in the stable, so Sansa agrees, and the two sisters help Mya bring her team to the stables. It’s true, she does feel more sure in the saddle than usual. Sansa would be the first to admit she was a poor rider.

“Mules aren’t generally good for beginners,” Mya tells her as they dismount. “They are hard to train. If they think something is unsafe, they straight up won’t do it, and if you try to make them, they will remember.”

“Well, “ Sansa says, her feet a bit wobbly. She’s never like the smell of the stables, but in the winter it’s not so strong. “Good thing I wouldn’t ask them that.”

Mya’s not the only stranger who comes to Winterfell that season. Soon, there’s a new kitchen maid with a young daughter. Rickon takes a liking to the girl and seems very confused as to why she can’t chase after Shaggydog when she’s barely toddling.

When Father takes them out to greet the next, a blacksmith, Arya hangs back a bit from the rest, to Sansa’s confusion. Shy is one thing Arya has never been. Even when they all enter the smithy, she stands close to the door.

Though when they meet Gendry, Sansa understands why she might be. He’s tall, and broad in the chest with dark hair. He’s fairly soft spoken with the group, not seeming entirely sure why he’s there. Father shakes his hand, then moves to start returning to the keep.

Arya hangs back again. Intrigued, Sansa hangs at the door. She sees Gendry hand Arya something wrapped in a cloth. She can’t see what it is, but it makes Arya smile and laugh.

“What is that?” Sansa butts in when they get back to the castle and are close to alone.

Arya unwraps it and shows it to her. It’s a hair pin, made of curling scrap iron, beaten and shaped to resemble a wolf’s head. It’s not the greatest bit of smithing Sansa’s ever seen, but since Arya immediately separates the two parts and slips it into her hair, it must have meaning to her.

“Why did-” is all Sansa can say.

“He was one of the friends I made in King’s Landing. He was an apprentice in Flea’s Bottom then. I think he used to think I was annoying, always hanging around when he was working. Then one day someone on the street stole his bundle, and I chased and got it back for him. He didn’t complain much after that. He said he’d make something for me out of scrap, so I could see how good he’d gotten, but we left before I even got to say goodbye.”

“You chased a thief!” Sansa says, horrified. “You could have gotten hurt!”

Arya shrugs.

“It was just a child, no older than Rickon is now. I just grabbed and carried him back like that. He was crying though, until I told him I wouldn’t tell the guards. I think someone older must have made him to do it.”

Sansa stands back alone to watch her sister. She’s gotten taller, and her hair longer, though in the leather’s she’s pilfered from Bran (though honestly, he’s too tall for them now anyhow) she still looks like a wild child to Sansa.

But to someone else?

“Did he knew who you were?”

Arya shrugs again.

“Father apparently came to speak to him once before, though he didn’t know why. He also said it wasn’t hard to pick out a highborn girl from a crowd, so I guess he put two and two together”.

She looks oddly pensieve.

“He told me now that Father actually asked him if he’d ever wanted to learn how to swing a sword.”

That shocks Sansa.

“But why?”

Arya shrugs again, “Can’t say, He wasn’t interested though.”

Gendry’s the last newcomer for a while. The little summer ends and the snowfall start back up.

On the days when the snow isn’t too heavy, Sansa often finds herself with Mya in the stables. Her other siblings don’t care about the snow as long as they can see, and brave the whole grounds, but Sansa finds the comparative warmth of the stables inviting.

And Mya’s nice to have around, when she is. Her trips to White Harbor happen during the clear days, though she tells her about the once her and the other grooms got stuck in the woods when it began snowing heavily. They’d been forced to shelter under a thick tree, with their animals forming a wall to keep the warmth in.

“We were lucky it stopped that night, otherwise we might not have been able to get back”.

Even though her stories make Sansa shudder, it’s nice having a friend close again. The past year, Jeyne Poole had wed a young knight who had just earned his spurs, and she had hardly seen a bit of her since.

One day, when they’re in the stables grooming the mules, she asks Mya if she’s always wanted to work where she is.

“Didn’t you ever want to find true love and get married?” Is how she puts it.

Mya laughs.

“I thought I had true love once.”

“What was his name?”

Mya stares at the ground. “Mychel, of House Redfort.”

Redfort. Sansa doesn’t quite known the names of all the noble houses, but she does know this one, and suddenly she knows where this story is going.

“He said we would marry, when he became a true knight. I believed him, and I think he did too. But then his father ordered him to marry Ysilla Royce, so the houses could be joined.”

Just as Sansa thought. It wasn’t fair. Even though she was a bastard, Mya was very nice and deserved to have been happy.

Mya laughs to herself. “I’ve always known I was a bastard, it never bothered me.” She finishes up brushing the mule she was working on, and pats it on the ears. “I remember my father coming to see me when I was young, though I don’t really remember him. Then he didn’t, and it was just me and Mother. I love the mules, and I love leading them, and helping people. I guess I just dreamed too highly.”

She looks at Sansa, who’s holding her bucket of grooming tools.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you? That you’re getting married is treated like means to an end?”

Sansa doesn’t have an answer to that. Despite her love of the old songs, she’s not given any more thought to getting married herself since King’s Landing. No one wants to marry in winter anyhow, so the topic hasn’t really come up, but deep in her mind is the niggling fear that anyone who she became betrothed to might end up being another Joffrey.

As the winter goes on, Sansa turns eight and ten, and Arya six and ten. On her naming day, Arya surprises them by asking for her gift that year if she could keep and raise one of the ravens from Maester Luwin’s newly hatched flock.

Mother and Father agree, but seem as confused as Sansa is.

“Sometimes I wish I knew exactly what was going on inside your sisters head,” Mother confides in her one day. She does seem a bit pleased that Arya’s desire was something more ladylike this year. Truly, Sansa has no more insight than her into Arya. She’s taken to disappearing from the grounds as often as she used to in King’s Landing.

And Arya loves the bird, training it to sit on her arm like a hawk. She’s named it Lyanna, after their deceased aunt.

“You know ravens can’t hunts like hawks and falcons can right?” Sansa asks her one day.

“I know, but raven’s are really clever, “ Arya says, feeding Lyanna a bit of corn. “Maester Luwin’s trying to train this flock to fly between two points, not just back to Winterfell. I wanted to help him.”

And so Sansa continues not understanding her sister.

Near on a year later, while they break their fast, Rickon and little Barra rush in, being trailed by Shaggydog. They’re both clutching handfuls of the blue-purple crocus flowers that grow in the Godswood. Everyone at the table murmurs excitedly.

The crocus flowers blooming is the first sign, Old Nan tells them, of the coming spring.

That day, another stranger comes to Winterfell. Edric Storm is a tall, handsome young man who travels under the banner of Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End. Because of the coincidence, and because this guest will not be staying long, Mother and Father suggest a festival in the town over the next two nights, weather permitting.

There is rejoicing in both the castle and the town. This winter had been long, and the North has little enough of the celebration as the rest of the Seven Kingdoms as it is.

Food sellers set up stands, craftsmen set to sell their wares. There will be games and competitions that Robb and Bran are excited about. There’s a singer traveling with Edric who invites any musicians in the town to join him. Sansa’s overcome by the thought of being able to play her harp for the crowd.

Even Mother and Father seem happy to have some merriment in Winterfell, at last as winter comes to an end. Everyone dresses in their best, even Arya (though when Sansa looks closely, she realizes she’s wearing thick leathers under her dress).

The festival may be small compared to anything in King’s Landing, but to Sansa it feels far grander. She eats honey biscuits from one of the bakers, and cheers when Rickon wins the under-12’s pony race.

She laughs when she walks outside the smithy, and finds Arya and Bran, both in boiled leathers, going back and forth with swords in front of a crowd. Gendry’s speaking to a few of them, while his master works the forge behind, extolling “fine craftsmanship, good enough even for a Lord’s children.” She hopes they won’t get hurt, but it doesn’t look like a true fight. In fact, it almost looks practiced, like a dance. Maybe that’s where the two of them have been doing when they disappeared together.

When night falls, and the lanterns are lit, Sansa joins the musicians, and they go through so many of the classics, “The Roadside Rose”, “Flowers of Spring”, and “Six Maids in a Pool”. By the time they stop, she feels more aglow than she has in years.

While packing up her harp, Father approaches and asks if she can track down Arya before coming back.

“She was with Bran last I saw,” she says, unsure if Father and Mother knew what the two of them were getting up to, “Does he know where she might be?”

“He says that last he saw her, she was by the smiths”.

Everyone on the grounds is pretty much packing up to leave. It’s quite late, and Sansa’s not really sure where she even expects to find Arya.

But the last place she expects her is tucked on the far side of the smith, locked with Gendry in a loving embrace, seemingly oblivious to the world.

Gendry’s seated on the chair beside the emptied exhibition table, Arya half on top of him. Their faces are turned away from her, but are so close together they might as well be one. Arya has the fingers of one hand wrapped in his hair. Gendry has one slung over her shoulder and the thumb of the other touching the side of her face. Softly.

She doesn’t really mean to, but Sansa lets out a squeak of shock that apparently is enough to break their trance. Arya, whose face is pretty flushed at this point (flushed? Arya?) goes white when she sees her.

“Mother and Father want us to head back,” Sansa manages to get out. Arya nods wordlessly and Sansa turns to start back without looking either of them in the eye.

The walk back is completely silent. When they return, neither of them say a word to anyone, merely head into their own chambers to go to bed.

When they reach the hallway, Sansa manages an “Arya…”

Her sister opens the door, and gestures with her head for Sansa to follow her.

As soon as Arya closes the door, Sansa explodes.

“Seven hells Arya, what are you thinking? What if Mother and Father find out!” There’s a bunch more she wants to say too, about irresponsibility mostly, and station, and how Mother and Father were going to have a hard enough time with her as it was, but Arya cuts her off.

“Well they haven’t found out so far”.

So far? How long has this been going on?

Arya takes a deep breath.

“Can you keep a secret Sansa?”

Sansa is once again befuddled, and doesn’t remember saying “aye” but apparently she does, because Arya reaches under her bed and unrolls a bundle to show her.

“Oh”.

It’s simple, made of cheap linen that wouldn’t even be warm in spring. The wolf sigil rather more resembles a blob made of lines and points. The shoddy stitching is definitely Arya’s handiwork though, no one else’s. And it is without a doubt, a maiden’s cloak. And she’s clearly worked on it a while.

“I had to hide it,” Arya tells her. She’s sat down on her bed and clutches the cloak on her lap. “Me sewing anything of my own volition would have alerted every single person in this castle.”

Sansa is genuinely speechless. When she finally finds her words, all she can manage is,

“I thought you never wanted to get married?”

Arya laughs.

“Being a wife and being a lady aren’t the same thing.”

She sounds so certain.

“So I take it you haven’t told Mother and Father.”

“I thought it would be better to ask forgiveness than permission. No matter how hard they must think it will be to marry me off, they would never let me marry a baseborn blacksmith, even if he was a king’s bastard.”

Sansa’s words are stolen again. “What?”

Arya goes a bit pale again. “You, you never realized?” Sansa shakes her head.

“Not just Gendry, all of them. Mya, little Barra. Even Edric, but his mother was noble so he’s always been treated better. King Robert was never apparently a faithful husband.”

They…

Well, they do certainly all look alike. Thick black hair and startling blue eyes. Even Barra had tufts of thick black hair despite her mother’s tawny curls.

“How did you-:”

Arya ducks her head into her chest.

“I heard Mother and Father talking. They said something about...about people wondering if Myrcella and Tommen were really the king’s children.”

Oh. That.

It’s all too much.

Arya tugs at one of the strings on the embroidered sigil. It really is awful. All these years, why did Sansa never offer to help her with her sewing? Truly, Arya probably wouldn’t have accepted. But still, she ought have offered at least.

“Gendry says all he’s ever wanted is a family. His mother died when he was little. Back in King’s Landing I told him to come up north and we would be his family.”

“What did he say to that?” Back in King’s Landing Arya had just been a girl, and Gendry’s older than the both of them.

She laughs, and kicks her feet. “He told me that if he did that all I would ever be was ‘Milady’. That made me so mad you wouldn’t even believe.”

Sansa can believe, completely and truly.

Arya reaches back and touches her hair. Sansa notices she’s wearing the hair pin Gendry gave her those years ago when he first came to Wintefell. Gods above, even then?

“Do you...do you two have a plan?” is all Sansa can say.

Arya nods.

“Edric’s leaving in five days. We’ll go with him, Mya too. Barra’s mother didn’t want to go, she’s still too little, but the rest of us are going to Storm’s End. Edric says Renly Baratheon wants them there, that he considers them all family.”

“You’re going to elope?”

“Is it really eloping if you don’t leave first? There’s a Godswood here at Winterfell.”

The Godswood, so they’re….

“Just the way of the Old Gods?”

Arya nods. “I don’t really know much about the old and the new and all of that, but the Old Gods are Father’s Gods, the Gods of the North, so that feels right. Gendry says he doesn’t mind one way or another, but we might want to go in front of a Sept in Storm’s End just to be sure no one can say otherwise.”

Arya’s quiet for a long moment after that.

“WIll you stand in for Father Sansa? I was going to ask Mya...but I want it to be you, if you will.”

Sansa feels herself go red. Everything inside of her is telling her to say no, to tell Father and Mother, that Arya could be throwing her life away.

But…

She remembers how Arya looked earlier tonight, in Gendry’s arms. Happy. And she remembers how Gendry had been looking at her. And suddenly, Sansa feels a tugging deep in her stomach, that she recognizes as envy.

“Do you love him?”

Arya’s eyes go wide.

“Seven hells, Sansa, do you think I would do this if I didn’t? I’ve spent my whole life being told that no one would ever want me how I am, and here I am, not only have I, but he’s managed to find me again through and through?”

Her voice quiets.

“He asked me after my naming day. I wasn’t in a dress, my hair was a mess, and I had spent much of my day throwing snowballs at the outside of the forge. And he asked me after all that.”

The envy in Sansa’s gut is heavier than ever. It takes even more time for her to find her voice again.

“Tell me what you need,” Is what she says. She tugs at the cloak on Arya’s lap.

“And let me have at this, but I can’t make any promises.”

Over the next five days, Sansa pulls out the worst offending of Arya’s stitches and renders the sigil as something more recognizably a direwolf.

If it weren’t for Mya telling all the others that she was leaving with Edric, everything might have seemed normal.

“It’s been the best, but there’s not much call for me here come the spring. Storm’s End is near the Red Mountains, I should be able to find good work there.”

Arya’s face is cool, unknowing. In another life, she ought to have been an actress.

She occasionally has attacks of doubt. But Arya is right, Mother and Father had long bemoaned how difficult she would be to marry her off. And really, it is terribly romantic.

The night before, there’s drinks in the Great Hall to see Edric’s group off. They say they wish to leave before first light, to make the best time. Sansa thinks, that that will make it easier to Arya to slip among them unnoticed.

She fidgets the whole night. She doesn’t understand how Arya can not be. Gods above, she’s even talking about helping Bran with his archery the next morning!

But late night still comes, and no one else is any the wiser.

The castle is so still this late, Sansa thinks, as she stands outside Arya’s door. Not even any servants, they won’t come down here until it’s time to wake them in the morning. Arya soon emerges, holding her pack, and Lyanna’s cage, where the bird sleeps.

The pack seems so small.

“Do you have everything you need?” Sansa whispers.

Arya nods. “Clothes, Lyanna, Needle. A couple things to sell if we need to. Edric’s been told, so there’s enough provisions for someone extra.”

She gestures.

“Lets stop at the stable and see Mya first. I want to give her my things so nothing gets forgotten.”

It hits Sansa when they exit the castle (with near shocking ease) and creep their way to the quiet stables, that she’s losing her sister. For real. This has always been in the back of her head, that one day all of the children would marry and go their separate ways, but suddenly it’s real, and it hurts, and whispering to Mya makes tears run down her face.

Mya hugs both of them, and then takes Arya’s bundle and Lyanna’s cage.

“Meet me with Edric’s entourage when you’re done. Everyone’s outside the hunter’s gate so they won’t have to go through town. The bridges are down now so we can leave on time. I’ll keep you to the middle, so you won’t be seen.”

And with that, Arya and Sansa leave her behind.

Passing by the guest house is easy. Even if most of the guests hadn’t been sleeping or preparing to leave, the group is privy to their secret. The kennels is a bit tougher, they must be quiet so as not to wake any of the hounds.

They enter the Godswood, and it is silent. The moon that night is full, and huge, but the canopy of trees is so thick it is nearly blocked.

“Does Gendry know how to get here?”

“I gave him directions the other night, and Mya led him in earlier when everyone was joining in the Great Hall. I hope he didn’t fall asleep.”

Sansa looks her sister up and down. She is wearing a dress, but layered over her leathers and a thick lambs-wool pullover. She said it was one less thing to pack, and they might not let her in the Sept in the south without it. Now that they can’t be seen, she’s pulled on the rough-sewn maiden’s cloak.

Sansa reaches out to touch it.

“You won’t have a gown….”

Arya fixes her with a look like she wants to call her a mean name. That’s silly of course, they haven’t called each other names in years. Out loud anyway.

“That was you. Besides, I won’t ever wear this again after tonight.”

She does reach into a pocket and pulls out several rolls of paper, labelled to each of their family members.

“Make sure we’re all gone before you give everyone these tomorrow. I hope I explained myself well. “

Sansa looks at them. Mother and Father, Robb, Jon, Bran.

“You didn’t write one for me?”

Arya gazes at her.

“I figured I would be able to convince you to help me pretty easily...you’re…”

“What?” Sansa asks, trying not to sound too cross.

“A hopeless romantic.”

When they reach the black pool in front of the weirwood, and Arya spots Gendry sitting still beneath it, Sansa spots the smile that sprouts itself on her sister’s face. And admits to herself, that she’s probably right.

Arya turns and suddenly hugs her fiercely.

“I’ll write as soon as I can. Lyanna should be able to get back here no problem. And if me and Luwin’s training takes, she should be able to find her way back to me and the perch I made her.” Then Gendry notices them and stands, and Sansa suddenly feels as if she needn’t even be here at all. When she watches the way Gendry looks at her sister, a lump swells up in her throat and she feels as if she might not be able to do her part.

But eventually she finds her words, and the three of them all manage to proper ceremonial words without stumbling too much (though Gendry nearly does forget his own name). Sansa asks Arya if she accepts Gendry, and she agrees, and the two of them grasp hands and kneel and Sansa can’t stop herself from crying at all. The tears blur her vision as the two stand and Gendry removes the rough cloak and replaces it with his own, thick and lined with fur, and Arya looks so much more like herself in it, that Sansa can hardly stand it.

The two turn to her now, and Arya quietly reassures Gendry.

“We’re family for real now, all three of us.”

And she reaches out to hug Sansa again.

“You should start back now, or you might get caught.”

Sansa nods, still tearing uncontrollably. She can’t stop her next whispered question though.

“You haven’t already…”

“Gods no, I could barely convince him to kiss me. He was so sure somehow would pop out of nowhere behind him and geld him for it.”

That gets her to laugh.

Sansa lets her go and goes to embrace Gendry as well.

“Be good to her or we’ll all set the wolves on you.”

Gendry laughs at that, but also looks suitably warned. Taking one long, last look at the two of them, Sansa finally makes herself turn and return to the castle, Arya’s notes clutched in her hands.

When she’s nearer to the end of the clearing, she hears Arya let out a playful shriek.

“Told you I could still pick you up like this.”

“I said that you shouldn’t, not that you couldn’t!”

And Sansa continues her walk back with a huge smile on her face. Old Nan was right, this winter was truly at its end.

And spring was coming.

#Game of thrones #a song of fire and ice #gendrya #arya x gendry #arya and sansa #fic

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 5 years

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Happy Birthday to @vkelleyart ! This is a gift fic for you based on the prompt for a character who is “unable to open their eyes for a few moments after a kiss” (I didn’t forget you liked that one!)

So here is a day in the life with SImon and Baz. Hope you enjoy it and enjoy your day!

Read at Ao3

In Between Days

Baz

It’s the fourth week in a row I’ve invited myself to the Bunces’ home. I can’t spend my weekends alone at Watford when I know Simon is just a few hours’ drive away.

It’s not like we don’t talk on mobile. Well, I talk. Simon mostly gives me monosyllabic answers and drawn out silences. But I get to hear the sound of his breathing and that calms me. I know it calms him too. I talk to him until he falls asleep most nights, until I can hear his breath puff in and out through the speaker (mouth breather).

Bunce usually takes his mobile from him once he’s asleep and then she tells me what Simon doesn’t: how he’s sleeping, if he’s eating enough. What goes on during his days with her, when I’m sitting in class—desperate to reach out to him—but forcing myself to translate interminably long passages of Greek for the Minotaur instead.

Father has let me have the Jag at Watford this term. I asked him for it near the end of the holiday break. He heard me out, when I made my request for it, his forehead creasing in concentration. “He’ll be alright with Martin and Penelope, Basilton. I’ve no doubt about that. And Wellby will make sure to check in on him as well. He’s awfully fond of the boy.”

“So am I.” My words came out as a whisper. It was the first time I’d been so open to Father about my feelings for Simon. I don’t regret saying it, no matter what his response.

It’s true and I’m done hiding.

Father’s hand gripped my shoulder briefly. “I know.”

My eyes darted to his. His expression eased and a hint of a smile quirked his lips. “I may be old but I’m not blind. It wasn’t hard to puzzle it out at Christmas.”

I could feel my ears go warm as what little blood I have rushed into them. I opened my mouth to make some retort but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t deny it.

And he didn’t seem perturbed by it.

“And if I had been too thick to notice then, it certainly wouldn’t have escaped my attention now. You’ve spent practically every moment driving down there to see him.” Father waved a hand at me, as if to forestall any comment on my part. “It’s understandable. The boy has been through the unthinkable.” He shook his head and his hand made an involuntary movement towards the inside pocket of his suit jacket, where he keeps his wand. “Simon needs the companionship of those who care for him.”

My mouth went dry. This was not the direction I expected this conversation to go. I should have known better than to underestimate Father’s powers of perception. He’s sharp and Daphne’s a natural empath, so I suppose it was inevitable that they would figure it out. I swallowed in an attempt to force some moisture to my mouth. “So, you’ll let me have the car?” I needed to get back to the point at hand. I wasn’t sure I could handle the intensity of a heart to heart at that moment.

Father nodded. “Yes, yes. You’ll try to figure out some other way to get to him if I say no.” There was an unexpected glint in his eye as he spoke. He must have appreciated my perplexed expression because he raised his eyebrows, shoved his hands in his pockets, and huffed an unanticipated laugh. “You know your mother and I started dating at Watford.” This was a startling topic. I’ve rarely heard him speak of those times. Most of my information has come from Fiona.

He kept speaking, eyes gazing off in the distance somewhere over my left shoulder. “Your mother would always come here for the summer and I would be in Suffolk.” His eyes darted to me again. “I know every possible route from the estate there to our door here.” He huffed again. “I can’t tell you how many times I asked my father to borrow the car so I could save time on travel and have more time to spend with Natasha.” He pulled a key fob out of his pocket and dangled it in the air between us. “I’ll not make you endure the vagaries of the British rail system the way he made me.”

I took the keys from his hand. “Thank you.” I meant it. I was in a state of shock, honestly. He’d been utterly nonchalant about my feelings for Simon, uncharacteristically forthcoming about his past with my mother, and so unexpectedly kind about it all. I put out my hand to shake his and he gripped it with both of his, for longer than usual.

“Don’t park it at the lot near the Wood. The snow devils are hell this time of year. The last thing you need is them messing about with the motor or pelting the car with chestnuts. If the Mage’s Men could park off the Courtyard so can you. Mitali should have no problem with it.”

Headmistress Bunce has had no problem with my car or my mobile. She reversed the technology ban as soon as she set foot on the grounds. Considering she had provided Bunce with a contraband mobile during eighth year, this did not come as much of a surprise to me.

I grab the key fob from my desk and make my way down the steps of Mummers. The snow is swirling with the wind but there’s not much to speak of on the car yet. It’s early still. It might be thick by the time I get back tonight.

I’ll have to come back tonight. The Bunces’ home is bursting at the seams with people. There’s no place for me to stay when I go. Simon theoretically sleeps on a cot in Bunce’s room though I think she lets him crash on her bed more often than not. She complains about his wings enough.

I’m envious.

I know Bunce and Simon are just friends. I’m not bothered about that. I just miss his presence in our room so much that it hurts. There’s an ache in my chest when I look at his empty bed.

I’ve left it all just as it was the day he bolted to come find me. Dirty trackies in the corner, an untidy pile of books on his desk, his wand on the table, his bed a rumpled mess.

Slightly more rumpled now because I’ve been curling up on it, inhaling the faint smoky scent of him it still holds.

The motorway is fairly empty this time of day. I’m not a morning person by nature but the earlier I get on the road the longer I can spend with Simon. I’ll forego a few hours’ sleep if I can spend those hours with him instead.

I texted Bunce before I left, so she’ll know to expect me. She’ll make sure Simon’s up and about. He used to always be up with the sun, the bloody git, blundering around the room. I’d wake up to the sound of him only to huff and groan in mock annoyance. I’d watch him from under my half-closed eyelids as he riffled through his papers, hunted under the bed for his shoes, shrugged on his uniform jacket.

Simon’s not such an early riser anymore. Bunce says he still wakes with the sun, on the nights he gets any sleep, but he’s not up and about. Not until she harangues him for a bit. Or more than a bit. She usually manages to chivvy him to the kitchen for breakfast but then he’s a lump on the sofa for hours after.

Thousand-yard stares. Long stretches of immobility on the Bunces lumpy sofa. Silent walks with me.

He was never one for many words, but in the time since the Mage’s death he’s been painfully laconic in his speech.

I know he’s still in shock. It’s so much to take in. Simon had so little to begin with and now he’s lost that. The Mage. Ebb. Wellbelove. His magic. Watford.

He’s still got Bunce.

And now he has me, for whatever that’s worth.

It breaks my heart that his world shattered, just as my fondest dream finally came true. I’m not sure I’m a worthy trade.

I rap on the Bunces’ front door when I arrive. The snow is thicker here, flakes swirling around my head as I stamp my feet to stay warm. The door flies open and Priya rolls her eyes at the sight of me. “Oh, it’s you.”

I follow her in, relishing the warmth that washes over me. Headmistress Bunce is seated at the kitchen table, tapping away at her laptop. “Basilton.”

“Headmistress.” She usually makes the trip home early Friday afternoon and heads back to Watford at first light on Mondays.

“They’re in Penny’s room. You know the way.”

I give a warning knock on the door before I lean in to take a look. Bunce is seated at her desk but her chair is spun around to face Simon. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, wings nestled against his back, shirtless as usual.

“Baz.” Bunce greets me first, but Simon is already sitting up as she speaks.

I drop down on the bed next to him and press a gentle kiss to his temple. “Good morning, love.”

Bunce, as expected, snorts. “I’ll leave you two for a bit, shall I?” She ruffles Simon’s hair as she walks past us and then give me quick squeeze on the shoulder. Our eyes meet and she shrugs.

Not much has changed then.

Simon ends up on his side, head in my lap, as I lean against the wall by Bunce’s bed, my fingers sliding through his curls. I tell him about my week, all the stupid, useless, trivial things that happened at Watford since I’ve seen him last. Anything to distract him.

“Dev’s been sick this week so Niall tried to use “snug as a bug in a rug” to tuck the blankets around him when he was shivering and damn near strangled him instead. They got so damn tight around him it took both of us to get him unraveled.”

Simon tilts his head back to look at me. “You didn’t come up with a spell?”

There’s a glint in his eye, one I haven’t seen in far too long. I’m so desperate for it, I must be imagining it’s there.“I wasn’t there when he cast it. Niall tried something else but that just unwound the weave of the blanket and he couldn’t spell that away. Left Dev wrapped up like Frodo after the spider got to him. That’s when he shouted for me.”

Simon blinks up at me. “You didn’t use an “as you were”?

I’m not imagining it. Even his tone of voice is sharper.

I shake my head, focused on keeping my own voice calm and steady. “No, that would have just taken him back to the too-tight blankets. You know you can’t keep doing “as you were” over and over, once you’ve done another spell. It would just go back and forth between the two most recent ones.”

“How’d you get him free?” This is perhaps the most interest he’s shown in happenings at Watford since I returned to school. I can’t help the sharp flare of hope that shoots through me.

I keep my voice light. “I used scissors.”

“You did not!”

“I had to. I couldn’t think of a spell to put the blanket back together and every time I pulled on a strand it just got tighter.”

“I’ve never known you to be at a loss for a spell.” Simon narrows his eyes at me. I know this look. It usually presages him jutting his chin out in that delectable way of his. “Why didn’t you use “into thin air”?

Why the bollocks hadn’t I used that? Hadn’t even thought of it. I had just snatched the scissors from Dev’s desk and proceeded to decimate the shreds of the blanket. Perhaps the darkening shade of Dev’s face had alarmed me too much.

I feel quite mortified about it now. Blast Niall. He didn’t think of it either.

I still can’t tamp down the rush of warmth that comes over me from Simon’s words though. Not only for his faith in me, or for his immediate ability to think of an appropriate spell for the situation, but also for that brief spark of the old Simon. That’s progress, isn’t it?

It’s more than I’ve seen so far.

I shrug. It’s a terrible habit I’ve undoubtedly picked up from him. “I’m not infallible. Dev took Niall’s blanket in recompense and made him deal with the mess we left behind. Now they’ve been fighting over how warm to keep the room since Dev’s got the only blanket.”

A flicker of a smile crosses Simon’s face. “If it was you, I’d have just made you share.”

My heart beats faster. I think I might swoon at his words, it’s not beneath me.

I don’t want to disrupt the moment though, so all I do is run my fingertip along his jawline. “You’re warm enough I wouldn’t have to share it.”

“Prick.”

“Mouth breather.”

I force myself to keep my breaths even. I can’t recall the last time he insulted me like this.

I’ve missed it.

Simon stares up at me silently and I trace the freckles along his cheek until I reach the one I’ve loved for years. I press my finger to it, keeping my tone casual as I speak. “Are you going to be a lazy bones and stay in bed all day, Snow? I thought we had plans to take you shopping today.”

I attempt to devise some reason to get him out of the house each time I come. Food, shopping, a film. I’ve not been too successful so far but I think at this point even he’s sick of wearing Premal’s old clothes.

I get him up and rummage around the untidy pile of clothing at the foot of the bed until I find a shirt. I spell it on then spell his wings and tail invisible. I can’t do much about the awful track bottoms. Does no one in this family wear jeans?

We’re definitely going to do something about the lack of them in Simon’s wardrobe today.

We wander around the city center, drifting into shops, getting coffee and scones (of course we get scones).

I eventually find an upscale men’s clothing store and drag Simon in.

“This is too posh for me, Baz,” Simon hisses in my ear as I make my way to the shelves of jeans near the back.

“Nonsense. It’s about time you dressed in something other than chavvy track bottoms and Premal’s lurid tshirts.” I flick through the jeans, eyeing Simon as I do. He’s shorter than me but with a more solid build.

At least he used to be. I’m not sure of his size anymore. He’s lost weight since the end of last term.

I won’t think about that right now.

I find a few pairs that appear to be the right size. They may be a bit long but he can just cuff them. I toss the jeans at him and move on to the shirts. He trails behind me like a forlorn puppy.

“Baz.”

“Hmm?” I’m riffling through some fitted crew neck shirts that are velvety to the touch. These will do nicely.

Simon tugs at my sleeve. “Baz. I can’t afford any of this.”

“You can actually, with your leprechaun gold, but that’s not relevant at the moment. I’ve got this. I promised to take you shopping and this is going on my account.”

He looks as horror stricken as if I’d announced a nation-wide shortage of butter. “I can’t let you do that!”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s too much money. I can’t have you buying me clothes.”

I put the shirts down and reach for his free hand. “Simon. I want to. I’m your boyfriend and I want to do this.” I step closer to him. “Let me do this for you, please?”

He frowns at me, eyebrows drawn to the middle of his forehead. I squeeze his hand. “What’s this really about?”

Simon’s eyes dart away and then return to me, the expression on his face harder to puzzle out now. “I just … I just don’t need all this.” He gestures with the arm holding the jeans and then rapidly clutches at them before they slide out of his grip. “I’m fine with what I’ve got. I can go to a thrift shop, find something in my size. You don’t have to do this.”

It dawns on me then that he’s never done this. Simon’s never gone into a real shop, to buy new clothes. Not even an H&M or a Uniqlo.

It’s all been hand-me-downs at the care homes or cheap thrift shop finds. Or the occasional Christmas gift from the Wellbeloves.

The only full set of new clothes he ever had were the uniforms at Watford. The ones he wore all the time.

The ones I gave him interminable amounts of grief over, back when I was just his prick of a roommate and insufferable nemesis.

It makes me furious at the Mage all over again. Couldn’t he have taken Simon to a real store, to buy some nice clothes? Just once?

I realize I’m standing here, staring at Simon, clutching his hand far too tightly. “I’m not doing it because I have to, Simon. I told you. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve to have anything you need or want. New clothes. New shoes. A proper jacket. Whatever the fuck strikes your fancy, because by Crowley, why shouldn’t you?”

He blinks at me. I step closer. “Come on now. I need to see how my terrible boyfriend’s arse looks in these jeans.”

Simon flushes instantly, his expression rapidly shifting from serious to flustered. It’s adorable. “You can’t be serious, Baz.”

“I’m deadly serious about clothing, Simon. I’d think you’d know that by now.” I can’t help but smile down at him.

He huffs a laugh and I relax a little. “You’re fucking ridiculous about it, you wanker.”

“Trust my judgement then, you fashion disaster. You’re a prime candidate for a complete Queer Eye makeover.”

He actually grins at me. “Well, you’re queer enough to manage all that for me, yeah?”

I am. Challenge accepted.

We exit the shop an hour later, laden with bags. I’ve managed to find two pairs of jeans that are sinfully fitted to Simon’s form, an assortment of soft shirts that hug his muscled torso, one slim cashmere jumper that clings to his shoulders, and a brown leather jacket that nearly caused me to spontaneously combust in the shop. I’m delighted with the entire lot.

A judicious use of “clothes make the man” in the dressing room allowed the clothing to appropriately accommodate his wings and tail. I’ll have to mention that spell to Bunce.

I load our purchases into the car and find a curry shop for Simon. I linger over my kebabs, just drinking in the sight of him. The color has come back to his face, cheeks reddened by the brisk winter wind. He’s digging into his chicken tikka with a gusto that’s been sorely lacking the last few weeks.

I feel a surge of satisfaction when he eyes the lonely kebab on my plate. “You going to eat that, Baz?”

“I had considered it.” I don’t mean it. I ate more than enough samosas. I’ll put some of the Watford rats out of their misery later tonight. “Oh.” He shrugs and I can’t keep up the charade.

“Of course, you can have it, you nightmare. I saved it for you.”

Simon’s face lights up as he reaches for it. It’s the little things that give me hope that he’s making some progress. I know I can’t count on it every time. I know he’ll likely regress next week. But every little bit of improvement is a step in the right direction.

We head back to Bunce’s place in the late afternoon. The days pass far too slowly at Watford and far too swiftly when I’m with Simon. I’ll need to leave soon, to make it back before the drawbridge goes up for the night.

I make some perfunctory conversation with the Professors, indulge in a whispered exchange with Bunce while Simon hangs his new clothes in her closet, and then let Simon walk me to my car. I try to drag it out as long as I can, but the sun is sinking and I’ve got no choice but to leave now.

The chill is more pronounced as the shadows lengthen. I can’t help the shiver that runs through me. Simon wraps his arms around my waist and I revel in his heat. Even now, with his magic extinguished, he still radiates warmth. It’s comforting, though I should be the one giving comfort rather than him.

Simon rests his head on my shoulder and I bury my face in his hair, inhaling the scent of him. It’s not the smoky aroma that haunts my dreams. It’s fresh and green and holds the barest hint of that familiar fragrance.

I lightly brush my lips to his temple and he turns his face up to me, lifting his head from its resting place on my shoulder and touching his lips to mine. I hold my breath. I’ve not ventured to do more than lightly kiss his cheek or forehead, not wanting to push him, not now, not after everything.

Simon presses closer, his lips firm and warm. And just like the first time we kissed, he takes the lead and moves his mouth, doing that thing with his jaw that leaves me breathless.

My lips part and he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against my own.

My heart is hammering in my chest, my pulse pounding in my ears. I’ve yearned for this, hungered for his touch, not daring to seek it for myself. I’ve been content with holding his hand, letting him rest his head in my lap, feeling the press of his shoulder against my own.

I’m grateful for anything he’s willing to give me.

My eyes have drifted closed as his touch heats my skin and his mouth moves against my own. I’ve missed this so very much. We may have only had two days’ worth of spectacular snogging, but Simon’s kisses have become more than just a craving to me. I need them. Like air or water. I don’t know how I’ve survived without them.

I’d dreamed of this often enough through the years, fantasized about his lips on mine, his hand sliding up my back like it is now, his shoulders underneath my grip.

The reality is far better than I’d ever hoped.

Simon pulls back and rests his forehead against mine. Our breaths mingle, arms wrapped tightly around each other. I can’t seem to open my eyes. I know it’s not a dream, but part of me still expects it all to vanish if I do open them.

It’s only when Simon’s hand slides up to tangle in my hair that I force myself to bring my gaze to his. The blue of his eyes is so close I can see the variegated shades that make the color so unique. There’s nothing ordinary about this boy in my arms. Not now. Not ever.

“I’ll miss you.” His words are just a whisper but I can hear them clearly.

“I’ll miss you too. I’ll call, every night.” My grip on him tightens. “I’ll be back next week.”

“I want you to, but you don’t have to. I know you’ve got schoolwork to do.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “I’ve no one to distract me during the week anymore. I’m so far ahead that I could take a week off and still not fall behind. It’s not as challenging, without Bunce there to goad me on.” I press a kiss to his forehead. “I’d rather be here with you, you know that.”

Simon’s lips brush mine once more. “I’d rather have you here too.”

I make it back to Watford just in time. The drawbridge goes up just as I reach Mummers. I take a shower, sort through my papers, read next week’s Political Science assignment. I wait until ten and then I dial Simon’s number. He answers on the second ring.

“Hey.”

“I miss you already.”

“I miss you too.”

I listen to him breathe. Words aren’t necessary. It’s enough to know he’s there.

My thanks to @basic-banshee @penpanoply and @fight-surrender for the encouragement, feedback and support for this fic during the crazy real life events going on as I was writing this.

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #birthday gift fic #my writing #my fic #shopping #a day in the life

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