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moeitsu · 27 days

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: A well deserved hunt with Charles, met with an unexpected surprise back at camp...

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 5 - My Heart Beats On As Warmly Now

“What began as a journey had become a retreat into the unknown. We were backing into the abyss; so worried our sins would follow us we didn’t bother watching where we walked. And behind us was a cliff.” ~ Elsa Dutton 1883

Arthur’s anger dissolved with the storm, replaced by a heavy sense of regret as he trudged back to camp that evening. All he wanted was to drown his shame in a few bottles of liquor, away from prying eyes, away from the disappointment he felt in himself. He hadn’t intended for Kate to see that side of him, not yet at least. And certainly not against a sickly innocent man. He let his anger and frustrations get the better of him. Like he switched on auto-pilot and let the outlaw in him take control. He worried now that Kate might actually leave, and he blamed himself for that.

Swiftly, he made his way to the crate of beer bottles behind the chuck wagon, grabbing a few before retreating to his tent. He craved solitude, a respite from the demands of camp life, from the weight of his own mistakes.

Seated on his cot, a beer wedged between his legs, Arthur opened his journal, the one constant in his life since Dutch and Hosea taught him to read and write. It was his confidant, his sanctuary in a world of chaos. John always gave him shit for it growing up, calling him a pansy and constantly trying to snoop in his personal entries.

Despite being in a gang for most of his life, he still felt incredibly lonely. There weren't many people he would truly open up to. So his journal became that person. It was the one thing that did not judge him, ever. But even as he poured his thoughts onto the page, he longed for a human connection, someone to truly understand him.

Hosea and Dutch had been like parents to him, raising him from a young age in the ways of the outlaw. They had their flaws, but they had also shown him kindness and guidance when he needed it most. He always saw Hosea as his father, he would consider Dutch his father too, although he was more like an older brother at times. Hosea was probably the only person who truly knew Arthur, and saw the things he wished not to speak about. Neither parent was perfect by any means, and Arthur could recognize that. But even as an adult, there is still a child inside that longs for the comfort of a father.

It was that fatherly instinct that drove Hosea to Arthurs tent that night.

“Evening Arthur,” he greeted, holding open the tent flap, “may I come in?”

He put down his journal and nodded. Gesturing for Hosea to join him on his cot.

“I noticed Kate didn’t ride back with you, is she okay out in this storm?” He inquired.

Arthur smiled with a slight shake of his head, that's Hosea for you. Always worried about others, here he was checking on his son but was more concerned about the lady he left behind.

“I’m sure she’s fine, saw her heading into Valentine,” he answered, taking a sip of his beer. He handed one of the full bottles to Hosea as the older gentleman sat down.

“I take it things didn't go well then,” he said with a hint of sympathy.

Arthur sighed, “when do they ever.”

As they sat together in the dim light, the rain drumming softly on the canvas roof, Arthur felt a sense of comfort in Hosea’s presence. He didn’t need to explain himself, didn’t need to justify his actions. Hosea simply listened, offering silent support.

“I don’t know why I do it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The man was sick and weak, I should've just given him a warning.” Arthur concluded with a shake of his head.

Hosea sighed knowingly. “I think you can blame your fathers for that son,” taking a sip to clear his throat, “Dutch and I did what we thought was best at the time and well, you were quite impressionable when you were young. We used that to our advantage to turn you into a grade A outlaw.” He said gently with honesty.

Arthur chuckled at the memories of his youth, before John came along he was the golden child. He used to love it when Dutch would teach him how to pick locks, or when Hosea taught him a whole book of curse words. Had he not been the son of outlaws, his life would’ve looked very differently.

“We’ll always be thieves,” he mused with a hint of nostalgia, “only difference now is that the world don't want us no more.”

Hosea nodded, silently agreeing, “We're doomed just like every other creature on this rock Arthur,” he remarked with a wry smile. “I just wish I had acquired that wisdom at less of a price.”

After a moment of contemplative silence, Arthur spoke, his voice heavy with regret. "I just wish I’d done things differently," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. His remorse mixed with his actions at the Downes ranch, and for every mistake he’s made in the past that led him here.

Hosea laid a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder, a silent gesture of understanding. "We can't change the past, son," he said gently. "All we can do is learn from it and strive to do better in the future."

Arthur nodded, the weight of Hosea's words settling over him like a blanket of reassurance. "I don't want to be the kind of man who hurts others for no good reason," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I want to be better, for Kate, for everyone."

Hosea squeezed Arthur's shoulder affectionately before rising to his feet. “She’ll come around, son.” He offered a parting reminder, “underneath it all, you have a good heart.”

Before he disappeared into the night, Hosea turned back with a final piece of news. “By the way, your brother wants to speak with you about using that oil cart you found to rob the train tomorrow night.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “He ain’t my brother,” he muttered disdainfully.

Hosea chuckled. “Well, you two sure argue like brothers. G’night, Arthur.”

He tipped his head to the old man as he left, “night Pa.”

Arthur laid back on his cot, tucking his journal into his satchel when something small and round fell out and made a soft pitter on the ground. When he looked down he saw the peach pit, the one Kate gave him on her first night. He reached to pick up the small seed. His thumb ran over its hard wrinkles.

He held it tight to his chest, and silently promised he would make things right with Kate. If he ever saw her again.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, reveling in the freshness that lingered after the storm had passed in the night. The scent of newly sprouted grass and moist earth filled her senses, while dew-kissed leaves sparkled under the gentle caress of the rising sun. A light breeze danced around her, carrying the promise of spring on its wings. It felt like the start of something new as if the world itself was awakening alongside her. It was the perfect day for a ride.

She met Charles in the early morning, exactly where he said he’d be. Waiting for her to begin their journey into the wild lands in hopes of finding a fresh hunt. They were a few hours into their journey now, heading north into Ambarino to hunt cow elk. Just one 200 pound elk is enough to feed the entire camp for a month. Maybe more. It was a day's ride there and back, short enough to keep the meat fresh in time.

With a satisfied sigh, Kate exhaled the tension from her shoulders, “this is exactly what I needed Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled warmly, guiding his horse closer to hers. "Thanks for joining me, Kate," he replied, his own gratitude evident in his tone.

With her face tilted to the sun, she savored the moment. Allowing Lorena to guide her. A silent trust shared between them, that her mare will take her where she needs to go. “You know, I always thought you preferred hunting alone. I never see anyone go with you.” Kate remarked, eyes still closed in bliss.

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur and I have gone together a few times, but other than that, I don't seek much company from the others," he admitted, his words tinged with honesty. It was clear that while he valued his fellow gang members, solitude was his preferred companion in the wild.

“That why you’re always so quiet?” She inquired, innocently.

Charles chuckled softly. "If the choice is folks thinking I'm dumb but not knowing for sure, and folks knowing I'm dumb because I sound like them, I think I'd rather keep them wondering," he explained with a grin. The confidence in his voice a testament to his strength.

Kate chuckled, her eyes reflecting understanding. "I get that. Sometimes it's better to keep people guessing," she replied. Under her breath she added, “I know some of those men can be pretty dumb,” loud enough for Charles to hear.

Charles exclaimed in frustration, “tell me about it! All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?”

Kate pondered for a moment, she still didn't know what happened all those weeks ago that drove the gang of outlaws here. It was the one piece of information they didn’t talk about around her. Perhaps Charles would share the missing pieces. “What happened to everyone to cause you to run?” Her tone colored with genuine curiosity.

As Charles recounted the events of that fateful day, Kate couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for what they must have been through. The gang did not like to talk about Blackwater, and the consequences must have been devastating.

"It was a fucking execution," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "We thought it would a simple job robbing a ferry, carrying payroll. But there were civilians too." Kate could already imagine where this led. $5000 for his head alone, the words echoed in her mind.

“We raised a lot of hell that day, and things got out of control. Next thing we know, the Pinkertons are on us along with the law. And everyone just starts shooting. I don't know which one of us shot first but that's all it took. There were passengers caught in the crossfire.” He shook his head with disappointment. She couldn't imagine the terror those innocent people must have felt as they found themselves caught in the chaos.

“Dutch he,” Charles hesitated, “he killed a young girl. Just to get the law off him. And no one batted an eye.” His voice heavy with emotion. Her stomach churned at the thought of such senseless violence. “We lost three good people, and John barely made it out alive.”

He turned, facing her, "I don't kill for fun Kate; I kill when I need to," he urged, his tone pleading. It was clear that he was grappling with the moral implications of their actions, and Kate couldn't help but admire his integrity in the face of such darkness. One so hauntingly familiar.

“Arthur came out different after Blackwater,” he added with a sigh.

“Being an outlaw can’t be easy,” Kate added, trying to lighten the mood. She understood the hardships and turmoil that came with senseless violence.

Charles huffed and shook his head at the memory, “easy certainly wasn't in the job description.”

As they rode on, the weight of their conversation hung heavy between them. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were all running from something far greater than the law. A feeling she was not immune to.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Their hunt had been successful, tracking and swiftly killing a massive elk. They settled in for a fire and camped near a lake for the night. Enjoying fresh fish for dinner. In the morning they tied their game to the back of Taima, and began their journey back to camp. Kate’s spirit felt lightened in a way, the two of them spent most of the night sharing stories. And she realized she and Charles had a lot in common. A gentle reminder that she is not entirely alone in her struggles.

The ride home went by quickly, and with the sun tickling the horizon, they arrived at the great plains of New Hanover, and eventually, the familiar overlook.

As they rode into camp, the air was thick with urgency, Miss Grimshaw's voice cutting through the chaos. "Alright girls, everything into the wagons, now!" she barked, her tone sharp.

Charles swiftly brought their kill to the chuck wagon, while Kate hurriedly dismounted and rushed to join the flurry of activity. The girls worked frantically, packing crates with blankets and clothing, fear etched on their faces.

"What's happening?" Kate asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Mary-Beth paused in her task, her expression grim. "Arthur and John got into trouble with the law in Valentine," she explained, her hands moving quickly. "Dutch says we need to leave, fast."

A surge of panic swept over Kate at the thought of Arthur and John in danger. "Did they get caught?" she asked, her heart pounding.

Mary-Beth shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, sympathy in her eyes. "But we have to go."

As Kate’s mind began to spiral with the worst outcomes imaginable, a voice rose above the commotion. Speaking of the man himself.

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Charles!" he called out, his tone urgent. "Find Arthur at Dewberry Creek, we need a new hideout." Charles turned on his heel with a nod, mounting Taima and taking off back down the trail they came in on only a moment ago.

With his words she felt a sudden sense of relief, Arthur is okay. Their last conversation weighed heavy on her heart. And she would be damned if that was the last time they spoke.

Dutch's voice commanded attention once more. "When they give us the all clear, we move out! Let's get to work, people!" he shouted.

Mary-Beth and Tilly went back to their work and left Kate alone with her thoughts. She returned to her belongings, packing quickly. But her moment of respite was short-lived as a sickeningly familiar voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Well hello Kate,” Micah said with disdain and arrogance.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Micah,” Kate retorted, her patience wearing thin.

Micah advanced, his eyes blazing with hostility. "Funny how you show up right when trouble finds us," he taunted.

Kate scoffed, the idea completely absurd, “you idiots robbed a fucking train, did you seriously expect a welcome home party?” She shot back, her voice filled with sarcasm.

Micah's gaze narrowed. "We were set up in Valentine, someone ratted us out," he growled, his words dripping with bitterness.

“I was just hunting with Charles,” she explained, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice, she refused to play his game.

Micah approached with malice, his fist twitched at his side, ready to pull his pistol any moment. "Well Charles ain't here now,” he gestured around the camp, “and we think it was you," he hissed, the accusation cutting through the chaos.

Realization dawned on her that he was setting her up, but the reason why was still unclear. “And when Charles comes back he can testify to that,” she spat, turning to continue her packing.

He closed the distance between them with predatory grace. In one swift motion, he raised his pistol. Before Kate could react, the butt of the gun connected with her temple, sending a searing pain shooting through her skull. Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she stumbled backward, the world spinning dizzily around her. Darkness threatened to engulf her.

As she struggled to regain her bearings, Micah loomed over her, a twisted smirk playing across his lips, “we’ll be long gone by the time they come back princess.”

With a sickening thud, Kate's head hit the ground, the impact reverberating through her skull. As the world faded into blackness, she felt herself being pulled into an abyss of darkness. The last sound echoing in her ears was the distant whinny of Lorena, a mournful cry that seemed to fade into the void.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The commotion of the camp kept her drifting in and out of consciousness for the next hour. She heard Abigail's voice call out to Kate in concern, and Micah snapped back warning her to keep her distance. She also realized her wrists had been bound along with her ankles, with Micah standing guard over her like a dog. Like she could run away in this state anyways.

The darkness began to creep in again, and in a moment she awoke and Micah was gone. It was almost dark and she was in a different spot now, away from the center of camp and behind the tree line. That fucking bastard tried to leave me here. She thought with bitterness.

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar voice pierced through the camp, but Kate's mind was still swimming in a fog of confusion. Wagons rattled as they hurriedly departed the overlook, leaving Kate struggling to make sense of the commotion. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees, squinting through the haze.

Then, like a beacon in the night, Arthur's horse appeared, Belle’s white coat gleaming amidst the darkness. With a surge of relief, Kate locked eyes with Arthur, who rushed over to her side, his expression etched with concern.

Her consciousness flickered like a dim candle in the wind as she slowly regained awareness. The throbbing pain in her head was a harsh reminder of what had just transpired. Blinking away the haze, her vision blurry.

"Kate? Are you alright?" Arthur's voice cut through the fog, filled with concern as he took in the sight of her bound wrists and ankles. Swiftly dismounting Belle and pulling a knife from his belt to cut her free.

Her head throbbed as she recounted what happened and she felt sick in the stomach. She couldn’t stay with them anymore, not after this. Micah was a real problem, and if what Charles told her about Blackwater is true, then Dutch is likely the same.

“I’m okay,” she answered wearily, “Micah set me up,” a hint of fear mixed with rage creeped into her voice. Arthur helped her rise to her feet, just as the last wagons were leaving the overlook. Without missing a beat she turned to find her horse.

Arthur was slightly taken aback, unsure if she was still upset with him from the nights before, all while trying to make sense as to why Micah had set her up.

“I-I’m sorry Kate,” he pleaded, “I shoulda been here,” his voice was laced with remorse. His strides quickened as he closed the distance between them. Kate's heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but she knew she couldn't stay.

“It’s not your fault,” she reassured, “but I have to leave.” She decided in the moment, ripping the bandaid clean off. She longed to stay with Arthur and the gang, but she no longer wanted part in this trouble. “Goodbye Arthur,” she bid him a solemn farewell.

“Kate,” he called out, desperation filling the air. He wanted to stop her, to grab her and beg her to explain what happened with Micah. But the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, she had made up her mind. So all he could do was stand and watch as she rode off.

She clutched at Lorena’s reins, taking off in the same direction as the wagons, intending to ride past them and make her way to Rhodes, hopefully putting enough distance between them so she could get her bearings and be on the move again. Her heart raced with adrenaline and disappointment. Things could not have taken a turn for the worst.

She used the darkness to her advantage, slipping away from the wagons as they took a path down following the railroad tracks, while Kate veered off towards the twin stacks. As she climbed altitude she watched the wagons below, specifically watching Arthur take off behind them, his mare flying through the train of carts and horses like a butterfly dancing between flowers.

She paused for a moment, letting herself consider that perhaps she wasn't just running away out of fear, but something else as well. She thought about the girls, and Charles, who had just become a dear friend after their hunting trip. She thought about Abigail, who must be clutching little Jack close to her heart at this moment, praying John will see his family out of this alive. Her last conversation with Arthur still ate at her heart, so many words went unspoken that she wished she had said that night.

Memories of her past came back in waves along with the painful throb of where she had been hit with Micah’s gun. Her fear, mixed with her disappointment and anger. A reminder of her own weakness.

Yet, she decided long ago that she would never live in that kind of world again, where the weak would rather guilt the strong than become strong themselves. This world doesn’t care what the weak want. This world eats the weak. Therefore, she became strong.

The sudden sound of gun fire dragged her from her thoughts, she rode farther up the slope looking for the source of the noise. She saw in the distance the tiny images of wagons and horses, and a group of raiders descending to their location..

Gripping the reins with such ferocity, Lorena reared on her hind legs as Kate spun her around and took off back down the slope. She would not let death sink its venomous teeth into the belly of another.

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zerobaselove · 11 months

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the best gift | seok matthew

pairing: matthew x reader

genre: fluff, suggestive

word count: 762

warning: suggestive around the ending. lowercase intended, not proofread

prompt: 6. "would falling in love with me be so terrible?" 15. "shut up" "make me"

notes: happy late birthday to our maechu <33 we fucking love you (i'm writing this in a starbucks rn i am brave as hell)

"you wouldn't tell me what you wanted for your birthday so i had to wing it, i hope it's okay." you handed your best friend matthew a small wrapped gift box, inside the box was a small custom music box that played the merry go round of life with both yours and his initials engraved on the side.

his eyes lit up as he opened the box, only smiling brighter as the light tune played from the music box. "you didn't have to," he smiled, eyes trained on memorizing all the intricate details on the small trinket.

"i wanted to, it was the least i could do." you simply smiled at the enamoured boy.

for the first time in a while, the boy looked up at you, "i would've also taken a confession." his once bright smile turned into a more smug smirk, especially once he saw the way your face heated up at the implication.

"not funny matthew," you let out a shy laugh, not able to look at the birthday boy after his blunt response. as much as you hated to admit it, deep down, you had hoped for the same from him.

his demeanour changed slightly, his next words laced with a whiny tone that you happened to find quite endearing. "would falling in love with me be so terrible?" his fingers had found themselves under your chin, tilting your head to make eye contact with him. he wanted an answer.

"no that's not-" you took a pause, not knowing where to go with your words. surely now wouldn't be the best time to confess, at least not in your head. every combination of words you ran through your head didn't sound quite right; too forced, too blunt, too shy, too vague, too desperate. too in love. so you settled on something simple. "shut up."

your eyes avoided his with skill, glancing at every feature on his face except his eyes. the moles adorning his skin, the cracks in his lips, the flush on his own cheeks despite his calm demeanour, his furrowed brow, as if in thought. you were so busy memorizing his features that you almost didn't hear his next words.

"make me."

oh. you finally took it upon yourself to look him in the eyes, looking for any sense of joking that perhaps got lost in his tone, but there was none. his once sparkling bright eyes had seemed to darken. you almost found it hard to look away as your mouth became dry and you had to remind yourself to blink.

you were pulled from your thoughts at the low chuckle that left his lips, "that's what i thought," he leaned in closer, enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, sending shivers down your spine. "too shy to act on it huh?"

you were silent, the only noise coming from you being a loud gulp as you attempted to swallow, pushing any words further down your throat.

"can i?" his voice was quiet as his eyes noticeably flickered from your eyes to your lips, and back again.

you gave an overly eager hum in return, but that wasn't enough. "words love, i need words."

"please," you managed to breathe out, hoping he didn't notice the way your voice shook over one word.

he seemed to be pleased with that answer as he closed the gap between you two. the kiss started slow and soft, like he was afraid to break you or scare you off, but unknown to him, he had nothing to be worried about. you had been dreaming of this day for months. finally having his lips on yours made you feel like you were on cloud nine, and you couldn't help but be a little eager.

as much as you loved the way he handled you so gently, you needed more, you wanted to give him more. you let your hand make it's way to his hair, tugging on the strands slightly. the action caught him off guard, his lips almost immediately parting as a small groan escaped his lips.

from there on the kiss heated up quicker than you could've imagined. all these emotions and feelings had been bubbling up for so long and now they were finally boiling over; a mess of clashing teeth and wandering hands. it was perfect.

before it went any further you pulled away for a moment, lightly tugging his lips between your teeth as you did so, leaving the boy whining at the loss of contact.

"how's this for a birthday gift?"

#zerobaseone #zerobaseonefics #boys planet #boys planet fics #boys planet imagines #boys planet reactions #kpop #boys planet drabbles #zb1 #zb1 x reader #seok matthew imagines #zb1 imagines

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romanoffsbish · 1 year

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… If Only in my Dreams…

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

I’ll Be Home For Christmas… (Prev)

Mama-Nat ; Mommy-R

Warnings: Hostile!Nat, Tantrums/Outbursts, Violence, Blood, Injured!R

Sorry it took so long to put out, but I just really wasn’t in the necessary headspace to finish this.

There was a low humming noise that filled the dark room, or at least you assumed it was dark since you'd yet to open your eyes, but judging by the lack of red tint to your eyelids it wasn't all that hard to infer. You intended to appear asleep to your captors, but due to the frigidity of the space you were left in it was impossible to contain your shaking, and as you expected it wasn't long before someone was entering.

"Good, you're finally awake.," the mans taunting laughter bellowed off the walls as he bared witness to the ceasing of your shivering, your body was now stilled, every muscle having tensed up, whilst the hair on your body stood, and your heart thumped harshly in your chest., "Welcome home Agent 22, get some rest, you'll be needing it.," he chuckled unabashedly while your body racked with uncontainable sobs that only further the pain in your head. The sound of the slamming door behind him made a harsh noise as it automatically locked, and you knew, without a doubt, exactly where you were.

Back at the beginning...

——

It'd been twenty four hours since you fell, an entire trip around the sun with no answer on as to where you ended up, or if you were even still alive. Presumably you're being held captive by an 'unknown' group of men, with harsh injuries to account for all the blood you lost in Russia. When the sisters returned to the cabin your wife wasted no time utilizing all of her own resources and access to government databases. Every avenue she went down failed though, she knew it'd be pointless to remain in Russia, it's very unlikely your captors had, and she hadn't enough to work with in the faraway place so she set back off to the states for assistance.

So now Natasha paced around Clint's barn, the place she'd advised her former teammates to meet up with her at as it wasn't on any radars. Her heart was absolutely shattered, her gut had been warning her from the start that the trip was a bad idea, but somehow you'd convinced her it would be okay, and now you're injured horribly, and on top of that you're also missing. Had her sister never treated you so terribly, or had she stuck to her guns and kept you home, then this nightmare wouldn't have come to life.

Yelena was sat on a bale of hay, her face was stitched up, injured arm strapped to her body, and her eyes were painfully glued to the floor, unwilling to catch those of her sisters. This trip was never supposed to end in carnage, even if at one point Yelena thought she'd have to kill you herself—deep down she always knew she wouldn't have to, but even in her success of making nice with you, this is still all her fault. Two unsuspecting kids sit inside the Barton's house, only a few paces from her guilty form. The thought of them losing their mommy if they don't work fast enough weighing heavy on her conscience; it all brings her to silent tears.

Natasha hasn't said a word to her for fear of saying things she couldn't take back. She knows Yelena tried to save you, but had she never been reluctant to let you in, then the trip that led to your disappearance never would've happened, and you'd be here, safe in her arms.

Christmas is less than two weeks out, and the idea of you missing Eli's first Christmas leads to her falling to her knees in another fit of sobs. Clint was quick to pull her into his embrace, he doesn't try to shush her, or to cheer her up with promises of saving you—no, he simply holds her close, and allows her the space to fall apart.

Once she'd settled into his embrace, her sobs eventually faded into the occasional hiccup, and they remained in this bubble until she heard the familiar rumble of a jet, then she was racing out of the barn to greet the stoic team. Tony was first to deplane, the multitude of gadgets necessary in his hand to find you work to settle Natasha's nerves ever so slightly. Wanda's next to deplane, her eyes bloodshot from crying the whole ride there, and she's the first of any to pull Natasha in for a hug. Steve was the last to deplane, a heaviness settling on his shoulders as he continues to ponder if this was all his fault—did he compromise your life?

"Now that we're all here, shall we begin?," Tony breaks the tense silence, holding back a shiver once he sees the daggers the little witch was staring into the folded over blonde., "They've got something blocking the tracking device in her neck, here's all that I have for it.," Natasha relays, shoving her semi useless tracker into his hands in the hopes that it'll mean something to him. Tony smiled solemnly at her, then he silently began to fiddle with everything he brought to get the process going.

"Nat, why do we think they wanted Y/N?," Cap asks as a way to hopefully gather more of an understanding on why they only took you, the man however gulped upon seeing the fire in her eyes., "Not sure Rogers, could be the bar fight they caused, or the Hydra mission you sent me on, jury's still fucking out on a cause."

Everyone in the room flinched as her voice had only elevated, making Natasha jump to her feet right after to leave the barn in search of solace. The last thing she wanted was to guilt trip, or make your friends feel responsible. Sadly her her attempts to find such peace proved really hard to obtain when the only person who can bring her back down to earth is gone. Eliana, and Jackson usually brought her said peace, but with their uncanny similarity to you all she could see is what she lost, and failed to protect.

Facing them alone was already hard enough, but when one can verbalize his worries over his missing mommy it only makes it that much worse. Eli's cries also wouldn't stop with Nat around, when just last week it was only her who could get them to, it's as if she knew her mommy was in danger just by looking to her. Natasha was hardly ever alone with them, and she never realized they picked up on that until she returned without you. They'd been ecstatic for about thirty seconds before the emotional turmoil Natasha exuded transferred to them, then it was wailing, and "Where's mommy?," and her already breaking heart couldn't deal, leaving the Barton's to handle the distressed children, while she ran out to sob some more.

Avoiding your beloved kids is the last intention she ever had, but as she sat alone on the rickety tire swing it was exactly what she was doing. Tears ran down her cheeks at the daunting reality that they may never get you back, that she might have to raise the children without your warm touch, and voice of reason. Everything she knew about being a mother came from directly mirroring you, you'd been her reference point for all things proper., "She's alive Natalia, I can still feel her."

Wanda could hear her horrid thoughts from a mile away, the idea alone of never finding you was enough to have infuriated her. Though the tie between you two wasn't blood, there was no doubt it was akin to that of siblings. Hydra was never kind to any of you, but she never forgot the way you looked out for her and Pietro, or how you took the brunt of the testing for their sake. You were their guardian angel, so after many years of forced separation, when they saw you with the Avengers, leaving Ultron wasn't even a question, it was just the answer.

Wanda's no stranger to loss, she's lost everyone who's ever meant anything to her up until this point, everyone except for you. There's no way she isn't going to get you back, even if she has to delve into the world of unforeseen spells. Not a thing, or person in the world would stop her on her conquest to saving her family., "We're going to find my sister Natasha.," her voice boomed through the air with conviction, and for what felt like the millionth time today your wife was crying, she didn't understand what even set her off, but she sobbed anyways while Wanda moved to hold her close for you., "We'll find her Nat... We have to..."

——

Though you couldn't see anything, you could feel everything, like the frigid air being pumped into the metal room in obvious punishment. IV's were attached to your arms, the same set that you couldn't move more than an inch without sharp pains shooting throughout you. Whatever they were pumping you full of made you drowsy, but you were prepared for such torture tactics by Shield, and that's how you've managed to remain awake this whole time.

Time eluded you for the most part seeing as how you'd been locked away like a princess in a castle waiting for her glorified savior in all those silly fables, but you were certain by the tick of the clock—that he placed here to taunt you, that at least forty eight hours had passed since he first made himself known to you. Strucker, the man who held you captive for years, and who you'd believed was dead up until this point now held your life in his hands.

Slimy hands that only sought out unyielding power and to also bring you immense pain. It's obvious that Strucker heard about your giving up of your powers with the way he's using the cold to ice you into a weakened state. It's likely he always knew they'd kill you eventually, you reckon that's why he didn't put up much of a fight to find you after you fled over a decade ago. If you weren't so fatigued you'd give him a piece of your mind, but more to the truth, he'd yet to return, and you weren't wasting energy yelling at him through the cameras.

So you lied there silently, your eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments before they'd pop right back open—he wasn't getting the satisfaction of a win, no upper-hands for him.

Funny enough, you were like the calm in the storm while lying emotionlessly on the bed, but unbeknownst to you, your prospective savior was in the state of a damsel in excess distress. Truly, you'd both managed to flip the script.

——

Hope around the Romanoff household had dwindled into nothing after over a weeks time, as Tony had yet to give the redhead any good news, and your wife was so distraught over this lack of progress that she'd only been getting about two hours of sleep a night, and was of hardly any use to anyone. Nightmares of all kinds plagued her mind every time her eyes were closed, and when they opened she was reminded that she was living in one just as bad. Wanda and Yelena had decided it best to stay with her in your house for the sake of the confused children. Wanda tended to Eli most days, while an injured Yelena usually handled all of Jackson's entertainment and needs.

Today though, Wanda had been urgently called into the barn by Tony and Steve, while Yelena was passed a grumpy Eli into her good arm. Jackson was whining for food, but the baby was crying, and Yelena couldn't manage both. Natasha went into the living room to decipher the fuss, and at the sight of the chaos she moved on autopilot, scooping up the little boy. Then she waltzed into the kitchen with the toddler clinging to her offered comfort, and she microwaved him a tray with chicken and fries.

The little boy whimpered when being removed from his mama's arms, she hadn't kept her comfort from him intentionally, and it ruined what was left of her heart to see him hurting due to her distance. He needed to eat though, so she settled his food before him, all was going well too as he smiled up at her gratefully, and she returned the smile, her first of the week. While she stayed to observe him she noticed he was only eating the fries with ketchup, and the chicken was left untouched. In an attempt to encourage him to eat the protein she dipped it into the available ketchup, but her face twisted when he looked at her in genuine disgust.

"Icky sauce.," he insisted while pushing her hand away, the former—potentially soon to be—widow's face scrunched up in obvious confusion. He'd literally just been eagerly dipping his fries into the ketchup with no issue., "Jackson, baby boy, please just eat the nugget, they're good for you.," she pressed the boy on tiredly, to which he loudly shouted back no, then continued to eat the fries unbothered.

"Jackson, don't yell at mama, and eat the damn chicken.," she herself yelled back, but she was instantly regretful as he flinched and looked to her with a wobbly lip, and eyes that were filling up fast with tears. A pained gasp left her when he shakily pushed her comfort away, he was sobbing, but wanted nothing to do with her. The confused look in his eyes was obvious, she had never yelled back at him before, she'd left the outbursts to you, and you were always so good at redirecting the non desired behaviors.

Natasha and you had agreed early on that you weren't going to be the parents that yelled at their kids for every little thing, that instead you'd lead by example, and the both of you would practice kindness, partaking in gentle parenting over the modern worlds harsh ways. Now, in one weeks time she'd undid it all, because the precious little boy looked at her as if she was the devil, Eli's sympathy wails soon filled the space, and it all broke her spirit even more., "Mama's sorry, I'm so sorry baby."

After removing the tray from his chair she gently placed her hands before him., "Baby, please look at mama, I'm sorry that I yelled at you.," the little boy looked up to her, glossed over eyes to resemble those of your own met hers, and she had to curtail the incoming sob at the heartbreaking resemblance. He needed her, the feelings she had would just have to wait., "Come here baby.," she pleaded desperately, watching as he worked through his options, and after only a second he launched from his chair and into her awaiting arms, she secured them around his tiny body, and the both of them cried together on the kitchen floor.

Yelena entered with the sniffling baby who, to her shock, reached for the two on the floor. After silently passing her over, Wanda entered the kitchen in a rush, the sight of the broken family cuddling causing her to steel her face., "What did the guys want?," Natasha's hoarse voice broke through the tense silence, but she was too focused on the kids in her arms to see Wanda's features twitching before speaking., "To see how you're doing, and quite frankly, the answer was not good Natasha.," she lies, and Yelena catches it instantly., "Let's get all of you off the floor and into bed for some rest."

Yelena notices how eager the witch was to get Natasha out of the way, she lets her know as such too when she glares her way but she still hangs back, and waits rather impatiently for the woman to return to the living room.

—

Strucker was amused as he entered your cell to find you humming along to a familiar tune. Your mind was entering a state of delirium he'd been hoping for, the German tune reminiscent of your old Hydra days, and he wondered why it was even a source of comfort for you., "Agent 22, time for you to come with me."

Internally you were cheering, you were playing into whatever game he wanted by appearing fragile, and broken to his preferred specifics. Staying in this room gets you nowhere closer to escaping, and you also knew that no one could track you on the basement floor of the base.

However, as his men hoisted you out of the bed, the first time in a week that you'd been made to move more than from the bed to the toilet directly to your right and back, you could finally feel the extent of your injuries, and you knew you couldn't fight your way out of here.

The burly men groaned as if you weighed ten tons when your legs suddenly gave out, and all your weight was left on them to carry. They let you know of their displeasure too as they were unnecessarily tugging on your injured arms. It was obvious to you that your right shoulder was dislocated in the free fall, while your left was just brutally strained. It was something you expected, because before losing consciousness you remember dangling from an oak tree by the wire of the grappling hook that you had managed to wrap around your hands.

Along with the dislocated shoulder you could feel all the tiny, untreated scratches on your face. They were itchy, and sore, along with all of the other marks you managed to get as the rocks and branches tore through the many layers you'd been previously taunted for wearing. Fortunately nothing too bad had happened to your legs, they're bruised up from hitting all the rock, but other than that they're fine. Having been unfed for over a week is what left you weakened, and thus unable to walk.

The men placed you in a cold, metal chair, and you groaned at the set up, tools of every type laid on a metal tray besides your body, and in front of you a man was setting up a camera. These setups only ever meant one of two things with Hydra, a morbid chance to say goodbye, or a hostage negotiation, that usually ends with a dead hostage, and a dead or captive savior.

"I bet you're wondering what your fate is.," Strucker reappeared before you, hovering and looking down to you with a devilish smirk., "You'll know in due time dearest one.," you shuddered at the old, nauseating nickname. The man smirked wider at your disgust, then he clapped your shoulders for an added bite of pain before moving to face the camera lens.

"Privet Agent Romanoff, and Maximoff.," your heart skipped when he addressed the two most important women in your life., "My beef is not with you Romanoff, but with your wife, and my very special girl Wanda.," the urge to vomit was at an all time high when he referenced her that way., "Sorry to you for destroying your family, but as an old friend of Dreykov's, I'm actually not sorry—call it an eye for an eye, will you?"

"However, I am willing to strike up a deal, I'm not a monster after all.," he feigns sympathy as he blatantly lies to your people, you know damn well that you're a dead woman sitting if they're not strategic enough about this., "If the witch willingly returns to my team, then I'll give you back the useless scraps behind me."

"Don't do it Wanda! You know it's a trap.," a fist connected with your face harshly, your jaw making a crackling noise as your head swung to the side. Blood trickled down your chin, and for a moment silence befell your form, but to all present parties shock you chuckled wildly, lifting your head back up to face them., "What? You think I can't take a punch?," you taunted the man, though your jaw ached intensely you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing., "schwache Hündin.," you spat at the man, blood landing on his cheeks, and in retaliation he head butted you rather harshly, causing you to bite your tongue in more ways than one.

(Weak bitch)

"Feisty as ever I see.," Strucker interrupted the chaos, his hardened gaze on your pained face., "Don't worry dear, the fun is just beginning.," he chuckled before facing the camera again., "Consider this your six hour head start mighty Avengers, that's how long Mrs. Romanoff here has before her life will be completely ended."

—

Wanda is only gone maybe a few minutes, and as soon as she enters the room Yelena's in her face., "Why are you lying to my sister?," Wanda rolls her eyes, not really having the time of day for this., "For my sisters, and her own good.," she brushes right passed the confused blonde and heads straight for the door, but she pauses.

"I-Is Y/N...?," Wanda turns back to glare at her, her eyes phasing into a crimson hue, as tendrils of her magic move across her fingers., "No, and don't even hypothesize such a thing Yelena, might be your dream come true, but it isn't any of ours.," she growls, the low blow of her words not even an afterthought, her mind is only consumed with a need to save you., "That's not fair, we're family now, I-I.," she began to defend herself, but Wanda waved her hand about in quick dismissal.

"Yelena, I do not have time for this, I put her to sleep, the effects will wear off in a few hours, and by the time she wakes up I'll have Y/N."

"Natasha will never forgive you for going without her.," Wanda nods, a slight shrug to follow, with her back to the blonde., "Then so be it, but we both know she's in no condition to fight, and moreover, this is mine and Y/N's battle, no one else's.," she shut the door swiftly, an obvious finality on her chosen words that left the blonde to fall back in an anxious heap on the couch., "So not cool Y/N Romanoff..."

—

Everything in your body hurt, wounds that had only just started to scar over from your fall were ripped wide open again, the men were chuckling darkly with every cry you couldn't suppress, and your will to remain conscious was dwindling fast the more their varying actions went on. Fists of one pummeled into your ribcage leaving you breathless, while a scalpel was teasingly ran over your throat, lightly nicking the skin on occasion to keep you abreast of your looming fate.

Tears fell down your bruised cheeks, mixing with your blood as you gave up the front, the likelihood was that today was the day you died. You weren't crying over the physical pain, you were numb to that after about an hour, no, you were crying for the sake of your little family. Natasha isn't ready to be on her own, not that anyone ever is, but you know for her this'll be a true test to her strength, and though you love her, there's no faith she'd ever recover from the heavy loss. She'd told you almost daily how she couldn't live without you, and though it was a soft statement in the moment, the sentiment was all the same in the end; she meant it.

Eliana, and Jackson have barely just started, and now you've left them in a shattered family. Because there's no way Natasha won't end up resenting Yelena for this happening if it ends bad. It's all a bout of tragic ironic really, all you ever wanted was to fix their problems, and in trying to do so it appears you only made it ten times worse. At least before they were talking, the blonde just hated you, maybe it was selfish of you to want more there.

Had you just let her grow to like you, instead of pushing for a quick resolution, then the family would be intact, and you wouldn't be dying...

Harsh sobs began to rack your body as your most fondest memories ran through your mind all so suddenly. The first time you ever kissed Natasha; it was so vivid that it was if you were reliving it, a smile gracing your face in real time as you remember what it's like to feel her, to taste her lips, and it hurts to know it's over. Then as if to taunt you your mind moves to when she said yes to your marriage proposal, and then through all the many "I love you's.,"

Then the birth of your son plays, and the many moments after that you screen grabbed within your mind of his milestones. Standing out to you most was how Natasha was such a nervous wreck during that time, remembering all the many ways she tried to keep him safe briefly warmed up your freezing body. Memories of your daughters birth and every gummy smile she ever gave you flew through next, and it just left you praying for more; you needed time.

Those sweet little memories of the four of you on the couch, with Natasha rocking Eli to sleep while Jackson and you geeked out over whatever cartoon was on at the time, those were always your favorite nights. Natasha and you took turns gazing lovingly at the other, a sweet little game that always ended in a shared kiss over the slumped bodies of your children.

Once your eyes fly open, as if they were shut against your accord you gasped, the once silver room was decorated crimson, and the woman stood before you was as well., "Wanda.," you sighed in relief, then as your body knew you were safe, you'd slumped into her arms, all the adrenaline now leaving you in your true state. Wanda gently maneuvered you comfortably within her hold, then she flew out the hole in the roof that she'd previously entered through.

A monocle dangled from her hand, a trophy she collected in proof of her success...

—

Natasha woke with a start, hands searching for you, but soon her body shook with the knowing sobs that the lovely dream had ended. Reality was far more bleak for her, but she still softly smiled at the sight of your sleeping children. One against her, the other in her bassinet, and she decided there that she needed to get it together for their sake, you'd want her to do it.

Just as she began to process through some of her grief the door to her room flew open, and an out of breath Clint entered., "We have her."

Natasha stumbled out of the bed, scooping up the sleeping baby, while Clint grabbed a now awake Jackson., "Mama?," he tiredly whined, and Natasha rounded the bed to kiss his cheek, "I'm right here my little love.," she reassured him, once he felt secure in that knowledge he snuggled into Clint, and the duo ran out of the house, speeding passed a confused Yelena.

Once she heard the car tear off she knew what was going on, she smiled to herself at the good news, but then she frowned upon noticing the dullness in the lived in space. Nothing about your place felt right to her now that you were apparently back. She knew from stories told that you absolutely adored the holiday that was Christmas, so she called the men in from the barn, and the three planned out a miracle.

It might be December 30th, the holiday having passed on by without a celebration, but it didn't have to mean that all hope was lost.

—

Natasha ran straight into the infirmary, a sigh of relief left her seeing from afar that the lying little witch was drenched in the blood of her enemies, and with just the briefest glimpse of your hair her anxieties settled. Then she heard your laughter as she got closer, stilling in her move to reach you, she allowed the sound to reverberate around her mind for a moment. Her lip trembling as she never thought she'd hear such an angelic sound again, and with that she was running to get to you once more.

Your head lifted off the pillow when the doors slammed open, and your heart fluttered in your chest at the sight of your beautiful wife running towards you. Her hands shakily held your face, and her lips steadily pressed into yours, the both of you choking back a sob at the touch., "Detka, oh my gosh, I-I can't believe it's you."

"In the tattered flesh.," you teased, and she chuckled at your tasteless joke, then she turned to Wanda with a glare that would scare off the burliest of men, but the witch only winked., "Told you we'd find her.," she held up the cracked monocle, and Natasha beamed at the sight before pulling the gross witch in for a tight embrace., "Thank you.," the witch hugged her tighter at her soft whispers., "Mhm"

"When can she leave?," Natasha asked as she looked at you being healed, her heart wouldn't truly settle until you were in the house she built for you, full of every safety feature she could have ever imagined courtesy of one Tony Stark., "Tomorrow evening.," Cho sounded off from behind., "My cradle can only heal her so much, so the shoulder will take time, but on the bright side Y/N's body is still advanced from her Hydra years, so I anticipate the sling for a week, and with proper physical therapy she'll be good as new in a months time."

"Where are my babies?," you whined, causing the women to giggle at your loopy state., "Sleeping in the old man's lap, I'll bring them in once you're out of this scary contraption.," she offered, you pouted, but even in your loopy state you knew she was right to not bring them in when you looked so scary., "Perfect."

"Yeah, you are.," Natasha whispered against your forehead as her lips laid there, lingering in their place for what felt like an eternity, and if not for the promising future laid out before you both she'd probably let them linger forever.

——

Natasha was cautious as she settled you into the front seat of the spacious car, even though you'd been cleared by Cho to do so yourself, she wasn't really a fan of not holding onto you., "Ready to go home, moya lyubov'?," her lips pressed to yours after you nodded, and she pulled away with the calmest smile afterwards. As inconspicuously as you could you wiped the sudden tear from underneath her eye, her lips pressed to your palm a in silent thanks, then she finally managed to leave your side, just to resettle down next to you in the drivers seat, her hand holding onto your thigh as she drove.

Wanda was in the back with your smiling kids, and you locked eyes with the witch through the rearview mirror, she didn't have to read your mind to understand what your were saying. She smiled warmly, letting you know that she loved you just the same, you were the sister she never had, but always wanted, and your thanks were unnecessary, but she nodded anyways to acknowledge them, and only then did you relax fully into your seat for the journey back home.

Natasha was in a state of disbelief as she put the car in park, the previously barren house was outwardly decorated for the holidays. Something she herself usually did at the start of the month, but the trip kept her from it, and then the motivation was clearly nonexistent when she didn't have you around to celebrate with. Honestly, she was a bit put off by them at first, they were almost too perfect, resembling that of the finest houses you'd see in movies like The Grinch.

Brightly colored lights were strung across the trimming of your house, a string of faux icicles hung over the stairs, with a sprig of mistletoe nestled in the center of the bright blue lights. Blown up characters in their Christmas attire from Scooby Doo and Winnie the Pooh sat off to the left side of your house in pretty alignments. A perfect layer of snow adorned the ground after last night's storm, giving off a Winter Wonderland vibe. Mini snowmen were built in your family's likeness directly in front of the right bannister, an old crown of Wanda's was placed atop of one of them, making the witch in the backseat cover her mouth as she held back a sob as the notion overwhelmed her.

Natasha was about to gently awaken you, but your sons shrieks beat her to it., "Mommy!," your body jolted forward, you turned to face him but he shook his head, finger pointing away., "Loot! Pretty wites!," your heart soared at the sight of the decorated house, and in a moment of childlike glee you bursted out of the car, ignoring the shiver of your body in favor of appreciating the joyous atmosphere., "Natty! It's Christmas!," you knew it wasn't, that the holiday had passed while you were gone, but you weren't wasting the opportunity to pretend as if it hadn't, you were going to celebrate.

Natasha shook her head in amusement, lightly chuckling as she hastily approached you to pull you into her warmth., "I can see that lyubov'.," her tone was soft, but held an underlying layer of surprise that told you she didn't plan this. Noting the vest over the snowman beside yours you knew exactly who'd orchestrated this, and it warmed your heart to see the complete 180.

Gasps of further shock left both of you as you entered the house, Natasha held Eliana, while Wanda walked in behind you holding Jackson. There was a gorgeous tree in the corner of the living room, with soft white lights to create a calm ambiance, a sparing array of ornaments adorned the sprigs, you smiled when noticing the rest sat in a tattered box besides the tree. Stockings lined the chimney, with a silver garland weaved around the stocking holders.

The grunt of frustration from your right pulled your attention away from the living room. Entering the kitchen you snorted at the sight, Yelena's hair was up in a messy bun, the apron she wore was covered in various powders, she was glaring at the smashed eggs in her hand, and in an instant you were moving to help., "No, Y/N, I got this.," she brushed you off, trying once more to use her good arm to crack the egg into the bowl for the holiday cookies. After another failed attempt you physically bumped her hip, then before she could protest you cracked two eggs simultaneously with your good hand, and her mouth fell open., "How?"

"Years of practice, I've been fixing breakfast with a child on my hip for nearly three years.," you snorted as the blonde just stared at you., "I'll teach you all my tricks one day Lena.," the blonde crashed into you, an overwhelming need to hug you, because after all that had happened you're the only one who's treated her without any malice present., "Thank you for doing this by the way, really lifted my spirits."

"I'm sorry.," she squeaked, causing you to twist about then lift her face to look into her eyes., "This wasn't your fault, it was a battle of my own, and Wanda's. You did your very best, and you deserve to feel the joy of Christmas too.," you booped the younger girls nose in a moment of weakness, her pout was truly adorable, and you've become soft since motherhood., "Go make nice with Natty, and send me Wands."

Wanda entered the kitchen with a knowing smirk, with the snap of her fingers she had an apron on, and Yelena's mess was wiped away., "My forever partner in crime.," you teased the platonic love of your life, and she winked your way before pushing you aside to work at the dough, and you settled on the counter to watch.

You used the leverage to peer into the living area, watching as Natasha allowed Yelena the honors of putting the star on the tree, to which she shared the responsibility with your son. Lifting him up onto her good shoulder, and cheering encouragingly as he finally got it., "Good job Jacky boy.," your wife beamed, and your heart soared when he shot into your wife's open arms without a moment's hesitation like he had done in the past., "Mama! I did it!”

Wanda looked to you with a proud smile, then sent you a knowing look, telling you to go join them, and that she'd handle the cookies, and the fixing of dinner. You settled a kiss to her cheek, then giddily joined your family in the living room, the warm welcome was great, but when Eliana reached for you over Natasha you actually burst into the happiest of tears, then with Natasha’s help you held the sweet little one on your lap on the couch as she babbled.

After your wife and you snuggled on the couch with the littles for awhile she noticed the time., “I’m gonna go get them ready for bed lyubov’, you rest, then we’ll set the holiday mood with a film before their bedtime.,” you were slightly shocked to see the initiative she was taking to keep up their routine, usually she just followed you around, doing as you said, but this newly found confidence was really hot to you, and your wife picked up on your sinful thoughts just by the way you gawked at her in lieu of answering., “We’ll be back shortly.,” she pecked your lips, then scooped both kids up, and left with a knowing smirk upon her face.

Rudolph was put on the TV as soon as Nat returned with squeaky clean babies in their matching reindeer pajamas that you and Nat also planned to wear to bed tonight. Wanda joined the lot of you with floating bowls full of paprikash, beverages for all and a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies that you sneakily ate one of before even touching your dinner.

Eliana fell asleep within five minutes of having her warm bottle, and you relished in the sweet, warm feeling that enveloped your whole body as she snuggled even further into your hold. Then you looked over to see your son babbling to your wife, who enthusiastically responded to him, even when he’d said nothing of substance. Even—especially-with the kids swapped out, this was still your favorite form of bonding time, nothing strenuous about it, just loads of giggles and cuddles to warm everyone’s hearts.

—

After you settled the kids in bed, the two of you returned to the living room to ensure it was ready for the “Christmas” morning. Wanda and Natasha set out the cookies and milk, then took over gift wrapping for you and Yelena who were sat on the carpet in focused collaboration. Doing your best as you used your good arms to get the presents settled, but it was nothing if not the ugliest wrapping you’d all ever seen.

Yelena and Wanda eventually said their goodnights as they left to head to your guest bedrooms that were really just their rooms at this point, and just as soon as the space was in perfect order Natasha reached for your hand., "Dance with me?," the way she bit her lip in a fit of nerves filled your heart with nostalgia, the happenings of your first date were much the same; you took her hand, allowing her to gently pull you into her body, and for her to instruct the AI in your space to shuffle Christmas hits.

"I'll be home for Christmas.," Natasha's arms tightened around you., "You can plan on me."

"Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents by the tree.," Natasha cautiously spun you around, light as a feather to not harm your good arm, and you giggled when you landed beneath the mistletoe., "Christmas eve will find me, where the love light gleams.,” her lips pressed all over your face before pressing to yours for only but a second, because she was more interested in staring at your face to really solidify to her mind that you were truly here.

“I'll be home for Christmas.," her eyes were shining as they looked into yours, the pain in her heart was melting away right before you., "If only in my dreams.," Natasha's lips crashed to yours, the kiss held passion, but their was no true heat to the lip locking you'd engaged in.

"I'm grateful that my dreams actually came true.," she whispered against your lips, and though you could feel that she was smiling widely, her voice still cracked as she spoke., "YA lyublyu tebya, printsessa.," her lips moved against yours again, her tongue slipping passed your parted lips, as her tears transferred onto your cheeks, but neither of you cared as the salty taste of the careening droplets fell into your open mouths. The overwhelming need to feel one another, to become reacquainted with the other's taste was far too strong to worry about such things., "I love you so much Natty."

"Merry Christmas.," Natasha beams as the clock strikes twelve, you giggle then lean in to kiss her once more., "and a Happy New Year."

———————————

6,947 Words

❤️ Kaitlyn 🥹

Happy New Year 🎊

278 notes · View notes

multifanatics · 1 year

Note

hello! your two-face fic came up on my recommended and i really liked it, very soft and sweet, it made my heart melt. if you wouldn't mind, could you write a btaa scarecrow fic using the prompt: “oh, darling. oh, darling. you think, after all the effort it took to get you here, i'd just let you go?”? if not it's totally fine, no pressure!

A/N: This was my first time writing for him so hope it is good.

Warnings: Probable OOC Jonathan, Kidnaping(?), Possibly others.

Word Count: 778

“Are you going to let me go?” [Y/N] asked weakly backed into a corner, her knees to her chin. An accidental trip on fear toxin that ended in the complete opposite result of what he was expecting.

“Oh, darling. Oh, darling. You think after all the effort it took to get you here, I would just let you go?” There was a similarity in his voice one [Y/N] could place had she been normal.

“You have what you wanted from me, don’t you?” [Y/N] asked, trying to gain her composure about her. What was real and what was fake, what was subconscious fear and what was conscious fear. As [Y/N] gained her better mind and recognized the separation.

“Your involvement in the fear toxin was merely accidental.”

“Is it, Mr. Scarecrow?”

“Are you that interested?” [Y/N] watches Scarecrow as he takes off his mask, revealing the man underneath the mask.

“Doctor Jonathan Crane? No, no… this has to be a fucking joke.” [Y/N] immediately went into denial, she could have sworn she knew who Jonathan Crane was. This.. this was just an after effect of fear toxin.

“Now, now... As I recall you claim to be reluctant to fear. Why the sudden change?”

“You can’t be..”

“The quiver in your voice, the undeniable pounding of your heart, the dry mouth…” Jonathan stepped forward trailing off as he noted all the ways the true terror washed over [Y/N]. [Y/N] remained quiet trying to keep herself calm, her fear could fuel the goal of Scarecrow.

“Now, tell me. Why do you experience fear? Are you afraid I’ll.. kill you?” He crouched face to face with the woman. [Y/N] gained her bearings for a second, a moment, a break in her mental fear. There was a look in Jonathan’s eyes that allowed her to push aside the fear. The look flipped a switch in [Y/N] knowing this was real.

“I’m not afraid of death...”

“Lies! Everyone one way or another fears dying.. the ultimate unknown.” Jonathan’s look quickly turned into subdued anger, a few seconds of tense silence passed.

“Though.. Doctor Crane, I only fear what you know about me. How you decide to use those fears against me.”

“Against you?” Jonathan chuckles within his chest. After all he’s done to get her here, the hassle. Why would he hurt her?

“Well, Doctor Crane..” [Y/N] leans in closer to the man who squatted in front of her. Jonathan could hear the involuntary pounding of her heart, the way her nerves pumped through her veins.

“Is that not why you brought me here?”

“Do you fear me?” Was the only thing that came out of Jonathan’s mouth before he could recognize what he had said. The connotation of his words were mysterious, a simple question left to be personal to the audience.

“Is this meant to be a trick question?”

“Only if you perceive it to be.” Crane’s words left a ringing in [Y/N]’s head. A hint of fear as to what he meant, if she would have read the room wrong. The undeniable fear of the unknown, every human fear however small or however big.

“I do not fear the man under the mask.. or at least I do not intend to.”

“Explain.”

“You are the doctor here, Jonathan.”

“Masks allow us to hide or to show our deepest secret.” Jonathan states in a near whisper in an attempt to coax [Y/N] into his currently spinning web.

“Are you showing me your deepest secret or hiding yourself?” [Y/N] questioned simply unaware of which answer he would give and much less which answer she wanted to hear. [Y/N]’s words gain a simple hm from the man sitting in front of her.

“Which do you believe?” Jonathan asked simply with an added darkness. Tempting to provoke fear in her once again.

“Isn’t the better question which I want to fear?” [Y/N] matches his tone; the quiet, confident, darker tone of a incompetent weakness.

“Which do you fear?” Scarecrow is fear. The answer of which [Y/N] should fear was obvious but the strange calmness that she held made it difficult to see which path she would have chosen.

“I am a sucker for the majority and knowing you as I have previously makes your deepest secrets much more terrifying.” [Y/N] spoke still with calm and a slow creep of curiosity that remained unspoken. Something intriguing between the two of them; a man who is the definition of fear and a woman of curious faith who is reluctantly versed in fear. What an interesting pair.

#jonathan crane x f!reader #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane fanfic #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow x f!reader #dc fanfic #dc x reader #fanfiction #x reader prompts #x reader

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pawborough · 1 year

Text

December 2022 Check In

[ID: A banner with a nature background. Winnipeg, a longhair in a wheelchair who is holding a frypan, is to the left, and a gray female shorthair is to the right. The Paw Borough logo is in the middle, with a button that says “DECEMBER 2022” under it. End ID.]

Greetings!

It’s been one month since our Kickstarter, and we have fantastic news to share with all of our wonderful backers!

Not only were we funded in this campaign, but we’re in talks with an investor who’s keen to seal the deal! We are not disclosing the details currently, and the technicals are still being finalized (so we’d be remiss to promise any specifics as of yet), but with these funds we are able to widely expand our initial vision for launch; including, but not limited to, establishing a mobile application! Thank you all for your continuing support, and for your patience as we regroup and prepare for production with this unprecedented funding.

Within the coming months, we will have clarity on what is to come! As of now, we’ve been up to our noses in budget work and mechanic layouts as we figure where these funds will appropriately go. It’s taken some time, but next month we hope to update with specifics on numbers for the content that will be available at launch and in beta! (number of breeds, number of accessories, etc)

With that out of the way, we bring some new visuals!

First off, the color wheel. We have a confession to make: in an effort to add a comprehensive range, we’ve added 76 new colors, as opposed to the promised 74. We just felt a select few were missing! This brings our total to 153 colors. We also changed “dog” to “shepherd” and adjusted the palette.

Below is a chart of the base color for each palette. Next month, we are releasing the full palettes! The second chart highlights the new colors in red text.

[ID: Two images showing the complete Paw Borough color wheel. Both photos feature a wheel of 153 colors. Inside the wheel is the Paw Borough logo and the text, "+76 new colors! 153 total!" Under the wheel are 3 columns listing each color's base swatch, name, and hex code. In the second image, the new additions are written in red text. End ID.]

(Patch notes: added red)

It simply wouldn’t be winter without the reindeer, elk, or caribou! Native to the Sol Borough, check out these finalized renderings of the Prancers, a mix of the Snowfoot and snowy deer. (Note: The coloring is for concept purposes, and is not necessarily indicative of the final coloring!)

[ID: Final renderings of the Prancer breed. It is a muscular, long-furred cat with hooves on the back legs and a deer-like nose. The kitten and female have stubs on their foreheads, and the male has antlers. End ID.]

To those of you who are awaiting an email from us regarding add-ons, do not fret! This week, emails will be sent en masse. We again thank you for your patience, as this exciting funding news has left us re-formatting our production plans to account for the newfound responsibility. We intend to exercise a great deal of care in appropriate distribution.

Lastly, to answer the question: when will you update the demo with the new colors?

Unknown as of yet! We are looking to change our shading to dynamically shift colors, and we are potentially re-structuring the coding. Considering that we are now looking at building a native source code for android, IOS, and browser capability, we have to turn our focus towards how this will be done. Once we have an understanding on building the application to account for mobile and browser use, we can focus on asset production.

To summarize: We’ve been given an investment to do more at launch and are taking time to budget it. Here is a first look at the color expansion, and the finalized renderings of the Prancers!

What to expect next month:

The full palettes of the entire color wheel (used to determine different gene colors.)

A look at the user page and layout of a user’s camp and how it functions.

A breakdown estimation of the number of items and general content that will be available during beta and at launch.

We may have more to share, but here’s what to look out for in January!

Have a wonderful week!

With Love,

The Paw Borough Team

#paw borough #art update #kickstarter update #pet simulator #pet site #virtual pet #indie game #indie dev

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secretsnowclub · 8 months

Text

TTRPG School: What is an RPG? Or, Defining a Quasi-Text

This was written recently for the new edition of .dungeon, but I wanna share it with y’all.

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Cameron Burger (@camcamburger) coined the term “Quasi-lore” to talk about the worldbuilding of Minecraft. Quasi means “almost” or “resembling,” so, quasi-lore is not-quite-lore, just hints and clues that motivate an audience to come to their own conclusions about a fictional world.

I want to go a step further and say that an RPG book is not a Text in the sense that it gives you the proper and complete instructions, rules, and information. An RPG book is, by design, a quasi-text, giving hints, clues, and advice about play that motivates the players to then produce play between each other.

I like to think of it this way because there is no way for an RPG book to hold every possible challenge, and every possible solution to every possible challenge. It can’t hold the answers to every possible question. It can’t account for every possible person who might want to play. And that is not a downside, it is a benefit.

Part of the beauty of role playing games is that there are no limits to the things that can happen. There is no computer with a set amount of power or a planned series of events with a predetermined solution to its contrived problems. It’s a collaborative effort in a way most other mediums aren’t, limited only by the people who are playing together at the time.

A lot of words have been written about this. Crack open any RPG book and it will most definitely have a “what is an RPG” section. But the main thing this phenomenon has led me to believe, is that our language alone isn’t enough to convey or define the totality of collaborative storytelling or playing. And because of this, a very important part of an RPG cannot exist inside of a Text. It can only be created and sustained while playing.

A quasi-text doesn’t force people to see it or think of it a certain way. It’s quasi-nature allows it to be used to tell a million different stories, by allowing the players to discover or create connections between the incomplete ideas and rules presented by the text. You, the reader, or your fellow players, can peruse the book and use what’s there to think of new concepts that fit nicely inside the book’s themes, while still leaving enough, or even creating more, quasi-lore for everyone to build on.

This is what makes rpgs so collaborative. It’s in the limitations of language and definition. It’s in the limitations of the individual to cover all possible avenues. As a game designer, I can only ever hope to create a quasi-text that inspires people to Play. .dungeon is my attempt at that. There are rules and lore that this book cannot give you. There are things purposefully left open or nebulous, and not “because of vibes,” but because I simply cannot know.

“Connection” is the biggest example and one I got a lot of questions about when people read the first edition of .dungeon. This book will not tell you how long a campaign of .dungeon should last, or how much Connection you should lose every session. Each group that sits down to play will have a unique experience with Connection . Some campaigns will end quickly, others will go for much, much longer.

That is intended.

You won’t know when you’ll get a “game over.” You can’t know what random encounter or boss battle will be your last. Which adventure you’ll go on last. You won’t know how many people you’ll meet, or who will be important to you in the end. The text of the book knows how to measure this and can tell you what happens when it’s gone. But what it can’t tell you is how it will happen or when.

Your duty as an RPG player is to meet these unknowns with confidence, because your answer will be unique to you and the other players. It will be unique to this particular moment of your life. By design, there are no wrong answers between the gaps of a quasi-text. There are only your answers.

#.dungeon #ttrpg education #ttrpg community #ttrpg

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itzalizeyyy · 10 months

Text

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐖

Hii its Alizey! But you can call me Ali or Zey for short. In this blog, I am going to discuss how you can eliminate doubts and how you can commit to the law of assumption. Lets get into it!

➜ 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬:

Understand that doubts, fears, negativity comes from your human brain. Your human brain is programmed, conditioned, and developed within what is PERCEIVED logic here in this reality, in this society. Even though this is the society we learned from, doesn’t automatically mean that it has all the right answers since this is only one reality out of infinity. There is still so much that is unknown and so much that is limited here. We don’t even know what is underneath our own oceans or above our own skies. This can’t be all there is..as there is more than meets the eye.

You aren’t your brain as you shouldn’t define yourself with the 3d when you are always above the 3d. Doubts, fears, etc is what makes you HUMAN here but it isn’t what makes you an AWARENESS as these are unnatural circumstances. What are natural circumstances for you as an awareness is confidence, power, happiness, etc. be aware of your nature, live within your nature.

A particular fear others and myself might have is the idea that we will be stuck in this reality forever. But the universe wouldn’t be like, “everyone else can shift, enter the void, and have their desires..expect you though.” Newsflash, the universe doesn’t give two flying fucks. It doesn’t make sense to be some sort of special exception or somehow forbidden to experience the nature within you. You are the universe. You are power. You call the shots.

I am not saying to suppress your doubts and fears, but to question them. You are very accustomed to reacting to the 3d as you have your whole life before learning this knowledge. So, when you apply the law of assumption, and have a fulfilled mindset, its an adjustment but is not impossible to attain. It like learning a new language. Its okay you didn’t get it the first time, but the more you practice, the more you sound out the words, you become more used to it until its second nature.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

➜ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐰

That applies the same to the law. The more you practice with this fulfilled mentality, the more you get used to it. The 3d will completely be irrelevant to you and it will no longer have power over your reactions.

If you assume you already have your desires, and the next day you complain that you don’t, simply catch it, bounce back from it, and continue to persist. If you keep getting yourself stuck in a mindset where you are lacking your desires, you are breaking the law instead of enforcing it. Remain faithful, loyal, and committed to the law, to the fulfilled mindset. Honor your word, don’t contradict it.

If you assume you already shifted, don’t try “changing” the 3d when it is already changed. If you assume you are already in the void, don’t try “leaving” the 3d when you already left it. There is no more “trying”. Its a very human thing to constantly think you have to do something to attain your desires. But accept that you already have them. Live with the reassurance, peace, and acceptance that it is done. Everything will fall in place. Everything has already fallen in place. There is no more trying to succeed when you already did.

Your sub-consciousness and the 4d is aware of your desires and that is all that is important. If law of assumption isn’t your cup of tea, that is definitely okay, and I personally recommend intention setting.

Intention setting is very empowering because it not saying like, “I could do it” or “I might do it” it more like “I WILL DO IT” type of shit. It giving in that determined and unstoppable mentality.

Intention is intending while law of assumption is being. And being is more of my preference. However, these are all tools. You should only pick the tools that benefit you and that you genuinely want to use. Let say you are not good at visualizing, but you really good at affirming, perfect, use that tool to its greatest potential, to its greatest length. Make the journey fun and enjoyable. Not as a chore or a job.

I hope this helps. If you have any questions or concerns let me know my messages are open!

• • • • • • • • • • • •

#lawofassumption #shifting journey #reality shifting #void state #neville goddard #affirm and persist #affirmdaily #affirmyourreality

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aftermathfanfic · 2 years

Text

Part 2, Chapter 16

“And now! Channel Three News, with reporter Roxanne Featherly!”

“Good evening. Tonight, we have a special report on the recent terrorist attacks in Paris. Who was behind them, and what did they hope to gain? Later, insiders speak on the realities of working for Glomgold Industries! And Gizmoduck – is he doing more harm than good? All this and more on Channel Three News!”

“Okay, fifteen secs for the intro.”

Roxanne sighed irritably as the bombastic music played, quickly stretching her neck before she went back on air. As the music finished, she straightened her back and took a firmer posture, her eyes trained on the newsreader in front of her.

“At eleven-twenty-one PM, last Saturday night, residents of Paris were abruptly awoken by the sound of explosions, coming from deep below the earth.” Roxanne read. “In what has been described as an ‘unexpected’ and ‘shocking’ terrorist attack, a section of the underground Paris catacombs was detonated and collapsed, causing significant damage to the structures and streets above. According to our foreign correspondents, although nobody was killed in the attack, fifty-six people were injured, with seven left in critical condition.”

The screen behind her changed to display an aerial shot of Paris, showing the partially collapsed streets and buildings.

“It is currently unknown who was behind the attack, nor do we know what they were after. What we do know is that, by strange coincidence, McDuck and his family had arrived in the city just the morning before, and were apprehended by the local police force close to the scene of the incident.”

The screen changed once more, showing a video of Scrooge McDuck wading through a crowd of journalists, trying to get to a car. His expression was one of frustration and embarrassment, trying to ignore the questions and the cameras.

“The police found them trespassing through catacomb tunnels designated as ‘off-limits’ to civilians and tourists. Though it is unknown what McDuck was doing there exactly, it’s safe to presume that his family was at least tangentially involved in the attack, with many people believing that the attack was specifically meant to target him, or that he was trying to stop the attack. Mayor Hogwilde’s theory for McDuck’s presence was notably harsher, speaking in a radio interview the other day.”

A picture of Hogwilde appeared on the screen, beside which was a soundwave image that fluctuated with his voice. “I think, though I stress that I’m merely speculating here, that this is simply another disastrous consequence of Mr McDuck and his ‘adventures’. I’m sure he didn’t intend for this to happen, the same way he didn’t intend to flatten Duckburg with a giant beanstalk. That alone cost almost five billion dollars in repairs, so I dread to imagine what this incident will cost the Parisians.”

“We reached out to the mayor’s office to ask for an interview, in the hope that he would elaborate on these comments, but they declined.” Roxanne continued. “We also reached out to the McDuck estate, but they also declined. With no straight answers from either our resident adventurers or even the Parisian authorities, all we can do is speculate and wonder what, exactly, McDuck was up to. We’re joining foreign correspondent Sam Niell, who is currently in the City of Light…”

---------------------------------------------

Chanda waited impatiently at the park table, facing the park gate with her arms folded across her chest. The afternoon sun was hanging overhead, the warmth combating the cool spring breeze.

Finally, after an hour waiting, she saw him arrive. He pushed through the park gate and walked towards her, wearing a bright yellow hoodie and an accompanying yellow beanie. He walked towards her with a confident smirk, his hand in his pocket and a backpack slung across his shoulder. Chanda stared at him as he approached, inspecting him with a look of disdain and suspicion.

“So,” Louie asked. “You ready to go?”

“Not until you explain why you’re wearing… whatever the hell this is.” Chanda retorted.

“Ah,” Louie picked at his jacket, grinning. “This is my disguise.”

“…Okay.” Chanda narrowed her eyes. “Ignoring the fact that your idea of a disguise is to change the colour of your clothes and put on a hat, why do you need a disguise?”

“Well… let’s say that the guy we’re seeing might not be on the nicest terms with my family. So, I’m covering my bases.”

“And you think it’s actually going to work?”

“Oh, yeah.” Louie said confidently.

Chanda stared at him for a moment, trying to determine whether he was serious. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she stood up to join him, muttering, “It’s your head.”

The two of them made their way to the nearest bus stop, Chanda following behind her charge with her hands in her jacket pockets. They waited a few minutes for the bus to arrive, sitting beside each other in silence. When it did, they made their way to the back of the bus and sat down.

“…So where are we headed?” Chanda asked.

“You’ll see.” Louie replied enigmatically.

“…And I don’t get to know who we’re seeing?”

“Nope.”

“So what do I get to know?” Chanda demanded frustratedly.

In response, Louie took off his backpack, a smug smile on his beak. He unzipped the main pocket and angled the opening towards her, saying quietly, “You get to know the payout.”

Chanda looked inside, frowning. At the bottom of the backpack was a clump of bubble wrap, encasing something within. Slowly, she reached into the pack and took one, bringing it closer for her to look at, but still keeping it within the bag. Squinting a bit, she could see within the plastic padding was what looked to be a miniature blue sarcophagus sculpture with a jackal’s head, about five inches in length.

“…What is…?” Chanda began to ask.

“That is what’s known as a shabti, from New Kingdom Egypt.” Louie explained, keeping his voice down. “Supposedly, these things were placed in pharaoh’s tombs to be his servants in the afterlife. This one was found in some weird vault-thing in Turkey, but the inscriptions apparently say that the thing was meant for some guy called… Seti the First? Something like that.”

“How much do you think it’s worth?”

“Forty-thousand dollars.” Louie answered casually.

Chanda suddenly looked up at him, her gloominess replaced almost instantly by stunned disbelief.

“Oh, yeah. Welcome to Louie Inc.” Louie said with a grin. “That’s an ‘at least’ figure, by the way, so we can potentially bump that price up to sixty, possibly even eighty with this guy.” He chuckled. “That ten percent isn’t looking too bad now, is it?”

“Where did you get this?” Chanda whispered incredulously.

Louie leaned back in his seat. “Long story short? My family was at this antiques auction, right? And we bought something that turned out to be a counterfeit. A complete fake. And the story behind that is a little convoluted; the real one was supposed to be this all-powerful magic artifact, the guy who sold it expected this other guy to nab it, blah blah blah.” Louie waved his hand dismissively. “I go back to the seller and he’s all, ‘sorry, I didn’t expect someone with a degree of actual intelligence would actually buy this’, and he offered this little thing in exchange for us not letting slip any rumours of… phoney goods.”

“He gave you an artifact worth forty grand?”

“Well, I blackmailed him. Comes down to the same thing.”

Chanda gently put the shabti back in the bag, suddenly and conspicuously aware of just how valuable it was. “Forty…” She murmured, still trying to wrap her head around it. “I could…”

“You could do a lot of things.”

“But that’s enough for… I don’t know, at least three months’ worth of medicine!” Chanda cried. “That’s…!” She looked around, then asked in a hushed voice, “That’s our first gig?”

“Yup. And trust me, it’s only gonna get better from here.”

“…Okay.” Chanda leant back in her seat, a slight smile to her beak. “Alright, Louie Duck. Maybe you’re not as much of a dickhead as I thought.”

---------------------------------------------

Chanda’s heightened respect lasted until they reached Glomgold’s estate.

“What the-” She gasped, stopping dead as they approached the gates, the wrought iron bars emblazoned with an impression of the ex-billionaire’s face.

“Don’t worry about it.” Louie told her dismissively.

“That lunatic?” Chanda hissed hysterically. “The crazy millionaire who tries to kill your family on a weekly basis?”

“Emphasis on ‘tries’.”

“Are you fucking insane?” Chanda grabbed him by the arm, demanding furiously, “He’ll see through this in a second!”

“No, he won’t, I’ve done this before!” Louie snapped, pushing her off of him. “Trust me, this is a watertight scheme! I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise!”

“What if you’re wrong? What if he gets smart and tries to get revenge? You know what that guy has access to, what if he tracks me and my mother down?”

“Uh… well, then it’s a good thing that you are not Chanda Kulavaan today, you… are…”

Louie quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, rapidly typing something while Chanda stared at him.

“…Mataji Ahuja!” Louie finished, looking back up at her victoriously.

“…Did you just search ‘random Indian name’?” Chanda demanded accusingly.

“And now you’re certifiably anonymous.” Louie replied. “Now come on.”

He resumed walking to the gates of the property, adjusting his beanie as he did. Chanda followed him after a moment, looking much warier than she had before. Once they had reached the iron bars of the gate, Louie pressed a button on a nearby intercom and waiting for a response.

“…Wasn’t he fired from his company?” Chanda asked worriedly. “He might refuse to buy it.”

“That requires him to actually understand how bad his finances are.” Louie told her. “And frankly, I don’t think he even understands what money is.”

“…Glomgold Estate.” A female voice spoke through the intercom after a while. “Who is this?”

“G’day, mate!” Louie exclaimed in a bad, over-the-top Australian accent. “This here is antiques collector Phooey Luck. Remember me?”

“Bhagavaan meree madad karo, vah ek moorkh hai.” Chanda whispered, agitatedly running her hands through her headfeathers.

“…Unfortunately.” The woman on the intercom said resignedly. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I just want to speak with your employer, that’s all!” Louie told her cheerfully, leaning against the wall next to the speaker. “I’ve recently got my hands on a real beaut’, and I reckon your boss might want to have a look at it.”

“I take it back. You are a dickhead.” Chanda growled. Louie ignored her.

“I’m afraid Mr Glomgold isn’t here right now.” The intercom woman told them. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

“Ah, no worries.” Louie replied dismissively. “When do you reckon he’ll come back?”

“…I mean, normally he comes back at six or seven, but-”

“Fantastic! We’ll just come back around then!”

“I don’t think you understand, ‘Mr Luck’.” The woman interrupted him as he was starting to walk away. “My boss isn’t at work or on holiday, he’s missing.”

Louie paused. He frowned slightly, then asked, “Uh, what, uh… what do ya mean missin’?”

“I mean that nobody knows where he is.”

“…Okay, well… it can’t be that nobody knows where he is.” Louie said with a nervous laugh, his eyes flicking over to Chanda behind him. “Surely he at least told you where he was, right?”

“Yeah, he told me.” The woman replied irritably. “Said that he was going to Paris to ‘exact his revenge’ or something and that he’d be back by Monday. That was the last I heard from him, and that was five days ago. He hasn’t called or answered his phone, the hotel he’d stayed at said they saw him leave, but he didn’t come back… He hasn’t even posted any insane rants on social media since he left!”

Louie’s smile slowly fell from his face.

“Guy’s missing. I don’t know what to tell you.” The woman said crossly. “Honestly, I figured you and your family would know more than I did.”

“Me-” Louie stammered, losing his nerve slightly. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about, uh… that’s… obviously not great, but… I think I left my number or my email with you lot last time I was here, so, uh… why don’t you give me a ring when he comes back, yeah?”

“Sure. I’ll let you know if he comes back.” The woman replied drily. “And when you do, pick an accent that you’re actually good at. Trust me, he won’t notice.”

The intercom switched off with an audible click.

Louie stayed stock still, drumming his finger against the brickwork.

Then, he turned around and started to walk back to the bus stop, trying to avoid eye contact with his companion.

“…So, where does this fall into your ‘watertight scheme’?” Chanda asked sarcastically as they walked.

“Okay, this is just a temporary inconvenience.” Louie said irritably, dropping the fake accent as he turned to her. “All we have to do is wait until Glomgold comes back, then-”

“And how long is that gonna take?” Chanda demanded, glaring at him angrily.

“…I don’t know, like, maybe a couple of weeks? At the most?” Louie guessed. “Like, we saw him in Paris, how long could it take him to get back?”

“Well, I don’t have a couple of weeks!” Chanda shot back. “I have until next month to pay for my mother’s medication, remember? If I don’t have that money-”

“Well, what do you want from me? If he’s not here, he’s not here! What’s the alternative?”

Chanda put her hands in her pockets and looked away, huffing frustratedly. Louie folded his arms and glared back at her, waiting for her to admit that she didn’t know.

“…Look, I’m on a time limit.” Chanda said angrily, repeating herself. “If he isn’t here by next week, we have to sell that thing to someone else.”

“And I will figure it out!” Louie argued. “Trust me on this!”

“Trust you? After that display?” Chanda laughed derisively, waltzing up to him and saying icily, “I thought you said we weren’t equal partners?”

“We’re not.” Louie replied coldly.

“And yet, you want me to trust you like one. You want me to trust that you won’t try to screw me over or, more likely, fuck this up, even when you don’t trust me.”

Louie glared at her, his fists clenched in his pockets.

“Give me the thing.” Chanda demanded, holding out her hand.

“What?” Louie asked incredulously.

“Let’s call this a trust exercise. I keep that thing hidden for us-”

“No-!”

“-while you find someone who’ll buy it. I’m not just letting you walk away with forty thousand dollars.”

“I’m not fuckin’ doing that!” Louie protested. “So what, I’m meant to be the one letting you walk away with- what kind of logic are you running on?”

“The kind that assumes that you’ll decide to cut your losses and just sell the thing online? ‘Cause if you do, you won’t need to pay me for anything? If you weren’t thinking about that just then, you’d be thinking about it later. Besides, what can I do with it? You already know my name, you probably know my address… Even if I somehow convinced someone to buy it from me, it would be trivial for you to get back at me for it.”

She leant closer to him, her beak a mere inch away from his, and her eyes narrowed and dangerous.

“Give it to me, or I’ll take it from you.” She threatened him.

And in that moment, Louie saw in Chanda’s eyes the same thing he saw in Webby’s, Lena’s, and every other girl he’d ever angered – the look of a chick who could break him in half and knew it.

Fuming, but unwilling to get stabbed, Louie slowly slid the backpack off his shoulders and handed it to her.

He kept a hold on it as she grabbed it, telling her in a low voice, “If you screw me over, I will make your life hell. Aaoka’s too.”

He felt a fleeting bit of callous satisfaction seeing her flinch when he mentioned her mother’s name. Her expression tensed, then relaxed as she murmured, “…Right.”

Louie let go.

He watched Chanda leave, throwing the backpack over her shoulders and storming off the opposite direction. For a good minute or so, he just stood there, breathing heavily in humiliation and rage.

Then he spun back around and marched back to the bus stop, kicking a stray drink can into the street as he did so.

---------------------------------------------

Despite Duckburg’s reputation as a wealthy and industrious city, there was no field office to note for the FBI. Merely a small, resident agency located on the outskirts of the central business district. So the office that Nickel had found himself in was not the clean and pristine Washington office that he had been used to, but a small, cramped room that was mostly taken up by filing cabinets. Not that he minded too much – he wouldn’t be here forever, after all.

Mounted on the wall of his office was a corkboard, tacked onto which were various strips of paper. On each piece was a typed-out name, followed by a date.

One of the pieces read, ‘Nightmare Catcher – 1/8/1977’.

Another read, ‘Lich’s Eye – 22/6/1944’.

The latest one, which read ‘Tyrian Cloak – 9/3/2024’, had a red string attached to it. The other end of the string had been pinned to a photo of Scrooge McDuck, which sat in the middle of the board, surrounded by the names of dozens of artifacts, each of which had its own individual file.

The Cloak was the only item that had a string attached to it.

Jack stared at the board, idly flipping his coin as he mused. He heard someone knock on his door, to which he responded, “Aye?”

“Your ‘guest’ is here.” A male voice said from the other side.

“Wonderful. Bring her in.”

Jack turned as the door opened, a conniving smile crossing his beak as he saw his guest walk in, chaperoned by two brawny security guards. The shrunken old beagle barely reached up to half their height, yet there was not an ounce of fear or apprehension on her face – merely a displeased, hateful scowl.

“Ah, Ms Beagle! Lovely to meet you!” Jack told her cheerfully. Looking at the two guards, he told them, “You two wait outside, this’ll only be a moment.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, Mr Nickel?” One the guards asked.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “…Does she have a gun?”

“No, sir.”

“Does she have any weapons of any kind?”

“…No, sir.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Jack asked merrily. “Worst-case-scenario, she attacks me, you two come in, drag her off and throw her out. Nothin’ to it! Just wait outside, will ya?”

“…Alright. Let us know if you need anything.” The guard replied uneasily.

Once the officers had left the room, closing the door behind them, Jack gestured to the plastic seat in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

“I’m good.” Ma Beagle replied coldly.

“Eh, suit yourself.” Jack replied nonchalantly, making his way to the other side of his desk and sitting down in the considerably more comfortable fabric desk chair.

“I’m not in the mood to be jerked around, Fed.” Ma Beagle snarled. “You haven’t got me on anything, or you would’ve just arrested me. What do you want?”

Jack turned on a computer in front of him, pressing a few keys to bring up a file on the screen. “Just wanted talk about a mutual problem.”

“Mutual? The hell are you talking about?”

Jack didn’t reply at first, skimming the information before him.

“How long have you lived in Duckburg?” He asked.

“M’ whole life.” Ma Beagle replied.

“So, sixty-seven years…” Jack murmured. “And you first met Scrooge McDuck when you thirteen? In 1969?”

“McDuck?” The criminal matriarch narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you want about that?”

“Just humour me.”

Ma Beagle glared at him suspiciously. “…Yeah. ’69.” She replied slowly. “Marth 18, 1969.”

“And you’ve been fightin’ him ever since?”

She shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Oh, come off it. Everyone knows about McDuck and the Beagle Boys. It’s been goin’ on for years!”

“Oh, my boys took it on themselves to fight McDuck, sure. But I never told ‘em to do what they do.”

“…Hm. Alright, let’s say they do it on their own. Have they ever been inside the house?”

“A couple of times. They never get far.”

“Would they be able to remember what they saw in there?”

“If you’re so interested in what’s in McDuck’s house, Fed, then why don’t you go ask him?” Ma Beagle demanded irritably. “Why waste my time?”

“Even if he let me in, he wouldn’t give me what I want.”

Beagle’s eyes narrowed. “…Why not?”

“See, what I’m looking for is… sensitive information that McDuck isn’t likely to give up easily.” Jack replied enigmatically. “What I’m hopin’ is that you have that information, or at least know where to point me so I can find it without having to resort to… more difficult measures.”

Ma Beagle stared at him. Jack just shrugged in response.

“Like I said. We have a mutual problem.” He said.

“…McDuck?” Ma Beagle said in disbelief. “You’re after McDuck?”

“I suspect that Mr McDuck has been participating in activities that are counter to the best interests of the American people.” Jack told her. “Obviously, I can’t give exact details to members of the public, but rest assured, I’m doin’ everything in my power to bring him to justice… or at least make sure he doesn’t use his resources for anti-American purposes.

“But unfortunately, I have a problem.” Jack admitted. “And it’s a lack of evidence. I’ve got the background info, I’ve got plenty of hunches, but there’s nothin’ connecting it to him. That’s where you come in. You’re one of McDuck’s oldest enemies. You know him better than I do and, more importantly, you know where his secrets are buried. You help me out, you’ll helpin’ me bring down the man who single-handedly destroyed your family and you’d be doin’ your country a solid. Sound good?”

Ma Beagle stared at him, her expression inscrutable. She bit her lip in thought, her eyes studying him, as if she was waiting for him to break.

“…Alright, Fed.” She said, taking the other chair and taking a seat. “This sounds good and all, but why should I trust you, hm? The amount of trouble your lot have given my boys over the years… I’m still writing letters to Bradly and Bobby, you know.”

“…And they are…?” Jack asked.

“In the slammer.” Beagle shot back. “And have been for almost five years, now.”

“…Okay, those were the two that were busted for holding up bank cars?” Jack asked. “Because all we really did was point the police in the-”

“Not the point.” Ma Beagle leaned over the desk, her expression cold and distrustful. “I’m not helping you on your word that you’ll bring down McDuck. I need somethin’ more than that, and I think you knew that before I walked in here. So, what’s my incentive? The carrot or stick?”

“…Well… that’s pretty straight-forward.” Jack replied casually. “See, once I have what I want, I’ll be using that information to hold McDuck to account for his actions. If he’s found to have breached the law, then it might be decided that he and his family are no longer fit to have access to certain privileges. Including a big one about… oh, the size of Duckburg?”

“…You can get me the deed to Duckburg?” Ma Beagle asked warily.

“I can get it out of his hands.” Jack replied evasively. He turned his computer monitor to her and added nonchalantly, “I can also re-evaluate these testimonies here from first-hand witnesses naming you as the matriarch of the Beagle Boys and the leader behind the anonymous Duckburg drug ring. I’m thinkin’ they might have been coerced, you know?”

“Carrot and the stick.” Ma Beagle leant back in her seat, sighing. She drummed her fingers against her handbag, frowning in contemplation.

“…I’ll think about it.” She told him.

“Splendid!” Jack stood up and extended his hand across the desk, grinning to himself. “Just let me know when you ready, and I’ll get everythin’ ready, aight?”

Ma Beagle stared at the hand for a moment before reluctantly taking it. “…Sure thing, Fed.”

---------------------------------------------

And that's the end for Part 2 of Aftermath! Only seven more to go!

Thanks to all of you who are still sticking around for this delightfully depressing side story. As a heads up, I don't think I'll be able to update the story as regularly as I've been doing recently. The cost of having a regular income, I suppose. Rest assured though that Aftermath isn't going anywhere - not for a while.

Keep an eye out for Part 3!

#ducktales #dt17 #ducktales 2017 #louie #louie duck #dt17 louie #ma beagle #roxanne featherly #flintheart glomgold #fanfiction #fanfic #aftermath #ducktales aftermath

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rockymountaingaragedoors · 2 years

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Garage Door Repair - Some Important Tips

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#Garage Door Repair Aurora CO

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lantsovsupremacist · 3 years

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nikolai lantsov: currents

warnings: nikolai lantsov being the best man ever wouldn’t you know 🙄☝️

spoilers: set during king of scars but no major spoilers!!!

you looked up from the paperwork strewn about the desk situated in a far corner of the war room. tucked away here, you would never be the first target. some might call it paranoia or chalk it up to the trauma of the civil war, but you simply preferred a spot to observe quietly in the shadows.

toyla and tamar followed the king inside, nodding at zoya, genya, and david surrounding you.

“oh. it’s you. it’s all of you. i...” the man, or more likely boy, who skittered into the room spoke in a squeaky tone, “an absolute honor. a dream, really.”

briefly meeting nikolai’s eyes as he turned around from shutting the door behind him, you transferred your line of sight to the figure now bowing at your feet. zoya scoffed, eyes rolling to the heavens. genya and david shared a cohesive frown.

dropping the pen from your hand, you pushed your hair over your shoulders and straightened. you listened thoughtfully as he gave an introduction to each of your fellow grisha, recounting his apparent conclusions of them. when he treaded the sparkling waters that were genya, your face began to drop into anger.

“the first tailor, who bears the marks of the darkling’s blessing.”

her flinch did not go unnoticed by you. and as the only one whose temper rivaled yours kept hers in check, you failed to. the pressure immediately began to decrease in the room and the air dry of any moisture. nikolai’s head whipped up, perhaps the one most familiar with your temperament (other than zoya in your shared youth—never happy to be on the receiving end of a soaked kefta in class).

his hands flew up, taking a step towards you, bartering with any position he could gain. your fierce protection over genya was not unknown to those close to you, a flaw in the monk’s faulty perception. you let your shoulders fall, calming any potential downpour.

if yuri noticed your show of power, he made no move to address it, “ravka’s most powerful tide maker. oh the stories of how the darkling sanctioned you with the power to drown men on land.”

you froze but not because of a lie. his words were all true. the darkling hand selected you for this special training at age eleven. you allowed the legend to transpire, protecting you much like kaz brekker, dirtyhands of ketterdam. this was not a lore you would repeat with starry eyes and dreams of an otherworldly fantasy. none of the lives you had been forced to take before jumping ship to join sturmhond during the civil war could be washed away.

for all of your hard edges and brutal words, there were chinks in your armor that could not be hidden. tamar and toyla brought a hand to their weapons in startling unison. zoya’s eyes called out for yours.

nikolai’s features immediately darkened, an eclipse shadowing the usual light in his eyes. he rose from his chair slowly, exhibiting all of the power that he had inherited.

the shameless monk managed to hold himself upright but the unchecked tremble of his fingers exposed the fear instilled by the king’s actions.

“if i ever hear of her name—any of their names—leaving your mouth again,” nikolai began, his words sharper than the edge of his sword, “for any purpose in any country,” nikolai paused to watch yuri shrink under his steady gaze, “there will be nothing left for your believers to mourn into martyrdom.”

you held your chin high, your eyes twin daggers poised to launch across the room and eagerly embed themselves in a target. the ire in your chest began to subside upon witnessing yuri’s response to your boyfriend’s threats, only to be readily replaced by a flush of desire as his hazel eyes sharpened.

breaking eye contact with the monk who could not decide where to offer his, you glanced about the room. zoya had steeled herself beside you, radiating enough anger to address each of yuri’s mislead and misspoken opinions. even david’s face appeared from behind the book in his hands, though he kept his page by leaving it open to rest on his lap.

“am i correct in my assumption that you have heard me clearly,” nikolai’s voice carried across the walls, not quite commanding any longer but instead demanding the attention of those stood inside.

“y-yes your highness,” yuri stumbled out weakly as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his wiry nose.

after finishing up matters with your friends, nikolai took off out of the room, glancing back to make sure you intended to follow. you fell in step behind him, remaining quiet until you reached the stairs leading up to his chambers.

“i could have handled him, you know,” you pressed nikolai, hands repeatedly flexing and unflexing as they brushed against the sides of your blue kefta. your tone held no anger, simply indicating a truth.

nikolai drummed his fingers against the railing, pausing before turning back to face you, “of course you could have, love, but where’s the fun in that for me?”

you appreciated his willingness to defend your honor but the playfulness in his tone felt forced. he did not even make an attempt at his trademark smile imbued by charm and confidence. you decided in that moment that you would do to see it’s safe return.

“nik,” you spoke, repeating yourself after the absence of an answer, “nik.” your hand finding its way into his own hanging limply at his side.

“do you really see yourself in that way?” his voice shook, nearly choking on his final words.

any time the topic was brought up, nikolai was reminded of your stance. you had broken down to him the night after the darkling fell at the hands of alina starkov. no matter any of your friend’s persuasion, you stood firm in your position. you deserved to pay for the harm you inflicted on so many innocent. you were a monster, one who had given in to being handcrafted by another.

the untroubled nature with which he typically carried himself had vanished. your own expression faltered. his particular kind of magic, knowing smirks and careful quips that were like incantations for smiles, vanished.

and while it was normal for nikolai to drop the facade of a charming king around you, the pain held in his eyes plummeted your heart into your stomach.

“i think i did once,” you replied airily, not wasting your breath on a lie that nikolai could surely detect before the sound waves settled, “right after the war ended.”

nikolai chewed on the inside of his cheek anxiously, “but you’ve intentionally chosen past tense to describe these feelings.”

“yes,” you nodded, drawing your lover closer to you by the lapels of his jacket, “always so observant. it’s only of the many things i admire about you.”

nikolai sighed, closing his eyes and letting his blonde curls fall upon your forehead. you brought a hand up to stroke his cheekbone, soaking in the warmth of his skin pressed up against own.

“your strength,” nikolai said after a moment, drawing a hand to your waist, “your perseverance.”

“hmm?” you hummed quietly in question, content to reside with him inside this moment only belonging to the two of you.

“qualities i admire in you, my love,” he smiled after a moment, not entirely to be described as filled with confidence but surety nonetheless.

the flush of color in your cheeks always reminded nikolai of the pink dahlias planted in his favorite corner of the garden. maybe it was because it was where he had first kissed you. he decided that was probably his reason, although he never needed one to justify the beauty of either the memory or girl in front of him now.

too caught up in the memory, nikolai’s lips dipped to yours. you could always grasp a lingering taste of saltwater no matter how far away he was from sea, how many weeks removed. it reminded you of home. it was home.

“i love that you protect me, sobachka” you whispered against his lips, down his jaw and neck.

you did not need the exaggerated tales of your terrifying capabilities to destroy to wear as armor anymore, for you had the best man you had ever known to guard you.

as his hand wove into your hair and the other spiraling lower down your back, your breath hitched in your throat when he answered, “i can do so much more than that, my sea.”

nikolai settled on a simple quip, something guaranteed to make you smile. as a boy, he dreamed of a girl who would laugh at all of his jokes. when he grew, he figured many would be forged, a fallacy to fall in good graces with the king. he had yet to detect a lie within the giggles that left your lips.

the golden haired king would do anything to see you smile. he would pour hours into chasing perfection for you. once, he had even allowed toyla to confer with him about romantic poetry. despite the recitation being quite dreadful, you had laughed the most you had in a long time that day. now, just to catch up with the smallest piece of that magic again, he brought a new poem to you each night.

“i thought that i had seen the most gorgeous sights as sturmhond,” he began, unable to help biting his lip at your smallest quirk of a smile, “the volkvolny showed me how to fall in love with the endless waves at sea.”

you sucked in a breath, immersed in the way he spoke so intentionally. he was entrancing. you loved to hear about his travels before you met him, immersed in his storytelling.

“but none of them were every as beautiful as the ones you make,” he finished with a grin.

instead of reaching up to smack him at the cliche, you ignored your first reaction and instead pulled him closer to you. with your hands tucked against the back of his neck, you allowed your thumb to ruffle his lose and unruly curls. here, he was soft and gentle, untouched by his role.

“our ship had four other tidemakers,” you voiced softly, recalling your betrayal of the darkling after sturmhond’s crew imposed a mutiny, “but you chose me to lead the crew. you told me that was because i was the most powerful, but i certainly wasn’t with the waves. my power was not as practiced with currents.”

“but they were the prettiest,” he chuckled with puppy dog eyes honoring his nickname.

you gaped at this confession, “are you telling me you picked me as a leader during a war because the waves i created were pretty?” the initial seriousness in your tone melted away with every breath.

“i remember calling them the prettiest,” he twisted your hips, swaying you with him, “didn’t help me that the girl that could make them was the most gorgeous one i had ever seen. darling, i’m a prince, so i will inform you now that i have met a lot of people.”

your laughter was more delicate now, trailing off as you found direction in his eyes, “i had not been trusted with currents in years,” your voice softened, “he wanted my power elsewhere. i hated all of it. do you know the only memory i have of my parents is my father guiding the currents with me while we fished outside of town as a child? i was so excited to create like that with my power but all i did was destroy,” fighting back any moisture building in your eyes, you continued, “you gave me that back, nikolai.”

nikolai felt his heart stir inside his chest. he caught up to one of his most favorite smiles of yours. a rarity it was, reserved for the quietest and most understated moments that you could hardly share due to the both of your occupations and temperaments.

“i love every part of you,” nikolai dictated, “every drop of saltwater in the sea could not compare.”

you repeated the phrase before stilling, “well, now you’ve gone and ruined this with another one of toyla’s fictions.”

“ah, ah,” he tsked, “i made that one up myself, love.”

#nikolai lantsov fluff #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov imagine #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone #storm and siege #rule of wolves #sturmhond #zoya nazyanelsky #shadow and bone fic #nikolai x reader

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naruhearts · 3 years

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I’m done keeping my composure.

Sorry, this will be a LOADED post! (And I’ll be repeating the points others have made)

for real, to everyone being nasty and telling heartbroken fans that “Dean was always supposed to die get a grip you’re just butthurt etcetera etcetera—” F you royally.

How dare you police the brutal feelings that’s been embroiling us since the Finale That Must Not Be Named aired.

The show you think you all watched, the show you all believe was the same SPN from Season 1-4, changed at some point. Kripke wrote his original vision, put it to screen, saw it through in S5 as he intended, and closed the door on that era.

In 2008, Supernatural was adopted and inherited. As you know, there was a supreme paradigm shift post-Kripke era. The show FLOURISHED (we won’t talk about Gamble thanks). It evolved, transformed, grew beyond trauma-induced self-worthlessness and toxic masculinity and endless death and hegemonic social ideals and conservatism and repressive anti-revolutionary ideas. Castiel, the iconic favourite and beloved staple of the series portrayed by Misha Collins, was introduced in Season 4 as the core lead character, and he ushered in a brand new era of Christian mythos that SPN took advantage of. Longevity SKYROCKETED. Audiences were INTERESTED. SPN amassed an incredibly groundbreaking fanbase infused by non-nuclear principles. A massive subversive wave began, fighting the Status Quo of the times since 2008. It’s precisely why such an abysmal ending to a show of extensive Freud-Jungian metanarratively meta META complex stature and social POWER will render us totally and unbearably broken for years to come.

Point is, DEAN WINCHESTER NO LONGER WANTED TO DIE. HE WANTED TO LIVE. HE WANTED TO SIT ON THE BEACH, PLUNGE HIS TOES IN THE SAND, AND SIP UMBRELLA DRINKS WITH HIS BROTHER AND HIS BEST FRIEND. He said this in Season 13. And then, a season later, he told the ghost of his long-deceased father — the source of his deep-running trauma and the figure of self-reductive authoritarianism permeating his arc since Season 1 — after being questioned why he didn’t pursue the Nuclear Fam, that he already has his own: his brother Sam, his adopted child Jack, and Cas.

Dean’s best friend Cas. Oh god, Cas, who made his inevitably permanent mark on Dean’s soul beyond allyship. Castiel, renamed to Cas, God’s -iel removed by Dean. Dean, the human spark that lit the fire of pre-existing autonomy in the inherently rebellious angel who was, this entire time, the catalyst for free will in God The Writer’s puppet show. Their friendship set on goddamn fire. I can also write paragraph upon paragraph about my love for Cas while devastated tears stream down my face, but I digress—

Cas’ romantic love for Dean pushed our main Heart of SPN to love himself. Love is free will. Free will is also love. Of note, Cas’ love confession in 15x18 was supposed to offset something so vastly important and fundamental...to maybe (read: most likely) pull the trigger on SELF-TRUTHS in conjunction with free will. And The Great Anticipated Follow-Up to the episode penned by the passionate Berens should have included (read: seemed like it was going to be) Dean, closeted trauma survivor in love with his best friend, being given the opportunity to do it right: to SPEAK HIS TRUTH, and then that very singular opportunity was STOLEN so grossly. After poring over it for days, I refuse to believe we made their years-long story up out of thin air, spun it out of fantastical-delusional dream cotton candy, because we DIDN’T. IT WAS REAL.

As I said in another post: “I’ve just been feeling physically ill for the past >40 something hours with the terrible knowledge that 19/20 undid years of vital progression towards healthy interdependence, autonomy, and a positive endgame, where Sam, Dean and Cas close the ring of found family in final empowering self-fulfillment...where Dean, no longer repressed and set free, is able to use his words and speak his truth as a queercoded trauma survivor, henceforth confirming and self-affirming his own bisexuality since S1 by reciprocating — by telling Cas that he always loved him, too, loved him endlessly, which would have altogether divested Supernatural of its cult status and catapulted it into global worldwide significance as the longest running sci-fi genre show in American broadcasting history that actually dared to defy and, by proxy, empower LGBTQ2IA+ everywhere who found profound personal meaning in Destiel through VALIDATION,” — found themselves mirrored in Dean and Cas’ respective character journeys individually and as each other’s queer love interests.

THIS IS WHY DEAN WASN’T MEANT TO DIE.

THEY WERE SO ESSENTIAL, NOT JUST TO THE OVERARCHING STORY AND HEALTHY INTERPERSONAL THEMATICS OF MODERN SPN, BUT ALSO TO THE SOULS OF THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ACROSS THE WORLD WHO FOLLOWED THEIR JOURNEYS, HOPED FOR THEM, ASPIRED TO BE LIKE THEM, TREASURED THEM, WEEPED FOR THEM, AND FOUGHT FOR THEM, LIKE YOU AND ME.

Heck, how could anyone think Sam Winchester had a well-deserved characteristic ending? He didn’t. Dean’s brother was shafted so badly. He stopped hunting when seasons ago, he had canonically accepted that he no longer wanted an apple pie life. He simply...turned the lights off in a resoundingly empty bunker and left — abandoning his dead brother’s room — never to return (he did return later to get the Impala, family photos etc, I mean this symbolically)...as if — dare I say it — Supernatural itself eerily told us, in the negative-spaced pitch blackness, that the organic show and the wonderfully complex, matured characters we’ve grown to love weren’t going to survive or be revisited...that it was all going to perish, and that they no longer gave a single shit about their own show, which, to me, is the worst cardinal sin, because how dare they throw Team Free Will, an immovable and indomitable and passionate found family they built from the ground up, a found family CHOCK FULL TO THE BRIM OF LOVE AND LIFE RAGING AGAINST THE AUTHORITARIAN MACHINE IN ORDER TO ACHIEVE FREE WILL, under the bus no matter who is to blame. Growth was stomped on.

Then Sam married a faceless wife who wasn’t his textually established (and deaf) love interest Eileen, named his son Dean Jr., and grew old miserably, still mourning the passing of his older brother, shaken and sombre. Back to square one. IT WAS ALL ANTITHETICAL, even OUTSIDE a shipping context, and I ripped my hair out at this point in sheer disbelief.

This 15x20 ending would have fit somewhere between S4-7. Now? IT DOESN’T FIT. IT’S A JAGGED PUZZLE PIECE THAT DOESN’T BELONG ANYWHERE. IT’S THE FOREBODING UNKNOWN STRANGER IN ITS OWN LAND, BOTH LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY. This kind of ending was basically an illogical, unsound cluster of metastasized cells that, to me, ruined the viability of previous seasons to sustain bold praise and respect and dignity and rewatches and classic nostalgia in such insidious ways.

Dean Humanity Winchester and Cas, after everything they’ve been through, were silenced and lost in death, ripped apart from each other, unable to love each other the way they deserved, because of disappointing, vile incompetency and homophobia. The greatest love story ever told, again obliterated in less than 60 hollow minutes.

You know what this tells your audience, CW SPN? Death without self-growth is the way to go, and no one is allowed to forge their own path to freedom.

HOW INSULTINGLY HARMFUL IS THAT?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop grieving.

We all deserve answers.

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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Lying (Next) To You (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for violence + language Warnings: Blood-drinking/general vampiric shenanigans Summary: There is no goal other than escape. You want out of this castle, no matter what you have to do, no matter the consequences. At first, the solution seems to lie with one of the very women you want to get away from. But what happens when you find yourself genuinely caring for her? Length: 5,934 words

Merely surviving had never been your intention. From day one in this foul place, this unholy castle, you had strived to escape. No matter what, you refused to allow such dismal grounds to be your grave. But leaving wouldn’t be as simple as walking out an unlocked door. It required manipulation, agility, and the willingness to screw over anyone who got in your way. Even those who you would have once called friends, or the closest thing you had to that among the servants. Was that something you were willing to do? Absolutely, without a shred of doubt in your mind. Someday, somehow, regardless of what it took, you’d get out and never look back. For now, though, all you can do is scheme…

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Three targets, each incredibly difficult to get your hands on, each presenting their own unique challenges. Which would be easiest to charm? You were still debating that answer.

First was Bela: The eldest, most responsible, forced to be the “role model” for her sisters. A bookworm (a trait the two of you shared) who spent a fair amount of her freetime in the library. While not overtly cruel, she was still rather violent, especially in cases where she felt her family had been insulted. However, there were whispers that she had a secret weakness: Anxiety. None had caught her in the open throes of an attack and lived to tell the tale. But she had been overheard, more than once, quiet cries or shaking breaths. Trying to talk to her during one of these occasions could lead to gaining her affection- if you managed to do what no other had been capable of doing, that is.

Second was Daniela: The youngest, most excitable, eager to please and desperate to be pleased. Easily interacted with more maidens than either of her sisters, though not always in a good way. Getting her attention could mean getting pulled into her room in the middle of the night, for some “fun”, or it could mean getting drained of all of your blood. Sometimes she did one after the other. Like Bela, she was a bookworm, though she preferred romance novels as opposed to her older sister’s educational texts. As for her weakness? To you, Daniela seemed to be the definition of “undiagnosed ADHD”. Less exploitable for sympathy than her sister, but possibly useful in helping you trick her. At the end of the day, the largest concern with her was her inconsistent behavior, her tendency to flip moods at the drop of a hat- and a drop of the hat with her could feel a helluva lot like a drop of an axe (onto your neck).

Then came the third… the one you didn’t think was worth the risk, whatsoever: Cassandra. Middle child and acting just like it, she was hungry for her mother’s approval, attention, and respect most of all. Bloodthirsty as could be, with a mean streak eight kilometers wide, the truest monster you had ever met. Even her fondness for the arts manifested in malevolent ways. Supposedly, she painted in blood, and made sculptures from the bones of her victims, displayed proudly in her room as trophies. What could you possibly do to earn her affection? What could you ever be to her, other than a plaything or mid-afternoon snack?... Nothing, you assumed, and so you figured you might as well remove her from your list. Somehow you’d have to make do with one of her sisters. As for which one?... You decided to let fate decide, and go for whomever you found yourself with an opportunity to court.

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Free time was a rare commodity in Castle Dimitrescu. While every servant did technically get one day off every week, it wasn’t uncommon to end up helping with something unexpected, even if one tried to hide away in the private quarters. For you, it was an opportune time to try and get closer to your targets. So far three weeks had passed since your “decision” to focus on Bela and Daniela, without a single interaction with either of them. Still, hope held fast in your chest, as you made haste towards the library. On this free day you intended to read as much as possible. ‘Twas a two-pronged goal: First, you would increase your chances of running into one of your preferred employers. Secondly, you could possibly learn something through what content you consumed, perhaps to be utilized in later conversations.

Or such was the hope. In truth, you did not make it to the library, nor even anywhere close. A quarter of the way there you were interrupted by an ever-dreaded noise; buzzing echoed throughout the hallway, first far off, but getting closer with every second. There was a particular ferocity to the vibrations that you knew meant danger was approaching. According to the other maidens, this was a distinction that everyone learned over time, assuming that they survived long enough. The smart thing would have been to duck away into an adjacent room in the hopes that whatever sister it was would ignore you. But your endgame weighed heavy on your mind, then forced your feet to the floor. For better or worse, you would be in the woman’s path, ready for whatever she may ask of you.

“You-” a voice snarled, as a hooded figure phased out of the swarm and into your vision. Her head was held high, eyes narrowed as they stared down at you, a snarl twisting her lips. Of course it was her. Cassandra Dimitrescu. The one daughter you didn’t want to encounter. Inside, part of you writhes in self deprecation, feeling as if you should have known better. How often did the other two buzz about so angrily?... Well, certainly a fair bit, but nowhere near as much as Cassandra. Fuck, you think, I’m probably doomed. “I’m hungry. Come here real quick,” Cassandra demands, beckoning you towards her with a single finger. In another life you would have blushed bright red at the sight. A life where she wasn’t a vampiric monster, that is.

Nonetheless, you are quick to obey, masking your anxiety as best as you can. Doing so gets much harder once your gaze meets Cassandra’s, and you see her lick her lips before smirking at you. As soon as you’re within her reach, she’s surging forward, grabbing you by your shoulders, then pivoting, pressing you hard against the wall. You can’t help but gasp at the sudden movements, which only widens her grin. Before you know it she’s running her tongue along your neck. Once more you gasp, this time softer, hating the way your body urges you to lean into her touch. Why couldn’t she simply get straight to the worst of it? Instead she takes her sweet time, slipping a finger beneath the collar of your shirt, slowly, carefully tugging it to the side. When she finally bites, it is terribly sudden. The pleasure comes before the pain, stronger than you would have expected, eliciting a sharp inhale from you that sounds more satisfied than you had intended. Even as a rush of pain follows, you can’t help the red that tints your cheeks.

“Enjoying this, hmm?” Cassandra asks, after licking away at your blood for a few moments, pulling back but not releasing you. Something in her eyes makes you need to respond.

“Y-yes, more than I’d like to admit,” you mumble, barely able to make eye contact. But she seems pleased by this, gently cupping your chin while she looks you over.

“Well then, if you survive… I might just have to drink from you again,” she whispers, before diving right back in towards your neck. This time her touch is far, far softer than before. It feels more like she’s kissing you rather than drinking from you. A strange, irritatingly familiar feeling springs in the pit of your stomach, and you can’t help but make more of those noises she seemed to enjoy so much. Hell, your eyes drift closed as you take in the surprisingly welcome sensation. When they reopen, however, you give a yelp of surprise, spotting a very awkwardly waiting servant. They were blushing, clearly not having expected to come upon this particular sight. Cassandra perks up at your shock, turning to follow your gaze, then giving an uncharacteristically resigned groan. “Damn it, Ava, is it urgent?” She asks, to which the servant gives a silent shrug. “I’ll be done in a minute. Now, where were we?”

Once more she resumes feeding, casting aside all traces of sweetness, sucking on your wound with reckless abandon. Behind her, Ava gives you a thumbs up before turning away. As embarrassing as the moment felt, you were grateful to xer, glad that xe seemed to recognize your desire for privacy. More than that… if xe hadn’t come along, would Cassandra have remembered to stop before your bloodloss became fatal? There was no guarantee either way. Yet xer intervention felt like a godsend, and you made a mental note to thank xer later. Soon enough Cassandra removes herself from you, pausing only to cup your chin for a moment, meeting your gaze with a smirk. Then she was turning away without another word, following Ava to some unknown destination.

A deep breath, then another, more frantic, the familiar sense of panic growing on the edges of your mind. Now that the feeding was over, you were left trembling with all the fear you had been so adamant about not showing before. How close to death had you come? How close were you now? Only feeling slightly more faint than you had earlier, it felt safe enough to assume you would be fine, if only physically. Inside your mind you were struggling with racing thought after racing thought. How the hell am I supposed to do this with either Bela or Daniela? You think, trying to breathe past the lump in your throat. And why did I have to enjoy that so much? They’re nothing more than means to an end, monsters undeserving of my kindness, of my joy. Your only comfort was the knowledge that this may very well have been the opportunity you had been waiting for; but only if you could shift your aim.

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The difference was subtle, almost microscopic, to the point where it took you a full week to notice. But once you had? Everything felt different. You couldn’t spend more than three seconds in the same room as Cassandra without her eyes following you, watching your every move, sending a rush of both fear and excitement down your spine. Meeting her gaze only made her give the tiniest fraction of a smile. As soon as something (or someone) else caught her attention, however, you were forgotten in the blink of an eye. Yet it was nerve wracking nonetheless. This was roughly what you had hoped for, but you had underestimated the mental toll it would take on you. There was no way to tell whether Cassandra wanted violence, something softer, or her usual brand- a cruel mixture of both. Every second spent in her presence was a roll of the dice, a flip of a coin, either one weighted to put the odds against you.

But you persisted. Escape was not a dream, nor a fantasy, nor some far off cryptid. It was inevitable. Again and again you would swallow your fear until you reached your long-sought destination. No matter the cost, you think, no matter the consequences. Over time, that cost, those consequences, would grow. For now, it was a slice of your sanity. Next? More blood, it seemed.

“Casserole wants you to stop by her art studio,” the note said, cursive hand-writing ever-so-fancy and ever-so-difficult to read. Clearly from Ava, the mildly mysterious (but incredibly helpful) castle servant known for never speaking a word. From what you had gathered, xe was a confidant of sorts for the Dimitrescu family, trusted far more than the average worker. Alas, xe was loyal to the center of xer being, and was rumored to be impeccable at preventing escape attempts before they had even started. If you wanted out of this damn place, you knew you’d have to be careful around xer. Hopefully xe won’t interrupt this time, you think, before tucking the note away in your pocket.

Cassandra’s infamous studio wasn’t terribly far from your quarters, thankfully, though you weren’t even sure if you were supposed to arrive at a specific time. What if she wasn’t expecting you until later? Worse, what if she had been expecting you an hour ago? It’s a dangerous thought, one that could easily spiral into something far more drastic, and you try to reassure yourself, reminding yourself that Ava would have mentioned a time if it was important. In the end, you still found your heart racing as you stood outside the room in question. Pausing to take a deep breath, you center yourself, before raising a hand to knock. To your surprise, you get an answer before your hand even gets close to the door.

“Come in already,” Cassandra chimes from inside. Unsure of what terrible fate you were about to meet, you entered the room, somewhat reluctantly. Despite the myriad of unsavory rumors regarding the studio, there were no immediate signs of brutality. At the worst, the space was fairly messy, though not due to any, ahem, “misplaced” body parts. No, just an overflowing garbage bin, a few unfinished projects placed haphazardly wherever they’d fit, shards of glass in one corner, and tile floor splattered with a Pollock-esque layer of paint. In one word? Chaotic. Such was the type of environment that seemed to suit Cassandra best, the sort in which you imagined she would thrive. But you didn’t have time to examine anything as closely as you would have liked to. “Are you going to keep me waiting?”

“No, Lady Cassandra,” you reply, hurriedly, shaking your head to clear your thoughts. Then you’re quickly crossing the room, to what looks like a cross between a storage cabinet and a paint mixing station. In Cassandra’s hands, however, you find something less welcoming than a paintbrush: A needle and an empty blood bag. Well, you think, I guess I know why I’m here. At least there’s only one bag, right? “What do you require of me, my Lady?” While the answer was fairly obvious, you didn’t know the specific steps necessary, and it never hurt to be as polite as possible with the Dimitrescu family.

“Just sit down, roll your sleeves up, look pretty, and stay still. Try not to make any noises this time- as cute as they were last time, I have a headache,” Cassandra explains, gesturing towards the room’s only chair. Ignoring the way your cheeks heated up, you did as she asked, trying to get relatively comfortable. It was somewhat difficult to relax, considering who you were with. “Calm down, pet, I’m only going to hurt you a little. That’s more than I can say for most people who end up here.” Why did she have to use a nickname for you? Weren’t you already flushed enough without her teasing you further? Though your flustering does turn to confusion after a moment, as you wonder how she knew how afraid you were. You were under the impression that you were hiding it fairly well. Noticing your reaction, Cassandra rolls her eyes, before leaning in to whisper in your ear. “I can hear your heartbeat. Normally I’d find this… exciting. But my head hurts and I wanted to finish this damn painting yesterday. So take a deep breath, little pet, and let me take what I need from you.”

Of course she had to say it like that, and put herself so close to you. You’re pretty sure that your heart skips a few beats in response, though Cassandra doesn’t react beyond a hint of a smile, merely returning to her prep work. First step was cleaning your skin. Admittedly you hadn’t been sure if that step was necessary, seeing as the blood was (seemingly) for art as opposed to testing, but it didn’t exactly surprise you. Besides, there was a chance she’d drink the leftovers, right? Next she double-checked that the needle was properly connected to the blood bag, and that the latter was resting securely on a small stand. With that out of the way, it was time for her favorite part.

“Since your heartbeat has slowed down a little… I’ll let you whimper if you want to- but only once. Consider it a reward for good behavior,” Cassandra purrs with a familiar grin. One hand gently cups your chin, while her eyes look right in yours, just long enough to turn your cheeks bright red. The moment ends as quickly as it started. Before you know it she’s turned stoic again, feeling along your arm for a vein. This isn’t the first time you’ve had your blood drawn, but Cassandra takes no time at all to find the perfect spot, likely from a mix of practice and, well, her vampiric nature. It’s not long before she’s gently gripping your arm with one hand, briefly making eye contact before pushing the needle into your skin. Does it hurt? Hardly. Do you take a shaky inhale, hoping to please your employer, the closest to a whimper you were willing to give her? Oh, absolutely. And does she react? Oh, absolutely. Her eyes light up for a second as she bites her lower lip. There’s something else in her expression that you can’t quite read, however.

“Enjoying this, hmm?” You ask, smiling, voice soft in the hopes of not aggravating her headache. It’s a risk, and one that pays off more than you’d ever expect. Cassandra giggles a tad, eying you with the least mischievous smile you’ve ever seen from her. If not for the needle still in your arm, you might have found the moment charming, or even… romantic. But you pushed the thought away as soon as possible, reminding yourself of your one true goal: Escaping. This was a means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less. That’s what you had to keep telling yourself. Even as Cassandra ever-so-gently removed the needle from your arm, even as she carefully placed a bandage over the entry-point, even as she gave you a nod of approval.

“This should last until the painting is done, at the very least. I might need you to make another ‘donation’ next week, though. Except, hmm… your blood is quite nice,” Cassandra says. Her tone is smooth, almost sultry, but her gaze is focused on her work as she starts mixing the blood with… something? You weren’t familiar with this particular artistic process, nor did you want to be. “Maybe I’ll set up a nice schedule for you. Once a month you can be my darling little muse, and once a month you can be a refreshing snack. I’ll even make sure that my sisters don’t do anything that might spoil our fun. Assuming you continue to prove entertaining, that is.” You didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried. In the end you settled for the former, chest thrumming with excitement as you felt yourself getting one step closer to your goal.

—————————

Three months pass by in an easy blur. Just as Cassandra had suggested, you find yourself in her company more often than before. Only twice a month does she take blood from you, for your own safety (which she pretends not to care about), but more and more you find her lounging around where you’re working, obviously by “pure coincidence”. Sometimes she even spoke to you! Teasing here and there, or asking you to do things that she normally did for herself, or scaring you just to hear you make one of your “lovely noises”. Honestly, you weren’t sure whether you were more surprised by how attached she had gotten to you, or by how quickly it had happened. Of course, you didn’t even know if she enjoyed your personality… or just your blood. Either way, you found yourself enjoying her presence more than you’d ever openly admit.

Eventually, when the benefits of your budding “friendship” became more clear, you started to enjoy it even more.

It was early in the morning, right when the castle residents tended to go to sleep, and when the night shift officially ended. Minutes prior you had been conversing quietly with Cassandra, dusting some shelves as you did. Now, with your duties done only slightly later than usual, you were making your way back to your quarters. Along the way you were caught off guard by the sound of distant crying. ‘Twas a sound you’d heard many times before, from many different maidens, but this time felt… different. An odd feeling of sympathy sparked in your chest, and you made the brash decision to approach the source of the noise. When you rounded that last corner, when you made eye contact with the trembling figure, you knew that your kindness could very well be the death of you. To think that you had once hoped for this encounter.

“Who’s there?” Bela Dimitrescu snarls through chattering teeth. She’s moving forward, phasing in and out of swarm mode, reaching a hand out to clutch at your throat. Well, you think, at least she’s stopped crying? More so out of being distracted, instead of feeling any comfort from your company. It’s not a terribly reassuring thought, but it’s soon replaced with a mental string of ???? as Bela pauses, grip loosening as she holds you up in the light. “You’re Cassandra’s new favorite. Damnit!” With that she drops you rather unceremoniously. Then she’s turning her back to you, sniffling before wiping the tears from her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone about this, or I won’t hesitate to string you up, no matter what my sister says. Now get lost.”

Except you can’t force yourself to move. There’s a small piece of you that remembers your original plan, another small part feels a twinge of sympathy, and a majority of your brain sees this as an opportunity. What was a little more risk?

“Would you like me to bring you some tea, Lady Bela?” You ask, attempting to keep your tone neutral, lest she think you were judging her. In response, she turns to look at you slowly, eyes narrowed, thinly veiled rage only outweighed by the remnants of her anxiety. Then she’s stalking forward with cautious, deliberate movements. For a moment she searches your eyes for any hints at your motive. Hoping to ease her worries, you elaborated on your offer, and the reasoning behind it. “I’ve read that holding something warm in your hands, like a mug of tea or coffee, relaxes the brain. I believe it had something to do with mimicking human touch?... Forgive me if I’m overstepping your boundaries, my Lady. I… I felt compelled to ask, to help in whatever way I can.”

“Oh?” Bela hums, the majority of the anger draining from her face. There’s a hint of genuine surprise behind her bright eyes. “Very well, if you say it might… help.” Before you can turn to leave, you hear her clear her throat, and say one last thing. “A little softer than I would have expected from a pet of Cassandra’s.” She certainly had a point. But you don’t bother responding, instead focusing on your self-given task. In the back of your mind, you wonder if you were really Cassandra’s “pet”, or if there was more to your dynamic. Why did you feel so weird about the idea of being a mere “distraction” to her?... Something to think about while you made that tea, you supposed.

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When you assisted with serving lunch the next day, Bela refused to make eye contact, even as you set a plate in front of her, or when you refilled her wine glass. There was a stiffness in the room that you weren’t familiar with. For the most part, Cassandra is more welcoming, giving you a small nod when you meet her gaze. By the time the family is done eating and moves to leave, the sisters are grouping together to speak in hushed voices. While you clean up after them, you cannot help but wonder if they’re discussing the previous night, or if Bela was as adamant about keeping quiet as she had seemed. Regardless, you felt rather good about how the conversation had gone. Hopefully she’s feeling better, you think, surprising yourself. Not that it matters… unless she tells Cassandra, I suppose.

You don’t see her for the rest of the day. It’s a double-edged sword, in a way. On one hand, you find yourself missing her, unused to not interacting with her at all. On the other hand? All the sudden you’re realizing just how involved she’s become with you. Certainly that meant something? Progress towards your eventual goal of escaping? God, you sure hoped so. Thinking about the future, about your plans, lasts you the entire night, thoughts following you all the way into bed. Sleep feels a million years away, and you find yourself staring silently at the ceiling. Unmoving. Damn near unblinking. When there’s the sound of footsteps outside your room, you are more than welcome for the distraction.

“Wake up, little pet,” a voice calls, as your door opens, and someone quickly slips inside. Before you can even sit up, you feel them slide into the bed with you. “It’s too cold in my room. You’re much warmer, aren’t you?” Clearly your darling Cassandra come to entertain herself. Considering how late in the day it is, you feel like you should be upset, and yet you feel yourself daring to wrap your arms around her. For a moment she goes stiff, but she soon relaxes into your touch. “You’re getting so good at knowing what I want from you. Mmm, I think I’ve trained you well,” she teases, shifting onto her back so she can pull you onto her chest. Although you’ve been this close to her before, this is the first time you’ve realized just how cold her skin is. No wonder she wants to sleep with me, you think, blushing at your unintentional wording.

“Fuck, you’re freezing,” you mumble, curling up against her nonetheless. She’s laughing then, without any hint of her usual malice, and you can’t help but laugh with her. When had the two of you gotten so warm with each other? Why did it feel so natural? There’s anxiety gnawing at the base of your skull, threatening to build up into a headache, tugging you away from the softness of the moment. If Cassandra notices, she’s quicker to act than you would have expected. It feels safer to believe that her next actions are a coincidence. Feels… better, when you remember that you are playing her for cheap, that any friendliness is a mockery made for the most bitter of betrayals to come.

“That’s why I’m here, dear. Now hush, I need some rest. With how comfortable you are… I may even let you sleep in,” she teases, before pressing the gentlest kiss to the top of your head. Your throat dries up in response, blush overtaking your cheeks, and you are left unable to speak. The thundering of your heart seems to somehow lull your would-be lover to sleep, while you find yourself growing to love the contrast her chill provides. Somehow, someway, you end up sleeping more soundly than you have in years.

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Another month passes. No opportunities to escape, no grand moves to make in this 4D game of chess, no clever plans to entangle yourself in. Yet you find yourself content. Happy. The work keeps you as busy as ever, but Cassandra often steals you away for her own desires. When she goes to drink your blood, she does so gently, with many soft kisses leading into the big moment. Afterwards she cleans your wound herself, touches as light as a feather, eyes sparkling with unspoken affection. At night, you find her coming to you for warmth almost every day. At first she provides little more than teasing excuses. But in time, she becomes more open, even being so bold as to kiss you on the lips every time, greeting you with quiet “dear”s and “darling”s. It gets to the poin that you cannot sleep without her presence.

Day after day, you find it harder and harder to remember why you were doing this. Was it so bad to enjoy your time with her? Was it so bad to find yourself leaning into her touches, kissing her back, gleefully awaiting your nightly rendezvous with her? Sometimes the thoughts were overwhelming, guilt and shame alike dancing inside your chest. Those days were the hardest to get through. Somehow, again and again, you go to her for comfort. To the very source of your conflict. Every last feeling was driving you towards an inevitable point. A conclusion written in stone, one that had been decided from the very first time Cassandra dug her fangs into your neck.

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Screaming. Horrible, horrible screaming, somehow more pained than that of any maiden you had ever heard, echoing throughout the castle halls, achingly familiar in tone. You had never heard her scream before, and yet you knew that the sound came from Cassandra. Before you can even begin to process your realization, you are thundering through the corridor, towards the noise that rattled your mind so desperately. How could anything possibly hurt her? How often had you seen her push her siblings around, each of them taking hits that could break bones as if they were light shoves? As if the punches tickled? Horror overtakes your thoughts, imagination far worse than reality had any right to be.

When you at last reach your lover, you are frozen in your tracks, eyes wide as can be. There she is, howling with both rage and pain as someone repeatedly slams the butt of a rifle into her head. Behind the fighting duo is a sight you never thought you’d see: An open door. Wide open, enticing, leading straight into the world you had sought to rejoin. You want to leave. God, you want to leave so bad. This is what you have been waiting for- Cassandra has not even seen you yet, too busy grappling with her attacker, movements too slow to be normal. What was wrong? Why were her limbs such a strange color? Was that… frost on her clothes? Or… crystal? Your gaze flickers back and forth between her and the exit, as time seems to pause, memories of the past few months racing through your mind. Goddamnit, you think, this is what I want, isn’t it? Consequences be damned, right? I said I wouldn’t stop for anything.

And so you move, automatically, on autopilot, unable to think about anything other than what you treasured most: Cassandra. One moment you’re standing still in the foyer, the next you’re grabbing a poker from the fireplace. You’ve never done anything like this before, but the movements come naturally, as you surge towards the scrambling pair. In one swift motion you drive the metal rod into the skull of the intruder, hating the sound, hating the splatter of blood against your clothes, hating the feeling of resistance followed by a terrible, terrible give. But the man slumps almost immediately, allowing your girlfriend to shove him off of herself. Still unable to think coherently, you’re throwing yourself into her arms.

“Holy shit, holy shit, oh my god, I- I, fuck. Are you…? Fucking tell me that you’re okay, please,” you ramble, holding the dangerously cold body of your girlfriend close to you, refusing to let go. She’s crying, clinging to you as desperately as you cling to her. But she’s responding in the affirmative. Over and over, saying she’s okay, telling you that it’s okay. Before you know it, she’s the one comforting you.

“Hey, hey, look at me. Okay? Look at me, take a deep breath. If anyone should be freaking out it’s me,” she says, pulling back enough to cup your cheek with one hand. There’s blood on her fingers, making your eyes go wide, but she quickly wipes it off with a scowl. Then she’s caressing your skin again, soft repeating motions perfect for calming you down. “That’s right, see? We’re fine. You’re a fucking badass, darling, and honestly? It’s very attractive.” Now you’re both giggling, you a bit more than her. Because of course she’s flirting right now. It’s an incredible softness. One that you, quite frankly, do not feel you deserve. At first it’s a tiny voice in the back of your head, but it soon grows until it strikes the smile from your lips. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Shit, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, really,” you interject, as fast as you can, ignoring the tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Cassandra isn’t convinced, however, and gives you a pleading look. Knowing that you cannot resist her, you close your eyes, sighing, then admit your wretched truth. “The door. Cassandra, the door’s open. I… I came down the hallway and I saw the two of you and I saw the fucking door and I… I hesitated. I hesitated.” There’s a mighty tremble to your voice, teeth and lips shaking. In the moment, you cannot bring yourself to meet her gaze, eyes instead glued to the bloodstained floor. It’s so quiet that you swear you can hear your tears hitting the tile. The air around you is filled with a looming heartache, a shadow over the two of you, hungry for your tears. But the rage you anticipate from Cassandra never comes.

For fuck’s sake, she pulls you closer. She takes you in her arms, making you rest your head against her chest, one hand gently rubbing circles into your back. Shock makes you unable to do anything other than linger limply in her grip. Thankfully, she has more than enough words for the both of you.

“Of course you did. All you ever wanted was to escape, right? And all I ever wanted was to see how much fun I could get out of you before you betrayed us,” she admits, coolly, as if the words didn’t break both of your hearts. At first, you merely start crying harder, realizing that she had seen through you this whole time. Realizing that all of her softness had just been sharpness covered in sheep’s clothing. Except she’s not done talking. “Now look at us. Couple of idiots who caught feelings. So shut up, because we’re in this mess together, now, and I don’t intend to let you go, understood? You-” she pulls back, looking you right in the eyes- “are mine. Besides… you just killed for me. I think that more than makes up for any hesitance, yeah?” Before you know it you’re kissing her. You’re pressing yourself to her, smiling through your tears, forced to pause to laugh at yourself. How ridiculous had this whole affair been? How had you convinced yourself, for so long, that escape was all you had cared about?...

All this time you thought you wanted out. But at the end of the day… you just wanted to go home. How could you have guessed that you would have found a new home, here, in someone’s arms? Despite the surprise of it all… you couldn’t be happier.

#cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra x reader #cassandra dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #the soft to your sharp

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ashasmonsters · 3 years

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The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make, erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court— will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity. You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.

#exophilia #monster x reader #monster x human #romance #male reader #tiefling #male tiefling x male reader #monster love #mlm #monster romance #monster fic #mlm romance

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