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perriewinklenerdie · 3 years

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Married (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 2,4 k

Summary: Parts of Ines’s wedding told from Ethan’s perspective feat. E&C dancing, staring at each other during the wedding, basically being a married couple and everyone calling them out for it. OH3 Chapter 11 added content.

Warnings: None, it’s fluff town all the way

A/N: I feel scammed by PB. All the golden opportunities - wasted. So I fixed it.

His shoes sank a bit in the sand as he began walking towards the venue. More and more people were beginning to arrive, sounds of conversation and laughter increasing by the minute. He recognized his coworkers with ease and approached them. The first to notice him is Tobias, his eyebrow arching slightly at the sight of him.

“You came alone? Where’s Herondale?” he asked, looking over Ethan’s shoulder to search for the blonde resident.

“She helped me fix my tie, then kicked me out of our room. And refused to let me see the dress.” He explained, shrugging with a helpless laugh. Harper laughed along with him, clapping her hands gently.

“That’s wife behavior. Are you sure you two aren’t married?”

“Dude, if you two eloped, I’m not going to be working out with you anymore.” Bryce chimed in, acting as though he was offended, a serious look overtaking his face.

“Where would you- why would you- “ Ethan started stumbling over his words, realizing only after a moment that everyone was smirking at him teasingly. He huffed, fighting a blush that creeped onto his cheeks anyway. “I see. You all think you’re funny.”

“You make it too easy, Ethan.” Harper giggled, shaking her head.

“And we know we’re funny, Ethan.” His mentor put his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

“Hilarious, even.” Baz added.

A small sound of an incoming message caused everyone to stop talking. Sienna unlocked her phone, her eyes scanning the screen.

“Claire just texted me a photo of her in a dress.”

Immediately, everyone jumped to her side, long before Ethan could even move his finger. Once he woke up from the daze, he took a step towards the young doctor that he considered his friend. Zaid stopped him in his tracks with a hand pressed to his shoulder.

“She said to not let you see the photo.”

“Why?”

Her voice rang from behind him. “I wanted to see your reaction myself.”

Ethan turned around and, at once, his breath caught in his throat. His gaze dropped to her shoes and dragged up her body slowly. The gentle flow of her skirt, pink silk that he knew for sure would almost spill through his fingers. The bodice, snug against her chest, accentuating her curves and making his male brain run wild. Careful to not linger on her chest too long – he would not get crap from their friends for this – he finally looked at her face. She was grinning smugly with a bit of a nervous spark.

He stepped up to her, resting his hand on the dip of her waist, tracing the floral patterns under his touch. With his other hand, he grasped hers in a gentle manner, raising it to press a warm kiss to her fingers.

“You’re taking my breath away.” he muttered, staring at her intensely.

“Hypoxia is dangerous, maybe I should go.” Claire teased, leaning away a fraction of an inch. He immediately pushed on her back to stop her, their personal spaces merging.

“Not having you by my side is fatal.” He dropped his voice to a low rumble, her grin melting into the soft smile. Their lips met in a slow kiss, no heat to it, just pure emotions.

They remained like that for a prolonged moment, his hands carefully pressing her to his chest. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making their bodies move in a swaying motion.

Jackie burst their bubble. “You, lovebirds, the brides are about to arrive, cut it out.”

Ethan pressed his lips to Claire’s one last time, then leaned away. Their noses brushed against one another as their eyes met. He whispered gently. “I’ll come find you after the ceremony.”

She pecked his cheek sweetly. “Can’t wait.”

He wasn’t particularly a fan of weddings. He wasn’t invited to a lot of them, either. If combined with his dislike for big social gatherings, one would come to the conclusion that Ethan Ramsey was miserable right in that moment.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

As Ines and Angie exchange vows and talk about their love for each other, his eyes find Claire. Sitting in her chair across the aisle, she’s holding Sienna’s hand and passing her a tissue. She’s all anyone could ever ask for, and the mere sight of her makes him fall down into the void of memories.

How far he’s come as a person. A cynic that dreaded what a new year would bring along with a new batch of interns. A man that had only two people in his life that he could call friends. A man that went to the bar every night to forget the day behind him, only to go back to his empty apartment. All of that was so long ago that he barely recognized that version of himself anymore. He was so different now.

He smiled more. Laughed, even, and found that he didn’t find stupid jokes Lahela made all the time half as annoying as he once did. He didn’t spend every waking moment at work. Instead, he enjoyed his time off. Still at a bar, but not to drink away his worries. Not alone – not anymore.

Now, he had someone to come home to.

Claire shook her head as she laughed at what Zaid said and Ethan’s heartbeat quickened. They grew together as people too, and along with that, their relationship evolved.

From the night they spent together in the NICU, when her head slowly fell onto his shoulder and he couldn’t find a single cell in his body to tell him to lean away. Because he wanted her to be close. It was the first moment in which he thought that maybe this brilliant woman was meant to be more to him than just an intern – and right after that, he squashed the idea back down.

Every hold of her hand, every silent sign of support, he cherished it all. Unknowingly falling deeper for the woman that would become the center of his universe before he realized what was happening.

Their kiss in Miami would be at the forefront of his mind in his every living second until he kissed her again. Growing stronger with each time his resolve broke and their lips met, softly or with wild abandonment.

The first time he could call her his – the first time he had her to himself. He knew in that moment that he was ruined for everyone else. No one would ever make him feel that way, ever again. He knew it damn well – and yet, he still fought against it.

Absence makes heart grow fonder. He now knew it was true. Months he spent away from her, keeping her at arm’s length, taught him as much. How could he deny those words when the moment he pulled her closer to him outside his apartment and their lips touched, he felt his mind go blank and his heart stop. He vowed to never let her leave again. To never lose her.

And then he almost did.

The thought alone made his muscles spasm, and he was a millisecond away from running to her side, just to feel her warmth and hear her heartbeat. Leaving her side now, even if only for a moment, even to do their job, caused a silent voice to go off in his head. A wave of panic usually followed, staying with him until he saw her again.

Thankfully, nowadays, she was within his reach most of the time. She never asked why he sometimes needed to pull her close and just hold onto her – she knew.

He felt the corners of his lips rise on their own accord. She was radiant in every second of every day. In that moment, she was the most beautiful person there. The idea that it was him that she continuously chose to be with, day after day, only made him smile wider.

This was it for him. He found his one and only, as cliché as that sounded – he knew it for sure. Guess weddings really did make people reflect on love after all.

Ethan was very much aware of how lovestruck he must have been looking in that moment. With his eyes on Claire, he was a picture of a man in love – and he was finally ready to admit that he was. He loved her.

Almost as though she could hear his thoughts, she turned around to look at him. Their eyes met and a brilliant smile bloomed on her face. His lips moved as he mouthed the words, her smile becoming gentler.

“I’m yours.”

She mouthed it right back to him.

Music wasn’t as obnoxious as he anticipated it to be. That didn’t, of course, mean that he condoned every dance move he saw the guests do. He decided to not complain, though – it was a day to be happy, he wouldn’t bring anyone down with his opinion on their questionable choices of moves.

Currently, he was seated by the table, nursing his whiskey. Mirani twins, Tobias and Naveen sat beside him, all five men watching their colleagues party with wine glasses in their hands.

“How long, do you think, will it take for one of them to break a glass?” Baz asked, leaning out of his seat to see his friends better. Zaid grinned, taking a sip of his drink.

“Any second now. And my bet is on Varma.”

“Why?” Tobias’s face twisted in confusion as he turned towards him, intrigued. Zaid shrugged.

“Because she can.”

Ethan tuned their conversation out, choosing instead to look at his girlfriend. She danced with Sienna, laughing as they sang along to the song. Her dress moved with her, flowing through the air elegantly. He felt the urge to stand up and walk up to her.

“Ramsey, you do know you can just walk up to her instead of sitting here and pining for her, right?” Tobias snickered, punching Ethan’s shoulder playfully. He scoffed, leaning away with a hint of a burn in his cheeks.

“I’m not pining for her.”

“You are.” All four of his companions replied.

He was so distracted by their words that he failed to notice an approaching form. Her hand landed on his shoulder softly, the tips of her nails scratching the back of his neck. Knowing who it was, he leaned into her touch, breathing out deeply.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but I’m stealing him.” she mused happily, dragging her hand down his arm until her fingers tangled with his. Ethan let her pull her up, looping his arm around her waist.

“Stealing is bad, Herondale.” Tobias shot back, moving his eyebrows suggestively at the couple. Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Ethan beat her to the punch.

“She can’t steal something that’s already hers.” He grinned at them, then turned towards her. Claire’s jaw dropped in surprise at his boldness, her posture softening enough for him to pull her away from the table, smirking. Faintly, he heard Tobias’s words.

“Married. For sure.”

Ethan’s arms wrapped around her, fingers hooked onto her hipbones. She threw her arms around his neck, staring up at him with a soft smile. A slow song began playing and one look at where the DJ was situated told them who was behind this change. Ines grinned at them, giving them thumbs up and a cheeky wink.

“Is it just me, or is everyone trying to tell us something?” Claire giggled, nuzzling her nose against his jaw. He kissed her nose gently.

“So, you noticed it too?”

“Kinda hard not to. Girls said we’re acting like a married couple at least twice today.” she traced the lapel of his jacket, laughing quietly at the recognition in his eyes.

“Guys did it too.” Ethan muttered, tightening his hold on her. She laid her head on his shoulder.

“And how does that make you feel?”

He was silent for a long while. They swayed to the song, tuning out everything else. To her surprise, he didn’t tense up – nothing about his posture spelled out the doubts he once told her he had.

“Not as terrified as it did before.”

Claire leaned back to look at him. Their eyes met, tender understanding in them. Ethan leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss, perfectly soft and not nearly deep enough. She clutched his lapel in her fist, creasing the fabric with how strong her pull was. His fingers dug into her back, skipping past the coarser material of her bodice and gripping the soft silk of her skirt. A voice in the back of his head told him to loosen up the hold or he’ll mark the fabric, but the overwhelming need he felt for her overshadowed everything else and he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

The song ended and with it, their kiss. Foreheads pressed together, they caught their breath, standing in the middle of the dancefloor. Blissfully unaware of how much attention they gathered with their tender moment.

Ethan opened his eyes and finally allowed his mind to register the music again. Some sort of a fast tune that made people around them go mad. His girlfriend stared at him with an unspoken question, and he got the meaning perfectly well.

With a definite move, he dipped her onto the floor. She giggled, the sound breaking through the loud music to reach his ears. Ethan smirked, throwing her back into his arms. With his lips against her ear, he mused hotly.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Her leg wrapped around his thigh, pushing their bodies closer. His voice broke off and his breath shuddered at the way their bodies clashed and the suggestive smirk she sent his way. His hand fell to her ass, all inhibitions gone.

“Ethan!” she exclaimed, laughing at the carefree smile he gave her. He moved his hand a bit, albeit begrudgingly.

“Can you blame me? You’re irresistible.” He muttered, kissing the shell of her ear. Claire hummed, then twirled out of his hold and back into it, jumping into his arms with her legs wrapped around his hips. Ethan groaned deeply in his throat, making her smirk.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve too.”

Notes

This is a part 2 to the Mile High Club fic. As I said, PB could have made the chapter so good with all the wedding themes that I’d lose my wig. Writers apparently don’t know how to do basic research into fiction themes, but that’s okay (kinda). It just means I have more material to work with.

Round two smut is coming soon.

Thank you for reading! <3

Tagging separately

#ethan ramsey #open heart #playchoices

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jjuzoir · 3 years

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Random Kageyama Tobio HCS

Word Count: 1851

Warnings: just... me being in love with a m*n other than masumi 😔 also! these are my headcanons as in,,, what i personally i think he’d be like ‼️ also me projecting my ideal man into him (as if he wasn’t it already 😋)

A/N: i... i love tobio so much it’s literally unreal... i couldn’t wait for a request (i’m still working on the remaining 4 too lolol) so take me projecting my love for tobio >:(

— Kageyama normally wears loose fitting clothes or athletic-style clothing. His favorite go to outfits tends to be a loose tee, some loose pants with an obnoxious Nike logo he swears are super cool but look like two garbage bags sewed together, and running shoes. Throw a hoodie in there for colder weather, even then he still manages to look good.

— He takes very good care of his hair, like freaky good care, because of Miwa. Once she enrolled in cosmetology school and she saw Kageyama use the same baby shampoo from when they were kids she freaked out (if she’d been any later he’d start using 3-in-1) and chewed his ear off about hair care. His hair is super shiny and there’s literally no freeze, he uses nice smelling shampoo and conditioner too. Ugh, I love him.

— He has a very sensitive nose but it gets clogged easily so he doesn’t notice much unless it miraculously unclogs itself and he’s complaining about everything.

— “Eh! Hinata, why’d you smell like a fucking axe bottle?!” “Why does no one say anything about Tsukishima smelling like strawberries?” “Yamaguchi smells like... milk.” “Hah?! Sugawara smells bad-?!”

— He says he’s a picky eater to appear cool but as long as you don’t say what’s in the food he’ll down it. He’ll say he doesn’t like carrots but if you give him a salad with carrots he might even say “it’s the best salad he’s ever had”.

— He’s a hot sleeper, and not in the “oh he’s sexy” type of way. I’m talking, he’ll sweat buckets if he sleeps with anything other than a flimsy white t-shirt and his underwear.

— Might be me projecting my love for bunny teeth but he has bunny teeth, his front teeth are a bit bigger than average (not to the point it’s super noticeable but it’s still something Miwa teased him about), his aunties probably squeezed his cheeks and called him “baby bunny” when he was younger.

— He doesn’t go to sleep later than 9PM, he thinks if he does it’ll ruin his schedule (which it will) and fuck up his body - he’s seen Miwa screw up hers after she pulled a bunch of all nighters in her third year in high school and has been afraid since.

— The type to forget people were coming over and come out of his room shirtless asking for his clean underwear.

— His sister forced him to let her cut and style his hair which led to many questionable hairstyles. Tsukishima is genuinely so grateful to Miwa, especially when she was first starting - he’s got some pictures of Tobio with the shortest most embarrassing bangs ever saved in his phone in a file for blackmail if the need for it ever presented itself.

— Likes pissing people off on purpose sometimes, during one of the training camps he probably walked into the bath with socks on and was made fun of but out of spite he just… never took them off. Said he’d done it on purpose and all too. Tanaka cried out of fear for like a hot minute when he saw him standing under the shower with Iron Man socks on.

— He’s so petty too, if you make fun of him for messing up he’ll remember until you embarrass yourself to make fun of you. And when I say he remembers, I mean it - he can’t for his life remember when to use make and do in english but he remembers when Hinata made fun of him for wearing different socks back on their first year and yes he will bring it up on their second year when he did the same thing what are you going to do about it?

— Probably got scouted for a modeling agency once and began running away because he thought they were trying to kidnap him.

— If he had Tiktok… he would’ve gone viral after posting a video of him practicing, he posted for a while for fun and to flex on people that he was hot but then he saw a comment saying they wanted to drink his milk under a video of him drinking milk and he deleted his account, he can’t buy from that brand for a while.

— He’s got a video of a gorilla walking in two legs saved on his phone for when he’s feeling down and watches it whenever he’s not going well. People think he’s texting his S/O but no, he’s just watching a gorilla walk like minecraft Steve.

— He can’t pose for pictures to save his life, his default pose is an NPC stance with his arms stiffly hanging down and his eyes wide in surprise, don’t ask him to smile or else he will look like a serial killer.

— He’s got a bit of baby fat on his cheeks that won’t disappear no matter what. It’s become a pre-game ritual to pinch his cheeks. He’s also got dimples you can really only see when he smiles naturally but he doesn’t know and he’d get shy if he knew and try covering his face so don’t tell him, that’s a fact he told me so himself.

— Cannot dance to save his life. He’s so long (?) his limb control is non-existent, it appears in game and vanishes when he steps out of the court. He really just bounces on his heels and moves his arms like a t-rex, don’t ask more of him.

— Buys his clothes one size bigger just in case and Miwa teases him saying he’ll need them when he gets old and fat.

— Gets asked out often but always rejects, then has the audacity to complain he’s never dated anyone like he hasn’t turned down half of the school's population.

— Can’t sing. He’s got a nice speaking voice but ask him to sing and he’s out of tone, out of sync, out of breath, and out of the room in 5 seconds.

— Sugawara joked about having him singing as his alarm clock and Kageyama actually believed him, probably sent him a new recording as a gift after he annoyed him during practice.

— Surprisingly funny when he wants to but most jokes fly over people’s heads since he seems so serious most of the time, it annoys him to no end. Yachi still struggles differentiating when he is and isn’t joking because his tone literally doesn’t change at all and she doesn’t want to offend him.

— When he was younger he liked to collect rocks, not even the pretty ones he’d pick the most average, raggedy rocks off the ground and clean them up and tuck them to bed because he saw Miwa play with her barbies like that. Still owns his first rock, he named it “Johnson” after Dwayne Johnson, aka the rock (he’s had to explain it so many times he’s exhausted).

— Accidentally drank expired milk once and didn’t notice until his stomach began hurting and he thought he became lactose intolerant and he was inconsolable for days until he realized it had expired like a month ago - he went on a milk shopping spree and the milk sales that week saw a 20% rise from the last few months.

— Tobio had bad handwriting until he was in Junior High because his teachers couldn’t understand him and had him practice calligraphy, his handwriting is now one of the prettiest ones in the team and he’s the official inker of the VBC posters (as designated by Goddess Yachi Hitoka herself).

— His biggest fear for a long time was getting eaten by piranhas because he saw it happen so often in cartoon shows he genuinely thought it was going to be a bigger deal than it turned out to be but for like a solid 6 years of his life he avoided suspicions puddles just in case.

— Kageyama has a habit of rolling and unrolling his sleeves when he’s deep in thought, it soon made way to a habit of checking his wrist watch (he absolutely has a wrist watch, you cannot change my mind on that) but not actually reading it.

— His nails are very pretty, like most setters, he takes very good care of them. They’re filed down to a perfect length and he puts oils and creams, his hands in general are so nice. He takes a lot of pride in them, you know his cuticles are pushed back and trimmed and he could absolutely be a hand model. Kags’ hands are calloused, he’s a volleyball player of course they are, but it’s not to the extent of Ushijima or Daichi’s hands.

— Talking about hands, it’s probably one of his favorite features on people. He loves holding hands with his S/O and tracing the wrinkles in their palm, being able to interlock fingers with them and feel the bumps in them.

— Mumbles to himself when in thought too! Very nonsensical if you’re not informed on what he’s thinking about, if he’s thinking about you he’ll mumble your name or something like “pretty eyes”.

— Has a very healthy diet, like extremely healthy and thought out. He won’t eat anything too sugary or that could throw off his body, but he does have cheat days (which are rare but exist). He also doesn’t drink much soda or alcohol (once he’s of age).

— Things like smoking are a big no, he takes so much care of his body he wouldn’t even touch a cigarette or be near a smoking area, lowkey paranoid of ingesting the smoke too.

— When he’s older I can see him having a dog and a cat, the dog would be a big dog; if they stood on two paws it’d be the same height as you, he’d name or something like Tobias and think he was super clever and funny, the cat would probably a small cat he’d name Milk (it probably would be a black cat too but he does not care).

— Probably tried baby formula because he heard it was a substitute for breast milk. No further comments on this.

— I feel like he doesn’t listen to music, but if he had to choose something he’d pick instrumental music - not orchestral music or anything like that - but more of a chill, no deep meaning just guitar and piano track. I could see him listening to Shego Sekito or Joe Hisashi on occasion, he might even listen to some 2000’s pop if he wants something to pump him up during training (he works out to Brittney Spears’ “Womanizer”).

— A cuddle-bug when he’s sleepy, he’ll throw himself across his S/O and not move at all, he just wants to stay there and not move ever again (or at least until he’s not feeling like passing out). He’ll like to wrap himself around them and cuddle their neck, he’ll attach himself to their arm like it’s a lifeline.

— In other words, Kageyama Tobio… b-boyfriend material.

#—🎀 haikyuu!#kageyama tobio #kageyama x reader #kageyama tobio x reader #haikyuu x reader #tobio x reader #hq #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu hc #hq fluff #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu fanfiction #kageyama headcanons #hq x reader #haikyuu x you #hq x you #—✒️ sora’s scripts

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jamespotterthefirst · 4 years

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Fake Wife (Ethan x MC)

AKA: Fake Husband III

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2.7K Warning: Language Summary: A certain young doctor comes to his rescue when Ethan runs into an old flame. Part 3 of Fake Husband and Fake Husband, Part 2.

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The crowded banquet hall buzzed with laughter and conversation, the sound alone unnerving enough for Ethan. Add to that the countless doctors who vied for his attention and Ethan felt the need to escape at once.

In fact, he was desperate enough to do the unthinkable.

With the conviction of a suffocating man, he pulled out his phone and started to text.

Are you coming, Rookie?

It took him less than a second to realize the double entendre and to picture the tantalizing reply she would undoubtedly send. In a rush, he tried to send a second text to clarify. He was, of course, too late because a blip announced her reply.

I love it when you talk dirty to me, Dr. Ramsey.

She attached an emoji, as was customary, one that looked as though it was smirking in the same way she would have done if she was standing before him. Regardless, his throat went dry at the implication.

This is why I don't text, he returned, hoping to sound unaffected. He knew better than to expect her to buy that.

“Dr. Ramsey!” An older doctor approached him. “Enjoying the conference?”

“God, no,” he replied truthfully, which only prompted a belly laugh from his companion.

“Ramsey, you haven't changed a bit! Don't think I didn't notice you haven't missed one since Miami,” he pointed out with amusement. “Surely, they can't be that awful.”

Ethan took a swig of his drink, dispassionately watching their surroundings. Every year, he found himself convinced to attend, for old times sake, as Lilac liked to tell him. Despite the indifferent and irritated front he put up, Ethan enjoyed them.

He enjoyed them with her.

Inevitably, his mind traveled to that legendary Miami conference and to his favorite memory of her. The reminder of her full lips, moving against his for the first time and coaxing a yearning he hadn't felt until that point, made him restless to have her at his side. Without much pretense, he excused himself from the presence of the jolly older doctor and found a semblance of peace by the dessert table. He glanced at his phone, where her reply awaited.

Liar. I bet you're smiling right now.

A broad grin spread across his face despite his best efforts.

Are you ready to join me? I can't stand another minute being alone with these vultures.

Ethan could picture her in the hotel room upstairs, rolling her eyes upon reading his dramatic reply.

Almost ready… You can't rush art.

It was Ethan's turn to roll his eyes at that, though not without a smile. His poor, unprepared brain had only just begun to picture how tantalizing stunning she would look, when his phone pinged with an incoming photo from her.

It took everything in him not to choke on his drink. Hell, it took an insurmountable amount of sheer will power to remain where he was, instead of dashing upstairs to pin her to the wall.

Are you okay over there?, she replied.

There was no time to lie in his reply because a bout of loud laughter erupted from a group nearby. Ethan briefly glanced on instinct, ready to dismiss the interruption with a small huff and return to the tempting picture on his screen. His attention, however, snagged on the person at the center of the small crowd, the one who spoke with a lively cadence and who no doubt had been the one to make everyone laugh.

It had been over ten years since he had seen her last, and though she wore her blond hair much shorter, there was no mistaking those glacial silver eyes and the charming, effortless way she enraptured those around her. Statuesque and confident as ever, Dr. Fiona Bellington looked every bit like her former self, the girl both Ethan and Tobias had fallen desperately in love with.

His phone buzzed in his hand, bringing him back from over a decade ago in a rush. Ethan didn't read whatever it was Lilac had replied, instead, he quickly texted:

Never mind, don't bother to come down. I'm leaving.

Blood rushing loudly at his hot ears, Ethan hurried towards the door. The sight of Fiona set off a fight or flight response and Ethan gladly chose to flee, much too eager to avoid the specter of his past. He didn't make it far, however, before Fiona herself was standing right before him, impeding his path.

“Ethan?” she asked, though the recognition was evident in her heart-shaped face. “I thought that was you.”

Nothing in her perfect posture suggested she felt as uncomfortable as Ethan did. He, on the other hand, felt his face burn as he wished he could disappear into the tacky carpet of the banquet hall. Then again, that had always been their dynamic. Fiona, ever confident and graceful, and Ethan, quiet and awkward in her presence.

“Dr. Bellington,” he acknowledged at last.

Fiona laughed pleasantly at the formality of his greeting. “You know you can call me Fiona.”

Ethan didn't respond. His phone buzzed in his hand with Lilac's replies.

“How have you been?” She looked unfazed by his lack of response. Perhaps Ethan took a beat too long to reply, or Fiona was still in the habit of asking questions she did not care to hear the answer to because she added, “It's funny I ran into you. I just read your case study on Primary Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis in the NEJM.”

“Oh?”

What else could he say? In his hand, the buzzing became more frantic to match the content of Lilac's responses, no doubt.

“Very impressive, as always,” Fiona went on, undeterred.

They spent the next few minutes catching up, even if Ethan's side of the conversation was brief and detached.

“What a career you've had these past ten years.” Her silver eyes sparkled, making her look almost ten years younger. She fixed them on Ethan in a manner that was too calculated to be casual.

“All a result of hard work and dedication,” he deflected. His eyes abandoned the silvery spectacle before him—from Fiona's white blonde hair, to her eyes and dress—to instead find an escape route. Ethan had no moral qualms about being rude, but even he couldn't just leave mid-conversation. Then again, could it be called a conversation when his responses were short and noncommittal?

Fiona, seemingly oblivious about his escape plans, smirked and continued, “And an unmatched genius, Ethan. There is no need to be humble with me.”

Fiona moved closer to him, almost imperceptibly. His instinct was to step back, but the dessert table behind him prevented him from doing so.

Her sharp face lit up with determination and a hint of playfulness. “It's no surprise. You were always so…” Fiona allowed her gaze to fall to his chest, before slowly dragging it up to meet his eyes. “Driven.”

Completely unaffected, Ethan said nothing. The only source of discomfort stemmed from feeling trapped between the pastry-laden table and a woman whom he hadn't thought about in a decade. A woman who was determined to lay it on real thick with a charm that might have worked on him in another life.

Fiona, clever as ever, must have realized the lack of effect on her audience because she tried for a new approach. “I've thought a lot about you these past few years,” she confessed in a soft whisper. “I've always wondered if that mess with Tobias hadn't happened, if we could have…”

His jaw clenched reflexively.

“There's nothing more detrimental to progress than foolishly dwelling in the past,” he replied, face taught with tension, fist clasping his drink with formidable force. The words were the gentlemanly alternative to what Ethan really wanted to say, something along the lines of, “You fucked up, Fiona. And now Tobias, proving to be smarter than he looks, doesn't give you the time of day after he got bored. So now you're back, with your tail between your legs to chase after the now-famous alternative.”

As it turned out, his words were perhaps too gentle because Fiona considered them thoughtfully. Something akin to hope bloomed in her face, much to his dismay. “I absolutely agree,” she said. “Perhaps the best way forward is to break through any walls.”

At least she had the decency to look almost bashful, if a bit hopeful. Though utterly incredulous, Ethan scrutinized the woman he once fancied himself in love with. Had it really been love? It would be a disservice to his younger self to write it off as anything else. Fiona was intelligent and fiercely ambitious, not to mention charming and exceedingly beautiful. Anyone who knew her then would inevitably fall in love with her. But, as Ethan moved on and mended the fragments of a broken heart, he understood the ambition that drove her had always paired with a cruelty that tore down everyone in her path. He understood now that the love he had felt for her then was a tumultuous torrent, untamed and almost destructive but gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Misinterpreting his silence, she said, “Maybe we can get out of here and—”

Fiona did not finish that sentence because her icy grey eyes swiveled to something over Ethan's shoulder. Before Ethan could turn to look too, a pair of warm, familiar hands appeared from under his arms, sliding up his chest in a lazy line. Soon after, the lovely face of Lilac Allende appeared from over his shoulder.

The way she looked up at him was so adoring that something tugged at his chest.

“There you are, babe,” she murmured, her voice unfairly sultry, as if his heartbeat hadn't already spiked to astronomical levels at the way her hands touched him. “I've been looking all over for you.”

Ethan said nothing, unable to speak through the haze she effortlessly cast over him. How was she always so good at that? His eyes fell on the emerald green dress that hugged her pristine body. Ethan repressed a groan as he took in the revealing neckline and equally ensnaring leg slit. It was the very same dress that tormented him all the time ago through a social media post.

At the extended silence, Lilac's eyes widened slightly, prompting him to say something. In the most discreet way, she gestured toward Fiona and it hit him.

They were doing this again.

Ages after their initial fib, there they stood, about to sell the lie again, their roles reversed.

Without wasting another minute, he snared his arms around Lilac’s waist and pulled her to him, as naturally as the rhythm of the ocean. Her high heels compensated for their height difference and as Ethan leaned down, their noses were mere inches apart. “I was only gone for twenty minutes,” he informed her, swaying them slightly as he held her. “It's nice to know I am so thoroughly missed when I leave.”

Lilac raised her brow imperceptibly at him, no doubt taking his words as a challenge. The most wicked smile pulled at her lips, made more dangerous still with the way her body pressed tightly against his. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Speaking of thorough, you promised we could leave to our room upstairs so we could—”

Lilac made a show of noticing Fiona for the first time. “Oh, hello.”

The blonde looked at them through thinly veiled shock and disappointment. They disentangled though Lilac remained at his side, hand casually resting at his chest. The tiny gesture made it entirely too difficult to concentrate.

“Lilac, this is Dr. Fiona Bellington,” Ethan said at last. Lilac was not acting when she tore her eyes from Fiona before quickly glancing at Ethan. “Dr. Bellington, this is Dr. Lilac Allende,” he paused to kiss the top of Lilac’s forehead. “My wife.”

Uttering the word, even if it was a lie, sent his pulse into chaos.

Lilac shifted slightly to extend her hand in greeting but all pleasantries were forgotten as Fiona gaped at them.

“Wife?” Fiona said to Ethan in apparent disbelief. “I thought you didn’t—” she stopped and cleared her throat, regaining some composure. “I never took you for the marrying type, Ethan.”

“He wasn’t the conference type and look at him now,” Lilac returned cheerfully.

Fiona blinked. She seemed to remember her manners only seconds later because she plastered on a pleasant enough smile and offered her hand to Lilac.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said as they shook hands. “Ethan and I are old friends. We were at Johns Hopkins together.”

He fought the urge to grimace. He would hardly call Fiona his friend.

“Yes, he mentioned that before,” Lilac returned just as politely.

There was a slight twitch in Fiona’s smile, sending it from passably agreeable to almost forced. “Forgive my initial shock,” she said. “I never knew Ethan to believe in marriage. What was it you said about it being a senseless institution?”

Ethan’s shoulders stiffened, entirely too annoyed by Fiona’s petty maneuvers. He opened his mouth to bluntly refute her, but Lilac laughed beside him. “The speech about there being no scientific basis for soulmates? You were already that cynical in med school, love?”

Inspired, Ethan smiled lovingly at her and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose.

“I hadn’t met you yet.”

Lilac froze at the words and he was delighted to see a blush tinge her face. Fiona, meanwhile, struggled to conceal her crestfallen expression, her smile appearing painful now.

“We should go if we want to make dinner,” Ethan said to Lilac, deciding that any minute they spent in the company of others instead of alone was a waste of time. “Dr. Bellington,” Ethan said with a nod as mode of farewell.

“It was good to meet you,” Lilac added before Ethan whisked her away, leaving a dejected Fiona behind. They were successful in concealing their amusement until they reached a deserted hall several doors away.

Lilac's fit of laughter was contagious and he joined her without reservations.

“We should go into acting in case this medicine thing doesn't work out,” he commented.

“You make it very easy to act.”

All traces of humor were gone from her face. Unable to fight back the pull any longer, he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her until their lips met. She responded at once, her body conforming to his as though it was designed to do so, a little moan escaping her when his tongue traced a trail along her lower lip. By the time they pulled apart, completely breathless, his tongue and lips stung pleasantly as a result of her ministrations.

“Are you okay?” she murmured, her arms still wrapped around his neck. Her fingers caressed the angles of his face and Ethan closed his eyes.

“I'm fine. How did you know I needed a save?”

“Your text,” she explained. “And the terrified look on your face when I found you talking to her.”

Ethan raised his brows to his hairline, waiting for more. Lilac rolled her eyes and relented. “And I also heard her trying to get you to leave with her.”

He chuckled. “You're cute when you're jealous.” Lilac opened her mouth, cheeks ablaze. “You've nothing to worry about, Rookie. I'm interested in one person and one person only.”

“Who? Your wife?”

“She's not my wife yet,” he replied with a grin, aware it probably made him look sheepish. He didn't care. “But I do like the sound of the word.”

“Good. Get used to it because it will be true in a few weeks.”

The thought alone exhilarated him. Very gently, he took her hand in his, bringing his lips to the engagement ring he had placed there a few weeks prior.

“I'm counting down the days.”

Their lips met again in another passionate kiss. Ethan's hands fell to the swell of her hips, his fingers quickly descending to the slit along her thigh.

“This dress,” he breathed when they pulled apart. His eyes took her in shamelessly, marveling at how a mere piece of fabric made her look entirely like a goddess. “Did you wear it for me?”

“Yes,” Lilac allowed with a wistful sigh. “I was hoping to finally get some use out of it.”

Ethan flashed his fiancée a devilish lopsided smile. “Night's not over yet,” he whispered, pressing a hot lip against her neck. “And besides, I think its true purpose is to be a heap in our bedroom floor.”

____________

Prompt: Thank you anon!

Also, thank you to the anon who wanted Jealous!MC (kinda)

____________

Author’s Note: Oh how the turn tables...

THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading this series. Let me say this is not the last time I will use the fake dating trope because I love it so much.

Apologies for that god awful summary!

Finally, I hope you don’t mind me adding extra scenes for the Miami kiss rewrite. May the writing gods be with me because I am so excited!

- Bree

____________

@dulceghernandez | @lion-ess24 | @emotionalswift2 | @the-soot-sprite |

#open heart #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #my writing #Playchoices

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cryinginthebackseat · 4 years

Text

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

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Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

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Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with.

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Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

#playchoices #open heart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x mc #open heart mc #oh mc #pixelberry #choices stories you play

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lovely-necromancy · 3 years

Text

A Cure for Insomnia CH.6

You wake up sometime around one. Not too late in the day given your morning. With a decent amount of sleep under your belt you roll over and start striping your bed of its sheets. Then you make your way across your room, picking up stray clothes as you go to your hamper and dump your collection of dirty linens and clothes into it. You carry the hamper to the bathroom where you load half into the washer. There's no real point in separating the clothes from colored items and pastels or whites. You're only twenty-four and don't have your life totally figured out yet. You can be a little lazy with laundry.

Once your first load of laundry is being washed you go to do your weekly tidy of your home. The one good thing that came from the paranoia of your car's break in was you rearranged all the furniture of the home, thus cleaning as you went. So that means it's more of a quick wipe down of counters and sweeping today. Maybe you'd organize your art supplies while doing your laundry. It's an activity that wouldn't distract you too much and make you forget you had laundry in the wash.

You finish washing the dishes from this morning you begin wiping the counters and tabletop when you notice your fidget cube is still on the table where Toby left it earlier.

'Don't want to lose this. Back to the bookshelf where you belong.' When you get to the living room's bookshelf you notice one of your book's is missing. Ironically it's The Book Thief.

'Tobias probably picked it up and put it down somewhere.' you'd keep your eyes peeled for the book while you cleaned.

After wiping down bookshelves, tables, counters, even the mantel over the fire place you still hadn't found your missing book. You probably picked it right up and placed it right back down without even realizing. You'll just keep an eye out until you find it. You don't even reread books, you really just kept a copy to lend out to people when they ask what your favorite books are. It isn't a real big deal if you can't find it, plus there's bound to be a copy floating somewhere in a thrift shop or yard sale.

The washer chimes right as you grab the broom to sweep. Pausing this task to go retrieve your laundry and do the rest. You empty the dirty clothes left in the basket onto the floor and place the clean wet ones inside the basket. After starting the final load you carry the basket out back. As nice as this home is its still small and doesn't have a dryer, which early summer is fine but come fall and winter might be more cumbersome. Seeing as you have to hang the laundry out to dry outside. Maybe when it gets cold you'll just do smaller loads and hang them up in the bathroom or over the fire place. But that's a thought for future you. Right now current you is struggling yet again to get a fitted sheet to sit on the line. Fitted sheets are probably Satan himself in disguise.

When you finish stringing all the laundry up you take a moment to just enjoy the quiet and the peace that comes with the outside. It's nice out here, maybe after you finish the last few chores today you can come out and just draw, it'd be a good way to also keep an eye on this weather in case it turns. While it hasn't happened yet you're very aware of the risks you take by ignoring the existence of meteorologists. And by that you mean just not bothering to look up the weather for the day.

Heading back inside you restart your task of sweeping. Like you thought you've finished before the washer has even completed it's first cycle. The house isn't too big so it's easy to clean it from top to bottom within a day normally, but today you had even less to do thanks to this week's rearranging. So you move on to organizing your art supplies and separating all materials by medium.

Of course arranging materials is never easy, after all you end up staring at all your horded empty sketch books and note how your thumbnail notebooks are just covered in doodles and random scribbles but no real art or ideas. Maybe it's time to start kicking yourself into gear. You ran into a major period of burnout before moving and now with this fresh start you might be able to focus on progressing with art, even if you don't pursue it as a career. You've always loved the ability to draw and create images that make others happy. But right in this moment you just want to make yourself happy. Maybe you could start small just a few still lifes and see how you feel after that.

Hearing the chime of the washer you hurry to finish putting away the supplies in their newly assigned places. Just as before you transfer the wet and clean clothes into the awaiting basket and take them out to be hung to dry. You don't have another fitted sheet this go round so it goes by much faster than it previously had. Now with all of your washing for today hung you head back inside to grab a fresh sketchbook.

Having never been one for scenery, more of a portrait artist, you start off with small things. A few stills of a flower under the window, the old tire swing on the tree, and even the blue jay that dove for dinner right in front of you. Of course all of these were warm ups done in a few minutes, though you really wish you had more time on the blue jay one. You really need practice with things that aren't people.

The warm ups of course don't look very good, but you can still see what you'd been going for. The hatching and smudging you'd done, to increase depth and give the quick drawing more life, did help a little but it was clear this was an area where you weren't skilled. But that didn't deter you, after all you needed more practice and wouldn't be getting better without it.

Deciding to draw the scene before you, a small open meadow surrounded by trees, in other words your backyard with your drying laundry. You start off slow and make sure to actually look and take in the yard in front of you, doing your best to not just make up the trees and their shapes as you go. Soon you are lost in the meditative muscle memory of drawing. The scratching of pencil scrapping across paper further lulling you into a trance like state as you etch out the scenery.

A harsh breeze blows through and the loud flapping of sheet hitting sheet knocks you loose from your trance. Checking to make sure none of your laundry was flying off, it hadn't the laundry was still secured to the line. Smiling you glance down to actually see what you've sketched out so far. It isn't too bad, though you aren't sure how long you've been working on it, the trees all have a distinct shape rather than your typical cartoon one size fits all attempts. Scanning the page your eyes catch onto something off, out in the tree line it looks like you'd drawn a figure hiding behind a tree.

Hearing the beating of your heart that's currently hammering against your chest you look around. Did your mind do that as a joke or had someone genuinely been watching you draw? Your mouth is dry as your eyes scan the tree line for any sign of what could've been mistaken for a person, but you saw nothing. No one was there. Had anyone ever really been there? Why would you draw that? Why wouldn't you remember doing it? You don't feel safe out here anymore. There are eyes watching you you can feel it. They may not physically be there but the phantom eyes that surround you and cause your skin to crawl make sure you know of their presence. You take that as a sign to head inside for the evening, one that doesn't need to be repeated.

You lock the door immediately behind you and check your phone. It's seven, and you have an email notification. Thanking whatever power for the distraction you slide down your back door and open the notification. It's from Hollis!

YN r u coming to SND? It's that teen beach zombie movie u love. Y;know the awful D list one Blk and wht with the 50yos playing teenagers

Lemme know I'll save your seat.

Sent 6:47 P.M.

They're so sweet to remember you loved this awful D list zombie movie. Horrible subplots and main plot and all. But you're a little spooked right now and watching even that joke of a horror movie is probably too much for you. You doubt you'd feel better by the time ten rolls around to watch it. Not to mention your battery's still drained from Toby this morning. And knowing for a fact you'd probably stay late to talk till morning with Hollis, Jake, and Kirby you decide it's best to skip this week. Just not having the energy to handle Saturday Night Dead.

Nah, sorry man. Battery's dead from being social earlier. Thanks tho, I do appreciate you! ….....,.... lemme know what next week's movie is!

Sent 7:10 P.M.

It'd probably be a good time to make something for dinner, there's a box of mac n cheese in the pantry. Simple but always beloved. As you wait for Hollis to respond you start on boiling water. But you didn't have to wait too long since they'd answered near instantly.

Chill, don worry we'll catch ya next week

…..oooop

ot not...Kirb's said it's the start of watching the entire warren file collection

starting from the beginning

...well the first movie released, Insidious. LOL we probs won't ever see you again.

Sent 7:12 P.M.

How dare Kirby betray you like this. First off those movies are awful, and like not cheesy awful just awful awful. Not to mention he knows how you feel about the Warrens and their cases. You have a power point presentation ready for that dick the next time you see him. ...well not literally but you'd make one to prove a point!

Where's Kirby now? I just wanna talk, I just wanna talk is all.

Sent 7:18 P.M.

Already ran off toy vermont probably

will we get blessed with a ted talk nxt week?

Sent 7:20 P.M.

I can't tell if you're joking or not. If you aren't then yea I can make a power point and we'll play that instead of the movies. Every week until this town understands the severity of this.

Sent 7:21 P.M.

Ya just jkin.

Your passionate hate is funny tho, so could be good to do something mid warren marathon.

Sent 7:23 P.M.

Guess the dissertation on how horrendous the “exorcisms” were will have to wait. They'd just been joking. This is probably a good ending of the conversation anyway, it's hard to tell sometimes but you feel you'll just run in circles with the current topic or worse fall into a rant that they won't read all the way through because they'll have left with the rest of the stunt gang to get dinner before heading over to the Cryptonomica for Saturday Night Dead. Hollis is typically a real good sport about this kinda thing but you'd rather not bog down their night with your hate boner for the Warrens.

'I'll let them know later that I'll still come to Saturday Night Dead next week.' you think as you dump the pasta into the water that finally came to a boil. It's quiet as you cook your macaroni dinner. You'd normally not notice the lack of sound or life in your home before, but maybe having Connor and Toby over put things into perspective. Guests aren't really a thing you've ever had, you always feel rude if your social battery runs out before someone's stay is over. But maybe you're lonely, and it's put you on edge.

Though this week would've put anyone on edge, you have still been alone in this house for two months. That can't be healthy for your mental well being, humans are social creatures by nature after all. Maybe you could get a pet, something that'd make it's fair share of noise and give the home a bit more life than your normally hollow shell wondering the halls. Are you even sure you want a pet? Do you have time for one? You have the standard nine to five, but what about when you're off on a nightly trip because of your sleeplessness? What if you forgot about them? Hell your brain's been so foggy these last few months, it wouldn't be surprising.

Like a sign from the divine themselves, the pot of water boils over. Steam is rising as the sizzling is heard. Your head snaps twice to the right as you scramble to lower the heat and raise the pot off the eye. Putting it down on an unused eye you give it a quick stir and thankfully no pasta got burned to the bottom of the pan....this time. The pasta seems a little crunchy but a texture you'll eat so you kill the hot eye and start on the cheese portion of your mac n cheese.

As you eat you continue your original debate about getting a pet. Ultimately deciding that you just aren't ready for that kind of responsibility right now. Sure you'd had tons of pets in your parents' home but that was with a financial safety net and back when your mental health wasn't all over the place. Not to mention the pets were family pets and responsibility was split three ways.

There isn't much room in your home for you to have a roommate, and that presents a whole nother set of challenges. You could try to make friends through online forums again! It's hard to talk to people in general but you always get scared off before replying to a comment or post. Or overshare to the point people infantize you. Even better trying therapy out could help with your loneliness. Hah ok good one, even if you had money for it consistently you don't think you could trust someone knowing all your secrets but not knowing any of theirs. And while that in and of it self is an example of why you need it, you're rational enough to realize you aren't ready for that either.

After finishing your meal you put away the left overs and clean the dishes. You'll be happier tomorrow knowing they aren't your problem to deal with. You start to make your way to your bedroom but freeze just before the hall.

'You shouldn't stay here...you need to leave.'

A glance at the time tells you it's eight thirty-nine, if you left right now you could make it to Saturday Night Dead with time to spare. You don't need to fill the loneliness with new friends, just spend time with the ones you already have. Duh. Turning you grab your keys off the bookshelf and take one of the masks hanging from a hook by the door.

Checking your door was locked and locking your car once you were in, you're ready to drive. Knowing you're still overstimulated you forgo the music on this drive, hoping it will calm you down enough to enjoy the movie and some down time with friends. And that would help put a pin in your self isolating habits. It'd really be nice if you brought movie snacks over to surprise the gang. You're pretty sure the mini mart carries everything you need. Jake likes swedish fish, Hollis is addicted to those extreme sour airhead ropes, and Kirby's a weirdo with his love of red vines and surge. Hahaha that man will die before he's thirty-eight.

Still having the extra time you deiced to stop by the mini mart and grab the candy. What's the worse that can happen you have another panic attack in front of strangers. Plus you hadn't seen Magnolia the last few times and you'd hate for her to think you'd been ignoring her. Pulling into the empty mini mart parking lot you take a breath to steel your resolve before leaving your car.

Tim looks at the door when he hears the chime and stiffens when he sees you. Fuck you did have a panic attack in front of this guy last night, plus you really haven't formally met. But didn't Toby say his roommate was named Tim? And he and Brian were both here talking with Tim last night before you came in. That can't be coincidence.

“uh...hi?” you say awkwardly standing in the doorway, door closed behind you.

“um, hi?” perfect he's just as awkward in this situation as you are. You can work with this.

Moving through the first two isles you keep your eyes peeled for Magnolia, even though you can make this an in and out trip for candy, you do miss the little bodega cat.

“Wh- hey are you, are you even ok to be here?” Tim calls as he rounds the counter and makes his way to you.

“Huh? Oh...oh yea. I'm chill now.” you hear the bell before you see her. The little ting tin ting of her bell that comes with the grace only fluffy cats have.

“You literally collapsed on the floor last night after blacking out while driving.” his tone is very stern. He and Nate would probably get on like a house on fire. The grumpy old men who secretly care a lot duo.

“I don't remember collapsing...but I know I didn't drive.” well you don't know that but you do firmly believe that.

The man is just turning into the isle when you spot the floof sauntering just behind him. Magnolia didn't spare either of you a glance as she made her way to the counter. Probably going to her bed, an old shipping box for apples, you'd just meet her over there then. With no warning to the man you squeeze past him and and follow the cat. Agitated footsteps following after you in your quest to pet the cat.

Magnolia perks up upon seeing you, the flicking of her tail letting you know she's anticipating her pets. The huffing Tim hovering behind you isn't as pleased with your actions as the cat is. The man is radiating negativity, annoyance maybe or is it concern that breeds frustrated anger? The second he starts to clear his throat, as if to remind you of his hovering, you roll your eyes.

Looking back at him over your shoulder you see him in all his grumpy man glory. His brow was furrowed so hard his thick eyebrows nearly covered his eyes. But with the way his lips emoted the man before you looked more like a pouting muppet. It would be funny if it weren't for the foreboding feeling of the moments before being reprimanded by a teacher.

When you straighten up you take note that your eyes meet perfectly. He's the same height as you that's surprising, you thought he'd be taller than 5'7. His eyes widen slightly at seeing your full height, it must've thrown him off since the first time he saw you, you'd actively been trying, and had succeeded at looking smaller.

“What are you doing here?” well he doesn't get thrown off for long.

Running a hand through Magnolia's fur a few more times as you respond, “Petting Magnolia.” you really are a little shit sometimes.

“No...no, why are you out? Toby had to take you home last night, you shouldn't just be waltzing around town after that.” maybe it was frustrated concern.

“Oh I'm fine now.”

Magnolia at this point has jumped up on the counter and is headbutting you for more attention. Chuckling you turn your attention back to her. Meanwhile Tim behind you is at a loss for words.

“Fine?? You don't just...bounce back from a panic attack.”there's personal experience behind those words.

“I just rationalize things fast.” Hearing the trill of the clock on the wall reminds you that you need to grab those snacks and head over to the Cryptonomica for movie night.

Going to the candy isle you grab one of each of the gang's favorites, you snag a bag of white cheddar popcorn on the way to the counter and place your items there. Tim doesn't get a word out before you rush off to the cooler near the back that is in all honesty pretty sketch. Like who even makes Fruitopia anymore? That stuff got discontinued in the early 2000s. The cooler even has Hi-C Ecto Coolers...you might actually check if they're in date and grab a few.

Rummaging around the cooler you finally spot the weird tech green and black splattered can proudly stating SURGE. It has no date...questionable at best. But hey it's only Kirby drinking it, and it's been well established that man will die well before middle age. Grabbing a can to check the Ecto Coolers, luck is on your side! These cans are from the re-release that happened as a promotion for the Ghostbusters revival a few years back, they'll be good for another two years! For now you'll just take one so you won't have to worry about lugging cans around for the movie.

Once your new items are placed on the counter the expression on Tim's face cannot even be described. The questions of the surge are probably the ones easiest to read...or they're just the most predictable.

“Kirby likes red vines and surge, sickening right?” Maybe a little joke will break the ice.

“...Like that little round pink...thing?” What?

The laughter is coming out before you can stop it, the image of said pink Kirby consuming red vines and surge only to accessorize as your friend comes to mind. It's adorable and cursed at the same time. Adorably cursed. You'll have to draw that and print a few copies to hang around the Cryptonomica.

“No,” you're choking on giggles at this point, “Kirby, the owner of the Cryptonomica.” catching your breath and regaining your composure, “It's that tourist trap just across from the RV park.”

“Oh.” normally such a short cold reply would make you shut down the conversation. But This is Toby's roommate, and if you want to be friends with Toby, you'll probably run into him a lot more. Plus if he's a new night shift cashier it wouldn't hurt to be on good terms with him for when you're out on adventures.

“Yea, hey Toby mentioned you three just came to town, so you might not have known but the Cryptonomica does a weekly movie night on Saturdays. Saturday Night Dead. Normally it's awful old horror movies but next week they're starting a Warren Case files “arch”.” Tim doesn't take the conversation bait at the pause.

“It's a great way to meet other locals, you guys should check it out if you get the chance. It starts at ten and runs till one or so on most weeks.” Olive branch has been extended.

Tim relaxes for the first time since you got here tonight. The sheepish look on his face and twitchy pupils give the impression he's thinking it over. He sighs and nods before saying, “Yea, that sounds...nice.”

Olive branch skeptically taken! You'll count this one as a win in your book. With the mood lightened Tim breaks the ice a bit further.

“Surge and red vines can not be good for you.”

“Right! If living off mountain dew and pizza rolls doesn't kill him, this for sure will.” you both have a small laugh at that. It's nice to finally have cleared up the mix up from the beginning of the week. Which reminds you.

“Oh...um...I'm YN by the way. It's nice to meet you...sorry for the two,” your neck tics to the side, “previous nights.” you finish.

“Tim...and it,uh happens sometimes...'s fine.” Score awkward acknowledgment of previous meetings and you can now erase those from your nightly anxieties.

Tim finishes ringing and bagging your items and you pay. Giving another pet to the curled up kitty on the counter you nod farewell to Tim.

A trill rings out from the clock on the wall. It's ten.

Two heads snap to look at the wall. You take a second glance at your phone while Tim checks his watch. Both say the clock on the wall is correct. But it just turned nine not even ten minutes ago. Right? You can brush off yourself loosing track of time but when you involve another person that just doesn't make sense. Tim looks just as concerned as you. Only Magnolia lays unaffected by the lost fifty minutes.

“I should go.” Tim nods numbly to you as you exit the store.

You won't be able to make it to the movie, well you could but you'd disturb someone if you walked in mid movie. Choosing to go home instead you drive, once again without music. Entering your home you hang your mask back on the hook. Putting away the drinks and snacks for next weekend, you make your way to your bedroom. Once again freezing just before the hallway. Turning to your living room you can see a book in the middle of your coffee table. You definitely don't remember the book being there, and doubt you'd miss it out in the open. But as you got closer you could confirm, even in the dark, that it was The Book Thief.

#ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby #ticcitoby #reader insert #timothy wright x reader #timothy wright #timothy wright x brian thomas #brian thomas x reader #brian thomas #masky x reader #masky x hoodie #creepypasta fanfic #A cure for insomnia

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magic-and-moonlit-wings · 4 years

Text

Chapter 50: Insecurity Abounds

Becoming The Mask

Why wasn't it working?!

Jim ducked the fire jets and somersaulted out of their path.

The Forge floor tilted, sending him sliding back to where he’d started from. He braced his feet against the pop-up turret that spewed fire and launched himself up to grab the next turret, the one that shot darts. He used the higher turret to swing himself back to level ground. Jim blocked the darts that followed him with his sword.

Gunmar’s Eye hadn’t had any noticeable effect on the Amulet yet.

Jim wove through and around the pendulum axes.

When he’d put the Heartstone chip in the Amulet, he’d been able to summon a knife in minutes.

He threw several knives at a target and used his sword to cut another in half.

Of course, he’d been actively hoping for a knife when he’d cleaved that stone, and he didn’t have any solid idea what this new one was supposed to do.

Jim made it to the Soothscryer and inserted his hand.

The Forge’s mechanisms shut down. The past Trollhunters did not draw him into the Void to advise him on how to find out the properties of a newly cleaved stone.

“Okay, let’s break down the possibilities,” Jim said out loud, in case the Ghost Council decided to chime in after all. He paced around the Soothscryer. “It’s supposed to help defeat Gunmar. It’s an eye, so … insight to his strategies? Can I spy on him through it somehow?”

Except, hadn’t Vendel said there was a stone for that already? A glimpse into your enemy’s mind …

Well, a backup would be helpful to have if it turned out they did the same thing.

“Or is it like those old superstitions where you can use a piece of somebody to harm them remotely?”

Some human cultures advised caution in disposing of one’s shed hair and nail clippings for that reason. Jim didn’t know if any other trolls had analogous beliefs, but since stone flesh was literally magical it did come up among Changelings sometimes.

“Or like magnets. Can he not touch me if I armour up with the Eye in the Amulet? Not like I can test that, or like it’ll be any use in letting me kill him.” And the Triumbric Stones were supposed to be key to defeating Gunmar, not having a stalemate with Gunmar.

“Or is the legend just inaccurate?”

Not the most appealing thought, but now that it had occurred to him it would be stressing Jim out. What if they put all that time and energy into tracking down and cleaving the Triumbric Stones and they didn’t even turn out to do anything?

“Any time you guys wanna weigh in on this,” he hinted at the previous Trollhunters.

Jim sat on the Forge floor, leaned back against the Soothscryer, and closed his eyes. The Soothscryer dropped into the floor, sending Jim sprawling back with a yelp.

“… Very funny.”

“Jim?” AAARRRGGHH entered the Forge. His steps were slow at first, and then Jim heard him hurrying across the bridge. “Jim okay?”

“Yeah, just, aggravated.” He knocked on his breastplate beside the Amulet. “Stricklander got Gunmar’s Eye for me, and Vendel taught me how to cleave it, but I – I can’t figure out what it does. I thought it would – would make me stronger, or tougher, or give me a new weapon, but – nothing! I’ve been training for hours and, and I haven’t been able to do anything I couldn’t before, and apparently the Ghost Council wants me to figure this out on my own, so they’re no help.”

“AAARRRGGHH help,” said the bigger troll decisively. He picked up the human-shaped Changeling and plopped him on his shoulders. “Jim tired. Sore. Anger-vated. Hard to think. Need rest.”

And he started carrying Jim out of the Forge.

“… Where are we going?”

“Library. Quiet there.”

AAARRRGGHH was tall, and his fur was thick. Jim was mostly hidden by it. He wasn’t sure anyone noticed him as AAARRRGGHH walked through Trollmarket.

Why was AAARRRGGHH carrying him? Jim had been sure AAARRRGGHH no longer trusted him that much, but here he was, giving Jim easy access to his scruff, his neck, all the vulnerable spots on his back …

Inside the library, AAARRRGGHH did not shrug Jim off. He simply settled into his usual corner – a space relatively clear of shelves, so AAARRRGGHH wouldn’t block access to anything important if he dozed off – and opened one of the larger, less delicate books to where it was bookmarked.

“Rest,” he said. “Talk when ready.”

It was always sort of comical to see AAARRRGGHH reading. Even the tallest and widest volumes, books that the humans had to leave on tables and turn pages of both-handed, looked small in his hands.

Jim climbed further up AAARRRGGHH’s back to read over his shoulder. AAARRRGGHH noticed, and repositioned the book so they could both see it better.

It was one that Blinky had written. Possibly one he’d written for AAARRRGGHH, considering the dimensions. It was about Blinky’s observations of human culture. The current chapter was about different gardens Blinky had seen around human homes, identifying some plants that were beneficial or harmful to trolls, and speculating on the purpose of the others.

They read in silence for a while.

“It’s just,” said Jim, when they reached the end of the chapter, “I can’t afford to mess this up.”

AAARRRGGHH moved the flattened strip of braided leather to its new place and closed the book.

“I can’t take Gunmar in a straight fight, which leaves assassination. So if there’s a specific weapon I need to kill him for real, and nothing else is gonna work, then I have to know how to use it. And I have to get it right the first time, because I probably won’t get a second shot.”

And because, if Jim failed and Gunmar realized a Changeling was behind the assassination attempt, then all the other Changelings still trapped in the Darklands were as good as dead.

“And … and if I can’t unlock the first Triumbric Stone, what does that say about my chances with the other two? And what if I messed up cleaving the Eye, so now I can’t unlock that stone, and Gunmar’s gonna live forever and it’s my fault?”

“He won’t,” said AAARRRGGHH. “Wizards live long, age slow, but can die.”

“… I don’t suppose you know any weaknesses of his?”

“Hm … Not good at trusting, so won’t have guards to sleep.”

“Huh. You know, I honestly never realized he slept? Like, logically he has to, but I’d never thought about it. I’ve only ever seen him on his throne or leading hunting parties. If the stones really do give me a new weapon, that would probably be my best shot at him.” Jim sighed and sagged. “If.”

“Maybe stones only work with all three,” AAARRRGGHH suggested.

“That could be it. I hope so.” Jim drummed his fingers against the Amulet. “I’m going to take the Eye out and train some more without it. Just in case it’s messing with my head. Would you hold onto it for me?”

“I help.” AAARRRGGHH shrugged. Jim nearly fell off his shoulder. “But Eye very small. Might leave with Blinky instead.”

“Where is Blinky, anyway?”

“Doing errands,” said AAARRRGGHH in trollish. “Haggling takes time.”

+=+

Tobias Domzalski, ‘Toby’, age 16, sophomore student at Arcadia Oaks Public High School. Orphaned age two, raised by paternal grandmother Nancy.

Closest friend, boy from across the street, Jim Lake; no close friends besides that, though occasional mentions of friendly acquaintanceship with classmate Eli Pepperjack.

Fond of geology, video games, stage magic. Natural predisposition to showmanship.

Family history of clinical depression. Personal history of emotional eating, being mocked by peers for braces and weight. Probable fear of rejection/abandonment.

Next appointment rescheduled to earlier date for unclarified reasons, severe enough for guardian to call in at 5:30 in the morning but not severe enough for guardian to feel immediate emergency response was needed.

“Good afternoon, Toby. Come on in.”

“Hi, Doctor A.”

He wandered over to the window first. There was a tree between the building and the parking lot. She wasn’t sure which, if either, he looked at. He sat in the squashy armchair.

Dr Tiffany Archenn had three chairs in her office besides her desk chair, with various degrees of softness. There was a well-stuffed armchair that the sitter noticeably sank into, a stiffer but still upholstered one, and a sturdy wooden armchair that patients with joint problems invariably chose because it was the easiest to get up from.

“Anything in particular you’d like to start with today?” she asked, in her cultivated gentle tone.

“Well, I’ve made some new friends.” He smiled, showing a glint of metal. “Some girls from school decided to start hanging out with me and Jimbo. One of them, Claire, had a crush on him at first, but they kept having lunch with us after he turned her down. They’re a lot of fun.”

Tiffany nodded. After centuries of practice, writing notes was like knitting for her; she no longer needed to look at what she was doing, though sometimes she did anyway if a patient was bothered by prolonged eye contact.

“What sorts of things have you been doing together?”

“Well, lunch, like I said, and Darci and I have been playing Mobile Go-Go Sushi. Sometimes we all go out and explore – uh, the trails around town, or the museum, or, like, little stores we’ve never been in before. And we’ve been … LARPing. That’s ‘live-action role play’.”

She knew that already, but she just nodded.

“It’s a fantasy game. Jim’s the most into it. He was actually doing it solo for a while before we found out, but now we’re all involved.”

‘Before we found out’. Not ‘before he told us’ or ‘invited us’. Now that was interesting.

How was Toby handling his closest friend having done something alone instead of sharing it with him, until Toby and the new additions to their social circle became involved all at once? How was he handling suddenly having to share his friend?

“Are you enjoying this game?” she asked leadingly.

“… Mostly. It can get pretty intense sometimes.”

“How do you mean?”

Toby twisted his hands in his lap. There were some fidgets on the windowsill and the side of the desk her patients sat on, but he didn’t use them often anymore.

“A couple weeks ago, we had a school play,” he said. “Claire and Mary were in it. Claire’s character died. Seeing that was like – like the stakes of, of the game, just got real. I had a nightmare that she died for real. It shook me up a lot. That’s when Nana called you.”

“I can see why that would be distressing.”

Emotional conflation was different from delusion, so this was probably not a sign that Toby was beginning to struggle with telling fiction from reality. Fearing for a friend’s wellbeing in a play or game and having that spill over into genuine concern for that friend’s safety was more likely related to Toby’s fear of abandonment.

She was surprised the fear was centred around one of the new friends rather than around his friend of longest standing, but it sounded like the death scene in the play had been the tipping point.

“Has this changed how you’ve been acting in your game?” Dr Archenn asked. “Or how you’ve interacted with your friends in general?”

“I’ve been more careful. Taken my training more seriously. I switched weapons – picked one I could actually use now instead of just the one I thought was coolest.”

“Has that helped?”

“A little.”

“Would you prefer a different game?”

“I couldn’t!” He shook his head. “Jimbo’s gonna do this with or without us – I can’t just leave him.”

Okay, now Tiffany was wondering if ‘LARPing’ was really a cover for some illegal activity these kids had stumbled into. Stupid Walter, leaving town right before she needed intel on some of his students.

“You don’t feel able to change overall aspects of this … game, only how you play?”

“… Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

“And you’re confident that your friends wouldn’t” – or can’t – “drop it to play something else?”

“Jim’s committed.” Tobias’ eyes widened at his own words. “I mean, he’s like, really emotionally invested in this fantasy world, you know? He’d feel really bad about giving it up. I can’t ask him to do that.”

Okay, so clearly Tobias’ friend Jim was the key to all of this. Considering the boys had been each other’s only friend for ten years, it was unlikely Tobias would be easily convinced to let go to save himself. He’d said twice in five minutes that he could not abandon Jim to whatever they were really doing, nor extract Jim from it.

She might be reading too much into this, Tiffany reminded herself. Toby might be being entirely literal, especially since he’d already volunteered so much information with so little prompting.

“Tell me some more about this game you’ve been playing.”

“Uh … well … it kind of started as Jim trying to write a fantasy novel, I think. He’s, like, this destined hero, a magical knight chosen to defeat an evil troll king. The rest of us are, um, fellow questers who’ve joined up with him. He wants to protect us by fighting alone, but …” he trailed off.

But you don’t want to be left behind by being cut out of something your friend is investing time in? Tiffany did not suggest. It would distort the accuracy of her analysis if she put words in her patient’s mouth.

“But none of us want to give it up,” Toby settled on.

He didn’t say more. Maybe the tension between Jim and Toby was because Jim had wanted to write this story alone and resented his friends inserting themselves into the narrative? Tiffany set out another prompt.

“You mentioned you chose a new weapon recently. Do you all have weapons?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a warhammer. I had one to start with, I just, switched to a lighter one. Because, um, my character stats meant I couldn’t lift the first one yet. Jim and Mary both have swords, Claire’s got a spear, Darci has a crossbow.”

“No spellcasters in your party?”

Toby laughed nervously. “Sometimes there’s magic artifacts, but, no, no spellcasters.”

+=+

Claire got her bleach and developer out of the cupboard, adding them to the rest of her materials.

“Whatcha doin’?” Not Enrique asked her.

“Seriously? Do you have no concept of privacy? I’m in the bathroom right now!”

“You didn’t shut the door.” He tapped the join between the hardwood floor he was standing on and the bathroom tiles.

Okay, fair point, not that she’d being saying so to him.

“I’m touching up my roots.”

“I got no idea what that means.” He stood up on his back legs (or just ‘legs’? He went on all fours most of the time, like AAARRRGGHH, but most trolls Claire had seen were bipeds) and squinted past her. “You got a plant in there?”

“No, I mean my hair.” She crouched on the floor and tugged her blue streak. “It’s growing out, so I have to dye the parts that don’t have colour yet.”

Not Enrique just blinked at her. “You … kill your hair to change its colour? But, Ma and Pa take me with ’em to the hairdressers sometimes, and none of the stuff on the floor turns different colours.”

Claire grit her teeth at hearing him refer to her and Enrique’s parents like they were his too.

“It’s not that kind of dye. Dee-why-ee, not dee-eye-ee. It’s like a paint.” She sighed. “Look, I’ll show you.”

She pulled on her rubber gloves and separated her dyed streak from the rest of her hair with foil.

“I’m just bleaching it today. I have to do that a couple of days in a row, because it takes a while to get it light enough for the colour to show up.”

She mixed the bleach with the developer, which helped bleach to penetrate hair, and some red-gold corrector, which made it more effective on dark hair. Claire carefully painted the goop into her hair.

“In about half an hour, I’ll wash this off, and the hair it was in will be lighter brown instead of black.”

“Wild.”

“So, what, did you think some of my hair was just naturally blue?”

“Yeah? I’ve seen lots of humans around with more than one hair colour.”

“… Fair point,” she admitted. Between the people with hair streaks like her, and anyone starting to go grey, and people with fully-dyed hair whose roots were showing, not to mention how technicolour troll hair could be, he’d have no reason to suspect some human hair colours or patterns were unnatural.

Claire folded the foil around her hair and carefully clipped it so it wouldn’t slip off. She wiped out the bowl she’d mixed the bleach in using paper towels and wrapped them in a bag to throw in the trash, rather than dumping bleach down the drain. It wasn’t good for the local water table. Claire took off her gloves and tidied everything else away. She set her phone timer so she wouldn’t damage her hair by leaving the bleach in for too long.

“What was that you were saying earlier?” asked Not Enrique. “Bout the different kinds of die. Dee-why-dee-eye?”

“They’re spelled differently,” said Claire. “So if you see it written down, you can tell which kind somebody means. It’s called a homophone when a word’s like that,” she remembered from an elementary school grammar class on the different kinds of words.

Claire left the bathroom. “Come on.” She went to their – her – mother’s home office, and took a sheet of paper and a pen. She wrote ‘die’ and ‘dye’ on the paper and handed it to Not Enrique, who held the page upside down. “Other way up. See the difference?”

He flipped the page. “Which one’s for hair and which is for killing?”

“D-Y-E is for recolouring stuff. It’s not just hair, you can do with cloth too.”

He pointed at the correct word. “That one’s the Y? Like in the alphabet videos.”

“Yeah. You know what?” Claire decided. “I’m gonna teach you to read. I know, I know, you’re picking it up,” seeing his insulted look, “but you’ll learn faster with a teacher.”

“You just wanna use me to spell-check the trollish homework Blinkous gives you.”

“Like you’d be useful for that when I’m the one teaching you.”

+=+

Previous Chapter (Jim gets and cleaves the Eye of Gunmar)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Visiting the Quagawumps to ask for the Killstone)

I learned how to dye hair streaks for this chapter! I’ve been thinking about doing them in my hair for a long time but never bothered because my hair’s really dark brown and all the bleaching sounded like a nuisance. Now that I’ve looked into how it’s done, it still sounds like a nuisance, but I might try it.

Dr Archenn does not suspect Toby knows about real trolls yet, because ‘fighting an evil troll’ is pretty standard fantasy fodder. Even if he’d mentioned Jim being ‘the Trollhunter’, that sounds like a generic term, so she wouldn’t get truly suspicious without further evidence. If he’d mentioned Gunmar by name, on the other hand, that would have been enough for her to call in some favours and put this kid under surveillance.

So, how about Wizards, huh? Deya’s portrayal gave me a bunch of ideas for her portrayal in this fic! Since I am not going with the idea of her being the first Trollhunter, I’ve also developed a whole bunch of backstory that will be revealed later about the Trollhunter job’s origins in this timeline. I’ll be sticking with some plans I already had as to the timing and motives of Morgana inventing Changelings.

#Trollhunters #Tales of Arcadia #Becoming The Mask chapters #Changeling Jim #Amulet of Daylight #AAARRRGGHH #rocks minerals crystals and gemstones #Tobias Domzalski #Changelings #original character #role-playing game #lies #Claire Nuñez #Not Enrique #Hair #colours #My Fanfiction #Monday is fanfic day!

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vaguely-concerned · 4 years

Text

Some T.F./Graves thoughts from their bios

I realize what a dumb move it is to base uuuuh basically anything on lol bios, since riot apparently change those like other people do underwear, but if I’m not here to build my castles on sand what am I here for honestly

- I LOVE the description of their first meeting, it’s such a meet cute lol... these two assholes really did just take one look at each other and mutually went ‘so is anyone gonna enter into a life-defining homoerotic partnership with this lying cheating bastard??’ and then neither of them waited for an answer

- Though at times Twisted Fate would blow all their shares and leave them with nothing to show for it, Graves knew that the thrill of some new escapade was always just around the corner…

I am genuinely a little emotional about how obvious it is that at the end of the day the money really is secondary to him - what really drives him is how much FUN they have together. (he seems in general quite driven by that sense of Adventure; if it were just about the cash he had steady work in bilgewater before he took the trip over to the mainland as a kid) it’s like the part of ‘the road to el dorado’ in the boat except more sincere... ‘you made my life an adventure bro’ :’)

(also very funny that graves’ bio is where you learn that t.f. doesn’t always win or get away with his shit hahaha, in his own bio it’s played like ‘oh gotta let people win once in a while to throw off suspicion’ flasdhfjsad. it’s mentioned he gets caught a lot more without graves watching his back too, which also gets me in my feelings a bit)

- one thing I find interesting is that t.f.’s parents aren’t referenced directly at any point (the only family members mentioned specifically are his aunt and grandfather, I’m pretty sure). I’m wondering if they were already out of the picture somehow and that’s part of the reason no one spoke up for him? I mean it’s fucked up either way, I don’t know what’s worse; that his people found it so easy to exile him because he didn’t have anyone to protect him, or that his parents were alive and JUST LEFT HIM THERE. like what the fuck. from how it’s written it’s pretty clear he was still considered a child at the time too, so, y’know. (Graves is described as ‘little more than a youth’ when he headed for the mainland while T.F. seems to have been a kid when he started being on his own, so I’ve headcanoned something like 16-17 and 13-14 for their respective ages of leaving home, with both of them around 19 when they met) I’m quite curious about what kind of internal family politics were at work for them to apparently all agree -- or perhaps be too intimidated to disagree -- to exile a child for life with no recourse and no resources. like yeah okay he messed up but that’s some next level assholery to pull on a kid honestly, no wonder he grows up to have a bunch of abandonment and emotional intimacy issues (and presumably some prime survivor’s guilt as well. oh buddy)

- eternally entertained by how much meeting t.f. is worded like the ‘how they met their spouse’ section of a wikipedia article in graves’ bio

Across one table, he met a deplorable fellow named Malcolm Graves is also *mwha* so good

- for fic purposes I would just like to give a moment of thanks for the paragraph in graves’ bio that mentions a bunch of shenanigans they got up to back in the day, very useful thank you

- from what I understand t.f.’s exile-causing transgression has been changed quite recently from fighting back to running away, which I am so happy about because it makes a lot more psychological sense to me and makes graves’ words in ‘burning tides’ hit so much better.

- I like that their individual descriptions of graves being captured are so indicative of how they each think about it -- namely t.f. doesn’t want to think about it (repress! repress! repress! very relatable) but probably has the more accurate view of it: The exact details of that night remain shrouded in mystery, for neither of them likes to speak of it—but Graves was taken alive, while Tobias and their other accomplices ran free, while graves does think about it but sort of still has his trauma goggles on for it: During a heist that rapidly turned from complex to completely botched, Graves was taken by the local enforcers, while Twisted Fate merely turned tail and abandoned him. t.f.’s is obfuscating and refusing to engage in the emotional aspect of it, graves’ is much more emotive in the language used, like ‘abandoned’. the lol bios often teeter awkwardly between straight biographies and wanting to dip into prose/flavour text, I must say I usually find them very clunky and unsatisfying, but this juxtaposition works for me.

sort of weird the details that don’t make it in, though -- like the fact that they’re both aware that miss fortune was the one who screwed them over in the whole gangplank Situation? (I love that part in ‘destiny and fate’ where graves is gamely like ‘yeah of course I’ve got a grudge against her but that was pretty metal too so y’know *shrug*’ haha)

- it’s interesting how much t.f.’s uh connection I guess to the cards is almost described as some kind of... compulsion/unstoppable drive in the middle of his bio and then fades into the background towards the end (because his priorities have changed to repairing his marriage now that it’s an option and by god I support him in that). I really do wonder how his card magic actually works -- it’s a cool mix of extremely unsubtle and undeniable sorcery (straight up throwing fireballs around) and subtle (’hunches’, being ‘guided’, just knowing things he sort of shouldn’t), which seems to be where it started

also it seems like he can do it with just about any playing card he comes across? would be sort of weird if it’s the cards that are special, considering he keeps throwing them away and also I don’t know a lot about gambling but I distinctly imagine that casinos don’t let you use your own decks haha. and t.f. seemingly can’t do magic just on his own, without them. so it’s a thing that happens very specifically in relationship, when all the elements come together, symbiotically sort of thing? could he do magic without the cards but it’s how he’s trained himself to think of it so he doesn’t realize it (well I honestly doubt that but just for the thought experiment)? is there some sort of spirit behind those cards looking out for him? is it lady luck keeping an eye out for her favorite boy lol? we know this stuff can physically change the cards like when they showed the crown in ‘destiny and fate’, and he seems able to ‘prime’ a card with magic beforehand if ‘double-double cross’ is anything to go by, but even then mf can’t actually use or release it. hmmmmm many questions

- the more of my long fic I write the more I am questioning what the fuck these two DO with all the money they steal -- like they’ve clearly pulled off some HUGE heists, surely it can’t all go into like drinks and cigars and fancy waistcoats and tf’s seemingly unending supply of playing cards

do they have like. a bunch of small caches of gold hidden away all across two continents in case of emergency? are their buried treasures the stuff of runeterran urban legend and people go out hunting for them? Have they invested this stuff in actual banks? (actually no I refuse to accept that as a possibility lol if nothing else this would make it hard to figure out if they were robbing THEMSELVES sometimes, sounds like a lot of hassle)

- His people had always waved away concerns over primitive magic and “cartomancy”, but now Tobias began to seek out ever more dangerous means to bend the cards to his will.

I’m having a little bit of a hard time parsing this -- does this mean his people didn’t believe the cards were magic at all and he’s the only person he knows who can do it, or do they know but just don’t think can be dangerous??? I chose one particular interpretation for my fic, but I honestly can’t figure out what it’s actually meant to mean haha

- T.F. getting a special satisfaction from robbing people who are Assholes is a good character detail (his colour story really goes out of its way to show that the merchant he’s playing against is a real shitbag, for example); there is some lopsided form of righteousness/sense of justice there, I think. and it also ties in with why I like that his exile was because he ran away rather than because he resorted to violence -- there’s this underlying sense that he particularly enjoys outsmarting people who’re dickish to outsiders in precarious situations (like his people) so thoroughly that they don’t even realize it before he’s long gone, without ever having to even lay a finger on them, because that’s a way to fight back while staying out of reach when you come from relative powerlessness. There’s a... lack of malice, I guess, to both of them that I find quite endearing, you can see in Burning Tides that even at his most mindlessly vengeful Graves doesn’t actually enjoy being actively cruel. ‘mutual sense of roguish honor’ is RIGHT they’re bad men but not Bad men you get me

- All in all, Twisted Fate is glad to have his old friend back, even if it might take another job or two—or ten—to restore their once easy partnership.

This probably means nothing because as I said the lol bios seem an endlessly shifting kaleidoscope of canon, but I think it’s so sweet that both of their last sentences/’where are they now’ statements are about them wanting to repair their partnership (and do some Cool Big Stuff together in graves’ case, I do wonder if that’s foreshadowing for the ruined king game or what)

#tf x graves #twistedgraves #league of legends #listen overwatch trained me well in trying to tease something like lore out of the smallest little crumb of detail I cannot be stopped

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enchanted-prose · 4 years

Text

#3 To Stress A Tobias

This occurs simultaneously with #2 Joust!

Word Count: 2317

Characters: Amarinda, Imogen, Jaron, Tobias, Jolly (Original Character)

Notes: Just a little fun piece!

No Editing, We Die Like Men. ENJOY OR ELSE

The sun was gleaming in a cloudless sky for the first time in several days. It was difficult to find the motivation to move out of the sunlight. Light poured in through the large windows peppered throughout Amarinda's room. Occasionally, the light reflected off of the many glass bottles lining the far wall, creating a flash of color.

Beautiful displays of light caused by different colored glass bottles filled with who-knows-what.

An unknown perk of being married to a physician in training.

Saints, was this how a cat felt when sleeping on a rock? Doused in sunlight and colorful reflections?

"Is it wrong that I'm more excited for this afternoon than I've been for weeks?" Imogen asked, lacing up both of her boots. "I know I shouldn't find it fun, terrorizing Tobias like this."

Amarinda grinned. She plucked at the loose strings on her borrowed pages' tunic, "I love terrorizing Tobias. Usually because he ends up giving a lecture and then breaking into the widest grin. I think he secretly likes being the one to make sure everybody's still alive after anything remotely enjoyable happens."

"He certainly doesn't seem that way," noted Imogen.

"Ah, I felt the same way too."

Imogen laughed, which made Amarinda laugh. It was easy to be herself when dressed as a petty thief. It was easy to let herself smile when preparing for an afternoon of fun with her best friend.

Oh, Tobias.

Truth be told, Amarinda didn't expect herself to fall head over heels for Tobias all those years ago, she'd expected to marry into the Carthyan throne.

But fate had a different plan for her, and Amarinda certainly wasn't complaining.

"Right, well," Amarinda stuffed her long brown hair into the ugliest cap she could find. "I've got a whole list of things that I want to get done before you and Jaron have to, ah, attend business."

"I don't like that devilish smirk, the only business being taken care of is completely official," but the pink tinge to Imogen's ears gave her away.

It was no secret that Jaron had made a sport of squeezing in, ah, personal business affairs into his busy schedule whenever he could.

Though it was definitely a secret that Imogen was the one encouraging Jaron.

Unable to stop herself, Amarinda began to fan her face, imitating Jaron to the best of her ability, "Oh Imogen, this joust is simply delightful. I love sitting down. Let's be completely behaved. And afterwards, we can go to the chapel and pray."

"Oh, shut up! You know how much of a chore it is to get Jaron into any kind of church!" Imogen's frustrated tone melted into a laugh. She grabbed a pillow, and hurled it at Amarinda's head.

It didn't take much effort from Amarinda to catch the pillow.

Even if Imogen had thrown the pillow with the intention to hit her target, Amarinda would've been able to catch it.

Sometimes being the princess from one of the strongest kingdoms in the realms paid off.

Amarinda could hold her own in a fight, no matter how much the other women in court tried to deny it.

The door creaked open, and Jaron slithered his way in. He'd already begun to smirk.

There'd be no getting rid of that smirk until Tobias had lectured the trio and then blushed when he realized that they enjoyed giving him a hard time.

"I've sent Roden, Mott, and Lord Feall off to search for the bandits. The Faola," Jaron said as he shamelessly tugged his tunic over his head and replaced it with a worn down shirt. "I don't know if I should wish them luck or tell them that this is becoming a wild goose chase."

"Roden won't stop until he knows why Feall was attacked," Amarinda pointed out. She made her way over to the massive bench resting in the sunlight.

"Maybe there's no underlying reason for the attack, though, and that's what I'm trying to get Roden to realize by sending him off."

Amarinda snorted.

Ever since the attack, Tobias brought up the Faola whenever he was near Roden or Mott, and he always tried to paint them as the good guys.

Tobias looked for the best in people.

It was one of the many things Amarinda loved about him.

At one point, Tobias began explaining the Faola to her. Of course, he was unaware of the fact that Amarinda knew much more than she let on.

Much more.

But she didn't have the heart to crush Tobias's ideas.

And she knew that maybe there was more to the Faola's story.

If she was correct with her assumptions, then Amarinda knew exactly why Feall had been attacked.

If she was incorrect in her assumptions, then Amarinda was grasping at Bymarian straws.

She would wait to give her information. She would wait until she had proof of her beliefs.

Until Tobias recognized that the Faola were just another gang.

Or that he'd been right the entire time.

"-and apparently there's going to be flavored ice, which I thought was a winter thing," Jaron was tugging on a holed boot.

Had she really been so trapped in her own thoughts as to not notice the conversation around her?

Wouldn't be the first time that happened.

"Amarinda came up with a list for all of us," Imogen said with a smile. "I think I'm the most excited to see the performers."

"Ah, but you'll want to be careful, some people are ridiculously good at picking pockets," interjected Amarinda.

"I'm excited for the food," Jaron kissed the top of Imogen's head, and followed the sweet gesture by flinging her braid over her face.

Imogen swatted him away, "Shoo! Shoo you starving boy!"

"No! Speak to me kindly! My heart bruises easier- ow!- than my skin!" He laughed, dodging Imogen's giggling blows. Jaron caught her by the wrists, and spun her into an embrace, "Now, what do you two say to leaving through the windows? Tobias will never see it coming. . ."

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

There was only one instance where they nearly got caught.

Jaron insisted that he knew where one of the best troubadours in the realms was. He lead Amarinda and Imogen halfway across the festival grounds to one of the most elaborate temporary buildings they'd seen before.

Somebody had really gone and set up an imitation of a castle.

Amarinda couldn't believe it.

"Don't worry, he's a friend of mine," Jaron insisted as he stepped into the temporary castle, which turned out to be a massive tavern.

"Have you told me about him?" Amarinda asked.

She had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly who Jaron was talking about.

"I haven't told you," he shrugged his way past a pair of massive Gelynians. "But I have told Imogen. Even got him to come play while you and Tobias were out and about."

"He has the most wonderful voice and the cleverest songs," Imogen gripped Jaron's hand, and then reached out to Amarinda.

She took Imogen's hand, determined not to be lost in the crowd, "This troubadour, he doesn't happen to have a song in his repertoire about Roden, does he?"

"Oh, he definitely does," confirmed Imogen.

"It's actually really funny, it's not what I was expecting, that's for sure," Jaron added. "Ah, there he is! Hey! Jolly! Over here!"

All it took was one glance at the peacock green tunic, and Amarinda knew.

She knew Jolly all too well.

"Ah! Your, uh, my old friend!" Bellowed Jolly. He was strumming a loot. "It's good to see you! Have you brought me company?"

"This is my wife, Imogen, and my dear friend, Amarinda."

Jaron's wink nearly went unnoticed. However, Jolly nodded, and pushed the black haired girl next to him into the crowd, "Get me a drink, Merry, and don't come back unless it has cream and a cherry. Ah ha! Merry, cherry. My lyricism is a divine gift."

"I can tell," Amarinda didn't mean for her tone to suddenly become so dry.

Jolly was bad news wherever he went.

“I’ve written a new,” Jolly hiccuped, “-song. You’ll have to let me come sing it for you.”

“A new song?” Jaron’s eyes were glimmering with mirth when he looked back at Imogen and Amarinda.

“You’ll have to come sing it for us,” Imogen said. “Is it a happy one?”

“I suppose so, I wrote it about a bandit king from Bymar. Or maybe I should change it to bandit queen, that’s more true to the story.”

“True to what story?” Jaron asked, his grinning face sinking into a frown.

The tiny slip gave Amarinda’s suspicions even more traction. She remained silent, waiting for Jolly to explain himself.

“The story of- Merry’s coming back!”

“True to what story!?” Jaron repeated, but even he had to be aware of the fact that Jolly was no longer interested.

He got that way when he was drunk, Amarinda knew that much.

"Oh! Captain! The captain’s here too!" Jolly called, waving his hand. "Captain Harlowe's-"

They were gone in the blink of an eye.

Roden didn't impede on Jaron's tendency to cause trouble while disguised, but he did tend to tell people things that he wasn't supposed to.

Specifically Tobias.

They simply couldn't risk being caught.

"I didn't know that your friend was Jolly of Angelmarr," Amarinda said as soon as they were out of the temporary tavern.

Jolly was Bymarian, a native to the city Angelmarr.

He frequented Queen Danika's court.

Rumors followed him.

Rumors that were unfortunately mostly true.

"I didn't know you knew him," Jaron shrugged. "He's a fun bloke to be around."

"I suppose so, he's quite flamboyant."

"All the more reason to enjoy his company."

Amarinda was preparing to explain her distrust for Jolly, when Imogen squeaked in excitement.

Right there, in the middle of a grass arena, was a group of dancers in scarlet suits and headdresses made of ribbon.

They were breathing fire.

So, Amarinda bit her tongue.

She didn't have it in herself to spoil Imogen's obvious delight.

But she'd definitely point the situation out to Jaron later that evening.

The fire breathers swallowed torches, showed them to the crowd after they'd been extinguished, and then opened their mouths to the sky.

Fire leapt into the air.

If it hadn't been for a flash of a navy blue physician's coat, they would've stayed there longer, mesmerized by the fire breathers.

Imogen was still talking about it even after they'd run into other performers doing sill tricks with their pet monkeys.

Queen Danika had a monkey at one point, Amarinda barely remembered anything good about it. All the monkey did was shred fabrics and grab at people.

A little frightening for a young girl.

Tobias nearly caught up to them several times after the fire breathers.

And each time they managed to escape. . .

Until they met their fate at the hands of a toothless old woman.

Oh, Amarinda couldn't resist. She knew that she'd regret her actions the next day, and yet, not even that knowledge would stop her from what she was about to do.

Just an hour ago, Imogen took control of the trio, and dragged both Jaron and Amarinda to a rickety wagon manned by a rickety woman.

She had a single tooth hanging over her cracked lips.

Turned out she had a wicked sense of humor. She later told Amarinda she enjoyed pretending to be a fairytale witch at festivals.

She also confirmed that her trade had gotten her into boiling water before.

Literally.

The wagon was decorated like something out of a fairytale. Gilded cages held shimmering twigs inside, which the rickety woman insisted were fairies when children asked about them. The rickety woman sat in a chair near a cauldron.

A boiling cauldron.

Every so often, the woman would lower a veil over her face, turn her back to the crowd, and lift a large spoon from the cauldron.

She never revealed what she was making. . . Until she deemed the crowd large enough.

The rickety old woman was making the best miniature apple pies Amarinda had ever eaten.

And Amarinda had eaten some very fine pies before.

"I'm doing it," Amarinda said, patting the extra coin purse she brought. "I'm buying a dozen more."

Jaron belched, "Am- Amarinda we've each had at least four. Aren't you- don't you-"

"Feel sick?"

Oh dear.

Their babysitter found them.

Tobias stood with his hands on his hips, obviously trying his best to scowl, "I've been looking everywhere for you three! There's a threat of bandits! Thieves! You could have at least let a guard trail you! All I ask is that- oh dear."

Amarinda hid her smirk as she trailed her fingers through Tobias's thick, dark hair. That would soften him up. She shrugged, "We only wanted to have fun, Tobias."

"It's different when you're left to fend for yourself," Imogen muttered, biting into her fifth apple pie.

"There's no point in having fun if it's not safe," countered Tobias. But the drooling grin he was fighting away was all too revealing.

"Would you feel better if you came with us?" Amarinda reached out to grab Tobias's hand, and rolled her head to the left.

If Jaron was clever enough, he'd seize this opportunity to melt back into the crowd.

“I’d feel better if you came with me,” Tobias mumbled. “Would you, un, would you-?”

“Spend the afternoon with my husband?” Amarinda glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, Jaron and Imogen had managed to slip away.

Good for them.

Amarinda rattled her coin purse, “Care to get sick from too many apple pies?”

Tobias’s eyes lit up, “You’re asking me to do something foolish.”

“That’s right, I am.”

“I’d gladly eat myself sick from pies with you, Amy.”

“And that’s-,” Amarinda pressed a kiss to Tobias’s still open mouth, “-what every girl wants to hear from her noble love.”

#the ascendance series #the ascendance trilogy #ascendance trilogy #ascendance series #the false prince #the runaway king #the shadow throne #princess amarinda #tobias #tobias branch #prince jaron #jaron #jaron eckbert #imogen #imogen of bultain #fic friday #except its not Friday I just like to write

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gasstationshane · 4 years

Text

Tales From The DishWasher, Part 1

In a small town, on the north end of main street, on the same side as the dollar store and local ice cream shop, there's a restaurant that is one of the more popular dine in places in town. On the front side, there's a large sign made out of an maroon awning that shades the outdoor tables and chairs for those that want to eat outside or smoke.

On the back side, there's a sign painted on a metal maroon wall with the restaurants name. There's also a lable on the side of the walls that tell you if the doors are for the kitchen or the entrance. If you were to walk in from the back entrance you might wanna make sure your not walking in through the kitchen door. We've had an array of customers that walked in and ended up with a bag of trash falling onto them. One guy even tried suing us because salsa got on his brand new white jeans. Look, even if he didn't see the sign, the door is obviously a kitchen door.

Now if you walked into the actual back entrance, you'd see a small array of arcade machines that were more then likely made in the 90's. The audio from the games faded from years of dust and play time.There's also a small stand of gumball and candy machines, one of the ones where you can get a temporary tattoo for 50 cents each.

A few footsteps and a turn to the right, you'd see the vast open area. Booths to the immediate right and left, a bar on the slightly farther left, tables all scattered around with more booths on the right and left against the walls.

The kitchen area, which would be left at the arcade machines, has a few different sections. The left of where you walk in is the front line cooks area, a grill, friar and a freezer along the front and back as well as countertops with storage cabinets for lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, and other toppings or side foods.

On the right of the entrance is the dishwashers station. A shelf and carts for the servers to sit the dirty dishes on, and a big sink with a sprayer and a few different soap options on the wall. There's of course, the washing machine that's usually used just for sanitation purposes.

Behind the dishwasher station is the shelves where the majority of the dishes that aren't plates or bowls are kept. Most of the kitchen employees keep their stuff there so it's out of the way. And finally, behind the front line cooks, are the back line cooks area as well as the walk in cooler and freezer.

In the dishwasher area is where I work. I spend most of my shifts there and only leaving to put away dishes or use the bathroom or even get a drink. Not everything's normal here though, most of the eventful things happening at night when it's just me and whoever is the main cook that night, and the closing bartender.

We've dealt with a pack of stray dogs that live in the old car wash station across from the dumpster. Their friendly though thankfully, begging me for pets and belly rubs after every shift as well as treats. All of them are a mixed breed between a husky and a wolf. I've taken the liberty of naming them all.

There's Yogi, the big grey and brown male who got his name from how much he looks like a bear. Luna, a blue-ish grey and white one, who got her name from the moon shaped crescent spot on her back. Waffle, a all black one with blue eyes, who got his name by sniffing out the waffle's in my bag one day. Then there's Crash, who's red orange-ish fur makes him look similar to the famous video game character.

There's a few pups too that I haven't named yet because I haven't had time to witness their personalities. Luna, the assumed to be mother of the pups, keeps them in the old storage room of the car wash. I've re done the storage room a bit to give them a bed and a few other things to help her take care of them.

I'm thankful that no animal control or pound people have taken them yet. If they tried, I wouldn't hesitate to take them home to keep them safe. The only reason I'm not taking them home now is because they are used to this place and I don't wanna make them uncomfortable. But believe me, the moment I feel like they are danger whether it be animal control, or them needing a vet visit, they'd be in my custody in no time.

And then there's the mysterious bar truck driver, a trucker who is always at the bar, no matter how early we open. The only time he's not there is when we're closed. He's always wearing a hat, flannel, and some form of camo. He drinks so many combinations of alcohol during his visits, it's a miracle he never passes out or hadn't died of alcohol poisoning. He knows all the words to all the songs on the digital bluetooth jukebox. If you ask him, he'll stop drinking long enough to sing a long to a full song of your choice if you buy him a drink.

And then there's the mysterious puddle of water surrounding the water softener and the pump. The puddle almost always fills the area where the tile is broken. No matter what we do, the puddle never goes away, and is a murky grey color. Sometimes it won't be as much water, but we could be closed for a week and the puddle will still be there. It doesn't help that some water that sprays off from the sink or gets spilled can add to the puddle.

I guess what I'm saying is, weird things happen at the patio restaurant in town. Mostly at night. Weird stuff has been happening even before I started working there. I remember a week before my first shift, there was an incident where all the liquors and vodkas to make mixed drinks were stolen, broken, or empty, as well as ate a whole gallon of ice cream. The whole situation could have easily been blamed on one of the bartenders or other employees at the time, but they were closed that day.

T-Dog, the main front line cook that I close with most of the time, thinks that the bar trucker pick pocketed the key and the security alarm code when we closed early one night. That would make sense, since they closed early the night before and he could've needed to make up for a days loss worth of drinks.

If you ask him, T-Dog always has a somewhat reasonable explanation to any weird thing that happens there. "That puddle isn't mysterious.." He told me after I had accidentally stepped in it again and almost fell over.

"The water softener is leaking, but since we run water so much with the sinks, washers, and bathrooms, the leak doesn't have a big impact. You think the owners would fix this shit, but since it's not causing any problems, they ain't touching it just to save them some fucking money." I always made an effort to hear out his explanations. They may or may not be true but it's way better than my theory about the bar trucker peeing on the broken tile. But my theory would explain the weird smell that happens over there, no matter how much we clean over there.

T-Dog isn't the only cook I close with. Some nights it's Danny, or Jack. Jack tends to ignore the weird things happening here. But he's also the cook that doesn't make me do everything I need to do before giving me the okay to leave.

And I know he doesn't do it because Tobias, Toby for short, is the opening cook in the mornings has told me multiple times whenever something doesn't get done. I see Toby once a week when I actually work a morning shift. He's one of the not so serious cooks, and jokes around every now and then. There was one time where acted like he was gonna knock over my drink.

What's kinda funny, about Toby being the not so serious guy around here, he doesn't believe any of the weird things that I've told him about. He thinks it's rumours to get more customers in.

"Shane, that bar trucker is only here for entertainment purposes. We don't have a stage so he just sits and takes his drinks at night to keep the drunks entertained." He explained. Well.. There was one night that Toby closed for the first time. He learned the hard way that the weird things really do happen here that night.

It was around ten thirty, and we were working on finishing our stuff up for the night when we heard a loud crash come from the cooler. "The fuck was that?" He asked. I shrugged.

"Maybe Alex is still cleaning his stuff up." I replied. He shook his head.

"No.. I saw Alex leave almost an hour ago. There's something back there." I finished taking care of the next load of dishes that needed to go in the washer, before following Toby to the walk in cooler. He was carrying a broom to defend us incase there was something that could attack us or scare it away.

We opened the door slowly to see, not one, not two, but three possums in the cooler. They were snacking on our most recent batch of precooked fish sticks. They looked up at us like a kid who had just got caught sneaking out. Toby went to swing the broom to get the mammals out of there, but as he did one of then jumped on the shelves, knocking down the large ice paddle.

It smacked into Toby and made him fall back. When he landed, the force of the fall against one of the shelves, causing a case of beer to fall onto him. Glass shattered, making him covered in glass shards, beer, and blood. Most of them in his legs and chest.

"Gah!" He cried out as he went to pulling some of the glass pieces. I rushed to the shelf where we keep the first aid kit, handing it to him but he smacked at out of my hands.

"Call an ambulance Shane! A first aid kit ain't gonna fix this shit." He yelled with a look of frustration on his face. I sighed and went to the area where the phone was and dialed the number for the station. When I had explained the situation, the man on the other end sounded genuinely confused.

"You said a Possum snuck into your walk in cooler, and made a ice paddle fall onto your co worker, which caused a case of beer to break onto him??" She asked to confirm what I said.

"Umm yeah that's what happened."

"But how would a Possum get into the cooler?" Possums usually never bothered with the busier end of town."

"I have no idea, but that's what happened!" She let out a sigh.

"And which restaurant in town was this again?" Now it was my turn to sigh.

"Darbie's Patio on Main Street..."

"Ooh that place!" She said, realizing who she was dealing with.

"Please hold." She said. I assumed she forwarded the call to the department that takes care of our cases. As much weird shit that happens here, the department has given us a specific branch and a officer to take care of us.

"Hello, this officer Mark here. Who is this?" He asked in his professional cop voice. Mark was the officer assigned to us, being close friends with the owners. Him and the owners have probably seen more weird shit than I have my whole life.

"Hey Mark, it's Shane Redfield from Darbies Patio. There was an accident with a few possums in the cooler, and now Toby is covered in glass shards." I briefly explained.

"Hang tight, I'll be there with an ambulance in five minutes or less. If there's any big chucks of glass in him, do not let him take it out. If he bleeds out before he can get to the hospital, that's bad news." I thanked him, hung up the phone and stayed with Toby while we waited. The bartender brought us both a drink. He took a long sip before looking back at me.

"Hey Shane?"

"Yeah?"

"..Does weird shit like this happen all the time...?"

To be... Continued

#tales from the dishwasher #tftgs fan blog #dishwasher shane #darbies patio #shane redfield #shane from darbies

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clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Choice ― IV.ii. A Gilded Cage

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Though the Trinity would rather the death of Viscount Edwards fade into obscurity, an impassioned detective from Scotland Yard seems intent on opposing them. The favor of London’s elite is easily swayed and Cynbel has never been able to stand by while his beloveds suffer.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“The Lord Cynbel Montes for you, detective.”

It doesn’t bode well that Detective Moray stands to greet him. It means he sat while he waited; it means he was patient despite the late hour. It means even knowing he could have been waiting some time for Cynbel’s arrival he chose not to behold any of the artefacts on display across the shelves or peruse the various books in their various languages all around him. Symbols of their age, their journeys and adventures.

All of that and Detective Moray chose to sit and wait. The reason for his visit far more important to him.

“Your patience is admirable,” says Cynbel; and perhaps Valdas might have done the civilized thing and apologized to the man for even needing it — but he is not Valdas, “to what do I owe this utterly spontaneous visit, Detective…?”

“Detective Moray, my Lord.” He takes off his hat and offers Cynbel a hand that isn’t taken. “I hope you’ll forgive me for the hour — but I was told the evening would almost certainly find you home.”

“Indeed. If mildly inconvenienced.”

If he’s shocked at Cynbel’s abruptness he hides it well. “Again, my sincerest apologies.”

Again, Cynbel mutters an “indeed” of acceptance.

Moray looks as if to speak but his eyes fixate on something at Cynbel’s back — he turns to see Tobias lingering, uncertain about fully closing the door.

“It’s all right Tobias. Perhaps you could make sure the kitchen has tea set for the guests. They should be finished soon and you know of the Lady Isseya’s appetite after such entertainment.”

With a curt nod and bow Tobias takes his leave of them; closes the library doors and leaves Cynbel and the Detective very much alone.

Which seems to be all Moray was waiting for.

“It’s an unfortunate business, this. Certainly I would rather we meet under kindlier circumstances.” Though, and Cynbel is quite certain of this, he would rather they never met at all. “But I assume you are already aware of the reason for my calling.”

Moray remains still so Cynbel seeks to show him exactly why that is a terrible idea. He begins circling the man; steps almost lazily around the space he knows so well and that makes it all the more easier on him when he has to hide the recognition that slips through his mask.

“Let’s assume I am not. What would you say then?”

“I would ask you not to lie to me, Lord Montes, since lying now might imply you’ll lie to me when we stop these games.”

Had Tobias not mentioned the man’s unusual aura Cynbel might not have thought anything of it. But now the thought is there and against all of his better judgment it festers; digs talons growing by the second into his doubts. Does he know? Does he see?

His eyes fall on a particular trinket, one with a memory that eases the tension in the Golden Son’s shoulders. He strokes the very tip of his finger over the curved brow of Isseya’s masque. “You’re here regarding the death of Viscount James Edwards.”

“I’m here regarding the Viscount’s murder, yes.”

There’s a victory in correcting the enemy. Moray wears it with every word. “Care to explain how you came to know the Viscount was deceased?”

Cynbel snorts; throws back a simpering, pitying smirk. “When you accrue a certain amount of wealth, Detective, the only thing worth any value becomes information. That and England’s aristocracy are a bunch of horrid gossips.” When he laughs, he laughs alone.

“I don’t find the murder of a personal guest of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria to be a laughing matter, Lord Montes.”

“You never had the displeasure of meeting the man, then.”

“What makes you think that?”

“If you had, you’d be laughing too.”

Moray’s nostrils flare. He’ll hand it to the mortal; he’s doing remarkably well at keeping his composure.

There’s a reason more often than not Valdas is the one handling any sort of negotiation or debate. Cynbel just prefers to insult.

“That seems to be the general opinion of the late Viscount, unfortunately. But this is the Queen’s Realm and even men such as he… those who seem to prefer status to moral character, that is to say, are deserving of a life. And when that can no longer abide, I am duty-bound to seek justice for him.”

Pretty speech — wasted though.

“That’s how you have spent the day — building a case on his lack of character?” he asks.

“Nothing so bureaucratic. What I’ve been doing is piecing together his last night seen alive.” And imagine the vampire’s surprise when he looks to glare at the back of Moray’s matted dusty hair and instead finds them face-to-face. “And judging by your reaction, my Lord, you have a good guess as to when that was.”

Without looking, as though his hand was seeking home, Cynbel feels the texture of a rusted hilt and allows himself to grasp it firm. Well within view of Detective Moray; who finds himself torn between looking at the intent in his eyes and the weapon that could seek it out.

The quickening of a heartbeat is music to his ears. “What are you?” He whispers soft, curious still and not yet demanding. “Really, what?”

The detective chooses incorrectly, as if he hopes to stare down every year that gazes upon him. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Now who’s lying?”

“Lor—”

“Once more; what. are. you? That you would vex a creature like Tobias so, that you would care so much about a man who was, truly, so very little.”

But even when Moray puffs out his chest and brings himself to his full height he still has to look up. “I still can’t quite grasp your meaning… but it is my duty to carry out the Queen’s laws.”

“And that would include…” He looks the mortal up and down, takes in every fragile piece of him and he’s hot, scalding, burning on the inside. Red-faced with his blood boiling and it makes Cynbel want to cut him open just to see if he can leech out some of that warmth for himself, for his beloveds. He could — it wouldn’t take but a twitch — just one muscle and he could… “apprehending his killer — no matter the cost.”

Moray exhales. Cynbel drinks in the vindication on his breath.

“Yes.”

Funny how the Queen’s laws were so contradictory to the laws of nature; of the hunt. About as funny as it is that the Queen’s laws were very much in place and yet there was still a murder and still a killer to be found.

Dress a monster up all you want… he will still be monstrous.

Cynbel releases his grip on the dagger slowly; tucks a few strands of golden-spun hair away from his temples and behind his ear. “You’ve pulled me from my guests long enough, Detective Moray. After a long days’ efforts you ought to rest your head. We all have to sleep some time.”

Is that a threat?

Why, of course. Was I not being clear?

“I’ve yet to even begin my questioning,” Moray protests. But there’s no reticence to it. The rabbit that dives into the fox hole and wants free.

And even if the man found the dark corner to where his confidence had scurried it didn’t matter. Cynbel already has the service bell ringing in hand. “Trust me when I say your life will be longer for it.” One of the numerous benefits of an elven butler — Tobias has the library doors opened before Moray can even open his mouth.

Cynbel nods him along. “Tobias the hours seem to have caught up with Detective Moray. Call up the driver to take him home, will you?” Tobias already has Moray’s coat on his arm. Delightfully efficient.

“Lord Montes I don’t really think that’s your —”

“On the contrary I would hate for a new detective to return seeking your justice. Though… perhaps he might surprise me. Perhaps he might send word before he comes to call.”

With natural fae charisma Tobias eases the detective into his coat; even takes the man’s hat from his hands and fixes it proper on his head. “If you’ll follow me sir,” not that Moray’s being given much of a choice — it doesn’t stop him from shuffling his feet as he departs.

And Cynbel is there up until the last step. He’s there when Moray turns around as if to catch one last glimpse of his own grave.

“Expect me tomorrow, Lord Montes.”

“Good night, Detective Moray.”

He closes the door in the man’s face.

“YY-You can’t do this!” Whittaker squeals not unlike swine; which is fitting. He looks around with spectacles askew desperate — hoping one of the constables patrolling the streets outside the building will hear him; save him.

They don’t. In fact — one even turns slightly from his post to catch glimpse of them. His eyes glint in the shadow from the lamppost overhead.

Whittaker waits for rescue on bated breath. It doesn’t come; the patrolman resumes his post as though it never happened.

And because Cynbel is, has been, and always will be a hunter he can’t help but take the opportunity to revel in his victory.

“See, worm? I can do what I want with you.” Unwilling to tempt fate, however, he quickly resumes shoving the stumbling man down the steps and out to the waiting carriage on the street.

“This is illegal! I h-have rights!”

The revenant’s struggle is fierce if in vain. Black-veined hands scrambling desperately at the flesh of Cynbel’s hands. He even manages to take a chunk of skin with him but it grows back before the sensation even registers. And Cynbel lets him; finds this side of the normally cowardly thing to be the only thing about him worth respecting.

“Have some fucking dignity man, and calm yourself,” the vampire grumbles as he gives Whittaker’s lowered head one final shove into the vehicle before he steps in himself, “you’re scaring the bloody horses.”

The ride back to the Estate has never felt longer but at least there’s entertainment in it. He leans back and watches every attempted spell, hex, and display of physical force that the mortician tries to open the cab doors but one by one they fail. Each new attempt is less fulfilling than the last, and eventually he sinks into his seat despondent; forced to do nothing but accept the uncertainty of the night’s events.

At least it makes for less of a struggle once they arrive.

“Welcome back my Lord,” Tobias greets them at the door; works quickly to take his coat but refuses to touch the foul black magic that keeps Whittaker bound to his withering skin. “I see your outing was a fruitful venture, despite your tardiness.”

“Come now — he’s a slippery creature.”

“I agree, however Lord Montes requested I mention it anyway.”

“This is kidnapping, sirs!”

The look Cynbel and the butler exchange is brief but telling. “Of course it’s kidnapping,” the vampire agrees, “I would have thought that obvious.”

“Detective Moray —”

“— can do nothing for you here.”

They may be running late but Cynbel pauses to take it in. That withering moment when Whittaker no longer just accepts his situation but understands it; the danger he is in.

Succulent, truly.

They’ve switched places in the library when Cynbel enters with their prisoner in tow. Valdas now occupies the couch, cuts an imposing figure with the hearth in full flame behind him. And surely there have been myths woven about the way the lights of the flickering flames catch on Isseya’s face where she sits opposite; the high-backed chair behind Valdas’ desk her throne bound in red leather.

“It’s been too long, Whittaker, welcome back to the Montes Estate.” Valdas closes his book — one of his personal journals Cynbel notes absently — and uncrosses his legs. Settling himself in comfortably. “We appreciate your agreeing to meet with us this night.”

The revenant snarls, makes the mistake of echoing the veil in his words; “I am being held here against my will! If you think this won’t go unpunished, you —”

Isseya cackles wildly and cuts him off. “And who will be doing the punishing, you? Didn’t you already attempt to sick your demonic master upon us once and fail miserably?”

While the mousy man stutters over his threat Cynbel seeks home at his God’s side. He drapes across the length of the couch and lets his head take respite in Valdas’ lap. The fingers that wind into his hair do so without thought and he hums content in gratitude.

The doors close with Tobias on the other side. Whittaker swallows; trapped among them.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asks.

Valdas instead offers a question of his own. “Why do you think we’ve brought you here?”

The revenant glares at Cynbel with resentment in his burning eyes.

“You either plan on threatening me until I cover up the Viscount’s death, or you seek to punish me because I have not already.”

Isseya looks impressed. “Good to know not all of your brain has rotted away in your death.”

“You know I am fully preserved.”

“So long as you provide flesh for your demon master, yes,” Valdas combs through his lover’s golden tresses absently, “I wonder how quickly such circumstances would change were that no longer the case.”

It makes Whittaker blanch. “You—You would, what, have me sacked?”

“Does the city police sack those who go missing?” Isseya asks. “That seems a tad unprofessional of them.”

Go missing. She says it so casually while the look on her face is anything but. Whittaker looks like he might faint.

Where his head rests Cynbel can feel his Divinity’s legs tense; the moment before the cobra strikes. “You have already burned your bridges with us, revenant. My only regret is that our arrangement wasn’t consummated by signature.”

It makes the Golden Son look up, drawing Valdas’ attention. “You have nothing to regret my Holy One. We held up our end of the bargain.”

“You’re right, Cynbel, we have,” to Whittaker; “haven’t we? Poor little Hamish Whittaker, the worm who falls in love with the bodies he penetrates, who fancied himself a necromancer only to run afoul of a soul devourer on an eldritch plane.

“You would happily caress the dead but taking a life was too much for your delicate constitution. Did we mock you for it—perhaps. But did we turn our back on you? Did we leave you to be consumed for all eternity by your demon master? Or did we offer you a mutual exchange of services in all our generosity?”

The worst of it—and this the whelp knows—is the Made-God speaks nothing but the truth.

“He asked you a question.” Isseya says — and will expect nothing less than an answer.

“I… did believe, at first, that our arrangement was equitable.”

“You accuse my Divinity of deception?”

“The balance has shifted. The Viscount — you were sloppy! I shouldn’t be punished because you were sloppy!”

That’ll do it. To no one’s surprise but Whittaker himself he ends up mewling on his back, the desk’s contents strewn across the floor and a vengeful vampiress crouching over him in determined bloodlust. There’s something extremely attractive about seeing her carnal side still in her evening gown with bustle and all, Cynbel thinks with a smirk.

“Isseya, darling mine, please,” comes Valdas exasperated voice over his head, “those books are irreplaceable originals… a little care never hurt anyone.”

“It’s hurting me!” Whittaker wails. A nasal, grating sound that has Isseya squeezing his throat for silence.

“You want sloppy? I’ll give you sloppy. I’ll paint the walls with your blood and stretch your skin into a new canvas. Pluck those strange little eyes of yours and wear them as baubles around my neck. That seems sloppy.”

But she paints a pretty picture.

Valdas clarifies for her; “The late Viscount is not among our dead, revenant.”

“Learn the difference between sloppy and careless, worm… quickly.” She backs off, though, and when he recovers Whittaker scrambles back onto his feet.

“You’re…” he’s dangerously close to losing his glasses to the momentum of his turning head as he tries to take in the Trinity as one, “You’re lying.”

“We have no reason to lie.”

“You have plenty reason! The—The investigation! The detective; the Queen! His killer has a noose at the Tower all ready and knotted.”

“Funny that he mentions the detective…” Cynbel’s words are broken off by exploratory fingers seeking his lips, his tongue; he gives all that and more and is rewarded with Valdas’ proud smile, “you know… he said something—Moray—that I can’t seem to get out of my head.”

“What was that, beloved?”

“He said that someone had suggested to him the hour best to find us here at the Estate.”

His next words Cynbel says only when Whittaker dares meet his eyes. “I wonder who told him that.”

If he held any final, limp shred of hope that he would be leaving the Montes Estate, Whittaker spends the silence that follows coming to terms with the futility of it.

The are the Trinity; the lovers known as Les Trois Amants, the Children of the Made-God Valdemaras, their reputation spread in languages no longer spoken.

And they show no mercy.

Whatever creature Detective Moray is—if any at all—he is not the kind that can smell Whittaker’s blood lingering on Isseya’s hand when he takes it politely.

Her lovers can.

“Rumors of your beauty have been greatly understated, Lady Montes,” he says. And they both play their roles expertly; he the polite and charming Englishman, she the lady he charmed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she lies; and takes Valdas’ hand to bring him forward too, “may I present the Lord Valdas Montes.”

Moray is as quick to falter as he is to recover. Looks between Valdas and Cynbel with a growing confusion; a kind they are all too familiar with. “A pleasure, my Lord. I — forgive me — I was under the assumption…”

Valdas who cuts him off before he can say any more—as he always must. “You are forgiven. Shall we, detective? We have a rather pressing engagement tonight.”

“But we always have time for Scotland Yard,” Isseya adds, though whether or not he believes her is unclear.

While Detective Moray may never call it such it is an interrogation, plain and simple. He meets them in their home because he thinks it will bring them comfort; lull them into security among familiar possessions and company. It is a move as bold as it is tactical, and makes Cynbel’s suspicion of him grow all the more.

He asks them to recount the events of the last time they saw the Viscount. Clearly he would prefer they do so separately but he has none to blame but himself in that they do not.

“And when your guests left for the evening, what happened?”

Cynbel shifts; covers it up with a crossed leg. Isseya reaches and meets Valdas’ hand in the middle. Moray notices, but makes the smart choice and says nothing of it.

“It had been a… tiresome affair. We called it an early night.”

As vague as Valdas’ answer is… it’s enough. Enough for Moray to round on Cynbel—at a speed which he seems to have just been waiting to do—and asks him the same question.

They always assume. That Valdas speaks only for himself and his Lady. But she is not his. She is theirs.

“Would you believe me if I said I went to confession?” is Cynbel’s snide remark; one he will certainly pay for later if the look Isseya gives is anything to go by.

“Is that what happened?”

“Of course not.”

“Then —”

“If you could instead indulge me this,” comes Valdas to his rescue, “how exactly was the Viscount killed?”

At first Moray seems ready to decline answering. Makes sense, really, that he wouldn’t want to give those he suspects of committing the crime the answer. But the children of Valdemaras exchange soft, almost secret glances and know it isn’t so.

Valdas has always had a way with the world. A magnetic personality; they would call it these days. And indeed he is charming when he needs to charm, threatening when he needs to threaten. But it is certainly more — more than Cynbel and Isseya could even possibly understand. More than they could resist.

He has complete control of self. Something not even his lovers have achieved in their long lifetimes. And when one masters themself utterly it is but a matter of time before one can master others.

Their Lord and Light—shining fucking beacon of composure and predatory propriety that he is—eases his features into a smile. And Moray is lost.

“The late Viscount’s autopsy didn’t reveal any signs of a physical attack.”

“Yet you just told us he was murdered.”

“He was.”

“Then how?” Valdas asks again, “Unfortunate as it may be I would not be surprised if Edwards went for a swim on his own.”

The very implication of it seems to bring the detective back to himself, bring him back into the room and out of the will of the Made-God from sheer repulsion. “What you suggest is blasphemy, Lord Montes.”

Cynbel shrugs. “A little blaspheming is good for the soul.”

“Not at the risk of eternal damnation.”

“He was damned already.”

The library goes intimately still. With no fire in the hearth and no wind to make the lamp candles flutter it very well could have been — the four of them frozen. Titled A Woman’s Weapon.

But three sets of ears pick up on the quickening of Moray’s heart, how his blood pounds through the body. That he looks so vindicated, his eyes seemingly with a new hunger as he takes in Isseya, takes in her words… Cynbel readies himself to strike.

“What makes you say that, Lady Montes?”

“All men are.”

“You mean to say ‘all men who cross you’ are, do you not,” The look she gives him is sharp; seen before in the deaths of millions, “and would you extend that to your husband or your… companion?

“I should hate to think that the lives of a young and affluent couple — or anyone, truly — would be sent into disarray by an… impassioned mistake.”

Valdas holds her back. She loathes him for it to be sure but they all know it’s the right thing to do. He is always, of the three of them, able to remain calm at moments like these.

Until he doesn’t.

“Detective Moray I do believe your stay in my home has run its course.”

Moray’s mistake isn’t getting up and fleeing right then. “I would think that a member of the House would only want to aid me in my investigation.”

“So you would think.”

“Are you claiming you do not?” The men exchange cool looks — maybe Detective Moray is a skilled man of his practice; but that matters little now. He’s practically branding himself for murder.

“Detective.”

“Yes, Lord Montes?”

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

The growl of his voice is felt in their bones. Even when he threatens things like their tongues or their lives — both of which are his, have been his utterly from the moment they met — the Children of Valdemaras do not fear their Made-God. Not in the traditional way of fear. But there has always been an almost indiscernible difference between fear and holy reverence.

Tobias shows the detective out this time much in the same way as before. Clipped and curt, everything but shoving the mewling mortal creature out onto the steps and into the cold.

They hear his protests through the walls but do not leave the sanctuary of the library. They fold their Made-God between them and ease him in the ways only they know how. It works and it doesn’t. Valdas is eased and he is not. A tension straddling a dangerous edge all the way until Tobias comes to alert them of the approaching dawn.

“Come,” they ask of him, “rest.”

And the smile he gives is as forced as it is weary. They do not blame him for it. “I have much to contemplate. I’ll join you soon,” when he kisses their knuckles his beard tickles their skin, “I promise.”

Though they can do nothing but obey Cynbel and Isseya don’t find the luxury of sleep. Not without him.

Moray does not return the next night, or the night after that. The Trinity know they are not rid of him; they aren’t fools. But the idea of easing back into their lives is an appealing one. They’ve grown complacent.

But word of Viscount Edwards’ murder spreads. Times are prosperous, the Queen is well-liked; there is nothing else for the wealthy of England to do but speak of that which they do not know.

“He was always a kindly man.”

“I heard it was an unsavory affair — that he was caught bedding the help.”

“The poor Viscountess…”

And the irony of it is the Viscountess Edwards — a woman rather soft around the edges; no doubt built up from all of her years having to weather the harsher bits of her husband — is the only one who seems the least bit disgruntled at her husband’s passing.

“Where has she been hiding all this time?” asks Cynbel over the morning tea.

“No one knows for certain; the Viscount was a private man.”

“Unless he was in public.”

The look Valdas gives their darling girl is chiding but with no heat behind it. Not like she’s telling a lie. “All I know is she’s finally come to London under personal invitation of Her Royal Highness.”

“For what,” Isseya looks up from her careful notes, “a period of mourning? The poor woman has the rest of her life to feel the weight of that on her. She should be grateful.”

“But who towards?” His lovers frown at it but they know they can’t call him out for it; Cynbel is only speaking the mind they all share. “Whittaker is dead and his master has paid no retribution to us. In what little time I had to engage the corpse I found no bite marks or wounds.”

“Had bruising settled in?”

“None that I could tell. Who at your college took over his place at the Yard?”

“Some cockwipe of a man — the Viscount and he would’ve got on.”

And while keeping their revenant urchin alive would have been the most beneficial course for their current predicament of unknowns… some things they simply could not abide. The flagrant disobedience of a lesser creature among them.

Still… Cynbel finds himself regretting such retribution so swiftly the longer this goes on.

Because the longer it goes on the more Detective Moray proves himself an adequate tactician indeed.

He confronts Valdas in person — follows him out of the carriage and up the steps to the House and does not waver even when his questions go unanswered. It is enough for a detective of Scotland Yard to continue interrogating a man with business among the chief political minds of the nation. When they kindly (wavering voices hesitant and unsure but they have to, they have no choice in the matter) request that the Made-God sit idle until such a time that the investigation has ended, well, no one is surprised.

“Fools — obstinate cowardly fools!” Valdas calls them with a wrath that threatens to take the Montes house and half their block in London with it, “As though I did not sit with Cassius, with Brutus and Antony himself. They fear him more than they fear me? Their gravest mistake.”

And it keeps the Trinity on edge. It is meant to.

There’s a certain kind of anger that comes with always looking over ones shoulder; ready for the breath that comes down on the backs of their necks to turn into cold hands.

A fortnight following he comes for Isseya.

Lucky then that Cynbel has learned his lesson with her once and need not again; when she begins clawing through their boudoir of ancient belongings he knows to step far back.

“Beloved, what happened?”

“I want to fillet him. String him up on ugly fraying rope and make him watch my work!”

Valdas is at his back, Cynbel can’t help his relief at their Maker’s touch. “Your words, darling, your words.”

She rounds on them with red eyes and shining cheeks. Immediately they take her into their arms and she does not resist because this is where they are safe; this is where they cannot be hurt. And outside of them here the world has hurt her so gravely.

“He took the college from me! Issued some—some fucking order and they have suspended my lessons until they are certain my name has been cleared. I’ll hang them too. Ugly, rotted fruit hanging in the Queen’s fucking gardens!”

This is her cause — something she has been denied for far too long — and Moray didn’t even have the dignity to show his face as he stole it out from under her.

Whatever plans he had in store for Cynbel; Cynbel the lonely one, Cynbel the outlier, Cynbel the young bachelor whose place no one quite understands… he doesn’t get the chance to enact them.

Cynbel does not let him.

#bloodbound #bloodbound fanfiction #playchoices #choices bb #choices fanfiction #oc: isseya #oc: cynbel #oc: valdas #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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tisthenightofthewitch · 5 years

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GHOST ON HOW THEIR SATANIC CATHEDRAL TURNED INTO A FAMILY AFFAIR

Inside the extremely fun and incredibly satanic world of the pop-metal darlings.

Ghost have created something so special, you would almost think they struck a deal with the devil. Since their 2006 formation, the Swedish metal outfit have turned lyrics about defecating the holy eucharist into quaint singalongs, sold marital aids sculpted in the shape of their frontman’s head, performed on late-night TV to an audience of the demonically possessed and are currently playing stadium shows with Metallica—and all the while, they’ve only been giving it about 20-30%.

“This sounds like a joke, and I’m saying it sort of smiling, but it’s true—everything you’ve ever seen us do has always been a lesser version of what I had in mind. Always. 100%. So my original vision for everything is always twice as ambitious and goes through so many changes that we usually end up with 20 or 30% of it,” Tobias Forge says, also currently known as Cardinal Copia.

Forge, 38, is the Walt Disney figure “band boss” who conducts the decadent dark magic and weird whimsy that are Ghost—a band as humorous as they are blasphemous; as Beach Boys as they are Black Sabbath. They’re arguably the only group who can make an ABBA cover feel like it belongs on a record that contains a track about the conception of the Antichrist.

For those still uninitiated in the theatricality of the band’s iconography and public persona, Ghost are a band of nameless ghouls adorned in uniform black clerical garb and chrome-plated devil masks that are blank-eyed and devoid of mouths and any distinctive facial features. Forge has portrayed a different persona for each of the band’s records, always the demonic leader of the group. He’s been four versions of the satanic antipope, Papa Emeritus, over the course of their first three records and currently assumes the role of Cardinal Copia for their latest release, 2018’s Prequelle. Copia is a loose-skinned, expressionless creature of the Id decked out in a lavish tuxedo and inverted crosses galore, but regardless of the persona, the man behind the unholy imp strives to fully embody his role.

“What I like, especially when you’re stepping into a character, is never to be forced to step out of that character, which you have to do at times,” Forge says. “You allow yourself to become that weirdo onstage that dances ridiculously and does those things, and it just comes naturally. That gives me a kick because I personally transform into someone that I’m not really myself, at least when I’m sober. I’m not very much like that guy onstage in real life, but I can invoke that person by getting all that shit on, getting into character and going up onstage and that thing just happens. All of a sudden, I think differently, I say almost whatever comes into mind…it’s allowing yourself to just go on every impulse, and that’s what makes that character funny as well—he’s obnoxious.”

Throughout the history heavy music, there have been many theatrical bands, but Ghost are not only theatrical, they are theater. The band members are fully committed to their parts. The Nameless Ghouls are truly that—Nameless Ghouls; when onstage, Forge is absolved of himself and exists solely as Cardinal Copia. Forge’s full commitment to concept and character requires him to not only assume the roles of songwriter and frontman, but he also serves as the band’s chief playwright and director. Regardless of role or job description, Forge is, more than anything, an artist possessed by one thing: the idea of finding an unpremeditated flow.

“There is a narrative for every album cycle, and I do envision every show as a play, slightly more than your traditional rock ’n’ roll show even though we are a rock ’n’ roll band,” he explains. “It’s also, to the point, theatrical improvisation, in the vein of Bruce Springsteenwhere he asks the crowd, ‘What do you want to hear?’ That would not work with Ghost. It would disrupt the flow. It’s just not orchestrated that way. It’s not written that way. The setlists would crumble as soon as someone would yell out ‘Monstrance Clock,’ which is our last number. If we played that second, it would fuck up the whole thing. Whereas other bands and other artists, like Bruce Springsteen, have such a massive [catalog] of songs. He has so many ballads and so many uptempo songs that he knows that ‘I can play seven of them in the beginning, and it doesn’t matter because I still have 14 of them in the end.’ So he get away with doing four hours of that.

“As I said, I’m a stickler for flow,” he continues. “I really want it to flow like a Karate kata. I really want it to be like The Matrix when everything just slows down, and he just stands there. It just flows right through me. That’s what I want to achieve every night. So therefore, I regard it as a little bit more of a theater play where there’s a script, and my goal is to do it as fluently as I can without thinking. I don’t want to overthink things at all, and once I step into the character, I preferably want to stop thinking, because if I start thinking, then I start going through the moves, and I start faking it, and that’s what I want to avoid. By having a rigid setlist and a plan, I’m able to get myself and everyone else to do that.”

To many, the early allure of Ghost was how fully devoted the group’s players were to their parts, predicated on the clandestine charm of no one knowing the identities of the band’s members. The faces and names of Papa Emeritus and his Nameless Ghouls were completely shrouded in a secrecy that helped ease their fans into fully suspending disbelief and treating the presentation of the music with as much gravitas as a satanic clergy would command. In deep pockets of the sect, the name “Tobias Forge” had been whispered and attached to the Papa Emeritus character for most of their career, but it wasn’t until 2017 that Forge’s identity would be publicly confirmed as the ringleader of the group.

“I had come to a point in my life and in my career where not doing certain things was not doing me any favors,” he reveals. “It was making life hard, harder than I felt was necessary, and I just felt like now, almost 10 years into my career, the time and effort that I’m putting into the visual presentation should be so strong and so overshadowing whatever I do as a person on the side. So far, I’ve gotten the impression that that’s still the case. As long as I don’t overcompensate that, I don’t think that I will ever do anything that will overshadow the real focus of what I want Ghost to be.”

The 2019 Grammys provided Forge an opportunity to further challenge the public’s perception of Ghost. For the first time, Forge appeared in public as himself—stripped of all elements of pagan pageantry and accompanied by his wife. The couple walked the red carpet, posed for photos together and Forge conducted interviews without any trace of his Cardinal Copia alter ego.

“A lot of fans seem to embrace a lot of things that are mine, like my personal traits, and I’ve tried not to bring that into my presentation,” he shares. “But if they hold on to those and want to include it in their perception, there’s really nothing I can do about that. As long as they find that enriching or interesting, then…fine. The only thing would be those fans, who liked Ghost on the premise that it was something that they knew nothing about, and seeing my face on the red carpet may have destroyed all that and they don’t listen to Ghost anymore…OK. Too bad. These are the turmoils and tribulations that you stand in front of as an artist, you know? [Laughs.] You can’t let that dictate your life just because you’re aware of it.”

The meteoric rise of the band’s notoriety is nothing short of stunning. Throughout their career, the throughline of their material is the one thing they’ve never attempted to keep secret—this band make music about worshipping the devil. There’s nothing discreet or hidden. There is no veil of metaphor to pull aside, no subtlety. They write songs about Lucifer, and they perform on a stage that’s designed to give their audience the experience of attending a satanic church service. Throughout their catalog, they have songs that romanticize plagues, call for the coming of the Antichrist and very literally glorify the dark lord Lucifer, yet their latest release was sold in Target stores with two exclusive bonus tracks and a collectible lenticular album cover.

They’re the rare band who can fully embrace controversial and culturally taboo subject matter without listeners having to play their records backward to find it, yet they write such inherently catchy pop hooks that songs such as “Dance Macabre” are the perfect soundtrack for both your occult worship ritual after-party and something you could probably play if you were driving your mom to the grocery store. They’ve found a way to stay true to the Black Mass and still speak to the masses, and with that unique platform comes an extremely diverse audience and a fanbase who has grown out of the traditional heavy-metal demographic.

“When we’re playing bigger places for some reason, it’s a little more of a family event, to a certain extent,” Forge says. “The people are more in tune with the level that what we want to have it because we’ve been trying to get the point across that we want people to be excited. We want people to stand. We want general admission, big floor in front of the stage. I don’t like seeing frowns. I don’t like seeing feet, but you can’t start moshing. You can’t start hitting people. You can’t stage dive because there are kids everywhere, and there are small girls everywhere, and there are teenage boys and girls that cannot lift you because, you know, you’re a 40-year-old hardcore dude with a lot of muscle. You can’t jump on them.

“I think there’s often a clash sometimes—we are a metal band, originally,” he continues. “Sometimes there have been these clashes where you have the die-hard fans who’ve been with the band ever since [the beginning] who are used to going to metal shows only, and they want to claim Ghost as ‘this,’ and at a metal show, you do ‘this,’ and then you have this 15-year-old daughter of a dad, and they did not go to see Mayhem last week, and they were not at Slayer three weeks ago.”

In support of Prequelle, Ghost have been playing two-and-a-half hour sets with the ultimate goal of having their audience “come in overexcited and leave completely euphoric.” Currently, they’re touring as direct support for Metallica. The tour is further indication of the band’s rising celebrity, having earned the opportunity to play a one-hour set every night, but the gig has also posed a challenge to Forge’s ever-persistent pursuit of “flow.”

“It’s very different from the tours we’ve done so far in this cycle, because it’s supporting again,” he explains. “It’s stadiums. We’re playing for one hour, which is nothing for us. But the stage is four times bigger than an arena stage or a theater stage, so there’s a lot of real estate to cover, and it’s daytime. More often than not, it’s going to be maybe sunset, at best, but it’s going to be an afternoon or evening sun, straight in your face and also, not our crowd. It’ll be a Metallica crowd. They’re waiting for Metallica to play, so it’s a different vibe.”

Although touring in the Metallica support slot, Ghost have been afforded their full stage production setup, transforming the nightly stadium into a cathedral dedicated to Copia’s depraved church—giving the performers a fitting stage and the audience a fully immersive experience. Yet, despite the garish stage pieces and meticulously ornate sets that become more and more elaborate with his band’s growth, Forge heeds to the idea that with everything he does, what the audience sees is a compromised version of his initial vision. Whatever you see Ghost do is about 20-30% of what Forge wants it to be. Currently, Forge is fixated on the potential he sees in using the intermission during their two-hour set to elevate the show to the next level of theatricality.

“The idea with the intermission, originally, was for the stage to change so when we open up again, it would be a different stage. Things like that are what I’m aiming to do in the future if we can stay on an arena level, where we can bring our own stage. Then I would like to do that—whatever we started with ends up being something completely different. I want it to evolve. I want it to change, the same as when you go to see Phantom Of The Opera. They change the themes, and it takes you from A to F, and that’s what I’m hoping to achieve in the end. I think we’re doing a good job of getting people happy and euphoric, but I definitely think we could probably shift gears even more to get people completely euphoric when they leave. But it takes time, and there’s a lot of stars that need to align, and there’s a lot of things you need to work your way up to in order to have that consistency.”

So far, the stars have aligned for Ghost in ways that often never manifest themselves past the point of prayer. Their unlikely amalgam of occult phantasmagoria and radio-ready mass appeal is most likely a once-in-a-lifetime deal—but while it’s happening, Forge is fully devoted to serving Ghost’s congregation.

“I have no problem playing the same songs all the time as long as you have a crowd, as long as you have people there to do it with you,” he asserts.. “So that’s the one thing I’m always hoping for…happiness.”

The band’s latest Prequelle is available now here. Ghost are hitting a handful of U.S. festival weekends and returning in September for a full run. You can check out a full list of dates and tickets here.

ALL RIGHTS OWNED BY ALTPRESS.COM

#Tobias Forge #Tobias Interview #The Band Ghost #Ghost Band #Cardinal Copia

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tobiandjane · 5 years

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name: tobias garrett williams

age: 18

gender: male

appearance: for the first half of the book, his hair is washed and pale due to numerous do-it-yourself dye jobs with an inch of naturally, dark colored roots. the second half it’s a dark maroon color after ryn demands it be changed. his hair is grown out to his ears in a moderate and messy manner. he has deep green eyes (without a hint of brown). vitiligo on his neck that stretches up to cover the bottom of his jaw and onto his cheek just slightly. defined jaw and semi-defined cheek bones. wears really simple clothing (you could find it in the basics section at old navy). has several piercings including: double lip piercing (called spider bites), an eyebrow piercing, two black studs and a bar piercing across his ear. he has a leo constellation tattoo on the side of his wrist (which is really important), tall (6′3), lean but slightly toned.

background: tobias williams has had everything but an easy life. tobias and his dad were very connected in his early life, until his dad decided to get up and leave without notice during the second semester of his sophomore year. not only did it shatter tobias, but his mother as well. tobias and his mom were at each other’s throats up until the second semester of junior year, around the one year anniversary of his father’s sudden leaving, when they realized they had to stick together. after the wars of bickering ended between tobias and his mother, they had each other’s backs and were now closer than ever. tobias’s mom runs an incense shop called woodland essences, which is just a cover on the fact that she is a complete and utter stoner, and allows tobias to smoke with her, too. she claims it takes the edge off of things, and it’s a good coping mechanism. tobias likes the way it makes him feel, so he can’t help but give in. he knows it’s wrong, but at this point, he’s done so many wrong things. in fact, that’s all tobias thought he was good for, causing trouble. so that’s what he did. and a lot of it, too.

relationships: very close with his mom, best friends with scotty, eventually becomes ryn’s boyfriend

sexuality: straight

positive personality traits: CAN BE gentle, caring, compassionate, willing, funny, loving, honest.

negative personality traits: CAN BE mean-spirited, sarcastic, unmotivated, judge mental. IS ALWAYS rebellious, obsessive (without realizing it).

notable characteristics: vitiligo, piercings, constant hair change, likes to skate, is self-destructive (in the sense that he enjoys smoking).

excerpt:

Tobias Williams was never naturally mean-spirited or angry, but his aggressive tendencies and negative attributes to his personality had grown more and more malicious over the past few years and finally, he hit a breaking point. It felt as if his entire body was on fire, his veins had shattered in to millions of tiny shards, and his heart was close to imploding. Tobias pushed the door of his 1969 Chevrolet Half-Ton open so intensely, the door could have broken right off the silver hinges. But that wasn’t a concern to Tobias in his current state, his main concern was the god-awful email that had appeared on his phone while he was out, getting things for school (which he already hated the idea of).

It felt as if there were weights attached to Tobias’s ankles as he marched up to the door of Woodland Essences, his mom’s incense shop. Just as he had before, Tobias ripped the door of the shop open and, this time, slammed it behind him. When Tobias met gazes with the glaring eyes of his mother, he folded his arms. The stare between Tobias and his mom was held for a few seconds, and she had made it clear to Tobias, she wasn’t going to talk first.

“What the hell, mom?” Tobias knew he misspoke, but betrayal such as this hit him harder than anything else did. The worst thing you could do to Tobias is betray him, treat him like he didn’t matter. Treat him like he existed one day, and was a ghost the next.

“Do not take that tone with me, Tobias,” his mom said calmly, but in a stern manner. She had adapted to Tobias's outbursts, as they were becoming more and more common. In fact, she believed there wasn’t much hope in curing Tobias’s violent impulses. Quietly, Tobias’s mom stood up from her chair behind the counter, “What are you so flustered about?” She asked, even though she knew exactly what was wrong.

“You talked to the principal about my grades and now you’re making me follow Ryn fuckin’ Wilbury around for my entirety of senior year? Are you kidding me,” Tobias’s mom wanted to butt in, yet he continued venting his wrath, “That girl is a stuck-up, wannabe, cheerleader, bitch. Everyone pretends to like her because they’re all intimidated by her book smarts.”

Tobias’s mom simply gave him a sad look, “I didn’t think you’d be angry, you told me you needed help,” Tobias shook his head. He didn’t mean literally, but maybe it didn’t come out in the joking manner Tobias thought it did. Tobias’s mom continued speaking, “I’m sorry, Tobias, I can’t retract the deal, and as your mom, I believe you need this help. Somewhere in there, you know you need it too,”

Tobias stood and didn’t say anything, his pale hair slightly damp from the humidity of the fading summer days, stuck to his forehead. So, his mom continued,

“Who would I be to turn down help that you clearly need? Makes me look pretty bad, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Tobias muttered, scuffing his Vans along the wooden floor of the shop, grumbling.

(tobi westport, misaligned stars 2019)

tag list: @tenacious-scripturient @fantasy-studiies @novicewriterstuff @ren-c-leyn

message me (@tobiwestport) or comment on this post to be added to the tag list!

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 6 years

Note

Have you thought of an AU where one of the others other than Rachel got split in half during the starfish book?

“Great.” Rachel crosses her arms, surveying the scene. “So starfish regenerate. And now we’ve got two Marcos: one dumbass and one psychopath.”

Shallow Marco (as Jake has mentally dubbed him, with a twinge of guilt) recoils, eyes filling with tears. “Jake, Rachel’s being mean to me!”

Robot Marco (and Jake feels bad about that one too) speaks over his double. “I’ve tested all eight of my most commonly used morphs, and my abilities remain intact. Therefore, it’s only logical for my other half to remain here, and for the destruction of the Anti-Morphing Ray to resume on schedule.”

Shallow Marco bursts out laughing. “‘Other half’!” he says. “You called me your other half! Like we’re married!”

Robot Marco turns to Jake. “Anyway —”

“I wouldn’t marry you,” Shallow Marco says. “You’re boring, and bossy, and short. And Jake is prettier. Not as pretty as Rachel, but sometimes she’s mean and Jake is usually nice. I wish I had a nice smile like Jake. He’s not cute, but he’s more like, like…” He looks at Cassie imploringly.

“Jake’s very sweet,” she suggests. “But we should probably get back to —”

“Ax!” Shallow Marco bursts out. “Ax is, like, hot when he’s a human. Like, really hot. It’s like he, like, got Rachel’s hot nose but not that weird thing with her chin, and Jake’s shoulders but not, I mean, let’s be honest that his face is totally asymmetrical, and Cassie has hot potential if she was a guy, but only —”

«Anti-Morphing Ray!» Tobias practically shouts.

“Don’t worry, you’re hot too. But also, like, only as a human,” Shallow Marco assures him.

“We drop a nuclear bomb in downtown Los Angeles,” Robot Marco says. “While the yeerks are distracted by the fallout, we engineer an electromagnetic pulse to travel through the community center. With the metal floors, it should generate sufficient amplitude to kill all the controllers inside. From there it will be easy to walk in and destroy the AMR.”

They all stare at him in horrified silence.

Robot Marco bursts out laughing, a second too late. “Kidding! I’m kidding. Jeez, your faces! What, this guy —” He makes a dismissive gesture at his other self — “Is the only one allowed to be funny?”

Jake sends both Marcos home. Robot Marco at least seems to understand the importance of not letting Peter find anything out. And Jake honestly doesn’t know what else to do with them. After they’re gone, the others discuss the actual plan for interrupting the transit of the AMR. However, there’s nothing else they can do tonight. Jake breaks up the meeting.

That night, Jake is about to fall into bed to try and force sleep through the worry when he hears Tom’s voice call up the stairs. “Hey, midget? Marco’s on the phone, asking for you. He sounds weird.”

Jake is fairly certain that he breaks Olympic speed records on his sprint down to wrench the phone out of Tom’s hand. “Hi!” he says into the receiver, breathless.

“You know what’s funny?” Shallow Marco — it has to be — giggles slightly. “Being underground. It’s all squishy and gross, but remember the moles? That was hilarious!”

“Uh-huh.” Jake is excruciatingly conscious of the controller watching him from ten feet away with raised eyebrows and infinite patience. “Sure is.”

“Also it’s really scary here, and dark, and scary, and the other me scares me. Can I please please please spend the night at your place instead?”

Jake’s place has hazards of its own. He glances at Tom again, unable to stop himself. “I don’t know if that really makes sense…”

“Okay. I guess I’ll just call you back the next time I think of something…”

“Come over!” Jake blurts. “It’s no problem at all.”

“Thanks! You’re, like, the best.”

It’s almost too easy for Jake to push past Tom and go talk to their parents. To say, “Marco needs to come over,” the taste of the implied lie bitter on his tongue. He hates leaning into their compassion, playing on their cynicism toward Peter, but it also works. Marco arrives within half an hour, thankfully by bicycle rather than by wing.

“Thanks for letting me stay over!” he chirrups at Tom, who answered the door.

The yeerk, apparently thrown by this, stares at Marco in silence for a second before mumbling, “yeah, whatever.”

“You know…” Marco rests a hand on Tom’s forearm, staring up into his face. “You have just the nicest smile. You know?”

A look of dull confusion crosses Tom’s face, his eyes slowly blinking once, twice. Then, with a shake as if trying to stay awake, he apparently decides not to dignify that one with a response.

“Okay!” Jake swoops in, grabbing Marco by the arm to yank him upstairs. “And we’re going to bed. Good night, everyone!”

Marco blows a kiss at Tom as they go.

The next morning, it’s Jake’s mom who knocks on the door and says, “Sweetie? Phone call for you. It’s Rachel.”

Marco doesn’t move, a lump of covers and tangled black hair in the sleeping bag on the floor. Carefully Jake steps over him and tiptoes into the hall to take the phone. “Hi!” he says to Rachel, trying for a casual tone. “What’s up?”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Rachel says through her teeth. “Marco’s dumbass half called my house five times last night. Five times. The first four were all ‘ooh, Rachel, I can’t call Jake so you’re the only one who can save me from this noise I just heard,’ or ‘Rachel, I’m scared of yee— uh, yetis, will you defend me?’ The fifth one was a fucking booty call —”

“That��s ridiculous,” Jake says, “Shallow Marco’s been here all…” Which is around the time his brain catches up to his mouth.

Dropping the phone, he sprints back to his room. The sleeping bag flops over when he kicks it, not nearly enough weight inside. Long black hairs — cut off near the root, tucked under the blanket — scatter out to float across the floor.

Shallow Marco wouldn’t cut off his own hair just to sell a ruse. But then, Shallow Marco wouldn’t be capable of pretending to be his other self. Robot Marco, on the other hand…

“Rachel.” Jake fumbles to pick up the phone. “Get everyone to the usual place, STAT. We have a situation.”

«It would appear,» Ax says slowly, «that most of Marco’s more affective functions — emotion, empathy, temperament, and the like — have ended up in this half. Whereas his missing double appears to be in possession of colder cognitive functions such as judgment and decision-making, and yet remains as defunct in social communication as this Marco is in long-term planning. However…» He shifts his back hooves, shrugging in an oddly human gesture. «I am hardly an expert in human behavioral norms or psychosocial development.»

Shallow Marco bursts out laughing. “You can say that again!” He elbows Jake. “Get it? Get it? He said ‘I am hardly an expert —’”

“Got it,” Jake says tiredly. “Ax, what’s that tell us about where, uh, thinky-Marco is going? And how do we stick him and feely-Marco back together?”

«Marco’s cognitively biased half would likely have very little concern for anyone other than himself.» Ax glances around at all of the others at once. «I’m afraid he may have left the war entirely.»

«Great,» Tobias says. «So we’re all the way back to the first month of this whole fight, when Marco was looking to bail at every possible opportunity. No offense,» he adds, glancing at Shallow Marco.

“Assuming he ran, where would he go?” Jake asks. “Feely-Marco, did you notice anything about him?”

“Yeah!” Shallow Marco straightens in indignation. “Is that really what my hair looks like from behind? How come none of you told me?”

“Tom,” Jake breathes. The realization comes too late; he could kick himself. “He acquired Tom. Probably the only reason he came to my place at all last night.”

«That’s probably not good,» Tobias says. «He might be off infiltrating yeerk meetings right now.»

“Not necessarily.” Cassie pats a horse’s neck, the motion distracted, self-soothing. “Tom’s also an eighteen-year-old. A legal adult with a driver’s license, access to a bank account with Sharing funds, and the ability to pass unquestioned through yeerk security. If I was going to grab someone’s DNA and run…”

“You wouldn’t steal another human’s identity to do it,” Rachel points out. “I still think it’s more likely he’s off kicking yeerk butt, or at least trying to. Could he be going after Eva?”

«Is it necessarily bad if Marco’s cognitively biased half is trying to advance the war effort?» Ax asks. «He does seem cogent enough to avoid coming to harm.»

«Kinda depends,» Tobias says. «This version of Marco’s apparently willing to morph humans when it suits him. What else is he willing to do?»

“Drop a nuke on Los Angeles,” Rachel says. “Fuck.”

“Is that what he’s doing?” Again, Jake looks at Shallow Marco for help.

«Not to be the guy tripping over the elephant in the room, but…» Tobias looks down, straightening a couple feathers. «Marco’s the smartest person on this team. And the best liar. Right now, he’s working with a twelve-hour head start. Whatever his plan is, we’re probably not going to come up with it in the next twenty minutes of brainstorming.»

“Right.” Jake shoves to his feet. “Then we’ll just have to split up and find him. Ax and Cassie, Rachel with Tobias, and I’ll take Marco. Bird morphs. Check in at the clock tower two hours from now.”

Shallow Marco bursts into giggles. “Morphing is so weird. And gross,” he wheezes, laughing harder now. “And dangerous. We’re craz —” He gasps. “Crazy people. And we’re all — All gonna die —”

Ploosh!

Cassie lowers the bucket, now empty, back to the ground. Shallow Marco shakes himself off, dripping but no longer on the verge of hyperventilating. “Sorry,” Cassie whispers.

“My hair looks just as good wet as it does dry, so it’s okay.” Marco smiles at her. He seems to have forgotten his near-panic.

“Right,” Jake says grimly. “Let’s go.”

Cassie and Ax find him first. Or rather they find the first unambiguous sign of his presence. They agreed to head for the community center and mall with their known cluster of yeerk pool entrances. Jake and feely-Marco are off checking out bus stations and car rental areas for signs that a guy looking like Marco — or a guy looking like Tom — left town for good. Tobias and Rachel, who have the most experience flying, are canvassing a broad area which includes most of the town and surrounding woods outside of the area over the yeerk pool.

There’s a body lying facedown on the sidewalk outside the door of the community center. Human, male, obviously dead from the angle of his neck. Ax looks at Cassie. She looks back at him. Together, they tilt to land.

Ax demorphs, presses cursory fingertips to the man’s pulse point at Cassie’s quiet instruction. Nods, confirming what they already knew.

Cassie takes the time to change to wolf morph. They don’t know what they’ll find inside. She and Ax walk as softly as they dare through the door of the community center, fur standing on end. Cassie’s nose detects blood, fear, pain. Human and animal and alien.

They pick their way through the silent lobby. The electricity is out, leaving half-dark. A second human sits behind the desk, head lolling back, bullet hole between her eyes. The room is otherwise deserted.

There are two corridors ahead. Ax tilts a stalk eye at Cassie, inquiring. Every one of her instincts tells her that the way to safety is straight ahead, where she can hear only soft traffic and smell only old furniture polish. She walks down the left-hand corridor, with its terror-smells and echoing screams and hint of kandrona on the air.

The next body they find has no head. Cassie sniffs briefly at the wound, again confirming her suspicions. It’s clean and unburned, stinking of blood and death but not of ozone. Not a dracon burn; a blow from an andalite tail blade. Visser Three is here.

They don’t stop at the next seven or eight bodies, all killed by Visser Three. Cassie glances up at Ax; he looks as confused and troubled as she is. Did Marco manage to sow discord in the Yeerk Empire this quickly? Is this a completely unrelated incident?

Neither one of them has said a word since before they landed. Walking through a graveyard as they are, no words seem necessary.

It’s inevitable, really, when Visser Three himself looms out of the darkness ahead.

Cassie drops to a half-crouch, teeth bared. Ax’s tail blade snaps to the ready.

Visser Three… stands there.

Stiff-kneed, every hair standing on end, Cassie takes another step forward. Another. There’s pale-blue blood pouring out of Visser Three’s nose, his ears. His left side — stalk eye, arm, both legs — is strangely limp.

«Ax?» Cassie asks, voice too high-pitched, hoping for answers.

Ax takes two more steps toward the visser, not lowering his tail blade. Visser Three gives a sudden spasm. The fur on his right arm shifts, becomes red and scaly —

Skish!

Ax’s tail blade has twitched faster than either of them can think. Visser Three falls, dead.

Ax stares at the body for a long moment, chest heaving, tail twitching as if in an effort to clean it of blood. Visser Three lies unmoving, and soon he is no longer breathing.

«Come,» Ax says at last, voice shaky. «We need to find Marco.»

Marco himself is not far from the end of his ghastly trail of breadcrumbs. He sits brooding over his fallen kingdom, a mountain of black fur and bloodstains amidst what have to be close to a hundred other corpses. Some are hork-bajir, some human, several taxxon.

Ax gingerly steps forward. «Mar—» He stops, staring.

Cassie slinks around his far side, watching Marco, a snarl still in the back of her throat. She sees what drew Ax up short, and sits hard on the ground.

The body resting at Marco’s feet is one Cassie only knows as Visser One. But she knows enough to recognize the woman, to see the same full lips and dark curls and high cheekbones that Cassie associates with Marco himself.

Unlike everyone else in the room, Eva bears the clear marks of having been killed by a gorilla. The small pistol still cradled in her limp hand wasn’t enough to save her, or Visser One.

«Ax.» Cassie’s voice comes out strange, but she finds she can do this. She can tap a deep reserve, take charge, when no one else can. «Go find Jake and Rachel and the others. Bring them back here, as soon as possible.»

«Will you… be all right?» Ax says.

«We’re going to be just fine.» This time her voice is too gentle, bordering on patronizing. Marco doesn’t react to her tone. Ax just nods, and begins to morph.

During the half hour that Ax is away finding the others, Cassie bears witness. She coaxes Marco into demorphing, and then she listens in silence to the dull recitation of his explanation. How, once he’d had Tom’s DNA, getting into the yeerk pool itself was easy to do. How he’d simply acquired a yeerk from out of the pool. The next part had taken some doing, but after whispering and tracking rumor and observing the patterns of movement, he’d managed to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to shove Esplin 9466 out of the way — and slide into Alloran’s brain himself. From there, it had all been so easy: executing half a dozen subordinates on the slightest excuse, bellowing contradicting orders and threatening death for all who disobeyed, claiming that there were traitors in their ranks who had to be eliminated. Marco estimates that he has decimated the entire arm of the invasion force here in California, and that the carnage is continuing to spread even now.

“I had to demorph inside Alloran’s brain, in the end,” Marco says. He and Cassie are both human by now, just two kids sitting among the corpses. “Blew half his circuits in the process. Shame, really, since he wasn’t even fighting back against me and he could’ve been useful. But I suppose it’s one less distraction for Ax, so it’s more gain than loss.”

Cassie keeps her opinion of that assessment to herself. She keeps it all to herself, even the tears that burn behind her eyes and the tension in the fist clenched at her side. This isn’t Marco, she tells herself yet again, not really. This is a half-person, lacking one half of all human nature. Their Marco is himself entire.

“Speaking of distractions we couldn’t afford, I took the time to kill Tom as well.” Marco shifts slightly, a careless leg propped against his mother’s body. “Jake might be upset at first, but he’ll thank me in the end. It’s better for the overall strategy to have him out of the way, and Jake will see that soon enough.”

This Marco, Cassie thinks, is not half as smart as he seems to think he is.

Jake makes it two steps into the room and staggers. Mechanically, out of sheer lost uncertainty, he starts going from body to body: checking faces, checking IDs, checking for signs of life. Shallow Marco shoves past him, running for the center of the room. He falls next to Eva’s body, keening from somewhere deep inside.

Robot Marco lifts his head up, watching his twin with what looks like idle interest. “I remember what it was like to be half of you, to be frail and shrill and vulnerable. Do you remember being competent and clear-sighted and monstrous when necessary?”

Shallow Marco (and yet there is nothing shallow about him, not now) lifts his head up to stare his doppleganger down. His bloodshot eyes, his trembling lips, the soft sob of his breath… Jake has never seen Marco like this, not even after Eva’s first death.

“You see,” Robot Marco continues calmly, “it’s only a matter of time before the chee find a way to make us one again. Morphing tore us apart, but I’m almost certain that it can’t hold us this way. I got plenty done while I was free. The war is won. However, I’m starting to see that I need you almost as much as you need me. Therefore, it’s—”

BANG.

Robot Marco jerks, mouth halfway open, and actually looks down at the bullet hole through his heart. “You…” He sounds genuinely surprised. “You…” He dies, still upright, between one breath and the next. Jake sees it happen, watches the slow fall of his body.

Shallow Marco lowers the gun, resting it back into Eva’s hand. “It’s funny, when you think about it,” he tells Jake. There’s an edge of laughter — of tears — of something, catching at his voice. “He didn’t think anything of me. I don’t feel anything toward him. It’s…” Another sobbing breath catches in his chest. “It’s hilarious, and…”

Rachel starts to move forward. In an instant Marco (the only Marco, now) has whipped the gun back up to point at her chest.

“He killed my mom!” Marco screams at Rachel. “Don’t you dare— He killed—”

Rachel holds up both hands. She takes another step forward, because Rachel’s never had the good sense to be afraid. “I know. I know. And I’m the last person to give a crap about that. But right now, I just don’t want—”

“What, this?” Marco whips the gun up, points it at his own head, and pulls the trigger.

There’s a faint click, but it doesn’t go off. It’s empty. Or jammed. Or it’s simply not a semi-automatic. Jake doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care, because Marco has time to look at it and laugh like it’s the silliest thing he’s ever seen, and then Rachel tackles him. She tosses the gun clear across the room, wrestling both hands behind him, and pins him to the floor.

“I will,” she pants, “cause you severe bodily harm—” another gasp — “if you even think about morphing.”

Marco doesn’t answer. He just curls under her, looking small and alone and very young.

“Okay.” Rachel relaxes her grip a little, after a time. “Okay. Yeah.”

She looks up. Her expression says now what?

Jake stares back, face full of I don’t know.

They’ve won the war, Tobias thinks, watching it all from overhead as if it’s happening to someone else. If they haven’t won it already, Marco has just handed them the opportunity to finish the job.

One of the bodies curled on the floor is a girl can’t be any older than the Animorphs themselves. One of the bodies has the face of a friend, of a part of them all.

Sure, Tobias thinks. Yeah. This is what victory feels like. Sure it does.

Still. They have a chance now. To find a way forward. To figure it out. To find a way to live through the war, even if it has eaten half of their selves alive.

#animorphs #animorphs au #marco animorphs #32 #the separation #the one and only #violence #gore #suicide #character death #I'm pretty sure this was meant to be a light au idea #and then my brain weasels got ahold of it #sorry?#rachelberensonwarriorprincess #asks

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batonaclarinet1982 · 6 years

Text

The Betrayal

Harry’s *Point of View*

“Don’t worry Percival, I’m not really friends with Potter, I’m just pretending” said a voice.

My so-called best friend, Ronald was discussing some very shady business with two of his siblings in the boys dormitory. Unbeknownst to Ronald, I was hiding in the wardrobe, under my invisibility cloak.

I wanted to leap out of there and surprise them, but my instincts told me not to. At least, not yet anyway, so I stayed put, and put my hand over my mouth so that I wouldn’t give away my advantageous location. I listened intently.

“Good.” said Percival

“Father wants you to encourage Ginevra to get close to the idiotic brat. You see, he want’s Potter’s fortune. The only way he is going to get it is if Ginevra marries the little shit.” he concluded.

“WHAT?” Ginevra shrieked.

“Gin, don’t worry. All you have to do is persuade him to marry you, knock you up, leave you and the child everything in his will and then he’ll have a ‘Quidditch accident’ and die and you’ll get his money and we can live like kings!”

I heard Ginevra take a deep breath and then she shrieked

“I WON’T DO IT I WON’T I WON’T! I DON’T WANT TO BE LADY POTTER I DON’T WANT TO BE LADY POTTER I WON’T I WON’T DO IT I WON’T I WON’T!”

I chose that moment to leap silently out of the wardrobe, punched Percival in the nose, kicked Ronald as hard as I could in the ‘nards, before I turned to Ginevra and said “I WOULDN’T MARRY A FILTHY DIRTY DISGUSTING BRUTAL BOTTOM-FEEDING TRASHBAG HOOOOOOOO LIKE YOU IF YOU WERE THE LAST WITCH… NO THE LAST WOMAN ON EARTH.” Ginevra looked appropriately scandalised. Someone hissed “NOW” and the “boy’s dormitory” vanished and all of a sudden I was in The Great Hall at dinnertime. Several hundred stunned faces took in the scene before them.

“BESIDES WHICH I’M GAY. I AM COURTING SOMEONE AND I AM VERY HAPPY, AND BY THE WAY GINEVRA, YOU CAN TELL ARTHUR AND MOLLY THAT HARRY POTTER IS ON TO THEM AND THEY WILL GET THEIRS IN DUE TIME.” I roared. I didn’t care if The entire Great Hall or the entire wizard world heard me. I would not tolerate being treated like a puppet anymore. “Arthur isn’t our father” said Percival in a muffled voice, he was trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of blood from his nose where I hit him.

“Ronald, Ginevra and I are Dumbledore’s kids” “Congratulations Percival, you have just succeeded in making my wrath a hundred thousand times worse! I am going to deal with this and neither of your parental units will know what hit them!”

“What are you going to do?” Percival whimpered,

“As if I’d tell YOU that” I spat venomously.

Hermione had heard everything. She came over to me and said “Harry, I’m afraid it gets worse… Dumbledore paid the three of them to befriend us, Draco told me that this morning and Fred and George verified it. and that’s not all, Harry sit down, I am about to drop a bombshell”

“Not here, let’s go and see Severus. You can tell us both at the same time.”

“OK, good idea”

We got up… I kicked Ronald in the nuts again and glared at Dumbledore, “You rotten old goat, you’ll get yours.” I hissed and Hermione and I turned and walked out of The Great Hall and went down to see Severus.

“Harry” he said “What’s the matter?”

“Oh nothing… except that Ronald betrayed me and Hermione has something worse than that to tell us”

“Let’s sit down” Severus suggested and he summoned an elf to bring us refreshments.

“OK Hermione, go on, tell us”

“Well… Draco, Fred and George confirmed this earlier… Harry, Lily Evans was not your mother. Dumbledore used the Imperius curse to hoodwink her into believing that she was married to James Potter and was your mother, but she wasn’t. You’re not an only child either, you’re a twin. Remus and Sirius are your biological parents and… we went to Malfoy Manor and spoke with Lucius and Narcissa. Draco is your twin brother. Lucius is infertile because Rodolphus Lestrange hit him with a curse when he was fourteen years old. It was the Avada Maxima Curse.”

“So… Dudley isn’t really my cousin?” “Yes he is, you’re just not related to muggles that’s all. Dudley is Nymphadora Tonks little brother, he was kidnapped and put into another situation as well.”

“Dumbledore?” “Dumbledore”

I took a moment to attempt to digest that. I was absolutely reeling. I felt Severus squeeze my shoulder.

“Is my name really Harry Potter?” “No, it’s Perseus-Orion Black-Lupin” said Hermione “and Draco’s real name is Romulus-Xerxes Black-Lupin.”

“oh… so my whole worthless life is a total and utter lie?”

“Perseus, this changes nothing between you and I”

“Are you sure Sev? You fell for someone who is basically a lie”

“It gets worse” said Hermione “Dumbledore did the same thing to me. I’m not an only child either. He stole me from my parents as well… and my big sister. My mother is Professor McGonagall and my father… is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I’ve never even met him. My sister is… or rather was lead to believe that she was Bellatrix Black-Lestrange. A person that doesn’t even exist. My real name is Natasha-Jane Riddle and my sister’s name is Persephone Rose Riddle. Tom Riddle is the real Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“Where is your father?” I asked “Perseus I have a bombshell of my own to drop on you. Tom Riddle is the real Headmaster of Hogwarts. He raised me. He didn’t adopt me — but he raised me after my bastard muggle father Tobias Snape murdered my mother Eileen Prince in front of me and Lily, he was sent to jail for a really long time. He raised Lucius as well. He’s Lucius’s godfather.”

The Floo rang, snapping us all out of our reverie. It was Mrs Malfoy.

“Cissy? what’s the matter? Come through”

“Lucius is not himself Severus and I am worried.” “How can we help?”

“We need to find Tom” “I’m already on that” said a voice from the door”

“Metatron?” “Yes Severus it’s me.”

“Is Tom OK?” “Yes he’s fine, Serendipity is helping him explain everything to Minerva and to fix things with her.”

“Find Draco, Fred and George, then I need you to bring Lucius through”

“OK”

“What about revenge?” “Don’t worry Perse. We’ll get Dumbledore.”

Metatron gathered everyone in Sev’s living room with a flick of his hand.

“We all know the truth now so it’s revenge time”

“Let’s form our own Mafia”

“OK Perse”

“I WANT PUBLIC REVENGE”

“Yes, so do I” said Romulus “Let’s hit Dumbledore where it hurts the most… his vaults at Gringotts!”

“Funny, I thought I heard him groan when I kicked his son Ronald in the nuts earlier tonight” I said with a sly grin.

“You kicked Ronald in the nuts?” asked Lucius

“Yes. He deserved it too.” I concluded “Hell, I should probably have aimed a crucio down there as well but oh well”

“Damn I wish Rodolphus Lestrange hadn’t been kissed the day after he attacked me. I’d have loved some revenge” “I kicked him in the nuts after you were taken to the Infirmary” Narcissa admitted.

“That’s my witch!”

All of the males in the room, except for Metatron winced when Narcissa admitted to that.

“What?” said Metatron “I’m as anatomically impaired as a Ken Doll.”

“Next time I see Dumbledore I’m going to kick him there while wearing a steel toe-capped boot!” said Lucius

Everyone including Metatron shuddered at that!”

“Right… it’s show time… come on follow my lead. I am forming my own mafia”

“Let’s go and give Dumbledore his comeuppance!”

We went upstairs. Arthur was waiting for us. He was furious.

“Molly just told me every little thing that she’s done. I’ve had her arrested and…” He collapsed, foaming at the mouth and twitching.

Severus sprang to action, took a phial of purple potion out of his pocket, added some of Arthur’s blood to it and cast a Timer charm. After three minutes the potion turned a sickly yellow colour.

“He’s been poisoned” said Sev. he conjured a stretcher and he and Lucius took Arthur to St Mungo’s but it was too late. Arthur died not long after arriving at the hospital. Lucius and Severus came back just as Sirius and Remus arrived at Hogwarts. I had contacted them. They performed a blood adoption ceremony, adopting Arthur’s four boys — Charlie, Bill, Fred and George. Molly screamed and yelled but was ignored

“YOU ABUSED THOSE BOYS MOLLY PREWETT! YOU IGNORED THEM. YOU TREATED THEM LIKE A BURDEN” Sirius yelled “THEY ARE NO LONGER YOURS.”

“You’re just in time I’m about to take care of the goat problem” I told Remus “By forming my own mafia”

“I knew letting you watch The Godfather was a bad idea Harry” he said. I ignored him.

“Dumbledore isn’t going to know what has hit him”

Several hours later, Severus and I were cuddling on the couch, Sirius and Remus were sitting cuddling on the other couch. A loud shrill scream was heard coming from Dumbledore’s office. I had asked Dobby to leave him a little gift on his bed. Obviously he found it.

“What did you do?” “Oh nothing, I had Dobby leave a horse’s head in Dumbledore’s bed.”

Everyone gasped and Severus said,

“Remind me never to cross you Perse"

The next morning, As I entered the Great Hall, Dumbledore stood up.

“If it’s a war you want Mr Potter” he sneered,

“It is a war you shall have.”

I walked right up to him and slapped him right across his wrinkled old face as hard as I could. “MY NAME IS NOT HARRY POTTER YOU EVIL OLD GOAT! THE HORSE’S HEAD WAS JUST THE BEGINNING OF MY REVENGE… I AM GOING TO WREAK A TERRIBLE VENGEANCE UPON YOU AND YOUR FAMILY. YOU WILL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR ACTIONS”

I clicked my fingers and Lucius gave him The Kiss of Death before I clicked my fingers again and the Aurors flooded in led by Amelia Bones.

“Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore, you are under arrest for embezzlement, fraud, kidnapping, endangerment of minors and impersonating a ministry appointed official” she said.

All kinds of merry hell broke loose…

The end, for now. Feel free to review just remember I was a special needs kid who went to CATHOLIC MAINSTREAM school so I’m not educated

#EvilDumbledore #EvilRonaldWeasley #EvilPercyWeasley #EvilGinnyWeasley #EvilMollyWeasley #snarry #wolfstar #minervamort #GoodMalfoys MagicalMafia #metatron #fanfiction #Camp NaNoWriMo April 2018 prep

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