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nightingaleflow · 1 year

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Violet and Lotus, Chapter 6

(AO3 Link)

Fandom: Naruto Rating: T Pairing: Rock Lee x Nezumi Chisaki (OC) Chapter Word Count: 5.5k Warnings for this chapter: Interrogation/torture, imprisonment, violence, blood/gore, death and near-death, medical.

A/N: This is the chapter where things get real ugly real quick. I put Nezumi and Lee through a lot. But it's ok - they're strong, they're shinobi, and they have each other. <3

Enjoy!

When Nezumi had woken up that morning, still warm and content from her dream, she once again found herself entangled with Lee. Her head rested on his chest, her arm loosely draped over his stomach. His arms encircled her torso, gently holding her close to him. She felt warm and safe, like this was where she was meant to be.

Then, as she looked up at him, she realized he was already awake and frozen with nerves.

“Rock,” Nezumi started. “I’m sor-”

Lee shook his head. “You have done nothing wrong,” he said, anxiety clear in his voice. “There is nothing you need to apologize for.”

“Oh,” Nezumi said, blushing. “Still…I didn’t mean for this to happen again.”

Lee swallowed hard. “It is ok.”

Nezumi paused, a question rising in her throat. “Rock?” she said, nerves thickening her voice.

“Yes?”

“Um…do you…I mean…is this ok? Do you mind?”

Lee took a long breath before finally answering. “No. I do not mind.” Nervously, he added, “Do you?”

“No,” Nezumi admitted, her face catching fire. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh…”

His arms gripped her a little tighter. His hand drew a small circle in her back, encouraging her to relax. Nezumi adjusted slightly, then did just that, melting slightly in his arms.

They remained intertwined for what could have been hours or minutes, neither of them knew. Nezumi vaguely thought they should get up and get breakfast, given that they had such a long day ahead. But she made no move to do so. Lee never did either. Nor did either of them speak, both content to just lie there together, soaking up each other’s presence.

Eventually, the room was completely lit from the sun. Nezumi sighed, sitting up and saying they needed to get food. Lee agreed and followed her downstairs, but he looked as disappointed as she felt that their quiet morning had ended.

They ate breakfast quickly, chatting amicably about nothing over oatmeal and tea. Nezumi noted that Lee had gotten exceptionally good at that, able to come up with topics at the drop of a hat and keep the conversation going. It was evidence of just how much he’d improved since starting this mission.

“So, what is the plan for after breakfast?” Lee asked, taking a sip.

“Head back to the room and make sure everything is packed,” Nezumi replied. “Then I guess just check out and head home.”

Lee nodded, his expression growing sympathetic. “I am sorry you did not get to enjoy this vacation as much.”

“My own fault,” Nezumi replied, waving her hand. “We’ll just have to come back another day.”

Lee’s face lit up. “What a marvelous idea! I would love to come back sometime.”

“You two are leaving us today?”

Nezumi looked up to see Sadako smiling at them, a tray of baked goods balanced on her hand.

“I’m afraid so,” Nezumi replied. “It’s a shame, I would love to stay longer.”

Sadako beamed at her. “Of course, I understand. Please feel free to visit us again any time.” She offered them a pair of strawberry muffins. “Here, I noticed these were your favorites.”

“Thank you so much,” Nezumi said, dipping her head as she accepted hers.

“Of course,” Sadako said, bowing. “If I miss you at checkout, have a safe trip back.”

“Thank you!” Lee said, beaming.

Nezumi smiled, then lifted the muffin to her lips. As she went to take a bite, a strange scent hit her nose. The muffin did smell of strawberry, but the scent was much too strong. She carefully glanced around the room, angling her vision so she could watch Sadako without looking directly at her. Sadako was walking back towards the kitchen, but just before she slipped through the door, she looked back in Nezumi’s direction, her expression unreadable.

Nezumi fixed her expression in a sweet smile. “I’m about full,” she said. “I think we should take these with us and eat them on the road.”

Lee looked at her curiously. “Are you sure? We are not in any rush. We could just take our time and enjoy our meal before we go.”

Nezumi met his gaze, silently pleading for him to understand. “Trust me. That way, we also don’t have to worry about lunch later.”

Lee’s eyebrows narrowed ever so slightly. “All right.”

The two walked out of the breakfast nook and headed upstairs. Nezumi wasn’t able to look at Sadako again, but as they climbed the stairs, she felt her hair standing up on the back of her head as if she was being watched.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Nezumi slid the extra latch shut. Lee turned to her. “Is something wrong, Nezumi?”

“I think so,” she replied. “Give me your muffin.”

Lee immediately handed it over. Nezumi set both muffins on the dresser, then pulled a pair of paper seals from her pack. She laid one on top of each muffin, then wove a quick series of hand signs over them. As she finished, the seals glowed red, then changed to a deep green.

“I knew it,” Nezumi said. “These are drugged.”

Lee’s face paled. “Drugged?”

Nezumi nodded, tightening her pigtails. “I don’t know how, but we’ve been found out,” she said. “Change into your ninja gear and grab your stuff. We need to go.”

Lee nodded and threw his civilian clothes into his pack. Nezumi raced into the bathroom, trading her dress for her sleeker blouse and pants. They circled the room, grabbing the seals they’d set the first night and making sure nothing else was left. Then Nezumi set the key next to the two muffins and opened the shoji.

As they stepped onto the porch, they heard footsteps in the hallway outside the room. A scratching sound came from the door, then an annoyed grunt as someone rattled the doorknob. Nezumi and Lee exchanged a look, then darted onto the next roof.

They didn’t look back as they left Yugakure behind. They raced through the trees, channeling as much chakra as they could spare into their legs. The sun rose directly overhead as they approached the border, each silently praying they would cross in time.

As they entered a clearing by a river, an eerie whistling sound filled the air. They both looked up to see a storm of shuriken about to rain down on them. Lee and Nezumi immediately drew their kunai, knocking away as many as they could. A few still bit into their arms and legs, but they managed to deflect the ones aimed at their most vital spots.

Leaves rustled above their heads. Lee threw his kunai up and was rewarded with a loud groan. Two Otogakure ninja jumped down, one clutching his arm where the kunai had found its mark. He wrenched it out, then threw it back, only for Nezumi to knock it away. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

“Doesn’t matter who we are,” one said, sneering at her. “Just come with us and we might let you live.”

“No,” Lee said firmly. He moved between them and Nezumi. “Go, get back to the village. I’ll hold them off.”

“What? No!” Nezumi said. “That’s not-”

“It’s too late for that anyway,” said a haughty voice. From behind them, another figure stepped from the trees. She was tall, with brown hair piled elegantly in a bun. She wore a pair of gauntlets on her arms, each armed with spiky barbs.

Nezumi glared at her. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lady Teruya of Otogakure,” the woman said, bowing sarcastically. “And I’ve been dying to talk to you privately for days...Nezumi Chisaki of Konoha.”

Nezumi’s mouth thinned, her mind whirling as she tried to come up with a plan. She eyed the river, then slowly moved around Lee. “How did you find out about me?”

Teruya chuckled. “You just have to know who to ask,” she said. “Miss Sadako was rather helpful, for example, pointing out your unusual activities in our village. And for another…” She held up a bloody, crumpled piece of paper. “Your little rat didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Nezumi paled. Her report had never reached Konoha. They were completely on their own.

“Now then,” Teruya said. “You’re going to come with us, and we’re going to see what else you know.”

“Rock, get ready,” Nezumi whispered.

He glanced at her and nodded.

As the other shinobi appeared behind them, Nezumi’s hands whirled through a series of signs. “Water Release, Water Binding Jutsu!”

A torrent of water erupted from the river, splitting into three branches. It slammed the two men against a nearby tree, binding them there. Teruya managed to leap away so the water only gripped her ankle, and she furiously cut at the watery rope with a kunai.

Lee and Nezumi took off again, branches and leaves tearing at their skin as they sped towards the border. Teruya let out a furious shout, but they ignored it as they pressed forward.

Then the forest around them exploded.

A loud roar catapulted dirt and debris into the air. The ground and trees burst, shards of wood and rock raining down on them like shuriken. Lee shielded his head with his arms, grunting as shards of wood pierced his jumpsuit.“Nezumi, are you all right?” he coughed, trying not to breathe in the dirt. When she didn’t reply, he stopped moving and turned around. Nezumi was kneeling on the forest floor, holding her leg.

“Nezumi!” Lee immediately dropped next to her. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head. She tried to stand, but groaned, immediately sitting back down. She pulled back her pant leg, revealing a sliver of wood sticking out of her calf. “I don’t think I can walk,” she said, pain clear in her voice.

“Then I will carry you,” Lee replied, looping an arm around her. “Hold on-“

A high-pitched sound filled the clearing. Lee immediately covered his ears, but it did little to help as the sound invaded his senses. He groaned, his vision swimming and his stomach churning, trying to stay on his feet.

When the sound stopped, Teruya was in front of him, one hand tangled in Nezumi’s hair and a spiked gauntlet against her throat. “Think very carefully about your next move,” Teruya growled. “Either you come with me now and live a little longer, or I just kill you both right now.”

“Let her go!” Lee growled, brandishing his kunai.

Teruya pressed the spikes against Nezumi’s skin. They easily pierced her flesh, trickles of blood oozing out. “You’re in no position to bargain, young man. Unless you want me to rip her throat open right now, you’ll throw down your weapon and surrender.”

Lee clenched his fists. But, when Teruya began to press a little harder, he immediately dropped everything. “Nezumi…” he whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Nezumi took a deep breath, then nodded slowly. “It’s ok,” she whispered. “Trust me.”

Lee nodded, then closed his eyes as the Oto ninja overwhelmed him.

The next few hours were hell.

Nezumi and Lee were dragged through the forest until they reached the entrance of an underground lair, where they were separated. Nezumi was taken to an interrogation chamber, and under Teruya’s watch, she was beaten within an inch of her life. Her captors asked her over and over again what she knew and how she knew it. Nezumi just kept her head down and stayed silent, enduring whatever they could dish out and praying that Lee, wherever he was, was still alive.

When they finally stopped, she didn’t even have the energy to be grateful.

They dragged her down a new hallway to a jail, then threw her inside a cell and slammed the door shut. She waited until they were gone, then curled around herself in the corner and took stock of her injuries. The cut in her leg from where the wood had stabbed her still hurt and inhibited her mobility. There were fresh cuts everywhere else, from her face all the way down to her feet, though most of these were shallow. The worst injuries were to her right hand, where two of her fingers were broken, and a cracked rib, which made it hurt to breathe.

She sucked a deep breath, then put her hand to her chest. Her ribs burned as she fused them back together, and her vision went white. But she pushed through until she could breathe again. Then she put her hand to her leg, searing the wound closed.

Before she could start on her hand, she heard another cell door slam shut across the hall. “We’ll be back tomorrow for round two,” said the ninja, sneering at someone Nezumi couldn’t see. “You all have a good night.”

He walked away. A few seconds later, she heard Lee groan softly.

“Rock?” she called. “Is that you?”

His voice came back low and mumbled, his words completely indecipherable. This was followed by a low, agonized groan. His hand gripped the bars, his fingers painted with fresh blood.

She looked around her cell, spotting a blanket-covered cot on the opposite wall. She felt along its wooden frame and was rewarded by a set of fraying splinters underneath. She pried the two largest loose, then tore some strips from the blanket. She used the fragments to splint her fingers, wincing as she tied them tight. She took a few seconds to manipulate the pillow and blanket, making it look like she was curled up on the bed. Then she wove signs with her uninjured hand. “Shrinking Violet Jutsu.”

Once she was the size of a shogi piece, she darted out of her cell and into Lee’s. She groaned as undid the jutsu, wiping fresh beads of sweat from her face as fresh spikes of pain shot through her.

When she opened her eyes again, her heart stopped.

Lee was leaning against his cot, his body looking like a broken doll. Blood stained his lips, dripping onto his torn jumpsuit, and his jaw had swelled to twice its normal size. One of Lee’s eyes was swollen shut. More blood seeped from cuts all over his body. He was a complete mess.

And yet, in spite of all this, his expression still brightened as soon as he saw her.

He tried to say something, but then his eyes shut and he groaned in pain. Nezumi was at his side in an instant. “Don’t try to talk yet,” she murmured. “Let me see.”

Hands glowing green with chakra, she examined him carefully in the dim light. She quickly confirmed her suspicions that his jaw was broken. The cuts made everything look worse, but apart from one on his thigh that was near an artery in his arm, his jaw was the only major concern.

“First thing’s first, I’m going to heal your jaw,” Nezumi said, gingerly placing her fingertips on his face. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it’s going to hurt no matter what I do. I have to reset it so it can heal properly.”

Lee nodded. He tried to smile, but the movement of his face made him wince, so he settled for a thumbs up instead.

“Try to stay still for me,” Nezumi said. “On three. One, two, three.”

She jerked her hands, snapping his jaw back into alignment. His eyes watered as he let out a low groan, but otherwise he stayed perfectly still. Nezumi immediately pumped healing chakra into his face, reducing the swelling. “The worst is over,” she assured him. “Thank you for being so cooperative.”

“Of course,” Lee said, his voice still muffled. “And thank you, Nezumi. That feels much better already.”

Guilt hit Nezumi hard. She lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry. You wouldn’t be in this position right now if it wasn’t for me,” Nezumi replied. “If I hadn’t been so weak…”

Lee rested his hand on her shoulder. “Please do not blame yourself,” he said. “The only ones who are at fault are the ones who did this to us.”

Nezumi shook her head. “I’m your leader for this mission. So your being here is my fault.”

Lee shook his head. “You do not need to be so hard on yourself,” he said, wincing as Nezumi pressed harder against his skin.

“You’re sweet, Rock,” Nezumi said. “But that is part of my job.”

Lee shook his head, but didn’t argue further. “What is the plan?” he asked instead.

“Working on it,” Nezumi said. “But we have several disadvantages. We don’t know the layout of this place. We’re injured. And we need a key to get you out.” She sighed. “What I really need is more time, but I don’t know how long they intend to let us live.”

“Not long at all, I imagine.” Lee frowned. “Wait…a key to get me out?”

Nezumi nodded. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been captured,” she replied. “But I always get taken alone. The plan is always to just wait until I’m left alone, then use my jutsu to shrink down and escape.” She gestured at him. “Obviously, I can’t do that now.”

Lee paled. “So…when you were telling me to go…”

“It was because I knew I could get myself out.”

“I am so sorry!” Lee said. “I did not realize-”

Nezumi laid her hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t know. You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “I’m used to having partners who already know that, so it slipped my mind when I was explaining things to you. And it’s not like I could have told you that in the moment.”

“No…” Lee said. “But I am sorry all the same.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Just be with me here and now so we can escape.”

Lee squeezed her hand back. “I can do that.”

A cold draft blew through the cell. Nezumi shivered, letting him go and crossing her arms to protect herself from the chill.

“Are you all right?” Lee asked.

“Yeah,” Nezumi said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Just cold. Nothing to worry about.”

Lee reached behind him, grabbing the ragged blanket from the cot. He draped it around Nezumi’s shoulders, shielding her from the frigid air. He cautiously pulled her closer until she nestled against him, then rubbed her arms, trying to smooth the goosebumps away. “Is this better?” he asked.

“A little,” Nezumi said. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her mind on track. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Lee murmured. “I only wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing plenty,” Nezumi said. She rested her head against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just used a lot of chakra.”

“Then rest,” Lee said. “I will watch over you.”

Nezumi didn’t fight him, relaxing in his arms and closing her eyes. “I promise,” she murmured. “One way or another, I’m going to get you home.”

Lee maintained his vigil for several hours, cradling Nezumi in his arms as she slept and doing his best to keep her warm. She nuzzled him periodically in her sleep, occasionally murmuring his name. Lee rubbed her back whenever she did, the word precious once again floating through his mind.

He had a moment of panic when a guard brought them food. He turned on his side to hide her, adjusting the blanket and praying no one would see. Fortunately, the guard wasn’t paying attention. He just threw the food into their cells and left, not even glancing their way once as he muttered something about babysitting prisoners. The jail door slammed behind him, his keys jangling on his belt.

Lee’s head snapped up, looking at the door. Then he looked down at Nezumi. She still looked peaceful, completely at ease in his arms.

Precious.

“Nezumi,” he whispered, gently shaking her.

“Hm?” Nezumi asked, blinking her eyes sleepily. “What is it?”

“I have a plan.”

Nezumi immediately became more alert. “Tell me.”

Lee leaned closer, whispering his idea in her ear. Nezumi listened intently, nodding along as he spoke. “Rock, that’s brilliant,” she said as he finished.

He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Nezumi grinned, then gave him a quick once-over. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore, but it is nothing I cannot deal with.”

Nezumi leaned closer, gently brushing her fingers along his face. “The swelling has gone down, but you’ll need additional healing once we get home.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry I can’t spare the chakra right now.”

“That is all right,” Lee assured her. “Do not worry…”

His voice faltered as he realized just how close Nezumi’s face was. She was inches away, studying him closely. Her fingers came to rest by his ear, her palm resting on his cheek as her thumb brushed away a flake of dried blood. She was as ragged as the blanket, her hair a mess and spots of dried blood on her clothes. But what struck him the most was the sheer care she was expressing. Her reassuring smile, her soft eyes that swept over him, the gentle way she touched him. It went beyond the simple attentiveness a medic gave a patient, or a leader to their subordinate. She cared about him.

And as he looked at her, glowing in the soft light despite her messy state, he knew he was lost.

He picked up her hand, clasping it between his own. “I will be fine,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Nezumi said softly.

His heart skipped a beat. He wanted to say so much more, but his body betrayed him as a yawn escaped his throat. “I apologize.”

“You’re just tired,” she said. “Rest up for now. Once they return for us, I’ll need you ready and alert.”

Lee nodded. “I can do that.”

It only took another hour before they heard someone finally approach. Lee remained as still as possible, looking across the hall. He could make out Nezumi’s silhouette, silently sitting on her cot, waiting. She nodded at him, and he gave her a thumbs up.

“All right,” the guard grunted, dropping a bowl of mushy grains in Nezumi’s cell. “You maggots better eat fast. We don’t have all day.”

He turned to Lee, chucking the bowl through the bars. Lee caught the bowl and immediately threw it back. The guard ducked out of the way, then sneered at him. “You really thought you could get me with that?” he taunted, stepping closer to his cell. “Nice try. I’m gonna enjoy watching you suf-”

A small piece of wood collided with the back of his head. Furious, the guard turned around, only to have Nezumi’s foot slam into his chest a second later. He let out a shout as he fell back against the bars. Before he could recover, Lee pounced, grabbing the guard’s arms and pinning them back. He continued to shout, struggling against Lee’s iron grasp as he tried to knock the radio on his hip into the bars. Nezumi grabbed his face, her hand glowing with blue chakra. A moment later, the guard gasped and fell limp.

Once he was out, Nezumi grabbed the ring of keys from his belt. “Ok, you can let him go,” she said, putting the first key in the lock.

Lee nodded, looking curiously at him. “What was that?”

“Just a basic knockout jutsu,” Nezumi replied as the lock clicked open. “Come on. It won’t be long before they come looking for him.”

They took off through the maze of tunnels. They immediately came to a three-way fork and hesitated, looking down each path carefully. Nezumi conjured a small flame in her hands, studying which way the flame flickered. They went to the right, racing down a hallway lined with identical doors. Then, at the next fork, the flame guided them straight ahead.

An alarm blared overhead. The dim lights lining the walls glowed red, making the hall appear bathed in blood. They heard muffled shouts and several footsteps growing louder in the distance. Nezumi skidded to a stop in front of a door and pushed on it. It opened, revealing a room filled with wooden crates. Lee and Nezumi squeezed inside, shutting the door just as the shouting horde passed. Then, once all was silent, they slipped back out and ran the way the horde had come from.

They repeated the maneuver several times as the hideout became flooded with Sound shinobi. They hid in barracks and storage closets, each time barely escaping notice. In their fourth room, shinobi stopped outside the door, and Nezumi had to summon a mouse to distract them. After the fifth, someone spotted them as they slipped around a corner and into a dead end. Lee knocked him out as soon as he rounded the corner.

Finally, they reached the end of the hallway and entered a large room, a pair of ornate doors on the opposite side. Sunlight streamed underneath, letting them know they were in the right spot. Unfortunately, between the door and themselves were eight Sound shinobi, all of whom turned toward them as soon as they entered.

Lee brought one hand up and tucked the other behind his back, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Nezumi pressed her shoulder against his. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” she whispered. “Just break through the line and get to the exit.”

“Understood,” Lee said. “I am ready.”

“Then let’s go home.”

They charged as one. The Sound shinobi charged back, raising a flurry of strange weapons. Nezumi could see the air moving through them and slapped her hands together. “Water Release, Water Shuriken!”

Several shuriken made of water appeared in her hands. She fired them off, each one finding its mark in the bodies and weapons of the Sound. Five shinobi fell to the ground, and three more threw their weapons down. One of the ones still standing raised an axe, then slammed it into the ground. Lee and Nezumi leapt into the air, shuddering as they felt the vibrations pass underneath them. The axe-wielder raised it again, but this time, Lee grabbed the handle as he swung it down. He easily wrenched it from the shinobi’s hand, then kicked him into the wall before breaking the axe in half.

Another shinobi leapt forward, unfurling thick cords that writhed like snakes. These wrapped around Lee, binding him tight. As he fought to free himself, the cords vibrated, and an eerie sound played through them. He suddenly felt ill, the entire world tilting on its axis.

Nezumi cried out his name, sounding far away. Lee squinted at her, and through his hazy vision, he could see her summon a ribbon of flame. It scorched across the cords, melting them into a puddle. They immediately went slack and the vibrations stopped. Lee stood back up, forcing himself to fight through the dizziness as another shinobi advanced on him.

Nezumi engaged the cord-wielder, ignoring the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She grabbed a kunai off of one of the fallen shinobi and summoned a wreath of flames around it. She threw it hard, smiling as it found its mark in her opponent’s heart. She wrenched her weapon out, then turned just in time to block a large man bearing down on her with a warhammer. He slammed the hammer down just as Nezumi skidded to the side, the hammer smashing the stones where she’d just been standing. Then he let out a cry before falling forward, a kunai lodged in his back.

Nezumi panted as she looked over. Lee gave her a thumbs up, his opponent currently unconscious on the ground. “Are you still all right?”

“Yeah,” Nezumi replied, blocking the next shinobi and kicking them across the room. Only one left and they were home free.

The remaining Sound shinobi stood firm, even as Lee and Nezumi leapt as one. Their fists collided with his face, knocking him to the ground with a single unified punch. Nezumi grinned, taking a deep breath. “Ok, let’s go,” she said.

A blast of sound filled the room, throwing Nezumi and Lee against the wall. Lee groaned and rubbed his head, blood leaking from one of his ears.

Then, pain.

Lee screamed as something stabbed into his chest. He wrenched his watering eyes open to see Teruya driving a sword through him. “And where do you think you’re going?” she growled.

“Stop!” Nezumi screamed. “Let him go!”

“Or what?” Teruya asked, twisting the blade and laughing as Lee shouted in agony. “I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain right now, Miss Chisaki.”

Nezumi held up her hands. “What do you want?”

“Hmm,” Teruya said. “Right now, I can’t think of anything I’d like more than your head on a platter.” She grinned viciously. “Though if you want to start talking, I might reconsider.”

“Let him go, and we can chat,” Nezumi said.

“Hmm, fine,” Teruya said, wrenching the sword from Lee’s chest.

Lee gasped as he fell forward, blood flowing freely from his wound. He already felt lightheaded, his vision swimming. “Rock!” Nezumi screamed.

“There, he’s free to go,” Teruya said. “Though he probably won’t get very far.”

Nezumi looked up at her, her expression darkening.

Teruya laughed and continued. “You really ought to consider these things more carefully. You never know how someone might twist your words - hrk!”

Nezumi’s hand, perfectly straight and glowing blue with chakra, carved straight through Teruya’s chest.

In an instant, Teruya’s expression went from haughty to shocked. Her mouth fell open and her eyes glazed over. She let out a faint gurgling noise, her body slackening. Nezumi threw her against the wall, where she crumpled into a ball and went still.

Nezumi knelt in front of Lee, tearing away the torso of his jumpsuit. The chakra around her hands turned green, and she pressed them against his wound, pouring as much chakra as she could into his body. “Rock, please, stay with me,” she pleaded.

Lee nodded, though even that took effort. “I will,” he promised. He suddenly paled. “Nezumi, behind you!”

Nezumi glanced back, then ducked as a kunai flew over her head. She kept her hands on Lee’s wound, still funneling chakra into it even as more shinobi entered the room.

“Nezumi, you must go,” Lee said. “If you continue to heal me, you will get hurt.”

“No,” Nezumi replied.

Another shinobi attacked, swinging a sword down towards Nezumi’s head. Her foot shot out behind her, catching him in the stomach and sending him flying. She gritted her teeth as the green chakra flickered. “Damn it, come on,” she hissed, renewing her concentration.

“Nezumi, please,” Lee said. “More are coming!”

“Damn it, Rock, I’m not gonna just let you die!”

As his wound shrank, Lee’s vision returned to normal and he felt less lightheaded. He tried to move his legs, but they shook like a newborn colt’s. “Don’t try to move yet,” Nezumi ordered. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Lee gritted his teeth. Against her orders, he grabbed a set of shuriken. The next wave of ninjas came, firing senbon at them Lee fired back, and his weapons found their marks. Three ninjas dropped, the room finally falling silent.

“Almost done,” Nezumi said, exhaustion clear in her voice. “Just a little more…”

The wound on Lee’s chest sealed. “That’ll get us home,” she said, wiping the sweat from her brow. She then looped her arm around him “Now come on.”

Lee struggled to walk even with Nezumi’s help. Everything felt slower and more painful, even once they were back out in the forest. He gritted his teeth, trying to push himself to go faster.

“Easy,” Nezumi said. “Don’t go too fast or you’ll reopen the wound.”

“I will try,” Lee said. “But I do not-”

Nezumi stopped in her tracks.

“Nezumi?”

She swayed on the spot, then tipped forward, landing face-down on the forest floor.

“Nezumi!”

Lee dropped next to her, hastily checking her vitals. Her pulse was weak and erratic, her breathing shallow. She was warm despite having been in the chilly prison, and she was drenched in sweat. He recognized the symptoms - chakra exhaustion, the same as before. Except this time, she also had a series of senbon piercing her back, blood dripping from where they pierced her skin.

Lee hastily gathered her into his arms, careful to avoid the needles. Then he pushed on through the forest, willing himself to go faster. He held her tight, groaning as his muscles protested. “Come on, come on,” he pleaded. He glanced down at her face, which was rapidly growing pale.

She let out a shuddering gasp, then went still.

“No, no, Nezumi!” Tears dripped from his eyes, sprinkling on the ground below them. “Please! You are precious to me, Nezumi! Do not leave me yet!”

When she didn’t reply, pain tore through Lee’s heart, more potent than any blade. He let out a howl of fury, then gritted his teeth as his body boiled. “Eight Inner Gates, First Gate, open!”

His skin turned a furious red as chakra surged through his body, his energy restored. Gripping Nezumi tightly, he tore through the forest, disintegrating trees and rocks as he passed. He barely noticed as they crossed the border, his focus entirely on getting back to the village, which was hours away for most ninja even at top speed.

It took him less than an hour.

Tag List: @justmyownreality @therantingfangirl @mrsbakashi @anchy-bananchy @hashira-mal @allyallygator @nnandmm-archived-hard @undersero (if you would like to be added to the tag list please let me know)

#nightingale writes #Violet and Lotus #nezulee #Nezumi Chisaki #Rock Lee #Rock Lee x OC #my oc #Naruto #Naruto fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #my writing

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literaphobe · 4 years

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white people, i’m going to need you to change the way you react to poc calling you out on racism, or telling you not to say something because it’s racially inappropriate:

apologize and do better, but don’t repeatedly apologize and put it on the poc to forgive you over and over again

don’t make it personal. don’t make this about how you’re Oh So Socially Awkward and treat this as a form of social rejection. retract statements, decide to do better in the future, and move on

in the context of online spaces, if a mutual calls you out on racism, don’t go crying all over the dash about how worthless and stupid you are etc etc and making yourself the victim. this is especially rude when your mutual of color can see it!!

whether intentional or not, repeatedly bringing the incident up where the poc who called you out can see it - is a form of guilt tripping. don’t do that

don’t make excuses. yes, you did something wrong. no it does not mean you are irredeemable garbage and that the poc who called you out hates you and doesn’t want to be friends anymore. again, Do Not treat this as a form of social rejection. it cheapens what happened and what could’ve been a fruitful lesson on being better about race becomes about your white tears

#text #yes white people can and should reblog this #im specifically bringing this up because a white user on here who is 25 #said something to me in an ask that rubbed me the wrong way #because they were like omg you have the white people in this fandom at your mercy bc of your fic!!#and i don’t want to get into why that’s not good #but. after this i told them not to say that again #and they apologized in the replies and i amicably accepted their apology #i thought that was it. but they went on to moan about it on their blog #and unnecessarily beating themselves up #and treating it like a social rejection #i was going to leave it alone but they sent me two asks to my Main of all places #saying shit like oh im so sorry ive just been through a break up #thereby making excuses and being unnecessarily scared like #oh no i hope its still ok that i follow u!! and other stuff #and it just. really put me in the spot #and was VERY guilt trippy in nature putting a lot of pressure on me to coddle them #and THEN #they deactivated #do NOT do that #if i were any less secure i would take that the wrong way #and think that i somehow caused someone to deactivate #literally DO NOT DO THIS #seriously why would you put so much on a poc just because #they told you not to say one thing?#jfc #onekplus

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kanawrites · 2 years

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Dancing in the Rain

Mayor Attorney (Damien x Female DA)

Set prior to university. Cars are referred to as automobiles/autos here. Thanks.

Word count: 3823

A letter arrives in the mailbox of a residential home early Saturday morning. A young postman arrives, ready to insert the mail when an excited young lady, waiting by the stairs of the front porch, bounces up and grabs it out of their hand. Offended and surprised, the person looks up and takes back the letter “Ms. (Y/N) of the Morgan Residence?”. Eyes wide, she covers her mouth with both hands and mutters a quick apology. “Sorry, and yes, that is my name”. Behind her hands, her smile begins to grow again and the constant light tapping of her foot fails to hide her emotion. They looked her up and down quizzically.

“That was very rude of you, Miss. But uh, it's convenient you’re out here. The lads back at the post office said there was an extra package for you that they couldn’t bring. You’d have to drop by. It’s from uh, England? From Mr. Morgan.” he hands her the mail.

“Thank you for the letter and relaying the message, Sir?”

“Jaime”

“Jaime, sorry for taking up your time. I’ve been antsy all morning, you see-”

Realizing the lady in front of her was ready to go a tangent, if the glint in her eye was anything to go by, he picked up his bicycle from the sidewalk and awkwardly tried to get on while trying to maintain eye contact. Out of courtesy. “It’s really no problem, Miss. Hopefully the contents will give you the results you wanted.” Tipping his hat, he bids her a good day and leaves. “Ah, I got over excited” she held the letter in one while biting her index with the other. “You too!” she shouts and waves goodbye to the postman, not really comprehending how her reply didn’t make sense nor could the person it was directed to, hear it.

Going back inside the house in a rush, the door slams with a loud thud. It made me jump but my eyes immediately wandered back to the letter. Written in newly dried ink is my full name. Beneath it is the university’s name. It really is a letter from my college application. I wasn’t lying earlier to the postman when I said I’d been antsy waiting all day. It’s just the excitement overruled my fear but now... I’m feeling light-headed. This is my only chance to prove my worth. Please let me make it in.

Her head falls back to the hardwood of the door. Her eyes closed, as if praying in her mind. Her heart is beating fast. Clutching the letter as if it’s her lifeline. Letting out a deep breath, she takes one last look and rips it open.

“Greetings and salutations to all our applicants. If this letter finds you in good health, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to-”

She read the rest of the letter hastily and you could hear the joy in her voice the longer it went. By the end she mutters in disbelief “I got accepted”. With a bit more confidence “I got accepted”. “I GOT ACCEPTED!” She dances around the empty hallway with glee and falls on the couch. She hugs a pillow with one hand, and the other dangling on the edge of the couch with the letter. Bringing up the hand without the note to her forehead she shakily mumbles “Thank the Gods”.

Sitting up properly, she dusted off her clothes and gave herself a light slap on both cheeks.

“I’m going to celebrate tonight”

And (Y/N) went about her day as always, the only thing that changed was she dropped by the post office for the package delivery. Apparently their carrier called in sick so everyone had to manually pick it up for the day. It’s a good thing she is amicable with a lot of people. It’s a skill she needs to develop if she wants to become an attorney after all. As she was about to leave, Jaime had just arrived after doing his first round of deliveries. He awkwardly bowed with his hat and left after being called by one of the other employees. Shy but nice. Maybe he’ll become a useful ally in the future.

The package was from her guardian. It had her monthly allowance, a couple of practical items, a dress, and a note.

“While I am of the mind that unmarried women should be dressed demure, my lovely wife wanted to send you this dress so you could experience the flaming passion of youth. It’s been years since we last met but we do hope it is to your likeness. Warm regards”.

She took it out of the package and held it up over her frame. Turning around from her bedside to the full body mirror, it was a loose black dress that ended under her knees. It shimmered a bit in the light and it reminded her of the dresses that the ladies wore to the bar. It’s funny how the perfect outfit arrived in time. As if her guardian knew that she’d be getting an acceptance letter today. Wishful thinking but it is an entertaining thought. Now that she has a dress prepared, and with the sun setting down, it’s time for her to get ready to celebrate tonight in her favorite bar.

Damien and Celine were both greeting the guests that arrived at their parents’ party for the rich and elite, celebrating the business’ successful opening overseas. The night had just started but they’re already tired from smiling towards people that arrived with greedy and selfish intentions. Anytime Damien’s smile faltered, Celine would step on his dress shoes. Whenever Celine would slowly zone out, Damien would discreetly poke her sides. They’d rather be anywhere else than near their parents but formal gatherings like tonight are inevitable. They can deal with being in their presence for a few hours. When the last of the guests had arrived, they could finally take a break and sit at the “kids” table. Celine gagged that they were still called as such despite being young adults already.

The only saving grace they had at this convention of self-absorbed capitalists telling each other empty praises was Mark’s presence. The young actor with big ambitions is casually leaning back on the chair. His grin widened when the twins appeared. “Finally! sensible people!” He stood up and gave Celine a kiss on the cheek. She rolled her eyes at the comment “and another person whom I actually like in this stuffy room”. Cupping Mark’s cheeks, she plants a kiss on both sides. Damien took a seat, a chair away from his sister to leave the two some personal space. “At least we aren’t the center of attention this time” he remarked. “Please, I was tempted to stab a few men that were ogling me on our birthday” Celine spitefully said, recalling the day. “It made for a fun rendezvous after, wouldn’t you agree dear?” Mark hugged her and rested his head on her shoulder.

Now Damien is a patient person, he could deal with how lovey dovey they are most of the time but without William, it was awkward to be the third wheel. Speaking of…

“Is William not arriving today?”

“Willy’s family is too brutish and boorish to be invited apparently” Mark replied, finally sitting down. “That’s a shame. He would’ve livened up the place” Celine sat down. The gang already miss William’s antics. Sure would be nice if any one of them had the guts to topple the champagne glass tower to offset the stiff atmosphere. Unfortunately, they all had appearances to keep up in this social gathering, even if they’re not the main focus.

Dinner is served and the night passes by. As everyone is chattering and laughing away, Damien couldn’t help but dissociate from the party. Even now as he is surrounded by his peers.

He feels empty.

Damien scans the entire floor. His parents chatting with their business partners, the staff moving about with some in the corner speaking in hushed whispers, the people at the buffet table taking seconds, and he feels out of place. He looks out one of the many floor to ceiling windows and sees the new moon. Maybe the celestial object could understand his feelings tonight.

Tonight the music is blasting loudly in the cabaret bar, the ladies are dancing their worries away and everyone is here to be entertained. The loud and jubilant music accompanied by the chattering of the customers, those who came alone to destress, and those who are accompanied by friends, family, or lovers to have a grand ol’ night. Our dear attorney-to-be was in the dressing room hanging out with the cabarets while the burlesques are preparing for their performance. Easy-going and genuine smiles could be seen around the room as they’re making small talk.

She had already filled them in on the exciting news earlier and the girls had cheered for her. The older ones acted like her moms giving proud looks and speeches while those closer to her age bounced about and gave long warmth filled hugs. Now she isn’t a social butterfly by all means, but (Y/N) understood the importance of a support group. These dancers became her family in place of her absentee guardians. While they gave her the necessities to survive, they lacked the emotional connection that is necessary for her personal development. These group of talented women became her friends and family and she could always go to them for advice or announcements such as these.

As it was the burlesque’s turn to perform, the cabarets that had gone out took a break, and the group that surrounded (Y/N) left to help the others rest or prepare for their own show. One of the ladies on a break then approached her with a mixed cocktail in one hand and a beer bottle in another. She handed (Y/N) the cocktail and ushered her out in the main floor to have fun. The whole reason she came here is to party and let loose after all. Downing the drink in one go she headed to the dance floor.

The rain was pouring down heavily by the time the party had ended. Some guests had to be carried by the valets or life-long partners to their automobiles. The twins' parents are talking with the remaining ones as they stand outside, waiting for their own auto to arrive. Damien and Celine lived in a house independently from their parents. It’s for their safety, they’d explain. Celine had her umbrella open, slowly twirling with it to kill her boredom. Damien had the umbrella on his side, leaning a bit into it. Any words that they wanted to share with each other would be said at the comfort of their shared living space. They won’t take any risk where there are eyes on them.

From the corner of Celine’s eye, she catches Mark’s family about to leave and their eyes make contact. Mark’s face which had been in a neutral position now held a mischievous smile, he mouthed ‘come with me’. Celine at the prospect of sneaking away with her lover had her eyes light up. To get Damien’s attention, she tilted the umbrella and tipped it to make contact with his head.

Tip

Pulled out of his thoughts, Damien looks over to his sister and catches the look that says ‘Don’t tell anyone I’m gone’. He sighs resignedly. Mark comes up to the two, and offers his hand to Celine “Shall we?”. She closes her umbrella, and passes it to Damien and chirps “Thanks lil brother”. With no choice, he takes the umbrella and watches the couple leave with a chauffeur behind them, making sure they arrive at the auto without a drop on their head. As the Fischbach family leaves the premises, the twins' driver arrives. The chauffeur notices that their lady is once again absent and doesn’t comment on it. It’s part of their routine now. Making sure their master is safe, they drive off into the foggy and rainy night.

The pitter patter of the rain is calming to Damien. It almost lulls him to sleep. Even if the night wasn’t physically tiring by any means, he finds it too much, the legacy that he has to live up to. Being in the same space as all those influential people tire him out. Stories and accounts of people saying that their family is blessed to have talented and beautiful kids. Socially skilled twins with high intellect. A graceful daughter, a kind son. They’d make for fine leaders. The endless praise is overwhelming. Then there’s the ugly side, the envious and hateful stares that hide under the surface... In the murky depths where it feels like one wrong move and they’ll drown him. This uncomfortable itchy feeling that won’t go away. He hates it.

White noise. The rain’s comfortable constant sound makes him unwind. He breathes in and out slowly. The umbrella that lies beside him is now in his hands. He’s playing with the handle. Tapping on it in a constant beat like a metronome scale. He wouldn’t mind relaxing like this for a bit longer. As he shuts his eyes, the driver toots the horn so suddenly, jolting him awake. In front of them was a lady dancing in the rain without a care in the world. She didn’t even stop or walk out of the way after almost getting run over. The chauffeur was about to get out but Damien stopped them.

She looked so inebriated and didn’t even look like she had any belongings on her person. Damien asked the driver to give him the extra umbrella, and he got out, with one umbrella being used to cover himself from the harsh downpour, and the other to give to this strange lady. “Excuse me miss but may you please step off the road?” He’s having trouble verbalizing to this intoxicated woman. Did she even hear what he said? Did he come off as too rude? Should he rephrase it? “May I?” her eyes looks a little less clouded as she was interrupted.

“Maybe if you dance with me”

She gave him no room to answer and held onto Damien’s hand and led him to a waltz. With the sudden contact, both umbrellas fell off his hands. Now he’s cold, wet, and flustered. From the random excited moves, splashes, and turns she did earlier, now her movements are much more controlled and practiced. As if she’d committed the steps into her memory. It’s a bit sloppy, her left arm closer to his neck than the shoulder, her tempo a beat too fast, but in her drunken stupor, it’s as graceful as it could be. Box step. They were doing the classic box step.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Somehow he lets himself be guided by a complete stranger in the middle of the night.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Dancing in the rain

One, two, three. One, two, three.

With low visibility

One, two, three. One, two, three.

On a quiet road

It’s an odd experience, to say the least. His custom tailored suit is soaked, his feet are wet, his breath coming out in small puffs of clouds, eyes blinking away raindrops that fall near. Yet he can’t say he hates it. The girl holding him slows down, eyes closing and resting her head on his shoulder. Humming what sounded like Johann Strauss’ The Blue Danube Waltz. From a waltz, the dance slows down into a simple sway.

If you were to ask any passerby, they’d assume they were moony lovers. No one would ever guess that they were strangers.

Now that the dance is almost at a halt, Damien could take a proper look at the drunk woman. There was no moonlight that could shine down and give her that ethereal luminescent glow that romance stories tend to have. To make him feel like he’s looking at a Goddess, or to make him feel like he’s falling in love. All that existed is the low warm flickering of the light post giving her a much more human glow. It makes the moment feel so grounded and real, and he’s actually dancing with a stranger. And he hopes she can’t hear his heart beating faster. He isn’t dreaming. There’s a pretty lady who is not in her right mind and she needs to get home.

Damien stops their dancing and snaps out of it. Finally remembering why he came out in the first place. Holding her up, he motions over to the driver to grab the umbrellas. As the chauffeur opens both, Damien lowers the two of them to the ground and gives the lady a piggyback ride. Nearing the auto, the chauffeur tries to open the door but Damien shakes his head. He doesn’t want her to wake up confused and scared of being taken away. He motions to the front porch ahead of them and they set her down on the stairs. Damien sits next to the sleeping lady and asks the chauffeur to hand over an umbrella. Afterwards, the driver goes back to the auto and waits.

The rain isn’t pouring as hard anymore as when he first met the lady. The skies start to clear up. Signaling that it was almost over. The woman next to him starts to wake. Rubbing her eyes, she lets out a yawn and a burp which makes her surprised. Feeling a person’s presence on her left, she jumps but doesn’t let out a sound. Looking like a deer caught in headlights, Damien waved and explained himself. “Sorry for startling you, miss. We found you dancing in the middle of the road.” he then extended his arms out to the road with the auto parked near a light post. “And we didn’t know where you lived or if anyone nearby knew you, so we settled to let you rest here until you were sober enough to go home.” he finished.

(Y/N) felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment for being caught doing something indecent. Putting her hands over her cheeks she replies “I’m sorry, good sir, for making you witness such indecency and wasting your time. I have no way of repaying you right now but thanks… for.. taking care of a stranger.”. Damien gives her a soothing smile. Glancing down at her wet clothes, she takes a look around to gather her current position. Standing up, she leans on the hand rails. “My place is only a few houses down this road” she starts. “My feet feel numb right now. Must’ve partied too hard” she rubs her arms up and down and avoids eye contact. “If it’s not too much of a bother, could I lean on you for support?” she looks back up at Damien and the moment their eyes meet, she averts. A light blush on her cheeks, highlighted by the low warm light of the light post.

Damien takes off his wet suit jacket, squeezes some of the water out, and drapes it over her shoulder. Afterwards, he picks up the discarded umbrella with his left hand. With a charming yet mischievous smile, he extends his right arm “Maybe if you dance with me?”. She’s not sure why the wording makes her face heat up, but she takes his arm and clings on to it. The driver comes out and Damien instructs him to follow them closely, keeping the headlights on. He asks her if it was okay and she nods in response. And so the duo, with the driver slowly driving behind them, move forth.

It wasn’t more than a minute since they began their stroll when she spoke up. “I didn’t do anything else, did I?” she shyly asked. A voice in her head was telling her that there was something more to it he didn’t say. Damien answers honestly “We danced together but you didn’t break any law whilst intoxicated if that’s what you’re asking.”. She hums in acknowledgement, her left hand gripping his arm tighter. If she was trying to mask her embarrassment, this did little to hide it. Still, it didn’t seem that she wanted the conversation to end, if the way she opens her mouth and getting stuck on a word was anything to go by. So Damien starts.

“I don’t mean to pry but how much did you drink for the night?”

“I am actually lightweight. It only took one cocktail before I got knocked out.”

“That makes two of us.”

“That means we could be really bad drinking buddies. For the record, my friends didn’t leave me or anything. The place was near my home and I always managed to get back in one piece. And I uh, don’t go around dancing with people randomly! I was just super excited because I passed my uni exam and… I spoke too much. Right. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I liked listening. Your cheerful attitude makes for great company.”

They both smiled and ended the conversation. A comfortable silent atmosphere falls between them. With every step they take, they can hear small splashing sounds on the pavement. The new moon overhead, the crickets noise, and the hum of the car’s engine made for a relaxing walk.

“And your calm attitude makes it so easy to trust you.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not sure why but it feels like I could trust you. Maybe I’m still drunk or something but you’re the kindest stranger I’ve ever met. I’ve been warned to never go with unknown people and I don’t know. It’s hard to describe but I feel safe. Maybe I shouldn’t put this much faith in you but my feelings have never led me astray.”

“If it makes you feel better, my name’s Damien. I hope I can be a person worthy of your high praise.”

They didn’t have enough time to dwell on the matter as (Y/N) lets go of Damien “We’re here”. Giving back the suit jacket to Damien, she gets closer to the two floor residential house, and takes out one of her 2 inch pumps. Inside the insole was the key and she unlocked the door. Turning back around, she sees Damien standing there, both hands now clutching the umbrella. He looks up at her and back down at the item.

“You can have the umbrella”

“Oh no. You’ve already done plenty to help me tonight.”

“No, I insist. In case you’re ever caught out in the rain again.”

She takes it from his hands and gives a small smile. “Thank you, Damien” he felt his stomach flip when she said his name. He bowed and was about to leave when he heard “It’s (Y/N), my name”. She doesn’t add any more and closes the door.

He leaves with a smile. It’s certainly a name, and a memory he won’t forget.

I don’t know why but I love writing filler much to plenty of readers' annoyance. I have 0 clue what I’m doing. Just wanted to contribute to this lovely ship and make an excuse to write in like uhh… old-timey way?? I suppose... It was just supposed to be the main scene in the rain but I had to start from the beginning like an over-explainer. This was supposed to be a drabble, not a short story. Listened to rainy jazz while writing.

Also it’s been years since I wrote anything to completion so I’m proud I actually finished something. I hope you liked it.

To note: Even if people love their Marc for Actor’s first name spelling or Iplier for the last name, canonically it’s Mark Fischbach. Kind of like how Abe’s last name is Lincoln. The twins don’t have last names so I tried working around that. Y/N is a lightweight because in WKM we just took one shot and got fucking knocked out after that one. In my head the setting was around 1920-1922.

#fanfic #wkm damien x reader #mayor attorney #markiplier #markiplier: pre-wkm au

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Murder, He Wrote

Part 6.

Summary: Ransom and you attend a wake for his great-nanna Wanetta, with the rest of his family. The knives are out, and they’re sharp…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So here it is, the penultimate chapter to this series! One more to go post this, plus an epilogue. I can’t believe it’s almost over…

Word Count: 9.5k (oops)

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 5

You'd managed to get through Christmas fairly well. The days leading up, Ransom had been a little suspiciously sneaky but you didn't give it a second thought, really. Things between you and your captor were more than amicable, they were pleasant. But, despite the cohabitation and this new found demeanour in him, Ransom wasn't above reminding you that you were still under his eye. And under his eye you were indeed, all day long. He watched you as you read, as you cooked, as you wrote in your journal. Oddly, not once showing interest in your musings but working away on his own.

Christmas morning, the two of you had spent a few lazy hours in bed, Ransom waking you with kisses over your bare skin, stripped down and tired from the evening before where he worked you over until you couldn't move, crying out his name near midnight, his breathless, tired voice telling you 'Merry Christmas' before he slept. After an easy egg and toast breakfast, the two of you were sitting around the lounge, the fire burning, the tree lit, soft music played in the background, watching a fresh layer of snow falling outside. You were reading Dickens' holiday classic, aloud while Ransom sat next to you, idling running a long index finger over your neck in slow and soft, up and down strokes, listening to you. Suddenly he'd stopped and removed the book from your hands.

"I have something for you," he said, a slight eagerness to his tone. He slipped away for a brief moment, pulling a box, intricately wrapped, clearly not by himself, from under the tree. You'd never noticed it there, not once and you wondered when he'd put it there or if he'd hidden it in the very spot this whole time.

The red leather box sat heavy in your hand as you read the gold inscription on the top. With an unsteady breath, you lifted the hinged lid and hitched your breath at what sat inside. A white gold necklace, with two interlocking rings in a signature Cartier design glistened back at you. The screw motifs which were set in ideal oval shaped rings studded with diamonds that twinkled in the light sat snuggly inside against black velvet.

You were stunned. The gesture far too expensive and in your mind inappropriate. But you also thought it was absolutely gorgeous, and you wondered how he'd come up with such an expensive idea. You'd not mentioned anything of the sort in your time together, in fact, you hadn't had jewellery on bar your ball studs in your ears now.

You looked up from the delicate piece and your eyes met expectant ones. "It's beautiful," you spoke softly. "Thank you."

"Let me put it on you," he sat next you whilst taking the box from your hands. He gently pulled it away from the box and unclasped it, settling it around your neck as you moved your hair out of the way, thin tendrils framing your face. Your robe slipped off your shoulder and you felt his soft lips against your skin, down your neck and along your shoulder. "Let me see you," he spoke softly.

You turned in his direction and you saw the way he admired the way the piece sat across your chest, the silk robe you were wearing over your barely-there nightgown gaping open. As his eyes blatantly roved down between the valley of your breasts your own flicked across his casual, lazy-Christmas morning form, his broad chest and shoulders clad in a white thermal, sweats hung low on his hips.

"Perfect," he whispered, leaning towards you.

You were not a bought woman, no; you were his victim, his roommate, his co-habitant, his lover, his partner, his... Oh for Christ's sake you could go on with the labels that did or didn't make sense, were mutual or not, had or didn't carry the weight of a proper explanation. Right now, you were going through the motions and emotions.

"I like it, a lot, thank you again," you replied as his lips grew closer to yours. "I've never had such an expensive gift before."

His lips ghosted over yours, "There's plenty more where that came from, Sweetheart."

The implication of his words had hit you like a freight train as you realised just how many more ‘occasions’ he was planning on the pair of you spending together. New Year, Easter, Spring Break, your birthday, his birthday, summer, Memorial Day. It sparked so many conflicting opinions within you that you were glad of the distraction when he moved, his fingers delicate as he undid the ties of your robe and led you down on the rug before his lips had traced a path down your body and soon he’d had you crying his name, sheer bliss coursing through your veins.

Later that day, you'd made dinner for him, a reminder of how Christmas used to be when Wanetta and his Grandmother shared the festivities. After the quiet meal, he had expected you to join him for a shower, no doubt as pay back for him going down on you earlier. When you'd respectfully declined stating you needed to wash the dishes, he sneered and sulked off. You'd made sure that when he was gone long enough, you were able to get things set up for your gift. Now was the time to show Ransom how gifts of meaning and purpose were to be given and hopefully received. Not that it was going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation, not in the grand scheme of things anyway. You'd finished cleaning and putting everything away and headed into the lounge where you stoked the fire and then made your way back into the kitchen for your supplies. The hot cocoa burning hot, the slices of bread, tongs and a small serving of butter, complete with freshly blended cinnamon sugar. You knew he would come find you when you were not waiting in the bedroom for him. If Ransom Drysdale was anything, it was a creature of expectation and habit. You'd heard him coming down the stairs, that one spot with a creak carrying his footfall. You straightened up your things, setting up the tongs and tray of treats nicely before covering them with a cloth napkin, standing between the coffee table and the fireplace, and waited on baited breath for the tirade you thought was coming. He had turned the corner, his face stern with evident hard lines, his bare chest on display, hair still wet from the shower. You could smell him as he entered the doorway, that scent that you'd soon come to realize made you heady and needy. You waved him over, a hunt of excitement to your tone, "come on, come sit." “I don’t want to sit, Sweetheart, I want you like I had you before dinner. Crying my name with you under me.” He stood just inside the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest, sweats hung low on his hips. He wore no shirt just to entice you, but you weren't giving in so easily. "I'll say your name as many times as you want, but first, I need to give you my gift." You chose then to look at him with big eyes, sincere yet seductive.

It was a stare off between the two of you, he not budging and you popping your hip out to one side as you folded your arms over your chest. He had his fun, now you wanted to enjoy something and gift giving brought you joy.

Like a child told to apologize for hitting another, he hung his head and sulked over. You could tell it pained him to obey your request. But you again saw through his facade. You knew this meant far more to him than anything he'd ever received.

But he'd never tell you that. Not that you thought anyway. “Oh stop being so you, Ransom, for just five minutes.” You snorted exasperatedly at his petulant nature. “It’s Christmas.” With a roll of his eyes that would make any toddler jealous, he took to his knees sitting on his heels. With a smirk, you joined him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, "Merry Christmas, Ransom." You pulled the napkin off the tray revealing the contents of your gift. His eyes moved over the tray, first seeing the mugs of cocoa, topped with whipped cream that was beginning to melt into the warm liquid. The tongs, the bread, the small pinch bowls of cinnamon sugar and the soft butter. With his mind occupied, you managed to grab a throw and wrap it around the two of you. He blinked, and you could see that he was fighting the smirk that was threatening to cross his handsome face. “Toast?” He finally asked and you nodded, smiling. "I couldn't go get you something, not that it mattered, so this was the next best thing." A flicker of something darkened his face, and for a moment you thought you saw regret flash in his eyes, just like the day he had marked your face but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. "Just enjoy it, even if you can't say anything about it, just...." you shrugged, "remember." That night, after the toast with cinnamon butter and cocoa from scratch were shared, he had his way with you, delightfully slow, once more by the fire, you again crying out his name and he yours, over and over again. By the time he finished, you were both boneless and breathless, his body covering yours until he rolled over and the two of you slept by the fire, wrapped up in each other's arms, the heavy throw around your naked bodies.

Christmas had been nice. Maybe, somewhat enjoyable, you'd admitted to yourself. Of course, the wrench of not seeing your family had weighed like a stone in your gut, compounded by the fact that thanks to the lie you’d been forced to tell Blanc, they thought this was your choice. That you were staying away from them because you wanted to, when nothing could be further from the truth. You missed your mom and dad goofing around over presents, still trying to tell your now well grown-up sister and you Santa had been. You ached for the usual family politics that manifested when your uncles and aunts descended for dinner. You longed for your sister to be complaining about how fat she was going to get…

"We have to go," Ransom’s deep baritone caught you completely off guard, making you jump as you stood staring out of the large French windows over the garden from the master suite.

“Oh, okay,” you nodded, taking a deep breath to centre yourself, your heart racing at the speed of light from your fright. You took a glance at yourself in the mirror above the fireplace and found yourself wishing you’d done a better job at covering up the ugly scab and green bruising on your face.

You followed Ransom in his tan coat, pin striped slacks and a black cashmere sweater as he strode from the room. You felt nervous, anxious, scared. This was the first time you were leaving the house in two months. He led you to the garage where you started walking to the SUV he'd taken you in but he stopped you short, calling out to you, "not this time, Sweetheart." He stood at the passenger door to his vintage BMW. You swallowed and walked towards the door he was holding open for you. Wordlessly, you sank into the passenger seat and reached for your belt. Pulling it across your lap, you adjusted the pencil skirt and blouse you'd tucked into so as not to wrinkle it, your soft black peacoat bluky in your seat. The car roared to life, throbbing beneath you, the hum of the engine might, in other circumstances, have excited you. But now, the only thing filling you was dread. The first time you’re out of your "castle", and it's to go to a wake, for Wanetta Thrombey.

Go figure. ***** The silence in the car was stifling. Every so often Ransom stole a glance at Y/N to find her simply staring out of the window, at one stage reaching up to wipe her eye. He didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t an idiot. Over Christmas he’d caught her numerous time completely zoned out, as if she was somewhere else, just like she had been moments before they had left. And whilst she’d done her best to keep her tears and attitude at bay, she’d been clipped with him a number of times which he’d simply let slide and instead of reminding her about her attitude, he’d pressed her to tell him what was wrong. She’d quietly admitted that she missed her family, something Ransom simply couldn’t understand, so in the spirit of their recent candid openness, he’d asked her bluntly why she needed them so much when he gave her everything she could possibly ever want. At that she had snorted, and taken great pains to explain to him that just because he failed to understand something didn’t make it any less valid of a feeling to someone else and then she’d deftly changed the subject, and he’d allowed the conversation to steer elsewhere.

And now, the first time she’d been anywhere but the inside of his house and strictly the garden for months, they were headed to spend time with his shit-head family. The irony was staggering when you considered it. He eased his beloved beemer onto the main road and pushed his foot down on the gas, weaving himself in and out of the light traffic obnoxiously fast. But he wasn’t known for his patience, he had somewhere to be and in his mind; the faster he got there the faster he could leave, keen to spend as little time with his family as possible. About halfway into the journey, Ransom felt that familiar cold feeling in his stomach as he pulled off the freeway and on to one of the smaller roads. He could drive this journey with his eyes closed but it was the first time he’d been back to the mansion since... well, since IT had all gone down. The more he thought about it, the more agitated he could feel himself getting, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the car with a force that made his knuckles white. He was jolted however, with the feeling of a hand on his arm and his head turned slightly to see Y/N looking at him. She didn’t say anything, and no sooner had he registered her touch she moved her hand dropping it back into her lap, eyes focussed downwards as his turned back to the road. He swallowed, that familiar and uncomfortable feeling of remorse once more washing over him. Despite everything he had done to her, she was still voluntarily lending him comfort.

Ten minutes later, he swung up the tree-lined driveway, his heart pounding in his chest. His jaw set hard as the mansion came into view, and low and behold his mother, standing on the front steps, a cigarette between her fingers as she exasperatedly texted on her phone. A meek voice came from the seat beside him, "its going to be okay." But he couldn't decipher if she were talking to him or herself. He cut the engine, his hands still on the wheel as he sighed and hung his head, before he turned to her. “I don’t need to warn you about trying anything do I?” He asked, ignoring her effort to placate him. "No," she replied quietly. “Good.” He reached out and gently gripped her chin between his thumb and finger, pressing as soft kiss to her lips, the action as much for him as it was for the benefit of his mother who was watching the pair of them. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” He gracefully unfolded himself from the driver’s side, shutting the door behind him and strode to the front of his car, waiting for Y/N to catch up. Her face was set, an expression he’d seen countless times before when she’d been fearful and acting under duress. He watched as she took a deep breath and drew back her shoulders whilst he reached for her hand. Obediently, she took it and together they strode towards the large wooden door, his mother watching them as they approached "You're late," Linda scoffed.

He paid her no mind and pulled Y/N along his side. “I’m sure Nanna won’t mind too much, you know, on account of her being dead.” He retorted sardonically.

You stood by his side, your eyes watching Linda and she turned her attention to you, her eyes narrowing a little, a strange expression on her features, almost as if she was sussing you out. But, as her eyes flicked to your injured cheek before they darted to Ransom who still had a possessive grip around your hand you realised with horror it wasn’t you she was suspicious of. It was the bruise on your face, more so how it had gotten there.

You cleared your throat. “Funny thing,” you gestured to it and her eyes snapped to yours, “too much Scotch and I tripped. Face first into the corner of my vanity."

Okay, so it wasn’t a complete lie…but you still felt sick to your stomach at how quickly you’d jumped to his defence.

“Sure.” Linda arched an eyebrow.

“What exactly are you getting at, Mother?” Ransom looked at her, his jaw set and Linda rolled her eyes, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Nothing really, I just find it extremely odd that you get an interview with this girl to clear your name and she ends up in your bed, only after she’s done a complete hatchet job on all of us first.” She dropped her cigarette end to the floor before she looked at him shrewdly.

“For which she published an apology.” Ransom’s voice was flat and carried an undertone of annoyance to which Linda paid no attention.

“Because you’re really the type to forgive and forget so easily.” She scoffed as Ransom gave a dramatic sigh as his mother continued, her head now turning to you. “You know, I could hardly believe it when Blanc told us you were with him, and then I saw you with my own eyes and now here you are again…“

“What do you mean, when Blanc told you?” Ransom frowned as his hand contracted almost painfully around yours, a warning no doubt to remain silent. His mother had hit the nail on the head, proving that she knew her son a lot better than you, and no doubt he, had bothered to give her credit for.

“Her disappearance was all over the news, more so because they’d linked it to that god-awful cretin of an actor, Lucas Lee.” She turned back to look at him. “But, no sooner had they done that he was cleared thanks to a cast-iron alibi and low and behold, a few weeks later Blanc turns up.” Linda raised her brows, her gaze fixed on Ransom. “I told him where to find you-“

“Gee, thanks.” Ransom drawled and she glared at him, before he rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand for her to continue.

“And obviously he did as he came back a day or so later, saying that to his surprise you-“ her eyes flicked to yours then and you swallowed “-were seemingly there, of your own accord.”

“I erm,” you fumbled on your words and felt Ransom let go of your hand, his palm warm as it now rested between your shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for another lie, one that this time you’d spun before and you shrugged, licking your lips. “I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I came to realize that despite my scathing feature, Ransom intrigued me. I wanted to get to know him more. One thing led to another and I figured if we kept our relationship quiet for a while, I'd save myself the spit on my face from my family and people like you.”

“People like me?” Linda arched a brow, her lips quirking up at one side. “

“I didn’t mean…” You shook your head, quickly taking a deep breath. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“A tad, but I’ve had worse.” Linda’s eyes twinkled with something that looked like amusement as she reached into her pocket for her packet of cigarettes. “But, what I don’t understand is, why let your family believe you were missing, dead even?”

“I, well, I was under a lot of pressure at work, and everything just got too much and needed to escape, from everything. Ransom told me to stay with him for a while to get some head space and I didn’t mean to cause anyone any hurt or upset and-“

You stopped dead as you felt Ransom curl his hand round the back of your neck, giving a squeeze in warning. You were rambling.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Sweetheart,” his voice was softly spoken as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “it’s none of her business.”

Linda looked at you for a moment, before she turned to her son and shrugged, popping another cigarette into her mouth. “I’ve long since given up trying to understand anything you did.”

“Well, like the judge said,” Ransom moved, his hand now on the base of your spine as he turned and guided you to the large door of the house, “not of sound mind.”

In the spacious drawing room, the rest of the family was gathered around. There were no others at the wake, Wanetta having outlived everyone she knew. You knew Ransom would offer no introductions, but that wasn’t an issue, you knew everyone anyway from your extensive research into this fucked up family. The fire burned in the background, and Ransom’s father, Richard, lounged in an arm-chair, a young woman who you presumed to be the au-pair Ransom talked about with disdain, perched on his lap. Walt was perched in another arm-chair, his wife Donna stood behind him, clutching a half drunk glass of wine, their son Jacob absent from the room. Marta and Meg were perched on the couch with Joni flitting about, a crunch from a carrot stick heard from across the room. You walked in and immediately felt the daggers in your skin as all eyes turned towards you. The knives were out and you swallowed, adjusting your sleeve, feeling Ransom's presence behind you.

“Here…” you felt Ransom’s hands gently pulling on the shoulders of your coat and he slipped it from your body, gently pressing another kiss to your cheek. You turned to look at him, offering him a small smile before he moved to hang the coat up on the stand at the far side of the room.

“Y/N, right?” Marta was the first one to speak as she stood up, and you nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew your name. It was a given she’d have read the article, and it was also a given thanks to the conversation moment’s ago with Linda, that the rest of the family had also been briefed on the fact you were ‘with’ Ransom. What clearly hadn’t’ been anticipated from the not-so-covert surprised glances that were being shared, was that he would have brought you today. “Can I get you a drink?” She continued and you smiled.

“Please, erm, a wine would be great.”

“Red or white?”

“She prefers white.” Ransom spoke and Marta’s eyes darted to his. You instantly felt his entire body language stiffen and you turned to him, the distaste evident on his face, his entire aura radiating utter disdain and bitterness.

Marta simply took a deep breath, her expression flat, but her eyes fierce as they remained in a silent stand-off.

“Can’t she speak for herself?” Meg scoffed and Ransom pulled his eyes away from Marta, turning his glare to his cousin.

“Is explaining what a lady prefers to drink considered sexist as well now or…”

“He’s right,” You jumped in quickly, smiling at Marta. “White is great, thanks.”

Marta nodded.

“Hugh?” She looked at Ransom and you blinked at the use of that name and then realised, of course, she’d once upon a time been the help. That said, you knew she was saying it simply because she wanted to, not that her status required it and there was an amused look on Ransom’s face as he turned to her.

“Beer.”

You rolled your eyes to yourself at his lack of manners, but from the expression on Marta’s face she’d been expecting it, and to be honest, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t been. Her lips curled into a sarcastic grin as she turned and headed out.

“You should try it, Donna. It’s got camomile and lavender in. I swear by it.” Your ears then picking up on a conversation between Walt, Donna and Joni and you turned your head towards them, Ransom’s arm curled round your waist, hand resting heavy on your hip. Joni bit down on the carrot stick she was holding with a flourish of her hands. “It’s my favourite thing FLAM have done.”

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't go under given you're no longer receiving Dad's money.” Walt interjected and Joni rolled her eyes.

“Shows how much attention you pay, Walt. When I released that new line of bath-bombs and candles, sales, like literally, went through the roof.”

“Bath-bombs?” Walt frowned.

“Yeah, they’re like little cakes if you will of dried soap and fragranced that you drop into a-“

“I know what they are.” Walt rolled his eyes as Marta appeared, handing you your drink which you took with a thanks. “I was commenting on the fact you said you’d launched a new line.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joni munched her carrot stick some more. “I got the idea from Gwyneth Paltrow when she released that candle scented like her vagina.” At that you choked on your drink and hastily avoided looking at anyone in the room as various groans and loud protests from the males hit your ears.

At that point Linda walked back into the room and sat down in a chair not far from where you were sat and she smoothed down her trousers before she peered up at Ransom.

“How’s the book coming along?” She asked, peering from over the top of her wine glass as she sipped from it.

“Fine.” Ransoms shrugged. “Few little blocks here and there but I’ll work through them. Granddad always told me sometimes it pays to take a step back and pause, ideas often come when you’re not expecting them.”

Linda smiled, and you were pleased to see that, for once, it appeared genuine, as if she was actually looking at her son with something more than ambivalence. And then, the moment was ruined as Meg burst out laughing.

“You’re writing a book? What’s it called? ‘Ransom’s Guide To Being An Asshole’?” She snorted and Ransom took a deep breath.

“Eat shit.”

“Original.” Meg replied drily rolling her eyes, “you know, I'm jealous of all the people that haven't met you.” She stated as her eyes turned to you. “Seriously, what the fuck do you see in him? Why on earth anyone would ever want to be in the same room with him, let alone share his bed is completely beyond me.”

“Tell me, Meg, when was the last time you got laid?” Ransom turned to her, a smirk on his face. “And your dildo doesn’t count.” “Fuck you, you fucking prick.” Meg seethed before she turned to look at you, her face angry. “You know, it must be serious if he’s bringing you here; he normally just keeps his fuck buddies on speed dial.”

“And throws the money on the mattress.” Walt mumbled.

At that, Ransom tensed and he turned his face towards his Uncle, his nostrils flaring. But before he had time to answer back, Richard let out a derisive snort and Ransom instead turned his head to his father.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Ransom shot back, “Tell me, how much do you pay the barely legal whore sat on your lap?”

“You little shit.” Richard spat as the poor woman in question shifted uncomfortably, her mouth falling open as the insult Ransom had shot at her registered.

You stood stock still, a warm and uncomfortable feeling washing over you as the family continued to bicker. You could feel a headache coming; this was becoming too much for you to cope with.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Linda groaned, almost lazily from her spot on the chair. “Is it too much to ask that one of our family deaths goes by without starting another feud?”

"Oh that's rich, coming from you!” Richard, turned to her. Linda met her ex-husband’s glare with a completely blank expression on her face, before she scoffed.

“Why are you wearing those ridiculous glasses?” She demanded, referring to the spectacles that adorned Richard’s face, the style being something you would attribute to Harry Potter.

“So I can see.”

“You never needed glasses in the entire thirty-four years we were married.” She scoffed.

“I did.” Richard shrugged, a snarky grin curling at one side of his mouth and you instantly recognised that expression as being one Ransom sported a lot. “Just preferred it when I couldn’t see your face.”

Linda’s mouth dropped open and you felt yourself bristle as you took a breath.

“Are you actually gonna let your dad say that to your mom?” You glanced up at Ransom. His head turned slowly towards you and the expression of anger on his face at being called out made your blood run cold. You recoiled a little and your eyes immediately darted to the floor.

“Sorry.” You whispered.

"This is fun," Jacob snickered as he, from out of nowhere, waltzed into the room and took a seat in the corner of the bay window, never once looking up from his phone. “Ransom once more manages to spark an argument.”

“Y/N meet Jacob, the poster child for the pro-choice movement.” Ransom gestured to the teenager in front of you who merely rolled his eyes as both Walt and Donna began to yell and hurl insults back at Ransom.

“Says the guy whose birth certificate is an apology letter from the condom factory.” The teen mumbled back.

“Ooh, good one, which one of your alt-right, KKK loving buddies did you learn that from?” Ransom quipped, and in a quick change of decorum, the room erupted with slander and jabs being shouted and tossed about, most of the commotion being pointed at Ransom.

It was a cacophony of noise and sound, which infiltrated your head, making your brain buzz and crackle like the wick of a dynamite stick and it was too much. After months of quiet with no one to listen or talk to bar Ransom, it was overwhelming and you felt sick.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.” You mumbled, seizing the chance, as he was distracted.

You made your way into the hallway where you stood, your back leaning against the dark wooden panelling, taking huge gasps of air. Your chest hurt, your head was spinning and your legs burned but those deep breaths didn’t help. Your hand slapped against your chest, hoping to ebb the sting. Soon, lightheaded, and with a slight spin to the space around you, you felt a cool hand on your shoulder through your blouse. Your head turned and you saw a sweet pair of eyes looking at you with worry.

“Let’s get you some real air, come on,” it was Marta, coming to your aide.

She took you outside, to a covered patio, with wicker furniture and heating lamps. The rush of cold air hit your flushed skin and a different sting erupted through your lungs as the bite of winter’s breath filled you.

“Here.” The young woman handed you a tartan blanket, which you took with a grateful look, still not quite able to form any words. She helped you sit down on one of the chairs and made sure the blanket was snug around your shoulders as she took a seat opposite you.

“They’re a little overwhelming, but you get used to it,” she rubbed a small hand up and down your back.

You just looked at her, your eyes watering as you came down from your panic. You had no desire to get used to it, to any of it, but as per anything in this fucked up situation, you were no doubt going to have to, like it or not.

The breaths you took became longer, deeper, the peak of panic now steadying out leaving you feeling shaky and exposed.

“I’m sorry, that was…”

“You don’t have to apologise. With what’s happening inside, this is normal.” Marta softly smiled with a chuckle. “I’d be worried if they weren’t screaming at each other.”

“Can I ask you something?” You looked at her, speaking softly.

“Of course.” She replied, just as hushed.

“Why did you do it? Have everyone over? You don’t owe them anything.”

The former nurse rubbed her palms on her pants, “well, it’s what Wanetta wanted. She sorta came with the house and it was her last wish, for the family to come together. I think she thought after everything that happened something might have changed?” Marta shook her head at the audacity of the sound of it. “She didn’t say much more, but Allan had given me her will and that’s all it read. Things would remain the same but she wanted them here after she was cremated, for a final goodbye.”

“I admire her optimism.” You stated flatly and Marta laughed before she gave a heavy sigh, a sad smile on her face.

“Well, she loved them, not that any of them cared, not in years. The only one I ever noticed take mind of her out of want and not duty was Ransom.” She kept her eyes on yours as she spoke, genuine care coming from the sound of her. “But that was before…when he…with Harlan.”

You glanced away, not totally surprised but still a little shocked so to speak that someone else had noticed there was a little shred of humanity buried underneath all his asshole bravado. You leaned forward on your thighs, elbows resting there as your hands wrung together, a nervous habit you’d recently developed.

“Can I ask YOU something?” Marta wondered. You nodded, your stomach knotting, hoping I wasn’t what you suddenly thought it could be. “You’ve spent time with Ransom. I read your article and your apology. Do you believe all of this? The not of sound mind?” Her eyes were sorrowful but held a glare of contempt at the circumstance.

“Uh…” you started but the opening of the patio door caught both of your attentions and the man in question stepped outside, your coat in his hands.

“I was worried,” he stated, opening your coat for you as you automatically stood to receive the gesture. You had no doubt his worry was genuine, but whether it was for you or what you may or may not have revealed was another question.

“I needed some air,” you admitted, “Marta came to my rescue.”

“One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity there ain't nothing can beat teamwork.” Ransom quipped in reference to the chaos of the family being together, chaos he narcissistically enjoyed partaking in.

You looked up at those daring blue eyes, “Mark Twain.”

He quirked a brow in agreement before his eyes flicked to Marta and then back to you. “Was I interrupting something, Sweetheart?”

There it was, that warning tone in his voice. You were on thin ice. You stuffed your hands into your peacoat pocket and shook your head.

“No.” You cleared your throat as you held his gaze. “Like I said, I just needed some air.”

As he stood there, his eyes searching hers he took a deep breath as she gazed back up at him, fear simmering within those deep globes. Ransom reached out, pulling her to him, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “As long as that’s all it was.”

Recognising his comment for what it was, half concern and half warning, she nodded against his chest. Without so much as another glance at Marta, he turned, his arm looped possessively over her shoulders as he led her back inside. He walked slowly down the hallway, stooping slightly to speak into her ear. “From now on, you don’t leave my sight, you got that?”

“Yeah, okay.” She whispered and nodded.

“Good girl,” he smiled, tipping her face up with on finger under her chin, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

*****

The next hour or so passed reasonably uneventfully. Ransom was careful to keep as much distance between him, Y/N and the rest of the assholes in the room as possible. When the buffet was served, he watched as she picked at the plate of food she had selected, not eating a terrible amount. She’d gone in on herself again, and he found himself a little disappointed if truth be told.

“We’ll leave soon.” He turned to her and she looked at him, “you’ve behaved today, I’m impressed.”

At that she rolled her eyes. “Is going back to that fucking house supposed to be a reward or something?”

At that Ransom felt a surge of anger and he glared at her, the nerve in his jaw twitching. “Don’t push me, sweetheart.” His voice was low, and a growl but to his surprise, instead of recoiling at his outward hostility and warning she simply sat up straight, her shoulders squaring and met him with a filthy look of her own.

“Fuck you.” She spat.

“Oh we already played that game.” His lip curled back in a snarl. “Several times.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Walt leaned forward a little to pick up something off one of the plates on the table by Ransom and he took a breath, his eyes still trained on Y/N before he turned to his uncle.

“Are you not dead yet?”

“Do you have to talk to everyone like that?” Joni sighed. “God, Ransom.”

“Well I thought the guys who bust his leg might have caught up with him by now, no such luck.” Ransom shrugged.

“Listen here you little shit,” Walt leaned over the table, but no sooner had he done that he suddenly began coughing on whatever food he had in his mouth.

“I’m listening.” Ransom quipped as Walt continued to splutter, Donna hastily hitting him on the back.

Jacob, who wasn’t even looking at the table, too engrossed in his phone, then spoke. “What did you eat, Dad? Wasn’t anything he gave you was it? I mean he did kill Grandpa so I wouldn’t put it past him to poison you either.”

A deadly silence spread across the room as Ransom took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his cousin, his hand clenching into fists. Besides him, Y/N let out a shaky breath and her head turned to look at him but he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead he leaned back in his chair and when he spoke next, his voice was icy.

“Not of sound mind.”

“Yeah, we heard. Loaf of bullshit if you ask me, but then again an expensive lawyer can get you off most things these days.” Walt snarled.

“Enough!” Linda yelled, her hand smacking on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Besides him, Y/N had begun to tremble, and Ransom glanced at her to see she was taking deep breaths, her chest heaving, face stony as she stared at the wall opposite, where a picture of his Nanna Wanetta was hung.

“Oh shut up Linda!” Walt turned to her. “Everyone here knows he’s guilty as sin, even you! Why the fuck he’s even here is beyond me. And as for you...” He turned to Y/N and she gave a start, her eyes flicking to him. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead as there ain’t no gold to be digging for. She got it all.” He pointed his fork at Marta and then that was it. Y/N let out a hell of frustration, standing up that quickly her chair tumbled to the ground behind her, the plate clattering to the floor by her feet.

“You think I’m with him for his money?” He glared at Walt, the entire room silent as all eyes focussed on her. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea. I’m with him because I have-“

At that Ransom’s hand shot out and curled round her wrist, his grip tight in warning and she jerked away from him, glaring down at him with a fire in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“The whole lot of you are fucked in the head.” She tapped her temple with her forefinger. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my entire life. You’re nothing but a bunch of self-entitled, narcissistic assholes. After everything you've been through, you can’t even find it in your cold dead hearts to come together honour a member of your family that died without reducing the entire event to some kind of sick, twisted game of one-upmanship. Each and every one of you are all about yourselves, and what you can do to out accomplish the other. As far as I’m concerned each one of you can fuck off and die. You disgust me."

She took a deep breath, running her hands over her face before she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Ransom blinked, watched her leave, a slam of the door behind her. He stood there for a brief moment, processing what had just happened. He looked back to his family with a smug shrug and at that he headed quickly after Y/N, his mother's obnoxious and loudly over dramatic gasp bouncing off his back as he too slammed the front door.

****

It was your turn to stand there and act like a petulant child as you leaned against the hood of the Beemer, cares and all fucks be damned. You were tired, you were angry and God damn down right fed up with this entire family and their bullshit. You didn't even make eye contact with him as Ransom as he approached the car. You simply moved to your door, slipped in as he did and waited for him to start the car. You felt his eyes in him, heard him open his mouth to say something but rather he just took in a breath and started the engine. You sat there, your arms crossed over your chest, knees at an angle, pointed towards your door, away from him.

A rumble of a chuckle escaped his chest, "Oh Sweetheart, that was really something."

"Just drive," you spat out, turning your head to him in annoyance. Now he didn't find you amusing, this new air of confidence about you. He cleared his throat and looked at you with a stern gaze.

"Careful, Y/N," he warned, pulling around the drive to the long road before the main. You didn't care. You raised your brows as if you were silently emphasizing your demand, it was not a request, even in the slightest.

The bare trees and snow covered ground began flying by your window, clearly Ransom laying the pedal to the floor as you shook your head.

"What the hell was even the point of going today? It was blatantly obvious that they didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be there. If you wanted to mourn Wanetta, we could have done it from the confines of the prison you like to keep me in. Or was this just another shitty way for you to torture me? Huh? Was that amusing to you, Hugh, making me spend an afternoon with your fucked up family, whom you hate, when you’re keeping me from mine? God, you really are a twisted son of a bitch.”

Your tirade set his skin on fire, you could see the tinge of red flushing his skin as he white knuckled the wheel, his hand on the gear shift squeezing the hell out of it as you spoke. Then very quickly you felt your body lurch forward as he slammed on the breaks. "What the fuck did you just say?"

“What, are you deaf?” You blazed. “I asked why we were there? I mean I thought we were going to pay respects to your Great-Nanna, because stupid me actually believed that you felt something, you know, some kind of sorrow that she was gone, and I actually felt sorry for you at first when we got in there, and they were unloading all their vile little opinions and digging in at you and-“

"Now you listen to me you little bitch," he spat, cutting you off. "I didn’t ask for, nor do I need your pity. I don’t care what my family say to me, or think about me. And I certainly don’t care what they think or say about you”

“Oh my god, you are…” You shook your head, looking out of the window, taking a deep breath. “This isn’t pity, Ransom.”

“No, because that’s what it sounds like.” He seethed, his hands curling round the steering wheel.

“Of course it does.” You scoffed. “Because that’s probably all you’ve ever felt towards anyone else isn’t it? Pity, because they’re never going to be as good as you, or have the things you have. Well you might be rich in money terms but fuck, in everything else you’re a pauper. Have you ever truly empathised with someone? Like have even once fully understood what someone else feels? Their sorrow, their happiness, their joy?”

“What the fuck are you getting at?”

You sighed, considering your options. You knew what you wanted to tell him-that the fact he wasn’t loved as a child left him incapable of the simple emotions normal people met, but he was calling you out. And now, it was play it soft or rip it off like a band-aid…

And despite the feeling of foreboding washing over you, you chose the latter. You were tired of playing his mind games, tired of this whole situation. And whatever fucked up punishment he was going to inflict on you, well, it couldn’t be worse than anything he’d already done, you’d take it.

“You don't know how to be happy, or how to love Ransom, because you've never seen it. You've never experienced it. You just breeze through life thinking you can take what you want when you want, and it doesn't work like that.”

“You’re starting to really piss me off. If I wanted a therapy session, I’d pay for one.” He snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”

“See, this is what I mean!” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You just asked me to elaborate, so I did, and know because I’m saying something that you don’t like or don’t wanna hear, you’re resorting to being an asshole. Every time I think I’m getting through to you, I…” You fell silent, swallowing as he glared at you, nostrils flaring and you took a deep sigh, knowing that this was pointless. “You know what, forget it. I shouldn’t-“

“No, you clearly got something to say, so go on. Say it.”

“What, so you can punish me when we get back for pissing you off some more?”

At that his face faltered and he took a deep breath, hanging his head. When he raised it again to look at you, his face was softer and he looked out of the windscreen, licking his lips. “I’m not…gonna punish you, okay.”

“How do I know?” You whispered, shaking your head. “How can I trust that you’re not just gonna lock me back in that damned basement and come down when you want to fuck me and-“ “Because I’m not!” His voice rose. “I don’t want you down there anymore. So I’ll ask again, you think you know so much about how to love,” he framed the word with his fingers, "then tell me what you think it means.”

“Fine, you wanna know…I’ll tell you. It's going on dates, it’s fun, its surprising, it’s feeling like you can’t breathe if the person you are in love with leaves you. It’s not about owning them or breaking them or how much you buy a person or throwing money at them, it’s showing them you know how they are, that you understand what they appreciate and what they need and what they want, a lot of times without being told.” You took a deep breath, watching his face, his expression never faltering. “Love is something that can't always be explained. It's that feeling of family, of having your person. Someone your heart and soul changes for, grows with. Love is a mother's hug or kiss goodnight, a father's ball landing in your mitt with a joyful laugh and smile. Love isn't forced or taken. It's given and received. It's...."

"Fresh hot cocoa on a rainy day when you have nothing left in a world that hates you,” he spoke softly, and when you realized what he'd said it stopped your thoughts cold. Did that mean what you thought it meant? That he loved you?

You were lost for words, but before you could protest and tell him he was wrong, he sighed and looked at you.

“You asked me before why I brought you today. That’s why. Because they hate me. And you make me feel fucking safe around those pieces of shit.” Your breath caught in your throat whilst your mind raced for how to respond. The tension and suspense filled the air about the two of you. You stared at him, his eyes soft, expectant, darting over your features with a bouncing worry. The reaction time between his words and your next move was merely a minute but you had quickly found a way to capitalize on this moment. You threw your belt off and kicked your heels off in the process, moving over the gear shift and the centre console into his lap, the center seam of your skirt tearing as you straddled him. "Wha...." his words were cut off by your lips on his, your palms over his softly shaven face, fingertips sliding into the hair behind his ears. Immediately, your tongue slipped deep inside his mouth, lolling around with his. His hands found your waist and gave you a squeeze. You came to your knees as best you could in the small space and continued to kiss him while trying to inch your skirt higher. He'd guessed what you were trying to do and you felt his hands move from your waist to the tops of your thighs, fingers trailing down quickly to the hem of your skirt, lifting it to above the curve of your ass where it bunched. He didn’t ask or question your sudden burst of confidence or seeming desire, just as you’d banked on, instead he was quite happy to go with it, as usual always ready to fuck you any which way he could. Your hands trailed over the soft material of his sweater and down to the end of it, where it met the top of his slacks. You lifted the clothing slightly to ghost over his skin causing him to flinch before your finger tips found the button and zip of his flies. That maddeningly smug smirk spread across his face and your lips crashed back to his, a furious clash of teeth and tongue, your hands still fumbling with his pants. He was half hard before you even got him free, no doubt from the heated exchange the two of you had to get to here. As you palmed his girth in your hand, your brain switched from playing him to wanton need, a basic primal instinct of desperation to release the toxic stress your body held. His big hand and thick fingers trailed over your hip, your ass, down your thigh and finally cupped your heat and a deep ferrral growl emitted from his chest as he'd realized you'd worn nothing under that skirt. He dipped two fingers inside you straight away and you cried out, "fuck" as your body bent back away from him, keening at the feeling. “Fuck, baby, you’ve had nothing on under here all day?” His fingers curled inside of you and you groaned, your head rolling back as your hips pushed forward, thrusting against his hand. You couldn't use your words, you looked down at him with your pupils blown and your bottom lip between your teeth. You gave him a squeeze instead and he quickly lurched you into the steering wheel with his chest, his fingers falling away and both hands tearing your blouse open, buttons flying that will never be found. His nose tucked between the valley of your breasts and he inhaled between your fleshy mounds, his tongue dipping against the underside of your thin bra. His hands each palming an ass cheek and squeezing so hard, it delightfully stung. With what little space the two of you had to move, Ransom pulled you down into his lap, the need to feel you wrapped around him dangerously feral. It took no time for that single motion to get his head then every inch of his shaft deep inside you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good," he ground out. He didn't care the mess she would make or the way he'd cum so hard he'd leak out of her, no, he wanted to fuck her senseless and that's exactly what he'd do. His heels cemented themselves into the footwell of the car as his hips jutted upward, her body curling in on him. “Harder, please Ransom.” Her voice croaked as she begged him and with a growl that was animalistic his hips picked up their pace as he rutted up into her quickly and harshly. His mouth devoured the tops of her breasts, nipping at her nipples through the material of the lace that covered them while her fingers scratched at the back of his neck, tugging at his hair. In contrast to the cold winter conditions outside, the air inside his beloved car was now hot, fast steaming up the windows, drops of condensation trickling down towards the door sill a perfect mirror image of the sweat that was now sliding down the hollow of her throat and beading on his brow. He could feel her walls begin to squeeze him tighter and tighter with each thrust. His hands curled round her hips, pulling her down onto him as he leaned back, raising his ass off the seat slightly, spearing up into her as deep as he could. "Ransom," you started to shake senselessly, you were crashing fast and hard and there was no slowing down. "Fuck, baby, just like that," you'd heard him say over the blood that rushed to your ears, deafening you, as you came, gripping him like a vice. Your body gave way as your hands sought purchase to ground yourself from entirely collapsing, finding the lapel of his camel coat, white knuckling it with one hand while the other slapped against the damp window which felt like melting ice against your heated palm. A noise burst from your mouth, a half scream, half choked wail, a sound you weren’t sure you’d ever made before and you opened your eyes to see Ransom’s icy blue’s locked onto yours, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. His voracious pace continued until the end when he came with a primal growl, his hips raising off the seat far enough to jolt your head against the roof of the car. You felt him fill you, the warmth of his seed settling deep inside, and then some. The air was heavy with the sound of panting as the pair of you came down from the intensity of the moment, The both of you desperately trying to breathe despite the humidity. Your hands curled over Ransom's shoulders as he sagged back in the seat, his hands smoothing up the outside of your thighs. You swallowed hard as his eyes focused on yours. You leaned forward and kissed him slowly, softly, his mouth and body languidly responding. Pulling back slightly, you kept your forehead pressed to his, and took a deep breath before you went straight in for the kill, the reason you’d instigated this entire fuck, to capitalise once more on a seeming chink in his armour. "You said you feel safe with me." He stilled underneath you, his hands gentle as they now rest on your hips and his eyes locked onto yours, widening as he realised his admission. "Do you want me to feel safe with you? To trust you?" You continued, not giving him a moment to deny it. He nodded slowly in reply. "Prove it," you stated. "How?" His voice was croaky as he cleared his throat, a slight frown furrowed his brow. "I want to see my family again." He looked at you, and you kept your eyes locked on his, a challenge to him to make good on his word, gambling on him actually wanting you to trust him as he had taken great pains to demonstrate through various means over the past few weeks. This was it, the moment where you would find out exactly what he truly wanted- someone to love and trust him, or someone to fear and obey him. He let out a slow breath through his nose and his eyes flicked over your shoulder before they returned to yours and he gave you an almost imperceptible nod. But a nod nonetheless. “Okay.”

**** Part 7

#murder he wrote #dark ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale fic #knives out #chris evans #chris evans characters #reader insert #dark fic

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chaoticgeminate · 2 years

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I Can, I Will, I Did

Guess who wrote a fanwork of a fanwork?

Me, this woman right here.

There exists a wonderful story series written by @littlemisspascal called The Fox, The Mage, and The Cupboard with which I've been totally enchanted.

This is not canon to that series, it is only my own fan work and self-indulgent product and I encourage you to read her series if this even remotely interests you.

Come, binge her Masterlist, it's a treasure trove of stories I promise.

Sorry not sorry for making that whole line a link ❤

It is also a means of experimenting with a named OC [Noelia Sinclaire] written in second person format, so this is not a reader insert and I apologize for that but I'm specifying it now.

For readers of FMC, this would technically happen between 'Sage and Walnut' and 'A Calm Quiet Place' in the timeline.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,852

Notes: Niamh is pronounced 'Neev' | The song I mention is an original piece by Reinaeiry on Youtube, the link is at the bottom of the story.

“Welcome back, Noelia, how are you feeling today?”

Kind eyes, compassionate eyes even, met your gaze and held it as your mind turned the question over and over; what answer could you give that you hadn’t already said? How many times did you have to repeat yourself, to breathe in the air of the room and deliver the same words in the same tone, why couldn’t they accept that things weren’t fine or okay but that you weren’t at risk of breaking your promise?

Why couldn’t they understand that all they were doing was making things worse for you?

Seconds were going to turn to minutes in the space of silence and you hoped the panic didn’t bloom across your face, you hoped the Mage didn’t feel the swirl of anger or shroud of sorrow; hesitation implied a negative response, your lips tripped over the words instead. “I’m- I’m coping. Doing- it’s hard but I’m doing better.”

Better is relative.

“Better is relative.”

Sometimes this felt more like a routine, a dance of words rather than a means of therapy, and you were beginning to memorize the steps; predicting what the Mage in front of you would reply with, you were beginning to think you could run a whole session in your mind without their presence at all.

Their head tilted and your heart slammed in response, the staccato tempo increasing the longer you held their gaze without an answer to the remark.

How long did I hesitate? Ten seconds? Is that too long? I need to say something-

“I’m here, it hurts but I’m still here. She’s gone but I’m not and I feel lost and empty but I’m here when I should be with her and the emptiness won’t just go away, my magic is reaching out for someone who isn’t here and never will be again, and the only things I have left of her are being withheld-“ Your voice seized and you stopped, the speed of your words and the beginning of panic revealing too much, but across from you they simply wrong something down on their stupid clipboard and looked up.

Everything in their body language changed.

It felt predatory and dangerous, it felt like a challenge, and your plumage began to spread as a response. “Withheld, that’s an interesting word choice, why do you think we’re withholding anything from you Noelia?” Their tone was level and amicable, it clashed with the darker look in their gold eyes, and your heartbeat was a war drum in your chest. On the other side of the wall you knew there were others, watching you and assessing, you knew they were being cautious and why but none of them were here for support.

They want me angry, they want me to lash out, but if I do I’ll never be able to fulfill my promise.

Phantom pressure wrapped around your shoulders in a gesture you knew well, cinnamon and vanilla notes lingered in the space as if she’d been here before you, and you recognized the trap at last. The room was tailored to keep you swimming in your grief, from the paint color on the walls to the titles on the bookshelves, it was designed to keep your heart locked in your loss and caged in that shroud of misery.

“Marion died giving birth to Niamh but we made a pact, we vowed, that no matter what happened we would live and love and move on. I swore to always protect what was hers if the Goddess ever called her home before me, including her daughter and the property in Eldergrove she inherited, and I finally see- a Familiar never survives losing their Mage and you have your sights on something of hers, so you want me out of the picture.”

You saw it, recognized it, in those golden eyes; before they could close it away deflect you saw the anger that flashed, the threat to quiet down and return to being lost and scared and sad. “You honor your Mage by wanting to keep your promise Noelia, but the Grand Coven cannot risk putting a baby into your care when you could die from the bond separation at any moment, it would be best for us to find a suitable guardian to raise her on the property in your stead such as the baby’s own great-Aunt.“

Now you knew, you saw just who they were advocating for, and the phantom pressure on your arms tightened like fingers flexing into your skin in a flash of panic. Courage and fight speared through you, erasing some of that empty pain in the hollow place in your chest, righteous fury bolstering your frame as you sat at full height and stared back at this threat trying to break you down.

“Act Twenty-Nine of the Familiar Bonding Laws protects me as a direct heir and member of Marion’s immediate family, making me next of kin in the event of her death and my survival. Act Forty of the Familiar Bonding Laws states that if I survive the bond separation for six months -which I have since it has been nearly a year- that all legal processes including estate closure, offspring guardianship, and property inheritance must be resumed.”

Confidence wrapped around you to replace that dark shroud and their face morphed into anger, displeasure so deep you imagined they would have attacked if there wasn’t the risk of drawing attention to the room. Marion’s Aunt was a monster and she would never get her hands on Niamh, even if you had to end her life on your own, and for the first time in ten months you felt free; it felt like the weight holding you back was being shaken off and the phantom hold on your shoulders began to slide away.

Thank you, Marion. Even the Goddess can’t stop you from coming to help me.

You left the room with your head held high, marching right to the liaison of the Grand Coven based in Seabury and feeling that flood of joy when they confirmed your right to reclaim guardianship of Niamh and begin the process of moving to Eldergrove once the paperwork was signed. It still hurt, you still had that emptiness in your chest and that permeating loss eating away at your heart, but you weren’t without purpose and you never had been; your final vow to Marion kept you here and alive.

By the next morning you were crying in joy and relief, no sorrow in your tears, as you cradled the toddler that looked so much like her mother; milk-white skin and fiery red hair with curls and freckles, her big hazel eyes were her own and as the baby reached up to play with the plumes of mottled feathers that surrounded your ears. “Bir bir.” Softly spoken, with that toddler curiosity, and your eyes overflowed.

“That’s right Niamh, bird bird.”

“She’s going to pull at all your feathers, and I bet she’ll call you ‘bird bird’.”

“Hey, bird bird, you excited for today’s appointment?”

“Can you- I’m nervous, can you sing for me bird bird?”

Niamh remembered and you knew that you would be okay, she wasn’t Marion but she was hers and yours, and it hurt but you could do this.

Even though your world was dim without your sunlight, your life had a gray overcast and the nights were darker, you held the little body close knowing that she would breathe stars into the night skies of your mind and bring light back even in the darkest times.

Thirty-eight hours by train wasn’t an ideal trip for a baby, no matter how well behaved Niamh was, but Douglas Farm had waited long enough. You would be riding to Rosedale and then taking a cart to the farmland outside of the town, in the three months of legalities involving the transfer of the deed as well as ownership of the farm property you had reached out the woodworker at Eldergrove and asked them to inspect the property and the buildings to compose a list of the things that needed restoration or replacement, over the span of the last months in Seabury the work had been paid for and completed.

William, the one you’d spoken to the most, had even cut a deal on new furniture since you had gotten so much work done at a single time and suggested hiring a man named Ezra to weed the property and break down the grape trellises that had been taken by time. He also brought up the local handyman Frankie, for restoration of the fruit presses in the production house, and you had gladly allowed him to get Joel from Miller’s Mercantile to facilitate the process since a lot of the small basic parts came from him anyway.

From what you understood the fields would be ready for replanting, the cottage would be livable, and the production house would be ready by the time you arrived.

As you stepped into the long cabin car, hushing Niamh as she began to squirm in your hold, a large hand braced your shoulders when the car lurched slightly; you turned your head and felt heat immediately flood your entire face as cocoa eyes looked at you with genuine concern. “You’d think they’d have better stabilizers on these trains, huh?” The remark was made in a conversational way and you nodded with a shy smile, tucking your face into Niamh’s curls when the toddler babbled and waved her plush elephant toy at the stranger.

“Sounds like you know a thing or two about those, maybe they should hire you to fix the problem.” His lips lifted into a grin and you opened your cabin door with a smile when he reached for the one beside it, sharing a hesitant grin. “Looks like we’re neighbors too, I know who I’m calling if there’s an emergency.” He chuckled and grabbed the brim of his worn hat as he dipped his head, the gesture would have made you cringe if it was anyone else, but his patchy beard and dark curls and those eyes had made your reply a shy wave as the heat returned to your face and neck.

From then on you passed by each other over the trip, either on the way to the dining car or to use the bathroom, and if you weren’t moving to a new home you might’ve tried to learn more about him. Rather than exchanging waves and soft smiles, rather than watching him longingly, when he wasn’t looking.

For all you knew he could be heading further than Rosedale.

Niamh was fine the first half of the ride, at least, but she started to get testy around the second; refusing to be put down for naps, and you suspected it was the sound of the train agitating her. “Alright, little star, hush now.” Leaving the cabin door open for now as you hurried back from the dining car, feathers flaring in your minor panic, you fished out your kalimba and settled the baby against your chest while leaning back against the wall.

The song wasn’t something traditional of a lullaby, it was a little on the sad side, but the crooning words and soft kalimba notes did what she hoped and Niamh settled early into the melody.

Oh, when the sun loves the moon

Her golden light

Her silver hues

A beautiful song

Oh, how the long

For dawn

Every lyric was an ode to your love for Marion even though the Goddess had taken her Home, a reminder that your love was still strong even though you were apart, and stray tears dripped down your cheeks that Niamh smeared across your skin with her chubby little hands and delicate “bir bir” as the toddler investigated the liquid.

“Your mama was my sun, my mage, Niamh; and you my little star will never grow up without knowing how much you meant to her.”

If you had been looking you would have seen your neighbor lingering just outside the cabin door, would have seen the wonder in his eyes and the tears shining a trail down his face, but when you did look up to close the door he was already back in his cabin.

After getting out at Rosedale Station you had taken a wagon to Eldergrove, rather than walk three hours with your two luggage cases, and your first sight of the newly named Summer’s Bounty Wine and Jams had brought another round of tears to your eyes at how good it looked. The bordering fence was entirely new and the cottage exterior had been restored, smaller fences had been placed per your specifications for the different trees and bushes you planned to put around the fields as well, and the production house looked good.

All you needed was to get the planting started, to find work in town as a supplementary income for now, but in that moment you knew that tonight you would fly.

For the first time in nearly a year you would spread your wings and soar.

“Oh, you must be Noelia, the new neighbor.”

Turning to the new voice, spotting the mage holding a candle in their hands, your head bobbed. “Yes, are you the local chandler?” Their reply was a nod as they presented you with the gift, you knew that they could probably see that your bond had been broken but honestly you were happy that they hadn’t brought it up, and instead you sniffed the jarred candle delicately.

Their eyes seemed to bright a little too. “I picked lemon, eucalyptus, and pine for this one; uplifting, invigorating, infused with success.” It wasn’t meant to be a two-meaning gift but it had become such, not only had you gotten Niamh and the farm back but you’d survived and you were keeping your promise.

“Thank you, this speaks- this means more to me than I can explain right now.”

“That’s alright, you don’t need to explain, I’m glad to help light the way.”

You spent the first night in the cottage going through old belongings, like photos kept in boxes and toys, and the second day you went to Miller’s Mercantile where you met Joel and his ward Ellie as you grabbed groceries. But perhaps the biggest surprise was when you called the local handyman about the water spout for the hose and a very familiar face showed up at your door.

The pair of you locked gazes and he smiled, brightly and without reservation, and you returned that smile.

“Looks like we’re neighbors still, huh? I’m Francisco Morales, the local handyman of Eldergrove.”

“Seems so, Francisco. I’m Noelia Sinclaire, soon to be wine and jam maker when I can product growing, and this is Niamh Douglas.”

He let you lead him to the pump and as he worked you told him all about your plans for the fields, for the trees –apple, cherry, peach, pomegranate, and pears- along with the berries –black berries, blueberries, and huckleberries- with his own input and suggestions. Francisco mentioned the idea of beehives to make mead or sell the honey and you immediately looked to the fence lining the front of the property where colorful wildflowers would look perfect.

Before he left the man paused, tongue flashing out to wet his bottom lip, and he took your hand in his gently. “Noelia, would you join me for lunch tomorrow at Zach’s?” Heat bloomed across your cheeks as you nodded, wondering if the chandler or even Joel wouldn’t mind keeping Niamh for you, and when you turned back to the cottage after he was out of sight you felt the touch of hands on your own and smelled the cinnamon vanilla aroma.

You were finally home.

Home was a field of possibilities, a cottage that had a lot of room for memories to be imprinted in its walls, and a little village of kind people. Home was a baby with milky white skin and red curls, home was new and scary but it was familiar and warm and felt right.

“Maybe, maybe one day home will be brown eyes and a patchy beard. Maybe it’ll be the smell of sweat and dirt and grease, big hands and a bigger heart, huh Marion? What do you think Niamh, you think we can charm Francisco?”

“Bir bir!”

“Alright, little star, I’m counting on you to be extra cute then. Now, I think we should find more of Marion’s old photos because she’d have hated me hanging them up.”

Marion was gone and you were here, you would always bear the scar of losing her, but as much as it hurt you would always cherish the time you spent with her and now you would make sure Niamh knew her mama too; that this little girl would have something tangible to keep from Marion in the form of a quaint little winery and jam business in Elder Grove if she wanted it.

And maybe, just maybe, a sibling or two.

But she would have to be patient for that.

youtube

#francisco morales x ofc #francisco morales fanfic #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales fanfic #chaoticwrites #Youtube

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like-a-bag-of-potatoes · 3 years

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Our Story - Prologue

theA/N: My first Chris Evans series. This is just a fluffy little series that has been floating around in my brain for a while, and because I've recently fallen head first into the Chris trashcan, I figured he’d be the perfect person for this little love story AU. I mean absolutely no disrespect with this, it's just a work of fiction. I also want to give a huge thank you to @percywinchester27 and @girl-next-door-writes for being my betas for this story. You are both amazing and I'm so grateful for your help on this.

Chapter: One

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader (unfortunately no Chris in this part)

Warnings: Absolutely none.

Wordcount: 1850

Four weeks after my twentieth birthday, I left my childhood home in Savannah, Georgia, and pointed my nose towards New York. It was hard to believe that eight years had passed already, but my twenty-eighth birthday approached in large strides to remind me of how much time had passed, and how much had changed. New York City was a stark contrast to Savannah, the city that never sleeps VS the most charming city in America. When I first moved here, it was my intention to stay for only a year, then I would be back in Savannah with my family and the man that I loved so deeply, Josh.

However, life never really turns out how you intend it to, no matter how much you plan for your future. Josh and I used to talk at length about our future together, and I honestly couldn't wait to get started on it all, house, careers, and then a family of our own at some point. Then, after eight or so months of long-distance we finally broke and admitted to ourselves that it was just too hard. I know you might think that since we had stuck it out for that long, we surely could manage a few more months, but by then I had been asked to stay on in what was supposed to be a temporary position, and I had fallen in love, not only with the city, but with my work. I asked Josh to come to me, told him we could find ourselves a little apartment in Queens, or the East Village, something we could afford, and we could spend a few years together here before moving back home to start a family. I guess you’ve already figured it didn't turn out that way, and it ended, as long-distance relationships often do, in heartbreak. It was my first real heartbreak- amicable, civil, and soul-crushing. It was also then I realized, as we all, unfortunately, do at some point in our lives, that love does not, in fact, conquer all.

If I'm being completely honest, I knew within my first month in this magical city that I would never want to leave, and after things ended with Josh, I felt as though I had deceived him in some cruel, unintentional way. Every conversation we had, had after that had been filled with lies and promises I never intended to keep. I had fooled myself as much as I had fooled him. After our break up, although completely heartbroken, I felt free and unburdened, which strangely made me feel even worse about the whole thing. Our love didn't end in some big blowout argument, or because we didn't want to be with one another. It ended because of the thousands of miles that separated us, and because in the months we spent apart, I changed in a way that could not have been foreseen. Never did I imagine myself in a big and busy city, but as I said, New York and me, it was love at first sight.

You might be wondering what job took me from my safe and comfortable life in Georgia, thinking that it must have been some grand, once in a lifetime thing. It was not. It was a temporary job as a personal assistant. I found it as I sat by my computer one night, daydreaming about what kind of life I would live if I had all the money in the world, what life Josh and I could create for ourselves. That's when I came across the ad. A woman, Mrs. Wallace, needed an assistant. She was a very wealthy woman in need of someone to keep track of her very busy social calendar, amongst other things. I knew she was wealthy because she lived on Fifth Avenue, not that I had ever been to New York and really knew what that entailed, but I had seen movies and read books placed in the city and knew very well that Fifth Avenue was a very expensive street. There was little to no description of the job or what Mrs. Wallace was looking for in an assistant, other than that they had to be organized and were able to juggle multiple things at once. Beyond that it really came down to compatibility. I was nothing if not organized, so before I knew it, I had compiled an application letter and sent to her email. I told no one about this, because it was ridiculous for me to think I'd even get a reply back. In all honesty, it had all been forgotten by the next morning, and I didn't think of it again until three days later when, at dinner with Josh I might add, I got an answer. She would like for us to meet. We sent a couple of emails back and forth where I tried to, as politely as possible, explain that I did not have the means to travel to New York just for an interview. I stated that I appreciated her interest, and apologized profusely for not being able to make it out there. It was then she asked for my details, and about fifteen minutes later I got a confirmation from American Airlines that my ticket had been booked and paid for. Two days later I was sitting opposite Mrs. Wallace at a restaurant that I would never be able to afford, listening to her talk about the job I had applied for and what she expected of me.

The very first thing that struck me about Mrs. Wallace was her age. For some reason, I had imagined someone in their fifties, full of botox, fillers, and whatever else middle-aged women put into their faces to look younger, but Mrs. Wallace was not that much older than me. At the time we met, she was twenty-seven, so younger than I am now, and strikingly beautiful. Thick, black hair that looked professionally blow-dried and sculpted so that not a single strand was out of place. It draped over her shoulders in loose Hollywood style waves and stood in sharp contrast to the white blazer she wore. Her skin was olive, her eyes deep brown, and her cheekbones could probably cut glass. When you put that together with her long, model-like legs, an hourglass waistline, and a very ample bosom, the woman looked like a greek goddess. To top it all off she had a warm and kind smile, and a kick-ass sense of humor. Kate, as she insisted I call her, was far from the stuck up, nose in the sky, botox filled woman that I had imagined in my head. We hit it off, and before dessert was served, I had a job offer.

It's hard to explain, but I felt as though I needed to take this opportunity, that this was an experience I was meant to have in some inexplicable way, and I accepted right then and there without a second thought, or even a conversation with my family or boyfriend. Josh was angry with me at first, but supportive, so two weeks later I stood in front of 1040 Fifth Avenue and looked up at the towering building with its limestone and intricate carvings here and there. Kate greeted me at the front door as I stepped out of the car that she had sent to pick me up from the airport. This place even had a porte-cochere to protect the residents from rain as they walked from the door to their private chauffeur-driven vehicles. I would be staying here with the Wallace family, in the staff quarters with the rest of the staff of course, so that I could be available to Kate at all times. And that's how my New York adventure started.

Eight years later, I am still working for Kate, still living in my little room in the staff quarters, but I love it. I have a little bathroom and everything I need. Food is prepared for us all by the cook, Rosalia. She is a little, plump woman in her mid-fifties, kind and compassionate, not to mention deeply passionate about the food she prepared for the whole household. Along with me and Rosalia, the other staff in our quarters are Magdalena, the housekeeper, and Mitch, who is Mr Wallace’s assistant. There was more staff, of course, like the private chauffeur’s, who didn't live on-site and throughout any given day, people would be in and out of the place like it was a busy office space as opposed to the home that it actually is.

Now, Mr Wallace was a very busy man, working non-stop whether it be at his office, or at his home office. It seemed as whenever I saw him, he was walking in fast strides, either on the phone, or confirming things with Mitch who half sprinted behind him with his I-pad, trying not to trip over anything as he tried to keep up and take down notes at the same time. Henry, that was Mr Wallace’s first name, was a little older than Kate, not so much that you could accuse her of being a gold digger, but he was approaching his fifties now. He didn't look it though, he was a very handsome man, and kind. Imagine George Clooney, a man that just seems to get more gorgeous with every passing year. Kate and Henry were busy, always had their hands full with whatever it was, but somehow they always found time to share a meal together every day. Even if it meant having Rosalia heat up some leftovers for them at midnight. They were very much in love, and it was clear in the way they looked at one another, and how they always made sure to have that little moment to themselves every day. A couple of years ago, Kate had confided in me that she could not have children of her own, it was something that had weighed on her since she was only sixteen years old, but with Henry, she said, ‘I have all I need with that man, all the love I could ever wish for.’ It was a shame really, because I knew that Kate would have made an amazing mother, and Henry a great dad. ‘I'm alright,’ she had assured me. ‘I've come to peace with it, and learned not to dwell on something that will never be.’

So, that's the short version of how I ended up here, doing a job I adored in a city I loved with all my heart, so I think it's about time we move forward. Jump to the part where my real story starts. Spoiler alert; it involves a warm summer day in Central Park, a ruined dress, and an extremely handsome man named Chris.

******

If you liked what you read, how about slamming that reblog button and help spread my work? If you leave a little comment on top of that, you’ll be in my heart forever.

Want a tag? I got you!! Just send me an ASK and I'll add you.

Tags: @thesecretlifeofdaydreamss

#Chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x reader #Chris Evans series #chris evans au #OS #chris evans fluff

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

Text

the ghost of unbroken love pt 1

Summary: Thomas pays the Carstairs home a visit once the dust has settled (COI spoilers!)

Read it on AO3 | Fanfiction Masterlist

CW: PTSD, implied child abuse, bullying

thanks to @littlx-songbxrd for the title :) (it’s a line from “silhouettes” by sleeping at last)

Alastair’s eyes widened in surprise when he opened the front door to see Thomas Lightwood standing before him. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too,” he replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Alastair’s hands. “Why do you have a hedgehog?”

He turned away slightly, gently stroking the hedgehog in his palm. “Excuse you, don’t be rude to Alfred.”

Thomas gave a slight smile. “My apologies, Alfred. Wait- Isn’t that Christopher’s hedgehog?”

Alastair’s eyes flared, clearly offended. “He is not! He was merely watching him for a few days.”

“Ah, I do think he mentioned that. My mistake.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Since when do you have a pet hedgehog, though?”

He tried to focus on the feeling of Alfred squirming in his palms and not on the tall, handsome masterpiece of a man standing before him, or on the memory of what his lips and skin tasted like. “If you’re here to try to change my mind-”

“I’m not, don’t worry. I just… I thought that perhaps we could talk, now that some of the excitement has passed.”

Alastair sighed. “Fine, come in, then, before you freeze.”

Thomas followed him in, shaking some of the melting ice and snow from his hair and hanging up his coat. His nose and ears were red from the cold.

“It truly would not kill you to wear a hat, you know,” Alastair commented.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve a reputation to uphold, don’t I? What would my friends and I be known for if not our aversion to hats?”

“Besides being a nuisance, you mean?”

Thomas smirked. “Kit did look after Alfred for you.”

“Believe me, any time I mention you and your Merry boys, I never mean Christopher.”

He chuckled. “That’s fair.” Thomas’ eyes drifted to the piano. Alastair cursed silently to himself, realizing that he’d left the fallboard open earlier. “You play?”

“I…” Alastair hesitated. He certainly used to. He wanted to, again. He could play music from a sheet without much effort, though he was still rusty, but playing written music was never what Alastair had enjoyed about playing. He’d always found his joy in creating, in taking written words and crafting it into a beautiful melody. That had been what he was attempting earlier, before he’d gotten overwhelmed and abandoned the project to fetch Alfred to calm him down, before Thomas had arrived at his doorstep. But it was a lost cause, for the part of Alastair that created, the part that dreamed, had died long ago. “Sometimes. Sometimes I do.”

Thomas pulled something out of his coat. “I, uh, I brought you something. I thought… Well, I’m not sure what I thought. I’m certainly not an expert in dealing with grief. But this is one of the books I read after Barbara died, and I thought it was a helpful distraction, and I figured at the very least you could amuse yourself with my trying to make sense of it all in the margins.”

Alastair gave him a small smile while placing Alfred down on the sofa and accepted the book. It was a volume of Sufi poetry, written in Farsi and Arabic. “Thank you, this… it means a lot.”

The conversation stumbled awkwardly for the next few minutes until finally Thomas made a pensive noise. “May I… May I ask you something?”

Alastair paused. “You may.”

“Why are you still friends with them?”

Alastair cast a dark gaze away from him. “I already told you, I-”

“You have no friends, I know. But you certainly pretend to be friendly with them, at the very least. You certainly don’t treat them anything like the way we’ve treated you.”

You don’t treat them anything like the way you’ve treated me, he wanted to say, but he knew that he would be deflecting to bring it up now. The truth was that Alastair asked himself the same questions. Why was he civil with them, friendly even? Why did he placate his father knowing how he would still treat him? He was sure he could see the wheels turning in Thomas’ brain, though his face betrayed none of it, wondering how badly they could have truly treated him if he was able to stay so amicable with them. Alastair, too, often worried if his own memories were lying to him, tricking him. “I can hardly blame them, can I? When I myself have done horrible things?”

Thomas hesitated. “That- That’s not really fair, is it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, it sounded like, at the time, you hadn’t done anything yet. At least, not to them.”

“What’s it matter? What goes around comes around.”

“More like what comes around goes around. Life isn’t just some twisted justice system, paying for crimes you hadn’t yet committed. What reasons did they have for treating you the way they did? Have they apologized?” Alastair’s brain stalled as Thomas added, “Do you think they owe you one?”

Alastair could feel his heart beating, blood rushing to his head, his chest constricting. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded a little too forcefully. “I told you to leave me alone!”

Thomas took a daring step towards him. “I think you think you deserved it. You think that you’re a monster, that you’re dangerous, a terrible person. You think that means they were justified in hurting you. That’s bullshit, Alastair. No one deserves to go through what you did, even someone who is terrible, and you are not. You’ve done bad things, certainly, but you’ve had reasons for doing each of them, and not one was that you are a terrible person. You are none of the things that you call yourself. You are strong and resilient and compassionate, and you love with your whole heart even those who do not deserve it.”

Alastair took a step back. “You’re wrong.” He wasn’t. Alastair hated feeling so seen, so vulnerable. He wanted to scream. Why wasn’t it enough, then? His love was never enough to make his father want to change, to get better. It was not even enough to get him to stop throwing things at him whenever the night quit going his way. His love was not enough to make Charles love him back. Even the boys at the Academy, Augustus and the rest, he’d spent so much time and energy trying desperately for them to genuinely like him, but it was never enough. He was fairly certain that it never would be. Thomas was wrong, Alastair was none of the things Thomas believed him to be, he was weak and pathetic and whatever love he held inside of him was broken at its core. “You ask me why I treat the boys from school better than you treated me, but why do you? You and your friends have never given them a fraction of the grief you’ve given me, even Augustus after he hurt your sister so terribly. Why?”

Alastair could see the defenses light behind Thomas’ eyes. “Don’t talk about Eugenia as if you know what happened!”

Alastair looked him in the eyes without a hint of expression on his face. “I do, and I know because she told me.”

Thomas stumbled on his words, unsure of how to respond.

“I told you why I was cruel to you lot at school, but I did not tell you why I spread that rumor. The truth is that I was hurting and I was scared and all I wanted was for you to leave me alone, but you wouldn’t. And then Matthew came, running his mouth with his endless nonsense, poking fun at the way I looked and reminding me yet again that there is not a single person on this Earth who sees me as anything more than an afterthought. And so I repeated that rumor to him. And I repeated it again, and again, because I was angry, because when Matthew blew up my belongings, my father decided that the cost to replace them was more than simply the coinage at the shops.” Alastair inhaled, pushing away the memory of the fury in his father’s eyes when he came home that semester.

Releasing a shaky breath, Alastair continued, “And I know. I know that wasn’t fair to him, or to you, or to your parents. But I have been trying to apologize for five months, only you decided without even hearing my apology that I did not deserve forgiveness. What now, Thomas? Now that you know my secrets, you’ve seen my scars? Do I deserve forgiveness? Do I deserve to be hated? Because truly I cannot keep track.” He gestured to the door, his voice now angry. “Who are you to decide what is deserved and undeserved? You do not get to come here and pretend like you understand me or my life. You and your friends think that you’re better than everyone else, but I have a secret for you: you are not morally superior simply because you are less broken than the rest of us. Get out of my house.”

“Alastair-” Thomas tried, but he was cut off.

“Leave, Thomas. And put me out of your mind. I left Charles because I did not wish to be his secret, and I will not be yours, either.”

Thomas looked like he was about to speak, but stopped himself. He looked hurt and confused, something like a wounded puppy. Alastair would not flinch. Finally, he obliged, though he turned at the last moment. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice, though not ingenuine. Alastair shut and bolted the door without responding.

Once the door was secure, Alastair sank to his knees, a million thoughts and feelings flooding his brain, from relief to anger to utter despair. Shaky breath after shaky breath, he attempted to piece the world back together again.

taglist (lmk if you want to be added and, if so, whether for every TLH fic I write or just for this series or something else): @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @doitforthecarstairs

#alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #thomastair #chain of iron #coi spoilers #chain of iron spoilers #coi #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction #fanfic #cw ptsd #cw child abuse #cw bullying

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my-writings-and-musings · 3 years

Note

Same anon thank you for answering my question! I was wondering if you could do headcanons for MTMTE Rung, Megatron, Rodimus, Minimus, and Swerve with an Artisic human reader that just sees the good and creative artist side of everything? From books to pictures to even their own bot? Like they can just look at their bot and go out on a whole rant on how beautiful their optics are from the color to their expression. if that’s too many characters you can take any one, I don’t mind! Thank you and have a good day ❤️

You're welcome! I'm always open for clarification, so feel free to ask questions about whatever you'd like if you're unsure on anything. I took a little liberty with this one, but I've got all the requested bots because darn it all these beautiful mechs deserve recognition!

Rung

·He discovers your artistic inclination thanks to years of experience reading personalities and emotions at a glance, but he wasn't prepared for the depth of your conviction in seeing the world through a creative lens, which he learned upon speaking to you about your process as an artist. This surprise grows as he sees you sketching around the ship, your exuberance for the inherent beauty in everything coming through in every conversation you share.

·When he praises some of your sketches on a quiet day in his office and is compelled to ask how you developed your style, he's fascinated by your explanation, and his spark is warmed by how beautifully you describe the world around you and credit it for inspiring you. He's visibly shocked when your list of current subjects and muses includes him specifically, and you can't help but chuckle at the usually calm bot looking so absolutely flustered. There's no way for him to hide any of that feeling when he requests a bit of clarification; there's hundreds of bots on board, what about him could possibly stand out?

·You're happy to elaborate on your process to a bot who so regularly underestimates his worth and lay out why he in particular piques your interest. The warmth and goodness of his being is such a rare and beautiful thing, you explain, but also so rarely appreciated that it drives you to try and capture that essence in a manner one can see. How could you not? Such compassion and empathy and forgiveness should be remembered! You've also seen that he's capable of accepting any genuine apology, and to have that level of mercy after so much war is beautiful, enough that you have to try and show it.

·To say he's touched is an understatement of unfathomable proportions. Removing his lenses to clear optics blurred with tears, he doesn't even know how to begin processing your praise of his character when you add that his physical self hardly fails to encourage you either. His glasses nearly slip from his hands when he hears you say that. You continue quite easily; the kindness in his optics and the sweetness of his smile, combined with his genuinely handsome profile, simply inspire you to start sketching.

·He's touched, but you have to understand, he is NOT accustomed to this level of praise. Between the near tears and the blushing he has to politely excuse himself to recover from this absolute tsunami of emotions, but being flustered and melted at once is enough to have him smiling through a little blush all day long. While he tries to take a little bit of your mindset into his everyday life going forward, he gets a bit dazed every time he sees a sketch of yours that includes his face, as that level of artistic devotion being dedicated to him is more than he'll ever be able to process. Not that he minds...

Megatron

·Being more familiar with the written word, he enjoys the arts but has little experience with those who create them, and time has not been on his side in regards to learning more. Thus, you're one of the first artistically inclined individuals he's been able to discuss the topic with, which he was motivated to do after catching a glimpse of your work. He could swear some of your sketches bear a resemblance to him, but he says nothing on the matter and is certain his optics are tricking him.

·Your talk of technique quickly surprises him by shifting to inspiration, which to you is the primary driving force of your work, as it influences how you go about conveying the subject matter. Eager to share what you mean, you explain that anything can have beauty worthy of capturing if you just take the time to look at it right. Even the most mundane or seemingly unappealing things can be remarkable if you know their story, and you want to convey that energy as wordlessly as possible.

·A little overwhelmed but quite impressed by your manner of reasoning, he rather jokingly asks if even beings like himself could ever inspire you, or perhaps another artist with your mindset. He's caught off gaurd like never before when you, quite enthusiastically, reply that he most certainly can and does! To keep his composure he recalls portraits of his likeness being commissioned to inspire his soldiers, but never believing these fell under the category of art so much as they did propaganda. They often depicted him quite... violently as well.

·Having never seen these pieces, you reply that your own experience is tied more to how you see him now, and you flip through your sketchbook to demonstrate. As close to your level as can be, he's speechless while you explain what you wanted to capture about him in each sketch, whether it's a quick study or a detailed project; and that's how safe he makes you feel. Hearing himself referred to as a protector cuts straight through his powerful armor.

·You depict him looking almost... gentle? Hearing you describe the his immense size as a source of comfort and his strength as a tool of keeping peace processes about as clearly to him as a foreign language, but he nods along and keeps the conversation going until his duties call him away. Though he says nothing of it, he volunteers himself for more of the physically demanding work around the ship. His body's purpose had always been decided for him, but you've reminded him he has the only true say in its use, and that everything really is a matter of perspective. Perhaps he'll take up sketching once this is all over.

Rodimus

·He's certainly always had an appreciation for visual appeal, even if his idea of beauty doesn't often overlap with what most would consider artistically valuable. This and his natural alertness makes him quick to notice you often sketch about the ship, frequently when he's present, but at first he leaves you alone to work in peace. Having a hobby on this crew is beyond valuable, and he doesn't want to distract you from a passion... That is, until he decides on one especially slow day to just ask you what you like to doodle about.

·You can tell he wants to be a little nosy, if only because he's naturally a curious bot about these things, but you're more than happy to share regardless. There's a lot due to the ample downtime on the quest, and he has to squint so he can properly scan the many sketches on the human sized paper. He happily recognizes friends, locales about the ship, even earth things he knows about... but he's not ready when he finds a picture of himself.

·While he remains outwardly playful, teasing you with how he'd pose if you only asked, he's internally flattered that you took the time to draw him. More specifically, he's touched by the way you drew him. The sketches and portraits portray him as a calm but amicable leader, standing tall and serving as a guide to those around him, a true "father to his men" kind of bot... it's everything he wants to be, but is quite certain he's not. He's barely able to keep up his smooth persona when he asks about your process.

·You explain that you find inspiration in everything, but he's been your chosen subject lately for a lot of reasons. It's no secret he's handsome, but you see something more when you look at him, and you did everything you could to show it here; there's a real leader in him. Maybe some bots don't see it under all the bluster and sarcasm, but you see how much he cares for every bot on his crew. He wants to be the best for all of them, and even if he struggles at times, that effort is beautiful to you.

·It takes everything in him to bite back some very embarrassing tears, and the crack in his voice doesn't help him hide the emotion, though he covers that up with unconvincing coughs and claims something got in his optic. From then on he seems to stand a little taller and find his assigned duties a little easier to bear, but you absolutely notice how he poses in what he believes to be heroic fashion whenever your sketchbook comes out. Inspired by his enthusiasm, you invite him to model more officially, and the crew is just happy to see him so enthusiastic.

Minimus

·Being as observant as he is, your consistent appraisal of your surroundings is not something he'd ever miss, but your frequent sketching in the most random places does leave him absolutely mystified. Every time he sees you there's artistic supplies on your person, but he can't find anything that appears to be worthy of putting to paper, so what could you be drawing? He respects your privacy too much, and feels too silly about his curiosity, to interpret and ask you for an explanation.

·Thus it's with some small eagerness that he finds one of your sketchbooks after it's been misplaced, and he sees the perfect opportunity to slip in a question. For the sake of handling something so tiny, he approaches without his armor, offering the lost item back with barely concealed pride at your delight to have it returned. In the moment of truth he nearly falters, but does indeed manage to ask what you draw around the ship. He leaves out the fact that he's observed you whenever you draw in his presence.

·The question has an answer only he seems to think isn't obvious; him! You spend time together frequently, and while everything is fair game for sketching, he's a very regular subject for you. Whether he's wearing the Magnus armor or not, you explain that the commanding aura he radiates is something you can't help but find beautiful. That word choice baffles him enough that he has to interrupt; beautiful? Commanding? Even without his armor?? You're delighted to assure him that you absolutely mean that.

·Hearing you describe the details of your reasoning, like the quiet dignity of his stance or the calm intelligence of his red optics, touches his spark in ways he wasn't expecting. He's calm and speaks softly as he keeps the conversation going, asking questions about your various works and listening attentively when you answer, processing your view of the universe as being packed with beauty in all the places people don't think to look.

·Any bot that sees him during the remainder of the day absolutely notices the change to his entire demeanor; namely that he's smiling a soft and barely perceptible smile. It's not long after he requests a few sketches from you to keep in his office, whether they're of him or not, and he has them framed in places of honor. He doesn't tell you, but you figure it out, that one particular drawing of him you gift for his sake is kept securely stored in a compartment by his spark.

Swerve

·Many bots may see him being a tad bit on the shallow side when it comes to the arts, but our beloved barkeep has his own unique appreciation for creativity and all the ways it can be visually expressed, and you recognize it not long after meeting him. As his bar is a frequent hangout for everyone, you find it to be a fantastic place to sit and sketch, as the variety of bots makes it quite easy to have your choice of subjects even if you have to sit on a table. Obviously Swerve notices and asks you what you're drawing when traffic slows one evening.

·You're happy to show him your work and he's always eager to hear what everyone is up to, so he starts asking questions about your art in general. How long have you been an artist? What's it like suddenly having a whole ship of aliens to sketch? Why draw here all the time? At that query you light up brilliantly, and he's delighted by your enthusiasm as you describe all the incredible sights the bar has to offer.

·You list some of your favorite things to draw, like the many friend groups on the ship that gather here, the brilliant colors of the glowing vats of enjex, and him smiling and rushing with orders through it all. That last one gets a flash of surprise from behind his visor, which is quickly overtaken by exuberant delight; you've been drawing him?! He babbles out a surge of confusing statements that you're eventually able to interpret as a request to see, just one he's too bashful to say directly.

·Happily obliging, you're touched by how he smiles at every little sketch, and feel compelled to explain that he's a big part of why you love drawing here. You try to see beauty in everything, even what often gets overlooked, and there's so very much of that here. The bar is one of those places that everyone knows is special, but you know he's the reason they love it like they do, and that his enthusiasm and hard work hold it all together. You find that inspiring, and actually quite beautiful. It doesn't hurt that his brilliant smile is always a treat to sketch.

·Trying to play it cool and totally failing, he doesn't quite hide that he's near to tears when he asks if you'd like to hang some of your work up in the bar, or maybe have a little corner for yourself to draw from. He just doesn't want you getting squished while you sketch, is all! And having a better vantage point is ideal for someone so small! When you accept, he gives you your own human sized accommodations not too far from the heart of the bar, and every so often when you sketch he'll glance up at you absolutely beaming.

#transformers #more than meets the eye #mtmte #idw #lost light #maccadam #tf #rung #megatron #minimus ambus #rodimus #swerve #self insert #human reader #requests #anon #my writing #transformers headcanon #my asks

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jasontoddiefor · 3 years

Text

As Lightning to the Children eased Chapter 14

Chapter 14 is out! Read on AO3!

Padmé did not call Anakin out when she found him hiding in her living room, arms tugged beneath his knees, his chin resting on top of them. He didn’t look like he had gotten any sleep lately and she was not about to stop him from getting at least some rest.

Instead, he merely put a cup of tea in his hands and went about her work. Halfway through midday, she got the call she had been waiting for.

“Senator Organa,” she greeted her ally and friend. Bail Organa was a good man, friendly and charming on top, and Padmé wondered what would happen if she were to let him meet Obi-Wan sometime. The two seemed like the kind of people who’d get along like a house on fire. “How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Bail replied. He glanced at Anakin once but didn’t further react to his presence. “And yourself?”

“Exhausted, if I’m honest,” Padmé said. “The war hasn’t even truly started and I already feel as if I’ve aged years, but let’s not linger on that. How is your charge?”

“Adjusting,” Bail said. “I offered to take him home to Breha, but he decided that he wanted to stay on Coruscant. I’m not sure whether it’s the proximity to the Jedi or if it’s because he has to protect me in turn for keeping him safe, but I decided it would be beneficial for his health to remain at my side.”

Padmé smiled at him, honestly and truly happy. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

Finally, some good news during this catastrophe. When the Jedi had taken them all back to Coruscant, nobody had been too sure what to do with little Boba Fett. Technically speaking, his father – no matter how undeserving Padmé thought him of the title – was a deceased criminal and there were enough people who wanted Boba to pay for his father’s crimes. Hi status as a clone also didn’t really improve his situation. Padmé would have taken Boba in himself, as would the Jedi, but neither was quite the right fit, and when Bail Organa had offered to take him in, then that was just good fortune.

“If you ever need someone to babysit, I can jump in last minute,” Padmé joked.

Bail smiled and nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Padmé, but I believe Boba would protest quite heavily against being babysitted.”

“He can be part of my protective detail then,” she amended. “I’m sure he will do excellent work.”

The Council room was dead silent.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Qui-Gon asked, allowing disbelief to seep into his voice.

Whereas some of his fellow Masters smiled in tired exhaustion, others only rolled their eyes.

“A new member this Council needs,” Yoda said. “Wise in the Living Force you are and raised a brilliant Padawan you did. A new member of this Council you may be if you accept.”

Qui-Gon wondered what Dooku would say about this. His Master had already departed with his own clone battalion, heading straight to the Outer Rim and into the zones that promised the most gruesome battles. Dooku was a brilliant talker and given his relationship with the Senate, he’d probably be more useful on the Council than Qui-Gon. He had already been on the Council once.

Qui-Gon knew he was stubborn and thick-headed and unlikely to change his mind unless proven wrong. Both Dooku and Obi-Wan had told and shown him so often enough. Qui-Gon wasn’t chosen for delicate and amicable peace talks. He usually went to do the negotiations where they expected things to blow up, and more often than not, they did.

He was not the best option for a War Council, especially when he struggled to wield the Force as he used to.

“Why me?” he finally asked when he didn’t know what other question there was left to voice.

“Love this Order more than anyone else, you do. Had Knight and Padawan Skywalker not found their way here, found your way to them, you would have. Listen well to the world, you do. Not afraid to speak your words, you are. Ready for this, you are.”

Not yet. Speak first. Right a wrong, my dear child, explain your scars—

“I have to talk to Anakin,” Qui-Gon said, his heart hurting at the thought of the youth, yet rejoicing at finally getting a glimpse of the Force again. “I cannot give you an answer before I spoke to him.”

The Masters nodded and Qui-Gon left.

Anakin was easy to find, hiding away in one of the lowest accessible levels of the temple. These days, he was either at Obi-Wan’s sickbed when Obi-Wan was asleep, at his mother’s when she wasn’t telling him to finally go talk to Obi-Wan, hiding away in Padmé’s apartments or down here. Qui-Gon had first thought that Anakin would try to go deeper, search for what lingered beneath the warm marble of their temple, but he never moved from his spot.

“Anakin.”

The Padawan winced when his name was called, then slowly turned his head only to return to staring blankly at his hands. He looked absolutely miserable, tired too. Qui-Gon sighed.

“Do you remember the mission to Naboo? When we accompanied Padmé back to it?”

Anakin gave no sign that he was listening to Qui-Gon, but he decided to keep talking anyway. “When we entered the ship, you collapsed. Something set you off, something incredibly dark and harmful, and, best I could tell, it flipped a switch for you. Revealed something it shouldn’t have.”

Anakin’s hands curled to fists as Qui-Gon sat down next to him. “Obi-Wan and I didn’t know what to do, so we- no, I decided to do what I thought was best. I blocked those memories, dressed them up in kinder images.”

Even now, so many years later, Qui-Gon remembered it so clearly. The chains wrapped around Anakin’s entire body, the sun burning him, reminding him that he was not supposed to be there.

“And then, when you tried to heal me later on, you needed the knowledge that I had hidden from you to do better.”

“To let you die, you mean,” Anakin said. His voice was hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken in days. “It would have stopped me from resurrecting you.”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed. “I would have died and it would have been alright because it was my time. My actions took away something you should be able to recognize subconsciously and I want to apologize for it.”

Silence followed Qui-Gon’s statement as they let his words linger. It was true. That he realized now. Whatever he had done, it had shifted something within Anakin that wasn’t meant to be shifted sideways.

“I think you made me human,” Anakin replied, wings unfurling as bones cracked. “I don’t think I was meant to be human.”

His eyes were still closed, but Qui-Gon could still fill all of them watching him, waiting for a reaction, a confirmation.

“No, you were not,” Qui-Gon replied. “And I’m sorry I made you something you weren’t supposed to be in my fear of what you might have become in that moment.”

“I want to be human,” Anakin muttered. He stretched out his fingers, sharp claws, golden like his teeth, bleeding as if from scratching his arms raw, trying to dissect himself and sew his flesh back together in the right way, anything less hurtful. “I don’t want to be like this. Everything is so loud and I’m always too much and if I get angry, I break the world apart. It isn’t fair that I can feel so much, but I’m not allowed to embrace it.”

“Oh, Anakin.” All thoughts of logically expressing this to his Grandpadawan were forgotten. “Who told you that you can’t embrace your emotions? You just can’t let them become too much. You can’t let them consume you. You need to find your balance again.”

Qui-Gon knew it was a cruel demand to make when he had been so afraid of what would become of Anakin almost a decade ago now. There was no telling whether Anakin would still exist once he found that balance again or whether he’d return to his silent parent. After all, what parent would abandon their child if not because they knew they weren’t needed anymore?

“I’m scared,” Anakin admitted. “I was afraid my mother would be put back together again wrongly if I healed her so I lashed out and murdered all of them in cold blood and then I was scared to lose Obi-Wan and instead he lost his arm because of me and I’m scared that if I try to fix me, I won’t be me at all. I know I can do it. I’ve been looking, I can see where you used your paint on me, but I just—”

Anakin looked up, bright blue eyes staring at Qui-Gon as he cried and wrapped his arms around him, hiding his face in his robes.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Gently, Qui-Gon held onto Anakin. How strange that a being as bright and strong as him needed an anchor as fragile as Qui-Gon. He ran his fingers through Anakin’s hair, humming a melody under his breath he’d been taught years ago on a small Mid Rim planet.

Minutes passed, hours without either of them moving until Anakin’s shoulders stopped trembling.

“I can’t tell you what the right path is, Anakin. You have to decide that for yourself. The only advice I can give you is this question: do you love the Jedi?”

“What?” Anakin’s confusion was painted across his face in broad brushstrokes.

Qui-Gon smiled. “I asked if you loved the Jedi?”

“Of course! You’re my home, my family! How could I not?”

“Good.” Qui-Gon nodded. “Then you will remind yourself of the fact that you love your family and that your family loves you every day and every action you take will be in this knowledge. Do not act against this love in your heart, Anakin, and may it ease the burden on your mind.”

May it guide you well.

Obi-Wan’s hand trembled. He hardly had any control over his new appendage and it frustrated him to no end. He was a perfectionist at heart, had spent hours training his fine motor control to become a Master of his form. He tried to keep his breathing under control, to focus, and not let the pain overwhelm him. If not for his own sake and to resist the temptation of just throwing his lightsaber halfway across the room, then for Anakin.

His Padawan already felt so guilty for Obi-Wan’s injury, he didn’t want to make him feel worse.

He couldn’t stand the thought of looking at Anakin’s sad eyes.

“Rough night?”

Obi-Wan turned his head around to find Shmi standing at the entrance of the training hall. Her injuries had healed well during her stay with the Healers, only a few faint scars across her face and shoulders revealing what she had been through. She was dressed ready for battle, wearing the new armor the Jedi had been given. Obi-Wan had tried it on once and immediately wished he could message Satine and ask her whether he could borrow one of hers for the war. Mandalorian armor was so much more comfortable.

Not that he thought the Jedi should wear any at all.

“Are you shipping out?” he asked.

“Yes, Dooku asked for backup. Apparently, he’s been dealing with a Sith apprentice – a different one than the one you encountered on Geonosis – and intends to chase her down. Someone must take over his battalion. Since he dragged me back home from Tatooine, I’ll return the favor.”

“Take Anakin with you,” Obi-Wan heard himself say. “He needs to get out of the temple.”

“You haven’t talked yet,” Shmi stated, her tone not allowing for any disagreement.

“No,” Obi-Wan agreed. “And I don’t think Anakin will talk to me as long as he hasn’t gotten a proper break. So, please?”

Shmi studied him for a moment, then she sighed. “Alright, but the moment you’re fit for duty, he’s your Padawan again.”

Obi-Wan managed to crack a smile at that. “Of course, I’d never trade him for another.”

#star wars #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #shmi skywalker #fanfic

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shera-dnd · 3 years

Link

New chapter is up (on time this time) and things start getting a little gay

alternative title for this chapter was I Name Thee Simp, but I feel like that applies better to the chapter I’m currently writing

as usual, AO3 link above and read more link bello. Hope y’all enjoy the read.

There was something different to Weiss. Even fully armored as she was, it was easy to tell that something had changed in the way she held herself. The way she shadowed Ilia through the festival grounds. For the past couple of days it was if the cloud of resignation that hung over Weiss’s mood had slowly dissipated and was promptly replaced by… something else.

Perhaps her little chats with Belladonna had been improving her mood. The two of them seemed to be getting along far more amicably since Weiss’s little promise. Ilia on the other hand made no effort to hide how bitter she was that her former companion now found such easy company with a human. That she would choose a human over Ilia.

No. It didn’t matter what had happened to the Schnee and it didn’t matter who Belladonna chose to associate with. She was here to enjoy herself, and as long as those fools stuck to their part of the deal, she would not waste precious thought on them.

So she shook those thoughts away and moved on with her day. She would simply focus on enjoying her time at the festival and not worry herself with this. There were so many people to meet, food to eat, stories to listen to, and she simply had no time to waste on those things.

Not when she could just enjoy her day.

“Hey!” An angry voice called and Ilia did her best to ignore it, “stop right there!”

Ilia sighed and turned to face the shouting man. It was some stuck up little lordling, old enough to understand he had power, but not enough to use it with any sense. Two men in full knight’s regalia flanked him on each side, all three of them wearing heraldry of House Marigold.

“Lord Marigold, it is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Ilia greeted with false joy.

“I’m sure it is,” he replied and Ilia weighed the pros and cons of making this man disappear, “you responsible for this man’s actions?”

He gestured rudely towards Weiss, who didn’t even give the courtesy to look back at him. Good.

“They are my bodyguard,” she informed him, “though what they do with their free time is none of my business.”

“Well it’s certainly my business,” he countered, “your bodyguard is a cheat and a liar!”

Ilia glanced at Weiss to see how she would react to have her honor questioned like that. The woman seemed utterly unamused, as if the Marigold boy was just a particularly loud bug.

“And why is it you make these accusations?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

“Have you not watched the tournament?” He asked, “no faceless mercenary could face the best House Marigold has to offer and emerge victorious were they not a lying cheat!”

“If those bumbling oafs are the best your house has to offer, perhaps you would have had better luck hiring lying cheats,” she offered, with the same polite smile she had kept throughout this conversation.

To that the knights that flanked him stirred. Both stepped forward standing annoyingly close to Weiss and Ilia. She couldn’t help but be aware of how much iron was being carried around her.

“What did you just call us?” The knight asked and Ilia immediately recognized him. His loud and obnoxious voice was unmistakable.

“Bumbling oaf,” she repeated, “or do you have a better term for someone who got so thoroughly humiliated, they chose to lie to their lord over admitting defeat?”

“Listen here,” the Marigold boy interjected, “I will not have my men’s honesty questioned by some southern whor--”

Weiss’s blade was at his neck before the last sound could escape his mouth. Both of his men looked baffled, fully aware that had Ilia wished so, their lord would have died before they could draw their weapons. It was intensely satisfying, even if it was probably the last thing Ilia would get to see before being executed.

“What is the meaning of this?” A familiar voice called.

From behind his two knights approached Belladonna, accompanied by Lady Polendina. The two men seemed relieved to see their fellow knights. They were certainly in for a terrible surprise.

“Ah, it is good to see you here, Lady Polendina,” the Marigold boy greeted, though he hesitated to move from his position, “now please arrest this woman. She has sicced her bodyguard on me like a hound.”

Penny seemed to ignore his words as she recognized the people threatening to murder him.

“Salutations, Lady Ilia,” she greeted, as brightly as ever, “how have you been enjoying the festival?”

“It’s been wonderful, Lady Polendina” Ilia greeted, leaving the men utterly confused, “though some of the attendants can be a bit overbearing at times.”

“I see our companion hasn’t taken kindly to their behavior,” Belladonna commented, nodding towards Weiss’s unmoving blade.

“What!?” The Marigold’s voice cracked as he turned ever so slightly to look at who he assumed would be his backup, “they have drawn on a Lord of Atlas, they should be arrested, and executed.”

“Oh? Has your father passed away?” Penny asked, with seemingly genuine worry, “my condolences.”

“What? No,” he replied, confused, “my father is well.”

“Oh, then they haven’t drawn on a Lord of Atlas,” she said, matter of factly, “though they’d need good reason to be threatening one of its citizens.”

“My bodyguard may have gotten a little overzealous,” Ilia explained, “but they only intended to defend my honor.”

“A little overzealous!?” the Marigold exclaimed.

“You did call me a ‘southern whore’ in front of them,” she replied. Weiss’s grip on the sword tightened as the insult was repeated.

“Lord Henry Marigold!” Lady Polendina began, “this festival is about celebrating peace with the nations of Remnant! You will not embarrass our kingdom by acting like this!”

“She was the one defending the honorless cheat who humiliated my men!”

“I fought them myself in that tournament, and I can assure you they fought with the honor and skill befit of a knight,” Belladonna countered.

“Me and your good father will be having a conversation about this later,” Penny threatened, “now be gone.”

With that all three of the men ran back from whence they came, leaving behind the three knights, and a very stunned Ilia.

Penny giggled as she watched them run, “my apologies. I believe Lady Schnee might have rubbed off on me more than I expected.”

“No need to apologize,” Ilia assured her, “I’m grateful you showed up when you did.”

“What a lovely coincidence that me and Lady Blake were passing by,” Penny beamed as bright as the sun, “we were on our way to get ourselves some food, in fact. Would you two like to join us?”

“Of course they would,” Belladonna answered, “trust me on this. You do not know good food until you’ve had fish prepared by a mistrali chef.”

Ilia had no doubts as to why Belladonna was so fond of that fish dish, but she couldn’t exactly say that out loud, instead what she did say was, “very well. At least let me pay for your meals to repay you for this. I insist.”

It took her a while, but they eventually accepted her generosity. She hadn’t stolen all this money not to spend it, and it genuinely was the least she could do.

As they began making their way through the crowd, Weiss tapped on Ilia’s shoulder - making sure to only touch the dress so as to not accidentally burn her - to ask her to stay a little further behind so they could talk.

“Are you well?” She whispered.

“I certainly almost wasn��t,” she hissed, “what was that about?”

Weiss seemed to think for a moment, as if even she wasn’t sure what her burst of violence was about.

“I would be no knight, were I to let my lady’s name be insulted like that,” was her eventual answer.

It was...sweet. Impossibly stupid, and barely a good excuse for putting them at risk like that, but it was sweet. It had been far too long since anyone stood up for Ilia, even if this time it was out of some misguided sense of duty.

As detestable as she found the idea, Ilia couldn’t help but feel like she owed the Schnee some kindness after all that.

“You’re a fool,” she declared, sure that Weiss was ready to leave it at that, but Ilia wasn’t quite done, “but I’m grateful.”

She took off the shawl she wore over her dress and handed it over to her companion, her magic weaving itself into it like an extra layer of unseen cloth.

“Take it,” she commanded and her knight did as ordered, “I put a glamour on it. As long as you hold it your face, and voice, will be that of an ordinary woman, and no human will know your true nature.”

Weiss gently draped it over her shoulders, her hands slowly reached for her helmet, hesitated for a moment. Ilia knew she was asking for a lot of trust from the Schnee, but her words were true, and her gift genuine, if bedrudging.

Eventually Weiss chose to trust her and carefully took off her helmet. To everyone else she was just another plain face in the crowd, a nondescript woman who no one would look twice at. But Ilia could see through her own handiwork with ease.

The woman may not have looked any different, but her expression held far more emotion than Ilia had ever seen it hold before. Not even her first bout of rage matched the sheer gratefulness in those eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, before returning to march behind their companions.

Ilia blinked a few times as she stared after her, not fully understanding what had just happened.

Gods, that Schnee was one strange woman.

#rwby #prismatic ponytails #weiss schnee #ilia amitola #blake belladonna #penny polendina #medieval au #fanfic

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flyawayrachel · 3 years

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Sometimes when I'm having a particularly hard day excepting my lot I go back and read this little thing I wrote a few months after leaving my family to remind me that I made the right decision. Idk why I am choosing to post this today but I've never posted it anywhere before. I've never been quiet about who I am and what I came from and sometimes it's nice to just get the feelings put there.

My whole life I had never been allowed to make decisions for myself, so why now, was it up to me to make the biggest decision of my life?

What school I could attend, what major I could study, what clothes I could wear, what teachers I could take, what jobs I could have, who I could speak to, who I could be friends with, what bank I used, what hair style I had, what nickname I could go by, what music I could listen to...all these things were policed since I was born, and the first decision I got to make solo was the most world defining decision I'll ever make.

Since then I've made a lot of decisions about myself, some little and some huge, but each one comes with a hill to climb. Through this series of decisions I've come to discover a little more about myself and who I am, a long painful process of deciding for myself.

The first decision.

It was a Sunday. I was expected to attend three morning protests and church at 11:30am, my father would be giving the weekly sermon. This Sunday, however, was different. For the first time in my life, I had a separate obligation. I chose, or tried to choose, to skip church that week.

This was not my first decision as it was reviewed by my parents and shut down.

It was 7am that Sunday morning, and I jumped out of bed, got dressed, and headed to work. I had discussed the days events with my parents two nights prior, today we had a fundraiser. A local family had just lost their daughter to brain cancer, and for once in my life I felt I had the power to do good, instead of spread hate. This was a huge deal to everyone there, and the community surrounding us. I was excited. As a new business, this would be great for us. We'd learn how to handle big crowds of people, we'd all bond over the stress of the situation, we'd have a great time, and we'd be doing good. I got to the restaurant around 7:45, and jumped into work. We had a LOT to do. I was anxious, I knew I was doing something I shouldn't...or at least something my parents don't approve of. It wasn't until 9:21 I heard from them

"Are you planning to miss church today?" My father text me.

"I'm planning to make it back, but if we get people in at 11, I probably won't be able to." I replied

"OK this doesn't really work for me. You aren't at a spot in life where this should be getting asked of you and this was supposedly made clear when you joined. If they cannot respect your need to be in the Lords house you need to find other employment. We need to talk about this"

Fear. Fear was all I could feel. I cried. Knowing exactly what "We need to talk about this meant" it wouldn't be a conversation with just me and him. Or me him and my mother, it would be everyone. Every adult member of our church would sit me down, accuse me of all manner of wrong doing, scream, yell, and refuse to acknowledge anything I said and brush it off as if I was a liar. A decision they had made for me when I was not even a teenager yet. At 11 years old I had been pegged as a liar and forced into seclusion by the church all because my mother, forgetful as ever, had forgotten a conversation I had with her a few weeks prior to it all coming to light. "If they're too scared to talk to me(referring to my older brother as I) then they can't speak to anyone" an aunt of mine had said, and her word was regarded as law at that point. Months of silence on my part followed. I became solemn and bitter after that. My social skills had been destroyed and I would never get over what they'd done to me. The happy little girl was gone, and in their eyes, she never existed. I was ridiculed for years because of this change in demeanor.

I received several phone calls from my parents that morning. I answered none of them. So my mother chimed in...it was 9:57:

"It is not ok for you to miss Church today. We need to have a serious discussion today about what's going on with you."

Again the threat of intervention.

I had to go home. My boss rolled his eyes, dispite his knowledge of my situation he couldn't help but be annoyed that his second hand was leaving, right before open, on what would be our busiest day ever. When I left, there was already a line at the door. I later learned they filled the restaurant within seven minutes of opening the doors. It didn't stop until we closed that night.

My dad gave the sermon that day. It was long. Nearly double the normal length of our weekly meeting. I couldn't tell you if it was purposefully, knowing him it probably wasn't, but that didn't help my view of the situation. Once church was over, I spead down the highway back to work, it was nearly 2pm by the time I got back. It was chaos. People everywhere, we were running out of things, and the dishwashers they'd pulled to prep just couldn't keep up. I was put in charge of running prep and we prepped and prepped and prepped. Ticket times were awful and I don't think we ever got out of the weeds, even now I feel the effects of that day on our staff. I remember at one point I was apologizing to one of our cooks, who we affectionately refer to as "Mom".

"I don't know if I can stay there any more" I'd said. For the first time in my life, I'd admitted to someone that I didn't see a future for me in the church. I'd been toiling with the feeling for years, but it wasn't until early February that I'd realized that I couldn't stay. "Get through school" I'd tell myself. With two years of school left, and my whole life crumbling, I knew I wouldn't last.

"If you need a place to go, I have a spare bedroom. You're welcome there" she replied.

I was floored. Being told your whole like that the world is against you, you learn to accept that, but this woman, this mother of three, had just offered to open her door to me, no questions asked.

We closed at 8.

Once it died down I sat at the bar with my chef. The foh manager behind the bar, pouring them both drinks. I can't tell you the exact words that were spoken, what, if any, words of encouragement were given to me, but while sitting there, I made my first decision. It was time to go. I remember thinking that I needed permission from someone, anyone, to do this, but it never came. My chef never told me I should, our foh manager never told me I should, no one told me to do it. I had to decide, and decide I did.

Once I got home late that night I told my sister. I didn't tell her I would leave immediately. I just told her I couldn't stay and she was always welcome to join me when she got older. I remember telling her there are other ways and places that we can serve the Lord without being subjected to the cruel glares and sneers of those around us. We had discussed often the wrong doings of the "Elders" of our church. I thought she'd understand and maybe she did, but she was hesitant. She was only a child after all, 13 years old, but had already been through hell and back with these people.

The next day I packed. I used the pretence that I was cleaning out my room and giving a bunch of my clothes to Goodwill, an instruction my father had given me a few days prior. This came only months after my mom had my siblings strip my room of much of my belongings and furniture while I was in class one evening. Many garbage bags full of clothes with other items hidden within made their way to the car. It was hard. Making the decision on what to keep and what to leave behind. I had collected many things from many different fan bases I considered myself a part of, while much had been taken from me I still had decisions to make. A lot got left behind. It was now Monday. I didn't work Mondays so I had all day to work. At 8pm we all sat down for our evening reading. I remember choking back tears realizing this would be the last time I sat in a room along side all six of my siblings and my parents in an amicable manner, still, the looming threat of these "talks" overtook me with fear. Once we were done and we'd said our evening prayer I went up to my room. I cried. I cried for the hurt I would do my dad, it was a common joke in the house that I was his favorite. His first little girl. The years I'd miss watching my baby brother grow up. The betrayal my sister would feel when she woke up the next morning. Knowing that in the following weeks every inkling of my existence would be stripped from the house, I still wonder what became of my old bedroom. Did my sister take it like she'd joked about when I would tell her I was dying from a migraine or dealing with a particularly hard day at work? Would my mom take it and use it as an office or spare bedroom for when my dad snored too loud as she often did when I would sleep over at my cousin Vicky's house?

My mom left the house at 4:30am. I was awake before she left. Silently selecting the last few items I would take with me. I wrote two notes. One of apology to my sister for leaving her here in a cave full of wolves. One to my dad, asking to be left alone and explaining that there had been irreparable damage done by other members of the church and that I did not believe their doctrine. I wrap my house key, pink and bedazzled with fake diamonds because my dad picked it out and never really got who I was back then, and copy of their credit card in it and stuck it in his cubby before walking out the door, tears still wet on the paper from when I wrote it. I only had one chance, as all windows and doors on our house sent chimes throughout the 10 bedroom, 6 bathroom, three kitchen home when opened. I got in my car, contemplated my decision one last time, and I left.

I sat at my job for hours alone, drinking ginger ale and eating sourdough bread. Wishing the nausea would go away. Not long after getting there I received a message from my dad. He would not ask me to come home, but extended the invitation to talk if I thought it would solve the problem and I could continue living under their rule. Reiterating the fact that they would not be changing for me. If I left I was going to be on my own. I spent the morning crying as I went about directing prep work for the week, we had a lot to recover from and my personal turmoil couldn't distract me from my work. Hours later my mom showed up. It was on the way home from the early morning yoga class she had taught, which is why she left the house so early. I couldn't recount the exact words said because I was to distracted by the way she was speaking to me. I was a stranger now. She's a lawyer and treated me like a client, taking notes as we spoke with no regard to my emotions or well being. She'd always counted the days to my 18th birthday, the only hope she'd rid me from her life forever. This was her chance.

The months following were hard. I had a lot of decisions to make and no one to guide me. The people who swore to make it easier only made it harder, but I bonded with the least expected people, some of which continue to be my greatest friends even to today. It was a decision that I don't regret, not even on the hardest days, the days I mourn the time lost with my loved ones and the very real possibility they'll never come back to me. The nights I sit up scrounging the internet for any glimpse into their current lives, or when I read people's"hot takes" about who they think they are, often getting it wrong and seeing my family as a one dimensional group of haters. I've made the decision to me myself and it's a decision I'll stand by until the day I die, eternity be damned.

#My life #wbc #westboro baptist church #please be respectful

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panharmonium · 3 years

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the edge of seventeen [fic]

summary: Daegal forgets his own birthday. Merlin has a conniption. Daegal has a crisis.

context for newcomers: This is the next installment in an ongoing AU that @once-and-future-gay and I have been playing around with, wherein both Will and Daegal survived into Season 5. The background for that AU can be found here, and the associated fics (plus one art post) are at the following links: be good / persistence / tournaments / daegal post-carpentry (art).

a/n: @once-and-future-gay, this was actually written for your birthday XD I started it that Tuesday intending for it to be a very short snippet that I could post the same day, but I quickly realized that it was turning into a bigger piece, and now, a week and a half later, it’s a 10k story. I apologize for how belated it is, but I hope you'll accept it as a birthday gift anyhow - I figured that if it were up to me, I’d rather have ‘more fic’ than ‘on-time fic,’ so - happy (belated) birthday to you, and here’s some more of this AU for you, featuring Daegal and a wide supporting cast! ✨

“Are you trying to slice that thing or just beat it to death?”

Will stared incredulously down the table at Daegal, who continued to hack at the seedpod held between his fingers even though his aggravated chopping did little more than squash the unyielding capsule down into the wood of the table. “It’s my knife,” Daegal muttered, stabbing at his botanical nemesis. “It’s dull.”

“So sharpen it.”

“I did,” Daegal replied. “It’s old. It doesn’t hold an edge.”

Will beckoned for the knife. Daegal scooted it down the table to him like an innkeeper sliding drinks down the length of the bar, even in defiance of Merlin’s exasperated, “Don’t - !” But Will caught the knife easily, handle-first, and gave it a disapproving once-over.

“Use mine,” he said, and slid one of his own blades down the table.

“Don’t - !” Merlin bit out again, then sighed and returned to the text he was copying after Daegal intercepted the blade without injury.

“Careful,” Will warned Daegal. “It’s - ”

Pop. Daegal startled out of his seat at the first enthusiastic slice of the knife, as the capsule burst and sent hundreds of tiny black seeds scattering in every direction, the dried granules rolling off the edge of the table and pouring onto the floor with a rain-like hiss.

Merlin sighed and rubbed his forehead. Will picked up his own half-finished carving again and gestured at Merlin’s face. “You’ve got a bit of ink on you, you know.”

Merlin shot him a flat look. “Have I?”

“Yeah. Just over your nose there.”

“Maybe it’s because you keep doing things that make me want to pull my hair out.”

Will gave Daegal a knowing grin across the table. Daegal, doing his best to contain the spilled seeds, couldn’t help feeling pleased, even if the smile he offered to Will in return was slightly sheepish.

“Do I?” Will asked Merlin, utterly unconcerned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Stop giving him knives!” Merlin burst out, gesturing broadly at Daegal’s end of the table.

“He’s fine!” Will said. “He’s a big lad.”

“And he’s making a big mess.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Daegal assured Merlin, scooping the runaway seeds into uncooperative piles. “I didn’t think it would cut so well, is all.”

“You need better tools,” Will declared. “Merlin, the man works for you. Why haven’t you got him outfitted properly?”

Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted by a rap at the door. “It’s open,” he called, frowning. It was a bit late for visitors.

The door swung open, revealing Gwaine, who took only a single step into the physician’s chambers before pausing at the loud crunching sound under his boot. “Hallo,” he said curiously, lifting up his foot. “What’s all this, then?”

“Seeds,” Daegal supplied helpfully, at the same time as Merlin grumbled, “Never mind. Don’t come in; you’ll track it all over.”

Gwaine obliged, bowing at the waist in deference to Merlin’s directive. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I only came by to see if you lot fancied an excursion.”

“What sort?”

“The lads and I are off to see the sunrise. Thought you might like to join us.”

It was only after a moment’s confusion that Daegal realized Gwaine was talking about the tavern, in some sort of post-curfew, plausible deniability-laden way. Daegal wiped seeds from his palms and looked hopefully between Will and Merlin, not daring to believe that they would say yes. It wasn’t often Gwaine heard the word “no” from someone he’d propositioned, Daegal was willing to bet, but Daegal knew trying to drag Will and Merlin out of their nest two whole bells after curfew, especially when the weather had frosted all the windows, was an extremely optimistic maneuver, even for Gwaine.

Will, predictably, snorted, not even bothering to pretend he was interested. Merlin did a better job of feigning regret, holding up the heavy text he was copying as if it explained everything. “Can’t,” he said simply. “Sorry. Too much work. Too late. Too tired. Too cold.”

“Any other excuses?” Gwaine asked, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“Pick whichever one you like best,” Merlin said, returning to scratch away at his manuscript. “I’m comfy in here.”

Gwaine gestured amicably at Daegal. “How about you, lad?”

Daegal’s eyes widened. Merlin always made tavern nights with Gwaine sound legendary, and the fact that Will groaned every time they came up in conversation made them even more intriguing, but Will, in a surprisingly swift intervention, interrupted before Daegal could even open his mouth.

“Not a chance,” he said, when Daegal tentatively started to rise from his chair. “Sit down.”

Gwaine did not seem offended, but simply leaned against the doorframe and grinned in that careless way of his. “Can’t the lad have a bit of fun?”

“Not with that lot. Not at this hour.”

“I’ll look after him.”

“You? By the time you’re done drinking you won’t know him from Bruta.”

Gwaine shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pointed at Daegal. “Invitation stands, lad. Another time, maybe.”

Daegal nodded wistfully, and Gwaine bade them farewell, departing. Will, shaking his head, returned to his whittling, muttering, “Not ruddy likely.” He brushed wood shavings off his knees, adding to the mess on the floor. “Lunatic.”

“He’s a good lunatic,” Merlin said, absorbed in his copying.

“If you say so.”

“I could still go, maybe,” Daegal said. “I could look after myself.”

Will raised his eyebrows. “At the Rising Sun? After curfew? You’d wake up with your head in a snowbank.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would,” Will said, not budging. “Don’t go courting trouble. You’re too young for that crowd.”

Daegal scrunched up his nose. He knew that in a contest of stubbornness, Will would win by a mile, but still - “I’m not too young. I’m seventeen.”

Merlin’s head snapped up from his book, his copying abruptly forgotten. “You’re sixteen.”

“No,” Daegal said, bewildered by Merlin’s sudden bizarre intensity. “Seventeen.”

“Since when?”

“I had my birthday last month.”

“You what?”

Daegal, confused, looked between Merlin and Will, the latter of whom sighed. “Oh, lor.”

“What?” Daegal asked. “Have I - is that bad?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Merlin demanded, ignoring Daegal’s question.

“I don’t know,” Daegal replied, taken aback. He hadn’t even thought of it at the time. What was there to think about? It was just another day. Sometimes he didn’t even remember his birthday had happened until it was already over. Once he hadn’t remembered until the last week in January, when he’d taken a courier job and been forced to lie about his age.

Merlin looked incensed. Will, by contrast, looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Right, then,” he said, getting up and tucking his carving into his pocket. “I’m off. You two have fun.”

Daegal had an absurd urge to beg Will to sit back down, because Merlin was starting to get a frankly loony look on his face and Daegal did not understand what was the matter. But Will just patted Daegal on the top of the head on his way out - tap tap - and let the door swing closed behind him.

Merlin, his hands on his hips, assessed Daegal with narrowed eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Daegal ventured, unsure what he was apologizing for.

Merlin pressed his lips together. “You and him,” he said, pointing to the door where Will had just exited, “you’re two of a kind, you know that?”

Daegal did not know. He had no idea what Merlin was talking about, in fact, and he was afraid to ask. He did not exactly want to apologize again, though, because that felt sort of like apologizing for being like Will (although why Merlin seemed to think this was the case was a mystery).

“Right,” Merlin said after a moment. “Not to worry. I’ll take care of it.”

Daegal hesitated. “Take care of what?”

Merlin sighed and shook his head, but did not answer. Daegal decided that perhaps it would be best if he did not needle Merlin with further questions right now. His mentor was acting very strange, and Daegal could not possibly imagine what had gotten him so worked up.

He would just have to ask Will about it later.

As it turned out, Daegal did not have a chance to ask Will about it later.

The next day, Will did not come by. The day after that, Merlin sent Daegal out to collect more dried seedpods to replace the ones Daegal had mangled, which took all afternoon and was exhausting enough for Daegal to go straight to his little chamber in the servants’ wing and flop into bed after supper.

The morning after that, he woke to find a smiling Elyan hovering barely two inches above his face.

Daegal stifled a gasp and only just barely stopped himself from whacking Elyan across the nose. He scrambled upright in the bed, his back pressed against the wall. “El - Sir Elyan! What - ”

“Good morning,” Elyan said, as if he could not possibly have been happier to have gotten almost-smacked in the face. “Merlin sent me down. Said it’s your birthday.”

Daegal goggled at him. “My what?”

“Your birthday,” Elyan repeated. “Isn’t it?”

Daegal shook his head, certain that he was still asleep. “No.”

“Merlin said you might say that.” Elyan whipped the covers off Daegal’s legs. “Up you get. It’s time for breakfast.”

Daegal shivered violently, his sleep clothes providing little protection against the cold. “I don’t normally - I’m supposed to go and help Gaius - ”

“Not today. You’ve been given the day off.”

Daegal stared. “What for?”

Elyan chuckled. “Still asleep in there, I see,” he remarked, tossing Daegal a shirt. “It’s your birthday. Haven’t I just said that?”

“It’s not, though,” Daegal said, feeling as if he were speaking a different language. “My birthday’s in November.”

“Not this year, it isn’t.” Elyan grinned. “Get dressed. We’ve got all sorts of things do today.”

When Elyan had said ‘all sorts of things,’ Daegal had not expected one of those things to be a full breakfast served in the King and Queen’s personal chambers, catered by the King and Queen’s personal serving staff, and attended by the King and Queen themselves.

“I didn’t know,” Daegal whispered frantically to Merlin, as Elyan ushered him inside the room. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? I would have worn something else!”

“You don’t have anything else,” Merlin shot back under his breath. “Relax. Arthur put his undershirt on back to front this morning; he’s hardly Sir Stylish.”

Daegal gave Merlin a panicked, pleading stare, but Merlin just plunked Daegal down in a seat and left to pour the drinks.

“We’ve been meaning to do this for ages,” the Queen told him, sitting down next to Elyan. “Merlin keeps you very busy, doesn’t he?”

Daegal’s mouth was too dry to formulate any sort of reply. Only a few short months ago this very same woman had been standing at Morgana’s elbow, plotting Arthur’s assassination, and at the time, Daegal had not even realized there was anything wrong with her. There was, after all, nothing hard to believe about a servant-turned-queen who’d gotten a taste for power and decided to keep climbing the ladder, and while Merlin had always been very adamant that Daegal would never have believed this of Gwen if he had ever met her previously, it was hard for Daegal to look at her and not remember how she had willingly embraced the woman who later tried to murder Merlin and threatened to do the same to Daegal, if he didn’t keep his mouth shut.

Merlin, busy setting out the ewery on a sidetable, heard Gwen’s comment and spared Daegal the necessity of replying. “Arthur keeps me very busy,” he said, directing a pointed look at the king. “If you’d like me to arrange your subjects’ social schedules on top of my other duties, Sire, perhaps you ought to hire someone else to look after your washing.”

Arthur waved a hand. “Guinevere likes that funny thing you do with my socks.”

“Guinevere,” corrected the Queen , “thinks her husband is perfectly capable of rolling his own socks, thank you.” She smiled encouragingly at Daegal. “But enough about the laundry. We’d been meaning to have you round for a meal, to say thank you, and Merlin mentioned that it was your birthday, so we thought now would be the perfect time.”

Daegal barely even heard the bit about his birthday, instead fixated on what had come just before it. Thank him? What for? He had nearly gotten the king killed.

“Merlin tells us you’ve been helping Gaius?” Arthur prompted.

Daegal nodded.

“He’s a fine physician. If you’re pursuing a path in the healing arts, you couldn’t ask for a better teacher.”

“Is that something you’re interested in?” Guinevere asked, warm interest written across her face.

Daegal’s eyes darted helplessly to Merlin, who nodded encouragingly. Daegal cleared his throat. “Er - I think so. Maybe. Merlin says I’m picking it up quickly.”

“Well, you’ve already saved one life,” Arthur said with a grin, gesturing at himself, “so if that’s any indication of your capabilities, I expect you’ll do well.” He offered Daegal a platter of pastries. “Tell us about your studies.”

The meal continued on in much the same fashion, with Gwen and Arthur asking Daegal questions and Elyan occasionally putting in a comment or two of his own. Daegal did his best to answer honestly, even as he was plied with heaps of food, most of which was comprised of dishes he had never had the chance to try before and all of which flavors he was certain he would never be able to remember later, given how worked up he was. Arthur was gracious and charming throughout, very unlike the man who often featured in Merlin’s grumbling suppertime complaints. Elyan talked to Merlin as much as he did to either of the royal guests, which was probably a breach of some kind of protocol, though nobody seemed to mind. And the Queen - the Queen looked exactly the same as she had when Daegal had first met her, minus the cloak and surreptitious glances, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought nothing had changed.

Except -

There came one moment, towards the end of the meal, when Merlin put a goblet down in front of Gwen with a playful and very exaggerated “Your Majesty,” and Gwen jabbed his knee with a fork under the table where Arthur couldn’t see, all the while both of them keeping their eyes locked on each other as if daring the other one to laugh first, and it was then that Daegal knew with absolute certainty that this was not the same woman he had met that night in the woods.

“I hope you’ll accept this token of the Crown’s appreciation,” Arthur said to Daegal later, when they had finally finished their meal and risen from their chairs. “You’ve done this kingdom a tremendous service, and I’m indebted to you.” He passed Daegal a very official-looking bit of folded parchment stamped with the royal seal, which Daegal knew it would not be appropriate to open now. He took it and bowed the way Merlin had shown him.

“And there’s something from me, too,” said Guinevere. “Only it would have been a bit difficult to get it up the steps - Elyan will take you to see it instead. I think you’ll find it useful, given that you’re apprenticing to our physicians.”

Daegal could not possibly imagine what on earth could have been so unwieldy that she could not get it up the stairs, but he bowed to her as well. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” she said, in a more solemn voice. “For helping, when I couldn’t help myself.”

Daegal straightened, hesitant. Her eyes - it seemed ludicrous to Daegal, now, that he had not recognized the enchanted version of her for what it was. That hollow shell had had no soul.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he blurted out. “I wish I could’ve done more.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Arthur said, wrapping a steady arm around his wife’s shoulders. “For both of us. We owe you a great deal.”

Daegal bowed to both of them again, and Elyan escorted him to the door. “Oh, and Daegal?” Gwen added.

Daegal stumbled over his own feet trying to turn around. “Your Majesty?”

She smiled at him. “Happy birthday.”

“What did Arthur give you, then?” Elyan asked, once they were out in the street.

Daegal fingered the mystery envelope. He did not know, and honestly, his head was spinning too much for him to even think about puzzling out a jumble of words right now, especially when he was only just learning his letters to begin with.

“Can I have a look?” Elyan asked, and Daegal willingly handed him the parchment. Elyan slipped a finger under the seal and unfolded the document, parsing it with a speed Daegal had pretty much despaired of ever achieving for himself.

“Mm,” Elyan said. “Thought so. Typical kingly stuff.”

“What is it?”

“Land grant,” Elyan said, handing back the parchment, and then, as if this were nothing to worry about, he turned and ambled into the stables.

Daegal stared after him. “What?”

“Land grant,” Elyan repeated. “You know, like a knight’s fee. For services rendered to the Crown.” He wandered deeper down the central aisle of the stable, stalled horses on either side of him lifting their heads. “Come on. It’s through here.”

Stunned, Daegal followed him, his fingers clutching at the incomprehensible slip of parchment. “I can’t own land,” he protested. “I don’t own a second pair of shoes.”

“You do now. Or you can afford to, at least.” Elyan glanced back at Daegal. “Don’t worry, it’s a small plot. Just a little square out in the Sprawl.”

Outside the city walls, then. “I don’t - what am I supposed to do with it?”

“You could live there.”

“But - ” Daegal stared at Elyan’s back uncomprehendingly. “I live in the Citadel.”

“Rent it?”

Daegal’s head was going to explode. “Will says landlords are leeches,” he said faintly.

Elyan laughed. “Herb garden?” he suggested. “Merlin’s always sending you off to gods know where, searching for things you could grow yourself.”

Daegal hardly knew what to say to that, but Elyan stopped walking before Daegal could think of anything coherent. “Here we are,” Elyan announced, clapping a hand down on top of a stall door to his left.

A wave of misgiving flooded Daegal, temporarily wiping away the lingering shock of the land grant. “Are we riding somewhere?”

He had not considered this, and he did not want to admit that the only way he was going to be able to ride anywhere at all was on the back of someone else’s saddle. He had never had access to a horse himself, and had only had the opportunity to ride twice in the past - the first occasion had been extremely brief, and the second had ended in him being thrown, so he was not quite sure that it counted.

“Not today,” Elyan said. “Unless you count the training ring.”

“Sorry?”

“Merlin says you don’t know how to ride.”

“Yeah,” Daegal said. He could feel himself turning red. “I mean - no, I don’t know how. Not well. I don’t need to. I don’t have a horse.”

“Didn’t have a horse,” Elyan said, as if making a correction.

“What?”

Elyan gestured at the stall they were standing next to. “Couldn’t get her up the stairs.”

Daegal’s mouth popped open. The creature Elyan was pointing to was a dark bay with an irregular, splotchy white blaze down her muzzle, her smooth coat appearing nearly black in the dim light of the stables. She was stout and smoothly muscled, watching them with a calm, composed energy, and even as Daegal stared, she stretched her neck over the stall door and sniffed at Elyan’s hands, perhaps searching for any remnants of his recent breakfast.

“My sister,” Elyan said proudly, scratching the horse’s cheek, “is aces at presents.”

“She’s not for me,” Daegal croaked disbelievingly.

“Of course she is,” Elyan assured him. “She’s the same stock as Merlin’s. Steady temperament, friendly, not likely to spook. Not like Arthur’s beasts.”

A horse, Daegal thought numbly. A horse.

“I can’t take this,” he mumbled. “It’s too much.”

“Of course it’s not too much. You saved the king’s life.”

I almost killed him! Daegal wanted to shout, but Elyan would not understand.

“And you’ll need transportation, anyhow,” Elyan continued. “You can’t be jogging along behind Merlin on foot. Apprentices in the royal household have mounts, or they can’t do their work.”

Daegal bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t even know how to ride her.”

The horse cocked her ears in Daegal’s direction and swung her blocky head around to inspect him, her dark brown eyes sedate and trusting. “What do you think we’re here to practice?” Elyan asked cheerfully, retrieving a halter and lead rope from a hook on the wall. “Go on, say hello to her.”

Daegal’s hand came up of its own accord, hovering in the air below his new mount’s nose. She lipped at his fingers curiously. “Hello,” Daegal breathed.

He didn’t deserve her. He knew he didn’t.

But he was falling in love with her anyway.

It was a very windswept and breathless Daegal who climbed off his horse later that day and ran to greet Merlin at the fence.

Evening was coming on, and the temperature had sunk as quickly as the sun, but Daegal did not even notice the stiffness in his fingers or the tightness in his cheeks. He was too carried away with the elation of riding, and the dizzying knowledge that he now had the means to go anywhere he wanted, anytime, without begging for rides in the back of strangers’ wagons. Months ago he would have killed for this kind of ability to roam.

It was strange, now that he finally had the freedom to run away whenever he pleased, that he no longer felt he had anything to run away from.

“Having fun?” Merlin asked, elbows resting on the fence.

Daegal did not think fun was the right word. There was just no good way to explain that he felt like a menagerie bear whose shackles had slipped, or a noblewoman’s bird escaping out a cracked window. “It’s brilliant,” he said, settling for a completely inadequate adjective. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“And he’s good at it!” Elyan put in, walking Daegal’s horse over to the gate. “We’ve only been out here one day and he’s got her cantering already - I think this beast is talking to him.”

If Daegal’s cheeks had not been whipped rosy by the wind already, they were certainly turning pink now. “No,” he said to Merlin, “not - talking to me. Obviously not. Just - I sort of feel like I understand her, is all.”

Merlin did not seem to think this was strange at all, and produced a chunk of some sort of winter root vegetable from his coat, offering it to the horse. She snapped it up eagerly. “Animals talk,” Merlin said, shrugging. “It’s people as don’t know how to listen that get kicked in the nethers.”

He untied the gate for Elyan, who led the horse through it and started up the path back to the stables proper. “How was your day?” Merlin asked Daegal, as the three of them walked, Elyan leading the horse on one side, and Merlin and Daegal on the other.

Daegal had to think before answering. It had been, by a wide margin, the strangest day he had ever experienced in Camelot, starting with Elyan’s surprise appearance that morning and punctuated by a number of other unexpected visitors. Leon had arrived in the stables not long after Elyan and Daegal, bringing with him a collection of exquisitely embroidered tack (“Part of Her Majesty’s gift,” he’d explained), and then he’d spent the next hour walking Daegal through the various bits and pieces, guiding him through the process of putting them on his mount and taking them off again. Percival had dropped by with his own mount and accompanied Daegal on a slow ride outside the ring, along the edge of the woods - Elyan had ridden in the saddle behind Daegal, just to be safe, but he had not had to take the reins from Daegal once, and they had gone on a nice plodding walk around the frostbitten perimeter of what would be fairgrounds, come summer. Even Mordred had made a brief appearance, in his oddly intense way - apparently out for a ride of his own, watching Elyan and Daegal lungeing Daegal’s mount for a few minutes, before nodding to the both of them and continuing on his way, his own horse cresting the hill so smoothly that it appeared as if it were not touching the ground.

“It was strange,” Daegal decided.

Merlin walked along beside him, his boots crunching on the frostbitten grass. “Why?”

“I don’t know. All these people - ” Daegal paused, brushing a hand against his horse’s flank. “I don’t see why they’re taking an interest.”

“It’s your birthday,” Merlin replied. “People are supposed to make a fuss.”

Daegal was not sure about that. It had not ever been his experience in the past, at least. “It’s not really my birthday, though.”

“Only because I didn’t know about it.”

They continued walking, Daegal worrying at his lip. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said abruptly, after a minute.

“You’re not enjoying yourself?”

Daegal shook his head quickly. “I am.” Too much, he thought. His exhilaration at being taught how to ride had driven it from his mind for a while, but now -

Elyan waved to someone up ahead, interrupting Daegal’s thoughts. There in the stableyard was Gwaine, lounging against the edge of the open doors, dressed not in his crimson surcoat but in plain clothes, and tossing a small pouch from hand to hand.

“You’re early,” Merlin called to him. “We’ve still got to groom and water this creature.”

“I thought I was supposed to be in charge of the watering,” Gwaine replied, which seemed like a very odd thing to say. “Wasn’t that the plan?”

“I’m talking about the horse.”

Gwaine pushed himself off the wall, joining the little group as they entered the yard. “Our guest of honor,” he said, indicating Daegal. “This fellow’s been doing our job for us, Elyan. Saving the king is knight’s work, isn’t it?”

Elyan led the horse past Gwaine with a smirk. “How would you know? You’ve never done a bit of it.”

Gwaine shook his head, glancing at Daegal in a comradely way. “Why does everybody think I only took this job for the food?”

Daegal, who had only rarely interacted with Gwaine before, did not know what to answer, but Merlin saved him the trouble. “Because we know you,” he said, and then smiled when Gwaine gave him a crooked grin.

That was utter nonsense. Even Daegal knew that Gwaine had nearly died during Morgana’s occupation, specifically while fighting to keep a number of his fellow prisoners from starving - but Merlin and Gwaine were a bit like Merlin and Will in that way, at least to Daegal’s limited experience, wherein Gwaine did not always want people to see him for what he truly was, and Merlin always chose to see him anyway, if only from behind a mutually agreed-upon smokescreen of affectionate teasing.

“Well, let’s hurry it up,” Gwaine said, tossing his little bag in the air. “I’d like to get on with my bit.”

His bit?

Gwaine paused in front of the empty stall while Elyan gathered what they would need for a post-ride grooming. “I hear it’s your birthday,” Gwaine said to Daegal, and then before Daegal could explain that it wasn’t, exactly, Gwaine handed Daegal the little leather bag. “There’s for you, then.”

Daegal, surprised, loosened the cinched string at the top of the pouch and tipped the contents into his other hand. Out tumbled four dice, the smoothly-carved cubes clacking against one another as they fell into Daegal’s palm.

Daegal looked up at Gwaine, confused.

“I thought you could use them,” Gwaine said.

“For what?”

Gwaine grinned and exchanged a knowing look with Merlin. “My bit.”

Daegal stared at at the dice in his hand, then snapped his gaze up to Merlin, suddenly seized by a burst of excitement. “Are we - ”

Merlin held up a finger. “On three conditions,” he declared, obviously trying not to smile.

Daegal closed his fingers tightly around the dice, trying not to appear too eager.

“One: you’re going to untack and groom your mount. The stablehands will do that for you, when you ride out with our party, but she’s your responsibility. You have to know how to take care of her.”

Daegal had no objections to that. He already loved this horse better than anything he’d ever owned.

“Two: weak drinks only.”

We’ll see, Gwaine mouthed behind Merlin.

“Three - ” Merlin held up a third finger. “You leave when I leave. Will’s right about the after-curfew crowd. That’s a sort of trouble you don’t need.” He looked expectantly at Daegal. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Daegal nodded fervently. “Is it - who’s coming?”

“Everybody!” Elyan supplied happily, uncinching the horse’s girth. “You saved our king. We owe you a night out.”

Merlin, who had perhaps understood Daegal’s question better, said, “Everybody who likes drinks and dicing and general uproar.”

This statement prompted appreciative, anticipatory grins from Gwaine and Elyan, and Daegal refrained from asking any follow-up questions, having understood the answer perfectly well. He had been working with Merlin long enough to know that if there were one thing Will avoided more assiduously than King Arthur, it was large groups of loud people losing their heads over absolutely nothing.

“Let’s get started, then,” Gwaine said. “D’you think you can untack this beast and learn the rules to Hazard at the same time?”

Daegal stuffed the dice into his pocket and grasped the bridle’s noseband buckle. “I can try.”

Gwaine grinned wolfishly. “That’s just what I like to hear.”

They ended up staying a bit later than they’d intended.

By the time Merlin finally had the sense to bring the evening to a close, Daegal had turned the single half-penny he had started with into several silver pieces (“Alchemy!” Gwaine had proclaimed triumphantly, knocking his cup into Daegal’s so that some of the drink had sloshed over), and Daegal had become very popular with some of the tavern regulars, who were beyond tickled to see a seventeen year-old boy flatten strangers’ smug expectations of victory. Daegal had not won every time, of course, but he had gotten extremely lucky at several critical moments and had at the very end miraculously thrown his chance number twice, after the odds had already been declared heavily against him (and thus after the other players had upped their contribution to Daegal’s stake with the expectation that he would lose).

Merlin had pulled Daegal from the game after that, sitting him back down at the knights’ table, which was piled high with food and drink. “First lesson,” he’d said, offering Daegal a very watered-down ale, “and one you won’t learn from Gwaine - quit while you’re ahead.”

They had stayed for a long time after that, socializing and eating their fill, until Merlin had finally seemed to take notice of the time (or perhaps of the slightly seedy-looking characters who had started to wander in through the back entrance). Merlin, at that point, had prompted Daegal to gather his winnings, say his goodbyes, and make his exit, pursued by a chorus of enthusiastic farewells from the knights, none of whom showed any sign of abandoning their seats anytime soon.

Stepping out into the night air was like diving into a frozen moat. Daegal drew his cloak tighter around his torso as he and Merlin wound their way through the town. The Rising Sun’s interior had been as stiflingly hot as its namesake, overflowing with a press of bodies and thrumming with a constant cacophony of conversation, and even from the outside its closed shutters leaked driblets of light and noise, as if the building were bursting at the seams. The town, by contrast, was stone-silent and frigid, everybody shut up in their homes waiting for the weak light of morning.

“You did well,” Merlin said, as they approached the citadel. “You’re sure you’ve never played Hazard before?”

Daegal shook his head. His mother would never have let him, before, and after -

He pushed that thought away, watching his breath mist in front of his face. He’d never had enough money to gamble with after that, that was all.

“You weren’t helping me, were you?” Daegal asked Merlin.

“No, you got lucky.” Merlin chuckled. “The look on that fellow’s face...”

Daegal smiled faintly, remembering. Daegal had taken rather a lot of money from a beefy, belligerent fellow who had been bothering everybody all night, which had resulted in a vastly improved tavern experience for all when the man had stormed out in a rage, and which had also earned a round of free drinks for Daegal’s table. “He wasn’t too pleased, was he?”

“No, he wasn’t. Not quite the sort of evening he was expecting to have, I don’t think.”

They walked on, approaching the retracted drawbridge, and detoured to the parallel pedestrian crossing instead, passing through the smaller door to the bridge’s left and entering the courtyard, Merlin offering a hello to the familiar guards as they went.

“How does it feel to be older?” Merlin asked, as they crossed the darkened square.

Daegal shrugged. “I don’t know. The same, I suppose.”

But that wasn’t exactly true, Daegal thought, as they entered the base of the North Tower. Last year, things had been very different. A few months ago, he could never have dreamed of the sort of day he’d been having today. And now -

He hesitated at the bottom of the stair leading to the physician’s chambers. Merlin, oblivious to the fact that Daegal was not right behind him, kept climbing.

“Why are you doing all this?” Daegal asked. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, or maybe that was just a function of the echo in the hollow space, his words bouncing off the stone shell on either side of him.

Merlin turned around, surprised to see Daegal still standing at the bottom of the stairs. “All what?”

Daegal made an uncertain gesture. “This. All these things today...I don’t understand.”

“It’s your birthday,” Merlin said, as if that made any sense at all.

“It’s not, though,” Daegal said. “Even if it were, I don’t see - I mean, it doesn’t matter.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Who cares?”

Merlin stared levelly at Daegal. “I do,” he said.

A long silence ensued. Daegal could not possibly have formulated a reply to this even if he’d known what to say, but Merlin did not ask him to respond, instead descending a few steps and putting a hand on Daegal’s elbow, nudging him up the staircase. “Come on,” he said quietly. “It’s late.”

Daegal followed him without a word, stunned and silent, seven stories straight up.

“Isn’t it a bit past your bedtime, old man?” Merlin said, immediately upon opening the doors to the physician’s chambers.

Daegal, trailing behind, thought this was a very unusual way for Merlin to address Gaius, but as he peered around Merlin’s shoulder, he realized it was not Gaius to whom Merlin was speaking, but Will, who was sitting by the little hearthfire at the left of the room with his feet propped up on a stool.

“No,” Will replied, though he did look like he was ready to doze off. “It might be a bit past Arthur’s, though.”

Merlin swore and stopped dead in the doorway. “He sent somebody up?”

“Several somebodies.”

“What did you tell them?

Will waved an unconcerned hand. “I don’t remember.”

“Will - ”

“Isn’t he waiting for you to turn down his sheets or something?”

“Did you tell them I was at the tavern?”

Will smirked.

Merlin, cursing under his breath, took Daegal by the upper arms and maneuvered him into the room. “Drink some water. Kip on the patient cot - you’re up early collecting pots with Gaius tomorrow; you might as well sleep here.” He tore off his outerwear and dumped it on a table. “You,” he said to Will, “on the other hand, can go home, you ass.”

Will tipped his chair back, cupping a hand to his ear. “What’s that? ‘Have my bed, William’? All right, if you say so.”

Merlin flashed Will a rude gesture before tearing out of the room. Daegal caught the door before it could slam and closed it carefully, so as not to disturb Gaius, who was sleeping behind the screens that had been drawn around his corner.

Will rose from his seat with a yawn, stretching. “So you had your evening out at last.”

Daegal did not answer him, his mind still trapped back there in the stairwell with Merlin. I do, he heard again, as he struggled to untie his cloak. I do.

“Was it everything you thought it would be?”

Daegal managed to undo the knot, his fingers clumsy with cold. He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and folded it slowly, first in half, then in fours, and then laid it aside before doing the same with Merlin’s rumpled jacket, single-mindedly focused on his task.

“I hope you at least took something off Gwaine. Fellow’s too cocky for his own good.”

Daegal, out of things to fold, stared at his hands. Will came closer, scrutinizing Daegal in the low light. “How much did you have to drink?”

Daegal stuck his hands into his pockets, avoiding Will’s gaze. Not much, was the true answer, but he couldn’t find the words.

He fingered the coins in his pocket, the silver pieces cold and clinking against one another.

“Oi,” Will said, frowning. He tipped Daegal’s chin up to see his eyes. “You all right in there?”

Morgana had given Daegal a sack of coins just like this, once.

Daegal yanked his hands out of his pockets as if he had been burned, jerking back from Will’s fingers.

“This is wrong,” he blurted out.

Will blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“I can’t do this. It’s - I can’t. It’s not right.”

“What isn’t?”

“Everything! The birthday, the money, the tavern, the riding - ” Daegal's voice was rising, but he could not rein himself in. He had been trying to tell this to someone all day. “The horse, the land, breakfast - ”

Will stared at him, confounded. “Breakfast?”

Daegal struggled mightily not to holler in frustration. Will, of all people, ought to have understood, but it appeared he was committed to being just as obtuse as everyone else. “Yes! I don’t deserve it; it isn’t right - ”

Will’s eyebrows shot up. He did not give Daegal another chance to wake Gaius, but planted a hand on Daegal’s shoulder and spun him around, muttering, “Go,” in a low voice, pushing Daegal away from Gaius’s sleeping area in the direction of Merlin’s chambers. Daegal allowed himself to be marched up the little staircase, Will following, until they were both in Merlin’s room, the small chamber chilly and cloaked with shadows, lit only by a single hanging candle.

Closing the door, Will turned back to Daegal. “Start over,” he commanded.

Daegal whipped out Arthur’s envelope. “The King - he gave me a land grant.”

Will snatched the piece of parchment out of Daegal’s hand, scanning it briefly. “So?” he said, discarding the envelope onto Merlin’s desk. “He can afford it.”

“But it’s - ”

“Nothing he’ll miss.”

“But - ”

“But what?”

“The Queen - ”

“What about her?”

“She gave me a horse.”

Will shrugged. “And?”

“It’s too much! I can’t - ”

“Are you planning to thank her for it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to take care of it?”

“Of course!”

“Then what’s the trouble? She wanted you to have it.”

“She gave it to me for the wrong reasons!” Daegal exclaimed frustratedly. “She kept saying I helped her, but I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even know she needed help. I thought she wanted the throne for herself - ”

“You stopped her killing her husband,” Will said, interrupting. “You saved his life.”

“I didn’t save him. I almost killed him. I’m the reason he needed help in the first place. But all of them are acting like - ” Daegal thought back to earlier that night, to Elyan, who had shown Daegal how to calculate Hazard odds in his head; to Leon, who had spoken to Daegal like one of the adults; to Percival, who had taught Daegal the less savory lyrics to the tavern’s favorite drinking songs; and to Gwaine, who had murmured advice in Daegal’s ear while Daegal cast his dice. “They kept saying I’d done their job for them. They - ”

A horrible, hollow feeling bloomed in Daegal’s chest, strangling his voice. He pulled the coins out of his pocket and dumped them onto Merlin’s desk, not wanting to carry that cold weight for another moment. “They don’t know me. They don’t know what I’m like.”

Will watched him closely, his eyes narrowing. “What are you like?”

Daegal shook his head and sank down onto Merlin’s bed, staring at the floor. He didn’t want to say it. He shouldn’t need to say it. Will already knew the whole story; Daegal shouldn’t have needed to retread all the ugly details.

Will folded his arms, leaning back against the top of Merlin’s desk. The single candle did very little to illuminate his set expression, but the moonlight in the window behind him threaded his silhouette with silver.

“I shouldn’t have said anything about my birthday,” Daegal murmured, his voice thick. “I should have just kept it quiet. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Will frowned. “Who said that?”

“Merlin. When I didn’t mention my birthday - he said you were - well, he said we were two of a kind.”

Will shook his head. “I don’t hide my birthday.”

“I think you must,” Daegal said stubbornly, returning to his intense inspection of the floorboards. “Because I don’t even know when it is.”

“Neither do I.”

Daegal looked up, surprised. “What?”

“I don’t know when my birthday is.”

“Why - ”

Will lifted a finger repressively, and Daegal realized he was not going to be getting that part of the story tonight, or maybe ever. “It doesn’t matter,” Will said. “I don’t care. I don’t fancy it much, anyhow. It’s nothing to me. Merlin, though - ” He gestured at the room around them, at the mussed bedclothes and the stacked manuscripts and the sketched diagrams pasted to the walls. “He doesn’t like it when I say things like that. It bothers him. He’s got ideas about how these things are supposed to be done, and he thinks it’s wrong, not telling me happy birthday, even if I’d rather he just left it alone.”

Daegal had no trouble believing it, if Merlin’s reaction to Daegal’s skipped birthday were anything to go by. “But then - ” Daegal frowned. “He mustn’t know when your birthday is, either.”

“My birthday,” Will said, in a long-suffering way, “is whenever Merlin decides he wants it to be. He comes crawling into my cott at some godsforsaken hour of the morning on whatever personally convenient day he’s picked that year, and then he yanks me out of bed and feeds me too much food and drags me all over creation doing the sort of things he thinks I’ll like doing. I’ve been telling him to drop it for more years than you’ve been alive, but he never listens. It doesn’t matter how much I whinge about it. He never forgets. He can’t help himself. He thinks it’s important, telling people he’s happy they were born, even if they don’t think being born was such a fantastic thing themselves.”

Will gestured at Daegal. “If you’re going to be one of his people now, you’re going to have to get used to that. You don’t have to like it, but you’ve got to understand it. That’s who he is. That’s how he treats people. He won’t give you a pass on birthday fuss just because you don’t think you’re worth fussing over. He’s not built that way.”

Daegal heard Merlin’s words again, echoing against the frozen stones of the stairwell. Who cares? Daegal had asked.

I do.

He twisted his fingers together. Out in the physician’s chamber proper, Gaius was snoring.

“It’s not just Merlin, though,” Daegal said finally, in a soft voice. “Everybody - all of them are doing too much.”

“Too much how?”

“They keep thanking me. But the gifts are - I didn’t earn them. I don’t deserve them.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t need anyone to tell me; I know.” Daegal stared at Will, helpless to explain why Will’s inability to accept this simple truth made him feel so utterly lost at sea. “I don’t understand this. You’re the one who kept saying I did something wrong.”

“You did do something wrong,” Will replied, as if this entire line of discussion were so obvious that it did not need to be examined. “But you did something right, too.”

“I - ”

Will held up a hand. “Who was it nearly got themselves killed saving Pendragon’s gleaming hide? Who was it betrayed Morgana?”

“Me, but - ”

“Who was it came back to save Merlin’s life?”

“From something I did to him in the first place.”

“From something Morgana did to him,” Will corrected.

“I helped,” Daegal retorted. “You’re always saying - you said I need to take responsibility.”

“You do,” Will said. “For all your choices. Not just the shyte ones.” He gestured at the door, back towards the rest of the castle. “You saved two lives. You nearly got yourself killed doing it. That’s what they’re all thanking you for. It’s not about what you did for yourself; it’s what you did for everyone else, when you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to come back for Merlin. You didn’t have to follow him to Camelot. You could have just taken Morgana’s money and run.”

“I tried,” Daegal confessed, his mouth very dry. “I tried. I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?” Will said, as if he already knew the answer.

“I just - couldn’t.” Daegal remembered it with a nightmarish clarity, hesitating in the thickness of the undergrowth as the encroaching night muddled his vision, knowing that Merlin was suffocating at the bottom of a muddy ravine where no one would ever find his body. “I felt like something was going to swallow me. I would’ve rather died than felt like that all the time.”

“That’s because you know what’s right and what’s wrong,” Will said, as if he had been waiting for Daegal to say this all along. “And you chose right.”

“I chose wrong first.”

Will shook his head. “Lots of people choose wrong first. Doesn’t mean that what you choose next doesn’t matter.”

Daegal played with the hem of his sleeve, wrapping a fraying thread around his finger. Will pushed himself up from the desk and dragged Merlin’s chair over to a spot across from Daegal, then sat down. “Listen here,” he said. “I can’t say I’d be too pleased to get a load of gifts that I didn’t think I ought to have, either. But you can’t give them back, and you can’t convince people that you don’t deserve them, either.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got to just smile, and say thank you, and do your best to be worthy of everyone’s gifts.”

Daegal absorbed this, nodding slowly. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” Will said. “And so does everyone else.” Will met Daegal’s gaze unflinchingly, his outline illuminated at the edges by the moon at his back. “Don’t you ever tell me that lot doesn’t know what you’re like. They know it better than you do.”

Daegal swallowed, not trusting himself to speak.

“Now then,” Will said, linking his hands behind the back of his chair and stretching out his arms. “This is rubbish timing, but you’ve got to start practicing sometime, so let’s just get it over with.” He withdrew a thin, utensil-sized package from his pocket, extending it to Daegal. “Don’t have a crisis, now.”

“Oh - no - ” Daegal moaned.

“Oi,” Will warned. “What’ve we just talked about?”

Daegal took the parcel.

“Smile and say thank you,” Will prompted, when Daegal did not say anything right away.

Daegal managed a wobbly smile, and an even wobblier thank you, which Will, to Daegal’s very great relief, chose not to comment upon.

Daegal untied the parcel. The cloth casing fell away, revealing a short and sturdy pocketknife encased in a plain leather sheath. Daegal picked it up and turned it over in his hands, knowing immediately that Will had carved the handle himself. It fit into Daegal’s hand as if it had been moulded from a plaster cast, and it was the only part of the knife sporting any decoration, inscribed as it was with an angular script that Daegal could not read in this light. Daegal removed the sheath and found that the blade had been sharpened to a dangerous edge, the point glinting in the moonlight.

“Elyan did that bit,” Will said. “It ought to hold an edge better than what you have now.”

“No more mashing seed pods,” Daegal murmured.

“Exactly.”

Daegal ran a finger over the symbols carved into the handle. He hadn’t learned all his letters yet, but he thought he ought to have been able to recognize a few of them, at least. “What’s this writing?”

“Oh, that,” Will said, as if he had almost forgotten. “It’s spelled.”

“Spelled?”

“Magicked. Against slips. To spare your fingers.” Will waggled his own fingers in the air, and Daegal had to laugh a little.

“Merlin?”

Will’s face took on a thoughtful look. “No, actually.” He pointed at the unfamiliar runes, his tone becoming more serious. “Mordred says that if you’re going to exploit his people for personal gain, then you’re going to learn something about the culture.”

Daegal froze. A chill ran through him. He had never even considered -

He gripped the inscribed handle with sweaty fingers, mortified. “He’s angry with me.”

“No,” Will said. “I don’t think so, at least. It’s hard to tell with that fellow.”

At Daegal’s dismayed look, Will added, “He offered to spell the thing himself, at least, so I can’t imagine he’s too upset with you. But he has every right to be, you realize that?”

Daegal nodded quickly.

“You’re going to go and see him,” Will said, his voice calm, but his tone brooking no argument. “And you’re going to apologize, and you’re going to listen to whatever it is he wants to tell you. You understand?”

“Yes,” Daegal said quickly. “I’ll do it.” He glanced at the door.

“Not now,” Will clarified. “Tomorrow. He might not be angry just yet, but he will be if you yank him out of bed a few hours before he’s supposed to be on patrol.”

Daegal’s shoulders sagged. Will was right, but Daegal could not stand the thought of waiting. Yet another guilt-monster was chewing a hole in his stomach, and he was starting to think those gnawing teeth would never let him sleep. He recalled, suddenly, with a fresh wave of horror, the outrage on Merlin’s face when Daegal’s falsified triskele had smeared away, how tightly Merlin’s fingers had dug into Daegal’s wrist.

Here was one more stupid thing Daegal had done. One more person he’d injured. One more wrongheaded decision.

His eyes drifted longingly towards the door again.

“No,” Will said, shaking his head. “You made that bed, now you lie in it for one night.”

Daegal sighed, and Will’s tone softened. “You’ll make it right in the morning,” he said.

Daegal traced one of the Druidic runes with a finger. He supposed that was the best he could do.

Will stood up and beckoned for Daegal to join him. “Listen,” he said, pushing Merlin’s chair back under the desk. “It’s late. I don’t want you up all night brooding over this, all right?”

“All right,” Daegal said, but he had a feeling he was in for yet another night of lying awake under a blanket of guilt he had woven for himself.

“And - not that this needs to be said, but let’s not tell anyone you’ve got a magic pocketknife, all right? Pendragon will think I’ve been messing about with enchantments behind his back, and he’ll have me booted out of this kingdom faster than you can say insufferable bastard.”

“But you don’t have - ”

“Yes, I do,” Will reminded Daegal, giving him a significant look. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to tell people, if anybody starts asking questions.” He opened Merlin’s door, ushering Daegal through it. “But let’s not give folk a reason to ask, all right? Otherwise the next person trying to kill the king might be me, because if Pendragon wants me out of this place he’s going to have to execute me and exile my corpse, no matter if I did sign a stupid promise ‘renouncing the practice of magic in all its forms,’ or whatever other rubbish that idiot asked me to agree to.”

Daegal followed Will across the main chamber, watching while Will pulled on his outerwear. “I’m guessing he never gave you a land grant, then?”

Will burst into laughter, leaning heavily on the door handle. He only remembered to clap a hand over his mouth when a slumbering Gaius snorted and rolled over. “Oh, lor,” he wheezed, trying to recover himself. “Don’t do that to me.”

Daegal smiled sheepishly. Will straightened up, his eyes creased with pure, undisciplined mirth. “You won’t let all those fancy presents go to your head, now, will you?”

“I won’t,” Daegal promised. “But - about Arthur’s gift, though. I don’t actually know what to do with a plot of land.”

“Neither does Arthur,” Will said, rolling his eyes. “But I do, and so does Merlin. We’ll work it out together, all right?”

“All right,” Daegal said, as Will unlatched the door. “Erm. Will - ”

“Yeah.”

Smile and say thank you. “Thank you,” Daegal said, trying on a smile for size, hoping it did not falter too much at the corners. “For the knife, and - everything else.”

Will regarded him in that way of his that was very off-putting when you did not want to be read like a book but somehow oddly useful when you were trying to communicate something unspoken. “You’re welcome,” Will said finally, surprising Daegal by reaching out and mussing his hair. “See? You’ve got the hang of things already.”

Will turned to go, but when he reached the top of the staircase he paused, glancing back. “And, listen - ” he said, his voice low enough not to wake Gaius, but somehow warm enough to push back the December chill. “Whether you like it or not - happy birthday, lad.”

Daegal sat tucked away in one of the window nooks, his cloak wrapped around him like a blanket and the glass casement leaching heat away from his side. Merlin was long since abed, and Gaius’s muffled snores filled the main chamber, a soft drone of sound behind the screens. Outside, the moon hung chubby and ovoid in the sky, like a pale seed on a black field of soil, like the bulbs Daegal would plant in his new garden, which was out there somewhere, nestled in the farming fields of the Sprawl.

He rubbed his thumb over the unfamiliar runes carved into the handle of his birthday blade. His sixteen year-old self would have thrown that knife away, just to be safe. There would have been no reason for him to believe that someone he’d injured would ever magick a gift for him just to be helpful, and sixteen year-old Daegal would have assumed that the spell “to spare his fingers” was in fact a curse to make sure they all fell off.

But seventeen year-old Daegal was determined not to think like that anymore. He was not going to think the worst of everyone who tried to help him, and he was not going to throw away gifts, whether he thought he deserved them or not. He was going to smile, and say thank you, and do his best to be worthy of what he’d been given.

He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, looking down at the flickering lights on the city walls and the dark countryside beyond. The Sprawl’s rolling jumble of cottages and fields melted into a shadowy sea of forest, and far away, the looming bulk of the White Mountains towered over the skyline, the peaks’ black silhouettes only distinguishable at this hour by an absence of stars.

It was a very big world, Daegal thought, following the craggy outline of the range with his eyes. And he had made plenty of bad decisions blundering around within its borders, that was certain. But there was something beautiful about it still, even in the dead of winter.

And it was not nearly as bleak as it had appeared to be, this time last year.

Seventeen was going to be different, Daegal told himself. Like Merlin always said. It won’t always be like this. Things will be better. Daegal could make them better. He had chosen wrong first, but he could choose right next. He could choose right from now on. He had made a mistake, but he could make it right in the morning.

And tonight - tonight, it was still his birthday.

It isn’t, his sixteen year-old self snapped.

“It is,” Daegal said. “It’s my birthday.”

Who cares, the voice scoffed.

Daegal wrapped his fingers around his unearned mark of forgiveness, the grooves of the rune-etched handle imprinting themselves into his skin. “I do,” he said firmly, putting every ounce of conviction he had behind the words. “I do.”

His younger self shut its mouth.

Daegal smiled slightly. “Happy birthday to me,” he murmured, and was surprised to find that for the first time in a long time, he actually meant it.

Curled up against the window, he tucked his knife against his side and fixed his eyes on the horizon, settling in to wait for the sun.

#bbc merlin gen #fic #also fyi i know we haven't discussed the broader worldstate of this AU and you're welcome to change anything i chose to use here #but just for the purposes of this particular fic - lancelot did still die; but elyan did not #because i don't acknowledge writing decisions that had no narrative integrity 🙃#the once and future slowburn #verse: offcut joinery #the physician's apprentice #no kings no masters

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

Text

Out Tonight (Part 5)

<- Part 4 | Part 6 ->

Summary: It’s been 24 hours since you woke up next to a panicked Rafael Barba who turned out to have been much drunker than you thought. Despite the blame and confusion, there remained a primal attraction that led you to decide to try a (sober) date. Was this a terrible idea? Do you have anything in common besides drunk karaoke?

This was supposed to have smut but it’s just a date XD Smut next time! Soon!

3,431 words

Drunk. He must have still been drunk that morning. There was no other explanation for his wildly impulsive, juvenile decision to accept a date with you after that fiasco of a morning, waking up in your hotel with zero memory of what was almost certainly an even bigger fiasco of a night.

But he had agreed to it. Given you the address of his favorite coffee spot that didn’t have wheels. Set a time. It seemed childish to back out on you at the last minute just because he’d had twenty-four hours to sober up and think about his life choices. And so, Rafael Barba stood outside, leaning near the door out of the way of foot traffic, impatiently glaring at the minute hand of his watch.

At least it was only breakfast. Nothing exciting in the history of the universe had ever happened this early in the morning. Everyone in the relatively small Sunday crowd seemed too tired to be here. He would show up for one bleary-eyed date like an adult, make sure you were still alright, and, assuming your story hadn’t changed—that you hadn’t remembered something traumatic he’d forgotten he’d done—you could both part ways with a clear conscience.

***

The GPS on your phone indicated you were at the corner of the street you needed to turn down. There would be no going back if you turned that corner—the cafe was just a few doors down. You almost turned around and walked back to your hotel, but before you could leave, you saw him. Across the street, under the awning of the cafe, a short, well-dressed man radiating authority stood checking his watch with the words “Why the hell did I agree to this?” creased into his brow. You recognized that expression from your own face and almost laughed, only holding it in because you didn’t want to be that crazy person laughing to herself in the middle of a crowd.

His handsomeness had not been an illusion of the drink and low lights of the bar, you realized as you crossed the street. He was really fucking handsome. He wore another stylish and expensive suit, a colorful blue-striped tie, and you assumed suspenders under the jacket, and his dark hair was groomed with precision to the side.

By the time you were close enough to hear his voice calling out to greet you, you remembered kissing him, and how solid his chest felt when your arms were wrapped around him. A flush of heat warmed the base of your spine, and suddenly you were glad you had made this date after all.

Barba was not so sure. Not at first.

He wasn’t certain he would even recognize you in a crowd, but the moment you turned the corner, he spotted you. Your face was permanently stamped into his memory, right along with the time he wet the bed at a sleepover in second grade and the waitress to whom he’d replied “you too” after she told him to enjoy his meal.

The first thing he noticed was that your clothes were not as nice as he perceived when he was drunk. What little memory he had of karaoke painted you as a perfect goddess of seduction, with legs that went on for miles, wearing couture woven by angels out of dewdrops. Even in your disheveled state the morning he could remember, he had maintained a lofty impression of your image, or what he imagined it would be when you cleaned up. But the cute little sundress swishing around your knees as you crossed the street was not designer. It looked nice on you, but was more comfortable, practical, and a bit hippie-chic. You were even wearing a backpack instead of a purse. Your whole aesthetic was woefully down-to-earth. Like a Subaru. You were the Subaru of people.

Yet, even his unfortunate habit of judging people based on their clothing couldn’t dull the spark he felt when you drew close enough to smell your shampoo and look into your bright eyes. He couldn’t help feeling irrationally protective when those bright eyes froze as you stood in front of him, almost spreading your arms for a hug, then almost extending a hand, and then staring like a panicked deer that wandered into Times Square.

“Good to see you,” he smiled, pressing your shoulder amicably, sparing you from the decision.

***

After a short wait in line to order your latte and croissant sandwich, Barba squeezed into one of the tiny seats at one of the tiny tables in front of the window, and you squeezed in next to him. It was such a tight fit, your shoulders almost touched every time you lifted the mug to your lips, and your legs bumped accidentally amid stammered, awkward apologies.

“So...” you began, and your voice sounded far away, like you were trapped deep inside your own skull operating levers to make yourself speak. And you had nothing planned after “so,” and nothing came to you organically, so even though it was a trite, over-used question, you sputtered out, “How have you been?”

“Not bad,” he replied, just as stiffly rote. “You?” The boilerplate question sparked a deeper concern, and he twisted in his seat to grab your eye contact under a furrowed brow, and asked more seriously, “Are you OK?”

Your cheeks burned. He must have noticed how weird and nervous you were and thought there was something wrong with you. “I-I’m fine!” you squeaked.

His brows stayed wrinkled with worry. He lowered his voice. “If you… remembered anything. Anything painful. Something you need to work out, to process… report? I want you to know I will support anything you need to do. If I hurt you, I will do whatever it takes to make it right.”

“Oh!” You nearly spilled your drink. “No, no! God. Nothing like that. Just… embarrassment. Shame. I mean, if anyone should be angry or need to process stuff, it’s you. That was all my fault.”

He breathed a little sigh and his shoulders relaxed. He nodded to himself and turned back to his coffee. With a sideways glance and a sly smirk, he added, “You know, you shouldn’t incriminate yourself in front of a prosecutor.”

You were pretty sure he was joking, but your laugh was tight and high in your throat, and your palms began to sweat.

“Actually—” you reached into a pocket and pulled out your phone, “Tengo unos fotos… if it will help you remember?”

He stopped mid-sip, set the mug back down on the narrow shelf of a table, then coughed into his fist. A near spit-take. “What do you mean, you have photos? Qué tipo de fotos? Muéstramelas.”

Barba had forgotten, or didn’t care, that your Spanish wasn’t terrifically fluent and made his demand at a rapid, clipped pace. Fortunately, your first instinct was to show him.

It was a good thing he had already set down his coffee, because his eyes went wide, and he choked on the air. Picture after picture of him red-faced and disheveled, most of them with a wolfish grin and his hands all over you. He still had on his tie and the grey peppering his temples was evident, and you looked so young and innocent you could almost be mistaken for underage in the soft lighting. The angle of the selfie drew attention to your cleavage. You flipped back once more, and a crackle of tinny audio burst from the phone speakers as a shaky video of Barba singing the tail end of One Song Glory began to play. “Shit,” you cursed, and muted it.

“Delete that,” he croaked, raking his fingers down his face. “God, this is a scandal. Those look—I look—” His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head with a brash, hostile grin. “Is this blackmail? Is this blackmail amateur hour?”

“What? No! Why would this be… Oh my god, are you cheating on someone?!”

He scowled with indignation at the very suggestion. “I would never cheat on someone. Those make me look like a… a boozy lecher. It could damage my reputation if they got out. Why do you have those?” he hissed, feigning a pleasant smile over gritted teeth. It looked like it hurt his face.

“You told me to take pictures and send them to a friend! You kept going on about ‘gathering evidence’ in case things went sideways.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “It is sound advice,” he considered. “That sounds like me,” he concluded, pinching his brow.

“I’ll delete them all, OK? See? I’m deleting them.” You clicked the trash button and watched them disappear one by one as Barba’s blood pressure went down. “Ooh, I’m keeping this one, though,” you said, fawning.

You flipped the screen to show him a selfie of him smiling wide and carefree, cheeks flushed, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, and you kissing his cheek. It was sweet, almost chaste. The karaoke stage was in the background, and you both looked like you were having a great night.

Present-Barba’s horrified expression didn’t soften. Your face fell. “Alright, I’m deleting this one too,” you soothed.

Your wistfulness must have tugged at his heart as you gave the picture one last look, trying to memorize the happiness you’d felt when you took it. With your finger poised over the delete button, he caught your wrist. “No… If you really like it, that one isn’t horrible. Just don’t send it to anyone in the DA’s office. Por favor.”

“I won’t,” you promised. His eyes were an overpoweringly lush green as they fixated on yours so close up, and you could swear there was a spark of the connection you’d felt that night. Then he blinked, and it was gone, self-consciously letting go of your wrist.

With that matter resolved, Barba became cold and distant, as if all he’d come to do was settle things from that night once and for all, and now he was done with you. You tried to carry the conversation forward, but he met your efforts to bond with the sober version of him with minimal, dismissive responses, leaving you in uncomfortable silence. He would barely even look at you anymore. It made you feel small.

Barba was right—you didn’t know him.

The mood was tense as you quietly chewed your croissant, and it would have been tenser if not for the cramped tables. Had you a spacious seating arrangement, you might have felt the distance between your two obviously different lives stretch out between you like a vast, insurmountable chasm.

Had you met the real Barba first, you would have known this guarded, cynical, tightly-wound ball of nerves and assholery would never sing karaoke without being three sheets to the wind.

The effortlessly charming open-book of a man you’d been wooed by two nights ago was a fiction crafted by alcohol. Without his flirtatious nature to offset the severity of his bespoke suits and high-profile job, you were weighted down with the thought that this man had his shit together more than you ever would. He was too good for you. He thought so, too. You saw that look in his eyes, the sarcastic quirk of his mouth as he glanced over you outside the cafe, though he’d tried to hide it. Your entire outfit cost about a tenth of his jacket alone, and his rich-jerk radar honed right in on it. Barba said you might not like him sober, and he seemed keen to prove himself right. When he finally did ask you questions, it felt like you were failing a test—his brow going up because you had never heard of some famous restaurant or popular composer, proving yourself a cultural dilettante in spite of your mutual love of RENT. When you asked about his job, he was all but sneering at your lack of legal acumen on what he considered very basic things.

You would have downed your latte in under fifteen minutes, shaken his hand, and never seen him again if not for one seemingly unimportant fact.

The table was cramped.

Forced to sit so close together, waves of his scent kept washing over you like an aphrodisiac. He smelled radically different than last time. Then, he was steeped in the stinging smokiness of scotch whisky and the heady musk of sweat from a long day on his feet in the courtroom and the claustrophobic press of bodies at the bar. Today he smelled clean, like fresh soap and a woody, spicy, citrusy cologne as old-fashioned and classy as his suspenders. There was something profoundly soothing in the way he smelled. Soothing enough to push back your anxiety about being unworthy of his attention, and enough to enjoy the sparks of heat spreading under your skin every time your elbows or legs bumped.

The smell of him and the press of his body was enough to make you horny, angry, and bold enough to take him by the hand once the date was done, and drag him somewhere you could teach him a lesson about underestimating you.

***

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” you growled over your shoulder, as if that was meant to be an answer to his question of “Where are we going?” He fell a step behind your determined pace as you literally pulled him down the sidewalk with a scary, but—he had to admit—sexy fire burning in your eyes.

“I never said that,” he cried unconvincingly, and felt he rather deserved it when you scoffed in response. He could be hard on people who couldn’t keep up with his standards, unless they were the victim of a horrifying enough crime to stir his compassion. And now that he was sure he hadn’t hurt you, well… you were just some woman from a bar who didn’t know the difference between civil litigation and criminal trials.

The fact that the neckline of your dress was so dangerously low, he caught a peek of something he shouldn’t when you leaned over your latte was just another reason to distance himself from you. He cursed his weakness for the tightening in his pants.

But that picture stuck in Barba’s mind. He was ashamed of his behavior, but at the same time, he was fascinated by this other Barba. The smiling Barba who didn’t make a million anxious excuses for why he couldn’t or shouldn’t be with someone he desired, who didn’t tell himself to wait, and wait, and wait until they were gone. He looked so comfortable with the woman on his lap in that picture. He wondered what exactly happened to make you grow so close?

After marching for several blocks, you finally slowed down where the geometric grey concrete of the city broke upon an oasis of wild green. Barba hunched forward, catching his breath in front of the entrance to Central Park closest to the pond. “Alright,” you challenged him with your hands on your hips, “Name one of these trees. Just one.”

“Shirley.”

You narrowed your eyes until he dropped his clever little grin.

“Worth a try,” he shrugged, straightening up. He unbuttoned his jacket to let some of the heat out. He pointed to a large tree near the path with three-pointed leaves and smooth, camouflage-patterned bark. “That’s a maple,” he said with confidence.

You raised your eyebrows at his breathtaking ignorance and tutted. “Oh, Rafael, that’s such an easy one. This is an American Sycamore, Platanus occidentalis. The bark is a dead giveaway, and maples have opposite leaf arrangement, while sycamore is alternate. But I’ll let it slide since the leaves are similar.” Your voice was dripping with intellectual condescension, and he immediately understood that you had brought him here to humiliate him. A familiar roar burned inside him that he felt any time someone thought they could get the better of him. His sharp eyes bore into yours, the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Rafael Barba did not back down from a challenge.

He walked farther into the park, past sweeping rock formations covered with climbing children, and you followed behind, watching him as he swiveled his head in search. It was almost magical how the park felt like a trail in the countryside until you looked up to see the gleaming peaks of skyscrapers and 5th Avenue. Barba stopped next to a green park bench in front of a tall conifer with drooping branches. “Pine,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know what you’re trying to do, but even a city boy knows what a pine tree looks like.”

Except from the way your cheeks puffed out as you tried to contain your laughter, he apparently should not have sounded so sure of himself. Or you were just being vindictive, pretending he was wrong because you assumed he wouldn’t know the difference.

“That is a pine,” he insisted. “That’s basic middle school science class.”

“That is a conifer,” you corrected, still giggling at his expense, and his cheeks darkened with realization. Conifer. Pine. They were different things. He braced himself as you lectured him like a school teacher about how the Norway Spruce is in the genus Picea, while pine trees—and there was a White Pine right over there, too!—are in a totally separate genus, Pinus. When he tried to call it hair-splitting and trivia, you exploded. “You realize we live on a planet, right? All of human life on Earth couldn’t exist without forests—you literally need trees to breathe—yet you can’t identify a single one. Your furniture is made of maple, beech, oak,” you gestured to a few specimens, “but you don’t know what they look like growing in front of you. It is crazy to me how people lack even a basic understanding of the environment we can’t survive without. If we didn’t have laws, life would go on. If the whole world was paved like New York City, humanity would go extinct. So go ahead and judge me for not knowing who Puccini is when you know fuck-all about the planet.”

You had worked yourself into a lather, and all he could think was how much he wanted to kiss you. Your face was flushed, and you were so animated with passion for the subject as you laid into him—even though he knew nothing about it or even found it particularly interesting, he oddly enjoyed being torn apart by your arguments. You might make a great lawyer, if your clients were green.

“Are we even?” he smiled. “Now that you’ve judged me?”

You took a half step back and covered your mouth. “I… got a little defensive, didn’t I?” you cringed.

“Just a little,” he pinched his fingers together so they were almost touching. He stepped toward you.

“Sorry about that,” you laughed nervously. “Yeah. We’re even.”

He took another step closer, and you didn’t back away as he entered your personal space. He could feel his heart hammering behind his rib cage. Behind his over-dressed tie. His tongue darted unconsciously across his lower lip as he glanced down at that temptingly low neckline before snapping his eyes away to meet yours. He wondered if you’d noticed his glance. If you had, your reaction was not to slap him. There was a tentative hope shining in your eyes, breath catching as he stood too close to be platonic.

“So, you’re the Lorax,” he smirked.

“I do speak for the trees,” you said, glad to finally understand one of his references. “I work in conservation. Mostly management plans to control invasive species.”

He tipped his head back with a knowing “Ah,” that you were in some outdoorsy field. That explained your crunchy-granola vibe and the fact that you weren’t at all winded by speed-walking six blocks to get here. You fit in better here, surrounded by greenery, than in the city. You were some sort of forest nymph, a fae creature who had come out of the woods to seduce and enchant him, and spirit him away into the ether.

Your lips were close enough that he could capture them in one fluid motion of his neck, but he hadn’t yet, and now you were simply talking too awkwardly close together while a million excuses not to chanted in the back of his sober mind. So he reached for your hand instead.

“You know, there’s a whole field of environmental law that I am woefully rusty on…” he began. Linking arms, you chatted about your interests as you strolled through the park in the cool morning air of what would be a humid summer day.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

@beccabarba / @caked-crusader / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @da-po / @madamsnape921 / @charlottegrice / @onerestein

#Rafael Barba x Reader #Rafael Barba #law and order svu #Raúl Esparza #Rafael Barba x female reader #my writing #reader gets some backstory in this one I hope y'all like trees

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