#bones how dare you not include his cool hand flick

[enpr-ss]

LOOK AT THAT COCKY EYEBROW. THAT UNNECESSARY FLICK TO HOLD THE STRAIGHTENED SPOON IN A COOL HAND GESTURE.

I BET RITSU PRACTICED STRAIGHTENING OUT BENT SPOONS FOR EXACTLY THIS MOMENT. THIS WAS HOW HE PLANNED TO REVEAL HIS ESPER POWERS. HE HAS BEEN WAITING HIS ENTIRE LIFE FOR THIS MOMENT. LOOK AT THIS BOY, HE'S SO HAPPY.

#finally something goes right for once in his life #kageyama ritsu is such a drama queen oh my god #bones how dare you not include his cool hand flick #don't you know that Ritsu spent hours at his desk just practicing this specific motion until he got it just right #it was the first thing he perfected with his psychic powers #the slow unfurling movement of his fingers #the unraveling of the spoon handle before them #the smug satisfaction radiating off this boy who finally achieved his lifelong dream #it was marvelous performance and we were robbed of it #Kageyama Ritsu #kageyama shigeo #mp100 #enpr-ss

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Unrequited?

A/N: Here is my entry for @hufflefluff-writer ‘s writing challenge! Sorry it’s so late!! I’ve bolded the prompts I chose. This was originally super angsty but I changed my entire plot at the last minute so now its *hopefully* a mix of everything. It isn't very long but nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy! 

Summary: Parties are always the catalyst for confessions.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Warnings: unrequited feelings, a lil bit of angst

Word count: 1.5k

The library is silent as you finish the conclusion to your Charms essay. Your quill scratches against the parchment; a comforting sound to your ears.

“Why is it, whenever I look for you, you have your nose stuck in a book or you are finishing school work?” A familiar voice drawls; your heart beginning to race at the sound of it.

You look up from your work, meeting the bright blue eyes of Draco Malfoy. “I’m not sure, you only ever seem to seek me out when you want something.”

He puts a hand on his chest, “Now you wound me.”

“Oh please,” You say, rolling your eyes with a smile.

He grins at you, and you’re pretty sure he can hear how loud the beating of your heart has become. You curse yourself internally for letting him affect you this way.

“What do you want, Draco?”

He sits down across from you; his fingers tracing the age-old ink doodles on the table. “What makes you think I want something? Why can’t I just want to spend time with you?”

You feel your face flush, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Now I know you want something.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, giving in. “Alright, you caught me. We’re having a party in the common room tonight and I want you to come.”

You frown, “I don’t do parties, Draco, you know that.”

“I do, but still I’d like you to come… please?”

You stare at him, wondering whether you would ever have the strength to turn him down, “Have I ever told you no?”

Draco smiles; it’s his special smile that he only reserves for a couple of people – one of them being you. “I hope I’m not around for the day. You’re the best.”

“I know I am. I’ll see you tonight then?”

He nods, standing from his place at the table. “You will.”

Draco presses a quick kiss to your cheek before leaving. You watch him in shock as he saunters away.

You hold your hand to your cheek; feeling that all-too recognisable pang in your chest. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment you had fallen in love with your best friend; just that you had. It must have been happening over some time as it didn’t feel like some world-changing revelation to you, but rather, something simmering deep within your bones. As if loving him was part of your very being. You couldn’t tell him your feelings for him for the fear of being rejected and losing him from your life altogether. A life without Draco Malfoy involved seemed like a pretty poor life in your opinion. He presented such a hard exterior to keep up the Malfoy reputation but the man behind the mask was much softer. It seemed almost inevitable that you fell in love with him.

You couldn’t help the small part of you that wished he felt the same way too.

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

Slytherin didn’t have parties that often; tending to think themselves above such rowdiness, but on the rare occasion they did – it was big.

Bodies were crushed in the centre of the common room where a makeshift dance floor had been set up. A radio had been found; volume turned all the way up as the latest wizard music charts played.

You sit on one of the many black leather couches that decorate the common room; a small glass of firewhisky in your hands that you nurse quietly as the party progresses.

Your eyes seek him out; they always do, as if they’re drawn to him, needing to see him to know that it’s okay.

You find him leaning against the further wall; dressed head to toe in his usual all-black outfit. A brunette girl leans in close to him, whispering something only he can hear. He smiles at her and you can feel your heart break.

The moment he leans in to kiss her, you have to leave the room. You can’t go through that again; you can’t watch him kiss another girl who isn’t you. It isn’t fair; you won’t do that to yourself.

You brush yourself down as you stand from the leather couch, handing your drink to your friend, “Here, you finish this. I’m done for the night.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, concern lining her features, “I can come with you.”

You shake your head, “Don’t worry about it, you have fun okay? Blaise has had his eye on you all night.”

She grins, flicking her eyes to where Blaise stands, “He has?”

You nod, patting her shoulder, “He’s over by the drinks. Go get him. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

You leave the common room; wanting fresh air more than anything in the world, including the blonde-haired teenager you had left behind.

The night air is cold, but it cools your overheated skin courtesy of the small amount of alcohol running through your veins. You felt downright awful; jealousy was rearing its ugly head within you, having you despise the girl on the receiving end of Draco’s kiss. It wasn’t her fault; she had done nothing wrong.

You sit down in the entrance to the courtyard; releasing a breath and wishing you had grabbed your jacket before leaving the common room. The pale light of the moon has washed the courtyard in a pale grey hue – as if all the colour had been leeched from the world. It was oddly comforting. You sit there moving your eyes around the courtyard, focusing on different spots; breathing through the emotions raging inside you.

You hear his footsteps before his voice. You have the sudden urge to cry.

“There you are,” Draco greets, voice filled with relief, “I was looking for you.”

“Really? You looked to be too busy to notice my absence.” You cringe at the blatant jealous lacing your tone.

“I always notice you.”

“Don’t do this, Draco. I don’t think I can take it.”

“Do what?”

“This,” You say, gesturing between your bodies, “Where you act like this and I have to pretend that I’m not in love with you.”

He’s silent; sitting down next to you on the cold ground. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending they’re you.” He confesses to the night air.

“For how long. How long have you bottled this up?” You demand.

“I didn’t realise my feelings for you until a few months ago.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice breaking as you question him; so many thoughts running through your mind.

Draco remains silent; picking at invisible loose threads of his trousers. You sigh, placing your hand on top of his, rubbing your thumb across his hand in a comforting motion.

“Draco, why didn’t you say anything?”

He refuses to meet your eyes as he whispers, “I was scared.”

“What were you scared of?”

He gestures between your bodies, just as you did moments ago. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. Our friendship means so much to me; I didn’t want to ruin it with my feelings.”

“Draco, I’ve just told you I’m in love with you.”

He nods, “It’s why I can’t keep kissing strangers anymore. I thought if I kissed someone else I wouldn’t have feelings for you anymore. And our friendship wouldn't be ruined.” He groans, “I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. Did it work? Kissing someone else?”

Draco shakes his head, “If anything it made them stronger. I’d think about what you would feel like to kiss – how you would respond, and I’d pull away more lovesick than ever.”

“Why don’t you find out?” You ask, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Daring him to make the first move.

“What?”

You shift slight, angling your body towards him, “Kiss me, Draco.”

His hands cradle your face as he leans in. He pauses slightly, checking for permission despite you verbalising it. You respond by titling your face to his, brushing your lips against his ever so lightly.

The feel of your lips is what spurs him on to kiss you more firmly. It’s too much and too little all at once. Your arms wrap around his neck, to pull yourself closer to him. To feel even more of him against you. Every single emotion you had ever felt for the other is being poured into this kiss; unrelenting emotion and passion shared between the two of you as you take Draco’s bottom lip between your teeth and bite down. His answering moan sends shivers from your head to your toes.

He’s addicting; he’s a drug and you’ve craved him for months.

So much is defined by this kiss; it’s the shift from friendship to love. To letting those feelings that you’ve had for Draco encompass you entirely. Letting yourself be consumed by the love you feel for the blonde-haired teenager.

You pull away first, “Well?”

Draco grins wickedly, “I think we’re going to have to try again.”

You laugh, pushing his shoulder lightly, “Smooth, Malfoy.”

His face softens; his eyes filling with the love he feels for you, “I do love you; you know? The girl at the party meant nothing.”

“Really?”

He nods, “I only want you. You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say you feel the same way. What would you say to us giving this a try? Let me take you on a date to Hogsmeade so we can start this properly?”

You smile at him, “I’m still not able to tell you no.”

His answering smile is mesmerising. The grin lighting up his whole face as leans in to kiss you again. Kissing you deeply, lovingly. All doubts about his feelings for you are scattered from your mind as his arms wrap around you, holding you tight against him.

************************

General (HP) taglist: @the-hufflefluffwriter @obsessedwithrandomthings @kalimagik @summer-writes @lupins-sweater @slytherinprincess03 @mischiefsemimanaged @soleil-amaryllis @masterofthedarkness @bforbroadway @chaotic-fae-queen @peachesandpinks @nebulablakemurphy @haphazardhufflepuff @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @firewhisky-kisses @deafgirltingz @kylosleftbuttcheek @heloisedaphnebrightmore

 Draco Malfoy taglist: @cheapglitter @the--queen-of-hell

#draco malfoy x reader #Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy fanfic #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy imagine #draco x reader #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #draco malfoy fluff #draco fluff #hp fanfiction #hp fanfic #draco x you #draco x female reader #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x female reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #ameliaswritingchallenge

[softbiker]

Bucky Barnes Oneshot

Warnings: 18+ only - smut (oral, f/r), cursing, unsanitary kitchen conditions

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: This is my Valentine’s Day gift to all of you! You’re welcome ;) Apparently I’m in a writing rut and the only thing that can get me out is writing smut...I��m not going to question it. As always, feedback is appreciated! <3

Post-mission, post-debrief, post-shower.

Pre-dinner, pre-Netflix binge, pre-dessert.

Bucky swipes at the fogged mirror with a towel, leaving streaks that slightly reveal his own damp skin and dripping hair. A harsh breath blows past his lips as he examines the planes of his own skin, leaning forward into the mirror. His whiskers have grown out over the last few days, unable to shave due to forgetting his razor, and he refused to share with Natasha’s legs, in spite of her insistence that she wouldn’t mind. There’s a nice shiner blooming under his right eye, bright purple-red on his cheekbone - lucky swing of some thug’s fist. Didn’t land a second hit, though. 

Towel around his waist, not yet dressed, the drops from the tips of his hair drip down his shoulders as he continues to frown at his reflection, fingers rubbing absently at the scratchy new growth on his cheeks. Should he shave? Eyelids already growing a little heavy, breath slow - he doesn’t want to. He wants to slip on his pajamas and go find her in the kitchen; he knows she’s there, he can smell the pressed garlic and hear the light pad of her toes as she shuffles around, swaying to her music. The corner of his mouth twitches just a little, and he reaches down, digging in the second drawer for his shaving cream. He’ll go ahead. She’ll like it. 

The cold lather on his skin and the scrape of the razor wakes him up just a little; the fog on the mirror slowly fading and his hair drying in soft waves that he curls behind his ears. Lips pursed as he turns, examining his profile, whistling a soft tune - something jazzy and familiar, more muscle memory than anything. The back of his mind buzzes with swing music and cigarettes, another lifetime, another man. A man he sees reflected back in the glass, right before his eyes, as he pats down his now-smooth cheeks with a towel, soft skin flushed a little with the cold water and the friction of cotton. He gives himself a slow nod in the mirror, rolling his shoulders, and takes a slow breath. 

Rubbing his hands together, his whistling turned to a low hum in his throat, he shuffles out to the chest of drawers for his boxers and pajama pants; her music comes drifting through the doorway, something poppy with a good beat, the singer’s smooth voice weaving up and down through the lyrics. Beneath the music, he can hear his girl humming along, a word or two passing her lips as she mouths along to the melody. Bucky smiles to himself. Time to go see about a girl. 

**********                                                                               

Another pinch of salt…maybe two pinches. She dips her pinkie into the spoon and takes a small taste of the sauce, tongue smacking as she examine the flavor. Definitely more garlic. She reaches for the pressed cloves on the cutting board, sprinkling them into the pan. The sauce sizzles and bubbles as she stirs, nearly ready to add the tortellini. She turns the burner down low and whirls around to the island, where the standing mixer has done most of the work on her brownies. A moment’s deliberation, and then she adds in the caramel bits she was saving, debating whether or not to toss them in the batter. She pops one of the morsels into her mouth, thinking “why not?”. 

Her phone is propped up next to her bluetooth speaker, shuffling a fun new pop album, and she shimmies her hips as she steps back to the stove, reaching for the tortellini. The shower had shut off several minutes ago - surely Bucky would be ready to eat soon. Poor thing, he was always ravenous after missions, surviving on protein bars and takeout; his pitiful texts bemoaning his hunger and how much he missed her cooking always ensured a piping hot home cooked meal on his arrival. Tonight’s menu? Pasta and chocolate, a $7 wine chilling in the fridge; he always liked rich food, the heavy flavors so unlike the boiled and bland taste of his childhood. In the 21st century, he had abandoned the bare bones nutrition of his Depression kitchen in favor of a wide array of modern culinary miracles. She enables him a little, all too happy to see his eager, excited puppy eyes at the prospect of a new recipe; all too weak to his boyish pout at the grocery store when something brightly colored and full of sugar catches his eye. 

“I need this, babydoll - it’s got Steve’s picture on the front! I could win a chance to meet Captain America!”

“You see him every day!”

“Yeah, but the sweepstakes includes a cash prize, too! C’mon, honey, please?”

Yep. Total enabler. 

The song changes from a slower track to a faster one, the album’s title song and catchy as all hell, she bobs her head along and dances back and forth in front of her pasta, now finished, just waiting for-

On cue, a pair of hands slide around to grip her hips mid-sway, a firm chest pressing up against her back. 

“What’s cookin’, hot stuff?” His lips grinning against her ear, pressing a little kiss to the skin just beneath. Strong fingers give her hips an affectionate squeeze as he sways them a little in time with her music. 

“Tortellini. With that homemade sauce you liked last time.” Tipping her head over her shoulder, she shares a light kiss with him, lips lifting in a sweet smile - the best ‘welcome home’ a man could ask for. When she tries to pull away he leans in, presses firmer, holding onto the kiss for just a few seconds longer. 

“Well, ain’t you sweet,” he whispers, nudging her nose with his own. She hums. 

“Not as sweet as the brownies I’m whipping up.” Her eyebrow tilts up in challenge; those brownies are his weakness - well, that and every other form that chocolate can come in. His sweet tooth is something else she consistently indulges, since he insists on pushing his super soldier metabolism to its absolute limit. 

At the mention of brownies, his eyes perk up and he stands up straight, looking around at the kitchen counters for the promised treats. Their feet shuffle awkwardly as he turns without loosening his grip, dragging her with him and flicking drops of the coveted sauce across the floor and countertops from the spoon still in her hand. 

“Buck! Hey! You’re making a mess,” she protests, reaching for a paper towel and trying to wiggle out of his grip. He catches sight of the brownie batter on the island and gasps, a little victorious “yes” escaping his lips as he reaches for it, finally releasing his hold on her. Freed for the moment, she takes the opportunity to wipe up the drips of sauce on the floor and tosses the paper towel in the trash. 

When she turns back she catches him - lips smacking around the spoon in shameless approval, dimples appearing in his cheeks, eyes dancing with mischief as he meets her eyes over the spoon. 

“Bucky!” she huffs. “I wasn’t done with that yet, they still have to go in the oven!”

He raises an eyebrow, a challenge, a dare, and inches the now-contaminated spoon back towards the batter. 

“Oh, that’s okay, babe - I can just eat it with a spoon,” he smirks, seeing her fists tighten before she lunges for the bowl, grabbing with both hands and tucking it to her chest to save further batter from being stolen. 

“That is not the proper way to eat brownies and you know it.” He’s taking her speech very seriously, if the grin on his face is anything to go by. “You could get salmonella.” 

“Worth it.” 

She rolls her eyes and turns back to the kitchen counter, where her pan is already waiting, already greased with Crisco - with a glance over her shoulder to find him still watching, leaning against the island with his arms crossed, she plucks a whisk from the jar of utensils and pours out the batter, scraping the sides and letting it all drizzle its way into the pan. It slides into the oven lightning quick, before he can make another attempt at it. 

Whisk and bowl now on their way to the sink, and with a satisfied hum she glides a finger down the cage of the whisk and sticks it in her mouth. Releasing it with a pop, she smiles at him across the island.

“Mmm.” An exaggerated groan, and she can see the flush starting high on his cheekbones. “You’re right - it is good enough to eat with a spoon.” 

His steps are slow, measured, stalking, as he rounds the island, his tongue tracing his lower lip. Caught in his stare, she can’t bring herself to move - her heart starts picking up its pace, a rabbit’s excited thumpthumpthump against her ribs, and she grips the counter behind her. Without leaving his eyes, she draws her hand up, deliberately slow, and scoops another helping of the batter onto her fingers. Biting her lip, secret smile pressed into her cheeks, her fingers creep back towards her mouth, when he suddenly intercepts. A strong metal grip wraps around her wrist and brings her hand back to his face, slipping her fingers into his own mouth and sucking them clean. Her stomach swoops at the feel of his tongue tracing her fingers, swirling over them in long, firm strokes. 

She opens her mouth to say something, a pun, a flirty innuendo, but all that comes out is a muted gasp when his hips press her own further back against the kitchen counter. Wolfish, hungry, he’s smirking at her as he pulls her fingers from his mouth. Cool metal fingers grip the back of her neck and he hauls her into a filthy open-mouthed kiss, his tongue licking deep into her mouth, as if he could get a taste of the chocolate that remained there. He groans when she responds in kind, sucking lightly on his tongue and rolling her hips against his in a slow grind. 

Keeping his metal grip in her hair, his other hand slides down her side, squeezing the soft flesh at her hips and tracing the skin just under the hem of her shirt, before fingering the button of her jeans. He hears her breath stutter when he squeezes her through her jeans, the firm pressure of his fingers and the rough seam of the denim sending a brief jolt down her legs at the friction. He smiles against her lips, still ravishing her mouth, tracing the line of her teeth with his tongue. Nimble fingers undo the button and zipper, before slipping his hand inside to rub her through her panties. 

“Oh, honey,” he clicks his tongue. “You’re so wet already - I ain’t even touched you yet.” 

“Believe me, I know.” Her voice is never as firm as she wants it to be, her usual sass melting into breathy whines every time he touches her this way. A particularly firm press of his fingers over her clothed core has her hissing through her teeth, just the frustrated side of pathetic. “Buck - please.”

His metal hand scratches the back of her skull, affectionate and comforting, as he nuzzles his nose against her cheek. 

“You gonna let me lick the bowl, honey?” he asks, low and husky, and for some reason she’s still thinking about the brownies when she nods emphatically, totally willing to barter sweets for everything his voice is promising. He grins against her skin, licking across her jaw and down to her neck…then removes his hand from her jeans to the tune of an offended whine. Her small, cold fingers grip his wrist, trying to keep him there as she pouts.

“Bucky,” and she’s not even trying to control the way it sounds now, needy and breathless. Warm tongue tracing the shell of her ear, he huffs a little laugh and squeezes her hips. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I gotcha.” He withdraws an inch or two, rearranges their embrace to get a better grip around her hips. “But you said I could have a lick, so-” With no further warning, his palms each grasp a handful of her ass and hoist her up into his arms, her legs winding around his waist on instinct. Nails dig into his shoulders, leaving little red crescent shapes in the soft, freckled skin. His teeth nip at her neck between sweeps of his tongue, and she moans as he pays particular attention to her pulse point. 

With a turn and a few steps, he’s back at the island, gently depositing her on the edge, his hands stroking up and down her sides. A few insistent tugs at the hem of her shirt, and she lifts her arms to let him peel the offending fabric away, tossed somewhere behind him. His hand is firm on her spine as he lays her back against the marble, the cool surface making her arch up against him. Soft lips press a final firm kiss against her collarbone as he pulls himself back, looking down at her - adoring eyes, wet lips - his hands making their way down to remove her jeans. A dark flush spreads across his chest as he pulls them down, his eyes finding the wet spot on her panties, and she feels her entire body heat up as his lust-blown eyes drink her in. 

His metal hand grasps one of her ankles, lifting her leg to press a kiss there and working his way up, dragging his tongue against the sweet-smelling skin and taking his time on his way to the real prize. A little bite at her inner thigh, and a scratch of his fingernails, has her giggling and moaning at once. He leaves a kiss over her panties and moves to the other side, still savoring, still teasing, tracing his lips over the ticklish skin on the inside of her knee just to make her squirm. Sliding his hands along her legs, he massages her calves gently, knowing how sore she gets from being on her feet all day - he makes a mental note to give her a full-body massage soon. That never fails to get them both going. 

He licks up the arch of her foot and holds back a laugh when she huffs and tries to kick at him.

“Are you going to get back up here anytime soon?” she pouts, fingers tugging at his hair, just the way he likes. Just the way that makes him a little bit wild. Teeth sink into his lower lip as he looks at her under his lashes, his eyes dark and hungry. 

“Oh just you wait, babydoll,” he promises with a low growl. “Gonna taste you till you’re screaming.” 

Before she can respond, his fingers curl in the waistband of her panties and yank them down her legs, flinging them over his shoulder impatiently. Hands beneath her ass, he lifts her hips up, licks his lips, and dives in with a broad lick up her slit. 

Shameless and eager and starving for his girl, Bucky buries his whole face between her thighs, his nose nudging her clit as he laves at her entrance, the tip of his tongue slipping inside to draw out more of her juices. From there he traces a path upwards, sucking on her lips and drawing warm, wet circles over her clit. 

“Oh, god…Bucky,” she arches into him, the words trailing off into a moan when he wraps his lips around her bud and sucks. 

With a final harsh squeeze of her ass, his hands curl up from under her hips, one tracing up to grasp her breast, the other twining his fingers with her own. She squeezes his hand and gasps, holding on for dear life as he plucks and tweaks her nipples in time to the strokes of his tongue against her heat. 

He’s too good at this - he always has been, not that she’d ever tell him and let his ego inflate that much larger. But Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he’s on a fucking mission; he’s groaning as he devours her cunt with his entire mouth, tracing his tongue up and down, side to side, nipping delicately at her folds with his teeth. She can barely keep her eyes open, but she can see the slick shining across his freshly-shaven cheeks, even on the tip of his nose, when he pauses to take a breath and fucking winks at her before going back for more. 

Her toes curl against his back, thighs tense and trembling with every swirl and suck of his wicked tongue; she feels his hand leave her breasts and moans in protest, before the digits reappear at her entrance, gathering wetness for a moment before slipping inside. 

A whispered “fuck” is all she can get out when his fingers scissor inside her, twisting back and forth, before curling upward and stroking firmly against her upper wall with the pad of his fingers. Never letting up with his tongue, the pattern against her clit constantly changing, she feels the heat pooling in her belly, hot and insistent and so, so close. 

“Buck, I’m - fuck, I’m so close,” she whines, and he smiles and nods against her, pulling another sweet moan from her lips. The tip of his tongue draws lines and swoops over her bud, a strange pattern almost like, like -

B-

Jesus Christ, he’s -

U-

He’s writing his fucking name -

She shudders at the letters “C” and “K” when he presses firmer with the flat of his tongue, cheeky bastard. By the time he’s started on his last name, her whole body is starting to shake, the room is impossibly hotter, her head feeling dizzy and light. Her nails dig into his scalp as she cries out his name again. 

“Go ahead, go on, come for me, honey,” he coaxes, before giving her clit a harsh suck while pressing that secret spot inside her. It tumbles her over the edge, her hips rolling into his mouth and her back arching up from the counters, her pants and moans falling breathless and sweet in his ears. He works her through it, continuing to lick and stroke her folds, pulling away every so often to leave kisses on her thighs and nuzzle her hip. When she starts to push his head away he pulls out his fingers, watching the gush of wetness that follows. 

He drapes himself back over her body, a hand on either side of her head, as she comes back to herself and opens her eyes. Blinking a few times, she smiles at him, sharing breathless little kisses as he smooths her hair back from her face. 

“You’re a menace, Bucky Barnes,” she laughs, eyes and limbs feeling heavy and soft. 

“Yeah but you already knew that, sweetheart.” He kisses the tip of her nose, her closed eyelids, her cheek. “And besides -,” without warning, he scoops her up in his arms and heads towards the bedroom, leaving their mess - and dinner - behind. 

“You know I like to have my dessert first.” 

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes smut

[xaphrin]

The delicate sound of the bell above the doorway made her heave a sigh so deep that she was certain demons roaming beneath the earth heard her. Honestly, at this hour? She turned the page of the book she was reading, not bothering to look up. 

“I’m sorry, we’re closed for the night.”

“I’m aware.”

Oh.

Her spine straightened at the sound of that soft, low hum, tinged with an accent she couldn’t quite place. It made her look up, and heat stained Raven’s neck, curling towards her ears. She slammed the cover of her book closed, trying to still her beating heart as Damian Wayne took a careful step into the shop, pausing to flick the lock into place behind him. 

Raven chewed on her lower lip and took another breath, letting it out slowly. The Waynes had been part owner of the shop since before she inherited it from her bastard of a father (the only good thing he left her when he finally died), and they had been nothing but kind and supportive. She was the only woman bookseller in the whole city, and the Waynes were surprisingly progressive about such things. 

Damian, however, had taken a particular interest in the workings of the shop, and had been coming by more and more, in spite of his obvious trust of her business acumen. For a moment she almost considered that he might be paying interest in her, but… she shouldn’t think too hard on that topic. He was only coming around so often because he had financial stock in such a small business, and he was worried about losing money. That had to be the only reason he was here right now. 

Damian looked somewhat disheveled as he stood near the front of her shop. Well, as disheveled as a Wayne could be. His cravat was untied, hanging loosely around his neck, and his vest was unbuttoned, showing a deep V of dark, olive skin that made her heart jump into her throat and beat wildly. He looked flushed and out-of-place, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here, but somehow knew he didn’t want to leave. 

He stepped deeper into the shop, his fingers running along the cover of a book left out on the counter. Raven’s eyes watched the way he stroked the letters almost absently, as if he wasn’t quite reading the title, but wasn’t ready to meet her stare. Raven let herself enjoy the way the light from her lantern hugged every sharp angle of his skin and bathed him in flickering shadow. 

His eyes finally met her own, and there was a weighted silence that settled over them, like the calm before a storm. “I came to see if you have a book that I seem to be missing from my collection.”  

Did he now?

Raven stood up from her small reading table towards the back of the shop and straightened her skirts, smoothing her hands over her stomach. Her fingers stopped at her waist as she realized, with no small amount of mortification, that she had removed her corset earlier that evening. Oh hell. While she usually admired the comfort of being without a corset, it was typically in the privacy of her own living quarters upstairs. Now, here she was, only halfway dressed and standing in front of her patron. Color crawled up her neck, but she chose not to say anything. Damian didn’t seem to mind either. 

“Which book are you looking for?”

“Mm?” Damian stepped forward again, and Raven felt as though he was filling the small space. He looked far too large for the tight space between the stacks, but he kept moving towards her, like he was prowling. 

Heat burned in the middle of her chest, and she felt like her clothes were suddenly too heavy and too tight. She wanted to rip them from her body and leave herself bare for him and him alone. She wanted to feel the heat of his hands slide along her, trace and the curves of her body, touch her in ways she barely understood.    

“Which book?” Raven asked again, feeling like her voice was a breathy whisper that didn’t quite meet anyone’s ears, her own included. Her mind was suddenly wandering again, and her stare kept being drawn to the exposed line of his throat, and the flutter of pulse that beat beneath it. She swallowed another shaky breath, smelling the spiced scent of him on the air. He was… intoxicating, and it should have frightened her, but somehow didn’t. “Which book are you looking for? For your collection.”

Damian seemed no longer concerned with books of any kind. He stepped up to her and rested his hand along her rib cage, fingers splaying out along her curves. It was like she could feel every ridge of his fingers and ever scar on his palm. The spark of excitement in her stomach turned into a bright, hot conflagration, burning along her skin and setting her whole body aflame. It was only her will clinging desperately to some ridiculous sense of propriety that kept her from gathering her skirts in her hands and shoving them up her hips. 

She wasn't so innocent, and she knew what it felt like when hands stroked her in all the right ways. But, here in this moment, with Damian practically towering over her, looking like a parched man in a desert, she desperately wanted to know how his hands felt along her bare skin. Raven pushed at a stray lock of hair and took a deep breath, never breaking contact with the darkness of his stare. 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it.”

Damian blinked, as if he was clearing a spell from his thoughts. His head tipped to the side and his stare slipped from her eyes to her lips and then lower. He murmured something in the back of his throat, a low rumbling noise in a language she only heard him speak when he was upset, and it sounded somewhere between a curse and a prayer. Raven tilted her head up to his face and felt her lips brush against his jaw. It was a ghost of something more, and it was like the first hit of a drug - addictive and dangerous.

The lamp behind them let go of a soft snap as the flame flickered, and then Raven felt the whole world drown in rich, heavy darkness. 

Damian’s mouth sealed over her own, drawing out whatever breath was still clinging to her. Her trembling hands right up and tightened in the soft linen of his undershirt, pulling herself up a few scant inches to try and get closer to him. His kiss was so hot it was branding her, ruining her for anyone else who might dare try to come into her life. Raven’s mouth moved over his own, exploring him like he was a delicacy that she had never tasted before. He was heat and spice and desire all twisted up into a single person, and she wanted him. She wanted him in a way she had never wanted anyone in her life. It was like she was drowning and he was the air she needed to breathe. 

Damian’s hands burned a trail down her ribs before resting against the swell of her hips. He twisted the folds of fabric in between his fingers and pushed her backward, until she found herself pinned between a bookshelf and the immovable weight of his chest. Raven let go of a sharp breath, and Damian took the opportunity to nudge her mouth open further, running his tongue along the curve of her lower lip. A moan escaped and she pushed up into his mouth, feeling as though she couldn’t get close enough to him. 

He let go of another growl in the back of his throat, and pulled her tight against him. Underneath her touch, she could feel his own desperate breath and rapid heart, and it made Raven feel unhinged and wild. She chased after his mouth, pulling him back down to her when he pulled away to try and say something to her. She didn’t want to talk. He made her not want to talk. He made her want to do something. 

Damian’s mouth left hers to kiss down the neck, biting and lapping at her pulse. She cursed through clenched teeth and tipped her head back, feeling the scrape of teeth along her skin. He smiled against her collar bone, his hands twisting up more fabric of her skirt, lifting it higher and higher until the hem brushed scandalously against her calves. She almost pulled it up the rest of the way herself, until she was completely exposed to him. But his tongue ran back up her neck and he nipped at her earlobe. 

He muttered to her in his native language again, his voice a low rumble of promise and sin. Raven sagged against his chest, worried her knees would give out under the weight of his own need. Damian nuzzled the tender spot underneath her ear, kissing it and sucking on it just enough to leave a pale mark. 

“I have forgotten the title.” He let her skirt fall back to the floor, and took a step back, letting much needed cool air fill the space between them. Pushing at his hair, Damian let his eyes sweep over the length of her. He was trying to look calm and collected, but Raven could see the wildness in his own eyes, and she felt drawn to it. “But if I think of it, I will be sure to visit you again.” 

Raven took a slow breath and let her own eyes wander over him. His muscles tensed and his hands flexed at his sides, as if even thinking about touching her was too much for him. Like he could easily lose control of himself. Her eyes drifted lower, and she could see his erection press against the neat line of his pants. Heaven on earth. Heat fanned out over her cheeks, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and Damian caught her curious exploration with a soft smirk. 

“I will see you at the gathering at Drake’s estate.”

It wasn’t a question. If Raven had any reservations about going to a party filled with people far above her station, it died at the sound of his command. Defying him was not something he would have allowed in any capacity. Searching for a response seemed useless and futile, and she swallowed and nodded, her eyes finally meeting his own. “I’ll be attending.”

“Mm.” He smoothed down the front of his shirt and made his way to the door. Raven watched as he stepped onto the street, waiting until he disappeared into the darkness of the street before she sagged against the bookshelf behind her. 

#damirae #regency au #demonbirds #look I know I have 800 other things I should be working on #but this was just fun and distracting #and I enjoyed myself #PLUS #I managed to work through some things for the next chapter of Shadows #so..... score

[janekfan]

Dispossessed

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292337

Curled up in his chair and safely ensconced in his office, Jon shivered intermittently with cold after his confrontation with Elias following his narrow escape, release? from the Circus, numb and empty. Thank god he’d had a change of clothes in here because after all his last set had seen they were better off burned, and he’d changed into them after scrubbing his skin raw with the hottest water he could stand out of the tap. Standing there. Staring at his reflection in the glass.

They hung from his frame, easily two sizes large, and He’d practically run from the restroom to hide, ashamed and embarrassed and overwhelmed.

His stomach hurt and he wrapped his arms around the gnawing void behind his ribs, begging the pressure for relief. The last time he’d eaten...well he couldn’t remember the last time, days blurred together there, the passing of time marked in his useless struggles against the hands, hands everywhere and touching, touching, touching him.

He’d lost his flat, his things, his wallet, parts of himself. All lost. All taken.

Like he had been taken.

And no one noticed.

No one had cared and he wasn’t surprised because he knew how they felt about him, he knew, he did, he just didn’t expect it to cut so deeply.

Leaving this small bit of sanctuary was out of the question and Jon was too exhausted to do anything else today, so he did what he did in his captivity when things became too much and forced himself to sleep.

When he woke up there was a cup of tea cooling on his desk and a jumper draped over him.

He’d gone through his desk twice, the first time for a protein bar he knew was in there and ate in small, controlled bites, and the second because he hoped for another. He couldn’t live like this. Not without cash or a way to eat and he wasn’t crawling back to Elias to ask for any favors. But just a few more days and he’d have a replacement ID and a few more after that he could access his bank account .

Until then he’d have to make do.

In the evenings he ventured outside with his knapsack, almost daring the Circus to grab him again, wondering if this time, Micheal would just kill him and be done with it. He just walked. Mostly aimless, placing what spare bottles he found in his bag so he could return them for their deposit. With his secrets close and kept, Jon tried not to think of the new lows he’d sunk to as he dipped chocolate digestives from the vending machine into Martin’s tea and lost himself in statement after statement, the static in the background like a laundry line where he hung the rest of fears and insecurities and let himself go.

But Jon didn’t feel well. Shaky and tired, counting the seconds until he had access to his funds again and feeling more and more like he wouldn’t be able to make it off a quid’s worth of biscuits and tea. He scrubbed a trembling palm down his face, massaging his temples and willing the persistent headache to stop its pounding. He dug his fingers into his hollow stomach, twisting up the fabric there and holding it so tight they ached with the strain.

It affected his judgement. Not that many would say he had much of that to begin with.

He was being pulled too thin.

And suddenly it was all he could think about. A box in one of the cupboards, shoved towards the back. He remembered seeing them before he was taken. Long before. So maybe they didn’t belong to anyone. Just some old cream crackers. Just anything to avoid begging Martin because that’s where his mind went next. He’d been so cruel to him, he couldn’t take advantage like that. He wouldn’t. He slipped out of his chair, grabbing the edge of the desk almost desperately when his vision swam and the office tipped violently to the side. Clammy, his hand flew to his forehead as though he could press the equilibrium back in.

On silent feet he crept to the dark break room, thankfully avoiding anybody and making it there without much trouble. Leaning up on his tiptoes he just managed to coax his prize off the shelf with the tips of his fingers, catching it against his chest when it fell. There was dust on the box. And yet he was riddled with shame and guilt as he pulled out a half package.

Just as the lights flicked on.

And Tim and Melanie caught him.

“Boss.” Like a curse and Jon winced, clutching the package, shrinking under his flinty stare. “Haven’t seen you in days.”

“What are you skulking around in the dark for?” She laughed and it was a mean thing that twisted around his heart like barbed wire. “What are you doing?”

“N’nothing.” He tilted his chin up, willing his flight response to quit it because he was safe here even if they didn’t like him.

“Looks like you’re stealing, boss.” Tim tore the package from his grip.

“No! I wouldn’t, th’they--”

“They’re what? Out of words now?” Tim crushed them, threw them at the floor. “Boss?”

“I can expla--” When he shoved him, Jon’s mind blanked, transported very suddenly back to Nikola’s jeering, cheerful, awful voice and wandering hands and--

“Not enough you got Sasha killed?”

“S’stop.” Barely a breath, he didn’t have anything else.

“Not enough you trapped us here?”

“Stop.”

“Not enough to snare Melanie?”

“P’p’please.”

“You have to steal? And take? More??” Each increasingly loud demand for answers accompanied with another push until he was pinned by his shoulders and still Jon couldn’t speak louder than a whisper when he asked, "how long before you take the rest of us?"

“Stop.”

“I won’t.” His face was inches from his own, and so angry. “Not until you tell us the truth.”

Stop stop stop

“Tell us, Jon.”

“Stop, stop, please, stop, stop touching me, please, please…” He wasn’t upright under his own power, the hands on him had him trapped against the wall and he couldn’t breathe with them on him, couldn’t think, couldn’t answer their questions because he didn’t have answers and didn’t understand the words because he was in the tunnels again and the echo made it impossible to hear and they kept touching--

“Tim!” It was like a gunshot and Jon recoiled like he’d been the one to fire it, sliding down the wall when the hands released him as if burned, all sharp angles and days old clothes and suddenly it was Tim’s face above him again, horrified, before it disappeared and the room fell quiet.

“Jon?”

Martin.

“S’sorry.” The weight of his pathetic incompetence pressed down on him like a stone, crushing the air out of his body and there was none left in the room for him to take. “Sorry, m’sorry, m'sorry.” The pulse hammering through his blood hurt like a bruise bone deep, left him dizzy, and he couldn’t, there was no air here.

“I know, I know you are.” Martin. Martin. Martin should hate him along with the rest. Why, why. Why was he here? Why was he so, so, so very kind? “You need to breathe, Jon, or you’re going to pass out.” Didn’t he understand? There wasn’t anything left to breathe? All gone, nothing left but crumbling paper and fading ink and the dust would cover everything, including him until he didn’t need to breathe.

“Martin.” Gasping, breathless, choking on dust, dust, dust, the damp on his face trickling through it carving paths like desert rain.

“I’m here.” Jon realized he’d been looking up where Tim’s face had been this whole time, finally dropped his gaze to see Martin, brows knit with worry. Worry. He didn’t deserve that. Not after the ruin he caused. The people he’d killed. “I’m not going anywhere.” Narrow chest heaving in shallow, short attempts, Jon let his head fall into the corner between wall and cupboard, curling there, small and safe on all sides, because Martin was here and Martin was staying even though he shouldn’t.

“Martin.” At some point his eyes closed while listening to him ramble about inconsequential things and the different dogs he saw around his flat though he didn’t know their names and wanted to.

“I’m still here.” At least one of them was. Jon felt disconnected, loose, and forced his lashes apart like he was moving mountains. Now that he was no longer panicking the ache in his stomach was back. “Jon?”

“Mm.” Martin was sitting against the cupboards too. Wasting his time here with him. Keeping a measured distance between them as if he knew the kind of tentative control Jon was managing.

“Why don’t you go home?”

“Don’ have one.” Jon hugged himself closer, unmoored without a place to return to.

“Why were you in here?” In here stealing.

“Jus’ hungry.” And the pangs were very real and he was so lightheaded.

“Oh, Jon.”

“M’sorry.” He ducked his face, hiding behind folded arms. “Didn’t. I d’didn’t realize. Thought.” He shuddered, hot with embarrassment and shame. “Didn’t mean to steal.”

“Is that what Tim was yelling about?” Miserable, Jon shook his head, the tears dripping into his oversized jumper.

“No, he's. Angry.” Martin sighed, heavy and tired, and Jon’s throat closed up around his sorrow. “I understand.”

“Well. Jon, you weren’t stealing.” Why was he kind after everything he’d done to him? After how poorly he’d treated him? “They were probably very stale considering they’ve been there since. I think since before I started.” Caught off guard, Jon laughed a bit, face still in his knees, until it turned to crying. Loud and ugly and foolish and shameful, and oh if only his grandmother could see him now when her presumptions and predictions came true as he failed every person who'd dared allow him close. But Martin let him sob himself dry, until he was left with an aching head and the kind of tired that only happens after a cry like that. “I’m inviting you to dinner.” His head snapped up so fast he dashed it on the wall.

“No, n’no, I.”

“Am coming with me.” His tone brooked no argument. "Would be rude to refuse my invitation, you know."

“Martin--”

“We can give those clothes a wash.” He went on, ignoring Jon’s stammering. “I’ve got other things too, you can have, while you’re living here.” Again, the tears welled up, spilling over, and this time Martin held out his arms. And this time, Jon was ready.

I was really inspired by @voiceless-terror fic A Place for the Night! 

(I can totally take it down if I’ve overstepped!)

#TMA #the magnus archives #Jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #food scarcity #starvation #non consensual touching #pushing #shoving #yelling #flashbacks #panic attacks

[98prilla]

Turned

Next

Previous

AO3

...

Patton cocked his head, a slight frown on his face. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he eased Virgil off of his lap, careful not to wake him as he stood. He rubbed his arms, feeling almost chilled, a shiver running down his spine. Something was wrong.

 “Lo? Ro?” He called, and instantly, they appeared from in the kitchen, loosening a bit of the worry growing in his chest, safety in numbers, but something was still niggling at him, eating at his mind, screaming danger.

 “Patton. Breathe.” Logan, gently squeezing his shoulders.

 “something is wrong.” He answered, panic rising.

 “Patton, your eyes…” Roman gasped. He spun, gasping as he saw his reflection, his eyes glowing a dim red. The strange panic pulsed harder, and he flinched, shoving the others down behind him, just as the glass windows of the living room shattered.  

 His instincts took over, the alarm cry of danger screaming in his head, rushing in his bones, and he growled. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt his family again.

He snarled as he leapt into the fray, not bothering with weapons, his nails sharpening into claws, his fangs bared and ready to tear, as he immediately pounced on one of the assailants, rolling across the floor in a bloody scrap.

 Roman had his katana drawn, trying to fend off the attackers, Logan at his back with his crescent moon blades, Patton darting between them all with his extra speed, blocking the hits the others couldn’t see coming, keeping them away from the couch, away from Virgil, whom they seemed to hone in on.

 There were so many of them, too many of them, and they were faltering. Roman had a slash across his cheek, Logan was bleeding from his arm. Patton was scraped and bruised, still snarling and spitting furious, like an angry alley cat, trying to defend all three of his family members, unable to keep up, unable to stop one from getting through his line of defense, eyes locking on Virgil as one of the attacking vampires reached him, a scream building in his throat.

 Then there was a brilliant burst of black violet light that threw them all off their feet. Patton blinked furiously, breath freezing at the sight before him.

 Virgil was standing, eyes a deep, electric storm violet that covered the whites. The light sparked from his hands, wreathed up his arms, wove around him almost like a cloak. The power was so black it was white, shifting between the two, lightning crashing against his skin, the power radiating out from him, his entire being aglow with it. The other attacking vampires hissed, focusing on their target, leaving the others alone. A smile split Virgil’s face, a cold, cruel thing, that made Patton shiver.

 “You’ve made a mistake.” Virgil’s voice was an echoing boom, thunder crashing, rattling window panes, shaking the earth, a powerful reverb to it that had all of them wincing as it echoed in their mind.

 In an instant, Virgil’s hands twisted in a complicated pattern, glowing circles and runes appearing in the air before him, drawn with his fingers, then he threw his arms wide and the spell circle blew wide, encompassing all the charging vampires, enveloping them in devouring darkness. Their screams were the only sound to the room as they dissolved into smoke, and with a flick of his fingers, the dark spell was gone, along with the attackers. Then Virgil turned to the three of them, his eyes still burning nearly black, novas of light crackling across his skin. Roman shoved to his feet, katana drawn, standing guard before Patton and Logan.

 “It’s not safe here.” Virgil’s voice still boomed as he held out a hand, and Roman hesitated. He didn’t want to hurt Virgil, but this was scaring him. This wasn’t anything he’d ever seen before, and he wouldn’t let anyone, even Virgil, harm the others.

 “Roman. It’s ok.” Patton murmured, gently pushing down his hand holding the sword, stepping around him, taking Virgil’s outstretched hand. “I trust you.” He whispered to Virgil, noting the slight smile that played at Virgil’s lips.

 “I know, baby bat. Thank you.” Virgil replied, squeezing his hand, before looking back up at the others. Logan was next, hesitantly placing a hand on his arm, Roman following suit with a huff.

 Virgil closed his eyes, weaving another spell circle in the air, one more complicated than Logan had ever studied, then the world blurred like a wet water color painting, shifting and spinning around them, slowly resettling until it was solid again, and they were in a completely different place.

 “And I thought I was one for dramatic entrances.” A low whistle was accompanied with the words, and the group spun to face the small table against the wall, Remy leaning back in it, a smirk on his face, that slowly faded as he noticed the sparking light emanating from Virgil, expression shifting to shock as Virgil turned to look at him, eyes nearly black as coals, his veins pulsing with dark light.

 “they found us. Didn’t know where else to go. Keep… keep them safe…” Virgil swayed on his feet, and Remy swore, barely managing to catch Virgil in his arms as the magic instantly vanished, the black leaking from his eyes as they rolled back and he slumped unconscious, skin ashen.

 “Shit, Anx, you really know do know how to make an entrance.” Remy whispered, watching with baited breath as Virgil groaned, eyes blearily blinking open. He tsked scoldingly.

 “Did you have a stroke and forget the first lesson of magic, you moron?!” Remy shook him lightly, and Virgil hissed, rolling his eyes.

 “Be careful what you cast-“

 “If it’s too much it’ll draw from your lifeforce itself.” Remy chorused with him, glaring down at him angrily.

 “Cool. Now bitch, explain.”

 “attacked in our house. Pack of ‘em. Was… was the only option.” Virgil mumbled, eyes slipping shut once more.

 “Nuh uh, babe, not on my watch.” Remy muttered, silver light enveloping him for a moment, channeling his own magic into Virgil. Almost instantly, Virgil’s complexion evened out, his breathing steady, and the glow faded from Remy. Virgil didn’t open his eyes, but he stirred slightly, letting out a deep breath and relaxing in Remy’s arms, the pained tension leaving his body. It was a deep, restful sleep of recovery, Remy had made sure of that. It was his specialty, after all.

 He took a deep breath, then turned his attention to the others, scowling as he saw Patton, standing with Roman and Logan.

 “Someone wanna explain why you all showed up with my half dead adopted brother and him?” Remy asked accusingly, glaring at Patton, who waved nervously. Roman opened his mouth, but Logan stepped forwards first, eyes narrowed.

 “Actually, I would say that it was you who led trouble to us. Given that Virgil has been dormant in his role as Anxiety, and you have been searching for Deceit, it seems probable that you were tailed when you paid us a visit, thereby leading your enemies to our doorstep. The only reason we got out is because he used magic more powerful and complex than any I’ve read about.” Remy softened, looking back down at Virgil.

 “Of course he did. It takes a ton of magic to teleport two people, let alone three, including yourself. No wonder it pulled at his life force.” Remy sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I was being careful.” He muttered, pushing back Virgil’s hair, before lifting him with a sigh and depositing him on the couch. In a literal blink of an eye, Patton was there, Virgil’s head in his lap. “He’ll be all right in a bit, just needs some, well, sleep. Remy smirked slightly, pushing up his dark glasses.

 “So what do we do? He said the house isn’t safe anymore, those vamps are probably watching it. So now what?” Roman asked, pacing, eyes never leaving Remy, full of distrust.

 “They seemed to be targeting Virgil specifically, and if it’s true they did indeed follow you to our location, it stands to reason they are after ‘the coven’ as you referred to it. It seems our goals now align. If we wish for these vampires to leave us alone, we must find their leader, and therefore find Deceit. Whether we like it or not, we must now work together.” Logan stated, standing near the arm of the couch, hands clasped behind him. Roman scowled, not halting in his pacing.

 “You think I like it either, pretty boy? The last thing I wanted was your pet vampire in my secret hideout.” Roman growled, katana half drawn, silver light sparking on Remy’s hands.

 “Say that again, I dare you.” Roman hissed out.

 “Gladly, bitch-“

 “Enough, you two. Just… enough. I get it. You don’t like me, don’t trust me, don’t want me here. I… I get it. But I’m not leaving. He’s part of my family, and I will do anything to protect him. So can we skip the hating me part, and focus on the problem?” Patton said, voice tired instead of biting, as he looked between Remy and Roman. Remy bit his tongue, looking hard at Patton for a moment, before sighing.

 “Alright. Alright, fine, fine, for now. Once we figure this out, I make no promises.” Roman hissed again, cut off by Patton’s glare.

 “I’ll just have to change your mind about me by then! Now, what do you know?”

…

 He was exhausted. He was slumped against the wall, crouched uncomfortably, his restraints biting into his skin, keeping him from any kind of sleeping position. Every time he drifted off, the collar dug into his neck, jerking him awake. He was stained with blood, but his eyes were still defiant as he heard footsteps approaching, glaring up at the vampire who stopped before him.

 “Well. That certainly went interesting. Seems I underestimated your little Virgil. He’s a slippery little shadow, I’ll give him that.” He smirked, relief filling his chest, Virgil got away. He’d always been smart, been strong, the strongest of the three of them, really.

 “If you were smart you’d let him go. He’s capable of far more than you can imagine.” He kept his voice even, making sure the exhaustion didn’t give him away, keeping his cool façade intact, as the vampire grinned, fangs showing.

 “Oh, but so am I. Something interesting happened, when my followers stormed their house. See, I expected four hunters. I didn’t expect three hunters and one very protective vampire. Wouldn’t you know, my coven turned a human a few months back, and got chased off before they could drag him back to the nest. What a lovely coincidence!” The vampire clapped his hands, green eyes flashing as his heart sunk.

 He knows what that means. If vampires from this clan turned Virgil’s friend, and this vampire is the leader of the clan, then Virgil is in grave danger. He can see through Virgil’s friend’s eyes, can listen through his ears, can get inside his head and control him like a thrall, if he’s close enough. There’s an enemy on the inside, and no one, including Virgil’s vampire, knows it.

 “Oh, don’t look so glum! You’ll get to see each other again soon, won’t that be great? Now, I’ve gotta go prepare my next move, but don’t you worry about a thing, pet. I’ll be back to play with you soon.” The vampire patted his cheek, making him wince, before he sauntered away, whistling, leaving him shaking.

 He closed his eyes against the wash of helpless hopelessness filling him from the inside out. There’s nothing he can do.

 He sunk down into his apathy, shutting himself off from the pain, from any emotion, because there is nothing, nothing he can do.

#sanders sides #tss #hunter au #vampire au #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic patton #sympathetic roman #sympathetic logan #sympathetic virgil #sympathetic janus #villain remus #unsympathetic remus #vampire patton #mild blood #fighting #mild violence #captivity #angst #janus angst #virgil angst #eventual happy ending

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 16: The Throne

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Kamilah and Nadya don’t deal with the day after. Together the girls journey to the Council Chamber for Adrian’s trial. Nadya is shaken when she comes upon a throne she shouldn’t know.

[READ IT ON AO3]

"You would do well to hold your tongue.”

“Forgive me, my King. You know I don’t mean to speak out of turn —”

“And yet you persist in doing so. I would have thought your disposable nature would be cemented in your mind after your ascension to the role at my side.”

“Yes, I—I understand. But what you’re suggesting is…”

“What our King suggests is not our place to question, Adrian.”

“Of course, Kamilah. I understand. My apologies, my King.”

“As always you are forgiven. How could I not forgive you in your youthful ignorance? One day you will have lived as long as I do now. You will have seen empires of mortals rise and fall and know that we are that which remains.

One day you will understand. For now… begone. Both of you.”

“Yes, my King.”

“Yes, my love.”

Nadya doesn’t know which is more terrifying to think about; that she’s getting used to these nightmares or that she’s come to expect them.

But sitting on a gilded throne in a cavern… being both herself and someone else — and an awful someone else at that — at least it’s getting easier and easier to wake from the dreams. She just wants them to go away.

She’s alone in her bed. She’s in her bed at Kamilah’s penthouse. Her hair is still damp but the sheets underneath her body have long-since dried. When she moves something tugs at her arm — she looks to see the remains of a shirt sleeve still clinging to life on her shoulder.

That, too, Nadya might accidentally convince herself was a dream if not for all the worldly evidence that said otherwise. Screamed it, even.

Her legs feel like jelly but Nadya forces herself up and into a shower. Relishes the fact that it’s not the awkward carved-out space in Lily’s place — however homey it was and however generous she was to share it — but an actual, tile-and-tub shower with more than five minutes of hot water to help her wash sweat, rain, and her nightmares off her body.

Maybe Kamilah didn’t stay until the morning (afternoon? she can’t tell anymore) because she wants to forget it happened.

Regardless of Kamilah’s thoughts on the matter, though, judging by the wide every-tooth-accounted-for grin Lily gives her best friend when the smell of fresh coffee coaxes her into the kitchen she wants to know everything.

“It’s too early for this,” Nadya protests; rubs her temples with her eyes closed and when she opens them there’s magically a mug of coffee within reach. Maybe the Gerard-fairy could get her that pony she wanted when she was ten…

“It’s never too early to get into the juicy details,” Lily props her chin on both hands, “you’re glowing, babe.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

“I am not!”

Lily throws her hands up with exasperation. “Ignorance must be so fucking blissful! I’d give my left nut to be able to bone my girlfriend right now!”

There’s a clatter by the sink and they both look to see Gerard fumble with a piece of cutlery and his favorite scrubbing sponge. He tries to play it off cool but Nadya knows better. “Let’s try and calm it down with the skanky talk, Lil’.”

“Not skanky if it’s how I feel.”

Gerard chuckles. “Oh don’t mind me, ladies. At my age a shock to the system keeps me on my toes.”

He wipes off his hands and gets about preparing for Kamilah’s arrival the usual way; a folded newspaper and espresso cup with saucer set immediately to Nadya’s left. And before she can ask — Kamilah herself walks in with the same purpose and intent she does everything else.

Including desperate rain-soaked sex.

Did she expect to be swept up in Kamilah’s strong arms and bent over the table in a passionate kiss; no. Did she hope for a little acknowledgment at the very least; well, certainly more than the big bucketful of nothing her way as Kamilah takes her usual seat, sips her usual coffee, and opens her usual evening edition.

Lily makes a face at her that is hidden by the Stocks. Nadya silently tries to admonish her but, well, Lily does what Lily wants whether she’s a vampire or a human.

Silence. Silence. Nadya tries to break it as best she can.

“So Kamilah, this is —”

“I’m well aware of who she is.” Kamilah flicks the paper in half and appraises Lily with cold nonchalance. “And what she is, is a liability.”

Lily huffs. “Just because I’m not in your Clans doesn’t mean —”

All Kamilah has to do is hold up a finger. There’s a part of Nadya that’s trying to find even the smallest thing to keep her optimistic and apparently that part is a horny little monster; since it makes her look at the finger and go pink in the cheeks.

Kamilah either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Her only concern is Lily.

“You are a prime example of the prosecution’s case against Adrian; by virtue of his blood you were Turned. Rather than go through the proper channels to instill you a premature spot in his Clan he was content to let you disappear and sweep the matter under the rug.”

“That’s not — that’s not what happened, not entirely! It isn’t the whole story.” Nadya raises her voice to try and get Kamilah to look at her.

It works; a brief flicker of dark hues that has her heart racing and no doubt the vampires in the room both catch it. But it’s not something she can control. It might not even be for Kamilah — she’s definitely angry enough.

“Kamilah, you know that’s not what happened.”

“Yes, I do,” she sips her coffee, “yet what should we say otherwise? Either we let that be the case made against him on this act alone or we reveal to the Council any knowledge we might have regarding the Clanless, their operations, and where they might be hiding. Which is worse?”

It’s a question she doesn’t know the answer to. Judging by the look Kamilah gives her — she doesn’t have any answers either.

“I can’t risk them, Nadi’.” mutters Lily.

She looks across the table; reaches out and takes Lily’s hand in hers. “I know — we’re not doing that. I’m not gonna sell out the Clanless.”

“Even if it leads to Adrian’s execution?” Kamilah says it only because it’s something they need to take into account; she knows that. But it’s the way she’s talking that keeps adding fuel to the fire inside her belly.

“And I won’t let that happen, either.”

“My point remains the same; having this girl there would only jeopardize Adrian’s already thin defense.”

Already thin defense. God, it makes her head spin around backwards.

“What is he being charged with anyway? Last I saw you guys everyone was on the same side.”

As Gerard comes around to pour more coffee she catches his expression; his normal ease replaced with stiffness and more lines than usual etched into his furrowed brow. It makes Nadya’s stomach upset.

She tries to backtrack. “Never mind, we can talk about it later, or…”

“No, you have a right to ask. And I would rather you know what you will be walking into” Kamilah sets her paper aside to give them her full attention. “You don’t know the whole story — everything that’s led up to this point. From small deals and micro-aggressions to spats both behind closed doors and within Council Chambers. I’m afraid this has been a long time coming, Nadya. And the events of the Ball were all that was needed for… shall we say certain parties to enact plans that have merely been lying in wait.

“It’s no secret that Adrian hasn’t always seen eye-to-eye with the rest of the Council. You’ve met them. I think you can draw your own conclusions. The more Adrian has pushed for progress and integration into human society the more resistance he’s been met with — even from those we thought saw our way of things at the very least for their own gains.”

Nadya brings one leg up to her chest. “Why do I feel like you’re trying not to say Lester’s name?”

“Castellanos and Adrian have always had a tense partnership — only as strong as what they both got out of it. But that isn’t uncommon for our kind; especially for those who have lived as long as we.”

“So Lester stabbed him in the back.”

“Yes, and no,” Kamilah’s jaw sets; her teeth grinding together like slabs of stone, “They all did; the entire Council — save myself.”

“And we’re sure about that?”

Both Nadya and Kamilah look at Lily like she’s grown another head. Nadya quickly dissolves into panic; reaches out and grabs Kamilah’s upper arm even though she knows it’s about as effective as a blade of grass trying to stop a hurricane.

There’s no mistaking Kamilah’s tone — she is and always will be the calm before and the storm itself.

“I suggest you refrain from speaking again should you value the lower part of your skull, newborn.”

And Nadya wants to actually smack Lily upside the head for having the gall to snap back; “Well you keep saying the Council are the bad guys. Except you’re on it, too. You’re the one we should be rooting for? The Kingsley Shacklebolt of the Ministry working on the inside?”

“You dare…”

“Lily, stop!”

Nadya’s voice hurts her own ears; even the thought of raising it at Lily especially after their confrontation in the Shadow Den… she’s been walking on eggshells made of tissue paper around her best friend. And, really, she’s doing it to keep Lily safe in the end.

The muscles under Nadya’s grasp shift, though. She has a chance to keep this from getting very bloody very fast.

“Please, Lil’,” she continues, “I get why you’re thinking like that — I would too if I didn’t know better — but Kamilah and Adrian are more than just ‘on the Council’ together. They’ve been through everything and stayed at each other’s sides. Kamilah was there when Adrian was Turned — and—and they stayed together even when it meant betraying their Maker. She wouldn’t turn on him — ever. Just like you wouldn’t tun on me.”

It’s enough to satisfy Lily — or her version of satisfied in which she goes to dig in the cupboards for something to munch on and help her think.

But her victory is short-lived when she looks at Kamilah with relief and is met with a clouded anger. Disbelief.

“W-What’s wrong?”

The vampire regards her carefully. How one would behave next to a wild tiger. Only out of the pair of them it’s not Nadya who is the dangerous one.

“I was not aware Adrian had told you so much of our shared history. Particularly that which involved…” she swallows the words on her tongue like bile, “our Maker.”

He didn’t, she’s ready to say — an automatic response. But it made sense given Adrian’s reaction to the man’s portrait at the castle. Gaius Turned Kamilah and Adrian…?

But how did she know that?

She doesn’t know how; she simply does.

Yet something tells her Kamilah would, after being equally unsatisfied with such an answer, not be as content as Nadya to let it go. Not at all.

So she shrugs, mutters “Late nights at the office… he said not to tell you I knew,” and hopes even if her lie isn’t convincing enough that there’s more on Kamilah’s plate than pushing the issue.

Kamilah turns away curtly.

With luck like this she’s really gotta go buy a lottery ticket soon.

“During the Council and tribunal held against him I must remain impartial. As the eldest member I have the immediate authority regarding his case but, as with all things, it will come down to a vote no matter my ruling.”

“So no chance you could go all Judge Judy on them, then, huh?” Lily asks around a mouthful of saltines. Kamilah’s look is answer enough.

“Kamilah,” Nadya touches her again, wary this time. Glad she doesn’t pull away or look ready to strike. “If you’re gonna be in charge of everything I’m going in there alone. And as much as I trust you… and Adrian, for that matter, I just…”

“No, you’re right to be cautious.” The woman’s lips quirk in the barest of smiles — but Nadya is too focused on the sudden warmth in her gaze. It feels like a spotlight under the moon. It feels like last night. “And Adrian will be in no position to help you, I’m afraid.”

“Then let Lily come. She risked enough coming up here anyway — it’s not fair to leave her hanging.”

“I dunno mami,” Lily’s imitation Mari accent is somehow made better by a mouthful of snack, “I’m kinda digging this place —” she rolls her eyes at Kamilah’s glower, “—I’m kidding, jeez. Like I’d leave my girl hanging in a den full of Dracula wannabes.”

“I’ll forgive that insult only because of how little you know.”

“Insul—wait. No freak-fuckin’ way. Is he real? Is Dracula real?!”

While Lily copes with the realization of Dracula in her own unique way Nadya takes the moment of distraction to slide her hand down Kamilah’s sleeve — to ghost her fingertips over the back of her hand.

Kamilah looks back as if to question it but the look in Nadya’s eyes is enough.

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “How long did you, uh… I mean how…”

“How long did I stay with you last night?” Kamilah finishes for her and despite her flush Nadya manages a nod. “Long enough for you to go into a deep slumber. Then I returned to my room.”

“You could’ve stayed. It’s technically your room, too.”

Kamilah purses her lips. “No doubt you wish to discuss it; what happened.”

“Well, yeah,” she shrugs, “kinda.”

But the energy radiating off of her says it’s not a desire they share. It’s in the loose hold of the vampire’s fingers and the way she looks at Nadya without seeing her. It hurts.

Makes Nadya pull her hand away, stuff it in her lap. “But I get it. Not a big deal.”

“I’d ask you to at least give me the courtesy of honesty.” Nadya exhales a shiver as she feels cool fingertips brush her hair back; tuck it behind her ear and keep her from hiding her face to Kamilah’s eyes. “As I… might like to give you the courtesy of a discussion — when all is right and Adrian is safe. Something we both should see as a priority, yes?”

Oh. She nods. “Y-Yeah.”

Then Kamilah’s standing and bringing Nadya up with her by the elbow. Enough to draw Lily’s attention away from the different types of tea Gerard’s hoarded over the years.

He went over them all with her once. She tries to pretend it doesn’t exist since there’s no rhyme or reason to his organizing.

“Too much time has been wasted already. The tribunal will begin at midnight — with or without our presence. I rather think we’d prefer to be there.”

This time when Nadya shivers it’s like someone’s just walked over her grave. Makes her wrap her arms around her middle.

“Do you really think my testimony will change anything? The Baron hates me, Vega’s threatened me, Lester… is Lester. And Priya doesn’t seem to like anything at all.”

Kamilah’s hand shifts, touches becoming a caress on her arm. “Better to try than to do nothing.”

“Right.”

Someone walks over her grave again. Nadya hopes it’s somewhere pretty.

“Does it help if I do this?”

“Lil’ I love and appreciate you but you’re as cold as the outside air right now. I think that’s actually making it worse.”

Lily backs off of her hug but takes Nadya’s hand instead. She really doesn’t deserve a friend like her but here she is, risking her afterlife — and so far the only way she’s thought up to repay her is buying the next five games Lily loves on pre-order the moment they’re available.

Ahead of them Kamilah calls back, “We’re almost there,” and hastens her pace.

Frankly three women walking around the dark and hidden paths of Central Park at night should be the beginning of the end but the only thing that makes her laugh right now is how much she pities the moron who messes with Lily and Kamilah thinking they’ll win.

They finally come to a halt in front of a statue; Nadya peers at the inscription at the base like it’s supposed to clear everything up but it does the exact opposite.

“Uh… Why are we paying Chris Columbus a visit?” Lily asks for her.

Kamilah trails her leather-gloved fingers around a dip in the base with a scornful huff. “I’ve been petitioning to have this atrocity removed since it was commissioned. Nearly had it five years ago — the young people of the world did good work in spreading the truth behind the pretty lies of historians and other members of the victorious parties. But this country has a hard-on for it’s white founders no matter how many corpses their legacy was built upon.”

“Amen, sister. Preach!” Lily pounds her fist into the air unabashedly.

“Still,” Kamilah continues, “if they refuse to tear him down then I shall use him to my advantage.”

There’s a click and the statue begins to slide aside of its own accord. Nadya and Lily look around wildly to make sure no one else sees but Kamilah remains unperturbed.

When the statue has gone as far askew as it can go there exists in its place a descending stone staircase — narrow near the surface but judging by the torches flicking soft orange light further down it empties out somewhere large.

“This is the single best Tomb Raider shit I’ve seen in my whole life!” Lily squeals in delight — doesn’t wait for Kamilah’s invitation to hop and skip her way down the steps. Her voice echoes on the stone; “This is so cool!”

Well, at least someone is having a good time.

“Uh… secret tunnel, huh.” Meanwhile Nadya processes it in her own wild way. Tries not to jump when she feels Kamilah’s hand on her lower back nudge her forward.

“Did you think we met in some city hall chamber?”

Since she has a feeling this might be the last time she sees anything resembling mirth from Kamilah for some time Nadya, spurred by adrenaline and fear and other bad things warring with the optimism she’s practically forcing on herself, stands forward on her toes and kisses her.

At first she’d likely get the same effect from kissing Chris Columbus behind her. Then Kamilah yields — out of pity or passion she can’t tell, doesn’t want to know — and rests her hands on Nadya’s hips to kiss her back and guide her away.

Kamilah doesn’t say anything — doesn’t need to. The question is there in her eyes.

“Because,” Nadya answers in her softest voice, “I was running out of good things to keep me believing we can win this.”

Before her Kamilah pulls off her glove; cards her fingers through Nadya’s hair just like back at the penthouse. Only this time she allows herself to savor the touch with closed eyes intent on snapping a still of this moment for all the awful things to come.

“Should you find a way to share your optimism… I would not turn it away.”

Kamilah’s breath is warm but her lips are cool against Nadya’s forehead. She curls her fingers in the fur lining of her coat lapels and uses up all that good luck she’s had in the little things to wish with all her might that everything was okay; that Adrian was safe and sound and they were in the park because it was a nice date spot — rather than where they might descend into their literal deaths.

Apparently she’s not saved up that much good luck just yet. Since everything is the same when she opens her eyes to watch Kamilah stroke her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Come. ‘Once more unto the breach,’ as they say.”

Kamilah doesn’t stop her from taking hold of her arm so she clings without care. Ducks when Kamilah tells her to watch her head and turns to see the base of Columbus slide back into place and plunge them into stifled darkness.

They catch up with Lily at the bottom of the steps. At first Nadya’s ready to make a joke about picking her jaw up off the dirt floor but that’s dashed from her mind the moment she catches a look herself.

Crumbled ruins in columns, archways, effigies with worn faces and broken limbs. Like a civilization once flourished underneath the streets filled with careless conversation and pigeons by the dozens.

Large fire pits — some made of twisted metal and others mere stone bowls — dot across the ground where footsteps have tamped down the earth with time. Nothing grows here from below but trickles down from the sun and sky above in long tendrils of ivy. If the moss is waging a war on those who once called this place home — the moss has definitely won.

“Final boss encounter…” Lily whispers in awe. Smacks Nadya’s arm gently and points forward. “And there’s even a bitchin’ throne!”

It was like she was doing everything she could not to see it. But once Lily draws it to her attention she can’t look at anything else.

The throne sits at the farthest end of the hall; small from this distance but imposing up close, on a dais of a stone slab with runes and glyphs carved along the ridges. It’s the only thing in the cavernous chamber that doesn’t appear to have suffered the wrath of time.

On either side sit the largest of the fire pits; flickering heat that Nadya can feel even from far back. Her eyes sweep over every golden, gleaming inch of the chair and foreboding settles deep inside her — branches out not unlike the ivy hanging from on high — from her gut to her limbs and so powerful she’s choking on it.

When she doesn’t get the reaction she wants Lily turns to face her. Grows rigid with concern when Nadya’s tears catch the firelight as they fall and drip down her chin.

“Nadi’? Nadya? Shit Nadya what’s wrong?”

Only when Lily grabs her by the shoulders and turns her bodily does the spell break. Eyes tear away from the throne and her knees buckle — without Lily there to catch her she’d fall.

Kamilah, already striding towards the end of the hall, turns back sharply.

“What’s the matter?” She’s back at their side in a beat. Looking Nadya over with concern bordering on anger. “What’s happened?”

“Nadya — hon — talk to us.” Lily cradles her head on her shoulder and Nadya wants to thank her for the gesture but she just can’t find the words.

Then Kamilah comes into blurry, teary view. Cups a hand along her jaw.

“Please. What is it?”

“The… th-throne,” she manages to gasp; both vampires spare it a glance like it doesn’t want to crush their very souls and she’s jealous of their ignorance. “I—I—it…”

She takes in a sharp breath and the words tumble from her unbidden.

“It’s mine. That throne is mine.”

#bloodbound #kamilah sayeed #adrian raines #kamilah x mc #playchoices #lily spencer #mc: nadya al jamil #oblv: bound by destiny #oblv: new chapter

[tea-pettier]

the sixth stage of grief - [portia x the apprentice] - lemon

When the Apprentice looked around, she could hardly believe she was still in the palace.  The usual regal violet and magenta hues had been replaced in favor of deep blacks and canvas whites; the more appropriate colors for mourning. The people milling about were wearing similar garments, with most everyone, including the Countess most notably, leaving their ornate accessories at home.  

Count Lucio would’ve hated this, the Apprentice mused, and she felt a pang of guilt almost immediately.  He would’ve demanded everyone come in their best to say their final farewells, if he’d still been around to make such demands.  The Apprentice tried to call upon the memory of the last funeral that had been held for the Count in an attempt to compare that one to this one, but a vicious throb in her skull that came as abruptly as the west winds put such efforts to a stop.

It was no matter.  She ‘d have the rest of her life to ponder such things, which was more than what she could say about the dearly, departed Count – hopefully for good, this time.

The Apprentice watched as throngs of people left the parlor, almost everyone who walked out the door turning right down the palace’s main corridor.  That was because the coffin was in the next room, though the Apprentice wasn’t quite sure why.  Was there even a body to view?

Last, she and Asra had seen, Lucio was sinking into the abyssal darkness of one of the arcane ponds in that place, just as a rather large something started to poke around the very same area, assumedly in search of a snack.

The Apprentice had no doubt that the creature – serpentine, and scaled from what she saw, had gotten more of a meal than it initially bargained for.  That’s just the way Lucio had been – too much.  

She mentally smacked herself for thinking such uncouth things about a man at his own funeral.  While it’s true, he hadn’t been her favorite person, there’d be plenty of other appropriate days to dislike him – for an example, any other day.

In any case, the casket in the next room was most likely just a formality.  Something to set on the funeral pyre and send off to sea.  A symbol of letting grief go, more for the people than Lucio himself. He would’ve hated this too.

From somewhere in the distance, the Apprentice could hear a choked sob.  She had left the viewing room herself earlier, lest she get stuck amidst the throng of smallfolk wringing their clothes and wailing mournfully before the Count’s casket.

While the scene was the first thing one might call to mind at imagining a funeral, it was all very strange here.  Lucio had been feared, not loved.  He’d thrown his weight around in gold, and doused Vesuvia’s dry lands in blood.  Still though, not a soul dared look a degree more chipper than devastated, and despite how unnerving the Apprentice found it, she couldn’t deny her relief that for once, there was no one here to defy the etiquette of the situation.  Lucio wasn’t deserving of anyone’s tears, least of all, the people of Vesuvia’s, but today they would cry for him and it would be the very last time.

The monotony of impassive reverence was broken up when the Apprentice’s eyes met a bright and limpid blue from across the room. At Portia’s momentary scrutiny, the Apprentice felt her cheeks warm, and her gaze dropped to the floor – taking cover from the mortar fire in her chest.  

A few moments later, the Apprentice risked a quick peek towards the younger Devorak once more, watching her as she gathered abandoned silverware and porcelain cups from disarray, and replaced them on a tray for the return trip to the kitchen.  When the Apprentice had grown nice and comfortable with this view, Portia’s gaze flicked in her direction once more, prompting the Apprentice to once again avert her eyes, a new flood of heat creeping up the Apprentice’s neck. They continued this game of mute tag for a few more moments, until Portia left the parlor with one lingering glimpse over her shoulder and disappeared out the door.

With Portia gone from the room, the stuffy atmosphere settled around the Apprentice once more, pulling her inwards into herself. Memories of the fear that pulled her taut every time Lucio entered a room sparked in the contraction of the sinews of her muscles, and it wasn’t until the edges of the Apprentice’s vision had started to grow fuzzy and the stinging in her lungs flared that she realized she’d started holding her breath.

The corners of the room unfurled into clarity as the Apprentice let out a steady stream of air, and then she rose to her feet calmly, and exited the room, less calm with every increasingly frantic step she took towards the door.

It was choking; the heaviness of grief in the air as it churned noxiously with the heat of Portia’s gaze that lingered in warm flecks at the Apprentice’s skin.  ‘The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife’ – that’s a thing people said, right? Now it was all the Apprentice could do not to drag lead into her lungs and fall to her knees.

As the Apprentice cut into the hallway, the intensity of the atmosphere doubled and then doubled again.  She could feel Portia’s presence behind her as she made a break into another short hallway and staggered into one of the many guest rooms Nadia had in her home.  The Apprentice left the door open so that Portia could follow.

The room was not the Apprentice’s – and certainly not Portia’s.  The Apprentice knew this based on the birdcage sitting suspiciously empty on the nightstand, and the abundance of animal-printed garments strewn about. The click of the door behind the Apprentice seized her attention and brought it back to the center of the room, where her feet had sunken into the plush rug.  When she turned around, she saw Portia’s hand on the twist lock at the brilliant, brass knob.

“I uh, needed some air,” the Apprentice mumbled lamely as Portia began to take deliberate strides towards her.

One and two…

“I’ll bet.”

The contact Portia’s teeth made at the t-sound emphasized stride number three.

“You must’ve needed air too, seeing all the running around you’ve been doing.”

Four and five…

“Oh absolutely,”

Portia was standing right in front of the Apprentice now, who despite retreating to this stranger’s room for air, now found her face red and chest heaving.  The Apprentice gazed into Portia’s eyes – a cool blue that seemed to burn her more, rather than soothe her.  The thought that maybe the woman herself could only do that, hovered at the back of the Apprentice’s mind but she didn’t dare bring it to the forefront, let alone speak it aloud.  

Portia caught this – had caught this since their non-encounter in the parlor earlier.  She’d have to make the first move, and carefully so as not to scare the Apprentice away.  Firsts were always scary, and today seemed to be a hot fudge sundae topped, dipped, and sprinkled with them.  

One tentative hand reached up to cup the Apprentice’s cheek, and where soft, warm skin covered her, the Apprentice felt herself twitch.  She had thought she was flinching, but instead her eyelashes fluttered, and she settled into the touch.  Another steady stream of air left her lips, and this time, it seemed to do its job.

Portia saw this and took her chance, careening forward, her eyes pinching shut just in time for her lips to catch the Apprentice’s. The softness of Portia’s mouth on her own awakened something that had been stifled in the muddled mourning of the day.  Whereas the smallfolk had been too courteous, too restrained, too pious in their grief, Portia’s mouth was aching, craving, and insistent.  The Apprentice kissed back with a fervor that took her breath away, only to replenish the supply with the warmth of Portia.  Her fingers tangled in brilliant, red hair.

The touch felt awake – like electricity buzzing at the surface of the Apprentice’s skin.  Portia – not just her touch, but Portia herself – peeled away the layer of separation that respectful societal norms dictated.  If the entire day up until now had been too muffled, witnessing tragedy from under water, then the lapping fires that Portia evoked in the Apprentice now was raw and throbbing.  Too real and too much.  

The Apprentice gasped and when she fell to her knees, Portia wasn’t far behind.  They landed in a tangle of limbs on the palace’s plush carpet.  The Apprentice’s attention was dragged to the exact point in time where Portia lips parted, and her tongue slipped into the Apprentice’s mouth.  She tasted exactly how the Apprentice imagined, only so much better.

The Apprentice groaned melting backwards into the floor and getting caught between the fuzzed fibers.  Then she felt a chill at her chest and her eyes snapped open to find that the bodice of her conservative white dress had been spread away and now dripped from her form.  Portia may not have been nobility herself, but the fabric yielded to her like it willed to her the highest honor of undressing the Apprentice.  

The Apprentice’s cheeks flushed at her bareness, and as Portia descended hungrily at her, lips trailing along the sinewy bone of her clavicle, the Apprentice felt a tugging inside her, between her legs, and then the familiar wet rush.

Portia, who at some point between their kiss and then had moved to straddle the Apprentice, noticed the twitch of the latter’s body beneath her own.

“What is it?” she murmured, blue eyes flashing dangerously, “does that feel good?”

The Apprentice could only shudder, and then Portia leaned away, and the chill came back.  Portia’s gaze slid over the Apprentice’s breasts, bared to her lewdly from the folds of her clothing.  It was somehow more vulnerable this way than if she’d been completely bare.  The Apprentice’s hands itched somewhere between covering herself and tearing the rest of her clothes away.

Portia didn’t seem inclined to wait one way or another.  Instead, she craned her neck inwards, dipping low towards the Apprentice’s chest to press a trail of kisses in the valley between her breasts.  The Apprentice’s head fell backwards, mercifully making contact with the plush carpet.  At the feeling of Portia’s tongue lapping tenderly against the hardened peaks of her breasts, the Apprentice’s eyelashes fluttered.  When the sensation stopped, the Apprentice raised her head to look at Portia.  She felt herself pulse and clench emptily, needing some recompense for the way Portia had flared at her arousal, and then left it to pool uselessly between her thighs.

Portia’s eyes flashed, blue fire as they looked the Apprentice down.  A shiver went up the Apprentice’s spine and she felt that pulling inside of her again, waiting for something to banish the maddening emptiness.  

“What’ve we got down here?”

Portia’s voice was light as her attention left the Apprentice’s breasts and dropped lower, past the strewn lips of her open bodice, to where the Apprentice’s skirts pooled, riding high at her thighs, as if paving the way for the woman on top of her.  Portia’s hands grasped warmly at the Apprentice’s thighs, squeezing, massaging the soft flesh gently before smoothing dangerously upwards.  As she did this, the Apprentice worked up the nerve to reach forward to the hem of Portia’s shirt, and lift.  

Her eyes flicked to meet the Apprentice’s briefly, their intensity not at all broken though their eye contact was in the instance it took to sweep the white fabric up and over her head.  It had been so quick that the Apprentice scarcely noticed Portia take her hands off her to let the garment pass over her shoulders before they’d returned.  

The Apprentice stared at Portia’s skin; porcelain speckled with the loveliest smattering of freckles, breaking at her collarbone before spotting again at her full breasts.  Unbeknownst to her, Portia was watching the Apprentice, watch her, hands still creeping upwards, sweeping her skirts higher.  If Portia had felt the same urge to cover up that the Apprentice had, she never showed it.  The Apprentice raised her hands, reverent in their slowness. Her hands cupped Portia’s breasts warmly, and Portia sighed contentedly, a breathy, lovely sound, as the Apprentice fondled her gently.  

“What?” The Apprentice asked casually, fighting to keep a straight face, “does that feel good?”  Her thumbs stroked over Portia’s nipples, and this time the ministration was enough to evoke a low moan from the woman.

Portia met the Apprentice’s stare evenly, though despite the tease in her voice, her eyes reflected seriousness in a feverish glaze.

“Yeah, it does,” she said softly, “but not as good as this.”

At the last word, Portia crooked her finger and traced her knuckle along the seam of the Apprentice’s cunt.  The Apprentice shuddered deeply, her breath catching in the motion, her hands faltering for a few moments.

“Mm.”

Portia used her free hand to secure the Apprentice’s hold on one of her breasts, her freckled hand covering the Apprentice’s, which cupped a soft globe of flesh, palm rasping against the hardened peak.

“Don’t wuss out on me now,” Portia all but purred, arching into the Apprentice’s touch.  

The Apprentice couldn’t answer, Portia’s fingers nestled deeper into her folds, occasionally teasing her entrance.  The Apprentice rutted against her touch, feeling the way her muscles contracted, grasping for a hold before Portia’s fingers slipped coyly out.  The flare of arousal was too much for the Apprentice’s usual restraint.

The Apprentice swept in, leaning heavily on Portia and bearing her full weight.  Portia hummed into the kiss as the Apprentice’s lips descended heavily on her own, asking for more while declaring her intent to take it anyways. It only lasted for a few moments before Portia pressed against the Apprentice’s shoulders.

“Hey,” she whispered, and it was softer than anything she’d said before.  

The Apprentice’s eyes and throat stung, a wet, release of a sting, until her entrance squeezed emptily again, and the heat of her arousal dissipated the sting to be dealt with later.

“What?”

There was that push of Portia’s again, sending the Apprentice careening backwards into the plush carpet again.  When the Apprentice landed, it was with great laze and disarray – limbs sprawled, perfect for Portia to find her home between the other woman’s legs.

Out of instinct, the Apprentice clenched her thighs together, as if to will away the heady scent of her desire, which had managed to curl upwards and reach her own senses – the Apprentice could only wonder how strong it was for Portia.

The younger Devorak’s grasp on her thighs was unyielding though.

“Humor me, just for today.”

These words felt strange.  The Apprentice perched upwards into an upright position, balancing on her forearms so that she could search Portia’s face.  

“Grief,” Portia said, as if the word was enough to explain her first remark.

The Apprentice wished she didn’t understand – that was easier.  She ignored the bottomless complexities swimming in Portia’s gaze and flopped backwards onto the carpet again.

“Ah…okay.”

That was all she had time to say, before Portia’s mouth had melded to the apex between her thighs, nose nestled amidst a tuft of curls.  The Apprentice shuddered with her whole body.

It made the Apprentice feel dirty, citing Lucio’s funeral and then getting off to it.  It was wrong, and crude, and a whole bunch of other words the Apprentice was in no place to string together as Portia’s tongue worked her, slickening her already wet slit, and slipping into her.  It made the Apprentice’s arousal flare all over again.  What was the phrase people said; dancing on one’s grave? And occasionally, pissing on it?

It wasn’t that different, the Apprentice thought as she ground herself against Portia’s mouth, dancing on a grave and fucking at a funeral.  Through the movement of Portia’s lips and tongue, she brushed at the sensitive bundle of nerves nestled in the Apprentice’s wetness.  Another gush of her slick seeped from her, though the Apprentice couldn’t tell where hers ended, and Portia’s saliva begun.  A jolt of electricity flew up her spine, and the Apprentice whined.

“Portia,”

Portia said nothing, only kissed her harder, nuzzling into her heady scent, her tongue searching now for the sensitive area she’d just hit.  Her eyes, clear from beneath thick, red lashes, roved upwards to the Apprentice’s face, studying her features as if they were tracks in the snow, a record of where her pleasure had passed through.

Portia’s fingers found their way to the Apprentice’s hipbones, clamping down to anchor her in place.  The Apprentice’s stomach swooped, anticipating what her mind couldn’t piece together until Portia had already started her vicious lapping, tongue tracing into the grooves of her sex.  The Apprentice jolted again, but Portia kept her grasp firm.  Her thighs tightened around the woman’s shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter within her.  She was so wet now she could feel the cold spot on the carpet already.  

Mercilessly, Portia continued her ministrations.  She brought the flat of her tongue firmly against the Apprentice’s clit, and then the fingers at the Apprentice’s left hipbone left to dip under.  The Apprentice arched into Portia as she felt something push into her, her entrance allowing Portia’s fingers to slip in easily with how wet she already was.  

The friction paired with the intense pangs flecking through her as Portia’s mouth busied itself with her sex had the Apprentice rutting.  She felt the lewdness of her reactions with every quiver and tremble of her body. She was hyperaware of her breasts – how they jostled as she contorted with arousal, the hardened peeks of her nipples which stopped just short of aching.  

One hand reached up to grasp at a breast, thumb stroking over the Apprentice’s nipple, palm against the weighty resistance. Flecks of pleasure rippled through the Apprentice, and she ground against Portia’s mouth, feeling herself clench around Portia’s fingers.  This did not go unnoticed by Portia, who fucked her faster, sinking three fingers in, to the knuckle.  Her tongue teased at her clit once more before her soft lips melded to the Apprentice’s lower ones, kissing her sex, stoking her impending climax, and waiting eagerly for the rewards she’d reap as a result.

“Ah –“

The Apprentice’s mouth fell open and she wanted desperately to cry out, she did not know who to call to though.  

She seized up then, the coiled tension at the pit of her stomach pulling her taut before she unwound before Portia, a spread, trembling mess.  Somewhere amidst this fever fall, Portia’s hands found the Apprentice’s own, as they grasped fruitlessly at the fibers of carpet.  Portia guided such ignorant hands back into her shock of red curls, which the Apprentice used to keep Portia firmly at her sex as the woman lapped at the new rush of wetness.

Portia’s hands went back to the Apprentice’s hip bone, scrabbling to hold her against her as well, and that’s how the Apprentice landed from her orgasmic freefall; in the arms of her lover, whose mouth still worked fervently at her.

As the Apprentice was coming down from her thrumming orgasm, the slippery sensitivities between her legs never lost their influence on her, and soon Portia’s mouth became too much.

“Please,” the Apprentice whimpered, “it’s too…”

Portia took great care in nuzzling deeper into the Apprentice’s slick sex, planting one more kiss in it for good measure, before pulling back and dragging her wrist across her mouth.

Despite how overstimulation had led the Apprentice to push Portia’s mouth away, the absence of her warmth and softness twined with the Apprentice’s own felt traumatic in a new way that she felt in the deepest crannies of her bones.  The Apprentice held her arms out to Portia, begging her to return, and of course, Portia did.

Man, this carpet really is soft, the Apprentice thought as she and Portia lay tangled together on the middle of the floor.  Portia’s arms were so plush and strong around her, pressing the Apprentice gently into the red head’s pillowy curves.  Such supreme gentleness brought the Apprentice’s vulnerabilities to the surface, coaxing them out like where they were on the floor then, and in Portia’s arms would be the only place safe enough for them to emerge.

At the feeling of Portia’s thumb gently stroking across a swell of the Apprentice, that she felt too disembodied at that time to identify, hot, wet, surprising tears welled in her eyes.

The Apprentice’s vulnerabilities receded almost immediately, stuffed back into their hidey holes with the fresh shame that loomed.  Crying? After sex?

The Apprentice bit sharply at her bottom lip, determined not to let the emotional breach see the light of day, though Portia felt her stiffen and immediately held her out at arm’s length to see what had changed.

“What is it?”  Her thumb stroked again at the Apprentice’s cheek, tender.  “What’s eating at you?”

“I don’t…it’s just…I mean –“ the Apprentice’s breath seized her, snatching her words away and turning them to dust.  A lot of things were dust now, it seemed.

“Sshh,” Portia soothed, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the Apprentice’s forehead.  

The Apprentice was still for a few moments, drinking in comfort from Portia’s arms wrapped around her.  

“It’s just,” the Apprentice started, “Lucio was…he was…”

“I know, I know.”

Portia’s fingers were stroking down the Apprentice’s back, carding through her hair.  

“A total cunt.”

Portia’s hand froze, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden turn the conversation took.  When the Apprentice continued speaking again, Portia resumed her petting.

“He was awful and cruel and obnoxious, but…now he’s gone, and everyone’s just here to, what?  Say goodbye?”  The Apprentice’s voice grew louder with her momentum.  “Are we really grieving for him?  What about all the things he did? – because I think we should be grieving those.  The years Asra lost with his family, mine and Nadia’s lost memories, Julian’s framing, Muriel’s pain…and what now?  Those things are still traumas we all carry, even if the man who inflicted them is gone. What about closure?”

Portia’s hands lingered at where the Apprentice’s hair lead to the notches of her spine through skin.  Her face had lost some of its usual mirth.

“I think…we do our best not to let any more years slip away,” she said carefully.  “I think we say goodbye to Lucio today – all of him.  I think we move on,” Portia sighed, and the Apprentice melted into the feel of breath moving through her body, leaning into the other woman, bending to the contours of her.  There was one thing sex and grief had in common – they were both exhausting.  “When we’re ready,” Portia added.  

“When we’re ready,” the Apprentice murmured in agreement, her eyes shutting.

#the arcana #lemon #portia devorak #the apprentice #portia x the apprentice

[takivvatanga]

She had the dream again.

The dream that has been haunting her all her life. The dream that wakes her drenched in sweat, her heart in her throat, her mouth dry as the desert. The black and gold dream, the war dream, the death dream. The dream that she is never quite able to recall, even though Assire knows in her bones that it is always, always the same.

She opens her eyes.

The bedroom lies in complete darkness, cool and calm and quiet. She can hear her husband breathing quietly beside her, and she is acutely aware of how very, very much she wishes she could wake him like she always used to. But sleep does not come easy to him anymore, these days. It is as if he crosses a threshold as soon as night begins to fall, frantically searching for something, for someone – for her, in spite of the fact that she is right here, right here with him. Some nights, he cannot settle at all. Others, he sinks like a stone. No, she does not dare disturb him.

Assire sits up. Doing so is an effort. There is an aching in her bones, a heaviness across her chest, her head is pounding, the afterimages of her nightmare still flickering across her mind like ghosts.

Her mouth is so dry.

Her mouth is dry, and her body is so tired, so old, she’s falling to pieces, crushed under the weight of the decades. Her mind, however, is wide awake, as sharp as ever. 

I’m going to go get a drink of water. Sit out in the garden for a while. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

When did it get so hard to stand up?

Sometimes she can’t remember a time when she wasn’t old. Other times it feels as if it was only yesterday that she was young, that she was strong. Assire is not sure which one is worse.

She should really take her walking stick.

I’m only going to the kitchen, what’s the worst that can happen?

Her steps are small, shuffling, unsteady. The dull pounding headache behind her eyes rises in intensity, a red hot pain that makes her vision swim. Unceasing. Nauseating.

Assire shakes her head and pushes on, all parchment-like skin and brittle bones and steely determination, grateful for being able to hold onto the hallway cabinet for balance.

The light is still on in Stella’s room, a thin sliver of brightness spilling through the door. She never closes the door anymore. Assire knows that her daughter worries, that she, too finds sleep difficult to attain since she’s been back home. Stella has always taken on too much responsibility, has always been a little too concerned about the wellbeing of others – her parents included.

She grew up too fast. Was it my fault? What if –

Assire does not get the chance to complete the thought. Her foot catches the edge of the hallway rug. She grasps at the cabinet with all the strength that she still has, trying desperately to find her balance, to stay on her feet. It is no use. She falls to the ground, one hand stretched out in an instinctive attempt to break her own fall. The impact knocks the air from her lungs, there is a sickening organic sound as something snaps somewhere between her elbow and her shoulder. Assire bites down on her lower lip to stifle her scream. 

“Mum! What the fuck, Mum? I told you a million times, just call out if you need anything!”

Assire manages a smile, despite the pain. Her arm feels like it is on fire, she can hardly feel her fingers. She is proud of her daughter. Her tall, swift, noisy daughter. Her energetic, headstrong, rebellious daughter. Her caring, empathetic, conscientious daughter who, without being asked, has put her whole entire life on hold for her. For them.

“I didn’t want to wake you, sweetheart. I just wanted to get a drink of water. Your father is fast asleep.”

She tries to push herself up, her face twisting with pain. What she can manage, however, is to hold her uninjured arm out to her daughter.

She remembers Stella reaching up just like this when she was very small, a wordless demand to be picked up and carried. Happy little thing, with bright blue eyes and a head of dark curls, endlessly inquisitive, always looking for contact, for interaction.

I used to pretend I didn’t know what you wanted. Because I was so scared. Scared that I’d do something wrong, that I’d drop you, that you’d get hurt. Scared that holding you would leave me overwhelmed with love for you. You’re the best thing I ever did, do you know that?

Stella pushes her hair off her face. There’s grey creeping in around her temples, there are dark circles under her eyes, fine lines etched around her eyes, around the corners of her mouth. She has never been traditionally beautiful, has always had an uncomfortable sharpness to her, but she has aged well – so she keeps getting told. People don’t usually believe her when she says that she’s well into her fifties. Not like she cares about that, anyway. Stella has never put much stock in appearances. She sighs, crouches down, catching her mother’s hand in hers as she does so. It’s small and cool and fragile, like porcelain covered with parchment, dappled with sunspots.

“You should have called for me, Mum. Are you… are you hurt?” Her voice is low, calm, reassuring. Stella has always known how to pretend.

Assire shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders, winces as she does so.

“My arm… I’m not sure. That was quite the tumble, you know?”

“Can you move it? Your arm, I mean.”

“I’m not sure, sweetheart. I’ll… I’ll be okay, I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just thirsty. And my head hurts.”

“I’m taking you to A&E. Can you hold on to me? We’ve got to get you off the floor.”

“Stella, don’t fuss.”

“I’m not fussing, Mum. I’m trying to look after you.”

Like I always have.

“Just… get me back to bed with a drink and some panadol. It’ll be fine by morning, and if it isn’t, well, you can take me then. Why, we can even take your father along for the ride if we end up going. I’m sure he’d be delighted to pay a visit to his old haunts.”

Assire chuckles, her eyes bright with both mirth and pain.

“Not like the family outings we used to have, huh?”

Stella can’t help but smile. She remembers their day trips, riding in the back seat of the car, her father driving, her mother completely absorbed in the scenery rushing past, a faraway look in her eyes.

“Hold onto me, Mum.”

“Be careful, Stella. I’m heavy.”

“No you’re not.”

Not to me. Not anymore.

She lifts her up as if she was indeed weightless, holding her mother’s frail body cradled tightly against her own.

“Stella. Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Mum. You don’t have to be sorry. Shit happens, yeah? Just… don’t get up by yourself next time, okay?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stella carries Assire into the lounge, flicking the lightswitch with the back of her hand.

“You… you’ve carried me all your life, haven’t you?” Assire leans her head against her daughter’s shoulder, closes her eyes. It is the truth. The whole, raw, ugly truth that she has never been brave enough to address before. She’s always relied on Stella. How many times has she dragged her back into reality, forced her to connect, reminded her that she is real, that others depend on her, that she has a duty – as a mother, as a wife, as a friend, as a human being. Assire is a riddle, one that Stella had to find the answer to all on her own. Parents shouldn’t be riddles for their children to solve.Parents should be responsible for their children, not the other way around.

I tried. I tried and I tried and I tried, but I didn’t try hard enough, did I? You spent your whole life carrying me, carrying my burdens, and I couldn’t see it. Half the time I couldn’t even see you, because I was so busy trying to figure myself out. I’m so, so sorry. You deserved better.

“Mum, I- alright, real talk. Yes I did. Yes I did and yes I still do. But I don’t mind. Not anymore. Not like I used to. I mean, you’re my Mum. I’m supposed to carry you, aren’t I?”

Assire shakes her head.

“No. My burden – my trouble with myself, I never should have let you witness that. And believe me, I tried. I just… I should have tried harder. Stella, I’m so sorry. And I know that sorry doesn’t make it right. But i wanted you to know. I didn’t understand, then. I didn’t understand for a long time. But now I do, and i am so very sorry.”

Stella doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings by agreeing with her. Besides, it’s not as straightforward as that. Stella knows she wasn’t exactly an easy child – climbing out the window, getting picked up spraying graffiti in the middle of the night, caught in an endless circle of rebellion and defiance, wanting so desperately to be seen. To be loved.

But she did love her, didn’t she? She’s said as much just now.

When you love someone, you try. To be better. For them.

Stella can feel her eyes starting to burn, her breath catching in her throat. Something has opened, deep in her chest, no, in her soul.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. Fuck.

“Mum?”

Her voice is small again, almost childlike. She remembers calling for her just in that tone, her little hands tugging at the sleeves of her mother’s cardigan, desperate to bring her back, to make her real, to force her to connect.

“Stella.”

“Do you… do you love me, Mum?”

Stella’s face is wet with tears. She doesn’t care about trying to stop them. She is overflowing, with grief, with love, with connection.

“More than anything, sweetheart. More than anything.”

@bloodwoes gets tagged in this for reasons

#vignette: assire #vignette: stella #verse: modern #ahhhhhhh i am not 100% happy with the structure #there's so much more i could have put into this but it was getting so long #i s2g i am going to do my replies at some point #but i just needed to idk process this scene

[dialux]

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, iv

Ah. Um. Warnings for this chapter include body horror, which is not usually one of my things but people with a vivid imagination might find it... disturbing. Other than that it’s just the usual family drama and eternal fight against evil, vagaries of war, etc etc etc.

Chapter 4: there will also be singing

Lily walks into the tea shop quietly. It’s sheeting outside- not the kind of rain that she’s used to in Hogwarts that freezes a person to the bone; the kind of spring rain that’s almost warm but inescapable. She grimaces at the water seeping through her shoes but keeps her fingers away from the wand. A warming charm isn’t worth the magic right now- the Ministry won’t care, certainly, but the witch in the corner will definitely identify it.

And Lily’s here on a favor to Sirius. Which means bearing through the discomfort. Which means being a good little spy, head down and mumbling her order to the waitress. Which means observing the witch sitting two feet away from the fire covertly, and not being observed in return.

Andromeda Black- if it is her; she’s wearing a glamour that’s taken Lily near ten minutes to even confirm, much less identify- is a slender woman with hair so dark a red it looks practically black. She looks comfortable here, which at least affirms what she’d owled back to Sirius, but Lily’d have been stupid to take her word for it.

Lily’s not stupid. Neither is Andromeda, and agreeing to meet a suspected Death Eater who’s just escaped from Azkaban without any reservations? 

That’s stupidity of the highest order.

Which means something else is afoot here.

She sips her tea slowly, savoring the rich taste, and focuses through the steam on Andromeda. Her seat is angled to see both the entrance and the majority of the room; if a fight breaks out, Andromeda won’t have to worry about being attacked from behind. Lily’s eyes narrow on the cut to Andromeda’s clothes- they’re far more conservative than most muggles would wear, but not out of place in this chilly weather. But they also mean that there isn’t room for her to hide weaponry.

A wand? Lily sets the teacup down and breathes, shallow and even. Yes, but Sirius said- she’s not good at charms. Or transfiguration. 

Both of which are necessary for healing, and Andromeda is good at healing. Sirius had just shrugged when Lily mentioned that, but a healer without good wand-work is quick to be a healer without a job. If Andromeda Tonks- disgraced daughter of House Black, who abandoned a marriage to Lucius Malfoy to wed a muggleborn, with enough enemies on both sides of this war to have probably been among the war’s first casualties- maintains her job at St. Mungo’s, then it’s not because of any patronage. It’s because of quality.

I’m an idiot, thinks Lily, fingers twitching. She drains the last of her tea and makes a production of checking the time on her watch before getting up to leave; best not to give people a reason to remember her. I’m a muggleborn who can ward better than most purebloods, despite no formal training. Of course she can be a healer without being quick. It just means-

She emerges into the rain and inspects the squat building critically. There’s no way Andromeda would have defaced the front; it’s too visible. But every city has back alleys, and if Lily’s got her measure of this one right now...

She slips through the narrow alley to the side of the building, so small that she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been looking so closely. Her shoulders brush brick on either side. Then she’s at the back of the building, and though it stinks of refuse- Lily feels momentarily dizzy with it- there’s a small staircase leading up to the roof of the tea shop. It’s half-rusted through. 

Lily grits her teeth and walks.

On the roof, she kneels on the gravel to see. Lily doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for, and she can’t search for it- latent magic’s tricky that way- but she’ll know it when she finds it. Her fingers scrape along the brick of the side-bar until she feels a strange smoothness. Magic abruptly blooms around her, and her forearm blazes with heat. Heart racing, she ducks under the lip to check.

Four runes are glowing a dull red on a transfigured metal brick.

“Fuck,” mutters Lily, backing away. 

Wards can be constructed with wand-work, runes, or some mix of the two. Wand-work tends to be quicker; runes tend to be stronger. Lily’s never had the patience to delve deep into rune-study, but if Andromeda did- of course she won’t need flashy wand-work, then. Not if she’s brilliant at runes. 

Lily doesn’t recognize these runes either, and she’s not confident enough to trigger them any further without knowing what they stand for. When she glances around her, she sees a red dome- the same shade as the runes- covering the entire roof. 

No trying to escape. Lily lifts her wand and focuses on a happy memory before dragging the point of the wand down. A swan emerges from its tip, and she watches it wing away swiftly. So you bring the escape to you.

The entire point of Lily coming here before Sirius is to ensure there’s nothing lethal in Andromeda’s defenses. Not to activate them. But what’s done is done- best to alter the plan than beat a dead horse. 

There’s a scraping sound behind her, and Lily turns to see Andromeda standing at the entrance to the roof. She’s wearing an oily black coat that looks waterproof. Her hair’s no longer that peculiar shade between red and black; it’s just black, and her resemblance to Bellatrix can’t be missed.

“Well, then,” she says, wand aimed directly at Lily’s chest, “who are you?”

“Lily Potter,” says Lily calmly, rising to her feet and nodding back. 

Recognition sparks in Andromeda’s eyes. “You were in the Prophet a few weeks ago. You-Know-Who came to your home?”

“We escaped,” says Lily. 

“Obviously. How?”

“Magic.”

Andromeda’s lips twist. “And you’re here to warn me away from Sirius, I presume?”

“No,” says Lily, before twisting her wrist into the movements of a warming charm around them. The rain’s irritating enough without having this conversation in it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t kill him.”

“I won’t let you hurt him.”

It takes a moment for Lily to make the connection- clearly, Andromeda’s read the papers; she knows that Sirius betrayed James and Lily. She lifts an eyebrow back at Andromeda instead of bristling, as she wants to. “And I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I’m not fool enough to believe that Gryffindors don’t look for vengeance,” warns Andromeda. Abruptly, her back straightens, stiff as a board. “And I’m not fool enough to ignore a man trying to sneak up on me!”

She whirls around and throws up a shield, just in time to meet the red light of a Stunning spell before slashing her wand to the left.

Latent magic, thinks Lily, distantly impressed even as she ducks behind a convenient chimney for cover. Sirius, I hope you know what you’re doing.

Tiles, stacked neatly under a tarpaulin, emerge and fold themselves into dense arrows. Another flick of Andromeda’s wand animates them, and they follow the direction of her wand to shatter against Sirius’ shields. This is what runes can do in the hands of a master, and Andromeda has clearly spent years making this a battleground fixed in her favor.

Sirius is- in relative terms- holding his ground impressively. 

He’s drawing the rain around him in a spout that gathers all the debris from the tiles. Lily watches as he then redirects the spout to spit back at Andromeda. When she chances a look again, Andromeda’s got a shield surrounding her body that shines blue when one of Sirius’ spells splashes against it. Her head is tilted back, wand aloft, and the rain swirling around them looks less like an encumbrance to her and more like an appropriate backdrop to her beautiful face.

“Ad astra!” cries Andromeda a moment later, and magic explodes around them like white fire.

It blinds Lily. The first thing she sees when her sight returns is Sirius, caught in binds of something around his wrists and ankles. The rope looks like liquid silver; it winks and disappears and flares when he strains against it.

“Lift your wand, and I’ll bind you too,” says Andromeda coldly, turning colorless eyes on Lily.

Lily lifts her hands, open and weaponless. “We had to make sure you weren’t... colluding.”

“Colluding with whom?” Andromeda’s lip curls upward, disgust written plain across her face. “Those who’d kill me for my choices and my daughter for her blood?”

“Well-”

“Or those who remain as ineffectual and moronic as ever?” 

Lily’s mouth snap shuts. Sirius, behind Andromeda, goes still.

“I warned him,” says Andromeda, patting a strand of hair back into place. “Dumbledore, that is. This is what happens when you surround yourself with Gryffindors. Stupidity. The people you’re fighting against are chessmasters, and what are you? Untrained fools!” She shakes her head, and her voice goes flat and cool once more. “Hope can only get you so far, Evans,” she says. “Hope and luck- they will run out one day. Mark my words.”

“I know,” says Lily. “I know. Why d’you think we’re not with Dumbledore right now? We can’t. There are spies.”

“This is war,” says Andromeda, looking at Lily like she’s stupid. “Of course there are spies. Your mistake was not thinking of putting one of your own in their camp.”

Don’t lose your temper, Lily reminds herself. We’re here for a reason. Don’t you dare forget it.

“We need help,” she says bluntly. “We know that. We know that now, at least. We need people we trust. It’s why Sirius wanted to speak to you. Some... advice. Help.”

“Help, or people you trust?” Andromeda smiles, bitter. 

“Help from people we trust,” says Sirius hoarsely. 

Andromeda turns so she’s facing them both at once. “I won’t be a body in your war.”

“Our war,” says Lily softly.

Sirius shakes his head sharply at her, and speaks before Andromeda can. “Believe it or not, Andy, I’m fond of you. I’d rather you didn’t die as well. And I know how good you are at magic, so it’d be better if-”

“Give me a reason to help you.” She shrugs, loose and precise and elegant as a snake wrapped up in silk. “Give me a reason to fight, Sirius.”

“You don’t, and they’ll come after you one day,” says Lily. She lifts her chin. Looks right back at Andromeda. “I killed Bellatrix, so they might’ve forgotten about you, but don’t think that’ll last forever. You’re small fish. But they’ll come for you soon enough.”

Andromeda’s face tightens. “I’ve survived this long. I’ll survive them, too.”

“You’ve survived our family, Andy,” says Sirius quietly. “Not- them. They’re ugly. Cruel. Bellatrix wasn’t even their leader. Can you imagine? Someone smarter. Someone colder. Someone better than Bellatrix, at all the things she loved.”

Something shivers over Andromeda’s face, like a shadow passing over the sun. 

“But if you help us,” whispers Sirius, barely louder than the patter of rain around them, wrists glinting silver and light like bound starlight, “if you help us solve this one thing- I’ll help you get out. There’s a home in Spain. Small. Well-protected.” He swallows. “And I’ll name your daughter the Black heir.”

“Impossible,” breathes Andromeda. 

“No,” says Sirius, an odd smile twisting his face. “Not impossible. Just very, very difficult.”

Andromeda closes her eyes. Presses the tips of her fingers to the corners, and rocks backward. She looks like a woman reborn when she lets her hand drop: something gleams in her eyes that Lily hasn’t ever seen before. Her similarity to Bellatrix is even more pronounced, but so is the similarity to Sirius. 

“Let’s go back inside,” she says. “Show me this magic you need help with.” She levels a look at Sirius that ought to have melted him to ash. “And we’ll talk.”

...

Andromeda had never run from the Blacks. She’d run from the marriage they forced on her; she’d run from the lack of choices; she’d run from the Malfoys. But she’d also run toward something, which wasn’t anything Sirius had ever had.

She’d always wanted to return, and she’d never quite managed it.

Take what people love, thinks Sirius darkly, shadowing Andy’s steps down the stairs and to the front of the table, wrists aching. Know it. Use it. This is a war, is it not? And I am a Black. 

Be careful what you wish for.

“The Black heir?” Andromeda demands, flicking a drying charm over herself with careful precision. 

Sirius relaxes into the chair and flexes his wrists slowly. Whatever Andromeda had used to bind them had felt cold, so cold it hurt. He doesn’t look away from her- the girl Sirius had once known had been kind, but war has the tendency to scrape kindness away to a faint dream.

“As the Heredis, such is my right.”

Andromeda’s knuckles whiten on her mug of tea. “You were disowned.”

“Legally,” agrees Sirius. “Not magically.”

“A technicality?” Andromeda asks. “You think that’ll be enough for our grandfather?”

“What other choice does he have?” retorts Sirius. “Leave it to a Malfoy? To a Lestrange? Who else is there, Andy? We are the last. And I have his word- a vow. That I am the Heredis.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Sirius chances a look over his shoulder to Lily, who’s hunched over her own hot drink and looks half-drowned. He turns back, and Andromeda’s face is set in harsh lines.

“The Sirius I knew wouldn’t come back for anything,” she says. 

It’s not a question, not precisely, but Sirius knows what she means. 

Why now? Why now strengthen House Black, when all it’s done is shove pain onto his shoulders? Why would Sirius even care?

There are many answers, each of them true in their own way: those who hurt him the deepest are gone; there’s a war on; Sirius has grown enough to accept lesser evils to achieve the greater. But the truth of it, the underlying stone on which all else is built is-

“Regulus is dead,” Sirius tells her bluntly. “Regulus is dead, and You-Know-Who killed him. He killed him, Andy.”

Killed him. Not true, not in the deepest sense of the word; but true enough. Regulus had run to Voldemort for shelter, and it was a weapon hewn by Voldemort’s own hands that killed him. Sirius looks up, at Andromeda’s colorless eyes, at Andromeda’s sharp, Black features. 

“We know how to defeat him,” he says softly. “Regulus’ killer. And we need your help for it.”

Andromeda sets her cup down, slowly enough that it makes no sound in the saucer. She looks- tired. And frightened. And something else, too, running under it all: determined, like a hound on a scent or a hare resolute on reaching its burrow before being eaten. What would a person who ran for years on end want? What would the wife of a muggleborn and the mother of a halfblood and the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange want?

What would a Black want?

(Because beneath everything else, Andromeda is a Black. She can run from it; she can hide it; she can deny it. But it runs in her as it runs in Sirius, fierce and unapologetic.)

Not just safety. 

Slytherin desire, thinks Sirius. Vengeance. Justice.

Delight and hatred war within him. Manipulation isn’t quite so difficult as he’d thought, and it’s that which makes it more terrible. Delight at getting what he wants; hatred at doing it this way. 

He doesn’t look away from her, and Andromeda doesn’t break her gaze either.

“I’ll need proof,” she says. 

For the briefest heartbeat, the delight triumphs over the hatred. It feels like sunlight over a cloud. Like wings spreading warmth over his bones. 

Sirius indulges in that wild feeling: he kicks back his chair and stands, draping his coat around his shoulders and flicking his fingers at Lily to get up. Andromeda remains, stiff, in her seat. 

“You’re done?” asks Lily, blinking at him.

“Yup,” says Sirius, relishing the word. He reaches out to thread his fingers through hers. Andromeda narrows her eyes at him, and he steps forward and bends down to whisper in her ear. “Tomorrow, cousin. Carry that coat with you.”

And he disapparates.

...

“It’s a trap,” says Remus.

James tips his head to the side. “And if it isn’t?”

“James-”

“If it isn’t,” he murmurs, “we’re going to be really pissed that we didn’t try.”

“And if it is, we’re going to be dead.”

“Mmm. ‘m a Gryffindor.”

“One day that’s going to get you in trouble.”

James waves the parchment under Remus’ nose. “We have to go, Moony,” he says softly. “We have to.”

“Fine,” says Remus. It feels like he’s back at Hogwarts: defeated, but not quite minding the defeat. Committing to a bad idea for no reason other than knowing it’s a terrible idea, and accepting that before he even gets started. But he’s so fucking tired of keeping quiet and hiding. Let them see his fangs. Let them see what he’s capable of. “Fine. But you’re telling Lily.”

...

The next morning, Andromeda meets him on the same roof. She wears the same coat, her hair unwound and spilling like rusted steel down her spine. Sirius’ hand is tight on Kreacher’s shoulder. 

“Sirius-” she says, startled.

“Tell her what you told me,” Sirius interrupts. 

He releases Kreacher and walks away, an impatient itch rising from somewhere near his boots. He knows the story; there’s no need to listen to it again and again. He could probably recite the events in his sleep anyhow. 

Regulus is dead. 

Sirius exhales through that twisting pain. The grief of it. He wants, selfishly, terribly, to see Regulus as a ghost. He doesn’t know what he’d say- sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, it should never have happened like it did- but he wants it anyhow. He wants his little brother back.

He’ll never get it.

A hand comes down on his shoulder, and Andromeda wraps her other arm around him. Presses herself against his chest. Weeps, like something has shattered loose inside her. 

“Oh, Sirius,” she whispers, what feels like hours later. “That’s- oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry. It shouldn’t’ve-”

“He liked you a lot more than me. I should be comforting you, if any-”

“He was your brother,” says Andromeda. “You were- everything. To him. The brightest star in his sky. The person he could hate, without ever doubting your love. The- the compass by which he spun, and by which he measured the world. He loved you. Regulus never, never forgot that.”

“Andy,” whispers Sirius.

She lays her forehead to his. “Sirius.”

He swallows past the hot tears in his ribs and runs his fingers through her hair until he feels he can talk without letting them out.

“I thought- I wanted to do something for him.”

“Yes,” says Andromeda. “Anything.”

“A Black funeral. I know where his- his corpse is. Kreacher can take us there. It might not be easy, but. We should.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be incapable of doing anything else for three days after.”

“Yes.”

“It might become dangerous.”

“I’m up for that,” says Sirius. “Are you?”

“We need a third person. A third Black,” says Andromeda. But then, slowly, her eyes narrow into the distance. “But I know someone who would do it.”

“Well, then.” He swallows, throat dry. “What’re we waiting for?”

Andromeda nods. She gets up, shaky and uneven. The sun doesn’t break through- it’s cloudy, but there’s the barest suggestion of light running above it. Her hands reach out, and lift him up, and she clutches his forearms with too-sharp nails.

“Three days’ time? The dark of the moon, I think, that’s the proper night to do it. We’ll meet- I’ll tell you where to meet.”

Sirius nods. Andromeda steps back, and then she turns away. She doesn’t look back.

...

“Gringotts?” asks Lily. 

Remus lifts an eyebrow. “They were the ones to send us the letter.”

“The goblins don’t like us much,” says Sirius.

“The goblins don’t like anyone much,” retorts James. “But I think they’ll like the Death Eaters even less. It won’t be long before he starts cutting heads off, and the goblins hate anyone interfering in their politics more than anything else.”

“You’ll be risking your life on an opinion.”

“Well,” says Remus dryly, “we’ve been doing that for quite some time now.”

Lily cuts a glare at him, and Remus raises his hands in surrender. 

“Lils,” says James softly, and she turns to look at him. 

He doesn’t speak; Lily reaches out and grips his hands. “We have so much here,” she whispers. “So much to lose. Jimmy- our family, our family. How much are we willing to bet on the chance of getting allies in- fucking Gringotts?”

"I’d rather die on my feet,” says James, in the rhythmic cadence of a quote, “than live on my knees. I love you, and you love me, and that’s why we’re going to fucking win, Lily. What am I willing to bet? Everything.” Lily doesn’t shudder, but Remus thinks there’s the gleam of tears in her eyes, “I believe in us, Lils. Always will. Always have.

“Doesn’t mean you have to risk your life for no reason,” drawls Sirius, biting the words off like a fox, all sharp-toothed and furious.

“Like you aren’t risking it in giving Regulus a funeral?” asks Remus.

“That’s-”

“Unnecessary,” says Remus smoothly. “But you want to do it, and that’s why I’m not stopping you. We’ll be careful, we always are- but we aren’t going to stop. Map things out. Study. Do some research. If it all checks out- if the risks seem worth it- then James and I will go in. This isn’t us asking for permission, Sirius.”

Sirius closes his eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Remus wants to go over to him. Kiss him, smooth a finger over that tensed tendon. But Sirius always mistakes gentleness for an apology, and Remus isn’t sorry. Not one bit.

Lily gives a watery chuckle. Steps away from James. “Just forgiveness, then?”

No, thinks Remus, the latent heat of a not-quite-fight in his muscles still. An exchange of information.

“Before the action, too,” says James fondly. “You ought to thank me for that.”

“You?” asks Sirius disbelieving, eyes not opening. 

“Ah, alright then,” says James, and he’s smiling easily; he’s not even bothered. “It was Remus’ idea, if I’m being honest.”

“Knew it,” mutters Sirius, and he slumps further into his armchair.

Remus feels the anger crack away like a walnut shell under a nutcracker’s jaws. It’s not fondness that replaces it; just something hot, like a knife to the ribs. Like the drip of hot wax on skin. Without James they’d be stuck on the first wash of hot anger, always. Almost-fights and too bitter words. The fury of things lost. They aren’t like Lily or James, either of them. Too scarred. Too angry. Too harsh. But with them?

Somehow then, they feel like something approaching perfect.

“Shut up,” says Remus, but he doesn’t mean a single word of it.

...

Lightning crashes above her. Andromeda does not flinch, does not move. She waits, hidden in the curve of a giant tree root. 

She doesn’t wait for long.

Another woman emerges out of the undergrowth, pale haired and pale faced, dark robes wicked close to skin from the rain. Her hair is braided so tightly it pulls at the loose skin of her face and leaves her looking strained.

That just might be her face, though, thinks Andromeda ruefully.

She steps away, giving the woman a moment’s privacy and waving her wand to put up the protections around the small cave. She feels the buzz of old, strong English wards like a tremor along her teeth. Only when she’s certain there’s no breach does Andromeda turn to look at her sister.

“Narcissa,” she says. “How are you doing?”

Narcissa’s dried herself off, but a fraction too much; her hair’s no longer tamped down but a gravity-defying bush that hangs around her head like stardust. She looks altogether too irritated at it.

“Terrible,” says Narcissa lowly. “This rain hasn’t abated in too long. I think I’m going to expire from the dampness.”

“But you’ve won the war,” says Andromeda, sharply cheerful. Watches Narcissa stiffen, like the corners of paper brought too close to flame. “Tell me, Cissy, how does triumph feel?”

“We haven’t won anything yet.”

“The Ministry’s yours.”

“And Hogwarts stands, doesn’t it?” snaps Narcissa. “Don’t act like you’re an idiot. I’m surprised you’re not huddled inside of it like all the other blood-traitors, actually.”

Andromeda lifts an eyebrow. “So surprised you decided to meet with me?”

“I thought it was important.” Narcissa hunches in on herself. “You haven’t asked anything of me since you ran away. When I saw your owl I thought... well, I hoped you’d learned a lesson. Since the Ministry fell.”

Amusement flares inside of Andromeda, followed and inextricable from disgust.

“Because I was afraid?” Andromeda purses her lips when Narcissa doesn’t answer. “Gryffindors aren’t the only ones who know courage, Narcissa,” she says softly. “I would never be able to kneel to anyone. Particularly him. I would draw a knife over my daughter’s throat before I led her into that den of demons, and you know that.”

She’d been so young when she left her family behind. Seventeen summers; a vicious age. Andromeda hadn’t loved Ted back then so much as she’d loathed Malfoy, but she’d grown into both emotions over the years. She can still remember the satisfaction of walking out of her house when everyone believed her imprisoned in her bedroom, wandless and helpless.

Andromeda had shattered her mirror. She’d used the shards to slice into her palms and draw blood-runes on the carpet she’d once played on as a child. She’d walked out, and she still doesn’t regret the scars along her palms.

The wand she holds now is new.

Narcissa knows this.

(And still, she’s come. That must mean something. Andromeda can only hope-)

“You said you needed my help,” she says, eyes glinting. 

Andromeda inclines her head. “Sirius has escaped Azkaban.”

“He’s on our side.”

“Is he?” asks Andromeda. “Sirius, our Sirius, who spat on his father’s memory and laughed when he heard of his aunt’s death? Who raised a wand to Bellatrix and lived to tell the tale? You think Sirius hid his feelings for that long, do you?”

“I- no,” says Narcissa. “No. But I thought he’d- someone had-”

“You didn’t think about it, then.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she says, eyes glittering. “I knew something was wrong. But there’s been something wrong for weeks now, ever since Bella died. Ever since...” Narcissa cuts herself off, peering at Andromeda far too closely. “Sirius escaped. Andromeda. How did he escape?”

Andromeda folds her arms over her chest.

“Outside help,” breathes Narcissa. “He didn’t manage it on his own.”

“Of course he didn’t,” snaps Andromeda. “He was in Azkaban, you think he could break out of there on his own?”

“And this is dangerous.” Her eyes narrow, too-thoughtful. “Because the person helping Sirius isn’t in Hogwarts. The timeline wouldn’t work out, would it? They’re outside. There’s another rebellion, and it’s outside, and- oh, Merlin, it’s underground, isn’t it?”

Sometimes, Andromeda forgets exactly how sharp Narcissa is. The leaps she can make in seconds, which others wouldn’t catch for weeks.

“It’d hardly be surviving if it weren’t.” 

Narcissa trembles at the words and whirls to leave. To tell her husband, and then You-Know-Who. And then-

Andromeda shakes off the specters of the future. Focuses. 

“Before you leave,” she calls out to Narcissa’s back, “you’ll want to hear one more thing.”

Narcissa whirls around. “Andromeda-”

“Our grandfather has chosen a side. And it isn’t your husband’s.” Narcissa goes white. Andromeda reaches forwards and clasps her upper arm. Squeezes, gently. “It’s time for you to choose yours, Narcissa.”

She doesn’t move. “I’ve chosen it.”

“You’ve let our father chose your side,” says Andromeda fiercely. “Then your husband. You have kept silent, and let yourself be carried by their decisions, but that does not mean you must always be so. You hadn’t had any support for all these years- you survived it- but that doesn’t mean you no longer do.”

Narcissa laughs shrilly. “No longer? Who will stand up to Him now? Who will dare? Dumbledore will fall soon; Hogwarts will crumble. And then all that will be left is the Dark. Survival means-”

“-our grandfather knows about survival,” says Andromeda. “Arcturus Black. Famously neutral, despite having grandchildren on both sides of this war. He’s willing to act now, and he has Sirius on his side, and they want our help.”

“With what?” Narcissa asks tightly. “I won’t do anything against Him, even if-”

“And I’m not asking that of you,” says Andromeda. “What, do you take me for a fool? No- I’ll promise you that You-Know-Who won’t care about your actions at all. They will neither hinder nor help him. This is... purely a Black family matter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do I look like I’m lying?” asks Andromeda calmly. “I know you won’t help with that, so I’m not asking it of you. But you’ll want to do this.”

“Andr-”

“It’s Regulus.”

Narcissa’s mouth snaps shut.

“Yes,” says Andromeda quietly. “I rather had the same reaction when Sirius told me.”

“He’s dead.”

“Yes,” she says, throat hurting. “But Sirius found where he died. He’s honest about it; I checked it out. And now he wants to give Regulus a Black burial.”

Narcissa blinks rapidly. “But he doesn’t-”

“Regulus did. It was important to him.”

Narcissa swings away, pacing the length of the cave with rapid feet. 

“A Black burial,” says Andromeda, as gentle as she can make her voice. “Whether you choose our side or not, whether you decide to take a different path or not- I hope you’ll come tomorrow.”

“You don’t know the rituals properly.”

“I know enough.”

“Andromeda-”

“Come,” says Andromeda. “For Regulus’ sake, if not anyone else’s. For the boy we both loved, and cared for too little to save. I hope you find heart enough within you to regret that. To make amends for what you could not offer him in life.”

The last thing Andromeda sees before she apparates away is Narcissa’s face: her blue eyes, her hopeless eyes. The color of a cloudless sky. The exact opposite of the sky above them. Her little sister. 

Her little sister, who she can save. 

...

Sirius lands on the packed dirt of a sea-salted hill. The earth crunches under his feet. He hisses out and hunches his shoulders. Stalks down to the edge of the water, where the foam turns the sand dark as his hair. It’s a cold day. A cold morning. The sun hasn’t set yet; the clouds swirl over the horizon.

There’s a pop behind him.

Sirius turns, wand balanced in his palm, and spares a moment to swear even as he raises the wand.

“What the fuck, Andromeda?”

Andromeda swipes a lock of hair out of her face. She doesn’t flinch at his threat. She doesn’t move away from Narcissa.

“I told you I knew someone,” she says calmly.

“Not her!”

“Sirius,” says Andromeda, and she moves forward so swiftly he barely sees it- one moment she’s ten feet away, and the next she’s gripping his arm tight enough to cut into his skin. Her eyes look- grieved, and saddened, and harsh like the storm roiling over their heads. “Regulus is dead. D’you understand that?”

“Of course I do,” hisses Sirius. “What the fuck, you know I-”

“Regulus is dead, but Narcissa isn’t.” Andromeda looks up at him, and there is something blazingly hopeful in the Black-planes of her face. “My little sister is alive, Sirius.”

“She’s made her own goddamn choices,” says Sirius flatly. “Her- her husband, her parents- her sister- she’d stand by and watch you burn alive if-”

“My sister,” says Andromeda. “Or have you forgotten that?”

Then Narcissa steps up to her side, and she looks so different: Rosier coloring. Fair hair and pale eyes. But the gleam to her eyes and the set of her face sing out Black. 

(Everyone always forgets Narcissa’s temper.)

“I’m not here for you or her,” she says flatly. “I’m not here to be saved. But Regulus was a good man, and I loved him, and I wasn’t there for him when he died. Giving him a Black funeral’s the least I owe him. Let’s finish that.”

Sirius feels something wordless, nameless, rise in his throat. He considers, briefly, cutting it and ending this terrible farce. He’s so fucking tired.

“Fine,” he snaps instead, and turns on his heel, and calls for Kreacher.

...

Andromeda shivers as they land on the island. She feels Narcissa snake a hand through hers, soft and cold, as they step into the dark cave. She hears Sirius’ muttering, the magic flaring around them like a snake with jaws large enough to swallow them whole. Sirius’ wand flicks once, and Andromeda sees the effect of their family magic on Voldemort’s enchantments: one Inferius emerges out of the water and lands at their feet. It twitches once, full-bodied, before Sirius’ magic breaks Voldemort’s and releases that which made Regulus an Inferius. 

He lies there instead, a corpse and nothing more.

Shaking, she steps forwards to see him. The red flame of the cave gives enough light to see Regulus. Just enough that she wishes it didn’t.

There’s nothing recognizable about him apart from the long hair. The fat has been sucked away; there’s barely skin on his hollow face. It looks like a skull. Like someone’s joke of a skull.  But somehow, his eyes are intact. Grey and large and empty.

Narcissa gasps, preternaturally loud, at the sight.

Sirius isn’t moving. He stares at Regulus, and doesn’t look away. 

It’s his privilege to take the body away. He’s Regulus’ brother, and the Family Heredis, and it is his right and his duty to take Regulus’ body to a place with clear skies so the stars can look down on their son. But he doesn’t move for so long- long enough that Andromeda almost waves her wand to levitate Regulus’ corpse instead. Sirius doesn’t deserve this kind of quiet, wrenching pain.

She cannot see Sirius’ expression, and she’s thankful for it: if there’s one thing that could break Andromeda, it would be seeing Sirius, who’s never managed to hide one emotion in his entire life. 

Then he inhales, rattling, and leans down. Cradles Regulus’ sodden hair, his skin-stripped skull, and lifts him up into his arms like Regulus is- was- a child.

“Come on,” he says roughly.

...

The sky is dark now, the stars hanging over them like ground diamonds. Sirius climbs over the ragged stone until he comes to a relatively flat surface. He lays Regulus down with infinite tenderness, unsure of where it’s even coming from: he’s never been a particularly soft man, nor a kind man, and war has taken even the vestiges of those traits from him. But Regulus’ body feels like a bird’s, all bone and feather and weight from water. Like something precious. Like something lost, and found, and shattered. 

His own chest feels hollow.

He kneels over Regulus. Those awful eyes look back at him, grey and familiar like a blade. Sirius touches one, the soft skin over it. He thinks he’d give anything in the entire world if someone would just close them for him. 

Distantly, he realizes that he’s making a sound: something ululating and raw. He hates it, and himself, and Regulus, too, of course, because there have only been a handful of times in his life that Sirius hasn’t hated Regulus, and he can scarcely remember how that would feel.

Andromeda catches him. Draws him up against her, arms warm and warm and warm, endlessly. She’s shushing him, rocking him. It would feel comforting, but only to someone who’d experienced it before; all that Sirius remembers of weeping like this as a child is the white-hot firewhip of pain down his back, across his jaw, wrapped around a wrist. 

He drops his forehead to her shoulder. Digs his hand into the skin of her spine.

“He,” he says, and his voice scrapes like a scalpel across his throat. “He. He-”

“Yes,” whispers Andromeda. There are tears in her eyes as well; like the diamonds, like the stars. Grief in all its impossible permutations. “I know, Sirius, I know. I know. My brother. Regulus. Oh, darling, I know.”

He hunches downwards. “I can’t.”

Andromeda’s hand wraps around his wrist, and she runs a hand across his jaw. Down his spine. Where did you learn this kindness? thinks Sirius wildly, even as she soothes some old pain, some old fear. How did you-

Then he sees her gaze, and there is steel within it like a nut at the core of a sweet. Like iron in the heart of a star.

“Yes,” she says implacably. “You can. You must.” Sirius shudders, and she brushes his tears away with the gentlest hands in the history of sisters. “You wanted to give this to him, Sirius, to your brother. You will. You can, and you must, and you will, by all the vows you want me to swear.”

“I can’t.”

“Then you are capable of even more than you believed.”

Slowly, she steps away. Sirius closes his eyes. Searches for the strength to see Regulus again, like that: dead, cold, empty. It’s so different, knowing he’s dead and seeing it for himself. 

It’s so difficult.

But he is a Gryffindor and he is a Black and he is Sirius, at the end of it all. That means something. That means holding his promises. That means doing his duty. That means loving endlessly, impossibly. That means going to his brother’s corpse and giving it the farewell it deserves.

“Okay,” he says, swaying, and takes the elbow Andromeda gives him for balance. “Let’s get this over with.”

...

They return, and Narcissa has done something. Her magic hangs over the sparse grass and stone like a twinkling blanket. Andromeda thinks her face looks strained; she wonders if Narcissa regrets coming. If she regrets seeing what her side is capable of. But then Sirius stumbles and nearly pulls her down, and when she looks at him to see what’s wrong, his face is white.

The scent hits her next.

Dagga, sharp and aromatic. It weaves around her like it’s one of her childhood summers. Neither Andromeda nor Sirius have ever been any good at conjuring, but Narcissa...

Andromeda blinks at her, and she shrugs stiffly. “He liked Mum’s greenhouses,” says Narcissa quietly. “Called it peaceful. When it all became- too much- for him, he’d come over. Stay in the greenhouses until he felt better.” She bites her lip, voice turning formal. “And that is my gift to him, for all the years I knew Regulus.”

Sirius inhales sharply. He steps away from Andromeda, towards Regulus, and drops to his knees. Cards a hand through the hair. 

Slowly, Andromeda takes out the locket she’d spent the previous days carving. A lion. A star. A dog. A snake. The whorl of a galaxy. The curve of a narcissus flower. Wands and magic and stone and darkness for all that Regulus was, is. For all of the people he’d loved. For all the people who loved him. Who love him.

A locket filled with a memory.

She lays it on his chest, and doesn’t look away when the bright glow of the memory emerges out of the locket.

It is not a pensieve; it will not remain in the locket once played. The locket will play the memory once, and only once, and then it will be gone. It’s nothing special, what Andromeda’s chosen- just a summer afternoon, gold as butter and just as soft. Regulus shouting and laughing. The bounce of his hair; its hint of a curl. There are other memories that she might have chosen, of his quiet courage, of his soft, stolen kindnesses, of his determination. But this is what she chose in the end. Just the joy of childhood, unencumbered by any of the loss of growing up.

Only when it’s finished does she realize that she’s gripping Narcissa’s hand again.

She looks to Sirius and sees that his face is tipped up, the golden cast of the memory shining on his face, illuminating the tears.

“That is my gift,” says Andromeda, somehow keeping her voice from cracking. “For the years I knew Regulus.”

She closes her eyes and nearly sags from the relief. 

Now it is Sirius’ turn.

...

The light sears his eyes. He wants to sob with it, but he controls the gasps even if he cannot control the tears flowing down his face. Sirius has to speak for this part. 

“I should have saved you,” he says, and the words that had sounded bitter in his bedroom that morning are as soft as Andromeda’s wrists, as Lily’s hair, as Remus’ skin. Sirius runs a hand through Regulus’ hair and shudders in revulsion, even as he cannot make himself stop. “I will never forgive myself for not being there for you when you needed me. If you’d just asked-” the anger crests, ebbs, a hot ember that is carried away by the tide of his words. “But I didn’t make you feel welcome for that.

“I have no flowers for your grave or memories of joyous times long past. I was not there for you; I cannot undo that. But.” Sirius looks up, skitters his gaze past Andromeda and Narcissa to look at the stars above them. Their forefathers, who he’s hated for so fucking long. “Vengeance, Regulus.”

He doesn’t think. It’s almost mindless, a dream coming to the inevitable conclusion. A wand pressed against his elbow, a spell murmured in the depths of his mind. The stinging heat of blood spilling out. 

“I can offer you vengeance, by my wand to the man who did this,” whispers Sirius. “I assure you: when the stars again shine like this, he will be dead. Blood for blood. Grief for grief. In a year’s time: He will die.”

He gets up, and the stars swim all around him- pinpricks of light dotting the sky, the sea, his vision.

He ignores it all.

“From the stars we came,” Sirius grits out, and raises his wand, blood still dripping down his arm. He thinks Narcissa and Andromeda are echoing him, but he doesn’t pause. This is his, his brother, his ritual, his choice. “To the stars do we go. Come to see your son now! The regal Regulus! My brother who was Heir and beloved! Hang him in the stars as a hero of old and let the world never forget what he was!”

“Come down,” cries Narcissa from behind him, Andromeda to his side. “And retrieve him, and let him rest in peace for the rest of his days!”

Silver light darts down. Wraps around Regulus. Sirius staggers but keeps to his feet, and he sees through the blinding brilliance: Regulus made whole. The pared-away flesh filled out. The eyes given brightness. The glittering drape of the stars around his shoulders, like wings. His brother shifts, and looks at Sirius, and he raises a hand.

The light moves to Sirius and tugs at his wrist. For a moment, Sirius almost moves into its embrace- would have, if not for Andromeda’s suddenly fierce grip on his shirt- and when it lets go, the wound on his arm is gone. It’s replaced by a long white scar that freezes when he touches it.

He doesn’t look away from Regulus. If this is the last time he sees his brother-

“I love you,” says Sirius, the words taken from some deep, bone-deep part of himself. “I love you. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

The light grows brighter, and Sirius cannot see into it any longer, and he is crying, crying, crying, blind as a babe and unable to stop. His little brother, gone where he cannot see. Their last words to each other-

I know, Sirius. Words like music, like moonlight, like the wash of waves on stone. I love you too.

Sirius drops to his knees, and closes his eyes, and breathes through the twisted wreckage of his chest. He doesn’t reach out. He knows what will be there if he does. Regulus is gone, now; gone for good. The words were more than anything Sirius could have ever hoped for. But if he reaches out and receives nothing, he will shatter.

The emptiness in him howls.

He hears through it, at a great distance, Andromeda: “Go home. Yes, he’ll be fine. I’ll talk to you later. Go.”

And her arms, her shoulders, propping him up, guiding him back. The nausea of apparation. The darkness of Grimmauld Place. Remus’ warmth. Lily’s spells. James, white-lipped and pacing. Then darkness. Comforting, soft darkness.

...

In another world, Sirius dreams of blood and vengeance and the squeal of a rat caught between his teeth.

In this one, he dreams of stars.

...

Lily stares at Sirius’ prone form. She turns to Andromeda and lifts an eyebrow.

“He’ll be fine,” she says. She looks far worse than just that morning; Andromeda’s hair’s unraveled out of its braid, and her eyes are red-rimmed. She’s holding her wrist at an angle that implies some kind of injury- Lily isn’t certain if it’s a bruise or a sprain. “It was the shock. The magic poured into him, from the rest of the family- and it was all on Sirius, not us.” She shakes her head. “It has an effect. He won’t be able to use his magic for three days. Anything more complex will take longer.”

“It flooded him,” says Lily quietly.

Andromeda inclines her head. “It’s more than any of us can imagine. And of course, it wasn’t just that. Seeing Regulus like that... it would have been enough to shake even the hardest-hearted witch.”

“You don’t look so good yourself.”

“It’s just shock,” she says. Passes a hand over her face and looks, hopefully at Lily. “But I don’t suppose I could bother you for a Pepper-up?”

“Not an issue. Follow me to the library?” 

Lily waves aside Andromeda’s explanations and lets her into the room. Pours out a measure of Pepper-up, and tops it up with a gin so bitter it made her eyes water when she came across it last week. It’s underhanded, but she suspects that Andromeda’s exhaustion isn’t so much of magical origins as it is shock and grief. And as selfish as it is, she cannot let her indulge in that grief. Not when in the middle of a war, particularly with time running away from them and their entire operation balanced on a knife’s edge.

“You’ve brightened it,” comments Andromeda, looking around the library with a slightly incredulous eye. She raises her hands when Lily glances back at her. “It’s a good change. Just one I never thought to see in Grimmauld Place, of all places on earth.”

Lily hands her the goblet and settles back into an armchair opposite Andromeda. “I couldn’t see anything,” she explains. “Aesthetics and all are fine, but for the amount I was reading? I’d have gone blind sooner rather than later.”

Andromeda sips the drink. She makes a face. “You were reading a lot?”

“Am reading a lot.”

“On identifying the-” Andromeda drops her voice to a whisper, “-horcruxes?”

“Yes.” Lily sighs. “It’s not easy- I can develop the rituals without any issues, there’s definitely enough resources on those- but I’m not sure about the runes; they aren’t my specialty. And when I build the models, none of them work.”

For a long moment, Andromeda doesn’t respond. Then she leans forwards and catches Lily’s eye. “What’s the biggest issue you’re facing right now?”

“Well.” Lily pauses, marshals her thoughts. “We need an anchor over the entirety of the island- I thought of using the ones that the Ministry sank almost four hundred years ago.”

Andromeda’s eyes narrow. “The ones for the Age Line?”

“And accidental magic.”

“You-Know-Who used them too.”

“I know,” says Lily grimly. “It’s where I got the idea from.”

Slowly, Andromeda nods. “So you’re going to edit it,” she says. “Carve your own runes.”

“Sink some of my own that work off of that magic,” corrects Lily. “Like a leech, almost. Directly affecting those anchors is too difficult, and too delicate. But a ward that basically uses that energy for our purposes? Easier. Far easier.”

“Let me see the papers?”

“Accio,” calls Lily, and catches the sheaf that spins out from the opposite part of the room. 

She hands it over to Andromeda, who studies it with the wide-eyed deliberation of someone who isn’t entirely functioning at a hundred percent. Lily busies herself with putting away the gin and locking the Pepper-up again. 

“Hm- what element are you associating the anchors with?”

Lily turns. “Water,” she says. “The anchors were purified with water rituals, weren’t they?”

“Not just water.”

“That’s not what the- there’s a codex here-” Lily rifles through the stack of books that makes up her references and picks up a heavy book titled Codex of Elemental Magicks, “-that says it’s just water.”

“It would,” says Andromeda, stretching back. “That’s what they all say. Ministry didn’t want people knowing the truth, did they? And treating it as one element when it isn’t usually makes things explode. Makes it easier to ferret out all of those dangerous people interfering with their constructions.”

“Andromeda-”

“They’re water and earth,” she says, turning to look Lily in the eye. “That’s the issue you’re facing. The anchors are made to have as little interference as possible- that’s why they combined water and earth. Disrupting one is difficult enough; two braided together’s all but impossible.”

“The stability,” says Lily faintly. “No wonder it’s lasted for four hundred years.”

No recharging needed. No wonder magical Britain had survived Grindelwald and the World War with such ease: their borders had better security than a twenty-foot charged electrical fence. No wonder the rest of the world little wants to get involved with Britain, when it’s so easy to portion them off and away.

Andromeda taps at the parchment where Lily’s worked out her water-nullifying ritual. “You’ll need fire and air together for your runes, if you want it to act as a rider. Nullify the portion of it that specifies no external influence.”

“It won’t be possible,” Lily whispers. “Fire and air. Two elements? Rituals involving elements are volatile enough without adding two together. I’ve never even heard of someone who can do it.”

Andromeda sets her cup aside, eyes glittering. “You need someone who can use fire and air,” she murmurs. “Who can use fire and air to make a physical model of the anchors.” Her cheeks are flushed, and she smiles at Lily, and something clicks in that moment: hot and fierce, like a rush of a river let free from a dam. “I know someone.”

...

“No.”

“It’s necessary.”

“No. I hate her.”

“Sirius.”

“Not. Her.”

“The last of the Infirres. We need her.”

“She won’t answer if she knows it’s me!”

“She’ll answer the Black Heredis.”

“No.”

“Sirius- it’s the only way. Already we’ve lost too much time. Do you want to be the limiting factor? Once this gets done, we can find them.”

“You swear it’s the only way?”

“Yes!”

“I hate it.”

“Sirius-”

“Fine. Do it. But don’t expect me to like that I-don’t-lie-at-all smug bitch. Or to be polite to her.”

“That, I’ll never ask of you.”

...

When the magical people of Britain desired to craft a Statute of Secrecy, the world hadn’t known how it would work. They came up with a solution by building a magical barrier that spanned the northern-most island, the southern-most beach, the western-most mountain and the eastern-most forest. They sank four large anchors into the sea, carved of earth magic and hewn of water magic, and directed that magic into their Ministry of Magic.

There are rituals which hijack the magic of those runes and direct it elsewhere. It takes preparation and care. One mistake can ruin it all.

But Lily doesn’t make mistakes.

...

Fotia Infirre emerges out of the fireplace with a sword in her hand and her hair like flame behind her. She’s a tall woman; her eyes are like blue fire, bright and incandescent. The clothes she’s wearing are simple, but neatly done. Lily tips her head back and watches her, carefully.

“Andromeda,” says Fotia crisply. She turns to Sirius and nods to him, too, without a trace of the resentment Sirius has spent the last two days swearing exists. “Heredis.”

“Infirre,” says Lily. “I cannot say how thankful I am that you came.”

Something hardens in her expression. “I could not refuse.”

“What she means,” says Sirius, “is that my ancestor bound her to our line. She must answer if the Heredis or the Lord calls.”

“That was not all that Lycoris did to my family,” says Fotia. 

Andromeda reaches up and presses her fingers to Sirius’ shoulder, presses him back into his chair. “No,” she says softly. “No. That was not all. We ought to have protected you better. I am sorry for that.”

“A truth curse,” says Fotia bitterly. “Everything that we’d given up for you and yours, and then you let Grindelwald kill us. From elder to mother to child. Until there was only me.”

“Why would Grindelwald curse your family?” asks Lily.

Fotia looks at her directly, and Lily shivers. “Because we were the only ones who could have broken through his wards.”

Lily closes her eyes. Thinks through the implications. 

The only family that could have broken through Grindelwald’s wards. Grindelwald, who’d spent summers in Godric’s Hollow, hearing all of Bathilda’s old stories with a fervor that had left Bathilda suspicious even as she enjoyed telling them. Grindelwald, who’d left Britain and established a base for himself in a castle in the middle of a Balkan forest. A base that had a moat.

“He used water and earth anchors,” she breathes. “Like the ones around Britain.”

Fotia inclines her head.

Lily clutches at the back of the chair. Breathes out. Says, “You can nullify anchor-based wards?”

“Only water-earth ones.”

“How?”

“Air and fire,” says Fotia. “That is what we Infirres do.”

“All magic is aligned with an element,” interrupts Andromeda. “Some are mixes of two. The oldest, greatest magical constructs had all four elements. But most have... fallen out of use recently.”

Fotia laughs, high and sharp as a bird. “Fallen out of use?” she asks. “Have the decency to call it what it is.”

Andromeda sighs. “They were killed,” she says. “Slaughtered, all of them, after the anchors were sunk.”

“Why?” asks Lily. She’s thinking very hard. She can make out the edges of it; she thinks so, at least. “It’s only applicable for making magic stable. Runes. Wards. Spells have only a nominal adherence to the elements.”

“Ah, but the Ministry doesn’t like things being stable outside of its purview,” says Sirius, kicking back in his chair. “Or have you forgotten that, Lils? They don’t like people knowing things that they think are dangerous. They don’t like people making things they can’t do. When you hear what they did to the Blowtons-” he shudders theatrically, and doesn’t finish.

“They killed them,” says Fotia flatly. “Hired them to make the anchors, then drowned them all under the guise of a rogue magical wave. It was the Department of Mysteries according to some rumors, but we won’t ever know for certain.”

“And it doesn’t matter now,” says Andromeda forcefully. 

“No,” says Sirius. “It does.” He’s looking very hard at Fotia, for all that his posture’s still insouciant. “When Lycoris bound you to my family, you accepted because you felt that you had no choice. Because we’d protect you.”

“We did protect them for more than three centuries!”

“Andy. They died.” Sirius places his hands flat on the table and leans forward, and doesn’t look away from Fotia’s glittering blade or glowing eyes. “And all we said was too fucking bad, we’ve got our own problems. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes,” says Fotia softly.

“I’m the Heredis, and I’m formally relinquishing what’s binding you to me. You and whatever heirs you might ever choose.”

Fotia doesn’t move for a long moment. Andromeda’s gone white-faced and pinched-lip beside Sirius, which doesn’t bode well. Lily considers keeping silent. It feels almost sacred, the soft cast to Sirius’ face; the way Fotia’s eyes look like dark, glowing pools of fire. 

But they’re fighting a war, and patience only means time for the other side to catch them.

“You’re free now,” she says, and holds out her hand to Fotia in a painfully muggle gesture. “So. Here’s to asking. Will you help us make those air-fire runes?”

Fotia blinks at her. Looks at Sirius. At Andromeda. 

“The Blacks protected us for a long time,” she muses. “I still cannot tell a lie, Lady Lily, and that is because your friend’s family abandoned mine to the wolves. Do you know what it does to you, to see your parents die before your eyes? To see them all perish, one after the other, simply because of the kindest lies- I’ll be fine, I’ll work with this, I love you. One after the other. Again and again. I buried them, and wept, and had to keep going. All alone.” Fotia sweeps a hand over her hair, pushing a lock back. “And you will still ask me to help you? Knowing all that I would have had if the Blacks had held to their vows? Knowing I am just now freed from mine?”

Lily bears up under the flood of words as well as she can, all rolling shoulders and flexing fingers. 

“I am fighting a war,” she says carefully. “For the first time in- years- there are three sides to it. The Blacks hurt you, yes, but only through negligence. Tell me, Fotia, who put that curse on your family?”

“Grindelwald,” murmurs Fotia.

“Precisely. He hurt you. He was responsible for their deaths. And I am fighting against the man who would make Grindelwald’s dreams reality once more, only harsher. Crueler. I am fighting- we are fighting- to ensure he doesn’t continue his reign of terror. And I know you were wronged by the Blacks. But you aren’t alone in that feeling- I’m muggleborn! A mudblood! My parents died at Death Eater hands because of me. Sirius- his parents threw him out of their house at sixteen. Andromeda ran away instead of marrying their handpicked Death Eater.” 

She leans forward, heart in her throat. “Remus is a werewolf, and my husband’s other best friend.” Doesn’t look away from Fotia’s gaze, even when she feels scoured raw from it. “Our world is broken. I have never, not once, not once, denied it. But if we turn away- if we ignore it- it won’t get better. The only way to make it safer, to make it better: it’s to do it ourselves.”

“You cannot win this,” says Fotia. “His armies- have you seen them? They will crush you. Without any second thoughts.”

“I’ve faced him four times and survived each,” replies Lily softly. “I’m giving you the chance to fight back against all the things that have been taken from you. To give it to another generation. To make the world a better place than what you had.”

She holds out her hand again, painfully muggle, proudly muggle. She is not Lily Evans, but she was once that. She is muggleborn. That blood runs through her veins, rich and muddy and dangerous. She is Lily Potter, and she will not lose what she was in favor of what she becomes. Not for anything.

Fotia draws herself up, tall, inscrutable.

Then she smiles.

“Yes,” she says, and takes Lily’s hand. 

The contact zings through her palm like something electric, but hotter. Like candleflame, the blaze manageable and softening into comfort. Lily remembers James, who’s so far away, who’s in such danger; she remembers the way Harry would yawn when he first woke up from a nap; she remembers the glint of light across her father’s wristwatch.

She loves them all so much. She has lost her parents, but she thinks: if I lose this too, I have lost it all. I cannot survive it.

But Fotia has. She’s older than Lily; but not by much. Probably of an age with Andromeda. And she survived Grindelwald. She survived the death of her family. That’s something- startling. That’s something wonderful.

That’s something so hopeful it feels like the blade in Fotia’s hand has slid into Lily’s chest.

...

James glares at the stone building. His heart pounds. Remus is beside him. The sun feels cold, despite being high in the sky. James had promised Lily that he’d be careful- but he’s running on instinct, the kind that seizes him by the lapels, that leaves the rest of the world colorless. His wand’s a hot line of electricity in his palm. The dream of Thor’s axe rests on his shoulders like wings of fire.

“Ready?”

“Always,” says Remus.

...

They don’t enter by the front door. Instead, it’s a tunnel that opens into a sewer in a muggle alley. Remus slithers in before James, his lean form easier maneuvered inside, and James follows with a flickering Notice-me-not thrown over the grate.

The goblins sent them a note three days previously, telling them to come to the dragon’s lair. Sirius had told them not to use any of the normal dragon-detection tools; they did the job, but also tended to annoy the dragon. And if this was as James suspected, they’d need to keep the meeting as quiet as possible. No raging dragons. None of the classical dragon-detection techniques.

It’s lucky they have Remus.

Werewolves’ natural enemies aren’t vampires, for all the popular canon otherwise. Vampires' largest habitations are in areas that the werewolves don’t tend to inhabit, so they haven’t developed any instincts against them.

No. Werewolves and dragons- they’ve spent thousands of years battling over the same territory. Thor rode into battle on the backs of dragons, lightning flashing around him to kill the werewolves. There’s an instinctive, bone-deep hatred there.

Remus just has to go against the bristling reaction of his inner wolf to tell James the path to take.

It’s dangerous; of course it is. James keeps his hand tight on Remus’ shoulder, and doesn’t dare to breathe too deep.

...

Fotia apparates them to a meadow full of fireflowers. 

“Watch,” she commands, and raises her sword, and the air splits apart with flame brighter than the sun, blinding.

...

They make the rendezvous, just. Remus jerks his hand out and forces James backwards before they step out into the actual cavern, and they stop. Catch their breaths against the stone wall. They’ve done their bit now: they’ve walked into the mouth of the lion’s den. 

They can only hope, now, that it’ll work out.

We aren’t mice, though, thinks James, and grins at Remus. 

He’s regretted three things in his life. None of it has made him happier or kinder or softer.

He grins at Remus, and feels alive, and thinks: if this is how I die, I don’t regret it.

...

Fire dances around them. Fotia dances with it- leads it- guides it. The air chases it higher, damps it down. Lily tilts her head backwards. Watches it. Her hair whips around her, shining. The fireflowers burn brighter, and the air sings out. It is all held in control by Fotia Infirre: Fotia, whose hair sweeps behind her with the grace of black flame. Fotia, whose blade is brighter than anything Lily has seen in all her life.

The wind is so strong that Lily can scarcely see it all. She instead experiences it in glimpses, hidden by her own involuntary tears, by the twist of flame, by the blinding brilliance of Fotia’s sword.

Eventually, she gives in and closes her eyes. Breathes out the smoke and inhales the flame and swallows until the prickle of pain from all the fire has disappeared into the haze of heat.

...

“Wizard.”

“Goblin,” says James, rising to his feet. 

Remus has the better eyesight, which is why he’s hanging just a little back. It’s also why he’s closer to the dragon. Quick reflexes, awful blood- if they’re going to die in this mix-up, it’s going to be a glorious death. If they aren’t going to die- and James certainly doesn’t intend to- well. With any luck the dragon’ll be their ride out.

For a moment, the goblin doesn’t speak. Then he says, softly, “Mr. Potter.”

Warning prickles over James’ skin. “Who’s asking?”

“I am,” says the goblin. “You may call me Brakshal. I- we had not expected your response to be like this.”

“Then how’d you expect it?” asks James, genuinely curious.

The goblins sent him a letter asking for his attendance at a meeting in the dragon’s lair, five days’ hence. But James has learned that often, the things that people don’t do say their position even clearer than what they purposefully show off. The letter wasn’t on Gringotts cardstock. The delivery hadn’t asked for a response- however they got it into Grimmauld Place, the method had disappeared long before James saw the letter. This goblin in front of him looks ragged at the edges, like cheese just slightly softened by a few minutes in the sun. 

“You didn’t expect a response,” he says, half-guessing. He knows it to be wrong before he even finishes the sentence. “No, you didn’t think-”

“James,” murmurs Remus, and James shuts up immediately.

Remus sounds like he’s got a mouthful of iron nails. Careful, and desperate not to cut his tongue open, and worried beneath that like a roaring river. He’s looking at something that Brakshal is wearing, some shiny thing affixed to his chest.

“If your plan was to kill us-”

“James.”

“What!”

“When did he come after you?” Remus asks Brakshal, voice abruptly gentle. “Brakshal, right? When’d he come here?”

Brakshal lifts his head, just a little. “Last week,” he says, and it sounds-

Furious.

James stills. Looks at Remus. Back at Brakshal. Fuck, he thinks. They’d known there was a reason for the goblins to want help. To even ask for assistance. But nothing like this. 

“How many?” asks Remus, and he still sounds heartrendingly gentle.

“The Third and Fourth clans are gone. The First... has enough for us to maintain some of the mining operations. The Second is almost all alive.” He swallows. “So many. Too many.” Brakshal makes a grating sound, and Remus’ hand spasms on James’ shoulder. 

“The diamonds turned to rubies,” he hisses in James’ ear. “That’s the general translation. Blood on the- oh, Merlin, James-”

“Yeah,” James mutters back. “I get it. We’re fucked.”

"No-”

He turns back to Brakshal. “Why us, then?” he asks. “Dumbledore’s in Hogwarts. He’s got the ability to actually help.”

“Do you know what they called Potters?” asks Brakshal. 

James slides a look towards Remus, who’s looking just as puzzled. “No.”

The goblin smiles, sharp-toothed. He looks bitter. “Your ancestor brought our oldest shielding spells down and arranged an army around the entrance three centuries ago. Where Sheridan Potter walked, sunlight followed. And she did not stop until she entered Gringotts.”

“Master Brakshal-”

“Lord Potter,” says the goblin, flatly. “Goblins have long memories, written out in metal. And your wife brought light to our home, for the first time in three long centuries. Even the Dark Lord did not commit such sacrilege.”

James stiffens. He thinks he can hear the dragon stirring. His hand closes over his wand, hidden in his pocket. He considers, briefly, denying it; but Remus’ hand tightens again on his shoulder. And the warning in that grip gets James back on track.

“I can... get you an apology,” says James slowly. “I am indeed sorry that she committed such sacrilege in your halls.”

Brakshal’s face tightens. “If we’d wanted an apology, we would have demanded one. Or extracted one from your vaults. No- that doesn’t matter. It takes a year of babbling to match one breath of steel, Lord Potter. It is your actions that are important now.”

“What actions?” asks James.

“Your wife brought light to our home, but the Dark Lord brought death,” says Brakshal lowly. “He called our leaders into your ministry last week and demanded we hand over sovereignty, and when we refused- he killed us, and kept killing us, until he came to a goblin gutless enough to surrender.”

His voice is dispassionate, but the expression that James can make out in the dim light- it’s infuriated. 

No, thinks James. No, this is- how I felt. When I realized our home had been taken from us. When I realized how unsafe the world can be.

“He killed them,” says Brakshal. “One after the other, until all that remains of those Clans is those too weak or too afraid to stand up to him. Do you even know how long we’ve been independent? Do you even know what we have lost in this past week?”

“I can imagine,” says James softly.

“No, you cannot." Brakshal straightens, proud and stiff. “You do not even know what the Potters are called. But it matters not. Your wife did not know what she was doing when she came here, but she was doing as Potters have done for centuries. So I am here to barter with you. Give us his head. The Dark Lord’s head. Swear to us you will kill him, and you will do it soon, and offer us his head as a trophy. Swear to us that you will fight for that.”

“And in return?” asks Remus.

Brakshal’s teeth glint in the darkness. “There is a vault which I believe you might have some interest in.”

“A... vault?”

“I am a miner. That is what I shall do until my dying day. And sometimes, mines go perilously close to vaults. Particularly the deepest ones.” James looks into Brakshal’s eyes, and feels his mouth dry at the implications. “The ones with the highest security.”

Remus still sounds calm. Too calm for James’ taste. “That won’t go against any of your oaths?”

“I’m a miner,” repeats Brakshal. “Not a banker.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds: “The first vow we swear is to our family, then to clan, then to the nation. Only later do the oaths of loyalty to our leaders come. Too many of us have forgotten that- but it matters not. It will change. Once the Dark Lord has been defeated.”

James frowns, the words niggling in his head. Too many of us. “You didn’t tell me why you chose us.”

“We learned Lord and Lady Potter still lived when our blood records didn’t display your deaths,” says Brakshal slowly. “We only started to suspect when Lord Black changed his formal will to someone who wasn’t supposed to inherit anything. But then. We saw, those of us with eyes to see and brains to match, and we knew we had to act. 

“We call you Light-Bringer, Lord Potter. Where Sheridan Potter walked, light followed. Not just light but Light- that magic which has been in Britain for so many millennia. Where all of you walk, where you go, you bring Light with you. It is sunken into your blood.” Brakshal clicks his tongue. “And we have seen what the Dark does to us.”

“Fear can only take any agreement so far,” says Remus neutrally.

Brakshal inclines his head. “We have our own scryers,” he says quietly. “They don’t see enough, but sometimes... with the right questions... A Potter Lord with a Black Heredis at his side, a muggleborn wife, a werewolf at his side- you are young, all of you, but youth has never made anyone unworthy.” There is, beneath the anger and fear, a flash of something that makes James feel very small, and very proud, and deeply, entirely, confused at it. “The breath of air you promise- the change you bring by just existing- we can see it, for those of us with eyes. And we won’t let such a chance pass us by.”

“Light-bringer?” asks James, strangled. He considers reaching for Thor’s axe, but discards it. Thinks instead, and comes to another conclusion, one that sits in his belly like a cold stone: “We’re going to have to come back.”

“Lord Potter-”

“Give me a week,” says James urgently. “Give us a week. Keep your heads down. Don’t die. I can-” 

“James,” says Remus. James turns to him, and sees the pale, set look on Remus’ face. “Swear to him. Swear to him that you’ll give him You-Know-Who’s head. We’ll do an Unbreakable Vow, if you want.”

Brakshal recoils. “That won’t be necessary.”

Goblins don’t swear by their magic. They haven’t done so since wizards took their wands away and their magic went into stone and became nearly dormant. But no matter what else happens, their blood is magical. They don’t swear by what they cannot have; they swear by-

“It won’t,” agrees James. “A Blood Vow, then?”

Brakshal stares. So does Remus. 

Blood Vows are old magic. The Unbreakable Vow kills people who break it by turning their own magic against themselves. The old stories say they were developed to make Blood Vows more civilized. 

Because Blood Vows don’t just kill oathbreakers. They turn their very blood to liquid metal. And they do it slowly.

It’s a painful death.

It’s also easier to swear. No third parties necessary; just two people and a bowl. James thinks back to old history lessons in his family home, and transfigures a copper bowl out of a piece of stone. Lays it on the earth, and kneels over it. 

“Lord Potter,” whispers Brakshal.

James presses his wand to the inside of his elbow. Two days previously, he saw the white, winding scar on Sirius’ elbow. It feels right to let it match.

“I will work to kill the Dark Lord,” he says. “I will do it until either he or I is dead. And when he dies, I will give you, Brakshal of Gringotts, his head, as bloodprice for the grief he has rent among you and yours. I swear thus, by the iron in my veins.”

He runs his wand down, and feels the burn of split skin as he does. James lets it puddle into the bowl, unflinching. Remus hisses out but doesn’t react beyond it. Brakshal waits until the bowl is half-full, then he reaches out and picks it up. Tips it back and swallows.

“May the iron swallow you if you break it,” he croaks. 

James vanishes the bowl and stands. He sways. Too much blood loss- but for a worthy cause, he thinks dryly, and settles with Remus’ hand pressed up against his spine. Brakshal looks away, then back. Slowly, he holds out a hand for James, and there is something shining in the middle of his palm, dark but glittering.

“Take it,” he says. “It is a Portkey to here. I have no wish for you to come across anyone else before we finish our bargain- this will bring you here, to this corridor.”

Remus huffs out a laugh. “I knew you’d gone rogue.”

“We all do what must be done.” Brakshal shrugs. “Goblins do not like dragons either. Only madmen would come this close to one without reason. And to defeat a Dark Lord- one who holds the government, one on the very precipice of complete victory- you need madmen.” 

“So it was a test.”

“You passed.”

“But you can promise us the vault?” asks James.

Brakshal smiles, for the first time since James has met him. 

“Yes,” he says, so unshakeable it sounds like all of Gringotts could fall apart around him and he’d still know the answer. 

There is another vow here, now; one that James could accept, one that sings out like glittering strands. He only bows his head. Steps back, and feels Remus sling a warm arm around his waist, and lets the Portkey’s magic gather them back to outside Gringotts.

“One week,” he says, firmly, before it all become a blur.

...

Fotia stops, and the world stops with her.

Lily breathes out what feels like her first full breath in too long. Andromeda looks almost unaffected, but Sirius is white-faced and his shoulders are hunched about up to his ears. The flame Fotia’d harnessed fades into the air without any of her magic supporting it, and what remains are four stones. They’re clear as crystals, save for when Lily hefts one and holds it up to the sky: they shine, glittering sparks of red and white and a thousand other shades seen in flame and air.

“It’s done, then,” she breathes. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears.

Fotia inclines her head. Her hair looks further tangled; her eyes glitter a shade too bright. 

“Use it well,” she says, and her voice is as stiff as it’s been ever since Lily first met her. She turns to Sirius. “Our business is at an end, Black. My family’s and yours. If you ever call for me again-”

“-you won’t answer,” finishes Sirius. “I understand.”

“Good,” says Fotia, and spins on her heel, cracking away.

Andromeda immediately moves to support Sirius, who sags as soon as Fotia disappears. The sickly edge to his skin makes him look small; Lily gathers the crystals carefully and waves wordlessly for Andromeda to side-apparate Sirius back to Grimmauld Place. 

Andromeda nods. She disapparates. And then there’s nothing around Lily but the silent, glittering feel of rich, old magic ringing through the air. 

She lets herself marvel at it.

She lets herself want it. Lily loves this feeling; craves this history, this weight and tradition and power. It isn’t her inheritance, but it’s what she’s built her life around. Wards. Rituals. The oldest kind, made of sheer want and desire and the curve of a blade.

She lets herself revel in it for one breath longer, and then she apparates away.

...

“Remus, could you come to the library with me?”

Remus jerks his head up, startled. So does James, eyes narrowing on Lily. She raises her eyebrows back. 

“Hiding things?” asks James.

“Your birthday present,” says Lily sweetly. James scoffs, and she rolls her eyes. “There’s a lunar aspect I read about that can stabilize the runic array. I thought I’d get Remus’ advice on it, seeing as he’s been mildly obsessed with astronomy since first year.”

“Mildly obsessed is an exaggeration,” mutters James.

“Not everything has to do with you, love,” says Lily, and leans down to press a kiss to his hair before meeting Remus’ gaze and nodding to the door.

A little more excited now, Remus follows Lily to the library. He enters it for the first time since she remodeled it- the increase in light does wonders for reducing the gothic edges the Blacks had spent years instituting, and Remus thinks briefly about how much Walburga Black would’ve hated it. 

Then there’s a sharp feeling across the back of his neck, and Remus turns, predatory instincts flaring, wand sliding into his palm.

Lily has her wand up. The ward she’s just constructed glows around them, gold and bright as honey. Remus hisses out through his teeth, and Lily lowers her wand slowly, eyes gleaming.

“This is about James,” she says.

Resignation sweeps over Remus’ head, mixed liberally with disappointment. But he looks at Lily, and he sighs, and he wishes he could be surprised about it.

...

Remus pauses. He looks so tired. Lily can understand; she feels the same way. It’s such a surprising realization: fear is exhausting, more than it is terrifying. When she and James went into hiding a year and a half ago, it’d been exciting, up until it wasn’t. When Voldemort came to their home- Lily’s never been quite so frightened. She’s never known this kind of high-level, mind-numbing terror for such a long time, and she suspects that it’s taking its toll on all of them.

After this, she promises herself, and allows herself to think about that idea- surviving to the end, surviving past the end- we’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere warm. And learn to relax.

He’s still waiting, though. Remus’ hair is all but bristling with latent, suppressed aggression. Lily forces herself to keep herself calm, to keep her spine loose and her gaze steady.

“He’s gotten reckless,” she says quietly. 

“He was always reckless.”

“Not like this,” says Lily. 

She remembers the fear she’d felt when James told her about the Blood Vow. These are not risks they can afford, and James doesn’t understand. Lily’s not a stranger to risks such as those; she’s taken her fair share, walked straight into traps and trusted in the sharp edge of her wand and the fury in her gut to carry her out. But she hasn’t trusted in strangers to keep her alive before. She hasn’t trusted goblins who are known for double-crossing and distrust of wizards. She isn’t stupid enough to try to win a war this way.

“Tell me I’m imagining it,” she says lowly, the tension hiking up in her voice. “Tell me I’m imagining this, and I’ll leave it alone. Believe me, Remus, I’ve got more than enough on my plate to deal with.”

Remus’ eyes look away, one half-flick to the side, and Lily has her answer.

She reaches out and brushes a finger gently over the inside of his wrist. Gentleness is Remus’ downfall, as it is Sirius’, though Remus isn’t far gone enough to consider any kindnesses as apologies. It hones him instead- makes him focus, reminds him of all that they’ve sacrificed, puts to mind all that they’ve yet to lose.

“You’re not,” he says hoarsely. “Not. You know. Entirely.”

“A vow,” says Lily, and can scarcely keep the shrill note of terror out of her voice. “A Blood Vow! To a goblin!”

“Well,” Remus points out. “He’s already fighting for it. Defeating You-Know-Who, I mean. Doesn’t make it worse than- Sirius swearing to his grandfather, not-”

“Except his grandfather was fucking holding Sirius over a cliff!” says Lily, drawing away and grabbing at the back of the settee near her, feeling for the sharp edges and holding on tight. She feels adrift these days, like she’s barely surviving each wave cresting over her head before the next one carries stinging salt into her eyes, into her lungs. Lily breathes in, and moderates her voice as best she can. “And the only thing James seems to know to deal with cliffs is to throw himself off of them.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It is completely fair, and you know it,” says Lily tiredly. “I don’t care. That axe- it’s making him worse. And I can’t tell him to calm down, or to not use it, or to stay away from the front lines of this fucking war. Not while we’re the de facto leaders. Not while Harry needs us.”

Remus sags, and slides into the chair opposite her. “So what do you need from me?”

“I need you to keep him alive.”

“I’m not going to let him die!”

“Good,” says Lily savagely, and relishes in the aborted flinch across Remus’ shoulders. “Stick with him. That’s what you do, better than any of us.” 

It’s true; Remus is brilliant at quickfire volleys while James has the regimented discipline of an auror. They’ve taken down more than their fair share of Death Eaters. And James suffers the same thing most of the male Order members are afflicted with: they keep Lily away from the worst of the battle without any conscious thought, while running into the thick of it themselves. She won’t be there when James gets caught in a battle, and she’s willing to bet that Sirius won’t be there either. Not when Sirius has enough charisma to lead his own front of the war.

Lily knows this. 

Remus knows this.

Plan for what you can, thinks Lily, dryly amused. Screw what you cannot.

“And when you think he’s taken on too much,” she whispers, leaning forward, “send him to safety.”

Remus stares at the stone Lily’s pressed into his hand. It’s a fascinating color- black, or at least a very dark green, with flecks of gold and glittering blue turning it iridescent. A small stone, but it thrums with power.

“What is this?”

“A portkey.” Lily hesitates. “Well. Sort of.”

Remus looks up at her, and there’s faint amusement in his eyes. “What is it?” he repeats.

“I took it from the ring James destroyed,” Lily tells him. Reaches out and flips it over, and shows him the symbol carved on the other side: a bisected triangle with an inscribed circle. “There’s something there about Hallows if you research the symbol, but I don’t think it matters. There was latent magic in the stone, and James’ lightning supercharged it. In a way. And the piece of soul left in there? Disintegrated inside the stone.”

“So you harnessed it,” murmurs Remus.

“It’ll break through any portkey ward you can imagine. Including Hogwarts. Once, and only for him, but. Once should be enough. Take him straight to a small cottage in Cornwall.”

“And you’re giving it to me?”

“James won’t use it,” says Lily. “Have you met him? He’ll stay until all of us are dead or worse, and won’t once think of himself.”

She won’t survive losing him. She can lose everything else, all else, but not this. Not James. 

It’s her line in the sand.

(When Lily first signed up to the Order, Dorcas Meadowes had taken her aside. Pressed a hand to her shoulder. Said, softly, “They’ll give you information on surviving Death Eater prisons next week.”

“I,” Lily had replied. “Um. Okay?”

“What you need to know about that,” said Dorcas, “is that it’s done with purebloods in mind. Pureblood men. It won’t help you.”

Lily had looked up at Dorcas’ haunted eyes, at Dorcas’ firmed lips, her low-lying, immoveable stance. “Oh,” she’d said. “What should it say then?”

Something had twitched in Dorcas’ face. It haunts Lily even now, that instinctive, unsuppressable reflex, like a fish flopping on the ground, airless and desperate.

She’d said, hand bruising on Lily’s shoulder: “Don’t get caught. And if you do: die, first. Because you aren’t worth anything to them at all, and they know it, and you aren’t going to trust in their mercy.” She hadn’t looked directly at Lily but through her, and her gaze had burned like ants’ venom. “They aren’t going to give you any.”

“If it’s so dangerous- if I’m so fucking small- why does it-”

“Matter?” Dorcas stepped away. “I’m here ‘cause I’m done, girl. With their idiocy. With their cruelty. We survive on the dregs of their society, where they’ve got it all fucking made, and we’re glad for it because it’s magical. Well. Fuck that. If they want to silence you, make them fight for it. If they want to kill you, make them fucking die first.”

She’d died two years later, because Voldemort burned down an orphanage near Islington and she’d chased after him instead of waiting for backup. Dorcas Meadowes died that night with her wand in hand, her eyes lifted to the sky, and, Lily was certain, of the empty belladonna vial she’d found in her robes, not at Voldemort’s hand. No matter how many people told her otherwise.

Dorcas’ line in the sand killed her.

And now, years later, almost too late, Lily’s found hers.)

“He won’t forgive you,” says Remus softly. “He won’t forgive us.”

James had fucked her that night, and he’d thought the bruises left on her shoulder were of his making. Lily hadn’t told him they came from Dorcas. Lily’d accepted his kisses, his apologies, and she’d shut her eyes tight against the memory of a muggleborn witch desperate to keep another from believing in a better world than was out there.

“I don’t care,” replies Lily. “I’d rather he hate me than die because of me. And I know you feel the same.”

The ugly part of herself and Remus, where they’d both rather die for their love than live against it. They’re selfish at their cores, harsh in the places where brightness sits in James and Sirius. They’re the same, the two of them, the werewolf and the muggleborn. The prefect and the Head Girl. The people who did not choose this war, but chose to fight in it.

They know, intrinsically, what’s at stake here.

“Our secret,” sighs Remus.

Lily reaches out and closes her palm over his. Holds him tight. 

“Keep him safe,” she says, and orders, and weaves hope into reality.

...

“You’re certain?”

“Everything’s ready,” agrees Lily. 

Sirius nods. James rolls his shoulders. Remus smiles, sharp and thin as a rapier. 

Lily inclines her head. “Keep the timers at the ready. Everything has to be perfectly coordinated. And if it doesn’t work... apparate away. Fast.”

“Before it all explodes,” says Sirius.

James lets out a sharp bark of laughter, and nods. Lily grins. Remus reaches out, and they hold each other, all four of them. Alone and together, as it’s been since Voldemort broke their home. Leaning on each other to survive to morning. They’ve got a chance to deal a blow to Voldemort, and by all the gods James is going to take it.

“Good luck,” says James, and they back away from each other, and apparate out to their respective places.

...

Sirius’ element is water, on account of his familial inheritance. The location for his ritual is a tiny rock in the middle of the Channel Islands, just barely large enough that he doesn’t need to worry about slipping off of it. The waves keep washing over his boots; he hisses out when the salt tries to cake on the dragonskin etchings. 

Slowly, he loops out the weighty crystal Fotia crafted. There’s five of them now: one to each of them, and one to ground the entire ritual. There’s careful runes carved on these crystals made by Lily’s hands. They depress against his skin. 

“Here goes nothing,” Sirius mutters, and lets his magic flow out into the waves washing around him.

...

Remus’ element is earth, also on account of his family inheritance. He’s in a hollow made by a tree’s roots, the earth damp and breathing as it surrounds him. 

“Fucking Suffolk,” he grits out, wiping the streak of mud off his forehead.

The crystal is warm and vibrating very gently in his palm. Remus focuses hard on it, pushes his magic, and the earth rises to his call like a blanket pulled by his fingers.

...

James’ element is the air, because he loves flying more than any of them. 

He’s shivering, frosted over and wind howling, on the top of a mountain somewhere in the Hebrides. Then he reaches for the crystal and grips it tight, and lets his magic out in an uncontrolled wash instead of the sharp edges of wand-magic, and feels the wind sing above his head.

...

Lily’s in Scotland.

Her element is flame, because she is a Gryffindor, because she is of flame, because she has a fire blazing somewhere deep in her ribs of fear and fury and love hot enough to burn the world down. The crystal is shining in her hands like a star. Her hair dances in the wind, and she releases the dam on her magic, and flame winks into being around her like a thousand birds with wings afire.

...

It’s twilight. Remus hears the timer go, and he pushes his magic, the earth’s magic, into the crystal. 

As full as full can be, he thinks, and hears, and says, and wishes. As full as full, and no further. The earth is mine and I am hers, and this is what I wish.

...

It’s twilight. 

James’ wind comes at the crook of his fingers. Wraps around the crystal. Sinks in. 

Until you’re about to burst, he thinks, and hears, and says, and wishes. Until then, and not one more breath. You come when I call, and this is what I demand.

...

It’s twilight. Lily’s flame is hot around her like a volcano on the cusp of exploding. Magma to lava. In to out. The crystal shines, brighter and brighter still.

Long enough to burn the impurity away, she thinks, and hears, and says, and wishes. Long enough, and no longer. Do as I say, and this is what I want.

...

It’s twilight, and Sirius is surrounded by water.

Brimming with it, he thinks, and hears, and says, and wishes. So that you’re brimming with this power, but not one drop more. Let it be so, for this is what I need.

...

It’s just past twilight, and they see the crystals start to shake. They can see the vibrations. They can something growing in the middle, a vision so lovely it brands itself into their minds. It cannot be unseen.

(Magic always wishes to grow, and they’ve given it the best possible place to grow. But they need the magic to obey, for any other kind of magic is dangerous. Is cruel, and cold, and will grow deadly if left unchecked.)

They wait.

This must be done together. All at once, or not at all. They must trust, and have faith. 

And when the time comes, they must break the most beautiful thing their minds can imagine.

To complete the ritual, they must destroy it.

...

The sky is dark, and Remus’ fingers are twitching. He cannot look away, and he cannot bear to let the magic drop away either. He sees something lovely, warm, softer than any dream and gentle as a misting rain. What he can never have.

Sunlight. Laughter. Warmth.

Sirius’ head thrown back. The lines of his neck. The dip of his collarbone, down and then up, like the faintest half of an infinity symbol. His skin. 

His rage.

The vision turns to fire, and Remus’ fingers curl into fists, and the earth swallows the crystal whole.

...

The moon shines down on Lily, and her gaze is fractured by the vision of something lovely, the tears in her eyes standing out. She sees herself, standing above all others, bright and beautiful and adored.

So loved.

So lonely.

So lost.

The vision washes away, and she breathes out fire that chars the crystal to ash.

...

Sirius’ ancestors smile at him from the distant stars. He thinks he can hear Regulus. It’s all he sees in the crystal: family, all the families he’s had, all the families he’s wanted, all the families he’s never thought to hope for and has received.

James, and Lily, and Remus-

Remus-

Their hands on his back, their fists on his lapels, their love, their grief, their kindness, their fear, their strength, strength, strength-

The image blows into dust. Sirius cries out, and the ocean crashes down on him, on the crystal, drowns them both.

...

James is close enough to touch the stars, and all he can see is what he’s lost in the world. Harry, leaping in a field, unafraid. Lily, laughing without worrylines carved into her face. Sirius and Remus and the Order and the Wizarding World and the whole damn universe-

Unafraid. Bright. 

His father’s voice: start small, Jimmy, and build your way up. 

A hand sweeping up, and showing him Potter Manor. All the four hundred floors, all the clouds wrapping around the highest levels. This is what you are and this is what you have and this is what you can become. Responsibility and awe, intertwined. Fear and determination. 

The clasp of Lily’s hand on his. The warmth of Harry’s sleeping blankets. Sirius’ bright eyes. Remus’ tea.

Start small, and shift the world in ways nobody realizes until long past you’ve finished. 

Start small and build your way up.

The image disappears. James grins up at the sky, tears streaming down his face, and yells as loud as he can.

The wind howls in response. It grabs his crystal straight out of his palms and hurls it against the mountainside, and he watches it shatter into a thousand pieces of glittering glass.

He feels the magic of the ritual snap into place like a taut rope just beyond his reach, and slips to his knees with mountan-air jagged and freezing in his lungs.

...

They’re draped over pieces of furniture, too tired to move. Andromeda’s said she’ll come in the morning to feed them some potions and get them up and running again, but for now it’s just the four of them, tired and soft and together in a dark room in Grimmauld Place.

Finally, Sirius drags himself upright and moves to the map of Britain, which contains the results of whatever they’ve done with the ritual. The fifth crystal is the focal point of the entire thing, and it’s projecting its magic onto the map Lily’d put up. He squints at the sheet, and then he swallows, hard, stumbling back.

“You recognize it?” asks Lily.

“One’s in Gringotts,” he says. “Another’s in Hogwarts.”

They’d planned for that.  Those two places make sense. But they don’t have time to research Voldemort’s history, to make a list of where he might have put all of his other horcruxes. They don’t even know how many horcruxes there are.

Sirius feels Remus’ hand on his wrist, his breath on his shoulder as he steps up beside him to peer at the map.

“That’s- Wiltshire,” says Remus.

“Wiltshire?” asks Lily, bewildered. “What’s in fucking Wiltshire?”

Sirius drops his face to his hands. Exhales. Rises. “Malfoy Manor,” he says. Turns, and meets James’ bruised eyes, Lily’s exhausted face. Remus’ steadfast gaze. Doesn’t look away. “Malfoy Manor is there. Not another Wizarding community in sight. I’ll bet you anything- it’s in that house.”

“Andromeda’s not going to like that,” says Remus.

Sirius huffs a laugh.

Andy wants to save her sister? Her sister’s been harboring a part of Voldemort’s soul in her home for Merlin knows how long. It’s the Black tragedy, isn’t it, to have everything they’ve ever wanted and losing it all to circumstances just an inch out of reach. The farce of it. The terrible, mocking tragedy.

Fuck this, thinks Sirius, and is a very mature adult as he walks away without cursing anything at all.

#hp #hp fic #james potter #lily evans #my writing #ACH THIS HAS BEEN A BIT TOO LONG IN THE WAITING I KNOW #anw here's to hoping y'all enjoy:))

[lacklusterswirl]

Writing excerpt

This is something I liked from my first ever attempt at fanfic. I never did finish the story, and the thing about JTF 2 disagreeing with Spetz came out, but I wanted to share the first torture scene I ever wrote. Just be aware that it does include torture and an interrogation. Hopefully just something to make you squirm :)

Buck was pretty sure this was the closest he’s ever come to death. Every swallow hurt, and he could feel his throat crack as the muscles moved. The last bit of moisture remained, though it wouldn’t for much longer. He gave another tug at the ties that held his hands together behind his back and around a metal pole. His legs were tied in a similar fashion to the cruel piece of metal that denied him any movement.

Humans can go for about four days without water, you know? The voice of the newest addition to Rainbow rang in his head. She had said that when chastised about her drinking habits, and yet here he was, in the same position, except thousands of miles away from where she had uttered that line.

The mission was supposed to go smoothly. Seemed to be nothing new when it came to White Masks. Something about money and funds led them to hold a group of politicians hostage in a house somewhere in a remote area -- a field of snow and trees. Maybe that’s where the first problem was. What group of politicians would want to be in such a run-down area in the middle of nowhere, Russia? All the Spetsnaz but Fuze, who was excluded considering the situation type, were here because of the location. He and Frost had come with them due to their familiarity with the snowy weather they had faced back in Canada.

When they arrived and infiltrated the building, they very quickly discovered that the hostages were dead long before they even knew about the mission. The decaying flesh and rotten smell was more than enough to confirm that when they stormed the supposed hostage room. From there, everything went to shit. White Mask reinforcements arrived by the truckload, and very quickly pinned them in the house. Lucky for them, Frost always brought some of her hunting traps with them, as did Kapkan, and the defence seemed like it would hold for a moment.

But only a moment. Because once the smoke cleared from all the EDD traps, an armoured figure clunked their way towards them, which Tachanka called out as a bomber before starting to fire his LMG at the incoming enemy. It wasn’t quite enough, as Buck hadn’t been able to get far enough from the blast, which meant that a very large piece of wood flew at his head.

When he woke up, he was alone. He didn’t know where his teammates were, or if they were even alive, but he remembered desperately wishing that he wasn’t.

.

Humans were social creatures. Buck was a social person. It turns out the fastest suck on his will to live was the dark room where he had slept by himself ever since he spat on that one person’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished for a single bullet. Preferably in a gun pointed at his head.

“Look who decided to wake up!” a thin voice snaked its way into his head, followed by a solid hit to his gut. The speaker’s first language definitely wasn’t English, but he was never good at telling accents apart anyways.

Buck’s eyes flew open to see the dimly lit room and face the mask he had seen too much of this past week. How long had be been asleep? It was hard to keep track of time when he was locked in a windowless room with no clock.

A dull ache drew his attention back to the present. Tabarnak. The hit was aimed at a particularly large cut he received in his first few moments here, and had just started to scab over. Being hit would surely make it bleed again.

“Answer our question,” the man in front of him demanded. The first thing they ever asked was why Iris had joined Rainbow, and there was no way he’d give that information away. As he waited for answer, Buck couldn’t help but stare at the gleaming metal, reflecting what little light was in the room.

“I don’t know why she was recruited.”

“We figured out why she’s there already, we don’t need that information anymore.”

Merde. Was there a mole? No… Buck grimaced as his assailant moved closer to him. The rank breath was enough to knock out a bear, he joked to himself. The chuckle got stuck in his throat when the cool metal pressed flat against the sweat slick skin on his neck.

“What’s her ‘special ability’? The one about reading people’s minds.”

He laughed at that accusation. At least, it was supposed to be a laugh. It sounded more like a cough instead.

“Read min-” his voice cracked and threatened to disappear completely. Only then did the interrogator bring a bottle of water to his dry and cracked lips. Buck was lapping at the water like a dog, but he couldn’t care because he needed the moisture that the water bottle brought. It didn’t mater that it tasted stale and slightly metallic because it was water. He drank the entire thing.

“You don’t honestly think she can read minds, non?” he laughed at his captor. The knife, it turns out, wasn’t for show. It cut into some loose skin on his cheek, just above his beard line, and in one cruel jerk, it flicked upwards, slicing the flesh, but not completely separating the chuck of flesh from the rest of him.

His own flesh flopped uselessly against his face when he trembled, blood already starting to trickle through his facial hair and drip onto the ground. The captor dug the point of his knife under the loose piece of flesh and flung it up, letting it bounce against Buck’s face while he giggled at the wide-eyed look he got from the prisoner.

Buck made no sound.

The White Mask didn’t like that.

“I recently learned this phrase, but have you ever heard of salting the wound? Apparently, it hurts. A lot.”

The wince from just imagining it gave away Buck’s fear and panic. When he made no sound, the interrogator switched his grip on his knife and cut into the space right under his collar bone, ripping a piece off of his shirt so the bare skin lay exposed. He could feel the prick of the tip of the knife dig in and start dragging.

Name, birthday, blood type.

Sébastien Côté. August 20, 1980, blood type O. It wasn’t enough to block out the pain and discomfort, hell it couldn’t even distract him from his own fear, but it was something to stop him from screaming, whimpering, begging.

His sister once brought him to a tattoo parlour. He sat and held her hand as she got her first and only tattoo. Was this how it felt? The gentle squeeze of her hand, the smell of disinfectant in the air, the sound of easy chatter, and the bright sunlight that bled through the tinted windows of the shop. Why couldn’t he be there right now? Or Hereford. The grey skies, the chill that sometimes cut through his coat which would prompt the question if he was cold. No of course he wasn’t. He was born in snowy, windy Montreal. This little chill didn’t bother him. Not when he was surrounded by a new family. People he would gladly die for. People he was going to die for if this continued. When the knife lifted from his skin -- when the warm breath of his captor faded -- only then did he dare open his eyes.

Even behind the mask, he could make out the furrowed brows. “Then what. What is her ability? Why did you send a rescue team after her so soon? She was recruited for a reason.”

“Go fuck your mom. I know she enjoys it,” he spat in response.

“Iris…” Buck stilled at that name even when every part of his body wanted to thrash. Demand. How did he know? Where did he find out? “Her name is Iris Cai, a pre-med student at UWK in Canada. We know much about her from what you guys have gathered, you know? But…” he let a blade trail across Sébastien’s neck, reminding him of who was in charge. “The one thing no one knows is her ability. How can she read emotions?”

“I won’t say a word,” he hissed, letting it develop into a grunt of pain as the terrorist let the knife cut into his shoulder a little. A small stream of blood trailed down what remained of his undershirt.

“You are a very impressive representative of Rainbow, aren’t you? Most people who meet me like this would be saying anything and everything by now. You haven’t even shed a tear.”

Buck could only glare back at him. No, he knew he wasn’t going to live through this, but he’d burn in hell before selling out his team.

“I will give you one and only one warning: I’m leaving soon. The person who will replace me is not as nice. I hear she used to be a surgeon. She likes to use all sorts of tools that even I haven’t heard before. Do you know what she’ll do to you?”

No reaction. No reaction. Please, for the love of anything, please let him stay silent until his end. What was it that Lion said before all his missions?

Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.

“She has a pair of scissors. Sharp motherfuckers too, but she will make you watch as she cuts of each of your finger pads. Then, she licks off the blood from the blades before spitting it up into your face. If you’re lucky, she won’t aim for your mouth.”

Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. 

His heart rate betrayed him as it climbed higher and higher. He cursed himself for listening to the nasally voice.

“But her favourite tools are the scalpel and drill. I’ve seen her make swiss cheese out of people with those two. She uses the fucker like a shovel, scooping out layer after layer of flesh. Every non-answer, every silence, every insult is just another bit of yourself that will be… removed. And she knows what parts of you will kill you immediately so don’t think you’ll die so easily. It goes on and on until the scalpel meets air on the other side of you. Literal swiss fucking cheese.”

Holy Mary Mother of God… oh God. This will be the end. Anything he ever amounted to, the memories he made, the values he fought for. This would be the end of him.

The sound of a drill sounded through the house and Buck tensed up.

“Oh,” the man chuckled and rose to meet the other one walking down the stairs. “She’s here early. And you get the pleasure of meeting her drill too! Lucky man!”

Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

#r6s #rainbow six siege #buck #torture #fanfic #spoiler for a future oc? #or for the black ice op story #he eventually got saved #dw

[sailormerky]

On Masque’s and Halloween

The steady beat of the bass filled Harry’s ears, drowning him for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of Masque’s. He reached for his wand, careful and smooth as he gazed over the crowd. The club wasn’t too busy for a Fridaynight, if anything it was almost slow. Patrons littered the room pleasing customers, all hidden behind masks and hair glamours. Harry turned to the front desk, flashing his auror badge before making a request.

“I’m here to see the Ice Prince.” Harry could laugh at how childish and pompous the name is but it’s the name his client had given him. He was handed a mask and asked to perform a glamour charm to his hair and scar before he was admitted inside the private rooms.

The room he was lead to was lavishly decorated in dark greens and blacks, Harry’s fingers skimmed the silver accented table. Granite, probably imported from Brazil...maybe the States, dark oak… He knocked on one of the legs, eyes narrowing slightly.

“It’s Walnut, black.” The voice startled Harry, causing him to spin around and face the person who stood with a slight smirk peeking under their black mask. Harry tilted his head, squinting. He knew that voice. Where? The ice prince was roughly two inches taller than Harry with a thin, lanky frame. He had alabaster skin and a light dusting of freckles over his shoulders, and hip bones that peeked over the edge of his silk bottoms. He was clad in a sheer robe that slipped down one shoulder and pooled at his elbow, and a tiny pair of silk boxers.

Harry licked his lip and sat on the love seat, “Sorry, habit.” He found himself entranced in the cool silver eyes that lurked behind thick blonde lashes, and the raven hair that contrasted so smoothly with the alabaster skin. The Ice Prince was entrancing.

Smooth, pearly white teeth peaked out between two soft pink lips as the Ice Prince smirked, “Aurors.” He spoke smoothly, gliding across the room to perch himself in Harry’s lap. “ All the same and yet,” He yanked Harry’s tie sharply, forcing a gasp from his throat, “ so willing to submit like a common whore.”

Harry’s hands landed on the Ice Prince’s hips, as he felt himself harden in his pants. His wedding ring glinted in the light, and it distracted him for a moment. He told Robard’s it wasn’t necassary for this role, but he insisted that most men that went to these bars were married. Harry tried to focus on his assignment, but the man in his lap was making sure he didn’t forget who was on charge. The original plan did not include getting this close to the Ice Prince, he originally came in to ask a few questions about a missing muggleborn man. Someone had stated the last place they’d seen him is leaving Masque’s after a visit with the Ice Prince.

“Ah-!” Harry’s  hips jerked as the Ice Prince ground down on him, “How… How did you know?” He licked his lip, head rolling back against the back of the loveseat, neck exposed. His viens throbbed in his throat, adam’s apple bobbing appealingly.

“What, Auror? Easy. It’s the way you stand, like you own the damn place. It’s the way you drink in the scene. It’s the damn clothing. I bet that you’re not even a natural brunette.” the man leaned in to lick up Harry’s neck, “ It’s the fact that only aurors book me for an hour without any sort of premeeting. Too scared your wives will find out that you want to be treated like garbage.”

Harry unhanded him like he had been burned, clawing off his ring and tossing it away from him. “Not married, just a ‘guise.” He tangled a hand in his hair and dragged him in for a kiss. The initiative took courage, something Harry didn’ t lack but also wasn’t expecting to do in the moment. And apparently neither had the Ice Prince. “ Do you have something less pretentious I can call you?” He asked, a string of spit connecting their lips.

Gorgeous slate eyes fluttered open to meet dark green, “Drake.” The rules of Masque’s were simple, there were only three. One, wear your protection (mask, glamour, condoms). Two, respect is mutual, it’s not earned here, it’s a given. And three, this is the big one, no names. Here Drake was giving in to the main rule, teasing the boundary. “And you?”

Harry hesitated a moment, “Harry.” The slate eyes flicked a moment before a smirk once more adorned his lips, and Drake was sliding off his lap to stand before him, tie still in hand. He yanked it sharply, “Down.” Harry swallowed and slid down to kneel at his feet, head bowed. “Good boy.”

It became a past time, Harry would find himself at Drake’s feet every friday. The thrill was hard to fight. He lost control with Drake, but they never talked about anything other than liquid sin. Today was different. He came two day earlier than normal, a Wednesday.

Halloween was always a bitter time of year for Harry James Potter. For starters, he lost his parents on Halloween when he was barely a year old, then he spent years in a cupboard watching Dudley dress up and return home with a giant bag full of sweet treats when he had to stay home and pass out candy under his uncle’s watchful gaze, and his first Halloween at Hogwarts was marked by almost losing Hermione to a giant troll. It’d gotten better over the years, but this year was going to be his favorite.

Harry fixed his mask a little more carefully, didnt bother with glamouring his hair other than to fix its chaotic appearance. (Drake had announced their previous visit that he had naturally black hair.) With a small confident smile he checked in and headed to Drake’s room. He entered and was surprised to see soft candlelight filling the room, the glow warm and pleasing. “Figured I’d set the mood.” A cool voice came from the sofa, and Harry turned to see Drake clad in a red and black corset, fish net stockings, and thin, tall stilleto heels. Drake turned a riding crop over in his hands and smirked, “Miss me?” and neither of them answer because they both know it’s obvious.

Harry lays post-orgasm in Drake’s arms, the other always takes the time to clean him up after. He takes time to brush his hair, and soothe a warm washcloth over his aching muscles. He’s always consistent with aftercare. Harry reaches up without turning, fingers finding the edge of his mask, and Drake lets him. Maybe thinking he was just feeling, but soon Harry found the silk ribbon that held his mask tight, and pulled. The mask fell away, and the ribbon pooled down Drake’s neck. Harry didn’t move, hardly dared to breathe as he waited for Drake to make the first move, kept his eyes forward before he felt Drake move to do the same with Harry’s mask. The glamour faded, a calming tingle filling his senses. “ Are you going to look, Potter? Or do you have to be told.” Drake’s voice was calm and soothing in his ear, prompting Harry to turn and take in the angular face and silver hair of Draco Malfoy.

It felt like the ground was going to give way as they stared at each other, eyes drinking each other in. “You know, it’s been nearly five years since I saw you last?” Harry said softly, getting comfortable in Draco’s lap once more. Draco shifted to wrap his arms around Harry again. “Happy Halloween, Draco.”

#hp #text #my writing #drarry #draco malfoy #Harry potter #this isnt the original rentboy draco one i wrote #so expect that at a later date #much much later #rentboy draco technically #auror harry #AUROR HARRY IS MY LEAST FAVORITE #this feels very ooc #but oh well #Happy halloween guys #IM ALSO WORKING ON A HALLOWEEN WOLFSTAR

[exalok]

Prince!Daud AU, part 16 (repost)

On their fourth day at sea, Corvo woke up to the Prince's cabin lit painfully bright.

It wasn't particularly hot; he might have called it cool if it hadn't been the same as average summer temperatures back in Dunwall. Since they couldn't take the canal, they were still too far south for the weather to grow noticeably colder. Still, something about the air itself left him indistinctly uncomfortable.

Corvo slowly took stock of his own limbs, their weight even in stillness, the tangle of blankets around his legs. It was a good thing the cot was too narrow to share, and that the Prince had decided to set up a hammock for himself; Corvo's sleep-addled thrashing since they had left Karnaca would have made proximity impossible. The first night he had almost thrown himself onto the floor, waking up just in time to roll back against the wall. It had taken him a while to fall back into sleep. (It had taken him hours. They had shuffled past, unbearably slow – and still he had jerked awake at the first inklings of dawn, unrested, lethargic, too tired to hate his own traitorous body.)

This morning the light slanted through the wide glass windows at a strange angle. He peered at the sharp-edged squares burning into the floor, unsure exactly why they looked so peculiar, until he realized they could only be visible now if it was well into the afternoon. Not morning at all. How many hours had he slept?

He sat up, and stopped. His skin broke out in goosebumps in the fresh air.

It was only the fourth day. They were still far from Dunwall, a week and some days away from the mouth of the Wrenhaven. There was little he could think of to do, that might be of any use during the wait. Practicing his swordwork, he supposed – but even as he thought it the idea was distinctly unappealing. Trying to remind himself that Emily was safe in Dunwall, like that was in any way a reassurance when he was halfway across the ocean, only made the low-grade buzzing between muscle and skin worse.

He stood, nothing but breeches on, and paced once around the room. Sat back down. Passed his hands through his hair – then pulled, hard, his scalp straining with the force, and hissed at the headache it brought but relished the quiet when he withdrew his hands and circled the room again. The skin throbbed, a drone like distant bloodflies.

Some time later – the squares of light had slid a few inches across the floor – the door to the cabin opened and the Prince shouldered his way through, a bowl and slices of bread balanced in each hand. He paused. His eyes shyed away from Corvo's half-naked body. The stab of vicious satisfaction in Corvo's belly was almost as striking as the pain from before.

(The first day – the morning after the news had arrived – Corvo had dogged the Prince on his final check of the ship, glaring at the crew hard-eyed and baldly menacing. More than one of them had been unable to hold his gaze.

When the Prince had grown tired of the wolfhound at his shoulder he had left Corvo at the door of their shared cabin and told him to get settled; so Corvo had paced the length and breadth of the room like an animal until the brush of his sword against his leg at every step had him throwing the whole of his belt on the chest of clothes someone had left at the end of the cot. Then he had lain down, and his eyes had drifted closed, and when a hand touching his arm had hauled him out of sleep he'd jerked away with a growl not quite leaving his throat.

The Prince had looked at him, asked, Did you eat at all, and Corvo had realized the dimming of light through the window meant evening was coming on. He'd shaken his head.

I'll bring you something, the Prince had said, and when he'd returned with a plate of something cold he had hung up the hammock and told Corvo the cot was his.

The food had been clay on Corvo's tongue.

The second day, Corvo had woken sudden after a few hours of sleep, and found the cabin empty. Rising hadn't seemed to matter: his charge was already gone, well-protected enough by its retinue of bodyguards out here in the middle of the sea. He had stared at the ceiling.

The Prince had returned around noon, and with him a crowd of thought, every one yowling for attention from the brutally uncalmed depths of Corvo's head. Corvo had sat up, abrupt, and stared without blinking as the Prince asked whether he would join them to eat. Maybe later, he'd said, and tracked the Prince's retreating back.

Later became hours. One of the bodyguards came by, sometime in the afternoon, with another plate, and left it for him on the edge of the desk; did the same in the evening, and left again, Corvo's eyes chasing him to the door.

The third day had been a cycle of struggling to rise, making a circle of the room, and sitting down again; of the Prince leaving him food, that gaze as heavy as a mantle, crushing as the weight of a hammer. Corvo had stared back, constantly on the verge of baring his teeth. That look made him want to crawl out of his skin. Everything about the Prince did. His breathing. His living. His judgeful eyes.)

The Prince let the door swing closed in the salt-smelling wind blowing in from outside.

“You're awake.” The Prince still wouldn't look at Corvo.

Astute observation, he thought to himself, and stalked to the chest at the foot of the cot. His belt and weapons were still on top, haphazardly piled, and thrown over that the clothes he'd been wearing the last three days. He jerked on his pants, sniffed the shirt, shrugged, and pulled it on as well.

When he turned as he was doing up the buttons, he found the Prince grimacing. Corvo's narrow-eyed glare dared him to make something of it; the Prince, being himself, had no trouble taking him up on it.

“I saw you smell that.”

“And I decided it would do,” Corvo said, tugging the shirt snappishly into place.

The Prince dropped the bowls and bread off on the desk – the line between bedroom and office was always blurred for him, it seemed, at home or out here, though for now the place remained clear of paper. When he turned back to Corvo, one hip leaning against the edge of the desk as his arms crossed, the straight line of his shoulders was as forbidding as the thinness of his mouth. For ten or twenty seconds, he said nothing. His deliberate staring had Corvo itching to escape his line of sight.

“You want to test it yourself?” Corvo bit out, all bare-toothed challenge tugging the front of it out, but instead of looking away the only change in the Prince was an angry reddening from forehead to cheekbones.

“Don't be crass.”

Corvo snorted, walking to the desk in long, stiff strides only to snatch up one of the bowls and retreat to the cot again. The chair would go to the Prince, anyway; he didn't feel like having to perch on the desk to eat, especially if it meant being any nearer. He felt raw-nerved as it was, on edge. The distance made it bearable.

The Prince watched him walk away, still stern-faced.

“You haven't left this cabin in four days, Attano,” he said, and the grim tolling of his voice made Corvo want to bristle, to hiss – it was too close to pity not to sting. He chewed on the food, jaw working, anger turning it bitter in his own mouth. What a hypocrit. The Prince himself had hardly ever left the palace; he'd only moved a little more because it'd been large enough to allow for it.

Corvo glared him down, but that worked as well as it ever did: the Prince returned it, unimpressed.

“Do you have orders, milord?” Corvo spat, the word entirely devoid of respect.

The Prince almost seemed to recoil. “No –” he started, mouth pulling tight, but then he leaned back forward, frown dour, and said, “but you could bathe, for one,” the curl of his sneer almost exactly the same as the one he had aimed at a dozen courtiers in the past. The one that said, Disgraceful.

Inadequate.

His jaw locked in place, his whole body prickling with a flush of shame, and now he wasn't glaring defiant, but though every inch of bone in him shrieked to escape his eyes refused to pull away from the Prince's gun-barrel pupils –

The Prince didn't stop there.

“You spent eleven years attending the Imperial Court. I don't imagine your Empress would have let you –”

“Do not,” Corvo choked out around the swelling of shame in his throat, “speak of her.”

The Prince's mouth clamped shut. Just as well: Corvo was having enough trouble controlling the brutal sweep of his answering anger without any more insults to contend with. The first rush had left him nauseous and burning, uncertain of his bearings, the flash-bang impression of violence imprinted on his eyelids. He hissed in air through the clench of his teeth.

Apparently aware he'd crossed a line, the Prince focused on his food, leaving Corvo to his silent contemplation of the bowl in his hand.

The Prince was right, in a sense. Corvo had never... been like this, before, not even– not even for the death of his mother, as devastating as it had been. The lack of sleep, perhaps, was familiar. Not so doing and thinking of nothing for hours through the day.

But then there wasn't the endless turning gyre of politics and assemblies and requests for interviews with one aristocratic face or another to attend to, on this ship in the middle of the ocean, far from Karnaca and still further from its destination. Only talk, and the upkeep of his tired body.

The Prince finished his bowl, but it remained in his hands like he needed something to distract them while he watched Corvo, hawk-eyed, from across the room.

“You haven't been reading the books,” the Prince eventually said.

Corvo's eyes flicked up, hair-trigger irritation and a good helping of confusion. What books? Why was– But a quick glance around the cabin reminded him.

He had noticed them, of course; it would have been hard not to, with the way the Prince left them scattered around, one or two lying on every available surface, windowsill included. Corvo had thought him distracted, unable to focus on one, in the brief moment he had dwelled on the question – but of course there'd been more to it.

His gaze came back down. “You've been spying on me.”

“I didn't need to,” the Prince returned. His bowl made a sharp sound as he set it down on the desk. “Nothing has moved. I doubt you would put them all back exactly as they were.”

That's spying, Corvo thought, fixing the Prince with a flat look that fell away too easily. Rage was a formless, slippery thing. When it slid out of his grasp, it left little behind.

“Thank you,” he gritted out through his teeth, “for lunch.” Then he pointedly put the unfinished bowl on the ground, lay down on the cot with his back to the rest of the room, and waited, blankly, patiently, for the clink of bowls being gathered, the sound of the door opening, the gradual cooling of the air until everything was as dark and still and quiet as the holes inside of him.

#repost from my old blog #dishonored #corvodaud #prince!daud #writins

[awakeningofthedeath]

Awakening of the Death: Chapter #16

“You sure this is a good idea boss?” Hans asked as he held Hellen’s right blade hand, hidden blade extended out, from behind as Hellen loomed over Jack’s bleeding side.

In the depths of Hellen’s mind and heart, she was more afraid for Jack then she’d ever been for anyone she knew. She had removed bullets from her own body in the past, yet to remove it from another individual is another matter at hand. Jack could die by the iron in his body, or the low risk of damaging his already broken body further. There was no other option for either of them.

Hellen took a deep breath and exhaled, feeling her heart slowing down only slightly. “We have no surgical tools at hand, and my blade is always sharp; but I cannot preform this in such position. I just need you to aid my hand in parting the tissue and mussel. From what I’ve seen, it isn’t too deep, but it needs to get the hell out of him quickly.”

“And you need me to just guide your arms?” Hans asked, giving a look that Hellen guessed that she must be a mad woman. Hellen probably was crazy.

Taking another breath, Hellen held the tip of her blade over the torn skin, said a silent prayer, and began to work just as James and her father taught her long ago.

Forcing her arm to move, with he aid of Hans, Hellen waited until her left fingers opened up the torn skin, feeling hot blood in between her fingertips. She could see the walls of tissues and mussel exposed, and buried within was the metal bullet. Fortunately this one was small, and couldn’t do great damage, nor was it anywhere near a bone. When the tip of her hidden blade went into the torn skin, she felt Jack flinch aggressively and started to move violently; fortunately, two men held his arms down, let his legs were bucking violently. Hellen felt Hans’s hands leaving her arm.

“Boss, you need to get that metal out soon, or else he’d be ramming himself into ya blade without knowing.” Han’s large body was enough to pin his legs down.

Hellen withdrew the blade carefully. She’d bent down and with her bloody hand, stroked Jack’s blond hair. “You listen to me Jackass.” Hellen was insured, yet cracked as she spoke to the man who rescued her once again. Hot tears began to weld. “I’m just as scared as you probably are right now. The last thing I want you to think is that I’m going to hurt you. Will it painful, yes. But know that I’m saving your life now you idiot! Please...don’t fight me now...just endure it a little longer. Hold on Jack! Don’t you dare leave me here Jackass!”

Hellen looked up to see the two men holding Jack’s arms looking at her with respect. The nodded as Hellen repositioned herself and resumed the surgery. She felt sweat building up on her brow as she leveraged the bullet out from his open wound, she snatched it with her left hand as it exited out of the man. With a flick of her right wrist, the hidden blade withdrew itself back into her sleeve. She looked to see Jack breathing labored breaths. One of the members brought a wet cloth and placed it on his head.

Hellen then took the thread and needle set aside for her, she used the same cloth with a light mixture of bourbon from a flask from one of the members and holding his torn skin together, Hellen began to mend him back together. She’d focused on the work she had to do, yet she looked with her eyes to see Jack’s tortured face, even in his unconscious state, the man has demons to wrestle.

Why? Why Jack? Why Me?

When Hellen completed her work with stitching up Jack, two of the members aided her into carrying Jack back to her apartment. They’d arrived before the dawn rose from the Atlantic. The two men placed Jack upon the bed by Hellen’s directions. He was shirtless with the exception of being wrapped in a bandage around the wound by various clothes from the abandoned shop. Hellen watched from the doorway, holding Jack’s bloody coat. The washing lady would give them hell for the mess. 

When the men finished seeing him in bed rest, they’d checked on their boss as they made their way out the door. “You okay there boss?”

Hellen only nodded, squeezing the black bundle tighter against her chest. “Yes, I’m just...you two better head home. It’s been a long night. I’ll take over from here.” The two men looked at each other then to Hellen, one of them gave a nod and both made their way out the door.

Hellen placed the bundle with the others ready for the wash. She was about to strip off her own clothes that were stained with Jack’s blood. She froze as she was about to removed her shirt, realizing that there was a chance that Jack could wake up, seeing her naked again. Turning to look in the mirror, Hellen noticed that her face was imprinted with his blood from her hands as she had been rubbing her brow and eyes with them, making her look like a Crow warrior.  She’d thought that possibly a wash in the showering area could help her in a great manner.

So Hellen grabbed a bar of soap and a towel with a clean set of clothes as she made her way down the hall. When she made it there, as she stripped herself and turned on the hardened water, Hellen thought about Jack once again, when he first saw her naked. She didn’t get angry though with the thought of Jack staring at her like a pervert. She’d seen that difference compared to when Johnathan tried to rape her. But in Jack’s eyes, those eyes as deep as a clear mountain lake, had the eyes of one who thinks before he leaps, who analyzes before he lunges for an attack. And his hardened mussels on his body, the shape of him that she’d only imagined men of mythology and Native warriors can look unworldly to her. She’d wished she could touch all of him now, to see if an assassin like him is as strong as the legends are visioned in the history books.

Hellen found herself touching her body in ways that startled her. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s bad enough my thighs seemed to be more wet then usual. Now I’m going all gaga like a school girl. Who am I kidding? Jack has been in my mind more then usual. No. He’s now...an important person in my life. Even though we’re completely diffrent; both in assassin and individual terms, he still tolerates the bull shit I put him through. Hell...he was willingly to take a bullet for me!

Hellen pressed her forehead against the tiled wall, trying to diminish the fantasies in her mind, only to replace it with guilt. Too many men and women had died for her in her short twenty seven years.

When she’d finished, Hellen returned to Jack’s bedside, and sat in a chair beside him as he’d laid on the bed, his forehead covered in sweat. His face looked tortured, as if beyond his contagiousness, he is reminiscing the wrong memories.

And I thought my demons wouldn’t let me sleep.

Hellen went to the kitchen, filled a bowl filled with water, grabbed a dish towel from the drawer, and retreated back to the room. She’d dipped the towel into the bowl, the cool water a contrast to the warmth of the shower Hellen just emerged from. She’d squeezed the water from the cotton cloth, folded it in half, and placed it upon Jack’s forehead. She’d traced it along the skin of his head, neck, cheeks, and all that was dampened by sweat. As she allowed the cloth to soak in more water from the bowl, Hellen looked down upon this man who had come to be closer to her then anyone she’d allowed. And now there she was, tending to him like a mother to a child. When in terms, he’d usually took care of her.

“Looks like I’m getting my just desserts...no...” Hellen gave a dried chuckle, trying hard to fight back the tears that threatened to leak out from her eyes. “No one should be in the position where we are now. Especially you Jack” Hellen took one of Jack’s hands and held it closer to her lips, pressing her forehead on Jack’s large palm of his hand. “I already lost one man in my life; I can’t lose you in my account.”

Days past by as Hellen, with the assistant of the wash lady and a few members of the Dark Horses who came by to see their boss lady, Jack remained unconscious for that period of time. During that time, Hellen attempted to make Jack stable; which included giving him some food. 

There was one fact that all who knew Hellen, and even she herself would often state the simple fact; Hellen was not a chef by all means. Some say she could burn water by just the thought of the fact. Perhaps this was due to not having a mother around who’d taught her how to cook, not even Zerelda James had the patience to teach the fiery red haired girl how. Still, Hellen attempted to make a ham and bean soup using the leftover ham from recent meals with pinto beans that were being soaked overnight days prior. She’d only fed Jack the broth when she would lean his head against her shoulder blades. His face was close enough for her to touch. 

One night, Hellen was stressed and tired, so she’d took the time to go upon the rooftop and drink a few shots of vodka until she was more tired then when she needed to be. Before she could retreat to the couch, where she’d slept at the past three nights. 

When Hellen climbed into the bedroom, her mind and emotions were fuzzy, her body tired not only from lack of sleep, but from when she was just barely getting done with her minstrel cycle. Hellen looked at the bed, and in her tired and drunk mind, she saw her pa upon the bed, wearing the same clothes that he’d worn twelve years ago, bleeding from the chest and the cuts on his head. The pain of her father’s death came crashing in.

“Pa...I’m sorry...I’m so sorry...why can’t I’d be as strong as they’d claimed I was born to be? Why can’t I be as strong as you? I can’t allow Jack...Jack...” Hellen’s vision seemed to blurred back to the present, seeing the man with the golden hair. Hellen was tired, and tears flowed down her cheek. She’d needed comfort tonight. So she removed her boots and climbed on top of the covers, snuggling herself against Jack’s body, the warmth welcoming her like a warm fire after a bitter winter. She’d took a deep breath, taking in Jack’s scent. It had a white musk scent that reminded her of juniper trees she’d found a comforting scent when on the run back west. She’d wrapped herself around her savior and fell asleep.

Jack breathed heavily, sweat covering his bare chest and brow. He was laying upon a soft firm bed that seemed so foreign to him; for it had been over a month since he slept in one, with the couch or at occasion, the chair as his place to sleep. He rubbed his face with his left friend, rubbing his eyes together. He then looked down to see two foreign objects upon him. The white bandages that wrapped around his waist, and the sleeping body of Hellen, snuggled into his chest. She was laying on top of the covers, with only a green blanket on top of her. Her face was half covered with Hellen’s auburn hair. Her shirt wrinkled so much, possibly from multi uses without changing. A bare foot stuck out from the blanket, showing a high arched foot with toes that a couple of them looked as if they’d been broken once or twice.

Had she been by my side the entire time?

Then Jack remembered the woman holding him as he slipped into his uncontioustess. It was Hellen who seemed to have saved him. Hellen shifted in her sleep, dug herself deeper into his chest, her soft cheeks brushed Jack’s scar. He moved a curl out of her face, and with his right hand, pulled Hellen in tight, feeling her warmth.

Jack had forgotten what it was like to be held, and now to hold someone. This woman. This is his something to hold onto. He vowed to follow his mother’s spirit’s promise.

As he took a deep breath, eyes heavy with sleep, he whispered “We’re even.”

Darkness took over again; but this darkness seemed to be kinder then usual.

How the hell did she get into this?

Hellen awoke the next morning to find herself on her side, her eyes stinging from the tears that spilt from the night before.She’d turned upon her back and rubbed her eyes as she yawned. When she sat up, Hellen turned only to be surprised to see Jack sitting up in position with a pillow supporting his back and head while reading a book, one that she’d picked up from a print shop days prior.  Mark Twain’s “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer”. Jack then turned his head to look at Hellen, who immediately sat up and turned her face away, blushing red. 

“Jack!” Hellen squeaked out a cry. “I wasn’t expect...I was tired...” 

“I suspected you were.” Jack interrupted Hellen as he’d folded a cover of the book’s page. “Possibly dreaming of the high hills of Hannibal, riding the Mississippi, and now going into a cave trying to find a way not to get caught by Ingun Joe. But then again, you’ve been out for almost a day and a half.” 

Hellen’s face turned red with anger as she realized that he had been up for days possibly when Hellen was asleep.

“Says the man who was out for five days after taking a bullet that was meant for me!” Hellen’s eyes hardened as she looked at the shirtless man, with the exception of the bandage around him. “Why did you do it Jack? You know I could of stood on my own two damn feet. I was so worried about you! I thought I would of lost you like I’d lost my pa...I would of never...” Hellen’s eyes threatened to leak the tears again, and she emerged herself into Jack’s chest and hugged him so tight that she never wanted to let go. “You’re a damn fool Jackass.” She squeaked

Jack wasn’t sure how to take this unexpected gesture. He always felt uncertain when it comes to having someone holding him down. No, not holding down, Hellen was holding onto him The kind of embrace he remembered when his mother would comfort him, even Jacob embraced the lad when after his escape from the asylum. This moment, feeling Hellen’s tight embrace felt like a comfort to him. So he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight as well, smelling the scent of lilies and bath oil in her fiery red hair. He closed his eyes, embracing the relief of the hell they both went through to get Jack back among the living. Yet deep down, the water from Hellen’s heart in a cold dark world was breaking away the hard stone heart that Jack had been bearing for years.

Something was happening with them.

#awakening of the death #hellen patterson #jack the lad #jack the ripper #Assassin's Creed #Assassin's Creed Syndicate #love #healing #the wounded

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Word Count: 1904

Author’s Note: So I had a cool case at work. And this is the result. To be clear, currently, it is not within the scope of practice of a nurse to operate. In any situation.

Imagine Leonard McCoy rescuing you from your crippled Starbase...

“I don’t rightly care, Jim!” You overhead the tall, dark-haired doctor holler across the room. “This is damn barbaric, and there is no excuse!”

Your hackles rose. The med-centre on your starbase had been operating without a doctor for months after the Klingon raid had killed half the crew, including the CMO. You and your team of nurses and techs were barely holding the place together, but it could be so much worse.

“Excuse me, exactly who the hell do you think you are?” You rose to the bait, and when he whirled around to glare at you, almost immediately regretted it. You stormed over to him, and placed your hands on your hips, setting your jaw to prevent yourself from saying anything else.

“Leonard McCoy. CMO of the Enterprise. Who are you, darlin’?” You saw his eyes flick to the rank on your cuff and drew a breath in, standing a little straighter. When the previous CMO had been killed in the raid, his assistant had taken over. When the assistant was subsequently killed and left no more doctors on the starbase, as the senior nurse, you’d been put in charge on a technicality.

“Y/N Y/L/N, Acting CMO of this Starbase,” you replied, meeting his imperious glare with your own. You narrowed your eyes, daring him to challenge you without saying a single word.

“You?” He scoffed.

“What is the issue, Doctor McCoy?” You asked. “I mean, don’t hold back. Please, list every single thing I’ve done wrong, chapter and verse. I’ll look forward to my dishonourable discharge. Since it will mean putting some real land under my feet.”

He was taken aback by your outburst, his shoulders rolling away just as quickly as if you’d physically attacked him.

“This medbay is -”

“Bones, have you looked around?” The man in command gold who’d accompanied Doctor McCoy into medbay interrupted. If it really was Leonard McCoy dressing you down, that could only mean the captain stripes belonged to James T. Kirk. “They’ve retrofitted most of this medbay to function at a near normal level. It’s ingenious. Lt. Y/L/N, you said?” He turned his attention to you. “My understanding was that your chief engineer was killed during the raid. Who made these repairs?”

“We did, sir,” you answered, turning to face the captain. “My staff and I. Once we’d stabilized everyone. Unfortunately the photon torpedo took out our supply cupboard so we’ve been reduced to making do with what little we had. We were able to jury-rig a replicator into a sterile processing unit, but we really need either evacuation or resupply.”

“Evacuation. How many patients do you have?” Captain Kirk asked. McCoy walked down the short medbay, assessing your patients as you spoke to the captain.

“Three. Ensign Rosenburg has been in an induced coma because we can’t treat her wounds with what little we have left, Lieutenant Jenkins is almost finished her final course of dermal regeneration. Ensign Harris needs a revision of an above the knee amputation -”

“Good god, woman, who hacked off this poor man’s leg?” McCoy’s question exploded out of him, causing you to flinch, closing your eyes and turning away from his voice. When you didn’t immediately answer, he stormed over to you, face getting redder with every step. “As near as I can tell, sweetheart, you are a nurse! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that if I didn’t amputated, Ensign Harris would die. And in case you hadn’t noticed, Doctor McCoy, there’s less than a dozen living souls left on this starbase. Each one of their lives is precious to me.” You could feel the hot sting of tears at the corners of your eyes, but you were damned if you were going to let the grumpy man make you cry.

“Bones.” Captain Kirk’s tone carried a warning. Doctor McCoy turned away from you and drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders before turning back to you.

“Do you have any surgical experience, Nurse Y/N?” You could tell he was trying, very tenuously, to keep his temper.

“Yes, sir,” you replied. “I’m a certified surgical technologist, with a trauma specialty.” The training allowed you to operate under the supervision of a doctor. You’d done most laparoscopic surgeries when required, and suturing when required. Ensign Harris’s amputation was your first, and your inexperience was compounded by the incomplete and inadequate supplies and the nature of the injury. Doctor McCoy led you down the Harris’s beside and pulled back the dressing. The distal femur was exposed, the pores of the longbone blanched. What little flesh remained around the stump was retracted, and pulled away, forming a cliff around the edge of the bone. Ensign Harris watched the interaction between you and Doctor McCoy with interest, but chose to say nothing.

“Explain the relevant history here,” McCoy demanded.

“Ensign Harris had a shrapnel wound that shredded the popliteal artery. I resected the artery, but in order to maintain circulation, it required a radical above knee amputation. I had very little viable tissue to work with. His healing was complicated by incisional infection, which caused retraction of the underlying musculature, leaving the blunt end of the distal femur rubbing directly on the dermal layer,” you explained. “I have been trying to maintain a sterile wound since it reopened, which has been difficult given the condition of the medbay, but I felt that a revision to the injury would be more risky at this point. You can read my operative notes, sir, they’re all filed.” You flicked through the patient charting on your PADD and handed it to Doctor McCoy. He leaned against the bedside table as he read through your charting, and amazingly, the furrow in his brow started to relax. You weren’t quite ready to breathe easily yet.

“It really hurt. She fixed it. It didn’t hurt as bad,” Harris offered. “Until it started hurting again.”

You smiled at Harris before glancing over at Captain Kirk, who was chatting with Lieutenant Jenkins. Jenkins was smiling, and showing off the newly repaired skin on her forearm, pointing at you. You could just overhear her praising you, and could feel the colour rising on your cheeks. Your patients and your coworkers understood what you had done, even if Doctor McCoy didn’t.

“We need to revise this wound -” McCoy began.

“Yes, that’s what I said. But I don’t have the equipment or a safe -”

“Scotty, three to beam up, directly to medbay please,” McCoy interrupted and the unsettling gold glimmer of the transporter swirled around you, pulling you through space by a spot you thought might be somewhere in the centre of your spine. “There’s still Jim and two other patients in MedBay. If you can transport them, and then the rest of the medical team, Scotty.” He flipped his communicator closed and pocketed it.

The medbay aboard the Enterprise was like nothing you’d seen before. Starbase 14 was an old, off-the-beaten-path base, and while it had been up-to-date, it was nothing like the state-of-the-art Enterprise. You forced yourself not to goggle like a hillbilly.

“Scrub up, Y/L/N, you know your way around this man’s body, you can assist.” McCoy pulled you back to reality. You worked in silence, only responding to McCoy when he addressed you. After four long hours, he stepped away from Harris and nodded at the open wound. “Go ahead, close it up. Meet me in my office when you’ve stabilized him in recovery.”

You worked quickly and efficiently, managing the unfamiliar equipment with a practiced ease that came with your combined nursing and engineering skills. When you were certain Harris was stable and comfortable, you approached the CMOs office.

“Shut the door behind you,” he ordered. You drew a strengthening breath as you turned back to close the door.

“Doctor McCoy, before you start, I would just like the opportunity to -”

“You can call me Leonard, Y/N,” he interrupted.

“With all due respect, sir -”

“What you did on 14 was very brave. And very stupid. As Jim would like to remind me, it’s exactly the kind of bravery that built Starfleet,” he interrupted again. “So I’d like to make you an offer.”

“I’m confused,” you admitted.

“Starfleet needs the kind of doctor who can rig a replicator to sterilize tools. Who can look at a man who is bleeding out and calmly assess what needs to happen in order to save his life. Who can jury-rig a dermal regenerator to repair burns to 80% of a patient, even though it was designed for patches no greater than 3% of the skin. Starfleet needs you, Lieutenant Y/L/N. But it needs you as a doctor,” he explained.

“Still confused. I thought we’d determined I was just a nurse.” You drew out the sarcastic emphasis on the last few words of your sentence. Doctor McCoy flinched.

“In a pig’s eye, you’re just a nurse. I flipped through your personnel file while you were closing. You’ve got an incredible record, and you had previously been recommended for additional medical training,” he bit out. “You need to head back to the Academy and take doctor’s training. You should be able to challenge out of a number of classes.”

“You need the endorsement of your CMO to challenge -” you began to protest.

“I’ve already endorsed you, Y/N!” He exploded.

“Oh.” You dropped into the chair across from his desk and rubbed your temples, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Relief at being rescued, fear about Harris’s injuries, concern about your other two patients, worry about the rest of the crew, fear from McCoy’s many tempermental outbursts, and the bittersweet ache of being recognized for your ability. You blinked back tears again, but this time you weren’t as embarrassed, and let the first few fall before dashing them away with the sleeve of your uniform. There was a scraping sound and you looked up to see that McCoy had pushed a tumbler of amber liquid toward you. You tossed it back in one swallow, and as the heat of the liquor spread across your limbs, you felt yourself relax for the first time in months. You almost felt like yourself, and for the first time since Doctor Leonard McCoy walked into your medbay, you realized how handsome he was. And how long your dry spell had been. You pushed the glass back toward him.

“Whoa, slow down there, darlin’,” he laughed. “Allowing you to work on a surgery and then giving you too much whiskey? Jim’ll think I’m trying to seduce you.” He refilled your glass. You took a long draw off it before meeting his gaze with your own and smirking.

“Aren’t you, Doctor McCoy?”

He dropped his glass, jumping as the amber liquid splashed across his lap. His eyes met yours as he wiped his hands off on his pant. “I try not to bed my subordinates.”

“All the more reason for me to take you up on that endorsement offer, I guess.” You winked. McCoy sat back down, a flush climbing neck. He refilled his glass without looking back at you, and then raised it.

“To the safe rescue of the remaining crew of starbase 14,” he offered. You raised your glass in return.

“And to those we left behind. Including Ensign Harris’s leg,” you agreed, and tapped your glass against his before finishing your second glass.

#imagine star trek #star trek imagine #leonard bones mccoy #bones mccoy #loenard mccoy #mccoy imagine #imagine mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #mccoy x reader #bones x reader

[cohenjulia1992]

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