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nulfaga · 3 months

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sending you 4 or 8 as you prefer for the prompts :) & i would say lavinia <3 if you’re looking for character suggestions but if you have someone specific in mind….

4: "Hey, it's fashion."

Falcar’s golden magelight makes the guildhall basement a little more inviting, but the smell of mouse droppings persists—so too the stale, still air. No wonder the Guild keeps wine down here, thinks Lavinia. A few feet above is a beautiful Nibenese spring day, humid and fragrant, and down here the cold is rattling her bones. He’d put a muffling charm on the room, Falcar, which had made her uneasy; then he’d made her cast one too and watched her technique, the old goat, which was comfortingly, irritatingly familiar.

All told, she’s confused.

“If you’re here to kill me, wizard,” says Lavinia flatly, “I want you to know it wasn’t me who filched your reagents.”

Falcar smiles. “Wasn’t aware I was missing any.”

“The root pulp and bog-caps, bog-lanterns. . . you’re drawing me out.”

“Bog beacons. I’m not trying to kill you, daft conjurer. I’d be cleverer about it than this.”

“Should hope so.”

“Could I please come out, now?” says an unknown voice, with no source. Before the first thought could put itself together in her head, Lavinia has warded herself and Falcar, and her fingers have sparked with leashed lightning, her hand drawn back to throw—

“Lavinia,” says Falcar in that paralyzing tone he reserves for guild disputes. As if hexed, her hand goes limp. To the empty spot beside him he snaps: “I told you to wait for my word.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” says the young man—he is, as far as she can tell, a young man—and drops his spell. The air wavers and he appears in full effect, a weird creature, lithe and pale, with hair the color of nightshade petals and wrapped in the most outlandishly rich robes imaginable. “I thought I was dealing with a mage, not a nervous dreugh.”

She chokes on her fury—considers throwing the spell anyway, thinks marginally better of it—instead she gasps, “Bite me you fucking peacock popinjay cunt.”

The young man freezes for an instant, open-mouthed, then bursts into laughter.

His laugh is supernaturally pleasant; rich and rebounding, like that of a nymph. “Pop—popinjay?” he says, placing a hand on the front of his robes, shaking with glee. “It’s fashion, thank you very much. Bespoke, even.”

Lavinia, at a loss, stands there and watches him.

“Let’s try this again,” says the young man, a little breathlessly. “P. Copperhart Darkworth of Wayrest at your service, but just Copperhart will do. I apologize for my outburst, and for appearing unannounced, and I thank you for not incinerating me.”

“Lavinia Marciana Caridenius,” she says tersely, ignoring his outstretched hand.

“A pleasure.”

Falcar seats himself in one of the damp basement chairs and motions for Lavinia and the interloper to do the same. “You know I met with the Council a few days ago, conjurer.”

“Yes,” says Lavinia.

“And you know that an official end has been called to the Simulacrum.”

“Yes, wizard.”

“Well. . .Jagar Tharn, during his reign, compromised the Battlespire. Left it open for the Daedra.”

Lavinia grits her teeth. “What do I want with the Battlespire? I’m a University mage, not a Legion suck-up.”

“Listen,” says Falcar, and follows it with nothing. He puts his head in his hands, the grey hair spills between his fingers. Then, sitting upright, he continues: “The Mages’ Council and the Elder Council deliberated together. It was decided that someone must go to the Battlespire and determine whether there are any surviving battlemages, and whether the facility can be retaken in Tharn’s absence. The guildmasters each put forward a handful of names. You, conjurer, and you, master Darkworth, are brilliant, resourceful casters. . .”

“But young and dispensable, if the worst comes to pass,” says Copperhart coolly.

“And who the hell are you, anyway?” Lavinia presses him. “You’re not even Mages’ Guild. Why are you involved?”

He lowers his glasses, peculiar little spectacles with red lenses and jeweled rims, and peers at her over them. “My family is in town, so to speak, for the celebrations. The Darkworths are known to His Imperial Majesty and the Elder Council, so the matter reached my ears by and by. I was asked to step in.”

Both brilliant casters?—it dawns on her. Arkay’s eyes. “You want us to go to the Battlespire together.”

Falcar looks miserable. “So the two Councils have decided.”

“Lavinia Marciana Caridenius,” says Copperhart slowly, as if reciting a poem. “That is a mouthful. What do your friends call you? Liv? Nia? Vinnie?”

She stiffens with outrage when she hears ‘Vinnie’: a mistake. Copperhart perks up like a wolf smelling blood.

“Vinnie!” he declares.

Lavinia catches Falcar’s eye. He knows her. He’s always tut-tutting about her temper, he knows she’ll throttle this purple bastard if he carries on like this, assignment or no assignment, But all she manages is to groan, “Falcar.”

“Take a little time to think. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow,” says Falcar, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Master Darkworth will accompany you into the Imperial City at the end of the week. Until then, not a word about this to anyone, please.”

He rises from his chair in his usual way, pushing himself up from the armrests to spare his knees. Copperhart follows suit and excuses himself from the room with a bow. Lavinia goes to the stairs.

“Conjurer,” comes Falcar’s voice.

She turns around, fuming and a little giddy.

Falcar folds his arms and glances aside.

“What?”

“I. . .I was against this whole undertaking,” he says quietly.

Lavinia closes her eyes. All she wants now is to nap in the afternoon sun. To take the carriage to Gold Leaf, maybe. . . “I should see my family.” She holds Falcar’s gaze. He seems exhausted; he has dark circles. There is a tremor in his hands. “This is a lot to ask, wizard.”

“I know.” Falcar sighs. “Take very good care of yourself.”

“I thought I was dispensable,” she says, petulantly.

He glares at her, the Guildmaster’s glare that stops unruly apprentices in their tracks and withers wizards of lesser authority. “Think again.”

#thank you jay <33 #lavinia #p. copperhart darkworth #my writing #tes #slowly expanding the gemileverse to include every single tes game. we've conquered the mainline now we subsume the spinoffs #actually the battlespire thing is an idea i'm tossing around but i'm not committing to it. it's funnier if the stakes are way lower like #an important guild member gets involved in a scandal and they have to go save his bacon w/o leaking the sensitive info #on the other hand. battlespire!#anyways thank you for letting me write about them <33 #(this is 3e 399 for context. theyre both in their early 20s here and neither can act like it lol)

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nitrosodiumfmp · 3 months

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Other Ideas

I'm actually really lucky to have a week of half term to think about multiple ideas. We remember the early days of Overdeath - stressing about making a super-fast mech combat game or a slow, creeping survival horror game. It was the worst case of deliberation (second to Sweat Pursuit) because I was prototyping for one game, before deciding I wanted to go in a different direction. Remember that grimy, drained-out canal, leading you towards a gigantic, ominous building, the logo SPARKLER CORPORATION lit up with spotlights like something out of a twisted neo-noir film? Scrapped. It looked so cool, and it took a while to make, but it didn't make it in. This time though? I'm not making a single asset until I come across something I LOVE. Trippy industrial city is cool, but I don't want to Doubt myself. Plus, I need multiple game ideas for the FMP.

This is the only one with images by the way, since I'm reusing from my preliminary research. Obviously I want exploration as the primary thing in all my ideas, because that's the game I want to make. But the themes can be applied differently. Sinister City is all about the dread of the environment, and the mystery. Dark alleys bathed in purple light, a scintillating orange sky, and mysterious green glow emanating from high-up windows. Rickety buildings are practically stacked on top of each other; their walls covered with strange machinery. Gears grind, pulleys clank, and pistons hiss - the whole city is alive with a mechanical hum, all while huge clock towers stand ominously in the distance, far out of reach, and trains rumble along overpasses to ferry passengers who will never arrive. The story is that you're trying to find The Man In The Hat, but you'll need to explore every corner of the city to get clues on where he is. You can follow the minor stories of other people in the city, and their stories may tie into the greater narrative. You may have to trespass to uncover the truth, and that may make you a target of whoever - whatever - enforces the law in this dark metropolis.

No images this time around. The idea this time is a fantasy setting, mostly inspired by games of the 2000s. Stuff like Dark Souls, Dark Messiah, Morrowind, Oblivion, and of course, Limbo of the Lost. Its low quality charm is something I'd love to replicate, and it could probably be done in a relatively small setting with over-the-top details for every piece of the environment. The influences are similar, though there is a greater emphasis on applying them via the narrative and basic game ethos. You are a destined hero or villain, which adds to the idea of choice. I might have a sort of "plundering" system where if you're spotted robbing, you'll be attacked. Taking inspiration from Morrowind, dreams will be a key part of the narrative. This could also be cross-faded with demons such as Mares or Alps from Germanic folklore, which choked people in their sleep and created nightmares. I'm thinking the core of it will either be hack-n-slash or a more puzzle-based magic system like Graven, where you use earth magic to conjure up a rock-bridge, or water magic to put out a fire in your path. There'd be multiple ways to go in a level, so whatever discipline you choose, you're good to go. The dark fantasy aesthetic should also make it interesting and unique - tombs, dungeons, et cetera.

I still love zombies - I especially enter a zombie phase around spring, so by coordinating this project during the spring, I'm ensuring that I'll enjoy making this. Essentially, it plays more like a prototypical survival horror, wherein you don't have too many ways to defend yourself and running is your best bet. I'm thinking I might implement some limited method of combat, like throwing rocks or maybe some sort of blade. The King Midas link is more allegorical this time around. If you think of Midas' curse as being something that spreads to whatever he touches, it is a sort of virus. The character of Midas, in this setting, could be the first zombie, and him washing his hands in the River Pactolus would spread the disease to the rest of the population. Either that, or you've been sent to open the sluices, flooding the town and cleansing it of the infection. Another key part; the primal fear of being chased. I love running; there's something undeniably human about it. After all, it's how humanity began as persistence hunters, chasing their prey until they gave up. With zombies, humans become the prey once more - we tire, and the undead do not. That's another interesting philosophical angle of it. If there is going to be one thing that renders humanity extinct, it will almost certainly be a pathogen.

#devlog #gamedev #indiedev #indiegamedev #nitrosodium #indie dev #indie game #indie game dev #indie games

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bellesque · 4 years

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Sweet Dreams (Loki x Reader) Chapter 2

Read chapter one here on tumblr or on AO3.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3.5K Warnings/Tags: Incubus Loki, right now I have no idea what else I’m sorry I’m exhausted Summary: It’s your first free weekend in what feels like forever and you plan on snoozing through it without any interruptions. Someone has other plans.

A/N: Happy early Valentine's Day! I'm actually so overwhelmed with the response this has gotten - it's crazy. I'm so grateful and I love you. Y'all are amazing.

YOU’RE ENTIRELY DISSATISFIED.

You woke up lightheaded and so close, oh so close, to the release that you craved. To have it robbed from you, to come so close only to have it taken away in a little less than a heartbeat, leaves you agitated and—quite frankly—still aroused.

It’s already midday. Surely by now the effects of the mystery man in your dreams have worn off. Surely you’ve forgotten the sound of his enchanting voice, the feel of his mouth on your skin, the absolute bliss that coursed through your body when he…

You’re a little in shock, to say the least. Memories of your fever dream linger in the back of your mind, resurfacing at the most random moments.

You are no stranger to wet dreams. Hell, they’re a welcome change from time to time. What makes this one so different?

Of course, you know the answer. It’s only your stubbornness and pride keeping you from admitting it. You want to chalk it up to just being a dream, too good to be real—only it was real, and you know that in your heart. You just can’t explain how.

Your Saturday morning is spent obsessing over the man (incubus, you recall him telling you) and replaying every little moment from last night’s tryst.

There’s a niggling feeling that you can’t shake: whatever happened last night is far from over. Oh no, things have only just begun.

And the thought thrills you.

You find yourself constantly checking the time throughout the day.

You’re antsy, whether you want to admit it or not. It’s a mix of fear from not knowing if whatever the hell happened was real or dangerous at all, and anticipation for what’s yet to come.

Until the next night of ours, sweet.

Next. You’re absolutely certain he said next, which means that your indecent show yesterday is getting an encore.

The sound of your TV blurs into background noise as you check your phone. 5:36 PM. Far too early for you to be going to bed, but you can’t even focus on the show you’re watching as your thoughts are consumed by what awaits you when you enter dreamland.

You’re too fucking excited to go to bed that the chances of falling asleep as easily as you want are slim.

With a huff, you rise from your couch, stalking to your closet in the hopes that some reorganization will help you clear your thoughts and relieve some of your pent up energy. Tidying up has that effect, right?

And it helps, even just a little. You settle into a rhythm: keep, toss, hey this is cute, and ew why do I have this; fold, hang, roll. You’re surprised to find clothes you haven’t seen in what feels like years and check if they still fit you. One particularly racy number catches your attention, bringing to the fore of your brain the reason why you’re fixing your closet in the first place.

You finger the silky material of one of the straps. Maybe if you wear this tonight…

You all but lunge for your phone and check the time, a twinge of enthusiasm in your actions because you can see it’s beginning to darken outside. Which means it’s almost time to sleep.

7:09 PM.

You let out an exasperated sigh.

As soon as 9 o’clock rolls around (it takes it long enough) and after a long, steamy bath, you pull on the lingerie you found earlier, your hands shaking as if you had just a little too much caffeine. It’s embarrassing how much you’ve worked yourself up over this, turning into a bundle of sex-crazed nerves. It was all you could think about today, you reason. Cut yourself some slack. Or maybe just enjoy it wholeheartedly without the guilt.

The last option is the most appealing.

So you settle into the covers, turn off the lamp that sits by your nightstand, and close your eyes, mentally prepared to accept whatever sexual fate you are to receive.

Only nothing happens.

Your thoughts from today, filthy and secret and quite numerous, play on loop, forcing your mind to stay awake. The opposite of what you want to happen. You want to fall asleep, to see the gorgeous man standing over you and to relish his reaction when he sees what you’re wearing, and then you want to see his expression turn wolfish as he begins to peel off—

You’re doing it again.

Damn it, why can’t you shut your brain off?

You inhale deeply, squeezing your eyes tighter as though the action is enough to command yourself to sleep.

“C’mon,” you mutter to yourself, squeezing your legs together now too. “Sleep, damn it.”

You don’t. Or rather, you can’t.

You don’t know how long you spend lying in your bed with your eyes closed and the rest of your body fidgeting. You toss and turn, attributing your inability to doze off to perhaps the wrong sleeping position. You lie on your back, your stomach, the left side, the right side—and you’re still as restless as before.

At one point in the night you sit up, half-growling, half-groaning your frustration. You just want to sleep. Hasn’t it been your plan for this whole weekend? How is it that they’ve been uprooted and changed so quickly?

Part of you wishes that as you sat up, you’d be met with the charming gaze of the man, signifying that you’ve successfully fallen asleep. Only there is no one to greet you in the night, and you are still most definitely awake.

You’re irritable and tired of the situation, so you grab your phone to watch something before bed. And then it clicks—last night you were listening to the audiobook! It helped you relax then, perhaps it can do the same now.

Triumphant as if you’ve cracked the code, you open it up and let the audiobook play, the narrator’s voice droning on, the words washing over you like a lullaby.

It’s working, you think excitedly as your eyes begin to leaden with sleep. This is the key after all! The audiobook is the gateway to sleep, and ultimately the gateway to him.

And a few good minutes later, you knock out.

You wake up.

Your mind whirrs first, before anything else. The gears of your mind are slow and heavy, groggy, needing a little push. Your eyes haven’t opened, but you can tell it’s already light outside.

What the hell, it’s already light outside?

Your eyes snap open. You’re awake.

You’re fucking awake and he didn’t come last night.

Humiliation creeps into your veins in the form of heat rushing to your face, even if there’s no one but yourself to see it. You even dressed up for him, you think, grimacing as you look down at yourself. Well. That sure was a waste.

Maybe this is the push you need: he isn’t real after all. This week you were tired, short-fused, and definitely sexually deprived. You climb out of bed and pad towards your bathroom. Yes—you conjured up a literal dream man who also happened to be a sex god. Only your mind didn’t give you the courtesy and satisfaction of actually boning with the said dream man.

As you turn on the showerhead, you can’t help the disappointed exhale that echoes around you. Maybe you’re crazy, and him simply a figment of your imagination, but he felt real.

But it’s time for you to stop living in your head, you decide firmly. You’re calling Isla (she’s the one who recommended the audiobook) to see if she can hook you up with a blind date next weekend. After all, you’re a woman with needs, and you can’t rely on dreams to get off.

This time you enjoy your Sunday without any new thoughts of him.

“So listen,” Isla says to you on the phone on Tuesday afternoon, “I finally got you a date, but the catch is, he’s not free on the weekend. Thursday sound good?”

“Thursday’s perfect,” you reply, hitting send on one of the emails you’re writing. “Thanks, Isles. What’d you say his name was again?”

“Jacob. He’s a solid 8/10 both in the looks department and in the sheets. You did say you wanted one night stand material, right?”

“Not a one night stand, per se. I mean, yes, well”—you blow air out through your nose—“it’s whatever.”

“Right, this whatever of yours is going over to your place on Thursday night so better get that engine running soon, because you don’t sound the least bit excited at the idea of getting laid. You okay?”

“It’s fine.” You swivel in your chair. You can’t exactly tell her your blind date-slash-hookup probably won’t top the experience you had with mystery dream guy, so you choose to be deliberately vague in your answers. “Thursday it is. Now, I gotta go, I have work to do—talk to you soon.”

This is your solution: to screw him out of your mind by replacing figment with fact. Hopefully it works.

You get the feeling it won’t.

Wednesday night, you fall asleep to the sound of rain outside. There’s something about the peace and tranquility, the steadiness of the pitter patter, that comforts you like a familiar blanket.

You’re dreaming tonight: it’s nothing out of the ordinary, just you and Isla on some island getaway downing tropical drinks. You’re heading up to your hotel room, laughing, but a figure in a jet black suit stands right in front of your door. You stop, blink, and the scene changes from your island getaway to your bedroom.

He’s back. And real.

You’re sitting on your bed, staring, your heart thumping loudly against your ribcage. Vastly different from you, he’s leaning against the door, his posture casual and aloof as if he owns the place.

He regards you with a twinkling eye, his lips just barely curved upwards. He quirks up an eyebrow as he pushes off the door and takes two steps towards your bed.

“Did you miss me, pet?”

Something inside you melts as soon as the question is asked, his voice still as rich and full as you remember it nights ago. And then you remember it’s been almost a week, and that he’s left you hanging for that amount of time.

Without much thought, you slink out of bed and walk towards him. “You came back,” you say, and you’re proud of the fact that your voice is stronger than you feel. Right now you want to melt, sink into him and all his spaces, but the humiliation you felt (albeit weirdly misplaced—who gets upset that they got stood up by a dream guy?) takes precedence.

“Did you doubt that I would, kitten?”

You are about a pace apart from each other. Feeling bold, you look up into his green eyes. Oh, how you can get lost in them: warm and seductive and—

No. You will not make this easy. He comes for pleasure, and his alone. You were a little naïve to think he would consider you in this equation, but you know better now.

“I mean, it has been a fucking week. Almost.” There’s an edge to your tone, you make sure of that. Just to make it clear to him that even if he isn’t human, it’s not fair to leave someone on the brink of orgasm and let them think about it for days on end.

“A fucking week?” he repeats, only his tone is amused and thoughtful. He takes a step towards you and you instinctively take one back. A dance of sorts, only there is no reciprocation from you. “I apologize for my absence, sweet. I had other responsibilities I needed to take care of and I didn’t think it would affect you this much. Let me make it up to you”—your knees bump against the corner of your mattress and you buckle under the surprise of it. You sit with a yelp, and he rests his hands on your bare shoulders. “Let me make it up to you by a fucking week.”

“What?” Is he going to make you wait again?

His fingers begin to drum lightly on your collarbone. His eyes are practically glittering with excitement, mesmerizing you with how devastatingly handsome he is up close. Especially when he’s looking at you like that.

“As you put so eloquently, sweet, a fucking week. An entire week of me coming to ravish you night after night, until you’re completely sated and satisfied.” His voice is a murmur, so low and heady you think you hear it inside you, warming you from your innermost parts to the tips of your fingers. “Does that appeal to you, pet?”

Your eyes flutter close as his long fingers skim up and down the column of your throat. Barely five minutes and your resolve has flung itself out the window.

“Yes,” you breathe, arching your neck as he brushes hair from your shoulders.

“Good. I intend to have my fill, and we’ve barely begun. Let’s make a game of it, hmm?” He twirls a lock of your hair around his index finger. “Being my lover is no easy feat. We need to heighten your senses, make sure you’re well-prepared.”

“What do you mean?” The question you ask spills from your lips as a default reaction, not truly thought out. Your attention is elsewhere, that being everywhere his fingers brush against.

“I’m going to learn about you, sweet. And you are going to learn about me.” He presses his palm flat against your chest, right on your sternum, the purposeful action a contrast to your now submissive self. Gently he pushes you until you’re lying on your back, and he climbs onto the bed with each leg on either side of you. His lean figure looms above you, dominating, as he lowers himself, stretching across you, the length of his body encasing you in his warmth and scent. He settles his weight on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you, but the hungrier part of you wants to have as little space between you as possible. It’s intoxicating you further; with every breath you take you feel like you’re inhaling more of him. You just want more of him.

He lowers his head until you feel his mouth at the shell of your ear. Something inside you coils in long-awaited anticipation, your muscles tense and rigid, as if any unwarranted movement will cause this reality to crumble in on itself.

His nose skims the helix of your ear, his prolonged inhale adding to the fire in your veins. And then he speaks in that spellbinding timbre that drives you mad.

“Night after night after night, I’m going to ravish you with my attention. My affection. I will discover, sweet, what desires you keep in the deepest recesses of your heart, where no one else but I can reach, and I will discover what desires have yet to be awakened in you. I like to think I’m quite skilled at that.” He chuckles in your ear, the sound filling your mind with fantasies and visions of other sounds he can make, none of them innocent. “I want to know everything, sweet. I want to see everything—every rise and fall of your chest when you come close to release, the way your delicious lips part when it finally happens.”

Your eyes have slipped close at this point, every fiber in your being attuned to his words and his voice, hypnotizing you into picturing what he means.

“Yes, can you see it now?” His index finger traces light, arbitrary patterns on the outside of your bare thigh. “Because I can, quite perfectly. You’re going to be a wonderful treat, my dear—so delightful to unravel. Every change in expression, every shift in of your muscle, I’m going to savor it all. Savor you. And then you will learn about me: what I enjoy, how to make me beg for you after you’ve begged for me.”

He drags a hand over your thigh from the knee up, until it rests on the spot between your hip and your ass. You can’t stop yourself from making a little noise (did you just whimper? ) and your hips lift off the bed ever so minutely you think he doesn’t notice—but he does, because he hums and settles the weight of his pelvis over yours.

He’s hard and huge, and a thought flashes through your mind: oh, the things he can do to you with that much power between his legs and the things you want to do to it.

“I like that sound, pet,” he comments, his lips skimming across your earlobe. He gyrates his hips over you once, twice, and then heaves off you. “Do it again.”

A curse tumbles from your lips, and he chuckles.

“What are you doing to me?” Your voice sounds different to you, breathy and almost whiny, and you’re hit with the realization that any form of coherency you have left is about to disappear from you entirely.

He puts his weight on you again, the stiffness poking at your belly a reminder—as if you need it—that there is the promise of more, and that he wants this probably as much, if not more, than you do.

“Teaching you,” he answers simply, his head dipping further to pepper your jawline with kisses. This time you allow yourself to relish the moment, and your neck moves to give him more access as his lips travel to a sensitive spot behind your ear.

“I… I’m not sure w-what I’m learning,” you respond between heavy breaths.

He sucks on a sensitive spot, just at the junction below your earlobe where the base of your jawline is, and you hear yourself gasp, a needy sound that under any other circumstance, would make you shy away in an instant. But here, in this moment, you feel there is no other way to express fully, and the sound is just right.

The gentle suction on your neck is somehow in time with the throbbing of your body, pulsing with the ache for more. His tongue licks over his new spot once he’s done, and your eyes all but roll to the back of your head at the action. The idea that he has just marked you as his sends an electrifying shudder down your body. He moves his face so it’s aligned with yours—you can feel his nose brushing against yours and his lips are a hair’s breadth away. They’re parted, so close to yours—you could easily capture them in a kiss with the slightest tilt of your chin. You try to do so, only you can feel him pull back and laugh lightly.

“First lesson,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth and then down to the ear he hasn’t whispered in. You shiver, craning your neck to the side. “Well, perhaps not a lesson just yet. But the first thing you must remember is my name.”

Yes. Finally you will know his name, something you can scream and whisper and groan in the future. It’s as if he reads your mind, because he continues, “I want to hear you say my name in all different ways. Soft, loud. Pleas, demands. Is that alright with you, sweet?”

You can’t string a single sentence now, with his mouth at your ear and his hands skimming over the skin where your pajama top has ridden up. Your brain is fried, muddled with lust, so all you do is nod.

“Good girl. Now let me hear it from that pretty mouth of yours.” He moves to kiss both your closed eyelids, your nose, until he’s hovering over your lips. You can feel them move above yours and it takes all your willpower not to kiss him right there. “Repeat after me: Loki.”

Loki. It’s a fitting name, for some reason. You can’t picture him with anything else.

“Loki,” you whisper against his lips, quiet and hushed, and it feels right, rolling off your tongue like a stream of water.

“Very good,” he says, and at last he presses his lips against yours, searing hot and languid at the same time. It’s as if he’s taking his time tasting you while you let him take control, his tongue skimming your top lip. And then he kisses you with more fervor, a little growl coming up deep from his throat, and he opens his mouth and takes your bottom lip in between his teeth.

Stars. You’re seeing stars.

Your breathing hitches as he sucks on your bottom lip, a steady rhythm that opens up the floodgates of filthy thoughts and wants and wishes. Giving one final suck, he completely lifts his entire body off of you. Your eyes open, bleary and heavy, and you can see just how divine he looks above you: aroused, flushed, and staring at you with the intensity of the summer sun.

“First real lesson, sweet,” he says, his voice just the slightest bit rougher, “is sound.”

#loki fanfic #loki x you #loki x reader #smut #incubus loki #reader insert #tom hiddleston #fanfic #by belle

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elopez7228 · 4 years

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Scenic route 20/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

The conversation flowed amicably and Rey was quite relaxed by the time the Millenium Falcon reached the parking lot of the tourism office.

Maz left the car with one last affectionate pat for BB8, taking a moment to thank Rey for wishing her safe travels.

Inside the immense air-conditioned mass that was the tourism office, a 4-feet-wide digital clock showed the countdown until the next eruption of the geyser.

With nearly half an hour to spare, Rey took a walk through the gift shop. She briefly admired the keychains and postcards, before pausing in front of an item that left her quite perplexed. Bear spray? What on earth was that?

The shopkeeper—who was appropriately decked out in green forest ranger attire—informed her that it was used by hikers to ward off bears in the unfortunate event of an encounter. An accessory that would surely save lives, given the population of grizzlies that roamed freely within the park.

Rey bought one because she knew that only too well. The odds of her being attacked by a bear a second time in so few days were low, but she had learned not to underestimate her natural tendency to conjure bad luck out of nowhere.

Her phone informed her it was almost show time, so she settled on one of the benches installed in a semi circle at a safe distance from the white crater of the geyser.

***

Syed felt like a punk in a playground. She had ended up in the middle a sea of tourists who were all wearing some hideous combination of sun hats, shorts, Hawaiian shirts, cameras, and—she shuddered—socks with sandals. She stuck out like a sore thumb against the pastel masses with her tall black-clad frame, her numerous piercings, and her menacing brass chains.

She cursed Kylo for sending her to hell, far from her friends, her audience, her guns... and him. She had taken multiple photographs of a very sloppily dressed Rey, who had taken the Millennium Falcon for a joyride. Now she was wondering who to send them to. Kylo? Or Hux? Or maybe Snoke?

Theoretically, she was doing this mission on behalf of Kylo Ren. But he had shown signs of weakness that in his interest, she had the duty to report further up the chain of command...his obsession for this little English brat was beyond comprehension.

He used the hunt for environmental activists as an excuse to justify his meddlesome romantic advances, but Syed was no fool. This girl was just a tourist. She wasn’t a secret agent of the Earth Soldiers. She was frolicking about with sunglasses and a cap glued to her skull, sipping some basic frappuccino, bothering bears, and taking selfies. It was improbable, and even impossible, that she was on a mission for an ecologist association that was making dooms-day preparations. She was too relaxed; obviously a woman on vacation, certainly not an agent on active duty.

Syed meanwhile, was always on the clock. It was a shame really, the amount of time had she wasted stalking that bitch.

She finally sent the photos to Armitage Hux. He was particularly pleased when he received an image of Kylo in the throes of passion with his plaything. She didn’t know what he would do with it, but she knew from experience that when Kylo needed a guardrail, Armitage Hux was the man of the hour. He would simply do a little sleight of hand and suddenly the unruly punk would fall back in line.

Everything would be back to normal...like nothing had ever happened.

As for Kylo Ren himself, knowing he needed a bone to chew on, she sent him hourly reports of his little protege, deliberately omitting any mention of the hitchhiker. It was really the only useful information of the day; and she preferred to keep an ace up her sleeve in case he decided to be difficult.

The hitchhiker was nearing the Millennium Falcon again, and Syed went off to disappear into the crowd.

The little woman circled the car for a while, then sat down on the hood, with spectacular ease. She took off her hiking boots and massaged the soles of her feet. Syed rolled her eyes. For fuck’s sake, this old hag was probably less important an update than she had initially anticipated.

When Rey came back, the woman had come down from her perch and was waiting patiently next to the mirror. Rey frowned. People had to seriously stop their fascination with her car. What was that all about?

All her wonder at the sight of the geyser (the truly magnificent explosion of water and steam as high as a five-storey building), faded to give way to an anxiety that was alas, very familiar.

"You’re still here?” Her reaction was harsher than intended, spurred on by the unexpected intrusion.

"I was waiting for you, I hope you don’t mind," Maz replied innocently. “I haven’t found another ride, may we continue some of this journey together?”

Rey regretted her initial inclemency. She reacted too intensely, to everything. She took a breath to force herself to regain her composure. Maz was harmless, but it was easy to see why she was struggling to find a helping hand: the park was teaming with pretentious tourists who were reluctant to change their route or their agenda...and who were suspicious of pickpockets. She had been one of them, after all.

Rey sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Okay, fine...but I’m warning you, I’m doing a tour of all the geological marvels out here.” She said with a smile.

“Fine with me,” Maz smiled in return. “Thank you very much. I promise you won’t even know I’m here.”

Rey swallowed a remark about Maz’s tiny stature, and gently pushed BB8 over to make space.

“It's funny,” Rey observed. “BB8 doesn’t seem at all disturbed by your presence. She’s rather aggressive with strangers, usually.”

“What strangers?” Maz laughs, reaching out to stroke the dog.

"Oh, just one stranger in particular," Rey corrected with a wave of her hand. “It was impossible for him to approach, she would try to bite him.”

“Had they met before?”

“No, of course not. He would have told me if...” Rey’s voice caught in her throat.

Did Ben and BB8 have history? It was unbelievable, and yet...he had immediately shown interest in her, seemingly out of nowhere, when they had joined him in the Jackson Hole Lodge parking. He even outright asked if BB was her dog.

It was a silly question to ask someone walking with a dog on a leash. Why would he need confirmation?

Now that she thought about it, he had asked the same strange question about the Millennium Falcon:

Is this your car?

Obviously, it was hers. It’s not like she was just playing Russian roulette out there, hoping to find a car she could force open in the middle of the parking garage. But it was strange that he tried to make sure.

That said, in his defense, perhaps it was simply because the Millennium Falcon was an infamous bastard of a car. Anyone would have been shocked at seeing a machine like this still in use! Who knows what went on in Ben’s head?

Her face had scrunched up into a worried expression, which did not escape Maz.

"Something bothering you?” She asked in a gentle voice, “maybe I can be of some help?”

"I don’t really know," said Rey, still pensive, as she slowly pulled out of the parking space, "I've experienced some rather unlikely things since I landed in Denver. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

"Start at the beginning," Maz replied encouragingly. “I've got plenty of time.”

That afternoon, Rey and Maz visited some of the most spectacular geological sites around the volcano: boiling springs that gave way to rainbows, geysers by the dozen, bubbling fumaroles ...they even crossed paths with animals that were once threatened in the wild—but were in total safety within the park’s verdant confines. They came upon placid bison, elk, and bald eagles. Thankfully, they saw neither bears nor wolves. These animals, however numerous, tended not to approach busy trails.

They spoke a lot.

Rey found in Maz an attentive third party, to whom she could open up without fear of judgment, and especially without fear of the rampant sexual tension present in her conversations with Ben. She knew he was attracted to her, he did nothing to hide it. But as a result, she continually wondered if the words he said were sincere, rather than a carefully prepared speech designed to charm her to his bed. He had almost managed to get there, in fact.

In principle, there was no harm to that, she was a consenting adult. And she had to admit that she had savored every kiss, every touch...But her own ardor worried her. Had she flirted with Ben Solo because she wanted him, or because she needed to be reassured, to be held, after what Finn had done to her?

She had to put her heart back in place, heal her wounds, find her inner peace. Only then would she consider Ben Solo.

"You do not want to make him your consolation prize," Maz hummed sagely. “That is rather commendable.”

“I don’t think he cares either way. I mean, we are both consenting adults, but I don’t want to be a trophy...be just another notch in his bedpost.”

"You should talk to him...is it possible you’re mistaken about his intentions towards you?”

Rey narrowed her eyes. “Yes, we need to talk ...” about more than you know.

Maz was from Florida. She was bored of her apartment which sat at one end of the land, and thus decided one morning to go on foot to the other end. She had plenty of time, and improvised her itinerary at random. She had a host of tales to tell about backpacking trips to Central Asia or South America, often far from cities and crowds, and Rey began to wonder how old she really was.

It was impossible to say: her face was both smooth and furrowed, her eyes constantly hidden behind huge triple-focus glasses. Her hands were small but her fingers were long and bony. Despite her diminutive appearance, she seemed to burst with energy, and possessed an exceptional amount of savoir faire.

Yellowstone? She knew every corner of the place. Alaska? She knew which roads to use in which season. London? She had lived there twice in her youth. The Millenium Falcon? She had once owned a car of the same make and model. BB8? Canine behavior was no mystery to her.

What a strange old woman, Rey pondered, finally glad to have good company.

Black Sand Basin, Geyser Basin, Great Fountain Geyser, Lower Geyser Basin...The park's attractions were like cat nip to tourists, including Rey and Maz. It was hard to blame people for coming all the way to Yellowstone form the corners of the globe.

Evening was falling. The day had been exhausting, the traffic was atrocious, and the heat was stifling.

Rey went to the Madison Village campground in the park to reserve a place for the night.

Everything was complete.

Finally able to stop panicking, she was content to sleep in her car in the campground parking. Simple as that.

But what about Maz?

Leaving the campsite's bungalow, she returned to her car. The little woman was standing there, her bag hoisted on her shoulders.

"I’m all done for today," Rey explained, “I'm going to sleep in the car, they told me it was okay as long as I paid parking fees. How about you?”

She gestured awkwardly at the car. “Do you want the back seat? BB8 can come sleep with me...?”

Maz smiled to assuage her fears. “Don’t worry, young lady. I'm used to sleeping under the stars.”

"Right here?! With the bears and everything—“ Rey was incredulous.

“Don’t fret. I’ll take care of myself, you take care of yourself and BB8.”

Rey looked away as the sound of tinkling bracelets faded into the distance. Better not think about it, the last thing she need was an extra dose of anxiety. And besides, she was hungry.

The vending machine at the campsite procured a packet of chips, a flavorless coffee, and a Snickers bar. Dejectedly, she looked down at her meal. It was the food pyramid of sadness.

She wanted fresh vegetables and a hot plate...she would have to plan better tomorrow. These snacks were barely what she considered food.

What was Finn doing now? She couldn’t help but wonder.

He was probably still on the respirator; if there had been any improvement in his condition, Poe would have called her.

What was Ben Solo doing?

That was easy, he was about to give a concert. Rey pulled out her phone. Should she call him or send him a message? She opted for a message.

Good luck with the concert tonight! Not too nervous I hope?

An answer arrived immediately. He wasn’t on stage yet.

Thanks for the good vibes! But I wish you were here in the room.

#reylo #fanfiction #Scenic route #Modern AU

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ineffably-good · 4 years

Text

Sunday Snippet #2 - Good Omens Ficlet

Of Sentient Pants and Other Wonders

Too long? You can go read it on AO3 also!

Crowley went to his closet and pulled out his usual pair of black silk pyjamas �� he was honestly just as likely to sleep in the nude, but sometimes in the winter he liked to be covered and silk was his favorite way of keeping warm. He hardly had to look to find them – he owned three identical pairs after all, neatly folded on the top shelf of his black lacquer armoire. He reached in in the darkened room, pulled out the top set off the pile, and … froze.

These were not his pyjamas, or at least not as he had last seen them.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted. “Angel! Get up here!”

The angel appeared a few minutes later, having finished up his tasks in the kitchen, with a wide, pleasant, perfectly innocent smile on his face.

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley held the pyjamas up to him. “Are you responsible for this?”

Aziraphale looked at him placidly. “I washed and folded them, yes.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. There was absolutely no reason for either of them to do laundry, but the angel insisted. That, however, was a matter for another time. He shook them again.

“No,” he said, “I mean this.” He stabbed a finger at the pocket on the front of the top.

The pocket which was now lined in tartan.

Aziraphale’s tartan.

Aziraphale made a show of leaning in and examining it. “Oh, would you look at that?” he said, pleasantly. “Your pyjamas have clearly made a dashing new choice to spiff themselves up a bit! I don’t know what you’re fussing about, I think it’s rather charming.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, flabbergasted at the angel’s capacity for being a little bastard, and found himself unable to make a rejoinder as the angel patted him consolingly on the shoulder and left the room.

He decided the pocket could stay.

His boxers, apparently, decided to follow suit a week later. All of them. They may have been that way for a while, to be honest – he rarely opened that particular drawer, preferring instead to just miracle a fresh pair on whenever he needed to. But this day, for some reason, he was looking through the wardrobe trying to find a scarf he hadn’t worn in a few years, and he pulled open his unmentionable drawer and stuttered to a stop.

He took a pile of them and sauntered out into the shop to find the angel, who was at the cash register processing a sale. Crowley smiled tightly at the customer and slammed the pile of pants down right on top of the man’s book.

“Tartan,” he said. “They’re tartan.”

Aziraphale looked askance at him, and then huffed as he lifted the pile of underwear off of the book.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to his customer. “He’s a little… dramatic.” He gave the demon a quelling look. Crowley watched in studied impatience as the angel slowly and deliberately completed the transaction. It was only after he carefully wrapped the book in brown paper and sent the man on his way that Aziraphale turned to him and made a ‘please go ahead’ gesture.

“My pants,” Crowley said, “have turned tartan.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, all this fuss is about a few pairs of pants?” Crowley frowned ferociously at him, and in apology he leaned over to examine the garments. He thumbed through the pile, examining them closely.

“Well,” the angel said, straightening up and giving him a look, “I think they look quite fetching. Perhaps you could model a pair for me later?”

Crowley smiled in spite of himself, then shook his head and frowned. “Don’t change the subject. Why are you messing with my wardrobe?”

Aziraphale held out both hands in a gesture of absolute openness. “I’m not! I swear!”

“So you’re saying my clothing is just changing itself?”

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I honestly have no idea, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps they’re becoming sentient from spending too much time around ethereal entities?”

Crowley eyed him suspiciously. “I highly doubt that.”

“You’re just concerned,” the angel said, loftily, “that your clothes are showing better fashion sense than you are, love.”

Crowley waved a hand over his boxers and changed them back to plain black, and stalked back to put them away. He didn’t notice that the bottom two pairs switched back to tartan before he even put them away.

Peace reigned for a few weeks without any further modifications to his wardrobe, and Crowley began to relax his vigilance. Perhaps the angel really had been telling the truth about not having a hand in it – or if he had, he had wisely decided to give it up.

“I’m going out to get wine, angel,” Crowley called as he came down the stairs and out of the back room. “Any requests?”

Aziraphale smiled and reached up to pull his head down for a kiss. “I know whatever you get will be lovely, dearest,” he said. “Hurry back to me!”

Crowley swung out of the shop and patted the Bentley’s hood affectionately as he let himself into the driver’s seat. Since there was no angel to urge him towards caution, he gave himself free reign over the gas pedal and indulged in speeds of upwards of 95 as he sped into northern London to his favorite wine purveyor. He grabbed an empty crate out of the boot for his eventual purchases and then patted the Bentley goodbye as he headed in.

As was his wont, Crowley had a long, leisurely conversation with the owner, tasted several of his recent acquisitions, and then purchased an assortment of six high quality bottles he thought the angel would enjoy. Then, bidding his friend goodbye, he went back outside to tuck his purchases away in the boot – and stopped.

“Oh Aziraphale,” he breathed. “You are a dead man.”

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading as the shop bell tinkled loudly. The smile and greeting he’d been about to offer died on his lips as he took in the demon’s demeanor. His posture was stiff and forbidding, his eyes were snapping, and he looked like he’d just come from a fight.

“Are – are you all right, my dear?” he asked.

Crowley looked at him impassively. “Come with me,” he snapped, before turning and walking back out the door without looking to see if the angel was following him.

Aziraphale blinked after him for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and followed him out onto the pavement. Crowley was waiting impatiently next to the Bentley, which was parked in its usual haphazard fashion in the tow zone at the corner. Crowley snapped the trunk open and bid the angel to take a look.

Aziraphale gestured up the tiniest amount of heavenly glow – it was dark out, after all – and bent in to take a good look. He gasped.

The whole interior of the boot was lined with tartan. It was subtle, replacing what had previously been a tan fabric lining with a gorgeous version of his own heaven-inspired tartan in soft shades of tan, cream, and sky blue. Aziraphale took a moment to admire it, even wiggling a little in approval, before he remembered that an angry demon was watching him and that this was most decidedly Not A Good Thing.

He looked up and was met with just about as much of a death glare as he had expected.

“Now, Crowley,” he began, nervously. “You can’t seriously think that I’d be foolish enough to mess with your Bentley. You must know that I am fully aware that this would be a rather serious transgression!”

Crowley did not look impressed. “You want me to believe that someone else – some other person in the whole bloody universe – has a vested interest in taking little bits of my belongings and covering them with your official tartan?” He snorted. “I’m sorry but that’s just implausible.”

“Well, I have to agree with you that it looks bad,” Aziraphale said, trying to think of a possible explanation. “But I promise you, I’m not doing it.”

“Swear it, angel. Swear it on something important to you.”

Aziraphale screwed up his face in thought for a moment, then smiled. “I swear it on the Ritz,” he said. “May we never go there again if I’m lying.”

Crowley stared at him intently, looking for shiftiness or a glint of humor, looking for his usual tells when he was fibbing, which the demon had come to know intimately after the last six millennia – and found absolutely nothing.

“All right,” he said gruffly. “I believe you that you’re not doing it. Or at least I believe that you’re not doing it on purpose.”

“What does that mean? How could I possibly be doing it by accident?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “This from the being that accidentally makes flowers grow and butterflies appear whenever he’s very happy.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh! You mean you think I’m doing this with my – with my emotions?”

“That,” the demon said, “is my only working theory in the moment.”

“Can we talk about this inside?” Aziraphale said miserably. “It’s chilly.”

Crowley softened and led them back inside, where he conjured up a cup of cocoa and a glass of wine and sat them both down on the couch.

“Ok, so what were you doing while I was out?” Crowley asked. “Specifically about an hour ago when I was in the shop? Because it changed from tan to tartan while I was buying the wine.”

Aziraphale thought. “I had just closed the shop, and I was having a little tea, and I was thinking back over the events of the day, and a bit about earlier in the week.”

“What specifically?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, just, you know – I was thinking about you, and how much I like having you here, and about what kind of wine you were getting.”

“Were you feeling any particularly strong emotions?” Crowley asked.

“For a moment, perhaps,” the angel admitted. “I was thinking about the flea market last Sunday, and how that ridiculously cheeky young man was hanging all over you while I was bargaining for that second book I picked up, and how flustered you looked when I turned around and found him with his hands on your –"

“Angel,” Crowley cut in. “Look.”

He held up his wine glass. It now had a tartan rim.

Aziraphale gasped. “That happened just now?”

“Mmmmm hmmm.”

“So, you mean, every time I feel a little bit –”

“Possessive? Jealous?” Crowley smirked. “Looks like.”

Aziraphale moaned and picked up a throw pillow to bury his face in. “I’m such an idiot.”

“And a few weeks ago when you turned my boxers tartan? What was going on then?”

Crowley sounded, the angel thought, like he was enjoying having the moral high ground just a little.

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” he protested.

“Let’s see, that was right after we had the talk about my past temptations, wasn’t it, where I revealed that I had once tempted Queen Elizabeth the first to partake in a little debauchery behind the scenes?”

“Yes, yes, that sounds correct, there’s no need to –”

“And the week before that, with the pajamas? I can’t seem to recall anyone hitting on me around then,” Crowley said, puzzled. “What had you in a tizzy right then?”

Aziraphale sighed and surrendered utterly. “You talked in your sleep the night before.”

“I – I WHOT?” Crowley screeched. “What did I say?”

“Something about someone named Franklin,” Aziraphale sniffed, and patted down his clothing in an ostentatious manner. “Really, my dear. Franklin? Why not just go out and date someone named Melvin, or Roy?”

Crowley eyed him. “You were jealous because I said a random name in my dream? And by the way, I’ve never dated anyone by any of those names, and you know it. I’ve told you about everyone I was ever involved with, and you know they were a very small crew.”

Aziraphale looked utterly dejected. “I suppose that’s the truth. I’m sorry my dear.”

Crowley was silent for a moment, and the angel wondered what he was thinking but was too afraid to look up. The demon solved that problem for him by sliding over next to him a minute later and placing a hand on his knee.

“As far as crimes go, angel, this is a pretty minor one,” he said softly. “No need to look so downtrodden over the whole thing.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve been getting jealous over ridiculous things and then MARKING you, my dear. It’s so… so unbecoming. I’m supposed to be an angel, not a territorial human!”

Crowley tipped the angel’s head to the side and leaned in for a kiss. “It’s kind of sweet when you put it that way. When you get worried about whether someone else is after me, you put your tartan on me so the whole world can see that I’m yours.”

Aziraphale fluttered his lashes.

The demon kissed him again. “Can’t say that I really mind that, honestly. It’s almost a little bit sexy.”

“Oh, come now, you,” the angel admonished, but the hint of a smile was playing around the sides of his lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Plus, now I’ll know if I’ve ever really done something wrong,” Crowley continued, peppering small kisses along the angel’s hairline. “Because I assume my entire outfit will suddenly turn plaid. That should scare any other potential suitor away.”

Aziraphale laughed unwillingly. “Stop!” he begged. “Please, I’m so embarrassed. Can we just get back to the kissing and less talking?”

Crowley leaned back and smiled. “Soon as you put my car back to rights, sure.”

The angel waved a hand in the air in a rapid fashion and Crowley felt a strong sense that all was once again back to normal with his car.

“Shall I do the boxers and the pyjamas too?” he asked.

“Nah,” the demon said. “I kind of like it. It will be our little secret.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He knew this conversation was going to come back to haunt him. He had unwilling provided the demon with the ammunition of a lifetime for endless rounds of teasing. He would consider how best to wriggle out of this later. But for now, he leaned forward and pulled the demon close, determined to bring this round of conversation to a firm and decided close.

No one could withstand the full power of a love-besotten angel, after all. Not even a demon.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #idiots in love #jealousy #possessive aziraphale #unintended tartan #general goofiness

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syntaxeme · 4 years

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Giardino Segreto ch. 4

[Read on AO3] | [First Chapter] | [Next Chapter] Rating: T Chapter summary: After some deliberation, Angel decides to take Alastor up on his offer of a contract, and with a very specific goal: to utterly ruin his father. What he's asking for is no small feat, but Alastor is ready to make his plan a reality. In fact, he's looking forward to it. Maybe not the best way to start a relationship, but not the worst either.

— — –

Alastor spent the next 72 hours waiting in that abandoned hotel downtown, hoping Angel would show up at some point. He didn’t even dare go back to the Dellarosa home in order to observe; he had promised that he would be waiting if Angel came looking, and so he would be. The place, it turned out, was every bit as empty as it seemed. During his stay, he wasn’t disturbed once—which gave him far too much time to think.

With every day that passed, he became more convinced that he had made a terrible mistake in revealing his nature to Angel. Maybe his being under the influence was the only thing that had kept him from panicking and fleeing that night when they spoke, and now that he was sober again, he wouldn’t risk going back. It was even possible that Cherri had spoken to him again and explained exactly who Alastor—the Radio Demon—was and how he operated. If that were the case, then surely all was lost; he had no shortage of damning stories in his past.

His illness didn’t let up in the slightest, particularly because he was spending so much time thinking about Angel. If he weren’t already dead, he might worry about how much blood he was losing. As things stood, he had more pressing things to concern himself with.

At the end of another idle afternoon of walking the halls and trying to divine what might have happened in each room, an hour or two before sunset, Alastor heard movement downstairs. Despite being on the tenth floor at the time, he was sensitive enough to auditory detail that he caught the sound nevertheless. He froze as he heard the front door creak open, followed by a few tentative steps and—his heartbeat stuttered—Angel’s voice calling his name.

Within seconds, he was back downstairs to find an apprehensive Angel standing at the hotel’s front desk. He was dressed differently this evening, dressed more like his sister than his brother, and he clutched Alastor’s coat in both hands. Trying his best for Suave & Charming, hoping to present himself more confidently this time, Alastor met him with a smile. “You called?”

“Hey!” Angel’s face lit up with relief. “I was afraid you’d be gone already. I wanted to come sooner, but my old man was hasslin’ me about my clothes, and I hate goin’ out like this”—he gestured in disgust to his outfit—“but I got tired of waiting, so. Uh, here I am. I’m really glad you’re still here. Is this where you live or somethin’?”

“No, but I said you could find me here, and I don’t like to go back on my word.”

The boy seemed much more lucid than in their prior conversation as he added, “Oh, I brought this back too.” He held out the coat, which Alastor accepted and shrugged back into. “I almost thought I dreamt you up as some kinda last ditch option to get away from my family. But I found that when I woke up, and then I talked to Cherri and she came clean about everything.”

“You two made up, then?”

“Oh, sure. She’s my best friend. Her bein’ dead wasn’t gonna change that. Besides, I get why she didn’t tell me. It ain’t exactly somethin’ ya lead a conversation with—well, you do, maybe.”

“Not typically,” Alastor chuckled. “In fact, I don’t often speak to humans at all. You’re an exception.”

Angel’s smile widened, and he ran his fingers through his hair. Somehow, despite having mentioned that he was less comfortable, his being forced to present as feminine didn’t seem to have dampened his confidence at all. He crossed his arms and shifted onto one hip as he answered, “Yeah, that’s kinda the impression I got. And I been thinkin’ a lot about that deal you mentioned before. Were you serious about that?”

Alastor tried his best not to let his hopes run away with him. “Of course. And what part of it, if you don’t mind my asking, have you been thinking about?”

“The whole thing. I feel like there is somethin’ I could use a hand with if you’re up to it. You got all this power, right? Said you can help me however I want?”

“That’s right. I doubt there’s anything you could ask for that I wouldn’t be able to accomplish.”

“Great. So you can help me run my old man’s business into the ground.”

That was hardly the request he’d expected. In fact, he could’ve guessed a hundred times without ever coming to that idea. “His business? That’s where you want to focus?”

“It’s pretty much the only thing he cares about. His pride and his money—and one’s tied to the other,” Angel explained, sounding every bit the shrewd businessman one in his position was expected to be. “Don’t think this is somethin’ I just came up with in the past couple days. I been thinkin’ about how to pull it off for years. Then you show up and say you can help me do it. That is what you’re sayin’, isn’t it?”

“I’ll admit it’s a tall order, but I can manage it,” Alastor assured him. “You’re saying you want to sabotage him?”

“Better,” the boy said with a grin. “I wanna outmatch him. I wanna put together a business of my own that puts his to shame. My own family.”

“I see. It sounds like this goal of yours has several parts to it.”

“But that’s no problem for you, right?” Angel argued innocently. He counted off on his fingers: “Make me a boss, help me build my family, eventually help me ruin everything my old man’s ever worked for. Easy.”

“And that would be worth trading your soul?” Alastor asked.

“You make that happen for me and I’ll give ya whatever you want,” the boy said with a wicked smirk, sending Alastor’s heart rate skyrocketing again.

“You’re sure?” With anyone else, he would call it a fair deal and settle it without further inquiry. But with Angel? He needed to be absolutely certain the boy wanted this before jumping into anything. The last thing he wanted was for Angel to later regret it and resent him.

“I told ya, I didn’t come up with this overnight. I’m just lucky I held off leavin’ home as long as I did.” The fire in Angel’s eyes burned away all teasing mirth, and he said firmly, “I’ve wanted this for years, Alastor. You’ve seen how he treats me, how they all treat me, and you said it yourself: it ain’t right. I’m sick and fuckin’ tired of it. Before you showed up, I figured my best bet to get away was marryin’ into some other family—but that ain’t what I want. I don’t wanna be some capo’s little fuckin’ wife and pretend I’m satisfied with that. I wanna be in charge of my own life. If that means givin’ up my soul, hell yeah, it’s worth it.”

It was that passion, possibly even that righteous anger, that had caught Alastor’s attention to begin with. If there were any one thing to be said about this boy, it was that every one of his feelings was powerful enough to move mountains. Powerful enough, evidently, to force an archdemon to develop some feelings of his own. How could Alastor be expected to stand against that? How could he be expected to resist?

The simplest answer was that he couldn’t.

“Then I’ll do my very best to serve you in the meantime,” he conceded, inclining his head.

“Serve me, huh?” Angel’s voice turned soft and smooth now that Alastor was no longer arguing with him. Running his fingers lightly along the demon’s chin to tilt his head up again, he added with a playful smile, “I like the sound of that. Does this mean you hafta do whatever I say?”

Probably not for the reason you think. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Alastor chided, pulling away from his touch if for no other reason than to maintain his focus on the subject at hand. “I can promise to support your goals to the best of my ability—and if on the off chance there is a problem my power can’t solve, I’ll do all I can to enable you to solve it instead.”

“And?” Angel prompted.

“I’ll use my influence to further your family and eliminate your enemies. Above all”—so help me God—“I’ll ensure you’re kept safe and respected.”

“And…?” The boy grinned, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“And,” Alastor repeated, ready to rise to whatever challenge was being issued, “anything else you might ask of me. Say the word and it’s done.” Of course, for anyone else, that condition would be completely off the table, as he didn’t much care for being so thoroughly bound to someone else’s will—but in Angel’s case, he was already willing to do anything the boy asked; what harm was there in stipulating it as part of their contract?

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Angel answered, satisfied. “You do all that for me, and once I die, you can have my soul. Deal?” He offered his hand, and Alastor shook it firmly.

“Deal.” There was a familiar tingle of binding magic as the contract was sealed, forming a connection between the two that couldn’t be severed unless Alastor somehow failed to uphold his end of the bargain. He did not intend to fail. “First things first.” He summoned his staff and flicked it in Angel’s direction. The skirt and blouse Angel had earlier lamented transformed into something much more fitting: a navy suit, double-breasted and tailored to Angel’s measurements.

“Hey!” The boy jumped at the sudden shift, and Alastor conjured a full-length mirror so he could inspect himself. In clothing that fit both his body and his identity, he was, if possible, even more attractive.

“You know what they say. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. I would say your hair could use a trim too, but for now…” With a flick of one hand, the Radio Demon produced a fedora to complete the look and offered it to Angel. Practically beaming with delight, the boy swept his hair back away from his face and placed the hat on his head, pulling the rim down slightly as he looked himself over from every angle.

“Not bad,” he cooed appreciatively. “Pops’d have a heart attack if he saw me like this.” That statement was made with great relish.

“As tempting as that is, it’s probably best if you don’t go back to his place. After all, he is your rival now,” Alastor pointed out.

“Obviously I don’t wanna go back, but we got a lot to do before I can move out. We don’t even have a place to work out of yet, and it’s not like we can stay here.”

Alastor tilted his head to one side. “Why not? I think this place would make for a fantastic headquarters. Plenty of room to accommodate guests and associates, a location right here in the middle of town, and quite a landmark to put your name on. Where else could be better?”

“But somebody’s gotta own the place. And whoever it is probably wouldn’t like us movin’ in without their okay,” Angel pointed out.

“Oh, just you leave that to me,” Alastor said with a wink. “Didn’t we discuss this already? If you want this building, it’s yours.”

“Hm.” The boy looked around, thoughtful. “We could make it work, I guess. It’s gonna take some time to get it cleaned up and ready to use, though.”

Alastor chuckled, shaking his head. “O ye of little faith.” He stamped the end of his staff into the ground, and the shadows responded immediately, swirling through the room to sweep away the dust, repair the damaged upholstery, restore the wiring in the walls and the chandelier overhead—whatever was needed to make the hotel functional again. The walls were papered deep red by no particular will of Alastor’s, but he didn’t bother changing it. It was rather striking, the way he saw it, and it fit nicely with the room’s dark wood furnishings. He watched the shadows disappear up the stairs and knew they would give the same treatment to every floor. Soon enough, all 1000+ rooms would be ready to use however Angel saw fit.

Angel watched the entire process with wide eyes, marveling at the sparkling crystal chandelier above them with his mouth hanging slightly open. This particular feat required much more power than Alastor typically bothered using in a single act, but the look of incredulity on the boy’s face and the smile that followed after made it completely worthwhile.

“All right,” Angel admitted. “I’m impressed.” Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.

“Let’s see. Personal image: check. Location: check,” Alastor said, glancing around the newly-renovated lobby. Now that the room was properly lit, he could see just how grand it was. There were two elevators on either side; a mezzanine where he could see the makings of a lounge; and at the back of the room, a broad staircase that opened onto a landing, then curved on either side to lead to the upper level. Very picturesque. “Now all we need is a family to fill it.”

“Ya got that up your sleeve too?”

“In a manner of speaking; I know a few people I can call, at least.”

“People,” Angel repeated, “or demons?”

“Yes,” Alastor snickered. “Capable individuals, I assure you, and isn’t that what really matters? Now, who would you say is the most important part of a mafia family, next to the boss?”

“Consigliere,” Angel answered without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s the boss’s advisor, usually somebody that’s been in the business a while. He helps with finances, competition with other families, pretty much every aspect of runnin’ the show.”

“Hmm. A jack of all trades, then, someone with business sense and a head for strategy,” Alastor reasoned, considering his list of contacts to determine who might fit best into this position. Only one name came to mind.

With a clap of his hands, another demon manifested at the top of the stairs, a snakelike creature with iridescent black scales and gleaming golden accessories. She blinked as if mildly surprised, and her intense yellow eyes quickly fell on Alastor and Angel. With a patient smile, she shifted into an entirely human form, one with brown skin and sleek black hair bobbed at her shoulders. Tall, slender, clad in deep green slacks and a well-fitted blouse, she looked nothing if not professional.

“Alastor,” she purred with a slight hiss on the S, waltzing her way down the stairs as if this were a sort of mischief she had expected. Her heels clicked on the wood floor with every step. “It’s been a while. What are we doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Venture,” the Radio Demon answered. Gesturing to Angel, he explained, “My charge is a soon-to-be crime lord and has need of a—well, my Italian is a little rusty; what was the word, Angel?”

“Consigliere,” the boy repeated, looking the new arrival up and down appraisingly.

“An advisor,” Alastor explained. “I could think of no better fit for that role than you. And you do owe me a favor or two, yes?”

“Wait, her?” Angel protested. “It can’t be her. She’s…” He gestured vaguely at her body, and Venture tossed her head back with a laugh.

“What? A woman?” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she stood on one hip, holding herself with all the confidence one would expect of an Overlord. “I certainly am, pet, and the best damned businesswoman this side of the Nile.”

“Venture has been an entrepreneur for millennia,” Alastor explained. “Gender notwithstanding, you won’t find anyone better suited to the position.”

“Flatterer,” she chuckled.

“Guys in the business don’t respect women,” Angel insisted. “And they ain’t gonna respect me if I’m listenin’ to one.”

“Success speaks louder than appearances,” Venture said evenly. “My guidance can make you richer than Croesus, and I promise you, where money goes, respect follows.” She always has been persuasive. “Luckily for you, I don’t have anything more interesting in the works right now. I don’t mind sticking around—assuming you’ll have me, sweetness.” She gave Angel an expectant look, and he wrinkled his nose.

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to cut that condescending bullshit. No matter how much experience you have, as long as you’re here, I’m your boss. So if we’re gonna work together, you can’t be talkin’ down to me. Got it?” Well, he had certainly adjusted to the role of boss quickly! Alastor almost worried his insolence would lose them an ally, but Venture seemed more amused than offended.

“Feisty, isn’t he?” she said, stealing a glance at Alastor. Nevertheless, she bowed to Angel with a flourish. “Of course, sir, you’ll have my utmost respect at all times. Now, is this our first endeavor?” She shifted her attention to the room they were in, looking it over critically. “The color scheme is a bit obvious, but I’m sure I can make it work. Whoever did your decorating clearly has taste.”

“What, the hotel?” Angel asked, watching her stride over to the gleaming front desk to check out the space behind it. “I can see it as a front, but why bother actually runnin’ it?”

“The better question is why not,” Venture countered, digging a phone book out of one of the drawers. “It’s a source of income that wouldn’t require much oversight on your part, and having guests in and out regularly will help cover up any less, uh, legitimate dealings you want to do here. Little to lose, lots to gain.”

“But it ain’t the kinda business a respectable family runs,” Angel argued stubbornly, arms crossed. “There’s rules and traditions ya gotta take into account. My old man would never—” He stopped himself for a moment, likely realizing that something about his approach was off. “Actually, ya know what? Sure. Havin’ the place up and runnin’ is a smart move. You can get that started on your own?”

“Leave it to me, habiibii,” she agreed distractedly, waving a hand to conjure a rotary phone on the countertop. In moments, she was thoroughly engrossed in making calls, taking to the job like a fish to water and all but forgetting the room’s other two occupants.

“That’s how I wanna do things,” Angel decided, turning to Alastor again. “I’m gonna make this family the most successful one in the city, and I’m gonna do it by blowin’ all my old man’s rules to Hell.”

“Oh? That’s an unusual business model.”

“You said I can have anything I want,” he pointed out, raising his eyebrows, hands on his hips. “What I want is to prove all his bullshit principles and traditions are holdin’ him back, and to prove I can do his job better. And you’re gonna help me do it.” His tone brooked no argument, and indeed, Alastor offered none.

“I look forward to working with you, Don Dellarosa,” he replied—but Angel grimaced at the title.

“Ugh, no, that’s my old man. Besides, we can’t have two Dellarosa families in the same city. Ours is gonna need a different name.” He screwed up his face thoughtfully. “Any ideas?”

Biting his lower lip as he considered, curiously observing his new consigliere’s work, he exuded such potential, such determination. He had set a goal for himself (years ago, it seemed) and would achieve it whatever the cost—even if it meant his immortal soul. Conviction that powerful commanded respect. Alastor felt another cough coming on and struggled to hold it back, clearing his throat as an answer came to mind.

“Giardino,” he suggested, and Angel raised an eyebrow at him.

“‘S a little plain. Why that?”

Alastor shrugged and reasoned, “If your father’s family deals in roses, what clearer statement than to claim the entire garden for yourself?”

At this explanation, Angel’s lips split into a grin, and it was by sheer force of will that Alastor didn’t wince from the pain in his chest. “I like the way you think, Al. Angel Giardino… Kinda has a nice ring to it. We’ll need more than just the three of us, obviously—”

“Which I’ll take care of within a few days.”

“—but once we’re in business? The Giardinos are gonna run this city,” he said with absolute confidence, looking over the lobby that was now his domain. Knowing that all the satisfaction and anticipation on the boy’s face was his doing had Alastor’s heart racing with delight. Maybe this arrangement would turn out better than expected. Angel looked at him, expectant, excited, ready to move forward. “So? Whaddaya say we plant some fuckin’ flowers?”

Done and done, cher.

#RadioDust #this really feels like the end of a tutorial period in a video game #like okay NOW the actual story can start #Hazbin Angel Dust #Hazbin Alastor #Angel Dust x Alastor #Alastor x Angel Dust #more action and less dialogue in the next chapter I promise #fanfiction #Giardino Segreto

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 4 years

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libera nos a malo Chapter 1: Strings

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 1/20

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

Chapter Two+ >>

He wasn’t fast enough.

The curse caught him square in the chest, sending him head over heels and smashing him into the pock-marked stone wall. By the time he hit the floor, his wand had been snatched from his hand and his opponent was astride him, the tip of her wand tilting his chin up that he might better see her triumphant grin.

“Had enough?” Miranda purred, her gray eyes sparkling over him.

“Not nearly,” Severus growled back. “But you have.”

“I don’t know.” She playfully twirled her wand between her fingers, considering. “You won the last round and I won this one. Why don’t we say best two out of three?”

He put one long finger on the end of her wand and deliberately pushed it away from his throat. “Healer A’isha ordered you to limit yourself to one duel per day until your next appointment. We’ve already had two. It’s enough.”

“Spoilsport,” she murmured, rolling smoothly to her feet and tossing his wand back to him.

He caught it and got to his feet while she started her tedious routine of post-duel stretches. The simple dueling platform and the opposing banners emblazoned with the Slytherin and Thunderbird crests vanished, leaving a narrow, waist-high table behind. With an audible groan, Miranda climbed onto the table, lifting her arm for Severus to manipulate according to the Healer’s stern specifications.

“I’m still not sure which is worse; the physical exercises or the magical ones,” she grumbled, wincing as he held her arm in place a few seconds longer than the day pervious.

“Your spellwork seemed marginally less pedantic tonight,” he said, the encouragement clumsy in his mouth.

“How nice of you to say so.”

“Healer A’isha did order me to bolster your precarious spirits with regular doses of praise,” he said wryly, leaning on her leg until she stifled a groan. Healer A’isha had also warned him that he would come to hate these exercises more than Miranda did herself. It was one thing to endure pain—and yet another to inflict it on the person whose well-being was unfortunately bound up with one’s own sentimental affections.

“I was thinking I would move back to the cabin this weekend,” she said casually when he released the stretch.

“Were you?” Why was it that no matter how many times one rehearsed receiving disappointing news, it never dulled the pain when the blow actually fell?

“Yes.” She sucked in her breath as he leaned on her other leg.

“All the better for you to neglect your recovery.”

“With you and Rachel dogging me, how could I dare? Aaron’s going to help me move.”

“I see.” He released her leg and offered her a hand to help her sit up. It was shameful how pleased he was when she actually took it; he was like a dog slavering after its master for affection.

Part of the floor sunk away, melting into a clear blue pool of steaming water, and Miranda used her wand to painstakingly transfigure her clothing into a trim bathing suit. Spells that were once instantaneous now required her strictest attention and labor, but the fact that she was able to perform them at all was enough to hope that she would, in time, recover her powers completely. He stooped to pull off her boots—vanished footwear was so notoriously difficult to retrieve from nonbeing that it was rarely worth the risk of sending it thither. She gave a deep sigh as she slid into the water, and she laid her head back on the tiled floor, letting her eyes close and her arms drift.

“You can come in if you like,” she suggested without opening her eyes.

“I think not. You would only distract me from completing your exercises.” A chair materialized on the opposite side of the pool, and he settled himself into it. “Tell me when you are ready.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He was. “Of course not. Why would I be angry?”

“I wouldn’t have asked Aaron for help, but I didn’t want to impose on you any more than I already have.”

“You haven’t been imposing.” Although what else he wished to call her extended sojourn in his rooms he refused to admit.

She opened one eye and smiled at him. “Yes I have, don’t lie to me. But feel free to join in the fun. Rachel and Maggie are coming along to make dinner.”

“I fail to see how a baby would be of any use at making dinner.”

“Rachel can do anything with Maggie strapped to her back. Aaron says it’s a sight to behold.” She lifted her head off the tile and raised one hand out of the water, wordlessly summoning her wand. “I’m ready now.”

Severus conjured a golden ball the size of an orange and sent it spinning towards Miranda with a smooth wandstroke. She watched it, her brow furrowed in concentration. The ball flew towards her, unchecked until it was less than an arms-length away from her nose, when she managed to wordlessly send it back towards him. He lazily batted it with his magic, and this time she used hers to catch it in mid-air and stretch it into a length of rope, which she dropped into the water. With a flick of his wand, the rope shot out of the pool, transfigured now into a fish that splashed back under the water and swam towards Miranda, tickling her toes. She laughed and drew her wand through the air, causing the water to surge out of the pool and toss the fish up with it. Before it could land back in the water, she waved her wand again, and the fish transformed into a mangled half-avian, half-ichthyoid horror. It hit the tile next to the pool and flopped helplessly, until Severus waved his hand to vanish the mess.

“Well, that was better than yesterday,” Miranda said half-heartedly.

“It was. Most of the fish-bird’s organs were on the inside today rather than haphazardly arranged on its scales,” Severus remarked.

“I guess that’s true.”

Her frustration was palpable, and he went around the pool to sit on the cushion that appeared on the tile at her side. While his attempts at verbal encouragement tended to be as mangled as some of her recent transfiguration attempts, he had discovered that a well timed kiss served just as well, if not better. Her lips were a firm line of irritation when he captured them, but they quickly softened under his patient insistence, and when he pulled away to draw breath, she was smiling.

“So, will you come?” she asked.

Disappointment cut through the fog of tenderness that had gathered in his chest, but though he felt his jaw clench at the idea of her leaving, he heard himself saying, “It would seem there is nothing left for me to do but acquiesce.”

She caught his face between her warm, wet hands, and drew him down for another lingering kiss that fed both his anger and his tendre for her.

“Don’t be cross, Severus. I know we’ve both been looking forward to finally being on the same island at the same time, but we’ll drive each other crazy if we keep living in the same two rooms together. I really am so grateful to you for everything you’ve done, and I don’t know how I’m going to repay you, but…”

“That’s quite enough,” he interrupted. He did not care to listen to her thanks. “Will Saturday serve the purpose?”

“Saturday’s perfect. I’ll write to Aaron tonight and let him know.”

He helped her out of the water and hovered near her elbow while she arduously cast a drying charm on herself, and transfigured her bathing suit back into her trousers and tunic. She gave a jaw-splitting yawn when she finished and sat down on the table, allowing him to put her socks and boots back on her feet for the trek down to the dungeon. As usual, he exited the Room of Requirement first and, finding the hall empty, he rapped on the wall and started down to the dungeon. He was entering the stairwell when he heard Horace Slughorn’s voice in the hallway behind him.

“Why if it isn’t Miranda Rose!” Horace said pleasantly.

“Hello Horace,” Miranda replied in a bright, but weary tone. “Fancy finding you here. Are you visiting?”

“No, I’ve come out of retirement, I’m sorry to say. But someone has to teach these youngsters Potions, and Albus Dumbledore is a difficult man to say no to. To what do I owe the happy accident of seeing you this evening?”

“Albus Dumbledore, who else?”

“Who else indeed. Then you must know what I am talking about. Come into my office and have a nightcap with me. I can’t tell you how serendipitous this is! I was about to owl you with regards to a project…”

The door closed, shutting off the rest of Horace’s monologue. Severus briefly considered eavesdropping, but decided it wasn’t worth the bother. He had plenty of work waiting for him in his own office, and Miranda would likely tell him anything interesting that the crafty potions master said.

Or she wouldn’t. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

*****

“And it ended with me having to accept an invitation to his Christmas party,” Miranda said, suppressing a grunt as she flicked her wand at a book-filled crate. It crashed into the floor harder than she meant it to, but she kept the wand flicks coming lest Severus notice her tiring and order her to take a break. The books leapt jerkily out of the crate and floated to the shelves, lining up like weary soldiers returning home.

“Did you?” Aaron replied as he attempted to wrestle her turntable back into its desk drawer. “Woman, how did you get this blessed thing in here in the first place?”

“You have to talk nice to it.”

“I s’pose.” He swore under his breath as yet another corner refused to fit. “But a party’s not so bad. And I’ve heard Horace Slughorn knows how to throw ‘em.”

“I’ve heard that too; but a student party full of hormonal teenagers? What am I supposed to do, wilt along the wall with the chaperones?”

“Are you still complaining about Horace’s party?” Severus asked irritably, emerging from the newly cleaned potions closet. “I had thought you would not have minded keeping me company there.”

“I wouldn’t mind if I was allowed to act as though I knew you, especially considering how hard it is to get you to go out at all. But at least when we go to Prospero’s, you hold my hand.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever held your hand,” he muttered, gathering the crate of her prescribed potions.

“A convenient lapse of memory.”

She didn’t hear whatever he shot back at her, as he covered his grumbling with returning to the potions closet and spending an inordinately long time unpacking and arranging it.

“Do you ever give that man a break?” Rachel chided from the stove where she was busily sautéing a rainbow of vegetables while Maggie tugged on her sleek black ponytail.

“If he can dish it, he can take it,” Miranda retorted, starting on another crate. “How are things at the Embassy?”

“Busy,” Aaron replied, “and complicated. Scrimgeour’s discouraging anyone from coming into or leaving the country. He’s trying to play it off like he’s got the whole Voldemort situation under control, and I do believe that he doesn’t want to look a fool by having all the foreigners high tailing it home. But I also think he’s scared shitless that if he keeps the borders open, he’s going to have a mess of Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathizers coming in to play. So he hasn’t exactly shut them down, but they ain’t exactly open either.”

“What does Robert think about that?”

“He’ll play along if he gets what he wants out of it. Take that you demon-spawn!” Aaron whooped, slapping the turntable as it finally snapped into place.

“What does he want?”

Aaron started flipping through Miranda’s records in search of some appropriate victory music.

“For now what he wants is permission to run his own Aurors to protect the Americans in the country.”

“Really? That’s never happened before. And Scrimgeour allowed it?”

“He did. And Robert’s champing at the bit to get ahold of you. I reckon he wants you on the team.”

The book that Miranda was directing onto the shelf clattered to the floor, and she groaned inwardly as she recast the charm to send it back to its place.

“That’s flattering. I don’t know that I want to be an Auror, but I would at least consider it.”

“Not at the current moment,” Severus snapped, returning to the room to glare at her. “And I believe that it is time for you to sit down.”

“I will when I finish this crate.” His glare darkened and she protested, “I’m fine! I can finish a crate, it won’t kill me.”

“Your left shoulder is high,” he said in that quiet, angry tone of his.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your left shoulder. It rides high when you are tired and forcing your magic. It’s your tell.”

She grinned in spite of herself. “I didn’t realize you knew about tells.”

“One of the few useful things my father bothered himself to teach me.”

The set of his jaw told her that arguing the point would be neither useful nor entertaining and—to her chagrin—he was right; she was forcing her magic. She threw up her hands in defeat and said, “Fine, you win. I’ll hold the baby.”

He continued to watch her sternly until she had liberated Maggie from the flower-patterned baby-carrier on Rachel’s back and was settled on the new leather sofa in front of the fire as if he expected her to covertly thwart his orders the instant he looked away. She sank into the comfortable cushions and contented herself with bouncing the fine, plump child and replying to her happy babbling as though it were intelligible conversation. The old sofa had gotten lost somewhere in the shuffle of chaos at St. Mungo’s, and the Lees had insisted on replacing it. Miranda had attempted to decline the generosity at first, but she had to admit that her friends had a talent for selecting furniture that was as functional as it was beautiful.

She was glad when Severus finally took over her unpacking and ceased to watch her with his piercing eyes. She doubted that her friends had noticed it, but the sorrow flickering in those inky depths was all too apparent to her.

*****

After the ramen had been eaten, the tea all drunk, and the baby nursed, the Lees were making ready to leave in a flurry of cloaks, scarves, and mittens.

“When’s your next appointment?” Rachel asked while she deftly wrapped the sleeping baby on her chest and settled her cloak snugly around them both.

“Monday morning,” Miranda replied. “If it goes well, I won’t have to go back until after Christmas.”

“Come by after you’re done. We can have lunch.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

She kissed her friends’ cheeks and waved them away. Severus kept to the background, still arranging books and bottles on their shelves; but he did trouble himself to return Rachel’s good-bye and shake Aaron’s hand. The Lees turned back to wave when they reached the end of the lane before disappearing with a loud pop. Miranda closed the door after them, and was surprised to see Severus shrugging into his cloak.

“Oh, were you going home?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment she felt from showing.

His brow furrowed, but his eyes were blank. “I…had thought so.”

She smiled quickly and reassured him, “Of course. You must be dying to have some peace and quiet.”

He ran a long finger lightly over her cheekbone and jawline. The contrast of the roughness of his calloused finger and the gentleness of the touch made her shiver.

“I can stay if you would prefer it,” he offered quietly.

“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’ll be fine. I can’t wait to have a few minutes to myself.”

“As you like.” He withdrew his hand and reached for the doorknob, but not before she saw that flash of sorrow again.

Guilt prompted her to put her hand over his and soften the blow. “You know, I doubt I’ll feel much like cooking dinner tomorrow, after being spoiled by the house elves and Rachel for the last six weeks. There’s a little pub in Shoreditch that serves our kind. The Queen Mab, say eight o’clock?”

He smiled wryly at her and he kissed her brow before replying, “That would be agreeable. I shall have time to finish my Koestler while I wait for you.”

“I’ll be early, just to spite you.”

“I suppose there is a first time for everything. Until then.”

He left before the silence that fell between them could turn awkward, and disappeared at the end of the lane without looking back. She shut the door and wished that she could shut out the confusing web of emotions tangled up with her dour Englishman as easily. With a sigh, she wandered through her cabin, running her fingers over the roll-top desk; the books and the barware; the pictures on the mantel. When she came to a window, she threw it open, welcoming the chill of the night air as it blew in off the Channel. Soon there was a delicious cross breeze, and she perched herself on her bed, leaning on the window-frame and gazing out over the blackness of the water. The air in her cabin had been stagnant, like the air in neglected places. It had been far too long since she had been home.

Home? She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a snap of her fingers, wondering when she had come to think of this place as home. While it was true that she had a habit of referring to wherever she laid her head for the night as home; it was also true that at some point during her Romanian adventure, she’d caught herself thinking of Britain as home in the way that she usually thought of her parent’s farm in Edgewood as home.

She blew out a line of smoke, watching the winter wind send it dancing through the moonlight, and refused to ponder the reasons why.

*****

“How did it go?” Rachel asked on Monday as she, with Maggie strapped to her chest, and Miranda queued up behind a long line of hungry Embassy workers.

“I feel like I was hit by a truck, so pretty well,” Miranda replied, grimacing as she rolled her shoulders in a fruitless attempt to relieve their soreness.

“Did Healer A’isha say you would be alright at home? That you’ll be able to do all of your exercises?”

“Yes mother. She said it was just fine, signed me a note and everything. Besides, Severus will come by often enough to bother me about it, and he’s sterner than any of the Healers about training.”

“That’s good to know. Maybe between the two of us, we can keep you on track. You know you’re a terrible patient.”

“That’s fair. But I also know when I have to buckle down and work. Going into the Iele’s realm drained me more than I could have imagined possible.”

“Was it their realm, or their guards?”

“I think it was both—and rather than either—or. It’s been almost two months and I’m still not where I want to be.”

Rachel gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, and Maggie imitated her mother, catching hold of a lock of Miranda’s silver hair. “You’ll get there. It just takes time.”

She was absolutely sick of hearing that. “So everyone keeps telling me. What do you feel like having today?”

The creeping queue finally inched under the sloping, art deco doorways, and the cafeteria opened out before them, a gleaming, stainless steel cornucopia of choices. The shining walls were etched with enchanted scenes of vaudeville routines for the entertainment of the diners eating at the long farmhouse tables. Squeezed into the cavernous space was a dizzying array of American delicacies; from fried chicken and waffles, to jambalaya, to Boston cream pie and everything in between.

“I usually get the meatloaf and apple pie here. I’m boring,” Rachel said. “You?”

“It’s been forever since I’ve had some real pizza, and after that hellish check-up this morning I think it’s been long enough.”

“Good choice! New York style, right?” Rachel stuck her tongue out at her friend in anticipation of her answer.

Miranda stuck out her tongue in response before gasping, “Blasphemy! Chicago style is the only thing that qualifies as pizza in my book. Meet you at the usual spot?”

“Will do.”

The ladies parted to join the queues at their chosen kitchens, and Miranda soon lost Rachel and Maggie in the crowd. By the time she was close enough to see the handsome brick wood-burning oven, the morning tasks were beginning to make their effects known. She leaned heavily on the shining countertop, tapping her bright yellow tray with shaking fingers. Food would help—the sooner the better—and then maybe she’d ask Rachel to let her come down to the Lees’ flat for a nap. A long nap.

“Here y’go,” said a round-faced youth who seemed far too young to have a job.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the red hot plate and quickly setting it on the tray next to her lemonade. Scooping the whole thing up, she turned and swayed dangerously as a wave of dizziness hit her. She wanted to growl with frustration as she fell back against the counter. This whole recovering from almost dying business was not entertaining at all.

“May I help you, Miss?” A smooth, polite voice and a pair of firm hands steadied Miranda and her tray before either of them went toppling to the floor. “I know I’m always a mess when I need to eat.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Miranda protested halfheartedly, looking down into his pleasant face.

He would not be deterred. “Let me do it so I can tell my Mama I helped a nice lady. Where to?”

“I…well, thank you. This way.”

It was all she could do to keep herself steady as they crossed the crowded room. Her stomach was churning and she was starting to see spots on the edge of her vision. Clearly, she would be of no use to anyone until she put some food in her stomach. The noise of dishes crashing, people chattering, and the squeaking of the moving pictures on the walls coalesced into an cacophonous whirlpool that threatened to suck her under.

By the time they reached the table in the corner, Miranda’s last nerve was hanging by a single, fraying thread. Her knight errant set down the tray and pulled out a chair for her; which she all but collapsed into. The duo on the wall behind her yammered about the eternal question (Who’s playing first? That’s right.) and she started shoveling steaming pizza into her mouth so quickly that it burned.

Half a slice and a few gulps of lemonade later, she was capable of behaving as though she had not been born in a barn. She wiped her hands and face with her checked napkin and said ruefully, “Thank you for your help. I had a rough time at magical therapy this morning.”

He took the hand she extended and shook it firmly. “It was my good deed for the day. I hear that those Healers at St. Mungo’s are the devil when they’ve got hold of you.”

“You’ve heard right.”

She took a daintier bite of her pizza and studied her good Samaritan. He had a handsome face, complimented by a close-cut mustache and goatee. His kinky black hair was peppered through with silver, although his warm, copper-colored skin was unlined. His hands were large for his height and his suit was smartly cut and fitted closely to his muscular body. It lacked the sort of flamboyant accents of color that Aaron favored--this was clearly a man who preferred to advertise his taste by its subtle excellence.

She swallowed the last bite of her first slice and decided she really ought to introduce herself. “I’m Miranda Rose, by the way.”

His golden eyes lit up like Christmas had come early. “Are you? I’ve been itching to meet you! Robert Walker, at your service.”

Miranda blinked once before laughing with surprise. “Likewise. I’m only sorry to have met you when I’m in such a state. You must think me weak as a kitten.”

“No, Aaron’s told me all about what happened. You’re a regular danger girl.”

“Robert! It’s good to see you,” Rachel said, balancing a tray on her hip while Maggie attempted to overturn it from her perch.

“How’s my second favorite Mama?” Robert stood to give Rachel a peck on the cheek and deftly remove her tray from Maggie’s flailing arms. He deposited it on the table, and flicked his wand towards an alcove, which brought a high chair floating towards them. There was a small fuss over getting Maggie settled and providing her with food to taste and throw on the floor before conversation could continue.

“Aaron will be sorry he missed the pleasure of formally introducing you to each other,” Rachel commented after her first bite of meatloaf.

“I’ll be sure to give him a hard time about it then,” Robert replied. “What year were you at Ilvermorny Miranda? I may call you Miranda, yes?”

“Sure, if I can call you Robert,” Miranda agreed easily.

“I wish that you would. You graduated in ’83, same as Aaron, if I remember right.”

“I did. Same house too.”

“That’s right. You were a little too old and a little too young to know any of my siblings then.”

“How many do you have?”

“Five.”

“I have four older brothers myself. All No-Majs though.”

“My, you are special! The only girl, the only witch, and the baby. Your brothers must’ve given you hell.”

“They did.” Maggie had finished gumming her crumbs of pizza, and Miranda gamely cut up a few more for her.

“Was Professor Rodriguez still stiff as a board when you were there?”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “He was my head of House and my favorite teacher. I thought he was very personable. Did you not find him so?”

Robert shrugged, his attention apparently half on the game he was playing with the baby. Maggie was tossing her spoon on the floor and laughing delightedly when he sent it floating back up to her tray with a lazy wand flick. “He and I crossed wands from time to time. How’s motherhood treating you, Rachel?”

“It’s good! I’m exhausted and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s good. I’ve even been able to find time to get back to translating lately.”

“Your captive audience will be happy to hear that,” Miranda observed.

“Feel free to tell him that I’m starting with the potions text.” Rachel said before digging back into the meatloaf.

“If I may be so rude as to pry into something that’s probably not my business, how is your bill of health?” Robert asked, his attention still on the spoon-throwing baby.

“It’s getting there,” Miranda replied carefully. “Still not a hundred percent, but I think I’ll be cleared for light duty after Christmas.”

“You must be raring to go. How long have you been off?”

“Since October.”

“Long recoveries are the worst.” He charmed the spoon to twirl on its handle on Maggie’s highchair tray and turned the full force of his gaze back to Miranda. “I’m going to stop beating around the bush, since I’m sure that Aaron’s already tipped you off to the fact that I want to hire you.”

“He has mentioned it. What exactly do you want to hire me for?”

The glint in his eyes now reminded her more of a dragon than of Christmas. “I want a team of MACUSA Aurors, and I want you to be one of them. I’ll be partnering you with Aaron—I hear tell that the two of you are unstoppable.”

“Nobody’s unstoppable,” Miranda said lightly. “And I’ve never actually been an Auror. That was Aaron’s old line of work.”

“I’m aware of that, but you’ve got the experience. All I have to do is pull a few strings and we’ll have you vetted in no time.”

“What’s the assignment?”

“Primarily, you’ll be keeping an eye on our people in the UK. There’s all sorts of nasty things afoot these days, as I’m sure a smart lady like you is well aware. We’ll also be assisting Scrimegeour on a case-by-case basis.”

She finished her slice and studied Robert’s relaxed posture, finally understanding what Aaron meant when he said that the ambassador was ‘hard to read.’

“I’m going to be honest, I refuse to be deputized as an Auror. It’s a matter of principle.”

Robert let out a rumbling laugh and reassured her, “I expect we can work around that with a little creative thinking. May I send you a contract to look over?”

“Sure. Never hurts to look.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Are you always this accommodating?”

“Only when it’s for someone worth having. And I anticipate that you will be well worth having.”

She couldn’t contain her smile. “Such flattery! No wonder you’re the ambassador.”

“You’ve found out my secret.” He stood and bowed to each of the ladies in turn. “Rachel, Miranda, Magdalene, thank you for your time and I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Look for an owl later this week, Miranda.”

“I will. Nice to meet you, Robert.”

He strolled off, meandering through the cafeteria and pausing to talk with various people. Miranda watched him until he was out of sight, turning his proposal over in her mind.

“What do you think of him?” Rachel asked, pulling Maggie out of the highchair and settling her down to nurse.

“He’s interesting, that’s for certain.”

“Are you going to take his offer?”

“I’ll think about it. I’m surprised that you let Aaron go back to the Auror life. I thought it was too dangerous for your liking.”

Rachel gave Maggie a finger to hold, and snuggled her a little closer. “I don’t really like it, but it’s true that these are dangerous times. We all have to do what we can to help. And I’d feel better knowing you were out there with him.”

“I meant what I said about not taking the Auror’s oath. Too many strings.”

“Sometimes strings aren’t a bad thing,” Rachel observed mildly. “The right ones can hold you up.”

“That may be true,” Miranda agreed, absently running a finger around the rim of her lemonade glass. “But the wrong ones can strangle you.”

*****

End Notes:

Severus is reading Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon.

The vaudeville routine behind Miranda’s table is Bud Abbott and Lou Costello’s “Who’s on First?”

*****

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

Chapter Two+ >>

#harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #severus snape #severus snape fanfic #severus snape fanfiction #snape #pro snape #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #snape x oc #ocappreciation #second wizarding war #adventure #espionage #spying #romance #ilvermorny #american magic

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damienthepious · 4 years

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tuesday tuesday tuesday time for fic

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 5)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [ao3] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol)

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: It's going to be a tense few days, in Rilla's hut.

Chapter Notes: Some mild, chapter specific warnings for people not taking very good care of themselves, like not eating for most of the day and depriving themselves of sleep out of stress. Take care of yourselves!

Arum wakes when she’s just about to change his bandages again. Less than ideal, but when he hisses low and squeezes his eyes more tightly closed she decides to check in verbally first, and she pulls the covers back over him. He wrinkles his snout, wincing up at her through a squint as she leans against the table at his bedside, and then he raises an eyebrow at her.

"I must assume your little operation was at least a reasonable success,” he mutters, not sounding particularly pleased about it. "Considering that I woke again at all."

"Yeah," Rilla says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I was right, and I got it out. You wanna tell me what kind of monster it was that ambushed you, now? Because I’m pretty sure I’m gonna figure it out when I analyze that thing anyway and it’d save me at least a little bit of time, Arum."

"Ambushed, they did not ambush me, I would not be so easily-"

"Back-stabbed, then?"

Arum goes silent, jaw snapping shut. He narrows his eyes. "Why, precisely, does it matter to you, little human? Do you intend to feed the information to your little … friend ? Your little knight ?"

It is Rilla’s turn to go silent for a moment, and then she scowls. “Did he wake you? I told him not to disturb-”

“Woke perfectly well on my own. Could not stay awake, with your persistent little injection still coursing through me, but- I would have thought it a dream, if he did not move the stool to be as far from me as he could be, if it were not still there now.” He pauses. “No, that is not quite true, I don’t think my own mind could have conjured such a distinct annoyance. I would have known he were real regardless.”

“He’s got his charms,” Rilla drawls. “Now, do you feel any different? It’s only been a few hours, but hopefully-”

“I do.” Arum sighs, settling more deeply in the blankets. “There is less… now that the sedative seems to be less present, I feel…”

“Better, hopefully?”

“A layer has been removed. Of the exhaustion, the- pain. It is lessened.”

Rilla smiles, the satisfaction curling through her again, and Arum watches her with puzzled eyes. “ Good .”

He allows her to lift the cup of water by the bedside to his mouth again, allows her to check his eyes, his range of movement, the edges of his frill that cannot be bandaged, and then he winces throughout as she changes his bandages out and checks the offending injury on his midsection, and when she finally resettles the blankets over him he is half-drifting again.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she says, gently teasing, and he frowns, flicks his tail, and sighs, but does not respond. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

She exits, and closes the door behind her.

The hut is small enough that she knows she’ll be able to hear if he calls, and- well. If he’s still even partly awake, she’s not sure she wants him to hear whatever it is that she and Damien might say. She doesn’t expect this conversation to be any more pleasant than the one last night.

Damien sits by her table, tense and prim with his knees tucked beneath him on one of the cushions, and he glances up warily when she comes over to join him, dropping to settle on a cushion by his side.

“I take it you didn’t sleep at all,” she says mildly, lip curling into a wry sort of smile.

“Of course not.” He frowns, and the distinct pain in his eyes makes Rilla want very badly to reach out and cup his cheek, but she quells the urge. She’s not sure what angle he’s going to take yet, with his protests, and she doesn’t think he’ll welcome the contact, just now.

“He woke up at some point?” she prompts, and his lips press tight together.

“Intermittently,” he mutters, and he looks away again. “He- it did not stay conscious for any excessive length of time.”

“Why were you in there?”

“I couldn’t-” Damien cuts himself off, grimacing, one hand squeezing the table in front of him, and Rilla knows exactly what the answer will be before he opens his mouth to continue. “I could not stop thinking- every terrible thing it could have been doing in there, if I could not see- I could not keep my mind from racing with every catastrophe, every possible evil- I needed to have my eyes upon the beast.”

Rilla inhales, exhales. The idea of Damien glaring hatefully at Arum the whole night through is- unsettling , to say the least, but-

“Did that help, then?”

“Help,” he repeats in a mutter. “I did not lose myself to hysterics in fear of potential disaster, if that is what you mean.”

“Damien,” she says, her stomach doing an uncomfortable little turn at his tone. His frown deepens, just slightly, and he turns his face away. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“It seems to be as weak as you believe it to be,” he says, and he does not sound happy about it.

“He can barely lift his arms, Damien.”

“I said he seemed-” Damien cuts himself off again, and then he exhales a sigh. “Yes. At the moment it does not appear that he could attack you. At the moment.”

It’s not much of a concession, but it’s something . Rilla gives a very slight smile, just in time for Damien to glance her way again. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes are a little softer, she thinks.

“You… you look tired, Damien. You should lay down, just for a little bit-”

He shakes his head, sighing again. “I cannot.”

“Damien, he’s not going to-”

“I must return to the Citadel,” he interrupts, and her heart sinks as he rises to stand. “I am expected, today.”

“Oh,” she says, and she very much does not want to ask the question that hangs in the air between them. She doesn’t want to, but Rilla knows that leaving it hanging won’t help, so. She stands as well, biting her lip for a moment before she asks, “Are you- do you plan on-”

His jaw tightens. “I have yet to kill the creature,” he mutters, looking away. “I cannot say a word about it unless I wish to reveal my own failure and cowardice.”

“Oh, come on, Damien, it’s not-”

He turns towards her, his frown deepening further. “My love, I know my duty, and you know it just as well. This- this arrangement cannot stand. Surely you must understand that I cannot allow this. I will- I will concede some time, for you to reconcile that knowledge. I do not know why or how you have grown… attached to this thing, but I admire the compassion of your heart, even as I know I must act against it.”

“Damien,” Rilla tries again. “The only reason he’s hurt in the first place is because other monsters attacked him. You aren’t even a little curious why that would be true? And I’m not just going to- to let you hurt him after all this- after I’ve done so much to- Damien, he’s my patient-”

“I said I would give you time, my dearest love, and I shall. But you must come to terms with the reality of the situation. You must come to terms with the fact that he is a monster, and I am a knight. There is only one way this can possibly end, Rilla.”

He lifts his hand, reaching to cup her cheek, and Rilla scowls, smacking his palm away. “Don’t- I don’t need your concession, Damien. Don’t patronize me.”

“I-” he pauses, his expression somewhere between injured and mournful, and then he sighs. “I have duties that will keep me away tonight, but- but I will be back tomorrow, in the evening. When I can be.”

“Oh, thank the Saints,” she mutters, making no effort to disguise her irritation. “I’ll just muddle along and try not to get murdered until then.”

Damien presses his lips together, tight, but he manages not to respond to that. He takes another deep breath, instead, and then he fixes his eyes more deliberately on his fiance. “I love you, Rilla. I… you know that I worry as I do merely because of how deeply I care for you.”

Rilla sighs, some of the anger leaking away, and she steps close enough to the knight to touch his shoulder, her brow furrowed. “You know I love you too. Try- try not to overexert yourself today, Damien. It’s not healthy to push yourself on zero sleep.”

Damien purses his lips, but he doesn’t point out her hypocrisy. Instead, he gives his own weak smile and says, “Doctor’s orders?”

“Unless fiancée’s orders work better,” she says with a shrug, and she only hesitates for a heartbeat when she leans down to press a light kiss to his cheek. “I’ll- I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Damien agrees, and Rilla can’t help but notice the way his eyes flick towards Arum’s door.

Arum slips in and out of consciousness most of the rest of the day. Rilla has enough time in his frequent catnaps (lizardnaps?) to manage her experiments, finally. A lot of them went unruly while she was so distracted managing him , and she has to toss out the entirety of her new bandage adhesive experiment- it worked a little too well, actually, and she feels like that particular mixture wouldn’t be good to apply to actual human skin. Or scales, for that matter. She puts the ones she can on hold, and the others she scraps. She can’t be sure how much of her time is going to be co-opted by monster babysitting, right now, and she knows how easily she gets distracted by her work. This patient is worth better than half her attention.

She switches to research, instead, pulling out bestiaries and pulling up the floorboard at the foot of her bed so she can cross reference with some of her fathers’ old books as well.

She notes a few possibilities for the creature that left the talon behind, though she doesn’t have much luck, finding anything like Arum in those books, either.

She does find him on the floor of the exam room in the mid-afternoon, though. She hears the thump when he falls, and when she comes to check on that she finds him halfway off the cot and halfway on the floor. His tail and one foot are still on the bed, mostly, tangled in the blankets, and she sighs deeply as he growls up at her with his snout against the wood of her floor.

“In what way would leaving right now be useful to you, Arum?” she asks dryly. “You planning on crawling your way back to your swamp from here? I’m pretty sure the knights will notice you even if you are on ground level the whole time.”

His growl deepens as he glares up at her, and he makes a somewhat sad and not very fruitful effort to pull himself back up. His leg is still tangled, and Rilla needs to pull the cloth away so he can slump all the way to the floor before she can actually start to help get him back up.

He takes the help with bad grace, of course. He refuses to look at her as she slips an arm around his back, careful to avoid the one large stab wound on his lower back as she helps to lift him back to sit on the edge of the bed, and he growls continuously throughout, though he doesn’t try to push her away.

“I was gonna wait a while for this to let you rest a bit longer, but now I’m gonna have to check you over again to make sure you didn’t just pull something open, Arum.”

“I could tear your throat out, you know,” he snarls, and he’s close enough that she can see the flecks of darker purple in his eyes as he glares at her. “Effortlessly. Each time you patronize me I grow closer to succumbing to that temptation.”

“I feel like I don’t actually have to tell you how much of an idiot move that would be,” Rilla says wryly, making no effort to pull back away from him. Instead, she starts to unwind his bandages to check on his injuries, her fingers moving with the automatic ease of practice, and Arum winces, hissing lightly. “You could,” she says. “Obviously you could. But we both know that you shouldn’t. Especially not now that we’ve dealt with the biggest issue in the way of your recovery.”

He huffs, turning his face away, and she can’t help the way the laugh bubbles out of her at the pout on his face.

“Don’t- don’t you dare mock me, human-”

“I’m not. Arum-”

He’s actively trying to pull away from her hands, now, and she lets him, lifting her palms in a placating gesture. Last thing she wants to do is accidentally hurt him worse because he’s struggling against her.

“Arum. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” She shakes her head, smiling wryly. “The situation is more ridiculous than anything, honestly, but you just- you looked so irritated that you might survive and it just- hit me. Sorry.”

He makes a strange rattling noise and eyes her warily for a moment before he looks away with a huff. “Well. You are… you are correct that this entire debacle is ridiculous. I suppose you cannot be blamed,” he mutters. His frame relaxes, and he drops his hands. “Go on, then. If you must.”

It is a little strange, checking him so thoroughly like this while he’s actually conscious enough to scrutinize her in return. Usually he’s at least half-asleep when she does this, or at least too tired to pay much attention. With him frowning at her the whole time-

She starts talking her way through it after a few moments, explaining each step and describing his progress to him, and though he frowns at first, she can tell that he’s listening, and he almost seems to relax a bit. Not counting the moments he flinches when she needs to clean some of the more heinous injuries before rewrapping, at least.

“I… I do not understand you,” he mutters when she’s finished again, narrowing his eyes up at her as she checks his temperature with the back of a hand. “I don’t understand any of it. You, your little pet knight, none of it. It’s ridiculous.”

“That’s fair,” Rilla says with a shrug and a sigh. “Look, it doesn’t make a lot of sense from my perspective either, Arum. It’s not like I went for a walk the other day expecting to have a monster fall into my lap, you know? Sometimes- sometimes things just happen, and you react. I’m reacting.”

Arum ducks his head, glaring up at her as she puts the bandages away again, neatly arranging her materials back into their respective cabinets. “This is not the reaction that humans typically have to monsters , Amaryllis. Injured or no.”

Rilla tries not to let it show on her face, the little flash of delight she feels that he’s deigned to actually use her name. “Yeah, well. I tend to do things my own way.”

He doesn’t give her much trouble for the rest of the day. He must be exhausted by the whole collapsing-to-the-floor thing combined with just, like, the rest of it, because he’s right back to napping on and off until dark. She eats dinner early, since she was a bit too distracted for breakfast and she was busy with her experiment management around lunchtime, and the next time she hears Arum shifting around she brings something in for him, too.

Vegetable stew is a good sort of meal for where he’s at currently. He begrudgingly explained his dietary needs over the last day or so, mostly as she’s tried offering him various things and either had him turn his nose up in haughty disgust or snatch it impatiently out of her hands, by turns. His dental structure is odd enough that she had a difficult time hypothesizing what he would eat in the first place, but it turns out he’s an omnivore, with a preference for insects, fruits, and leafy greens. She could fry up some crickets, make a salad, that sort of thing, but his throat is still a little raw from the near-drowning, so she figures something more broth-based is probably better to stick to for the moment. He’s less grumpy when he’s full, too, which is a pleasant side effect.

(She’s amused as hell when she teases out of him that he doesn’t actually eat red meat- doesn’t , he says specifically, not can’t, which is interesting, but it ’s interesting less for the sake of her knowledge of his eating habits and more because it puts the lie to all his early grumbled I’ll bite your throat out, you’ll be delicious you foolish little creature sorts of threats from when he was barely awake.)

She goes to bed early, checks on her patient again in the middle of the night (he’s deep asleep at that point, thankfully), and when she wakes the next day it’s kind of a repeat. Arum’s making progress, now, sure, but it’s still slow. She thinks that he might heal more slowly than a human, but she can’t be sure if that’s inherent or just a consequence of him recovering from whatever toxin had been in his system. That’s first on the list for that day, anyway. Identifying that talon so she can figure out that much, at least.

The day runs sort of like clockwork, in that she spends any point during which she’s not busy thinking of the clock. Thinking of when Damien is coming back, of what he’s doing out there, how worried he must be (unnecessarily, but still), what kind of state he’s going to return in-

Even Arum notices that she’s distracted, which is annoying. He doesn’t say much besides a grumble that goes with an eye-roll, but still, she should be better than that.

Damien doesn’t come back until late, when she’s washing up the dishes after dinner. He knocks, which isn’t that unusual when she has the little plaque on her door turned to closed, and that’s been continual since she dragged Arum back here. She calls for him to come in, since she’s got her wrists in dishwater anyway, and there’s just enough of the meal left for him to have a bowl too, and she opens her mouth to offer as she glances over her shoulder, but-

“Saints, Damien, you look exhausted-”

He frowns, but he doesn’t answer. He crosses the room rather quickly, actually, and Rilla realizes after a half second that he’s marching straight for Arum’s door.

“Damien? Damien-”

He pulls the door open, stares inside, and then before Rilla can really start to panic he sighs and closes the door again.

“Still here,” he breathes. “It’s still here.”

“I…” Rilla shakes the water off her hands, eying Damien warily from across almost the entire space of her hut. “What did you think I was gonna do with him, exactly?”

“I had half-convinced myself I had dreamed the whole thing,” he mutters, and then he looks to her, and the shadows beneath his eyes are nearly purple. “Or- or perhaps I was hoping that was true.”

Rilla furrows her brow. “Well… sorry to disappoint, I guess. I saved you some food, if…”

He stares at the exam room door again, just for a moment, and then he comes over and sits by the table to eat.

It’s awkward, to say the least. Damien is never this quiet, and he keeps staring at Arum’s door as if he expects it to burst open or something worse , and Rilla can’t seem to draw him into conversation even a little. When he’s done eating he stands and washes the bowl without a word, and then he- hovers there, near the table, and just stares at the door for a while longer.

Rilla stands as well, after a moment, and she reaches gently to touch his shoulder.

“Damien… I think- I think you need to rest, okay?”

“I am perfectly-”

“You haven’t slept at all, have you?” she asks, and his eyes flick to the door again. She reaches her other hand out to cup his cheek, to make him meet her eyes. “Damien. Look, I’m- I’m tired too, okay? Just- come to bed with me. Lay down for- for just a couple hours. We can lock the bedroom door if that will make you feel better, but- you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. It’s not healthy, and it’s not going to help anyone. Please.”

You’re really worrying me, she doesn’t say, but she can tell he hears her anyway. He sags after a pause, then leans into her arms and nods. He lets her lead him to the bedroom. He lets her carefully undo his armor, lets her pull him into the bed and wrap her arms around him, lets her draw hands through his hair and hum some soft song until she drowses, until she falls entirely to sleep.

And then when Rilla is safe in slumber, when her worries have been appeased, Damien extricates himself from her embrace, retrieves his bow, and goes to resume his watch.

[->]

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #scattered on my shore #i meant to post this last night but uh i fell ASLEEP asleep instead of just napping r i p #also not much happens this time eep #mostly i just. want to get to. the Good Shit i already wrote for later chapters..... O.O

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teenytinyadventurer · 5 years

Text

Random rants: Kane, Alma and Theia oh my!

I’ve finally caught up with all of the chapters I missed (now I gotta wait two weeks rip), and I’m actually interested in how they’re handling the sources and villains, or at least who we think are the villains!

Kane:

I LOVE KANE! He’s so charming (too charming) you can’t help but forget that the dude who conjured a tea party and cute farm animals for MC also happens to be the same dude who tore up Penn Square and nearly choked the professors to death. He’s chaotic and unpredictable, you have no idea what his motives are. But while I don’t think he’s trustworthy, I don’t think he’s out to hurt MC necessarily either (even though he completely disregards all other human life). His private conversation with the server dude suggested that he actually cared about Gemma’s safety and that Alma was going to manipulate her. His secrets that he shares with you if he trusts you also seem pretty genuine. While I don’t think he’s ever lied to MC per say, I don’t think he’s being completely transparent. He’s definitely keeping some crucial details in his story to himself to make him seem nicer than he really is. Like why were the group of sources all gathered at Pompeii?? Probably because Kane started the drama himself.

While I would love for him to be an LI, so far it doesn’t seem likely based off of what we’ve seen so far. First of all, it would be pretty gutsy of PB to try to pull off a million year age difference LOL. But I mean if enough people want him they might consider it. Second, our flirt options didn’t gain any visible romance points, but that might be hidden to keep it mysterious who knows. Third, its been hinted that MC is faking the flirting and isn’t quite comfortable with Kane yet.

The way this is described isn’t really romantic (more fearful) which suggests that what MC is feeling isn’t attraction (despite my own feelings LOL). This might change as MC gets to know Kane better. In the end I decided to trust Kane not just because I stan him, but because he brought up a lot of good points in my head. Alma claimed that he wanted to kill all of the sources and control the world but like, how is one element (air) supposed to control everything if all the others are gone? I really don’t think Kane wants to kill the sources, maybe imprison them at most (still pretty bad).

Alma:

Which brings me to the lady who fed us all this stuff about Kane. Why do we trust Alma? This blood lady pops up out of nowhere after Kane comes and demands MC and Atlas put him back in his prison. And then everyone just trusts her automatically?? Not to mention I think she flat out lied when she said Pompeii was caused by Kane.

How can someone who can only use air singlehandedly cause a volcanic eruption? Or an earthquake? Or a tsunami (which are caused by earthquakes)? If Kane only saw humans as playthings, why was he friends with so many and so involved with them (similar to Theia). Either PB is overlooking these details or Alma really is deliberately trying to turn us against Kane. I don’t have the screenshot, but in chapter 9 when Alma declares that Kane be put back in prison, he says that her “tyranny” will end. As the strongest source, is she trying to control and oppress all of the other sources herself to keep the harmony and balance? I think there’s a lot more conflict going on between the sources than Alma is letting on. She seems to be withholding a lot of information from us, and refuses to teach MC useful and powerful spells under the reasoning that they’re too weak despite the fact that she’s making MC go up against A SOURCE.

Theia:

Finally, Alma says that we have to find Gemma and combine MC and Atlas’s powers (earth and refractionary energy) to trap Kane since Theia isn’t around anymore, but like... why don’t we just FIND Theia?? Since she’s a lot more capable than two university kids??? I feel like trying to find her might take just as long as training two kids to fight a source. Why is everyone so calm about the fact that the source of all sun magick is missing? If she’s been gone for so long why hasn’t anyone tried to find her? We’re trying so hard to find Gemma but not Theia and it doesn’t make sense to me because we have no idea where either of them are. It seems the only one concerned with where she might be is Kane. Alma has been very evasive about the subject which makes me very suspicious of her.

Of course PB might just pull the straight line plot of “Kane really is just trying to take over the world and Alma was just a mentor”, but I’m hoping it’s more complicated than that. What do you think about the sources? Let me know what you think!

#the elementalists #te kane #te alma #the elementalist #pixelberry #playchoices

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vanderlindemangofarm · 5 years

Text

Breaking the Gilded Cage

A few days ago I wrote this, musing about what would happen if I turned up to the Mayor’s ball with the boys dressed in a suit instead of a fancy gown. Well, in an act of complete self-indulgence, I decided to write a fic about it.

I realise that this isn’t something I’d normally write and I don’t plan on making a habit out of posting something so self-centred, but it’s a scenario that’s been on my mind for quite a while and I wanted to have fun and see where it could go. This was a way for me to explore some of the issues I have with my general appearance and confidence.

This is also for any other girls out there who don’t always feel their best in a dress.

I’m so nervous about posting this, but here goes nothing.

Word count: 2,900

Why me? I thought, standing in front of the mirror in Karen’s tent, looking myself up and down. My hair was fluffy, tied crudely in a bun at the nape of my neck, my shirt bunched around my hips, tucked hurriedly into my trousers, which were the only form-fitting item of clothing I bothered with – and they were splattered with mud. Of all the girls in camp, why would Dutch ask me to go to a goddamn ball?

“I envy you, doll.” Karen sighed, rummaging through her trunk of clothes. “It’s going to be gorgeous. Can you even imagine?”

Oh yes, I could imagine. The fine food, the wine from countries I’d never have the chance to visit, the fireworks, the people. All those beautiful people, dressed up to the nines, looking at me, wondering how on God’s green Earth I had managed to get in. My stomach twisted.

Karen had been especially sweet to me since I told her that Dutch had invited me along to the ball, instructing me to find something suitable to wear, his tone not warranting any opposition. Of all the girls in the gang, Karen was the only one who owned clothes that would even come close to fitting me. I shifted from foot to foot, chewing my lip, watching her unfold various gowns. She held up a scarlet skirt, looking between me and the material, making thoughtful sounds.

“How about this, with that little black coat you have? And I’m sure I’ve got gloves to match…” she was back to rooting through the trunk again. I gingerly wiggled out of my boots and trousers, picking up the skirt and slipping it on. It sat easily enough on my hips – perhaps a little too tightly – but the knot in my stomach didn’t go away. Karen peered over at me and blinked.

“Aw, there you go! That fits you just fine.”

I shook my head, gripping at the material, but Karen didn’t seem to notice. She stood up, firmly tucking my shirt into the skirt, undoing a couple of buttons to show some cleavage. I felt my throat tighten with discomfort, my cheeks burning.

“I can’t do this, Karen.”

“What? Don’t be silly! Now, let me see if I can’t find those gloves. I’m sure Mary-Beth can give you one of her necklaces and a brooch or two. And how about a shawl? Tilly has one that would really bring out your eyes. Oh, and you must take my fine hat, it hasn’t had a good outing since Valentine…”

“Karen, please.”

“What do you say I put a touch of lipstick on you?”

“No!”

Karen jumped, startled. I closed my eyes, exhaled slowly.

“I’m so sorry.” I whispered eventually. Karen shook her head, started trying to tell me that it was fine. But I really, really wasn’t fine.

“I just…I can’t…this isn’t me. I don’t know why Dutch even bothered asking me to go along tonight. Perhaps this is his idea of a prank.” I slipped off the scarlet skirt and pulled my trousers, boots and overcoat back on, my hair falling out of its bun in the commotion.

“Oh, doll. Sit down for a while.”

Karen’s eyes were full of sympathy, but I didn’t want any of it. I apologised again but took my leave of her tent. The late morning sunshine illuminated Shady Belle, blinding me. I started to march back to my own tent, intending to have a stiff drink and figure out how the hell I was going to weasel out of the ball. Lost in my frustration, I bumped straight into Dutch.

“I beg your pardon, miss!” he said, throwing his arms up, smiling. I made a brief noise of acknowledgement and continued to walk, hoping he’d just leave me to it. No such luck.

“I hope you’re adequately prepared for tonight. We’re counting on you.”

I took a deep breath, ready to explain why I was certainly not adequately prepared, but he continued.

“I trust you’ve found something appropriate to wear? Even Mr Williamson has managed to squeeze into his old suit, though hopefully our fellow guests will be too far gone on the wine to notice the split seams.”

“Well, actually Dutch, I…”

His expression changed instantly, sinking into a frown.

“I sincerely hope you’re not planning on making an excuse, miss.”

My words got caught in my throat, as they always did when I was around Dutch. I stuttered, feeling my cheeks burning pink again.

“I was o-only wondering if one of the other girls might be…be b-better suited for tonight.”

Dutch blinked.

“Better suited?”

“Look at me. Wouldn’t you rather have Miss O’Shea accompany you? Or Miss Gaskill?”

“I don’t follow.” he said flatly, his brow still furrowed. I sighed, gesturing up and down my body, my patience waning drastically as my voice wobbled, getting louder.

“Are you blind? Do you really think anyone’s going to take me seriously?”

“Well, not if you’re going to whoop and holler like a child.”

“I meant when I’m all dressed up in some silly gown, tripping over my own feet. I’ll ruin everything.”

“You’re not going tonight to stand around and look pretty. You’re going because I need you to get people talking, to listen to their drivel in the hopes that some of it might benefit us. People will talk to you. Despite your best efforts, you’re actually quite charming.”

His tone was infuriatingly dry. I wasn’t sure if he was deliberately misunderstanding or if he was somehow enjoying this.

“I’m not going.” I spat. “You can’t force me!”

Dutch came closer to me, uncomfortably so, towering over me as he pointed a finger at my face. His expression was thunderous.

“You will go tonight. You will dress appropriately for a ball. You will be the perfect companion, and you will prove that you’re an asset to this gang because if you’re not, then what the hell am I keeping you around for?”

I turned on my heels and stormed towards my horse before he could spot the tears that had sprung to my eyes. Dutch called after me.

“Saint Denis, tonight. We’ll have a carriage waiting outside the Bastille Saloon at dusk. If you’re not there, don’t bother coming back to camp.”

I mounted up, speeding away from Shady Belle, dust billowing. I yelled some obscenities over my shoulder, grateful that I was riding too fast for him to hear me properly. My heart was thumping under my shirt like a hammer, my lips pierced together with anger. I did end up riding to Saint Denis, deciding to find the saloon and finally have that much-needed drink. Leaving my horse in the stables I started to wander the streets, appreciative of the crowds. I felt myself blend into the background, safe and invisible.

***

On my way to the saloon I passed several shops – a dress-maker, a tailor, a haberdashery. I scoffed, looking at the fine silks in the window of the dress-makers. They were beautiful, of course, their colours rich and sumptuous. Within the shop I could just make out a young woman around my age being fitted for a gown. She stood on a small stool, hands on her hips, rotating slowly so the assistant could take her measurements. She was admiring herself in the full-length mirror, a small, confident smile on her face. It was at that moment that I caught sight of myself in the glass of the window. Bedraggled, a little sweaty from the journey, my cheeks rosy. I sighed and walked on down the street.

It was at that moment that a vaguely familiar voice caught my attention.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

I turned in the direction of the voice, my gaze met by a top hat, a groomed moustache, a well-tailored suit, and a gently amused smile.

“Mr Trelawny?”

“At your service,” he beamed, giving me a courteous bow. I didn’t know Josiah terribly well – whenever he was around camp he seemed to keep to himself, or converse with Dutch and Hosea. I found his conjuring tricks tiresome, but he always had a smile and kind greeting for me whenever we crossed paths. He beckoned me over to the side of the road.

“And what brings you to fair Saint Denis today?” he enquired, briefly casting his eyes up and down my person.

“Our glorious leader has managed to get a handful of us invited to the Mayor’s ball tonight.” I replied grimly, folding my arms across my chest. Josiah chuckled.

“You seem thrilled by the concept, dear girl.”

“You have no idea.”

Josiah tilted his head to one side, studying me intently.

“Why the sorrow? You have the chance to experience the fine society of our noble city! The chance to dazzle and be dazzled! Your glorious leader clearly chose you for a reason. I’d say any young woman should be lucky to see such an event, especially when invited by such a strapping fellow.”

I shook my head.

“It’s not that I don’t feel lucky. I appreciate what Dutch is trying to do for me, for all of us. But no one seems to understand…it’s not a place for the likes of me. I can’t squeeze into a dress and still do the things that I do. I’d feel like a court jester, a circus attraction. The thought of everyone looking at me, of Dutch seeing me so…uncomfortable. I’d humiliate him, and I can’t bear it. If only I could wear a wonderful suit just like yours, Mr Trelawny! All my troubles would be melted away.”

Josiah looked at me thoughtfully, the silence after my little outburst stifling the air. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, feeling at once too big and smaller than a mouse. I started when I felt Josiah’s delicately gloved hand rest on my shoulder.

“My dear, silly girl.”

“Please don’t pity me, Mr Trelawny.”

“Pity? How dare you! I’m empathising. And scheming.”

I looked up at him.

“Scheming?”

He murmured in confirmation, looking briefly over his shoulder towards the Bastille, which loomed in the distance.

“Indeed. I believe I may be able to help you in your wardrobe predicament.”

***

In what could have been a whirlwind I found myself balancing precariously on a stool in a small room at the Bastille. Josiah knelt at my feet, a small tape measure in his hand. He extended it up my legs, across my body, my arms. He mumbled to himself, brow furrowing and un-furrowing like a choreographed performance.

“Now, we’ve hardly the time for a perfect Cinderella transformation. However,…” he turned away, rummaging through a chest of drawers that stood in the corner of the room. “…I do believe I can work some magic before the evening arrives.”

He pulled out a smart pair of black trousers and a matching coat, trimmed with silver silk. I raised my eyebrows.

“May I ask why you have those, Mr Trelawny?”

“Certainly. And I reserve my infinite right not to answer.”

I smiled, watching him hold them up to me. He nodded, almost to himself.

“They may be a little loose, but it’s nothing a few well-placed pins couldn’t solve. And you already have a white shirt, I see? Excellent, that’s one less thing to concern ourselves with.”

He turned away dutifully as I changed into the suit, my heart racing. When I gave him the all-clear to look at me again his eyes gleamed.

“Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!”

“I look ridiculous, Mr Trelawny.”

He shook his head, walking towards me.

“Quite the contrary. May I?” he asked, producing a handful of pins from his pocket which he used to tighten the waistband of the trousers. He helped me tuck my shirt in, smoothing out the collar and re-doing the buttons. The jacket fit surprisingly well, nipping in at the waist. Josiah rolled up the cuffs slightly, so my hands weren’t too drowned in the material, and even gave me his own pocket-square. I brushed my hair, re-tying it into its usual bun, leaving a few strands loose for good measure. Josiah circled me, inspecting his work.

“Now, one last touch…”

He exposed the tiniest amount of my throat, so that the small silver necklace I always wore was just visible. I smiled at him, and he returned the gesture.

“Whoever said a queen must always wear a gown clearly never met you, my dear.”

I rolled my eyes, grinning. “Don’t overdo it.”

Josiah put his hands up in submission.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I placed my hand on his arm.

“Thank you, Mr Trelawny.”

“Think nothing of it. Society is a gilded cage that longs to be broken. I’m only too glad to assist the destruction.”

***

Josiah wouldn’t hear of me paying for the room – “it’s yours for as long as you need it” – and told me sincerely that he hoped to see me again.

“I wish you all the luck in the world tonight, my dear. And do sample as many types of champagne as you can manage – just pretend to be able to tell the difference and you’ll fit right in.”

I laughed, waving as he shut the door of the room. It felt distressingly empty and quiet now that he was gone. I looked out of the window, my stomach doing a backflip as I realised the sun was almost setting. Dusk, that’s when I was meeting the boys to get the carriage. It felt like I was awaiting my execution.

Just before I decided to bite the bullet and make my way outside, I paused to look in the mirror. I looked tidier, and that was the main thing, but there was something else as well. I looked older, stronger. I looked like I knew myself. I didn’t look scared anymore.

I walked through the bar of the saloon, past the poker tables and tipsy punters. The lingering glances bounced off me like hailstones, and I felt light as a feather. I waited outside, until a handsome carriage pulled up in front of me. A familiar face peered out of the window.

“Right on time, I see!”

“Hello, Hosea.” I grinned. “Arthur,” I nodded to the handsome blonde. “Bill, looking sharp.” I chortled, watching Bill flush pink and Arthur chuckle deeply.

I could just about make out the silhouette of a top hat in the far corner of the carriage. The door swung open, and Dutch emerged, his face composed. He looked at me for what felt like a century, and it was in those moments that I wanted to reverse the entire afternoon, to go back to Karen’s tent and accept the scarlet skirt and matching gloves, to smile and giggle at Dutch’s invitation, and for once in my entire life to not make things difficult for myself.

I stared back at him, deciding to take the initiative and speak first.

“You look nice, Dutch. Dapper.” I said coolly. Dutch arched an eyebrow.

“And you look…different.”

Well, that wasn’t as bad as I’d feared.

“I should think so to,” I retorted. “I could hardly attend a ball in muddy trousers, could I?”

The evening air felt thicker than treacle as I waited for Dutch to respond. I could almost see the cogs rotating inside his head. Eventually, he nodded.

“Well, you’d better get in. We’ve got a ball to get to.”

I shrugged, thanking Hosea when he offered his arm to help me into the carriage. A champagne bottle appeared, and soon everyone was clinking glasses and sipping the bubbling liquid. The smell made me excited about the evening for the first time. Bill turned to me, a faint scowl on his face.

“You look ridiculous.” he grumbled, looking me up and down. I smiled sweetly.

“And yet here I am, the only one out of the two of us who managed to find a suit that actually fits.”

Arthur and Hosea roared with laughter, topping up my glass with more champagne which I gratefully chugged. Hosea cleared his throat, composing himself.

“So…you’re confident with what you’re here to do?” he asked softly. I paused, but nodded.

“Yes, very confident.”

I noticed Dutch scoff subtly, glaring out the window. I kept my eyes fixed on him, continuing.

“I’m here to make people talk, to see if any of their drivel might be of use to us. People will talk to me. Despite my best efforts,” I paused deliberately, making Dutch turn to meet my gaze. “I’m actually quite charming.”

Hosea murmured with amusement. Dutch stared at me, the barest whisper of a smile playing on his lips.

When we arrived at the Mayor’s house he leaned forward when the other men were looking away. He rested his hand on my knee.

“I’m…” he started, frowning as he tried to find the right words. “…glad you’re here.”

I nodded, smiling at him. The cool outside air rushed into the carriage as the door was opened. I hopped down onto the street, the lights from the Mayor’s house beaming up into the sky, making it look like a bonfire. Dutch stood beside me, offering me his arm. I scoffed.

“I don’t need an escort, Mr Van der Linde.” I taunted, smoothing down my jacket and standing up straight. Dutch chuckled.

“That you don’t, miss.” he purred, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind my ear. “That you don’t.”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #mango writes #mango musing #mine #self insert #dutch van der linde #josiah trelawny #karen jones #arthur morgan #hosea matthews #bill williamson

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anodyne-sunflower · 5 years

Text

Daydreams-NewtxReader (Req.)

A/N: Requested by @jackdawsonsgrl ❤️ Enjoy~

MOOD MUSIC: Daydreaming by Rosa Pullman

***

“Swooping evil venom, Gillyweed...” Your fingers gently traced the labels of the bottles lining Newt’s shelves, finding the spot left vacant for the one currently in your hand. “Ah, aconite.” The bottle slipped easily between the others, a smile on your lips as you mentally congratulated yourself for a simple job well done. It wasn’t like your life had suddenly become difficult to pursue, but this job had certainly left you with much to learn and stress over. “There we are, then. Next thing on the list.”

The paper crumpled as you pulled it from your pocket, eyes scanning the numbered items Newt had tasked you with. He was hardly the overbearing boss, and frankly, one of the best you had worked for. Three weeks in and you had finally decided this was the best career choice you could have made, and if you were honest, the views were often something to admire here. Newt had imagined a world all on his own, with creatures coexisting and humans learning about and from them. It was admirable of him, and to see it come to life before you was as magical as your world could get. Of course, you had feasted on the thought of more than gorgeous terrains and numerous beasts that wowed the visual sense. When you had considered the aesthetics of his basement...well, Newt was certainly part of it, wasn’t he?

“Clean the Niffler habitat-no, that’s last, isn’t it?” You shook your head in vexation, trying to clear away the lewd images being so torturously conjured in your brain. If you didn’t know better, you were about as besotted as a schoolgirl. So enchanted by your boss and madly driven to be more than his assistant. If only Newt could plainly see that in you, but wasn’t that his charm? Being hopelessly unaware of the way you pined for him. One would think your long, amiable gaze was enough to alert him to your desires, but that worked about as well as you expected. No, Newt was different than other men. He wasn’t a fool, by any means, but he certainly didn’t hold the common courting rituals of everyday folk. Frustrating as it was, you had to admit flirting with him was something of a fun pastime at work. “Bugger, um-oh, right, Niffler cages. No wait-oh god, girl! Get it together, he doesn’t even notice you.”

You rolled your eyes at your own stargazing behavior. There would be no work done if you kept on fancying yourself in Newt’s arms and perhaps thrown across his sofa upstairs... “Alright, that’s not helping.” You blushed profusely at the idea, mind scrambling to erase that picture from your head and allow you some peace away from the more lustful corners of your brain. “He’s just your boss, that’s it. Just your boss!” You were whispering hard to yourself, closing your eyes and willing away the naughty bits of your thoughts. Oh, but how lovely it would feel, right? To have his roughened fingertips caress you here and there. “Roughened fingertips...?” How would you even know that? Lucky guess, you assumed, but wasn’t that to be expected by his chosen line of work? It was a very hands on job, it would be an inevitability for him to have such worked over palms.

“Are you alright?”

You nearly jumped from your skin, eyes startling open and turning to find the object of your fantasies walking by. Newt gave you a curious look, blinking in question when you simply nodded. “Yes, of course, just a bit tired. That’s all.” A lie. But, a bloody good one. Newt would never pick up on that, he was too preoccupied by his work that he just smiled and went back to his placing feed in the bins.

“You can go home now, Y/N. If you’d like. I can take-“

Not the intended effect. “No!”

The wizard turned to you in surprise, clearly not expecting such an outburst. He rose back to his full height, suspenders seeming to agree with every slight movement of his body as he did so. “Oh...” It left you heated, cheeks burning hotter with every step he inched towards you. You covered half your face with his scrawled out list, attempting to hide your own embarrassment at his proximity.

“You don’t seem yourself today. Are you sure you’re-“

“Don’t be silly, Newt.” You waved him away, warmed by his concern of you but hoping he didn’t dare come closer or you’d likely faint in his arms. Or maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. “I don’t need to leave, I’m just a little tired, not overly so, but just a little.” Your words came out in endless rambles, leaving him even further confused by your demeanor.

Newt couldn’t spot the cause of your behavior, and he assumed you were sick at first. But, the second he took notice of the sheen of sweat dotting your skin he worried. A Murtlap bite, perhaps? He was sure you wouldn’t be so affected by the symptoms, but it was never an easy tell. “Did you get bit by one of the creatures?”

“What? No!” You took another step back, moving towards the desk and shelves behind you until your hips hit the edge and shook the number of bottles above. You both looked up then, the split second between the vials descent and your reflex not being quick enough feeling like the longest seconds of your life. Newt quickly stepped forward, trying to grab it before it hit you, but his actions only caused it to slam down onto the table, glass shattering and the contents flying everywhere, including his shirt.

“Newt!” You frantically looked about for a towel or rag, but there was no help in sight. “I’m so sorry, that was my fault! I’ll go get you another-“

“Uh, no-Don’t worry.” Newt offered a smile, moving away as he began undoing each button. The motion appeared slow to you, each button deliberately coming undone and exposing the flesh beneath. Life could be so unfair at times, you mused, and just when you couldn’t feel any worse he undressed there. As if that was a decent and normal thing to do in front of another person. Not that you minded. Not even a little. His suspenders were shifted to fall to his sides, his hands quickly tugging his shirt from his trousers where it was tucked rather messily. It suited him, but as much as it did, you rather enjoyed the shirtless version as well.

“Merlin...” Your eyes went to his waist, lean and slightly muscled it offered an insight into how much physical work this job actually took. Even the scars that were visible were to be admired. Some long, some short and some deep into his skin you wondered how he managed to survive such a wound. It left you dazed before him, mind running through every fantasy you ever had of the man. You so desperately wanted to reach out and touch him. To feel his skin beneath your fingers and hear him enjoy every affection. But, that wasn’t Newt’s way. In fact, he hardly seemed aware of your ogling the entire time he went to the side cabinet and pulled free another shirt.

“D-Does this happen often?” You swallowed hard, watching intently as his fingers trailed his new clothing and buttoned up. If you had no dignity, you’d of gone over and quickly undid his work, because you were pathetically eager to see his freckled skin all over again.

“Sorry?”

“The shirt, I mean, spills and the like.” You motioned to his old dirty one, piled on the table near you. It was an idiotic question, but right now your mind wasn’t working at full capacity.

“On occasion. No harm done, though, Y/N.” He gave another gentle smile, finishing the last button as he casually walked by you and went towards the waters edge at the end of the steps. “I’ll be with the Kelpie for a bit. If you could please just feed the Nundu, then you can head home for the night.”

He could’ve easily forgotten his shirt if he was planning on getting wet, you thought. “You’ll be the death of me, Scamander.”

***

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#newt scamander #eddie redmayne #newt x reader #newt x you #newt x y/n #newt scamander x reader #newt scamander fanfic #newt scamander x you #newt scamander imagine #newt scamander x y/n

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rougespecial-blog · 5 years

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sweetheart hand pt. 2 // brian may

summary: a continuation of sweetheart hand. after the party, the (art) studio.

a/n: mostly fluff and then some smut. sorry for the delay! if tumblr hasn’t sorted out their tagging shit by now...... hm. this is around 5,400 words. i was thinking about this twombly work when i was describing the painting. also can you believe this image cause i can’t.

there’s something terrifying and invigorating in equal measure about a blank canvas. you stare the expanse of white down determinedly, crossing your arms and trying to conjure something up in your mind’s eye. it’s a beast of a thing, five feet tall and six feet wide, and anything you try to visualise comes up short. fuck it. you’ve been avoiding it for weeks. you’ll just have to dive in.

you’ve hit almost every mark of your normal afternoon pre-painting routine - the curtains are thrown back to let the natural light in, you’ve made yourself a strong cup of tea and there’s a note on the door in case anyone decides to call around. the only thing left is to take the phone off the hook. it’s an old bakelite monster with a rotary dial - you could afford to replace it, but you’re fond of its look. plus, the horrible, grating sound of its ring is reason alone to stop it from disturbing your painting.

well. not that you normally have any hesitations about it. you haven’t done anything so undignified as waiting around for someone to call since you were a teenager.

———-

it was only after you’d kissed brian on saturday night that you realised you’d probably been a goner since he leaned carefully against the kitchen counter and asked you for a glass of champagne. the hours you spent with him had been so easy, slipping by in what felt like minutes. there was a quiet measure in the way he carried himself, the deliberate way he chose his words even when he was speaking a million miles an hour.

and the kiss itself. not the first, really, but the second one. the one he pressed to the softest part of your inner wrist. watching you with those clear eyes, the whole thing so stupidly intimate that it made your breath catch in your throat. after that, there was no hope at all. you had mumbled something absently about fixing the record, pulled back - hesitant but dimly aware you needed to gather your thoughts for a moment. when you turned away from the record player he was standing there all tall and willowy, waiting for you, arms folded. there was the slightest tilt to his head, the way men ask questions. yes, you had thought, in response to nothing in particular. and you kissed him again.

when you found tom at the end of the night - or start of the morning, rather - and asked him to call a cab, he had taken one look at you and grinned from ear to ear. you knew you were probably an embarrassing colour, lips flushed and clothes slightly askew. you didn’t even want to think about the state of your hair. he was bitterly disappointed, though, when he started to interrogate you in the taxi home.

‘was he good?’ you shot him an incredulous look. ‘that’s none of your business.’ ‘oh, my god. you didn’t shag him?’ ‘don’t make me dignify that with an answer, please.’ ‘i can’t believe you.’

it was a reaction you were accustomed to from tom - the polite term for his taste in lovers would be indiscriminate - but you found that you couldn’t even muster up pretend-annoyance at his prying questions. you were too content, watching the city slip by and thinking that your memory of the past few hours already felt like the kind of vivid dream you have on the edge of waking up - the ones you want desperately to remember. you had just kissed brian - for an age, like a teenager - curled up on a loveseat, paying no mind at all to the few strangers in the room. his hands were gentle at your neck, in your hair, under your blouse. you’ve been a grown woman for a while now, and you still felt your stomach flip when he touched his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

———-

it’s monday morning, now, and you haven’t shaken the feeling. it’s elusive, almost intangible - somewhere between anxiety and anticipation, the feeling of closing your eyes before a kiss. you had taken a pen and scrawled your number on brian’s arm before you left, pressing your lips to the last digit, right at the crease of his elbow. as a joke, mostly. but he had promised he would call so seriously that you found yourself believing him. stupid, you know, the idea that he wouldn’t meet a hundred women as charming as you and twice as good looking every weekend. better to enjoy it for what it was.

still, you leave the phone on the hook.

you’re a little embarrassed with yourself as you make your way to your palette (more of a drop sheet these days, really) and begin to mix. you wonder briefly about the colour of embarrassment, but the more paint you pour the more you realise what you’re after is the colour of a glance. a colour that looks the way someone else’s mouth tastes. it goes on in broad strokes - you want to cover the canvas in it, to feel like you’re wrapped in it. the shade you end up with is a champagne pink like sunburn, streaked through with hints of a vivid red. a little derivative, maybe, but you can work more into it.

your studio is the ground floor of your townhouse, what used to be a fairly spacious foyer and sitting room. creating it had been a labour of love over an entire spring a few years back. your own handiwork, mostly, tearing out walls, painting, varnishing until you ended up with the space you wanted. a good half of the floor space is covered in tarpaulin, with canvases, paint and brushes strewn wherever you like. it looks chaotic, but you know where everything is at a moment’s notice and there’s no one here to ‘helpfully’ tidy up after you - one of the main reasons you had to stop sharing a studio with tom. the rest of the room is still half a lounge, mostly wasted due to your reluctance to let guests in. things you’ve collected yourself and gifts from friends fill the place - huge potted plants, turkish rugs, a gorgeous painted trunk tom brought home from glasgow. and, of course, the ‘lounge’, a low-slung thing that’s mostly an excessive collection of pillows and throw blankets. for when you inevitably need something to throw yourself on mid-work, convinced you’ve never painted anything halfway decent in your life.

your canvas is totally awash in grey and pink, stained with red - like the blood-shock colour around the pit of a peach - when the phone rings. you nearly drop your paintbrush getting to it, only stopping to admonish yourself for being so pathetic. you let it ring once, twice more, and then pick it up.

‘hello?’ ‘hi, er - is this an alright time?’ you smile to yourself, tracing a groove in the wooden sideboard with your fingertip. ‘i’d say so, yeah.’ ‘great, that’s - oh, fuck, sorry. i haven’t - it’s brian. you know, from saturday night.’ ‘brian from saturday night? i’m not sure i - oh - wouldn’t happen to be a maths teacher, would you?’ his laugh is bright and genuine. ‘i think we got halfway through a good chat about fractals and then something came up.’ ‘of course. i’ve really been hanging out to finish that.’ ‘well, does this afternoon work? i can pick you up if you feel like a coffee.’ you pause, glancing over at your canvas. ‘i’m slightly in the middle of something,’ you confess. ‘on a bit of a momentum swing.’ ‘oh, of course. i should’ve - bit of short notice, sorry. are you free next -? i mean, if you’re not -’ your cheeks are nearly hurting from your smile, now. ‘brian. did you want to pop around instead, maybe? i’ll make you some coffee.’ he pauses for a moment, as if taken aback. you wonder if he thought you were just trying to avoid seeing him. silence, still. you falter a little. ‘or - you know, tea. if you’d prefer. it’s not contingent on the drink.’ ‘are you painting?’ the question surprises you, along with the shyly hopeful way he asks it. you look over at the canvas, at the layers of vivid underpainting starting to form something.

‘i am, actually.’ ‘sorry, it’s just - i remember you mentioning on saturday night that you didn’t really like anyone around your studio while you’re working.’ ‘i do make exceptions, you know.’ ‘that’s what i mean,’ he laughs. ‘i like being the exception.’

your exception arrives not a half-hour after you give him your address and hang up, with a knock at the door so gentle you nearly don’t notice it. you know it’s him, but you glance through the peephole anyway. he’s waiting patiently, clutching something in brown paper under his arm. the shade of stubble across his face is darker than saturday, and he’s wearing a pinstriped linen shirt that only makes him look leaner. he grins when you open the door, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. ‘this note,’ he laughs, gesturing at the handwritten thing you’d attached to your door. ‘i’ve never known a lady to say such things -’ ‘oh, piss off. artists are persistent types. you have to be clear.’

you lead him in, and it takes you a moment to realise that he’s paused in the threshold of the studio, looking around. ‘this is gorgeous,’ he says. ‘you’re telling me you keep it all to yourself?’ ‘mostly,’ you shrug. ‘i wanted to say - sort of a thank you, i guess, for letting me -’ he holds the paper bag out to you, one nervous hand moving to the back of his neck as you take it. you bite down on a smile. a book, and two blood oranges. you look up to him to say thank you, but he starts rambling before you can. ‘the oranges were just - god, your neighbour has the loveliest tree hanging over their fence, i suppose you’ve noticed, and you mentioned that you forget to eat when you’re painting - so i just grabbed them - and i thought the colour of them was so brilliant -’ ‘thank you, brian -’ ‘the book’s the main thing, of course, it was outside that old bookshop on king and i saw mark rothko and thought of you straight away, so there’s - you might already have a copy -’ ‘i don’t. really, thank you. i love them.’ he finally quiets, smiling softly. you lean up towards him, in what might have originally been a plan to kiss his cheek that quickly became sidetracked. you have never been known for self control. he makes a soft, surprised noise as your lips meet his but responds quickly, bringing a hand to your jaw. ‘thank you,’ you tell him again.

you set your gifts down on the coffee table, gesturing for him to make himself comfortable somewhere among the clutter. ‘i can make you a cup of coffee or something - i’d just like to finish up this corner, and then you’ll have my undivided attention.’ ‘take as long as you like,’ he says earnestly. it’s only then that he takes a proper look at the work in progress behind you. his mouth falls open slightly as he leans forward to inspect it. ‘you can get closer, if you like,’ you smile. ‘it’s not a gallery.’ ‘it bloody well should be,’ he says. you might have rolled your eyes if someone else had said it. ‘did you - this is all you? god, it’s brilliant.’ ‘careful, i’ll get a massive head. it’s really only a tenth done. if that.’ ‘well, yes, it’s unfinished - but there’s such a sense of motion - the colour, it’s like -’ ‘it’s a kiss,’ you say, half unsure of whether you sound insane. ‘it’s a painting of a kiss, i suppose.’ the look he gives you is brilliant, his eyes full of quiet mirth but also a certain fondness. nothing needs to be said, really. ‘i’ll go and get you that coffee.’

when you come back downstairs he’s pacing the room carefully, taking in the works littered around the place. he tilts his head - something you’re starting to realise is a habit - as if considering each one in turn. you’d feel scrutinised if it was anyone else, almost embarrassed. you’ve been painting for half your life and still aren’t really used to the feeling of strangers looking at your work. but with brian, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a stranger. you indulge yourself for a minute, perched at the bottom of the stairs, watching him.

‘fair’s fair,’ you call out eventually. he turns to you, an eyebrow raised in question. you nod at the acoustic guitar leaning against the lounge. it was a gift from a friend, and you’ve always liked the look of it even if you have no idea how to play. ‘i’ve shown you mine. let’s see yours.’ ‘excuse me,’ he laughs. ‘you’ve seen mine. at the launch party, remember?’ ‘that was different,’ you say, crossing the room to hand him the cup of coffee. ‘you had a band, and an adoring audience. that would be like seeing my work with all the trimmings at a big gallery opening. this is just me. now i want just you.’ he chuckles at your point, but doesn’t argue it. sitting down, his legs are almost too long for the sagging lounge. he places the coffee at his feet and picks up the guitar. ‘any requests?’ you know he’s being facetious, poking fun at your total lack of knowledge where his music is concerned. as of last time you met, that is.

you sit next to him, curling your feet under you and leaning on the back of the lounge comfortably. ‘i do have one, thanks very much,’ you say. ‘i forced tom to loan me one of your albums. he had the first one -’ ‘christ, you’re being serious -’ ‘- and it’s the second track, i think about a minute in - there’s this lovely little guitar part. i mean, it might be lovely, i haven’t the faintest if it’s actually special.’ ‘doing alright, you mean.’ he’s smiling the same way he did when you realised he wasn’t a maths teacher - looking perfectly amused. ‘that’s the one. i’m no good with names.’

carefully, he starts to tune the guitar. you laugh at his initial wince - it hasn’t been tuned properly since you got it, you suspect. when he’s satisfied, he strums a tentative few chords and gives you a cautionary look. ‘i haven’t played this song in a little while,’ he warns. ‘i’ll be forwarding all feedback to rolling stone,’ you say, and he huffs out a laugh, elbows you half-heartedly.

the light, pretty melody that’s been stuck in your head since you first heard it sounds infinitely lovelier being played right in front of you. you’re about to say as much when brian surprises you with a line of the song. should be waiting for the sun, he sings, half under his breath. you had no clue he even could.

he looks up and locks eyes with you, plays a few more notes and then falters to a stop. ‘sorry,’ he says, his smile sheepishly crooked. ‘you just - that felt like stage fright, for a moment there.’ ‘i’ve been told i’m extremely intimidating,’ you joke. ‘well, that, and…’ he trails off, looking towards your unfinished canvas, then back to you with nothing but sincerity in his eyes. ‘i’d really love to kiss you again, if that’s -’

you don’t give him time to finish the sentence. he barely has time to move the guitar out of the way, mindful of the fresh mug of coffee on the floor, as you close the distance between the two of you and kiss him resolutely. he cards a hand through your hair to cradle the nape of your neck, and you feel the press of rings you hadn’t taken notice of before. it’s hard to get proper leverage sitting side-on like this, so - without really being cognisant of what you’re doing, more running on instinct - you sling one leg over his and straddle his lap. he breaks the kiss, leaning his head back. you sense he’s thinking the same thing that you are - that this is where you finished off the last time you saw each other.

‘i haven’t stopped thinking about this since saturday night,’ he says. his hand is still resting in your hair, and he curls his fingers in it gently. he has some of the loveliest hands you’ve ever seen on a man, you think. one is resting on your thigh, and you trace a fingertip along the ridge of his knuckles. ‘i always take the phone off the hook when i paint,’ you confess. ‘but i couldn’t. not while i was thinking that you might call. is that ridiculous?’ ‘thinking that i might call? i mean, that’s ridiculous. the idea that i wouldn’t.’ you smirk, slipping a hand under the neck of his shirt to rest at his collarbone. he’s warm beneath you, and you can feel his steady heartbeat. ‘you’re a rockstar, brian. don’t bullshit. i’ll know.’ you nod at your impromptu lie detector, your palm pressed against his heart.

‘no bullshit. alright, then.’ he rocks forward, catching you with a hand at the curve of your back. ‘sunday morning, i called half the artist collectives in london asking after you. i wanted to see your works before i saw you again.’ ‘so you could decide whether or not to pursue me?’ he laughs, ducking his head and pressing a soft kiss to your chest. ‘so i could understand you better. i thought it’d be like a window into your thoughts. but then the only collective who knew you -’ ‘drunk tank?’ ‘- that’s the one - they told me you were all sold out at the moment, and the only gallery pieces you had were at some place that didn’t open until tuesday - so i thought, sod it, i’ll come and see them in person.’ he raises his eyebrows expectantly. you pretend to mull the story over, biting your lip. ‘it’ll do.’ he clasps a hand around yours, clutching it to his chest. ‘it’ll do! have you ever felt a pulse this honest?’

‘alright,’ you concede, laughing. ‘now mine.’ you take his hand, pressing his fingertips against the base of your throat. ‘sunday morning, i woke up at tom’s around midday and the first thing i asked him was -’ ‘hang on,’ brian mutters. ‘can’t quite get it properly -’ you cut yourself off, inhale sharply as he kisses your neck, openmouthed. ‘go on,’ he mumbles. he runs his tongue along the pulse point, teeth grazing against your skin. ‘prick,’ you laugh, curling one of your hands in his hair. ‘the first thing i asked him was if he had any queen records, and he laughed at me, but loaned me your first.’ ‘god, you’re sweet,’ brian says fondly, but he’s distracted, kissing further down your neck. those careful hands at your ribcage, inching the hem of your shirt up.

impatient, you pull the shirt over your head. you’re not wearing anything underneath - you never do at home. he makes a short, pleased noise when this becomes obvious, almost a disbelieving laugh. his hands are fleeting, wanting to be everywhere. his lean fingers, silver-ringed, teasing against your ribcage, breasts, nipples. you arch your back into the touch, feeling - somehow - even less inhibited than you were on saturday night.

you make short work of the buttons on his shirt, parting it to reveal what shouldn’t be the body of a rockstar - there’s a grace to him, a certain lightness - there’s the height, of course, and he’s broad in the shoulders but still somewhat delicate. you love the look of him. the dark hair beneath his arms and between his hips, the line of his collarbones, the pronounced adam’s apple. as you’re taking him in he doesn’t stop touching you, leaning forward with one hand spanned across your back, kissing the inside curve of your breast.

it’s tempting to just let him keep going at this forever. his attention is ardent, eyes closed, taking one nipple in his mouth and running his thumb over the other until they’re so sensitive it makes you whine. when he gently pinches one and rolls it between his fingers you gasp, grinding your hips down against his. he groans, humming against your skin, the vibration sending a shudder through you.

it’s with complete seriousness that he looks up at you and says your name. ‘yeah?’ he presses a wet kiss to your sternum, hands still at your breasts. glances up again. ‘you can have me,’ he says, ‘any way you want me.’ you feel your stomach drop when he says it, taking in the earnest look and the shining eyes and the flush that reaches his shoulders. you press your splayed fingertips into the middle of his chest. ‘finish undressing, then,’ you tell him, half-smiling.

you watch him shrug off the rest of his clothes as you stand and step out of your jeans. before, the sight of him in your studio felt natural, comforting. now it sends an electric thrill through you, the diminishing evening light casts over him as he lounges back and waits for you. you move to kneel over him and he rests a hand on your thigh, otherwise waiting for you to decide. his cock is jutting hard against his lower abdomen. you trace a hand gently up it and feel his palm twitch against you as he tenses.

‘what did you want?’ you ask him, thoughtful. ‘on saturday night?’ ‘i wanted to know everything there was to know about you,’ he says, his voice raw. you wrap your hand around his cock to punctuate your meaning. ‘i mean - what did you want?’ the sound he makes is half laugh, half shaky groan as you touch him. ‘i wanted to fuck you right there,’ he says, ‘everyone else be damned. i wanted to make you come.’

his hand trails up from your thigh to between your spread legs, his index finger tracing a teasing line. when he feels how wet you are, he groans. ‘i wanted to feel this,’ he continues, running his guitar-calloused fingertips over your clit. you balance yourself with a hand at his chest, still touching his cock in slow tandem with what he’s doing to you.

when you edge forward and lower yourself over him, aligning yourself, the head slides against your clit and his breath catches. he’s propped up on his elbows to watch, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. there’s a stillness to him as you take him inside, giving you time as you adjust to the stretch. when you bottom out, all of him inside you, he tips his head back and swears hotly, the end of it turning into a groan. he brings one hand to you, touching your clit as you rock your hips back and forth.

‘just like that,’ he murmurs. ‘get yourself off on me, come on -’ he starts raising his hips to meet your movements, just slightly, enough that you feel impossibly full, the press of him deep inside. when you arch a certain way he hits a spot that nearly knocks the wind out of you. he must see your reaction, the way your eyes flutter shut in bliss, because he laughs, fondly, and thrusts up again at the same angle. you can’t stop the moan that escapes you, then. he hums, delighted, quickening the slip of his thumb over you and touching your face gently with his other hand. ‘god, you’re not far off, are you?’

you can only shake your head no. it’s a little embarrassing, but you’ve been keyed up since saturday and all there is now is the desperate need to finally come. you turn and kiss his palm, bite the heel of his thumb gently. he squeezes you minutely, affectionately. he’s hit your rhythm, in perfect tandem with your body, a shine of sweat across his chest. you clutch at him as the wave of your orgasm starts to pool in your belly. he fucks up into you, gasping, the hands that were gently touching you now gripping your thighs tightly. almost accidentally, he hits that angle and you nearly collapse forward, your orgasm hitting sharply. when he’s sure you’ve ridden it out - sure that he can’t tease anything more out of you - only then does he collapse back against the lounge, stomach clenching with his deep breaths and - there it is - soft laughter.

‘my god,’ he says, slinging an arm across his eyes. ‘i’d imagined it. but i couldn’t- you looked perfect.’

when you think your legs are working again you raise yourself from him, gently, moving to kneel beside the couch. when he realises what you’re doing he sits up, tries to assure you that you don’t have to, but you quiet him. ‘i want to,’ you say. ‘besides, i haven’t got - ah - anything.’ and he laughs at that, laughs until he’s cut off with a groan as you take him in your mouth.

it doesn’t take long, his hands in your hair, warm against the cradle of your neck. when you glance up he’s watching carefully from eyes half-lidded. a gaze that would be filthy from across the room, let alone now. after a moment he finds your hand at his thigh, gives it a polite, if desperate, clutch as a warning. he holds his breath as he’s about to come and then releases it in a string of profanity, of your name, of wordless moans.

lying back against cushions and blankets - half of them strewn on the floor in your hurry to get into his lap - you watch him watching you. you can’t help but be reminded of sitting in that armchair across from him at the party, feeling helplessly seen. not just that appraising look of his but some of the things he said, striking insights into the way you think. he reaches over to trace his fingers up the inside of your arm.

‘penny for your thoughts?’ ‘i never got to finish that corner,’ you say. he chuckles as he pulls himself to stand, tugging his boxers and trousers back on. you take his linen shirt from the heap on the lounge and slip it on, doing up a couple of buttons. as you stand up and step back into your underwear, he’s shaking his head at you. ‘i won’t make you leave without it,’ you laugh. ‘indulge me.’ he relents, picking his coffee up from the foot of the sofa. it must be completely cold by now. ‘did you -?’ you bite your lip, apologetic. ‘i might have to make you a fresh one.’ he waves his hand dismissively. ‘i can manage. do you want one?’ ‘that would be lovely, actually. the kitchen is upstairs, to the left.’

you wander over to your painting, your tools untouched since brian’s arrival. taking a slender paintbrush and a board covered in silver-grey paint, you slowly track a thin line across some of the pink, thick enough that it drips down the canvas. the look of it is ephemeral, spectral over the shocking red. you hear brian’s footsteps down the stairs. they slow when he notices that you’re painting. it takes all of your effort to stay facing your work, finish the line by tapering it off into a swathe of ghostly white. by then he’s right behind you, close enough to lean in and kiss the back of your neck. the work can wait. you turn and he hands you a mug of coffee.

‘so what does a monday evening look like for you?’ shit. you’d mostly forgotten about the outside world. ‘there’s this exhibition opening tonight,’ you say. ‘friend of a friend of a friend. i’ve been sort of dreading it for a while now, but that’s how these industry things are.’ ‘stay in, then. with me.’ he’s so matter of fact that you nearly laugh. ‘i can’t - there’s an expectation, i guess - sort of an etiquette thing -’ ‘you’re sick. you’ve come down with something awful.’ ‘and instead?’ ‘instead we can go up the road for a bottle of wine and some dinner,’ he says. ‘you can complain about these industry types, i’ll make you laugh effortlessly, you’ll be dying to see me again.’ you roll your eyes at him, taking a sip of your coffee. ‘that first part sounded alright.’ he sticks out his lower lip, humming as he pretends to weigh it up. ‘alright. let’s start there.’

you almost feel like you’re getting away with something - the rush of bunking class in high school - as you walk over to the phone and set your coffee down. you don’t realise until you’ve dialled tom’s number and it’s started to ring that brian has followed behind you. you don’t pay it much mind until you hear one knee hit the floor with a soft thud. you look over your shoulder at him, eyes wide, and mouth something along the lines of what are you doing? he only grins. he knows exactly what he’s doing. his broad hands are at your thighs, gently turning you to face him. as he runs a thumb upwards, pressing against your inner thigh, tom picks up the phone.

‘hello?’ ‘hi - tom - it’s me,’ you say, flustered. ‘hello, darling. where am i meeting you tonight?’ brian leans in and kisses the top of your thigh, then noses at your underwear. one of your hands flies to his head, curling in his hair. ‘um - that’s the thing,’ you manage, slightly impressed with yourself. ‘i don’t think i can make it.’ ‘oh, god, why on earth not? don’t make me do it alone.’ in one sudden movement, brian leans in and hooks your leg over his shoulder and pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, pressing his mouth against you. you gasp, leaning back against the sideboard for balance. knowing it’s probably a losing battle, you try to hide the sound in a fake cough anyway. ‘i’m sick, tom - really sick -’ you cough again to stop yourself making a helpless sound as brian licks over you, hot and insistent - ‘- i’ve been really tired all day.’ ‘oh, you bitch. you’re with him now, aren’t you?’ brian looks up at you, the same dark, intent look in his eyes as the one just before you’d kissed him. one hand holding your thigh for leverage, the other at your cunt, a long finger pressing inside you. ‘yes,’ you say - more of a squeak, really. ‘sorry - i’llmakeituptoyou.’

you all but slam the phone into the cradle, leaning back, finally letting out the sound you’d been keeping in - albeit barely. brian sucks a wet kiss over your clit, then turns his head to graze his lips against your thigh, his stubble scratching gently. ‘that was extremely underhanded,’ you tell him, breath heaving. ‘sorry,’ he says, though his crooked grin tells you he’s not in the slightest. ‘i thought i could wait until you were finished, but the way you looked…’ ‘the way i looked answering the phone?’ ‘yes, answering the phone.’ he kisses your thigh again, nipping the skin playfully between his teeth. ‘or walking to the phone.’ another kiss. ‘or hearing the phone ring.’ you scoff at him, rolling your eyes. ‘come on. don’t act like i’m the first man you’ve brought to his knees,’ he says. ‘oh, that was good! now i know where all these lyrics come from.’ ‘i’ve been told i’m a natural crowd pleaser.’ you slip your leg off his shoulder and nudge him with your knee half-heartedly. too pleased, too satisfied, too smitten to really tease him back. ‘come up here, then. show me.’

#bohemian rhapsody fanfic #borhap imagine #bohemian rhapsody imagine #brian may x reader #brian may imagine #!!!!!!! i hope this works lol

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Episode 12 Review: Jacques’ Cape Appreciation Post

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 }

{ Synopses: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

This is one of my favorite episodes, one that I’ve re-watched more times than any other--not because of the plot, nor because of an abundance of analysis material or any particular turns of phrase, but for a completely different reason. In this episode, Jacques is, in my opinion, at his most dashing and is wearing what I consider his best outfit: a black suit topped with a long matching cape that is the epitome of elegance.

Do you remember two episodes ago, when Jacques told Jean Paul he did not want any more guests on Maljardin? Well, the handsome devil changes his mind and, while possessing Jean Paul, decides to bring Elizabeth Marshall to the island--where, as you may remember, her daughter Holly is hiding. Jacques does not have to dress up for the occasion any more than usual, but he does so anyway, giving Jean Paul an evil makeover:

Sweet dreams are made of this.

Quito knows that something is up, but says nothing because, as a zombie, he can’t. While they prepare to sail to the mainland, Raxl is in the basement communicating with psychic and voodoo priestess Vangie Abbott via makeup mirror, pleading with her to help her fight Jacques. Vangie suggests that she contact her father, the Conjure Man, which Raxl does by...having Quito beat the drum in the Not-So-Hidden Voodoo Temple? I’m not sure.

The priestess and the Conjure Man’s daughter communicating through the latter’s mirror.

Quito beating the drum during the ritual in the temple.

All Jacques knows, however, is that Raxl is in the basement, because he still hasn’t noticed the incredibly obvious "hidden” door. Probably thinking that she is just checking on the cryonics capsule or dusting the coffins of his descendants, he expresses his disbelief at her fondness of “the dark morbidity of that crypt.” Then he says this line, with which I wholeheartedly agree:

Once again, a man after my own heart.

Quito watches Jacques as he heads to the boathouse. I think that, despite being a zombie, he can still think for himself and he knows that Jacques is controlling Jean Paul.

So he and Quito sail to the mainland to get supplies, including “a few little goodies” that Jacques adds, which I assume refers to Elizabeth Marshall, the widowed, greedy mother of his guest Holly. They go to the French Leave Café so that Jacquet can meet with her. He arrives shortly after a heated argument between her and Matt that leads Vangie to comment, “No wonder Holly’s running.” Between her money-hungry, jealous mother and Reverend Stalker stalking her, I have to agree.

The red lining is lovely, even more so than the gold lining on his other one.

As he walks in, he cuts quite a lovely figure, his cape swishing as he turns. He stares at a young woman in a minidress who, surprisingly, doesn’t seem to notice him, when you would think that he would turn the head of everyone in the room. You would think that even people who aren’t sexually attracted to him would think, “OMG IT’S JEAN PAUL DESMOND THE RICHEST MAN IN THE WORLD AND OWNER OF MALJARDIN” and stare. Maybe I’m alone in thinking that his outfit is one of the sexiest ever, but even if you don’t agree, you still have to admit that it’s one that would stand out almost anywhere, especially in the tropics where wearing all black with additional layers is highly impractical. So, logically, it should attract a lot more attention than it does. But maybe this isn’t the first time anyone in Jean Paul’s body has worn a cape to the mainland. Who knows? Before Erica’s death, Jean Paul might have shown up regularly at the Café in full Liberace regalia, for all we know.

I wonder what that string is near the top of the screen? It appears in other episodes, too, so it has to be part of some piece of equipment.

Filler scene with Holly commenting on Jacques’ resemblance to Jean Paul, with the portrait visible. They never should have established the rule of his likeness disappearing whenever he leaves the painting if they didn’t plan on showing that consistently.*

“A tonic water, please,” the handsome devil orders once he arrives at the bar. “Very cold.” Then, looking at the camera, he adds, “I don’t know what it is, but after all this time, I still can’t stand the heat.” I don’t believe you, Jacques. If you truly can’t stand the heat, then what are you doing dressed like that in the Caribbean? You must be very hot, in the literal as well as metaphorical sense. According to the first Paperback Library novel, the French Leave Café is air-conditioned**, and I’ve speculated before that the Château de Maljardin might be as well. But Jacques, surely you would have gotten hot on the boat or while walking from the dock to the Café, so don’t go around complaining about the heat when you’re walking around wearing a heavy, lined cape made of some suiting material. Besides, I’m sure Hell was much hotter.

Very practical clothing for a tropical climate. Not. But devilishly dashing!

He pulls out Alison’s letter to Dan and tries burning it in the ashtray (remember those?). Vangie, suspicious, deliberately bumps into him and spills his tonic water on the flames, then pretends it was an accident. “I’m charmed by your concern,” says Jacques, grinning.

“It goes back a long way,” she replies.

“Purely out of curiosity,” he asks, still grinning, “how long?”

“To your childhood!” she answers while staring at him and enunciating the words as though she intends to let him know that she knows.

“That’s quite a few years ago, depending on what you refer to by ‘how long.’“ He knows that she knows.

“It would be ungentlemanly to add up the years. As a woman, I would be the loser.”

“I never count a woman--any woman--a loser.”

She asks him about Holly and whether she is on Maljardin, and he replies in the affirmative. Soon after, Elizabeth arrives at their table, asking Vangie about Holly. “Vangie, who is this charming lady?” Jacques asks, so Vangie introduces them.

If such a dashing man were to kiss my hand, I would probably fall in love with him forever.

They chat about her and Jean Paul’s acquaintances for a minute, Elizabeth flirting with him all the while, before he changes the subject. “I have a confession to make,” he says, giving her Bissits Face™. “I’m harboring a fugitive on my island. A very charming one. Your daughter.”

Bissits Face™!

He notices Vangie eavesdropping and asks her if she wants anything, to which she responds, “It’s too late now.” This scene is really well-written and well-acted by Strange Paradise standards; nearly every line of dialogue is loaded with subtext, which the actors do a good job of conveying. We don’t need to be told that Vangie and Jacques recognize each other, nor that Elizabeth wants to marry Jean Paul or that Vangie is hurt because he just betrayed her trust. The subtext shines through. It’s the sort of scene that occurs in a lot of Ian Martin’s episodes once he gets the hang of writing the series. It’s also proof that Martin could be subtle when he wanted to be, which makes his choices to include over-the-top references to Jacques being THE DEVIL and obvious foreshadowing in certain episodes all the more perplexing.

Look at Elizabeth’s hair! A truly impressive bouffant.

They flirt some more and it takes little effort on Jacques’ part to persuade her to come with him to Maljardin. After all, her wealthy husband is dead and her daughter is set to inherit all of his fortune, so, in her mind, it’s the perfect opportunity to convince Jean Paul to marry her so that she can continue to live her fabulous high-society lifestyle as the new Mrs. Desmond. Also, she can capture Holly again and put her in another institution like Westley House, preferably run by someone who isn’t infatuated with her. She says that she is going to retrieve Holly, but hints that "[she] might want to stay forever.”

Two ladies, and he’s the only man.

On their way out, Vangie suggests that he invite Matt as well, but he refuses understandably. And after Jacques, Elizabeth, and Quito are on their way back to Maljardin, she retrieves the letter which Jacques has completely forgotten about (because of lust, perhaps?) and calls Dan. Meanwhile back on Maljardin, Jacques continues to flirt with Elizabeth and Holly realizes that her attempt to escape her mother has failed.

You can run, but you can’t hide!

Jacques doing that cute thing that his descendant does often in the Desmond Hall arc.

I think that I may have gotten carried away in this entry with all the screencaps of Jacques’ cape, but what can I say? He’s a gorgeous man who wears gorgeous clothes, and this is the only episode in which we see this particular outfit. It’s also a damn good episode--one of Ian Martin’s best--and I enjoyed reviewing this episode almost as much as I enjoy watching it.

Coming up next: Jacques and Elizabeth bond over some booze and Tim begins his ridiculous commission to paint Erica with Holly as his stand-in.

Notes

* One could argue that the characters do not actually see the portrait missing and that the blank canvas is only a visual cue so that the viewers know that Jacques has possessed Jean Paul. However, in the Paperback Library novels, the characters comment on the missing portrait, indicating that, at least in the books, the vanishing portrait is diegetic (in other words, that the canvas is literally blank from the characters’ perspective and not just the audience’s). I plan on eventually writing a post about diegesis in Strange Paradise, analyzing which effects are diegetic and which are not, because there are many things in this series that could go either way and I want to take the time to analyze them.

** Dorothy Daniels, Strange Paradise (New York: Paperback Library, 1969), 20. Daniels also states that the sun outside the Café is “mercilessly hot,” which should logically be true about the climate on the nearby isle of Maljardin as well.

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#strange paradise #gothic soap opera #week 3 #episode 12 #maljardin arc #review #favorite episodes #ian martin #bissits face #costumes #diegesis #evil makeover #hot as hell (best of jacques)#jacques/elizabeth #the not so hidden voodoo temple #that cute jean paul thing

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swanqueeneverafter · 6 years

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43. Lily, Pt.2

Storybrooke. The Mayor’s Mansion. Exterior. (Henry steps off the school bus and sees Pongo sitting alone outside.) Henry: “Hey, Pongo. What are you doing here? You shouldn't be out here by yourself. (Pongo runs away and Henry follows:) Pongo! Pongo! Pongo! (Pongo leads Henry to an alleyway:) Okay. Come here, boy. (Pongo begins to growl at him, baring his teeth:) Whoa. What's wrong? Calm down.” (Cruella arrives in her car, blocking the exit.) Cruella: “Don't blame the dog, darling. He's simply following orders, and I told him to fetch.” Henry: “What do you want?” Cruella: “I want you to be a good boy and get in the car.” Storybrooke. The Mayor’s Mansion. (Regina exits the mansion with a suitcase, as Emma follows her, clearly not pleased. Opening the trunk of her car, Regina places the bag inside, ready for her journey to New York.) Emma: “Are you sure going to New York is a good idea? You don't know what Zelena has planned. What if you're walking into a trap?” Regina: “I cannot leave that child in the clutches of my psychotic sister. Robin's clueless, so I have no choice.” Emma: “You don't have to go alone.” Regina: “Don't worry about me. You have your hands full with the Author. I can handle one wicked sister.” Emma: “Things are different in New York. Without your magic... Listen. (Hands Regina her gun:) If you won't take me with you, I want you to take this. I hope you don't have to use it, but... I want you to stay safe.” Regina: (Taking it:) “Thank you. (Putting the gun in her bag:) So you're not... Angry with me for keeping your parents' secret?” Emma: “Not only did they lie but they put you in harms way to protect themselves. Trust me, it's between me and them, you were only trying to help.” (Both of their phones beep as they receive a message.) Regina: “It's Henry. Video message?” Emma: “Must be a thing now. I got one, too.” Henry: (Via Message:) “Mom, Mom, Cruella has me. If you ever wanna see me again, you have to do what she says.” Cruella: “Hello, darlings! As you can see, I have your dreadful son. If you prefer him to remain intact, you'll do exactly as I say... Kill the Author. Then, ah, bring me his broken little body, or... Your boy will meet a very unhappy ending. Hmm?”

Mr. Gold's Cabin. (Mr. Gold returns to the cabin.) Isaac: “Finally. The joy of getting lost in a good book just isn't the same. Not after it happens to you literally.” Mr. Gold: “Stop talking. We haven't much time, now that you and Cruella have been reunited at last.” Isaac: “Cruella? No, I-I-I don't even...” Mr. Gold: “Enough. You both lied to me about your past, and now those lies are coming to the surface.” Isaac: (Springs to his feet:) “I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me. I-I didn't think it was... Relevant.” Mr. Gold: “Oh, it's not only relevant, it is essential to my plans. Cruella is so desperate to see you dead, she just kidnapped the Savior's son.” Isaac: “How do you know that?” Mr. Gold: “Well, you have your tools. (Conjures a crystal ball into his hand:) I have mine. I watched as Cruella gave the Savior a rather morbid choice... Either you die... Or her son dies.” Isaac: “Now hang on. You said you need me to get the Savior to go dark. This is how you plan to do it? By having her kill me?!” Mr. Gold: “Relax. If you died, the mantle of the Author simply passes on, perhaps to someone less willing to help me. No, no. I need you alive.” Isaac: “Then why work with Cruella, if she wants me dead?” Mr. Gold: “A person obsessed with vengeance is easy to manipulate. She thought I believed her happy ending was reconciling with her mother. But I knew she was after something else... Your death. Now I wanna know why. I wanna know precisely what you wrote about her, the exact words.” Isaac: “You wanna know? (Pulls out a card from his pocket:) Here. Read it for yourself. I'm better on the page, anyway.” (Mr. Gold reads the card and then chuckles.) Blanchard Loft. (Regina and Emma have come to the Charmings for help.) David: (Zooming in on the message on Emma’s phone:) “I recognize that trailhead marker. Cruella is holding Henry a couple of miles south of the toll bridge.” Mary Margaret: “So what now?” Regina: “Time to get our hands dirty and do whatever it takes to get him back.” David: “You're not actually considering Cruella's demand to kill the Author?” Regina: “Of course not. Even if we could find him, it wouldn't be half the fun of killing Cruella. Let's see how she likes being made into outerwear.” Mary Margaret: “Regina!” Regina: “What? It's Emma's heart we're trying to protect, not mine.” Emma: (Sitting arms folded:) “If we go in guns blazing, we risk hurting Henry. We have to find another way. And where the Author is. If he's enemies with Cruella, maybe he knows the best way to defeat her.” Mary Margaret: “Oh, we may be able to help with that.” David: “We went back to the convent and found a flask that we gave him. He dropped it when he escaped. A locator spell might work on it.” Emma: “Sounds like a perfect job for you two. I'll take Regina and we'll scope out the area where Cruella's holed up with Henry.” Mary Margaret: “Emma, I know you're still angry, but avoiding us is not going to help.” Emma: “I'm not avoiding you. With Henry's life on the line, I need to be around people I trust, and right now, that's not you.” (Regina and Emma leave as Mary Margaret is left speechless.)

Storybrooke. The Woods. (Regina and Emma scour the woods looking for their son.) Regina: “I’m not saying what your parents did wasn’t horrific but you can’t hold it against them forever.” Emma: “Says the woman who held a grudge for half her life because a 10-year-old spilled a secret. The difference is that you never held yourself as some paragon of virtue. You were honest about who you were. My parents weren't. They said they were heroes.” Regina: “Even heroes make mistakes. You know, not long ago, your mother gave me some advice. She said I needed to believe I could still earn forgiveness, that I had a chance at grace. I didn't realize it then, but... She was talking about herself. Emma, she's been trying to make up for what she did for a long time.” Emma: “If you suddenly understand them so well, you forgive them. I can't.” Hook: (Catching up to them:) “Swan.” Regina: (As Hook approaches:) “If you want to punish your parents, why don’t you tell the pirate what they did to his child.” Hook: (Nods to Regina:) “Your majesty. Swan, your parents told me where to find you. I've headed many rescue missions.” Emma: (Nods:) “We’ll take all the help we can get.” Hook: “You know, not to sound paranoid but I get the impression the Charmings are deliberately avoiding me.” (Regina and Emma exchange looks.) Emma: (Deciding that now is not the time:) “We’ve got more important things to worry about right now, like saving Henry.” Elsewhere In The Forest. (Cruella is playing a game on her phone.) Cruella: “Blasted birds. I'll show you what angry looks like.” (Henry finds a piece of glass on the ground and uses it to cut his restraints. Once freed, he makes a run for it. Pongo barks.) Cruella: (Looking up from her phone, rolls her eyes:) “Pongo, sic!” (The dog chases after Henry.) Mr. Gold’s Cabin. (Mary Margaret and David burst into Mr. Gold's cabin.) Isaac: “Oh! Don't come any closer! Stay back!” David: “We're not gonna hurt you.” Mary Margaret: “We just want some information.” Isaac: “Unh-uh. I want some guarantees, because if I tell you everything, you just might kill the messenger.” Mary Margaret: “You're safe. Trust us.” Isaac: “Trust you? I've seen what you'll do to protect your daughter. (David lunges at the Author, pinning him against the wall:) Aah! Ow! Hey! You said you wouldn't h...” David: “What have you done with Emma?” Isaac: “Nothing. I was just trying to protect the world from Cruella. I had no idea that Gold would use her like this. Even I couldn't see the end to the story.” Mary Margaret: “What are you talking about?” Isaac: “Yours wasn’t the first story I meddled with. What I did to Cruella... it saved lives, I swear!” David: (Roaring:) “Stop your babbling and concentrate! How does this story end?” Isaac: “With the Savior... Turning dark.” (David releases Issac and the Author hands David the card he showed to Gold earlier.) Mary Margaret: “What is that?” Isaac: “Something I wrote. The truth.” David: (Reading the card:) “Cruella De Vil can no longer take away the life of another.” Isaac: “Do you see now? Henry's in no danger.” Mary Margaret: “Cruella can't kill anyone. She's defenseless.” David: “Emma doesn't know, which means Gold wants her to...” Mary Margaret: “We have to stop this.” (They rush out of the cabin.)

Storybrooke. The Woods. (Henry is being chased by Pongo.) Henry: “Help me! Please! Help me! Help!” (Emma hears Henry screaming.) Emma: “It's Henry. Quick, it's coming from over there.” Hook: “No, it's this way.” Regina: “Has cannon fire damaged your hearing? It clearly came from over there.” Henry: “No! No! Help me, please!” Emma: “Split up. Go!” With Regina. Henry: “Somebody!” Regina: (Following her son’s voice:) “Henry?!” Henry: “Help me! Please!” Regina: “No.” (Regina finds a shell from which Henry’s voice is emitting.) With Hook. Hook: “Henry?!” Henry: “Somebody! Help me!” (Hook also finds a shell.) Hook: (Picking it up:) “Magic.” (As Hook walks off, we see that Mr. Gold is watching from a safe distance. Henry, meanwhile, runs to a cliff edge.) Henry: “Help me! Please, somebody... (The dog catches up to him:) Pongo...” Cruella: “Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? (Points her gun at him:) You shouldn't have run.” (Emma arrives.) Emma: “Henry!” Henry: “Mom!” (Cruella grabs Henry.) Emma: “Let him go!” Cruella: “I'm afraid not. Come any closer, and he dies. One small dead Author. That's all I asked. Simple revenge, and you failed utterly.” Emma: “Put the gun down, Cruella.” Henry: “Mom.” Emma: “It's gonna be okay, Henry.” Cruella: “I'll do it, Savior. Believe me, I will. (As Emma raises her hands:) Put your hands down, Savior. We both know you're bluffing.” Emma: “That's my son.” Cruella: “And you're a hero, and heroes don't kill.” (Emma uses her magic to push Cruella away from Henry. Cruella falls from the cliff edge to her death. Pongo immediately returns to normal.) Emma: “Henry?” Henry: “Mom.” (Emma rushes forward and hugs her son as Mary Margaret and David arrive too late.)

The Enchanted Forest. Past. (The Apprentice seeks an audience with the Sorcerer. Appearing merely as bluish red smoke, the Sorcerer questions his Apprentice.) Sorcerer: “What brings you here?” Apprentice: “The Author... He has violated the rules. He has changed things. The Savior... He made me channel her potential for darkness into Maleficent's child. There must be a way to undo it.” Sorcerer: “I'm afraid not. What's done is done, my Apprentice.” Apprentice: “But what now of the girls, their fates?” Sorcerer: “They remain entwined, as they always were and always shall be.” Apprentice: “Of course.” Sorcerer: “Our concern now is the Author.” Apprentice: “I have taken care of that, master. Our mistake has been rectified. He is inside the book, where he can no longer alter our world... Only record what happens.” Sorcerer: “You must see to it there is no more damage. The Author must never be allowed to toy with fate again.” Storybrooke. Present. Cruella's Funeral. (Issac and Mr. Gold stand by Cruella’s grave. They are the only two people present.) Isaac: “When I took away Cruella’s ability to kill, I never thought it would come to this, that she of all people would be left defenseless.” Mr. Gold: “Don’t beat yourself up too much. Cruella killed her father, her mother and two step fathers simply because she enjoyed killing.” Issac: (Nods:) “Still, I'll miss her. Furs and all, I'll miss her. She was good to me... In her way. Made me who I am.” Mr. Gold: “Well, someone had to die at the Savior's hands.” Isaac: “Did they?” Mr. Gold: “We won't have what we need to rewrite the book, to secure our happy endings, until Ms. Swan has completed her journey. The Savior has taken the first step down a dark path. And we have to make sure she stays on it... For both our sakes.” (From across the way, Emma is watching Mr. Gold and the Author.) Granny’s Diner. A Short Time Later. (The Charmings, Hook, Henry and Regina share a table as Emma paces before them.) Emma: “I'm going after Gold. He made this happen. He needs to answer for it.” Hook: “Careful. Don't go off half-cocked.” David: “Hook's right. He wants you angry.” Emma: “Yeah, well, I am angry. That doesn't mean he's gonna get what he's after. Do I wish I could change what I did to Cruella? Yes. But that's regret, not darkness. (Meaningfully to her parents:) I think we've all done things we regret. Right now, we need to focus on one thing... How to keep Gold and the Author from causing any more damage.” Hook: “Actually, two things. (To the Charmings:) Now that I’ve got you here, I’d like to know what Ursula meant about you knowing what happened to my child?”

(Maleficent enters.) Maleficent: “I might be able to help with that.” Hook: (Getting to his feet, surprised to see her:) “Mal...” Maleficent: “Stay seated, Killian. I’ll deal with you momentarily. (To the group:) It now appears we have a common foe... Rumplestiltskin.” David: “But... he resurrected you.” Maleficent: “To help himself, not me. Cruella's death only confirmed that.” Hook: “Oh. Now you want to turn on him before he turns on you.” Regina: (Smiling:) “I knew Gold couldn't keep the dragon on her leash for long.” Mary Margaret: “What do you want?” Maleficent: “Nothing from you. But your daughter, I hear, has a talent for finding people.” Emma: “Yeah, I do. Who do you want found?” Maleficent: “My daughter.” Hook: “Daughter? I have a daughter?” (Maleficent glares at Hook.) Mary Margaret: “She's alive?” Maleficent: “Yes. She survived the journey to this land... The journey you sent her on. (Hook turns to the Charmings who cannot meet his eye. Maleficent uses her powers to mute the pirate momentarily. To Emma:) You want to prevent Rumplestiltskin from achieving whatever he wants. What better way than leaving this town and helping me?” Emma: “I'm not running away from Gold.” Maleficent: “It's not running from him. It's hindering him.” Emma: “What do you know about her?” Maleficent: “Just what the Dark One showed me... That she was banished to this world 30 years ago, to a place called Minnesota, where she was adopted by a couple. And they named her Lilith.” Emma: (Realisation dawns:) “No.” (Emma quickly leaves the diner as Hook’s voice returns.) Hook: “Swan? What is it? (To Maleficent:) You and I need to talk, right bloody now.”

Storybrooke Sheriff’s Station. (Emma is scanning through microfiche for old newspapers. She finds a picture of a little girl in an adoption announcement. Noticing the star on the girl’s wrist, her suspicions are confirmed.) Emma: “Lily.” Mankato, Minnesota - 1999 (Emma and her foster family are preparing for vacation.) Emma: “Flashlight... Batteries... Canteen... Matches...” Bill: “How's the checklist going, Em?” Emma: “Good, I think. Uh, what's ‘G.O.R.P.’?” Katie: “Good Old Raisins and Peanuts. It's trail mix.” Zach: “Haven't you ever been camping before?” Emma: “I've never even been on a vacation before.” Bill: “Not everyone was lucky enough to grow up the way that you and your brother have. Emma, we're just happy that you're gonna spend your first family vacation with us.” Emma: “So am I. Oh. I almost forgot... Sleeping bag.” (Emma is in the garage, when she hears noise, grabbing a baseball bat, she readies herself. Curled up in the sleeping bag, she finds Lily.) Lily: “Emma, wait.” Emma: “Lily? What are you doing here?” Lily: “I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now. But, I... didn't have anywhere else to go.” Emma: “What's wrong? What happened?” Lily: “It's bad, Emma. I know I've lied to you before, but I really need your help.” Emma: “Why should I trust you now?” Lily: “Because I am in big trouble. You once said we'd be friends forever. Did you mean it? 'Cause I did.” (Bill enters.) Bill: “Emma? Who's this?” Emma: “This is... Lily. My friend.” Bill: “You never told me that you had friends in the neighbourhood.” Lily: “My foster family just moved here. I thought I would surprise her.” Bill: “Ah. Well, Lily, would you like to join us for dinner?” Storybrooke Sheriff’s Station. Present. (Regina joins Emma.) Regina: “Ain't fate a bitch? You know this girl. How?” Emma: “She was my friend.” Regina: “Oh, the one you told me about. Who you said you pushed away?” Emma: “How is this possible? Of all the kids in the world, the one I end up friends with is the one my parents banished?” Regina: “Emma, there are powers beyond our understanding, and your parents messed with them.” Emma: “So the only friend I ever had wasn't even my friend by choice.” Regina: “I know. It hurts, doesn't it? I've been there, too.” Emma: “Yeah?” Regina: “You think it was a coincidence that I just so happened to adopt the Savior's son? Our actions are our own, but fate pushes us. Maybe it's time to push back.” Emma: “How?” Regina: “Well, I have to go to New York to rescue Robin and Roland from my insane sister, and you have to find this girl to redeem your parents and show Gold he's wrong about you... That he can't change you. What do you say we help each other?” Emma: “What, like a road trip?” Regina: “Well, if that's what you want to call it.” Emma: “I'm okay, Regina. I don't need a babysitter.” Regina: “But maybe I need you. You lived in New York. I've barely been outside of Storybrooke. Besides, I’m curious to see where you and Henry lived for that missing year. How about it, Swan? How about we make today the day we both beat fate?”

#sq #swanqueen #swan queen

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