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shortythescreen · 4 years

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come over chapter 3: the party.

Warning(s): Dysfunctional family dynamics, Octavio’s parents being assholes, misuse of stim, kind of abrupt ending, fem reader, NSFT/18+.

Relationship(s): Octane/ Female Reader.

Author’s Notes: Last chapter you guys! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this. I’ve had so much fun writing come over and hope to write for Octane again soon <3

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3.

The rest of your ride to Psamathe is smooth. You and Octavio sip at that Aguardiente but about a half an hour before you two are due to arrive, you make him put it away. He protests, trying to tell you that in order to deal with his parents, you were going to need to be at least kind of buzzed. You two stash the drink anyway, drinking water all the way over, and Octavio eyes you up in the silence that follows.

Octavio probably could’ve given you head right after you finished with him but you were insistent about not looking sex ruffled – which would be a lot harder to hide with your hair fucked up, and that dress you’re wearing.

This is technically a job for you. He bats the thought away, trying to tell himself you came out as a friend. As your ship lands, though, and you lug your giant camera tote he told you that you didn’t need to bring out of the ship…

It’s not discouraging. There’s nothing to be discouraged about.

Which is what Octavio tells himself as you two approach his childhood home.

You react like most people do to the sight of where he grew up: your jaw drops, your eyes widen, and you take the time to look the manor up and down. Ma always complained she’d wanted a bigger mansion. Considering she and Pa had only had him, that had never made a lot of sense to Octavio. Their room was empty most of the time, let alone all the other ones that he or the housekeepers didn’t occupy.

“Holy shit,” you mumble to him and he offers you the crook of his elbow. You turn your head to look at him and blanch. Octavio stares at you, foot beginning to tap impatiently. “What are you doing?”

“Offering you my arm. You’re my plus one. This is what rich people do, amiga,” he tells you. He distinctly leaves out the fact that he had etiquette training from the time he could walk until he was thirteen and purposefully jumped off the top of the stairs mid-lesson. His arm was broken, and he was in a sling which meant he didn’t have to go through which spoon was the right one again.

“I forget you’re a rich person,” you say.

“Makes one of us. Take the arm, mami, c’mon, let’s get this over with.”

You raise an eyebrow at him but slide your hand into the crook of his elbow anyway. You two stroll up to the way too big, double doors of the mansion and a large man Octavio doesn’t recognize opens one of them.

Inside the foyer, there’s a line of men in black suits, clearly some kind of security detail. Your heels click across the porcelain floors and when he chances a sideways glance at you, he sees that you’re unable to flush your face of the awe written across it – the vaulted ceilings and the crystal chandelier glittering in your eyes. You turn your head, looking up at the portrait of him, and ma, and pa, and he tugs your arm a little closer, trying to take your attention off of the grim looking little boy he didn’t see himself in.

He turns his gaze ahead and instantly his arms tense. Mami stands in the threshold of the ballroom, eyes stabbing through his.

Last he’d seen her, she’d had the beginnings of grays at her temples. Predictably, she’s dyed it back to its original brown, and stands with her back poised straight, hands folded in front of her. When you two are close enough, her pinkened lips pull upwards, into a smile that shows her teeth but doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Mijito,” she says, opening her arms. She wraps them around him, and they press their cheeks together in a brief kiss. “This is your photographer?”

“Si mami,” he murmurs, using the hand you don’t have captive to gesture your way. He tells Mami your name and how every piece of media that’s come out of Apex’s headquarters has been yours. “She’s incredible at what she does.”

“I should hope so. We expect nothing but the best,” says Mami.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Silva,” you say, offering your hand out. Mami’s smile doesn’t fade but if it didn’t reach her eyes before, it definitely doesn’t now, anger flaring in them.

“Ms. Silva, cariña,” croons Mami, and Octavio cringes away from the way her voices oozes, thickened by sweetness she doesn’t truly have. “I divorced from Octavio’s father a long time ago.”

“Oh, I-” you begin, probably going to apologize for information he hadn’t given you. Octavio doesn’t want you to do that. As a matter of fact, he kind of wants his mom to apologize for looking at you so coldly when she hadn’t publicized her and Pa’s divorce to begin with. Octavio jumps in, cutting you off.

“She didn’t know, ma, back off,” he bites. Ma’s blazing eyes turn on him and he glares back. Before she can say more, Octavio is hauling you into the ballroom.

“She can set up in the corner, near the bay windows!” Ma calls after him in Spanish and Octavio’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t feel like playing translator for someone who speaks English just fine tonight, but he has a feeling she’s going to rope him back in, make him play the dutiful son just for talking back. The bar’s already set up and kitchen staff are putting out a long buffet table of food. In the corner that Ma said you could set up in, there’s a long drape rolled out with Silva Pharms logo all over it – in bright, stim green.

“Oc,” you say, catching his attention as you two pull up to where you’ll be stationed for a majority of the evening. The hand on the inside of his elbow squeezes and he turns his head to look at you, at the little furrow between your brows, at your other hand moving around to squeeze his. “Hey, it’s okay. Some people don’t like to even think about being married to someone they divorced. I get that.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” mutters Octavio. “She was a lot meaner than she seemed.”

“Well, I didn’t notice. So, it’s fine,” you say. Your hand encompasses his and he watches your tote fall to the crook of your elbow instead of your shoulder. You don’t try to adjust it though, focused on him, and that makes his shoulder relax as much as it makes his pulse rapid. “It’s okay, Oc, seriously. We just got here. No one’s here yet. Help me set up and then we’ll grab some food before your parents’ guests arrive, okay?”

That… Sounds like a good plan. Octavio tries to shake the nervous energy from his limbs, remind himself that at least you’re here, but he can’t quite get rid of it. He feels like a dog backed into a corner by handlers with sticks but instead of beating him, none of them are moving.

To take his mind off it, he rapidly puts together your camera. You scold him several times, reminding him to be careful with your equipment.

“Octavio, you have to screw that in, not push it-”

“I knew that!”

“You did not!”

Octavio only cackles when you tell him the right way to set up your camera, but he does do it the way you tell him to. Once your camera is put together and placed on its little trifold, you and Octavio meander over to the buffet.

Whoever Ma hired to cater (because Ma always does all the organizing for these things; Pa just shows up) likes colorful dishes, bright blue and reds staring up at you two. There’s some leviathan meat in the corner that Octavio will definitely getting his hands on before the night is over, cooked medium rare with some kind of garlic and herb butter spread over it, the juice pooling in the plate beneath. More important than that though is finding the chicharron that Octavio knows is here.

It only takes him a minute to pull up the rind, with large, square knots of pork along it. He grins at you, coming closer, the meat recklessly flopping with every step.

“You gotta try this,” he says as you bend over the other edge, eyeballing what he’s pretty sure is some kind of cheesecake, placed just beneath the chocolate fountain. You twist around with an empty plate, hovering it just beneath the chicharron before it can drip onto the floor.

“You need a plate,” you reply and Octavio snickers. Despite your words, you lean in, biting the edge of one of the protruding cubes of pork. You sigh at the taste and Octavio grins, showing all his teeth. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, baby!”

You and Octavio eat before the guests arrive and as people begin to filter into the ballroom, you take your place at the corner where you’ll be taking pictures. Octavio isn’t too far away, pacing the big, empty space just beside the tarp with all the Silva Pharm logos. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until someone he doesn’t recognize comes up to him, laughing about how Octane can never sit still, huh?

Octavio smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he agrees. That’s one of the things he’s always hated about these stupid fundraisers or events or whatever the hell this thing is. He usually doesn’t know half the people there, or even a quarter, and they all walk up to him like they know him. Even more so now that he’s made Octane.

“Octavio,” someone says, and he glances up to see his Ma fast approaching. She doesn’t look angry, though. Maybe a little annoyed but Octavio has learned that she always looks like that, one side of her mouth pulled up a little further than the other, brows low on her face. At least, she always looks that way around him. “Come and say hello, the photographer isn’t going anywhere.”

Octavio sputters, though Ma places her hand on the inside of his elbow and without thinking, Octavio bends his arm to meet her. Octavio doesn’t think a lot anyway, but it feels like a low blow to use you to make his brain work a little less. He glances back at you, standing with your back straight, waiting for someone to come get their photo op. You smile at him. He smirks back.

It makes sense that mostly old people invest in a pharmaceutical company but that doesn’t mean Octavio doesn’t find them totally, completely boring. They talk about things like their most recent vacations, or something silly their butlers did, and Ma laughs along, placing a hand over her chest as though these stories are the funniest things she’s ever heard.

Maybe they are. Octavio wouldn’t know. He stopped finding the staff’s misfortune funny around the time Señora Luz told Pa she was pregnant, and she suddenly didn’t have a job anymore. He wasn’t allowed to open the door for her either.

Ajay’s parents approach and Mami greets them warmly, pulling them into big hugs and giving them kisses on each cheek. On principle alone, Octavio is a little less familiar, waving their way, and they all laugh about how they’d never known him to be shy.

They didn’t know the first thing about him anyway.

“Oh, but where is his blazer?” Ajay’s mom asks and Octavio grunts. Ma turns her cold eyes back to him, calculatingly sizing him up. She must not have noticed when he walked in that he wasn’t wearing one. He’d almost gotten away with it, too.

“It’s so hot in here, don’t you think?” Ma smoothly covers and Octavio taps his fingers soundlessly against his thigh. He’ll hear about it later.

Octavio finds himself getting restless. His fingers itch and his toes curl in his overpriced shoes. He wants to run. Maybe even turn and jump out the bay window. Or go out back and see if Ma still has horses on this property or if she finally got sick of the memories of Pa in these halls.

He glances your way, finding you hunched over your camera. The couple at the other end of it smiles and you snap three shots, back to back. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between them, but you’d know if the angles were different, or if one had flash and another didn’t. When they walk off, you stand upright and catch his eye.

Your wink sends a powerful burst of something through his chest. It makes his blood pump faster but also makes his shoulders relax and fuck. He’s so, totally fucked. You’re the one thing keeping him from doing something stupid. Which means he’s fucked.

“Mijo,” he hears, though this time it isn’t Ma, and Octavio curses to himself. Yeah. He’s fucked.

He turns, not bothering to paste on a smile. If nothing else, amongst themselves, the Silva’s aren’t fake. Ma is busy with the Ches and a group of people that like to laugh at other people’s expense. Octavio hasn’t seen his Pa in awhile but he looks just like Octavio remembers – his thick eyebrows are trimmed, arched like he’d spent way too much time having someone do them, his dark hair graying at the edges. Unlike Ma, he doesn’t dye it though, claiming the silver makes him look more refined, that his most recent wife likes him gray. He’s surprised she’s not clinging to his arm, in something way too tight and tiny that would piss Ma off if she saw it.

“Where’s Gloria?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Gloria’s young, grossly so, closer to Octavio in age than Pa. She’s nice, though, and last Octavio heard, she and Pa’s marriage was going swimmingly.

“Who knows?” Pa asks back and Octavio subtly rolls his eyes. Leave it to Pa not to know where his wife is. He doesn’t outright berate her though, which means they must still be together, so she’s somewhere around here. Octavio should say hi. He’d be happier to see her than Pa, or Ma. “You look nice tonight, hijo. Thank you for bringing a photographer – you know your Mama won’t let anyone I hire work.”

Octavio does not know that and doesn’t really care to, but he nods along anyway. His eyes keep flickering over to you, eager to go make stupid faces in the background of your pictures or tickle your sides so that you lose focus.

“Ah, I see,” Papa says. Irritated, Octavio turns his gaze back to him.

“You see what?” He asks.

“You’re fucking her?” Papa asks and Octavio feels his shoulders jump up to his ears. His whole body braces, like he’s about to jam stim into his thigh, like he’s about to take off in the middle of a firefight.

“What the fuck, papa?” He hisses back, not even realizing they’ve switched to Spanish until a second after he’s speaking it. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“C’mon, son, you wouldn’t be the first one to fuck the help,” sniffs Papa, and the way he says help makes Octavio bristle all over. “It’s okay. She’s cute!”

“That’s none of your business,” seethes Octavio, practically baring his teeth. “Don’t compare her to Luz. This is different.”

“Luz? I wasn’t talking about Luz,” says Papa. Then, his eyes narrow, and he looks a little bit more hostile, stepping into Octavio’s space. “What do you mean different? Octavio, did you get her pregnant? You know we can’t afford that kind of a scandal-”

“Oc!” You suddenly chime from his right and he and Papa both jump. He spins to face you and you look at him, bug eyed, hands risen like you’re trying to declare a cease fire. “-Tane. Octane. Buddy. Some people are asking you for a photo-op… Am I, uh, interrupting something?”

“No, no, not at all, sweetheart,” Papa says, moving forward to introduce himself. Somehow, it’s worse than Mami not doing it at all, especially with the sweet smile you give him as you shake hands. “Go, Octane. The people want you. Here, take a vial with you, get into character.”

Pa hands him a vial of stim and Octavio’s fingers close tightly around it, knuckles white with frustration. You jam your hand into the crook of Octavio’s arm and drag him away. He’s still fuming, hot all over with his rage, and you move a little closer to him as you guys stroll across the ballroom.

“You okay? That looked kind of heated,” you say, and Octavio looks down at you, doing his best not to fixate all that fury on you.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s-it’s fine- did someone really want a photo-op or did you just sneak me out?” He asks, realizing that you must’ve seen that something was going on between he and his papa. The sheepish smile that tugs your lips confirms it. Octavio laughs, trying not to bend at the waist so he can keep walking. “Bad girl.”

“Sorry,” you say, but Octavio kind of wants to kiss you for it, “but I can keep you for a little while with that photo-op thing. These people won’t turn it down.”

Okay, yeah, Octavio really wants to kiss you. Not only did you save him from an exchange with pa (about you, but he pushes that part to the back of his mind), you’re now offering to keep him from him indefinitely.

“You’re the best,” murmurs Octavio. His lips barely brush your ear and he doesn’t miss the little stutter of your breath. Oh yeah. He’s definitely going to repay you for earlier on the ride back to the Apex City.

Octavio lines up and that really seems to get people wanting to come over for pictures. Two old men he doesn’t recognize give him a cigar and he wedges it and the stim vial between his teeth, pointing at the camera with two of them. When a woman walks up, he dips her low, cackling while she swoons. More people come and Octavio makes stupid faces at the camera, even getting one old timer to throw up horns with him. You make the shoot fun and for once, he thinks he might have to pat Ajay on the back. Or apologize for lying. Maybe both.

“Mijito,” Octavio hears in the middle of another picture with two women. One has her hands on his chest, her leg swept up, and the other presses against his back while he holds up his arms in some silly superman pose. He peers over the head of the one in front of him, seeing not only Mami, but Pa standing at the very edge of the tarp. Fuck.

The picture’s taken and you lift yourself from behind the camera, glancing between him and his parents. He shoos away the two women, who thank him for the time and then swarm you to get a look at the picture. You fumble with your camera, clearly preoccupied with making sure his mami doesn’t bite his head off. With no other option, your gaze turns to the photos, and Octavio tries his best to keep his chin held high as he walks over to his parents.

“Your papa has told me something interesting,” says Mami first. Octavio’s jaw clenches and whatever tension he’d been accumulating earlier returns full force. The urge to run or fight hits him hard but he stands his ground. “Is that photographer pregnant?”

“No,” groans Octavio, reaching up to scrub at his face. “God, what is wrong with you two? Why is it if I look at someone you have to tell me to not get them pregnant? Or assume I will?”

“You haven’t been responsible with anything else. Why would we expect you to be responsible with sex?” Mami demands. If he weren’t already seething, Octavio might be embarrassed at this conversation. He is, though.

“I was responsible with Navi. And with every other pet you got me. And with my stim. I’m here, aren’t I?” He growls out and Mami holds up a finger instantly, drawing a little closer to try and hide the look she’s giving him.

“Don’t speak to your mother that way.” Pa says and Octavio whips his head to look at him, instead of his mother’s icy glare.

“What way? I’m just telling her the truth. I’m here when I didn’t want to be. I brought you guys a photographer,” growls Octavio.

“For no one else’s benefit but your own,” hisses Mami, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t do something like this without an ulterior motive. Does she have something on you Octavio? Is that why you brought her here?”

“No! She’s a good photographer and I needed someone other than you two here!” Octavio snaps, the words rolling off like venom and Mami’s chin tilts down, eyes flashing.

“Oh, of course, bringing a chew toy to a PR event must make you feel so much better,” Mami scoffs. He reaches up, pushing a hand through his brightly colored mohawk, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t talk about her like that,”

“I’ll talk about whoever I want however I want, and-”

“Not her!”

“God, you are just like your father, Octavio. We cannot afford to have you in trouble with the Games, and certainly not for some-”

“Ma, I’m not doing this with you. I’m here, I’m promoting Silva, and unless you want me to leave, you will not speak about her the way I know you were just about to. You will not.” Octavio outright barks and this seems to draw the attention of those strolling by them. Mami’s face slackens, her eyes flashing. In them, in the clench of her jaw, the curl of her fist, he sees something. Something like recognition.

He doesn’t care, too busy fuming about the fact they’re even having this stupid fucking argument. Octavio barely notices Pa, standing off to the side, looking as useless as he always does when he and Mami argue, or the short, porky man that hurries up to Mami’s left.

“Excuse me, Señora Silva,” the butler says, cutting their staring contest short. “There’s something requiring your attention in the kitchen. A wine shipment hasn’t arrived?”

“Hijo de gran puta,” snarls Mami, throwing her hands up. She turns away from his glower and it feels good to have won one of those standoffs. Even if it was technically a foul. Mami stomps into the distance and that leaves Octavio and Pa.

“Son, you know it’s not a good idea to-” begins Pa, but Octavio doesn’t let him finish. He hates when he does things that remind him of Mami but he turns away from him anyway, looking out at the rest of the ballroom as though he’d just gotten into an argument with everyone in it. He wants to run. He wants to jam the stim into his thigh and carry himself all the way back to the ship port, maybe roll in some mud to get this stupid crisp button up dirty. He wants to-

“Hey,” your voice chimes gently. He feels your fingers on his cheek and you turn his head, making him look at you. Your face is soft, and vulnerable, and open, and he’s so fucked. “C’mon. Show me to the bathroom.”

Octavio snorts. He offers you his elbow, but you don’t take it, instead interlocking your fingers and pulling him towards the exit. He notices your camera is still set up on the way out, but you’ve draped something over it to signify your booth is closed for a little while. Realizing he’s supposed to be taking you somewhere, Octavio pulls you up the stairs, down the hall, and into one of the many rooms of his childhood.

Being the son of preoccupied billionaires with too much on their plates to bother handling a rambunctious little boy, Octavio had a lot of rooms growing up. He had a game room, and a homework room (which was supposed to function as an office, when he got old enough to take over some of Silva Pharms mountains of paperwork). This room was always his favorite though. He slept in it most nights and even when he moved out, he hadn’t changed anything about it.

The full-sized mattress in the corner has racecar sheets. Octavio can’t drive for shit, but he always liked to watch old movies when it was common for everyone to use cars. The noises of engines rumbling with motor oil, of rubber on pavement… When he was a little boy, he told Luz he wanted to be a race car driver when he grew up. She laughed but on every holiday from then on out, she bought him a model race car.

All of them are lined up on the very top of a shelf, which has a bright red racing strip painted down the side. He’s got posters of old Nascar drivers on the wall, people who have been dead for centuries but who got to do super cool, fun things. Who sometimes even wrecked their cars.

“Hope you didn’t actually need the bathroom,” mutters Octavio, locking the bedroom door.

“What if I did?” You ask. He looks over his shoulder at you, checking to see if you’re serious, only to see you lounging on the edge of his mattress, peering around the room.

“Your room’s really cute,” you say, and Octavio snorts as he joins you, collapsing onto his old bed. It was way too big for him as a little kid, and even now as a young man, his slight frame doesn’t take up much of the larger beds offered to him. “Who even likes cars anymore? No one drives them.”

“We have a Bugatti in the garage.”

“Of course you do.” You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the party downstairs just barely reaching you. “So… you wanna talk about it?”

Not really. Talking about it means telling you what it was that got him and his parents into an argument in the first place. “My parents are just… The worst.”

“I got that.” You say. He glances your way, appraising you, and you hold your hands up. “Hey, we call them like we see them here.”

“They just, um.” Octavio frowns. Should he tell you? He feels like he shouldn’t. “My dad kind of saw me looking at you and asked if we were fucking.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you says anything, unsure of how to proceed. Octavio’s knee begins to jiggle, and he huffs out a big breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“I told him it was none of his business, so I guess he decided to tell my mom. Which was… What that was about,” explains Octavio, waving his hand noncommittally. “They thought you were pregnant.”

“Ouch,” you say, and Octavio giggles. He peers over at you and you’re smiling, eyes soft, shining in the low light from his stupid race car lamp. Your make up has smudged a little, the vermillion on your lips mostly gone after you two had your share of food. Yet he can still see the remnants of it, especially as he sees the little upwards curve of your lips.

Fuck.

Without thinking, Octavio reaches up, hand cupping the back of your neck so he can haul you into a kiss, trying to take the remnants of that pretty red you’d been wearing. You go willingly, matching his vigor, his speed, and that’s one of the things he loves about you. One of the things that’s been driving him crazy, keeping him up until ungodly hours as he tries to figure how someone could affect him this way. You always keep up, even if you’re not ready to run into the line of fire.

You rest your hand on his chest, tilting your head, and Octavio instantly wedges his tongue between your lips. You part them readily and you still kind of taste like whatever chocolatey something or other you’d gotten your hands on earlier. His other hand settles on your hip, and he wants to pull you on top so badly, wants you to scream so loudly that they know what’s going on downstairs. He wants you to look at him like you just were but maybe forever.

He wants to tell you. He wants to tell you what he said to you that night, what’s had him so bugged out. The thought alone feels like a rush.

You pull away from him pressing kisses across the taut flesh of his jaw. He sighs, head moving away, and your teeth clink against the black studs he has in his ear lobes. His blood pumps in his veins, the hand on your neck gliding down the length of your spine.

“Te adoro,” he murmurs between kisses. You pause, pulling away to meet his eyes. Your hair tickles his cheeks and he reaches up, tucking it behind your ear. “Eres en mi vida todo mi tesoro.”

“What?”

“Quiero decirte. Pero tengo miedo,” continues Octavio, fingers slipping into your hair. He tugs you down, catching your lower lip between his teeth, and you shudder in his grasp. You’re half on top of him, your body hot, your mouth swollen, and he wants. “No quiero perderte.”

“Oc, I don’t understand,” you breathe. Rather than telling you, though, he kisses you hard, lips moving across yours, and you melt into his arms.

“Jesús,” groans Octavio as his hand slides beneath the high cut on the side of your dress. He grabs at your panties, trying to yank them down your thighs. The twist of your torso to lean over him makes it hard. “Get those things off.”

“What did you say?” You huff out, though you obediently rise, dragging your panties down.

Rather than answering you, Octavio grabs you by the waist, pulling you back on top of him. He doesn’t stop you at his cock, though, half hard and tightening his pants. Instead, he helps you up, hooking your legs beneath his shoulders, your thighs on either side of his head and you whine, burying your fingers into his soft hair as you realize what he’s doing.

His hands travel up your naked thighs, to your ass, gripping it tightly. He looks up at you, at the dark look in your eyes as you pull the fabric of your dress aside, spreading your legs wider, clit even closer to his mouth. He huffs a breath against your cunt, damp but not wet, and his cock demands that he rectifies that right now.

With no further warning, Octavio’s mouth finds the shape of your cunt, molding against it, wetly kissing the pretty pink flesh. You quietly gasp, fingers wrinkling your dress, and he swipes at your slit with gentle flicks of his tongue, letting the musky taste of you linger on his lips.

That doesn’t feel right, though, not for the urgency at which he feels the need to move, so he flattens his tongue, sliding it through your slickening folds and up to your clit, slowly peeking out. The minute he feels it, firm and juicy and wet beneath his tongue, he sucks it between his lips.

The unhinged moan you let out is only emphasized by how you tighten your grip on his hair. You try to spread your legs further and Octavio fingers dig into the pillowy flesh of your ass. Octavio helps you fuck your clit against his tongue, using his grip to make you grind against him, and the moan that leaves you sends a painful jolt to his dick.

His eyes flutter briefly open and if he wasn’t hard before, he is now, Dios. Your hair frames your warmed face beautifully, mouth open to heave in desperate little pants. Your clit is needy, twitching against his tongue, and your hands are fisted into the fabric of your dress, partly for leverage and partly to give him access to you.

His tongue slips down to your hole, the tip of it pushing, pressing it apart to gather up even more of your taste. You shudder above him, trying to roll your hips forward, and Octavio quickly takes the hint. His tongue moves back up to your clit, flicking back and forth, moving swiftly, and he feels your thighs tense, ass cheeks clenching in his hands.

“Oh, Oc, don’t stop,” you whimper, and he sucks as you thrust forward, uncaring of the way his chin drips with you. He’s going to smell like pussy. “God, right there, right there, Octavio, yes, yes, yesyesyes-”

You cum with a noiseless gush and Octavio groans at the sensation of your juice trailing down his chin. He doesn’t care that you slacken in his grip, that he’s momentarily suffocated by your cunt, just wants you to grind against his face as much as you can, try to ride out that orgasm you just had. You shudder, pushing at his head. Octavio pulls away, letting you scoot back down the length of him. The second he can reach you he kisses you, open mouthed and dirty, letting you taste the salty cum on his lips.

“Fuck.”

“Si, I’m trying,” he says, pressing your hips against his slacks. The noise that leaves you is half laugh, half moan, your clit hypersensitive against the fabric. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Yes,” you say, “please, yes. Yes, let’s fuck.”

“Yes, good, okay,” Octavio babbles. He taps your ass with two fingers. As you roll off, he undoes his belt, tossing it to the side. He unzips his pants, thumbs hooking into the waistband, only to find you reaching down to help him. He raises his eyebrows up at you and you smirk, seemingly having caught your second wind. “Si?”

“Si?” You taunt, reaching down to tug his pants down. You only pull them just enough that his cock can spring out, erect from eating you out, and you sigh at the sight of it.

He grins, trying to scoot his pants down a little more, only to pause at the sensation of something cool in his pocket. You climb on top of him, parting your dress again, and he watches you carefully.

With one hand, Octavio rolls that sweetheart neckline down your shoulders, to your elbows. It puts you in an odd position, unable to move your hands, but your tits fall out and, fuck, if that isn’t the sexiest shit he’s seen.

“I’m gonna ride you.”

“Oh, I thought you were sleeping.”

You snort. Unable to move your arms, your dress caught around your biceps, Octavio has to reach down to position his dick beneath your wet cunt. It opens beautifully for him as he drags the blunt tip along your lips, drenched with your earlier orgasm, and when it bumps your clit you jolt. Finally, gratefully, he finds your hole, and without further teasing, you sink all the way down onto him.

Your mouth falls open and you both groan in unison. Octavio’s thighs clench, trembling, because it’s only been a few hours since he’s cum and he’s not sure how much it will take for him to do it again. You feel so good, though, your pussy pulling him in.

“God, Oc,” you groan, falling forward, and your hands find purchase on his firm abdomen, tits squishing together as your index fingers touch. Before he can say something back, you’re moving, breasts jiggling with every bounce of your hips.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he whines, tips of his fingers digging into your thigh, and he’s pretty sure you can feel his pulse thumping through his dick. He bucks up into you, making your tits bounce harder, and you gasp as the tip of his cock thumps against something that feels different than the rest. “God, there?”

“There,” you moan back. As your eyes flutter shut, he slowly, carefully, pulls the neon green vial from his pocket. You’re lost in your own bliss, only sliding halfway up his cock. He waits, waits for your eyes to flutter open and when you finally look at him again, eyes heady and dark with lust, he jams the stim into his thighs.

Your jaw falls open, eyes widening as his veins bulge green, eyes brightening. He grins, wolfish, heart pounding. In the games, the stim makes him want to run, to shoot something. Now, all it does is make him eager to fuck you harder, faster, faster, faster.

The vial rolls out of his hand and he seizes your hips, holding you in place. You whine, desperate and he’s quick to oblige you. He thrusts up, cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur, tirelessly fucking you from the bottom, his thighs tensing at the tight squeeze of your walls on his cock.

The soft hair around his cock is already slick with you, worsening as he fucked into you with all the energy he saves for the ring, saves for when he’s Octane. Your chin drops against your chest, and he devours you with his eyes. He catches the way your teeth sink painfully into your lower lip and something primal comes over him, an animalism for your noises to overpower the ones from the party downstairs.

One of his hands shoots to your stomach, thumb blurring down to your clit. He fondles the hard, wet nub, and groans at the sensation of your pussy muscles clenching hard around his throbbing cock.

You borderline scream, trying your best to smother it with a scramble of your hand. It doesn’t help, the noise choppy with every powerful thrust of his hips into your cherry red cunt.

“Oh! Octavio! Oc!” You cry, the fingers of your opposite hand digging into his button up, grasping for purchase. He doesn’t know whether you lose your balance or just can’t keep yourself upright, but you plummet into his chest. He doesn’t flinch, just uses the angle to fuck you down the length of him, panting into your ear. Your pussy makes wet noises as he pounds you down onto his cock, tongue flickering out over your ear.

“What did you say?” You suddenly whine. It startles him and his rhythm stutters with his surprise, breath hitching in his throat. He holds it until he’s lightheaded, staring past your head at the ceiling. You weakly grind against his cock and he realizes he’s practically stopped moving, body only moving because of the stim being force through his veins like adrenaline.

“Oc,” you huff out, turning to press your brow against his throat. He can feel his pulse hammering in his jugular and he can’t tell if it’s because of the stim or because of you. “Please.”

Octavio abruptly sits up beneath you. His hands wrap tight around your waist, lips placing wet, open mouthed kisses along your collarbones.

“Te amo,” he murmurs into your skin, lowly, like maybe you won’t hear him if he speaks quietly enough. Recognition flashes in your face. The arms of your dress slide back up your shoulders as you suddenly wrap your arms around his shoulders You use him for leverage to lift yourself up and down his cock, your wet cunt squeezing, hugging. Sloppy noises make their way out and he vaguely recognizes that his pants are going to be ruined.

“Say it so I can understand you,” you demand and he’s helpless, a slave to your desires, every sweet roll of your hips sending bolts of lightening through his gut. He grunts, fingers digging into your lower back.

“Fuck,” he hisses and you twist your head, biting into his throat. He moans, the noise low, strangled, drawn out as you continue to raise and drop your hips, only moving part way up his dick as you do. “Fuck, fuck, baby, porfa, I need-”

“Say it!” You gasp, the friction of his pubic bone against your clit sending you into a frenzy, making you use your grip on his shoulders to raise yourself up higher, until only the tip is inside. Your thighs work to keep you up but you slam back down and Octavio shudders.

“I love you,” he finally whispers, and you turn your head into his hair, wailing near his ear. He whimpers at the noise, trying to roll up. In this position, though, he’s at your mercy, and you fuck yourself onto him once, twice, three more times until you’re shaking into a wetter, softer orgasm.

He hisses at the sensation, at how your cunt clutches him, trying to keep him inside even as you continue to drag your body along his dick. He presses his face to the space between your breasts, smelling your sweat, and your perfume, and he pulls you all the way down so you’re sitting on the very base of his cock, rocking you along it. Almost there, right there, yes, mierda, so good…

“Fuck,” he hisses out loud as he cums. It’s weaker than the one in the ship, little spurts gushing out of him instead of erupting. He keeps his forehead on your chest, catching his breath, your cheek resting on top of his head as you do the same.

“So…” you say, softly, and your voice is hoarse, even though you hadn’t been doing a whole lot of noise making. Shame flushes through Octavio, the last of the stim ebbing from his system. He’ll need to get his dialysis machine to wash away the shreds of it but he can’t focus on that, can’t focus on anything but what he said to you.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m,” he says, grabbing your hips, trying to push you off. You clutch him tighter and your fingers cup his chin. You bring his gaze up to yours and his breath hitches at the way you look at him, at that soft, gentle look that he wanted you to give him forever.

“I love you too.” You say. The world freezes. The noise from downstairs fogs out of his ears, the wet, sticky sensation of you on top of him gone as he stares up at you. You, who has been here for him this whole night, who started off as a hook up.

He moves quicker than lightening, quicker than he’s ever moved, yanking you into a kiss. Your lips move together, hurried, passionate, making up for all the time he didn’t know. He pulls away, lips making a wet, popping sound.

“I could listen to you say that all day,” he huffs out. You giggle and he holds you tightly to his chest for a long, perfect minute, your fingers carding through his short hair.

Octavio hurtles back onto the bed, arms flopping above his head and you snort, still sitting in his lap, his dick inside of you. You don’t seem in a hurry to get it out though. Octavio strokes your thigh. “I really wish you would’ve told me that before this. I could’ve come as your girlfriend.”

Octavio’s lips twitch up in a little smile and he reaches up, placing a hand on your cheek. You make a face at the sweat there, but you don’t move away, your eyes a little softer, a little more open than he’s seen them before.

“You could’ve told me. Ever thought of that, chica?” Octavio asks. He throws his head back, laughing when you lean away from him, climbing off his lap to flop next to him in bed. You loop an arm around his shoulders, interlocking your fingers and nestling against the one closer to you.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, and he kisses the top of your head, humming.

“You love me.”

“I do. I do.”

#octane/reader #octavio silva/reader #octane x reader #octavio silva x reader #apex octane #apex legends octane #apex legends #apex lemons #apex imagines #nsft #lemon #shorty writes #female reader

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98prilla · 4 years

Text

Seeking Oblivion

AO3

...

It was midday when Janus came thundering up the stairs, startling Virgil, who was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, trying to get rid of the final vestiges of jitters from the unbelievable, endless, panic attack from the day before.

“Jesus, Jan. Warn a side.” That was enough to freeze him in place, the casualness with which Virgil addressed him, using not only his name but his old nickname.

“you… are we… what?” He stammered, not sure if he’d just wandered into the twilight zone or some alternate reality.

“look. You… helped me out, yesterday, and I appreciated you checking in, knowing how anxious I must be. Especially… especially since nobody else did.” Virgil’s lips twisted in a small, bitter smile, as he looked away, pulling on his hoodie strings.

“Virgil-“

“It’s fine. Everyone… everyone else was busy with their own meltdowns, and it sounded like I wouldn’t have wanted to be there, anyway. Giant frog monster Pat? Yeah, no thanks.” Virgil shuddered, a small smile flashing across Janus’s face.

“so. Thanks. I guess. Both for helping me, and… and protecting Thomas. You’re really… helpful, when you’re not being an arrogant ass.” Virgil mumbled, and Janus let out a small laugh, softening, accepting Virgil’s olive branch for what it was.

“We didn’t leave things on the best of terms, so, I get it if we’re not cool. But, um, can we try? To… work together?” Virgil’s voice was a squeak, and Janus smiled, just a bit.

“Yes. I would like that. You can start with this.” He said, sitting on the couch next to Virgil, seriousness coming back as he remembered why he came up here in the first place, passing the note to Virgil.

“What… is this from Princey?” Virgil mumbled, reading it slowly, eyes widening as he came to the end.

“What does he mean? Janus, what does he mean ‘I’m sorry and tell Remus I know he’ll be more than I ever was?’ What…” His hands were gripping the paper hard, face paling.

“It was left on my desk. Roman… he apologizes, for making fun of my name, for calling me the villain and his general attitude towards me, for siding against me with Patton, telling me I was right about all the self care I was preaching, that he hopes everyone takes my advice and takes some time. And he hopes,” his voice cracks for a second, his worry clogging his throat, “he hopes he gets to see everyone once again. I was hoping any of you had seen him since yesterday’s events, I’m… worried.” Virgil shook his head.

“No, no, we haven’t, we thought… I thought, he was just in his room, cooling down, or upset, or off in the imagination, beating shit up. But that… that doesn’t sound like him. Not ok him. Patton! Lo!”

Logan rose up first, adjusting his glasses, Patton following shortly after, though he looked slightly more disheveled than Logan, smiling weakly at Janus.

“Has anyone seen Roman?” Virgil asked, Logan shaking his head, Patton frowning.

“No, I thought we should give the kiddo some space.” Virgil muttered a curse under his breath, looking to Janus for permission, before passing the note to Logan. He read it with a furrowed brow, Patton peeking over his shoulder, hand flying to cover his mouth as he got to the end.

“We should check on him. Immediately. I… the tone of this letter is extremely concerning.” Logan, voice shaking just a tad. Without further encouragement, Patton nodded, taking off down the hallway towards Roman’s room, the others not far behind.

“Roman? Kiddo, you in there?” Patton called, knocking on the door, frowning as he heard nothing in response. “I know you might not wanna talk right now, but can you just let me know you’re ok in there?” He tried again, met once more with only silence. He took a deep breath before trying the handle, a bit relieved to find the room unlocked.

“Roman?” Logan called hesitantly, stepping past Patton and into the room, eyes widening at the state of it.

It should have been messy. There should have been playbills from every show they'd been in or attended framed on the walls, a myriad of posters interspersed amongst them. Light should have been shining down from the large, stained glass ceiling, notebooks and loose papers filled with sketches and ideas should have been scattered about every inch of the floor. It should be a chaotic, colorful, clashing, mess.

Instead…

Instead it was clean, tidy… empty. Nothing on the pale cream walls, the posters gone, presumably packed into the neat pile of boxes stacked against one wall, each one labeled. Posters, notebooks, clothes, art supplies, all packed away, as if Roman was moving.

“what the…” Patton passed Logan, pulling the white sheet off the standing mirror, Roman's portal to the imagination, blanching instantly.

Usually, the portal showed the other side, green fields or a distant castle, magical forests, whatever Roman had conjured. Now it reflected nothing but a light, swirling mist. Carefully, he reached out, gasping as he laid a palm flat against the glass, instead of simply passing through it. His portal was… broken?

Virgil inhaled sharply, face paling suddenly, and Janus had to wrap an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady as he stumbled.

“Vee?” he asked.

“It’s cracked. H-his mirror. It’s breaking. Roman's… roman's fading.”

“No. No he can’t… he hasn’t ducked out! We would know, if he’d ducked out.” Patton answered, unable to take his eyes off the glass, seeing now the small, hairline breaks in the surface, tracing them lightly with his finger.

“That's not the only thing that could lead to him fading. If he isn’t here, he must be in the imagination.” Janus replied.

“And given that his portal is no longer working, that leaves us with one option. Remus!” Logan called, not flinching as he instantly popped into existence, so close to his face their noses were touching.

“Lolo! I’m surprised you called. Finally letting loose? Time for some roleplay? I've always wanted to be the school girl. I’ve been bad professor, surely there's some way I could earn extra credit?” Remus asked in a high falsetto that was also somehow husky. Patton winced, and Logan heard Virgil's faint ‘gross', but he didn’t back away or back down.

“Fortunately, no. We need passage through the imagination. You are the side to call, are you not?” He asked evenly, Remus backing away with a scowl. He never could get a rise out of Logan.

“Of course. But you don’t need me for that. You’ve got goody two shoes disney prince. You don’t need me." Remus pouted sourly, pacing away, hands fidgeting wildly.

“Remus. Look around. Where do you think we are right now?” Logan asked. Remus spun around, glaring at the plain walls, plain floors, plain ceiling, a few hours and some blood, he could make a masterpiece!

Then his gaze drifted, and he shoved past Logan, barely noticing Patton letting out a squeak and just barely avoiding getting barreled through as his eyes flitted over the mirror.

He let out a low growl, pressing his palm to the surface, demanding to see, demanding to be let in, demanding it show him.

Gray. Nothing. Silence.

He stumbled back, clutching at his chest, eyes wide as he stared at the glass, the cracks ever so slightly longer.

“oh no no no no. That’s not right. That’s not right at all.”

“Remus? What is it?” Patton, hesitant.

“Nothing. It… there was nothing.” Remus gathered himself, spinning on his heel, passing Virgil and Janus as he stalked out the door. “Well? Are you coming or not?” The group glanced at each other, before following Remus back down the stairs.

He was muttering and mumbling to himself the whole time as he walked, hand clenching and unclenching as he stalked to his own room, shoving open the door, not caring if the others had followed or not as he strode through his mirror, aiming for the border of the kingdom closest to Roman's.

“are… are we sure about this?” Patton squeaked outside of Remus's room, more than a little intimidated by whatever would be inside his imagination.

“Yes. If we wish to stop whatever is happening from developing further, we need to follow." Logan replied, not hesitating as he, too, vanished through the mirror.

“It’ll be ok, Pat. He's… wild, but he’d never do any lasting damage to one of us.” Virgil reassured lowly, taking a breath before stepping through himself.

“Patton?” Janus slipped his hand into Patton's, summoning all his sincerity as he met the moral side's eyes.

“you can do this." Patton took a shaky breath, shooting Janus a small, lopsided smile.

“Ok. Let's go.” Patton whispered, squeezing his hand once before squaring his shoulders and walking through the glass, hand in hand with Janus.

…

Remus stopped in his tracks as soon as he looked up after crossing the mirror, frozen to the spot.

This… this was wrong. This was wrong.

It had let him out on a crag, overlooking Roman's side. Usually it was magical forests and herds of unicorns far as the eye could see, Roman's colorful story book castle rising up in the distance. Maybe a few sparkling gem colored dragons circling the air. The sun gently shining, fluffy white clouds, the perfect image of the perfect day.

Now, all of that was gone.

It was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that meant all life had fled, the kind of quiet that stilled the air, the entire world holding its breath.

A light, gray mist covered the entire plain, though it didn’t smell like rain, like wet earth, like mist should. It was just… there, slowly covering everything. Huge, twisting vines covered in sharp thorns grew from the ground like trees, twisting over and across each other in arches and knots.

And there, far in the distance, a gray spire of stone, the only thing breaking the monotony of the endless vines, a tower.

That’s where Roman was. He could feel it. But he couldn’t feel anything else. Him and Roman were linked, to an almost telepathic level at times, and at some level he always knew vaguely what Roman was feeling, the more he concentrated, the more precise he became.

He was using all his focus now, trying to pull at that link, trying to pull anything from Roman, only to be met again and again by that terrifying blankness of nothing.

He was barely aware that the other sides had joined him in staring out into the distance, he felt ten degrees removed from his body as he realized what, exactly, was happening. The mist wasn’t just covering everything, it wasn’t a conscious aesthetic choice on Roman’s part, and neither were the vines. They were taking over. They were all that was left, they were slowly but surely destroying Roman’s imagination. And he was in the middle of it.

He heard sharp inhales and shocked gasps, dimly realizing he must have spoken aloud, cotton still filling his ears as he refused to take his eyes off the tower.

Roman.

He hated Roman.

He loved Roman.

He couldn’t live without Roman.

“Remus.” Suddenly Janus was before him, close, and he snapped his attention to him, despair filling him as he met those gold and brown eyes. “Breathe. We will get him back.”

“promise?” He whispered, feeling tears pricking his eyes, and god, if Roman did come back from this, he was going to murder him all over again.

“promise. We need you to show us the way.” He shook his head.

“I don’t know. I can still conjure over there, sure, but I can’t change the landscape, I can’t get us any closer than this! We’d have to walk it and that would take days, and by that time, the mist will have swallowed up everything, and there’ll be nothing left, including us, and then Thomas will be no better than a potato!” He yelled, arms flailing above his head as he ranted, pacing restlessly, everything in him screaming to move.

“We have longer than you are estimating, Remus. Roman has been a central part of Thomas for nigh on three decades. It is therefore unlikely that he would fade quite so quickly, especially since he has not ducked out. He is in the imagination, where he is arguably strongest. And… he is not trying to fade, based on his letter. We have time, as much as it feels otherwise. We have time to fix this.” Logan interjected, his science tempered with his nervous tone, though his eyes, too, were fixed on the horizon.

“We won’t fix anything just standing around here all day. Are we going, or not?” Virgil asked, glaring out at the vines, a glare nearly strong enough to make them wilt on his face, as he turned to Remus.

“You can at least make stairs to get us down there, right?” Remus nodded, a snap of his fingers and a winding stairway was cut into the stone. Virgil gave a sharp nod in thanks, starting down the pathway, down towards the mist, down towards Roman.

Logan gave his shoulder a squeeze as he passed, a small sign of reassurance and solidarity. Janus softly bumped his shoulder as he made his way to the stairs. And Patton… Patton slipped his hand into his, nearly making him jump at the sign of affection, from Patton, of all people.

“come on, kiddo. Let’s go.”

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

Wondrous Creature (Branjie) - Athena2

Summary: Brooke and Vanessa are roommates crushing on each other, both with no idea that the other likes them back, or that the other isn’t human.

A/N: I am officially in the spooky mood and finished this to celebrate it! This is loosely based on the web comic “Fangs” by Sarah C. Andersen. This is pretty weird and chaotic, so apologies in advance. I would love any feedback or comments if you have any, though! Writ is the best beta and brainstorming partner and I love them. Title from Monster by Florence + the Machine.

read on ao3

“Brooke!” Vanessa sighs in relief when her roommate shuffles in, tossing her purse on the kitchen table, shoulders dropping after her overnight shift.

“What?” Brooke asks around a yawn.

“Have you seen my black boots?” Vanessa’s been sliding around the apartment in her pizza socks, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, because her boots are not in her closet where she’s fairly sure she left them. But if anyone will know where they are, it’s Brooke. She could find anything from boots to keys like a bloodhound.

Brooke’s eyebrows wrinkle as she thinks. “Did you check under your bed?”

“Oh!” Toothpaste flies out of her mouth and splats on the floor, and Brooke rolls her eyes fondly before wiping it.

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to you,” Brooke mutters.

“I know!” Vanessa runs to her room and peeks under her bed. There, past Riley’s elephant chew toy and her old knee brace and a bag of chips, are her black boots.

Vanessa happily puts them on, and Brooke snorts behind her.

“You could make a game out of finding stuff under your bed,” Brooke teases. “Two points for clothes, three points for food.”

“Five points if the food is still edible.”

“Vanessa, don’t you dare eat those chips–”

Vanessa removes her toothbrush and crunches as loud as she can, making eye contact with Brooke all the while. Even with the lingering minty taste, the chips are still good. But even if they weren’t, she still wouldn’t be harmed, for reasons Brooke doesn’t–and can’t–know.

“Okay, how about you brush your teeth for real, in the bathroom?” Brooke suggests, and Vanessa nods.

They stand side-by-side in front of the sink, because Brooke brushes her teeth after work every morning for some reason. Vanessa doesn’t mind. It’s nice having the bathroom to herself for most of the morning, not having to fight for shower times or counter space. This little routine is enough, and Vanessa likes the rhythm they sink into, the way Brooke sways along to Vanessa’s Get-Ready Spotify playlist, the way Brooke grins at her in the mirror. Today, the grin is wider than normal, and Vanessa’s grip slips, toothbrush swiping across her cheek and sending Brooke into a fit of laughter.

They spit in the sink, and Vanessa sees drops of bright red clinging to the porcelain.

“You’re bleeding,” Vanessa says.

“I am?” Brooke shrugs. “Must’ve brushed too hard.” She rinses the sink, tells Vanessa to have a good day, and collapses into bed, the frame squeaking under her weight. She’ll get a few hours of sleep, Vanessa knows, before waking up and writing. She does fashion and news pieces for some media site—she told Vanessa it’s like a low-budget Buzzfeed—and her stuff’s pretty good, from what Vanessa’s looked up on nights she was bored, desperate to have more of Brooke through words on her phone screen. Brooke likes her job, even if she has to work overnight grocery store shifts to keep herself afloat. Vanessa thinks of Brooke curled up in bed and wishes she could help her sleep more, get rid of those gray circles constantly under her eyes.

But Vanessa will be late soon, and she grabs her travel coffee mug and heads to work, thinking too much about Brooke’s smile and the blood in the sink.

Maybe she isn’t the only one in the apartment with secrets.

—

Brooke wakes around 2 with both cats sprawled across her legs. She sits up and pets them absent-mindedly; the cats had to stay in her room because Vanessa is super allergic, “sneezin’ and wheezin’ and itchin’ allergic, Mary,” in her words. It’s easier for everyone to just keep the cats sequestered to Brooke’s room; she gets to cuddle them more, and everyone gets to avoid Vanessa’s sneezes, which are loud enough to send small children running in fright.

She pulls out her laptop and checks her work emails, making notes for her new piece. Nina runs the media site—West’s Best, home to culture, fashion, humor, and more, according to the description Brooke wrote—and Brooke is one of her best writers. But in the name of Brooke’s secret, she lets Vanessa think she’s an underpaid intern, scraping for any piece she can get. She doesn’t like lying, but it’s a necessary evil; under the cover of her “overnight job,” she’s free to spend her nights with her friends, doing things Vanessa can’t ever know.

The blood this morning was a rare slip-up—a remnant from last night’s drink. Brooke has to be more careful. It’s been six months since Vanessa moved in, and Brooke knows she doesn’t suspect anything about her being a vampire.

Hiding it isn’t as hard as Brooke thought it would be. The overnight job lie takes care of most of it, and Brooke stores her blood supply at Nina’s, because she doesn’t think she could lie her way out of that if Vanessa found it. She keeps stories about her past generic, mentioning that she used to dance but not that the dancing took place in a speakeasy 100 years ago. Or how she rode horses sometimes as a kid, leaving out that they were an actual mode of transportation. She’s sure Vanessa doesn’t mind the lack of details; her own stories are over the top enough for both of them, making Brooke laugh until her stomach hurts.

So no, not hard. Just a tiny secret. Though one that’s growing hard to keep, admittedly, because of another secret.

She has a crush on Vanessa.

The crush is a recent development, though her friends insist Brooke’s had feelings for longer, brought on by Vanessa asking opinions on outfits and nights yelling at reality shows together and all the times Vanessa lets her towel hang a little too low after a shower. Brooke’s never been around someone so fun and lively, who finds joy in something as simple as fresh laundry, burying her face in warm, lavender-scented clothes.

But secret number two has to remain secret because of secret number one, obviously, and Brooke just ignores those feelings. Her heart’s been cold a century, after all; it’s not hard to do.

Her phone buzzes with a text.

Vanessa: Can we make grilled cheese tonight?

Two emojis follow it: a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese.

Vanessa: There’s no grilled cheese emoji but you get the idea

Brooke grins, and she thinks her dead heart skips a beat.

—

“This is one of the best grilled cheeses I’ve ever had! You could open a grilled cheese food truck,” Vanessa says around a mouthful of bread.

Brooke shakes her head. “Sometimes I swear you were raised by wolves.”

Vanessa crosses her arms and pouts indignantly, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes, like a laugh she won’t let escape.

“Just ‘cause you drink tea with your pinky curled—“

“I do not.”

“Do so.”

Brooke smiles, taking a bite of her own sandwich. Vampires could eat human food, and Brooke likes to. It just doesn’t fill her the way animal blood does. But she’ll make up for it tonight, while Vanessa thinks she’s at work.

“Oh, that vanity you ordered came today,” Brooke says.

“Yes!” Vanessa fist-pumps the air. “Wanna help me put it together?”

Brooke thinks of the time she helped Nina put together her bedroom set and wound up with a giant splinter in her thumb, a smashed finger from Nina’s lousy aim with the hammer, and a bag of extra screws that Brooke hopes to this day weren’t important (Nina’s bed hasn’t broken yet, so it’s probably fine). Brooke has no desire for furniture-building again, but for Vanessa and those big brown eyes…

“Sure,” Brooke says.

Which is how she finds herself nudging aside clothes and magazines on Vanessa’s bedroom floor, Vanessa’s dog licking her leg and 20 pages of instructions fluttering in front of her.

“Come on, Brooke, what do we do?” Vanessa swings a hammer aimlessly, waiting for something to hit.

Brooke frowns, trying to make sense of the instructions and all the pieces and nails–could this thing need that many nails?

“Um, I think this big piece goes first…” Brooke grabs a square of wood and passes it to Vanessa. “Then we put on the sides.”

“What about the legs?”

“Shit.”

After nearly two hours of reading, Googling, YouTube tutorials, swearing, and Vanessa pretending to be Thor with her hammer, the vanity stands strong and sturdy in the corner.

“We did it!” Vanessa cheers. “Teamwork makes the dream work, baby!”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Fair.” Vanessa cackles. “You’ll be okay at work, right? I didn’t tire you out too much?”

Brooke swallows hard. Is that gleam in Vanessa’s eyes from concern, or does she know exactly what she’s saying? Does she have the same feelings Brooke does?

“I’ll be fine,” Brooke says.

She doesn’t see Vanessa for the rest of the night, and slips out when Vanessa is breathing softly in her bed.

—

The best part of Brooke’s overnight shifts is that she’s not there to wonder where Vanessa goes at the full moon.

She, Silky, and A’keria pile in an Uber and go to the edge of the city, then walk to the woods. Vanessa loves the city, loves all the people and shops and places to eat, but there’s something about the woods. Everything is calmer out here, still and silent except for the occasional rustling of leaves or an owl’s hoot. There’s a sort of peace between the trees, freedom to just breathe and think and be.

The silence is a little too eerie tonight, her thoughts too loud. Or maybe it’s just because she can’t stop thinking of Brooke. There’s been nothing unusual about the past few weeks, but something feels different. They made cupcakes last week and spent hours on Saturday sucked into a 90 Day Fiance marathon, yelling and roasting the couples. Vanessa found herself enjoying it all more than usual, unable to take her eyes off Brooke. She knows what it means, but that’s not an option. Not with her secret.

“Vanessa, it’s almost time!” A’keria yells.

Vanessa snaps up and sees the moon is almost at its highest as it shines through the trees. She pulls off her clothes and sets them in the bag at the base of the largest tree.

“What’s with you?” A’keria asks in concern.

“Nothing.”

“It’s about Brooke, isn’t it?” Silky guesses, and she and A’keria trade looks.

“What’s with the looks?” Vanessa demands.

“It’s nothing,” A’keria says.

“We think Brooke’s a vampire,” Silky says, dodging the furious arm A’keria swings at her.

“You think she’s a vampire?” Vanessa laughs out loud. She can see where they’re coming from, admittedly. Brooke is tall and pale and quiet, with a dry sense of humor and a wardrobe that’s almost entirely black. She can be broody sometimes, especially when Jeopardy! isn’t going her way. She glides around the apartment so silently Vanessa wants to put a bell around her neck. And there’s a mysterious air around her, maybe from how secretive she is about herself–so much so that Vanessa truly doesn’t know much about her past.

But the idea of Brooke being a vampire is ridiculous. Her Netflix recently watched list is just Jane Austen adaptations and The Princess Diaries, and she keeps the freezer stocked with Ben and Jerry’s and pizza bagels, not bags of suspicious liquid or anything like that. Hell, when Vanessa got a paper cut a few weeks ago, Brooke practically flew out of the room to get her a Band-Aid, eyes avoiding the blood. And she uses a baby voice when she talks to her cats and falls asleep cuddling them, for crying out loud—the woman is hardly a horror movie figure.

“Look, she’s not a vampire, okay?” Vanessa keeps one eye on the moon as it shifts imperceptibly, her muscles tingling as they prepare for the transformation. “She goes out in the daytime and stuff.”

Silky rolls her eyes. “Vampires can do that! Sun hurts them, but it only kills them after a long time.”

“She’s fine in the sun,” Vanessa insists. “She doesn’t go out in it much because it gives her a headache and her skin’s really sensitive, so it burns easily.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s sunburn.”

“And an overnight job? Could it be any more obvious?”

Vanessa huffs. “Enough, okay! She’s human!”

Silky shakes her head. “You just don’t want to see it because you’re in love with her.”

“I am not!” Vanessa shouts, but she can’t even kid herself, let alone her friends, who are staring at her pointedly.

“Got a big old lesbian crush,” A’keria says with a grin. “So big you can’t even see your roommate’s a blood sucker.”

Vanessa sighs, knowing that vampire or not, her feelings for Brooke are filling the entire forest. “Look, I really like her, and she probably doesn’t feel the same way. It could ruin everything if I tell her. It just… it just can’t happen.” She shakes off how small her voice is getting.

“I think you should tell her, V,” A’keria says softly. “Vampire stuff aside and everything. How could she not like you back?”

Vanessa wants to believe it, but she shakes her head. “She’s my friend, and she’s human, and I’m–” The rest of her sentence is cut off by a groan as the pain starts. Vanessa’s gotten used to it now–the way her bones stretch and muscles clench, her whole body on fire–but it doesn’t make the pain any easier. She curls into a ball as her claws emerge, as fur sprouts, until finally a thick brown wolf stands tall beneath the moon. Vanessa nods toward the other two, and they traipse through the forest.

Vanessa keeps her mind when she transforms; she normally likes the way everything gets sharper, the way she can smell moss and flowers and animals, can see even the tiniest bugs flapping their wings. Tonight, though, she wishes she could turn it off, because all her thoughts of Brooke are heightened too. The sheer beauty of her soft, smooth skin. The way her hair shines like gold in the light and always smells like tea tree oil. Her rare laughs, the way her shoulders shake with the movement and her green eyes sparkle. How much Vanessa wishes she could see Brooke’s pale skin uninterrupted by clothes, melting into Vanessa’s sheets, before falling asleep in Brooke’s arms.

Vanessa sighs, running through the trees and leaving it all behind.

She really can’t be in love with her roommate, but it’s too late.

—

Brooke is extra careful the next few weeks. She rinses her mouth carefully before entering the door each morning. She eats half the garlic bread Vanessa makes one night. She even goes shopping with Vanessa, rare sunshine beating down on them. The only reason Brooke manages without pain is because of the special sunscreen her witch friend Yvie made, but Vanessa doesn’t need to know that. Brooke just wants to flaunt it, hey, look how human I am. Vanessa is blissfully unaware, and that’s what Brooke needs. No threat to her secret, no chance she’ll have to run and leave her friends behind.

“Brooke, can you help me make posters?” Vanessa gets home one night with her arms full of construction paper and Crayola markers. “They’re for the dog shelter.”

Vanessa volunteers at a dog shelter every Sunday, coming back with fur on her clothes and a bunch of videos of dogs playing fetch and running in circles. She loves going, yapping about all the dogs after, and even though Brooke is more of a cat person, she listens anyway.

“I’ll help,” Brooke says. It’s only fair after Vanessa made yesterday’s dinner when Brooke was busy with work.

Markers roll across the table as Vanessa lays her supplies out, and they get to work.

“What’s that, a hippo?” Brooke asks at Vanessa’s drawing.

“It’s obviously a dog, Brooke!”

“A dog with a hippo’s nose.”

Vanessa sticks her tongue out at Brooke and Brooke bursts into laughter. The night continues as they pass markers back and forth and Vanessa pops enough popcorn for a movie theatre, ending when Vanessa begins her nighttime shower and skincare routine, the one that leaves her skin soft and glowing, smelling of citrus and coconut. Brooke’s head is full of those scents when Vanessa calls her from the bathroom.

“What do you need?” Brooke asks.

“We’re out of towels.” There’s a smug tone to Vanessa’s voice. “There should be a clean one in the laundry basket, if you wanna bring it to me.” Brooke can practically see Vanessa batting her eyelashes through the door.

Brooke opens the door a crack, extending the towel. She can’t look at Vanessa, she can’t–

“Thanks, Brooke!” Half of Vanessa’s broadly-grinning face peeks out, running into the soft lines of her collarbone and gentle curve of her shoulder. Brooke’s dead heart almost jolts back to life. She wants to blast the door off its hinges, grab Vanessa, and throw her on the bed–

But the alarm on Brooke’s phone goes off, reminding her to get ready for work.

—

Brooke slides up to the corner table, her vampire gang awaiting: Nina sipping her drink, Priyanka checking women out, Kameron deep in thought. Red neon signs flicker on the dark walls, glasses of blood and beer sliding across the bar counter. Whoever thought of a vampire bar is a genius, in Brooke’s opinion, and being here with her friends is one of the best parts of her day.

“Sorry I’m late. Got caught talking to Vanessa.”

“How is she?” Kameron asks.

“Fine! She’s fine.” Brooke laughs nervously, reins her voice in before it rises another octave. No need to share what almost happened. They’ve all heard more than enough about Vanessa–Vanessa made cookies, try one; Vanessa scored 42 points when we went bowling; Vanessa made the worst pun ever, you have to hear it–and Brooke knows it’s not helping her in the ‘just a crush’ department.

“You know, Brooke,” Nina says slowly, like she’s been sitting on this a while, “sometimes I think Vanessa isn’t fully … human.”

Brooke scoffs. Vanessa, who cries over movies and gives old people her seat on the subway and can’t sleep without fuzzy blankets or a squishy pillow, is one of the most human people Brooke has ever met. Then she looks around the table and sees Kameron and Priyanka matching Nina’s cautious, thoughtful expression.

“What, you think she’s a witch or something?” Brooke barks out a laugh. “There’s gotta be a cleaning spell she would’ve used in her room by now.”

“Not a witch,” Nina continues, being the spokesperson of the group. “We think she might be a werewolf. Kam saw her in the woods last full moon.”

“So what?” Brooke asks, playing nonchalant even though it is odd that Vanessa would go in the forest at night. “She can go in the woods, it’s not my business.”

“I’ve gotten wolf vibes from her before,” Priyanka says.

Brooke shakes her head fiercely. “She’s human. She just really likes dogs–”

Nina purses her lips.

“–and her table manners leave something to be desired,” Brooke continues, “but she’s human. Besides, I’d know if she wasn’t.”

Kameron frowns.

“What?” Brooke demands.

“You can be kind of oblivious sometimes.” Nina takes over. “I mean, Kameron had a crush on you for months before…” she cuts herself off as Brooke and Kameron look anywhere but at each other, not needing the reminder of their old fling. If vampires could blush, they’d both be flaming.

“But that’s fine now,” Kameron says quickly. “I have Asia, and you have–”

“–A crush on Vanessa,” Priyanka interrupts.

Brooke sighs. She knows her face can’t feel hot, but somehow it does anyway. She knows she has a crush; knows she rushes home after nights with her friends just to see Vanessa before she leaves for work, knows she laughs over the stupidest things just because Vanessa does them. But it hurts to hear it out loud when she can’t do much about it. Vampires and humans didn’t mix. If they had any kind of relationship, Brooke wouldn’t be able to hide the secret forever, and Vanessa would probably run when she found out. Who wouldn’t?

But Brooke doesn’t know how much longer she can keep her feelings inside, pretend she feels nothing when Vanessa sings to herself in the shower, or plays with her dog, or tells Brooke to listen to new songs she discovers, both of them huddling around Vanessa’s phone and smiling.

“I really think you should tell her you like her, Brooke,” Nina says, and Kameron nods.

Brooke shakes her head. “Nothing can happen.”

Priyanka winks. “I think it can. I see romance in your future.”

“We all know you just pretend to be psychic because you’re in love with Alice from Twilight,” Brooke mutters, and she lets the erupting laughter distract her from Vanessa.

—

Silky and A’keria’s paranoia rubs off on Vanessa for a while. She keeps Brooke out in the sun for hours, bumps Brooke in front of mirrors, “accidentally” makes too much garlic bread. She stops just short of running at Brooke with a cross. Brooke’s human, just human, even if Silky and A’keria aren’t convinced.

Vanessa decides to make breakfast to gloss over any odd behavior Brooke might have noticed. Brooke usually eats a protein bar before she goes to bed each morning, and Vanessa wants her to have a real breakfast.

The idea of telling Brooke her feelings runs through Vanessa’s mind as she flips pancakes. Her being a werewolf is just a small secret, really. A lot easier to hide than her feelings. Lately it’s been all she can do to stop staring at Brooke’s soft skin, to not grab her and finally see how her lips feel.

Keys jingle in the hall and she knows it’s Brooke and her keys with the cat keychain. It’s just a stupid little detail, but Vanessa’s heart swells with love for Brooke, and it makes her mind up for her.

Vanessa sets the pancakes and scrambled eggs on the table just as the door creaks open.

“Vanessa?” Brooke blinks in confusion. “What’s this?”

“I made breakfast.”

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Brooke says, but she’s already drowning her pancakes in syrup.

Vanessa sits across from her. “I wanted to. I wanted to make sure you ate a real breakfast.”

Brooke raises an eyebrow.

“Protein bars aren’t breakfast and you know it!” Vanessa’s yell morphs into a laugh that Brooke matches.

“Okay, okay.” Brooke grins. “These pancakes are amazing, by the way.”

“I know.” Vanessa laughs.

Brooke sips her coffee, and maybe Vanessa bumps the table, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Brooke’s sure, steady hands just fumble a bit. Either way, there’s a spot of coffee soaking Brooke’s shirt, and when Brooke grabs a washcloth, Vanessa stands up, legs wobbling.

“Maybe you should take that off,” Vanessa says, watching Brooke drop the cloth in the sink.

Brooke raises an eyebrow, her eyes gleaming devilishly. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Vanessa breathes, “maybe you should take that off.”

Brooke bites her lip, and Vanessa’s heart speeds up, wondering if she’s made the wrong move. But then Brooke grins. “You first.”

Vanessa’s whole body is on fire as she lifts up her shirt, her face bright red when Brooke’s eyes linger.

“Bed. Now,” Brooke commands, and Vanessa runs.

—

Vanessa doesn’t realize until later. How could she have realized when Brooke’s hands were roaming her body, when her cool lips touched Vanessa’s, when her ears were full of nothing but her own gasps and moans?

No, she doesn’t realize until later, when Brooke is at work and Vanessa’s head is finally clear again, able to think of something besides the blonde hair that Vanessa’s hands tore through and left messy, the soft lips she finally got to kiss, the arm that wrapped around her waist until she fell asleep.

Through all the gasps and touches and excitement, Vanessa’s heart was a bird in her chest, fluttering frantically in response to each and every touch. But when she thinks about it, there was no pulse thrumming through the still rivers of Brooke’s veins as her wrists brushed Vanessa’s body. When she thinks about it, all she heard from Brooke’s rib cage was silence.

Brooke has no heartbeat. And they need to talk.

—

Nina’s mouth hangs open when Brooke walks in the bar that night, no doubt knowing what just happened. “Brooke, you–”

Brooke sits down and rests her head on the sticky bar table. “I had sex with Vanessa,” she groans into the wood, knowing they’ll hear her.

“I told you bitches!” Priyanka yells.

“Shut it, Miss Cleo,” Brooke says, raising her head and taking in everyone’s expressions–all of satisfaction and acceptance, not a shocked face in sight.

“What are you gonna do now?” Kameron asks. “Does she know? Did she notice you don’t have a heartbeat?”

“Hers was going fast enough for us both,” Brooke says. “Besides, she wasn’t close enough to my chest to hear anything… I don’t think so, at least.”

“What are you gonna do?” Nina asks.

Brooke groans again. “I don’t know. I’m hoping it’ll be a one-time thing and we’ll go back to normal.”

“And if you don’t?”

Brooke sighs. If Vanessa wants a real relationship after this, it wouldn’t be fair to her to do that. Brooke would have to run, and she looks around at her friends and knows she never wants to leave them, just like she never wants to leave Vanessa. She forces those thoughts away. “I don’t know. What am I supposed to do? Get a cake that says ‘Hey, I’m a vampire?’”

Kameron shrugs. “That’s how I told Asia,” she says, so deadpan Brooke can’t even tell if it’s a lie.

“You can’t do a cake, you gotta do some classier shit,” Priyanka says. “Cream puffs are classy, right? Do cream puffs.”

Kameron suggests eclairs, and Priyanka insists that cream puffs are better. Brooke buries her face in her hands. If she wasn’t a vampire, her friends would’ve given her a stress-induced heart attack by now.

“Okay, cream puffs and eclairs are basically the same thing!” Nina hisses until Priyanka and Kameron quiet down. Nina then turns to Brooke, a hand on her arm. “Look, things are still new, you don’t have to tell her anything yet. Just… do the romantic shit. You’ve been single for decades, just be in love for right now.”

Just be in love for right now. Brooke considers it. She hasn’t had anything remotely like love since her and Kameron had their brief thing in the 90’s, before deciding they were better as friends. Before that, well… Brooke doesn’t think she ever has. There were crushes, sure, like the waitress at that diner who knew Brooke’s coffee order, the grocery store cashier that always flirted with her. But they were human, and Brooke knew nothing could ever happen, that she could never have anything with them. But something about Vanessa, human or not, makes her want to try.

“You’re right,” Brooke says to Nina. “I think me and Vanessa need to talk.”

—

The sun is shining when Brooke gets back to the apartment, and Vanessa is standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips.

“Everything okay?” Brooke asks. Vanessa obviously has something to say, and Brooke’s stomach lurches with the fear that it’s something bad. What if Vanessa wants to move out after what happened?

“I think I should be asking you that, considering you have no heartbeat,” Vanessa mutters, clenching her fists.

Brooke gulps, rubbing through her actions the past week, wondering if she did something to reveal it, because how does Vanessa know? It doesn’t make sense, and she decides to turn the tables.

“How do you know I have no heartbeat?” Brooke demands. “You would’ve had to be right against my chest to notice, and you weren’t. Unless…” Nina’s theory runs through her mind, and it’s like a fog clears right in front of Brooke. “You’re a werewolf!” Brooke yells, pointing at Vanessa. “That’s why you have advanced hearing. That’s why my cats have to stay in my room!”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vanessa tries, crossing her arms.

Brooke crosses hers too. “Then I don’t know what you’re talking about either.”

They’re in a standoff, and Brooke isn’t going to give first. She’ll stay for decades, if she has to. She narrows her eyes at Vanessa, who’s having trouble holding her expression as the seconds tick.

“Fine!” Vanessa yells. “I’m a wolf.” Her face softens suddenly, and she looks at Brooke with love in her eyes. “But I promise I’ll never hurt you, ever. I keep my mind when I change, and I go far away, just in case. I’d never put you in danger.”

Brooke’s head spins with it all. So Vanessa really is a werewolf—but from the steps she takes to protect herself and others, she’s clearly as kind and caring as she always has been, helping old ladies cross the street. And what does it matter, really, that Vanessa isn’t fully human, when Brooke isn’t human herself? And if Vanessa isn’t human, Brooke being a vampire won’t matter to her, and Brooke warms at the thought. She moves closer to Vanessa, pulls her into a hug. “I’ll never hurt you either,” she promises. “I only drink animal blood. I just didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to scare you.”

It seems so stupid now, considering the secret Vanessa’s had this whole time, and Brooke can’t believe she didn’t notice. Maybe she really is as oblivious as Nina said. But maybe, from the love in Vanessa’s eyes, it doesn’t matter.

“It’s hard to scare a wolf.”

“I’m stupid, aren’t I?” Brooke sighs.

Vanessa shakes her head. “I’m just as stupid, don’t worry. Silky and A’keria told me you were a vampire but I didn’t want to see it. All I saw was you, and I knew I couldn’t have you because I’m—“

“A wolf,” Brooke finishes. “I didn’t see it either. I really should’ve, though, considering the mess you make when you eat.”

“Hey!”

“And how every dog in a 3-mile radius runs to you.”

“Says Miss Brooke Lynn ‘I only wear black’ Hytes!” Vanessa yells, and Brooke snorts.

“I wear gray sometimes!” Brooke protests, and Vanessa rolls her eyes.

Brooke squeezes her gently, breathing in her apple shampoo, letting it calm her. Vanessa looks up at Brooke and grins hopefully. “So can we do this, then? You and me?”

You and me, Brooke thinks, slightly daunted by how large those words seem. With Vanessa being a wolf, the risk of a human knowing her secret and being in danger is gone. Werewolves even age abnormally slow, so her and Vanessa will have lots of time together. And they already live together, already cook together every night and share their lives each day. How different can it be to make it a full relationship, let their feelings show instead of dancing around them?

“We can do this,” Brooke says.

Vanessa reaches up and kisses her, and Brooke has never felt so human.

#rprdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #nina west #kameron michaels #priyanka #silky nutmeg ganache #akeria davenport #branjie #lesbian au #supernatural au #fluff #implied smut #wondrous creature #athena2 #tw blood #concrit welcome #submission

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coffee-and-cookies-mochi · 4 years

Text

different

Different

(one last attempt, one last plea.

or, the meeting once more in yunmeng but…in a different ending, entirely.)

+eng trans of wangxian’s conversations are from exr translations ; all credits are to the translator.

lyrics (in italics) are from ‘different’ by winner.

(also posted on my ao3)

***

i’m just different

i can't be a nice guy

you might be hurt because of me

but please don't leave me

even if i'm a bad guy

***

If Lan WangJi had to be honest, he had no idea what to expect, or what he should do, even.

He had no idea why he is Yunmeng, or of what he seeks here.

(You do, his traitorous mind reminds him. It was of your own volition why you are here.)

Despite the agony and freezing, clawing jealousy he feels in his heart as the ghastly ladies touch Wei Ying in ways he hadn’t even imagined, Lan WangJi still tries to say what he truly wants to say.

“Wei Ying, it is still best if you come back to Gusu with me.”

It is frustrating, however, that the words sound all wrong and garbled. The words are not the ones he truly wants to convey—of what his heart truly cries for ever since he’d seen Wei Ying in a different light.

‘Allow me to protect you. To help you. To get rid of the darkness creeping in your heart and in your soul. This isn’t you, Wei Ying, this isn’t helping you—!’

And it gets worse, after that. Words that were so careless and ridiculous and hurtful, like piercing jabs of a sword—as if Wei Ying is brandishing his own words as how he would wield SuiBian, but Lan WangJi, for all his helplessness, can only receive the jabs.

This is getting nowhere, but Lan WangJi is desperate.

“What can I say?+” Wei Ying spits, and Lan WangJi fights back a flinch. “Even though I don’t think that I’ll regret it, I don’t like it when people take guesses at how I’m going to be in the future, either. +”

For a brief second, Lan WangJi sees the sixteen-year-old Wei Ying in the class, explaining how resentful energies can be harnessed as a tool. For a brief second , Lan WangJi sees the insistent Wei Ying back then in XuanWu Cave, planning how to annihilate the tortoise and struggling to survive.

For a brief second, Lan WangJi sees the odd sparkle in his seemingly dead gray eyes—a sparkle he’d once thought that dimmed when Wei Ying was cloaked with resentful energies.

“I am the one who was out of line+,” Lan WangJi manages to say (mumble) helplessly, desperation and agony starting to crack him on the inside.

Am I the one who does not still see, Wei Ying?

Or is it you who refuses to let anyone see?

Or is it—?

For a brief second he sees that Wei Ying again, convincing him of impossibilities and stupidities and all sorts of things Lan WangJi had once considered ridiculous, yet Wei Ying always proved that he can, that he will, that he will shine anyway.

Is not his very presence now—albeit freezing but definitely alive—the very proof that he still glows in the brightness Lan WangJi has associated him with, despite walking on the dark, lonely path?

Is not Wei Ying’s existence now, after all the horrors brought upon by the Sunshot Campaign, a proof that he is still the Wei Ying he knew?

Before Wei Ying can say anything, Lan WangJi quickly says, “Please forgive me. It…it seems I…I have doubted you. I am sorry.”

Wei Ying pauses, shock momentarily evaporating the frost in his eyes. Even the ghosts with him seem to be stunned.

Lan WangJi takes this as an opportunity to let Wei Ying see that he cares, that he does not guess on what Wei Ying will be in the future. That he is unlike all the Sect Leaders and the rest of the avenging cultivators who only wanted his abilities to win the war, only to be scorned and discarded and shunned later on.

That Wei Ying can trust him, even a little.

(I truly must have gone mad, Lan WangJi thinks dryly.)

“I simply wish that you will be well, Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi continues, desperately holding on to the brittle chance that Wei Ying will listen. “But if…if my offer of help has offended you, I ask for your forgiveness.”

Bravely (Distraughtly) Lan WangJi meets Wei Ying’s eyes squarely, wishing (and begging) that he will see, truly see—can he not see? Can he not see how real this is, how sincere, how much he loved—?

“I truly am sorry,” is all Lan WangJi manages to whisper, when all he wants to scream is how much he loved the man before him.

Wei Ying is silent, shock still obvious on his face. However, Lan WangJi can see apprehension and curiosity, as if suddenly wondering why Lan WangJi is worried for him. Why he apologized, why he said those words out loud.

Wei Ying has always been an open book, letting his emotions show and echo freely everywhere he went. Wei Ying’s emotions resonate through his laughter and his smiles and the ever-present twinkle in his eyes.

Even if his joyous laughter chilled down to hollow, dark ones, even if his bright smiles morphed into diabolical grins—Wei Ying still wears his emotions on his sleeve, embroidered on a mask of arrogance and boredom.

Something that irked the younger Lan WangJi before, something that caught Lan WangJi’s attention for too long…something that Lan WangJi wished he himself possessed now.

Can Wei Ying see now? See the words Lan WangJi cannot say? Hear the emotions he cannot articulate—?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and Lan WangJi does not sense the usual chill in his voice. It is almost similar to his voice from back then, when they are fifteen and still stuck on the Library Pavilion. “Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi does not say anything; he simply waits for Wei Ying to gather his thoughts and speak.

It is a moment—a long, strained moment—before Wei Ying waves his hand.

“Leave.”

For a second, Lan WangJi thinks the word is meant for him—until the ghosts disappear.

Wei Ying sighs heavily, putting down his wine cup as he stares at Lan WangJi. “If I may ask, Lan Zhan,” he starts, “why are you so…so—insistent with this? Why are you always asking me to give up my demonic cultivation, or return to Gusu, for that matter? Are you so repulsed by me because of this? Or is this you being…”

Wei Ying trails off, biting his lip. Although his words sting, Lan WangJi knows that Wei Ying is struggling with his own words as well, doing his best to word his phrases right.

“Never repulsed,” Lan WangJi answers. “Like what I said, I only want to see you well.”

Not like this.

A short, shallow laugh escapes Wei Ying’s lips. “You’re concerned about me.”

It is neither a question, nor an accusation. But concerned will not be Lan WangJi’s choice of word, if he has to be honest.

“Yes.”

“To the point you’re actually asking me to go back to Cloud Recesses? Do you think I’m not aware of what your clan thinks about demonic cultivators like me?”

To this, Lan WangJi cannot answer directly. Instead he says, “But I will not force you upon it, if you do not want to. I…I do not wish to impose such a thing on you.”

(For would it not be similar to what Father did to Mother?)

Wei Ying merely stares at him, his gray eyes unreadable. For a short moment, Lan WangJi cannot help thinking this…frustration he feels right now might be the same one Wei Ying had always felt whenever he coaxed Lan WangJi to talk or even look at him.

Oh, how the tables have turned now.

“Back then, Lan Zhan, you seemed like you’d drag me there to Cloud Recesses should you get the chance,” Wei Ying mutters, dry amusement in his voice.

“Not anymore.”

A raised eyebrow. “Really?”

This is just so exasperating—to try to speak and express, yet his life and who he is prevent Lan WangJi from doing so.

But he tries. He tries so hard anyway; if there is anything Lan WangJi he’d learned from being with Wei Ying, it is to let his walls down a little more just so the other will understand.

“It…you are not one meant to be restrained,” Lan WangJi sighs. “But to remain as someone free.”

Like a soaring bird to the sky, like the rabbits back in his clearing, like the sixteen-year-old youth carefully making his way back to the Cloud Recesses with jars of alcohol in his hands.

Wei Ying chuckles—and it is not a happy sound. “Am I really free?” he whispers quietly, as if the question is meant for him.

You are, Lan WangJi wants to say, …and you are not.

“But for you to come this far…” Wei Ying trails off, and he looks away. Lan WangJi’s chest tightens at the sight of pain crossing his face.

He wants to reach out and smooth the frown off Wei Ying’s face, yet he stops himself.

(Does he have the right to do so?)

However, the tumultuous feelings inside his chest harshly rock Lan WangJi’s soul, a weak boat against strong waves. They threaten to overwhelm him from the inside, cloud his judgment until he ends up doing something that he will (probably not) regret. His heart constricts further and further until his head slowly starts to spin—

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying’s slightly shaking voice wakes Lan WangJi up from his stupor. “Be honest with me.”

Lan WangJi’s heart pounds with fear and expectation as he waits for Wei Ying to speak. At the same time the desperate part of him softly cries out, ‘When will I not be honest with you?’

Stormy gray eyes meet molten gold orbs. “Why?”

Wei Ying’s whispered question breaks a dam in Lan WangJi’s memories: the night he first met Wei Ying on the rooftops in Cloud Recesses; that day Wei Ying pestered Lan WangJi to look at him; that moment Wei Ying saved him from the Xuanwu of Slaughter; the fleeting instance Wei Ying asked him to sing him a song; the painful memory of Wei Ying dismissing him amidst corpses and vengeful energies—

Why, indeed?

Why is Lan WangJi doing all these; why is he chasing a man who haunts and is haunted; why is he running towards someone, like a desperate man clinging to a heart that cannot be his—?

“I…I like you, Wei Ying.” Lan WangJi’s mouth answers the question Wei Ying uttered and Lan WangJi echoed repeatedly in his mind.

Wei Ying gasps, his face totally blank with stun. “What?”

Lan WangJi pauses. Briefly. He finally realizes what he’d done, what he’d said—

—but it’s too late to run now, is it not

“I like you, Wei Ying,” he repeats, voice firm and eyes never leaving the other man.

“You—you—you what—!” Wei Ying sputters, and Lan WangJi almost laughs at the sight had it been not for the obvious…distress in his face.

And then—Wei Ying bursts out laughing. Loud laughter echoes all over the pavilion, a shocked, hollow, pained laughter that hurts and stings what remains of Lan WangJi’s heart.

This is not the laughter Lan WangJi is used of hearing, not the laughter he hears in his daydreams. This is not the laughter that brightened the Library Pavilion and tingled his heart; this is the laughter that darkens this pavilion even further and breaks his heart.

“Gods, Lan Zhan, no—gods, no,” Wei Ying gasps out, wiping his tears. “Please tell me you’re lying, Second Master Lan.”

“I am not.” Does Wei Ying not see?

“…What.”

“I am not lying, Wei Ying.” Do you not see?

“Please tell me you are, Lan Zhan.” Why does Wei Ying sound like he’s…pleading?

“And if I will not?”

Wei Ying then looks at him, and Lan WangJi stills in shock at the agony in his eyes.

Have I done something wrong—?

“Lan Zhan, please,” Wei Ying whispers, a warning and a prayer. “Tell me you lie. Or jest. Whatever. Take everything back you’ve said.”

“…Why?” Why should I take back the truth of what I told you?

A broken laughter fills the pavilion, anguished and pleading. “Please, Lan Zhan. Just this once. Tell me you lie.”

Lan WangJi doesn’t know which hurts more—his own heartbreak or the obvious torment in Wei Ying’s face.

“I do not lie, Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi says. The words are insistent, words that Lan WangJi will never regret of saying.

Wei Ying groans and buries his face in his hands, fingers pulling at his hair. Lan WangJi is beyond perplexed—what is happening? What is going on, why is Wei Ying hurt at his confession, does he not want to hear them at all—

—is this where everything ends and burns into nothingness—?

“Wei Ying?” Lan WangJi softly calls, deliberately reaching out, aching to comfort the other man. But Wei Ying is too far away, hidden in the cloaks of grief.

It is then Wei Ying lowers his hands, the flash of the expression on his face startling Lan WangJi, then Wei Ying shoves the table aside, grabs Lan WangJi’s robes’ lapels and pulls his face to his.

The kiss is hard and harsh, reflecting the tempests in their own hearts; the kiss is raw and desperate, as if seeking for unvoiced answers for muted questions. Wei Ying’s lips are chapped and hungry as they move against Lan WangJi’s; Lan WangJi’s fingers are laced through Wei Ying’s ebony hair as he responds just as fiercely.

Lan WangJi doesn’t know when it started or when it ended, but he feels Wei Ying’s heavy pants against his face and Wei Ying’s forehead against his. Lan WangJi’s body shivers at the intimate proximity, at the seemingly deceiving reality that Wei Ying is in his arms, catching his breaths.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying chokes out, and Lan WangJi’s wounds sting once more. “Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying,” is all Lan WangJi can murmur, when all he wants is to scream out how he loved Wei Ying so much, how he burned, how willing he is to let himself burn for Wei Ying.

“…Don’t love a broken man, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, and Lan WangJi can hear tears in Wei Ying’s voice. “Don’t love him, Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi opens his eyes, and he staggers at the actual tears flowing down Wei Ying’s cheeks, his head down. Never had he seen him this vulnerable, so open and aching and bleeding; Lan WangJi had been too used to a happy, carefree Wei Ying and to a cold, distant Wei Ying.

“Please don’t,” Wei Ying grabs fistfuls of Lan WangJi’s robes, his body shuddering with emotions he’d repressed for so long. “Please don’t love him, Lan Zhan.”

Please don’t say you love me, Lan Zhan.

Lan WangJi holds him tighter in his arms, lips on top of Wei Ying’s head. How can he not love a broken man, when he deserved all the love and warmth the world can offer?

How can he not love the broken man in his arms, who brought sunshine and colors in his world and gave it a sense of being?

How can he not love Wei Ying?

“I will love,” Lan Zhan murmurs gently, his hand smoothing Wei Ying’s unruly hair. “I have long loved him, Wei Ying. And I will always love him even if he tells me not to.”

Wei Ying falters and sinks deeper into his body, his body still shaking. “He will break your heart, HanGuang-Jun,” he mumbles against Lan WangJi’s chest.

“My heart is his to break.”

Everything that I am is his—everything that I am is yours, Wei Ying.

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying cries softly. “Why?”

Lan Wangji does not answer this time; he simply cradles Wei Ying tenderly in his arms, peppering small kisses on top of his head.

One part of Lan WangJi silently asks—implores—Wei Ying of what he feels for him, if Wei Ying can be his.

Yet the rest is content of having Wei Ying close, warm and alive. Yet the rest does not ask for more; Lan WangJi will wait until Wei Ying answers, if Wei Ying will return his feelings.

But if he does not—

Wei Ying raises his head, red-rimmed eyes staring straight at Lan WangJi’s. His hand gingerly cups Lan WangJi’s cheek, and Lan WangJi leans into the touch.

“I should make you go away, Lan Zhan,” he says very softly. “I should ask you to leave and never return.

“…but I can’t,” Wei Ying smiles weakly, and Lan WangJi softens. “I don’t want you to leave, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“I want to stay with you, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“…what should I do?” Lan WangJi is helpless at Wei Ying’s raw vulnerability in front of him. “All that I am now is a broken man, Lan Zhan. What can I offer you? You—you—you deserve someone more, someone of your righteous standing—”

“No one else,” Lan WangJi cuts him off. “Only Wei Ying.”

No one else but Wei Ying.

Wei Ying sinks back to Lan WangJi’s embrace, and the latter revels how Wei Ying fits so perfectly in his arms, how he fills in the gaps and cracks in Lan WangJi’s psyche.

If only this can last forever—no, for a long, long stretch of eternity…

Wei Ying’s smile is small yet gentle, fingers soft against Lan WangJi’s cheek as he raises his head once more. “Lan Zhan…still, I cannot go back to Gusu with you.”

“I know.” Even if it hurts.

“…I cannot stay with you for now.”

“I know.”

Wei Ying reaches back to pull his red ribbon free from his hair and wraps it around Lan WangJi’s wrist. “Keep this with you, anyway,” he says. “To remind you of me.”

Don’t forget me, Lan Zhan.

In return, Lan WangJi unties his forehead ribbon and binds it around Wei Ying’s wrist. “This is now yours,” he says simply.

Wei Ying gapes in surprise, eyes wide and incredulous. “But, Lan Zhan, isn’t this ribbon important to your sect? The last time I pulled it off you, you got so angry at me…”

Lan WangJi shakes his head. “The forehead ribbon is meant for self-restraint…and only the person the wearer loves and cherishes can touch it as he pleases, other than the wearer’s close relatives and family.”

Wei Ying’s silver eyes shimmer with emotions Lan WangJi can and cannot name. His face is bright, although some semblance of sorrow lingers on his expression.

Wei Ying lifts his face and kisses Lan WangJi once more, slow and tender this time. Lan WangJi can hear and feel all the emotions encased within, feel the said emotions envelop Lan Wangji like an embrace.

And Lan WangJi lets his own feelings reach Wei Ying, lets his love flow like an endless river towards Wei Ying.

And Lan WangJi holds on to the whispered words against his lips until he had to eventually leave Yunmeng, until his world crashed and burned in Nightless City when Wei Ying drowned in madness and bathed in red.

“I love you, too.”

#mo dao zu shi #mdzs #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #romance #bittersweet #confessions #....man when will i get over bittersweet canon divergent plots #i am so sorry

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writingismyhappytime · 5 years

Text

Draco Malfoy and the Disaster of a Year

Draco Malfoy X Reader

Warnings: Language, magic

A/N: So, I’ve read the books and watched the movies, and I know I’m kind of mixing them both together, so just forgive me! Hopefully it’s still a good read! Let me know if you want to be tagged for more updates, or if you want to be taken off the list!

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6) Aesthetic

You dislike this woman very, very much.

Not only is she completely incompetent as a teacher, she is vile, disgusting, rude, and cruel! You can't imagine why the ministry would assign her as your professor in a course that she isn't even intending to teach, she just wants you to read about spells, not perform them! How exactly are you supposed to learn anything from that?

Not to mention she seems to have a special hatred for Harry, who honestly has done nothing to deserve it. You wish he'd stop patronizing her and getting detention, you've heard of how horrid it is. Something about a pen that actually writes into your skin or something, she shouldn't be allowed to do such things! Why does Dumbledore not step up?

You're so... frustrated! Snape seems to be the only teacher not bothered or intimidated by Umbridge, he doesn't seem to care about her at all and has no patience for her sickly sweet attitude and her constant need to wear that awful color of pink you previously liked until her. She's just so fake, or maybe it's the fact she's not sincere, that makes you detest her more.

"High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, ridiculous!" You hear someone scoff, and you glance over from where you're standing in one of the many hallways. You'd paused on your walk to the courtyard to talk to Nearly Headless Nick, who has no promptly floated through the wall to another chamber, leaving you alone. "Who does she think she is!? Dumbledore needs to put an end to this nonsense!"

Well, that's Hermione Granger, you recognize her angry voice easily enough. She shouldn't say things like that out loud, not when there are so many ears that report back to the evil woman. You hesitate, wondering if you can make it down the hallway fast enough so that you don't run into anyone, and you hastily start towards the end.

"I mean, she shouldn't be doing this! She shouldn't be allowed," Hermione continues furiously, her voice echoing against the stone walls.

"Shh, keep your voice down!" someone says hastily, and you cringe slightly as you realize they're about to turn the corner and you haven't made your great escape just yet. You sigh as you hear their footsteps, glancing over your shoulder to see them turning the corner. Hermione quiets as she notices they're not alone, and you start to turn the corner ---.

"Oof!" You run smack into someone, nearly dropping all of your things, your quill and a book clattering to the ground. You mutter an apology without looking as you kneel, hastily gathering your school things.

"Well, I see there's not a student around here paying attention today."

Uh oh.

You hesitate before you look up, noticing the pink skirt before you see the frog-like face of the very teacher everyone seems to hate. You frown as you straighten, propping your things in your arms; she's a short lady, with curly brown hair, and very pale, which the constant wearing of pink does nothing to help.

"Sorry about that," you apologize again, twisting the end of your braid nervously. Your eyes flick behind her, and of course you're not surprised to see Draco on her heels, silver eyes gleaming with no doubt some mischief.

This year hasn't been that great, and although he's a Prefect, it's already gone to his head; you're not sure why he's siding with this awful toad of a witch, other than she seems to hate Harry and he's a pure blood, not that she can talk, you've heard one of her parents was a muggle anyhow. You keep quiet in class, try to keep your distance from her, you don't really want her attention.

Now you understand why your mother has been so inquisitive in her letters about how your year is going, she wants to know all about Umbridge, and really she's not been so subtle about it. You wonder what she knows about the woman that she can't tell you in writing, as you don't doubt every letter that is sent to or from Hogwarts is read before the student ever sees it.

"Really, such disregard," Umbridge sniffs, beady eyes thoughtful. "It's a trend among your class I've noticed, not paying attention."

You narrow your eyes at her; does she really want you to respond to that? You severely dislike this woman, and you dare her to even mention detention at you.

Just wait until your mother hears about this.

Oh no, did you just sound like Draco?

You did, didn't you?

"Uh, Ms. Umbridge, I'm sure it was just an accident." Draco comes to your rescue immediately, taking a step until he's at your side in one smooth movement. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder supportively, and you cast a narrowed look at him. "(Y/N) is usually very careful about where she's going. Gets her attention to detail from her father, Nicolas (Y/L/N)."

Oh, you see what he did there, throwing around your parents name.

Umbridge recognizes it immediately, and your face sours. Really? You're getting a free pass because of who your parents are? If you were anyone else she would send you to detention, just to make a point.

"Oh, the inventor." Umbridge hums thoughtfully, her eyes dissecting you from head to toe. "His wife is friends with your mother, Draco, correct?"

"Yes, very good friends." Draco's hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, but he's giving her a pleasant smirk. "I think her mother just had a party, didn't she, (Y/N)? Didn't the minister attend?"

"I suppose." You don't know, you don't care. You're just irritated at this point that he feels the need to keep rubbing your social status in her face. Well, it's sort of pleasing of course that she now know's that if she messes with you there could be consequences, but you just don't think it's fair!

You hate this woman, you really do. You want nothing more than to glare at her and tell her exactly how little you think of her, but you wouldn't do that to a professor --- although technically she isn't one.

Harry's right, you can't learn Defense Against the Dark Arts if you're not even going to practice the magic.

"Well, I suppose we all do have our moments where we aren't paying attention," Umbridge clasps her hands, giving you that grimace of a smile. "Just do be careful in the future, Miss (Y/L/N)."

"Of course." You say, but your tone belies how little you mean it. You know she catches it, but pretends otherwise as she sails down the hallway, ignoring you. You watch her go, and at least have the sense to wait until she's disappeared before you turn on the blonde haired boy at your side.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Did you want detention instead?" Draco frowns down at you as you square off with him, looking annoyed. He just came to your rescue! Shouldn't you be grateful towards him? You should have already introduced yourself to Umbridge anyhow, that way she could know of your standing! You could even be on the Inquisitorial Squad.

"I don't think someone should get detention for accidentally bumping into another person." You retort, brushing your hair behind your ear. "That woman is not fit to be a teacher."

"Shh! Don't say that so loudly," Draco scowls, nervously glancing over your shoulder down the hallway. He wants to keep you out of trouble and on Umbridge's good side, otherwise your family name won't be enough to keep you safe. He definitely doesn't want you in detention, not that Snape would allow it anyhow, considering the circumstances --- you're a pureblood Slytherin with very influential parents, and right now the Malfoy's are really pulling for power with their connections considering their house guests.

His stomach tightens as he thinks about it. It's not often that he doesn't want to go home, but he's suddenly glad his mother sent him away. He always thought being a Death Eater was cool, that they were standing up for the fact that purebloods should be the reigning class, that muggles should be aware that they're not the top.

But now everything is changing and he's not sure how he feels.

"Why not?" You huff, but you do soften your tone. "She shouldn't be allowed to bully everyone just because she's from the ministry! She is a vile, horrible woman who Dumbledore should get rid of before she does permanent damage to this school!"

"You know why she's here!" Draco snaps, annoyed at your obvious disdain; again, he just came to your rescue here, you could be a little more appreciative! Hold his hand, kiss his cheek, offer your eternal love, something. "Dumblemore was too incompetent to find someone for the position, and it's not like his last few have been good choices ---."

"Oh, please. Everyone knows the ministry made him," you roll your eyes, shifting your books as they start to grow heavy. "Fudge just wants someone here to spy."

"(Y/N) ---."

"No, don't start with me! I can't believe you're siding with someone like her, Draco! I thought you were better than that! You're just on her side because she's letting you have free reign to be a a real git whenever you want!"

Draco has never been so offended in his life. He tenses, his hands curling tightly at his sides; wow, you're really going for the gold in insulting him today, aren't you? You've had such a temper with him this year, it's like as soon as you stepped foot on school grounds things changed.

Well, everything has changed.

The ministry has never been so involved in schooling before, sending one of their own representatives in, and then there's the whispers, the worries about the Dark Lord's return. Draco knows more than anyone how true it is, but he would never say anything to you about it, he would never burden you with that sort of knowledge --- you of all people should stay oblivious, live in a bubble where you're untouchable.

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco scoffs, gray eyes growing dark. "I'm a Prefect, I ---."

"You've let the power go straight to your head, just as I thought you would."

Well that's harsh.

"What is your problem this year, (Y/N)? Everything was fine over the summer, and on the train, but as soon as we get here ---."

"Look at all that's happening! That awful woman is overstepping her authority, and no one is doing anything to stop it? You're just letting it happen! Of all times, this is exactly when you should be wanting your father to hear about this, don't you think?" You just don't understand, doesn't he want to use his status for good? What's the point of being important if you're just going to be cruel and not offer to help make anything better?

You hate being so helpless, and you don't feel like you're learning anything at all! What's the point of being at this school?

You're so mad at Draco for being selfish, and you're mad at Dumbledore for not stepping up! Draco can be such a better person than what he strives to be, he really can, he doesn't have to be as prejudiced as his father.

"You can do so much better than this," you finally say when Draco doesn't answer, growing even more upset. "You're a much better person."

You could probably have punched him and he wouldn't have been so hurt. You shake your head as you start to dart around him, clenching your books tightly to your chest. Everything is just so wrong this year! You hate it!

"(Y/N), wait ---," Draco's chest feels so tight, his heart is hammering so hard it feels like it's going to explode from his chest! He doesn't want you so upset at him, but you don't understand everything that's going on, and he doesn't want you too! The less you know, the safer you are!

He grabs your arm, pulling you back before you storm away from him.

"Draco, let go!"

"Just listen to me for a moment, would you?" he demands, refusing to let you pull away from him. You hesitate, letting him pull you so close you could almost count each eyelash, his gaze riveted on yours. He looks so serious. "You don't understand everything that's going on."

"Don't I? I see you taking advantage of the situation."

He sighs, growing frustrated; you're so bull headed sometimes! "That's your problem! You see only what's right in front of you, but not the big picture!"

You bristle slightly, glaring up at him; how many times have you been so close before? The scent of him is so familiar, and honestly still a little comforting. He looks so handsome in green and silver, the colors compliment his pale face and blonde hair.

If only his personality was as good as his looks.

"Like you can talk!" You hiss, refusing to budge an inch. "All you care about is yourself and the next person you can lord your pureblood status over! Just like you did with Umbridge, using my family name like I should be treated any different!"

"You had better appreciate the fact I did! Why are you so ungrateful I just saved you from detention?"

"I don't need you saving me!"

"Well clearly you do!"

You both glare at each other, and oh you want nothing more than to hit him with your book! He can be so, so --- ugh!

"You're impossible!" You hiss, finally wrenching away from him; you don't like standing so close, it brings other memories to the surface you don't want to revisit. "You always act like you're entitled to everything, like you deserve respect when you've done nothing to earn it! Grow up, Draco!"

"You're the one who needs the reality check!" he snaps, scowling. "You have no idea what's going on, do you? In the world? With the ministry? You think sticking your head in the sand and ignoring it will make it go away, but it won't! The problems are still here!"

You send him a furious look, despite you know he's right. You do tend to ignore everything if you can, expecting it to blow over so you don't have to worry about it. Your parents tend to take care of everything, but you have noticed their whispers, you know something is going on, just not what. They don't want you to worry, and it's not like Draco ever feels the need to tell you anything either.

You just... don't want to know.

You want to go to school, learn your courses, pass them, and move on with your life. You don't want to think about the fact everything is suddenly so serious now, that it's all changing and might not ever be the same again.

You hate this year.

You turn on your heel, storming away from Draco before he manages to yell anything else true at you.

~~~~~~

"Sorry I'm late," you apologize to Fred as you come to sit beside him in the courtyard, sighing. It's been such a rough day, from classes to dealing with your peers, and you're so glad it's finally over.

Yesterday, arguing with Draco, it made you feel awful. You hate to be mean to him, and you hate it when he tells you things that might be right, especially. You've ignored him blatantly since then.

"It's allright," Fred shrugs his shoulders, relaxing back on the bench with you. You're sitting hip to hip, Umbridge rarely goes outside to enforce her rule about students staying so much of a distance with each other. None of the other teachers care otherwise. "Figured you were busy."

You glance at him, seeing the distant look on his face. You've noticed he's been disappearing a lot, although you're not sure where. Well, actually, there's been a lot of students doing that, if you're being honest, but you've kept your nose out of their business.

But now with Draco saying all that...

"Have you had a good day?" You ask lightly, enjoying the brief bits of sun peaking through the clouds.

"Sort of."

"Sort of?" You hesitate, and now you can definitely hear the tone. "What's happened?"

"Oh, you know, just... everything this year. Ran into a 2nd year that had detention because of that ---."

"Come now, brother, don't get testy." George suddenly flops down on your other side, sandwiching you between the two twins. You scoot as much as you can to make room for him, feeling Fred's arm slip around your shoulder; you like his casual gestures, you find it sweet. You know the summer was a rough go for the two of you, considering that you didn't really get to write much --- or, well, Fred didn't write much, but of course you don't know what was going on in his life.

It must just be so busy with having such a large family.

Still, what has it been now? Almost a year? A little more?

You've sort of lost track, but it's just so easy with Fred, and he's always making you laugh. You find him incredibly sweet and his pranks are always keeping everyone on their toes. It's especially nice during a time like this, with such a vile, terrible, disgusting woman walking around.

"Oi, didn't I hear you almost got yourself detention yesterday?" George suddenly asks, and you blink as you look over at him. How did he know about that?

"You almost did?" Fred sounds surprised, and you hesitate, glancing back and forth between matching faces. Well this is almost intimidating, having them both look at you like this.

"I, uh, accidentally walked into her. Quite literally. As I was going around a corner," you shrug, absently leaning into Fred's side. "How do you know about that?"

You didn't tell Fred, you didn't think it was important.

"Ron and Hermione heard you talking to her, is all. And Draco."

Fred stiffens beside you, and you hesitate, feeling the red starting to crawl up your cheeks.

"Well, he was with her, of course." You shrug it off, peeved; are those two gossiping? What exactly did they hear in your conversation? Did they see you and Draco so close? Is that why Fred is all tense, his arm slipping away from your shoulder?

"Why didn't you mention that?" Fred asks, shifting as so he can look at you better.

"Well, I didn't think it was important."

"But you could have got detention, (Y/N). That's serious."

You shake your head. "It's fine, it doesn't matter since I didn't."

"Yeah, but why not? I heard someone sneezed in her vicinity the other day and she gave them detention." George rubs the back of his neck, looking tired; as a matter of fact, they both do. "I thought you bewitched her or something, was looking for pointers."

You almost roll your eyes. "No, I did no such thing. Just apologized, it was an accident after all."

"Umbridge takes apologies? I wouldn't apologize to her if I stepped on her foot three times." George sniffs, and you notice he's rubbing his hand. "She's a rotten one, that one."

Well, you don't disagree.

"Everyone's too afraid to stand up to her 'cept Harry, poor bloke. He's always getting the brunt of it. Did you see the scar on his hand?" George shakes his ginger head, scowling; you've never seen the twins look so serious before, so angry. You glance between them worriedly, seeing both of their faces dark.

Well, this is... different.

"She's such an awful woman," you mutter thoughtlessly, reaching down for your bag. "They need to do something about her, especially Dumbledore. Does anyone even know what she's doing?"

"They do, can't do anything because she's from the ministry."

"That's ridiculous. She's stepping out of bounds. Someone needs to do something."

Why are they exchanging a look over your head?

"Well, I'd best be off," George says suddenly, hopping to his feet. You glance over at him, seeing him tugging at the collar of his robe. "I gotta catch up with some fellows anyhow, got some merchandise and all that."

Ahuh.

All their prankster toys.

You watch as he goes across the grass, waving to a few other Gryffindors as he passes.

At least no one sneers at you and Fred anymore, well, some Slytherins still do but you think that's just their faces. You've been together long enough now where it's just sort of either accepted or ignored, and that suits you just fine. You don't like being in the spotlight.

"Can you meet me tonight, after curfew?" Fred asks suddenly, his hand creeping to yours.

"Okay, now are you trying to get me detention?" You ask in amusement, threading your fingers with his. "You know how strict things are right now."

"Yeah, I know, but I want to show you something."

"Like what?"

"Well, let's call it a secret club of sorts, but you're invited. Just meet me at the Room of Requirement. You know how to get there, yeah?"

Well, yes, of course you do. Fred and you have been in there before, to finally have some peace and quiet for yourselves so you can spend genuine time together. Well, you've also used it a few times yourself just so you can study and not be interrupted.

"Yes."

"Good. Promise you'll meet me tonight?"

"Fred, I don't know ---."

"Oh, c'mon, (Y/N). Be a sport, would you? It'll be fun."

You look at him dubiously. A secret club? A club shouldn't be secret unless it's something that Umbridge would pitch a fit over, which is exactly what it is, you suppose. Is that what he's doing every night? Running off to the Room of Requirement?

"After curfew?"

"Yup." He squeezes your hand. "Trust me, you're gonna love it."

Yeah, you find that suspicious.

"Why are you only telling me now about this?" You ask after a moment, curious. Why just now mention this club when you don't doubt it's been going on for a bit? Who all is involved?

You doubt any other Slytherins.

"Just didn't think you would be interested in it before," the twin shrugs his shoulders, and after a moment he stands, still holding your hand. "But now I think you will. Promise you'll meet me?"

You hesitate, gazing up into his mischevious eyes, your worry wavering.

"Fine," you relent after a moment. "But if I get caught and get sent to detention, I'm dragging you down with me."

Fred actually chuckles, and you flush as he presses a kiss against your knuckles. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

~~~~~~~~

This is such a bad idea.

You frown where you stand, glancing around anxiously. You're so worried someone checking the halls is going to come around at any point and spot you, report you. You do not want to get in trouble, because you will absolutely pitch the worst fit Umbridge has ever seen in the history of Hogwarts.

You sigh, tapping your foot impatiently; Fred said to meet him here! Now where is ---?

You gasp as you're suddenly being pulled back, someone having hold of the back of your shirt. You blink as you pass backward through the wall, bumping into someone before their arms close around you; you immediately know it's Fred, you can tell by the sweater he's wearing, the one his mother makes for him every Christmas.

You relax slightly before he lets you go, grinning at you when you turn around.

You glance behind him, eyes flicking over all the other students in the room, and you're surprised at the amount of them. How many people are skipping curfew right now to be here, and why is Harry walking around teaching?

The Room of Requirement looks like a studyhall, with a large area full of books that you can see Hermione perusing, and the House flags all dangle from the ceiling and errant columns; you notice there's no Slytherin colors however.

"What's going on?" You ask after a moment, the red head in front of you looking over his shoulder. You can see George and Neville Longbottom practicing with their wands, George apparently showing him the correct way to flick his wrist for a spell.

"We're practicing what they won't teach us." Fred says after a moment, stepping to where he stands beside you; you feel better that you didn't wear your house sweater, but just a normal one. "Umbridge is a terror, and all of us here aren't going to stand for it. We're learning Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"You're teaching yourselves magic?" You're surprised, that's not what you expected by secret club. You thought maybe just a hate-Umbridge club or something, but not this. Is Harry the ringleader, since he's apparently the teacher?

"Yep, since no one else will." Fred sounds so proud of himself, of everyone else, but you worry immediately. You'll all get expelled if you get caught here! Or worse, detention! Well, you suppose that's not so bad, but still it'll be on your record and that's definitely not something that you want. "All of us know Umbridge is going to run this school to the ground, and with You-Know-Who back, we need to be prepared."

You frown as you glance up at him. Is he really back, though? Harry has been spouting that for years, you're sort of numb to it.

"Well.... what spells have you learned so far?" You're reluctantly curious, and though you really don't want to be incriminated by staying in this room any longer than necessary, it has your interest. So they're really teaching each other spells?

"Expelliarmus. Stupefy. Basic defensive spells."

"So nothing extreme?"

"No," Fred looks amused, his arm coming to rest across your shoulders and giving you a light squeeze. "You think we were learnin' something wild in here? Like how to walk through walls or turn people into ferrets?"

Your mind immediately flicks to Draco and his unfortunate time spent as the animal, and you purse your lips against a smile. "Well, it was always a possibility."

Fred chuckles; you have a point.

"We're just learning the spells rather than reading about them. This is where we can practice, and not have to worry about someone catching us."

"Don't you worry what will happen should Umbridge find out?"

"Eh, don't worry. Hermione has something in place, we'd know exactly who ratted us out."

"Yes, but there stands the point it would be too late. If she finds out, all of you will be in so much trouble." You worry, crossing your arms tightly across your chest. "You could be expelled!"

"Now you do sound like Hermione."

You frown.

Your greatest rival.

"So, are you interested? You'd be a great help, you're a quick learner." Fred states, although you know you don't have much of a choice. One, because he's already showed you their secret meeting and you can't forget it and are therefore involved. Two, well, it's a good idea, you really do need to know how to use the spells, reading about them and not performing them is ridiculous.

"I'm in," you say, noticing you're also the only Slytherin in the room. "As long as no one else has an issue with it."

"Nah, you're my girl, you're trustworthy," Fred shrugs, your eyes flicking up to him. He says that so easily, like he really does trust you'll not say a word and have the best intentions. You're a Slytherin, though, he really shouldn't be so... well, you're still sure the Sorting Hat made a mistake with you, you were meant to be a Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff --- anything but a Slytherin!

"So, you want to get started? Harry's going to teach us about how to cast a Patronus," Fred says, his voice excited. "To fight off the Dementors."

"He knows how to do that?" You're surprised, but with how many of them were around last year during the tournament you shouldn't be. No wonder he learned how to fight them, he had so many altercations with them!

"Harry's got a lot more tricks up his sleeve than people give him credit for," your boyfriend smirks, urging you to walk with him to where Harry is talking to Neville and George. "Now, let's get you started. You're a bit behind after all."

"Well, as you said, I'm a quick study."

~~~~~~~

"Plotting against me, is he?" Umbridge mutters as she paces back and forth inside her very pink, kitten-decorated office. Draco frowns where he stands by the door, watching as he goes to her desk, rapping her nails against the hard wood. "Thinking he can make his students create a club, well, it's not going to work in his favor!"

Ahuh.

Draco knows about the D.A., everyone does actually, it's just no one talks about it. He isn't about to say a word to Umbridge about it, no matter how much he'd love to busy Harry Potter. He thinks it's a good idea, although he'd never voice that, and he also knows you've gotten twisted up in it thanks to that damned Weasley.

He's seen you hanging around blatantly with Harry and Hermione, the latter of which you're always frustrated with! He can only imagine that must be what is happening, and that it's only a matter of time before you all get caught.

So, he has to save you, of course.

He's not sure how, but there must be some way to get you out of that ridiculous club. Even if he does agree with it, he could never go along with it on principle, Harry is involved after all and his arch nemesis. So the only conclusion is that he's going to have to hunt all the other members down, get someone to confess, and advise that you were a spy on his side the entire time working for information, but he wanted to play his cards close to his chest lest your identity be found out.

Or is that... too unbelievable?

He'll have to think on it.

Meanwhile, he now has to deal with a paranoid Umbridge, and in some ways she reminds him of his father. The power hungry, paranoid, insecure way, anyhow --- power slips so easily these days, he finds it rather depressing she's become erratic so quickly.

"Perhaps we should start questioning some of the students known to be a part of the group," Pansy Parkinson offers, eager to get on Umbridge's side. Draco frowns as he glances at her, Crabbe and Goyle flanking either side of them. The Inquisitorial Squad is rather small, and mostly just Slytherins, and see if you'd just joined, you wouldn't be in this predicament!

You're always siding with the enemy.

"I know Cho Chang, that Gryffindor, is one." Pansy offers when Umbridge doesn't immediately bite. "And that friend of hers, her mother works at the ministry, we can put pressure on her."

Clever, Pansy. Draco almost appreciates her cunning.

Almost.

She's still not as brilliant are you are.

"Well, I must say that's not a bad idea." Umbridge pauses thoughtfully, brushing her fingers against her pink skirt suit with lace frills on the hem. "Do that, would you, dear? I want this 'club' dismantled immediately. And I want the instigator brought to me immediately."

"Yes, Professor." Pansy grins, pleased her suggestion is taken. "We will start right away."

She turns, heading quickly for the door but not before giving Draco a smug look that only makes him scowl.

She's a right thorn in his side.

"Draco," Umbridge sighs as she sits down at her desk, clasping her hands in front of her as she straightens. She really does look like a toad sitting there in her little pink hat, gazing at him with glassy, soulless eyes.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Do be a dear and put in a good word for me with your parents. I'm sure they're pleased I've made you part of the Inquisitorial Squad. It's only for the most trustworthy of students, you know," Umbridge adds, as if it's some great honor.

Draco inclines his blonde head slightly, but he has no intentions of bragging on her whatsoever. He needs to write his mother and check on her anyhow, considering their house guests.

He's just had to be more clever about sending letters out of Hogwarts so that Umbridge doesn't read them, and just in case he does write them in code.

"Now, let's move on to more pleasant business," Umbridge states, lightly straightening a picture of a mewing kitten on her desk. She preens for a moment before turning her gleaming eyes on the students gathered before her desk. "Who wants to lead the others when we storm their hideout, hmm? Who thinks they're most worthy?"

Draco visibly rolls his eyes as Pansy,Crabbe, and Goyle all immediately announce they would love too. She just asked that question as if she was asking who wants the next pin of ice cream.

How insulting.

Of course Draco is going to do it, he's a natural born leader after all. Crabbe and Goyle are followers, they're not smart enough to lead anything unless it's themselves to the Great Hall for dinner. Pansy is just manipulative but she'd rather be treated like a princess then do any hard work, she just wants the power and recognition.

So of course Draco is the natural leader, the natural choice.

"I'll do it," Draco sighs dramatically, as if it pains him to speak. Everyone frowns as they look at him, but Umbridge looks pleased that he volunteered.

"Wonderful," she replies, clasping her hands on her desk, smirking. "Let's find out where this silly army is and destroy everything."

Huh.

Draco really needs to get you out of there.

~~~~~~~~~

"Are you not worried about what your career is going to be?" You ask, distracted by the numerous pamphlets. You have no idea what you want to do with your future, you know your marks are fantastic, but...

"You're great at everything, you have nothing to worry about." Fred replies where he sits beside you, not at all looking bothered. You'd found him in the courtyard, by himself for once, which is odd considering George is always at his side. He's older, so he's already gone through the Career Advice, but it makes you nervous! You're meeting is with Snape, and you don't know what you want to do!

"But what about my career?" You sigh, holding four different pamphlets in hand. "I mean, Harry knows he wants to be an auror, that's what he said to McGonagall! What did you say to her?" You glance up at him anxiously. "What was your career choice?"

"Well, me and George said we was going to open up a joke shop, so that was going to be our 'career.' McGonagall agreed."

"She agreed?" You snort, doubting that completely. That stern woman doesn't look like she would agree much with what the twins say, but you don't really know her. Snape is okay, but he makes you uncomfortable with his constant glaring and disdain; your father says he was always like that, even as a child. They all went to school together.

"She has a soft spot for us, I think." Fred chuckles, tugging one little booklet out of your nervous fingers. "You could be an auror too, you know. Or part of the ministry."

"The ministry is literally up in flames right now, they're not very stable." You dismiss that immediately.

"Healer?"

"Do I look nurturing?" You snort, waving that away; you don't like blood anyway.

"My older brother works at Gringotts as a curse-breaker," Fred suggests helpfully after a moment. "You could do something like that. Goblins aren't very chatty, so I'm not sure how great the water cooler talk is."

"Which one?" You look up in surprise; you didn't know anyone in his family worked there.

"Bill, he's my oldest brother."

Oh nice.

"Well, my other brother, Charlie, he works with dragons." Fred sounds like he's reluctantly impressed. "Rounding them up and taking care of them and all that."

"I don't know if I could handle a dragon," they're much too big and nothing at all like cats! You run your fingers through your hair, tucking away the loose strands. "It must be nice to have so many siblings."

"My mum had seven of us, can you imagine? I don't think she remembers all of our names," he jokes, nudging you. "Must be pretty peaceful being an only child."

"I suppose. My parents raised me around all the other wizarding families, so it wasn't too lonely." you shrug your shoulders.

It's almost easy for Fred to forget you were raised around the pure bloods, around Draco, for most of your life.

"What about a writer? You love reading books."

"A writer?" you frown. "I feel like all the subjects have probably already been covered, though. I wouldn't have anything new to put out there."

"Make a new one, write some fiction." Fred takes your hand, squeezing. "You're talented. You're brilliant, you know, and pretty," you flush, "you know your business. You can choose whatever career you want."

He thinks you're pretty?

Everyone always tells you how smart you are, but you know that. You keep your grades exemplary, and you'd be at the top if it wasn't for Hermione --- you don't know how she always does better than you!

You know your face is hot, your cheeks are burning, but Fred looks pleased with himself. Maybe he should compliment you more often!

"You think much too highly of me," you dismiss, embarrassed.

"No, I don't think so," Fred grins, and he leans forward to kiss your hair. "And don't worry, you'll find something that's good for you. Don't let Snape bully you."

"Snape is fine," he's never been mean to you or anything, and you like the sass he gives Umbridge, him and McGonagall both. He might be the head of your house, but you're pretty sure you're just another student to him; you hope your parents weren't mean to him, not like you've heard Harry's might have been.

They're infamous, after all.

It makes you feel bad for Snape at times, really.

"I gotta go," Fred sighs as he stands, rolling his shoulders. He doesn't want too, he was enjoying some time with just you, but --- well, Harry needs him and George, and the brothers are going to thoroughly enjoy pranking Umbridge. They need to, of course, discuss and iron out the details of the plan, but that won't take long; Hermione is a genius, although she's totally against it. "But I'll see you for dinner, yeah?"

"Of course." You get to your feet, tossing your pamphlets onto your books; you'll worry about them later when your meeting is closer, at least it gets you out of Umbridge's class for a while. "Don't do anything diabolical."

"Me and George? Nah." Fred chuckles, and you roll your eyes. "Everyone seems to think we're deviants."

"Probably because you hang around Peeves so much," you mention the ghost who's always doing something, and with who the brothers seem to really like. "You're a bad influence on him."

"Ya wound me, truly." Fred shakes his head, ginger hair brushing his eyes. He doesn't think about it as he leans down, giving you a swift kiss he knows will probably get you both in trouble should Umbridge ever see, but he can't help himself; he really likes you, you're one of his favorite people, and man you rival Hermione when it comes to spells.

He's seen the expert way you move your wand, how so easily you catch on to the rather advanced spells Hermione wants to use sometimes. Even she begrudgingly has to admit you're on the same level, you're brilliant; Fred doesn't think he's ever been so smitten with anyone before, at least not so wholeheartedly.

You can't do anything wrong in his eyes, but he knows you have a weakness for Draco.

He's not blind.

He knows Draco is in love with you, that's clear to anyone with eyes who's in the same room as the two of you; the Slytherin moons after you. You don't seem to notice, you've never looked at Draco like you're interested back, which is the only reason Fred doesn't worry. He trusts you, he figures it's just because the two of you grew up together and your families are so close.

At least yours isn't a Death Eater, your father is a renowned inventor who works closely with the Ministry, but isn't necessarily one of them.

You watch as Fred leaves, frowning after him. Why do you have the feeling he's up to something?

~~~~~~

The Weasleys are up to something, Draco just knows it. He eyeballs the twins across the Great Hall where they sit at their table across from Harry and his followers, their heads all bent together as they talk.

What are they planning?

What are they up too? Are they talking about their secret hiding place? Are they talking about their next move?

He's dying to know.

His eyes flick to you where you sit down the table from him, your chin propped on your hand as you read a book. You've not really eaten much tonight, are you not feeling well? You seem fairly focused on whatever it is you're reading, and he noticed you're using a career pamphlet as a bookmark. Have you been studying those?

Draco doesn't know what career he wants either, but he's wealthy, he doesn't really need one. His money is old and plentiful, so he's not worried about his future. You shouldn't either, you're in the same category as him, so why are you frowning so hard?

What's bothering you?

"What do you think they're talking about?" Pansy asks softly, sitting to Draco's right. She's leaning forward a little over the table, dark hair framing her face. Her gossiping friends are sitting around her, as well as a few other members of the Inquisitorial Squad; Draco and Pansy are both prefects as well, so unfortunately they're spending a lot of time together.

Draco can only tolerate her in increments, and before he used to think they were at least decent friends.

Funny how times change.

"Maybe what they're doing for the summer?" someone down the table shrugs, earning a roll of eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous," Pansy scoffs, her eyes focusing. "I know they're up to something, look at them conspiring. We're going to bust them, I know it."

Draco doesn't say anything, just keeps eating his dinner, listening. Pansy is intent she's going to get in good with Umbridge, gain some status, and he's going to use her ambition for his own. She'll no doubt find out the location of their meetings and how to crash them, and as soon as she finds out, he's going to make sure you're not there --- no one can ruin your name, and he just can't let Umbridge get ahold of you.

He slowly sips his drink.

He doesn't know why he still wants to protect you after you constantly reject him, make him feel terrible, and just overall say he's a horrible person. He's still sore over your last argument, which he feels was completely unnecessary since he was in the right. He was keeping you from detention, a little gratitude goes a long way!

His eyes flick down the table to where you're sitting, ignoring the world. You're absently twisting the end of your braid between your fingers, which lets him know you're pretty deep in thought. What are you thinking about? How involved with the D.A. are you really?

He doesn't want you in trouble.

He gets the reason behind it, Umbridge doesn't teach anything at all during class, but that's beside the point.

"Oh, will you stop staring at (Y/N) like a love sick puppy!?"

What?

Draco turns in surprise, staring at Pansy as she scowls at him.

"What?"

"Stop staring at her! She obviously likes Gryffindors, she's dating one of those mudblood lovers, isn't she? One of those twins? I saw them yesterday in the courtyard snogging." Pansy rolls her eyes, moving her hair out of her eyes. "If Umbridge saw they'd have days of detention."

Draco's face sours.

He didn't need to know that.

He prefers not to think of it.

"You know, I bet she would know about the whereabouts, or whatever they're planning," Pansy continues, as if a light bulb has gone off atop her head. Her eyes widen, and it's quite an unsettling smile on her face. "They probably trust her, don't you think?"

"Trust a Slytherin? They wouldn't dare," Millicent Bulstrode says, sitting across from Pansy, black hair loose around her face. Draco has never liked the half-blood witch, she's rather violent, and there's no class about her in his eyes. "They'd be fools."

"Gryffindors are fools, Millicent. They're brave but they're stupid."

Well, how rude, yet Draco agrees.

"I don't think (Y/N) is going to have much information," Draco says after a moment, shrugging his shoulders. "Being a Slytherin, they're not going to tell her anything."

"Or that's what they want us to think, and she does know something!" Pansy retorts, peeved. "You always defend her."

"She's one of us."

"She doesn't act like it."

Draco huffs, straightening slightly as he turns his silver gaze on her in a withering stare. She doesn't immediately cower, but after a moment she looks away, frowning. He doesn't want to argue with her, he's not in the mood; he has too much to think about.

"Houses are supposed to stick together, especially the pure bloods," he says after a moment, his eyes flicking across the table where his... his "friends" sit. "We're of very few pure bloodlines these days, and those of us of status need to be reminded of who our allies are."

"Shouldn't that be a speech she hears?" Pansy snaps, insulted.

"I think it's a speech we all should hear," he retorts, annoyed. "There's only twenty-six families left of pure blood, and we're the future of them. We can't alienate other members simply because we don't like them."

"You're just saying that because you like her so much," Millicent says after a moment, almost in a challenging tone; she feels braver with Pansy across from her. "You want her to be the one that continues your stupid family name."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Well at least I know she would be worthy of it, she's brilliant. Unlike some of us here."

Draco sips his drink.

Not to insult anyone's intelligence, but some are not doing so well in their classes.

At least no one else dares to challenge his words.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, (Y/N)."

"No."

Draco frowns, miffed. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want to talk to you," you say over your shoulder, not breaking your pace as you leave your last class of the day. Draco is right behind you, he obviously wants a conversation and the last one you had was a fight.

"Well, I need to talk to you," he replies, easily catching pace with his long legs. You cut your eyes at him, frowning; his blonde hair looks messy, like he's been running his fingers through it, and he has a determined glint in his eyes that lets you know you're not going to have a choice but talk to him.

"What about?" You frown, holding your books to your chest a little tighter, gait slowing as you reach the stairs. Everyone is filing past you, and honestly you don't even like being seen with Draco under the circumstances; anyone who would side with Umbridge doesn't currently have good status, plus they're jerks.

"Come with me," he glances around, not liking the crowd or for anyone to overhear. What he has to say is important, and would probably get him on Umbridge's bad side, not that it would matter, she still couldn't bother him. His family is too important.

"Where?" you sound wary, you don't want to go anywhere with him. You find it incredibly suspicious.

"(Y/N)." He's quite serious, and you sigh, giving in.

"Fine, lead the way." You huff, your eyes flicking around; Fred wanted to meet you later, you hope this doesn't make you late.

You follow Draco reluctantly, the two of you heading in the opposite direction of the dorms. You frown as he steps down a very deserted hallway, the paintings all turning to look down at you curiously from their frames. You ignore them, but they're all such gossips you're glad when he keeps walking.

"Where are we going?" You ask, frowning. "The middle of nowhere?"

"I don't want anyone overhearing is all, too many ears," he gestures lightly, and you know he's talking about the paintings. You raise your brows, finally coming to a section where it's all statues and suits of armor, no prying eyes.

He's not going to try and kiss you, is he?

"Draco, what is it?" You ask in exasperation, annoyed. "I have something to do, and you're going to make me late."

"You know, I'm trying to be nice and help you out," he's annoyed you're being so rude. "Out of the kindness of my heart."

"You can't have a heart and work for Umbridge." you retort, irked. "She's a monster."

"Most people in the world are." he turns, cutting his eyes in either direction before turning his serious gaze back on you. "But she's why I'm here, and it's for your own good, so it would do you well to listen."

"What do you mean?" You shift your books against your black robe, frowning.

"Umbridge knows just about all the members part of the D.A., and she's going to get them all." Draco almost feels like a traitor for spilling the beans, and he knows it's also hurting his chances of putting Harry Potter in the fire, but... well, your well-being is more important. "First one of them spills the beans, and she'll come crashing down on all their heads, the Weasleys included."

You tense, staring up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

Your heart beats a little faster with worry, your mind flicking to the Room of Requirement --- oh no. Has someone told? Did someone snitch on the group? Technically you're just learning spells and how to defend yourself, that shouldn't be a punishable crime! It's not fair at all!

"Because you're always with them now, and if Umbridge thinks you know anything about their group ---."

"I'm a Slytherin, Draco, she won't do anything." You dismiss; you're not worried about yourself, but everyone else? They're going to be in danger and she won't take it easy on them! You should warn them, shouldn't you? Oh but if you say something they'll ask who from, and if you say Draco ---.

"You don't know that." Draco doesn't know if the House will matter since you align yourself with the Gryffindors. "if you're caught with them ---."

"Draco, don't be ridiculous. They're not even doing anything to get caught at," you reply, trying to play it off. "This is not ---."

"You know you're a terrible liar, don't you?" Draco can read you easily, you always avert your eyes when you lie. It could also be due to the fact he knows you so well, he's grown up with you, spent years with you, kissed you ---. "I know you too well."

"You don't know me at all," you scowl at him, shifting your books nervously.

"I know you well, you know that. We've spent too much time together ---."

"Not that much time ---."

"We just spent the entire summer together!"

"Not the entire summer," you disagree, knowing you're being difficult. You appreciate him warning you, it must mean that he cares something about you, right? He must understand that you're immediately going to tell the others, warn them that she's onto them, which you suppose they already know.

But she must be getting close if he's concerned.

"(Y/N)," Draco sounds frustrated. "I'm trying to help."

"I know, I know, thank you," you say, rather sincerely. It's out of character for him to be so nice but you are thankful he's at least making the gesture despite his jerkish nature this year. You need to go tell the others now though, before it's too late! You need to find Fred!

He said he wanted to meet you today, so it's the perfect time to tell him!

~~~~~~

"You're --- what?" You gasp, taken back. You stare at Fred where the two of you stand on the staircase, startled. You'd been so excited to see him, you'd planned on telling him about Draco visiting you, and he just hits you with this!

"We're creating a distraction for Harry, George and me." Fred says, as if it's the most natural thing to do in the world. "And then we're leaving."

"But --- but where are you going?" You demand, flabbergasted. Leaving? He can't leave! You know he's seventeen, he's technically of age to do whatever he wants, but he's --- he can't leave! Umbridge is vile and still around, and he's just going to leave you here, without him, with her?

"Me and George are going to open our joke shop, in Diagon Alley. We've already got a place picked out and everything, we don't need to be here," he gestures vaguely in the air, his voice excited. "We're going to make plenty of galleons with our merchandise."

"Your pranks and your jokes, all those toys."

"Yes." Fred says proudly. "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!"

He moves his arm in an arc as if displaying the name in the air. He looks so pleased with himself, and you want to be happy for him, but --- you're disappointed. You don't want him to go, won't that end your relationship?

"I'm happy for you, I know that's what you've always wanted," you say, although you're afraid your voice doesn't sound sincere. "I mean, you and George are wonderful pranksters."

"Yeah," he shifts slightly, soft eyes looking down at you. "We're not staying here another night."

"Okay." You don't really know what to say, that's --- he's just leaving.

"(Y/N)," Fred suddenly grasps your hands, and you find his very warm as they encompass yours. "You can come with me, you know. We can go together."

"You want me to go with you?" You say, incredulous. He can't really expect you'll go, can he? You can't just skip out on school, plus you're not even seventeen! Your parents would hunt you down and drag you back screaming, especially if they thought you were abandoning your education for a boy!

"Yes." His grip tightens, and for the first time he seems serious, his eyes finding yours. "Come with me, (Y/N). We'd have so much fun, and you can't want to stay in this place."

"Well, No, I --- I don't want to stay here, but I can't just leave." You hesitate, and after a moment you take your hands from his. "You don't even have that long left, Fred! You shouldn't leave so close to being able to graduate ---."

"Ah, school was never for me and George. This could be a new adventure for us! We'd have a blast! Our future isn't here in this old castle."

"But you're so close to graduation, Fred!" And he's giving all of that up for Harry? To do what exactly? You can't believe he's just giving up his education! What about his future? What about if his joke shop doesn't work out? It's not practical!

"(Y/N)," Fred looks disappointed; he didn't really expect you to go with him, but he thought you might be a little more supportive. "School just isn't the place for us, you know that. We're leaving tonight, I just wanted to let you know."

You sigh, brushing your hair out of your face. You suppose that means the two of you are breaking up then, considering you can't have a relationship with someone you never see, or will get to have contact with under these circumstances.

Your first breakup, great.

"I'll just... miss you." You admit, your cheeks warming with the confession. You don't want to see him go, he's been someone you can rely on and talk to, he makes you laugh, he even slightly brought you into his group of friends --- you love the D.A., you love learning the magic, the pairing up, Hermione is actually as brilliant as she seems. You know you're not friends with any of them, they were slightly distrustful in the beginning, but it's a nice start. "It won't be the same here without you."

"Ah, I could always leave George," Fred chuckles, relaxing slightly. He cups your shoulders, grinning down at you. "And you can always come see me on holidays and breaks. We already have plans for our shops, it'll be great. You'll get the friends and family discount."

"Well, how very generous of you." You force a smile up at him, but it's not as sincere as you want it to be. "Just be careful, okay? Umbridge is awful."

"We know how to handle her," Fred isn't worried. "We have this under control. Will you come see me over summer?"

"Of course I will. I'll make a special trip to Diagon Alley," you assure him, reaching up to squeeze his hand. "You'll have to pick out some of your inventions for me, some that I'd like."

"I'll have a whole basket." he says, nodding. His eyes flick down the hallway, he knows he's running out of time, but every moment with you is precious to him. He's going to miss you too; he appreciates your practicality, your cynicism, but also your kindness and other than Umbridge, you never say much bad about anyone. You shouldn't be a Slytherin, that's not your House, not where your loyalty lies.

You're too smart, too brave, like Hermione. You have such a bright future, you can do anything you want, like he told you before. He hates he has to leave, he wants to keep dating you, but he can't stay at Hogwarts anymore, it isn't for him; his future awaits.

Maybe one day you'll be in his future again.

"I have to go," he says, and before you can respond he's leaning down, giving you a swift, firm kiss that you somehow know will be the last one you ever get. You treasure those few moments before he lets go, before he's telling you goodbye and walking down the hallway.

Why do you have such a bad feeling about this?

Why do you feel like you'll never see him again?

~~~~~~~~~~

Draco is peeved.

He told you to stay away from Potter and all of his like, and now look at you! You're sitting in Umbridge's office, in trouble for something you've not even done! You look annoyed as well, sitting on the edge of the uncomfortable chair in front of the toad-like woman's desk.

The Weasleys made a serious mess of things the other day, fireworks and wild broom rides through the castle, how distasteful! They made quite a show before they left school grounds, Draco's father would disown him for behaving in such a way! But the Weasleys have so many children, disowning two of them would probably free up some space in that closet they live in.

"Well, Ms. (Y/L/N), I do hate we have to meet under such unfortunate circumstances." Umbridge sighs lightly from across her desk, your eyes narrowing; you're not intimidated by her, you're not going to cower either, and if she tries any sort of punishment, you'll have her head! You refuse to play her games. "I understand you were dating one of the twins who caused such a ruckus on school grounds the other day, interrupting classes and causing such a fuss."

"We're not dating anymore," you say after a moment, smoothing out the wrinkles in your black robes, the green Slytherin symbol bright on your chest. Draco's eyes flick to you where he stands at the back of the room, Pansy smirking at his side; she's the one who mentioned to Umbridge you should be spoken with, considering your disgraceful alliance with Potter. Crabbe and Goyle are hulking on the other side of the door, making sure the meeting isn't disturbed.

You really don't like her office. You don't understand the need for everything to be pink, from the carpet she's thrown down on the cold stone floor to the flowery curtains on the windows. There's little plates with playful kittens decorating the walls, all of them staring at you, it feels like, as judgemental as she is. The fire is crackling in the fireplace, and you know it's the only one the Ministry isn't heavily watching, the rest of the school is definitely under watch.

You decide you hate this room.

"Oh? Well, that's probably for the best. He doesn't seem like he was a good influence for you, Ms. (Y/L/N)." Umbridge curls her thick fingers together, leveling her gaze at you, but you don't squirm, you just stare back. "He seemed quite the troublemaker, a prankster. We don't take well to his kind at this school."

Ahuh.

"Why am I here?" You ask bluntly, not in the mood. You're mad at Fred for different reasons right now and you don't have time for Umbridge. You're upset he left, that the two of you broke up, that he's giving up his education for some wild dive in entrepreneurship that might not even be successful! What if it's a wasted venture!? He needs to think more about his future!

"It has been brought to my attention that Fred Weasley was involved in an unapproved organization, having meetings and performing magic that I did not sanction," Umbridge says, shifting slightly in her chair. "Would you know anything about this, dear?"

"No." Nope, nothing at all, not you. You have no idea what she's talking about. "Fred wouldn't get involved in something like that."

"Oh, but I believe he did," Umbridge gives you a sickly sweet smile. "I just want to see if you might have heard something, or he might have said something to you, that could be useful to us. After all, you're a Slytherin."

What does your House have to do with anything?

"Your fellow Slytherins are part of my Inquisitorial Squad, very trusted students. I hold them to the very highest of standards, and all of them I know are doing very well," Umbridge glances behind you. "I would love to add you to the Squad, of course, considering your cooperation."

Draco almost cringes; Umbridge is not doing well with you, he can tell by the stiff set of your shoulders. You don't like her, she could be offering you a job at the ministry right now and you'd still tell her to go jump off a broom. You're already shaking your head.

"I have no interest in your squad of bullies." You reply almost waspishly, Umbridge's brows rising. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, what group of students would be doing magic. You've already banned study sessions, so it's not like a large amount of us could get together without notice. If such a thing was happening, I'm sure with your connections and the rapport you've built with the students at Hogwarts, no one would have any issue coming to tell you if they saw someone breaking the rules."

Well, you only insulted her openly once with the bully comment, but you certainly sugar-coated the rest of them. Draco is actually impressed, so you do have a mean bone in your body, and it's not just directed at him! Finally someone else can get a lashing.

"Well," Umbridge's smile grows, but that's not a good sign. "I can see you're certainly your mothers daughter."

Oh? What's that supposed to mean?

You frown at her, straightening. You're tempted to stand up and walk out, she's not going to get anything out of you, not without a truth potion. She wouldn't dare go that far, but you won't put anything past her either. At least the school year is close to over and you can get out of this place. It's been nothing but awful this year.

"Well, Miss (Y/L/N), where were you the other day, when the Weasleys were planning their big plan? Do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?"

What?

You blink at her a moment, taken back. Is she trying to involve you in their scheme? Does she want to punish you for something they did, especially when you haven't ---?

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just curious. We do want to make sure that if anyone knew about the Weasleys plan, and did not report it, they are given the appropriate punishment."

Well.

Uh.

Hmm.

You were with Fred before he made such a commotion, and you did know about the plan. You don't have anyone who can vouch for where you were, and even if you did not a lot would, you're not friends with them, or Umbridge would bully them into saying otherwise. So you don't have an excuse, or anyway to defend yourself.

Umbridge look pleased when you don't respond, and she starts to speak, to explain exactly how much you're going to be in trouble for their crime; she doesn't like you, she knows your parents due to your fathers constant visits to the Ministry and your mothers high social status, and you've certainly your mothers snotty attitude and none of your fathers genius. However, when you have money, brilliance and etiquette doesn't seem to matter, as in your case. You're rude, insolent, and you look at her as if you're going to run through her!

Not polite at all.

"She was with me." Draco blurts suddenly, stepping forward from the back of the room. You swivel to look at him over your shoulder in surprise, Umbridge even blinking. He stops beside your chair, where you're both facing the toadlike witch, and it's not just you by yourself. "I can vouch for her, Professor."

"You can?" Umbridge frowns, leaning back in her chair. That's not what she wants to hear.

"Yes. (Y/N) and I were together before the incident." Draco says confidently, a smirk appearing on his lips. You tense as you look up at him, wondering what awful words are about to come out his mouth. "She and the Weasley have been not been together for a few days, actually."

"Oh?" Umbridge almost frowns. "So you're saying she was with you before and during the incident?"

"Well, before certainly, during we were all in class." Draco says innocently, his hand coming to rest on the back of the chair beside you. "We were talking, in the hallways. I'm sure some of the paintings can substantiate that, they saw us."

"And the two of you were... talking?" Umbridge gestures back and forth, raising her brows. You feel sick, you really do, you can't believe this. Draco is insinuating that you just, that you just went from Fred right to him!? Like Fred didnt matter whatsoever to you? That would never be the case!

You would never choose Draco!

"Of course. We were discussing our studies, the careers we want to choose." Draco shrugs nonchalantly. "She wouldn't have been discussing anything with the Weasley, she's not had anything to do with him. She's moved on."

You're going to punch him. You don't say a word, your fingers curling tightly in your lap until your knuckles turn white. You're so, so angry at him, how could he say something like that! You were still dating Fred, actually, and you were loyal to him!

Well, no, actually, you...

No, you're not going to think about those moments with Draco, those few kisses that don't mean anything or matter in the long run. He doesn't care about you, he's never made you laugh or smile like Fred, all he cares about is his money and docking points off muggle born witches in other Houses!

You just don't want him to make it sound like Fred wasn't important, like he could just be discarded so easily. That's certainly not the case!

"Well, I'm certainly not going to question that choosing someone of her own House isn't much better," Umbridge states, liking your discomfort. "Houses should stay together, after all, as it's always been. Well, Miss (Y/L/N), Mr. Malfoy states that you had nothing to do with the Weasley conundrum, is that correct?"

"Yes." You say between your teeth, your jaw wanting to clench. You know you should be happy that Draco is giving an excuse that covers you, but still!

You're just ---.

"Very well then, all of you are dismissed." Umbridge says, shaking her head. "Please report to me if you gain any knowledge on this unfortunate event."

There's a chorus of "yes, Professor," before everyone is shuffling, heading for the door. You rise slowly, sending Draco a furious look as you pass him, one that makes his stomach drop. He's tried all year to keep you out of Umbridge's clutches, he's lied many times, sweet-talked, belittled even in Pansy's case, to ensure you have a safe year, and yet you're still mad at him! Sure, his methods may not have been exactly ethical, but that shouldn't matter!

Why are you always so mad at him?

What a disaster of a year.

Tags: @ariminiria @xaohroa @raven666hale. @thebrookerose. @imthedrappleapple. @scarlet-witch-baby @a-mnda @itsspecial-itsnotforeveryone

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beaflower77 · 5 years

Text

Imparati Suparati : Part 1

“They stole my winnings,” indignantly she complained the them.

Looking at her as she stood next to the tethered horses, they could see Beatrice was visually upset, which led the elves to complete and utter confusion. “What? What does she say?,” they asked, questioning with their eyes. “What is she talking about? What winnings?”

“Beatrice,” Lindir interjected, “What are you talking about? We were inside but a moment. What winnings are you talking of?” Looking up at Lindir with defeat and disappointment, “A few moments? You were gone three hours. and my winnings. That I won fair and square, inside that tavern. That Ghostly Abbey Tavern over there,” as she flippantly, angrily gestured off toward the dark brown and gray stone tavern across what was loosely deemed a muddy, murky looking street.

“You realize,” she mentioned, “That is more than just a tavern we’re staying at, don’t you?”

No, actually, they hadn’t. They changed locales.

This town, a rather small but neatly arranged town was in close enough proximity for a few days travel, and had many trading advantages for the elves. They had traveled here to get a sense of the present community. Elrond would be dealing with this small, unique town ever so often and it behooved the elves to know exactly whom and what they would be dealing with, an honest, transparent magistrate, or a shady and shred blowhard like the present one Mayor Turnbull. Either way, this town was in the correct pivotal position for Elf and Mortal alike.

They had sent Erestor for diplomacy, and Lindir for note taking and such. Athlidon and another soldier went as well. Why then did Beatrice need to go? “It will get you out in the sunshine a bit,” Lindir promised on a Tuesday’s ride with a simple smile. “Sunshine?,” she questioned by their third morning out. “If I wanted sunshine, I would have gone to Hawaii Lidir. I am dusty, sweat, hot, and I wuold like to clean my hair. With all this humidity I’m already a mess. I can feel as if I am in the deepest jungles of .. oh, who knows?”

Lindir curiously looked at Beatrice balanced on her mare. Her hair was held together in a short clip, he could see was beginning to droop and come undone. Beatrice was correct, the ride was long, and the humidity at this time of year was thick, dense, and horrid. His mind also reeled in confusion. Hawaii? He just decided it was best to stay quiet, as she spoke like this sometimes. Instead Lindir turned back in his saddle and continued their journey onward. As they rode, Lindir concentrated on his own grooming habits. I would like to clean up as well. A bath would have been lovely this morning, however there will be none until we arrive. I hope there is a comfortable chamber in which to bathe later. For separate baths of course.

They had traveled this particular way because it was supposedly more scenic a route. It wasn’t This route proved poorly traveled, extremely narrow, and dense with foliage. The trees, bushes, provided little comfort for privacy of bodily functions or semi intimate contact. The ground itself was not a proper place to set nightly camps, as it afforded no barrier of shelter or defense. Whoever suggested this way, the elves were dismayed with the route, and lack of reasonable propriety, however it was Beatrice who suffered the most, being female and needing, wishing more privacy. Her usual mood went from content, to joyless, to pained each day. After three days the elves noticed, or more so heard Beatrice’s level of discomfort, discontent, and displeasure. She thought there would be, or should be, a welcomed bath at the least at the end of the night, at most the beginning before each day’s ride. The assumption came from the belief she was promised that before hand. She irritably rode her mare, picked at her nails every so often, frowned, and tried hard at not being snippy. Her horse gave a snort from the dust.

“I could have gotten sunshine at home,” Beatrice complained within earshot of some elves. “Your hair still looks nice,” she grumbled to herself. “Mine is a mess. And I don’t care for riding horses either, except you’re okay,” she confided to her own mare, patting its’ neck and head. Continuing on, “There are bruises up and down the insides of my legs, not to mention ..” On and on it went.

Lindir took note of her increasing disfavor with his early urging she come along. There was little in way he could do to change it now. He should have left her at home, instead of insisting her accompanying them. And during her monthly business Lindir thought was not the best of his ideas this time round he thought.

Lindir had so wished her mutterings to cease, “What were you thinking in insisting I tag along? A little midnight dirty dancing on the dirt? My fat ass.” Athlidon had the unfortuante ability to hear that comment, he wondered what sort of dancing on dirt Beatrice meant, what it felt like, how dirty your feet must become. but with the dawning of his senses coming to him, of Beatrice in the nude, the image made him shudder and gag. Athlidon shook his head to be rid of the imagery, muffling his voice low, “Dancing in the dirt, my arse,” and he clicked his horse up farther. Erester pretended not to notice, and lagged behind Athlidon, leaving Lindir to deal with her instead.

Ah, yes. Lindir was aware of the dirty dancing issues. That was one of the nuances while traveling, and Beatrice was forwarned ahead of time, knowing all elves could easily deal with self control, physically and emotionally. This lovely subject became a nightly game of teasing among them, all at her expense. Perhaps Lindir as well, ramping up his mortification. They weren’t sure. “Have you found a comfortable spot to dance in yet Beatrice?,” Athlidon questioned. She ignored him for the third time. “Does Lindir also partake in such dances?,” he kept on. To which Lindir made an unweighty comment, “I have no idea to what you are referring to Athlidon,” unrolling his bedroll, looking for a flat enough surface.

“I believe it is termed a sexual union Lindir,” Erestor calmly suggested, and continued with, “I am sure you have heard of it. Perhaps the tow of you should go farther up the road. A ways up the road. How long do you think it will take? Or else, if you must, just do it quietly among us.” A look of horror and mortification crossed both Lindir’s and Beatrice’s face. After more snickers and horselaughs ensued, “This is hardly worthy conversation. Especially coming from particular mouths. Good night. I will take second watch.” Another comment, laughter drifted through the air, however Beatrice had plugged her ears by then, rolling her back toward the elves, tossing stones from under her mat aside.

As the days rolled by, the elves could see, no, hear Beatrice’s tolerance thinning out, her emotions beginning to droop. Even Athlidon taking pity tried consoling her. “Cheer up Beatrice. Do you see those thick crop of trees ahead?,” he pleasantly asked, pointing off into the gray distance. “Right beyond is ...” He never got that far, she finished for him, “No. No. Let me guess. Another crop of trees.” Athlidon, slightly offended, looked off in the distance after that, ignoring her mumbling until later that night when she apologized. Athlidon had warned Lindir against bring Beatrice along. Erestor disagree. Beatrice should be there. She would see this particular town from a different viewpoint than they. What better way to get a fair opinion of everything. “This town does hold humans, does it not?” he had asked. “Would not Beatrice have a certain connection with them? Being able to distinguish true from false speech from her own kind? The elves could benefit from her knowledge, therefore she should come along.” Elrond had agreed, Lindir was thrilled, now not so much.

But now, out on the town’s main street, Beatrice had waited, and waited, and waited for her traveling companions to return from speaking with the town’s mayor. However, it was no wonder after waiting so long, standing alone by their five horses, Beatrice’s stomach gurgled and clenched, causing her to decide to seek out her meal sooner in the accommodations they had chosen for the night, The Ghostly Abbey.

However, “They stole my winnings!,” is what her companions now heard.

She explained how she had waited outside for them while people passing by gave her odd looks. How the meal in the tavern was bad, the bread stale, moldy, the fruit soft, the drink had a blob of something horrible tasting in it. She spit it back in the cup, ordered tea instead, something else floated in that as well.She ate an apple, at least it was still red looking. And she explained while sitting by herself, she had watched a threesome of men laughing at a nearby table playing a familiar game. How she had ventured over to look, peering round their shoulders. This game the men played was a similar one played in Rivendell. She could easily play this game. Beatrice could see the correct pieces to move in order to win. It wasn’t hard. She could easily see that which was not visible to them. Beatrice explained she was confused as being part of the tavern nightly help. All she wanted was to be included in the game as well.

She asked to play. They were surprised. They laughed at her. She felt offended, humiliated and embarrassed. Two of the men folded their arms in amused diffadance, however, they were willing to play along, entertain her. she won three of five turns. They were scrambling in their seats. they were annoyed, embarrassed. They would lose their week’s winnings. They changed the rules midstream, she shifted her mindset, began again, and outwit them yet again. Beatrice easily saw what they couldn’t. So they cheated. She lost her winnings. They wiped their hands, threw their hands, shoulder up. That was the chance she took when playing at a man’s game they claimed surprised. Why she ever wanted to play in the first place, to think she could play this game fathomed them. They lied. They said she should return home, fix supper for her husband. Be a good girl now.

“I am not a girl,” Beatrice scoffed. “I am a woman.” Then finding her outspokenness bewildering, annoying and distasteful, “Then you should be home pleasing your husband.” Bristled by that comment, fuck you she imagined saying, for she was the one to be pleasured and toyed with, not the other way round offering submission to anyone else. “My husband,” she primly replied. “Alright.”

Angered, Beatrice stood, looking at two of the three offending men, “I know you have cheated me. I will return to my husband. And you will not like it when I do come back with him. You are jealous, petty and insignificant worms to me. I won that money fair. Those winnings belong to me. Yes, my husband will know.” Stunned and shaken, they watched Beatrice leave out the door. They breathed hard. “Who is she?,” they questioned the other. They were just travelers themselves, not having seen her before today. “If her husband does come, we will simply say, she cheated, or, she misunderstood the rules,” coaxed the one. “We could say she should not have even been here. Not in this tavern. We thought she was a doxy playing us for our coin,” invented the second. The two agreed between themselves, fashioning more excuses.

“Why not just say, you cheated her? Clearly she know how to play better than you,” the third one strongly suggested. “Close you mouth,” came from the other two, “Or we’ll close it for you.” The third moved off repulsed, going so far as to inquire of the mayor.

Erestor listened, they all did. All were most adamant they bust in there to reclaim Beatrice’s winnings, and honor. Such men they chimed. Is this the town Elrond will have to deal with?! Are these the types of people we will have to barter with? Sell to? No! We demand retribution! How dare they treat Beatrice like this!

“Stop,” Lindir insisted. “We cannot just barge in and demand Beatrice’s coin. As angry as this makes me, there must be a different way, some other way more eloquent, more persuasive.” “My Lord Lindir,” Athlidon protested, “Would you have Beatrice forfeit her winnings if she played fair as she explains? Or would you rather she dance before them to earn her coin back?” “No. No. That is not want I meant. I meant ...”

“Lindir is correct,” Erestor interjected, his hand on Lindir’s arm. “Athlidon, let’s you and I go peruse the environment in the tavern. If it is as Beatrice says, there are other ways to combat offensive forces. Tula. There is always a better way.” As annoyed and upset as Erestor was, he dragged Athlidon, one of Rivendell’s most loyal of soldiers off the The Ghostly Abbey, which is how Erestor and Athlidon ended up playing a very eye opening human version of an old Elven game.

“Ah. I see,” pronounced Erestor, sitting, matching skills with the men. “Moving my game piece to the left causes the other moves to become obsolete. However, when I move this piece forward, I not only cause one piece to fall, but a multitude of other pieces to move in its’ place, thereby winning the second hand. And gaining more pieces to work with, more points, and to win more coin.” Erestor took a moment to observe his move and noted the changing of the men’s sly and devious rules. And their faces, as he rapidly learned to re-adapt his skills, despite their best efforts to trick him. “However,” he continued, “I I should move to the right, like such, the rules slightly change, for me, but not for you, and when I move here, you have decided, I do not win. when in fact, I should have.” The men looked at each other. Elves, they concluded. Too smart with the out smarting. “Well, yes, that is one way you play the game, you see.” Looking slyly, “Ah, but that is only one version of the rules,” Erestor concluded. “The rules vary depending upon the players, or their skill level, does it not?” and the men could not avoid his trap. “Well, yes ..”

Hmmm, Erestor learned, they played deceptively well, or badly, whichever way you wished to see it. No wonder Beatrice lost. They cheated. Many times over. What to do now?

He then had an idea. “There is another in our company,” Erestor coolly mentioned while relaxing into his chair. “I would be pleased to introduce you to this player. It may be an interesting game. Why not?,” he asked. The two men looked themselves over. “Alright,” one decided for them both, “Tomorrow night. Here. We will challenge your player.” Countering their decision, “No. Not tomorrow night,” Erestor shot back. “My companion is not here at the moment. In two days time.” Erestor quickly stood before the men could protest or think of another answer. All was agreed. “Good night,” he concluded, nodded and left.

In the meantime ...

Athlidon leaned against the bar. The third man in the company took a sip of lager. “Your friend is good. He’s a quick learner.” Athlidon ruffled, huffed. “And your friends are...,” Athlidon began. But, “Oh, they are not my friends,” the man stated. “I merely traveled here with them during the same time. They were on the same road as I. We shared a few stories, a few drinks, but friend, No. I am merely here on a business venture, I suppose. These men,” the man continued, “are braggarts, cheats.” He continued his drink, picked at the bew berries left on the counter, bat at something flying. “If this were my town, I’d run it differently. There wouldn’t be men like them here.” Athlidon pressed more, “They cheat?,” he casually mentioned. “Hmmm Mmmm.” The man was not drunk, merely more liberated than most.

“There was a player in here the other day, “ he continued. “Was very good. Knew her stuff.I had hoped she would win. They fooled with her. Disgusting business.” “She?,” pried Athlidon once again. “Yes. A woman. Pretty. Petite. Self assured. Very sweet I thought. Don’t see many like her around. I confronted them, but they didn’t seem to care. I have half a mind to wish she would come back, she was fair.” And he smiled shyly. “But I don’t want her to be fooled like that again, besides, she’s married. So, best to leave alone.” He rubbed his nose. “I did speak with the current magistrate about it. He’s leaving, you know.” “Is he?” The two resumed their drink and small talk along different avenues. Athlidon was curious now even more.

Athlidon mused on this information, continuing with his own drink. He would later share this news with Erestor when they were alone. “Yes,” the man warmly mentioned, giving a quick smile. “I was thinking of applying for his position myself.” Athlidon studied the man, took in his full measure. “You? What would you do with a town this size? You realize you would have to deal with the Elven Lord, Lord Elrond. He trades here ever so often I here.” “Oh? Elrond you say? Yes. I know him. Tall, dark hair? Nice fellow. I’ve met him. Good man.” He suddenly knew his mistake, checked himself when Athlidon gave him a curious look. “Well, Elf really.” He then gave Athlidon a silly smile, asking, changing the subject, “You know him?” What was Athlidon to say to that? “I know his name,” and he drank more.

Deciding to stay at the Leof Doe, a different Inn, for the duration they were in town, as it would afford more privacy for all, Erestor let them in on his and athlidon’s observations. “Yes. They cheated. And I believe they forcefully cheated Beatrice. How much did you say you lost again?,” Erestor asked. Beatrice was embarrassed. Not only did she lose her entire coin for the trip, but she was gambling, for three hours, which was probably worse. “Some pfennig. Twenty maybe.” “Twenty?!,” reiterated Lindir, a little shocked she had that much, and lost it all. “Well, that is a bit to lose, but still, it is morally wrong. You have a plan then?,” he asked, turning to Erestor. Beatrice slunk her head down. Athlidon watched. “I hope you do,” Lindir maintained. “I will not stand for this business. Not only will Elrond have to barter and deal with them, but I will not have Beatrice treated so callously by men so opportunistic and skamelar.” Rarely did Beatrice of anyone else here Lindir swear so poetically in public.

Athlidon directed his attention at that moment toward LIndir, taking a step back, raising his eyes, while repeating to them what the man in The Ghostly Abbey told him in confidence. “The third man is not with them. He wishes to be magistrate of this drab town.” Erestor grumbled at that fact. “Then he has much to clean up here for that to happen. This town is a sewage pit.” “By the way, my Lord,” Athlidon brought up, “You mentioned your player was not here, when we were in the tavern. You lied” Erestor unflappably replied to such a silly question. “Of course not. My mentioning my ‘player’ not being here in that tavern, merely meant, my ‘player’, was there, meaning this Inn, which we are not occupying. It was never a lie.” Athlidon let it go again, he was used to this sort of language games.

However, Erestor did have a plan of sorts. “let us keep this to ourselves for now. Athlidon, you and I will go backto the The Ghostly Abbey tonight. Tonare, you will find a better, faster way to get out of this town, if we so need.” Turning to Beatrice he continued, “Beatrice. How would you like to get your winnings back? Perhaps make more as well? Do what I say, and it is almost a guarantee.” She thought about it. “I would rather whip them instead,” she confessed truthfully, bitterly. A graceful smile came over Erestor. “Hmm.Yes. However, mind games are better. And we will teach you the best ones. Agreed?” After she reluctantly agree, Erestor set his eyes on Lindir. “Lindir, a moment in private.”

Following his friend from the Inn, out of earshot from passer-bys, Erestor bluntly threw this down. “Lindir, this is crass of me, however, Beatrice needs something only you can give her. She is angry, annoyed, cranky, starved for intimacy, and I can see, unfocused. Her mind is elsewhere on who knows what again. If this is to work in our favor, Beatrice will need to play and match wits with them. I need her focused on this game. Which means, you need to take care of your wife and her needs. A little shocked, and embarrassed at first, Lindir thought how best to reply to the implications Erestor described. “There is no privacy on the road Erestor. Even if there were, Beatrice is mid month. It would be a mess. The bedding,” Lindir complained. Erestor perhaps thought better, “Is she? Mid-month? You think?” No to be offended or deterred, “It is your responsibility Lindir,” Erestor suggested, “I want her focused. Do whatever she wishes. And outfit her in a presentable dress. When she confronts them, I do not want Beatrice wearing leggings, no matter how much more comfortable she is. They will not see her as a worthy opponent otherwise.” Lindir’s mouth opened, closed, and resigned himself. “Of course. Agreed.”

But then Lindir truly wanted to know, “Can she do this? Can Beatrice truly accomplish this? I would not want to see her further humiliated by being outsmarted twice.” Erestor listened, looking at his friend. He did understand Lindir’s misgivings, however he understood something more concerning Beatrice, and he had thought Lindir knew as well. So, Erestor thought a reminder would be good at this juncture. “Does your memory fail you so Lindir? Do I need to remind you Beatrice sees more that most are aware? Does she not see into the hearts of certain entities? Of certain individuals? Mortals? Elves? Do you discount her abilities? Do you not think her worthy of such an ability? Her perception is her primary source of joyousness. And sorrow both. Tell me you are not unaware of such of gift as this?”

Lindir knew this, still he looked away, uncertain of his allowing Beatrice time with those men, and what it would cost her emotionally if she failed. “I am,” he simply replied. A slight, sad sigh escaped from is lips. “Lindir,” Erestor coaxed, “She can do this. She can sometimes see that which others cannot. You know it is true. You must let her go sometimes Lindir. I am certain, of this, she can accomplish. And she should. It would do her good, she will feel better about herself. Sometimes we all give Beatrice too little credit, and treat her as too little, or fragile a thing.” Erestor put his hand softly on Lindir’s arm, squeezing warmly. “Go, tend your wife,” he said, before going back inside to consider the remainder of his plan. “All will be well. You must trust her.”

Lingering a bit outside, Lindir sighed, closing his eyes. He had to consider Beatrice as independent of him. And in tending his wife, he had also to consider his options, as he was not too fond of mid-month fondling, however. Finally settling on how best to approach his task, lovely but messy, he walked in and laid two coins across the bar counter. “A tub. How water please. Bring it to my room as soon as it is ready.” The Inn maid protested, “But Master Elf, dis the middle of the afternoon. Who takes a bath in the middle of the afternoon Sir?” Lindir unflinchingly again pushed the coins toward her. “A tub and hot water please.” His friends overheard him, they did not quail when he asked, “Where has Beatrice got to?” “The privy. Again,” and they motioned with their heads. He went to collect her. She questioned why. Lindir said not in return. They silently walked upstairs together.

When the night fell, and the dusk took over the sky, Erestor quietly knocked on their door. He was delighted to find Beatrice already dressed in a soft pink and wine, richly velvety gown, loosely cinched with a full burgundy square neckline, showing off her smooth neck. The long bell sleeves bothered her and were continuously being rolled up. “Lovely,” Erestor commented, looking Beatrice over several times, front to back. “Loose but lovely. Very feminine as well.” He had no idea where Lindir had acquired the gown, nor did he wish to know, but nodded his assent to Lindir’s fashion sense. “Ready Beatrice? I have brought two adequate game boards. You will have to compare the same game twice and learn multiple rules which will change depending on these men’s whims.” He smiled charmingly at her growing form. She cringed, wondering what he knew. Erestor set the room and boards accordingly. And waited. “Athlidon and Tonare should be here momentarily,” he stated. “You have been adequately fed and are more focused?” Beatrice needed a moment to understand his meaning. Lindir felt his face flush, drawing in a horrified breath of everyone knowing what they were possibly doing upstairs alone all day.

“Wait a minute,” Beatrice yelped. “I have to play them? Me?” She was dumbfounded. “I thought, I thought this dress, this was just for show,” as she addressed her person. “I thought you could just go in there and demand my money back. That I was just supposed to dress nicely, instead of leggings.” “No,” Erestor gave her. “You will have to play them. If you want your money back, and your honor, you will have to compete for it. And I warn you, they are indeed shady. They are not honest. However I will teach you how to play them to their own disadvantage.” Beatrice sighed, looked at Lindir. “Did you know this?” Stepping closer, “Yes,” Lindir admitted. This business was difficult for Lindir. He did not want Beatrice to be involved in this charade, but he did agree this could be the only way to play a player. “Yes Beatrice. I did not tell you. I am sorry.” What else could he say?

“They intimidate me,” Beatrice whispered her confession to the elves. Athlidon spoke up, “Of course they do. And we will teach you the art of counter intimidation.” She didn’t think it really mattered much at this point, but Beatrice was crestfallen, and it showed. “Cheer up Beatrice,” Athlidon tried. “Do you see those crops of trees over there? Beyond that ...,” “Shut up Elf,” she gave him back. Athlidon smirked in return. “She’ll be fine,” he firmly suggested. Lindir breathed deeply, still not pleased with the whole affair.

#Erestor Fiction #Lindir Fiction #Lindir & Beatrice Fiction #Medieval Games #Leof Doe Medieval For Pretty Girl Goat #Ghostly Abbey Medieval Poetry #Pfennig Medieval Silver Penny #Wag / Clown #Implied Love Making During Perhaps Or Not Menstruation #Imparati Suparati = King's Surcoat #Why Is Beatrice Gambling?#Pictures Coming From Northville and Mackinaw Island and Forks Wa

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caffeineivore · 5 years

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Cheer up emo fic!

For @vchanny-og. This will tie in with one of the fics I wrote for the @ssrevminibang. M/K. Rated a strong PG13 for brief mentions of sexual situations and a hint of violence.

The flashbulbs and paparazzi harassment she took as a fair trade-- a necessary evil for her background as well as her chosen profession. Even the gossipy tabloid stories, or anonymous, hurtful online comments and speculation. Morgan, having seen many a child actor and teen starlet fall from grace, stays out of the spotlight for the most part. No drugs, no inappropriate videos or pictures, no information on her personal life for the avid army of vultures online to devour and speculate over. It isn’t too difficult avoiding the paparazzi, either, when one lived in a Beverly Hills mansion surrounded by electronic gates and a dense circle of tall hedges, or when one was a minor working under the very protective wing of one Raven Huntley, nee Fletcher, whom Morgan was fairly sure could scare an armed robber into submission with little else than a scathing comment and a well-placed glare. Her agent was a nice lady, the way a fire-breathing dragon might have a soft underbelly, but it was well hidden under a generous layer of diamond-hard New York City sharpness.

The lack of privacy and the intrusive nature of the general public did not become an issue until she’d turned eighteen, and well on the international fashion circuit. The pretty hotels in Milan and Paris, picturesque though they certainly were, offered little protection against the outside world. The first time that she’d gotten manhandled by a particularly determined and sleazy paparazzo, she’d been eighteen. Raven had none-too-gently yanked the man off of her and driven the business end of her stiletto heel into the man’s instep before getting in his face and letting out a blistering diatribe lavishly peppered with F-bombs. The paparazzo had backed off, but Raven had ushered Morgan up to her room, barged in after her, and unplugged all electronic devices before making a sweep and checking for anything out of place. Whatever she might have thought of the incident, she did not say to Morgan at that particular moment, but she already had her phone to her ear before she’d even left the room with stern injunctions not to order room service, go online, or let anyone in that she didn’t know.

Whatever arrangements Raven must have made that night, Morgan had woken up three days later to a knock on the door. One glance through the peephole revealed her agent, and a tall stranger wearing a plain black suit.

Raven let herself in when she opened the door, but the man stood there for a moment, looking down the hall in what Morgan deemed to be an assessing sort of way before following Raven in and shutting the door behind him, taking the time to secure the chain latch as well as the lock. He was almost a head taller than Morgan’s willowy five-foot-nine, with wide shoulders and big hands, but what drew Morgan’s attention right away was his face, all watchful gray eyes and an impassive mouth and strong features, quite a departure from the fresh-faced, pretty male models she worked with on a regular basis. He had a square jaw and blond hair so pale it was close to silver, and a hint of an old break in an otherwise patrician nose saved him from being almost too handsome.

“Morgan, this is Kane Wallace. Kane, this is Morgan Austen. I’ve known him since we were kids, before our paths veered in completely different directions. He works for a security firm out of Manhattan these days, but I figure this would be a nice change of scene for him, and there’s no one I’d trust more. You need a security detail, and someone who’d not only be able to make sure no one gets to you out in public, but won’t sell you out to the top buyer, if you get my drift. Kane’s mom and my dad were in law school together, back in the day, and we pretty much grew up in the same circles. He went to West Point and I went to NYU, and we lost touch for a while, but… here we are, and here we go.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Austen.”

He has a deep, measured voice, and wherever he might have been between West Point and a boutique Parisian hotel, he’d lost the New Yorker accent that still rang, sharp as a chime, in Raven’s voice. Morgan smiles, and offers her hand, and his fingers are rough and warm against hers.

“You can just call me Morgan. If we’re to work together, we should be on easy terms. May I call you Kane, or do you prefer Mr. Wallace?”

“Kane is fine, Miss Austen.”

Morgan’s quite sure that he caught the eye roll she’d given Raven at that, but Kane doesn’t say anything, and if she’d have known that fateful meeting would ultimately change the whole course of her life, perhaps she would have been more nervous, or excited. But at the age of eighteen, the supermodel daughter of a Hollywood A-Lister, meeting a man who’d become her security detail was nothing more or less than just a matter of course, a fact of life. So she’d mustered up her cheekiest grin, tilted her head to the side, and beamed up at him with all the power of a megawatt heat lamp. “Well, hopefully this is the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship, Beefcake. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

He didn’t so much as crack a smile in response.

“Awww. I just got a text from Zack. Him and Noah just landed at Heathrow.”

“That’s good. I’m glad they made it safely to their destination.”

“Don’t you think it’s romantic, Beefcake? This grand gesture he’s doing, this love at first sight thing. I really hope it pans out for our boy.”

“I’m sure he’s happy to have you in his corner, Miss Austen.”

It’s been five years, two months and ten days, and perhaps three hours since Morgan had first met Kane Wallace, and if that made her a bit like the one girl in Love Actually, she’s resigned to the fact. Kane does know that she exists, of course. But the chances of anything, even a hot makeout session that amounts to nothing, ultimately, are probably even slimmer. She’s turning twenty-four in six days, and he still calls her Miss Austen at least fifty percent of the time, and it would probably be infuriating if that buttoned-up propriety wasn’t such an intrinsic part of his disposition that it’d be a bit hard to it wouldn’t be fair to take it personally. She can’t help but needle him a bit, though. Certainly no one else would have the nerve to call him something so ridiculous as Beefcake to his face.

They have fallen into a comfortable routine at this point-- he’s never far, whether she’s home or out, in LA or Milan or some picturesque tropical beach for a photoshoot. She has a sometimes-brutal schedule, going between sessions with the personal trainer and photoshoots and fittings and interviews, making the necessary appearances at the necessary well-publicised premieres and galas. He’s always in the background, as unobtrusive as a broad-shouldered, six-foot-three man wearing a dark suit and an earpiece could possibly be, and if he’s ever felt that the long days and the jet lag wore on him in any way, he certainly never says so. The one time, perhaps two years ago, that Morgan had apologized about a particularly long and strenuous photoshoot, he’d simply said that military training had prepared him for a lot worse, and then managed to somehow find her a Döner kebab stand still open despite the late hour. It wasn’t quite LA taco truck fare, but at midnight, still fighting jet lag and after a day of Luna bars and low-cal Vitamin Water in between grueling costume and makeup changes, it had been the best thing she’d ever tasted.

And if she’s come to depend on him in far more than just as hired muscle to get rid of creepy paparazzi or overly-enthusiastic fans, or if she finds herself thinking about him in ways that aren’t at all professional, that’s no one’s business or problem but her own.

She smiles up at him, wondering if he knows-- notices-- that it’s not quite the same smile that she always gives the cameras and the reporters and the fans, not even the same smile that she reserves for friends like Zack or Noah. “At least it will be an easy day for us today. Just one appointment. Ace Kato has a waiting list the length of my leg of models who want in on his photoshoots. I’m honestly shocked that he picked me out of the pile.”

He glances down, just for the space of a second, at her comment, from the bottom hem of her breezy yellow skirt to the no-nonsense red pedicure on her toes, but when he looks up again, he’s not smiling. “I’ll be right outside the studio door if you need me.”

The ‘easy day’ ends in disaster in very short order, after Kato corners her in the dressing room between costume changes and puts his hands on her naked back, all while smarmily whispering against her neck that he could take her career to new, astronomical heights, if she’d meet him halfway. The insinuation is obvious, and the slap Morgan delivers to his face is reflexive and shocks her as much as him. A moment later, Kane is in the room-- Morgan doesn’t even have time to wonder how, precisely, he made it through the electronically-locked door-- and pulling the photographer off of her the way a wolf might drag off a deer by its neck. It’s a blur after that, sort of-- somehow, she’s bundled up into the back of her driver’s car, and Raven, not a cuddler by any stretch of the imagination, is holding onto her the way a protective mother might soothe an injured baby chick, smoothing down her hair with one manicured hand even as she barked into her phone, clearly on the line with the agency’s in-house counsel.

“It’ll be a settlement, probably. No one wants to drag this through a courtroom shit show. But as of this minute, no one in any of our offices will work with him ever again. It’s doubtful that he’ll press charges, even if Kane did break his jaw while pulling him off of you. I’m cancelling your appointments for the rest of the week.”

Morgan holds it together all the way home, waves off her assistant and the housekeeper and even her mother, all of whom have heard some heavily edited but possibly exaggerated version of what had gone down, and goes for a bubble bath complete with candles and wine, and it’s only after she’s bundled up in her robe alone in her room, skin pruney from the too-hot water and hair a wet and tangled mess over pillowcases meant for dry-cleaning only that it hits her. And with his usual quietly uncanny timing, Kane knocks on the door, and even as she opens it, she smells the distinct scent of fresh Animal-style In-n-Out fries-- her favourite comfort food as a child-- and that’s when the tears come.

Without any question, the housekeeper will have something awful to say the next morning about greasy fries on the furniture, but neither of them are worried about that at the moment, and though it takes perhaps a minute or two, Kane eventually steps forward instead of back, and certainly she’s looking her worst just then-- wet and bedraggled, without a speck of makeup, wearing nothing but a fuzzy pink bathrobe. She’s also undoubtedly getting tears and snot on his shirt, but for a man of few words who rarely even smiles, his arms are strong and gentle just as she’d always imagined, and the rumble of his breathing and heartbeat, steady and low beneath her cheek, is what finally calms her down. Her hands are clenched around handfuls of his shirt and he sits her down on the bed, brings her the now-cold fries, and makes her eat them, not stepping back until she manages a ghost of a smile.

“Raven said you broke his jaw.” Her voice is slightly scratchy around a mouthful of messy sauce and potato. An ominous glint enters Kane’s eye, and he raises his chin.

“Might have. Would’ve done worse, too, if I had to.”

“I know.” He doesn’t speak much on his background, though he’d mentioned before that he had decided against making a career out of the military due to a dislike of politics and killing people on the orders of people with selfish motives. Nonetheless, if nothing else, she knows that Raven would not have appointed him to this role were he not anything less than completely capable, and in this case, capable might as well have meant deadly. Kane still walks like a soldier, and scans a room and its occupants the way an officer might, and in those last few moments, the arms that had held her had been hard and solid as steel. “This is so hard.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks down at the spotless plush carpet underneath their feet. “You’re entitled to whatever measures you must take to recover and heal. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, earlier.”

He couldn’t have been there any earlier unless he’d had superpowers and teleported into the room. As it stands, Morgan’s still fairly sure he’d broken down the door, but she wasn’t even referring to that, at least not completely. She laughs, but it’s a hollow, almost desperate sound. “Kato’s a creep who will get his ass sued and blackballed, but he’s just one of many creeps in the world. I’m not going to let a creep ruin anything more than one day out of my life. But it’s so hard to be around you and act normal and not like I’ve been trying to fall out of love with you for the last few years, because I can act normal around you, unlike everyone else, and you don’t care if I’m looking pretty or acting charming or if I’m a mess, and you’re the only one who always knows what I need. And I have no business even having this conversation with you. It’s not fair, and I’d be no better than Kato, using his position to coerce something out of another person.”

His breath escapes in a stutter, and Morgan doesn’t have it in her, just at that moment, to look up into his face, see consternation in those usually-unflappable features, or hear any hasty apologies. This, too, shall pass. She is Morgan Grace Austen, born and bred to handle anything life threw her way with a perfect smile on her face, and she’s already cried once today in his presence. It takes every bit of practiced poise she can muster, but she manages to square her shoulders, turn away with her head held high. “I’d like to be alone, now. Please. I will be quite safe.”

He doesn’t make a sound, exiting the room and shutting the door behind him, but the solitude of her space without him in it weighs in the air like the gloom before a cold rain.

One can almost always find the strength to carry on, and moreover, this day had been inevitable since the day they’d first met, all those years ago. Morgan finds herself able, after a sleepless night and a day of avoidance, to act almost normal again around him. She’s cordial, and so is he, and both of them cautiously never mention the incident, and if he notices that she is careful not to needle him or call him Beefcake or touch him in any way, he doesn’t remark upon it. But she feels the weight of his eyes on her, always watchful and protective but hotter, heavier somehow at odd moments. She throws herself into work and gets a contract as the spokesmodel for an up-and-coming cruelty-free cosmetics brand, and shoots a series of PSAs against bullying in schools and online. Her twenty-fourth birthday comes and goes without much fanfare, though she throws the expected no-expenses-spared party for the occasion, inviting along a few dozen of the most tolerable and non-problematic of the glitterati for an evening of champagne and fancy finger foods in an exclusive club. Heavy security keep out enterprising paparazzi, but Morgan does select and sell one carefully-taken group selfie to People Magazine and arrange to donate the proceeds to a charity benefiting victims of sexual assault.

True to Raven’s predictions, Ace Kato settles out of court, and though no details of the case are leaked, his demand and popularity as a fashion and celebrity photographer seem to vanish almost overnight. Raven makes a few scathing comments that he would soon be leaving town in disgrace and perhaps end up taking baby pictures in a Sears somewhere.

The new year comes and brings with it the usual flurry of activity in Hollywood as Awards season kicks off and the deep, intellectual films of the winter months-- a far cry from the CGI-and-explosions-laden summer blockbusters-- have their premieres.

Kane takes a week around Christmas as personal time, and travels off to some unknown destination, returning the day after New Year’s preoccupied and morose, though still impeccably polite and considerate and thorough. Morgan lets it go for all of two days before she corners him, and plainly asks him what is wrong.

He hedges, and looks down at his phone, and Morgan knows that she’s pouting by that point and doesn’t care. “You know everything there is to know about me, Beefcake. Down to how much Chipotle I scarf down every time Shark Week rolls around and how much I secretly hate Pilates to the fact that I still can’t watch The Lion King without crying. You can tell me what’s wrong with you for a change. Give me something to do to help.” He’s wearing a cotton t-shirt rather than the usual perfectly pressed button-down underneath a suit jacket, and of their own volition, her fingers curl into the soft cloth, wrinkling it. “Let me in. Please.”

He wraps his hands around her slim wrists, wide palms warm and calloused against her skin, but doesn’t pull her hands off of him, and acquiesces.

C’est La Vie is the type of arthouse film with a limited release, produced by some bigshot actor and featuring the usual dichotomy of virtual unknowns in leading roles and cinematography dreamy and lush as a French Impressionist painting. Morgan does not generally attend these premieres-- they inevitably run late, and she unfailingly gets cornered by either pretentious auteurs looking for a Muse du jour or well-meaning but nosy pillars of the industry from her mother’s generation, at least as inquisitive about her personal life as the most determined of the paparazzi, and more likely to be closer to the mark with it. But this evening is, as she admits to herself, a labour of love.

The gown that she has on is golden silk, Yves Ste. Laurent couture, and she’s got a good ten carats of yellow diamonds dangling on her neck and ears. But the question that Morgan gets asked the most, down the stroll of this red carpet, is who is the frail old lady there with her, hooked up on oxygen and being pushed in a wheelchair?

“She’s a friend of a friend, and she’s never been to Hollywood before.” She gives the answer with a warm smile for the cameras, and though she’s certainly wearing impractical shoes for the occasion and her entourage is not far off, she pushes the wheelchair the whole way herself, bending down periodically to make sure that the occupant-- Kane’s grandmother, Doris, is comfortable.

There’d been a lot of strings to pull, important people in the industry to sweet-talk, but ultimately, Morgan had prevailed in her goal. They’re seated quite close to the front, and on Doris’ other side is a legend, recognizable even though his black tie differs quite a bit from the rugged garments he’d worn in some of his most famous roles.

“My, my, aren’t you Mister Harrison Ford?” Doris whispers, the blush on her papery cheeks as charming as a schoolgirl’s. “You were my favourite, when I was younger. That Han Solo was such a dashing rapscallion.”

“Why, yes I am.” Harrison winks over Doris’ head at Morgan; this seating arrangement had been cleared with his people well in advance of this evening, and comes as no surprise. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

The movie premiere is surprisingly enjoyable, and by the end of the evening, Doris has opened up to the actor and the two are chatting away like old friends. They don’t attend any after-parties, but Morgan pours Doris a half-glass of Dom Perignon and toasts her happiness, and at a perfectly decent hour, takes Doris back home. The private plane will take Doris, in the end stages of heart failure, back to Upstate New York in the morning, to begin hospice care.

The limo ride back is mostly quiet, and for a moment, Morgan thinks that Doris might have fallen asleep, but Kane’s grandmother coughs, then looks at her with eyes that might have gone rheumy and soft with age but are the same shade of gray as her grandson’s. “You’re a nice young lady, Miss Austen. I can see why he loves you so.”

Morgan can smile and laugh on command, but she can’t control the quick gasp, the heat creeping up her neck and face. “He’s become… a friend. We’ve known each other for six years now. But surely you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not worried about hospice care, much as Kane might fret over it. It will be peaceful, you see. I’m hoping to live long enough to watch the leaves change colour-- sorry, dear, but California autumns have nothing on the East Coast, but if that isn’t meant to be, I’ll be seeing Kane’s grandfather again soon. He looks just like my husband did when he was young, too, though Calvin’s eyes were green. He’s a good boy.” Doris reaches across the aisle of the limo, pats the back of Morgan’s hand with her quavery fingertips. “I’m glad that he won’t be alone. He’s always been such an independent boy, but it doesn’t do for one to have no one to share their hearts and lives with.”

Doris leaves the next day, and Kane goes with her, and though Morgan throws herself into work for the next four days, his absence feels like a void in the center of her world. She wraps up some ad-work for the cosmetic brand, makes a brief appearance on one of the late shows. Needless to say, in the space of a five-minute interview, she gets questioned about her unusual guest to the movie premiere, but she keeps it simple, stating that it’s a friend of a friend, shamelessly invoking Harrison Ford and stating to the host, charmingly, that certainly many women would love to meet Han Solo and Indiana Jones himself before they passed, and she couldn’t blame her friend one bit. Of course, as is expected, the host segues into asking her about her own love life, and Morgan simply smiles.

“Of course I love somebody. I love a lot of people. For a lifestyle and a career that could be built out of artifice, I feel like I am blessed to know some of the best people, as friends, or colleagues, or associates. I am the luckiest girl in the world, and it has absolutely everything to do with the people I love, and not my work or my connections.” Somehow, she knows that Kane will watch this segment, though he is hundreds of miles away, and the smile she aims for the camera is the one she generally reserves for him, alone.

She arrives home from that studio appearance the same day as Kane, though he flies commercial and lands a good two hours after her. She’s slightly jet-lagged, and relaxing in her wing of the house in her pajamas when he comes in, looking far too good for someone who’s just left a loved one to their final rest and flown from coast to coast. Morgan clasps her hands together so they don’t reach for him, but just for a moment, after he greets her-- Morgan, for once, and not Miss Austen-- his eyes soften almost imperceptibly, and that alone gives her the courage to clear the air.

“I owe you an apology, I think.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”

“Because… I promised myself, long ago, before I met you, that I would never take advantage of anyone who worked for me in any capacity. That I wouldn’t overstep my bounds, either in thought or action, because so many people do, and get away with it, and that’s just not fair.” She has to be honest with him-- he deserves no less than the complete truth, and if her smile is shaky at the corners, she at least still manages to look him in the eye. “I can’t not love you. It’s not possible. But I won’t do anything out of line. You have my word, and I’m a woman of my word.”

“I know.” He steps closer, almost too close. He smells fresh, not at all like someone who had just been sitting in a tin can breathing recycled air for hours. “I’m generally a man of my word, too. But I think I’m about to break it.”

Before she can asks him what he means, he reaches for her, and takes her hands in his. Her hands are slim and dainty, currently sporting a shimmery pink manicure and a Pandora bracelet. His are tanned and wide, with rough palms and a utilitarian black watch, and his fingers are warm wrapped around hers. “I promised myself, when I took on this job, that I’d never touch you. That I would never even think to put my hands on you, or behave in any way that could be construed as unprofessional.” He tugs her in, then lets go of her left hand to cup her cheek, and she’s almost close enough to count his eyelashes one by one, and her breath catches somewhere between her throat and her lips. “I’m about to break that promise. And, speaking of, I quit.”

Before she can say anything in response, his mouth is on hers, and he doesn’t kiss her in the gentle, easygoing way of a casual but enjoyable date. He hauls her in, lifting her slightly off her feet as his lips all but devour hers, as though she’s his air and water, one hand cupping her nape as the other anchors at the base of her spine. She feels herself moan, but the sound of it is blushingly wanton in the quiet of the room even as she sinks her fingers into his shockingly soft hair.

It could have stopped there, maybe, if this hasn’t been building for so long, so intensely. But neither of them seem capable of letting the other person go. She goes for his shirt buttons first, ripping one off in awkward frustration as her nails get in the way, but then he laughs and lifts her up and carries her into her room, kicking the door shut behind them between more kisses-- on her lips, tracing a path from her jaw and down the length of her neck. Her own bed feels new somehow when he joins her on it, but he doesn’t touch her until she reaches up and kisses him again. She knows that he knows that she’s never slept with anyone before, and yet, after sharing everything else in the last six years, it doesn’t even feel awkward when he slides the last few pieces of clothing off her shoulders and legs. Morgan’s not self-conscious as a rule-- certainly, in the name of fashion, she’s been photographed wearing some fairly risque pieces before, often in the company of strangers, but she finds herself looking up into his face timidly as his eyes rake over the length of her, from the blonde hair fanned out over her pillows to the toes curling into the sheets.

“God. You’re the most fucking beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” His words are blunt and a bit abrupt, but it coaxes a smile out of her, and then his mouth and hands are wandering over her bare skin, and there’s no time to overthink it any more.

Much later, as night falls over Los Angeles, Morgan cuddles into his side, feeling slightly sleepy and warm and very, very loved. “You quit, hmm, Beefcake?” It should feel awkward to tease him when she might have possibly squealed his name at an inopportune moment in the recent past, but then again, she’s never felt more safe or comfortable than when they’re together, so maybe things hadn’t changed so much, after all. “I guess you must, for the sake of both our reputations.”

“I quit working for you. I’ll never quit protecting you, whether or not I get paid to do so. I can do remote work on security systems or whatever. That’s all just details to figure out.” He tugs her close and runs his fingers down the length of her bare back, and she leans into the touch like a cat. “Go to sleep. We can figure this out in the morning.”

“Mmm. You’re warm. You don’t snore or talk in your sleep, do you?”

“If I do, too bad. You’re stuck with me.” He presses a soft kiss to her temple and tugs the covers up over them. “I love you, Morgan Austen. I figure now’s the time to finally say it aloud.”

She feels her mouth curve into a smile against the skin of his shoulder. “I love you too, Beefcake. And now’s the perfect time.”

He doesn’t snore or talk in his sleep, but he doesn’t let go of her all night, and he’s still holding her close when she wakes up in the morning. Morgan opens one eye, texts her assistant to cancel her hair appointment, and curls back up into his arms. Today, she’s sleeping in.

#vchanny-og #m/k #fanfiction #fanfic #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon

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anistarrose · 5 years

Text

A Morning at Sea (GF Stanuary Week 2 - Travel)

Summary: Stan has woken up in plenty of unfamiliar places before, but waking up in a boat out in the middle of the ocean is a new one. Especially in a boat that seems so… welcoming.

Word Count: ~2200

Warnings: very brief mention of alcohol and drugs

For @stanuary Week 2: Travel! (I technically did already write something for this week already, but that was pretty short and spur-of-the-moment, while I’ve had this fic as a WIP for over six months now, so I feel like it’s about time I posted it.)

When Stan woke up, there was a brief moment for which he didn’t feel like anything was wrong. Hell, he felt happy, which should have made it obvious that something was very wrong, but for about a minute, he just stayed where he was, and listened to the waves strike the side of the boat.

Then he realized: he had no idea why he was on a boat.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, body going stiff beneath the blankets of an unfamiliar bed. He’d known the hotel he’d checked into last night had been shady, but he didn’t think he’d get fucking kidnapped. And that had been in Oklahoma, hours away from any decent-sized body of water — how the hell had they had they even managed to bring him here, wherever here was? Had they drugged him? He was pretty sure he’d drank a little alcohol last night, but nowhere near enough to sleep though getting dragged out of his room and onto a boat, right?

And why would they go this far? Stan had plenty of people who wanted him dead, and maybe even a couple who might have wanted a longer, more drawn out revenge, but there had to be easier ways doing that than throwing him into a cramped — but actually kind of cozy — bunk on a random ship.

He laid still for a few more seconds, and once he was sure no one else was in the room, he finally stood up and took a second to look around. Dirty clothes were in a pile on the floor, about half T-shirts and half sweaters. There was a small nightstand crammed between his bed and the side of the boat, with an empty mug, a pair of glasses, and a picture frame on it. The mug smelled of chocolate, but the stains at the bottom suggested it had been used for coffee too in the past.

He figured that his kidnappers must have stolen the boat and been too lazy to get rid of the stuff they found in it, because he definitely hadn’t drank anything from the mug, he didn’t even own a pair of glasses anymore, and it wasn’t really the style of any of his serious enemies to keep a picture of their family lying around. The clothes didn’t seem like the type that any self-respecting revenge-bent criminal would own, either — too many colorful sweaters, and they looked hand-knitted at that.

For a second, though, he thought the kids in the photo looked vaguely familiar — a boy and a girl that were about the same age and had the same fluffy brown hair, as if they were twins. But the next moment the feeling was gone, and Stan realized he must have imagined it.

This whole cabin was throwing him off. It was just too… welcoming. Too caring. Too full of the mementos of some stranger’s loving family.

Stan didn’t belong here.

He sat back down on the bed and rested his head in his hands. How the hell was he going to get out of this one, even if he could get off the boat without anyone seeing? He was an okay swimmer under normal conditions, but the waves had sounded pretty rough, and if he was too far from the shore —

Stay calm, Stan, he told himself. He’d improvised his way out of worse things before. He just had to figure out what the hell was actually going on, and then he’d be able to bullshit his way through it.

The only door was just past the foot of the bed. He put his ear to it for a moment, and when he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the waves, he reached for the handle.

He’d expected it to be locked, which was why he hadn’t worried about leaning up against the door as he turned the knob. What kind of kidnapper didn’t lock up their hostage? But no, it swung right open under his weight, letting out a creak that had to be loud enough to hear over the waves. Fuck.

The room it opened into must have been a kitchen — it contained a tiny square table and two chairs on one side, and on the other side, a stove and a few other appliances. Facing towards that stove, his back to Stan, was a man who wore a red turtleneck sweater and had… gray hair? There were elderly people after him now?

“Morning, Stanley,” he called without turning around, and a chill went up Stan’s spine. The man knew his real name, even though he hadn’t used in years. The stranger had to have been at least in his fifties, maybe even older, but if he’d managed to track Stan down through all the fake identities… Stan wasn’t sure if he liked his chances up against this guy.

“I assume you’ll want coffee?” he asked, and for a second Stan thought that there was someone else named Stanley on the boat and that was who the man was talking to so casually, but no one else replied, and the stranger turned around to face him. “Stan, is everything alright?”

“What the fuck,” Stan whispered.

The old man’s expression turned into what Stan could have sworn was fear — except that didn’t any make sense. He slammed the mug he was holding onto the table and rushed towards Stan, reaching out with his left arm to grab Stan by the shoulder. “Stanley, are you —”

Stan caught the man’s hand, barely. His reflexes felt slower than they should have been.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled. “Tell me who the hell you are or I swear I’ll take you up on the deck and throw you off the fucking boat.”

For a moment, the old man just stared at him, and Stan wondered if they’d met before, even though he was pretty sure he’d remember if someone this old was after him. There was just something familiar about that confused, shocked expression, the way those eyebrows raised…

Then the man’s face crumpled. If Stan hadn’t been gripping his wrist, he might have collapsed to the floor.

“You don’t remember,” he whispered. “All this progress, and…”

He tried to gently pull his hand away, but Stan held it tight.

“Explain, old man!” Stan shouted. “You heard what I said about throwing you… I — I’ll…”

Looking at the man’s heartbroken expression, Stan found he couldn’t finish the sentence. Why was it that he cared so much about this stranger? Why did seeing him upset made Stan feel like punching something?

“Hey,” Stan said, letting go of the man’s wrist and taking him by the shoulder instead, if only to keep him from collapsing. “I, uh… I’m sorry. I still want you to explain what’s going on, ‘cause I sure don’t know, but I’m — I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Don’t apologize,” the man whispered, his head hanging low in defeat. “It’s not your fault — it’s mine. All mine. I thought… I thought that we’d escaped any lasting consequences, but… oh, if only I had the scrapbook here, maybe I could —”

“Hey, uh, don’t worry.” Stan awkwardly patted the man on the back. “I don’t actually know what’s wrong, but… but I’m sure we can figure out something…”

The man made eye contact with Stan, a short but painful shared glance, but he didn’t reply. He kept talking, but he wasn’t speaking to Stan anymore, not really — just talking to himself, berating himself.

“This is all my fault. I had to do this to you, because I was such an idiot I had to correct your grammar of all things —”

He raised a hand to the side of his face — and Stan finally got a look at his fingers. All six of them

“Ford?!”

Lightning-fast, the man grabbed him by the shoulder, and this time Stan didn’t stop him.

“Stanley? What do you remember?”

Stan didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.

Of course it was Ford. He had the same glaringly large nose and ears, the same Pines cowlick, hell, even the same style of glasses as the ones he’d worn in high school. But his hair was dark gray with a lighter gray stripe running through it, and his face was worn and creased — perhaps by smiles, but more likely by frowns.

“W-what the hell happened to you, Stanford?” Stan stammered. “How did you — how did you get so old?”

Ford seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if some realization had dawned on him. “All right, you’ve only forgotten… this is alright. You’ll be okay, Stan.”

His voice was oddly comforting — or at least, it might have been, had Stan not been bracing himself for it to turn resentful and betrayed.

But Ford guided him towards the table, gently and without incident. Stan almost protested that he didn’t need help, but just at that moment, a sudden, throbbing pain began to emanate from the side of his head, and he bit his lip. It dulled after a moment, but as Ford helped him ease down into the chair, he still felt feverish.

He knew he had some kind of amnesia; even he could put that much together. But everything else made so little sense — how long had it been, why was Ford with him again…

“You said I was… forgetting things,” he began, and Ford nodded, a guilty look on his face. “I don’t remember anything past ‘78, but… you’re older than — it’s later than —”

Ford nodded again, and this time he gently squeezed Stan’s shoulder too.

“Part of me doesn’t even wanna know,” Stan went on, “but… how old am I? How long — how much of my own life did I miss?”

Ford looked away for a moment, like he was pondering how to break the news most gently.

“It’s 2012,” he finally said. “September 27th, 2012. We’re sixty-one.”

There was something about the way he said we’re that felt so different from the last Ford that Stan remembered, the why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?! Ford from that horrible night after the science fair. This Ford did want something to do with Stan, it seemed — but he was different in other ways, too, like the way he gave off such a… such an atmosphere of regret and self-blame, so tangible that you could practically suffocate in it. This was a Ford that had taken something for granted and lost it, with the jury still out on whether he would ever get it back.

For the second time that day, Stan found himself blurting out: “Ford, what happened to you?”

“What happened to me?” Ford repeated incredulously. “You’re the one who’s —”

“Fine. What happened to us?”

Ford sighed. “That’s the million-dollar-question, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making light of any of this. But if… if you think you’ll be alright on your own for a moment, I might be able to grab something that could help bring some of those memories back.”

Stan nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Ford gave him a suspicious look, like he was skeptical of how fine Stan would really be, but he got up and headed towards Stan’s room in the back of the boat —

Stan had completely forgotten they were on a boat. Had… had Ford really forgiven him so much that he…

A bolt of pain ran down the back of his skull, and he shuddered and raised his hands to cover his ears. But it didn’t stop words that were unfamiliar and familiar at once from echoing around him he was plunged into darkness, strange glowing blue symbols providing the only source of light.

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”

He gasped for breath, and suddenly everything was different, everything was lighter and warmer. Birds and insects were chirping all around him, as he stood outside a cabin — no, a shack.

“I don’t just want someone to come with me, Stanley; I want it to be you. Will you give me a second chance?”

Then someone was shaking him by the shoulder, and the same voice was speaking to him, sounding so much less distant all of a sudden —

“Stanley? Stanley, are you alright? Can you…”

The voice trailed off for a moment. “Are you crying?”

“Ford?” Stan asked slowly.

“I’m here,” Ford replied, quietly and slowly. In his hand was the picture from Stan’s room, the one of the two kids. “I’m here, Stanley.”

“Ford, what’s the name of this boat?”

For the first time that morning, Ford smiled. “We called it the Stan O’ War II.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “That’s what I —”

(Guessed? Hoped? Thought, but was afraid to say, because he wouldn’t have known what to do if Ford had told him he was wrong?

...but as afraid as he’d been to put it to words, he’d known it was an irrational fear. He’d known he was right.)

He finally returned Ford’s smile. “That’s what I remembered.”

***

Thanks for reading, feedback is appreciated as always!

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #stanuary #rosalia writes fic

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life-observed · 5 years

Text

To speak is to blunder

Choosing to renounce a mother tongue.

By Yiyun Li

Illustration by Jun Cen

In my dream, I asked for the phone. Two women came out of a front office. I recognized them: in real life, they are both gone. No, they said; the service is no longer offered, because everyone has a cell phone these days. There was nothing extraordinary about the dream—a melancholy visit to the past in this manner is beyond one’s control—but for the fact that the women spoke to me in English.

Years ago, when I started writing in English, my husband asked if I understood the implication of the decision. What he meant was not the practical concerns, though there were plenty: the nebulous hope of getting published; the lack of a career path as had been laid out in science, my first field of postgraduate study in America; the harsher immigration regulation I would face as a fiction writer. Many of my college classmates from China, as scientists, acquired their green cards under a National Interest Waiver. An artist is not of much importance to any nation’s interest.

My husband, who writes computer programs, was asking about language. Did I understand what it meant to renounce my mother tongue?

Nabokov once answered a question he must have been tired of being asked: “My private tragedy, which cannot, indeed should not, be anybody’s concern, is that I had to abandon my natural language, my natural idiom.” That something is called a tragedy, however, means it is no longer personal. One weeps out of private pain, but only when the audience swarms in and claims understanding and empathy do people call it a tragedy. One’s grief belongs to oneself; one’s tragedy, to others.

VIDEO FROM THE NEW YORKER

How to Write a New Yorker Cartoon Caption: Will Ferrell & John C. Reilly Edition

I often feel a tinge of guilt when I imagine Nabokov’s woe. Like all intimacies, the intimacy between one and one’s mother tongue can be comforting and irreplaceable, yet it can also demand more than what one is willing to give, or more than one is capable of giving. If I allow myself to be honest, my private salvation, which cannot and should not be anybody’s concern, is that I disowned my native language.

In the summer and autumn of 2012, I was hospitalized in California and in New York for suicide attempts, the first time for a few days, and the second time for three weeks. During those months, my dreams often took me back to Beijing. I would be standing on top of a building—one of those gray, Soviet-style apartment complexes—or I would be lost on a bus travelling through an unfamiliar neighborhood. Waking up, I would list in my journal images that did not appear in my dreams: a swallow’s nest underneath a balcony, the barbed wires at the rooftop, the garden where old people sat and exchanged gossip, the mailboxes at street corners—round, green, covered by dust, with handwritten collection times behind a square window of half-opaque plastic.

Yet I have never dreamed of Iowa City, where I first landed in America, in 1996, at the age of twenty-three. When asked about my initial impression of the place, I cannot excavate anything from memory to form a meaningful answer. During a recent trip there from my home in California, I visited a neighborhood that I used to walk through every day. The one-story houses, which were painted in pleasantly muted colors, with gardens in the front enclosed by white picket fences, had not changed. I realized that I had never described them to others or to myself in Chinese, and when English was established as my language they had become everyday mundanities. What happened during my transition from one language to another did not become memory.

People often ask about my decision to write in English. The switch from one language to another feels natural to me, I reply, though that does not say much, just as one can hardly give a convincing explanation as to why someone’s hair turns gray on one day but not on another. But this is an inane analogy, I realize, because I do not want to touch the heart of the matter. Yes, there is something unnatural, which I have refused to accept. Not the fact of writing in a second language—there are always Nabokov and Conrad as references, and many of my contemporaries as well—or that I impulsively gave up a reliable career for writing. It’s the absoluteness of my abandonment of Chinese, undertaken with such determination that it is a kind of suicide.

The tragedy of Nabokov’s loss is that his misfortune was easily explained by public history. His story—of being driven by a revolution into permanent exile—became the possession of other people. My decision to write in English has also been explained as a flight from my country’s history. But unlike Nabokov, who had been a published Russian writer, I never wrote in Chinese. Still, one cannot avoid the fact that a private decision, once seen through a public prism, becomes a metaphor. Once, a poet of Eastern European origin and I—we both have lived in America for years, and we both write in English—were asked to read our work in our native languages at a gala. But I don’t write in Chinese, I explained, and the organizer apologized for her misunderstanding. I offered to read Li Po or Du Fu or any of the ancient poets I had grown up memorizing, but instead it was arranged for me to read poetry by a political prisoner.

A metaphor’s desire to transcend diminishes any human story; its ambition to illuminate blinds those who create metaphors. In my distrust of metaphors I feel a kinship with George Eliot: “We all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors, and act fatally on the strength of them.” My abandonment of my first language is personal, so deeply personal that I resist any interpretation—political or historical or ethnographical. This, I know, is what my husband was questioning years ago: was I prepared to be turned into a symbol by well-intentioned or hostile minds?

Chinese immigrants of my generation in America criticize my English for not being native enough. A compatriot, after reading my work, pointed out, in an e-mail, how my language is neither lavish nor lyrical, as a real writer’s language should be: you write only simple things in simple English, you should be ashamed of yourself, he wrote in a fury. A professor—an American writer—in graduate school told me that I should stop writing, as English would remain a foreign language to me. Their concerns about ownership of a language, rather than making me as impatient as Nabokov, allow me secret laughter. English is to me as random a choice as any other language. What one goes toward is less definitive than that from which one turns away.

Before I left China, I destroyed the journal that I had kept for years and most of the letters written to me, those same letters I had once watched out for, lest my mother discover them. What I could not bring myself to destroy I sealed up and brought with me to America, though I will never open them again. My letters to others I would have destroyed, too, had I had them. These records, of the days I had lived time and time over, became intolerable now that my time in China was over. But this violent desire to erase a life in a native language is only wishful thinking. One’s relationship with the native language is similar to that with the past. Rarely does a story start where we wish it had, or end where we wish it would.

One crosses the border to become a new person. One finishes a manuscript and cuts off the characters. One adopts a language. These are false and forced frameworks, providing illusory freedom, as time provides illusory leniency when we, in anguish, let it pass monotonously. “To kill time,” an English phrase that still chills me: time can be killed but only by frivolous matters and purposeless activities. No one thinks of suicide as a courageous endeavor to kill time.

During my second hospital stay, in New York, a group of nursing students came to play bingo one Friday night. A young woman, another patient, asked if I would join her. Bingo, I said, I’ve never in my life played that. She pondered for a moment, and said that she had played bingo only in the hospital. It was her eighth hospitalization when I met her; she had taken middle-school courses for a while in the hospital, when she was younger, and, once, she pointed out a small patch of fenced-in green where she and other children had been let out for exercise. Her father often visited her in the afternoon, and I would watch them sitting together playing a game, not attempting a conversation. By then, all words must have been inadequate, language doing little to help a mind survive time.

Yet language is capable of sinking a mind. One’s thoughts are slavishly bound to language. I used to think that an abyss is a moment of despair becoming interminable; but any moment, even the direst, is bound to end. What’s abysmal is that one’s erratic language closes in on one like quicksand: “You are nothing. You must do anything you can to get rid of this nothingness.” We can kill time, but language kills us.

“Patient reports feeling . . . like she is a burden to her loved ones”—much later, I read the notes from the emergency room. I did not have any recollection of the conversation. A burden to her loved ones: this language must have been provided to me. I would never use the phrase in my thinking or my writing. But my resistance has little to do with avoiding a platitude. To say “a burden” is to grant oneself weight in other people’s lives; to call them “loved ones” is to fake one’s ability to love. One does not always want to be subject to self-interrogation imposed by a cliché.

When Katherine Mansfield was still a teen-ager, she wrote in her journal about a man next door playing “Swanee River” on a cornet, for what seemed like weeks. “I wake up with the ‘Swannee River,’ eat it with every meal I take, and go to bed eventually with ‘all de world am sad and weary’ as a lullaby.” I read Mansfield’s notebooks and Marianne Moore’s letters around the same time, when I returned home from New York. In a letter, Moore described a night of fund-raising at Bryn Mawr. Maidens in bathing suits and green bathing tails on a raft: “It was Really most realistic . . . way down upon the Swanee River.”

January 2, 2017

Illustration by Marco Goran Romano

Shouts & Murmurs

After Watching “Sully” and “Star Trek Beyond”

By Ian Frazier

Photograph by Laura El-Tantawy for The New Yorker

Fiction

“Most Die Young”

By Camille Bordas

Briefly Noted

Books

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Illustration by Tom Bachtell

Recycling Re

“How do you feel about staying in power?”

I marked the entries because they reminded me of a moment I had forgotten. I was nine, and my sister thirteen. On a Saturday afternoon, I was in our apartment and she was on the balcony. My sister had joined the middle-school choir that year, and in the autumn sunshine she sang in a voice that was beginning to leave girlhood. “Way down upon the Swanee River. Far, far away. That’s where my heart is turning ever; That’s where the old folks stay.”

The lyrics were translated into Chinese. The memory, too, should be in Chinese. But I cannot see our tiny garden with the grapevine, which our father cultivated and which was later uprooted by our wrathful mother, or the bamboo fence dotted with morning glories, or the junk that occupied half the balcony—years of accumulations piled high by our hoarder father—if I do not name these things to myself in English. I cannot see my sister, but I can hear her sing the lyrics in English. I can seek to understand my mother’s vulnerability and cruelty, but language is the barrier I have chosen. “Do you know, the moment I die your father will marry someone else?” my mother used to whisper to me when I was little. “Do you know that I cannot die, because I don’t want you to live under a stepmother?” Or else, taken over by inexplicable rage, she would say that I, the only person she had loved, deserved the ugliest death because I did not display enough gratitude. But I have given these moments—what’s possible to be put into English—to my characters. Memories, left untranslated, can be disowned; memories untranslatable can become someone else’s story.

Over the years, my brain has banished Chinese. I dream in English. I talk to myself in English. And memories—not only those about America but also those about China; not only those carried with me but also those archived with the wish to forget—are sorted in English. To be orphaned from my native language felt, and still feels, like a crucial decision.

When we enter a world—a new country, a new school, a party, a family or a class reunion, an army camp, a hospital—we speak the language it requires. The wisdom to adapt is the wisdom to have two languages: the one spoken to others, and the one spoken to oneself. One learns to master the public language not much differently from the way that one acquires a second language: assess the situations, construct sentences with the right words and the correct syntax, catch a mistake if one can avoid it, or else apologize and learn the lesson after a blunder. Fluency in the public language, like fluency in a second language, can be achieved with enough practice.

Perhaps the line between the two is, and should be, fluid; it is never so for me. I often forget, when I write, that English is also used by others. English is my private language. Every word has to be pondered before it becomes a word. I have no doubt—can this be an illusion?—that the conversation I have with myself, however linguistically flawed, is the conversation that I have always wanted, in the exact way I want it to be.

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bigherosixfeels · 7 years

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so you want to make an amv?

Hello, everyone! As some of you may know, I make amvs or little video edits for BH6 from time to time. While video edits aren’t necessarily the most popular form of creating for this movie (or upcoming show…who knows??), there are still some people out there who might be interested in making videos. This tutorial is mainly for @princess-kidatheart17 but if anyone else is interested in this post, I hope it helped!

The following tutorial are just the basics to Movie Studio Platinum (a form of Sony Vegas).

So, you get the program loaded and ready and this is what it looks like. Again, MSP is pretty much the same thing is Sony Vegas or Vegas Pro. Most of the features are the same (although I have learned that my program cannot do photoshop styled masking…but that’s not a basic thing to learn lol).

First things first, you have to get a video (or sound) file onto the timeline. In order to that, the first thing you have to do is go up to the top, click Project and then click Open…

Once you click that, you should get a video folder of something like this:

All you have to do is click on one of the video clips and then press Open

And now you have the clip of your choice on a timeline! Now you can officially start editing your video! Now, splitting clips is a pretty simple task. See that little bar at the end of the movie? Move your mouse over to that and click it. You can drag it anywhere you want on the clip.

As you can see, the bar is now about halfway onto the full movie. If you have that bar just where you want it, all you have to do now is press the letter S on your keyboard and the clip will split!

Now the movie is split in two!

Clearly, if you’re editing a video no matter the size, you’re not going to want the full thing on screen. So, to get rid of a clip, all you have to do is click on it (the clip will turn from gray to blue and be bordered with yellow) and press the delete button on your keyboard.

Just like that, it’s gone!

Now, as you can tell, I’ve trimmed the remaining file a little more. Another way to do that is by putting your mouse over the beginning or end of a clip. As the box says, just drag and adjust to where you want the end of the clip to be.

You have your clip just the way you want it. Great! If this clip happens to be in the middle of the timeline, no worries! Just click on the file and drag it to the beginning of the timeline

Aaaaand now it’s where it needs to be!

Effects/FX

Alright, now let’s get into the more fun parts. I think adding effects to the clips are my favorite parts and you can pretty much add them in at any time during the editing process, but I’m going to start with the effects here. I tend to make the mistake of adding effects after I have every clip trimmed and split which isn’t always a bad thing, but if the same effect is noticeably different, that can be a problem.

The fun part is trying to figure out what effect(s) you want to use and it’s totally up to your own preference. Don’t be afraid to look around and mess with some different effects (if you don’t like it, just press Ctrl+Z to undo it).

I personally like to use Color Curves. For most of my edits, I specifically use Cool Colors. Again, whatever effect(s) you want to use is completely up to you. Once you find the effect of your liking, click down on it and drag it onto the video file.

Something like this should pop up. It won’t look the same for every effect, but most effects have ways to adjust them. This is what it looks like when you choose a color curve effect.

Because the effect wasn’t to my liking, I adjusted the bottom of the red curve. There’s little gray lines with tiny boxes at the end of them. All I did was click on that box and dragged the line down to edge of the square.

The effect is officially to my personal liking!

…but wait, I’m not done! I’ve decided that I want to add another effect! No problem! Like I said before, you can add more than one effect to a clip. Sometimes I like to mess around with Brightness and Contrast. Personally, I go for the Darker effect.

Again, another box will pop up where you can adjust the settings. As I can see on screen, the effect is just a bit too dark for me, so I’ll mess around with the settings.

It may not look like I’ve done much, but every little adjustment matters. The effect looks much more pleasing!

And now I have it the way I like it!

Transitions

In my opinion, transitions are just a little bit more tricky to manage. You have to pick which ones you like and sometimes, you have to trim them up. They might be going too slow, or you may trim them to the point where the clips transition so quickly, you don’t even notice you added a transition at all. But once you get the transition where you want it and the flow of it to the next clip looks pleasing, it’s all good!

What’s cool is that there is more than one way to make a transition. I’m going to show you the first way right now which is pretty simple. First, you’re going to need to drag that little bar to a point on the clip where you want to split it.

Now before I add the transition, I want to get rid of part of the clip that I have clicked on. Click the beginning of that clip and drag it until your satisfied with what you’ve gotten rid of.

This is what it should look like while your trimming the clip. Your mouse will look like a double-ended arrow whenever you trim clips like this.

Once you get the clip to the part where you like it, drag it back over so it’s touching the other clip. As you can see at the top, there is a blue triangle on the end of the first clip and beginning of the second. When those are connected, that means the clip will just go into the next which is what you want. Sometimes, I edit a clip that doesn’t touch another on purpose because it makes sense with the beat of a song. If you want those blue triangles to touch, make sure they are touching or else you’ll have a split second where the video is pitch black (and unfortunately, that is VERY noticeable).

Even with the triangle gone with this added transition, it’s important to have them touch nonetheless. The way I made this happen was taking the beginning of the second clip and dragging in onto the first. It creates what you see in the picture above and shows the duration. Make sure you watch back the transition to see if you like it. If it’s going by too fast or slow for your liking, adjust it until you get results that you like.

With this transition, it looks like this about midway. I actually like how that looks, but it may not be the transition you want. Gladly, there are many transitions you can choose from and you can experiment with those as well to see what you want to use. As simple as it may be, I use the Default Cross Effect transition ALL THE TIME.

As you can see, the transition I made before is gone. In order to put a transition in, click the one you want, drag it, and put your mouse between the two clips (the split). When you get it between the clips, a little white and black static looking box will show up. When you see that, drop the transition in there.

Like the effects, a box will pop up like this. Honestly, I just close these pop-ups when it comes to transitions. If you want to mess around with the settings, feel free to do so. But I just close out of this.

Now the timeline is showing the transition! Whenever you drop in a transition from the transition folder, the default duration is always 1.00

Now, I personally didn’t have a problem with how the transition turned out at 1.00, but in the event that you want to trim down a transition, All you have to do is move your mouse over to the end of the transition. Another double-ended arrow will show up, but it will also have an arch on the side (I did my best to draw it, my apologies it doesn’t look great!). Once you have it where you want it, watch over the transition and see how it looks.

This is how the video looks mid-transition. Again, you can use any transition you want. You just have to see if you like how it flows to the next clip.

Another transition I love to use is Dissolve. I think it’s best used at the very beginning or end of a video. In my opinion, having a video fade in from a black screen is the most natural, so what I’m going to do is choose Fade Through Black and drag it to the beginning of the first clip.

…again, a pop-up will happen. CLOSING THAT UP (ofc if you want to mess with it, do so!)

As the video begins the play, the first clip slowing begins to fade in. I like how it’s fading in, but not where in the clip. Sooo I’m gonna adjust it a bit!

I have clicked the end of the transition, dragged it slightly to the left and now I like where the transition is! The bar shows what’s currently on screen and the little line on the clip shows where the transition ends!

Sound

If you’ve noticed, the movie has both video and audio. But unless you want the audio to stay while music is playing, there’s a simple way to get rid of it. Click on the clip where you want to remove the audio file and press the letting U on your keyboard. Now the video and audio are un-grouped. All you have to do now is click the audio and press delete.

TADA! The audio from that clip is gone!

Now, whatever type of edit you’re making (amv, crack edit with funny audio, etc). You’re gonna want to get your audio file in. You can do this anytime during the editing process. It actually tends to be one of the first things I do, but I wanted to show the basics on effects/transitions first. Remember at the beginning how you imported the video file in the timeline? You have to do that with your audio as well.

You have to go back here, find your music folder (or w/e folder has the audio you’re looking for), click the file of your choosing and then click Open

The audio of your choosing will automatically go on the first timeline section for audio. Luckily, it will place itself at the end of the audio file you already have on that timeline. The problem is you don’t want the audio on the same timeline as the movie’s audio. Simple to fix though! Just click the file and drag it to the timeline below.

Yay! Now it’s on it’s own separate section! All you have to do now is drag it so it’s under the other files.

With the audio at the beginning of the timeline, feel free to trim it up if you feel that’s needed. You’ll get that double-ended arrow again. As you can see, audio files show when sound starts up and how it moves. The very beginning of the song I’ve chosen doesn’t start up right away, so I’ll trim it.

Make sure you play the edit from the beginning to see if you like how everything is flowing together. (Oddly enough this is just a tutorial, and I’m satisfied with how it all is).

If the sound happens to be too loud or too quiet, you can always change the volume by adjustng the volume slider on the side of the timeline. Make sure you adjust the one on top ONLY though. The bottom one will move where you hear the audio from (aka, if you move it to the left, you’ll only hear the audio in your left ear and to the right in your right ear). Keep that bottom slider where it is!

Text

I like using text! While it’s not something you do for every edit, it’s still nice to know. Every once in awhile, I’ll mess with Titles & Text, but I usually just use (Legacy) Text on edits. I mainly use text to add song lyrics or sometimes quotes from the movie. And when I decide to use text, I tend to pick Soft Shadow because it has a nice, simple shadow behind the letters.

To get text on it’s own timeline, just click and drag the text of your choosing on the timeline above the video. When you import a video, the video automatically puts itself on the third timeline. You have two other timelines above it and those can be used for text!

As always, you get a pop-up box, but this one is VERY IMPORTANT. Use that box and get the words Sample Text out of there!

You can change the font and size of the text which is great! For this edit, I randomly chose the song Demons by Imagine Dragons, so I typed the first line of the song out to the font & size of my liking.

If you look closely, there are four tabs you can click through when editing your text. I went from Edit to Placement to see if the text was in a good spot. For me, this looks great, but if you wanna move it around, click on the text that I circled and mess around a bit!

Now I’m at Properties. This tab allows you to change the color of the text or the background of the video. The first section is Text Color, so if you want to change the color, change it to the color you want! Of course, I’d suggest adjusting the color so it’s visible, not too bright, and it doesn’t blend in too much with the video behind it.

Aaaaand you can trim text too! For song lyrics, it’s best to trim the text to where the last word is spoken. Same goes for quotes that characters are saying.

And you can add transitions to text too! Text don’t have to necessarily transition at the same time as video transitions, but it’s nice to have things fade in at the same time. So, if there is text in the beginning of your video, try to have it fade in at the same time the video does. Remember; go to the transition of your choosing and drag it at the beginning of the text clip. Adjust/trim to where you want it to go.

Adding text lyrics can be a bit strenuous, but it’s worth it once you get it to look the way you want. Video transitions are important because they should have a nice, fluid flow to the next clip and text should be treated the same. If you add another text clip next the first one, it should have a transition too (I think the first example I used for transitions works pretty well for text!) And that’s how it should look like mid-transition.

Something Extra

You see these little black bars? If they don’t bother you, that’s great! But sometimes, I don’t want them to be there in my edits. I didn’t think there was a way to get rid of them for YEARS, but a long time ago, I found a tutorial that showed me how to get rid of them and I’m so glad there’s a way! Luckily, I don’t think this will be a problem with the show, but if anyone wants to make a movie edit, feel free to read this part.

Right beside the timeline, there’s this little box I have circled. Click on that!

This will open up. Now you see that little blue circle on the top-left edge of this rectangle? You’re going to want to click the edge of that (actually, you can choose any edge of the rectangle, but I just use the top-left one). Drag the edge outwards and watch the video clip on the screen until it fills up the entire screen.

look at that

IT’S ALL FILLED IN NOW (this makes me so much happier than it should)

Rendering

So, you’ve edited everything to the way you like it and your video is done now? Great! Let’s make sure of something real quick before you decide to render it.

See those little yellow triangles I have circled. Yeah so if I were to render this video right now and leave those triangles where they are, everything everything between them would only end up getting rendered. THAT’S NOT GOOD. Click on the second triangle (the one at the 00:00:01:27 mark) and drag it to the end of your video!

There! Now your entire video will be properly rendered!

To begin your rendering process, go to Project and click Render As…

You’ll get a lot of different types of files to save it under as. You don’t want to make the mistake of rendering it as an audio file. When I make a video, I want to make sure the whole thing can end up on Tumblr. So, I use a Windows Media Video (or .wmv) file which manages to keep the finished product at a low enough number for me to upload the whole thing on here. You can choose anything within the WMV area to render it with, but the one I have highlighted is the one I use.

don’t forget to name your file as well!

Last, but not least, press that Render button! All you have to do now is wait for the rendering to complete and watch your video as a final product! Upload it to Tumblr, YouTube, etc and you’re done!

And those are just the basics to know when editing a video in a Sony Vegas program! I might end up doing another one of these someday, but just in case, here are some links to some more tutorials that I have found to be very helpful!

How to make audio echo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7264MXk_BeY How to use your green screen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKk7tJV934s&t=203s (i found the beginning to be most useful to learn how to edit out a green screen so I can overlay a clip on top of another) Phone audio effect: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JixZ-IbueEs

Anyway, I hope my basic tutorial was good! I’m sorry it was so long, but those are just some basics to know if you’re interested in making videos! Hope this was helpful! :D

#i really hope this was helpful #video editing #movie studio platinum #sony vegas #vegas pro #tutorial #video editing tutorial #long post #big hero 6??#bh6??

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bastionkeeper · 6 years

Text

Taako Day Chapter 4

Taako was not enjoying his jail cell one bit.

For starters he was sharing it with a rather angry human who wouldn’t stop beating at the bars and screaming to be let out.

Then there was the general comfort level: the lumpy bed, the leak in the roof, the smell.

He was playing it cool and polite until he was served lunch, then he threw a tantrum.

“What even is this?” he gestured towards the gray mush on his plate. “I-I-I cannot believe the injustice in our prison systems! You serve…you serve THIS to living people??”

“LET ME OUT OF HERE, I’LL KILL YOU ALL!” his cellmate roared, drowning him out. Taako couldn’t have that, he wanted to be heard.

So he cast knock on the door and let the guy out.

“Seriously, what is this?” Taako asked, leaning in the doorway of the cell as the guards struggled to force the angry man back into another cell.

“Sit down, and shut up,” a guard told him as he locked the cell again. “Anymore magic and we’ll sedate you.”

“Promise?” Taako asked. “It has been such a long day, I could go for a sedative or two, maybe a screwdriver.” He winked, but the guard just scowled.

Taako sighed, tossing the plate to the ground in a bit of childish rage and flopping back down on the bed. He wondered if Angus had started detectiving. He knew no one could stop the kid once he put his mind to a mystery, and he sort of felt comforted by the fact that the kid was no doubt clearing his name right now.

Angus woke up outside the warehouse, laying on his back in someone’s lap. For a moment he thought it was Kravitz, but a closer look revealed a pair of elven ears under the black reaper hood.

“You alright, Ango?” Lup asked. “That was some nasty stuff in there, Barry’s having a field day getting rid of it.”

“Auntie Lup,” Angus said, for Lup had insisted he call her that, “how did you find me?”

“We…uh…” Lup shrugged and gave Angus a grin. “…we felt your life force flicker there, buddy.”

“Oh…” Angus swallowed. He had been dying.

“Oh thank god!” Kravitz landed nearby, transforming back into his usual shape in a puff of black feathers. “What did I say? I said to call me once you found him!”

He grabbed Angus and hugged him close, and Angus realized for the first time that Kravitz was really attached to him. He wondered why he hadn’t figured it out sooner being a detective…but somehow he’d completely missed the fact that living with Taako and Kravitz had sort of made a family out of them.

Angus hugged Kravitz back, feeling safe in his found father’s embrace. “I’m sorry…I thought I had him…”

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Kravitz sighed. “Did you catch him?”

“He was gone by the time we got here,” Lup said. “If he’d been here, he’d be dead. Just saying.”

“We need him alive, Auntie Lup,” Angus said. “So we can clear Taako’s name.”

“I don’t see why we can’t just go bust him out and tell them to fuck off,” Lup said. “He’s one of the seven birds, he helped save the whole fucking world and they’re gonna hold him there on food poisoning charges?”

“Hun, you know Taako wouldn’t have gone with them if he hadn’t wanted to.” Barry appeared, walking over to the group. “I think he wants to do this by the book. For once in his life.”

Lup sighed. “He would get difficult now, wouldn’t he.”

“He still blames himself, even though he knows it was Sazed who actually did the poisoning,” Angus said.

The group sat quietly for a moment, thinking about their situation, when suddenly Lup’s stone of farspeech crackled to life.

“They’ve got him on trial right now! And things aren’t looking good,” Carey’s gruff voice came through the stone. “I think you better get over here.”

“We may as well, Sazed is long gone by now,” Lup sighed. “We should go see what we can do for Taako.”

Angus felt ashamed and angry tears well up in his eyes. He’d blown it. He’d had Sazed and he’d let him escape. Now Taako was in trouble and he…

It was all his fault.

As they teleported over to Glamour Springs, Kravitz noticed Angus sniffling and pulled him in close. He kept his hand on the child’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

The reaper trio and their plus one showed up in the Glamour Springs town square, where an angry mob had assembled in front of a large stage where Taako was currently being pushed out by a pair of angry guards.

“Easy there, buy a guy dinner first,” Taako snapped at them. When he noticed his family in the audience he shouted over to Kravitz. “Why did you bring Angus? This isn’t a birthday party you know.”

“Court is now in session!” a man stepped up to the podium on stage and addressed the audience. “We bring to you the one responsible for the tragic deaths in our town six years ago.”

The audience booed, some people even threw rotting fruit at Taako. To his credit, Taako didn’t even flinch when it hit his legs and splattered on his clothes. Kravitz growled and Lup looked ready to go full fireblast, but Barry put a hand on each of their arms to calm them.

“Since this is such a serious offense, we’ve decided to do things differently today,” the man said. “The accused may provide one witness to prove his innocence, and if we don’t like what they have to say then we move on to the punishment.”

“What the fuck?” Taako said. “Uh, yeah, okay, who am I gonna call? Taako was a lone wolf back then, baby, didn’t exactly have any friends to vouch for me.”

“I’ll vouch for him.”

The audience gasped and parted for Lucretia as she approached the stage. She looked fierce and regal, even though her hands were shaking as she held the temporal chalice.

Kravitz grinned, sure that this would save the day.

Lucretia came up on stage and held the chalice out for the audience to see. She closed her eyes for a moment, channeling her magic into the relic. Then she opened her eyes again, and they were glowing with white energy. When she opened her mouth to speak it wasn’t her voice that came out, it was the voices of the dead.

“We died that day, at the unwitting hand of the elf,” the voices said. “fed poison by a man who was supposed to die by it. His assistant, wronged, conspired to take his life and ours with it. He is guilty only of hubris and cruelty.”

Taako flinched and looked down at his feet, his face contorting into a frown. Lucretia’s eyes closed again and she collapsed to her knees, groaning and clutching at her head. The audience watched in awed silence, until finally the judge on stage raised a hand.

“This is magic trickery,” he said. “How can we take the word of the dead? We have no way of knowing this is true or not!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Lup yelled. “That’s a fucking relic! Are you that stupid? Let my brother go!”

“We will have justice for the dead!” the man shouted, and the audience cheered with him. Angus’s eyes grew wide, and he realized that he was running to Taako. The guards tried to block him, but he cast blink the way Taako had taught him too and reappeared next to his mentor’s side. Taako was non-responsive, kneeling on the stage with tears in his eyes. Angus grabbed his shoulders and shook him, yelling his name and begging for him to free himself and escape.

“You have to go Taako, you have to go!” he said.

“Only death can pay for death!” the man said and the audience cheered again, hungry for blood. Lup, Kravitz, and Barry summoned their scythes, Carey and Killian appeared from the crowd with their weapons drawn too. Lucretia was still recovering from the chalice, and Taako and Angus were still kneeling on the stage in a tearful conversation when someone shouted.

“Stop!”

Everyone turned towards the voice, and saw a nervous man clutching at his own hands and trembling as he approached.

“Stop…please…” Sazed said. “I…I’m tired of running…”

“Sazed?” Taako looked up in disbelief.

“I’m tired of running…” Sazed repeated himself, sniffling and wiping tears from his eyes. “It was me. I killed those people. I did it to kill Taako and give him a bad name. I wanted…I just wanted him to share the show with me…I wanted him to love me back…”

The man on the stage looked down at Sazed for a long silent moment. Then he sighed and nodded to the guards.

They unlocked Taako’s cuffs, and the elf only collapsed further on the stage, steadying himself with his freed hands. Then the guards cuffed Sazed and dragged him back towards the jail cells behind the stage. As Sazed passed Taako the two shared a glance full of so many emotions and thoughts it was impossible to tell what was going on between them. Finally, Taako whipped his head away, and Sazed whimpered at the motion before being dragged out of sight.

“You are free to go,” the man said to Taako, not looking directly at him.

“I think you owe him an apology!” Angus said, surprised at how his voice didn’t tremble.

“…” the man sighed. “We apologize for your treatment and the false accusations you are now free to go.”

Lup ran up to her brother and fixed the man with a glare so fierce he stumbled backwards a few steps. She helped Taako up and then Lucretia. She took their arms, one in each hand, and led them down towards the rest of the group.

Taako gave Lucretia a look, the same kind he always gave her ever since he’d pointed the umbrastaff at her two years ago. However, despite his eyes saying he would never forgive her, his mouth said “thank you.”

Lucretia gave a tired nod, and let Lup lead her towards a portal.

#blatantbalderdash #taako #kravitz #angus mcdonald #taz #the adventure zone #taz balance #the adventure zone balance

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mewtwowarrior · 7 years

Text

I want to formally apologize for the fic that’s placed under here.

I suddenly remembered the movie The One a couple weeks ago and I’m currently semi-obsessed with Overwatch, and the two collided in my brain. I’ve had the basics thought out for at least a week, but it finally became more cohesive when I wrote it down.

I don’t remember much from the movie The One, so this is based on my hazy memories of it, the Wikipedia summary, and my own thoughts on the matter.

If you’re not familiar with The One, it’s about a guy who travels through alternate universes with the goal of killing every alternate version of himself. Each time one of the alternate guys dies, their power and stuff is redistributed to all the other alternates, thus, every time one dies, the rest get stronger, until there’s only one left.

As such, this fic is about someone traveling around and killing alternate versions of themselves. I have tried to keep the morbidness to a minimum, I do not describe in detail how they die, however, the very subject is pretty messed up.

This is a warning, this story is somewhat violent and could be kind of disturbing, based on all the implications. Please, please, do not read it if this sort of thing could bother you, I do not want to harm anyone.

On a lighter note, I don’t know how in character I was able to write everyone, so I’m considering everyone AU versions of themselves, different from the originals present in the Overwatch game and lore.

This wasn't the first mission of this kind Soldier: 76 had been on, and if he had any say in the matter, it was far from the last.

He checked the device in his hand, tracking his target. He was still some distance away, so he didn't have to worry just yet.

The Soldier traveled on, checking the device every now and then as he got closer and closer.

He had obtained the device by stealing it from Talon-affiliated scientists. There had been a lot of chatter over it, some had claimed that it would give Talon the power they needed once and for all to become unstoppable.

Old habits, like old soldiers, die hard, and he had infiltrated the lab and beat the information out of the scientists.

It was some kind of wormhole device, created for a single nefarious purpose. The scientists cited papers and research, telling Soldier: 76 exactly what it was for.

What they were saying seemed like a joke, an elaborate hoax, but the more they went on, the more plausible it seemed. Apparently, there had been a successful test that had proved that it was ready and did exactly what it should.

Still not quite believing, the Soldier pressed the button and was instantly flung into a new universe much like the one he had left.

Reeling from the sudden transport, it took some time for him to gain his bearings. Once he did so, he turned to the device still in hand. He was lucky, as the dot showing him his target was somewhere close.

Sticking to the shadows and rooftops, he tracked him through the night, finally catching up.

Staying out of sight, he carefully peered over the edge, using his visor to zoom in on his target.

He was glad that he was on the rooftop, as he was far enough away that it hid his gasp of shock. There, beating up a couple of thugs in the alley was himself.

It was unmistakable. The jacket with the large 76 emblazoned on the back, the gray hair, the mask, and the gun he had stolen from the Watchpoint.

Soldier: 76 weighed his options. The scientists had told him that there were multiple universes out there, each one full of the same people. It had been discovered that whenever a version of yourself out there died, all of the other versions gained strength and power. It seems that all were drawing from a shared well.

Talon had wanted to use it for their own gain, but he could turn it against them. It would take some time for the scientists to make another device, they still had all their research, but, if he could beat Talon to the punch, he'd be strong enough to stop them and finally find out the truth of what had happened to Overwatch.

That made his choice simple. He watched and waited until his alternate self was done with those thugs, there was a part of the Soldier that had hoped they would do the job for him.

As the other Soldier walked away, he aimed his rifle and fired. Multiple Helix Rockets to the head and back of an unsuspecting target did their job quickly.

With that grisly task completed, he closed his eyes, feeling a slight surge as the other Soldier's strength had been redistributed. It was unmistakable, and he's certain he's felt it before, a time or two in the past. The other Soldiers must've died in the war, or somehow else. It didn't really matter, except that it made his job easier.

He's killed before, but this is the first time that he's killed like this. The fact that his other self wore the mask made the job easier. He couldn't see his own face as he died.

After that, he had been to several other universes, with similar results. Each world was slightly different, things always felt a little off.

Occasionally, there had been a brief fight with the other Soldiers, sometimes they detected him before he could get in position. But, usually that didn't last long. He knew all of their tricks and was able to take them out before they realized they were fighting with themselves.

It didn't get any easier each time. There wasn't much comfort in the fact that he knew most everyone thought them dead, that he was possibly doing these worlds a favor by ridding them of a vigilante. It didn't reflect too well on himself.

But, there was one universe that was different. It was obvious as soon as he arrived. Everything was brighter, and, as he checked the device, approximately 20 years newer.

At first, he wasn't too worried. There had been fluctuations in the times of the other universes, give or take a few years.

However, this was different. Those other universes had looked much like his did currently. This one did not.

As he carefully made his way through the city, his fears were proving more and more right. For some reason, this universe was behind the rest, and it showed. He was watching his past play out right in front of him.

Overwatch was still around. A beacon of hope that had shown through troubling times. Only Soldier: 76 knew that a storm was brewing on the horizon that would change all of that.

For the first time in this mission, he really hesitated. No one would miss the Soldier: 76s he had left in alleyways. But, Jack Morrison, the Strike Commander of Overwatch would be missed.

That, and he likely wouldn't be alone, unlike all of the other Soldiers. If he was to continue on, there would be much more risk involved. But, on the other hand, he has the power of hindsight, if it's close enough to his past, he'd be able to figure out what missions were going on and catch himself unaware.

However, at the moment, that's a pretty big if.

He knows that this Jack has a lot of work ahead of him. He'd lead Overwatch through its glory days and into the bleakest night. There was much he needed to do.

But, on the other hand, what if he wasn't around? Would things have gotten as bad as they did? Would Overwatch still be standing today if someone else had taken the helm?

He had time. Time enough to decide and time enough to figure out how to tackle the problem of himself.

Keeping an eye on the news, he was finally able to pinpoint when and where a mission was going to take place.

Getting there a day early, he waited.

Soldier: 76 knew this mission well. He had lost some good people that day, but in the end, they had been victorious.

That, and he had gone off on his own during combat, to chase a bad guy who had important intel. The enemy had gotten away from him, but his teammates had ended up capturing him when he ran their way. It would be perfect for an ambush.

Picking a spot, he had holed up until he heard the tell-tale sounds of the incoming chopper.

It was a little difficult to sit back and listen to the mission play out. He could easily visualize every shot with every cry.

Finally, it was go time.

He aimed at the entrance of the alleyway and waited for his younger self to come running through.

But, there was one thing he didn't take into account, and that was that in the heat of battle, his younger self was still on guard, and as such spotted the Soldier before he could fire.

Taking cover, Jack fired first, then ducked around to tell his teammates that there was another enemy on the rooftop and that he had lost visual on the one he had been pursuing. Ordering them to go after the one with the intel, he told them that he could take care of the one on the roof.

He peered around and quickly jerked his head back as a round of Helix Rockets nearly missed his face, embedding into the wall where his head had been.

The Soldier on the roof grumbled in frustration, his younger self had the advantage. As long as he wasn't stupid, Soldier: 76 couldn't get a clear shot at him. That, and once the bad guys were taken care of, his team would come after him. Time was running out and he had to end this quickly.

Climbing down the side of the building, he made his way to the ground. There was still a chance he could sneak up on his past.

Firing the Helix Rockets again, he chipped away at the hiding place Jack had snuck behind. The wall still stood, and so did Jack.

There was something else Soldier: 76 didn't account for, and that was, even though they were the same person, his younger self would be at least a fraction faster than he was.

This error almost cost him his own life as he barely jerked his head out of the way as he nearly got a faceful of pulse fire.

Some of the ammunition had hit their mark, blasting through the side of his mask and breaking it wide open.

Pushing through the pain, he continued on, knowing that Jack would make another move in just a moment.

His timing was off slightly, and Jack caught him square in the middle of the alley. However, when he got a sight of Soldier: 76 behind the mask, he hesitated. Even with the age, even with the scars, even with all the wounds and blood covering one side of his face, it was unmistakable that he was looking at his older self.

That hesitation is what cost him.

Full of pain and adrenaline, the Soldier took his shot. His Helix Rockets had recharged and made quick work of the Strike Commander.

The remains of Jack Morrison had barely hit the ground when several of his teammates had shown up to see a man suddenly disappear in front of them.

Nobody knew what they had seen, and anyone they told didn't believe them. It was considered something that their trauma had come up with in order for them to make sense of their leader being killed.

In the next universe over, Soldier: 76 had sunk with his back against a building and put his face in his hands as the enormity of what he had done had come crashing down.

He hadn't even thought about what he had done until it was too late. He had permanently changed that universe's course and ended his time in it before he could make the mistakes that had brought him to this point.

That world would never have a Soldier: 76, which would've been a little comfort if he hadn't just gunned himself down in his prime.

The actions he had taken today cemented his course. After that, he couldn't stop. He couldn't sacrifice his younger self for him to stop now. No. He had to kill the others. All of them. One by one, until only he remained. He owed it to Jack Morrison, his death wouldn't be in vain, none of them would be.

He picked himself up and checked the tracker. He had a ways to go before he caught up with himself.

#idea bag #fanfic #fanfics #AU #AUs #crossover #crossovers #violence #tw: violence #death #tw: death #Overwatch #Soldier: 76 #Soldier 76 #76 #Jack Morrison #The One

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thelastspeecher · 7 years

Text

In Another World - Chapter Twelve: Yield to It

Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Epilogue AO3

Holy cow, it has been over a month since I’ve updated, and I bring with me an oldie but goodie: One of Us AU! And there’s only one more chapter until I’ve finally finished the fic, which I’m hoping to post sometime during spring break this week. I don’t know about any of you guys, but I’ll be so relieved to finally be done.

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” – Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Date: August 25, 2012

Dimension: AH-7*T

Location: Gravity Falls, OR

Weather: Sunny and warm; the perfect summer day

Observations:

Upon my arrival, I initially mistook this reality as being one of the few where Bill’s presence is not felt. After years allowing him to peruse my mind and body, I have formed a sort of “link” with him. It is not one I enjoy (rather, I despise it), but it allows me to know when Bill is a current force wherever I am. I did not feel that in this reality. Due to that factor alone, I was tempted to cease my interdimensional travels here. But I quickly learned that it would not be possible. This reality has an active version of myself. It’s for the best, really. I must continue my search for my own home, as imperfect as it may be.

Although this reality may not currently be struggling with Bill, they have had some recent troubles.

Much of the town was destroyed shortly before my arrival. Buildings are being slowly returned to normal, including my own home.

I saw some graffiti that suggests Bill was the source of the recent troubles. It is impossible to mistake that eye.

The townsfolk of this reality are even more tightlipped than in other realities. Whenever I attempt to ask them questions, they shout “Never mind all that!” and run off.

My own twin brother is regarded as a town hero. Clearly, something is desperately wrong with this reality.

Another hint that this reality is “messed up” (as I have overheard some teens say): I don’t appear to be human!

The times I have caught glimpses of this reality’s version of myself, I have seen a person I can identify, but do not recognize.

This reality’s version of myself is constantly glowing, and I have yet to see him eat.

This reality’s version of myself randomly appears and disappears, and I have heard his voice in my mind twice. Though those may have been my own thoughts.

Conclusions:

In this reality, I am a demon! And not from birth. Those are easily recognizable. No, in this reality, Bill recruited me to join his gang of miscreants. It is obvious from the aura this version of myself possesses, and his being tied to a token. Truly despicable.

Notes:

What could possibly possess me to join Bill and his ilk? Well, what could possess me, other than Bill, to do such a thing?

The people of the town clearly know of Bill. It saddens my heart. No one should know of him, let alone these townsfolk, who were an audience and unwilling participants to the apocalypse. At least, from what little information I have gathered, this seems to be the case.

-----

“I’ll join you.” He had no plan, but no options. He was winging it. Ford tried to ignore the voice at the back of his mind.

Improvisation is not one of your strengths. What are you doing? Bill blinked (or winked; it was hard to tell).

“What?” He seemed taken aback. Ford relished the feeling. Very few people could surprise Bill Cipher.

“You heard me. I’ll join you. You’re right. With you, that’s the only place I’ll ever belong.” Bill began to laugh. Cold sweat broke out on Ford’s skin.

“Well, well, well, Fordsy, never thought you’d do it. All right, you think you’ve got what it takes to roll with my crew? Be my guest.” A beam of blue energy shot from Bill’s eye and struck Ford squarely in the chest. Electricity rippled across Ford’s body, tickling his skin before digging in deeper, past his epidermis, immersing itself in every cell. He gasped at the sensation of sheer power flowing through his veins. Bill’s cronies laughed. Or cheered. Or some combination of the two. Ford wasn’t quite sure. Merely keeping his head was taking all of his willpower.

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” And even though Bill wouldn’t dare give me absolute power, he would give me just enough to be corrupted. Ford grit his teeth and formed fists, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. Think of Mabel and Dipper. Think of your family. Stay grounded. For them.

“It’s one heck of a rush, isn’t it?” Bill asked gleefully. “Goes straight to your head.” Ford continued to stay on the ground, prone. “All right, that’s enough. Stand up. You’re one of us now, you gotta act like it.” Ford stood up slowly. Bill rubbed the area where his chin would be if he had one. “Not too shabby, Sixer. You make a decent Henchmaniac.”

“Bill!” Ford’s blood ran cold at the sound of his nephew’s voice.

Is it blood? I’ve effectively sold my soul to Bill. Who’s to say he hasn’t replaced my blood with some other fluid? He’s not even restricted to fluids, actually. Maybe my heart is pumping plasma now. Do I have a heart?

“Now, isn’t this interesting,” Bill said, his voice turning ominous mid-sentence. Ford watched Bill close in on Dipper, dread mounting. “My old puppet is back for an encore. Or maybe he’s back to follow in his idol’s footsteps.”

“I’d never join you!” Dipper shouted. His voice cracked, but for once, he didn’t seem concerned about it. He looked at Ford. “Great Uncle Ford, what are you doing?”

“Joining my crew, isn’t it obvious?” Bill said. One of Bill’s cronies put an arm around Ford’s shoulders. Ford fought back a shudder of disgust. “I hate to break it to you, kid, but the offer’s a one-time thing. You’re not invited to this party.” Dipper glowered. “Heh. You’re cute when you’re angry. Hey, Sixer, how’s about you take care of the kid?”

“W-what?” Ford stammered. He was roughly shoved forward by the Henchmaniacs.

“Think of it like hazing, only better! To sign up for this frat, you’ve gotta punish the kid.” Bill picked Dipper up by his shirt and set him down in front of Ford. Dipper looked at Ford desperately. Ford could see conflicting emotions warring in his nephew’s eyes.

He wants to believe that this is all an act, but he’s not sure if he does.

“Go on, Sixer,” Bill said. His voice dropped multiple octaves. “Or do you wanna watch me handle it, and then handle you?” Ford swallowed.

I have to play the game. I have to play the game. He raised a six-fingered hand. Dipper backed away nervously.

“G-great Uncle Ford…”

“I’d apologize, my boy,” Ford began, as his hand began to glow red with energy. “But I’m not sorry.” A blast emanated from his palm and stuck Dipper in the chest, throwing him into a tree. Dipper wheezed, the wind having been knocked out of him.

“A bit sloppy on the technique, but you’ve got potential,” Bill said, putting an arm around Ford’s shoulders. “Some practice and you’ll be good enough for the big time. But before that…” Bill snapped his fingers. The three journals, which had fallen out of Dipper’s bag, rose into the air and caught on fire. Ford bit back a shout.

My life’s work!

“The journals!” Dipper shouted.

“Not much of a threat now, are you?” Bill taunted. He turned back to his Henchmaniacs. “Now, can anybody remind me why we came here?”

“To get weird!” one of the monsters (8-Ball?) shouted excitedly.

“That’s right! VIP party at the Fearamid. Oh, and 8-Ball, Teeth, you’ve earned a treat. Have the kid for a snack. Henchmaniacs, roll out!” Pyronica (the only one that Ford could recognize easily) picked Ford up and threw him into the car that Bill had just conjured. As they flew away, Ford watched Dipper run into the forest, chased by two demons.

Good luck, Dipper.

-----

Ford was leaning against one of the walls in the ghastly Fearamid when Keyhole ran up to Bill’s throne.

“Boss, we’ve got a problem!” Keyhole said desperately. Ford continued to tap his toes to the beat of the godawful music, pretending to enjoy the party. He focused on the muted conversation between Keyhole and Bill.

Maybe it’s just muted because I’m getting hearing damage from these demons screeching. After all this is over, I might have to borrow Stanley’s hearing aid. Ford choked back a groan. Stanley…

“What is it this time?” Bill asked, annoyed. “I’ve already taken care of Mabel, and my new watchdog took care of Old Fezzy.” Ford could feel Bill’s gaze on him. He took a sip of the “time punch”, hoping his hands weren’t shaking.

“We can’t escape,” Keyhole said. “We’ve tried everything! There’s some sort of force field around the town!” Ford’s cup slipped from his hands.

Gravity Falls’ Natural Law of Weirdness Magnetism! This chaos hasn’t spread across the globe. Not yet, at least. He knelt down to pick up his dropped cup, continuing to listen.

“I get the feeling that a certain six-fingered freak might be able to help out with that,” Bill said ominously. “Ford!” he shouted over the music. Ford swallowed and walked over to Bill.

“Y-yes, Boss?” he asked, barely choking out the second word.

“We’ve got a problem, and you’re just the person to fix it.” Bill steepled his fingers. “There’s some sort of force field surrounding the town, and my weirdness can’t escape to spread across this miserable little planet.”

“That’s a shame.” Bill’s eye narrowed.

“Yes. It is.” Bill crossed his legs. “You’re the one who did all the research, Sixer. What’s going on?”

Think fast, think fast! Ford opened his mouth, but no words came out. Damn! Of course you couldn’t think of anything. The last time you tried to improvise a plan, you ended up becoming a demon, and have had zero opportunities to try to take down this operation from the inside.

“C’mon, genius, I may control time itself, but I don’t have all day,” Bill said impatiently.

“W-well, it could be-” Ford began to stammer out. He was cut off by a loud crash and roar.

“Hey, I just fixed that door!” Bill shouted. Ford spun around. There was a gaping hole in the side of the Fearamid, through which a giant robot could be seen. Ford fought back a grin.

It must be Fiddleford’s work!

“So the mortals are trying to fight back, huh? Adorable!” Bill said, leaning back in his throne. “Henchmaniacs, you know what to do! Take ‘em out!” Ford began to move toward the door. “Uh-uh. Not so fast, Fordsy.” A glowing blue chain manifested out of thin air and latched around Ford’s neck. He looked back. The chain was hooked to Bill’s throne. “I know you’ve been trying to play me, Sixer,” Bill said ominously, over the sounds of battle. “You’re a scientist, not an actor. You’re staying here until I get the secret to world weirdness out of you. And I don’t care about damaging you in the process.” Ford swallowed nervously.

-----

Shortly after Bill had joined the fight, Ford heard the sound of screaming. But it didn’t seem to be coming from the battle between the robot and Bill. It was much too close, and getting louder by the second. He looked up. People were descending from the sky into the Fearmid.

Mabel is truly something else, if she can turn her sweaters into parachutes. He watched Dipper, Mabel, Wendy, Soos, Stan, and people he didn’t recognize hit the ground. They stood up slowly, looking around the room.

“Great Uncle Ford!” Mable shouted. She began to rush towards him, but was held back by Dipper.

“No, Mabel. He betrayed us. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, he stuck me in that bubble,” Stan said grumpily. “Last time I go outside during the apocalypse to get the newspaper.”

“But he’s- he’s chained!” Mabel said. “If he was really working for Bill, he wouldn’t be tied up like that!”

“It could just all be a trick,” Dipper said. Ford’s heart sunk.

“Dipper, please, believe me, I’m on your side.”

“I’m having trouble believing that,” Dipper said. “Maybe it’s the glowing demon eyes!”

“Please, Dipper! I know how to take down Bill!”

“Well, duh, you’re a demon, too,” Wendy said. Ford looked at Stan.

“Stanley, do you trust me?” he asked quietly. A million emotions crossed Stan’s face.

“That’s a heck of a question, after everything you’ve done,” he said gruffly. “Causing the apocalypse, turning my own family against me, not even thanking me for bringing you back.”

“Stan…”

“But you’re not lying,” Stan finished. Ford blinked in surprise. Stan glowered. “Don’t think I’m going soft on you. You’re just not a lying demon like that dang nacho chip.” He walked over to Ford and dug a bobby pin out of his pocket. Stan began to pick the lock on Ford’s collar. “You’re a normal demon, and the only sentient thing here that knows how to stop the world from ending.” The collar fell away from Ford’s neck. “And you’re my brother and junk, too, I guess.”

“Thank you, Stanley.” Stan’s facial expression softened.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “Now, how do we save the world?”

-----

Stan tossed the journal back and forth between his hands.

“Let me get this straight,” he began, “your ‘essence’ is linked to this now?”

“Yes,” Ford said. “It’s one of the side effects of being a demon. To remain on this plane of existence, I need a token.”

“So then I probably shouldn’t burn it,” Stan said. He sighed. “Soos, put the gasoline back in the closet.”

“You got it, Mr. Pines!”

“Isn’t that the same closet the fireworks are kept in?” Dipper asked.

“Your point being?” Stan said frostily.

“…Never mind.” Dipper, Mabel, Stan, Ford, and Soos were back at the Shack, making plans. For Dipper and Mabel, the plans were for their joint 13th birthday party. For Stan and Ford, the plans were for their seafaring trip. Soos didn’t need any plans. He just liked being there when plans were made.

“Yes, Stan, I would greatly appreciate it if you could avoid burning my only tether to this particular reality,” Ford said snippily.

“Why didn’t Bill have one of these?” Dipper asked. Ford adjusted his glasses.

“Well, there are different classes of demons. There are dream demons, which Bill was, there are possession demons, which Bill was, there are-”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, there’s lots of demons,” Stan said.

“What kind are you?” Mabel asked.

“…I have yet to figure that out, my dear.”

“Ooh, so it’s a challenge!”

“Yes,” Ford said with a smile. Dipper frowned.

“Wait, Great Uncle Ford, you said that the journal was the only thing keeping you on this reality. Does that mean you can visit other realities, then?” Dipper asked.

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Whoa,” Mabel said. Her eyes shone. “You could visit a reality where everyone’s a dog!” Ford chuckled at his niece’s optimism.

“I think I’ll stay in this reality for some time, however. I’ve done the dimension-hopping thing before, and I desperately need a break from it.”

#One of Us AU #Stanford Pines #Bill Cipher #Dipper Pines #Mabel Pines #Stanley Pines #Gravity Falls #In Another World #fanfiction #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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