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pleasantanathema · 4 years

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The Witcher’s Woes

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: bruising/marking, rough sex, dirty talk, light degradation, mentions of blood/injuries, very mild angst, porn with plot

Word Count: 10k

A/N: This is a collab piece for the Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab hosted by myself, @present-mel, and @linestrider

You can find all the other wonderfully creative and smutty pieces on our masterlist!

P.S.: This is a long one, if you feel like only reading smut, feel free to jump down to the second line break and begin there.

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A Witcher: someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals, which take place within Witcher schools such as the Wolf, Cat, and Griffin in their respective hidden Kaers, or home castles, in preparation for becoming an itinerant monster slayer for hire. (source: fandom.com).

The storms were raging on the coast, salty waves crashing into the shore like heavy hands attempting to crawl out of the sea, only to get dragged back into the abyss. The winds were howling, lightning crashing, yet the storm was the last thing on your mind as you opened the door to your lowly estate.

Ushijima of Velhad still had his arm raised from where he knocked on the wood, his yellow eyes glowing against the darkness of night. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, his chestnut hair tousled, lines of rain water dripping down his nose, his cheeks pallid. Even still, The Witcher looked to be a living memory, no new wrinkles or scars that you could detect when the rumbling flashes lit the sky. If it wasn’t for the rain, he would’ve looked entirely the same since you last saw him years ago, smiling in the evening glow of the countryside before departing for a new journey.

You ushered him in quickly, silently, your instincts for hospitality taking over before you could begin to think of questioning him about his sudden arrival. His armor was damp, heavy, sloshing and clinking as he undid the leather and meteorite laced straps from his shoulders. He was breathing slowly, deliberately. You rushed to grab towels from a chest, blanketing him in warmth as he sat before your rolling fireplace. He uttered a quiet thanks, never one to use words out of place.

The tea you had been brewing above the fire began to boil. You quickly poured two cups, adding a dash of the alcoholic white gull to his and using a burst of fire magic between your palms to keep the cup warm. You settled into the chair beside him, noticing how his gaze leered into the sparking fireplace.

“Ushijima,” you finally called him, after time had passed and his hair began to dry, “are you hurt? Is that why you’re here?”

He grunted from beside you, moving the hand you noticed had been clutching his rib cage.

“Yes, but not badly. I needed refuge from the storm more-so than a potion.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps pondering if he should simplify the truth.

“A sorceress, even in hiding, is never hard to find. The townsfolk talk, you know. I knew you were nearby before even beginning my hunt.”

“You could have asked for more than the tea I gave you, you know I’m here to help.”

He leaned back in the chair, his thick, long legs spreading out before the fire, his socks still damp and clinging to his toes, a big cat uncurling his weary limbs.

“It would have been rude to barge in begging for assistance.”

Ah, yes. He was still as courteous as always, his Griffin School teaching still ingrained in his mannerisms. Most Witchers were not so polite, but that school in particular valued traditional teachings. You knew you’d have to indulge his small conversation before getting more answers from him; he always played the chivalrous game, after all.

“Tell me, what brings you to the shores of Blaviken? Last I saw of you, you were riding north, returning to what is left of Kaer Seren.”

“There is nothing left,” he sighed, both arms now resting on the chair, the last remnants of tea staining his cup, “everything was destroyed, save a few books I found amongst the rubble.”

“What a shame, that library was a marvel. I would’ve liked to visit it myself.”

The story of the destruction of Kaer Seren was only well known to those acquainted with the last remaining Witchers. The keep was tucked away amidst the edge of the sea and the snowy mountains of Kovir to the north. The Witchers of that school, all of Ushijima’s kin, were well acquainted with magic and kept a vast library of mystic tomes within their home. But they were secretive, protective of their knowledge. Witchers, men created by magic to become the monsters they killed, were guarded for good reason. Years of persecution had left their numbers in ruin.

A group of mages felt scorned by the Witchers’ refusal to share their wealth and toppled the castle of Kaer Seren in an avalanche, leaving bodies and crumpled books in the wake, all never to be used again. You could almost picture the blood and ink that stained the snowy graves.

You’d only heard this story from the mouth of Ushijima himself, one night after too many scuffles and too many drinks.

“I brought some for you,” he smiled then, warm and soft, full lips on display, “that’s the real reason I’m here.”

His eyes were especially luminous in the firelight, gold irises reflecting the flames like the most precious of coins. His cheeks were flushed now, color regaining across his skin. Freckles smattered his cheeks like dried blood; you had to hold yourself back from reaching to him, from caressing his skin to see if the marks were lost war paint or new stories etched into his skin. He was tanned from all his time spent meditating in the sun, truly a unique specimen to behold. It was rare to see someone so brutal be so beautiful.

You were excited at his words, your fingers digging into the grooves of your cup at the mention of magical books awaiting you to peruse them.

He could see the eagerness behind your eyes and he laughed, then coughed, but continued his soft chuckling again. You paused, realizing he must be in more pain than he was letting on. His arm had returned to his torso, the thickly corded muscle clutching and protecting whatever injury was lying beneath.

“They’re in my bag by your door, you should go look at—.”

“Ushi, you’re hurt. Let me take care of you.”

Before becoming friends with the valiant hunter, you would’ve leapt at the opportunity to read hidden knowledge. But years of acquaintance with the hardened man had your heart tugging in another direction; suddenly, Ushijima was becoming more important than all your years of study and practice in sorcery.

He had a habit of breaking everything he touched: monsters, glass cups, weapons, he had a very powerful grip, and perhaps you were just the next thing in line to come undone by his hands.

You stood from your place by the fire, strolling over to a cabinet where you kept all the alchemy ingredients you had collected from your years living alone here by the sea. Many travelers had come by, having heard of the witch by the shore, bringing elements and components to sell at a high price. And you had taken them all, emptying your purse at even the faintest glimpse of a rare material peeking from their bag. You loved your craft, you had perfected it, almost, and every day you spent toiling away finding new ways to create potions and expand your magical knowledge.

“I need to know what you were hunting earlier.” Your fingers began rustling within the crowded shelves, grabbing an empty bottle as you heard him sigh behind you.

“A Hym,” he said softly, “it scratched my side, it’s deep, but not fatal.”

You stilled, eyes darting across all your ingredients. He said the word so easily, so nonchalantly, like he didn’t just battle a demon.

“A slice from Hym’s ethereal claws drains the life force from their victim, the longer that wound sits untreated, the worse you will get.” You mentally cursed at him, blaming his chivalrous nature for hurting him for longer than he deserved to be in pain. If he had said something when he came in your front door, you could have had him on the mend already.

“I know that, but a small potion to get me through most of the pain until now.”

“You’ll need more than that. You’re lucky, I just went to town last week and managed to find vitriol. I can make you a superior swallow drink, just…stay still.”

Quiet mumbles tumbled from your lips as you worked: measurements, ingredients, small musings as you set aside all the components to begin assembling them upon your alchemy table. Plants like white myrtle, celandine, crow’s eye fell into the bottle of enhanced swallow you already had on hand; you added fruit, nothing too exotic, just the common berbercane, and finally the blue tinted vitriol powder.

You eyed the hunter as you mixed the potion, swirling the now red liquid within the high neck of the bottle, speeding up the mixing process with a little magic of your own. Only he would have such insouciance concerning a fight with such a wicked creature. He was talented, perhaps not as much as the more legendary Witchers that roamed the lands, but Ushijima was strong, sturdy, nimble and smart when in battle. His stoic nature allowed him to distance himself from the horrors of his life, a life you knew he had not chosen.

He was an orphan, brought up by the Griffin School and transformed into a monster hunter without much consent, though you knew he had none to give. But he wore his profession like a badge of honor, looking at his life through a lens of helping those who could not help themselves in a world infested with demons, ghouls, and humanoid monstrosities.

You’d always wanted to admit how admirable you found him, but you knew he was never one to take compliments.

Standing next to where he was patiently sitting, you offered him the small bottle, the glass precariously dangling in your fingers.

“Take this,” you pulled the flask away just slightly as he reached for it, “but only after you tell me what the hell you were doing fighting a Hym.”

“You said it yourself, I get worse every moment I don’t drink that.”

“You’ve lasted an hour, Ushi,” you chided, “I think you can take a few moments to tell me why there was a Hym near Blaviken.”

You sat the bottle back on the table, moving to stand behind him and press the towel around his shoulders a little tighter into his neck. He gave you a contented sigh, eyes closing. He never liked to talk about his work, but you always pressed him. You lived in this monstrous world as well, had killed a few drowners while walking along the sands, aided an earl with a botchling, once even made friends with a rather tempting succubus. Everyone in this world was plagued by wretched creatures, he was just more qualified to kill them with his training and silver swords.

Your fingers pressed into the soft cloth around his neck, picking up the fabric and using it to brush against his hair and continue drying the damp spots still lingering around his ears, the back of his neck. You normally weren’t so blatant with your affection for him, but you knew you had him as a captive audience within the chair. He’d have to tell you his story before earning what he desired, but you might as well humor him with soothing touches while he did.

“Hyms are nasty things, you know. Demons that feed off the guilt of others.” He began.

“I found a note from a daughter in distress about her father on a notice board not too far down the road. He was going mad, she wrote, she thought perhaps he had become possessed. I did some searching in their house, found love letters tucked away under the old man’s mattress addressed to his sister-in-law. He wanted her, he loved her, so he killed his own brother to have her. But then she threw herself into the sea from her own grief; I think the Hym could’ve gotten to her first, then transfixed itself onto the man.”

“Hm, the things we do for love.” You mused, hands coming to rest on his shoulders once again.

Somehow, he felt stronger, broader than the last time you’d touched him. You sunk your fingers into the sinews on display in his damp shirt, humming to yourself. You’d thought about this before, about having the strengthened hunter sit vulnerably before you, only your thoughts involved the two of you in much less clothing and talking of much less rotten things.

You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the sketches you’d seen of Hyms in bestiaries. They were murky, shadowy beings, devilish horns upon their faceless heads, long black claws dripping from their hands. You would have cowered at the sight of such a creature, yet Ushijima sought out to destroy it.

His gruff voice continued on, “I confronted the man, called out the Hym, and it began to attack. Its claws are long, it scratched me from the very beginning. But it’s gone now, perhaps banished to the dark realm from whence it came.”

You plucked the bottle from its resting place, handing it to Ushijima over his shoulder. He took it with a simple thanks, head tipping back as he drank the entirety of its contents. You watched almost gleefully at his thick, irresistible neck on display. Everything about him was so strong, so well kept, even as he sat before you dampened from a storm.

“You know, Ushi, I could listen to you talk like that for hours.”

“Oh yeah? Then maybe I’ll stick around for a bit this time, let you listen to all my seedy tales.”

“Mhm, they’re only seedy when that bard friend of yours is around. Is he still alive? Tendō, that is.”

A flash of red hair and a catlike smile flashed before your mind’s eye as you thought of the dangerous, yet comical bard who often clung to the Witcher’s side.

Ushijima laughed, clutching at his stomach as you circled his chair and came to stand before him, arms crossed delicately in front of your body. Your figure cast a silhouette across his own, making you seem larger than life in the firelight. He was enraptured in the inky vice of your shadow.

“Yes, somehow he is still alive. Last I heard of him, he’s off singing songs in the capital of Redania to some rich heiress.”

“Good to hear,” you shrugged, “I always liked him.”

“No, he always liked you.” He wiggled his eyebrows, the action sending you into a fit of giggles as well. “And I can’t blame him.”

Your laughter subsided at his words, a warm tingle spreading across your body. Normally Ushijima was not one to flirt without the aid of alcohol; perhaps you’d given him more than you thought in his tea earlier? You watched him relax in his seat, lifting his shirt to reveal a quickly fading wound upon his tawny skin, the old blood sinking back into the muscle where it belonged.

Thunder rumbled outside the walls, a heavy boom resounding from the gods above.

“You should bathe, Ushi.”

“What, do I smell?”

He was suddenly so playful, so charming, his grin making you feel flustered.

“You will soon, I’m sure. Go beyond those doors,” you pointed over your shoulder, “It’s a heated pool, one of the reasons I chose this god forsaken estate.”

“Will you join me?”

You took a pause. This man was always making you pause, making you step back and evaluate your words and actions around him. Surely, he was joking. But the gleam in his bright eyes told you a different story, there was more lingering behind his words that you did not yet understand.

“I will, but only after I take a peek at those books you brought me. Now, off with you.”

You brushed by him as he stood, arms stretching above his head, his body shifting as he evaluated the healing wound upon his flesh. His heavy boots clunked against the floorboards as he followed your command, the sound of an enhanced predator marking his path. He slid through the door at the back of the great room and left you alone once more.

You would’ve been ashamed if he saw how quickly you rushed to his bag, gathering the cold, dusty books in your arms before setting them gently on the table. They were relics, ancient, undoubtedly hiding secret runes and magic within their spines.

Your fingertips brushed over the titles of the four books he brought you, but despite being entranced by the knowledge lying in wait for you, you were imagining your fingers to be elsewhere. You flipped one book open, your nails following the lines of ink, but your mind took in no words you read.

You were somewhere else; you were mentally with Ushijima, your fingers back in his hair, your hands exploring places unknown to you on his skin. He was the well-guarded book you desired to read, to hold, to explore.

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Ushijima was astounded by your bath. He knelt to the stones on the ground, using his keen senses to feel the heated rocks and look for their source. There were some offshore vents that were connected to this place, feeding in warm water to the bath. He took in a deep breath, smelling the lingering hint of salt in the air, but the scent didn’t entirely match the ocean.

He dipped his fingers in the water, finding it smooth, warm, unsalted. You must have put magic in place to filter all the sediment from the pipes. You always were clever, even in the smallest of ways. Your wit was something he admired about you.

He took his time undressing, his ears perked as he heard you rustling paper in the other room. He had felt embarrassed at first about being so sentimental towards you; he had known from the beginning of his journey that any tomes he found would be placed into your care for you to enjoy. He’d read them, of course, the journey from Kovir and Poviss still a long one to the border of Redania where you lived. As he divulged himself in the ancient knowledge of his Witcher school, he always pictured you reading the same words he did; he felt your presence nestling into his skin, enveloping him like a magic spell. He liked to imagine how you’d react to the pages, how many notes you would scribble down from certain intriguing sections.

Ushijima thought about you more than he cared to admit.

Naked, he stepped into the bath, his screaming muscles finally silenced under the hot press of water against his body. The bathing pool had a ledge around its border, and he took a seat at the back, arms spreading out like heavy wings along the rocky edge. He sat where he could watch the door; it was instinct, he told himself, to always be aware of his surroundings, but he knew he was just waiting to glimpse your figure appear before him.

Some nights, when preparing his tent under the stars, he would think of the first time he met you. He had traveled with Tendō to some opulent gathering in Toussaint, one filled with wine and vampires he knew were hidden amongst the crowds, but any thought he had of a hunt had vanished when he saw you. You were delightful, enchanting, eye-catching amongst the throngs of people. It didn’t take long for his friend to seek you out, to gain your friendship, and Ushijima watched patiently from the sidelines, watched how you held yourself with such poise and dignity. But all the while, he was aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to know you.

You had become his guilty pleasure over the years, a fantasy he envisioned as he lay alone at night. Even when he was meditating, he was hard-pressed to not find himself seeing your skin behind his eyes, imagining how your body would feel within his hands. The hands of a killer, a fiend, hands that crushed whatever he held all too easily. But you, you were so powerful, so seemingly untouchable, and he found himself unworthy to behold you. He was just another creature, a man turned monster, someone wholly undeserving of a divine sorceress.

He huffed to himself, a shy smile pulling at his cheeks as he thought of your words from earlier.

“The things we do for love.” He repeated the words to himself, sinking a little deeper into the water.

He didn’t have to wait long for you to enter. He was unexpectedly aware of his nakedness as you entered, fully clothed still in your corset and trousers. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, spreading down across his belly, at the prospect of watching you change; it would be impolite to ogle you. He turned his gaze instead to the water, watching how the surface lapped at his skin as he shifted his weight.

“Are you comfortable?” You called out to him from across the room. He could hear your clothing shuffling, hear the laces coming undone one by one from your body. The room felt quiet, the air smothering. He’d felt so bold earlier, but now he felt almost ashamed that he had asked you to join him.

“Ushiwaka,” you implored with a little more strain to your voice, “don’t tell me you’ve gone shy on me.”

His gaze shifted up for only a moment, catching a glimpse of your naked back as you peered over your shoulder at him, your hands ready to pull down your breeches and become fully naked. He couldn’t help himself, he gawked at your beauty, tracing every curve, line, and dip across your splendidly sculpted skin. You looked more beautiful than any constellation he pointed out with his finger in the night sky. He unabashedly gazed at the planes of your shoulders, the gentle slope of your spine. He imagined taking his time to map the uncharted waters of your body, of discovering every hidden cosmos tucked away within your curves.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “I think I’ve become even more comfortable at the sight of you.”

He held his breath for a moment, waiting for your reaction. Upon seeing you smile and turn your face away, he sighed, sinking deeper into the pool, arms barely keeping him afloat from where they rested on the edge.

He heard splashing as you waded into the water, submerging yourself up to your neck before you came to sit just a few feet away from him. From here, he could study you more closely, see the elegant slope of your neck into your shoulder. He was pleased to note that he could still make out the form of your breasts in the water, the lovely globes just barely dipping out of sight.

“I must say, even in the given circumstances, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.” He always loved how silky your voice was, always melodious to his ears. He always worried he’d forget how it sounded, but your timbre matched the tone he had been playing in his head since he last saw you.

“I haven’t heard the name Ushiwaka in a long time,” he confessed, “it’s always Witcher now, or Ushijima of Velhad since that’s where I did most of my work.”

“Well, you lost that name—Wakatoshi—a long time ago when you were picked up by the Witchers, but I know it is sentimental to you still. If you prefer, I can just call you Ushijima.”

“You know I don’t mind it.” He felt like he said the words too quickly.

“Hm, well, I’ll call you anything you let me, Ushiwaka.”

A shiver hit his body at your words, he was keen enough to know there was innuendo laced behind them.

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You closed your eyes, head leaning back against the warm stone as you allowed the steamy water to wash away the grime of the day. You moved your hands over your body, feeling the sticky sweat melt away. You reached for a small towel, tossing one in Ushijima’s direction and watching how he caught it so effortlessly, like a cat swatting at a shadow on the wall. He received a small bar of lavender soap with the same ease, his nose wrinkling at the flowery scent.

You both took a moment to wash, you humming an old tune, Ushijima remaining silent aside from the sloshing of water made from his heavy limbs beneath the surface.

You’d never been in such an intimate space with him before. A bath is time of solace and cleansing, but also one of exposure and susceptibility. Water intentionally brings forth feelings of intimacy and ambivalence. You knew he was there, watching, his heightened senses attuned to every sound, smell, every minimal movement around him. You couldn’t take his silence any longer.

“I—,” you began quietly, “can I ask you something?”

His movements ceased, those radiant eyes now focusing entirely on you. You instantly felt heat spread across your chest, climbing up and darkening your ears with blush. You wondered for a moment if he could see through you, in you, see how fast your heart was pounding blood through all your veins. His intense stare made you feel like he was closer, his deadly hand wrapped acutely around your heart, aiding it as it struggled to beat harder, faster.

“Of course.” His words were direct, poignant, the deep vibrations almost tingling the water itself.

“When you were facing that Hym, at any moment, did you fear it would sense your grief?”

You could tell he was taken aback by your words. He placed the wet cloth to his chest, his long fingers digging into the fabric as he pondered what you said.

Once again, he wasn’t sure if he should simplify the truth. He mulled over your question, let the words seep into his consciousness as he looked up to the ceiling. He should’ve known you were astute enough to see through him.

“Yes,” he stated, “I did.”

He didn’t wish to elaborate any further, but he could tell his curt response didn’t satisfy your internal reasonings.

“I see.” You noted somberly.

“How did you know?”

He watched you slink farther under the water, searching for cover, searching for a way not to express your thoughts. He noticed how your legs crossed beneath the surface, the light from the hanging candles glittering through the water.

“I know you didn’t choose this path, didn’t choose to be a Witcher. That was forced upon you; you were lucky you even survived the Trial of Grasses that made you into what you are—.”

“A monster.” He interjected flatly.

“You’re not…” you sighed, dipping your head into your wet hand, “you’re no monstrosity, Ushi, not even a miscreation.”

He tensed at your words, catching how you regarded him with a solemn look.

“I didn’t choose a life of sorcery, you know. I was torn away from society when I was a girl, taught to use my source of magic to heal wounds, but also how to kill someone in an instant. People…powerful people used me to their advantage. It’s why I stay hidden now, I’m running from my past misdeeds. I know what it is like to have regrets; to grieve.”

He only nodded in understanding, afraid of using the wrong affirmations.

A heavy silence fell between you once again. You plucked the soap from its resting place behind you, thoughts tumbling through your mind like the waves crashing at the shore outside. So many words were desperate to leave your mouth, to be birthed and said and made into reality between you, but you dared not.

If anyone understood the weightiness, the hidden meaning behind silence, it was Ushijima.

But even he couldn’t bear it much longer. He grunted, running his wet hands over his face as he contemplated his next move.

“Well, tell me this. What would you be if not a sorceress?”

“Hm? Oh, I’ve never thought about it before. I’ve just…always accepted my fate.”

“I’d have been a sportsman,” he declared, a slight uplift in his voice.

“Oh really?” He watched as a grin pulled at your cheeks, the heaviness of the conversation before dissipating. “And what sports are you good at, Ushiwaka?”

“Anything with a ball,” he shrugged, “some kids down south play games with poorly strung nets, and they do their best to keep the ball from hitting the ground as they toss it back and forth. I think I’d be quite decent at it; I am agile, after all.”

“Powerful, too.” You remarked.

“You think so?” He teased.

He eyed you carefully as you set the cloth and soap aside.

You began to move... towards him. His eyes narrowed, his hands mimicking your actions and setting his bathing instruments to the side, freeing his hands.

You were ethereal in the water, gentle waves lapping at your skin, the ebb and flow of it shimmering around your body.

“Now that I think about it, I know what I would at least be proficient as if not a sorceress.”

The smirk that tugged at your lips intrigued him. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for you, taking your arms and pulling you towards his chest.

“And that is?”

Time stopped for a moment as you settled yourself into his lap, the sound of your breathing, the feeling of skin upon skin, touch upon touch, the only increments of time needed.

His body was so hot, so willing to accept yours upon it.

“I’d be a wonderful whore.”

Golden eyes flickered up to you, lashes low, his lips parted.

“Care to show me?”

Your skin was cold to his warm touch, his hot breath fanning across your cheeks. He was so close, so eager, you could feel hardness begin to form between where your thighs cradled his.

Your hands slid across his shoulders, feeling the grooves and puckers of scars pass under your touch. You settled your grasp onto his neck, steadying yourself above him. His hands played against your skin under the water, the heavy fingers finding your hips and sinking into the smooth flesh he found. You gasped aloud at the feeling; his grip was strong, iron-clad, daring to leave marks behind. You wanted to break under his touch, collapse against his chest and allow the water to pull you both under into euphoria, but you secured your inner desires. Your back straightened, your fingers clawing into his thick skin.

“Ushiwaka,” you whispered it like a humble prayer, your lips brushing his, “kiss me.”

He groaned, pulling you a little closer, spreading your thighs a little wider.

“Why don’t you kiss me, little temptress? Show me how much you want me.”

You felt bewitched, wondering for a moment if he had placed you under a mind control spell with his words. Your thoughts were jumbled, but they were still yours: kiss him, touch him, read the hidden words on his inky pages like you had long desired.

Your lips met his tenderly, hesitantly, tasting the salt of water and sweat against his awaiting mouth. He breathed through his nose like he was exhaling life into you. He moved his mouth against yours, testing you, pushing at you, and effortlessly you gave in. Your eyes were closed, but you felt like you could still see him, felt like you knew every step in the dance he was leading you in. It felt so natural, so smooth, and you found yourself clinging to him with every press of his lips against yours.

Then his mouth fell open; an invitation. You followed him, sliding your tongue in, finding his own past his teeth. He felt like true sin, his tongue tempting yours to reveal its secrets to him. It was slow, methodical, a mutual exploration of tastes and pleasures you had both long craved to discover.

Your chest fell to his, your breasts meeting the hard planes of muscle found there. You moaned, the sound of water moving igniting your hunger as one of his hands meandered up your back, fingers lapsing into your soft muscles. He offered you a groan, and you took it desperately, hastening your kiss and plunging you both deeper into one another. One of your hands wandered from his neck, slipping down his chest, pressing him back against the edge of the pool. Your nails pulled at his flesh, wanting, needing, unknowing how to gain purchase against such solid muscle.

He tasted like tea leaves: earnest, alluring, but also like the earth, like something natural and primal. It was a taste that was familiar, enticing, and every time he took a moment to breathe, you found yourself diving back in for another taste, another glimpse of what lay hidden beyond his lips.

“Mhm,” he moaned as he finally pulled away, chest rising and falling, “perhaps I’ll mold you into my own personal whore.”

“I’d like that, Ushiwaka.”

The blood within his veins rushed to his cock at the sound of his name, of that personal name, falling from your sweet voice. Fuck, he would give anything to have you, but it seemed that he didn’t have to. He could feel by the way you clung to him, by the way you kissed him with such fervor, that you desired him all the same. It was thrilling to know you wanted him, and he wondered how far he could take you.

His hand glided away from your back, circling around to your chest. He cupped one of your breasts in his hands, holding back a groan as he felt the weight of it within his palm. He watched how the water lapped at your skin, the ripples from his movement brushing against a hardening nipple. The small sound of delight that left your lips had him refocusing his gaze to your face. You wore a sly smile, your own hand upon his neck tightening in anticipation of his next move.

“I’m a dark man, my love. Hardened.”

He was toying with you, but his words offered some truth. Ushijima had been envisioning you like this for far too long; there many devious things he wanted to do to your body.

You leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss to his ear, your voice low, “hardened indeed…I can feel you between my thighs.”

He smirked at your words, taking your nipple between his fingers and listening to you gasp as he gave it a simple tug. Your teeth found his ear in response, nipping tenderly.

His eyes fluttered at the feeling; a groan caught in his throat. He wondered if you could sense it. You pulled back slightly, angling your head to give him another kiss. He accepted it gladly, tongue ready to find yours again.

“You can be an obedient little whore, can’t you?” He rumbled against your lips; his words being lost inside your mouth.

You ate the words like you were starved, a hot moan swallowing them down as you felt a shock of pleasure race down your spine. He grunted at your action, the hand upon your breast squeezing in response.

“Yes,” you said softly, as he allowed you to escape his kiss, “where did all your chivalry go, Ushiwaka?”

He smirked as you teased him, his lips dipping to your neck, tongue tracing the lingering water droplets that fell down your skin.

“It’s waiting between your legs.”

It was a growl, the sound of a predator marking his prey, the sound of a man holding back his lusts.

You sucked in a breath, eyes closing as you dipped your head back and allowed him more access to the length of your throat. The hand at your breast squeezed harder, his thumb and forefinger rolling languidly across your straining nipple. You felt like you were lost at sea, the weight of the water around your bodies feeling heavier as Ushijima pulled you into his tides. He was the moon, pushing you, pulling you; he always has been. For so long he kept you at arm’s length, toying with you, teasing you, bringing you so close to him but never close enough. But tonight, the moon was waning, his control faltering as he finally gave in and allowed himself to fall into the calling sea.

He held you back on his thighs, but you could feel the heat radiating from his body below the surface. One of your hands trailed down his chest as he sucked dark red marks into the junction of your shoulder and neck, staining your skin with colors from his own making. He bit your skin especially rough when your wandering fingers found the hard lines of his stomach.

You were tentative, taking a moment to feel if his wound was finally gone from the magic bestowed upon him. You could only feel scars underneath your palm, though one felt particularly puckered and new. But his stomach wasn’t your goal, it was what was straining against it.

He cursed into your skin when you wrapped your hand around his cock, fingers pumping against the silken skin within the water. His lips fell lower, his eyes closing as he littered open-mouth kisses against your chest, now using both hands to cup your breasts and bring a nipple within his mouth. You moaned loudly, a rush of ecstasy coursing through your veins. He pulled you forward, forcing your hand away from his cock. Instead, he shifted to where his cock was nestled between your pussy and his stomach, allowing just enough friction to keep you wanting.

He needed to keep his head clear if he was going to please you in all the ways he had dreamt of. He was going to taste you, tease you, earn the right to claim your body as his own.

“Ushi—,” you went to whine, but a calloused pinch to your nipple ripped his name away from your mouth.

“Be quiet.” He demanded against your breast, teeth lightly tugging at your hardened bud.

You only gasped in response, hands smoothing across his broad shoulders as he worked his way to your other breast, hands needy, mouth exceptionally hot. Your hips pressed down and you felt the length of his thick cock against your aching pussy. You experimentally slid yourself against him, desperate to feel more touch against your most sensitive flesh, against the place that had wanted him for so long.

His hands moved to your hips to still you, his vice-like grip returning.

His mouth left your breast, his chin tilting up to look at you. Those glowing eyes were dark, ravenous; perhaps there was something monstrous sleeping inside of him, ready to awaken.

“Stop tempting me. You’ll regret it.”

His reflexes snapped as your lips parted to speak. Two thick fingers slid onto your tongue, pressing it down, the taste of water and leather swirling in your mouth. His taste was a mixture of his worn gloves and the floral soap he’d cleansed himself with. You groaned, head tilting back as you let him have his way, your mouth suctioning around his fingers for some kind of relief.

He eyed you carefully, watching the sinews in your neck come on display for him. Bruising marks of his design were blooming on your skin, little fragments of memories coming to life before his eyes. Your mouth felt like sin and he could already imagine how it would feel to have his cock sliding against the supple lips wrapped around his fingers.

Ushijima twisted your nipple again, a little harder, a little tighter, feeling pleased with himself as he heard and felt the grumble of a groan against his skin. A small drip of saliva trickled down your chin and he used his thumb to smear it into your cheek.

He could’ve held you like this for all eternity, had you pressed against his cock, his fingers padded against your tongue, your beautiful breasts on display as he groped one, watching the flesh mold into his hand. He had you subdued, compliant, a wondrous creature caught in a dangerous trap. He could do anything he wanted to you right here and now, and the realization had his cock twitching against your cunt.

For his own enjoyment, he was going to mark you, leave something behind on the picturesque pallet of your body.

You would never be allowed to forget him, as he knew this vision of you would forever live inside his mind.

He took his time, each bite and suck carefully and meticulously placed. Ushiwaka was never one to use his mouth without purpose, whether it be for his words, or his kisses. Your shoulders, your chest, your breasts, nothing was forgotten, and you felt like you had been sitting on his lap for eons. Each time his mouth curled into your flesh, his hair tickling you, you felt hotter, more alive than before. You pressed down harder against him, searching for some kind of release to the pleasure he was building inside of you. But he had you pinned, a strong arm encircled your back and kept you exactly where he wanted you.

When he sucked your nipple back into his mouth, you cried out against his fingers, your tongue darting between the digits as you sucked a quick breath in through your nose. He paid you no mind, his own tongue licking meticulously at your nipple, up and down, slow and steady. The bliss that erupted from your breast was almost mind-numbing. Your thighs clenched around his, your head lolling back even farther than before. You needed more, you were desperate to feel that talented mouth back on yours, to feel his fat cock slip inside you were you needed it.

Finally, he released you, his mouth leaving your breast as he slipped his fingers from your mouth. You took a moment to catch your breath. He splashed his drool covered fingers in the water, bringing the wet digits back to your face to wipe you clean, his thumb tracing your lips with care.

“See what being quiet gets you?”

You nodded your head in agreement, your nails finally releasing his shoulders where they had been clawing into his skin.

“I need you,” your arms wrapped around his neck, your mouth finding his in a tender kiss, “please, Ushiwaka.”

“You beg so prettily, my love. Perhaps I should have you beg a little more.”

“No! Fuck, please…” you entangled yourself around him, legs curling around his toned waist, your face nestling into his shoulder. You brushed the skin found there with your mouth, hungrily moaning against him. You were frantic; you had already waited for him for so long, thought about him for too many nights, too many years.

His strong arms enveloped your back and he lifted you easily from the water. You adhered yourself to his body, ready to have your muscles clench around him to assist, but he needed no such help. Your weight was effortless to him.

Ushijima used the ledge of the pool as a step, faultlessly exiting the pool like a nautical divinity coming to soft shores. He was cautious as he laid your wet body upon the heated stone, careful not to crush you under his weight. He watched your eyes alight as you took in the sight of him out of the water, now hovering above you. Your gentle fingers traced over his biceps, his shoulders, his chest, finding the constellations of scars upon his skin, his own physical galaxy for you to explore.

He took your face in his hand as one of his muscled thighs spread your legs. You were entranced in his gaze, finding yourself lost in the molten amber of his eyes as his pupils danced across your face. He was taking in every bit of you that he could, burning this vision of you below him into his memory. You were flushed, lips parted, slightly swollen from his ardent kisses. Your delicate hands moved to rest beside your head, palms facing him, submissive.

“Please,” your voice broke him from his trance, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

He nodded in response, eyes tracing down across your body. He relished having you before him like this, back arching towards him, breasts falling, your hips shifting against his legs. The hand on your face trailed away, making a path down your torso, fingers swirling against the lost dewy droplets against your skin. And then he finally peered down farther, having to steel himself from groaning as he found your awaiting pussy.

Your skin was prickling from the cool air meeting it, gooseflesh creeping up your legs, down your arms. Your heart was pounding in your ears as you watched him, waiting for him. You could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind, though you wished you could know them. What was he thinking? Was he hesitant?

Your own contemplations vanished when his warm, wet fingers spread your pussy, two fingers deftly sinking along the sides of your lower lips. You moaned, eyes fluttering closed, heat pooling within your belly. He took his time exploring you; he was a man of patience, after all.

You could feel his weight shift back as he sat on his knees, spreading your legs across his thighs. He curled one leg back for him, opening you up more for his viewing pleasure. His finger slowly traced up the center of your cunt, finding your sticky wetness coating the digit as it carefully curled against your clit. You let out a quick gasp, hips twitching, and he repeated the motion, watching you slowly come apart from the simplest of touches.

His other hand found his cock, fisting it as he played with you. You could hear the slick pumping of his hand against himself, and you moved your weight upon your elbows to sit up and watch him. Even on his knees, Ushijima of Velhad was intimidating, all broad shoulders and heavily corded muscle across his body. You admired how his arm flexed as he stroked himself, how his toned stomach was clenching with need. Your mouth fell open as you glimpsed his thick cock within his palm. It fit so perfectly in his big hand, throbbing, thick veins calling out to be inside of you.

You wanted to beg for him again, but your words were lost when one of his fingers slid inside of you, stretching your walls to fit around him. You dropped back against the warm stone, mouth falling open.

“So tight,” he said it like a fact, like he expected it, “you’ll feel so good stuffed with my cock.”

You bit into your lip in a whimper as he curled the digit inside of you, pumping it once, twice, with agonizing slowness. But soon, he added a second finger, the thick digits spreading you, testing you. His pace was calculated, fingers pleasurably systematic. You moaned at every twist and plunge, hips arching off the floor to meet his pace. His thumb began to circle your clit and you swore that stars overtook your vision, bursting in the corners of your eyes as you tried to focus on the ecstasy churning deep within your stomach. His long fingers were stroking your velvety walls just perfectly, each plunge feeling deeper and deeper than before, fanning the flames beneath your skin even hotter.

“Ushi, please…”

“Please what, my love? Tell me.”

He was particularly cruel, electing to rub your clit faster, harder, making your words choke in your throat. You cried out, feeling the orgasmic coil begin to tighten in your belly. You were already so strung out for his love, for his touch, and you knew your little death was just around the corner.

“Make me cum, p-please!”

You felt his heavy body come back to yours, the hand on his cock ceasing its movements and instead finding your hand beside your head. His strong fingers wrapped around your flesh, curling into your forearm, thumb tactfully pinning down your wrist to the stones below.

He repositioned the hand between your thighs, now using the palm of his hand to press against your aching clit. His fingers found the soft patch of flesh inside of you, petting against it skillfully, like he already knew exactly what you needed, knew exactly what made you fall apart to his immoral hands.

His face dipped to yours, causing your eyes to flicker open to find his adoring gaze above you. He pressed a lazy kiss to your lips, muffling your moans as your legs began to press against his forearm, thighs begging for the release he could bring you. His mouth matched the rhythm of his fingers within you, his body in harmony with your own, pulling you tightly like the strings on a well-played lute. You were so ready to snap, so ready to sing songs of praise up into him, but all too soon his mouth and his hand left your body.

He could read the bewilderment on your face, feel you try to press back against him, but he held you down easily with the weight he forced onto your wrist.

“I want to feel you come undone on my cock,” he whispered against your lips, “are you ready?”

His hand, now slick from your pussy, pushed your thighs apart wider, curled your legs back farther, his own thighs pressing into your soft flesh. You felt his cockhead brush between your dripping folds.

“Yes! Take me, for the love of all things hol—!”

His hips slammed into yours, his throbbing cock filling you, stretching, pressing you far beyond what you expected. He hushed your cry with his mouth, his hand cupping your thigh and urging your body to move with him as he began to thrust within you. Your hand that he pinned to the floor fisted in on itself, your nails threatening to break your own skin as your mind struggled to catch up with your pleasure. You were so full, so fucking full, so overwhelmed by him.

His dewy, tawny skin felt so sinful against yours, the lingering moisture on your bodies bleeding into one another. His hips were strong, fast, each plunge of his cock going deep, deep, deep into your awaiting depths, finally uncovering every hidden place on your body to have as his own. You gasped and moaned into his mouth, and his sighs melded with yours, his kiss desperate, lips crashing into yours with more fervor than the storm that raged outside.

You felt so utterly lost, yet so wholly encompassed by him, by his earthy scent, by the weight of his body against yours. Your breasts slid against his chest, nipples pebbling as they brushed against his downy hair. Your back was skating against the warm stones below, the pressure against the hard surface enough to make you ache, but it paled in comparison to the jolts of pure pleasure that resounded through your body with every thrust of his massive cock inside of you.

“More,” you pleaded softly, lips peppering him with ardent kisses, “more, more, more.”

You felt him place more pressure on your trapped wrist and you gasped, worried for a split moment that your bones would splinter under his power. But he was cautious, moving your arm gently to rest above your head. The hand on your thigh crept up your body, stopping for only an instant to grope at your bouncing breast. But his fingers quickly moved on, skimming up your other arm, palm smoothing against your dampened skin. He soon found your wrist, now using both his mighty arms to pin your own above your head, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

His words were a dare, a wicked promise.

At the nodding of your head, he smirked, lips coming to your ear.

“Tell me to stop if it becomes too much, you promise?”

His thrusts had never faltered, the air in your lungs still hot from all your heavy breaths. You closed your eyes again, finding your voice.

“I promise.”

The primal sound that left his chest startled you; you could feel the rumbling spread across your body like aftershocks of an earthquake. His hands around your wrists tightened, arms tensing. He shifted forwards, pushing your hips up, legs wider.

And then he began to pound mercilessly into your body. You screamed, the high-pitched shrill echoing within the room, rebounding off the walls, soaking into his naked skin. Every fantasy he ever had of you suddenly came alive inside his mind, burning like a roaring fire, making his vision go blind as he pounded himself inside of you. You were so warm, so god damn tight, your pussy sucking him in with every unbridled thrust that he felt like he would break open from all the euphoria that was crackling within him.

He called out your name, over, and over, and over again, reminding himself who he was with, who he finally had coming undone below him. He was still holding back, too afraid of breaking you, but even still his hips moved faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing in his ears like the constant moans and praises that feel from your mouth.

“Ushi, fuck, fuck, yes!”

He was being cruel, he knew it, slamming into you like this, making your body bow into the floor, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel that coil that was tightening inside of you earlier come to fruition on his cock, he needed to spill his seed inside of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel what was happening to you. All your focus was upon his cock stretching your pussy, filling you so perfectly that you knew you’d never want to feel another again. It was like you were made for him; all your limits were being pushed at once. Your wrists ached within his grip, surely bruising under such an immense hold, but you felt secure, safe underneath his power.

Your knees were bent to their threshold of flexibility, your ass now well above the floor as he curled you to fit him. His cock was so deep, his thrusts now remaining almost entirely inside of you, pounding away at your insides like a man gone mad. You were at the borders of your composure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, eyes watering, mouth open, body stinging, longing, begging for him, “g-gonna, gonna, cum!”

“That’s right,” he murmured, tongue daring to skim the shell of your ear, “cum on my cock, baby, cum for me.”

Your nails finally pierced the flesh of your palms as you came completely undone around him, orgasm bursting forth and blooming around you in euphoria. All your senses came crashing down, every small detail becoming more alive and ever present than ever before. It was all so much, the pleasure pooling in your belly and spreading across your body faster than lightning that raced across the sky. His hot breath was against your neck, your legs aching, blood dripping down your palms, water still cooling against your skin, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks. You could hear every sound: your screams ringing against the stone, his grunts into your hair, the wet suck of your pussy around his cock, even the still water resting in the pool.

Your body was wrecked with tremors as he continued his ruthless assault, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. Your orgasm drenched his cock with thick, wet slick, encouraging him to drive a little harder, push a little deeper. He heard little pained gasps from your mouth, but he warned you he was corrupt, told you to stop him, yet you were taking him so fucking well, so fucking perfect like he knew you would. He was so close, so painfully close, his cock throbbing, his rigorous pace becoming unsettled as he felt your sweet thighs wrap around him.

Then there it was, the sound of your voice, the sound of his goddess calling to him.

“I want your cum, n-need it, please, fill me up, make me yours.”

He finally crashed, your words like the irresistible call of a siren. Hot cum filled your tight pussy, his cock thumping deep inside your womb. You felt like you could breathe again, his inhuman strength finally laxing upon your ruined body.

His mouth found yours again, his lips tender and now so familiar and welcoming. The tension in your body washed away, his loving hands tracing over your body as he allowed your legs to finally rest. Your heart was hammering in your chest; you could feel every beat inside your rib cage as you finally calmed down, mind returning, body waking up from its lust.

Ushijima slid himself from inside of you, leaving your body with a groan of satisfaction. He watched his cum pool between your thighs, pearl white and stark against the stones. He looked up at you, all of you, admiring your spent body below him. He watched how your breasts heaved with breaths, how your eyes were blinking mindlessly up at the ceiling as you came down from your high.

But then he recognized the bruises on your arms, the bites on your chest, the indentions of the stone upon your sides, the bloody nail prints in your open palms. He cursed himself, cursed his monstrous hands—he knew he was never meant to hold you, that he was unworthy.

“I hurt you.”

His simple words brought you back to reality.

You sat up then, stretching your body as you came face-to-face with him once more.

“Oh please.” You chided, a smile forming on your face as you cast a simple spell within your torn hands. He eyed you curiously as the blue tinge of magic twisted within your palms, your small wounds closing, even the marks upon your chest healing to a more reasonable color. They were still there, the small reminders he created, but they would fade on their own in a few days.

You took his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his handsome cheeks.

“No more grief, Ushiwaka. Please, for me?”

He only drew you closer in response, cradling you in his arms.

A few words of thanks came forth from his mouth, but you paid them little mind, too caught up in his embrace. You remained entangled in one another for a moment longer, both at ease in the company of each other’s breaths, your heart beats, the feeling of fingers skimming over skin.

“Stay with me awhile?” You questioned softly into his chest.

“Did you think I was going to leave after that?”

“You always leave, you know, at some point.”

“Not this time, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”

You both felt the pull then, the same tug that you had both longed to feel for so long.

You were at home.

Ushijima pulled you to your feet, wordlessly leading you to get dressed and follow him back into your great room. You saw the books still open on your desk, forlorn and nearly forgotten.

He settled back into the chair after stoking the fire in your pit, bringing the flames back to life. He stretched out, yawned, and appeared wholly comfortable there, magnificent arms crossed upon his chest.

You could get used to seeing him there, and you knew little by little, he’d allow you to read his pages, too.

_______________________________________________________________________

Note: I don’t own anything from Haikyuu or the Witcher Universe.

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hlizr50 · 3 years

Text

Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 4

Gwyn is coping. Merrill is the worst. Az is... Az.

Read on AO3

Gwyn rubbed her eyes, the book spines blurring in front of her. It didn’t help that she’d been banished to one of the lower levels, where the dark creeped between the stacks and threatened to follow her. It also didn’t help that she had barely slept the night before. And that she’d come to the library straight from training.

It had been six days since she’d woken up bleary-eyed after Azriel had left her in the rain. And, as she’d thought, things were better. She had thrown herself into training and work, but she felt good about how she was managing.

She was tired.

But she could deal with that.

Merrill, of course, had sunk her claws into Gwyn’s wounds almost immediately, but she knew how to handle the haughty, hateful priestess. The first few days had been rough, but she sang to herself through the extra hours she spent in the library and let the melodies accompany her as she shelved and retrieved the tomes Merrill had demanded.

Azriel had even returned to training, which was oddly comforting despite this new distance between them. It was almost normal again – Cassian with the advanced females and Azriel with the novices. Neither of them lingered after like they used to, but she couldn’t help stealing a glance or two in his direction.

She would have to work on that.

With the last book shelved and her cart filled with new volumes for the white-haired priestess, Gwyn began the trek back up the ramp. She tried not to think about what Merrill would say when she found out that Gwyn couldn’t locate one of the tomes on the shelves. She’d looked at every pile left on a table or desk but couldn’t locate it. If she hadn’t already taken too long she would have started inquiring with every priestess she could find –

“Where is that miserable girl?”

The freckles on Gwyn’s nose bunched as she scowled, Merrill’s screech echoing over the ramps. She inhaled deeply and breathed out her sigh, steeling herself for the encounter.

“I’m on my way, sister!” Her legs burned with the extra effort it took to push the cart laden with leather-bound parchment. With her extra time in the library – to help her minimize the time when she was idle and alone – her body was still adjusting to the additional walking, pushing, and lifting.

Library work really was good conditioning.

Merrill was no longer at the rail when she reached level four so Gwyn pushed the cart through the stacks and down the hall to the sister’s office. Papers and books were strewn about, and the copper-haired priestess wondered how she could possibly keep everything straight. Of course, she’d had Gwyn to help – that was how.

“I hope you found the time between frolicking and singing to do what I asked of you?”

“Merrill, I was fully focused on your task,” she searched for a way to satisfy the female. “The work just makes me so happy I can’t help but sing.” Gwyn pasted a bright smile on her face as she lugged a stack into the office, searching for any clear surface that might hold them.

“Foolish Gwyneth,” Merrill hissed, not deigning to look at her. “Have you ever thought that some of the females here don’t want your songs thrust upon them? Have you ever thought about how they might feel seeing you so joyous when they cannot be?”

The younger priestess stilled, arms growing heavy with the weight of the tomes in her grasp. She hadn’t considered that, ever. The library was a place of sanctuary and healing, and she had been experiencing those things. She had never noticed if any of the other sisters were affected by it. Surely Clotho would have mentioned something to her if there had been complaints.

“Selfish, wretched girl.”

Gwyn sighed and set the books down as gently as she could on the corner of a small end table.

“I couldn’t find the third volume of The Continent. One of the other priestesses must have it. But I’m going to inquire with them now.” She turned to leave, hoping she could make it before the wintry female could toss more vitriol at her.

“Pathetic, Gwyneth. To prance around happy and content when you can’t even perform your basic duties. When you play at being strong and brave yet can’t manage to leave the library. You should learn that you are not special. You are utterly plain and ordinary and you should behave as such.” Gwyn kept walking although her shoulders sagged. She knew she wasn’t special – had never thought herself better than anyone else. But she also knew she wasn’t ordinary. She had been training in combat for more than a year. She counted some of the most powerful fae in Prythian among her friends. She had won the Illyrian Blood Rite.

But Merrill, of course – the cunning white witch – had snagged a claw in one of her buried insecurities and dangled it before her, as if it were on display for all to see. Gwyn still wasn’t comfortable with venturing into the city, for all of her growth and accomplishments. She walked proudly most days with a smile pulling at her lips, secure in her body and strength and heart. But somehow Merrill always knew what to say, where to push and prod. She had joked with Nesta that she must be daemati and would just gaze into Gwyn’s mind as if it were her own.

Nesta had just said she was a bitchy old crone stuck in a fae body, doomed to live for a near-eternity, and she was just bitter about being alive for so long.

The priestess grinned to herself as she went in search of… well, anyone. She pictured the list of females that she would have to check off, one by one, to ensure she found the missing volume. She was nimbly navigating the stacks when a familiar voice reached her.

“Gwyn! Somehow I knew I’d find you still here.” Gwyn paused and turned toward Nesta’s call, smiling wide at her Valkyrie sister. She noticed how the eldest Archeron had started wearing her hair down and smiling easily, and Gwyn felt her heart swell to see happiness reflected in those once-frigid eyes.

“Nesta,” she sighed as they met for an embrace. “What brings you down here at this hour?”

“Well you weren’t in your room,” Nesta fixed her with a pointed look before echoing, “at this hour. You’ve been working a lot.” Not an assessment, nor an observation. Just a statement to the priestess, a signal that she was onto her.

Gwyn flashed the most convincing serene smile she could muster and beckoned for her friend to walk with her. If Merrill caught her dilly-dallying she was as good as dead. “Merrill has been very demanding lately. Spending more time here helps me accomplish more and helps me make sure she gets what she needs.” She avoided Nesta’s skeptical reaction, knowing full well the look in those eyes would burn right through her defenses.

“So… you’re working yourself to exhaustion to appease that witch?”

Gwyn couldn’t very well admit that she needed to stay occupied, or that her exhaustion wasn’t just because of long working hours.

“You know how much I value her research, Nesta. It’s worth a little extra effort.” The two warriors continued to wander through the stacks, Gwyn making sure to eyeball every stray pile of books in search of volume three of The Continent.

“Well, tomorrow night you’re taking off,” Nesta mused, breaking the companionable silence. The young priestess halted, mouth opening to argue. “You’re spending the night with Emerie and me.”

“Nesta –“

“No, Gwyn. You’ve been working constantly, barely talking to us after training. We miss you.” She gave Gwyn the most un-Nesta-like face, pouting her lower lip and widening those ice-gray eyes. “Pretty please, Gwynnie?”

“Oh you know I hate when you call me that,” Gwyn huffed. But her nose crinkled with her grin as she reached up and pinched her friend’s cheek. “How could I say no to that face, though?” The Valkyries giggled together and Nesta leaned in to kiss her sister’s cheek.

“Perfect. Six o’clock, the House library. We’ll have dinner and dessert and books and Mother knows what else.” Gwyn smiled as Nesta gave her a look. “Don’t work too late, Gwyn. You’re tired. I can tell.”

“Oh, quit worrying you busybody,” she shooed Nesta away as she stuck out her tongue. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

~~~

Azriel paced around the group of novices, shrewdly observing footwork, weight distribution, and body position as they moved through their stretching and grounding exercises. Despite his neutral expression he was relatively impressed. It wasn’t like him to offer praise in the training ring – that was more Cassian’s and Gwyn’s nature – but he could acknowledge consistent improvement he was seeing.

“Alright, take a break,” he let his voice rise into the summer afternoon. “Get some water. We’ll start working core in a few minutes.” The shadowsinger quirked his lip as he ignored their groans and strode over to the other side of the training ring, where his shadows had been pulling him. They had been particularly insistent since he returned to training, eager to be nearer to a certain priestess after so long apart. Cassian stood, arms crossed, observing the sparring matches between the advance females. Gwyn and Nesta were a blur of punches, feints, and footwork as Azriel stopped next to the general.

“Berdara is sluggish. Watch,” Cassian muttered, and Az forced his gaze toward that ribbon-tied hair shining like copper in the sun. Even with her face red with exertion he could see the bruise-like circles under her eyes and the tightness in her features. Her breathing was ragged, shoulders slouched, weight too far on her heels.

“She’s dropped her left elbow every time she side-steps. She’s lucky Nesta hasn’t targeted that shoulder.” Azriel tried to sound like the seasoned teacher and watchful warrior, not belying the concern blooming within him.

“She’s lucky she’s talented enough with hand-to-hand. If they had weapons I would sideline her,” the general growled, frustrated. “It’s not safe for her to fight in that condition.” As soon as he said it Nesta’s foot connected with Gwyn’s shoulder. She swiped the priestess’ feet out from under her as she staggered and she fell with a resounding thud on her back. Azriel winced as he tried to control his twirling shadows – they wanted to go to her, to make sure she was okay. It was an effort not to give in to them.

“Water, you two!” Cassian called over as Nesta and Emerie pulled Gwyn to her feet. The spymaster’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. She bent over, hands braced on her knees, panting. Likely that fall had knocked the wind out of her. He looked up in time to see Nesta approaching, water in hand.

“Well fought, Archeron.” Azriel dipped his chin, acknowledging her effort.

“No. I’m not going to claim that victory.” She shook her head before looking to her mate. “She’s not herself.”

The shadowsinger bristled and his shadows seemed to twitch around him.

“What’s going on with her, then?” Cassian asked.

“I’m not sure. I know she’s working double shifts in the library. I’m not sure how she’s sleeping but she seems tired.” Nesta looked between the two Illyrians. “Even if she’s sleeping fine, spending extra time getting berated by Merrill can’t be healthy.”

Azriel grimaced. The priestess – Merrill – had a reputation, to be sure. And to hear that Gwyn was putting herself under so much stress was alarming. He glanced back across the ring and studied her. No laughter, no shining smile.

“I’ve staged an intervention for tonight. She’s spending the night here with me and Emerie.” Azriel felt Nesta’s eyes on him as she spoke. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” When he dared to glance to the side he found them both with shrewd stares centered on him.

“What?” He knew his attempt at nonchalance was pitiful.

“Nothing to offer, Azriel? No thoughts you’d like to share?” Nesta raised her brow to challenge him. Azriel held his mask firmly in place, stoic and cold. But his chest was a chasm, guilt rushing in like a waterfall. He knew… he knew the changes they were seeing were because of him. He turned unseeing eyes across the ring, struggling to find a place to focus. But that copper-spun hair shining in the heat of the afternoon grounded him, a tether to reality. He couldn’t get the sound of her crying out of his head as he took in her wan features and sagging posture. Smoky tendrils settled over his shoulders in resignation.

He had been a fool. A coward.

He had been wrong to walk away.

Azriel turned from Cassian and his mate without a word, ignoring the questioning gazes and the racing thoughts. Instead he slipped into that quiet, observant, demanding presence with the females under his charge.

“Alright, ladies. You’ve had long enough. Time for core.”

He didn’t even grin like he usually did when they begrudgingly obeyed, his mind too full and his soul too empty.

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#gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fic #gwynriel supremacy #azriel x gwyn #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azwyn #acotar fanfic #acosf #ao3 #fanfiction

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rosaliepostsstuff · 3 years

Text

Chapter 4 - Of the D.A. and the good ol’ fashioned muggle beating

series masterlist

tags: @weasleysbees ; @gloryekaterina ; @thatguppienamedbae ; @sagittarius-flowerchild; @hufflepuff5972 ; @pandaxnienke ; @izzyyy-1 and also @valwritesx because you mentioned wanting to give it a read

if you’d like to be added/removed, send a DM or an ask

warnings: swearing, sexual references, mentions of food, violence, a tiny bit of angst word count: 2895 a/n: I had so much fun getting back to this, but simultaneously, at the moment of checking and editing it I’m on my period and super irritable, so I’m not confident about how it came out, didn’t wan’t to hold it up any longer, though, so I hope you like it.

If you have any feedback, please let me know!

—————④—————

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Alicia Spinnet asked in a tiny whisper. “It has to, I mean, why wouldn’t it? It’s really simple, nothing complicated,” you answered while scoping an intersection before taking a turn. “Why didn’t we take Angie..?” Alicia fretted. “Oh, you know what she’d say. Besides, she’s got important things on her mind now, the quidditch team and all…” “Right, right…” Alicia nodded, “but we could’ve asked Fred and George..?” she complained, looking around the dark corridors. “We don’t need them,” you whispered back, “we can do this on our own, now pull yourself together, girl..!” you said, trying to hide just how nervous you were yourself. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” she started walking a little closer to you, as you lit the way with your wand, holding it low enough not to wake the portraits. “We’ve got this.”

“How much do we need?” Alicia questioned, scraping some moss off of an old castle wall. “I dunno… a lot?” you shrugged your shoulders and she glared at you, “keep going, definitely more than that.”

“Did you hear that?” she froze, terrified. You looked around the two of you, scanning your surroundings as your heart rate spiked up, “I didn’t hear anything. Let’s switch, you keep a lookout,” you instructed.

“Here goes nothing,” you pointed your wand at the bucket, standing in an abandoned storage room, in an empty part of the castle, “geminio.”

The bucket multiplied.

“Awesome…” said Alicia, before a long yawn escaped her lips. “Minnie would be proud of me,” you noted, then performed the same spell a few more times.

—————④—————

You were quite weary the next morning, having breakfast with Angelina and Alicia, who was having trouble staying awake over her bowl of cereal.

“Morning,” greeted Fred and George, sliding into empty seats, even though they had free period first, and were lazily greeted back.

Hermione was reading The Daily Prophet a few seats further, and after a few seconds Fred asked, “Inspections..?” “Yeah, she’s gonna be sitting in on our lessons now, apparently. To make reports,” Angelina answered flatly, with a bit of irritation in her voice. “Oh, that should be fun,” George commented, to which Fred added, “I bet, a real shit-show” with a smirk.

Only then George glanced at the still not quite healed sentence on your hand and his face fell a bit, as your friends continued the conversation. Instead of going over the same thoughts once again, he took notice of your posture, facial expression and tired eyes.

“What’s up?” he nudged you with his elbow lightly. “Huh..?” you mumbled. “You look like death,” he stated. “Oh, thanks, charmer,” you replied sarcastically, pouring yourself a bit more coffee. “Everything alright?” George asked. “Yeah, stayed up late, is all,” you answered, avoiding further explanation and George nodded in response.

“What do you have first period?” he asked after a bit of silence, even though he knew the answer. “Ancient runes.”

Later that day, before lunch, you had charms with Flitwick. It was one of few classes George, Fred and you had together.

As soon as the three of you walked into the classroom you noticed the pink toad standing at the front, talking to Flitwick, and you groaned involuntarily.

You walked over to one of the long benches to take your usual seat. George, instead of going to the next one and take his usual seat with Fred behind you, kept walking with you.

“Ehm, excuse me? That’s- that’s my seat,” Clint Nicholson, the Ravenclaw boy who usually sat next to you, pointed out. George gave him a single glance, “find a new one, mate,” he told him and you watched, a bit puzzled. “Will do.” Clint nodded right away and walked away, sitting next to some housemate of his.

“What was that for?” you asked, puzzled, once Clint set his books down. George looked at you with his eyebrows slightly raised. “For your information, I’m here to make sure you don’t end up boiling up again, with her around,” he said, pointing quickly at Umbridge, then ruffled your hair.

You had no energy to argue, so you looked at him dazed for a couple seconds more. “Sorry,” he added quietly, fixing a few strands of hair he messed up on top of your head.

—————④—————

“Wait, is it the musty old shack at the end of one of the side roads?” Lee asked, shoving a bag full of Zonko’s merch in his backpack.

You had just finished shopping with the boys and the four of you were headed to the Hog’s Head Inn. Fred and George had a rough idea of where the pub could be but you were the only one who knew the location.

“I think, isn’t it?” said Fred, before you could answer. “Oooh I know now, the place where the owner has the goat..!” Lee exclaimed like it was the most exciting piece of information in the world, but that was just his talent. “The goat?” George questioned, puzzled, walking with his hands in his pockets. “I mean, a goat. But I heard the guy l e g i t has a goat in there. Like, as a pet,” Lee went on, “or maybe..? Do you think he..?” he trailed off with a suggestive facial expression, making the twins laugh.

“Ugh, stop right there,” you halted their train of thought with disgust written on your face, trying not to picture it. “But yes, that is the place. Reckon we’re gonna need something less crowded... Dodgier.”

You were the last people to join in. After everyone had a butterbeer in hand, they gathered round in front of Harry and you settled in a chair next to Fred and George. The crowd was versatile, mostly 5th years, with a few younger and older people.

Hermione was the one that started talking and then the conversation rolled around the topic of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Although you were quite skilled in that department, wanting to be an Auror, there were always things you could learn or practice, or maybe even help some others.

They started arguing about Harry’s accomplishments. He spoke about how difficult it was, you hadn’t expected to be so moved but when he spoke about being near losing a friend or really losing one, the reality hit you properly. It got you thinking about what if, as you looked at a pair of hands scrunching up a beanie to your right. What if you lost George?

Coming to Hogwarts, you weren’t one of the most confident kids. You got sorted into Gryffindor and naturally got somewhat close to other Gryffindors in your year. George and Fred were wild from day one. They were easy-going and somehow always managed to make you feel comfortable. By the end of your first year, you’d already considered them your proper friends.

It was always easier with George. Although you’d also trust Fred with everything and in return, you could kill for him, you’d always go to George first. So it became not only Fred, George and Y/N but also George and Y/N.

George was always there and understood. With George, you could communicate without words. He always had the right thing to say when you needed him most, and where words were unnecessary or ineffective, he knew the right thing to do. All that on top of being an all-around great guy.

You were always each other’s biggest support, and over the years developed some shared interests. You could still remember the time you discovered your shared love for one particular book series and how it became so special.

It was in your second year that you mentioned reading it. You had just been rereading the second tome right before the third was about to come out. George shared that he loved the books too, but Fred found the plot boring and overcomplicated. When the third tome came out, you both rushed with your pocket money to buy it and raced each other who could read it faster. You had so much fun with it and sharing your thoughts, you couldn’t wait until the continuation would come out. Next year, however, when the book was about to be released, George was really sheepish about it. After many attempts, you managed to learn that with George’s younger brother starting school, his parents didn’t have enough money for him to buy the book. So you did, and you read it together – that’s how the tradition started. As the series was continued, no matter which one of you paid for the book, you’d always read it together. Over the years you forgot about the money aspect of it – you just loved spending hours upon hours with your best friend, engrossed in your favourite story. Sharing the experience with George made it that much more amusing, memorable and so, so special.

So after all that, what would happen if he was gone one day?

“That’s not what he said,” you were pulled out of your thoughts by Fred’s voice when he snarled at Zacharias Smith. George pulled some long, metal object out of his Zonko’s bag, “Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?” he inquired. “Or any part of your body, really, we’re not fussy where we stick this,” added Fred.

A wide grin appeared on your face and you started blinking away some tears you hadn’t even noticed were about to appear a moment before. You looked down at your feet, not wanting George to notice that, but you still smiled to yourself.

You were proud to call those two your friends.

—————④—————

The following Monday, walking to breakfast with your roommates you noticed a giant notice on the board in the common room. The sign declared all student organizations, societies, teams, groups, and clubs disbanded. This new information took a turn on everyone, you spent a long time trying to help Angelina calm down as it meant their quidditch team as well. The great hall was filled with buzz that morning and the Dumbledore’s Army stood in question. Everyone decided to stick to the plan, though, so you did.

Over the next few days Fred and George some massive boils as a result of their unfinished formula for Fever Fudge. It proved a great joking material for you, up until Fred threatened to show them to you if you didn’t stop. Angelina also managed to get permission to reform their quidditch team, meaning your friends would spend a lot of time on the pitch now, with 3 weeks until the first match of the season.

—————④—————

“Well,” said Harry, slightly nervously. “This is the place we’ve found for practices, and you’ve — er — obviously found it okay —” “It’s fantastic!” said Cho, and several people murmured their agreement. “It’s bizarre,” said Fred, frowning around at it. “We once hid from Filch in here, remember, George? But it was just a broom cupboard then…”

“A room that gives you whatever you need, whenever you need it? That would’ve come in handy,” you exclaimed, looking around once again. “Yeah, for you, I bet. More spacious than a broom cupboard, isn’t it?” Fred teased you with a shit-eating grin. You immediately reached your foot, over a puzzled looking George, to kick him. Fred wasn’t talking about anything that actually happened but you felt a bit embarrassed nonetheless.

Your first practice session felt very odd, but also fun. You practised the disarming charm, and you partnered up with Neville. He even managed to disarm you a couple of times.

—————④—————

The morning of the match, Gryffindor vs Slytherin, you separated from Fred and George with a kick in the butt for good luck and headed to find the best seat.

The game was dynamic and it turned really aggressive – as most games against Slytherin did. This time, however, they developed a song ‘Weasley is our King’ to get into the team’s, and especially Ron’s, minds. It drove everyone even more.

You were at the edge of your seat and didn’t know where to look. You clutched the ends of your Gryffindor scarf tightly, biting your lip constantly and your gaze alternated between keeping track of the quaffle and following George around. He was doing brilliantly, as always.

The game ended suddenly, Harry caught the snitch and Gryffindor won. Your happiness was mixed with concern as you saw him get hit square in the back by a bludger the moment he caught the snitch. You made your way down to see if he was alright and congratulate your friends.

When you finally reached the pitch your stomach immediately sank and you knew something was wrong. The air felt thick. It was just the two teams on the grass and everyone looked on edge, Fred and George stood stiff.

You heard Malfoy say something indistinctly to you and the twins were about to jump on him, being held down by the rest of the team.

You continued walking towards them but George didn’t see you, he was too focused on Malfoy talking about his family. His jaw was clenched and his whole body tense, shoulders straight – he seemed even taller and bigger than usual.

But the moment Malfoy mentioned Harry’s parents, he let go of George and the both of them tackled Draco. You froze in spot, not knowing what to do. You were scared for George, not wanting him to get hurt or get in trouble, but you couldn’t deny Malfoy deserved it and seeing George land punch after a punch on the prat was scary but satisfying. Seeing him stand up for his family and a friend was also something completely else, which you wouldn’t admit to yourself.

—————④—————

You closed the door to George’s dorm. Fred was out somewhere, blowing some steam off and none of the team members was in the mood to celebrate tonight after three great players got a lifetime ban.

George had showered and changed, he lay sprawled out across the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm.

You put down the few things you brought, that could help with the cut and swelling on his lip, on the bedside table and sat down next to him.

“Can you sit up?” you instructed quietly, with a soft voice. You felt so bad for him and couldn’t imagine how bad he must’ve felt. And you knew he was angry, still.

He took a deep breath after a few seconds, then sat up. Both his hands were now clutching the bed tightly and he stared straight ahead, he avoided looking you in the eye.

You soaked a cotton swab and squeezed the excess, then turned back to him and moved a bit closer, so that your work was easier, and your thighs were touching now. You placed one of your hands on his jaw to hold his head in place. You made a mental note to yourself now was not the time to point out it was time to shave. You started dabbing silently and George winced quietly at the first touch.

“Did he mean that..?” you asked after a minute or so, barely audible. “What?” George mumbled and you put the swab away. “Is it true..? That quidditch was the only thing keeping you here?” you paused to take a deeper breath, “are you going to just leave now?”

George shifted on the bed and looked away, showing signs of irritation, then looked down at his hands, fiddling in his lap. His features softened, he rested elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands, sighing deeply.

His silence disturbed you, and you also shifted, turning to face him.

“Maybe for Fred. We talked about this for a bit, but… Yes, you do make this shit-hole bearable.” “…but?” “But if we’re talking school-specific? Nothing. You know we don’t need to sit here. We have the money, we could start up the shop and start doing real things,” he looked at you, “Y/N, we’re friends outside of school, if I left, I wouldn’t just vanish out of your life. And you’d do fine without me here.” “Yeah, just peachy, George!” You huffed, “it’s 8 months! Eight whole-fucking-months, the year has barely started.” “Relax, I didn’t say we’re leaving.” You relaxed a bit, slouching. “There’s still a bit more testing we could do here, and also the D.A. stuff...” He added.

You were quiet for a bit, both avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Are you upset I beat Malfoy up?” George asked, slightly subdued This surprised you slightly. “No, I’m not. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, considering the consequences,” you waved your hands around and shrugged your shoulders, “but also, the prat deserved it. Annd it was nice to see you in action,” you said with a chuckle and a faint smile appeared on his face with a raised brow, “good to know what you’re capable of, if needed.”

He tried his best to hold back the grin, but couldn’t, “capable, huh?” he questioned. You blushed, because you didn’t mean to make it sound suggestive, and you were about to start explaining yourself when he tackled you, tickling your sides.

All your attempts to defend yourself, attack him back or get out of his grasp were pointless.

You had to just let go and surrender.

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley series

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stereksecretsanta · 3 years

Text

Merry Christmas, vyxynheartssterek!

For @vyxynheartssterek. I hope you enjoy it!

Read On AO3

*****

Forward Motion

Claudia rocked back on her heels and brushed her hair out of her face. “Well, I think that was the last box.”

Stiles admired their shelves, the glossy dark wood lined with dusty tomes that they’d finally hauled from home. They’d been in the attic, the basement, the kitchen and the living room for longer than Stiles had been alive, and seeing them on display, all together and organized neatly instead of piled haphazardly on a box of old baby clothes was surreal and a little thrilling. “It looks great.”

She gave him a sideways look. “We still have stock to put out, pal. Don’t get comfortable.”

He laughed, knocking their elbows together. “Yeah yeah. It still looks good. I told you it would.”

She snorted. “Save the “I told you so”s until after opening day. Why don’t you go get us some caffeine to power us through until lunch, then we’ll get your dad to help us with some of this?”

“He said he’d help this morning, too.” Stiles stepped over a crate of crystals, around two stacks of boxes, and through a maze of shelves they’d yet to fill. “Usual order?”

“Yes, please. Oh, can you move that shelf to the window on your way out? It’s where I want to put the potted herbs.”

“Sure. Be right back.” He maneuvered the herb shelf—still empty for the moment—over to the window, adjusting it until it was lined up with the window, before he stepped outside. It was chilly out, just on the edge of cold, with a breeze that smelled like wood smoke. He turned and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, balancing his sneakers on the curb so he could admire their sign.

It’d just arrived the day behavfore, and installation had only taken minutes. The Beacon’s Raven curled in the deep red Claudia and Stiles had chosen weeks ago. The window had a beautifully painted raven with its wings outspread on it, front and center, and off to the side, a neat list of their hours. A banner hung over the glass door: “Grand Opening: 2 Days!” It was satisfying to see people passing by, peering in the windows on tip toes to see deeper into the store, chatting about how soon they could go in and poke around.

Stiles headed for the coffee shop down the road. He’d finally talked his mom into opening a real, actual store after years of her (and, eventually, him once he’d gotten old enough to grind herbs and mix potions) operating out of their house. The supernatural community of Beacon Hills had known and trusted Claudia and her family for generations, trusted and knew their magic and quality of products. It only made sense to finally move from backdoor sales to a real shop, where people could browse and where they could store extra potions without accidentally mixing them in with the cooking spices.

Although Stiles still thought John was overreacting about accidentally putting a sleeping potion in the chili that one time.

The coffee shop on the corner, Mocha Latte Memories, was also relatively new—only two years old, which in Beacon Hills meant it’d be referred to as “the new place” for another thirteen years—but it was doing great. It also happened to be Claudia’s favorite, so she’d dragged Stiles there as soon as he’d come home from college; they’d both been going at least once a week ever since.

Stiles caught sight of his reflection in the big bay window of the café and paused. His hair was covered in dust bunnies and cobwebs. “Gee, thanks, Mom,” he grumbled, using the window as a mirror to bat the dust away. He spent a minute combing through his hair with his fingers so he looked less disheveled.

A shadow moved beyond the glass.

Stiles reared back. “Oh! Oh, gods.”

A man on the other side of the glass was grinning at him, apparently watching while he fixed his hair.

Heat rushed to his face. “Oh my god.” He turned on his heel.

Claudia laughed at him when he told her why they wouldn’t be having coffee and why they should promptly move to the next town over. She called John to ask him to bring lunch and coffee while still tearing up with laughter.

Stiles worked through his mortification by sweeping aggressively.

“You two,” John sighed when he arrived. He took a drink of his own coffee while they were digging into their lunch. “The place looks great already.”

Claudia smiled up at him, heels bouncing off the crate she’d perched on in lieu of a chair. “You should’ve seen Stiles with the books.”

“My organization skills are legend,” he muttered, biting into his sandwich.

John snorted. “I still can’t believe you’re putting them out like this.”

She shrugged. “Beacon Hills is our town. We’ve always shared the knowledge anyway, and this way, they can look for themselves.”

The family spellbooks weren’t for sale; they’d dragged them all out and to the shop with a different idea in mind: at the back of the shop, they’d created a little reading room filled with chairs, two-top tables, and jars of pens. Witches and starter spellcasters could come to research spells and potions from their collection if they wanted, copy down instructions, or just read a while, rather than asking Claudia for a copy of a spell they’d heard she had.

And as an extra bonus, whatever they needed for most of the spells, rituals, and potions could be purchased from the shop before they left, if they wanted.

Stiles couldn’t wait to get started.

John stayed to help until well into the evening, when he made them leave for the night. “Your boxes will still be here in the morning,” he sighed. “Let’s go get dinner.”

Claudia set out one last display container, waiting to be filled, and let her fingers trail over the shelf, smiling as John led her out.

Stiles hung back, watching them hold hands down the sidewalk. He and Claudia had come in the jeep this morning, but he figured she’d ride back with John. He brushed dust off his cheek and smiled to himself. He’d missed them while he was away at school, he’d missed Beacon Hills, and being back, opening the store…it felt right.

“Absolutely not.”

Claudia grinned, shaking a box of amethyst at him. “Stiles, don’t be a coward.”

“Mom, don’t be annoying.” He ducked when she swatted at his head. “Why don’t you go get the coffee, and I’ll finish putting the crystals out?”

“I have a plan in mind, I need to do it a certain way.” She arranged the amethyst in the display box she had on the shelf, then tilted her head, studying the effect. She bent to grab some jasper.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You just want me to embarrass myself again.”

“You did that all on your own.” She set down the jasper next to the amethyst, then wrinkled her nose. She faced him, putting her hands on her hips. Her white POISON shirt was smudged with dirt and old paint stains, hair braided back with flyaways sticking up around her face. “What are the odds of seeing that same guy again? And,” she continued before he could reply, “what are the odds that he’d even recognize you? The man saw you for a total of ten seconds, kid.”

He made a face at her. “What if he works there?”

She smiled.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you’re getting the coffee next time.”

“Of course. Next time it’ll be my turn.” She shooed him and turned to the flat carts of planters, which were filling the shop with the heady scents of jasmine and lavender.

Stiles preferred to make potions with dried plants himself, but a lot of people were into growing their own lately. He didn’t stop outside this time—he didn’t want to give himself time to chicken out and go to Starbucks further up the road.

Mocha Latte Memories was right between the breakfast and lunch rushes when he got there; there were three girls at a table posing for a picture and an older man sipping from a mug and reading a book, but otherwise, the place was empty.

The walls were strung with photographs and every other table had an instant camera set up on a bolted tripod next to it. There were also disposable cameras set on the bookshelves, the counters, some tables, the window sills, and the console by the door, with a laminated sign on the wall explaining. The cameras confused Stiles until Claudia had dragged him and John to a table, set the timer on the instant camera, and took a photo of the three of them, waving it in his face.

Patrons were encouraged to take pictures with any of the cameras so they could be displayed on a rotation—they were also just allowed to take the instant photo home, if they wished. After a week on display, the pictures could be claimed by the person who took it or who was in it.

It was cute, Stiles thought. There was potential for creepy people to abuse it, but from what he’d seen, the staff kept a sharp eye on the cameras and who claimed which photos, and the owner was an old high school friend of Claudia’s and had gotten some witchy protections against that kind of thing. Photos taken of people without their consent would show up completely blank, as far as Stiles knew. There were other protections in place, but he hadn’t gotten any further details.

“Hey, Stilinski,” the barista, Cora, called out. “The usual for you and Miss Claudia?”

“Yes please.” He used his card to pay and found two fives in his wallet. Feeling cheerful—one day until opening and they were nearly done setting everything up—he dropped one into the tip jar, making Cora grin.

Behind him, the bells set above the door chimed as someone came in.

He set the five on the counter. “Put that toward their order?”

Her grin widened. “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, please.” He moved off to wait by the pick-up counter, looking at this week’s photos while he waited.

“Hey, thanks for the coffee.”

Stiles winced. He knew Cora was quick, so he’d kind of hoped his drinks would be done before the guy could notice him. He turned. His smile froze on his face.

The guy’s eyes lit up with mirth and recognition.

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathed. He looked down and wondered how hard his mom would laugh at him if he filled the place with smoke and fled.

“You do remember me. I’m Derek.”

“Stiles,” he managed, strangled. “I-I—we’re—there was dust,” he blurted. “There was dust and I was trying to get it out of my hair, okay, and I don’t think it was that big of a deal, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek said, still looking amused. “I didn’t say it was a big deal.”

“Right.” Stiles eased back, even more mortified. “I-I-”

“Stiles! Drinks are up,” Cora called.

“Bye,” he croaked. He snatched the drinks and left as fast as he could.

Claudia was waiting outside when he returned, a worried frown on her face. “I felt you panicking, what-”

He shook his head. “I bought,” he gasped, “the guy coffee.”

Her brows shot up. “Start at the beginning,” she said, so he did.

He was right: she laughed at him.

The Beacon’s Raven opened at nine sharp on Saturday morning, doors flung wide and a mixture of orange and lavender smoking gently, filling the place with Claudia and Stiles’s favorite scents. The shelves were full, neatly organized, and inviting, the floors gleaming clean, and there was a carafe of hot chocolate and individually wrapped cookies set up by the register. Claudia turned on lively violin music and Stiles kept himself busy straightening the shelves.

“Mrs. Stilinski,” a familiar voice called out. “It looks wonderful in here, doesn’t it, Mom?” Lydia and Natalie Martin came in, arm in arm, already holding two other shopping bags.

“It does! Good job, Claudia.” She grinned, crossing to give Claudia a quick squeeze. Like Lydia and Stiles, Natalie and Claudia had gone to school with each other. “I wanted one of those wind chimes you make for Lydia’s new house and we thought we could take a look at the tarot cards—I’ve never been much of a reader myself but we think Lydia’s a bit of a sensitive.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at Stiles, but followed their mothers into an aisle anyway.

Two more people, witches Stiles recognized as regulars for dream talismans and ritual potions, came in, chatting about the store. Dotty, dream talisman buyer, spotted Stiles and shot over to commend him on the choice of orange and lavender— “Peace and energy in one, what a good idea for the first day,” she said, catching his arm.

Melissa and Scott showed up after that, then Heather and her boyfriend, and a group of local witches and some shoppers who were non-magical but interested in the local-made jewelry they were also selling.

Stiles kept busy ringing people up, helping a man pick out the right set of rune stones, and bagging things, keeping up a steady chatter about the store, so he shouldn’t have noticed one more person entering the shop. He should’ve heard the bell and called out a greeting and let Claudia handle it. Something made his head snap up. His eyes narrowed.

Coffee Shop Derek waved at him.

A tall, dark haired woman stood next to him, reading from the back of a crumpled receipt.

Stiles blinked back to his customer and smiled. “Thank you, have a great day.”

Mavis smirked at him. “Oh, you too, Mischief.”

He grimaced.

Mavis had been buying ritual herb bundles from Claudia since Stiles was three. She knew too much.

Claudia crossed to Derek and the woman and, to his surprise, hugged the woman. She gave Derek a sober handshake, smiling and saying something Stiles couldn’t hear.

He didn’t really recognize them aside from some vague familiarity, but Claudia clearly did. He glanced around, but everyone was busy looking—they were crowded, which wasn’t surprising. Beacon Hills was small enough that everyone and their grandmother had heard that little Dee Gajos, no, Stilinski now, and her son were opening a shop finally, and they all had to check it out, witches or not.

Stiles flicked his fingers.

“-Mom wanted some new talismans for the house, and Aunt Nettie wanted some cleansing potions for the party we’re having,” the woman was saying. “Mom also wanted us to congratulate you and let you know she’ll be out to see the shop as soon as she can.”

“Thank you, that’s sweet. I know she’s busy. Oh, one moment.” Claudia turned. “Stiles!” Her voice boomed, making him clap his hands to his ears.

Crap. He’d definitely been caught eavesdropping.

Her smile was far too wide. “Sweetie, why don’t you help the Hales find the things on their list while I run the register for a while?” Her voice was still too loud—raised so he could hear her across the store, if he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

He had two options, and only one of them would preserve what little dignity he had left at this point. He sighed and rounded the counter.

“Hey, I’m Laura.” She smiled when he approached. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Stiles.”

“Oh, really?” He narrowed his eyes at Derek, cheeks going red. Two mildly embarrassing run ins and the guy goes blabbing to his family.

“Yeah! You’ve met my mom Talia Hale a few times when she was picking up talismans from Claudia.”

Stiles’s gaze snapped up to Laura, then skimmed over her. “Oh, you’re werewolves. And Hales. I’ve met some of your pack.”

She laughed. “Yeah, that’s us.” She passed the list to Derek. “I actually wanted to talk to you about some blessed candles, Claudia, if that’s alright? I’m sure Stiles and Derek can handle the list.”

“Oh, sure. Here, we can go up to the register and talk.” Claudia smirked over her shoulder.

Stiles turned his back on her. “So.”

Derek lifted a brow. “You aren’t going to run away this time?”

“I’ve got nowhere to run,” he muttered, making Derek laugh. “Besides, I didn’t run. I just—I had things to do.” He cleared his throat. “Your mom buys talismans from my mom. I’ve helped make them before,” he added with a grin, deciding that he could push past his embarrassment. “She likes her bases covered, huh?”

Derek chuckled. “You have no idea. She’s going crazy over having the whole family at the house for our winter gathering. That’s why she wants to replace the talismans now.” He checked the list. “Four talismans, a house cleansing potion for Aunt Nettie,” he yawned widely, “new bells for the windows and,” another half-stifled yawn, “my uncle wants bloodroot.” He made a face.

“For what?”

He lifted that brow again.

Stiles flicked a hand at the shelves behind them. “I just mean if he’s making something for protection, we can make a bundle that’ll help more than just one plant.”

He shook his head. “No idea. He just came in and scribbled down bloodroot when we told everyone where we were going.”

“Ah.” Stiles shrugged. Not his problem. “Well, if they’re all concerned about the house, we can get some herbs to help with that, too.” He glanced at Claudia, but she and Laura were still talking. “The talismans take three days to make—they’re specific, so we don’t typically have them ready-made.”

“Oh.”

“Everything else is ready though.” He led Derek down the prepared potions aisle; already-made potions were popular with werewolves, shifters, and regular humans who couldn’t make potions themselves. He handed him the teal-colored cleansing potion. “There’s a tag with instructions on the cap, but I know Annette Hale buys this every few months.”

“She does.” Derek yawned again as they made their way to the herb aisle, stifling it in his elbow and shaking his head, like he was annoyed.

Stiles scooped bloodroot into a bag, avoiding eye contact. “Did you have a…long night?” he asked, and cursed himself for being so awkward.

Derek shook his head. “I just keep having these weird, vivid dreams, and when I wake up, I feel like I haven’t slept. And then I can’t make sense of the dreams.” He shrugged self-consciously.

“Have you tried-?” Stiles paused and frowned at him. “Sleep potions don’t work for werewolves.”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Stiles touched some vervain thoughtfully, then shook his head. “No. What about an herb bundle?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never tried any of this stuff,” he admitted. “I don’t usually have trouble sleeping, either.”

Stiles dropped his hand and wandered over to the bells. “Maybe you should put a bell on your bedroom window instead.” He examined the smallest bells they had on display and picked out a silver one with a raven carved into the side; some of the bells had symbols or animals carved in them for extra protection, and others had nothing, a blank slate, but Stiles thought Derek could use the raven for some clarity. He held it out with a smile. “If anything is causing bad dreams, the sound will ward it off, and it should help make the dreams clearer so you can figure out what’s going on.”

Derek held the tiny bell in his palm. “Thanks.”

Stiles nodded, then looked back at the others. They had sets and singles. “Did Talia say what colors she wanted?”

“Oh, uh, no. Just some basic, uh, bells for us to string above the windows this winter.”

“Hmm.” Stiles chose a brassy gold set and a few tiny yellow gold chimes, and added a coil of delicate, triple braided twine. “Your mom will know how to string them.” He helped Derek carry everything to the register. “We’ll get the talismans started today.”

Claudia smiled as they set everything on the counter. She was wrapping up a full set of candles for Laura already. “One of you can come back to get them on Tuesday,” she assured them. “Oh, bloodroot alone? But-”

“Uncle Peter only asked for bloodroot.” Laura shrugged. “Nettie tried to get him to explain but he wouldn’t.”

“Huh.” She shook her head. “Maybe he’s got something in mind.” She rang them up while Stiles carefully bagged the rest of their purchases.

“Maybe.” Laura poked at the silver bell.

Derek snatched it and put it in his pocket. “That’s mine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh-kay. Thanks again, Claudia. We’ll be back on Tuesday for the talismans.”

“No problem, thank you guys for coming in!”

Derek turned back so he could wave and smile at Stiles one more time as they were leaving.

By the time they closed at seven, Stiles was dead on his feet; the plan was for them to open again the next morning at the same time, and be closed on Mondays and Thursdays, but he wasn’t sure they’d make it to Monday at this point. They needed to hire some more people.

Claudia was sprawled in a chair in the reading room, beaming and as exhausted as Stiles. “That was…better than I had hoped for.”

Stiles flopped into a chair across from her. “I told you people would come.”

She shrugged. “It’s different, selling little mixtures and plants from my kitchen and selling it in a store.” She flung her hands out over the arms of the chair. “I expected…well, you know how people here can be.”

“Assholes.”

“Fickle,” she shot back. “Supportive one second, and then the next saying I’m thinking too highly of my skills.”

He snorted. “I would love to see anyone from Beacon Hills claim that. They know you, Mom.”

She smiled. “They can be assholes, a little bit,” she admitted, and he laughed. “I was thinking of hiring some part timers, to cover us when we need breaks and a day off. Thoughts?”

“Yes, please.” He dropped his head over the back of the chair. “If we have more people here, we can close a little later, stay open most days without working everyone twenty-four seven, and be able to help more people. Also, we have to get the Hale talismans going.”

“Right.” She tapped her fingers on the edge of the chair. “What did Derek Hale need one bell for?”

Stiles lifted his head. “Hmm?”

She shot him a look. “Don’t play dumb. One silver bell.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Well, he kept yawning while we were finding the stuff his pack asked for, so I asked him if he was having trouble sleeping. He said he was having vivid dreams that were keeping him from resting, so I thought a bell would help, you know, in case it was something coming in.”

She frowned. “But they’re not nightmares?”

“Apparently not. Just vivid dreams.”

“That’s odd.”

“Maybe the bell will help.”

She nodded. “Okay! Let’s go straighten up, count the till, and get started on the talismans for the Hales.”

Because they’d known they would be brewing potions on-site, they’d picked this building in part because it had a kitchen already, so they wouldn’t have to have one built.

“We really need more people working here.” Stiles rocked to his feet.

“I’m working on it. Natalie Martin was interested already, but I’d like a few more witches on staff, too.”

“Dad can help out.”

She smiled as they headed for the kitchen. “He’s bored now that he’s retired.”

“He needs a hobby.”

“Please.” She handed him a broom. “Sprinkle some orange and violet ashes for luck first.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

It wasn’t quite as busy the next day, although they were making an almost equal amount of sales—fewer browsers, Stiles guessed. Around noon, Claudia left him alone to get some coffee and lunch, which was when Derek wandered in. Stiles straightened from the counter and smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” he replied uneasily. “Um, your talismans are still soaking in the first potion.”

Derek looked blank. “Oh, no, that’s not why I’m here, but thanks. I actually—the bell didn’t help,” he blurted.

Stiles frowned.

The woman over in the reading room sneezed, making Derek jump.

“Alright…let’s try an herb bundle.” Stiles rounded the counter. “Something to promote deep sleep, good dreams, some peace….that could help.”

Derek followed him. “I’m willing to try, I’m exhausted and the dreams don’t even make sense.”

“Hmm.” Stiles picked up a mesh sachet and skimmed through the dry herbs, letting his magic pick for him. He sprinkled in lavender, which was an obvious first, a tiny bit of valerian followed by peppermint mostly to disguise the foul scent of the ashes, chamomile, a tiny bit of eryngo, and some gardenia to tie it together, then sealed the bag. “Okay, there’s enough in here for you to sprinkle a tiny bit around your room, and keep the rest in this bag under your pillow while you sleep.” He put the sachet in Derek’s hand.

“You didn’t look at a recipe,” he pointed out.

Stiles frowned, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “Well, I don’t need one for that. I was just…feeling out what seemed right for you.”

“Do you do that for all of your customers?” he asked, smirking. His hair was damp from the chilly rain turning everything gray outside, curling over his forehead.

Stiles focused on a drop forming just above his eye. “No, not really. But none of them have asked,” he added defensively. He crossed his arms. “I was trying-”

“Excuse me. How much is this journal, young man?”

Stiles held his finger up at Derek and went to help the guy in a patchy tweed jacket with the journals. To his surprise, Derek was still waiting when the guy had paid and left. “Yes?”

He lifted the sachet. “I haven’t paid.”

Stiles blinked. “Oh, I—I was giving that to you.” They stood, blinking at each other for a prolonged moment.

Slowly, Derek’s cheeks reddened. His eyes went wide. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Thank—you?”

“No problem.” He smiled. “Did you ever figure out what your uncle wanted the bloodroot for?”

He shook his head. “He just took it and left, didn’t even thank us. He’s been annoyed all day, too, which for Peter means he’s been insufferable.” He turned the sachet over in his hand, then lifted it closer to his face to sniff.

Stiles glanced around the store, but the only person there was the witch in the reading room still. “We have some cookies left from yesterday, want some?”

“Sure.”

Stiles went to get them from the kitchen and poked at the talismans that were gently simmering in a warding potion. The first of three; the next would be applied later that evening. He scooped up the cookies.

Claudia had returned when he got out to the front, asking Derek how his parents were. “The cookies are still good,” she added with a quick smile in Stiles’s direction. “Why don��t you two eat in the kitchen while I watch the store? I can eat after you’re done.” She smiled again. “I got an extra sandwich.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

She winked at him and looked at Derek again. “You have time, don’t you, Derek?”

“I…uh, sure.”

“Great!” She thrust the sandwiches at Stiles. “Derek, I hope you like roast beef on rye with mozzarella and onions?”

Derek looked between her and Stiles. “Yes…that’s…my favorite.”

“How lucky,” she chirped.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, “lucky.” He glanced at Derek, who looked surprised but not suspicious.

He clearly hadn’t spent enough time around witches.

Stiles took the sandwiches to the kitchen anyway. “You don’t have to stay,” he told Derek. “She’s just…” He didn’t know what she was doing. Teasing him for his two embarrassing encounters with Derek? Being overly friendly? Trying to help Stiles make friends like a shy five year old?

“It’s okay. I was just going to get lunch when I left anyway.” Derek looked around the kitchen, the glass front cabinets and the crockpot simmering on the counter. “I guess customers aren’t really meant to be back here.”

Stiles shrugged and set the sandwiches on the table. He grabbed some napkins, gesturing at the seat closest to Derek. “It’s only our second day open, we don’t have rules yet.”

Derek tucked the sachet into his pocket before he sat and unwrapped his sandwich. “You guys have been selling potions and talismans and stuff for a while though, right?”

“Yep.” Stiles licked mustard off his thumb. “Mom’s been doing it her whole life—before she and my dad got married, she and her parents sold supplies and stuff from their kitchen.” He rotated his wrist. “Beacon Hills is getting bigger and it was getting harder to run all this from our kitchen without overrunning the whole house with it.” Stiles took a minute to eat a few bites, watching with his head lowered as Derek did the same. “Your mom and your brother Sean, your dad Leo and your cousin, I think, Connie, I’ve met them all in passing. Annette, too. Amulets, talismans, potions, herbs, crystals—Connie bought a crystal when she was doing her midterms, more for a worry stone than anything, I think.”

“She still has it,” Derek said with a smile. “She wears it on a chain.”

Stiles smiled, too. “See, I’ve met several of your family members—your pack mates. But you’ve never come for anything.”

Derek shrugged. “Everyone else always had plenty and I never really needed anything.”

“Until now.” Stiles nodded at him, indicating the sachet in his pocket.

Derek flashed a grin. “Until now.”

After Derek left, thanking them for lunch and smiling at Stiles an extra time before he left, Claudia whirled on Stiles, beaming.

“What are you up to?”

“Absolutely nothing, how dare you accuse me of being up to something.” She wiped the counter with a damp rag, a smile playing on her lips.

Stiles wasn’t sure what he was accusing her of quite yet, so he fell quiet. He’d bide his time and get her back later. Three giggling high schoolers came in to ask about love potions and, having already been subjected to the Love Potion Lecture at age seven, and then twelve, Stiles made himself busy straightening the shelves and checking the plants for dry soil.

Claudia went into the back to eat after the girls left, so Stiles was left to deal with Mrs. Howard’s very particular taste in rose quartz for her daughter’s birthday. It wasn’t so bad, not nearly as bad as the PTA parents wanting “luck” potions for a bake sale.

John wandered in when things died down, while Stiles was drawing mindlessly on a legal pad. He leaned over. “Anything good?”

Stiles studied the shape. “Not sure yet.” He added another line. “I think it might need…copper. Amethyst.” He tilted the pad. “Some spirit quartz for an added layer, maybe, to clear things up.” He rubbed his finger over the top curve thoughtfully.

“Who’s it for?”

“Dunno. It just keeps coming to me.” He finally looked up and grinned. “What’re you all dressed up for? I thought you were strictly into jeans these days.”

John ran a hand down the neat button down shirt that he’d paired with a completely wrinkle-free pair of khakis. “I’m here for a job interview,” he said grimly. “Think I got a chance with the boss?”

Stiles grinned. “I dunno, she’s pretty strict.”

Claudia came out of the back wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes widened. “Well, now, Sheriff, don’t you look handsome.”

Stiles, still grinning, shook his head and hopped off the stool behind the counter to hunt up some of the materials he needed for the amulet he was going to make. Chips of amethyst and flint were his first ingredients, and the rest, he figured, would come to him as needed. It wouldn’t be anything fancy, just copper wrapped around three very small stones in the shape he couldn’t get out of his head.

He rang himself up after he’d gathered a few more things, then put his supplies aside—his tools and the other things he needed were at home.

“What’re you making?” Claudia asked after watching him tuck his bagged purchases away.

“An amulet, I think.”

“Hmm.”

John was across the shop enthusiastically helping a witch select a chain for her new pendulum.

She looked amused despite the fact that John clearly had no idea what to direct her toward.

“He always was better with herbs,” Claudia mused. “I can’t believe he hasn’t picked up more from us after all these years.”

“Maybe he should just run the register.”

“He’s got it.”

Stiles shrugged and went back to his rough sketch, tracing the spirals with his finger.

He spent the evening coiling copper wire at the kitchen table, carefully wrapping it around the smallest piece of pearl dolomite he’d been able to find, then spirit quartz, and finally a tiny piece of flint. The amethyst chips went along the wire, and after that he sprinkled gardenia and lavender ash on it to sit for the night. He studied it; it wasn’t his best work, but not his worst, either. The amulet would need to be charged with his magic to bind it together, and he’d need a chain for it before it could be worn. The amulet itself was small, about the size of a silver dollar.

He left it overnight and took it to the shop the next morning. Stiles and John were handling the front while Claudia retreated, with a miserable growl, to do the accounting.

Her day job, after all, used to be the head of an accounting firm, and she had the most experience. Besides that, she wasn’t ready to hire someone else to take care of it.

“I’m still not sure, this one over here is really beautiful.” The customer indicated a hand painted tarot deck made by a local witch Claudia had grown up with.

“If you’re just starting, a basic deck is the best way to learn how to read the cards.” He smiled. “You can get fancy later, I promise.”

“Well…I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “My mom said the same thing, and I definitely knew that was the right way to do it, but the hand painted deck is so…” She picked up the deck Stiles had pointed out to her. “Do you guys carry altar cloths? I would like to get a new one.”

Stiles grinned. “We do, actually. Dominic Birch embroidered them, his work is unbelievable.”

After she’d paid and left—with two new journals, an altar cloth, and her tarot deck—John helped a guy pick out a potted aloe plant and Stiles sold three necklaces and a ring.

The bells chimed as he was restocking with more jewelry. “Hi,” he called out, turning.

Derek waved awkwardly and held up a piece of paper. “Peter wants some more stuff.”

“Ah. Did he say what it was for this time?”

“Nope. He’s just as irritated today, too.” He passed the list to Stiles, thumb brushing the back of his hand. He was wearing a blue sweater in concession to the chill hanging in the air, and the fact that the sleeves were just a little too long for him was too much for Stiles. “Oh, hey, I think those herbs you gave me worked, last night I barely had any dreams at all.”

Stiles smiled at him. “That’s great.” He flipped the list over. Buchu, rose, dandelion—dried and ground. Huh. “Did he say how much of this stuff he wants?”

Derek shook his head. “But he did send his debit card, so feel free to ring up as much as you’d like.”

Stiles snickered. “I’d love to, but I think we should try to keep our reputation good, you know, since we’re so new and all.”

Derek snorted. “If he noticed, I doubt he’d say anything anyway. There’s so much going on at home, though, I don’t think he would notice.”

Stiles bagged the herbs as they talked. “What’s going on?”

“Just the usual holiday madness. For our winter celebration, our extended pack—that’s everyone who’s moved away and joined or formed other packs—comes to visit. All three houses are overrun for days.”

Stiles laughed as he tipped a scoop of dried dandelion into a bag. “That sounds awesome.”

“I guess it is, sometimes. That’s why everyone is freaking out, though. It takes a lot to prepare for all those werewolves.” He rubbed the back of his head, sighing. “I’m gonna have to share my room with a couple of my cousins.”

“Aw, didn’t you miss your cousins?”

“No.” He scowled, then sighed. “Yeah, a little bit. There’s just a lot of them—we all end up completely sleep deprived by the end.” He took the bags Stiles held out. “But it is fun. You guys should stop by. The festivities start on the twentieth.”

“You make it sound like a carnival,” Stiles laughed as he walked him to the counter.

“More like a circus,” he muttered. “But I swear it’s fun, and there’s enough food to feed at least three armies.”

“Won’t your family mind if we crash a family gathering?”

“No, I’m pretty sure my mom invites Claudia every year, only she always had plans.”

“Yeah, we usually do year end rituals and stuff, but I can probably, uh, stop by. If you wanted.” He studiously avoided the way John was looking at him while he rang up Derek’s purchases.

Derek beamed at him. “That’d be great.”

Stiles smiled. In his pocket, the amulet grew warm, then hot. His hand jumped to it, closing around the wire, and his eyes widened. “Should—should I bring…anything?”

“Just yourself. Maybe some earplugs. Aunt Nettie’s sister-in-law just had triplets.” Derek grinned at John. “Sheriff, you and Mrs. Stilinski are more than welcome, too. My mom will probably be calling sometime tomorrow or the next day to invite you herself.”

John smiled. “Maybe we’ll stop by this year.” His gaze inched over to Stiles and his smile stretched into a grin. “Just to make sure Stiles stays out of trouble.”

“Very funny,” Stiles muttered. “I’m an angel.”

“Lying is a sin, angel.”

Stiles, unable to flip him off, stuck his tongue out, and got a pitying look in response. He remembered Derek a second later and flushed, whipping around so his back was to John. “Uh, uh—let me know how—if the weird dreams come back,” he stammered. “We can try something else.” He cast around for something else to say as they inched away from the counter and noticed Derek’s bag. “Your uncle isn’t…trying to see the future, is he?”

“No idea.” Derek peered into the bag. “Why, is that what this stuff is for?”

Stiles tilted his hand side to side. “They can be used for a few different things, but yeah, divination and visions are some of the more popular things.” He shook his head. “Not that it matters, it’s not a big deal. Plenty of people use herbs for prophetic visions,” he assured him. “Us, we prefer crystals if we’re trying to see something.”

“Do you look into the future often?”

Stiles shook his head and met Derek’s gaze. “I prefer to be surprised. The future can change, so what’s the point in worrying about one vision you saw once, by chance, that might not even happen?”

Derek’s lips quirked. “Speaking from experience?”

He glanced back at his dad automatically; Claudia had joined him at the counter, their heads tipped together as they spoke. “Yeah, I peeked and I didn’t…” He shook his head again. “Doesn’t matter, it’s already changed.” He smiled at Derek.

“What kind of magic do you use, if you don’t try to see the future?”

He lifted his shoulders. “All kinds, I guess.”

“What are you good at?”

He laughed. “You want me to brag about my skills?” He waggled his fingers.

“Yeah.”

Stiles laughed again, he couldn’t help it. “Well, I’m pretty good with water-based magic, and my telekinetic prowess is, if I do say so myself, pretty awesome.”

“You’ll have to give me a demonstration sometime.”

Stiles nodded and lifted his hand, palm up. Water formed on his fingers and slid down, gathering into a ball. He flexed his fingers. It froze solid.

“Okay, that was impressive.”

“A Stilinski, flirting by showing off, why am I not surprised.” Mavis’s voice made Stiles jump, the ice ball flying out of his grasp. “How utterly predictable.”

Derek snatched the ball before it could hit the ground and shatter.

“Mischief, you are just like your mother, I swear. You can do better than that to impress the man. Claudia,” she called in her croaking voice, “did you see what Mischief was doing?” She shuffled away from them.

Stiles covered his eyes. “Good gods.”

Derek mouthed, “Mischief?” but dropped it when Stiles shook his head. “Well, I thought it was impressive.” He held out the ice.

Stiles closed his hands over it. “There’s no reason to do big spells indoors, Mavis.”

“Balls of ice aren’t impressive, Mischief.”

He rolled his eyes at Derek. “I’ll see you later, I have to go chase an old lady with a broom.”

He laughed. “Good luck.”

Stiles finished the amulet on his break, holding his hand over it and binding the ingredients together, all the pieces, the copper, the flint, the quartz, the dolomite and amethyst, with his magic. He found a black chain he thought went well with the copper triskelion and attached it, then stared at the completed piece. It’d come to him for a reason, amulets usually did, but he just couldn’t figure out who it was meant for.

Claudia put the Hales talismans in the last potion while he was still staring at it. “Looks good. What made you use a triskelion?”

“I’m not sure, it just…came to me.” He shrugged. While Claudia had always had an instinct for talismans, Stiles had the same instinct for amulets, the shapes and materials often coming to him and hovering in his mind, behind his eyes, like he’d stared at a light too long. She’d found him making them enough throughout his life to know he hadn’t made it for himself.

“Have you figured out who it’s for?”

Her tone made him look up, eyes narrowed. “No…why?”

She poked at the talismans, then covered them again. “Well, the triskelion is the Hale pack’s symbol. They use it to identify their pack.”

Stiles looked at the amulet. “Huh.”

“Maybe you made it for Derek,” she teased.

“Mother, are you implying something?”

“Just that he keeps coming here…daily…and that he invited you to his family gathering.” She shrugged. She had an ivy leaf caught in her hair from that morning.

“He’s just being friendly.”

She snorted. “Laura, maybe, Nettie absolutely, but from what I’ve noticed, friendly is an optional trait in the Hales and they don’t bother unless they think you’re worth it.” She held her hands up. “Could be he just likes you as a friend, that’s true.” Her eyes gleamed. “But I say you take that amulet over on the twentieth and see if he says no when you ask him out.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“If he turns you down, I will admit I was wrong, somehow.”

“Not good enough.”

She tapped her fingers on the table. “If I’m wrong, what would you like?”

“Grandpa’s book of charms.”

“Oh, Stiles.” She shook her head. “They’re messy.”

“Blood?”

She held her fingers a half inch apart. “But it’s more in the mud and clay and wet ashes way. Trust me. Messy.”

“I want them.”

She put her hands up. “Fine, since I’m sure I’m right, if Derek shoots you down, I will dig out your grandfather’s book of charms. Only if I’m wrong. If he accepts, you do Laura Hale’s interview. She wants to work here,” she added with a smile.

“That’s absolutely not on the same level.”

“Those are my conditions.”

“Ugh, fine. Are you and Dad going?”

She smoothed the wrinkles out of her black and pink dress, smiling serenely at him. “We have to be there, dear, it’s only polite.” She turned on her heel, ponytail swishing as she left.

“You’ve got ivy in your hair!” he shouted after her. He looked down at the amulet. “Damn it.” He needed to find a box for it now.

The twentieth arrived before Stiles was fully prepared. They’d been busy with people coming for ritual kits, herbs, potions, and gifts, enough that they could consider their first two weeks of being open a resounding success. Stiles found a decorative cherry wood box with a small raven carved into the side to put the amulet in, on a bed of gardenia and lavender, and dressed casually for the party.

Cora at Mocha Latte Memories turned out to be another Hale that Stiles hadn’t met and had told him to just show up whenever. “The dress code?” she’d repeated blankly when he’d asked. “Uh…casual. We’re a mess, don’t worry about it. Some of the littler kids probably won’t even be dressed.” She’d shrugged. “Shifters, you know.”

So Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect as he headed to the Hale property. It used to be just one house, but they’d added two more to accommodate their growing pack. Stiles hadn’t seen it in a while—not since he was a teenager, wandering the preserve at night with Scott and Heather, being stupid—so the sight of about twenty extra cars and a camper clogging the long driveway and part of the yard, plus about six people on the wrap around porch just chatting, was something of a surprise.

Stiles parked behind a blue SUV and turned the jeep off deliberately slow. He stared at the little box on his passenger seat and sighed.

John and Claudia had come over earlier, just after noon, but Stiles had managed to procrastinate so long that he now had to arrive alone. Maybe he could just sit here until he spotted Derek and act like he’d just arrived.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

‘Coming in at any point, son?’

Stiles scowled. He figured blocking her wouldn’t work, so he just shoved it back in his pocket, swiped the box, and got out. He had to weave through several cars to get to the yard, where he could see a flattened path from everyone walking the same route.

Behind him, someone shouted, “Quit it!”

He turned.

Fifteen feet away, Derek got tackled by a tall, skinny werewolf with short dark hair.

Stiles tensed, but it wasn’t until another werewolf, shorter, partially shifted and snarling through long fangs, joined in that he started running. “Hey!”

Derek snarled and rolled, but the shifted werewolf bit his ear, making him yelp, while the other sat on his legs to pin him down.

“Hey!” Stiles shouted again. He stopped before any of those flailing claws or fangs could hit him and studied the ball of werewolves.

Someone up on the porch noticed them and snickered.

Stiles flinched when blood spattered the grass, a yelp coming from the bottom of the pile. He rolled his eyes and put his free hand out, then swept it aside.

The taller werewolf tumbled aside, landing on his butt a couple feet away.

Stiles caught the other one and flicked him away, too, leaving Derek disheveled and a little bloody. Stiles turned to the two that’d tackled him and shook his head. “Two on one is shameful,” he scolded. He could see now that they were teenagers; their partial shifts had made them look older, but as the fangs and tufted ears melted away, they looked young.

The taller one looked petulant while the other simply looked mortified.

“He drank our hot chocolate!” the tall one snapped.

“Uh—what?”

Derek sat up. “You can’t prove that.” Blood trailed down his cheek, but the cut had, thankfully, already healed.

“It’s always you,” the embarrassed one piped up. “Uncle Peter says you keep stealing his coffee, too.”

Derek’s ears went red. “He’s exaggerating.” He looked up at Stiles sheepishly. “I always refill the cups after. I’m just useless in the morning.”

“You’re always useless.”

“Markus,” a man on the porch snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry.” He looked at Stiles. “How’d you do that?”

“He’s a witch, dummy.”

“Todd,” the man scolded.

Todd held his hands up. “But he is.” He squinted at Stiles. “Right?”

“Right.”

Todd smirked at Marcus.

Stiles held his hand out to help Derek up. “Brawling with teenagers?”

“They hit me first.” He smiled. “I thought you’d decided not to come when your parents showed up without you.”

Stiles shook his head. “Just running behind.”

Derek nodded, fighting a huge yawn that nearly wrenched his jaw apart.

He lifted his brows. “Dreams again?”

He nodded. “They came back a couple days ago.” He looked toward the house, ears going red. “You were in them this time, even though they still don’t make sense.”

Todd rolled his eyes and pulled Markus to his feet. “Stop stealing everyone’s drinks!”

“I thought it was Peter’s coffee,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to steal your hot chocolate.”

Markus rolled his eyes. “Make your own coffee, jeeze, Uncle Peter’s right. You are nose blind.”

“I am not!”

Stiles prodded Derek’s shoulder. “Excuse me, did you just say you’ve been drinking your uncle’s coffee?”

Todd nodded, aggrieved. “Derek steals everyone’s drinks, every year.”

He looked guilty. “Only when it’s really early, and I always refill the mug, brats.” That last bit was directed at his cousins, who were clearly unconvinced.

“You do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“You can sleep in Cora’s room tonight,” Derek hissed.

Stiles shared an exasperated look with Todd, though he was sure Todd was more bothered by the hot chocolate theft than he was. He had a bigger problem. “Derek.”

“Yeah.”

He tried to think of a nice way to phrase it, but… “Are you, possibly, nose blind?”

Todd and Markus cackled.

Derek looked insulted. “No!”

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Uncle Peter is the uncle who’s been sending you to get potion ingredients from my shop, right?”

“Yea—ah, fuck.”

Markus’s mouth opened in a wide, wide grin. “I’m telling Aunt Talia.”

Todd’s hand shot out, catching his shirt. “Derek can buy our silence.”

Markus’s eyes went even brighter, delighted.

He glared at them. “What do you want?”

“Take us to the potion place.”

“Excuse me?”

“We never get to go to witch stores, we want to buy magic potions.” The boys looked excited by the mere idea, breathless at the power that was just in their reach.

Stiles leaned around Derek. “If you go find Miss Claudia in the house, she’ll tell you all about magic potions. That way when Derek takes you, you know which one to pick.”

They looked at each other, smirking, then ran for the house.

He straightened up. “That lecture should keep them busy for at least twenty minutes.” He swung back around to Derek. “You’ve been drinking coffee laced with potions.”

“Apparently.”

“Potions for prophetic dreams.”

“Yep.”

“Then refilling the cup before anyone noticed the coffee was gone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which means your uncle has been drinking regular coffee thinking it was laced with potions, and probably getting annoyed that it’s not working—stop laughing!” But Stiles was laughing, too. “This is serious, you could’ve poisoned yourself.”

He shook his head as he wheezed. “Peter’s been so pissed lately, and it turns out it’s because his experiments aren’t working—because I’ve been drinking them.” He shook his head, overcome.

“Didn’t he—no, you said he didn’t tell you guys what it was for.” Stiles rolled his eyes. The cold was starting to seep under his jacket finally, chilling him.

“No, he didn’t. Serves him right for not telling us what he was making us run errands for.”

Stiles lifted a brow at him.

“Hey, I got my payback by losing sleep.”

“Somehow that doesn’t seem to compare.” Stiles looked at the box in his hand and sighed. “When was the last time you drank his coffee?”

“Yesterday morning,” he admitted sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and shuffling his feet. They were barely an arms’ length apart, over the muddy disturbed grass where he’d been wrestling with his cousins. He scratched drying blood off his temple.

“You’ve probably got another couple nights before the dreams wear off.”

He nodded. “Hey, I’m—I’m glad you came over.” He smiled shyly.

Stiles smiled back. “Me too. Now I know why none of my usual tricks worked for your weird dreams.” He tapped his finger on the box. “You don’t remember any of them?”

“Nothing that makes sense.” He shrugged.

Too bad. He shook it off and held the box out. “I brought this for you.”

“Thank you.” He took it carefully, tilting it so he could see the carving on the side. He traced it gently with one fingertip. “You guys are fond of ravens, I guess.”

“They’re a thing with my mom’s family. And they’re good friends.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to wait ’til sundown to open it, you know.”

Derek made a show of examining every inch of the box before he pried it open. His lashes fluttered. “You made this.” Not a question, no surprise. A fact.

“How’d you guess?”

He lifted his gaze. “I can feel it. You weren’t kidding about your magic being powerful. Can I wear it now?”

“Of course, I made it for you to wear.” Stiles had to look away, his neck prickling. He normally didn’t make a big deal of his amulets and the receivers of them typically followed his lead. He didn’t know what to do with such gravity. When he looked up, Derek was wearing the amulet around his neck, the triskelion resting just beneath his collar bones.

“How’s it look?”

Stiles nodded. “Pretty good,” he squeaked. He looked over his shoulder, but everyone who’d been on the porch was gone. He took a deep breath. “Well, now that I’ve given you fancy jewelry…”

“A protective amulet,” Derek corrected, cupping his hand over it as if he was shielding it.

“Right. I was—I wanted to ask if you wanted to go out on a date. Maybe get coffee from somewhere your sister doesn’t work.” He caught his breath and reminded himself that either way this went, he would get something he wanted.

He just, maybe, wanted to date Derek more than he wanted that book of charms.

Derek smiled. “Sure, that sounds great.” He lifted his gaze and winced. “But, uh, first we have to survive this.” He pointed.

Claudia and Talia were watching from the door, both grinning, while noses pressed against nearly every window around them.

“We could make a run for it,” Stiles said out of the corner of his mouth. “I think I can hold the door closed from here and we can make it to the jeep.”

“You can’t run from every problem.”

“I am fast enough to out run most of them,” he pointed out.

Derek caught his hand, twined their fingers together, and tugged him up toward the house. “There’s not that many of them in this house—most of them are out in the backyard.”

“Your mom is in there,” he whined.

Claudia winked.

“My mom is in there,” he added under his breath.

They laughed together and moved out of the doorway, linking arms and heading toward the kitchen, by the looks of it.

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand. “Because you didn’t shoot me down, I have to give your sister a job interview.”

“If you can survive this, interviewing Laura will be nothing.” Derek kissed the back of his hand, making him flush all over, before he went into the house.

“Derek!” a man growled, followed by a yelp and a thud.

Stiles shook his head and went inside to save him from Peter’s wrath.

#vyxynheartssterek #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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springtimebat · 3 years

Text

The demon and the seer

Chapter One: The Carnival Folk

In which a trip is made early, predictions are performed and Frankie Albarn is oddly at home

The last days of October were fading, just like the embers of a dying fire, and the devious clutches of November were finally stretching. It was during these twilight hours, between All Hallows Eve and the broken weeks of early winter, that the Carnival Folk made their return to the town of Bad Seed.

The fields around the place succumbed to grey clouds as their visitors slithered across cracked cobblestone. Their van, that dreaded thing of nightmares, resembled an ancient hearse, with its collapsing bumper and its range of old knic-knacks plastered onto the doors, the windows, the floors. And as the vehicle made its way to the Old Albarn farm, descending through to the hills on its thousands of legs, its swollen exterior fighting against the rain as it began to rain, the villagers of Bad Seed glowered at the fog that had began to make its clumsy way up lanes and junctions, smashing against brick, a homemade, foreign concoction brought with their Carnival Folk in order for them to stay in the shadows. So they could hide. Men crouched in armchairs as the monster passed by the windows, worried for their children. Women of all shapes and sizes, eyes bulbous and full, whispered amongst themselves, heads swimming with myth. Murders of children flocked together around misted glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of phantoms. For a thing of legend to become a thing of reality. For they were all living in rare times. The Carnival Folk, with all their monsters, their fog, their shadows, only visited Bad Seed once in a blue moon. Mutters around town spoke of a blood pact with the crazy old Albarn Family, high up of their farm just outside of town. Others spoke men as big as houses, running through the town, carrying body parts, animals, circus equipment. Some spoke of animals; of elephants with three trunks, of wolves with human hands, of birds with paws and snouts. And then, of course, there was the woman of ancient tomes, with her hunched back and her gammy legs. The old one with her gnarled fingers, her walking stick; a tree branch that was said to stamp out peoples’ lives, summon devils and reanimate the dead. Most importantly, of course, was her glass eye, blue as frost said to bring those who gazed upon it eternal damnation, to curse the onlooker with rotted flesh and a taste for bloodshed. Shadows grew heavy in the town of Bad Seed and the children, in their murders, in their flocks, giggled in delight, in mischief. The old one was here!

Too soon, the van was making its way up old country lanes, having left the harsh confines of town square. The driver, hooded and armed with a threadbare whip, pressed firmly in, until in the midnight throes of mist and dew, the Carnival reached the old Albarn Farm, withering away on its small stretch of fields just outside Bad Seed’s suspicious gates. The van groaned as it came to halt, low exhausted. The driver sighed and mopped thick streams of sweat from his brow. Then he jumped down from his position, rounded the back of his family hearse and pulled the back door open. In the back was the old one, her wrinkled hands clutching the scrap walls. She frowned as she was led out into the moonlight, her amber eyes tiny slits as she got used to her surroundings. The driver, a man of very few words, grabbed the crone by the waist and delivered her onto the decaying pavement, where she landed on two slender legs hidden by an inherited grandmother’s smock.

“Ah, back again Wilson,” The hideous one announced, her voice thick and high. She pointed a finger at the old Albarn Farm just before them. The driver grunted and held out an oak branch he had kept in the front seat until she was ready. The woman shook her head and glowered at him.

“No need Wilson! I can make it on my own this time I know it! This place has a bitter taste. Always has, always will. I’ll be fine for this visit.”

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t start that my boy,” The old woman scolded, batting away flies with a claw, “Now, have you got the tub?”

Wilson nodded and tapped a rucksack on his brick back. The old master nodded and with that, the two set off towards their destination; the crumbling Albarn farmhouse, taken apart by weeds, with its eyes blank slates.

“Bloody Albarns! They make this journey hard enough without the stairs to climb!” The old one puffed as they finally got to the front door, after ten minutes of step after step after step. Wilson groaned and pressed the doorbell. There they stood for a while, waiting for a welcome, tapping their boots.

Footsteps soared to the old one’s strange ears and the door finally swung open, with a hideous creak. She noticed it was on its last rusty hinge. The Albarn woman appeared in the door frame, her face pale and warped, swarmed with cold sores. After catching sight of the old one and her assistant, Mrs Albarn’s eyes, already quite glassy, dimmed further.

“Do you want to come in?” She muttered, twirling a strand of straw hair around a bony finger. There was a thud from Wilson as he pulled the rucksack off his shoulders and the poor Albarn woman gave a squeak. The old woman smiled up at her, her teeth shiny in the dark.

“That would be nice dear, thank you.”

And with that, the Carnival Folk entered the Albarn farm for what seemed like the thousandth time.

It had been six long years since the old one’s last visit and six long years since the last Albarn child. Yet, as they were ushered into the dilapidated foyer, the old master and her apprentice both realised the house hadn’t changed at all. Same furniture in the same place, just shaggy and worn with time. The carpets had not been replaced and the same cracks had not been scratched from the walls. All that seemed different were the portraits. The Albarn portraits were of the ugly necessary variety. They were an assortment of long gone corpses lining the foyer walls, detailing which was which. Now all the walls were filled to the brim with baby pictures. They told of first steps, of first words, of first guns. The insidious gap-toothed grin of a toddler loomed over the old one and made her cough. As she looked around and as Wilson rummaged through his supplies, Mrs Albarn seemed to stand in her own hallway, clasping and unclasping her greyed hands, opening and closing her fish mouth, unsure of what to do.

“Strange,” The old one wondered, “She wasn’t like this the last time. She was such a happy lamb last time.” The old woman cleared her throat, making the Albarn woman tense.

“Is there anywhere to place the tub? Or shall we go into the Parlour like last time dear?” Mrs Albarn shivered in an invisible wind then nodded. Raising an eyebrow at Wilson, who looked just as puzzled, the old one led the way into the side parlour, just to their right.

“Is there any reason why Frankie insisted we come so early after the baby's birth?”

They had set up the old tub on the coffee table and had now taken to listening to the rain thrash against the windowpane. Mrs Albarn, sitting on a patchwork couch, bit her lip.

“It was actually my idea. I was...concerned. I’m still concerned.”

The old woman rolled her eyes. New mother jitters. There was no doubt about it.

“Couldn’t you have waited a little longer dearie? Autumn is a very hard time of year for us. When you turn your head, October bleeds as quickly as it can into the following February.”

“Don’t you mean November?”

“No. February. Frankie should know how difficult the journey is here. It took us seven months to get to him. And Frankie was a real handful!”

“Yes well, this is a very special case.”

“Has the child set the house on fire?”

“What? No!”

“The barn? The fields?”

“No! Nothing’s on fire!”

“Ah, you see that’s what I would class as a special case. What has the child done there? She’s only what...two months old? What could she have possibly done to make you so anxious?”

Before Mrs Albarn could answer, her husband slumped into their make-shift parlour. He was different too. So very different. When Frankie Albarn’s first child had been born the man had been glowing with pride, happiness… a third thing the old one couldn’t quite remember. Now, he was pale and grey, just like his wife. But Frankie was an Albarn! He had descended from witches and shadows! He was crafted from the midnight sky! Yet those bright eyes had fallen to smoke and faded glass. The old woman sighed. What a waste.

“Hello,” Frankie nodded at the two Carnival Folk in his parlour, “How are you two?”

“Confused Frankie,” The old one sighed, “There better be a good reason for you calling us out here in November no less! Would you care to tell us what is going on?”

“The baby is…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Just...odd. And Ruth was afraid-”

“Oh yes! She’s already said that! But here we all are, in the farmhouse. Nothing on fire.” A small smile formed on the old woman’s careworn face. Frankie gave a little chuckle, remembering the time he set the living room drapes alight.

“We had them replaced.”

“Oh yes I noticed last time!”

Ruth Albarn sat between them all, perplexed.

“Fran’s upstairs,” She cut in, “Would you like to see her yourself?”

“By all means. Go girl go!”

A few minutes later, the old one of myth and fantasy was sat on a parlour armchair, prodding a baby with a wrinkled finger.

“Ah, lovely! Just lovely! Much better than the boy was!”

Fran Albarn, plump as plump can be, gave the old one a giant grin. Her mother, sitting on the far side of the room, had turned a livid purple.

“Yes,” Ruth growled, “We know. The very first time you said it.”

The old woman blew a loud, obnoxious raspberry on the baby’s tummy. Fran erupted into a cackle, a noise Mrs Albarn seemed utterly repulsed by.

“She had your laugh Frankie!” The crone gawped, “Your hair too!”

She stroked the girl’s dark brown tufts, which had just started to sprout.

Frankie didn’t seem happy about this news and looked down to the floorboards.

“I see nothing wrong with this one. Why on earth did you call?”

Frankie Albarn ran his fingers through his hair.

“When she was born she didn’t scream. She was completely silent. The midwife, some girl from town, said she was born with her eyes wide open.”

“And what lovely eyes too!” The old woman giggled, pinching Fran’s nose. The baby nodded, squirming, “Cheeky bugger!”

“...Anyway, isn’t that a little odd, you know? Being born observing the world around you. Having that much self awareness is a dangerous thing.”

“Perhaps for ordinary folk,” The old one picked the bay up, resting her in chicken-bone arms, “But this is an Albarn. Her kind swims with the fishes and flies high with the birds. There’s more witchcraft in her bones than sewing and farming.”

Ruth Albarn gave a little sob. The crone opposite growled.

“Oh, pull yourself together! It could be much worse!”

“How?” Ruth wailed, “How could it possibly be worse?”

Wilson, silent as the grave, tapped the tub in the centre of the room, his eyes hooded. Frankie patted his wife on the back.

“I think we’re about to find out Love.”

“Steady Wilson! Steady!” The old crone called, placing Fran into the tub, tickling her head and pinching her cheeks before letting go.

“What’s the bowl for?” Ruth whimpered.

“To cook her dear.”

“What?”

The old one sighed and turned back to the baby.

“It was a joke Ruth. Just a joke,” Frankie explained warily.

“Wilson,” The crone called, “I need the flask. Pour the flask!”

Out of his pocket, Wilson produced a flasky, grimy and half full. He reached over Fran in the tub and poured the flask into her forehead, making the baby gurgle.

“What’s all this for?” Ruth whispered to her husband as the old one placed a hand on her daughter’s head. Foam had started to crawl out from the bowl and began to take over the coffee table.

“We’ll see.”

“But-”

“We’ll see.”

“You have to list-”

“Trust me.”

After a minute or so, the old one’s eyelids began to droop and her hand let go of Fran’s head.

“Here we go.”

“Wha-”

“The Fawn!” A voice pushed Ruth back. It was a rough male growl, which soared out of the old one’s throat with such force, it seemed to be the voice of a prisoner, trapped in her tiny frame, “A fawn will come. Only its eyes will remain.”

The Albarns watched, their mouths open. Wilson, stood beside them, lit a cigarette.

“Nothing significant. A man made out of cinders. Crimson. West-West! North-west!” The old one called out, as spit flew down her chin, “A man with no names... A demon... A demon and its…” At this point, the old woman’s eyes, now red and puffy, clicked open. She stared down at the baby, full of so much light, so much potential, so much magic. Then she turned to stare at the parents, all lost and frozen in time.

“Do you know what’s wrong with her?” Frankie asked slowly. The old one shuddered violently but then twisted her mouth into a smile.

“Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s going to be a great little witch. One of the greatest I will ever see.” She replied, with some sadness. Ignoring Ruth’s tears, the old woman of myth, of legend, stumbled back to the parlour door.

“We’re leaving now.”

Frankie Albarn, who had gone to collect his daughter, nodded reluctantly.

“Ruth will see you out.”

“Don’t you want your equipment back?”

“No need for it,” The old one replied, “Got hundreds of them, haven’t we Wilson?” Wilson grunted and raced forward to their van to retrieve his whip.

“That thing you did, it was a prediction right?” Ruth asked as they returned to the front door.

“Indeed.”

“So, they don’t always come true.”

“My predictions are very precise. I have thousands of satisfied customers. But yes I suppose there is room for error.”

“My pa always said to never trust your carnival lot,” Ruth Albarn glared. The old one smirked, her eyes like little suns in the shadows.

“Frankie’s pa ran off with a she-wolf, if I recall correctly. Make sure his son doesn’t do the same dear. History repeating itself is a horrible thing.”

Ruth scoffed and shut the door in the old one’s face.

As the old lady walked down the stairs, she chuckled. By the time she got to her carnival hearse, she was cackling. Wilson, who had climbed back into the front seat, grinned at her.

“I’ll bet you he’s gone in five years time.”

Wilson held up two fingers in the fog.

“Oh that’s a brave bet Wilson my boy!”

Both giggled and the old woman circled the van. When she opened the back door, her face fell a little.

“Shame about the girl. Terrible start to life. Still, I suppose she’ll get away soon enough.”

Wilson grunted and the old one, a relic of lost times, of monsters and men, climbed back into her van. Her assistant, who only spoke in noises, spat out the end of a cigarette and hit his whip onto the dry ground. A strange goodbye to an even stranger place.

And with that, the Carnival Folk disappeared into the hills, its bumper falling off with a giant thud as they hid in the mountains. They would never be seen in the peculiar town of Bad Seed again.

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sonnet57 · 4 years

Text

Do you know how hard it is to find a Leitner? The entity who is known only as Michael would tell you that it’s like trying to find a specific molecule of water in the ocean. With 978 books in the library of Jurgen Leitner at the time of its destruction, finding just one is near impossible. But he found it. He tracked the book with no title, or the Tome of Many Skins as he had come to call it, all the way across the world to the United States, in the possession of Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert. Just his luck.

With the powers of the Spiral on his side, he opened a door into the back room of their “safe house” and snagged the book from the table. Once he had the book in his hands, he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He closed the door and retreated into the winding hallways, sinking to the floor, back firmly against the wall. His hands were reverent on the pages as he turned them, not quite prepared to reach the page he needed.

He didn’t know what would happen when he finally read out what was printed on the page. Gerard might not even remember him, might not want to speak to him, seeing as he’s an embodiment of one of the entities. Michael knew about Gerard’s stint with Gertrude Robinson, knew all about his assistance in stopping later rituals, kept an eye on him as he found his way to the institute, when he eventually… no. Those thoughts were for later.

Michael took a deep breath and began reading, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs, though for what purpose even he could not have said. Perhaps he was simply trying to push away…” His pause brought the echo of his words back to his ears. He pushed on.

“The smell of disinfectant and grief that rose from his hospital bed. She was there sometimes, the one he had followed around the world. There was almost sadness in her eyes. He felt himself begin to slip, the icy certainty of what was happening seeping through his flesh, and as he fell away for the final time, he felt that all consuming fear. And his only thought was to cry out for his mother. But with the last vestige of his stubborn will, he refused. She would not claim his last moment. He was silent. And so, Gerard Keay ended.”

And then Gerry was in front of him. He was older, even somewhat older than he was when Gertrude had put him into this horrendous book. But he wasn’t looking up. “What do you want this time, Julia?”

Michael reached out, just to see if he could hold Gerry again, and to his surprise, his hand cupped his face lightly, “Not Julia, love.”

“Michael…” The disbelief in his voice was nearly palpable, and when Gerry grasped Michael’s wrist and kissed his palm, the world, such as it was, seemed to right itself, “How the hell? How can I feel you? I didn’t think it was possible.”

Michael smirked, “The rules are a little bit different here, I suppose. Or maybe my control over it made it possible. I’m not sure. I’m… how are you, Gerry?”

“So much better now than I was five minutes ago. I… god, Michael how are you? When you didn’t come back I assumed the worst, but I never would’ve thought of this.” His hand never left Michael’s, their fingers interlaced on their touching knees.

“It’s not that bad, if you can believe it. Better than I could have asked for. Better than the lot you got.”

“Hey, don’t look like that, baby. You’re allowed to be angry with Gertrude for what she did. She kept you in the dark. She sacrificed you.” The anger in Gerry’s voice as he spat the last two words reverberated in Michael’s rib cage.

“You died of a brain tumor. You’re trapped in a book, Gerry. Being toted around by avatars of the Hunt.” Never, not once, since that fated day on nonexistent Sannikov Land had Michael felt so much like Michael Shelley.

Gerry laughed without mirth, “Yeah, I am. They use me as some kind of a monster manual. But sweetheart, my death was coming. I knew it, Gertrude knew it. Yours? That wasn’t fair. And even then, I don’t know how this works. It probably wasn’t even anything close to death.”

“It sure as hell felt like one.”

Gerry rubbed methodical circles on the back of Michael’s hand, “You don’t have to worry about me, love. Sure, being a god forsaken book made of skin isn’t exactly how I pictured my afterlife, it’s not… terrible. It doesn’t hurt. And… my dad was in here at some point.”

Michael looked into Gerry’s eyes, his mouth opening in shock, “Are you sure? How do you know?”

“For one, my mother had this book since she was really young and has been adding to it for as long as I can remember, and on the other end of things, I can feel him. I can feel everyone that has ever been a part of this book, and I assume they can feel me, if their pages hadn’t been burned. And before you ask, I can barely remember anything about my father, but I can remember how he made me feel. It was always… he always loved me. That same energy is in the book. I know it’s him.”

“Is his page still out there? Can you find it?”

Gerry shook his head, “I’ve tried. I can never feel it beyond the remnants in here. I think… I think his page was burned a long time ago.”

“Do you think it was your mother?”

“If I had to hazard a guess. She always despised him, I think. Even in her best moments she never really had a good thing to say. Always said he was too weak for the book. But then I can’t understand why she would put him in just to rip him out.”

Michael cocked his head to the side, a cascade of hair falling over his shoulder, “What’s that look in your eye, dear heart? I’m not sure I like it.”

Gerry’s grip tightened for a moment, his eyes closing, “Michael, if asked you to rip my page out and burn it, would you?”

“Gerard Keay, I can’t do that! As much as I hate the idea, I have to return you to Montauk and Herbert. And I don’t know if I could bear bringing about a second end for you.”

“Then just rip me out. Take me with you. Show me your hallways, your doors. They won’t notice. They haven’t had the need for me for almost a year. I doubt they’ll need my assistance anytime soon. Please, baby, take me with you.”

“I can’t, Gerard, you know I can’t,” Michael said, unlacing their fingers and reaching up to Gerry’s face again. Gerard, resigned, titled into it, “At least I know you’re safe where you are. I despise the Hunt, but knowing you’re here in some way? It’s a comfort.”

“Can I stay a while longer? I feel like we’ve talked about everything and nothing at the same time.”

“You can stay as long as you like, dear heart. I can make moments feel like forever wishing these walls.”

And with that, Gerard Keay leaned into a form that was familiar yet unrecognizable, a genuine smile on his face for the first time in years.

#heres that gerrymichael fic i promised #i played fast and loose with the rules #tyler writes #gerrymichael #the magnus archives #tma #gerard keay can date a little monster from a book #as a treat #i care them

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tumblinglringlring · 4 years

Note

Hi hi! Allen here, I was coming over to request some Fili goodness!! Perhaps of him seeing his One for the first time in years since he set out from Ered Luin when the caravans with them and Dís arrive, and he finally gets to propose now that he has been crowned prince and he feels worthy. Fluff galore if I may ask, whether this includes smut is your choice!! And I don't particularly mind if it's an oc, or a ×reader thing! Thank you so much for reading this!! -Allen *˙︶˙*)ﾉ

This turned out longer than I planned. Mostly fluff, some angst because apparently I can’t help myself.

Also people send me more requests!

Title: A Story in Beads

Relationship: Fili x reader

Rating: G

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949421

Summary: After the reclaiming of Erebor, Fili will finally see his One for the first time in years. During his travels, Fili got her a gift from each place he traveled to prove he would think on her always during his adventures.

The last time Fili saw his One had been back in the Blue Mountains shortly before he left to join Thorin’s quest and that had been years ago. Now that Erebor had been reclaimed, the halls cleaned and infrastructure repaired enough for the first caravans to arrive, Dis had notified them that they would begin the long arduous journey to the Lonely Mountain. He had been ecstatic when she had written Y/N and her family would be joining them in the journey. Every chance he got, Fili would be out scanning the horizon for any sign of the caravan or combing through scouting reports to get an update on their progress.

Just that very morning their scouts had arrived at the mountain signaling their approach and Fili had never been so nervous in his life. Fighting orc, goblins, trolls and a battle of five armies had been much easier to process.

Seeing his One and finally telling her his feelings? Giving her his bead? Pffft. He was quaking in his boots. Not that anyone could tell of course, Thorin and Balin had taught him how to school his features. He was the heir to crown after all. And he finally had something to offer to his One. In the Blue Mountains they had to take the work they could get to help support their people. He’d been a blacksmith. A mercenary escort. Nothing he thought worthy of his One.

As much as Thorin and their mother tried to shelter him and his brother from the gossips, he knew what Men and Dwarf alike said about his uncle. A pauper king, a beggar king. And what did that make him? An heir of nothing? What did that make his One if they married? No, Fili knew he had to go on the quest with Thorin and take back his homeland - his heritage.

Almost every one of their people thought their quest was doomed and that none of them would return. But she had believed in them, in him , and it had warmed his heart like no other. He almost told her then and there, but in the end he had backed out. It wouldn’t be fair to her to voice his love and then leave for an undetermined amount of time.

She wasn’t the daughter from a noble family, but of a baker. Fili didn’t care though. She had a kind heart (and a mischievous streak) and had an endearing habit of taking care of the stray cats and dogs on the streets. Mahal if he had a gold coin every time he spotted her splinting the leg of an injured animal -using cloth from her own skirt no less!- he’d have more gold than in all of Erebor. In fact, she had been tending to a wounded rat when he had stopped by her house to say goodbye.

“Will you remember me when you are crowned prince of Erebor?” she had teased as she put a bandage on the rat’s injured tail. Rolling up his sleeves, he had helped to hold the rat and make sure it didn’t bite them while she worked.

“Of course, Y/N, I could never forget you,” he grimaced as he struggled to hold onto the rat and keep his fingers away from its teeth, “I’ll be thinking about you always.”

It took him a moment to realize what he said -and he nearly dropped the rat when he did!- and could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, but Y/N didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh Fili, don’t be silly,” she had laughed as she took the rat from his hands, quickly placing it back in its cage, “You’ll have more pressing things to think about than just a simple baker like me.”

However he words had put a fire in his heart and he had taken her hand and vowed that he would think of her everyday that he was away. As proof he’d give her something from each place he went, to show that he thought of her. Giving her a soft smile, he loved the way she blushed and looked up at him through her long lashes.

“You promise you’ll come back? Alive?” she had asked him softly.

“Of course,” he had smiled, “How else would I get you your trinkets?”

At first he had no idea what to get her from each place. It had to be small enough for him to carry, yet represent where he had been. Surprisingly, it had been Bifur that gave him the idea, although indirectly. He saw the dwarf whittling something in the hobbit’s home and was struck with the brilliant idea of making her a bead from the wood or stone of each place they visited. From the Shire he had carved a bead from an acorn, Bifur showing him how to treat it so it would stay nice. He carved a tree on one side and Bifur carved the rolling hills on the other for him. She knew how much she’d enjoy running up the hills before rolling down them. In winter he could picture them sledding down the snow covered hills and it made him smile.

After battling the trolls who had turned to stone, Fili had knocked off a small piece of them and sanded and filed it down to bead shape. On one side he etched a small bug - he knew she’d have gotten a kick out of Bilbo’s ‘parasite’ plan. On the other, he carved a piece of bread. When him and his brother were supposed to be watching the ponies, he had been lost in thought remembering the times he watched her bake. As dwarflings, he and his brother had spent a lot of time with her family while Thorin and Dis were busy either working or ensuring their people had enough. Her adad had let him stay during the day, setting up a nice area from them in the kitchen as they studied the tomes Balin had given them.

He remembered sneaking glances over to her while she worked, finding the way she stuck her tongue out when focused on a particularly difficult task endearing. She’d often bring over her latest creation for them to taste test. She’d be covered in splatters of flour, her cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion and heat of the ovens, but Fili thought she was beautiful. In fact, it was after she had asked them to taste test her new honey cakes when he realized he loved her. Perhaps it was the light, or the way she smiled at them as they enjoyed her efforts, but Fili had been completely awestruck. He remembered the moment fondly and could still smell the warm honey cake from that day. So lost in that memory, he hadn’t noticed the trolls stealing away the two ponies.

At Rivendell, he had the hardest time finding something to craft a bead for her. Scouring the plentiful gardens, he saw many flowers that he thought would look beautiful in her hair. In his dreams, he could imagine the feel of his One’s (h/c) tresses slipping through his fingers as he interwove the flowers through them. Kili was the one who saved him in the end. Always fascinated with all things elf, he found a necklace that had clear beads with moss - real moss! - on the inside. Kili had even asked one of them how it was done and the elf had said it was made with a special resin, derived from a sap that grew in the trees nearby. The elf even offered to craft him a piece, he just needed the moss or flower. However Fili already knew what he wanted. There was a particular flower that only grew in Rivendell, it blossoms small enough to fit in a hair bead. In no time Fili had found the perfect one and had given it to the elf. By the next day he found the bead on his pillow and he had happily pocketed it.

During their escapade in the goblin tunnels, Fili had been glad his One hadn’t been there for he would have surely been in a full on panic. After fighting their way through the goblin invested mountain, they had brought a few goblin weapons out with them. But Fili didn’t want to make something from that and put it in his One’s hair. However Bilbo had found several rocks in his pockets after the adventure and he had asked the hobbit for one before they were running from Azog. All dwarrow had a connection with mountains and this bead would come from the depths of the Misty Mountains, from a goblin town no less! He was sure she would be impressed with his bravery, he thought as he carved the skyline of the mountains on one side, his ax on the other.

On the carrock, there were plenty of feathers and he pocketed one for later. On the ride on the great eagles back, he had at first been so focused on how utterly terrifying it was to be so far from the ground and watching his wounded uncle lying limply in the eagle's talons. However, his brother had whooped and hollered as they soared in the sky and Fili couldn’t help but smile and think how his One would be doing the exact same. In the Blue Mountains, they had climbed the highest peak once and thought they could see the whole of Arda from there. The view on top of the eagle was beautiful, but would have been more breathtaking if he could watch his One smile at the view. He cut the pocketed feather down to size and attached it to the Misty Mountains’ bead.

Like the Shire, Beorn’s land was full of growing things and animals. As a baker, he knew his One would have found all sorts of ingredients to make the tastiest of treats. In particular, the tubs of various honeys he knew she would have enjoyed the most. Beorn had passion for beekeeping and had honeys from different flowers and fauna - all with a slight difference in flavor. They mostly tasted the same to Fili, but Bilbo assured him they all had a unique boutique and he was sure his One would have appreciated it as well. He had snagged a piece of honeycomb, carving it in the form of a bead, trying to figure out how to harden the wax as he cut the bead out of it. Bofur had proved helpful and had made a lacquer that would preserve it.

During their travels in Mirkwood, he had completely forgotten to find something bead worthy; his mind was so addled from the sickness that seemed to emanate from the forest. Perhaps it had been for the best, who knew if anything from that dreadful forest was safe? Instead he had broken a piece of the barrel he rode in as they escaped from the elven dungeons. As terrifying as that experience had been, Fili had enjoyed the high speed ride through the rapids. He’d even wondered if he could do something similar in the waterfalls and rivers in and around Erebor. He’d take her with him - once he’d make sure it was safe of course. On one side of the bead he had carved a wine glass, on the other a barrel with two dwarves smiling.

On the way to Laketown, he was in awe of how the water seemed to stretch all around him and he had wondered if that is what the sea looked like. Despite how close the Blue Mountains were to the Great Sea, he had only seen them from the tops of the mountains. His One had seen it though and he loved to listen to her tell him how beautiful the sea was. She had even been on a boat and sailed on it! But he couldn’t smell the salt breeze of a sea she had described, he could only smell fish as it was dumped on him. He knew his One would be bent over in laughter when he told her. Even then he could picture her face and hear her infectious laughter. Even in a barrel full of stinky fish, he had smiled at that thought. Just wait until he told her about how they got into Bard’s house! When they had briefly snuck into the market, he found a blue bead - the same shade as the lake - and had quickly pocketed it. Only when his brother had been resting after the elf healed him had he taken it back out, carving a fish on one side.

Inspiration for the other side came later, as they ran and dodged out of the way of Smaug’s fiery breathe. Fili truly thought he would die that night and his only regret was that he never told his One that he loved her. However in the morning, he realized hundreds of people wouldn’t see their loved ones again when the survivors of Laketown broke out in wails and cries. He carved the dwarven runes for “Remember” for he vowed to remember the name of every lost man, woman and child of Laketown - their lives had been the cost of his home and title. He would remember them, always. Knowing how much the scene would have broken her heart, Fili offered what help he could to the towns folk. Splinting limbs, wrapping wounds, he had used his own clothes in some cases.

On his way up to the mountain, he was sure he would be able to find a suitable bead amongst all the golden and other treasure in Erebor. But when he saw how the gold-sickness affected his uncle, he grew to detest anything related to the treasure horde. He debated on searching for a loose dragon scale, it’d be the rarest of gifts, but worried that whatever sickness came from the dragon would rub off from the scale. He would not risk his One with tainted treasures. Instead he chipped off a section of stone from the secret door the company had come in, this time shaping it into a heart. On one side Erebor, the other the Blue Mountains, for he would never forget to cherish his One and the friends he made along the way to claiming his homeland.

The last bead he had made from the pieces of armor that saved his, his brother’s and Thorin’s life. Before they had headed to battle, their Uncle no longer under the gold-sickness, they had started to shed the ornate armor Thorin had them don previously - all of them sick of such ornate plating. But Fili had remembered his promise to his One - the promise to come back alive. He kept only the most vital sections of armor and begged his brother and uncle to do the same. Reluctantly they agreed, and a good thing too, as Azog and Bolg would have skewered them without it. While they had been severely injured, the armor had saved them from the worst of it. His promise to her had saved them. During his convalescence he had forged the pieces of metal together and carved dwarvish runes symbolizing his unending thanks and vow to pay her back for the rest of his life.

However now that he was looking at the beads laid out on his bed he doubted himself. They were all different, from their material down to their style and together on a braid they would look bulky and ugly. Mahal , they weren’t even the same color. Rubbing his hands over his face, he heard a knock on the door and grumbled for them to come in - only members of the company knocked on his door. However a gentle throat clearing caused his head to whip around towards the door and spot his One as he hastily tried to cover the beads with a pillow.

“Hello Fili,” (Y/N) bowed, as she looked up at him through her long lashes.

“Oh please, Y/N,” he sighed, “You really don’t need to do that.” Catching her smirk, he groaned as he watched her bow comically deep, adding a ridiculous hand flourish.

“As you wish, your majesty ,” she teased, before righting herself, “What do you have there?”

“Nothing!”

But the twinkle in her eye told Fili he was found out and soon she pounced on the bed, trying to remove the pillow.

“Careful!” He laughed, “You’ll break them!” But of course she wouldn’t. They had survived trolls, goblins, rapids and dragons. They’d survive a pillow fight. Eventually he had pinned her down on the bed, the muscles he had put on during the journey still easily aiding him in the fight. Smiling, he watched as his mustache braids tickled her face making her giggle and proceeded to lightly trail them over skin, causing her laughter to ring out in his room. Her laugh was infectious and soon Fili joined in as he watched her laugh and struggle underneath him.

Eventually he let her up, still lightly laughing from their shenanigans.

“Will you tell me now?”

“Alright, alright,” Fili sighed before taking a deep breath, “There is something I would speak with you about.” Taking her hands, he saw her brow furrow in concern. He knew he must look nervous.

“During the journey, I kept my promise to you,” he began, “I made you something to show you that you were always on my mind - no matter where I was.” He started backwards in his journey, first beginning with the most recent bead and began telling her the tale of his adventures. As he continued he watched her eyes as they teared up during the saddest moments of their journey or brightened during the happiest. Just as he predicted, she had been bent over in laughter at his description of the barrels of fish and climbing through the toilet. She was amazed with each bead, looking at each one as if it was its own amazing treasure.

“These are beautiful, Fee,” she murmured as she looked at them all spread out on the bed.

“I’m sorry they don’t match,” he blushed, rubbing the back of his head, “I understand if you don’t actually want them.” However he was startled when she had looked at him with such seriousness before slapping him with a pillow.

“Of course I want them!” she tutted, “It’s like a story I can wear as a necklace.”

“Before you say that,” he hesitated, boy had he messed this up, “You should know they are part of a set. I have one more to give you, but please don’t feel pressured to accept them.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it, Fee. You made it after all.”

Taking a deep breath he produced the courting bead from his pocket, “I made this for you, Y/N. Since we were young I’ve known that you were my One. I’ve known for fifteen years and fifteen years ago I made this bead, hoping that one day you would take it. I bought the metal with my first earnings, carving my family's crest on one side and the word for One on the other.”

Then he began the story of his adventures anew (from the start this time) but now focusing on how each bead was a memory of his love for her during his journey. How each step of the way he thought of her, loved her and thought only of her. At the end, his voice was cracking, his emotions starting to overwhelm him as his tale finished.

“I love you, Amralime,” he murmured. For a moment all was silence as he stared into her eyes, watery now and he worried he had upset her.

“Oh Fili, I love you too,” she smiled as from her pocket she produced her own bead. Fili thought his heart would burst as with a shaking hand he picked it up. Like his bead, the dwarven rune for One was carved on one side and her name carved on the other.

-----

Epilogue:

As the two walked hand in hand, new beads and braids adorning their head, the new couple entered the dining hall. Spying the new adornments, Kili smirked.

“Of course my brother can’t simply use one courting bead but ten ,” he snickered as they sat down next to him.

“It’s because I love my One ten times more than any dwarf has ever loved a One,” Fili laughed as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Oh Mahal ,” Kili groaned, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

#bfroggers fic #fili x reader #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #Erebor #au: everyone lives nobody dies #fili friday #kili #bofur #bifur #thorin oakenshield

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onouwu · 4 years

Text

Daughters of Gardenia: Chapter 1 “Hunger”

Floating through space on a rock beholden to nothing but the forces of gravity and its natural balance in the cosmos… That’s something which Kayla Elindottir has never experienced in her life, having been born on Gardenia, an interstellar vessel en-route to a new star with planets to colonize. It is, however, something she thinks about constantly while looking into the vast array of bright specks in the blackness beyond Gardenia’s windows. Since the moment she learned of such a thing, it has been both frightening and fascinating. It’s a wonder how life has managed before these ships. The first Gardenian by birth, earthling by origin, and Icelandic by heritage, she is one of few “humans” left dotted around the Matron’s empire. Of course, that means nothing to her except a fun fact her mothers like to bring up. She’s only ever known those who are around her, a handful of Venusian explorers and their children, all of different species.

If anything, she feels rather underwhelming. This crew is a hardy bunch, as the planet is quite far away and only the most survivable of species aside from humans were permitted. The “Aside from humans” part is something she’s reminded of every time she talks to Valerie Nubal, the “captain” of sorts. A demonic looking figure with purple lips, slightly tanned skin, solid black irises, dark unkempt hair, two large brown horns pointing forward from the sides of her head in a hook shape, and a pair of blood-red wings that give her an intimidating look. She’s a hybrid of two races that imbues her with a lot of biological ruggedness but binds her to a diet of blood. She’s also a dismissive and arrogant woman if Kay’s ever seen one. It took a lifetime of begging and a miracle before Val would be hounded into letting Kay become the ship’s communications decoder, her life’s passion. She’s obsessed with this great society she’s never seen, and decoding is the only link to it. Like an archaeologist dusting off sacred thousand-year-old tomes from an ancient civilization, she decodes messages to the ship’s navigation systems. No words, nor pictures, it is only the guidance data that has become distorted over lightyears of travel. These messages are the only proof of this vast utopian society that she’s only heard stories of. Everything she’s done since she was born leads back to the expansion of the Great Matron’s empire. The information they get moves barely faster than the ship itself and is full of vital data to travel between such unimaginable distances and end up where it needs to be. Still, to Kay, this is the closest for now that she will get to this society of countless billions beyond the handful of people she knows.

Soon, however, this will change as it’s so close, and the star is in view. Gardenia will no longer need these signals, and she will one day be able to communicate with her distant relatives in these very channels she maintains.

Still, there will be quite some time before she sees them. There will be a period of colonizing the designated robotically terraformed planets. She will probably have her own children, the crew with her will be the seed of life that expands their ever-growing colony. Only after that will other ships come and take their thousand or so year journey to get there. Still A dream she holds onto, motivation to keep going. “daydreaming again?” Kay snaps back into reality to the sound of her friend’s voice after staring into the abyss beyond the window. Kayla’s easily distracted, but this time it seems warranted. For the longest time all the dots in the sky were meaningless, but one has been growing bigger in the past few years. No longer just another speck of light, it’s become a visible bright ball.

“I know it’s exciting, but you might want to remember to eat” Her friend, Solanas Nubal, says with a playful smirk. Daughter of Valerie, Solanas shares her mother’s wings, almost exactly alike, her horns are swept back however, and her hair is a rich red. Her skin is white and pale and her lips are a soft purple that barely hide her sharp fangs when she speaks. While she and Kay both lack much skin tone, Solanas’ pale anemic looking body stands in deep contrast with Kayla’s soft pink complexion. Solanas couldn’t be any more different from her mother when it comes to personality though. A rather playful and outgoing dragon-hybrid who was also born aboard this ship like Kay. She’s decidedly not one to talk about herself, but she‘s attentive and kind. They’ve been friends for as long as they’ve been alive… and Kay is Solanas’ go-to meal. “Oh sorry, I just… I can’t help it!” Kay responds “Me too, but I think I’d rather let everything surprise me, I’ll experience it all when I get there… well, mother made you some food. Get yourself a nice helping because I’m hungry too, you know” Solanas lets out with a thirsty smile.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, it’s been a while.” Kayla just smiles back at her before heading to the kitchen. As kayla gets to the dining area, she sees her favorite cheese dumplings laid out for her. Val might not pay much attention to her, but she does feed her well. Kay makes quick work of them. She takes little time devouring her food, never realizing how hungry she was until that first bite. As her belly is full she decides to go and take a nap.

When Kayla wakes up she wonders what time it is. The lights on the ship are out so she must have missed the rest of the light-hours. When she brushes her teeth she notices a wet spot on the side of her neck, then she remembers… Solanas! Oh, I forgot!

It’s common for Solanas to watch over her when she’s hungry and have a little taste of her to hold her off until she can sink her teeth in.

It comes as a welcome surprise though since she would otherwise be bored and looking for someone to play a game with. A giddiness and warmth fills her as she rushes into the shower and cleans off, hopping into new clothes and leaving her wristwatch-style lifetracker off as not to set off any alarms in the middle of sleep time with it reporting any irregularities in her vitals while getting fed on. She walks down the dark hallway to Solanas’ room -- Sure enough the light is on.

Solanas always lamented her mother’s use of concubines, human cattle as she was told. Secretly the thought, as a fantasy, excites Kayla. She likes to feed her maybe more than she should.

A soft chime plays as she stands in front of the door, the ship letting Solanas know she has a visitor. The door opens and Solanas, lying down in her bed with her massive wings hanging off the far side and a tablet in her hands, looks up at Kays with a smile. “Aww, you remembered me!” she let out playfully as she sat up and adjusted herself to put a pillow under her back and let her wings hang off both sides.

“Yeah, you left a little reminder, didn’t you?” Kayla replied

“I hope I didn’t wake you. I just wanted to get a little taste of you. Something to hold me over… it didn’t work though” “No, no… I only just noticed it. I guess I got a bit too relaxed.” Kay said.

Kayla can already feel Solanas’ hunger growing. It’s rather… cute. For someone so in-control constantly, this is one feeling that she so easily succumbs to. It’s such a powerful thing that she shouldn’t be playing with, but she can’t help but to let it linger on Solanas’ tongue just for a bit longer until it takes over a little.

Kay casually sits in Solanas’ chair “So how long has it been? I don’t even remember” “You’re really bad at this, Kay. I don’t know which one of us is more hungry right now.” She replied with a knowing grin.

“Oh, w-what do you mean?” Kay replied “I mean, I’ll be happy to feed you”

Solanas taps her leg, beckoning her. Kayla walks over obediently, Now flustered and hiding her eyes as she crawls on the bed slowly and sits in Solanas’ lap, then starts to undress.

“Don’t need to get my clothes wet” she says, as if to assure Solanas that she’s just being practical --All while her cheeks turn red.

Those deep red and hungry eyes trace her body, much too busy to silently judge her now, stopping at her chest where they catch a few beats of that pounding heart nudging against her rib cage. Kay notices, letting out a relieved sigh but also taking a guilty pleasure in the fact that the woman before her is reduced to little more than a hungry animal lost in instinct at the sight of her heart. She teases her heart’s vivid dance for this enthralled woman, grabbing her hand to press her sharp clawed fingers over it. “It’s ready to feed you” Kay says softly. Without saying a word, Solanas takes no time pushing her horns between Kay’s jaw and shoulder, using what little restraint she has left in her to lick at Kay’s neck which sends chills down her spine. Solanas studies the glistening of her wet skin to see her throbbing target better. Kay only mentally prepares as she rests her head to the side while Solanas wraps her lips around her favorite artery, sinking her fangs into the soft pulsing flesh of her exposed neck like a ripe fruit. Kay’s body twitches and a quick soft gasp escapes her lips followed by fast and heavy breaths as Solanas clamps down and punctures the vessel deep inside and begins to swallow gushing crimson. Sharp claws run down Kay’s sides and firmly embrace her chest while the tip of that long red tail trails down her spine, giving her goosebumps all over her body. Kay tries to keep her guilty pleasure a secret, but as the blood touches Solanas’ tongue and she regains her composure, she becomes far too attentive of Kay’s reactions to not know. She now seems to take pleasure in assaulting Kay’s senses with affectionate little touches while engorging herself, teasing her and fulfilling that known desire if only for the mutual benefit of doing it.

A firm but gentle embrace gently guides Kayla’s subdued body, following every lead as her heart’s beat quickens and that gentle rhythmic flow becomes mouth-filling squirts when she sinks into her depraved fantasy. Kay pants in humiliating ecstasy to feel the rhythmic suckling and licking of her neck while the blood rushes out of her to feed the hungry woman… all of course to her demonic mistress’ delight.

Solanas is as eager to take as Kay is eager to give, moaning into her neck as she greedily consumes her life-force… too eager even, for one little heart to give. Too much, too fast. Just as Solanas fulfills Kay’s secret little wishes and gets into the rhythm of swallowing the heavy torrents of her life, she feels Kay’s arms begin to tremble, and that mighty little heart in her chest, with what seemed like endless vitality, starts to become dysrhythmic and angry, desperate even. Kay, far too lost in the feeling, her eyes full of those majestic wings batting in front of her while the room’s light behind them shows the veiny streaks becoming increasingly vivid. She only notices when Solanas stops drinking and presses her hand against her neck. Blood flows between her scaly fingers and drips on her own body, but due to the reaction between Solanas’ scales and injured flesh, her collagen binding and healing process goes into over-drive and the bleeding stops quickly. Kay’s eyes fill with shame and disappointment, they plead for just a bit more… but her clattering teeth and whitening skin says it was already a bit much. As Solanas lets go, kay has nothing more to say than

“Sorry”.

“I’m more than full, Kayla. I’m pinker than you right now” she laughs, kissing over her fluttering heart for a job well done. “Here, lay with me for the night. I’ll feel better being able to watch over you” Solanas says

Kay would blush if she had blood to spare for her cheeks, but for now she only accepts defeat and rolls off onto the other side of the small bed, grabbing Solanas’ leg between hers and making use of what little space is left.

When Kay wakes up, she notices Solanas missing. She gets up but her head feels light, still not recovered. She puts on her clothes and stumbles out of Solanas’ room just in time to be seen by Oleanna

A look of disgust crosses the lapine’s face at the sight of the dried blood on her neck “Ugh, I wish she’d grow blood cells in the farm like Yrsa does with meat.” That… aggressive behavior. It has no place here. Her kind have such violent tendencies” “It’s fine it doesn’t hurt much” Kay replies

Oleanna is usually not the lecturing kind, but it’d be an understatement to say she’s not a fan of the process.

#Daughters of Gardenia #cardiophilia #sci-fi

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prrplwtch · 4 years

Note

Hi! Can I request number 9 and 10 from the smut dialogue prompt list for Solomon? Thanks!

Hi nonnie :) Here we go 💜

Under the cut because it’s smut

“We’re in public, you know.” “Try to stay quiet, understand?” Solomon x f!MC

Their little game was getting out of hand.

It all started a few weeks ago, when Solomon first noticed that MC was acting different than usual. Her glances at him now lasted a moment too long, her touches lingered, and her smiles…There seemed to have been something new behind her smiles.

Solomon found these sudden changes quite entertaining - does she think this could get me flustered? - and responded in kind. But, as the time passed the touches grew bolder, the looks more intense, and, suddenly, Solomon noticed that he was getting quite distracted.

The game excited him – there was something so thrilling about all these borderline inappropriate touches and longing glances. But I cannot let this affect my studies.

One day, Solomon, MC, Simeon and Asmo were in an empty classroom, trying to finish their group project for demonology. MC and Solomon were sitting together at one desk, and Asmo and Simeon sat at the desk in front of them and turned around to face them. Though he was the only demon in the group, Asmo was not particularly knowledgeable about this particular area, so the assignment was taking a while.

“I think I found the answer to number three,” Solomon said, looking through the textbook.

“Where?” MC said, as she leaned in closer to him. Her hair brushed against his arm and he could smell the sweet scent of her shampoo.

“The last paragraph on this page,” Solomon explained.

“Ah, I see it now,” MC smiled at him, “Impressive, I would not have noticed it.”

With that she put her hand on his knee, gently patting it. He would have paid it no mind, if her hand did not linger, but it remained on his knee. When Solomon glanced over to MC, he saw that she was smiling ever so slightly. You will not get a reaction out of me so easily.

MC’s hand became quite difficult to ignore, however, when a moment later it started moving up his thigh. What is she doing? The room suddenly started to feel very warm. For a second he considered telling her something, but that would mean he lost their unspoken game. As he hand moved higher, he could feel blush bloom om his cheeks.

“Solomon, are you alright?” Simeon asked, looking at him with concern in his eyes, “You look quite flushed.”

“He is all good,” Asmo interjected with the sweetest of smiles, “It’s just been getting quite hot in the room.”

“Oh? I haven’t noticed,” Simeon replied as he turned his attention back to his notebook. It was quiet for a moment, until Asmo sighed loudly.

“Well,” he said, “We cannot answer the last question without the Grand Tome of Demons. Luckily for you, I know exactly where we can find one.”

“Where is it?” MC asked.

“Do you know the storage by the staircase? It’s there, on the bookshelf on the left.”

“Are you going to go get it?” MC looked at Asmo.

MC’s hand was still on Solomon’s thigh – the heat from her touch began spreading through Solomon’s entire body. He took a deep breath, trying to stop his heart from racing.

“Me? No, I just had my nails done,” Asmo said, showing off his manicure.

“Fine, then I’ll get it,” MC said, getting up and, mercifully, removing her hand.

“It’s a really big book though,” Asmo told her, “You might need some help.”

“Oh?” MC said, “Well then, Solomon, would you mind helping me.”

He nodded and followed her out of the classroom without saying a word. They made their way to the storage. MC looked around and was about to head to the shelf that Asmo indicated, when Solomon caught her arm.

“We were in public, you know,” he told MC as he looked into his face.

“And that bothers you?” MC asked with a slight smirk, “Could have fooled me.”

There was truth to her words – their game of almost inappropriate touches did not bother him – it excited him.

“And just what were you hoping to achieve with this little game of yours,” he said, pulling MC closer by her arm.

“You are a smart man; can’t you figure it out?” MC murmured, as her gaze flickered to his lips then back to his eyes.

He was not sure if it were he or MC who closed the distance between then, but the next thing he knew her lips were on his, hot and demanding, as he fingers snaked their way through his hair. He pulled MC closer, pressing her body against his. His head spun – her touch, her warmth felt intoxicating. The kiss deepened, and Solomon understood that he’d never craved anything as much as he wanted her in that moment. But he could not, not yet – not until she receives what’s due for that infuriating game of hers.

So he pressed MC against the wall. She threw her head back, as he began kissing her jaw, all the way down to her neck. His right hand was on MC’s thigh, moving upwards, just under the hem of her skirt, and he could feel goosebumps on her skin.

“Anyone passing through the corridor could probably hear us, if we are not careful,” Solomon whispered to MC, as he continued to caress her, “So try to stay quiet, understand?”

MC nodded, and he kneeled in front of her and hiked up her uniform skirt. Though eager to taste and touch her, Solomon took his time to tease MC by kissing the inner sides of her thighs, making her pant. When his mouth was finally on her flesh, MC let out the most delightful quiet moan. Solomon grabbed at MC’s thighs, as he continued exploring her with his mouth and tongue. MC’s panting was getting heavier, as she arched her back against him in search of a pleasure, and, suddenly, a loud moan escaped her lips.

“Quiet,” Solomon hissed at her, as he bit the inner side of her thigh, making MC shudder with pleasure.

MC’s release came suddenly, leaving her completely breathless. Solomon got up and leaned in to kiss her. He was delighted by the flushed look of her face.

“We aren’t done here,” he whispered, and MC smiled at him.

Solomon pressed MC into the wall, pushing into her, as she hugged him with her legs. The feeling of her warmth was overwhelming at first, and he found himself gasping. Solomon tried to control the pace at first, but the tension that was building up over the course of the last few weeks was too much. His movements soon became more frazzled, and he had to bite MC’s shoulder to stiffle a moan.

MC drew him in for a passionate kiss, and Solomon knew that he would not last very much longer. The heavy, pleasant pressure building up in his lower stomach was sending waves of heat through his body with every push. It was clear MC was feeling it too, as she was moving her hips, trying to match his pace, in desperate search for pleasure.

The release found them suddenly, leaving the two of them gasping for air.

“Ah,” MC said, “We better get back, before they notice something.”

Solomon nodded. They fixed their clothes and picked up the tome that Asmo mentioned – the book truly was huge, and headed back to the classroom.

As soon as they walked in, Solomon noticed that Asmo was smirking.

“Took you a while,” he said with a smile.

“We got a little bit lost,” MC replied nonchalantly.

“I see. Well, the academy can be full of surprises,” Asmo smiled.

“But we are back with the book, so now we can finish the project,” Solomon did not like the knowing look in Asmo’s eyes.

“Ah, about that. Turned out I was wrong – the answer we needed actually was in the textbook,” Asmo smirked.

Solomon stared at him for a moment, before MC and he sat down at the desk and looked over to Simeon’s notebook for an answer.

“You might want to fix your collar,” Asmo whispered quietly, as he leaned closer to Solomon.

Solomon sighed and looked over at MC. Her face was the picture of innocence, but he could see amusement in her eyes. We’ll see who wins next time.

Fic list

#obey me #obey me solomon #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon x mc

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skvaderarts · 3 years

Text

Hiraeth Chapter 35: Disquisition

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Thirty-Five: Disquisition

Note: This was such a fun chapter to write. It feels good to be back in the swing of things. Sorry for the extended hiatus. I had a lot going on with my emotions and my computer. Life is just… life, you know? Anyway, thank you so much for all of the support while I was gone! I was worried I wouldn’t have anyone to come back to if I took too much longer! But onto the new chapter! And sorry it was so late! I slept until 7:40pm somehow…

(-~-)

Most of the Ludwig manor was quiet, a serene landscape of lengthy halls, winding stairs, and large windows covered in thick curtains that blocked out most of the ambient light from outside. The only indication that there were people living here was the occasional passing by of a servant going about their daily tasks, and that was exceedingly infrequent by design. But even so, the library was a bastion of contemplation and peace, the only notable sounds being that of the turning of pages and the soft click of boots as the group navigated the vast array of books at their disposal. It was almost as if the room absorbed any and all outside noise to help facilitate a better reading environment. Truthfully, no one would be surprised if that was the case. There was a litany of supernatural energy in this house, more than any of them had an explanation for.

Dante sat at the other end of the long table that spanned the center of the room, flipping through some sort of book that had pictures in it. It seemed to be an encyclopedia of some sort that contained droves of information about demons and just about everything associated with them on a species level. Maybe it was more of a bestiary than anything else, but it was one of the few tomes that the youngest Son of Sparda had been able to locate that was actually in english. Okay, maybe not quite, but it was close.

“So what brought you here in the first place, Vergil? I feel like I'm missing a joke.” He said casually, flipping through the hand-illustrated novel to try and locate what he was looking for. In truth, he didn’t have anything in particular in mind, but he was still doing his best to try and help. Books like these were more Vergil’s jam than his, maybe even Nero’s to an extent. And V was a given. Dante was somewhat sure that his older nephew’s blood was actually ink at this point with how much he liked to read taken into account.

Vergil was flipping through an even larger less approachable book with such nonchalant ease that Dante was almost certain that his older twin was doing so just to make him feel more inferior than he already felt at the moment. When had Vergil learned to read this kind of stuff? Had he picked some of it up as a kid from all the time that he has spent with their father before his untimely disappearance? That seemed to be the most likely answer. Regardless, he was able to read it, and had been up until Dante had asked him that question, seemingly interrupting the flow of his train of thought. He clasped the book gently and laid it flat on the table, looking over out of the corner of his eye at his younger twin. It seemed that Dante was onto something.

Vergil casually gestured towards a bookcase on the other side of the room that was behind a locked metal door. None of them had even noticed the room until now, the other bookcases concealing it relatively well. Bars stretched from floor to ceiling, allowing the books to still be visible, but not accessible. The bookcase on the other side contained about a hundred thick books that seemed to be exceedingly old, and they were each locked inside of individualized cages with only their spines exposed. A chain attached to each book and the bookcase on the other end ensured that you wouldn’t be walking off with one.

“You are, Dante. I came here in search of a book in my youth. I… encountered more than I bargained for.” He said, seemingly almost embarrassed. He broke eye contact and returned to the book, not at all willing to elaborate.

Magnolia snickered slightly, taking a sip from the tray of tea that had been brought to them a short while ago. Normally people were not permitted to eat in the library, but they were all adults and could be trusted to not eat and then rub their hands all over everything without cleaning them off first. There was literally a washroom twenty feet from them, but the dining room was on the other side of the house and down a flight of stairs. No one felt like going that far just to drink a few sips of tea and enjoy a macaroon or an eclair.

“What your twin brother is trying to say is that he absolutely tried to lift a book from our private collection while we were asleep one night, and he was caught. We have his assurances that he would have returned it, but I do believe he was smart enough to realize that he might have been in over his head.” She giggled a bit harder then, covering her hand in a polite attempt to not die laughing at something that only she and Vergil truly understood, given the circumstances and the context. Plus, they were in a library, after all. Best to keep it down. “He got more than he bargained for, indeed.”

Nero was not intrigued by what was going on, peeping over at them from a bookcase a few feet away. He seemed to consider yelling his question over to them before it occurred to him that he was in a library. He flinched, knowing that idea wouldn’t go over well before walking over to them with the book he had been examining and leaning over the table. Something told him that this was a story that might actually keep his interest for a moment, at least better than the book that he was trying to read that he barely understood. He was going to have to ask for an assist on this one. Time to go get V and pick his brain. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read it so much as he didn't understand the knowledge that was being imparted upon him. “Okay, so now you’ve got my attention. What did you do to him, Magnolia? I know it has to be something you did. You're barely holding it together.”

At that, she gave up and actually laughed, holding her hands over her face in order to try and stifle her laughter. There was no holding it back, but she could at least try to block the sound a little. The eldest Son of Sparda shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as Magnolia tried to collect herself. It seemed that they were at two different ends of the spectrum in regards to the context of this memory. Now Dante was intrigued as well, waiting to hear the answer elaborated on.

“See, what Vergil forgot to say was that I snuck up on him, caught him, and used a relocation spell to drop him head first from the ceiling! He had no time to even try to react. He just hit the floor like a brick.” She pointed to the ceiling and shook her head, clearing her throat as she attempted to put herself back together. Her hair had fallen into her face, and she battled it out of the way, unwilling to allow it to stay there. “It was easily the most uncoordinated thing I've ever seen him do, and just recalling the totally flabbergasted look on his face is enough to make me choke. He lost a fight to a little fourteen year old girl, and he’s the one who brought a sword.”

Everyone looked over at Vergil in various states of disbelief. Surely Magnolia has to be exaggerating just a little bit? The mental image of the Darkslayer plummeting head first from the easily forty foot ceiling was just too improbable to believe. And the idea that he had been snuck up on? Vergil practically had radar built into his brain, at least from what they could tell. But the look on his face was all that it took to come to the conclusion that she wasn’t telling a tall tale. This had actually happened.

“Pardon my interruption, but did you say the ceiling?” A familiar voice inquired from above them on the balcony. It was V. He and Lucia had approached the edge of the railing, holding books from different ends of the bookcase that they had both been examining. The young summoner seemed more than a little bit amused by this turn of events. How on earth had she managed to drop Vergil from that kind of high head first and not kill him? Were his father’s bones made of titanium?

“Unfortunately, she did. Every word of that exceedingly unpleasant tale is factual. My neck and head still hurt just recalling it.” Vergil said grumpily, attempting to conceal the fact there was actually a part of him that was impressed by her aptitude at such a young age. It was slightly astounding to him that she had even managed to sneak up on him, even if he had been in a dark, unfamiliar space and his sole focus had been on the task at hand. It was a learning experience, to be sure. Never again would he drop his guard like that.” I suppose I am lucky to be able to heal at the rate that I do, as I am certain that I cracked my skull and, at the bare minimum, dislocated a vertebrae in my neck. If I’m being honest, I probably broke it.”

“I was trying to use a compressing spell to hold him in place, but I panicked when I saw Yamato, and the first thing that came to mind was a relocation hex. I tried to eject him from the property, but unfortunately for him my powers were unable to draw from a location that I couldn’t currently see, and I didn’t know how to make him pass through a solid object yet, so he just fell three stories from the ceiling.” Magnolia laughed nervously, clearly horrified by the fact that she “My parents were impressed, nonetheless, and I was rewarded for my “quick thinking” even though I was sure I had just killed another child. Those were high times.” She allowed a wistful smile to spread across her face, the warmth from the distant memory spreading through every extremity she possessed. Yes, that had been a fun occasion.

Lucia chuckled lightly under her breath. The history of Dante’s family was fascinating, if not tumultuous and filled with problems. But it seemed that their frankly ridiculous durability made from some extremely interesting situations at times. She was just glad that they always seemed to recover and no permanent damage was done. She had come to like Vergil during their short time together, and to say she was fond of Dante would be a bit of an understatement. He had always been a wonderful friend to her, and she wanted nothing more than the best for him, perhaps even a bit more.

As if he had sensed her thoughts, V pulled himself away from the scene below for a moment to look over at her, hoping that he had yet to give away his intentions in regards to speaking with her. He just had to get the nerve up to explain what he couldn’t quite put into words, but he had noticed that of the two of them, he was not the only one who seemed to possess this issue. He saw the quiet little moments that she spent thinking, normally looking over at Dante. At times she became flustered around him for no apparent reason, much as he did around ehr. He couldn’t help but wonder if she too was longing for something or someone that she knew she couldn’t have.

He wished her luck in that regard, realizing that this was something that had probably been in the works long before he had come into the picture. Had Dante noticed the way that she looked at him? Had Lucia noticed the way that V looked at her? It was hard to say, and he knew that at some point he would have to simply ask her what it was that she was after. Whatever answer she gave him, he would fully respect and accept, even if it wasn’t the one that he was hoping for. That was what a responsible adult did. But leave it to him to suddenly realize that perhase the only person he had ever felt remotely attracted to was interested in another member of his family. There had to be a certain irony in that. He just hoped that if that was what she wanted, her affections would be returned.

Dante seemed to be the sort that was perpetually single by choice, never indulging in any of the impulses or desires that he might possess. Perhaps he felt that he was protecting those that he cared about by not becoming entangled with them? It was all that he could imagine. Dante was likeable enough and, at least to him, he seemed lonely. It wasn’t so much something that his uncle did as it was just a way that he was. He could see a little bit of himself in him at times in ways that he didn’t expect or wish, hoping to spare everyone that he knew and cared about the majority of the feelings that he kept bottled up and pushed back so deep within himself. But these were things that had been set in stone long before his arrival. He was simply witnessing the aftermath.

But maybe it didn’t have to be that way? After all, something was only set in stone when someone accepted that and didn’t choose to alter it. Even the hardest stone could be chiseled with the right tools. That was the nature of such things. Maybe there was something that he could do…

Griffon cackled slightly from behind him, manifesting and landing on the railing between him and Lucia. The wiley bird shook his head for a moment before looking over at V, then looking down at Vergil from above. “Ya know, I make alotta jokes about Dante having brain damage, but maybe he’s not the only one. Maybe it runs in the family. A fall from a room this high? Yea, that’s gonna bruise your brain a little.”

While the rest of the inhabitants of the lower level of the library giggled, Vergil shot the demonic bird a hard to read look. She seemed to be considering saying something, but decided against it. V could only wonder what his father thought of Griffon and Shadow, considering the history he had with them and the nature of their creation. There had to be some hard feelings on his end, even if there didn’t seem to be any from theirs. Dante had some prior with their previous iterations it seemed, too. But unlike Vergil, he didn’t seem to care much about that. One could only imagine that his experience with them had either been shorter or less tragic than his father’s, and considering how little he knew about that experience aside from what he’d gleaned from Griffon, he knew that he wasn’t in a position to say literally anything about such matters. But he did hope that one day he would be able to make some sort of peace between them.

Just as was about to turn and head back over towards the balcony with the book that he had been holding, he looked over and noticed that Lucia wasn’t where she had been a moment earlier. Intrigued, he walked down several rows until he located her. She was leafing through some sort of book, a curious look on her face. She seemed to be having some sort of eureka moment, and he had no intention of interrupting, but he had to know if he could be of assistance.

“You seem preoccupied. Is something the matter?” He asked quietly, wanting to make his presence known, but having no desire to destroy her train of thought. She looked up, seemingly slightly startled, but making no physical indication of this knowin. It seemed that she had simply been so deep in thought that she hadn’t been able to sense his presence when he had approached.

“... Have you… is there a card sorting section in this library?” She asked, glancing between him and the book in her hand. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked almost concerned, and that in of itself was somewhat startling to him. He stepped back and turned to face the railing with her close behind him before taking the opportunity to turn towards the desk near the entrance. V gestured towards it before watching as she nodded politely and headed down towards it. Wondering what was going on, he took a moment to gently place the book back where it belonged before heading down to meet her, noticing that she was flipping through the cards on the table.

By the time he reached her, it became apparent that she had not located what she had been looking for. Her somewhat hurried and slightly alarmed minor threw him off as he contemplated if he should ask. She clearly noticed this, shaking her head slowly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Forgive me. I found something troubling in this book, and it makes reference to a certain section “X” in this library that contains a book with the requisite information in it. But I don’t know where that section is, and I don’t see it anywhere in this guide.”

“That’s because no one goes in there, darling. Those texts are dangerous.”

Everyone in the room turned around, clearly alarmed by the presence of another individual that they had not noticed. Standing before them was a tall woman in a trailing black and silver dress with a gray hooded shawl over her head. Her face was exposed a moment later when she lowered the hood, revealing her to look very much like Magnolia and Luta. She was soaking wet, and none of them could find any indication that she particularly cared. A certain darkness almost seemed to radiate from her, making them all uneasy in different ways, specially Magnolia and Vergil, the pair seemingly recognizing her but alarmed by the state that she was in. Was something wrong with her aside from what was obvious to them? Because that was the only thing they could place.

Looking over at the two of them, the woman nodded for a moment before turning towards the stairs. She didn’t have to say that she would return. They could just feel it. And before long she vanished up the stairs, more than likely to change into something less saturated. V and Lucia both looked over Magnolia, clearly desiring an explanation as to who this absurdly unnerving woman was. Nero seemed to concur, slowly making his way over to the table and sitting down. He suddenly didn’t want to read anymore.

So… Who the hell is that?” He asked, his voice little more than a faint whisper. He didn’t seem scared so much as he was concerned, wanting to know if they were in any sort of danger. He had no idea what anyone in the Ludwig family was capable of, or if they were all on the same side. There had to be at least one outlier, didn't there?

Vergil and Magnolia shared a glance between one another as she nodded in response to her longtime friend’s unspoken question. Vergil almost seemed to pale slightly before leaning quietly on his elbow, thinking. But before any of them could inquire as to what was going on, Magnolia spoke. His voice was slightly shaky as she spoke.

“Section X is forbidden. It contains dark texts that you dare not view without the requisite knowledge. But if you must view them, that might be facilitated. And luckily for you, the only person with a key to it has just returned. Though she has changed significantly since I saw her last… ”

Making himself known for the first time in the better part of an hour, Sirrus came from behind a nearby bookcase and walked over to them before speaking quietly. He looked as though he had just seen a ghost, his normally pale complexion drained of all evidence that it had once contained blood or melanin. Magnolia’s youngest sister. Aluta. My father’s ex wife.”

(-~-)

I literally stopped to order macarons when I wrote the part about them and the eclairs. Something about it just triggered my sugar tooth. I’ve literally never eaten a macaroon in my entire life. But they are just so pretty! So anyway…

I hope you all had a great week! See you all in the comments, and on Wednesday with a new chapter! Gosh, it feels so great to say that again! I’ve missed you all! Things are about to get very interesting, and I can’t wait for you to be able to read them. I haven’t been this excited about the start of an arc since the flashback sequence!

#Hiraeth #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU #V #Vitale #Devil May Cry 5 #DMC5 #DMCV #DMC #Vergil #Dante #Nero #Lucia #Nico #Magnolia #My OC

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justablobfish · 3 years

Text

Giving subtle hints of what one would like to get for Christmas

Day 7 of my Advent Calender. A new drabble or oneshot everyday until Christmas, following the Continent’s favourite found family and what they’re up to in the winter season. Based on this prompt list

Read on AO3

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

______

"What ya got there?" Jaskier asked on that fateful day a week ago as he carelessly dropped himself into Geralt's lap. And that's how it all started. With a letter and Jaskier’s unquenchable curiosity.

"Summons from the Prince of Attre," Geralt answered, a fact he much regrets by now. "He's got a contract for me."

"Ooh, it's made out 'To the White Wolf'", Jaskier beamed as he shamelessly skimmed over the letter. "You're famous enough now that people request you personally! I'm a genius and you're very welcome!"

"For some reason the prince wants me to catch the Ur alive, though. I'll be needing Yennefer's help to put it down without killing it," Geralt pointed out. "So you'll have to stay here and watch Ciri. We'll prepare and set off in a few days."

"Ugh, fine," Jaskier whined. "But don't complain when the house burns down again. What noble did Yennefer mind control that we can stay here again? I'm sure they won't mind having to redecorate a little!"

"I know what you're doing, Jaskier, and it won't work. With Yennefer's portals we won't be gone for longer than two days. I'm sure you'll manage to control yourself and the little menace till then."

"See, darling, that's what I love about you. Despite much evidence to the contrary, you never stop believing in my abilities."

Geralt snorted at that.

"Wait a second, though, the Prince of Attre. That means you'll be close to Cintra, right?"

"Hmm," Geralt confirmed, and then added the one little word he still regrets uttering to this day: "Why?"

And Jaskier had told him at length about this flower that supposedly only grows in the region near Cintra. When Ciri appeared to drag him off to sword training, he had been more than relieved to escape the lecture.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the last of it. From then on out, Jaskier used every opportunity he could find to gush about this stupid flower. It's unparalleled beauty, it's lovely aroma, the intricate symbolism connected to it. Geralt started dreaming about the damn thing, his mind producing a perfect picture of the stupid weed from Jaskier’s descriptions alone.

He wasn't the only victim, either. One night, when he headed back to his room after he had taken advantage of their luxurious temporary home and enjoyed a lengthy bath, he nearly ran into Yennefer, bursting out of the library and clearly agitated.

"If I hear one more word about that stupid flower I'm going to murder him!" she snapped as she disappeared around the corner. "And now I'm running late for my lesson with Ciri!"

And yet, now that he and Yennefer are actually on the trail of the beast they were hired to catch, he can't help but look out for those little white flower buds Jaskier described.

"What even does he want with that stupid thing?" Geralt mumbles under his breath.

Yennefer seems to have heard him, though. She clicks her tongue in annoyance and replies: "I hear it works as an aphrodisiac. Some people use it in perfumes."

"Great, " Geralt deadpans. "As if we didn't have enough problems on our hands. I haven't seen Ciri smile in weeks for some reason and all Jaskier can talk about is some weird sex plant."

"It's the winter solstice that has Ciri in a bad mood," Yennefer explains, her voice going soft. "For most people it's just a day of amplified magic, but in Cintra it's traditionally a celebration to honor one's family. She misses them a lot and it only gets worse around this time of the year."

"Fuck," is all Geralt can think to reply. He wishes he had some sort of solution, some way of cheering Ciri up. Usually he and Yennefer turn to Jaskier for help with the emotional stuff, since they both don't deal with such topics all too well. But when Jaskier has his mind set on a project, it's hard to get him to focus on anything else.

Geralt brushes aside yet another curtain of leaves, still dripping wet from last night's rain shower, and suddenly finds himself at the end of the monster's trail.

Glowing red eyes stare back at him. Despite standing on four hooved legs, the Ur is at eye level with Geralt. It's huge, even for its kind. Thick skin covered in short black fur stretches over a massive bulk of muscle. The forward protruding horns are easily as long as Geralt's forearm and Geralt has no doubt that his armour will be of little use if the creature decides to gore him.

For a moment, they stare at each other in equal surprise. Then the monster lets out a puff of hot breath and charges at him. Geralt quickly dodges out of its way, pulling Yennefer to safety with him.

"Keep it distracted while I cast the spell!" Yennefer orders as he spins around to face the beast again.

Easier said than done. The monster has turned back around as well and is pawing at the rain-slick ground with its hoofs, ready to pounce.

That's when he sees it. Smack in the middle between the angry Ur and himself there's a tiny fleck of white sitting between the lush greens of the forest. One of Jaskier’s dumb plants. And the creature is just about to race over it.

Geralt curses and throws an Aard sign in the direction of the monster, just as it comes running at him again.

The bulky mass of muscles is unimpressed by his weak spell though, and doesn't slow down in the slightest. Geralt barely manages to throw himself to the side and avoid being trampled to death.

There's nothing he can do for the flower though. And as if that weren't enough, his evasion manoeuvre landed him smack in the middle of a mud puddle. Just great.

Merely a heart beat later, there's a loud crash and a tremor that shakes the earth.

Alarmed, Geralt jumps to his feet, brushes the mud-greased hair out of his eyes and tries to make out the source of the disruption.

It seems his Aard sign had some effect, after all. It has thrown the Ur off course enough that it collided with a nearby tree with so much force that it split the thick wood in half.

His task is taken care of. The monster lies at the foot of the tree, dazed and unmoving.

"Good thing you brought me along!" Yennefer sighs, exhausted.

Geralt turns around, ready to snap at her that being caked in mood isn't how he had planned to finish this contract, when he notices that Yennefer's attention is neither on him nor the beast.

He follows her gaze until his eyes fall on the little white-petaled flower that still stands in the middle of the forest, surrounded by deep, heavy hoof prints in the mud, but the flower itself is untouched.

A bubble of crackling energy glimmers around it for another moment, before Yennefer drops the spell.

It seems that no matter how ridiculous Jaskier’s requests are, neither he nor Yennefer can deny the bard his wishes.

"I don't suppose he told you what part of the damn thing he actually needs?" Geralt grunts.

At Yennefer's "no idea" he sighs and uses his dagger to remove the entire plant from the ground, roots and all.

They deliver the knocked-out monster to the prince, who takes one look at Geralt's muddied appearance and the thick carpet he's dripping on, and practically throws them out of his estate.

He does pay full price though, and even a little on top, so Geralt certainly won't complain about not having to exchange pleasantries and about getting back to their temporary home a little sooner.

When they return, the house is still standing, despite Jaskier’s threats.

The bard comes to meet them in the hallway and squeaks delightedly at the sight of the flower Geralt is carefully holding cupped in his hands.

A moment later, Jaskier is gone again, vanished through one of the many doors in a colorful swirl of silk even Geralt's eyes barely manage to follow. He gapes at his now empty hands, where only a layer of grime and earth remains.

"What the fuck was that?" Yennefer curses. "We go through all this trouble and he can't even muster a thanks?"

"Hmm," Geralt replies as he slowly lowers his arms. "He never actually asked if we could get it either."

"Oh, that little bastard! When I get my hands on him I'm gonna…"

Yennefer doesn't specify what exactly she intends to do to Jaskier, though the way she trails her finger over her throat speaks for itself.

"If you can wait till I've washed this all off myself, I'll be happy to assist you," Geralt grumbles.

"Fine," Yennefer sighs dramatically. "I guess I should check on Ciri anyway.”

An hour later, when Geralt is finally clean, dry and warm again, they meet up to go on search for the bratty troubadour.

He's not in his room though, and not in Geralt's either. Furthermore, Geralt's alchemy tools seem to be untouched. If Jaskier wants to use the plant for some weird sex perfume, wouldn't he need the alchemy tools to prepare the plant? The mortar and pestle are clean, though and haven't been used recently.

"Think he's hiding?" Yennefer asks after glancing over his shoulder. "He's gotta be somewhere. Let's keep looking."

But Jaskier is not in the library or the study or Yennefer's room and in the dining room they only find Ciri, perched over a thick tome and looking as miserable as the days before.

"Why are you studying here?" Geralt asks, confused. "Isn't it more comfortable in the library?"

"Jaskier told me to wait here," Ciri replies without looking up. "Said he has a surprise for me."

In that moment, Jaskier enters, through the door to the kitchen, of all places.

He doesn't look at all like he just created an enticing perfume. The checkered apron with frills on the rim Jaskier wears is the last thing Geralt would describe as sexy and his hair is lined with strands of white. It takes Geralt a moment to realise that Jaskier hasn't aged ten years in the past hour, but that there's flour stuck in his hair.

"Ciri! There you are!" Jaskier calls out and holds out a small, round box made of sheet metal.

Curios Ciri inspects the contents of the box.

"Are those Cintran winter solstice stars?" she gasps. "Oh, Jaskier, you shouldn't have!"

"You mentioned eating them at the solstice with your grandmother the other day, so I just had to make you a batch," Jaskier returns with a self-satisfied grin. "Go on, have one!"

Ciri picks out one of the cookies, which are indeed star-shaped, and carefully nibbles on it. Then her eyes go wide with surprise.

"They taste just right! How did you do that?" she exclaims. "I bought imitations in nearly every bakery on the Continent during our travels, but they never tasted quite like they did at home!"

"Well, you see, there is a secret ingredient," Jaskier offers.

"I know!" Ciri blurts out. "It's love, isn't it?"

She presses a quick kiss to Jaskier’s cheek as she wrestles the box from his hands.

"I'm not sharing, they're all mine!" she yells and darts past Geralt and Yennefer and out the door.

Geralt doesn't miss the bright, happy grin on her face, though. The first of its kind in weeks.

"So, what are you two doing here?" Jaskier asks as he runs a hand through his hair, further spreading the flour. "And why do you have that look on your faces like I'm in trouble?"

"Oh, you're in trouble, all right," Yennefer purrs as she launches herself at the bard.

"Ugh, what did I do to deserve such terrible treatment?" Jaskier huffs, his voice muffled by Yennefer's embrace.

Geralt scoops up a stray bit of cookie dough that found its way to the tip of Jaskier’s nose and tastes it, before he joins in on the hug and wraps his arms around Jaskier and Yennefer. The dough tastes very sweet, though not at all like sugar or honey.

"Thanks for getting me the vanilla plant, by the way," Jaskier chuckles. "Ciri really needed that reminder of home."

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #Yennefer of Vengerberg #ciri #theblobfishwrites

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alvaar-aldaviir · 4 years

Text

Movement: Zartheit

Time Frame: Some point after Shadowbringers. No Spoilers.

Notes: Not precisely canon compliant because who can say what happens after current content? I also take liberties with Bard abilities because they are so loosely defined in lore. One day we’ll have some pieces to expand on Alvaar’s bardic quirks, but times are tough so have some fluff.

Cross posted to AO3

Alphinaud had long learned to stop questioning the extent of domestic knowledge the Warrior of Light seemed to possess, but you couldn’t especially blame him if he found ‘novice hairdresser’ a surprising addition to the list.

“You really need a trim.”

Looking up from his tome, Alphinaud looked back over his shoulder to fix the Bard with a raised brow. He didn’t say anything, but the silent glower made it apparent his thoughts were elsewhere.

Putting his hands up in the symbol of ‘no offense’ for a moment, Alvaar stepped closer and held his hands up with open palms. “If I may?”

Sighing and returning to his research he finished scribbling a few notes. “If you must,” the Scholar replied noncommittally, mind still fixated on his most recent arcane discovery and how it might apply to his own abilities.

“Then I must,” Alvaar replied, carefully smoothing white strands down before delicately removing the hair tie and metal ornament that held the Elezen’s long hair back and setting them aside. Gently freeing long snowy locks and combing his fingers through to loose any snarls.

“You’ve been busy of late,” Alvaar commented simply.

“As have you,” Alphinaud returned placidly, frowning slightly given the Bard was preoccupied and wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t going to say it but the absence had been... quite noticeable. Still, they both had their duties and it wouldn’t do to treat the Bard so dismissively when he was freshly returned from a mission.

Glancing up at the white fringe of hair obstructing his view, he sighed faintly. “I suppose I, may be more in need of an appointment than I’d thought. But Scion work does ever come in droves,” he continued.

“Indeed. ... I didn’t mean any offense Alphinaud, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you this unkempt.” Pausing with a snort of laughter at the reflexive tensing of slim shoulders, Alvaar patted his arm. “Your bangs have gotten too long, and your braid isn’t lying sleek. You know I’m a fop at heart I just have an eye for this.”

“Well not all of us are so privileged as to have an aesthetician on call,” Alphinaud shot back with notable cheek.

“If you knew what I had to put up with to keep that man equipped in scissors and glitter every time he misplaced them you would think I got the short end of the stick. If I have Jandelaine on call, then he’s got a Warrior of Light as a personal errand boy for every lost implement disaster. Not that anyone else might know such privileges right Alphinaud?” Alvaar mocked sweetly. “Now shut it and tilt your chin up, I need to see how bad this is.”

Huffing and dropping a blank sheet of parchment in his book he snapped it shut loudly and offered a smirk when he complied.

Predictably, the Bard hissed out a laugh and smoothed his hair down to inspect the length. “Little shit.”

“If I have learned anything of being a particular thorn in others sides it must have been from you, dear friend.” Even so there was only amusement in the words.

It was the sort of barbs and banter he’d been missing with Alvaar and Alisaie both on a long expedition for Urianger. For while he certainly got along well with his fellow Scions, there was a natural sort of ease to the taunts thrown back and forth with his sister and, once the Bard became more talkative, Alvaar as well.

The man in question just offered his own faint smile of amusement before amethyst eyes were studying his face intently for things Alphinaud couldn’t begin to understand. In fact, he opted to just shut his eyes and wait patiently through the inspection lest he get caught up staring into that jewel toned gaze longer than was appropriate. It wasn’t enough that he’d been dealing with people insinuating an ever-growing crush on the Bard for the last few years, he didn’t need to be teased about it by the man himself too.

Even if it was true...

“Do you want me to trim it for you? If you want a style change, I’d recommend an appointment but I can at least clean up the split ends and I know your hairstyle probably better than your own hairdresser. Up for it? I’ll even let you keep reading.”

“You know how to cut hair too?” Alphinaud asked with minimal surprise. At this point, Alvaar could say he had experience in about any profession and he’d likely believe him.

Another amused snort. “Anyone can cut hair... it takes study to be able to style it and not butcher it. But yes, I know enough to do all the touch ups in my Free Company. And if I should somehow manage to offend, I’ll pay for Jandelaine to fix it myself. Now please, I beg you. Let me trim it. Unless you’re dedicating to a longer style I don’t think I can tolerate this mop nearly as well as you can.”

“It’s not that bad...”

“..... Technically no, you’re still better styled than the bulk of adventurers I travel with but... this is weird for me so let me fix it. Alphinaud Leveilleur I beg of you, gift unto me the privilege of saving you from the pox that is untamed growth of one’s own hair. For King and Country I won’t rest until I’ve slain that which offends mine senses.”

“Oh just shut up and do it Aldaviir. You’ll just hound me until I let you anyway,” Alphinaud shot back, pausing and flushing faintly at the flow of words he’d most definitely picked up from the Bard.

“Ahh,” Alvaar sighed, a blissful smile in his words, and the rustle of fabric as he put a hand to his heart. “As my Prince doth proclaim, so must I attend.”

“You’re an insufferable Bard when you’ve been reading romance novels, you know that?”

A long pause.

“I don’t deserve these call outs Leveilleur.”

A faint click caught his attention and he opened his eyes to regard the Bard. Seeing how prepared and serious Alvaar was as he started summoning and laying out tools, Alphinaud took one look at the spray bottle that was set down and quickly cleared his research off the table. Let him read... ha.

“If you’re that serious I’ll just go take a bath Alvaar. It’ll be easier.”

Pausing, the blond tapped a fine-tooth comb to his jaw in thought. “True. I should probably join you. Much as I love them, the smell of chocobos tends to cling...”

“In that case after you! Long travels are terrible and my hair isn’t going anywhere. I’ll just clean up in my room,” he chirped, quickly up on his feet and actually pushing the Bard towards the door.

“Wh- hey what the...” Alvar griped but let himself be shoved out the door by the shorter Elezen regardless.

“Go forth, take your time, I’ll be in my quarters when you’re ready.” Shutting the door behind the Bard, Alphinaud turned to lean his back against it and sigh. Not his most subtle of misdirects but in the panic it was all that he had.

“You realize you could just ask to use the bath after me if you’re that sensitive to modesty...” Alvaar reminded him from the other side of the door.

Oh. Damnit.

“Nerd.”

For as much as he’d fidgeted and worried about further teasing, Alvaar had done the Scholar the courtesy of leaving it at that. In fact, he’d almost forgotten about any potential embarrassment until he opened the door to his room and found Alvaar sitting at his desk, studying the desktop carbuncle calendar Alisaie had bought him as a gift.

But then the Bard rose up to his slippered feet smoothly, dressed in a well-tailored green tunic nipped close at the waist and gray khakis that accented his tall physique, and one embarrassment was probably just going to be replaced with another. In common clothes Alvaar didn’t look anything like what people pictured as the Warrior of Light, but it certainly did even less to hide that effeminately handsome face of his when he wasn’t wearing his hat. Framed with still damp green accented blond, once again cut and feathered to a medium length that complimented him well, he could start to see why people had a hard time recognizing him in his craft clothes. In his battle gear there was something unaffected and inspiring to him, a remote calm and surety that made even enemies give pause.

Dressed in his house clothes however Alvaar was just... normal. Still handsome and graceful but far less intimidating. He was approachable... touchable even...

If Alphinaud hadn’t spent the bulk of the last three years with Alvaar during the brunt of his ‘bisexual awakening,’ he probably wouldn’t be able to handle it. Instead he just steeled his nerve and tried to resume his thoughts on his research. What sort of adjustments would need to be made to the arcane geometries of his moonstone carbuncle summon to make it more efficient with aetheric flow and-

“Park it Leveilleur. You can think about your nerd shit while I’m working,” Alvaar huffed with a knowing look and bless him but the return to normal sass made it easier to handle.

Taking the offered seat he lifted his chin proudly, letting Alvaar tuck a sheet around him for cover before the Bard started into his task. Easing his fingers through damp strands he plucked a comb off the table and set to straightening with patient care.

“Well if you had any interest in being an Arcanist then perhaps I’d talk about it instead,” he remarked lightly, already knowing how this would go and taking comfort in the familiarity.

“Aetheric Magic isn’t my thing. I pull enough miracles out of my arse as a Bard as is, I don’t need the effort of more expectations of miracles scholars can filtch. I turn a volcano into a temperate climate and clear a blizzard for a small contingent of warriors with the power of song alone and no, you sots just want a different colored carbuncle. Fuck that I’ll leave the discoveries to you and pick up spare change playing requests on harp in bars.”

Okay, maybe not so familiar...

“Difficult trip?” he asked lightly.

“Just annoying. Not much for discovery and an endurance trial on my patience. If Alisaie hadn’t been around I’d hazard it would have been downright dull.”

“Is that so? I had been led to believe it involved Allagan technology,” he continued, leaving the statement hanging and waiting for the Bard to take the bait.

An annoyed huff answered it. “Nothing new. Allagan cruelty knows no bounds it seems. Heartless bastards, I’m glad they’re all dead. I don’t see much purpose to arcane advancement when it comes at a cost of feeling and reason,” Alvaar griped bitterly.

Tipping his chin up so he could meet the Bards gaze he studied him a moment. “Your statements are fair. Still, thank you for going anyway. I felt much better for my sister’s safety knowing you were along.”

Staring back a moment, Alvaar sighed slowly, tension finally easing out of his shoulders and running the comb through his bangs.

“As if she needs the help... your sister is a hellcoeurl when you get her going. Now stay still. If you move like that when I’ve got my scissors I’m liable to snip an ear off and then I’ll be obligated to dock the other one for balance,” Alvaar remarked flatly before giving a slight grin at the faintly horrified look on his friends face. Fingers lightly gripping the Scholars jaw he centered his head and grabbed his scissors.

Holding still, Alphinaud shut his eyes again and let Alvaar work, the soft hiss of scissors working away as gentle fingers slipped through his hair. It was... nice. He’d thought it might be a bit more awkward but there was something soothing about the attention and touch.

He was roused a bit by a thumb trailing under his eye once the Bard had finished trimming his bangs back to their standard length. Blinking his eyes open cautiously he raised a brow at Alvaar’s assessing stare.

“You’re working too hard again. You need to be careful with that or-”

“Or I’ll end up possessed by an Ascian. Yes, I recall. You fret like a maid Alvaar,” he interjected calmly, using the old phrase that had caused him no end of grief once and now was some old inside joke between them.

Something in the Bards gaze softened at the words, rising back up to his towering height and pacing back around to start cleaning up any split ends on the long whip of white hair he’d yet to fuss with. Setting his scissors aside he again set to untangling silken strands, tutting under his breath.

“Someone has to or your sister would have an absolute fit. I would rather not invoke her wrath over something so preventable. ... going to need to trim this back an inch, that alright?”

“Whatever you think is best, I trust you,” he replied automatically, probably a bit more heartfelt than was necessary but... no less true.

Again, a change of implements and the sharp rasp of scissors snipping away carefully. Focused and methodical and the Scholar almost found himself falling asleep but that mock threat kept him stubbornly upright and still. In fact, a small part of him was sad when Alvaar finally put comb and scissors away, brushing any loose trimmings free and reclaiming the sheet with a quick efficiency.

But it wouldn’t be polite of him to further monopolize Alvaar’s time so shortly after he’d returned. Even so, he didn’t rise from his seat, instead sinking a bit farther in and tipping his chin up so he could let his hair hang off the back of the chair to dry a bit more.

“Much better,” Alvaar hummed as he finished cleaning up, tossing the swept-up clippings and pausing as he turned to regard his friend and ally. Studying him quietly a moment he stepped back over, nearly startling the Scholar as his fingers slipped back into white hair.

“Tataru says you haven’t been sleeping,” Alvaar commented stoically, combing through his hair with his hands this time and letting it slide through his fingers.

Well, that was the double-edged sword of being good friends with a gossip...

“There’s been,” he paused, dragging in a deep breath as he pondered it, “much to do my friend. Where the summoning of Primals may slow, other problems take their place. Many have come seeking aid from the Scions of late and as the de facto leader, it’s been on me to meet with them all. I’ve made what arrangements I could but, as you know it is nearly impossible to help everyone...” the Scholar trailed off with a sigh.

He gave a faint start as Alvaar slid fingers up along his jaw, gently encouraging him upright with a soft, “Straighten up. Relax.”

“Alvaar?” the Scholar asked, a note of genuine concern mixed in his puzzled tone.

“Hush.” Soothing his palms out along Alphinaud’s neck the Bard set into a massage, humming something softly under his breath and hands warming up noticeably. A casual display of the potency of his skill in Bardsong that would have startled if Alphinaud hadn’t seen such effortless works before. “What sleep you are getting isn’t very restful. You’ve too much tension in your neck,” Alvaar chided grumpily even as his fingers worked their magic with gentle care. “You need to take better care of yourself Leveilleur.”

Perhaps. But a small part of him would miss the attention if he didn’t give the Bard something to fuss over. He also suspected (and maybe hoped) that on some level Alvaar needed such things too regardless of what he said. If he didn’t, then his mother hen attitude wouldn’t have him fussing over almost anyone given half a chance.

Alvaar certainly seemed at his most relaxed when he had mundane things to worry about, though given how many world scale problems were thrust on him it could have just been a product of perspective. Fussing over someone’s appearance and fixing it was a far cry from smiting world evils after all.

But to say any of that would probably be too much so Alphinaud elected to say nothing at all. He merely settled a bit firmer into those hands and soaked in the comfort of another person’s touch.

Bit by bit his thoughts quieted, worries and concerns falling away now that Alvaar and Alisaie were back safe and sound. Things would quickly return to the routine he preferred and found the most comfort in.

And his Warrior of Light was back home. Here at his side once more, stalwart companion to the bitter end. Focused on him and giving off that familiar feeling of safety and support he’d come to depend on through the years.

He didn’t doubt that tomorrow he’d look back over those petitions for aid and be able to find new solutions. If Alvaar could make doing the impossible seem effortless, then he could do no less in the matters he was suited for. He could only ever rise to meet that challenge. Pull together various resources and people to find a solution that they could follow-

Thumbs hooked over the back of his ears, work-worn hands covering them and in the wake of the last few weeks of constant meetings and stress the abrupt narrowed silence was disorienting. Even as his feet shifted on reflex for balance, he was already unconsciously reaching for Alvaar’s hands.

The movement had the Bard starting to shift away, a half-formed apology on his tongue before Alphinaud pulled him back. Slender fingers gripped against Alvaar’s hands and held them back in place, leaning into the contact without saying a word.

He hadn’t ever been one for silence in a world with so much that needed to be said. But that brief listless moment had pointed him towards something he’d forgotten that he needed. A brief reprieve held safely in the hands of someone he trusted, though it was not generally so literal...

It was the same sort of soulful quiet he often found with his twin. The comfortable air of safe silence that tended to have them both asleep leaned against one another. The reassurance of knowing you weren’t alone and whatever happened someone would be there with you to face whatever you awoke to.

But here...? After so long he found that here? Whose heart was he hearing beat a staccato then, his or Alvaar’s? Snapping out of it he let go, quickly leaning forward to break the contact.

“My apologies,” he murmured hastily. “I... it’s been a difficult time these last weeks. You likely have much to attend to given you just returned. I believe your retainers have also been checking in regularly the last few days so they must be-”

“Shut it Leveilleur,” Alvaar snarked flatly, making the Scholar jump a bit at the tone. “I’m not done. Besides, there’s another summit in two days isn’t there? I’m not showing up with the Leader of the Scions sporting unkempt hair and bags under his eyes. If we’re going to have to sit at the same table as those backstabbing little heathens then we may as well look fucking fabulous while we do it. So, sit up, I’ve still got work to do given you’re still a damn mess.”

Looking over his shoulder at him, Alphinaud stared at Alvaar in stunned surprised.

Putting a hand at his hip and shifting his stance to one of cocky annoyance, Alvaar raised a brow. “You’ll make me look bad Alphinaud. I’ve got a reputation to uphold as the best-looking Warrior of Light Eorzea will ever know and I’m not letting you jeopardize it. Let’s go.” Holding his hand out a bottle dropped into it from the aether with a puff of smoke, tossing and flipping it nonchalantly. “Leave in conditioner doesn’t apply itself.”

A delayed snort of laughter escaped the Scion, quickly having to turn around to stuff his hands to his face to try and quiet it.

“.... What, you think fashion is funny?! It’s fucking suffering now quit laughing and get over here!” Alvaar bitched, swatting lightly at his friends’ shoulder but even without turning to see it the Scholar knew he was smiling. Especially when Alvaar finally started to laugh and then gave an unflattering snort, and that set the both of them off again.

“Thank you,” Alphinaud murmured softly, but no less heartfelt as the Bard massaged whatever floral scented cream into his hair once they’d both collected themselves.

“It’s fine. Just another part of my job as your personal errand boy,” Alvaar returned cheekily.

Lifting his chin with a frown the man couldn’t see Alphinaud huffed. “I mean it Alvaar. Thank you for helping me.”

The Elezen paused, studying the snowy strands threaded through his fingers a moment. “.... You’re welcome. But you’re not the only one who needed a reprieve Alphinaud. I like doing things like this. It’s... relaxing,” he answered, tone quiet and even. That sign that he felt he was revealing too much even with so little a detail.

It was as he’d expected then...

“Still,” he insisted anyway.

“... You know if you grew this all out and we feathered it for body you’d have some truly amazing hair,” Alvaar carried on with a subject change. “I think it would even put Aymeric to shame. Very dashing, like some storybook prince. Everyone would swoon.”

Shutting his eyes, the Scholar just smiled a touch wider and leaned the faintest bit further into that gentle touch. Did that mean Alvaar as well? “Maybe.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I’m afraid my sister hoarded my half of it.”

“Tch. Blasted Leveilleurs. You need to learn to share.”

“Alphi?” Alvaar asked untold minutes later once he’d noticed the Scholar had been silent for some time.

The hands that had been working over his shoulders stopped, and though Alvaar called his name again Alphinaud didn’t want to respond. Perhaps it was a moment of selfishness but he vainly hoped that perhaps the Bard might stay for a bit more in this peaceful quiet. At least until he actually fell asleep...

A gentle hand ruffled his hair with another attempt at calling him though this time it was softer as the man shifted to see if he was awake or not. It took a bit to not smile under that scrutiny and give himself away but if he couldn’t manage at least that he would never have made it so far in politics. A haggard sigh left the Bard and then he shifted back behind him. Whatever he might have been hoping for hadn’t expected Alvaar to lean down and slip his arms about his shoulders, hugging him gently.

“What am I going to do with you... my friend you work yourself much too hard if you can fall asleep sitting up like that,” Alvaar whispered, squeezing him the faintest bit tighter and settling his cheek to satiny strands.

It was enough to make his heart skip a beat in panic.

It had been some time since Alvaar had last hugged him. While the Bard tended to come off as physically distant and stoic, at least at first; it was the furthest from the truth once he was comfortable with you. Really it was probably because Alvaar knew how embarrassed it made him. There had been a few times he’d caught Alvaar giving him a tight look of empathy, but he’d generally refrained from moving closer unless things were particularly dour.

It wasn’t that he disliked such things, but part of his pride hated to come off as weak. After all he had done for Shards and Source he didn’t think it much to ask that people stop treating him as a child because of his height. Where flustered pride would have him pull away, now he had no excuse but to stay. To feel that warmth and comfort folded around him and soak it in. A part of him almost wished to reach back. To bury himself against the Bards chest as he had a few times before and relish in that protective strength.

But that would be too much.

It was one thing to accept comfort in a moment of weakness. Wholly another to just ask for it because your closest friends had been away too long. A silly distinction perhaps, but then few had ever asked so much of a friend as he. From the time his youthful arrogance had callously brandished the Warrior of Light as one would a blade to now when invariably something would happen that only Alvaar could attend and he would have to summon him to battle once more.

It would be too much to place the burden of his loneliness on the man as well; especially when he knew Alvaar would likely do most anything he asked. Even if he didn’t genuinely want to… a thought that bothered him to no end.

Instead he would just accept what the Bard gave freely, as he did now silently soaking in this chance comfort. Letting his friend fuss over him because Alvaar also found relief in it. And he’d hold on to those favors one would need to ask of friends for when they needed them most.

A knock at the door startles them both, and though he’s upset to feel Alvaar quickly pull away it at least spares him the quandary of how he was going to slip out of that ruse without giving himself away. Instead he lifts his head after a moment to stare at the door with a falsified tired blink.

“Alphinaud are you in?” Alisaie calls, and he almost frowns but the relief to hear her voice again after so long gets the better of him.

“Yes, come in,” he answers. He glances at Alvaar as the Bard shakes out the sheet for a third time fussily before he busies himself with cleaning his scissors and comb, but he’s pointedly not looking at him.

Curious.

“Ah, there’s the pair of you. I had thought you would be off for that nap you kept complaining about Alvaar not hiding away in my brothers room,” Alisaie remarks as she lets herself in, an amused quirk to her lips that the Scholar isn’t quite sure he likes the look of and when they lock eyes he knows for a fact he doesn’t. He would be hearing about this later no doubt. Few enjoyed teasing him more than his sister.

“Well, I do like the peace and quiet,” Alvaar returns drily. “It beats the nonstop chattering of our contact… Besides, Alphi needed a trim and you know I can’t very well let enough alone once something has bothered me.” It gets a soft snort of amusement from her before she studies her twin expectantly and he pushes himself up to his feet.

“Welcome back. It’s good to see you Alisaie. I’ve heard your travels were uneventful and for that I am glad even if you found it boring,” he supplies in proper greeting, offering his arms out and hugging her tight once she accepts.

It’s a nice feeling. An affirming that things are once again back to a routine he prefers even as she squeezes him a bit harder than he likes in that continued display of strength she was so fond of. It was something Alisaie had picked up after her many travels of Eorzea, and a new habit he would be remiss in chiding her for when it’s become habit to him as well.

“.... Alphinaud, do you mind telling me why your hair smells like a perfume stall?” Alisaie accused more than asked, a flat look on her face as she pulled back from their greeting embrace.

He’d barely felt his cheeks begin to flame before a sharp admission of, “Hey!” cut between them.

Snapping his fingers, Alvaar gripped a pair of scissors and pointed the handles at her as he leaned against the desk. “That’s it. You’re next Alisaie. I’ve had to tolerate that mop of flyaways and split ends for almost a month! And scorched ends! SCORCHED ENDS! I’m fixing this travesty today! Park it!”

It was nice, the way things always seemed to settle back into place when they returned. A bit less quiet and not as suited to study, but watching the pair argue while he was trying not to laugh was still preferable to the silence.

#alphinaud #alphinaud leveilleur #alvaar aldaviir #wol #alphinaud x wol #one sided pining #touch starved #minor role alisaie #FFXIV #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #oc #writing #mywriting #sfw #zartheit: tenderness #that moment when your wol has multiclassed so hard but it was only into non combat jobs...#if aesthetician was a class Alvaar would have it

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charlotte-sloane-writes · 4 years

Text

1 - A Wicked Little Thing

It’s finally here! Chapter 1 of this Zatanna Zatara x John Constantine fic has killed me for nearly a year. If you love it as much as I do, please reblog and comment. If you want to be added to the tags then send me a message, reblog, comment, just let me know! The chapter is under the cut, the taglist at the very end. Much love, Charlie.

“Anna,” Buddy called over to the young woman dressed in yesterday’s work uniform.

“Hm?” Anna turned her head and brushed out the earbud nestled to the side of her head, flicking a few strands of her black hair behind her to size up her boss who decided whatever he was about to say was more important than ‘We Will Rock You’ on its 3rd consecutive play.

Buddy recentered his balance on one hip and tilted his chin up, an unkempt not-quite salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised as he asked, “That thing ever run out of battery?”

“Trust me, Buddy, you’d know if it did.” Anna flashed him a saccharine smile and shoved the earbud back into her brain, moving on to the next room that needed cleaning, her cleaning cart’s loose wheel squeaking for mercy unheard over Anna’s playlist.

Buddy scoffed behind her back, another attempt to connect with the twenty-something-year-old failed rather spectacularly on his end. He shoved the tickets to the local college’s ‘Battle of the Bands’ show back into his pocket and whistled to make himself feel like the exchange was done in total nonchalance with zero premeditation. Lifting his ‘Lagheur’ watch to his chest, he noticed the ticking needles of the ripoff luxury watch in a slight delay, taking maybe a half time longer than an actual second. Buddy once saw a movie where this happened to show time slowing down. He couldn’t place the actual scene anywhere, but it seemed funny enough to him that the science fiction promises of his childhood were echoed through the cheap realities of his adulthood.

“Regina,” Buddy threw over his shoulder an aging rainjacket, once clear now yellowing around folds and stitches. Regina at the counter, a recent retiree with all the looks to take to Boca Raton but none of the self-awareness to stop working looked up at her boss from the dusty concierge seat.

“Boss?”

“I’m out for a smoke, I’ll be back in ten. Anyone calls for me, take a message.”

“Sure, sure, if anyone calls.” Regina looked down at the answering machine behind her counter, fixing her coke-bottle glasses back up on the ridge of her boney nose. It was new twenty years ago when she last checked in at the hotel, sleepy and dazed children in tow, asking where their mother was. She’d never seen the light even flicker on that machine.

Buddy walked across the populated lounge, tourists, and locals alike crowding the hotel to get out of the rain and have a drink. Some of them might get rooms by the look of it, though none seemed too eager to book one. Unlit cigarette stuck between his teeth, Buddy pulled his cap up over his head and walked out onto the back terrace. On stiller nights, the courtyard was a beautiful display of soft city nature and twinkling lights. Hopefully, he thought to himself, Anna will have remembered to cover up the sound system speakers hidden in some of the bushes. He wasn’t ready to shell out another grand to replace them.

The lighter Buddy took out from his jacket pocket should’ve been replaced a week and a half ago. Swishing lighter fluid gradually making a crack in the plastic casing just a little wider didn’t bode well for Buddy’s innate flammability. The wrong swipe of a finger while lighting his cigarette opened up his thumb and Buddy- as he took the first draw of his cigarette- watched blood prick up from the fat pad of his digit, little globes of red sprouting along a visceral ley line down to the crux of the first joint. He’ll have to remind himself to throw this lighter out and get a new one when he gets the chance again.

“You know,” He spoke to himself, more than aware he was alone on the creaky back patio “this place used to be the gem of Palo Alto, before Jobs and Wozniak, Amazon and Google. This place...I sound like my great grandfather. How did that happen?” Buddy scoffed and took a step forward, leaning against a beam at the top of the small stairs giving way to the waterlogged marsh of a luncheon garden. Before he could even take notice, the roaring gutter above his head flipped on itself, bringing forth a cascade of rainwater and grime down onto Buddy’s head. He didn’t even have it in him to curse. He just shook his head, bit the inside of his lip raw and flicked his dead cigarette into the rain.

__________

John Constantine wasn’t often seen in the kitchen for actual food, an old tome tucked under his arm with blue lettering of an ancient language only slightly obscured by the wrinkled sleeve of his dress shirt.

“Woah, careful, Johnny. You need help?” A young and dashing mop of black hair named Behrad Tomaz bounded into the kitchen with open arms.

John slightly wavered, eyes darting around as his cheeks reddened. He cleared his throat “I’m fine-,”

“-Dude,” Behrad took the wine bottle Constantine had been balancing on a multi-sectioned plate of what looked like saltine crackers, a hard-boiled egg, some fresh smelling garnishes, a small cup of applesauce, a mug of brothy soup with something bobbing in it, and a jar with pieces of fish floating around it. “I’m impressed you got this far with all this stuff.” Behrad looked at the wine label, wanting to discern a year but couldn’t read the letters on the label. He shook it off, blaming his dyslexia for the mess of shapes on the label “You heading to your room with this stuff?”

“Yeah.” John nodded, quieter than usual as he gave Behrad the gefilte fish jar and placed the plastic cup he had taken upside down on to the neck of the wine bottle.

“This stuff looks good.” Behrad looked over at John’s plate as they walked down the austere corridors of the Waverider, immune to the shock of the odd clicks and clangs.

“You don’t have to lie.” John scoffed a laugh, biting his top lip.

“Is it for a spell?” “Not really.”

“Munchies?” John turned to face Behrad, those innocent puppy dog eyes peering over John’s exclusively hard stare. “Thanks for helping me, mate. Cheers.” He managed to balance everything back into his arms and moved into his room, locking the door behind him.

Behrad stood there, perhaps a little too perplexed for his own good “Have a good time!” He called out, making his way back to the kitchen.

Sara Lance wasn’t expecting to have to get into John Constantine’s business again, but the idea of the mage acting shifty didn’t sit very well with The Captain. “What was that?” She asked Behrad, intercepting him before he reached the kitchen.

“What was what?” Behrad shrugged, crossing his arms with a dopey smile “I was just helping John get his food to his room.” “Uh huh.” Sara’s light blue eyes narrowed, nodding along with Behrad “What was he carrying?”

“I don’t know. Some fish, crackers, wine. Had this old book under his arm. You know John, can’t read if it’s not totally silent. He must’ve gotten hungry.”

“Yeah.” Sara nodded, the truth dawning on her with a small, easy smile “Okay, let’s make sure to leave him alone today. He’s clearly got something important to do.”

John took his time lighting every candle he had in his room, turning the lights off and letting the little flickering flames set just the right reverential mood he was feeling. There was stirring between his ribs. He got the feeling every time he took out the Haggadah. Opening the musty book brought back memories, ones he kept reenacting every Pessach. As beautiful as the book was, ancient binding and intricate hand-printed text, it would never replace the one he found when he was twelve in his father’s attic. He remembered climbing up the cobwebbed ladder, his older sister whispering a word of caution behind him. Cheryl never really understood it, why he climbed that ladder. She never understood why he would intentionally lock himself up there for hours among the beetles and dead pigeons. Among that pestilence and dust was a box marked ‘Mary Anne - Beth-Tikvah, LON’ in big block letters. When John’s father, a big burly man whose accent was the only thing thicker than his eyebrows, found him wearing his great uncle’s kippah with the edges clumsily touching his brow while he read his mother’s old ‘Elementary Hebrew’ workbook, tracing the lines of his mother’s juvenile scripture, Thomas left welts on the young boy’s thighs that didn’t abate until the next month.

Thomas had thought he’d burned everything in that box that very day. He didn’t suspect or know to look for a pocketbook the size of a theater playbook, with flimsy blue binding and doubled text in every page. One side in English, the other in Hebrew. The one thing John managed to keep from that little book was the page-marker. A picture of his mother at her younger brother’s Bar Mitzvah. She looked to be about 16 years-old with boundless ringlets in her hair and a face-splitting grin. John felt it in his throat every time he looked down at that picture. He’d sob repeatedly, from the chest out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He’d bang his fists, palm-upwards, towards his head as he let the remorse of a stolen childhood shudder his lungs with a force only a soul in desperate need of rest could offer.

“Hi, mum.” John now whispered, taking the bookmark out of his over-compensatory Haggadah, letting it rest against two candlestick pillars. “Thought I’d read to you out loud this time.” His voice felt raw and crackling on his tongue like those lungs on anti-smoking adverts. “Happy Passover.”

Taglist: @golden-rosezz @smol-flower-kiddo @beepbeepyabitch @angel-hunter-winchester @groovinomicon @zatara-zatannas @fandomneeds @interstellarflare @eliotsbambimargo @aliypop @themanthemyth-thelegend @superrezzy00 @fanficy-imagines @toomanystoriestoolittletime @starsscribble @addicted-to-dc @arkhamsdarkestknight @narnian-neverlander @thefastarrow @tgwltw @theliveshipparagon @deirdre-queen @writing-doesnt-discriminate @a-really-bi-girl @interstellarflare @soarocks

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mochirimi · 4 years

Text

Meet Me at the Edge of a Memory [Bede x Gloria]

On her eighth birthday, Gloria makes a wish, meets a boy, and irrevocably changes the course of their lives. And she doesn’t remember any of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Read Here at A03

Everything is different now.

When he started, the adrenaline that spurred him forward, pushed him out of the orphanage window towards a picture of open air, whirling nights, and a place that just wasn’t draped in tones of gray, was painted clearly in his mind. Every line of the vision was defined, clear.

And now, the young boy just wasn’t so sure.

Walking with the tepig girl, things were loud. So loud, in color, and noise. Her presence was everywhere, and now it’s quiet. The world is muted, sounded to the background of looming figures and passing shadows of circus lamplights.

At his side, the espurr tugs at his hand, calling Bede’s attention to its presence. Its unblinking lavender eyes are full of curiosity as it tilts its head to one side.

He smiles just a little bit. “I’m fine, really.”

The pokemon rubs its head against his side before it pulls him forward. Bede stumbles at the sudden rapid pace the espurr leads him forward. But he leans into it, leans into the pokemon’s judgment of where he’d fit best because as long as it's away it’s better than any place he’d already been.

The destination is dark before it’s light. Through a small tear in the canvas tent line, the pokemon pulls him into the darkness waiting. In the darkness, he can make out the sloping tiered seats, the hundreds of heads of a waiting crowd, and the hush whispers of a growing excitement waiting for something on the center stage.

A gold spotlight hits the center stage in a brilliant glow and the lone figure crouched there above a pool of crystal clear water. From an unknown corner, music softly fills the air in a slow unraveling and the figure comes alive.

Beside him, the espurr tugs him towards a waiting indeedee. The pokemon bows to the pair before leading them to an empty seat. He sits

But Bede doesn’t notice any of it, his eyes glued to the performance in the middle of the ring. Small lights fall in minute spiral descents to the ground, and the lone figure dances across the water’s edge. The moves are lithe, graceful and succinct. The performer moves, creates ripples across the water and arches towards the sky and the lunatone and solrock in the light dappled sky above.

The real performance begins. Descending slowly towards the lone figure is another, the true star comes. Perched on the edge of a rounded hoop, she sits, her arm poised towards the ground. Around her a lunatone and solrock orbit, waltzing to the swell of a distant cello and flute.

When she reaches her partner performer, the two begin a dance, her feet flitting across the waterscape as her partner gives chase around the ring. She twirls and dances with the silver ring, just out of reach of her partner’s grasp. Her coy smile, the way she calls and beckons to the other performer is a special form of magic.

Even without the wings, she tells the story of a fairy flirting with a human, drawn to him as he is to her. The silver ring she performs with is a mirror she toys with, and with a tug, just as her partner is about to reach her, touch her, she’s in the air, flying. Bending and twisting through the loop she is the shooting star across the tent nightscape.

The performance ends with a flash of light, the twisting and turning of the ring and person so fast the performer is a blend of lilac and silver hues until suddenly she’s gone, and the partner and audience she leaves behind is awestruck.

When the gold spotlight closes, they are left in darkness once more, the world muted into silence, defined into what the world was before the performance and what it became after. And Bede knows.

While the spectators around him rise to leave, Bede stays for the next performance, and the one after that. The crowd ebbs and flows around him until a voice announces the closing of the bigtop.

It is the end of the night.

When he steps out of the tent, the night’s festivities have completely ended, with only sparse groups of people walking through towards the exit.

Turning his head from side to side, Bede surveys the area, looking for a place to stow away as the circus packs for its next destination. At his side, the little espurr yawns, rubbing its eyes before walking away.

“Am I supposed to follow you?” He calls after it. The pokemon had been a guide all night, leading him, walking by his side, taking him where he needed to be. But never once had it just completely let him go.

Almost as if reading his mind, the pokemon calls out to him once, turning to walk through the light layer of snow.

When it stops, they’re at the edge of the cufant and copperajah fence. Ducking through the metal bars, Bede follows the espurr to the other side of the temporary enclosure. The larger pokemon eye them warily, but pull at the cornsilk-colored straw hill cradled in a large bin in the corner for their cufants’ meal, while the young cufants stomp closer to their newest arrivals. One pulls at Bede’s worn coat and he stumbles.

“Hey, watch it.” He snaps.

The mother pulls back her child away from their guests, and the pokemon is soon onto the next adventure under their mother’s watchful eye.

Bede shakes his head, turns away for the small families to climb into the straw bin after the espurr. The stalks bend and snap under his weight as he settles in beside the pokemon, pulling the gold material over him for cover and warmth. The hiding place isn’t ideal but it’s warm and out of the way; no one would find him until it was too late, when they could no longer return him to the orphanage.

A copperajah emphasizes his point as it leans against his bin, providing even more much needed warmth to the young boy hiding. Bede silently thanks the pokemon and curls his legs into his chest, allowing his jacket to offer greater coverage from the elements. A small struggling yawn escapes his lips.

Beside him, the espurr snores and turns to curl deeper into the straw. The sight of the sleeping pokemon begins to lose definition, blurring at the edges, the lines between colors seeping into each other and fading into total darkness.

___________________________________

The scanners of the registers ring and beep in the distance and Beder rubs at his eyes, kicking the edge of the display podium his mother set him. In front him, she paces in an erratic rhythm, quickly turning on her heels at the slightest sharp sound, the bumping of a cart, the cackle of a matronly customer.

“Mom, when are we going home?” The young boy yawns, his sleepy eyes watching the magikarp on their tanks bump lightly against the supermarket glass.

The woman trembles slightly, her fingers dancing across her lips, as she calculates, her eyes darting back and forth across the floor as she thinks. Her silver-blonde hair, so much like her son’s is pulled back in a severe bun, the locks falling her head darts.

“Mom, when are we going home!” The young boy whines, kicking the display under behind his feet harder as he demands an answer.

She flinches at the impact, sharply turning and kneeling in front of her son. Her shaky hands flutter across his coat, pulling the garment tighter to his body, adjusting his scarf around his neck. “Hush, Little One.” She runs her fingers through his curled hair, rubs his cherub cheek. “Why don’t you read your book?” His mother emphasizes the point by opening the tome carefully in his lap.

“I’ve read it five times already.” Bede whines, but his eyes are drawn to the gilded illustrations and he quiets, his attention absorbed in “Pokemon from Around the World.”

His mother sighs, patting his head softly. The way her heaves, the way her eyes water and glisten, goes unnoticed by the boy as she kisses the top of his head. “Just read your book until I get back, okay?”

“Where are you going?” The boy murmurs, his eyes glued to the images on the page.

“Just away.” She says into his hair. “I’ll be back before you know it.” She places a curl behind his ear. “Will you be good for Mommy while she’s gone?” Her fingers don’t tremble, as she smiles down softly at her son.

He mumbles an affirmative, kicking his feet as he traces the bold lines of a tepig, an oshawatt, and a snivy. The shadow and touch of his mother retreat, his book illuminated by the bright lights of the supermarket.

Minutes echo into hours as Bede bores with his book. His lavender eyes begin searching for the familiar face of his mom, her kind eyes, her soft smile, finding none in the questioning eyes of passing patrons. They reach around him for on sale canned goods, shaking their heads in disapproval at the lone child sitting on the pedestal.

When the light dies outside and the speakers announce a last call for all shoppers, Bede steps down from the platform, calling out for his mother, the sound of his voice echoing off the near empty store.

#DressedinPinkShipping #Bederia #My Fan Fiction #Trainer Gloria #Rival Bede #Meet Me at the Edge of a Memory #Chapter 4

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min-meowmeow · 5 years

Text

Somewhere in the Crowd

Yoongi x Reader

Fluff

Word count: 3,000

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Yoongi finds himself missing you while he's on tour, but one phone call gives him the surprise of his life.

----

Yoongi was two seconds away from losing his mind. Around him, the room spun in a cacophony of noises with Jungkook and Taehyung lip syncing to an overplayed pop song blaring from Jungkook’s phone speakers while the other members laughed at the stupid facial expressions they were making. Usually, Yoongi would be joining his other members in bewildered amusement at the younger men’s actions, or maybe even join in on the bad lip syncing by adding overly dramatic arm movements, but tonight, of all nights, Yoongi felt nothing but overwhelmed.

Tonight, instead of joining in, he settled himself into the corner of the room flicking through social media feeds that were failing to hold his attention for longer than a few minutes. There was just a lack of something special across them all, something that he desperately sought out at this moment, but also desperately tried to avoid. He felt restless anxiety course through the bloodstream under his skin.

Another half a second, he couldn’t take it.

Plucking himself out of the chair that he had been perched in for the better part of the last two hours, Yoongi took languid steps towards the exit on the other side of the room. He hoped nobody would notice him or ask where he was going because he didn’t have a clear excuse in mind. He just knew that he had to get out and calm down before he allowed his mood to impact the other members. An hour before the first show of their European tour, Yoongi didn’t want to bring down the mood by making them worry about him.

Especially because he knew exactly what he needed.

He shouldered his way through the door with a hand already pulling his phone out of his pocket. The only eyes he had caught were Namjoon’s, who had given him a reassuring smile and a thumbs up that Yoongi half-heartedly attempted to return before disappearing around the door frame.

He felt instant relief once he was outside the room, despite the chaos of the preshow preparation. A number of people brushed past him with equipment being rolled around in a frenzy of last minute stage checks. He knew everyone on his team that passed, but they thankfully mentioned nothing, not even his name. This made him feel a sense of privacy, an aloneness he only felt when he was on the fringes of a crowd that didn’t care about him. An aloneness that provided him the comforting courage to find your number in his contacts list and press “dial.”

God, how much he missed you. Your delicate smile in the early mornings when you both had days off and were allowed to sleep late, your familiar hands brushing through his hair on quiet evenings while he rested his head just above the sound of your soft heartbeat, the slow kisses you would share when you both knew the world was slowing down just for you. He hadn't seen you in two months.

It was killing him.

He listened to the staccato of the call tone with bated breaths. He hadn’t an idea of what he would say when you picked up the line. Of course, he would apologize profusely for waking you up as it was, no doubt, the very early hours of the morning back home, but beyond that he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know if he wanted to say anything or just sit on the line with you while you mumbled sleepily about your day or about how much you missed him. He just wanted to feel close with you somehow while he was a thousand worlds away. He just wanted to hear you say that you loved him.

Your voicemail caught him off guard; the anxious movements of his mouth sloping down into a pout at the automated message informing him that you were not available. He cursed the device before removing the phone from his ear pushing the “end” button with a vicious stab of his finger before he left evidence of his annoyance in the form of a disgruntled message delivered from a noisy hallway in a Glasgow arena.

It is late, he justified, checking the time back home to try and rationalize why you didn’t answer. He didn’t like the rotting feeling in his chest at the denied contact. It wasn’t your fault, yet his sour mood worsened the longer he stared at the digital clock that read Seoul’s time. 4:15 am. At least you’d probably be awake after the show.

He paused a breath in his throat for a single heartbeat, allowing it release when he turned his gaze downward to the tiled floor. The only hope that remained for him came in the solace that he’d get to see you again after the final leg of his tour. Just four more stops. One more month. He only hoped he could make it that long.

Quietly, he turned to face the closed door of the waiting room with careful dread and a game plan already set. He’d sit back down in his chair, pop in his headphones and listen to the loudest track he knew of. He promised himself that he wouldn’t go through your social media feed or stare longingly at the couple pictures you were both so fond of taking. He promised he wouldn’t make it worse by making himself miss you more.

Steps stalled just as he was about to push open the door to the dressing room when the device in his palm vibrated with a flash of your name scrawled out on the screen. Elation and relief washed over his body immediately.

“Hey, babe. You called?” you sounded so sweetly nonchalant that Yoongi had to stop himself from ranting about how much he loved the beautiful timbre of your voice.

He took several weighted breaths before responding, “Yeah, just wanted to talk.”

“Oh?” the uptick in your tone made him smile.

“Nothing bad,” he explained, “just missed you.”

The tremble in his voice at the confession was something Yoongi hoped you didn’t catch through the tiny speakers of your phone.

“Yoon, baby, I miss you too,” you returned knowingly indicating that you had, indeed, heard the tremor.

Your words made his throat close around any other words he could possibly say in response leaving you both sitting on the line for a few beats without a thing passing between the two of you. Instead, he listened carefully to the noises around you that he could hear through the phone until the sound of your breaths began lulling him in a trance of warm familiarity making him wish he was by your side so much more. It tore his heart in half until you spoke again.

“How’s the show going?” You asked.

Yoongi fell back into his existing body within the space of the concert stadium with a lousy pout.

“Hasn’t started yet. We’re waiting another hour,” he sighed, propping his head against the wall when he heard a loud clamboring noise filter in through the speaker pressed firmly against his ear. Confusion etched its way into the crease of his brow only to further deepen when he realized that he could hear the same noise coming from down the busy hallway he was stood in. “Wait, why are you awake? Where are you?”

You hummed into the receiver, “Give me a few more steps and you’ll find out.”

Spiking trepidation warred with diligent hope as Yoongi took your words in. There was no way they were intended to mean what he thought they’d meant. There was no way. He swallowed the anxiety. “Babe, what do you mean?”

“Turn to the left, Yoon.”

His slow gaze wandered in the direction of your instructions already bracing himself to find no one there, but when his eyes caught yours, a feeling beyond happiness consumed his veins in an electric fire.

There you were standing in the same hallway he had entered from hours earlier, your beautifully warm smile greeting his starved gaze. You were like a myth come to life from the pages of an archaic tome he had been desperate to decipher. Only now that you were standing in front of him did it all make sense.

Yoongi didn’t even think to hang up the phone before launching his exhausted body towards your awaiting figure. Arms laced around your waist when he reached you, head pressed into the crook of your neck while your own arms encircled his hunched shoulders in a python hold. Your rose scented perfume engulfed his senses in such a strong feeling of belonging that Yoongi promised he’d never let you go again.

“How are you here?” his reverent whisper blew across the dip of your collarbones.

You cupped the back of his head to press him just a little closer to you.

“Took some time off so I could surprise you. Joon helped me plan the best day,” you muttered into the expanse of his shoulder.

Yoongi ever so gently untangled himself from your limbs to provide you with an unobstructed view of his exquisite features. It was then that you noticed the thin layer of shimmering tears sprinkling along his eyelashes. He turned his face down to avoid your scrutinizing gaze.

“That sneaky asshole,” he grumbled with a quick swipe of his thumb across his eyes, “he could have said something.”

Small fingers brushed against Yoongi's cheeks to swipe away the remaining residue of his spent tears, your smile sympathetic and warm, wholly understanding. “Babe, that's not how surprises work.”

His hand cradled yours along his cheek. “Dont care.”

The twinkling lightness of your laugh soon became Yoongi's favorite sound. He admired the happy creasing of your eyelids around the curve of your smile with a reverent stare appreciating every little intricate quirk that made you so undoubtedly you. Hungry eyes devoured your features from the slope of your nose to the shimmering apple of your cheeks and when he couldn't take any more, he lowered his petal lips onto yours.

He kissed roses onto your lips while his hands found purchase around the curve of your hips holding you so desperately close he felt as if he might disappear if he let go. Your own hands wound into the neckline of his pressed button up more than likely wrinkling the fabric but the glide of Yoongi's cherry lips made it very hard to care. You were lost in each other so deeply it seemed the universe took a pause.

“Have I told you how much I’ve missed you?” he whispered against the press of your lips.

“Hmm,” you hummed, “Not in the last five seconds.”

“Well,” he kissed you again. “I have.” His lips trekked across your cheek. “A lot.” They pressed against your forehead. “Just in case you didn’t know.”

Your face broke out into a delighted giggle with each individual flutter of his puckered mouth finding purchase on the features of your face. He didn’t stop, not even when multiple people of the stage crew chuckled endearingly at his affection towards you as they passed. Your cheeks flushed, the red hue muddled under the length of his digits, but still visible to those wandering by.

“Yoongi,” you whined, fighting back the urge to bury your face into the slippery fabric of his shirt. “People are watching.”

He pressed a deliberate kiss onto the slope of your nose then along the edge of your jaw while repeated muttered words of “don’t care” slipped between each peck. Your own hands had to physically hold his face between two pressed palms inches away from you just to get him to focus, and when he did you could see the longing swirling in his eyes being devoured by uncontrollable happiness.

Your heart thrummed in your chest, each vibrating beat finding a home with him.

“Hyung!” an elated voice broke the silence between the two of you with your eyes searching to find the source while Yoongi’s remained trained on you, his hold ever tighter on your hips. To your excitement and Yoongi’s dismay, Jungkook stood with his head popped through the door, expression reflecting his surprise at seeing you there. “Oh! Noona? What’re you doing here?”

“I quit my job to follow you guys on tours,” you joked.

Jungkook’s eyes grew in surprise. “Noona! You wouldn’t.”

“Of course she wouldn’t. She’s too proud to be a trophy wife,” Yoongi chimed in, removing his hands from around your waist only to have one tuck your own tiny palm securely into his. “Let’s go back inside.”

Re-entering the room felt less troublesome for Yoongi with you by his side. No longer were the noises from the other people too loud and obnoxious, but instead just a part of the comforting atmosphere of pre-show jitters.

Everyone was idling around. Hoseok and Jimin were practicing the choreo for the intro song while Taehyung mirrored them jokingly in the back. Jin sat with his eyes trained on the screen of his phone, but his movements gave away that he was not so secretly checking himself out with the camera. Then there was Namjoon, the clever man whom Yoongi admired, conversing with one of the make up artists as she touched up his foundation, a secretive smirk layered on his face when he spotted the three of you walk in.

“Hey! Look who’s here!” Jungkook cheered with happily raised arms angled at the elbows to point behind him where you and Yoongi trailed.

The majority of the movement ceased when the attention of the people in the room fell on you. The first to react was Hoseok, Yoongi’s best friend and your notorious partner in crime.

“Dude! What’re you doing here?” he asked, feet automatically carrying him over to where you stood where he then wrapped you up in his welcomingly warm hug. You returned the sentiment as best you could, but found it difficult with Yoongi’s grip anchoring you to his side.

“I came to visit you guys. It felt lonely back home,” you pouted.

Hoseok patted your head affectionately when he finally released you, his gaze catching on Yoongi for a second to appreciate the subtle upturn of Yoongi’s expression.

“Aw!” Jin’s derisive tone seeped into the sugar sweet pull of his lips. “Thank you for including us even though we all know you only came for Yoongi.”

“Who else would she come for?” Yoongi asked, appalled.

“Me, obviously,” Jin returned.

To Yoongi’s surprise, you couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped passed your grinning lips. He didn’t think it was as funny, even though he knew Jin didn’t actually mean it. He assumed that he was still a bit emotional, a little bit too selfish, wanting your laugh only for himself.

“You planned it perfectly, Noona,” Taehyung said with his boxy smile, “Yoongi’s been quieter than usual.”

You flicked your gaze towards the man stood beside you. His own gaze was locked on the tiled floor that seemed so much more appealing to him than the conversation happening around him. You nudged his side with your joined hands, your warm smile pulling him into your incandescent light.

“I have special girlfriend senses,” Yoongi’s heart nearly exploded in his chest with your adorable response to the red haired man.

“Yeah, right.” Namjoon laughed, “She had help.”

“Hyung, you knew?” Jungkook’s signature startled expression returned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Namjoon only delivered a shrug, but Yoongi knew the true answer before the snide comment left your sweet lips, confirming his assumptions.. “That’s because none of you can keep a secret.”

The remaining five men each called their own offended remark. Yoongi could tell that Hoseok, being the loudest and the closest, made you feel just a smidgen bad about not letting him know. But, overall, you could only find yourself laughing at their reactions because, no matter how hard they denied it, it was the truth.

“Twenty minute call,” the stage manager abruptly notified from the now fully open entrance to the dressing room, garnering the attention of everyone in the room.

Yoongi’s eyes immediately fell to you where he found an encouraging smile devastating his heart. The thought of leaving so soon after barely being able to hold you in his arms gave Yoongi a mild panic. “Watch from backstage?” Yoongi’s hopeful gaze begged.

“Actually, because of my super special connections,” You smiled while reaching into your back pocket for a little slip of barcoded paper, “I got front row tickets.”

The grin he wore at the reveal only conveyed a fraction of what he was feeling. For Yoongi, it was already special just having you in the same city let alone the same arena, but the knowledge that you would be amidst the glowing light sticks screaming your lungs out for him made this Yoongi’s new favorite experience.

“I’ll see you after the show.” Yoongi’s digits held tightly onto yours until the very last second before he had to leave you standing in the room with a member of the security team ready to escort you out into the main floor of the stadium. Without a care in the world, he pressed one last kiss against the plump of your lips before grinning. “I love you.”

Then he pulled farther away, eyes still on you until he turned the corner at the doorframe of the dressing room entrance. His heart was settled neatly in your hand while he walked the corridor that led to the backstage area where he could already hear the millions of fans cheering for the show to begin. He promised himself he would be listening for one specific cheer, no matter how impossible it was. With that in mind, Yoongi took his position in line waiting for the final call, an ecstatic thrum flowing in his veins with the knowledge that out there, somewhere in the crowd, was you.

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